I had signed up for the SEAA Cross Country Masters Championships. I made my way across London to a hilly, muddy field in Greenford, expecting to meet seven other hardy runners from Victoria Park Harriers. When I arrived… I was alone.

I wandered over to the officials’ tent and found the least helpful official imaginable. He just said, “Go find your team manager,” and turned away. Five minutes before the race started, I kept wandering around, scanning the crowd for anyone in a VPH vest.

So I didn’t get to race.

All the negative emotions hit me unison: anger, sadness, and disappointment. I stormed through the door of an off-licence, probably scaring the shit out of the guy behind the counter who thought he was getting robbed, all I want this time is a can of Tyskie to drown my sorrows.

Earlier, I had skipped Parkrun in the morning and the Maltese Culture Movement’s Christmas Fate, just a mile from my house, because they clashed with the race. I could have puffed my way around Mile End Parkrun and then devoured pastizzi while sipping Cisk beer instead of wandering Greenford like a lost, muddy idiot.

Maybe it is time that I learn my lesson and only enter races where my bib number is either sent to me or I can collect it from a registration tent on the day of the race. This is the 6th time in as many years that I’ve missed out because of this ridiculous and archaic system.

Image by Tibor Janosi Mozes from Pixabay

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By the time I rocked up at Mile End Parkrun, the rain had stopped, the skies were doing their best to apologise, and things looked pretty promising. That is, until the announcement came at 8:20am: Parkrun is cancelled due to the weather. The weather that had already stopped. Cue 100 confused runners frantically finding out nearest Parkruns. I bet Uber did a booming trade this morning.

I looked around. One puddle. Just one. And it’s always there anyway – it’s practically a local landmark. Maybe they saw another downpour coming on the forecast and didn’t want to leave the volunteers soggy and miserable. Honestly, the nerve of those selfless heroes not wanting to get pneumonia on their day off just so we could chase a 5K PB.

Now, a few months ago, I would’ve sulked, gone home, and eaten half of the junk sold in my local Sainsbury’s out of sheer disappointment. But not today. Instead, I channelled my inner Forrest Gump and did a solo 5K anyway – and got caught in a second downpour right as I finished.

After towel-drying the British way (badly), I headed to Boots to weigh myself for the first time since April. Last time I stood on some scales, I was 211lbs. This time? 188lbs. Deduct 3.5lbs for clothes (Boots doesn’t have a “naked mode,” sadly), and we’re talking 184.5lbs.

That’s 26.5lbs down. Operation Bye-Bye Fatso is off to a roaring start.

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I decided to ignore him and just keep walking. I had my headphones in, but instinct kicked in and I turned the volume down — and I’m glad I did, because a few seconds later I heard him running after me.

I pulled out my earbuds, and he launched straight into it: asking for money for a hostel. Now, I’m not trying to be cynical, but considering I’d just seen him stumble out of the 24-hour fruit machine arcade like a man who’d lost his soul to a 10p spin, I had my doubts.

I told him I didn’t have any money on me, which was true — I don’t tend to carry cash, especially not at 5am. He didn’t believe me, of course. He kept insisting I must have something. So I hit him with:

“Why do you think I’m walking to work at 5am instead of getting a bus?”

I then gave the very British “sorry” (for what, I’m not sure) and walked off — only to be treated to a stream of abuse behind me, including being loudly branded a “fucking dickhead.”

Yes, of course. I’m the dickhead. I’m dragging myself to work in the middle of the night, you’re begging for money to either gamble it away or stick it in your arm — but sure, I’m the problem here. Makes perfect sense.

Image by Talip Özer from Pixabay

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Now, I happen to know (thanks to some late-night Googling and too many wildlife documentaries) that mange is fatal unless treated. So, like any modern Good Samaritan, I turned to ChatGPT to find local charities or organisations that might be able to help.

The first step? Get a clear photo of the poor sod. I tried snapping one through the window, but it clocked me peering out and promptly shuffled round the side of the shed. Classic fox: elusive and photogenic only when they want to be.

I decided to leave it alone for a few minutes, and when I checked again, it had made itself a little bed out of dead leaves and grass. Cosy, if you’re into the whole ‘woodland crypt keeper’ vibe.

I crept into the garden, channeling all the stealth of a ninja in slippers, hoping to get a better shot. But the fox spotted me again and shuffled further down the side of the shed — now lurking at the back like it was planning something.

By this point I started to realise it was probably looking for somewhere to die. As much as I’m all for offering a peaceful final resting place, I wasn’t keen on the idea of my 3-year-old stumbling across a mange-riddled, potentially feral fox in our garden. So, I made a bit of noise to try and shoo it away.

That worked — kind of. It bolted out from behind the shed and smacked straight into the fence. It then tried five or six times to leap over it, but each attempt fell short, like a drunk at an athletics meet. After a short pause (to either plan its next move or reevaluate its life choices), it spotted a giant pot plant, used it as a launch pad, and finally cleared the fence in one majestic, scrappy leap.

Hopefully someone else finds it and can actually help the poor thing — preferably someone with a proper camera and a bit more stealth than me.

