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A short time ago I decided to write a comedy novel. I didn’t know what it was going to be about. Frankly I didn’t care. It just had to be funny. Living in London, and surrounded by the sweaty bodies of millions of fellow humans, there was plenty of comic potential waiting to be observed. All it needed was an observer; a natural curtain-twitcher unburdened by the distraction of gainful employment and with an obsessive compulsion for carry around notepads. During six months of beady-eyed scrutiny I found myself becoming so eager to scrounge material that I began to appreciate all those moments of abject hell that characterise daily life. Chuggers (also known as ‘clip-boarders’) would gravitate towards me from across the street and I would thank my lucky stars. Reaching over for the toilet roll and finding an empty cardboard cylinder would cause me to fist punch the air with joy. Hearing the announcement that my train was cancelled would make my day.

You get the picture. Life might be out to get me (and you, make no mistake), but I had found a way to foil it.

Just as I began to get smug, however, something happened. Without realising it I found myself writing a different novel. And it wasn’t set in London at all; it was set in Cambridge. And it didn’t involve a thigh-slappingly hilarious take-up of life’s smack-downs. It was about Greek gods going on a killing spree amidst the ivory towers. Fair enough, it was thigh-slappingly hilarious in its own right, but it rendered my diligently-kept chronicles of urban observations utterly obsolete.

Never one to be kept down, though, I decided to give my notes a glossy veneer of relevance by compiling them into a book. You might be forgiven for thinking that such disparate subjects as ‘the man with the gigantic head who always sits in front of you at the theatre,’ and ‘the woman who applies her make-up on the train’ have little in common. Uniting them, however, is a single grain of truth:

Looked at in the cold light of irony, they’re all just a little hilarious.

If, like me, you enjoy reading comedies about Greek gods taking over the mind of the world’s least menacing serial killer, the aforementioned literary masterpiece is entitled The Cambridge List.

If ‘blogservations’ are your cup of tea, visit my blog:

www.robertclear.wordpress.com

And if you’re a glutton for punishment you can find even more of my ramblings on Twitter, where I go by the pseudonym of @sleevesrolledup.

Blogging and the art of the creepy classified

11 April 2011

Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse seeks trusty filly for on-the-job romance. GSOH essential, as is a strong (but not creepy) fascination with death. Ability to breath flames through questing nostrils an advantage, though non-smoker preferred. If you think you fit the bill, look in the mirror and scream ‘Bloody Mary’ three times, then ask for Bob.

Any takers?

No?

Well in that case I was only joking.

What I’m really trying to illustrate with my ‘pretend’ classified listing is the fact that starting a blog is a pretty strange affair. It requires you to open yourself up to the big wide web and create an electronically rendered version of yourself which, for all its poetic license, might just be uncomfortably close to the real you. For me these bizarrely conflicting feelings resemble a knife-fight between the desire to guard my privacy and the desire to get myself noticed.

Thus one embellishes. Not in an outrageous way, mind. More in an impressionistic attempt to create an artfully blurred rendition of one’s charming side; the side that people want to read about and speak to and buy books from.

But where to draw the line? The demand for ‘questing nostrils’ is all very well, but ‘non-smoker’? Will I be thought overly PC? Or perhaps I’ll come across as intolerant? What if it seems so mundane as to make readers think that I’m serious about the whole thing?

Where on earth do you draw the line?

Writing a novel is easy. There you’re simply asking your audience to suspend their disbelief that the world of the book is real. The thicker you lay it on the better. The more fantastic, the more they want to immerse themselves.

Not so for the blog writer. For these poor creatures, artful construal is expected. But here there is an important caveat: those who visit your page do not expect fantasy. They want to believe that this is the real you. Certainly you can deploy the dark arts of the literary artisan and the merry wordcraft of the bullshitter. But if you cross the line into the world of fantasy, you’re doomed.

Blog writing is, in essence, the art of the creepy classified. The object is to seduce people, to entice them into becoming your virtual companions. And not just any people, either, but readers: those discerning, vacillating and terribly emotive people who have the power to dole out and retract glittering favour like an indulged eastern potentate.

I suppose a reasonably faithful profile picture is a good start. It speaks a thousand words on your behalf and can be a reassuring sign that the ones you type about yourself are trustworthy. But how far can I allow a representation of myself, frozen at relatively un-bleary-eyed moment in the past, to do the talking?

I’ve only been at it for a few weeks now, and the art of virtual self-representation appears to be a tricky game. But if I’ve learnt anything during my brief foray into the world of bloggery, it’s this: to draw a line between the ridiculous and the sublime with a faint pen.

I've also learnt that a telephone number works much better than letting Bloody Mary take your cosmic calls…

Man’s BFF

12 April 2011

A few days ago the sun gathered its breath, squared its shoulders and mounted a successful charge against the perma-gloom that shrouds the British Isles. Apparently the gloom wasn’t expecting an assault to take place in April, as it’s taken its time staging a counter-attack. Thus, for three lovely days, London has been flooded with something that’s really not very English at all: photons.

They might be unfamiliar to us Brits, but they’re important in their own little way: they nourish our plants, illuminate our pasty skin and make the broad spaces of Trafalgar Square look particularly dazzling. But, more than that, they prompt a spontaneous and city-wide outbreak of a practice that’s never more conspicuous than when the skies are temporarily drizzle-free; a practice that has an even older pedigree than the gloom itself. For as soon as the clouds parted and the open-mouthed blinking at the gigantic nuclear reaction in the sky began to abate, people up and down the capital reached for the nearest chew-toy, grabbed the lead and took their best friend for a walk. Others, who comprise the majority, decided to walk the dog.

