In preparation for a forthcoming DVD of their farewell UK tour, I was asked last night: ‘what has been your favourite Bowling For Soup show?’…
It’s a tough one to call.
In the past 10 years that’s more than 30 shows across several thousand miles all over the UK. And with copious amounts of alcohol consumed, to be honest, some of them are a little fuzzy…
The band themselves would have it that their live shows are all ’songs about drinking beer and fart jokes’. Of course they are so much more than this.
Four guys from Texas with hearts as big as their shirt size, Bowling For Soup are the antidote to Emo. ‘Beamo’ - if you will. For one hit of BFS and you’ll be beaming for the rest of the week. The Peter Pan’s of pop-punk mean so much to so many and they’re not making their Farewell tour of the UK any easier by playing some of the best shows of their 19 year career.
There’s a saying ’like attracts like’ and it’s certainly true in that BFS’ crew and legions of faithful fans are some of the friendliest people you’ll ever meet. One word I’d use to describe a Bowling For Soup show is ’inclusive’. Anyone questioning via social media whether they are too young/old/sans friends etc. to attend a gig will immediately be offered kinship. I’ve met so many awesome people from all walks of life through this band that - in the words of current support act Patent Pending - attending a BFS show is now like being with my ’second family’. Kind and caring people that will go out of their way to help and expect nothing in return.
Also - at every show you’ll see a real live Mexican person!
Over the years we’ve collectively been through romance, marriage, break-ups, triumphs and tragedy. I’ve witnessed on-stage engagement proposals - though I’ve yet to see a live birth on stage (there’s still time). Children will have been conceived to their music and undoubtedly there are some who are only around today because Bowling For Soup somehow helped turn their lives around.
For many of us music is a passion. It can light the darkest of days and banish the shittiest of moods. A shared love of BFS' music has seen me at shows with my two youngest children (responsible parenting folks!) who both saw their very first live shows at a Bowling for Soup gig. And these have been some of my favourite shows. Lost in music, first and second families colliding in one sweaty, beaming mess.
The last show of the Farewell tour will be bittersweet as I’m combining it with birthday and bachelor party celebrations, surrounded as I‘ll be by so many dear people that I‘m immensely proud to call friends. So as one door closes, several more open.
Especially as - creative maelstrom that he is - BFS front man Jaret Reddick has the tendency to form three new bands while taking a nap!
So they’ll be back, on and in stages, in one guise or another.
To Bowling For Soup: Jaret, Erik, Chris and Gary. You’ve touched us all (?!!!) and we thank you for it. You’ve made us laugh. You’ve made us cry. You’ve made us hurl.
Fare thee well you magnificent beasts.
And hurry back. Your adopted country needs you.
Tuesday 15 October 2013
Saturday 22 September 2012
I used to ROFL at the thought of golf, but now my Daddy is my caddy
As a wide-eyed space nut of a 10 year old boy, I watched the opening crawl of Star Wars (before it got re-tagged with Episode IV - A New Hope) with great expectation and trepidation. For my father, whilst not wearing the black cape and breathing apparatus of - as we would discover in Episode V - Luke's father, was just as fearsome. And he had taken great pains to leave me with no doubt, that if this space-opera I'd begged him to take me to in anyway sucked, we'd make point five past light speed right out of the cinema way before the Rebel Alliance could muster all their misters.
So I watched and waited. Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi, you're my only hope...
Not long in, when the intrepid R2 unit haplessly stumbles across some rag tag Jawas & faceplants after a bolt out of the blue, my father laughed uproariously. Loud & long. And at this point I knew I was safe. I relaxed and settled in to enjoy the movie. And for the rest of the movie, I didn't hear a restless peep or agitated bum shuffle from Daddy dearest.
It's still my favourite film and possibly movie-going experience, to this day.
And here's why... I recall my childhood with little in the way of shared experience with my father. Okay, so partially this is a selective memory. He did often take me motor racing and owing to this, I had the privilege of seeing Lauda, Senna, Piquet, Prost et al throw caution to the wind and some beasts of racing cars around a circuit. But I have no illusions that this was to entertain me. It was a passion of Dad's and I was just along for the ride. Like the many trips accompanying him target shooting - for many a young boy surely a dream come true, but one hearty recoil to the face from a Colt 45 and I wasn't so endeared to the sport.
When it came to my true passions - cinema for instance, it took my mother - having never attempted a driving test in her life, the logistal nightmare of negotiating a very lacklustre public transportation schedule to sate me. Star Wars with my father was a rarity and that's what made it special. That and the lightsabers and X-Wings and the Cantina and Han Solo and the Millennium Falcon...
Even without the black cape and breathing apparatus, fear was all around me growing up. Fear of my few local friends ringing the doorbell during dinner. Fear of asking a dumb question. Fear of whatever trifling blip it was today that was going to drive another tense mood or shit fit from my father.
And so I vowed from an early age that when the time came and I had kids, I would not be like my father. And to a larger extent I believe this to be true. Okay, sadly much of it has been done remotely, the skills evolved child by child and possibly more by osmosis than design, they show all the signs of being very well rounded individuals. And I'm very proud to be their father.
And by whatever medium, there's barely a week passes where I don't tell my kids that I love them multiple times. More times in a week that my father has ever uttered in my lifetime.
Today I visited Dad, now in his seventies and finding himself alone again after a recent separation from his second wife. Even in adult life there have been times where polite acceptance has regressed back to - "let's play family feud!" - but at the end of the day, he's my Dad and I feel for him. So to get him out of the house - as misery needs company, I asked him to tutor me on golf. A sport he took up with his second wife, loved and became quite proficient at.
Until this point in my life, I've been with Mark Twain - that "golf is a good walk spoiled". However, recent changes in my job role has led to a certain peer assumptions. Assumptions that I have a University degree, a four bedroom house in Surrey with a Christmas card perfect wife beaming from our driveway, draped over a shiny new Audi. I have none of this. So I may as well learn golf and not be a total disappointment. I'm not a complete sell-out if I'm only a partial cliche, right?
And so I found myself today on a very agreeable sunny afternoon on Britain's South-East coast, with my father patiently bestowing knowledge on me in a way I only dreamed of in my youth. He willed me on. He gave me encouraging words. Gone was the dispiriting sarcasm and put-downs of my childhood. I was far from King of the swingers and a separate postcode away from being a natural, but throughout, Dad gave me the verbal and caddying support to succeed and improve.
And at the end of it, he congratulated me and firmly shook my hand. There are many achievements in my life that eclipse this shoddy performance like a Death Star primed for destruction, but it wasn't until this way below par outing that I finally saw a glimpse of the Dad I've pined for all my life.
As I say, by whatever medium, there's barely a week passes where I don't tell my kids that I love them multiple times. More times in a week that my father has ever uttered in my lifetime.
Earlier, I hugged Dad and vowed that we'll play again soon. You can guess what he said next.
So now I like golf. And that's why.
Stay positive! x
So I watched and waited. Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi, you're my only hope...
