Baker Street Irregular

Royal Protests in Canada

2009-11-25T12:47:00.006Z

Irony

2009-10-09T18:37:00.001+01:00

I'm on the train to Preston, but thought I'd share a little tale.

This week was to be healthy week. I've got my bike in London and was to cycle to work. In addition I would take sandwiches.

As it transpired I only actually made sandwiches on two occasions this week.

On the first occasion I carefully prepared my sandwiches in the evening, and placed them in the fridge. In the morning I completely forgot them. When I found out I was absolutely furious. I ate them for tea to punish myself for being so rubbish.

So of course when I prepared sandwiches last night I was determined to make sure I took them to work. I wrote a note. I also set a reminder on my phone. SANDWICHES! It screamed at me as I awoke this morning.

Thus, I did not forget to take the sandwiches to work. What I did do, however, is completely forget I had them in my bag once lunchtime came round. I duly trotted off to the canteen and frittered away £3 on potato waffles (it's a good pun if you accept the term 'fritter' for crispy potato foodstuff).

So once again I was cross with myself, and once again I find myself eating cheese and pickle sandwiches for tea.

Although, as it happens, they have been welcomely, and summarily scoffed because, as mentioned, I am on the train.

So what's the moral of the story?

Don't whinge about sandwiches, perhaps.

Test

2009-09-17T10:28:00.002+01:00

If this works I aim to update more regularly, but with shorter posts, from my phone...

European Elections

2009-06-03T11:15:00.007+01:00

Just finished a 3 minute radio package on tomorrow's elections, based around interviews with Emma Hoddinott and Godfrey Bloom.

It's far from revolutionary I'm afraid, but I've found out to my cost that it's very difficult to conform with election law AND give both sides of an argument (and due credence to other parties representing Yorks and Humber) in just 3 minutes...

Nevertheless, I'm quite fond of the music bits - taken from La Llorona by Beirut. Possibly should have used more.

CUE: It's the European elections tomorrow. Adam Gabbatt's been out to meet some of the candidates and find out what, if anything, the elections mean to people here in Sheffield.

Broadly Speaking - Forge Radio Awards

2009-05-14T16:27:00.008+01:00

Our 3 minute entry for the Forge Radio Awards, in the Best Specialist Show category. Containing "Will's Silly Stories", "Adam's Poetry Corner" and "Impressions".

More comedy

2009-03-26T12:47:00.005Z

As followers of this blog (there's nine, which I find hard to believe) will know, I recently competed in the Sheffield heat of the Chortle Student Comedy awards. I recorded my performance that night and interviewed some very pleasant comics, from Comedy Sportz in Manchester and Abbcom in Sheffield, and this is the result....

N.B. The 'cue' to this (read by newsreader/presenter) would be

"Comedy’s been popular on radio and television ever since the first commercial radio broadcasts in the 1920s. But how do comedians get their foot in the door?"

Chortle Chortle

2009-03-17T21:51:00.002Z

A weekend of much comedy here in Sheffield, where the inaugral Sheffield Student Comedy Festival took place. It was organised by the universities own 'Shrimps', an improv comedy troupe, and featured sketches, improv, standup and more from around the UK.

We ventured down on Friday night for some jolly good fun. Highlight for me were the Cambridge Footlights, who were superb, but the whole event was incredibly well organised and I didn't see a bad act.

Sunday saw the Sheffield heat of the Chortle Student Comedy awards, which was also held at the university. The competition consists of ten heats around the UK, with around twelve participants in each. The winner of each heat is decided by a panel of judges from Chortle, “The UK comedy guide”.

Thoroughly milking my postgraduate student status, yours truly entered the contest. I didn’t win; that honour went to the hilarious, and very deserving, Joe Lycett but I had lots of fun. Unfortunately the clip of me selected by the good people of Chortle includes me telling an absolute stinker of a joke, which will never be aired again.

But a good night had nonetheless. All the acts were lovely, and very amusing. I’m backing Joe to win the final in Edinburgh.

