Life, Sport & Tartan Trousers...

Sunday, 9 August 2009

Life, Sport & Tartan Trousers...

So earlier this year I resolved to learn a new sport and I had a few options to choose from.

I could have gone with cricket, a sport I have hated since I first set foot on this earth, but a sport which is currently enjoying oodles of publicity what with the Ashes and the Twenty20 summer extravaganza taking place. But cricket was not for me. Dull. Complicated. And possibly a bit dangerous too. There's bats involved. And those hard balls. And you have to wear padding to protect your testicles. No, crickets not right. In fact, I think I would rather eat my own head than ever WATCH cricket again, let alone TAKE PART in a game.

How about darts? I think I have good hand to eye co-ordination. I like the idea of a competitive sports venue being a pub. And in comparison to most darts players I have quite the physique. But, no - it's dull. It's not exactly complicated, but there is a sharp mini arrow involved, and that's a bit too much danger for my delicate palms. Darts can do one. Consigned to Room 101 along with Freddie Flintoff and that Australian chap, Ricky Ponting.

So after much consideration, I went for golf. A gentleman's sport. A sport for all ages. A sport which I felt I could excel at. Yes, golf. Ten lessons should do it, then I'll be ready to take on the might of Tiger Woods et al on the pro tour. It can't be that hard. Old aged pensioners waddle over 18 holes and I'm but a twenty something chap who still thinks he can make it as a professional football (but for an alarming lack of natural talent and general fitness). Yes. Golf. I like it. I shall learn golf, and become quite the golfer.

So I travelled to a local golf club and signed up for a masterclass in my new "beautiful game". My intial introduction to the sport involved me going into a club house and being asked to leave for daring to wear trainers. I was made to feel like a lepper, rejected by a group of middle aged men in tartan trousers, all within five minutes of walking through the club gates. But I was in this for the long haul. No doddery old bugger is going to stop me from becoming a millionaire sports man. I'll get dead good, challenge them to a game and then humilate them in the sport they love. After all, youth counts in my favour, no? And then when I'm finished with them, I'll travel the world, follow the sun and compete on national television for the majors. Tiger will be my friend. Sergio Garcia will be in awe. I can go to see Arsenal with Ian Poulter. Yes, golf. I like it.


It's now mid August and I have had ten hours of golf lessons. It's really, REALLY hard. How do these old fella's do it? I've got blisters on my hands, my back aches and my formerly respectable wardrobe is in danger of being over-run with chinos and polo shirts. I'm on a painful, tiring and slippery sporting slope. I have no intention of challenging any oaps to a game and I now dress like such a twat that I am welcomed into the clubhouse with welcome arms.

On Tuesday I play my first course. A short, par 3, 9 holer. I take on two friends, both young, fairly experienced golfers. My driving is erratic. My short game is suspect. My putting is unpredictable. And yet I can't wait.

Suddenly there's all sorts of things going on in my world that are exciting me. And golf is just one of them. So the great thing is, even if I play terribly, even if I am royally humiliated by my compatriots and I walk off the course with a sore back, battered hands and my tail between my legs, I'll feel like a winner. Life is a strange beast. But when things go your way, it's like hitting a hole in one - Not that I'd know much about that...

A Heartfelt Apology

Saturday, 25 July 2009

A Heartfelt Apology

So I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. I didn't mean to leave it this long. I feel like we've lost touch. Like we don't even know each other any more. But give me another chance. I've treated you badly. I've ignored you. I've not give nyou the attention you deserve. But I'll make it up to you. I'm back, back for good. Me and you, my loveable blog. I'll never leave it this long again.

It's good to be back...

A Lesson Learned...

Friday, 20 March 2009

A Lesson Learned...

I learnt a valuable lesson on a date a few weeks ago. In fact I learnt several.

I shall save the biggest lesson of all until last, and I hope you heed my warning. But firstly let me tell you this – if you are ever in a position where you go on a “blind date”, don’t try to be something you’re not. I met up with a girl, whose face I had seen but whose voice I had not heard, and I soon realized she was rather posh. Now I don’t have a problem with this, but for some reason I made the conscious decision that a lady that rides horses and has a plumy accent probably wouldn’t be impressed with a man from East London whose tipple of choice was beer – Hoegaarden to be exact. No, for this date I would resist the urge to drink lager, and instead indulge in gin. LOTS OF GIN. That would make me look right classy, wouldn’t it? Or would it…?

