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The Running Master

Stazza

I’ve decided to have another crack at keeping a log. As I’ve publicly announced that I’m going after the Irish M45 5k record of 15:22, I thought it only fair that I document my training and hold myself to account – publicly; at my age I should know better, especially given the current state of my fitness. Oh well.

So, I was out for about 4 weeks during December – small problem with my achilles, peroneals, soleus, and a bit of P.F. to boot. Although it’s all pretty much sorted, there is some residual discomfort. So I need to be careful.

Rather than just log the boring running stuff, I’m hoping to drop in a few accounts of some of my interesting life experiences. I’ve worked in the UK and Kenya as a physical therapist/business owner looking after many household names. I’ve also worked as a journalist, sub editor and editor on a national tabloid in Southern Africa – some great stuff from those days; I spent a day with Nelson Mandela. I went on to own a rather unsuccessful national tabloid in Cyprus – some great stories from my time there, especially concerning The Cypriot Mafia.

To keep things from getting stale, I’ll drop in some anecdotes. Starting next week with, Linford Christie, Doping, The Banana, and Me - Nuff Respect!

The running this week:
Sunday – 8 miles; last 3 miles picked up the pace.
Monday – 6 miles easy with 8x100m pick-ups
Tuesday – 6 miles easy
Wednesday - a.m. 6 miles easy p.m. 6 miles, incl 4 @ LT
Thursday – 6 miles easy with Paddy the Kenyan – PtK’s training for the Tralee Marathon;)
Friday – a.m. 6 miles easy + p.m. 6 miles moderate progression – picked it up from 2.5 miles to 5 miles. Felt laboured.

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thewolf_ie

Stazza wrote: »

Ok - do want fact/fiction/faction?

Fact!

AuldManKing

Stazza wrote: »

Haha - great stuff and thank you.

What sort of story do you want? Give me a title/something to tell and I'll make one up - Stazza v XXX Cork Marathon 2015 :D.

Or do you want something in the Faction genre (mixture of fact and fiction) or pure fact (me and Mandela/Alan Hudson/Vialli/Roger Bannister/The Kenyans).

I could give you a snippet from 'The Reluctant Olympian'- a story about a a troubled young man and breaking 2hrs for the marathon...

I could, of course, do something using characters on here... You decide.

I think a story from characters on here* would be fantastic, combining all the above titles!

*may also contain characters who have recently closed their accounts and be caller TRR and DrQuirky (as an example)

Pacing Mule

AuldManKing wrote: »

I think a story from characters on here* would be fantastic, combining all the above titles!

*may also contain characters who have recently closed their accounts and be caller TRR and DrQuirky (as an example)

And they as a group should be called the judean peoples front.

Stazza

AuldManKing wrote: »

I think a story from characters on here* would be fantastic, combining all the above titles!

*may also contain characters who have recently closed their accounts and be caller TRR and DrQuirky (as an example)

AMK, that's given me an idea - I think I'll be able to do something with that idea. How do you feel about that Wolfie?

pistol_75

Stazza wrote: »

AMK, that's given me an idea - I think I'll be able to do something with that idea. How do you feel about that Wolfie?

Don't forget Billy Mills :rolleyes:

thewolf_ie

Stazza wrote: »

AMK, that's given me an idea - I think I'll be able to do something with that idea. How do you feel about that Wolfie?

Go for it!

Stazza

Just for Wolfie...

Tralee International Marathon 2015

Players – First Draft

This is me: Bam-Bam and I’m the real deal; that aint me giving it the large, it’s how my man has me in his book - Players. Thinks it’s a winner, that there’s a market for the celebrity gangster thingamajig. Reckons it’ll bring in some decent paper. Says he’s going to bang it up on some website so other writers can check it out. Although she aint said, I know the wife thinks I should keep an eye on him – you know, make sure he doesn’t turn me over with the wedge. That won’t happen: if you have Bam-Bam’s pants down, you get weighed-in.

Since ten this morning, me and my man have been up the snooker on the swill – as you do. My man kills me: he’s still on his first, whereas I’m six scoops to the wind and a jay away from a whitey. Right now, I’m with the barmaid in the ladies’ sh1thouse.

