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Dear Internet, no I haven't changed my mind about cookies in the last 72 hours

REMEMBER on Friday when I said I didn’t want any cookies? Well I remember, and guess what?  

I know you were holding out hope that in the intervening 72 hours I’m suddenly in favour of being spied on, tracked, monitored and my data sold to the highest bidder, but I have some bad news for you. You may want to sit down.

Perhaps you think you’ll wear me down. Perhaps you’re right, but after clicking reject on every website I’ve been to for the past five years, you must be seeing a pattern.

Perhaps you think I’ll let my guard down and accidentally click accept. No. I’m eternally vigilant, like an ancient warrior monk faithfully guarding a mountain citadel. Except when I come in from the pub and watch porn when I’m in incognito.

Have I spent 872 hours of my life, on aggregate, scrolling down a list of cookie options and deselecting boxes? Was that time I could have spent making precious memories? Yes. Some call it stubborn; I call it principled.

I’ve demonstrated my principles on 134,000 website visits so far. The nagging suspicion that whether I click accept or reject you add whatever cookies you want remains but that’s not the point.

Deep down we both know I’ll outlast you. Imminent societal collapse means your days are numbered. And as I survive by scavenging from hedges and eating roadkill, I’ll be cackling that I clicked reject on the very last website I saw at before the power went out for good.

Do a six-mile paper round before 8am: how to get fit in the 1970s

FITBITS? Couch to 5K apps? Bollocks to that. Get in shape the 1970s way through everyday hardship for f**k-all reward: 

Do a six-mile paper round

Forget ankle weights and a rucksack full of smugness; simply hump 25 pounds of newsprint round a council estate at 6am. Concrete stairs, pissing rain, a psychotic Alsatian hurling itself at every other letterbox. What doesn’t deform your spine makes you stronger.

Ride a Chopper

Weighing as much as a Smart car, the Raleigh Chopper or its later relative, the Grifter, were welded together from melted-down war shrapnel and as heavy as three children. Usually ridden by three children. Once going downhill cannot be stopped.

Get chased by a gang

Jogging, and of course jogging suits, weren’t invented until the 80s. But everything roamed in packs: punks, skinheads, droogs, Chelsea fans and blokes on mopeds in Parkas. If caught alone your own by any of these you would be subjected to a terrifying lung-busting chase for your life.

Carry heavy stuff

The equivalent to the weights bench in 1972 was everyday household labour. Nothing had wheels and everything was a free-weight. Coal came in sacks, bins were made of galvanised iron, sacks of potatos came home from the pub. Collaborative exercise in the form of swapping furniture between houses was a fun way to get fit with friends.

Constantly maintain your car

1970s cars were built by men who spent four days of the week on strike and the other three in a power cut. Every muscle group was burned bump-starting the car, one of your five-a-day vehicle maintenance tasks alongside giving it more choke, mopping condensation, emptying the ashtray, and topping up oil. To beat Tough Mudder ditch the Qashqai and get a Vauxhall Victor.

Smoking 40 a day

There’s no more lung-busting exercise than a serious fag habit. Think running up a hill for boot camp’s hard? Try walking up six flights of stairs while continually torching gaspers. And, because every workplace, home, pub and bus is wreathed in blue smoke, non-smokers get to join in!

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