Smurfy

If George Orwell’s futuristic prophecies had ever seen the light, then this year would be the thirtieth anniversary of Room 101. Imagine a world in which everything your disliked, every niggle and irritant could be removed forever….If you’re anything like me, if you consider the path of your life to be strewn with cowpats from the Devil’s own Satanic herd, then you too have a mental list of ‘stuff’ that you genuinely consider to be surplus to requirements.

In the book, Room 101 was a torture chamber in which the perpetrator subjected the prisoner to their worst nightmare or phobia, in a bid to send the victim doolally. However, over the years it’s become synonymous with a highly successful TV show - the room, no longer a homage to S&M, is now just a dinghy hole somewhere in the basement. Celebrity guests often complain that they’ve struggled to compile their list of hated items. This genuinely baffles me. Don’t get me wrong, I consider myself to be a fairly positive person (pause for cries of incredulity) but there are occasions in life (many) where I come across a type of person, a behaviour, a ‘thing’ which makes me long for a world in which Room 101 really does exist. The list is long. Come join me…

 1)       People Who Have Orgasms Over Coffee

Now I know this might sound a little leftfield - but over the years, with the rise of American conglomerates, otherwise normal people have become obsessed with coffee. No longer satisfied with a cup of Gold Blend, they’ve come to expect variety in their styrofoam. Ok, so I could argue that my dislike is based on the fact that independent cafes are being pushed out of business by these tax evading giants, and granted that’s not good, but in all honesty my issue lies with your average Joe who comes into the office in a state of near hysteria, desperate cos they haven’t had their morning caffeine fix. I’ve witnessed normally sane men (it’s usually men) come close to tears when I’ve told them the coffee machine is yet to warm up. This procedure takes 5 minutes, and during this time I’ve watched the sweating junkie in front of me stare desperately at the machine, cup in hand, in a useless bid to hurry the process. Now I’m no Doctor, but anything you put into your body which causes such brutal withdrawals, is a very bad thing.

You don’t see tea drinkers get in this state. We’re a refined lot, and the humble teapot makes it a collective experience. Coffee drinkers react to their beverage as if it has life-saving qualities. They worship the black stuff in a way that doesn’t sit quite right with me, a snobbery that you don’t get with tea drinkers, a clique of sorts. Coffee drinkers? GET A GRIP.

2)       Bad Commuter Etiquette

So most of us use public transport to get around. It’s at best a bit of a chore, and at worst guerilla warfare. My issue lies with those people who act like they are the most important specimens on the bus/train/tube. The ones who scream from a packed platform into a heaving carriage “Could you move down please! I have to get back for my kids bathtime!” (I’ve actually heard this)

These are often the same people who think nothing of using the seat next to them as a place to rest a weary bag. When gestured to move their fare-evading chum (in favour of an actual human being) the standard response can range from genuine surprise, to a deep churlish sigh, right through to my favorite riposte of all time – the sucking of teeth. Same goes for those people who attempt to get up from their seats and occupy the tight space you’ve been standing in for what seems like eternity, two stops before you both need to get off, because they are VERY important and have to be first off the blocks. And then there are those women who board a busy bus yet think nothing of plonking their young child on a seat, ignoring the fact that up to a certain age the little angel should be placed on Mumma’s empty lap. Warning! I’m gonna use the phrase “in my day” cos it applies to this situ, so bear with me…. but in my day, little people weren’t worshipped to the extent they are now. There I’ve said it….

Their needs were never considered greater than the nurse who’s been on her feet all day, or the elderly gentleman who needs to rest his legs. Kids were expected to sit on the laps of their parent or guardian when possible, and if you put them above a fare paying adult, then you were shunned by the women in your local Co-op - effectively ostracized from society. Ahh the good old days. Look, I could go on for hours about the topic, but it all boils down to self-awareness and respect for our fellow man, and woman (but not kids) Definitely not kids – those little b*stards need to earn it.

3)       Fussy Eaters

Ok, I’ll forgive you if you’re allergic to seafood and will literally die if you come in sniffing distance of a prawn. I’ll even let you off if it’s a nut allergy – and when you’re brandishing your EpiPen I won’t question why no-one was allergic to nuts when I was a kid…But if you refuse to drink milk, eat bread and digest only yellow foods every second Wednesday, then I will have to consign you to Room 101. There are a large number of quacks out there who have made a tidy sum out of people who just don’t want to accept that wheat makes everyone a bit bloaty. This does not make you allergic, it just makes you a little intolerant. Which coincidentally is how I feel about fussy eaters.

4)       Mad Mothers

So, dependent on your vantage point you might disagree with me on this (but if you do then I’m afraid it’s more than likely that you ARE this woman….or worse still, married to her)

Motherhood is a glorious beautiful gift – but it’s not bestowed on everyone. Now you’d think this would make people, especially Mothers, sensitive to those women who have not been blessed. Sadly not. And this lack of awareness manifests in many ways. Social Media allows a platform to reach all and sundry. Where once you could avoid the annoying relative who subjected you to hours of cine-film depicting the birth of little Bobby, now it’s on your newsfeed, in your face. This tends to start as early as the scan photos, which makes me fear for a time when Instagram will be littered with filtered pics of the conception. Now don’t get me wrong, I genuinely enjoy seeing pics of my friend’s offspring. The women I’m specifically referring to here are the ones who, since impregnation, and for several years after, are totally incapable of uttering/posting any thought opinion or photograph which isn’t related to their bundle of joy (with the exception of those who have just given birth - I’ll allow you those long heady months of fun)

These same women will continually ignore you and your utterings if they’re not baybee related, yet pre-kids would have had numerous thoughts on life, a genuine interest in others/social affairs and sometimes the ability to make you laugh. I’m not sure what piques me most, their complete lack of social awareness or the way they think it cute to put their child on the phone when you’ve called them. I’m glad that little Bobby did a poo to order, but care to watch the news occasionally and comment on a world outside of your own four walls? And woe betide if you don’t like or comment on every single milestone moment in their child’s life. I genuinely lost a “friend” on Facebook simply because I didn’t appreciate/comment on every single pic and post related to her offspring. The fact that the lady in question hadn’t once inquired as to my well-being, appeared irrelevant. The insinuation being that her life was somehow more “worthy” than mine.

Now before mums-net get their knickers in a twist, I KNOW that your child is the centre of your universe, and that’s the way it should be, but in perpetuating this single-minded belief without making any attempt along the way to introduce social awareness/encourage empathy, you will inevitably breed a self-obsessed brat. History will repeat and the human race will be subjected to yet another tw*t – essentially someone who thinks they’ve every right to dump their bag on your seat on your train.

