The lines are still open.

I shouldn’t really be admitting this to the world, but I’m not a fan of going to the doctors. I’m sure I’m not alone. I have to say though, it’s preferable to hearing other people’s theories on what symptoms you have amount to, or worse, self-diagnosis on the internet.

I remember, a few years back, biting into an apple as I was about to leave a festival and seeing blood. ‘Hmm..,’ I remarked to the rest of the car, but thinking nothing more of it as we drove along the bumpy dirt track to the exit. Then one of the lads I was with told me that it might be related to a life-threatening disease, without blinking or any apparent humour. I laughed. "Cheers mate, that's just great," I said, but inside I was terrified. What if he was right? I was unable to concentrate for the rest of the long journey home from Somerset.

A couple of days later, I plucked up the courage to google it, but came up with the same, terrible conclusion.

I spent several weeks worrying about this, literally with sleepless nights, before attending a routine check-up at the dentist. I was told that it could be avoided by simply flossing more. I nearly cried with relief; it turns out I was worrying about nothing. Over the intervening years, every time I had some kind of physical complaint, I went straight to doctor. That didn't stop my friends, colleagues or other offering up some kind of wayward explanation that had nothing to do with what the doctor actually said. I’ve never understood why people do this; it's amazing what opinions some people can offer about things they know literally nothing about. I can only assume that it’s either to try to sound clever, to emphasise with you, or to prove that their own considerable life experience will render making an appointment with someone who has studied for 10 years to qualify as a GP, unnecessary, to avoid wasting their valuable time. I think we’re all guilty of trying to make sense of the world by relating events or signals to events in our own lives, by putting things into easy-to-categorise boxes so as not to have to bother learning new things or to have our ideals challenged, but surely if you don't know what the fuck you're talking about, it's worth keeping quiet?

For the same reason, I won't be talking about the upcoming general election with anyone. It seems a lot of people have strong opinions on that, too.

I want to avoid taking an apathetic stance about it, because if I do, I’ll lose the justification to complain when whoever gets into government stuffs something up, but it’s a tough call. This isn’t a problem that can be solved by visiting the doctor and getting a solution either way, this is something that there really is no right answer to and I can't help but still be sitting on the fence, like Humpty Dumpty, looking all confused.

I don’t know if I can be arsed to do the requisite research into what both parties stand for and what promises are being made in order to get into power, because there’s a lot of bullshit to wade through, there really is.

The lines are still open.

Life is what happens…

..when you're busy daydreaming.

As is customary in this country, the weather is nice when you least expect it, and instead of April showers, we’re treated to glorious sunshine, and the minute May comes skipping along, it all changes. It’s been pissing it down all day.

It started off promisingly enough.

I’d always wanted to go to a place called Sandbanks in Dorset, home of a supposedly glorious beach and rather a lot of rich people, so we headed there in Rachael’s car after leaving the venue we’d stayed at on Friday night for a friend's wedding. Despite my hangover being kinder than usual and echoes of the last song and memories of the conga that accompanied it fading fast in my head, I wasn’t quite ready to take over my driving responsibilities, though, just yet.

After wading through the deep sand to get to a cafe on the (admittedly lovely) beach and a brief stroll, we left after just an hour, the sparkle from the morning sun on the water dimming as heavy grey clouds bullied their way across the sky. We put the roof down anyway as the sun was still out as we drove away, but no sooner had we hit the motorway, the heavens opened. We didn’t get wet, though – the windscreen sheltered us from the rain. It was surreal driving down the motorway with the top down; I was careful not to look around me at the other drivers because I knew we’d get some bemused looks, but part of me was enjoying being a little rebellious. It was only rain after all. And we still looked cool in it.

Then I saw something strange. I looked off to my right and saw a glimpse of a middle-aged couple standing together by the roadside across the motorway, staring up at a temporary road sign.

‘Time for Change’ it said, a familiar slogan for the Conservatives’ election campaign. Nothing odd about the sign, but the way they just stood there in the rain as if searching for meaning, perhaps embodying the entire nation’s state of mind about the forthcoming election made me think. Of course they may well just have broken down and been looking skywards for inspiration, and the sign just happened to be there, but I read the situation as having some other meaning entirely. I saw what I wanted to see, I guess.

Is it time for change? I didn’t realise we needed one. But then again, I personally like my politics like my wine: "A.B.C."

