Rah Rah Ga Ga

Well it's all gone rubbish.

I started jogging, it made me feel good, I stopped jogging because I was tired/busy/terrified somebody I knew might see me, and judge me. I was on holiday, I didn't do much, then I stopped being on holiday, because I can't control time. I drank until it was a great night, then I carried on, now there's some stuff I don't know, and the stuff I do know has bits in it that make me a tit. I played two gigs in a row with my band, now we have no gigs until May. I haven't done the washing up. I ate tea yesterday, and immediately fell asleep afterwards. We came fifth in the quiz, out of seven, and we had more players than the rules technically allowed us to. I've fallen in love with a fictional character, and so has at least a quarter of the nation. I spent all my money, and then some more, and I don't have any decent underpants. I think one of the Grand National horses I bet on was made up, and I failed to predict the outcome of six Rugby League games, the most predictable sport known to man. The team I support is rubbish and next year they're going to dig up the stadium and turn it into something awful. I have no petrol in my car. My head is shaped like a bean and my ears aren't on straight. I'm hungry, but if I eat I'll fall asleep. I haven't been skiing in years. I'm getting hairier in the places I don't want hair, and balder in the places I do. I can't draw.

Right I'm done.

P.S. Everything is not rubbish, I've now written two blogs in fifteen minutes and have two more planned before bedtime, I own Harvey on VHS and I'm about to eat ratatouille. I just wanted to vent a little.

P.P.S. That I couldn't spell ratatouille first time, almost sent me into a shame spiral so crushing it would have finished in me buying a vest.

Lisa Thomas

The first girl I ever thought I was in love with was Lisa Thomas. I wasn't of course, I was 8. She was dark haired and pale, sweet but smart, and had just slightly too rabbity front teeth. I don't remember what I thought I was supposed to do about this, but I remember being told off for not paying attention to whatever edu-TV it was the teacher had taped from late night BBC2 because I found her distinctly more compelling to look at. It was OK back then, I was still vaguely bright, they didn't need to spell the word four times and make a song out of it, it said HORSE, there was a picture of a horse next to it and they'd been talking about horses in the introduction to the animation, I'd glance at the screen again when they moved on to sheep, just to check they weren't actually called sheap.

I kissed her; playing Kiss Chase of all things, which was always a slightly uncomfortable game, and I'm willing to guess is definitely banned now, punishable by having your name put on a list and having to sit in a different room at birthday parties, but anyway, I caught her against the wall at the top of the playground, she smiled and didn't turn her head when I lent in to kiss her, then I ran off immediately afterwards with that acidic fuzz in the roof of my stomach that, to this day, I've never fully understood the reason for. A few minutes later we were all playing British Bulldog and my focus turned to not being knocked over, playground surfaces are hard.

An indeterminable amount of time after that, I invited her to my brother's birthday party. Now, up until this point, I can recall no recollection of actually talking to Lisa, having a conversation. Though to be honest, what the hell do 8 year olds talk about? Why would they have any reason to actually converse with each other beyond 'You're it!' or 'Give me the red crayon'? I'm pretty sure on the school field me and my friends would indulge in elaborately constructed interactive Thundercats fantasy worlds without actually saying any full sentences to each other. How many words could I even have known back then? Just horse and sheep I imagine.

I think my best friend liked her too, I think his name was Graham, possibly spelt weird, like Graeme, he had one of those twinkly eyes.

But I invited her to my brother's birthday party, I was only allowed one friend and I chose her rather than a boy, our mums thought it was delightfully sweet, and I think she blushed a bit when I asked her. My brother was 6, there was no way we were going to spend the afternoon with him and his baby friends, so we sat in my bedroom playing top trumps, probably for hours, probably speaking only the words needed to play the actual game, then she went home.

I was invited to her birthday party some time after that, I don't know if that was her doing or her mum's, I've always got on well with mums, it was the only other time either of us went to the other's house. We did dance together at the primary school leavers party though, or I think that's what it was, we were 9 by then, I was wearing a canary yellow jumper, I think it matched her dress, I don't think that was a good thing, I don't think the dance was, mothers may have been meddling, Lisa may have discovered reluctance, I might have developed awkwardness.

There was another Lisa joined our class at middle school. She had shorter blonde hair, confidence, and legs. I had absolutely no idea why this was all so appealing, but I know I had to wrestle with myself over it. I was in love with Lisa Thomas, that's how it worked, this other girl was dangerous to that, it was wrong for me to feel drawn to her. I couldn't stop thinking about her.

It all gets a bit fuzzy after that. It's possible I just started thinking about dinosaurs a lot more, or wondering if there really was a 'beast' roaming the forest at the top of our road. I know for certain I was given a computer, a Spectrum 48K, so I was thinking in Basic quite often. I also know I'd started full on fancying the 13 year old who lived on the corner and owned a Commodore 64 with a brilliant game about working in a fast food restaurant. She was called Janet, or maybe Janine, her best friend was called Vicky and I definitely had conversations with her, about fancying Janet/Janine, she said I had no chance, which I kind of understood.

