Sweens' Uninformed Ramblings

As Meatloaf almost said, four out of five ain't bad...

2011-02-08T07:26:00.000-08:00

His face was entirely golden but for a white muzzle and two lighter yellowish patches just above the eyes, giving the impression of eyebrows set in a permanent frown. A pink nose flecked with black spots sat atop a jet black mouth that hung open lazily, while thick brushstrokes of auburn framed his features perfectly. As he squinted against the late evening sun he looked for all the world as tame and approachable as any house cat, but the merest glimpse of his off-white canines betrayed the true nature of this beast. This is what I had come to see. The most majestic animal on the planet. Panthera leo. The King of the Jungle. And here he was, right in front of me.

Shame it was only on a bloody postcard in the gift shop.

After two fantastic days at Kruger National Park, one of the largest game reserves in Africa and covering 7,332 square miles, we had yet to see any big cats. We'd ticked off three of 'The Big Five' (a phrase coined by hunters which refers to the five most difficult animals in Africa to hunt on foot) in the first few hours. The elephant was the first to greet us as we stopped to watch a solitary male, just feet from the road, bathe himself by drawing muddy water up through his trunk and spraying his cracked-clay skin. His ears wafted gently over his eyes and back again as the trunk weaved it's way around his sun-bleached tusks. We would encounter several more elephants at close quarters over the course of the next two days but I would never tire of sitting in silent awe of these kind-eyed bohemoths.

The buffalo were naturally intrigued by our presence. There is something intensely amusing about seeing an entire herd of buffalo turn their heads towards you, a confused look on each of their faces, with ears and horns that stick out horizontally while the latter meet at the top of the head, giving the impression of a very slick centre-parting and pig-tails. A red bow on either side would not look out of place.

We saw the rhino at the very end of the first day. The low evening sun accentuated the loose folds of his slate grey skin and made the pointed keratin horn at the tip of his nose cast a shadow across his face. This was a White Rhino (not actually white, but so called due to a mistranslation from the original Dutch word wijd, which means wide, referring to it's wide lip compared to the Black Rhino's pointed lip. Don't ever say you don't learn a thing or two reading this blog), usually seen in groups of about 10 - 15 so to see one alone was something of a rarity. Not for the first or last time, I felt truly privileged.

Then came giraffes, zebras, hippos, wildebeest, crocodiles, jackals, hyenas, and baboons. We even met some African Wild Dogs - an extremely endangered species, there are only 350 of them in Kruger, an area one and a half times the size of England, and we saw five of them just basking in the sun at the side of the road. But no leopards, no lions. Until, that is, the night drive.

For a couple of hundred rand extra we were able to clamber in to an open-topped jeep and be taken around the park by an experienced guide to see the wildlife at dusk, witness a stunning African sunset and, hopefully, see some big cats at their most active. It was a beautifully serene evening and the zebra herds, baby giraffes and those magnificent elephants were a photographer's dream in the fading golden light. Then, after an hour or so, the driver came to a halt. Collectively, we looked around for what he might have stopped for, but I could see nothing. Then he said it. 'Lion!' Directly ahead, lazily ambling down the road towards us, was an adult lioness. She seemed unfazed by our presence and didn't break her stride as she got closer and closer to the jeep. Half a dozen cameras clicked and whirred simultaneously as she strolled right up to us, passed with a cursory glance and continued on her way. We followed her for half an hour or so, taking pictures every time she stopped to look over her shoulder at her persuers, each time deciding that they bore her no threat, until she left the road and became lost in the long grass.

At that point I could have gone home happy. Four out of the Big Five ticked off. Only the leopards let me down. Spotty, camera-shy bastards. 'Sod 'em.' I thought, 'That'll do me'. But a couple of hours later, just as we were heading back to base at the end of the drive, we met two more lions. This time they were males, an adult and a juvenile. By now it was pitch black so we were relying on the spotlights, but as they both walked past us just feet from the jeep I could still see their incredible size. Adult males can exceed 39st in weight. They're big. Being attacked by an adult lion would be like being mauled by a very hungry Rik Waller in a wig.

We spent the next twenty minutes watching these incredible animals as unobtrusively as we could. Years ago my grandfather used to tell me the story (completely fabricated, as it turned out) of when he and his three brothers went hunting in the jungle and were confronted by a lion. I still remember to this day his description of looking the lion 'square in the eyes' and 'feeling his breath' on his face. When the spotlight caught the reflection of the adult male's eyes it took me back to that story, back to my childhood and reminded me of happy times with my grandfather. Thankfully, my story doesn't end with cocking a gun and shooting the poor lion right in the head, but then my grandad's generation were a bit less concerned with conservation than ours...

Finally, the two males reached a crossroads where the adult glanced in each direction before emitting an almighty roar. Not the sort of roar Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer would have you believe lions make, more a guttural grunt, but powerful enough that I felt it reverberate in my chest from 50 feet away. They both glanced at the jeep for one last time before disappearing in to the night, and it was then I realised something I should have years ago. It was so obvious I could have kicked myself. It was staring me right in the face.

Lions have the same haircut as Pat Sharp.

Another reason to hate meetings

2011-01-28T13:40:00.000-08:00

The attack came from the right, swiftly and silently. In the corner of my eye I could see branches swaying, as if they had been disturbed. I felt a weight on my right calf. I twisted my upper torso around quickly, just in time to see the canines plunge in to my leg the second time. Instinctively, I swung the stick in my right hand at my attacker and scored a direct hit on the temple. There was a hollow thud and it was enough to cause him to let go and scamper back in to the undergrowth. I looked down to survey the damage. I could see the skin was broken quite badly, torn, as if slashed at by a razor blade. For a brief moment there was no blood, but then it came. And how. A torrent of dark red made it's way quickly from the open wound, gushed down my calf like a waterfall and soaked in to my right sock and shoe. I was told later that it took almost two hours to clean that shoe. Two hours before it could finally be rinsed and no trace of blood could be squeezed from it.

I began to hobble back towards the enclosure doors. The worker I was accompanying, whom I was ironically there to protect while he cut back the grass inside the enclosure fence, stopped me and told me in broken English to take off my sock and tie it around my leg to stem the blood flow. This I duly did, before slipping my bare foot back in to my soaking wet shoe and continuing out of the enclosure and down to sickbay.

People began to gather as word got out of my injury. Mild smirks turned to wide-eyed shock as the full extent of it became clear. In the surgery room I was treated by the on-site veterinary nurse and strapped up as well as possible. Upon seeing the cuts for the first time her reflex response was to utter an expletive. When I joked that as the nurse she wasn't supposed to show alarm at a patient's injuries she simply replied, 'But I'm not a nurse for HUMANS'. Fair point.

There followed what seemed a long drive to the medical centre in town, where the doctor occasionally broke off from his relentless joking-but-not-really-joking about hating the British by inspecting the wound and attempting to stem the blood flow under local anaesthetic. This he failed to do, so it was explained to me that I would have to go to hospital and be operated on under general.

For the first time, I felt nervous. Until now I think the shock and the adrenalin had kept me from thinking the worst, and I have always naturally been someone who believes that 'things will be alright in the end'. But of course, sometimes they aren't. I'd never had an operation before, never had to go under general anaesthetic, least of all in a foreign country.

The drive to the hospital took all of 3 minutes and I was surprised to see that they were ready for me with a bed. I remember feeling relieved that this was going to be dealt with quite quickly. Oh, how wrong I was. First there were the forms to fill in (I had begun to fill some out at the doctor's surgery, but the profuse bleeding from my leg persuaded the receptionist that I was better off going in to theatre immediately, rather than make a mess of the waiting room). Endless forms asking for every single piece of personal information. I filled them in as best I could, including my insurance information. Unfortunately, that was just the first obstacle to being admitted. Although the doctors and nurses had so far displayed complete competence, the same could not be said for the administrative staff. I was told they were unable to get through to my insurance company because they didn't know how to dial internationally. A frustrating hour passed with a confused looking man intermittently entering the room, scratching his head, apologising, but they just could not get through. The doctors were in theatre, waiting for me. I was faced with a choice of either paying R10,000 (about £1000) up front to cover costs, or just not being operated on. By this time, the adrenalin and local anaesthetic were starting to wear off and there was a dull, throbbing ache growing within my bandaged right leg. The prospect of not fixing it right away was not attractive.

And then, suddenly everything changed. I was admitted without having to pay a deposit and without the hospital being able to get past the international dialling code. 'We'll deal with it in the morning' they said. Finally, I was on my way to theatre. Or, so I thought...

In the surgery the doctor had joked that he had a meeting at 6pm and it just couldn't wait so they were going to have to leave me in the corridor with my leg hanging off until it was over. Yeah, GOOD ONE, DOC. Unfortunately, the long wait to be admitted had meant it was now 5.45pm. As soon as the doctor began to say,'You know earlier when I joked about the meeting..?' my heart sank. He had to go he said. He was chairing the meeting. A very important one. There was no getting out of it. I had to wait.

I have been in some pretty long meetings in my time. I am not a meetings person. I swear, every single one I've been to could have ended at least a half an hour before it actually did, such is the procrastination, worthless discussion and coverage of old ground that goes on. But this meeting, a meeting I wasn't even present at, felt like the longest meeting since God himself first created the Microsoft Outlook planner. The pain was now unbearable. The throbbing had given way to all out fire in my calf. I shifted constantly, groaning, humming, swearing, singing, anything to take my mind off the burning beneath my right knee. Eventually a nurse took pity on me and called the doctor for advice on painkillers. I heard him on the speakerphone, answering in Afrikaans. All I understood was '100mg IVI'. I didn't know what IVI was, I still don't, but it sounded brilliant. I wanted it to be my friend. Five minutes later, I had never been so pleased to have a needle pushed in to my left buttock by a middle aged woman in all my life.

From then on, everything was well with the world. The pain was still there, but now manageable. The doctors soon emerged from their meeting, scrubbed up and wheeled me in to theatre. There, I had to defend the Welsh rugby team until the anaesthetic took hold. Before I knew it, I was awake in the ward outside the operating theatre again. An hour had passed. I remember thinking before going in that the first thing I would do after waking would be to check that my toes still moved. I don't know why, but not being able to seemed like the worst case scenario. I looked down at my right foot, it was still there. 'Good start' I thought. I took a deep breath and tried to flex the muscles. They moved with ease. Phew.

There followed a couple of days recovery in hospital where I was fed, watered, brought biscuits and sexist magazines, and was able to catch up on some English football. The pain was managed by painkillers from an intravenous drip, along with antibiotics to stave off infection. I have since returned to the foundation where the care hasn't ceased. Staff and volunteers have been making me food and bringing me water to drink as I'm still out of action. The leg is healing nicely though and I'm glad I have enough time here to get well and contribute in a meaningful way again. In the meantime, there is quite a lot of admin to be done...

My attacker, by the way, was an adult male vervet by the name of Smeagol. He is apparently not that keen on humans and I was told afterwards that we shouldn't have been in the enclosure in the first place. The worker had misunderstood and thought we would be safe. A mistake on his part, but I bear him nor Smeagol no grudge. Afterall, I now have a great story to tell and hopefully an impressive scar to match. And how many people do you know that have been bitten by a monkey? Hmm?

The answer, by the way, is 'none', and if it isn't you are a LIAR. So there.

Shameless Plug

2011-01-21T21:37:00.000-08:00

In conjunction with the Monkey Diaries I will be doing a bit of shameless promotion every now and then for the VMF. To that end, please take notice of the widget below promoting a skydiving event to raise money for the poor little buggers in quarantine at the moment. We need money to pay for their treatment, for surgical equipment, everything really, and a group of volunteers (NOT including me...I'm injured) are going to jump out of a plane to persuade you to part with a few coins. Please give what you can. Cheers, yeah?

Monkey magic

2011-01-21T05:58:00.000-08:00

So, as promised, here is the first edited installment of my 'Monkey Diaries'. Apologies it's taken a while to put anything up but I've been 'otherwise engaged' over the last couple of days. More of that in the fullness of time. For now;

Monday 10th January, 2011

10.15am

I am on the coach to Tzaneen having landed at Johannesburg airport this morning. My first ever long haul flight was not a disappointment. For someone who is used to the 'Easyjet' way of flying, something as simple as being able to watch a film while 35,000 ft in the air is like living in 'Tomorrow's World', except without the terrible 80s hairstyle or the robot butlers we were promised.

The flight also gave me the chance to sample my first ever airline meal. The general view on these things seems to be that they are an affront to God himself, such is their poor standard. I have to say I enjoyed my chicken with celeriec mash, followed by a vanilla fudge sundae and washed down with a G&T and glass of Argentinian red. However, the full English breakfast this morning was a TRAVESTY. There was a chewy, salty slab of something resembling bacon, a forlorn looking sausage, an object I believe once used to be a tomato and what my tastebuds just about managed to tell me was scrambled eggs, but my eyes could not find any previous reference. I'm almost ashamed to say that I wolfed it down though, as my hunger won out over my food snobbery.

So far the journey as a whole has been a breeze. A pleasant enough flight ('Breakfast of the Damned' aside), a minimal amount of time going through the passport check - which made a mockery of all the paperwork I had brought and was told I would categorically need - and even a minor hiccup when my taxi driver, Henric, couldn't find me at the airport hasn't spoilt things.

I have made one friend already. A kindly looking silver-haired lady from Holland, who is volunteering at the foundation for 6 weeks. She seemed surprised and a little jealous when I said I was there for 3 months. I resisted the urge to say 'Yeah, that's right. Hardcore.' as we do not know each other well enough yet for her to be subjected to my less than subtle attempts at humour. I shall have to wait to find out more about her as we have opted to sit in seperate aisles for this journey. To be honest it suits me as I only managed an hours sleep on the flight and after two straight nights of 'farewell drinking' it was far from ideal. Time for some shut-eye I think.

1.10pm

Over the last hour or so I have been introduced to the world of Leon Schuster. His deeply unfunny, almost certainly racist world. Leon is an 'funnyman/entertainer', though I use those terms loosely, and the passengers on the coach have had to sit through a film in which he 'stars' called 'Mama Jack'. The premise of this film is so tedious I cannot begin to bring myself to explain it, but it involves Mr.Schuster's character, a white man, disguising himself as a black woman, before wading through a series of woefully predictable situations where his true identity is almost revealed. It was awful. And Lenny Henry did a much better job of it years ago with 'True Identity'.

The one positive to Leon's prattling about keeping me awake is that I do get to enjoy the view. South Africa is stunning. As we've ambled northwards away from Johannesburg we've left behind the office blocks, garishly 80s-looking shops and roadside tradesmen (I have never seen so many people on the side of busy roads before - either handing out leaflets for their business, just having a sit down or, most alarmingly of all, answering the call of nature, seemingly oblivious to all the traffic whizzing past behind them) and I'm now seeing the Africa I've seen on the television. Rolling hills, vivid green valleys and scorched red earth, all under a white hot sun.

It will be interesting to see how I deal with the heat. For a long time now I have been convinced that my core body temperature is a couple of degrees higher than most people's. I have been referred to as a 'boy-radiator' in the past. In hot restaurants or bars, it has not been uncommon to see me 'get a bead on'. This is a completely different level of heat altogether, but I did buy a new hat at the airport so I'm sure it'll be fine. It has 'World Cup South Africa 2010' written on it. I have never looked more of a tourist in all my life.

Tuesday 11th January 2011

9.55pm

The end of my first full day at the foundation. Today I have been taken through the orientation, which consisted of a talk on what to do (essentially, be nice to the monkeys, don't get bitten by snakes) and what not to do (not be nice, or stand between a mother and her baby, apparently) and a tour around the site. My God, it's massive. They have over 550 vervets on site, including 12 orphaned babies (so far). The monkey troops are kept in different enclosures that are surrounded by high electric fences. Bolted on to these enclosures are 'introduction cages' where previously orphaned monkeys are put to, as the name suggests, introduce them to the troops in the hope they will eventually become integrated. Some are occasionally allowed in to the main enclosure to see how they interact with the troop. Monkeys are often wary of newcomers so it's a very slow, gradual and often painstaking process. Often monkeys just will not be accepted, either because the troop doesn't want them or they have certain traits, usually due an event that happened to them before coming to the foundation, that mean they find it difficult to interact with other monkeys. Or, as one member of staff put it in her thick Australian accent, 'Some of 'em are just arseholes'.

