The diet is underway, but along with this comes the need to “be more active”. Yawn. This is the bit that really gets on my tits. For two reasons.

One, I am naturally very, very shit at anything related to, or pertaining of the engagement in sport. I’m not physically awkward or anything. I can dance. I have rhythm. Yet, try and apply myself to sport of any kind and my body betrays me. Brain and body cease to be friends and body wins, leaving brain and I embarrassed, while we are pointed at and ridiculed. And rightly so. It’s a laughable sight. Always has been. From skinny teen to wobbly, lady lump endowed adult.

Two, the inexhaustibly patronising evangelism that pours forth from the habitually active when you mention that you’re going to get your ass into gear. (And perhaps, disturbingly revealing lycra. Can anyone say, “Camel Toe”?) It’s really touching that people want you to do well, and are genuinely supportive. Yet, when it’s something that you’re naturally a bit of a fuck up at, then it can be a little bit annoying. Largely because I’m oversensitive about it and a little defensive… because I can’t help thinking it will end up in either disaster or more pointing & laughing.

You might say, “Well done you, you’ll be great”, but I hear, “Well done you for making a really fucking basic decision and understanding that your arse will become considerably smaller if you get off it. What are you? Really, what the mothering fuck are you?” It’s really a genuine case of, it’s not you, it’s me. I’m a bit of a raging fuckwit at times. I can admit that.

However, because I’m a grown up now (apparently) I need to get over myself and take the well wishing for what it is. People caring.

And, I was going to keep this to myself for a little while longer -- until such a time as I can run for the length of Pounding without expecting a lung to voluntarily eject itself from my body via my nasal passage -- but I’ve decided to give myself a deadline to get my ass into gear by.

So, along with my brilliant and amazingly encouraging best-bud, Jules, I’m going to run the Flora Women’s Mini-Marathon in June. 10 kilometres. 6 miles. 2 gobby women.

The Couch to 10k app has been downloaded. Running threads have been bought and beds have been left early to allow for pre-work sessions. Charities, for there will be one of those annoying donation pages set up, have yet to be finally decided (I’m not allowed to run for Tourette’s according to Jules, but I think that’d be ace).

Anyhoo, the game is afoot.

Now, if someone could have an ambulance on standby, come June 5th that’d be ace. Just look for the curly haired bird running like Phoebe on crack.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=6pttqFUviWs

Step One: Put on an anti-drugs T-shirt, rejected by the writers of Grange Hill

Step Two: Don a pair of “flasher” shorts. Seriously, almost every time I’ve been flashed, (which is bizarrely a lot more than most other people I know; make of that what you will) they were wearing satin shorts

Step Three: Paint your face to look like a smacked out clown; we’ll call him, “Spliffy the Clown”

Step Four: Hold onto a crying baby and ensure that every time they close their eyes, the disturbing image of you is burned into their retinas forever.

Step Five: Take a picture & record the moment for posterity, and y’know, just in case the nightmares ever look like stopping.

It’s good to know your limitations.

Along with rap star, I always knew that several things were out of my reach: nurse for only having very limited amounts of sympathy; nanny because I don’t like children really, or rather I don’t like the children I have no personal connection with (not that kind of personal connection!); artist, for being generally a bit cack-handed and lacking in artistic thought and also, perhaps somewhat linked to the rap star thing was being a human beat box.

It’s good to know your limits.

Maybe someone should’ve told this guy:

Worst Beatboxer Ever – Watch more Funny Videos

Or not; because he just made me laugh more than anything else in recent days (except for Stephen coining the term “riding the pigeon”). Yeah, yeah, I know, in joke alert.

Have to say thanks to the guys at Big Mental Disease for finding this gem too. Go and visit their site. Funny it is!

I’m also still getting people defending the bollocks that is PUAs & “The Game”. Apparently, though, “Megadirt” thinks he guy who called me a retard was accurate, but just worded his thoughts badly…

FUCKWIT*

NB – I’m pretty sure this is well-worded though. (Fuckwit. Defn: Someone who despite constant failure, is unable to learn from these transgressions. Continues to do foolish and irritating things, which aggravate many people. They are not only a halfwit, but also significantly fucked in the head. Hence the term fuckwit)

www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yr0_iCohyhw

I’m not going to argue the rights or wrongs of same sex marriage here, it’s a weighty issue and frankly, this blog is supposed to be a light-hearted bit of nonsense.

What I will point out though, is that they think that allowing same-sex marriage somehow puts heterosexual marriages at risk. Now, someone could marry a their dog, or a fucking Real Doll for all I care, and it would have absolutely no bearing upon whether or not I decided that marriage was for me.

Personally I just think they’re worried that all those “gay folk” are going to out-do us straight types with more tasteful, better dressed, and more long-lasting marriages. That’s the real risk as far as I can see – gay men & women just being more successful at marriage than the rest of us, as frankly, we’re not doing tremendously well at it currently, what with almost 50% of marriages currently ending in divorce.

But, it seems I’m not alone in thinking that the NOM PSA is pretty riseable…

www.youtube.com/watch?v=HGYEDzOVsxA

Now, I don’t know about you, but I have absolutely no desire to see a 50 year old woman flashing her crotch to all & sundry. And for those that do, I’m pretty sure there are specialist publications and websites that you can avail yourselves of which will give you er, more of what you want.

Apparently Madonna & Marc Jacobs think I’m wrong though. They think it’s exactly the kind of thing you should be looking at. Regard.

