Knowing Me, Knowing Yule

Today is possibly the lowest I've ever felt to be a combination of Australian and a cricket fan. I could cope with losing to India in India. It's tough there. I could cope with Kevin Pietersen and his horrific skunk haircut parading the Ashes past my work in 2005, and I could even cope with Simon Jones taking 2 wickets in an over at Trent Bridge after I drunkenly announced to the crowd that we would set a first innings lead (we followed-on approx. 60 minutes later). I can cope with losing a meaningless one-day tournament to New Zealand.

But today I witnessed something that I would never ever wish on my worst enemy. I saw South Africans celebrate. Since post-isolation I've revelled in seeing the confused looks on their smug little faces after each heartbreaking loss, which only deepens the hurt that I'm feeling today. The worst part of it is, and it pains me to admit this, they are better than us. I feel so gross and awful. I think I might go mutilate myself.

On to brighter notes. We have now officially changed charities. In short, Sport Relief were causing Wes and Kirt 'ball-aches' (in their own words) and were proving impossible to deal with. Although they put up many small barriers for us to deal with, the most galling would have to be their refusal to allow us to donate a portion of the donations to The Himalayan Trust... who if we're honest is the charity we felt more affiliation with... but the final straw was their scandalous use of the gift aid - Kirt has now officially cut ties with them. The money already donated has been passed on to Sport Relief. This doesn't bother us as the actually distribution of the cash by Sport Relief is still an excellent operation. It was more the attitudes of the back office staff that so annoyed us.In their place steps up the enthusiastic Lords Taverners. Here is the summation from the official blog:

It is with a certain sense of pride that The Everest Test can announce The Lord’s Taverners as our new charity.The Taverners have a huge history and a great deal of pedigree in both the sporting and charity world. They have been led over the years by other members of the Royal Family, two Oscar winners (Sir John Mills and Sir Tim Rice), legends of comedy (including Eric Morecambe), former England cricket captains and even a former Australian Prime Minister (Sir Robert Menzies) as well as being supported by men such as Lord Coe, Sir Michael Parkinson and Sir Bobby Robson.
They formed in 1950, and in 1988 they created the Young Lord’s Taverners who have Alastair Cook as their current President, while past Presidents include Will Carling, Mark Ramprakash and Andrew Flintoff.
Their current Commercial Chairman, John Ayling has already sat in on one of our meetings and is giving us a 10 minute talk at our January get together. I would like to take this opportunity to thank John for all he has done for us so far and say how much we look forward to working with him and the Taverners during the coming months.We have parted company with Sport Relief on good terms and they take with them our best wishes along with around £4000 which we have managed to raise for them.

My new fundraising page can be found here: http://www.justgiving.com/nicktoovey - I'm just shy of 30% of my target so far. Think of your donation as a Christmas present to me.

Freeze Mob Film...

Yuletide and Noel to you all.

Milo has posted the edited version of the freezemobs from a few weeks back.

you can watch it by clicking here 

Burying Bad News

Any election campaign is full of wonderful intentions. Promises are made, targets are set and goals are described as 'challenging, yet achievable'. Every breath a politician draws back on is documented in some form of media during this time, hence they are easily recalled if the broken promise isn't properly buried under big news. I'm starting to find out that I shouldn't be making promises that I can't keep. Such as the foolish 'I'll buy the beers at the rugby' offer or any other commitment that I've made on this blog. It’s much harder to for me to deny and/or bury my broken promises such as Jo Moore's infamous 9/11 email, or any president sneaking in pardon's for friends or laws beneficial to their doners in the minutes before vacating office.

WOW THAT DRUG ADDLED PIECE OF MAN MEAT BEN COUSINS IS BACK PLAYING AFL AGAIN i haven't been to a trim trail in 6 weeks AND HOW ABOUT THAT MADOFF FELLA WITH HIS EEEEEEEVIL PYRAMID STYLE SCHEME neither have I been to the gym WHA???? STANFORD MAY PULL OUT OF HIS CRICKET FUNDING I was out all night on Friday night after only promising to have '2 or 3' drinks at my Christmas party DID YOU JUST SAY THAT KATIE, 20, FROM BIRMINGHAM TOOK TIME OUT FROM POSING TOPLESS TO GIVE HER OPINION ON THE BRITISH MILITARY ON PAGE 3? WOW, SHE REALLY IS MORE THAN JUST AN EASILY CO-ERCED SLAPPER WHO MISTAKENLY THOUGHT SHE'D GAIN RESPECT FROM GUYS BY GETTING HER BAPS OUT IN A NATIONAL RAG.

It really has been a couple of weeks of unspectacular action from my end. Although a daily commitment to working on the 'core area', as boring fitness instructors refer to my gut as, has already paid dividends. It did wind up in a humorous situation last Thursday, however. I was nearing the end of the session in my loungeroom and had built up quite a sweat, hence had taken off my shirt. The last few reps of this routine generally see's me struggling a bit, hence I was panting loudly. It was at the final point that I let out a loud 'argghhhhhhh' and collapsed back on to the floor. AT THIS VERY MOMENT, my flatmate opened the door to find me post-grunt, shirtless, panting and sweaty all over. The horrified expression on her face meant only one thing. She thought she had caught the tail end of me furiously 'banishing a white russian from my kremlin'. Needless to say it took us both a few seconds to regain our composure before a barely-believable explanation was offered.

Time to run. I have cricket to watch. Death to all Jarpies.

London is Freezing and other poor puns...

I woke with a fright yesterday morning at 5am and knew instinctively that I wasn't getting back to sleep. Whether it was the genius who put the central-heating system behind a paper thin wall that had loudly kicked into action, or the previous nights kebab that was well and truly knocking on the door, or the massive dehydration and stonking big headache from 16-pint Friday, I just knew I wasn't getting anymore sleep. Not at least until I got out of my work trousers.

This inauspicious start was hardly a precursor to what was to come. If the alco-binge on Friday was almost a direct result of the malaise expressed in my last blog (nothing like a depressant to get rid of the blues...), yesterday was the best antidote possible to rekindle my spirit and enthusiasm for training, our trek, cricket, and life in general.