There are three main sections at the foundation. The 'Top Section', 'Middle Section' and 'Bottom Section'. Not the most imaginative, granted, but fairly practical. My first real shift was on Middle Section. Tasks included cutting grass with a hand-scythe to feed the monkeys with (manly), refilling water bowls, distributing dry food (a sort of wheat-based pellet) and disinfecting the introduction cages with a natural pesticide. I was told to taste it, along with the pellets, and I can honestly say that, despite the bitter after taste, I would rather eat monkey food and natural disinfectant than ever have another British Airways breakfast.

After the shift on the middle section came the fun part. Sitting in with the orphaned babies. They need more or less constant attention, 24 hours a day. During daylight hours volunteers and staff feed them, treat them for any ailments and of course play with them, while at night two volunteers have to sleep in the baby cabin (thankfully, the babies are placed in carry cages overnight) and are on hand should any of them awake and require feeding or care.

I was warned that the babies are more intimidated by men than by women and that it may take some time for them to accept me. When I arrived at the cabin, sure enough the babies made a bee-line for a member of staff, looking for her to protect them from this strange, scary man. I sat down next to another volunteer whom I was replacing on shift. She had two orphans on her lap, Nicky and Milko, curled up asleep and hugging each other for dear life. She lifted them up and, still asleep, placed them on me.

A few minutes of total monkey bliss ensued. Me, grinning from ear to ear at finally meeting these delightful creatures face to face, Nicky and Milko, blissfully ignorant of the whole situation. The others remained wary. One would come up to nibble at my toe (they see the toe as the furthest part from your face, a tail of sorts. If intimidated by or unsure of another monkey, they will 'test the water' by grooming the tail first as it's the part furthest away from the face and, of course, the teeth) then, a baby I have since come to know as Ruby, took exception to me touching Nicky and Milko and jumped on top of them to protect them. The staff member told me to let her do her thing, then after a while try stroking her. This I did, and after an unsure couple of minutes, Ruby fell asleep on my lap. I was ecstatic. Earlier, during my orientation tour, an adult female called Colin (I know) had offered herself for grooming. The staff member had said she'd never seen such a positive reaction to a stranger before. You can imagine my pride...and now this. But, just as I was about to pronounce myself some sort of Doolittle-esque monkey charmer, Ruby stirred from her slumber, groggily looked up at me, screamed in sheer terror and bolted to the other side of the cabin. I have since learnt that raising your eyebrows at the monkeys is seen as a sign of aggression. It's natural for us, well me, to raise our eyebrows when talking to animals, so this is something I'm going to have to remember. I'm back with the babies first thing tomorrow, so hopefully my blossoming friendship with Ruby will continue.

All these things what I have done

2010-11-11T14:01:00.000-08:00

So, seeing as I may never ever work in radio again come January, I have recently found myself trawling through some of the stuff I've done over the years. I'm not sure why, maybe I'm looking for justification that the last 6 years or so haven't been a complete waste of time and I was actually quite good at it, but it's been quite fun revisiting all the tapes, sketches and interviews.

So, I'm going to put some of them up on this website http://audioboo.fm/sweensween. Again, I'm not sure why. Maybe it's to have some sort of record that it actually happened, should I never go back to it.

Most of them seemed funny at the time but now fall flat, some of them are vaguely amusing and some of them I am still, and always will be, very proud of.

How low can you go?

2010-11-08T12:37:00.000-08:00

I feel a little in limbo at the moment.

As you all know by now I'm off to bother monkeys in South Africa in January, after which I might finally tackle the career crisis I've been putting off for ages and try to work out what I want to do in life. But until then, I'm just...waiting.

I'm also in the middle of buying a house. Anyone who has been through this excruciatingly drawn-out process will know that it involves a lot of hanging around waiting for other people. Waiting for a survey to be done, waiting for the sellers to find somewhere else to live to complete the chain and waiting for the solicitors to do whatever it is they need to do to justify all that money I'm sending them. This is just adding to the limbo state.

I can't really complain of course. Plenty of people would love to be in my position and I am truly lucky, but it has left me with a slight lack of focus. I've found myself cruising along at work, which is not surprising I suppose, but I'm also not doing much with my evenings. For example, months ago I promised myself that I would start writing something, anything, before this year was out and that I would read more than I have been. I've achieved neither and I'm angry with myself about it.

I'm hoping that when things finally start moving with the house and the new year comes around I'll snap out of it. It will probably be around then that I'll start panicking when I realise all the things I should have been doing while I was cocking about in limbo haven't been done, so maybe I won't have a choice but to become proactive.

Like my friend Dennis here;

Just so you know

2010-10-27T13:01:00.000-07:00

I handed in my notice today.

It felt good.

It felt right.

It felt fantastic.

That is all.

All lines are now closed. You may still be charged.

2010-10-11T17:54:00.000-07:00

I really cannot begin to explain to you how much I hate The X-Factor.

Just thinking about it sends acid coursing through my veins. It's a despicable mixture of glorified karaoke and freak show, designed solely to make money out of the poor deluded souls who just want to be famous and who seem to make up the majority of the British public these days. Those with a modicum of talent might end up winning it, but after the inevitable Christmas number one they either disappear in to obscurity, 'panto' as it's otherwise known, or just blend in to the mind-numbingly bland world of pop music, until eventually you find yourself watching a Leona Lewis video and asking; 'Now, was she on X-Factor or Pop Idol? Or was it Stars in Their Eyes? Either way, this sounds awful...STOP BLOODY WARBLING...'

But then, the people who watch it know this. They know how it works. They know that the chances of seeing any of these acts on television ever again are on a par with seeing The Beatles reform with Noel Edmonds on lead vocals for a one off performance on The National Lottery's In It To Win It, and yet they still tune in. They still get emotionally involved. They still vote. I will never understand why.

I think the worst thing about it is that it's almost impossible to escape from. I can't walk past a newsagents any more without seeing Cheryl Cole's hideous orange face weeping back at me like an open sore. I haven't seen a single episode of this series, I'd rather watch a deaf amateur dramatic production of Schindler's List in a pub car park, and yet I could probably tell you the names of at least two of the acts. Cher and One Direction. There, told you.

HOW DO I KNOW THIS INFORMATION? I don't WANT to know it. I must have absorbed it somehow. It must be in the air. Like anthrax, only much, much worse.

Twitter and Facebook have become no-go areas on Saturday and Sunday evenings. For example;

@Miles_Str Omg I love Wagner. #xfactor (Alas, Miles was not referring to Richard or even Robert)

@ZBieberFan (alarm bells should already be ringing) Wish #Xfactor was on everyday :D x
(Pray that Z never stumbles across a magic lamp)

@NMaher Wonders how long people talked about #xfactor in work today? We did a good 30mins (My God, the atmosphere in that office must be electric)

@r_tone Just re-watched the #xfactor version of "Rhythm of the Night". That group performance really is the highlight of my week. (For fuck's sake)

These are just a few examples of the brain-dead witterings of the damned you have to put up with.

This is a pointless rant really. I've given up trying to make people see things my way, there's no use. I can see myself eventually going insane and becoming one of those people you see on street corners in the movies, all grubby faced, wearing fingerless gloves and a sandwich board prophesying the end of mankind. I'm resigned to the fact that as a race we are doomed and in centuries to come a futuristic version of Baldrick out of Blackadder will make a television programme about our time;

'And you say they worshipped their Queen, simply because she got malaria and cried a lot?'

'From these records, that would appear to be the case, yes. She also married and subsequently divorced a moron, who took photos of his pants and sent them to other women. That seemed to make her quite popular.'

'Right...'

'It's a miracle they survived as long as they did really. But, as we all now know, they were the architects of their own downfall. Then again, how were they to know that voting for Jedward to form a coalition government with Gamu would lead to a nuclear holocaust? Their Vanilla Ice routine gave no clues of the horrors to come...'

Monkey Magic

2010-09-27T13:57:00.000-07:00

The more observant amongst you will have noticed that this is my first post for almost five months.

I'm blaming it on life this time. Life has just...got in the way. Incidentally, life has been mostly brilliant in that time, consisting of birthdays, festivals, holidays and more drunken nights than I would care to reveal here in case my family and friends attempt an intervention. I've managed to sell my mother's house too, a process which has proved to be startlingly significant in helping me 'move on'.

I've a genuine feeling that a new chapter has begun. Which is what has led me back to the blog.

I've looked back over most of the posts and what strikes me, other than the occasional embarrassing lapse in grammar and punctuation (why didn't you tell me?), is how detailed a record of my life this can actually be. I'm not just talking about the big events either. What got me most were the stories about the most mundane of things, like having strange dreams, driving vans, dealing with hangovers and going to the circus. As memories were instantly sparked back to life, I found myself feeling so pleased that I'd made even the smallest note of them.

However, in January I'm going to be doing something so potentially life-changing that it scares me a little every time I think about it. Actually, it scares me a lot. I've decided to take a career break and will be spending the first three months of 2011 volunteering at a vervet monkey foundation in South Africa. I'll be responsible for the care, feeding and reintroduction of baby vervets and will then get the chance to monitor and observe their behaviour in the wild. I'm scared because this will be unlike anything I have ever done before, but for that same reason it's incredibly exciting.

You know that feeling you get when you drive through a tunnel? Exciting, isn't it? Now imagine going through that tunnel and suddenly realising that Stephen Hawking is in charge of the wheel. Then, you look over your shoulder and see Hitler and Pol Pot on the back seat, playing a particularly gripping game of Travel Scrabble. That's exactly the mixture of excitement and fear I'm going through.

I've had waves of doubt about whether I'm doing the right thing, whether this is just a way of avoiding making any serious career decision for a few months, but my friends and family have done their usual amazing trick of making me see sense. This is an incredible opportunity that will eat away at me for the rest of my days should I not take it. Plus, I've already booked the flights so I'm pretty much screwed if I don't go now.

Obviously I'm going to want to write about those three months, the incredible times and the mundane, so I'm getting back in to practice. I've tidied up the blog, resigned myself to the fact that I'm simply unable to look good in a photo and, so serious am I about this, I've even tweaked the colour scheme. I know.

After five months of inactivity this frankly average post has taken it out of me, so I'm going to sign off with this video of a baby monkey riding on a pig. It's sort of relevant and also means I can practice my video embedding. Enjoy.

A hard day at the ice cream factory

2010-04-29T12:31:00.000-07:00

I've said this before, but I'm very lucky to be doing my job. I have a lot of fun, and there is very little pressure or stress. Sometimes though, just like everyone else, you can get frustrated or annoyed with the daily grind. But then, certain events occur that help you get it all back in to perspective.

Such a thing happened to me this week when I met a lady called Julie. Julie is 70, but still works at a school, teaching English as a second language to refugee children. Most of these kids are no more than 13 or 14, but they've been through some of the most horrifying experiences imaginable.

Julie's job involves not only teaching them English, but also being their companion in a strange new country, and helping them try and get over severe trauma by listening to them and attempting to understand what they've been through.

Today at work, I had to sing an alternative version of 'Michael Row the Boat Ashore', and wrote a spoof rap about being a vegan. You see what I mean about perspective?

Anyway, if you want to, you can hear Julie talking about some of her pupils below. I had to upload it as a video, so I've added a lovely landscape picture taken in the South of France. I'm warning you though, the content of the audio is nowhere near as pleasant, but is in a way just as amazing.

As an antidote to all that heavy stuff, please enjoy this sketch from That Mitchell and Webb Look, which illustrates my point perfectly.

It's getting better, man...

2010-04-23T13:47:00.000-07:00

Since my last post, things have improved. Actually, things have been brilliant.

It's incredible how many people have said to me that they'd identified with what I'd written. Some had also lost a parent to a terminal illness. Some had experienced similar feelings of depression, demotivation or anxiety. Others just thought it was great to see Bob Hoskins' face again. It goes to show that so many of us go through something like this at some point in our lives. Knowing this has helped immensely.

I've been getting more sleep (strangely, leaving the light on seems to help...I'm 8 years old again), and I've even felt more productive at work.

I've also been doing lots of fun things, like visiting friends on the Isle of Wight (and subsequently being persuaded to buy a ticket to the Isle of Wight Festival), seeing friends from University, going to the rugby, and generally just enjoying the glorious sunshine we've been having. They say that everything seems much better when the sun is out, and that's certainly been the case over the last couple of weeks.

I'm intelligent enough to know that it's not all going to be plain sailing from here on in, but I do feel as though I can cope with it a lot better now. I can recognise when it's getting a bit much and talk to friends about it, rather than bottle it up. A very wise person said to me that it's likely to be two step forwards, one step back for a while. That's almost certainly true, but I've already made some giant strides in the right direction.

Anyway, the next few posts are going to be cheery, or at least vaguely interesting, I promise. As a little taster of things to come, here is some footage of why chimps are ACE.

I hope this doesn't make me sound like a basket-case...

2010-04-07T17:07:00.001-07:00

So, it turns out I'm depressed.

I've done the research, you see. In this wonderful technological age, you are just a few clicks away from a self diagnosis on anything that ails you. The NHS website even has a 'symptom checker', where you can type your answers to a series of multiple choice questions, and determine what might be wrong with you. Providing of course that the problem isn't 'broken and/or missing fingers'.

Since my Mother's death in December, I've struggled to motivate myself at work. I've been lucky enough to be able to change shifts so that I now work more reasonable hours, and I've even given up on my Saturday lunchtime show, partly so I have weekends free to go back to Wales to visit family and sort out what needs sorting, and partly because I didn't feel able to give it my all. But, despite this 'down-sizing' of commitments, I find myself just wanting to get to 5pm, when I can go home. This is the first time I have had this feeling with a job I have loved since I very first started, almost five years ago.

It was this feeling that led me to type the words 'grief and bereavement' in to Google, (sorry Bing, but you're just not going to catch on).

According to respected Swiss psychiatrist Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, there are five stages of grief. Stage one, denial, happened during my Mother's illness. Stage two is anger. I have certainly felt that. Stage three is bargaining, where you attempt to make deals in your mind to reverse what's happened, wishing and praying for that person to come back. Check.

Then there's stage four. Depression. It's such a horrible word, that. We often say we're 'depressed' when we're a bit down, like we say we're 'starving' when we're a bit peckish. But if you say someone is suffering from depression, then it makes it all a bit too real. It moves in to that taboo realm of mental health, and no one wants to admit that they're a nutter, do they?

While I don't think I'm quite ready for a bit part in the remake of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest just yet, I can certainly identify with some of the symptoms. Along with the lack of motivation, (though I must point out, this is only at work. I still do the usual football, exercise, socialising, etc. and get as much pleasure, if not more, from them as I used to), I have also had bursts of occasional irritability & intolerance of others, (though I've never been one to suffer numpties gladly, as the saying goes), feelings of guilt, ('I took my Mum for granted', 'I should have been a better son', etc.), some anxiety and worry, (though that's mainly over what on earth to do with the house, and everything in it. Mum had a lot of stuff. Seriously, if she'd have put her symptoms in to the NHS website, it would have come out with 'pathological hoarder'), and disturbed sleep patterns, (hence me writing this at 02:10am). Thankfully, I seem to have escaped the unexplained aches and pains, and the changes to my menstrual cycle. So far.

So, problem identified. Unfortunately, there's no real solution. Yes, I will go to the doctor, explain the situation, hopefully sort out the sleeping, (which I believe is linked to the motivation problem), and maybe even have a chat with a professional. But in the end, it just takes a while to work through it all and reach stage five. Acceptance.

At times, I've never felt more alone in this world since Mum died. She was always the one I'd call if I had a problem. In a funny way, that's when it hits me hardest. Just this week I wasn't sure of something, a trivial query, one that we might all come face to face with in our daily lives. My immediate thought was, 'I'll just give Mum a call, she'll know'. Then reality showed up with a thumping punch to the gut, and a whisper; 'You can't do that anymore. You're on your own, sunshine.'

But I know I'm not really. I have amazing friends and family, who have been there for me all the while. But, I've not been very good at talking about it all. I even feel guilty about writing this, as I'm sure some friends, dear friends who I couldn't do without, will be reading it and wondering why I haven't told them all this before. Although I know that they would want me to lean on them, I can't help but feel as though I'd be a burden. That has to change. A truly wonderful person made me promise not to try any 'heroics' when dealing with this. I nearly broke that promise. So, from now on, if I'm feeling a bit down about it, I shall say. If I need to go for a pint, I will ask a friend to the pub. If I want to cry, then...well, I shall wait until I'm chopping onions or something. Don't want to come across as a big girl's blouse, do I? Anyway, writing this post is the first step, I suppose.

