After conducting intensive research, I have come to the conclusion that electronic tags were not designed for running in. Sweatbands, yes. Plastic ankle bands, no. I first put the tag through its paces a few days ago when I took it out for a canter. Or rather it took me out, for where it led, the rest of my body followed. Together, we fled suburbia and ran free across the fields and dunes. When my calves began to tire on the absorbent surface, I made my way down to the water’s edge and followed the shore line, my trainers leaving fleeting impressions in the wet sand. After a year cooped up in the jail, it felt good to be in motion. In fact it felt better than good - it felt exhilarating. As I coursed across the undulating dunes, I knew how Forest Gump felt the moment he realised he didn’t need his leg braces. In my case however, the leg constraint was still in place. At first, it didn’t register. Caught up in the elation of being at liberty to flit along the shoreline, I didn’t spare a thought for the dull grey device attached to my ankle. The waves looked spectacular as they crashed upon the beach, inches away from me. I’m pretty sure they sounded spectacular too but I was inured to their aural charms, my eardrums too preoccupied with the cacophony of nine angry men expressing their frustration at being cooped up in my i-Pod. In some ways it felt sacrilegious to pollute such an idyllic landscape with the foul onslaught of Slipknot, but I found their down-tuned angst was conducive to running faster than the aforementioned Forest. Panpipe music might have been more appropriate to the littoral ambience but it wasn’t going to make my little legs pump up and down like pistons. And with an electronic tag weighing me down, I needed all the encouragement I could get.
When the tag was first fitted, it had been left slightly loose so that I could fit a sock underneath. Up until now, the arrangement had worked perfectly; with a sock padding it out, I was hardly aware that the thing was on. Now however, the loose tag became a millstone around my ankle, weighing me down, slowing me down and sliding up and down my leg like a stripper gyrating against a pole. Half an hour into the run, my lungs were holding up fine but my right ankle was ready to admit defeat. By the time I reached my street, removed my headfones and returned the nine angry men to the white box whence they had came, I was virtually limping. Upon closer inspection, a bruise was clearly visible forming above my ankle bone. Next time I went running, I vowed to tape the tag to my leg. That next time arrived today but unfortunately I found myself sans sellotape, having not anticipated that I would be breaking a sweat. As it transpired, I had cause to run through town thrice, and on each occasion I found myself cursing the tag.
After meeting Christy for a pre-match pint in The Illicit Still, I was leaving it late to get to the game. A rapid shuffle along King Street soon atoned for lost time however and I found myself outside Pittodrie with five minutes to spare. Easy, even if it wasn’t so easy on my long-suffering ankle. After the match (a 2-0 raping - or molestation at least - of St Mirren) I found myself running again. Once again it was through necessity rather than the sake of my heart, in this case the need to maximise my drinking time before my curfew kicked in. Weaving through the departing crowds, I hotfooted it along King Street and onto Union Street, whereupon I was obliged to undertake further weaving to navigate the thronged Christmas shoppers. 15 ankle-bashing minutes after the final whistle had sounded, I found myself in The Bassment, supping a Long Island Iced Tea. By the time the alcohol had begun to work its magic, my ankle had forgotten all about the battering it had taken. Unfortunately, a reminder wasn’t far away.
After spending the next hour quaffing cocktails and solving brainteasers that were for some reason presented to me on the back of a napkin by an androgynous goth who was seemingly after stimulating more than just my brain cells, I was joined by an accomplice. Craig showed up at the bar straight from work and began demolishing a pint to my JD and coke while we waited for his food to arrive. The plan was to leave The Bassment at 6.45, walk briskly to Froghall where his car was parked and then - assuming the vehicle hadn’t been relieved of its wheels by the natives - motor out to my village in time for the 7.15pm curfew. It didn’t quite work out that way however, and by the time Craig’s grilled chicken sandwich had been demolished, it was ten to seven. We speed-walked to Schoolhill and then, upon realising that we still had to travel seven miles in 20 minutes, began to leg it along George Street. Breathless, we arrived at the Froghall favela just after seven and jumped into Craig’s motor. The engine roared into life as Davey Havok roared death from the stereo and we sped out of the ghetto with tyres squealing like joyriders. For the remainder of the journey, Craig broke all speed records - or at least all those along the route - in the quest to get me home on time. In reality, the tagging company probably wouldn’t have objected if I had been a couple of minutes late, but I didn’t want to chance my luck after breaching my tag on the first nite. Besides, it was quite exciting to have a race against time; at any moment I expected the grey tag around my ankle to spring open and a countdown timer to begin. Failure to reach my front door in time would result in the tag detonating and blowing my leg off. At ten past seven we were still in Aberdeen, stuck in traffic, and it looked certain that I would be Heather Mills'd for my tardiness. As soon as we hit the dual carriageway however, precious seconds were regained in a blur of asphalt and cats’ eyes and when Craig pulled up outside my house, there was still a minute to spare. If I’d known it was going to be that easy, we could have stayed for a shot in The Bassment.
