Category: Top Posts

7 Reasons That You Can’t Revisit Your Childhood

It’s day five of the week in which the 7 Reasons team revisit their childhoods – and now the pope has arrived in the UK – so you can’t say that we don’t live dangerously. But, over the course of the week, it’s become clear that revisiting your childhood isn’t easy. In fact, it can’t be done. I needed to find a way to demonstrate that adulthood is impossible to free yourself from and I have chosen the medium of Top Trumps.

1. Environment.

As an adult, your environment is – usually – substantially different to that of your childhood years. I spent a huge proportion of my childhood sailing. I couldn’t do that now though. I don’t live next to the sea. There are other distractions here. And girls. And beer. And anyway, I probably wouldn’t be able to spend every waking hour sailing now because of…

2. Biology.

Biology precludes revisiting your childhood. You can’t spend all day running around the park playing tag/tig/it/whatever-the-hell-it-was-called-where-you-lived, as you won’t have as much energy as you did when you were a child. And you can’t just stop running for a bit and have a breather on the swings and slides because you’re 6’2″ and you have a beard. No, that’s me. I really need to shave (something else that I didn’t have to do as a child). Anyway, one of the reasons that you don’t have as much energy is…

3. Sleep.When you’re a child you sleep for hours and hours and hours. As a child, I must have been a dream for my parents. They could just send me to bed and then – eventually – when they realised they hadn’t seen me for a couple of days, they could just wander up to my room and find me there, still sleeping. But adults can’t sleep like that, because they have…

4. Responsibilities.

Instead of spending most of their days playing, adults have to do things that are really, really dull. You may have noticed that the picture of my ten-year-old self is really blurry. This is because our scanner just broke and I can’t scan a picture of my childhood self in. Instead, I had to find a picture of myself on the internet. And, when I’ve finished writing this, I have to fix the scanner. And make dinner. And find out where the council have taken our glass recycling bin to. And do some washing. And shave. And…I’ll stop now, this is only helpful for me. I’m sure you get the picture. You just don’t have time to revisit your childhood. And even if you did, it would be a weird alternate universe, because of…

5. Events.

Our child and adult selves are also shaped by events. To revisit your childhood successfully, you’d have to erase the key events that had shaped you as an adult. I’m sure there are some things that we’d like to forget: That time I pressed the wrong button on the remote control and accidentally saw ITV, for example. But there are other events that are important and very dear to us; events that shaped our personalities. Events that we wouldn’t ever want to forget. Events that we want to retain in our memories. Events crucial to the formation of our character. Events that…yes, okay, I can’t remember any events to use as an example. This is because of my lack of…

6. Aptitude.

Your capabilities as an adult and as a child are different. As a child, you can remember things clearly (usually when adults don’t want you to), and as an adult you can walk in a straight line and look where you’re going without inconveniencing other pavement users (hopefully). But if you revisited your childhood you’d have to lose whatever skills you’d learned in the intervening years. And that’ll happen anyway if you live long enough. And why would you want to return to childhood in the first place? When you’re a child you’re an…

7. Idiot.

I used to hate nice food and drink when I was a child. I used to eat Angel Delight. I didn’t eat Arctic Roll though: No one was going to convince me that ice cream in a raspberry sponge cylinder wasn’t the devil’s work. But I wouldn’t eat decent cheese. And cheese is amazing. This is because I was stupid and ignorant and didn’t know any better. Because I was a child. Why would anyone want to return to a state of ignorance? That’s why you can’t revisit your childhood. And also why you shouldn’t burn books.

September 17, 2010
7 Reasons That Revisiting My Childhood Has Been Difficult

At 7 Reasons (.org) this week, we’re reliving our childhoods. Jon, my friend, colleague and collaborator, suggested it as a theme for the week and it seemed like a good idea. I can do that, I thought, and I decided to spend last Sunday engaged in childish pursuits. But it wasn’t a brilliant success. In fact, reliving my childhood has been bloody difficult. Here are seven reasons why.