As Bob Hoskins once said, for a substantial fee no doubt, 'It's good to talk'. As far as I'm concerned, right now, he's one of life's greatest philosophers.

LOOK AT HIM, THOUGH.

Rules of Blogging #63

2010-03-07T13:48:00.001-08:00

Never promise to blog more frequently the day before staying somewhere without internet access for a week.

In Dyer need of a change

2010-03-06T05:33:00.000-08:00

If I were a footballer, I'd be David Bentley. If I'd have fancied punching people for a living, I think I'd be like Audley Harrison. Had I decided to be in the acting game, I'd probably be Danny Dyer.

Like those people, when I began this blog I showed so much potential. Potential that just hasn't been realised.

However, I'm determined not to become another 'Fancy Dan' fringe player. I refuse to end up flat on my back, being called 'Audrey' by my mocking peers. I will not churn out film after tiresome straight-to-dvd film with Tamer Hassan, my only friend in the world, and the only man on earth who seems to want me to continue this empty shell of an acting career/life by offering me roles where I can speak in a hammed up cockney accent and pretend to be a 'geezer', conveniently forgetting that interest in British gangster flicks died around the same time Madonna got her sinewy talons in to Guy Ritchie. Still, at least I have 'Deadliest Men' and 'I Believe In UFOs' to be proud of. I wish I was dead.

This rather long-winded analogy is designed to make the point that I've realised I quite simply haven't been writing regularly enough. Again. But, I've recently had time to think and reassess what's important to me in life, so I've shuffled a few things around to spend more time doing the things I enjoy. So serious am I about this that I've even made a list. That's practically a legally binding contract.

One of the things on the list is to at least start writing something, anything really, by the end of this year. But, I need to get back in to the swing of things first. Starting now.

* Since posting this, Danny Dyer's lawyers have been in contact with concerns about certain aspects of the post that deal with their client's career and mental state. They wish it to be stated that Mr.Dyer is in fact NOT proud of 'I Believe In UFOs' at all. He thought it was a big pile of shite like the rest of us.

No Pain, No Gain

2010-01-15T12:50:00.000-08:00

On Friday afternoon I met a man called Dave, and within half an hour of his company he'd made me feel physically sick. Not because he's a pervert, or a despotic overlord, or even worse, an Arsenal fan. No, Dave is my new personal trainer.

I've decided to lead a healthier lifestyle, and my self-discipline, or rather lack of it, means I need someone like Dave to keep me motivated. Left to my own devices, I just don't drag myself to the gym often enough. So, Dave gets a considerable percentage of my monthly wages, and I get fitter and healthier. But, my God it hurts.

What made it worse was the apocalyptic hangover I had that day. It was well earned at a friend's art exhibition the evening before, where the champagne was free, and free flowing. But those last few glasses seemed like such a bad idea once Dave began the session. Or his 'diabolical reign of terror', as I prefer to call it.

I'd already come clean about the hangover. Honesty is the best policy after all. Plus, I thought (incorrectly as it turned out) it might mean I'd get a slightly easier time of it. I couldn't help but think that Dave was getting an inaccurate picture of my lifestyle. As far as he was concerned, I was a drunkard. A sub-human, who's only reason to roll out of bed each afternoon is to stuff last night's pizza in to his face while shooting virtual zombies, before finding his next fix of booze. I was determined to show him that he was only half right, by apologising whenever I could draw breath, and assuring him that I wasn't always this bad.

The text I received from Domino's pizza half way through the session did little to help my cause.

I've had three days to mull this over, and I still can't think of how on earth they got hold of my mobile number. I have never had a text from Domino's before. I've never had a text from any food outlet before. Not even a group email. Why now? When I'm desperately trying to prove I'm not the next Shane McGowan to a perfect stranger I've paid to hurt me? Of all the times.

There can only be two possibilities. The first is that I truly am a disgusting slob, and on one of my many drunken trips to the pizza house, decided it would be a good idea to sign up to their text alert service, and then woke up the next day without remembering a thing. But that can't be right. That wouldn't do at all. I mean, what if Dave's reading this? (Hi, Dave).

No, the much more likely reason for this untimely text is that The Devil himself was trying to tempt me when I was at my weakest. He doesn't want me to get healthy. He wants me to remain amongst the hoardes of the lethargic and slightly overweight, forever damned to a life of not being overly confident about taking my shirt off on the beach. The bastard. Well, get thee behind me Satan, for I shall not be tempted. You can take your admittedly very reasonable offer of 'Any Pizza, Any Size £9.99 - Delivered', and you can shove it right up your bright red arse. I'm going to do this. I could murder a Chicken Feast though. And some potato wedges. And those cookies they do are amazing.

This isn't going to be easy.

But seriously...

2010-01-13T13:38:00.000-08:00

I thought it was about time I posted something that wasn't utterly depressing. Christmas was a horrible time for me and my family, and its been a lot harder than I thought to get back to normality. Life will never be the same again, but as Freddie Mercury once sang, ''I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike''. Hang on, that's not right...

I've been spending a lot of time reliving my childhood recently. Last week I bought a Guns N' Roses t-shirt. I was OBSESSED with that band as a kid. I had all the albums, the t-shirts, the posters...everything. I used to draw pictures of Slash on my pencil case during double maths. Its one of my greatest regrets that I never saw them live in their heyday. Alas, I was too young at the time, and they never seemed to include Carmarthen in their European tour dates for some reason.

I was so pleased with my t-shirt that I wore it to work the very next day. When someone asked me if I was wearing it ironically I could have punched them. But, seeing as that person was my female boss, I thought better of it, and comforted myself with the thought that she was probably a Bon Jovi fan. Loser.

The other trip down memory lane came one lunchtime this week. A colleague of mine recently spent some time in America as a professional wrestling commentator. He gave up the rigmarole of the nine to five, and persued his obsession and dream. I have nothing but admiration for that. It turns out he's going back to the States soon to go to an event called Wrestlemania. This is an annual event that, as a ten year old boy and massive fan of Hulk Hogan, I would have swapped all my football stickers, toys and possibly a limb (I wasn't that active a child anyway), to go and see. I was surprised by how much I could remember about it. Its a shame that as an adult, I don't really have anything I am so passionate about that it completely takes over like that. Its also a shame that its no longer socially acceptable to get all the associated toys and play with them for hours with my friends, making ridiculous fighting noises like 'boof', and 'paff'. Good times.

Anyway, I've since indulged in one of my childhood obsessions and looked for old videos on YouTube. In amongst all the classic wrestling matches I remembered watching on VHS in my pyjamas on Christmas mornings was a video I had never seen before. Its truly incredible, utterly bizarre, and features two legends in their own lifetime. One is a wrestler called The Ultimate Warrior. The other, is Phil Collins.

Enjoy.

2009-12-20T13:33:00.000-08:00

Carys Ann McSweeney, my dear Mum, passed away peacefully this evening, aged 62. She was surrounded by friends and family, as was her final wish. She will be missed by all who knew her.

I love you, Mum. x

Just the facts...

2009-12-18T14:31:00.000-08:00

She opened her eyes, looked square in to mine, and said 'Oh, hello darling'. And, as she reached out for me to put my hand in hers, I could have cried.

After I'd almost given up hope of ever hearing her utter another lucid sentence, this one simple greeting meant the world. I asked her if she was OK, but she had already slipped back in to unconsciousness before the words left my mouth. The moment was gone. But it happened, and that's all that matters.

I went to visit my father today. Partly because I wanted to see my Dad, and partly to get out of the house. We see so many visitors these days that I swear we're giving the entire population of China a run for its money in the tea drinking stakes. Its nice that people call, but sometimes it seems there's hardly five minutes in the day for Mamgu to sit down and rest.

Dad's been brilliant. He and Mum have been divorced for some time now, but they were married for almost twenty years before that. To be with someone for that amount of time means that, whatever may have happened since, you still have love for the other person. He's also been through something similar recently with his own Dad. Those memories, his feelings for Mum, and worrying about me means it can't be easy for him either. But he's always been on the end of the phone, making sure I'm alright, and he had an extra big hug for me today. And a Christmas present too, which always goes down well.

I wouldn't say I've learned much over the last few days, but I would say that certain things I already knew have been re-enforced.

Firstly, friends and family are the most important thing in the whole world, and you should cherish them because you'll never know when you might need them, and one day they'll be gone.

Secondly, no matter how bad things get, a nice cup of tea will always make it slightly better.

And thirdly, there is very little quality on television during the day. Believe me, there's only so many back-to-back feature length episodes of Columbo you can watch before you start to go insane.

My Indestructable Grandmother

2009-12-16T14:56:00.000-08:00

My Nan, or 'Mamgu' as we call her (it being the Welsh for 'Grandma' - simple), is quite possibly the toughest person on the planet.

The SAS built their entire Survival Guide around her. She would easily win in a fight against Chuck Norris. AND Bruce Lee. In the event of a nuclear war, only two things would survive. Cockroaches, and Mamgu. I can just see her now, standing in the dust and rubble of what was humanity, blue rinse slightly frazzled, but still baking away another batch of Welsh Cakes, 'just in case'.

This woman has been through a World War. She's lived through so many changes to the world - political, behavioural, technological - the scale of which I doubt any other generation will see again. Despite being in her eighties, she still cooks four square meals a day, bakes whenever she's got a spare minute, and does the multitude of necessary things to keep a house in respectable order.

But, most amazingly of all, for the last month or so she has tirelessly helped care for her dying daughter.

Mum was diagnosed towards the start of the year. The sore throat and slight lump was enough of a warning, and the test results only confirmed what her nursing training had already led her to suspect. It was a shock when she told me, but even then I remember thinking, 'It'll be ok'.

That positive outlook was given further encouragement after a couple of months of radiotherapy seemed to be doing the trick. But that's exactly what it was. A trick. The disease was only migrating elsewhere. Another lump appeared on her leg. Then under her arm. Then behind the eye. Despite all this, I still thought there was hope. Even when she stopped telling me what treatment the doctors were recommending next, I still didn't, and maybe couldn't, believe that it was over. People would ask me in grave voices if I was doing ok. 'Yeah, fine', I'd say, thinking I meant it.

Looking back now, Mum lost her battle with cancer well before I accepted what was happening. I think she may have kept the seriousness of it all from me slightly, but it’s also much easier to hide from the truth when you're far enough away from it. Being on the end of the phone means someone can drop all the hints they like, but your mind fills in the blanks with what you want to hear.

But believe me, there's no way it can fool you in to thinking everything's ok when you see your dear Mum in tears and gasping for breath, because the physical act of lifting a mug of tea to her mouth is almost too much for her. Seeing her suffer rips my heart to shreds every single day. But it’s Mamgu I'm most concerned for.

I'm lucky in that I have the most incredible friends, who have done nothing but be there for me ever since this dreadful time began. Being an only child, I can only imagine what this is like for my uncles to see their big sister wasting away. But even if they don't talk about it openly, they do at least have each other to go down the pub with, and offer support in their own way. But this must be doubly hard for my Nan. I don't think its fair for anyone to out live their child, let alone have to help care for them and witness their final days first-hand.

None of us know how many of those days are left. But for now I've got to try and support my Mamgu, whether it’s with a hug, a helping hand with the dishes, or just being the one to eat all those bloody Welsh Cakes.

The Big Smokey

2009-10-25T09:21:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-09-18T03:11:00.001-07:00

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?

2009-09-15T23:03:00.001-07:00

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?

2009-09-15T03:53:00.001-07:00

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

2009-08-12T02:37:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-31T00:40:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-30T12:22:00.000-07:00

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.

The sun always shines on TV? Nonsense.

2009-07-29T13:42:00.000-07:00

I'm getting really frustrated with my internet connection this evening. It keeps cutting off at random times, and its taken me fifteen whole minutes to get as far as signing in to blogspot. Its annoying.

And they say nurses have it tough.

To make matters worse there is very little on the television. At the time of writing I have a choice of watching a minor celebrity I don't really have any interest in finding out more about her family tree, some morons pitching some inventions that no one in their right mind will ever buy (presented by an economist with such a wonky eye it very nearly put me off my dinner), highlights of a programme where nothing happens 24-hours a day (damn you Orwell), and a film starring Jean Claude Van Damme, which I have never seen before or know nothing about, but I can guarantee you the premise of which involves an ex-cop using his terrible English accent and considerable martial arts skills to thwart an evil drugs cartel and/or crime lords who have in some way caused him some sort of hardship in the past which he has never forgotten and will eventually exact revenge for.

Oh, and Midsomer f**king Murders.

And that's just the terrestrial channels. I have a whole clutch of cable channels offering nothing but repeats, grainy CCTV camera footage of thugs up to no good, (accompanied by Danny Dyer's Mockney tones stressing how 'pwoper nawhty' they all are), and 'that' episode of Friends, you know 'The one you've seen about a hundred-million times over and can't laugh at anymore because you're just NUMB from over-exposure'.

The music channels are just wall to wall R&B vocalists apologising for their constant infidelity through an autotuner, over the same soul-less repetitive beat. Featuring Kanye West, obviously. Even the sports channels can only give me ten-pin bowling and motorsport.

Sorry for the rant. But it has made me feel a bit better. As has this video, which helps illustrate my point perfectly.

I didn't mention Jamie Oliver's because I simply don't like him, sorry.

2009-07-28T15:22:00.000-07:00

So, I've decided to keep the beard for a while longer. Did I mention I've been growing a beard? I've been growing a beard.

There are plenty of positives to having some face-fur. First, there's the warmth factor. Tired of having to tie a scarf around your neck on a cold day? No more! Just grow a beard!

It can make you look thinner too, a beard. And, if you want to look clever, all you have to do is stare in to the middle distance and stroke your chin. Believe me, it just screams intelligence. There's something about having hair on your face that makes that look alright. Doing it without a beard just looks...well, like you're stroking your face in public.

So, why don't I wear this naturally growing, warmth-inducing, I.Q.-increasing, weight loss miracle all the time? Well, its ginger. Really ginger.

This shouldn't be a problem in these more liberal times. But, while people have become more politically correct when it comes to race, age and sex, I'm afraid gingerism is still alive and well in this country. That's put me off growing a full beard in the past. But I now realise that by shaving it off I'm merely kowtowing to these follicle fascists.

So, I'm going to follow the examples set by the likes of Freddie Flintoff, Chuck Norris, Billy Gibbons of ZZ Top, and the entire male population of Scotland, and embrace the ginger beard. At least until I can afford a new razor.

PS During my research in to this phenomenon, and it is a phenomenon, I stumbled across this website, which celebrates the ginger beard in all its glory. There's a 'Beard Trumps' section, where you can submit a photo and have your beard turned in to a Top Trump card, and a section where you can send in photos of your ginger beard with a celebrity. I might send in this photo of my beard with Mary Wilson of The Supremes I've been promising you.

The gingerists will hate this.

What a day

2009-07-27T10:42:00.000-07:00

I knew when I got in to another email from the US African Chamber of Commerce that it was going to be one of those days. And I was right.

Hot on the heels of that email came one from a man who had written a book, and wanted some publicity.

And that's as much as I'm going to write about that. I've since done some research and found the author is a member of a militant animal welfare group, whose website features lots of pictures of men in balaclavas, lovingly cradling puppies. There's a 'Humour and fun' section that includes a billboard that says 'Save an animal. Encourage hunters to drink and drive.' Hilarious. There's also a link to a website for militant vegans. I wish I was making this up.

Its so sinister that I don't want to belittle his work here, for fear of being branded (physically) a 'cadaver-munching moron' wanting to debate my 'alleged right to eat holocaust victims'. Scary stuff.

Then, almost immediately afterwards, a member of the public called the office to inform us that her chicken had just laid an 'egg with a tail'. Dear God. Perhaps she should put on a balaclava and have her picture taken with it, then send it in to the 'Humour and fun' section?

I'll leave you with some other choice comments overheard in the office over the last few weeks;

'What does a nun do on her day off?'

'Are eskimos christian?'

'The blind woman's phoned the bishop!'

'Has anyone been looking for someone who shoots squirrels?'

'Oh God, I don't feel good. Look, my thumbs have gone weird!'

