Andrew Carter's Blog, page 2
March 7, 2016
Monday Musings 13
In a bid to become a better guy, I have been trying to improve my cooking skills over the last few weeks. In general, I have succeeded in fashioning some decent meals although this is entirely down to signing up to Hello Fresh, a company which give you the exact amount of each ingredient and basic step-by-step instructions that a twelve-year-old could follow. It's actually very good and teaching me a lot. For example, almost everything tastes better with a clove of garlic in it and when you think "that smells nice" –it usually just means that onions are being fried. Before the cynics amongst you ask - no, this is not a patent piece of internet marketing. I am not on the Hello Fresh payroll. (If anyone from Hello Fresh is reading this, feel free to email me and I'm sure something can be arranged.)
Basking in the glory of a solid chicken and chorizo dish early in the week, I took my eye off the ball on my next attempt, a Japanese turkey escalope served with rice. Having thought things were well under control, I'd turned the volume up a bit too high on my "Feelin’ Good" Spotify playlist and was bouncing around the kitchen with confidence. I read the next instruction: ''Now add the packet of breadcrumbs to a bowl" and thought, I can do that. Easy. Child's play. Hang on, where is the packet of breadcrumbs? I looked around frantically; why is the rice still there? I put the rice in a pan to boil ten minutes ago? Why have they given me two packets of rice? What the hell is going on? I swiftly got that all too familiar punch-in-stomach sinking feeling and took the lid off the pan to confirm my fears; I had spent ten minutes boiling the breadcrumbs into a mushy slush.
Dinner ruined.
I tried to salvage things by blending some microwavable garlic bread to create my own breadcrumbs but it didn’t work out. An important life lesson has been learned at least - packets of breadcrumbs and rice look dangerously similar. Especially when you are distracted by uplifting soul music.
Louise was unimpressed with my culinary carelessness which further piled on the pressure to get her a good birthday present the following day. When you have been together with someone for a while, buying presents becomes progressively tricky. I’ve already exhausted, repeated and exhausted the repeats of all the standard gifts; jewellery, perfume, dresses that don’t fit, bath salts etc. and felt stumped as to what would constitute a thoughtful and original gift. Modern technology - the bastard – is making CD’s, books and DVD’s become increasingly less viable presents.
"I've already seen it on Netflix. Thanks though. I might watch it again."
Definitely won’t watch it again.
Last year I thought I’d cracked it with a voucher to go wine tasting somewhere near Huddersfield. The voucher expired and we didn’t go so Louise takes great pleasure in reminding me that I effectively bought her nothing last year. Nothing is a bad present isn’t it?
With the bar low, this time I thought it would be thoughtful to arrange a romantic evening out and scoured the available options in Leeds over the next couple of weeks. After a taxing lunch break of searching, I'd eventually narrowed it down to two options; Swan Lake or…. Peter Andre.
Andre got the nod.
Swan Lake is the sort of thing that I’d pretend to enjoy to appear cultured but then find myself scrolling through football scores on Louise’s phone for large chunks of the evening whereas I think Andre should be good fun. Hang on, it's not my birthday is it? I don’t want this to be akin to the time my brother bought me a Warhammer book and figures for my tenth birthday when I had zero interest in Warhammer, so I shall rephrase the last sentence; I think Louise will enjoy Andre more than Swan Lake. Maybe.
I’m not saying this in an ironic / piss-take kind of way, I genuinely quite like Andre. I think he’s a decent guy. Whether or not he can sing is another matter. You’ll have to wait until next week’s MM to find out. Unless you are going to his show that is. I imagine it’s the sort of occasion where if you see someone you know, you hide.
Printing the Andre tickets was a bit of a mission, although surreptitious use of work printers is no stranger to me - I successfully printed off all 300 pages of my book at a previous employer, who shall remain nameless.
“Where are you going with all that paper Andy?”
“You look nice today. Is that a new blouse?”
I’m trying to keep my head down at work at the moment after recent confirmation that my honeymoon ‘new guy’ phase is now over; I ate a pungent Balti pie at my desk and the office manager asked me outside for "a word." Is "a word" ever positive?
So, I opted to send the tickets to an old, seldom-used printer in a separate room to reduce the risk of someone seeing them. As much as I quite like Andre, having someone angrily shout ‘Whose are these?’ across the office would have been too much. Humiliating.
I slid out into the corridor and arrived at the tiny, dingy room to find that for once, I wasn’t alone. A tough-looking workman with an earring was on a stepladder adjusting a light bulb. If you could think of the last person you would want to know that you are a closet Peter Andre fan, this guy was him.
Was he smiling? Lying on top of the printer were the tickets. Bold writing. Caps Lock. PETER ANDRE - COME SWING WITH ME TOUR. I grabbed the paper and sprinted back to my desk, temples sweating, not looking back.
Louise’s response to the tickets was lukewarm but I at least padded them out with some bath salts – the old reliable and I think she had a good birthday overall. If you buy a woman a glass of Prosecco at lunch time, they are likely to be happy with you. I just hope that Andre delivers this week. He can’t be any worse than my Japanese turkey escalopes can he?
Basking in the glory of a solid chicken and chorizo dish early in the week, I took my eye off the ball on my next attempt, a Japanese turkey escalope served with rice. Having thought things were well under control, I'd turned the volume up a bit too high on my "Feelin’ Good" Spotify playlist and was bouncing around the kitchen with confidence. I read the next instruction: ''Now add the packet of breadcrumbs to a bowl" and thought, I can do that. Easy. Child's play. Hang on, where is the packet of breadcrumbs? I looked around frantically; why is the rice still there? I put the rice in a pan to boil ten minutes ago? Why have they given me two packets of rice? What the hell is going on? I swiftly got that all too familiar punch-in-stomach sinking feeling and took the lid off the pan to confirm my fears; I had spent ten minutes boiling the breadcrumbs into a mushy slush.
Dinner ruined.
I tried to salvage things by blending some microwavable garlic bread to create my own breadcrumbs but it didn’t work out. An important life lesson has been learned at least - packets of breadcrumbs and rice look dangerously similar. Especially when you are distracted by uplifting soul music.
Louise was unimpressed with my culinary carelessness which further piled on the pressure to get her a good birthday present the following day. When you have been together with someone for a while, buying presents becomes progressively tricky. I’ve already exhausted, repeated and exhausted the repeats of all the standard gifts; jewellery, perfume, dresses that don’t fit, bath salts etc. and felt stumped as to what would constitute a thoughtful and original gift. Modern technology - the bastard – is making CD’s, books and DVD’s become increasingly less viable presents.
"I've already seen it on Netflix. Thanks though. I might watch it again."
Definitely won’t watch it again.
Last year I thought I’d cracked it with a voucher to go wine tasting somewhere near Huddersfield. The voucher expired and we didn’t go so Louise takes great pleasure in reminding me that I effectively bought her nothing last year. Nothing is a bad present isn’t it?
With the bar low, this time I thought it would be thoughtful to arrange a romantic evening out and scoured the available options in Leeds over the next couple of weeks. After a taxing lunch break of searching, I'd eventually narrowed it down to two options; Swan Lake or…. Peter Andre.
Andre got the nod.
Swan Lake is the sort of thing that I’d pretend to enjoy to appear cultured but then find myself scrolling through football scores on Louise’s phone for large chunks of the evening whereas I think Andre should be good fun. Hang on, it's not my birthday is it? I don’t want this to be akin to the time my brother bought me a Warhammer book and figures for my tenth birthday when I had zero interest in Warhammer, so I shall rephrase the last sentence; I think Louise will enjoy Andre more than Swan Lake. Maybe.
I’m not saying this in an ironic / piss-take kind of way, I genuinely quite like Andre. I think he’s a decent guy. Whether or not he can sing is another matter. You’ll have to wait until next week’s MM to find out. Unless you are going to his show that is. I imagine it’s the sort of occasion where if you see someone you know, you hide.
Printing the Andre tickets was a bit of a mission, although surreptitious use of work printers is no stranger to me - I successfully printed off all 300 pages of my book at a previous employer, who shall remain nameless.
“Where are you going with all that paper Andy?”
“You look nice today. Is that a new blouse?”
I’m trying to keep my head down at work at the moment after recent confirmation that my honeymoon ‘new guy’ phase is now over; I ate a pungent Balti pie at my desk and the office manager asked me outside for "a word." Is "a word" ever positive?
So, I opted to send the tickets to an old, seldom-used printer in a separate room to reduce the risk of someone seeing them. As much as I quite like Andre, having someone angrily shout ‘Whose are these?’ across the office would have been too much. Humiliating.
I slid out into the corridor and arrived at the tiny, dingy room to find that for once, I wasn’t alone. A tough-looking workman with an earring was on a stepladder adjusting a light bulb. If you could think of the last person you would want to know that you are a closet Peter Andre fan, this guy was him.
Was he smiling? Lying on top of the printer were the tickets. Bold writing. Caps Lock. PETER ANDRE - COME SWING WITH ME TOUR. I grabbed the paper and sprinted back to my desk, temples sweating, not looking back.
Louise’s response to the tickets was lukewarm but I at least padded them out with some bath salts – the old reliable and I think she had a good birthday overall. If you buy a woman a glass of Prosecco at lunch time, they are likely to be happy with you. I just hope that Andre delivers this week. He can’t be any worse than my Japanese turkey escalopes can he?
February 29, 2016
Monday Musings 12
Not unusually for a Sunday, I had a terrible night’s sleep last night featuring a bizarre dream / nightmare starring a guy who went my university that I didn’t know that well at all and haven’t thought about for at least five years. In the dream, he wrongly accused me of throwing his laptop in a pond then when I refused to buy him a new one, he rang my work and told them that I was a drug addict which got me sacked. The bastard. There were a few subplots to the dream but I won’t go into any more depth as I’m aware talking about your dreams can be extremely dull.
Anyway, this led to starting the day feeling jaded and confused as I scraped the ice from my windscreen, which I am only now discovering, is a rubbish task. Get me back on a bike. I was sat in the car as it warmed up, considering whether the dream held any deep-lying subliminal messages when a woman rattled her knuckles on my window and scared the shit out of me.
“Open your door!” She said.
I obliged.
“Do you live round here?”
“Yes.”
She seemed pleased with my answer. What on earth did she want?
“I’ve just seen a kingfisher!”
If I’d told her I didn’t live round here, would she still have told me?
“Uh, great.” I was aware I sounded gruff and tried to force some enthusiasm. “I like kingfishers.”
“Oh, that's fantastic! So do I!”
Given her ear-to-ear grin, I think this had already been established.
“It was just down there, by the stream!”
“Brilliant.” I didn’t know what to say next. “I do like kingfishers.”