You can see video clips of us here, and vote for your favourite act here... (One more act will progress to the final based on the public vote)

I'm a Barbie girl

2009-03-12T21:35:00.003Z

I was stood outside Topshop on Monday harrassing women. Not in a strange way; I was asking them about Barbie for a radio piece.

We have mock news days every Monday, where we perform the function of a real radio news team, and I had improved my dress accordingly. Resplendent in newish brown boots, close fitting jeans, flamboyant white belt, metrosexual scarf and retro red leather jacket, I confidently strutted up to gaggle after gaggle, asking ladies about their favourite Barbies, favourite Barbie memories and the like.

I was shocked out of my pretend reporting when a young boy, who could have been no older than five, ran up to me with a cheeky grin on his face, as if the little royster-doyster was going to coyly give me a picture he'd crayoned or such like. Instead of giving me a charmingly daubed image, however, he merely shouted "You look like a puff."

Quite taken aback, I sternly inquired "Excuse me?" to the tracksuit clad youngster.

Unabashed, he repeated "You look like a puff."

At this point, the child's father came running up behind him with a friend. I awaited an embarrassed apology and enthused retraction. It did not come.

Instead of chastising his odious offspring and compelling him to say sorry, the father had a rather different message - "Tell him again, son!" - he proudly commanded.

"You look like a puff, you do." The son faithfully repeated, before adding, "A big puff."

The father and his friend caught up with their son, stopped, looked at me and laughed. I began to glare back, and a stand-off may well have ensued, but the tension was broken when I spotted a giggly group of girls leaving Topshop.

I cleared my throat. "Excuse me girls, did you know it's Barbie's 50th birthday today?"

Abbeydale Brewery

2009-02-12T18:54:00.003Z

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

2009-02-11T14:26:00.008Z

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

2009-02-11T14:22:00.003Z

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

2009-02-11T14:18:00.005Z

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

2009-02-11T14:12:00.001Z

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

2009-02-11T14:11:00.002Z

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

2009-02-11T14:07:00.001Z

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

2009-02-11T14:02:00.001Z

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

2009-02-11T14:00:00.002Z

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

2009-02-11T13:54:00.004Z

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.

The Debut Performance

2008-04-14T13:33:00.001+01:00

The compere began the night well; very chatty, and got the audience in the mood. Two established acts then performed, both of whom were very good. One struggled a bit due to the heckling (good natured, but I would imagine still off-putting) of three intimidating looking men in the crowd. Nerves began to set in.

After this the compere announced the ‘gong show’ was starting. The show works by comics performing 5 minutes of material. After this the crowd can decide whether to keep them on stage or vote them off (they can do this at any point after the initial 5 minutes). If the performer makes 10 minutes, he has beaten the gong.

I was on fourth out of six acts, giving me a chance to see how other people fared, and what the crowd were like. Some really good bits of material on show, and the crowd was friendly, occasional heckles from the group of three mentioned above, which, mindful of my own impending performance, terrified me, but the comics managed to keep on track.Soon my moment came. The compere whipped the audience up into a frenzy and I stepped up on the stage, nervous, slightly embarrassed and blinking in the spotlight.

I picked up the microphone, did a small joke about a stool that had been brought on stage, and I was in. Nerves meant I didn't stick to the running order I had planned, but I'd written prompt words on my hand (meaning I had to clap wrists when applauding the other acts) and referred to them at random. My confidence grew with the sound of titters from the audience at a joke referencing a local garden centre's urinals. From there, I moved onto some material on Wikipedia, and then an erroneous text message and its consequences. By the time I had finished, well and truly exhausting my small amount of material, I realised I had (just) made it to 10 minutes, beating the gong, perhaps a sympathetic gesture from the audience.

I was followed by the Preston comedian referenced in my previous entry, who was experimenting new material, and who also made the ten minutes. At the end of the night the compere called onto the stage the three of us who had beaten the gong, and announced that the winner of the gong show would be decided by that time-honoured method of voting, the 'clapometer'. To my lasting surprise, I won, to my lasting disappointment, there was no cash prize.

