Aloha!

Remember earlier this year when I was struggling for something to blog about so I basically asked you lot to come up with content for me by encouraging you to unleash your imaginations using an OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE? That was all good fun, wasn't it? I loved what you all did with me, even if I fear that one actionless figure in particular might've been forced into taking part in some things that it might never quite recover from.

What I knew at the time, however, was that there was another contender eager to take part in the fun, but one that was waiting, biding her time until, like John Denver, she could leave on a jet plane headed for more exotic climes…

That contender was iPandah. And she took me to Hawaii.

Now, you might look at this and, like Senator Vreenak, thinks "IT'S A FAAAAAAKE!" After all, you can get a picture of a pineapple to pose in front of pretty much anywhere. And my nips are well perky, so it must be a cold day. Set eyebrows to 'QUIZZICAL.'

This photo is more convincing for the simple reason that I'm a sucker for pretty girls in grass skirts, particularly when they appear to be grazing my shoulders with their boobs. WIN.

Still need convincing?

The view from, I believe, the 24th floor. Suck it up, bitches. Now where did my sexy hula-girls go?

Flight of fancy

As I mentioned here, I saw the 25th anniversary rerelease of Back to the Future the other week and thoroughly enjoyed it. Not only did it remind me what a truly great movie it is, but it also made me want to watch parts two and three of the series, both of which are also great movies, if not quite as awesome as the original.

When I was younger I was one of those kids who got totally sucked into the hype of big movies; in 1989 when I saw the first Tim Burton Batman movie I was the dumpy little kid in the queue clutching a bag of Minstrels in my sweaty little hands while wearing a Batman baseball cap and a Batman t-shirt with several Batman badges attached to it. Four years earlier I'd been similarly obsessed with Back to the Future; I wanted a denim jacket like Marty; I wanted a red body-warmer I could wear over the top of said denim jacket like Marty; and I wanted to be able to ride a skateboard. When Back to the Future Part II came out I wanted one of those gaudy reflective baseball caps worn by Marty McFly Jr. in 2015 (and apparently now I can have one).

But what I really wanted was a time machine made out of a DeLorean.

So there I am on Saturday night, curled up on the sofa watching Back to the Future Part III with all these childhood memories flooding back, and I'm thinking "yes, I would totally still rock that red body-warmer." And then I'm thinking "that DeLorean still looks totally bad-ass" (I assure you that I only use the phrase 'bad-ass' in my inner monologues). I mean, it's without a doubt one of the most easily identifiable and iconic movie cars of all time. I still lust after it.

And then I remembered that the difference between the me who saw Back to the Future back in the 1980s and the me who was watching Back to the Future on a Saturday evening in 2010 is that this me can drive. Ha - in your tiny, cherubic face, 80s me!

So anyway, I picked up my iPad and started Googling DeLoreans for sale.

Turns out there are quite a few of them around, they all look like they're in relatively amazing nick (and if they're not there are plenty of specialists who'll get them up to scratch for you), and some of them are quite reasonably priced - like HERE. Eighteen and a half grand - and it's just down the road from me (not *literally*, but you know what I mean). The DeLorean Motor Company in the States will even build you a 'new one' if you've got the cash - in right-hand drive and with all the mod-cons like an iPod connector and bluetooth!

God I love this ad. There just aren't enough car adverts featuring sexy, wistful shots of seagulls these days.

Inevitably, this all led to me getting a wee bit excited and a smidgeon carried away. I had some work to do on Sunday afternoon that would've taken me about two hours if I'd knuckled down and got on with it, but because I spent a considerable amount of time continuing my internet search for DeLoreans and daydreaming about how awesome I would look cruising around West London in one, it actually ended up taking something more like eight hours. I did, however, come to the conclusion that there would be no fear of accidental trips through time while pootling around in my theoretical sports car; I'm lucky if I hit 8.8 miles per hour on my drive into work, let alone 88.

Eventually, after many hours of drooling and clapping my hands excitedly like a special, the rational part of my brain talked me out of buying a DeLorean. I mean, I only bought a new car last year - surely it makes far more sense just to get a hover conversion done on Clubbie?

