A Thoroughly Modern Bully

If common wisdom is true, and the first step to recovery is admitting that there is a problem, then I am about to make a Neil Armstrong sized breakthrough. Which is my rather circuitous way of telling you that I am being bullied. Gosh, I do feel a whole lot better. Right, best foot forward and on with the therapy. Which is, ironically, the problem. Putting a foot forward that is. Or to be more accurate putting another foot in front of the other. What? Oh, I'm talking about steps. Steps. Steps. Seemingly there's just not enough of them.

You see it all started innocently enough, with the purchase of a new running watch. No, of course not a watch that could run but a watch to use whilst running. Can I continue? Thank you. So I have recently purchased a watch to use whilst running as a replacement to the one I had that has expired. It's time had come so to speak. Little did I know that I had just entered a while new world of pain and anguish. This new watch has a hidden function, one that was unsurprisingly hidden from me at the time of purchase, and that is to torture and ridicule its wearer. It is, to put it more plainly, an evil watch. You see it counts your steps. Incessantly. This wasn't mentioned on the packaging or the brightly colour advert in the running magazine. No, of course not a magazine that runs, but a magazine devoted to running. Sheesh. Well devoted to running and, as it turns out, the dark arts. 

Not only does it count steps but it sends a message, along with a vibrating alert, when you haven't moved for a while. I can only assume that the manufacturers couldn't figure out a way to accompany this alert with an electric shock without completely depleting the battery. 

This was fun at first. A bit of a novelty. I'd be sat at work....working...and then get a gentle reminder that it has been nearly an hour since I'd stood up. So, In response to the reminders, I casually get up and go for a walk and speak to colleagues who, unaware I am obeying my watch, presumably think I've suddenly become a lot chattier these days.

The honeymoon period did not last long and I've seen through its friendly facade. Not only does it count steps and remind you when you've not moved in a while, but it also sets you a daily goal. "How lovely, I like a challenge", I hear you think. Well here's the thing. When you reach your daily challenge, the next time it's a bit more. Not much - a hundred steps or so - but more. Then more. And more. Each day getting increasingly harder to meet the target and please the master..... sorry watch. The watch is a fascist, a bully and impossible to satisfy.

I've now come to the conclusion that the watch was made by Satan himself. Let's review the simple fact - what is the point of putting a step counter into a running watch? If the point is to motivate the wearer into being more active, then surely the fact that it is worn WHILST RUNNING is surely enough. Runners aren't exactly known for their fondness for the couch, unless it is, or course, after a long run. Today is a perfect example of that. I have ran 15km today and well and truly met my step target for today. In fact I had met it by the time I had arrived at the start line on Devonport. And it had truly been smashed by the time I got home. There was absolutely no way the master.....sorry watch....could be displeased with that. So there I was, resting on the couch with a cup of tea, feeling pleased with myself for being so active, when the all too familiar buzz was felt on my wrist. 'MOVE' was flashing on the small screen and it had gone red, presumably to highlight it's anger towards me. How dare I? How dare I sit there and relax with a cup of tea when I should be up and about. Presumably, watch the watch wanted to say was 'STOP SITTING AROUND ON YOUR FAT ARSE DRINKING TEA YOU LAZY GIT. YOU'VE ONLY RAN 15km. GET UP. YOU ARE SUCH A DISAPPOINTMENT TO ME'. I can only thank mercy for the limited screen space.

Was there no pleasing it? This thing was impossible. But deep down, I knew it was right. I have, after all, only done 24,483 steps today and there are plenty of hours left. What am I doing? I'm wasting my life away sitting here drinking tea. Whilst it's still light I'm going to get out there and do some more - oh and there's a torch in the hall drawer so I could maybe squeeze in some more steps after dinner. Yes - I'll show it who's boss......

Hibernation

It's about time I went into hibernation. I know that it's spring - maybe it's my northern hemisphere upbringing that's causing this - but I really need to get my head down. Or should that be 'keep' my head down. Tired? No not at all. Bloody rugby. 