Yup, these Mad Mothers are annoying, but the ones that have the edge are the ones who barely know you, yet feel obliged to criticize your childless situation. I’ve found this happens most frequently at social events. I was once lectured at a funeral by a woman who didn’t have an accurate grasp of my romantic history, yet this didn’t stop her feeling qualified to tell me where I went wrong. I find these Mothers the worst kind. They’ve often married young to the first man who’d have them, their sole aim in life to knock out sprogs, and they genuinely feel that they’ve split the atom in managing this incredible feat (something that apparently occurs every minute of every day around the world….) Their refusal to believe that childless women can have a genuinely fulfilling life without feeling the need to overpopulate the earth further, is at best ignorant and at worst insulting. These Mothers make passing judgments based on threadbare ‘fact’ and genuinely feel they have a God given right to dictate on something which is hugely personal. For anyone out there who ever meets this type of woman (which hopefully you won’t, cos she’s going down the chute…) I find the best response is to show her you healthy(ish) bank balance, your lovely home, pics of your last holiday and the handcuffs attached to your bedpost. Tell her you’re doing just fine.

5)       People Who Administer Their Own Nicknames

I’ll keep this short and sweet, but if your name is Dave and you ask, nay instruct people to call you “Comedy Dave” – then statistics show that A) You aren’t the least bit funny and B) You wear matching socks and ties depicting cartoon characters. If you don’t like your name, change it. If you have to tell people you’re funny, you’re not. Two separate things see?

6)       Fireworks

Regular readers will be aware that I’m not a fan.  They’ve got to be the most overrated/dangerous/dullard things on God’s earth. Semtex disguised as fairy lights. The banging goes on for days, nay weeks. Pets are left terrified. Feral kids use them as a means of torture and normal kids tire of them after 5 mins. As a child I never got the appeal, and I still struggle to appreciate the shower of light. If as an adult you enjoy standing in a damp field for hours on end watching this repetitive nonsense, then allow me to introduce you to a freshly painted wall. Keep watching. It will blow your mind.

7)       People Who Laugh At Anything

Let me explain. Laughing is good. A genuine laugh releases tension. But it should be discerning. I firmly believe that there are varying degrees of mirth. From the wry smile, the light chuckle, the guffaw, right through to the laugh that takes you unawares, increasing as you process why - the punchline repeated, climaxing in a loud proud belly laugh. The stuff that makes you double over, makes you cry, makes you pray that your pelvic floor holds up.  However there are people out there, the ones who like to be heard, they laugh this way at ANYTHING.

Obviously it would be lovely to live in a world where every humorous uttering or event evoked a fit of crazy laughter, but we don’t. And if you can’t judge the difference between something mildly amusing and something hilarious, then you’re either a woman who was once told you had a “cute laugh” and now use it as a form of attention seeking currency, or a man born without an internal truth reactor. Or both. Because in a sense there’s something quite genuine about laughter, and it’s hugely revealing of character. Friendships are born when we discover someone shares our sense of humour, or when two people find each other equally hilarious. When this is continually faked, then the person in question is presenting an image of themselves at odds with reality. It’s a false impression – which makes me question motive. At best they are people pleasers, at worst are manipulating the situation they are in/people they are with. In short, if you laugh loudly at everything, including Mrs Browns Boys, then I’ve no hesitation in throwing you and that racket you’re making, down the chute.

8)       Katherine Jenkins

*Sigh* I just don’t like her. It’s the constant resemblance to a blow-up doll that really winds me up. For once I would like to see a picture of her without the slap on her face, looking a bit disheveled. REAL. Now before the boys start claiming I’m in some way envious of this pwetty laydee, let me get something straight – I appreciate a good looking woman. In fact there are a number of them I’d ‘turn’ for. For example, Jennifer Lawrence. How often have you seen her trip over her own feet or crack an inappropriate joke? Loads. She ain’t afraid to go out for a bottle of milk, sans mascara. She remains attractive because she’s got her priorities right and keeps it real.

Remember when vanity was considered to be an ugly trait in both men and women? Now it’s celebrated everywhere. Social Media hasn’t helped – retouched selfies everywhere, but most of us admit to days where we mess up, whether it be a mad haircut of a social faux pas. However with Katherine she just perpetuates this image of perfection, which is at best just plain irritating and at worst an unrealistic ideal.

9)       Mascots.

People who dress as mascots are no doubt lovely folk who give their spare time to charitable causes, but I have an irrational fear of these creatures. I’m not sure if it’s the fact you can’t quite see who’s under the squirrel outfit, whether they’re smiling or snarling (oft betraying the cheery grin presented to the outside word) or that these people have historically made a bee-line for me. They do that funny wee dance and beckon me in. I don’t like it. Please stop.

10)   Rubbish Bar Staff

The type who expect you, the waiting customer, to tell them who’s next. IT’S YOUR JOB TO KNOW LUV. Also female bar staff who consistently serve men over women. Same goes for Gay bar staff who resent the Hetero’s cluttering up their pub. Look boys, it’s your own fault for providing a jukebox that plays Bananarama. Like a moth to a flame.

I could go on, but I’ll stop there. Except to give a quick shout out to……

Opaque tights – even Kate Moss looks fat in them

Hinge & Brackett (only relevant to people my age) – a sinister pair of 19thCentury drag queens.

The weird bloke from Fingerbobs (again only relevant to my peer group)

Hen nights (forced fun)

Ryan Air

Angry Atheists (not to be confused with just ‘Atheists’)

People who slavishly follow trends, yet claim to be original. Worse if they’re over 40.

Snowboarders. And you can throw in Kitesurfers whilst you’re at it.

Doctors Receptionists. Here’s the thing luv, you ain’t the one with a medical degree – get me the organ grinder.

The “comedian” Ross Noble. He’s not funny and his eyes are too close together.

People who refuse to carry cash

PE Teachers

People who don’t like dogs

Mustang Sally

Cilla Black (self-proclaimed working class Scouser who holidays in Barbados, quaffs only champagne and votes Tory.)

Piers Morgan

Celebrity cliques on Twitter (see Piers Morgan)

Cab drivers who need directions outside their mile radius.

Broccoli

*Sigh* I’m with you George, all the way.

I had a near death experience recently. When I say ‘near death’ I mean that my life flashed before my eyes whilst suspended 200 feet in the air on a fairground ride in Cheshire. I genuinely felt at risk and screamed so loudly that a passing crow actually winced. But throughout the agony I thought to myself, is this it? Is this the way I go? On a ropey ride in the NORTH of England.

It’s no laughing matter, death. It’s the one thing that’s guaranteed in life – along with taxes. Most of us beaver away on a day to day basis, preferring to ignore our impending demise. Life is short and shouldn’t be filled with such morbid thoughts, no matter what the Co-op tells you. Adverts consisting of a stream of people, each of them differing ages nationalities and genders, ticking that PC box and proclaiming that they want Elvis to sing them out (tricky if the conspiracy rumours are true and he’s genuinely working in Tescos…) Worse still, Frank Sinatra’s ‘My Way’ – yawn. And my least favourite, Robbie William’s ‘Angels’

Guys, Guys Guys, we all have just one crack at death. Most of us can’t dictate HOW we go, but my fairground experience did teach me that we can at least try to avoid being remembered as the poor fool who died in embarrassing circumstances. And we can definitely swerve all clichés at the funeral.

