Tali At 10 Months

Tali's ten months old on Christmas Day, but the weather was so nice today that I took her monthly pictures a couple of days early. I don't suppose she'll change much in the next 48 hours.

Since her nine month pictures, she's cost me dear! She ran off, taking little Raani with her, got picked up by the dog warden and it cost me £140 to get them back. Incidentally, I found out that councils have the power to rehome or destroy dogs if a release fee (a fine in my opinion!) is not paid, even if they know the owner's identity. And they can set their own release fee (fine!). Scandalous! Anyway, I complained about being charged for two dogs when it was one pick up and delivery that covered all of half a mile, and got £70 back. Just shows it can be worth complaining.

Tali's beginning to mature now. She can't be far off her first season. She's a very robust, intelligent, active girl. We've had our moments as she rebels against my leadership and I impose it. I seem to tell her off ten times as much as all the others put together, including the pup. She went through a period of not being remotely affectionate towards me, but I think she got a fright when the dog warden picked her up, seems to regard me as her rescuer ever since, and our relationship has become far better. I even get unsolicited licks now!

She's probably already the fastest dog I've ever owned (although Tasha when I first got her would have run her close), but it's not just the speed. It's the nimbleness, the agility, the leaping of streams, the "floating" through long grass, that's fascinating to watch. And each week she seems to get stronger and faster. And so intelligent! I say "squirrels" and she immediately looks up into the trees. She's an avid TV watcher. She chases birds, but respects the parrot, even when the silly little sod tries to wind her up by "buzzing" her. He doesn't seem to understand she's a hunter, not a Tasha.

It's interesting to compare her with Raani, who has bigger paws, a stockier build and is bigger than Tali was at the same age, but Raani seems that bit slower and floppier than Tali at the same age. It'll be interesting to compare them when Raani hits twelve months.

I got some good pictures today, but other potentially great ones were ruined by poor focus on maximum zoom. The first picture is an example of such. I think I'll start using the better, but bigger, camera from now on to avoid a repeat in the future.

Remember that you can enlarge the photos by left clicking on them!

Edit: the fifth photo is Raani. They're looking very similar at distance now!

My German Trip

I had a fabulous trip to Schwedt/Oder Germany in September for the IPF World Bench Press Championships. I'd never been to Germany before and was unsure what to expect. In short, the people were fantastic, the architecture was fantastic, the facilities were superb.

I'd like to start off with three random acts of kindness that summed the visit up.

Number One. I was going to be met at the airport by the organisers. There was a foul up (very un-German) and after waiting for nearly four hours I finally got through to my team manager on the phone. A man who was collecting a friend overheard my problem, and gave me a lift through Berlin to the train station so I could get a train to Schwedt. The 90 minute journey in a clean, on time train cost just over ten euros, by the way. Puts the British equivalent to shame!

Number Two. I met British lifter Derek Fender on the platform at Angermunde where we changed trains. When we arrived in Schwedt it was late, there were no taxis about, and we had no idea how to get to our hotels. Derek decided to go to the police station opposite to see if they could help us to get a taxi. He pointed to a poster for the bench press competition and said we were lifting in it. Five minutes later, we were in a police van being taken to our hotels. We were honoured guests in their town!

Number Three. I went over to Poland on the Sunday with Deborah and Michelle from the American team and Hagen, a German restaurant owner they had befriended who offered to drive us. After giving us a five hour tour of the whole area, both sides of the border, we went back to Hagen's restaurant and met up with some more American lifters. It was very quiet, so he closed it, said we were his honoured guests, and that everything was on the house. He then proceeded to bring out so much food that no one (and we're talking powerlifters here!) could eat another mouthful. Then came dessert! The first drink came out about 9.00 pm. I was introduced to a number of drinks I had never tried before. One every five to ten minutes, actually, until 3 in the morning! What a fabulous night! I couldn't do it often, nor would I want to, but sometimes these things that are totally unplanned and just happen are the most special and memorable.

I encountered far more kindness and courtesy while I was there, but I hope these three just give a flavour of the place.

