'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.”

Gone Fishing!

I have argued about some stupid things in my time – hair-cuts, TV programmes, and comic heroes – but never fishing. Quite how it happened is anyone’s guess. One minute I was there saying how a friend of mine goes and I’d like to go with him and then out of the blue – “You’re a murderer. You love to kill.” Now correct me if I’m wrong but a murderer kills people not animals. “But people are animals.” There was no way out. I was trapped in a meat eaters nightmare. Everywhere I turned I had blood on my hands. Even the king of comebacks “but you’re a vegetarian and you still eat fish” was met with the retaliation “your so pig headed.”

In hindsight I should not have said what I did. I replied in kind so to speak. “You’re the one whose pig headed.” Opps. A tirade, which Donald Trump would’ve been proud of, followed. I couldn’t say anything. In the end I had to leave. She stood in the doorway waiting for me to apologise, but the apology never came. She was being pig-headed and the simple use of the word pig meant that she hated me for the rest of my life – for the time being at least.

I don’t blame her. Let’s face it. A woman’s body, let alone her mind, isn’t hers for one week of the month and, as if that isn’t enough, she is a girl who particularly doesn’t like things to suffer. However, people don’t go fishing to watch fish suffer. They go because it’s sport. “Sport?! That’s worse!” Wrong again. I decided to cut my loses and run.

The day after an argument is always filled with ‘if only I said this’ or ‘what if.’ But this argument was about fish and I’ll be damned if I go over it in my head more than is necessary. I doubt very much fish argue about humans.

It’s unusual how relationships are like some sports. The excitement of football, the patience of cricket, sometimes even the tactical nuance of American Football is required. Fishing on the other hand is a rather saddening comparison. Catching something only to let it go. Watching it swim off into the big blue ocean never to be seen again. Normally it’s the man that’s the fisherman, coaxing the fish in and deciding or not if he wants to keep it, tossing it back in if it’s not to his liking.

But this time it’s the other way round. I’m the fish and despite the fact my lip is well and truly hooked she could get up at any moment and row back in to shore. Leaving me to flap around on the wooden slats of the boat until I run out of air. Oh, the world can be such a cruel place. Especially if you’re a fish.

No please. Anything but that...

It has been a long time since I endured the embarrassing fumbles and fondles of a girl who obviously thinks my jeans contain a magic lamp and has already prepared three wishes for the genie. One night stands, it seems, are a requirement, for a man to survive a lengthy period as a bachelor. But they do not prepare men for relationships or, more specifically, the corkscrew twist of a woman’s mind. It must be said that although a relationship means great, reliable and knowledgeable sex a man’s carnal desire is no match for a woman’s desire to turn every compliment into a full blown, plate throwing, argument.

The corny pick-up lines ‘you’re hair is beautiful’ or ‘your eyes sparkle like stars in the night sky’ that drew a smile at quarter to 3 on Saturday night are now greeted with ‘there’s no need to be sarcastic I know it’s greasy’ and ‘Sparkle? Just like that ring you bought me from Argos last week.’ Despite my rather rapid introduction to these sorts of come-backs at a young age, thanks to a now-seemingly unhealthy obsession with following one girlfriend with another, it still surprises me when I unwittingly stumble into one of these arguments. I’ve practically written the hand book on them and yet still they find me out.

Yesterday however my arguing history slumped to new depths. I’ve thrown things before sure. A pillow, a mug, a glass, a mobile phone – whatever’s at hand I’ve thrown it. Not at the face. Not even the body but somewhere close enough for them to close their lips for just a second. One second so I can actually get a word in before the whole thing spirals out of control. Deployed correctly the tactic of throwing an object can often draw a swift curtain across a shouting episode or even put a blockade in place so that all future hatred sharing ceases entirely.

However, yesterday I experienced something which needs no description other than the mention of the object in question. I threw a Scotch egg. Yes ladies and gentleman a scotch egg and not just any old Scotch egg. Oh no. This was a vegetarian Scotch egg. How macho is that? Even a pasty’s got more to it in the throwing stakes, even a cheese and onion slice would have sufficed but I had to choose the Scotch egg. And another thing – the woman behind the counter wasn’t best pleased either.

