Of Blackpool and Bob....who both Rock

Apologies for the brief hiatus in the blogging....where does the time fly?

Since the last post (sounds a touch ominous and sombre) the winter has finally shed its bitter coat and turned gloriously into spring. An unseasonally warm April with this Easter bank holiday not spoilt by a cold, windy, overcast and wet spell of weather, but basking in 25 degrees of heat and wall to wall sunshine. Cue 20 mile tailbacks on the motorways and newspapers with 'Phew, what a SCORCHER!' headlines and photos of scantily clad lovelies splashing in the sea off Bournemouth (hotter than Nice and Athens!).

I have recently returned from that most salubrious of British holiday destinations - Blackpool. We went for a few days to celebrate the 5th birthday of my daughters, Louisa and Milla and glory be, Blackpool's sun had got his hat on...hip,hip,hip, hooray. 3 days of lovely sunshine

Blackpool is undergoing a much needed face lift with the whole of the promenade being dug up and redesigned (Reconnecting With The Sea - that's what the construction signs say anyway). The whole place is in a state of chaos, rubble strewn everywhere, thick-set males in hard hats, with every inch of flesh tattooed roaming the streets with wheelbarrows and shovels, casting lairy lustful looks and wolf whistles at 'I'm not a girl, not yet a woman' (thanks Britney) females bedecked in, well, bedecked in very little. A pair of flip flops or Ugg boots and a muffin top, a 2 inch layer of fake tan and make up and a ubiquitous fag hanging out of the corner of the mouth. Nice.

My good friend Siamak spent a number of months commuting weekly (weakly more like) up and down to Blackpool from near Cambridge, in order to work on the construction project (he's a civil engineer...it's his fault, blame him). I can honestly say, Siamak would NOT EVER choose to go to Blackpool on holiday, such are his impressions of the place. In fact, mention Blackpool and he gets flashbacks, traumatised memories and PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder that makes him rush out and buy a bag of chips and parade around with no shirt on and his belly sticking out - not forgetting the rolled up trousers, socks with sandals and knotted handkerchief on his head.

But Blackpool will look...how do I put this delicately?....a lot better than it used to or does now when the work is finished. The seafront will be transformed and the trams will run once again (they are sadly resting at the moment); but the kiss-me-quick hat and souvenir shops, the myriad fish 'n' chip shops and the dominant presence of the Tower will remain. Actually, the Tower looks a little like the Olympic torch at the moment, swathed in scaffolding and its top wrapped in blue tarpaulin.

The funny thing is, the work is not due to finish until September. They'll roll the last section of tarmac, polish the metal hand rails and unveil their glittering new promenade - and there will be no-one to see it. All the tourists will have gone home. The whole of the summer high season and Blackpool will be full of stag and hen weekends and dust and pneumatic drills. The traffic there is horrendous in the town centre too...as for parking, you'd be better off swimming from the Pleasure Beach back to your Promenade front Hotel -it'd be quicker. Shot themselves in their flip flopped foot have the Blackpool Council on that one.

Things I noticed from our stay in Blackpool;

1. Don't bother with credit or debit cards. This is the land where cash is king. Car park pay stations, restaurants and other places (ok, chip shops) wouldn't accept cards...in fact looked quizzically at me with an 'er, what is a debit card?' expression as if to say 'what the 'eck's wrong wi a bit o' brass?'.

2. The place may have gone downhill, but the people are nice. Despite the ravages of the economic crisis, the hordes of tourists flocking to Marbella and Magaluf, the lack of investment over the years, Blackpool still attracts a fair number of visitors. Mostly elderly with knitted cardigans, soft shoes, perms and an amiable friendly character; always cheery with a smile and a hello, a ruffle of the hair for the children and content with nowt more than sipping a cuppa overlooking the sea.

3. Entertainment is still as awful as it ever was. Tacky, tasteless and talentless. If Britain's Got Talent changed its name to Britain's Got NO Talent, The Hoff, Amanda 'Botox Makes Your Cheeks Stiff' Holden and Michael 'Who are these plebeian oiks....oh, this is the NORTH...I disdain your malodorous presence' MacIntyre would strike gold. Elvis impersonators, cabaret acts and fortune tellers abound. Our hotel even had a children's disco right under our room until 10:45pm. Don't kids up north have bed time limits? 10:45? Outrageous. The bloody DJ was a 'Cheese-meister' and I am sure it was 'Ray Von' out of Phoenix Nights...'Coming up now it's a bit of a do, it's Agadoo!'.

4. Sunsets are as magnificent in the UK as anywhere in the world (you just might need an extra layer or two and a warming flask of tea). Three nights and three gorgeous sunsets; the sun dipping slowly into the (radioactive - trust Sellafield) Irish Sea, a glowing orb of reds and yellows. Marvellous. Who needs to go to Hawaii. (Well, if you're offering).

5. It's a long way to Blackpool and the M6 is a pig of a road. I hate the M6, always have. Ever since I had to drive up and down it every weekend for 5 months when the children were born and had to stay in hospital in Liverpool, I have come to loathe this ghastly stretch of tarmac. The feeling, evidently, is mutual. Roadworks, traffic jams and godforsaken service stations. Charnock Richards wins the prize for the least attractive and most unhealthy. A soulless bridge over the M6 twinned at either end with your food of choice...Burger King or KFC. A haven of fat. (Not just the food; the size of the customers and you'd like to think they'd put weight restrictions in place to ensure the bridge doesn't collapse. 'Excuse me, what size are you? Size 20. And your weight? 23 stones....Get out, you're barred...here's your complimentary salad and sesame seed roll. Now bugger off tubby.

In all, a pleasant trip to as one friend called it, 'The Land of the Loo at the Bottom of the Garden'. Good title for a film / book that. The problem with going on holiday as an elite (!) athlete, is that you eat rubbish, do no training and feel a touch guilty when you get home. You've missed training and put on weight. And all for a bit of sea, sun and a bag o' chips. (But they are reet tasty lad).

Bob The Aussie Goes Climbing

I need to get a road bike. A proper road bike, light as a feather, with tyres the width of a hair. A speedy two wheeled Pegasus that will propel me uphill with ease and make my legs sing for joy, not scream out in agony.

My current hybrid road bike is a good bike. I like it, it is sturdy, yet quick and does the job nicely. It's just that it isn't in the same league as a drop handle road bike.

I know this after an enjoyable ass kicking (mine) at the hands of my good friend Bob Whitelaw.

