You see, the problem with cars is that there are always problems.  If your hobby happens to be tinkering around underneath cars fixing things then owning a car is the greatest thing in the world, as there will always, always be something wrong with it.  There will always be something to fix or tinker with, and if not there will be things to clean, make louder or ‘soup-up.’

If you want something reliable to get you to work and back every day and not cost too much, then you’re screwed, because owning and running a car is a never-ending outflow of cash.  Even if you’re fortunate enough to opt into a company car scheme, you still end up paying income tax on the ‘benefit in kind’ (that is, a non-cash form of remuneration that should be subject to tax as if it had been earned as cash).

And they’re all in on the deal, car people.  Aren’t they?  You spent a shitload of money buying a lovely new car, and you never stop paying for it until the day you get rid of it, at which point you buy a new car and start the whole process again.  If there’s something wrong with it you take it into the garage and — at Ford, at least — they charge you an EIGHTY-FIVE pound “inspection fee.”  EIGHTY-FIVE POUNDS just to LOOK AT THE FUCKING THING.

Then they tell you it needs a pissy little pump, or a filter, or a dust cap, which isn’t that expensive, you’re assured, but it’ll cost two hundred quid in labour because it takes them fifteen seconds to fit the cunting thing.  And then a week later you realise they didn’t fit the cunting thing correctly anyway, as your car splutters and dies on the M6 on your way to the Lake District for a relaxing break.

Then you take it back to Ford and have the temerity to suggest that they may not have done their job properly only to be told it’ll be ANOTHER EIGHTY-FIVE QUID for them to lift the bonnet and check their own shoddy fucking workmanship.  The only saving grace is the barely-apologetic phone call later to say that “the pump hadn’t attached itself” (note the brazen implication that it was the pump’s fault — an inanimate object, I feel obliged to point out — not the fuckwit who charged me six million pounds an hour to fuck it up), and, the man says with a weary, defeated sigh, “there will of course be no charge.”

“I SHOULD THINK FUCKING NOT, YOU INCOMPETENT ROBBING BASTARDS” you want to scream but don’t, instead bumbling an overly-eager “Thanks very much, that’s great, I’ll pick it up later — when’s best for you?”

So, I’m getting rid.  That’s right, I’m selling my car.  It was pride and joy when I bought it brand spanking new six years ago.  I remember the proud but unnerving moment I handed over my £3,000 deposit, and I remember feeling cool choosing ‘Panther Black’ metallic paint, although I still to this day regret thinking £500 was far too much to spend on extravagances like Air Conditioning and a heated front windscreen.

When I think back on all the great times I’ve had in it, all the great albums I listened to for the first time in it, all the cans of Red Bull I’ve drunk in it (one of the favourable by-products of driving long distances and/or late at night is that it’s pretty much the only time I feel justified in drinking Red Bull), all the Ginster’s Peppered Steak Slices I’ve eaten, all the shards of pastry from all the Ginster’s Peppered Steak Slices I’d eaten that I had to sweep from between my legs onto the floor, my bogey collection (front under-side of the seat, if you’re interested), the time I hit that motorcyclist…  All happy times.

But regardless, I’m selling it.  And what’s more, I’m going to try and survive without a car.  For a while at least.  I’m getting the bus to work in the mornings and we’re going to try and be a one-car couple for a few months at least.  Not for any ‘green’ reasons, I must point out — primarily for economical reasons.  And only time will tell if this is a monufuckingmentally disastrous decision.

Pros of ditching my car and getting the bus:

• £cash from selling it
• Works out £1,000 cheaper per year to get the bus to work every day (before considering any inevitable repairs)
• I’ve already read Catch 22 (brilliant!) and am part way through Martin Amis’ Money (okay)
• Bit of exercise walking from the bus stop to work and back every day

Cons of ditching my car:

• I love my car.

*Gulp*

In my last blog post I was told I had high blood pressure and advised I should go and see my GP. Firstly, thank you all for your texts, letters, e-mails etc asking about my well-being.

I am of course being sarcastic, you uncaring set of bastards.