Fellow Prestonian and I celebrated in glamorous fashion, with a Snickers bar each on the way home.

http://www.royalcourtliverpool.co.uk/rawhide/Raw.htm

Fear and the Potential for Loathing in Liverpool.

2008-04-14T13:30:00.003+01:00

To paraphrase Ian Brown, I've got the fear.

On Wednesday I will be performing stand-up comedy for the first time, in Liverpool, and I'm terrified.

I've been working on my routine since last year, and generally thinking about performing comedy for many years, but, as with many things in life (at least in my life), now that the moment looms I find myself underprepared and unconfident.

Performing comedy changed from just a pipe dream to reality when I met a local comedian at a comedy night he ran in Preston, in February this year. I sidled up to him after the event, offered congratulations, and blurted out that I, too wished to perform comedy. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed this eager, naive 'comic' infront of him.

"Do you do jokes about chavs?" He asked. My face dropped an inch or two.

"No I'm afraid I don't unfortunately, although I do do jokes about writing poems, and about ill-fitting swimming trunks, and about..."

"No, that's fine - everyone does jokes about chavs," he explained, and our relationship was formed.

The very next day I received a text, asking if I wanted to do a 10 minute spot in Liverpool, on Wednesday 2nd April. I said yes - it seemed ages away - and I had my first booking. Between then and now I have received numerous more invitations from my comedy guru, inviting me to perform elsewhere (usually at very short notice), but I have always resisted.

"2nd April. Liverpool. That is my moment." I have been thinking. Although now it draws near, I find I still haven't properly rehearsed, and am swiftly losing faith in my material.

But never mind. Liverpool is quite far away. I don't have to go back there soon. I can lick my wounds in peace, in Preston.

Kenan and Kel.

2008-03-06T12:42:00.000Z

In my heady school days, it was common for rumours to reverb around the schoolyard. These rumours could be localised (a common theme was that two teachers of the same sex were co-habiting, or that a particular pupil was a test-tube baby) or international in scale.

The most ambitious and enduring form of the latter was the rumour that Kenan Thompson and Kel Mitchell, stars of a hit US television show called, imaginatively, 'Kenan and Kel', had been killed in a car accident in the late 90s.

This struck a chord with friends and I, as the show had been very popular with high school children. It operated on the simple 'dumb and dumber' format, with Kenan, a reasonably intelligent, overweight, constantly scheming teenager leading his less intelligent, and orange soda-addicted (a popular recurring sequence in the show was for Kel to proclaim his love for the soft drink) friend astray. I am unsure where the rumour started, but by the year 2000 most youths in the UK, myself included, believed our comedy heroes to be dead.

I mourned the duo for 18 months, only leaving the house in black, and avoiding orange-coloured drinks, before finding out their death had been a cruel hoax. However, I must admit, as the initial blow of their deaths had lessened with time, I found nagging doubts had begun to form.

The doubts weren't over the fact that the twosome were dead, but rather the manner of their demise. Kenan seemed to me to be more of a contender for coronary disease than dying in a car crash. My reasons for this were two fold - his excessive bulk obviously put him at risk of heart failure, but also, given that he could actually fit behind the wheel of a motor vehicle, his size would surely prohibit any car from going fast enough to engage in a serious crash.

Meanwhile, Kel's much vaunted dependency on orange soda would make him a surefire candidate for diabetes, which I saw as more likely to finish him off than any car related incident. As with Kenan, I also had doubts about his ability to drive a car, as his sugar dependency doubtless made him far too hyper-active to pass a driving test.

Poetry.

2008-03-03T14:03:00.000Z

Studying English at university is a dangerous proposition.

Over-exposure to literature at a young, impressionable age can lead to one's feet being lifted from the ground, and fill a scholar's head with various notions of his or her own literary prowess. I speak from personal experience. Half way through my first year, and fresh from reading sonnets for two hours, (don't worry, it wasn't on taxpayers' money) I decided that I, too, could write great verse.

