Mothers and Technology

Often people say life is to short for regrets. They’re right to an extent but a regret I hold with me, that haunts me, is buying my mother a mobile phone. A Nokia 32-10 to be precise.

My mum and technology of any kind is not a match made in heaven, she still struggles with the mechanical pencil. I remember it vividly, it was Christmas 4 years ago, I’d forgotten to get her a present. I panicked and had a set of tea towels in my hand, as I walked up to the cashier with said tea towels I feared my mothers backlash, even though they were John Lewis tea towels. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a mobile phone deal that John Lewis were proudly displaying. I strolled over, wiped the sweat off my brow with one of the tea towels and I picked up the phone. A grey Nokia 32-10. Stuff it, I’d get it. She loved the homephone and a 3210 was about as advanced Windows Vista.

The next morning she unwrapped it and was very, very excited. Suddenly the griddle pan my dad had bought her looked inept. I agreed to set it up for her and created some contacts me, home, my brother Nick and my other brother Matt. I also put Reney’s number in. And I told her what to do to make calls.

Well that was it – for the rest of Christmas she was off and running. I’d be upstairs trying to enjoy some ‘alone time’ with Emma and I’d get a call. “Your dinner is ready”. My mum was downstairs! Why was she ringing me? She was an addict – always bloody ringing me. She developed some more annoying quirks as well. I’d ring my mum (to let her know when I needed dinner) and the phone would ring and ring until it went to voicemail. Now I knew that the phone was in my mum’s bag. I also knew she could hear it. The issue with my mum is that she didn’t have a compartment – somewhere where she could access the phone quickly. As soon as that phone rung it was like a bomb was about to go off – wherever she was – things would be tossed out the bag. The brolly, the lippy, make up, address book, a scarf – all tossed to the floor. My dad not helping by saying ‘I think your phones ringing Pam’ – my mum would repeat this mistake everyday and just refuse to learn. So I’d then get a call back and she’d say “Can you ring me back cos I have no credit”. My mum knows what credit is – frightening. My mum is the only person left in the UK who still is on pay as you go. Anyway, I’d ring back and she’d say “Did you call?”. What a stupid question – on her phone it clearly says ‘1 missed call Stan’. My mum would sound out of breath because of the frantic search for the phone. The conversation begins, she confirms the dinner is beef and then she drops the bombshell “Will you teach me how to text?”.

Ahh man. This is not good. This is not good at all. I decide to teach her predicted text – I think this will be easier for her to understand. One of my mum’s best friends Kate will have to get ready to be called Late for the rest of her life. My mum does not get texting at all but she loves it. I try to teach her the grammar keys but I may as well be talking to the cat – literally not a clue. She’s off and running on the texting front now – she tries to use text speak – luv Pam x. Two problems with this: 1. She’s an English teacher. 2. Why end it Pam? You’re my mum. I’ve never called you Pam in my life.

It also means I now get drunk texts. She feels the need to send my brothers and I the exact same text even if she is only addressing Matt. “Hello Matt r u ok Tom has got of on the shots luv Pam”. It takes a team of experts to understand what is going on here. First off, I am not Matt yet I have got the text anyway. 2nd, the lack of grammar kills me. 3rd after much time I realise “Tom has got of on the shots” should read “Tom has got me on the shots”. She just hasn’t got the hang of this predicted text lark. Wherever I go, wherever she goes I am getting text after text. I ignore her but she then starts writing ‘tb’ or I’ll get my dad on the homephone ‘did you get your mothers text?”. When I am at home each text she receives is celebrated like she has just won a full house at bingo. She doesn’t know how to add contacts, she only has 5 people in her phone, she doesn’t play snake and she has no contract – the phone is pointless but she loves it. I’ve created a beast. She told me yesterday ‘I want an iPhone and then I can get that Facetwitter thing’. Kill me now.

In short, if struggling for presents for your mother just get her tea towels.

The Interview

The interview. Ah the interview. Where you try and make yourself appear more interesting than what you actually are. Where you lie through your back teeth claiming credit for that new IT system, or that multi million pound idea that you know was Ward’s. Where you shake someone’s hand limply despite practicing the ‘stranglehold’ technique. It is a minefield. And sometimes the mines blow up.

It all started when I put my CV together. I claimed I knew how to develop in Java, was proficient in SQL, was the creator of the Stan Bennett Foundation for Seals and under additional skills ‘could speak German fluently’. I don’t really know why I did this. Well I do, it is because when you are faced with a blank bit of paper and you asked to write what you’ve ever achieved in 2 pages you suddenly realise just how little you’ve done. How much of life you’ve wasted. You realise what an incredibly dull person you really are. It is at this moment you ask ‘why wasn’t I sacked earlier’. you understand why you were single – previous jobs ‘Meat packing assistant (couldn’t even get the managers role)’, ‘Sales assistant for Build a Bear Factory’, ‘Business Analyst’. My word. I don’t even want to speak to me. How boring am I? I couldn’t even write two pages – 16 years of employment and I’ve done nothing except build bears, sell beef, learnt how to spell analyst and figured out how to use a printer. I had to make it more interesting, I wanted a job after all. I initially thought Java was a type of tea but found it is some sort of programming language – I thought ‘why not’, I’d stick it down and see what happened. SQL – I saw a lot of SQL based jobs, thought it wouldn’t do any harm having that little beauty under additional skills. Every employer loves a charity, trouble is I have never done anything in life except play Call of Duty. The idea of helping others, whilst appealing, would mean effort, desire and ambition. Three things that I sorely lack. I thought I could invent a foundation – the Stan Bennett Foundation for Seals. Why seals? I was watching Blue Planet at the time. Next up the foreign language – now I remembered how to say ‘In Southend, there are water sports opportunities’ – I learned this for my GCSE German Oral. I failed. I thought though that it could be kind of neat to put on the CV, another string to their proverbial bow.

CV written I hunted down a job. I found one. It was a contracting job for a ‘Business Analyst’. That was all it said – no real information as to what skills were required, what I was expected to do, who I’d be working for. It did say I’d earn £400 a day – perfect.

