Day 206 (14 December 2011) - Diggi Loo, Diggi Ley...

...life is goin' my way, when I'm walking in my golden boots'

Now, don't worry, I haven't gone all 'Gok Wan' and purchased some golden footwear - although I do have a fine selection of colourful trainers.  No, for those that don't remember, Diggi Loo, Diggi Ley was the winning song from the 1984 Eurovision Song Contest, sang by Swedish brothers 'Herrey's'.  Look here they are...



...and to think, some people actually want the 80s back?!

When we last spoke (I know, it's been too long again), I was seeking 'a chitty' for three of my challenges, the first of which I detailed in the last post.  I'm pleased to say that nobody cried 'foul' so I'm taking that as acceptance of my sidestep.  The point of this particular ramble (amazingly, they do all have a point) is to seek your approval for a similar avoidance of Challenge 4 - Attend the Biathlon World Cup in Antholz (Ellen). 

For the uninitated, biathlon is simply the greatest sport ever invented!  It has few links to triathlon and absolutely nothing to do with Michael Barrymore.  It is, instead, a combination of cross-country skiing and shooting.  Essentially, you ski your nuts off (cross-country skiing is regarded as the most complete physical work out of any sport) and then, when you're body is shaking with fatigue, you have to shoot five targets,  the size of a golf ball, from 50 metres.  For each shot missed, you ski a penalty loop before heading out to do it all over again.  It's a combination of athleticism, skill, mental strength and sheer excitement. 

Now I know what you're thinking; 'Biathlon isn't that big in Putney' and you'd be right (although you can rollerski in Richmond Park), 'so how did you get into this, Craig - do tell'  The answer is simple - drink.  I discovered the sport, by chance, whilst nursing bad hangovers on Saturday mornings for it is a staple event on Eurosport.  Within weeks I was hooked and within months Jam & I found ourselves up an Italian Alp in Antholz, Italy, enjoying the World Championships.  Whilst we'd expected the spectacle of the sport to be good, there were a number of unexpected joys we discovered during this first trip:

1. Biathlon fans love the British - not something you can say in most sports, but then we tend to be competitive in most.  In biathlon we are the perennial plucky losers.  Our team, made up of hardy army types, lack the training, experience and equipment of the world's best biathlon nations (Norway, Germany, Russia, France and Sweden).  As a result we can normally be found at the back of the field, battling the Serbians and the Lithuanians (miles behind the Estonians, Koreans and Bulgarians) - but, such is the physicality of the sport that our boys and girls still do us proud. 

2. The cameraderie - biathlon fans are totally bonkers, but soooo friendly.  Of course, everyone is rooting for their national team, but banners bearing phrases such as 'Biathlon Fans love all Biathletes' are common.  Standing on a concrete step for three hours at minus six isn't particularly pleasant, so shot glasses are passed round, food shared and huddling is encouraged.  Combine this with point one and we are generally treated like celebrities - people actually want to have their photo taken with us simply for being British?!

3.The drink - outside of the actual races, attending a biathlon is like being at the Oktoberfest.  The moment the last biathlete has crossed the finish line (normally one of ours), everyone decamps to giant beer tents, where dodgy German bands attempt ambitious covers of classics whilst everyone dances on tables and benches.  Meanwhile every waves their national flag like loons. This goes on for several hours before en masse, everyone heads to the nearest town / village for more beer. 

It was during our second visit to Antholz where Piggy, Jam and I were fortunate enough to meet biathlon afficianados Ellen, Cathrine, Ingrid and Annika, four wonderful Norwegian friends, who volunteer in Antholz every year and who, we've since found out, are the organising committee of the Norwegian leg of the biathlon tour.  Ellen, who's a nurse, expressed concern as to the well-being of Piggy, who was so drunk he could barely stand.  At one point he wandered off suddenly.  When I finally caught up with him, I asked him why he'd disappeared.  'It was too stuffy in there, I needed to get outside for some air' he replied.  It was at that point we realised how much trouble he was in, as we had actually been outside - at minus four -   the entire time! The train and bus journey to the stadium the following day, is one we'll never forget :-)

Our Norwegian friends bowled us over with their generosity.  As well as being generally lovely, they got us into the 'plush' beer cabin, gave us a lift from the stadium, invited us to dinner, gave us Norwegian biathlon hats, gave me a biathlon annual (and you know how much I love a stat) and even secured us a meeting with the British Eurosport commentators.  Here's a shot of us with Mike 'the legend' Dixon, commentator and Britain's best ever biathlete:

...and one of us with the girls

So it was with a heavy heart that I had to turn down this challenge and reject a return trip to Antholz.  The reason, once again, was financial - Challenge 28 -Buy a flat in Putney, ain't cheap you know (more to come on that soon, I hope).  In addition, this year has made me realise that my wonderful friends and family are the bedrock of my existence and with my brother having moved to Sweden, I figured a visit to see him and his gorgeous family was very much in order.

However, I don't want you to think that I take these challenges lightly and throw them away at a whim - everyone is considered carefully.  Therefore, I decided to kill two birds with one stone and divert my annual biathlon trip to the Swedish round of the World Cup tour.  Thus last weekend by big bro and I travelled up to the town of Ostersund (I'm reliably informed it's halfway up Sweden, but as far as I'm concerned it's practically the North Pole).  And what a wonderful time we had -we saw some great racing, met some new members of the British Biathlon team (all members of the army -one ski'd for the first time three weeks previously?!) and drank our own bodyweight in beer - oh and the British girl came last!  Andrew learnt a valuable lesson that Swedish people at the bar don't queue - when he suggested to a young girl that she had pushed in ahead of him, she responded by giving him a swift elbow to the eye socket resulting in a beautiful black eye.  The good news is that my bro is now a biathlon convert and is looking forward to a trip to Antholz in 2013.