In these past few days I’ve had the chance to observe numberless examples of my favourite species being led through the parks and open spaces by my least favourite. It’s given me a chance to dwell on why I’m more of a canine person than a person person, and frankly it’s left me a little confused.

Before I go on, however, allow me to qualify. I don’t hate my own species. In fact I’m rather attached to homo sapiens in a way. There aren’t many other animals with whom one can have a really good conversation about Ancient Greek literature (or even a conversation at all for that matter). Nor, if they were to vanish from the Earth, would there be anyone to fix my rickety old laptop when it breaks down, never mind man the power stations that keep it fully juiced. Humans, in their own way, are handy.

But they’re also annoying.

Many of them are rude, most lack even the most basic social graces and anyone who makes regular forays onto the Tube will know that a high proportion have yet to be told about the joys of sanitation. I’m a firm advocate of remedying the latter by having the screens at every station flash signs saying “YOU”RE DIRTY! WASH NOW!” The fact that the commercial dubiousness of this message means it would never be displayed leads me to another little gripe about humans: they’re greedy.

So what makes dogs so great?

Well I’ve observed pooches a-plenty these past seventy two hours, and I’m beginning to wonder. I’ve seen dozens of cocked legs take aim at tree-stumps, lamp-posts and the shins of unsuspecting park bench occupants alike. I’ve seen border collies, bulldogs, and golden retrievers rolling in the dirt before barging their way through crowds of people to convene elsewhere for a spot of play-fighting. There’s been growling, barking, the impromptu chasing of pigeons and more than a few ambushes on unsuspecting sunbathers.

In short, they’re boisterous, undignified and dirty. In fact in the irritation stakes they meet all the requirements to put them on a comfortable par with my fellow man. So why am I such a fan? Why do their big eyes and wagging tails win me over so easily?

For those who own canine companions you’ll already know the answer. It’s that strange, barely explicable reason that can best be summed up in paradox.

It’s because, like us, dogs are human.

The delicate art of hating things

14 April 2011

Recently, whilst waiting for my chariot of democracy (known also as ‘the bus’), I saw a poster advertising a long-forgotten brand of fruit juice. Apparently a new range of flavours had been released, or the bottle had been redesigned, or there was a special promotion, or something similarly Earth-shattering.

The reason the poster sticks in my mind, however, is not due to the product itself but the tagline that had been devised to sell it. There in bold, brazen letters was the colourful declaration that this juice was perfect...

“for people who don’t like water!”

It doesn’t take much to outrage me. In fact I was already bubbling with irritation at the poster’s image of a man who had seemingly been cast into fits of ecstasy by the “crazy-licious” taste of the fruity liquid. Frankly the writing’s font or the sloppy use of the exclamation mark alone would have been enough to set my nose out of joint. But this was outrage on a different order of magnitude.

“Who the hell doesn’t like water?” I nearly said aloud. “Can you believe this?” I nearly asked the woman standing next to me at the bus stop, whilst nearly whistling through my teeth.

In truth I stood in mute anger. (I’m British, after all.)

But over the next few weeks the poster was to be seen everywhere, and so too were bottles of the juice. People, apparently, were susceptible to the suggestion that here at last was a ready solution to the problem of having to suffer the torture of drinking water.

But perhaps I should be more sympathetic to poor souls who don’t like H²O. After all, I myself am amongst the ranks of those who have impossible, unjustifiable dislikes. In fact I’m going to take a deep breath and reveal the prime amongst them right now:

I hate curry.

That’s right. English readers are probably pursing their lips and mouthing words of disbelief. Those of you from elsewhere in our blissfully water-covered world are probably wondering what all the fuss is about. Well let me reveal all.

Curry is the nation’s favourite dish. It’s a fact we’re reminded of by the plethora of curry-houses that fill every high street; by office workers’ daily refrain of “let’s go for a curry,” and by the fact that “curry tops nation’s best loved dishes” comprises the headline of many a slow news day.

It’s everywhere. And if you hint that it’s not your cup of tea then quite frankly you’re weird. And a bit wrong. In fact the suggestion that “I’m actually not all that keen on curry, thanks very much,” is more than enough to elicit the gasps of horror that were so notably absent at the sight of the juice advert.

So what’s my point? Is it that we should all be more tolerant of each other’s strange intolerances? That live and let live is the best way to avoid high blood pressure and a dodgy ticker?

Yes.

And no.

The point really is that curry-hatred is a social disability, and one that surely grants me privileged access to the reserved seats on the democracy chariot.

That’s what all this has been leading up to: an expression of distaste for London buses. Irritatingly convoluted, yes? Well chill out and have one of those juices that everyone’s talking about.

I hear they’re delicious…

High tide and time for tea

16 April 2011

The Thames is a mysterious river. It’s more ancient than London itself, and for us mere mortals who live beside it it’s hard not imagine the secrets that lie beneath its black surface. But there’s a punter for whom the river readily drops her guard. Every day, when it’s time for the tide, the moon smiles seductively and the river excitedly draws back her watery petticoats and flashes her sandy-banked garters.

For a short while London gains beaches.

They’re grey, dirty, and you’re more likely to catch tetanus on them than a tan, so how could I resist experiencing them at first hand?

I’d observed eccentric folk with metal detectors down there many a time, and I’d heard stories about hordes of Roman coins being unearthed in once-in-lifetime finds. Perhaps I’d discover an interesting artifact myself? Maybe even a gold ring? Or an entire treasure trove! I could end up rich! Rich beyond my wildest dreams!

Having worked myself into a frenzy of materialist greed, I waited for the moon and the river to engage in their daily courtship before scurrying down to the sandy bank.

So what did I find?

China. In every direction I looked were smashed pieces of china. They covered the sands and lay piled high against the river walls. There was nothing else

Except bones.