2009-07-26T11:11:00.000-07:00

I'm terribly sorry, but today's post is not going to be a belter. I have the most spectacular hangover in living memory, and its rather inhibiting my neuronal functions. I've barely mustered the strength to eat some soup today. Its that bad.

So, here are some thoughts in a handy, easy-to-write list;

1) I'm currently watching a charity football match on ITV4 arranged in honour of Sir Bobby Robson. If you don't know who he is, just take my word for it that he's a legend. Its England vs Germany, and as is the form with these games, the sides are made up of ex-professionals and celebrities. This bizarre arrangement means you get to see fat old footballers run up and down a pitch with the likes of Angus Deyton, Craig David and Jimmy Nail. Yes, Jimmy Nail. I know.

2) Some people in my house are talking about playing board games later. I hate board games. I can't express to you enough how much I detest the very thought of them. So, I'm somehow going to have to summon the energy to go out this evening.

3) If I do manage to go out, it will be to a very cool sounding gig featuring Claire Teal and Pee Wee Ellis. Claire Teal is a fairly famous jazz singer, while Pee Wee Ellis, as well as having a fantastic name, is an absolute legend. While you may not be familiar with him, you will know his music. He's the man with whom James Brown co-wrote many of his songs, including Cold Sweat and Say It Loud, I'm Black and I'm Proud. According to Pee Wee (his real name's Alfred, by the way. If you saw him, you'd know his nickname is ironic), James Brown would come in to the room and grunt some sounds, and it was his job to try and turn those grunts in to music. And a bloody good job of it he did too.

4) I've recently joined Twitter. I'm still forming my opinion on it at the moment, but I must say I do enjoy the fact that I now know that Rob Brydon got clamped ('car, not nipples!') the other day, while Richard Herring is frantically trying to find the best way of distributing Hitler moustaches to every member of the audience of his new comedy show. And yes, of course I'm following Stephen Fry.

5) If you weren't sure, the quote in the title is from Withnail and I, possibly one of the finest films ever made. If you haven't seen it, please do.

That's all I have to contribute today. I need a lie down.

Something for the weekend

2009-07-25T06:17:00.000-07:00

If I learn nothing else from this experiment, and it is an experiment, I will at least know that I'm terrible at weekend blogging. The first of the Big Bad-ass Blogging Challenge was a travesty, after I failed to post anything on two consecutive days. To counter that, on the second weekend I posted some stupid emails I'd sent to a Nigerian scammer ages ago and so only had to copy and paste them. I still haven't got any of my inheritance by the way.

This weekend, I have made no such contingency plans. As a direct result, you are left with a regurgitation of an email I received earlier in the week. Now, normally these sorts of emails cause my heart to sink, as they are rarely very funny at all. But some of these did make me laugh out loud, real or not. Enjoy. In the meantime I'm off to work out what to write tomorrow. Only six more days to go!

Soul glow

2009-07-24T10:46:00.001-07:00

I knew if I didn't make too much of a fuss about it, it would happen. And so it came to pass, this morning I met a Supreme.

Mary Wilson, one of the three original Supremes, is in Bath to open a collection of memorabilia to do with the group, the central pieces of which are the dresses they used to wear on stage, and on promotional shoots.

Now, dresses don't really do it for me. Though to be fair, they were impressive. But Motown? Now we're talking.

I was first introduced to Motown, and soul music in general, when I raided my dad's record collection as a young boy of five or six. If I'm honest, I didn't like it immediately. I liked the look of the vinyl though, and used to drive my dad mad by pretending to be a hip hop DJ and scratching with the records on the turntable whenever his back was turned. When we were in the car, he'd put on some Motown and I'd moan and moan and moan until we reached some sort of compromise on the music. Usually the best of Tina Turner, or the single release of Word Up by Cameo. Yep. I was cool even then.

But then, one day, he put on Papa Was A Rolling Stone by The Temptations. And from the moment I heard that fantastic three-note bass line, the haunting strings, the wah guitar and Dennis Edwards' opening vocal (''It was the 3rd of September/That day I'll always remember/'cause that was the day/that my daddy died"), I was hooked.

There was no stopping me from then on. I couldn't get enough of it. I wanted to hear more of this music, discover more artists and songs that made me feel like this. And so began my soul education. James Brown, Smokey Robinson, The Jackson 5, Bill Withers, Otis Redding, Al Green, Marvin Gaye, Aretha Franklin. One after the other, I listened, and I loved. When I heard Stevie Wonder for the first time I was so angry with my dad that he hadn't sat me down and forced me to listen to it, I could have hit him. (We had a similar situation with Jimi Hendrix. When he came back with 'I've always thought he was a load of crap', I very nearly did punch him).

I'm a big fan of music in general. Heavy rock, rap, electronica, proper music with guitars, I love it all. But I've never heard anything that can move me like soul music does.

So, this morning I was unashamedly pleased to meet Ms.Wilson and talk to her. For someone who's been doing this for so long, and who had literally just got off the plane, she was remarkably chipper company. I tried to phone my dad straight after to gloat, but he didn't answer. I think he knew.

That'll teach him for not educating me sooner.

PS There are photos. I'll get them up ASAP.

'This is the NEWS...'

2009-07-23T08:48:00.000-07:00

I'm quite excited, as tomorrow there's a real chance I will get to meet someone you could call a musical legend. But, that's as much as I'm going to say for now. I've learnt my lesson since the whole Martin Jol episode, so, you'll just have to wait until tomorrow to find out if it happened or not.

In the meantime, here are some things that have caught my eye today;

After yesterday's tribute to Arnie's prowess as a sexual predator, here he is, getting in to a bit of hot water for waving a massive knife about.

Meanwhile, this story proves that anyone can have a happy ending. But, Edmonds being Edmonds, it isn't all straightforward.

''We met on October 6, 2006 at six minutes past 11 in the morning. She walked into the dressing room I had at Deal or No Deal and was introduced as the stand-in makeup artist who would be doing me for the next three days. Then something strange happened, and here we are."

Something strange happened? I'm sorry, but that could mean anything. Did you fall in love, Noel, or just slip something in her drink?

But, my absolute favourite has to be this story about a girl being hospitalised by a falling tortoise. That's brilliant enough in its self, but the more you read on, the better it gets. Straight away, in the first paragraph, we discover the tortoise was pregnant. The fact that it was pregnant really has no bearing on the story, and after that, there is no other reference to it whatsoever. But pregnant it was.

Then we hear from a police spokesperson, who said ''We have questioned 16 flat owners all of whom have denied responsibility." Well you would, wouldn't you? What on earth would lead someone to throw a pregnant tortoise out of the window? I have images of a poor Chinese man getting really frustrated with the instructions for his flat-pack wardrobe, losing it, and hurling the nearest thing to him out of the window. Only once the red mist has cleared did he realise that 'Shelly' wasn't anywhere to be seen.

I must admit, I was lacking in inspiration for tortoise names for that last bit, so I Googled 'tortoise names'. This was the first result. The first suggestion for a perfectly acceptable tortoise name?

Aleksandr Nikolai.

I'll leave it to you to find your favourites.

He was brilliant in Running Man...

2009-07-22T15:15:00.000-07:00

...and he's brilliant in this. Arnie, I salute you. You crazy sex-pest, you.

That's the Governor of California by the way. Fondling his way around Brazil. You just wouldn't get a British politician making a fool of themselves like that.

'YES! Its an extender...'

2009-07-21T11:23:00.000-07:00

Now, normally, footage of extendable tables doesn't really do it for me. But, I have three reasons for posting this;

1) Its amazing,
2) It gives me a chance to practice my video embedding,
3) It counts as one blog post, and its an easy way out.

As an extra little treat, here's the genius Alan Partridge clip that inspired the post title;

What's in a name?

2009-07-20T12:42:00.000-07:00

What I'm about to tell you is the honest truth. This is no lie. There is a man, in this world we call Earth, whose name is Dennis Shitler.

I'll just let that one sink in a moment. Take your time, it is a biggie. Dennis. Shitler.

Part of me just wants to leave it there. End the post right now. There isn't really any deconstruction needed is there? His name is Dennis Shitler, thank you, goodnight.

But, lets think this through. Dennis. Good start. Good, solid Christian name that. Dennis what? Dennis Shitler. Right. Well...

Where do you start? 'Shitler. That's quite similar to Hitler, isn't it? In fact, its got the word Hitler in it, hasn't it?' 'Yep.' 'Its also got the word shit in it too.' 'Again, affirmative.'

Now, I imagine that somewhere along the line, his family name was actually Hitler. I can understand why they'd want to change it. Sorry Hitler fans, but Our Adolf was a bit of a bastard. As a direct result, the surname has become less popular. You don't hear of many famous Hitlers these days. The new series of Strictly Come Dancing will not feature Corrie star Denise Hitler, will it? No. 'Next week on Who Do You Think You Are?, comedian and entertainer Bobby Hitler looks back through his family history and discovers a shocking secret...' You just don't hear of it. But, Shitler?

He worked in a call centre. (Dennis Shitler I mean, not Hitler. A lot of people would have been far better off if Adolf had to fill his time selling insurance rather than misinterpreting Nietzsche). That's about as much as he'll ever be able to do. He won't be able to put his name to anything. How many of you would rush to the cinema to see the latest 'Shitler' movie? 'Coldplay have been denied the number one spot again by X-Factor winner Dennis Shitler'. Not going to happen.

How do you meet girls with that name? When do you tell them? Do you get it straight out there? First date; 'Its only fair you should know something about me'. 'What is it? Are you much older than you said you were? Do you have a drinking problem? Are you dying?' 'No. Its just that...my surname...isn't Smith...'

Or maybe you wait until the wedding? 'Surprise!'

Good luck to him.

Show me the money

2009-07-19T06:57:00.000-07:00

I'm getting worried.

I still haven't had a reply to the last email I sent to Barrister David Smith. That was over three months ago. I'm hoping that its just because he's been busy sorting out all the paperwork or something. I don't like to bother a busy man, but three months is a long time. What if there really isn't any inheritance? No, I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation;

Hi David,

Its been a while, how are you? I am still awaiting your reply to my last email. I understand that you are a busy man and everything is probably in hand, but I thought I'd get back in touch to see how it was going.

The thing is Dave, I could really do with the money. Its been a hard couple of months and I have some pretty hefty utility bills to pay - can you believe the price of gas these days? I'm also due a holiday, and was hoping to spend a week in Bognor Regis with the missus in the next couple of weeks. But Bognor ain't cheap either Dave. She's going to want to go out to a restaurant most nights. And get pudding. Or a starter, whichever she fancies really. But, either way it all adds up.

In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have let her budget for £18 million pounds until I got the money, but you try saying no to this, Dave;

With that in mind, I'd appreciate an update on my inheritance. Even if you can just bung me a couple of hundred for the weekend, that'll be a big help.

Cheers

Tim

I'm STILL in the money!

2009-07-18T09:48:00.000-07:00

So, David got back to me;

Attn: Tim McSweeney,

Greetings to you this day and i hope all is welll. I have read your last email and the content is well understood by me. As regards the content of your last email,if you feel you want to call me on the phone,there is no problem with that. My telephone number is in my last email.

However, i do understand the fact that you said you dont feel comfortable to send down your details. I will want you to know that sending your details to my email address is the only way i can receive your details.. I just want to confirm your details to cross check from Mr. Krugger will/testament if you are the real beneficiary of the funds. I want you to know that i dont need your details for any other thing and i will appreciate you to be rest assured that nothing will happen to your details.

Hence,i will appreciate you to go ahead and send me your details as soon as you receive this email so that we can proceed with this transaction.

I await your prompt response.

Yours in Service,

BARRISTER DAVID SMITH.

Some decent points there, but he's still fairly adamant that I send my details. I can tell by the frequency with which he uses the word 'details'. Seven by my count. After reading this email, a few friends warned me against it, certain that it was a scam. I must say I wasn't entirely sure, so I played it safe;

Hi David,

Thanks for getting back to me so swiftly. I can see you are a man who is dedicated to his role, and I appreciate your hard work so far in trying to get me my inheritance.

I don't think a phone call will be necessary. Besides, work are a bit funny about us using the phones in the office for personal calls.

However, I'm still a little unsure about sending my details. Personally, I can see you are a stand up individual and my dealings with you so far have given me no reason to be suspicious. But its my friends David, they are a cynical bunch! They keep telling me that this is just another one of those 'email scams'.

As I said, I don't think for a moment they're right in their assumptions. But they did try to warn me about something similar to this before, and I ended up in a Moroccan jail for three weeks, being forced to weave baskets by a man called Yousef. Thank God for the British Embassy, that's all I can say.

Is there not ANY other way we can do this? I see you're based in London. I'm actually travelling to London in the next few days. Maybe I could pop in and say hello? Or we could go for a pint in your local? You strike me as a real ale man.

Cheers

Tim

Did Dave get back to me? Am I now a millionaire? Does he drink real ale? Find out in tomorrow's thrilling installment.

PS I had to go to an all day works course today, on a Saturday. Hopefully, this will explain why I am a mental wreck, and in turn the poor quality of this post. Sorry.

I'm in the money!

2009-07-17T07:13:00.000-07:00

A while ago, I received a very exciting email. It went as follows;

From: Barrister David Smith
Subject: Your Inheritance!

Contact Bar. David Smith for your (USD$30,100,000.00) from Late
Engr Jurge Krugger's Inheritance in the Codicil and last testament
to his WILL.

EMAIL:(bar.davids@yahoo.com.hk) for more details

Now, I must admit that at first I thought this might be a scam. But what if it wasn't? THIRTY MILLION DOLLARS! Obviously, I had to find out more;

Dear Mr.Smith,

Thank you for your email regarding the late Engr Jurge Krugger's inheritance. I am sorry to hear of his passing, but I must say I'm surprised to be included in his last will and testament. I'm not entirely sure our paths have ever crossed to be honest, but your email looks very official, so we must have at some point. Did he ever go walking in West Wales?

Whatever, despite the sad news of Mr.Krugger's passing, I am very excited about the USD$30,100,000. In the current economic climate every little helps. I would prefer to receive the money in British pounds if that's possible. Having done some simple calculations, I've worked it out as £18,435,361.90 which doesn't sound as impressive as USD$30,100,000, but nevertheless will come in very handy.

Please let me know what I need to do next.

Yours sincerely

Tim McSweeney

I went to bed that night with a slight feeling of excitement, but also quite a bit of pessimism. It was probably a big joke. This guy probably won't even get back to me. Imagine how I felt when, a day later, I got this;

Barristers' Chambers:
DAVID SMITH & ASSOCIATES

Attention: Tim McSweeney.,

Engr. Jurge Krugger was a very dedicated Christian who loved to give out. His great philanthropy earned him numerous awards during his lifetime. Late Engr. Jurge Krugger died on the 13th day of December 2004 at the age of 80 years, and his WILL is now ready for execution. According to him this money is to support your humanitarian activities and to help the poor and the needy in our society.

We want to acknowledge the receipt of your email in this chamber and also want you to know that you have absolute right to reject this WILL as much as you have the right to accept it as well. If you wish to turn it down then let me know so I can send you a WILL rejection form to fill and revert back to this office. I am not going to impose it on you but just doing my job here.

Also, understand that I don't know you neither have I met you before, but my contacting you is based on the recommendation of late Engr. Jurge Krugger.

Please re-confirm to us through the above stated email; your full contact details to include your full names and address telephone and fax number (if any). Any difference or discrepancies in the information provided by you will mean that I am contacting the wrong person and I will stop all communication with you out rightly.

We sincerely hope that the above requirement be sent to us sooner to enable us proceed with the documentation. Find attach copy of my identity card.

I await your prompt response..

Yours in service

BARRISTER DAVID SMITH

Hmm. Barrister David Smith appears to want all of my contact details to verify that I'm the right person. This could be a scam. To be fair, his English isn't that great. But, you never know, that might be some sort of legal shorthand. And, as the email implies, he had attached a copy of his identity card.

Looks trustworthy enough, doesn't he? And look, his I.D. card number is '001', so his was the first one issued in the entire company. In December 2005. A whole year after his client died. I'm sure there's a straightforward explanation for that. Even so, I still had some concerns and questions;

Dear David,

May I call you David? I'm not used to this sort of thing, and I'd feel a lot more comfortable if we dispensed with the formalities.

