Terry Hayward's Little World

Away in a Manger

2015-12-20T12:16:00.001+00:00

31 years ago I was a mere 10 years old. However, even by 1984 the fickle nature of fame had meant that my celebrity status was already on the wane. I’d already featured in at least two school nativity plays, once as a shepherd and then on to the dizzy heights of Joseph himself. Having said that, Joseph does very little throughout the nativity, it’s the opening speech on the way to Bethlehem that maketh the man.

However time had moved on, I was becoming middle aged in school years and smaller, cuter children had arrived, which meant that casting directors (in this case, the music teacher, Mrs Roberts) were quick to dump us old timers on the scrapheap and put the youthful faces up front.

Like all mature actors, I had to resort to character parts and so I was lumbered with the small role of the Innkeeper. Now he (I called him Isaac) has even less to do than that gullible sap, Joseph, but in the words of the famous theatre practitioner Konstantin Stanislavski, “There are no small parts, only small actors”, so I was determined that I would not go unnoticed.

Suffice to say that dear old Isaac was the most belligerent, petty, and loud-mouthed 10-year-old Innkeeper in all of Bethlehem. He wasn’t keen at all on this beardy weirdy and his pregnant concubine on their tatty, smelly donkey staying at his luxury Inn (4 out of 5 on Trip Advisor) as they’d totally spoil the ambience, but it was Christmas (yes, I know) and there was money to be made. Therefore he was happy for them to stay in his manky old cow shed out the back, although he sold it to them as a unique bijou property with a rustic feel so as to get a fair price. To be fair to Isaac, there are some Londoners who dream of such magnificent floor space at such a reasonable price.

Needless to say Isaac was incensed when he checked on his latest visitors some hours later to find that not only had the woman gone and given birth to a screaming brat but they’d also been joined by three farmers and some other gentleman who he could only presume from their gaudy clothes and obvious ill-gotten wealth were drug dealers.

Therefore Isaac made one last appearance at the end of the nativity and with no lines on the page he still managed to convey to the entire school hall his abject horror at the situation. It really is a mystery how I never ended up as a professional actor.

However, Old Isaac’s temperament towards visitors is one that I share. Some would call me anti-social, some would say I’m introvert, but those who know me well would probably disagree with both assessments. People are much more complex than that.

You see, as I’ve got older I’ve realised that I don’t need constant company, even if I like the company. In fact, I think that I actually tire of it more quickly than others. If I found myself trapped in a confined space with people for a long period of time I would actually go quite insane.

I’m suspecting that this comes from my childhood. For the first 12 years of my life we always seemed to live in houses that were miles away from civilisation. Whilst in the summer months that was no problem as I could get on my trusty Raleigh Strika and seek out friends, during the inclement months I spent many long hours on my own, in an age before mobile phones, all-day children’s TV channels, games consoles or the internet. Heaven only knows what I used to do but it would have involved using my imagination. If nothing else it left me with a degree of creativity and an independent streak, which is no bad thing.

So, these days when we have visitors I’m always keen to know when they’re going to be leaving. Sounds terrible doesn’t it? That doesn’t mean that as soon as they arrive I greet them with “Welcome, good to see you, when will you be going?” I’m not that socially inept. Well, not quite.

What I mean is I have boundaries (as do we all) but whereas normal functioning British people grit their teeth and smile through, I seem to find that a little more difficult.

You see, a one or two night stay by friends is just fine. That’s manageable. I’m pleased to see them, we have a good time, I can be the perfect mein host. A three night stay raises my eyebrows (“have they not got homes to go to?”) and my host-like qualities subside on the run up to that third night to help acclimatise our guests to the cold, hard reality that they will soon be turfed out and have to fend for themselves again.

Anything beyond a three-night stay therefore is when I’ve decided that enough is enough and that really by now our visitors should be paying rent. I withdraw all congenial host qualities and curl up in a foetal ball in the corner of a room and play dead in the hope that they will get bored and go home.

If the visitors don’t leave after a fourth night, then I book a hotel and bugger off to Sheffield. Don’t think I’m joking, this has happened.

The same applies to when I visit friends. As I’ve reached middle age I realise that I don’t really enjoy staying at other people’s houses for more than a night or two. After that, I’m done. I can’t leave quickly enough. My preference if I’m visiting people at all is to book into a hotel as I can go out, be as sociable as the next party animal, but then I can go and close the hotel room door and just chill, without the need to communicate to anyone.

So now I probably seem to you just like Isaac, a belligerent, socially bereft ignoramus, but I assure you I’m not. I like people visiting, I welcome them into my home with open beers, but I also enjoy waving them off whilst I still have the energy.

Having said that, visitors are more than welcome to stay in my cow shed. There are no cows in it but there is a lawn mower and a barbecue. £20 a night per person. It’s a bargain.

No farmers, new born babies or drug dealers allowed.

Return to Oddthorpe

2015-12-13T20:11:00.000+00:00

A few months ago I wrote about a small village in the middle of nowhere that I’ve happened to walk through on several occasions. It’s called Obthorpe, and the strange part about it is that despite the many houses, cars, and usual signs of life, it seems to have nobody living within it. Stranger than that, it seems to exist within its own bubble that birdsong and extraneous noises cannot penetrate. Seriously, it’s a weird old place.

My uninformed assumptions are that it is either a government experiment or the lair of a supervillain. Deep underground there is a base of operations where scientific bods in white coats are working earnestly at complicated machines whilst others monitor maps of the world. The village above is just a cover for the deep machinations beneath the idyllic Lincolnshire countryside.

So, just a few weeks ago I decided to walk that away again upon my usual route towards Stamford. It was a wild, wet and windy day but I was covered from head to toe in waterproofs with my cap on and hood over the top. The even terrain exposed me to the elements as the rain and gales lashed at me as I headed towards Obthorpe. I kept my head dopwn as I trudged ever onwards.

As I’d been staring intently at the ground I hadn’t initially realised that I had entered the boundaries of Obthorpe. In fact the first time I noticed was when it occurred to me that the rain had suddenly stopped and the wind had abated. I removed my hood, glad to have some respite from the inclement conditions.

As I passed through the village I chuckled to myself. As ever, there were signs that people lived in Obthorpe, such as lights on, a window half open, a car in the drive, but no people. My own internal monologue was challenging me to look hard to see if I could see anyone behind those windows, but my natural good manners prevented me from staring.