I was mildly surprised. After all, bones were the last thing I had expected. But as I looked beyond the chicken wing that lay next to the broken plate I spotted a wish-bone. Then a thigh. Then a jaw.

Frankly it was all a little unnerving. Bones were mingled almost indistinguishably with the bleached-out fragments of crockery. If I had reached down and clutched at random, I would just as likely have grasped the last earthly remains of an unfortunate creature as the remnants of a former tea party.

So why am I dwelling on such morbid imagery? Well it’s because a few days ago something happened that caused me to think about my place on this delicate mortal coil. Something more than a little upsetting, and which has left me at a loss.

You can probably guess what I’m about to tell you.

That’s right: Three days ago I broke my favourite tea-cup.

It all happened in an instant. An awkwardly placed pan fell from a high cupboard, and in a crash, bang and a wallop the Grim Reaper’s latest invitation to the graveyard beside the river was accepted.

But as I stood looking at the shards scattered across the kitchen counter, and furiously ruminated on the implications for my over-rigid breakfast routine, a nagging thought surfaced:

What if old Grimmy’s invitation included a ‘plus one’? With my body full of lovely, marrowy bones I’d surely be the perfect guest at the broken tea party by the Thames.

Frankly it was all a bit much to think about at that time in the morning. Best to put the issue off for as long as possible.

So I’ll be dodging the river for a while. And it’s plastic beakers from now on…

Fork off!!

19 April 2011

We British are renowned for being cold. Common consensus has dubbed us reserved, standoffish and socially unforthcoming. What’s more we have teeth whose frightful appearance is mercifully masked by our repression of those emotions that might cause us to smile. Even our starch-collared island maintains a prim distance from the hot-blooded Europeans across the sea.

But like most reputations, it’s not entirely accurate. True, we don’t talk to strangers, make physical contact with people in queues, or (heaven forbid) look at the those we sit opposite to on the tube. We’re not frenzied, Bacchic revelers after all.

We are, however, less reserved than we used to be.

In fact it’s becoming de rigueur for men to embrace one another in lieu of a handshake, for bouts of actual (as opposed to metaphorical) back-patting in the face of even the vaguest achievement, and if you greet more than two female acquaintances at once then the air about your cheeks will find itself easy prey for an armada of lips.

So do I object to this epidemic of casual familiarity? Perhaps pointing out that I’m twenty-eight, not ninety, will answer your question.

Or perhaps it won’t.

As a matter of fact there’s rather a lot of it that I do object to. Hugging, back-slapping and air-kissing are matters of supreme indifference to me, probably because going through the motions does little to breach my cold, stony-faced countenance. But there’s one practice, a dangerous and growing one, that sets my teeth on edge. It’s an assault against civlisation, a cavalry charge against decent conduct, and its battle cry sounds like this:

“Why don’t you order this dish and we’ll share it?”

Terrifying isn’t it? If, like me, you harbour an irrational fear of sharing food from your plate, then the chances are you’re frightfully British. Too British, in fact. That’s how it appears, at least, judging from the number of friends who request permission to rustle food from under my nose. Scarcely can I open a menu without being propositioned by a mate with the appetite of a sparrow who wants to use me as their route to a half-portion. And they invariably plump for the most unappetising slop, too. It’s just not on.

In truth I can’t account for why this practice riles me so much. After all, dining out with friends is supposed to be a relaxed, easy-going experience, so perhaps I should be more forthcoming with my grub. But I won’t be. Whenever I get the dreaded request I find myself instinctively switching my grip on the fork to one that affords better potential for getting stabby at encroaching hands.

I suspect that I’m in an increasingly small minority, standing contraflow against the tide of ‘progress.’ I’m not fussed, though. Times may change, and no doubt I’ll change with them, but that particular part of me will likely remain an evolutionary throw-back: a culinary troglodyte that claws its way to the surface whenever I dine out.

For those of you who rue shifting habits or harbour a romantic attachment to the idea of crusty old Britain, however, take comfort: our teeth, at least, are still reassuringly curly.

Amateur dramatics

24 April 2011

"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players."

Thus ran the Shakespearean quote tattooed around the neck of the young man standing before me. True, the famous line from As You Like It looked a little incongruous next to the Arsenal flag that was fetchingly rendered just beneath. Considering the place in which I spotted the lyrically-skinned gentleman, however, I found the Bard’s words rather apt.

I don’t usually stand close enough to read other people’s necks. In fact if I’m close enough to read their expressions my policy is to step back in disgust. But swept about in the confluence of humanity that is Stanstead Airport’s departures lounge, I had little choice but to make a close inspection of my fellow travelers.

The rigid routines of the pinstriped businessmen were betrayed by their well-trodden path through the airport, as they marched untempted past the delights of the mock Irish pub and the British memorabilia gift shop. The former was proving itself an irresistible lure to those flying out to Spanish resorts, whilst the latter seemed to attract no one at all (its target audience of foreign visitors being inexplicably more interested in stocking up on duty free than purchasing £30 “I heart UK” T-shirts).

I’ve always been something of a people-watcher, and the departures lounge offered rather a good opportunity to indulge. So what was my response to this human melting-pot in which I found myself? Frankly I felt a combination of horror at the mouldy appearance of the ghoulish travellers and delight at the thought that most of them were to be propelled away from me by the power of the jet-engine.

I should perhaps make it clear that I prefer to people-watch at a safe distance. Looking out onto the street from a first or second floor window is ideal. Not that I’m a binocular-wielding curtain-twitcher. That would just be creepy.

What struck me, however, as I stood amidst the throng was the sense that the crowds of holidaymakers and businessmen were unconsciously engaged in a strangely well-coordinated theatrical display; and one into which I myself had been reluctantly press-ganged.

