Watching the Six Nations rugby union 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 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.
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 £50 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 20-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 ranks in a gym.
There’s the cooking, cleaning, vacuuming, washing, ironing, scrubbing dishes, shopping, decorating, DIY and gardening.
I’m not criticising those who 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 physical exertion.