The most obvious embarrassing escape route is the highly predictable ‘sex-kick gone wrong’. Favoured by rock stars and MP’s alike, those who eschew the usual means of sexual gratification. Methods used by mere mortals are never quite good enough for these folk. Not for them initiation by Littlewoods catalogue (lingerie section page 95) followed by a quick grope behind the bike sheds (upstairs inside) – eventually graduating to downstairs inside, and what used to be known as ‘third base’ - I’m not even sure if kids use this terminology anymore. They definitely don’t bookmark ‘Littlewoods’ when browsing porn online.

Once reaching adulthood, boundaries are pushed, games are played, camera phones are used as a means of blackmail – we all know the score. But these men (It’s always men, cos women tend to plan ahead) these dissidents, they want more. They want to feel the wind beneath their arse cheeks, they want citrus fruits, they want bondage – they want to reach the dizziest heights of ecstasy. Unfortunately risk assessments are never carried out prior to the exercise. If they were, the fellas in question would immediately notice that the wardrobe is only fit for storing clothes, and the scaffolding outside is visible to people shopping in the town centre.

I think we can all agree that orgasms are God’s freebie gift to man & womankind. However, since the dawn of time, humans have always wanted more. We only have to look at Adam & Eve for proof of that. At this point I just want to give a shout out to all you Atheists – I know this talk of mythical beings will be driving you crazy, but hang on in there… No pun intended.

Worse still, it won’t be your cheeks burning of shame when the inevitable finger-pointing begins, because you’ll be long gone. No, it’s your family and friends who’ll have to deflect interrogation, along with the pity stares and awkward questions. Did George always wear suspenders indoors..?

Radio 1 DJ Kevin Greening regrettably met a similar end in 2007. The coroner had recorded a verdict of misadventure, adding: “He was found dead having indulged in unorthodox sexual behaviour involving restraint equipment and illegal drugs.”  I can’t tell you the job I had trying to explain the ins and outs to my Mother. She got her head around the rubber suit and drugs, but remains baffled as to why he didn’t peel the orange first.

Another surefire way to die embarrassingly is when underestimating animals. People have been warned of the dangers of sharks for years, heck Stephen Spielberg very charitably made a public information film about it, warning us all that there is nothing as blood thirsty as a hungry great white. Now I know what you’re thinking, that only people living in far flung countries need to concern themselves with this, but when we go on holiday, many of us tend to take leave of our senses. Joe Bloggs would have been warned by Chantelle the tour operator, that there are certain times you shouldn’t swim in the water, that the sea is a vast domain and should be respected. But Joe always thinks he knows better. Who you gonna call Joe, when you experience that sharp tug to your speedos? It’s not a playful dolphin wanting to swim alongside of you, it’s a bloody big shark who hasn’t eaten in a while and fancies a bit of hooman.

Granted, there’s a certain satisfaction to be had when asked at dinner parties about that scar you’ve got on your left cheek. Explaining that you narrowly escaped a shark attack is kinda cool, but here’s the rub – most people don’t escape. They die horrifically, wishing they’d taken heed of the warnings. Sharks are undoubtedly dangerous, but they don’t hold a candle to hippos.

That’s right, hippos. I’m not talking about that sexually ambiguous pink puppet from the kids telly show, Rainbow. I’m referring to the real live beasts. These animals kill more humans each year in Africa than any other wildlife, and are capable of snapping a person in half. Imagine the gamekeeper making that dreaded call, informing your nearest and dearest that you were gobbled up by a hungry hippo? Imagine the utter confusion when your wife later calls Fisher Price headquarters, complaining that their seemingly harmless game has killed her husband?

And it doesn’t stop there. Another animal we should never underestimate is my personal favourite, the chimpanzee. Studies have shown that this affable primate, pound for pound, has twice the strength of a human. The apes beat us in leg strength too. There have been a number of recorded attacks over the years, most recently in 2012 when sanctuary worker Andrew Oberle, was left fighting for his life after being attacked and dragged half a mile by two male chimps in an act of ‘territorial defence’ at a South African sanctuary. The extent of his injuries was fairly horrific and he was lucky to have survived.

But who’d ever believe that you were killed by a cheeky wee monkey?! We all love those creatures. Unfortunately I fear that the feeling isn’t mutual. Take for example Santino, a male chimpanzee at Furuvik Zoo in Sweden, who devises increasingly complex attacks against zoo visitors. Santino hides rocks under piles of hay in preparation before people show up, then lobs them haphazardly at the voyeurs. His keeper is quoted as saying, “At first the chimp plays it cool, then launches his surprise attack”

It probably speaks volumes in the argument against zoos, but I love that his attack is pre-meditated. This beast thinks things through. He’s probably got a shovel underneath that hay and knows exactly where to bury the bodies. And look at you neglecting to duck in time. How embarrassing.

Animals might be dangerous, but they’ll never be as dangerous as man. Or woman for that matter. Actually who am I kidding, it’s mostly man. The idiot man on the street will always attempt to change that plug socket before drying his hands. We only have to watch the clips on You’ve Been Framed, to see that for many, it’s perfectly acceptable to cut down a tree whilst still up it. The Darwin Awards regularly tell us that we are living amongst fools who stumble upon death on a daily basis. But my personal favourite has to be the case of Rod Hull. Poor Rod. For years he enjoyed televisual success with his irritating hand puppet, Emu. You’d hope that in later life he’d have shipped that damn bird out to an aviary for feathered divas, and enjoyed retirement in peace. But it was not to be.

On 17 March 1999, Hull climbed onto the roof of his house to adjust his television aerial during the Champions League football match. In his attempt to improve reception, he slipped from the roof and fell through an adjoining greenhouse. The 63-year-old was pronounced dead on arrival at hospital. Following an inquest, the Coroner, Alan Craze, recorded a verdict of accidental death. Awful for Rod and his family of course, but thankfully we now live in the day of modern technology and have little need to fiddle with our aerials - but the verdict of accidental death should really be replaced with “Being Very Silly”. I remember the news reports at the time – most described it as a freak accident. The Sun newspaper very sensitively provided a diagram with arrows demonstrating the route which the poor man took between roof and ground. 

But I think the Police missed a trick. Where was Emu at the time of the accident? Perhaps we’ll never know.

Winning the Lottery is considered to be the stuff of dreams. Yet each time I see a news report with the latest winner standing astride their soon to be ex and a giant cheque, a little part of me dies inside. Not just because I’m eaten up with bitter jealousy, but because I know that they will most likely f*ck it up.

