If there's ONE thing that I've learned from looking at the hundreds of videos of stunts sent to me by fans, it's that when something looks too good to be true, it generally is. So I guess maybe I should have been more wary about those adoring emails I got the other week from 'happy Plum', the 'sexy 21 year old minx', but hey, I'm a sucker (and sorta hoped she would be too) so I set up a DATE with this avid fan.

I guess alarm bells shoulda started ringing when I rocked up in my specially modified Qashqai and she spent 5 minutes caressing the car without really paying me much attention, but hey, I thought, this is clearly a girl after my own HEART. Similarly, I should have thought twice when I asked what her real name was and she said 'Just call me Happy', but I just played it smooth and said 'Well I'm happy if you're Happy'.

She certainly was a minx and, though I don't know if she was 21, I do know she wasn't covered by my insurance. But, remembering one of my favorite haunts from my college days, I took her to a remote spot with a beautiful view - a great spot for young lovers and drug addicts. When she asked me to pop the car's hood so she could 'see my BIG END' I willingly obliged thinking this may be some kind of 'I'll show you mine if you show me yours' type arrangement.

And it seemed to be going that way when she told me to strip. I did. And as I got down to my boxers she suddenly said 'Wow. D'you know what I really WANNA do?' I thought I could probably guess but was a little surprised when she said 'I wanna sit in the driver's seat - that's where the MAGIC happens'. Well, she's not wrong there, so I got out and held the door open for her whilst she got out the passenger door and slid into my automotive throne.

Then she SLAMMED the door shut and her foot on the accelerator. I really shouldn't have left the engine running.

That was the last I saw of Happy. And it was a pretty long walk back to civilization in just my shorts, so I had plenty of time to reflect on how she'd only ever wanted me for my QASHQAI. After a lotta thought, I decided that if I had her looks, I'd probably do the same - so, if you're out there, Happy, how's about a second date? We'll go to a drive in movie or something. Just please BRING THE CAR.

It's that time of year again. Time for one of my favorite sporting events. Well, one of my favorite sporting events that doesn't involve sending a ton and a half of roaring horsepower soaring through the air - it's the WIMBLEDON Tennis Championships!

You might think this old-fashioned competition with its quaint English customs of strawberries and cream, immaculate white uniforms, and posh umpires saying 'Quiet please; the players are ready' wouldn't exactly appeal to an adrenaline junkie who drinks gasoline and pisses oil, like me. But you'd be WRONG. And damn rude for making the assumption.

There's plenty on offer at Wimbledon for us petrolheads - SPEEDS in excess of 130mph, guys charging down the tramlines, and blown gaskets galore when the umpires get it wrong.

So, if you're not a tennis FAN, why not try watching it and thinking in terms of speed, elevation, and maneuverability? Or, failing that, there's always the short skirts...

GAME, SET, and MATCH, Mr Patterson!

The skies are blue, the birds are singing, and the cleavages are well and truly on display. That's right, folks - SUMMER is here to stay! (for those of us in the Northern Hemisphere, that is.) So I've been topping up my tan, dusting off my shortest shorts, and generally soaking up the summer vibes.

I've also been indulging in a bit of the great American custom (and the pastime which took up much of my youth) - CRUISING. There's no greater feeling of satisfaction (well, nothing that doesn't involve a bit more exertion, anyway) than driving around town with the windows down and system up, picking up appreciative looks from the ladies and disdain from THE MAN.

Yeah, I was sure looking pretty fly the other day, chilling behind the wheel to some phat beats and tunes from my home-boys, the HIP young things known as... DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince. I was really getting down to 'Summertime', grinding my thang to the lines 'Riding around in your Jeep or your Benzos/ Or in your Nissan sitting on Lorenzos' (I think that's somewhere in Philly, but most of my knowledge of the streets of Philadelphia comes from Bruce Sprinsteen) when I realized that the 'honey' I was checking out on the sidewalk was my ex-wife's mother! It's at times like this that I'm really grateful for my years of experience at precision driving, because I had to send my Qashqai up through the gears pretty quick and use all of the car's impeccable handling for some impromptu getaway driving. And still the screams of abuse from the crazy hag were ringing in my ears.

One brush with the beast is enough for me this summer, so, for now, it's back to life in the FAST LANE for this old dog - I think I'll leave cruising to the KIDS.

What did you get you get your dad for Father's Day? As is kinda traditional, I forgot about it until Sunday morning and flowers from a gas station just weren't gonna cut it (especially since that was my solution on Mother's Day). But hey, I thought, experience days are all the rage and I have plenty of chums in motorsport - so I decided to take the old man down to our local track and have a little RACE.

