Cresswell Of Zanzibar.

We were given some outlandish white linen outfits before being ushered into the changing rooms.

At this stage of the honeymoon my beard was quite full and unkempt, and my skin had developed into a deep, leathery shade of terracotta.

When I emerged with my full, majestic, ankle length robe and sandals, I felt very powerful.

I had assumed some sort of biblical aura, needing only a staff and some indoctrinated followers to complete the look. Ok, and possibly some hair on the top of my head too. Perhaps I looked slightly more likely to be the French horn player with the Polyphonic Spree, but either way I felt fantastic, and nothing was going to piss on my fire.

Lisa looked radiantly beautiful. Wearing similar garb, her eyes were effervescent with transmissions from a golden heart; glowing with love, full of life, relaxed and happy.

It was a brilliantly surreal moment, and I felt weightless.

We wandered into a temple that flickered with a gentle sprinkling of candlelight, and I suddenly contemplated that we might be part of some bizarre religious sacrifice. 

I thought I recognised some of the low maintenance easy listening music as it softly dripped from the walls.

“I’m not sure this is authentic music”, suggested Lisa.

I had to admit there was an unrefined childlike simplicity about the recording. I tried to suppress my natural instincts, but couldn’t resist eventually humming along to an intriguing instrumental interpretation of “Do You Know The Way To San Jose”.

I desisted, however, when “Lady In Red” by Chris De Burgh appeared.

What a thoroughly disgusting song - wetter than Daryl Hannah at the end of the movie ‘Splash’.

We lay for a while in a toasty bath that had a medley of petals floating gently to and fro on the surface. My brain, often heavy with the remotest of irrelevant nagging thought, began to empty, and for the first time in a while I managed not to be consumed with worry.

Eventually, two politely smiling ladies wandered in, we got dried off, and jumped up side by side onto a pair of massage tables. 

The ‘deep muscle’ massage provided by these two tiny women was delivered with an unusually robust fortitude. I’d swear that my masseuse had the strength of an Olympian. It was entirely remarkable - a curious mix of being soothing and desperately painful, all at the same time. 

My head was poking downwards through a padded outlet in the table, and underneath me was a small pot of multi-coloured flowers, pleasantly arranged to relax the eyes whilst your neck and back were being squeezed, poked, slapped and prodded.

I closed my eyes, and my head started to spin.

I opened my eyes and imagined that I was lying on my back instead of my front, and for one split second I hallucinated that I was lying inside a coffin due to be cremated. 




'Superb', I thought.

Job Centre.

The job centre is a fascinating place.


Fascinatingly awful.

A well of genuine awfulness.

It is the place you arrive at having been swallowed by the quicksand.
A place for the disillusioned to become further disillusioned.
Purgatory on earth.
A smoking cauldron of bad vibes.
An itch you cannot scratch.
A dull mound of sorrow.
A place of supposed hope, that provides nothing but perpetual hopelessness.

A cave of universal misery.


Oh, it's not that bad.


It's worse.

It was 11.30 in the morning.
I joined the queue, and listened to people as they approached the greeting podium.
The security guard kept staring at me, as if I potentially presented some sort of threat.

I winked at him, and he looked away.


"I was supposed to sign on at 9 this morning", said one person.

"I'm in a rush because I have to be in court at 12", said another.


I handed in my slip of paper indicating my legitimacy to a lady who seemed drained by the world and it's collective woes.

She gave my details to the suspicious security guard, who's eyes narrowed as he assessed me once more, then beckoned me towards a bank of seats occupied by fellow jobseekers.

I recognised one gentleman sat there.
He had a carefully organised sideburn on each cheek that pointed towards his mouth in the shape of a dagger. When I first came across him he was wearing a suit. He looked sharp and keen, sat upright holding a large pad and pen. Actually, the pen was in fact only normal size. Now, he looked bedraggled and sorry. Week after week his appearance and quality of clothing had deteriorated. Stubble was fast eating away at the perfection of his striking facial hair concept, and he was now wearing an unflattering combination of flip flops and jogging bottoms.

Poor bastard.
It had only taken a month or so for the last thimble full of optimism that he had retained to be beaten out of him by this depressing protocol. Now he just looked like a bum. With no pad, or pen. He clutched his mobile phone as if it was a passport to freedom, a life jacket, a parachute - it had come to resemble a symbol of hope.

Maybe it would ring and he'd get some good news...

"No mobiles in here", said the security guard pointing at the guy's mobile phone. He had removed his glasses to indicate the seriousness of the situation.

The security guard, whose belly was disproportionate enough to give him a triangular profile, was seemingly irritating everyone. He sent a pregnant woman up several flights of stairs to sign on, only for her to reappear moments later:

"Apparently I'm supposed to be down here", she said, out of breath.

"Well I don't know, do I?" said the portly, uniformed git.


I couldn't help but notice, as 5 or 6 of us sat in wait for our slice of enlightened advice, that no one seemed to be doing anything.

Loads of staff, not doing anything.

Just sat there talking to each other, shuffling papers like broadcasters at the end of a news bulletin. The main topic of conversation seemed to be who was having what lunch break and when were they finishing their shift. This was sporadically communicated via the sensitive medium of shouting loudly across the room at each other.

"I don't know why I bother", said the chap next to me, who I now discovered was responsible for the dull cigarette stench lingering in the air. "All they ever do is suggest I get a job repairing air-conditioning ducts..."

I nodded in a non-committal but user-friendly fashion. I had made a special pact with myself not talk to anyone at all unless it was completely essential. I had been hoping that it would not end up being a suicide pact, but it was not looking good for me. Ladbrokes had stopped taking bets on that eventuality.

I get called over to speak to a lady who I have spoken to maybe 5 or 6 times in the past. Each time she acts as if she's never seen me before and asks me questions as if she's never spoken to me before. I walk past a co-worker of hers - a guy sat behind the desk next to her who I'm pretty sure was enjoying some alcoholic refreshment in the pub on the corner prior to his next appointment.

"How are you?" Said Vanessa, as I sat down and slowly lowered my forehead within millimetres of her desk.

"Not that good", I replied, in a rare fit of honesty.

"Excellent stuff", said Vanessa, pre-occupied with her computer screen.

She studied my jobsearch documentation evidence booklet, scanning over a deliberately poorly written paragraph in which I had written:

"Why do I bother writing this? You're looking at it, but not reading it - why don't you just smile and sign me off as usual".




She smiled and signed me off as usual, before, incredibly (given the amount of times she's asked me before), asking what kind of job I was interested in.



"I'd like to get a job repairing air-conditioning ducts", I said.

Canada, eh?

“Canada is the linchpin of the English-speaking world”.

Winston Churchill

“In a world darkened by ethnic conflicts that tear nations apart, Canada stands as a model of how people of different cultures can live and work together in peace, prosperity, and mutual respect”.

Bill Clinton

“A Canadian is sort of like an American, but without the gun”.

Anonymous

Princess Di died the day before I left for Canada.

I woke up in my friend Erin Crackel’s house, turned on the TV and it was on every channel.

I guess that means it’s true what they say 'when really famous people die': you do remember where you were when you found out.

‘Gap years’ between the end of school and going to university had started to become quite trendy - delaying the wisdom gained in the lecture theatre, in favour of the wisdom gained from getting pissed overseas - and I had planned on utilising this convenient excuse to get away and earn some ‘life experience’ well before my acrimonious departure from school would mean that the ‘gap’ year away would become simply a ‘year’ away.