Yes, the spectacle of the Rubgy World Cup is looming and apparently New Zealand are a decent side. Not that you would know that from this side of the world. It's hardly mentioned....... And in case you were wondering, that was sarcasm. I can live with the papers getting all excited, they are easy to avoid, as are promos on TV. But this morning I was treated to this image when I opened the fridge at work. No that's not oil. It's milk. In black milk cartons. Sorry All Black milk cartons.

But bloody rugby. Hardly the beautiful game. Not that association football is the beautiful game either. No, I've been to far too many cold and wet torrid games to ever call it that. Sure, there are moments of inspiration and brilliance but they are few and far between. Yes, before you say it, I've only got myself to blame. Supporting Middlesbrough was never going to be easy. And to paraphrase Harry Pearson, there's a reason the grass is so green at the Riverside......it's because of all the shit that's been on it!

Anyway I am, as they like to say in management meetings, off topic. Back to rugby. What an odd game. Admittedly I am pre-disposed to dislike it. I truly am. Well, as you asked, we played it at school and Henry Smith was a rugby school. Not that this was ever debated, put to the vote and agreed, of course, it just seemed to have been decreed by the dictator, sorry PE head teacher, Mr Dee. It was inevitable as he had, allegedly, played at internationall level and what better way to demonstrate your love of the game you used to play than to get twenty-odd (I love it so much that I'm not even sure how many people are on a team) kids to beat the living shite out of each other on a Wednesday morning. Thinking back, it wasn't even that. Rather than pick two relatively even matched sides to play, surely it's much more sporting to pit the school first eleven against much weaker opposition. ie the rest of us. And to add insult to inevitable injury, chastise the weaker side for not trying hard enough. "You're making it too easy for them!," came the shout followed by "Put your back into it" and "Stop bleeding on the pitch you useless twerp!". Ahh, school days. It's no wonder I took up running in later life.

There was, it has to be said, a few times that he may have had a point. Sort of. After weeks of getting battered it soon became obvious that if you were no where near the ball then the chances of getting clobbered were dramatically reduced. Not a great tactic for winning the game, but without equal for getting off the pitch with the most number of limbs intact. Avoidance tactics did lead to some memorable moments, such as kids actively running away from the ball when it was hoisted into the air as if it were a huge peanut and they all had a chronic allergy to nutty substances. Unfortunately the fascist state, as we liked to call them, cottoned on to the avoidance strategy and warned us that anyone with clean knees at the end of the beating...sorry game... would be subjected to further physical punishment. Queue then comical images of a team of rugby players walking around on their knees trying to find the sloppiest muddy puddle to prove their participation and innocence. Not an easy feat on a frozen pitch in the north east of England.

So I don't like rugby. And it has to be said that this is a slight disadvantage when living in New Zealand. They are quite different fond of it. You may have noticed. So in an attempt to integrate further into kiwi society we decided that we had to embrace the game. And what better way to fan the flames of our passion than to get tickets for an All Black game. In fact it was one better than that. It was the All Blacks against the Aussies in the final game of the Bledisloe Cup. It was bound to be a 'ripper'....

The full time whistle couldn't come soon enough. What a boring, pointless game. Nothing seemed to happen. I could give you a detailed match report but it'd be too much. Okay, go on, I'll give it a go. Well, a big bloke kicked the ball in the air as hard as he could and then everyone ran after it. It bounced funny, because it's not round, but someone managed to grab it before the rest of the pack jumped on him. He then ran off and when they got near he kicked it in the air as far as he could and they all ran after it. This was repeated several times until someone had had enough. Then they all stood around and after a while they had a hug, a bit of a rest and then it started again. Fascinating but I can't imagine feeling bone weary bored had I seen some of the worlds best football teams play. Take your pick; Brazil, Argentina, Spain, Germany, Juventus, Real Madrid, Barcelona, Bayern Munich and Accrington Stanley. What? Okay so maybe not Spain. But the rest - world class!