It was to be action-packed, exercise-heavy, and concentration-sapping day. So my choice to turn up feeling like Paul Gascoigne after an FA Cup final was an interesting one. The first section involved a freeze mob. Organised by Kirt and Dave K, we went to Parliament Square, Buckingham Palace and Trafalgar Sqaure. At each location we had our trektators wrap up in sleeping bags, before our 2 umpires Curry and Bung Shoulder

marked out our 'pitch'. On walked the 'fielders' to raucous rounds of applause from the trekkies, myself placed at first slip. On followed the batsmen, with Dave marking out a guard on the concrete and all the fielders shouting encouragement to Wes, our 'bowler'. By this stage we had the attention of all the people around.. as you'd expect when 30 people turn up wearing cricket whites and 'trekking' gear such as goggles, harnesses, beanies, and scarves. With ball in hand Wes would pretend to bowl, Dave would play forward, and Joe (your archetypical short-leg) would dive forward and 'catch' the chance... although the ball was in his hands the entire time... but lets leave that as our little secret. In unison, we would all jump into a massive appeal, Curry would raise his hand to begin giving him out, and then we all froze in that position without making a sound for 3 minutes. After 3 minutes, Dave would 'walk' as if given out and all the fielders would jump into spontaneous celebrations. 

The first one at Parliament Sqaure went ok but there wasn't many people directly around us, probably because you aren't actually allowed onto Parliament Square itself (a technicality in the law that is vigorously enforced to prevent the permanent protesters taking over, similar to the Aboriginal Tent Embassy). It was a good practice though and got us in the mood for more. The coup de grac was definitely Buckingham Palace. It took some excellent determination, quick thinking, and a touch of arrogance from Wes to get us past the Police... the conversation going something like

Rozzer: It's not going to happen mate

Wes: It'll only be 3 minutes

Rozzer: I can't let you do it I'm afraid

Wes: But it's for charity, it won't take long

Rozzer: Which Charity?

Wes: .... ermmmm... The Prince's Trust....

From the moment the freeze occurred, we had tourists swarming in and around us, all curious at first before they got into the spirit of it and started taking pictures, mock appealing with us, high-fiving a perfectly still Wes, and even going as far as molesting my backside as I stood perfectly still. By the end of it there were so many people in and around us that we couldn't see each other, but it did provide some hilarious shocks when we sprung back into life again. We were thwarted in Trafalgar Square somewhat by the giant Christmas Tree, however the stunt there managed to get us onto cricinfo

All of this was quite a good rush and great fun. I can now see why actors and musicians get addicted to performing on stage. The ability to get people intrigued as to what you are doing is invigorating. Funnily enough, it's exceedingly difficult and also tiring and a bit painful to hold one pose, particularly a full-blooded appeal, for 3 minutes. Then again, in the state I was in, spelling my name was also an issue. There are some photo's attached (with thanks to Zooby) and there will be a video coming soon. I've seen the unedited footage and it looks brilliant.

Following these stunts we headed to the home of cricket for a full expedition meeting. Loads of great stuff came out of this as we sipped on coffee's overlooking the nursery ground. Amongst them, a possible change of charity was floated, Blinky showed us his skills with the interweb that could see us being able to send back daily video updates from the

 mountain and also be 'tracked' online, and a kit sponsor was announced in MKK - run by former England cricketer James Kirtley (Dave's brother and Kirt's cousin). The designs look sensational, and will see us kitted out in training kit, polo's, and coloured match kit. Tenzing's gear will be navy trousers and a fetching pink top with navy piping, similar to the Middlesex 20/20 kit. Although judging from what Graham Napier had to say about conditions at GorakShep, we will need some base layers underneath and some thick jumpers on top. Present at the meeting was a member of the Lords Taverners, who as an organisation seem very impressed with what we are doing and are keen to get on board. I can assure them that, with their reputation and impressive alumni, the feeling is more than mutual.

Hammered home was the need for fitness. Kiwi reminded everybody of his fitness sessions, as did the Terminator, which was a stark reminder of what was concerning my massively hungover brain. There was a bleep test coming. As I was trying to avoid making excuses, I had hidden my hangover from everybody. But when somebody said 'we've forgotten the bleep test CD, so we won't be doing it today' I 'fessed up that

 I was horribly hungover and celebrated by doing a lap up and down of the nets at Lords without any pants on. 

To my horror, Kirt had remembered he had it stored on his laptop and I almost died. Much to Butler's delight, I started puffing during the warm-up. I had wondered what he'd be like in this environment. Petrified would be a word to describe him in the meeting when asked to introduce himself. Obnoxious would be the word during the warm-up. As I took in the deep breaths I could hear comments such as 'Your Mum puffs like that when I'm with her' etc etc. Several insults were exchanged before he trumped me with 'bleep, bleep, bleep' and the horror that I was about to encounter shut me up. It started OK, but my lack of sleep and recent exercise, combined with sweating pure Peroni, saw me conk out at 9.3... which is similar to what I achieved in June. I'm willing to argue that this points to me being fitter. But I am now under no illusions, it's time to get back off the beer and into the gym or the trim trails (coincidentally I'm watching Run, Fat Boy, Run as I type this). 

Further illustrating the point was the ensuing 2 hour net session. Conducting a bleep test prior to this was a stroke of genius as it will give us a good insight into how we play with the oxygen reduced by 34%. It also displayed that, whilst we whooped Hillary in our only matchup so far, they have some quality to fill the void. Dave Kirtley, as you'd expect from somebody captaining Cardiff CC, was a different class and Kiwi doesn't hit the ball so much as murder the fricken thing. We were all genuinely scared and I found myself quickly running to the side of the pitch post-delivery as he is especially good at hitting the ball straight back at you. By some stroke of luck however, I did manage to make him my bunny, getting him out twice and also seeing him survive a french cut. How this was possible considering I'm incapable of swinging the ball and bowl at a speed regularly described as 'backwards', I'll never know. I did feel for Mark, who was bowling directly after me (and, incidentally, is much better than me) as Kiwi would take out his frustrations on him and marmalised several of his deliveries. It was like watching footage of the Iraq war, for the balls took on the form of ballistic missiles once they'd hit nothing but the middle of his bat. Amusingly, the Kirtley name doesn't guarantee that everybody has cricketing talent. Kirt, whilst improving, still has trouble getting the ball down the other end. Genealogy is an interesting thing.

An excellent day was capped off with a couple of brews and a warm glow was felt on the way home. A massive thanks to Kirt and Dave for organising the freeze and to Lords for donating their venues for the day, particularly the impressive indoor nets. An invigorating day was just the tonic and has refocussed my wandering and blue-funked mind. Long may it last.

Time goes by. So Quickly.

Great. It took me 10 seconds to come up with the above title and now I have 'hung up' by Madonna in my head. Everything was going well until recently, and it feels like only a few weeks ago when everything was going swimmingly.