It’s finally stopped raining and I’m sitting on the sofa with Come Dine With Me on in the background. Had I made a different choice last night, I would just have been leaving London’s Excel having been turned away from X Factor, about now, after a good 11 hours standing in a queue. The truth is, I just couldn’t be arsed and today’s incessant rain only made me feel better about my decision.

I don’t like change much, if I’m honest - I'll come up with any excuse to avoid it. I feel restless, though, but that's quite usual for me. I find it difficult to live in the moment when I should be more than happy with my lot and instead spend most of my time daydreaming. As the day closes on yet another missed opportunity as quickly as we passed the couple standing in the rain, I’ll focus my efforts instead on getting my wife to agree to watching a cheery foreign film, maybe The Diving Bell and The Butterfly or Downfall (yes, the one with that Hitler scene was on offer in HMV), and wondering what tomorrow’s day-off will bring.

I know where I'd rather be.

Second Chances

Facebook says no. I can’t write any more notes. Every couple of weeks most of my 103 notes disappear. I’ve tried emailing someone about it, but there’s no-one to email. The best you can achieve is a post on a message board that you can’t guarantee anyone reads. Which is nice.

Thankfully I saved them, but as a little word of advice, make sure you’ve got any notes, movies or photos, make sure you back them the fuck up.

Not that I’m a complaining kind of mood, though. We had a result last week. The pictures have been all over Facebook, so I won’t go into detail. Sadly, though, I was so drunk that the rough outline of a speech I spent an hour thinking about as the awards began was forgotten as our names were read out. I was also so drunk that I couldn’t stand by the end of the evening, and the next morning I had to leave a note for the maid apologising. For the mess, I mean. Again, I won’t go into detail. It’s a shame though, as I remember very little about the previous night. I spent most of Saturday in bed, and still feel shit, four days later. Way to go, McGario. One of the best nights of my professional career, which I remember sod all about and have probably mangled my liver.

Because I was drinking like a (nervous) fish before the awards, I missed my chance in the spotlight. I didn't actually miss it, you understand. As usual, I'm quite able to move, and generally talk when under the influence, but the lights won't be on, and I won't remember any of it. Sadly, though, unlike my Facebook notes, I couldn't back up these memories when I malfunction and I'll never get them back. Sure, there are videos, but I'll be offering good money to have them deleted. All because I got the fear.

Every weekday morning on Radio 2, there's a charming little feature called 'Pause for Thought,' one of the few elements from Terry Wogan's old breakfast show that made the cut into Chris Evans' format, where each day a guest delivers some words of wisdom (Don't get me wrong, as a TOGG for many years I wanted to dislike this new young?! upstart edging in on Terry's turf, but I have to say I really can't fault his show. At all). Today was the turn of a regular contributor chap called Father Brian D'Arcy's, a priest from Enniskillen in Northern Ireland, and his chosen subject was 'Best Friends.' Something he said really struck me.

"The only thing that can stop us from what we want to be, is that wee word, fear," He said. And he's right, you know. I've lost count of the opportunities I've turned my back on, for no other reason but my own insecurities, of which there are many. "Courage," he went onto say, "is so important...it helps us to act in spite of our big genuine fears."

So, I’m sitting here burning karaoke CDs trying to get inspiration for the coming audition, and trying to pluck up the courage to try out to them out to my wife, knowing that she’ll rather watch Eastenders, but hoping she’ll pick the one I think will be ok to sing.

This time I’m under no illusion, though. I’m going to pick my song before I go, and even try and learn some lyrics. I know how long I’ll have to wait, and even if I sing my heart out, I probably won’t get to the next stage. But I can get over that and still make the most of it. Unless I smuggle in a hip flask, there'll be no using drink as an excuse this time. I'll remember every euphoric moment, or, most likely, every sphincter-clenching frown and a shake of a head from a judge. Clear as a bell.

Blackbird

I don’t have many constant chores, but the single regular job I have to do each evening is the washing-up. It’s the one thing that I’ll do without being asked more than six times. We don’t own a dishwasher. I’m the dishwasher. Don’t get me wrong, I hate it, but I’m usually so crestfallen after a lengthy stint on the M25 that I’m too tired to act up and risk a turn on the naughty step by stamping my feet. So, after dinner each day, on go the marigolds, the digital radio fixed on Absolute Classic Rock, and I crack open the tub of elbow grease, resigned to the task ahead.

