Day 19: Park and Pub

Sunday 18 October

Today, Floozie and I stood for ten kilometres. We are outstanding when it comes to long-distance standing. We have previously stood for 13 miles at the Great North Run and a staggering 26 miles at the London Marathon (although that did involve pub rests). We are Olympic-standard standers. Today we were standing in Victoria Park on a staggeringly crisp and colourful autumn day. Dave and Gherkin were running a 10km race for Cancer Research, and we positioned ourselves by the railings for the final leg, while plump ginger-ankled squirrels menaced us for our satsumas.

Gherkin I have not known for long, but he has the kind of wiry physique that suggests 10km runs would not be the ruin of him. Dave by no means looks as if he couldn’t handle 10km, but when every “Are you prepared?” is met with a pained expression and a “No, not really” one does begin to fret. Then there was Dave’s training regime, which largely consisted of him trying and failing to not drink alcohol. His first booze-free week ended with him so drunk on Erdinger that he was sick for the first time in two years. His second attempt at a booze-free week the week after was even shorter lived: I met him on the Monday night and he was already clutching a bottle of beer. Hmm. 

So there we stood. The top three runners came pounding past. Then some other high-calibre runners. Based entirely on Dave’s own lack of self-confidence, we were seriously expecting him to finish last. Or to have made a lengthy diversion via a pub. Or perhaps to have been disqualified for outlandish behaviour such as shitting under a shrub en route. We were concerned. As we mulled over these possibilities, Gherkin came dancing past, bouncing grinning and waving. Floozie, who wasn’t sure if she had ever met Gherkin did a bit of a double-take and said: “Was that Gherkin, or just some maniac?” Runners continued to flow past and then – oh heavens above! Look! It’s Dave! We were so surprised that Floozie started taking photos back to front. Dave was not purple. He was not walking. He was not crawling. He was not clutching a bog roll or a pint of Erdinger... he was, in fact, only about ten minutes behind Gherkin and surely within the first quarter of finishers? While we whooped and cheered and inadvertently took pictures of our own nostrils, Dave managed a distant smile, raised a hand in a regal salute and dashed serenely past.

We traipsed round to the end of the route and found Gherkin and Dave all smiles and enthusiasm, Dave having finally unleashed his inner sunbeam. How very satisfying to do something very hard for a very good reason. As a cool-down, we headed off on a bracing 20 minute amble through South Hackney to a pub recommended by Chap-A called The Kenton. Oh pub of wonder – this is what all locals should be like. They served Becks Blue, they were very nice to Dave and Gherkin about their stirling efforts with regard to the 10km run, they served pie and mash (I had a ‘Heidi Pie’ containing goats cheese and sweet potato, not plaits and cowbells) and excellent cocktails. Not that I tried, but I sniffed. Floozie had a marzipan martini containing amaretto and vanilla vodka and a cherry that I initially thought was a blood clot. I felt very jealous of everyone’s beer, taking a moment to contemplate the beauty of the slant of the afternoon sun through the golden swirling bubbles of Gherkin’s pint of Stella.

I think I managed quite well with the no-drinking today. Once upon a time, if you’d told me I would have to sit for a whole afternoon watching two sweaty men drink six pints of lager apiece, not drink myself, and still have a good time, I think I would probably have had to have told you to fuck off. But it was delightful. The chaps were very proud of themselves and me and Floozie were very proud of the chaps. We also managed to keep track of the grand prix via Dave’s phone, although positions seemed to be filtering through in a strange fashion: “Webber’s in the lead, then Vettel, then Button, then Hamilton, then Button, then Button – oh hang on...” 

We stayed until eight. Floozie was not especially drinking, but it was interesting to watch how men can drink quite a lot and not seem all that horrifically drunk. We left. It was getting dark. People wearing ironic hats had started to come into the pub and enrage me by their mere existence. We were in the middle of nowhere. And Dave was suddenly going off on a date in Islington. Oh how very different it is for men. None of this ‘spend a week deciding what you’re going to wear, consult 18 friends, spend seven hours getting ready and go out convinced you still look vile’ business for them. Oh no. Instead, run 10km, sweat buckets, allow sweat to dry on, drink six pints of Staropramen and then go on date. And there have been repeat dates since. Clearly Dave is in possession of a very powerful set of pheromones. Perhaps I should try this: watch this space for the ‘30 days of not washing’ blog...

Units dodged today: Ten. I don’t think I could have matched the chaps and sunk six pints of premium lager. But under normal circumstances I bet I could have done four and forced down a Marzipan Martini to keep Floozie company.

Non-alcoholic beer of the day: Yes, in the name of duty I managed to force one down when I got in. It went by the name of Cheers. Yet another non-alcoholic beer of the Portuguese, but no link for this one unfortunately. Nice stuff, but by God it is tangy. I had to double-check it wasn’t lemon-infused beer, but I am only ever fluent in Portuguese under the most extreme circumstances. However I could not spot any references to limão. I found it kept making me do little inadvertent coughs whenever I took a mouthful – sharp stuff and too many could lead to indigestion. Not the most beery of non-beer beers, but not unpalatable either. This would definitely do the job at a picnic… oh picnic weather. Why have you forsaken us?

The Unit Dodger