Two-thirds of the way through the single tracked lane that runs through the village I was startled from my private reverie when, out of nowhere, I saw two people walking towards me, a man and a woman, both walking large dogs on leads.

At last, I thought, residents of Obthorpe. There had to be some in this mysterious location and there they were at last, albeit I didn’t see which house they had come from. They walked purposefully down the middle of the lane, the hounds straining at the leash. As we passed the man made eye contact, smiled and said “good morning” but the woman didn’t. She eyed me up and down suspiciously as if I’d just climbed out the back of a lorry in Dover.

I responded in a polite manner and continued walking. Delighted that I had finally bust the myth of Obthorpe I began to exit the village, but not before looking around behind me to see where the dog walkers were headed. They were nowhere to be seen. I stopped in my tracks and surveyed the flat landscape around me but there was absolutely no-one there. They had vanished as swiftly as they’d appeared.

I was briefly tempted to retrace my steps in an attempt to convince myself that I wasn’t going mad, but then I remembered my theories of this place. What if this really was a villain’s lair? What if they weren’t just casual residents walking their (large and ferocious) dogs around the village, but in fact, they were guards, just checking me out to see if I’m an innocent passer-by or someone they may have to assassinate on the spot? Maybe this was a warning – 'Stay away and stop writing about us on your ridiculous blog. Stick to whinging about your various ailments instead'.

I hurried on and just as I exited past the village sign a gust of wind almost knocked me sideways and the rain resumed its aggressive downpour as if someone had just switched a tap on. Obthorpe’s peculiar local climate strikes again.

So, my advice to you is this. Don’t get curious. Don’t visit Obthorpe. If you value your life then stay away from a village that is odder than anything you’ve ever encountered or read about before.

Tell no-one about it, it’s our secret. Because, I tell you what, I think they just might be on to us, and I for one don’t want to be strapped to a missile and shot towards the moon.

There’s nothing to see in Obthorpe. Keep out.

Stuck In The Middle With You

2015-12-05T18:47:00.000+00:00

I do like a long dramatic gap between posts, especially after I’ve been under the knife. It allows the more hopeful to think that I’ve expired and so they are free from stumbling across any more of my aimless meanderings. Sorry folks, I am still here and the latest surgery passed off without incident. In fact I was sat up in a hospital bed watching Fifteen to One and chowing down on a tuna sandwich just two hours after waking from my anaesthetic induced slumber.

This was one thing that was different from last time. My hernia operation did not render me cautious around food, which was dangerous when immobile. Last year I managed to lose loads of weight, this time I sat and munched away which has meant that some of my trousers are currently out of service.

The medical experts advised me that I needed to stay hydrated and to drink loads of water in the first few days after the operation. In my defence I did my best and downed as much water as I could lay my hands on, or so I thought.

After 3 days it occurred to me that the one thing I hadn’t done since the operation was to have what is known in polite circles as a number two. It hadn’t occurred to me to do so as the urge had not taken me, but come that third day I awoke sensing movement down below. I headed to the toilet and settled myself in for what I always expected to be a big one.

After 10 minutes of inactivity I realised that I might have a problem. Don’t get me wrong, something was moving south but I sensed there was going to be an issue. Whatever it was making a bid for freedom it was much larger, and far more solid, that one usually expects.

I began to experience the associated pains that come with attempting to pass what felt like a solid, and somewhat jagged, boulder through a tiny gap. After considerable squirming and whimpering I came to the conclusion that things had gone too far to back away from the inevitable. Whatever was trying to leave my body was making a bid for freedom and I needed to help it on its passage, so as to preserve mine.

Some Googling of symptoms occurred and thanks to the ladies of Mumsnet I discovered that I had constipation, which, they all concluded, was far more painful than childbirth (their controversial words, not mine). Their solution was simple; I needed to get my hands on a suppository. The only problem was that I could barely stand up without weeping in pain so walking to a shop would be an excruciating experience for all concerned.

I heard a noise from outside the toilet door and realised that the present Mrs Hayward was nearby, loading up the washing machine. I opened the door very slightly and, in a weak and despairing voice, asked for her assistance. I explained my predicament which I sensed was far too graphic for a lady of her sensitive nature and asked her nicely, if slightly pathetically, if she would go to a local pharmacy and purchase me the required item.

Quite rightly she questioned my assumptions and I explained that the Internet had told me that suppositorys would resolve my immediate issues, which caused her to become even more suspicious. Even so, my whimpering and whining had the desired effect and she departed for the local Tesco Pharmacy.

As I’d got myself to my feet I spent the next 15 minutes clutched to the sink as waves of pain from my derriere engulfed me. After what seemed like a much longer time I heard the door open and I excitedly realised that my suffering was soon to end.

I once again peered out from behind the toilet door to be greeted with the present Mrs Hayward clutching a carrier bag.

“You have two options”, she proudly declared, and from the bag she first produced some sort of medicine. I appreciated this, as I was sure that it would help me to avoid any further painful episodes but I was also aware that it would not provide me with the instant relief I was seeking.

Excitedly I saw her reach in to the bag to pull out the desired suppositories, so imagine my surprise when from the bag the present Mrs Hayward produced a carton of prune juice.

I stared disbelievingly. As far as I had been aware I’d made a very specific request, none of which involved any form of fruit based beverage. She explained, quite reasonably, that she’d discussed my symptoms with the pharmacist and they had recommended this as a solution.

Now I’m not questioning the expertise or professionalism of the pharmacist and I’m sure prune juice has many bowel relieving benefits but they probably provide relief after, say, a couple of weeks, rather than the more urgent timescale I was working to. In essence I think the pharmacist was, in colloquial parlance, having a laugh.

In total shock I stared at the prune juice, and then at my wife, and then back at the prune juice again. I wasn’t sure at that exact moment whether to laugh, get angry, or cry, so I did a combination of all three at the same time.

I have to confess that we had a slight disagreement over her purchases from Tesco and after an exchange of words, some of which were accompanied by me banging my head against the bathroom door crying “no, no, no” in an overdramatic display of pained frustration, the present Mrs Hayward kindly left the house once more, this time heading to Boots with a plea to ignore the advice of mischievous pharmacists.

Another excruciating 15 minutes passed, as the spiky rock from hell made a few more goes at ripping open my sphincter.

When my wife returned I flung open the door of the bathroom with excitement. She handed me the box and said, rather nervously, “Do you need any help with that?”

