Jonny's in Bolivia

I wasn't sure where Bolivia actually is, so I got hold of map. It has borders with five other South American countries. It's where Jonny, my wandering son, is right now. It's also where Ernesto “if you tremble indignation at every injustice then you are a comrade of mine” Guevara was killed.

He's in Vallegrande to be precise. A small town south-west of Santa Cruz de la Sierra. It was here, at the hospitals mortuary, that the body of 'Che' Guevara was put on public display after his execution by the US backed Bolivian army in 1967. His burial site was kept secret to stop it becoming one of pilgrimage, the cowards. In 1995 his body was discovered near the airstrip at Vallegrande . On October 17, 1997, the remains, were sent to Cuba, with those of six of his fellow combatants. They were laid to rest with full military honors in an especially built mausoleum in the Cuban city of Santa Clara, where he had lead the decisive military victory of the Cuban Revolution. Before he was killed his executioner, Mario Terán, asked if he was thinking about his own immortality. "No", replied Che, "I'm thinking about the immortality of the revolution."

Jonny's there but can't access any money. There are no cash points that work in Vallegrande. The Bolivian currency is the Boliviano. The exchange rate is about 10:1. There seems to be a bank though, and an Internet cafe. Thank goodness for modern technology and the wonders of science. So no need to panic.

It turns out there is a simple way of transferring money these days. It took me a little time to find out, and some help from Rachel. The transfer has to be through the Western Union bank. You can do it online if you register, but strangely they don't take visa debit cards. So we had to do it by phone 0800 833 833. It's so much better to talk to someone who knows what they are doing in these situations. I'm still unsure if he's going to pick up the money, but we've done what we can for now. Unfortunately I told Anne who, like when she was told that his airline had crashed, began to 'spaz out'. It's what mothers do. Of course the aeroplane hadn't crashed, just the company - Zoom.
I remember I was in Paris with my cousin Marilyn. I had been tipped off by Rachel that this had happened and had sorted it out already when I got the panicky call. I was tempted to keep the suspense going but it wasn't worth it.

So I hope Jonny gets the money and is safe. I'm also very proud of him for making this trip and taking the risk. It's what I would have liked to have been brave enough to do. I'm glad he made the pilgrimage.

Thieving bastard

I don't know what to say really. Last Tuesday some bastard stole my new red 'stumpjumper' specialized bike from the locked garden shed. They can in and unscrewed to door from its hinges. Fortunately I don't have an emotional attachment to it, except it was the on hat accompanied me on my trip from Edinburgh.

Then, to compound the damn cheek of it, he came back to take whatever else was there. This time though Hamid spotted him and gave chase. He didn't catch as he disappeared down a side street. I'm not sure what Hamid would have done if he'd caught him. Apparently he was a big white guy with a shaved head. I suppose i can get it back on insurance so it's not all bad.

The worst aspect of it is the feeling that I must have been watch with the bike and putting it into the shed. I used to feel very safe here, at least after Sam let. Anyway, mustn't let these things get to you, and I still have my old trusty bike.

***

On a hot summers night in 1974, four or five young men were beging to get ready for a streak.

I was at the front and off came the clothes. 'Come on guys' I beckoned as I ran out through the glass front door. I headed up the path a short way and turned to see how far back my chums were. My colleagues, my compadrays, my fellow travellers.

They weren't anywhere. Well they were, they were just heading back inside and closing the door behind then. Quick as a flash, a streek even, I ran back to prevent them closing the door, and then, no doubt locking me out in my birthday suit.

I stretched out my arm to the wooden frame and missed.

I can remember a lot of lughter from behind the door, then a great shattering sound of splintered glass, more laughter which then sudddenly changed to silence. Smiling faces became ashen.

I looken down to see glass all over the floor, and then saw my left arm. A six inch flat had been sliced to reveal white shinny bone, and higher up a four inch gash also to the bone. I had no pain.

As I looked at the bare flesh it quickly began to turn red, and then to drip blood onto the floor. My brother was lead off to sit down while other sensible people called an ambulance. While waiting for them I had to get some of my clothes back on. With my left arm in the air to try to stem the blood flow i out on my underpant. i gave uo with the rest. Fortunately all function was present and correct. I had missed any major nerves or arteries, and no other exposed part of my anatomy had been damaged.

The ambulance took me to casualty, and the poor registrar was got out of bed. i remember how meticulous he was. The adrenalin pumpng through me had made me high and I was jabbering away to the nurse, telling how I'd been accepted to medical school, what we'ed been up to and all sorts of nonsense until eventually she say 'I think it would be better if we just had quiet while the doctor finishes off'. I got hte message and shut up.

My parents came to see me later that day. Dad had to be given a chair to sit down. Few words were said as the space between anger and relief has no words.

I was in hospital for a week, and had become a legend at school. Jack Addy the teacher in charge of the 'special paper' had come in to see how I was, and thinly disguised his 'disappointment' with me not taking the paper more seriously. As for my friends I got lots of visitors and was briefly a hero.

I don't know what happened to Grahams parents front door. I assume it got mended. Grahams parents never spoke to me again

Castles and Queens in Mid-Devonshire

Some of my friends have said my blogs are too long. Actually it's not 'some' of my friends, it's Jonny Oldham. His attention span is clearly very short, and let's be fair, he's not very bright. So I'll keep it short this time and talk very slowly.

