The fat man is dead to me.

That is is. Christmas is over for me.

Every year I have been good, I have bowed to the commercial pressure of Christmas and prayed to the fat man in a red suit for a Playstation 3.

I look under my tree today - the first xmas tree I have rigged in years by the way - and still it is not there.

Boxing day sales, here I come. If you want something good, it seems you have to buy it yourself!

Merry Christmas folks.

Not dead yet.

To quote Twain, the rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

The bike is yet to provide more danger than an increased heart rate and surge of adrenaline. It is still surpassed in risk by activities like kite surfing in over 30 knots of wind as per yesterday afternoon.

Some how I have managed to retain my licence and all my skin despite the little red thoroughbred wanting to get up on it's back wheel and scream away with the slightest twist of the wrist.

I may be getting older and more under control but I have to laugh at every idiot in a car that honestly thinks there is some point in trying to race against a bike like this. I refuse to play the game. Mostly. There just is no point, I will save the heroics for the track days.

Other than that, the silly season has arrived, girls keep turning up to various parties in short little Santa dresses and I feel obliged to unwrap as many presents as I get offered. I blame the bike for my bad boy lifestyle right now.

I have a guest post to put up in a day or so that has been sitting in my inbox for some time now so I promise to dig it out and get it up here for your entertainement.