Ladies - I missed you, but I haven't yet written off Challenge 3 - Attend the Biathlon World Cup in Oslo (Ingrid), which is scheduled for February, although it, like everything else in my life at the moment, is 'flat dependent'.

Right, off to watch some more biathlon. 

Day 183 (21 November 2011) - 'Half a sixpence...

...is better than half a farthing'

Whoever thought Tommy Steele would be responsible for such wise words eh?  Yet, there is much to admire in his 'gor blimey guv'nor' delivery of 'Half a Sixpence' for sometimes there is value and merit in things which may appear to be fairly worthless (you can tell I'm building up to an excuse, can't you).

Half a Sixpence is one of those songs that everybody knows the first line to and not much else.  Even I, a total saddo when it comes to song lyrics, had to look up the second line of the song to see exactly what Half a Sixpence was better than - personally I'd have had a punt at ricketts, but I guess that's why I'm not a songwriter.  It set me thinking of other songs which, by and large, no-one knows the words to.  I came up with the following (NB if it's just me, please humour me):

1. Snow - 'Informer' ('Informer, you know scheboogie boogie gonna blame a licky boom boom down')
2. The Singing Nun  - 'Dominique': 
3. Any fast Red Hot Chilli Peppers song - they only have the two tunes; the fast one (think Give it Away) and the slow one (think Under the Bridge)
4. Hanson - 'Mmmbop' ('Mmmbop, oochie, coochie, cock, doowop')
5. Dexys Midnight Runners - 'Come on Eileen'.  Does ANYONE know the second line to this song?  I'm almost convinced that they couldn't be bothered to write one and just garbled any old nonsense to bridge the gap to the chorus (for a real example of this in action, I can thoroughly recommend 'Chacarron' by El Chombo).

Anyway, back to the point of the post, namely that I'm seeking some dispensation on three of my challenges...well, if I'm going try and fudge one, I might as well go for a job lot.  Your understanding would be greatly appreciated.  For reasons of brevity - not a word you'd ever associate with me - I'm going to make each case in separate posts or we'll be here all week.  So today's please for mercy goes as follows:

Challenge 1 -  Abseil down the Royal Liverpool Hospital (Michelle)
I feel a bit like a child asking for an extension on his homework after it was due in, for this challenge took place in October and I was nowhere near Liverpool, let alone dangling off the side of the Hospital.  My reasons for this were threefold - I had to work that weekend, I'm trying to save money so decided that a trip to Liverpool wasn't cost effective and (most importantly) Michelle has already backed out. 

You'd be well within your rights, to ask me to throw myself off another fairly large building in the near future, if you do, may I request that this involves some ropes and a safety harness, please.  I am, however, asking for clemency on the grounds that a few weeks I went indoor climbing for the first time, which involved a degree of abseiling back down the wall. 

I have to be totally honest - clambouring up a wall wasn't my choice of how to spend a Wednesday afternoon, but myself and a colleague were taken by one our our event partners by way of a team building activity.  They had originally suggested touch rugby, but I was slightly worried that I'd get too competitive and put in a thundering tackle on one of the lovely young ladies who we work with .  OK, so I was equally worried that some large chap would deck me too - pretty much my sole memories of playing rugby at school (I quickly learnt to play scrum half - put the ball in the scrum, get it out and get rid of it as quickly as possible, before running in the other direction!)  Having put Touch Rugby to bed, we were asked for our ideas of what we should do instead.  Sadly my suggestion of bingo and a gin tasting didn't go down too well, so instead we found ourselves at the world's largest indoor climbing arena.

I don't know why I'd always put off climbing.  I'm quite good with heights and generally quite fit, however I guess, much like skiing, it's the fear of what can go wrong, for I have possibly the lowest pain threshold of anyone in the western world - yes, I am one of those people who says 'Ooooowww' before I've even been touched!  As a result it's one of those activities that never remotely appealed - much like wearing colourful trousers, listening to John Lennon or getting anything waxed.  Yet, there I was in a pair of ridiculously tight shoes staring up at a 30ft wall

...and I really enjoyed it!  Granted I found 'belaying' (standing at the bottom, controlling the tension of the climber's rope so that they don't crash to the ground) a bit stressful - it's a helluva responsibility - but the climbing itself was fun and I was surprisingly good at it, for a chap with little legs!  In fact, I took to it so well, that in a race to the top I hammered the main guy from our event partner (maybe not the best business decision I've ever taken).  OK, so he was on a slightly harder wall, but in my head I was a contestant on Gladiators and had Nightshade on my tail. Once you've reached the top, the only way down is to abseil back to terra firma, something I found tremendously fun (I may even have said 'weeeeeeeeeee' all the way down).

So, I didn't abseil down the side of the Royal Liverpool Hospital, but I have abseiled.  Will this do?

Day 171 (9 November 2011) - 'Mind Blowing Decisions

...causes head-on collisions'

In a work situation I can make handle big decisions.  I sensibly decide the information I need to make a decision, collate that information, make sound assumptions for any missing bits, weigh up the various options and the risks associated with each, mix it with a bit of gut instinct and eventually (and usually quickly) reach a decision.  I use the same approach when friends ask me for advice and like to think that I'm someone who can be relied on to dispense sound, honest and impartial counsel.

