Art appreciation

A few weeks before my birthday last year, Yazzle Dazzle rather bluntly asked me over coffee what I wanted for a present because she was totally devoid of ideas and didn't want to buy me something crappy that I'd feign delight at then bin as soon as she turned her head. I subsequently gave her a list of items (seriously, I hadn't been waiting to be asked at all), and on that list was a book called The Three Paradoxes by a chap called Paul Hornschemeier. To cut a long story short, she bought it for me, and I then read it in one sitting. It was wonderful. I've since read another of Paul's books, Mother, Come Home, which struck such a chord with me that it actually elicited an emotional response - thus putting it in the same category as Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan (the scene where Spock dies just … y'know, gets me … right *there*) and A Confederacy of Dunces, which is the first book that ever made me cry with laughter.

Anyway, shortly after reading The Three Paradoxes, I discovered (via the Fantagraphics Books Flog, I believe) that Paul wrote a blog of his own, and it's subsequently become a must-read on my daily travels around the tinternets. And it was while I was reading his blog a few weeks back, that I discovered that Paul was accepting commissions for a limited time and at an exceedingly reasonable price ($50 for black 'n white, $100 for colour).

I had to have one.

And so, me being, well, me, I asked Paul if he'd draw me his interpretation of Star Trek.

Then I sat back and waited (not literally sat back and waited for the last few weeks or so, I mean; I do have some semblance of a life you know).

So this morning I'm faffing about at work making a cup of tea and having a water cooler moment for one when our delightful production manager, AKA Queen of the office and the lady I once appointed minister for partying, strolls in carrying a load of post. Somehow I knew today was the day, and I tore into the stack of letters sending bills and unwanted stationary catalogues flying in all directions.

And there it was: a large cardboard envelope addressed to moi. I returned to my desk in a state of giddy anticipation, and carefully opened the package.

I knew it would be great, but the drawing I found inside exceeded even my hopes and expectations.

I think you'll agree that Paul totally nailed Kirk and Spock here (sorry, the 'prime universe' Kirk and Spock for any new-to-the-franchise fans who might only be familiar with this year's movie), and if anyone from IDW Publishing sees this can I suggest you ask him to do at the very least a variant cover, if not an entire Star Trek comic book of his own? Just my two-pence worth…

Anyway, as the first piece of original artwork I've ever bought, this is setting the bar waaaaaaay high and I'm chuffed to bits with it. I now intend to spend some quality time perusing some art shops in search of the perfect frame…

An incredible turn of speed/events

So today was the day of the Dysart Dash 10k run, and after my last post where I was a little unsure about how I'd do, I can exclusively reveal here that…

I GOT A NEW PERSONAL BEST!!!!!

I'm utterly amazed, and very, very happy, because I genuinely felt that I wasn't on as good a form as I was last year. Matters were probably helped by the fact that it's a gloriously sunny day (although on the downside my already ridiculous tan lines will look even more ridiculous now - especially in yoga). I'm also, of course, attributing some of my unexpected physical prowess to yoga.

Not only was the run awesome, but I also met up with Sweatband for the first time since Christmas. She's also not been running that much recently either, and guestimated that she'd complete the course around about the one hour mark, which we think she hit pretty much spot-on. I thrashed beat her, though: the student has truly become the master - muwahahahaha!

Anyway, all kidding aside, here's my Nike+ graph:

No pendulous boobies in this graph, unlike last year's.

And here's my stats for any stat-fact fans in the audience:

• 10.08k

• 53:36

• Average pace 5:18 min per km

• 695 calories

Glancing back to last year's stats, I can tell you that I was 48 seconds faster this time round, four seconds faster per kilometer, and sweated out an extra 16 calories (which doesn't quite compensate for the Cadbury's Boost I was given - and swiftly devoured - at the finish line). I might've been even quicker still if it hadn't been for some woman I was following on the last lap who kept veering into my path every time I tried to overtake her; got her eventually, though.

The official times don't come out until tomorrow, and they usually add another 10 seconds or so onto the end, but even so I'm pretty chuffed with the result. Here's the obligatory photo of me in my victory vest with my medal.

Next up: the Wedding Day 7k at the end of July. But in the meantime - should I go to the five o'clock yoga class this afternoon?

Built for speed

Well this has sort of crept up on me this year: tomorrow is the day of the Dysart Dash 10k!

This'll be my fourth year running it, and to be brutally honest I really don't have a clue how it's going to go. I've just taken a misty-eyed glimpse through the Sparky Malarkey archives (Sparky Malarchives, perhaps?) to discover that the first time I did it I was apprehensive but ultimately proud of the fact I got a medal, while the second time I powered through a knee injury that inexplicably rectified itself mid-run, and subsequently got an almost identical time to my first attempt, while last year I got a new PB (that's personal best - just some running lingo for you there) and beat my erstwhile running companion Sweatband for the first time.

This year's been a bit of a weird one so far, though, because I was training like a (please excuse my turn of phrase here) bitch in heat earlier in the year and was doing some utterly mad-bonkers runs - quite often logging two 10k runs and a 6-7k each week. And then I was involved in a car accident and everything went a bit to pot.

Any-hoo, on the plus side I have, of course, been properly yoga-ing up recently, albeit at the expense of running. That being the case, while I've only been averaging about 7-8k once a week rather than the 25+k I was doing pre-accident, when I have been running the benefits of the yoga (most noticeably the breathing) have been shining through. So, while my lack of run training would appear to work against me, the yoga might work for me - so maybe something somewhere will balance out and I can get a decent (i.e. a Sweatband-beating) time. I don't think I'll beat last year, but maybe I can fall somewhere in the middle ground between 2008 and 2007?

Curiously, though, I've just noticed that my race number this year is 83 - exactly the same as it was last year. Could this be some sort of serendipitous good omen? I hope so. Anyway, my iPod is loaded with tunes, my kit is washed and ready, and I shaved earlier to make my face more aerodynamic - all that remains for me to do is pin that potentially-lucky number on my vest, chillax and hydrate myself this evening, and pray it doesn't rain tomorrow (it has been today, and the towpath along the side of the Thames will be a nightmare if it's all muddy) - fingers crossed and wish me luck!

Someone's out to get us

Today, for the first time in a long while I got to utter those six words that every busy office worker delights in yelling as they rush out the door hours before the end of play: "tell 'em I'll call 'em back!"