Down in Devon on Saturday morning, we woke up to The Western Morning News (voice of the West Country since 1860) declaring front page news that a great offer was starting today. 2-for-1 West country cream teas, details inside. I didn't bother to read the article. David Miliband had given them an exclusive interview, and in a scoop asked whether it is to be 'the end of the road for speed cameras?' I didn't read these either.

1 e4 c5; 2 Nf3 Nc6; 3 Bb5 Nf6; 4 Nc3 Qc7; 5 d3 d6; 6 0-0 e6; 7 Bxc6+ Qxc6; 8 e5 Nd7; 9 d4 d5; 10 a4 b6;11 Re1 h6; 12 Ne2 a6.

Once we'd woken up and taken in this amazing news, we set off for a walk on Dartmoor. Not too strenuous you understand, just enough to make us feel we deserved a lunchtime pint and lunch.

13 h4 Bb7; 14 c3 c4; 15 a5 bxa5; 16 Rxa5 Qb6; 17 Ra1 a5; 18 Nf Bc6; 19 Nh2 Nb8; 20 Qh5 Bd7; 21 Re3 Ra7; 22 Rg3 Qb3; 23 Qe2 Ba4; 24 Nh5 Qc2; 25 Qe1 Rh7

The Devonshire countryside is quite beautiful, with it's undulating hills, green fields and tree lined roads. We were expecting rain but none came. Egg ham and chips and a couple of pints and we were all pretty tired.

26 Ng4 Nd7; 27 Ne3 Qb3; 28 Bd2 g6; 29 Nf4 Be7; 30 Qb1 Bxh4; 31 Rh3Be7; 32 Nxg6 fxg6; 33 Qxg6+Rf7

Then it's back to Ade and Sue's for an afternoon nap. Up again and me and Ade do a bit of business talk while we are still sensible. Then it's time for dinner and wine. Couple of bottles of bubbly, a Chablis, and bottles of red.

After dinner its conversation, TV and games. Only this time I decide to challenge the others to a game of chess. Sue needs to go to bed as up early for work.

34 Rf3 Bf6; 35 Rxf6 Nxf6; 36 exf6 Kd8; 37 Ra3 Qb5; 38 Ng4 Rad7; 39 Ne5 Qxb2; 40 Nxf7+

I do pretty well to start with, attacking, confident, and decisive. The two of them are a bit undecided on tactics, but play safe. Although they are white and have started, they fall behind as I go one Castle up, following a cunningly devised trap. There can be no way back for them now. I'm starting to prepare my winners speech. Gradually the wine and over-confidence start to take over and then two fatal mistakes. For no reason whatsoever I hand over one of my Castles. Never mind, back to level pegging, and really I'm in a much stronger position. No problem, my Queen is controlling the board. Couple more moves, and why the hell did I do that? I've lost my Queen, just didn't notice that Bishop. Must have been in my blind spot, or just careless.

It's hopeless. Black resigns

Meanwhile back in 1974, on midsummer night, more or less, the sun had risen on the end of school party. The remaining few were wondering what to do now. The Tams had just finished 'Be young, be foolish, but be happy'. We were.

So we decided to go for a streak.

The Family

Yes, me and Tim are down in Devon for the weekend. Ade's fiftieth birthday was on Tuesday so we're down to put a bit of a dampener on things. Literally, they say it's going to rain cats and dogs. Adrian and Sue do indeed have cats and a dog, but no sign of rain so far I'm pleased to say.

The weekend began with us arriving last night. Reasonable drive down Friday night with relatively little hold ups. Met them in Winkleigh and back to theirs for food, wine, 'Trivial Pursuits' and trivial pursuits. It's started well, but what's going to happen next I wonder?

What happens when the music stops?

That is what we were also thinking on mid-summer night in 1974. What do we do now?

We had had a fun night. We had literally danced the night away. At the height of the evening we were all joining in with 'Schools out' and bouncing around to 'Come on Eileen', and busting moves to tunes like Dianna Ross's 'chain reaction' and of course my brother's favourite 'Midnight train to Georgia'. People have asked afterwards if we were dunk. Well we really weren't. There was little to drink at the party anyway, and for some reason Graham's parents had locked all theirs away. We were high though. No not that sort of high. We were good Grammar School boys and girls. We were a wholesome high, giddy and wanting the night to last for ever.

Actually the really sensible ones had gone home, the boys with girlfriends, the girls without boyfriends, leaving mostly the boys without girlfriends. I can't remember, but if Maria had been there she had long gone home. We certainly didn't want to repeat the farcical performance outside her house when I brought her home at one minute past eleven, a couple of weeks earlier.

I hesitate to joke about it even now. Maria was Italian, her family was Sicilian. She had been introduced to us all through her brother, who was at our school and a fabulous footballer. Maria was beautiful, and we were 'going out'. At that age and time, going out meant meeting up in town for a couple of hours at El Greco's or where ever. Maria had to be back by eleven. So that night I drove her back ever so slightly late. There at the gate, in the dark, with a street light behind him, was a stocky, angry Sicilian. 'Don't worry', my passenger reassured me. 'I'll explain' she said.

She didn't really get a chance to explain, for before I could put on the hand break, the drivers side door was flung open and I was hauled out. A diminutive Italian, arm waving and battering about my covered up head, was shouting in a strange language. I don't know what he was saying, it was a stream of, what I presumed, was Italian. I think he probably meant to say 'I'd be grateful if you wouldn't mind awfully bring my daughter back at the appointed hour next time', but it could have been much worse. Come to think of it it probably was worse, as there was Maria, also battering him and shouting stuff in Italian and screaming. It wasn't proper fighting you understand, we might as well have had pillow cases. I can only imagine the sight of two people hitting each other, with the third crouching under his protecting arms, shouting 'get off, get off' silhouetted against the night sky with Italian expletives and duck down filling in the air.