The terrifying tale of Fatback and Shrewface

Back in the summer when it was hot and sunny and lovely and Yazzle Dazzle was working not far from my office we would meet each lunchtime for coffee and good times. Each day we would grab our beverages then hurry outside to nab one of the four tables situated outside Secret Starbucks where, because we're silly buggers, we often found ourselves descending into panicky, breath-restricting laughter as our conversation devolved into the latest round of inane banter (I've mentioned to Yazzle Dazzle on several occasions that we should do a podcast). Not only that, but while sitting there day after day we found ourselves seeing the same recurring cast of characters passing by, and we started giving them names: there's Michael, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Michael J. Fox; the trolley boys, two chaps who just seemed to walk up and down the road dragging trolleys behind them; and one old man who looked so much like a notorious serial killer that we dubbed him Harold.

Unfortunately there were also a number of characters whose presence we did not appreciate each day, such as the two ladies who would plonk themselves down at a table and spark up a ciggies without actually buying anything from Secret Starbucks. Outrageous, I think you'll agree; this is a reputable coffee bar, not fag-break alley!

And then there was ... THEM.

They are a fairly respectable middle-aged couple on first glance, but then you look closer; she is aloof looking and wears floral skirts held up by immense belts that would appear to do double duty holding in her not inconsiderable girth, and he has one of those horrible squished up faces and a nasty nasally voices that just makes you want to poke things up his nose in an attempt cure it and surgically rearrange his facial features in an attempt to make better use of the available space.

OK, so this sounds like a harsh judgement based on physical appearances, but let me explain their crimes further:

They hog the available space; there's not that much room outside Secret
Starbucks and they spread themselves out like they own it, or don't bother shuffling their chairs in if you're trying to squeeze in. They favour the same prime location table as we do. They don't even buy coffee - they buy tiny little bottles of fruit juice and take an age to finish them. And most heinous of all, when they do finish them THEY DUMP THEIR RUBBISH ON OTHER TABLES RATHER THAN TAKE IT TO A BIN.

I shit you not; one day Yazzle Dazzle and I were heading over to the only available table and as we walked toward it he - of the squished face and nasally voice - saw us coming and brazenly dumped his rubbish on it, leaving the table that he and his spherical accomplice were docked at clean and clear! Some withering glances were fired off that day, let me tell you.

And it was not long after that incident that we arrived at Secret Starbucks one day to find them sitting at our favourite table and Yazzle Dazzle angrily muttered "Shit! Fatback and Shrewface are here!"

Beautifully creative yet wonderfully fitting names, I think you'll agree.

And so, over the course of the summer months, the four of us engaged in a silent war of staring and scowling in an attempt to win the table of choice. One day we would get it, the next day they would. Every lunchtime was a new and exciting battlefield.

Then, one day, they were gone. we had won. Fatback and Shrewface had been vanquished.

I'm now lunching on my own again, Yazzle Dazzle having finished her tenure at summer job and skipped off somewhere else for autumnal job. And because few people like to sit outside Secret Starbucks on a breezy, potentially rainy autumnal day, I've had the pick of the outside tables each lunchtime. Well, assuming those two chain-smoking, non-coffee drinking harridans don't rock up for one of their fortunately infrequent appearances.

So there I was the other day, sitting there listening to some tunes on my iPhone, sipping coffee and watching the world go by, when I noticed that something large was moving in front of the West London skyline and blocking out the sun. Startled, I turned my head to the right and all was revealed.

Quickly I whipped out my phone and tapped out a text to Yazzle Dazzle. It read:

"OMG! FATBACK AND SHREWFACE ARE BACK!"

And this time, I'm facing them solo...

Big day out

Back in August when I had a week off and Best Mate Jo and I trundled off to the zoo for the day, we had a moment - possibly on the train on the way home - when we looked at each other and said "geez, we should do this sort of thing more often."

Actually it was definitely on the train on the way home, because I gazed wistfully at the London Eye and said "I've never been on that." Best Mate Jo looked at me and said "I've been on it twice, but I'll go again if you want to."

And so today we went on the London Eye.