1. Cycling. I cycled a lot as a child and decided to relive my boyhood by going for a ride. I straddled my bicycle and began to pedal and, after a few pedal-strokes, I found the old technique beginning to return. As I cruised along the riverside, the wind tousled my hair and the sunlight dappled through the trees and caused me to squint, and it soon began to feel as if it were only yesterday when I had last ridden a bicycle. But it wasn’t yesterday. It was the day before yesterday. So I wasn’t really revisiting my childhood at all. I was revisiting Friday. And I didn’t enjoy Friday very much the first time around. And the spectre of having to eat the mushroom omelette for dinner again was ghastly. I realised I’d have to do something else to relive my childhood. Hmmm. What else did I do a lot of as a boy?

2. Reading. I knew that reading would go well. Obviously I had to select my book carefully; I couldn’t just pick up any old book. I had to find a book that I’d read and enjoyed during my childhood. I spent many minutes scouring my shelves and then, in the twentieth century military history section, I saw it: The well-worn creased black dustcover with the red gothic lettering and the prominent swastika. A book that I’d loved when I was fourteen: William L. Shirer’s The Rise and Fall of The Third Reich. All 1245 pages of it. I settled down with a glass of ginger beer and began to read. It was all there: The spare, matter-of-fact prose style; the meticulous attention to detail; the sharp, insightful analysis. In fact, it took me back in time. Way, way back. Back to the autumn of 2009 when I had read William L. Shirer’s The Collapse of the Third Republic. But I didn’t want to relive October 2009 as I’d have to hear about Balloon Boy again. And I wasn’t trying to write 7 Reasons to Revisit 2009. I’d have to try something else. And then I had an idea. I would…

3. Play A Practical Joke. Barely a day went by during my childhood that I wasn’t tormenting my immediate family with practical japery and I decided to reprise my favourite ever practical joke. And it worked. The reaction of the tearful angry shouting woman to the joke transported me back to an earlier time. A time when, approximately a month earlier, I’d played a different practical joke on her and had substituted beer for tea in her mug. She’d shouted then too. I had to clean up the mess and get her more tea. It was slightly different with this joke – I had to mop the bathroom floor and buy a new roll of cling-film – but it wasn’t different enough to take me back to my childhood. So I put my thinking-cap on again and decided to…

4. Follow The Cat. When I was a very small boy we had an active, adventurous cat and, if I had risen before my parents, I used to let the cat in to the house and play Follow The Cat. The game is simple: Take one cat, and follow it wherever it goes. Always make sure that you’re about two feet behind it. Certain that playing Follow The Cat would help me to relive the early mornings of my childhood I went downstairs and stood behind our cat. After two hours he moved, and I followed. We walked down the hallway, through the kitchen and into the utility room. Then he exited the utility room through the cat-flap. This was a turn of events that I hadn’t anticipated: We didn’t have a cat-flap in my childhood home. It didn’t take me very long to conclude that I was too big to fit through the cat-flap and, looking down at the tiny portal, I felt very large indeed. In fact, I hadn’t felt as large as that since my ill-considered purchase of a lycra cycling jersey four months previously. I abandoned Follow The Cat and decided to do something else. Then I had the idea to top them all. It was time to unleash…

5. The Space-Hopper. I spent years bouncing around on them as a kid and a go on one would surely be the ideal way to relive my infancy. I went up into the loft to get my space-hopper and excitedly inflated it with my bicycle pump. Then, somewhat less excitedly, I deflated it and brought it down through the loft hatch. Once I had re-inflated it – though quite tired now – I decided to ride it down the hallway. I mounted the gaudy bulbous wind-sack and, with as much power as my legs could muster, propelled myself forward and upward. I achieved quite a height and, as my graceful arc turned to descent, I braced myself and prepared to bounce. And I did bounce. I bounced ninety degrees to the right. And, as I lay groaning on the hallway floor, having unexpectedly shoulder-charged the living room wall, I was reminded of an earlier, simpler time. Christmas. Christmas 2005, when my wife had brought me a space-hopper and I, having injured my shoulder bouncing in the hallway, had deflated it and put it into the loft. There was nothing for it. I’d have to try…

