Before I start dealing with the tens of thousands of complaints about the new look of my Blog, I wish to explain that like the producers of my main Internet viewing rival, Facebook, I have changed my format for the better, whether you like it or not. Now, before you start penning your letter of complaint, scroll your mouse to the top left of your screen. On here you will find options that include classic, flipcard, magazine, mosaic,sidebar, snapshot and timeslide. By clicking on these tabs you will give yourself numerous options that will allow you to admire my classic photography and razor sharp observation of current affairs, plus hundreds of gut busting tales of a life that is so exciting I spend most days trying to control my euphoria at how lucky I am to live in a cardboard box in a middle class suburb of Basingstoke.

And get this, the excitement and general improvement to your daily lives doesn’t stop there ladies and gentlemen, this just gets better. If you proceed to the right hand side of the screen, you will see some white lines in a box that look like a radio signal. If you click on this icon it will allow you to subscribe to my Blog, so everytime one of my hilarious ditties appears, you will be able to read it right away as it feeds to your browser, you can even link it to your iGoogle page! And it doesn’t even stop there either, if you scroll to the bottom of your screen you will see options to share the Blog with the few people who have yet to have heard of it. Yes, that’s right, I have teamed up with fellow internet big hitters Facebook and Twitter and agreed that they can feature my Blog on their pages. Obviously there was a financial incentive to do this and by teaming up with Google Ad-Sense I am hoping to raise enough funds by Chritsmas to be able to afford a new cover for my ironing board. Please don’t see this as me selling out, I am not Mark Zuckerberg (unfortunately).

As well as a new look Blog, I have also began a campaign for a new Bob as well. Yes, I have joined in with a group of middle aged saddo’s on a circuit training class on Tuesday nights in a desperate and ultimately futile attempt to turn back time on my ageing and aching body, nearly killing myself in the process. I was invited to this class by a chap I vaguely know from cricket who said that it was a brilliant way to feel better about yourself and get fiiter in the process. Lying cunt. As with all sad case middle aged blokes (don’t deny it lads) I only turned up because of the frankly rank outside hope that there would some women in their early twenties bouncing around to make it all worthwhile. I was sadly and deservedly mistaken, I was actually in the unique position of being one of the youngest people there, but also the un-fittest. It became an ordeal that will stay with me for the rest of of my days (which at that point didn’t seem many) the marquee moment being when a woman not much short of sixty, put her hand on my shoulder and asked if I was okay. The humiliation was to behold.

I don’t know if any of you have done circuit training before, but if you haven’t you have been warned. We started with light jogging on the spot which was fine, but then we started having to hold various limbs outsretched as the instructor counted down like this….. “Ten……..and nine…..and eight and a half and eight….come on guys hold it there..and seven and a half.” Yes mate, fucking hilarious, do it in halves. By the end of this, the warm up, I resembled a windmill in a force nine, all out of time, with my limbs splaying off in different directions as all co-ordination was lost, at one point I thought I was having a stroke. We then proceeded to do stretching excercises on a plastic mat and this is where my night of humiliation entered phase two. As I raised my left leg sideways and upwards for the first time in approximately forty years I felt a desire to fart that could not be reversed….oh God no….please! As my leg was so streched high in the air the opportunity to clench my buttocks was not available, I just had to hope. Imagine if you will, the noise made by a sprightly farm yard duck on a warm spring morning, then you will have a reasonable idea of what eminated from my anus. Oh fucks sake, this couldn’t get any worse.

I bit at the mat and stubbornly refused to look up up to see the tidal wade of shock reverberating around the hall, my only consolation was that it appeared just to be an air lock rather than the aroma of a chilli con carne I had eaten at lunchtime, however, it was still safe to say this was not my finest hour. We proceeded to do further excercises that were beyond me, one of them being skipping. When I was at school skipping was supposedly for cissies, this probably being one of the great misconceptions of modern times. Skipping is not only hard work, it must have created a generation of super fit girls. Nearly all the girls at our school skipped and I can’t remember many porkers amongst them. Honestly, it is immense excercise, try it yourself you will be very surprised. Here’s a thing, Basingstoke town centre features no fewer than three Greggs and two MacDonalds within spitting distance with each other and as a consequence, Basingstoke town centre is full of fat teenage girls with guts bursting over their ski pants. Here is a simple Government cure for obesity, put a bouncer outside fast food outlets and don’t let kids in until they have completed ten minutes of skipping, you could put a hop scotch diagram on the paving slabs as well. Job done.

After various other excercises on steps and ropes me and my partner Gary (the bastard who took me there) finished with some boxing, firstly with a speed ball which was impossible to control (I kept missing it) and then a punch bag where I nearly dislocated my left shoulder after a slap with my left hand that didn’t even make it move. There was one guy about fifty who attacked the punch bag with such venom it made me wonder what his personal life was like, he was disturbingly angry and after he finished he bounced around like a boxer who had just knocked an opponent unconcious. He looked like a bit a of prat really, but I decided not to say anything, after the evening I had just suffered the last thing I needed was a fist down my throat, he could save that for his wife. Still, we had got through it through and Gary and I retired to the bar quite pleased with ourselves. As I walked to the bar I decided that in keeping with my new regime I would have a glass of mineral water……when I got there I had already changed tact and the words “pint of London Pride please” left my lips as if by instinct. I don’t think I have ever had a soft drink in a place that serves alcohol.

So, will I be back next week?……………Yeah why not?