Business skills

Mrs Slippy has gone to the V Festival, so while the cat is away, the mice will play.

Or will they? Mice don't really 'play' do they? In the absence of cats, they generally eat everything in the cupboard, and shit everywhere.

Squeak squeak...




And whilst not eating and shitting, I am mostly watching the cricket, with Twitter and Facebook streaming in two separate windows on the laptop, and another one open onto which I am typing.

I've also taken some time out to ensure that I will be able to watch the Premiership on the computer if England haven't finished the job by 4 o'clock. I may even bring the portable tv into the living room too so I can watch the Grand Prix as well.

Who says men can't multi-task?

It is probably the business skills of multi-tasking, prioriting, and forward planning that have made me the success I am today.

Never were these skilled called more into play than back in 1998, when I was still a young man, finding my way in the World, and taking sometime out from my hectic business life to enjoy a couple of weeks holiday in Spain with some old school friends.

Nothing like a group of eight young professionals sharing a villa on the Costa del Sol to relieve the strains of day to day life in the UK. The cat wasn't away, but the mice were.

Maybe open a bottle of wine in the evening, and listen to the gentle lapping of the waves on the shore, or find a local bar and enjoy one or two local beers while making friends with the locals.

Chilled and relaxed.

One evening the others wanted to go and visit the local 'Discotheque'. I wasn't really feeling up to it myself. Probably just a bit of a combination of too much sun, and a rich Mediterranean diet, but my guts were gone to hell.

Not wanting to let the others down, I fought the cramping pains and agreed to join them. It was the last night, and so we'd probably earned a few drinks.

The club was only small. It wasn't a big resort, so it really was just the locals place to go and enjoy a night out, not some mega club. We were the only English there, and the bar staff seemed pretty pleased to have us there, with lots of very large, very free drinks.

It soon became apparent that my guts were not going to hold out. Nobody in their right mind enjoys taking a shit in someone else's toilet (except that freaky kid on the TV who wants to 'do a poo at Pauls', which I'm sure must be urban slang for something altogether sinister), but sometimes needs must.

As I said, a small club, so only a small toilet. Fortunately I hadn't started relaxing too much as I burst into los servicios. I knew that despite the urgency of the matter in hand, if I didn't want matter in my hands, I couldn't afford to drop focus until I knew it was safe to drop the kids off.

I was right to do that. A quick visual check told me there was only one cubical, and there was no paper in it. No hand towels next to the sink either meant back to he bar. I'd clocked a pile of napkins at the end of it - those would do.

As I walked round, my hand slipped up and grabbed the small pile without breaking stride, nor attracting attention.

Back in the cubicle I was hit by problem number 2 with my problem number 2.

There was no lock on the door, and it was so badly hung, it wouldn't stay shut on it's own.

And it was about 5 feet away from the seat....

Try it yourself. Sit down and see how far forwards you can reach. Unless you are;

a) an orang-utan
b) Andrew Marr
c) Dave Beasant

then I can pretty much guarantee that door is swinging open on you.

So we have priority decision time number one. Privacy, or accuracy?

If you can lean forwards enough that you can apply some pressure on the door, with your arse pointing in the general direction of the toilet (and trousers removed for added safety), then surely that is the better option than sitting and shitting, door wide open looking cold and clammy as every Juan, Luis y Fernando walks in?

I thought so.

As it turned out, removing my trousers was not required, as it was not the ground beneath me that was the high risk area. Nope, I had completely misjudged the level of pressure which had built up in my guts, and rather that 'falling short' in the gap between myself and the seat, I completely overshot with hot, liquid filth.

As I was leaning over so far, I was practically horizontal, and the wall behind the toilet now looked like someone had been at it with an industrial muck spreader.

I looked down at the small pile of drinks napkins in my hand, back at the 2 foot circle of evil on the wall (that was fast growing as gravity pulled it down to the ground), and peeped through a gap in the door to check I was still alone in there.

I was.

Priority decision number 2. I had a small pile of napkins and needed to clean;

a) My arse
b) The wall

A quick bit of 'quantity surveying' left me quite sure that I did not have enough napkins to clean both. Even if I made a rush job of my arse, the wall would need some serious attention. The longer I took thinking or cleaning, the greater the risk that someone would walk in on me.

The decision was simple. Why clean two jobs badly when you can clean one job well?

