And … here we go

A few weeks ago I was chatting to one of the guys who works at my yoga studio and in passing he just said "you're good enough - you should do the 30 day challenge."

I replied "…huh?"

The 30 day challenge, for those of you that don't know, is quite literally 30 days of yoga. Well, not literally, to be honest: it's really 30 classes in 36 days, so you do have six days leeway in case you want to take a day off here or there to, well, die.

They usually push it in January when everyone's on a post-Christmas health kick. I'd actually thought about doing it back then, but was put off the idea by the simple fact that I didn't think I'd be able to get all my kit washed and dry in time (and not forgetting the fact I was snowed in for two days). It wasn't until it was mentioned to me again the other week that I realised they actually ran it all year long, which is perfect because my washing is drying in about four seconds in this glorious heat.

So, the idea stuck in my head. In the days that followed I grew more and more interested in the idea of doing it, started working out how many new pairs of shorts I'd need to buy, and, crucially, whether there was going to be a glut of decent films coming out at the cinema that I'd risk missing while I dedicated my life to yoga (turns out there's not). I started working out how I could get to the studio everyday - which quite frankly is easy because it's not far from work. I liked the idea of having a challenge in my life. I cleared my social diary. I've told friends I'll be MIA for the next four weeks.

I bought this in preparation.

I'm doing this, and I start tonight.

(OK, technically I could've started yesterday, but I had a rather late night on Friday - my last social hurrah for a while - so I allowed myself a lazy day)

I'm fascinated by what it's going to do to my body. When I did three classes a week for a couple of weeks I noticed more definition in my shoulders, so lord knows what sort of effect 30 constant days of it will do. And yes, I'm aiming to do 30 days straight; I'll only use one of my six rest days if I *really* need it. Starting today, I should finish on August 9th.

That being the case, there'll obviously be a significant drop-off in the malarkey quota here for the next month or so. But! I'm thinking I *might* try to write very short daily updates tracking my progress; no promises, but it *might* happen.

So, wish me luck, and in the words of Mr J…

Tuxedo hotpants

As if you haven't noticed, Britain's been basking in a much-needed, long overdue heat wave for the last week or so. And bearing in mind I only seem to own three pairs of casual shorts what does that mean?

Summer wardrobe - yay!

OK, so while you'd imagine that sort of statement would go hand-in-hand with a little jump that stops at the apex in a freeze-frame - which would be awesome - it didn't; it actually led to a bit of sighing on my part because I'm having real difficulty finding any clothes I like at the moment. Still, always one for a challenge I decided to hit-up some shops.

My first stop was of the online variety - specifically ASOS - where I picked up a new white wifebeater vest because I inexplicably seemed to have dumped my old one. Either that or someone snuck in through my open window, stole it, and is currently sat at home reading Star Trek novels with it wrapped around their head or something. I also picked up a grey sleeveless tee because I had one of those years ago and absolutely j'dored it, but also seemed to have thrown that away at some point. Weird huh? Anyway, both tops were six quid each, making them, I think you'll agree, a bloomin' bargain (even if they end up disintegrating in the wash).

I was also tempted by a vest with a palm tree and dramatic sunset on it because it reminded me of something Tyler Durden wore in Fight Club, although one swift Google reveals that it's actually nothing like anything Tyler Durden wore in Fight Club so I don't know what I was smoking back in 1999 when I saw that movie. I still might buy it though.

If anyone can actually find me a vest with 'LIVE HARD SEX' written on the front that would be just fantastic.

The day after my vest shopping extravaganza I wondered down to Westfield to try to rectify the whole 'I only own three pairs of shorts' thing, because quite frankly it's a bit awkward only owning three pairs of shorts as it leaves you having to go at least a couple of days in jeans in the hot weather - an unenviable position because not only do they get hot and sticky, but because while the upper portion of my body tans rather easily, my legs are still embarrassingly pale; it's like they were transplanted from an albino. And before you say it, I am vehemently against this whole rolling up your jeans thing that everyone seems to be doing these days; they end up looking like capri pants, and my calves are too manly and bulgy to nail that look (thank god).

Anyway, bearing in mind I'm trying to be a bit more dapper these days and my three existing pairs are all of the tres casual variety (just thought I'd throw a little French in there), I thought I might look for something a little more tailored. So I went to Topman, primarily because I am, I like to think, a top man.

An epic fail ensued, however, because I found their selection depressingly limited. Not only that, but the one pair I did pick up - which I thought were just simple black shorts - actually turned out to be a horrific pair of truncated tuxedo trousers. I kid you not, they were *short* shorts made in the style of tuxedo trousers. I was so horrified that someone might actually see me holding them and mistakenly think that I was actually considering buying them that I flung them back on the rack and hot-stepped it out of there faster than Ini Kamoze. I simply can't fathom where or when they would've been appropriate to wear. Or, bearing in mind how short they were, legal.

I think the tuxedo hotpants scarred me a little bit because I felt a bit queasy after that and had to go and sit down for a while. Because I'm such a conscientious blogger, though, I thought I'd give you the option of seeing them for yourself. Please approach with caution, however, and note that while they may look of reasonable length here, in real life even Kylie might balk at the prospect of slipping into them.

*voms in mouth a bit*

On the plus side, my vests were delivered on Friday. Curiously, though, while I ordered both in medium and the white wifebeater fits *perfectly,* the grey one is huge. So huge, in fact, that as I stood there looking at myself in the mirror, I had flashbacks to when I was about four years old and tried on some of Sparky Pa's clothes. As a result, I'll be sending that one back.

Of course, what all of this summer shopping adds up to is the fact that inevitably just as I'm baring arms and finally ready for this wonderful hot weather the sun will implode and - BAM! - autumn will arrive. Always one to look on the bright side, however, at least then I'll have a reason to go shopping for a new winter wardrobe - hopefully without fear of my eyes being assaulted by a pair of tuxedo hotpants.

Jerk off

About a month ago I received an email telling me that a comment had been left on a post I wrote back in September 2007 entitled Crotch rot. That post, for anyone who can't remember or can't be bothered to hit the link and go read it, told the thrilling tale of me having to buy a new pair of jeans to replace a pair that had developed a rather ill-placed hole in the groinal region (although you might consider it a well-placed hole if you can't be bothered, or don't have the time, to undo your trousers before going to the toilet).