I must have looked a little confused, albeit not as confused as when I was presented with the prune juice, and politely refused this kind offer. Our marriage vows were broad in nature but didn’t, in my view, stretch to the application of suppositories. Especially as there was enough stretching going on without a third party intervention.

In retrospect I realise that this may have been why she’d been reluctant to purchase the desired items in the first place, and was relieved with the pharmacist’s recommendation, if she’d thought that she would have to be actively involved in the endeavour, however this was never on the cards.

As it was, I’ve never had to use a suppository before, and certainly never expected to blog about it, but when in dire need they are fairly amazing. Up they go with little effort and very soon relief was on its way. The rock melted away and my posterior had been saved from having stitches.

I left the bathroom in jubilant fashion. I’d been trapped there for 90 minutes by this point so it felt like I’d been released from prison. The present Mrs Hayward was less impressed and really couldn’t understand what all the fuss had been about.

As it was, I never needed any more suppositories or medicine; everything started to function just fine. As for the prune juice, I gave it a go. It was, unsurprisingly, fairly disgusting. Mind you, I’m regular as clockwork now.

Normal service has been resumed.

Stitched Up

2015-09-29T21:12:00.000+01:00

I’m sure if you go back and look at this blog from 18 months ago (although quite why anyone would choose to undertake such a thankless task is beyond me) I am sure that I made a prophecy. When I crossed the threshold of 40, albeit gracelessly and with much anger, I believe I declared to anyone who’d listen that no good would come of it. It turns out that I was right.

Other than having my wisdom teeth removed when I was 16 I’d never been given general anaesthetic for a medical procedure. I only opted for it with the wisdom teeth because they were buried deep within my gums and heading off course towards my existing teeth that such drastic measures for removal were even considered.

Then last year you may recall that I ended up having my gall bladder taken away from me, due to it developing a fault and being out of warranty. It serves no useful purpose these days anyway, much like a cassette player or a Liberal Democrat MP.

Now, another part of my wretched cadaver is suffering from wear and tear and needs surgical intervention. To be honest, I had assumed that the recent stomach pain I’d experienced was a touch of trapped wind, however on the third or fourth bout of excruciating pain I decided to seek medical advice.

I visited a GP who asked me a few questions and then she got me to stand behind the curtain and drop my trousers. Having spent a couple of nights in hospital last year I’ve lost any embarrassment about such requests and will now merrily drop my trousers at will, whether people want me to or not.

In fact I’m not entirely sure the GP wanted to see quite what I was exposing to her but she didn’t scream or point and laugh, and following a quick prod around my lower stomach she concluded that I probably had a couple of inguinal hernias. To be honest I thought they’d be more noticeable but a subsequent ultrasound confirmed her diagnosis.

So the other week I was back at the hospital in front of a very cheerful surgeon (that’s private healthcare for you I suppose) who gladly signed me up to be cut open and have my hernias repaired and sealed. I asked if this was all really necessary as, despite what the present Mrs Hayward would tell you, I am not addicted to surgery. In fact I am deeply suspicious of the whole thing.

The surgeon said that it’s best to get them done while I’m still young and fit as hernias can cause problems in later life. Notwithstanding his apparent short sightedness I’m not sure if later life is going to be much of a problem if parts of my anatomy keep packing up or falling apart. Unless this is some long term experiment to turn me into the Bionic Man, which could be advantageous; the special eye thing will be most useful to see if there’s a new guest ale on at the bar without me leaving my seat.

Mind you, if I were a caveman I’d probably be dead by now so perhaps I need to take the hernia on the chin (not literally) and behave in a much more stoic way, rather than whining on the internet. After all, it’s a miracle of modern technology that they can patch me up like I’m a rusty Ford Escort (Mk 2 of course) and send me on my way.

Oh well, it's only a few hours now until I have to show my face at the hospital at the ungodly hour of 7:15am, but that's still plenty of time for me to run through all the potential worst case scenarios, including but not limited to, the surgeon leaving implements inside my body, waking up during the operation, and the whole hospital being staffed by lunatics masquerading as medical staff.

Actually that last one may have happened on the previous occasion. He was called Dr Bob, but that’s another story.

If I Had The Wings Of A Sparrow...

2015-09-25T20:32:00.001+01:00

The last time I tapped out words for this blog, like a chimp trying to compose Hamlet, I made reference to the fact that I was about to take flight in a helicopter. I was nervous but exhilarated by the opportunity to take to the air in such a machine.

Having now done so I can tell you that it’s the only way to fly. None of this malarkey of charging at high speed down a runway in the vain hope of gaining enough momentum and lift so that a tin tube full of eager holidaymakers will be catapulted into the sky. Oh no, this was a gentle rise off the ground and away.

Equally there was no hurtling ourselves at the ground and braking like a maniac, it was a gentle touch down, like a feather dropping gracefully to the floor. The more I consider how elegant helicopter travel is I’m wondering why it hasn’t caught on and why we have opted for the flying metal bird approach.

The manoeuvrability and view is also a factor of why this is a magnificent way to travel. No peering through a tiny porthole to try and see the world below, there’s windows all around, big ones at that. If you want to turn round or fly lower it can be done very easily. The helicopter is therefore the black cab of air travel, whilst the aeroplane is the bendy bus.

My trip took me over Portsmouth, partly so that I could get a view of the place of my birth – the Isle of Wight (hereafter known as the Motherland). It was a clear day so I had a cracking view as we swept over Lee-on-Solent, up towards Portsdown Hill and then back over the Historic Dockyard.

Thankfully we didn’t suffer any bombardment from the ground as the locals below were blissfully unaware that a supporter of Southampton FC was swooping around above them like an emperor in a flying chariot.

The window of the helicopter was open and I was briefly reminded of a football chant, the sentiments of which involve dropping untold excrement upon the poor unfortunates on the ground, but as I’d reduced my solids intake to lettuce leaves and dust to ensure I was below the required flying weight I had nothing to offer in that department.

As it was, no-one weighed me from start to finish. In fact I was heartened to see passengers on earlier flights carrying much more in the way of additional baggage than I. It turns out that I may not have been the one to have eaten all the pies after all, although in my defence I would have made a substantial dent on them given the chance.

So, before I tail off onto another topic altogether, I can conclude that helicopter travel is the future.

As I look proudly at the souvenir photo of me stood grinning next to this mighty machine with its rotor blades whirling furiously above my head, I can tick another thing off the list and pretend that I am not a middle aged man who works in an office, but I’m in fact the pilot of Airwolf.