I cleaned myself with napkins to spare, but any attempt to start on the wall would have been futile. Best to just drop the lot and run before someone saw me.

So run I did, and I'm pretty sure I got away with it.

And it was there that I learned my most important dirty business skill. You don't always have to clean up your own shit, you just need to make sure nobody saw you do it, and none of it's stuck to you.

Now back to the Cricket/Football/Grand Prix/raiding the cupboard.

After I've had another shit.

On and on and on....

Greek mythology tells us of Sisyphus, a King punished by the ancient Gods to forever push a boulder to the top of a mountain. Once at the top it would roll back down, and he would be forced to start again.

Pretty stupid if you ask me. You'd think after the first couple of times he'd say "You know what Zeus? Fuck you. This is pointless. I ain't pushing no boulder no more. It's staying right the fuck where it is. You want it at the top? You do it you big beardy cock. This is the very definition of futility".

"No" would say Zeus. "This is the definition of a Sisyphian task. I have named it especially for you, and from this day forth, anyone who finds themselves in an endless task will for ever think of you."

"No" would say Sisyphus "From this day forth they will most likely think of the Forth Bridge, and the endless task of painting it".

"If that is so, it is because they are uneducated wankers, with no knowledge of Greek mythology" Zeus would reply. "I believe man will always remember your name, and the toils it suggests".

"Prove it dickwad.."

"I will! In 3000 years time, when work is done by machines powered by lightning, and the sky's are filled with rain even in the middle of summer, I shall pick a man and a task, and see if he remembers you.....now back to your boulder monkey man."

*****cue lots of wavy lines to signify the passing of time*****

Cheers for that Zeus.

Every day when I feel like I'm seeing light at the end of the tunnel, of the bottom of my pile of papers, someone drops another stack on top, and I'm back staring at the computer screen, repeating the same action over and over.

It may not be a back breaking, blister breeding boulder, but I have worn a little hole on my wrist from the same repetitive movements with the mouse.

And when I look at that wound, I think of Sisyphus.

But not because I am not an uneducated wanker. My knowledge of Greek mythology is rudimentary at the best, but I do remember Sisyphus. Not because I studied it at school, but because I was fortunate enough be exposed to the fantastic 'Ulysees 31' as a child.

An early 80's Franco-Japanese anime series, it transposed the story of Ulysees/Odyseus to the 31st century, where our brave hero travelled the Universe in a spaceship with only his irritating son, a blue alien, and a little gay robot for company. The rest of the crew being dead, and hanging around in suspended animation until he can find 'the Kingdom of Hades'.

Each week he would encounter another character from Greek mythology, all whilst dressed like one of the Bee Gees in a space suit. And thus my education in 'the classics' would be complete.

In Episode 5 (of 24), he met the erstwhile Sisyphus. I know this as FACT because Mrsslippy managed to find the boxset on ebay last year. For those of you who have never seen it, or it is just a distant memory, you're in for a treat. Here's the entire Sisyphus episode courtesy of YouTube.



So next time you think you're stuck with a never ending task, just sing the theme tune, and everything will be alright.

Altogether now, Ulysees, Ul-y-se-ees. Soaring through all the gal-ax-ee-heees....

Faux parps

The only problem with the sound insulating quality of my new headphones is it's very hard to judge how loud you are talking if you have them in.

This is compounded when talking, which I often do, both metaphorically and physically, out of my arse.

Walking through the underground to work this morning, music on, and in a world of my own, I felt the familiar gentle pressure in my colon, and despite the fact that I knew someone was a few steps behind me, and another person approaching, I relaxed slightly to reduce the pressure. This is normal practice when farting in public. A slow controlled release whilst carefully listening for any tell tale signs that it's coming from you. If silent, just carry on regardless, and if it smells, just keep that poker face and look accusingly at everyone else. It was easy to get away with on an elderly care ward, and still pretty easy in most areas of the hospital.

But this morning I was in a staff only section, and had forgotten the key flaw in my usual fool proof plan. I couldn't hear my own arsehole.

And even more foolishly, in my early morning fug of confusion and low caffeine content, I got cocky. Hearing no noises myself, I started to relax my sphincter....

As a child growing up, we had several different words for farts based on the noise, or lack of noise they made.

A pleb was a small staccato fart, audible, but not overly wet.