Which was a shame because I was actually looking forward to talking to the person on the other end of the line.

Anyway, the reason for me heading out of work so early in the day was that I was off for my second physio appointment. The first, which took place a couple of weeks back, wasn't so much a proper physio appointment as it was the physiotherapist wobbling my head around a bit before telling me that yes, there was indeed a bit of a problem as a result of the accident I was in a couple of months back. That being the case, I wasn't entirely sure about what I was letting myself in for as I hopped onto a bed this afternoon in West London ready to be manipulated.

We started with the physio taking me through the same sort of motions that we did last time round to see if there was any improvement in my movement (I'm smiling because that rhymes…). This involved him standing behind me and twisting my head. Now, I don't know about you, but I've seen enough Hollywood movies that it's pretty much hardwired into my brain now that if anyone tries to grab you on either side of the head chances are they're going to try to snap your neck. As such, my knee-jerk reaction would normally be to elbow them in the gut. Fortunately for both of us, I managed to restrain myself on this occasion (I sat on my hands just to be on the safe side).

As a result of actually bothering to do the five-minute daily exercise routine the physio told me to do last time I went - something that I surprised myself by doing - and my newfound addiction to sweaty half-naked yoga, I do seem to have regained rather a lot of flexibility. My lateral twists, for example, were nigh on perfect, even if my back did make a rather astounding cracking noise on both the left and right turn.

Less perfect, however, is my inability to do a full head-turn to the right, and it's this area on which my physio decided to concentrate (which was probably for the best because while I would've really appreciated a nice foot-rub, it's my neck that needs the attention). So, I lay on a bed in the recovery position, and allowed the physio to start jabbing me in the neck.

OK, so it wasn't quite 'jabbing,' but it was a bit painful at first. After a while though I kind of got used to it. At one point I imagined it was a bit like a cat massage.

So while my physio is prodding away we start talking about my job. He seems quite interested in the world of Star Trek publishing, although I suppose it could actually have more to do with making sure I was still conscious - a bit like those brain surgeries where the doctors have to keep their patients talking so that they know they haven't obliterated their power of speech or accidently killed them. Anyway, from there we segued into talking about science-fiction films in general. And it was while we were chatting about films that a voice from the other side of the curtain piped up: turns out that I wasn't the only science-fiction fan in the building, and receiving a bit of physio in the agony booth to my right was a columnist from SFX magazine.

Now, I haven't so much as glanced through a copy of SFX in years. I think the last time I looked at one was when we found out they'd produced a parody of my first editing gig, The Official Star Trek Fact Files, which I would've been spectacularly miffed at had it not been for the fact that it was so well-observed and, well, funny.

Anyway, we introduced ourselves while our respective physios went about their business; my initial embarrassment at not being familiar with her work quickly subsided when I told her where I currently worked, and where I'd previously worked, and she didn't have a clue who I was either, which was only fair. Then, of course, we started nerding out, because that's what we do.

So, physio turned out to be a far more pleasant experience that I'd initially thought. And while my recovery is coming along, I can't help but be troubled by the fact that I, a Star Trek editor, and my comrade in physio, an SFX columnist, have both recently been involved in car accidents.

Coinky-dink…? Methinks not.

A man named … What?!

I went to the bank on Thursday to put a cheque in, and the guy serving me was called Mo. He had, however, put his name tag on upside down, so it instead said 'Ow.' I found this inexplicably hilarious, which is just as well because he took a freakin' age to actually deposit the money for me.

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In other, non-financial related matters, I've had a rather good, if ridiculously busy week. Throughout it all, though, I've managed to maintain my yoga schedule three times a week, and I think it's fair to say I'm pretty much addicted. I can feel the effect it's having on me every time I leave class - at least I think it's the yoga that makes me feel euphoric and awesome; I suppose they could be burning some funny incense or something. Anyway, the last three classes I've done have been particularly brilliant, because I've pushed myself in different ways in each class.

On Thursday I managed to do Tree pose (or tadasana if you want to use the correct lingo) with both hands in prayer for the first time, which made me feel very smug pleased because it's incredibly difficult in Bikram yoga as you're all sweaty so your leg tends to slide away from your thigh.

At the weekend I do the early morning classes at 9:00 AM, and on Saturday I thought I might take it just a little bit easier than I normally do (subconsciously, I might add). Someone else had other ideas, however. When I was in the Balancing Stick pose (Tulandandasana), I noticed that the teacher was wandering around down the end of the studio where I was positioned. Next thing I know he's standing right behind me saying "C'mon Tim - hold that arm up and stretch that leg further, further, further, FURTHER!!" And he was, of course, wearing a radio mike so this was broadcast to the entire class. My embarrassment soon subsided, though, because I did exactly what I was told to (I was maybe just a little bit frightened), and felt all the better for it when he finally said "relax."

And today, good times, I finally managed to do a complete Camel pose (Ustrasan) - and before you ask, no that's not the pose where you get the hump (ha - geddit?) and storm out of class; it's the one where you kneel down, lean back, and grab your angles. Basically it looks a bit like your body is doing something it really shouldn't be doing. Anyway, usually I just kneel there and lean back a bit because I'm understandably a bit nervous about my back at the mo'. Today, though, I felt a bit reckless and just decided to go for it - so I did, and it was amazing.

I'm hearting yoga so much at the moment.

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I'm pretty sure yoga's having a positive effect outside of making me super-flexible and awesomely buff. After Thursday's class, y'see, I got home and had a shower. As I turned the shower off I heard a pinging noise, then the knob went loose. Um, that's the shower knob, not anything else. Anyway, I tried to turn the shower back on, but it didn't work - at which point I'd normally let loose a tirade of naughty words. This time, though, I just thought 'oh, that'll need fixing.' And then I noticed that some paintwork in the bathroom had come away, and I thought 'oh, that'll need touching-up' (oo-er!).

Anyway, the gist of it is, is that I appear to be supremely chillaxed. I bought some paint on the way home from class on Saturday and did the first coat of paint. Then today I did the second coat of paint after getting home from class again. And both times after that I had a bath, all the while being careful not to flash my gentlemanly parts to the outside world as the window was a few inches open to help the paint dry. I believe I was successful on both occasions.

To top it off, on Father's Day of all days, Sparky Pa just popped over and miraculously fixed my shower. In all honesty, it just needed a little bit of plastic clipped back in place, but unlike Sparky Pa and Big Bro my brain isn't wired particularly well for engineering. On the other hand, I'm guessing I'm the only member of the family that can do Eagle pose (Garurasana) without falling over.