History is littered with tales of people winning large sums of money, only to lose it all on fast cars and loose morals. You’d be forgiven for assuming that I’m referring to these hedonistic numpties. But no, the people who get my shackles up are the winners who declare that “nothing will change me” and flatly refuse to leave their homes or their jobs. Based on intensive research (none) I’ve discovered that the worst culprits live UP NORTH. I’m not sure what it is about those pigeon fanciers, but when it comes to spending money, they resolutely refuse to do so and worse still are proud of the fact that there are millions in the bank whilst they continue to get the bus to work.

One guy who recently bucked the trend was Scotsman Willie Sibald, a painter & decorator who won more than 7 million on the lottery. Willie and his colleague, Rab Layden had played the lottery every week for years and promised if either of them won they would make sure the other would need not work again. When Willie won you’d be forgiven to assuming he’s be struck down with a severe case of amnesia -  but no, instead he actually stuck to his word and honoured the pact. In fact they walked away from their jobs that very day and went for a pint.

I have every admiration for this pair. They no longer need to work, they’ve freed up their jobs for people that do, and best still they should be held as an example of how to behave when you win big. Because life changing amounts of money should affect your life – hopefully for the better. To play the lottery religiously, to dream of that moment your winning numbers come up, only to store the money in a rainy day bank account… well that’s sacrilege. In fact I’d go as far as to say that if you win and spend small, then you should be forced to give the money to charitable causes…i.e. those people who haven’t won the lottery and live in my house.

Before the National Lottery the working classes played the football pools religiously – a complicated scheme, which involved predicting match results. In 1971, Viv Nicolson and her husband Keith came up trumps winning the equivalent of nearly 3 million in today’s money. She famously declared that she would “Spend! Spend! Spend!” and true to her word the couple spent over half their winnings within 4 years of winning. From here on her life reads like a disaster movie, with her husband dying at the wheel of his new jag, being declared bankrupt, suffering from alcoholism and depression and eventually living alone in a care home after suffering from ill health, apparently broke and alone.

But at least she died happy.

There are people out there who dismiss Viv, who ridicule the choices she made in life. In my opinion they are missing the fundamental point of the lottery – in that money is very revealing of character. Case in point – Michael Carroll, a binman from Norfolk who won 10 million on the lottery at the tender age of 19 in 2002.

Carroll had already been acquainted with “the big house” at the time of his win. Fast forward two years and Carroll is banned from driving for six months after being caught at the wheel of his new £49,000 BMW without  insurance. Then in 2005, Carroll was given an ASBO by the court for catapulting steel balls from his Mercedes van, which resulted in breaking 32 car and shop windows - whilst drunk. He admits spending millions on cocaine, drink, gambling and prostitutes, all washed down with two bottles of vodka a day. The rest he squandered.

See? Money will always reveal the true measure of a man. And so with that in mind I ask you to look inside yourselves, not just the shiny smiley kindly exteriors, but deep into the dark n’ dirty recesses of your soul. Big money feeds vulgarity, it brings out the best and the worst in us. With that in mind I’ve listed the ways in which I would rule the world spend my billions. Obviously, it goes without saying that I’d buy an island off the Pacific, a private jet, a private yacht, every dogs home in the country. I’d also shower family a friends with cash and lord it over the people I despise in equal measure. I’d give the NHS a huge cash injection along the way – but if I’m being truly honest, here’s what I’d really do with my new found power wealth…

1) Ok, so I’m a fairly decent soul. I hate to see people living on the streets or animals mistreated. I give to select charities, but I draw the line at chuggers. I refer to those irritating over enthused idiots who clutter the path between you and the train station, doing their little dance and asking you to smile – or worse, shouting loudly at your retreating back “Just get the next train!”

I’d pay to keep these feckers off our streets. I’d force them to live together and subject them to re-runs of Heartbeat. That’s what I’d do. Furthermore I guarantee all charitable causes will benefit from this.

2) Confession time. I have a weakness. I like having my hair washed/head massaged. I’m not talking your average 16 year old kid at the local salon who drags her false nails through your barnet. No, I’m referring to experienced grown-ups who know what they’re doing and refrain from blathering about holiday plans. The ones who really hit the spot. I would pay to house one of these people – the only condition being that they must be readily available at any time day or night to play with my head. Admittedly this does sound a bit 'slavey’ but as long as they’re fed and watered on a semi-occasional basis, I can’t see anything wrong or vaguely exploitative about this set up.

3) It’s not all about me, I’d also reveal my altruistic streak – and the best way I can do this is to pay Simon Cowell to put X Factor to bed. I despair at the generation of kids who genuinely believe fame to be a legitimate life choice.  Music should have the power to make you smile, make you cry, make you feel that you alone have a connection to a song, to the singer. These days, too many singers are uniform in appearance, indistinguishable of sound. I fully expect that sometime in the future my contribution to the Arts will be appreciated with a dame-hood or the like.

4) A bidet in all 7 of my bathrooms. Erm, simply cos it’s nice being fresh downstairs at all times.

5) Scientists have excelled themselves in certain areas – where once cancer was a death sentence, now millions more people are treated and live to a good age. But it begs the question, why can’t they cure the common cold? I’ve always had a sneaky suspicion that the Government are in cahoots with the major Pharmaceutical companies. Resist from finding a cure and we’ll cut you in on the profit we make from the sales of Lemsip…. In fact I firmly believe this to be the case. With my new found wealth I’d pay off these Scientists - tell them to pull their fingers out and sort a cure. Whilst they’re at it they can look at hangovers too. It can’t be that hard to fix. A pill to sort the nausea, fatigue and pounding headache. Although granted, the paranoia and shame that follows the morning after would be a different challenge altogether.

6) I would build a private members pub. I would be in charge of music. Admittedly this would become quite stressful. I am a frustrated wannabe DJ, and an absolute nightmare when it comes to playlists. The right song must be playing at the right time. With that in mind I’d employ an assistant. Someone who is happy to relinquish all control to me, who respects my musical tastes and does exactly what I ask of him. We will be equals.

7) Servants. I’d have ‘em. Stack ‘em high. A world without housework would be a delight. Initially I had considered Beckham-esque butlers, but I reckon that could be distracting, so I’m just gonna put this out there – dwarves. It was good enough for Freddie Mercury and they must be bored of the whole panto scene. I’d be doing them a favour. Plus they’d get into those awkward nooks and crannies - no problem.

 8) Create a car which literally drives itself. An autopilot of sorts. At first glance this might appear to be self-indulgent, but it’s really just another example of my altruism. There are plenty of nutters on our roads who cannot drive. This car would prevent the boy racers from speeding and would disable it’s own engine if it detected you were over the limit. It would also mean that dodgy unlicensed mini cabs would go out of business and black cab driver should be forced to reduce their fares. Win Win.