We must have moved away towards the end of the summer, somewhere between being 10 and 11, because I can find absolutely no final memories about school, or the Lisas, just of sun, and the playing field at the bottom of the road, and promising Vicky & Janet/Janine and probably some kids that were actually our age, that we'd come back and visit. Which of course we never did.

Then again, I think when we were 8-10 years old it was always the summer, except that week it snowed and we watched Dangermouse in the gym while we waited to be picked up from school.

Back Home & Well Fed

I'm sure Crimewatch never used to be quite like this, it's like Our Tune with pictures.

Remember Our Tune? I'm pretty sure it traumatised me as a child. We'd go to do the big supermarket shop; Mum, Dad, our kid and I, and of course, we'd learnt fairly sharpish that this was a family activity that went much smoother if the children just stayed in the car and listened to the radio while the parents went in to choose between luncheon meat and tongue for the next week's packed lunches. They may have returned four times out of ten to find one of us in tears and the other protesting complete innocence and ignorance as to how that came about, and why there was a toy car shaped bruise quickly forming on the tearful one's forehead, but at least they didn't have to drag us screaming along the soup aisle wondering at what point the surrounding shoppers would judge it acceptable for them to start throwing tins at us. I don't know why we couldn't just have been good quiet kids, I really don't, though I think having PSPs might have helped.

Our Tune!

The few minutes of calming strings that Radio 1 would deliver into the car to underpin the soft sincerity of Simon Bates' voice as he recounted a tale; a tale of love, of people coming together, complete happiness in their grasp, excitedly making plans for the future, truly beginning to discover the real beauty of life, stepping into a fairy tale ending. Then in the same gentle tones, but now with a merciless chill, one of them would die. Every single time.

That's got to be pretty damaging to an impressionable young kid, I've never considered this before, but it now seems obvious to me that Mr Bates is entirely responsible for my mis-shaped approach to those relationship things, for the fact I'm 31 and not a single lady has tried to put a ring on it, for my inability to fully enjoy rom coms.

Simon Bates is responsible for the fact I can't enjoy Love Actually, and I'm going to sue him for it.

Anyway, Crimewatch, I'm not sure it needs to be quite this emotive, I mean, I'm quite sure there'll be some folk in the country who sorrowfully watch the short story of the young girl attacked in her own home by a man claiming to have come to fix the boiler, and who, when recognising the photo-fit at the end as 'that boy who works at the bookies', will be moved to pick up the phone and, in playground vernacular, dob him in. I'm more sure however, that there will be some folk who watch the disturbing tale with a little more disgust, perhaps even anger, and head straight down to the bookies to duff him up, or perhaps even more likely, round to the actors house to give him a good hiding instead, because people are stupid.

I think they'd be much better emailing the nation each day with a picture of an offender and a note declaring that 'This geezer's got the last Rolo, tell us where he is and it's yours.', no vigilante justice, no mistaken identity, just hundreds of fatties sniffing the air for a whiff of chocolate coated caramel.

Oh, right, yeah. I bumped into Riyaz, said thanks. I think I'd left it a few days too long.

The Supper Predicament

I have a small quandary, a social situation I find myself unable to deal with quite as fluidly as I would like. An action has occurred to me which requires a reaction from me, but what to do I just can't be sure.

In short, I'm stumped.

Friday night, I arrived home after a long and particularly downbeat day at the office, the clock was ticking past midnight and I was simply hoping to salvage the day with supper. I came off the street and into the house that holds my flat, up the stairs, up more stairs, dropped my keys on the floor and knelt down to retrieve them in order to gain access to the three room loft conversion I call 'home'. Then I saw it, a familiar sight in an unfamiliar place, a takeaway carton, the kind you get from the Chinese, or the Indian, either way, it spelled curry. But why? I hadn't ordered any delivery food, and it doesn't seem like the kind of thing I'd have dropped on my way out. There was a note scrawled onto the lid, in biro;

'To Russel, from Flat 1 (Riyaz), Enjoy.'

Now, those who know me well know that I'm not a man known for emotional displays, certainly not for being moved to tears, but here I'd just been given food, supper, take-away, a fried rice dish no less, unprompted, by a relative stranger. I have to confess to a moment of weakness, a deep breath at very least. My relationship with Riyaz, to this point, involved passing him at the doorway, moving my car to let him park, moaning about the lights in the hall being out, general uninvolved chatter that those who find themselves sharing a street door tend towards from politeness. I don't know the name of his wife, or his child, or if that should be children. I'll be honest, I'd forgotten his name was Riyaz, so it's good he included his address.

I must admit, and I do so with a certain degree of shame, that I did let my elation subside for a flash, as I considered possible unfriendly motivations for this gift, from spittle based practical joke, to arsenic laced mass murdering tendencies, but concluded in doing so I was ruining what should be quite a humbling moment, by imagining myself important enough to be made a victim in a strangers plot. Besides, I was holding a pot of free fried rice, he could probably have told me the dog had been licking it and I'd still have stuck it in the oven and started polishing up a fork.