Not long in, when the intrepid R2 unit haplessly stumbles across some rag tag Jawas & faceplants after a bolt out of the blue, my father laughed uproariously. Loud & long. And at this point I knew I was safe. I relaxed and settled in to enjoy the movie. And for the rest of the movie, I didn't hear a restless peep or agitated bum shuffle from Daddy dearest.
It's still my favourite film and possibly movie-going experience, to this day.
And here's why... I recall my childhood with little in the way of shared experience with my father. Okay, so partially this is a selective memory. He did often take me motor racing and owing to this, I had the privilege of seeing Lauda, Senna, Piquet, Prost et al throw caution to the wind and some beasts of racing cars around a circuit. But I have no illusions that this was to entertain me. It was a passion of Dad's and I was just along for the ride. Like the many trips accompanying him target shooting - for many a young boy surely a dream come true, but one hearty recoil to the face from a Colt 45 and I wasn't so endeared to the sport.
When it came to my true passions - cinema for instance, it took my mother - having never attempted a driving test in her life, the logistal nightmare of negotiating a very lacklustre public transportation schedule to sate me. Star Wars with my father was a rarity and that's what made it special. That and the lightsabers and X-Wings and the Cantina and Han Solo and the Millennium Falcon...
Even without the black cape and breathing apparatus, fear was all around me growing up. Fear of my few local friends ringing the doorbell during dinner. Fear of asking a dumb question. Fear of whatever trifling blip it was today that was going to drive another tense mood or shit fit from my father.
And so I vowed from an early age that when the time came and I had kids, I would not be like my father. And to a larger extent I believe this to be true. Okay, sadly much of it has been done remotely, the skills evolved child by child and possibly more by osmosis than design, they show all the signs of being very well rounded individuals. And I'm very proud to be their father.
And by whatever medium, there's barely a week passes where I don't tell my kids that I love them multiple times. More times in a week that my father has ever uttered in my lifetime.
Today I visited Dad, now in his seventies and finding himself alone again after a recent separation from his second wife. Even in adult life there have been times where polite acceptance has regressed back to - "let's play family feud!" - but at the end of the day, he's my Dad and I feel for him. So to get him out of the house - as misery needs company, I asked him to tutor me on golf. A sport he took up with his second wife, loved and became quite proficient at.
Until this point in my life, I've been with Mark Twain - that "golf is a good walk spoiled". However, recent changes in my job role has led to a certain peer assumptions. Assumptions that I have a University degree, a four bedroom house in Surrey with a Christmas card perfect wife beaming from our driveway, draped over a shiny new Audi. I have none of this. So I may as well learn golf and not be a total disappointment. I'm not a complete sell-out if I'm only a partial cliche, right?
And so I found myself today on a very agreeable sunny afternoon on Britain's South-East coast, with my father patiently bestowing knowledge on me in a way I only dreamed of in my youth. He willed me on. He gave me encouraging words. Gone was the dispiriting sarcasm and put-downs of my childhood. I was far from King of the swingers and a separate postcode away from being a natural, but throughout, Dad gave me the verbal and caddying support to succeed and improve.
And at the end of it, he congratulated me and firmly shook my hand. There are many achievements in my life that eclipse this shoddy performance like a Death Star primed for destruction, but it wasn't until this way below par outing that I finally saw a glimpse of the Dad I've pined for all my life.
As I say, by whatever medium, there's barely a week passes where I don't tell my kids that I love them multiple times. More times in a week that my father has ever uttered in my lifetime.
Earlier, I hugged Dad and vowed that we'll play again soon. You can guess what he said next.
So now I like golf. And that's why.
Stay positive! x
Wednesday 21 March 2012
Blahwg in the USSR
“The air attack warning sounds like…”
As a child born into the second half of the Cold War, long before Frankie Goes To Hollywood purloined the above prose as the opening salvo for their single Two Tribes, I lived in frequent fear of the doom laden drone that followed.
Cheerful Public Information Bulletins like the one linked below advised what to do in the aftermath of a nuclear strike, should you be unfortunate enough to survive. Frankly, without the means or indeed Planning Permission to construct a nuclear bunker, I doubted my family would endure a several megaton blast, but - as instructed by the government - I dutifully practiced sheltering beneath the kitchen table for days at a time during my youth.
I’m pretty sure that at the time of their inception these Protect & Survive films were widely ridiculed, however what I remember most is their gloomy cloak of unease that permeated my childhood in an area of the UK housing so many US Air Bases that we may as well have painted a target on our house.
And just when you thought it couldn’t get any bleaker, Raymond Briggs followed up his heart warming adventures of the Snowman with When the Wind Blows, a jolly animated tale of an elderly couple dying from radiation sickness.
These were the cornerstones of my happy childhood and may explain why I‘ve grown up with an uneasy sense of foreboding.
Thus, with so much misery and a big dollop of propaganda swimming around my head since very young, Russia - the pesky ‘Red menace’ - was never top of my list of places I Must See Before I Die - whether from nuclear fallout or otherwise.
So arriving for the first time in Moscow a couple of weeks ago on business, the day after Putin’s widely criticized re-election campaign with large-scale public demonstrations underway, didn’t exactly fill me with glee. Just as long as it didn’t fill me with polonium 210, I might be okay…
Moscow is apparently home to some 11.5 million people, all of whom - at any given time of the day - appear to be on the road at exactly the same time. Each with a casual abandon and impervious oblivion that one suspects that most believe they’re still driving tanks.
Wherever you go there are the bronze busts of stern faced dudes with impossible stately facial hair, their etched dead eyes seemingly following you around the place. I just imagined that, right? Quite possibly, because until I’d experienced -20c with the sun still shining, I had no idea that my face could freeze mid-sentence unless I was having a stroke.
In a country where you have to go through three passport checks just to enter an ordinary office building, there is still that sense of unease and guardedness. During my stay I felt close to making a KGB list merely from pointing out an error with my bar bill. This instigated a lengthy altercation with the management and referral to a ‘special team’ hidden away in some mysterious back office, labouring night & day checking CCTV footage because in Mother Russia, the customer is - apparently - always a lying cheating scumbag. I bet the Gulag played host to many arising from disputes over a £4 beer.
Luckily I did escape briefly from the soul-destroying Groundhog Days of airport/hotel/office/hotel rinse/repeatedness and enjoyed a brief sojourn into Red Square in the icy shadow of the Kremlin. A lady that resembled an angry potato sold me souvenirs and none of the massed military or police recognised me as a potential beer thief.
An ice-rink erected there in Red Square, I was told by my native colleague, would have been unthinkable up to a couple of years ago and shows signs of a very gradual thaw within the permafrosted state. One hopes that this continues under the newly reinstated but widely reviled Putin.
In a land where the corpse of a long dead revolutionary has been on display to the public since 1924, one could joke that Russia has trouble in burying the past. One could, but one would probably be spirited away to a back room for a private visit with the ‘special team’.
So let’s keep that one between ourselves, okay?
How I learned to start worrying and fear the bomb: http://youtu.be/3HFm1t0lq8Q
As a child born into the second half of the Cold War, long before Frankie Goes To Hollywood purloined the above prose as the opening salvo for their single Two Tribes, I lived in frequent fear of the doom laden drone that followed.