But I digress. I went to see my GP — an elongated version of a Middle Eastern Rick Moranis — the following week. He took my blood pressure, shrugged, and said “No problem” with all the concern and compassion of an elongated Middle Eastern Rick Moranis just about to finish a ten hour shift that’s largely consisted of the old, infirm or obese complaining about their minor gripes and petty concerns.

He didn’t even tell me I could do with losing any weight. I liked him.

Rick Moranis

I was, however, a little disappointed. Like anyone, I’d had a look on-line and self-diagnosed myself, deciding I had an under-active thyroid. This was brilliant. My overweightness could, I convinced myself, be directly attributable to a lazy thyroid and not fifteen years of indolence, gluttony and binge drinking.

I could get some pills and slip back to those halcyon teenage days of eating what the hell I wanted and not having to worry about putting weight on and ignoring all those bitter claims that it would all inevitably and painfully catch up with me.

So EMERM’s lack of concern was bad news in one sense, but my “quite normal” blood pressure reading was good news in another, far more realistic, sense.

The thing that shocked me most, however, was a harmless conversation with friends. Blatantly ignoring the first and only rule — Do not mention my blog in front of my girlfriend — the friend, who I won’t name, said:

“I read your blog about your high blood pressure. It’s not surprising, really, is it?”

I was, initially, horrified. Yes, I know I’m a little bit overweight (by the odd five stone or so) but there was no need to draw attention to the point so unequivocally. The friend did, in fairness, redeem themselves somewhat:

“…because you get pretty wound up about things, don’t you? You can tell from reading your blog that you’re a very angry person.”

Now this is and isn’t true. I’m an enigma of sorts, in that I have (or at least think Ihave), in the words of the narrator in Fight Club, “the ability to let that which does not matter truly side.” I consider myself, a lot of the time, quite a chilled-out person. But the more I go through life the more I start to realise that my chilled out-ness should perhaps be more accurately described as “not really giving a shit about anything that doesn’t directly affect or annoy me.”

On the other hand I can feel the rage build inside me over petty things like personalised car registration plates, general highway etiquette (aka ‘shit drivers’), and trolley manners. A soothing voice inside me says “It doesn’t matter… no good comes from getting angry,” but another, louder voice inside screams and swears in self-righteous indignation. Most mornings as I drive to work I do genuinely think that pretty much everyone else in the world is either an idiot or a twat. Or both.

Football also brings the worst out in me. Not long ago I chatted in great depth about my condemnation of all things football, particularly the small-minded people that invariably go to watch, shout abuse and talk bollocks. Then I found myself at a football match and realised I’m just the same, if not worse. Maybe I’m less of an enigma and more of an out-and-out hypocrite.

I’m not quite at the anger management sessions stage yet, but I do worry sometimes that I can get wound up over nothing, and I’m not sure what the solution is. Buy a punchbag? Do more exercise? Drink less coffee?

Actually, I’m not sure I give a shit. I might just let it slide.

My employers very kindly gave us all the opportunity to have a quick, free health check, the highlight of which was watching someone feint after having their finger pricked for a cholesterol test.  I went down for a few minutes away from my desk, and to pick up a goody bag containing a free Company-branded travel mug.

I waited in line for my turn, then sat down for my consultation.

“Height?”

“Six three, six four.”

“Right, six three, then.  Weight?”

“Ooh, about eighteen, maybe eighteen and a half stone.”

“About?”

“Yeah.”

“Right, on the scales.”

“No, really, it’s eighteen and a half.  Probably.”

“On the scales.”

I got on the scales.

“One hundred and twenty kilos.”  Nearly nineteen stone.

“Alright, keep your voice down.”

“Your BMI’s very high.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You could do with losing a bit of weight.”

“Yes, I know.  It’s an ongoing battle.”

“You see, you’re here,” (shows me chart, points at ‘Very Obese’) “and your ideal weight is about fourteen stone.”

“I think those days are long gone.”

“But you could still stand to lose, you know, a bit of weight.”

“A stone or two?”

Lady smiles uncomfortably, “Well, yes, that would be a start.”