The interview was at 11am with a man named Alan. I sat in the lobby of this company, reading The Times. This may have been the first time I had read a newspaper in my life. Alan approached me and stuck out his hand. My hand was dripping. I was, what the kids say, ‘beading’. Sweating. Badly. I shook Alan’s hand and such was the build up of sweat my hand slid off his. An awful start. We went in to this little room where Alan sat me down.

“So, why do you want the job, shoot?” Alan said. I started cracking up. I know I shouldn’t have but I couldn’t help it. I’d watched the Office the night before and Alan was David Brent. A small tubby man who used the word ‘shoot’. “What’s funny” said a surprised Alan. This was not a good start. Not good at all. I managed to awkwardly get through the question, I think – threw out all the classics – I’ve always wanted to work here bla bla bla.

Question 2. “So, I see you come from an extensive SQL and Java base. Do you know any PHP or are your skills just with SQL? Also, what do you make of JQuery?”. Oh. My. God. PHP? What the hell is that? Sounds a bit like something a woman goes through later on in her life but I doubt it is that? JQuery? Is that a person? As in first name Jay surname Query? I gambled.

“My skills don’t extend to PHP. As for JQuery, he is ok, I know he has a bad reputation but I think he is a good guy”. I say smugly.

Alan sits there. Silence. Utter silence.

I casually sip my water, lean back and….fall off my chair.

Alan, completely and utterly bewildered by our exchange asks me question 3. “So, I see you have created your own foundation. That is very impressive. Tell me, what does the foundation do? How much money is raised? Do you have any volunteers? Oh, and why Seals?”. Now, I should of prepared myself for this. If you write down that you created your own charity foundation there is a high chance that they will ask you about it. Alas, I didn’t prepare. I watched Blue Planet, saw a cute seal and the rest was history…

“Firstly, thank you. So the foundation (thinking completely on my feet) takes in wild seals who have been injured by oil tanker spillages (an unbelievable cover from me, even I believed me). We are a team of 4 and rely on donations from Joe Public (yes I used the phrase ‘Joe Public’). Why Seals? That’s a fair question (buying myself time). I guess it goes back to when my granddad and I (I have never seen my granddad – he died before I was born) went to Tilbury (never been), the Thames, and saw the damage the oil had done to the Seals that were there in the water”. I was now beyond smug.

“Tilbury. There are seals in Tilbury?” Alan says.

“Erm….Yes, mainly white ones” what on earth was I saying.

Cue more silence.

Finally, the last question.

“Eine große Anzahl von Ihren Aufgaben wird es sein, ein Team im Ausland zu verwalten. Bist du in Ordnung mit diesem?” said Alan.

“Pardon” says me.

I thought I’d ask you one question in German, see how good you are “Eine große Anzahl von Ihren Aufgaben wird es sein, ein Team im Ausland zu verwalten. Bist du in Ordnung mit diesem?”.

Oh my.

Pause.

Long Pause.

“Ich wasse sportmoglichkeiten ins Southend ja”.

“You have just told me there ar

e water sports opportunities in Southend. I asked if you were comfortable running a team based abroad. Your response was that there are water sports opportunities in Southend.”

Silence.

“I’ll get my coat” I say. By this time Alan has left.

Never lie on a CV…

Idiots and Aeroplanes

What an invention the aeroplane is. The main reason the invention, for me, is one of the greatest ever is because it has led to some of the truly great moments in life. By great moments I obviously mean stupid moments. So stupid that it actually hurts me.

The invention of the aeroplane has also meant the invention of people having to ask stupid, stupid questions. I arrive at the desk to check in. I am asked by the lady behind the desk ‘Has anyone packed anything without your knowledge?”. Every time I want to say something. Every time I want to say do you not realise what you asking me? This is a trick question. I don’t see how the answer to this question can ever be yes. How do I know if someone has packed something without my knowledge? The very fact I do not have knowledge on this means that I do not know if someone has packed something – the clue is in the question! The next question is ‘Please look at the card, have you packed any of those items’. The card shows me, what I think is the instruction manual to Call of Duty – grenades, knives, guns and rocket launchers. I would love to know the amount of people, who have every intention of bringing mass carnage to the airport, go ‘oh you know what – you’ve got me. I was going to blow up the airport but my mother always told me not to lie so here, have my grenades”.

The aeroplane has been directly responsible for the baggage allowance rule. This really is a beauty. You are told you have either a 20kg limit or a bag size limit. I have never understood this. I often get on planes with clinically obese people – if there is no weight limit on people why place them on bags? Would I be allowed to wear every item of clothing I own on to the plane – the baggage allowance does not make this clear. The aeroplane is directly responsible for one fifth of today’s rows and these all stem from baggage allowance. Your mum or girlfriend will always, without fail, be over the limit. The way you know this – you do the pre weigh. Before you go to the airport you are plagued by fear that you’re over. You dust off the scales and you weigh the bags. However you have electronic scales which makes the weighing of the bag hard. You therefore weigh yourself without the bag. You then hold the bag and get back on the scales. You then work out the difference between the two weights. The first row that ensues is around the maths used that has meant that the wife is 1KG over. Once that row has concluded the wife has to decide which item(s) to leave behind. She looks at your case and wonders if she can place items in there – you obviously say no because you are a man and you are stubborn and you’ve got your case organised – you don’t want someone else’s items in there messing up your system. So the task begins – which of the 17 dresses will be left behind for the 4 day break to Bruges?

You’ve flown budget airline – you can’t afford anything more. That is fine. The problem with that though is that everyone patiently sits waiting for all of 3 seconds. All it takes is a twitch. The old man near the gate to decide he needs a leak. The old man gets up to go to toilet and sets off a chain reaction resembling dominoes. Suddenly everyone stands to attention. Gate 23 becomes a warzone. Bodies get trampled over. The desire to have a good slot in the line never ceases to amaze me. Budget airlines all have the same seats – one seat is not better than the other. Yet people will stand for hours to keep their place in the line. Yes they get on the plane quicker but it isn’t leaving without me. You’re just on the plane longer.

Finally, the aeroplane is home of the most ridiculous instruction. I get on to my budget plane. I have my ticket in hand. I look left and see hundreds of seats. I look right and see the pilots cabin. Yet amazingly they employ an air steward or air stewardess to stand at the front of the plane, to take your ticket from you, who then instructs you ‘Yes it is just down there sir’. I mean, I would never have worked that out! It would be amazing if you remove this function – what would happen? Would people suddenly not be able to find their seats?