Cheerful Public Information Bulletins like the one linked below advised what to do in the aftermath of a nuclear strike, should you be unfortunate enough to survive. Frankly, without the means or indeed Planning Permission to construct a nuclear bunker, I doubted my family would endure a several megaton blast, but - as instructed by the government - I dutifully practiced sheltering beneath the kitchen table for days at a time during my youth.
I’m pretty sure that at the time of their inception these Protect & Survive films were widely ridiculed, however what I remember most is their gloomy cloak of unease that permeated my childhood in an area of the UK housing so many US Air Bases that we may as well have painted a target on our house.
And just when you thought it couldn’t get any bleaker, Raymond Briggs followed up his heart warming adventures of the Snowman with When the Wind Blows, a jolly animated tale of an elderly couple dying from radiation sickness.
These were the cornerstones of my happy childhood and may explain why I‘ve grown up with an uneasy sense of foreboding.
Thus, with so much misery and a big dollop of propaganda swimming around my head since very young, Russia - the pesky ‘Red menace’ - was never top of my list of places I Must See Before I Die - whether from nuclear fallout or otherwise.
So arriving for the first time in Moscow a couple of weeks ago on business, the day after Putin’s widely criticized re-election campaign with large-scale public demonstrations underway, didn’t exactly fill me with glee. Just as long as it didn’t fill me with polonium 210, I might be okay…
Moscow is apparently home to some 11.5 million people, all of whom - at any given time of the day - appear to be on the road at exactly the same time. Each with a casual abandon and impervious oblivion that one suspects that most believe they’re still driving tanks.
Wherever you go there are the bronze busts of stern faced dudes with impossible stately facial hair, their etched dead eyes seemingly following you around the place. I just imagined that, right? Quite possibly, because until I’d experienced -20c with the sun still shining, I had no idea that my face could freeze mid-sentence unless I was having a stroke.
In a country where you have to go through three passport checks just to enter an ordinary office building, there is still that sense of unease and guardedness. During my stay I felt close to making a KGB list merely from pointing out an error with my bar bill. This instigated a lengthy altercation with the management and referral to a ‘special team’ hidden away in some mysterious back office, labouring night & day checking CCTV footage because in Mother Russia, the customer is - apparently - always a lying cheating scumbag. I bet the Gulag played host to many arising from disputes over a £4 beer.
Luckily I did escape briefly from the soul-destroying Groundhog Days of airport/hotel/office/hotel rinse/repeatedness and enjoyed a brief sojourn into Red Square in the icy shadow of the Kremlin. A lady that resembled an angry potato sold me souvenirs and none of the massed military or police recognised me as a potential beer thief.
An ice-rink erected there in Red Square, I was told by my native colleague, would have been unthinkable up to a couple of years ago and shows signs of a very gradual thaw within the permafrosted state. One hopes that this continues under the newly reinstated but widely reviled Putin.
In a land where the corpse of a long dead revolutionary has been on display to the public since 1924, one could joke that Russia has trouble in burying the past. One could, but one would probably be spirited away to a back room for a private visit with the ‘special team’.
So let’s keep that one between ourselves, okay?
How I learned to start worrying and fear the bomb: http://youtu.be/3HFm1t0lq8Q
Wednesday 4 January 2012
Chasing Cars
“You must really love running!” I’m often told.
A logical assumption for all of you suffering in silence the constant squawking & hawking of Nike+ and my repeated pleas for sponsorship. Hmm… *love* running?… Not on your freakin’ life!
“Everybody Wants to Run the World”! Tears For Fears informed us in 1986 at the launch of Sport Aid. Always a sucker for a good cause (and a jaunty tune), I decided not to run the risk of Saint Bob bawling for me to “get awf yer feckin’ arse!“ but rather run with the herd. Thus I first embarked upon training for this and several subsequent 10k’s.
Then for a number of years, life rather got in the way and there came a time I could barely contemplate eating a Marathon, never mind running one (Before Snickers, confectionery fans). In fact, this time last year I could probably be found using the wii Fit board as a rudimentary drinks table, such was my sloth like regime of inactivity.
It wasn’t like I needed to lose weight or anything, although I commented to a friend at the time that a mild shortness of breath when labouring made me fearful that I’d never outrun a live wolf let loose in a club - and upon such an eventuality would have to rely on hefting slower beings than I at the feral beast. This concerned me somewhat. I didn’t want to be remembered as the guy that feeds ailing children to wolves…
So I cleared the beer cans from the wii Fit board set about heaving some weights. Well, I say ‘weights’… AA batteries can be quite a strain at times, and the wii requires loads of the buggers.
See I’ve never been a fan of the gym. I’ll happily be a little fuzzy around the edges rather than pay a monthly subscription to breath in the fetid funk of others whilst being assaulted by shit music. Now there’s a room just crying out for a live wolf!
And the on-set of human frailty doesn’t help. Whilst I don’t consider myself old - with a mental age jostling with my IQ for single digits - my bones are starting to tell me somewhat prematurely otherwise. For a number of years now I’ve sheepishly rocked up at chiropractors, doctors and medical consultants in a bid to put a name to my (joint) pain. For a while I humoured the latter by the popping of a gaggle of pills seemingly founded on guesswork and hunches. Until one day a new bag of pharmaceutical candies upon closer inspection offered up ’Heart Attack’ among its worryingly high number of ’Highly Likely’ side effects. Hmm… Slight joint pain / heart attack?… Tough choice…
So, now off the droogs, I’ve learnt to just ignore these Lego limbs - stiff and feeling like they could snap out with little effort. Sure, they can be uncomfortable, but it’s a mild inconvenience only. Nothing more. I mean, there are so many other poor souls out there who really have things they could be complaining about. Right?
Right.
And so it was, when top dude Matt James went and ran a freakin’ marathon last year, I was inspired to once again don the trainers and hit the streets again. Now whilst there are many ways to skin a cat, fox a wolf, and raise money for charity, there are some I draw the line at. For instance, I’ll never willingly jump out of a plane. Not unless I’m flying over the Andes with the Uruguayan rugby team on board…
Following Matt’s epic journey via the joys of Twitter, I realised this was something I could be doing - something I should be doing. And so with four months training, it was my great pleasure to run alongside Matt last September in the Great North Run, my very first half marathon.
The rest you’ve been bored with and cajoled out of your money by numerous times now. Thank you. You see, I really don’t love running. But I really do love parting people from their cash in the aid of a great cause.
Please don’t weep when I inform you there are plenty more afoot in 2012. This June will see me attempt - with the great Matt James - seven marathons over five days, with another marathon later that month. For as long as my battered joints continue to support me - and as long as you continue to support the cause(s), whilst I’m certainly far from ‘loving’ it - running’s what I’ll do.
My very first full marathon will be in Brighton this April, on behalf of the Make A Wish Foundation. You know the drill…
http://www.justgiving.com/steverosiermaw
Forever thanks for your support.
