'We're going on a blender hunt'

Today I'm off to buy a blender because this evening I'm going to start working out...yes working out...and I'm going to drink a muscle building smoothie afterwards. Check me out. This time tonight I'll be in the local gym surrounded by muscle bound and long blonde-haired beauties crawling around on all fours looking for a lost contact lens. I've never had a good run in with sport. My mates tell of the first time they met me. A primary school kid dressed from head to toe in white. White trainers, white socks, white shorts, white T-shirt and whitish wispy blonde hair. Oh, not to mention the pale white face. My future friends must have thought the worst until I opened my mouth and said 'I'm a squash player at heart. Not much of a runner.' After that I think they thought I was alright. They definitely thought that once I huffed and puffed my way across the finishing line. A whole two minutes behind everyone else. But my brush with exercise didn't leave me broken and bruised quite the contrary. I kept plucking away. I played rugby, volleyball, basketball, tennis and, on one mind-warping inter-tutor championship gone wrong, netball - frilly skirt and all. So, no, I won't be bringing a medal home in 2012. Unless they introduce smoothie making. Now there's a sport I'd be good at. As long as my whites don't get muddied that is.

'Next up on BBC Belfast. - Mummy's boy Gareth May'

In seven days I've experienced more snowballing than Dartmoor in the 1980s, and just as much fun. Swishing down a glacial hill top on a dinner tray is not usually compared to radio interviews but I'll give it a go. The ducking and diving, thinking on your feet and stumbling before crashing into a tree...OK the analogy doesn't really work but at least I tried. My first interview was on Tuesday for Three Counties BBC Radio. I held my own. Cracked a joke involving a can of Carling, a massage and Red Rum - it would take too long to explain - and got accused of being 'great fun to go out with.' I'm guessing the host was being sarcastic with that comment. My heart may have been beating faster than a teenager's whose just seen his first nipple on Eurovision but the nerves only spurred me on and before I knew it the producer was thanking me and placing the phone back down with a sudden 'click.'

Thursday came and I had an interview with Alan Jenkins at BBC Ulster. A lovely chap indeed. Telling me he couldn't spell DIY and always 'placed a bucket under a gas leak' he made me feel very welcome and drew a cackling laugh from my lips at least twice during the fifteen minutes of converse. I hope my shrieking didn't send too many 9-5ers veering into the central reservation. I was more concise and articulate. Things, I told myself in true D-Ream style, can only get better. How wrong I was.

Friday morning I was lined up to take part in a debate on BBC Belfast with Stephen Nolan and a builder named Brodey, Bodley, or Barkley. You'll be pleased to hear I called him all three of them, well one out of three isn't bad is it. Anyway, I was prepared with a light-hearted exchange and started off the debate in an earnest and polite way. He on the other hand, went straight for the jugular. 'I think yer man there is pampered. Still hanging onto his mummy's apron strings.' For a minute I thought they'd invited my dad on. I tried to calm the situation by appealing to him personally and stating that 'yes, some of my generation are lazy.' He was on it like a cat to a rat. ' He's talking about himself there. Lazy that's what he is.' This guy was a real charmer. A true gent. I had to stop myself asking him if he did children's parties at one stage.

All joking aside, once the dust had settled and I'd had the final say I felt pretty pumped up. If you stick your head above the parapet you've got to expect to get shot at and that's exactly what happened. I dodged a few, took a few for the team but caught at least one bullet between my teeth. It was heartening to find myself defending what I believe in in the face of, well absurdity, rather than adversity. There was no doubting the guy was after me. Well, good luck to him. I'm not turning around now. Snowballs don't stop for nothing. Even angry builders with a strange interest in apron strings. Although, having said that, pinnies can be quite appealing, in the right light.

'Oh, look who it is...'

This week I have found myself somewhat of a celebrity… amongst my friends that is. Having appeared in The Independent on Sunday on, well, ah, Sunday I received a litany of text messages and emails – and by litany I mean about 10 – stating how well the article read – thank you to Kate the editor for that one! – and how pleased they all were that I actually did something with my life. Or more to the point did something. You’d expect these moments to implant a Messianic complex in my psyche but, in fact, the opposite occurred. I felt shy. Embarrassed. I held off telling the people at work in case they should think me arrogant, up myself, conceited. But when I finally told them yesterday they seemed pleased, earnestly chuffed for me. I was beginning to feel content. And then came a phone conversation with my best friend Katie.