I could go on and on. I haven’t even looked at arriving at the airport two hours early (I just don’t understand why people do that!). I haven’t mentioned that despite it being 6AM you will, without fail, have a steak from Garfunkles – the official sponsor of the airport. I haven’t mentioned that Tie Rack only seems to exist in airports.

The aeroplane is a great invention – it has created people to behave like buffoons.

Rex the Cat

My girlfriend is dangerously close to her cats. I am all for pets, I do get that they are ‘companions’ but at times a love of ones cat can turn into obsession. You know it is going that way when she puts you on the phone to little Rexy. At this point I find it difficult to know what to say. There I am, in an important meeting, my girlfriend rings me to say that someone needs to speak to me and then I hear Rex. What do I say? What do I do? If I speak back I am a buffoon but if I don’t crazy cat lady will get annoyed. If I speak back in a stupid little cute voice then members of my team will destroy me. If I don’t crazy cat lady will get annoyed. I also get excited when I receive a picture from the girlfriend. Instantly I am thinking good things – she is in the ‘mood’. But instead of sending you dirty pictures she sends you a picture of Rex. This happens every single day. The only difference between the pictures is that Rex is ‘pulling a face’ or looking particularly cute that day. When Christmas arrives she dresses Rexy up in a Santa outfit and buys Rex a card and present. She speaks to Rex on a daily basis. Gets annoyed with Rex. Kisses Rex and sleeps with Rex. Rex is a hugely important part of her life. Rex is also the family cat – a cat that has grown up with the kids that the mum and dad adore.

One week ago disaster struck. Rex died. The way he died was amusing though – he got into the washing machine and had to withstand a quick spin dry, alas Rexy didn’t make it. Ok that is a little harsh. The family were distraught. Distraught. They’d murdered Rex. Actually, my girlfriend – who was washing her smalls – had murdered Rex. The family cat. Gone. And for what? Yes the stain came out of the knickers but was it really worth Rex’s life?

I woke up last week without a cat picture, without a phone call. I did however get an envelope come through the door. I walked over, cornflakes in hand, not literally – I don’t eat cornflakes one by one, they were in a bowl. “Stan” read the envelope. I opened it and I kid you not this is what confronted me:

“Stan, you are hereby cordially invited to the funeral of ‘Rex’. The service will take place at midday February 17. The mourners are asked to arrive at the Watsons family residence at 11.30. We will travel to the cemetery together”.

Cornflakes suddenly littered the floor like tiny Rabbit droppings litter a hutch. I could not take in what I had just received. Was this for real? I studied it more carefully – ‘the funeral of Rex’ – does this mean someone will speak and honour Rex’s life? ‘The service’ – is there going to music and a reading? ‘The mourners’ – hang on? Who the hell is going to this? It is a cat. A cat. “We will travel to the cemetery together” where will Rex be? Surely there is not going to be a car and an undertaker? I ring Emma up “Erm, hey Em.” She is crying “I was just wondering. The invitation that arrived this morning”…Emma interupts “Make sure you wear your best suit. It is what Rex would have wanted”. A cornflake gets lodged in my windpipe. Unable to breath I hang up. Who am I with? What is this family? What is going on?!

The 17th arrives. Emma is getting me changed and fastening my thin black tie (newly bought by her). We walk over to the Watsons residence. I am still stunned. Stunned. Outside the house is a black vehicle, long and thing – it is a hearse. There is then a heart shaped coffin with a floral arrangement that says ‘Rexy’. Two men are dressed up in top hat and tails. I look around at all the people – all 12 of them. I look at the two ‘undertakers’. I cannot understand why no one is laughing? What is going on? Is this actually happening? The mum, Val, is in floods of tears. Malcolm hugs her. One of the undertakers gets into the car. The other strides out in front of the car. We are to walk behind the car down to the pet cemetery. I am still open mouthed. Unable to comprehend what is happening. I am half expecting someone from the street to shout out ‘MURDERER” to my girlfriend such is the stupidityof the situation.

Everyone is acting like this is the most normal thing in the world. We make our way to “Heavenly Paws” cemetery. The sign reads “Because we know how much you care”. They are as stupid as the Watsons. A man appears and helps the undertakers take the casket. I look around and there are hundreds and hundreds of headstones “Barney. You were my world. I can’t believe you’ve gone. You weren’t just a fish you were a friend.”. “Jean Claude, you were my best friend in the world. Doggy heaven is lucky to have you”. I stand there speechless. Completely without speech. Picture the scene. I am surrounded by hundreds of headstones – all of them for pets, I am standing with 12 other people who are all wearing black, 2 undertakers, a chief mourner, a casket in the shape of a heart, a crying mother and all of this is happening because Rex couldn’t handle a spin dry.

You think I am joking don’t you? Heavenlypaws.co.uk – ironically their website currently says “Please note: We are at present unable to accept any deceased pets…” Surely that is a bit of a killer to the business. Maybe time to fire the MD Heavenly Paws?

Rex was laid to rest on February 17. He leaves behind a family of 5. Emma is currently on bail for manslaughter. Val was last seen buying rope. Me? I am currently walking back from the cemetery. Apparently I laughed during the service so I needed to apologise to Rex. Rex the dead cat.

Old people and the Internet

“What an age we live in” – one of the truly great phrases made by old people. This phrase is becoming more and more pertinent as old people join the ‘Inter web’.

My dad is becoming a geek. It started with the simple purchase of an iPod. He couldn’t understand the invention. “Where’s the slot for your CD’s?” he would ask. When I said you put all your music on to the computer and then download them all via iTunes to your iPod using your USB adapter he looked at me with a sense of panic that I don’t think he’s felt since the war. Suddenly our roles had reversed. He used to talk to me, when I was 4 years old, like I was a complete tool. “Ah clever boy. That’s right. Fooootbal. Can you say it? Foootball”. I was 4, course I could say it. I just didn’t know how to say ‘shut up you patronising idiot’. Now it was my turn. For all those years he held the upper hand, not now. I would enjoy this. It was like I was teaching him how to walk. He was about to join the technology revolution and I couldn’t wait.

