Training Day

Technology, for all its faults and trolls and Gangnam Styles, has done a lot for us, it must be said. There’s the way you're reading this for a start, and the fact that, after you've disposed of our brief moment together, you could learn how to tie a bow tie, or how to cook dauphinoise potatoes, or join ISIS. That’s how great our possibilities are. But there’s one thing that technology can’t really conquer, and that’s the warmth of a face-to-face conversation.

Having offices in three cities, as we do at where I work, a decent conversation is never beyond the realms of possibility. In fact, it’s encouraged. I’ve been to an all manner of towns and cities in my short time as Junior Undersecretary to the Head Tea Maker, and I've thoroughly enjoyed flying the nest to meet and greet people all over the country.

The only problem is, being a business; they want you to take the train.  

Yes, train, that great leveller of peoples (except those in first class).

When Isambard Kingdom Brunel created the Great Western Railway, it was the marvel of the world. Unfortunately, it seemed that we've been so suckered in to congratulating ourselves about this, we haven't bothered to really move things on. Everything about the modern train is detestable. From the seats with room enough only for ant legs, to the tray so small that, unless you want to write on the back of a postage stamp, you're fucked, to being served a lukewarm mug of water which apparently has been shown a teabag and didn't like it’s presence.

Then there’s the unwritten policy that nobody ever talks, and to do so will result in your immediate and involuntary disembarking. Why does no one speak if there is nothing worth shutting up for? Viewers of Top Gear will know that the only way to get Jeremy Clarkson to shut up is by playing the sound of a glorious V12 thundering through a tunnel in Italy. If the train made a glorious puff of steam every now and then, people’s silence would be justified. So why doesn’t everybody drive?

It used to be so beautiful...

“I prefer to work on the train, so I'm not wasting time”, sneers a colleague proudly, in front of her boss.  

But our world is so constantly connected that it’s widely accepted by scholars that if you don't have the Internet, you might as well sit on your hands and count to a billion, so useful are you to the bustling beehive of business. It’s actually unusual if you aren't hooked up to some digital dialysis of civilisation – I don't know how some people manage it. But trains do offer Wi-Fi. At extortionate rates. Even BT, who are recognised, not just throughout their industry, but the entire cosmos for their commendable levels of bastardness, offer free Wi-Fi to their customers.

“I’m saving the planet”, claims a Jesus-like figure from across our open-plan office.

Really? How much power do you think it takes to move a hundred tonne train at a hundred miles an hour? Less than it takes to move my one tonne car at 70? Plus my car is running for less time, because unlike you, I don’t drive to London and stop at Swindon, Reading and Didcot Parkway, I just go to London, like any sane person would. And where do you think all that power is coming from? It’s not exactly running on Kale juice and piousness.

“Look at those views, Biggins!” “Brittain, Sir” “Look at those views, Brittins!” says my boss in a hushed voice (in case the Silent Stasi catch him) on a train journey that even I couldn't talk myself out of, because yes I hate trains, but I also would like him to promote me at some point, “you wouldn't get that pottering about in a car, absolutely stunning!“ The train grinding to a halt then interrupts him. The captain comes on the crackling system “Sorry about the delay ladies and gentleman, there’s a beetle on the tracks, and, frankly, I'm not paid enough to become a murderer.”

We're now late for our meeting. But it’s not even our fault – and that’s another problem: trains remove accountability. “Sorry I was late – train was delayed/cancelled/made obsolete fucking years ago.” “Well, that’s alright we just lumbered through the make-or-break meeting on our own, failed miserably and now my wife will have to shop at Iceland, but we can't really blame you for that, if your train was delayed/cancelled/a waste of trillions of pounds.”

Whereas when I drive…

“Sorry I'm late, there was an accident on the M40 and I had to cut across two lanes to make the sliproad and find another route. I was speeding so fast, the cyclist I catapulted into the air hadn't even hit the ground by the time I went round the junction.” “Really, Brighton?” “Brittain, Sir” “This could have been avoided you know – why didn't you leave earlier?”

Firstly, I didn't leave earlier because if I wanted to make a 2-hour journey last three and a half hours, I would have taken the fucking train. Secondly, if I wanted to travel with my face full of the elbows of a Metro reader (which is essentially a Daily Mail reader with a sense of entitlement, as they are the same paper), my nostrils full of the stench of a Metro reader, and being hurtled facing fucking BACKWARDS BECAUSE THAT’S NOT AT ALL DISORIENTATING, I would have taken the fucking train!

More smug than all the "Apprentice" candidates put together. Prick.

“I can eat what I like and when I like on the train, and drink,” boasts one final hypothetical colleague.

Paying £3.99 for some rubbery cheese and furry tomato slapped between two pieces of soggy yeast does not really constitute ‘what I like’, in the same way that whenever someone else decides he can be bothered to drag a trolley through the carriages is not ‘when I like’. Unless you're a really forward thinking kind of guy, and decided to instead pay £3.49 for the same sandwich in Pret beforehand, because you think coffee stores like that are really fucking cool yet you're always really surprised when you don't see a Chandler/Monica type couple snuggling on the sofas. Oh, and good luck with your idea of having a whisky and ice before a meeting, you're not in fucking ‘Mad Men’ now.