6. Music. I would listen to the first album I ever purchased. The Specials’ eponymous debut album. That would take me back. As I put the CD on, and the opening bars of A Message to You, Rudy began to emerge from the speakers, I was taken back to another time time. Back…to Wednesday evening when I’d heard A Message to You, Rudy on a bloody Next television advert and had become astonishingly cross about the commercial exploitation of a track that was very dear to me. In fact, just thinking about it annoyed me again and so, as I was tired and my shoulder hurt, and as my day of reliving my childhood had gone so abjectly wrong and recognising that I was, by now, in a foul mood that was unlikely to improve and would cause me to irritate others I…

7. Sent Myself To Bed Without Any Tea. And so it was that I finally discovered a way of reliving my childhood. By being quite grown-up, ironically.

September 14, 2010
7 Reasons You Should Choose Your Holiday Read Carefully

There’s so much to think about when choosing your holiday read and so much can go wrong. Here are seven reasons that you should do it carefully.

1. The Cover. People say you should never judge a book by its cover. But they do. Which is why everyone who sees your choice of book will automatically form an opinion of you. And it will probably be the wrong opinion. Take Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange for example. The Penguin Modern Classic version depicts a glass of milk. If I see someone reading a book that has a cover featuring milk I immediately think, ‘Cows. The reader likes cows’. They probably don’t. In fact, had I asked them, they would have probably shrugged with indifference. But that’s the peril of the book cover. To me, that person will always be a cow lover.

2. Trilogies. These are a big no-no. No one reads more than one book on holiday, so never start on a series that is going to take you a further two holidays to finish. By the time the second holiday comes around you’ll have forgotten what happened in the first book. This means you’ll have to read it again, only for the process to repeat itself on the next holiday. Basically, you’ll spend the rest of your life holidaying with the same book. And you’ll never find out who kills who or what the wizard said to the pixie or why the girl next door is so addicted to sex with vampires.

3. Love. Lots of people meet the love of their lives (or their night) on holiday. The last thing you need – having plucked up the courage and charmed a beautiful lady at the bar – is for her to come back to your suite and see your copy of How To Talk Women Into Bed resting on your pillow. That kind of behaviour is strictly frowned upon by the fairer sex. Apparently.

4. Language. When you take a book abroad, it’s disrespectful to your hosts to read an English translation of a book originally written in their language. In Barcelona, several people were upset to see me reading a translation of Lorca’s Yerma, but that was nothing compared to the reaction of Berliners to my English version of Mein Kampf. Never read a translated work. They were livid.

5. Practicality. The Da Vinci Code is the ideal book to take on holiday. If the weather takes a turn for the worse you can use it as kindling; if you spill your drink on the table, it’s quite absorbent; if you need to hold a door in your villa open, you can fashion a papier-mache doorstop from it; if you find that people are trying to engage you in conversation, you can pretend to read it (they’ll soon leave you alone). There’s almost nothing that this versatile book can’t be used for. Except as reading material, obviously. That would be stupid.

6. The Lord Of The Flies. If you have teenage children, do not take this book on your island-break with you. Okay, so it’s pretty unlikely that they’ll put down their iPods and PSPs for long enough to read it, but if they do, they may descend into savagery before you know it. And savages do not make relaxing holiday companions. As anyone that has vacationed in Ayia Napa will testify.

7. Airports. A copy of Frank Barnaby’s How to Build A Nuclear Bomb and Other Weapons of Mass Destruction would be a particularly poor choice of holiday read. It’s sobering, serious and thought-provoking; none of the things that are conducive to the holiday mood as you attempt to relax and get away from it all in your detention cell at Heathrow Airport.

September 8, 2010
7 Reasons That I Shouldn’t Have Got The Bus

I used to travel by bus a lot when I was younger. But now I don’t need to use one, as there are always better alternatives available to me. Last Saturday, however, I had to make a journey for which a bus seemed like the best option. I know now that it wasn’t.

