Christina Gallagher, the anti Robin Hood.

Well now. You know how hot and bothered I get about frauds and 'mystics' and what not right? I would be very firmly against them. And you'll remember be I wrote a piece on that stigmata addled fraud Christina Gallagher, right? And then I got pissy emails from folk declaring her a living saint and insisting I was the embodiment of eeeeveil for even suggesting that ol' Christine might in fact be a bit of a huckster and not the palm bleeding Matrix loving humble servant of the sacred blessed virgin she claims to be?
Right?
Right, so it should come as a TERRIBLE shock this fine morning if I reveal Christina Gallagher is now under investigation from the Office of the inland Revenue. And that several of her followers, namely elderly folk, have been talked into handing over considerable sized donations to fund the 'humble' housewife and her mansion living ways. One poor elderly woman who told the Sunday Times she could barely heat her home had been pressed to part with almost 100,000 euros, having been hounded by Father McGinnity, Gallagher's tame priest. This poor old lady and her husband genuinely believed that the apocalypse was imminent and unless 2 milllion was raised to fund a secret project-asked for by Mary, mother of god, countless souls would would be lost.
She was just one of the few mentioned in the papers.
Gallagher won't be happy about this negative attention. This charming fraudster has built up a VERY lucrative business using the tried and tested blueprints of fear, religious devotion, promised salvation. It takes a lot to convince the devoted they are being conned. Some people will never be swayed. However Our Lady Queen of Peace House of Prayer, the original power base Gallagher operates from has had its charitable tax status removed by the Revenue and the catholic Church has been VERY vocal in distancing themselves from the debacle, including banning their priests from saying mass at the house.
Speculating papers also means Gallagher has taken a body blow this weekend. She can recover from it of course, and as long as the weak and the gullible are promised healing and special favours from Mary mother of god, in return for financial aid, the world of this huckster will still turn a profit. But I truly hope this marks the beginning of the end for that woman.
People who frighten old folk into parting with their life savings ought to be whipped and then blunderbussed with rock salt.
Christina Gallagher, I am against you.

Evolution rapped square.

Snarf-di-freaking-snarf. You feeling me PZ?

motivation for Fatcats and possibly for chumlies of Fatcats.

Top of el Sabado to you all! A day that started of glumly is now sunnny. Huzzah!
I am just back form the park where a I and a Country Gay and two others did trip the light fandango up and down Chesterfield Avenue. Egad t'was a sprightly run too, due in no small part to the vind and ze rain.
However, first things first.
Monday- bank holiday, Country Gay and I tackle an 8k run but add a few extra ks in for good measure, culminating in slightly under 12k each over all. I feel very proud of him. He's only been running two months you know and he's doing brilliantly.

Tuesday,-45 minutes on the bike. 17k
Laps of gym carrying 40k x4
Bicep curls 10k X10 X4-no wobbles at all! Huzzah!
Shoulder press 10k X10X 4
Lat pull down 35KX10X4

Wendesday-
30 pull-ups, broken into sets of 10, dropped grav counter weight to 25k. heee.
Cross overs, 6.5kx 3x 4.
45 minutes run, nailed the 5k in 28.35, stopped at 30 mins and did last 15 mins over a variety of terrains. There were some hills. I feel the same way about hills as I do about steps.
Cool down. Lots of stretching.

Thursday, actually I was feeling a little poorly on Thursday, but I did mow the lawn and clip a hedge. Not exercise per se though.
Friday, have cold sore, feeling meh.

Satdee! By the power of frenadal and some- not much-carlsberg I run a rather nifty 5 miles with CG and the Chaps. It is good, I feel better. And I am looking forward to next week's BUPA race.

Happy Ginger day Chumlies!

Someday Chumlies, some day soon, AND in the not too distant future, mankind will see the error of its ginger hating ways. You THINK you know, but you DON"T know, I know that Gingers will step free from the shadows everywhere, casting aside factor 50s and umbrellas, to embrace our inner Gethon. Oh yes! You think YOU know, but you don't I DO! DO you know? NO, We Don't.
You see non-ginger filth, gingers are the only ones who can help at an accident site, gingers are the only ones that can really hand out vitamins and advice. You THINK you know, but you can't know, you know? It's a lie, a trap, a volleyball of misinformation. Why? Would? That? Be? if it wasn't to trick you into straying from the gingerpath of true appreciation and freckled salvation?
HAHHAAHHAHAHHHAHAHAAAHHHHHHHHAHAHHAHHHAHHAH!!
Oh I know people mock, buts that's fear talking, and ignorance, ESPECIALLY ignorance. If people cast aside fear and ignorance and embraced gingerism they'd see, oh yes, they'd be able to help at accidents, better than fire brigades or ambulances. There would be NO MENTAL hospitals, EVAH!! No need you see, cod liver oil would sort out that shit quick smart. FEAR, that's what hampers the gingerologists. But you can see everyday that fear is being eaten away by leeches. WE HAVE the leeches, leeches are NATURAL!!!! Oh yes You can mock now brunettes and blondies but when that big ginger inner earth spirt is released you'll all be climbing aboard the big ginger bus and WHO CAN SAY if there will be enough seats? WIll YOU say? Whattabout you at the back? DO you Know, YOU DON"T KNOW! I KNOW!
HHAHHHAHHHAHHHHHAHHHAHHHAHHAHAHAHHAHHAAH!!
Until then you freaks and jerky jerks you can go wallow in your wallowing pools of loathing and oodley noodleys, See if I care- I don't by the way. For I'm pretty darned happy the way I am, and if you don't like that you can kiss my ginger ass, except you can't because that is reserved for the next tier and you're nowhere near that! No yet, unless you reject coulourism and begin to see, truly see that EVERYTHING is twirling, always twirling and going forwards not upwards. SO nah nah ni nah nah, you'll see.
HAHHAHAHHHAHHAHHAHA-
Can anyone hear buzzing?

You give me fever. But not property fever.

