The Big Smokey

Camden is a very strange place indeed.

I wouldn't say it was intimidating, but with all the market stalls competing for the title of 'Camden's Loudest Speaker System', the smells from the array of open-air food outlets competing for space in your nostrils, and the heavy police presence competing with the local drunks, its certainly an assualt on the senses. As I walked through its crowded streets yesterday evening, I felt I could have been at some sort of music festival, or wandering around an unfamiliar foreign country, or perhaps a member of a savage post-apocalyptic settlement you'd expect to find in Mad Max.

As it was, I was in the northern part of London, on my way to a music venue known as The Roundhouse, to see a man called William Robinson Jr, or 'Smokey' to his mates. He's arguably one of the finest singer-songwriters to have ever picked up a pen, a hugely successful producer, and just so happens to have played a pretty major part in the early days and continued success of Motown Records. He wrote some of the best hits for the label, like 'My Girl', 'The Way You Do The Things You Do', 'Tears of a Clown' and 'Tracks of My Tears'. And he sang them all last night, with the help of his band and the BBC Concert Orchestra.

Smokey will be seventy next year, but his voice has more than stood the test of time. And the man can still move, his hips launching into spontaneous gyration whenever it was time for a slow number. However, I think its fair to assume that Smokey's had some 'work' done. The man's face is tighter than a drum. Seriously, you could bounce pennies off his forehead. But even then, I'm sure it would make a satisfying sound.

Two hours of intermittent gyrating and fantastic singing later, it was time to hit the streets of Camden once more. What struck me more than anything this time round was the interesting array of haircuts and outfits being sported by the natives. Of course, when I say 'interesting', I mean 'bloody ridiculous'. Why doesn't anyone say anything to these poor people? Clearly they've left their flat without checking themselves in the mirror. That could be the only reasonable explanation for walking around in full view of other people, looking like a heavy metal chimney sweep in a wind tunnel.

James Bond has just come on the television so I'm afraid I've become a little distracted, and I'm not sure how to bring this post to a satisfying conclusion. Its a Roger Moore one. He's probably the best Bond, I'd say. There's a midget in it too. And a car just took off and flew away. Brilliant.

Can you judge a book by an email?

Its an exciting time at The House of Tim. As I mentioned in a previous post, one of my housemates has recently left Bristol to persue a career in London. This means we have a spare room that we have to fill, unless I and Other Tim forego non-essential luxuries like food and clothing in order to pay the council tax. To this end, a very attractive looking advert was placed on Gumtree yesterday evening. With pictures and everything.

I get a very strange, perverse pleasure out of this sort of thing. I've advertised a room on Gumtree before, and we had about a dozen people come and look around the flat. There's something about having the power to decide whether someone gets to live somewhere or not that's just...well, its just fun. Management types must get this every time they interview candidates for a job. 'Why do you think you are suitable to share the same living space as me? Hmm? WRONG ANSWER. You FAILED, and will forever remain homeless...now, GET OUT'. Maybe its just me.

We have very straightforward criteria for our potential housemate. He or she must be a professional, someone who is neat and tidy, but most importantly of all, someone who can see the simple pleasure in occasionally eating a whole bag of onion rings while watching old episodes of Red Dwarf.

As with advertising for a job, the judgement starts before we even meet the candidates. In the same way your new career can fly or die on the strength, or weakness, of your CV, the email you send in reply to the Gumtree advert is very important. Come across as too serious, too 'wacky', or too much like a pyromaniacal sociopath, and there's a good chance you'll find yourself in the 'Deleted Items' folder.

We've had one reply already. This person works in a 'Sports and Activities Department', enjoys competing in triathlons, and is looking at taking up kayaking next. My immediate thought is of a man who is never out of a pair of shorts two sizes too small for him, who would insist on filling the flat with bikes, wetsuits and various other activity sports paraphernalia, while living off guarana bars and energy drinks and listening to the caterwauling of the likes of Alanis Morrisette. I could be reading too much in to this.

Either way, I doubt this man will fit in with the 'Onion rings/Red Dwarf' mentality of The House of Tim. So for now, the search continues...

How could I?

One more thing has happened since I last blogged. I can't believe I forgot.

Last week, I met one of the most influential men of my generation. Someone who changed the way people lived and thought, for the better. You could call him a revolutionary. You could call him a living legend. You could call him Mr.Motivator. I got to call him Derrick;

Minutes after this photo was taken, Derrick slipped in to a nurses uniform, and started the Bristol Half Marathon by waving a flag on top of a double decker bus. Now normally, seeing one of your childhood heroes degraded like this would be a crushing experience. But, considering he spent most of my childhood dressed like this, on NATIONAL TELEVISION, I soon got over it.