A veep was one of my favourites. A long high pitched whine through very tight arse cheeks, and often slightly moist - as best demonstrated by Gav Hatt onto Matts head. It even gave it's name to a character in the Spanish role plays me and Nick used to have to do for GCSE. I have fond memories of the exploits of Senor Sticky Veep and Senor Eggy Guffer at the cafe Jumbo Whiffy.

A whiff was not just a smell, it was the gentle breeze of a warm, but silent fart - like the Mistral blowing through your pants.

And a quack was about as onomatopeic as it gets. Like a large duck stuffed down the back of your trousers. Expulsed at a forceful high speed to maximise the volume and pitch, it also held the inherent danger of following through, ripping your ringpiece, or even both.

So what started as a whiff this morning, transmogrified into a veep as I grew in confidence, until with a probable strained expression on my face I tightened up every muscle in my abdomen and turned it into a full blown quack.

If I was sat on a chair I'd have been rolling onto one cheek...

I can only assume from the disgusted look on the woman approaching me that she could hear what I could not. Poker faced, I walked on - avoiding eye contact.

And the woman behind me was stepping into the vapour trail so obvious that I may have well attached a Red Arrows style paint job to - I certainly wasn't about to look around and check if she was also glaring.

But I'm sure she could also hear the other thing that escaped my ears. The sound of me giggling like a child at a fart that I was more proud of than ashamed, and just wishing I'd had the pleasure of hearing it myself.

Radio Gold

I posted a slide show on Facebook yesterday from a holiday Mrsslippy and I enjoyed with friends way back in 2003, as I was feeling nostalgic.

Amongst the comments from fellow holiday goers, was one from Stoxie purporting to be nostalgic for 'Radio Squeaky Voice'.

Do I look like I do requests? If I were a DJ maybe I might. But maybe I was once a DJ, and Stoxies comment, whether a request or not, has got me reminiscing about that once great show.

Radio Squeaky Voice (RSV) was at it's heyday in the early '80s. Recorded at one of the most hi-tech bedrooms audio studios in Cringleford, it really was the cutting edge of broadcasting, with Nick owning a cassette recorder that not only had tape to tape facilities, but could also record at two different speeds!

Recording at the slow setting could double the length of a standard tape, meaning a C120 cassette could potentially hold four hours of music, or five whole albums! Take that Apple with your poxy ipods!

The only drawback was that anything recorded at that speed could only really be played back on Nicks new fangled portable stereo thing. Sticking it in a standard Sony Walkman it would play back in its uncompressed format, and would be sped up and useless.

What made RSV so groundbreaking was the way it's DJ's used this change in speed to record segueways, intros and malicious gossip news, that once played back at normal speed would disguise their voices and protect their anonymity from litigation adoring fans.

While modern DJs and wannabees (yes Moyles, I'm talking to you) use computer gadgetry and jiggery pokery to alter their voices, RSV relied on the raw skills and talents that the DJs were blessed with.

This meant taaallk-iiing.....veeerryy...slooow-llly...aaand...deeeeply....iiinn-toooo...theeeee..miiiiiike.

And then just play it back.

Because it's far, far easier to extend a vowel than a consonant, if you got the pitch right it didn't really sound sped up, it just sounded like three people with the weirdest fucking speech impediments.

That is unless a DJ got a bit over excited. Stoxie was prone to such things, and as his section went on, his voice got higher and faster, making the playback copy almost unintelligible (appropriately). Accompanied by the now also sped up giggling of the co-hosts, it was raw, radical and outrageous.

We called it a radio show, but unfortunately we lacked any transmission equipment, so I guess you'd call it a pre internet podcast. If released today, I'm sure it would put Ricky Gervais, or Adam and Joes feeble attempts at 'comedy' to shame.

Sadly I don't think anyone will get the chance to hear it. I believe Norwich Library were holding copies in their archives, but they were destroyed in the fire of 1994.

The British Library, or the BBC might still have copies, but don't hold your breath. I fear they are lost to the annals of time.

We will never hear their likes again....unless you guys are up for a 25th Anniversary comeback tour?

What's in a name?

Chillaxing in front of the TV tonight while Mrsslippy works to keep me in Bombay Sapphire gin and organic limes, I was alerted by the power of Facebook, and the good taste of Mrs Bellus, to a potentially shit a.k.a GREAT horror film on Sky 3.

Black Swarm, starring Robert 'Freddie Kruger' Englund is proper made for TV bile, and therefore great. So far the killer wasps have only been normal sized, but I'm holding out for a huge CGI motherfucker, on really a ropey greenscreen background.