It stopped in the end and I drove off.

We laughed about it later. In fact I quite liked to old man after a while. He even asked me to join a game of poker with him one afternoon, and lent a fiver. After the game he said I could keep it. Wow.

He never said 'welcome to the family' though. Perhaps that's just as well

1974

Graham's house was down the hill for the Horse and Jockey. So we gathered there first for a few drinks. Not all of us were yet eighteen, but in any case we had got used to going into pubs by then. The Zetland, in town opposite the Poly, was where we normally met. It was a cellar bar and all the young things from Huddersfield gathered there on Friday nights to meet up with friends or chat up girls. Not tonight though. Tonight we had gone out to Lindley for a party.

1974 was a year rather like this year. We had had a general election which, by the way, had politicised many of us. Ted Heath had called it in the hope of gaining a stronger majority, banking on public sympathy for the government against the unions. Anyway it backfired with the result that we had a hung parliament. Only this time it was a Labour Prime Minister, with the Liberals propping him up. I couldn't vote yet, but some of my friends did. The sixth form common room had been a hotbed of political debate.

It was also a world cup year. England had failed before it even got going, they hadn't qualified. Holland lost in the final, this time to West Germany, the hosts. The team of Johan Cruyff and total football fluffed their lines in the last game, and missed their place in history.

1974 was also the year when streaking first came to public attention, as it were. Who can remember Michael O'Brien? No? Well he was the first known streaker at a major sporting event when on April 20, 1974, he ran out naked onto the ground of an England vs. France game at Twickenham. You think it was Erica Roe, but she wasn't until 1982 and it was against Australia at cricket.

The Bay City Rollers had four songs in the charts, along with Marc Boland, David Bowie, The Chi-Lites, Cockney Rebel, Eric Clapton, Showaddywaddy and so many others. These were the soundtrack of our sixth form and of our youth. We danced to them every Friday night at the Tennis Club disco.

Tonight was to mark the end of that carefree life, the end of school. So we were out to enjoy it, and to make it last as long as possible. Everyone who was anyone was there, except I don't remember Maria being there. Soon we would be doing summer jobs, then dispersing to universities, and although we would pledge to be friends for ever, it didn't happen like that.

Breaking into the States

For those of you who are wondering what happened to the 'Breaking into the States' bit, well it's on hold. Instead I've left it to my agent. She's keeping in close contact with the prospective client.

Meanwhile the story must be told. A story of youthful bravado, of heroism,of bravery. This story will be told.

It begins on mid-summer night, or there abouts. The year is 1974 and our 'A' levels are over, well nearly.It's a night for partying.It is a night for adventure. Tomorrow I have my last exam, my chemistry 'special' paper, but tonight we're going to have fun. Graham's parents are away for the week and we are going to parr tay.

The World Medical Games, 2010

I got back from Porec on Saturday, after a five day stay. Stepping Hill Veterans were performing in the World Medical Games (les Jeux Mondial de Medicin) under the name of Stockport FC. I first went in 1999 to St Tropez and since then we have been to various parts of Europe and North Africa. These games happen once a year and involve a large range of individual and team games including athletics, swimming, and many of the Olympic sports. Football is just one of these sports. Stockport FC have sent a team to represent England for, may be, twenty five years. Not sadly, until a long time after 1966 glorious World Cup victory. What is wrong with the National side?

Stockport have never actually won anything, except the 'fair play' award which is given to teams who come last, but the organisers want to come back next year. Invariably the winner has been football itself. I love spending the week with old and ageing friends, going to places you wouldn't otherwise go to, playing football and having fun. It is a fabulous distraction from normal life and we can pretend to be teenagers again.

Since my vertebral artery dissection last year I haven't really played much, and this year is only going to involve a cameo performance, if required for the team. As it happens it was required because, as usual, by the last day there are barely eleven players who can walk, never mind run around in thirty degree heat. We have played teams from Italy, Spain, France of course, but also from as far away as Argentina, Algeria and Australia. In fact last year I was shouting for the Aussies when they were playing our team. Only for fun you understand. This year I have been presented with an Australian football shirt, but we didn't end up playing them after all. Pity really, it was fun last year. It was the occasion of the, now infamous, fart-off between my champion, Tim (pretty boy)Hennel, and Dave (Buttons) Pickering.

My 'friend' Phil, of which more later, made the mistake of putting up his own champion, Dave, against mine. In an awesome display of at-will wind-breaking Tim devastated the opposition. It ended up as a 'no-contest' as Dave couldn't even muster a squeak. Tim rounded off his performance by skipping up the touchline, during the game, whilst dribbling the ball and parping all at the same time. What a guy!

***

Back to Porec and a bit of historical context. You can skip this bit if you like. Poreč is a town on the western coast of the Istrian peninsula of Croatia. Its major landmark is the 6th century Euphrasian Basilica, a UNESCO World Heritage Site since 1997. We didn't see this of course. Poreč is almost 2,000 years old, and is set around a harbour protected from the sea by the small island of Sveti Nikola (St. Nicholas). The town's 17,000 population live mostly on the outskirts. It has a 37 km long shoreline stretching from the Mirna River near Novigrad in the north to Funtana and Vrsar in the south. The area has been inhabited since prehistoric times. During the 2nd century BC, Roman Castrum was built where the town centre is now. Emperor Augustus in the 1st century made it part of the Roman colony of Colonia Iulia Parentium. In the 3rd century the settlement had an organized Christian community. The earliest basilica contained the remains of and was dedicated to Saint Maurus of Parentium and dates back to the second half of the 4th century.
The floor mosaic is preserved in the garden of the Euphrasian Basilica.

