Sometimes, words are not enough. But that’s okay, we can always fall back on music and pictures.
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Russian Roulette Sunday: The A to Z of 7 Reasons (part I)
Crikey! It’s the first part of an A to Z of 7 Reasons. Whatever will they think of next? Yup, the second part. Almost certainly.
A is for Advertising. It’s something we haven’t quite got right yet. Since we blew the whole of our budget on an ad from Pearl & Dean, we have been kicking around trying to make the most of our own talents. Which is why we’ve created masks and stolen 1970s posters and changed the words. We’ll get it right though. Someday.
B is for Bath. Much of the creative thought that goes into 7 Reasons occurs in the bath. Many, many posts and website features have had their genesis there. The bath is a place of much 7 Reasons creativity. It is not, however, a place for 7 Reasons meetings. We won’t make that mistake again. Oh the horror.
C is for Cat. Or, to give him his correct name, Horatio Pyewackett Caractacus Fearns. This is who actually comes up with all posts for the Yorkshire side of the sofa. And probably explains all the scratches.
D is for Daily. 7 Reasons has a new post every day. Not always with the correct amount of apostrophes, but it’s there (or rather here) every day. We’re more reliable than the postman, more dedicated than god, and more committed than…in fact, we probably should be committed.
E is for Eighth Reason Competition. One of the better ideas Jon has had, though that isn’t saying much. You may not have realised it, but it is still running. All you have to do is think of an eighth reason for one of that week’s posts and you may well win a badge. Well actually, you will win a badge. Because no one else will enter.
F is for France. We’re probably not welcome there. Perhaps as a result of this image.
Or as a result of this post. Or this post. Or this post.
G is for Guests. Every Saturday someone joins us on the sofa. And they’ve come up with some intriguing observations. Things about gussets; and cricket kits looking like bananas; and freckles. And, rather frustratingly, they always prove the most popular posts of the week.
H is for Hell’s teeth! Which is what I exclaimed when 7 Reasons was first read in Ulaanbaatar. Strange that someone in Mongolia would want to know why Marc’s afraid of Flamenco dancers but there you go. The world: It’s a bit odd.
I is for Intelligence. This is something Marc and Jon are still striving for. Though until 7 Reasons is finally put to rest, they’ll go on looking at plant pots and Germans and tortoise shells and thinking there are 7 Reasons right there.
J is for Jennifer. Jennifer Aniston. Ah Jennifer, Jennifer. Jen Jen. One day we feel sure that you’ll respond to our phone calls/emails/faxes/letters/texts/tweets/notes written on beermats and pushed under your door/petrarchan sonnets performed from the depths of your garden hedge. One day. One fine day. One happy, happy day. One glorious day.
K is for Kent (via Sussex). This is where the first half of the 7 Reasons team is based. If we are doing it in alphabetical order. If we’re doing it in height order, it would be the second half. But we’re not. We’re doing it in alphabetical order. So it’s the first half.
L is for Lucubration. Like most good things, much of the work that goes into 7 Reasons happens at night, while mere mortals are sleeping or watching television or knitting or whatever people do at night when they’re not writing. They edit probably. We don’t know what they do, we are busy. We write. At night. Oh, and during the day too. We just wanted to show off our fancy word.
M is for Muppet. If it wasn’t for muppetry, you wouldn’t be reading this A-Z now. All will become clear next week. We’re very excited about next week. Be sure to clear three minutes and seven seconds in your diary next Sunday. We’ve cleared six minutes and fourteen seconds, but then there are two of us. Did we mention that we’re excited?
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Guest Post: 7 Reasons To Shop At Ikea
Another Saturday comes by and with it another chance for Marc and I to get up from the sofa and stretch our legs. I am stretching them quite far today. From Fulham to some place in Kent. I’m moving you understand. But that’s enough about me, let’s focus on the issue in hand. Today’s 7 Reasons piece comes from regular 7 Reasons contributor, Simon Best. Who, when he’s not writing for us – or shopping in Ikea – can be found writing on twitter. He also does some other things that no one quite understands.