Ashamedly, I had pooh-poohed the noble, global, volunteering placements that were snapped up joyfully by my fellow gap year students, and instead gave myself a choice between spending a year shearing sheep in New Zealand, or going to the Rocky Mountains in Canada and working in a ski resort.

My heart (and head) chose Canada.

I appreciated that both countries could offer vast open spaces, big clear skies, the freshest of fresh air, poor quality lager-beer, beautiful scenery, and friendly locals – but Canada could also offer large public bins made of industrial bear-proof metal, maple syrup, streets named after rodents, and Neil Young.

In my locker, I possessed fat sideburns, a love of snow/the cold, some Radiohead bootleg CD’s, and a wardrobe full of checked shirts, all of which I thought would be very useful in my new home from home.

On the extensively long plane journey, I struck up conversation with a plucky Cornishman, who seemed disorientated, but relaxed. Given the brash youthful naivety in attendance, he was clearly comforted by his palpable intellectual superiority.

We had much in common, and even more not in common.

He was from a sleepy backwater in the middle of nowhere; I was from a sleepy backwater in one of the biggest cities in the world. 

He had a sharp tongue, dry wit, sturdy outdoor footwear, and dark sense of humour; I also had a tongue, and was wearing a pair of shoes. 

Having enjoyed a few gin and tonics we talked about John Stuart Mill, ice-fishing, Bob Dylan, human behaviour, sturdy outdoor footwear, gin and tonic, the differences between an elk and a moose, the remoteness of being, the fact that the best thing about life was that it couldn't go on forever, and how youth ended and middle agedness crept in when the broadness of the mind and the narrowness of the waist changed places.

We both decided right there and then that not only did I know nothing about these things, but also that we would probably be good friends for the rest of our lives.

On my arrival in Banff, a small town in the centre of the serenely stunning eponymous National Park, the Cornishman (who went by the name ‘Joseph Ouseph’), myself and 5 other bewildered humans were put together in a sizeable rickety wooden house – part alpine lodge without the creature comforts, part former nursing ward, part poorly built shed from Homebase, part Addams Family holiday home.

The first thing that struck me, other than the sight of a large elk asleep in our front garden, was that we had inherited the world’s worst front door. Not only did it not have a lock, but no catch to stop it from swinging wide open. An old vacuum cleaner propped up against it from the inside was used to perform these basic duties. 

Whilst our new (timidly nice and polite) housemates settled for various pokey student-esque box rooms, Ouseph and I somehow managed to snatch a room that was roughly a third of the size of the entire house. Complete with skylight, our own bathroom, and a walk-in wardrobe that would have garnered two thumbs up from Elton John.

We lived on ‘Squirrel Street’.

All of the streets in Banff are named after animals. 

There was ‘Bear Street’, ‘Caribou Street’, ‘Wolf Street’, ‘Cougar Street’, ‘Deer Street’, ‘Otter Street’, ‘Rabbit Street’, ‘Pangolin Street’, ‘Vole Street’, ‘Moose Street’, ‘Beaver Street’, ‘Antelope Street’, and my personal favourite…’Marmot Crescent’.

Most of our co-workers lived down the road in the wonderfully named “Moose and Beaver Apartments", on the corner of the Moose and Beaver intersection.

Once settled, we made our way up a nearby mountain at a time in the morning that I barely knew existed, to our new place of work. We were greeted on our first day by tough, work-hardened husband and wife double act, Denise and Martin. 

Denise was a broad-armed straight talker, with inflated thighs, firm jaw, and a thirsty lust for cheap food and hard liquor.

Martin, apparently, was actually a 'toy boy' husband, who looked to the naked eye to be much older than his wife. It soon transpired that he was in fact 10 years younger, but his skin had aged cruelly due to the over application of anti-ageing cream, which had left him looking craggy and weathered. 

In my whole time there I don’t remember him speaking at all.

Together they made a very impressive team. 










TO BE CONTINUED...

The Ben.

I boarded a train.

The chap next to me (not happy with buying a McDonald’s burger and fries, bringing it into a semi-packed train, and consuming it) took out the gherkin (a traditional act for some) threw it into the air and tried to catch it in his mouth.

He did not manage to catch all of it in his mouth and some juice/sauce went on his nose. 

Now, I’ve seen many things in my life – sunsets, famous people arguing with bus drivers, the future, various marsupials, the unlikely theft of a barber shop sign, construction cranes falling over train lines, and even a blow-up doll in someone’s hotel room on Valentine’s Day – but never, ever, have I witnessed such a spectacle.

I wondered whether it would be against social protocol to punch him in the balls and then flick his forehead, but decided that my negative wishes for his future well being would suffice.

Still semi-drunk and feeling quite sickly on the back of some heavy duty liquid booze consumption the night before (a cunning training exercise for what was on the horizon…) I passed time, as is my way, by listening to other people’s conversations:

“What’s green and would kill you if it fell from a tree?” Asked one chap with big shoes to his average-height friend.

“A pool table”? Came the response.

“I like it, but I’ll never remember it”, I thought, wrongly.


That is to say I don't like it, and I have remembered it.

“What was the highest mountain in the world before Mount Everest was discovered”?  A mum asked her kid, clad in school uniform (the kid, not the mum), almost as if it was important revision-based information in preparation for an impending test/exam.

“Box Hill”? Said the kid, somewhat mischievously, but in a frustrated tone that suggested she’d been asked many questions on this journey already.

“It was still Mount Everest…it just hadn’t been discovered yet!”, Said the mum, looking pleased with herself.

The kid rolled her eyes, and although I felt her pain, the topic of conversation, highly relevant as it was, intrigued me.

After a pleasant enough journey that managed to pass without me vomiting on the unfortunate sod sat next me who had already been dealing with my excessive alcoholic perspiration, I managed to gather my thoughts, and backpack, as I made my way to Heathrow Terminal 5. The plan was to meet up with 10 of my nearest and dearest, under specific instruction that we were going to climb the mighty Ben Nevis the following day…

In America they call it a ‘Bachelor Party’.

In Australia: ‘Buck’s night’, and in South Africa: ‘Bull’s Night’.

In England we call it a ‘Stag Do’.

Unfortunately for me it was my ‘do’.

I wasn’t particularly looking forward to it, and, frankly, why would you? Your friends doing their best to pour more booze down your neck than you could physically contain/tolerate, followed by a heavy portion of public humiliation. All in a chaotically demented 80 hour stretch.

But then I thought: “Hang on…

…There was a time when being in the company of all your closest friends whilst they plied you with free booze would’ve been the stuff of dreams”. Plus, as long as there were no ‘four-legged friends’, Tory MP’s, asparagus spears, lycra bodysuits, eggnog dares or Scottish-hats-with-fake-ginger-hair-attached-to-the-back-in-a-comedy-style involved, I felt I could handle making a fool out of myself – after all, I had already been embarrassing myself socially for years unaided.


To do it in an official, accepted capacity, amongst official acceptors might even be fun.

The decision to climb Britain’s highest mountain was popular when first mooted.

Possibly because we were pissed when Joseph Ouseph suggested it.

Everyone found it hilarious.

We were stupid, because then came the reality...

At over 4,500ft it would take us (me) 7 hours of pain and confusion to get up and down.

Fortunately, although expectations were low, camaraderie was high, and the madness of the task ahead seemed to draw us together. There was also a small tavern at the foot of ‘The Ben’, served by a local distillery, and the climactic lure of strong Scottish whiskey was a highly useful temptation to push us onwards to complete the task ahead.