I have come to the conclusion that the electronic tag is deliberately designed to inflict as much pain as possible when running to prevent reprobates from legging it from the cops. Over 50 metres, it’s no bother at all; running out of your house in the event of a fire shouldn’t be a problem. Any further than that though and the pain starts to gain. After two blocks with the cops hot on your heels, the ankle tag’s perforated the skin and is rubbing against bone. And two blocks after that, it’s snapped your Achilles and you’re writhing about on the ground in agony while PC Plod administers a few kicks to your remaining good ankle with his steel toecaps. When it comes to evading the law, tagged offenders can hide but they sure as hell can’t run.
When the tag was first fitted, it had been left slightly loose so that I could fit a sock underneath. Up until now, the arrangement had worked perfectly; with a sock padding it out, I was hardly aware that the thing was on. Now however, the loose tag became a millstone around my ankle, weighing me down, slowing me down and sliding up and down my leg like a stripper gyrating against a pole. Half an hour into the run, my lungs were holding up fine but my right ankle was ready to admit defeat. By the time I reached my street, removed my headfones and returned the nine angry men to the white box whence they had came, I was virtually limping. Upon closer inspection, a bruise was clearly visible forming above my ankle bone. Next time I went running, I vowed to tape the tag to my leg. That next time arrived today but unfortunately I found myself sans sellotape, having not anticipated that I would be breaking a sweat. As it transpired, I had cause to run through town thrice, and on each occasion I found myself cursing the tag.
After meeting Christy for a pre-match pint in The Illicit Still, I was leaving it late to get to the game. A rapid shuffle along King Street soon atoned for lost time however and I found myself outside Pittodrie with five minutes to spare. Easy, even if it wasn’t so easy on my long-suffering ankle. After the match (a 2-0 raping - or molestation at least - of St Mirren) I found myself running again. Once again it was through necessity rather than the sake of my heart, in this case the need to maximise my drinking time before my curfew kicked in. Weaving through the departing crowds, I hotfooted it along King Street and onto Union Street, whereupon I was obliged to undertake further weaving to navigate the thronged Christmas shoppers. 15 ankle-bashing minutes after the final whistle had sounded, I found myself in The Bassment, supping a Long Island Iced Tea. By the time the alcohol had begun to work its magic, my ankle had forgotten all about the battering it had taken. Unfortunately, a reminder wasn’t far away.
After spending the next hour quaffing cocktails and solving brainteasers that were for some reason presented to me on the back of a napkin by an androgynous goth who was seemingly after stimulating more than just my brain cells, I was joined by an accomplice. Craig showed up at the bar straight from work and began demolishing a pint to my JD and coke while we waited for his food to arrive. The plan was to leave The Bassment at 6.45, walk briskly to Froghall where his car was parked and then - assuming the vehicle hadn’t been relieved of its wheels by the natives - motor out to my village in time for the 7.15pm curfew. It didn’t quite work out that way however, and by the time Craig’s grilled chicken sandwich had been demolished, it was ten to seven. We speed-walked to Schoolhill and then, upon realising that we still had to travel seven miles in 20 minutes, began to leg it along George Street. Breathless, we arrived at the Froghall favela just after seven and jumped into Craig’s motor. The engine roared into life as Davey Havok roared death from the stereo and we sped out of the ghetto with tyres squealing like joyriders. For the remainder of the journey, Craig broke all speed records - or at least all those along the route - in the quest to get me home on time. In reality, the tagging company probably wouldn’t have objected if I had been a couple of minutes late, but I didn’t want to chance my luck after breaching my tag on the first nite. Besides, it was quite exciting to have a race against time; at any moment I expected the grey tag around my ankle to spring open and a countdown timer to begin. Failure to reach my front door in time would result in the tag detonating and blowing my leg off. At ten past seven we were still in Aberdeen, stuck in traffic, and it looked certain that I would be Heather Mills'd for my tardiness. As soon as we hit the dual carriageway however, precious seconds were regained in a blur of asphalt and cats’ eyes and when Craig pulled up outside my house, there was still a minute to spare. If I’d known it was going to be that easy, we could have stayed for a shot in The Bassment.
I have come to the conclusion that the electronic tag is deliberately designed to inflict as much pain as possible when running to prevent reprobates from legging it from the cops. Over 50 metres, it’s no bother at all; running out of your house in the event of a fire shouldn’t be a problem. Any further than that though and the pain starts to gain. After two blocks with the cops hot on your heels, the ankle tag’s perforated the skin and is rubbing against bone. And two blocks after that, it’s snapped your Achilles and you’re writhing about on the ground in agony while PC Plod administers a few kicks to your remaining good ankle with his steel toecaps. When it comes to evading the law, tagged offenders can hide but they sure as hell can’t run.
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