Or I’m Noel Edmonds. One of those.

Chopper Hayward

2015-07-17T21:26:00.001+01:00

Some blogs ago I wrote about how I’d compiled a ‘bucket list’ of sorts, although I’d not called it that for fear of jinxing my existence and hastening my inevitable demise. Looking through the list of 21 items I’d accumulated (so far) I realise that I’d only achieved one and a half of them. The one I did complete and have repeated several times since is to drink Sloe Gin. Let’s face it, that wasn’t too difficult to accomplish but who said they had to be? It was a very pleasant experience so a big tick on the list there.

The half achievement was in relation to visiting Edinburgh. Technically I have spent time in Edinburgh but mostly changing trains at Waverley station. I say mostly, there was a hectic taxi journey against time down Princes Street one day but I was too busy watching the clock to take in the sights and sounds of the Scottish capital, but that’s another story. After careful consideration I don’t feel that I’ve fully met the criteria of visiting Edinburgh so that’s still resolutely unticked.

However, this weekend I should get the opportunity to give a great big tick to a more challenging item on the list, and that is to fly in a helicopter. I say ‘should’ as there is a slight area of doubt in my mind. It’s not directly to do with the thought of plummeting out of the sky like a rock falling to earth but that also weighs heavy on my mind.

You see, helicopters like all flying transportation have a weight limit. It’s not that relevant when we’re jetting off to Torremelinos on our holidays as we fly on great big planes so no-one mentions it and no flight attendant is stood at the airport guiding hapless holidaymakers onto a set of bathroom scales prior to boarding. However, with a small helicopter carrying a handful of passengers it creates an issue if one occupant has eaten far too many of their fair share of pies and other assorted savoury pastries.

I was well aware of the weight limit of 16 stone when I booked this excursion and I can quite confidently say that I am below that weight……by a few pounds. Actually, whilst wearing nothing apart from a smile I am well under, but with the addition of the obligatory clothes and footwear the weight starts creeping on and I find myself edging ever closer to that limit.

Logic dictates that I should have nothing to worry about as I’m irrefutably under the limit as of right now but the panicky side of my brain is just worried that I’m a mere sausage roll away from being declared too fat to fly.

With that in mind I have reduced my calorie intake this week so that I may become airborne. Water, vegetables and certain fruit have become my friends; all types of carbohydrates my mortal enemy. I had a complete eye opener yesterday when I established the calories in just one slice of seeded bread (130 if you’re interested, so two Bertolli-moistened slices embracing some ham would have taken me somewhere near 400 calories). Next week I won’t care a jot about any of this but, for now, I am determined to remain well under 16 stone come hell or high water.

Failing that I may have to paint clothes on me, although that may be dangerous what with all those sharp blades twirling around. Either that or I’ll just have to ensure that my bowels are working to maximum efficiency on the day. That should lighten me up a bit. I’m told that all I need to consume is a couple of Avocadoes and several boxes of Tic Tacs and the job’s a good ‘un.

Heaven help the other passengers though. Things could get messy.

Oddthorpe

2015-05-17T17:16:00.003+01:00

A week ago my feet hurt. Despite following the wisdom of a certain old wives’ tale to wear two pairs of socks when undertaking a walk of any considerable length to avoid my feet rubbing against the inside of my walking boots, I was becoming increasingly aware that I was growing a blister the size and colour of a fully ripened plum on my little toe. Being a brave little soldier I carried on trekking over hills and cliff edges as I ventured unabashed towards The Needles Pleasure Park on the Isle of Wight. Never has a man been so keen to see those coloured sands.

The reason for my yomp was that I was participating in the annual Walk the Wight event, now in its 25^th year, for the third time. I didn’t feel that I had particularly trained well for this. A wander round Nottinghamshire the other weekend was a nice little walk but it didn’t prepare me for the deceptively challenging inclines that the Isle of Wight’s topography throws up at certain points. However, I completed the thing without making my feet bleed. Having said that, I was walking a little gingerly for a couple of days and my late application of headwear meant that I resembled a man who had spent the afternoon lightly grilling his face. I’ve now entered the peeling stage which is particularly attractive. When I get up from the sofa I leave the outline of my body in skin behind me, like the residue from a disintegrating ray.

Undeterred I decided yesterday that it was just too clement to hide myself away indoors and so I retrieved my walking boots and headed out on a modest 10 mile walk to Stamford, this time applying liberal amounts of sun cream before I left the house and donning an appropriate hat.

It was glorious; a lovely day in mid-May is the ideal time for a walk. The fields are awash with fragrant yellow flowers, the birds are singing, and the paths underfoot are dry and welcoming, not slippy and squishy like they were when I was out a couple of months ago. Spring has peaked and summer is just around the corner. The whole world just seemed so alive.

Well, I say that, except there was one place on my route where time appeared to have stopped completely. This place is a small hamlet on a narrow country lane just south of Bourne. It’s called Obthorpe and I always approach it with some amusement mixed with trepidation. I’ve walked through Obthorpe on two occasions before and I’d noted that, despite signs of life, I’d never actually seen anyone there. I hadn’t even heard voices of people chatting, no keen homeowner beavering away in their garden, no TV or radio idly burbling along in the background, no dog barking, nothing. My recollections of walking through Obthorpe was of the wind whistling through the telephone wires and the strange feeling that everyone had left suddenly.

There are cars on the drives, the occasional light on in a house, but no people. As I approached I wondered if this time it would be any different. Would I finally get to see a living, breathing resident of Obthorpe? I was almost excited as I passed the lonely sign just before the first house. I reached the first home, a small bungalow and I scanned it for signs of life. Apart from a car on the drive, there was nothing. Next door there’s a second bungalow. Another car on the drive, a window open but, again, nothing.

I continued past the larger houses, and a farm building but yet again nothing. It was a nice, sunny day for heavens sake but no-one was out in their vast gardens and no farmer could be seen, despite a tractor parked next to a barn. No farmer, no pigs, cows, horses, chickens, alpacas, nothing.

It was then that I became aware of something else that was peculiar. It was just so quiet. Apart from the aforementioned breeze there was no birdsong. I’d not noticed that before. There are trees but nothing chirping away within them. It’s May. My garden is alive with birds of all different shapes and sizes but in Obthorpe they’ve all flown the nest.

