Abbeydale Brewery

The very kind people at Abbeydale Brewery allowed me to film them brewing their Christmas beer Advent before Christmas.

This is the result...

Modern Romance

A cold December night, 2002. My pals and I decided to end a pleasant evening in England's recently crowned newest city with a visit to the 80s bar.

Back in 2002, the 80s bar, or 'Reflex', as the management prefer it to be called, had only recently opened, and had swiftly established itself as the place to see, and the place to be seen, among the Preston glitterati.

This particular eve happened to be a Tuesday, which was karaoke night at said establishment. Slamming down his bottle of Orange Reef onto the bar top with an assertiveness that suggested he had come to a decision, one particular friend strode confidently across the sparsely populated dancefloor and approached the DJ booth.

Removing his aviator sunglasses and baseball cap, the DJ leaned over and accepted my cohort's request that we perform Level 42's seminal work 'Running In The Family'. Before we knew what had hit us, the four pals were stood on the makeshift stage - an allotted corner of the dancefloor - gazing at the blue screen and harmonising along to this classic record.

Not being much of a singer myself, and not wanting to jeopardise the group's portrayal of the piece, I concentrated on my 80s head-bop, and pointing the microphone playfully at members of the crowd. The crowd in this case consisted of a gaggle of girls jiving along to the Level 42 beat, inbetween swigs from bottles of brightly coloured alcopops.

To my lasting surprise, one beauty in particular had seemingly taken an interest in yours truly, and flashed a flurry of coquettish smiles through WKD Blue-stained teeth. This gave me a renewed vigour for my performance, and whilst remaining relatively silent singing-wise, I turned up the visual volume through the medium of dance. Trialling a range of moves that, nearly 7 years later I am yet to perfect, I maintained her gaze in spite of the rigorous workout I was now giving myself.

After 4 minutes, the performance was over, and we stepped down from the stage to widespread apathy. I sashayed over to the young lady, and introduced myself. She was of medium height and build, with a shock of blond hair, a glittering array of jewellery and thoroughly applied make-up.

Unusually, my methods appeared to be working, and when I leant towards her, she did not recoil. Soon we were locked in a passionate embrace, and my heart pounded as she ran her sovereign-laden fingers through my bequiffed plumage. Images flashed through my mind of a whirlwind romance. Dinner at swanky, but reasonably priced restaurants. 3 star holidays to Magaluf or Benidorm. Perhaps even a ring, lovingly selected from an Argos catalogue. My imagination was running wild.

Was this love?

Sadly, I was never to know. As she and I were locking lips, one of my friends, heavily booze-fuelled, had crept up behind me. He raised his bottle of Smirnoff Ice, and with a single tilt of the wrist, poured its contents over my head. My quiff drooped, my hair gel ran into my eyes. As I struggled to regain my vision, blinking through the 5% ABV liquid, I saw my love turn on her heel and storm from the bar, friends in tow.

The fires of passion had truly been extinguished.

American Idle

I went to a Sherlock Holmes pub in London at the weekend.

Inside were a group of twelve Americans on a sightseeing trip. Whoever had organised the trip had seemingly worked hard to ensure the group were as susceptible as possible to pickpockets, scam artists and the like.

In addition to every group member sporting an extra large fluorescent green T-shirt - with the words 'London 2008' emblazoned fore, and 'The Massachusetts Twelve' aft - each Massachussettian bore a pouch strung around their neck, on which was helpfully written "Important Items", complete with ill-used quotation marks.

Out of a specially designed pocket at the front of each pouch the individuals' passports protruded. The pocket had cleverly been given a depth of around 2cm less than the height of an average passport, meaning the top of each American's most important travel document, where the word 'PASSPORT' is usually etched, was on display.

Most group members had chosen to complement the sitting-duck look with the classic middle-aged, middle-class combination of beige chinos with bright white trainers. As a rule, a bumbag nestled unenviably between beer belly and crotch.

It was only a brief encounter; soon after our arrival the group downed their Cokes and headed out into the night. I scanned the newspaper the next day for stories relating to fluorescently-clad Americans having been mugged, but my search was in vain.

Beer Festival & Prince William

Went to the excellent Flying Fish Beer Festival last Saturday. Tried 12 different ales - half pint of each - and felt bloody awful the day after. Think the variation might have had something to do with it.

Not that I wasn't inebriated - I was sufficiently merry to enjoy a dance and spill a drink down my new T-shirt - but I felt a little hard done to by the severity of my hangover.

