Recently, for a whole variety of reasons, I’ve been asked some quite bizarre questions. No, not the police wanting to know if I’ll ever follow through with my threat of shooting Myleene Klass out of a cannon (seriously though, that woman has taken the simple task of reading an autocue to new lows), the questions have been official ones.
Yes, official questions that seem perfectly sensible when written, but when put into my head sound ridiculous.
Recently we moved house and amongst the questions on the form for my mortgage protection policy, about my health one asked: ‘Have you seen any suspicious moles recently?” Of course it meant skin irritations, but all I could think of was some sort of twisted Tim Burton version of Wind in the Willows. A mole with an eyepatch carrying a sword, something like that.
Another question, I swear, asked ‘Have you ever had a terminal disease and then recovered?’. Erm. It wouldn’t have been terminal if I recovered would it?
Sometimes the questions just set my mischievous nature off.
A while back I was helping my missus fill in a job application (for her current job, before you ask) and I offered to complete the final HR questions at the end, the ones like ‘ Are you qualified to work in the UK’ etc. Thankfully she wanted one more proof before pressing send and spotted that on the question “Do you have any criminal convictions?” I wrote “I DONE A MURDER.” She did get the job incidentally.
Today though, I had my favourite question I visited a sausage factory (there’s a line I never thought I would type) and before I could get in the door I had to fill in a brief questionnaire. Question one, was it my name? Nope? Who I was visiting? Nope. The first question was ‘Have you had a bowel related illness, such as dysentery, in the last 2 weeks?”. Health and Safety, of course, but still a hell of an opening gambit. Try that as an openter the next time you’re on a blind date.
I was hoping, later in the questionnaire, there would be a note saying ‘Please do not touch the bacon slicer…because she doesn’t like it’. Sadly there wasn’t, as this was real life and not a Tom O’Connor joke from 1978. Shame.
Tuesday, 14 June 2011
Monday, 9 May 2011
Hair today
Today marked a milestone in my life. I’m officially in a new age bracket. No, you didn’t miss my birthday (HMV vouchers please), that’s next week - but today, I can hardly bring myself to say it…I had to shave ear hair.
I know. It’s effectively bus passes, tartan shopping bags on wheels and being dressed in a suit at 8.55am outside a post office from here on. And it’s crept up on me, the odd tickling sensation in the lugholes for a while and now this. Ambushed by hair follicles.
It’s nice to note how my hair has defined the ages of my life. My first shave was with a Remington microscreen that my brother won in a fruit machine. Yes, for a while you could choose a jackpot prize of £6 or an electric razor. I didn’t make that up. I remember him saying, in a rather doom laden accent to me ‘if you shave today…then you’ll have to shave every day from now on’.
And so it was, despite the fact that said microscreen was about as effective as rubbing a tortoise over your cheeks (that sounds wrong). It was a good job that my face was nowhere near as hairy as my brother’s belly – I swear he’s part Ewok.
I then took to shaving with a proper blade when I got to university because I felt it made me grown up. That and it made me look like I’d been attacked with a knife. My first forays in to wet shaving were akin to a Saw film and I soon learned that aftershave not only made me smell nicer, but could lay me out unconscious when it hit the various cuts and grazes in my bumpy old face.
Over the years my skin hasn’t really got any better, to the point where the line on my neck where the stubble ends and the neck continues has become so distinct I appear to have had my head stitched on by Dr Frankenstein. And now the hair needs to be removed from the ears and well as the nose (oh, that happened in the late 1990’s) to make me look vaguely human, the humiliation is complete.
Of course, the fact I still have hair is of massive comfort – but I swear as it comes out of more places in my head it’s probably because it’s going to go from the top of the noggin in the first place like some playdough man in reverse.
I know. It’s effectively bus passes, tartan shopping bags on wheels and being dressed in a suit at 8.55am outside a post office from here on. And it’s crept up on me, the odd tickling sensation in the lugholes for a while and now this. Ambushed by hair follicles.
