Archive for the ‘sport’ Category

Exodus Advent: 84 Days To Go   1 comment


Friday’s weather was glorious as I repaired and test rode a bicycle Jackie acquired at work (abandoned 2 years ago, she halted security from taking it to the skip).  It’s a Gazelle the exact model of the one she had in Amsterdam so she was pretty chuffed to get it.

Wednesday and Thursday (Exodus Advent Days 86 and 85) were filled with straightforward laboratory duties and following the story of the Frat Boy Rapist in the States (or, as he is known over there, Federal Judge and Supreme Court Nominee Frat Boy Rapist).



It was low tide along the Thames Path.




And, the dignity of the three branches of United States government was also at nadir.

Here’s my route (the beer stop was at the Sun, to be reported):

Posted September 29, 2018 by Drunken Bunny in sport, Tourism

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This Weekend, I Have Been Mostly Listening To…   Leave a comment


Found in a charity shop Saturday and bought for the hashing songs, I only noticed the cover photo after I cleaned the vinyl.  Drugs may have been involved.  Plan is to do a new album each weekend until National Album Day, October 13.

Details: Rugger Ditties, Summit Records, 1965

Suggestion: less piano, more drinking since these are generally sung drunk, a Capella, & outdoors.  Otherwise, a decent enough intro to these indecent tunes.



Posted July 23, 2018 by Drunken Bunny in art, Drugs, music, sport

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Glorious Failure (blog post on Fetch Everyone web site)   Leave a comment

{see note after this repost of a Fetch entry I wrote … }

It was never meant to be, nor should it ever have been. Yet, there we were lining up for the start of the 30 Pack Marathon…in July…in Tucson, Arizona. Madness.

Why? Described in greater detail at my old full-time blog (Link (roll over me to see where I go)) the idea grew from a stupid suggestion meant to shut up a bunch of us that wouldn’t stop banging on about (or, indeed, banging out) Beer Miles. “A real man would do it as a whole marathon and would drink a case…no! A 30 pack!” came the wag‘s taunt and several of us thought, yeah…he’s RIGHT!

So, I arranged for a local hostelry to supply the beverage and shelter (years before the Ice Bucket Challenge, we were grateful for the buckets of ice water thrown over us every two laps by the staff who came in for the stupidity on a normally ‘closed’ day). There was a beer at the start and one every 1/29th of a full marathon thereafter (the loop through this desert neighbourhood back to the bar, The Meet Rack).

No one finished. One guy that still claims to have done also still brags about cheating and several of us making an honest go of it laughed at him as he poured out half or more of the later beverages. I was pulled by the medical team (a military town, a lot of our running group were combat nurses) in the midst of lap 24 whilst trying to crawl out of a ditch. This was the least of the indignities photographic evidence shows that I (or, anyone else that made it past the halfway point) inflicted upon themselves.

Strong coffee, fatty food, and a pool to soak in at the hotel across the road (managed by a former Rack employee, so open to us) helped with the recovery up to the point that I realised I had severely sprained my ankle during one of the many falls in the last couple of laps.

There was never a time limit set, though, and the following week –still in pain from the sprain– I returned, ordered up 7 beers, downed one, and walked back to whence I had been carried away in ignominy. From there, a slow jog around the remaining course, then the other 5 laps. The victory was sweet.

{It is the time of the Fetch Everyone advent calendar — no idea when this link will go dark, but not before Xmas 2017 — and behind each door there are running gadgets and treats that, by checking the door, you can get entered into a prize draw.  There are also ways to get extra tickets in the hat and the one for today required a 100+ word blog entry titled “Glorious Failure;”  this happened in previous years, too, and is usually the only time I use that blogspace.  So, I threw together a brief description of the 30 Pack Marathon and posted it there with more of a P.O.V. of a participant in the first one, less of the founder.  I like the way the note came together and thought, while not good it isn’t really half bad, either; so, it is copied here where I am more likely to refer back to it.  There may be more of these — depends on what Fetch comes up with.}



Mets v Capitals, Finsbury Park   2 comments

Over the weekend, we finally made it out to a London Mets game — caught the last inning of a double-header early game, then most of the second match-up with the Capitals from across town.  Capitals won the first in extra innings (6-5) and the Mets took the second 6-4.