I am flattered that Mr.Krugger thought of me when deciding to whom to pass on his fortune, but I'm not sure about the 'humanitarian activities' you mentioned. I did once give £50 to Comic Relief, and have stopped in the street to talk to a girl from Save the Whales, but never got round to filling out the form she gave me. I'm worried that Mr.Krugger may have exagerrated my contribution to the 'poor and needy' in our society. Nevertheless, I feel I can't let the big man down, and if his dying wish was for this money to be used to help the less privileged, then that's how it shall be spent.

I'm not entirely comfortable with emailing my details however. Is there any other way I can send proof of identification?

Thanks

Tim

PS That is a very nice photo on your ID card. Very smart.

I'll let you know what David says tomorrow.

Oh, for duck's sake...

2009-07-16T03:27:00.000-07:00

Before you ask, I didn't get to meet Martin. Something else came up that meant I couldn't go to the match at all. Its probably for the best. What if he can't actually fly? That would be a crushing disappointment. No, better that he remains someone to worship from afar.

Anyway, I'm far more concerned with the state of children's television.

Today I stumbled across a new kids tv show called 'Hana's Helpline'. Its a stop-motion animation series made by the same people who made 'Fireman Sam', one of my favourite programmes as a child. We had it in Welsh. It was called 'Sam Tan'. It was brilliant.

Hana's Helpline does not look brilliant. Here's a brief description from the website;

'Hana’s helpline is a new children’s TV series featuring Hana, a duck agony aunt, and her son Francis, who help animals that need emotional support. It deals with the kind of social and emotional issues that real children experience at the age they first start going to school. Hana is a duck that is always at the end of a phone. You can reach her in her chaotic office, on a radio phone-in programme, or contact her on many television appearances. Failing that, you can ring her on her mobile at any time and you’ll get a sympathetic response.'

I mean come on. Do kids really need a programme that 'deals with the kind of social and emotional issues that real children experience at the age they first start going to school'? The only real issues I had to deal with at that age were what crayon to use to colour in the sky (it was rarely blue - even then, I was pushing boundaries), and whether I could get my hands on more flapjack before nap time. Oh, that and being completely abandoned by my mother and being left with strangers. But a couple of days of colouring in and flapjack consumption soon helped me get over that.

My point is, I was too busy being a child to have any 'social or emotional' issues. I'm aware that I may be coming across as an old grump, but I didn't need a cartoon or television show to help me with my emotions. I didn't want one either. I wanted one that would help me understand how a clan of alien cat-humans could defeat an ever-living preserved corpse*, or one that showed me what would happen if the rollercoaster at the local fair transported you through a mystical portal to another land where wizards and sorcerer's might take an intense dislike to you, and nearly every attempt you make to get home is thwarted by the pathetic bleating of a baby unicorn**, or even just one about a closet homosexual having a barney with a talking skeleton***. I mean that's good telly.

For me, so long as they were aliens and/or robots capable of transforming in to cars, locked in a never ending battle with a formulaic 'baddie', the upshot of which being lots of fisticuffs, explosions and flashing colours, possibly with dinosaurs thrown in somewhere, and I could make my mum buy them in toy form in vast amounts, I was happy. But it seems those days are gone.

It may be that this is the result of the blame culture we live in. People are so convinced that children are influenced by everything they see and hear, they're paranoid that their little angel will watch The Disney Club, and immediately decide to mentally enslave the cat in an attempt to wipe out those pesky Valorians****. Either that or just get a bit hyper and kick their little brother in the face.

Or it may just be that the people making these programmes are inept and have lost all perception of what its actually like to be a child. Who knows?

Anyway, there are also some character profiles on the 'Hana's Helpline' website. I am so consumed by cynicism towards it that I have included my own interpretations.

'Francis is Hana’s son. He’s and intelligent sensitive boy who, like his mum, wants to help people.' - if Francis had been at my school, he would have been described as 'gay'.

'Muzzy is a small, shy mouse who is the youngest of Francis’s friends. He struggles to make himself heard and is often frightened of things that don’t bother the older children, such as thunderstorms. He’s very self-conscious about being small and is always eager to prove that he’s ‘a big boy’. - Muzzy will eventually grow up and spend thousands of pounds on a botched penis enlargement operation. This will lead to a documentary on Channel 5 entitled 'When major reconstructive surgery goes bad', and a lifetime of loneliness.

'Rosie is Muzzy’s opposite, a big panda who towers over classmates. Her size makes her quite clumsy but she’s very strong and everyone wants her on their tug of war team. She is often assailed with self-doubt but Hana is always able to give her a pep talk.' - Rosie is basically the chubby one then. Secretly, Hana is absolutely pig sick of her whingeing and will finally snap and tell her to just stop eating so much cake in a couple of years. A small positive is that Rosie will eventually be reunited with Muzzy during filming of the above documentary, after getting a gastric band fitted incorrectly, with horrific consequences.

* Thundercats
** Dungeons and Dragons
*** He-Man
**** Dino Riders. Ok so that one was pretty obscure. But I loved it.

To gush, or not to gush?

2009-07-15T09:15:00.000-07:00

This evening, there is a very real possibility that I will meet this man;

Look at him. Magnificent, isn't he? Like an even harder-looking Tony Soprano. Ally that with an instantly loveable personality, and the thickest Dutch accent imaginable, and you have as close to a perfect human being as is possible.

If you don't know who he is, let me introduce you. His name is Martin Jol. He is a football manager. He is from Holland, and has all the expected traits associated with that nationality, from the laid-back attitude, right through to the comedy way of pronouncing words like 'crazy', 'sexy' and 'Grolsch'. I bet you just tried saying them out loud in a Dutch accent didn't you? Yeah, me too.

He has one brother called Dick, and another named Cock. Honestly. Go on, check. See?

All great traits, I'm sure you'll agree. But, the main reason I love this man so is he used to be the manager of my football club (by that I mean the football club I support, not that I own one), and while he was there, we had a very lovely, very fun, and relatively successful time. I have sung his name in public. He's got no hair, but we don't care. I have a t-shirt that bears the slogan 'I love Martin Jol. Martin Jol loves me'. He can do no wrong in my eyes.

Alas, football is a fickle mistress, and fate decided that Martin and the club should no longer be together, and as a result we have been apart for the last two years. Tonight though, he's in Bristol with his new club, Ajax Amsterdam, and I'm going to try and interview him. But I'm worried. I'm worried I might gush terribly, or worse still, be star struck. I must say its never happened to me before, but only because I've never met a famous person I've had this much respect for. A friend of mine had it happen to him once, when he saw Noel Gallagher in the street. He just froze, and watched Noel saunter off in to the distance with his Waitrose bag swinging from his hand, monobrow ruffled in the sunshine, until he could see him no more. What if I do that? In a press room full of other people, what if I freeze and just stare at him? Until someone removes either me or him from the room?

I don't think Martin would mind, though. He'd probably give me a solid gold interview, say something brilliantly Dutch, levitate, fly out of the press room, walk up and down the River Avon for a bit, then cure all diseases known to man.

GOD, he's brilliant.

Not so handy

2009-07-14T12:18:00.000-07:00

So, the good news is, its not broken. That is at least something. The bad news is, it still hurts. A lot.

I can't actually grip anything with any purpose at the moment. Want a thumbs up? No problems. You'd like me to point something out to you? A particularly nice piece of brie on the fridge shelf, perhaps? Can do. I could even give you the finger if that's what floats your boat. Just don't ask me to open a tin of beans for you. Yesterday evening, I very nearly had to ask my housemate John to do it for me. Thankfully, I narrowly avoided that emasculation by being a brave little soldier and just getting on with it.

I felt a bit fraudulent going to the doctors. Afterall, I was in and out in five minutes. He did his obligatory prod and poke, a technique which, allied with the question 'do you feel any discomfort when I do that?', is the staple of any good GP. I always think they must be contractually obliged to ask that question, as surely the sight of me squirming in my seat, sucking in air, and saying expletives under my breath provides all the answers they need? Clearly not.

Here's a tip for you, though. If you ever hurt your hand, for whatever reason, and you want to use the internet to find out what might be wrong with it, DO NOT under any circumstances Google the words 'hand injuries', and be tempted to click on 'Images'. Trust me. It very nearly put me off my brie.

Bedingfield has never been so good

2009-07-13T05:38:00.000-07:00

Blog posts, it would seem, are a bit like London buses. After a shaky couple of days without much to write about, today I am positively bursting with subjects.

I had initially intended to write about humourous sporting injuries. One of our number had to pull out of yesterday's football tournament after falling over outside Sainsbury's like an old man. His excuse? He was wearing Crocs, and they just couldn't deal with the harsh terrain of...the pavement.

I could also elaborate on the fact that I came in to work this morning to find an email from the US African Chamber of Commerce. I've somehow managed to wangle myself on to their mailing list. It was a very interesting press release about President Obama's visit to Ghana, but nevertheless, I'm a little non-plussed as to why they think I needed to know about it. I can safely say I have NEVER had any dealings with the US African Chamber of Commerce before. Still, now I'm on the mailing list, you never know where it might lead.

I also toyed with the idea of just whingeing about my sore hand. You'll be glad to know I won't be doing that either.

No, I'm going to tell you about my friend Pete, who recently proposed to his girlfriend in the most brilliant way. He took her to the cinema under the pretence of watching a film, planted some fake audience members, then got the projectionist to show the video below, before getting down on one knee. No wonder she said yes.

NB My thanks to Hattie for showing me how to embed videos in such a fancy way. Though for some reason only half of it is on the screen. I'm rubbish. Double click on it and it'll take you to youtube.

'Yeah?! Well, you...smell..!'

2009-07-12T13:38:00.000-07:00

I am a broken man. Every single muscle in my body aches, my right hand hurts, and its index finger has swollen to the thickness of a sausage. I have no idea why. I also have mild sunburn, and had to remove a piece of skin the size of a crisp from the bottom of my foot earlier. I know you didn't want to know that, but its necessary for you to understand exactly what state I am in. And football is supposed to be fun.

We got to the semi-finals of the tournament, something with which I am relatively pleased. Six goals for me too. Not that I like to talk about it, but fact is fact. The football was mostly of a poor standard, but the banter was top draw. One of the best things about verbal abuse between players during highly charged competitive sport is that people have very little time to consider what they are going to say. The immediacy of the outburst tends to take away from the quality. Even Oscar Wilde came out with some terrible comebacks when he played 5-a-side.

Favourites of the day included one minor altercation that ended with a friend of mine calling another man a 'f**k-chop' (he later apologised - for the insult, and for the fact it made little sense). I was personally subjected to a bit of rough housing from an opposition goalkeeper, and it led me, against my better judgement as he was a big fella, to ruffle his hair and jokingly say 'Alright keeps, calm down lad!'. His response? 'F**k off...ginge...'

GINGE though.

The last couple of posts haven't been of the usual high standard, and for that I apologise. But at least I'm up to speed now. Tomorrow's will be better. Assuming I can still type.

Oopsy 2

2009-07-12T03:26:00.000-07:00

So, I didn't get round to doing the second post yesterday. Beer happened again. Sorry. If it makes it any better, I feel terrible, and I have to go and play a 5-a-side football tournament later today. Why?

I'll write a proper one later, but here are the only thoughts I am capable of at the moment;

1) Fried food is brilliant.
2) Tea is brilliant.
3) Isn't Anthony Hopkins cool? Even if he is trying to sell me stuff all the time.
4) Bed.

PS The people who came round to look at the flat yesterday were a very nice family. So no cheese-grating/shopping channel freak outs in the end. In fact, I think I did a much better job of selling the place than the agent. Perhaps I should consider a career change?

Oopsy

2009-07-11T04:57:00.000-07:00

Just 4 days in to the Big Bad-ass Blogging Challenge (or, just for you Claire, M-PAC), and I've failed. If anyone is still actually reading these you will have noticed I didn't post anything yesterday. I blame a bad week at work and the need to go out for some drinks immediately after finishing on a Friday afternoon. Anyway, the only way I can rectify this is by writing TWO posts today. Ok, so its sort of cheating, but I didn't see you write any rules down. So TOUGH.

This afternoon some strangers are coming round to the flat to see if they'd like to live there one day. As I may have mentioned before, I'm moving out soon, so the landlords have put it up for rent, and agencies have been phoning me every day since to ask if they can show people around.

I will be in when these people visit, and because I had a few drinks last night, I'm not really in the mood to be polite. I'm thinking I might actually go completely the other way and be outwardly hostile towards them. No, that's not really me. But, I might see if I can freak them out in some other way. Perhaps just stand still and silent in the centre of my bed and stare out the window. Or sit on the sofa, continuously grating cheese in to a frying pan while watching QVC.

In reality, I'll probably just lie on the sofa, watching television, and grunt answers to their questions about council tax. I'll let you know in part two.

I disagree with 10cc

2009-07-09T10:49:00.000-07:00

I'm working on the early shift these days and my body is not made for it. As a result, I've found myself staring blankly at my computer screen for the last twenty minutes trying to think of something to write. Nothing is happening. I'm not even sure I'll post what I've written so far. Lets face it, its not very interesting is it?

I tell you something else that isn't interesting. Cricket. My GOD its dull.

Now, in case you weren't sure, I am a man. Because I am a man, I love sport. I can't help it, its genetics. Its fair to say I'm obsessed with football. Being Welsh, I sort of have to like rugby. I can happily sit through a good tennis match, and at a push I can even watch an hour or two of golf, when I'm very hungover, and physically unable to switch channels. But, the sight of a set of stumps is enough to induce a coma.

Believe me, I've tried. I've made concerted efforts to take a cocktail of stimulants before switching on the television, but I rarely last an over before having to be resuscitated. Even the shortened format, Twenty20, (pretty much an admission from the cricket world that, yes, lord have mercy on our souls, this is so very, very boring, lets make it as quick and painless as possible), holds no interest. They have bands you know. And food stalls. And jacuzzis. And anything else that might distract people from the fact there's cricket on.

The Ashes began earlier this week. If you didn't know, its a series of five cricket matches between England and Australia that seems to happen whenever the players have a spare few months to fill. Its been going on for years and years, (actually years and years, it doesn't just feel that way), and its very important indeed. Its viewed by many as the ultimate cricketing contest around. Four years ago, England won. Of the appoximate 53,000 hours of play, a whopping 7 minutes of it was exciting, and even I managed to stay conscious for part of it. But I've checked the records, and it seems this was the only time anything has ever actually happened on a cricket pitch. (NB I've since double checked, and I take it back. There was an incident with a woodpigeon in an obscure second division county game back in 1983. But that was it).

It says something about a sport that one of the most enduring memories of that series, when England hit the pinnacle of their game and covered themselves in cricketing glory, was the drunken state of Andrew Flintoff during the victory parade around London. To be fair, it was very funny, and reflected brilliantly by Sky's Soccer AM, here.

He and the rest of the squad went to meet Tony Blair at No.10 that day. Apparently took a tinkle in the rosebush. He was hailed as a hero. Not long after England were terrible at cricket again, and Flintoff was caught getting drunk and falling off a pedalo before some other tedious match or other. He was labelled a 'disgrace'. Funny that.

Anyway, drunken antics aside, I just can't get on with cricket. Actually, golf is crap too, isn't it? And motor racing. And cycling. Oh God, what about horse racing? People are forced to put large amounts of money on it to make it interesting. And don't even get me started on marathon running...or any winter sports...or...

Still, football's brilliant.

Read their writes...

2009-07-08T10:33:00.000-07:00

I was told to leave everything but my photo I.D. in the car. My keys had to placed in to the metal trough, while the uniformed man behind the glass replaced them with a simple numbered disc. The laminate, with the word 'VISITOR' emblazoned across it, white on red, had to be worn at all times. Five minutes later, the door slammed shut behind me and with a jangle of keys, was immediately locked. I was in prison.

To say I was a little nervous would be an understatement. The only correctional facility I'd visited before, bar the detention room in school, was a young offenders institution. I was there as part of a football team invited to play some of the offenders, in an effort to give them something to look forward to, and to have some contact with the outside world. I remember walking out on to that pitch, located right in the middle of the courtyard, looking at the biggest sixteen year olds I'd ever seen, while voices of 'encouragement' rang out from the barred windows of the surrounding cells. That was intimidating enough. But this...this was another level.

'We've got 40 inmates leaving us today, and another 40 coming in to replace them' explained my guide, and for the next hour, my bodyguard. 'The majority of them will be high as kites, so we've got to be careful with how we treat them. What medication to give them, and where best to put them while they come down, that sort of thing'. Right.