And a quick word about the Americans. Many of us Brits tend to look cynically at the flag waving, the passionate rendition of their national anthem, the joy they all express when one of their number wins, their enthusiasm for their sport and life in general. I find them fantastic, warm and friendly. They still have the national pride that I remember us Brits having when I was growing up, and that the Scots, Welsh and Irish still have from time to time. I for one think it's marvellous to have that enthusiasm. It's a very positive emotion that we could do with far more of in Britain today. Lecture over.

Now to the lifting. I didn't expect to feature on the podium, and I wasn't disappointed! The standard in IPF is incredibly high. Before I lifted, I had spent most of the previous two days helping the other British lifters into their shirts. When it was my turn, we couldn't get my shirt on just right. I opened with 180 and missed it badly. Not even close. I tried it again second lift and somehow got it up - more through will than strength or technique. I tried for a 192.5 third lift, which was an attempt on the British M2 record, and didn't even go close.

I just wasn't up for it. Sounds daft at a world championships, but sometimes "it"'s just not there and the more you try to find "it" the further away "it" gets. But I had a great time, it was fantastic just being part of a British team at a world championships, and sometimes the taking part is as important as the winning.

I wore my kilt at the banquet, and as a result probably featured in more photos than just about anyone else. It was surreal, world champions coming up and asking for their photos to be taken with me. I also met Deborah Ferrell, the world's best female bench presser, at the banquet, and we struck a bet as to who will be the first to break through the 200 kilo barrier in IPF-sanctioned competition. It'll probably be Deborah, but I'm trying hard to beat her to it.

Poland on Sunday was an eye opener. Schwedt was right on the border, and in less than a mile we drove from comfortable affluence to abject poverty, the type of poverty you can almost feel when you're close up to it. As we stood on the Polish side of the Oder and looked back to Germany, I mused about how you would explain to an alien how such affluence and poverty stood side by side, and why those on one side had everything and those on the other had nothing. Enough geopolitics.

My abiding memory of Germany is friendship. Of all the lifters and officials I met. The Danes, the Swedes, the Americans, the Germans (of course) and the South Africans. And last but not least, my colleagues on the British team. A super bunch of lads, every one of them a gem, I was honoured to be part of the group and I look forward to doing it all again in 2008. And then 2009 is New Zealand. I'm saving already...

And a special thanks to Julian Massey and Ian Kinghorn for doing a superb job as manager and coach respectively. If you ever want to meet everyone who's anyone in powerlifting, just stand next to Julian at the banquet. Oh - and wearing a kilt while doing so definitely helps!

The photos attached are as follows: Me with Deborah and Michelle before leaving for Poland; my friends Joachim and Margit Flett from the German branch of the family; me and the German Fletts; the spectacular "stage on water" that we lifted on - the best venue I have ever been to; me with two members of the South African team; Bill McFadyen and I with the shirt we shared - only he broke the Over 70s world record in it while I couldn't even break wind in it; and Hans and Bill, two world champions that I am proud to count as friends. The restaurant photos will always remain secret!

PSA North West

Just in case you think I only MC sporting events, I hosted the Christmas meeting of the North West Chapter of the Professional Speakers' Association on 4th December. The format was that every member present spoke for around five minutes, and I did the links and intros. It seemed to go well on the whole, but I ended up scriptless and had to frantically think on my feet. "Serves you right," you might say. "You should have been better prepared."

Not exactly. I was well prepared. I came along armed with an amusing range of links and intros. Some slightly risque, but nothing overtly rude or offensive. Only one problem. We had a first-time attender at the meeting, a quite charming woman who happened to be a C of E vicar. There went my "script". Lock, stock and two bloody smoking barrels. I tried out my tamest gag. Two giggled hysterically, everyone else seemed too conscious of who was in the room to laugh. If that one didn't work, the one about the busload of nuns that crashed and the one about Bob Hope and Cilla Black spending the night together certainly weren't going to! Ditto the Billy Connolly one! So I commented on the speaker just finished, said a few words about the next one, sat down, listened, and repeated the process. The role of the MC is, of course, low key and to facilitate the other speakers, so that was probably for the best.