Stay Positive.
x
A logical assumption for all of you suffering in silence the constant squawking & hawking of Nike+ and my repeated pleas for sponsorship. Hmm… *love* running?… Not on your freakin’ life!
“Everybody Wants to Run the World”! Tears For Fears informed us in 1986 at the launch of Sport Aid. Always a sucker for a good cause (and a jaunty tune), I decided not to run the risk of Saint Bob bawling for me to “get awf yer feckin’ arse!“ but rather run with the herd. Thus I first embarked upon training for this and several subsequent 10k’s.
Then for a number of years, life rather got in the way and there came a time I could barely contemplate eating a Marathon, never mind running one (Before Snickers, confectionery fans). In fact, this time last year I could probably be found using the wii Fit board as a rudimentary drinks table, such was my sloth like regime of inactivity.
It wasn’t like I needed to lose weight or anything, although I commented to a friend at the time that a mild shortness of breath when labouring made me fearful that I’d never outrun a live wolf let loose in a club - and upon such an eventuality would have to rely on hefting slower beings than I at the feral beast. This concerned me somewhat. I didn’t want to be remembered as the guy that feeds ailing children to wolves…
So I cleared the beer cans from the wii Fit board set about heaving some weights. Well, I say ‘weights’… AA batteries can be quite a strain at times, and the wii requires loads of the buggers.
See I’ve never been a fan of the gym. I’ll happily be a little fuzzy around the edges rather than pay a monthly subscription to breath in the fetid funk of others whilst being assaulted by shit music. Now there’s a room just crying out for a live wolf!
And the on-set of human frailty doesn’t help. Whilst I don’t consider myself old - with a mental age jostling with my IQ for single digits - my bones are starting to tell me somewhat prematurely otherwise. For a number of years now I’ve sheepishly rocked up at chiropractors, doctors and medical consultants in a bid to put a name to my (joint) pain. For a while I humoured the latter by the popping of a gaggle of pills seemingly founded on guesswork and hunches. Until one day a new bag of pharmaceutical candies upon closer inspection offered up ’Heart Attack’ among its worryingly high number of ’Highly Likely’ side effects. Hmm… Slight joint pain / heart attack?… Tough choice…
So, now off the droogs, I’ve learnt to just ignore these Lego limbs - stiff and feeling like they could snap out with little effort. Sure, they can be uncomfortable, but it’s a mild inconvenience only. Nothing more. I mean, there are so many other poor souls out there who really have things they could be complaining about. Right?
Right.
And so it was, when top dude Matt James went and ran a freakin’ marathon last year, I was inspired to once again don the trainers and hit the streets again. Now whilst there are many ways to skin a cat, fox a wolf, and raise money for charity, there are some I draw the line at. For instance, I’ll never willingly jump out of a plane. Not unless I’m flying over the Andes with the Uruguayan rugby team on board…
Following Matt’s epic journey via the joys of Twitter, I realised this was something I could be doing - something I should be doing. And so with four months training, it was my great pleasure to run alongside Matt last September in the Great North Run, my very first half marathon.
The rest you’ve been bored with and cajoled out of your money by numerous times now. Thank you. You see, I really don’t love running. But I really do love parting people from their cash in the aid of a great cause.
Please don’t weep when I inform you there are plenty more afoot in 2012. This June will see me attempt - with the great Matt James - seven marathons over five days, with another marathon later that month. For as long as my battered joints continue to support me - and as long as you continue to support the cause(s), whilst I’m certainly far from ‘loving’ it - running’s what I’ll do.
My very first full marathon will be in Brighton this April, on behalf of the Make A Wish Foundation. You know the drill…
http://www.justgiving.com/steverosiermaw
Forever thanks for your support.
Stay Positive.
x
Wednesday 28 December 2011
5,000 Ways To Die
“All those moments will be lost in time. Like tears in rain. Time to die…”
I promised brevity and levity next time around, sucking at the tailpipe of the last blahg. And after ruminating long and hard, hard and long over the topic of such a tome, I’ve not only way over-stepped the former – but settled upon the unsettling, unparalleled hilarity afforded by the shuffling off this mortal coil. ‘How’s it hangin’, Death?’
As Nerf Herder once opined; there are 5,000 ways to die. Here my friends, personally speaking, are just seven of them…
1. From Cradle to Grave.
Prior to Super Nanny, Dr. Spock and childlocks there was parenting by - ‘making this shit up’. Cue one pre-toddler (me), a first floor window and a rather inviting (apparently) face plant into the unforgiving concrete slabs below. Bar the fickle hand of fate nudging my errant mother towards my precarious predicament, I’d not be sat here writing this now. Curse all you want for subsequent crimes to literary standards, but I for one am at least thankful. To paraphrase Steven Wright: Curiosity killed the cat, but for a while my mother was a suspect…
2. Swamp Thing.
Thankfully it’s too late to call in Social Services, or I’d feel I’m doing my mother a disservice with this follow-on. However… Once again – here in Primary School years - in the care of Mommy Dearest, my younger sis and I explored the grounds of her well-to-do employer which just so happened to back onto the famed (for a hamlet of a dozen or so folk) site of ‘Clavering castle’. I think the reason I connected so resolutely with Star Wars a few years later is that when it comes to ‘action’ Clavering rather resembles Tatooine on a slow Wednesday, an hour after ‘early closing’ (totally betraying my age here – look it up).
Of course, judging by the size of the surviving mound of earth allegedly once home to said castle, it was more likely home to a Royal outhouse; sufficient distance from any such Regal dwelling as not to stink up one’s neighbourhood.
Whatever its true delineation, the Royal mound (fnaar!) had/has a moat. Said moat was somewhat disguised by a flurry of autumnal leaves, coating its hidden murky depths –and in my untiring search for the next best amazing stick/conker/oddly shaped bug, this proved near (again) fatal.
For suddenly and without warning, the moat proved its ability to suck greater than a coachload of hookers singing the entire back catalogue of the Stereophonics and before I could conquer that next unbeatable – er – conker, I was knee deep in a rather sticky situation. The more I struggled and bellowed for my wee sis to go fetch Mum, the more she was rooted to her (solid) spot, matching my death knell with a hysteria worthy of a Def Leppard album title.
I’ll skip to the end. I didn’t die that day. Happenstance led to my mother hanging out of a window to beat a rug (that rug was asking for it – the dirty swine!) and I was saved – save for my wellington boots. Phew! I was worried there for a moment…
3. Head Out On The Highway.
One night in my (just) pre-teens, my bicycle started to freewheel downhill with a tad too much exuberance and I demanded too much too soon of front & back brakes. I awoke on the main carriageway light several front teeth, a bony protrusion in my chin, with one of my two accompanying chums having fled lest he be implicated in my bloody demise. Subsequent encounters at school saw the poor guy turn white as a sheet and run vomiting to the toilets, in fear of my ghostly presence.
Of course heeding the lesson from this accident, whenever my children have received a new bike, I’ve always disabled the front brakes to be sure they don’t suffer a similar fate. Sometimes I disable the back brakes also. You can never be too careful.