So I have decided that, after seeing two of the worlds best teams play and still being bored out of my skull, rugby is not for me. You can't say haven't tried. I really have. On the Monday morning, around the coffee machine I thought I'd try and find our what the rest of the office thought. Maybe it was a bad game after all. Maybe this was the equivalent of a boring one sided thrashing or a 0-0 draw and a drab Tuesday night. "Oh! What a brilliant game", said one. "It was a tactical showpiece," came another. "Wasn't it a bit....well.....boring", said another. Wait! Oh no! That was me! I'd just committed the cardinal sin and dissed the national sport and the national side. I couldn't help it. The words just popped out. Unannounced like. 

I must say they took it rather well. All things being considered. They shrugged it off as another Brit who was jealous of the all conquering All Blacks. No hard feelings. At least I don't think so, although my coffee hasn't quite tasted the same since. Somehow a bit creamier?

Tell Me Why?..........

If there is one thing that living in a new country has taught me it's that Monday mornings are still Monday mornings. And by extrapolation, Sunday evening are still Sunday evenings. 

Yes, the spectre of Monday morning is slowly stretching its shadowy hand over the remnants of Sunday evening as slowly we slide into another working week. And it got me to thinking. When does the weekend actually end? I know in theory that it ends with the book being closed, the alarm clock being set and the light turning out but that's not really true is it? Nope, the weekend actually ends much earlier than that when the working day routine slowly starts to gear up. There's lunches to be made, bags to be packed, baths to be had and diaries to be checked. These signallers of the week to come are also the tasks that kill off the weekend. And boy are they good at their job. 

Maybe the answer to the pending Monday blues is to go out on the lash on Sunday night. You know, really stick the fingers up to The Man and in a final act of rebellion get stinkingly drunk shouting "Ha-ha! You'll never take me alive you b'stard!". But both you and I know that's just not going to happen. Oh my god, the thought of starting a week of work with a hangover. I'm shuddering at the thought.

Okay, so maybe not going on the lash. Perhaps a night out at the cinema. Yes! That's it! There's no need to get blindingly drunk to have a good time. I appreciate it's a strange concept but it is entirely possible to enjoy one's self without the use of alcohol. Or so I am told. Ahh, but wait. The cinema won't work either. That will mean getting to bed really, really late. Gone 9pm. Practically an all nighter. The thought of starting a working week tired is not something I would like to consider thank you very much. Even if I were to wear my pyjamas under my clothes, by the time I got out of the cinema, walked home and peeled off a few layers it'd be far too late. Nope the cinema is definitely out.

How about going for a nice meal? A sort of celebratory feast. Yes, that's the ticket....nope.....wait......I can't sleep on a full stomach. A restless night is not what the doctor ordered. Scratch that then. 

I'll just have to grin and bear it - apply a good dose of that stiff upper lip we are supposedly famous for and get through it. It's coming whether I like it or not. Looking back, I always get through them and by the time my first coffee of the day has injected the much needed caffeine into my blood stream I've forgotten all about the ordeal. But sitting here, staring from the wrong side, it just seems....well so unfair. After spending a relaxing day strolling along on a beach, relaxing in a park or idling some time away in a cafe it just doesn't seen right to be dragged back down to earth by having to go to work. Boooo! I say. Booo with knobs on!

I can here the critisisms from here, "Oh, hark at him. Sitting there with his mild weather with spring on the way. Luxury!" But don't you see - that makes it worse! Having nice weather (although at the moment it is raining like a bastard) and beaches and parks on tap makes it all the more difficult to drag my lazy bum into work come Monday morning. And I do, of course, know that some reading this are not as lucky to have such a regular working pattern. I should count myself very lucky to have a job at all. I know. I know. And I do. Count myself lucky that is, and can only apologise if this whole blog sounds a little bit like a whinging spoilt child. I'm sorry and will try harder......but it doesn't stop Sunday evening being a total and utter bummer.