My dad doesn’t seem to be able to grasp the word ‘internet’ – instead he calls everything ‘the website’. He will talk to my mum (who is petrified of computers) and they’ll be talking about holidays and suddenly he’ll say the phrase ‘let me pull it up on the website’. He is SO smug. Searching for holidays on ‘the website’ suddenly he thinks he is THE MAN. So he brings Val into the ‘Computer Room’. The Computer Room – a very funny room in my parent’s house. Old VHS’s adorn the Desk, Malcolm praying they’ll make a comeback. They also have their special ‘Computer Room chairs’. These chairs are proof that the salesman business is still striving. My dad has invested maybe three to four hundred pounds in some ultimate swivel chair. He was clearly told by the shop assistant that he had to have this chair. Who was he to argue? He gets my mum lined up next to him and he gets out his instructions. His instructions that I have written for him. These instructions are patronising, and I love it. And I love the fact he still uses them; every single day.

1. Turn plug on.
2. Turn the power button on (big grey button in the middle of the computer).
3. Turn the monitor on (button on the big screen you see in front of you).
4. Click ‘Dad’ and type in your password (BigMalc) [why my dad has a password I will never know, but it was non negotiable].
5. You will see a set of icons appear on the screen. Double click the Internet Explorer icon (I didn’t think he was ready fro Google Chrome).
6. Google will load
7. Type in the website you want (for example, if you want holidays, type in ‘holidays’ – no need for the apostrophes in the search)
8. Press ‘ignore’ on the MacAfee warning message that appears
9. Select the website you want
10. Navigate using the ‘back’ button.

These instructions are fine as far as they go but if something unexpected happens my phone will ring. If the MacAfee warning message comes earlier it will throw him. If a website popup appears that’s as good as game over. My mum meanwhile sits there open mouthed amazed that her man has got her on to the world wide web.

So he has managed to turn on the computer, he’s gotten used to launching a website. The obvious next step for my dad is to set up ‘his Facebook’. This is superb.

We set aside some time and we create him an account. His profile picture is one of those classic ‘family shots’. His bio is brief but obviously includes his working history. His likes include ‘Neil Diamond’. I say to him he needs to add some friends for him to get anything out of Facebook. Suddenly my dad seems to have last his grasp of his English – I have to explain to him what a friend is. He is struggling to come to terms with the ‘poking’ feature of Facebook. It is also at this point my dad realises he has few friends – he adds me (Stan), Sophie (his daughter) and Pat – his neighbour. 3 friends. Not a great start. I say to him he should write a status. 25 minutes later he now understands the term Facebook status. His status is a classic Facebook, old man, virgin status. “This is my first time on here, be gentle”. Such a nothing status. I chuck him a ‘like’ to boost his self esteem. He gets a little red notification and he almost shits the bed through excitement. “What’s happening, what’s happening” he says down the phone. I talk to him about being able to ‘like’ his friends statuses and comment on them as well. Before you know it he is all over my wall. My dad is addicted. He is ‘liking’ everything and appearing in conversations I just don’t want him to appear in. He likes the photo of me licking the face of my friend Nigel. This is worrying, for so many reasons.

The time comes where I have to think about blocking my dad. It is just getting too much. I am trying to flirt with this hot girl via the book and I get my dad piping up – it’s cramping my style.

What I do next is something I am not proud of.

I report him to Facebook. I report my own dad to Facebook for inappropriate behaviour. Unbelievably Facebook shut my dad’s account down. He is devastated. “What about all my new friends” – he climbed into double figures before the closing of the account. My dad spends the next week moping before I get a call…

“I want to join Twitter”…

Roy the Butcher

I don’t have much hair.

End of blog post.

No just kidding. Well not about not having much hair. I mean I have started puberty, in fact I think I have completed puberty. I, Stan Bennett, 30 years old, am now shaving three times a week it is all around the moustache area though. I have always wanted a beard but I just can’t seem to grow meaningful facial hair – if I try to grow it it always comes out in stands. It is like I have inverse alopecia. Rather than my hair falling out in strands, it grows in strands. Stray hairs adorn my face, I am not able to grow proper stubble and that is one my great disappointments in life.

My moustache area, where hair does grow, looks bloody awful. If I let it grow too long I look like one of those weird 13 year old gypsy kids who can’t afford a razor. One of those kids who you feel desperately sorry for, who you know gets bullied and who you know started puberty when he was 9. That is me, except I am 30. So I have to try and keep on top of it. But this has its own dangers. I use an electric razor that doesn’t really like my face, nor does it shave my stray hairs. After a shave I am left looking like I have chicken pox that is just restricted to the face area. I am also left with hairs all over my face. To be honest after a shave I look ill.

Then there is my haircut itself. Whilst I have no problem growing hair on the top of my head, it has been described to me that I have a mophead. It is just heavy and shit. It just looks rubbish. I can put a tonne of gel (and yes I do use gel) in it but still it looks as flat as Kate Moss’ chest (it took an awful lot of research to make that gag).

So yesterday I decided to treat myself. I would take myself to a barbers.

I’d been recommended a barbers by a friend, which in itself is extremely strange. What friends do you know that go ‘Oh mate, you have to go to this barbers…’ I didn’t know exactly what a barbers was. I thought it was a cake shop but after much discussion with my friend he told me they shave you (I got assurances it was just the face) and they cut your hair. And they, well Roy the barber, does all this for £9. That should have been an obvious warning sign – £9. I am not going to get a classic trim for £9. And sure enough I was about to be proved right.

I’d made my booking and I parked my car. I saw a red and white sign that said ‘Roy’s Barbers. You didn’t have to be Morse to work out this was Roy’s barbers. The décor was truly horrendous. He had infused old African art with pinks, whites and pastels. What was more worrying was Roy himself.

Roy was 80, that is an incredibly generous 80. It honestly would not surprise me if Roy was 90. Roy had a zimmerframe. Now I have nothing against people with zimmers. In fact I would like a zimmerframe but should a man, who has a razor in one hand, and a pair of scissors in the other, be allowed to operate a zimmerframe whilst he has a razor in one hand a pair of scissors in the other? Little beads of sweat were dripping from my brow as Roy asked me to take a seat. I needn’t ask which seat as there was only one seat.

