He's Not There

I don’t wake up with a Santa but something better dressed, in a vest. Later we run around the pond and park with Doggo. L does the whole distance; she may regret this later.

I forget that Derby are playing as we have an obscure 2pm kick off. I turn the radio on to find that Derby are winning 2-1 at Newcastle. It doesn't last and we concede a late equaliser but things do seem to be looking up slightly.

We drop the kids off in Derby because they are away for a whole three days over Xmas. How will we amuse ourselves? L is kitted out in a skirt again, which helps me think of a few ideas.

After we've disposed of the kids, we do some Santa-ing ourselves and drop some presents off. In the evening we head off to Broadway again.

One way of making a biography different is to never mention the name of the subject. Another way I suppose is to cast six different people in the lead role. This is what Todd Haynes does with tonight's film 'I’m Not There', a portrait of sorts of Bob Dylan. This was a hard review to write because I am not a Bob Dylan expert, I'm not even a fan, but here goes.

Some of names of the leads come from the inspirations in Dylan's life, so we get the poet Arthur Rimbaud (Ben Whishaw) who links the film. We get the young 'black' folk singer Woody Guthrie (Marcus Carl Franklin) indicating his early life where Dylan went around claiming to be different people, from different places and invented friendships.

Then we get his early folk career, Jack Rollins (Christian Bale), when Dylan first made his name and also became political. Julianne Moore plays Alice, who is possibly Joan Baez. Dylan though wants to move on, his band plays at a New England Jazz Festival and machine guns the audience. So Jack disappears and in his place we get Robbie Clark (Heath Ledger), Clark is an actor who played him in a film. He is the more homely face of Dylan and marries Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg), aka Sara Dylan. When their turbulent marriage ends, we get the divorce settlement being mirrored with the signing of the Vietnam ceasefire.



Meanwhile Dylan the artist, re-emerges as Jude Quinn (Cate Blanchett) but his audience feels betrayed as he shifts his sound from folk to rock. This Dylan goes on to be even more famous but continues to be misunderstood, particularly by the British TV journalist Mr. Jones which evolves into a particularly brilliant scene.



Later Dylan is reborn as Pastor John and is now signing gospel.

Finally we get him as a recluse; Billy The Kid (Richard Gere) in a Western Town called Riddle, a nod to his 1973 album (Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid). The threatened destruction of the town causes him to meet his public again.

It's a surreal film, disjointed at times but towards the end, all the different characters begin to come together. There's some top acting and throughout the music is excellent, mainly Dylan originals but also including some covers by the likes of Iggy Pop and Sonic Youth.

The films called 'I'm Not There' and he isn't. The film itself is a jigsaw where the pieces never quite fit together but this I suppose was Dylan's life. It would be out of character for Dylan to let anyone try and define his life, so he hasn't.

L thought it portrayed Dylan in a bad light but I think it depends on your opinion of him in the first place. I started indifferent and came out the cinema still feeling indifferent but I thoroughly enjoyed the two and quarter hours in between. I assume his life was just this mishmash of lies, childishness, and arrogance, alongside his undoubted musical genius. The more I think about this film and the more I read up on it, the clever I think it was.

At the start and end there are images of Dylan 'dying' and scenes of his motorcycle accident in 1966 yet he is still very much alive, and still performing. Perhaps it is saying he would rather have died, which would have embellished the mystery of the man even more.

An AF night and Spam curry to round it off.

Last Minute Charlie-ing

L helps Son with the papers and then we run last minute Charlie (Son) over to Derby to deliver his presents to his Grandparents who are going away at 10am. Obviously he does his wrapping in the car or rather he doesn't because this makes him feel carsick and L has to take over. We hope this has nothing to do with the fact that he was apparently on the lager at a house party last night.

Eventually get back home in time for a spot of 'roasting' before I head off into town to do my own last minute Charlie-ing and finish my Christmas shopping. The queues in Jessops are that long that they are handing chocolates out in the queue. An attractive but very dim salesgirl helps me choose some shiny black tights for L. Then I meet up with L herself and purchase a skirt for her, which she's had her eye on.