So, the level of play is adult men’s league (roughly equivalent to small town high school teams).  They seem to be having fun, but they don’t generally get spectators (must remember to bring my own beer, next time).  I retrieved a few foul and passed balls off the first base line but nothing in it really convinced me to join a team.



Posted August 8, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in sport

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D90B: Intro   1 comment

I’ve started the D90B© exercise programme (90 days exercising with Drunken Bunny). It’s just like P90X (Power 90 sign the disclaimer at the X) except D90B© is done drunk.  And, you can’t expect me to take nutritional advice from some fired-up jackass that uses “BRING IT!” when he means “you really ought to put some effort into this.”  Oh, yeah…and FUCK Kenpo and Plyometrics.

How did this come about, you ask?  Out drinking the other night, I broke both of my cardinal rules regarding conversations about running, vis:

1) Never talk about running with a non-runner because it would bore the shit out of them.
2) Never talk about running with another runner because they will bore the shit out of you.

But, my companions asked about the Siracusa Marathon that I had been preparing for and I told them the organisers (I don’t think that word actually exists in Italian) had cancelled again (2 in a row!) this year, but that I was going to continue on with the training as if I had something else planned. “How’s that going?” the runner asked.

“No motivation except the pubs are farther and farther away,” I elaborated.
“How’s your pace and endurance?” He obviously couldn’t let it go.
“Plateau-ing?” asked the non-runner. This is when I should have changed the topic to politics or religion or — at a minimum — laid down a sexist and/or racist joke.
“I guess. Nothing to do about it till I find another target.”

This is when they both launched the evangelical pitch for P90X and, to escape their fervor, I eventually agreed to check it out. I illegally downloaded the videos and watched about 10 minutes of the Chest and Back routine before fast forwarding through the rest (I’d seen and heard more than enough). I did get the couple to supply me with a workout schedule the next day, though, and they threw in a bunch of nutritional info that, for the most part, they treated as suggestion when they did their 3 month cycle (even acolytes aren’t going to risk the creatine induced kidney stones likely from the proprietary supplements hawked in this literature).

To be fair, I like the high protein diet prescribed for the initial few weeks but I’m not likely to control (or even monitor) portion size. Here are the sorts of things I think will appear on the D90B© diet:

Kebab: 1 protein portion, 1 carb portion (pita and a pickled pepper), 1 fibre portion (cabbage, tomatoes), 1 condiment (enough chilli sauce to drown a rhino)

Pint of ale or cider: 1 alcohol portion, 1 carb portion

Pickled egg or pickled onion: 1 flatulence portion

The P90X cult also wants you to post a before and after photo. On the left, I sit writing this entry just before the start of day 1. On the right is a computer generated prediction of the results I should expect (there appears to be a lot of pectoral work in this programme):

Finally, on non-traditional gym days I already have about 40 miles per week of roadwork scheduled and there’s no way in Hell I’m going to shadow-kick-box or hop around like a fucking moron. It’s not that I’m clinging to my dignity (THAT ship cleared the harbour AGES ago); rather, I just don’t wanna and ain’t gonna. Maybe I’ll hop some fences or climb a tree or a wall on a run on those days, or substitute the Yoga day for these humiliations.

Anyway, here’s to it until it gets old or until 90 days have passed.  Now, to warm up the muscles before Workout 1 (a shitload of push ups, pull ups, and crunches of seemingly endless variety), I’ll take some orally administered liniment (1 grain neutral spirit portion):


Posted March 30, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in sport

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Last year can fuck right off: 2016 by the numbers (mostly)   2 comments


Numbers, or so, listed in bold and underlined.