4. Still Waters Run Deep.
In my teens I won a competition which exiled me to the heaving bosom of Mother Nature (Ross-on-Wye, location fans) for an outward-bounds course. I won through my rather nerdish and solitary proclivity for ‘writing’ – something wholly unsuited to team sports and outdoorsy shenanigans – which the week was entirely focused around. Upon hearing of my competitive luck, one of our Instructors chided: “and what was second place – two weeks on the course?” The guy was a churlish ass, but he had a point.
Part of the character building of the week involved being hurled into the river Wye attached to a length of rope – and eventually yanked free by a disinterested extreme sports type, possibly enduring our endurance on some dubious Community Service rap. Being painfully aware of being painfully shy, I had neglected to inform the entirely ambivalent crew of my inability to swim. Being of the tried and tested British heritage of ‘not wanting to make a fuss’, I favoured a good old-fashioned drowning over the painful humiliation of fessing up to my aquatic ineptitude. And thus I was plunged like a prospective witch into the icy squall of the Wye, thinking ‘why, why, why?!!’ did my innocent short-story writing place me in such pointless peril.
Hope floats. So do humans, or so I’d been led to believe. However, weighed down by my own stupidity and a hefty burden of pride, I sank like a rock. Tied to a witch. Wrapped around another rock.
Eventually bobbing to the surface like a turd expelled from such an expired witch (wrapped around a rock) – I spent the next 48 hours throwing up the vast quantity of the Wye I’d ingested like some Krakatoan fratboy. Tired, humiliated and dehydrated to the point of becoming Jerky, I vowed to whatever deity would have me that I’d never do something as foolhardy as write prose again.
5. Like A (Drink Driving) Bat Out of Hell.
Driving home one Christmas, I got hit by a drink driver when my eldest was but a wee nipper. So incensed was I that my darling child could have been hurt (regardless of my own mortal tenuousness) I stood resolute against their reasoning & pleading and got the fecker banned from driving for a year. The scumbag.
6. And 7. All in one night. Yay me! Karmageddon.
Driving home one night about 14 years ago, I tentatively approached a hill I knew in all likelihood contained stationary traffic beyond the brow. Local knowledge is great currency and paid me back in full – a regrettable rear-ending averted. Sadly, as I sat teetering on the crest, the haring motorist bearing down on me from behind like Meatloaf’s aforementioned winged friend of Satan either had no such blackspot frame of reference, or was so away with the fairies that he most likely had Tinkerbell’s private cell number.
I pumped my brakes to provide a visual hint to my assailant of the impending metal-on-metal action. I punched the hazard lights to add to the auto-rave aesthetic. I rolled my eyes to the heavens and prepared to kiss my sweet white ass goodnight.
Thoughts flooded my head as I surmised my demise. I recalled the fabulous women I had dated, the countless awards and accolades heaped upon me – and the sterling work I’d done for charity. Then I realised that was actually Brad Pitt’s life flashing before me – and that I was probably wasting valuable moments of my own dwindling existence upon such fancy…
Shit. This time I really was going to die.
The moment of impact came and went as the oblivious harbinger of automotive carnage finally snapped to at the point of impact, swerved around me – and momentum stifled, piled non-fatally into three cars stacked in front of me.
Close call. But it was early yet…
Traffic shuffled up and I parked up over the hill by the side of the road. The Rozzers were called, names were taken and tyre marks pouted for their close-up. With the crash-site clearly demarcated by the beacon of a stationary Police car, my incredulous yet thankful Statement was taken. Somewhat not accounting for the ‘rubberneck factor’ ie. the proclivity for motorists to stare unwittingly in morbid fascination at anything resembling a bloodfest at the side of the road, I figured the evening’s drama was at an end.
However, one such silly sausage (read as – stupid f*cking c*w) traveling as she was at possibly only 10MPH, had a good hard look at the scene and promptly wanged into my parked car. Positioned as I was on the grass verge on the downhill just in front of my vehicle, I was then treated to the sight of my car nudged into forward motion, bearing down on me like some poor cousin of Stephen King’s Christine.
Luckily I outran the beast. The car was written off. I was not. Sorry for keeping you in suspense.
So, seven of my nine lives down. In the scheme of things I feel really lucky and try to make the most of every day. After all, apparently – there are 5,000 ways to die.
Stay lucky.
x
I promised brevity and levity next time around, sucking at the tailpipe of the last blahg. And after ruminating long and hard, hard and long over the topic of such a tome, I’ve not only way over-stepped the former – but settled upon the unsettling, unparalleled hilarity afforded by the shuffling off this mortal coil. ‘How’s it hangin’, Death?’
As Nerf Herder once opined; there are 5,000 ways to die. Here my friends, personally speaking, are just seven of them…
1. From Cradle to Grave.
Prior to Super Nanny, Dr. Spock and childlocks there was parenting by - ‘making this shit up’. Cue one pre-toddler (me), a first floor window and a rather inviting (apparently) face plant into the unforgiving concrete slabs below. Bar the fickle hand of fate nudging my errant mother towards my precarious predicament, I’d not be sat here writing this now. Curse all you want for subsequent crimes to literary standards, but I for one am at least thankful. To paraphrase Steven Wright: Curiosity killed the cat, but for a while my mother was a suspect…
2. Swamp Thing.
Thankfully it’s too late to call in Social Services, or I’d feel I’m doing my mother a disservice with this follow-on. However… Once again – here in Primary School years - in the care of Mommy Dearest, my younger sis and I explored the grounds of her well-to-do employer which just so happened to back onto the famed (for a hamlet of a dozen or so folk) site of ‘Clavering castle’. I think the reason I connected so resolutely with Star Wars a few years later is that when it comes to ‘action’ Clavering rather resembles Tatooine on a slow Wednesday, an hour after ‘early closing’ (totally betraying my age here – look it up).
Of course, judging by the size of the surviving mound of earth allegedly once home to said castle, it was more likely home to a Royal outhouse; sufficient distance from any such Regal dwelling as not to stink up one’s neighbourhood.
Whatever its true delineation, the Royal mound (fnaar!) had/has a moat. Said moat was somewhat disguised by a flurry of autumnal leaves, coating its hidden murky depths –and in my untiring search for the next best amazing stick/conker/oddly shaped bug, this proved near (again) fatal.
For suddenly and without warning, the moat proved its ability to suck greater than a coachload of hookers singing the entire back catalogue of the Stereophonics and before I could conquer that next unbeatable – er – conker, I was knee deep in a rather sticky situation. The more I struggled and bellowed for my wee sis to go fetch Mum, the more she was rooted to her (solid) spot, matching my death knell with a hysteria worthy of a Def Leppard album title.
I’ll skip to the end. I didn’t die that day. Happenstance led to my mother hanging out of a window to beat a rug (that rug was asking for it – the dirty swine!) and I was saved – save for my wellington boots. Phew! I was worried there for a moment…
3. Head Out On The Highway.
One night in my (just) pre-teens, my bicycle started to freewheel downhill with a tad too much exuberance and I demanded too much too soon of front & back brakes. I awoke on the main carriageway light several front teeth, a bony protrusion in my chin, with one of my two accompanying chums having fled lest he be implicated in my bloody demise. Subsequent encounters at school saw the poor guy turn white as a sheet and run vomiting to the toilets, in fear of my ghostly presence.