I'll tell you what too, it was tasty, mighty tasty.

But now, dear reader, what do I do? How do I make thanks for this truly incredible gift. Do I return the favour, leave a pie outside his door? Do I simply knock and offer thanks? I've never knocked on his door before, that would be a boundary broken. Do I go the post-it route, a short note saying 'Thanks!' left for him to find, or do I just wait till I pass him in the corridor and give him a hearty smile and a sincere hand-shake? I've never been in this situation before. What would Stephen Fry do?

It's become slightly more awkward now, as it happens, I elected for the 'Wait till I pass him' option, thinking it warranted a personal display of gratitude, but a knock on the door might be an awkward step, I figured the chances of this happening at the weekend were reasonable strong.

It didn't. It's been three days now. Too late now for a post it? Definitely too late for a knock? But is he starting to curse me under his breath? Do I have to elevate the gesture now? Do I have to cook lasagne for his whole family? Have I ruined a potential friendship, and worse, reduced my chances of surprise food in future?

Maybe he'll read this... cheers Riyaz, your unexpected gift made my week and filled my belly, for that, I salute you.

Stuart Cahoon

I once had a falling out with Stuart Cahoon. I don't know what the disagreement was, where the fault lay, or whether we eventually resolved things, all I remember is how we dealt with the incident in the moments immediately after the falling out.

The playground, as playgrounds typically are, was covered in a number of lines marking out various sporting courts, pitches and zones. Mostly at right angles, but with the occasional diagonal or even curve, the different coloured lines intersected each other. Stuart chose to display his disgruntlement by walking away from me, or I think it was us, but he walked only on these lines, turning at corners, or where the lines crossed. Of course we followed him in exactly the same manner, trying to catch him by travelling crookedly and inefficiently along these arbitrary guides.

I think, after what I'd like to say was twenty minutes, but was probably nearer five, we deviated from these paths and began to walk freely about the ground to head him off at points on his journey, standing to block him only to see him turn about face and scurry away. A small part of me believes we eventually resorted to physically barging him off the lines in order to break his path, his silence and his huff. It's distinctly possible this is exactly how we brought the whole thing to an end, smiled and became mates again. I don't think it was in this case, but who knows what kids do.

I think Stuart was my best friend for several years at primary school. In my only other lasting memory of him he declares a fondness for the music of Billy Ocean, who at the time I believe is a female singer. I don't know if his name should be spelt Stuart or Stewart, Cahoon or Kahoon. I've found two on Facebook, both spelt Stuart Cahoon, both living in Ireland.

I don't think he was Irish, but he may have been.

When we were two little boys.

I remember a house viewing, I remember a thick smell of pipe smoke, or maybe cigar smoke, though I didn’t know that’s what it was at the time. I remember a cheerful family with soft West Indian accents, I remember the old man of the house sat at a piano. I think I remember pots and pans being hung up everywhere, but I can’t think how that might have worked.

I remember becoming overwhelmed with frustration and bursting into tears because the sums in front of me wouldn’t make sense. I distinctly remember calling the teacher ‘mum’ and the laughter that followed. I remember it taking me months to acknowledge the distinction between ‘are’ and ‘our’ thanks to the accents I was surrounded with. I remember when Kirsty showed up to school wearing perfume and sat in front of me, how the nape of her neck suddenly became the centre of the universe. I remember the expansive rush that shot through my head as I breathed it in, something I wouldn’t experience again for nearly 25 years and in quite different circumstances.

I remember the doughy black girl from across the street, who had the hair and the combs that I didn’t understand, asking me to marry her as we played outside her kitchen window, and me turning her down because of the scented neighbour from school. Well, I don’t actually remember saying “No.”, it’s more than likely I just ran home without speaking and didn’t see her again for a while. All very childish at the time, but probably a fairly telling moment, looking back. I don’t remember that girl’s name.

I remember the first time I cycled ‘round the block’ and that feeling of guilty terror as I found myself in unfamiliar surroundings out of sight of home. I don’t remember how I felt when I got back onto my road, but I know I’ll have been at the bottom of a reasonably steep hill, so it’s possible I felt annoyed and resolved never to get myself into that mess again.

I remember hiding behind the settee when Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ video first came on TV. I remember standing terrified with my brother in Ben & Kirsty’s back garden while Ben pretended to ‘change’ into the wolf. I remember Kirsty discouraging him but clearly not being impressed.

I remember dad taking us to watch the Stock cars just up the road, I remember it being very cold, very loud, but mostly I remember he bought us pie. I remember playing cars on the terraces of the same stadium as the rugby took place on a slightly sunnier day.

I remember my brother running headfirst into the corner of our pebble-dashed house. I may or may not have pushed him.

Bradford is my hometown, it’s where I’m from, but this is the sum total of the memories I have from actually living there and, let’s be honest, there’s a strong chance I’ve invented half of those, I spent most of my pre-teenage years believing I had a false finger because of a scar that has grown from when I trapped it in a door as a toddler. Turns out I’d had a dream at some point about having it snipped off in A&E, it was only when I was telling the tale to a friend at school that I realised it probably wasn’t true.

