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.’