I’d already said this. I suppose it’s true – they are nice birds aren’t they? - but I’m by no means a bird expert and kingfishers are not something I think about often. Probably about as often as I think about the guy from university who acted like such a maniac in my dream.
After a short pause, the woman said.
“Just down there it was. I’ve seen it twice now. Amazing!”
What are the rules here? Do I have to go down to the stream? If I don't, will she question whether I actually liked kingfishers? I don't want to be thought of as a liar by my neighbour. There was, however, a strong chance I was going to be late for work, even without an impromptu bird watching session.
The woman was still stood in anticipation.
“I’ll go down and have a look.” I said.
She looked pleased and bounced up the street, delighted.
I drove down to the stream and had a token look around. I didn’t see the kingfisher and I was late for work.
At work, I asked the girl who I sit next to what she had been up to at the weekend.
“I went bird watching yesterday.”
Are you kidding me?
Fortunately, it was pretty quiet at work this morning and I didn’t have much to do. Sometimes trying to look busy can actually be harder than being busy but today, with my mind jumbled by laptop-in-pond allegations and kingfishers, I was content not to test my brain too much. The only event of note came when I spilled some of my Bombay mix (a dubious breakfast I know) and a single fried lentil dropped into my keyboard and became stuck under the keys. I gave the keyboard a sly, then – to the bemusement of my colleagues - increasingly vigorous shake but couldn’t manage to get the little bastard out. While I’m aware that there are worse events going on in the world, I hate this sort of thing. How can you get on with your day when there is a visible, fried lentil stuck in your keyboard? The answer is, you can’t. You just can’t.
I skilfully crafted a hook out of a paper clip and tried to retrieve the lentil but sadly the paperclip snapped in half and also became stuck. Infuriating. Similar to when you get a ball stuck in a tree and try to get it down by throwing another ball at it. It’s only ever going to end one way isn’t it?
Loosely on this topic, I am going to now going to recount one of the strangest things that has ever happened to me. (I’m fully aware that today’s musings are a bit odd – I’m incredibly tired.)
When I was about fourteen, some friends and I were kicking a ball around on the pitches at Weetwood Hall, a hotel, which incidentally I worked at for a short time before being advised to leave / sacked following a storeroom nap. The groundsman was a nice guy and he let us play on the AstroTurf pitches for free although this arrangement was nearly cancelled after he caught a reckless friend stealing some fizzy Ribena from an unlocked vending machine.
We were using a lovely new football, which, if memory serves me correct, was the official ball for Euro 2000 and had cost about twenty quid. Within roughly four minutes, someone (not me) lashed a wild shot over the fence and it landed on the high, flat roof of the clubhouse. No way up. Devastated. We walked home, not really talking to each other.
After the distress this had caused, we didn’t go back to Weetwood Hall for a while. Too many memories. Eventually, some three months later we returned, this time using a Mitre Tactic - a more modest ball. At the end of a gruelling game of cuppie doubles, we set off to leave when there was a gust of wind and the Euro 2000 football slowly rolled down from the clubhouse roof and onto the floor in front of us.
Incredible scenes.
What are the odds of that happening at the exact time that we were there? Given the excitement in the woman’s eyes this morning, probably not as long as seeing a kingfisher by the stream near my house.
@andyc1421
https://www.facebook.com/andrewcarter...
Anyway, this led to starting the day feeling jaded and confused as I scraped the ice from my windscreen, which I am only now discovering, is a rubbish task. Get me back on a bike. I was sat in the car as it warmed up, considering whether the dream held any deep-lying subliminal messages when a woman rattled her knuckles on my window and scared the shit out of me.
“Open your door!” She said.
I obliged.
“Do you live round here?”
“Yes.”
She seemed pleased with my answer. What on earth did she want?
“I’ve just seen a kingfisher!”
If I’d told her I didn’t live round here, would she still have told me?
“Uh, great.” I was aware I sounded gruff and tried to force some enthusiasm. “I like kingfishers.”
“Oh, that's fantastic! So do I!”
Given her ear-to-ear grin, I think this had already been established.
“It was just down there, by the stream!”
“Brilliant.” I didn’t know what to say next. “I do like kingfishers.”
I’d already said this. I suppose it’s true – they are nice birds aren’t they? - but I’m by no means a bird expert and kingfishers are not something I think about often. Probably about as often as I think about the guy from university who acted like such a maniac in my dream.
After a short pause, the woman said.
“Just down there it was. I’ve seen it twice now. Amazing!”
What are the rules here? Do I have to go down to the stream? If I don't, will she question whether I actually liked kingfishers? I don't want to be thought of as a liar by my neighbour. There was, however, a strong chance I was going to be late for work, even without an impromptu bird watching session.
The woman was still stood in anticipation.
“I’ll go down and have a look.” I said.
She looked pleased and bounced up the street, delighted.
I drove down to the stream and had a token look around. I didn’t see the kingfisher and I was late for work.
At work, I asked the girl who I sit next to what she had been up to at the weekend.
“I went bird watching yesterday.”
Are you kidding me?
Fortunately, it was pretty quiet at work this morning and I didn’t have much to do. Sometimes trying to look busy can actually be harder than being busy but today, with my mind jumbled by laptop-in-pond allegations and kingfishers, I was content not to test my brain too much. The only event of note came when I spilled some of my Bombay mix (a dubious breakfast I know) and a single fried lentil dropped into my keyboard and became stuck under the keys. I gave the keyboard a sly, then – to the bemusement of my colleagues - increasingly vigorous shake but couldn’t manage to get the little bastard out. While I’m aware that there are worse events going on in the world, I hate this sort of thing. How can you get on with your day when there is a visible, fried lentil stuck in your keyboard? The answer is, you can’t. You just can’t.
I skilfully crafted a hook out of a paper clip and tried to retrieve the lentil but sadly the paperclip snapped in half and also became stuck. Infuriating. Similar to when you get a ball stuck in a tree and try to get it down by throwing another ball at it. It’s only ever going to end one way isn’t it?
Loosely on this topic, I am going to now going to recount one of the strangest things that has ever happened to me. (I’m fully aware that today’s musings are a bit odd – I’m incredibly tired.)
When I was about fourteen, some friends and I were kicking a ball around on the pitches at Weetwood Hall, a hotel, which incidentally I worked at for a short time before being advised to leave / sacked following a storeroom nap. The groundsman was a nice guy and he let us play on the AstroTurf pitches for free although this arrangement was nearly cancelled after he caught a reckless friend stealing some fizzy Ribena from an unlocked vending machine.
We were using a lovely new football, which, if memory serves me correct, was the official ball for Euro 2000 and had cost about twenty quid. Within roughly four minutes, someone (not me) lashed a wild shot over the fence and it landed on the high, flat roof of the clubhouse. No way up. Devastated. We walked home, not really talking to each other.
After the distress this had caused, we didn’t go back to Weetwood Hall for a while. Too many memories. Eventually, some three months later we returned, this time using a Mitre Tactic - a more modest ball. At the end of a gruelling game of cuppie doubles, we set off to leave when there was a gust of wind and the Euro 2000 football slowly rolled down from the clubhouse roof and onto the floor in front of us.
Incredible scenes.
What are the odds of that happening at the exact time that we were there? Given the excitement in the woman’s eyes this morning, probably not as long as seeing a kingfisher by the stream near my house.
@andyc1421
https://www.facebook.com/andrewcarter...
February 22, 2016
Monday Musings 11
Our shower has very little margin for error. There is a tiny sweet spot where you get a comfortable, warm temperature but if you shift the tap either way by a millimetre, it is either freezing or dangerously hot. I usually opt for the too-hot option, have a thirty second blast and start my day with scalding , itchy skin, thinking, ‘I should get this sorted out’ but knowing deep down that I never will.
Anyway, this morning I gladly managed to find the right temperature which led to a long shower and an extended trail of thought about my fledgling writing career. (My apologies for conjuring an image of me in a shower – nobody wants to think about that on a Monday. Or any day for that matter.)
I was contemplating whether I am going to keep writing blogs and books forever or if this is just a flash in the pan hobby, which peaked with the book being published and will soon peter out? It may be that writing is comparable to my short-lived music career and, in ten years’ time, I will look back on with a mixture of embarrassment and nostalgia, thinking that it was fun, but in hindsight, I was pretty rubbish.
Who knows? In years to come, writing could easily be pushed to one side and replaced with a new hobby – I spent yesterday afternoon in a garden centre and enjoyed it, which is an ominous glimpse into the future.
My writing career unofficially started almost exactly ten years ago when I was a nineteen-year-old clown, cluelessly backpacking around the world with my friends. I, like many other nineteen-year-old clowns, thought that writing a travel journal was a good way of chronicling my life-changing experiences and expressing my profound world views. E.g. ‘We got drunk last night and missed the boat this morning’ or ‘The Swedish guy in our hostel is bit of a knobhead.’ The journal had a hand drawn sketch of a Rastafarian smoking a joint on the front.
I haven’t reread it for a few years, which is probably not a bad thing. There is a good chance that it bit the dust along with my prized collection of completed Merlin sticker albums, which my dad chucked away during a clear-out which I wasn’t informed about. My dad likes chucking things away; when I got a record player at Christmas this year, I asked him if I could have some from his extensive collection which had been built up over decades.
“Sorry Andy, I’ve taken them to Oxfam.”
“What, all of them?”
“Yes.”
I remember pouring out my emotions in the travel journal during a twelve-hour bus ride where I was sat next to a 6ft 11 Dutchman. I’d stormed off alone and taken a bus from North Thailand to Bangkok after a slice of romantic heartache. Two pals and I had been travelling around with a pair of girls for a week or so. One pal and a girl had coupled up early on leaving it as a direct head-to-head between my slightly mad friend and I to win the affections of a slightly mad Canadian girl.
After slugging it out for three consecutive nights, my friend ultimately won the battle and I sadly became the fifth wheel. In case there was any doubt in the girl’s mind, I made the decision for her when I took to the stage at an open mic night in a hippy travelling bar and chose to play a little-known and aggressive NOFX song. Given that the performances preceding me had comprised almost entirely of Bob Marley and Jack Johnson numbers, my song selection was wildly inappropriate. I remember a middle-aged Australian guy cutting me off halfway through to the notable relief of the dreadlocked crowd.
“Okay, thanks Andy from England. That’s enough now.”
The romantic quandary was no fun and the morning after my impromptu gig, humiliated, hungover and sunburnt, I decided the answer to my woes was to get on a bus to Bangkok. My solo globetrotting didn’t last long. After one night, I desperately emailed my pals saying that I missed them and wanted them to join me in Bangkok. They left the girls and got the next bus. All was forgiven.
* It later transpired that the Canadian girl was not just slightly mad but a full-blown nutcase; she nicked a camera and some money from the other girl and fled Thailand. Perhaps not getting together with her was a lucky escape. Not future wife material.