Seriously, though, you should go read that post; it was vintage - a bit like the jeans.

So anyway, this comment dropped into my inbox. Comments made on old posts are more often than not spam or, even worse, spam in Chinese so I can't even read it and dream about what I would do with piles of cheap viagra, an 18 inch penis, or the money deposited into my bank account by a Nigerian prince, but this one grabbed my eye because it was a legitimate comment from a real person, albeit one named Chip Monk (although not this one - at least I don't think so anyway).

And then I read it.

"Crotch rot? Holes in the crotch area in your jeans, underwear, sweats or any other fabric that covers your genitals? Well, maybe you have the same problem I have -- I find whenever I'm sitting down in any semi-private area: at my desk, in the car, etc., my left hand mysteriously (and chronically) somehow finds its way to my penis where it habitually wants to massage the head of my penis through the cloth. Over varying amounts of time all this penis attention eventually gets the best of any clothing I wear over my groin area. Having had the problem of crotch rot for many years its my opinion that your problem may be the same as mine. I wonder if anyone will ever come up with a solution that works?"

Now, I've been accused of many things over the years, but causing the material of my clothing to disintegrate via the medium of chronic masturbation is one of the more bizarre. I mean, unless you're buying really cheap clothing from Primark I think you'd really have to be going pretty gung-ho to wear a hole in anything. Particularly denim. And in the car? Bitch, please; I can't even begin to fathom how that would work. I mean, I use my left hand to change gear - can you imagine the tailback it would cause on the dual-carriageway if you couldn't change out of first?

Don't even get me started on the "at my desk" part. I work in an open plan office - just imagine how awkward that would be:

"Call on line one for you."

"Oh, um, could you, like, maybe take a message or someth- oh shit, I've worn a hole in my trousers."

So, dear Chip Monk, if you're reading, while I'll happily admit that I have on occasion been plagued with crotch rot in my jeans, I can assure you that my problem most certainly does not originate for the same reasons as yours. As for a solution that works, maybe you should try a bowl of corn flakes, or at least sit on your hands for a while? Basically anything that gives your wiener an opportunity to recover even for a few hours is probably for the best - the poor thing is probably more chafed than an arctic explorer's cheeks.

It's gone all floppy

A few weeks ago I reported on how Sparky Ma's little cactus in a Mexican-themed earthenware pot had mutated and was on the verge of taking over the kitchen, and then, quite possibly, the world. In contrast, mine was a happy and healthy if somewhat unremarkable six inches fully erect. The cactus, I mean. Filth.

What a difference a few weeks can make, though, because while mine looked like this just at the beginning of the month…

Happy cactus

… it subsequently went like this…

Sad cactus

…And now looks like this:

Dead cactus

For some reason this last pic reminds me of the slightly squished tail of a squirrel who had an unfortunate altercation with a fast moving car. Oh, and while I'd love to claim that the steady onset of darkness in each successive photos was a subconscious attempt to portray the end of this little cactus' life, it actually had more to do with the fact that I took the last picture later in the evening and there's no flash on my iPhone.

In contrast, one of my other little cacti has actually begun going mad-bonkers crazy and growing new, um, arm-things all over the place. Between that one's sudden growth spurt and this one's sudden demise it's been a bit like the horticultural equivalent of The Picture of Dorian Gray…

What have we learnt here then? Well, not to take pictures of cacti, to be honest. It seems they have the same sort of 'it's stealing our soul!' reaction as the first dumb people who were captured on film. So, while I'd love to show you the one that's been growing like crazy, I daren't for fear I'd get home from work one day to find it's thrown itself out the window or something.

The results are in… **now with sexy update!**

…And despite my fears about this year's Richmond 10k, I, RACE NUMBER 150, GOT A NEW PERSONAL BEST: 51 minutes, six seconds!

Not only was it a new PB (as we call it in the biz), but it absolutely annihilated my previous PB from last year's run by a whole two minutes, 30 seconds!

Yo, checkout my Nike+ graph, bitches.

What does this tell you? Honestly, I don't really know, so I'm going to hazard a guess that the fact that the curve is swinging upwards means that not only was I relatively consistent in my performance, but I was actually getting faster as the run went on. Chances are if this had been a marathon I would've ultimately attained such a high speed that the Earth would've started spinning backwards like in Superman: The Movie.

Let's look at a hastily revised version of the graph from my last post.

BAM! That's how I roll. And all this with barely any prep work; next year I might not bother doing any - chances are I'd win. It's strange; the older I get, the faster I appear to run. At this rate I'm going to be the speediest pensioner in the world (which could prove rather useful when racing all the other OAPs to the Post Office to collect my pension).

Do you want some more facts? Tough, you're getting them anyway (last year's numbers are in red):

• 10k (10.08k)
• 51:06 (53:36)
• Average pace 5:06 min per km (5:18)
• 684 calories (695)

Hmmm … I'm somewhat disturbed that I busted loose less calories. Either it's a discrepancy in my Nike+ data, or I wasn't burning off last night's chicken 'n chips quite as efficiently.

Truth be told, I probably would've just nudged UNDER the 51 minute mark if it hadn't been for my conscience; coming up on the 8km mark a woman in front of me stacked it massively. For zero point six eight seconds I considered leaping over her and carrying on, but because I'm a nice fella I did stop to check she was OK. A marshall was nearby and also came running over, so in hindsight she actually stacked it in quite a good place because they only really put marshalls at junctions to make sure you don't make a wrong turn. Anyway, she was fine and soon started off again. Fortunately the incident gave me a good opportunity to get in front of her (I'd been pacing behind her for about 10 minutes) in the run-up to the finish line.

Some bullet pointed facts? I'm tired and can't be bothered to write a cohesive piece.

• Accepted a cup of water off a small boy at the halfway mark but slightly misjudged where my hand was and ended up pouring most of it over his arm. This made me laugh, but I am grateful to the small boy for his efforts. BTW, he was helping out at a water station and wasn't just some random small boy holding out a cup of water. That would've been weird.