Bob and I have spoken throughout the long cold winter of the desire to go out together. You know, take in a film, cosy restaurant, back to his for coffee.....ON THE BIKES, OK!! I know what you were thinking. So, a couple of Fridays ago we went out on a 25 mile circuit of some of Worcestershire's loveliest countryside. I say lovely, I meant hilly.

Bob is an Australian. Nothing wrong with that. He is an Aussie by way of English heritage (born in London) and something to do with Germany...Oh, I don't know. He is an AngloGermanAustralian. He is a '10 things you need to know in bed' type of guy. Cosmopolitan. He is also a bloody good cyclist - as I found out.

I have coined a new name for Bob. Bob 'MG' Whitelaw. MG? Super car..Small, light, powerful engine, climbs well and nimbly, keeps going forever. No MG as in mountain goat...as in small, light, climbs well and nimbly.

Bob has a nice Specialised road bike. Much lighter than my Trek hybrid. On the flat I held my own - just. Legs pumping like pistons but a reasonable turn of speed. On the first hill, I felt a breath of wind and was passed by a vision in black, with a pair of tourist sunglasses (haven't got any cycling sunnies mate), a curious 1980's style helmet and a whiplash of curly hair. Bob shot up the hill as if it wasn't there, leaving me pushing away against Mr. G.Ravity as if someone was holding on to the back of my cycling jersey. Bob can climb.

Why? What's the reason?

1. Weight. My bike is heavier than your bike, ergo, it will take more effort to get up a slope.

2. Weight. My body is heavier than your body. Bob is approximately 60kg. I am approximately 83kg. You do the maths. Small, light, compact body versus heavier, taller, more wind resistant body and there's only one winner. I can't even blame age as Bob is older than me. Damn.

3. Nationality. I'm British. Give it my best shot, keep going, stiff upper lip old boy. You'll get there in the end. The plucky Brit, though rarely a winner. The underdog.

Bob's Australian. I'm gonna kick your Pommie arse and make you pay for sending those convicts to a hot and dusty hell on earth, that you all now want to go and live in. Fighting spirit, never say die attitude and guts and determination to get there first (especially when there is a pub at the end). We're Aussies, we hate losing, most of all to POMMIE b**trds. Fair go ya mongrel.

The ride out was enjoyable and although it was me who picked the route to deliberately include lots of hills, by the end I wished I had chosen a wee ride around the race course by the river. Pancake flat and not a hill in sight. I was knackered at the end, but it was a good work out and an even better wake up call. Get a road bike Froby, you know it makes sense.

We broke the ride at the Talbot pub at the bottom of Ankerdine Hill, a 17% Leviathan as featured in previous blogs posts. My idea was for me to wait at the top of the hill (we approached it from the opposite direction to descend it first), while Bob cycled down and tested himself riding back up it. I knew what to expect, so wimped out this time (I was in no fit state). I also secretly wanted to see Bob suffer, let the Pom's get one over the Aussies for a change. Ah, jingoism isn't finished.

Off he went and off I went, to wait. And wait, and wait. I thought there must be something wrong and eventually set off down the hill to find out what was up. Up being the operative word. As I whizzed down, white knuckles approaching 40mph and pooing myself (it is a scary descent), I saw Bob struggling (YES!) up the steepest section. I shouted out and as he turned and saw me, he keeled over to his left and collapsed at the side of the road in a heap with a line of 4 cars behind him.

I couldn't stop and got to the pub in a fit of hysterics, eagerly waiting for Bob to arrive. He did, looking a bit sheepish, (no Aussie wants to keel over in front of a Pom do they?). He explained that he tried to go onto his small chain ring for lower climbing gears and the gears had stuck and he couldn't get a gear. Hence the reason he came to a standstill and then fell over. The fact I witnessed this was just great timing and coincidence.

Broken gears or a feeble excuse? I'd like to think it was the latter, but, regrettably, I know it was equipment, not human failure. In the words of Dick Dastardly, 'Drat, drat and triple drat!.

I'll get you next time MG Bob...but I'll be on a road bike.

Miracle cures, vertiginous slopes, quizzology and a sudden fondness for caravans

It is a little while since I last wrote a blog post. For those who are following my fortunes, you may recall I left you with the dramatic cliffhanger with your hero (!) incapacitated with a crippling bad back, a diagnosis of sciatica and the prospect of a suspension in training and the worrying thought of putting back on all those pounds I had lost sweating (and freezing my nuts off) on countless training rides. Cue lingering look into camera, pained expression and a thumping Eastenders ending.... 'Dum dum dum dumdumdumdum'.(Forgive the over long sentence).

Well, things have moved on a touch.

1. Miracle Cures

Sciatica...inflammation of the nerves at the base of the spine...causing painful, shooting pains in the lower back and down the legs. Occasionally incapacitating and needed physio.

I was looking at a long lay off. Two days of agony and a trip to the doctor and I was worried. Every lifting action caused a pain to fire across my back and down my legs. It was agony. For two days.

I didn't actually do anything to treat myself other than not to bath my children for a couple of nights (boy did they smell!....Actually my wife and our care workers took care of that activity and were soundly soaked, then punched, kicked, headbutted and elbowed by our boisterous and over excited twins as they were dried and dressed - I should get sciatica more often). I had a bit of a lie down and rubbed some Deep Heat (and its Indonesian miracle cure counterpart, 'Counterpain'), in the affected areas.

What d'ya know? On the third day the left side was pain free and fully operational. The right side had a weak twinge, but hardly noticeable. By day 4, all signs of pain had vanished and I had the back of Geoff Capes (though a little hairier - I know, we've shared and compared) once again. Miraculous. I put the temporary injury down to a combination of pushing a little too hard on the bike (always a silly thing to do) and sitting on the saddle in such a way that I pinched a nerve or two.

Anyway, right as rain and I decided to tackle a nemesis that loomed large in my thoughts and had done for many a year.

2. Vertiginous Slopes

If you look up from the bottom of your stairs, it doesn't look too difficult or daunting a climb, does it?. You probably climb it 10 or more times a day without too much discomfort. If you were to take a bicycle and attempt to ride up it (forget the stairs,imagine it were a smooth tarmaced road), you'd fall off / backwards / move so slowly you'd fall off or backwards / become so breathless and exhausted after 2 metres, you'd just give up, get off and walk.

The truth is, anything over a 5% gradient (that is you gain 5 metres in height for every 100 metres distance travelled), is considered by the casual cyclist as 'getting tough, making me blow a bit, causing the knees to tremble and rapidly increasing the heart rate'.