So why is it, when it comes to making decision about my personal life I invariably tie myself up in all sorts of knots, invariably jump to the worst-case scenarios and allow myself to become almost paralysed with fear.  It was one of the reasons I started this blog  - to prove to myself, through your very kind help - that I could approach personal 'stuff' with the same confidence as I do at work or when meddling in the lives of others!

I think I've done alright up to now, resisting the urge to say 'no' when faced with unfamiliar situations I would usually have run a mile from and have, on occasions, deliberatly thrown myself into tasks and challenges which have scared me. 

Quite why my default approach to big life decisions is to simply panic is unclear.  Maybe, being the youngest of three children, I was overly protected when growing up and always had my parents or my big brothers to make things OK.  As an adult I've always had someone I can rely on to make things happen, whether it be Katie at university - one of my oldest friends who did the same course as me and ended up as my housemate;  my brother, when I moved to London - I moved into his flat, where I stayed for five years; or the ex who always took care of the big decisions such as where we lived, I've spent my entire life being surrounded by people who would always 'make it alright' or at least give the feeling that they would! 

Why am I raising this now?  I've got to make a huge decision about whether to buy a flat.  Well, not whether to buy one, because I know this is something I want to do.  I've also managed to sort of work out my brief - two bedrooms (so I can rent one out, if required), in need of little work (I can barely change a lightbulb) and must have a bath - that's not too much to ask for, is it?  The big issue is where this flat will be.  My instinct is drawing me to my lovely old Putney, where I have lived so happily for the last eight years.  It's convenient for transport links, has the river and Richmond Park on its doorstep (so is perfect for running), has the lowest council tax in the country and  - perhaps least importantly - is safe, secure and familiar...and yet it's this latter point which keeps drawing me back. 

Sadly, however, I'm not the only person to recognise the benefits of Putney, so as a result, it's ridiculously expensive - so expensive that most of the properties which meet my brief, don't meet my budget.  As a result I've spent the last few weeks looking at some pretty nasty flats and slowly moving my search further and further away from central Putney - hey, but not too far away, that would be reckless! 

Finally, on Saturday, I saw a nice two-bed property in Southfields which was lovely once insde, but was housed in a 1960s purpose built concrete block.  'It's OK' I thought, 'it's the inside you're going to be looking at', so having been suitably impressed, the new confident, decisive me put a cheeky, non-negotiable offer in that afternoon.

...except it's been accepted.  This should excite me - and  I am pleased that my assertive, no-nonsense approach paid off - but any excitement has been completely overwhelmed by the old-style panic.  'What if I'm making a terrible mistake', 'what if there are loads of hidden problems?', 'what happens if I lose my job or get sick?', 'what happens if my neighbours turn out to be some sort of neighbourhood protection racket?'.  Financially I'm worried by the lack of contingency, for although I shall be paying the mortgage off every month, buying a flat anywhere near Putney is going to leave me with no 'rainy day' fund and I'll have little surplus cash each month - a situation I assume most homeowners face. 

I've had a walk round the area this evening and am beginning to think I'm making a bad mistake - whilst it's privately owned, it's totally surrounded by an enormous council estate - think the Jasmine Allen on The Bill.  It is, however, a nice flat inside and, having researched crime stats, there doesn't appear to be any major issues.  Whilst my instinct is to back out, there is the fact that if I want to be all snobbish about it, I might well have to moved further out into a completely new area, which is also a risk!  Can this beggar really be a chooser?  How do you know what to do in these situations?

I guess what it ultimately comes down to is the fact that, whilst I have loads of great friends dispensing all sorts of advice, this decision, this great, big , scary decision, is mine alone to make and for once, and possibly the first time, there's no-one who can 'make it alright' if I get it wrong.  On one hand I've never felt so empowered, but on the other, I've never felt quite so alone.  Based on this, am I going to feel like this about any flat I see?  Right now, I don't quite know how I'm going to resolve this  - a coin seems a good a bet as any - , but I now realise that therein lies the beating heart of this whole blog and this whole challenging year thing.  How do I learn to be more rational rather than panic and how do I learn to trust myself and my own ability to 'make it alright' rather than needing the ressurance of others.  If I can resolve this, surely I can resolve anything?  Can't I?

Day 161 (30th October 2011) - Why you wanna put stars in their eyes?

...or as Roger Mellie used to call it 'Marbles up their Arseholes'!

OK, so this blog is supposed to be about my various challenges, however it's 'my gaff, my rules', so if I want to discuss the pros and cons of quantitative easing, the various merits of Monet vs Degas or the use of sleep as a metaphor in Shakespeare, then I shall.

...and I'm sure I'll get on to each of those subjects at some stage throughout the year.  In the meantime, you can have my list of random irritations about the X-Factor!

I confess to having a love / hate relationship with the X-Factor.  Every year I promise myself I'm not going to watch it and every year I end up getting hooked from about Boot Camp onwards.  I find the auditions a bit tedious  - 'and just when the judges thought the day was a total waste, along came xxxx (insert name with random sob story)'; repeat x number of episodes - and I find many of the contestants...well...a bit sad, really.  You know, the ones we're all supposed to laugh at for being so deluded; the same ones who often appear to have very little going for them in life other than the fact they have a dream to escape their existence and see the X Factor as a possible chance to do so?  (since when did I develop a conscience?).  But when it gets to Boot Camp and Judges Houses, however, I'm in there like a tramp on chips and remain that way until, ooh, about episode five of the live shows, when I start to get a bit bored.  By Christmas I'm totally over it...until the next year.