“I wonder if they’d get up to this kind of malarkey on a hen do”? I asked.

“I don’t think I like the idea of hen do’s – they’re rubbish”, said Joe.

“What’s wrong with Hindus”? Said a confused Bill, joining the conversation late.

I Can't Sleep Tonight.

As a youngster I suffered from regular, recurring, abstract, nightmares.

It was always, always the same thing.

It started with a thin black line in the centre of a beige page.

It sat there motionless, seemingly innocent and harmless, but suspense would grow the longer it sat there inactive, for I knew what was to follow.

After a few minutes it started to twitch.

Slowly at first, irregularly, following incongruent sequences, like a dialysis machine or heart monitor. Then it would gradually build up into more frequent, sporadic and random jerks and loops, until it moved extremely quickly and violently, resembling spaghetti - alive and distressed, a black mass of erratic scribbling, as if someone was drawing chaotically and pointlessly, perhaps whilst blindfolded.

I’d wake, in a hot sweat, and punch the wall, hoping the pain would keep me awake.


It may sound stupid, it is stupid, but it was absolutely terrifying.


The tension eased somewhat, after a couple of years, when I started a new set of recurring dreams about death and/or dying.


A night’s sleep would not pass without a family member, friend or more often myself perishing in some horrible way.

My own demise seemed set to be by drowning, and therefore a painful struggle for oxygen became a regular feature of my late evenings/early mornings.


I guess you could say that I’ve been prepared for death my whole life - I’ve seen it happen to me so many times before.



But I'm no longer scared of drowning, because something strange happened.

I was alleviated of that particular millstone one night in Canada, when I dreamt I was floating in the middle of the lake in the picture above (Lake Louise, Banff National Park).

It was such a pleasant night, and I was very much enjoying myself, just floating about. I could see each and every star in the sky and there was crystal clear silence to accompany the predictably crystal clear water. The only sound made available to my partly submerged ears was the occasional lapping or splashing of water via the gentle movements of my hands and feet.


Then it happened.



I gave up.




Just let go.


I was so happy as I began to quietly drift underwater. There was no kicking or bezerk jerky thrashing for air. No clawing for the surface, no wide-eyed panic or gargled desperation.


It was wonderful.



I didn't fight it, I just slipped away peacefully.




I have never enjoyed 'dying' so much, before or since.

Le Quartier Etrange Et Merveilleux.

My family and I lived in a house just off the high street, by a used-car showroom.

We had a landline number that was easy to remember and a loft with loads of old crap in it.

Next door lived an old man who looked like a cartoon drawing of an old man – he was his own personal caricature, complete with big red nose, comedy glasses, string vest and braces combo, slippers, and broom-bristle moustache. He would stand outside by his front gate people-watching, and would give me information on the latest cricket scores when I walked past, on the way home from school.

Our neighbours on the other side of the house appeared hell-bent on regularly pumping out strong meaty cooking smells. They were a seemingly dysfunctional French family, who possessed very pale skin and had the social skills of people who guard lighthouses.

My best friend, Kingdom (“King”) Miller, lived across the street and we could communicate using walkie-talkies.

We played football in the street during the day and ate fish fingers and chips in the evening.

He also had two brothers: Isambard and Brunel. The Miller kids were named after an English engineer born in 1806, but sadly I can’t remember which one.

I learnt a lot from King. In particular how to be ‘economical with the truth’.

Whilst I was fond of eating pork pies, he was fond of telling them.

In many ways you could argue that he was my earliest inspiration.

His casual, slippery evasiveness wore off on me, and together we were like Bonnie and…well…like ‘Clyde and Clyde’, I guess. Or maybe more like ‘Bo’ and ‘Luke’ from the Dukes of Hazzard, who were early heroes of ours.

Apart from the supremely talented uber-champion Ferris Bueller, you would not find anyone as skilfully adept at faking illness to get out of going to school, or better at sweet talking adults into undeserved sympathy.

His father had walked out on the family when he was very young, so he had developed a nervous yet humorous insecurity about himself, which was in turn endearing, worrying, loveable.


On a lighter note, we had a golden rule that I still obey vigilantly:
“You do not tread on 3 consecutive drains in the pavement”.

To do so was deemed very bad luck indeed.

Think of it as you would any other social faux pas, like breaking a mirror, or walking under a ladder, or throwing a snowball at a passing car, or embezzling hundreds of thousands of pounds from the family business.

2 drains = ok (some even say it’s good luck).
1 drain = no idea (no one cares about treading on 1 drain).
3 drains = bad fucking news.

It was something you just wouldn’t do if you could possibly avoid it.

There was also another rule, adopted by some (not me), that you weren’t supposed to step on the cracks in the pavement for fear that you’d slip through them to your death.

This became extremely tiresome, watching kids nervously hopscotch down the street, trying to avoid death, and I later found out it wasn’t true that you'd die anyway... when I stepped on a crack by accident myself one day, and survived with only minor bruising.

Sentimental, Mental, Tall.

My life changed forever the day I left primary school.

Doesn't everyone's?


Most of my friends were leaving with a group of friends who would be following them to a new school, usually in the local area.


None of my friends were following me to my new school.



I was very upset that none of my friends would be with me at my new school.

I was grumpier than an old sourpuss who had gotten out of the wrong side of bed, tried to make a cup of tea, discovered that there was no milk in the fridge, and then realised that the clocks had gone back so they could’ve enjoyed an extra hour in bed.

As millions of others will testify, you go from being a large carp in a quaint little village pond, knowing every inch and every inhabitant of that pond like (extended) family, to becoming a mere pebble on a beach with...well, millions and millions of pebbles on it.

I was displeased with the on rush of time and the changes that lay ahead of me.




Or so everyone thought.



I was secretly delighted.

It was a chance to start again.

I got rid of more unwanted baggage that day than at Debenhams’ January clearout sale. No one knew me there, no one knew how irritating I was, how upset I’d get if Liverpool lost, or that my mum used to call me “Pickle”.

They soon found out though, of course they did.

I’ve always irritated others, occasionally garnering pleasure from doing so. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I can’t help myself. When someone is visibly counting up a maths problem, deep in concentration, I will shout out random sets of alternate irrelevant numbers to put them off.

I’ve always been irritating…and irritable...sometimes (often) at the same time.

It’s a constant battle, trying not to be too annoying, a battle I’ve been losing for years. I guess that's why I love my 'old' friends so much - they've been putting up with my nonsense for years, and I have no idea why.

My new school was in Ravenscourt Court – a dirty, noisy, busy, Central(ish) London sprawl – it seemed a world away from my sleepy suburban origins and was a huge culture shock for a young lad used to war memorials, antiques, trees and ironmongers.


I was now dwarfed by the bright lights of KFC, 7-Eleven, Ryman and a variety of Wetherspoon public houses.


One of the first lessons at my new school earmarked the path that I was due to tread.

We had to stand up and write ‘3 words to describe yourself’ as a means of social introduction.


One person put ‘Strong, Clever, The Best’, and suffered immeasurably as a consequence for the following 7 years.


Another wrote ‘Stupid, stupid, repetitive” (we became close friends).


I wrote: ‘Sentimental, mental, tall’.




It was completely under-appreciated.




Well, really...

What would you have written?

Sombre Hombres.

“Even when it’s bad, it’s better than when it’s good.” - Sombre Hombres.


Joseph Ouseph and I forged a good partnership.

He was the funniest man I had ever met, and together we laughed very often.


