I chose the third option, and I have never looked back. Mainly because it would scare the shit out of me.

Don’t get me wrong: there are a lot of hidden benefits to being a cyclist.

For one, there are special national festivals that only cyclists know about, such as Get In My Fucking Way Day, Open Your Door Right In My Goddamned Face Week, and the Dickhead Bus Jam Jamboree.

Secondly, there are no more dreary, identical commutes for you, since every day brings a new and exciting way for your bike to go wrong. Getting bored with that constant unidentifiable scraping? No worries, because tomorrow your whole wheel will fall off! Sick of fretting about the brake pads wearing murderously low? Not a problem, because your pedal is about to work loose in the middle of the road, causing you to caroom screaming left and right until you slam into a stationary car and fly right over the handlebars, hurtling across the pavement and coming to rest on top of three grandmothers and a dog. But it’s ok, because you are Saving Money.

On the upside, you are wearing a really sweet hat.

That’s the mantra of the cyclist. Every time something degrading happens to him at the hands of a motorist, he calms himself with the Zen-like repetition of the holy phrases “I’m saving money I’m saving money” and “I’m getting fit I’m getting fit“. But both ring hollow when the aforementioned Toyota Flange Chasm suddenly cuts right in front of you, forcing you to veer straight into the lane of oncoming traffic.

At times like this, one has to prioritise, and bladder control is not on the top of the list. If by some miracle you do avoid becoming a fleshy verge decoration, you then wobble pathetically off, Catherine-Wheeling a steady spray of urine from your back tyre as you run through all the insults you’d love to hurl at that Toyota-driving bastard if he wasn’t already half a mile away, whistling merrily to himself.

And then it rains.

By my life, sir! You cycle like a satchel full of piss!

There has never been a poem written that can adequately express the misery of cycling through the rain.

For starters, raincoats are virtually useless, since you’ll get clammier than a fat man in a Turkish brothel unless you’ve spent a fortune on something breathable. But if you had that kind of money, you’d be taking the sodding bus anyway. So you’re faced with getting soaked either by your own sweat or by God’s hilarious effluence.

Regardless, the road is quickly becoming a puddle-strewn mire which clings at your tyres like a recently ran-over cat, slowing you down to Crying Pace as the rain filters through the holes in your crash helmet, partially blinding you; a job which is completed by your first venture through a roadside puddle stirred up to a muddy foam by a hundred passing cars. One sploosh later, and your entire body is spunked with mud from head to toe. “GET A MUDGUARD!” yells the smug pro-cyclist as he shoots past on what looks like two gossamer hula hoops bound together with lace. Well, you’ve got a rear mudguard, but this hasn’t stopped your arse getting so wet that ferry lines are commuting between your crack and your junk. “This is CRAP”, you shout at the deluge. “This is BOLLOCKS.”

But don’t give up, young Cyclist, because at the end of all this misery lies a glittering reward. The reward of arriving at work.

It looks like the kid is injured, but actually he is just lazy.

Is it any wonder, given all this, that cyclists tend to bend the rules a bit? Dodge and weave when perhaps it’s not totally appropriate, or blast through lights that are not entirely green? I know I am guilty of this. I dash into the narrowest of gaps, causing multiple near-death experiences while simultaneously berating the irresponsible drivers who turn our roads into death traps. We’ll take any advantage we can get, you see, because cyclists are the Untermenschen of the roads. We’re the tiny mammals skittering between the legs of dinosaurs, and in the battle between Cyclist and Car, there can be only two losers: you, and the poor bastard who has to scrape your testicles off the tarmac.

How did the flying bike not already win this race?

It’s not always this bad, of course. Some days, cycling is a joy.

With a blue sky and the wind at your back, it is bliss to sashay gaily through a traffic jam, casually flipping off the stationary vehicles and humming a happy tune. The birds are tweeting, your leg muscles are writhing like weasels in a sack, and there’s nothing between you and infinity except for a few other cyclists.