I bravely took a few photos of this ghost town before carrying on my way, looking behind me in case someone, anyone, suddenly appeared. After about a mile or two I reached the next village along, Wilsthorpe. I was immediately aware of birdsong, people in their gardens, a baby rabbit hopping about in the hedgerow and, well, just life.

I would like to think that Obthorpe isn’t as unsettling as it appears. I’m sure there must be people that live there. You may even know someone, but I suspect you don’t. Obthorpe is an enigma, a façade if you will, most likely for something sinister. I noticed this time that up a short track in the middle of Obthorpe, about half a mile away, marked with ‘Keep Out’ and ‘Private’ signs are two black barns. I’ll repeat that, black barns. Who paints their barns black, apart from some kind of comic book super villain?

Mark my words, something odd is afoot in Obthorpe. The conspiracy theory starts here.

TerryVision

2015-04-06T21:42:00.000+01:00

I know very little about Andy Warhol other than knowing that he was a prime mover in the world of pop art, he painted a picture of a tin of soup, and that he once said something about everyone having their fifteen minutes of fame, which, having not even bothered to look him up on Wikipedia is probably more than I know about Ladybirds for instance despite having met more of them than I have famous artists. None became good friends. Ladybirds are quite fickle and soon fly away when spooked and, like leopards, they never change their spots.

Where I’m getting to, albeit by the scenic route, is that most people have at some point had a brush with the bright lights of fame (or in some cases, notoriety). For most of us it can be quite a small and insignificant moment but for others it can be the start of a journey towards bona fide celebrity status. Our destiny is in the stars.

The most common route to fame and fortune these days is via the medium of television, however it can devour the unwary in its relentless demand for entertainment. I have had encounters with this cut-throat world on a few occasions.

Firstly, I appeared in the audience of a 1980s mid-morning talking shop called ‘The Time The Place’ along with some fellow associates of mine, when we were all about 14. The subject of the show was the perennial concern of ‘the youth of today’. Loads of kids from schools in the Southampton area were bussed in to defend ourselves to house bound and unemployed daytime television viewers across the country. Some actors from popular kids show ‘Grange Hill’ were also present, although in the flesh they appeared to be closer to middle age than their on-screen characters were.

I don’t remember much about this programme other than being intimidated by the seemingly giant pedestal cameras in use at the time and being sat in the wrong place at the end of the show as the host, the late Mike Scott, leant in to the camera to wish the great unwashed at home farewell, thereby positioning his backside about an inch away from my face. I must stress however that this was an unfortunate incident and Operation Yewtree do not need to be informed.

The second time I found myself in front of the lens was a year later whilst browsing in WHSmiths. I was approached by a camera crew and was asked to peruse the rack of Mills & Boon books, without any explanation. Being keen to please I did so, only to discover some days later that I was on the local news during their Valentines Day feature where a cheesy reporter was trying to demonstrate that even men read romantic fiction. Needless to say, I kept my head down at school for quite a while after that.

Then things went quiet for a few decades, until last Tuesday. I’d been in Manchester for work and had arrived at a chilly Oxford Road station to find that my train home was not going to arrive for another 30 minutes. As I was seeking somewhere warm to shelter I noticed a camera crew lurking about. Assuming that this was some sort of A-level media studies project (they looked so young) I paid them little attention and tried to keep out of their way.

Whilst trying to work out on my phone if there was some elaborate alternative route available to me that would mean I could board a nice warm train rather than catch my death on Northern Rail premises I was approached by one of the young fellows from the crew. He explained that they were recording a piece for The One Show, that smorgasbord of early evening celebrity chat, serious features about the likes of terminal illness, great historical moments, and the threat of terrorism to pensioners in Oldham, and lightweight pieces about dogs in hats.

On this occasion they were filming a feature following a mature gentleman called Geoff who was trying to seek new employment by handing out free coffees to commuters with his contact details on the cup. Interested in the prospect of a free warming beverage I agreed to partake in this televisual opportunity. I pretended that Geoff and I had never met and that this was all a surprise. I then went on to tell Geoff in this fairy-tale world that I would be able to help him due to all the connections that I have within the business world.

To be honest, I do know people, some in quite senior and important jobs that help to keep the wheels of industry turning, but I’m not sure they want to be introduced to a chap who thinks that his best option for employment is to hand out coffee to random passers by on the off chance they might secure him a role as a non-executive director. Naturally I didn’t explain this to Geoff as I was cold and I wanted a coffee, which I have to say was disappointingly tepid, but that’s the artifice of television for you.

My moment in front of the camera over, I went on my way on the assumption that there were many more televisual commuters around and that this was the end of the matter. I tweeted that I’d met Geoff and used the hashtag from the coffee cup, #GiveGeoffaJob.

Fast forward a couple of days and as I was heading home from work my phone began vibrating furiously as earnest tweeters found my message and shared it with their followers. I reasoned that Geoff must have appeared on TV but that I’d sadly missed his moment.

The next morning however I got curious as to who had made the final cut so I downloaded it. Sure enough, in amongst the hapless punters on screen came a cheery soul in specs who was promising Geoff his unmitigated support on prime time television.

Assuming that as no-one I know watches The One Show I’d gotten away with it and so I went to work with no concerns. However, after being in the office about 30 seconds I quickly realised that my brief appearance had not gone unnoticed, mostly by startled colleagues who’d had their domestic situations disrupted when I showed up unexpectedly on their televisions, in high definition.

Others who wisely don’t watch The One Show (no-one ever owns up to being a regular viewer, as I discovered) have threatened to download it via the BBC iPlayer to see how I fared. Hopefully they, like TV producers across the land, will see my natural charm and charisma bursting through the screen and that the calls for future TV appearances will soon come my way.

I’m currently eyeing up the opportunity to replace Nick Hewar on the Apprentice. I think I can just about muster the wit to lurk behind some useless graduates and pull faces as they make unwise and downright stupid decisions whilst trying to sell fish or doughnuts to the people of Guildford.

In fact I may even set up my own hashtag, #GiveTerryaJobOnTheTelly. I’ll get myself down the local railway station and hand out coffees with it on, just in case I bump into a passing media mogul.

Spread the word and when fame comes calling you can say you were there at the beginning. You can say you made me who I am. Then you can slag me off to the papers.

Fame is a cruel mistress.