And why not? I got an A in English at GCSE after all. I considered myself intelligent. What is there to writing poetry anyway? I convinced myself that I was a natural poet, a gifted wordsmith, who need only threaten parchment with pen for my creative juices to spill forth, embellishing the page with literary flourishes and such epic language as had never before been witnessed. I studied English. I was a creative.

That night I shut myself in my room. I dimmed the lights to a suitably creative degree, and opened the bottle of wine I had secreted into my bag during my last visit home. I poured the vintage (Mateus Rosé) into my only wine glass, carefully took out my best pen (a Parker fountain). I was ready to write.

Two hours later, I sat back, spent. The wine was drunk, my ink cartridge emptied, the four pages of A4 I had set aside for my poetic indulgence filled. Curiously, my burning desire to right poetry sputtered after this, and was soon extinguished, as other matters (mainly night out matters) took priority. Eventually I cleared the sonnets I had so lovingly penned from my desk, packing them into an old briefcase, and quite forgetting the incident.

This very week, 4 years after my two hour creative spell, I came across these poems. I think it would be fair to say they fit the stereotype of an arts student; imagine a long-haired, houmous-eating, latte-swilling, tight-clothes wearing young man, and you've pretty much got the idea. Whilst there is nothing specifically wrong with this, there is plenty wrong with the poetry.

I selflessly include one here so that I may save others from falling into the same trap. Beware.

Sides

Two sides, hast I
One is shown,
One is shy.
One I own.
The other I do not.
It belongs to the public eye.
Forget me not,
For then I would die.

Indecent Exposure

2008-02-22T11:13:00.000Z

In August, 2002, my family and I travelled to Lanzarote on holiday.

The trip coincided with the publication of my AS Level results, and as such my father had organised for the results to be faxed to the hotel for perusal.

Upon receiving the fax I was overjoyed with the results, as was my father, who made public his intentions to purchase alcoholic refreshments for a large group of youths my sister and I had befriended.

Having purchased the drinks, my father encouraged all recipients to pose for a picture, which he had commissioned my sister to take. There were roughly 15 of us, lagers raised, teeth glistening, with my father in the midst, resplendent in fading yellow flip-flops and ill-fitting speedos. My sister encouraged us to 'say cheese', and was about to take the photograph when she halted. Something had evidently caught her eye, for she now bore a horrified expression, whilst her face, already crimson from severe sunburn sustained on the first day, now turned purple as she struggled to stifle laughter.

"Dad!" she cried, "You're hanging out!" - words which were accompanied by animated pointing in the direction of my father's crotch. He turned to the group, as if for verification, and we were able to confirm that he was revealing himself, in a manner which I have since termed 'double testicle exposure'.

I was sent to the hotel room for a replacement pair of trunks, the photograph was taken, and the holiday continued without re-occurrence. The offending trunks remain integral to my father's holiday wear.

Oslo, Norway. January 2008.

2008-02-18T10:33:00.000Z

Oslo, Wednesday 23rd January 2008. 9pm. Having just arrived in Norway's bitterly cold and icy capital, we set out in search of much needed nourishment.

My companion and I were immediately aware we did not resemble people local to Oslo; I, with city map crumpled in hand, was sporting a ski jacket, woefully inadequate Converse trainers, and a vacant expression as I panned my surroundings. Similarly, my companion was also dressed as if in defiance of environment and climate, adorned in a 'University of Liverpool' sweatshirt and shoes with all the warmth and support of a primary school gym pump. In short, we looked like tourists.