Urgh, and indeed bleaurgh. I am poorly. I was poorlyish yesterday but chose to ignore it. I know that sounds daft, but sometimes if you ignore poorly it gets into a huff and goes away.
Not so this poorly. I woke up at 3:30 this morning to find I had sweated through my panda bear jammies and my pillow, leaving me no recourse but to get up, change into a t-shirt, flip my pillow over and resume my dreamy feverish state if unconsciousness.
Fortunately we have spanish drugs here and one of them is called Frenadol, and over the counter sachet of powder that has the capacity to A) knock even the sturdiest of folk unconscious, and B) the ability to halt sickness before it get a chance to run rampant. If anyone is traveling abroad look for this product. FRENADOL. Awesome stuff all together, don't take it before driving.
I won't say I'm well, but I'm not dying, and this leads me directly to the property market.
According to the Indo this velly Gingerday, roughly 25 grand has been lopped off the average house price. This is rather a lot when you consider the banks over the last few years have been handing out pretty much 100% mortgages to a lot of folk. Folk who can scarce afford to see their equity go negative.
Apartments seem to be taking a pounding. In Balinteer as much as €50,000 has been knocked off the asking price of some apartments, a substantial amount of money and one which must be very aggravating for folk who have just bought there.
Around here house prices have been in steady decline too. Remax in Rathfarnham are actually having a sale, something I've NEVER seen an estate agent do. But the truth is properties are not moving. There are at least four houses in my surrounding area which have been on the market for over an year now and no budge. A friend of mine from Waterford told me that the agency he works for hasn't sold a mortgage since last November. Another friend of mine who works in finance says it's set to much much worse over the next 12 months.
'But what about the soft landing?" I asked.
'Harrumph, what about it?' He replied.
Quite.
Prices were massively over inflated in most areas anyway, so this is a correction. But that's scant comfort to those who bought at the top end of the market. I have friends who are absolutely stretched to the max as is, their wealth is tied up in their homes. They're tied in. Even if they wanted to sell to release funds now there is no guarantee of a sale.
Nervous times.
Without banging the doom and gloom drums, I think we are in for a bumpy ride for the next year or two, I genuinely do. If you're thinking of buying now I would advise waiting. At least until the end of the year. When corrections occur they can be painful and sharp.

The evangelical exerciser.

Yesterday the paramour said he was feeling a bit better now that he has joined me in some exercise-football season is over for the mo and he had been busy sitting around until last week.
Naturally this admission brought forth a burst of 'See! That's terrific!! And next week we'll...'
It went on for some time.
After which he said, 'Well, I don't think I'm as evangelical as you about it, but I do feel a bit better, that's all.'
Then he went around a roundabout too quickly and I forgot all about what we were talking about as I concentrated on keeping my stomach below my rib cage.
But it popped up into my head this morning.
Evangelical?
I hadn't thought I was, but then again he could well be correct. After all, I have talked a country gay into running. I have a Satdee post open for chumlies. I have made Etheline take up weights. Back in the days when I conversed with the Lilac Couch I was forever trying to get her to move her arse. I check Crossfit obsessively each day, following progress the way some people follow stocks.
See chumlies, I don't get people who don't do anything with their bodies. I don't. I can't get my head around them. I see people in my gym all the freaking time, walking slowly on the treadmills watching soap operas or MTV, not even breaking a sweat and I want to run up to them and ask, 'Why are you doing that? Why won't you go faster? Why wouldn't you just walk around the block? Don't you feel you should go faster? Won't you at least try? here, just push it up a bit, there! that's right, see? You can do it!'
I see people on the weight machines, pulling down 2k and again I'm filled with, 'Why? Why? There's no resistance, it's too fast, engage your muscles, make the movement count! here let me show you, more weight! More weight!!'
I watch women avoid the free weight section like they might catch muscliness merely by association.
'Come back!' I inwardly holler, 'Don't be afraid, come join us! You might like it! Let me show you how to do a push press!'
My current peeve is people who get on the rowing machine, row for precisely half a K and then get off, they usually follow getting off by drinking long and hard from their sports drink, having depleted their energy reserves with their Herculean efforts.
'Stop drinking that crap! Get back on and hit it hard for at least hit 15 minutes, sweat sweat, push up the resistance! Dig deep, haul ass, here I'll race you! Wanna race? Do you? huh huh?'
Then no sooner have I thought this, I am filled with,'Mind you own fucking business, what the hell is it to you what way people exercise? You're hardly one to talk, Jesus bloody christ you're such a bloody-'
Quite right.
But that doesn't stop the evangelical side of me from getting all huffy and sneery. 'Screw you tolerant dweeb.' It will say, 'I'm here to testify!'
I regularly fuck my own self up my competing with others in the gym. There is a lady who goes on Saturday who is pretty bloody buff actually, and also the colour of walnut. If I see her in the weights section, I immediately up my game. If I am on the rowing machine and the cute red haired chap with the minging tattoo gets on too, I won't be getting off my machine until he goes first.
And then I'm PERMANENTLY in competition with myself. Have I gone up a weight on the bench? Down a weight on the grav? No? Why not? WHY?
Now there is no reason in the world for this kind of stupidity, but I'm filled with it.
The only time I am not filled with competition is when I'm running. Which is rather a pain in the arse actually, since I plan to run a lot over the next few years. But nope, I hate running with groups, I like running on my Sweeny Todd, I like fucking poodling! However, with the Bupa Great Run coming up in two weeks, I'd better find a way quick smart to get over that load of old hooey.
Oh we all have demons. Mine is called Daisy, Lazy Daisy, the poodlingist poodler of Poodlington Hall.
But enough about me and enough about Daisy. People! When you go to the gym, give it everything you've got. You're only there for a short while you might as well put the pedal to the metal. Sweat damn you. Burn calories, force those muscles to work. And if you see a lobster faced mongrel haired woman both glaring and smiling at you and possibly talking to herself, ignore her. Or speed up.

Prayer versus Diabetes.

There can only be one outcome

This makes for depressing reading.


Hat tip, Pz

Uncanny.

It's uncanny how a ham and a monkey can be so alike.

Voodoo is a load of nonsense.

Laugh, I should coco.

Catholic Church Demand Input in Schools.

The catholic Church in this country is a dying dinosaur, it just doesn't know it yet. Personally I am against religion being taught in schools, but understand that if a person sends their child to a religious school then that person must allow for the dogma to be imparted on their child.
However if a person's child attends a nondenominational school, well then, shoo religious folk, shoo.
Right?
Wrong, for this is Ireland and the dinosaur while waddling into the tar pit, still has fangs.
The church has made a list of demands
however the INTO are up in arm about it and quite right.
The church do not pay the wages of the teachers, the state does. So who are they to make demands in such a fashion? They want half an hours religious education taught a day, emphasising the moral upbringing of children, and this bothers me to. Surely the moral upbringing of children should rest with their parents and should not go hand in hand with filling children' heads with rubbish.
I might be the wrong person to ask as I would be resolutely anti poppycock, so the notion of telling children about sin and angels and god and other religious mumbo jumbo in a nondenominational school chafes me something rotten.
These schools will have children of every faith and creed. Why should the catholic church have sway over it? Why not half and hour teaching how to be open and loving and understanding of different faiths? Why does the CC get top tier? How can they demand 'non-negotiable" anything?
meh, like I said I might be the wrong person, but I think they have a bit of a cheek making demands. Lets break the stranglehold. Let's start here.

