Not taking part I hasten to add.
Sadly, I can’t say too much about this. I attended as part of my cousin’s stag night, and as such spent more time chatting away to him and my friends than watching any of the fights. Perhaps that speaks volumes about the entertainment possibilities of mixed martial arts. Each to their own.
Some people decide to do death defying-stunts around milestone birthdays, such as bungee jumping or skydiving. Me? I ended up getting my adrenaline rush through playing bingo.
I took some convincing to go and only really went because it was Tom’s birthday (I have a sneaking suspicion that he didn’t choose to spend his birthday this way). Once we got into it though and the excitement started to build (helped along by well-placed short snippets of Dario G) I found myself having a laugh.
Did not expect to ever enter a bingo hall, far less expect to have fun when I was there. Year of surprises right enough.
(no winnings though)
As mentioned in my last post, on Saturday I took part in a beach handball tournament. Beach handball (or sandball, although apparently there are differences between the two) is a variation of team handball. With only 4 players on each side the defensive aspect of the game is greatly reduced and is much faster-paced.
Teams from around Scotland took part in this first tournament and thankfully the weather was atypically Scottish. I am still suffering from the foolish decision to forego sunscreen.
Aside from it being the first beach handball tournament in Scotland, it was noteworthy for another reason. My first ever goal for Edinburgh Handball Club!
Kirby grips do not make for an attractive hairstyle on me
We narrowly missed winning, losing to Dundee on a shoot-out in the final. Despite this disappointment, a fun day was had and I hope that the tournament will become a regular event.
Relaxing between games, there are worse ways to spend a Saturday afternoon
Thank you to Dundee Handball Club for organising and hosting the event!
Growing up in the south side of Glasgow, the train has long been my preferred mode of transport. The commuter line meant I could be in the city centre in only 20 minutes, with the added bonus of gawping at houses in richer areas. Plus, the approach to Glasgow Central is fantastic, through post-industrial decay south of the Clyde to the marvellous vista of the bustling centre before you.
Aside from that, the bulk of my rail journeys have been between Glasgow and Edinburgh where I now call home. Incidentally, the approaches to Queen Street and Waverley are much less appealing; Queen Street feels like you’re sneaking into the city and whilst you pass the castle into Waverley, you have to crane your neck awkwardly to get a decent view.
Anyway, the point of this rather dull preamble is to mention that in my 30 years I have never once crossed two of Scotland’s most famous railway bridges, the Forth Rail Bridge and Tay Bridge. On Saturday I ventured to Dundee (well, Broughty Ferry really) to take part in a beach handball tournament. An ideal excuse to remedy this.
The Forth Bridge was opened in 1890 and to this day is still one of Scotland’s most recognisable landmarks. “Painting the Forth Bridge” has long been a synonym for tasks that take so long that by the time you finish you have to start again. This no longer applies to the Forth Bridge as a recent longer-lasting coat of paint has been applied.
View from the Forth Bridge
Later in the journey I crossed the Tay Bridge. This is a replacement bridge for the bridge that William McGonagall famously wrote of
“Beautiful railway bridge of the silv’ry Tay
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last sabbath day of 1879
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.”
Indeed it is said that the Forth Bridge was constructed to withstand forces well above what it would ever be expected to face as a result of the Tay Bridge disaster.
View from the Tay Bridge
using nothing but my own intuition. And tools.
Usually I like to be prepared when I tackle a job. Be it following the instructions to a t when building some flat-pack furniture or reading how-to guides. However this time I just got stuck in. And it worked. Hooray.
I could sully the moment by getting all technical and going on about what I fixed or how I fixed it. But that would be boring.
(okay, it was the flush handle on my toilet. But hey, got to start somewhere)
I can pinpoint the exact day I fell in love with cycling as a sport.
Thursday 9 July 2009.
I had recently been on a bike for the first time in years, being lucky enough to be part of a school trip to Norway. A heavy hybrid it may have been, but riding it in scorching sunshine was sheer joy.
By chance on my return I caught stage 6 of the Tour de France. Raced from Girona to Barcelona (confusingly for a novice) the stage was noticeable for a brave, lengthy attack by David Millar. Like most Scottish sporting endeavours, it was a glorious failure. However, it was enough to get me hooked. From then on my lengthy holidays became about watching Le Tour on Eurosport, and my enthusiasm even spread enough to get my dad watching Paris-Roubaix with me this year, screaming on Cancellara as he entered the velodrome.
For all this I had never attended a cycle race. Until yesterday. The British National Road Race Championship was held in my hometown so I travelled back westward to view the spectacle.
First up was the women’s race. As I left Queen St station the riders were in full pelt along George Square, so I hurried along to Montrose Street where I was sure to see some good action on the climb. Having struggled up it on foot often enough whilst at uni, I could only marvel at the speed that the riders achieved up there.
Having ascertained that the lovely Charline Joiner was not going to win, I nevertheless headed down to Glasgow Green to catch the finish, Lizzie Armitstead riding away from Laura Trott and Dani King on the last lap to take the jersey.
In the men’s race, there was only one man I wanted to see win.
Not Hugh Porter
Yes, so I may have been patriotic in my choices, so what?
The pace was ferocious from the start, and indeed by the time I got to Montrose Street the leaders were already through and I was only able to catch the tail-end of the peloton. Unsurprisingly the World Tour riders quickly dropped the main pack.
Pleased with the standard of racing I’d seen on the biggest climb of the course, I made my way down to Glasgow Green once more to try and secure a good spot for the finish. On the way I saw this
Manx Missile Vote Yes
And I couldn’t resist popping into Billy Bilsland Cycles to see Robert Millar‘s KOM jersey from the 1984 Tour de France
I luckily managed to find a comfy spot in Glasgow Green to watch Mark Cavendish sprint to win, TV doesn’t do his speed justice.
Could do with a fizik saddle
Amazing to get so close to the line
Thoughts? It was an exciting finish, especially when Millar entered Glasgow Green with a small gap to Cav and Stannard. However, I think more could have been done to attract newcomers to the sport. Glasgow Green was pretty devoid of reasons for people to hang about and a couple of screens would’ve helped keep up with what was happening out on the course. I accept though that these things cost money and an estimated 30000 spectators did turn up. More disappointing is the lack of coverage given, especially after the boost the sport got from the Olynpics and Wiggo’s win in Le Tour last year. A measly one hour highlights show on ITV 4 the day after the event (actually less than an hour, given that it included highlights of the Time Trial championship on Thursday and adverts) which, as it has just finished, I can say with authority was horrendously edited, is not a good showcase for our national championship. Hopefully this can be remedied by the time the Commonwealth Games roll around next year.
30 sets of 30 new things when I'm 30 