Incredibly, after a grey and slightly miserable start, as our train pulled into Waterloo there was literally not a cloud in the sky. This was good. I'd like to say we got off the train and made a beeline straight for the Eye, but we didn't because I got off the train and immediately said "I NEED A COFFEE" like some dead-eyed addict, and immediately headed off in the direction of the nearest Starbucks. I wanted to be functioning and alert, y'see.

Coffee sourced and in hand, we subsequently headed for the Eye.

The excitement started with some queuing. Admittedly the queue did move quite quickly, but because we get restless and bitchy just standing around, after about two minutes we were quietly taking the mickey out of the people around us: specifically some woman in a pair of ill-advised leather trousers who was also wearing sunglasses inside. That kept us entertained until we got to a till, at which point I looked at the lady behind the desk and said "we'd like two tickets for the, er, London Eye," and she looked at me like I was an utter special.

With tickets in my sweaty little mitts, we were then shepherded into an area where they took one of those excrutiatingly awful tourist pictures of you against a green screen, and then into a screening room where they show a 4D (WTF!?) four-minute promotional film of London and the Eye, which I thought was pretty pointless because I was already in London, and had literally just bought tickets for the Eye. And a dragon in the film sneezed on us. Seriously - real moisture hit us. Gross.

After that we were out into the open for some more queuing.

Admittedly, again, the queue moved pretty fast, but not before I'd ridiculed some woman's vile boots and some old dude's awful ponytail.

It was as we neared the front of the queue that I turned to Best Mate Jo and said "you do know I'm petrified of heights, don't you? This is possibly the highest I've ever been, and chances are I'm going to scream all the way round." She gazed at me with a look of utter contempt that even I'll admit I was deserving of.

So, anyway, we got on, and it was awesome. There actually comes a point where you're so high up that the height becomes absolutely meaningless and inconsequential. And I didn't scream, before you ask.

Some pictures, yes?

And we're off. At this point, if you suddenly decide you're busting to go to the toilet you are WAY OUT OF LUCK.

Obligatory Kids in the Hall-style 'I CRUSH YOU!' picture.

Awesomely blue, utterly cloudless sky. Also, note brightly-coloured office buildings that look like they've come from IKEA.

Jaunty angle.

About the Eye's highest point. Amazing how close the Houses of Parliament and Battersea Power Station actually are. Got an awesome mobile phone signal up here too.

And the fun didn't stop there. Having come back down to Earth we scrambled over to Leicester Square for a big fat awesome lunch. The only thing that wasn't awesome here was the fact that it took about 20 minutes for them to rustle up the bill, by which time we were running perilously close to missing out on our planned afternoon activity. Matters weren't helped by Best Mate Jo almost making a faux pas as she handed the waitress the cash as we hurried out, and said "we NEED to go - NOW!" which made it sound like one of us had left an epic shit on the table or something.

The waitress looked at us with a look that was a combination of utterly perplexed, extreme concern, and unmitigated fear, and replied "um, slightly worried…"

"Oh, god, don't worry," said Jo. "We've got to get to the cinema!"

And we vamoosed in a cloud of dust. Ish.

After accidentally veering us towards the wrong cinema, we eventually got to the right one, just in time to watch a 15:10 screening of the 25th anniversary rerelease of Back to the Future, my very favourite movie with slightly incestuous undertones. I'm pleased to report that the film is every bit as great as I remember it being, and it was an utter joy to see it on the big screen again. Like Marty, I too was transported back in time - but instead of 1955 I was reminded of the glory that was the mid 1980s - a truly awesome period for popcorn movies. And I also now have an overwhelming urge to buy a red body-warmer, and I can't stop listening to THIS.

All-in-all, a great day.

Dot-to-dot-to-disco

Last night I went somewhere that has immediately become MY NEW FAVOURITE PLACE and did something that swiftly became MY NEW FAVOURITE THING.

It was in Kings Cross. No, not *that* you filth-bag.

A couple of weeks back, thanks to the social networking behemoth that is Twitter, I found out about a place on Caledonian Road called Drink, Shop & Do. Rather than bang on in my own ditzy childlike way about what it's all about, I'll let the people who run it explain (because, quite frankly, they know best):

After reading that I decided I HAD TO GO.