Please don't mistake my hatred of trains for hatred of the tube. The tube is a most marvellous invention, and is the scene of some of the funniest and touching moments I've ever seen (as well as the odd drunk). Part of my reasoning for driving to London is so I can spend more time on the underground. I'll be old and very grey before I forget the time I saw an incandescent mother scolding one of her five children for licking the pole in the centre of the carriage on the circle line. If she had a bottle of Dettol on her, I imagine she would have emptied it into his mouth and made him swallow the lot, regardless of the longer-term effects.

But trains are simply the most detestable transport ever to have existed. They have the illusion of being executive versions of buses (you know, those things you have to take anyway when the bastard train is cancelled?). Buses, though, don't pretend to be something special, and they don't charge £160 to get to London. They're not perfect by any means, but they're alright.

So for god’s sake, if you're lucky enough to have a job that means you have to go somewhere, and you're the kind of person that cares about pretending to work hard, daytime drinking and saving pandas, GET IN A CAR. It’s got music, it’s got your CDs, and you can go absolutely anywhere in it. Fields, hills, towns, villages, pubs, friends’ houses, anywhere you want. If you're really lucky, you could travel with someone, and have a decent conversation, because there’s no stupid secret noise restriction in a car!

So how about it? There’s nothing embarrassing about it! Why should car drivers be vilified for wanting a little luxury in our otherwise short and despicable existence? Enough of being branded as a Clarksonian Luddite for simply enjoying a bit of pleasure behind the wheel! We're taking back transport! Get off the train, get smiling! Get back enjoying life again!

Wait a minute...

Where the fuck has this tractor come from?!

We're Going to Need a Bigger Vote

Now, you can say what you like about Europe, especially if you vote for UKIP. But whether you like your Brussels or not, the elections are in town.

For those of you who have never voted in one of these before (which is fair enough, it only happens once every five years), it’s quite simple. The parties are the same, but you probably haven’t heard of your MEPs before. That’s fine, the feeling is probably mutual. On average, there’s one British MEP for every 860,000 of us. They have a lot of people to listen to, so I’m sure they’ll get round to you eventually. Your call is important to them.

Before the outrageous theory that politicians aren’t listening to you puts you off Europe, and you start to consider lifting up the anchor and seeing if Britain can paddle it’s way further into the Atlantic, flicking the Vs at any continental passer-by, remember that: 1. Europe is bloody important to us and 2. The Atlantic is full of sharks and bits of the Titanic. It simply won’t end well.

That’s where you come in. The purpose of this article is not to recommend who you should vote for. You probably have a good idea about which politicians you absolutely despise the least, so it would be hugely in your interest to put an ‘x’ next to their name. I promise it’s worth it. You’ll get a huge sensation of contributing to democracy, which is what our forefathers would have wanted. Don’t forget, if you don’t vote, you can’t whinge about which party wins. You’ll be limited to just whinging about the government in general, which is massively risky, because if somebody even half-challenges you for your idea of an alternative way of ruling people, you’ll have to be forced to invent something on the spot, and it will be crap.

Politicians have been begging for “yoofs” to pay attention to them since Supreme Warlord and Kaa from the Jungle Book impersonator, Tony Blair, tried to rebrand Labour as a cool party. In a delayed response, David Cameron (you may know him by his more deroga-Tory nickname), told his Conservatives to ‘hug a hoodie’. Nobody under 25, or over, for that matter, could keep a straight face. As a result, barely any young people have voted. Some, like Russell Brand, have never voted. So, when it came to raising tuition fees in 2010, nobody in Westminster batted an eyelid, because how many voters were affected? Not as many as you might think.

Now there’s a wedge in the chasm between politicians and students that will only grow bigger unless one group does the right thing and try to bridge the gap. And seeing as well all know that politicians are smelly poopy bums, it’s up to the younger generation to be mature about the situation.

Vote for whoever you want today. It’ll be the last thing they expect.

Think Void: The Wall

It's a day in early March, and nothing has happened. 

Well, stuff has happened. I work full time, and stuff happens there. I spend a lot of free time walking around Cheltenham, and I see things happen; some of it in front of me, some of it involving me. Some of it has had a positive effect on me, but most of it seems to be detrimental to my overall happiness. But there's something about it all that has eaten me up inside. None of it is noteworthy. 

No matter, I'm imaginative enough. I'll embellish a bit!

I'm sat in my armchair, a cup of Earl Grey beside me and a non-descript album on in the background, staring. Staring into a blank screen. Something must have happened this month! I rack my brains for something to write about. What could I possibly share with you? 

I do things I never usually do to try and get some juices flowing. I stand up and walk around. This is something I've noticed my boss does, and it must work for him because, somewhere along the line, more than one of his ideas have made him fucking successful and popular. God, what I would brutally kill for an idea like that right now. Probably him, if I really had to. Does it work like a monarchy, where if someone dies, we all move up the line of succession? Would I have the "Junior" knocked off my title, and move one step closer to the ultimate goal - business cards? That's right, I don't want a company car, a season train-ticket, or a huge wage (handy those all might be), but, for some reason, I can't help but yearn for a business card. Something with my name on it! I could really be somebody in this place!