It really would have been a GREAT present if I hadn't let my Qashqai Car Games instincts take over and tried to use the pit wall as a ramp. Unfortunately, Dad wasn't on quite the same wave length and, after landing an impressive barrel roll, I went into the back of him even more impressively than Lewis Hamilton rear-ending Kimi Raikkonen in Canada the other week... before we'd even gotten started.

So this one's for you, Dad, and I PROMISE you I'll get your back sorted at a chiropractor's for your birthday!

GET WELL SOON.

It seems it wasn't my mom who was asking after my relationship status in my last post. Shortly after putting that up, I got another e-mail from someone calling themselves 'happy Plum' who is apparently 'a 21 year old sexy minx' and who really wants to know if I'm single: 'Please say yes'.

My response to Miss (or Mr) Plum is this: Well, Happy (if that IS your real name), 'single' is quite a strong word. I don't like classification like that. All I'm saying is I am just one man, and in that sense, I'm a single entity, or force of nature, as I prefer to be called. But I'm also many things to many people. This is all getting a bit ZEN, I know, so I'll just say that, though I'm married to the Qashqai Car Games, I'm also a fan of 21 year old sexy minxes.

Anyone else out there keen to Plum my hidden depths?

Since starting this blog my mail sack has been BULGING (and that's not something you should say in polite conversation, as I learned to my cost at a dinner party last night). It seems that you guys out there in Spanner League fan-land have a few BURNING questions you need answered, so I thought I'd take this opportunity to address a few of the key issues....

Q: How is the Spanner League scored?
A: Good question. Clearly stunts like this involve more ART than science, and artists vary massively in the impression they make on different people. It's kinda like asking 'Who was better, Mozart or Elvis?' (to which my response would be 'NEITHER - they both died without ever performing an Axel 360 Twist Flip.')

But to attempt to get the fairest view of our competitors' exploits, I've assembled a crack squad of Qashqai Car Games veterans, seasoned motorsport enthusiasts, and the unemployed. These guys look over the tapes of stunts independently and give each trick marks out of 10 in the following categories: AMBITION, EXECUTION, ELEVATION, and FLAIR.

We then all meet up on a Tuesday night round at mine and they feedback the results to me, which are fed into a complex ALGORITHM to determine the grade of the stunt. Then I disagree with the result, tell the guys they're totally wrong and start shouting at them before the evening degenerates into manly wrestling.

The next morning, I wake up with a headache and a sense of remorse for the emptiness of life and make up my own scores for the stunts, completely overriding the opinions of my panel. They get about as much say in it as Michigan and Florida get in the Democratic nomination.

That's how the MAGIC happens.

Q: How much training do you need to be a Qashqai Car Games star?
A: Absolutely NONE. I know a guy (and no, I ain't naming names) who started doing this professionally because he kept crashing golf buggies at his local country club, but hey, who could resist a little spin in those sand traps?

Q: Craig, you're real hot. Are you single?
A: That would be telling... but thanks for the question, mom.

If you have anything you've been ITCHING to ask about the Qashqai Car Games, Spanner League, or my personal life, feel free to drop me an e-mail to pencilsharp.patterson@googlemail.com and I'll get back to you just as soon as possible.

OVER AND OUT

My friends often ask me how come I get so much action with the LADIES. My answer is always to point at my face and smile. Then they laugh and say, 'No, seriously, how come YOU get so much action with the ladies?'

Well, the great Stirling Moss once said 'There are two things no man will admit he cannot do well: DRIVE and MAKE LOVE.' Now I happen to believe the two things go kinda hand in hand. Just look at Sir Stirling himself - a man famed for his shining helmet and ability to find POLE POSITION, who spent the latter part of his career in a Lotus with a Climax Straight 4 in his big end. And he's DYNAMITE in the sack. Allegedly.

For me, the skills of driving and love-making are so intertwined that it's sometimes hard to remember which activity I'm engaged in. The moment I stick my keys in the ignition and feel the THROBBING of the engine, I know it's all about that balance between power and timing.

So maybe there's some truth in the saying that a man's car is an extension of his JOHNSON, but I sure as hell want to do more with mine than just polish it and back it in and out of the garage every Sunday. You see, for those of us who feel the true PASSION of driving, it's not all about the race to the finish - it's about experimentation, improvisation, and not caring if it all ends a bit messily.

That's the URGE, the impulse which drove me deep into the world of the Qashqai Car Games, and that's why I feel there's no greater thrill than slipping into a slinky little Qashqai and thrashing it about, preferably somewhere I'm not supposed to.

I mean, sure, I'll drive anything - I think I get that from my dad - and more than a couple of times that's left me in hospital and out of the game for a few weeks, but when a burly Mexican guy DRAGGED me away from a sordid destruction derby and took me down a back alley to a disused warehouse full of ramps, humps, and roaring horsepower, that's when I knew I'd found true LOVE.