And so last night a few of us went along - to take part in dot-to-dot-to-disco. Now, when I told people I was off to do dot-to-dot-to-disco I got lots of blank stares followed by "what's that?" This can only lead me to believe that there's some kind of stupidity virus going around at the moment, because what else could dot-to-dot-to-disco be than dot-to-dot pictures done to the tune of disco music? OF COURSE.

What I wasn't quite prepared for, however, was how awesome Drink, Shop & Do is from the moment you step in the door. It's a mish-mash world of retro furniture and bright colours that somehow all seem to coordinate beautifully. And did I mention the building used to be a Victorian bathhouse? No? Well it did. It's all high ceilings and ornate fixtures. And lampshades made out of jay-cloths.

It's shambolic and beautiful and I want to live there.

So, safely ensconced in the 'shop' part, I turned my attention to the 'drink.' What shall I have … oh, what's a coke float? It's coke with a dollop of ice cream in it. Really? Marvellous - I'll have one of those (or rather four - shhhhh!).

When the nice lady brought it to our table she set it down in front of me and with a smile on her face and a glint in her eye cheerfully said "that'll explode when you stir it."

My terrifyingly explosive coke float pre-detonation.

I looked at my drink a little warily, then thought "of course it won't explode," and started stirring.

It exploded.

Well, a slight exaggeration perhaps, but it fizzed madly and threatened to spill over the top of the glass so quickly that I had to start frantically guzzling it through the straw to prevent it from running on to the nicely laminated table and thereafter my lap.

And then we came to the 'do.'

We - along with quite a few other people who had turned up - were handed dot-to-dot sheets and a glass of vibrantly-coloured felt-tip pens, and told that the effort judged to be the best would win a free drink. In total we each had three different sheets to complete, all of which showed an album cover. The winner would be judged on their colouring in skills. Oh, and to fulfil the disco aspect of dot-to-dot-to-disco, awesome disco music played throughout the evening's proceedings.

This was The Emotions, apparently. No, I've never heard of them either.

This looked familiar but I couldn't think of the artist. Still can't, to be honest, but I later enhanced my effort here with hugely-defined boobs in the possibly mistaken belief that it was a lady.

Assuming that I was doing a brilliant job here, I was slightly mortified when the lovely lady who'd brought me my explosive beverage swung by our table and looked at my masterpiece. "Is this yours?" she asked. "Yes!" I replied, thinking she'd spotted an early winner. She nodded once. "Hmmm. You've lost."

As a result, I determined that I'd really have to bring my A-game to the third sheet. I grabbed my purple felt-tip and, with my tongue poking out the side of my mouth as a sign of my increased determination, furiously set to work. Simple colouring in would not suffice here: I needed to freestyle. I did this by adding an illustration of Garfield to the picture.

WHO DOESN'T LOVE THAT HILARIOUS FAT CAT?! Before submitting this work of art to the judges, I also added my name to the top left-hand corner in a jazzy 1980s typeface. I didn't want some random trying to claim responsibility for my masterpiece!

With my artistic labours complete, I settled back with another coke float, a mouthful of an orgasm-inducing chocolate brownie, and some serious Connect-4 action. Oh yes, they had board games as well. A couple at the next table started dancing to a 70s disco hit (sadly they did not break into a zombie routine when Michael Jackson's Beat It came on next). Some bloke came in, paused at the entrance and marvelled at the room in which he found himself like a little kid unleashed upon Disney Land (except little kids usually don't mutter "what the fuck?!" in amazement). Pear drops and pink shrimps were passed around. I had felt-tip ink all over my hands.

And then I won first place in the dot-to-dot competition. I threw my arms in the air like I'd just won the Grand National. My prize was a drink of my choice, so I had another coke float. Lee cut my straw in half with some scissors, but I was so hopped up on coke, ice cream, and the sweet taste of victory that I didn't care. It was an utterly, totally unexpectedly brilliant evening.

What I'm getting at then, is that if you find yourself wandering the streets of London YOU SHOULD DEFINITELY go to Drink, Shop & Do. There should be one of these places on every street. I'm planning to go back next Saturday. Why? To make a clay David Bowie head of course.

Vandal

So, in addition to drawing a rather impressive series of satirical Star Trek cartoons back in my school days (here, here, here, here, and here if you're particularly bored), a recent email from a long-lost friend appears to have uncovered evidence suggesting that I might've, um, defaced school property with my sketches of Kirk and Picard.

