My name is not Drago

My Name is not Drago

I was a latecomer to Rocky. My colleague Martin, Deputy Private Secretary to the Deputy First Minister, introduced me to the films and to the soundtracks when we shared an office over the last year or so. Now, the strains of a good Rocky training montage are my go-to choice for a hard workout, when the lungs are bursting and the muscles weeping more than Nicole Scherzinger at an X Factor audition.

But something has changed. Today, in the middle of a hard session on the rowing machine, this conversation played out in my head:

Me: *Swishhhh, brrrrrr. Swishhhhh, brrrr...dooby doo...in the darkest night, rising like a spi-yire...Swishhhh, brrr...come on Rocky, let's do this!.."

music screeches to halt

Brain: You can't be Rocky any more. You've got blonde hair now. You huftae be Ivan Drago.
Me:But I don't want to be Ivan Drago. He's a choob.
Brain: Sorry, but them's the rules. Rocky has brown hair. You have blonde hair. You need to be Drago.
Me: Can I compromise and be Brigitte Nielsen?
Brain: No. You're a sweaty blonde giant on a rowing machine. You're Ivan Drago.
Me: But he's a drugs cheat. I hate drugs cheats. I hate them so much my ranty tweet got read out on Scotland Tonight last night*.
Brain: Canny help you there I'm afraid. Ivan it is.
Me: But I'm imagining I'm a fictional character training in Siberia in a dodgy 1985 film. And a bloke. The hair colour is the least of the flaws in my logic.
Brain: Get on with it, Ivan
Me: sulks

I'm not happy about this.

*I apologise for the gratuitous name drop. I am very tickled.