1. The Women. I realised quite soon into my ride on the bus (occupied by about thirty people) that I was the only man there. When Margaret Thatcher said, “A man who, beyond the age of 26, finds himself on a bus can count himself as a failure,” did she scare all of the other men away? Obviously I disagree with her statement; there are many good reasons for men over twenty-six to be on the bus, probably seven. That doesn’t mean that I disagree with everything Thatcher said, of course. She once stepped out of 10 Downing Street, strode up to a microphone and said “Good evening” to the assembled journalists, and I didn’t find that too objectionable. But I’m at a loss as to why the bus was an otherwise-man-free-zone, and it felt strange to be intruding on whatever it was that the sisters-of-the-bus would otherwise have been doing.

2. The Heat. It was a hot, sunny day, and buses are vehicles that are constructed almost entirely from windows. Unlike just about every other public building or vehicle though, there is no air-conditioning. This meant that the bus was a very hot place indeed. It is said that men sweat, but women perspire, and I discovered that this was true while I was on the bus: I sweated, and the women on the bus perspired. A lot. They perspired so much that the interior of the bus developed its own tropical microclimate and all of the windows steamed up, which actually improved the view of some of the suburbs we passed through.

3. The Baby. There was a screaming baby on the bus. She bawled persistently for the entirety of the journey. She cried so loudly that I began to wish I had more earwax. Not that I could blame the baby for her wailing, of course. I daresay I’d have cried too, if my mother had looked like Brian Blessed and worn pink velour leggings that were six sizes too small.

4. The Girls. The bus seemed to be the place where the city’s mardy-faced fifteen year old girls go to hang out in pairs. They were wearing most of Superdrug’s range of make-up simultaneously and all of them had hair so dazzlingly shiny that it hurt my eyes. When not scowling contemptuously at me, the baby, Brian Blessed, the strange old woman or the driver (as we were clearly idiots), they were engaged in weighty conversations of substance with each other:

“D’ya know that Kerry?”

“No” (said as a long word, pronounced nerrrrrr).

“She finished with that Ryan”.

“Who?” (pronounced ooo, and said like a gorilla)

“The one what lives next to Judy” (pronounced Ju-deh)

“Who’s Judy ?” (oooze Ju-deh)

At this point, mardy-faced-girl number nine scowled at her friend, mardy-faced-girl number ten, who was clearly an idiot for not knowing who Ryan or Judy were, and I inserted my fingers into my ears and began to hum The Marseillaise.

5. The Strange Old Woman. There was an old woman at the front of the bus, in a priority seat. She had many bags surrounding her – two of which were tartan – and, from one of those tartan bags, she produced an unappetising looking sandwich which appeared to contain some sort of luncheon meat. She proceeded to eat the sandwich. Now you may be thinking that this isn’t really strange behaviour, but I alighted from the bus when it arrived at my destination and, when I got back on board (lighted?) several hours later, she was still there. Shortly after I sat down she reached into the other tartan bag and produced a slice of fruitcake, which was presumably her dessert. She’s probably still there now, having coffee and mints.

6. The Speed. I wasn’t on the bus because I wanted to get to my destination in a hurry, which is just as well, as the bus was moving at almost glacial speed. In fact, there was only one thing on the narrow road back to the city centre that was slower than the bus; and that was the enormous fat man wobbling along in the centre of the carriageway on a tiny bicycle. His legs were rotating at 11 revolutions per minute. I know this, because I had time to calculate it. We were stuck behind him for 19.4 renditions of The Marseillaise until, eventually, we ground to a complete halt.

7. The Prisoner. By this point, I’d tired of the bus and, when we had been stationary in traffic for several minutes, I decided to get off and walk. “Can you open the doors please, I want to alight” I said to the driver, taking full advantage of the rare opportunity to use the word alight.

“No. Sorry.”

“But we’re not moving. I wish to return home during my cat’s lifetime.”

“No. Sorry. We’re not at a stop.”