When you get to anything over 10% (i.e. 10metres in height gained for every 100 metres covered - I hope you are following this), road atlases start to indicate steepness with a dreaded > an echelon to be scared of. At this point many cyclists will, if they haven't pre-planned an alternative route to avoid such unpleasantness, attempt a few perfunctory pedal pushes, select lowest gear, struggle a bit more and accept the inevitable. Time to get off and push.

As you scour the atlas for amazing cycling routes, full of beautiful tree lined, bendy roads, past babbling brooks, through scented orchards and past idyllic cottages with duck ponds and village greens and games of cricket unfolding to polite applause and cucumber sandwiches on roads flat as a pancake, there is one sight that all cyclists fear among others.

>>

The double echelon. For roads (therefore slopes / hills) over 15%. (Come on do the maths...15 metres gained in 100 metres covered...well done, have a biscuit). Such hill climbs are the stuff of nightmares for the lay cyclist, the weekend amateur, the charity cyclist and indeed, many of the professional cyclists. Bikes and people were not meant to propel themselves against the inexorable pull of gravity, heaving and panting, straining and swearing up ridiculously angled slopes....I mean, whose bright idea was it to build a bloody road up and over this great big Berg? Why not drill a hole (aka a tunnel) or go round it...like in Switzerland? Hang on...the Swiss have a penchant for going upwards too.

There are many such climbs dotted throughout the UK. And one of them lies around 12 miles from my door.

Ankerdine Hill

Ankerdine Hill is not quite Mont Ventoux or Alpe du Huez. It isn't 30km long and doesn't have 21 switchback corners named after famous cyclists (who have won the stage up Alpe du Huez in the Tour de France). But what it lacks in length (around a mile or so), it makes up for in steepness. As you approach the village of Knightwick and spy the turning that takes you down past the Talbot pub and a sharp 90 degree right hand bend at the bottom of the climb, the sign reads;

Ankerdine Hill 17%

I expect the regulars in the Talbot take a sip of their Old Speckled Hen as another cyclist turns the corner and starts the climb up the hill, look at their wizened drinking pals and not a word passes their lips - just a sad shake of the head and a sorrowful look of pity in their eyes. They know what is about to happen.

And so it was that I found myself, not 3 days after being crippled with sciatica, attempting to climb a 17% hill on 42 year old legs and in full knowledge of what was before me. I had driven up the hill many a time. In fact my old friend Simon used to live half way up the hill. It is a beast in a car, a nightmare to walk up, but to cycle up it......

Ankerdine Hill was a categorized climb in the 2008 Tour of Britain (could have been 2007, but who's counting). The professionals skipped up it, with barely a puff of their cheeks and just an occassional rise from the saddle to 'dance on the pedals', to make it look as if it was 'quite tough'.

Quite tough. I managed to start well, but within 5 metres I was changing down the gears to one comfortable enough to allow me to keep moving forward. This I did well for another 100 metres. I made the stupid mistake of thinking 'this isn't too bad', before looking up and ahead of me the road just took off. A kink in the road and the road lifted, as if shunted vertically by a cataclysmic seismic event.

So, this is what 17% is like then? I had very quickly shifted gears and was soon in my lowest gear, legs pedalling frantically, thumb trying again and again for an even lower gear, which didn't exist.

I settled into a rhythm, relaxed my grip on the handlebars, sat up and began to breath more steadily. My progress was both painful and slow, but to my surprise, the months of regular training on the bike had built up stamina, fitness and strength to a point where I managed to succeed in climbing the whole of Ankerdine Hill without stopping. Something I had never thought I would do. Job done. Smug grin displaying fly-caked teeth from being gritted during the steepest sections. Happy as Larry, whoever he is.

I then considered what I had witnessed at the end of a stage of the Tirren Adriatico race a few days before. Cadel Evans won a stage into Macerata...typical stage race...178km of racing finsihing with a 2.3km climb up 18% slopes into the town centre. Those Italians loved building towns atop lofty hills. While I wheezed and panted my way up 17%, Cadel and the boys were dogfighting with each other up slopes most of us would simply get off the bike and wait for a bus to take us up. They were sprinting UP the slopes, they were attacking and counter attacking. At the back of the peleton, it looked like the other cyclists in the race had suddenly encountered a 20cm layer of treacle through which they were obliged to cycle. UP. UP . UP. No one got off, well at least the cameras weren't there to record that indignity.

There are other, steeper climbs - the infamous Kemmelberg in the Ghent - Wevelgem classic race...20% up and down (nasty crashes) COBBLED roads. But the UK has it's fair share too. Last year's Tour of Britain concluded a long stage through Wales nd over the Brecon Beacons in Swansea...a nice finish by the sea...must be sea lvel? No. Gentlemen, today you will be riding up Constituiton Hill....'what...no way, you're having a laugh..say it's not true...'

Nearly 30% up a cobbled street...reputedly, the steepest in Britain. Now that's cruel.

Thankfully, my route to Dublin steers clear of Swansea, though there will be plenty of > and even a few (not too many I hope) >> hills along the way. I am looking forward to meeting their acquaintance.

3. Quizzology

In my continuing efforts to raise money for Scope, I held a charity quiz night last Saturday. A decent turn out of 50 people came along to listen to and try to answer some fiendishly difficult questions I posed over a number of rounds...sport, entertainment, the arts, music etc.

It was a very successful evening and the half time break was filled with some fantastic fish n chips provided by the Golden Gourmet. If you are ever in Worcester, pop along and see Paul in the Golden Gourmet for the best fish n chips in the city (that is a long way from the sea).

The quiz raised £400 for Scope and was a fun evening with good friends and new friends. I couldn't have done it without the help of my partner in charitable crime, Simon Whitton - he of previous blog posts, my ever faithful and willing Passpartout. Simon came up from Cardiff and gave me unstinting support throughout the evening.

I had two new Passpartouts at the event also. Dan and Nathan Coll were absolutely brilliant and ran the bar, collected the fish and chips and helped the whole evening go without a hitch. Their prize for helping in organising and running the quiz was a Scope T-Shirt each. In fact Dan, as a member of the support crew with Simon on the trip to Dublin and back, has had his very own red Scope T-shirt made for him. Now, you can't say fairer than that.

A huge thanks to Simon, Dan and Nathan. I owe you a big night out on the curry.

However, the evening was made even more amazing with a generous and extremely welcome offer.....

4. A Sudden Fondness For Caravans

Every now and then something happens that completely restores your faith in the goodness of people. There are some wonderful, kind and helpful people out there in this often selfish, cruel and unkind world.