• Got massively cut-up by some lumbering beast of a man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Bernard Bresslaw. He literally ran alongside me then stepped into my path. I was NOT happy. Got my revenge later, though, when I did the same to him (maybe not quite so aggressively though) and topped it off with a jaunty smile. You never have a top hat and cane to hand when you need them, do you?

• Overtook a midget.

• Was going to accuse the midget of cheating when I spotted it further ahead about 10 minutes after I'd overtaken it. Turns out it was a different midget. What's with all the midgets?

• The new route was … OK. Not sure if I preferred it to the old one or not. Maybe I'm just being nostalgic? Annoyingly this new course still featured two laps of one section, which is just horrifically demoralising when you realise you've been there before and remember how far you've got left to go.

• Hydrated with coconut water (people at my yoga place swear by it) before starting. At about 8:55 I suddenly realised I desperately needed a wee. The toilets were a good five minute walk away, and the race started at 9:00. Considered finding a tree, but there weren't any that didn't have any runners doing elaborate stretches against them. I thus ran the whole 10k with a full bladder, which might explain why I ran it so quickly.

• There was a kid at the start line with one of those annoying vuvuzela things that everyone is using at the World Cup. After about 30 seconds I was tempted to either a) shove it down her throat, or b) insert her little white terrier in the end of it. I was pleased to see at the finish line that her dad had confiscated it.

All in all, then I'm feeling quite chuffed about the whole thing. The only downside was that for the first time I ran the race without my regular wingman (wingwoman?) Sweatband, who couldn't make it this year.

I think she was intimidated by my awesome skillz.

Oh, and then there was the fact that unlike previous years, there were no medals for the runners. Instead we all got mugs with a Mars bar and a banana stuck in the top. At first I was all, like, WTF? But then I realised that a mug is actually far more useful to me than a medal which, while admittedly impressive and shiny, does just get shoved in a drawer afterward.

The Mars bar has been taken care of. God knows what I'm going to do with a bloody banana though.

I think that's about it - apart from the traditional sexily-dishevelled post-race picture of course.

**SEXY UPDATE!**

OK, so official times are out based on the time recorded by the chip we had to attach to our shoes (not a potato chip), and it turns out I was faster than my Nike+ data led me to believe!

*drum roll*

New official time of … 50:57 - nine seconds faster than I thought! I WAS ON FIRE!! (Not literally)

Graph-tastic

Two posts in two days? I am spoiling you.

SO. I'm running the Richmond 10k (the artist formerly known as the Dysart Dash) tomorrow. Actually, I should be finishing in almost exactly 12 hours. It's crept up on me a bit - well, a lot to be honest; so much so, in fact, that I've not harped on about it at all so far, in distinct contrast to previous years where I've procrastinated endlessly in the run-up to the, well, run.

This'll be the fifth time I've done the run (even though it's got a new name and follows a new course, so technically it's a completely different thing), and although I'm not suffering from the lingering after effects of a whiplash injury like I was last year, I've not really done *that* many practise runs until just the last couple of weeks. I am, thus, feeling horrifically a little bit unprepared.

Apart from the 2007 run, I've been a smidgeon faster each successive year. Look - I've prepared a graph to prove it:

In the time it took to draw this I could've done a fairly decent practise run.

I'd like to continue this trend, if only because I don't want to be a sweaty, staggering mess trundling across the finish line long after everyone else has packed up and gone home.

Only time will tell - CHECK BACK TOMORROW FOR THE EXCITING/TERRIBLE RESULT, BITCHES!

(Catch up on previous year's runs here, here, here, and here, if you're interested).

Where's Sparky?

I went to see Local Natives play at the Shepherds Bush Empire on Tuesday. Awesome gig by the way, and as if you needed proof I took a little video of their song Airplanes.

See: awesome. What - did you think I'd lie to you?

Anyway, as the gig was drawing to a close one of the band members took a photo of the crowd, and lo and behold it subsequently popped up on their tumblr page.

Which gave me an idea.

I nabbed a copy of the pic, fiddled around with it a bit in photoshop (they'd applied a funny filter to it to make it look a bit vintage, y'see) and … here it is:

My challenge to you, then, is to click on the above pic to embiggen it, and then see if you can find me Where's Wally-stylee. Closest guess gets a round of applause; furthest away gets ridiculed mercilessly.

Two minutes of your life you'll never get back

After four years of blogging it's come to this. Inexplicable Device demanded it, so here it is:

*hears sound of barrel being scraped*

A kettle boiling.

Oh the excitement.

Normal service will resume once we've all regained consciousness.

Woe is me

A few months back we had a visitor at work, a little old guy who came in for a meeting. About halfway through his time in the office my boss came in, strolled up to him, and said "hi, how are you?"

The little old guy then proceeded to ramble on in considerable detail about everything that was ailing him.

After about a minute my boss cut him off mid-sentence with the unforgettable line "oh well, could be worse. At least you're not dead, eh?" before strolling off to his desk.

About an hour later, shortly after the little old guy had left, my boss came over to me. "Bloody hell," he said. "I was only being polite. I didn't want to know his entire fucking life story."

The gist of this, then, is that while we all have the odd problem or two in our lives, essentially if you're still breathing something's going right for you, right?

I say this because quite frankly I don't know what deity I've upset, but I think I've done *something* wrong because ... Well, it seems like an awful lot is going wrong for me at the moment.

It all began last week with the chipped windscreen and the screwed tyre (literally). The tyre was, of course, sorted at great expense, while the chip in my windscreen was all set to be repaired on Tuesday by a man in a van who would come by Sparky Towers sometime between 8-11 in the morning. That being the case I arranged to work from home and was up bright and early.

The first sign that the day wasn't exactly going to go to plan came when I flicked the kettle on, flicked my computer on, and then stood there in startled silence as all the power went out. I went to my circuit box, flicked the breakers back on, then began to deduce what had been responsible for the outage. I did this by realising, after about two minutes, that while the light on the kettle was on, it wasn't actually boiling.

Bollocks.