“But we are at a standstill, will that do?”

“No. Sorry.”

“We’re stationary and next to the kerb: A situation that isn’t remotely different to being at a bus stop. Not that I’m an expert on bus stops, but one of the things that I have observed about them is that they involve both a stationary bus, and a kerb; and our present circumstances fulfil both of those criteria. Furthermore, I put it to you that…”

At this moment the doors opened and I was free to alight from the bus, never to return. Twenty mardy-faced girls scowled at me as I got off.

7 Reasons Transport Week continues tomorrow.

August 17, 2010
7 Reasons That Twitter Should Replace The Fail Whale

Tharr she blows! It’s the Fail Whale. Don’t panic though, dear reader. This doesn’t mean that our website is down. We’re just fed up of the Fail Whale, Twitter’s iconic image which surfaces whenever the social media network isn’t functioning. Beautiful as it is, we think that it’s time to replace it. Here are seven reasons why.

1. It’s Not Fair To Whales. Whales have enough problems without Twitter tainting them with failure by association. Zeppelins, like Twitter, are cool. Yet they’re already associated with failure. What better way to show that the network is down?

2. Sometimes It Appears Erroneously. Sometimes the Fail Whale appears once, only to disappear when you refresh the screen. This means that Twitter isn’t wholly down, it’s just working slowly. For that eventuality, they require a Fail Snail.

3. Because Twitter Is Down A Lot. Twitter is a huge success and has grown rapidly. Yet their servers seem unable to cope. This constantly frustrates users and, in turn, leads to ill-will towards the network. If they don’t sort their technical issues out soon, they may find themselves becoming extinct. The Fail Dodos would remind them of this.

4. It Doesn’t Suggest A Helpful Alternative. The Fail Whale doesn’t really tell you much. This image though, suggests an alternative and more reliable – though archaic – method of communication to use while twitter is down. Behold, the Fail Mail.

5. The Image Suggests Functionality. The Fail Whale image shows a whale being held aloft by Twitter’s cute little birds. Rather than suggesting that Twitter isn’t working, the Fail Whale image suggests that it is. A far less plausible, and therefore more accurate, image would be the Fail Bird: A large Twitter bird being kept airborne by school of fail whales.

6. Sleep. Because the Fail Whale image is slightly reminiscent of Dali’s Sleep, which is a much more interesting thing to look at. And it’s important to be stimulated while you’re unable to communicate with people.

7. It Doesn’t Go Far Enough. It’s a pretty picture, but the Fail Whale image doesn’t state what is occurring in clear enough terms. This is far more descriptive.

And yes, we did put most of these images together last night, while Twitter was down.

August 6, 2010
7 Reasons That The Banging is Probably a Good Thing.

The house next door to us, having stood empty for some time, has finally been sold and my wife and I met the new owners and several of their dogs last weekend. They seem like a nice couple and, not unreasonably, they want to get on with renovating their house before they move in. The builders – unannounced – started work at seven o’clock this morning. They started with a sledgehammer in the bedroom, pounding on the party wall, several inches from our heads. This was a surprise. Still, I always try to see the positive in every situation and, to that end, I decided to write 7 Reasons That The Banging is Probably a Good Thing.

1. Efficiency. My wife always complains that she never gets enough done during the summer holidays but now – as she’s up at seven o’clock, rather than nine – her day will be 12.5% more time-efficient. It’s only day one of the banging, but she’s already accomplished many things in her extra two hours. These include: Swearing like a dock-worker; slamming every door in the house; winning a light-welterweight boxing-match with the sofa (TKO: Round 6) and preventing her husband from murdering a man in a checked-shirt. If the banging continues for more than a week she will probably solve global warming, bring about world peace, organise her shoe-rack and discover a cure for cancer, though experience tells me that one of those suppositions is fanciful.