Remember me?

I could blame it on the holiday. I could blame it on moving house and not sorting out my broadband yet. I could blame it on the boogie...as nonsensical as it sounds.

But, the fact of the matter is, I just haven't had the inclination to write anything. I've been as regular as the cast of Last of the Summer Wine on the Atkins diet, and that is a BAD thing. Sorry.

The last time I logged on to this site was mid August. A lifetime ago. So much has happened since, so here it is in a nutshell;

My housemates and I went to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. More accurately, we drove to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. The more observant amongst you may have worked out that said festival is held in the Scottish city of Edinburgh. In Scotland. Scotland is a long way from Bristol, but it was well worth it.

Edinburgh is one of the most beautiful cities I've been to, and quite possibly the best place on earth every August. If you like comedy (and lets face it, if you don't, you may as well say you don't like laughing, or generally being happy), then you'll LOVE The Fringe. I saw too many great shows to list them all here, but I can highly recommend musical double act Frisky and Mannish, (who had me in stitches with a rendition of Noel Coward's 'I've Been to a Marvellous Party' in the style of Lily Allen), anything uttered by Scottish comedian Phil Kay, (who made me cry...twice), and a show called 'Tim: Against All Odds', a wonderfully crafted comedy drama, that involved everyone called Tim being dragged up on stage at the end and generally being celebrated by every single member of the audience. Needless to say, when the actors found out that both myself and my housemate were called Tim, they got very excited indeed. Our flat has been known as 'The House of Tim' ever since.

On the way back from Edinburgh, we stopped off for a night out in Newcastle. And that's about as much as I can remember of that night, I'm afraid. What a city.

Since then, I've had a job interview which was sort of successful, in that I didn't get the actual job, but opportunities have arisen as a result of my being able to sit in front of two people in a suit, and talk about how great I am for 45 minutes.

On the subject of jobs, my great friend Claire started her new life as a ball-breaking lawyer extraordinaire this week, and very proud of her we all are. This also means that her and her husband, my other great friend Hywel, have moved just up the road to Cheltenham. This is great for me, but not so great for the people they've left behind in London. I imagine it as some sort of barren wasteland without them. A bit like the start of the Terminator films when its set in the future...all psychotic red-eyed robots, stamping on human skulls. I'm sure its just like that.

I am not one to share intimate details of my love life for fear of jinxing it, but suffice to say that recently it could be described as 'better'. So, that's good.

Oh, and last week my housemate (not Tim, the other one...keep up...) organised some leaving drinks, before taking the opportunity to live and work in London. At some point during that night someone must have spiked my pint of Guinness with several more, as it turned out that I became quite drunk. Now, this might have had an influence on me falling head first on to the pub's wooden floor, but I really doubt it. Anyway, being a man, it took me until this week to go to the doctor and get it checked out. He pressed my head a couple of times, seemed impressed that I wasn't knocked out by this amazingly acrobatic, high-speed headstand, and told me to take a couple of paracetamols and take it easy.

If I'd have thought, I could have blamed my lack of blogging on severe brain trauma. Bugger.

Don't mug me off

There's a story in the news today about a woman who was arrested in Paris for throwing a mug at the Mona Lisa. She'd purchased the vessel in the Louvre giftshop just minutes before, and hurled it at the priceless painting, only to see it bounce of the specially made bullet-proof (and clearly mug-proof) glass.

Now, in the olden days this lady would have been dubbed a 'vandal', or perhaps more crudely, a 'nutter', and kindly asked to leave the museum and to stop being so careless with her crockery.

But it seems this lady is thought to be suffering from a condition known as Stendhal Syndrome. The news article describes it as 'a medical condition that prompts sane individuals to lose control of their actions suddenly and defame a work of art.' According to the world's most reliable information source, Wikipedia, Stendhal Syndrome is 'a psychosomatic illness that causes rapid heartbeat, dizziness, confusion and even hallucinations when an individual is exposed to art'.

Right.

So, let me get this straight. We are to believe that this woman saw the Mona Lisa, thought it so beautiful that she suddenly and involuntarily entered the gift shop, chose from a selection of mugs (no doubt printed with the legend 'I HEART DA VINCI'), queued for several minutes to purchase it, and then proceeded to lob it at Mona's smirking face. Hmm. I'm not so sure.

Nevertheless, Stendhal Syndrome is a recognised problem. Which got me thinking, if we can blame porcelain-based yobbery on a medical condition, what other strange ailments are out there? Well...

