The weather may still be shit but even so, it's nearly time to start taking some outdoor exercise.  I've signed up to do the London to Brighton bike ride in June.  I think I've already wittered on about arriving in Brighton with a sore arse but I'm old now and am allowed to repeat myself.  Sponsor me or I'll continue to repeat this 'joke'. 

I've done a bit of running. Instead of an MP3 player, I listen to the thwat-thwat-thunk of moobs and beer-belly knocking together when I run. The trick is moobs is to get them small enough to hide but big enough to play with.  There's almost certainly a Jimmy Saville joke in there somewhere but I guess it's too early.

Not strictly exercise but I went Karting recently.  I was rubbish of course - some of those corners were so tight, the nodding dog looked like something from the Exorcist.

What I hadn't expected was how hard the steering was.  The force needed to turn the steering wheel was eye-popping and by the time I'd done fifteen minutes of right-hand circuits, my right arm was more tired than it was the day I got broadband.

After the Karting we went for a pleasant curry.  The combined effect of the Karting and the curry meant that I spent the next day with a sore right arm and a sore tradesmans entrance.  At least, I assume it was the Karting and curry - I could simply have been Rohypnol'd and taken to a reacharound party.

And now we've done Karting, the next thing is Paintball. I did paintballing for my stag night.. It hurts like a bastard and I finished up covered in bruises.  During my speech at the wedding I was able to offer my new bride "something large purple and throbbing in my pants - although sadly it's just a bruise on my arse". 

I had to do a long motorway drive recently. It'd been a long time since my last long journey and so I'd forgotten what a shower of bastards Britains' drivers are.   Bloody tailgaters- surely the only way to deal with these fuckers is to have a large illuminated sign in the rear window that says "If I'd wanted an ugly bloke up my arse, I'd have gone to your favourite nightclub".

One behaviour type I'd not seen before were the arm-resters.  Large numbers of male drivers resting their right arms on the window sill of the drivers door.  How could so many men have tired right arms?  I can only suppose that there is a large subculture of men who meet up in motorway services to play massive games of Australian Biscuit, probably using one of those huge, over-priced Starbucks cookies. Are these men members of Cookie Club?   Due to the first two rules of Cookie Club, we'll never truly know. 

Interestingly, until very recently, the Australians insisted that Australian Biscuit should be called English Biscuit. However, since their piss-poor Olympic performance, they have adopted it as their national sport and are now pushing for it to be adopted as an Olympic event for Rio 2016. It could be the only medal they stand a chance of winning. Unless BMW drivers put in a team.