At the end of the evening, Simon presented me with a business card from one of the guests at the quiz. It said 'Mike Lake, Director, 3 Counties Caravans'. I was a bit confused, but Simon explained that Mike was offering to help us in our challenge.

I had spoken to Mike before the start of the quiz and had taken along a wall map, on which I had highlighted the route we are going to take in June. Mike was very interested and gave me some sage advice about the route in Snowdonia.

So, I was taken aback when Simon said Mike was going to lend us a Motorhome, with a tank of diesel, for the duration of the trip. We were intended piling everything in the back of Simon's Ford Focus and if required (ie, getting on and off the ferries), cramming the four of us as best we could into the car. In addition, we were planning on taking tents (at last count 3 for the 4 of us as Simon is world-renowned for his snoring and needs to be in one of his own. In fact the BBC monitoring service in Caversham thought his snoring was a bombing raid on Tripoli).

A motorhome will enable Simon and Dan to drive in comfort and for us to sleep soundly in comfortable berths, stock up a fridge and prepare breakfast and countless cups of tea. Luxury!

I will be cycling over to see Mike at his company on Friday and am looking forward to inspecting a motorhome and imagining what it will be like....(to be overtaken by a grinning Simon and Dan in their motorhome as Oliver and I struggle up yet another 15% climb).

I am very grateful to Mike for wanting to support us in our challenge. I was, for a short while, speechless. Gestures like this don't come around that often. Mike, if you are reading this, many thanks. We will look after her and I promise Oliver and I won't sit in the back the whole way and get out from time to time to pose for 'look we are really cycling up this mountain' photos. We will be cycling and quietly cursing under our breath at the lucky b*st&$ds ahead of us in the motorhome.

As a result, I have now begun to develop a much greater fondness for caravans, Winnebagos, motorhomes, camper vans and the like.

Jeremy Clarkson, James May and Richard Hammond would not be impressed.

What a pain in the....back!

Why is it when you finish what you feel to be an excellent training session and are feeling, fit, strong, positive and optimistic for a huge physical challenge to come.....BANG...something just slaps you in the face and brings you crashing back down to earth with a painful bump?

Following a short, enjoyable ride out on Friday, I took to the road on Saturday for a 20 mile round trip to Upton-Upon-Severn. The wind was strong and full in the face on the route south out of Worcester, but I flew back up the other side of the River Severn with a boisterous tail wind pushing me up the hills with minimal effort. Fun, a great work out, some strong miles in the legs. All cushty......

Until sometime late afternoon on Sunday I felt a little stiffening in my lower back. Easy to dismiss at first, but then it got worse and not possible to ignore. I went to bed thinking I'd sleep it off and all would be hunky dory in the morning.

The alarm rang out at 6am and I could feel I wasn't right. One attempt at sitting up confirmed it....a sharp pain in the back. Maybe it'll be alright in a minute, just a bit stiff after a sleep that's all. Er, no.

I made it down stairs and somehow managed to get my daughter changed and dressed, but then tried to lift her to put her in her seat. That's when my stubborn 'man-denial' gene was over-ridden and I put 2 and 2 together and realised 'You have a PROBLEM!'.

Rini helped me get Louisa and Milla fed, dressed and ready for school - which is no mean feat by yourself and with an incapacitated husband. Once they were safely on the bus, I had to go and have lie down. A massage from Rini definitely relieved the pain, but unfortunately the pain has stayed.

I still refused to give in and cycled (very slowly, very gingerly...but still overtook some slowcoaches...I'm a fighter me) to school and back. I spent the day grimacing; getting in and out of my chair to write on the board with a barely contained 'ow!' every time my backside fought gravity to stand up.

I couldn't lift the girls or give them a bath and am still suffering now. My back hurts, a lot. Is it the end of the world..or at least, the road? No. It can't be. I've been injured before. I had plantar fasciitis (as painful as it sounds) in both feet, which feels like walking on glass due to small tears in the tendon that runs from your heel to your big toe. This injury happened after the best run I ever had..typical. It took time to get better, but it has.

I had severe neck pain, caused by instability in the neck muscles after whacking my head on the frame of the car. Ever the Captain Clumsy, that's me. I needed a lengthy period of physio and acupuncture; but whilst not 100% right, I am 90% there. Almost pain free, but with lots more flexibility.

And now this. I need to recover as soon as possible. I'm cycling to Dublin and back in June..that's only 3 months away.

I don't wish to put my training back and I don't want to lose fitness, nor put on weight I have worked hard to lose. But the body is saying..."Mate, you are 42...not 24. You get barely 5 hours sleep a night (6 on a very good night), lots of broken sleep...you put all your energies into caring for your daughters and rarely get time to rest, or recover. You're tired, but still you insist on training and taking on these extremely hard, physical challenges... you asked for this."

To an extent, I agree. But I am prepared for the setbacks, the injuries, the pain and suffering for one reason. By putting myself through this, I am raising money for Scope, helping people with cerebral palsy have a more comfortable life and a better quality of life.

So, it's off to the doctor for me. I can hear him saying..."Yes Mr. Frobisher, you have aggravated your lumbar muscles, over flexed your spine and put pressure on the muscles...I'll contact the physio and you can make an appointment."

I've only just been discharged from the physio with my neck. I expect they'll recognize me and greet me with a friendly 'hello' when I walk through the door again. Cue painful manipulation, agonising deep muscle massage, acupuncture (surprisingly pleasant) and repetitive, tiring exercises.

Now, bring me my Deep Heat.

Are you being served?

The great Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi (Mahatma to you and I) was a wonderful proponent of offering up salient and timeless quotes; pearls of wisdom, little nuggets of incisive, purposeful gold, life's truths, that resonate and hold true as much today as they did in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

One of my favourites was something I first came across when working as the Customer Service Development Manager for InterCity West Coast trains in the mid 90's.

"A customer is the most important visitor on our premises.

He is not dependent on us. We are dependent on him.

He is not an interruption in our work. He is the purpose of it.

He is not an outsider in our business. He is part of it.

We are not doing him a favour by serving him.

He is doing us a favour by giving us the opportunity to do so."

...and so to contrasting experiences in the past week or so.

1. 'The Ugly': The Post Office, St. Peter's, Worcester

We are in the process of obtaining Indonesian passports for Milla and Louisa, who are eligible for both British and Indonesian citizenship until they are 18, when the will be required to choose whether they wish to be British or Indonesian. Sounds complicated, it is.

This involves a fairly extensive round of form filling, passport photos and documents dispatched to the embassy in London.

