Blog Of Doom

The Last Post

dominic.castle@eadt.co.uk — Wed, 22 Oct 2008 11:31:00 GMT

I have decided that this will be the last post on this rather moribund blog.

It is for a number of reasons; I don't think it is good enough, for one, and the figures kind of back that up. But thanks to the both of you for tuning in every now and again anyway.

It has no focus or theme and my posts are more sporadic than a sporadic thing, so I'm going to close it down in a week and go away and think about whether or not to resurrect it, with a bit more focus and commitment from me.

So in the meantime thanks to those who troubled to read and respond, but I have now blogged off.

Dom

More feebleness

dominic.castle@eadt.co.uk — Wed, 03 Sep 2008 10:13:00 GMT

Had yet another cause to visit A&E this weekend, this time as a result of a mildly violent bike/hedge/track incident.

Rather excitingly it meant a visit to the new Garrett Anderson unit at Ipswich Hospital at 11pm on Sunday night. (My small hurtie collected at 2pm just got worse through the evening and I had foolishly declined Mrs C's sensible advice to go to the Riverside Minor Injuries Unit until after it closed).

Boy, was it busy. There were more police people there than medical staff, which speaks volumes about the type of business going on, and I haven't seen so many people in handcuffs since I was a cub reporter at magistrates' court.

The waiting room has a big TV on the wall for the distraction of patients and the Sunday night offering was one of the most violent films I've seen which rejoiced in the name 'Chopper' - perfect for an A&E, I'd have said, though I spent most of the time avoiding watching it.

Despite this the staff were patient and I stuck it out until 1am, when a car screeched up to the doors, spilling out three youths.

One of them rummaged in the back seat for a moment before appearing with an unconscious teenage girl in his arms; at that point I realised where a minor wrist injury was going to fit in the scheme of things and headed home.

Next morning I arrived and was seen within ten minutes. It's all about timing, y'see.

Sudbury hum - the answer

dominic.castle@eadt.co.uk — Thu, 21 Aug 2008 07:07:00 GMT

A number of people have said that the mysterious noise plaguing the good burghers of Sudbury is quite a high-pitched sound... could it be distant Australians whining about being behind Britain in the Olympic medal table? G'day!

Phew!

dominic.castle@eadt.co.uk — Thu, 14 Aug 2008 12:56:00 GMT

Just for a minute I thought, what with the credit crunch and all, that the world of football might be thinking about taking a reality check.

But thank goodness! I read today about Frank Lampard and his £34million five-year deal. That's £130,000 a week, give or take a bob. I'm pleased for the boy, really I am. I'm sure he gives 110%, loves his dog, is kind to his wife, loves his dog, great professional, blah blah, loves his dog etc. (Actually I don't even know if he has a dog, although our friends have a lovely little spaniel called Frank. Could they be related?)

I wish I could think of something original to say that didn't sound too green-eyed but I can't. Greedy old world,eh?

Mont Ventoux

dominic.castle@eadt.co.uk — Tue, 05 Aug 2008 21:06:00 GMT

Achieved a personal cycling goal a couple of weeks ago when the Ginger Ninja and I ascended the fabled slopes of Mont Ventoux in France.

Ventoux, if you don't know, is a 6.000ft mountain in the south east, in Provence, I believe, which has something of a mythical status for many riders. It is a rock magnet, drawing thousands who want to emulate the pros who have ground their way up the unrelenting slopes in some epic battles.

Cycling history has been made on Ventoux; tragedy too. Here Tom Simpson, a cycling giant in the 60s, collapsed just below the summit and died on the 13th stage of the Tour, on Friday July 13, 1967.

This lump of rock rises abruptly from the undulating lowlands; you can see it from 30 or 40 miles away and as we neared it on a cloudless July day we began to get an idea of the scale of the ride ahead and wished we'd gone to the beach instead. The ascent from Bedoin is the traditional way up and that's the one we chose - and also because my mate Big Gear Phil, the cyclist with the slowest cadence on the planet, had done it the year before in 2hrs 38mins.

I was determined to beat him. We weaved through the traffic in the leafy little village and set off. After 400 metres the boy was 100m ahead and by the end of the first mile I lost sight of him completely. Git.

The road just goes up. And up. And up... after four miles I was one gear from the bottom, plugging slowly away. It was hot, too, not fried-egg-on-the-pavement hot but a good simmering heat, enough to provoke a steady drip-drip of perspiration from chin to top tube. I ploughed on.