Ah, but there’s the rub. It seems that every cyclist other than you is a habitual drug-user who shoots up just before taking to the road, because half of them are catatonic sloths, clumping together as if they’re in some kind of Thorazine Marathon, and the other half find it pressingly vital to tear-arse past you while you’re already cycling at maximum speed, causing you to emit a terrified “GYAAAAH” and swallow a bumblebee.

The Great Vacuum-Maw gloats in triumph. Once again, his pretty lures have found him dinner.

Oh, and let’s not forget the connoisseur’s selection of thrilling injuries you can collect.

Now, before you start, I’ve read all the books about stretching. I stretch like a motherfucker. And yet I’ve still managed to acquire Cyclist’s Knees, Cyclist’s Back, Cyclist’s Dick, Cyclist’s Pancreas and a panoply of other agues that make me hobble around like Thora Hird after a witch trial. I’m now at the peak of fitness, and I’ve never felt so shite in my life.

But you know what? After all this, I still love cycling. Nothing can compare to the first whoosh as you sweep out of your house onto an empty road; nor the thrill that grips you at the crest of a hill, as gravity takes the reins and starts pulling you down. It’s just… It’s just that one day, I know I’m going to end up driving that Toyota. Not because I’m going to sell out; no, not even because my knees are about to pop like hedgehogs in a bonfire. No; I will buy a Toyota because of one sad yet inescapable fact: no matter how cheap they are, you simply cannot use a bicycle to kerb-crawl for whores.

I chose to do this while working at an insurance company, but any kind of depressing blue-collar office McJob will be fine. At the very least, make sure you have the following:

• 1 internet connection

• 1 powerfully retarded workmate

• 1 or more personality issues which result in outbursts of sarcasm

When these are in place, you’re ready to start. For maximum effect, give this one a couple of years’ preparation by settling deep into your rut of a job and developing a profound resentment toward life and anyone who appears to be enjoying it. Now let’s begin! You’re sitting at your desk, making desultory key-strokes while the long, desperate hours trickle by; then suddenly an email pops into your inbox! Gosh, what could this be? A love letter from an anonymous and perkily-breasted admirer, perhaps?

No, it is in fact an unsolicited email asking for your credit card details! What a surprise!

At this point, it needs to be made clear that you are not a football fan. The idea of you purchasing anything from Manchester City Football Club is laughable to the point of hernia, so there is only one possible explanation for this email: someone is trying to scam you. This makes you angry. Angry enough to vent some serious spleen all over a guy. Now, it’s usually a good rule not to send anything offensive from a work email address; but the exception, surely, is when you’re addressing your email to an amoral spammer who probably has poop in his pants. What harm could a quick, vomitingly offensive reply cause?

With “none whatsoever” echoing incorrectly in your mind, you should work yourself up to such a froth of petty fury that you’re crying tears of pure bile. These scammers, eh. What a bunch of cuntfunnels. You’re going to teach them what happens when they mess with with [forename] Q. [surname].

Sadly I have destroyed the original letter I sent, for reasons which will become obvious, but here is a radically toned-down version you can adapt to your own needs.

Now sit back with a smug smile borne from the certainty of a job well done. Make sure you savour the next 24 blissful, hell-free hours. The next morning, while you are halfway through your pretentious yoghurt flapjack, you’ll receive a call from the company director asking you to come and see him in his office. You will bound down the stairs, puffed up with self-importance, wondering what sensitive task you will be entrusted to perform this time. “[forename],” he will probably say, “we need you to locate Agent Yoplais Granola, who is currently undercover in Colombia, and deliver to him this vitally important car insurance document. The agent is all alone and uninsured. If he were to crash while evading the Hummers of the cocaine lords, he would be liable not just for his own damages… but for theirs.”

It does not play out entirely like this. After beckoning you to sit down, the director says, “so, what do you know about an email sent to Manchester City football club?” At this point, your heart decides to take a break from beating and relax for a few seconds. “…Because I’ve just been contacted by their sales manager,” your boss continues, “to say that one of their employees received an email with your address on it. The email was apparently very offensive. Very offensive indeed.”

At this moment, you are probably casting your mind back through your life, trying to remember if you raped and cooked any endangered animals, because that is the only reason God could possibly hate you this much.