Sombre Hombres was a comedic creation from our collective brainpower.

The loose idea, designed for book or televisual sitcom, was entirely based on our own faults and insecurities, as our ‘facespace’ social networking profile indicates:



“The good old days are gone. That's why they're good - because they're gone." - Loudon Wainwright III.

"Some suggest that the term 'sombrehombres' is an old nautical refrain meaning 'he who laughs and fun'. Others believe that it was coined by the Persians, who would shout this out when alone.

Both is a nonsense.

'Sombre Hombres' really means nothing at all, and yet everything at once.

It is reserved for disheartened companions, hardened souls beleaguered by the frustrations of the universe, who seek comfort in observing the behaviour of others. It is most plausible that you are thinking "do they understand 'joy' and 'kindness'"? Well perhaps one day you could ask them...

Our meeting was both fortuitous and deeply distressing. In fact many has been the time when we had wished this whole ridiculous and painful farce had never been set in motion. 'What are we trying to accomplish?', one might ask; or equally 'Why do you dress that way?'.

These are questions that are valid and yet also profoundly annoying.

To paraphrase Rousseau, man is born free but everywhere he is in chains.

Sombre Hombres exists because of and for these chains. We will provide no answers, no solutions, and little hope to those who seek such things".




Echoing real life, to an extent, the two principal characters shared a mutual fondness for ale, Boules, walking, sitting down, talking, not talking, not walking, park benches, luncheon, music, humour, shoes and Boules.


Boules is the sport of Kings.

If Sport is fashion, then Boules is ‘the little black number’.

If Boules is a race horse, it would be ‘Red Rum’.



Although, Boules is not dead.

It is vibrant.

Like Tabasco sauce.



Here is one Sombre Hombres account of a ‘real life’ Boules tournament:


"The 2nd round of the ‘Pocket Kath Memorial Trophy’ kicked off yesterday amidst chaotic and demented scenes at the Yeovil Aerodrome.

Following the withdrawal of 8-time champion Chastity Darling (shingles) and Intercontinental champion Chiswick Park (metartarsal), the event certainly seemed to lack enough pulling power to guarantee a good attendance, and soon descended into heightened confusion, before inevitable bedlam.

In happenings reminiscent of last year's debacle at the ‘Corby Masters’, Wearside's Tam 'Coughing Buck' Buchanan unwisely renewed his war of words with IBC Secretary, Cahill Morgue - a scuffle ensued and Morgue received a slap to the balls.

With Buchanan disqualified for mal-handage, the afternoon then turned sour for rookie Ahmed Loe, who was fined for setting his alsatian dog “Cupid” onto fellow participant Dr Miguel Umgh.

Play was suspended indefinitely, as staff strained to prevent the looting of local off- licenses by supporters and their parents.”




Sometime, somewhere, somehow it would be nice to live close enough to each other so that we put our rubbish out on the same day again, but I think that that train has probably left the building.

The fat lady has flown and the bird has sung.



Or has it?

The Orange Horse & His Pink Chair.

My lack of doing schoolwork was becoming a real issue.

At GCSE level you can pretty much bluff and guess your way through all the exams - common sense had got me through them.

This was bizarre in itself, considering that my powers of common sense are no better than my powers of levitation - but somehow I had got through them.

At A-Level you cannot use common sense. You need knowledge. Hard facts and real information.


I didn’t actually mind too much the act of sitting in a classroom listening to someone talking about Politics or History or whatever, in some instances it was even entertaining.


Indeed, we had one particular teacher who was a very intriguing figure.


A fossil from the late 60’s/early 70’s, he had leathery brown/orange skin that had witnessed the blazing hot sun in all its glory once too many times, and a large rectangular face, which looked as if it had been carved out of wood.

He wore garish velvet suits, garish velvet ties, and had wild, unruly hair - similar to that of Ludwig Van Beethoven.


First and foremost he was a politics and history teacher, but was also, inexplicably, a rugby coach.

Oddly, but not entirely out of character, he always wore a pair of white felt gloves whilst coaching (akin to those of a snooker referee) and even in the bleakest, coldest, wettest of winters, these gloves never saw a single speck of dirt on them.


He was known as ‘The Orange Horse’, and he had a study on the top floor.


His study was tiny.

Smaller than Danny De Vito, but perhaps slightly bigger than Ronnie Corbett in size, it had a scruffy, puffy, pink armchair which took up the majority of the space. This was positioned underneath the window by the radiator, surrounded by shelf upon shelf upon shelf, holding books on the history of politics, politics and history.

Over the years rebellious students had written various cunning remarks on the pink chair - small excerpts of graffiti that had cropped up over decades of sneaky fun-poking, covered the arms:


*"The Orange Horse = clever wizard of victory in madness."*

*"Horse Power to the people".*

*"Is the Orange man magic? Of Horse he is!"*



One day, the Orange Horse stopped mid-conversation, and stared at a section of scribbling on the left armrest.


He just stared.


And read some of the comments.





He then stared at the right armrest.






Before we knew it he proceeded to draw on his own chair, with a red biro.




We had to spend the rest of the lesson wondering what he could’ve possibly been writing. Then, when he left the room at the end of the lesson, we hurriedly peered over the chair to try and see what he had written:




“Please stop writing on my chair”, it said.

Life On The Mean Streets.

Famous events that have occurred on 24th October:

1857: Sheffield FC, the world’s first football club, is founded.
1926: Harry Houdini ‘s last performance, which is at The Garrick Theatre in Detroit, Michigan.
1945: The United Nations Organisation is born – Allies of World War II ratify the UN charter at a ceremony in Washington DC.

1978: Nicholas Keith Cresswell is born in Queen Mary’s Hospital, Roehampton, London, England.


I weighed 10lbs 10oz at birth.

That is a fact.

No mistake.

There’s no disputing I was a large child. Women spit out their drink when I tell them my birth weight.

“Your poor mum” is the most common response when people discover my borderline-abnormal size as a 1 day old human being.

I found out recently that ‘Andre the Giant’, the famous French wrestler, who was 7ft 4in tall when he died, also weighed 10lbs 10oz at birth.


I’m proud of it. Plus it contains 2 double-digit even numbers.


I grew up in a ghetto of beautiful South West London, called East Sheen.

It was a town packed full of housewives, small children and old people.

Indeed, if you were travelling through Sheen by bus, every scheduled stop yielded a couple of fresh pensioners wearing greyish-brown coats, like a uniform of sorts, and a mum complete with manageable hair and a pushchair.

It got so bad that the oldies venturing onto the vehicle at each stop struggled to find anyone willing to give up their seat, as everyone already sat down was either too old to get up, partially disabled or pregnant.

(Out of interest, who wins the battle of ‘old vs. pregnant’ for a seat on the bus? Does it depend on ‘how’ pregnant the lady in question is? Or indeed how old the 'old' are? How do you decide which is which? Please feel free to debate this with your next of kin).

Well, given the lack of seats available, all I know is that outside the confines of your local “old folk’s home”, you will certainly never see so many confused OAP’s holding on for dear life amassed in such close proximity.

Wherever the elderly are gathered in large numbers you are guaranteed a healthy smorgasbord of charity shops. Sheen obliged handsomely, and was in many ways a real pioneer. Indeed, it was considered by some to be a Mecca of the charity shop universe.

It was also a trailblazer for independent ironmongery shops specialising in the deluxe "Is it a bag or is it a Zimmer frame, oh look…it’s both” market.

This town was simple. It was slow. It was archaic. It was normal.