200 metres ahead were a pair of French mountain bikers, twiddling away in their uber-low gears and jabbering at each other. Fruits de Mer! They plainly weren't working hard enough. I upped the pace. Then I let it back down again and dropped into my bottomest gear. Now there was nowhere to go. Still I sweated and still the Frenchmen yakked ahead of me. I passed other riders toiling away, and was only passed once, by a guy on a blue Orbea.

After 40 minutes I started thinking about stopping for a break. I was suffering. The Frenchmen were still jabbering. The road rose on, every bend yielding views of tarmac daubed with encouragement. Allez Damian! A 40 ans! Well, I was 44 ans and I was allez-ing as well as I could. And I'd answer to Damian if it helped. Still the Frenchmen gabbled away, still 200metres ahead.

The gradient is an average 7.5%, not a show-stopper in itsef, but it kicks up to 10% in places and is flat nowhere in the entire 22km (14miles) of its length. There's nothing like it in Suffolk, boy!

After an hour I realised something; I no longer wanted to stop. I had a nice rhythm going and - nom d'un chien! - the Frenchmen had stopped talking and were separated. I cruised past No1, who appeared to have hit a treacle puddle in the road, so slowly was he going, and closed on No2, who was having a snack as he rode. He was so engrossed in his petit dejeuner that he didn't hear me until I appeared at his elbow, at which point he promptly squawked in surprise and went straight off the road. I gave him an encouraging wave as I rolled on.

Coming out of the trees into the white moonscape of the upper slopes on Ventoux is a visually stunning moment; you could believe your eyes if men in space suits bounded across the surface, so other-worldly is it. Perhaps I just needed a drink.

At Chalet Reynard Mrs C gave me an encouraging wave as she got outside a nice cappuccino and a pastry. Then I saw a sign - 6km to go! I also saw Billy Blue Orbea paying the price for his early pace. I reeled him in. He wasn't having it and passed me back, getting ten metres clear. He held it for a while but Steady Eddie ground him down, wore him out and left him to suffer alone.

The station at the top was beguilingly close now and, spurred on, I began to pick off strugglers including a guy riding with an artificial leg (he was going well) a roller-blader and a guy who looked like he was doing Foreign Legion training - his backpack was the size of a mattress and he was wearing combat trousers.

Past Tom Simpson's memorial I choked a little; "Chapeau" I croaked. Genuinely tired and emotional, I guess. Then I was there; it was all over and I'd done the whole climb, without stopping once, in... 1hr 58mins. Eat my shorts, Big Gear Phil! The Ginger Ninja did it in 1hr 32mins. Git.

The descent was a hoot. Actually it was more of a 45mph edge-of-control scream, but I made it in one piece. I hope the French mountain biker got out of that ditch OK.

Other road users - an apology

dominic.castle@eadt.co.uk — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 09:36:00 GMT

I'd like to use this blog to apologise to a significant number of fellow road users who I encountered, and some I didn't, on this blissful July morning as I cycled in to work.

To the blonde lady in the smart Audi at Westerfield; I'm sorry that your day started with you having to suck such a sharp lemon.

I'm sorry to the Espace driver for delaying his journey through the same village by about one femto-second. Luckily your vehicle's vivid acceleration means that you had made that up by getting you up 60mph in no time. Top man!

I apologise to the parents of the fly I inhaled in Witnesham.

I apologise to the young mother walking her children to school for making her jump out of her skin as I rode past making ridiculously loud 'gakkk aaakkk' noises after inhaling said fly.

I apologise to the van driver for almost denting the wing of his lovely vehicle as he pulled out from his driveway, but respectfully point out that it is traditional, even in rural areas, to look right as well as left.

I apologise to one of the Happy Hens of Henley for nearly running her over.

I'm sorry that I slowed down the game of chase that two buses were playing; who won in the end?

I apologise for being 44 and wearing Lycra. And having badly-shaved legs.

I'm sorry about the rising cost of fuel. But have you seen the price of bananas lately?

I apologise to all those car drivers I kept passing and repassing as I went up the cycle lanes. Just accept that in traffic a bike is quicker, take some deep breaths and keep listening to Wogan. Good karma will come your way!

I say sorry to the man who turned right across me in Henley Road; I feel your pain. It must be so humiliating to have to drive a girly Ford Ka.

I apologise for any smugness, real or perceived.

Finally I apologise to everyone who didn't get in to work today dripping with sweat but feeling like a million dollars. It must be awful for you.

Speed warning

dominic.castle@eadt.co.uk — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 14:25:00 GMT

You know those little mobile signs that appear on roadsides from time to time? The ones that tell you how fast you're going and if you're under the limit (usually 30mph) give you a little smiley face. Of course I have no idea what happens if you go over the limit ;-)

There was one in leafy Hemingstone this morning at the top of a longish drag up into the village. I crested the brow at a heady 15mph and was told by the smiley sign that I was doing 19mph. Hmmmm.