And for my own turn... I just showed my gold thong. Produced from the holdall after the gold waistcoat, gold shirt and tie, gold leotard, gold trainers, and gold socks. And proved the old adage that visual gags tend to work best. I mean, I didn't really say anything. I just kept producing golden things from my bag. And with each one, the volume of the laughter increased.

And then the vicar, who had previously declined an invitation to do a spot, stood up and said my knickers had inspired her to speak, and she did a five minute turn! You couldn't make it up!

It was a fantastic evening's entertainment, and there were several Chapter members whom I knew well but had never heard speaking before. Two in particular were outstanding - David and Enzo. I won't give surnames, because both spoke about their Mafia connections. David was a superb, fluent speaker and we all loved his story, but Enzo just blew everyone away with his passion and delivery style. He's already been booked for the February meeting and I think we're all looking forward to hearing him speak for longer. He came out with one fantastic line, which I'd never heard before... "A leader with no followers is just a man out for a walk". I love that and I'm going to use it at some point!

I love the PSA meetings. I come home from each one so motivated that I always do my best work during the two or three days following the meeting. As I said in my closing remarks, I only wish there was one a week...

Blowing My Own Trumpet! - Well, Giving It A Little Toot!

I've been told more than once that I tend not to blow my own trumpet and to underplay my achievements. Perhaps; perhaps not! But as this blog is in part my showcase, perhaps I should blow it a little more often.

I'll start here. On Sunday 9th December 2007, I was MC at the BWLA North West Powerlifting Championships. I've done several events this year, including all the north west powerlifting events, two British Championships and the UK Strongman North final. I think I'm rather good at it. Public speaking was my forte in school, and during my local government career it was a talent that was frequently called upon. Last Sunday's event was probably my best performance so far. All the talk on powerlifting forums was about how great the atmosphere was, and I was described as the best MC in powerlifting, or words to that effect. At that point someone who has never heard me do the job suggested that someone else was, in fact, the best.

It's nice to be told that you're doing a good job, but I don't think that an open discussion as to who's best is particularly helpful, because by definition one isn't, and that's not really beneficial to the sport. So I posted a reply along the lines of "...of course the other guy's better..." to defuse the situation and redirect comments along a more positive line.

To my surprise and pleasure, I received an email from a very senior official who had been present on the day and witnessed my performance. He's travelled the world as a lifter, powerlifting coach and referee for as long as powerlifting's been a sport, and has seen and done it all. He wrote...

"Very magnanimous reply there, young sir, but I'll tell you this for what it's worth. I've never heard a better job done than you did on Sunday - anywhere by anyone. You made some pretty decent lifters sound like (and feel like, I'm sure) world champions. I loved it."

Feedback like that warms the cockles of the heart and convinces me that I've taken the right career path. Hopefully, if you are looking to engage a master of ceremonies, or know someone who is, comments like that will help convince you that yours truly might just fit the bill - however reluctant he is to blow that trumpet!

A Great End To The Competitive Year

Saturday 15th December saw my last competitive outing of the year, the BDFPA Qualifier in Bradford. You need to pre-qualify for the BDFPA British Championships, even if you are British and World Champion and World Record Holder! Good thing too. It ensures that the big names support the "smaller" events and it allows new lifters to meet and mix with the better known names.

I've got a hectic schedule for the first half of 2008, so decided to get the qualifier out of the way at the first opportunity so that I didn't have to panic about fitting it in between "bigger" events in the spring.

What a start to the day! One car had a flat battery; the other had what I assumed to be frozen clutch fluid but turned out to be a broken clutch cable. To cut a long story short, I finally got there late in the wonky clutch car and was allowed to weigh-in late (I had called before I left to warn them I might be late - it always helps!). On the way back, I started off in third gear, drove through Bradford until I got onto the M606 in third, tried to move up but only found neutral - in the outside lane! I was probably only in neutral for about ten seconds, but at the time it seemed more like ten minutes!

I finally got it into fourth, kept it there until the slip road for the M62, then tried for sixth and thankfully I eventually got it. I didn't change gear again until I got home, including a stop at the lights by the Frodsham swingbridge! Slight hill start in top gear - that's what I call a driver!

