They shoot horses, don't they?

If I was dragged to the vet at the moment, there would be plenty of sympathetic clucking and soothing words.

This middle aged malarkey is all bollocks, I'm starting to fall apart. From the top, the thatch is receding, I grant you, but no bald spots yet, and if I was selling it, I'd describe the side bits as 'elegantly flecked with grey.' Since I packed in the evil weed a month and a half/six weeks ago (I've yet to decide which sounds better) my skin has such a glowing lustre, I'm half expecting a phone call from L'Oreal. That's about the limit of the good news.

The downside to no longer being a slave to fags, is unfortunately the stereotypical one, and I appear to have been ironing my shirts on a wok. I'm playing squash twice a week, and doing two kids rugby sessions every week, but obviously I need to do more. Running is out of the question. Firstly, I find doing any sport that doesn't involve a ball a bit boring, and running buggers my knees. We all did the sport relief mile at the weekend, and whilst some Sudanese peasant now has a new goat thanks to my efforts, my left knee is shot to bits. After a mile. Last night I was hobbling around the squash court like some old biddy adjusting her incontinence pants.

The other thing that keeps breaking is my groin. Not the fun bit, that's fine judging by the amount of times my wife requests that I 'stop poking that sodding thing in my back you twat' most mornings. Romance is alive and well at Gumph towers. No it's the sodding muscle, which despite my warm up ritual, keeps pulling when I play squash. Sore and very annoying.

I'll be at rugby tonight with a knackered left knee, and a gimpy right groin, a perfectly balanced middle aged cripple.