The universe is fucking me.

It is a bank holiday here, that means legions of my fellow countryfolk are hungover and lying about eating toast and not working.
Not so for this Fatcat. One of the joys of working for one's self is that you get to work all the bloody time. I woke up at half six this morning thinking about work, I fell back asleep and dreamed about work, and now, here I sit, befleeced and befuddled about to roll up my sleeves and work for the next five hours or so. Bah.
But before I do, I just want to take the opportunity to thank the good chumley who sent me the following link. You know who you are you rat fink.
This chumlies is a dream detective.
Words fail me.
I cannot even work up the suitable rage I normally reserve for this kind of charlatan. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe this is the straw that breaks the camel's back. Maybe now I can stop fretting about the rise of hokum and the proliferation of complete frauds and hucksters. Maybe I can now wander through life not sneering and being aghast at these bottom feeders of the feeble minded.
Or mayby-throughout my busy day today- I will stop work to shout ' A FUCKING Dream Detective?' scaring Puddy and the Paramour both. Maybe I will snort laughter and shake my head at random intervals.
I don't know what I'll do. I feel very strange.
You vile/beloved chumley, sender of this one, are a complete wizard's sleeve.

A sunday observation or two.

Shots of jagermeister are never a good idea.
Trying to a handstand the morning after the night before is also not the best idea a person could ever have.

Motivation for Fatcats and possibly Fatcat chumlies!

Hidy ho! And another fine Satdee rolls around, with sunshine and all sorts. Series two of the Wire, I haz it. What did I do last night? Why eat pizza and drink beer and watch it. Huzzah!
A goodly week this week. Busy busy, but feeling fine. Once April rolls in I'm going to pick up the pace a little and start my marathon training. It will be interesting- to me anyway- to see how much easier it is to train coming off the back of a year's worth of running instead of starting relatively cold.
But anyhoo, enough about future plans, let's have a gawk at the week gone by.

A wibbly wobbly hoochy start to the week not withstanding (Paddy's day)

On Sunday I went forth to the gym and I kicked my own ass.
Push press- 22k x10x 3
Pull ups on grav, a surprisingly strong 40 with 30k counterbalance, I believe I will drop down 5k next time to 25k.
120 mother fucking bench dips, broken into set of 30 and inter spaced with the pull ups.
I hit the rowing machine next, 49:10 for 10k, arms almost failing on the last five minutes, head the fieriest little lobster that could.
Finished off with a twenty minutes core stabiliser and stretchingly painful cool down.

Then happy as an exhausted clam I took myself off to the paramour's Pappy's house for Sunday dinner, where upon I was crushed and devastated to discover a dearth of mushy peas.
I was also semi crushed the next day when I could barely move my arms. In fact they weren't really right until Wednesday.


Wednesday- Box jumps, a mere 20, but only because I was warming up.
Crossovers 6k each arm x10 reps x 3 sets
another 10 sodding box jumps.
straight over to the treadmill, I'm running in blocks of 15 minutes to see if I can increase speed. To wit, I finished up on 46 mins just slightly under 8k. I could have pushed on no problem, but I want to hold off and actually stick to the blocks/plan and increase the speed and stamina. Distance has never been my problem, speed has.
15 minutes cool down and most hideous stretching.

Thursday- 10 k rowing time, 48:40. I was trying to get it bouncing off the 45 minute mark, I would even have taken 46, but it was not to be. Next time. Damn you achy breaky arms!!

Friday- yeah, good luck with that.


Satdee! I go now to meet Gimmie and we are going to do a steady five miler in the park. Will the beer convert to sugar do we think? Is pizza the right sort of carb? Who can say?
Hope you're all feeling as chipper as I am and are having a great weekend.

A less than Happy ginger day.

As you can see from the expression on the ginger beebee, this is a most peculiar sort of Gingerday, full of fretful oddness and mild worry. Firstly can a Gingerday be a Gingerday with no pubs open? What are 90% of the population to do come quitting time? What are the people to do? Wither the sense of 'nearly there'?
Oh I know not everything should be about hooch, but really-if my two months on the dry taught me anything- it taught me Sunday to Tursday is ideal hoochless, but a Gingerday without hooch is a poor sort of day.
After a long week shouldn't the working stiff have somewhere to go to shake off the shackles of workly oppression and drown their civic responsibility in hoochy love? There ought to be. It ought to be written into the constitution. But no, 2008 and Good Friday ( what is so good about it I wonder?) means the god damned bars are closed.
I wonder what Smurf does when he's not serving up delicious foamy beers and limey rums? I've never given it any thought before. I'm no even sure I should BE thinking about it? I doubt Smurf would appreciate it either. We have a perfect relationship as is. I go to his bar on Gingerday, he serves me delicious hooch, I give him my money. We pass some pleasantries and then we forget about each other until next round. It's a finely balanced respectful relationship. And today it has been trifled with.
Le Sigh.
They had to go fuck with Gingerday. Oh religion, is there no end to your nefarious ways?
I am glumly going to go into my kitchen now, where the paramour is cooking a ginormous fry.
Sigh I say, sigh.

Unsexy, Unkind, Uncalled for.

Maxim, that worthy magazine of tits and ass has formed a unsexiest woman alive list and nominated Sarah Jessica Parker as number one.
Parker, an actress wife and mother, has this to say about it.

"Do I have big fake boobs, Botox and big lips? No.

"Do I fit some ideals and standards of some men writing in a men's magazine? Maybe not.

"Am I really the unsexiest women in the world? Wow!It's kind of shocking when men...

"It's so brutal in a way, so filled with rage and anger.

"It upset him (Broderick), because it has to do with his judgement too. It's condemnation, it's insane. What can I do?

"I guess you can't please all people."