After the fall of the Roman Empire in 476, Porec fell under the control of various rulers. First, it was held by the Ostrogoths and after 539 was part of the Byzantine Empire. From 788 it was ruled by the Franks. A short period of independence followed before it was ruled again by the Patriarchate of Aquileia. In 1267 Poreč became part of the Republic of Venice. The city adopted the Venetian style of architecture. In 1354 the city was destroyed by the Genoese, but in 1363 the town was given the City Statute by the Venetain government. The population was decimated by plague at the end of the 16th and the beginning of the 17th century. After the fall of the Venetian Republic, Poreč came under the sovereignty of the Habsburg Monarchy.

Between 1805 and 1814, Poreč was part of the Napoleonic Kingdom of Italy and then of the Illyrian Provinces, nominally part of the First French Empire. After this period it was returned to the Habsburgs, with the Monarchy reorganized into the Austrian Empire. Towards the end of the 19th century close ties grew with the city of Trieste.

In 1861, Poreč became a shipbuilding center. It was also a popular tourist resort for the Austro-Hungarian aristocracy. Between 1902 and 1935 the Parenzana (from the name 'Parenzaner Bahn'), a narrow-gauge railway line connected the town to Trieste.

After 1918, Porec was annexed by the Kingdom of Italy. During the second World War the city was bombed by the Allies 34 times, damaging much of the historic city. In 1947, it became part of Croatia. Most of the Italian population left the city and was replaced by Slavic people from various parts of Yugoslavia. From then Poreč was a city of the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia. In 1991 Croatia became an independent state.

***


By the time we arrived in Porec, Stockport had already lost 9-1, 6-0 and 2-1. Mine was a 'demi-tour' from Tuesday to Saturday. With me were Phil Roberts & Dave Pickering, as previously mentioned, Obe and Cranny. We had an early start on Tuesday and flew to Venice. A beautiful city. I have been before, but as a student on 'inter-rail' and couldn't remember much of it. We had a beer in St Marc's square. It was so hot I swapped my trousers for my shorts. We couldn't get to see much, the temperature was high and we had our luggage with us, so we went for a meal. A passable meal, a little rushed, and a couple of bottles of wine.

During the meal Dave received some tragic personal news and had to fly home, but the rest continued. By now a little squiffy.

We had to check in for the ferry crossing. For this I needed my passport. Nowhere to be found. 'Come on Roberts, what have you done with it?' Phil looks blank 'I haven't got it.' I'd believe most people, but not him. 'I don't trust you, I'm sick of you!' I pretend to be angry to lighten the mood. On this occasion I know that he really doesn't have it. 'Oh God, where've I left it?' I pray allowed. I'm trying to think but it's hot and the wine is affecting my concentration. Obe takes control. 'Right empty out you bags'. So in the middle of a busy ferry terminal, my bags get emptied onto the floor. Then Roberts asks the key question 'when did you last have it?' Through customs of course. 'And what were you wearing?' Genius. I reach for my folded trousers, and remember taking them off in St Marc's square.

'Phew'. There, safe and sound, is my passport. We may proceed. I hand over all responsibility to the others now. Let's just get on board. The ferry port is quite dark and I don't have my glasses, it is bustling, I'm feeling a bit weak from having been in a panic and the wine is taking a hold of my brain. We queue up to join the ferry. People milling around everywhere. Are we in the right queue even?

'Have you got your boarding pass?' asks Phil. 'What boarding pass?' 'I've got mine' he grins. I look round. 'Here's mine' says Obe, and shows me. Cranny too. 'Where's mine then?' another panic. We reach the large check-in person, a stern looking Venetian sailor, with folded arms. What now.

'I've got it here' says Roberts eventually, 'but we need to teach you a lesson not to be rude to me, you'll have to beg for it'. The room is spinning, people crowding, queue staring, soon-to-be ex-friends laughing. So I get down on my knees and beg. Ha ha. How amusing. Very funny.

It is a three hour crossing from Venice to Porec, no doubt lovely on a calm day. Today is choppy. Very choppy indeed. It started off as fun, as we were thrown six inches into the air by the increasingly high waves. A bit like a funfair, we were throwing our arms in the air with each bump.

Then the vomiting started. As quickly as the smell of sick spread, so did the vomiting. Loose shopping is being thrown about. Limp or fainting women are dragged off to the back of the boat. They say it is less bumpy at the back. I think they just threw the weak ones overboard, hoping for the same effect as throwing Jonah to the fish in the Bible story. If that's what they had in mind, it didn't work. I have a pretty strong stomach, but this is nearly too much for me too, especially with half a bottle of wine swilling around my stomach.

Eventually we get to dry land. I managed to hang on to the venetian food and wine. Finally we're in Porec old town. We find a bar and call for coffee, while we watch the Holland v. Uruguay game. The Dutch win of course. Once the coffee settles our nerves it's on to beer.


I expected Porec to be more rustic, but in fact the waterfront is quite modern. After the game we head off to the hotel. It is said to be three star, but it is fine for me. The restaurant has kept us some food as it is now quite late.

My room is on the second floor, and the next day I discover it has a shared veranda with Roberts. No doubt there'll be more pranks. I'd better get in there first. The rooms overlook the pool which in turn overlooks a wood and then the sea. I think it's quite lovely. Our time in Porec was to be too short, but I would very much like to come again.