Oh well, it was only Hamlet - who the hell has bothered reading THAT?!

The car wash story

If, for some reason, you found yourself in a static position just staring at my blog last week, first of all what's the matter with you? Why aren't you outside scampering around and doing exciting things? That aside, if you *were* just staring at my blog, you would've seen a series of furious tweets on my Twitter sidebar thing relating to the fact that I was washing my car.

Apparently the weekend before I'd happened to mention to Big Bro that my car was filthy and needed a wash. At the time so was his, and he apparently offered to delay washing his so we could take part in some sort of brotherly bonding experience and wash them together. I, apparently, said yes.

By the following weekend I'd completely compartmentalised this fact in my tiny brain, only to be terrifyingly reminded of it when I happened to remark to Sparky Ma that I intended to have a lazy Sunday in front of the telly. One furious look and a series of choice words from Big Bro shot that idea down in dramatic flames, and so on Sunday afternoon I arrived back round at my parents' house ready for a quick once over my adorable car with a wet sponge and some bubbles.

Or so I thought.

I've always been full of pride for every car I've owned, and particularly with my Minis this has been reflected in a car washing technique that has lasted around about the two hour mark. When Big Bro changed his car last year, however, he surpassed even my dedication to the art of wiping bird poo of a motor.

He researched it on the internet. He bought the biggest car washing kit known to man. He formulated STAGES.

I had forgotten this.

The first instance of scrotum-tightening fear I experienced that Sunday afternoon came when he barred me from helping in the initial two stages of washing his car. At first I thought this was A GOOD THING, because I got to sit inside with Sparky Ma watching Kindergarten Cop and drinking a cup of tea. About an hour later, however, Big Bro stormed in and said "I'll complete mine on the road - get your car in the front garden and begin stage one."

"What's stage one?" I whimpered.

Big Bro tutted and looked at me like I was a special. "It's the rinsing stage, OF COURSE."

I looked over at Sparky Ma, but she just slipped ever lower behind the newspaper and pretended not to notice what was going on.

"WELL COME ON THEN!"

I scurried outside.

• Stage one, as I noted, is the rinsing stage. To achieve this, you use a high-pressure hose to dislodge any chunks of dirt that may have become attached to the body of the car. You do not use the high pressure hose to mimic urinating on the front garden, unless you want to be the focus of a withering stare from HE WHO MUST BE OBEYED on the other side of the road, having paused momentarily to watch you with disdain while he delicately dabs water away from his car with what looks like a fine lace hanky.

• Stage two involves cleaning the wheels with what looks like a hung, drawn and quartered hedgehog, and apparently weathering a further series of humiliating comments about yours truly.

• Stage three actually involves sloshing some car shampoo on the car. The car shampoo appears identical to Predator blood, and I was carefully monitored to ensure that I didn't waste any (as if I was going to drink it or do my hair with it or something – admittedly both distinct possibilities if left unattended). This was followed by another rinse stage, which was admittedly made more enjoyable by almost dousing one of the neighbours when she came out of her front door and I turned to say hello.

• Stage four involves wiping any remaining water from the bodywork of the car using a Californian Water Blade. It was when I'd almost completed this stage that Big Bro came over to check on my progress and, upon finding it did not even meet, let alone equal, his lofty standards, flicked dirt on my bonnet and made me repeat stages three and four.

• Stage five saw me ordered to apply tar remover to those hard-t0-remove pieces of road scum that get flicked up off the road and stuck to the doors. This was an utterly soul-destroying task.

Brief pause, possible tears. MANLY TEARS, I MIGHT ADD. Helpless looks from frightened mother. Tweeting cries for help. Stern-faced brother orders me to put down iPhone and get back to work.

• Stage six involves dabbing any remaining water away from the bodywork using the aforementioned fine lace hanky, which I discover here is a microfibre cloth. I don't even wash my face with something so soft and sophisticated.

