"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.

Introducing My Dogs - Raani

Last, but not least, here's little Raani, Tali's half sister. First a Charlie picture, then three taken at the kennels the day we picked her up, then one at 3 months old and two at four months old. Raani was born 9th July 2007. Same father as Tali, different mum. Raani's an absolute sweetie. She's much softer and more affectionate than Tali, but introduce food into the equation and she's an utter, utter hooligan.

Introducing My Dogs - Tali

Tali is a super young dog and quite a rare breed - an Inuit. Inuits are wolf lookalikes and are fabulous looking (in my opinion), super intelligent and very friendly. I was fortunate to find a breeder who places a higher priority on animal welfare than most, and if anyone reading this is interested in teaming up with one of these marvellous dogs then you simply won't go wrong by getting your dog from Charlie Richardson, who is based in an old farm in an idyllic valley in deepest Devon, just north of Plymouth. His website is http://www.cry-wolf.co.uk/ .

I'll talk more about the breed in future blogs, but this is just to introduce Tali to you. I've been taking pictures of her every month since I got her, so have a great visual record of her growing up. The first picture is how Tali looked at 3 weeks old when I chose her over the internet and the next is one Charlie took of the litter at 7 weeks. Tali is back left. The rest are mine - one the day I took her home and then one a month from 3 months to 8 months inclusive. She was born 25th February 2007 and I'll post updates on the 25th of each month.

Introducing My Dogs - Jess

Jess was my daughter's dog, and came from the RSPCA the same day I got Jasmin. Some people overlook her because she's less than half the size of the others, but she's an extremely friendly little dog that I took in when my daughter moved to a flat where dogs weren't allowed. Known by all the kids as "Licky, licky little Jess"!

A few months after she got her, Jess disappeared. I went round to visit my daughter and heard this faint whimpering bark, but couldn't figure out where it was coming from. I eventually spotted her on the roof of the Bridge Inn pub! She'd got up via the flat roof of the garage next door and hadn't been able to make her way down again. I fetched a ladder, coaxed her down to the guttering, managed to grab her by the scruff of the neck, and get her down.

She'd been up there for 5 days. I'd driven all round Frodsham, all round the marshes, been all along the Weaver looking for her - and she was 50 yards from the front door all the time! The memory of my daughter's face as I walked past the window holding Jess in my arms will always remain with me. One of those things that a Mastercard commercial might describe as priceless!

Introducing My Dogs - Jasmin

Jasmin came from Halewood RSPCA in Easter 2001 as a young adult dog. She's a wolf-like cross that the RSPCA described as a GSD/husky cross, but she could be part akita, elkhound, or even inuit!

She'd been hit so hard that her nose had been broken and one of her canines is broken as well. What kind of scum hits a dog that hard? It took me about three years to train her properly, and I was often close to giving up. But now I'm so glad I didn't and she's matured into a super dog. She's incredibly intelligent ( opens doors, that type of thing) and was very wilful and obviously ended up with someone who couldn't cope with that before I took her on. But throughout her wilfulness she was always very friendly and affectionate. It was only when your back was turned...

Tasha - A Tribute

My wonderful dog Tasha is nearing the end of her life. I had planned to wait until she had slipped away before writing this, but if I do it while she's still alive it'll probably be less maudling. Plus you know when you want to talk to someone but you avoid company in case you start welling up...?

I've had dogs all my life, and they've all been wonderful dogs. Two terriers when I was growing up - both called Pip - and two german shepherds - Pippa and Rosie - in my adult life. Maybe it's because I've become an experienced and better owner/companion as I've got older; maybe it's been the things we've been through together; but the "connection" I've enjoyed with Tasha has been like no other and that's why I'm facing the next few days/weeks with such trepidation, because I know I'm going to lose her shortly.

Tasha came into my life between Christmas and New Year 2000, aged 4. My marriage was breaking up, my wife and kids were with her family in Essex for Christmas, and I spent Christmas alone with Rosie, who I'd rescued in 1991. Rosie became distressed while we were out walking in the snow and collapsed when we got back to the house. She had a tumour on the spleen which had haemmoraged and she never recovered.

On the vet's surgery noticeboard, there was a postcard about a german shepherd that needed rehoming. I expected some mistreated dog, but when I went for a look - nothing more - I was confronted by this fabulous looking animal who had been loved and cherished by a family who were not at the time in a position to exercise her. It was love at first sight!

They said that if she was going to go, they would rather she went rather than have a long tearful goodbye, so to cut a very long story short I drove off with her 10 minutes later. Half an hour later, the testing began. She began to play fight with me - this alsation that I'd never even met an hour ago! Anyway, I played back, passed her test, and we've been best friends ever since.

The next day, we went for a walk in the snow. We walked along the banks of the Weaver and I let her off her lead when we were well away from the road. Five minutes later, she was chasing sheep and totally ignoring my frantic calls! But I got her back before any shotgun-toting farmer appeared. Towards the end of the walk, we passed a pond. Tasha jumped straight in, had a swim, then got out and manically ran round and round and round the pond for a good ten minutes or more.