It’s nice to note how my hair has defined the ages of my life. My first shave was with a Remington microscreen that my brother won in a fruit machine. Yes, for a while you could choose a jackpot prize of £6 or an electric razor. I didn’t make that up. I remember him saying, in a rather doom laden accent to me ‘if you shave today…then you’ll have to shave every day from now on’.
And so it was, despite the fact that said microscreen was about as effective as rubbing a tortoise over your cheeks (that sounds wrong). It was a good job that my face was nowhere near as hairy as my brother’s belly – I swear he’s part Ewok.
I then took to shaving with a proper blade when I got to university because I felt it made me grown up. That and it made me look like I’d been attacked with a knife. My first forays in to wet shaving were akin to a Saw film and I soon learned that aftershave not only made me smell nicer, but could lay me out unconscious when it hit the various cuts and grazes in my bumpy old face.
Over the years my skin hasn’t really got any better, to the point where the line on my neck where the stubble ends and the neck continues has become so distinct I appear to have had my head stitched on by Dr Frankenstein. And now the hair needs to be removed from the ears and well as the nose (oh, that happened in the late 1990’s) to make me look vaguely human, the humiliation is complete.
Of course, the fact I still have hair is of massive comfort – but I swear as it comes out of more places in my head it’s probably because it’s going to go from the top of the noggin in the first place like some playdough man in reverse.
Monday, 2 May 2011
Farewell friends
Goodbye. Sayonara. This is the end. Ta ra. All the best.
No, I'm not dying. Besides which, if I was none of those would be my final words, I'd much rather go with "The treasure is in the...urgh", much more fun.
Recently I've said quite a few goodbyes. I changed jobs. We moved house. I swapped my brain into that of a robot before my body was disintegrated. Hang on, that last one was a film, sorry.
So I decided that the time had also come for the semi-regular facebook cull. You know, where you actually look at the people you are connected to and ask the question "Who the?".
I think I was inspired when I was de-friended by someone who I used to work with. I say someone, more one of the biggest cows I've ever met in my life (ooh, get me). Seriously, enormous cow of a woman. So big I think Cravendale and Nesquik had shares in her. Anyway, we had been 'friends' for 18 months and I have no idea why. Politeness I guess.
I think I have a politeness about us these days that influences our behaviour. No matter who it is, I end up having a conversation in my head like this
"Ah, Hitler has sent me a friend request again. Can I really ignore him again. He'll know that i'm stalling and start thinking bad of me. Oh, maybe I should just accept and then limit his status updates. Besides which, he's been quite quiet since the 40's."
Or sometimes it's the people you've met for less than 2 minutes that you become friends with. If the ticket inspector from the train I went on last week sent me a friend request I think I'd have to accept, again out of politeness.
So no more. I've been brutal. I've culled all over the place.
10% of 'friends' have gone for a variety of reasons. There's the ones who never update their status (i'm pretty sure one of them is dead), there's the one who regularly posts 70's racist style comments, the people I've never actually met, the odd psycho, or the one who beat me up at school when I was 5 (did I really think 30 years ago "I hope I'm still in touch with him in three decades).
So if you're reading this, it's likely that you've followed the facebook link and that you have been saved from the cull. You can consider yourself fortunate or unfortunate, that's up to you.
Of course that might just inspire you to get rid of me. If so, goodbye. Sayonara. This is the end. Ta ra. All the best.
No, I'm not dying. Besides which, if I was none of those would be my final words, I'd much rather go with "The treasure is in the...urgh", much more fun.
Recently I've said quite a few goodbyes. I changed jobs. We moved house. I swapped my brain into that of a robot before my body was disintegrated. Hang on, that last one was a film, sorry.
So I decided that the time had also come for the semi-regular facebook cull. You know, where you actually look at the people you are connected to and ask the question "Who the?".
I think I was inspired when I was de-friended by someone who I used to work with. I say someone, more one of the biggest cows I've ever met in my life (ooh, get me). Seriously, enormous cow of a woman. So big I think Cravendale and Nesquik had shares in her. Anyway, we had been 'friends' for 18 months and I have no idea why. Politeness I guess.