Being a boy, I tapped it a couple of times, flicked the switch a few more times, then swore at it. No tea for me. I'm not a happy bunny if I don't get my early morning tea.

A short time later the windscreen repair man phoned to say that as it was raining - something that was readily apparent to me by the fact I could both see it and hear it - he might have to cancel the appointment and reschedule for another day. He promised to call me back in half an hour to let me know what he thought. Ten minutes after speaking to him the rain stopped, and the sun came out. Good times.

Unfortunately, by about one o'clock, the windscreen repair man hadn't called back, so I had to call his office to find out what the hell was going on. I had, after all, expected him sometime between 8-11, and had planned to go into work after he'd been. He eventually called me back at about half one and promised to be with me by half two.

At quarter to three the heavens opened again - quite literally as he drove down the road. "I can't do it in this weather," he moaned, before pulling out his phone and booking me in for another appointment on Friday.

"Do you not carry a little gazebo you could erect over the windscreen?" I pleaded. "Is that not too much to ask?"

In the hope that the rain might pass quickly, I began making small talk, trying anything to keep him from leaving. If I'd had a working kettle I would've made him a cup of tea. DAMN YOU, KETTLE!

Anyway, he left. Two minutes later it stopped raining. I sighed, and went to the local Tesco to buy a new kettle, where I swiftly discovered that most new kettles are either cheap looking white plastic things or vile reflective monstrosities. I bought my last one, a rounded matt-effect grey kettle, based on the fact that it looked like something used in the captain's dining room on Star Trek: Enterprise. The only one I was particularly nutty for here was a titanium effect one, but it cost 40 quid (rather more than I wanted to pay given the recent unexpected expenses I've had). Anyway/fortunately, it was out of stock.

I eventually plumped for a black one that looks a bit like Darth Vader's helmet and lights up like Voyager's war core when it's boiling water, so at least there's some kettle/Star Trek continuity there. Incidentally, the box says it's 'contemporary black,' which quite frankly is ridiculous. Black is black as far as I'm concerned. If you have light black it's just dark grey, surely? Go figure.

So with exploding kettle replaced in my affections by warp core kettle, and my anger against windscreen repair man's lack of gazebo subsiding somewhat, I came to realise that yes, essentially things could be worse. I could be a little old man with nothing better to do than list his grievances to a complete stranger in front of an office full of complete strangers.

The thing is ... bearing in mind the last two Tuesdays have each resulted in *nightmares* I'm actually beginning to dread next week.

If anyone wants me on the 15th, no doubt I'll be cowering behind a door leant up against the wall, checking to see if my home insurance covers me for Sparky Towers being annihilated by falling meteorites.

Size isn't everything, right?

As many of you know, I'm a big fan of small cacti in Mexican-themed earthenware pots (you weren't aware of this? Good grief, do catch up here, here, and here). A couple of years ago, in the wake of *sniff* the tragic passing of one of my beloved cacti, Sparky Ma took pity and bought me a replacement. She also bought one for herself, despite not really liking cacti (I think she was won over by the Mexican-themed earthenware pot - I mean, who wouldn't be?).

While I lavish mine with love and affection, Sparky Ma just leaves hers plonked on top of the microwave. That being the case, I can only assume that while mine looks like this:

Hers looks like this as the result of some ungodly mutation caused by ambient background radiation:

Either that or she's got the damn thing on steroids. How do you urine test a cactus?

The good and the bad of the holiday

My original intention this year was to be sensible and spread my 20 days holiday throughout the year with one week off in each quarter. Sensible and very grown-up, I think you'll agree.

Unfortunately the best laid plans of mice and men…

So here we are just sneaking into June and I've FINALLY got some time off. Much-needed time off, it must be said. Monday was a bank holiday, so *technically* holiday time didn't start until Tuesday. Needless to say I was well excited at the prospect of scampering around and doing my own thing.

I awoke early on Tuesday so I could head over to a yoga class taught by one of my favourite teachers. It was raining, but I could cope with it, or so I thought. In future I shall remember to pay closer attention to such signs.

Approximately seven minutes into my drive to yoga I was cut up by a Nissan Serena of all things on a dual carriageway, and about a second after that there was a loud cracking sound and a rather beguiling star-shaped pattern appeared on my windscreen. I have never seen a stone actually chip a windscreen like that; I thought that was the sort of old wives tale that Autoglass repairmen told naughty drivers to make sure they didn't misbehave.

Huffing, I nevertheless pressed on.

Yoga was excellent, thanks for asking.

I later called Autoglass to arrange for a man in a van to come out and repair the chip (going by their "is it larger or smaller than a two-pound coin?" line of questioning apparently it is repairable). Unfortunately the closest available time they can come out to do it is next Tuesday. At one point the guy accidentally said the "8th of August" at which point I almost had an aneurysm.

Shortly after that I popped off to get my haircut. It looks lovely, thanks for asking (initially it was a bit anime-style, but today it's more Brad Pitt in Inglorious Basterds; I can live with either look, quite frankly).

After arriving home again I decided to call Sparky Ma about something or other; I can't remember what, but knowing me it probably had something to do with having seen an adorable looking cat. So I'm standing by my car chatting aways when ohmygodwhatthehellisthat!?

Turns out it was a big eff-off screw embedded in my front tyre. By this point I just wanted to go inside, sit on the sofa and power through about 18 episodes of Gilmore Girls, but the slightly more rational part of my brain (yes, it does exist) suggested that I probably ought to go and get it seen to.

Yes, probably best.

So I jump back in Clubbie and head off to the tyre place. Now, Clubbie has a tyre pressure warning system that tells me when it's got a puncture, and that wasn't registering anything so I began thinking that maybe the screw had missed the delicate inner workings of the tyre (I'm not totally sure what's inside a tyre other than air, but I'm sure they must have something delicate like ovaries or a spleen) and it might just be repairable with a … I don't know, puncture repair kit?

The lovely people at the tyre place whipped Clubbie in very quickly and I went and sat in a waiting room with lots of other bored men watching a program about big and powerful machines presented by James May on Dave. Well, I pretended to watch it; mostly I was surreptitiously tweeting about a middle-aged couple who I suspected were on the verge of heading to the toilets for some risky and quite frankly icky tyre shop toilet sex.