‘Really liked the article.’

‘Good. I’m pleased.’

‘The photo makes you look a bit…’ She tailed off.

‘A bit?’ I prompted her.

‘Well, a bit smaller. Yeah a bit smaller. Smaller and…’ She tailed off for a second time.

‘And…’

‘Well it looks like they’ve forgotten to hold down shift when they’ve readjusted the photo.’

Having not recently flicked through my Dummies Guide to Photoshop I inquired what she was implying.

‘You look fatter.’

‘I am fat.’

‘Overweight. Not fat. And certainly not that fat.’

‘Alright,’ I said. ‘Take the wind out my sails why don’t you.’

‘I was just…’

Once the seal was broken, the comments came flooding in. ‘Nice article, even if you do look like a fat bastard!’ ‘Good one mate, or should I say porky?’ ‘Hey Impostor. What have you done with Gareth? Eaten him I presume?’

I found myself ignoring phone calls and emails. ‘Oh I see,’ one lifelong friend wrote after a day of no reply ‘now you’re brushing shoulders with those London media types you haven’t got time for the likes of me. Well, just remember who got you out of that mess with Barry McGuire. I wish I’d never given you your pants back!’

Within in the span of a day I’d gone from ‘my famous friend’ to ‘to an ignorant bastard with no back bone, no home, no real friends and no stereo.’ The stereo bit threw me if I’m honest. I decided to cosy up to them all, and sent them a thank you letter informing them that I’d been at work and didn’t want to reply in a rush. They seemed to accept my apologies. But the next time I see them, I’m going to cut them off mid-sentence, answer my mobile phone and shout at the top of my voice ‘Kylie darling, so kind of you to call!’

"He's got sweaty what?"

Seriously, there is no deodorant good enough for me. Who else do you know that has sweaty eyebrows? Now it’s the summer I seem to spend half of my time lifting the sleeve of my T-shirts up to my face to mop my brow, or eyebrow to be more precise. That gets me some strange looks. Not half as strange however when I don’t dry them; my face becomes awash with sweat so that I look like someone’s turned the heating up in Madame Toussouds. A melting wax countenance is not attractive by any stretch of the imagination.

Wearing glasses also exaggerates the dilemma. The frame that rests on the bridge of my nose gets slippery and slides down to the edge of my nostrils so I look like I’m doing an impression of a disapproving librarian who’s just seen someone put a book back on the wrong shelf.

Maybe I’m cursed. Born with sweat glands in all the wrong places. Afflicted with a sweating syndrome which will see me ingrained in the annals of the Guineas Book of Records – Freak Special. Although I rather fear I might be making my way into that one without the aid of a sweaty forehead and a soaking wet T-shirt sleeve. How many people do you know that not only have sweaty eyebrows but divulge that information to unsuspecting strangers? I thought as much. Freak Special here I come.

'What a vicious shot with the chair!'

It's official: I'm regressing. I've developed a daily need to watch WWE. I'm addicted to wrestling. Cigarettes? Maybe. Alcohol? Possible. Drugs? At some point it was on the cards. Full grown men in tight little spandex pants, covered in oil, slamming in to one another. No way. I ain't getting addicted to that. Ever. Wrong! I can quote pretty much the whole Raw roster's special moves. You think I'm bluffing? Try me. John Cena = FU. CM Punk = Go to sleep or GTS for short. Paul Birchull = Kerb stone. Batista = Batista bomb (kinda obvious that one).

Do you see what I mean? First Midsomer Murders and now this? What is happening to me? Am I losing it? Did I even ever have it in the first place? Next I'll be taking a bath on Sunday nights at 7'o'clock before sitting down with a coco to watch re-runs of London's Burning starring Robson and Jerome. I can't hack it. It's taking over my life. I was at work the other day and we didn't have this book in stock. So this guy starts having a go at me and before you know it I've created this whole scenario in my head which climaxes in the guy being body slammed through the thin MDF table of the Information Point. I've even started nodding my head when the ref begins to make the three count. ONE, TWO, THREE!

Who am I kidding? I love it really and as far as addictions go it's pretty harmless. I mean it's not like I'm going to hurt myself or anyone else is it? Just a little bit of harmless fun. And besides my dad will be alright. How was I suppose to know he was going to walk in the kitchen just as I was perfecting my cross body from the top rope slash kitchen work top. It could have been worse. I'd been working on the spinebuster all afternoon. He got lucky.