So, laden with all the appropriate documents (x2) I visited our local post office in St. Peter's - a post office serving a community of a significant size. Indeed, St. Peter's has it's very own behemoth in supermarket form, Tescos; a place that is open from 7:30am - 12pm with the cash till ringing continuously. St. Peter's is big.

The lady behind the counter, a middle aged woman with a bookish face eventually looked up to realise I was waiting to be served. The only customer waiting. To say her manner was brusque and officious is, frankly like saying Colonel Gaddafi has been a 'little bit harsh' on his own people.

Our exchange was memorable;


Me; "Good morning. I'd like to send these documents to London please by registered mail and include a special delivery envelope, pre-paid so they can return them please."

(Mrs Postman Pat gets two Special delivery envelopes)

Me; "Er, I don't want 2 special delivery, but to send..."

Mrs. Pat; "Registered delivery is special delivery."

Me; "That's not what I meant, I just want to send it so they sign for it..."

Mrs. Pat; "Well, you need recorded delivery. Just fill in the address on the special delivery envelope....oh, if you can sort yourself out over there, so I can serve the gentleman behind you"

I moved over, filled in the address in 30 seconds , turned round and Mr. Gentleman-Behind-Me had about 8 big parcels, addressed to Ireland, Estonia and all over the globe. Which had to be weighed.

I wasted another 15 minutes of my life listening to old Mrs. Vinegar Knickers telling Mr. Parcels that "I can't lift them...I won't if they are heavy...I've just had an operation, so I am not lifting anything!"

Mr. Parcels.."But, but..what do I do then?...."

Mrs. Vinegar Knickers, "Just put them on the scales.!..oh, they are not heavy".

Each bloody parcel had to be weighed, stamps applied and passed through to the increasingly bored and exasperated Post Office Customer Service Assistant of the Year, 1862.

By now, blood pressure rocketing, veins on head throbbing in frustration, I was ready to explode. Aha! My turn again.

"I've filled them in. Do you have an envelope I can purchase to put all the documents and the special delivery envelope in please?"

Mrs. Postman Tw*t "No. We don't sell them here."

Me; "You don't sell envelopes!....but this is a Post Office....I need to send my documents...you haven't got any envelopes.....RIGHT! I'LL HAVE TO USE A SPECIAL DELIVERY ENVELOPE THEN!!!!"

Cue more address filling (but there was no way I was moving this time) and the immortal words;

"Just put your card in...no the other way up (idiot!)...that's £11 exactly please".

ELEVEN POUNDS of the Queen's money!! To send some documents, which were not valuable, but I needed to know were received in London. 11 pounds. £5.50 for each special delivery envelope. Ridiculous. But the fact I had to pay such a large sum of money is nothing to the fact that;

• The Post Office doesn't sell envelopes in a sub post office serving a community the size of metropolitan borough of London


• I had to endure the worst kind of officious, odious, arrogant, presumptuous and p**s poor customer service outside one of Stalin's gulags
  

I should have cycled there myself and delivered them in person.

"The Good": Church House Farm Campsite, Llangain, Carmarthen, Wales

Ying and Yang. Black and White, Shoddy Customer Service and Excellent Customer Service.

To quote Issac Newton's third law of motion; "To every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction."

For every Mrs. Postman Pat, selling stamps and dispensing gruff, obnoxious service, there are people like Mrs. Freeman.

In the planning for the cycle trip to Dublin, I am organising 4 campsites in Wales, Ireland and England in addition to a night in a hotel in Dublin.

The Internet is a wonderful thing. However for everything you need information on their is a vast quantity of ideas, suggestions, recommendations, together with contrary opinions, warnings and people giving their two penneth on anything and everything.

After a considerable trawl, I decided on a campsite just south of Carmathen in south Wales, the end of the first day of hard cycling in June. 114 miles over hilly and then mountainous terrain. We will need a welcoming, friendly place to rest our aching legs by the time we roll in to the campsite.

I rang the number and Mrs. Freeman listened to my request and informed me of someone else doing a cycling trip for charity who is going to stay on the campsite. She was genuinely interested and impressed at what myself and Oliver are going to do.

I enquired how much it would be for the night.

"Well, it's ok...because you are doing it for charity, I'll waive my fee, it would normally be £24...but there's no charge."

"We can camp for free?...That's really kind of you...I never expected that...thank you so much. We are really looking forward to coming to Carmarthen."

Amazing how different people can be.

3. The Bad / So-so / OK, but wait and see.

Jury is out on this one. I have had some t-shirts designed and printed and two cycle jerseys printed for the trip. They cost a lot of money, which Oliver's company has kindly provided us the money for in sponsorship. They look really good. The t-shirts are a stand out red with a cool design on the front. I'm really happy with them.

The cycle jerseys look good too, but I have a gripe. The name and SCOPE logo on my shirt are wonky. Sloping at an angle of 25% upwards, whereas Oliver's is spirit level flat. Perfect. Is it that difficult to get something as critical as my name and the charity's name straight? Especially when they cost a lot of money.

I won't name and shame as I will be returning to the shop tomorrow to ask them to put their mistake right.

I hope they will take Mahatma Gandhi's words of wisdom and apply them to me. I expect to have my customer status respected and reaffirmed and the problem rectified without fuss. I do not expect the antithesis of Gandhian principles as displayed by Mrs. Postman Pat.

We will see. Come on Gandhi!

Frozen Meat & Two Veg...That's Why Tony Goes To Iceland

So, I've set my legs on cycling to Dublin and back in June; a summer which will be full of bright, sunny, warm days and long, blissful evenings.

The only downside to this is having to do my training and get the miles in the legs during winter.

Winters blues and pinks.

This winter in the UK has been one of the coldest since records began. An arctic spell of weather in December left nearly 2 feet of snow, temperatures down to minus 18C and a paralysis of anything remotely connected with transportation. Since the turn of the year the temperature has 'warmed up' and has been around 3C or even up to the balmy heights of 7c.

But not yesterday.

The overnight thermometer dipped to a reading of minus 8c. Despite this, I awoke with the intention of going out for a training ride - a routine spin for an hour or so around the lovely villages of Worcestershire.

Children safely off to school and with time to get a decent ride in, I changed into 'winter cycling' apparel;

Helmet with cycling beanie underneath

Sunglasses - for 'twas a bright, sunny day

Sleeveless cycling gillet, long sleeved winter jersey, cycling jacket

Long fingered winter cycling gloves

Winter cycling socks with under socks

....and of course

a pair of cycling shorts (in bottom hugging Lycra) and thermal tights (Helly Hansen, which have been to the summit of Kilimanjaro).