Flat Out

2015-02-09T20:20:00.001+00:00

I’ve just realised that the last time that I updated the virtual world with tales of the real world, I was sharing my anxiety of some forthcoming surgery. Following that post this blog fell silent, possibly leading the more optimistic of readers to assume that I had succumbed to my malaise and expired on the operating table. Well, from my perspective I can happily report that this was not the case, the operation went well and I am now fully recovered. However, it was not without the occasional mishap along the way.

I had ‘gone private’ thanks to a generous health scheme provided by my employer so my arrival at the hospital was all a bit of an adventure, albeit an adventure that started at 6.30am and would lead to me being cut open. The room I had been allocated was better than some hotel rooms I’d stayed in (the Days Inn near Victoria Station for a start) and I could tell that I was a long way from the National Health Service when the first thing I was handed was a gift set of toiletries. They then gave me a menu embossed in gold, which my father-in-law was particularly drawn towards when he visited.

I was also provided with a gown to pop on and told that I was up first at 8.30am, which was terrifying but also a relief at the same time. After some anxious pacing I was eventually escorted up to the operating theatre where I was ushered into a brightly lit room full of widescreen TVs. I suppose it hadn’t occurred to me that a modern operating theatre looks less like an abattoir and more like Mission Control. If I could have detached myself at that moment from the cold, hard reality that I was about to be operated upon I would have marvelled at the state of the art technology being applied just to remove my gall bladder.

My fear was that I would wake during the surgery but would be unable to move or scream, trapped in a world of pain with no way to tell my torturers that I was suffering. Rather peculiarly therefore I was determined to stay in control of my senses as the anaesthetist busied around me. However, after a few short moments of applying a mask to my face (a medical one, not one of those Guy Fawkes ones that seem popular amongst anarchists) I must have passed out.

The next thing that I was aware of was the LED clock on the wall stating that it was 10.30am. The surgeon loomed above my prone body and asked how I was feeling. In a disbelieving and a slightly slurred intonation I asked him if he’d performed the operation. He confirmed that my gall bladder and I had parted company and that they’d take me back down to my room later to enjoy all the comforts that private healthcare can offer.

In fact by the time I was wheeled back down to be reunited with the present Mrs Hayward, I was virtually sat up in the bed and singing numbers from popular West End musicals. I felt great, absolutely splendid, on top of the world. I laughed with the surgeon when he came to visit and even asked if I could have my gall stones to take home with me. He explained that this was not considered hygienic these days and, even if I wanted to take them home and fashion them into a necklace, my gall stones had been stuck together. The operation had therefore been trickier than anticipated and he’d had to make a longer cut near my belly button. “Really?”, I enquired, “that’s just typical of me, isn’t it?” and we laughed like old friends enjoying a joke over an ale or two, albeit that I was still laughing for some 20 minutes after he’d left the room.

My overall bonhomie extended to everyone I met that afternoon and I felt an overwhelming love for the present Mrs Hayward in particular and I spent several minutes just staring at her lovingly in a glorious haze of adoring feelings.

Now this is not to denigrate my feelings for my wife or for my fellow men and women but unbeknown to me this joy and laughter was being fuelled by a concoction of pain killers which included, but was not limited to, Tramadol.

This elation continued unabated for a few hours before wearing off a little. It was replaced by discomfort and waves of nausea. Needless to say I was not able to partake of the fine meals being presented to me at regular intervals. My heart, or in this case my stomach, just wasn’t in it.

By the evening I began to perk up again. I picked at some chicken and rice concoction that had arrived, but found more pleasure to be gained from drinking the custard surrounding a sticky toffee pudding. The food looked so splendid that I felt bad about leaving it but my insides had been altered and weren’t completely ready for anything of substance. After a long day observing my various states of health the present Mrs Hayward headed home and I decided that I would chill out in front of ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ on the impossibly large TV in the room and perhaps even have a bit of a doze.

By about 8.30pm the sequins and twirling had ended and I idly flicked through the channels, finally alighting upon an episode of ‘Dad’s Army’. Whilst sleepily regarding the hilarious antics of the Home Guard from Warmington-on-Sea I suddenly got prompted into movement by a familiar and unwelcome sensation from my stomach.

I’d been urged by the nurses to get out of bed when I could and I felt that this was probably one of those moments. I delicately pulled myself off the bed and over to the bathroom as another bout of sickness seemed inevitable. When I realised that, instead of being stood by the sink and staring at my pale face in the mirror, I was actually lying flat on my back staring at the ceiling I realised that something had gone awry.

I had somehow fallen backwards but I had no memory of doing so. I was just there. After a few moments of enjoying a cool draught on the back of my head I looked around me. My body was laid about two-thirds of the way into the bathroom with my head and shoulders still within the bedroom. Fortunately it didn’t appear that I’d struck anything on the way down but the little bag that was attached to me by a tube into the side of my abdomen to capture any nasty seepage had come away and was now some distance away from me. There was blood, but not too much.

I couldn’t seem to move so laid prone for a while before finding I could sort of get up on my elbows, and so I tried to drag my weakened carcass back to the bed, with only minimal success. At that moment a young lady arrived with a mug of Horlicks. She seemed surprised to see me on the floor and decided that it was probably an opportune moment to seek some assistance from someone who was medically trained. I was not in a position to argue.

Within moments my room was full of nurses and doctors. A tall gentleman appeared and hauled me up from the floor and back on to the bed. The bag was reattached and they left me alone, but I was now subject to regular blood pressure checks as mine had apparently gone through the roof for no discernible reason.

My sleep was not entirely satisfying that night. I couldn’t get comfortable, especially as I could only really lie on my back, and I was being visited every couple of hours for medical tests of one form or another. The hours passed slowly and I was therefore glad to see the sunlight start to emerge from the cover of darkness.

At around 8am I was visited by a chirpy lady with some breakfast and tea. I sat myself up and was ready to tuck into the Corn Flakes she had brought when I became aware of some dampness on the right hand side of my tummy. I cautiously investigated and found I was leaking a little blood out of one of my wounds near the bag. No matter I thought, I’ll ping the bell in a minute after I’ve had myself a welcome cup of tea. As I was pouring and the reassuring smell of English Breakfast tea hit my nostrils I realised that the dampness had now spread. I looked again and was slightly startled to find that I was now sat in a substantial puddle of my own blood. I decided that help may be needed.