The director gives you a look of murderous calm. “As you know, the company is legally responsible for any messages sent under its name, regardless of their purpose. In other words, it wasn’t just you who sent that email. It was me. It was, in fact, the entire company. So what, exactly, did we say?”

You stall. What else can you do. “I… uh… I thought they were just scammers; you know, criminals”, you say, hoping the director will see the funny side and come back with “well, their football playing ability is certainly criminally bad, oh HAHAHAHA let’s forget this whole thing ever happened”. Instead, he fixes you with the kind of gaze that would make Hitler dirty his dungarees. “The girl who received this email”, he says in a voice like two granite slabs sliding over each other, “is 18 years old, and is very seriously upset. I want you to go away, find the email you sent, and bring it to me, along with a very good explanation of what has just happened.”

Now is a great time to cover your face, because you are so fucking boned that there are dicks protruding from your nose.

Dizzy with terror, you lurch upstairs and express to the office your titanic confusion regarding what has just happened. Why the rubbery Christ would the real MCFC email you asking for your credit card details? You wouldn’t shop there if it was the last tacky merchandise store on Earth. Surely this must be some kind of retarded mistake made by a retard? There is a pause, during which you notice that one of your workmates has just turned the colour of pissed-on snow. To protect his identity, let’s call him That Stupid Cunt. You round on him, death in your eyes. “Oh God, what did you do.”

That Stupid Cunt takes several seconds to respond. “It was… uh… it was my mate’s birthday.”

Yes.

“And he’s a City fan.”

Right.

“So I… uh… thought I’d get him a football.”

With you.

“So I ordered one. That’s all really. Nothing else happened. Except I gave your name and email address because I don’t trust the internet.”

I see.

“Sorry.”

Indeed.

“Didn’t think it would do any harm. Forgot to tell you.”

Mmm-hmm.

“So is everything coolARRRRGLE please let go of my neckhhhhhargglgglargh.”

As the last spark of life twinkles feebly in That Stupid Cunt’s eyes, you suddenly realise what you have to do. You boss wants to see the email, which means he wasn’t sent it by MCFC. This is a miracle. In her shock and anguish, Jocelyn Made-Up-Name must have deleted it. If your boss actually sees this email, you will be screwed faster than you can say Cock Suppository, so you must remove all trace of it right now. You rush to your computer and frantically cleanse every trace of your sent and deleted items, then breathe a huge sigh of relief. If you can play down the severity of the email, you might just be ok.

Ten minutes later, you and That Stupid Cunt sit sheepishly before the director. You have explained the situation, and you’re fairly confident that he buys your story about the email perhaps containing the odd mild profanity, such as “fart” or “boobs”. He muses for a few seconds. “Well, gentlemen, I’m sure you’re aware of how stupid you both are.”

You and The Aforementioned Cunt nod your heads so vigorously that the director draws back a little in alarm.

Eventually he continues. “I should fire you both. But I am going to be forgiving. I’d say a bunch of flowers and a crawling apology to the lady in question should do the trick. I trust you gentlemen will be generous with the bouquet.”

You assure him that you will denude entire rainforests. The resultant bouquet, you promise, will be colourful enough to trigger epileptic fits, and will contain so many scents that anyone smelling it will immediately have an aneurysm. “Then we shall speak no more of the matter,” your eagle-nosed director says, his fingers folded in front of him in classic Blofeld pose. You get up to leave, thanking the Lord your bowels remained tightly clenched through this ordeal.

“Oh,” he says as you turn to leave, “except that you still haven’t shown me the email.”

You silently congratulate yourself on your foresight. “Sorry sir, the email is gone. I habitually clean my sent and deleted items every night, so I’m afraid it was wiped.” Yeah, that should do it. Your boss thinks on this for a moment, then replies “but won’t there still be a copy on the server?”

Aaaaand, it’s toilet time.