And whilst watching, I'm reminded of another great creature feature from my youth that has left it's imprint on my life.

My blogging name is Slippymark, but nobody really calls me that. I am known to many friends in Cambridge as Slippy, but when creating usernames and logins for other websites (such as my photo pages), my real name was always taken, and Slippy was always too short, so I started using Slippymark for stuff, and found it was always available, so it has become my avatar. Go Google it, apart from the odd Underworld remix by Mark Mendes, it's me all the way down.

Don't search for Mrs Slippy - or at least not from a work computer. That Mr & Mrs Slippy are definitely not us...

But my friends from my formative years in Norwich do not know me as Slippy, and regular readers, or Facebook friends may have noticed, to them I am Rauc, or Homer.

First guess might be that it's something to do with the overweight, imbecilic man-child of the same name, but you'd be wrong. It pre-dates The Simpsons.

Nor is it short for homosexual. I may be a sensitive soul, but I'm too lazy, too poorly groomed, and too attracted to women to bat for that team. Sorry boys.

No, Homer stems from a film from my youth.....

Back in the late 80's, the formidable Cringleford lads were wrenched apart as key player Nick was relocated to Writtle, near Chelmsford.

To support him in his exile, Stoxie and I would go down on occasional weekends, and spend our days farting on his brothers head, playing tunnelball, and watching films on VHS.

In the days before 2 million channels of fuck all, and the endless possibilities of the internet, the only way to amuse 3 teenage boys of an evening would be for Nicks mum to drive us to the nearest video store, and us to get out absolutely anything that we hadn't seen before involving sport (American Flyer's anyone?), ninjas, or horror - usually one of each.

Let's not forget that this was before Blockbuster and other such mega chains. Video stores were the size of a walk in wardrobe, and stocked a copy of everything. And when I say everything, I don't mean they had a copy of every film, I mean no matter how new or popular a film was, they only ever had one of it - and the good ones were always out.

So by this process (which also held true at home), it was highly likely that if there was a bad sport/ninja/horror film made in the 80's, I've seen it (and since bought my own copy).

One fateful night, we returned to Nick's Elba with a copy of The Nest. A genre staple of island town plagued by mutated insects - in this case roaches. If you ever wondered what a cat/cockroach hybrid would look like, then this is the film for you.

Suffice to say, at the end of the film, man triumphs over beast, largely due to the larger than life local exterminator, and happy and entertained we retired to Nicks bedroom. All was going well - we were going through the usual 'Name your World XI football team' type stuff, then Stoxie got up for a piss, only to return a few seconds later, white as Plums hair, and crying like a girl.

"In...the ...bathroom...." he stammered.

"Massive.......flying ....creature."

"Not...safe........Can't ....go...in."

We bundled down the corridor/tunnelball pitch together, and with Stoxie binging up the rear, and peered round the bathroom door.

He was right.

There it was. Fluttering round the lightbulb was the biggest moth I had ever, and probably still have ever seen.

We needed an exterminator par exellence. We needed the guy from the film we had just seen.

We needed Homer.

But he wasn't there. Left with the alternative option of Stoxie pissing in Nicks room, I stood up to the plate.

With the boys chanting 'Homer, Homer, Homer', I launched myself at the flying abomination, and with both hands, somehow managed to wrestle the vile beast out of the window.

Job done, my talent for insect extermination was carved into stone, and the name stuck. I'm not sure if my other friends in Norwich know the real reason I'm called Homer. It's not for a cartoon caricature, or a sexual slur.

It's because that fateful night in Chelmsford, I damn well saved Nick and Stoxies lives.


One day I might tell you all why I'm called Slippy in Cambridge. My close friends here all know.

All I'll say for now, is it's got very little to do with Underworld, and alot more to do with undercarriage....




Slippymark/Rauc/Homer/Mark

I see lead people....

I saw a glimpse of my past today. I ghost of my adolescence.
A phantom. Dead flesh and empty eye sockets glimpsed out the corner of my eye.

And about 4cm tall....

Mrsslippy has just booked us a lovely cottage in Cornwall for a week in September. I've not been that way since I was 3 years old (apparently), and it'll make a nice change from the usual yearly jaunt to The Lake District.

