Got up. Had breakfast. Feet up. Race done.

My goal of running the Edinburgh Marathon was derailed in Lille, France, two weeks ago.

I had a throat infection, I thought it was going, but it ballooned with a vengeance when I was in Lille, on holiday. In the morning, I was fine. By evening, I couldn’t swallow anything. Even gulping was a problem. My throat was a golf ball and Rory McIlroy was trying to chip it out of bunker. Every swallow was painful.

By morning I was checking local hospitals and rules for getting treatment abroad. By lunchtime, I was in the A&E department of Lille University hospital. By 2pm I’d been attacked by a scalpel wielding doctor. By 3 pm I was on my second IV drip. By 4pm I was back in the hotel and feeling a lot better. Drugs work. Bladed assaults work. Merci, French healthcare!

Saying that, I was prescribed steroids and antibiotics. When Mrs TwinBikeChild went to the pharmacy, the pharmacist asked her if I was the size of an elephant.

“More like a giraffe with a big nose,” she said.

“In that case, I can’t give him these drugs. If he takes these doses, he won’t sleep for a month. He can have half.”

I think I must be the first person to have had a drug intervention before taking the drugs to become addicted!

Even with the reduced dose, I was still awake for three days, and had enough steroids to star in a Marvel movie. And I had to take them until a few days before the Edinburgh marathon.

With the infection, the emergency room trip and a week long recovery, I wasn’t going to start the marathon just three days later. So, for this year, my report is a simple one: woke up, stayed in Glasgow, feet up.

Ah, the Scottish B&B experience. A warm welcome, a steaming cuppa, and… a packet of Lichfield’s Fruit Shortcake. It’s a culinary enigma, a biscuit that defies definition, a taste that lingers like raisin-tinged depression. You’ll find it nestled beside the half-empty hanky box and the kettle that smells suspiciously of boiled socks.

Let’s be honest, calling it a “fruit shortcake” is a crime against both fruit and cake. It’s more like a collection of fossilised raisins trapped in a dry, crumbly tomb. “Dead fly biscuits,” as they’re affectionately known, seem to be the preferred treat of grannies and funeral attendees. But how, oh how, did this culinary abomination become the ubiquitous offering in Scottish B&Bs?

You might get lucky. A packet of proper shortbread (the real Scottish biscuit royalty) might grace your room. Or perhaps an oat crumble, a fleeting moment of delicious normalcy. But the Lichfield lurks, ever-present, a testament to some unseen force.

Why? Why do B&B owners subject their guests to this? Surely, they’re not blind to the tragedy unfolding with each bite? If we’re going to inflict a badly named biscuit on unsuspecting tourists, can we at least opt for the glorious, buttery perfection that is shortbread?

Now, this blog is notoriously averse to actual research. But, in the spirit of journalistic… well, something, we delved into the depths of the internet to uncover the truth.

It turns out Lichfield’s is a “luxury catering brand” catering to the hospitality sector. They offer everything from “Fair Trade speciality teas” to “award-winning coffee beans” and, of course, those infamous individually wrapped biscuits. They pride themselves on “enhancing the guest experience.” (One can only assume “enhancing” here is a subjective term).

Apparently, in 2009, Lichfield’s expanded its range, adding muffins and flapjacks to their repertoire. They focused on individually wrapped treats designed to complement hot drinks and boost customer spending.

And there, my friends, lies the answer. The packaging.

Yes, the humble packaging. Lichfield’s has mastered the art of individually wrapped, seemingly convenient treats, designed specifically for the hospitality sector. They’ve cornered the market by catering to the practical needs of B&B owners, ensuring a consistent, pre-packaged offering.

It’s about ease, consistency and cost. It’s not about taste.

So, while we may lament the “dead fly biscuit” and yearn for the buttery embrace of proper shortbread, we must acknowledge Lichfield’s strategic brilliance. They’ve conquered the B&B world, one depressingly dry biscuit at a time.

But, let’s be clear: just because they’re everywhere doesn’t mean they’re good. And anyone with a modicum of taste will agree.

Paul Tonkinson’s ‘26.2 Miles to Happiness: A Comedian’s Tale of Running, Red Wine and Redemption’ is an alliteration in search of a story. 

Running, Red Wine and Redemption may all start with an ‘R’ and read well together as a tagline for a book but the book itself is not about red wine or redemption. It’s about running. And as a book about running it does a good job of explaining why the comedian Paul Tonkinson loves running marathons. But it’s not a tale of redemption. He sets out to run a sub-3 hour marathon, he writes about running a sub-3 hour marathon. There is no redemption, unless the redemption is the time he tried to do it and narrowly missed out. But that’s not redemption, it’s just a second attempt. He was just trying again. 

As for the red wine. He mentions having a drink at Christmas and that he likes a nice bottle of wine but for the attempt at a sub 3 hour marathon he decided not to drink. He also decides not to eat biscuits but the book doesn’t mention that in its alliterative title because ‘B’ doesn’t fit in with his ‘R’s’ theme.

Anyways, the book is pretty good, an interesting and quick read about the dedication required to run faster and Paul Tonkinson does a good job in sharing his enthusiasm for running. 

But it’s not a book about redemption and it’s not a book about red wine.

‘

I’ve never watched a game of rugby. Nor have I seen senior naked netball. I don’t need to see either to know it’s not for me. I can use my imagination and my imagination says “no!”.

