Duffy and Harding are offside from the first — and nobody gets to do so many press-ups as Duffy. Some days he seems to be on his belly more than he is on his feet, but you don’t feel sorry for him — you don’t feel sorry for anyone. Just glad it isn’t you and thankful for the breath you catch while the other man is in torment.
    “Come on, Duffy. Speed it up. Get those biceps moving. You should be able to do them quicker than that given the fucking practise you’re getting!”
    Running up and down the hilly road to fill in time between activities — the asphalt is hot and steams up at you and salt from your sweat reddens the eyes.
    “Duffy, you’re out of a step. Fall out and fifty press-ups. Count ‘em out!”
    At his feet like a faithful dog, Duffy counts them out. “Those last five were slow, dead slow. Do 'em again…” "...fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six...” gasps John Duffy. “Okay, Duffy. It’s a pity you missed out on that last run, isn’t it. You’d better do it now while the others are having a smoke-o.”
    ”Yes sir,” pants John Duffy.
    “Off you, go, and make it quick.”
    “Yes sir,” pants John Duffy. Plod, plod, plod, boots on asphalt, down the hill.
    “Right, the rest of you, five minutes rest. Then we’re due on the obstacle course!”

I had a few go’s at reading Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago, but really having seen the huge David Lean film, the book just wasn’t up to the mark. Beautiful prose, they reckon, but not in translation. Really, it seems to read like a bland biography. It certainly becomes annoying to think the man did not actually exist. The hero, sprouting romantic poetry at every turn, is a bore.
    Boring poet too—for his poems are usually published along with the book—the poems of a fictional poet, and reading them you can’t help but wonder if the author was trying to disown them. Get this:
She was near and dear to him
In every feature
As the shores are close to the sea
In every breaker.

In the years of trial,
When life was inconceivable,
From the bottom of the sea the tide of destiny
Washed her up to him.

The obstacles were countless,
But she was carried by the tide
Narrowly past the hazards
To the shore.
    Maybe it’s better in Russian. Or maybe all other Russian poetry is a lot worse. In any case, for me the reason why the book or poems caught anyone’s attention remains a mystery. Maybe I’m not romantic enough. Maybe the torments of life had made me cynical even then.
    The movie was a very different proposition. Armed with spectacular scenery, epic proportions and a brilliant cast, David Lean gave it the works. Still, the overall impression was what a horrible place Russia is and why the hell would anyone want to live there, which got worse because Zhivago gives up Lara in the end because he cannot leave his beloved homeland. Apart from a few shots of the sun peeping through the clouds and some magnificent icicles hanging from the eaves, it was impossible to see what was so bloody lovable about the place.
    But there was Alec Guinness as the secret policeman with a heart of gold, and Rod Steiger as the sleaze-bag whose every ulterior motive ends up doing someone an unexpected favour, and Tom Courtney as the mad fanatic commo who lets Lara, and then Zhivago, go despite his otherwise utter ruthlessness. But mostly, there was Julie Christie as Lara who was so breathtakingly lovely that even Zhivago’s wife (played by Charlie Chaplin’s daughter Geraldine) had to admit her man was better off with her. And as for Omar Sharif?—well, he was bearable as Zhivago which is pretty good for him.
     I really didn’t want to like it, but the actors made me… Besides, any film about Russia that was popular with Americans in 1966 had to be pretty good. Even if it did, in the end, reinforce all the Western ideas that Communism was a worse fate than death.