At the moment, I'm on that cusp of being totally hooked but beginning to emerge from the all-encompassing obession like a squirrel emerging from hibernation (I could have easily said beaver, but you lot aren't to be trusted on that one).  Thus far it's been quite fun.  Things I have particularly enjoyed about this year's show include:

• No Simon Cowell.  He just always looked bored, frankly and you always felt that the show wasn't about the contestants but was solely about him...
• ...and Biffa Cole, who I'm also missing about as much as ricketts.  The moment she said Cher Lloyd was 'right up her street' she reminded us that rather than the carefully manufactured nation's sweetheart, she'll always be that rough Geordie lass who took her mules to a toilet attendant over the price of a couple of Haribo or something.
• Two Shoes - 'totes emosh Derm' will live on forever
• The way Peter Dixon says 'Sophie Habibas'
• Kelly Rowland - love Destiny's Child and love the Rowland
• No Brian Friedman.  His shrunken head always scared me
• Two Shoes - the running lipstick
• The fact that a number of the acts are of a similar standard making it harder to predict who's going and who's staying
• Goldie - the greatest contestant the X Factor has ever seen.  As mad as a box of frogs
• Two Shoes - the greatest group the X Factor has ever seen.  As mad as a box of frogs
• Tulisa- a pleasant surprise!  Thought I was going to hate her.  I don't!
• Kitty - not the greatest contestant the X Factor has ever seen.  But still as mad as a box of frogs and very watchable - particularly her heavily botoxed forehead.

Four weeks into the live shows, however, and the appeal of most of the above is wearing thin and being supplanted by those random irritations which are growing ever bigger by the week.  The prospect of never hearing the words 'Sophie Habibis' uttered in 'that' way, regardless of whether she was a good singer or not (I never quite figured that out) has seen the appeal of the programme plummet several notches this week (although it's still not quite as good as 'Rachel Adedeji'

Anyway, the purpose of this post is to get these X-Factor irritations off my chest, once and for all.  Ladies and Gentlemen, your X-Factor rant starts right here (does a little twirl a la Dermot).  In no particular order:

1. Frankie - what a talentless little pr*ck he is.  Can barely sing, has all the charisma of haemorrhoids and has as much attitude as Sister Wendy.  'I went out again last night.  I know Gary's going to be cross'  Yes, so much so that he sent an entire film crew with you.  No-one has six girls names tattooed on their arse cos they're 'hard' or they're 'cool'.  No, they do it to get noticed, because they don't have the confidence in who they are as a person to think people will be interested in who they are and what they have to say.  In many cases you can sympathise, but when they overcompensate to the extent this little turd has, then quite frankly sympathy goes out the window.  You just know there are a number of drug suppliers rubbing their greasy little paws together as the propect of encountering Frankie.
2. PR by numbers.  'Simon's livid with the viewing figures', 'the judges are all getting sacked',  'the judges have had a big fall out', 'xxx was bully', 'yyy was a victim of bullying', 'zzz is sleeping with bbb'.  Yawn.  We can all see through the big PR machine, because you attempt to feed us the same stories EVERY YEAR - right back to Pop Idol when Will Young was 'rumoured to be dating' Hayley Evetts. Try to come up with something original!  It's boring and totally seethrough.  Why not go for something totally outlandish along the lines of 'Louis Walsh admits he's gay' or 'Kelly admits she hasn't spoken to her acts since Boot Camp' or 'Simon Cowell admits he's gay' or 'whilst the other judges are on £500k each, Tulisa gets her busfair and a 1998 trance CD'
3. Ashford - just die!!!!  And no, I don't mean literally, but for goodness sake he's like ruddy Batfink!  Chance #1 - Boot Camp.  Not good enough.  Voted off.  Chance #2 - resurfaces in Nu Vibe.  Not good enough.  Voted off.  Chance #3 - resurfaces in The Risk.  For the love of God, will no-one get the message?  What has this boy got over Cowell that, like herpes,  he keeps coming back!  If I was Kelly I'd rush back from LA pretty sharpish cos I'm expecting to see Ashford in her chair as soon as The Risk are voted off
4. Kelly's sickie - as acting performances go it was right up there with Mariah Carey's turn in Glitter (if you haven't seen this, I insist you watch it, but do so in the company of friends and lots of alcohol).  As much as I love the Rowland (if only for the fact she's not Cheryl), c'mon love!  You only have to sit there for an hour and say 'you brought it' five times and 'you need to take it up a notch' four times, you're not being asked to clear the studio of asbestos!  Quite frankly if one of the judges can't be bothered to show up, I'm not sure I can be bothered to watch
5. Frankie's hair -   No.  Excuse.  For.  That.  Barnet. 
6. Mischa B's insincerity - easily the most talented act on the show, but looks as trustworthy as an Italian in a war (apologies to any Italian's who might be offended by that).  Not to be crossed, that one.
7. Janet - now I'm sure she's lovely, however listening to the judges you've have thought we'd discovered the lovechild of John Lennon and Madonna.  I know I'm no Andrew Lloyd Webber (thank heavens), but to me she just sounds a bit dull and a bit...well...out of tune.
8. Frankie's facial hair - I'm not even sure what to call it.  Moustache - definitely not.  Stubble - hardly.  Whatever it is, someone must surely have a word
9. The groups - what's the point of entering the X Factor as a group anymore?  You won't make it through, cos ultimately they'll simply manufacture some new ones and foist them onto the show - and now they've even started manufacturing the manufactured bands!  Looking at the dross that's left now, how sorely missed are Two Shoes.
10. Charlie from The Risk - it's not all about you!  Guess the signs were there when he dumped his previous bandmates quicker than you could say 'treachorous turncoat', however his inability to let any of his new bandmates speak when asked a question is tedious beyond belief
11. Frankie's lack of socks.  For one week, just buy him a pair
12. Gary selecting Craig as the performance of the week every week - OK he can sing, but he's totally forgettable.  If he wasn't large, he wouldn't have made it. 