I am no expert but whenever I have been in my hairdressers before I get like a weird hairdresser coat thing to put over myself to protect my clothes from my own hair. They also wash my hair and give me one of those immense head massages which makes you question, for the length of the head massage, if you are in fact gay as Jason gently, but firmly, massages your scalp.

I received no protection from Roy, nor a hairwash or a head massage (I was grateful for the lack of head massage). Here I was, in my doc martins and le coq sportif t shirt having shaving foam applied to my face. Roy was not mucking around – he sprayed it (easy) all over my face. He hadn’t given me warning so it was in my mouth and my eyes. I was in such pain from the foam in my eyes but I was unable to yelp out in pain given I had a mouth full of foam at the time.

Roy then got a stick and ditched the Zimmer. It was like a big crutch thing and he began to shave me. The butcher of Basildon had begun. He was tearing great lumps out of my face. I was screaming, desperately trying to get Roy off of my face. For an 80 year old he was surprisingly strong. I tried kicking his crutch from beneath him but no luck. Roy was in full flow. The Mack 5 was shearing my beautiful face. I was in tears. Roy was trying to make small ‘barber’ talk – ‘You going on holiday this year? What do you do? Where do you live’. Give it a rest Roy. Focus. I am in tears and have blood pouring from my face but Roy wants to know if I am going to catch any rays in Tenerife. What Roy does next is totally unprecedented.

I have been going to hairdressers now for almost 25 years. Every single time they have asked me for what I want. Every single time I just say ‘Oh can you just take a little off’. They inevitably take too much off (I am always too scared to question why they are chopping fringe into nothing). But you leave the hairdressers despondent but not devastated as you know in a week’s time your hair, for the briefest of moments, will be the length you actually asked for originally.

Roy however…

Roy decides, amidst the carnage, that he is going to bic me. He takes an electric razor and goes right through the middle of my head. A number one right through the middle. I have shaving foam on one side of my face, I have blood pouring from me on the other side and now my head looks like a vagina. My instinct is to throw my arms up, to get Roy off of me. I successfully do this but I accidentally give Roy an uppercut. Dazed Roy hits the floor.

The busy Basildon streets can see in to Roy’s Barbers. They see an 80 year old man on the floor, his zimmerframe next to him and blood all over my face…

This was going to take a fair bit of explaining….

A blokes Christmas…

Christmas. Christmas is an awful, awful, time to be a man. The amount of stress we have to endure, for that 3 week period, makes me not want to have a penis.

It starts on around the first weekend of December. The first ‘list’ gets generated. You scan the list and it instantly fills you with dread:

“Mum, Dad, Stan’s mum, Stan’s dad, Stan, Stan’s friends – Matt, Paul and Tom, crackers, tree, wrapping paper, sellotape, scissors, tags, pen, turkey, pigs in blankets, stuffing, gravy granules, nibbles, mini chedders, haribo for Stan’s nephew, turkey, candles, candle holders, seasonal table cloth, Michael Buble CD for the meal, Articulate, novelty reindeer, tinsel, dancing Santa, Christmas cards, arrange with Stan’s parents when they are to come round….”

The list unbelievably goes on.

If I quickly analyse this list a few thinks immediately jump out. She is buying my parents presents – thus meaning I have to buy her parents something. She is buying my friends presents – thus meaning I have to buy her friends something. Instantly a wave of nausea passes through me. Buying future in laws something is a task that does not sit well with me. I am so concerned I will buy something wildly inappropriate for the mum and I know literally nothing about the dad and will inevitably get him something he just doesn’t want. Emma has already told me she is not spending much on parents but I know her present will be incredibly thoughtful. I wouldn’t put it past her to even end up making something for my parents – something like a photoalbum full of ‘moments from this year’. This will then in turn put me firmly under the microscope and when I produce the ‘Duff Beer’ novelty slippers for her mum I know the icy look that will meet me from across the room.

For the second time this year I have to buy a present for my girlfriend. She doesn’t tell me what she wants, oh no, that’s far too easy. Instead she replies ‘Stan, I am so easy to buy for! I will love whatever you get me’. First, and please take note, us men have literally no idea what to buy women. Like literally no idea. Second, do not pretend you will love what ever we get you. We know, when we produce the lightsaber that we bought for you so we can have battles in the living room on Christmas morning, a little bit of you will die. We know that when we guess your size and go for a 14 that you will leave your turkey and be annoyed at us for the rest of the day. We know that when we buy Blade on DVD you secretly want to throw it at us. Help us help you.

A further scan of the list and you can see the workings of the woman’s mind.

“Crackers” now I know Emma well enough to know that she doesn’t mean ‘buy’ crackers. Oh no. Emma is one of those people, those strange strange creatures, that on December the 26th get up at 5am to hit BHS to buy her crackers at half price. This in itself is something I will never understand – as if the sheer torment of shopping for the last 3 weeks was not punishing enough – she decides to hit the shops again. However the kicker for me is that Emma will buy the crackers at 50% off and then have absolutely no idea, come Christmas time, where she has put her 50% crackers. Emma will then ask me – an innocent bystander – where they are! When I do not know where she has put the crackers Emma gets annoyed at me and then orders ME to go out and buy some more. This happens every Christmas. If I take the initiative and suggest we not buy crackers on December 26th then I am told in no uncertain terms ‘Do you know how much money I have spent on Christmas this year? I cannot spend that again next year.’ Sheer buffoonery.

“Tree” ah this is a good one. Emma wants a real one. Why do people feel the need to go the ‘extra mile’ and buy a real Christmas tree? All they do is buy a real tree and then complain for 3 weeks about pine needles. Also the tree seems to be going up earlier and earlier. I used to put it up with my folks 2 weeks before Christmas. We would just have a laugh and throw on tinsel, from long distance, and decorate it with horrendously tacky decorations. Not now though. Now I am a ‘grown up’ we have to have a designer tree. Our tinsel colours have to compliment. Tacky tree decorations are replaced with expensive ones from John Lewis. Suddenly Christmas is not about fun but outdoing Joan from number 34 and having a tree whose lights can be switched on from any room in the building. One tree is also not enough – the conservatory gets one and the dining room gets a mini one. Sure it does.