Over the last few days, though, I’ve been transfixed by a single Blackbird that has appeared at exactly the same time each evening to hop around in our semi re-turfed garden looking for food. I know it’s a she (as when I was younger I remember being puzzled about how a Blackbird could be brown) and I know she’s seen me watching her bounding around the recently mown grass because she’s stared directly at me as I’ve bobbed my head to the Blue Oyster Cult and then turned about and carried on foraging for food, regardless. She’s out there right now; I’ve just turned my head and seen her zip away out of the corner of my eye.

For a perennial daydreamer, it’s amazing how the simplest things can hold your attention for so long.

I like birds. You’ll see that in all the photos I’ve taken from my study window. I mistakenly thought that clearing the bushes and small trees from my garden would cause a lot of our feathered visitors to relocate to a more protected area. What’s actually happened is that by digging up a bordered area of soil I’ve exposed about a thousand worms, and it’s drawn even more. It’s like an aviary out there. What the hell am I doing writing about birds in our garden, you might ask? The problem is, it’s created a bit of a dilemma for me. For someone born into a Catholic family, I’ve got unorthodox views on karma. I feel guilty because I was the one who disturbed the worms, and because I didn’t lift a pan to bang on the window when the bird eventually caught one. This is the strange way my mind works. If a cat found its way into our garden though, I’ll happily chase it away. I prefer birds. And dogs. All the enemies of cats. Still, it takes my mind off the fucking washing up.

As you can tell, I don’t have much to say today. There’s no childhood memory, or epiphany this time around; I just wanted to write something down. I should probably be discussing the biblical ash cloud drifting over British airspace, or how last night’s election debate made me reconsider not voting this time around. No, I saw a Blackbird hopping around in my garden today. I found that no less interesting.

Lost in Humilation.

Saturday, November 15, 2008 at 3:02pm

Last week I was lucky enough to go away for the weekend, courtesy of my wife.I knew we were “going somewhere” but didn’t know where. Rachael kept it a complete secret, but that didn’t stop me asking every question under the sun about whether we were staying the UK, going abroad, flying abroad, whether it was somewhere we’d been together before, somewhere I’d been before. When the time came to leave, we jumped into my car.

“How long is the drive going to be?” I asked, thinking that I’d be able to tell based on the distance to the airport. “Stop trying, I’m not telling you.” Eventually I gave up, and distracted myself by wondering how long it would be until I’d see my old friend, food, again for breakfast instead. I soon got used to the idea that I wasn’t going to find out until the very last minute. After all, not knowing was more fun, anyway. In order to keep the secret going as much as possible, I stared at the floor as we waited at the gate to board. It must have looked dodgy that I couldn’t look the airline attendant in the eye when I handed her my passport and boarding pass. It must have been doubly suspicious when Rachael practically shouted, “whatever you do, just don’t look up!!!”

As I walked down the walkway to the plane, I found myself rudely staring at the other passengers to try and work out where they were from, and as a businessman walked past us on his mobile, I found myself cocking my ears towards him to hear his accent. French. Most definitely. Must be Paris. Get in! Can’t really go wrong with Paris. Rachael noticed and asked me to stop trying to spoil the surprise for myself. Too late.

So on we shuffled, and I couldn’t help but analyse every complexion, mannerism and word from the passengers in the seats as we passed them. Most of them looked Spanish. That scuppered my guess. Bugger, I realised, I really had no idea.Whenever I travel, I take literally everything I could ever want to use on the plane with me in my hand luggage. Since I’m lazy, this usually means stuffing the two or three magazines, books, mp3 player, camera and DS all into the seat pocket in front., anything to avoid standing up and redistributing my bags. I’m usually the last person standing up in the cabin as a result. The sooner I realise that the resulting lack of legroom could be avoidable by stretching my legs a bit, the better. As we sat waiting patiently for takeoff, I stared out at the bright, but low sun streaming across hangars, planes and vehicles of the runway area around the airport.

Glass on windows glinted as we taxied through to our takeoff point and I was excited about the unknown. I hadn’t really had a chance to look forward to the weekend until we arrived at Terminal 5 that morning, so my mind had suddenly gone into overdrive. I tried to think of all the places we could be going. I couldn’t help but start to wonder which locations I’d rather be going to, and came up with two; Paris and Rome.