1. Names. Everything they sell at Ikea from the largest kitchen unit to the smallest tealight has a name, the vast majority with a Scandinavian touch, some with more imagination than others: the ‘Dimma’ lamp, the ‘Pyra’ wok, the ‘Slitbar’ knife. I doubt that ‘Slitbar’ is actually the Swedish for knife but it is not beyond the realms of possibility. The names are also the answer to parents who don’t want to name their offspring Apple or Chardonnay – Knubbig, Gnistra and Ivar offer perfect alternatives – it’s only fair after Ikea stole the name ‘Billy’ for their best selling item – it is now more widely associated with a bookcase than a boy.
2. Showrooms. Much of the space in Ikea is taken up with showrooms displaying Ikea furniture in various combinations: kitchens, bedrooms, offices, living rooms. They’re often given a lived in look which reassures you that it is not just you that left your bed unmade and a pile of washing up in the sink. They also show you how the furniture you buy will never look in your house, after all if they lose bolt E or joint B then there is a shop full of them, then there is a shop full of them.
3. Pencils. Everywhere you look in Ikea there are little wooden pencils. They’re handy for writing down measurements or noting down the location of things you want to buy. They’re also perfect for sticking behind your ear which is essential for making you look as if you are competent at DIY. The reality is that most men walking round Ikea with a pencil behind their ear are there because their wives have sent them out of the house while a professional comes round to fix the damage that they did the previous weekend with their drill. The preponderance of pencils in Ikea is mirrored by one in my house. I don’t buy pencils any more, I just go to Ikea, stick one behind each ear and forget they are there until I get home.
4. Lack of piped music. One of the things I hate about going shopping is the musak that pervades high street stores and shopping malls. When I go to the supermarket I don’t want to listen to THIS [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oofSnsGkops] I want to listen to Test Match Special so that I can hear England slump from a respectable 70 for none (by the cheese counter) to a disastrous 104 for 5 (while I’m deciding whether to buy Braeburns or Granny Smiths). Ikea has no music, which is a relief because I don’t think the world could cope with a cover of Waterloo or Super-Trouper played on Guatemalan panpipes.
5. A masterclass in bad parenting. Most of the people shopping in Ikea are families. People go at the weekend and take their children. Now Ikea stores are big but they’re not a park or an adventure playground.Children spend most of their week in pre-fab buildings with bright furniture and at the weekend they should be outside playing football or building treehouses or riding their choppers (oh, sorry I forget it wasn’t 1985 anymore). When children are taken to ikea they get bored – which is understandable as the only interest they have in furniture is its capacity to be adapted to a pirate ship or be used to shut their younger sister in. As a result parents get angry and shout. Go to Ikea on a weekend and you will observe a masterclass in bad parenting.
6. Trolleys. When you enter Ikea you’ll see normal shopping trolleys by the door. My advice is to leave them where they are. When you get to the warehouse where all the furniture is stacked you’ll find much more exciting flat-bed trolleys. While you are looking for Aisle 4 Section 17 to pick up your table they make excellent scooters – that is until you collide with a large woman carrying four pot plants and a selection of candles. You might even find the bored children following your example. Something that their parents will doubtless thank you for.
7. Meatballs. Quite possibly the best thing about Ikea is the restaurant – and specifically the meatballs with lingonberries Where else can you find delicious international cuisine for astoundingly good value. People go to Ikea at dinner time just to have some meatballs with the furniture being a side attraction.* You can even take some meatballs home with you to microwave which is a good thing as there is no way you’re going to have that kitchen unit assembled and be able to cook dinner in the space of a day.
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7 Reasons Marc Fearns Should Be Celebrated
Keeping with the fine tradition of 7 Reasons founders celebrating their birthdays in June, today it is Marc’s turn. Now, I wouldn’t be the great man that I am if I didn’t dedicate this post to my fellow reasoner. So Marc, this is for you. And actually everyone else. Because you need to celebrate the great man. This is why.
1. June 18th. It might be a day in June, but apart from that, there is very little going for it. Sure, Delia Smith was born on this day, but so was Jason McAteer.* It’s about time we made this day special. A celebration of Marc Fearns is the way to go. And, if we celebrate June 18th, the day will probably go quicker.
2. Mystery. There is certainly an air of mystery about Marc Fearns. No one is quite sure how tall he is. No one is quite sure how old he is. No one is quite sure why he named his cat Horatio Pyewackett Caractacus Fearns. No one is quite sure how his brain works. But that’s good. It makes him intriguing. The last thing we want is to celebrate someone who is 5’8, 30 years-old, has a cat called Tibbles and whose brain works like clockwork. That’s been done.