But I digress, plus it's my turn to make the tea.

****************************************************************

It's mid-March, and I'm not panicking. 

I'm sat in my parent's house, discussing their upcoming holiday to New Zealand. They are doing something noteworthy. The bastards. They have a moral duty to make sure I'm doing something noteworthy! What kind of parents are they if they're not giving me stuff to do?

"So, how's work going, Jim [my parents call me Jim, you don't because you're not allowed]? How's the missus?"

I must add, that nobody, NOBODY calls my girlfriend 'the missus' except me, and I'm not so uncouth as to do it in the real world. Just here, in case there is a change in casting. 

"Yeah, it's going well, and we're both very well, thanks. How's Henry?"
"He's good, his fiancés good, their little one is coming along nicely."

That's right, my younger brother is engaged, and his first child is due in September. He's got stuff to talk about. Some people will do anything for a bit of material. 

"How's Grace? [my sister]"
"Yeah, she's alright, just getting ready for A-levels and India"

For God's sake! Everyone in my family is doing something except me! This cannot be for too long. I've got to do something about anything!

Right, that's it. Tomorrow, I'm going to have an event!!



****************************************************************

It's lateish March. My New-Year's resolution of producing 12 quality pieces of work is being absolutely trashed by my tiny brain not being able to translate anything that has happened into words.

An email appears. The font has been changed to protect the identity of the computer that sent it.

Hi James and [a much better informed colleague]

Can we pls get a blog from both of you about the pension and ISA reforms announced yesterday in the Budget.

If I could have something by the end of the day from both of you that would be fab.

Thanks

I'm being mocked! Mocked for my literary impotence! I can't think of ANYTHING in a month, and now I have one afternoon to knock up a blog about the Budget?! What to say? How do you make something like that interesting? Why do I only have an afternoon to come up with this? Furthermore, why am I being put against a colleague who is much better informed than I am about these matters?! This is unfair. I've been deliberately set up for a fall. 

In a flash, I clear my afternoon and stare at a blank Word document, for quite some time. How humiliating. A politics graduate, albeit from Swansea, unable to say anything about the Budget. 

As it turned out, I said a fair bit about the Budget. In fact, I wrote too much, and bits had to be taken out - most of the compliments about the Tories failed to make the final cut, but those are acceptable losses. Was it so hard to write something? Do I just need to be sat down and told what to do, with the incentive of continuous employment being dangled in front of me. Do I need to be forced to do it, with something a bit more intimidating dangling in front of me? Something as to give. Something will happen. Even if I have to force it. 

****************************************************************


"So, what do you think?"
"I think it's stupid, why would we do it?"

Walking away from the burning wreck of March, it is now April. I now have to come up with TWO things to write about this month. Time, the wily fox, has forced my hand.

I'm sat at work with a colleague, friend, (and I don't think he'll mind if I share it with you) and secret lover - bugger! okay, lover - whom I have just pitched an absolutely shite idea to, to try and get a bit of hustle going in both the office and my own head. An idea which is for my own benefit as much as anyone else's, but it's one of those crazy things marketing agencies get up to. What are we like, eh? 

"Wouldn't it be really cool and kooky if, on Friday, all the men in the office were wearing checked shirts?"
"Nope", he said. 
"Oh. Well, let's see how it goes anyway!" 

Turns out he was right. Half the men didn't do it, all of the women complained that they weren't included. I didn't even own a checked shirt. He has six. Would he share one? Nope. He, almost gleefully, strode in, had a quick chuckle at me, and sat down at his desk. 

Two minutes later, a message from him. 

Hey, at least you've got something to talk about for your blog! Haha!

The swine.

****************************************************************

It's now the middle of April. A century has passed since the last blog post. I've gone above and beyond in search of an awkward situations, but, after 2 car washes, a new phone, a round of golf, a game of monopoly, #CheckedShirtFriday (don't look for it on Twitter, it didn't get the 'traction' (that's a marketing word, apparently) I hoped for), a 20 mile walk in Worcester, a 16 mile walk in Cheltenham, and a purchase of a tin horse, things got desperate. I tried, dearest reader. I tried so hard for you. 

How do writers do it? How?! One minute they're at the dead end of a labyrinth, surrounded by mind blocks and mental barriers, and the next, they're centre stage in a story unfolding before the reader's very eyes, real or fictional. They're so current, so relevant, so cool! Some writers don't even bother with pithy little articles, they sit in a shed and somehow come up with entire fucking novels! How the fuck does that happen?! 

I know someone who has actually done this. He's an incredibly cool man, and, paired with a particularly inspirational English teacher in 6th Form - who used to be able to come up with entire essay plans on the fucking spot - awed me so much, I used to desperately want to be a writer, albeit a hugely idealised one. I imagined my mornings would be filled with supping fresh, corporately-branded coffees in a small flat in London, my fingers moving too fast for the human eye to compute over a keyboard, only briefly pausing my trail of thought to either light another cigar, or to usher out the model that stopped by for a coffee last night. Or maybe to fight crime. Right now I'd take anything. Anything! 

Anything!... Anyone?...