I think I have a politeness about us these days that influences our behaviour. No matter who it is, I end up having a conversation in my head like this
"Ah, Hitler has sent me a friend request again. Can I really ignore him again. He'll know that i'm stalling and start thinking bad of me. Oh, maybe I should just accept and then limit his status updates. Besides which, he's been quite quiet since the 40's."
Or sometimes it's the people you've met for less than 2 minutes that you become friends with. If the ticket inspector from the train I went on last week sent me a friend request I think I'd have to accept, again out of politeness.
So no more. I've been brutal. I've culled all over the place.
10% of 'friends' have gone for a variety of reasons. There's the ones who never update their status (i'm pretty sure one of them is dead), there's the one who regularly posts 70's racist style comments, the people I've never actually met, the odd psycho, or the one who beat me up at school when I was 5 (did I really think 30 years ago "I hope I'm still in touch with him in three decades).
So if you're reading this, it's likely that you've followed the facebook link and that you have been saved from the cull. You can consider yourself fortunate or unfortunate, that's up to you.
Of course that might just inspire you to get rid of me. If so, goodbye. Sayonara. This is the end. Ta ra. All the best.
Wednesday, 9 March 2011
Is it a turbot? Is it a trout? No!
I don't like answering the door these days.
I'm not paranoid, I don't read the Daily Mail and believe that outside there are a load of knife-wielding illegal immigrants on benefits burning pictures of Princess Diana.
No, it's just that unless it's the postman it's someone trying to sell me something.
Today I'm working from home (fully dressed, before any of my work colleagues ask)and I foolishly answerd the door. A man with, I'm pretty sure, half the recommended level of teeth introduced himself.
"Hiya Pal".
Not a good start. 'Pal' is my least favourite term of unfamiliar familiarity. It also reminds me of the dog food. I imagine Cesar used to get annoyed by that too.
"I'm just talking to people on the estate. I'm the fish-man."
Now, at this point you can imagine the scene in my head. I know that by 'fish-man' he means someone who sells fish. of course I do. I'm not mad.
But in my own head I wanted him to be a mutant superhero. Part man, part fish. I started scanning his face for signs of gills, glancing down to see if his legs tapered into a tail - I might have also inhaled quite a lot to see if he smelt funny.
And why was he here? Was he about to thwart crime in a nearby stream or sea (presumably he'd be either sea or freshwater based)? Maybe his lack of teeth were a side effect of him being out of the water for long periods of time? Was his nemesis Lionel Rod (ooh, that's good) on the loose?
But, of course, he wasnt. He was a man trying to sell me fish. I hate fish. So I told him the only possible answer to make him go away quickly.
"Sorry. My wife is allergic to all fish" (she isn't). There. I thought. Get out of that one so-called fish-man. All fish. Yeah. Allergic to all of them. Even Michael Fish brings her out in a rash. Or Fish from Marillion. Checkmate.
"That's ok. I also sell chickens and vegetables" he replied instantly.
So he wasn't really fish-man was he? He was food-man. And that was a much less likely name for a superhero. I wanted to tell him this, but his teeth were concerning me again so I used the 'we're moving' reason, pointing to the For Sale sign and he smile and went on his way.
Thing is. I know that we'll get a knock at the door later, because our windows have been cleaned.
And if he introduces himself as Window-man it'll be the same thing all over again.
I'm not paranoid, I don't read the Daily Mail and believe that outside there are a load of knife-wielding illegal immigrants on benefits burning pictures of Princess Diana.
No, it's just that unless it's the postman it's someone trying to sell me something.
Today I'm working from home (fully dressed, before any of my work colleagues ask)and I foolishly answerd the door. A man with, I'm pretty sure, half the recommended level of teeth introduced himself.
"Hiya Pal".Not a good start. 'Pal' is my least favourite term of unfamiliar familiarity. It also reminds me of the dog food. I imagine Cesar used to get annoyed by that too.