Moving on “wrapping paper, sellotape, scissors, tags and a pen”. This is beautiful for so many reasons. First, and most important, we already have selloptape, scissors and a pen. For some reason Christmas arrives and mass panic ensues and suddenly we worry the pen will run out of ink, the sellotape over the last year has lost it’s stickiness and the scissors are for some reason now unable to perform their function. What I also like about this part of the list is that Emma will 100% go to the “Everything Christmas shop”. Every high street seems to have one of these. Sometime, late November, a shop selling nothing but crap opens up. Its range includes football based calendars to budget tinsel. The shop is a total mess. The people who work in the shop look like they have stared in ‘I am Sam’. Yet incredibly the shop is rammed. You cannot move. Crazed shoppers from all over Southend are packed into this small space desperately trying to buy the last ‘Chelsea alarm clock’ or the calendar of ‘cute dogs’. This place is the pits. I was in the queue, buying scissors and tags, when a man in front of me received his receipt ‘£126’. This man had done the whole of the Christmas shop from the shop of crap. I felt for him, a fallen comrade. Someone who had clearly so little idea as to what to get the family and the wife that he thought the shop of crap could save his Christmas. For a fleeting moment he seemed genuinely proud and then he scanned his bags, studied for a second what he had bought, and saw the Justin Bieber hot water bottle – the best of his gifts – staring back at him. I wanted to offer a shoulder of condolence.

The next part of the list is for the day itself. The food and the table decorations. Buying a turkey should be an Olympic event. The amount of planning that goes in to that one transaction is quite unbelievable. I am given my orders – I have to drive my mum and Auntie to Marks and Spencer (Christmas’ unofficial sponsor) Thursday morning – exactly 3 days before Christmas. I am to cancel any plans I have that day and I am also expected to book a day’s holiday from work to ensure the successful negotiation of the bird. I am told to remain in the car in case M&S do not have the bird and we have to race across town to Tesco. This day will always remain the one I dread the most. Crazed women literally running down the meat aisle with only one thing in mind. They don’t care who they knock over in the process, they will get their carcass. It is one event that sadly David Attenborough has failed to capture.

“Candles, candle holders, Michael Buble and Articulate”. This to me sums up Christmas. At what point in the year do you ever whip the candles out for Auntie Val? Why, amidst sheer carnage, do we think anyone will listen to Michael Buble? And why do we have to play truly God awful board games. Just let me watch TV. For 354 days a year we never play board games – there is a reason for that. Board games are poor peoples’ computer games. Why then on December 25th am I trying to act out “Silence of the Lambs” by gnawing on Val’s neck? Why, more importantly, is Emma’s mum LOSING it at me for not being able to guess ‘Titanic’? Relationships can completely break down over the playing of board games.

So that to me is Christmas. It is a time full of dread, full of crazy people who have suddenly become irrational and hate fuelled. We wouldn’t change it though would we?

I’m off to a gig…

I am going to my first ever gig tonight. Now I’ve been to concerts before (one) – the truly great Journey South being one. The Journey South fans out there will know the Pilkington brothers, Andy and Carl, from Middlesbrough, are incredible live. Andy lives for his guitar and Carl’s vocals are matched by no other artist. I can still remember when they sang ‘Like a bridge over troubled water’, I remember that not only for Carl’s vocal but also the fact I accidentally hit a 7 year old with my glow stick during the chorus.

I had been asked by a friend to go to see his friends play their ‘set’. I then proceeded to email a set of questions to allay any fears I may have.

I asked what sort of music it was, the reply ‘Indie Electric fused with new metal’ scared me. I asked for the bands name, the reply ‘Acid Junkies just got real’ made me feel uncomfortable. I emailed my friend saying TicketMaster did not appear to have them listed. He said that’s because there are not tickets and that he would invite via a Facebook ‘event’ – again this was not a great sign.

Knowing that there were problems with the Jubilee line I emailed him explaining that if we were to get to Wembley to watch the band we would have to get the Metropolitan line. He replied saying the venue was not Wembley. I replied asking where it was “The Electric Ballroom in Camden” was the response. Little beads of sweat were beginning to develop on my brow.

I asked him to make sure he booked me a seat next to him. He replied saying we would be standing as there were no seats. Seeing as he had seen them before I wondered if he could bring his programme to save me from having to buy one. He replied saying that he did not own a programme because one didn’t exist and one wouldn’t be created. I began to feel queasy. When I saw Journey South they had Andy Abraham supporting them. I enquired to see who would be supporting Acid Junkies just got real. I received no reply.

After having no sleep, and being up the whole night with stomach cramps caused by the stress of the gig, I got to work. I got out my list that I had written the night before and I immediately emailed more questions. I didn’t want to bombard him so I emailed them one at a time.

Would we meet in the foyer? He replied suggesting there wasn’t a foyer. What sort of concert hall was this? Next question, should I bring my glowstick or will there be glowsticks on sale at the venue? I have yet to receive a reply. Would my parents like them, shall I get them to come? His reply suggested that my ageing mother and partially deaf father would not enjoy the sound of Acid Junkies just got real. My dad is known to be more into modern music than me (he recently saw a band called Fleetwood Mac) and so if my friend thought he would not like it then I feared for myself. The cramps were intensifying, the trips to the toilet were becoming more frequent.

After lunch I set about asking more questions. I said I could not find their Wikipedia page so could he give me a quick bio of the band. I did not receive a reply. I asked who was going or was it just myself and my friend. He replied commenting that the ‘Shoreditch lot’ would be in attendance with us. I didn’t know what this meant, I had never met anyone from Shoreditch, nor did I want to. I asked what band would he compare Acid Junkies just got real to. His reply was extremely unhelpful – he suggested their sound was very ‘Yuck’ like. So obviously my next question was what does that mean? He replied saying their sound is like the indie band Yuck. So ‘Yuck’ were a band. Needless to say I promptly ran to the toilet with stress induced cramps.