If you've been snubbed/in an accident/erect at work, and you'd like to get in touch with your story, just telephone 0845-5839-224 and press '2' to speak to an empathiser. If you're not the billpayer of your telephone, calls are essentially free, so we'll cross that bridge when we get there. T&Cs apply, but are 87 pages long, so just tick the box and let us all get on with our lives.

Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa-Fashion

It's a blustery weekend in Dublin, and the missus and I have "randomly" taken shelter in a luxury department store. Some seriously big labels inhabit the floors of this building - Alexander McQueen, Mulberry, Bobby Valentino, including some other exotic ones which I didn't recognise, but I'm told are big in the fashion world. 

We stroll through past some watches which are expensively irrelevant, and some handbags which are as ridiculously priced as they are impractical ("You see, this one is €895, but you'd have to be so careful about what you put in it, so you don't scratch the leather or scuff the fabric, or stretch the handle, and really this could only work with one or two outfits I have... Let's just keep looking"), and eventually the inevitable happens. 

"Oh, I love this one!" 

It's an Orla Kiely (me neither) handbag, and, incredibly it's an absolute bargain! Just over what the government thinks I should pay for the privilege of owning a thirsty, rainforest-destroying Alfa Romeo, per year. It's a lot, but in the time it has taken for you to realise that the rest of this sentence is a just a bit of unnecessary filler, she's bought it.

We continue walking around the various departments, as she clutches her new product more tightly than you or I have ever been embraced by our own mothers, and eventually, we head down to the men's section. It's an exhibition of a lifestyle I can only dream of. Suits, shoes, accessories, designed by men with iconic names, made by men in Italy by the finest craftsmen and women, and worn by people who have "made it". Nobody knows what 'it' is, but I believe it's when you're rich enough to be able to buy a pint in London and not go "fucking hell, you could cure AIDS for that much!". They're the kind of people whom you don't care if they're late for an event, you should just be glad they're there so that you can bask in their excellence. The sort who throw in the odd french words in their sentence, and have a certain joie de vivre.

I am no such man. 

I trudge around the various labels, looking at suits I can't afford, browsing shoes I'll never wear. It's all so hopeless. The biggest giveaway that I couldn't afford a shoelace in here is that nothing was priced at something-ninety-nine. Not one item is "just €99.99!", it's €100. Whole numbers terrify me. It makes me wonder why our forefathers even bothered to decimalise currencies.

"Ah, wow, James you'd look incredible in this!" 

The missus is holding a blue, rather extravagant, Ted Baker waistcoat. It looks very, very nice, I might give it a bit of a try - wait what? HOW-fucking-much-you're-fucking-kidding-me?!

"Just go and try it on- oh, and this shirt would look great with it!"

What the fuck? The shirt's as much as the waistcoat's as much as the GDP of Luxembourg!

Sheepishly, I accept the shirt and waistcoat, and trudge off into the changing rooms to try them both on... Hm... I look alright in it. 

I look more than alright, I look like a bloody sexy bitch!

Or do I just look good because it's an exorbitant amount of clothing? Would I look good in any clothing that's that expensive. Would someone typically sartorial like David Beckham or Eddie Redmayne wear something like this? I look quite smart! But Jesus it's a lot of money. 

It takes an almighty, plaster-ripping moment for me to cave in. Fine, I'll buy these two ridiculously expensive items of clothing. 

"Ah, I'm so glad you are" said the missus, who seems to take some kind of sick pleasure in me handing over money, "you'll look so smart in them. It's the kind of thing David Bowie would wear".

My eyes light up. 

David Bowie!

A few years ago, and in the space of about 2 months, I went from 0-100mph in my addiction and affection for Bowie and all his alter-egos. I was, and still am, nuts about him. Even right now, as I write this, and probably as you read this, I'm listening to one of his songs. 

I return to the mirror. Maybe it is the kind of thing he'd wear? I don't really know, he's worn some pretty outlandish things in the past. This is probably a bit vanilla, a bit magnolia (I have been described as both before) for someone like David Bowie. 

Okay, I'll get it, but NO more spending for the rest of the holiday.


A scarf, two dinners, a jumper, countless Guinnesses, and a pair of sunglasses (in Ireland in February?!) later, we're back in Blighty. 

I unpack the clothes that started this whole mess and hang them on the back of the door. 

They do look nice. 

But now I cannot find an occasion that would warrant such an expensive outfit. Out for dinner - but with what money? What kind of looks would I get in Kev's Southern Chicken Parlour? To Mum and Dad's - I can see the conversation now; "How's things with money, son?" "Pretty good thanks" "Yes I can fucking see that, any chance of repaying us what you owe?" To work? - Ah, maybe!

We have a big client coming in soon, and they'll be sure to expose every flaw we have. We've got to be at the top of our game and, for me, that means - rather superficially - looking my best, and letting the little work I do around the place take care of itself. 

This is it! I now have the perfect occasion to wear my shiny new outfit! It shall be preserved until the sacred day, where I'll do my little turn on the catwalk (yeah on the catwalk, on the catwalk, etc.).

The big day comes, and I wheel out the shiny new fabrics. Cut off the labels (now there really is no going back), and pair the shirt/waistcoat with a pair of chinos I bought when I was, once again, under the influence of an intoxicatingly swish marque. And some boots I found in a sale.