LESSON NUMBER ONE – DRINK SLOWLY, AND DRINK WHAT YOU LIKE THE MOST

Now don’t get me wrong. I like gin. I like it a lot. But when you are on a date with a girl you have never met and you need to calm your nerves, you tend to drink quicker than usual. Or at least I do. And when I drink gin quickly, it appears to send me a bit nuts. I know this now. I consider myself a happy drunk. In fact, the more I drink, the more silly I get. I dance, I laugh, I have a good time. And on this date, I was to get particularly silly… All thanks to gin.

LESSON NUMBER TWO – DO NOT TICKLE ON A FIRST DATE

So as this posh horsewoman slowly swilled her glass of white wine, I threw back gin like it was mineral water. The conversation flowed, as did the booze. We were getting on really quite well. And then I did something. Something to fill one of those rare awkward silences, and throughout the night they were extremely rare. I looked into her eyes and she looked into mine. We exchanged smiles. And then I reached out… and I tickled her chin. I don’t know why I did it. I don’t know if it was the gin, the nerves or the fact she had a reasonably nice chin, but I had the urge to tickle it, and so I did just that. Working in TV, my assistant producer and I regularly indulge in chin tickling – it’s just something that’s developed over the months. A quirky pastime if you will. There’s no reason for it, it’s just something we do. It’s funny. But this posh, upper class horsey lady looked a little put out, and I instantly regretted my actions. Nevertheless, the evening continued on an upward spiral despite my curious move, and as we left the pub to head to a cocktail bar, rather surprisingly, she took my hand in hers and we walked to the next watering hole.

LESSON NUMBER THREE – KNOW YOUR AUDIENCE

And it was in this cocktail bar that I truly “jumped the shark”. The copious amounts of gin had obviously given me a skewed view of the evening’s events, and I thought I had met a woman that would appreciate what is deemed in today’s climate as a “politically incorrect” joke.

A joke I had been told on a friend’s stag night, which despite its controversial subject matter, I had found extremely funny. I tend to say what’s on my mind at the best of times, and with us having shared numerous witty exchanges prior to the chin tickling incident, I figured I could get her back on board with this killer joke that had put me in stitches weeks earlier. I assumed she would laugh, touch me on the knee and call me a comedy genius. I thought she would lean over and kiss me as reward for my hilarious aside. She’d already held my hand, so clearly I was in a pretty good position, right? This could be the joke that leads to 2nd, 3rd or even 4th base (how many “bases” are there by the way? Answers on a postcard please). But wait, I thought. I can’t just say a joke out of the blue. This is not a stand up gig, and I am not a comedian. So how do I shoehorn in this sure-fire woman winning yarn without it seeming such a sharp conversation change?

Here’s how…

ME: So… What’s the rudest joke you have ever heard?

POSH WOMAN: (Long pause)… I… I don’t know.

ME: Come on. You must know one.

POSH WOMAN: Erm… (Long pause)… I don’t think I do.

(LONG PAUSE)

ME: I know one… Wanna hear it?

POSH WOMAN: (Long pause) Erm… Oh… kay…

YES! GADZOOKS! I had engineered an opportunity to tell a bad joke on a first date, a joke I thought was hilarious, a sure fire winner. A joke about, and please don’t judge me on this… rape.

I know what you’re thinking…

Looking back, I know this was perhaps not the best joke to tell. Looking back, I know that to follow up a random chin tickle with a joke about rape was a touch inappropriate. But it happened. And in my defence, I’d road-tested the very same joke on friends of the opposite sex previously, and they too had laughed. Some had sighed in resignation too, but even they accepted it was funny. But not posh woman, oh no. She really didn’t like it.

LESSON NUMBER FOUR – THE BIGGEST LESSON OF ALL – JOKES ABOUT RAPE ARE NOT FUNNY

Or are they? Let yourself be the judge.

Q: What do 9 out of 10 people enjoy?


































A: Gang rape.





Suffice to say, we never saw each other again, and no - I didn’t even make FIRST base…

A Brave New World...

Wednesday, 18 March 2009

A Brave New World...

So this is the future is it? And it appears I’ve been living in the past for quite a while because, apparently, it’s been the future for about ten years now. BLOGGING.

Sharing your thoughts and feelings with millions of people. A diary for the entire world to read. A Facebook update or “Twitter” that doesn’t limit the number of characters you can use. An opportunity to vent your spleen, discuss your woes and reveal your gripes to the people of planet Earth. To moan, whinge and complain about the minutiae of life.

I like it.