After all the stress of getting there, you'd think my lifting might have suffered, but no! My opener was 145 (20 kilos over the qualifying requirement) and that flew up. "Put some weight on the bloody bar next time," said MC Jabba (great job by the way, John!). I went for a new British Over 50s raw record with my second lift of 160, which I have to say went up rather easier than I expected it to. That was my first raw 160 in competition and meant that I had broken through the magic 350 pounds bench barrier. Quite a feat for a little guy who used to struggle with 80 pounds when he started going to the gym. And 10 kilos heavier than the weight that I failed to lift in a shirt the first time I used a shirt in competition - and that was less than three years ago, in February 2005. Sometimes you need to look back and reflect on your journey to realise how far you have come, and, importantly, to appreciate how much further you can go if you apply the same levels of dedication in the future. Getting to the top is more about application and tenacity than "talent" or "genetics".

I went for 162.5 with my third lift and didn't get it. A classic example of the role that the mind plays in athletic performance. I was switched on for the 160. I had trained for the 160. I got the 160 and, subconsciously, I obviously switched off. How else do you explain doing 160 easily, then failing miserably with another 2.5 kilos on the bar?

Three years ago, if you'd have said to me that I would raw bench 160 one day, but that would be my absolute limit, I'd have snatched your arm off. Now, it's just another rung on the ladder. After a while you learn that a number is just a number, not an insurmountable barrier. Who's to say that this time next year I won't have hit a raw 170?

By the wonders of technology, here's my 160... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aoeUyodvczs

And on the plus side, it makes training for and achieving a new record at the next raw competition more achievable! I suppose two in one day would have been a waste! Maybe that was my subconscious thought process!

The picture with this blog features, from left to right, me, Marc Giles and Tom O'Connor. Tom was lifting for the first time ever in competition and comfortably achieved the British qualifying standard. He's an inspiration to any aspiring lifter. He trains alone in his spare room, has no one to even spot him with the bar, started off in the sport earlier this year after twenty years of fags, pints and zero fitness training, really committed 100% to the sport and got his just reward on Saturday. A classic example of if you want something badly enough and apply yourself, you'll get it. I'm sure Tom will have learned a bucketload from the competitive experience and will go on developing. Hopefully enough to lift for England in the 2009 World Single Lift Championships, which will be held in Bradford. There's a target for you, Tom...

Band Settings For Bench Press

This post will be of absolutely no relevance to anyone but a handful of powerlifters. I have been asked for some advice on how to set up bands for bench press training. Where better to post the information than on my blog?

My comments are not intended to be the last word in using bands in bench press training. I merely seek to pass on what I have learned through trial and error since starting to train with bands in September 2007.

The photos show two bands being used together. If you want to use one band, just take one off. If you want to use three or more, add more bands in the same position as I have shown. For regular benching, I position the bands on the bar in what can best be described as the close grip bench position. If you want to do close grip work with bands, then move the bands to the 81 cm knurls.

The first three photos are what I call the Fury setting. If a Fury or equivalent is the shirt you use, and you press in a straight line or slightly towards your belly, then set the bands as shown and put your arms through the gaps when taking your position. The bands will then take you on your natural line. If it feels slightly awry, adjust the forward band slightly forwards or backwards until it hits your personal line properly.

The last four pictures are what I call the F6 position, which is the setting I use myself. I press with an arch and slightly backwards towards my head, and having the bands in that position allows me to follow my natural line when using bands.

I find that having several "gentle" bands gives me far more options than a couple of more powerful bands would. I have two purples bands, two black mini bands and two pink mini bands.

On my ME Day, I use one purple and load up the bar. That means I still have to work hard off the chest, and I get a little extra resistance as the band stretches which works my lockout.

On my DE Day, I use two purples with less weight on the bar. That allows me to be more explosive off the chest and teaches me to drive through the sticking point.

These are the two options I use most of the time, but occasionally if I want to focus exclusively on lockout I put on two purples and two black minis with very little weight on the bar.