In the queue I had regaled my colleagues with the tale of the last time I’d had a health check.  I had my blood pressure taken and (as I recalled) the lady said, “That’s unusual.  Your blood pressure is very low.”  “Is that bad?” I asked.  “Well, no, but we’d normally expect to see low blood pressure in people who are super-fit athletes.”  Awkward pause.  “Would you…  describe yourself as…  super… fit?”  Me, deadpan: “No.”

That was two years ago and, despite being overweight I’d always told myself at least I didn’t have high blood pressure.  So, I sat down to have my blood pressure measured again, and I told the lady the story, attempting to break the awkwardness still lingering after she’d told me I’m five stone overweight.  

“That doesn’t sound right,” she said, dismissively.  “Your pulse is low though.” 

“Oh, maybe it was my pulse then.”

“Yes, that’s more likely.  Your pulse is quite low, but your diastolic blood pressure is high.”

“What?”

“Your diastolic blood pressure.  The bottom number.  It should be between sixty and ninety.  You’re 140 over 102.  I suggest you go and see your GP.  You need to lose some weight.”

“Yes I know.”

“Would you describe yourself as active?”

Unconvincingly, “Well, yes.”

“Do you do exercise that leaves you breathless for half an hour, three times a week.”

“Yes, I play cricket on Saturdays.  And, erm, cricket training once or twice a week.”

“And cricket, that’s, well, it’s not exactly continuous exertion is it?”

“It’s a bit stop-start, but…”

“And is that for the whole year?”

“Well, no, obviously, erm…  I walk to Sainsbury’s for lunch most days…”

Looks at sheet with three categories: Active, Walking, Inactive.  “I’ll put you down as a walker.”

“Thanks.”

“Your cholesterol level is fine; you just need to lose a bit of weight.  But do go and see your GP as soon as you can.”

“Right.  Can I have my free travel mug now?”

So, to surmise, I am twenty-nine and a half, five stone overweight and have high blood pressure.

Ladies, form an orderly queue.

I get up, put on my dressing gown, grab a towel from the banister and walk into the bathroom.  I have a wee-wee.  I only shave on Mondays and Wednesdays, unless I have an important meeting with some important or a presentation or something, but this is rare and avoided at all costs.

If it’s a shave day I shave, then shower.  Otherwise I get straight in the shower.  Hair, face, armpits, ‘bits,’ feet, always in that order.  I get out, dry myself, ruffle my hair in the mirror (if I don’t I’ll have shit hair — well, shitter than usual — all day).  Dressing gown on, I put my towel on the banister and go downstairs, put the kettle on.  Two mugs; me on the right, whatshername on the right.  A teaspoon of coffee in each.  A splash of cold water in mine, milk in whatshername’s.

Two slices of toast in the toaster.  Take whatshername’s coffee upstairs.  Back in the kitchen I wait for toast then spread with margarine and marmite.  I take my breakfast and sit on the right-hand side of the sofa, put on BBC Breakfast hoping Susanna Reid (below, right) is presenting.  Watch until Chris Hollins (hopefully) finishes his sports report.  Upstairs.  Brush teeth, do hair.  Curse shit hair.  Get dressed, go downstairs.  Lunch (if made), laptop bag, in the car by 7:50.

It’s my morning routine, my comfort.

This morning whatsername decided to get up early and go for a swim.  I walked into the kitchen to find her making coffee (she put sugar in mine — FFS — but that’s beside the point), and I just stood there.  My routine had been shattered and I wasn’t sure what to do next.  But I waited, made my breakfast, took the coffee from the side and got on with things.

We all have out daft little routines.  I’m sure I’m not the only person who has a morning routine, or who likes the writing on all his CDs to be the right way up (am I?).  I know I’m not the only person who has an order of preference for his boxer shorts (as @iainobrien -  delightfully confirmed: “A teams, B teams, and the real reserve grade bad boys”).