My dreams are usually a lot more fun than my memories anyway, apart from those ones where I get trapped in a box, I'm not so into them.

Dumberer and Dumbererer.

When I was a kid I was smart, from the start I was smart. Right up until the teens kicked in I was quite satisfied with my own cleverness, always challenging for top of the class, rarely at a loss to understand anything that was set to me, head full of words, numbers and ideas that I could access with ease whenever the occasion called.

I wasn't a prodigy or any kind of exciting case study, I was just quite brain smart for my age, I read more than most, I found schoolwork fairly easy, I went the extra yard out of curiosity and learned stuff on my own, I was programming on my Spectrum 48K in Basic and not just getting over excited about the new racing game, although I did that too. Of course, I fully believed I was an exciting human being, almost some kind of super hero, and made sure those around me knew that, which obviously limited my popularity in exactly the way it should have, really I should have been thumped more often than I was.

Then I grew up and stopped being smart, at all. At 31, I haven't made a confident decision in weeks, I have to write down every thought as it comes to me or it goes away forever (as anyone on my Facebook will testify), I struggle to concentrate after more than a chapter or so of a book, when people ask me what my favourite something is? A film, a song, a comedian, a holiday, a friend, I don't know, because the only one I can clearly remember is the last one I thought about, or the first that pops into my head, I don't have full access to the big filing system in my brain anymore, I've been locked out, given restricted access. The other day I put a pie in the freezer... it wasn't a pie for freezing!

Saints alive, what is going on? Can I blame TV and the internet, or some form of undiagnosed condition that will be given a fancy name in a few years. Is this whole 'the brain is a muscle' malarky something I should be paying far more heed to? Or should I just let it happen, let my Freeview rest on E4, tattoo important information about my body and start taking photos of absolutely everything.

Of course, I don't know, maybe the nine year old me would, but I've no chance now.

Hedgehogs are cute, right?

I should probably have known what was going to happen the minute the girl on the phone said she'd check if Lisa could squeeze me in.

For starters, who the hell is Lisa? Kate cuts my hair, or Becky, if Kate isn't free, I've never even heard of Lisa before, she could be some girl they've pulled in from the chippy over the road for all I know. Also 'squeeze me in'? There are times I don't mind being 'squeezed in', at a sold out gig perhaps, on the tube, a cheerleader's slumber party, but not a hairdressers, definitely not. The only pressure I want the cutter to be under is the pressure that my eyes, loaded with fear, places upon them to do a good job.

But I want it doing today and I'm in a good mood, so let it pass and decide to take the risk, half remembering some tosh about doing something every day that scares you.

Well, very soon, scared is truly what I become. These people in the salon, I've never seen any of them before, what are they doing here, where are the people I've slowly learned to trust over the last few years, what the hell is going on? I've no idea, as far as I'm concerned these women could just be keeping up appearances out front while some kind of hostage situation takes shape in the back. That wouldn't be good at all, not only would they not know what they were doing, they wouldn't care about how they left my head, they wouldn't care how I felt about it either, which is definitely a worry.

I considered running, but I'm far too English for that kind of reaction, so here we go, eyes closed, palms sweaty, heart beating, let's just get this over with. It's all good to start with, it always is, until that moment. We've all lived that moment, you might not see it actual happen, and often it's better you don't, because a yelp of horror isn't something you ever want somebody stood over you with scissors to hear from you, but at some point, you will become painfully aware that it has happened. Your gaze will return from wherever it had been hovering, to the mirror, to your own head, to the unmistakable evidence that the cutting has gone too far and that this is not going to be rescued, not by a long chalk.

Of course once this has happened there's nothing you can do, no point in complaining, just nod and smile when necessary, pay your money, go home, have a little cry, start the healing process, possibly by pouring Miracle-Gro in your shampoo and just hoping the fortunes smile kindly on you this time.

Those who know me well will know it well that I'm ever the optimist, and in this case there is no difference, and I will tell you now that there is a plus side to a poor haircut. When you're in the pub, and someone pretty across the room starts looking at you, you don't have to go through the whole insecurity regime, don't have to spend time trying to work out if they fancy you or not, if you should go over, if this is your chance, finally, for true love, or at least a fumble in the corner, because it isn't, they don't, they want to know what the hell you've got on your head. Which is great, you can just get on with your night, no worries, no pressures, nobody think you're attractive right now, so you may as well just get get drunk and have a laugh with your mates. Everybody is a winner.

I'm aware that paragraph was something of an example of straw-clutching, but life can so easily get you down if you let it, and sometimes a silver lining needs a bit of stitching if it's going to hang on.

Tonight is New Years Eve, I'm so very glad I look my best.

Toby Jugs and Cockatiels

There's a building on the east coast I'm starting to become quite familiar with. It's a strange place for me to find myself travelling so far to visit, it's not somewhere I ever particularly want to go, it doesn't provide or host any services I have any use for, and while it is functional, it's not especially welcoming. It's not even in a town I have any real connection with.