9) This one will be a little contentious and I don’t expect everyone will agree with me, but I’d buy out every smartphone company and prevent them from being made. We are all slaves to technology, myself included. Phones were once gadgets of assistance, but now they constantly demand our time and attention. There’s no such thing as 9-5 anymore. Emails tug at your sleeve 24/7. You can’t pretend that you didn’t get a text, cos the phone will grass you up. Where once you had to meet a person on time at a specified location, the smart phone enables you to be flaky/run late/or not even show at all… Social Media challenges us to be witty, successful and adored at all times. In short, we spend more time reacting and less time pro-acting. No-one goes to their grave wishing they’d spent more time on Facebook. I’d ditch the lot and get everyone to redress their relationships. Spend precious time with friends and loved ones. We managed fine before them, we’d do so again (Pause whilst you secretly agree to this…)

10) I’d install an ATM cash machine in my kitchen. And then I’d charge people per transaction. What?! I’ve gotta recoup my losses somehow…

I can't help thinking God must've been out of office the day pollen was created. Same goes for men's dangly bits. Even I could do a better job designing that. And don't get me started on the positioning of fanjeetas.

When people are asked to list their faults (nay failings) they often cite impatience, mood swings and being unable to stop at one drink…. But for me it’s the ability to worry about pretty much everything.

They say the first step is acknowledging the problem, and I do hold my hands up - fair cop. However I like to think that over the years I’ve learnt to reason with my overactive mind. But it has got me thinking why I came to be the sort of person who frets about whether that little old lady two doors down is lying passed out on her kitchen floor, being slowly eaten by her cat…Look she forgets to take her milk in some days -  it’s the obvious explanation.

Initially I put it down to nature over nurture, in that some children are born highly sensitive/deep thinkers. But then I got to thinking how different the world was back in the 1970’s. If you are of a certain age you will recall how you often played out on the streets with the other urchins, only returning when the lights flickered on, or tummies started to rumble. The general consensus is that we had a carefree time of it – no nasty internet to speak of, robbing us of our innocence. But I beg to differ.

Exhibit A: Public Information Films

Often fronted by a “face” of the decade – you may recall that jolly actor Dave Prowse, a kindly giant from the West Country who explained the importance of The Green Cross Code. He was the big burly guy who played Darth Vadar, but didn’t actually speak Darth Vadar…So far so normal.

It’s good to teach kids how to cross the road unscathed - but the majority of these films were utterly terrifying. I swear that my fear of water came as a direct result of the advert depicting a grim reaper mocking those children who fell into an area of swampland. If murky water wasn’t at the forefront of my mind, then quicksand was. As a child of the 70’s you will be familiar with the warnings over quicksand. Why on earth these adverts were ever targeted at kids living in concrete jungles is beyond me.  And if you weren’t walking gingerly on surface areas, then you were just plain terrified of other people - or as they were called back then, “Strangers”

Stranger Danger is a phrase that was often mooted about. Many of you will remember the day that a friendly local Bobby visited your school to warn you of strangers, through the medium of film. When the teacher wheeled out that television on legs, VHS cassette recorder primed and ready for action, our collective joy was on par with a dog suddenly running amok through the playground. This was quickly spoilt when the tape started playing and a seedy looking man driving a Ford Cortina would stop his car to speak to little Lucy, offering her a once in a lifetime opportunity to come see his puppies. It was always the same spiel. I couldn’t help thinking back then, surely you’d come up with something a little more imaginative like, “Come see my baby unicorn – it spouts actual fire!”

Electricity Pylons were another thing to worry about. We kids were often told that if our kite or ball were to fly into a field containing pylons, then if we dared attempt to retrieve, chances are we would be burnt to a crisp. I lived in New Cross. I struggled to find these triffid like pylons anywhere, but I figured telephone cables were probably just as deadly, and there were plenty of those around.

Exhibit B: Unsuitable TV Programmes

I guess our parents were fairly relaxed back in the 70’s. When it came to TV scheduling there would be the odd art house movie, a bit of slapstick violence, but nothing too traumatic. Unfortunately they didn’t quite reckon on the impact of the Friday night horror show.

Many of you will remember Roald Dahl’s Tales of the Unexpected - the theme tune alone would have the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, signaling the start of a tale so monstrous, that you’d be checking under your bed that night before you dared close your eyes. The episode most people recall starred Timothy West as an obsessive bee keeper, who loved consuming royal jelly. This culminated in him physically buzzing (not in a Class A/good night kinda way) but actually manifesting into a bee, going all hairy and making buzzing sounds. For those of you born after the 1970’s I am aware that this sounds bonkers, but Dahl had a way with turning a far-fetched tale into something quite credible.

Another series on at the time was Hammer House of Horror. If you thought Tales were creepy, then these mini films would blow your mind. Often containing werewolves, witches, ghosts and voodoo – the violence was more often than not suggested, but scenes were always bordering on soft porn. I maintain there was a woman wearing a skimpy nightie in every single episode. The one tale I remember vividly contained a couple who became stranded en-route to their holiday home, and they eventually find “sanctuary” in the woods. You see, woods were ten a penny back in the 70’s/80’s – nowadays they’ve been knocked down and the land made good for flats. So that’s another thing we can blame the Tory government for, denying us the right to take shelter in random woodland.

Anyhow, the couple come across a woman there. She cares for a group of children who she believes to be werewolves. Perfectly acceptable behaviour. After an accident, the husband wakes in a hospital to be told the werewolf children were just a bad dream. However his now pregnant wife has changed, developing a taste for raw steak. No doubt she looked quite a sight, munching on a rib-eye in that saucy negligee.

Threads was another series which really should have come with a government health warning. In fact it probably did, but I doubt people took any notice. Until after they watched it. Threads was a docudrama account of nuclear war and its effects on the Northern city, Sheffield.  I can’t profess to have watched it as a child, but it was produced at time when political tensions were high and the threat of a nuclear attack appeared always imminent. Those who saw it have relayed it as a terrifying piece of television. The screenwriter has since said that their intention in making Threads was to “Step aside from the politics and convincingly show the actual effects on either side, should our best endeavours to prevent nuclear war fail”

All well and good, but I can’t help thinking that the fear and worry experienced by those adults who watched it, did in some way feed through to kids via osmosis. To this day I’ve only managed to watch a couple of scenes and it certainly stopped me from ever wanting to live up North…

Doctor Who was another series which left me cold. Beloved by geeks across the globe, it wasn’t so much the cybermen or the daleks that scared me, but the looming face of Tom Baker with that wild eyed stare. On a wider note, you’d think we would have been safe with kids telly, but as we know now, many of the presenters we trusted with our innocence have sadly betrayed us and tainted our early memories. I can only pray that Tony Hart and Brian Cant will never be besmirched, but that fella who presented Fingerbobs will always be on my suspect list.