Job done. Toasty warm and ready to face the elements.

What's that over there...aha, it's a brass monkey!

I should suspected something was not right when, after 2 minutes on the road, I turned back and rode home, teeth shivering, cheeks freezing and breath turning into ice crystals.

I hadn't given up - I'm tough me...either that or immensely stubborn and not a little stupid.

I collected my 'buff'; an all purpose piece of expensive cloth that can fashion as a headband, neck warmer, bandanna etc. I used it to cover my chin, mouth, cheeks and nose. Now I was ready.

Off I went.

Let me digress for a moment.

Sunday night viewing on BBC2 is a liberal dose of 'man telly'. Top Gear and it's petrol soaked presenters. 50 years old, going on 5. Motoring - fast cars, silly challenges and taking the mickey out of anyone not English. This week it was the Australians. Harmless stuff and entertaining for an hour.

Following Top Gear at 9pm we have 'Arctic - with Bruce Parry'. Bruce Parry, a man who has lived with the most remote and isolated tribes in the world, survived hallucinogenic initiation ceremonies that left him in an intoxicated trance for 3 days etc etc. The guy is made of strong stuff.

This series he is spending time with the remote communities living north of the Arctic circle in Canada, Greenland, Siberia etc. It's enlightening and considering the location, extremely warm! Where's the chilly, frostbitten faces peering out of reindeer skin Parkas in minus 40C...oh, I see, this is during the Arctic summer...24 hour daylight and the midnight sun. He hasn't looked cold once.

Back to my ill-fated training ride.

I fear Mr Bruce Parry would have winced and then balked at the idea of cycling for an hour in the cold conditions I faced yesterday.

It was probably around 0C when I left at about 9:45am. However, although perceptible, the cold didn't penetrate through the layers and my exertions were warming me nicely.

Unfortunately at about mid point I began to notice a mild, stinging pain emanating from one particular region of my body.

Man Bits

There are many expressions to cover which part was hurting. Let me run through a few. (Apologies in advance)

Willy, cock , knob, John Thomas, little man, trouser snake, dick, wanger, schlong, penis (too clinical) and my favourite from Indonesia - 'burung kecil' or 'little bird'.

Forgive my coarse language.

Yes, it was hurting. Just a mild stinging at first, then an increasingly painful stabbing, stinging, burning sensation. Too painful to ignore. Usually my mind is occupied with pain coming from my backside due to saddle sores...but none of that this time. Comfortable, like riding sat on a pillow. But the pain from John Thomas was excruciating.

What the blazes was this? A quick run through of possible causes of such pain in said area...

1. Caught in a zip. No.

2. Scolded by a very hot shower. No.

3. Excessive personal pleasuring. No. (Honest).

4. Syphilis. No. (How very dare you suggest such a thing!)

5. Frost nip / frost bite.....could be...oh, no.

Regrettably, the insulating qualities of my thermal leggings are best experienced when used as a base layer, UNDER other layers of clothing (as on Kilimanjaro).

As for the thermal properties of Lycra...well. you'd be better off taking a 2 ply roll of toilet paper and wrapping it around to create a soft, strong, but not very warm pair of Andrex shorts.

I was experiencing a loss of blood to my little bird. He was freezing...literally. You may be laughing right now, but I wasn't. It was pain that I haven't felt since I was at school and had to take part in our weekly Sunday parade (it was a military school), playing the euphonium in the band, in 3C, without gloves. Sitting in the chapel after parade, the blood slowly flowed back into my fingers and I cried through the hymns and gently sobbed through the sermon.

I was in a dilemma.

I had to keep going, to get home and get warm. In the meantime, I was trying to think of how I could alleviate the pain.

The options were limited;

1. Stop, get off and rub it.

What would you think if you were driving and saw a cyclist at the side of the road, with his hand inside his shorts, rubbing furiously? It wouldn't be long until the Boys in Blue were enquiring 'Is this your bike Sir? and 'Could you please explain why you were 'choking the chicken'...down the station please....oh, and 'come quietly'. Ha ha ha...cue music to 'The Laughing Policeman'.

2. Keep cycling and get blood flowing back - 'Think sexy thoughts!'

It's freezing, wind chill sub zero, juggernauts thundering past, I'm in agony and you want me to conjure up a mental image of something titillating and sexy? You are having a laugh.

In the end, I made it home. My lovely wife Rini asked happily 'Are you OK?', expecting a cheery 'Yes, I'm fine thanks'. When I said 'no'...she thought I'd fallen off the bike or had a set to with a lorry driver.

On discovering the truth, her expression was one of bemusement, genuine concern and concealed hilarity.

Thankfully, full feeling resumed after a hot, if painful, shower and, so far, no evidence of frostbite has been observed. Well it hasn't turned black and dropped off...but it's early days yet.

So, I would seriously caution anyone thinking of cycling in freezing cold weather. Don't worry about black ice, freezing fog, or sleet and snow.

Make sure you do what cyclists the world over do in such situations.

Either stuff the Sunday Times down your shorts (newspaper has excellent insulating properties) or stay at home, put the kettle and spare a thought for the 'numb nuts' who decided it was a lovely day for a ride.

Potholes and Pain

They are back. Fact. No denying it. No avoiding them - regrettably.

The cyclists worst enemy. Not dogs, not great big juggernauts trucks whizzing past 50 cm's away from your elbow.

POTHOLES

As a geography graduate, I learnt and fully understood the principle of 'freeze thaw'. Water penetrating cavities in rocks, which then froze and expanded, widening the fissures in the rocks.

The sad fact is that 'freeze thaw' is alive and well in the roads of Great Britain. Not even a year has past since the last major 'big freeze' crippled the transport networks of Britain and left our local authorities with a huge headache in the form of roads broken apart with cavernous potholes. The coffers of the council road budgets were bled dry repairing the myriad holes that sprung up in January 2010, during the last big freeze....but then nature decided it would reopen old wounds, so to speak, and a month long Arctic freeze saw the roads split apart as if sat on the San Andreas fault during a 7.6 Richter scale earthquake. Poor local authorities.

Not to mention the poor motorists caught unawares and plunging into huge holes with a mighty crrrrack! Damaged wheels, suspensions, body work, wings and sills all adding up to a mammoth insurance claim, a heap of misery and a shock as the next premium from the insurance company rose by 56%.