The Road to Hell

Driving back to Devon from London is usually a fun affair for me. Whether it’s cruising along the motorway with music blaring out of the speakers straight into my bloodstream or taking an enjoyable jaunt through the countryside taking in the sights I never believed it could be such an emotional rollercoaster. I must point out that the following account of events doesn’t involve a marauding psychopath posing as a hitch-hiker; I leave stories of that kind to the drab directors of horror movies in Hollywood. No, my venture was more of a melodrama. Think Jane Austen without all the bodices, staring only one person and set entirely in a Ford Escort and you’ll get the picture.

Leaving my friends house I followed my Sat Nav’s voice through Bracknell and toward the M25. I planned to head home on the M4 past Reading, onto Bristol and returning to Devon via first the M4 and later the A38. Forgetting it was Easter holidays however I immediately came to a stand still within ten minutes of my journey. I waited and then in a brash flush of optimism I pressed the alternative route button highlighting the ‘avoid M4.’ As my finger print smeared onto the touch screen it might as well of been printed on a murder weapon such was the ordeal that followed. I had put my life in the hands of a Sat Nav.

However, being directed towards the A303 I felt optimistic. The countryside whizzed past and I allowed a smile to tickle my lips. Soon enough I was singing along with the radio and laughing to myself at the cows in the fields. I was so content in my own little world I nearly hit the car in front. Panicking and swearing I realised that the car was at the end of a very long queue of traffic – my Sat Nav had betrayed me. I held my head in my hands. I was stopped just by Stone Henge, a beautiful part of the country completely stained by my own incompetence. Why had I trusted this stupid machine? I would never ever use it again. I took it off my windscreen and threw it into the glove compartment.

Two minutes later it was out and in my hand, my trembling fingers stabbing away at the touch screen hoping for a reprieve and a back lane off this road to hell. With Chris Rea popping up in my head I became delirious with rage and before I knew it I had ducked off the A303 and was heading towards Devizes. For the next two hours I existed in a maze of Somerset country lanes, I half expected David Bowie to pop out such was the labyrinth I enjoyed on my travels. I passed people in straws hats and isolated petrol stations. If you’ve ever seen Wrong Turn – a film where a group of ogres/zombies, I forget which, brutally murder a group of students who, you guessed it, took a wrong turn – you’ll sympathise with me when I say I genuinely feared for my life.

At every turn I looked for a way back to civilization a way out of the film set of Deliverance. It was whilst I was in this deepest ditch of despondency that I realised where I was. I was driving through the doughy folded fields and curvy lanes of Midsomer. The home of Detective Barnaby and Sgt Troy. The home of Midsomer Murders. All of a sudden my nightmare journey turned to one of unprecedented excitement. What if they were filming a new episode? Would I finally get to meet my hero John Nettles? My heart beat like a teenage boy’s who’s just seen a dirty magazine in the hedge outside his house. I saw a man approaching in the road. Was it him? Could it be?

No. It was a farmer telling me to go back the other way because they were moving sheep from one field to the next and a few had broken free. Finding myself in a new mood of happiness I suggested the sheep were conducting their own version of The Great Escape. Needless to say he didn’t laugh only shook his pitch-fork at me in a way that told me it was time to leave. With ten minutes I found myself back onto the main road. The traffic had subsided and as I passed through into Devon a smile coursed across my face. It’s strange how when we feel completely lost that’s when we find ourselves. As I pulled up to my house I recalled a tramp saying to me once. “When you stop looking for me, that’s when you’ll find me.” I think I finally knew what he meant.

Shuuuuuuuuuuusssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

A rustle of a sweet wrapper I can deal with. Even a heavy breather I can capably ignore. I’ve even, once after a serious drinking session, convinced myself there was not a man in a rain Mack on the back row enjoying Emmanuelle: The Revenge a little too much. I don’t mind. Sweets need to be eaten by children. Large chested people need to breathe and yes, Sylvia Kristel brings that response out in the best of us…although most choose to respond, as it were, behind closed doors not just coat lapels held ajar. But talking, conversing, chatting, gossiping, holding court, joshing, catching up, sharing a joke, telling tales…no no no…

The cinema is a place to watch the latest film releases. It's the place to take in a bit of popular culture with a much loved partner, family member or friend. It’s a place where magic can happen and the physical body can be left behind as the mind goes on a journey of unimaginable fantasy. It is not a place to hold an hour and a half intense conversation on Leona Lewis's recent chart success. Have these people no home? Let alone shame. I mean come on. Leona Lewis? At least Justine Timberland or April Lavine. Not Mr. Simon ‘my trousers ride up so high every time he takes a step he self administrates colonic irrigation’ Cowell’s champion of popular music.

I’m seriously considering taking a roll of duct tape with me the next time I visit my local cinema and the first person to open their mouth gets a two-inch rectangle of adhesive tape stuck onto their chops with a swift telling off at the same time. Let’s just hope I don’t jump the gun and accost a little old lady asking me to move along because there’s not enough room on the end of the row for her and her little unoffending crowd of grandchildren and, in a strange twist of fate, devote Leona Lewis fans.

Behold! The Horsemen of the Apocalypse – The Hold Steady!

So, last week I go to watch The Hold Steady with my Uncle Pat. This is the guy who introduced me to my favourite bands - The Doors, The Clash and Joy Division to name three. He's seen them all. And now he wants to see The Hold Steady. At first I'll admit I was a little coy. I'm not too keen on their music but I'm thinking 'hey my Uncle's done enough for me why not give a little back.' So I go.

I immediately regret my decision when the first thing he says when we enter the auditorium is ‘let’s go down the front!’ My uncle is in his forties. I’m in my twenties and he wants to go down the front. I realised then that the flask of milky tea and the Tupperware box of shortbread wouldn’t be needed and I rued my visit to Waitrose. We were going down the front whether I liked it or not. My uncle’s life depended on it even if his nephew’s sanity was at stake.

Once there I was surprisingly proved wrong. The first band, The Haze, from Glasgow encourage a small number of early crowd dwellers to the front but so far this is an experience I’m quite enjoying. The music is practically intravenous, I can feel the phlegm in my face and there’s an immediacy I haven’t felt in years – the last time I stood with my toes to the bottom of the stage was when Pete Doherty was clean…yes that long!

The second band, a young outfit called The Bombay Bicycle Club step up onto the plinth and now I’m really loving it. Their guitar playing is like Bernard Sumner and co and the lead singer is so close I can count his blackheads. This is great. I can’t believe how young I look and feel. I’m tempted to hug my uncle but one glance tells me he’s on another planet and at this rate I’m going to be joining him there any sec…

Oh my god my spine! I’m squashed against the railings like an American policeman’s administrating a frisk his superiors would be proud of. The band aren’t even on the stage and I feel like a sardine. And then it relaxes. The surge has ended and I can rest easy once again. I convince myself it was just a rare moment of panic from a normally rational crowd. The lights dim. The Hold Steady arrive on stage. And my backbone is broken in two.

By the third song my uncle asks if I want to go back but I grit my teeth and smile to let him know I’m OK when beneath this veneer of nicety I'm living in fear of being trampled on, crushed against metal and sodomized in synchronisation. The Hold Steady have brought hell to London and I’m Satan’s first victim. There’s an elbow in my ribs, a groin in my backside and a hand on my arm. And now I feel old. Old. Old. I’m reaching for my flask but it’s leaked and all the shortbreads have been smashed to smithereens…oh the morality of man! This crowd is completely without reason. I’m witnessing the end of our species. This is anarchy. This is the end. This is violation. Breathe I tell myself it can’t last forever. I grip the railing. The lead singer can see I’m in pain. I’m thinking about stopping the concert, turning around and saying: ‘now I don’t want to rain on your parade but could you all just take one step back. Please?’

But I don’t. I’m British so I just smile and enjoy the agony. That is what I’m programmed to do. And when the end comes it washes over me like an orgasm. I have survived. Praise the lord I’m alive! My Uncle smiles at me. ‘Did you enjoy that?’ he asks. ‘Yes’ I reply cradling my rucksack. ‘Very much so indeed.’