I loved it, we got on really well.

Hundreds of residents spent their young lives dreaming of escaping the humdrum town, of finding somewhere more interesting and fun to live.


I dreamt of never leaving.

Or at least, perhaps, leaving for pastures new - just so I could return one day, when I was really old, to fight pregnant women for a seat on the bus.

Hedge Surfing.

"Fortune favours the brave - it does not favour the stupid."


In my teens I spent a lot of time with Big Ben and Bill Wood.

...And Byron Crystal.

No, not a sly code word for hallucinogenic drug paraphernalia, but a real living breathing human being, who was witty, sharp, fearless and crazier than Patsy Cline.

He called his parents by their first names, rather than ‘mum’ or ‘dad’, which I found very cosmopolitan.

He liked taking the piss out of the teachers at school. There were lots of worthy candidates, and he was really good at it. There was a ‘Careers Meeting’ one day. We’d hit GCSE-age, and our educational superiors had become obsessed with guiding us towards a life of opportunity and possibility.

We sat in a big room and the teacher told us that our "choice of career was very important".

“I’m still undecided between North and South Korea!”, Byron shouted.


He was very fun.


He was also a key protagonist in the noble art form of ‘Hedge Surfing’.

Hedge Surfing was a simple sport, and became extremely popular amongst my friends, and more amusingly…my brothers.


And all of their friends.


The idea was that you would jump into (or ‘surf’ on top of) a hedge.

That was pretty much that.

Any hedge would do, although the experienced hedge surfer would carefully check the foliage for prickles, firmness, thorns, stinging nettles etc. Not to mention whether or not there was a hidden fence or obstacle within the hedge, and also whether there was soft landing material, such as a lawn or grassy verge on the other side of the shrubbery, thus easing the process of the dismount and preventing unnecessary injury.

Some, like my middle brother, favoured "The Bastard", a form of leaping very similar to the attacking technique of your seasoned high jumper, sometimes with extraordinarily long run-ups to guarantee maximum purchase...


"The Bastard" - an example


This approach carried the most risk of personal injury, but also guaranteed high marks, not to mention the adulation of your peers for outright bravery.

Others, like my eldest brother, if memory serves me correctly, preferred "the Flop-Drop". This, as you can hopefully envisage, involved gradual extended leaning into the hedge with both feet on the ground, until you were completely submerged, or ‘swallowed’ by the hedge, often with a finishing position of having your feet up above your head. This was a style designed for maximum disturbance, amusement and impact, but some say it lacked the finesse and overall "je ne sais quoi" artistry of "the Bastard".

I once surfed the formidable hedges of a certain hotel in London, needing a leg up from both brothers to do so. I jumped up high before rolling off the other side, narrowly missing the bonnet of a parked car.

Amusingly, years later, I would spend my first night as a married man in that very hotel.


I can’t walk around certain parts of the town where I grew up without remembering, sometimes with visual evidence still left intact, our hedge surfing exploits of the mid-to-late 90’s.

Byron Crystal was a keen purveyor of jumping into as many hedges as he could find, no matter the size or risk to his general well being. He was braver than a film critic interviewing Russell Crowe, and as agile as a gibbon.

“You do silly things after a few beers, don’t you?” he’d explain, to the Police.

As you age, drunken exploits become more severe and carry graver consequences, due to your increased responsibilities as an adult. The loss of personal items, such as glasses, house keys or wallets, made you rethink the worthiness of your recklessness - as Big Ben, whose entire pocket contents remain somewhere in amongst a massive bush in the centre of Richmond to this day, will testify...

But when you’re young, cocky, and stupid, you’re up for anything.

One night, I was staying at Byron’s house, and having spent the walk home from the pub throwing ourselves into various hedges, we walked down a road and noticed the frame of a bed, in a skip by the side of the road. Upon closer inspection there was also a mattress, some pillows, and a duvet of sorts. Someone was obviously having a massive clearout, and had dumped an entire bed.

Perhaps, on reflection, a couple had gone their separate ways, and whoever was left in the house decided that new furniture was required.

Either way, we instinctively, mischievously, and some would argue foolishly, pulled out the bedding, and started to re-create an actual bed...on the roof of the nearest car.

First off was the entire bed frame, then the mattress, head board, pillows…

Then, the ‘coup de grace’, the moment of genius. We stuffed some bin bags beneath the duvet to make it appear that there was someone actually asleep, in a bed, on top of the car. I laughed so hard, I wept like a fool. Imagine waking up, getting dressed to go to work, leaving the house to jump in your car, and finding someone asleep, on top of your car.

In a fully made bed.

I seem to remember Byron then suggesting that we then filled the car with water and put some of his fish in it, making it a ‘car aquarium’.

We both decided that was going too far.

In more recent times I’m rehabilitated, and no longer pose a risk to your, or anyone else’s hedgerow.

It all came to a head when I drunkenly hedge surfed a massive 10 footer one night, leaving a (insert your own joke here) Nick-shaped void in the middle of it. Unfortunately, having been woken by my eagle-eyed landlord in the morning, it became apparent that I had surfed (and destroyed) my own hedge, outside my own block of flats, and was therefore going to lose my deposit.


Le jeu a été fait.

Knee's Up.

I had spent the first 14 years of my life convinced that I would captain the English cricket team, play football for Liverpool or become a famous rugby player.

At one point I probably thought I could do all three.

I was wrong, and so were my knees.

Walking was uneasy, I was experiencing discomfort when I attempted to climb stairs and also when I tried to run. Something was very not ok.

I’ll spare you the history of mis-diagnoses and procrastination that I had to sit through to discover what was wrong with them, but so confused were the various professionals who tried to work out the problem, that I was the subject of a special investigatory meeting of medical examiners at a hospital located next to Lord’s Cricket Ground.

The sad, taunting irony of the location did not pass me by.

I was the star attraction at a knee freak show.

Nine or ten puzzled doctors poked, prodded and questioned me for nearly an hour. There was lots of head scratching and chin stroking, but no one could come up with any reasonable explanations.

One lady doctor invaded my personal space a number of times too often for my liking and for some reason spoke to me as if I had severe hearing difficulties. She had an unreasonable, unorthodox manner, and smelt like Toilet Duck (‘Ocean Fresh’).

“DOES IT HURT IF I DO THIS?” she enquired.

*Manipulates leg in awkward motion*

“Arrggghhhhhh!”

“YES!” I shouted in her face.

Eventually, after countless x-rays, it had been discovered that my left kneecap had actually split in two, and I had been walking around with it flapping around for months.

I didn’t realise it then, but as my heart sank quicker than a shopping trolley thrown into the Thames, so did my sporting career.

My surgeon’s name was Dr Mike Jackson. Quite why he shortened his first name I have no idea. He was tall, with a severe follicle comb-over issue and hands like baseball gloves.

Perfect for performing keyhole surgery, I thought.

Jabs O'Clock.

I’m sitting in a doctor’s surgery waiting room in St.Margarets. Lisa is sat next to me. We are here to speak with someone about the injections required for our honeymoon trip to Africa, which is taking place in a few months time. I’m not very awake, and I’m wondering why I thought it wise to wear a pair of Spiderman y-fronts, given that there’s every possibility I may have to drop trouser for a couple of medicated jabs in the rear end, thereby not only revealing a hairy backside but also some highly immature undergarments.

Waiting rooms are incredible opportunities to enjoy my 2 favourite hobbies of people watching and eavesdropping. There are 3 other people sat here with us, so my ears are pricked and my eyes are peeled.