You must think faster than you have ever thought before. A dizzying torrent of adrenaline shoots into your brain, slowing the world down until your panicky heartbeat becomes a grim, measured pounding on the doors of hell. Think, dammit. Who is the only person who can retrieve archived emails from the Exchange server? It’s you, you fucking moron. You’re the I.T. guy. How much does your boss know about the computer systems in this place? Can you bluff him? You just don’t know. You have no choice but to try.

“Sorry, but because of space issues, the non-essential folders such as sent and deleted items are cleaned from the server once a month. On the… uh… seventeenth of the month. Which, in quite an astonishing coincidence, was yesterday. Yesterday evening.” Agonising seconds pass. He stares piercingly into your eyes, his whole face voicing a silent, protracted “hmmmmmmmmm”. Eventually he looks down and says, “well. That’s that. Don’t do anything like this again, lads.”

It is not number one on your agenda.

He gestures for you to go away. You leave the room with a wiffling slump of relief and a blow of friendly camaraderie to the back of That Stupid Cunt’s neck. For a second there, you were convinced you would have to play your one and only trump card, but no. Everything was ok. There is now no need to inform your boss that several months ago, you discovered several gigabytes of gay porn on the laptop belonging to the chairman’s son.

You can save that one for when you get caught rogering his wife in the office toilet, which is the only thing more certain to get you sacked than the email you just sent.

As a recent non-gamer, I’ve tried hard to fill my time with productive, creative and above all fun pastimes, and last night I think I excelled myself. And who better to share my experience with than the entire world? So sit back, relax, and learn how to accidentally subject your girlfriend’s 17-year-old sister to a torrent of unimaginable sexual filth.

Preparation

This one is a little complicated, but it’s worth it. You need to make sure you already have the following items:

- A girlfriend whom you love very much, and who lives in another country

- The 17-year-old sister of your girlfriend, who is a very sweet, polite and innocent person, and also pretty cute (although you obviously shouldn’t mention this to your girlfriend because she will scratch her sister’s eyes out and then poop in the sockets)

Now, for this to work, your girlfriend needs to have recently moved house and be without the internet. This will make sense later.

Begin your letter

Are you ready for the big-top Embarrassment Carnival to begin? First, you should take a minute to contemplate how long it has been since you’ve seen your dearest beloved. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it. When you next see her, you’re going to do things to her, aren’t you. Just muse on those things for a while. Work out some details. Really flesh them out with a variety of scenarios and utensils.

Good! Now is the time to tell her your plans! You obviously shouldn’t do this over the phone, because that would make far too much sense. Instead, why not use the medium of email, since filth-ridden emails have never got anyone in trouble ever! Gosh, you’re a genius.

Dig your own sexgrave

Finished your pre-amble? Now it’s time to get stuck into the offensiveness. Don’t hold back on this. Your girlfriend is the only person who will read the email, so feel free to make it an astonishingly lurid torrent of animal gratification. Creativity is a real turn-on for the ladies, so try to use your imagination as much as possible. For example, my letter contained (but was not limited to) the following items:

• A rolling pin dipped in Vegemite
• Four shaved gibbons
• A very small hell-demon tied to a stick
• The exhumed corpse of Mother Theresa
• A sackful of over-ripe kumquats, swung with tremendous force

If you’ve never written an email such as this before (and, if you have any sense of human decency, you probably haven’t) then don’t despair, for I have provided you with a handy template.

A few hours later, the phone will ring, and you will have the following conversation.

“Hello, this is [your name here], official Sexbastard Of The Year. Whom am I addressing? Oh, hey baby!”

At this point, you will realise that something is wrong, because your girlfriend’s once-soft voice is now tinged with iron. Iron and fire.

And ice.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“You know that email you sent me? The one with the… stuff in it?”

“Hehehe. Yeeeeeeaahhh.”

“And you know how I don’t have the internet at the moment? Well, I was missing you very much, so I just phoned my sister and asked her to read your email to me.”

“Your… 17 year old… sister…”

At this point, a delightful sensation should be creeping over your body. Your head begins to burn, your eyes blur, and your intestines feel as if they are about to fall out of your rectum. This is probably a good approximation of what Ebola feels like. In the future, every time you screw something up, you will have an instant flashback to this moment, and you will feel an uncontrollable desire to punch yourself very hard in the crotch.