Excited about the prospect of visiting somewhere new, I skipped out of work early to nip into town and buy some OS maps and guide books. Given my new found enthusiasm for walking everywhere, I took a leisurely stroll into town, taking time to soak up the surroundings that usually fly straight past me in the car.

I was ambling down Regent Street when I saw it. I knew the shop was there, but was always in a vehicle. I tried to walk past without a second look, but was hypnotically drawn to the window display.....

Citadel Miniatures.

Or as the Cringleford Lads would say, 'Toy Soldiers'.

Exquisitely painted little figurines from the Games Workshop range of fantasy role playing games.

From the Tolkienesque/Dungeons and Dragons style orcs and goblins, to the full on sci-fi Space Marines of Warhammer 40,000, I used to love that shit.

I wasn't a gamer, I'm not that geeky, but I loved to paint those little things. It sort of started out of necessity....ie I needed a job.

Unable to pay for the fortnightly trip to Carrow Road, and general day to day expenses of a boy growing up on my pitiful paperboy's wages, I had to get a Saturday job.

There was a games shop in town that specialised in board games (not toys!), and as we've always been a bit of a cards and board games kind of family, it seemed like a cool place to apply.

They took me on, and I discovered that there were many more games than just Chess, Triv and Scrabble. There were dozens of D&D style roleplaying games, and the ones from Games Workshop had little lead miniatures to play them with. We also sold the paints, and the brushes - the whole kit and caboodle.

There was (and still is) a magazine called White Dwarf that was packed full of pictures of readers paint jobs, and I just had to try....

As it turned out, I was pretty good, and found that there was a ready market for pre painted figures for the younger kids that came in. The owner of the shop used to have us split the multipacks of figures, so they could be sold individually to kids who couldn't afford £2.99 for three. But he'd have us sell them for £1.20 each to allow for the fact that there would be some single figures that nobody would want.

Lying cock.

It was just a way of fleecing the kids, just like a bent newsagent selling a single ciggy and a match for 20p (but probably more these days).

As a way of redressing the balance, I had no qualms about lifting the stray figure, painting it in the shop while it was quiet, and selling it for my own gains. He still made more than enough from the split packets, and given that he took 20% commission on figures painted by others and sold in his shop, I could leave a few there at the end of the working day, and come back to the shop the following week to find them sold. He got the same as he would have got if we'd sold it unpainted, and I got a nice little supplement to my meagre wages.

Perversely, I now had enough money to go to the football every week, but not the free time...

Thank god I discovered that it was pretty easy to get served alcohol at the age of 15, or I'd have nothing to look forward to an a Saturday (or Tuesday) anymore. The friends that mocked me for painting also mocked my involvement in Venture Scouts, but Scouts with cars (who took it in turns - so no designated driver night for me.), genuine ID's, and a knowledge of all the decent taverns in Norwich was a happy part of my growing up.


So I wandered into Games Workshop this afternoon, and looked at the wares on display. All nostalgic for a youth spent fiddling the boss, or sitting in my bedroom with paint and brushes everywhere.

I had a habit of sucking the tip of the paint brush to get a fine tip on it, and after an hours painting would end up with a some kind of weird emo stripey acrylic lip gloss.

Or sitting on my bed all hunched over with my legs stretched out in such a fashion that I'd cut off the blood supply, and would only notice when I went to stand up and both legs would give way, leaving me laying prostate, frantically trying to rub away the pins and needles that had taken hold of both legs, right to the top of my thighs.

Happy days......

But it appears the figures are now made of some type of plastic, and lack the comforting weight of the old metal ones.

What's more they're around £8 for a single figure! Or you can buy a box of 10 build 'em yourself Space Marines for £20. I remember when you could get 30 plastic ones for a tenner, but they were just for pikey cheapskates. They had to be metal!

And the paint that used to -'ahem'- cost me a quid is now in a pot half the size and twice the price. I'm definitely best out of it, and happy to report I left the shop empty handed.

Because if at the age of 15, painting toy soldiers got me involved in petty theft and underage drinking, if I did it today I doubt I'd get away with anything less than gun crime and a nasty crack habit.

Where did you sleep last night?

Where's the strangest place you've woken up?

Strange as in you have no idea how or why you got there, not because you knowingly went to bed in a strange place forcing you to wake up there, so if you're reading this in Ipswich, then no, that doesn't count.

I only ask because this morning whilst strolling to work (there are witnesses), I passed the time, as I often do, by listening to The Perfect 10 podcast by Phils Jupitus & Wilding.