They are:

• Peter, an elderly gentleman with crutches and a t-shirt saying “Campaign for Surreal Ale” on it. I presume he is here to see the doctor about his severe wind problems.

• Bernice, a small old lady with a high waistband, who I presume is here for some light conversation, a seat and some foot ointment.

• Courtney, an overweight teenager with large unorthodox jewellery. I presume she is here to get her mobile phone surgically removed from her hands, as she seems unable to put it down.


Lisa gets called in first.

Whilst she is with the doctor, I can hear two female voices coming from behind the raised ‘APPOINTMENTS’ counter (if you are reading this aloud, I mean to say ‘raised’ as in ‘it is high’, not ‘razed’ as in it’s ‘burnt to the ground’).

One voice is common, cynical and gruff. The other is merely common and cynical.

The phones are ringing off the hook and the gruff receptionist’s customer service skills appear questionable. She varies from being abrupt to being soulless and monotone.

“You’ll just have to wait another week”, she says pointedly.

Courtney, chatting loudly on her mobile despite the withered A4 sign on the notice board indicating its prohibition, impresses me with the extraordinary randomness of her conversations.

Due to her volume, it wasn’t hard to overhear, and I could even make out a muted squawk from the poor sod on the other end of the line. Courtney was busy reflecting that whether someone liked baths or showers was rather like whether someone liked cats or dogs – “You either like cats…or you like dogs” she said, following this decisively with “But…I like cats and dogs… AND I like baths and showers.”

Next up, whilst admitting she’d spent many a sleepless night “watching UK Gold into the early hours”, Courtney also revealed that much of that time was due to the low-brow comic lure of “Some Mother’s Do ‘Ave Em”.

It’s always really nice to come across people who are their own unique comedy character. You can just sit back and enjoy.

I could listen to her all day.

Sadly I eventually get my name called out, by a very attractive woman who pops up from behind the non-burnt down appointments desk. Surely this pretty face isn’t coupled with the gruff voice I’ve been listening to for the last 30 minutes?

Why, it is.

Remarkable.

She’s a diamond who seems to have actually swallowed the rough.

There I was expecting a burly arm-wrestler of a girl, capable of tipping cars with her breath. Once again I learn that I should not be so quick to judge. However, given my appalling lack of literary knowledge and tact and general awareness of what's going on, maybe some slack should be cut when I do judge a book by its cover. After all, I seldom delve any deeper than the cover, so it’s all I have to judge the book by.

I get shown into what appears to be a kitchen.

Indeed, someone enters at one point to turn on a kettle and grab some garibaldi biscuits from a cupboard.

My nurse’s name is Hannah. It becomes clear that she is not the regular nurse, but a stand-in, and is not even supposed to be working today. This becomes clear due to her obvious disorientation, her failure to locate the most basic of stationary and her complaints that she’s not supposed to be at work today because she is standing in for someone else. More worryingly for me, she is perplexed as to why I am here at all. When I tell her that I’m here for a lobotomy, she seems even more confused. I realise that for the sake of my health and general well being, I should cut out any inappropriate humour. Not only is Hannah a few chicken wings short of a family feast box meal, but also she has needles, jars of fluid, rubber gloves, and, I assume, a cold pair of hands.

Hannah reaches for some equipment: “I think this is what you need (holds up a small bottle of yellow fluid)...but, has it changed colour? It used to be pink, I’m sure.”

“I’m not a doctor, I have no way of knowing” I reply, perplexed.

Hannah giggles.

“Neither am I”, she utters quietly, amusing herself.

She asks me whether I’m nervous about injections, as some people can feel queasy, and even faint on occasion. I inform her that I quite like them, having built up a tolerance during years spent in hospital wards. As a means of conversation, I go on to explain that my brother does however always faint whenever he’s injected.

“My eldest does too, all the time, and he hates going to the doctors…but he still says that he wants to get into medicine”, she says.

“Maybe he’s joking when he says that”, I suggest tentatively.

Before I know it Hannah has injected me three times in the arm, with all the sensitive poise, subtlety and grace of a Fatima Whitbread javelin throw.

“You’ll need to come back for another round of injections on the 16th April.”

“Isn’t it the 16th of April today?” I ask.

“Sorry dear, I meant the 20th of May”.

Of course you did.

She also mentioned that we would need to come back in 2020 for certain booster injections, and that maybe we should make a note of that in our diaries. I told her that I might just write it on my hand instead.

On exiting the kitchen, I figure that the only way to alleviate the madness is to add to it, so I walk out into a packed waiting room hunched over and clutching my buttocks, as if in severe discomfort.

“You told me it was supposed to be in the arm”, I say mischievously, in Lisa’s general direction. She laughs, louder than I expected, as others look on in disbelief.

Peter the pensioner laughed too, whilst simultaneously slapping his right thigh, which pleased me.

Bike.

Pushbikes are very important to small kids.

When you’re older, and see kids on bikes, they look pathetic - but this is to foolishly forget how incredible they were when all you had was short pants, no front teeth and a pocket full of trading cards.

I owned a pushbike called “Ella”.

I could lie and say it was named after Ella Fitzgerald, and I will…it was named after Ella Fitzgerald.

No, in truth it was a shortening of Argentine tennis siren and 1990 US Open winner Gabriella Sabatini, who I thought was undoubtedly the most beautiful (and, ahem…intelligent) woman in the world at the time.

I started naming my few possessions very early in my life, and continue to do so to this day. I currently own a mug called “Anthony” and a porcelain phrenological head called “Carlos”. For some reason all items of transport need to be Female. I think the word ‘ride’ and its subsequent openness to double entendre is to blame.

Where I grew up, children under the age of 16 were not encouraged to drive as they were deemed either too small or too irresponsible (in some rare instances, both), so in my infant years I had to make do with a bicycle.

My two-wheeled friend has been gradually upgraded over the years and now resembles an automobile with an engine and four wheels, which I find is able to travel at greater speeds than a bicycle and requires less physical effort to commandeer.

Making do with a bicycle was just fine, though. I was very young, and seeing as I didn’t really know anyone outside a 1mile radius from my house, didn’t have a job, and had no money to buy a car, pay for petrol, road tax or insurance, it didn’t bother me.

Chess.

The first rule of Chess Club is...

YOU DON'T TALK ABOUT CHESS CLUB.

Second rule of Chess Club...

YOU DO NOT TALK ABOUT CHESS CLUB.


Everyone who was anyone went to Chess Club, and our school team was the pride of the borough.

Now, it won’t surprise you to find out that I was not the greatest chess player, I think that was clear to all. But I did learn a great deal about life, love and human behaviour whilst playing chess, for I found it to be a window to the soul, and I’m grateful for a certain amount of the unrelenting indoctrination that was provided.

There were many egg-headed offspring at my school that spent every available second of the day reading chess books, perfecting strategies, sage techniques and killer moves.

They was disciplined, and organised.

I had no special information or carefully planned tactics, but I had other skills. I was advanced emotionally, if not academically, and therefore used psychological tricks to put off or upset my opponents. Sometimes I would just stare at them and smile, to make them feel uncomfortable, or perhaps feign injury to distract, or garner sympathy. Other times I’d calmly ask them questions about their family to break their iron will, cause a loss of focus and force mistakes.

It was dog-eat-dog, and I was a Doberman.

I played at many tournaments, and was occasionally successful.

Chess tournaments are extremely strange. Partly because they are unusually lucrative in terms of prize money, but also because no parents are ever allowed there. Or at least, that’s what the parents told us.