Exhibit 3: Adverts

You’d assume that advertisements during this era would’ve been fairly inoffensive. I remember fondly the Kia-Ora advert, often citing the phrase “I’ll be your dawg” to all and sundry. Only in later life did I realise that this was entirely inappropriate, but in recent times the ad is cited as “a bit racist”

I still like to think it was made to be a fairly innocent piece of television. At the time I used to worry that birds in the garden would try and dive-bomb me if I had a glass of Kia-Ora in my hand.  It was aimed at impressionable kids like me who wanted to advise our feathered friends that it was just too orangey for crows.

Another advert of the age contained a cartoon ginger cat who starred in a series of public warnings.  Most of the topics dealt with everyday safety issues children face, such as not going off with strangers or not playing with matches. They featured a little boy called Tony and his cat named Charley, voiced by Kenny Everett (who knew?) Faced with an everyday dilemma, Tony would turn to Charley for his advice and Charley would “meow” the lesson of the episode, which the boy would then translate and explain – such as, “Tell Mum before you go off with that man who’s offering you a peek of his unicorn”

As a kid these films made a huge impression on me. Like Tony I’d often turn to our pet cat Suzie for advice, but she would stare at me blankly before chasing after that pesky crow who had been eyeing up my juice drink.

R. Whites made an ad in the 70’s depicting a grown man who would often sneak down to the fridge during the night to feed his addiction for pop. I couldn’t get a handle on this at all. Was his wife such a battle-axe that he wasn’t allowed a glass of it by his bed? Was lemonade addictive like smack? Was this how Zammo from Grange Hill started off? One night he pops downstairs for a cold glass of R. Whites, the next he’s chasing the dragon in the changing rooms at school? It was a massive worry for me. So I stuck to Pepsi. And only during the day.

If like me you were born in the 70’s, you’ll know that we were allowed the freedom of expression, and we were lucky to have parents who encouraged us to explore the great outdoors. I’ve come to the conclusion that television was to blame for my anxious nature – the real culprit in all this.

One day (please God) I’ll be richly retired, and in the evenings I’ll be sat on my rocking chair in my winceyette nightie, toothlessly sucking on Werthers Originals whilst watching re-runs of Heartbeat. And during the break an ad will come on for 90’s Club Anthems. Every.Single.Time. Let’s just admit now that no decade will ever surpass it.

The big guy stood up quickly – the foreman of the jury. I’m sure he wants this over with. No doubt he hates it too. Difference is his fate is certain. He’s free to leave when this is done.

That twisted knot inside. I feel it now, my loyal companion through this all. I have an overwhelming urge to laugh.  

Nervous laughter. Is there any other type? I can’t remember now. She hated my laugh. She’d mock and taunt and call me sad. I couldn’t help it then and I can’t help it now.

When we rowed I used to watch her red stained withered lips, her sour mouth secreting that vile shrill into the air. A torrent of abuse. And all the while my fists would tighten, fingernails dug tight into my palms – the pain assured me then, confirming that I had restrained the only armament I had.

I’d feel that knot inside of me unfurl, the latent coil unleashed.  It rose up from my belly and flew into my throat. And then the noise, a mad guffaw, the strangulated sound would shoot out of my mouth – surprised to be released. Each time it used to stop her dead. A welcome silence would ensue, but not for very long. Her piggy eyes would narrow, contemplating what to do – and like a twisted game of chess she’d ponder on her move. I knew she’d opt for ridicule, but by then my fear had gone. My laughter gained a tempo, hysterical in range;

“Checkmate my Precious!” I would cry.

No doubt you think me cruel – I know that’s what you’re thinking. But my defence has just played out. I won’t stand before your judgement too.

She used to be my Precious. When we first met she smiled at me. Her lush red ruby lips they toyed, inviting my approach. I’d looked behind, unsure attention was for me. But then her sweet mouth whispered warm and all at once the sun it shone.

Before that point I’d watch her, sat high behind that till – a dismal job I’d once assumed. Dragging pints of milk and frozen meals across the grey frayed belt. Monotonous to me, but she, she made it fun. Her laughter often heard above the sound of beeps. Each time I did my shop I’d swear I’d go and speak, but I didn’t have the nerve, would falter in the queue. My palms would sweat, my tongue felt huge - so alien inside my mouth, and swiftly I would move to any other till. I could not trust myself to speak as easy as the others did. My courage always left me want.  I’d yearn for her attention, a silent plea I’d stare and will for her to choose my heart above the rest. Until that fateful day.

I had been staring at the tins, stacked high in symmetry. The crooked lady with the stick was struggling to reach. I shook myself from my malaise and went to help her out and as I did there she appeared. Then all at once my heart beat fast, was urging me to run, but that is when she focused square and swiftly reeled me in. Superior opponent – the victory was hers.

She asked me out that time you know? She pulled a disused till receipt out of her tabard pouch and then a tiny pen, with which she scribbled fast. She’d smiled a coy sweet smile as she pushed the paper quickly into my gladdened hand. I had been startled then, her fingers brushed against my wrist – pulse points I think they’re called. I was alive at last.  

And even on that date, first time in Chelsea Park, I couldn’t quite believe that she was sitting there with me. Her twinkly blue eyes giggled - my nerves they were apparent.

I’d missed a button see? I’d tried on many shirts but then had rushed to beat the clock. And she had noticed too, she’d laughed and said I needed her, a woman’s touch. She linked her arm in mine and led the merry dance.

I can remember when it changed, wed 10 months to the day. She’d been late in that night. Her new shifts at the shop meant that she was there most nights. I’d always offered to collect her, get her safely home, but she’d insisted ‘little need’ and when I’d ask again she’d get a little tetchy. I’d see her roll her eyes and she’d snap at me to stop.

So on that night she’d had a drink. I’d noticed it before, but this time she didn’t hide or feign sobriety. She didn’t stop to rub my hair, as she was oft to do. I never liked it really, had preferred it when we’d kiss - but kisses had since petered out, replaced with pity pats. I watched her stumble in. I’d seen her leave that afternoon, she’d been wearing pale blue slacks, said the shop was often cold. But that night she stood or rather, leaned against the hallway door, spilling out of a black dress I’d never seen before. Or maybe I was wrong – my memory was bad, she had said that more than once. And then I saw it in her eyes, the flicker of disgust – just for a second mind. She rearranged her painted face into a teasing smirk;

 “Still up old man?” she slurred.

I’d said that I was worried, asked where she’d been so late and then I watched her sigh, a heavy grunt which forced her chest to rise and fall. Without a word she bent and with one hand reached for a glittered heel. Her foot appeared to pop, released from its tight pen, and hurriedly she raised her arm, with a sharp flick the shoe was flying fast toward my head.