I must impress that it's not often I do this, but, I admit, I did give myself a little twirl in the mirror that morning. Okay, I do it all the time, but who cares, I'm fabulous! I do look a bit like the Thin White Duke!

How do I look?

I 'accidentally' wake up the missus so she can see me. 

"You look great" she says, face buried in the pillow. 

That's all I needed.

Into work I strut. Listening to Bowie all the way. I could make a real stand here and become the office fashionista. Will they like the new me?

"Morning James!"
"Morning, Identity protected!"
"Interesting waistcoat!"
Whatever. 

"Morning James!"
"Morning Colleague"
"Funny-looking waistcoat - you look like you should be a snooker player!"
Okay, that's two people now. That's two who like it (the missus and I) against these two philistines who have mocked it.

"Hey James! Been snookering recently?"

Now, there's nothing wrong with the fashion sense of snooker players, but they're hardly up there with the iconic man himself! Do I look that uncool? Snooker's not the most glamorous of sports. Is it that bad? Maybe the waistcoat is a little garish. 

I couldn't work it out either...

The rest of the day hideously knocks my confidence. I'm conscious of how I look everywhere I walk. But marketing's quite an edgy sort of business, isn't it? I've seen some pretty trendy marketeers. How do they do it?

They are understated. Black trousers, white shirts, black designer specs, white iPhones, black smart shoes - you see a theme here? A splash of colour is maybe channelled through a tie, or a handkerchief, but it's not Jackson Pollocked across the whole outfit. 

I look bloody ridiculous. I'm too colourful!

My 15 minutes of fame with a big new potential client is more of 30 seconds of shame, as I'm shown the door quicker than I had time to say hello to our possible new friends (all wearing very fashionable specs, none looking like they've been assaulted by a child with a handful of Sharpies). 

Mortified, the rest of the day goes by with my head bowed down, all communications done online, and at 5:31, I bolt out the door. By now, thankfully, it's dark outside and no-one can see this abomination. I barge in home, slam the door shut, lock it twice, close all the curtains and pour myself a drink. 

Missus enters, stage left
"Oh, you're early, how was your day?" 

"Never mind that, who do you think I look like?"

"Hm, a bit like a gay snooker player." 

It's just one of the side effects of being this avant-garde, oui?

#NewYearNewYou

The start of a new year means that anyone and everyone with an outlet to spout their miserably unwanted thoughts is obliged to come up with some fake 'resolutions' because it makes them look willing to better themselves in this imperfect world, and also because it makes them look festive and with the times, even if they write something ridiculously dated like "I promise I'll stop listening to that TRULY ADDICTIVE Gangnam Style!"

Instead, I present to your my New Year Resolutions for you, the Great British public. If you are an avid reader of the Daily Mail (and, being a human being capable of sensitive thought, I sincerely hope you aren't), you'll know full well that we, as a society, are crumbling into disrepair, and will soon be unable to say the phrase "It wasn't this shit back in my day", because it just won't ring true any more. 

So, here they are: 

1. Don't get your hopes up too much. 
This year, a select 23 from a pool of 60 million citizens will fly to Brazil to try and win the World Cup, while the rest of us sit at home and just hope that they don't completely humiliate themselves, and us, for another four years. To achieve this, it's vitally important that NOBODY predicts anything other than a Group Stage Exit. Anything better than that is dangerously optimistic, and will only leave us flat and sobbing like Gazza when we exit at the Group Stage. 

2. Try not to kill anyone. 
America spent so much time defending it's right to bear arms after the Newtown Massacre of December 2012, it completely looked over the fact that, since those horrible events, over 9,900 more gun-related deaths have occurred. This issue was most-famously discussed on Piers Morgan's CNN show with red-faced gun enthusiast Alex Jones, who firstly barked on about how dangerous Piers is, and then about how Great Britain is since it banned the ownership of automatic firearms. After watching the interview on YouTube, I managed to prove him wrong by not going out on the street to stab someone. Perhaps this year a few more of us could do that

3. Stop messing about with your own hair. 
I should know. 

Blonde in Berlin, 2008

'ENOUGH!' I screamed, last month. Why do I put myself through this each day? The cuts, the products, the messing about with it, the combing, the brushing, the dyeing, the straightening, the curling, the wind, the rain, the eventual misery when you realise that you'll never look as good as David Beckham. 
It had to stop. So must you.

4. Write and feature in your own TV show.
Go on, try it. Oh, you can't? That's because it's REALLY FUCKING HARD. I've tried it all from heartwarming sitcoms, to chilling dramas, to even an arthouse indie show. It's really tough, and now I appreciate how tough it is to write a decent TV show week in week out. Alternatively, if you don't want to try writing/featuring in a TV show, how about never complaining about one ever again? If you sit there watching Made in Chelsea going "This is so good it's bad, how can anyone watch this?! I only watch ironically it to laugh at the people who watch it?" then you, my good friend, are not the solution. You are the problem.

5. Stop someone mid-meltdown, and make them laugh. 
Judge the mood first - don't make a fart noise in front of your grieving grandmother. But if someone's having a sob about how work's getting on top of them, or having a crisis of confidence in their own ability to cook rice, now's the time to remind them of that picture you have of them licking one of the Queen's guards to see if he will move, and how hilarious it was at the time. See? Life's too short to get in such a state.

