Million Pound Drop

The Million Pound Drop

I struggle to cope with life let alone answer questions. I did not realise but when Hursty and I were watching the Million Pound Drop a week ago I made a completely innocuous remark to Hursty that was to haunt me for the rest of my life. “We should go on this show, we’d do ok I reckon” I said.

Hursty has many, many flaws. He has the mental age of an 11 year old, not literally. He asked me to buy him a supersoaker for his birthday. He lives at home with his ageing parents and doesn’t contribute to rent, cook meals, do washing, doesn’t dare consider ironing and barely washes himself. He is living in his own welfare state with his mum acting as the role of ‘The State’. He hasn’t had a job for 4 years. How can he survive on no job I hear you scream? The answer is simple. He won £250,000 on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire 4 years ago.

Despite the picture I am painting, Hursty is surprisingly intelligent. He is incredibly strong across the board. He loves his sport, he knows when the wars were and he knows his Periodic Table. He has no clue about anything Technology related. He is still using Bebo and when I asked him if he wanted to Skype me when he was away he said he would but didn’t have my home address and couldn’t find anywhere that sold stamps.

Million Pound Drop is an intense live quiz show. You start with a Million pounds and there are eight questions. Each question has four possible answers and you always have to leave on of the answer boxes blank. In other words, you can’t put £250,000 on each answer. The final question you have only two answers and you have to put all the money you have that is remaining on just one of the two answers. Turns out Hursty applied on the Monday and here we were four days later at Elstree Studios.

 

I was absolutely shitting my pants. We’d been asked to bring in as many clothes as possible because the ‘stylist’ would dress us. We had to look ‘Saturday night glam’. What the hell does that mean? Saturday night glam? I was so concerned that I was going to end up looking like Travolta. I’d taken the ‘bring in as many clothes as possible’ too far.

Eve, the stylist, said “You didn’t need to bring in all your boxer shorts and pants” much to the amusement of all the other contestants. It turned out I couldn’t wear shorts or my ‘Sandy Balls’ t-shirt either. In fact I didn’t have a single appropriate item of clothing. Eve was fuming. She looked like a bulldog that had been caged for a considerable amount of time. She asked me did I not bother reading the clothing email that was sent out? Course I didn’t read the bloody email Eve. It’s clothes for a quiz show, who gives a shit. “Oh no sorry Eve, I don’t think I received the email.” Pathetic. She knows I got the email. Eve now wanted me to lose the million on question one.

Hursty was busily reading “1001 facts about the world” whilst I was eating a petit falous yoghurt. I couldn’t get over the spread they’d put on. I couldn’t be arsed to brush up on my quiz knowledge. There were three other couples in the room who were all due to go on that night and who were firing questions at each other. I felt that Nikki, the hairdresser from Swansea, may struggle. Not because she was a hairdresser, or because she was from Swansea, but she had asked Hursty if Asia was in Africa. I felt for her partner Gary who was meant to be the brains of the outfit and promptly corrected her “Don’t be silly Nic, Africa ain’t in Asia. Africa’s its own continent and big Nelson is the president”. Big Nelson. I struggled not to choke on my petis fallous.

“Makeup”. To be fair Nikki needed it. Amazingly Gary stood up and started walking towards the door and shouted “You boys coming”. What? Hursty also stood up.

“Hursty what you doing?” I said

“It’s standard for TV mate. You’ve got to have hair and makeup done.” I forgot I was in the company of a game show veteran.

Up to the make up room I went. What I, obviously, didn’t like about this whole thing was how pally we all were. They were 4 couples. Hursty and I, although I hope people didn’t think we were a full blown couple. Gary and Brains. Then there was the standard gay couple – it was Channel 4 remember. The gay couple were nice guys, Jeremy and John. I think if a parent names their son Jeremy they have to accept he will be gay. What was interesting about Jeremy and John was that you would have no idea at all that John would be gay. Jeremy on the other hand…as we walked into the Makeup room Jeremy had a hairbrush in his hand and was using it as a microphone whilst singing ‘The winner takes it all’ by Abba. The other couple was the token ‘Hot’ couple. Luke and Laura. Luke was beautiful. If I was a gay man, such as Jeremy, I’d of been all over him. Laura was decent but she was on of those that fitted the body from Baywatch, face from Crimewatch description.

