Tag: DRUGS

7 Reasons I Have A Le Tour De France Heart Shaped Problem

I have a problem. Le Tour de France is French. I know. Shocking isn’t it? But that’s not really my biggest problem. The biggest problem is that I like Le Tour de France. A lot. I always have. Ever since Gary Imlach was born. This all means that I like something French. Bad times. Here’s why:

1. Time. This isn’t just a case of me liking France for eighty-minutes (I have been known to support them over Wales, Scotland & Ireland in the past – purely for England’s gain you understand). This is a case of liking France for three whole weeks. Three! Weeks! That’s nearly a month! It’s 5.7% of the year! That must be against the law.

2. The Countryside. I hate the way TV directors cut to aerial shots of the French countryside. The sprawling fields. The streams. The chateaux. Even the vineyards – and I’m not a wine fan – look appealing. And the sun’s always shining. The sun always shines in France. And in that minute I forget myself. And I fall in love. I fall in love with France.

3. Village. On ITV’s coverage they send Ned Boulting off up the road to a small remote village that last saw pair of shorts in 1972. In a matter of hours 180 cyclists are going to zoom through the place, so Ned enquires with the locals as to how the preparations are going. Are they excited? Do they know what a bike is? Usually they seem somewhat bewildered. Which is understandable. Given Boulting’s passing resemblance to Matt Allwright, through the haze of Gauloises one could be forgiven for thinking they are about to star in a poor man’s Rogue Traders. It never happens though. Boulting just talks about bikes. And the old man continues smoking. And I fall in love with this place. And I want to go there. Right that instant. I want to go to France.

4. Art. If I went outside with my chalks and started wrote ‘Allez Claire!’ on the hill, I would get some funny looks. I’d probably also get a visit from the Police. During Le Tour however, anyone can write anything on the roads apparently. Particularly in the mountains. I can only assume this is because the Gendarmes can’t be bothered to go all the way up Alpe D’heuz to slap a €100 fine on someone who will have long gone. The art itself is brilliant. It’s like wordle. On a road. genius. I want to be a French graffiti artist.

5. Supporters. I have seen Le Tour de France live twice. Once in 1994 when they went through Sussex – and I lived twenty minutes away – and once in 2007 when they rode around Buckingham Palace and I lived a ten minute walk away. In terms of effort, it didn’t take much on my part. The French though, they head up mountains in their caravans and then wait for days until the peloton (plus the stragglers) pass them. It’s a whole lot of effort for a few minutes of live action. And I love them for it. Because they’re stupid. I love the French public.

6. Laurent. You might be startled to hear this, but my favourite rider is the late Laurent Fignon. A Frenchman. And it has absolutely nothing to do with his ability as a rider. It’s because he wore glasses. It’s because, due to his glasses, he was nicknamed ‘The Professor’. It’s because he looked a bit like Christopher Walken. Without his glasses.* So what? Well, in the days before I wore contact lenses, I wore glasses. And let me tell you, riding your bike, in the rain, with glasses on, is terrifying. It’s also thrilling. Which is why, whenever I went out cycling in the rain, I would pretend I was Laurent Fignon.** And every year, when Le Tour is on, I am reminded of this. I am reminded of the time I loved pretending I was a Frenchman.

Laurent Fignon (Not former 7 Reasons guest writer, Dr Simon Percy Jennifer Best)

7. The Run In. The final stage of Le Tour sees those who have managed to stay on their bikes for the duration cycle towards the finish on the Champs-Elysees. The best thing about this is that it is tradition for all the riders to drink Champagne on route. Then, when they’ve knocked backed the bottles, they put their heads down prepared for one last race around downtown Paris. An eight-lap course which features a significant section of cobblestones. This is French ingenuity at its best. Not only have you pushed your body to its absolute limit with little more than bum blisters and crack rash to show for it, now you’ve been intoxicated with alcohol ahead of one of the most dangerous surfaces on which one could possibly ride. Well done France. You’re funny.