L and Daughter head off to see a film, something surreal involving a donkey. I go home and take Doggo on the park, followed by a mega wrapping session.

In the evening, L puts on her new outfit and I take my girl in boots into town. We mix it with plenty of girls in Santa dresses. The cold weather ensures that there are plenty of, what I believe they in the trade call, 'chapel hat pegs' on show.

I enjoy a XXXB at the Keans Head, which then runs out. So I switch to St Austell Tribute, which also runs out. So we move on. The Cock n Hoop is shut for a ‘roasting’ party, probably.

Talking of which, there's a rumour going round that Manchester United's Argentine Carlos Tevez, who's English is a bit patchy, was caught pre-heating the hotel ovens to gas mark six. Apparently someone stopped him in time but Tevez was delighted to learn the true definition of the term 'roasting'.

We end up at Broadway, where the Old Hooky is so good I have to have two. Then we try a new Indian, for us, on Mansfield Road. Where we have a brill Curry and a half of Cobra. It's all rounded off with a port at home. Another boozy night.

No Lap Dancers, No Hand Picked Models And No One Gets A Roasting

5.50am alarm again! Yep it’s another run with L and Doggo. My legs still ache from last night and they are even stiffer afterwards. A week off biking and my body starts to fall apart.

I take the bus into work. It's a good job I’m early because the bus is too, I only just caught it. It's half-empty today, half the world is clearly already on holiday. I take a good look at the bus driver wondering whether he was one of the naked drivers on the new Trent Barton 2008 calendar. Nope, too slim.



The latest research says that humour comes from the male hormone testosterone, which explains why women often don't see the funny side. Like the chap on the bus today who was moaning to his mate that his new girlfriend had dumped him because he accidentally sent her a 'sordid' text message that was meant for his 'more broadminded' ex. Apparently their names start with the same letter, so it was an easy mistake to make. 'Its not as if we'd been up anything' he told his mate, 'we were just exploring the possibility'.

We have a 'dress down' day today as it’s the last day and it's also free of charge, no raising money for 'charity' here. According to the internal email, we are encouraged to wear 'jeans etc, or stockings/suspenders, whatever takes your fancy'. Unfortunately no one, male of female, takes them up on that option.

Lots of other companies near us are not in today, the Xmas holiday just gets longer. I doubted the sandwich van would show up but it did. Someone ordered chip butties downstairs, loads for everyone; this really is a bad food week.

After work I head back to colleagues house. Where he has an impressive wooden floor that is full of possibilities, which he obviously hasn’t seen because his equally excellent rug is far too small. We share a beer and a small snifter of whisky.

The party is typical works party fodder, although there are no lap dancers, no hand picked models and no one gets a roasting, well not that I notice. For entertainment we get the Blues Brothers poorer relations, who's highlight is when they perform Rawhide on a blow up horse, Manchester United this isn’t. We share our party with more overweight teachers, some trendy graphic designers and a bunch of builders who look like the Mafia, complete with their trophy wives.

Stella is there and so is my old mate Boddington. I avoid both and stick to wine. I’m good, I only have around three glasses, partly because the good wine runs out. The food is surprisingly good for a Xmas do. The party is due to end at 1am but I hope to be long gone before then. The hotel where the party is, has a golf course and L is going to meet me by the putting green later. How romantic. Daughter and L, are at the cinema watching schoolgirls (St. Trinians) and are going to pick me up on their way home. Hopefully the film will give L some ideas for a new outfit.



I get rescued and we head home for a sherry. Doggo is pleased to see us, even Son has abandoned him tonight and gone out 'partying'.

You Know You Shouldn't But Sometimes You Just Have To

Last night L texted me to say that she needed a 6.30 run, meaning that she wished me to accompany her. Not a problem, it will be a pleasure. That is until I realise that she means 6.30am not 6.30pm. This is how I end up being awoken by my alarm at 5.50am. Hard work getting up but it is pleasant when we get out there.