Very clever, parents are.

If you’re not participating, chess tournaments must be up there with Rhyl, Chernobyl and Robert Kilroy-Silk’s house as destinations to avoid at all costs. When your kid plays conventional sports you can shout encouragement from the sidelines, chat to other parents, or bring the dog and take it for walkies. At chess tournaments there is no talking, and having a personality is like having cholera – unwelcome. Libraries, The Moon and graveyards have significantly livelier atmospheres, so for the poor incumbent onlooker, it must have been like walking on 10 miles of dead road.

My uniquely illegal tactics had proved popular with the ‘powers that be’ (if not my opponents), and I was a wild card selection to form part of a regional team to play in the National Chess Championships.

There were 5 of us, taking on all comers up and down the land:

• JUSTIN ‘The Kid’ CORBETT
• LARRY ‘Small Step For’ MANN
• RICHARD ‘Rich’ PICKENS
• SCOTT ‘Chips’ PETERSON

And me…
NICHOLAS ‘The Doberman’ CRESSWELL

We were known as ‘The 5 Musketeers’ - by ourselves.

We were good.

And we won the whole competition.

You may remember reading about the famous victory on page 6 in the local newspaper.

“Smile, Nick, smile” shouted everyone, as our pictures were being taken. I was too busy concentrating on hiding from the camera to smile.

What happened to the successful Under-9 National Championship winning Chess Team, and where are they now, you may ask?

Well, I think Corbett, a clean living family man with teeth like a Grand National winner, is currently serving HM The Queen, as a royal footman.

Mann, a ubiquitous former ombudsman, is now serving up food in the café at M&S in Richmond.

Pickens, a charming former farmer, formed a firm of tennis academies, and is now serving up forehands as a professional coach.

As for ‘Chips’ Peterson, unfortunately he’s serving time in Wandsworth Prison for benefit fraud, having claimed substantial quantities of money over many years for his 6 children.

Chips Peterson does not have any children.

Birth, Marriage, Death.

“An End Has A Start” (Part 1 of 6)


I’m sitting in the foyer at Kingston Register Office.

Sat next to me is my future wife, Lisa.

I think we are here to speak with someone about the running order of our wedding, which is taking place in a few months time.

I’m not very awake, and I’m wondering why I thought it wise to waste away so many birthday cake wishes as a child on the desire for human flight, given that I have a fear of birds…and heights.

A man, and a woman cradling a tiny infant, shuffle past and Lisa interrupts my daydreaming by saying “how lovely it must be to work in such a place – you’d get to give certificates to the married and the newborn – happy, wondrous events.”

“Hmm, not so much, you also have to deal with the dead” I said. “Certificates for people who are unable to breathe anymore”.


This conversation spoke a lot for our collective roles within the relationship. Lisa is a shining bright light of hope and loveliness whilst I am a stick in the thickest of mud.

Inexplicably, I strike up a conversation with a tall, elderly; big-eared gentleman slumped in the chair opposite me. He was living proof, if it were needed, that a man’s ears grow substantially as he ages. Although, on reflection, he might have just always had big ears.

He said he spent his life working for Guinness, but I was unclear if he meant that Guinness employed him or that he was paid in pints of Guinness. I felt sorry for him, wondering if he was here to pick up his own death certificate, and indeed, if anyone else could see him sat there at all.

We left the BFG in the foyer, as we were ushered into a room, and told that someone would be with us shortly.

“I wonder why we’re here – what are they actually going to tell us” said Lisa.

“This is where you find out that I’m already married” I replied.

Lisa laughed, paused briefly in thought, and then laughed again with less vigour.

I noticed a large brass plaque on the desk that said ‘Melanie Cannon’.

“I think we’re here to see Melanie Cannon”, I said.

A middle-aged woman in business attire entered.

“This must be Melanie Cannon”, I thought.

“I’m Melanie Cannon”, she said.


Melanie Cannon discussed the details of the ceremony with us and asked us some questions that we had been asked a few times before, like the classic: “Are you Nicholas Keith Cresswell”?

“I do” was my well-received response.

Melanie Cannon’s style was relaxed and slightly ramshackle – loose and friendly, but yet somehow appropriate and professional. I warmed to her instantly.

Whilst discussing our honeymoon in Zanzibar, she asked me if I knew which famous singer was born in Zanzibar.

“Freddie Mercury” I said.

She seemed delighted, and spoke of how she’d learnt the fact from a recent pub quiz that she’d been to with her children.

“His real name was Farrokh Bulsara”, I continued.

Melanie seemed less interested by this information, which surprised and disappointed me.


She instead began asking Lisa about wigs.

I joked that ‘she hadn’t had time to make one for me yet’, which I regretted immediately, despite Melanie’s polite chuckle.

It appeared that all the necessary matrimonial detail had been addressed. Melanie gradually hit the wall conversationally, and started to talk about her friend’s husband, so we decided to leave. Lisa was hungry and I was bored, so we walked to the pub and ate fish-finger sandwiches by the river.

We talked about the superior merits of cloudy apple juice over regular concentrated juice, how it tastes better and looks less like urine, and also whether or not I should refer to her sister’s partner as my ‘brother in-law’s brother in-law’.

We left, and got in the car. Unfortunately, it appeared that a pterodactyl had decided to crap on my windscreen.

I took Lisa to work, then went home and listened to Yo La Tengo.

Book.

AN INTRODUCTION
“You have to be doing something…”

I’d always believed in even numbers.

Maybe it was because I was born on 24.10.78, maybe it was because there are 12 months in a year, 24 hours in day or just that Liverpool had won the double in ‘86, I have no idea…

Against the odds, I had just bought a house at number 17 and on the 09.09.09, just a month or so before my 31st birthday, I’d decided to write a book.

I was on fire.

Not literally, you understand. Foot loose, carefree, drunk with ideas. When asked, at the pub, if they wanted a drink, I imagined people saying ‘I’ll have whatever he’s having’, whilst nodding with eyebrows erect in my direction. The clarity of thought bluntly punched me like an un-intrusive meadow of serenity, and the possibilities of what lay ahead blew my tiny mind.

I started looking up when I walked; I began answering phone calls and even managed to crack an occasional smile now and again. It was a magnificent moment of wonder and I felt like a kid on Christmas Eve, irritatingly impatient with excitement at the thought of the anticipated treasure that lay ahead.

This contentment naturally waned as soon as I realised the task in front of me.

The main problem was that I didn’t read books. For a man of 30 years to admit that if I lost my left hand I’d still have enough fingers to count the books that I’ve read, was, and still is, a source of subdued embarrassment.

‘I have no patience and find it hard to maintain concentration’ I would explain.

*Goes and pours himself a glass of red wine*

Moreover, I forget what has just happened on the previous page.

I forget what has just happened on the previous page, I have no concentration skills, and have to re-read everything to put myself back on track. It’s a frustrating experience.

‘In that case writing a book should be a walk in the dale’ was a typically sarcastic retort.

They were right, of course they were. How (or indeed why) would you write a book if you didn’t read books, a film if you didn’t watch films, or a song if you never listened to music?

‘Sure’, I’d say, ‘but are you saying that it’s impossible to catch a fish without ever having fished before?’

That response made me feel pretty smart.

Which brings me to my next reservation: my lack of brainpower. I was no great shakes at school, but having briefly impressed as a minor whilst sitting next to clever people I had managed to con my schoolmasters, and more importantly my friends and family, into thinking that I had half a brain. Coupled with above average sporting prowess I was deemed ‘a good all rounder’. The truth is very different. I was crippled by heavy, persistent OCD and a capacity for intermittent surreal daydreams.