Welcome, child. Welcome to Shame.

“Because,” your girlfriend might reply, “as you know, my sister also read my emails to me yesterday. And the day before. In fact, I recall you making a flippant joke two days ago about putting something dirty in your email so my sister would have to read it. You actually joked about doing the thing that you just did.“

You know what we’re having?

We’re having fun.

Now is the perfect moment to avoid meeting your girlfriend’s sister ever again for the rest of your stupid life.

Finding enjoyable pastimes is an important part of moving on. Last night, for example, I decided to clean the house, and ended up keeping myself so busy that I didn’t think of games once. How did I manage this, you ask? By accidentally covering my penis in bleach!

Boy, was that a scream. Pretty much the only things on my mind were intense self-hatred and a pain that felt like acid spiders crawling into my balls. Awesome. So, for all you recovering game addicts out there, here’s a handy guide to getting bleach all over your penis.

In any successful plan, the key is preparation. Before you start, make sure you have a large bottle of industrial strength bleach. Ideally you want one with a zesty lemon flavour, since this will add extra citrus and elevate your pain to indescribable levels. However, if you just have common household Domestos, that’s great too.

But enough preparation! I’m sure you’re dying to start the fun. So here’s what you do. Get your bottle of bleach and squirt it liberally all over the inside of your toilet. Mmmmm, smells great, doesn’t it. Just breathe deeply and imagine all those turd viruses dying, screaming for mercy to a god who will never answer. This is what house cleaning is all about. But don’t stop there! The rim of your toilet directly under the seat looks pretty grimy, so go ahead and coat that with clinical death liquid as well. Screw you, barely visible urine stain! Eat alkaline hellblob, pube.

Make sure to leave as much bleach as possible in the area that is most likely to make direct contact with your junk. The awesome thing is that no amount of flushing will remove the bleach from this upper rim. And you’re certainly not going to clean it off yourself, are you! No, that would be silly.

So, it’s late in the evening, you’re toothbrushed and ready for bed. Well, almost ready. There’s one thing left to do, and that’s to coat your penis in unimaginable agony! Here’s what you do. Take your pants down and recline on the ol’ Death Throne, let nature take its course, and ruminate on this and that. If your truncheon isn’t fully touching the toxic area, maybe give some thought to a mêlée of greased men wrestling in a field, naked as the day they were born. Whatever floats your boat.

“But Tim,” you might say if you’re trying this technique right now, “I can’t feel any pain at all. What are you trying to pull here?” But don’t despair! It takes a few seconds to kick in. You’ll know when it does, because you’ll suddenly be assaulted by an awful searing creeping agony in the most horrendous location imaginable, and you’ll shoot up from the toilet screaming “Oh god! Oh shit! Oh FUCK!”

For those of you who live in stupidly designed apartments, this is a great time to lurch over to your huge washbasin, wait a thousand eternities for it to fill with water, and then discover that no matter at what angle you idiotically thrust your crotch out, there is simply no way for your burning serpent to make contact with the sweet, soothing water contained therein. Now is when you should shout “stupid dumb fucking twat bastard” repeatedly while flailing tearfully around for something, anything to make the horror stop.

We’re having fun!

I don’t know about you, but for me, there’s nothing quite like the feeling of a thousand flaming tarantulas fighting for access to my glans. Really nothing whatsoever. But every fun-time adventure has to end eventually, so when you think you’ve had enough, you might want to effeminately splash your crotch with water that would usually be hot enough to make you wince, but now feels like the soothing kiss of an angel. As a final coup de grâce, use the most abrasive toilet roll in existence to scrape hideously at the poor remains of your manhood until the adrenaline wears off and you begin, softly, to cry.

Of course, the fun isn’t entirely over, because your junk won’t stop hurting all night! This is because you’ve somehow managed to get bleach inside your penis, and the mystery of how this is even possible will keep you tossing and turning in agonised incomprehension until approximately 4:30 AM.

Now aren’t you glad you decided to clean the house instead of spending the evening playing computer games?

Yeeeeeah.

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