After about 10 minutes someone called out "Gentleman with the Clubman!" I then proceeded to sit there looking around for a couple of seconds before literally saying "Oh that's me!" and jumping up to head over to the front desk.

"Yes, there was a big screw stuck in your tyre, but it wasn't leaking," the man said to me.

"Oh good!" I replied.

"And then we pulled it out and it started leaking quite badly."

"Oh."

And that's basically how I ended up spending a rather unexpected £156 on a new tyre (yes I know that's a lot of money for a tyre; they're runflats - the cost is outweighed somewhat by the fact that I can keep driving on it while it's flat, waving regally like the Queen at those unfortunate peasants sitting by the side of the road changing their own tyres).

An hour later I retreated a little light-headedly (and somewhat drained financially) to Sparky Ma and Pa's for a rejuvenating cup of tea, and from there home, where I basically barricaded myself inside with my iPad and a Gilmore Girls boxset.

-----

Aside from the financial aspect, sucky Tuesday was offset by awesome Wednesday, a day on which the sun was shining gloriously and Sparky Ma and I hit Kingston for a day out shopping. I can't say I spent too much money, but a lovely time was had - and I was a little tempted by some rather unusual items.

Gross enough that I was seriously tempted. Although the salty chocolate strays dangerously close to South Park territory.

£5.25p for a bag of 10 glow sticks. Seriously tempting, my friends.

Soap Nuts or Dolly Washer Balls? Sometimes you're just spoilt for choice.

Surely it would just be easier to put on some lippy and flutter your eyelids, but the question still remains: why on Earth would you want to attract wasps?

Oh, of course. Silly me.

And to top it off, as a result of the latest post from everyone's least favourite witch, I sought out the new Star Trek novel Unspoken Truth to indeed confirm that I make an appearance on page 309 as a Vulcan high priestess.

I'm a pointy-eared priestess!

-----

That's not to say that there wasn't a mild bit of Grrrrr-ing on Wednesday, however. Upon returning home from Kingston, I glanced down at my new tyre. When I bought Clubbie one of the smaller details that I was particularly proud of was the fact that it had really quite nice shiny valve caps on the tyres. Turns out that when they changed the tyre on Tuesday, though, they threw the proverbial baby out with the bath water by junking the shiny valve cap with the old tyre and replacing it with a cheap black plastic one that quite frankly was the sort of thing I'd expect to find on a Perodua Nippa.

I sighed upon making this discovery. But then DECIDED TO GET PROACTIVE.

I phoned the tyre place, and basically said "find my shiny valve cap. Now."

They had a look, but understandably they'd accumulated quite a mountain of busted tyres since the previous day so it was a bit like finding a needle in a haystack, although without the actual 'finding' bit.

On the plus side, they invited me down and replaced all four valve caps with brand new uber-shiny ones FREE OF CHARGE.

And that, dear reader, is the happy ending to this post.

My iPad is awesome

Usually when writing a blog post I try to come up with a witty pun on words to use as the title; sometimes they're funny, sometimes they're smutty, sometimes they're rubbish. But for this post I've decided to go with something that is simple and effective - because my iPad IS awesome.

I've been foaming at the mouth with desire for an iPad since they were first announced back in January, and just when I thought I was days away from getting my hands on one in April I then had to endure another month of buttock-clenching anticipation because of unexpectedly high demand for them in the U.S. (damn you yankees!).

But then, finally, on May 10th I was at last able to pre-order my iPad. I was a happy bunny, although the days between pre-ordering and actually getting it were quite frankly among the longest of my life … although maybe not quite as long as I'd initially thought they would be…

Y'see, last Wednesday I just happened to click the 'Track your order' button on the Apple website and it said that my order would be delivered on the 27th. Yes, the 27th, just as I'd been tol- Wait a sec! The 27th?! That's the day before the UK iPad launch! I almost EXPLODED with excitement, and subsequently went to bed very early in anticipation (it felt like Christmas Eve).

So on the 27th I got up early, raced into work, and sat at my desk pretending to be busy all the while keeping a beady eye fixed firmly down the stairs at the front door. And that's how I remained for about four hours. At one I headed out to lunch, walking through the backstreets of Hammersmith with said beady eye now on the lookout for the UPS delivery van.

I returned to the office an hour later: NOTHING.

I harumphed, and got back to work (ish). And then I heard the front door open: it was a man in brown. I raced downstairs, looked at the UPS guy and shouted "YOU'RE MY HERO!" (I'm not writing that for comic effect, I seriously did). He was obviously used to such insanity on this day and replied "yeah, I've heard that a lot today!" I almost hugged him. I almost gave him a KitKat, and lord knows I do not part with my KitKats easily.

The iPad arrives! (the envelope on top is a separate package containing the iPad case I also ordered)

I'd already made the decision that, as you need to connect your iPad to your iTunes to zip all your goodies across (music, video, apps, etc), I wasn't actually going to get it out in the office. Also, it would've been a massive distraction and I was WELL busy. And I didn't want all my colleagues getting their grubby finger marks all over it.

I did, however, tease myself because I'm naughty.

COME TO DADDY!

The excitement at having received my iPad the day before its actual launch was bittersweet, however, as while I would've loved to have shot home at warp speed to start playing with it, I actually had a prior engagement that evening - a family outing to see John Mayer in concert at Wembley Arena.

And so I boxed iPad up and headed off to meet the fam.

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An aside:

John Mayer was very good.

The things that man can do with a guitar. Let's just say that Jessica Simpson and Jennifer Anniston are VERY lucky ladies.

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Anyway, after dropping Sparky Ma and Pa home at quarter past midnight, I headed home. And while any sane man would've popped straight off to bed, I decided that I would CRACK OPEN MY iPAD!

Quite frankly because it would've been rude not to. And, of course, I even took the time to document it!

Notice how I framed this image to look a bit like the obelisk from 2001: A Space Odyssey (unintentionally).

I *heart* Apple packaging - it's so minimalistic and devoid of bulky stuff you've then got to throw out.

