2pm local time yesterday I sat sweating in the relative cool of the hotel reception, the thermometer on the wall proudly boasting 34 degrees C in said relatively cool area (it must have been another 5 degrees warmer outside.  It was – and at the risk of dumbfounding you with meteorological jargon - stinking fucking hot).  Shortly before midnight last night our flight captain cheerfully announced that the temperature at our destination was minus 1.  At this point I regretted my choice of returning-home outfit: shorts and flip flops.

Fast forward selecta to 7am this morning.  I’m scraping ice and frozen snow from my car windscreen.  The driver’s side of the windscreen cleared, I move around the front of the car to clear the other half, only to slip on a patch of ice, and literally legs up in the air, land full on my cold, flabby bottom.

Fortunately the additional padding from a fortnight of ridiculously cheap beer and ridiculously cheap and ridiculously good food softened the blow somewhat.

Actual conversation with whatsername:

Her: I think we’ve both put weight on this holiday.  We need to go on a diet when we get back.

Me: I thought I’d lost a bit of weight.

Her: Boobs are bigger.

Me: Well that’s good news.

Her: No, your boobs are bigger.

Me: Oh.

So it’s back to dieting again.  The knee feels a lot better now, so after Christmas I will attempt a couple of short, slow jogs to test it out.  Then I have until March 14th to prepare myself for the kilomathon, hopefully losing a bit of timber in the process.

.

If you’ve got a psychology book at home, take it out, throw it in the bin — it’s worthless. Psychology books, now, will have to be rewritten.

If you don’t want to throw them away then at the very least find the section on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs and rip it out, replacing it with my own, much better, Oktoberfest Hierarchy of Needs:

Maslow’s theory sought to understand human motivation based on needs.  Well I’ve got news for you all: everything you could ever want is at Oktoberfest.

If you’re on a diet though, you might want to stay away. 

I’m really not looking forward to this week’s weigh-in.  It was worth it though; the stag do was fantastic.

A few highlights: 

• Groom’s youngest brother — in charge of the kitty — at the bar (ordering for 19 of us): “Twenty-six beers, please.  Actually… better make it fifty-two.”
• Argument with groom’s other brother concerning Guns ‘N’ Roses.  He argued they were better than Bob Dylan and The Beatles.  I vehemently maintain they’re not.
• Being described by security as “the rowdiest table at Oktoberfest.”  This shouldn’t be anything to boast about, but when the festival welcomes 450,000 (mainly German) visitors a day, it’s hard not to feel a little bit proud.

.

Girlfriend [in hysterics]: “I think Malcolm’s got myxomatosis.”

In all seriousness it was quite an upsetting call to take.  Not only was my girlfriend sobbing uncontrollably, but I was about an hour from home and probably pushing the drink-drive limit (I’d had a couple of warm-up beers at my mate’s house).  A couple of phone calls later and we were pretty sure it wasn’t myxomatosis, which was some small comfort, not least for Malcolm’s hutchmate, Poppet.  We got hold of a spare cage and separated the two.  Malcolm—not very well at all from what I was told—stayed in the hutch outside while Poppet was put in a cage in the dining room.  Malky tragically didn’t make it through the night.

Malcolm

As I had predicted in my last post, Friday and Saturday were not healthy days.  Friday night I had an enjoyable crawl around Belper, finished off with a curry.  Saturday morning my mate’s lovely partner cooked us a full English breakfast; just what the doctor ordered.  Saturday afternoon I played cricket at Lullington.  Those who know me well will know that my favourite part of playing cricket is when we stop for tea in between innings.  I won’t bore you with details of the game (although we won a thrilling contest by 2 runs), but I must say that the tea was magnificent.  A resplendent affair including more varities of cobs/rolls than you could shake a stick at, chips, pizza, sausage rolls, bhajis, samosas, crisps and so on, plus a whole other table covered in cakes.  Absolutely superb.  The diet went out the window.  Saturday night I checked the internet to find that our victory had taken us from 3^rd in the league to top, with only two games to play.  Much celebratory Guinness followed, with a “mix kebab” on the way home.

Today has been better.  I basically haven’t eaten anything.

But back to Saturday night.  I received a text from one of the guys I’d been out with the night before, asking how we’d got on at cricket.

Me: We won by two runs!  Ambergate and Heanor both lost too so now we’re top of the league again!  What a day to be alive.

His reply: Not for the rabbit.

My response was unrepeatable.