The reason for the early run is because L needs to be at work early and leaves me to deal with 'family life' as she calls it. Doggo despite his run is being annoying with his fluffy ball. Daughter has gone back to sleep, and I almost have to resort to the crowbar out to get her up. Everything is soon sorted though, Daughter off to school, Doggo out the lounge and away from the temptation of the settee. So I lock up and go to work, in the car again, because I’m on the pub run. Son is just arriving back from his paper round as I leave, so Doggo won't have long to wait to get on the settee.

L emails me about the Fife Diet, where a family are trying to survive on food local to Fife. L de-compensates for her manic day by having a mince pie, so I hope it was local. I do my de-compensating at the pub with some cottage pie and a local beer, Flowerpot own brew 3.9%, can’t get more local that that, brewed ten feet away.

On my way home I do a quick nip to the shops to get some presents or at least I try to make it quick. They say that the internet is killing the high street shops, correction, high street shops are killing themselves and driving people to the internet, not the other way around. I go in Argos, possibly the worst shop ever but very convenient. If Argos was food, it would be a microwave meal, you know you shouldn't but sometimes you just have to. I have pre-ordered something but still have to queue for ages because they are shockingly understaffed. They have a solitary person on the tills and a mile long queue. The collection point is worse; they have no one there, unless you count the teenager chatting to his mate. Meanwhile behind him, carnage is occurring as packages appear on the conveyor belt from the storeroom and just sit there piling up, naturally he is oblivious to this and to the ever increasing queue of irate customers, of which I am one.

Toys R Us are better, but only slightly, as they manage to open two checkouts and there you only have to queue once but it still takes ages.

Later my opponent 'drags what is left of himself' down for a game of squash. He reckons his body has given up for the year or does he mean that he's given up on it. That certainly appears to the case as he falls apart after I win a close first game. I go on to take the match 3-0. I'm close to taking the fourth when he wakes up and fights back. He wins the next three to level the score but I win the final game to win not only the match but the war 4-3.

In the pub, they have two Nottingham Brewery beers on the bar, as they always do, but I go for Bateman's, Lincolnshire is pretty local.

I get home where L has left me far too much bread and pasta but I eat it all the same, with a glass of red to wash it down and a little help from Doggo. There's cheese on top of the bread and he's rather partial to that. I need the carbohydrates as L is up for an early night.

Night With The Hoods

I get a text from L asking how my head is. Fine of course. I even got a lie in because our meeting wasn't until 10am.

After a big breakfast, a big lunch and a long meeting we finally get away around 3.30. When I get back in Nottingham I drive straight to the Guides Christmas play which Daughter has banned both L and me from going to. As teenagers surely know when their parent bans them from doing something it makes them all the more likely to do it. So hence, here we are at the play. I've also been threaten with death if I blog about it, so here goes.

It’s a impressive turn out, close to a sell out I would say, so it was lucky that L got there early to get tickets.

It goes well. Mostly they remember their lines this year. The production is, I think, called 'The Four Riding Hoods'. That is red, blue, green and yellow. Enough said.

The all female cast also isn't quite as sulky as last year and Daughter gets a lead part. She brings a touch of sarcasm to her role as one of the ‘Hoods’. The wolf fails to maul any of the children but still steals the show.

I leave the production almost as soon as it ends and head back home to get Doggo, so that we can do our final training session of the year. It’s also the last with this particular trainer. His contract hasn’t been renewed for next year and you thought it was only football managers who had it tough. I nearly miss the start as the previous group only had two people in, they were so exhausted that they finished early and so we get to start early. Good session though. Paw perfect, if slow.

Having corrupted myself on it last night last night, I can't resist taking a whisky to bed. So does L. Isle Of Jura again.

Faggots And Sluts

There's too much going on to enable me to cycle at all this week, for a start I'm off to Sewage Central again tonight. So it's a good job I did four cycles last week. At least going to work in the car, gets me a lie-in and a bit of 'sport'.