One, the most romantic city in the world, the other, one of the richest in history. Identifying two of my favourites was potentially a bad idea, as the list of possible choices was relatively high and it was likely I’d be disappointed. Thankfully, I needn’t have worried, as the captain soon advised us on the flight time to Paris, and how the weather was somewhat different to the bright day we were having. Somewhat different, indeed. I believe that somewhere inside me, I am receptive to learning new languages, and I find myself remembering allsorts of words and phrases from several different countries. I was most confident with French though, as I’d studied that for my GCSEs. I could even assume a mean accent.

So, as we sat in a tiny restaurant just south of the River Seine that night, menus in hand, waitress hovering with pen at the ready, I was ready to put my five years of (albeit non attentive) study into practise, I realised that I had, in fact, remembered nothing. “Je voudrais, er…Rachael, what’s the French for glass?” Out comes the guidebook. She flicks to the Useful Phrases section at the back and quickly retrieves the word. “Verre”, she whispers, not looking up, perhaps not wanting to see me in pain.“Right, thanks.” Bear in mind, the waitress, the only one in this busy restaurant in the heart of Paris, is still standing waiting patiently for me to order. Rachael still hasn’t looked up. “Je voudrais deux verre du vin blanc, s’il vous plait.”

Perhaps not perfect, perhaps not in order, and maybe it did take several moments to get it out, but I was damn proud of myself. I was practically a local. Not so proud though when the waitress nods, and says in English, “Thank you sir, which white wine would you like, and is that a large or small glass?”I would probably have had more success if I'd have tried moonwalking across the English Channel.The fact that EVERYONE seems to speak English cannot be a good incentive for the British to learn another language. Everytime I ask a Frenchman if they speak English, everytime, they politely say, usually with a slight shrug, “A little,” perhaps in mortal fear of a deep conversation about Nietzsche. I wouldn’t give up though, I tried it several times over the weekend, usually forgetting half the words I thought I’d known before starting the conversation. No wonder my poor wife always sighs when I try and speak Spanish, which I know even less of. Surely though, it’s better to try and speak the language, even when you know full well they speak perfect English?I can’t remember half the things I’d learned about grammar anyway, which is the glue that binds all the other words together.

My memory in general is getting far worse than it used to be. I know now what Paul McCartney was thinking of when he called his last album “Memory Almost Full.” The fact he must be well into his sixties has nothing at all to do with it. I’d gladly swap all the other phrases I’d learned (in German and Japanese as well as the lyrics to the entire REM back catalog that I’d stored away in the dark recesses of my head) for some fluency in one language, but it doesn’t work like that, sadly. I can’t even finish one sentence. The worst thing is when you visit a new country, having worked out a few phrases, and successfully reel off a line or two. The listener then stares you in the eye, and then starts a fully blown conversation about the weather, exposing me as the fraud I am. Worst still, in Japan, I’ve literally been laughed at.

Regime Change at Big Brother's House.

Wednesday, November 5, 2008 at 2:53pm

I learned everything I know now about British politics in my year 10 and 11 History classes with Mr Jones. And I've forgotten about it steadily ever since. Labour were always romanticised in my at school as the party of the people (not these other stuffy toffs I'd seen in the media), responsible for trade unions and the NHS. So it made sense to me to vote for them when the time came in May 1997.

I listened to what both parties said (through the squabbling, it was difficult), and ended up choosing Labour, most people did, to be sure. The media played a massive part in getting us 'yoof' involved when all I really cared about was beer and football at the time. After all, I didn't identify with John Major or a government that had been unable to stop us going into recession and had sent our troops off to war in the middle-east. Voting was also one of those things you had to be an adult to do, which made me want to do it more; you couldn't lie about your age to the electoral register like you could the gentleman in the corner shop next to Goff's Park before skipping off with a two-litre bottle of Thunderbirds cider.Its easy to care about politics when you're young, though. How one person can change the course of history by voting and that your government will always make the right decision for its people. I don't feel that way anymore. I've been let down too many times by decisions that I don't think represent either my own opinion or the moral choice. But, you can't moan about the government unless you use your vote. They say. I still have the voter apathy, though. Things can only get better.

I met Tony Blair once on the campaign trail in Crawley's town square. I shook his hand and wished him luck. He signed a leaflet for me. I didn't read it of course, all I cared about was that the headers, text and between the lines said:"Lots of change, more dynamic government, no more John Major, BLAH BLAH" Plus I thought it would be worth something later. Eleven years later, the ex-chancellor is in office, and we're entering a global recession. Our troops are 'keeping peace' in the middle-east and confidence is pretty low. I'd wager that come next election, David Cameron will have the keys to number ten. It turned out that Tony Blair's legacy hadn't fared any better than Major's.

