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.