Like the rest of them, I stood squinting in anticipation at the departure board, nervously awaiting its tyrannical directions. I shuffled in zombie-like choreography with the crowd, even when I couldn’t see which gate was closing, and I engaged in the stage combat of elbow-to-elbow tussling as I negotiated my way to the currency exchange.

Judging by the irritated glances of my fellow actors I was letting the side down a bit. Perhaps obstructing the current towards the gate for the 7.30 flight to Majorca rendered me persona non grata. Or perhaps I cursed the production by inadvertently mentioning ‘the Scottish play’ whilst I was on the phone.

Or maybe I’m just taking my metaphor a little too seriously.

Anyway, I managed to make it to onto the plane despite my botched routine. There was no round of applause, and I’m certainly not seeking an encore. There were no jazz hands, either, but after my flight was finally called after an hour’s delay I’d have been happy to indulge.

What, no encore?

26 April 2011

Once again the sun’s valiant struggle against the clouds has paid off. London has spent most of the last three days awash with photons, and trips to the park have become a fixture of the daily routine. In fact, those with shapelier calves than mine have even taken to wearing shorts. And some pretty dangerous ones at that.

On sunny days in the capital a particular class of personage emerges onto the streets. They’re conspicuous, too; perhaps even more so than those men whose bandy legs are clad only with the dreaded thigh-skimming shorts. Rhythmically plying their trade as they’ve been doing for centuries, they can be heard in parks across the city, their voices giving tune to hits on the radio and a predictable medley of old favourites.

Sharp-eyed readers will have noticed that I’m talking about buskers.

Those who read the end of blog posts before the beginning, on the other hand, will have noticed that I’m actually not. They’ll have noticed that I am, in fact, referring to people who sing to themselves as they walk.

People like me.

There, I’ve said it. I sing as I walk. I always have done. Apparently I’m incapable of preventing myself. In fact you may even have heard me, though it’s probably better for your eardrums if you haven’t. I am, let it be said, pretty atrocious.

Singing and walking is a fairly strange phenomenon, really. In many ways it’s akin to singing in the shower. As we all know, millions like to accompany their morning ablutions with a ditty; and good luck to them. True, the fact that my arrhythmic squawking is done publically probably pushes it into the territory of social deviancy. The impulse, however, is surely similar to the one that gives birth to power-shower-performances.

So what is it that inclines us to treat the world to the best our lungs have to offer when we’re in the bathroom? Could it be the fact that the sound of water pounding the sides of the average shower cubicle is eerily reminiscent of applause at Wembley Arena? Possibly. More likely, however, is that locking the bathroom door and wrapping ourselves in a mantel of hot water gives us a sense of splendid isolation in which we feel secure enough to let rip.

In fact I think it’s probably this very feeling that’s evoked by the act of singing in public. With me it’s uncontrived; I hardly realise I’m doing it. I only sing when I walk, and only amongst crowds. It’s in situations where crowd-rage might get the better of me. It’s outside Holborn station at rush-hour, or Oxford Street on a Saturday. It’s when introverted serenity is the sensible survival strategy. Far from wishing to garner attention, I sing aloud a la shower so as to recreate the sense of isolation that’s only really available to the city-dweller between the safety of tiled walls.

That, at least, is the rhetorical line I’m spinning in order to give my teeth-clenchingly bad renditions of 80s power ballads a touch of moral defensibility. I suspect that my singing itself, if you should ever hear it, will provide a devastatingly powerful counter-argument.

Twitter

29 April 2011

In an uncharacteristic nod to modernity I recently decided to join the great, world-wide conversation that is Twitter. It was a random visit to the website that persuaded me. Having taken a careful look at the slick marketing blurb I decided that the company’s offer to splash my thoughts across the World Wide Web was one I couldn’t refuse. After all, on my side of the bargain all I had to do was provide a few scant contact details and conjure up a username (@SleevesRolledUp). That was it. Nothing else to it.

Except thinking of things to tweet about. And there I came undone.

I briefly perused the site before joining, of course. It wasn’t long before I discovered that the calibre of the average tweet is astonishingly low. “I’ve just broken my toilet seat” was the most literary offering, though “oh my god I fell asleep on my arm and now it feels like jelly” was a close contender. Needless to say I felt smugly secure in my own sense of profundity. Secure, that is, until hours of head-scratching introspection revealed that I haven’t a single thought in my head that can be interestingly summarised in a pithy 140 word sound bite.

So much for my sneering chuckle at the unfortunate individual whose “cat ate my phone bill and just sicked it back up!” No more dismissive snorts at the tweeter who “can’t believe it’s another rainy weekend! Total wash out!”

All I could do for the first week after joining was look enviously at the army of followers that each of these individuals has accrued. What was their secret? How could others find such apparently inane tweets engaging?

Well I’ve answered my own question via the more verbose internet facility of the blog. I have, after all, spent most of this post talking about these tweets simply because they’re mundane.

The truth, it would seem, is that the very aspect of these little missive that so baffled me in fact represents the bizarre, near-undetectable genius of the tweeters themselves. Somehow, in some unquantifiable way, they’ve managed to engage hundreds (sometimes thousands) of others simply by chattering about subjects that are utterly dull.

For me it’s all rather ego-shriveling (in the healthiest possible way). But there’s a potential silver lining: my life is overwhelmingly mundane, so in theory there’s almost limitless fuel to power my way to the top of the Twitter charts.

So why aren’t I on my way there?

Simple: I don’t posses a flare for ‘twiterature’– that special, surprisingly sophisticated genre that I didn’t even realise existed until a week or two ago.

I’ll probably stick at it for a while, but for now I think I’ll focus on writing novels. After all, it’s much easier.

A curious kind of snow

02 May 2011

The sun is out in London, it’s baking hot and summer seems to have arrived early. I’ve started several blog posts with similar announcements, so perhaps it’s time for me to accept that we’re going through a hot spell.