Of course heeding the lesson from this accident, whenever my children have received a new bike, I’ve always disabled the front brakes to be sure they don’t suffer a similar fate. Sometimes I disable the back brakes also. You can never be too careful.
4. Still Waters Run Deep.
In my teens I won a competition which exiled me to the heaving bosom of Mother Nature (Ross-on-Wye, location fans) for an outward-bounds course. I won through my rather nerdish and solitary proclivity for ‘writing’ – something wholly unsuited to team sports and outdoorsy shenanigans – which the week was entirely focused around. Upon hearing of my competitive luck, one of our Instructors chided: “and what was second place – two weeks on the course?” The guy was a churlish ass, but he had a point.
Part of the character building of the week involved being hurled into the river Wye attached to a length of rope – and eventually yanked free by a disinterested extreme sports type, possibly enduring our endurance on some dubious Community Service rap. Being painfully aware of being painfully shy, I had neglected to inform the entirely ambivalent crew of my inability to swim. Being of the tried and tested British heritage of ‘not wanting to make a fuss’, I favoured a good old-fashioned drowning over the painful humiliation of fessing up to my aquatic ineptitude. And thus I was plunged like a prospective witch into the icy squall of the Wye, thinking ‘why, why, why?!!’ did my innocent short-story writing place me in such pointless peril.
Hope floats. So do humans, or so I’d been led to believe. However, weighed down by my own stupidity and a hefty burden of pride, I sank like a rock. Tied to a witch. Wrapped around another rock.
Eventually bobbing to the surface like a turd expelled from such an expired witch (wrapped around a rock) – I spent the next 48 hours throwing up the vast quantity of the Wye I’d ingested like some Krakatoan fratboy. Tired, humiliated and dehydrated to the point of becoming Jerky, I vowed to whatever deity would have me that I’d never do something as foolhardy as write prose again.
5. Like A (Drink Driving) Bat Out of Hell.
Driving home one Christmas, I got hit by a drink driver when my eldest was but a wee nipper. So incensed was I that my darling child could have been hurt (regardless of my own mortal tenuousness) I stood resolute against their reasoning & pleading and got the fecker banned from driving for a year. The scumbag.
6. And 7. All in one night. Yay me! Karmageddon.
Driving home one night about 14 years ago, I tentatively approached a hill I knew in all likelihood contained stationary traffic beyond the brow. Local knowledge is great currency and paid me back in full – a regrettable rear-ending averted. Sadly, as I sat teetering on the crest, the haring motorist bearing down on me from behind like Meatloaf’s aforementioned winged friend of Satan either had no such blackspot frame of reference, or was so away with the fairies that he most likely had Tinkerbell’s private cell number.
I pumped my brakes to provide a visual hint to my assailant of the impending metal-on-metal action. I punched the hazard lights to add to the auto-rave aesthetic. I rolled my eyes to the heavens and prepared to kiss my sweet white ass goodnight.
Thoughts flooded my head as I surmised my demise. I recalled the fabulous women I had dated, the countless awards and accolades heaped upon me – and the sterling work I’d done for charity. Then I realised that was actually Brad Pitt’s life flashing before me – and that I was probably wasting valuable moments of my own dwindling existence upon such fancy…
Shit. This time I really was going to die.
The moment of impact came and went as the oblivious harbinger of automotive carnage finally snapped to at the point of impact, swerved around me – and momentum stifled, piled non-fatally into three cars stacked in front of me.
Close call. But it was early yet…
Traffic shuffled up and I parked up over the hill by the side of the road. The Rozzers were called, names were taken and tyre marks pouted for their close-up. With the crash-site clearly demarcated by the beacon of a stationary Police car, my incredulous yet thankful Statement was taken. Somewhat not accounting for the ‘rubberneck factor’ ie. the proclivity for motorists to stare unwittingly in morbid fascination at anything resembling a bloodfest at the side of the road, I figured the evening’s drama was at an end.
However, one such silly sausage (read as – stupid f*cking c*w) traveling as she was at possibly only 10MPH, had a good hard look at the scene and promptly wanged into my parked car. Positioned as I was on the grass verge on the downhill just in front of my vehicle, I was then treated to the sight of my car nudged into forward motion, bearing down on me like some poor cousin of Stephen King’s Christine.
Luckily I outran the beast. The car was written off. I was not. Sorry for keeping you in suspense.
So, seven of my nine lives down. In the scheme of things I feel really lucky and try to make the most of every day. After all, apparently – there are 5,000 ways to die.
Stay lucky.
x
Monday 26 December 2011
Hanging With The Homeless - aka WWJD (What Would John Do?)
I didn’t really plan that hiatus...
In the words of John Winston Lennon; “life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans”. What can I say? Life happens.
Hello, by the way.
So, a lot of water under the bridge and even more alcohol down my gullet in the 18 or so months since the last ‘blahg’ (as my hero Hank Moody might say). How the devil are you? You’ve changed your hair. And you’re looking in the rudest of health by the way. Nicely done.
So why blahg again? Why now? Who flicked the switch to the Blahg Signal? Will any of this ever fall into a coherent narrative arc?…
Seeing as I’ve sat staring at the patiently blinking cursor on a taunting blank page for some time now - valid questions all. But first, a word from our sponsor:
“So this is Christmas, and what have you done?…” Mr Lennon started demanding of me every time I entered a store from the end of September onwards. Hark! Time to heed the seasonal clarion call for amassing untold shiny things for ambivalent family members by means of a credit card more fit to burst than a chocolate fisted fat lass on Boxing Day. Fa la la la freakin’ la.
But no. No! Whilst Santa showed (and received) his true colours by being a Lap-land-dog of Coca Cola, surely what we’ve learnt most from the true origins of Christmas is - always book ahead if you require a Manger during the holidays? Because without a healthy dollop of human kindness, Jesus would have started life as a homeless person. And last time I looked, there’s no Big Issue seller in the Nativity.
*Brace yourselves! Here comes the narrative arc*
For a couple of years now I’ve mulled and whined about helping out in a homeless shelter at Christmas. Given my domestic situation, Christmas is always a moveable feast and starts the moment my kids arrive regardless of the date. This year fo shizzle I was going to be Home Alone for the lead-in to Mr Of Nazareth’s big day, thus time to put my time where my mouth is.
And so, for two days prior to Chrimbo, I joined a delightful throng of volunteers at homeless charity Crisis’ North London Day Centre. Crisis do amazing work, not just in lobbying and raising awareness/addressing public ignorance, but in playing host to around 3,000 homeless guests during the season of goodwill to all. The volunteers I met and chatted with over my two 7 hour shifts were a delightful microcosm of society and some of the most inspiring and wonderfully entertaining people I’ve met. There was a smattering of full-on do-gooders that clearly wanted to make the situation about them and their life-changing capabilities, but on the whole we were a large, motivated team that at times felt guilty about how much fun we were having. No chore seemed menial, no request went unheeded. And most importantly, it was all about the guests.