In a move that I hoped would portray me as a raffish eccentric, but actually saw me treated with contempt, I took a fountain pen and wrote short critiques on the ales, marking them out of ten. Anyway, my scribblings tell me that Festival Bitter - described as a 'well balanced and refreshing beer' and Wobbly Bob - 'malty, fruity aroma and flavour' were tied for first place.

Also this month, I tried my luck at the Frog and Bucket in Manchester, telling this joke:

"I hear Prince William has renounced his claim to the throne, and relinquished all royal titles and privileges. He says he's going to Paris for a few months, to concentrate on painting and sculpting... They're calling him the artist formerly known as prince."

Which elicited groans from the crowd. Needless to say, I was soon booted off.

Emotional Rollercoaster

Back in the late 90s, I was thrilled when a school trip to Alton Towers was announced. Although something of a scaredy cat, if I can pluck up the courage to go on a theme park ride I usually enjoy it (one exception being the Tango Ice Blast, formerly the Playstation, at Blackpool Pleasure Beach. A part of me died on that ride last year.)

The already intense excitement of queing for Nemesis was doubled when I found myself next to an attractive classmate in the queue. I struck up conversation, and looking back, for a 14 year old I think I was being reasonably suave; my gentle flirting bringing to mind Hugh Grant in his prime (for my money, 1994 - Four Weddings and a Funeral).

Imagine how my heart sank, then, when my double positive was swiftly turned to a double negative, as first an overzealous attendant removed my glasses, then an even more jobsworthy individual instructed me to spit my brace into their hand, citing health and safety.

Owing to the fact I could not see beyond 5 metres ahead, my enjoyment of the rollercoaster was severely limited, whilst the irretrievable loss of dignity suffered in having to spit my Big Mac-laden dental retainer into an older boy's hand meant the fledging romance was crushed beyond repair.

A Further Example of a Young Man's Folly

More delusional ramblings from a wannabe poet's pen. An artist realises his heart has overcome a previous love through his inability to recall his former sweetheart's favoured unit.

Numbers

Seven? Six? Four?
Numbers all.
Your favourite?
I can’t recall.
Twenty? Sixteen? Five, or ten?
I am unaware:
That was then.

Comedy Take Two

It was my second (attempt at) comedic performance on Thursday just gone.

Travelled to the Abbeydale Theatre in Sheffield - http://www.abbcom.co.uk/ - to do between five and ten minutes of material. I'd prepared about eight, but was well ready to ditch the final three minutes and head for the hills if it wasn't going well.

I'd reworked much of my routine from the first performance, taking out a half-hearted pastiche on schoolyard rumours and generally trimming down the length of most of the sections. I'd also told sections of my routine to friends on several occassions, which had got me plenty of feedback and practice as to how best to deliver certain pieces. The extra space enabled me to insert a poem, a 2004 vintage from my one night of poetry writing at university, which I decided I'd perform if the first five minutes went well.

So, routine sorted, and better rehearsed than first time round, I was actually looking forward to the show, rather than dreading it. Took about two hours to get to Sheffield but we (myself and fellow Prestonian - see earlier post) were rewarded with a great venue and crowd - around 60/70 people in attendance.

I was up second, and upon arriving immediately began to feel very nervous. Rehearsing the day before, I'd actually recorded my set, so I listened to that to calm myself. It didn't work. A pint of Guinness, hastily consumed, didn't work either. But in any case, it wasn't long until I was called up, and after a brief moment of confusion over whether I'd broken the microphone or not, (I hadn't) I began. Speaking to someone else who performed on the night, he told me how after his routine he rates each of his sections out of three, so that he can assess how well he did. Following in his footsteps, below are my 'keywords' (written on my hand to guide me through) and my ratings.

Garden Centre Urinals - 1

Wikipedia - 2

Text message - 3

Wiping - 2

Kenan and Kel - 1

Poetry - 3

So a good night, all told, with a few big-sounding laughs at points. Possibly the biggest laugh of my set came when I unintentionally insulted the act who had gone before me, which I was horrified at, but thankfully he forgave me.

On the journey home we forwent our victory Snickers, but intrigue was instead provided by a sheep running out infront of the car high on Snake's Pass. For a brief moment I considered whether it would be ironic if two Prestonians killed the symbol of their proud city on a trip to Yorkshire, but decided it wasn't.