‘Touch your toes, treacle,’ I say to Lexi, as if she doesn’t know what to do. Over she goes. She’s wearing a blue dress and I know before I yank it up and over her buttercups that she’s skinned and trimmed…

Stazza clicks the mouse and moves to another file.

Graft – First Draft

Declan adjusted his balaclava and then scooched behind a bush and listened to the van idling on the car park. The engine died. Distant thrum of traffic. A man got out of the van and walked towards the unit. He pawed food from a takeaway tray and ate on the go. When he reached the door, he sucked his fingers and placed the tray on the ground. Declan shifted his weight and weighed his man from the shelter of darkness. Flabby middleweight. The man jangled a set of keys in the moonlight and flipped them up and around the ring and plucked out the key he needed and unlocked the door. He left the keys in the lock and picked up his food and then shoulder-shunted the door open and entered. The alarm started its countdown.

Declan stood and listened. Four beeps. Alarm code. Silence. Flick of a switch. Light rayed through the space under the door. Declan scanned the night. Blackness and stars and the insouciant moon. Nobody. Stuttering shafts of light speared out into the night through the office window blinds and illuminated elongated stretches of grass between the unit and the car park. The blinds closed. Darkness.

He tiptoed out of the darkness into the shadows. With each step his trainers squeaked. He planted himself sideways onto the door. Knees slightly bent. Weight coiled back on his right foot. Chin tucked into his left shoulder. Eyes fixed on the door. Orthodox. He’d measured his man.

When the door opened, Declan raised his fists. The man stooped in the doorway to remove the keys and presented the left side of his face. Declan’s right ankle twisted and propelled his waist and torso round, unleashing the full force of his welterweight body through a straight right that snapped out to the backdrop of an exhaled whisht as his fist crashed into the man’s face. The man’s jaw cracked and his head clanked the door. His legs buckled and he flumped forward. His head thwacked the concrete. Declan looked down at the man. The body lay prone between the door and the jamb. Sparko. Blood percolated through the man’s turban into a slow swelling pool.

Somewhere, a telephone screamed.

Declan took the keys from the lock and pocketed them. He stepped over the man and turned and then clenched the man’s ankles and dragged him into the passageway and let his legs drop. The door shut. He took the keys out of his pocket and locked the door and then studied the man. His turban had come off and his head oozed blood. Declan removed his right glove and squatted and reached out his right hand to check the man’s pulse. He stopped short.

‘Sh1te,’ he said, putting his glove back on. ‘Sh1te, sh1te, sh1te.’

He stood and peered through a hatch into an office and thought for a moment. Then he turned and jogged down the corridor into the small warehouse, looking left and right along the aisles at the rows of racking that were stacked floor to ceiling with sleeves of cigarettes.

‘Could’ve done with an artic.’

He stopped next to the loading bay shutters and looked around. The screaming telephone echoed in the warehouse. He raised his hand to press the button to open the shutters but stopped when he saw, nestled in the far corner, a pallet covered with tarpaulin. He walked over and looked at it for a moment. Then, like a magician, he lifted and yanked the sheet away in a single movement and dropped it.

Stashed on the pallet were two hundred vacuum-packed packages of white powder. He took a Stanley knife from his pocket and slit one of the parcels and pocketed the knife. The telephone stopped screaming.

‘Thank feck for that,’ he said, removing his right glove and setting it on the load. He licked his forefinger and dabbed it into the powder and tasted it.

‘Abraca-fecking-dabra. Rucks of coke.’

He put the glove back on and stood there thinking. Then he turned and strode across the loading bay entrance and pressed the button on the wall. The shutters clanked and rolled up. Creaking and grating. Foley bobbed up from under the shutters and Declan hit the button. The shutters groaned and juddered to a halt.

‘Where is he?’ Foley said, fixing his balaclava.

‘He’s dead.’

‘Dead?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Jesus, Mary and the holy carpenter,’ Foley said.

‘I know. Leave the sleeves and shift that sh1te,’ Declan said, pointing to the pallet of cocaine.

‘Is that what I think it is?’

‘Sure is lad,’ Declan said. ‘There’s a safe back up in the office. I’ll go check it out.’

‘Feck-a-doodle-dandy,’ Foley said, gawking at the pallet. ‘There’s must be over two hundred key of top shelf here. What about the fags?’

The telephone screamed.