Da Big Dog is in da house, Blood

dominic.castle@eadt.co.uk — Thu, 05 Jun 2008 12:02:00 GMT

...or whatever street speak is appropriate. You see our greyhound is now officially gangsta.

When we first got him three odd years ago, we noticed a small nodule in the back of one of his back legs. Thinking it might be a growth we kept an eye on it, but it didn't change.

Then this week he went to the vet on an unrelated matter and the present Mrs Castle mentioned the lump. The vet duly had a feel and announced; "It's an airgun pellet."

Poor Jake! He has, to use the homie vernacular, been capped in the ass! He is like well gangsta now. He's dropped that old-style leather greyhound collar and is wearing a number of gold chains, a baseball cap with a flat brim and is listening to some heavy rap. He has also changed his name to 50Pence, the Anglicised version of top rapper 50Cent, and wants to be known as Fiddy. I'd have said he was more Snoop Dogg myself.

Big up to the Moonwalkers!

dominic.castle@eadt.co.uk — Tue, 20 May 2008 12:31:00 GMT

Respect to the 15,000 women (and a few blokes) who trudged 26 miles through London's streets on Saturday night/Sunday morning for the Moonwalk breast cancer charity event.

That's one long, exhausting walk through the grimy capital, so a huge well done, especially to Rachel Clarke - yes, you! - who will be going as pink as her Moonwalk hat when she reads this. She marched around in seven hours, with other half Paul zipping around on a pink mountain bike (he likes pink) offering encouragement and bananas, and suffered the delight of a large blister popping a mile from the line. Yeuch.

Unfortunately she has decided that she's not doing next year's event on her Billy, so we're going along as well. Yay!

Great day to be alive...

dominic.castle@eadt.co.uk — Wed, 07 May 2008 11:59:00 GMT

...isn't it though? It was such a spectacular morning that I finally got my ass into gear and set off an hour earlier for work, riding the long way round. It's something I've threatened myself with for weeks, but never quite got organised enough for.

Right decision. Zipping past the cars backed up around Ipswich's Colchester Road was enlivened by the antics of dozy car drivers who, as I whizzed past their windows, would suddenly hit the throttle - don't even think about going for that little gap, Lycra Boy! Ha! - before I repassed them a few seconds later. Sweet.

Heading North out through Witnesham the traffic thinned, apart from the last workers scurrying in to work. I rolled along to Helmingham, then hung a left through Gosbeck where the only soul I saw for about 15 minutes was a solitary, miserable-looking jogger. Why do they always look so miserable? Because running is miserable, that's why. Don't do it, people. Get a bike and live a little!

Anyway, finished up through Henley, saying hello to the eponymous Happy Hens, and got here with ten minutes to spare, covering 20 miles in a bit over the hour. Not rocket pace, but decent enough solo effort (with a backpack).

It took me about 45 minutes to cool down, despite taking an essential shower. By shower I mean something with the pressure of one of those hand-held plant sprays which puts water on every surface in the shower room except your skin. Never mind, it did the job eventually. I also gave my beloved colleagues a chortle by turning up in an acid green cycle top and Lycra shorts.

Off to Dartmoor this weekend for the 100k sportive. Woefully under-prepared and still too heavy, but time has run out now. I read in the bike mags that I need to stop training (stop? So soon?) and start feeding myself up for the event, so I'm off to get outside the paving-slab sized flapjack I've just bought.

Bomb over-reaction

dominic.castle@eadt.co.uk — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 12:34:00 GMT

Great fun though this bomb story off Felixstowe is, hasn't the official reaction been a teeny bit over the top?

A thousand people evacuated, emergency shelters in the sports centre, just about every ambulance in the county on standby, a police officer for every citizen (OK, slight exaggeration)... and so on.

Wartime bombs turn up all the time; they get ploughed up by farmers, dug up by builders and caught by fishermen. When was the last time one went off? I can't remember any.

And why did the killjoys want blow it up so far offshore? The blower-uppers are only 500 metres away so it can't have been that dangerous.

It's the fish I feel sorry for. Think of those poor cod, belly-up, not realising that it was Hitler wot done for them after all these years. Damn the Luftwaffe!

Stuck on you

dominic.castle@eadt.co.uk — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 11:52:00 GMT

Normally, going to the docs doesn't involve involve losing your hair in a comedy stylee.

Spare a thought, then, for the patient with a nasty cut to the head who turned up at the surgery where a dear friend of ours - Nurse X - practices, in the broadest sense, her calling.