Prompted by the delightful weather I decided to take a walk from Trafalgar Square down the Embankment, past Temple and towards Blackfriars. It’s a lovely route, and on sunny bank holidays like this, with the streets surprisingly uncrowded and the traffic virtually non-existent, it encourages delightfully indulgent assumptions that all is right with this corner of the world. In fact as I pottered towards St Paul’s cathedral, enjoying the calm of the City amidst the wonderfully clement weather, only one question troubled me:

Why is it snowing?

Had I better clarify? Well obviously I don’t mean actual snow. Not in the classical sense, anyway. In fact when I stepped out of my flat it took me a while to notice it. But after ten minutes I realised that my eyes were stinging. Then my throat. I don’t suffer from hay fever, and as I looked about for the source of the irritation I noticed that floating all around me, cast on the breeze and illuminated by the strong sunlight, were millions of airborne seeds. They were offensive little things: yellowish, spiky and clingy. The sort that are small enough to breath in but large enough to prompt embarrassingly dramatic fits of coughing.

And what’s more they were everywhere, covering the pavements and forming great ‘snow’ drifts in the roads. Along the Embankment I saw piles of them yards long and inches deep. It was all rather strange.

So what are they? Well it turns out they’re the aerial payload of the London plane tree. The principle that urban jungles should be at least a little green led to the decision years ago to plant hundreds of them along the capital’s streets. Wise in any other circumstances but these. For, now that the congenial weather has prompted the trees into their static, long-distance mating rituals (known to botanists as ‘pollination’), the seeds have been released and are causing great annoyance.

So what’s the answer?

There isn’t one. As long as the trees are intent on mating with each other their seeds will carry on lodging themselves in the eyes and throats of innocent Londoners. Frankly it’s highly aggravating. I’m taking comfort, however, in the fact that it should only last for a few more weeks.

Spring may quite literally be in the air, but when it comes to trees, seeds and germination I’m remaining resolutely prude.

Walking on eggshells

04 May 2011

For over a week now I feel like I’ve been walking on eggshells. You see something happened recently that injected a little chaos into my flat, creating a sticky situation that’s yet to be resolved.

The shells I’m referring too, of course, are the fragments of shattered Easter eggs that still litter my home. They’re everywhere. It’s as though a chocolate grenade exploded, leaving piles of shrapnel all about the place. I find them on the bookshelves, in the bathroom, on the bedside table and in cupboards that I’m certain haven’t been opened for months.

I know what you’re thinking: why doesn’t he clean his flat?

Good question. But here’s a better one: why can’t I finish-off the little blighters?

I shouldn’t be surprised, really, as it happens every year. And it’s my own fault, too. During the weeks in the run-up to Easter I carefully embellish every conversation with hints of how keen I am on chocolate eggs. When I’m out shopping I’ll pause before a display of them, look sternly at whoever I’m with and nod slowly. It’s almost menacing, I’m told. But it works. Every April I become the proud recipient of a quantity of eggs so vast that it probably takes an entire battery farm to produce.

Then the inevitable happens. On the day itself I launch into a frenzy of destruction, one that somehow results in sugary shards being scattered over every surface. Frankly there’s something a little Bacchic about the whole thing; weeks of ritualistic preparation leading to a few hours in which dignified restraint is cast off.

So how is it that the remains of these eggs have managed to survive so long after Easter? Well, once the joy of destroying them has passed, the realisation that I have literally pounds of chocolate to work through hits home. After that my appetite never seems equal to the mammoth task ahead of me.

It’s gluttony, pure and simple.

There, that’s my mea culpa done and dusted.

Roll on next Easter!

Russian roulette

06 May 2011

This morning, a few streets from my flat, I saw a woman pull out a loaded weapon, put it to her head and fire. It was a sobering sight, but thankfully she survived.

Strangely enough, despite the fact that the street was crowded with commuters heading into the City, none of the people walking past her batted an eyelid. No one cried out for her to stop, and to my slight disappointment no one dived through the air to grab the weapon before she could take aim.

Perhaps that’s because none of them had seen today’s report by the BBC, which reveals that over 5% of strokes are caused by nose blowing.

That’s right. Little did she realise it, but this reckless, hanky-wielding woman was playing fast and loose with her own life. But is it worth dying for the sake of temporary relief from the effects of hay fever? More to the point, is it even vaguely likely that there was any real danger?

The answer to both questions is a resounding ‘no.’ The odds, of course, were slanted wildly in favour of her survival. This time. But the report identified other perilous activities that are responsible for an even higher percentage of aneurysms: coffee (10.6%) and vigorous exercise (7.9%). Sex, at 4.3% was only just pipped to the post by nose blowing.

So what does this set of shocking statistics mean? That I should dial 999 in preparation for the worst when I next see a runny-nosed businessman, coffee in hand, sprinting for the train? Or perhaps that I should organise a series of London-wide hanky-bonfires as a form of public health intervention?

Probably not.

In all likelihood it means that I’m too easily shocked by ‘shocking’ statistics.

The many incarnations of Mr Fat Head

10 May 2011

‘When a man is tired of London he is tired of life,’ quoth Dr Johnson, referring to the fact that the capital is one of the world’s great living spectacles. Unfortunately for me it’s one that I’ve recently had only a partial enjoyment of. I’m not blind or partially sighted. Nor do I walk around with my hands over my eyes or cotton wool stuffed into my ears. But I might as well. For there is a mysterious personage in this city who has begun to follow me wherever I go, ruining whatever experience it is that I’m paying money for.

His name is Mr Fat Head, and he has many incarnations.