3. Intrepid Experimentalist. You can say what you like about Richard Bacon – and many people do – what you can’t accuse him of though, is having a bad taste in experimentalists. There is little doubt that when it comes to cats, foil and the ability to walk, Marc Fearns is on the tip of Richard Bacon’s tongue. All because of this.
4. Rumour-Mill. What with spending most of your days making your cat walk over tin foil, it leaves a lot of time to muck around. Generally at the expense of others. Including me. The whole thing about me fancying myself? Marc started that. (No, seriously, he did). You may think me recommending you celebrate Marc – because he makes me look narcissistic – is an odd thing to do? Well, it’s not. In fact it’s quite logical. Sometimes, you are told something so much, that eventually you begin to believe it. Marc is the reason I am who I am. He could do the same for you.
5. Emotional Blackmail. How could you not feel sorry celebrate someone who looks like this?
6. Library Builder. Getting the builders in, is one of those things that fills people with dread. If it’s not how much mud they are going to traipse across the carpet, it’s how many tea-bags are they going to get through. Which is where Marc comes in. He can build a library in 90 seconds. And he doesn’t drink tea. If you want him to come and build a library for you, send him an email: [email protected]
7. 7 Reasons. The 7 Reasons concept wouldn’t exist without Marc Fearns. I know there are two of us who supposedly founded it, but I have been pressing for it to become 1 Reason for a long time now. Marc is the one who keeps it ticking over. Who keeps driving it forward. So if you like the concept, then it is he who you should celebrate. If you would prefer to read 1 Reason on a daily basis, celebrate me again. Just like you did last week. You remember, that day you really enjoyed.
*I have just discovered today is also the birthday of Fabio Capello and Sir Paul McCartney. It’s okay though. We can celebrate them all. Especially if England win.
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7 Reasons That Bananas Are Amazing
1. Nutrition. Bananas are very good for you. They’ve got sucrose, glucose, fructose and things that don’t end in ose. There’s fibre, potassium and iron. They have five times more vitamin A content than an apple, they also contain lots of B and C vitamins, and probably some from further along the alphabet too. And, if you live (approximately) a 22.5 minute run from your nearest banana shop you can get all of the energy you need for a run to, and back from, the shop by eating a single banana before you go*.
2. The banana is like the sandwich. That may strike you as odd, but it’s true. There are many varieties of banana, but the one we all know and love; the one that we commonly call the banana is, in fact, called the Cavendish banana. It’s named after William Cavendish, the sixth Duke of Devonshire and the sandwich, as we all know, is named after John Montagu, the fourth Earl of Sandwich. Hence, the banana is like the sandwich. These men didn’t invent or cultivate them, they were merely notable early consumers of their eponymous products. Perhaps, using this system, Twitter will eventually be called Stephen Fry and the iPad will be known as the Git. Who can tell?
3. Flavour. Bananas taste of bananas, which is great. I like bananas, and if they tasted of tomato or houmous they’d be quite disappointing. But as it is, bananas taste like a sort of a wholesome, less rich, version of banana milkshake. Or a less cakey version of banana cake. Or a more banana-y version of not eating a banana. Look, just eat a banana and figure it out for yourself. They’re jolly nice.
4. Ripeness. When bananas aren’t ready to be eaten, they are green. When they are ready to be eaten, they are yellow. Simple. And when they’ve gone off and they shouldn’t be eaten, they’re brown. There aren’t many foods that so obviously and vividly communicate their own state of edibility. I want to describe the bananas inbuilt colour-coding system as awesome but it’s better than that. It hasn’t just provoked some awe in me, it’s provoked much awe. The colour-coding system of the banana is awemuch. It’s so amazing that I’ve invented a word.
5. Portability. Bananas are supremely portable. They require no implement to eat them, no special container to store them in (they already come wrapped in one) and they don’t need to be cooked. When at home, this is my daily breakfast: A banana, a glass of sparkling water and an espresso. That’s three things to carry away from the kitchen. But I only have two hands. Fortunately though, the banana’s innate portability means that it fits perfectly into my trouser pocket. Thus, I avoid making a second journey to-and-from the kitchen. Sadly, this practice is also the source of many a ribald remark, such as:
Wife: Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?
Me: It’s a banana in my pocket.
Or
Houseguest: Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?