And breathe.  Phew, I feel better for that. Of course, it's not all bad- yet!  I'm liking Kitty, Marcus and Little Mix more every week (loved Little Mix's Extra Terrestrial this week), but still think it's between Mischa B and The Risk for the win (although the bookies are backing Janet quite heavily)...and it's still my must-watch TV of the week (for the time being).

Right, best go and practice my Engelbert Humperdinck for next year's auditions!

If you've been affected by anything you've read in this post and wish to add your X-Factor loves / hates, feel free to comment below.

Day 154 (23 October 2011) - We're Livin' on the Edge...

...livin' on the edge'

When did life get so expensive?

I'm sitting here, having finally seen a couple of flats which look remotely habitable, trying to work out which one of the two, if either, I can afford.  One is slightly over my budget, but is a leasehold property, so has a service charge of £100 per month;  the other is within my budget but has a share of freehold and has a service charge of nearly £200 per month.  On paper it's only £100 but when taken in the context of all the other bills and expenses we have nowadays, £100 is a lot - particularly as I have nothing but a chest of drawers and a mattress by way of furniture so will have to find a way of furnishing the flat.  I have considered pretending I'm going for the minimalist look and just getting in a couple of beanbags, but I am 37 so do require a proper, comfortable bed and somewhere to hang my clothes as the very least.

Thinking about how much money I'm going to need each month has made me realise just how ludicroudly expensive life has become.  I earn a good salary and have a big deposit and yet I'm finding this flat-buying experience ruddy difficult.  How on earth do most people in London manage?  I look around my wonderful team sometimes and think 'you're going to have to move out to get a place of your own'  - and, indeed, two of them already have, choosing to face daily commutes in from Leighton Buzzard and Towcester respectively.  Towcester!!! - that's practically Birmingham.  Ok, this has enabled them to buy a property but they're then faced with annual travel bills of £3,000+  for the rights to wedge their nostrils into someone's sweaty armpits every morning. 

Of course I could join them (not literally) and move further out, but I LOVE London and don't just want it to be a place I work.  I want to be able to feel the buzz in the evening, to get lost in new and exciting parts at weekends and it's still the place where I find the biggest concentration of my friends.  That doesn't meant that I couldn't move to cheaper areas, but I'm reluctant to do this.  As everyone who knows me will know, I love a bit of security, to be surrounded by safe and familiar people and places.  I've found it hard enough accepting that I can't live in Putney and might have to be a mile or two down the road, so suddenly upping sticks to Beckton or Hackney or Surbiton just feels wrong. 

Added to this is typical male pride.  It's bad enough being dumped, but to have to then give up most of the rest of your previously happy life, and disappear into the sunset to the other side of town away from friends and familiarity is just rubbing salt in the wounds, frankly.  Yes, I could have a spanking flat, but I don't want to spend every evening sitting in it thinking about all the fun everyone else is having without me!

It's bizarre when you think about it.  London is filled with thousands of homes.  Every day I walk down streets, roads and closes and think 'I could live here' and yet I can't even begin to afford most of them.  Who's buying them all?  Maybe they're all filled with pensioners who have lived there for sixty years, unaware of the value of the bricks and mortar around them?  I know a lot of people blame bankers, but having lived with one for eight years whilst I can confirm that they do live in a different stratosphere financially and although they are all lovely people, have little idea what the average person on the street goes through, even they can't afford to go round hoovering up properties like my Mother buying cardigans at an M&S sale.

So, staying around the are is more expensive.  So, faced with this property conundrum, I've been looking into my potential outgoings to see where I can potentially make savings.  Of course, there are some things you just can't be without.  In priority order these include:

1. Sky TV - an absolute must.  I watch Eurosport and Sky Sports more than any other channels.  OK, I can compromise on Movies, which I never watch, but this still comes in at £52 a month with broadband and Sky + (which I place marginally ahead of the wheel in all-time greatest inventions)
2. National Lottery - I've played the same two lines for every lottery draw since its inception.  If I stopped playing, I would still find myself checking the numbers every draw, so I can't take the risk.  £18 a month
3. Electricity - required to power Sky and the TV.  Lighting also a bonus as is the ability to power other applicances. £30 a month
4. Gas - heating is good.  I don't like the cold or being cold.  And I can't knit  £40 a month
5. Water -very useful for someone who likes having a bath.  Quite like being able to flush the loo too.  £25 a month
6. TV Licence - apparently illegal not to have one, although I'd like to know what the BBC have done with all the dosh they made from pimpingTinky Winky et al around the world.  £15 a month
7. Mobile Phone - £26 a month contract.  I'm clevely limited from spending too much more by the fact the ruddy thing doesn't get a signal in most of the western world
8. Contact lenses - £25 a month.  Required for two reasons: I can't see through my glasses as they're no longer strong enough, but can't afford a new pair and I'm single - few people actively prefer a 'speccy twat'
9. Home Insurance - a potential saving.  For if I have no furniture I don't anything to insure.  Hmm, could be a cunning plan here. If I do get it it's c. £50 a month due to having made a claim recently - having added Piggy to my policy he promptly got his £2,000 bike nicked the following day.
10. Life insurance - £25 a month.  I took this out to cover my half of the mortgage on the previous property so that the ex wouldn't get clobbered for my half of the mortgage.  Given it's just me now, do I still need this?  A potential saving.  Hoorah!
11. Gym membership - £51 a month.  I'm short and nearly 40.  This means that I only have to walk past a chocolate eclair and I put on a pound.  Again this is linked to being single - single people can't afford to be fat!  And yes I do use it!
12. Haircut - currently £38 a month, comprising £33 fee and £5 tip.  I picked this up from the ex who convined me it was rude not to tip a hairdresser at least £5.  Frankly, this strikes me as being overly generous.  Do you tip your hairdresser?  If so, how much?  If not, do they extract their revenge next time by giving you a buble perm you didn't ask for or accidentally losing the blade on the clippers and giving you a Grade 0 line?  Again, being single I can't afford to have a mullet.  Should I risk a go at Mr Toppers for £7?
13. Macmillan Christmas Club - £50.  This is a scheme run by colleagues at work which is essentially a savings scheme which makes Christmas more doable, by spreading the cost throughout the year. 

...add on a council tax (£60), and the small matter of the mortgage - I can only get a repayment mortgage as I don't have a 55% deposit (WTF) - and suddenly the issue of the service charge becomes important.

And then there's the 'discretionary' spend the bit that's left over after all of the above for everything else.  Of course you can always cut back, but there's only so many jacket potatoes a man can eat.  Similarly, being single means that any social interaction requires going out - and you can hardly go out and drink lime and soda can you?  Certainly not when there's a recession on and we all need to put more money into the economy.  In all seriousness, my days of 8 holidays a year have long gone.  I think I shall be lucky to get one from now on.

So, what have I concluded from all these musings?  Well, it can be summed up as follows:

 - Life is expensive
 - Being single is ridiculously expensive
 - I'm going to have to make cutbacks - friends empathy would be appreciated...'please come to dinner on Friday, we've booked a table at the Fat Duck' would just be plain mean.  I should point out that, no, this doesn't mean that if you invite me round I'm rocking up with Asda's own Bucks Fizz, but it does mean that the days of buying Veuve have now passed.  I will be taking advantage of 'offer's so be warned!
 - If I'm going to own a home, I'm going to have to live on the edge of financial security, something I'm not overly comfortable with.  Actually this scares the hell out of me
 - I'm not going to have much furniture.  Everyone is always welcome to visit - I'd love to see you - but you may be sitting on the floor.
 - Renting my second bedroom out would make a real difference - but it has to be to someone I know, or someone who knows someone I know!  Know anyone who might be interested?

So, based on the above, should I take the plunge and put an offer in? Eeeeeeek!

Day 135 (4 October 2011) - 'There are more questions than answers...

...pictures in my mind, something, something, something' etc.


No idea what that song is, but takes me back to a Question of Sport when it used to be on a Tuesday night with Bill Beaumont and Willie Carson.


The reason for the quote is (fanfare please) - Task 11 - Win a Pub Quiz (Kat).  Ta-dah!!!!


I have always loved a quiz.  I can clearly remember sitting in front of the TV as a wee nipper shouting the answers to Celebrity Squares and Sale of the Century at Bob Monkhouse & Nicholas Parsons respectively (who were on said TV - they never popped round for a Scotch Egg and a Bird's Trifle).  I've also been blessed with the ability to retain random facts (although I've noticed this has declined in recent months - possibly something to do with a corresponding increase in alcohol consumption!) and have always loved learning new things.  Why just this week, I've learned the following:


1. The actor who plays the eldest child in BBC sitcom Outnumbered, is the real-life son of legendary porn star, Ben Dover
2. Tyburn, the site of many hangings throughout history, includng the marvellously named Perkin Walbeck, is actually at the present site of Marble Arch
3. Both Matt Cardle and Liam from One Direction (or Wand Erection) only have one kidney


In short, I like to think of myself as a poor man's Rain Man with slightly better teeth - but sadly only with the ability to remember inane facts rather than really important stuff.   From the Sunday night pop quiz at the Larwood and Voce pub under Trent Bridge cricket ground, Nottingham, which I barely missed in two years (and where a fishman would rock up during the interval to be greeted with standard cry of 'don't be alarmed ladies, it's only the fishman' and 'got any crabs on ya, cock?') via the Monday nights at the Unicorn, Trumpington, to Thursdays at the Volunteer, Cambridge, I've always loved a good pub quiz.  Since living in London, however, I've probably only been to about five in thirteen years - most of which have been with the very, very clever Kat who's a bit of a quiz whizz (she'd be one of my 'Phone a Friends').