Although I’m sure it’s mostly woeful, it would be interesting to read my travel journal back. We had many a scrape and adventure over our five months away, culminating in me being unable to fly back home from Brazil with my friends because I’d left my passport in the pocket of some combat shorts which I’d chosen to throw away in a hostel at Ipanema beach. That was a fun phone call home.
“Mum, there’s been a problem….”
Travelling has been a fitting topic today; last week was the ten-year anniversary of my round the world trip with pals and it’s been (almost exactly) five years since Louise and I went away. I'll probably send an overly sentimental email to my two comrades next time I have a beer. 'Can't believe it's been ten years!' with some attached images of us on beach wearing silly glasses.
I don’t think I’d have the energy for backpacking nowadays unfortunately. It’s wonderful fun and the two long trips I’ve been on are undoubtedly life highlights, holding some of my fondest memories. However, when reminiscing, it’s very easy to look through rose-tinted glasses and forget the tough times, of which there were many. Off the cuff, here are a handful of travelling experiences that I wouldn’t want to repeat again.
• Weird / intimidating men in your hostel pulling up a chair saying: ‘So, what are we doing today guys?”
• Being on buses without toilets for twenty hours whilst they blast out freezing air con and bad Cambodian pop music.
• Going slightly insane after opting for the economical anti-malaria tablets.
• Living in a battered van for weeks on end, staying in exotic locations such as a multi storey car park in a red light area.
• Thinking that a sign on the door of a bar saying ‘No Gringo’s’ is a joke, walking into the bar, the music stopping as angry, cocaine-fueled men glared at us and realizing that the sign is not, in fact, a joke.
• Ambitiously attempting to motorcycle over a small log, falling off and lying on the floor, scooter damaged and pride shattered while a Thai man (and Louise) laugh at me.
• Being stranded in a hostile border town after giving a man on a scooter known only as Mr. T. our passports and entrusting him to sort out our visa issues. (To be fair he was good to his word – it just took a week, not half a day.)
• Waking up with a bad tattoo.
I could go on and on, although you do have to be careful with travelling tales as I fear that people who weren’t there with you may not give a shit. Thinking back though, I don’t think I could hack it again. Nope, those days are over.
With that said, yesterday my friend booked a camper van for eight of us to travel across France for the Euros in the Summer. Can’t wait.
@andyc1421
https://www.facebook.com/andrewcarter...
Anyway, this morning I gladly managed to find the right temperature which led to a long shower and an extended trail of thought about my fledgling writing career. (My apologies for conjuring an image of me in a shower – nobody wants to think about that on a Monday. Or any day for that matter.)
I was contemplating whether I am going to keep writing blogs and books forever or if this is just a flash in the pan hobby, which peaked with the book being published and will soon peter out? It may be that writing is comparable to my short-lived music career and, in ten years’ time, I will look back on with a mixture of embarrassment and nostalgia, thinking that it was fun, but in hindsight, I was pretty rubbish.
Who knows? In years to come, writing could easily be pushed to one side and replaced with a new hobby – I spent yesterday afternoon in a garden centre and enjoyed it, which is an ominous glimpse into the future.
My writing career unofficially started almost exactly ten years ago when I was a nineteen-year-old clown, cluelessly backpacking around the world with my friends. I, like many other nineteen-year-old clowns, thought that writing a travel journal was a good way of chronicling my life-changing experiences and expressing my profound world views. E.g. ‘We got drunk last night and missed the boat this morning’ or ‘The Swedish guy in our hostel is bit of a knobhead.’ The journal had a hand drawn sketch of a Rastafarian smoking a joint on the front.
I haven’t reread it for a few years, which is probably not a bad thing. There is a good chance that it bit the dust along with my prized collection of completed Merlin sticker albums, which my dad chucked away during a clear-out which I wasn’t informed about. My dad likes chucking things away; when I got a record player at Christmas this year, I asked him if I could have some from his extensive collection which had been built up over decades.
“Sorry Andy, I’ve taken them to Oxfam.”
“What, all of them?”
“Yes.”
I remember pouring out my emotions in the travel journal during a twelve-hour bus ride where I was sat next to a 6ft 11 Dutchman. I’d stormed off alone and taken a bus from North Thailand to Bangkok after a slice of romantic heartache. Two pals and I had been travelling around with a pair of girls for a week or so. One pal and a girl had coupled up early on leaving it as a direct head-to-head between my slightly mad friend and I to win the affections of a slightly mad Canadian girl.
After slugging it out for three consecutive nights, my friend ultimately won the battle and I sadly became the fifth wheel. In case there was any doubt in the girl’s mind, I made the decision for her when I took to the stage at an open mic night in a hippy travelling bar and chose to play a little-known and aggressive NOFX song. Given that the performances preceding me had comprised almost entirely of Bob Marley and Jack Johnson numbers, my song selection was wildly inappropriate. I remember a middle-aged Australian guy cutting me off halfway through to the notable relief of the dreadlocked crowd.
“Okay, thanks Andy from England. That’s enough now.”
The romantic quandary was no fun and the morning after my impromptu gig, humiliated, hungover and sunburnt, I decided the answer to my woes was to get on a bus to Bangkok. My solo globetrotting didn’t last long. After one night, I desperately emailed my pals saying that I missed them and wanted them to join me in Bangkok. They left the girls and got the next bus. All was forgiven.
* It later transpired that the Canadian girl was not just slightly mad but a full-blown nutcase; she nicked a camera and some money from the other girl and fled Thailand. Perhaps not getting together with her was a lucky escape. Not future wife material.
Although I’m sure it’s mostly woeful, it would be interesting to read my travel journal back. We had many a scrape and adventure over our five months away, culminating in me being unable to fly back home from Brazil with my friends because I’d left my passport in the pocket of some combat shorts which I’d chosen to throw away in a hostel at Ipanema beach. That was a fun phone call home.
“Mum, there’s been a problem….”
Travelling has been a fitting topic today; last week was the ten-year anniversary of my round the world trip with pals and it’s been (almost exactly) five years since Louise and I went away. I'll probably send an overly sentimental email to my two comrades next time I have a beer. 'Can't believe it's been ten years!' with some attached images of us on beach wearing silly glasses.
I don’t think I’d have the energy for backpacking nowadays unfortunately. It’s wonderful fun and the two long trips I’ve been on are undoubtedly life highlights, holding some of my fondest memories. However, when reminiscing, it’s very easy to look through rose-tinted glasses and forget the tough times, of which there were many. Off the cuff, here are a handful of travelling experiences that I wouldn’t want to repeat again.
• Weird / intimidating men in your hostel pulling up a chair saying: ‘So, what are we doing today guys?”
• Being on buses without toilets for twenty hours whilst they blast out freezing air con and bad Cambodian pop music.
• Going slightly insane after opting for the economical anti-malaria tablets.
• Living in a battered van for weeks on end, staying in exotic locations such as a multi storey car park in a red light area.
• Thinking that a sign on the door of a bar saying ‘No Gringo’s’ is a joke, walking into the bar, the music stopping as angry, cocaine-fueled men glared at us and realizing that the sign is not, in fact, a joke.
• Ambitiously attempting to motorcycle over a small log, falling off and lying on the floor, scooter damaged and pride shattered while a Thai man (and Louise) laugh at me.
• Being stranded in a hostile border town after giving a man on a scooter known only as Mr. T. our passports and entrusting him to sort out our visa issues. (To be fair he was good to his word – it just took a week, not half a day.)
• Waking up with a bad tattoo.
I could go on and on, although you do have to be careful with travelling tales as I fear that people who weren’t there with you may not give a shit. Thinking back though, I don’t think I could hack it again. Nope, those days are over.
With that said, yesterday my friend booked a camper van for eight of us to travel across France for the Euros in the Summer. Can’t wait.
@andyc1421
https://www.facebook.com/andrewcarter...
February 15, 2016
Monday Musings 10
It has been a bit touch and go as to whether there would be a Monday Musings today. I normally write it on Sunday afternoons in a bid to combat the back-to-work anxiety but I spent most of yesterday in a car, shivering and trying not to throw up which wasn’t conducive to writing a blog.
I’m still a bit knackered now and an easier option for tonight would be to switch my brain off, listen to the Leeds game and play FIFA, something which for better or worse, I have started doing again. Quite a lot.
I used to frequently play on my PlayStation in Hong Kong, sometimes long into the wee hours, which probably says something about my social life? I have turned the spare room in our new house into, what I suppose could be called a man cave. I don’t really like the term – it’s the sort of phrase that is preceded by ‘cheeky’ by an idiot on Facebook. However, my PlayStation, guitar, seldom-used dumbbells and a world map where you can scratch off countries you’ve been to have very much left my personal mark on the room. Just in case there was any doubting my influence, there is also a shelf full of, as yet, unsold copies of my book.
I’m still undecided as to whether playing on the PlayStation is a fun, easy way to spend an evening or a monumental waste of time. I seem to lose most matches on FIFA and some of the abuse that you get from other players online can be quite hurtful. After being thumped by someone called JOHNNY_RAIN, I received a private message saying: ‘You are shit. Die.’ That this was likely from a spotty teenager in a foreign country means I probably shouldn’t take it to heart. I chose not to reply anyway – his opening gambit did little to open up conversation.
I’ve had a good few months off playing on the PlayStation as my controller broke and the chunky, fake replacement unsurprisingly didn’t work properly. It was only the circle button at fault. Whenever you touched it, the players booted the ball as high and as hard as they could, making it nigh-on impossible to score a goal. Infuriating.
I probably shouldn't have trusted the shop I bought it from as I'd already had a bad experience there. I’d taken in my laptop as the e-key had stuck. Again, just one button but unluckily an important one. J - not the end of the world. F4 - no problem.
I thought I’d found an ingenious solution in copying and pasting a letter ‘e’ from an old document from back in the heady days when the e-key worked. This was not actually all that clever and an incredibly irritating thing to keep doing – a short term fix.
The guy fitted a whole new keyboard – apparently the only available option – for £120. Three days later, I was typing on the brand new keyboard and the same e-key stuck again. Unbelievable. The guy who runs the shop is extremely affable with a winning smile and I like him despite his rather poor 0% success rate in fixing and selling things. I should have complained really but it was too long ago now. I bet JOHNNY_RAIN would have had no problem telling him what he thought.
The reason for my delicateness yesterday was the wedding of one of Louise’s cousins on Saturday, which was a great day. (Congratulations if either of you are reading this by the way, although that is probably a bit presumptive.) The wedding was in Essex and I drove (a bit of the way) down, which was my first experience behind the wheel on a motorway. Massive trucks were initially a bit scary and I went the wrong way twice but we made it through unscathed and there was no incident of note really. Actually, I tell a lie; I saw a woman working in a Little Chef near Nottingham who looked quite a lot like Guus Hiddink.