Not only can you not please all the people, why the fuck should you have to please anyone you don't know and will never meet?
I would just love to see the staff of Maxim, I would love to see candid photos of every single one of them, but especially the feature's editor, he must be an Adonis, a flawless specimen of perfection.
SJP is not everyone's idea of a great beauty, but she appears to be a hardworking, quirky woman of great style. I've never met her so I couldn't tell you whether she is was sexy or not, but then I suspect Maxim staff haven't met her either. Sexy is not just a look. I have met deeply beautiful people with all the personality of a dock leaf, not sexy. Sexy is not just abut image, it's a combination of thing, looks, humour, personality, sultriness, a host of factors that culminates in causing desire. It's is not down to just looks, it is not down to just image.
But all this aside, creating a fucking list and naming a woman 'unsexiest alive' is the most juvenile pathetic heartless piece of peat bog journalism ever. it's designed to hurt, it's designed to sneer, it's designed to be offensive. And that, chumlies is a reflection of a crowd of deeply unsexy fuck wits.
For shame Maxim. What a bunch of jerky jerkwards you have shown yourselves to be. Grow up.

A Big Fat Double Standard.

It's not enough to be glamourous. It's not enough to be intelligent. It's not enough to be good at your job. It's not enough to be of good character. It's not enough to be beautiful. It's not enough to be a success. It's not enough to be a mother. It's not enough to be happily married. It's not enough to be respected. It's not enought to be funny and articulate. It's not enough to be human.
Nope, it's just not enough, not if you're a woman.

Observe, from quality paper, The Sun.

"SEXY cook Nigella Lawson has got TV chiefs in a fluster — because her bum has got TOO BIG.

US directors are now avoiding shots of curvy Nigella’s voluptuous rear end, a paper claims.

The New York Post said: “Our spies at the Food Network say Nigella has way overeaten.

“The result is a butt like a horse.

“Her director is now doing back flips to not show her below the waist.”

Yep, she's got a 'butt' like a horse. Not like the slender Mario Batali, or the elf like Emiril 'Bam' Lagasse, or even that most skeletal of all chefs, Marco Pierre White. I mean, how dare she get older. How dare she eat her own delicious food? How very dare she? Doesn't she know she must be a slender nymph? Doesn't she understand her worth is tied up in her figure? After all she is a chef, a public chef. Why she ought to be ashamed. Forget all the other things I mentioned, her 'butt' is getting bigger. The flaming cheek of her!
I'm going off to the gym now. Things will get kicked.

No Shit Sherlock.

Allergy advice on the back of 2 Icelandic Cod Fillets from Tesco- contains fish.
Ye-ah.

Eat drink and be merry, for tomorrow you die.

Morning Chumlies, and a fine sunny day it is too. Having spent much of yesterday lollygagging about, playing pool, drinking beer, shooting the breeze, not wearing green, laughing at the drunken antics of the city youths, pondering just why it is that grown men and women seem to revel in wearing over sized fuzzy green hats and beards, eating Bobo Burgers with extra hot chilli, I am now in a slightly portly but decidedly pleasant daze.

Life could be worse you see, I could suffer from...Drunkorexia!
Oh yes, drunkorexia, the newest and most deadliest disease sweeping the lands. Some women (had to be us) it seems, ever conscious of their figures, are skipping meals in order to drink their daily calorie intake. Oh yes. And thus drunkorexia was born.
Observe, from the telegraph.

Women are increasingly skipping meals in order to "spend" their daily calories on drink in a phenomenon known as "drunkorexia".

With pressure on young women to drink but also remain slim, many are now swapping dinner for a large glass or two of wine.

Slimming clubs where food items are given points and dieters have to stick to a daily limit may encourage the practice, according to experts.

They said the habit, widespread in America, is becoming more common in Britain.

Prof Janet Treasure, the head of the eating disorder unit at the Institute of Psychiatry in London, said the practice was very dangerous as it was effectively combining binge drinking and disordered eating patterns.
"They get fully hooked, it is an extremely noxious thing. It is more common with bulimia than anorexia but you get the combination of empty calories with no nutritional value and the risky behaviour that goes with being drunk."

Gram for gram alcohol has more calories than carbohydrate or protein and a small 150ml glass of white wine can contain 150 to 170 calories.

This would mean a large pub glass of wine which is commonly 250ml would hold as many calories as an average light lunch."

Oh dear. Going on yesterday's intake of sweet sweet beery goodness, I might as well skip food for the rest of the week. Oh no wait, I won't.
Drunkorexia, like anorexia, or reikiorexia is something I will never suffer from. Not while kebabs and dodgy looking burgers taste even more delish after a few scoops. Wine WITH food is yummy, actually food in general is rather yummy. I pity the folk who cannot enjoy either without adding a disorder to the mix.
Drunkorexia? Bollocks, if you're not eating because you value drink more than food, then -let's call a spade a spade here- you've got a drink problem. If you put alcohol above anything, say family or work you've got a drink problem. Dressing it up in pithy titles won't change it.
Drunkorexia, I doubt it, but I'm going to go with being against it.

Motivation for Fatcats and possibly Fatcat Chumlies.

Top of the saturday to you, I and my cheesy grin greet you and hope you are all in fine fettle. I am off to Howth within the hour, to source fish with the paramour, and to take photos, for I am that lame. I hope I capture the lesser spotted Gay Byrne on film.
A patchy sort of week for me exercise wise I must admit. I only came back from Balmoral on Monday evening and to be quite frank I was banjaxed. Running up mountains has got absolutely nothing to do with easy 10k loops a couple of times a week and as such I feel slightly found out.
I was just saying to the paramour yesterday-after a run ( where I worked on speed blocks, one of the chaps, expert marathon man Don Macgregor gave me some sterling advice) that on a scale of 1 to 10 in terms of fitness, I would honestly consider myself to be about 4. This alarmed the poor paramour for if I am 4, he reasoned, then he must surely be zero. How the man landed on zero when it went from 1 to 10 is beyond my ken, but he seems to know his business.
See, I can run for an hour no problem, I can bike for an hour or two, I do weights, I do yoga, I row hard once or twice a week, all of these things are imminently doable, but when faced with running up a mountain last week, I felt really colly wobbled.
On the first day we ran six miles, and though it was tough I did it, and did it quite fine really. On the second day we had a long run and the weather was fierce, the higher we got the colder the sleet and wind, and once we broke through the tree line and out onto the moor. I was struggling and my left lung was still feeling the effects of whatever illness I acquired the previous Tuesday when suddenly I had a eureka moment.
Eureka, I said to my self, this is really fucking unpleasant and I am utterly against it.
So I conferred with my squad leader and he rather graciously let me go back down, albeit by a longer loop by the river, and this chumlies, is where they great recovery kicked in.
Once I was out of the group and once I made it back to the relative shelter of the trees, I pulled my hat down low, popped my music in and stone me, off I set at my own pace and proceeded to poodle along. I poodled along for almost an hour, stopping to go EEEE over some ponies, and made it back to the castle and, more importantly, to the showers, first.
Now I accept that most of the people at Balmoral are all training for the London marathon which is only a few weeks away, so they would be at their peak in terms of fitness levels and long runs, where as I don't even start training for the Dublin until say, May, but still.
The truth is I don't like training in groups. I said it to Finn over coffee that evening-Finn is a terrific runner and therefore not in my group, that running in a group displeased me. I don't like to be told what speed to run, I don't like to chat as I run, although the people there were lovely. I like to listen to music and poodle along gawking at stuff. I like to slow down and speed up at will, I don't like rain, I sure as shit don't like hills.
I am a fucking lazy runner.
The next day we had a recovery run, which was climb up to the top of a hill (walking, single file, bit steep you see) and then run back down and around by the river for a further mile or two. I found the third run easy, and kept to the group, but I couldn't help it, I kept thinking how much more I'd enjoy it if I was alone.
Then we did an hour of pilates and core strengthening which was awesome and then we had a lunch, which was even awesome-er.
I really enjoyed Balmoral, I especially liked talking to Don and John Bryant, who is quite an inspiration. I will use everything I learned there and put it to good use. As soon as April roll to an end I will begin training in earnest. I plan to shave at least half an hour off my marathon time this year.
In the mean time I will pull my finger out and see if I can drag my reluctant corpse higher up the 1 to 10 scale. Even a 6 would do me. My body will complain and it will be loath to leave the comfort zone, but leave it it will.
And so, this week, although it was patchy,