Me: It’s a banana in my pocket.
Or:
Houseguest 2: Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?
Me: It’s a banana in my pocket.
Laugh? We nearly…no no, we didn’t. Anyway, the banana can travel anywhere, occasionally without provoking poor innuendo.
6. Prop. You can use it to do all sorts of things. You can make a smile with it – not one an American would like as bananas are yellow, but a smile nonetheless – and you can make an unsmile (what the hell is the opposite of a smile called?).
You can use it as a pretend gun, which is especially useful if people keep enquiring if that’s “…a banana in your pocket…?” You can also pretend it’s a telephone, but then you have to talk into a banana, which makes you look a little bit mad. And you won’t hear anyone talking back. Hopefully.
7. Novelty. Bananas are exotic. Well, unless you’re reading this in Latin America, Africa or Southeast Asia, in which case they probably seem quite humdrum. But in the UK we import all of our bananas. This means that during the Second World War there weren’t any to be had at all; my own father didn’t see his first banana until he was seven years old. Bananas seemed so novel and exotic back then, that during towards the end of WWII people actually advertised their banana flavoured barley pudding mixture(!) by drawing attention to their lack of bananas. Think on that, the next time you’re eating a banana.
*Never eat a married banana.
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7 Reasons It’s Awkward Travelling On The Train (With A Strange Man)
1. It’s Monday morning and I am on the train to London. It’s after 9.00am so the train is fairly empty. I have a a block of six seats to myself. We pull into Maidstone East. A man gets on. He could sit anywhere. But he doesn’t. He sits opposite me, one seat across. Why? Why did he do this? But worse is to follow. He says, ‘Good Morning’. I feel awkward. I know shouldn’t. I know I should just be able to say ‘Good Morning’ back, but it feels strange. A stranger saying good morning to me on a train. I mumble a ‘Hi’ back, feel a bit embarrassed and go back to my book.
2. It’s no more than five minutes later. I am reading, but I can sense the man is looking at me. I feel awkward. I raise my head. Sure enough he is looking at me. He sees my attention on the book has lapsed and takes his chance. ‘Good book?’ he says. ‘So far, it’s very interesting,’ I reply. We spend the next five minutes talking about Harold Larwood. (I am reading his biography). I say we talk about Harold Larwood. He does most of the talking. I pretend to look interested.
3. There is a lull in what was never a flowing conversation. I feel awkward. Is now the time I go back to my book? Or is that deemed rude? Am I now supposed to talk to this man all the way to London Victoria? The man looks towards the window. I see this as the opportunity I have been waiting for. I turn back to my book. And I vow not to look up again.
4. We arrive at London Victoria forty minutes later. We haven’t spoken in that time. I stand up and grab my bag from the rack. The man is still sitting there. What is he waiting for? I feel awkward. What do I do? Am I required to say goodbye? I think about it. In fact I am sure I am about to say it. But I don’t. I just look at him. And half-smile. And half-nod. And half-walk off the train. The other half ran.
5. I’m waiting on the platform for a Wimbledon bound District Line train. Suddenly, from behind a bloke who is no doubt sponsored by Pukka Pies, appears someone I recognise. It’s the man again. And he’s seen me. I feel awkward. Now what do I do? I didn’t say goodbye. Surely that means I don’t say hello. But we can’t just stand next to each other and pretend we are just two people who have never seen each other before. That would be awkward. He’s getting closer. But here comes the train! I feel less awkward. I get on the train. I sit down. The man sits opposite me. I feel awkward.
6. My stop is next. Parsons Green. Surely this man isn’t going to get off here. We have spent twenty minutes not talking to each other. But I haven’t been reading. I have mainly been looking out of the window. But the window is behind the man. So occasionally I’ve caught his eye-line. And I’ve felt awkward. What should I have done? Is he thinking the same as me? Or have I hurt his feelings? Have I made him think he’s boring? Parsons Green arrives. The doors open. I stand up, turn left and alight. I walk down the platform. I dare not look back. I know, I just know, that if I do, he’ll be there. I walk home and never look back.
7. I’m in the kitchen. I’ve just flicked the kettle on. I decide there is probably a 7 Reasons post in this. Something about feeling awkward on the train. I get my notepad out and start scribbling down what happened. I get six reasons done and re-read them. As I read it, I feel awkward. I feel awkward about feeling awkward. I also feel very silly.