Within weeks my marriage was effectively over. We separated and Tasha came with me, of course. I could afford nothing else, so for the next year I "lived", if that's the correct term, in a storeroom at the back of the gym I owned. Tasha and I shared a sofabed and she kept me warm on freezing winter nights.

Through all the rough times since, Tasha has been an ever present. She probably did more than any person to keep me sane when the pressures I was under were completely intolerable. I don't have to shout at her; I don't have to scold her (well, not very often!). She's such an integral part of my life that it's hard to imagine life without her.

She's totally gentle, puts up with all sorts from the kids next door, and their friends, and has helped me train the four other dogs that now form our pack. More of them in future posts. Yet she's fiercely protective when the need arises and has the wisdom to understand when to be what. Shortly after I got Jasmin from the RSPCA (she was a completely submissive wimp at the time, was Jasmin) she was set upon by two german shepherds. Tasha appeared from round the corner and totally wiped out both of them in a matter of seconds, then started licking Jasmin's wound.

Of course, I told her she was a good girl and praised her. The only problem was, for the next month any dog that even looked at Jasmin got the bared teeth treatment, until she learned to appreciate the difference. But you always felt comfortable and safe with Tasha about - comfortable in that she was a friendly dog who would never show unnecessary aggression; safe because she was utterly protective and loyal.

She's not been well since early September. She had a facial swelling which turned out to be an abscess on a tooth. She had the tooth out and the abscess drained and all seemed to be well. But a few weeks later, she started to get very "snotty", in the literal sense, an infection was diagnosed, and she's been on various antibiotics to no avail.

On Thursday of last week, she went into the vets for an exploratory op and they found a tumour. What really shocked me was the vet asking if I wanted her recuscitated. Of course I did! She had lots of goodbyes to make, lots of walks to go on one last time.

And that's what the last ten days have been - the long goodbye. If any of my friends have found me a bit quiet, aloof, or distant, that's why.

We've done all her favourite walks one last time, said a tearful goodbye to Sharon and Paul that I got her from (and whom I've always kept in touch with) and she's been allowed into the bedroom at night.

I want to be wise enough not to have her put to sleep too soon, but brave enough to do the right thing for her and not keep her alive, in pain, for my benefit. I thought that point had come last night. The swelling is bigger, the breathing is getting more laboured, she looked like a dog who had reached the end of the line.

I had always planned that her last walk would be that first one I took her on, with the rest of the pack in tow. It takes about an hour and a quarter at a slow pace with pauses, with short cuts available if required. But her ears were pricked, she was on her toes, she cruised round the walk and I just looked at her and thought this is not a dog on her last legs. She even went into the pond at the end and had a little swim. (Tali, by the way - one of the pups - replicated Tasha's actions of seven years earlier by plunging in, swimming around and then manically lapping the pond.)

So a hard decision awaits. When she clearly doesn't enjoy her walks any more, or is in clear pain from her swelling, that will be the time for me to act. Until then she gets pampered mercilessly and I treat every day we have together as a bonus.

I've included a couple of pictures of her. Both were taken as she neared her 11th birthday. Apart from this bloody tumour, she's in marvellous shape for her age.

I never realised blogs could be so cathartic.

ITALY 2007

My plan for this blog over the next couple of weeks is to cover the major events in my life in 2007, before moving on to other themes. I'm determined not to turn this into a powerlifting log (I already have two of them on powerlifting forums) but powerlifting is part of what I am and is as good a place as any to start.

The 2007 WDFPF Single Lifts World Championships were held in Pescara, Italy, from 12th to 14th October 2007.

Before going any further, I should perhaps explain the difference between "raw" and "equipped" bench pressing. In equipped lifting, lifters wear bench shirts which offer a degree of support and generally help the lifter to lift more weight, but this varies from lifter to lifter. The downside of these shirts is that you need a big weight on the bar in order to be able to touch the chest - sometimes more than you can get back up again! "Raw" lifting refers to lifting without such supportive equipment.

I'll also explain Masters categories. In BWLA, there are ten year increments between categories. Masters 1 is 40 to 49, Masters 2 is 50 to 59... In BDFPA, there are five year increments, so Masters 1 is 44 to 44, M2 is 45 to 49.... At age 51, I'm a Masters 2 in BWLA and a Masters 3 in BDFPA.

Now that's been explained, I was entered into the Masters 3 Raw and Equipped Bench Press competitions, plus the Open (all ages) Equipped Bench. I was pretty much the favourite for the M3 equipped bench, having broken the M3 world record earlier in the year (of which more in a future post) not by a kilo or two which is the norm, but by 24 kilos!

We flew to Pescara from Stansted. A quick aside - it was MUCH cheaper for me to drive to Stansted from Merseyside and use the long stay parking than it was to take the train. So much for taking traffic off the roads and using public transport!