After a predictably short period of time, we became lost, and so, in the time-honoured tradition of couples in a stressful situation, we stopped and engaged in a prolonged, and heated, debate (argument) on exactly where we were. After many minutes' exchange of opinion, we decided to strike off in a given direction, myself slipping to the ground as we did so. We walked cautiously along the street, mindful of the thick ice and the two hazy figures heading towards us, trying in vain to affect the air of a calm, spohisticated couple out for an evening stroll. I was still struggling for traction, and struck a particularly ill-balanced character as I shuffled along the pavement, holding onto railings to support myself, whilst my esteemed partner still clutched the map, and scanned vainly from one side of the street to the other, in a vain effort to find out where we were.

It was this desperate, fish-out-of-water scene that greeted the two women approaching us, but, undeterred, they politely stopped us, and, in Norwegian, asked if we knew the location of a certain street. My partner and I looked at each other, disbelieving, and looked back at our inquisitors (I was convinced it was an incredibly sarcastic practical joke) but there was no hint of humour in their expressions. Within a split second, we both found the phrase guaranteed to relief oneself of natives across the world.

"English!" we shouted, in unison, which I reinforced by waggling my finger at myself and said companion, nodding my head vigorously. The Norwegians seeking directions vanished into the night, whilst we located our hotel, and, in further tribute to Brits abroad, its bar.

A Traveller's Tale.

2008-01-03T10:43:00.000Z

A warning! This article, at over 500 words, is not for the faint-hearted. Please note this blog entry also marks my discovery of the 'strikethrough' tool, which I have utilised at various points to tone down, or up, this tale.

No, not the 'travellers' whose appearance in caravans and motorhomes can strike fear into the heart of any well-to-do middle class gent or dame.

Rather, the weekend traveller I have become since entering the 'serious' world of work 6 months ago. Regular readers will know of my recent jaunt to Berlin, where it occurred to me, not for the first time, that you can take the awkward posture and gait of a lifelong geek, and place it in ultra-cool, bohemian surroundings, but the pretence pretty much ends there.

The star of this piece, of course, 'tis I, the Baker Street Irregular. The setting, East Berlin, home to artists, musicians, 'bohos', punks and, last weekend, myself.

My natural ability to look uncomfortable in any situation is something I have come to grips with over the years, and dealt with accordingly; usually by avoiding trendy places like the plague. Unfortunately, on Saturday night in Berlin, I found myself isolated with two friends who relish any opportunity to immerse themselves in pretentious surroundings - Jin Smoth and Jan McCorthy, anagramise(?). Coming out of a bar at 4am, the rest of the bunch cleared off back to the hostel, leaving me, Jin and Jan to explore the area. Strolling down a street in the bitter cold, a gap was spotted in a wall (vague, I know). Beyond a repetitive banging could be heard that, I was reliably informed by my cronies, represented the strains of 'Techno' music. Jin and Jan, like hounds on the scent, quickened their pace, whilst mine slackened. We entered what was once an industrial estate, and in turn a particularly shabby looking warehouse, in a darkened corner of said estate. A curtain was swept back, we parted with one euro each, and we were in. Jin and Jan made a beeline for the dance floor, where Jin proceeded with his best Ian Brown impression (knees raised as if climbing a staircase, right hand clasped around the very base of a bottle of lager, prodding the air with the bottle's neck), whilst Jan opted for the finger pointing (which I pointed out would be considered very rude back in Blighty), a wiggling of the hips and a shuffling of the feet. Both looked instantly at home.

I stood awkwardly, then deciding to give the old dancing lark a try, adopted my tried and tested 'hands on hips, alternate shoulder thrusts' that may have been subconsciously inspired by Bucks Fizz. After a couple of minutes of quietly committed twisting, Jin McCorthy turned to me, mid-finger points, and looked me up and down. Smiling, I nodded towards him; two dancers appreciating each other's work. "Very noisy!" I bellowed, leaning over to him.

He brushed my comments off, with a look I now recognised as contempt. "Have you never danced non-ironically?" He inquired - ironically, non-ironically, if that makes sense. I drew a sharp intake of breath, and tried to mask the hurt I felt. "What do you call this?" I asked; nodding down at myself: I hadn't ceased my Bucks Fizz tribute, and felt it may have gone unnoticed.