The premise of the show, is 10 random questions pulled out of a jaunty hat, and all answered within 30 minutes, so it's the perfect length to get me to work. It's fun to play along, and this morning, that was one of the said 10 questions, and it got me thinking.....

I think I have it - but in case anyone else involved recalls and is reviled by the tale, I'll keep it anonymous. Feel free to 'fes up yourselves if you can help fill in the blanks.

I reckon it happened in the Summer of 1998. I'd not long returned from a holiday in Spain with friends, so when he call came for a 'Beach Party' from one of said friends, it seemed the ideal way to relive those glorious summer days.

However, this was no ordinary 'Beach' being over 30 miles from the nearest bit of coastline, and tucked away in the snug of a disused East End pub.

A good friend worked with some guys who actually lived in a run down boozer. A group of us were going to travel down from Nardge, and crash this party. What could be cooler than a party in a pub?

Arriving, it was clear that this part of London was yet to receive any regeneration. Everything was closed or boarded up. There were no new cars. It was like where TV directors shoot something when they need to transport us back to the 70's, or even the Blitz.

The house/pub itself was one of those classic 'corner of the street' jobbies. Just like The Queen Vic, but with boarded up & blacked out windows, and three stories high. There were no optics or working pumps on the bar, but yes, the bar was still there, and if memory serves, they'd procured a keg with a tap on it for the night, and much, much more.

The beach effect was achieved by dumping a couple of tons of builders sand over the floor, and a foam machine. The sand would come in useful later for burying sick (not mine!), if people couldn't be arsed to find the toilet. I do recall one friend giggling like a loon as he spotted a couple getting jiggy with it on top of where he'd recently blown, and then hidden, chunks.

The foam machine may have seemed like a good idea at some stage, but it was clearly designed for large stadium events, not East End Boozers, and the room was floor to ceiling in Matey in a matter of seconds. No wonder people were hurling.

At one stage of the evening we decided, on mass, to explore the upper echelons of the house, and amongst the rooms of folks shagging, we came across the master bathroom. Huge and ancient, with a big enamel bath in the corner.

As we were all covered in builders sand, a clean up was in order. I'm not entirely sure how things escalated from a 'you clean your feet first, then I'll have a turn', to everyone stark naked fighting to not be stuck at the tap end.

I can confirm that it is possible, but not strictly advisable to fit seven people in a bath. I don't think I even got my feet cleaned anyway, as if memory serves I was sat kind of side on, with my feet hanging over the edge. It's a memory I thought I'd erased from my mind, and don't want to dwell on, but I'm sure a couple of friends must have been stood naked just behind me.

.....don't turn round....don't turn round....don't turn round....

There weren't enough towels for seven people, being none, but the inhabitants of the pub obviously liked to use the bathroom as a giant airing cupboard, as there in the opposite corner, were a couple of clothes horses covered in clean dry clothes.

Of what we did next, I am not proud.

Oh Hell - yes I am...

We used the entire contents of these poor generous schlubs clean washing to dry ourselves, then threw the evidence out the window.

Wet, filthy clothes back on, we returned to the party - beyond suspicion, since the whole episode had been an act of futility anyway.

My last memories of the party itself were loitering around outside - waiting for a taxi as the sun rose over London. I didn't know where we were going, just that it was somewhere to refresh a little before the journey back to Nardge.

Friends tell me that the journey itself was pretty bizarre, with Arabs burning black rubbish bags at the roadside as we drove through a distopian landscape of inner city despair.

I wouldn't know.

I recall nothing more.



My next memory is of Buzz Lightyear....

...attacking my head....

...'to infinity and beyond'...

It would appear that we had crashed at a friend of a friends house, still in London, and this friend of a friend had a small child.

...who owned a Buzz Lightyear doll...

..and was hitting me over the head with it.

As my eyes adjusted to the light, it seemed that 8-9 people had slept in this living room, some of whom were already upright, some of whom were still coming to.

I, for may sins, which must have been many to deserve an awakening like this, was lying prostate in the middle of the living room floor. No pillow under my head, but stark bollock naked, save for a scatter cushion pressed to my groin in some kind of last ditch attempt at modesty.

That cushion stayed pressed there for a good 10 minutes as I made myself a coffee, and wandered around like a soul lost, in search of my clothes, and beginning to wonder if they even came back from the party with me.