"I'm just talking to people on the estate. I'm the fish-man."
Now, at this point you can imagine the scene in my head. I know that by 'fish-man' he means someone who sells fish. of course I do. I'm not mad.
But in my own head I wanted him to be a mutant superhero. Part man, part fish. I started scanning his face for signs of gills, glancing down to see if his legs tapered into a tail - I might have also inhaled quite a lot to see if he smelt funny.
And why was he here? Was he about to thwart crime in a nearby stream or sea (presumably he'd be either sea or freshwater based)? Maybe his lack of teeth were a side effect of him being out of the water for long periods of time? Was his nemesis Lionel Rod (ooh, that's good) on the loose?
But, of course, he wasnt. He was a man trying to sell me fish. I hate fish. So I told him the only possible answer to make him go away quickly.
"Sorry. My wife is allergic to all fish" (she isn't). There. I thought. Get out of that one so-called fish-man. All fish. Yeah. Allergic to all of them. Even Michael Fish brings her out in a rash. Or Fish from Marillion. Checkmate.
"That's ok. I also sell chickens and vegetables" he replied instantly.
So he wasn't really fish-man was he? He was food-man. And that was a much less likely name for a superhero. I wanted to tell him this, but his teeth were concerning me again so I used the 'we're moving' reason, pointing to the For Sale sign and he smile and went on his way.
Thing is. I know that we'll get a knock at the door later, because our windows have been cleaned.
And if he introduces himself as Window-man it'll be the same thing all over again.
Thursday, 17 February 2011
Living Joy
As you might recall (you might not, you might have had your memory wiped) we’re in the process of selling our house. And, stone me, if we don’t appear to have sold it. Despite my best attempts to offend the people who have eventually agreed to buy it.
It was a very simple mistake.
The buyers arrived at the door – woman, child and man. As the woman was the person I had been told was buying she came in first and put out her hand to shake – which I did. The 11 year old boy then followed, so in the jovial/borderline psychotic manner I’ve developed with viewers, I thrust out my hand to him and said rather loudly “I’ll shake everyone by the hand”.
So by the time the man had got in the door I already had my right arm extended for a good old manly handshake, a gesture derived from showing one’s hand didn’t contain a weapon, a sign of ‘I’m pleased to meet you sir, this is what men do’.
That’s when I spotted he only had one arm, and it wasn’t the one I was extending my welcoming hand towards.
Thankfully the chap must be used to it and turned his left arm round to shake me as if it was his right. But as far as first impressions of a house go, I might as well have opened the door smeared in marmite with a swastika emblazoned t-shirt speaking only in binary.
Anyway, it all seems to have amounted to nothing as they went and put an offer in a few days later and we’re now well on the way down the process. Honestly, if I’d know this I’d have been more offensive to people from the start.
Whilst we can’t wait to move into a new house, you always end up thinking about some of the great/bizarre times you’ve had in places you’ve lived. Such as these:
2 Winstone Avenue Torquay (1986ish)
We lived there from when I was 6-13 and was woken up by the milkman one morning. By that, I mean we woke up to find a milkfloat upside down on the garden, having crashed through our back fence. It even sat there with a comedy ‘spinning wheel’. It could only have been better if a Rice Krispies plane had crashed landed there too, followed by a light shower of sugar.
41 Park Road Torquay (1996)
My brother went home from a night out early and when I got home, he’d left the key in the lock meaning I couldn’t get in. So, after 4-5 pints, I thought the best thing to do was climb onto a wall in the backgarden, make my way across the flat roof, through the 2ft wide gap with the neighbours house and in through a conservatory window. Yes, I was a lot thinner back then. And spiderman apparently.
10 Reansway Square Wolverhampton (1998)
A rented house with no central heating or shower, which meant you had to have 15 second baths in the morning or you would die of the cold. And in the winter I recall sleeping in full football kit, tracksuit, scarf and hat to avoid death by chilliness. For some reason I wore the shinpads as well.