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7 Reasons That Vuvuzelas Are Annoying
1. The Obsession. The nation is obsessed with the vuvuzela. It’s impossible to read a newspaper, listen to the radio, watch the television, go to the pub, or read an internet humour site without someone bleating on about vuvuzelas. But I think that this focus on the vuvuzela is causing us to miss out on other World Cup stories. We’re just not getting enough ill-informed conjecture about problems with the ball: Is it that it’s too round? Is it the altitude? Does it fly too straight? Doesn’t it fly straight enough? Does it look too much like a fly?
It's a fly! All of the coverage of the vuvuzelas is preventing us from having what we really want. 24 hour per day coverage of the ball. And more Robbie Savage.
2. The Name. The English language is a fusion of many languages from around the world and a lot of our words come from other countries. We get bungalow from India, sepia from Italy, mammoth from Russia and surrender from France (rather unsurprisingly). Yet it’s safe to say that our language wasn’t aided in its evolution by anyone who had been involved in professional football as, in the past week – from various players and former-players – I’ve heard “vuvulas”, “vuvuslas”, “the horns” and from Sir Geoff Hurst, no less, “uvuvezlas”. The awful mangling of the word vuvuzela is possibly the only thing that’s more grating than the sound of the instrument itself.
3. Stadium Atmosphere. The din of the vuvuzelas drowns out everything else occurring in the stadiums. This isn’t always a bad thing, as it drowned out the sound of happy Germans on Sunday, but it drowned everything else out too. The crowd reaction, singing, cheering, chanting, abuse; in fact, just about all of the things that reflect the partisan nature of football. The drone of massed vuvuzelas is a relentless unremitting cacophany that doesn’t abuse the referee, ask Fabio to dance, play the theme from The Great Escape (sorry, poor argument); doesn’t do anything fun or interesting at all. It’s just noise. An incessant racket that drowns out everything good about the stadium atmosphere. Everything.
4. Domestic Atmosphere. The vuvuzela operates at a similar pitch and tone to the human voice which means that, when you’re viewing the World Cup at home, you’re trying to filter out the frequency that other people in the room are speaking at. Thanks to the vuvuzela, if my wife turned to me during a match and said, “Would you like a beer?” or “Jennifer Aniston’s at the door, she wants to know if you can come out to play,” I probably wouldn’t hear her. Experience tells me that she’s unlikely to say either of those things, but what if she did and I missed it? Catastrophe. I hate going to the fridge.
5. Envy. It’s substantial, straight and three feet long, and I must say that I’m quite jealous, as there’s no way I could take anything like that to a football match in England. I’d probably be fed to a police-horse or charged with possession of a vuva vovos avuvuvu…“I’ll let you off with a caution this time sonny, now on your way”. We don’t even get trusted with bottled water over here.
6. Sound. The sound of massed vuvuzelas is like the sound of a swarm of angry wasps, but deeper. Usually, the larger an animal is, the deeper the sound that they make – so it’s giant angry wasps that we’ll hear the sound of all summer. Giant angry wasps! Well I certainly won’t be falling asleep during a match, or at any time at all during the summer. Except when Andy Townsend’s “analysing” the action, that is.
7. We’re Stuck With Them. There is only one thing that would be worse than enduring the sound of the vuvuzela: That would be banning the vuvuzela. Just because we Europeans have our own expectations of how a football match should be viewed, it doesn’t mean that they should be forced on the rest of the world. This is South Africa’s World Cup, and god knows they’ve earned it. World Cup 2010 should be a uniquely African spectacle and, much to my annoyance, this includes that giant dung beetle thing from the opening ceremony and the bloody vuvuzelas. But we shouldn’t be downhearted about this; sometimes the most memorable parts of World Cups are the unique things that the host nations bring to them. Mexico ’86’s wave, Argentina ’78’s ticker-tape, Italia ’90’s Three Tenors and USA ’94’s blank incomprehension about some sort of soccer-ball tournament going on. Long after many of the matches and incidents are forgotten, these are the memories that remain. And so it will be with the vuvuzela. We will have to suffer it for a month or so, but in time it’ll be the thing that the tournament is remembered for. We may even feel nostalgia for it. Eventually.