The last month has seen as a massive downturn in everything, basically in my life, but especially in my preparation for the trip. The company I work for (Ogre pty ltd) has completely and utterly shat itself in the wake of the doom and gloom. Not helping has been my so-far cruisy demeanour and performance this year. All this = I'm in a lot of trouble and have had to scupper any outside interests for a while, lest the axe of doom find thy cranium. As a result, I've only been to the gym 3 times since my last trim trail, which was 4 weeks ago.

I'm trying to paint out like this is everybody's fault but mine. But I've also managed to pull 3 all-nighters since then, and in-turn missing 3 trim trails. To make it up to the boys one afternoon, I turned up to the pub 5 hours after retiring to bed to meet the Everest boys to watch a game of social-networking witnessed by 15 rugby players form both Australia and England. There I had promised to buy beers for all Team Tenzing members up until Australia's first try. That didn't happen until the 65th minute. Luckily only Neil qualified for what I now see as a foolish promise. The beer purchasing was alright. Watching 80 minutes of rugby union was a ridiculous thing to put myself through and I never want to have to be punished like that again.

Since then we have had a couple of dropouts due to illness and work-commitments. Stepping up to the plate is a guy that I've played cricket with sporadically for the last 5 years, James Butler. Below is the email I constructed to introduce him to the team.

I have know James for 5 years now, and when he hasn't been serving suspensions
as part of a lengthy list of on-field misdemeanours, has been my cricket club captain. You'll soon notice we share a common love of regular swearing, quoting The Office, and mother jokes.
James bit my hand off for a chance to join Team Tenzing, and I'm sure will prove to be the absolutely ideal Tenzingite. James always shows unbridled enthusiasm for
anything he's involved in (and this has already transferred to The Everest Test), thrives in a team environment, has a great sense of humour, is generous with his time, and obviously captaining the 1st team at Harlow would show that he can commit to events outside of work. You would also assume that he has more than a fair cricket ability, however this is stifled somewhat by ridiculous shot selection and 'eccentric' running between the wickets. He has shown time and again that he is willing to donate his time to mentoring young players and even menial tasks such as general club admin, not lest of these fielding the endless questions as to why he continues to pick such a talentless, hungover grub as myself in the first team despite a distinct lack of wickets, runs, fielding ability, or friends

Other things to occur. Well, we are playing on THE F*CKING OVAL during the fifth F*CKING ASHES TEST (lunchbreak) next year. I swear when I see Charles B-N (who basically swangled this single-handedly) I am going to drop to my knees (fill in the rest yourself). And after we have played on The Oval, I am going to send the video and pictures to every single f*cking school teacher of mine who ever said 'why do you keep writing fantasy stories about you playing cricket against the English in front of a packed house, it's NEVER going to happen' - And I am going to include personal diatribes against every single one of them. Even Sister Annette is going to going to hear about it. Let's see what she has to say in her hilarious Irish accent then. I am then going to ask them to revisit every single piece of creative writing that I did and remark it, based upon me fulfilling that dream. And don't think you'll get off lightly either Miss Saraceno.

On top of that we will have bi-weekly net sessions at the indoor nets at The Oval. Think that sounds salubrious? Think again. Essentially it's a multipurpose gym marked out with plastic stumps with a couple of surly second-teamer's wearing the 20/20 kit looking upset that they never made the big time.

We have a massive event on Saturday that involves some Freeze's (click here for an example) where we intend to hold an lbw appeal pose for 3 minutes and record the reactions of passers-by. Somebody suggested a Flash Mob, but ever since the 'incident' where I mistook Flash Mob for meaning showing my genitals to an entire Mob, I have been banned by court order not to take part in one ever again. After that it's off to Lords for a meeting, followed by the hellishness of a bleep-test, and then a net session. I assume my legs will be wobblier than Steve Harmison's when he boards that plane this evening after the whole day is done.

Finally, it has been my role to organise the Christmas Cards. Without doubt, the gayest part of organising the trip fell to me. Unbelievable. So expect one of those if you're family, friend, foe, or somebody whom I think might have a compatible kidney.

Broadening the Exercise Horizons

Following on from Blinky's blog yesterday about leisurely jogging in hail, I ended up with a similar experience yesterday. After pushing myself to just about as far as I could go physically and mentally last weekend, a workout in the gym - which last week used to spook me, really was quite easy, bordering on boring. The overall dryness, stillness, and warmness of Fitness First on Fetter Lane sent my brain into 'wandering' mode.

During my 15 minutes on the rower, I became bored enough to look around the gym at the talent, watch a bit of the replay of the cricket, and get very annoyed at the music they play and the repeated use of a combination of midgets and/or kids dancing as Michael Jackson in dance-music video's. Does nobody else realise the connotations of a small boy doing the thriller dance? Also, isn't that copyrighted? Can you copyright a dance move?

Anyhow I digress, proving that most battles are won in the mind, I (ahem) stroked my way to a record distance in 15 minutes on the rower. This was achieved despite rowing one-handed on quite a few separate occasions as I tried to wipe the sweat that had painfully seeped into the raw skin on my face that still hasn't recovered from the major windburn. So perhaps I've unlocked the key to great performance, it isn't in a skin-tight shirt or the bottom of a lucozade bottle, it's thinking something is easy. I'm available for £5,000 per pop if you need me for an after-dinner speech.

I fear all this is about the be shaken up though. It's back to the trim trail on Saturday. The Sharlands have had to wait 3 weeks before they get their hands back on me. And this one will be done in arctic conditions. Awesome.

As an aside to last week, a new Westfield has been opened up in Shepherds Bush. If you lined up all it's escalator's you'd be able to get to the top of Ben Nevis whilst reading a paper and being brushed past by teenagers looking to get off with one another. Infuriating.

Yowsers! A Tale of 3 peaks

The challenges are beginning to heat up. The brave men of Team Tenzing, with a combination of bravado, naivety, dedication, and a fair degree of foolhardiness took on the 3 peaks challenge over the weekend. This involves scaling the highest mountain peaks in Scotland, England, and Wales within a 24 hour time period. In total, it's 42km of ascent and descent interspersed with 475km of road travel. On paper, this is a very challenging yet very achievable target. However, we were about to learn some very valuable lessons.

The goals set out when this idea was originally floated by the demonic fitness bastard that possesses three quarters of G-Unit's brain was to get a) vital mountaineering experience, b) great exercise, c) team bonding, d) finishing a goal to be proud of. These were all to be achieved, but maybe not in the way we intended.