I was to meet him and the Shoreditch lot at ‘The Worlds End’ – a very aptly named pub. My pants were brown, my stomach was empty, I was off to a gig. I wonder what it will be like? Tune in tomorrow for a full report…

Whatever you do do not go to the cinema to watch Breaking Dawn

It is not often I go to the cinema. I get put off by the obsessive’s who go. Those people who cheer when the film begins. Those people that applaud, what they think, are truly great moments. I don’t like walking out of a film hearing ‘filmies’ talk about the ‘cinematography’ – do me a favour. I also don’t like being charged £7000 for a Coke and some Skittles. Ok I am exaggerating, but only a little. Why do drinks only come in Large, extra large, and jumbo? Why do sweets come in containers as big as a house?

The people that make up the cinema are very amusing. From the guys that sell you the tickets – they are that into film that they think by working at the Odeon they are actually working in film. It takes everything I have not to chuckle at the baseball style caps that they are forced to wear. I also don’t really understand the ushers’ role, certainly not the way the cinema usher operates. You rock up to the door, you show you him your ticket and with an out stretched hand he points you to the direction of the screen. Whilst I am not clairvoyant I had figured that my seat would be in the same room as the screen. Unbelievably he is getting £6 an hour for this role.

There is no doubt the staff make the cinema experience an interesting one but it is the punter, the viewer, the common man in the street that makes the cinema the experience that it is. They walk into the screen with piles and piles of popcorn. They have multiple packets of sweets and are laced with jumbo drinks. They then proceed to treat the cinema like it is their living room. They collapse into the chair, they proceed to throw popcorn all over the floor and have no intention of picking it up. They decide to literally throw their drinks over them and they also decide to make as much noise as possible when opening up their packets of sweets, they often decide to only open up their sweets when the film is just beginning thereby ensuring optimum annoyance.

The best people though, the most beautiful people, are those that feel a sense of ownership to the seats printed on their tickets. Let me set the scene, I am with a lovely young lady, I am desperately trying to impress her, so we sit in the ‘premier’ seats. Now no one in their right mind pays an extra £5 to sit in the ‘premier’ seats. It is SO obvious that you pay economy and then just move to ‘premier’ if no one is sitting there. It is worth pointing out that there are 4 rows of ‘premier’ seats, each one empty. So, there I am, with the lady and we have slouched back into the ‘premier’ seats that we have not paid for. The film is that bad that the cinema is empty. There are maybe 29 people in the whole cinema. The ‘Premier’ rows are all free with the exception of me and the girl. A party of four arrives just as the film is about to start. You know what is coming next! “Excuse me; you appear to be in our seats”. I fight laughter with every sinew of my body. I am desperate to scream ‘Just sit in the ‘Premier’ row in front you utter idiot’ but I have a very British way about me, so I politely get up, move to the row in front and then proceed to bad mouth them when they are out of earshot. I then hide behind a blog to really attack them!

So I feel I have explained my concerns about the cinema experience. So imagine how I must have felt when this week I went to the cinema to watch the film ‘Twilight Breaking Dawn’.

I was the only man in the cinema. I had been bullied into seeing it by a friend and it was when she started to scream, along with the rest of the cinema, when some sort of guy turns into a wolf, that I questioned what my life had become. For the next two hours I watched the worst film I have ever seen in my life. Now I have seen some truly horrific films – ‘The Tuxedo’ to name one. ‘The Tuxedo’ has this description – A hapless chauffer must take a comatose secret agent’s place using his special gadget-laden tuxedo. IMDB rate this film a 5.0. IMDB rate Breaking Dawn a 4.9. This gives you some insight as to the quality of Breaking Dawn.

For those who do not know whether to see the film let me help you. I had never seen any of them, so I was going in blind. From what I could understand it revolves round the most boring girl ever depicted in cinema history. Her emotion for joy, sadness, pain – is always the same. One that is entirely blank. The girl, whose name Belle – of course it is – has fallen for some guy with a square face who has just put his head in a plug socket thereby causing his hair to stand to attention. They appear to be in love. Oh and he is a vampire. A vampire that grazes on animals. He has a mate, who the girl seems to like; the mate is played by a man who is honest to God the worst actor I have ever seen in my life. Oh and his mate, yep he turns into a wolf. So the scene is set, boring girl meets vampire who likes animals and boring girl also likes wolfman. Boring girl then marries the vampire in a truly beautiful ceremony. They then jet off on honeymoon and he gets her pregnant, pregnant with a bump just 2 days after having sex for the first ever time. Oh and she is pregnant with some vampire human hybrid. This hybrid is killing her. Shocking I know. She is dying because the hybrid is growing at a rate of knots. It’s been a week and she’s put on about 9 stone.

Wolfman gets called in to save the day. He suggests that the hybrid needs some human blood. So the vampire guy pops out and comes back with some sort of bloodshake – she then drinks the blood, through a straw. She loves it. Wolfman’s family, also wolves, aren’t happy he is hanging around with the vampire gang so they decide they will kill wolfman and the vampire gang. A big fight occurs, whilst boring girl dies during labour – it seems she didn’t have enough bloodshake. Somehow the vampire, not a trained midwife to my knowledge, delivers the hybrid. The hybrid who looks like a 3 year old. Wolfman enters the room, desperate to kill the hybrid as revenge instead falls for the hybrid, this means some sort of pact has been activated and this pact can’t be broken so the wolves go away, leaving the vampires to go and feed on the sheep. Boring girl, dead for a week, suddenly wakes up and it turns out she’s only a vampire!

I am honestly not doing it a disservice – it is truly this bad. The acting is so laughable that I indeed did laugh only to be elbowed by my friend. It is fair to say my friend, and others, got into the film. Screams, swear words were all prevalent.

She can’t wait for part two. I am mentally preparing myself for part two.

The cinema is an interesting experience but Twilight Breaking Dawn at the cinema is not just an interesting experience, it is a lesson in life. A lesson in how to waste two hours of said life.

