I like sport. It just doesn’t like me.
I like sport. It just doesn’t like me. Back in Montgomery High School’s pre-Academy days I was good at anything that involved jumping – mostly because I jumped at my own shadow.
High jump, long jump, hurdling, cross country running with mildly threatening cows at strategic points – no problem. Netball, tennis, fair. Badminton- goodminton.
But mention squash and I’d go looking for barley water.
Now I’ve become a born again golfer. Or more specifically a guerrilla golfer, sneaking onto local parks after dark for a bit of putting practice, your honour.
The way I play I’m likely to get arrested for loitering. But at least it takes the courting couples’ minds off booze once they find the bottle to heckle me instead.
There’s a driving range within walking range but some neighbours go there and I’d hate them to realise I’m the one who’s driving Nike Women’s Power Distance balls into the dog’s drinking bowl... in the hope of a bowl in one.
On a beautiful balmy night with beautifully barmy colleagues I opted out of rounders – a game I loved – because the last time I played it a girl who made Brienne of Tarth look like Shakira turned it into a grudge match and set about my ankles with her bat.
This week I wimped out of Race for Life yet again but I may muster the nerve to try Ride the Lights in August as I’m back in the bike saddle.
The problem is I have only three gears and am scared to use one of them in case the sudden change ejects the bags of chips out of the basket on the front of my nanny bike.
My idea of cycling generally involves only going out on sunny mornings and cycling to a seafront cafe which sells bacon butties. Just to have a coffee, you understand.
There’s a good one at Fleetwood and another near the Gynn. Easy rider range of Norbreck, too, apart from that bloody hill outside my old primary school. I used to run up it years ago.
I’ve also got hooked on Le Tour de France. I’ve become a couch pomme frite watching at every available moment.
Initially this came down to the Grand Depart including such places as Cote de Blubberhouses.
I tried to avoid all spoiler updates but got back from a media workshop in Manchester to the news “Froome’s out and Boom’s won”.
Of course, the real reason I’m watching is for Marcel Kittel.
What a cutie. That smile, those eyes, those... even the Duchess of Cambridge did a sneaky double take.
So why the heck do we have to put up with Beckham silently smirking through the latest Sky Sports 5 plug – when women everywhere are turning on to the other side of the Channel?
Kittel could borrow my razor to shave his legs any day.
Now a change of gear, from the Tour de France to Tour de Finance.
On Sunday, Blackpool accountant David Wells and six Danbro colleagues cycle from Manchester to Blackpool to raise funds for The Christie.
They are £25 off their £500 target.
That’s for 60 miles. I usually let them do the sums but by my reckoning it’s £8.33 recurring per mile or £1.19 per cyclist per mile.
Someone who’s donated via JustGiving says The Christie gave her 11 extra years with her mum. It gave me 46 extra years with mine, 32 when she went in and now 78.
It gave my dad three extra years. I gave £10 – but you can’t really put a value on it.
What a Messi... who’s the Suarez now?
I’m a fervent footie fan but it’s left me cold since England got
unceremoniously booted from the World Cup – and one of my own team’s players featured in the most ignominious incident.
Who’s Suarez now?
Well, the little chap with the Doddy gnashers must have done for sales of joke vampire fangs at five-a-side matches what referees did for sales of shaving foam after using “vanishing” spray to keep defensive walls at bay.
The sprays looked like Mace and that could come in time if the likes of Suarez remain role models for our kids.
At the previous World Cup they were diving like Ronaldo. Now it’s all about moving like Jagger.
Frankly, the Argentina-Netherlands match redefined “Messi” until the penalty shoot out – although it was nowhere near as dreary as England’s snore draw with Costa Rica.
There were times I looked at the lack of precision passing between the players in orange shirts and thought I was watching Blackpool FC inaction.
Sorry, in action.
Until I remembered the Seasiders only have eight contracted players...