While we were there we played two games and I contributed to both in a small way. It's more to feel part of the lads, and join in the after match banter. Anyway I think I performed reasonably well considering I've hardly played in the last year. By next year I'll be back to full fitness and hope to play more, although it will always be an anxiety to head the ball. Thing is, I could never head the ball anyway.

One of the days was a day off from football. We spent the day in Porec town and had lunch in a roof top restaurant. The place is quite beautiful. I had a huge sea bass an felt quite full. Marvelous, this is the life.

We didn't win any of the remaining games either. The opposition are quite happy to make short passes and run into spaces until the last third. Then shoot, dribble or cross into a goal scoring position. Cheating really.

Our team seem to lack the confidence to take our time on the ball, pass to each other to build up that confidence, and work our way up the pitch. Instead, it's the long glory ball, hard to control, and loose it under pressure. Sound familiar? I wonder? Does our National Psyche make us do this, and is that why our England team is so crap?

The World Cup Final 2010

It is the World Cup Final in an hour, Spain versus Holland, so there will be a new name on the cup. I'm still not sure who I will be supporting. Spain have been playing exciting, skillful, close passing football for the last couple of years. They are the European champions. The team is made up of mainly Barcelona players, and I have a great affinity for the Catalan capital. The city is, sort of, twinned with Manchester. Both cities are regional capitals, have a strong socialist history and a cultural counter balance to the respective National capitals. Both are great footballing cities. On the other hand the Dutch also have a strong footballing history of flare and excitement, total football. Both teams have underperformed over the years. I wont know who I'll be supporting until I actually see them playing.

So the game is about to start. The British interest is that the referee is Howard Webb. Guy Mobrey is commentator and gives us lots of match statistics before the game. The anthems are played and the camera pans the crowd. Off we go. 'Can the Dutch stop the Spanish from passing their way to cup success?' asks Guy rhetorically. Spain has six of the top eight passes in the world official list, we are told. The pundit for the night is Laurro and he makes a quick assessment of the formations, but before he finished his sentence Spain have an early chance from a dead ball position. Then another great save from a cross. The Dutch are under early pressure. Then the ball switches to the other end. Kuyt shoots and it trickles to the keeper.

Laurro confirms that the Spanish have the best midfield in the world, and they are getting into the Dutch early. I think I'm wavering on the Spanish side now. 'Who are you supporting?' asks Rachel. I'm not sure still. Ramos has the ball into the box and crosses. He seemed to waltz past the defender. From the corner a first time left footed strike from Villa hits the side netting. 'It's a shaky start from the Dutch' points out our commentator. We are reminded that some of the Dutch team play for Barcelona too and that there is a strong historical link.

The first booking. It goes to Van Persie of Arsenal. Laurro thinks its down to a bit of frustration as he hasn't done as well as he might on the goal scoring front.

Oh dear. Puyol, Mister Barcelona himself, also gets booked for a tackle from behind. 'Howard Webb wont want to ruin his run of not sending someone off' we're told. Cassilas makes a save from the free kick. Laurro thinks Holland need a period of passing to regain confidence. The Dutch manager has won his last 12 games and unbeaten in 25. I'm swinging towards the Dutch now. A crunching tackle goes in, and another booking, two to one. Then another booking two all.

We've seen some games of cat and mouse as teams compete for the control of midfield, but this is high tempo exciting stuff. Another tackle from one already booked and a gasp of anxiety from his bench. Twenty five minutes gone already.

Hamid is supporting Holland because the Dutch have a reputation for generosity towards the destitute and asylum seekers. That's true. I'm heading towards the Dutch a bit more.

'It's a world cup final just waiting for something to happen'. De Jong is booked for studs up in the chest of Alonso. 'There'd be no argument if that was a red' says Laurro sagely. Clarence agrees they are lucky and agrees with me that 'we have a bit of a game of chess going on'. Half an hour played and we're no nearer knowing who is going to win. 'Can either team step it up that extra notch that's required?' Another rhetorical question. Laurro doesn't think there's any rhythm yet to the game. Cassilas miss judges a pass back to him. The vuvezellas are being blown tentatively only. Then he Dutch crowd starts singing again.

A corner for the men in orange. They miss a sitter. Now the Spanish carve their way through and just miss the upright. I think we need a goal. Another foul from Van Bommel. The Spanish centre backs go forward. It's knocked out, and back again. Off side. Laurro doesn't think this is a normal Spanish performance. The midfielders are playing very deep. Sneider breaks up another attack, but comes out worse from it. No booking as the ref thinks he was going for the ball. A free kick from the edge of the box. Shot on goal wide.

Van Persie has an attempt, also wide. 'He's been fed scraps' says Laurro. Robben shoots low. Good save by Casillas. Corner wasted, but plenty to talk about at half time. 'Get it to Van Persie and something will happen' explains Laurro. It's half time in the nineteenth world cup final.

Half time assessment is that it's been more like thuggery than football. Shearer and Hansen are both convinced the Dutch should be down to ten men, may be nine. Lee Dixon thinks the Dutch have ruined the game because of their tactics. Hansen doesn't mind putting the foot on the ball but this is too much. Then some examples of the highlights and the change in tactics. Mostly the horrendous tackles, which all look much worse in slow motion. The half time break is concluded with the best goals of the tournament so far. Clarence Seedof thinks that Robben is a key player but hasn't had the ball yet. Right get on with it now. Hansen thinks the Spanish need to just keep going. I think I'm back to Spain now.