FINALLY - IT'S WITHIN MY GRASP! The iPad actually appears a bit smaller than you'd imagine it to be, but that's not a complaint - it feels so very right in your hand.

How perfect, minimalist, and so utterly right does the design of this thing look? It truly is like something off of Star Trek.

Zipping my stuff over. Within 15 minutes of getting it out of the box I'd popped some movies, music, photos, and apps (all the ones I'd listed in my earlier post) on my iPad. All my contacts, calendars, notes and settings synced seamlessly too.

Just for completists sake, here's the box for the case.

While I don't use a case for my iPhone now, I did think it was wise to use some form of protection for my iPad. I went with Apple's own case because I liked the design of it, and I figured they'd know better than anyone what's best for the gadget they created.

Some people have dismissed the iPad as being nothing more than an oversized iPod Touch, but I can say this: they clearly haven't used one. Yes, it uses Apple's iPhone OS, but it's so much more than just a bigger version of the iPhone/iPod Touch. I literally lost four hours to surfing the internet on it on Friday evening; websites I've been reading for years suddenly seemed new and exciting again as my fingers - not just one finger like I'd use on my iPhone - but all my fingers danced across that beautiful vibrant screen, hitting links, starting videos, zooming in on pictures - and the iPad kept up with the incredible pace of my discoveries, loading pages every bit as quickly as my iMac does.

The onscreen keyboard that pops up when you want to enter text is just brilliant, my initial hesitancy in tapping out words quickly giving way to touch-typing just as quickly and efficiently (for me, anyway) as I would if I were using a regular keyboard. Seriously, how long before Apple introduce a multitouch keyboard, or at the very least an app that lets me use my iPad as one?

Oh, and apps … lovely apps. I'm currently obsessed by this:

And, of course, all my existing iPhone apps work on the iPad too, either in an iPhone-sized window in the middle of the screen, or by using the double-pixel option that boosts them up to fill all the available space; admittedly when using this option they're not quite as gorgeous to look at as an iPad-specific app, but they're still perfectly usable.

I'll also be using my iPad to read my very first eBook (or as Apple call it, iBook) at some point, having downloaded my complimentary copy of Winnie-the-Pooh.

To sum up, then, I'm amazed by this device. Since I got it I've barely turned on my iMac (seriously, any comments I've left on blogs, Facebook, or Twitter over the last few days have all been done on my iPad), and I love that I can sit curled up on the sofa or in bed and reply to emails, surf the net, or play games.

But there is one slight downside…

…my iPhone feels *really* tiny and just a little bit clunky now.

A spooky coinky-dink

I've had Clubbie for the best part of 14 months now, give or take a few days and two weeks when it was in Mini hospital. If you ask me which of the three Minis I've owned is my favourite, 99 percent of the time I'll say Clubbie; it's a distinctive-looking little motor, every bit as enjoyable to own and drive as my previous ones, economical, and *gasp!* reasonably practical for a young chap around town such as myself.

The other one percent is reserved for my two previous Minis because they were awesome cars and I loved them to bits.

Giving up my Cooper S (known affectionately as 'Min' in real life, and often referred to as the Sparky Mobile here) last year was little bit tough, truth be told, although the feeling passed as soon as I sat in Clubbie for the first time as its owner. I'd promised myself that I wouldn't watch the guy who brought Clubbie down from Cheshire drive off up the road on his way back to the Midlands with my Cooper S, but I totally did. I'd had the car over five years - longer than any other car I've owned - and I was sad to see it go after so many years of faithful service.

I consoled myself by saying that because it was heading up north I'd likely never see it again.

And then yesterday morning I got the following text from Sparky Ma:

Number plate photoshopped out to protect the innocent, obviously.

I read it about three times before replying simply "yes!"

"It's parked in Tesco's car park," Sparky Ma fired back.

I was stunned. Surely this couldn't be true? A car I sold over a year ago to a dealership in Cheshire ending up not five minutes away from the very house where it used to live? Sparky Ma must've misread the number plate or something.

And then she sent me this.

And there was no denying it. It was my last car. Apparently it's the automotive equivalent of a homing pigeon.

The artist formerly known as the Sparky Mobile on November 14th, 2003 - the day I took delivery of it.

Seeing it again came as something of a shock. I was always surprised that I'd never seen my first Mini again after trading it in as I had, after all, just taken it back to the local dealer where I'd bought it in the first place. But no, not a hide nor hair in the seven years since I bid it adieu. Here, though, was a car I'd sold to a dealership almost 200 miles away. I couldn't stop staring at the photo, and I'm not ashamed to say that I felt a little bit wistful at the sight of it; not because I regret buying Clubbie - not at all! - but because this was my car; it was built to my spec, I paid for it, I looked forward to owning it from the day I put the deposit down in September 2003 and I loved it right up until the moment I traded it in for Clubbie in 2009. I still have a special place for it in my heart … and here it is again, but now it belongs to somebody else.

Do they treat it well, I wondered? Do they love owning it as much as I did? It looks clean and shiny - that's an indication that they look after it, right? Sparky Ma said that if she hadn't been in a rush she would've hung around for a while to see if she could meet the new owner. I would've loved that. I was content with the idea of never seeing it again, but now I know it's around I want to find out what it's been up to over the last year.

I might start hanging around Tesco's car park in the hope that I can recreate this photo from the day I headed to Cheshire to test drive Clubbie last year.

Oh, joy

Don't roll your eyes in disgust when I say this, but I'm going to talk about cars, OK? I said don't roll your eyes; especially not across the floor towards me - you know how that freaks me out. Put them back in and pay attention.

So yes, I'm going to talk about cars (I will, of course, do it in my usual wry style; failing that I'll pop a cock joke in at the end).

It all started when I was driving to work in Clubbie when a little red light flashed on to indicate that it needed a service. It proceeded to come on every day for the next five days I Immediately leapt into action and called the dealer to book it in, and was told they could do it two days later. Because I need to get to work, though, I said I would need a courtesy car. I was then told they could do it about four weeks later.

Fine.

I was then told that my courtesy car would be a BMW 1-Series, a car I've always wanted to drive because quite frankly it's the next logical step if I ever feel I outgrow Minis.