Shoe Shopping

I was caught unawares by a strange supposition whilst entering a shop yesterday. Suppose I was deemed too old to be in such a place? Suppose the regular clientele were all ten years younger then me and as I entered I was welcomed with what can only be described as a local Cornish pub welcome; without the pitchforks and burning effigy of a human form of course. The irony of this supposition was that by the time I had moved into the shop I had stood in the doorway for so long, moving my lips like a mad horse whisperer, everybody was already looking at me.

Once inside the shop I did indeed discover that despite the owner being ten years older than me the average shopper was fifteen years old at most. I did not shudder with fear rather shook with paranoia. My experiences in shoe shops have not been great. Throughout my life they have left a permanent mark on me because I have a tendency to walk straight up to the women’s section. Like a magpie the shiny and colourful ladies shoes appeal to me a lot more than the bland brown or grey selection for the modern man. Hence, every time I enter a shoe shop I have to check myself and force my feet to walk in the direction of the menswear section.

Once facing the right wall it took me a matter of seconds before I had chosen my desired shoe. I might as well admit it I have a slight fetishism for shoes, particularly unusual looking ones. The shoes that had caught my eye had a pattern resembling blurred car lights, red, yellow and white, being dragged through the city at night. There was a problem. Stood between me and the shoe was a cluster of fifteen year-old boys. Now, I’m not small by any accounts, but despite knowing I could probably ‘have ‘em’ in a fight fear still washed over me. I’ve had nightmares in which a gang of ‘hoodies’ string me up and taunt me over my knowledge of literature, poetry in particular. Strange but true. This did not happen and in all honesty the young boys looked harmless enough so I reached across and plucked my shoe from the shelf.

Now I had to buy them. This proved to be another unwelcome test. Both cashiers were occupied with small skateboarders and I suddenly became aware of my age and awkwardness. Were they sniggering at me? Did they think I was a man-child who had escaped the clutches of his careers for the afternoon? I began to sweat. Finally the young girl cashier was freed and I asked her if she had the shoes in a twelve. I half expected her to laugh and ask me for some I.D, but she didn’t and returned shortly after with a big black box. I slipped one shoe on in a flash and said ‘fine’ without even walking up and down to test them out. I paid, grabbed the bag, and went to leave. However, I had to ruin it by saying “have a good day guys” which was met with a grunt and a smile as fake as my nonchalant stroll out of there.

Outside I recalled when at University I bought a pair of converse from Camden market. I wore them down the pub that very night and was greeted with a series of smiles mainly from the male of the species. My friend noticed this and, laughing, said “Gareth we didn’t say anything, but you do know what that rainbow stands for don’t you?”

Looking back I was naive. But I still liked those shoes even if their usage was limited. I don’t know what it is that reminded me of this. Perhaps the fact that the shoes I had just purchased seem similar in their eye-catching nature and the realisation that I was sure I would wear them no matter what people might think. One of the joys, I suppose, of being a twenty-something is being surer of yourself; knowing what you don’t and do like. Even if the latter means you have to shop for shoes in a teenager’s grotto.

The Tip Attendant

Why do we only ever go to the tip on the weekends? Out of only two days you’ve got free you spend one of them surrounded by rubbish, shifting through the same box for the fifth time that day because the tip attendant doesn’t believe the fact there’s no microwaves or computers tucked away in the corner. Quite why anyone would want to hide ‘electrical goods,’ as he calls them, from him I have no idea. To go to through the bother of constructing some kind of hidden Chinese draw in the folds of the cardboard just to get one over a tip attendant really seems a little far fetched.

It seems strange in these days of high tech intuition and intellect we still, for some intrinsic reason, bind ourselves to logically unsound methods of waste disposal. ‘Pull up and dump your stuff’ is pretty much as simple as it gets – not if you add the English into the equation it isn’t. Possibly why each question has to be seconded by everyone else on shift is beyond me. You know the metal goes under the big sign that says ‘metal’ yet still you have to ask. One hour later you’re finally given the go ahead. Two minutes later however you hear this: “ah, ah, ah, you can’t put that in there! Bob can he put metal in there?” If you already have suicidal tendencies stay away from the tip this weekend else you might just find yourself being mulled over by ten tip attendants, rubbing their heads, saying: “Corpses? I’m sure they go in with the electrical goods.”