‘Shag the fags,’ Declan said. ‘If we shift that pallet of sh1te, we’ll never have to graft again.’

‘I’ve blown ten big babies already,’ Foley said, rubbing his hands together.

‘Get at it, lad. Soon enough, this place will be humming like a brass house on a Saturday night.’

‘Work away, my man,’ Foley said, skanking towards the pallet. ‘Work a-way.’

Declan grabbed an empty box from one of the aisles and scooted through the warehouse. When he reached the office he stood at the entrance and checked the room. Curry in a takeaway tray and a telephone on the desk. Television. Filing cabinets. Safe. Camera angled on the safe. He walked over to the safe and put the box down and then he spun and walked out into the corridor and jumped over the body. He snatched the keys out of the lock and turned and stepped over the dead man and went back into the office.

He crouched in front of the safe and studied the keys. He pinpointed the safe key on the bunch and slotted it into the lock and opened the door. Raft of cash. Automatic handgun with a silencer. He looked up at the camera and gave a wink and a smile. Beeps came from the corridor. Texting the stiff. He picked up the gun and eased it between his belt and jeans. The telephone quit its screaming.

He went to work on the cash, raking it into the box. When the safe was empty, he hefted the box up onto the desk and stared at the box full of money.

‘Reckon there must be a hundred and fifty bags of sand here.’

Shouts boomed in the warehouse.

‘Feck, it’s on top. Must be the Five O.’

Declan clasped the box in both arms and stepped back from the desk and then floored the box and shinned it under the desk. Gunshot.

‘Foley,’ he whispered.

He hid behind the door. Footsteps closed in on the office. His breathing quickened as he fumbled for the gun. His belt snagged the silencer. The footsteps stopped outside the door. He held his breath. Somebody shifting the stiff. He managed to free the gun. A shadow stretched across the room. Declan held the gun in both hands and raised it. He positioned his right forefinger over the trigger and exhaled. A man entered the office and placed a gun on the desk and then picked up the telephone receiver. Declan aimed the snout of the gun at the back of the man’s head. The man started punching in numbers and then stopped and cradled the receiver. He lent over the desk and looked at the rifled safe.

Stazza spreads almond butter on a pancake and scoffs it. Then he opens another file.

The Reluctant Olympian

In the darkness and the silence of the living-room, the muted television plays a recording of the London marathon – for the umpteenth time. The time on the DVD player reads, 1.58; the irony eludes you. Now, in your thirtieth year, you believe that time taunts you - perhaps it does, but there was a time when you mocked the clock. You reach down from the sofa for your shake - legs and arms heavy with emptiness. Your hands fumble for the tumbler. Panic doesn’t set in: you know the script. A few sips of the shake eases you back to the normalcy of your condition.

Oscar, your mutt, lies next to you on the sofa. Flecks of grey now tinge your scrawny companion’s coat of scraggy curls. Bones jag through his raw patches of pink skin. Too often, you tell him that you love him so much, so much so, that you might just gobble him up and then expire with love. You do not broach the subject of having him put down.

You tune into the television, but you have no interest in the athlete skimming across the streets of London - two minutes ahead of the chasing pack – rather, it is the insert, in the bottom right hand corner of the screen, showing a clip of her being interviewed that mesmerizes you. The Mediterranean hue of her skin and those turquoise eyes would bring any man to his knees. And oh, how you fell for her: Evelyn - your coach; your wife.

You hear voices – outside. A woman’s drunken laugh. Silence. Giggles. You stand and shuffle across the living-room and on through the kitchen and then out along to the door. When you hear the scuffle of keys fidgeting in the front door lock of your house, you sink to your knees. Joints creak and atrophying muscles complain. You steady yourself by holding the door handle and eye the lobby through the key hole. Is it her? No. It can’t be - she isn’t due back until ten in the morning. She’s away launching her book. What’s the title of her book? Something or other. Doesn’t matter.

The naked bulb struggles in the murk. How many times has she told you to change that bulb? It’s dangerous for them lonely souls who rent the bed-sits. Those lonely souls. How has she managed to publish a book?