WEdnesday-I ran 10k in the gym, alternating speeds. Finished with half an hour of core pilates as thought by Emma in Balmoral.

Friday, ran for 80 mins, used the park to operate running in blocks to increase speed. I was wreaked on the way home, my legs felt like jelly, so it must be doing something different.

Tomorrow I"m running in the Phoenix park with the chaps. 5 miles.

There you have it for this week. Patchy. But next week will be better. It's time to roll up the sleeves and whip this Fatcat into shape. Anyone else feeling they're just poodling along in the comfort zone?

Scottify your Gingerday.

Remember that Nenah Cherry song? 7 Seconds? Nice song, right? Well I, Fatmammycat, your devoted chumley, am offering up 15 seconds of sheer open mouthed tangerine shaded mingosity.
Don't blame me for this one, I was all, 'hey let's feel the Gingerday love today and also wallow in some eighties bliss' but then chumley Medbh was all, 'do your worst' and what not and I could sense her hair was growing bigger, and that struck me as a bit of a challenge and fatcats LOVE challenges.
Then THAT got me thinking of being number one, and naturally that led me to straight to Scotty.
So the following 15 seconds is for all the laydeees out there- but especially Medbh- who think number twos and challenges are ALL that. Can't you feel the quiver?
Give it up!
Scottify!

(Vomit bags are optional. Except for you Andraste, you're going to need one.)

Early Ginger Rap.

No really, and this is going to be stuck in your heads all day!*
Happy Ginger day chumlies. There might be worse to come.









*Runs away cackling wildly.

People are strange.

Top of the morning to you chumlies. And may this gingerday find you in solid good cheer. Bank holiday weekends ought to raise the smile, no? Monday of course is St Patrick's day. Or national drinking day, or national wearing green day, so there will no doubt be all sorts of high jinks.
Weird sort of week around the globe, but this story really has me puzzled.

"An American woman's body had became attached to her boyfriend's toilet after she sat on it for two years, police in Kansas said.


"She was not glued. She was not tied. She was just physically stuck by her body," said Bryan Whipple, the sheriff of Ness County.

It appeared the 35-year-old woman's skin had grown around the toilet seat, he added. "It is hard to imagine. ... I still have a hard time imagining it myself."

The woman initially refused emergency medical care but her boyfriend, 36, and police officers finally convinced her to go to hospital.

"We pried the toilet seat off with a pry bar and the seat went with her to the hospital," Mr Whipple said. "The hospital removed it."

The county attorney still has to decide whether any charges should be brought against the boyfriend.

The man told investigators that he brought his girlfriend food and water, and asked her every day to come out of the bathroom.

"And her reply would be, 'Maybe tomorrow'," Mr Whipple said. "According to him, she did not want to leave the bathroom."

The house in Ness City had a second bathroom that he could use.
On Feb 27, the boyfriend called police to report that "there was something wrong with his girlfriend", Mr Whipple said, adding that the man never explained why it took him two years to pick up the phone.

Officers found the woman sitting on the toilet - fully clothed, except for her tracksuit bottoms pulled down to her mid-thigh.

She was "somewhat disoriented" and her legs looked like they had atrophied, the sheriff said. "She said that she didn't need any help, that she was OK and did not want to leave."

She was taken to a hospital in Wichita, about 150 miles away, where she is in a fair condition.

However, the woman has since refused to speak to police. Authorities said they did not know if she was mentally or physically disabled.'

Well I don't know about you, but I'm going to guess she's not exactly right in the head. But wahtever about her, what the hell is the story with the boyfriend? He must have fed and watered her. Two years? The toilet had FUSED with her, her skin had grown around the seat. What on earth would make a woman sit on a toilet for two years? How did she sleep?
I don't understand. I don't, honestly, I've tried to get my head around it, but I just can't.

The Strange Case of the Vanishing Stigmata.

Well now, what do Padre Pio and Christine Gallagher have in common?
Neither of them appear to suffer from 'stigmata'.
From today's UK independent.

"The tomb was opened just after midnight, in the bitter cold. The Vatican did not want too many people around as it exhumed Padre Pio, a man whose millions of followers say he could foresee the future and be in two places at once. "As soon as we got inside we could clearly make out the beard," said Domenico D'Ambrosio, the archbishop who led the ceremony early on Monday morning. "The top part of the skull is partly skeletal, but the chin is perfect and the rest of the body is well preserved."

The feet were bare, as is the tradition for Capuchin monks. There was, however, a problem – a big one – for the clerics and medical experts peering at the body: no stigmata.

Neither his feet nor his hands showed any sign of the wounds expected of a man who the church says bled as Christ did on the cross – spontaneously and without cause, on and off for more than 50 years. Was this, as sceptics immediately claimed, proof that Padre Pio was a fake?