On the Friday evening, some of Louise’s family and I went out for a pre-wedding dinner to a Harvester. My second Harvester in two weeks no less. Prolific. Louise has a massive family but I have just about worked out who everyone is now, which I'm pleased about. In fairness, my cause at Harvester was helped by the fact that three of the four other men who were there were called Tim. That’s a lot of Tim’s. 75% of men that weren’t me were called Tim. I felt like an outsider.
In the midst of the wedding celebrations, I had some luck. Everything came together as I realized that I had won a bet on the football just before the DJ put on the Fresh Prince of Bel Air theme tune. The only thing preventing pure euphoria was my disappointment when I realized that I do not, in fact, know all of the words. That tricky extended verse which was only on the early episodes of the show my downfall.
After we got home yesterday I managed to crawl on to the new sofa, which you may remember played a starring role in last week's musings. As nausea coupled with a sinking feeling that I may well have made a complete idiot of myself in the latter stages of the wedding, I needed to do something to take my mind off things. I opted to put a small percentage of my modest football winnings on another bet – a good diversion for my sore head.
It was all going well and I was on course to win £200. All I needed was for Lionel Messi to score 2+ goals for Barcelona. After he scored in the first half, it felt nailed on. Even more so when Barcelona won a penalty.
In case you haven’t seen it, he decided to do this https://goo.gl/z2NPjG so I didn't win.
It felt like a personal slight. What have I ever done to annoy Lionel Messi? Is he a big Fresh Prince of Bel Air fan, appalled by my lack of knowledge of the words?
Just think what I could have bought with my winnings? At least one laptop keyboard with a broken e-key for starters.
I’m still a bit knackered now and an easier option for tonight would be to switch my brain off, listen to the Leeds game and play FIFA, something which for better or worse, I have started doing again. Quite a lot.
I used to frequently play on my PlayStation in Hong Kong, sometimes long into the wee hours, which probably says something about my social life? I have turned the spare room in our new house into, what I suppose could be called a man cave. I don’t really like the term – it’s the sort of phrase that is preceded by ‘cheeky’ by an idiot on Facebook. However, my PlayStation, guitar, seldom-used dumbbells and a world map where you can scratch off countries you’ve been to have very much left my personal mark on the room. Just in case there was any doubting my influence, there is also a shelf full of, as yet, unsold copies of my book.
I’m still undecided as to whether playing on the PlayStation is a fun, easy way to spend an evening or a monumental waste of time. I seem to lose most matches on FIFA and some of the abuse that you get from other players online can be quite hurtful. After being thumped by someone called JOHNNY_RAIN, I received a private message saying: ‘You are shit. Die.’ That this was likely from a spotty teenager in a foreign country means I probably shouldn’t take it to heart. I chose not to reply anyway – his opening gambit did little to open up conversation.
I’ve had a good few months off playing on the PlayStation as my controller broke and the chunky, fake replacement unsurprisingly didn’t work properly. It was only the circle button at fault. Whenever you touched it, the players booted the ball as high and as hard as they could, making it nigh-on impossible to score a goal. Infuriating.
I probably shouldn't have trusted the shop I bought it from as I'd already had a bad experience there. I’d taken in my laptop as the e-key had stuck. Again, just one button but unluckily an important one. J - not the end of the world. F4 - no problem.
I thought I’d found an ingenious solution in copying and pasting a letter ‘e’ from an old document from back in the heady days when the e-key worked. This was not actually all that clever and an incredibly irritating thing to keep doing – a short term fix.
The guy fitted a whole new keyboard – apparently the only available option – for £120. Three days later, I was typing on the brand new keyboard and the same e-key stuck again. Unbelievable. The guy who runs the shop is extremely affable with a winning smile and I like him despite his rather poor 0% success rate in fixing and selling things. I should have complained really but it was too long ago now. I bet JOHNNY_RAIN would have had no problem telling him what he thought.
The reason for my delicateness yesterday was the wedding of one of Louise’s cousins on Saturday, which was a great day. (Congratulations if either of you are reading this by the way, although that is probably a bit presumptive.) The wedding was in Essex and I drove (a bit of the way) down, which was my first experience behind the wheel on a motorway. Massive trucks were initially a bit scary and I went the wrong way twice but we made it through unscathed and there was no incident of note really. Actually, I tell a lie; I saw a woman working in a Little Chef near Nottingham who looked quite a lot like Guus Hiddink.
On the Friday evening, some of Louise’s family and I went out for a pre-wedding dinner to a Harvester. My second Harvester in two weeks no less. Prolific. Louise has a massive family but I have just about worked out who everyone is now, which I'm pleased about. In fairness, my cause at Harvester was helped by the fact that three of the four other men who were there were called Tim. That’s a lot of Tim’s. 75% of men that weren’t me were called Tim. I felt like an outsider.
In the midst of the wedding celebrations, I had some luck. Everything came together as I realized that I had won a bet on the football just before the DJ put on the Fresh Prince of Bel Air theme tune. The only thing preventing pure euphoria was my disappointment when I realized that I do not, in fact, know all of the words. That tricky extended verse which was only on the early episodes of the show my downfall.
After we got home yesterday I managed to crawl on to the new sofa, which you may remember played a starring role in last week's musings. As nausea coupled with a sinking feeling that I may well have made a complete idiot of myself in the latter stages of the wedding, I needed to do something to take my mind off things. I opted to put a small percentage of my modest football winnings on another bet – a good diversion for my sore head.
It was all going well and I was on course to win £200. All I needed was for Lionel Messi to score 2+ goals for Barcelona. After he scored in the first half, it felt nailed on. Even more so when Barcelona won a penalty.
In case you haven’t seen it, he decided to do this https://goo.gl/z2NPjG so I didn't win.
It felt like a personal slight. What have I ever done to annoy Lionel Messi? Is he a big Fresh Prince of Bel Air fan, appalled by my lack of knowledge of the words?
Just think what I could have bought with my winnings? At least one laptop keyboard with a broken e-key for starters.
February 8, 2016
Monday Musings 9
Some men came and delivered our new sofa last week, making for arguably the worst possible use of annual leave. One of the men was balding with a tattooed neck. Over the last few months, I have come across a disproportionate amount of men who have neck tattoos. I’m not one to judge but what happens in your life to decide; “I know what I’ll do today - I’ll get a neck tattoo. That’s a good idea.”
The men seemed annoyed with me that the sofa didn’t fit through the front door, which I suppose was a reasonable thing to be annoyed about. It must happen a lot in their line of work. I did at least have a contingency plan, informing the men that the back door is bigger and it should be fine. They were dismissive.
“Have you measured it?”
I hadn’t but it is quite obviously a much bigger door so an argument seemed futile. Eventually they begrudgingly believed me and heaved the sofa around the back where we had our second disagreement over an intrusive cat flap that I didn’t know how to remove. While I stood around feeling unwanted in my own home the two men eventually got the sofa in and dumped it, vertically, in the kitchen.
“Right, there you are mate.”
I wasn’t planning on keeping it in the kitchen.
“Don't want to be awkward but is there any chance you could move it through to the living room?”
“We’ve gotta rush off.” Neck tattoo said unapologetically. “All you have to do is unscrew the legs and you’ll be able to take it through. No problem at all.”
“Okay, thanks.”
The other man then asked if he could use my toilet and walked upstairs with muddy boots on. At least seven minutes later, neck tattoo and I were still stood around in silence waiting for him.
What rush?
It turned out that the legs didn’t need to be taken off and I managed to wrestle it through the door and into its spot without flattening myself. This just about completes the essentials needed for our house although judging from the amount of time Louise spends excitedly trawling through the Homebase website, she disagrees.
With the house nearly sorted and me now being legally allowed to drive, things are calming down and I’m hoping to settle into a bit of a routine. Over what has been a fairly hectic few weeks, the only constant seems to have been losing money on football accumulators. It may sound boring but I enjoy having a weekly routine of sorts; I reckon if you play a sport / go for a run twice a week and spending at least one day of the weekend not being hungover then you have a decent balance. And of course reading Monday Musings - an essential part of anyone's week.
My friends and I played basketball on Wednesday which I enjoyed and am hoping will become a regular fixture. It’s something a bit different and you are statistically much less likely to get deliberately kicked by a man from Beeston than you are when you play five-aside football. I do have a bad habit of doing things, enjoying them, saying I will do them again and then not doing them again though.
In my early teenage years and in the wake of a lightening growth spurt, I used to play basketball a lot. One of my regular balling partners was a short, chubby guy who lived in a rough part of Leeds. On one occasion, a bunch of older kids had chased after three of us, presumably wanting to mug us or beat us up. Neither great options.
We managed to sprint to the relative safety of a corner shop but they just stood outside waiting. For ages. I made an arrangement with the shopkeeper that if I bought a 50p mix, we could stay in the shop to eat it but still the tough kids waited. They were annoyingly patient for hoodlums.
Eventually we ran out, going for the reckless option of splitting up and going our separate ways; every man for himself. With energy levels boosted from fizzing lances and those weird 1p sherbet straw things, one friend and I managed to get away and back to the house. Our third pal was not so lucky though and got caught by one of the gang and punched a few times. Gladly, he wasn’t seriously hurt and in years to come, he went on to become friends with his assailant so I suppose that’s a happy ending of sorts? Kind of. Still, I’m really glad that sort of thing doesn’t happen anymore.
The fear factor of the area was worth it though as my friend had skilfully constructed his own basketball hoop using some plywood and a car tyre. With the chunky rim, it was easy to get it in so we both wound up thinking we were much better than we actually were. My friend was adamant that he was going to move to the States and become professional and I’d decided I was good enough to warrant spending forty quid (four paper rounds) on a purple Toronto Raptors vest. In fairness, there was added incentive to buy it as Vince Carter was then the star player and we, of course, share a surname. Genius.
My basketball career ended in a damp squib in the end. On account of being unusually tall rather than any good, I got asked to trials to play for Leeds. Unfortunately, I didn’t make the team and gave up. (This is one of those stories that I bring up after four pints and have bored most of my friends with numerous times – similar to a guy saying “I could have been a professional footballer but...”)
I digressed a bit there. Didn’t realize I had so much to say about basketball.
In another return to my roots, Louise, my dad and I worked on the bar at a beer festival that my brother helped to organize on Friday. Well ‘return to roots’ may be overplaying it a bit - I used to work at Headingley Stadium where the only drink we served was pints of Carlsberg or Tetley's from a six-pint dispenser. All you had to do was press a green button so I can’t really claim to be a skilled barman. The only tricky part of the job was having to deal with complaining, beer-soaked customers after their flimsy cardboard beer-holders had broken.
This happened a lot.