But for the humble, green, environmentally friendly cyclist, the potholes are a treacherous scourge. We have already forsaken the relative safety and evident comfort of our cars to try and save on fuel, reduce congestion, keep fit and do our bit to help the planet. Noble and satisfying actions indeed. In our daily cycling activities we face a host of dangers, not the least of which are potholes. In fact, I have compiled a top 10 of dangers for the cyclist;

Coming in at number 10; DOGS

Vile, loathsome beasts that unsettle (and often unseat) cyclists. Unpredictable, snarling animals that think nothing of scaring the living daylights out of you with a vicious growl, a thunderous bark and a lunge at your freshly shaven calves.

A non mover at number 9; PEOPLE

Always ready to leap out from a pavement just as you are within 'I can't break or swerve' distance. Deaf to the sound of a hastily rung bell, or in another audio world as the MP3 blasts JLS in their ears. People also have the habit of 'filling' a cycle path by walking down the middle of a shared cycle / walking path and then shouting insults as you remind them it is actually a cycle path they are on.

A climber at number 8; RUBBISH

Broken glass, bottles, plastic bags that clog your spokes, uncollected bin bags piled up at the side of the road, ripped open by dogs and rats, cans of fizzy pop ready to puncture your wheels. Rubbish is everywhere and it is...rubbish.

Down this week at number 7; FELLOW CYCLISTS

Not the respectful, traffic light obeying cyclist. No, the 'I ride a BMX without a seat, I nicked from outside Tesco' chavster....and 'I'll ride on the paths if I want, run red lights and put everyone in my way in grave danger.' Idiots.

At 6; TREES

Trees? You may laugh, but the random twig or branch sticking out of a bush or tree can leave a nasty scratch along your cheek as you zoom past at 20mph....hence the reason to wear sunglasses too...which brings me on to....

In at number 5, a new entry for; FLIES and assorted INSECTS

Lung bursting climbs necessitate an open mouth, air gulping facial expression...the open cavity is a magnet for flies and other insects to hone in on, nestling at the back of the throat, causing immediate coughing, gagging and retching and an inevitable swallowing of our 6 legged friends. Horrible.

Up 3 places this week at number 4; CAR / BUS / TRUCK HORNS

You are happily cycling along, minding your own business, when some kind soul, frustrated at the fact they can't pass you for at least 50 metres and has to sit behind you at 20mph, oggling your Lycra clad backside, decides it is a good idea to snap you out of your reverie with a loud blast on the horn. This inevitably makes you jump out of your skin and a terrifying duel ensues to prevent you wobbling all over the place, taking a tumble and eating tarmac for lunch.

Into the Top 3 now, pop pickers...at 3; TRUCK DRIVERS

Call it skill, call it great judgement, call it downright impatience and stupidity....your average road haulage lorry driver is a carefree chap who gladly passes you on a narrow stretch of road at his requisite 56 mp/h, with barely 10cm of clearance. He's so close you can smell if he has cleaned his teeth or not (usually not) and see which CD is in the CD player (usually Barbara Streisand or Liza Minelli). If you are really lucky, he'll toot his air horn for that extra scare factor.

Just missing out on the top spot this week at number 2; CARS, THEIR DRIVERS etc

Here is a box, a box on wheels. Take normally mild mannered Joe Average, a man who would not even look at a goose, let alone say boo to it. Place him behind the wheel and press 'go'. Instant maniac. Aggressive, pumped up, adrenaline fuelled speed freak who cares not if you are on the road. This is the man who'll pull up level with you, wind the window down (presuming it is an electric window or if he has an obliging passenger) and hurls a mouthful of expletive ridden abuse. "F**kin' cyclists, shouldn't be on the f**kin roads, get out of the way you stupid t**t!".

Our hero returns home to a home cooked roast dinner, a hug for his smiling wife, a kiss for the 2.4 children, a browse of the evening paper, a glance at the weather forecast and a calming cup of Horlicks.

Meanwhile our cyclist is still reeling from the encounter with the grey suited salesman in the Mondeo road bully and shaking from the near collision caused by the driver who aggressively overtook and immediately slammed on the brakes.

....so now, the moment we've been waiting for, a new entry, straight in at number 1;

POTHOLES

They are everywhere. From the list above, it is obvious how much concentration is needed just to stay on your bike. Add to that mix, tiredness, hills, wind, rain, darkness, cold, heat, sweat, numbness, saddle soreness and it is a wonder anyone cycles at all. The last thing the cyclist needs is to be extra vigilant for potholes.

Potholes are not mere cracks. They are wide holes, 6 inches deep and 12 inches across. They don't just let the cyclist pass over with an ungainly bump and a heavy landed on the seat which damages the already numb and saddle sore 'love spuds'.

Potholes are graveyards for bikes. The road equivalent of a Ray Mears animal trap, lying in wait to ensnare the cyclist who takes his eyes of the road for a second.

Avoiding potholes is a fine art, and one that needs a lot of practice. Uphill avoidance is not difficult. The problem is on the flat and more significantly on the downhills. If you spot a pothole at the last moment, you are faced with two stark choices.

1. Accelerate and hope you can ride over it; that your momentum carries you over without the front wheel plunging in and cartwheeling you over the handlebars;

2. Swerve and pray you don't swerve into Joe Average overtaking you or unbalance and cause a disastrous wobble that sees you picking bits of road out of knee, thigh, elbow and bum grazes.

Until you have hit 40mph on a long steep descent, riddled with potholes, you haven't experience sheer terror and nerves frayed like an old rope. Your knuckles turn white, your grit your teeth until they are caked with dead flies and when it is all over, you change your Lycra shorts for a clean pair.

So, please Mr County Councillor, I would ask you to think of us cyclists. The people who free up the cities from traffic, reduce pollution and reduce the NHS budget through a healthy, active lifestyle.

STUFF THE BUDGET; ACT NOW and FILL IN THE POTHOLES!

If you don't do this one act, then you may find the cycling community post sweat stained and pube laden chamois pads from our old cycle shorts to County Hall.

As my old history teacher used to say in encouraging the boys to play the perfect cricket forward defence - 'You must sniff the leather'...(of the ball as it strikes the bat, your nose pressed down towards the willow in your hand).

Please fill in the potholes or you may be required to do the same.

Cricket, Snow & Biscuits

Welcome to the 2011 Frobiland Blog.

Happy New Year. 2011 is here and like many, my New Year's resolution has been made. Mine is simple; to see less of me and be a slimmer, faster, healthier version of myself. What's yours?





The most common question asked of me these days is;

'How are you?

It is not a loaded question, a question to trip me up, but one that usually demands only one answer 'I'm fine'. But at the moment I have three answers;

Answer Number 1

'Tired, but ecstatic

I'm tired, but ecstatic. For the last 7 weeks I have been setting a punishing schedule of 'burning the candle at both ends'. I have been sitting up into the small hours, getting to bed around 2am and then struggling to get up at 6am. Why?