He died in 1968, aged 81, but the bleeding (and miracles recorded in his name) led to the monk being made a saint six years ago. One author has suggested he was a self-harmer who used carbolic acid to create the wounds, but after years of scorning him the Vatican now insists they were not caused by "external forces".
Born Francesco Forgione in a small town near Naples in 1887, he joined the Capuchin order and took a name that means "pious" in Italian. The wounds started to appear when he was 23, but their nature – and the cult that grew up around him – alarmed the Catholic authorities. Padre Pio was banned from celebrating mass in public; but one of those who made a pilgrimage to Foggia for confession with him was a young Pole who became Pope John Paul II – and who made Padre Pio a saint.

His image can be seen in windows and on vehicles throughout Italy. Seven million people a year visit his tomb at the church of Santa Maria delle Grazie in San Giovanni Rotondo, near the friary where he lived.

The body will be put on display for several months from April – even after Domenico D'Ambrosio was forced to say, after examining the body again in daylight on Monday: "The signs of the stigmata were not visible." And so the strange case of Padre Pio, closed on the authority of the last Pope, has been reopened along with his tomb."

I'd super like to say I'm surprised by this, but I am not. I am never bought into the cult of Pio, despite my paternal Grandmother's insistence that he be revered. Oh no, hand bleeding, even as a child struck me a absolutely the easiest sleight to pull off.
I am not surprised there is not a shred of evidence for this religious hokum, I am not that surprised when frauds, be they from this era or before, are exposed. I'm only irked at how long frauds can expect to get away with conning people and scamming them and hiding out in large mansions.
If Ppadre Pio didn't in fact have stigmata where does that leave Christine Gallagher and her bloody bloodiness? Isn't stigmata one of the 'sufferings' she endures while buying up real estate in America and Mexico, like our lady wanted, right Chrissie? Bank rolled by the devoted and the faithful and those seeking eternal life, which naturally Christine offers.

“Those who come to My House properly disposed will receive the graces of Solace and
Eternal Life….” (message of July 16, 2001)"

Ye-ah. And the Gallagher chain of prayer houses rolls ever onwards. there must be something to stigmata and suffering because even Jesus is getting in on the act. Apparently Christine, no wait, Jesus, felt Christine's Texas prayer house wasn't receiving enough funds. So he spoke out about it, through Christine's pet priest and side kick, Father McGinnity.

“Jesus said 'Father McGinnity is to tell the people that if the House of Prayer in Texas is not free of debt in the 9th month (the end of the month) of this year it is to be dissolved. Nothing is to be touched or taken from it and those leaving are to shake the dust from their feet. The greater part of that State will be leveled and torn to shreds. Those in a position to respond and bring the House to fruition have persevered in mocking Me and withholding the means of completing it. The world is in great danger and My message is disregarded. The people do not recognize the danger they are in.' ” (message of July 18th, 2006)

Golly.

Stigmata, or the lack of stigmata, the show must go, step right up ladies and gentlemen, step right, up, see what you want to see, hear what you want to hear and pay, pay as you've never paid before.

Perfect woman searches for perfect man.

Well dang, I woke up today feeling pretty good about life in general. I watched the first two episodes of The Wire last night, becoming an immediate convert as I knew I would-thank you Medbh. I slept soundly, apart from when I woke up at four bathed in sweat, but I fell back to sleep pretty easily after a t-shirt change. I rose early, my hamstrings are feeling less taut so I'm off to the gym shortly and although I have a shit load of work on it's all doable.
Then I read the following and while the smarter section of my brain has already dismissed it as poppycock, the other part of it has gone 'oh just shove it up your holes.'

From the Telegraph
"Blue-eyes, blonde hair, and most importantly on a salary considerably lower than her boyfriend or husband.

These are key attributes that define the perfect woman, if the latest survey if to be believed.

According to recent poll of 66,000 men, their idea of the ideal female would also weigh a slim nine-and-a-half stones, live on her own and occasionally wear glasses.

The research, carried out by the online dating site ukdating.com, also found that 54 per cent of males would not date anyone who earns more than £25,000 a year.

Most men ranked "blue eyes" as the most important attribute followed by "long blonde hair", with "occasionally wears glasses" as third.

Intelligence was not a priority, but she must be "very good looking", have a "wacky personality" and "be optimistic".

The poll found that only 15 per cent of men would date a woman who had a pessimistic or cynical outlook on life.

Surprisingly they did not seem to mind how much time she spent on housework or in the kitchen, but "being good in bed" was certainly high on their priorities and ranked seventh on the list.

Men also do not appear to like women who are too tall, with just 20 per cent saying they would date a girl taller than 6ft.
Ideally she would own her own car, the favoured makes being a Ford Ka or a Mazda MX5 and enjoy regular trips to nightclubs, pubs and restaurants.

It is also important that she loves pets, is a non-smoker, and only drinks alcohol occasionally.

Her ideal profession would be in nursing or PR, the survey found, preferably earning between £10,000 and £25,000 a year.

David Brown, managing director of www.ukdating.com, which studied members' data to come up with the results, said: "While the old adage 'Gentlemen prefer Blondes' still holds true today, it's interesting to note that in this world of size zeros and calorie counting, men are more interested in height than weight, and prefer a medium build girl to a skinny girl.

"This research just goes to show that men are as selective with their choice of date as women are, and know exactly what they want."

The results contrast sharply to when the same survey was carried out by the website on women earlier this year.

It found that Mr Right must be a high earner on £60,000 a year who drives a Mercedes and lives in a £300,000 property in the home counties."

No wonder these folk are members of a dating agency. With such exacting standards what hope have the mortals-with their pesky flaws- got of attracting them.

Well slap my thigh and call my lady patch Maureen. The article then shows a photo of Scarlet Johansson, claiming her to be almost perfect but gosh darn it she earns too much money.
As a tall women with dark hair and grey eyes I an staggered to find I am so utterly unappealing to the common man. I never knew. I also never seemed to have any trouble attracting men, but maybe they could sense I was-oh I don't know-a car owner or something equally as important when looking for a mate.
People are attracted to what they are attracted to, but excuse me, how would any man know what any woman was earning on a first date? Or even a second or eleventy--fifth? And how exactly does a woman who earns a decent wage drop in attractiveness? Oh right, she doesn't, she just becomes more threatening to men with tiny minds. ( I've never understood this either, if I was earning a truly disgusting amount of money I can only imagine the paramour's delight)
Meh, I suspect this online thing is a load of old hooey, but it's a depressing load of old hooey. I thought we'd moved on from this kind of tripe years ago.
Do I give a monkeys what sort of car a man drives or how much he earns? No, I don't. Must he live in a certain area? Nope. I rate intelligence pretty highly, and also kindness, good arms are nice too and that dip in the chest, mmmmmmm. Also, if a chap smells nice and can make me laugh I would find him one million times more attractive than some preening wally in a Mercedes who feels threatened by women who have careers that allow them to earn more than the bare minimum wage.
Right, the gym. Oh golly, do real girls sweat?

