Stuart Curran

So that was Christmas ...

... and what have I done? Rather than summarise my Christmas in 25 words like I did last year, I thought I might write at length this year and break the habit of twittering my thoughts these days. Leaving aside the build up to Christmas which I scarcely noticed, going to work on Christmas Eve was probably the official start. I never really caught the Christmas spirit this year - I'm 25% grumpier than this time last year I reckon, probably down to work/life imbalance. Plus, for the first time I can recall, I was actually working on Christmas Eve - probably not a good sign in hindsight. The trains were nice and empty though. Walking through the City of London and seeing loads of kids going to work with their parents was a nice moment. Got me me thinking about what would happen if we put kids in charge of the economy, I mean they couldn't make anymore of a mess of it, right? At the very least they would know that actual marbles are worth more the promise of marbles and not to trust sums that they can't understand. I'm content to experience Christmas through the kids these days. Maisie is 8 years old now and delicately poised between her childish beliefs and wanting to be more of a grown up. This balancing act in her mind was encapsulated in the letter she wrote to Santa asking him all sorts of proper journo questions like "Do you mind when people dress up and pretend to be you?" and "Do you and Mrs Claus give each other presents?". This Christmas may have been the last time we were able to suspend her belief in Santa Claus so twas a bit tense the night before, trying to inject the right amount of believability into answers on Santa's behalf. I guess it could be argued that Santa is real though, at least insofar as he is an inhabitant of the third world of our collective unconscious. Maybe I can keep the show on the road a bit longer if I introduce some analytical philosophy around age 9. On the other hand, Noah, our 3 year old, was experiencing Christmas fully for the first time in all it's chocolate-covered, present-wrapped glory. We were on the move constantly for the first few days - at home then in London on Christmas Day evening, up in Scotland with my Mum on Boxing Day. As a result he experienced three sessions of present opening in 48 hours. We are a bit worried this may have set his future expectations a bit high. At least he has been properly inducted into the commercialisation of Christmas though. The Borders where my mum lives was looking really beautiful this year, all frost covered fields and a mist wrapped mountains, pin point sharp in the low winter sun. I was really happy just driving around making the most of the small windows of daylight to get the full aesthetic impact. We also went up to Edinburgh for a day to visit old friends and new babies and took the kids to the Winter Gardens on Princes Street. Noah and I went on the big wheel right next to Scott's Monument and I got a fantastic view of the city and the monument itself. I have always fantasised about it being some kind of gothic spacecraft and watching it lift off into the sky. I did pretty well out of Christmas myself and got a nice spread of presents. The gadget: an Olympus digital voice recorder. The books: The Rest is Noise and What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. The booze: a bottle of Disaronno, my favourite liqueur. I've yet to use the gadget or read the books but most of the booze has gone from drinking Amaretto cocktails on New Year's Eve. Ah well, it comes but once a year.

Down in the depths

Sometimes I don't so much wallow in nostalgia as dive to the bottom to retrieve the brick (of nostalgia). Case in point, this evening I'm listening to some tunes that formed the soundtrack of my life 15 years ago. A trip to Belgium on a euro coach, Xmas, 1993, accompanied by a compilation of european trance music. I distinctly remember arriving in Brussels listening to "Midnight in Europe" by 030 (it was actually about 7am in the morning but no matter) and thinking this was one of the most modern experiences I had ever had. Battlefields, beer and boredom interspersed with my first trip to Amsterdam to get legally wasted and spending New Year in one of the least lively cities in Europe. Fantastic! Meanwhile, Noah and Maisie are playing some sort of game where the house is a spaceship, something I used to love doing as a kid (the downstairs bathroom was always the space lab). If I'm not careful, I might not resurface - it's too much fun down here. Up there it's all death and taxes. But the kids need to get to bed and I need a reality check so up I go.

When a Dinobot ruled the streets

I was lucky enough to witness the inaugural outing of a Dinobot today on the streets of Shoreditch. Newly hatched from it's workshop and ridden by an inferior carbon-based lifeform, the Dinobot made it's way tentatively up an an alley before turning back and crossing the high street to it's lair, avoiding natural predators such as whitevans along the way.

Long tail hobbies

Whenever I spot a lone figure at the end of a train platform, cagoule-clad in the rain, notebook in hand, I wonder how anyone can do that for fun. Trainspotting looks positively mainstream compared to some people's interests though. Consider the following comments I've received on Flickr in the last few months from these long-tail hobbyists: Pylon spotter

Cool close-up! Name: Pylon Model: Lattice Type: PL1b

Petrified nest collector

Hello. Would you be willing to send me this nest when the wasps abandon it this fall? Here is my extensive collection of MONSTER nests: www.flickr.com/photos/72915472@N00/

I'm not being facetious here - I think it's fantastic that there are so many obscure things of interest out there. In case you doubt my sincerity, I should point out that I administer a Flickr group dedicated to sightings of a pink effluent truck. Long tail hobbyists unite! You only have your inhibitions to lose.

One man ' s scandal is another man ' s marketing opportunity

Some shameless unit shifting by Tesco, pathetically disguised by the inclusion of Dawn French as Wossie's co-exile in the bargain bin.