6. Stop using the word 'bants'.
"So there I was in Yates's, absolutely shitcunted off two WKD blues, when the-legend-that-is-Spunko headbutted a stranger for no reason, threw him to the ground, and then me and the LADS started shouting verbal abuse at his missus as she tried to use some tissues to stop the heavy bleeding coming from the side of his head. BANTS"
It's safe to say that the word 'banter', and all it's variations, have been heavily bastardised.

7. Stop asking people if they've seen 'Breaking Bad'. 
Barely a day has gone by since the bloody thing finished that I haven't been treated like an inferior being because I didn't watch it. Nor have I watched Homeland, The US Office, The Sopranos, Spaced, Peep Show, Frasier, Ripper Street, or Sherlock. Can we still be friends?

8. Don't take part in Democracy
In the UK, and throughout Europe, elections in May will decide Members of the European Parliament, in which the views of 63 million of us will be condensed into 73 men and women. That means one representative for each 863,013 of us. 

Last year, drug-addict-turned-comedian-turned-Jesus-H-Christ Russell Brand told Jeremy Paxman that he has never voted, and doesn't intend to. I disagree with him: go to the polls, and spoil your ballot. Show these people that they don't represent you. Unless one of them really does. But, as we know, there's a 1 in 863,013 chance of that happening. 

Failing that, get a myWaitrose card and only go there for the free coffee, and nothing else. Apparently it annoys posh people. Stick that up your arse, establishment!

9. Stop going to nightclubs
Everything about them is ridiculous, as I have tried to say before here, (and failed, because I still frequent them). On the last night of 2013, I, and two good friends who are more handsome than myself, was lured into one by a lady more attractive than the three of us combined, who assured us all that it would be 'fun'. The loud music, the inability to dance, the standing next to people distinctly more attractive than you (male and female) and wondering how you ever managed to have intercourse with another human being, the £10 to get in even though we weren't there for the New Year's Countdown, the £5 for 25ml of vodka, 35ml of lemonade and 150ml of ice. All in the name of fun!

Interestingly, at no point for the whole 45 minutes we were there did my two attractive male friends, or even our very pretty friend, say "This is so much fun!". Which was the correct thing to do, because friends don't lie.

10. Keep the faith
I will still love you, no matter what you do. Remember that. Go forth and hold these resolutions close to your bosom. Love them, cradle them, print them off and tape them to the back of your lover, or record someone reading them out loud and have it as your alarm clock, so that we all may have a better life, one day at a time. 

And, for God's sake, don't read the Daily Mail. 

Coming Clean

What's important to know is, as a man who emerged on the other side of a 3 year stint in some of Swansea's finest flats and student accommodation, where 'what's mine is mine and what's yours is mine, but you have to wash it up because it's yours', it's safe to say that I'm not the most possessive of people. I don't mind if you have a cup of my delicious Chamomile and Honey (what?) tea in my favourite Cath Kidston (seriously, what's wrong with it?) mug, just as long as you say your pleases, your thank yous, and hold doors open for women. 

But what is even more (okay, neither really is "important", but for the purpose of this blog, it is) important to know is that not everybody is as open minded and liberal with their germs as I. Some people, as bizarre as it sounds, don't actually want the germs of another on their possession. In fact, some people actively go out of their way to decontaminate themselves from the slightest hint of a molecule of bacteria being shared from somebody else who, in their mind, is undeniably carrying a super-strain of AIDS crossed with diphtheria. 

Gentle, most forgiving and patient men such as I understand this, and do not wish to impose our reckless lifestyles on those who have to have a shower when a speck of dust lands on their scarf. All I ask in return is that these, shall we say, inhibited fellows do not impose their, shall we say, inhibited lifestyles on us. 

It's a dreary Tuesday and I have somehow, but deservedly, been branded as a tea-making skiver in my department, and am verbally frog-marched to the kitchen to do my 'fair' share of catering, which, given my experience in one of Britain's most questionably ethical hotels, should be a doddle. 

Unfortunately, because it was such a doddle, I end up losing focus and am left speaking to somebody I don't know, who's looking for a teaspoon. No problem, I say, and simply lift one out of the draw. 

"I'm afraid I can't use that one. You see, I can only use one teaspoon. It's my teaspoon, which I use only on when I make a tea for myself. I don't even use it on other people's teas"

I refrain from congratulating this stranger on being such a fucking biological martyr, leave him to uncover the whereabouts of the sacred teaspoon. 

"Aha!" he exclaims pulling a totally non-descript teaspoon out of the annoying bit in the dishwasher where convention has dictated is the ONLY place to put cutlery. "Got it!" he says to anyone listening (I think he meant me?), and continues to wash it (bearing in mind where he just got it from) in the sink. 

"Well done" I mumble, handing him a tea towel, so he can give his precious spoon the love it so clearly has desired in the dishwasher. 

I am given a look which, without context, might have been the look of a man who had just been offered to eat the toenails of Katie Hopkins. 

"You use the tea towels here?"

"Yes" I reply, bemused. "Why wouldn't I?"