• Stage seven is the wax stage. Big Bro joins me on my car at this point, having finally finished his own motor. As with when I offered to help him paint his bedroom and actually ended up doing the whole thing myself, I find that he concentrates on about 10 square centimetres of the roof while I am left to do everything else. By the time we've applied wax to the entire thing my previously shiny car looks like … well, a massive bird has taken an epic shit on it.

Sparky Ma comes out and so as not to enrage THE WRATH OF BROTHER, hesitatingly offers us both dinner. I have been doing this for three hours. I am inexplicably soaked from the waist down. I want to go home, but I am hungry so I say "yes." Big Bro turns to me and says "we will finish this stage in 30 MINUTES!"

I look at him, but all I hear is Mrs Kim from Gilmore Girls.

• Stage eight is initiated exactly 30 minutes later, with the furious buffing of wax off my car. What is revealed underneath is very clean, and very shiny, and, I can't help but think, slightly smaller than what I had at the beginning, as if some of it has eroded away with the all the strenuous sponging and furious buffing required by all the earlier stages.

• Stage nine was the 'black trim stage,' where we walked around the car applying a cream that looked a bit like semen to the black trim to transform it from a weathered grey to showroom-fresh black again. I can't help wondering at this point if I am the subject of some horrific practical joke.

• Stage 10 required me to walk around the car, liberally spraying 'fast glass' on the windows, headlamps, and my face. One of those things should not have been sprayed with 'fast glass.'

By the time we finished it was night. Sparky Ma said "mmmm, that looks, um, clean," but the truth was it was so dark she couldn't see it. The whole thing had taken four and half hours. I got home and immediately vetoed any thoughts I'd had about going for a run. There is only one photo of the afternoon's events; I did not take any more because Big Bro shouted "YOU'RE NOT GOING TO TAKE A PICTURE EVERY FIVE SECONDS AND PUT IT UP ON TWITTER, ARE YOU?!" It can be seen here; you can see the car-washing commie in the background.

It rained the next day.

Genius!

I've been providing technical support to the wonderful Glittering Lee as he embarks on his initial faltering baby steps as a new iPhone owner, and as thanks for my help he waved his magic photoshop wand and imagined me as one of Apple's in-store geniuses.

The result, I think you'll agree is, well, genius.

My arse hurts: the Richmond to Windsor bike ride 2010

The Richmond to Windsor bike ride crept up on me a bit this year; in fact, I actually only signed up for it about three weeks ago, and at one point was even debating whether I'd even bother doing it. Just last night I was complaining about it to Sparky Ma. The reason? I dunno … I think I felt woefully unprepared for it. The last time I'd been on the bike was last year's ride. But then again, the last time I'd been on it before that was 2008's ride, so if anything I was just as well prepared this year as I was last.

But seriously, three rides in two years? Ouch.

Anyway, having payed £17 for the privilege of taking part I thought I'd better do it, so I was up at seven this morning for a nutritious breakfast (porridge - slow release energy), got my kit together, and got out the door.

The day immediately took a bad turn when not one minute from my house I was stopped by some local busybody wanting to discuss a new recycling plant the council want to build in the area. I barely discuss anything at 10 past eight in the morning, let alone debate the merits, or lack thereof, of a recycling plant. While he was busy pulling an A3 laminate of the plant out of a worn plastic bag I told him I had the council's information pack in doors (technically I do - ironically it's in the recycling bin) and that I'd consider it in my own time (a lie). He then asked if I'd sign his petition against it. I rolled my eyes (behind my sunglasses so he couldn't see) and repeated what I'd just said.

Then, basically, I just cycled off.

En route to Richmond I had the unerring sensation that something wasn't quite right with my bike, although on the face of it, aside from being a bit dirty from the accumulated muck of the last two rides (particularly 2008's horrific washout), it was fine; I'd oiled the technical-looking bits and pumped up the tyres earlier in the week. Still…

Upon arriving at Richmond I decided that the rear tyre was a smidgeon under-inflated, so pulled out my pump and went at it. And then the valve broke and all the air came out. Well, some of it. I quickly and wisely put the valve cap back on to contain the leak.

I was thus confronted with a dilemma, the options available being thus:

• Phone Sparky Pa, tell him of my predicament, ask him to come get me, and bail out of the ride.

• Do the ride with the valve cap in place and hope it was sufficient for the 40 miles to Windsor, and the 10 or so home.