Thankfully, I wasn't here to speak to the newest crop of addicts detained at Her Majesty's pleasure. I was here to speak to three inmates about reading and writing.

The prison has a programme that encourages its guests to improve their confidence with words, by allowing them to create and write stories which they can then send home to their families. I met them in the prison library. It was just like any public library in the country, except all the doors were locked, and the trolleys of books were being pushed around by loud, burly looking skinheads, their light blue t-shirts exposing their heavily tattooed arms. This was the scariest library on the planet.

Two of the men I spoke to hadn't ever written anything creative in their lives, but now they were being presented with the finished product of their labours, and the pride on their faces was evident. Both had written stories for their children, and you could see they couldn't wait to send them out. 'Its just a bit more personal, like.' said one of them. 'I've been in here for a few months, and it looks like I'm going to be away for a year at least, so its good that I've got a way to stay in touch'.

What bowled me over though, was meeting the third inmate. He was a fifty year old man, who until he was forty-seven, had never learnt how to read or write. Prison had shown him how, and now there was no stopping him. 'I write for the prison magazine about my travels to South America' he explained. 'The other lads like reading them, and we have a laugh about the places I've visited'. He went on to tell me that had he had these skills earlier, his life would have been different. 'I know for a fact I wouldn't be in here now. I'd have a job, then when it came to moving on to the next level, I had to leave because I couldn't fill out any forms. I was embarrassed' he said, before adding 'you don't need to know how to read or write to nick stuff, do you?' Fair point. The ability to read and write is something most of us take for granted, and life without it was something I hadn't really contemplated.

Now, its easy for someone to say how their life could have or would have been different. The fact of the matter is that these people were in prison for a reason. There is also an argument that all this sort of scheme does is create educated criminals, and very few of them change their ways as a result. All I can say is, listening to this man talk about being able to write to his girlfriend, about writing for the magazine, and about the pride he feels when he hears one of his stories being read out, 'and it sounds proper, like', I couldn't help but feel pleased for him. For a minute, he wasn't a criminal. He was just a fifty year old man down on his luck, who had been given the opportunity to better himself, and had seized it with both hands.

I left the library with a slight warm feeling inside. That was soon replaced by sheer terror again though, as my guide placed an arm across my chest as we walked back across the courtyard. Some prisoners were walking between buildings. 'We tend not to move when the inmates do' explained Mr.Costner. 'If something kicks off, they might try and grab you. Then we'd be in a bit of trouble'.

You don't need to know how to read or write to know that was an understatement.

'Tonight Matthew, I'm going to be...'

2009-07-07T06:03:00.000-07:00

One of my favourite pursuits is the 'Crap Look-a-likes' game. Its a very easy game for two players or more, and all you really need is a crowded area, an awareness of popular culture, and the ability to see.

I'm sure you've already grasped the premise without me going in to the finer details, but I cannot explain to you the endless amount of fun I've had with this. The basic version involves finding people in the crowd who might just about pass for a celebrity, or someone all players know personally. Simple. But, my favourite variation is the 'Breakdown' look-a-like, someone who could actually be a certain person, had they had an incredibly bad couple of years. The wife's left them, the house has been repossessed, the dog's died, they've been off work with stress, they've dabbled with smack but now they're clean, that sort of thing. The last time I played this particular version was at Glastonbury Festival, a hotbed for civilised society's 'forgotten people'.

So, imagine my delight when I stumbled across this website. Its a whole world of crap look-a-likes, with no shortage of the 'Breakdown' variety either. If you haven't time to browse, here are some of my personal favourites. Please bear in mind, these are all REAL, PROFESSIONAL look-a-likes, who get paid MONEY to look like famous people;

SAMUEL L. JACKSON - basically a black man in golfing gear and sunglasses. No, hang on, that's wrong. Basically a black man, in smart-casual clothing, holding a golf bag, with ONLY ONE CLUB IN IT.

STEVEN SPIELBERG - never quite hit the heights of The Goonies ever again, and it looks like he knows it.

'No, sorry Bob, you don't look anything like GEORGE W. BUSH'. 'What if I stand in front of this flag?' 'You're hired'.

This could be any scallywag on his way to a court case. As it is, its a GEORGE MICHAEL look-a-like. Probably on his way to a court case. For impersonating a celebrity. Badly.

ELTON JOHN - Dear God.

The rosette! The tie! It could only be one person! Yes, that's right, its Neil Kinnock! Except, it says here its supposed to be TONY BLAIR.

LOVEJOY - presumably after a night out on the sauce with Tinker. Where he SWAPPED HIS FACE for more booze.

'Top Gun 2020' proved to be the end of TOM CRUISE'S acting career. Not helped by the fact that the costume department couldn't decide whether he was going to play a British policeman or a chef.

So there we are. Now you can play 'Crap Look-a-likes' from the comfort of your own laptop.

My Big Bad-ass Blogathon

2009-07-06T06:17:00.000-07:00

The most observant amongst you will have noticed that I'm not a very prolific blogger. One every two or three weeks (at best) is just not good enough. I could come up with an entire list of valid excuses (time constraints, RSI, religious reasons, etc.), but the real reason is I'm just not committed enough. So, I've come to a decision.

I am going to force myself to write at least one post a day for the rest of this month. That's...hang on...bear with me...talk amongst yourselves...TWENTY SIX posts in a row, including this one. By the end of it, I'll either be an addict, or I'll never want to write another one again. Its sort of like the blogging equivalent of forcing a child to smoke a whole packet of cigarettes. But without the threat of action from the NSPCC.

As a direct result of this enforced blogging, some of them might be incredibly dull. I apologise in advance for this, but I will try my best to make each one at least vaguely interesting.

First though, I need a much better name for this challenge than the one in the title. Suggestions welcome.

Basically just a list

2009-07-05T13:56:00.000-07:00

Right then, here we go with the obligatory catch up. Some things that have happened in the last few weeks that I really should have written about;

Glastonbury Festival - I got to present a radio show from behind the Pyramid Stage on the Saturday afternoon. It meant I missed Rolf Harris, but that was the only real sacrifice of the weekend. Highlights included Doves, Lady GaGa, Dizzee Rascal, Spinal Tap, Status Quo, Madness, Tom Jones and Blur. Bruce Springsteen bored me to tears for an hour before I had to leave. Sorry Bruce, not my bag. The most bizarre point of the weekend (and believe you me, there were several) was finding out Michael Jackson may or may not be dead while sitting in the middle of a thunder storm. Watching forked lightning slash through the evening sky from a muddy field in Somerset, whilst texting everyone you know to try and get confirmation that the King of Pop has popped his clogs, is just not something that happens every day. Great photos of the festival can be found here: http://www.boston.com/bigpicture/2009/06/glastonbury_2009.html

Weston Beach Sand Sculpture Festival - Another work assignment earlier in the week. They're basically amazing pieces of art made out of sand. I was completely blown away by them. And I fell a little bit in love with the sculptor I had to interview. Photos here: http://news.bbc.co.uk/local/somerset/hi/things_to_do/newsid_8128000/8128776.stm

St.Pauls Carnival - an annual Afro Caribbean festival in Bristol. I've lived here for ten years and I've never managed to go before. Work (again) made it possible, and all I can say is, I've been missing out all this time. Not because of the amazing costumes. Nor the brilliant steel bands. Nor the fact that the whole of Bristol and their families descend on an area of the city that they would never normally go to because it has a 'reputation', and have a great time. No. Why have I been missing out? Two words. Jerk. Chicken. Caribbean food stalls, everywhere you turned. Halved oil drums on street corners, coughing out thick white smoke, and the most delicious, spicy aroma imaginable. There was no escape. I simply had to eat. And eat. And eat. Oh, and drink several cans of Red Stripe. Wonderful. No photos yet, sorry.

Bristol Museum v Banksy exhibition - unless you've been living in a cave, you'll have heard about this. Banksy tends to divide people, but I happen to quite like what he does. He's had a lot of stick about selling out by doing these sorts of exhibitions. This was put to him in an interview a couple of years ago, and his answer was great. 'In a way, I'm sort of a traditionalist, in that I like to eat...'. Fair point. Bristol has been buzzing about this exhibition since it opened, and this weekend they had their 100,000th visitor. So, he's obviously doing something right. I do have photos for this one, here look: http://news.bbc.co.uk/local/bristol/hi/people_and_places/arts_and_culture/newsid_8096000/8096891.stm

I think that's it. Oh, I am moving house soon. So, stand by for posts that just complain about heavy lifting and its effect on my back. You have been warned.

Get me to the church on time...

2009-06-16T12:46:00.000-07:00

Another ten minutes, and it wouldn't have been funny any more. Another ten minutes, and we would have started to panic. Another ten minutes, and I would have lost another stone in sweat.

Another ten minutes, and the groom, his two best men and one of his ushers would have been trapped in the smallest hotel lift ever devised, for a whole half an hour, contemplating exactly how the bride-to-be was going to react when she arrived at the church in just over an hours time to find her husband-to-be just wasn't there.

God, it was horrible. I knew something was up when the lift stopped moving. I'm intuitive like that, you see. We stood there in silence for a few seconds, each of us thinking 'it'll move in a minute, you'll see'. Each of us willing it to move. Move. You bastard, MOVE.

It didn't move.

Next was the mashing of buttons. That'll fix it. Mash the buttons good and proper. Press the bloody lot of them. Light it up like a Christmas tree. Nothing. This wasn't good.

The disembodied voice of the hotel manager came through the door. ''Is the groom in there?'' he asked, unhelpfully. ''Yes he is, and he's bloody boiling'' was the terse reply.

And it was HOT. I mean stifling. I was about to say it was like a sauna but I can't say I've ever been in one. If you have, and your experience of a sauna involved sweating profusely in a very confined space with three burly men, watching your reflection in the mirrored walls gradually disappear in a haze of steam, along with the hope of escaping any time soon, while four intense lights blaze down on your forehead, then it was just like a sauna.

Thank goodness for the Chelsea and Kensington Fire Service (at least that's what I think they're called - frankly it could have been Antony and the Johnsons for all I cared). They turned up with a big set of special keys, that the hotel inexplicably did not have, prized open the lift doors, and freed us from our sweat box. Then it was time for the quickest showers in the history of personal hygiene, get changed, and get to the church. In plenty of time as it turned out.

No sweat.

On meeting a true hero

2009-06-03T11:05:00.000-07:00

The house he lives in is an understated, semi-detached affair in a suburban part of Bristol. On walking inside, I saw nothing that suggested this man was out of the ordinary. A dining table covered with a simple linen tablecloth, photos of children and grandchildren on the walls, an old sideboard groaning under the weight of china plates and various trinkets collected over the years. But, even before I had sat down, I knew that this man was far from ordinary.

Sixty five years ago this Saturday, the hand I shook as I entered the house of this friendly octogenarian held a rifle. That rifle was trained on scores of German soldiers occupying one of the five Normandy beaches that were used during the D-Day landings on 6th June, 1944. That much I knew already. What I heard in the next ten minutes left such an impression on me I simply had to write about it.

He told me of the moment they landed. Plunging chest high in to the cold sea and wading towards certain death, as sub-machine guns 'powerful enough to cross the entire channel' fired their bullets indiscriminately at them. Some smaller soldiers struggled not to drown as the water levels rose above their heads.

Once on dry land, the mission was to dodge heavy fire, crawl through land mines, bombs and the bodies of your friends and colleagues, take out the machine gun nests responsible for this devastation, and secure the beach. All of this before your 19th birthday.

Such a scenario is almost unimaginable to most of us. We've seen the films, but there is no way we could ever begin to understand what it must have been like for these soldiers. How on earth did they deal with it?

'You have to understand' he said, 'we were very young, and you just thought 'if someone died, someone died'. If it wasn't you, you were lucky'. 'But what about now?' I thought. Looking back to that day, sixty five years on, how do you rationalise what happened? 'It was very sad to lose all those men. We have to remember them, always', was the simple answer.

Of course, D-Day was just the start for a lot of these soldiers. There was little time to take stock of the situation before they were deployed deeper in to France to continue the fight.

Having survived the landings, this man's life was very nearly snatched away by a German sniper. A sniper who had aimed for the heart, and would have hit his target had it not been for a last second movement which meant the bullet hit the shoulder. Faced with the choice of lying in the French sun and bleeding to death, or attempting to head back to base, he took an incredible chance. Defiantly plunging his bayonet in to the floor, he heaved himself to his feet, turned his back on his would be killer, and walked slowly back the way he had come, all the while waiting for the sound of gunshot that would signal his end. But it never came.

'Maybe it was payback for a life I had spared a month before. I came across a young, unarmed German soldier on a remote road. I was supposed to stick my bayonet in him, but instead I asked 'do you surrender?' He said, 'yes', so I said 'then come with me, we treat our prisoners well. You will see your mother and father again, once this war is over'.' Incredible.

He was very rational about the war in general, always stressing that the German soldiers 'were not bad guys', just more innocents caught up in a war most of them did not want to fight. For someone who has lived through it, and who lost some of his best years and best friends because of it, he was remarkably philisophical.

I got the feeling this man could have talked about his days in the war all day. And I would have happily listened. Its been said before, but its true to say that the label of 'hero' is bestowed upon individuals all too easily these days. Today, I shook the hand of a true hero.

A catch up

2009-05-29T12:49:00.000-07:00

I'm not even going to apologise this time. Its been over a month. But, like an old friend you hardly ever speak to but whenever you meet up its exactly like it always was, I still love you. And I'm even going to forget about that tenner you owe me.

Its been a while, so here's a quick update on what's happened recently;

* Having been a ball boy at Ashton Gate, I have since played there as part of a press eleven against the Bristol City backroom staff. We lost 3-2, but I scored. Not bad seeing as I was being marked by two ex-professionals. Ex-professional footballers that is, not Lewis Collins and Martin Shaw (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Professionals_(TV_series).

* Work have informed me that they would very much like me to go to Glastonbury festival this year. I have informed them that I would very much like to do that too. Both parties are happy with the whole situation. So, I'm currently planning a two hour Glastonbury radio show, and have already interviewed a band called The Lancashire Hotpots. They're sort of a comedy group who sing about British culture, with songs like Sat Nav, Chav, and my personal favourite Shopmobility Scooter. Musical comedy is only good when its done well, and I think they just about manage it. Judge for yourself: http://www.myspace.com/thelancashirehotpots.

* Last weekend I went walking around the Brecon Beacons for a stag do. It wasn't the traditional stag affair of stupid outfits, nudity, shouting and being chained to blue midgets, and thank the lord for it. Instead it was a great weekend of walking, barbecueing, drinking and even a spot of culture, with great people, in fantastic weather. I have another stag do next weekend. In Bournemouth. There will be paintballing I'm told, but alas, no midgets.

* I'm still writing a speech for some wedding or other.

* I have booked time off in August to finally visit the Edinburgh Fringe. I've always wanted to go, and this will be the year. Can't wait.

* Tomorrow is my birthday. I will be 28. I am apathetic about the number, but excited by the prospect of seeing some good friends and basically getting free drinks all day (fingers crossed).

THERE HATTIE AND CLAIRE. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?

I'm really bad at this

2009-04-14T14:46:00.000-07:00

Firstly, its becoming more and more obvious that I am truly terrible at blogging. This is my first entry for more than three weeks, which is simply not good enough. Its not like I've not had anything to write about, I've just been very slack. Please forgive me. I might be a bit rusty at this so stick with it.

Yesterday, I spent my Bank Holiday Monday wrestling a six foot robin. Let me explain...

For the past few weeks I've been running an internet campaign backed by a weekly radio broadcast to be a ball boy at a local football match. I was inspired by the daughter of then Norwich City caretaker manager Brian Gunn, who launched a Facebook group backing his full time employment. He got the job, so I thought I'd see if it would work for me.

Now, those of you who know me will know I have limited managerial experience. I once coached a team of under-11s to victory in a local 5 a side tournament, but as far as top level football goes, I'm hardly Harry Redknapp. I love Harry Redknapp, but I digress...

So, knowing that managing a team was right out, I pitched for something more realistic, and the 'Tim McSweeney for Ball Boy' campaign was born. A few weeks later, and with enough people signed up to the group for it to be respectable, I contacted our most high profile local football clubs. Bristol City FC came up trumps.