He advances towards me, "Tea towels, my friend [we're not friends], are nothing but vehicles for germs to spread around the office. I don't know anybody in here that does use them."

I was starting to get a bit annoyed. If he is right, and nobody uses them, firstly; why is it slightly damp? and secondly; surely there are no germs on it, because nobody has touched it? I, surely, am the first person today to have touched the towel? Do I have germs? I bloody hope so. 

This charlatan, clearly thinking he hasn't imparted enough wisdom for one day, continues. 

"I recently have just come back to work after being ill for the third time this year, which is a bit unusual for me, so I'm pretty keen to be a bit on the safe side to begin with."

To put that into perspective, I have been ill once since December 2012, and that was in December 2012. You could almost say (and I'm touching every piece of wood in sight as I say this) that I have not been ill once in 2013. I've had a runny nose this year, but the winter was pretty cold. But I have not been so incapacitated that I have been unable to carry out my mundane tasks of life. Unfortunately, like most men, because of my five-star immune system (probably built up from, if you believe this stranger, years of licking toilet seats and burying my face in the ground so I can ingest a juicy worm), it means that when we men do get ill, we are so stricken with agony that many people think that we are overreacting to our 'man-flu'. How dare they. If only they knew of the dangers we had encountered over a 12-18 month period. 

One of the most popular ways in the office of postponing certain death, at least until after half past five, is by using a personal mug which nobody else touches, which fascinates me completely, mostly because I was unaware of a 'personal mug' section until about three months into the job, which explains all the dirty looks I've been receiving from the gentleman whose mug I favoured. 

Blissfully ignorant to the perils I was putting my lips against on a daily basis, I have continued to use the helpfully titled "public" mugs, until this morning when my boss, ever the gentleman, offered to make me a drink, and I, ever the ungrateful bellend, said yes instantly. 

Back he comes, ever the gentleman (I value my job), and I was shocked at his chosen receptacle. 

Somebody's mug. 

But it wasn't just somebody's mug, it was somebody who sat close to me's mug! I could be exposed as a innocently guilty thief if this got out! What do I do? I can't just take the coffee straight back after my boss, ever the gentleman (it's not arse-kissing if he doesn't read these, and I don't think he does), has kindly made it for me. That would be employment-suicide! I need to distract him, and get the mug back to safety before the owner arrives at work. 

It's easier done than said. By boss, ever the hard-working gentleman, is whisked into a meeting to discuss matters of the utmost importance, I assume, and I triumphantly stride into the kitchen. How simple was that! Everybody is none-the-wiser for my boss's blunder and my heroism to save the situation. 

But that could be down to people probably not really focusing on the mug...

"Morning James, back for a second coffee already?"
"Ah, you know me (names changed to protect the identity of those affected) Mildred! Can't get enough of the stuff "
"Haha, yeah- nice white socks! Is one of your trouser legs deliberately tucked into it to show it off?"

Mildred laughs so hard she nearly goes into cardiac arrest. 

We really do live in a dangerous world. 

THE RUN2REMEMBER TRILOGY: Sweat the Small Stuff

Why? 

Why did I sign up to this bloody race in the first place? Why had I not been bothered to train properly? Why is it raining so hard outside?!

The omens from the off were not good (they never are when you're a devout pessimist such as I). The Friday night before the race was spent quivering beside a pool table with a couple of other runners who, for some heathen reason, were despicably optimistic about the whole affair, and then sat on the sofa with some paté on toast (which according to a gym-going friend of mine, has the same nutritional value lard-flavoured Ben & Jerry's) and the concluding missions of Grand Theft Auto 5. The sense of achievement I gained from finishing the game was quickly diminished by the realisation that I was very much on my own, in my freezing cold house, and nothing could save me from my fate tomorrow. Nothing. 

Later, I lie in bed, holding Boris tightly. It's probably worth pointing out that Boris is a Moomin-branded hot water bottle, named after the Mayor of London who bought it for the missus when she was working at City Hall. It's impossible to sleep... What if I take ages to finish tomorrow? What if I round the final corner, only to see a load of roadies taking down the stage and the arch over the finish line? What if there is no finish line? What if they already took that bit away, and there's nowhere for me to stop, and I'm forever lost in a legless limbo? Or worse, what if everybody is there to watch me stumble to the line in last place and a decorated, and devastated, war hero hands me a wooden spoon with just the C-word etched into the handle, to forever remind me of my failure? 

Eventually, after multiple reassurances from Boris that he would protect me from long-distance running monsters, I drifted to sleep, and in no time at all, my alarm went off again. Shit, that was fast. 

Once again, I polished off a delicious and nutritious meal (2 mountains of Nutella on barely-visible toast), got dressed (which I believe is quite conventional for leaving the house), and set off. 

Lydiard Park had been transformed from a quaint landscape of tranquility to a gauntlet of mud and military officials. Gone were the sights of balmy afternoon picnics and children running amok with a football. In its place, a dreary, grey sky shedding very little light on a quagmire marked out loosely to resemble a running track. In my eyes, the desolate view before me was more of a tribute to the First World War than any poem or painting could manage, made all the more fitting by the 'volunteers' who had signed up to run in these conditions. Up on the stage, the Military Wives Choir were in full voice, and a gentleman from the Navy (whose name and rank eluded me, I was too focused on planning my desertion to be interested) took everyone through a muddy, slippery warm up. Well, I say everyone, I spent most of the warm up chuckling at a woman standing a few feet away from me who was smoking like there was no tomorrow; as if the fire in her cigarette was the last hope of warmth she had before her tar-filled body eventually succumbed to the weather. 