I keep a training log on both the Powerlifting UK and Sugden Barbell sites, so if you want to see the weights I'm using in conjunction with the bands then just look in on either or both of them.

I hope that helps those who were asking, plus anyone who's just stumbled across the blog.

Raani At Five Months

Little Raani was five months old yesterday, which was a horrible, wet miserable day. Today was a lovely crisp, sunny, December day and here's a few snaps of her taken today. I got some nice ones of Tali as well, so a couple of them are included.

Logging In Problems

I've had tremendous problems logging in over the last couple of days, so haven't updated the blog. I thought I was going to have to start a new blog! If that ever happens, I'll call it martinsgoldenblog2 so you'll know where to look. In the meantime, it's nice to be able to post again. Once I get back from the gym tonight, I'll reflect on the week so far.

Leave A Message!

Apparently several people who have visited the blog have had problems leaving a message because of the need to set up a google account AFTER the message has been typed.

Can I suggest you leave a message such as "Hi", then create a google account (follow the steps), then leave a "proper" message. It would be nice to use the message system as a mini forum and to get feedback - just to know that someone out there is actually reading it.

Feel free to email Fitflett@aol.com if you have any comments that you don't want others to see.

"Tina"

My friend and PSA colleague Elaine Hanzak - www.elainehanzak.co.uk - talks and writes powerfully and movingly about the debilitating effects of mental illness. In her specific case, it was pretty extreme post natal depression.

One of the points she made in a recent talk that I attended was that 25% of the population will at some time in their life suffer from some form of mental illness. So you know the old joke: if the three people with you are "normal"...

I took it upon myself to suggest to Elaine afterwards that her figures were wrong. Really, the figure should be closer to 75% if you take account of people who suffer from the consequences of mental illness. Immediate family, friends, neighbours, colleagues, victims of crime... The list goes on and on.

We don't seem much further forward in treating mental illness today that we were 50 years ago. I have been fortunate not to have suffered from mental illness myself ( I exclude feeling low when the world seemed against me) but have certainly suffered hugely as a result of having a partner with mental illness.

It's easy to turn posts like this into theses, so I'll try and keep it reasonably brief. When I first met Tina, it was clear she had some problems. But she was also a really lovely person in desperate need of "rescuing" and I suppose I saw myself as the knight in shining armour.

Our first month together was great. She didn't have a drink, was super company, very supportive of my business, we enjoyed each others company and really clicked with each other. We went out with her mother and her partner (not Tina's dad) for a birthday meal. Her mum was delighted with how she had improved, I was the best thing that had ever happened to her, at last she'd found someone she could be happy with, etc., etc.

Next day, she was drunk as a skunk. She couldn't cope with things going well. She didn't deserve happiness. She needed to be punished...

Over the next year, I saw a behaviour pattern emerging which I can now say with some certainty was manic depression manifesting itself. She'd have a period where she was pretty low, then a period of complete normality, then a period where she got stressed out, panicky, paranoid, insanely jealous, irrational... She couldn't cope with that, so she drunk.

Something Elaine said in her talk really hit home. "You get to a point where you just need to switch your brain off."

Tina switched her brain off with alcohol. She'd done it for years before I met her. The initial trigger was a double whammy. She had a large part of her bowel removed and was told she may need a colostomy bag if it got any worse; and she had a hysterectomy that meant she would go through life childless when she desperately wanted to be a mother. If that wasn't bad enough, after the bowel operation her stitching split open and she literally saw inside her own body and it totally freaked her out. I could go on, but you probably get the picture.

When Tina was sober and in a relationship with me, she desperately sought help. She got none. It's so much easier for the system to just classify someone as an alcoholic, spin the line about "when you hit rock bottom, you'll stop" and leave them to their own devices.

I begged the psychiatrist attached to the drugs and alcohol support team to accept that she was manic depressive, properly diagnose her and then treat her. He refused. Professional pride at admitting he got it wrong? Incompetence? Awareness of budgetary limitations? Your guess is as good as mine. I reckon it was probably a bit of all three.