Shorter speak.

Ah politics.

"I have acted in a way that violates my obligations to my family," he said. "I apologise first and most importantly to my family. I apologise to the public and I promise better. I do not believe that politics in the long run is about individuals, it is about ideas and about the public good."

Governor Eliot Spitzer, having been caught up in a 'prostitution ring.'

However I believe I can help shorten this down.

'Fuck, I've been found out.'

Back home.

Back from the highlands. Aching slightly, hammies singing softly. Oh Tom, by gum what a boy you are. Oh meercat, oh golly. Fatcats are against sleet, but watching Dancing on Ice in Royston Vasey was possibly the tee-hee-iest moment of the weekend. As was watching Finn trying to understand certain accents. Also I found ponies and cows that look like yaks.
Too tired to put up a proper post or stop by for anything longer than a mii-gander. Going for a pint, plan to be in bed by eight.

Happy Ginger Day Chumlies!!

Since the dawn of time there have been gingers. Science persons now firmly believe early man was a total carrot-top (which explains rather a lot in my view)



As such gingers ought to be revered and respected. But they are not.




No! They have been forced to play jester, to remove sun glasses slowly and talk sideways at non gingered folk. Some gingers- it is rumoured- are only one mystic spray tan away from total destruction. And where the cries of 'leave them be?' Why oh why is there no organisation called PETG? Why isn't some dwarf girl from Heros out paddling about a sea of hairdressers and their dreaded bottles of peroxide? Why?
Who can say.



But somebody must say! I will say! Fear not blondies and others, embrace the ginger, cherish it. Get jiggy with it, go on, ti won't bite, not a chance. It's just waiting, like a timid cocker spaniel, waiting, for you to make the first moves, and then it will love the dickens out of you, oh yes.



It occurred to me between rum eleventy-three and rum eleventy-trillion last weekend that folk think Ginger Friday is some kind of inner joke. To this I must protest!

See chumlies, I am a woman of odd taste, and even odder affections, and I find myself charmed into toe curling glee at our most begingered fellow man. For me a Friday without ginger is a sad sort of day, lacking verve and splendor. Who woudl want that? Who would want the alternative. Who wants a Hofferday, or a mingerday? No I and not you surely.




So have at it Chumlies, reflect. I will be away until Tuesday, with Chumley Finn, running about the moors. Scorn not gingerosity, but recognise it for what it is, a throw back to mankind's beginnings, our heritage, this fatcat's oggly googlies.

Dangerous Driving in Ireland

Having spent a goodly amount of the morning driving about thither and yon on work related issues, I have come to the conclusion that a lot of people are ill mannered oiks who should never be allowed out of the house let alone behind the wheel of a car.
I realise this is not news to many of you, but I am so hacked off with this morning I feel I've got to put something down.
Simply put, if you have no patience, no manners, no consideration, no concern for the well being of others then you ought to walk everywhere, use public transport or stay at home.
No really.
Twice this morning I had to stand on my breaks as cars pulled out in front of me- fumes BILLOWING from the exhaust as the drivers ground up through the gears- even though there was NOTHING coming behind me. In Rathmines I stopped for the lollipop lady, only for two, TWO on-coming cars keep going, pretending she wasn't there or that they couldn't see her or as she stood there in her NEON yellow jacket. At the bottom of Leinster Road the lights were red, so I stopped, as you do. I waited and when they turned green again there was a woman and two small children half way across the road. I thought, 'I know, maybe I'll wait the two seconds it will take for her to cross and then I'll go.'
The car behind blasted me, her and the kids out of it.
At Portobello I watched cars turn left onto the canal despite there being a clear red to allow pedestrians to cross, the last car almost mowing down a cyclist who was continuing straight. (Honest to god, I don't know how anyone has the balls to cycle in this city, I really don't)
At Kilmainham a courier on a motorbike crossed two lanes of traffic, causing a man-on his mobile- to jam on his breaks, they then yelled abuse at each other and I believe there was some finger gesturing.
At Sundrive, cars were tearing through red lights seconds after they've gone, illegal turns a go-go.
More pulling out on the way to Rathgar, plus an almost crash between a jeep and a cyclist (again) when the driver of the jeep pulled, slapping on her hazards as though they magically turned her jeep into a cycle lane.
Seriously, it's no wonder so many people are killed on our roads every years. We're a nation of self-centered boorish wallies.
I've often said it before, it doesn't take but a few seconds to make everyone's traffic day a little better. Let someone pull out if you can see them waiting patiently, respond with a wave or a nod if someone allows you the same, use rearview and wing mirrors, allow old folk and women bearing children a little leeway, mouth the words, 'I"m sorry' instead of 'fuck you' if you've made a genuine mistake and someone toots at you. ( I did this last week turning into the gates of the Phoenix park at Ashburn, a tricky gate as there are no lights and the gate is not wide enough for two cars, I took a break in traffic and pulled across just as someone was pulling out, he beeped, and I said, I'm so sorry and guess what, he shook his head-quite rightly- but reversed back a little to let me squeeze through. See? Good manners on his part, apology on mine equals a non aggressive solution to a traffic problem).
Oh and slow the fuck down. I know you're very important and where you're going is very important and life's a fast lane and blah-di-chee-de-rah, whatever. Just slow down. Don't tail gate folk on the motor-way, don't drive up their arses and vroom past thinking you're at NASCAR. Don't hog lanes. Don't over overtake and immediately cut back across to take an exit. Don't think you're indestructible just because you have 'NO FEAR' across the back windscreen and your car has a cheap assed body kit onboard. Don't apply make up as you drive, don't text! Don't fucking text!! Don't be a dickhead to learner drivers, everyone starts somewhere. Learner drivers should learn AND obey the rules of the road. Don't read a newspaper, don't yabber on your phone, don't have loose animals or children rolling about, don't drink and drive, don't take drugs and drive, don't not wear your glasses ( this one is aimed at me actually) don't reach for things on the floor, don't not have your belt on and then try to put it on when your doing forty, don't fall asleep.
Slow down. I know I've already said it, but slow down.
Be aware that you're driving a hunk of metal on wheels and that this hunk of metal on wheels is a lethal weapon in the wrong hands. And if you're a selfish thoughtless idiot with no regard for others, then the wrong hands are yours.

Tony Soprano Impression.