Hit the North running

I completed the Great North Run on Sunday in 2 hours and 4 minutes. I'm pretty chuffed with that. I had hoped to do it under 2 hours but my knees went about mile 11 and it was a combination of sheer will power and forward momentum that eventually got me over the finish line in sunnny South Shields. It was a pretty amazing experience all in all so I thought I'd try and recall what I can while it's still fresh. In true distance runner stylee, I'm going to do it mile by mile. Mile 0 - the start Waiting for about and hour in the green starting pen with my cousin Sarah. It's cold but sunny and I'm overdressed compared to the guy who has "Dave" painted on his chest and is wearing nothing but an electric blue g-string and loads of goosepimples. Around 10am, the local DJ who has been keeping us entertained via the huge PA system asks everyone to stop for a moment and think of their own personal reasons for taking part. To the sound of "Abide with me", he reminds us that lots of people are running in memory of loved ones who have passed on. Despite that fact I am only running for myself, I get pretty emotional in the rush of collective empathy and pretend that the tears are from staring at the bright sunshine overhead. 10.15 and Mr. Motivator is leading the warmup. I can hardly see him on the giant screen in the distance so it's quite hard to keep up especially as the verbal instructions consist of phrases like "kness, c'mon!". 10.30 and the race has started but I haven't moved yet. 10.50 and we are moving - walking not running yet - as the crowd moves towards the starting line. Mile 1 11.00 I am finally crossing the starting line. Looking back I do a double-take as Tony Blair is standing regally on a podium offering a smarm of encouragement to all us athletes. A choice of routes - over the flyover or under the underpass. This is just like Mariokart! Sarah and I take the underpass on her recommendation as she has run this race on 2 previous occasions. It's a good decision as the concrete walls echo to the shouts of "Oggy, oggy, oggy, oi, oi ,oi!" and offer us our first taste of vocal support. Mile 2 Bloody hell. Nike have a giant banner with the exact same phrase and a swoosh for a full stop. Is nothing sacred? Crossing the Tyne bridge. Awesome. Sarah gets a text from our family to let us know where they are standing, waiting to cheer us on the other side. Over the bridge and past the open topped bus festooned with pink balloons, my mum and Sarah's mum and dad are cheering us on. Sarah manages a high five but I'm cut up by a man in a duck costume and cannot press the flesh. Mile 3 Sarah and I separate as she wants to run at a slower pace. Unknown to me, she drops out of the race altogether soon afterwards and doesn't cross the finish line where I am waiting for her and hour and half later. Mile 4 First drink station stop for some Lucozade sport. 50 metres beyond the drinks station, my shoes feel like they are sticking to the tarmac with all the spilt, sweet, energy juice. Mile 5 Nothing much to report. Going steady. Mile 6 I mistakenly think this is the halfway point and am encouraged my progress. I'm overtaking more than I am overtook so assume this is a good sign. Just wait till the kness go old son. Mile 7 Where are we, Gateshead? I hope we pass the Angel of the North. Mile 8 No sing of Antony Gormley's masterpiece. Colour me disappointed. I work out that I need to speed up if I'm going to make it in under 2 hours so pick up the pace. Mile 9 Nipple rub. Wish I has had high-fived that cute St. John's Ambulance worker with her handful of vaseline. Mile 10 Into South Shields and a suburban street party. Old ladies offer energy snacks in the form of homemade brownies, an Elvis impersonator is finishing off a track as I pass by (thank'ya very much). Pity my knees feel like they are going, otherwise I'd enjoy it more. Mile 11 I can see the sea! Slowly, it starts appearing over the top of the hill. Oh fuck, steep downhill bit, that's all I need as my knees complain like buggery. Mile 12 Running on empty as realisation dawns on me that a half-marathon is more than 12.5 miles. Head down, mind blank, keep going. Mile 13 God, the last 800 metres feels like another 8 miles. My mind wanders back to school and my greatest ever athletics triumph when I won the 800 metres handicap despite starting at the back. It's enough to see me to the finish. 13.2 miles and it's over! I'm off to the VIP tent for a shower and some refreshment courtesy of my BUPA wristband, mixing it with the Emmerdale cast and former Olympians!

Content goes here

Everything to write about. Nothing to write about. I seem to be going through one of those fallow periods where I just can't get any posts written. I've got a couple sitting here as drafts, their status assured indefinitely due to a lack of willpower and spare time. A review of all 24 episodes of Season 1 of the Rockford Files will require a bit of effort but seeing as I am my biggest and only fan, I guess it can wait a little longer.

Camping out and up

Had fun camping at the weekend both under canvas and on the dancefloor. A friend was having their wedding reception in rural Essex and had invited guests to camp overnight. We have recently bought a tent and this was the perfect opportunity to test our erecting abilities in relatively stress-free circumstances. It's quite magical when the misshapen mess of poles and canvas suddenly forms itself into smart looking temporary accommodation. They also had a marquee and a PA system set up for a local band. Later on once the band had finished, my brother-in-law plugged in his ipod full of stolen music. I found a live version of Donna Summer's I Feel Love and duly camped it up with Kirsty to some old skool disco. Top night.

The web swallows it ' s long tail

A Google-killer search engine launches. A Wikipedia-killer arrives from Google. Information starts to consume itself. The product names get dumber. I need a drink.

My porno jacket

I should have realised when it said "hentai" that there might be something unique about my new jacket. I was looking for a new lightweight rainproof jacket for the summer and came across one that I liked at Terratag. Now that I think of it, it did say hentai somewhere in the description but I thought this was just style-speak or something like it. Anyway, I got my jacket and was very happy with it. Sure, it had some Japanese writing on that I didn't understand but who cares, right. It's cool. There was some printing on the inside that I glanced at, not taking in the detail. Yeah, it some manga shit, that's cool also. I took it off the other day on the train and looked at the inside in detail for the first time. Holy shit, there's a cute Japanese girl on the receiving end of some cartoon goo! No way! Oh right - hentai - yeah, it makes sense now. There is a certain perverse thrill from not being able to reveal the insides of your jacket to anyone but now I'm worried about what that text on the back says. I'm just waiting for the day when some Japanese person starts laughing and wondering why that stupid guy is wearing a jacket that says"pantie sniffer".