We have these little routines and quirks because we all have in some way or another some autistic tendencies.  All of us.  But while the ‘neurotypicals’ among us will deal with these disruptions and think of another way around them, some people have behaviours and routines so ritualistic and pervasive that they ruin their lives.  Their thought processes are so rigid and inflexible that any deviation can throw them into a violent rage or inconsolable sulk.  This is just one of the many examples of autistic spectrum disorder (ASD).

April 2010 — which, admittedly has pretty much been and gone — is the first ever National Autism Awareness Month, and has seen the broadcast of shows like ‘Young, Autistic and Stagestruck’ and ‘The Autistic Me.’  As entertaining, enlightening and emotional as these shows are, they barely scratch the surface of the problems in the lives of the characters. 

The cast of Young, Autistic & Stagestruck

I can’t and won’t attempt to explain ASD in any detail, but it’s something that really interests me.  And for Christ’s sake don’t read this and think autism is just about rigidity of thought.  It’s an incredibly complicated subject, which good old faithful lazy man’s best friend Wikipedia defines as “a disorder of neural development characterized by impaired social interaction and communication, and by restricted and repetitive behavior.”

‘Young, Autistic and Stagestruck’ demonstrates just how wide the autistic spectrum is, showing us a ‘high functioning’ autistic twelve year-old who is exceptionally intelligent and eloquent but uncontrollably angry and aggressive, in the same group as an eleven year-old who can barely speak and, in last night’s show, soiled himself and smeared excrement on his chair.

I take my metaphorical hat off to every parent and carer who deals with people with autism, and I hope that National Autism Awareness Month raises all the awareness it can.

Although NAAM is almost over, try and catch one of the many programs on autism on TV at the moment.  Read “The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time” by Mark Haddon.  Watch the film ‘Adam’ starring the brilliant Hugh Dancy and the quite lovely Rose Byrne, or the BBC drama “After Thomas” (based on the novel ‘A Friend Like Henry’ by Nuala Gardner) starring the equally lovely ‘Ashes To Ashes’ star Keeley Hawes.

It’s such a fascinating and complicated topic on which academics, psychologists, doctors, parents and, erm, former Playboy models regularly disagree.  It is unclear as to the causes, if any, of ASD, be they genetic, environmental or developmental.  One thing’s for sure, some of the brightest and most important individuals have been linked with or rumoured to have shown characteristics of ASD, including Bill Gates, Albert Einstein, Van Gogh and, erm, Jenny McCarthy.  Well, OK, not Jenny McCarthy, but it seems a nice note to end on…

Can you believe she went out with Jim Carrey? I mean, I know he's worth a few bob, but fuck me he's got a face you'd never tire of punching.

Have I been out running, eating healthily, and losing weight?  No.  Although I did lose three pounds.  Then went out, got hideously swearily offensively drunk and had a curry.

Have I been putting the blog to one side while I focus my creative energy on my novel?  Have I fuck.

Have I become addicted to playing iPhone games in my every spare waking moment?  Yes.  Oh Lord yes.

I imagine I’ve followed a well-trodden path.  You get your iPhone and you want to try as many of the alleged 100,000 apps on offer.  But no games, you tell yourself.  No games; only useful apps that will come in useful.  Like a tube map, online banking and something that tells you where the nearest pub is.  Useful apps that come in useful.

And then you get Paper Toss.  It can’t hurt, you tell yourself, to get one silly little time-wasting game, the object of which is to flick your finger up the screen to toss a scrunched up ball of paper into a bin across an office, accounting for the wind effect of strategically placed desk fans. 

But then paper toss gets a bit easy, and you need something else to fill your idle moments.  And then, before you know, you’re a big iPhone game-playing nerd.

Then, one evening, your girlfriend asks if you’re OK.  You’ve been spending a lot of time on the toilet lately, she says.  Is everything OK?  You weigh up your options: which is less embarrassing?  Do you tell the truth?  Do you admit you’ve been sitting on the toilet for half an hour playing The Settlers (building a tiny cartoon village from scratch, build up your economy and create an army before killing the inhabitants of another cartoon village over the course of several hours)?

Or do you say you think you might be constipated? 