Which means that yesterday I spent the day sat on a tiny plastic chair in front of thousands of football fans, hoping to GOD that I don't fall over or discover that I cannot throw a ball to save my life. Oh, and being attacked by City's mascot, Scrumpy Robin. It could have been a bit annoying, but I didn't really think planting a knee squarely between his scrawny bird legs would have been in the spirit of the day. The worst thing about it is you're never sure whether to talk to the mascot or not. Its essentially a man in a costume, but does he have to remain mute? Can you engage a robin in conversation? In front of children? It was a real dilemma.

It was such a good day. I got minimal abuse from the fans (they were more concerned with calling long-haired opposing centre half Ivan Campo a 'gypo'), I got to wear a proper club tracksuit, and it was a beautiful sunny day. Why not try it yourself next bank holiday?

Back by dope demand

2009-03-22T14:33:00.000-07:00

I've got to back to work tomorrow after a two week holiday and quite frankly the prospect doesn't fill me with deep joy. I'm very lucky that I actually like my job, but still, lets face it, if its a choice between getting up and going to work and just sitting around in the sun, there can only be one option.

The last 2 weeks have been great. I couldn't afford to go away anywhere hot, so I spent the time catching up with friends and family and generally having a great time.

There was a birthday party, and several lunch and drinks appointments in and around London. A very good friend of mine told me he was going to ask his wonderful girlfriend to be his wonderful wife, and he wanted me to be one of his best men. Delighted. She said yes which made the whole scenario even better.

I also took a trip home to Wales where people look at you funny if you don't relax and slow down to a snails pace. There were epic nights out (see my last post about my dad), and great nights in (paella and an INCREDIBLE amount of red wine). I got Michael Jackson tickets. Now I'm not sure whether to go or sell them for an incredible profit. The gig isn't until next Febuary so I have plenty of time to decide. I went to see Wales play rugby at the Millenium Stadium. They lost to Ireland, but the atmosphere was fantastic. Today, I tidied the WHOLE house.

Ok, so that last one wasn't a great highlight, but considering I didn't really have much of a plan I think the last two weeks were an absolute triumph. They're sure to be better than the next couple...

Like father, like son

2009-03-19T06:15:00.000-07:00

The plan was simple.

The plan was, go out, grab a bite to eat, meet dad who was in town with work for a couple of pints, leave him to get a good nights kip before his meeting the next day, go on to a few other drinking establishments & end the night in a taxi clutching a polystyrine box with a wooden chip fork stabbed in to the top. That was the plan.

Quite why I found myself in a nightclub at 2am this morning, dancing to reggae music, WITH MY DAD, I cannot say.

My dad is cool. You may have worked that one out already, but he really is. He's also a very interesting character. An electrician by trade, he's had spells as an antiques dealer, a roadie (just for one gig, granted, but Fleetwood Mac were headlining, so...), and once wired up a nightclub belonging to two gentlemen of such ill-repute they appeared on a Panorama special entitled 'London's Untouchables'.

He's from London you see, but moved to west Wales when he married mum and decided they would live the 'Good Life' and become self sufficient. Where Richard Briers and Felicity Kendall succeeded, dad failed miserably. But he gave it a good go, and I still have fond memories of waking up as a child to the sound of him swearing at the pigs, looking out the window and seeing them rolling around in the pond to get cool in the summer sun, then running back through the same hole they'd dug to escape their pen before my dad could catch them.

He goes to the same pub as AC/DC's road manager. He's hoping to get us tickets for their tour. He also regularly shares a cigarette outside that same pub with Charles Bronson's mother. Like I said, he's cool, my dad.

We have a great relationship in that he's more of a mate than 'dad'. I can talk to him as a friend, and I don't need to keep anything from him for fear of disappointing him or getting told off. If he did disapprove of anything I'd done he'd just call me a 'tosser', impart some much-needed advice, and we'd move on.

So, that's why when we were bobbing up and down to the strains of Toots and the Maytals early this morning I wasn't embarrassed at all. I was quite proud actually.

PS Dad's just phoned me in the middle of writing this post. His meeting was 'a load of old crap'. He got up at 6.30am this morning, had a fried breakfast and two cans of coke and felt 'fine'. I've just called him a bastard because I feel terrible. He's told me I'm a lightweight. He also said that club was good fun and the music was great. We're going again next time apparently...

PPS A treat for reggae fans. I'm never going to be able to listen to this song in the same way ever again...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y7aNFEWbdBA

The guessing game

2009-03-15T17:08:00.000-07:00

I'm in the middle of a two week holiday at the moment which goes some way to explaining why I haven't updated the blog for a while. Sorry.

I'm spending a few days in West Wales, a place I am very happy to call home. Its beautiful here, especially at the moment when the sun is shining. I went for a walk around the local wildlife park earlier with the old dear, and I might go to the beach tomorrow. Its a great pace of life for a few days, but I know come Tuesday I'll be ready to go back to Bristol. Back to the hustle and bustle of city life, where there's always something happening and you can actually find a pub with Sky Sports in it.

And that's where I leave the original strand of this blog because I've just stumbled across a piece of cardboard by the computer. Mum keeps it here to make notes when she's on the phone, and about things she hears on the radio that she might like to look up later on. Here are some examples;

'Mark Owen' - clearly there was something on the radio about hat-obsessed pop stars she wanted to know more about.
'www.sewexciting.com' - I bet its not.
'House of Commons football' - I bet the standard is terrible.
'Cable car. 6 toes. 6 toes.' - bizarre.

I was just chuckling away at this last one when I decided to take a closer look at this sheet. Turns out its not the strangest entry;

'Cotham/Abba fan' - Cotham is an area in Bristol. Quite what the Abba fan is doing there I'll never know.
'Stumpwork' - God I hope this was Gardener's Question Time.
'Miss Benny' - One can only imagine. But here comes my personal favourite;

'False leg. Cow wheat. No Lemonade.'

I cannot for the life of me imagine any conceivable scenario that would lead to someone writing down those words in that order. Still, it could have been worse. I originally read it as 'False Leg. Cow wheat. No 1 gonads.' Small mercies and all that.

Losing touch

2009-03-04T12:21:00.000-08:00

Last week, for reasons I won't go in to here, I had the pleasure of reuniting two sets of long lost friends.

A couple were celebrating their Golden wedding anniversary and wanted to find some wedding guests they had lost touch with over the years. It was a wonderful moment when they met up, with the obligatory hugs and kisses, and the 'you haven't changed a bit' (even though they blatantly had, I mean, look at them...).

There is one thing that nags me about the whole thing though. It turned out that these friends hadn't seen each other for 49 years. The more mathematically astute amongst you will be able to work out that these people managed to drift apart from each other just ONE year after the wedding. What made it worse was that they all lived in the same city for all of that time, yet never stayed in touch. Why?

Anyone who didn't know the back story would have walked in to that living room at that moment and assumed they'd stumbled across four very close friends reminiscing about the 'good old days'. Every story was warmly recalled by all, and would then always lead on to another equally great story of great friendships. I heard tales of trips to Weymouth, of Vespas breaking down, and of brick-theft (there really wasn't much to do in those days). These people were clearly very close.

I'm worried. I don't want to lose touch with my friends like these people had. Yes, when they finally met up again it was as if they'd never been away, but I can't help thinking about how many more memories they could have squeezed out of those 49 years. How many more trips to Weymouth could they have enjoyed? How many more motorcycles could they have destroyed?

Brick theft is frowned upon in this day and age...

I'm pretty good at keeping in touch with mates I don't see often. But am I good enough? Is a little text every now and then sufficient? I never did find out why this particular group lost touch, I didn't feel it was right to ask. Yes, it was a shame they'd lost so many years together, but the most important thing is that they had found each other again, and could now start to make up for that.

So, if you live in Weymouth and part of your garden wall goes missing, you'll know why...

Nellie the Elephant was WRONG

2009-02-21T04:43:00.000-08:00

This week I found myself applauding a woman for successfully throwing a potato towards a Mexican clown. Now I know what you're thinking; 'We've all done that Sweens, what's your point?'

Well, it all happened while I was at the circus. I haven't been to the circus for years, and if I'm honest I can't really remember what it was like and whether I enjoyed it or not. But the opportunity arose for me and a few friends to go along and I must say, as an alternative to just going down the pub, I can't fault it.

Parts of it were very old fashioned, with scantily clad girls doing mildly entertaining things with hula-hoops, a clown running around with a toy dog that intermittently 'urinated' in the direction of the audience, and another clown miming to a song while trying to stay in a constantly moving spotlight...that sort of thing. But the majority of it was incredibly entertaining. Extreme acrobatics, balancing acts that genuinely defied belief (at one point I muttered 'f**k off' under my breath when one man balanced on several different wooden boards, all rolling on different tubes, in different directions...while waving...thankfully he didn't take my advice and carried on), and the classic 'Wheel of Death' all held the crowds attention for a good 2 hours.

That a form of entertainment which has been going on for hundreds of years can still grip children who've been brought up on computer games and instant access to all manner of incredible things on YouTube gave me a warm feeling inside. But then again, that might have been the three pints of ale we had in the pub afterwards.

Anyway, back to the Mexican clown. Other than getting members of the crowd to throw a potato on to a fork he held in his hand (honestly, that was his act), he also stole the show for me by staging a slow motion boxing match with someone from the audience. I was watching a man wearing ridiculously big shoes, pretending to punch another man at incredibly slow speed, to the strains of Survivor's 'Eye of the Tiger'. Most people in that situation might take a moment to think about what they're doing with their life. Not me. I loved every minute of it.

Come fly with me

2009-02-11T10:33:00.000-08:00

I've recently revisited the genius of Flight of the Conchords. If you're not aware of them then frankly I DON'T WANT TO KNOW YOU ANYMORE.

Anyway, they're currently running the second series in America, and as a result some clips are cropping up on YouTube. I've seen two, but I'm not going to look at any more because it will be like eating the creme brulee before the roast lamb. Apparently the BBC are screening it in April so there's not long to wait.

If you want to spoil your Conchords dinner then go and have a look. The two I've seen are 'Hurt Feelings', a return for the Hiphopapotamus and the Rhymenocerous by the looks of things, and 'You Don't Have To Be A Prostitute', the song that Sting and The Police never wrote. On first viewing I have high hopes that they've successfully avoided 'second series syndrome'.

In the meantime, here they are when they first appeared on the telly in a Phones4U advert. Catchy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EFo9nnmOU_4

Some terrible pun about snow

2009-02-07T11:09:00.000-08:00

I hope you've all been enjoying the snow over the last few days. I've not seen it like this since I was about 8. Its brilliant.

Some things are inevitable in weather lke this;

* You'll lose your balance at least once.
* So many perfectly edible carrots will be wasted.
* Someone will etch a detailed picture of male genitalia on a car windscreen.
* Someone will sculpt a snow-penis.
* Someone will have just spent a grand on a snowboarding holiday and nearly cry when they see a man walking down their main road in Bristol carrying a snowboard (sorry Rich).
* You will see at least one orphaned glove lying on the pavement.

This last point has been illustrated perfectly by my friend Laura, who has turned the phenomenon in to a photo project. Check it out:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/lauramary/sets/72157613318198591/

I have a dream

2009-02-05T07:18:00.000-08:00

I must tell you about a dream I just had. I rarely remember my dreams, but this one was so bizarre and so vivid I had to write it down as soon as I'd woken up. It went something like this;

Its a warm summers day. I'm at some sort of large village fete, or maybe an airshow. Its in a large field. There are lots of people there, lots of stalls dotted around, a voice making announcements over the PA system, you get the idea.

I'm walking around with Barack Obama. No security guards or anything, just me and Bazza. He's loving it. He's never seen anything like this and its a wonder to him. We stop at a vegetable stall and Mr.Obama decides to start helping out behind the counter. Massive grin on his face. Bagging up corguettes. Suddenly I realise he's dressed in all green with wellies and a wax Barbour jacket on. He's dressed for this day. All that's missing is a cloth cap.

Suddenly we've moved on to a quiet part of the field, and a lot of my friends are now with us. We're laughing and joking with the President of the United States, kitted out like a black Princess Anne, at a village fete. Like you do.

The time comes for him to leave and he starts making his excuses. My friend Ben, in his haste to tell Mr.Obama how much of an honour its been to meet him, accidentally calls him 'Diana' (honestly, this is all how it happened).

We all naturally want a photo, but for some reason I soon find myself posing with my friends waiting for him to take a picture of us. This seems like a daft idea to me, but I begin to slowly warm to it. How many people have a photo of themselves that was taken by the US President? Mrs.Obama perhaps, but not many others.

This is when I realise that Barack Obama is not very good with technology. We crouch (because Barack thought it would be best to get an 'arty' shot from above) for what seems like an eternity, while he struggles with a digital camera. He's just pressed the wrong button and now he's scrolling through the photo album. No one is brave enough to try to help him. He's adamant he can work it out himself anyway.

During this little episode I discover Mr.Obama supports the same football team as me. I try to subtly tell him that I'm also a fan. Why? Do I think we may become friends on the strength of it? Lets face it, we've had a great day at the village fete. He's had a whale of a time. Maybe this football connection is the final piece of the jigsaw of a great friendship?

I never find out. His inability to operate a digital camera becomes so frustrating that I wake up, confused and alone. Wearing wellies and a Barbour jacket.*

*That last bit wasn't actually true, but the rest of it is.

PS - I think this beats the only other strange dream I can remember which was had by my friend John. He dreamt that they were unveiling a new Concorde aeroplane, and rather than it being faster, safer, or more economical, its unique selling point was actually that it could breakdance...

Peer Pressure

2009-02-04T10:11:00.001-08:00

I'm not going to lie to you, the only reason I'm writing this post is because I was threatened, BULLIED you could say, in to doing it by Hattie. To be fair, it has been a while and for that I apologise. So, at the risk of making Hattie thinking she can influence my every waking moments, here it is. I haven't really thought it through because I was rushed, so this may turn out to be rubbish.

I've just been watching Sky Sports News. David Beckham was on it. He's in Glasgow at the moment for some reason. They had footage of him signing autographs, and I'm sure, nay, almost CERTAIN, I heard a fan say ''David, you're better than Maradona! And Bob Geldof..!''. The more I think about this the more likely it is I misheard, but I choose to believe it happened.

What a fantastic endorsement. Not only does this person rate Beckham, a footballer, higher than Maradona, one of the world's greatest ever footballers, but he also thinks that Beckham, a footballer, is better than former lead singer of the Boomtown Rats and political activist Bob Geldof. I cannot for the life of me see the reason why Geldof has got involved here whatsoever. But I love that he has. This could catch on for me;

''Wayne Rooney - better than Pele...and Nicholas Cage''
''Michael Jackson - better than Marvin Gaye...and Linda Barker''
''Bourbon biscuits - better than custard creams...and former Labour leader Neil Kinnock''

This is probably one of the greatest ranking systems ever devised.

There Hattie, ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?

Debrief...

2009-01-20T15:00:00.000-08:00

So, after watching the Obama inauguration today, some thoughts;

1) Didn't Huw Edwards look cold?

2) Why do cellists insist on smiling inanely and intermittently raising their eyebrows at the other musicians, as if to say 'What do you reckon to that then, eh?!'?

3) Has Aretha Franklin really still got it or not?

4) Does the fact Obama fluffed his lines completely as he was being sworn in make me like him even more?

5) How many people watched Celebrity Cash in the Attic instead?

Yes he can?

2009-01-19T08:53:00.001-08:00

Something truly momentous is going to happen tomorrow. I'm going to be interested in politics.

Don't get me wrong, I have tried. I realise the importance of politics, I know that my life is directly affected by it. I know its important to vote, and that a lot of people have fought and died so that we have the right to. But as hard as I've tried, I just find it to be so mind-numbingly, gut-scorchingly dull. I try to read a political article in the newspaper and rarely get past the second paragraph before my mind begins to wander on to more interesing things, like whether I should get a haircut, or maybe buy another clothes rack (because lets face it you can never have too many of them).

I'm almost ashamed to say that normally when it comes to politics I'm with Billy Connolly when he says; 'the desire to ever become a politician should ban you for life from ever becoming one'. But tomorrow is going to be oh so different.