*At this time A View To A Kill was my favourite Bond film. The first half of it anyway.

**Wondering who I pretended to be when I played cricket in the garden? Listen to the all-new 7 Reasons podcast this forthcoming Russian Roulette Sunday. ***

***This may or may not happen.

July 5, 2011
7 Reasons They Treat Me With Suspicion In The Pharmacy

My girlfriend asked me to pick a prescription up for her. Oh dear.

1. The Set-Up. ‘Hello,’ I say, ‘I’ve come to pick a prescription up for my girlfriend’. ‘Okay,’ the pharmacist replies. This is good. I had worried the pharmacist might treat me with suspicion. But men picking up prescriptions for their girlfriends is obviously something he sees a lot. ‘What’s the name?’ he asks me. ‘Claire Elizabeth Quinn,’ I say. Or at least that is what I meant to say. Instead I can’t quite get the words out and end up saying, ‘Clar Lizabet Queen’. ‘Pardon,’ he replies, now viewing me with slight suspicion.

2. The Name. I know my girlfriend’s name. I know it off by heart. I have said it hundreds of times. I should just say it again. I can do that. Only I don’t. I actually look at the piece of paper I have in my hand and read from it. I am reading my girlfriend’s name out! I am acting as if I don’t know her! I look up and the pharmacist is looking at me. He is actually looking right at me. As if I’m a bit insane. Either that or as if I am someone trying to pick up drugs that aren’t mine.

3. The Search. After what seems like a five minute pause, the Pharmacist starts looking for the prescription. And he keeps looking. And he keeps looking. But he can’t find it! He turns back to me. I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking, ‘Is this guy genuine?’ But what is worse, he knows, that I know, that he is thinking, ‘Is this guy genuine?’. I shuffle uncomfortably.

4. The Pharmacist’s Assistant. The pharmacist calls for back-up. It appears in the form of a woman from behind me. I hadn’t even seen her when I walked in. Was she hiding? Was she a body language expert? Could she identify a prescription stealer just by looking at someone’s shoulders? Oh, this is stupid. Why am I feeling conscious? I really am Clar Lizabet Queen’s boyfriend. ‘Just a minute,’ she says to me. Oh my goodness! She’s going to call the police!

5. The Address. But she doesn’t call the police. Instead she shouts out from a room to the back of the pharmacy, ‘What’s the address?’ Oh no! What’s the address? I can’t remember the address! I can’t remember my address! I feel a knot tighten in my stomach. ‘Stay calm’, I tell myself, ‘just focus’. I take a deep breath, open my mouth and give her my address. It’s definitely the right address. I’m sure it’s the right address. I think.

6. The Wait. But then all there is silence. No confirmation that I had indeed named my address correctly. Just silence. And then the pharmacist goes to the back of the shop and suddenly I am alone. And the silence is all around me. What are they doing? I look around. I see women’s things. The pharmacy is full of women’s things! Thankfully the pharmacist’s assistant reappears. ‘It won’t be a minute,’ she says. ‘Thanks,’ I reply. But I’m not really thankful because she has gone to her place of hiding in the front of the shop again and I can feel her staring into my back.

7. The Handover. Eventually the pharmacist himself appears and hands me the prescription. But I can tell he’s still not sure. He’s still not sure about me. He’s loathed to hand it over to me. It seems ever-so-slightly like it’s stuck to his hand. I feel bad snatching it from him. I give him my thanks and leave the pharmacy. My walk home turns into a jog. I hide in the garden.

August 4, 2010
7 Reasons to Paint Your Front Door Orange

1. Be unique. No one has an orange front door. Have you ever seen one? No, nobody has. Having an orange front door would mark you out as an individual – like wearing a pointy-hat or carrying a piano-accordion, but less embarrassing.