As a kid, the east coast of England meant holidays, it meant 8 hours in the car with 2 parents, a brother and a dog, it meant fish cakes and spaghetti bolognese and then a walk to the harbour for waffles. It meant long afternoons finding hidden places on the beach after an hour on the putting green, it meant second hand shops. It meant evening strolls timed so the sun set as the fairground lights came into view, it meant pestering for coins to feed arcade machines, starting with copper, then in a few years silver, before finally we needed pound coins, which we needed to earn, or take as cheeky gifts from sneaky grandparents. It meant going to see the donkeys, not on the beach but up the hill, it meant never quite walking all the way to the lighthouse, and it meant making dad wait for hours while we splashed around in the swimming pools or rolled around in skates. It meant falling completely in love with girls from Skegness who'd entered beauty contests and bursting into tears because the fear of talking to them was paralysing, it meant going fishing off the pier and catching nothing but crabs*, seagulls and twenty pound notes that had blown out of pockets. It meant bingo at the legion, shandies outside the half moon, wrestling at the spa and football in the park.

Most of all it meant visiting Grandparents, staying in their houses, living by their habits, and largely destroying the small gardens they'd work hard to maintain with childish exuberance and ball games, and sometimes their neighbours gardens too.

These days, as is the nature of things, what the east coast means is funerals, and next Monday is another one, the last of the Grandparents, and hopefully now the last for some time.

I haven't made the trip to see my Grandad for a long time, mostly because he hasn't really been there. The man I looked up to, the man who probably taught me more about strength, respect, and to some extent stoicism, simply by being himself than anybody else has done with words, the man who played the disciplinarian selflessly to allow my gran to play the humanitarian, the man who made the best bolognese I'll ever taste, he hasn't been there for a long time now. As my mum said in a recent unguarded moment, we said bye to him a long time ago. I probably didn't do it as well as most, I've been busy, and lazy, and inherently selfish, and the east coast is a long way from here, but the old merchant navy sailor and club steward who raised five kids in a two up two down West Yorkshire terrace while keeping himself quietly to himself, only ever asking to be allowed to watch his cricket and read his paper, is still somebody I won't forget.

I'm not sad he's died, I'm glad he's saved himself at least some of the indignity of growing confused and helpless, because of everybody I know he'd have most hated being seen the way he has in recent months, and of feeling like a burden. I'm glad his children can now get back to their own lives without having to sleep in shifts to make sure he's safe in the night, and I'm mostly glad that my mum can now get on with making the most of being a grandparent herself without also having to be a nurse.

I just hope the funeral director gets his facts right for this one.

My apologies, I'm as uncomfortable as you about the serious blog, but it's done me a favour and I don't think many people read this anyway. If it helps take the edge off, I've had a proper shit hair cut today and I'm about to go to a stand-up comedy show where the compere is known for mocking his audience. I might have something fun to write about that tomorrow.

*Don't.

So this is the 28th of December...

That's right kids, it's an end of year 'state of affairs' blog, prepare to be utterly riveted with the story of my year, the story you've been waiting to hear, all year, a year to hear, but don't fear, don't shed a tear, it's here, for you to hear, the story of my year.

It's fun to rhyme.

I finish 2009 as I started it, cold, alone and essentially pointless. The way human beings are designed to be. I haven't made my fortune, I haven't found love, I haven't etched my name in the pillars of history. I haven't even got my own Wiki page, because apparently someone else has to set it up for you, and you have to have actually done something they consider important, or they delete you, which as far as I'm concerned goes against the whole spirit in which Wikipedia was conceived.

I did change one of my pillows though. One sprung a leak sometime in the autumn and after a few months of having a bedroom that looked like the crime scene of some kind of teddy bear massacre I finally bit the bullet and replaced the damaged head comforter. I'm still not entirely happy with the new one, it's too big and firm, it's exactly the same as when you change girlfriend, you get used to the shape and size of one, where your arms are supposed to go, how the best way to fit around each other is so you don't wake up with a kink in your neck, just how much force is needed to 'accidentally' kick them out of the bed if they're starting to bug you. Pillows and girlfriends, exactly the same.

Obviously the biggest thing I did this year is get a job, because obviously jobs are the most important thing in our lives, obviously. I got up one day, put on a suit and asked a reasonably intimidating panel of people if they'd mind awfully giving me over forty hours of things to do each week, push me to get out of bed before my natural body clock would allow, and judge me on all my successes and failures. I then followed this up by reassuring them that no, it was fine they wouldn't have to pay me too much to do this, just whatever they felt they could afford in these harsh financial times. After hearing the same offers from several other people they finally gave in to my charms and enlisted me in their little slave ring.