Foreign accent syndrome (FAS) is a speech disorder that causes sudden changes in speech pattern, intonation and pronunciation so that the victim is perceived to speak with a "foreign" accent. FAS usually results from severe trauma to the brain, such as a stroke or head injury, and typically develops within one or two years of the injury. You know that outrageously French guy who goes to the same coffee shop as you? His name is Dave Smith, he's originally from Barking, and 3 years ago he had a very nasty accident.

Sexsomnia is a sleep disorder that, much like sleepwalking, compels the sufferer to engage in sexual activity while asleep. Incredibly, sexsomnia has since been cited to acquit defendants accused of sexual assault in British and Canadian criminal cases.

Genital retraction syndrome (GRS) is a mental condition prevalent in specific cultures that causes sufferers to believe that their external genitals are shrinking or slowly disappearing into their bodies. A fine excuse. 'I swear love, it was bigger the last time I looked.'

Pica is a compulsion to eat non-edible objects. Sufferers have been known to consume paper, dirt, paint, hair, glue, rocks, lint and laundry detergent. Basically what toddlers do then.

Alice In Wonderland Syndrome is a neurological condition that causes distorted visuals that make objects appear either much smaller (micropsia) or larger (macropsia) than they are. Sufferers are prescribed a copy of 'Binocular use for Dummies'.

Sufferers of Walking Corpse Syndrome, also known as the Cotard delusion, believe that they are dead, decaying or have lost body parts or internal organs. Sounds like every single hangover I've ever had.


Wikipedia also says of Stendhal Syndrome; 'The syndrome was first diagnosed in 1982. The term is often used when describing the reactions of audiences to music of the Romantic period.' That's the Romantic Period of Haydn, Beethoven and Mozart.

Not to be confused then with Spandau Ballet Syndrome, first diagnosed at around the same time, where sufferers suddenly and involuntarily donned make up and androgynous clothing upon hearing heavily synth-led pop songs, written as a direct backlash against the aus­terity of the punk movement.

One Fat Lady

Well, I did it. Twenty six days after the Big Bad-Ass Blogging Challenge (a.k.a. M-PAC) began, I have reached the final day with only a few minor blips along the way. I've enjoyed it, but if I'm honest, at times it was a struggle.

I'm not sure whether I'll blog with any greater frequency in the future, or indeed if I ever will again. One things for sure, I'm going to have a rest from it for a while.

So, considering that this could be my final ever blog post, you'd probably expect me to end on a high with an exquisitely written, well thought out piece, packed with razor-sharp observations and side-splitting belly laughs.

Wouldn't you?

In Transit

I need to get an early night tonight, to conserve my strength. For tomorrow, I am moving house.

The whole day is going to be a bloody chore, quite frankly. First of all, we have to go to the agency and handover an eye-watering amount of cash, sign a mountain of paperwork, and promise the nice lady behind the desk that we will be good boys for the next six months at least.

Then its on to the joyous task of heaving dismantled furniture up and down stairs, and in to and out of vans, before the real fun of trying to reassemble it in my new bedroom. Aside from pretending to be one of the Chuckle Brothers (Barry, probably), there are very little positives to moving house. But there is one thing. Something I've already mentioned. The van.

There is something incredibly exciting about driving a van. I've never quite managed to put my finger on what exactly. It could be because you're higher up than everybody else, and you have that sense of superiority. Maybe its simply the size of a van. Maybe the fact you have to physically climb in to the drivers seat re-ignites something in you from your childhood days. Or, maybe I'm completely over-analyzing this, and its simply because you can pretend to be B.A. Baracus out of the A-Team, living in the Los Angeles underground, travelling from place to place, helping the poor defenseless townspeople with their heavy-lifting.

I've driven a lot of vans in my time as a painter and decorator (now there's a chat up line that can surely never fail), and it always made me feel grown-up. Only grown-ups get to drive a van. Its a big responsibility. Often, my boss would ask me to take the van to another job with the young apprentice in tow (I was only 18 at the time, so he must have been really young. The laws on child labour are very relaxed in Wales). Being behind the wheel, with my arm resting on the open window, Daily Sport tucked in the sun visor, a generic commerical radio station blaring out the speakers, young apprentice on the passenger seat, I felt like the boss. The man.

In reality of course, I was an 18 year old boy, terrified of crashing his employers only means of income, desperately trying to find something in common with the spotty, drug-addled oik sat next to me to try and spark up some semblance of conversation. Football usually worked.

Tomorrow though, there will be no spotty oik, no Daily Sport, and definitely no commercial radio. Just lots of lifting, carrying and putting down again. Lift up. Carry. Put down. And so on, ad infinitum. But the 15 minute van-journey on each run will make it all worthwhile. Oh, and having a nice new lovely flat of course.

But mainly the van.