Jin merely raised eyebrows, and fingers a-pointing, made his way through the crowd of rectangular-spectacle wearing, impeccably clad Berlin folk. To quote Joseph (he of the much-vaunted, and many coloured dream enhancing outergear), 'I was left alone'.So what does one do, finding themselves all alone, in a trendy club, a long way from home, with cheap continental lager readily available?

The answer for this intrepid traveller, was settle down in a comfortable sitting chair beside the dance floor, and fall soundly asleep, awaking 2 hours later, at 8:30am, to largely the same scene I was faced with before my nap.

Whilst this did my kudos no help in the eyes of Jin and Jan, and indeed gave rise to a vicious rumour that I slept in every nightspot we entered, I had something of the last laugh, stepping out into Berlin at 9am relatively sober, fully awake and ready for the day.

The End.

Ball, Ball, Ball. Footy, Footy, Footy.

2007-11-19T20:05:00.000Z

I played football on Tuesday night, as is my custom.

Usually our 5-a-side team uses 6 players, rotating subs as and when this is deemed necessary. Last night we played with 5, and were shown why having 6 players is the best option.

For some weeks now, it has been apparent to myself that I have been something of a passenger in a successful team, 'there for the ride', as it were. I first began to notice this when my turn to leave the field for a replacement player coincided (that's what I called it anyway) with an upturn in performance on the pitch.

Initially oblivious to the negative effect I was having on the team, I attempted to convince myself that the fact my teammates scored when I was off the pitch, and did not when I was on the pitch was not my fault. My reasoning became increasingly delusional, from the relatively realistic ("The rest of my team are tired") to the downright foolish ("The other team recognise the threat I pose, and double their defensive efforts accordingly").

Last night I realised none of my arguments were true. The simple fact of the case was (is) that I am lacking in both fitness - proven by my gasping for air, 30 seconds into the game, and skill - proven by my curiously accurate own goal, which nestled into the corner of my goalkeeper's net, 45 seconds into the game.

At the start of the season, I wisely agreed to manage all the team's affairs, ensuring I cannot be dropped, however to try and regain face, I shall strive to improve my fitness, in the hope I do not forsake my teammates in such fashion again.

Ich bin ein Berliner

2007-11-05T12:37:00.000Z

I'm going to Berlin in November, which I am eagerly anticipating. I've been once before, when travelling across Eastern Europe in 2005, and thoroughly enjoyed it; clearly enough to return.

In the short, wet summer of 2005, we spent 5 days in the German capital at the offset of a 5 week jaunt across several countries. Although thoroughly enjoying our time there, we never really discovered the night life, which was something of a disappointment to a group of 20 year old males. Having unwittingly fitted the 'Brit abroad' stereotype in our previous city (Paris), mainly through an ill-advised visit to an Australian-themed bar, followed by being hoodwinked out of 20 euros by a French reprobate, we were keen to make amends, and threw ourselves into the historic elements of Berlin.

Whilst this policy ensured we can now talk about Berlin with some authority - as I am attempting to do now - it also meant our journey of discovery through its nightlife never really got going. Although we did have a couple of lairyish nights, these came solely in our hostel bar and in a suburban, gothic (in clientele, not architecture) lesbian bar, which as its USP had a ping pong table on the dance floor.

So second time lucky! In our November foray, we are determined that, whilst we may not entirely 'paint the town red', we will at least find the town.

(P.S. Apologies for cheesy final sentence. Forgive me.)

Chuckle, Chuckle Vision. Chuckle Vision.

2007-10-27T22:07:00.000+01:00

According to the BBC website, it is 20 years to the day since Chuckle Vision first aired on our screens. Strange, seeing as the Chuckle Brothers were my intended blog subject this week anyway; memories of their antics had been jogged earlier in the week, when I went to the Charter Theatre. Not because of any comical mishaps, misdemeanours, slips or falls in the show ('Half a Sixpence', don't you know), but because my previous visit to the Charter (you can drop the theatre if you've been more than once) was to see those chucklesome brothers.