My preparation was not the best. Whilst 10 days or so living it up in European party-havens Prague and Barcelona (mostly good times....) was good for the spirit and soul, it was fairly detrimental to health and fitness. So as I embarked upon my 4th flight in the space of 10 days, I was a mixture of nervousness, anticipation, excitement, and shitting myself. Adding to this mixture of emotions was the unfavourable weather report and a complete void in experience of these sort of activities.

As we set out straight from the flight out of Glasgow in a tightly-packed minibus circa midnight Friday, I managed to nick an hours sleep before an horrific car accident up ahead delayed our progress. Our bus driver Craig, a dance-music loving Scouser, seemed to revel in telling us that we were doomed. In hindsight, he had some good points. It was now 2 and a half months since the end of climbing season, the weather report predicted high-winds, rain, subzero temperatures, and snow at the summit. In short, he said we weren't going to make it and were stupid for trying. With some dismissive and stubborn language, we decided to forge on with the backdrop of a guy being cut free from an overturned car.

At the base of the mountain, at around 4am and as we all squeezed into our specialist clothing, Gareth gave his final talk. It went something along the lines of 'bad weather, big challenge, it's dark, are we all still up for this?' - with only a hint of hesitation everybody responded positively and we set out. For one of the first times in my life, I was one of the better prepared guys in terms of equipment, and was feeling relatively good. Resplendent in ultra-expensive hiking gear (worth a total of £500+), I attached my glow sticks, checked my headlamp and whistle, tightened my boots, took an energy gel, overcame the urge to regurgitate the energy gel, took a deep breath and set off.

The hiking itself went better than expected. My baselayers and microfleece kept me warm enough to ditch my beanie and gloves, and the outerjacket was waterproof and wind-resistant. I certainly had it better than Joe, who had stepped in some quicksand and was wearing trainers, and Mark, who had raided the bottom drawers of any friend he knew. (As an aside, I can't recommend my boots enough). We started off with some friendly banter and a couple of games to keep us occupied, and at any spare moment I displayed to anybody in my vicinity how catchy the song Great DJ by The Ting Tings is. It was the last song I had heard, and now it was the only song that anybody would hear for entire climb of Ben Nevis as I sung the chorus over and over and over again. 

The General set a great pace at the front, perhaps forgetting the other guys lack of equipment. I was generally just behind him, and was so chuffed at how I was going that I even had time to throw in a few token Kiwi sheep-shagger jokes towards Blinky when we passed a few wild Ram. Just I was beginning to feel comfortable we rounded a corner and bang. The wind hit us. The chat stopped. The only thing that could be concentrated on was trying to forget about the rain that was flying horizontally directly into our face. The only thing that could be heard, above the howling of the wind, was Hillsy's bag flap that sounded like a chopper. I shouted this out to Hillsy who replied, only half-joking, with 'I wish it was'. We were now 2 hours into the walk. Everybody was wet, cold, tired (my 1 hour was the only sleep the entire group could muster), and hungry.

We rounded another corner which provided some relief as the wind was now behind us and did a great job of pushing us up the mountain. JC tempered this somewhat with 'you realise we'll have to walk back into that soon'. Another turn and the summit was in site. But only if you arched your neck up. Another turn and the weather got nasty again. At least, it got relatively nasty, the wind and rain was again behind us. G called us all together. He looked worried. We had briefly taken a wrong turn. Turning up the correct path was going to mean walking into these huge winds up a narrow path, with a steep fall on one side. He suggested we turned back. Hillsy suggested a vote. Joe mentioned he couldn't feel his legs. Mark said something similar. Of the 11 of us, only 3 or 4 of us stuck our hands up to continue. Reflecting my fresh nature and the awesome quality of my gear, I was one of those who wanted to carry-on. Blinky and G then briefly mentioned the very real dangers before G called it upon himself to turn everybody around in the name of responsibility.

I'll be honest and say I was fucking disappointed and almost a bit let down by the guys who hadn't bought along the proper kit. My legs still had plenty of walking in them and I thought we'd fallen at the first sign of difficulty. That was, until I turned back around into that headwind. Jesus it was ridiculous. I have never experienced anything like it. A small hill that was descended in 5 mins took about 20 to get back up. I was now at the back of the pack, as the wind made progressing my meagre 75kg frame even one measly step a near-impossibility. The below-freezing conditions combined with the wind gave me the worst ice-cream-style headache you could imagine. The only solace from that pain was the fact it went numb in about 60 seconds. The driving rain into my face meant I couldn't see anything but my feet. This hike was about to be turned up a notch.

As that wind started to appear to die off, all the boys started screaming encouragement. That was the worst of it I thought as we rounded a corner. And as if to spite me, the wind picked up again. Jesus fucking christ get me out of this fucking place. This was ridiculous. It was still pitch black. It was freezing. It was wet. And I was struggling to stay upright as the sidewind knocked me off balance with every attempt to move forward. This wasn't the Glastonbury-style wet-weather jolly I planned it to be. My breathing was beginning to get frantic as I struggled to get a proper breath in. I will now never, ever tease my dog with a hairdryer into his face. It's a fucking awful feeling having your breath taken away by the wind. We went into a little ditch and again the wind softened a little. But still not enough to stop knocking me sideways. Somebody behind me (JC, maybe?) took it upon themselves to hold onto me and my bag to keep me walking straight. My headlamp kept on getting blown down onto my face, which was a double whammy of lost light and covering my eyes. You've been through the worst of it, distract yourself. fuck. how do i distract myself. And then the Ting Ting's came flooding back as it was the forefront of my subconscious. In hindisght, a mindreader would have had a good laugh at my thought patterns. Imagine all the girls ah-ah-ahhh-ah-FUCKKKKKKKK ok c'mon you're still alive battle through it. Imagine all the boys ah-ah-ah SHITTTTTTT I don't know how much longer I can do this. And the strings e-e-e-e-eee-ee-e man i just want to be warm. And the drums. the drums. the drums. I think the worst of it is over.

Man was I upset at myself for thinking that last thought. Again, the wind gods heard me. And by god, did they want to ram their point home. They picked up to by far the worst of the night. Weather reports would later place the gusts at approx 90mph. Ninety. Miles. Per Hour. I was repeatedly blown sideways, as were a few others. I remember Blinky screaming to grab hold of each other. I also remember somebody desperately clinging to me as I almost hurtled off to my right. Moving forward was now secondary to staying upright. Every bit of energy I had was focussed on staying up as the wind edged me further and further off balance. what's going to happen next? what the fuck is going to happen next? was running through my mind. I contemplated crying at the sheer helplessness of the situation, and for a split second, I was devoid of all thought and presence of mind. I've since pondered that perhaps that is what it's like to completely lose consciousness. Ironically, it was the strength of the next gust that snapped me out of it as it threw me 3 or 4 steps to the right. Keep moving forward. It's the only way home.