The whole country appears to be enraged that Radio 1, the supposed station of the young, has censored 'Fairytale of New York' by removing the words 'faggot' and 'slut' from it. They are the only station who have, even Radio 2 are playing it uncut. The odd thing is, that when the record was originally released twenty years ago it was the word 'arse' that caused offence and they had to omit that when they played it live on Top Of The Pops but in those days 'faggot' and 'slut' were considered fine. What a progressive society we have.

Now if they wanted to remove any words from the song it should have been the whole of Ronan Keating's cover version of it, now that really was offensive. For anyone like me, who's really into their music, nothing riles you more than a bad cover version. Usually an excuse for laziness, in this lazy age of ours, they show a complete lack of imagination, talent, and inspiration but then they're just after your money. They usually don't even admit that the songs a cover, so anyone who was born after the original was out thinks it's original.

Later in the day Radio 1 back down and reinstate the original version. They probably set Shane MacGowan on them.



One I get home, I eat and kick the dog at the same time. So if L decides to take him out on a run he should be fairly edgeless. I contemplate collecting L from the gym in the car, just so that I can see her before our long and painful period apart but in the end she get home in plenty of time.

She straight away prostrates herself on the bed. I can't argue with that. She obviously doesn't intend me to feel the need to stray any further than Stella tonight.

We have a good drive down to Maidstone, that is until we are within a mile or so from the hotel. Just as we can smell the beer we hit a queue on the M20. They have closed two junctions for no apparent reason. Scandalous.

After a half-an-hour delay we get there and I head straight off to meet Stella in the bar. We settle in to watch the drunken teachers stagger out of their Christmas party that's going on next door. I avoid Stella and hit the Boddingtons again and also have a rather large Isle Of Jura. Very nice.

My MD hasn’t eaten but there's no food in the bar, not even crisps or peanuts. So the hotel orders us a takeaway pizza which we eat in reception. Cool, or not.

Party Season

L has her Christmas party at lunchtime and indulges in the Bucks Fizz and cheese. She also causes an upset by posing as someone else's daughter, accidentally, which didn't go down well. It's occupational hazard of looking so young and gorgeous. I'm more surprised she admitted to the ‘cheese’ word and she didn’t even bring any home for Doggo and me.

In the evening it's Doggo's Christmas party, where we do really well at all the party games and he wins yet another toy. He seems to have had loads of presents and it's not even Christmas yet.

Afterwards we go collect L and Daughter who have been skating with L's sister and her kids. Daughter, the former 'shortie' of our family, now turns out to be the tallest of the five of them, oh and how smug is she about it. Of course the tall one of our clan, Son, stayed at home, with a pizza, except I forgot to tell him there was one.

A word on Bleak House that we finished watching last night. L kind of talked me into this one but I'm glad she did. I generally don't watch much TV these days as most of it is pretty second rate, so it was a pleasant surprise to discover that the BBC can still produce something as good as this.

The plot is far too labyrinthine to go fully into but it all revolves around the never-ending court case of Jarndyce versus Jarndyce. Many people are set to benefit from the case if it is ever resolved but even before it is, it impacts on all the characters in the story.

The production captures the gloom and squalor of the period convincingly and the casting is excellent. In particular Charles Dance as the scary lawyer Tulkinghorn and Gillian Anderson as the fragile Lady Dedlock but all the cast are excellent.

At first I though it was odd doing it in thirty-minute slots but in the end this works well as each episode leaves you wanting more. In fact I was sad to see it end.

I'm still bemused by the ending though, just how did Lady Deadlock kill herself in the graveyard? Did she drown herself in the rain?

Well done the BBC, now 'Shake me up Judy'

My Day Of Culture

We have a quiet lie-in because there is a sleepover in progress above us. Mind you they are making so much noise that they could drown out anything.

Later I take Doggo on the park again and then I meet L and Daughter at the Cinema.

