Author: Moobs

“Hello son. It’s your mother”.

As ever, I immediately start to feel guilty without quite being able to put my finger on why.

“I want to ask you a question”.

Mum’s questions are usually along the following lines: “Do you think your sister H is sleeping with her boyfriend?”

“Well Mum, I cannot be entirely certain, but as she is 30 and they have been sharing a house with him for 4 years I’m sure it must at least have crossed her mind. Would you like me to take steps to confirm it for you? What sort of evidence would suffice?”

This time, however, she had a something new in mind – a fresh, invigorating inquisitory breeze to rinse the cobwebs from the conversational rafters.

“Do you believe in the Apostolic Church?”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you believe in the Apostolic Church?”
“Yes. It’s part of the creed I regularly recite”

“Yes, but do you believe it?”

“Do you mean, do I stand up in Church and lie my arse off before God and my fellow man?”

“I don’t remember mentioning arses – do you know what it means?”

“Yes I do”

“Do you know anything about the history of the early church?”

“I do, in fact I am presently reading the surprisingly droll ‘A Short History of Christianity‘ by Stephen Tomkins”.

“Well I worry about you you know”.

“Why? Of all your children I’m the only one who could deploy a rosary to see off a vampire with anything like conviction”

“Because you show insufficient respect for the Blessed Virgin”

“Bleh?!”
“It worries me, it really does”

“What the fuck?!”

“She’s appearing you know at Medjugorje and you don’t believe it”.

She had me. I do find it intrinsically hard to believe that the Blessed Virgin is regularly appearing to a couple of people in the former Yugoslavia and, inconveniently for the rest of us, proving stubbornly invisible and inaudible to everyone else.

“Mum, while I enjoy our little chats may I ask what the hell has brought this on?” The answer, it appears, is that it was America’s fault. My mother has discovered an online Catholic TV Channel called EWTN. She loves it so dearly that she has maxed out her broadband usage and, gripped by withdrawal symptoms, had decided to share with me some of the gems from its broadcast schedule.

She was anxious that the next time someone attacked the Catholic Church I would be in a position to rebut their calumnies. No amount of assuring her that no-one had ever asked me to justify the Borgia Popes or launched an all out conversational assault on the Vatican seemed to be able to convince her that it would be better if we could draw the conversation to a close and allow me to return to watching the football on Sky.

After months of brain-grinding preparation, lack of sleep and having to put time in the diary specifically for trips to the loo, my big case settled just before it started. Those of you in the London area will see it gets some coverage in the Evening Standard tonight.

It is commonly supposed that lawyers hate settlements. We are paid by the day during the trial and there is a plain financial interest in making cases fight. However, I am very happy it has gone: partly because our client got the vindication she deserved without having to endure cross-examination and partly because it means I can now get some sleep and revert to human form again.

I am back from Dublin having completed the marathon. My time of 4:39:56 is only 9 minutes and 56 seconds outside the qualifying time* for the Boston Marathon so you can imagine how pleased I am.

I thought about writing a step by step account for you (10 miles: feeling good; ate salt-encusted Jelly Baby etc etc) but that bores even me. Instead, what I propose is that you recreate in the comfort of your own home the last few moments of the race. There are two options: the Gold and the Silver.

The Gold experience most closely matches the real thing. For this you should begin by dipping yourself in a bath of briny water and then let yourself drip half dry. Now abrade your nipples with some sandpaper and give the front of your shins a few sharp raps with a balpeen hammer. Finally rub the soles of your feet with an emery board for 3 and a half minutes or more if you are not a panty-waisted white collar worker like me.

If you elected to take the Silver package, congratulations,  you may now join us.

Grab your Ipod and select (or download if you do not have it already) Sigur Ros’ song “Hoppipolla” from their towering album of Icelandic soft-rock “Takk”. Now begin to lumber to towards the street at a slow pace.

Find a safe part of the street or sidewalk on which to run and put on your headphones. As you trundle forward and the song starts you should try to allow yourself to be overcome with emotion. Gurn. Allow a tear to start to your eye. Grit your teeth with feigned determination.

2 minutes and 25 seconds into the song it will reach a crescendo and the lush bowings of the string section will swell. Now is the time to decide that you are going to manage a sprint finish. Shout “come on!!” in order to assist you reach “Beserker Mode”. As you run, pump your arms wildly and throw your knees forward with each stride. Keep accelerating until you reach 3.5 miles an hour. Count to 25 and then shout “YES!!! Get in!” as you cross the “line”. Throw your hat at the ground. That is when you should realise that the “line” is in fact the first of two time check points. Pick up your hat and trot another metre.

Have one of your friends or family members come up to you pretending to be a race official. They should look at you anxiously and ask whether, in the light of your bizarre behaviour, you are feeling ok. Nod – your race is done. Congratulations.

If you enjoyed reliving my marathon experience let me know (in fact send me pictures). I will put you in contact with like-minded people in your neighbourhood and you can form a Moobs Re-enactment Society. I will provide factsheets, a poster, and some inspirational tapes to help get you started.

*If I was 70 years old