As the wild winds continued, I began crabbing sideways, unable to face front as the speed of the wind hitting the back of my throat prompted a gag reflex. At this stage I remember the gharish bright yellow hi-vis jacket of Hillsy, in typical Lieutenant Dan against the Hurricane style, start shouting 'c'mon, it's only fucking weather... take it on boys... TAKE IT ON... Tooves, fucking swear at it... SWEAR AT IT!!!' - and funnily enough from this point it got easier. We rounded another bend and the wind started dying down. Although I didn't dare think that we are through the worst of it again. 

The rest of the walk was a surreal experience that I can't actively recollect. I do remember slipping a couple of times, as a combination of exhaustion and slippery rocks took hold. The first fall I took, in hindsight, was fairly dangerous. It was close the edge of the cliff and I had completely lost control.

Back at the van, we were met by a visibly relieved Laura, with everybody keen to retell adrenaline-fueled stories of the hellish experience we had just been through. Her and Craig told us that the winds had hit them hard at ground level too, and at one stage Craig thought the van was about to topple over. We convened in the cafe of Morrison's in Fort William for what was a Clayton's meeting. Everybody knew we were about to abort the rest of the trip. The options were put forward. The combination of possible injuries, no sleep, soaking wet clothing, and the clincher... weather reports of winds of approx 80mph on Scaffel Pike sealed the deal. The attempt was off. Gareth summed it up well by saying although we didn't achieve our goal, we definitely achieved all our objectives. Along with it came another lesson, mother nature is not to be taken lightly. We could have very easily been chewed up and spat out like a baseballer's tobacco. 

The disappointment of missing out on completing even a single peak began to dissipate once the adrenaline wore off and the injuries kicked in and the realisation of the bullet we had just dodged sunk in. Weather reports came in stating readings of 150mph on the summit of Ben Nevis. If it hadn't been for the clear thinking and leadership of Gareth, I'm sure there would have been several casualties, if not fatalities. Further to this, a controversy has erupted about a race in and around the Scaffel Pike area. It was a great idea to pull out of that one. G-Dawg has posted this video from the aforementioned race. This is as close as you could get the conditions. Just increase the wind by 70mph and take away the light and add 800 odd metres of altitude.

As for now, I'm going to enjoy some home comforts for a couple of days that I wished for on the hellish trip up the mountain and ensuing 15 hour drive back to London. For example, a heater, some take-away thai food, a couple of beers, and the entire Beatles back-catalogue on random before getting back into the exercise tomorrow. Yesterday still feels like a bit of a dream. Or more accurately, a nightmare. Despite the obvious negatives, there were some outstanding positives. The way everybody looked out for each other was superb. Our determination was admirable, and the bonding value was immeasurable. Not to mention the humour that will garnered from seeing how much the stories get elaborated over time. I have a feeling it will be exponentially related to time passed and pints consumed and quality of girl that is attempting to be pulled.

Trying Harrrrrr-darrrrr

I'm currently sitting on the couch in my jim jams staring out at some inclement weather with a sense of relief that it didn't hit yesterday morning. After an initial amount of confusion that saw me turn up 30 minutes late, I joined the now infamous 'Trim Trail' that the Brothers Sharland set out. From what I can ascertain so far, Tom and Neil are guys that both lean towards the quiet side, but their silence conceals a fierce inner competitiveness (particularly with each other) that drives them on to almost T800 levels of determination. I'm fairly sure that during these groups of exercises, Tom is actually picturing shooting a different policeman with every groan that eventuates from his tortuous routines. And I'm certain Neil performs eye surgery on himself.

The Trim Trail involves any exercise you have ever seen on any sports-movie training montage. Hill Runs, Shuttle Runs, chin-ups, sit-ups, and all other manner of exercises that stretch muscles that I wasn't even sure I had. It sort of reminds me of my junior rugby league days, just without the only member of the extended Ella family never to excel at sport ruining my self-confidence in front of my mates simply because I wasn't as quick as his future-reserve-grader-son. The hill runs were ok, and I even resisted the natural temptation to tell Zoobs to f*ck off with his camera (and I'm glad I didn't, he's only doing his job), the chin-ups were not so ok... although I managed a total of about 10 with a helping hand from Neil. However the real humour began after the million or so variations of push-ups and sit-ups. A course was set out that involved 3 hurdles that doubled in size. First one easy, second one difficult, third one fucking impossible for somebody of my height and (lack of) natural athletic ability. After 10 laps and 2 spectacular stumbles that would've had the euthaniser at Aintree reaching for the rifle and big white screen in glee, I was glad to see the back of them. Until the next exercise was announced, which involved jumping back and forth over said hurdles 10 times (pictured above is Tom making mince-meat of the first one, with Kirt looking tired in the background). Wanting to get it out of the way, I jumped in about fourth and after an hilarious stack on my first attempt at the third hurdle, one of the Sharlands (I couldn't differentiate between them by this stage) took pity on me and excused me from the last set.

As I mopped up the blood off my knees, I reasoned that I shouldn't be too hard on myself, as the other boys had a distinct height advantage. That was until Kirt took to the beams in extremely impressive fashion. Kirt is actually shorter than me but possesses a spring in his legs that, in another life, could've seen him take the US by storm as the next Spud Webb.

This hit a couple of points home, firstly despite me thinking that exercise is impossible for me, it isn't. And also, the mountain isn't going to lower itself for me for having shorter legs than the others, nor is the oxygen going to increase just for me during the game just because I don't possess any natural fitness or athletic ability. As if to further illustrate the point, I was flicking through the Steve Waugh autobiography today to see what he said on fitness, motivation, and overcoming obstacles. For those that don't know, Steve has a fearsome reputation in the cricketing world for mental strength and achieving the impossible. You could list several instances, Bouncing Viv Richards in the full knowledge that the retribution would see his life put at real risk, scoring a century in each innings batting with a broken hand in '97, telling Ambrose to get the f*ck back to his bowling mark (at real risk), scoring 150 on one leg (at real risk), surviving Allan Donald trying to kill him (at obvious risk), and telling Herschelle how he'd just stuffed up (at no real risk, the Saffir's will never win anything meaningful).