So, for 48 years I’ve not watched a game of rugby. Or read about it. Or thought about it. I don’t know the rules, I can’t name a player, I don’t even know it’s on, when it’s on unless I’m in Edinburgh and there’s a thousand fans on the train trying to get through. Rugby has passed me by, until now.

Last month I received an invite for corporate hospitality at Murrayfield to watch Scotland v England in the Six Nations (a competition involving six nations, aptly named) and the Calcutta Cup (a competition involving two nations, neither Indian, and not well named at all).

I said “yes” as I thought that maybe this would be my chance to find out why so many people enjoyed watching rugby by watching one of the oldest battles of them all, England humping Scotland.

Except, it turns out that Scotland have been more successful in recent years and, unlike football, they were regularly beating the English at Murrayfield.

“But not Italy” said Mrs TwinBikeRun, checking Google, “Scotland has just lost to them in Italy. You can maybe mention that to show you know something about rugby?”

So, armed with the knowledge that Scotland had just lost to Italy, but having forgotten to check the score, I set off on Saturday for my first trip to Murrayfield and:

Getting there

There’s usually a big queue at Queen Street station to get the train to Edinburgh, Instead, I jumped on the train at Central and went the long 90 minute trip through Lanarkshire to get to Edinburgh instead. Ha, take that everyone queuing for the 47 minute train. I didn’t queue and spent twice as long getting there to avoid the queue.

Yes, I know there’s a train every 15 minutes at Queen Street. And, yes, I know it was very unlikely I would have to queue more than 45 minutes and for three trains to leave before I could sit down. But I beat the queue by walking straight onto a train! A train that takes twice as long, admittedly. But I didn’t have to queue, so who’s the winner? Me!

Having got to Edinburgh, it’s only a short walk to Haymarket before a trip round Murrayfield and the first problem. Murrayfield has several entrances and, depending on which one, you should change your approach to the stadium as otherwise it’s a long, long loop around the ground to get in. I went to the wrong one so I got to race Phileas Fogg around the world to get to the other side of the stadium. Check where you are going before you go.

In the stadium

Finding my seat was straightforward but I was surprised to be in front of several fans with England tops. Was I in the wrong place? Should I start sining God Save The King to fit in? No. It turns out that all fans sit beside each other. There’s no ‘away end’ for the other fans. Which was fun, when Scotland went into an early lead, and I could hear the despair behind me. It did mean there was a lack of atmosphere as the English fans never sang together as they were all spread out.

During the game

I had no idea what was going on. Luckily the person who invited me was happy to answer all my daft questions: “Who’s that? What’s happening? Why did they stop? Why did he kick the ball out? Are we the team in blue?”

Rugby was a far more tactical sport than I expect with possession and control being more important than individual skill. Without the explanations I would have been lost as to why one team was better than the other and who had the advantage at any one time.

After the game

We won. But the atmosphere, at least to me, never seemed to rise beyond polite applause and a couple of renditions of Flower of Scotland at a volume which can only be described as ‘polite Morningside’ and ‘don’t wake the neighbours’.

There was no swearing. No hate. No casting aspersions about the opposition’s parentage, religion or affiliation with the right honourable company of freemasons. It was dull (but family friendly unless you’re family is friendly with a west coast bigot).

Overall

It was… alright… ish. I enjoyed the game, could see why others enjoyed it, but, like naked netball, it was not for me.

Around the same number of visitors as last year, with slightly less views. Either way, it was the sites second best ever year and that seems something to be grateful about for everyone who stumbles across TwinBikeRun.

This year’s challenge: take a photo a day, every day for January.

2 January: Advert breaks are only ever watched with family who won’t change the channel at Christmas time.

This year’s challenge: take a photo a day, every day for January.

1 January: The good old days.

A simple goal this year: go to the cinema as much as possible. Since the COVID years I’ve taken the easier option of watching all but the biggest films on TV once I knew if they were any good or not. This year I wanted to take a chance on more films and watch them the weekend they open. A goal which paid off spectacularly by a Saturday lunchtime trip to watch 28 Years Later before I knew anything about it, beyond it being the sequel to 28 Days Later. I loved it, despite it being messy and all over the place and with an ending that, if it had been on TV, it would have made me wonder if someone had changed the channel. I loved it for it’s wild swings and for Ralph Fiennes and the Bone Temple sequence. I can’t wait for the next one in January, in, if I’ve time this blog post correctly, 28 days!

The best hour in the cinema this year was easily Tom Cruise hanging off a plane in MI: Final Reckoning, pity the first hour failed to take off. While Brad Pitt in F1 was going to be my most fun film watched until a late challenge from Companion saw Brad almost lapped at the finish line. Almost…. of course, he wins in the end. He’s Brad Pitt!

Speaking of endings, I watched all for four hours of the Brutalist and couldn’t help admire an ending that did make me laugh as it appeared to not just cap the film but also, break the fourth wall, and speak directly to anyone who watched all four hours of architecture, frowning and bad accents in America. It may have been the ‘best’ film I watched this year, but it definitely wasn’t one of the most fun.

Another contender for best film, and one that was lot more ‘fun’ was One Battle After Another, but for most fun, I enjoyed the nonsense of Twisters, the men on a mission of The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Conduct, Hugh Grant being evil, or not, in the Heretic, the twists of Companion and, finally, A Real Pain, a film which turned out to be more ‘fun’ than a film about two brothers on a holocaust tour might have been.