When I put my concerns in writing, it was treated as a complaint. Good, I thought, now I can draw attention to the situation and get her treated. Wrong, you naive fool! The complaints system was merely a defence shield, not an investigative process. They said all the right things, patted me on the shoulder, and did absolutely nothing different. Except, I guess, make absolutely sure that they NEVER properly diagnosed her, admit their error, and leave themselves open to a law suit.

I was only a layman. How DARE I suggest a diagnosis! You need a qualification to do that!

I've just read that back and it sounds almost paranoid. But that's what happened. I was lied to and lied about when I complained to the Healthcare Commission which, incidentally, "investigated" my complaint nine months after receiving it without even interviewing me or contacting me as part of its process.

Tina got progressively worse. The low/normal/manic cycle got shorter and shorter, which of course meant that she was drinking more and more frequently, getting more and more addicted to alcohol, and on a downward spiral.

When drunk she would make false 999 calls (she fantasised that she was a police informer and that all the local police were her friends); assault me and then accuse me of assault when I blocked her blows; come into my business premises drunk and insult all my customers and staff; come to my house and smash windows; burgle my house when I was at work... I could go on.

Once, a bypasser found her comatose round the back of my gym after dark on a freezing cold November evening and my duty manager called 999. She got her into the warm, the paramedic came, looked at her, said "It's only bloody Tina Jones", cancelled the ambulance and walked out, leaving the police to deal with the situation. I put that in because she could have been dying, yet that incident neatly summed up the whole NHS's attitude towards her.

So what could they have done differently?

Well, alcoholics are real people with real feelings too. Yet the NHS labels them and in so doing effectively dehumanises them. They're not people suffering and in need of help. They're alcoholics. Alcoholism is a symptom of a much deeper problem. It was no good telling Tina to stop drinking and then they would help, because she couldn't stop drinking until the reasons why she was drinking were addressed. By not addressing the issues and placing the onus on her, they were effectively sentencing her to a slow, undignified, painful death. A caring profession? Don't make me laugh! I ran into a procession of box tickers earning a wage.

And the promises of help once she sobered up were shallow and meaningless. Twice in the three years of our on/off relationship I managed to keep Tina sober for over six weeks. She begged for help during these periods. I tried everything I could to get her help. There was none. So she started drinking again, at which point the stop drinking and then we'll help you platitudes restarted. And I got arrested after being accused of assault by a serial false complainer that police knew to be such!

As you might guess, I saw a different side of life during my time with Tina. I found the caring services to be an uncaring disgrace, with a few shining exceptions.

In the USA, they use a "dual diagnosis" approach. Briefly, half of all alcoholics have mental health problems; half of the people with mental health problems self medicate with alcohol and/or drugs. They have recognised that to treat people effectively they need staff who understand both mental health issues and alcohol/substance abuse issues.

In this country, we label people as either mentally ill or alcoholics, as if the two conditions are totally separate. Staff are either trained as mental health workers or substance abuse workers. Mental health workers are not experts in substance abuse, and vice versa. They all play around at the fringes of the problem, earn a good salary for doing so, and at night go home to their nice warm beds in their nice warm houses with not a second thought for the Tinas of this work who live under bushes, on a sofa if they can persuade another alcoholic to put them up for the night, or somewhere else equally risky. Three times she's been found lying comatose on a darkened road. Three times she's been lucky.

She's been to prison for burgling my house. Did she get help there? "It's not worth starting you on a programme, you're only here for 4 weeks and that's not nearly long enough". So they do nothing, and release her 4 weeks later knowing what she'll do. And sure enough, she comes out and within 2 hours she's so drunk she can't stand up. Hey Presto! Back to square 1.

And who did this hopeless creature start out as? A piss artist who had it coming? Not quite. In the late '80s, she was a self employed financial consultant earning up to £6,000 a month; she owned properties in Preston Brook, Cheshire and Crowborough, Sussex; she drove a nice new white 3 Series BMW - which she got when she parted with her Jaguar XJS that only did 12 to the gallon. On nights out with the girls, she was the designated driver who didn't drink. And she was a part time model to boot. Gorgeous, intelligent, good company, the whole package. Last I heard, she was sleeping rough and almost permanently drunk.