• Get someone to fix it.

While option two was dismissed almost instantly (even I can't believe I considered it), option one appeared VERY tempting. But then I realised that Sparky Pa would probably say something like "no, I'm not coming to get you, you lazy tyke," and I'd have to walk home from Richmond with an epic sad face. And anyway, having got to Richmond Green the sight of all the other participants boosted my spirits somewhat. I (kind of) wanted to do it!

So I went over to the mechanics tent where a nice chap changed the inner tube in about five minutes for the princely sum of £5 (they also had a box in which you were supposed to throw loose change as a donation for their tea fund, but I only had notes so I just looked at him with apologetic eyes, although in hindsight he probably didn't see this as I was still wearing my sunglasses). This was good because, quite frankly the last time I tried to change a tyre I was about 9, it all went horribly wrong, and I threw an immense hissy fit. Chances are if he'd told me to do it myself I'd still be sitting on Richmond Green sulking now.

Anyway, with my stead restored to full working order, I headed off to join the queue for the start line. Unlike previous years, though, the queue this year stretched right to the opposite corner of the green and had begun to loop round again.

I tried to take a picture, but I couldn't get it all in frame, so I did a video instead. Look:

That done, I faffed about putting my phone back in my bag, only to turn around to find about 50 more people had joined the line. I sighed, and tacked myself on the end.

It took about 25 minutes to reach the front, at which point I heard the compare (alas, not the usual Shatner lookalike) make a fascinating comment about most men not being secure enough in their sexuality to have a wicker basket on their handlebars, and then I was off.

So, yeah, the ride went OK. Good, actually. I think I did it in about the same time as the last few years, obviously arriving at Windsor a smidgeon later than usual due to the delayed start, but physically I don't feel too exhausted - with one exception: my arse.

I don't know whether I've shed fat in my posterior, or whether it's just a case of not being anywhere near as prepared for the rigours of being perched on the saddle for so many hours as I should be, but it REALLY HURTS. At one point I sat down on some damp grass to try to alleviate the pain, but that just made me look like I'd suffered some sort of horrific downstairs accident. Cycling home from Windsor was especially painful. As a result, my saddle and I are currently NOT FRIENDS.

Evil.

On the plus side, based on my recent cycling history, I won't have to deal with this problem again for at least another year.

-----

Bonus photo!

This adorable pony was tethered at one of the rest stops. While I sat soothing my aching posterior, I watched a woman approach it to take a photo. The pony just wanted some attention, though, so she stroked it and they both appeared to be having a great time. Then the woman walked away and the pony started spazzing out a bit, shaking its head like it was having a bad reaction to some E or something. This went on for about a minute, at which point I decided I'd had enough of seeing a pony having what looked like an aneurysm, and jumped tenderly back on my bike before cycling off at speed. I hope it's OK!

Out and about: walkabout

After the excitement of Wednesday's trip to London Zoo, I decided that I'd spend one day just wandering around London. Whenever I go into town it's always with a purpose - a meeting, a trip to the cinema, meeting friends in a bar - never just to take in the city. So I decided to remedy that with what can only be called a walkabout.

I got the train to Waterloo, and then just walked. For about six and a half hours. I started in Covent Garden, where I checked out the gloriously huge new Apple Store, and basically spent about 15 minutes looking around in awe like OMG Cat.

It's basically a very beautiful, very well restored building packed full of my favourite shiny tech. Essentially, Heaven.

Then I walked through Covent Garden and down Charing Cross Road to Oxford Street, where I fought my way through the heaving masses of slow walking mouth-breathers to the Selfridges end. After that I ducked and weaved through some back roads round to Carnaby Street, down Shaftsbury Avenue, and basically back to Covent Garden where I then headed east, eventually ending up just past Tower Bridge. And when I ran out of exciting stuff to look at, I turned around and walked all the way back to Waterloo, where I hopped on a train home.

All on foot, and with only one 15 minute pause for lunch, and another five minutes nursing a bottle of juice outside a Starbucks at Butler's Wharf. Glorious weather for it too; I've got a bit of a tan.

Some photos?

One of these shops is lying about what they sell.