A heavy pass to Van Persie or he was through. Then the Spanish take control again. Corner to Spain. Puyol gets on the end of it, but not enough and wide. Alonso attacks the box, and shouldered off the ball. Then back to the other end and a cross just wide. The Dutch crowd are more vocal. Torres warms up but things have swung back briefly to the Dutch. The game opens up a bit and a few mistakes are creeping in. Ramos is fouled on the edge. A yellow card for the Dutch captain. Xavi to take the kick, just over the bar.

The Dutch are off again, but loose the ball and a break is on for the Spanish. Villa is felled, another yellow card for the Dutch. I'm definitely going for the Spanish now. Then a kick to the Dutch but nothing happens from it. First substitute. A cross goes in to the 'Perse' but nothing comes of it. Clarence confirms it's a tactical game, but wait Roben is free. Casillas dives the wrong way but gets his foot in the way. The chance of the game is wasted. 'There is something brewing in this world cup final' confirms Guy, the commentator. The Spanish are starting to do their stuff on the edge of the box. Villa is put through and just off side. Good decision by the English linesman.

Xavi to Iniesta to Davas who runs into the box and crosses. Villa must score, but blocked. 'The game has stepped up in pace' Guy tells us. A Dutch substitution and Kuyt comes off. 'A nice balance now' Laurro tells us. Xavi and Iniesta try to thread the ball through. Still goalless at seventy minutes.

Iniesta is brought down again on the edge. The wall is reluctant to go back. It's Xavi or Villa. It's Villa and over the bar. Sixteen minutes to go. Laurro thinks they'll throw Torres on. The commentator thinks that's 'the story still to be told'. Sneider gets a ticking off for a wayward tackle. Another cross in from Davas and Villa just misses. 'Where is the break through going to come from?' asks the commentator. Villa shoots wide again. Xavi crosses and, oh my goodness, Ramos misses the easiest chance of the game. A straight forward header into an open goal goes over the bar.

Iniesta into the box. Great tackle from Sneider. It needed to be. The Dutch are under siege. Nine minutes to go. Wait, the Dutch are through, Robben is pulled back by Puyol but didn't go down. Casillas stops the shot again. Robben could have had a foul and Puyol off but he didn't. Suddenly the Dutch regain confidence. It's more open now than at any stage. Cesc Fabrigas is about to come, the best player in Europe, in my opinion. The stage is set. Alonso comes off. Laurro thinks this is a more attacking move.

Three minutes of normal time left. The pace slows a little. Not a good time to concede. Xavi turns Robben, but the Dutch break again. The Perse gets the ball, but just off side. The ninetieth minute.

Three minutes of extra time. At least. Iniesta to Xavi, the move breaks down. Fabrigas, too hard into Xavi. The Dutch can't get the ball. Quick free kick. Xavi is dispossessed and Sneider goes for a shot from forty yards and wide. The whistle goes and we're all set for another half hour.

'Extra time it is' says Linacre. Hansen is desperate for the Spanish to win. Shearer raises the standard by asking 'who says football has to be pretty?' Weeeeelll. Hansen thinks there's no way the Dutch should have eleven players on the pitch.

We're off again. Fabrigas goes down on the edge. Only a corner given. Puyol goes for it. Keeper saves. 'Desperate stuff, but then it is the world cup final' Xavi has gone forward and Fabrigas a bit deep, which puzzles Laurro for a while. Fabrigas is through. Must score. Great save from the Ajax keeper.

A Dutch cross comes in, Casillas flaps and the ball is headed over the bar. Both sides are going for it now. 'Neither side wants penalties' reckons Laurro. Xavi corner, Puyol in but nothing. The Dutch break but Roben is off side. Iniesta through this time, but brushed off by the defender brilliantly. Another Dutch substitute as the booked DeJong does off. A positive move by the Dutch manager, we think.

Villa to Davas and a shot. The net bulges. Into the side off a deflection. Laurro thinks this is the best period of the game so far. Cat and mouse again in midfield. Clarence confirms it's tactical. Fabrigas suddenly turns on the pace and shoots just wide. The household here has changed it's allegiance to the Spanish. Even Ross who joined us at half time, has switched. Sneider makes another decisive intervention. The end of the first half of extra time.

Clarence is still hopeful as they're still in the game. Spain look like bringing on Torres for Villa, and sure enough. All the Spanish cards have been played. So have the Dutch. Iniesta, Fabrigas, Iniesta, Tores, Xavi and it breaks down. Then the Dutch come forward. Van Bommel, Sneider, Van Persie and back to the Spanish. Heisinga pulls back Xavi and he has to go. The Dutch are down to ten men, some justice at last. A free kick on the edge of the box. Xavi takes, and over the bar. Even Hamid has now gone over to the Spanish.

Iniesta is brought down and another booking. Another chance for Spain, great cross, great goal keeping. Poor control from Torres and the ball goes free. The Dutch are away again but Robben is off side. He kicks the ball away, already booked. Mr Webb shows leniency on this occasion or he'd be off too.

Now it's a free kick to Holland outside the box. Deflection and wide. The referee didn't see it and it's a dead ball.

The ball now breaks to Fabrigas. Torres to Iniesta and then shoots past the keeper and into the back of the net. Yes! 'No, no it's off side' says the commentator. No it isn't. The goal stands. Iniesta 116 minutes. Replay shows he's clearly on side. There is uproar. Queen Sofia is clearly made up. Two minutes of extra time left. Robben sends the ball into the box. Poyul away.