250 Renton Road Wolverhampton (2000)
I rented a room in a house with two cats, one with three legs. The best bit, arranging a music festival themed party called T2000 (like V you see) and issuing everyone with laminated passes on a piece of string so they could wear it like a festival pass. I made two mini versions with ‘access all areas’ on and had the cats wear them. They were the talking point of the party – apart from girl crying and being sick on the stairs of course.
10 Albany View Stainland (2004)
Despite sounding like the world’s worst theme park, living in Stainland was brilliant. It was a converted mill and the top flat I lived in was totally open plan with a ladder leading to the upper main bedroom. I had three walk in wardrobes up there that were so big, you could sleep in. And that’s exactly what my mate Daive did. We woke up one morning from a heavy night of indie partying to find him totally absent from the flat, until the door to the wardrobe swung open to reveal him and his sleeping bag. Bless.
There. You wouldn’t have had all that on Through the Keyhole.
It was a very simple mistake.
The buyers arrived at the door – woman, child and man. As the woman was the person I had been told was buying she came in first and put out her hand to shake – which I did. The 11 year old boy then followed, so in the jovial/borderline psychotic manner I’ve developed with viewers, I thrust out my hand to him and said rather loudly “I’ll shake everyone by the hand”.
So by the time the man had got in the door I already had my right arm extended for a good old manly handshake, a gesture derived from showing one’s hand didn’t contain a weapon, a sign of ‘I’m pleased to meet you sir, this is what men do’.
That’s when I spotted he only had one arm, and it wasn’t the one I was extending my welcoming hand towards.
Thankfully the chap must be used to it and turned his left arm round to shake me as if it was his right. But as far as first impressions of a house go, I might as well have opened the door smeared in marmite with a swastika emblazoned t-shirt speaking only in binary.
Anyway, it all seems to have amounted to nothing as they went and put an offer in a few days later and we’re now well on the way down the process. Honestly, if I’d know this I’d have been more offensive to people from the start.
Whilst we can’t wait to move into a new house, you always end up thinking about some of the great/bizarre times you’ve had in places you’ve lived. Such as these:
2 Winstone Avenue Torquay (1986ish)
We lived there from when I was 6-13 and was woken up by the milkman one morning. By that, I mean we woke up to find a milkfloat upside down on the garden, having crashed through our back fence. It even sat there with a comedy ‘spinning wheel’. It could only have been better if a Rice Krispies plane had crashed landed there too, followed by a light shower of sugar.
41 Park Road Torquay (1996)
My brother went home from a night out early and when I got home, he’d left the key in the lock meaning I couldn’t get in. So, after 4-5 pints, I thought the best thing to do was climb onto a wall in the backgarden, make my way across the flat roof, through the 2ft wide gap with the neighbours house and in through a conservatory window. Yes, I was a lot thinner back then. And spiderman apparently.
10 Reansway Square Wolverhampton (1998)
A rented house with no central heating or shower, which meant you had to have 15 second baths in the morning or you would die of the cold. And in the winter I recall sleeping in full football kit, tracksuit, scarf and hat to avoid death by chilliness. For some reason I wore the shinpads as well.
250 Renton Road Wolverhampton (2000)
I rented a room in a house with two cats, one with three legs. The best bit, arranging a music festival themed party called T2000 (like V you see) and issuing everyone with laminated passes on a piece of string so they could wear it like a festival pass. I made two mini versions with ‘access all areas’ on and had the cats wear them. They were the talking point of the party – apart from girl crying and being sick on the stairs of course.
10 Albany View Stainland (2004)
Despite sounding like the world’s worst theme park, living in Stainland was brilliant. It was a converted mill and the top flat I lived in was totally open plan with a ladder leading to the upper main bedroom. I had three walk in wardrobes up there that were so big, you could sleep in. And that’s exactly what my mate Daive did. We woke up one morning from a heavy night of indie partying to find him totally absent from the flat, until the door to the wardrobe swung open to reveal him and his sleeping bag. Bless.
There. You wouldn’t have had all that on Through the Keyhole.
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