I laughed. I don’t know why, I thought it was a game. That she would run toward me and say sorry for the force. Then she laughed too, but it was harsh, not sweet or pacified. A laugh that told me she was glad, that pain and hurt had been her aim. A mocking crow she stood. I looked close at her then, the stranger by the door, this woman in my house I hadn’t seen before. Her features different, hair dishevelled, lipstick smudged - and all at once my heart was tight and then I realised. My Precious was gone. A mocking interloper was stood there in her place.

I’d slept downstairs that night and when I woke I prayed that it was all a silly dream, that I had simply nodded off and she had crept to bed. But my face betrayed the truth, dark gash above my eye.  I walked into the kitchen and saw her turning fast. Instead of look concern, it was of disappoint. See I had dashed her hopes. She had wanted someone else and there instead I stood.

I tried to get her back, tried in vain to find the woman that I’d wed – but all attempts of love were met with scorn, words met with ridicule. Worn down I had meandered then into silent protest. Little did I know, as weapons go, I’d found a duelling sword. My one effective tool. She would remain annoyed at my very presence, my face my arms my legs, all held in high disgust. I’d learnt to hide my pain. Her words did not expose my hurt and I refused to look the creature in the eye. If I could not see her, then she could not see me.

I told the truth you know. I watched the jury, twelve good men. But none revealed what they had thought, their eyes did not betray or reassure at any point, that they had known her too.

Something inside me snapped. I know it’s what they all say when they’re standing in the dock - but it remains the truth. And even now I can’t think why, her bile that time had equalled all the instances before, she had a pan to hand but I had learnt to duck and I no longer cowered at the punches that she threw. But this time I couldn’t laugh, the knot of fear was gone and my fingernails were free, they weren’t pressed hard against my palms –my fists had come undone and they had lead me straight toward her ugly mocking frame.

I was devoid of any thought. I just allowed it all – allowed my hands to squeeze, to grip unyielding round her throat. I looked into her bloodshot eyes still staring hard defiantly, which I extinguished then with my fingers tightening.

They say that you never get another chance to make a great first impression. That it can take as little as ten seconds to ascertain whether you like or dislike a stranger. I beg to differ. It’s taken me a fraction of that time to decide that the man standing before me is “not my type.”

Internet Dating. You’d be forgiven for assuming that it’s a fairly recent phenomenon, but as late back as 1700 the first matrimonial service was created. Adverts were placed by men and women alike in the search for their perfect partner. Back in the day there was huge stigma attached to being single. Turning to a matrimonial service was seen as an act of desperation, regardless of the potential outcome.

Fast forward three hundred years and not much has changed. Current dating sites are heralded as a fun convenient way for adults to meet. Where once our twenties was the time to embrace hedonism, oft faced with a sea of potential suitors, little did I know that our thirties was the time to get serious. Spend too long on that dancefloor and you’ve missed the boat, that vessel known as HMS Commitment. I speak from personal experience. I was the life and soul, the glue that held the pack together. Even when my coupled friends started to slack, succumbing to the lure of the Blockbuster/takeaway combo, I could be found at our local club, fighting the good fight. So what if the DJ knew me by name? So what if I asked he play the same tunes I’d begged for years previous? I just didn’t want the good times to stop.

I’d had relationships, most of which good, one of which brilliant, all of which ended. Many of my contemporaries had been lucky enough to meet their match when the planets were aligned. Shared interests blossomed into friendship, friendship blossomed into romance, romance blossomed into marriage and babies. I had naturally assumed that my day would come.

Because of my fatalistic view on romance, it took some time to admit that I was unlikely to find my Prince Charming in the workplace, by the pub jukebox, or in the frozen food aisle of Sainsburys (no matter what the Impulse ads tell you.) So with a reluctant heart I joined the world of online dating, and in doing so I have learnt a lot about myself and less about men. Let me share with you my findings...

The Camera Never Lies 

If a grown man produces just one photo depicting his 40 year old self, then the digital age has either passed him by or even his own Mother has deemed him too ugly to replicate. And beware of that one photo is taken at arm’s length, whilst stood facing a mirrored wardrobe. Call me old fashioned, but I don’t want to see the contents of his bedroom if I’ve no intention of sleeping, nay meeting with the guy. By the same token, beware of the man whose only pics are of him on the French Alps. You can’t quite see his face through that ski mask, but if you could, he’d be grinning. The Alpha Male. He knows how to SNOWBOARD. This is a very important skill acquired by men of a certain age. They dabbled a bit in the past, but since the advent of their separation/divorce, they’ve had time to reclaim their lost youth. Interestingly these same men will list SNOWBOARDING as an attribute. 

Now, I’m not sure about you, but I like my men to be financially stable – i.e. not steal from my purse, intelligent, easy on the eye, witty and have a strong moral compass. I’ve never once thought, whilst lying naked and satisfied; “That was lovely Dave, but I wish you could snowboard...”

If you are lucky enough to discover an array of photos, check to see if the visual evidence corresponds with his “Likes.” If he claims to love music, there should be a festival/gig shot and he must be surrounded by friends. This pic will prove his popularity and height. Don’t assume that Paul from Primrose Hill is really 6’2’’ – Generationally, men are getting shorter. I believe this to be a fact. Remember how tall your Dad was? I rest my case. So, as well as serving as an accurate barometer of height, the pic with his pals is reassuring. It implies that at least one other person likes him, so you can allow yourself to hope for conversational skills. But beware if the friend shot is taken at a Sci-Fi convention. Then you will NEVER come first.

Finally, there will be single fathers on the site. Nothing wrong with that, but beware of the man who adds a picture of his offspring. If a man states very clearly that he is with child, this is the one instance where you should not require visual proof until at least five dates in.

Age 

Men are obsessed with a woman’s age. I’m afraid that even the deepest most intelligent man will always prefer the woman who is at least ten years younger than him. I’m tempted to jump to the most obvious conclusion, that they require a young filly to be in with a greater chance of conceiving an heir to the throne.

But even the men who are uninterested in children usually ask for a woman aged between 18-32. This is especially desperate in men of 40 plus. In these instances, I refer you to the lesser known “Peter Pan Syndrome.” Lesser known, because it is MY theory. Close friends and family have been subjected to my frustrated rants on the topic. Now you can appreciate it too; A forty year old attractive intelligent funny man will look at his life and think; Hmm, I love my job, I love my car. I love my X-Box. I love my widescreen telly. I love that my Mum still stops by to do my ironing. I love that I earn enough money to travel when I want, where I want. I love my snowboard. I love my mates. I love stag dos. I love festivals. I love clubbing. I love late nights. I love being able to lie-in on a weekend. I love my freedom...But I think I need a girlfriend. She’ll be fit – obviously. Young, cos I don’t want her bothering me with talk of marriage and babies, not just yet. She’ll slot into my life, be undemanding and spontaneous. She’ll be adventurous. She won’t take offence to my last minute plans.