Everyone has shit to talk about 2016, and so do I; but, I’ll minimise that, here.  I finally sprang for two new pair of running shoes to replace the pair, featured in the photos here, that I picked up in Chattanooga in September 2015 and subsequently added 2253 running miles on before retiring them last weekend (with walking, as these were my usual day-to-day shoes, these had much closer to 4000 miles on them).



Over the Christmas break, we watched a shitload of TV and a bunch of really cheery movies (highly recommended of these are the drama Martha Marcy Mae Marlene and the documentary The Coming War With China.  To recover from those you might want to find Twenty Feet From Fame.  But, we also caught a bunch of shit tele and some old stuff.  In keeping with the theme of the year, we downloaded a collection of the Tonight Show (with Johnny Carson) and spent the entirety of each show playing the middle-age white person version of Jew-Not-A-Jew (aka the straight person’s version of Queer-Not-A-Queer) by pointing at each corpse we spotted on screen and saying, “DEAD.” “Bob Hope. DEAD.” “Joan Rivers! DEAD.” “Gary Shandling, DEAD.” (By the way, that’s Not A Jew, Jew, and a little of both).



So, instead of the multitude of other celebrity deaths everyone is banging on about, here are the 17 I noticed but did not eulogise (and some of whom you may have missed):

17 January: Blowfly, 76
2 February: Bob Elliott, 92
16 February: Boutros Boutros-Ghali, 93
6 March: Merle Haggard, 79
3 June: Muhammad Ali, 74
17 June: Fred Tomlinson, 88
22 August: Toots Thielemans, 94
29 August: Gene Wilder, 83
8 September: The Lady Chablis, 59
16 September: Edward Albee, 88
30 September: Hanoi Hannah, 87
18 October: Phil Chess, 95
2 November: Dolores Klosowski, 93, American baseball player (Milwaukee Chicks)
7 November: Leonard Cohen, 82
25 November: Ron Glass, 71
22 December: Miruts Yifter, 72
25 December: George Michael, 53

In a similar vein, here are the other numbers of my year…

Obits actually in the blog: 16

Alan Rickman
Nancy Reagan
Swindon’s Stagecoach Bus Depot in Old Town
Robert Ford, Madman Mayor of Toronto
Station Jim
Atlanta/Fulton County Stadium and Turner Field in apparent murder-suicide
Brownie’s dad
The jihadi sparrow
American democracy
The villages of Longford and Harmondsworth
America, the not so great pre-Trump version
Fidel Castro
Andrew Sachs
AA Gill

New Years Honours of Note: 1 (for the name): Mr Fabulous Flournoy, (MBE)

Mileage (running): 1589.8, quite the slack year — the least in two decades of keeping track


Pub write-ups 1 January thru 30 June: 38

Pub write-ups 1 July thru 31 December (we moved house 28 July): 216 (254 for the year)

Recipes, such as they are, published here: 5

Brunswick Stew and BBQ Sauce
Chicken Llewyn
Malted Milk Ball Hot Toddy
Chicken Breasts done as if for Pakoras

Kebabs: 2

Fish: 22

International trips: Except for returning from Cork, technically a 2015 trip, 1 (Bremen)

Marathons: 1 (Wales Marathon)

Other races: 0, but a few planned for 2017

Weight (high): 169 lbs (12 stone 1 pound, Winter drinking weight)

Weight (low): 150 (10 stone 10 pounds, at the Marathon)


William Goat (1945-2016) RIP #GoCubsGo   Leave a comment



I haven’t seen the game, yet, and was avoiding English language news but forgot that the Dutch love baseball. De Volkskrant spoilered me:



Cheeseburgers and chips (no Coke…Pepsi*) while we watch tonight. *By ‘Pepsi,’ I mean Champagne.

Related post, here, and one that halfway explains this posts weird references, here.

Here is a now obsolete song by Steve Goodman (the guy that wrote “City of New Orleans” and the best part of “You Never Even Call Me By My Name“):


Posted November 3, 2016 by Drunken Bunny in Obits, sport

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