I travelled with friend Marc Giles and his family, who had combined the championships with a holiday and booked an apartment for the week, and I stayed on the sofabed. On the first day, it was lovely and sunny with the temperature in the mid 70s. We were 50 yards away from the beach so we went for a bit of sunbathing and a dip in the water. Hopefully I can figure out how to add a photo to this account! Honestly, it was a lovely warm sunny day. Not a cloud in the sky. Yet the locals were walking past in coats and scarves looking at us as if we were totally mad.

We were told that the event venue was the Palasport (sports centre) in Montesilvano. So Marc and I went to find the venue so we wouldn't be panicking about making the weigh in the following day. Two hours later, we found the Palasport in Montesilvano - but no powerlifting! It had been there three or four years ago. This year it was in the Palasport in Pescara - a two minute walk from the station where we had sat waiting for a bus to Montesilvano two hours earlier! It wasn't just us, by the way. The UK organiser and his wife, who had provided everyone else with the venue details they had been given, ended up there as well. Apparently there was a brisk taxi trade, taking the tourist route, of course, between the two venues.

On the Saturay, the weigh in was 7.00 to 8.30 in the morning. Raw bench was first, we had two platforms running simultaneously, we were in Italy, chaos ensued. I started warming up as the flight before me was lifting (as you do). After the previous flight, the organisers decided to take a 30 minute break. They didn't tell us, of course. By the time we came to lift, we were completely cooled down again. On my first lift, the spotters didn't help me take the bar off the stands as they should do. Nothing to do with my main opposition being an Italian, of course. Eventually I got it off and nailed 145 kilos; the Italian had really struggled to get 140. My second lift, I nailed 155, and that forced the others to try 155 for their third lifts. None of them made it, so I was world champion before my third attempt, a very tired attempt at 160 which I didn't make.

Opposite problem in the afternoon. We were only given ten minutes notice that we were due to lift. I didn't bother warming up. I was totally exhausted by this time and wanted to conserve what little energy I had left. I opened with 170 in my loose, safe, shirt. That was good enough to win the title. I changed shirts and got 185 with my second lift and was running second equal in the Open competition at this point, eventually finishing third when I missed 190 and England's Neil Thomas made 192.5.

Still, two world Over 50 titles and a third in the Open was a fantastic result. And it was the first time I had ever represented Scotland, which just doubled the pleasure.

The First Post

My first ever blog! I frequently post on forums, but have never done a blog before. This should be fun, especially when I eventually embrace the technology!



About me? Well I have a website (http://www.martinflett.com/) and check that out for some info about me and what I do. I met Alan Stevens, the new president of the PSA, last night, and Alan sort of inspired me to start my own blog. It's much more interactive than a website, cheap (I am a good Scotsman after all) and I can update it myself rather than relying on third parties.



So let's start the first post with some genuinely great news about my achievements this year. I am a "plastic powerlifter" - that is I am a bench presser because injury prevents me doing the other two powerlifting disciplines - squat and deadlift.



I started as a disabled powerlifter (that's bench press only) in 2002, but after lots of obstacles to competing internationally because I wasn't disabled enough (that might be a topic in its own right in time) I gave that up. However in the process I discovered that bench press on it's own is now a stand alone sport. I also discovered there are Masters age categories once you hit 40. I was 48 by the time I moved from disabled into Masters and for the first two years I got my butt well and truly kicked in competition after competition; but I always had in mind that if I worked hard and improved my lifts then I might be competitive in Masters 2 once I hit 50.



Since hitting 50 I've won the British Weightlifters Association (BWLA) Masters 2 Bench Press title in 2006 and 2007; and I've also won the Unequipped BWLA Masters 2 Bench Press titles both years. I'm the British Masters 2 record holder for unequipped bench press and am closing in on the Equipped record.



This year I joined the British Drug Free Powerlifting Association (BDFPA) as well as BWLA. Primarily for more competitive opportunities as there are not many bench-only competitions, but also because I had friends who lifted there. In Bradford this July, I won both the Equipped and Unequipped Masters 3 Bench Press titles. I set a British record in Unequipped bench and a world record in equipped bench. Yes, you read that right, a WORLD RECORD! Chuffed? You bet!



But its gets better. I went to the World Drug Free Powerlifting Federation (WDFPF) Single Lift World Championships in Pescara, Italy and on Saturday 13th October, I won two world Over 50s titles and equalled my world record in the Equipped Bench Press. Again, chuffed to bits!



That's enough for a first post. I'm far far more than just a bench presser, but the sport has given me a profile and a platform to expand into other areas and do things that I've wanted to do all my life but was never in a position to do.



More about that and other matters on subsequent blogs. It would be great if I could get some feedback on here rather than just be all me. Look forward to hearing from lots of you out there in cyberspace.



Best wishes,



Martin.