So there you have it. Strangest place I've ever woken up is naked, among several strangers, on a complete strangers living room floor, being assaulted by a small child with a plastic doll with a superiority complex.

Great party though....

Any advance on that dear reader?

Where is the strangest place you've ever woken up?

The Filth & The Fury, and football & farmyard animals

Following on from yesterdays bloggage, and comments on my Facebook page from Stoxie, it is probably time to come clean and say

I was once a terrible football hooligan.

I'm not proud of the fact -not because I used to hack at complete strangers with a Stanley Knife, or chuck bricks through windows in random shopping centres in strange and alien towns.

Oh no, not me.

I didn't do that.

This is not a 'Once upon a time I was a very bad man' story.

This is a 'Once, just once I was a hooligan at the football.'

And not terrible as in 'I maimed and assaulted', terrible as in, 'I made a really shit job at it.'

I've already established the pre match ritual for a discerning Cringleford lad. After legging it from McDonalds we would make the happy pilgrimage to Carrow Road in order to be at the turnstiles when they opened at 1pm, ready for the 3pm kick off.

To sustain our growing bodies during this 2 hour wait (as if the cockles & mussels, McDonalds sans gherkins wasn't enough), we'd call into the newsagents close to the ground for a few packets of Soccer Shields.

Soccer Shields were the boys equivalent of Love Hearts in the 8o's. Made by Swizzles, they had a football teams name, and their nickname on each sweet, and had a club sticker on the inner packaging. I can't find any pictures online, but as I finished the wallchart that the stickers went on, I reckon it would be worth a few bob these days. And a great way to learn all those club nicknames, particularly the obscure Scottish ones.

The appearance of Norwich (The Canaries! -oh yes - he's still got it - even the little clubs), would be lucky, and herald the imminence of a goal if produced mid game.

But on the 21st March 1987, the red mist came down, and it all went wrong....

I don't remember the exact date, but I think Norwich were at home to Luton, I'm pretty sure I was in the 3rd Year at High School, and positive it was around my little sisters birthday, so that's the date that seems to fit the bill. I'd been shopping before the game, that's how I can be sure of the date. I'd bought something I needed for school for a class I dropped in 4th year, and a birthday present for Bec....

So there we were, with 2 hours to kill, standing behind the goal in the River End, taking it in turns to squash whoever it was that was closest to the side rail in the little penned in area behind the advertising hording.

Starting to have a bit of a sugar rush from all the Root Beer and Soccer Shields, I thought I might see if I could hit the helmets of the two passing policeman with said sweets as they circled (or is that squared?) the ground.

I was getting pretty good at it, but unbeknownst to me, the rozzers were well aware of my bit of fun, and were about to put a stop to it.

After a clean shot to one of the Bills helmets, the Soccer Shield bounced off his shoulder, and was neatly caught in his black, leather gloved hand.

Turning quickly on one heel, he just raised a solitary finger and pointed at me. If he'd squealed like Donald Sutherland at the end of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, I don't think I could have been more scared.

Except I didn't show it. I just stood there grinning like a loon, high on sugar.

He asked me if I'd thrown it, to which I naturally shook my head, still grinning.

I don't think he was convinced, as his response was 'Yes it was, and you've been doing it every time we walk past.'

Next thing I know, I was being dragged over the hoarding, and frog marched towards the exit.

I think I was lucky that they didn't clock me for the hardened criminal that I was, and just ejected me out of the ground. Lucky they didn't check my carrier bag and find what I was packing.

Because these are the objects that not only date the event, but have caused me grief from friends over the years whenever this story crops up, and would have caused me so much more had the police revealed them in front of the terraces.

It was my 3rd year at school, because we were still doing Home Economics, and that meant needle work, and as part of a 'project' I'd bought a length of shiny pink material.

And Becs birthday, because I'd bought her (not Farmyard Animals Matt!) a set of 'Sylvanian Families.'

Little mice dressed to look like people.

If those items had been produced in front of the Norwich massive, I'd have never lived it down, and barely do in some circles to this day.

The record shows that the score was 0-0, so I didn't really miss much.


Yes dear reader, I was once a terrible football hooligan. Just once, and a really terrible one at that.

Deep Heat and Root Beer

I went to bed slathered in Deep Heat last night, to try to ease the discomfort in my lower back.

I love the smell of the stuff - it reminds me of Root Beer, which left me in nostalgic mood as I drifted off, thinking about my childhood Saturday routine of food and football with good friends.