I enjoyed being behind a bar again. After a shaky and emasculating opening ten minutes where I struggled to pour a decent pint and had to be individually tutored by a man called Jonathon from Theakston brewery, it was good fun. I befriended a guy working our bar who ran a car dealership - a fellow petrol head. I neglected to tell him that I had been on the road for nine days. Unimportant. We were actively encouraged to drink on the job which always helps a shift doesn’t it?
A pet hate of mine is when you go to a bar and the bar staff are more interested in flirting with one another than serving you a drink. I am, alas, a terrible hypocrite and begun playing a game with Louise to see who could serve the most beers. Louise predictably proved more popular with punters. When I asked what beer he would like, one man replied: “I don’t care, as long as she serves me it.”
Thanks.
With this blatant favouritism going on, I resorted to challenging customers to downing contests in order to get some attention; another example of me rolling back the years, this time to the maturity levels of a seventeen year old in Magaluf. The plan went well initially and I saw a steady increase in the amount of beer I served. This was until a muscular man tricked me and pretended that he was going to participate then didn’t down his beer, leaving me red faced and with Old Peculiar ale on my chin. Just to rub it in, he took a small, satisfied sip of his ale and made a quip to his mate about pacing yourself, citing the tortoise and the hare. With the Aesop's fable reference prompting doubt, I stopped the downing contest tactic after this and reluctantly admitted that Louise is a better bar person than me.
On the back of such a fun night, I've decided that I would like a part time bar job, possibly one or two nights a week? However, realistically this will be another case where I do something, enjoy it, say I will do it again and then don’t do it again.
The men seemed annoyed with me that the sofa didn’t fit through the front door, which I suppose was a reasonable thing to be annoyed about. It must happen a lot in their line of work. I did at least have a contingency plan, informing the men that the back door is bigger and it should be fine. They were dismissive.
“Have you measured it?”
I hadn’t but it is quite obviously a much bigger door so an argument seemed futile. Eventually they begrudgingly believed me and heaved the sofa around the back where we had our second disagreement over an intrusive cat flap that I didn’t know how to remove. While I stood around feeling unwanted in my own home the two men eventually got the sofa in and dumped it, vertically, in the kitchen.
“Right, there you are mate.”
I wasn’t planning on keeping it in the kitchen.
“Don't want to be awkward but is there any chance you could move it through to the living room?”
“We’ve gotta rush off.” Neck tattoo said unapologetically. “All you have to do is unscrew the legs and you’ll be able to take it through. No problem at all.”
“Okay, thanks.”
The other man then asked if he could use my toilet and walked upstairs with muddy boots on. At least seven minutes later, neck tattoo and I were still stood around in silence waiting for him.
What rush?
It turned out that the legs didn’t need to be taken off and I managed to wrestle it through the door and into its spot without flattening myself. This just about completes the essentials needed for our house although judging from the amount of time Louise spends excitedly trawling through the Homebase website, she disagrees.
With the house nearly sorted and me now being legally allowed to drive, things are calming down and I’m hoping to settle into a bit of a routine. Over what has been a fairly hectic few weeks, the only constant seems to have been losing money on football accumulators. It may sound boring but I enjoy having a weekly routine of sorts; I reckon if you play a sport / go for a run twice a week and spending at least one day of the weekend not being hungover then you have a decent balance. And of course reading Monday Musings - an essential part of anyone's week.
My friends and I played basketball on Wednesday which I enjoyed and am hoping will become a regular fixture. It’s something a bit different and you are statistically much less likely to get deliberately kicked by a man from Beeston than you are when you play five-aside football. I do have a bad habit of doing things, enjoying them, saying I will do them again and then not doing them again though.
In my early teenage years and in the wake of a lightening growth spurt, I used to play basketball a lot. One of my regular balling partners was a short, chubby guy who lived in a rough part of Leeds. On one occasion, a bunch of older kids had chased after three of us, presumably wanting to mug us or beat us up. Neither great options.
We managed to sprint to the relative safety of a corner shop but they just stood outside waiting. For ages. I made an arrangement with the shopkeeper that if I bought a 50p mix, we could stay in the shop to eat it but still the tough kids waited. They were annoyingly patient for hoodlums.
Eventually we ran out, going for the reckless option of splitting up and going our separate ways; every man for himself. With energy levels boosted from fizzing lances and those weird 1p sherbet straw things, one friend and I managed to get away and back to the house. Our third pal was not so lucky though and got caught by one of the gang and punched a few times. Gladly, he wasn’t seriously hurt and in years to come, he went on to become friends with his assailant so I suppose that’s a happy ending of sorts? Kind of. Still, I’m really glad that sort of thing doesn’t happen anymore.
The fear factor of the area was worth it though as my friend had skilfully constructed his own basketball hoop using some plywood and a car tyre. With the chunky rim, it was easy to get it in so we both wound up thinking we were much better than we actually were. My friend was adamant that he was going to move to the States and become professional and I’d decided I was good enough to warrant spending forty quid (four paper rounds) on a purple Toronto Raptors vest. In fairness, there was added incentive to buy it as Vince Carter was then the star player and we, of course, share a surname. Genius.
My basketball career ended in a damp squib in the end. On account of being unusually tall rather than any good, I got asked to trials to play for Leeds. Unfortunately, I didn’t make the team and gave up. (This is one of those stories that I bring up after four pints and have bored most of my friends with numerous times – similar to a guy saying “I could have been a professional footballer but...”)
I digressed a bit there. Didn’t realize I had so much to say about basketball.
In another return to my roots, Louise, my dad and I worked on the bar at a beer festival that my brother helped to organize on Friday. Well ‘return to roots’ may be overplaying it a bit - I used to work at Headingley Stadium where the only drink we served was pints of Carlsberg or Tetley's from a six-pint dispenser. All you had to do was press a green button so I can’t really claim to be a skilled barman. The only tricky part of the job was having to deal with complaining, beer-soaked customers after their flimsy cardboard beer-holders had broken.
This happened a lot.
I enjoyed being behind a bar again. After a shaky and emasculating opening ten minutes where I struggled to pour a decent pint and had to be individually tutored by a man called Jonathon from Theakston brewery, it was good fun. I befriended a guy working our bar who ran a car dealership - a fellow petrol head. I neglected to tell him that I had been on the road for nine days. Unimportant. We were actively encouraged to drink on the job which always helps a shift doesn’t it?
A pet hate of mine is when you go to a bar and the bar staff are more interested in flirting with one another than serving you a drink. I am, alas, a terrible hypocrite and begun playing a game with Louise to see who could serve the most beers. Louise predictably proved more popular with punters. When I asked what beer he would like, one man replied: “I don’t care, as long as she serves me it.”
Thanks.
With this blatant favouritism going on, I resorted to challenging customers to downing contests in order to get some attention; another example of me rolling back the years, this time to the maturity levels of a seventeen year old in Magaluf. The plan went well initially and I saw a steady increase in the amount of beer I served. This was until a muscular man tricked me and pretended that he was going to participate then didn’t down his beer, leaving me red faced and with Old Peculiar ale on my chin. Just to rub it in, he took a small, satisfied sip of his ale and made a quip to his mate about pacing yourself, citing the tortoise and the hare. With the Aesop's fable reference prompting doubt, I stopped the downing contest tactic after this and reluctantly admitted that Louise is a better bar person than me.
On the back of such a fun night, I've decided that I would like a part time bar job, possibly one or two nights a week? However, realistically this will be another case where I do something, enjoy it, say I will do it again and then don’t do it again.
February 1, 2016
Monday Musings 8
I passed my driving test last Wednesday. Thank god. At twenty-nine, it was about time. I will now admit that I failed not one but two previous tests. I failed the second one, on a misty Saturday morning, by getting overexcited that I’d passed and staying in the fast lane on the way back to the test centre. I was two minutes from passing which was a downfall so frustrating that I chose to tell nobody about it. Apart from Louise of course – I was great company that afternoon.
My new glasses certainly played their part in my eventual success. I flew through the eyesight test, reeling out the number plate with assurance and swaggering to the car feeling as though this was it. Seven minors, one millimetre from the kerb in my manoeuvre and a very near major later, I was shaking my examiner's hand and patting him on the back like we had been mates for years. Job done. The hefty cost to my wallet and emotional well-being a thing of the past.
After treating my driving instructor to a four pack of room temperature Carling for his efforts (Mr. Generous), I set off on my maiden voyage. I put on a Dr Dre album, wound the windows down and cruised through town, honking at groups of admiring women.
Okay, that is a lie. I nervously stuttered along the road, stalled on a hill start, failed to give way on a bridge to the chagrin of an elderly woman and a van driver, then finally struggled to park at work, paying so much attention to not grazing my boss’s car that I inadvertently drove, incredibly slowly, into a wall. Fortunately there were no witnesses and the car is fine. My self-esteem? Not fine.
Things improved over the next couple of days though and I have started to enjoy the freedom of the open road, apart from roundabouts. Roundabouts are still frightening. One thing I need to sort out is what to listen to in the car. I’ve found myself tuning into Nick Grimshaw’s breakfast show on Radio 1 on the work commute. Listening to the crew giddily discuss ‘the bagel situation’ (Grimshaw wanted a full bagel and an excitable woman only wanted half a bagel) for the duration of my commute was a chastening experience. Grimshaw, and most of the Radio 1 team actually, are the type of people who were social secretary at university and had lots of acquaintances but few friends.
A friend of mine works for the BBC. When he was shown the Radio 1 offices, he was greeted by a pair of twenty-somethings racing each other down the corridor on computer chairs, which is not surprising at all. I imagine they were high fiving one another screaming: ‘This is literally the best thing ever!’
Regarding my radio options, you are probably thinking – ‘Why don’t you change the station then Andy, you dickhead?’ – which would be a very reasonable question. Any suggestions? Have I hit Radio 4 age?
On an evening drive to a suburban retail park, (thug life) I decided to address the situation and looked through the CD’s which Louise keeps in her glove compartment. Her collection is an interesting one; Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Kelly Clarkson, Delta Goodrem and Ashlee Simpson. A cynic might call her taste a bit samey although Louise would shut these cynics up instantly by showing them 'Does This Look Infected?' by Sum 41 (which was misplaced in a Hillary Duff case).
Among the CD’s, I found a compilation which I had burnt for Louise in the early days of our relationship. The days of burning CD’s seems like a lifetime ago doesn’t it? It was interesting remembering what kind of music the twenty-year-old me listened to. I’ll rephrase that – the kind of music the twenty-year-old me thought would make him seem cool and impress a girl.
The CD wildly exaggerated my fondness for UK hip-hop as well as revealing my outgoing personality with dance music tracks by J.U.S.T.I.C.E et al thrown in. I’d also evidenced my sensitive side by ending with ‘Hey there Delilah.’ Nailed it. Well, not really. If I’d known what Louise’s music collection entailed beforehand, I wouldn’t have bothered. A discounted ‘chick flick’ compilation from WHSmith would have done the job.