The reason for this is arguably more momentous. When Barack Hussein Obama II is sworn in tomorrow as the 44th President of the United States of America, he will become their first black President. That a man who just 50 years ago would have struggled to have a cup of coffee in the same room as a white American can be elected as their head of state is truly incredible, and surely represents a massive collective shift in attitude. It begs the question that if this single event was thought to be impossible just a few years ago, what else can be achieved from here?

It isn't just about race however. As part of my job I've spoken to a lot of people about this today, young and old, white and black, Christian and Muslim, and the general feeling was, yes, it is amazing that America will have a black president, but more importantly they appear to have finally elected the right person for the job. It could be said that that says a lot more about the previous incumbent than the president-elect, but nevertheless this is a story that has captured the imagination, even of the most politically apathetic.

For me, the big draw is that this man doesn't appear to be part of the 'establishment'. The feeling is that he won't be just another politician full of empty promises and with motives other than those for the good of the nation, and the world. A lot of people like me often fall back on the lazy criticism that 'all politicians are just the same', but you'll be hard pressed to throw that one in the direction of Obama.

Whether he will deliver what the world is hoping for remains to be seen. But it is very exciting.

PS He also looks like my mate Hywel.

PPS These videos are only 20 or so years old and I think they show that even then, black Americans never really thought they would see the day. They are also very funny.

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=5NyvYwfZR38

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=-_cdbByTeNE

Food for thought

2009-01-14T11:53:00.000-08:00

I have a shocking confession to make. I have no idea how to cook leeks.

Now, I apologise if you were expecting a tale of infidelity or war crimes, but for someone who was born and raised in Wales I feel its something I really should know. It should be in my blood shouldn't it? Or at the very least taught at a pre-school level. Forcibly. Like national service.

The thing is, when it comes to cooking I don't really know what I'm doing at all, but somehow it always works out ok. I don't know how, but I tend to kind of take a leap of faith and just go for it. So far, its stood me in good stead.

The market for celebrity chefs is so saturated at the moment, but I think my cooking methods are unique, and I could be in with a shout to be the next Gordon Ramsay, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall or the fat one with the big tongue. With that in mind, here's my recipe for 'Leeks-a-la-Tim';

***

INGREDIENTS:

Leeks
Two other vegetables - any will do. Onions or something. You know the sort.
Garlic - if you've got it. Otherwise don't worry.
Stock cube - if you can find one in the cupboard.
Oil.
Something to eat it with, you know, just to bulk it up a bit. Rice or whatever.

METHOD:

Put oil in a big pan. Heat it up.

If you've got garlic then stick it in, otherwise don't worry. Chop up the leeks and two other vegetables in to bits. Stick it in the pan. Stir the vegetables because you feel you should.

Put the rice or whatever on. Fail miserably to judge exactly how much water you really need. Prepare to be disappointed with how the rice or whatever turns out.

Crumble a stock cube over the vegetables and leeks. That'll make it taste alright surely?

After 'a bit', take the veg off the heat. Drain the rice or whatever. Swear because its all stuck together again and looks shit. Put the random veg and leeks in with the rice and stir it round until its all mixed together and almost looks edible.

Add a 'shitload' of salt and pepper to taste.

Perfect with white wine, a fruity Belgian beer or Smile's own brand orange squash.

***

All I need now is a gimmick. Ramsay's got the swearing, Fearnley-Whittingstall has got the whole rustic thing going on, and Oliver has that whole 'fat tongued lisping prick who just WON'T GO AWAY' feel to him. Any suggestions are most welcome. I will warn you though, I don't wear hats very well so I'd rather they weren't involved in any way.

PS - I've just read this post through before publishing it and its achingly clear that I'm in desperate need of a good woman...

I need help

2009-01-03T14:49:00.000-08:00

First of all, I feel terrible. I have a serious bout of man-flu and I'm feeling very sorry for myself. Please feel free to inundate me with sympathy. But this isn't what I need help with...

I was very lucky this Christmas and got a shiny new toy from Santa that means I can now listen to music while I walk to work. I know, I thought it was witchcraft too, but I've since grown to enjoy it. Now, having this new toy means I've had to scour my CD collection for some of the best songs to put on it, and I've been loving listening to albums I haven't heard for ages.

One of the greatest re-discoveries was a band called Lowgold. I had the pleasure of seeing them support Coldplay about 8 years ago and they were fantastic. I bought their debut album immediately and after listening to it again today I can highly recommend it. Obviously only if you're a fan of 'fantastic atmospheric guitar rock' (The Times). Those of you in to 'crunk' or 'bouncy house' might not be so taken with it.

Alas for Lowgold, the album didn't do that well and the follow up even worse. They disappeared for some time before releasing a 'come back' album last year which was well received by the critics but didn't really touch the charts. I find that to be a real shame. They are genuinely talented musicians who know how to craft beautiful songs, yet it seems they just missed the boat when it came to that corner of the market. I was lucky enough to meet them after the gig (and Chris Martin. He wouldn't let go of my hand when I shook his. Maybe he knew I'd filled my boots with the free lager and would be quite freaked out by it. He's married to Gwyneth Paltrow now, so I win), and they were very good company. They can do very good impressions of darts players AND they beat Reef at 5-a-side football. Amazing.

There must be so many bands out there who didn't quite get the break they deserved, and as a result have only been exposed to a relatively small, yet appreciative audience. So my advice is, if you haven't heard them before, get the album (Just Backward From Square its called). But please do me a favour. If you know of a band that are brilliant and are deserving of a listen then suggest them to me. I promise I'll find their music and give it a go.

If its very good I'll put it on the shiny new toy.

Happy New Year

2008-12-31T09:53:00.001-08:00

Its doubtful I'll be in any fit state to write anything tomorrow, so I'll just say happy new year now. But I'll say it in the style of Eddie Murphy in Trading Places if you don't mind.

Merry Noooooo Yeeeaaar!!! x

Friends (not the sitcom)

2008-12-30T07:21:00.000-08:00

I haven't written anything for a while, but its been Christmas in case you hadn't noticed and I've been too busy seeing family and friends. And drinking with them. And dancing occasionally. And laughing. All mostly with my eyes closed...

I went to a wedding of two very good friends from my university days yesterday. They met in our first ever term, so we've all had the pleasure of seeing the relationship grow over the past 9 years or so, and it was fantastic to be able to share the day with them. Highlight of the day had to be the father of the bride's speech, which involved insinuations that his son was possibly gay, and a gag about an uncle's Thai bride. The best man was distraught. Follow that.

I'm blessed to know so many good, wonderful people, but I love catching up with this particular bunch of friends. We're a small, tight-knit group who have kept in touch after university. I think there's something about the people you become close to during those formative university days that makes them stand out. You are still a very impressionable person (at least I was), and I think the people you form relationships with during that time can have a bearing on what sort of man or woman you become. You grow up with them in a way.

Most of them live in London so I don't see them as often as I would like, but when we do all meet up its as if we've never been away. All stresses and strains of life are put to one side and we drink, reminisce, occasionally sing karaoke, and laugh. Every single one of them is a stand up human being. Spending time in their company makes me feel 10 feet tall. I get the feeling they would move heaven and earth for me, and I would do the same for any one of them. Its an incredibly rare and special thing to have a group of people like that, and I'm so very lucky.

Plus, there was a free bar. Result.

I'm going to hell

2008-12-20T06:32:00.000-08:00

Every now and then I read a story in the news that is truly tragic or heart breaking or just very sad, but something about it will make me laugh. I don't mean to do it, but my slightly warped sense of humour means I do occasionally find a funny angle to the story that others may not see.

However, sometimes its there on a plate;

Mice suspected in deadly cat fire

Its an upsetting story, but come on...what a headline...

Cards

2008-12-17T01:21:00.000-08:00

I'm not a big believer in giving people cards.

It seems to me that every cause for celebration (or even commiseration) must be accompanied by a piece of A4 card, folded in two with a few meaningful/less (delete as appropriate) words written inside. But I don't really see the point.

Now before you go assuming I'm some sort of bitter eco-warrior, using the fate of the rainforests as an excuse to vent his frustration at not getting any valentine's cards this year, I'll explain what I mean. I can see how personal a card can be, and I understand that the sentiment truly is there. But I've long thought that being at said celebration in person, or making a simple phonecall to pass on your best wishes, far outweighs sending a card.

However, one thing has happened recently that has made me start to think about this a little differently. Now this might get a little heavy for a bit but there is a point to it, so stay with me.

A few weeks ago my grandfather passed away after a short battle with illness. He was 83, and had lived a long and full life. The number of people who attended his funeral was testament to how adored he was. I shall miss him very much.

As part of the whole unsavoury business of clearing out his now empty flat, in amongst the books and books of stamps on the shelves (my grandfather was a keen philatelist...though he had a different word for it...stamp collecting or something), my aunt found a tatty old folder. And when she opened it she cried.

In it were pages and pages of birthday and Christmas cards from friends and family, going back for years, lovingly placed and arranged on each page. Now as I hope I've already intimated, my grandfather was not a lonely man. Every time I saw him he was surrounded by people, people who loved him and who he loved in turn. And yet, every single card he received meant so much to him that he kept them. Was it a life affirming exercise to prove to himself that he was loved? Was he actually quite lonely? Was it just another one of his collections? We'll never know.

I also don't know if this will change my mind about sending cards. But I do know I wish I'd sent more to my grandfather for him to put in his folder.

Patrick James McSweeney. 'Grandad Pop'. 1925 - 2008.

Bah Humbug?

2008-12-14T13:55:00.000-08:00

I'm worried I might hate Christmas.

I don't want to hate Christmas. Like most people, I want to love it. I mean, what is there not to like about it? Spending time with loved ones, going to several parties, time off work, and of course, getting shit loads of shiny new stuff. All are positive things that will enhance your life and make you feel warm inside. But lately I've caught myself thinking cynical thoughts whenever the subject of Jesus' birthday comes up.

Last week in work someone began excitely decorating the office, and instead of joining in, all I could do was sit there and make unhelpful comments and pour scorn on the whole 'tis the season to be jolly' theory.

Swearing at the television has become the norm. More so than usual. Every single ad is to do with or has been heavily influenced by Christmas. Every single one. Even the ones for diarrhoea relief, I swear.

Last night we had our works Christmas do. For various reasons I wasn't going to be able to make the party, and in a strange way I was actually quite relieved. Now its not uncommon for people to dread the works Christmas party. Something about having to actually socialise with people you normally wouldn't go anywhere near unless the printer was broken (and even then you only communicate via email) really shouldn't appeal. But I'm lucky in that most of the people I work with are lovely. A lot of them are true friends. So I should have been looking forward to it. I should have been gutted about not being able to make it. And yet that wasn't the case. As it turns out I was able to make it, and I had a wonderful time. I drank a bit too much, hugged a lot of people, danced all night, and did my usual drunk thing of closing my eyes and screaming the words to all the songs directly in to the unsuspecting faces of anyone unlucky enough to be within a 10 yard radius. Today's hangover was spectacular.

And it was in this hangover haze that the revelation hit me. I don't hate Christmas at all. The thing is I have this unbearable knack of turning against things that everyone else raves on about. Bands, television shows, diarrhoea relief...if I didn't discover it for myself then chances are I won't even give it the time of day and dismiss it out of hand. Its stupid. Truly stupid. But it happens. So when everybody else is getting in to the festive spirit, I find myself turning my back on it.

But no more. I've decided to make a real effort from now on. I'll go to all the parties (should be easy enough), enjoy all the turkey dinners (again...straightforward), and by Christ I might even wish the printer repair man a Merry Christmas.

By email obviously.

Help

2008-12-07T11:48:00.000-08:00

I promised myself that I'd keep this up for at least a month, and I'd write fairly regularly during that time. So here I am, sitting at the computer, writing.

The problem is that last night I went to a dinner party with some old friends and drunk for Britain, Ireland, and most of northern Europe combined (including Germany, and they love a drink). So unfortunately nothing's really working at the moment. Here is a run down of how my day started;

11am - Get woken up by text message from a friend I'd said I'd try to meet up with. Curse God.

11.03am - Curse God again when battery goes on phone while I'm trying to reply. Fail to summon energy to crawl out of bed to plug phone in to wall socket. Fall asleep.

1pm - Wake up. Curse God. Curse Jesus Christ when I remember that I had been sick last night in my friends sink. Plug in phone. Text friend. That was quite tiring. Fall asleep.

2pm - Wake up. Cursing God only seems to make this worse so finally get out of bed. Have shower. Feel slightly more human. Sing Killers tune to my self and fail to get it out of my head for another 3 hours. Receive text from friend to say he may have to rain check. Thank God.

Since then its been a mixture of sitting down, slouching, and lying on various sofas. And singing The Killers obviously. I'm actually looking forward to Monday morning...

Tales of the Unexpected

2008-12-03T05:03:00.000-08:00

This evening I am meeting up with a group of friends I haven't seen in a long while, and I am very much looking forward to it.

Its a real shame I don't see them that often as they live just round the corner and they all do very different things to me, so its always refreshing to spend time with them. But, the best thing about this particular group of friends is the stories.

I know for a fact that just ten minutes after sitting down with the first pint of Guinness I'm going to be struggling to breathe with laughter. Now I know what you're thinking, 'friends who severely restrict your breathing don't sound like any sort of friends at all', but let me give you some past examples.

There's the old Biology teacher who was somewhat of a frustrated musician, so every lesson would be disrupted by the immortal, Brent-like words ''...go and get the guitar...''. After a medley of contemporary hits from the popular music chart, said teacher would then continue the lesson through the medium of song. His finest work surely had to be setting the steps of the menstrual cycle to the tune of Aretha Franklin's classic '(You Make Me Feel) Like a Natural Woman'. One can only imagine what that sounded like...but I bet they all passed that exam...

Then there's the friend of a friend who can best be desribed as having 'social issues'. One of those people who always sound hilarious, but my God are you glad you don't have to deal with them on a regular basis. This is the man who allowed a tramp to sleep in the back seat of his car for two weeks, simply because he couldnt be bothered to 'evict' him. Life continued as normal in the interim, with the tramp happy to sleep in the car while the owner drove to and from work, to the shops, and to visit friends. I believe they were on first name terms and had struck up some sort of bizarre friendship, when one day he went to the car to find it empty. I can just imagine him that morning all happy, whistling a jaunty tune on a bright sunny day, walking to the car and then looking crestfallen when he doesn't see his new best mate through the rear window. Not even a note to say goodbye. That's tramps for you.

This same car has a battery operated Casio keyboard glued to the dashboard. I'll just let you take that in for a minute. Yes. That's right. Passengers of this prog-rock friendly, hobo-sanctuary on wheels have been known to be treated to a keyboard solo at every set of red traffic lights. Whether they want it or not.

But my favourite story is the time another friend took a jar of boiled potatoes from a supermarket shelf. Now, most right thinking individuals wouldn't even dream of doing such a thing because lets face it, boiled potatoes are not meant to come in jars. Its just wrong. But this person had no intention of consuming said delights. Oh no. He took the jar home, carefully removed the label and scanned it in to his computer. From there he was able to doctor it, carefully reattach the new label, and return the jar to the supermarket shelf. Whether anyone sick enough to buy jarred potatoes would be put off by the promise of 'CAT EGGS' was never revealed, but quite frankly they deserved what they got.

Fingers crossed for more gems like these tonight.

A new dawn?

2008-12-02T00:19:00.000-08:00

Hello there. My name is Tim and its a pleasure to meet you.

I have decided to write a blog. You've probably worked that one out already. I've never done this before, but I thought it was about time I joined this revolutionary new age of sharing my deepest thoughts and feelings for all to see and scrutinise.

I say 'new', I'm well aware the art of blogging has been popular for some time now. I got there in the end.

I say 'deepest', if I can actually be bothered to continue this blog it will probably descend in to weekly musings about television (its mostly rubbish) and Harry Redknapp (he's mostly brilliant). But for now, I'll give it my best shot.

That's about as much as I can muster for now. It is my first one so I don't know what you were expecting really. Also, I had to get up incredibly early for work this morning (more on that in the fullness of time) and my brain is strictly dealing in the basics at the moment.

I'll add to this blog as and when I feel I have something interesting to say. But for now, I have always been told to write about what you know. With that in mind;

Writing a blog isn't as easy as it sounds.
Driving through tunnels is exciting.
If you drop a sock while taking the washing out of the machine, do not attempt to pick it up while the washing is still in hand. Unless you want to be locked in a never-ending nightmarish circle of stooping and sock-dropping.