2. Annoy the neighbours. Painting your front door orange would annoy your neighbours. Their houses would be completely overshadowed by your own, which would become the dominant feature of your street. When giving directions to their own home, your neighbours would have to refer to yours, “You can’t miss it, it’s two houses down from the one with the orange door…”. They would seethe, inwardly, every time they mentioned it, and perhaps frown too.

3. View. Your house would have the best view of your street, as it would be the only one that you definitely wouldn’t be able to see the orange door from.

4. Visibility. Have you ever got drunk and become lost on the way home? I have. Not totally lost – I’m at home now, but lost enough to find myself on the other side of town at 5am heading in the wrong direction – possibly towards Budapest. With an orange door you’ll at least have a fighting chance: If you are able to find your street, you’ll be able to find your house.

5. Friends. It won’t just be you that can find your house. Your friends will be able to find it more easily too. They’ll come and visit more often. The exasperatedly-intoned phrase “I know it’s one of the ones down here on the left” would be heard no more and would probably be replaced with the phrase “Good god! There it is”. You’ll be more popular.

6. Drunk people. It’s a well known fact that alcohol lowers inhibitions, so your curiously coloured door would probably attract the attention of gregarious drunk people. This is great, as drunk people can be fun. They’re often generous and happy to share their tipple of choice with others, usually after declaring their undying love and friendship. So now your friends will come and see you regularly, and drunk people will visit you too, probably bringing beer with them. That’s a party. Woohoo!

Dutch People

7. Holland. It’s a well known fact that Dutch people are crazy about the colour orange, so you’d probably be inundated with your local Dutch population. Dutch people are fantastic. They’re tall, which is more space-efficient than being fat, and they speak many languages, making them brilliant at communicating with your friends and the drunk people at your constant house-party. Also, if the national stereotype is even remotely true, they will probably have drugs with them. And pornography. So, with the booze, the drugs, the drink and the porn, you’ll soon find that you aren’t just having a party, you’re having an orgy. In fact, you’re a bit like Hugh bloody Hefner*! And all because you painted your front door orange.

*Our legal team has asked us to point out that Hugh bloody Hefner does not have an orange door.

March 9, 2010
7 Reasons Andre Agassi’s Career Should Not Be Overshadowed By Crystal Meth Admission

1. Mistakes. We make them. Human’s are pre-programmed to make errors in judgement. It’s why fifteen million people watch the X-Factor. It’s why we failed to launch this blog on time yesterday. No one means to do these things, but there is something beautiful about not being perfect..

2. Andre Agassi – the tennis playing version – was an entertainer, adored the world over for his bowing, his kissing and his silly pony tail. That is who you fell in love with. Don’t forget it.

3. His autobiography, ‘Open’ hits the shelves soon. Waterstone’s only have so much space in their stockroom. To boycott Agassi’s book, is to prevent booksellers bringing in other titles. Like ‘Methematics For Dummies’.

4. There is no evidence that Crystal Meth is a performance enhancing drug. At least in the sporting arena. All we know, is that when Agassi got high, he had an urge to whip out the feather duster and polish the bookcase. Nothing wrong with a spot of cleaning now and again is there?

5. He’s retired. The future generation of tennis stars aren’t watching Agassi. They are watching Murray and Nadal. They are the role-models of today and we should be thankful for that. The game needs bigger biceps and more monotone voices.

6. We don’t remember Jennifer Capriati or Martina Hingis for anything other than their performances on court. Or their legs. Agassi should be treated in a similar vein. His legs were superbly crafted specimens.

7. I haven’t looked at Agassi’s bank account recently, but I doubt he’s short of cash. So I don’t buy the usual, ‘let’s put this in the book to sell more copies’ accusation. I think he’s genuinely sorry and if his name is now tarnished, well, then he feels he deserves it. Or maybe his ghost writer holds a grudge?

Do you want to save Andre’s reputation? Join the campaign in the comments section.

October 28, 2009