And then, thinking about how I'd like to drive a 1-Series round for the entire day rather than just to and from work, I decided to take the day off, thus negating the actual need for a courtesy car to enable me to get to work.

Welcome to my brain.

Anyway, today comes (obviously) and I'm so excited that I get up really early, have a cup of tea, and shoot over to the dealers ASAP to get Clubbie in quickly and head off for some fun in the 1. The handover goes very quickly, and the guy says to me "your courtesy car is parked round the side of the building."

"Great!" I say, snatching the key off him and legging it out the door. Of course, being a BMW it doesn't actually have a key - rather a little plastic thing that looks like a spaceship that you need to dock with a slot in the dash. Basically just another excuse for me make spaceship noises as I fly it into an imaginary spacedock, then. And, of course, being well-versed with this keyless business now, there would obviously be no repeat of the embarrassing "how do you start the car?" incident from when I had a 5-Series a few years back.

So I head outside, round the corner and there - oh, (in finest Cockney-rhyming slang terms) you are having a giraffe.

Now, I've never driven a billboard before, especially one emblazoned with the word JOY in a rather uninspiring looking typeface, but while I momentarily thought about stepping back into the dealership and hoofing the key-thingy back at the chap who gave it to me while shouting "I WILL NOT DRIVE ANY FORM OF PROPAGANDA REGARDLESS OF HOW GOOD THE CAR IS OR HOW VERY MUCH I WANT TO DRIVE IT AND ENJOY IT!" the thought of then having to phone Sparky Ma and saying "I'm stranded in West Drayton, could you come and get me please?" meant that I just sucked it up, looked past the stickers, and got in the car.

The first thing that struck me was that the previous driver must've been a T-Rex or something, because the chair was all the way back and the steering wheel was right in my face. After sorting that out, I very gingerly set out.

Within a few minutes I felt very much at home in the 1-Series. One of the displays was identical to that found in Minis, which meant I understood exactly how little petrol they'd given me (14 miles worth - I could spit more), and while it was the least powerful engine in the range (a 1.6) it was pokey enough and actually quite rapid. Compared to the VW Golf I had last year when Clubbie was off the road, I'd actually say (in contrast to many of the car magazines that I've read) that I preferred the 1. Now admittedly it wasn't as big as the Golf - I'd actually say it was really no more spacious than Clubbie inside - and it had a curiously small glovebox and oddly-shaped rear doors, but the way it pootled around town was more involving and, well, fun. It also had very comfortable seats, with had the added bonus of a strange extendible thigh-supporting thingy - a bit like an automotive lazy-boy, I guess, but without the potential for flinging your legs in the air while you're doing 70mph on the M4.

Note strange extendible thigh-supporting thingy at the forward edge of the driver's seat; the passenger side one is RETRACTED. While I was playing around with it (while the car was parked, I hasten to add) I set it to its maximum reach, which pretty much lifted my feet clear of the pedals.

But while I thoroughly enjoyed the 1-Series, it only reinforced once more why I like Minis so much. For a car that's roughly the same size, around the same price, and with a similarly powerful engine as Clubbie, the 1 was remarkably different in character. Driving a Mini is a bit like having an enthusiastic terrier on the end of a lead - it's characterful, always darting about, and making you smile; you change gear quickly and often - like it's shouting "THIRD, NO WAIT, FOURTH, C'MON CHANGE!" The 1 felt more chilled out; I'd hit about 45mph on the motorway and it felt like some business dude in a suit kicking back and loosening his tie - "yeah, what, like, sixth gear? Yeah sixth, why not?"

So at the end of the day I was more than happy to have Clubbie back, clean, shiny, and fully serviced. They even added a bit of that stuff that makes your tyres look showroom fresh (or greasy, depending on your point of view).

And to top it all off, I finally got round to buying the new BMW iPhone cable that charges my iPhone 3GS while I drive. HAPPY. DAYS. INDEED.

Post over, and no cock jokes. I shall let you insert your own.

Mini me, you complete me

So it's that day. Well, actually it's rather late on that day because I got caught up doing other things earlier such as going to yoga, hoovering, taking a long relaxing soak in the tu-

Sorry, I digress.

Where was I? Ah, yes: it's that day - the day I crown the victor of THE OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE competition.

Let's not fanny about then, and crack on with the entries, eh?

1. Princess

Princess was first out of the starting gates with an adventure set in a jungle, and concluding with me chillaxing between satin sheets in a giant bed pondering what my next epic jaunt would be. Princess dressed this particular OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE in a mix of pink and yellow which, while retina-searingly vibrant and perfect for a walk-on spot in Sex and the City 2 (I'll give those leathery old hags a run for their money, just you watch me!), probably isn't the the most practical attire for a jungle hike.

BONUS POINTS: Nice use of additional points of articulation in the OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE.

2. Cyberpete

Cyberpete decked his OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE in some sort of shimmering frock (much like Vina from Star Trek's original pilot episode, 'The Cage,' but without the awkward hump-back), and then set it to work helping him assemble a vast TV. Again, like Princess' entry, I'm not sure Pete fully thought out the practicalities of this choice of clothing; real Tim has some paint-splattered trackies ready for any DIY-type duties. Still, the TV is up and running and looks great, so I'll just shut the hell up.

BONUS POINTS: Quality enhancing of the original OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE with a unique facial image - a rather horrific photo that I'm not quite sure how Pete got his hands on. The end result looks a bit like something out of South Park, which pleases me.

MINUS POINTS: For lulling me into thinking he'd posed me next to a picture of Lauren Graham as Lorelai Gilmore, then shocking me with the revelation that it was actually Sandra Bullock in some god-awful rom-com. I would've been OK with Sandra Bullock circa Speed, or at a push, Speed 2: Cruise Control.

3. Inexplicable Device

Those poor, poor OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURES. I dread to think how they've been mistreated by everyone's favourite Norwich-based witch. Still, in his attempt, IDV pandered to a) my ego, by adapting his first OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE with a physique I'm trying to work toward much like my own, and b) my love of Star Trek. Not only that, but the action is continuing in a third entry (note to self: this sentence needs rephrasing), where my scantily-clad duplicates and I are fending off hordes of advancing jelly babies, which is uncanny because I actually do *hate* jelly babies. Seriously, if you ever offer me a jelly baby, chances are I'll thump you and stamp on them. What weirdo had the idea to encourage people to eat small gelatin children!?