Everyone was getting on like a house on fire. Jeremy was clearly making a play for Luke. John and Hursty were getting on, a little too well for my liking. Brains was coming up with some belters that were really making Laura laugh “So is Peter Andre is his real name?” I obviously hated her. And where was I in all of this? I was in the chair, being ‘gunned’.

Not sure if you’ve ever had makeup on? Feels awful. It also makes you so incredibly pale. I looked ill as it was but after half hour with Trudy (the makeup artist) I looked like I was an extra from Philadelphia. Being gunned is basically where they load up the makeup in some sort of air gun and then spray it all over your face. I don’t know what was worse, being gunned or listening to Trudy tell me it was all over with her husband Brian.

“He just wasn’t the man I thought he was when I married him” she said.

Trudy I only met you five minutes ago. Just focus on the job in hand “Well hopefully he’ll come his senses” what a nothing comment from me.

Makeup done, marriage advice handed out I was now ready to play the Million Pound Drop. We were third on. That meant we needed one of the couples before us to muck it up and get knocked out early otherwise we wouldn’t get on.

Jeremy and John were first on. We all huddled round a TV watching them. What I couldn’t understand was why everyone was cheering them on, willing them to get the right answer. John stupidly thought the capital city of Latvia was Diga. A Million went down the trap door and Hursty and I jumped up in joy – this meant we were getting on the show after all. This was a very bad move. Brains turned on us and Luke looked like he’d just found out I’d killed his mother. The atmosphere turned from one of happiness and joy to one of anger and disbelief. Still I wasn’t going to see these people again, I didn’t care. I was so confident Brains was going to screw it all up that we’d be on in a matter of minutes. She managed to get up on to the podium, thereby successfully negotiating the stairs and that was enough to surprise me.

My prediction was right. When was the Second World War? Brains was adamant that it was in the 1400s. She may have negotiated the stairs but that was as good as things were going to get for her.

This was it. We were up.

“Good luck mate, we can do this” said Hursty.

I was relieved Hursty was along side me. I needed him. I knew I was going to freeze and he was the confident, good looking, and funny one. I was his bald mess. We walked up the stairs and were hit by the audience, not literally. They were so loud. There were cameras everywhere and Davina McCall came in to hug me. I had absolutely nothing. I went for the kiss of the cheek, got it all wrong, and ended up looking like a massive tit. Davina explained the rules and off we went. This was it. Live in front of a nation, in front of Emma. This was my ticket out of work.

“Question 1 – Technology. On Facebook, which of these can you not do?

Poke, Stroke, Like, Chat”

Davina “You’re time has started”

“This is all you mate. You’re the technology man”. Hursty said.

“Ok, I know this. You can like someone’s status. You can chat on that instant chat thing they have and you can stroke. It’s this little thing button that says stroke and then you get alerted when someone has stroked you. They’ve just put poke in there to confuse you, cos it sounds like stroke.” I was amazed as to how confident I was. I knew this. I had turned up, in a big big way. Hursty didn’t know and I assumed the position of ‘The Man’.

“You sure?” Hursty said

“100%” I replied

“Let’s move the money then” Hursty said with a sense of urgency. We moved our money, and I had the audacity to shout “stop the clock” such was my level of confidence.

Davina read the question again, and then ran through the options. She said we’d put our money on ‘stroked’ and left the others blank. It’s at this point that everything became like slow motion. A wave of nausea swept my body. Was the answer ‘poked’? Had I got it wrong? Why would you ‘stroke’ someone on Facebook I suddenly thought? Oh no, surely not.