The Caravan Holiday

The Caravan holiday
 
So I have got a new girlfriend, yes Stan Bennett has himself a woman and yes that is a pig flying outside your window. She’s ok, not great but she is what she is. Just a decent 4 out of 10. She knows that and she knows I know that. She accepts she can’t compete with the big players, the ‘Kelly Dyson’s’ of this world. She will never be at that level. She dresses ok, hasn’t got much in the chest department and I will be the first to admit that she has a fair sized hooter. This Gonz was huge but then I have an abnormal wart on my face so if she was willing to let that go then I could get on with the Schnoz. I reminded myself to watch out for compulsive lying. Why was I with her I hear you scream (I don’t think one single person who is reading this has screamed “Why was I with her”). I had bounced from date to date, each of them worse than the next. I was at a point in my life where if she breathes I was interested, very interested.
 
I met Mary (she has a dull name) in a bar. She ordered some nuts, I thought she said something else, I cracked a vaguely decent gag, she didn’t understand it, I explained it and two weeks later I am going caravanning with her deaf dad Derek and her dumb ugly mum Susan (NEVER shorten it to Sue).
 
Now I don’t mind the odd caravan holiday but Deaf and Dummer do it literally every 2 weeks. That’s fine I hear you say (again you haven’t said anything) and normally it would be fine but they go to the same spot in Scotland every 2 weeks. They live in Essex. They drive, with a caravan towed to the back, to Scotland every 2 weeks. This gives some insight into the calibre of Mary’s family. Blessed with intelligence they are not. Still who am I to judge? I once pissed my pants on a dare so I can hardly hold myself up as a beacon of how one should live their life.
 
We arrive in bonny Scotland, I have never understood the meaning of the word bonny but I persist in using it. Derek hooks up the caravan next to an almost identical caravan that contain the Hurst family. I would love to see Mary’s family go up against the Hurst’s in a game of Family Fortunes. My word, there was not a brain cell between them. You could rub them together and no spark would appear. Still they were amiable enough, if incredibly dense. The mum was a better looking version of Mary, I instantly regretted telling Mary this. She didn’t speak to me for the next 3 hours. I just wished it could be longer…dull cow.
 
The evening closed in and soon it was Mary, dumb and dumber and I in the caravan. We started talking about me, they wanted to know what I did, what my intentions to their daughter was, whether I was viable as a husband and father and whether the rumours of my dad and the old lady across the road were true? I was taken a back at the level of scrutiny!
 
They wanted to know what I did? Every bit of me wanted to say I was a hentai porn artist but I stopped myself ‘I work in an office’ I pathetically said.
 
Let me remind you that I met Mary Queen of Scots only 2 weeks ago and they have the audacity to ask me what my intentions are? My intentions?! I presumed a ‘cheeky finger’ would not be the best answer I could give in this situation so I uttered the response “Friendship”. What a complete Gaylord (a word that I am trying to bring back).
 
Was I viable husband and father? Surely they are on the wind up! Derek do I look like a viable husband and father? Just three weeks ago I ate dog shit for a bet. Just a week before that I decided to see if I could survive a week on nothing but Petis Filious yoghurts (and yes I could). Then just two weeks before that I babysat my best friends son and ended up accidently giving him a White Russian instead of his bottle. So Deaf Derek, what do you think? “Yes, yes I think I would be an excellent father” I loathe myself.
 
Finally, are the rumours about my dad and the old lady true? Well for a start forensics found nothing conclusive. She also had many a suitor who would want to push her down those stairs. And finally my dad is in Thailand and I haven’t been able to get hold of him to check. So Derek, you can stick your rumours up your arse. “No nothing in them. People just gossiping, horrible isn’t it?”
 
The night has drawn to a close and I have every intention of sealing the deal with Mary tonight. As I was helping her to pack her bag I saw a tub marked ‘Pleasure Gel’. I made a mental note as to which compartment of her bag she packed it in and I had every intention of spreading the gel on to her lumpy body like you would butter on toast. Before I gave her the best night of her life though, I had to go to the little caravan shop to buy a tooth brush. I certainly wasn’t going down to breakfast tomorrow knowing what we were going to get up to without having minty fresh breath. I foolishly left my glasses in the caravan and realised as I got outside that I could see fuck all. Still it was a quick dart over the road, buy the goods and a quick dart back.
 
As I headed back, with my newly purchased ‘Aquafresh red doubled striped plaque attack’ in my pocket, I became slightly disorientated. I desperately needed my glasses but they were in the caravan. I eventually found our caravan and stumbled up the stairs. I was ready to give Mary the night of her life. I had to first negotiate the pitch black caravan. Deaf Derek has eyes like bats and is unwilling to budge on the no lights after 10 rule.
 
I eventually get into our room, I strip down to just my Batman boxers. I kiss my left gun, I know I am ready. This is it, this is showtime. I climb into bed, the left hand side (Mary can only sleep on the left as the way she sleeps means her nose prevents her from sleeping on the right). I crawl in, I whisper “Are you ready, where’s the pleasure gel?” I then start slowly kissing her on the neck. What happens next will haunt me for the rest of my days…
 
“Excuse me. What are you doing to my wife?” said Mr Hurst. I was in the wrong fucking caravan. I was kissing Older but Fitter Mary. Older but Fitter Mary has a huge smile on her face. The lights come on. Mr Hurst is no longer so polite – he swings for me, I duck. Their two children come running in screaming and crying to be confronted by a semi naked man wearing nothing but Batman boxers. Older but Fitter Mary says “What’s pleasure Gel?” Hursty doesn’t look too impressed with that comment. Deaf Derek starts smacking the side of the caravan “What is going in there” – maybe he is not as deaf as I first thought. Hursty replies, “It’s your daughters boyfriend, he has just got it on with my wife”. Technically Hursty I only ‘tried’ to get it on with his wife. Focus Stan. Now is not the time for technicalities. The children are now asking what Pleasure Gel is.
 
Deaf Derek walks in. Looks at me in my Batman Boxers. Looks at Hursty, Older but Fitter Mary and the children. Then looks at me again. He scratches his crotch, which I found very strange given the circumstances. He took a deep breath and then said…
 
“Just like your father aren’t you…Pathetic”
 
I was not standing for that…
 
“I tell you what is Pathetic DEREK. What is pathetic is how ugly your daughter is. What is pathetic is how thick Sue, (yes I shortened it from Susan) is. What is pathetic is what a fucking ridiculous excuse for a family you have.”
 
“Pardon” said Derek. Give him his due, amidst the carnage he still has his manners…and with that it was time to leave Bonny Scotland.