Warming Up

I got butt dialled by Bob Mortimer today. His butt is still more interesting than most callers.

At the beginning of this year I had two balls and no idea who Jackie Weaver was.

Today I talked to Jackie Weaver about my balls (and some other stuff) in over two hours of online conversation. I was a guest on her podcast and then she was a guest on mine.  In hindsight I should probably have insisted on doing my podcast first as she got all the gold and the energy, but there was still plenty of silver in the RHLSTP. It’s simply impossible to attempt to do two podcasts on the same day, which is why no one had ever done anything like this before.

You know Jackie Weaver. From off of this.

I did manage to talk to her about the surreal quality of worldwide fame, happening sort of overnight, when never requested or sought or expected. But she seems to be enjoying it nonetheless and having listened to her podcast I think she has a decent shot at extending her stay in the limelight for as long as she wishes. 

Charmingly her husband Stuart (perhaps not appreciating that RHLSTP is also filmed) occasionally appeared to bring her tea or biscuits or to look after the dog. Jackie Weaver (who you have to call by her full name now) is down to earth, engaged, witty and interested and though she had no idea who I was she treated me with the right level of respect (ie not entirely respectful, but mainly).  I liked her a lot. 

I then attempted to go for a run. Despite a gruelling afternoon of talking to another person and a disturbed night where my slightly poorly son kept waking me up, I felt like I had the energy to run through the drizzle, though Ernie did ask me why I was doing it and I said, “Because I am an idiot”.

It turned out I was more correct than I knew as within 20 metres of my house the rain became drenchingly heavy. Well, a bit of rain never hurt anyone, I thought, forgetting about that time that all but an ark’s worth of humans and animals was wiped out by a vengeful God and plodded my way up the steep pathway to the Stocean (which looked like it might live up to its name). I fancied that hail was coming through the trees above me, but it wasn’t til I was out on the field that I realised to what extent. I ran along the periphery being bombarded by icy stones from the sky and with rain so heavy that it was streaming down my forehead, breaching the dam of my eyebrows and pouring into my eyes. I was mindful that last time that I got caught in hail I had watched the storm progress towards me in a straight line with the lightning getting visibly closer and me being stuck on a path across the field with nowhere to hide. 

So I took the next path off the field and decided that I couldn’t really continue unable to see with my face being pelted with ice and the danger of death from a vengeful God (which would also doubtless please the opponents of Christ on a Bike no end) and jogged home. I was soaked and freezing and had managed only a 5 minute run. By the time I got out of the bath the sun was shining. It seems God is actually just really opposed to my attempts to get fit.