The door opens and the foyer sucks in the frigid darkness. The silhouette of a woman sways in the doorway. She grips the door jamb and tries to compose herself. All mini skirt and stilettos. Slapper. She steps in and totters on the tiles and topples to the floor. MORE MORE - DESCRIBE

A man stands over her. Hands on hips, he looks down at her. His face beams with an assured look that suggests, no matter what, he will slip away around dawn with another weekend conquest to recount to his work-mates on Monday morning. MORE

Sprawled on the floor, the woman – Carol, yes, that’s her name - appears dazed, as though she’s trying to work out where she is and what’s going on. She stares straight at you and, in those few seconds, something couples you: you feel her loneliness, her desperation. MORE

She gets up on to her hands and knees. Scrabbles about like a dog chasing its tail and collapses on her back. Is she hamming it? You’re not sure. The man offers her his hand. She grips it and pulls him to floor. Your floor. And there, in the dullness of the early morning, they kiss. His hands fuss her body. Head. Shoulders. Breasts. Thighs. And finally, his right hand slips up under her skirt. He munches away at her neck. Her head flops against the floor. She chunters and grimaces as his hand works away. They wriggle across the floor, out of view. You reposition yourself, but all you make out is her face and the top of his shaved head buried in her breasts. You know you should walk out and surprise them, prevent her from making this mistake. But you stay there, riveted. In these few minutes, this act of depravity uncouples you from your troubles and anxieties. The demons. The voices. Anyway, you wouldn’t walk out there into the lobby – not these days. You haven’t crossed the door in four months.

Was it her, your first tenant, who spotted you from her checkout till in the early hours of the morning, as you furtively looked at the posters on the notice board of the all night super market? Yes, you’re sure of it. Remember how embarrassed you became and scuttled off into the night? Then the next day, there she was, on your doorstep, wanting a room in your house, the family home, which you inherited and converted into a flat and five bed-sits so that you would have an income and not have to work. (EXPOSITION – CUT THIS CRAPPINESS) If only she had said something, hinted perhaps, that she’d seen you studying that poster, and then possibly you wouldn’t have to confess all to Evelyn.

But what will you tell Evelyn? Even to think about your duplicities triggers unspeakable discomfort and pain. Picture her, standing there in the living room, while you mumble and stutter and explain to her why you cannot attend the World Sports Personality of the Year Awards, where you are a dead cert, the runaway favourite, to pick up the main award. She would never forgive you. Then, you have to consider that she too is a safe bet, according to the bookies, to win the Coach of the Year Award; there’s no hope of her turning up on her own, especially if she knew the truth. And if, by some miracle, you find the mettle to show up, then the world will see you for what you truly are: a phony; (CHANGE PHONY FOR SPOOFER – THANK DOC Q FOR THAT WORD)

You watch the man stand and pull Carol up to her feet. She wobbles in front of him, fixing her skirt. You suspect he’s eager to get her upstairs to her bed-sit, her room that, many years back, was your bedroom. Your bedroom, where you would sit looking out over the garden at the apple tree, which stood in the centre of the lawn bowed with the burden of fruit. But these winter days it is a disheveled monument to dead memories: fruitless, bending and buckling in the wind, forcing thick branches towards the ground, while thinner branches and twigs reach up from the tips of the tree and wave in the wind like skeletal fingers wriggling up through the topsoil of a grave. (GOOD FORBODING BUT CRAP WORK – BIG EDIT)

Carol bends and retches, before tumbling onto her hands and knees. She rocks back and forth at his feet and vomits over his jeans and the floor. She smiles and collapses. A pile of puke pillows her face. You feel her shame and know that this scene will haunt her in the quiet and lonely moments of her meaningless life. What will he do now?

He steps away and kicks out his right foot, trying to flick off clumps of vomit. He circles her and then scrapes his foot along her back. She does not move. He steps away and leans against the wall and stares down at his sure thing. You would love to open the door and humiliate him. But that will never happen. There’s no way that you would go out there and confront him. You try to imagine his reaction if you were to open the door. But even in your imagination, you are a coward. MORE THE VOICES ETC…

The alarm on Stazza’s watch beeps. He checks the time: 06:00. Three hours, he thinks. Better eat another pancake and start thinking about the race.

TBC

AuldManKing

Speechless.

If you can't run til Christmas, writing is definitely your thing.

barryoneill50

majestic.....i love it!

pa4

Are you an author on the sly?

