… publish those intentions, for even if you doubt you can complete it, other people’s expectations will make you do so.
So. I’m on my first week of marathon training. I’ve never run, or trained, in my life.
I intend to run the New York Marathon in late 2009.
Below, taken July 31st, my running-companion, personal-trainer, and myself - the day we received our training schedule. First run-out took place on August 4th.
I was at a free bar on Friday night, American Apparel have opened a new shop in BCN, so they threw a night.
Every two-bit mod in the city was out - they’re so not used to free booze here - so due to the queue at the bar - it took so long to get to the bar, I only got one solitary beer all night! And if you’re wondering why I didn’t ask for something a bit stronger than a beer on that occasion, well, when I got there they reported that they had no clean glasses - I nearly said gimme a dirty one then - but anyways - tis a handy way to control free drink, with no available glasses.
… hard to believe. Quite bloody frightening. More here.
I was in Berlin at the weekend, and I picked up a copy of “Der Tagesspiegel”, a broadsheet struggling to communicate the message “Ireland” and “No”, visually. They did it in the following way:
Click for full view.
Interesting to see yesterday the national quality daily “La Vanguardia” of Spain calling Taoiseach / Irish prime minister Brian Cowen, a Biffo, though they translated the “Fucker” in Biffo (the first “F”) as “Fellow” instead. Last paragraph sees them calling him Biffo in the context of the story. Bizarre. I can’t see the Irish media calling Zapatero a Fucker from Valladolid! (Click on thumbnail for larger version).
When will people finally learn once and for all that Ireland is NOT part of the United Kingdom.
Here’s a screenshot from their site taken this morning:
Spam subject lines don’t often make me laugh, but this one did: “Turn Your Dwarf Into A Giant!”
Blue and deep red, blaugrana, the colours of the near-religious Barcelona FC football team.
Little kids as young as two are taught the team’s chant, an attractive ditty - and most certainly they come to recognise it before the airs of the national anthem, which isn’t necessarily revered in Catalunya.
So, with great pleasure, on the way back from the bakery this morning, buttered-croissant and barra-de-pan in hand, I heard the tune bounce up along one of the local alleyways, this at 10 in the morning, no drunken fan, this.
Ten-seconds later appeared, an old lady, plastic bags in both hands, though one hand also held a walking stick. The blaugrana lady she has become known, for every day she passes this way, and every day she sings the same song, and once she finishes, she starts again. She has a special thing for younger men, for she feels it’s from them she’ll get the most animated reaction, and she does. She gave me the eye today, her 65 year old eye, and I smiled back. Long may she sing!