Torres goes down, hamstring gone. The replay of the goal shows great technique to score the goal. Iniesta, it seems, according to Hansen, has magnets in his shoes. The whistle goes. The Spanish have won for the very first time. 'This was their team that was meant to win this prize' asserts Guy. The Spanish are overjoyed. The Dutch are distraught. Spain become the nineth country to win the world cup, and the only European side to win it outside Europe. Overall the best team won. Hansen thinks they were a credit to the game and thoroughly deserved it. Shearer agrees. So do I. A real victory for football says Linacre. For Lee Dixon, Iniesta stood out head and shoulders. I agree with that too. Apart from a few breakaways the Dutch didn't do enough, a tough day for them. Even Clarence concedes the Spanish were tactically better in the added time.

Viva Espania. Viva Barcelona. I wish I was there tonight.

Edinburgh to Tynemouth in three easy stages

Its not good when a bus passes you going the other way with the name of your destination written on the front of it. But that was day three of our 200 mile epic cycle ride from Edinburgh to Tynemouth via Eccles and Eye Water. And eye watering it was too, as I shall recount in the next few pages. Eye water is a real place by the way, on the Scottish Borders, there's a river Eye and an Eyemouth.

Incidentally, in case any Mancunians wondered where the first settlers to out great city came from, there is also a Swinton, a Bolton and Conundrum in the same border country. Yes and an Eccles, as I was to find out later.

Day 1 began well enough. Good weather, to start with at least. A sense of enthusiasm and adventure. A challenge. We'd arrived at Newcastle, or was it Gateshead, one or the other. I can't tell which is which, but I'm sure it's important to them. Immediately we stepped out of the railway station my prejudices about these cities proved to be false. They are stunningly beautiful cities. Our room, from the Hilton, overlooked the Tyne and three or four of the seven bridges. They are proud of their bridges round here, and so they should be. The city architecture is varied and tasteful. We can even see St James Park from the hotel widow. Not St James's as is sometimes mistakenly quoted.

We set across the river to the other side, but by chance the swing bridge was opening. This is apparently a rare sight, but there we were on the first moments of our first visit. The bridge revolves around 360 degrees, with the precision engineering of a wrist watch. Even the locals stopped to take photos. The whole thing took about twenty minutes.

Dinner was had at the Miserable Mussel. It is a fish restaurant with live jazz Monday to Friday. Lucky us, it was Thursday. The mussels in white wine source was excellent, fresh Scottish ones according to the waiter. This was followed by fish and chips which wasn't as good. As we were finishing Mike and his wife came in, together with Mike's friend Mike. They were part of our team. After dinner we went for a stroll to spot any scantily dressed women, another preconception. There weren't any, but there was a steel band with enthusiastic young folk on the riverside. How marvelous. Then in the bar to meet the others and an early night for a six am breakfast.

When I say we, I mean Sarah and me, of course. Other members of the team were Kathryn (she who must be obeyed) and Martin, her partner; Jan and Andrew (Ted - don't know why he's called Ted); Rosie and friend Judith; Nigel and Chris (sharing a room, what a lovely couple); Angus and Liz (never met them before, but a hoot); Jim (speed cyclist). Harri Singh joined us later.


The next morning, day 2, the PCCS shirts were handed out at breakfast. Last minute adjustments to the bikes. Better check the tyre pressures, everyone else seems to be. The van drove us to Edinburgh where our journey was about to begin. Normally people travel South to North, but for some reason we had opted to go North to South. We were about to find out why most go the other way. The wind always blows South to North.

The Primary Care Cardiology Society is a charity that promotes research and delivery of cardiology in, guess what, primary care. It is for this charity that we are about to put ourselves through the most painful ordeal that I for one, have ever undertaking. It is a good cause. It better be. Sarah and I have raised over 400 pounds.

The van dropped us off at Arthur's seat. Once again final check, collection of instructions and snacks (mainly Jelly Babies), wee behind tree and we're off. The advanced group shot off by the time I'd worked out how to fasten my i-pod earpiece under my helmet so it didn't fall out. It would be some time before we saw them again.

A gentle ride through Edinburgh after descending from Arthur's seat. Sure some slight inclines, but nothing too difficult. Really I can do this on my new Specialized Stump Jumper bike, which has already been admired by several of the cognoscenti. 'We'll refuel at base camp, before the next hill climb, it's a gentle nine mile rise' said reassuring Tim, reassuringly.

As it turned out it was a pretty steady ride to the refuelling place. Once you're ahead of someone its really hard to know if they are keeping up. Anyway Sarah's gears were playing up and she slipped behind. She was five minutes behind, and came in on her own.

We refuelled in silence.

Then the long climb. The long never ending climb. The long, slow, windy, never ending climb. The 'you can't give up now' climb. I stuck steadfastly to Sarah's tail, and if this became too painful, stopped at the top of each long climb.

Then at the summit, the long descent to 'lunch'. We had lunch at 4pm. It was only then that I began to realise quite how sore my perineum had become. Your perineum is the bit you sit on. Funny really, well strange anyway that it should be so painful, as over my underpants I'd put some padded Lycra cycling shorts, and ordinary padded cycling shorts on top of them.Surely that should have done the trick. Lunch was good, very good. Twenty minutes later as we were saddling up Nigel arrived. He had caught up and was greeted with a round of applause. All accounted for.

'Only another fourteen miles to the hotel' reassured reassuring Tim, and off we went.

Melrose is a beautiful town even if it's townsfolk shout at you for going the wrong way up a one way street on the pavement. Still after 55 miles they can get stuffed.