This was the size of a toddler and probably costs a small fortune, but I WANT ONE.

A Spongebob Squarepants drum kit. Why not?

I finally fulfilled my desire to walk over the Millennium (formerly wobbly) Bridge. I also walked through the Tate Modern - lovely building.

I think I'd rather have liked to give it a go while it was still wobbling. I imagine it would be a bit like walking on jelly.

This is the Golden Hinde, the ship that Sir Francis Drake circumnavigated the globe aboard. Oh, but wait a second - what's that, Senator Vreenak? Yes, that's right: it's a replica because the original rotted away.

I first visited this little shopping centre when I was on a school trip years ago. It's a serene and welcoming little place just back from the Thames.

Love the criss-crossing walkways in Butler's Wharf.

I have decided that I would like to have a central base of operations here, please. Donations gratefully accepted.

That's not the river - that's mud.

Classy photo, eh?

Some plucky anti-war protestor obviously made a little stand in Foyles using a copy of Tony Blair's new autobiography.

Morris dancing Storm Troopers of course!

Yeah, J.J. Abrams isn't the only one who can throw a lense-flare in randomly - and I guarantee mine was done a whole lot cheaper.

And when I got home I bought a coat off the internet that I've been assured will make me look sexy.

Out and about: let's go to the zoo!

Whenever I take a week of work I usually a) get told off by colleagues for not going away somewhere, and b) wing it. By winging it I mean I get up each day and decide what to do then and there. Aside from the traditional and always enjoyable shopping expedition to Kingston with Sparky Ma, this often results in me waking up late, having a cup of tea, then retiring to the sofa for an all-day DVD boxset marathon.

And while all-day DVD marathons are fun, they aren't exactly a good use of my 20 day holiday allowance, are they?

So this week, I decided to get off my backside and, y'know, do stuff. And what better to do then spend some quality time in one of the world's most brilliant cities - which also happens to be right on my doorstep (not literally).

I started with this:

Yes, the Prince Charles cinema in Leicester Square was showing all the Star Trek films in order. I didn't see all of them, but I did see two - the ying and the yang, the dizzying high and the terrible low: Star Trek V and Star Trek VI. I don't think I really need to explain which was the best one, do I? Truth be told, though, I actually really enjoyed Star Trek V, although it remains a pretty flawed movie. Take it as a given that VI was awesome. And it was a joy to see them on the big screen again after so many years.

Things really kicked off on Wednesday, though, when Best Mate Jo and I went to London Zoo. This was a cracking day out, and because I'm feeling lazy I'm just going to post photos along with some snappy and witty captions.

I can't for the life of me remember what this was, but we were both rather taken by its lovely eyes.

Giraffes. OBVIOUSLY.

Dramatic owl. This is a Burrowing Owl. It has a brain the size of a pea. That is my one Burrowing Owl fact.

Fake gorilla.

Monkey in silhouette.

I was going to tell the llamas that leg-warmers are out this season, but I thought they'd spit in my face.

Prairie Dog. Basically a fat Meerkat.

69-ing Aardvarks.

Meerkat: basically a thin Prairie Dog.

More Meerkats. You wouldn't believe how much these animals have to put up with people shouting "SIMPLES!" at them these days.

Sleepy Tiger.

Mick Jagger-fish.

It was while looking at this vibrant fish that I stunned Best Mate Jo by telling her that I thought Finding Nemo was dull.

Tiny orange frogs!

This sign is just *begging* to be altered for this website.

Temptingly close…

This Lion is called Lucifer because his zoo registration number is 666.

Disappointed to find there were no penguins in the penguin pool.

Found them eventually in a different pool on the other side of the zoo. This is Ricky. He gently flapped his wings and jumped dramatically from one rock to the one RIGHT NEXT TO IT.

Sexy shrimp!?

This made us laugh like specials.

Liar - LIAR! It's called Earth Eater, but it doesn't eat earth, or indeed, THE EARTH. I'm going to have this alleged planet-destroying fish under the trade descriptions act!

Sad fish.

We also got to see the zoo's highly advanced fish tank cleaning equipment in operation.

All in all, then, it was a brilliant day, topped off by a brief stop at Oxford Street where I almost collided with the most terrifying animal of the day.