I had the privilege in spending time with quite a few of the guests, on the whole jokers and characters with charisma bigger than most folks overdrafts. There was no ‘woe is me’. No expectation of hand-outs. Just decent human beings and victims of circumstance that on most days of the week struggle to get eye contact from their fellow human - enjoying the company of others.
Rather symbolically, one gentleman guest known by his initials - JC, has a birthday on Christmas Day. So grateful is he for the work that Crisis do, each year he concocts some creative event to raise money for the charity. He sees none of the money himself and goes about raising it with a pride and industry that I find lacking in some of my colleagues.
Whilst on point greeting guests to the centre I met another older gentleman who had me in peels of laughter. He was a walking encyclopaedia of spirited bad jokes and puns. Currently selling the Big Issue to try and better his situation, we were able to offer him a variety of services during his visit.
Later that day, there was to be a karaoke session at the Centre and I asked the gentleman if he could carry a tune. For the next few minutes, without breaking eye contact, he serenaded me word & pitch perfect with the song ‘Nobody’s Child’ (popularised by artists as varied as Hank Williams Jnr, Billy Connolly & the Traveling Wilburys). There were goosebumps. There was a fighting back of (my) tears. He wasn’t singing for pity but the poignancy of the lyrics was the ultimate sucker punch for me. I’ll think of that song and that moment every time I start whinging about not being able to afford this & that, just to remind me of what a blessed life I lead. Angels often come in the unlikeliest of forms.
So in the true spirit of altruism I failed, as I’m sure I got far more from that encounter than our guest did. And not just to make up for that, but because in my privileged position it’s the very least I can do, I’ll definitely be returning to help out in whatever way I can next year.
"So this is Christmas, and what have you done?..." Me? I've had a blast!
If you get the chance, I recommend the experience. And if you need any help in busting the myths about homelessness, Crisis have some great info here: http://crisis.org.uk/
Oh, as to those ‘blahg’ related questions posed earlier, well - I’ll answer them another time in a blahg with more levity and brevity, I promise. Well, levity certainly…
So in parting, in the words of Tiny Tim from the greatest Christmas story of all - the Muppets Christmas Carol; “Blahg bless us, everyone!”
Stay Positive.
x
In the words of John Winston Lennon; “life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans”. What can I say? Life happens.
Hello, by the way.
So, a lot of water under the bridge and even more alcohol down my gullet in the 18 or so months since the last ‘blahg’ (as my hero Hank Moody might say). How the devil are you? You’ve changed your hair. And you’re looking in the rudest of health by the way. Nicely done.
So why blahg again? Why now? Who flicked the switch to the Blahg Signal? Will any of this ever fall into a coherent narrative arc?…
Seeing as I’ve sat staring at the patiently blinking cursor on a taunting blank page for some time now - valid questions all. But first, a word from our sponsor:
“So this is Christmas, and what have you done?…” Mr Lennon started demanding of me every time I entered a store from the end of September onwards. Hark! Time to heed the seasonal clarion call for amassing untold shiny things for ambivalent family members by means of a credit card more fit to burst than a chocolate fisted fat lass on Boxing Day. Fa la la la freakin’ la.
But no. No! Whilst Santa showed (and received) his true colours by being a Lap-land-dog of Coca Cola, surely what we’ve learnt most from the true origins of Christmas is - always book ahead if you require a Manger during the holidays? Because without a healthy dollop of human kindness, Jesus would have started life as a homeless person. And last time I looked, there’s no Big Issue seller in the Nativity.
*Brace yourselves! Here comes the narrative arc*
For a couple of years now I’ve mulled and whined about helping out in a homeless shelter at Christmas. Given my domestic situation, Christmas is always a moveable feast and starts the moment my kids arrive regardless of the date. This year fo shizzle I was going to be Home Alone for the lead-in to Mr Of Nazareth’s big day, thus time to put my time where my mouth is.
And so, for two days prior to Chrimbo, I joined a delightful throng of volunteers at homeless charity Crisis’ North London Day Centre. Crisis do amazing work, not just in lobbying and raising awareness/addressing public ignorance, but in playing host to around 3,000 homeless guests during the season of goodwill to all. The volunteers I met and chatted with over my two 7 hour shifts were a delightful microcosm of society and some of the most inspiring and wonderfully entertaining people I’ve met. There was a smattering of full-on do-gooders that clearly wanted to make the situation about them and their life-changing capabilities, but on the whole we were a large, motivated team that at times felt guilty about how much fun we were having. No chore seemed menial, no request went unheeded. And most importantly, it was all about the guests.
I had the privilege in spending time with quite a few of the guests, on the whole jokers and characters with charisma bigger than most folks overdrafts. There was no ‘woe is me’. No expectation of hand-outs. Just decent human beings and victims of circumstance that on most days of the week struggle to get eye contact from their fellow human - enjoying the company of others.
Rather symbolically, one gentleman guest known by his initials - JC, has a birthday on Christmas Day. So grateful is he for the work that Crisis do, each year he concocts some creative event to raise money for the charity. He sees none of the money himself and goes about raising it with a pride and industry that I find lacking in some of my colleagues.
Whilst on point greeting guests to the centre I met another older gentleman who had me in peels of laughter. He was a walking encyclopaedia of spirited bad jokes and puns. Currently selling the Big Issue to try and better his situation, we were able to offer him a variety of services during his visit.
Later that day, there was to be a karaoke session at the Centre and I asked the gentleman if he could carry a tune. For the next few minutes, without breaking eye contact, he serenaded me word & pitch perfect with the song ‘Nobody’s Child’ (popularised by artists as varied as Hank Williams Jnr, Billy Connolly & the Traveling Wilburys). There were goosebumps. There was a fighting back of (my) tears. He wasn’t singing for pity but the poignancy of the lyrics was the ultimate sucker punch for me. I’ll think of that song and that moment every time I start whinging about not being able to afford this & that, just to remind me of what a blessed life I lead. Angels often come in the unlikeliest of forms.
So in the true spirit of altruism I failed, as I’m sure I got far more from that encounter than our guest did. And not just to make up for that, but because in my privileged position it’s the very least I can do, I’ll definitely be returning to help out in whatever way I can next year.
"So this is Christmas, and what have you done?..." Me? I've had a blast!
If you get the chance, I recommend the experience. And if you need any help in busting the myths about homelessness, Crisis have some great info here: http://crisis.org.uk/
Oh, as to those ‘blahg’ related questions posed earlier, well - I’ll answer them another time in a blahg with more levity and brevity, I promise. Well, levity certainly…
So in parting, in the words of Tiny Tim from the greatest Christmas story of all - the Muppets Christmas Carol; “Blahg bless us, everyone!”
Stay Positive.
x
Thursday 11 June 2009
Some Day My Artist Formerly Known As Prince Will Come...