And you know what, I've quite enjoyed it, the actual work varies, as with everything, from a tedious and over pressured chore, to something I get a genuine buzz out of, sometimes I even go home feeling like I was useful, which is nice. Of course, as my work is connected to a place that serves alcohol it also means that I sometimes go into work hoping that whatever I've forgotten from the night before hasn't earned me Laughing Stock of the Week, but that's a hazard I've learned to live with all my life.

All in all though, it's a nice change to be working with other people, obviously there's all the expected nonsense about teamwork, new challenges, collaborative ideas and processes, six hour long meetings with flip charts, but really it's just nice to have a new set of people to have a laugh with during the day. So I think I'll stick at it for a bit.

Then there's this band thing, after a year repeating ourselves in various practice rooms we finally got on stage last month, and it was good. It's strange how twenty minutes as a bit part in an unpaid performance for a bunch of strangers seems to be worth a 16 hour day, of which a good ten is spent on a motorway burning expensive fuel and not getting home until almost sunrise, without any real questioning or feelings of effort. Whilst I will bitch and moan for a goodly number of hours about having to go buy washing up liquid from a shop which is 300yrds away. I've missed that though, I think I've missed the travelling more than anything, missed showing up at new places and not knowing what's going to happen. I'm not sure entirely why this appeals to me so much, I'm not an overly social person so I don't come away from these things with new friends and enlightening conversations that often, a lot of the towns and venues you end up in are less than exciting and quite often you find that your expensive and lengthy round trip has led to you playing to a nonplussed audience of other bands and bar staff, but no matter how many times you do this, the build up to each time doesn't stop being at least a little exciting. I'm looking forward to it in the new year at very least.

I moved back in on my own. I like living on my own, I like the control of my time and space that it gives me, I like deciding who I share it with and when, when I eat, what goes on the TV, how everything is arranged, and what point the bin really does need emptying, But it seems I had become a little used to having people around. It's fine during the usual weeks, because between work and bands and traditional going out patterns I only really end up at home one or two evenings as it is, and I can usually fill those with a quick text message or two, but I have to confess that the holiday's have been a bit of a trial, so I might have to think about this a little before the summer. I'll get to make a list of pros and cons for this, which is really quite appealing.

I must have done some other things this year, but the continuing curse of the memory can make it very difficult to say exactly what those things were. There was a weekend in London and a few night's at gigs, a couple of which were amongst the best I've ever been to. There was Edinburgh of course, the best week of any year, I think one of the greatest things about this is taking a few new people up every year, and watching them fall in love with the place, and with the fringe, in the same way I did the first time I went and the same way I do again with every visit. I'm not a person for looking forward to things usually, I prefer to just enjoy them when they happen without building up unfeasible hopes and expectations, but I just can't stop myself from doing that with Edinburgh, I've already got plans in place for next year and catch myself daydreaming about it on a fair number of occasions.

As for fortune, love and history? I'll probably just have a cup of tea for now. I really would appreciate it if you could get started on that Wiki though.

I forgot to make up a title.

I'm pretty sure I can use anything as an excuse not to do anything else. This week I've excelled at this skill, my washing machine has been out of order, I've used this as an excuse not to do all of the following; the washing up, hoovering, wear a shirt, make a phone call, go to bed, try and fix the washing machine. Oddly I didn't use as an excuse not to wash my clothes, I kept trying, which of course only made the problem worse and the uses for excuse more frequent.

On top of this my glasses broke, yes, it's been an unfortunate week, and obviously this was like the goose that laid the golden excuse to me. It's been brilliant.

So it is with mixed feelings that I've lived through the last 48 hours, receiving my new spectacles and having a man make the machine work again. Even worse when the cause of the broken tumbler was revealed to simply be a kinked hose, and that if I'd been any sort of a man I'd have dragged out the machine, spotted the problem, fixed it, and got on with my life. This would have taken about 5 minutes and given me a great sense of achievement, whilst my actual course of action was to search unenthusiastically for some instructions, give up and spend 9 days half-heartedly playing voicemail tennis with the landlord and various sub-contracted companies, before having to avoid eye contact with a man who came out in the evening, clearly missing out on setting fireworks for his kids, to solve the whole thing in 5 minutes without even deholstering his screwdriver. Which believe it or not did not fill me with a sense of achievement.

Sure I can see and have clean clothes, but at what cost?

It's OK though, my remote control won't turn the sound on the TV up, it'll turn it down, but not up, this probably means I don't have to go to work tomorrow.

Bums on seats.

Do you think bus drivers feel better when their bus is full?

Do they go home feeling like they've done a better days work if they've ferried more people around, like the day has been more worthwhile. Or are passengers an annoyance, a hassle, extra notches of stress. I mean, I prefer driving alone, I don't have the pressure of being responsible for my passengers safety, or their judgement when I make a mistake, I can turn the stereo up and sing along without embarrassment, but essentially my journey is selfish, it helps nobody but myself. A full car/bus would mean more people helped, less carbon footprint (per person) and a feeling of some sense of community created from my task, but would increase my tension levels potentially leading to future health issues, plus if i do balls it up, more people are at risk.