Crazy Spanish women

So Yazzle Dazzle and I were sitting in the sun outside Secret Starbucks today wittering away as we do most lunchtimes while we await the daily appearance of the looky-likey Michael J. Fox and Harold Shipman that stroll past us each day (no Harold today though), when I piped up with a new topic of conversation, reminding Yazzle Dazzle that it's the birthday of a mutual friend of ours, a delightful Spanish lady, in a couple of days.

Yazzle Dazzle responded to this news with … well, with a pretty vacant expression, actually. So I repeated it - again to a decidedly blank look.

Unable to believe that Yazzle Dazzle had erased our mutual friend from memory, I raised my voice and loudly exclaimed "y'know - dark hair, thick accent, moon-walks on London buses … crazy Spanish lady!" This finally jogged my esteemed friend's brain into action - but it also piqued the interest of a woman at the table behind us, who let out a short gasp of surprise.

My first thought was that this tanned, buxom, and somewhat diminutive woman had unwittingly flashed me a glimpse of her cock-pocket as she stood up from the table (she was wearing an awfully short dress) - but the truth was a just a little bit more embarrassing than that. As she walked away from her table she rested a hand on my shoulder, and with a smile on her face said - in a thick Spanish accent - "we're not all crazy, honey!"

Want

You'd think that with all this Bikram yoga I've been doing I would've attained some sort of transcendental state where I don't lust over worldly possessions.

You would … think, anyway, right?

New iPhone 3GS? WANT!

A life-size replica of the captain's chair?! A snip at £1499.99! WANT!!

And I think we all know where I stand on this front. Look - she's dressed perfectly for Bikram yoga! WANT!!!

Smoochies!

Tim does a downward-facing dog

Not in that way, you pervert; get your mind out of the gutter. No, what I mean is that today I did a yoga class. But not any old yoga class, I'll have you know…

Earlier in the week I was faffing about on iTunes where I discovered that Mini have released a new application in the App Store. It's called Openness, and ties in with the new Mini Convertible, and the basic gist of it is that it encourages you to try something new that you might not have considered doing before. Effectively, to be more open. Do you like what they did there? Anyway, while I was messing around with it, I found this (and this is where the iPhone's screen-grab facility comes in handy):

Yes, you're reading that right. Bikram yoga is yoga done in a room that's heated to ludicrous temperatures.

So I read that and, rather than think 'that's mad-bonkers crazy,' I thought 'that sounds interesting!' On the downside, the studio listed in the app is a bit out of my way. So I Googled Bikram yoga and found a class that is closer. Much closer. And so, while seeing my physio yesterday (yep, I'm seeing a physiotherapist to help me work out the kinks in my back post-accident) I asked if he thought it was a good idea to go along, and he said yes.

I've only done yoga once before, but I remember thoroughly enjoying it. The only reason I didn't do it again was that the class took place stupidly early on a Saturday morning, and I don't do stupidly early on a Saturday morning unless you're offering me cash. Since the accident, though, I was thinking that I should give some sort of stretchy-class-thing a whirl. Up until the day I downloaded the Openness app I was all ready to go to a Pilates class near Sparky Towers, but the yoga won out because it worked out as being more bang for my buck; I can do as many classes in the next 30 days as I want, all for just 30 quid. That's a bit of a bargain if you ask me, particularly as it's on my way home from work so I can swing by in the evening.

So Pilates be damned, and this morning I rocked up to the class at about half 10, filled out some forms (that probably amounts to them not taking any responsibility if you get stuck in a camel pose), and told them about my injury. The instructor then came over to me and asked if we'd met before; apparently I reminded her of someone off the telly. I assured her I wasn't off the telly (although I wouldn't be adverse to the idea if someone wants a hot, young, whiplash-afflicted chap on their show), and she then talked me through some of the things we'd be doing and how they would help me. All in all, a cracking start.

A few minutes later, I was in the studio waiting for it all to kick off. The studio was warm, but not uncomfortably so. This is nice, I thought.

And then the class starts and they crank the heating up big-time.

Let's digress here to dress code. The website for the class said 'men wear shorts. T-shirt optional.' I decided to go with the optional t-shirt, because when I go running I wear lycra shorts underneath regular baggy shorts, with either a wicking t-shirt or a vest on top. I get pretty hot and sweaty when I'm running, so I figured that if it's good enough for running, it's good enough for yoga and I'd go with the lycra, baggy shorts, and vest combo; they're all lightweight, and wick the sweat away from your body remarkably well. About 20 minutes into the class sweat was pouring out of me like I was a leaky water-filled balloon. Seriously. My vest's wicking properties had utterly deserted it, and every time I did a pose that resulted in my head pointing down towards the floor loads of sweat would slosh off my head and leave a puddle on the mat. Next time, and this will please some of my more lascivious readers no end, I'm totally going all Fight Club and ditching the shirt.

The lycra shorts are staying under the baggies, though; despite the fact they were sopping wet by the end, no one needs to see my gentlemanly parts mid-standing bow pose.

So anyway, the class lasted 90 minutes, and I'm happy to report that I held my own, for the most part. My balance is pretty good - I could hold some one-legged poses where some people who'd gone before wobbled a bit, and the instructor complimented me a couple of times (I do like a compliment - they make me smile). Towards the end, though, I did get a little bit overwhelmed and had to sit down for a bit - but that's OK; the instructor had told me that the aim of your first session is just to stay in the room, and I totally did that! In fact, I stayed in there for about 10 minutes after the class ended, although it was more to do with the fact that I was feeling a bit dizzy.

Overall, then, while I will concede that it sounds a little bit batshit crazy to be doing yoga in a room that feels like it's in close proximity to the surface of the sun, I'm glad I went and I really enjoyed it. And while I wouldn't quite say that I feel at one with the universe or anything like that, I do feel like I've had a quality workout, and I will be going back tomorrow - and as many times as I can until my 30 day pass expires. Just, y'know, with less clothes on.

Deflection

Understandably, given the circumstances, my running has taken a bit of a hammering since the accident the other month, and I've gone from being a sweaty yet heroic looking runner to a tragic, messy mouth breather with bad posture. Still, I'm trying to get back into it, and because the weather has been absolutely outstanding the last couple of days I thought: what better time to go for a run than tonight? And so I did. Along the towpath beside the Thames.