One section that has stood out, however, is the following. In 1991 he was dropped from the Australian team (in favour of his twin brother) and riddled with injury. A fitness guru was employed who demanded logbooks of his daily gym activities.... 'which was exactly the influence I needed. There were plenty of days when I'd get to 17 or 18 leg raises and think 'that's enough - no one will know I haven't done 20'. But something told me these were the little battles that needed to be won for the bigger picture to become clear. The only person I needed to impress was myself.'

The 'That'll do' attitude that has plagued me for a long time, and whilst I've recently made progress in amending that approach, it's plainly obvious that I'm still lagging behind the other guys in fitness. The one thing that scares the living shit of me is making it on the pitch at Gorakshep but costing us the record by having to pull out with poor fitness. I'm sure that will be enough motivation in the future.

On the topic of achieving long-term goals, I accepted an invitation from my mate Jonah Abraham last night to meet his 2 single flatmates, with the event taking the form of a screening of The Fall followed by a Q&A with the intriguing, and intensely interesting director Tarseem Singh.

Listening to him talk about his labour of love and commitment to doing things correctly, and in a way that he could be proud of, and in a way that he believed in hammered home the age-old point of not giving a fuck of how other people judge your achievements, as long as you can be proud of your own work.

Which is something that I'm sure the sound-director of channel 9 could take a lesson from, particularly after forgetting to feed a bit crowd noise over the top of the pre-record of The Living End's pre-match 'live' set, but especially after hitting 'play' before they'd even got on stage. Another golden moment in the long list of 42nd street never starting, parachutists hitting the roof, the cast of Neighbours singing the national anthem (jealous Lawson, Dav?), The South Queensland Crushers legends parade and team song, and Billy Idol almost getting electrocuted. So Kirt and Wes, if you're ever tempted to take a cheap option, just google search 'Rugby League pre-match Entertainment'

Ten Zingers Please

I almost let this slide but after my loyal following of Sean Moran asked me when the next update would be, I decided that I couldn't let me loyal fan down.
Quite a bit has happened in the last few weeks. The Official Site has gone live, and I don't think I'm alone when I say that it has made me moist. There is loads of good info on there in regards to the altitude, the people taking part, some awesome photo's of the pitch and the trekking route, the risks, the event (obviously), the legacy, and most important of all... the charity. Funnily enough, the organisers Kirt (the short one) and Wes (the not short one) forgot to invite me to the official photo session outside London Town Hall. At the time I was sure it was an innocent oversite, but combined with Haydn's inability to include my emails on team correspondance, I'm starting to wonder if there is a conspiracy against me. This all came to a head when, during a recent meeting where I was controversially overlooked as team fuhrer, I kicked my chair over, told them all to go and get f*cked, stole some of the donated money before running off swearing to never contact them again. Unfortunately I am niether quick nor strong of mind, and they caught me within metres of setting off and convinced me to stay on within seconds.

Apart from that Dean Jones-like reaction from myself, Saturday was an excellent day which featured the first full-expedition meeting for a long time, involving the naming of a couple of sponsors (Qatar Airways and Gray-Nicholls) along with some very exicting prospects which I'm sure Kirt would definitely not like me talking about just yet. The captains were announced, with fitness freak PC Gareth Plod backing up Haydn (whose blog I highly recommend) as Tenzing's Hierachy. Against us will be a team headed by Jules, who is supporting none other than my old beardo mate Glen, who doubtlessly earned his position, and definitely doesn't have to worry about having the complete puss rupped out his kiwi accent every time he talks.

Following this, the first square-off between Tenzing and Hillary took place. Kirt is keen to hammer home that the match on the mountain WILL be a competitive one and not just a jolly. Words that were obviously still ringing in Haydn's ears as he made us do 10 back-to-back 20 metre sprints as way of a warm-up. It was at this precise moment that I really wished I hadn't chosen 4am as a bedtime. Although, the stinging in my chest, cramps in my calves, and inability to breathe at least gave me a tester of what I'm up for at 5000m+

The game itself was a bigger fizzer than the third Matrix film. In short, we treated them like a plump christmas turkey and gave them a good old fashioned stuffing. Glen's favourite short film is called 'Bogwash', and in this case, we were definitely Rocco and he was the eager yet naive asian girl who wasn't really sure what she had taken on. After G-Plod and I opened the attack, they were 5/18 after 6 overs and the game was as good as dead. One of the wickets included my old-teammate Glen, whom I kindly informed on the way in that I was going to kill him with the next delivery... even though he was the non-striker. Unfortunately my next sledge got misunderstood and Kirt thought I was being polite when I asked if he was sure he didn't want to bat with a helmet against Blinky - Kirt politely declined and Haydn banished me to the boundary as pennance. Maybe next time I'll just stick with puerile questioning of players sexuality and repeated swearing.

I was certain that we would see Blinky completely lose it after he was called for a wide whilst walking back to his mark, but the need to impress his new captain saw him contain that unrequited anger that he normally shows whilst playing for me that usually results in a post-match apology to opposition players and thier mothers/umpires/spectators/passers-by/the archbishop of canterbury/women in general.

The game turned into a whitewash, with Hillary giving us a fright before we knocked off their total of 95 with only 10 wickets spare. I contributed a solid 0 off 0 deliveries after several retirements. This was as good as I could hope for after turbo-drinking 3 cups of Pimms safe in the knowledge that I wouldn't be going in at 6 before I was told with about 30 seconds spare that I was going in at 6.

Not only on the field was it a whitewash, but I must say we defeated Hillary in the after-match function too. We had them covered in every department from skirt-chasing, through to alcohol consumption and even fashions. If Hillary are going to compete on April 21, I'm afraid they'll require a Cleveland Indians style recovery.

Not all went swimmingly for myself. After the exertions of Saturday, I woke up on Sunday with my back feeling like it had been trampled on and a sore shoulder. Although that may have had more to do with passing out across 2 bean bags and the floorboards at Blinky and Glen's place.

Extreme Dude

Geeez-sus I'm f*cking boring. It occurred to me during an email detailing my previous weekend. Went to the gym, watched war doco's, ate healthy food despite the lure of the various curry menu's on top of my fridge, and went to the gym again. I even deliberately ignored calls because I knew the lure of a beer would be too much. At least that's what I'm telling the courts, what really happened was that I spent the weekend lying low and not answering the phone as a matter of life and death - at least it was a matter of life and death for my mate. But I don't mind, he is far more important than me.

But I reason that this amount of Boring-ness will pay off once we get to the mountain in Everest and I join the extreme sports crowd. I know I'll only be walking and then playing cricket, but at that height, playing chess is extreme.