2. Numbers. The banger, bangs steadily and rhythmically in sixes, leaving a six second interval between bursts of hammering. 1-2-3-4-5-6…1-2-3-4-5-6…1-2-3-4-5-6…. I think in sevens, so my numerical horizons are being broadened by the banging. This can only be a good thing, though it is always a relief when our numbers coincide at forty-two. I have taken to celebrating every forty-second bang by growling like a walrus and bellowing, “SHUT UP YOU BASTARD!”.

3. Discovery. As I wound the duvet tightly around my head, to lessen the sound of the banging, I discovered a lump between duvet and cover. On further investigation, it turned out to be a missing purple sock. So now I know where the missing socks go. They’re in my duvet cover. At last, an age-old mystery solved, all thanks to the banging. I also found an orange sock that I didn’t recognise: Feel free to email me if it belongs to you.

4. Décor. The banging isn’t just improving the house next door. It’s improving ours too. We were never entirely sure if the framed Japanese print above the fireplace in our bedroom was the right way up, and we both had opposing views on whether it was. Now that it’s lying on the floor though, with its frame shattered into a thousand pieces, it will no longer be a bone of contention and we’ll have a more harmonious marriage as a result. Yay! Thank you, banging.

5. You. I do a lot of my best creative thinking while lying in bed. If it weren’t for the banging, you’d have been reading something rather more considered and rational right now like 7 Reasons That The Age of Enlightenment Was Anything But, or 7 Reasons That France Should Invade The Vatican but, as a result of the pervasive, over-bearing din that is currently preventing me from pursuing any logical thought, or using the toilet (though you don’t really need to know about that), you’re reading about the banging instead. So we’re all benefiting from it.

6. Comparison. Another unexpected benefit was that the unremitting cacophony of the banging, when combined with the sound-baffling properties of my duvet-turban, and the low, wailing sound that I was emitting made listening to Nicky Campbell on 5Live Breakfast almost tolerable. I didn’t even want to punch him.

7. The Relief. The wave of domestic-serenity and abject calm that washed over our home when the banging stopped at eleven o’clock was indescribable. The euphoria I felt at the cessation of the tumult was almost worth having endured the prior four hours of torture for. And that was my opinion until 11:20am, when the banging started again.*

*Coming soon: 7 Reasons That The Punishment for Killing Builders Should be a Stern Look and a Cursory Slap on the Wrist, M’Lud.

August 5, 2010
7 Reasons I Am Rubbish At Origami

7 Reasons I Am Rubbish At Origami

July 28, 2010
7 Reasons That Size is Important

Whether you’re a cricketer, a despot, a politician or a git; size matters. Here are 7 reasons why.

1. Geoffrey Boycott. If Geoff Boycott had used a bat this size, no bowler would ever have taken his wicket. Carrying the large bat would also have caused him to move more slowly, meaning that there would have been fewer instances of him running team-mates out. The obdurate Boycott would have been so effective with the larger bat that, having started this match in 1979, he would probably still be batting now. With a score of about thirty runs.

2. David Cameron. I have shrunk David Cameron and his relative size in this picture is a more accurate representation of the UKs importance in the world order. It serves him right for belittling war heroes on his recent trip to the USA: He caused me to agree with the Daily Mail! This is his punishment.

3. My Cat. If my cat were this size then he would terrorize the city of York, wreaking untold havoc, death and destruction on the population by falling asleep on them about once every ten minutes. He is quite useless. And fortunately quite small.

4. Piers Morgan. If Piers Morgan’s head were…oh…Piers Morgan’s head is this size. Pretend you haven’t seen it. I know I will.

5. Umbrellas. If umbrellas were this small then they would be ineffective, and people would soon realise that having wet hair isn’t the end of the world. Golf umbrellas would no longer block entire streets and incidences of tall people being poked in the eye by the damned things would plummet, causing me to shout less at short people, making the world a more peaceful and harmonious place.

6. Hitler’s Hand. If Hitler’s hand had been this size, the strain brought about by all of the saluting would have caused him to bring about a rapid demilitarisation of Nazi Germany, which would have given him the time to set more peaceful goals and to consider important questions, such as: Why do the British think that one of my testicles is in the Albert Hall? What does my moustache really say about me? Why does Himmler’s hat have a triangle embedded in it?