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7 Reasons You Shouldn’t Write 7 Reasons While Watching The Football
It seemed like a good idea at the time. Ghana v Serbia, one of those games that I’m not desperate to see, but because it’s the World Cup I feel I should. So I did in the knowledge that it would also give me 90 minutes (plus half time) to write 7 Reasons. Easy.
1. The Girlfriend (Part A). She knows I’m watching the football whilst trying to write 7 Reasons. She asks me what the topic is. I say, ‘Darling, it’s 7 Reasons you shouldn’t write 7 reasons while watching the football’. She muses for a second, then replies, ‘Multitasking. Men can’t multitask’. I look around. She’s on the kitchen floor, watching the football, talking to me and cleaning a barbecue grill with a toothbrush. I feel admiration for my girlfriend. She can multitask with the best of them. But now I feel challenged. I must finish my 7 Reasons piece before Ghana finish Serbia. I don’t like the pressure.
2. Spelling. I spend more time concentrating on the football than on the page in front of me. This is dangerous, as when I don’t concentrate I have a habit of miss-spelling ‘tootbrush’, writing the incorrect version of ‘peace’ and adding multiple erroneous apostrophes. I also spell ‘eronous’ incorrectly.
3. Clive Tyldesley. Nothing is really happening in the game. Ghana have a throw-in just inside their own half. If I am ever going to get a chance to write something while watching the football, this is it. I look down. But as soon as I do Clive gets excited. I can only assume this is coincidence. I look up. Nothing is happening. Serbia have a goal-kick. I look down. Clive gets excited. I look up. Nothing is happening. I look down. Clive gets excited. I look up. Nothing is happening. I look down. I feel my neck. It’s beginning to hurt.
4. Immaturity. I see a player called ‘Panstil’. This amuses me. I spend ten minutes desperately trying to think of a joke that involves the word pants. I finally think of one. All I need is for Panstil to make a sliding tackle and lose his shorts. If he does I can say, ‘Lucky he’s still got his panstil’. I then realise this isn’t very funny. I note I still have a lot of growing up to do.
5. The Girlfriend (Part B). We are into the second half-time. The score-line reads Reasons Done 3 – Reasons Still To Go 4. My girlfriend – now attacking the grill with a brillo pad – asks what I’ve got so far. I read them to her. I wait for the laughter. It comes. Eventually. But then, so does, ‘You have a very strange brain’. I would have preferred her to compliment my shorts. I am wearing nice shorts. Clive gets excited. I look up.
6. Other Sport. Watching the football means I am missing all the other sport that’s on. I still am not sure which position Jenson Button is on the grid – and the F1 coverage has started on the other side. Nor, by watching the football, am I keeping up to date with the domestic cricket scene. I stop writing reasons for a minute. I also stop watching the football. I check cricket scores on my iPhone. I look around. My girlfriend is looking at me. I realise I am not doing much in the way of multitasking. Clive gets excited. I turn back to the screen. Nothing is happening. I have fifteen minutes to think of a final reason.
7. The Girlfriend (Part C). I am struggling to think of a seventh. My girlfriend asks me how I am getting on. I say, ‘Darling, I am struggling to think of a seventh’. She replies, ‘Well if you manage to think of a seventh I know that you can multitask. So next time the football is on you can peel some potatoes too.’ I am conflicted. She has just given me the seventh reason I shouldn’t have written this while the football was on. I have done it. I have proved men can multitask. But I have also proved why men shouldn’t multitask. Clive gets excited. It’s full-time. Ghana have won. And so has The Girlfriend.
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Russian Roulette Sunday: Race A Bed
Approximately 50% of the 7 Reasons Team attended the Great Knaresborough Bed Race yesterday. Held annually in the North Yorkshire town of Knaresborough, the bed race is a quirky traditional event much like cheese-rolling or bog-snorkelling (in fact, it contains elements found in both of those events).
The bed race takes place every June and consists of teams comprising six runners and one rider pushing their bed on a short circuit around the (almost impossibly) hilly market town, including climbing a one in five gradient, before eventually arriving at the River Nid. Teams then launch their bed and themselves into the water and cross the river, before dragging themselves and their bed out, up a steep muddy bank, at the other side. It looks ridiculously hard. Though fun.
You might be wondering why we’re telling you about this. The reason for this is, when watching the waterborne part of the bed race from a wooden rowing boat on the River Nid (the place to watch it) a friend turned to me and said, “This is amazing, there’s only one thing that would be better than watching this from the river.”