Which is a strange motivation as joining the Extreme Sports crowd is something that I have never, ever wanted to do. I was once in Morocco with a bunch of surfers. Surfers, individually, are generally nice guys with a relaxed take on the world. Surfers en masse are, without doubt, the most BORING bunch of people you will ever find. They are limited to 3 words 1) adjective of choice is 'Epic', 2) Emotion of choice is 'Stoked' and any form of elation/celebration is displayed by giving the devils horns and making the 'yeeewwwwwwwwwww' noise. And their only topic of conversation is boring personal surfing anecdotes. For example, 'That reminds me of this time when I was at this secret spot that only the locals knew about*, man I was stoked they took me there, and it was perfect left-handers and I just pulled into this epppppic barrel and I looked at the blue wall and I was just like ... yewwwwwwwwwwww' - This behaviour is not exclusive to surfing. You can interchange BMX/Rollerblading/Basejumping/anywhere-it's-appropriate-to-take-crystal-meth-and-call-everybody-dude and it will fit nicely. Butting in with a boring personal anecdote of my own that relates to an off-break I sent down in the 'right areas' will be an interesting addition next time around.

As for proper news, things are hotting up. We got a mention on cricinfo (that's me to the left of Brett Lee) this week, and Gray Nicolls have agreed to supply us with some cricket kit, which will be in-turn donated to the local schools in Nepal. With any luck we could see some of those kids representing their country one day. We also have a major meeting coming up where fundraising mechanisms will be announced and so will the team captains. To be honest, I have no idea who these captains will be (always assumed it would be Wes and Kirt), but it should be an interesting decision and lead to whole lot of homo-erotic cliché’s about 'getting behind him' and 'full backing' and 'whole lot of men under me' etc etc


*No surfer will ever admit to surfing anywhere other than a local secret spot

The Long and Arduous Moving Walkway

Walking up an escalator this morning hurt. And not for the normal reasons of having to think of new excuses to avoid the unwashed students asking for just 5 minutes of my time with their infuriating cheeriness and wacky leg-warmers and good causes and.... other things that make me sound like Mr Scrooge. I've recently upped the ante with the leg weights during my boring visits to the gym. So not only are the people in the gym subject to unexpected bouts of flatulence as I strain ever sinew, so are the commuters behind me as I struggle valiantly to lift my legs up the stairs the following morning.
And so begins what may be a tedious 8 months of healthy living and constant exercise. And sticking true to my Kenny Bania character, I revel in telling everybody that I'm not drinking, not eating skin or sauce on chicken, and talking about the amount of reps I'm doing. I reason that I'm a pest no matter what the situation, so at least health & fitness is a valid topic to annoy people about, and if I didn't have the motivation, then I wouldn't go to the gym and end up having to wash myself with a rag on a stick after taking up a Marlon Brando style attitude towards my own body.
The first tests of my endurance will be coming soon, in the form of a 10k fun run and a 3 peaks challenge. I'm seriously thinking of starting litigation over this whole 'fun run' thing though. Whoever thinks running is, in any of it's incarnations, a form of 'fun' really needs to experience a few of life’s finer points. Such as midget-tossing or strip-bars.
The 3 peaks challenge will be a nice little taster for trekking. This will involve scaling Ben Nevis (1344m), Scafell Pike (978m), and Snowdon (1085m). And yes, I deliberately chose the most foreboding pictures for dramatic effect. Whilst this sounds fairly achievable individually, I must stress that we are doing all 3 in the space of a weekend. Which equates to 14 hours trekking and 450 miles driving. Without the undoubted help of unleashing the awesome power of apples.
Then again I could scrap all that and take the route suggested by my mate Luke, which involves threatening the Sherpa's, getting them to make a bamboo throne, sit on said throne, and have them carry me the entire way up whilst I whip them with the fervour of a hungry arctic explorer hurrying along their huskies. Both options have their merits.
On the fame front, I'm currently being outdone by Glen. Prick. I'll beat his crappy south london paper. Just you wait. But never fear, I won't let jealousy get in the way, especially from some weird looking, girly-voiced beardo who so often lets his captain down with poor shot selection and an inability to land the ball in the other half of the pitch when he is bowling.

Of Heaven and Hell

The elusive fourth blog post. My mate Dom predicted a while back that I would go the way of many other well-intentioned blogs and abandon the idea after realising that nobody was interested and it was merely a pointless self-serving exercise that makes me think that people are laughing with me when really they are commiserating my certain failure. But if I gave up every time somebody started to get sick of me, I would've walked straight back out of my first day at school the moment I realised that my impassioned wailing wasn't drawing attention anymore. But I stayed there. I wet myself. But I stayed there. And I plan on staying here too. Just like my Irish mates taught me too.

In an effort to start getting serious about my health for this thing, the 2 weeks leading up to last weekend signalled my first ever attempt to abstain from alcohol for a set period of time. I've always giggled at the irony of Priests sprouting abstinence as the gate to heaven, when to me denying yourself something you really, really, really want is my idea of hell. But far from being the hellish experience of withdrawal and temptation that I'd predicted, I breezed through it and even managed to dodge the vodka grenades that the lovely guys at work had dropped into my lemonade. Who said you couldn't have fun with drink-spiking?

I know 2 weeks is only a baby commitment, but I also had an adult commitment to go and get myself obnoxiously drunk at both a farewell on Friday, where I attempted to spike both Kate and Laura's drinks, and an after-cricket-final-lets-get-as-drunk-as-humanly-possible-because-we-lost event. But, and even with the mature questioning of my sexuality from Jim and his mate Phil still ringing in my ears, I've since vowed to stay off the drink completely until the 29th of August.

I definitely feel better for it already, although like a true ex-addict who replaces the sharp prick of a shared needle with the quick fixes of a rambling evangelical or bottomless cups of coffee, I've taken to drinking far too much soft drink. So I no longer have it in the house. What's the next addiction? Probably Porn. Or Gambling. You have to buy into the whole addict lifestyle if you want to blog about it.

So now it's back to the gym properly. I opened my Gym bag yesterday and thought I'd smelt the Apocalypse, which indicates it was either a very long time since I've opened that bag or a very long time since I've washed my gym kit. I'd say a combination of the two is closer to the mark. I'm back to the gym tonight. And considering my arms are still stiff after having swung a light cricket bat on no more than 17 occasions on Sunday, it may be 2 or 3 weeks before I'm able to type again. Which would no doubt please Dom, as there is only one thing he likes more than talking about his family link to the Blue Wiggle, and that's recalling how he knew something that has just happened was going to happen long before it ever did.