WHOOP WHOOP!

That's the alert that comes into play when I make a schoolboy error.

Why? Because as a result of the glorious weather, the towpath is dominated by swarms of little bugs that get everywhere. And by everywhere, I mean *everywhere*; in your eyes, up your nose, in your mouth, and in your chest hair (if you're lucky/masculine enough to possess any).

And so it was that as I neared the end of tonight's epic, body-aching jaunt, sexily wiping bugs from my face and shaking them out of my vest, that I decided like the Starship Enterprise, I too am in desperate need of a navigational deflector dish to clear obstacles out of my path. And by obstacles I don't just mean flies - I mean old people, small children, other runners, and dogs. Maybe cyclists and motorbikes if I can boost its power sufficiently.

We've got our sophisticated lightweight trainers, sweat-wicking microfibre tops, Nike+ iPod kits, and scientifically-balanced hydrating fluids - surely the deflector dish is the next logical advance in a runner's arsenal?

Caught up catch up

Sitting here at my computer I kind of feel like this is the first time I've been at home and actually sat down in days. That's not quite true, but it really feels like it. The last time I properly sat down at home and chilled out was, I think, Monday (which was a public holiday) when I got in from a bike ride - my first in eight months! - and watched a couple of episodes of the remastered Star Trek: The Original Series which is, quite frankly, awesome. If you're in a bit of a Star Trek mood after seeing the new movie, I highly recommend the rejigged TOS on DVD; pretty much all the dust and scratches have been removed from the picture, the colours are brighter and more vibrant, the new visual effects are stunning and fit in perfectly, and the stories themselves are every bit as good as they've always been.

Another DVD boxset that I've watched recently was Season Five of Boston Legal. The fifth season was Boston Legal's last, and there were only 13 episodes; as Judge Clark Brown might say: OUTRAGEOUS! Still, despite the truncated run, Boston Legal still managed to tell a number of thought-provoking stories, give us plenty more memorable Denny-Alan moments, make time for the return of Betty White as Catherine Piper, launch a thinly-veiled attack on the network that axed it, and brilliantly tie-up most of the ongoing plot lines. OK, the show was still afflicted by its habit of simply dropping some of its recurring/regular characters without explaining where they went or what happened to them, but so long as the Denny Crane, Alan Shore, and Shirley Schmidt trio were present I wasn't too worried.

Also back in my tellybox viewing schedule recently was Flight of the Conchords, which I became utterly obsessed with last year. As such, I was very much looking forward to the second season … and then a little bit disappointed with its opening episodes. Still, my faith was rewarded with the second episode, which saw Jermaine becoming a male prostitute as a result of Brett buying a new teacup, and featured two absolutely stunning songs, Sugar Lumps and this:

And this week they did an homage/mickey-take of Westside Story. Genius.

What else have I been up to? Oh, I went to the cinema last night to see the new Sam Raimi horror movie Drag Me To Hell, which was, um… well, I guess being a Sam Raimi film it's supposed to be a little bit tongue in cheek, right? I hope so, because I laughed all the way through it - especially the bit where the main character got into a fight with an old lady and started whacking her in the face with a stapler.

Anyway, if I'm truthful, I felt a bit bad about going to see this movie. Why, you might ask? Well, because … because I knew that somewhere else in the building Star Trek was showing, and I kind of felt like I was cheating on Star Trek. Like Star Trek was my gorgeous girlfriend, and I made an excuse to go spend an evening with … well, as Best Mate Jo put it, a dirty old prostitute. A dirty, filthy, one-eyed old prostitute. And the worst thing is that I sort of enjoyed it. I have plans to see Star Trek for a third time next week - I hope it'll take me back!

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An aside:

And … GO CRAZY!

I seriously want a box of kittens now. Although at a push, I'd just take the one in the bottom right-hand corner - look at that adorable face!

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OK, so we've covered TV, film, and kittens … what else do I like? Ah yes - shopping! After work on Thursday I hopped on a tube and headed up to Central Londinium to catch up with Marcosy and do a spot of shopping in the West End. As is often the case with these sort of jaunts up town, I had an ulterior motive - here it was to track down a pair of jeans I'd seen online, but wanted to try on before I bought. Usually I'm a bit impulsive when it comes to buying things, but in this instance I held off because while I liked the jeans, I wanted to be 100% certain about them before I committed. Why? Because they're a bit of a slimmer fit than I usually go for and I wanted to be certain they looked OK before handing over any cash.

So, the first shop we go into I find the jeans. Good. Then it takes a few minutes, and the searching of three entire shelves to find the only pair in my size. Done. And as I walk up to the changing rooms I'm thinking, awesome, this is like karmic or something - the last pair in my size! And then I get in the changing room and try them on and it all falls apart. Ohmygod. OK, so here's the original picture I saw of the jeans; slim-fitting, yes, but still with a bit of give. I am not lying when I say the pair I tried on were freakin' skin-tight. And by skin-tight I mean it would've looked slightly less troubling if I'd just painted my legs grey and be done with it. I instantly decided that they weren't the jeans for me and took them off. Which, of course, took a couple of minutes because they were so goddamned tight. Any longer and I'm pretty sure they would've cut off the blood supply to my legs. On the plus side, though, I'm not afraid to admit that I've got a cracking pair of pins.

Anyway, having abandoned the idea of buying the jeans, I then went and spent £38 on books instead - good times!

Mini United: let's motor!

Ages back - I can't remember how long, although it was quite possibly sometime around the end of last year - I heard about a three-day event being held at Silverstone race track to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the Mini. Being a big fan of Minis, I was immediately interested … but did nothing about it. Over the months that followed, I kept hearing about it, and Big Bro even said we should go, but I convinced myself that I really didn't need to haul myself all the way to Silverstone to an event that I was convinced would be a bit, well, dull; I mean, why pay £35 (if bought in advance, £40 on the door) to perve over other people's Minis when you can perve over your own for free?

A couple of weeks back, though, the ever-wonderful iPandah sent me a link to a website that had a competition offering tickets to Mini United, and I figured if I could win some that would be a bit different and I'd probably be up for making the drive. In fact, I entered more than one competition in an attempt to win tickets - but to no avail. I actually got a letter from Mini the other day that I thought might be to tell me that I'd won tickets … but no. And that, I thought, was that.