Passing my test was the highlight of a good week. I celebrated by gate-crashing a 'girl's night out' with my mother and Louise. This had been planned a while ago and I feel slightly guilty for turning it into a celebration of my belated driving success.
Louise and I have started finding our feet in our new community. We introduced ourselves to the guy who runs the newsagent next door, however I didn't hear when he told me his name so will now never know. You can't ask again can you?
We also went to the local curry house, which was pleasant although run by a sarcastic joker who threatened to derail my good mood. His first gag was to pretend the restaurant was full and we couldn't come in. I foolishly, it transpired, believed him and turned to leave.
'I'm only messing with you mate.' he said, not laughing and showed us to our seat in the sparse restaurant.
When I ordered the keema naan, he asked if I wanted stuffed crust or deep pan. Confused, I stalled.
"I'm only messing with you mate" he said, again not laughing before turning to Louise. "This guy is too gullible."
Brilliant.
I'll get him back one day. I prefer Rajput anyway.
We are making good progress with the house. Louise and I assembled a flat pack bed without splitting up and we have a sofa on the way – at some point within the next 8 – 10 days, between 8am and 9pm.
However, after saving the day last week (https://t.co/mshlSsp2tE), there was a sense of hero to zero with my dad a few days ago. He came round to fit a mirror (he is from the generation where men can actually do things) and thought it a good idea to bring his friend’s dog along.
This was not a good idea.
The hyperactive hound bound in, ran upstairs and pissed all over our bedroom carpet. It’s a nice dog but this attack seemed malicious – why did it have to be the bedroom? As my flustered dad apologized whilst looking for a sponge, there was a knock at the door from our new neighbour.
“Is this your car?” she asked, pointing to my dad’s car which has an illogically large bike-rack attached to it and was quite clearly blocking her in. My dad went out and moved it up the road to a seemingly better spot. My neighbour on the other side didn’t think so and came out of his house to ask my dad to move his car for the second time in four minutes.
At least the mirror is now proudly hung up in our living room. Unfortunately the remnants of the piss stain on our bedroom carpet are still visible.
My new glasses certainly played their part in my eventual success. I flew through the eyesight test, reeling out the number plate with assurance and swaggering to the car feeling as though this was it. Seven minors, one millimetre from the kerb in my manoeuvre and a very near major later, I was shaking my examiner's hand and patting him on the back like we had been mates for years. Job done. The hefty cost to my wallet and emotional well-being a thing of the past.
After treating my driving instructor to a four pack of room temperature Carling for his efforts (Mr. Generous), I set off on my maiden voyage. I put on a Dr Dre album, wound the windows down and cruised through town, honking at groups of admiring women.
Okay, that is a lie. I nervously stuttered along the road, stalled on a hill start, failed to give way on a bridge to the chagrin of an elderly woman and a van driver, then finally struggled to park at work, paying so much attention to not grazing my boss’s car that I inadvertently drove, incredibly slowly, into a wall. Fortunately there were no witnesses and the car is fine. My self-esteem? Not fine.
Things improved over the next couple of days though and I have started to enjoy the freedom of the open road, apart from roundabouts. Roundabouts are still frightening. One thing I need to sort out is what to listen to in the car. I’ve found myself tuning into Nick Grimshaw’s breakfast show on Radio 1 on the work commute. Listening to the crew giddily discuss ‘the bagel situation’ (Grimshaw wanted a full bagel and an excitable woman only wanted half a bagel) for the duration of my commute was a chastening experience. Grimshaw, and most of the Radio 1 team actually, are the type of people who were social secretary at university and had lots of acquaintances but few friends.
A friend of mine works for the BBC. When he was shown the Radio 1 offices, he was greeted by a pair of twenty-somethings racing each other down the corridor on computer chairs, which is not surprising at all. I imagine they were high fiving one another screaming: ‘This is literally the best thing ever!’
Regarding my radio options, you are probably thinking – ‘Why don’t you change the station then Andy, you dickhead?’ – which would be a very reasonable question. Any suggestions? Have I hit Radio 4 age?
On an evening drive to a suburban retail park, (thug life) I decided to address the situation and looked through the CD’s which Louise keeps in her glove compartment. Her collection is an interesting one; Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Kelly Clarkson, Delta Goodrem and Ashlee Simpson. A cynic might call her taste a bit samey although Louise would shut these cynics up instantly by showing them 'Does This Look Infected?' by Sum 41 (which was misplaced in a Hillary Duff case).
Among the CD’s, I found a compilation which I had burnt for Louise in the early days of our relationship. The days of burning CD’s seems like a lifetime ago doesn’t it? It was interesting remembering what kind of music the twenty-year-old me listened to. I’ll rephrase that – the kind of music the twenty-year-old me thought would make him seem cool and impress a girl.
The CD wildly exaggerated my fondness for UK hip-hop as well as revealing my outgoing personality with dance music tracks by J.U.S.T.I.C.E et al thrown in. I’d also evidenced my sensitive side by ending with ‘Hey there Delilah.’ Nailed it. Well, not really. If I’d known what Louise’s music collection entailed beforehand, I wouldn’t have bothered. A discounted ‘chick flick’ compilation from WHSmith would have done the job.
Passing my test was the highlight of a good week. I celebrated by gate-crashing a 'girl's night out' with my mother and Louise. This had been planned a while ago and I feel slightly guilty for turning it into a celebration of my belated driving success.
Louise and I have started finding our feet in our new community. We introduced ourselves to the guy who runs the newsagent next door, however I didn't hear when he told me his name so will now never know. You can't ask again can you?
We also went to the local curry house, which was pleasant although run by a sarcastic joker who threatened to derail my good mood. His first gag was to pretend the restaurant was full and we couldn't come in. I foolishly, it transpired, believed him and turned to leave.
'I'm only messing with you mate.' he said, not laughing and showed us to our seat in the sparse restaurant.
When I ordered the keema naan, he asked if I wanted stuffed crust or deep pan. Confused, I stalled.
"I'm only messing with you mate" he said, again not laughing before turning to Louise. "This guy is too gullible."
Brilliant.
I'll get him back one day. I prefer Rajput anyway.
We are making good progress with the house. Louise and I assembled a flat pack bed without splitting up and we have a sofa on the way – at some point within the next 8 – 10 days, between 8am and 9pm.
However, after saving the day last week (https://t.co/mshlSsp2tE), there was a sense of hero to zero with my dad a few days ago. He came round to fit a mirror (he is from the generation where men can actually do things) and thought it a good idea to bring his friend’s dog along.
This was not a good idea.
The hyperactive hound bound in, ran upstairs and pissed all over our bedroom carpet. It’s a nice dog but this attack seemed malicious – why did it have to be the bedroom? As my flustered dad apologized whilst looking for a sponge, there was a knock at the door from our new neighbour.
“Is this your car?” she asked, pointing to my dad’s car which has an illogically large bike-rack attached to it and was quite clearly blocking her in. My dad went out and moved it up the road to a seemingly better spot. My neighbour on the other side didn’t think so and came out of his house to ask my dad to move his car for the second time in four minutes.
At least the mirror is now proudly hung up in our living room. Unfortunately the remnants of the piss stain on our bedroom carpet are still visible.
January 25, 2016
Monday Musings 7
So, after a short absence, you’ll no doubt be delighted at the return of Monday Musings.
It's been a busy couple of weeks.
Louise and I moved house last Friday. Into a house that we have bought, which is a substantial thing to happen I suppose. It was a stressful few months leading up to it, although for long periods I didn’t have a clue what was going on. Stamp duty? No idea.
Unlike me, Louise is good at life admin so took the reigns and did almost everything. After she had spoken on the phone to solicitors or estate agents, I tried to read whether the news was good or bad before responding with a nod and a smile, or a concerned look and shake of head. These expressions normally did the trick in terms of feigning my understanding and involvement and I imagine they will also come in handy for when we start planning our wedding.
Eventually, with the help of parents but not really solicitors – they didn’t do much – we managed to get a lovely little place. Apart from the fact that I’m currently sat on an inflatable camping sofa which needs more air in it, things are taking shape nicely. I'm hoping that a proper sofa will magically appear without having to trawl around Ikea again, which is a harrowing experience. The meatballs are overrated too.
Moving itself wasn’t too bad although the clean-up mission of the old flat was obviously arduous. I did my bit but became distracted while hoovering, first playing a lengthy game involving attempting to chip a tennis ball into a bin before, less imaginatively, putting the hoover on scales and attempting to guess its weight. This was probably not essential information. For those of you that are interested, I can tell you that a Dyson hoover is surprisingly light.
We are still waiting to hear how much of our deposit the landlord will pocket. If he doesn’t notice where I dropped a hot iron on the carpet and smouldered it, I think we have should get most of it back. It’s a big if.
I was happy to get out of the flat. Although we leave with fond memories and met some good people on the street, the time had come. This was made apparent when, at 4am on a Tuesday, the damp wallpaper above our bed peeled from the wall and smothered my face while I was sleeping. Genuinely terrifying.
I won’t miss the guys who lived above us much. They had - I kid you not - a bouldering wall built in their living room, which was directly above ours. When I first saw them putting it up, it looked like a sacrificial artefact and I’d feared that they were Satanists. Fortunately they were just keen climbers but within a few nights, I’d decided that Satanists would have made better neighbours.
Every night they put on the sort of rock music I listened to when I was fifteen and continually fell off their wall onto the floor. They can’t have been very good climbers. In fairness, it was probably good fun but it became a bit tiresome. One (or possibly both) of the guys were aspiring musicians too and ostensibly the most creative time for their song writing was post 11pm on a weekday.
I made my feelings about these guys crystal clear – not by knocking on their door and asking them to quieten down – but by neglecting to take their wheelie bins out when I took mine, which I had always done for our previous neighbour, a quiet community support officer. That had the shitbags told.
Having read that back, I realize that moaning about people younger than me making a bit of noise and enjoying themselves makes me sound like an old bastard. Is that’s what I’ve become? I do have increasingly grey hair and sometimes my back aches. I spent last Sunday at Furniture Village (where I bumped into a similarly fraught looking friend with his fiancée) and I don’t just find Radio 1 irritating anymore – I can’t actually listen to it. I have also recently acquired my first pair of glasses. Is that it? Is my youth over?
My optician, who was oddly flirtatious, informed me that I have probably been short sighted for quite some time. I think deep down I knew this but was in denial. I think part of me is still concerned about potential new nicknames. "Specky four eyes'' was particularly damning in my primary school days.