A couple of weeks ago I went to see Terrence Rattigan’s ‘Cause Célèbre’ at the Old Vic. As I took my seat, my expectations were riding on high on the back of universally excellent reviews from friends. With only a minute to go until the performance, and the seats around me still empty, I was confident that I’d have the best view in the house.

Then it happened. A man made his way across the row before me, took his place in the seat in front of mine, and instantly my view of the stage was eclipsed by the biggest, fattest head in the world. I’m not exaggerating, it really was immense. And to make matters worse, it was supported by what must surely be the thickest, most bullock-like neck that ever graced a human body.

I was enraged. Thanks to his view-devouring cranium, my line of sight was swallowed-up. I could see nothing. Had Anne-Marie Duff’s arms not been thrown so wide in theatrical gesticulation during moments of high passion, poking out momentarily from behind Mr Fat Head’s left ear, I would have sat through the entire performance without any evidence that there were actors involved.

Thank God for her expressive forearms. I’d give her five stars simply for breaching Mr Fat Head’s ocular exclusion zone.

But this was not to be the last appearance of my new worst enemy. A few days ago I went to the cinema to see Thor. For those who don’t know what’s it’s about, I’d love to tell you. But I can’t. For once again, moments before the lights dimmed, I found my line of sight demolished by a great, hairy megalith, strikingly similar to the one in front of me at the Old Vic. It was the same size, the same height, and covered with the same stubbly tufts of grey hair, clinging like moss to a gigantic boulder. It had the same fleshy creases near the crown, too. In my heightened state of fury they resembled a little face, squinting its eyes and sticking its little tongue out at me.

Could it be the very same man who had ruined my evening not two weeks before? No. On this occasion it was an unfortunately proportioned and tragically coiffured woman of a certain age. But in presence and in spirit it was none other than Mr Fat Head himself.

It’s only a matter of time before I see him again. I can feel it. Whenever I find an empty seat in front of me at a film, a play, or any other spectacle that I’ve coughed up cash to see, I’ll be waiting for him to make his appearance.

Time, I think, to buy myself a periscope.

Empty your pockets or the cute little whale gets it!

13 May 2011

“Mate, I love your jumper! Where’d you get it from?” came the voice from behind me, desperately trying to attract my attention as I walked along The Strand.

The speaker must have been clairvoyant. How else could she have known that jumper-related compliments are my Achilles’ heel?

She herself sported a billowing patchwork skirt, gigantic, fake gold earrings and a look of sly cunning. What’s more she almost certainly wanted me to cross her palm with silver.

Was the circus in town? Was she a fairground fortune-teller, plying her trade on the streets of central London?

Sadly not. She did, however, have a dire prediction about the future:

“Did you know that if current trends continue, the Blue Whale will be extinct within the next fifteen years?” she gasped with a well-rehearsed sense of breathless shock.

I must admit that I did not know that. But how did she?

Because she was none other than a chugger.

Many of you will have crossed paths with one of the dreaded ‘charity muggers’ that infest city streets up and down the country. For those of you who have somehow avoided encountering them I’d be much obliged if you’d tell me how you’ve managed it.

Chuggers (or ‘clipboarders,’ as they are also known) are the twenty-first century equivalent of highway robbers. Like their eighteenth century counterparts they stand ready to ambush the unsuspecting traveller at urban crossroads, pouncing on anyone who foolishly stops at a pedestrian crossing, dawdles outside the entrance to a shop or joins the queue for a cash machine. Like the highwaymen of old they demand money on pain of death, though it isn’t the victim’s life under threat, but that of an entire animal species. “Hand over your dosh or the cute little whale gets it!” is the rhetorical equivalent of a loaded gun to the head, and a tactic they deploy with ruthless abandon. Sometimes they even back-up their fearsome words with photographs of the adorable, doe-eyed sea mammals, kept ready to hand in their clipboards. And if you’re not moved by a picture of a mummy-whale tenderly nestling her two-day-old calf, you’re met with a cold, hard look of disgust, and perhaps even an emphatic headshake. Shame on you. All they needed was your credit card details. Now, thanks to you, they’re cat food.

It’s understandable that people become a little riled when their turn comes to be picked off by a marauding chugger, especially businessmen at rush hour. After all, it’s 6.29pm and the train leaves in 4 minutes. You’re three minutes from the platform. It’s okay because you’ve got your season ticket. Just enough time. Got to get through the crowd. Nearly there. Nearly…

CHUGGER: “Excuse me, sir, do you have a moment?”

BUSINESSMAN: “Sorry I’m just… (looks desperately at watch). I’m going to miss my train.”

CHUGGER: “But what’s more important: the train or the future of the Blue Whale?”

BUSINESSMAN: “My train!”

CHUGGER: (standing in the way) “Are you sure about that?”

BUSINESSMAN: “Yes! Now look, it’s about to… (looks ahead at platform) Oh my God! It’s leaving! I’ve… I’ve bloody well missed it!”

CHUGGER: (with fake sympathy) “Oh no, I hate it when that happens. Anyway, now that you’ve a moment, let me show you a few photographs…”

See what I mean?

So how can we tackle this nationwide epidemic? As it happens I have a solution. I’m going to establish a charity dedicated to the victims of chugging. It will provide a twenty-four hour telephone counseling service for those poor unfortunates who have been chugged. All I need to do is raise funds to get it started. I’ve got a clipboard filled with the relevant details, direct debit forms, etc. I’ve also gathered together some photographs taken of people in the moments after a chug-attack has taken place (a woman looking into the camera, her face a mixture of melancholy and shame; a man turning his empty pockets inside out; another weeping into his hands as his wallet lies empty on the pavement).

Now all I have to do is randomly approach people in the street and drum up some support.

