Warning: This piece talks of Testicles and God. If you are offended by this concept, please read twice.

Summertime inSouthern England. The green and pleasant land is awash with sunshine borrowed from Spain. My daughters, jealous of the attention that I'm paying to the World Cup football-fest, bully me into taking them on a bicycle ride. Performing a reluctant impersonation of a good parent, I saddle up and we head for the hills. I'm suffering from a foreboding feeling, deep in the pit of my stomach there's something about the situation that feels all wrong; I can't put my finger upon it and it nags me as I ride.

It comes flooding back as the pain explodes within me and I tumble from the bike. Face down and writhing in the ditch beside the wooded track, the nagging pain is now a gut wrenching inferno. The original feeling was my testicles trying to warn me, trying to remind me...

Testicles, they conclusively disprove the evolution theory. As a technical configuration evolves, each modification progressively adapts and improves upon the original design. That's evolution, right?

So there we are, starting off as some self contained, smooth, slippery sliding thing, and then, after an extensive period of relentless improvements, we end up with nasal hair and dangly bits. That's a little like improving Concorde into a Sopwith Camel.

Wearing your organs on the outside is a design flaw. Take it from any male.

The Christian Bible tells us that God created man. There are theorists who suggest that God is a woman. That could explain why, if one gender has to wear its genitalia inside out, then it's the man. If God isn't a woman, then the chief bicycle designers certainly are.

It's the pushbike that first introduces a young male to his testicles. There he is, standing on the pedals, arse way off the seat and pumping those legs strenuously to move that thing up the hill. Then wham! The chain jumps, or the gears slip and his gonads meet the crossbar with the oomph of a rhino-charge.

Apart from a brief opportunity to walk like John Wayne and sing like Madonna, there's very little to be said for the nausea-inducing, excruciatingly painful experience that we've all suffered. I'm not sure if the design issue is the bicycle frame, the testis, or both. What I do know is that bicycles for females don't have crossbars. This is obviously so that the testicles they don't have can come crashing down upon a crossbar that isn't there. In a world full of conspiracy theorists, why are we challenging the validity of the moon missions and assassinations when a hundred-year-old bicycle design and a million year evolution project continually conspire to castrate?

I can hear the girls laughing merrily; they are enjoying the shady woods. I think that it's the debris of autumn, old pine cones that they are throwing at the back of my head. A shrill ring-tone pierces the agonised ambience of the forest and I hear the Red Hot Chilli Peppers performing live from inside a biscuit tin. It's the oldest daughter's phone. She answers.

"Mum?... yeah... yeah, dunno. No, he's fallen off... no, but I think he's crying... Okay, bye."

"Dad, Mum says to tell you that what goes around comes around?"

It's what may be coming back up that worries me as the queasiness rises.

The pine cone barrage resumes.