grumpyf1

Well now... This is tricky. After a great deal of pondering and soul-searching, I’ve decided I’m not going to run Fantasy Formula 1 this year. Here’s why: 17 years after starting it off in the mid 90s, 2012 saw me trying to juggle sorting out results, a race report, various stats and a captioned image, and place them onto the blog, on twitter, into a Word document and out via email. At the same time as doing that, I was trying to fit in writing a 500 word newspaper column that needed submitting on a Wednesday. Consequently, I was spending Sunday, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday evenings at the computer, then the rest of the week never quite catching up on everything else I needed to do. The BBC’s decision not to show half the races live also means I get to see coverage from those races later in the day, leaving even less time to get a head start on the results. Surprisingly, the North West Evening Mail haven’t yet cottoned on to my innate crappiness at writing, and are still allo

Somewhere on the road between Arnside and Milnthorpe are several of my fillings, plus bits of my car which rattled off. I’m thinking of charging SLDC for repairs. Unfortunately, it looks like they haven’t got any money for that kind of thing, or maybe they’re made of sterner stuff. The early signs of spring are appearing. Snowdrops are out, daffodils are poking their heads warily through the soil, and lambs are frolicking in the fields, blissfully unaware that they might wind up wrongly labelled as something else altogether in a UK supermarket lasagne any time soon. There’s another regular spring event too – crumbling roads. I’d started to figure out where they were during my journey to work, but swerving round so many of them causes motion sickness, and the likelihood of being stopped by the police for drink-driving. Not to mention the fact that it’s probably adding miles to my journey. A nonsensical event seems to occur with a similar frequency to that of horses poppin

I don’t own a leotard. Or any leg warmers. Or a headband, ankle socks, or videos with the title “Get fit with...” in them. But I have been to a Pilates class this week. Kill me now. I’m still attempting to recover from the physical, and emotional, damage. So how did I reach the stage of needing to purchase some joggy-type trousers, and finding myself lying on my back in a cold village hall thinking “I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to get my leg to...” *Crack* “Ow. No. Definitely not.”? Having been discharged from the care of a physiotherapist last year, his recommendation was that I took up some gentle stretching exercise for my back, or spend forever looking like a hunchback, and frightening children by yelping suddenly. Upon checking my warranty, it appears it ran out some considerable decade or two ago, and I therefore have to fix the problem myself, without being able to get a refund or replacement parts. Getting older would definitely suck, if I could lean forwards far

Contrary to popular belief, there are some honest, decent politicians around. Chris Huhne isn’t one of them, though. In fact, he’s a bit of a berk. I have an extensive background in The Politicals, so I’m well qualified to talk on the subject. I had my photo taken with Austin Mitchell (for reasons that are still unclear, but I was a scruffy student in a Donkey Jacket at the time), failed to notice the small chap trying to get in a door as I barged through was Harold Wilson and, only a few weeks ago, Tim Farron and I exchanged tweets on the subject of whether Santa uses cloaking technology to avoid detection. (I think he does, Tim isn’t so sure.) With that kind of political CV, I’m pretty sure Nick Robinson must be looking nervously over his shoulder. The charming Mr Huhne has managed the kind of spectacular implosion normally reserved for puffed-up ego-maniac pop stars, and former Top Of The Pops presenters which, when you consider that he’s a fairly innocuous looking bloke,

Now that we’re already bored with the mild, rainy weather, it’s worth bearing in mind that just seven days ago we were in the grip of Snowmageddon. With snowy weather having already made most of the rest of the country look unbearably cute, it was finally our turn, with a Met Office Amber Warning thing in place, just to make it extra worrying. It didn’t disappoint. With a little snow for much of the day doing a pretty good warm-up routine, the main act arrived late afternoon, and successfully turned any journey started after about 4pm into a winter blunderland. We soon realised we weren’t getting home that night, and not fancying spending it in a Mitsubishi Colt, opted for a nearby hotel. The bed was lumpier than the mashed potatoes I endured at primary school, but at least we were safe, excessively warm, and able to enjoy the company of all 5 of the other guests, who were nearly outnumbered by the staff. Venturing outside later, it was clear there was more snow that I’d see