7. Indiana Jones’s Hat. If Indiana Jones had worn a hat this size then Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull would never have been made, as he would barely have made it past the opening scenes of Raiders of the Lost Ark and, even if he had, would never have escaped the large boulder thing in the middle of the film. If I had worn a hat this size to see Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, my viewing experience would have been immeasurably improved, as would that of the couple behind me.

*I got all the way to the end without saying penis. Yay!

July 23, 2010
7 Reasons You Shouldn’t Date A Polar Bear

1. Inuits, Yupiks, Chukchis, Nenets and Russian Pomors. You are really going to piss them off. To them, a polar bear is the ultimate utility. They use the fur for trousers, fat for fuel, the gallbladder for medicinal purposes and the teeth as amulets. You start dating a polar bear and the Inuits are going to have to start walking around with bare legs.

2. Bathroom Usage. If you do insist on dating a polar bear, then you have to understand one thing. You will never be able to use your bath again. The polar bear will see this as their natural environment. They will sleep in it, splash around in it, hunt in it and get bath salts in uncomfortable places in it. You’ll also get the water board investigating a major leak.

3. Eating. A polar bear’s diet isn’t a very mixed one. They like seals. Particularly bearded ones. It’s not the most comfortable thing to have to order in the local Harry Ramsdens. Especially when you have to add that the polar bear is going to batter it themselves.

4. Meeting The Parents. Never the easiest thing to do. Especially when you’re dating a polar bear. Thankfully, your parents were very understanding/scared and so those introductions went swimmingly. Literally. You all met in your bath. Now though, it’s your turn to meet the polar bear’s parents. In the Arctic. You think you’ve prepared well. You have all the thermals on and a distress flare stuffed down your trousers. Nothing can go wrong. Until you meet them. And you realise they all look the bloody same.

5. Games. We may be getting older, but there is a still a bit of the child in all of us. Some more than others it must be said. Occasionally we do like to be a bit silly and play a game. Catch, Frisbee, Twister etc. These are all fine and I can assure you that the polar bear will love them. What you don’t want to play, though, is Hide & Seek. Particularly if your walls are painted white. You’re going to be playing for bloody ages.

6. Habits. It would be nice to think that on your return home after a long day at work, the polar bear has made a nice meal for you. Unfortunately this is little more than wishful thinking. All too regularly you’ll come home to find them perched atop a pile of ice cubes watching Seal or No Seal on the Nature Channel.

7. Romance. Against all the odds, it is going well. You’ve got over the fact that seal whiskers are being left all over the bathroom floor and the polar bear no longer smacks you around the side of the head whenever you pop a Fox’s Glacier Mint into your mouth. It might be time to move it to the next level. You’ve taken the polar bear out for the evening, wine and dined and danced the night away, now you are in the taxi. A paw gently brushes your thigh before the polar bear moves towards your ear and whispers, ‘I’m going to eat you alive later’.

July 16, 2010
7 Reasons That Hay Fever Sucks

I don’t know what I was thinking when I named this piece 7 Reasons That Hay Fever Sucks. I’m not an American teenager, I’m a grown Englishman. If you could kindly imagine it says 7 Reasons That It Is Most Disadvantageous To Be Afflicted With Hay Fever or 7 Reasons That I Find Hay Fever To Be A Bothersome Nuisance at the top of the page, I’d be much obliged.