Fine Dining & Toilet Etiquette

Enjoyed a meal at a recently-opened restaurant in Much Hoole last week.Whilst waiting for our starters, a companion headed to the lavatories, and returned much impressed.

"Lovely toilets. They're playing bird music in there as well. It's a little like toiletting outside!"He chimed, eyes wide with wonder. Excited at the prospect of al fresco urination, I too headed to the toilets. First impressions were good; clean, well designed units and fashionable sink bowls. True to my friend's word, bird's could be heard twittering in the background. A wonderful bathroom experience awaited me.

Approaching my urinal of choice, the ambience was spoiled somewhat by a rogue pubic hair which had manifested itself in the bowl.

A fly in an otherwise splendid jar of ointment.

Romania, 2005 - Furtive Footsteps

Sighisoara, Transylvania, RomaniaFurtive footsteps reverb around a woodland glade.

Somewhere to the right, the heavy, monotonous thud of an axe was heard.

The friends ran through the wood, tripping and slipping on the undergrowth. The sound of the axe stopped, suddenly. A harsh shriek and cackle reverberated around the wood. Birds left their perches at the sound, frantically trying to escape the dense woodland. The 5 friends stopped running. Silence. The only sound was the collective thudding of hearts against chests.

Without needing to say a word to one another, they started running again. Jono, leading the group, let out an exclamation. Ahead, the wood opened up, and the group caught a glimpse of a well-tended garden. They quickened pace, and raced out, blinking in the sunlight. They were safe.

What began as a gentle stroll out from the Sighisoara (apparently the birth-place of Dracula, in Transylvania) had turned into a sprint for survival. This began after Greg, who it would be fair to say was the most naturally suspicious of the group, became increasingly worried as we left the relative civilisation (you could buy milkshakes, but not pizzas) of Sighisoara.

A couple of Romany gypsy children asking us for money on the edge of the wood did nothing for Greg's anxiety, and he began to suggest to the rest of us that we turn back. As we turned to do so we saw a man and his dog approaching in the distance. Greg was wary, and now counselled that we continue forwards. Doing so brought us to the edge of the wood. Greg urged us in.

We began to amble through the wood, but then we heard the sound of the axe. By sheer persistence, Greg had managed to make the rest of us jumpy, but by now he was on the verge of a breakdown. As we heard the sound of laughter accompanying the thud of the axe he emitted a shriek, and began a human stampede; five grown men sprinting as swiftly as flipflops would allow.

Upon escaping the wood we realised we had been on the edge of civilisation the whole time. Feeling not a little foolish, but relieved nonetheless, we happened upon a shack at the side of the road. As we feasted on a meal of bourbon biscuits and premium strength lager, two young boys, aged around 10, exited the trees and walked past us, carrying wood. One of them bore a small axe.

We sat and reflected, not for the first time on the trip, that we had a lot to learn.

Sightseeing in London

I visited London recently. I was snooping around a couple of universities with a view to studying there later this year, and decided to stay on for an extra few days at a friend's house. Said friend was working during the day, but I didn't mind, because this enabled me to be an unashamed tourist; camera clasped to chest, money-belt tightly fastened around waist, Disneyworld cap proudly mounted on bonce, all protected from moisture by a see-through plastic mac.

Not really. But it was still good fun. I went to Westminster, Chelsea (by accident - I walked in the wrong direction away from Westminster), The Tower of London, Tower Bridge, Knightsbridge, Notting Hill (yes, because of the film), Piccadilly Circus and ...Baker Street.

221B Baker Street, to be precise; the 'home' of Sherlock Holmes, and now a museum dedicated to the sleuth. Or at least it claims to be a museum. It seemed more of an exhibition of what life was like for Holmes, than a provider of information, so if you aren't already a fan, there's probably not much point going. I'm no photographer, but I managed to take this picture with my camera phone:

The highlight of the museum was an elderly man stood in the first room, who was looking a bit lost. When I entered he turned slowly towards me, as if he was mechanised, and in the most monotonous voice I have ever heard, said:

"This is my sitting room, you can see my chemistry table, violin, and when I get bored, I like to shoot the Queen's initials into the wall."

I instinctively backed out of the room, thinking he was the local crackpot, until I noticed he looked very, very slightly like Sherlock Holmes. Or at least he may have done in the 1950s. Putting two and two together, I realised he was employed as a Holmes look-a-like, and had about as much enthusiasm for the role as the waxwork version below:

I raised a chuckle, in acknowledgement. Sherlock Holmes would not be impressed.