Whether deliberately or not, I had completely forgotten about the experience, but now the memories came flooding back. Paul, moustache glistening in the spotlight, climbing up a precarious looking ladder with a tin of paint, Barry apparently unaware of an imminent dousing, crawling around on hands and knees beneath him. Needless to say, shrieks of laughter ensued. The Brothers Chuckle also threw in a bit of comedy gold for the elders in the audience; prodding a cucumber back and forth through a hole in a piece of wood (this seemed to amuse them no end, although Grandmother wasn't best pleased).

It was pleasant to be reminded of the Chuckle Brothers; they had, after all, been a favourite of my youth; up there alongside Sooty & Co (later Sooty & Friends) and Thomas the Tank Engine. Tempting here to put an unnecessarily emotional sentence ("Twenty years on, here's to..." and "Who would have thought, thirteen years later..." spring to mind) but that's unneccessary; they're still going strong, and besides, any claim to ownership I may have had over them has drifted to the next generation now. So I shall simply keep my personal memories of Barry and Paul, and look forward to seeing them in action in Aladdin, this Christmas. My money is on Barry for the monkey.

Owd Nells Tavern - Oyster Festival

2007-10-24T21:02:00.000+01:00

We ventured out to the first night of the ever-popular oyster festival, held at Owd Nells in Bilsborrow. I had never consumed oysters before, but my father had visited for an all day 'oyster banquet' (read: 'knees up') in 2004 and his hazy recollections seemed promising.Despite my reservations over the faux authentic name and decor of Owd Nells Tavern, it is actually a very pleasant place to enjoy a few drinks.

Grandmother came along to accompany me and my ladyfriend, and we were soon tucking into pints of Stout, wondering where the oysters were. Several pints later, and still with no sign of any seafood sustenance, the mood dampened, when suddenly a swarthy looking waiter appeared, smugly holding an ostentatious silver platter of oysters.

Once I had made certain the oysters were free (which I did several times, eyes narrowed disbelievingly), I took a deep breath and emptied the slimy contents of the surprisingly robust shell down my throat. I had been told this was the way to do it by Gordon Ramsay (not personally; it was inbetween expletives on one of his televisual programmes), whereas to my surprise and amusement, ladyfriend was unaware of protocol, and had chewed the fish/seafood/crustation (what are they anyway? there's only so many times I can use the word oyster in this blog), leaving her unimpressed.

Despite the waiter's apparent efforts to hide behind a pillar, I managed to snatch more oysters, including one for Grandmother, who at the age of 78 tried her first oyster (she had to check her teeth were fixed down properly first) and declared it a roaring success. Ladyfriend learnt from her earlier mistake, and duly quaffed the oyster-blob down, whilst I, unaware of its toxicity, applied a liberal dosage of tabasco sauce. I necked the concoction, and immediately had to fight an impulsion to retch - upon further examination the oyster was still intact, attached to the shell.

I had merely drunk the equivalent of a shot-glass of tabasco.

A warm welcome.

2007-09-27T13:11:00.000+01:00

A warm welcome

Hello, and welcome to my blog. This (as may be apparent) is my first foray into the world of bloggery, so I beg patience as you read. For my first posting I thought I would divulge some information on myself, and shall venture to make future blogs more topic specific.

So then, 'interests'. I have a fervent interest in Sherlock Holmes (see blog name), the Lord of the Rings, and Blackadder. Not particularly original interests, perhaps not even interesting interests, but never mind. Got bogged down with the word interest and its derivatives there, won't happen again.

Anyway, onwards. I also play football. I'm not a particularly skilled practitioner of the beautiful game, being somewhat gangly, however I'm nothing if not a game participant, guaranteed to leave the pitch red-faced, short of breath and (usually) on the losing side.

That's all the waffle I can manage for now, collecting garden furniture calls. Please feel free to leave comments, although if leaving criticisms I would prefer constructive ones; my fragile ego can only bear so much. Prost!