I've been tempted by the good reviews of what really isn't my type of film and we go see 'Enchanted'. At least it can't possibly be as bad as the 'Golden Compass'. Made by Disney studios, the film starts in animated form, that is proper animated not CGI, in 'Andalasia' where Giselle (Amy Adams) is desperate to be rescued by her Prince Charming. The animated sequence goes on a bit but eventually Edward (James Marsden) duly turns up and saves her from a troll and consequently they are set to be married. But Edward's wicked stepmother (Susan Sarandon) does not approve and throws Giselle into a portal that leads to hell.

Hell turns out to be New York, where she climbs out of a manhole cover in full princess regalia. A pessimistic divorce lawyer (Patrick Dempsey) gives her a room for the night where she makes herself clothes out of his curtains. While he introduces her to the 'real' world, he is intrigued by Giselle's attitude towards love and her belief in living 'Happily After Ever', usually in a huge castle, which contradicts his own real life experiences and the modern day notion of getting to know someone first.



When he walks in on her taking a shower and subsequently ends up in an embarrassing clinch on top of her, with her in just a towel, just as his fiancée walks in. He finds himself resolutely dumped. Giselle helps him out by sending round a few doves and flowers, which works a treat and his fiancée forgives him for having a half-naked girl in his apartment because she trusts him. I shall remember that one. Women are strange.

Her prince follows her down to 'hell'. Where he stabs a bus after mistaking it for a monster then gets run over by cyclists in the park. I can sympathise with the cyclists, bloody pedestrians.

As Giselle enjoys the New York experience she realises that her Prince Charming is not the right man for her and instead falls for her lawyer. Of course, it all ends happily ever after, albeit after an overblown scene with a dragon. Giselle is put in to a deep sleep only to be rescue by her lawyer's 'True Loves Kiss' and they all lived happily ever after...

HELLO? This rat you've just run off with has just dumped his long-term fiancée for you, a girl who he's only known for a day or two and who crawled out of a sewer. Love lasts forever? Clearly it doesn't. His ex gets the booby prize of the dopey Prince Edward.

I went into Enchanted not expecting too much and therefore was not disappointed. It was actually better than I had expected, although very cheesy and full of clichés. Timothy Spall does a good turn as the henchman Nathaniel, and an animated chipmunk called Pip puts in a star performance. Another fluffy bunny of a movie.

It's cold when we come out. Well that's the excuse for downing a bottle of mulled wine between us. I cook curry and then we watch our second film of the day, on DVD this time.

Based on Zoe Heller's novel 'Notes On A Scandal' is the tale of two seemingly sophisticated women who's lives become entwined but then dramatically unravel, proving themselves to be anything but sophisticated.

Judi Dench plays Barbara Covett (note the name), who is a well respected schoolmarm but also a lonely spinster. Cate Blanchett plays Sheba Hart, the raw new totty in the art room. Sheba proves herself not to just be inexperienced as a teacher but also in life. She is a teacher, a wife, and a mother, who is out of her depth in all three and for someone her age, thirty-something, she is astonishingly naïve. She is just begging for someone to take her under their wing. Barbara is eager to oblige and quickly moves into the flighty newcomers life.

Dench voice-overs the film as her character scribbles in her diary, adds gold stars, and makes bitter observations about the world. The film moves at a fast pace and doesn't keep you hanging around while it builds the scene. Sheba starts giving a young pupil after school art tuition but he quickly makes it obvious to her that he can think of better things to do with her after hours. Her attempts to repel him are not convincing and he senses that Ms Hart could be putty in his hands. Of this, he is not wrong.

She seems cast under his spell, caught like a rabbit-in-the-headlights and falls for the youthful passion that he dangles before her. Although even he must have been surprised at just how free and easy she is. So they embark on a tawdry and adulterous affair, generally carried out down by the railway line. Yes I know, here we go again, another film about married women who can’t keep their loins in check.