The final straw was during my recent (failed)driving test when the guy asked me to read a number plate and all I could see were shimmering black blobs. He gave me another chance with a closer car, but I failed again. With this, my cheery (miserable, bit of a bastard) examiner tutted and went to get a really long tape measure. As I stood in the morning drizzle watching him scowling and taking forever to unravel the thing, I considered whether this was the unhappiest I'd ever felt.
Fortunately after a bit of squinting, I just about managed to read the last one. The damage had been done though; before getting into the car, I already felt like a failure, which is poor preparation for a driving test.
I need to pass soon really. Last Monday (why is it always Monday?), I had a horror show. I arrived at work and realized I had left my bike keys, and front door keys on the floor of our garage. Panicking that we were going to get burgled within 48 hours of moving in, and it would be my fault entirely, I paced around the office sweating before reaching a solution.
I called my dad and he sorted everything out.
The perks of having a retired dad are vast. He dropped the keys off at my office and even gave me a lift to a meeting, which I was now running late for. We got badly lost. After my dad nearly pulled out in front of a van near Bradford, he looked at me and uttered the wise words: 'Stress is contagious Andy.'
It certainly is.
Anyway I made it to the meeting eventually and everything was fine. Thanks dad. This sort of thing shouldn't be happening anymore should it?
My next driving test is coming up pretty soon though I’m not going to reveal how soon. If it takes me ten attempts and until October to pass, then I would like people to assume that by soon, I meant October. No other tests were taken between now and then. I'm not going to mention it again until I’ve passed.
With that said, I've just had a flashback of Friday night and I think I told my friends the exact time and date of my test. I also have hazy memories of sitting in my pal’s living room at 3am, drinking a large Merlot and slurringly attempting to describe the synopsis for my next book. It can’t have sounded very good at all.
I do plan to start my second book soon. I keep putting it off with things like: ‘When we move house, I’ll start.’ My latest idea is that once I have a new swivel chair, I will begin. I’ve never owned a swivel chair so how helpful it will be is unclear. It could easily be more of a distraction than an inspiration.
One thing is for sure, this inflatable camping sofa isn't going to cut it.
It's been a busy couple of weeks.
Louise and I moved house last Friday. Into a house that we have bought, which is a substantial thing to happen I suppose. It was a stressful few months leading up to it, although for long periods I didn’t have a clue what was going on. Stamp duty? No idea.
Unlike me, Louise is good at life admin so took the reigns and did almost everything. After she had spoken on the phone to solicitors or estate agents, I tried to read whether the news was good or bad before responding with a nod and a smile, or a concerned look and shake of head. These expressions normally did the trick in terms of feigning my understanding and involvement and I imagine they will also come in handy for when we start planning our wedding.
Eventually, with the help of parents but not really solicitors – they didn’t do much – we managed to get a lovely little place. Apart from the fact that I’m currently sat on an inflatable camping sofa which needs more air in it, things are taking shape nicely. I'm hoping that a proper sofa will magically appear without having to trawl around Ikea again, which is a harrowing experience. The meatballs are overrated too.
Moving itself wasn’t too bad although the clean-up mission of the old flat was obviously arduous. I did my bit but became distracted while hoovering, first playing a lengthy game involving attempting to chip a tennis ball into a bin before, less imaginatively, putting the hoover on scales and attempting to guess its weight. This was probably not essential information. For those of you that are interested, I can tell you that a Dyson hoover is surprisingly light.
We are still waiting to hear how much of our deposit the landlord will pocket. If he doesn’t notice where I dropped a hot iron on the carpet and smouldered it, I think we have should get most of it back. It’s a big if.
I was happy to get out of the flat. Although we leave with fond memories and met some good people on the street, the time had come. This was made apparent when, at 4am on a Tuesday, the damp wallpaper above our bed peeled from the wall and smothered my face while I was sleeping. Genuinely terrifying.
I won’t miss the guys who lived above us much. They had - I kid you not - a bouldering wall built in their living room, which was directly above ours. When I first saw them putting it up, it looked like a sacrificial artefact and I’d feared that they were Satanists. Fortunately they were just keen climbers but within a few nights, I’d decided that Satanists would have made better neighbours.
Every night they put on the sort of rock music I listened to when I was fifteen and continually fell off their wall onto the floor. They can’t have been very good climbers. In fairness, it was probably good fun but it became a bit tiresome. One (or possibly both) of the guys were aspiring musicians too and ostensibly the most creative time for their song writing was post 11pm on a weekday.
I made my feelings about these guys crystal clear – not by knocking on their door and asking them to quieten down – but by neglecting to take their wheelie bins out when I took mine, which I had always done for our previous neighbour, a quiet community support officer. That had the shitbags told.
Having read that back, I realize that moaning about people younger than me making a bit of noise and enjoying themselves makes me sound like an old bastard. Is that’s what I’ve become? I do have increasingly grey hair and sometimes my back aches. I spent last Sunday at Furniture Village (where I bumped into a similarly fraught looking friend with his fiancée) and I don’t just find Radio 1 irritating anymore – I can’t actually listen to it. I have also recently acquired my first pair of glasses. Is that it? Is my youth over?
My optician, who was oddly flirtatious, informed me that I have probably been short sighted for quite some time. I think deep down I knew this but was in denial. I think part of me is still concerned about potential new nicknames. "Specky four eyes'' was particularly damning in my primary school days.
The final straw was during my recent (failed)driving test when the guy asked me to read a number plate and all I could see were shimmering black blobs. He gave me another chance with a closer car, but I failed again. With this, my cheery (miserable, bit of a bastard) examiner tutted and went to get a really long tape measure. As I stood in the morning drizzle watching him scowling and taking forever to unravel the thing, I considered whether this was the unhappiest I'd ever felt.
Fortunately after a bit of squinting, I just about managed to read the last one. The damage had been done though; before getting into the car, I already felt like a failure, which is poor preparation for a driving test.
I need to pass soon really. Last Monday (why is it always Monday?), I had a horror show. I arrived at work and realized I had left my bike keys, and front door keys on the floor of our garage. Panicking that we were going to get burgled within 48 hours of moving in, and it would be my fault entirely, I paced around the office sweating before reaching a solution.
I called my dad and he sorted everything out.
The perks of having a retired dad are vast. He dropped the keys off at my office and even gave me a lift to a meeting, which I was now running late for. We got badly lost. After my dad nearly pulled out in front of a van near Bradford, he looked at me and uttered the wise words: 'Stress is contagious Andy.'
It certainly is.
Anyway I made it to the meeting eventually and everything was fine. Thanks dad. This sort of thing shouldn't be happening anymore should it?
My next driving test is coming up pretty soon though I’m not going to reveal how soon. If it takes me ten attempts and until October to pass, then I would like people to assume that by soon, I meant October. No other tests were taken between now and then. I'm not going to mention it again until I’ve passed.
With that said, I've just had a flashback of Friday night and I think I told my friends the exact time and date of my test. I also have hazy memories of sitting in my pal’s living room at 3am, drinking a large Merlot and slurringly attempting to describe the synopsis for my next book. It can’t have sounded very good at all.
I do plan to start my second book soon. I keep putting it off with things like: ‘When we move house, I’ll start.’ My latest idea is that once I have a new swivel chair, I will begin. I’ve never owned a swivel chair so how helpful it will be is unclear. It could easily be more of a distraction than an inspiration.
One thing is for sure, this inflatable camping sofa isn't going to cut it.
December 23, 2015
Festive Musings
A few weeks ago I found myself having one of those times that is so shit that you question what you must have done so wrong in a former life. I had a meeting five miles from my work and opted to cycle. Just before setting off, the zip on my rucksack did that infuriating thing where the teeth won’t close properly. With a bit of nous and patience, this problem can usually be fixed. However, I have neither and after a lazy and ambitious attempt to use masking tape to close it, I gave up and decided to carry the bag’s contents in my left hand.
If I’d been in my job a bit longer, I would have asked a colleague for a lift or maybe a spare bag. At the very least, some advice. I’m still trying to come across as cool and competent though so after hiding the broken rucksack and tangle of masking tape under my chair, I left with a confident goodbye.
As I set off, riding one handed, it started raining heavily. This did little to aid my comprehension of the directions I’d handwritten on a post-it and flustered, I took a wrong turn and ended up on the hard shoulder of a motorway.
Cycling along waveringly and probably in the wrong direction, I struggled to work out the most aerodynamic way of holding a clipboard in the swirling wind and rain. A man in a van shouted something barely decipherable but definitely derogatory at me before the final insult came when, in the midst of the chaos, the chain came off my bike.
Come on now?
As I sat on the hard shoulder, trying to reattach the chain with freezing cold hands and carrying the clipboard under my armpit, I started laughing at how stupid this was. Surely things can’t get any worse?
I’m aware that this is quite a bleak story. Probably not suitable for Christmas?
It gets worse.
A week after the cycling mishap came a cycling disaster. I naively left my bike locked to some railings outside the snooker centre and some shitbag pinched my back wheel. I didn’t previously think of snooker players as thieves and vandals but from now on when I watch the Crucible on TV, I will be eyeing the players with suspicion. Who steals one wheel? How much can you sell a solitary wheel for? Who are the buyers?
This was annoying but my driving test was three days later so I consoled myself that I would soon be joining the rest of the twenty nine year old population in having a fast, convenient, and sheltered mode of transport.
After listening to the advice of a pal, I tried to form a rapport with my test examiner.
“If he likes you, you’ll pass. 100%.”
I'd thought that there might be a bit more to it but followed my friend’s guidance nonetheless.
Unfortunately my guy wasn’t in the mood for small talk.
“So, how many tests do you normally have in a day?”
“Left at the next junction.”
“Plans for Christmas?”
“Take the second exit at the next roundabout.”
New friendships were not formed and obviously I failed. Unduly hesitant.
Failing is really quite upsetting but at least I gave the examiner a dirty look, then responded in a series of dismissive grunts when he explained that I should have overtaken a bus. The bastard got what he deserved.
When I got home and it had sunk in, I found myself feeling as annoyed as I’ve ever been. In the same league as unrequited love when you are a teenager. I was so annoyed in fact that I quite literally did not know what to do with myself. I considered, but fortunately decided against, punching a door. This would have been a very short term solution. What are you supposed to do in such states of agitation though? A whisky? Loud music? A bike ride? (Or, in my current situation, a unicycle ride.)
I rang Louise and got rationally angry with her for being able to drive, before trudging to Spar and buying a very average meal deal.
Nailed it.
I’ll pass next time. Maybe.
Okay, I'll try a subtle shift on to more cheery topics.
Christmas is good isn’t it?
The season of goodwill, time off, (the wind down starts after Bonfire night doesn’t it?) quality time spent with friends and family, packed football fixture list and the only time of year where it is socially acceptable to become a functioning alcoholic. This Christmas will be particularly good as I have a cool eleven days off. Last year, I had a harrowing time working in my cold calling recruitment job seemingly every day over the festive period. The box of Quality Streets and tinsel on the monitors fooled nobody into thinking it was anything less than awful.
