Watching the rugby union six nation’s games on TV is one of my favourite pastimes at this time of year. The anticipation of the new formula 1 season has me scouring the schedules to ensure I don’t miss a single race. When the England football team are playing, I settle down in my beloved chair with a full kettle at the ready in the kitchen in preparation for half time. That’s it. That’s as close as I ever get or have a need to get to anything remotely ‘sporty’. On closer reflection the reasons are threefold. Firstly, once I’d left school in 1971 I was delirious with delight at never again having to compete with those far more capable than I at running around for no apparent reason. Secondly, there has never been a time in my life when I’d ever considered spending money on any sport related kit, tickets, clothing, equipment or related paraphernalia, purely because it would have been akin to throwing fifty pound notes down the drain. Lastly, I simply don’t have, and have never had sufficient time to go cycling, swimming, golfing, fishing, running, jumping or shouting at the top of my voice along with twenty odd others on a playing field of any kind: and I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m not alone. I go to work, and then I come home. That’s when my exercise regime kicks-in with a vengeance. I like to think of it as my alternative sporting life but without the need to don Spandex, shooting off to go running down narrow country lanes with a stereo strapped to my head or joining the pounding ranks in a gym. There’s the cooking, cleaning, vacuuming, washing, ironing, scrubbing dishes, shopping, decorating, D.I.Y and gardening. I’m not criticising those that choose the sporting life as a form of recreational exercise, it’s simply that I have a need to see results other than the healthy body beautiful from any form of physical exertion.