When they upgrade from the railway line to the art room, Barbara stumbles upon what's going down, but promises not to tell for the sake of all, as long as she ends the relationship. Sheba though is weak and fails to give up her toy boy. She finds herself addicted and simply can't stop herself digging a deeper hole to throw herself in to.

Meanwhile Barbara installs herself as a regular feature in Sheba's life and family, who consist of her much older husband, played by the excellent Bill Nighy, who left his wife and children for the younger Sheba and her two children who are of similar ages to her lover, a son with Down's syndrome and a daughter with her own love troubles.

Barbara herself has skeletons in the closet and they slowly come out to play. We come to understand that Barbara has designs on Sheba, after another teacher spurned her and fled her job the previous year. Both characters at times get your sympathy but equally you start to feel pissed off with them but before you get too one-way or the other, something else happens and the story moves on.

When Sheba is torn impossibly between her family and her friendship with Barbara, she chooses her family. So Barbara betrays her secret to the school and everything in Sheba's life falls spectacularly apart as the police and the media get involved.



It's a gripping, intelligent film with a raw nastiness to it and which has so many layers to it. You simply hang on every scene and every word. It's a film about predatory behaviour but who exactly is preying upon whom. It's short but packs more into it’s running time than most films of twice the length. Excellent script by Patrick Marber of Closer fame. Another great English film with superb performances all round.

Our cultural day is still not over was we round up Bleak House by watching the final three episodes.

34 units

Fabricate The Past?

I'm just getting up after an action packed lie-in when the phone goes and I receive another cancellation concerning tonight's 'old school pals' night out. It seemed a good idea at the time and something everybody wanted to do but when it comes down to it they can't be bothered. Oh well.

I take Doggo for a good kicking on the park and then I head over to Derby for the latest slaughter to be inflicted on the Rams. Only 1-0 this time and to a wonder goal but it was another 'must win' game that we never looked like winning. It was, I must admit, a better performance but the probability of scoring a goal always looked very remote.

L's been at Beauty and The Beast, a foreign version, that apparently was a real hoot and would have been well worth blogging, had I been there. Daughter was there, embarrassing L, with two of her mates who are sleeping over. I escape to my reunion. On the way out Daughter advises that I fabricate a fabulous past to vow them with. I might have to, no one will believe the reality.

The night goes well, there are only five of us but it is still a good night. The Old Cottage beer is good. I was right. No one believes I'm stupid enough to cycle to work, do triathlons and spend all day doing nothing at dog shows. Perhaps I should have took Daughters advice and told them I was a brain surgeon or something.

Tropical

2 degrees this morning. Tropical. There's a slight breeze which makes me realise why it's been such a good week on the bike. Until today there's been no wind at all.

The same woman in her Ford Ka who unsuccessfully tried to assassinate me before tries to do it again, with exactly the same manoeuvre as before, pulling out of Station Road in Borrowash, followed by an immediate right into Victoria Avenue.

Despite her efforts I make it to work unscathed, so that's four days in a row, which will be ‘hard to beat’ to coin a phrase from last night. Feeling well smug.

L's 'working' from home today and tries to out smug me by running, doing the papers and then going to yoga. She comes back from yoga with a new skirt. Very clever and very naughty, although I will look forward to seeing her in and out of it.

We're told that the government wants to address obesity and excessive car use but it has been announced that the secretary of state for media, culture, and sport has cut off funding for recreational cycling because they've decided it doesn't count as a sport any more, whereas swimming, sailing, and horse riding do. More sensible logic from the powers that be.

Daughter looked at bit rough this morning after the gig and late night homework session. L escorted her partway to school and says she got accused of doing do so just to make sure Daughter didn't fall asleep on the way. That's what mothers are for. Hope she's got some crap lessons she can snooze through today. Things won't get any easier she's got a gang of girls round from a 'sleep' over on Saturday. Luckily I'm off out.

In the evening we amble up to Beeston. The Fullers London Porter is very good but the Grantham Stout is better.