So if you find yourself at a pedestrian crossing, dawdling outside a shop or even in the queue for the cash machine, be prepared. I might just be asking for a moment of your time…

A flea in your ear

15 May 2011

The humble flea has been the scourge of human society since time immemorial. At its most benign it’s the cause of itching and irritation, though at its worst it acts as the harbinger of disease and death. Many times has London been laid low by plagues that have spread thanks to the indiscriminate nibbling of these devilish little insects.

Though sanitation, improved personal grooming and the practice of washing every day has swept the fleas from modern scalps, in recent years they’ve made a remarkable comeback. Now, once again, they can be found everywhere.

Not that they announce their presence through persistent itching or the sudden outbreak of pestilence. Nor are they carried on the backs of rats or in dirty linen. These, after all, are twenty first century fleas. They’re smarter, more insidious, more… metaphorical.

For the fleas I’m referring to have organised themselves into little brass bands that live in peoples earphones. Forget incessant scratching. Forget breaking out in puss-filled boils before dropping dead in the street. These flea-ensembles have found a far more sinister method of wreaking havoc. Striking up their repetitive, tinny tunes on crowded train carriages or on rush-hour buses, bands of fleas cause misery to thousands of commuters every day. Their new hosts are not rats, but ipod-sporting human teenagers who, unlike their rodent counterparts, move freely amongst the population and in plain sight. Willingly they walk around with these miniature brass bands in their ears, and once aboard a train they ratchet up the volume and leave the fleas to cause untold irritation to the entire carriage.

Not that there aren’t similarities between the fleas’ former hosts and their new ones. After all, with their aversion to natural light, their shifty expressions, and their dubious whiskers (the result of crude attempts at facial hair), many teenagers have a remarkably rat-like countenance. Perhaps that’s why the fleas chose them as the means by which to stage their attack. If so, then the specimen sat next to me on the train yesterday was doubtless leading the charge. An immense pair of headphones that encompassed the greater part of his skull provided a Royal Albert Hall for fleas, though the sound that echoed down the train was more akin to heavy metal than Handel. The headphones themselves nestled amidst a greasy thatch that must surely have constituted a paradise for the little insects, should they have decided to become less metaphorical. Moreover, for those fleas who pined for their old hosts, his clothes were in such a grimy condition as to render him a veritable pied piper for rats, which presumably followed him about en masse.

Suffice to say it was not a pleasant journey.

But how should we deal with these insidious insects and their willing carriers? I’ve already proposed a simple and practical method for countering the chugger epidemic that’s currently sweeping London. In the case of these little brass bands, however, a more extreme solution is required, and there’s only one I can think of that would really hit the mark:

Cats.

They’re fantastic ratters, and since we’ve already established that roving teenagers are the rats of the twenty-first century, why not apply a classic solution to a modern problem? Thus I propose that every train carriage and every bus should have a resident cat. Under this enlightened new system, each time a teenager dons a pair of headphones the attendant feline will pounce. It may take hundreds of bloodied earlobes to make the point, but with the help of my cat army the fleas’ power base will soon be defeated.

Let’s break out the champagne now. After all, as I’m sure many a hard-pressed commuter would agree, it will be a double victory.

Olympic humbug

16 May 2011

I’m not a fan of the Olympics. In fact it’s fair to say that I’m something of a sporting wet blanket. But living in London, and with the overblown circus coming to town in just over a year’s time, I’ve been told it would be advisable for me to get a little more fanatical, if only as a coping mechanism.

Thus a few weeks ago, in the spirit of conjuring a vague semblance of interest, I decided to go through the long, drawn-out process of applying for tickets.

For those of you who haven’t manufactured similar levels of fake enthusiasm, let me tell you a little about how it worked. It was actually relatively simple. All I had to do was visit the Olympics website, register my interest in the events I wanted to attend, and then… nothing. Other than ticking boxes next to rafting, swimming and fencing (yes, fencing), all that remained was to cough-up my credit card details.

Actually, that’s not quite true. For, as it happened, ticking those innocuous-looking boxes connoted more than the mere expression of interest. In the context of the application process it amounted to a binding agreement to purchase tickets for those events, should they be available. All well and good, except that availability was to be determined at a later date, weeks down the line. It was only at that time that applicants would be told what tickets they had bought and how much money they were being charged.

Well that time is now. In fact I’ve just watched a news report describing the mass exodus of funds from accounts. Thousands of people, prompted by the Olympic website’s conspicuous notices that seats were limited and not guaranteed, registered their interest in multiple events, only to be stung by the fact that the cunning application form amalgamated interest and agreement to buy.

Fortunately for me, as I was perusing the application page my rickety laptop gave up the ghost, and I never bothered to revisit. Had my enthusing been of the more genuine variety I too might have found my bank balance the worse for wear.

Let’s hope this practice of making interest tantamount to agreement-to-purchase doesn’t catch on.

Mind you, from a commercial perspective it’s a bit of a winner. Perhaps traders struggling under tough, post-recessional conditions should take note. If clothes shops demanded that customers swipe their credit cards before using the changing rooms, they’d soon find their profits soaring. Women emerging from cubicles in mild disarray and with armfuls of assorted garments would no longer be met with ‘Was there anything you liked?’ but with ‘Thank you, madam, here’s your receipt.’

Shoe-shopping would become a similarly streamlined experience. Don’t bother sitting down and taking your shoes off in anticipation of trying-on the three pairs of trainers you just can’t choose between. Asking for all of them in size nine was the shop assistant’s cue to box and bag them up.

Even market traders are bound to catch on sooner or later. And when they do, woe betide anyone foolish enough to try the ubiquitous free samples laid at at food stalls. Tiny pieces of a chocolate tort, temptingly arranged on a paper plate, will become ‘express your interest’ tick-boxes for a twelve-inch triple layered cake. The fragments of cheese similarly displayed on the stall next door are in fact binding agreements to a two-foot wide wheel of stilton, hidden under the table. And don’t bother with the shaved pork. Not unless your appetite can accommodate the entire suckling pig that’s roasting quietly a few yards away.