On Friday, though, I was checking out some of the Mini websites that I regularly look at, and as I read about the first day of the event I experienced a sudden pang of disappointment - like I was completely missing out on something, and as a three-time Mini owner I *should* be there. I texted Big Bro to ask if he wanted to go on Sunday - the third day of the event - figuring that if he said no I wouldn't bother. He texted back yes.

And so today I rocked up to Sparky Ma and Pa's to pick up Big Bro at around 9:30 - well, Big Bro would argue that point and say more like 9:45, but in my defense I needed to get some go-juice because I didn't want Clubbie running out halfway down the M1. Knowing that I've not exactly been the most comfortable driver since the accident, Big Bro asked me if I wanted him to drive. While he's recently bought a lovely new car, though, the idea of turning up at Mini United in anything other than a Mini was, well, just wrong. And anyway, his car might've been lynched. And no one but me drives Clubbie - so we set off for Silverstone with Big Bro holding onto his sat-nav like his life depended on it.

The journey there was pretty uneventful until we hit the M1 when we noticed another couple of Minis that we guessed might be on their way to Mini United. And then another couple of Minis. And some more. And the next thing we knew we were in a convoy of about 20 or 30 Minis driving northbound. I was filled with a bizarre sense of pride and belonging.

Just over an hour later we filtered into one of Silverstone's car parks to find a sea of Minis. It was a sight to behold. They were everywhere - old and new, all different colours, but all clearly the pride and joy of their owners.

Here I am just after we arrived, doing what is quite possibly the most half-hearted thumbs-up in living memory.

So, after arriving and faffing about for a few minutes we headed over to the registration tent to buy our tickets. By this time it was about 11:45. I walked to the counter and asked the girl there for two tickets. She looked around a bit conspiratorially for a second, then said "it's £80 for the two of you now - but if you come back at 12 it's free."

I looked at Big Bro, and in unison the pair of us said "we'll come back at 12."

After hanging around for 15 minutes or so, during which time Big Bro took lots of photos of the car park, we wandered back over to the registration tent where we were given £40 tickets, a lanyard with an iPod sock, Mini 50 medallion-type thingy, and what looked like the severed tail of a raccoon, and a map for free. That's nada. Zip. Nothing. BONUS.

It's about here that I should say that I was wearing a Mini t-shirt that Big Bro bought for me a couple of weeks back as a way of cheering me up after the accident. You can see it in the picture above - it's got a picture of a classic Mini from the Haynes manual on it, and it's tops. Anyway, as we're walking in a security guard looked at me and said that I wasn't the only one wearing such a t-shirt - and he wasn't wrong. There were so many people wearing the same t-shirt that Big Bro and I seriously considered starting a competition to find as many as we could and get them to pose for a photo with me. In the end, though, we couldn't be bothered, because quite frankly if we'd done that we wouldn't have had time for anything else - and in contrast to my earlier belief, there was plenty to do.

Mini United was, in all honesty, one of the best days out I've had in a long time. We saw classic Minis race (the Miglia and Se7en classes), watched the new Mini Challenge Cup cars race from the pit wall no less (Big Bro was well impressed by this), saw Minis designed by famous people, saw Mini concept cars from the last 10 years or so, chilled out in a big tent (where I decided I need to buy one of these), perved over lots of Minis, took lots of photos, watched an amazing stunt show by Russ Swift, and got awesome suntans. It was utterly fantastic.

Best day out in a long time.

Some pics, yes?

The classic Minis take to the track. They sounded awesome and went like stink.

I kid you not - this Mini was covered in fake fur.

The Paul Smith Mini. It's stripy!

A David Bowie designed Mini. This was awesome - it looked like something out of Terminator.

Big Bro made me pose with the David Bowie Mini so that its reflective properties made it look like I was inside it - do you see?!

Some sort of mad-bonkers, Mad Max-style Mini.

The ACV 30 Mini concept from 1997. It still looks good over 12 years after it was first unveiled.

The Mini Crossover concept. This is a lightly-disguised version of a bigger Mini due to go on sale next year. I'd been a bit unsure about this car, but after seeing it in the metal I'm sold; it's chunky, and a lot smaller than you'd think it is.

Me doing my cheap motor show totty routine with the original Italian Job Minis.

Yeah baby! Me hanging with the Mini from the Austin Powers movie Goldmember.

Hanging out in the Mini XXL limo. How utterly distinguished and gentlemanly do I look in the back of a limo? The answer: very. Pass me my top hat and monocle immediately.

Yes, it has two fronts.

Someone had fun with their Dremel…

Me gurning like a special as I watch the Mini Challenge Cup cars race.

The Mini Challenge Cup cars come into the pit lane. Big Bro took this pic from the pit wall, between the pit lane and the track, where we'd watched the race. These little cars make a wicked noise.

Scooby-Doo's Mystery Machine, in Mini form. The guys that owned this were doing a poll to decide what colour seats to have in it - orange, green, or blue. I voted green.

Funny story - when I was thinking about buying Clubbie I searched for 'Pepper white Mini Clubmans' on the Mini2 website and I found this very distinctive example, which ended up being one of the things that sold me on the black 'n white combo. This Clubman was in the 'flaunt your Mini' paddock, and I really wanted to find the owner and have a chat with him. Unfortunately he wasn't lurking by his car, so I may have to drop him a line at his website.

Big Bro makes me pose in front of the stage where Paul Weller and Calvin Harris performed for the Mini fans the previous night.

Where it all began - a Cooper Garages Mini van.

The extremely limited edition *takes a deep breath* Mini John Cooper Works World Championship 50! They're only going to make 250 of these!!

Yes, *that* Steve McQueen.

The Mini Challenge Cup park ferme. I like this shot - Big Bro had to take it through a polythene sheet window, and I think it gives it a bit of a seventies vibe.

And now, how about some videos?

This is Mini stunt driver Russ Swift parallel parking. What you can't see is some random dude who he plucked out of the crowd and put in the boot of the blue one he parks behind.

Russ Swift does a side wheelie here - with three ladies from the crowd sitting in with him, and some random dude crammed in the boot. There's a point in this video - around the 42 second mark - where I seriously thought the car was going to roll onto its roof.

And finally, just for you, my trusty blog pals (and for making it all the way through this Mini-tastic post), here's an exclusive clip of the witty banter me and Big bro shared on the way home.

In my defense, that Hyundai was really shifting.