I always enjoy Christmas Eve. In years gone by my pals and I have held a fine festive routine of playing football at Goals before going to the Original Oak, often via the bookmakers. Everyone is keen to play well in this fixture as the first two pints at the pub are usually spent scrutinizing one another’s performances. After a characteristically poor showing one year, I felt paranoid that my friends taking a bit too long at the bar had been side-tracked and were slamming my inability to track back.
On Christmas Eve, the Oak hosts a nostalgic congregation of old friends, acquaintances and foes who have come back to Leeds from far and wide (London) for the festive period. As most people are in a cheery mood / drunk, you always find yourself talking to an interesting cross section of your past and present. Or being cornered by someone who you never really got on with as they tell you about how they have smashed their targets and earned a bonus before waiting for you to get a round in.
“Grab us a Sambuca as well Andy, yeah?”
There is one old primary school classmate with whom I have an odd tradition. Circa 1994, we used to play a crap football game on his Sega Mega Drive. Once, there was a malfunction in his game and the commentator said some bizarre things that made no sense. When we see each other on Christmas Eve, which is the only time we ever see each other, we repeat these commentator glitches, then walk on. That’s it. No small talk.
I have absolutely no idea what he is doing with his life.
The Oak, like every pub in England I imagine, descends into sloppy group hugs and singing along to the Pogues. People think that they are being niche when they tell you that it’s their favourite Christmas song despite the fact that it’s everyone’s favourite Christmas song. There is little competition though is there? At my mother’s Christmas do last weekend, I would have been quite happy to launch ‘Now that’s what I call Christmas’ under the wheels of a truck after its third loop. Or put it in a microwave. If you’ve never put a CD in a microwave, I can’t recommend it enough. Light show.
I’m not actually very well qualified to talk about the Oak at Christmas as I haven’t been for four years and I’m not going this year. Things might have changed? I doubt it though.
Comfortably the worst Christmas over these four years in absentia - and possibly my worst Christmas ever - was spent in the renowned Christmas paradise of Shenzhen, China. I woke up hungover and opened the curtains on Christmas morning. The view; a man riding a motorbike with a side cart into oncoming traffic.
I’d convinced Louise that it would be fine as I would book us in at an English pub for Christmas Day. We tried to find it on Christmas Eve, got lost and wound up going ten stops on the tube in the wrong direction. I’d also eaten some sushi that was given to me for free by an unconvincing Chinese Santa Claus which was a regrettable and inadvisable decision. As I sat, stomach churning, on a Chinese underground train, I wished I was in the Oak buying drinks for that guy that I never really got on with.
Our only option for Christmas dinner was at our soulless business hotel on the outskirts of the city. Turkey, stuffing and egg fried rice is an odd combination, although not as odd as the luxury dessert of a chocolate fountain, with only tomatoes to dip in it.
Well played China.
I'm confident that there will be no such culinary mishap this year and I'm looking forward to a good Christmas. I've got the worst bit over with; dodging the Mad Friday 'boss let us out at lunchtime!' crowd and managing to complete my Christmas shopping unscathed and in decent time. There will be no flustered Christmas Eve spent stumbling aimlessly around Wilkinson's this year so it's time to kick back and enjoy the festive season.
This is probably my last blog for a while (although I might get bored / seek attention and write one for New Year's Eve.) Thank you if you have read any of my nonsense over the last few months. An even bigger thank you if you have read my book.
Merry Christmas.
If I’d been in my job a bit longer, I would have asked a colleague for a lift or maybe a spare bag. At the very least, some advice. I’m still trying to come across as cool and competent though so after hiding the broken rucksack and tangle of masking tape under my chair, I left with a confident goodbye.
As I set off, riding one handed, it started raining heavily. This did little to aid my comprehension of the directions I’d handwritten on a post-it and flustered, I took a wrong turn and ended up on the hard shoulder of a motorway.
Cycling along waveringly and probably in the wrong direction, I struggled to work out the most aerodynamic way of holding a clipboard in the swirling wind and rain. A man in a van shouted something barely decipherable but definitely derogatory at me before the final insult came when, in the midst of the chaos, the chain came off my bike.
Come on now?
As I sat on the hard shoulder, trying to reattach the chain with freezing cold hands and carrying the clipboard under my armpit, I started laughing at how stupid this was. Surely things can’t get any worse?
I’m aware that this is quite a bleak story. Probably not suitable for Christmas?
It gets worse.
A week after the cycling mishap came a cycling disaster. I naively left my bike locked to some railings outside the snooker centre and some shitbag pinched my back wheel. I didn’t previously think of snooker players as thieves and vandals but from now on when I watch the Crucible on TV, I will be eyeing the players with suspicion. Who steals one wheel? How much can you sell a solitary wheel for? Who are the buyers?
This was annoying but my driving test was three days later so I consoled myself that I would soon be joining the rest of the twenty nine year old population in having a fast, convenient, and sheltered mode of transport.
After listening to the advice of a pal, I tried to form a rapport with my test examiner.
“If he likes you, you’ll pass. 100%.”
I'd thought that there might be a bit more to it but followed my friend’s guidance nonetheless.
Unfortunately my guy wasn’t in the mood for small talk.
“So, how many tests do you normally have in a day?”
“Left at the next junction.”
“Plans for Christmas?”
“Take the second exit at the next roundabout.”
New friendships were not formed and obviously I failed. Unduly hesitant.
Failing is really quite upsetting but at least I gave the examiner a dirty look, then responded in a series of dismissive grunts when he explained that I should have overtaken a bus. The bastard got what he deserved.
When I got home and it had sunk in, I found myself feeling as annoyed as I’ve ever been. In the same league as unrequited love when you are a teenager. I was so annoyed in fact that I quite literally did not know what to do with myself. I considered, but fortunately decided against, punching a door. This would have been a very short term solution. What are you supposed to do in such states of agitation though? A whisky? Loud music? A bike ride? (Or, in my current situation, a unicycle ride.)
I rang Louise and got rationally angry with her for being able to drive, before trudging to Spar and buying a very average meal deal.
Nailed it.
I’ll pass next time. Maybe.
Okay, I'll try a subtle shift on to more cheery topics.
Christmas is good isn’t it?
The season of goodwill, time off, (the wind down starts after Bonfire night doesn’t it?) quality time spent with friends and family, packed football fixture list and the only time of year where it is socially acceptable to become a functioning alcoholic. This Christmas will be particularly good as I have a cool eleven days off. Last year, I had a harrowing time working in my cold calling recruitment job seemingly every day over the festive period. The box of Quality Streets and tinsel on the monitors fooled nobody into thinking it was anything less than awful.
I always enjoy Christmas Eve. In years gone by my pals and I have held a fine festive routine of playing football at Goals before going to the Original Oak, often via the bookmakers. Everyone is keen to play well in this fixture as the first two pints at the pub are usually spent scrutinizing one another’s performances. After a characteristically poor showing one year, I felt paranoid that my friends taking a bit too long at the bar had been side-tracked and were slamming my inability to track back.
On Christmas Eve, the Oak hosts a nostalgic congregation of old friends, acquaintances and foes who have come back to Leeds from far and wide (London) for the festive period. As most people are in a cheery mood / drunk, you always find yourself talking to an interesting cross section of your past and present. Or being cornered by someone who you never really got on with as they tell you about how they have smashed their targets and earned a bonus before waiting for you to get a round in.
“Grab us a Sambuca as well Andy, yeah?”
There is one old primary school classmate with whom I have an odd tradition. Circa 1994, we used to play a crap football game on his Sega Mega Drive. Once, there was a malfunction in his game and the commentator said some bizarre things that made no sense. When we see each other on Christmas Eve, which is the only time we ever see each other, we repeat these commentator glitches, then walk on. That’s it. No small talk.
I have absolutely no idea what he is doing with his life.
The Oak, like every pub in England I imagine, descends into sloppy group hugs and singing along to the Pogues. People think that they are being niche when they tell you that it’s their favourite Christmas song despite the fact that it’s everyone’s favourite Christmas song. There is little competition though is there? At my mother’s Christmas do last weekend, I would have been quite happy to launch ‘Now that’s what I call Christmas’ under the wheels of a truck after its third loop. Or put it in a microwave. If you’ve never put a CD in a microwave, I can’t recommend it enough. Light show.
I’m not actually very well qualified to talk about the Oak at Christmas as I haven’t been for four years and I’m not going this year. Things might have changed? I doubt it though.
Comfortably the worst Christmas over these four years in absentia - and possibly my worst Christmas ever - was spent in the renowned Christmas paradise of Shenzhen, China. I woke up hungover and opened the curtains on Christmas morning. The view; a man riding a motorbike with a side cart into oncoming traffic.
I’d convinced Louise that it would be fine as I would book us in at an English pub for Christmas Day. We tried to find it on Christmas Eve, got lost and wound up going ten stops on the tube in the wrong direction. I’d also eaten some sushi that was given to me for free by an unconvincing Chinese Santa Claus which was a regrettable and inadvisable decision. As I sat, stomach churning, on a Chinese underground train, I wished I was in the Oak buying drinks for that guy that I never really got on with.
Our only option for Christmas dinner was at our soulless business hotel on the outskirts of the city. Turkey, stuffing and egg fried rice is an odd combination, although not as odd as the luxury dessert of a chocolate fountain, with only tomatoes to dip in it.
Well played China.
I'm confident that there will be no such culinary mishap this year and I'm looking forward to a good Christmas. I've got the worst bit over with; dodging the Mad Friday 'boss let us out at lunchtime!' crowd and managing to complete my Christmas shopping unscathed and in decent time. There will be no flustered Christmas Eve spent stumbling aimlessly around Wilkinson's this year so it's time to kick back and enjoy the festive season.
This is probably my last blog for a while (although I might get bored / seek attention and write one for New Year's Eve.) Thank you if you have read any of my nonsense over the last few months. An even bigger thank you if you have read my book.
Merry Christmas.
December 18, 2015
Leeds City Musings
Hi,
This week's blog features capes, casinos and handcuffs.
http://leedscitymagazine.co.uk/andrew...
Please have a read.
Cheers!
This week's blog features capes, casinos and handcuffs.
http://leedscitymagazine.co.uk/andrew...
Please have a read.
Cheers!
December 1, 2015
Leeds City Musings
Hi,
This week's blog is about the time Nelson Mandela came to Leeds.
http://leedscitymagazine.co.uk/andrew...
Please take a read.
Thanks,
Andy
This week's blog is about the time Nelson Mandela came to Leeds.
http://leedscitymagazine.co.uk/andrew...
Please take a read.
Thanks,
Andy