Seriously like, wtf?!!?! Evoking “Old Hollywood”?!? My arse! I don’t remember Bette Davis thrusting her ladygarden at the camera in All About Eve, or Rita Hayworth showing her wares to such a degree in Gilda, and jeez, she played a stripper! Do celeb types use the phrase “evoking Old Hollywood glamour” to pretty much allow them to do anything as long as they wash out the colour a bit?!

For a while there I was struggling to understand why Louis Vuitton would pick someone like Madge to front a campaign for them again, so I asked Twitter, always an excellent resource for reason and logic

Initially we all agreed that “It’s a bit Readers’ Wives” and “That image is just disturbing, put it away Madge” along with the thought we all had, “She must love her crotch, it’s everywhere”.

But after a bit of debate it was decided that actually it’s a perfect brand association: Expensive, Exclusive, Leathery Purses. A match made in heaven!

Though I am going to say that only one of them can really still be considered a luxury brand these days – I mean, I’m all for a bit of vintage bargain hunting, but there’s only one of the two going to remain desirable despite years of “wear & tear”. Am I wrong?

I am however, slightly terrified about the aspirational qualities of each and am somewhat concerned about any future trends which may involve impressionable teens going out brandishing imitation “Madge Vadges” that they bought off a market stall somewhere.

So here’s my plea to Madge – Put it away love, we’ve seen it before. It’s old and it’s boring. Yes, you may be very bendy for a (late)middle-aged bird, but are you still going to be flashing it at us when you collect your bus pass in a few years? I thought you were all about reinvention anyway – how about reinventing yourself as a woman that keeps it in her pants every now and then. Go on, try it, you might like it. I know I’ll be happier anyway!

I mean, jeez, almost every girl I knew when growing up was a massive Steffi Graf fan, but I’m English, we’re supposed to hate the Germans, almost as much as we hate the French. It’s practically genetic. But no, we all loved her, and rightly so, she was fucking brilliant – and not bad to look at either to be honest (though that was more a justification for her male fan base than anything)

I just don’t think nationalism really has a place in individual sports. I tend to support whoever I think is the best player. I’ve supported tennis players who are American, German, Czech, Spanish, Serb/Hungarian (that’s Seles btw) and yeah, some British players (though never the faux British, but really Canadian ones. That frankly was a bit too desperate even for me). Over the last few years my favourite players have been Nadal & Djokovic for example. I like the way that they both play, I like the way that they handle the media circus around the game and the fact that they seem to genuinely appreciate their fans’ support.

All of which are totally unlike a certain spoilt, grumpy, android-esque Scottish/British player of note. Step up Mr Andy Murray.

Ooh look I've won a trophy, let joy be unconfined!

Now, because I’m British I’m expected to want this moany arsehole to win Wimbledon, because that too is quintessentially British… er, I mean English… but he’s Scottish… Oh yeah, it’s British, definitely British.

Well bollocks to that thanks all the same. Why should I? He does absolutely nothing to evoke any support from me whatsoever. Now, I could bring up the whole “I’ll support anyone that’s not England in the World Cup” story… and in fact I just did.

So let me get this straight, you hate England but you’re still British, standing shoulder to shoulder with England, Wales & Northern Ireland? Ooh, what’s that smell in the air? Oh that’s it, it’s the distinct whiff of hypocrisy there methinks.

But it’s not just that. He’s a miserable sod. Watching his match last night he was struggling to beat (the totally unknown) Swiss player, Wawrink, yet the crowd on centre court were cheering him on as though he was already in the final and about to make all of their collective wet Tennis dreams come true. Cheering so loudly it’s going to put off the best of players, and no doubt affected Wawrink’s play. It sure as shit affected Murray’s.

So when asked by the BBC reporter at the end of the match how great it was to have this huge support, the guy could barely muster a good word to say about them and when he did he sounded almost as disingenuous as Tony Blair on a good day. He’s a fucking robot with the emotional capacity of Rainman. You might not like the support Andy, but don’t pretend you do. If you do like it, show it for fuck’s sake.

If he does win Wimbledon (and I am praying hard to mystical teapot orbiting the sun that he doesn’t) he won’t have the depth of emotion to cope with it – cue a monotonous acceptance speech and ENORMOUS anticlimax. As most of Britain, not just Scotland, but Britain, wanks themselves into a frenzy at this historic event and the BBC literally tear themselves in two from the sheer strain and effort of giving birth to a level hyperbole the likes of which we’ve never seen before and which may very well shift the earth off it’s axis, he’ll be struggling to elicit a tear, or a thanks, or anything of any note really.

I could go on and on for days, but I won’t. Can’t be arsed really. Needless to say I am counting the days until someone knocks the miserable prick out – either via a tennis match or even better, via a racket straight to the face. In the meantime I’ll be supporting the players that are well, just better.

So, I’m on the lookout for things to make me cheer-the-fuck-up. And rapidly.

Here’s a short list of things that have managed to spark a little seratonin production within my good self, so far today:

Comic goodness

Fluffy Evil Chicken Genius

The musical equivalent of  vodka – makes me feel a little smiley and also makes me believe that’s it’s OK to just get up & wipe my feet on the rhythm rug, regardless of where I am!

And because I will never ever stop laughing at the total whack jobs that go on Total Wipeout. I thank you all from the bottom of my heart for a) having no shame at all, b) giving it a go when it’s clearly doomed to fail (could teach us all a thing or two!) & c) making me think that actually I wasn’t as bad at P.E. as I thought at the time. To Total Wipeout contestants everywhere I salute you.

(apologies in advance for the god awful music though – sorry!)

www.youtube.com/watch?v=TQk9AynI8AY