To be honest it hasn't been a struggle. It has been a joyous, wonderful pleasure to watch in amazement as the England cricket team have humbled, humiliated and completely thrashed Australia, in Australia - for the first time in 24 years. Records have tumbled, superlatives have been exhausted, the English fans (the Barmy Army; a legendary force of fat, bald 30 / 40 something men, roasted pink in the scorching sun, sozzled with beer from 10:30am onwards every day, and singing 'til they are hoarse in support of the England team) in dreamland and disbelief and a nation, once meek and feeble in the face of the old enemy, now proud and dominant again. Marvellous.

The cricket has been the best, most sustained and exciting period of sport I have watched for years. The 2005 series in England was incredible, but this series was unsurpassed in how England played and how they 'took it to the Aussies' who, in the words of Dad's Army, 'didn't like it up 'em'. Australia's heads are hung in collective defeat, embarrassment and disappointment. I shouldn't gloat, but it doesn't get better than this. Actually, after the misery of the last 24 years, I should gloat, gloat until there is no more gloat left in me.

Answer Number 2

'COLD!'

I am cold. The whole country is cold. It has been cold for as long as I can remember...I am thinking hard to the last time I felt warm...er, no, sorry, I can't remember.

December was the coldest on record since records began. We had snow on the ground for 2 weeks. Not just a pathetic 2cm, but a whole foot and a half (45cm). Of course the country ground to a halt; roads, railways, airports all shut down - even the biggest shopping centre in the UK closed its door...armageddon for a month. And still we persist in the notion that we don't really need to do anything differently....oh, don't worry about fitting winter tyres on your car, you won't need them...never snows in Britain.

We have very short memories in the UK. By the time spring arrives, the Arctic sub zero conditions will be pushed to the back of peoples' thoughts and the planning and preparation for next winter will be forgotten...until we are snowed in again in November (winter is getting earlier each year...we'll soon be putting the Ugg boots and ear muffs on in July).

Cycling has not been a good option for a few weeks. The bike was covered in a foot of snow and the roads were totally lethal skating rinks. There is nothing more certain in life than this - cycling on an icy road will end in a painful heap on the floor, usually after 2 metres of cycling.

Even when I have been able to get out on the bike, it has been so cold that you need to be dressed like Michelin Man or Mr. Blobby to be able feel any protection from the windchill. How on earth do people live in Greenland or Northern Siberia?

Answer Number 3'

'Hungry!'

5 months from now, I will be in final preparation and packing for the 'Le Tour de Trois Nation'. 650 kilometres of stunning scenery, energy sapping climbs, painful, aching bodies and litres of sweat. Cycling for a week from Worcester to Dublin and back. Mountains, mountains and more mountains. I can't wait, but my legs are less than enthusiastic about it. They'll come round to the idea.

5 months to get back into shape, tone up and as Steve Miller, our genial host for 'Fat Families' on Sky1 says...'Melt that lard'. Not that I am anyway near overweight, despite the Christmas and New Year festive season. I was restrained as to my chocolate intake this Christmas - knowing that what I put in I would have to burn off come January and that would mean extra miles on the bike or extra miles pounding the streets jogging.

That said, the Frobisher waistline could do with shedding a couple of inches and as my lovely wife Rini points out (regularly), the only leftover from the Christmas turkey is on my neck, and sagging towards my chest.

With each of my challenges, I embark on a strict diet that consists of the following restrictions;

• A biscuit ban. Did you know that 1 chocolate covered digestive contains 3.9g of fat, which is 6% of the RDA (recommended daily allowance)? Me meither, but I just read it on the packet. Food for thought, literally.



• I am allowed 2 biscuits on a Saturday and Sunday - boy do they taste good.



• Chocolate limitations. Yes, my old friend Mr C.H.Ocolate and I are having a trial separation....we briefly reunite at the weekend for a salutary / solitary Mars Bar, before a tearful Sunday departure.

Deprivation. Self imposed this time. It is a bit like being at boarding school and leaving for at Exeat (mid term weekend) break, leaving the Draconian cloisters of the school dining room, stringy meat and lumpy egg, a clear broth tea, powdered milk (I think it was Daz Automatic) and chickory coffee [I jest not], going to my grandparents in Eastbourne for a feast of Viscounts, Clubs, Taxis, cake and superb dinners and the long fateful, depressing drive back to Slopsville, Dover.

• Less on the plate, less in the tummy, less on the scales
  

Bob Marley once sang, "Dem Belly fully, but we hungry"...appalling grammar, but the lyric is a powerful indictment of the rich, greedy few at the expense of the poor, hungry and weak in society.

Although not as socially insightful, I have found recently 'My belly full, but I'm hungry' to be a recurring feeling. As part of the 'Get Fit to Ride' diet, I have actively sought to cut portion sizes down, resist second helpings and - most importantly - learn to ignore the hunger pangs and cravings for sugar in the evenings.

I remember someone saying it is not a bad thing to go to bed feeling a little hungry - better than stuffing yourself with sandwiches and biscuits 20 minutes before your head hits the pillow. Not only that, I learnt a blindingly obvious snippet of information last night.

Drinking water is good for you...but it also helps you lose weight by making you feel full and not hungry.

I don't recommend a 'water only' diet; that would be silly and something only found in 'The Self Help Guru Guide to Becoming Size Zero in 2 Weeks' (published by Claifornian Fad Publications, written by A.N. Idiot). However, I would suggest something not entirely new....3 reasonably sized meals, a healthy intake of fruit and veg (I rarely eat meat, so this is not a problem), cuttting out the snacks and biscuits and drinking 8 glasses of water a day, plenty of exercise and Bob's your thin uncle. Not rocket science, so why haven't I heeded this advice before?

One word - sugar. It pervades everything. Sugar is everywhere and it is addictive. Like most English people, I have a sweet tooth and a tooth dead from root canal treatment in 1996 caused by too much sugar in my diet.

To quote Lord Alan Sugar...'It is with regret, Sugar, ...you're fired'.

So that's it. Together with the cycle training, jogging and weights, Tony's recipe for a slimmer, muffin top free body. The only thing left to do to reduce weight is to shave off all body hair....could be at least 5kg saved. Where are my clippers?

Don't forget to sponsor me in my efforts to raise £4,000 for SCOPE, the UK's leading cerebral palsy charity. Thank you.

www.justgiving.com/tonyseverestchallenge