BONUS POINTS: You had me at the Star Trek uniform.

MINUS POINTS: I'm slightly freaked out by my duplicate with the tiny head. Strike that: I'm massively freaked out by it. It reminds me of the end scene of Beetlejuice.

4. Tara

For her entry in the OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE competition Tara decked me out in an orange and purple ensemble, and sent me off bungee jumping. Now, I'd love to actually be able to tell people that I've done a bungee jump, but the thought of tying an elastic band to my ankles and throwing myself off a platform just horrifies me, so Tara's actually done me a huge favour and saved me the hassle: good times! I'm loving the setting of this entry, the action shots, and quite frankly I just look awesomely chilled out and hardcore in the last photo where I've gathered up my shoelace bungee cord and am heading off home (undoubtedly to do more awesome things).

BONUS POINTS: Some nice, subtle folding of the OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE (seen here) adds some much-needed dimension to my cardboard self.

So I should adopt my best pouty thoughtful/pensive expression and choose a winner, eh? Well … no. I don't want to. They're all awesome, and it would be like picking which of your children you prefer - or asking Emperor Palpatine to pick his favourite Stormtrooper. Anyway, bless you all for entering and making this a fair-to-middling rousing success!

T-minus 18 days

The time I've been waiting for is almost upon us. Mark this date in your diaries, people: May 28th.

That's the day I'll be getting my iPad.

On Friday Apple announced the UK release date and pricing for their latest lust-worthy piece of tech, and today *finally* I was able to submit my pre-order. Seriously, Apple's really been playing like the beautiful girl who keeps teasing but won't put out with me on this one. Until now (insert Sid James-style "heh heh").

"So, Tim," I hear you all saying. "Which iPad are you going to get?"

Well, dear reader, I've decided to go for the 64gb wi-fi version. Wi-fi version - not the wi-fi + 3G? No. And, not because I have to explain myself to you anyway, but here's why: basically, I can't really envisage a time when I'd desperately need to jump on the tinternet on my iPad when I'm not in or near to a wi-fi zone. Even if I do I'll always have my iPhone with me, so it's kind of a moot point; I might as well save the extra £100 and spend it all on addictive apps instead (like Angry Birds on the iPhone, which I'm ridiculously obsessed with at the moment).

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An aside:

I've actually already started compiling a list of iPad-specific apps I want:

Real Racing HD £5.99

Geometry Wars: Touch £5.99

Sketchbook Pro £4.99

Worms HD £2.99

Minigore HD £2.99

Look, it's the font from the iPhone notes app; no, I wasn't kidding - I've got a list on my iPhone and I just copied and pasted it here. To make it even sadder I've actually got some iTunes credit and the iPad apps are already available in the UK store. I think I might buy them IN ADVANCE.

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As for the memory size, I've decided to splash out on the biggest one possible because why should you have a small one if you can have a big one?

To top it off the release date coincides with my last day at work before a planned week off, so I'll have plenty of time to get acquainted with my new toy. What's the betting I'll have worn the glass down to nothing in just a few days with all my multi-touch action?

I'm *so* excited.

You, me, 28th May. Kissy kissy sexy face.

Awesome things #1

Starbucks Doubleshot chilled espresso and milk IN A CAN. It's creamy, it's dreamy, it's a smidgeon more expensive than I think it should be, but I sense a new addiction forming regardless.

If you find me rolling around in a gutter with a rubber hose tied round my arm pouring one of these over my head, please get me help ASAP.

The post in which my childhood comes back to haunt me

At some point in the last few months or so (I'm literally *that* lazy that I can't be bothered to go back and find out exactly when) I happened to mention that I'd tried writing my own comic strip when I was a kid.

So exciting was the prospect of seeing these remarkable historical documents (think something along the lines of a finding a lost Mark Twain story) that one or two hundreds of you demanded I dig them out, scan them in, and post them for your reading pleasure. Unfortunately, I then revealed that I'd probably thrown them away at some point between popping zits and wondering what the hell was going on *down there* in the midst of my tumultuous teenage years.

I giveth, and I taketh away.

But then, just the other week, I popped over to see Sparky Ma and Pa, and Sparky Pa did that thing he occasionally does when he's been rummaging around in the loft for no apparent reason. He said "I found some things you might want to have a look through."

The last time he said this he handed me a load of old school books as if my Year 9 French class would still be of relevance to the me of 2010. Bless him, but it was not. Tres bon!

Anyway, this time around he dumped this folder in my hands literally just as I was about to flee walk out the door and said it actually had some stuff I should probably keep. Sighing loudly and tossing my head like an emo I said I'd take a quick look, despite the fact that the word 'IRELAND' was confusingly emblazoned across the front of the folder.

Turns out that it included my GCSE results, stuff from my work experience, and a handful of drawings done by teenage me. I won't tell you what they all were because some of them will serve me well when I'm going through a blogging creative dry spell and need some tat to post might make rather exciting blog posts in the future. And then I found them and my heart sunk because I knew I'd have to post them here: the complete set of Mits strips. Sparky Pa chuckled as he saw me wondering why the hell I hadn't destroyed them all those years ago looking at them. "Ha! You could put those on your blog," he said.

"Um, yeah," I replied, as if this was right up there with Bill Watterson finding a handful of lost Calvin and Hobbes strips.

So, without further, or indeed any, ado, I present to vous (damn, that Year 9 French DID come in handy!) the complete Mits!

So there you have it. An epic five-strip long blast of genius. As you can see, I never resolved Mits' story arc. Teenage me would probably have kept it light and fluffy with more carnivorous penguin and vegetarian polar bear gags, whereas if you asked me to devise a dénouement (geez, there I go again) for it now I'd probably go all dark and dystopian and just have a single panel showing a blood-covered icy vista and leave the reader to come to their own conclusions as to whether Mits escaped the cull.