Start by meeting Mumbage, Soxie, Hunty and Plum to catch the Number 1 bus into Norwich. Straight to the market to purchase cockles & mussels alive-alive-o (well cooked actually). In a pre-curser to the Yo-Sushi style so favoured by young trendies today, you just ate tiny plate after tiny plate of salty mollusc's, then just paid for the number of plates consumed.

Next JJB Sports to peruse the sporting regalia. Careful with that snooker cue display Stoxie!

Onwards to Jarrolds, this time to tit about on the latest fitness/sporting sensation, the Trimball!


Anyone remember this baby? The idea was to bounce in an orderly fashion, and get fit in the process, unless you were a Cringleford lad. Jarrolds had a demo model, and the idea of the game was to do the best 'Platini'. That is, whilst completed un-impinged by friends or other shoppers, fling your arms in the air, shout 'PLATINI!!!', and dive headlong into the display in the style of cheating UEFA boss Michel Platini.

Stoxie was by far the best at this, and in recognition of this fact it was added into his already massive full title.

Richard Stoxie striker Nery Alberto Pumpido on the Trimball

Which was more than often shortened to simply 'Baller', or 'ohh laa laa le balon'

Legging it out the shop, it would then be time for a pre match McDonalds.

Huntys favourite game here would be to ask for a Coke with his meal, to which the sales assistant would have to say 'It's McDonalds cola, is that ok?', to which the stock response would always be 'No, it's not. I'll have a Root Beer'

Every week.

Standard food was a Big Mac, complete with mucky gherkins. None of us ate the gherkins, but we never asked for one without them, because they were required for the next 'lucky routine', which was to fling than at the ceiling in Mucky D's and see if you could get them to stick. We thought we were so funny, but if I saw kids doing that today, I'd probably get the urge to smack them upside the head.

If you were lucky, there was a kids party on with yellow and green balloons that you could nick to take to the football with you.

If you were unlucky, they were attached so firmly to the light fitting that the whole thing came out the wall, and you would be legging it out of another Norwich establishment.....

Happy days and highjinks...

It's a shame you don't see Root Beer at McDonalds any more, or even McDonalds cola - they've gone all official Coke.

And don't try eating the stuff to see if it tastes the same, because it doesn't, although it does leave a pleasant tingling taste on the tongue.

How do you eat yours?

Creme egg fans have only got a fortnight left to stock up before they disappear off the shelves for another year, and I for one will be glad to see the back of them.

I've not got the sweetest tooth in the world, as regular readers will attest, I much prefer crisps. I'll eat chocolate if it's put in front of me, unless of course, it is one of those ovoid goo fests.

Far too sickly.

Hot cross buns are a seasonal delight that I'd quite happily eat all year round, but if someone brings a box of Creme Eggs into work, then thanks, but no thanks.

I used to, and my earliest memory of one is also a bit of a confession.

When I was 7 or 8, I shared a room with my older brother, and one year we must have been given a Creme Egg each by someone.

Not wanting to eat my own yet, but curious as to what that yolky stuff in the middle actually tasted like, I decided the easiest way to find out was to poke a hole in big brothers, and drink out the yolk like some sugar crazed mongoose.

I peeled away a tiny corner of foil, and tried to pierce that chocolate chunklet with a paper straw.

No good.

Needed something firmer.

Pencil - too thick. Safety pin - too narrow.

Then I spotted it. On the floor, our recently finished game of Cluedo. There was a little metal dagger...

Only this looked a little weedy too...but the... what's that? The lead piping! Perfect diameter, and if I held the tip against the radiator for a couple of minutes I could heat it up enough to melt a hole in the chocolate, snaffle the innards, then melt the hole back up again.

Hole successfully made, I was back with the straw, but that gunk was just to thick to suck out. I'd have to use my poisonous board game accessory as a soldier.

So there I was. Dipping a piece of real lead (this was pre Health & Safety Law), into a Creme Egg and sucking off the goo like a chimp poking a stick in an ants nest.

So do you want to know why you once had an almost empty Creme Egg Simon?

You want to know who killed it before it had a chance at life?

It was your little brother, in the bedroom, with the lead piping.

Maybe that's why I don't like them now. Not the fact that the first one I remember probably gave me lead poisoning, but that not since have matched up in taste department without that heavy metal tang.