It was the usual story, having consumed a few cans of warm Carlsberg during an afternoon spent largely ushering cars and people in and out of a field, I found myself sometime later in the Culm Valley where following a couple of further ales the beer was doing most of my talking. "Yeah, 'course I can do a triathlon, no problem!" said the beer. It continued, "Be in a team? Nah, teams are for pansies, I'll do it by myself, no sweat!" After that, it started talking complete nonsense... So now I find myself training most days and actually enjoying it. Maybe I'll shift a couple of kilos into the bargain, who knows. Oh, and raise a bit of dough for the hospice as well. Everybody wins. The moral of this story must be to get p***ed more often.