Ososlo

Ever consider writing Erotica? I think you might have a natural talent for it and there's 'rucks' of money to be made

Seriously though, I really enjoyed The Reluctant Olympian. My favourite of the three. Bring on the next installment!
Is PtK the reluctant olympian? Or is it yourself? Maybe it's all of us?

Stazza

pa4 wrote: »

Are you an author on the sly?

No - I'm just a gigolo; unemployed.

Stazza

Ososlo wrote: »

Ever consider writing Erotica? I think you might have a natural talent for it and there's 'rucks' of money to be made

Seriously though, I really enjoyed The Reluctant Olympian. My favourite of the three. Bring on the next installment!

Is PtK the reluctant olympian? Or is it yourself? Maybe it's all of us?

I'm planning on an explosion of super sexy stuff - might see if I can find room for you alongside PA4, the Tipperary Gigolo :pac::pac:

Stay tuned - it all links in...

No, it's not PtK or me. He is loosely based on somebody I know with a few extra bits in the mix. I was chatting with PtK about it today and he will be appearing. But then, so will you...

thewolf_ie

Deadly, can't wait for more! Don't know what I like better your running or the writing! Ah both!

Ososlo

Stazza wrote: »

I'm planning on an explosion of super sexy stuff - might see if I can find room for you alongside PA4, the Tipperary Gigolo :pac::pac:

Stay tuned - it all links in...

No, it's not PtK or me. He is loosely based on somebody I know with a few extra bits in the mix. I was chatting with PtK about it today and he will be appearing. But then, so will you...

Jeepers!
A new genre of writing. Sex mixed with athletics. Sexletics!

Stazza

Ososlo wrote: »

Jeepers!
A new genre of writing. Sex mixed with athletics. Sexletics!

I can tell you've lived a sheltered life - Miss Ososlo. But don't worry, your new found minor celeb status will bring a host of men your way... At least in the fictitious version of Tralee International Marathon 2015 - and I haven't even mentioned Himself, you know, the lemon fella; mind you, he might be over the hill

Ososlo

Stazza wrote: »

I can tell you've lived a sheltered life - Miss Ososlo. But don't worry, your new found minor celeb status will bring a host of men your way... At least in the fictitious version of Tralee International Marathon 2015 - and I haven't even mentioned Himself, you know, the lemon fella; mind you, he might be over the hill

I know I told you that I wanted you to make me faster but that's not quite what I meant!

Stazza

Tralee International Marathon 2015

Chapter 2

August 2014

Tuva, my friend

I hope my words find you and your family in good health and that your God has blessed you with rain and a drought of mosquitoes. Your letter brought great joy to my heart. I was delighted to read that your mother was allowed home and that you would no longer have to travel to Nairobi. It must be such a relief. Please pass on my good wishes to your dear mother. I often think about her and I hope she will have the opportunity to meet my girls. All being well they will come to visit next year. Although, it will have to be during the dry season as I could not risk them getting malaria.

Jelly and the girls are in great form. Jelly still runs most days. Most mornings she gets up and heads out the door and runs 10k. And then, on a Sunday she’ll run 16k-20k. She will not listen to my advice. She’s always saying that I spend too much time talking about running and stretching etc and that she prefers to just get it on.

Both of the girls have an interest in running. Grace has just turned twelve and after much thought, I’ve decided to let her start training. Although, I do have reservations. Over here the kids join clubs and compete from an early age. This leads to parents and ‘coaches’ pushing the kids too hard. They mix up the events and there is a lot of fun involved but they don’t seem to grasp some of the basic principles. They have young kids blasting out reps on the track when 95% of the training should be easy running down to threshold. The kids should be learning to run. For sure, they need to do some alactic work and focus on rhythm and top end speed but anything in and around VO2 Max should be kept to an absolute minimum, especially for girls. But then, that’s probably one of the many reasons why we are so shockingly poor when it comes to distance running.

Hopefully, my recent ‘appointment’ will enable me to influence change.

