God Hates God

It is odd – just a year ago I defined myself by my vices. Smoking and Belgian ales were my favourites, with menacing ginger children and putting broken glass in the fountains of Trafalgar Square coming in with an honourable mention.

A few months ago I went to my GP because I felt like shit. “How is your asthma going?” “My asthma?” “Yes, you have asthma.” “Ah, no wonder I can’t breathe. Hm, I should do something about that, you know, so I can live and stuff.” And so I did. Usually I’m not very proactive – mainly because I was lazy owing to the fact that I was always hungover. All of my extra energy was spent on hating complete strangers. But this time? I quit smoking. I’ve even managed to stick with it, which is far better than I do with most relationships.

Now I exercise. Exercise! Me! I’ve taken up cycling because it requires no skill or balance or athletic ability; it suits me perfectly. I’ve done 100 miles in two weeks, leaving me with a lovely callous on the crease of my arse.

Yesterday’s lengthy cycling exercise has rendered me unable to properly cross my legs in the ladylike and sleek fashion to which I am accustomed. Chocolate cookies, even if eaten on a regular basis, would take a decade to deliver this same side effect. So why cycling? Now I can eat even more chocolate cookies, as evidenced by my vast consumption of chocolate Hobnobs. I’ve upped by chocolate cookie game.

Why do we exercise? Some do it for a sense of achievement, of constantly beating their personal best. Others do it for weight loss and still others for the purpose of leading a healthy lifestyle. Me? I do it for the rock hard ass and thighs which snap chairs when I sneeze. I will name one arse cheek ‘Brutus the Barber Beefcake’ and the other ‘Ted Dibiase the Million Dollar Man’.

And now, of course, I have a vast circle of hate in my head. As a pedestrian, I hate cars and bikes. As a driver, I hate pedestrians and bikes. As a cyclist, I hate cars and pedestrians. Sometimes I get confused who to hate. I have drawn up a venn diagram of contempt which I keep in my pocket, just so I can remember who to swear at.

“Too old to fuck.”

This was the conclusion of some random teenage boys discussing my fuckability in the frozen food section of my local Sainsbury’s.

Apparently, though, I could teach them a thing or two. This benefit, however, would not override the horror that is my aged fanny.

I’m 28.