Do I still miss her? Too right! Bitter? You bet I am. And angry. Nobody sets out to be mentally ill or be an alcoholic. It happens! There but for the grace of God go I. Or you. Or someone you love.

When Tina's mum died, she promised her remains, in the Chapel of Rest, that her drinking days were over. Less than a week later, her brain needed switching off again. Thanks for helping me to understand, Elaine.

My Night In The Cells!

In the early hours of 28th October 2006, I was sitting in my house minding my own business having done nothing wrong when three policemen came to the house and, without even giving me the opportunity to discuss the matter with them, arrested me for alleged assault.

I was taken to the Sandymoor Custody Suite, processed like a piece of baggage by world-weary people with no interest in justice or fairness, just procedure. I had to hand over the contents of my pockets, my belt, my shoelaces and was then locked up overnight until the complainant could sober up enough to be interviewed!

It was quite an experience. On the basis that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, I suppose it added to life's rich tapestry. In a custody suite, the light is left on all night, your only comfort is a thin mattress on a concrete shelf, there is the constant shouting of other "guests", a slamming of doors, plus the worry of the situation you find yourself in. Sleep is impossible unless you're drunk or drugged up. So the next time you see a mugshot on tv or in the papers and think, "he looks a bit rough", just consider what he's been through before he's been photographed!

When I was eventually interviewed, the officer already realised that they had blundered. My on-off girlfriend Tina (not her real name) had alleged that I had held her down for 20 to 30 minutes and battered her constantly. She was unmarked apart from a few self-inflicted bruises. My hands showed no signs that they had been used to strike anyone. She had made at least 100 similar accusations over the previous three years. She was known to the police as a serial false complainer, including the officers (or "Muppets In Uniform" as I referred to them in the interview to the amusement of the interviewing officer) who arrested me.

As the officer himself observed, I'm over 15 stones and a powerlifting champion, Tina was about half my weight. If I'd hit her once, she'd have been in no state to go anywhere or make any accusations. She'd be out cold! You'd have thought the muppets that arrested me could have figured that out for themselves.

After they decided that there was no charge to answer, I was subjected to the humiliation of being fingerprinted, photographed and dna'd. I thought that was what they did to criminals, but no - it's every person who is arrested, irrespective of whether they are charged or not. You feel like a criminal even after you have been released.

To give one example of Tina's history of false allegations, some time previously she had made three calls to the police within a 36 hour period saying that she was at my property "being battered". On each occasion police visited my property, searched it to check that she wasn't battered and tied up somewhere, and checked my hands for bruising. When, on the third occasion, I started getting a bit ratty about the constant intrusion on the basis of unwarranted accusations, I was threatened with arrest. She had made the calls from the far side of Warrington, at least 10 miles away.

I have no intention of itemising all Tina's false complaints, but she was a serial 999 caller who called every time she got drunk. On one occasion her next door neighbour was allegedly murdering his wife. Five police units arrived to find him on the pavement talking to his father while she sat indoors watching tv! She called the fire brigade out when she tried to microwave an egg and it exploded. She called the ambulance service when she messed herself... And I must have been accused of battering her close to 100 times. Do you get the picture?

The total incompetence of the police in dealing with the situation I found myself in has left a profound mark on my attitude towards the police force. For every officer that uses common sense (and there were several that did) there were another three who were so hooked on procedure and blinkered in their approach that it beggared belief. When I asked them, on the third visit in 36 hours, how often they planned to keep coming and searching my house on the basis of false allegations, the response was "every time an allegation is made". "The allegations are clearly false," I retorted. "What are you going to do about the person making the allegations?" "Nothing, we don't want to discourage people from contacting the police if they feel they have a complaint..."

I was always a strong police supporter, but my experiences have seriously changed that. There seem to be far more jobsworths than there used to be, but maybe that's just me getting older and officers getting younger!

But what was I doing with a creature such as Tina? Well, she wasn't always like that. Quite the contrary. And that will be the subject of another post shortly.