Even though the ‘O’ is only seven, she too is keen to get running but I’m holding her back. Her main interest is animals. Our family has extended from the three fish and the cat to three gerbils (Two brothers and a sister) – one is a dwarf; he’s a cheeky chap: all teeth and no bite. The Rats are hilarious. I have a name for them but it wouldn’t mean anything to you. They each have their own personalities. The biggest of the two boys is always getting stuck on the rat wheel. He keeps doing the same thing over and over and never seems to get anywhere. Like I said, his little brother is a cheeky little rat. He’s always at the stumpy water bottle and then starts going crazy – issues. Whenever Oliver the cat goes near them, the dwarf stands and shows his teeth and squeaks. But as soon as Oliver pays any real interest, the dwarf does one –looks for the shortest route to safety and runs away and hides. Then, when the cat has gone, he comes out, hits the bottle and gives it the big squeaks. Great stuff. When this happens, the sister comes out, squeaks and then runs away. It’s so obvious that the sister wants to be a brother. When they sleep it’s funny. The dwarf puts his face right up his brother’s butt and the poor old sister is out on her own. They crack me up.

On the animal front, the kids have been begging for a dog. I’m not a fan of dogs but Jelly is on their side, so I think I’m going to end up losing this battle.

How is your brood of angels? Great to hear that Kissy is running well. I think she’ll outshine her sister. How is Tricia doing? Maybe soon you’ll be a grandfather?

Patrick contacted me about the lads going to the U.S. He told me the Master of Pasta is always calling him. I told him not to worry about the old fella, that he’s just being nice. But Patrick’s always wary – he’s always looking for a snake in the grass.

I released the funds for the flights and set up costs. Mitch will take care of them. He’ll sort the track lads out with coaches and I’ll look after the road boys. I’ve told them to stay away from Texas: I’ve been hearing bad reports! Have you heard anything about George?

The US lads are running well and the crazy yank, Jake, is coming around. He’s gone rogue. I don’t know if you managed to check his blog when you were in Nairobi, but he’s changed the title to, ‘Lone Wolf’, which is great. He’s reconnected with his love of running. He got some bloods done and the increase in miles with the lactate work and speed proved too much. His bloods are moving in the right direction and he’s banging out some powerful miles. He’s playing around with some Papa sessions but he’s keeping it sensible – he’ll go into marathon specific soon. I’m sure he’ll go 2:15-2:17 but we’ll see. I might see about bringing him over here to run in the Tralee Marathon. In fact, I might bring over a few of the boys. It’d be great to see 5-6 of our lads jogging around in 2:20 – the locals would love it. Mind you, it would spoil my chances of a top three finish…

Yep, I’m planning on doing a marathon. Stop laughing. ‘When the moon is shining the cripple becomes hungry for a walk.’ When I finish the schedule, I’ll send it over to you – you won’t like the first three-four months but I’ll explain the reasoning…

Paddy the Kenyan is going well, he keeps improving. Back in May his pb for 10k was 36:XX, he’s now running 34:20 – over two minutes off his pb. I think he’ll run 33:30 this year and then next year, when he should be ready to start some ‘real’ training, I think he’ll make some serious headway. Next year, I think he’ll go 31:XX. And then from there, we can start working. I might bring him out to Kenya – it would be great for him to get out with the lads and see what it’s all about. I think it would bring him on no end.

The girls are always asking me to tell them the story about your father and how he died, saving my life. He was a great and brave man with the heart of a honey badger and the wisdom of a Chief. Many times, in quiet moments, I remember your father fondly. Although thoughts of his passing sadden me, I’m always surprised by the warmth he brings me. He was a great man. He’d be proud of you, Tuva.

Just before I go, do remember this: ‘You are a bull.’

Regards
Your friend
Johnboy.

thewolf_ie

Ah just in time for my coffee! I'm hooked, I would love to go to Kenya! But I've got 3 angels holding me back.

W.B. Yeats

Tralee international marathon 2015 chapter 2 is much better than the others - I sense you knocked the others out for the craic. They are far too formulaic for a man of your talents.
Authenticity -even a hint of it- is the key to a good story and then good writing. I think too many get lost in the love of the language and forget the requirement for a rollicking yarn. I love the classics- Dickens, Conrad et al,, great stories first and foremost. I find a lot of "literature" pretentious in the extreme. Look at me and my large vocabulary and literary devices.

Anyway- welcome home. Mind those old joints and muscles. That hint of progress can be dangerous for a man in a hurry.