I rang the bell and after a few minutes the nurse, a charming young lady called Laura, arrived and calmly investigated. Again, much like the night before, my room was soon filled with what seemed like the entire medical staff from the hospital as they tried in vain to staunch the flow. I heard mutterings of ‘blood transfusion’ but I remained calm as towels from the bathroom were being deployed.

Eventually the Consultant was called in to investigate the blood bath. He surmised that my fall had caused the bag’s tube to pierce a blood vessel. He said that this was probably just skin blood that had been forming overnight and, instead of staunching it, the blood should be encouraged to flow forth. He pressed on my wound and the blood poured from my side like a raging red river.

Once he was satisfied that as much blood that was going to emerge had emerged he sewed me back up, but told me that my abdomen would now swell up and that I will most likely have a fair bit of bruising. There was however a veiled threat that if things didn’t go as he expected that more surgery would be necessary so for the rest of the Sunday I was nil by mouth and I wouldn’t be going home as expected.

For the next 36 hours I was poked, prodded, stabbed and generally manhandled, mostly by a German fellow calling himself ‘Doctor Bob’ who I wasn’t convinced had any kind of medical training whatsoever, until they eventually released me back into the wild on the Monday evening. My stomach and right hip did indeed swell up to the point that the only clothes I had that fitted me were my pyjamas, which I lived in for about a week. The bruising was spectacular and featured more colours than the famous sands of Alum Bay on the Isle of Wight.

For the following few weeks I found that I could only sleep on my back, which is surprisingly uncomfortable for prolonged periods, and my mobility was much reduced. A kindly soul had lent me some DVDs to watch during my convalescence. They comprised mostly of the Alien films. Given the gore I had recently experienced I figured they would be an easy watch. The only problem I had was that our DVD player is on the bottom shelf of the TV unit and I couldn’t get to it. More to the point, if I’d had to get down on the floor to load the DVD I would have had to stay there for the rest of the day and that would not be a satisfactory way to view any classic movie.

I was however on hand to receive Christmas presents that the present Mrs Hayward had ordered, even if it took me 10 minutes to walk the short distance to the door. Throughout my recovery I frequently answered the door to our chatty Mancunian postman, although I did have to explain my appearance in pyjamas at all times of the day lest he thought I was some work shy fop who ordered parcels in a woman’s name. Following this explanation he enquired about my health on a daily basis, once to a puzzled Mrs Hayward who hadn’t realised that we’d struck up this level of camaraderie whilst she was at work.

My recovery is now complete and all is well. I am eating and drinking normally with no ill effects. My scars are minimal and if anyone asks (not that a lot of people have to witness my bare torso) I am ready with a story of how I battled a man eating shark and won.

“You think this is bad?” I tell them, “You should have seen the shark”.

Under the Knife

2014-11-13T22:09:00.001+00:00

The present Mrs Hayward would have it that my frequent trips to see my GP would imply that I’m a raging hypochondriac. This isn’t entirely true, however having a healthy regard for any signs of malaise does set me apart from the stoicism of some men who would prefer to wait until their leg drops off before looking to see if they have a plaster.

I, on the other hand, assume that every ache, pain, cough or sneeze is a sign that the Grim Reaper is about to point his bony finger in my direction and so I get myself off down the quacks' to make good use of my national insurance contributions. Combined with some medical insurance at work, which means I occasionally bypass the National Health Service to attend hospitals with bowls of fruit in reception, means that my health needs are well catered for.

The combination of all these kindly medical providers came in very useful a couple of months ago when I was struck down in the middle of the night with what I concluded must surely be a heart attack of some kind.

To make sure of this self-diagnosis I got up, paced about to distract myself from the abominable pain, and held on for about an hour to see if I died or not. When the hour was up and I found myself to still be residing in the land of the living I rang 111. They concurred that my symptoms were a trifle odd and decided to send a paramedic to me, which sent me into a further paroxysm of panic. I had assumed they’d just tell me to take an aspirin and stop bothering them but within minutes a paramedic was in our lounge and had wired me up to some beeping machinery.

His results were inconclusive but he seemed fascinated by my slow heartbeat, despite my assurances that this was a natural phenomenon which had been commented on before by medical professionals and had been put down to my obvious athletic prowess.

He decided that I should be taken to the Accident & Emergency department for further tests and so he packed me into an ambulance car, whilst I apologised profusely for wasting his time with what was probably only a bad bout of indigestion, and driven at speed to Peterborough with the present Mrs Hayward trying to keep pace behind us in her little Fiat 500.

At the hospital I was prodded, poked, stabbed, scanned and mauled until they decided I wasn’t about to expire, despite the heart machine suggesting that I was flat lining on more than one occasion, and came to the unexpected conclusion that I was suffering from gall stones. Until that point I had no idea what a gall stone was.

In short (and from memory) they can be found, perhaps unsurprisingly, within the gall bladder. The gall bladder is an organ attached to your liver that stores the bile that secretes from the liver which is then released and helps to aid digestion when you eat. Sometimes, if the bile hangs around too long the cholesterol within the bile crystallises into jagged stones. Most of the time these stones cause no problems but if they move or create an infection they generate a remarkable amount of pain and, if they get stuck in a tube somewhere, they can kill you. See, I told you I was ill.

I came within a cat’s whisker of having the gall bladder whipped out there and then but the Doctor overseeing my general wellbeing refrained on this occasion and sent me home with a good dose of morphine and some pain killers that could fell a horse.

The pain failed to subside for a couple of weeks and after further prodding and scanning I found myself in front of a surgeon who suggested that, given the problems I’d had that it was time that my gall bladder and I had an amicable separation.

He assured me that once recovered from surgery I would be able to live a perfectly normal life, no strange tics or funny walks, and my diet, which since ‘the incident’ had mostly consisted of water, lettuce and dust, could also return to ‘business as usual’ with the usual caveat of ‘everything in moderation’.

He explained that the gall bladder is a useless part of our anatomy and, like the appendix and most of our intestines, are products of a bygone age when food was scarce, fire was a distant dream, men hunted mammoths with spears and Bruce Forsyth was still in short trousers. In essence, he was telling me that I had not evolved since the age of the cavemen which is fair enough I think. Just don’t expect me to wrestle a sabre-toothed tiger to the ground or fashion rudimentary tools out of flint any time soon.

So, this Saturday, I will be heading to a hospital to bid farewell to my gall bladder and its resident stones. I am being upgraded to a 21st century body, more efficient and slightly lighter. I don’t necessarily recommend this route as an alternative to conventional weight loss but when life gives you lemons and all that.