I was fairly certain that I knew where this was going but I bit anyway, “What?”
“Being in the bed race.”
Now, I thought about this idea for quite some time and it actually is a good one. It looks challenging, fun, and a bit eccentric – all of the things we love here. This is why we’re looking for volunteers to join the 7 Reasons Great Knaresborough Bed Race 2011 Team. At the moment we’re looking for runners, not riders, and applicants must be able to push heavy beds up and down steep hills and swim with a bed on their shoulders. In short, you’ll need to be very fit, and very daft (and possibly a little soft in the head).
They haven’t opened entries for 2011 yet, but usually they need to be in by January/February so there’s plenty of time to decide, but we would like to get a rough idea of who’s interested so please get in touch with [email protected] and let us know if you want to come and help us die with a bed next June.
We haven’t chosen a charity yet, we’ll put that to the vote amongst team members. So if you have a particular cause you feel should be benefiting from this madness, you’ll need to sign up. Here’s a rough idea of what to expect:
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Guest Post: 7 Reasons Why Summer Is Ace
Oh how we do like to be beside the seaside. Which is why today Marc and I have dressed in our nauticals and headed off for the beach. In doing so we leave the 7 Reasons sofa in the capable hands of Liz Gregory. Someone who probably now wishes she was at the seaside with us instead of clearing up our biscuit crumbs. Once you’ve read Liz’s piece, do pop over to her blog, Things To Do In Manchester, and say hello. She’s waiting for you. With an ice-cream.
1. More Daylight. This is of course the original and best reason why summer is better than winter. You don’t feel like you’re getting up in the middle of the night to go to work, and you don’t have the urge to put your pyjamas on the second you get home – somehow the day just seems to have more hours in it. Although mathematically, of course, it doesn’t.
2. Barbecues. What other occasion allows you to consume a meal consisting entirely of meat? Sure, you may wish to bump up the nutritional value by adding a fruit/vegetable item such as ketchup, but you are under absolutely no pressure to do so. There is no other repast in the world that permits this kind of sausage-based frenzy, so we should embrace it while we can. And because the food is eaten outside in the fresh air, it is officially incredibly healthy and good for you.
3. No Tights. I admit this is largely a female-interest point (or so I presume), but I’m sure men have an equivalent item they are glad to leave behind come summer. Where there are tights, there is discomfort, particularly for tall girls who may encounter gusset-issues, or smaller girls who may suffer from bagging at the ankles. Summer weather frees us from such tyranny, and as a bonus also allows for the painting of toe-nails and the donning of flip flops.
4. Acceptability of Pink Wine. There are certain drinks that are only acceptable in the summer months, pink wine being one of them. Anything tastes nice when consumed outside in the sunshine, leading people with normally impeccable taste to enthusiastically adopt drinks they would eschew at other times of the year; Pimm’s also falls into this category. Somehow, in June a glass full of sweet alcohol crammed randomly full of lumps of cucumber seems right; you will have returned to your senses by Autumn, so do not be frightened by this kind of temporary lapse.
5. Beer Gardens. Sometimes better in thought than actuality; many of the beer gardens near where I live are in fact trestle tables lined up around the edge of the car park. Still, use your imagination (or simply live in the country as opposed to central Manchester), and you could be somewhere really picturesque. Plus, there’s always the amusement of watching someone at a nearby table leap up and hare across the pub, pursued by angry wasps who wish to share their pint of lager.
6. Tabloid Newspapers. Tabloids were made for summer. Hot days will inevitably lead to pictures of bikini-clad lovelies cavorting in fountains, dogs playing with hose-pipes and parrots eating ice-cream; this is a part of our cultural heritage of which we are justly proud. Real news is simply put on hold until September, or is tucked safely away behind the pictures of children with Slush Puppy cartons on their heads.
7. The Seaside. The British seaside is a wondrous thing, demonstrating the wonder of humanity in its many forms. Here we eat bubblegum-flavoured ice-cream, paddle in seaweed-infested waters, and trample on the complex sandcastles and villages that nearby children have spent hours crafting. Pack a lovely picnic (must include pink wine – see Reason 4) and enjoy the feeling as your shoulders start to burn; remember, the rest of the summer will be wet, so plenty of time for the redness to fade.