Well done everyone. Dinner and off to bed




Day 3 is another early start. I've got the hang of it now and today, Matthew, I'm going to be Lance Armstrong. First break is going to be near a race course. I recognise the name but didn't take it in. Rosie has pointed out that you shouldn't wear underpants against the padded shorts, they only act as sandpaper against your nether parts. So no undies today.

I kept up pretty well but fell behind towards the end of the first stage. I arrived just behind the leading pack. The rest are miles behind, and just as they arrive the leaders decide to set off.

I'm not going to loose them this time, and off I go. Damn, my bottle has fallen out. Lean forward and pick it up as the rest of them press ahead. I catch them up. Racing up hill and down hill I can keep up, but then a sudden change of gears and it's too much. Then chain came off. Double drat. I have to get off and put back the chain. Thirty seconds at most, but they're over the next hill and disappearing. I'm going to chase them down, and after twenty minutes I catch up with them again. I've shot my bolt and the next hill kills me. My private parts are burning.

Oh well, I did my best. It wont be long to the next stop. I realise I'm on my own. Still Tim had said just stick to the Number One cycle route and you can't go wrong.

A highway code question. What does a white bicycle on a blue background, with a red number 1 mean? OK, what does it mean with a loop sign shaped like a bicycle mean? OK, neither did I.

So having noticed the names of towns and villages on the way round so far, it was quite interesting to come across the village of Eccles. I've spent some time in Eccles when a junior doctor working at Hope Hospital. This Eccles was tiny and quite charming. After Eccles a sign to Coldstream. I'm sure reassuring Tim had mentioned Coldstream, so that must be right. Still on my own in Coldstream I asked a bemused lady if this was the right way to Berwick. She's not sure, being a stranger to the area herself (how often does that happen?), but she has a map and to be sure if you carry on down into town you'll pick up the signs.

At a junction the route 1 signs points up the road. A little further on the road becomes a bit busy. then there's a sign to Kelso. Ah Kelso, Tim mentioned Kelso, so that must be right. The road is awful busy. I guess the proper route was along country lanes, still I'll get there before the others on the short route. No route 1 signs though. I hope I'm OK. I'm standing on the peddles more and more to relieve my sore bits. 'Isn't there a race course at Kelso?'

Oh joy. A sign appears. It could easily have been missed. Lucky I spotted it. The odd thing is there's a loop sign in the shape of a bicycle above it. Never mind this must be the right way. A bus with Berwick on the front goes by the other way. that can't be right, he must have forgotten to change the sign.

'Oh Lord, please make this the right way' I pray at one point, as none of the scenery looks familiar. If it is the wrong way the others will be coming to wards me, and they're not, so I must be right.

Hang on, those road tracks look familiar. No can't be. Yes they can. Yes they are. Oh no what's happened? Where am I? Don't panic.

A little further and it seems I've come all the way back to Eccles. I have successfully, if wittingly, completed the Kelso loop. I bail out and phone Tim. 'I'll be 15 minutes, just make yourself visible' and fifteen minutes later Tim arrived. 'What happened' he asks. 'I forgot to bring a map and I must have gone back on myself'. 'That's your first mistake' he reassuringly said. ' No it's not' I thought, 'my first mistake was to try to keep up with people that are just more used to cycling at speed'.

All's well that ends well, but strangely I wasn't allowed to forget it when we got to have dinner that night at Bamburgh Castle. Another day complete and another seventy odd miles done. Lovely place, Eccles. Don't mind if I never see it again. I should have soaked my testicles in meths to harden them up.

Day 4, the last leg. We all line up for photos in front of Bamburgh castle and away we go again. I'm going to stick with the main group today. Oh yes. Learnt my lesson. The main group turns out to be three groups itself. So I'll stick with Sarah. The previous two days have taken their toll. The group s stretched right out. Jan, Liz, Nigel and me have become team Sarah and end up bring up the rear. Jan's knee is not good and she has to phone Tim for a rescue. Nigel falls behind the girls and I wait for him. We have decided not to leave anyone on their own. It seems that we will never reach lunch. Nigel stops for a snack. he had luckily brought a bar of something and an apple. I had an 'energy shot'. A disgusting sweet jelly thing you squirt out of a narrow plastic container. This has got to be the longest slowest part of the trip. Nigel is an absolute whizz with the map and for sure we'd have got lost without it. Then it begins to rain. Not just rain but rain and wind, right in your face. This is exhausting and I'm on fire down below.

Eventually we arrive at lunch in Blyth very late. The first group had been and gone an hour ago. Tim has been waiting for us before he can go and get Jan. Nigel too has had enough. Liz, Sarah and me set off to Tynemouth. First we have to get out of Blyth. Sarah is getting crosser and wants to head straight for the A1 to Newcastle. The rain has stopped but the wind is worse. We stop and ask the way from a very helpful Gordy man. After several council estates e end up on the right way, heading towards Whitley Bay. It's the coastal path, and it's exposed. Battling against a head wind just saps what energy you have left.

We got to Tynemouth, two hundred miles exactly for Edinburgh. We'd gone the wrong way against the wind all the way. We'd gone up long hills and down windy valley. We'd got lost and our muscles were sore. But none of this, not any of it compared with the feeling of sandpaper being rubbed between your legs for 200 miles.

They say you should train for these things. The training isn't for stamina or strength. The training is to get your bum used to the rubbing and sanding. No amount of cream is going to help.

Would I repeat the experience? Ask me again when I stop being on fire.