Change and lack of confidence seems to be the biggest reason to vote these days. All I really want is stability and prosperity - I couldn't care less who's in power.Barack Obama's election as the first black president marks a historic sea change for a country that only 50 years ago wouldn't allow black people to mix with white people in restaurants. For that reason alone we should all be very, very happy about what's just happened. He'll probably turn into the devil incarnate eventually - because, let's face it, things are pretty bad now, but they could still get worse.

For now at least, let's revel in how history was made last night. America are, like it or not, guardians of peace, elected or otherwise, so having anyone but Bush in the Whitehouse is a good thing. So, well done America, you've finally earned my vote. Let's hope its not a case of New Labour, New Danger.

Mock the Week.

Sunday, November 2, 2008 at 12:05pm

Here’s what’s happened in the last week.

1) All the leaves are brown, and the sky is grey.The leaves changed from green to red to yellow and soon they’ll all miraculously find their way onto my front lawn. I was in Reading yesterday and the Christmas decorations are all up. The stores are playing Christmas songs and all the gift packs are out in force. The greatest hits albums are creeping into the new release CD racks and my lips are chapped. What happened to the Indian Summer we were all being promised? It’s still Autumn, only just November, but the world suddenly got brr-brr cold and nights have drawn in. That happened quickly, didn’t it?

2) Daniel is still in the running on the X Factor. I’m enjoying this year’s series. I think the talent on the show is worth watching, and it’s been one of the best series I’ve seen. Never mind that I haven’t watched the show for ages as I’ve been sulking because I didn’t get an audition. For two whole years.

However, the last couple of weeks, I’ve been sitting there wincing at some seriously bum notes from usually entertaining contestants and then find myself staring wide-eyed in disbelief when the judges virtually knee in front of them and undo their flies. I really think I need to get my ears tested, because I’m not hearing what they’re praising. Is there a flip-side affliction to being tone-deaf? Call me cynical, but it’s obvious that some talent isn’t the only thing that keeps people in - it’s marketability and votes. Imagine that loads of voters are backing one singer and then they have a duff week. You’re probably not going to vote that week. Now imagine you’re a judge and have inside track on how many votes each singer is getting each week, you’re going to want to affect people’s views and inclination to vote. “That was the best thing I’ve heard all evening Eoghan.”

3) Russell Brand is now the devil. It’s Friday night, not so long ago. The end credits from the Friday night with Jonathan Ross show are on, and I’ve had a couple of beers to toast the end of the week. I’m still licking my lips from the sweet and sour sauce that just keeps on giving back and I’m thinking that I enjoy these shows. They have the right balance of humour and current affairs, great guests and (usually) great music. If you asked me to name some of my favourite interviews on the show, I could probably wax lyrical down the pub about it without getting distracted for at least an hour. Come to think of it, I also trust his Film 20XX reviews and loved the Japanarama series he did about Japan. He also likes his games and mentioned Virtua Tennis once on a Friday night. That gives him god-like status and probably makes him one of the best things about the BBC. Now pretend I didn’t just say that. Pretend I’m not really bothered about the show, and I’m a grumpy sod, reading the paper in my suit one morning, hating the fact I’ve got to go to my job in the city on a Sunday. I drain the last bitter sips of my coffee, pick up my brand new Blackberry Storm and flick my £1000 watch up so it doesn’t dangle annoyingly around my wrist. Normally I do like it hanging there so all my colleagues can see just how much it cost, but today, it’s really getting in the way. I’m just pulling my silk scarf around my neck when I see a headline about Andrew Sachs, BBC, Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand and I sit back down. I skim read the article and make a note about how I must complain about this outrage. I have a right, I pay my TV license fee and shouldn’t have to put up with this kind of abuse. It doesn’t matter that the incident occurred a week ago and I didn’t even hear the offending show. I want to be counted. Besides, I used to love Fawlty Towers.I’ll be honest, I prefer Ross’ TV stuff and don’t listen to Brand's radio show, so I didn’t hear the offending show about Andrew Sachs and his granddaughter. I, like everyone else, heard it second-hand from another source, news/radio/paper/internet (delete as appropriate). Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like what they did, but did it really deserve so many headlines, and the public hanging these guys have got? I’m so bored of it now. What’s next? The US presidential elections? First black president? Now that’s a headline worth reading.