1. It’s Crap. Fever is an emotive word redolent of all sorts of epic maladies and high emotions. The statement: he has cabin fever tells you that he is gripped by claustrophobia and that he is potentially a crazed or deranged madman who could snap at any moment. The statement: she has World Cup fever tells you that she is in the thrall of one of the world’s great sporting events and is probably in a joyous state of prodigious excitement. The statement: he has hay fever tells you that he is mildly irritated by flora and is prone to snivelling, some welling up of the eyes and occasional bouts of moaning; he probably carries a pocket-pack of tissues. Hay is the least impressive of all the fevers.*

2. Caught Between A Rock And A Hard Place But With Dishonesty, Mean-Spiritedness And The Disgusting And Unwanted Exchange Of Bodily Fluids Replacing The Aforementioned Rocks And Hard Places. I have found that the most efficacious method of relieving my symptoms is Beconase, which is applied by inserting a tube nasally, and spraying. This leads to problems. When friends or relatives start feeling their own hay fever symptoms they often – not unreasonably – enquire, “Do you have any hay fever medicine on you?” The question is always suffixed by this sound. There are two possible answers to this question. Yes or No. If my response is “No”, it would be a lie, and lying is wrong (unless her bum looks big in it). If my response is “Yes”, I either have to refuse to allow the hay fever-medicine-less person the use of my nasal-spray on the grounds that exchanging snot with them would be disgusting, which would make me appear mean, or I can allow them to use it which, as I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, is disgusting. Three choices: Lying, meanness or abhorrence. Hay fever is a minefield.

3. The Inexorable Breakdown Of Civil Domestic Relations. My wife also suffers from hay fever. This is what the average summer evening sounds like in our house:

“Achoo!”

“Bless you.”

“Thank you.”

“Achoo!”

“Bless you.”

“Achoo!”

“Bless you”

“Achoo!”

“Bless you.”

“Thank you”

“Achoo! Achoo! Achoo!”

“Bless you. Bless you. Bless you.”

“Thank you”

“Achoo!…Oi!”

“Bless you.”

“Thank you.”

“Achoo!”

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! SHUT UP!”

“Achoo!”

4. Hay Fever Is Sneaky. Like the Spanish inquisition, traffic wardens, or the urge to use the word macaroon, hay fever always strikes when you least expect it. I didn’t suffer from it at all until I got into my thirties, and now I do. If you don’t suffer from hay fever now, assume nothing, because you might tomorrow. And that will make you feel awful and me feel slightly better. Mostly because of my hay-fever-induced meanness.

5. Other People’s Hay Fever Is Annoying Too. I may be mean, but I try to be polite. That’s how I was brought up. I hold doors open for people and I always walk on the outside of a pavement when accompanying a lady (so that a carriage won’t splash mud on her brocaded overskirts, or in case she faints on being startled by a ruffian or a horse). I also say “bless you” when people sneeze, and when I say it to strangers they often look at me as if I were making a lewd proposition to their grandmother or threatening to kick their cat. If you want strangers to glare contemptuously at you, bless them. For some reason they hate it.

6. Dribbling. Dribbling isn’t necessarily a bad thing. The sight of Cristiano Ronaldo or Pedro Rodriguez dribbling a football is a joy to behold. I dribble too. The sight of me dribbling is less of a visual treat though. I dribble salt-water out of my stinging eyes and snot out of my nose all bloody summer. I turn up at all manner of social occasions and make a striking first-impression with red-ringed eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, a nose that won’t stop running and a fast-diminishing supply of tissues. Have hay fever: Will dribble. Have dribble: Will look disgusting. Look disgusting: Will repel people. Repel people: Will find that there’s no queue at the bar and that you don’t have to buy anyone a drink. Find that there’s no queue at the bar and that you don’t have to buy anyone a drink: Realise that everything has an upside (even dribble).

7. Wahey Fever! A couple of years ago, I justified a sneezing fit to a friend in a pub by saying, “Hay fever”. A stranger at the next table overheard me and enthusiastically replied, “Wahey fever!” before laughing uproariously for a very long time. This still annoys me.

*The statement: she has Night Fever tells you that she is in possession of a very fine Bee Gees single. Or that she is in the throes of an unshakeable urge to boogie. I realise that I’m getting carried away with the fever-statements now. I think I may have fever-statement fever.**

**The statement: he has fever-statement fever tells you that he is afflicted with some sort of typing mania and is still making words appear on the page long after he should have stopped writing and gone to the pub. Stop now man, you’ve written enough. Stop. Stop!

July 9, 2010