You've got to see this, no wait, you've got to hear this. This guy is bloomin' amazing!

Victim Henry Hoover Violated Viciously and Vigorously.

Oh snarf! I'm going to bed, but before I do I felt it was incumbent upon me to share the following.
From today's Telegraph.


"A Polish worker has come up with an unusual excuse after being caught in the act with a vacuum cleaner.

The building contractor claimed he was cleaning his underpants with Henry Hoover when he was found naked and on his knees in a hospital's staff canteen.

Henry the Hoover
The man claimed he was cleaning his underpants with Henry Hoover

A stunned security guard stumbled onto the man in the middle of a compromising act with the cleaner, which has a large smiley face painted on its front and a hose protruding from its "nose".

According to the Sun, the contractor was supposed to be locking up the building site near the Great Ormond Street Children's Hospital where his firm is refurbishing administration offices.

The security guard, suitably horrified, told the man to "clean himself and the hoover" before asking him to leave and informing his bosses.

When later questioned by his employers, the man said he was vacuuming his underpants, which was "a common practice in Poland". He has since been fired.

The man's employers, HG Construction, told The Sun: "That behaviour is not acceptable, though it gave a few people a laugh".

Oh those cultural common practices, why won't they ever travel well?

At least he didn't blame it on alcohol.

Stop blaming alcohol.

I'm sick today. My glands are swollen and my voice is gone, also my ears are entirely blocked. It's probably nothing major, but I am drugged up to the eyeballs because I'm away at the end of the week to go running with Chumley Finn and I need to be not sick, or at the very least, upright.
I freely admit I was on the batter for the weekend, catching up with various chumlies and busy with work related things. Having been off the hooch for the best part of two months I am really feeling the effects due to a culmination of nights out.
But you know what? That's fine. I had terrific fun, I enjoyed those few days of hoochy-filled high jinks. It was a delight to meet chumlies over the weekend and head off to the pub for natters and tee-heeing.
But I'm sitting here this morning- Puddy killing the circulation to my legs-listening to the radio and listening to people wax on about the monster power of alcohol.
And I'm getting fed up.
Alcohol you see is the big evil.( Cocaine was last month) It is the -apparently- the indirect cause of the deaths of the two Polish men, who were stabbed by a gang of little shits in Drimnagh last week, it is the ruination of families, it is an uncontrollable, implacable destroyer of society, it is the reason our A&E sections in the hospitals are filled to bursting. It is so evil and all powerful we-the public- need to be reminded of its trickiness at every turn, we are told 'Drink Sensibly' asked 'have you had enough' subjected to po-faced actors looking up from under their brows to the camera at every turn.
Oh we've all had enough. Or at any rate I have. But not of hooch, oh no. I've had enough of awareness campaigns, I've had enough of crocodile tears, I've a pain in my ring with 'The Party's over'. I'm bored witless with it all.
Alcohol might be the trigger for all sorts of bad behaviour, certainly having a skinful makes you louder and more rambunctious, but for a very large number of us it doesn't make us kick people to death and it DOESN'T make us stab people with screwdrivers. I have never taken up a seat or a trolley in a hospital due to licking rum out of the bottom of my glass. Neither have I driven the wrong way down a motor-way, locked out of my mind.
Incidents of anti social behaviour are nothing new. Murder is nothing new. Blaming a substance is nothing new. Pontificating on solving society's ills is nothing new either.
We molly coddle our youth, make excuses left right and centre, we defend poor behaviour in very small children, we turn a blind eye to obnoxious carry-on in adults. We don't instill civil respect. We have parents who neither look up or down at their children and couldn't care less what they were doing as long as they're not hanging around the hosue. We have a court system that leans heavily in favour of 'understanding' the perpetrators of crime and why they committed whatever it was they committed and on and on the show goes.
And then when it blows up in our faces, why, we blame alcohol.
At the risk of sounding too much like a Daily Mail reader, isn't it time we stopped dribbling on about blame and started looking at responsibility? Responsibility for personal actions? Don't just hand wring and look to some far reaching factor, be it age or background or what you did or didn't drink that night. Let's just look at what you DID. Let's just deal with that. Maybe if there were less 'awareness campaigns' about drink and more 'If you cause harm you will play for it you little shit' Irish Society might be better off.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeppppppppp!

Well top of the morning to you hussies. I and my award ( thank you Sam) greet you in very fine fettle. Very hungover fettle it must be said, but rather fine. It is snowing and sunny, surely a sign of something.
You must excuse my tardy self and also my post today.I was out gadding about with some chumlies last night, very fine chumlies, trans-atlantic chumlies with hair that grows bigger after each drink. Very fine. Some rum was consumed, also some more rum, all manner of hooch in fact. Culture was discussed, dirt was brushed off shoulders, gingerism pored over, cross border social networking was dabbled in. Bars were closed.
Ouch.
It was a shame that I had to miss the award show on Satdee, but work is work and I had no option but to tend to it. I hear it was a cracking good night and everyone had a fine time. Congratulations to everyone who also got glassy awards and bottles of champagne, I very nearly opened mine last night. What a mistake that would have been, eh? And it SEEMED like such a good idea at the time.
I don't blog for any other reason other than a love of waffling. But regardless, it is still a glow in the dark moment to see that something I brought forth is appreciated by other folk. So I am particularly delighted to have won best blog post. Many thanks to all who took the time to vote me in, and even more many thanks to you lovely readers. I think I have a super little corner of the interweb,and it's real pleasure to hop on board everyday and venture about, cyber meeting folk and having yip yaps with all and sundry.
Now, I and my rum based pain must away to the kitchen for more coffee. Good day to you. You are all darlings and I heart you.

Motivation for fatcats and possibly chumlies of fatcats!

Sunday- 5 mile park

Monday 10k hilly road work.

Tuesday- 10k rowing, 52:08. ( I WILL attempt to shave those two minutes off next week. Damn them, I thought I was going to bloody vomit on the last 1000m) 30k bicep pulldowns x10x3
Upper back rows, 35k x8x3

Wednesday- !0k bicep curls x3x10 This went really well. No wobbble in the last set. Huzzah! Push press 18kx3x10 , Flys 5kx3x1o each arm. Ouch.
Bike one hour, 20k. I hate those bikes.

Thursday-Much running, splits, finally getting some speed into the mix. !0k, but out of the comfort zone for every second kilometre. 20 mins on the bike.

Friday- nowt, lot of bloody walking in town. Hardly counts though.

Sat- heading off, hope everyone has a good weekend.