Shattered from the warm up, I slip over to the start line. Just before we started, there was a moments silence to remember why we were running, and who we were running for. I could see men murmuring their best wishes to their fallen friends, and women hushing their children excited to start. People more religious than me put their hands together, others shaking legs and arms as they tried to keep warm. 

The race begins.

A thousand or so people lurch forward and, on the soggy field, begin their Run2Remember. Instantly, two of my colleagues shoot ahead of me. Supporting friends and families are cheering their heroes on, but it's just moving mouths to me, as I slot my earplugs in and listen to some loud, harassingly upbeat music. Nobody should be this upbeat in the rain on a cold Saturday in November. Nobody. 

Eventually, I begin to start passing people. This feels quite good. I had forgotten what it feels like to actually be better at people than. At school, our rugby team were horrendously below par- every season was a losing one, particularly on a personal level. Due to my going straight from the same junior to senior school, I had racked up around 125 games in a wide, adolescence-dependent positions, and scored just three tries. Three. There were props in the school who had scored more in just one season, and I had three in my entire career, the first of which came when I was 17. Each game began with bright, controlled-aggressive optimism, and finished with humiliating impotency. Before you start saying "Yes, but there are other sports boys play at school!", you are correct, but nobody cares. Rugby is where credibility is won and lost. If I had just tried to be a little bit better at rugby, maybe I wouldn't have had to put peroxide blonde highlights in my hair when I was 15...

Anyway, the run. How to convey how it felt accurately to you... Well, look down at the floor, put one of your feet in front of the other, and keep doing that. Now, look up and see who's in front of you. Can you pass them? Nope. Stay where you are. Now look behind you. Can you see your colleagues? Nope, because they're all in front of you. Better turn back around before you bump into someone. Keep looking at your feet. Don't look up, that will only break your morale as you see how far you have to go, and how many people are in front of you. And repeat step 1.

Keep doing that for 56 minutes and 50 seconds...
...

Done?

Sure?

I don't believe you. 

Eventually, after a lot of panting and sweating, it was over. I crossed the line about as gloriously as a fish which has been taken out of the sea and dropped onto the boat deck. Flopping about, soaking, and wishing he was somewhere else completely. It wasn't exactly like Mo Farah finishing in London 2012. In fact, it seemed to go eerily quiet when I crossed the line, as if people made a distinct effort to not applaud me. All I could hear was my own sweat sloshing in my ear and gasps for a suspiciously little amount of air, like I had just ran underwater for an hour.

But I didn't care. It was over. 

The victor of our inter-office battle was standing at the finishing line, chatting to a few other race-goers.

"Wow, well done! How do you feel?!"
Whatever I said to him wasn't constructive or very family friendly. But can be summed up in one word beginning with the letter F. 
"How fast did you go?"
56;50 seems so cumbersome to say when air is a luxury you cannot afford.
"Oh, about 56 minutes"
"Nice!"

He barely looked like he had broken a sweat. The bastard.

I was just glad I had finished, and now, I had one thing on my mind. 

Pub. 

I had had enough of my alcoholic abstention. It had been far too long without the sweet elixir of hops. I immediately went over to a good friend of mine's (Ieuan....Ieuan...No, with an I... Ieuan. I-E-U-A-N, Ieuan!) house, in need of some adulation for my efforts, and a pint bought by somebody else. Except, like the men we both are, adulation is pretty hard to come by. 

"So, how did it go?" he asked, amidst the background of pool balls clattering and England's attempt at playing some 'rugby'.
"Yeah, went alright"
"How fast did you go?"
56 minutes seems such a long-winded phrase when you're thinking in pub-speak.
"Oh, about 55 minutes" 
"How far did you run again?" I never said he was a supportive friend.
"11km"
"How long's that?"
"About 6 miles"
"So, it's like a quarter of a marathon?"
"Yeah."
"What?! That's nothing!"
"I guess! But I did it in about 54 minutes, so it wasn't so bad."
"No, I guess not. You did quite well. How much did you raise?"
"£140"
"That's not so bad for a quarter marathon."

What had started as an inescapable, but still incredible journey by saying 'yes' to everyone had finished with my achievements being belittled by my best friend over a game of pool, completely neglecting the fact that I was beating him at it.

We're soon joined by a good mutual friend a few moments later after I seal a historic win, who buys his own drink (he doesn't do rounds with me since I ordered a glass of water when it was my turn, and made him get me a Guinness on his), and steps up to the pool table to play against me.

Our conversation meandered into the usual topics that three young men who haven't seen each other for a while talk about. We chat mindlessly about women, University and rugby as we play, then he thunders the black into the corner pocket after a four-pot streak, pauses, looks up and says, "By the way, how did that really fucking tiny run you were supposed to be doing go?"

I just shrugged and offered to get another round in. 

They don't know, man. They weren't there.