I don't think I could be a bus driver, it's a straight choice between the guilt of the wasteful and the stress of the protector, it's just too much. Hail to the bus driver, bus driver man.

I can see the pub from 'ere!

Have I ever told you about my clock before?

It's got a radio receiver in it, or some similar fancy technology, which means it automatically learns the time from time signals in the ether. I never have to set it, or correct it, it just sorts itself out. Neat, eh?

Well, since the clocks went back last weekend, it has taken to just spinning constantly at the rate of about 3 hours a minute. This can mean only one of two things. Perhaps time itself has disappeared, we now exist in a timeless space, 3 dimensions and that's it, which is an awful lot for my head to deal, for one, do i go to work tomorrow or will it still be today which is my day off although i it has been today all week then why did anyone show up all last week. It's possible, I'm no expert on these matters, but like the emotions of a lady, I've no real hope of understanding it.

Assuming that time still exists, it can only mean that for the last 7 days I've been hurtling, at quite a speed, into the future. I had no preconceptions of what this might be like, so I'm happy to accept that this is indeed the case, I am by default the most amazing human being to have ever lived and you should be honoured that I am communicating with you from the future. I can answer any questions you have about the future, but essentially, it's still raining, James May is still on TV and yes, your bum does look big in that.

Enjoy the present chumps, see you when you catch up.

Down at the Bottom of the Garden

Early today I was offered salvation by a boy in a white shirt and black tie, he asked "What's the most important thing in your life?". All I could think of was the fact I'd just eaten one finger of Twirl and saved the rest for later, and whether or not that makes me King of Everything or whether it further marks out my decent into adulthood.

He had an American accent, both him and his friend, who was busy exclaiming his disbelief in other's disbelief. I wonder if it was just a coincidence, or if this particular faith based organisation actually fly over agents to recruit on the mean streets of Preston, and do they do this because they have no locally based affiliates, or because they believe that the use of home grown talent is essential to the success of the mission. Maybe it's the accent, maybe it's hard to take someone seriously with a familiar North English accent, or it's too easy to brush them aside. The sincerity and movie star tones of someone who learned to talk in the US of A however, catches your attention, makes you think Bruce Willis is talking to you and so you better damn well listen to what he has to say.

Maybe. It didn't work on me though really, I didn't even break stride, just continued on home full of Twirl based musings and the dilemma of whether I should, as he might have said, 'take a nap' when i got in, or soldier on through. His question did hang there a little, but only as much as a recent expulsion of gas from the digestive system, rather than an in use noose.

Homicide Fidelity

There's a hierarchy of sentiment in pop songs that seems a little misplaced. 'I need you', is considered superior to 'I want you'. 'I would die for you / can't live without you', is believed more potent when serenading your potential mate than 'I'd like to live for you / with you'. To claim that you are 'nothing without him/her', suggests somehow that the person in question is more important to you than if you claimed that you 'felt more complete when they're around' or even, if we're pandering to the dramatic, are 'everything' with them. 

Are we stalkers because we listen to pop music, or do we listen to pop music because we are stalkers?

The singers spurt out these sentiments with vim and vigour, eyes closed, fists clutched hard against hearts, we join in while we do the washing up, only with a little less exuberance, for fear of getting soap suds on our tops. Our George's thought police would have a field day with all this flying around. A lover or a fighter? Same thing you're honour, throw 'em in the cells and don't let 'em out 'til St Swithun's Day.

I admit, it's possible that a love song which read 'I find you attractive physically, mentally and spiritually and your particular personality makes me feel a little better about myself and the world. The fact that you seem to have some connection to me is definitely a positive thing in my life, and whilst I'm sure I could quite easily live without you and, had I not met you, I can't imagine I'd have spent all my days trying to fill a you shaped hole, but as you are around, I'd prefer you to stay around.' might not fly off the shelves quite as fast as 'I Can't Live (If Living is Without You)', but I'd feel a whole lot better about my kids listening to it. 

The Mystery of a Speeding Heart

Capital cities I have been to, however briefly: London, Cardiff, Edinburgh, Paris, Amsterdam, Berlin, Prague, Bucharest, Sofia, Reykjavik.

That's my intro and I'm sticking to it. I may have chosen to do it to show off my travels, to paint myself as a man-of-the-world, or at least man-of-northern-and-a-little-bit-of-eastern-Europe. I may have chosen it to suggest that what comes next comes not from some country boy who has never seen a big city before and as such is too overwhelmed to really pass the comments he's about to... erm, pass. I probably did it because I just like lists.

London. I went to London this week. Not for the first time, but you get a fresh take on a place every time you visit, same as you get a fresh take on a person every time you meet them, well, at least for the first four times, people don't have as much depth as cities. 