The customer experience is indeed a perilous one, and a general policy of caveat emptor continues to prove its worth.

Our feathered friends

17 May 2011

It’s finally happened. After all these years I’ve become the very thing that I hate most. No I haven’t turned into one of those people who walk incredibly slowly down the street but are somehow still impossible to overtake. Nor have I stopped putting my hand over my mouth when I cough (especially after yesterday’s bus journey, when someone behind me sent a chilly draught against the back of my neck, causing the veins in my temples to start bulging in silent fury).

It’s even worse than that.

In the past few months I’ve become one of those people who takes ages to reply to text messages. That’s right. It’s my sad duty to announce that I’m now officially a text-flake, a cop-out, a ‘never-texter-backer’ (to use the scientific term). It might be hours before I bother checking my phone after hearing it beep. It might even be days before I return the text. Or weeks. Or never.

Though I’m not proud of my new-found status, I’ve decided that after weeks of trying to mend my ways, reform just isn’t possible. That’s why I’ve come up with a proposal that will rid me of my bad habit and provide society with its latest and (dare I say) greatest trend.

I'm going to abandon text messages altogether and start relying exclusively on carrier pigeons.

No doubt most of you are nodding in admiration at what is self-evidently a stroke of genius. A small minority, however, will probably need a little convincing, which is why I’d be delighted to explain the benefits of replacing your handsets with our beloved feathered friends (or ‘rats-with-wings’ as they’re affectionately known).

For one thing, using carrier pigeons would address a glaring defect inherent to mobile phones: they don’t remind you to reply to your friends. It’s hard to blame them for it. After all, they lack sentience. A well-trained carrier pigeon, on the other hand, comes equipped with a fully-functioning (albeit tiny) brain. This makes them easy to programme (or ‘train’ in veterinary parlance). Thus if a friend sends you a message via their pigeon, and you leave the faithful bird waiting too long before composing a reply, it would begin cooing insistently. If you continued to dawdle, an irritated pecking at your fingertips would follow. Blood might even be drawn. It’s more than enough to prompt you into brisk correspondence.

Birds are, of course, larger than phones, and carrying them around might be seen as impractical. But with the return to fashion of boxy, eighties-style jackets with copious volumes of pocket space, I think such fears are unfounded. And women who favour bulkier handbags will be pleasantly surprised to find that the receptacle for their lipstick, tissues and other detritus can double as a mobile nesting box.

Pigeons, it might be argued, require more upkeep than phones. After all, they need to be fed daily and kept clean. True. But this is a simple procedure. Or at least it will be once my range of pigeon nose-bags and pigeon nappies hits the market. Simply slip one on each end of the pigeon at the beginning of every working day and you’ll always have a clean, well-fed bird at your disposal.

In fact disposal is yet another advantage that pigeons have over mobiles. Whenever you reach the end of your phone contract you’re left with an out-of date handset that’s often barely worth reselling. Not so with a carrier pigeon. Once your bird has reached the end of its useful life, not only are you left with the happy memories of the time spent with your faithful companion, but you have the basis for a splendid little meal-for-one. Baking your winged text-messenger in a little pie is not only a fitting send-off, but a tasty treat for you. In fact I envisage the day when sitting down with friends to a spot of pigeon pie is the customary way of celebrating the end of a ‘phone’ contract.

So there you have it. An unassailable case for abandoning text-messaging in favour of carrier pigeons. And if anyone wants to order a miniature nosebag or a bird-nappy, simply visit my online shop:

www.i-love-my-rat-with-wings.com

The daily zombie attack

18 May 2011

Apparently zombies have become the new vampires. I don’t mean that literally, of course; we’re not watching undead evolution happen before our eyes. But the growing market for supernatural horror, driven by a surging interest in blood suckers, is now turning its attention to the manifest charms of brain munchers. Apparently we’re to expect an explosion of books, films and television programmes featuring the walking dead, as production companies and publishing houses alike scramble to jump on the latest bandwagon.

And who am I to let it go trundling by?

That’s why I’ve decided to weigh-in with my own zombie film proposal. I know it’s a tough market, but my offering has a singular advantage over all the others: it’s based on real events.

Yep, I’ve seen the blighters with my own eyes. I’ve watched the carnage of zombie attacks unfold right here in London, and I’m planning to turn the experience into a film for your viewing pleasure. What’s more, the zombies I observed were so grotesque that I’ve decided to give them a new label, reflected in the film’s title:

“Attack of the Commuters!”

These are no ordinary undead. For one thing they have a prey that’s even more tempting than the devilishly delicious lobes of the human brain: seats. They’d do anything for them, acquiring them is the single force that drives them in their ramblings. And when the commuters arise from their deathly slumbers in the ungodly hours before sunrise, there’s only one place that their prey can be found. Thus they shuffle to train stations, waiting for an unsuspecting train to pull up at the platform. Standing with blank, unseeing eyes and swaying slowly from one foot to the other, they congregate in immense, silent crowds. Some of them have the remains of their last earthly breakfast stuck to the corners of their mouth. Some are wearing odd shoes. Frankly it doesn’t matter when you’re a zombie-commuter. All that matters is seeking out your prey: comfy, delicious, probably under-stuffed seats.

Finally a train slides into the station and the doors open. There, revealed in all its glory is an empty carriage. Now the attack begins. No longer placid and unresponsive, the animated corpses surge forward in an antimacassar-induced frenzy. Elbows are jammed into ribcages, knees are shoved into groins, as teeth, nails and umbrellas become lethal weapons.

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