Peter Pan will have been single for a few years and will have rediscovered his independence and all the perks that come with it. He knows only too well that if he embarks on a relationship with a woman his own age, a woman with brains and self respect – she might be up for a laugh but she will yearn for emotional stability. This woman, let’s call her Miss Late Thirties, will have opinions based on past experience and certain expectations going forward. Now I know what you’re thinking, she doesn’t sound as much fun as the fit twenty something - the bird with the waxed fanjeeta, all primed and ready for action...but she is. Miss Late Thirties has often shared a similar childhood to him, worshipped the same bands, made the same fashion mistakes and thought the mullet was cool. A shared history frequently equates to shared interests and values. Miss Late Thirties could potentially become his best friend.

Profiles 

Always look very closely at what maketh the man. His likes and dislikes. Sure, most men like going out, some even admit to staying in. I generally warm to men who make no apologies for the fact that they love their sofa (not in that way.) A man who needs to be seen out at all times and expects you to share the same level of enthusiasm is hard work. A good man is interesting regardless of whether he’s visited Shoreditch House. He won’t feel the need to attend every exhibition at the Tate Modern or know the latest Art House movie. He will admit to liking the latest Hollywood Blockbuster and will not deride you for wanting to see a Sandra Bullock rom-com. The genuine article will appreciate that you don’t have to agree on everything.

Surprisingly, there are a lot of men out there who rarely drink. Their profiles will state something along the lines of “I like to get high on life!” Now, call me old fashioned but I like a man to enjoy a pint. If you take pleasure in the odd tipple, then be true to yourself. If he’s seen you at your worst, i.e. three sheets to the wind and singing along to Foreigner, and yet still likes you (maybe likes you even more) then he’s a keeper. I personally mistrust men who admit to knowing nothing about football or rugby. Controversial I know, but many women will agree on this. Sandra might bemoan the fact that Barry indoors is hogging the telly every Saturday afternoon, but she will be secretly pleased that he ticks the box marked “Ball Sports.”

A man who cares about the environment and rides a pushbike is admiral, but cars are fast and comfy. At this point I do need to point out that you will be glad of this when you both fancy a trip to the coast/a country pub/a day out. Share the responsibility by all means, no- one’s saying he has to drive you everywhere, but I can’t be the only woman who admires a man who can handle his stick.

Finally, beware of the man who adheres to a strict list of requirements. I’ve seen profiles where the guy has specified looking for “A slim but curvy woman, preferably blonde, feminine, strong, intelligent, funny, cute, sexy, mischievous and open to new experiences.” In effect, these men are looking for a literate supermodel who wouldn’t be averse to a threesome. Preferably blind. And deaf.

These men are as idealistic as the women who yearn for Mr Perfect. He doesn’t exist and nor does she. But if you’re lucky, you may find a good pal, you may fancy the pants off each other and you may just enjoy a happy and rewarding relationship.

Much like the ‘middle-aged man drives red ferrari’ theory, scientists have discovered a direct correlation between the size of a man’s dinkle and the type of umbrella he chooses to carry. Big pointy & likely to take your eye out = small dinkle. I'm starting a petition right now - Ban Golf Brollies From Our Streets. 

When I think back to past encounters with The Charlatans, memories abound of drunken nights sweaty venues and great tunes. I don’t expect to be sat in a church pew watching the lead vocalist speak from the altar – but then, when it comes to the title of God Like Genius, Timothy Allan Burgess is a worthy contender.

Tonight, St James Church Piccadilly lays host to an evening with the great man himself. Having written a biography of sorts, Tim is here to launch his book. As he emerges from ‘backstage’ I am at first struck by the angelic glow surrounding him, until I quickly realise that the lights are merely bouncing off his bleached blonde locks. Armed with the obligatory pair of specs, Tim endearingly thanks us all for coming and gives us a taste of the book, reading slowly but self consciously as devoted fans clutch signed copies to their chests.

Stunned silence ensues until he indicates that we can breathe out. And then suddenly his publicist enters stage right to inform us that we will hear more from the tome later in the evening. But for now we settle back to hear chat. Tim initially touches on his collaboration with Kelloggs - a new breakfast cereal called Totes Amazeballs. It is a revelation so surreal, you’d be forgiven for thinking you’d misheard. Then Tim is prompted to explain why he wrote what is essentially a biog of himself and the band. He explains that, put simply, he was asked to write the truth, warts ‘n all –and to his credit he speaks openly of, amongst other things, an extensive drug habit. It is admittedly fascinating to hear that soft spoken Tim was perhaps the most prolific drug user in the band and that his habit was at times all consuming. He recalls stowing tonnes of coke on tour buses, of sweat inducing border crossings, stashing anonymous hold-alls on the National Express coach, with a view to flying the route and collecting on the other side. However, his publicist’s prompt to relay the nights where Tim would “blow coke up men’s arses” was met by an embarrassed, “Not just men, women too!” And all at once the congregation are reassured, their idol retains his hetro following. To hell with the habit! Men can still wish to be him; the ladies still wish to love him.

Tim goes on to reveal his road to Damascus moment. Whilst at a party in LA, a friend called Amy approached and spoke about Transcendental Meditation. Tim, impressed by her knowledge and poise, was engrossed. It appears that this was the moment Tim saw the light, when he turned his back on drug addiction and embraced an altogether different kind of worship. “She might be here tonight. Amy, are you here?” Silence “Oh well, she only said she might come”

All at once the floor is open to a Q&A session where one guy asks, fairly insensitively, if Tim could recall the moment when he saw his friend and band mate Rob Collins, die. Another asks if it were true that Rob was due to be sacked before he died. Tim touches briefly on seeing Rob’s car crash and quietly confirms that it was an awful time, before acknowledging that Rob was a musical genius but a difficult man to be around. The mood is lightened by an uber fan, who quite frankly shames the sisterhood. Excitedly clutching the microphone, she shouts; “Tim, I’ve seen your photos on Facebook, you and your dog Dylan. Is he with you tonight?” To his credit, Tim refuses to indulge her faux familiarity and mumbles, “No” before taking the next question, an altogether more relevant request to reveal the songs he likes and dislikes performing. He admits that their massive hit, The Only One I Know was at times a chore - renaming it, The Only One They Know. There are numerous tunes he claims to enjoy playing, citing Blackened Blue Eyes from Simpatico and he gives a nod to his favourite album, The Charlatans – cue murmur of affirmation from the fans.

Tim treats us then to another lively chapter of his book, before looking relieved to be moving onto what he does best. Mark Collins and Finnegan Kid join him for a gorgeous acoustic set, starting with The Only One & Impossible, followed by a couple of tracks from his new solo album, “Oh No, I Love You” Tim smiles broadly as the congregation applaud. The mass is ended, go forth and spread the word.