London is not my favourite city, but it's better than Paris, which seems to be entirely based around pouring too much salt in your dinner and worshipping a giant pylon, personally I blame the wine. London does have an incredible appeal though, and it's one that its inhabitants probably hardly ever see, one that a lot of tourists probably miss, with their maps, destinations and plans. Everyone has plans in London, everybody needs to be somewhere. It's a terrible place to be when you need to be somewhere, it's crowded and confusing, it's noisy and over complicated, it's constantly running out of time. Look into the eyes of a Londoner, they're tired and they're beaten, they have to spend hours of their days fighting for position and pushing through a crowd. Unless they work in Pret of course, where they smile, they smile the painful smile of a being with their most sensitive body parts inches from a bear trap that will snap closed if the edges of their mouth ever drop in angle. Pret a Manger is the gateway to hell, though they do make nice food.

My point. The best thing you can do in London is get lost. Have yourself a vague destination with no strict time scale for arriving there, throw away your map, and go on instinct. There is something impressive, interesting or entertaining around every corner of our capital city, and only half of it gets in the guide books. The buildings, the squares, the shops, the parks, the people, the pianos. Then if you're really lucky, you'll chance upon the river, the shores of which make up one of the most incredible sights on this earth. Nothing makes you feel more humble and more proud at the same time as what lines the Thames, I challenge you to challenge that and mean it.

Look at me, gushing hyperbole.

To sum up though, don't go to London with an agenda, and don't try and go for a night out, the place closes at 11pm, probably because everyone is tired from their agendas, if you go, get lost.

This blog is dedicated to everyone that had to wait an hour for me because I'd left my map at the hotel.

I write small blogs because I have a small mind.

My spelling gets worse on a daily basis, just like my vocabulary, my memory, and my imagination. I'm seriously considering running screaming into A & E and shouting "HELP! MY BRAIN IS TURNING TO MUSH!" But A & E is quite far away.

It's the little things.

When I was a kid.. 7 or 8, I'd only ever known one Sarah*, I thought it was the greatest name in the world, and that I would definitely marry a girl called Sarah and call my daughter Sarah, obviously the 7 year old me didn't consider this might be both confusing and a little weird, and rather over optimistic.

With every new Sarah I meet, my heart still sinks a little.

*This probably isn't true, but both my adult memory and my childhood attention span have colluded to make it so in my head.

Pride, the Final Frontier

Doors. The natural enemy of man.

As long as there has been man, there have been doors. Apart from before there were walls, which came after man, unless you subscribe to the theory that God created walls and man simply worked out how to put a door in them, which I think is a belief only really held popularly in Rhyl.

So, there was me, and there was the door, and the door wouldn't open. I pushed, I pulled, I yelled OPEN SESAME, which annoyingly didn't attract any attention what-so-ever. I wagered it was one of those you had to press a button to unlock, if I rang the bell maybe the secretary would 'buzz me in' so to speak. But no, no obvious bell/intercom paraphernalia to be seen. I just don't know what to do.

Then, as if by magic, a small child appears on the other side, he must be about 5 years old, certainly no older than 6, but he looks at me, I look at him, and I know, despite his years, he understands my predicament. He heads to the left of the door, there is a release button! He pushes it. The door is released, my nightmare is about to be over. I grab the door handle and I pull...

Nothing.

I push!

Nothing.

Crap.

Then, the child looks at me again, but not with the same understanding. Now there is confusion on his face, he doesn't know why the door isn't opening either. Maybe it's broken. That would explain it. That would get us both of the hook. We won't have been bested by the door, it is simply failing in its purpose of being a door, it has become, if anything, a wall, and as we all know from our friends in North Wales, walls are made by God, in fact, walls ARE God. Neither of us can be expected to triumph over God, nobody will judge us for this.

No. It's not broken. The child's confused expression has faded and, well, things are not looking good for me at all. Looking back I don't think he actually sighed, but he may as well have. He looked to the floor, reached out an arm, and pushed the door open without difficulty. Then he looked up at me with that expression.

Now I see this expression quite often. I see it when I stall my car and get it stuck in the middle of a pedestrian crossing. I see it when a girl realises I'm just not going to be able to rip that condom packet open by myself. I see it when I've opened my mouth to share a common confession and it quickly becomes apparent that it is in fact 'just me'. I see it most of all when I drop things, all over the floor, scattering and rolling about the place. I am, in many ways, not an impressive man. I'm used to being looked at with that combination of weary pity and slight disgust. But usually from people closer to my age, people who have had the time and the practice to master the simple things I seem to find so difficult.

"Thank you.", I managed to say.

"It's OK." and off he walked, i didn't look, but he must have been shaking his head as he went.

Like a kid in a sweet shop.

So today was day two of Operation Do What Everyone Else Has Been Doing For Ages And Make A Big Deal of It. And the challenge is so far staying intact. I got up when my alarm went off, well, almost, certainly within reason considering the time I went to bed. I did a full days work, ate fruit and veg, spent the evening getting on with a project instead of wasting it and I'm about to go to bed.

Having nothing to write is starting to get very frustrating, who says misery breeds creativity (or something), I'm far more creative when I've got nothing to moan about, when I can just let nonsense fill my head and pop out again in.. in... Oh, I can't even finish the sentence.

Maybe this healthy living isn't what it's cracked up to be, I mean, it's been 48 hours!