And how can I remember the date so precisely? Well, the North West Bench Press Championship was scheduled for 28th October 2006, and I was due to defend my title. It had been postponed only days earlier, otherwise I would have been robbed of the opportunity to participate in one of the major lifting events in my calendar. Not something you forget in a hurry!

Tali At 9 Months

The little scoundrel has actually made it to 9 months! Here are the 9 month pictures. Not a great day - overcast and drizzly - but I managed to get a couple of acceptable ones among all the blurring and raindrops. I just missed a marvellous picture though. Three swans flying towards me at head height, but I couldn't get the camera out and switched on quickly enough. Damn. Got a rear view, but not nearly as good as it could have been. I've also figured out how to add videos (easy really - click the "Add Video" option!) so here's a short video of Tali and her jumping action which I took today. I must ask Charlie if that's a common feature of Inuits.

Life Goes On...

It's been four days now since I lost Tasha, and although she'll never be forgotten it's time to move on with the blog and address other issues. This was never intended to be a memorial site, but I think it's fitting that I used it as I did over the last couple of weeks.

I must first thank everyone who got in touch to express their sympathies about my loss. All the emails, calls and comments on here have been very much appreciated.

It would also be remiss of me not to mention Alice Taylor, the vet at Ashcroft Surgery who drew the short straw of dealing with a fifteen and a half stone blubberer on Saturday morning and did what she had to do with great tact and sensitivity. I was in no state to express my appreciation at the time, but I have now sent her a card and would also like to record my thanks here.

As a lasting tribute to Tasha, I plan to sponsor a child through Action Aid. It's only 50p a day - less than I spent on her dog food - and hopefully it will have a positive inpact on a child's life somewhere far away where such help is so desperately needed.

I picked up Tasha's ashes today and shed a few more tears on the drive home. Hopefully, they will be among the last. It's time to move on.

In future blogs, I'll write about my experiences in Germany in September at the IPF World Masters Bench Press; about how it felt to break a world record in July; about my night in the cells just over a year ago; and many other thing as well, including monthly updates, with pictures, as my two puppies mature into adults.

Bye Bye Darling

This is the post I so wanted not to have to write...

I lost my best friend at 9.45 this morning. She fought the bastard tumour with bravery and spirit. She clung to life until the last. Three times in the last week I thought the time had come; three times she told me, "Not yet dad, just a little longer." Her spirit, her sheer desire for life, shone through.

Yesterday, on what turned out to be her last walk, she did something she had never done before - twice. Rather than follow me like she always did, she told me where SHE wanted to go.

Last night, around midnight, she jumped up like she'd been hit by an electric shock and was in obvious distress. I guess the tumour had reached a nerve. She had an uncomfortable night, the decision to call the vet this morning was not a decision at all, it was an imperative. Half an hour later, she was at peace; her pain was gone.

She passed away with me cradling her head and my daughter Tioman gently stroking her. I hope she knew how much we loved her. I think she did. She just lay on the floor as the needle was put in and let it happen. She was exhausted, all out of fight.

She'd been totally spoilt for the fortnight or so since the cancer was diagnosed. On the bed at night. Chocolates. Her favourite food. I even made her spag bol on Tuesday. All her favourite walks one last time. Lots of fusses and pats.

Now, even with four other lovely dogs, the house feels empty. When I took them out for a walk today, I kept instinctively looking back for her. All the dogs are very quiet today. I don't know if they know, or they're just picking up my distress.

The last photos I took of Tasha were on Wednesday 14th. Here are a few. The last of them is the last picture I ever took of her. Ravaged by disease, yet still up for a walk, still leading her pack and still enjoying life.

Rest in peace, Tasha, you wonderful, wonderful girl. I'll never, ever forget you.

Meet The parents!

In order, Tali and Luporossa; Luporossa, father of both my pups; Tali with her mum Sky, Raani's mum with her litter, and Raani's mum Sark with Raani and my daughter Tioman. Click on the picture of Sark and check out her amazing eyes!

Sark is quite a bit bigger than Sky, and Raani is considerably bigger than Tali at the same age. Tali is the spitting image of her father, and Raani has taken more of her mum's colouring.