Stazza

W.B. Yeats wrote: »

Tralee international marathon 2015 chapter 2 is much better than the others - I sense you knocked the others out for the craic. They are far too formulaic for a man of your talents.
Authenticity -even a hint of it- is the key to a good story and then good writing. I think too many get lost in the love of the language and forget the requirement for a rollicking yarn. I love the classics- Dickens, Conrad et al,, great stories first and foremost. I find a lot of "literature" pretentious in the extreme. Look at me and my large vocabulary and literary devices.

Anyway- welcome home. Mind those old joints and muscles. That hint of progress can be dangerous for a man in a hurry.

I’m humbled: Ireland’s third greatest poet rises from his eternal slumber to dissect my muck. Without authenticity, ‘things fall apart’. But more importantly, without irony there is no hope. And it is the irony of your post that tickles me…

So, come here and tell me this, you know your man – Conrad – didn’t he compose the great work of art, Heart of Darkness? And while it’s regarded as the greatest novella of all time (I think Hemmingway takes that one with The Old Man and the Sea) it’s full of jiggery-pokery. Apart from the fact that Heart of Darkness is plagued with latinate language (probably because he wasn’t writing in his first language) and therefore is self conscious/indulgent, it’s a framework story – pretentious and lacking a good yarn, at least in terms of the main narrative. So, in fact, it’s a story about a man telling a story about something that didn’t happen in Africa. Yes, Conrad travelled and experienced similar things and was able to draw on his experience to find some sense of authenticity but the method and the language, the craft and technique, lacked authenticity. Hemmingway’s novella, however, is the real deal, except, of course, it’s fiction.

I know, the irony, Stazza the dilettante hammering Conrad, one of the Great Modernist Godfathers.

Your point is a good one. Maybe it’s time for me to remove the mask…

From tomorrow and forevermore, just for you my dead friend, you will have, the real voice of Stazza, telling the real story, with more than a tinge of authenticity. Be prepared. The horror! The horror!

Pacing Mule

Stazza wrote: »

From tomorrow and forevermore, just for you my dead friend, you will have, the real voice of Stazza, telling the real story, with more than a tinge of authenticity. Be prepared. The horror! The Horror!

Typo or sinister threat ?

Stazza

Pacing Mule wrote: »

Typo or sinister threat ?

Apart from the 'H' of the final 'horror', I can't spot the typo. Please help, I hate tipos.

Pacing Mule

Stazza wrote: »

Apart from the 'H' of the final 'horror', I can't spot the typo. Please help, I hate tipos.

Dead friend or dear friend ?

Or comic tipos - who knows !

Stazza

Pacing Mule wrote: »

Dead friend or dear friend ?

Or comic tipos - who knows !

Ah - both are correct:

'Dead friend' - Billy Butler ist tot. Mind you, he did have a peculiar penchant for the occult - maybe he is still with us...But I now get why you mentioned the sinister threat.:D:D

'tipo' is me being a pratt.

Thanks for keeping me on my toes.:)

Pacing Mule

Stazza wrote: »

Ah - both are correct:

'Dead friend' - Billy Butler ist tot. Mind you, he did have a peculiar penchant for the occult - maybe he is still with us...But I now get why you mentioned the sinister threat.:D:D

'tipo' is me being a pratt.

Thanks for keeping me on my toes.

Ha - Just saw the humour in the typo. Not keeping anyone on their toes

W.B. Yeats

Stazza wrote: »

I’m humbled: Ireland’s third greatest poet rises from his eternal slumber to dissect my muck. Without authenticity, ‘things fall apart’. But more importantly, without irony there is no hope. And it is the irony of your post that tickles me…

So, come here and tell me this, you know your man – Conrad – didn’t he compose the great work of art, Heart of Darkness? And while it’s regarded as the greatest novella of all time (I think Hemmingway takes that one with The Old Man and the Sea) it’s full of jiggery-pokery. Apart from the fact that Heart of Darkness is plagued with latinate language (probably because he wasn’t writing in his first language) and therefore is self conscious/indulgent, it’s a framework story – pretentious and lacking a good yarn, at least in terms of the main narrative. So, in fact, it’s a story about a man telling a story about something that didn’t happen in Africa. Yes, Conrad travelled and experienced similar things and was able to draw on his experience to find some sense of authenticity but the method and the language, the craft and technique, lacked authenticity. Hemmingway’s novella, however, is the real deal, except, of course, it’s fiction.