Image by Jon Pauling from Pixabay

The post Sir Scratch-a-Lot and the Great Escape first appeared on Dean Saliba Dot Com.

About three years ago, I started a new job that’s both physically and mentally demanding. Over time, the company has reduced staff and shifted more and more work onto my plate. Most days, I’m left so exhausted I can barely do anything except slump in front of the TV and wait for bedtime.

I’ve also been trying to spend more quality time with my daughter – usually three or four hours in the evening, until we both fall asleep on the sofa.

Somewhere in between, I still try to find the time and energy to indulge in my hobby of running. But that hasn’t gone well over the past couple of years, thanks to work and some weight gain.

So why am I back now?

Because I want to make a change. I want more from life than working my bollocks off for minimum wage, only to pass out in front of the telly by 8 p.m. I also don’t want to lose my blogs – they’ve always been something I enjoy, and I’d like to get back to writing about the things I care about.

My job, as my stable source of income, has to come first. And realistically, at my age, I’m not likely to find a new role in a different industry. So it looks like I’m sticking with the estate operative life until I retire – or win the lottery (note to self: I should probably start buying tickets if I want a shot at that).

So now, I’m trying to come up with a way to juggle:

• Work
• Daddy/daughter time
• Running
• Working out
• Writing

I’m not entirely sure how I’m going to make it work yet.

And no – I didn’t forget about having a social life. Truth is, I don’t have any friends. As someone who suffers from Social Anxiety Disorder, I won’t miss going out to bars or pubs where people might actually try to talk to me.

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

The post Trying to Make It All Fit first appeared on Dean Saliba Dot Com.

I’ll keep an eye on it. It only hurt when I was coming downhill, and I feel fortunate that I haven’t injured this part of my body in the 9 years I’ve been running.

Later in the afternoon, I traveled a short distance to Hackney Marshes to watch Camden & Islington United take on Indian Gymkhana in a Middlesex County Football League Premier Division encounter.

However, I couldn’t tell you what the score was because the game I ended up watching didn’t feature either side. They were playing in the colors I expected, but after about 20 minutes, I realized it wasn’t the right game.

There was only one other match happening nearby, so I wandered over—but that wasn’t the one either.

Maybe the Futbology app had the wrong time?

Either way, I’m counting it as a ground off the list, since I did watch someone play.

That makes two grounds off the list so far this season. With another couple to tick off next weekend (Parsloe Park and Mile End Stadium), I’m actually enjoying this new hobby so far.

Image by Sabine Lange from Pixabay

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I was determined to enjoy the rest of my trip. After all, what is the point of being in another country and being grumpy and miserable, right?

I strolled down to the local Maxima supermarket to get some breakfast essentials. I’m still too scared to use the hotplate in my room, so my breakfast consisted of bananas and bread, washed down with some water.

I’m still struggling to come to terms with the way Latvian people just barge into each other; nobody seems to take offense to it. Today, I witnessed two men bumping into each other multiple times until they had literally circled each other and could continue on their way, resembling a couple of zombies from a computer game.

I walked to the expo to pick up my bib number. I was surprised at how easily I found the venue, navigating streets and roads with ease. Am I slowly becoming Latvian? Will I start barging into other Latvians? Will I become an alcoholic? One of the volunteers at the expo mistook me for being Polish and started talking to me in her native tongue. I panicked and blurted out that I was English. She apologised and said that I looked Polish, then showed me where to go. After picking up my bib and walking through the tiny area of expensive items for sale, I was soon out again.

I had a wander around and found a park that I thought would be perfect for a little 5k run to ease some of the nerves building up regarding tomorrow’s race.

A quick change, and I was soon back at the park for my easy-paced run. I wasn’t aware that the hotel where the elites were staying was directly across the road, and I started seeing people running in their country’s tracksuits. I recognised some of them and even got a couple of nods from the Great Britain runners.

I was behind a group of runners, and I recognized one of them as Aussie Stewart McSweyn, who looked at me and probably wondered which country the fat guy was representing. Our easy paces were completely different, and they soon moved away, leaving me running alone.

I saw two runners in Maltese tracksuits and shouted, “Merħba” (Welcome) as I approached them. One of them noticed the Maltese flag badge on my hat, gave me a smile, and a big thumbs up.

After my run, I had another wander around the old town before going back to my room to watch Millwall lose.

The post Latvia I’m In You first appeared on Dean Saliba Dot Com.

I arrived at Stratford bus station for my coach at about 3 am, desperate for a restroom break. I know it’s not the conventional thing to do, but I was on the verge of wetting myself, so I ventured into the nearby park to find a bush. I’ve never seen so much security in a park at 3 am before! Had a murder been committed in the shadows of the London Stadium?

After being stopped three times, I had no option but to go back and wait for my coach, hoping I wouldn’t embarrass myself.

The good news is I didn’t wet my pants. An earlier coach pulled up and allowed me to get on and use their toilet.