Nurse X, who is generally the kind of person you'd want on your side in an emergency, called in her assistant in order to show her how to deal with the wound using medical superglue. With the lesson came the stern instruction; 'make sure you don't stick your hand to the patient's head'.

You're ahead of me here, aren't you? Yep, sure enough, Nurse X discovered that she and Patient Y were bonded, digit to cranium, by some of the stickiest stuff known to man.

Patient Y took it in good part, despite having to leave the surgery with a knot of her crowning glory attached to her healer's finger. Nurse X's friends have suggested she be allowed nothing tackier than a Pritt Stick for now.

Fat chance

dominic.castle@eadt.co.uk — Mon, 31 Mar 2008 12:02:00 GMT

Well, the Spring fitness campaign is underway, sort of. The good news, for me anyway, is that I appear to have shed some fat. A check of the scales at the weekend revealed that I now weigh 12st 3.5lbs, down from 12st 6.5lbs a few weeks ago. Yay!

I'd like to say that it is down to iron-willed discipline at the dining table coupled with some elite-level athletic endeavour, but the truth is a couple of feet to the left of that. I have been doing a bit more exercise; an hour on the turbo on Monday (burned 907 calories) a couple of hours flapping ineffectually at the shuttlecock on the badminton court on Wednesday (burned 500 calories, put them straight back in at the pub afterwards) and 70 miles on the road at the weekend (lots of calories).

Sweet stuff continues to be my achilles heel; biscuits, Jaffa Cakes, choc bars... you know the kind of stuff. The good stuff. Hmmm. Anyway, I guess I'm moving in the right direction, so I'll give it a couple of weeks (6 weeks to go until the Dartmoor Challenge) and see how its going.

Heather Mills' roots

dominic.castle@eadt.co.uk — Wed, 19 Mar 2008 10:03:00 GMT

I don't mean her hair, of course, but her geographical roots. The national media keep referring to her as a Geordie which, as any fule kno, is completely wrong. She's from the sprawling 'village' of Washington, which is south of the Tyne, and she is therefore either a Mackem or a daughter of Durham. Calling someone from that neck of the woods a Geordie would be like calling a Tractor Boy a canary, only even more likely to end up in violence.

I did have the pleasure of occasionally speaking to Miss Mills many years ago when I worked on a Newcastle newspaper that she had some dealing with at the start of her relentless ascent into the public spotlight. I have tried to recall something from these brief telephonic encounters that would add to the debate about her but I can't. Sorry.

Time to get fit(ish)

dominic.castle@eadt.co.uk — Tue, 18 Mar 2008 22:27:00 GMT

A couple of posts ago I whined about discovering that I was at the lowest point of human existence, 44.5 years old and at the point where ambition is crushed and so on. I knew I shouldn't have read that stupid survey. Anyway one of my dear colleagues pointed out that post 44.5 things could only get better, that I would be on the upslope to enlightenment and happiness. Dunno about that but I have decided that the least I can do is get fit and lose some weight. Like most middle-aged office workers I'm carrying a broad belt of spare midriff, weighing, in my case, about 7lbs. It's gotta go. Last year we bought a clever turbo trainer (to non-cyclists, a device that allows you to ride your bike indoors while generating puddles of sweat. Nice.) with a view to getting the son and heir hyper fit for his national level races. Sadly injury, exams, women and the bass guitar have deflected him away from the bike at the moment but I have no such excuses. The turbo hooks up to the laptop and lets you do all kinds of measuring stuff; power, speed, how fast the pedals are turning and so on. It also shows you how many calories you're burning, which is a sort of good thing. Last night, for example. I did an hour of serious effort and burned around 900 calories. I then piled most of those lost calories back into my carcase by having a pint of chocolate milkshake and some HobNobs. Doh. I've got to get off the sweet stuff. Tonight I had a tiny chicken salad - good - followed by a couple of fingers of shortbread and a few handfuls of chocolate peanuts - bad. That's worth about 40 extra minutes of grief and suffering on the turbo. Aaarrrggh. I've set myself some goals, cycling wise, which may help. In May we're heading down to Exmoor for a 100k (62.5 mile) ride across Dartmoor and its lovely hills - with 2171mtrs (7129ft) of climbing. That's like riding up one and a half Ben Nevises, if you could do such a thing. Tough to train for that in Suffolk, so I'll be turbo-ing like a madman in the meantime. Goal two is the legendary climb up Mont Ventoux in France, in July, when we take notre vacances. Cyclists will know about Ventoux; a quick check of Wikipedia will fill in non-riders. Won't be able to do either if I don't keep my fingers out of the biscuit tin or learn to spurn the Snickers. I'll try and give a weekly report on the race to 11stone 13lbs. Wish me luck.