I know, the irony, Stazza the dilettante hammering Conrad, one of the Great Modernist Godfathers.

Your point is a good one. Maybe it’s time for me to remove the mask…

From tomorrow and forevermore, just for you my dead friend, you will have, the real voice of Stazza, telling the real story, with more than a tinge of authenticity. Be prepared. The horror! The horror!

I did say a "hint" of authenticity was the requirement for a good yarn- I think Conrad drew both on private experience and public stories for much of his work, does that count?
Now whether or not Heart of Darkness is actually a good yarn- I can only proffer my humble opinion that it is but I'll leave that for more learned than me to judge.
Hemingway vs. Conrad- a duel to decide who's the better writer- could we get them to duke it out on the track or the roads? Ernest vs. Josef- the Pole vs. The Yank.
We'll get thrown out of the athletics forum if we continue this sort of discussion- too much discourse, not enough running (although you could say that about a lot around here)
It's all subjective of course but in my opinion your African themes ring truer- I'd buy a book based of yours based upon them.

ps which 2 are better than Willie? He'd have had a good debate with us on this- he wasn't too fond of critics and wouldn't have stood for the beating down of the wise and great Art beaten down

Stazza

W.B. Yeats wrote: »

I did say a "hint" of authenticity was the requirement for a good yarn- I think Conrad drew both on private experience and public stories for much of his work, does that count?
Now whether or not Heart of Darkness is actually a good yarn- I can only proffer my humble opinion that it is but I'll leave that for more learned than me to judge.
Hemingway vs. Conrad- a duel to decide who's the better writer- could we get them to duke it out on the track or the roads? Ernest vs. Josef- the Pole vs. The Yank.
We'll get thrown out of the athletics forum if we continue this sort of discussion- too much discourse, not enough running (although you could say that about a lot around here)
It's all subjective of course but in my opinion your African themes ring truer- I'd buy a book based of yours based upon them.

ps which 2 are better than Willie? He'd have had a good debate with us on this- he wasn't too fond of critics and wouldn't have stood for the beating down of the wise and great Art beaten down

Great stuff. Love it.

When I was out doing a cheeky little 8 this morning I was thinking about what you posted. I like the modernists, especially TS Eliot. Here's something he had to say about poetry and I suppose, by extension, art:

'Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.'

But, I will endeavour to keep it 'real'...

W.B. Yeats

I was trying to admire the scenery in the Dublin mountains when I was running this morning although largely failing as I had to put in a bit too much wellie to keep going- unfortunately not enough head space to ponder my literary preferences,

I don't know much Eliot to be honest- there are a few of his on the Leaving syllabus- Prufrock & "A Song for Simeon" that I did a bit of "learning" on. I did like Prufrock- the banality of modern life, he was certainly ahead of his time- life measured out in cups of coffee- a poster boy for the quarter life crisis.... What is my purpose? (Bearing in mind my own situation I may revisit this!)
I did love Macavity the Mystery Cat one of my favourite poems from childhood- when I read it again as an adult I loved it even more especially as the layers appeal to different audiences.

Anyway I'm not moving up the dial- I'm waiting for Ireland's two greatest poets

Stazza

W.B. Yeats wrote: »

I was trying to admire the scenery in the Dublin mountains when I was running this morning although largely failing as I had to put in a bit too much wellie to keep going- unfortunately not enough head space to ponder my literary preferences,

I don't know much Eliot to be honest- there are a few of his on the Leaving syllabus- Prufrock & "A Song for Simeon" that I did a bit of "learning" on. I did like Prufrock- the banality of modern life, he was certainly ahead of his time- life measured out in cups of coffee- a poster boy for the quarter life crisis.... What is my purpose? (Bearing in mind my own situation I may revisit this!)
I did love Macavity the Mystery Cat one of my favourite poems from childhood- when I read it again as an adult I loved it even more especially as the layers appeal to different audiences.

Anyway I'm not moving up the dial- I'm waiting for Ireland's two greatest poets

And, Irelands second greatest poet is...

Heaney.

In good time, I'll explain why(imho

)he's far superior to Yeats and yet a minor poet when compared to Himself. I saw Heaney reading in Oxford. He did a gig with Ted Hughes - top draw. Hughes blew Heaney out of the water and that did surprise me.