After getting through airport security, I sat on the floor to charge my phone and actually started wondering if I should just go home. I’m not sure where that feeling came from or why I was feeling it, but I had this rising urge to get up and walk out of the airport. I’m not even sure if you are allowed to do that once you have gotten through the security area.

A quick FaceTime with my daughter, and I snapped out of my mood. She never fails to make me smile.

My in-flight entertainment was watching a stewardess getting more and more angry because the queue for the toilet meant that she could not turn around her expensive trolley of supplies.

Why did they play a ‘ta-dah’ like jingle when the plane landed? Why did the entire plane (except me) then clap as if a safe landing was unexpected?

At passport control, I cheerily said “hello” to the guy behind the desk; he snarled at me, “What do you want?”. I decided not to engage him any more and handed him my passport; he looked back and forth between me and the photo several times before demanding to know why I was in his country. I tried to explain several times that I was here to race; I eventually had to bring up the race site on my phone.

He then demanded to see where I was staying. Once he was satisfied, he threw the paperwork back at me and buzzed me through the door.

Bolt (there is no Uber in Latvia) was offering taxi rides for €18, but there was a bus outside the exit that would drop me off 800m from my accommodation for only €1.50. Before I could get to the bus stop, I had to complete the gauntlet of taxi drivers trying to entice me into their vehicles. I was terribly British and politely declined their offers, and was called a bastard by every single one of them.

As I looked up the time of the next bus, it warned me that the bus was going to be packed. I learned that this was not an exaggeration. At each stop, more and more people barged their way onto the already full bus. The driver did not care; as long as he could shut the doors, he was happy.

A few things I noticed on my way to my accommodation:

• Nobody gives way. They will let shop doors slam in your face.
• Nobody offered up their seats on public transport.
• Green crossing signs mean nothing to car drivers, who merely slow down and beep at you.

After taking a few wrong turns, I finally found the road my accommodation was on. It was a short road with dilapidated and abandoned-looking buildings; I was sure that my accommodation was not here. I telephoned the host, and he said he would come outside and see if he could find me. Imagine my surprise when he appeared out of this door:

He led me down this hallway.

And then opened this door to my room.

It reminded me of those war films where they take war criminals before interrogating them. No wonder they didn’t show the images of these on the booking website.

Inside the room wasn’t great; it looked like it hadn’t been decorated since the 1970s.

The bedding that I had paid extra for consisted of:

• 1 thin pillow with a pillowcase.
• 1 thin single duvet with a cover.
• 1 thin blanket that I could actually see through.

There was no heating, so I knew that the bedding wasn’t going to be enough to keep me warm; sleeping in just my underpants was not going to happen. Luckily, I packed some extra shorts and t-shirts.

The host also told me that I could only use two appliances at one time. The fridge is always turned on, so that meant I would have to turn the TV off if I wanted to charge my phone or make a cup of tea. He explained that more than two appliances running at once would blow the electrics.

Once I had unpacked, I decided to go and explore. I was walking around for a good twenty minutes before I saw someone with a bag of food; I quickly realized he was English and asked him to point me to the shop. After stocking up, I returned to the apartment. There were only Latvian/Russian TV shows, so I logged into YouTube on my phone to entertain me.

I wasn’t impressed, and I was far from happy. I even checked my phone to see how much flights home would be for tomorrow morning. The only things that stopped me were the prices to fly home were over £100, and I would not get my €100 security deposit back.

Maybe tomorrow will be a better day.

Image by 937983 from Pixabay

The post Latvia Here I Come first appeared on Dean Saliba Dot Com.

As she relaid this to me in the evening I found myself getting angry. I got even angrier when she told me that she didn’t say anything to the child’s mother and just allowed it to keep happening until she decided to leave.

My girlfriend was a little taken aback by how angry I had become and we agreed that I should probably self-exclude myself from taking my daughter to and from school when she goes, as I’ll end up scrapping in the playground with countless dads.

The pain in my back has thankfully subsided to a very light dull ache as the day has progressed. So much so that tomorrow’s Parkrun time trial is officially back on. Although my flat now stinks of Deep Heat, which is taking me back to my footballing day changing rooms.

The post Angry Dad first appeared on Dean Saliba Dot Com.

Unusual as in the doctors were concerned at how big and dark it was.

Has anybody injured themselves on the way to a hospital appointment before? Because that’s what I did today.

I carried my daughter’s pram down the steps of my girlfriend’s block of flats (whilst my girlfriend rabbited away to a neighbour) and found the pram a lot heavier than it usually is. It turns out my girlfriend had loaded the pram up with copies of the latest Avon catalogue – over 50 of the fuckers!

By the pain in my back, I knew almost instantly that I had pulled a muscle again, And with some big races coming up, and work being rather strenuous, this couldn’t have come at a worse time.

Before ‘Backgate’ though I decided to take advantage of a day off, and a bit of free time, and go for a track session. I managed to complete the two-mile warm-up run to the track, but I got 100m into the actual track part of the session when I suddenly projectile vomited with such force that I actually expected to see an internal organ.

Thankfully it was the old cinder track at my local park, so I won’t be getting banned for fouling the side of the track.

Image by Tumisu from Pixabay

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