Over the years I've won a few (not many, but a few), come close several times (most notably during a work quiz night where we lost because I couldn't remember the term for a collective noun of rhinos - I kept smashing my fist into the other hand saying 'it's a smash, a thwack, a collision or something'...it's actually a crash) and have never come last; or if I have I've blocked it from my mind along with the denim jacket, my impressions of Margaret Thatcher and art classes.  If I haven't ever come last, this is because, and let's be honest here, a surprising number of people in this country have little or no general knowledge at all - think Jade Goody -  so there’s usually one team of thickies.  Of course, this can be quite amusing, particularly if answers given are truly awful.  To this day few things make me laugh more than the list of terrible answers from Family Fortunes.  My favourites are as follows:


A number you might have to memorise - seven
A slang word for a girl - slag
A song from the Sound of Music - Dancing queen
Something you open other than a door - your bowels
A dangerous race - the Arabs
A kind of ache - filet-o-fish (??)
Something that flies that doesn't have an engine - a bicycle with wings
A bird with a long neck - Naomi Campbell
...and my all-time fave:
Something red - is it my cardigan?


Fortunately, Steven, Piggy and I didn't come up with anything quite so inane when we found ourselves at the weekly quiz night at the Arab Boy, Putney's oldest pub apparently!  Despite having lived within a stone's throw of the pub for five years I'd never been inside as it always looked like the sort of place where everyone had their own seat and where some old soak would be sitting at the bar having arrived for a swift half in 1972.  I was, however, pleasantly surprised as it turned out to be terribly pleasant with a typically Putney-esque middle-class clientele, a landlord and quizmaster who looks like Dennis Norden and, of course, the cheek to charge £2.50 for an orange juice and lemonade.


Having surveyed the competition, which included a team of older people all peering over the tops of their specs (which I always take as a sign of intelligence), I'd decided that we weren't in with much of a chance, so having paid our £1 entry fee and christened ourselves 'Piggy's Trotters' we decided to get involved in some burgers.  But when the sheets were handed out and it was announced that one of the rounds was 'Pop Music' I began to think that we might just challenge for UEFA Cup if not Champion's League. 


There were five rounds in total:

1. Famous Restaurants - Steven is a big foodie, so I thought we might be OK here
2. Famous Buildings - hmm, not so confident although between the three of us we are quite well travelled
3. Famous scientists -  I looked firmly in Piggy's direction on this one.  He responded by attempting to hide behind his bap.  Not a sign of confidence
4. Famous No 1 hits - my home territory.  When it comes to music I am borderline autistic.  So much so that I have to confess to having kept a written record of every Top 20 chart since 1989.  That last sentence alone probably goes further to explaining why I'm single than anything!!  I confidently suggested we play our joker (double points) on this round
5. Famous People Aptagrams - what's an aptragram I hear you cry?  Well it's an apt anagram.  This is the sort of round which drives a man to drink (probably why pubs first started holding quizzes).  There were ten of these bad boys in total.  See how you get on:

• (sportsman) TAKEN IT FOR A RIDE
• (actress) NO ALIENS DARLING
• (politician) IM AN EVIL TORY BIGOT
• (leader) HE BUGS GORE
• (actor) OCEAN IDOL OR A DRIP
• (personality) ASCEND IN PARIS
• (actor / director) OLD WEST ACTION
• (scientist / inventor) AHA IONS MADE VOLTS
• (leader - dead) UNS SAID HES MAD
• (19th century heroine) ANGEL OF THE RECLINING

..answers next time.


To be honest we didn't think we'd done that well.  Steven played a blinder on the aptagram round, so much so that I fully expect to see him on Channel 4 in the near future asking for 'two from the top and four from anywhere else you choose'.  He also came up trumps on the restaurant round, where I was sadly lacking (but only because none of the answers was The Brewers Fayre).  Piggy also made some telling contributions including the introduction of ketchup to the quiz sheet (mucky pup).  When the scores finally came in we'd done as follows:

1. Famous Restuarants - 7/10
2. Famous Buildings - 6/10
3. Famous Scientists - 5/10
4. Famous No 1 Hits - 20/20 (joker played). 
5. Aptragams - 9/10

Total score - 47, which amazingly was enough to secure the £40 first prize.


I would say I was proud of securing top marks in the music round, but when I tell you that the answers included Mr Blobby, Clive Dunn, Steve Brookstein and the Macarena, you'll understand that my sense of pride is tinged with that of sheer embarrassment.


Having collected our prize to a polite ripple of applause and some murmerings of 'bastards' coming from the bespectacled table, we took the following celebratory shot

We donated the £40 to Steven's Rob Roy Challenge fundraising efforts and ambled home with a sense of pride in a job well done and another challenge ticked.


PS I won't mention that we returned last week and got trounced!

Day 117 (16 September 2011) - Would you like to fly...

...in my beautiful, my beautiful balloon?'

Ah, that song takes me back to being a wee lad.  Sunday mornings would be filled with the smell of my Mum's roast dinner and the sound of her music.  She had (I think still has) drawers of cassettes - hundreds of 'em - yet the same three would get played most Sundays:

1. The Greatest Hits of Charley Pride  - 'Oh, those Crystal Chandeliers light up the paintings on your wall' - what a load of ol' tripe;
2. The First Ladies of Country  - Blanket on the Ground, some person called Billy Joe McCallister jumping off the Tallahassee Bridge (do they not have health and safety regulatations in Florida?)  and Harper Valley PTA - a song about a school mum who was the sort of woman to answer the door to the milkmen in her dressing gown and mules.  It had a pink cover if I remember (will gloss over the fact that having written about it, I'm considering looking it up on Amazon.  Sssshhh)
3. Frank Sinatra's Greatest Hits  - from which the song quoted in the subject line of this post is taken.  Good ol' Frank.  My Mum was so excited to receive tickets in the post to see him that she poured her coffee into the sugar!