Riffing on a theme started back on the ‘Big Issues’ blog, I’m slightly concerned that the longer I live the life of the (slightly) gay bachelor (well, mildly camp at least) - the more singularly eccentric I’ll become - and the longer I’ll live the life of… You get the picture.
Oh, hello - by the way.
Not that I’m in any way resembling a Susan Boyles-Kittens-In-A-Bag slightly sinister singleton. Yet…
However my life; creative projects, work & kids schedule etc. dictates that I’m more often spread thinner than Homer Simpson’s hair gel. Which is fine for me, but isn’t all that conducive with encountering a prospective (very patient) partner. And being an utterly hopeless romantic, I don’t buy-in to the mail order ‘love’ of dating sites etc. much in the same way I’d be wary of anything recommended in Exchange & Mart, lest after a few miles of trouble-free fun - bits start smoking, falling off, making a troubling & unidentifiable grinding noise or growing hair… Or all four.
Please don’t take that to mean I objectify or belittle women. I certainly don’t. Just ask any of my many be-atches! (kidding!).
So I put my hands ever patiently in the hands of fate, optimistic that one fine day I’ll receive that sucker punch to the gut and fall utterly and irretrievably in love. But seeing as Audrey Tautou won’t return my calls, what’s a garcon to do?…
Trouble is, being comfortable with one’s own company and forever thankful of the perks of independence is just a recipe for the rather unrealistic aspiration to perfection. And in that I don’t mean the demeaning nomenclature/ pursuit of the ‘Perfect 10’ / ‘Perfect Body’… I mean finding someone to fit perfectly into every trifling little ludicrous criteria one concocts for their mythical soul-mate. Let’s call it - the Seinfeld clause.
Anyone who’s experienced one of the best sitcoms ever will be well acquainted with Seinfeld’s shallow and superficial way in frightening himself off women. Whether they be a ‘low talker’, have ‘man hands’, a weird laugh or opposing views on a jeans commercial - there’s always some little niggle that brings fly and ointment together forever.
Now of course I know that such proclivities in pernicketiness say more about Jerry Seinfeld (and me) than any undeserving ‘subject’ - and that ironically - this is likely to prove a major bug-bear for anyone remotely interested. Self awareness is a cruel but truthful mistress.
The uber wonderful Lucy Porter (she won’t return my calls either) has a lovely piece of material along these lines:
“I’m at that stage in life where I think it would be nice (to have a boyfriend) but I’m not sure I can be bothered to train anyone for the position”.
Wouldn’t it be nice to trip over someone who ’gets’ you? Isn’t there some kind of club we could all go? Isn’t there some kind of online community we could all join? Oh… Yes… I see…
Even in my old fashioned romanticism I’m just a tad misguided / ’eccentric’ (read ’howling at all the wrong trees). Back during my phase of hoarding Converse trainers (before realisation dawned on what evil scumbags they were/are) - I was mucho ecstatico upon clawing up an off-white pair with beguilingly unusual red and blue piping (and a clutch of other neat motifs). Some time and many miles underfoot later, I realised that my ’pair’ of trainers didn’t quite match - and that I’d been given a completely separate design for each foot - in the same size.
This of course meant that somewhere an identical pair of non-identical trainers languished awaiting an owner. This became my glass slipper. This was sure to be an indicator - a shining Bat-signal to my true soul mate. Albeit one with scary-assed man-sized feet... Yes, I’ve come to see the folly…
So fate, over to you. I await your undeserved benevolence.
Until then, I can press warmly to my breast the knowledge that it’s better to have loved and lost than never loved at all. This I do believe. But if anyone tells you it’s better to see Queen with Paul Rodgers, than never have seen Queen at all - they are frankly my friend - quite full of it.
Stay positive!
x
Oh, hello - by the way.
Not that I’m in any way resembling a Susan Boyles-Kittens-In-A-Bag slightly sinister singleton. Yet…
However my life; creative projects, work & kids schedule etc. dictates that I’m more often spread thinner than Homer Simpson’s hair gel. Which is fine for me, but isn’t all that conducive with encountering a prospective (very patient) partner. And being an utterly hopeless romantic, I don’t buy-in to the mail order ‘love’ of dating sites etc. much in the same way I’d be wary of anything recommended in Exchange & Mart, lest after a few miles of trouble-free fun - bits start smoking, falling off, making a troubling & unidentifiable grinding noise or growing hair… Or all four.
Please don’t take that to mean I objectify or belittle women. I certainly don’t. Just ask any of my many be-atches! (kidding!).
So I put my hands ever patiently in the hands of fate, optimistic that one fine day I’ll receive that sucker punch to the gut and fall utterly and irretrievably in love. But seeing as Audrey Tautou won’t return my calls, what’s a garcon to do?…
Trouble is, being comfortable with one’s own company and forever thankful of the perks of independence is just a recipe for the rather unrealistic aspiration to perfection. And in that I don’t mean the demeaning nomenclature/ pursuit of the ‘Perfect 10’ / ‘Perfect Body’… I mean finding someone to fit perfectly into every trifling little ludicrous criteria one concocts for their mythical soul-mate. Let’s call it - the Seinfeld clause.
Anyone who’s experienced one of the best sitcoms ever will be well acquainted with Seinfeld’s shallow and superficial way in frightening himself off women. Whether they be a ‘low talker’, have ‘man hands’, a weird laugh or opposing views on a jeans commercial - there’s always some little niggle that brings fly and ointment together forever.
Now of course I know that such proclivities in pernicketiness say more about Jerry Seinfeld (and me) than any undeserving ‘subject’ - and that ironically - this is likely to prove a major bug-bear for anyone remotely interested. Self awareness is a cruel but truthful mistress.
The uber wonderful Lucy Porter (she won’t return my calls either) has a lovely piece of material along these lines:
“I’m at that stage in life where I think it would be nice (to have a boyfriend) but I’m not sure I can be bothered to train anyone for the position”.
Wouldn’t it be nice to trip over someone who ’gets’ you? Isn’t there some kind of club we could all go? Isn’t there some kind of online community we could all join? Oh… Yes… I see…
Even in my old fashioned romanticism I’m just a tad misguided / ’eccentric’ (read ’howling at all the wrong trees). Back during my phase of hoarding Converse trainers (before realisation dawned on what evil scumbags they were/are) - I was mucho ecstatico upon clawing up an off-white pair with beguilingly unusual red and blue piping (and a clutch of other neat motifs). Some time and many miles underfoot later, I realised that my ’pair’ of trainers didn’t quite match - and that I’d been given a completely separate design for each foot - in the same size.
This of course meant that somewhere an identical pair of non-identical trainers languished awaiting an owner. This became my glass slipper. This was sure to be an indicator - a shining Bat-signal to my true soul mate. Albeit one with scary-assed man-sized feet... Yes, I’ve come to see the folly…
So fate, over to you. I await your undeserved benevolence.
Until then, I can press warmly to my breast the knowledge that it’s better to have loved and lost than never loved at all. This I do believe. But if anyone tells you it’s better to see Queen with Paul Rodgers, than never have seen Queen at all - they are frankly my friend - quite full of it.
Stay positive!
x
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