The Golf club

I mentioned in my previous post - under the heading 'Tuesday,' no less - that I planned to write about the hire car I had while Clubbie was … otherwise unavailable. Well, strap yourselves in, because as Nero says in the Star Trek trailer: THE WAIT IS OVER!

So, a few hours after Clubbie received an unexpected and rather unwanted surprise from behind, I found myself wandering into a hire car office to collect a, well, hire car that would be mine, all mine, for the duration of time that Clubbie was off the mean streets of West London being patched up. I fully intended my first words to the people in the office to be a tirade of naughty swears, because not only was I pissed off at the earlier events of the day, but the hire car people had given me a totally incorrect location for where their office was. I had asked on the phone if they were the hire car place near Hatton Cross tube station, to which they had replied "yes"; it was only after Sparky Ma had dropped me off by the tube station - and the hire car place I'd been led to believe was the correct one - and driven off that I found myself asking if I'd been led astray. A quick Google later and I discovered that, yes, the doofus had given me the the completely wrong location.

I subsequently set off on a two-mile hike to the correct location.

So, as you can imagine, I was fully prepared to spout a long list of words that, if written out in an Asterix book, would be represented by exclamation marks, skull and crossbones, and inexplicable swirly things. Fortunately for them, by the time I actually got there the whiplash had begun to settle in and I was properly knacked.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, they redeemed themselves when, upon finding out that I was the victim of the accident rather than the perpetrator, they told me that rather than have a shitty little Chevrolet Matiz (which I'd already massively complained about because quite frankly I would've felt safer driving a Little Tikes Cozy Coupe), I would be upgraded to something a little more becoming of someone of my distinguished status.

And so I got a brand new VW Golf.

And I mean, like, a *really* brand new Golf.

It was a Mark VI Golf GT TDi, which for those of you who don't have a clue what that means, means it's the sixth generation Golf with a powerful diesel engine and a fair few bells and whistles.

Unfortunately, my slightly more favourable impression of the hire car staff took a bit of a knock as I was just about to drive away when one of the guys said to me "I really love this car - try not to crash it, yeah?"

Yes, that's a very intelligent thing to say to someone who'd just been in a car accident.

As it turns out, as I was driving home some wench in an aged Fiat Punto did try to slam into the Golf by cutting me up at a roundabout. Not being terribly familiar with its controls at that point in time, and being unable to locate the horn in a hurry, I made do with pulling alongside her at some traffic lights and extending my middle finger towards her in the time honoured gesture. All in all I found that rather satisfying.

So, the Golf. It was a quality car. It felt very safe, which was just what I needed after the accident. It was gutsy. It was easy to drive. It was … utterly characterless. I think I've been spoilt by driving Minis for so long; as I said when I looked back over all the cars I've owned in March, Minis are by no means perfect, but they've got personality. This kind of makes it sound like I hated the Golf, but I didn't; I was very grateful for the fact that I had a good car to stand in temporarily for Clubbie, but it was so grown-up - so sensible. If I was 40 with a couple of kids and a wife who resented me, it would've been perfect.

More to the point, I admitted to Sparky Ma that I thought I couldn't get enthusiastic about the Golf because its presence merely signified the fact that I didn't have MY car. I honestly believe that if I'd had it as a loan car while mine was in for a service or something, I probably would've enjoyed it a lot more. It also didn't help that a fair few other people were wildly excited by the prospect of me having a new Golf. One in particular wanted to know all about it the day after the accident, and it was only after asking me endless boring questions about how big the wheels were that I was asked how my car was, and if I was OK.

Reasonably unjust prejudice aside, there were actually a few things about the Golf that I genuinely didn't like. The indicator stalks were, to me at least, utterly confusing (although both Sparky Pa and Big Bro, both fans of VWs, have since tried to convince me that I was just being stupid in this respect), it rolled around a bit and the steering was a tad woolly (compared to Minis, at least), the boot lid sounded like it was made from cheap tin when you slammed it shut, and there was a sharp ridge of plastic around the base of the dashboard where it met the transmission tunnel. The leather that was wrapped around the steering wheel and handbrake did a passable impression of styrofoam. Worst of all, though, was the fact that the seat bolsters were made of a coarse, hardwearing material, and every time I released the handbrake I grazed my knuckles on the passenger seat. If I'd had it for more than two weeks I probably would've ended up looking more like an underground bare-knuckle street fighter than usual.

Finally, I'd always been led to believe that diesels were super economical. When I picked the Golf up it was on the red line, so I immediately had to go buy some fuel (annoyingly). Not knowing how long I was going to have it for, I only put half a tank's worth in. In the two weeks I had the car I had to fill it up three times. On the last occasion, the trip computer told me it had a range of 220 miles; three days later, when I returned it, it was back on the red line and at one point I actually thought I'd have to fill it up just to make sure it would reach the hire car place. This was really surprising, because I was only driving to work and back (a round journey of about 25 miles), and I wasn't flooring it or anything; in fact, since the accident I've been driving like an aged nun. If this is how diesels perform in the real world I'm doubly glad I bought a petrol Mini!

On the whole, though, of all the cars I could've had while mine was off the road, the Golf was (without the option of another Mini) definitely one of the better choices. And while I wasn't too sorry to see it go, the hire car guys were definitely happy to have it back.

"Didn't dink it, did ya?" I was asked as I handed the keys over.

Busy times

So this is going to be one of those posts where I start with an excuse as to why I haven't posted anything for a while, then I take you through the last few days to highlight how busy I've been as justification for the excuse, liberally scattering a few amusing anecdotes throughout each day to a) keep you interested and b) make my life sound more exciting.

*sigh*

Here we go!

The Excuse:

So, sorry I haven't posted anything in a while but blah blah blah, yadda yadda yadda, blah. Boobies. Tee hee. Yadda yadda yadda, this is what I've been up to this week!

Monday:

During a lull in the working day, I experimented with some cross-franchise pollenization by making the Yoda action figure on my desk at work pose with the bat'leth that snapped off a Worf figurine that also lives on my desk at work. Sadly the inherent lameness of the camera in the iPhone means that the picture isn't quite as good as it could be, but the inherent awesomeness of the flappy-eared, bat'leth-wielding Jedi dwarf still shines through, I think you'll agree.

Hmmm! Die, a good day it is to, yes…?!

