By Diane Messias

SELL SPORTS BRAS, BUY SPORTS BARS.

Warning: This column contains nuts.

The Iron Man extravaganza came to Nice this weekend, and on hearing 2,500 competitors were registering in person on Saturday - not to mention putting in a little practice on the beach for Sunday's contest - I popped down to the seafront with a pile of linen that I just couldn't get the creases out of. I like to do my bit for sport when I can.

After an hour or so, though, it became apparent that this was no ordinary ironing contest – the bonkers participants were expected to swim for 3.8 kilometres, before going on a 180 km bike ride, finishing off with a 42 km marathon run. I was amazed! It's so dangerous swimming and ironing at the same time...

As you will have ascertained by now, I'm not someone who dedicates her life to outdoor pursuits. Not physically built for it, to be honest. I once met a man who, upon looking me up and down lasciviously, let out a long breath and said: “Well, you're not a jogger, are you?” (Got the impression he might have enjoyed engaging in a little contact sport with me, but could be wrong). I've had my knockers in my time, but still...

And take yesterday; I had an hour to kill between periods of endeavouring to catch hold of a passing Iron Man in his tight-fitting all-in-one lycra outfit - my goodness, those suits are slippery after a 4 km swim! - (my friend, Tanya, thought it would be a good idea: “It should be easy for you, Diane, they'll be knackered.” Now THAT'S what I call a supportive friend), and so I ambled along to the Cours Saleya, noticing one bar had a large flat screen TV showing England versus Germany. There was a nice, comfy seat in the shade obviously just waiting for me, so I sat down and ordered a beer. Almost immediately the half time whistle went and I spent 15 minutes watching commercials. That's the kind of sporting talent I possess, dear Reader.

Whilst we're talking about what laughingly passes for 'English football', I actually thought the second half of the game was quite entertaining. The two goals were scored very close together and in almost the same way: the Germans had possession of the ball, and 10 of the England team had gone off to have a manicure or sleep with some prostitutes, leaving the one remaining English guy on the pitch to chase after the German with the ball and ask politely if he wouldn't consider, just this once, not kicking it into that funny net thingy, but, as usual, the German had got there first. (With many apologies for that racial stereotype. But be comforted that Germany has a football team and the English have a collection of rowdy womanisers for whom dribbling has an entirely different connotation on a Friday night on the pavement outside China White's). But it was a very close thing. 4 – 1. Could have been anybody's, Brian.

(And I thought I did the jokes).

Well, back at the old Iron Man thing (can somebody enlighten me as to why they have to dress like sperms before going for a dip in the Med?), and there were a surprising number of women taking part. Researching this on the net, I discovered they are called Iron Girls, not Iron Women (oh my god, I've just had a grisly vision of Margaret Thatcher dressed in tight lycra with a silicone swimming cap, clutching her handbag menacingly at her side. Sorry, folks. Will be more careful in future...) Interesting that the female competitors are downgraded in maturity, though, isn't it?

I've said I'm not particularly sporty, but I did used to meet up with some girlfriends in Brighton on Thursday mornings to play tennis on an outdoor court. That was fun. And in inclement weather we did exactly what Roger Federer does when training – we went off for a lovely fry-up and a gossip.

Well, if I'm not sporty, I am at least spooky...I was talking to a friend on the Promenade yesterday during all the ironing shenanigans (she looked a little board to me), relating to her the jolly occasion when my future ex-husband sent me (Diane) a text intended for his lover (Diane), when, at that very moment there passed in front of us a woman wearing black shorts with big white letters stuck on them over her backside:-

D I A N E

How weird is that, then, dear Reader??? (Bet that never happened to Charlotte Bronte. Well, if it did it wouldn't have meant much to her, because her name wasn't Diane, it was Charlotte.)

(By-the-way, I think you'd have every right to ask if your bum looks big in shorts with

C H A R L O T T E

written on the back of them).

OK, so what did I learn yesterday?

I learnt that beer costs 3 euros 90 for a small glass on the Cours Saleya on World Cup match days. I learnt that you don't actually have to run back and forth to the airport on a hot day, the Number 98 is normally extremely reliable (and a snip, at the price of a small glass of beer on the Cours Saleya on World Cup match days). And I learnt that I'll have to iron my own bloody pile of linen after all.

Well, at least I'll develop muscles in my right arm. Which will be helpful if ever they have a contest for the swimmer most efficient at swimming around in circles for 3.8 kilometres.

But then, I'm not (quite) that nutty.

***