You go for the latter.  “I think I might be constipated,” you say.  “It might be IBS,” she says, cheerily; “probably stress-related”.  “Yeah,” you say.  That’s it: stress-related bowel issues.  Far less embarrassing.

Now, back to my cartoon village…

Some years later adidas used this in their ‘Impossible Is Nothing’ advertising campaign, which was, according to their website, meant to encourage people to take their first steps towards achieving what once seemed like impossible goals (and of course, to sell fuckloads of trainers).

There are many similar phrases meant to be similarly inspiring:

• A winner never quits and a quitter never wins
• Our greatest glory is not in never falling but in rising every time we fall
• It’s not over until the fat lady sings
• Etc etc and so on

And then there are the more realistic among us:

• If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Then quit. There’s no use being a damn fool about it (W.C. Fields)

I think it’s important to know when you can’t succeed.  It’s important to know when you’re beaten.  Sometimes there are mountains we can’t overcome; we can’t always rise after every fall.  There are certain laws that simply can’t be broken; those of gravity and physics.  There are mathematical impossibilities.  If a team is ten points from safety at the bottom of the league and there are only nine more points up for grabs, they’re very much relegated.  If a man is twenty-three pounds away from his final weight-loss target with only twenty-three days left in which to lose said weight (I swear the weight to days ratio is entirely coincidental), then he has to admit he’s failed in his mission and he should either give up or revise his target.

So I hereby strike a line through my initial target of 17st by April 9^th.  I’m planning to lose a stone by Friday April 23^rd, the day before the cricket season starts.  This is fourteen pounds in thirty-nine days.  I’m inspired by my aforementioned mate Steve (below, drinking a can of 65p cider after coming last in a game of pitch and putt at the world-renowned Selston Par 3 golf course), who recently updated his facebook status:

“one whole stone lost in one month. just thought i’d say cos i’m pretty damn proud of myself.”

And rightly he should be proud of himself.  And although I won’t be overly proud if I reach my revised target weight, hopefully I won’t be — in the words of W.C. Fields — a damn fool.

So how am I going to do it?  I’m going to do a bit of jogging (using the brilliant RunKeeper app on my iPhone to monitor my progress), I’m going to cut out (OK, cut down) my alcohol consumption (a bit) and I’m going to make a real effort to eat healthier.

First step on the healthy-eating ladder then was to make my own soup; pea and mint, specifically, which, when I had it for lunch, my boss decided looked like a big bowl of mushy peas.  Which he then said would be nicer with a meat pie.  Which I obviously went to Sainsbury’s and bought.  And then spent the rest of the day hating myself. 

I’m a damn fool, no doubt about that.

Serves 4-6 depending on size of burgers/burger eaters

You will need:

Olive oil

800g Lamb mince

Decent-sized onion

Garlic clove*

Root ginger*

Chillies

Tomato puree

Tomato ketchup

Turmeric

Ground cumin

Ground coriander

Fresh coriander

*I only used these because they were knocking around in the fridge.  You could leave these out

**I used three green finger chillies and two big red ones.  I should have probably used 5 green chillies (i.e. one per person).  Up to you.

Step 1: heat a blob of olive oil in a frying pan over a medium heat

Step 2: roughly chop onion, garlic, ginger and chillies

Step 3: blend all the roughly chopped stuff to a paste, using some form of blending appliance

Step 4: fry the paste in the oil for a few minutes or until your eyes water profusely.  Turn on extractor fan if you have one.

Step 5: while the paste is frying, put mince in a big bowl (bigger than this one, ideally)

Step 6: suddenly remember you forgot the spices, then into the frying pan add 1 tsp turmeric, 1 tsp ground cumin and 1 tsp ground coriander.  These are by no means exact measurements, so bung in whatever you like.  I just work on the principle that equal parts of these three ingredients make things taste like curry.  Mix well, and fry for a minute to “release the aroma” (or something).  Remove from the heat and allow to cool.

Step 7: into the mince add a big spoon (in this case a wooden spoon) of tomato puree

Step 8: using the same spoon add a slightly larger quantity of tomato ketchup.  The ketchup adds a sweetness to the burgers and helps quell a bit of the heat from the chillies, so feel free to leave out.  N.B. I found that the burgers bound better when I used ketchup.