Mother of all things good

The trip in general has been the brainchildren of 3 guys - Kirt, Wes, and Charlie. Kirt claims to have had the idea whilst saving burning children from a monastery by carrying them on his shoulders bare-foot across broken glass... or something like that... I tend to tune out whenever somebody enters into travel anecdote territory. But I must say, when I retrieved the application form attached to Glen's email from my deleted items (I have an automatic rule setup for his emails), I was impressed.
I was sold firstly on the fact that the sport being played was cricket, and not some activity that was designed to keep sportsman fit such as walking, cycling, or Aussie Rules. Secondly was the uniqueness of the location. I've always been sold on Quirkiness... real quirkiness, not Phoebe from Friends wacky sitcom quirkiness... and this is something nobody has ever done properly before. The PCA did something similar ** last year, however not to this extent, nor was it an actual game of cricket. Upon mentioning this, my mother's first point was 'but you've never done anything like that before'. Upon taking a few moments to rack my brain, it did become apparent that I had never, ever played cricket on Mt Everest before.
Add this to the great causes benefiting from this and it makes the trip something to be genuinely proud of. A fact that inspired some heated words towards the Executive Producer of Cricket AM the other morning. Thirdly was the ol' chestnut, meeting new people. Fourth was the fact that there is a payment plan. And for somebody with all the self-control of a chimp during mating season, the payment plan was the deal-breaker.
Since that cold morning in April I've witnessed what could only be described as outstanding organisation, planning, and enthusiasm from the guys. To coin a phrase, these guys know their shit and it's be an educational experience watching how their plans are unfolding. There have been loads of exciting developments as to sponsors and people willing to get on board, which is a direct result of the effort these guys have almost solely put in. More of which will be revealed later....


** The PCA did raise £35k for their benevolent fund, which is obviously a great effort and nothing to be sneezed at.

You Is Well Fit

... the most dominant response I seem to get when mentioning this to people is... you? Everest??? do you mean... the mountain? In fact, my mate Justin has stated that I'll need a Yak and 3 Sherpa's just to walk up the stairs at Kathmandu airport. Then again, some say he just has a serious case of short-man syndrome who should watch his words lest Mugabe's henchman get an anonymous tip as to his current whereabouts.

Last November, I did a fair impression of somebody who was in shape. If you were to view a time-lapse since then though you would swear somebody has taken a bike-pump to cheeks and stomach. The only physical activity I've partaken in of late is the occasional 4 over allocation in a game of Twenty20 cricket where the hardest I run is during the hilarious 20 stutter-steps I take before bowling after getting the yips in my run-up earlier in the year.

So I'm about as fit as Rick Waller (left) and have endeavoured to take on arguably the hardest trek in the world. It's probably not the worst decision ever made - Craig McLachlan doing stand-up takes that title - but it's one that has raised a few eyebrows, particularly with my mother. Then again, anything that involves any of her boys out of her direct sight generally meets with her disapproval. The initial application asked for a 'moderate' level of fitness. However our fitness advisor is a former British Marine and I've already spent a Tuesday evening undertaking a bleep test. Greg Ritchie would be disgusted with all this if anybody was willing to give him the time of day, let alone ask his opinion on anything nowadays.

I've taken advice from a friend of mine Pia, who trekked to Base Camp a few years ago with her Dad (Australia's answer to Sir Ranulph Fiennes), and she claims that smokers and people who are overweight are more likely to make the trek as they are used to the pressure on their lungs. So in summary, my Curry-Diet is simply a dedicated regime of creamy sauce, oil, salt, and fried onions in order to make it to the top. Alls I need to do now is prevent myself from spluttering like a 13 year old behind the bike sheds at school every time I take a drag and I'll be crowned alongside Ian Thorpe as one of Australia's greatest athletes.

Pia has claimed that she didn't train allot prior to the expedition and that she was given the equivalent of Nepalese Speed to get her through, however she has a habit of massively understating any achievement so I'm not sure what to believe. One thing is for sure, if you're my mother reading this, I definitely won't be touching any drugs.

There Ain't No Mountain High Enough....

... that will stop me from getting out to poor shot selection and have my bowling (allegedly)spanked around more than Max Mosely in a strange (alleged) Nazi-Themed orgy.

Anyway, let's get the introductions out of the way, my name is Nick, I'm a 27-year-old ex-pat Aussie living in London, and I have been accepted to partake in The Everest Test. For those that don't know, of which there are plenty, I've managed to stumble across a pretty amazing expedition involving trekking to Base Camp of Mt Everest, playing a game of cricket at Gorak Shep, hopefully getting my name in a book sponsored by a beer company, and come back down rich and famous and ready to be photographed with an angry look on my face in-between Abi Titmus and Rebecca Loos. I assume the fame will arise since the game itself, if completed, will officially be the highest game of sport ever played. I don't want to go on about life changing experiences etc as that all seems obvious... and maybe even a little cliché. For all the info you need on the who, why, where, what, and when of the trip, it can currently be found at http://www.atestabovetherest.com/

If you can't be bothered with that, you should know that this isn't just for personal gratification/a chance to bore the hell out of everyone who isn't there with self-righteous personal anecdotes... A fundraising goal of £250,000 (£Shitloads in the old scale) has been set, which will be split between Comic Relief (The UK equivalent of Red Nose Day in Oz), and The Himalayan Trust

Each participant has been set a minimum goal of £1500 (please take into account the unfavourable exchange rate whilst donating). Once the official donation method is decided, I'll be sure to pass it on. There are several fundraising initiatives that are in the pipeline before the trek kicks-off during April 2009, with the jewel in the crown taking the shape of a sports auction and gala dinner in Feb/March next year.

There are some obvious logistical requirements to undertake a trip such as this, with the main question marks hanging over my fitness and ability to commit to a long-term goal. The fact that I was 20 minutes late to the first meeting and struggled to walk up a set of stairs sounded some fairly ominous warnings... And the result from my first-ever bleep test further enhanced those fears. Adding to that was the fact that Wes seemed to take an almost sadistic delight in keeping his handicam trained on me throughout the entire ordeal. Whilst not completely embarrassing myself, 9-6 is not a result to be entirely proud of and needs some work. On the commitment front, I have already proved myself a valuable team member during the boat-races on our first pub crawl (clad entirely in cricket whites), so maybe things are on the up.

So there is a hell of a lot to achieve between now and 'go-time', which you will be kept up to date with diligently over the next 9 months. As you'll find out, there is no subject I love talking about more than myself.

Tooves