In other news, my overwhelmingly positive, possibly wildly incoherent fanboy-esque write-up of the new Star Trek movie (I wouldn't dare call it a review) somehow got picked up and republished by the Chicago Sun Times website. This made me feel inexplicably special, although for all I know it could've simply been part of a series exposing the mental health deficiencies of certain London-based bloggers.

Tuesday:

An exciting day all round. First of all, a mysterious stranger who took pity on me after recent events deployed what was dubbed Project: CTU (Cheer Tim Up), and it duly arrived in the post on Tuesday morning. Within I found a veritable wealth of delights, the main one being a CD entitled Spaced Out: The Very Best of William Shatner and Leonard Nimoy. One of the reviews on Amazon describes this album as "truly terrifying," although I'd argue that point. I don't know whether it's symptomatic of my brain being slammed against the inside of my skull in the car accident, but I actually really like this album. Yes, Shatner's songs are batshit crazy, but Nimoy's actually got rather a good voice, and The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins not only condenses The Hobbit down to two minutes 22 seconds (which saves me from ever having to read the book), but it also gives me a fair idea of what it would be like to try LSD.

I also like the songs where he sings in character as Spock.

Anyway, the day went from great to awesome at 15:21 in the afternoon, when I received a phone call to say that the repairs to Clubbie were complete and I could go pick 'er up! That led to a quick departure from the office, a hurried return of the hire car (which I'm going to come back to in another post), and a lightning-fast trip to the Mini dealer to be reunited with my pride and joy.

You would not believe what an amazing job they've done in repairing Clubbie. It's been restored completely to its original factory-fresh condition, and quite frankly feels like a brand new car. OK, it felt like a brand new car when I took delivery of it seven weeks ago, but now it feels even newer. And I'm convinced they have new car smell in an aerosol, because the interior reeks of it. I totally need to get my hands on a can of new car smell - I'd be spraying it in my face big time. I wonder if you can get it as a Glade Plugin?

Clubbie back in action on the wild streets of West London. Now, can no one plough into it again, please? Thanks.

The only disappointment of the day occurred when I did my first run in five weeks. After a week off, followed by flu (oink oink), followed by the accident, followed by painful whiplash, my running schedule has crashed and burned like something crashing and, um, burning. Rather than a mighty Elvis style comeback, this run was a rather inauspicious start, mainly because I kept having to slow to a walking pace, wheeze a bit, then spend a few minutes summoning up the energy and the will power to stagger onwards like a middle-aged drunk trying to catch the last bus. I did a total of five shitty kilometres before giving up and going home.

With a bit of luck things will improve from here on in - mainly because the Dysart Dash takes place in just over a month, and after smack-talking Sweatband for what seems like ages, it's going to be really embarrassing if she actually beats me…

Wednesday:

Wednesday was notable for the sole reason that I went to see Star Trek again, and this time I took Big Bro. This was exciting because the last Star Trek movie Big Bro saw at the cinema was Star Trek V: The Final Frontier (AKA, 'the God one'), and I don't think he's even bothered with the last two, even though I've offered to lend them to him on DVD, and helpfully told him when they've been on telly. Because of my paranoid fear that the film would sell out, I insisted that we arrive at least an hour before it started, which gave us plenty of time to walk aimlessly around Staines then hang out in the foyer of the cinema like a couple of tramps.

Despite all this, I'm happy to report that Big Bro really enjoyed Star Trek (and believe me, if he hadn't, I would've known), and for me it was every bit as enjoyable second time round. I'm well-up for seeing it a third time.

Amusingly, though, Big Bro did make something of a school boy error as we left by asking me the question "didn't they go to that ice planet in one of the other films?" I then entered into a 10 minute monologue about how he was thinking of the Klingon prison planet Rura Penthe from Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country, whereas the ice planet in the new film was called Delta Vega, which appeared in the second pilot episode of Star Trek, 'Where No Man Has Gone Before,' although of course then it was located out towards the Galactic rim, not in close proximity to the planet Vulcan.

*pauses for breath*

The result of this was that I genuinely feared that Big Bro might just drop me in the middle of nowhere miles from my house in the dead of night. Fortunately, though, he didn't.

Thursday:

As a direct result of the new Star Trek movie, my inner-nerd has come to the fore a bit more than it has in recent years, and quite frankly this means that I just can't get enough Star Trek at the moment. A couple of weeks back I ordered the novelization of the new film off Amazon; I haven't read a Star Trek novel in years, mainly because they're now all tied together with their own continuity and I don't want to have to read seven books to understand one story, but I'm a sucker for novelizations of films I love, and the sheer fact it is a film tie-in means it stands alone, so I had to have it. Unfortunately last week Amazon emailed me to say they couldn't get it until June, so I decided I'd just buy it in a regular bookshop.

I went to Kingston and Uxbridge last weekend on a mission to track it down, but failed on both occasions, so this week I decided to pull out the big guns. No, that is not a euphemism - it means that I decided to go to Westfield (or West-wizzle, as I have inexplicably begun to call it). What made this expedition unique, though, was that unlike previous jaunts to West-wizzle which I've done after work, I decided to go AT LUNCHTIME.

This was dangerous because I'm convinced time slows down in Westfield, and although I might think I'd only been there for 20 minutes, three hours might've elapsed in the real world.

Anyway, I got there and headed straight for Foyles. Foyles did not have the Star Trek novelization, nor did they have anything by an author named Joe Meno whose books I like the sound of; nor did they have a copy of a book I already own, but I thought I'd look for just as a test. I'm beginning to think that Foyles in Westfield is a poor substitute for the real thing on Charing Cross Road…

Disappointed, I headed over to HMV because they've been stocking books recently and I figured the novelization of the new Star Trek movie was the kind of book they'd stock. I was mistaken. They did, however, have a replica of the new Enterprise that I was very tempted by because it's been a while since I bought a new noisy toy for my desk. I ultimately decided against it, though, because I knew I'd be playing with it all afternoon when I should've been working it was 30 quid that quite frankly I didn't need to spend.

After that, in sheer desperation, I decided to go to WHSmiths. Now, I haven't bought a book in WHSmiths in years, mainly because they only really stock bestsellers, which I tend not to read, but on this occasion I was *holy shit!* amazed to find that they had the Star Trek novelization! Huzzah! So, anyway, I bought a copy, then popped up to Starbucks to get some lunch; I'd just like to say that their new savoury cheese pastry (cheesy croissant really) goes really well with a Grande Misto for a quick and easy lunch.