“Let’s see what drops” said Davina

‘Like’ disappeared, ‘Chat disappeared’. It was now between ‘Poke’ and ‘Stroke’. Hursty was looking so confident. He’d placed his trust in me and I’d even stopped the clock. I would’ve even of believed me.

Then the moment came that will live with me forever. A million pounds down the gutter…

 

“Oh no. The answer was poke. I’m so sorry guys. You’ve been great, thanks for coming on the show” said Davina.

Hursty looked at me. I looked at the floor.

“Stroke? Stroke? Who the fuck strokes someone on Facebook? They’re not fucking animals” Hursty was fuming.

I’d just monumentally embarrassed myself, again. This time though it was in front of the nation.

We walked back into the green room.

“I even knew that” said Brains. 

The Recruiter

Recruiters – salt of the Earth. You know exactly where you stand, they pride themselves on honesty, integrity and go above and beyond when trying to do the right thing for you. They really do have your interests at the heart of every decision they make. This is what I imagine a recruiter writing when trying to describe their profession. Recently I have attempted to get a new job. Moving forward I would prefer to stick my head in the oven at a balmy 180 rather than deal with these people.

To give you a bit of background I work in IT. I am not particularly good at what I do but I get by. My CV clearly states that my whole life has been IT. Read through my key skills – business analysis, an understanding of SCRUM methodologies, can even fix the odd server. So, I am on the hunt for jobs that are in the IT field. I don’t mind attempting to be a project manager – even though I don’t know how to use MS Project, that I can’t organise people and I certainly can’t motivate them to do anything for me. Why would they do anything for me? I am like Mr Barrowclough from Porridge – a decent enough guy but horribly limited and certainly not someone you’d follow into war. If I can’t motivate myself why would people complete tasks for me to a deadline. It’s not going to happen. I accept that, I know I’d be a flawed Project Manager but I’d give it a shot. God loves a trier, especially at £425 a day.

So I start sending the CV, the CV that states I have worked my whole life in IT, out to potential recruiters. I get a phone call a full four minutes after sending my CV off to “Jobs not Yobs”. I suppose if you send a CV off to a recruiter with a name like Jobs not Yobs then you know you’re unlikely to land that dream position.

“Hi, Stan speaking” 
“Hi is that Stan” Why do people do this? I have just said that ‘Stan’ is speaking so it is unlikely you are speaking with an Alan.

“Yes” 
“This is Zayn, from Jobs not Yobs. How are you today?” Zayn doesn’t care how I am. I toy with replying “Not good, my nan has just died” but it’s unfair on Zayn.

“Yeh I am ok thanks, how are you?” I don’t care how he is but I throw Zayn a bone. Poor guy. 
“Good man, good. Great weather today isn’t it? Can’t wait to get home and put the BBQ on” chill out Zayn. The first page of the recruiter manual, in fact any social manual, is to talk about the weather. The amount of conversations I’ve had about the weather is embarrassing. I am feeling more and more like Andrea McLean. Always felt that Andrea was an underutilised member of the GMTV team – but she has at least gone on to do great things within the Loose Women environment.

Zayn then proceeds to blow smoke up my a*** and tells me what an incredible CV I have. Is Zayn looking at the same CV? It’s limited at best. I dedicate a whole bullet point to being a concise communicator, but ironically it takes me 3 lines of text to sum up just what a concise communicator I am. Zayn is impressed I have been at the same company for so long – he says that will go in my favour, that I am clearly loyal. Poor, naive, Zayn.

To give Zayn some credit he seems genuinely keen to ‘marry my skills with a suitable role’. He lives for corporate talk, he tells me that he will ‘touch base’ with me next week and wondered if I was interested in a ‘chat and chew’ at some point next week. A ‘chat and chew’ sounds like two immigrant children who have arrived at our country with nothing but a dream. Suddenly Zayn gets incredibly excited

“Are you sitting down Stan?” Zayn asks. I am not really sure how to respond. 
“I have just found you the perfect job” he says. 
“Great, what is it?” I ask. 
“A big multinational blue chip…” every job that comes from a recruiters mouth seems to be multinational, and always seem to blue chip. I have no idea what blue chip is? If it is not McCain’s I am just not interested.