I was, and remain, my greatest critic, but I was never ever destined to be an academic.

Whilst writing this book these problems have re-surfaced dramatically and I have had to overcome the urge to immediately (and continually) erase the line that I had just written. Indeed, the book was finished then taken away from my belonging so I would not be able to destroy it forthwith.

I had managed to destroy the first draft, though. The instinctive, spontaneous plan was to set fire to my papers and be done with all the nonsense. However, realising that setting fire to my work would be tricky (it was written on a computer, not on parchment like in days of yore), I decided to throw my computer out the window. It made an impressive double smash as it crashed through the neighbour’s conservatory.

Thinking about it now, I never should have even told anyone that I was writing a book. I think you should only tell people that you’re thinking about writing a book when you’ve nearly finished the book. Every time someone would ask how it was going, another hole appeared in the bow of the metaphorical ship I was voyaging in.

Writer’s block increased with every mention of the darn thing. In fact, if I hadn’t mentioned this to anyone I think that I could’ve finished it within weeks.

When I told people I was writing a book, I got funny looks, rightly doubting my credentials.

I would say: “Is this reverse psychology or do you actually think I can’t do this?”

Response: “It’s not reverse psychology – we actually think you can’t do this. Your vocabulary is bletcherous, and you’re in danger of becoming an autohagiographer. Please be careful of being too inaniloquent.”

Well, I guess I’m happy to be a philosophunculist, and will continue my pandiculation.

To me writing a book was not so much something that was desired, as it had become a genuine necessity. Frustrated by a lofty drought of creative activity, I was becoming sad, increasingly withdrawn from any social landscape and very, very boring. Plus, the fact that I was enjoying such isolation was concerning those closest to me. My legs were useless and often throbbed with pain, so I couldn’t participate in sports, and I hadn’t written a song or played my guitar for four years.

Furthermore, my membership card at ‘Le Gavroche’ had been suspended.

An outlet was required.

Part of my inspiration is and has always been human beings conversing. I love listening to people talk to each other.

Unfortunately I realised early on in my life that, more often than not, I myself was an overbearing nightmare to talk to. You just have to be doing something with yourself, and I was always doing nothing. Something either worthwhile or recognisable, to make you an interesting person to speak with, and I had nothing to say to anyone.

What made it even harder was that I was usually completely uninterested by them too. So I’d be wary of going out and meeting people, partly to save them from me, but also to save me from them.

I was the pub bore who hated pub bores.

It suited both parties, I would argue to myself, that I did not socialise. It was/is a difficult cycle to break, and if you choose to break it you need a talking point.

You can’t just say that you’ve been up to ‘this and that’. I’ve spent years shirking questions on how I’ve been or what I’ve been up to, and not always because I haven’t been ‘up to’ anything but often because I simply can’t remember what I’ve been doing or I don’t want to talk about it.

Q. “How are you, what have you been up to?”
A. “Erm…can I get back to you on that?”

My memory span of the last few hours is usually pretty water tight, but beyond that I find it very hard to remember events and happenings for the purposes of ‘small talk’. Occasionally I found myself repeating events and things I’d done whilst talking to people who were actually there with me when I was doing it.

It really is terrible, and I had become terrible. In fact, just call me ‘Ivan’ if you find yourself in my company and want to be in my company no more.

You must have a talking point, but you can’t make it sound too prepared. This is why I started making stuff up. It’s much easier to lie, and it almost always sounds more impressive than the truth. I found giving false accounts of what I’d been doing really easy to conjure up, and started to enjoy doing it. On reflection, perhaps (quoting Jeff Tweedy of Wilco) ‘my lies are only wishes’.

However, to avoid bullshitting all the time, which is silly, childish and ultimately counter-productive, you have to be doing something, something worthwhile, something people are either impressed by or can identify with, otherwise there is no conversation. Lies come back to haunt you and people will start to avoid you. But you do need to be interesting to talk to. If you’re not doing anything good then you have a problem.

To clarify…you have to be doing something.


Le voila.


When I told people I was writing a book (by means of small talk) they were always intrigued, often saying that they’d thought about doing that themselves before asking what it was about.

When I told them it was ‘about me’ the interest appeared to fade, before I told them not to worry because it was all made up. I had decided to write about myself, as it was the only topic I had good knowledge of and was qualified to discuss in detail.

‘Maybe he’s smarter than I thought’, they’d think.

*Top Tip: It certainly helps if you wear a pair of glasses when you tell people that you’re writing a book - it gives you an extra air of intellectual excellence (and in my case makes me look slightly less like ‘Minty’ from ‘Eastenders’.)*

I knew the only way to greatness in writing the story of my life was through fabrication.

Unless your life is actually worth recounting in a full truthful manner, like some of my heroes - Alan Whicker, Peter Cook or David Attenborough - writing an autobiography is repellently self-serving and grossly arrogant. Suggesting that your life is so special that people need to know about it, when it’s not special, and they don’t need to know about it, is awful.

It’s like a cyclist posing upright, without holding the handlebars.

Awful.

However, given my gross arrogance, I figured that this project might actually be right up my alley.

Throughout my life I had experienced a steady flow of offbeat satirical ideas whilst observing human beings. I then conjured brief comedic scenarios that were either clumsily mumbled from my mouth (to the occasional amusement, but more often bemusement of others), or instantly, and oh too briefly, stock-piled in my sieve of a brain before naturally dissolving away, long before I could remember them or do anything with them. Little sparks of prose and creative trains of thought.

More like buses of thought, such was/is the irregularity of arrival.

The only possible route out of this depressing habit of continuously losing every grain of imagination, moments after the light bulb appeared, was to just let the brain explode onto a keyboard, or via hushed instruction to a dictaphone. Stream-of-consciousness writing, to be brought to life then reconstructed. Moulded like plasticine into something worthwhile.

I guess I was fed up with sighing all the time at the woes of the universe without capturing, and therefore perhaps expelling, some of my feelings about them. I still like sighing. I like to sigh, but I had reached saturation.

I mean, I like meatballs but I don’t want to eat them everyday.

So there we have it, I have my topic of conversation, for a while at least.

Q. “How are you, what have you been up to?”
A. “I’ve just finished writing a book. It is 88,888 words long.”

When I think of all the years wasted, pursuing other interests…Chess, Cricket, Women, Liverpool FC, then Chess again briefly, before Music and more recently Boules (see Chapter 20)…wasted, not doing what I should have been doing…well, maybe they weren’t wasted years at all.

Maybe.

I regret nothing (that couldn’t be further from the truth). When you’re young and you try to join the police they tell you, in a polite and overly familiar way that you need to come back in a few years – go away and get some ‘life experience’.
Well maybe that’s what I’ve been doing.


Maybe.


I generally admit that people should only release autobiographies when they’re moments away from death. People release them when they’re way too young, and the idea of releasing more than 1 autobiography before you’re 75 is simply unacceptable (unless you are Aled Jones, who can fill his boots).

So it’s not an autobiography.

It’s a biography that I’ve edited and then rewritten. In good time, I will update this blog with excerpts.

I, for one, am surprised, delighted and honoured that I have found the time and motivation to devote these efforts to writing about myself. After all, if I was ever going to choose a ghost-writer, who better than me?

N.Cresswell


PS. If you click on the title of the post, you will be rewarded.