Friday:

It truly does pay to get to know the staff at your local Starbucks, because on Friday I decided to buy some VIA coffee, and ended up getting a bag of freshly ground Estima blend and a whole wodge of VIA samples thrown in for free. BONUS. I'm going to be awake and off my tits for the foreseeable future.

On the recommendation of a friend, on Thursday evening I'd downloaded the trial version of a game called Peggle on Xbox Live. It's a very addictive little game, but I couldn't be bothered to buy the complete version because I rarely play my Xbox these days. What I did do, though, was buy it from the iTunes App store for my iPhone on Friday afternoon.

This proved to be a timely purchase, because I was meeting Yazzle Dazzle in the evening, but she got delayed at work so I just went to Starbucks in Shepherds Bush and played Peggle for half an hour. I continued playing even when she did turn up because I was a) doing so well at it, and b) massively addicted to it.

I also had a vanilla latte for a change, which was surprisingly nice.

Anyway, the meet-up with Yazzle Dazzle was part of a larger plan to catch up with a load of old work pals. As it turned out, only six of us went in the end, but it was great catching up with everyone regardless. One of the hot topics of shouty conversation (they were playing loud music in the former Edwardian toilet that was our venue of choice) was how good the new Star Trek movie is, and this then led to one of my former colleagues saying how he thought the new Captain Kirk looked a bit like me.

YES! I just need to work out how to capitalize on it now.

OK, Chris Pine - what can I do to capitalize on the fact that I apparently bear a reasonably poor similarity to you? And by 'reasonably poor similarity' I mean if I was standing about 20 metres away from someone who had poor eyesight, and it was a dark night, and they were squinting, they might totally think I was you. Do you think it's possible I could get seated at a nice restaurant McDonalds easily? Do you think I could get some freebies - y'know, like clothes or something? I'm in dire need of some new undercrackers but keep forgetting to buy some.

Don't think this is all me me me though, Chris, this is a two-way street dude! Think of it as a Freaky Friday-style thing, though neither of us needs to be Jamie Lee Curtis. You're more than welcome to experience the awesome lifestyle of a West London-based writer-editor! The bins need to go out on Wednesday night, the house could probably do with hoovering, and there's some washing up that needs doing, OK? Good times.

Star Trek

And so, after two years of waiting, two years in which my hopes about how good it might be were raised, and my dreams of being cast as the new Kirk were dashed, I have finally seen the new Star Trek movie.

And I bloody loved it.

OK, OK, so you could argue the point, as it was mentioned to me by a friend on Facebook, when haven't I liked something with Star Trek in the title? And I would admit that's a fair point before saying that I really disliked the sixth season Deep Space Nine episode 'Resurrection.'

But this Star Trek was different - because, to quote Admiral Kirk at the end of The Wrath of Khan, this Star Trek "made me feel young" again by bringing the original series, my favourite Star Trek, back to life in a brave new way.

As anyone who's read the last couple of posts I've written, I've been a bit subdued these last couple of weeks, but from the moment it started until the moment the end credits played out to the sound of Alexander Courage's classic TOS theme tune, I forgot everything that had been troubling me outside of that cinema screen. For 127 minutes I was quite literally mesmerised by the most enjoyable slice of Star Trek I've had the pleasure of seeing since, quite probably, the DS9 episode 'Trials and Tribble-ations' 13 years ago.

It was that good.

I was hooked from the word go. In a way that mirrors the bank job that takes place at the beginning of The Dark Knight, Star Trek opens with a dramatic pre-credits sequence that introduces the movie's villain and could quite literally stand apart as a short film in its own right. It was a stunning way of reintroducing us to the universe of the 23rd century, and those few short minutes were, quite frankly, far more enjoyable than any of the last four Star Trek films. And I actually enjoyed the last four Star Trek films.

From there the story moved on to introduce us to Kirk and Spock, first as children and then as adults - played by new actors, yes, but still recognisably the Kirk and Spock I admired when I first started watching Star Trek all those years ago - before shifting the action away from the origins of our heroes and on to the Enterprise (and that's the NCC-1701 - no bloody, A, B, C, D, E, or NX) where their confrontations with the Romulan Nero could begin in earnest.

But while the characters, the ship, and the uniforms were all gloriously familiar, this film made no bones (if you'll pardon the pun) of the fact that this is a new kind of Star Trek unbound by 43 years (or 45 if you count 'The Cage') of continuity. Events take place in this movie that left me aghast - not because I was outraged at what I'd seen, but because I couldn't believe the filmmakers actually had the guts to go through with them. For example, when Data was killed in Star Trek Nemesis I kind of just shrugged my shoulders and thought "yeah, whatever, there's another one on the Enterprise," but here I was watching the familiar Star Trek universe being rocked to its foundations and forever changed. It was a bold statement that literally amounted to JJ Abrams and his team saying "yeah, look - nothing's sacred, if it serves the plot, we'll do it," and I couldn't help but think bravo to that.

But while the Star Trek universe was changing before our very eyes, some things were staying comfortably the same. Well, ish. The Enterprise itself, though recognisable, was definitely different from Matt Jefferies' iconic original. To be honest, I'd not been too sure about the design of this newest version of the Enterprise when I saw the first pictures, but on the big screen it looked just about perfect - a stunning blend of the old and the new, both inside and out. Also perfect were the Starfleet uniforms that successfully revived the style and vibrant colours of the original series, while at the same time making them appear modern and practical for a crew living and working aboard a starship; it was a delight to once more see a Star Trek vessel full of colour.

The casting could not have been more perfect; Chris Pine and Zachary Quinto ARE Kirk and Spock - I cannot give them any higher praise than that. Other stand out performances for me included Karl Urban, who admittedly was a little underused as Dr McCoy, but he was utterly perfect for the role and I can only hope he gets more screen time in the next film, the beautiful Zoe Saldana, who showed that Uhura can do more than just say "hailing frequencies open," and Anton Yelchin, who greatly surprised me with his wonderfully humourous performance as Chekov. And of course, it was a sheer delight to see Leonard Nimoy reprise his role as Spock again.

So for my money at least, JJ Abrams' Star Trek was a great success and everything I hoped it would be. It was fun, action-packed, and dramatic; it charted a brave new course for a franchise that has, in the last few years, become moribund and over-familiar. It reignited Star Trek and my passion for the universe that Gene Roddenberry created all those years ago.

May it well and truly live long and prosper.