“A big multinational blue chip company needs someone experienced to run their canteen” What Zayn has done here, like all recruiters do, is completely ignore my CV, what job I want, what job I can do. Where on my CV does it say I can run a canteen?

“I know this isn’t something you’ve had experience in before but I really think your skills lend their self to this type of role and could imagine you being a big success in this arena” Zayn, oh Zayn. How on earth can fixing a server lend itself to the catering business? He continues to try and sell it to me. Just give it up Zayn.

“Ok, so I can see you’re not that enamoured with that idea. How do you feel about construction?” How do I feel about construction? Zayn’s lost it here. I know you are working on commission man but please! Construction?

“I don’t have any experience Zayn” 
“You don’t need any” replies Zayn. I am just not sure if that is true. Surely the construction industry requires you to be aware of MDF, the ability to handle a hammer. So now I have a problem. I need to get off this call with Zayn. Zayn has my number, I can’t just hang up because the big man will ring and continue to ring, always at the most inappropriate times. Zayn will become obsessed. The decision I have is an obvious one – I have to get a new phone, a new number and be rid of Zayn forever.

Poor Zayn. He is still talking unaware I am about to hang up and chuck my sim in the toilet.

The Gym

Are you that person who ‘checks in’ on Facebook to the Gym? Ask yourself, what has your life become? It’s bad enough that you feel you have to go to ‘Spin’ at 7AM on a Saturday (what’s that about by the way?) but for some reason you need to let us all know that you are at the Gym, doing Spin, at 7AM.

The worst type of person is the Gym person. Those who wear tight exercise clothes and feel the need to flaunt their incredible abs in my face. They drink protein drinks that taste of breast milk that has gone off. They criticise you for not going to the gym, and can’t possibly understand why you might want to sleep instead of ‘Pounding the bike’. They drag their poor partner along to the gates of Hell with them and ensure that their partner also ‘checks in’ on Facebook. All their partner wants to do is sleep and eat chips but the Gym person insists on a house full of rabbit food – nothing but carrots and celery.

The Gym person feels like they then have to take the gym home with them. They feel like they have to do ‘Squat challenges’ and wear an Ab Belt. They update Twitter to let their four followers know that they have just ‘decked a protein shake’ and that it was ‘Rank’ – why drink it then? The Gym person then can’t make social events because they have ‘a class’. The irony is lost on them – they spend the whole life at the gym, presumably to make themselves look better and to give them confidence around strangers and friends but they never bloody see anyone because they no longer go out!

The Gym person forgets about their real friends and has new ones – Gym ones. They all tweet each other about “Who is going Boxercise today”. They do this because they want to make people like me, people who sit in their pants picking their nose day after day, feel guilty. Guilty that I am not paying £80 month to be laden with pain. As tempting as that is I think I’d rather go and throw rocks at my new car.

The Gym person is known for a ‘selfie’ – this is street talk for taking a picture of oneself. They then share this picture with the world. All the time they are looking for validation, someone to say to them “Oh you look good” just so that they can justify what their life has become. A life of shit food, no sleep, constant pain, tired muscles, no social life and a horrendous warped reality. If you give the Gym person that justification then you’ve just given an alcoholic a bottle of Vodka. You’ve fed their sad little addiction. You’re as tragic as them. If you want to become a Gym person then ask yourself where your life went wrong? Why would you want a life of pain and to then be charged £80 for the privilege? You’re better than that.

I am the anti Gym person. I check in to Nandos, I go out and see mates that aren’t virtual and that I’ve seen in non Reebok clothes. I am not scared of a vending machine.

If you are one of those people, a Gym person, you still have to time to actually start living your life. It’s not too late. But if you do start living your life, you don’t need to tell me about it.

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?