Anyway,  I digress -  for the reason for this post is Tasks 10 and 25 - Attend Florence's first birthday (Alex) and Learn to juggle / do magic tricks / make balloon animals to amuse Florence (Caroline).

Florence is my beautiful Goddaughter.  As previously mentioned, her parents Alex and Chris rival John and Ellen for the title of most intelligent couple on the planet  - two Doctors of English vs two Lawyers.  I almost feel a Harry Hill moment coming on!

Being a Godparent is strange - particularly in my case as my relationship with God is up there with my relationship with Father Christmas and Tooth Fairy i.e. I can see the pleasure others take from their perceived existence and am genuinely happy for them, but I'm yet to see any evidence for myself.  Until that moment I'm as inclined to believe in Pyschic Sally - at least you get an ice cream at halftime with her.  Of course I'm joking slightly and mean no offence to anyone who might be reading who is a believer - in many ways I'm simply jealous as there must be great comfort in thinking  / knowing that there is something that exists beyond this.  Until then, I'll borrow my old Chief Exec's mantra that this is the only world of which we can be sure, so we have a duty to leave it in a better place than we found it.  Anyway it;s strange because you feel a huge sense of duty and pride and yet aren't quite sure what you're supposed to do!  It ought to come with a job description!  In spite of being totally crap at keeping in touch with people on a regular basis, I try to take my Godfatherly duties seriously and genuinely hope that I'll have some pearls of wisdom to impart and be a general shoulder to lean on to my three lovely Godchildren even if I'm already failing to see them as often as I mean to.  Eek!

Asking someone to be some sort of moral guardian or close friend to your child must be one of the greatest honours you can give someone, hence why on each occasion of being asked, I've been generally surprised and hugely touched.   In particular both Henry and Florence's parents were as close if not closer to the ex than me, so being chosen was almost doubley lovely as it not only suggested that they thought I was an alright bloke, but that I wasn't merely someone else's + 1.  Even now I get a bit choked up when I think about that (although that might have something to do with the quantity of wine I've drunk this evening!).

Anyway, back to the tasks in hand. Last month Florence was 1, so off I popped to Bristol to join fellow Godparent, Louise and her charming husband, Charles, to celebrate Florence's big day - task ten, tick! 

Selecting the best way to entertain Florence to deliver task 25, wasn't straight-forward.   I can kind of juggle, a skill picked up from my brother, Andrew, who even to this day causes my Mum a near heart attack when he flips and spins her Portmeirion Pomona dinner service, however my acumen in this field is limited to soft fruit, which still has the potential to cause signficant damage to a small child if dropped.  I had a Paul Daniels Magic Set (which sadly didn't contain a miniature Debbie McGee) when I was nine, but after spending three weeks trying to master a rope trick and failing miserably each time, I lost interest.  So, I plumped for the balloon modelling - well, how hard can it be?

So, off I popped (virtually) to Amazon and ordered a balloon modelling kit and some spare balloons - well, I figured I'd need a few trial runs.  Quite how many trial runs I thought I'd need I'm not quite sure, but as I've discovered, 500 balloons is enough to build an entire safari park.

As my old school friends will now, my artistic skills are up there with my ability to speak Urdu or pole-dance. I used to dread Art  - so much so that I took up Latin so I could drop it!  I can barely draw the curtains let alone knock up a water colour.  I've never quite understood why I'm so piss-poor at art -isn't it a skill that can me learned and mastered like most others?  But having said that, I could never see any shapes in those strange pictures we used to stare at for hours in the 80s!  So appalling was I that when tasked with drawing our shoe, I took my pad home for the night, drew round my shoe so as to make a perfect outline and still only got a D.

Having runs five marathons and never smoked, I always thought I had the lung capacity of a small country, but by 'eck you need six lungs to blow up a modelling balloons!  I was forced to resort to a pump - oh the shame!  However, this shame was soon forgotten when I knocked up my first ever animal!  OK, so it was merely a worm, but so adept at this was I, that I immediately progressed on to a snake, an eel and paraplegic sausage dog! 

After about ten false alarms, I produced this - my first sausage dog:

OK, so he was born with a rather large tongue, but hey this could come in useful for getting those hard to reach bits of food out of the bowl or catching flies or licking stamps etc.

With an impromptu holiday to Spain preceding Florence's big day, I had no choice but to pack the kit and take it with me  - praying my bags weren't searched and I wouldn't have to explain why I had a rucksack full of coloured latex!  And over the course of the week I had the opportunity to get lots of practice in.  Needless to say Nicola, with her artisitic leanings, was a natural, so whilst I was still practicing my sausage dogs, she'd progressed to a balloon- tableux of Noah's bleedin' ark!  But slowly and surely, I got better and progressed to a swan and even an elephant (and if you're not audibly woo-ing at that, you can leave now).  By the end of the week our apartment had gathered lots of new friends - which was particularly cheeky as pets weren't technically allowed!

Having flown back into Luton (what was  thinking) on Friday night, I hot-footed it to Bristol on Saturday morning with my sausage dog perfected.  Was Florence impressed?  Who knows, maybe she was laughing at the absurdity of her ol' Godfather, but I hope so - cos she'll be getting one every year until she's 40!