Step 9: pick off coriander leaves until you get bored.  You want approximately a girl’s handful of leaves.  Chop the leaves until they resemble a fine powder.

Step 10: add the fried paste and coriander to the mince and stir until your forearms are the size of Popeye’s

Step 11: weigh the mixture and work out the weight required for each burger.  Here 1,089g into five burgers is roughly 218g per burger.

Step 12: roll each 218g lump of meat into a ball and flatten out to a burger shape

Step 13: put each burger between sheets of baking paper and refrigerate overnight.

Step 14: as Neil Buchanan from Art Attack would have said,”Try it yourself.”

Neil Buchanan from Art Attack. Remember, he used to say "Try it yourself" whenever he made something. Yeah? Yeah? No?

No bullshit, no excuses, no explaining. Just do better. It’s simple. It also explains the shortness of the particular post. See below.

I must do better. I’m behind the clock. I’m below target. Efforts must be increased. For this and the next few weeks I am just going to do better. Willpower. Exercise. All that shit. No excuses. Just watch me go.

I’m serious now.

On a less serious note, here are some search engine terms that brought people to spacemonkeygaz.com this week:

• pat sharp funhouse (several times)
• motorbike accident (ditto.  I am apparently not popular in the motorbiking community)
• when will jedward’s debut single be rele
• jedward the musical (hahahahaha)
• self serving charity single
• fuck haiti cowell record
• girls top falls off
• “roasting a female”

(this is what I found when I Googled "roasting a female")

He sure is

After some thought I decided it wasn’t a bad idea.  Part of the reason I was so motivated to get out running before Christmas was to train myself for the kilomathon.  Having an end goal is incredibly motivating, as most coaches will tell you.  As I’ve found already, a vague desire to lose weight isn’t as powerful as setting a target which must be achieved by a certain date.  Oh, hang on, that didn’t really work either.  But the point stands.  So I’m told.

So last week whatshername and I went out for a short jog.  It was only 2.5miles, but it was tough.  I wasn’t knackered or anything, but my knee struggled.  It started off feeling very stiff and awkward, eased up for a while, finally becoming genuinely painful in the final mile or so.  For the next few days it felt uncomfortable.  Never painful; just uncomfortable.

Then this week I thought I’d try again (well, technically speaking it was whatshername’s idea.  I didn’t really want to but thought it seemed like a good idea) and so on Monday night we did the same route.  This time it felt much better.  In fact if anything it felt much stronger.  A couple of days later and it feels fine.  Not great, not good even.  Just fine.

I decided the Robin Hood half marathon seems like a good idea, so naturally I looked on-line for the date.  Sunday September 12^th 2010.  Slight problemo.  That weekend is what we in local cricket parlance call “the double-header weekend” (stop sniggering at the back).  The final two games of the season crammed into 34 hours of sedentary sporting activity, the culmination of nearly five months of standing around in daft white clothing.  League titles could be decided, relegation avoided, or mid-table obscurity secured.  There’s literally all to play for (except the preceding twenty games which will have already been played for and settled).  Literally anything could happen (within certain strict criteria).

Robin Hood, famous of course for running 13 miles around Nottingham at some point

My double-header weekend looks like:

Saturday: Belper Meadows (away)

Sunday: Sawley & Long Eaton Park (home)

Would it be completely ridiculous to squeeze a thirteen-mile run in on Sunday morning?  This is a genuine question.  I have thirty weeks and three days to train myself from ‘obese’ to ‘able to play a cricket match, run a half marathon the following morning, then play another cricket match.’  Is this in any way feasible?

If anyone has run a half marathon before please let me know what you think.  Will I even be able to stand up afterwards?

I have another question too, mainly aimed at anyone with a sports or medical background (and/or experience of sporting injuries): if my knee still doesn’t feel right, should I be trying to exercise and strengthen it, or should I be completely resting it?

"Get up Gaz you're next man in."