Frankly I’m terrified of actual surgery and a night in a hospital is going to be a new experience for me. I’m hoping it’s going to be like ‘Only When I Laugh’ or ‘Carry on Doctor’ and if it isn’t I will be sorely disappointed. Well, I’ll certainly be sore, regardless of the whole affair.

I have however prepared by buying some old fashioned pyjamas that button up at the front and am developing my Sid James-style earthy laugh for whenever a nurse bends over or a Doctor inadvertently puts his foot in a bed pan. Wish me luck.

Ooooh, Matron!

The Middle Ages

2014-06-01T16:33:00.000+01:00

Turning 40 a couple of months ago was a life changing moment. It’s not a big deal for most people, and I had the good fortune to see how many of my friends who shared the birth year of 1974 were handling it. For most it seemed to have passed off without incident, some made plaintive ‘where’s the time gone?’ messages on social media, and some seemed to be in the throes of a full-on mid-life crisis. My reaction was somewhere in the middle of the latter two.

In essence I realise now that I was passing through the stages of the Kubler-Ross model, otherwise known as the ‘five stages of grief’. The stages are (in this order) denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.

To be fair, I was in denial for an impossibly long time. Friends and associates joked about my forthcoming birthday for a good few months beforehand and I, on the face of it laughed it off. After all, it was just a joke, I couldn’t really be 40 could I? I still feel about, oh what, 21 on a good day? 24 maybe, at an absolute push. My looks have barely changed. Yes, there’s the odd grey hair and my skin isn’t quite as youthful as it once was, but essentially I’m still as fresh as a daisy aren’t I?

This abject inability to be stoic and accepting in the face of incontrovertible evidence was challenged to the maximum a few days before my birthday when some work colleagues decided, as it was the last day we’d all be in the office before I descended into my fifth decade, to decorate my desk and other locations in the building with ‘Happy 40^th Birthday’ style messages, balloons, photos off Facebook, etc. You get the picture.

To say I suffered a sudden sense of humour failure would be an understatement. This is where I shifted from denial to anger.

I was appalled and horrified. To put it bluntly, and I did in a loud voice as I entered the office, “I’m thirty-fucking-nine!!!!”. I couldn’t believe that my image was everywhere declaring to the world that I am old, old enough to be the father, nay the grandfather (if I were a guest on the ‘Jeremy Kyle Show’) of most people I worked with and therefore past it, not worth bothering about, unattractive and virtually dead. As you can guess, I wasn’t thinking in a particularly rational manner at the time.

This of course didn’t stop people wishing me premature birthday greetings for the entire day. After about an hour or so my seething resentment towards the perpetrators subsided a little and rather than hoping that they would all drop into a localised sink hole as penance for their mockery I began to accept this situation with better grace than when I first arrived. To be fair, no-one meant any harm and we all went out for lunch and there was a birthday cake and gifts and, well, even I could see that I was being unnecessarily churlish in the face of such unbridled kindness and bonhomie.

To be fair, this was as far as the anger went as the rest of the world was allowing me to be thirty-nine right up to the last minute and, for some reason, that seemed to be incredibly important.

After anger comes bargaining. When people are facing a premature end to their existence they plead with their chosen God for a few more years in exchange for living a reformed life. For me, this meant that I needed to review and re-assess my life so far with the help of an appropriate icon from my belief system. So I went for a pint.

From this discussion with, admittedly, several pints of ale I drew up what is commonly referred to as a ‘bucket list’. As this implies impending death I chose to label mine as a ‘things to do’ list, which is so much less threatening. It turned out to be more of a challenge than I had first thought as I opted initially to keep my list of things achievable. I reasoned that there was really no point in creating any more unfulfilled ambitions than I already had as that way madness and a return to anger lies.

Firstly I began to think of places I’d never been to. For no good reason my first thought was, ‘Well, I’ve never been to Oxford’, so it went on the list. It wasn’t however an illustrious start and before I found myself drawing up a list of various locations around the UK that I had neither visited nor ever wanted to visit I moved on to think of things I’d never done and would like to do. The list has now grown and evolved and includes very achievable things like lighting one of those floating lantern things to visiting Finland.

The depression part of the Kubler-Ross model never really kicked in, other than bemoaning the fact that some of the things on the list may prove to be incredibly costly, so ‘win the EuroMillions’ was added. I’m not sure if it is a legitimate addition but what the hell.

This makes me realise that I have now reached acceptance. I’m 40, I have plans, and no matter how wild or how mundane they may appear to be to the outside world I will strive to tick them off before I fall off my perch. This is assuming that I don’t fall from the said perch anytime soon. Well I could be run over by a bus tomorrow, although probably not where I live given the infrequency of the service.

Enough of this pessimism, after all, the only way is Finland.

Or Iceland.

Or the United States.

Or Oxford.

Welcome to Venice, Lincolnshire

2014-05-23T22:08:00.000+01:00

Turning on my TV this morning I was greeted with the usual early morning diet of news and features but, try as I might, I couldn’t find a single network that was reporting on the major news story of the previous day: The Great Bourne Flood.

It’s almost as if this remote backwater of South Lincolnshire had been rendered invisible to the news gatherers in that there London. They were more interested in dramatic pictures of The Shard being struck by lightning than some soggy yokels up to their knees in water, for shame.

Yesterday started warm and sunny, I was working from home but keeping a keen eye on the weather. Having recently laid fresh grass seed in the garden to deal with some threadbare patches and noticing how little green shoots of recovery were pushing their way up from the ground, I ensured that they were being kept fresh and watered. What better though than actual rain water to turn my sparse lawn into a lustrous green tableau of wonder?

As the afternoon progressed the dark clouds rolled in and I opened a window near where I was working so that I could hear the life-giving pitter-patter of gentle raindrops. I perhaps should have taken heed that all may not be well when the forthcoming shower was heralded by a blinding flash of lightning and an almighty clap of thunder so loud that I feared that the very fabric of reality had split asunder, releasing all manner of hellish demons and mischievous sprites upon the world.

The rain quickly arrived, falling hard and fast. Then it turned up a notch and came down even harder and even faster. The rain god looked down upon this small town and was dissatisfied. He stared hard at all the options available to him to up the ante with this deluge and decided to smash his fist down on all of the buttons at once just to see what would happen.

What happened was an impossibly deafening increase in precipitation with a healthy and prolonged burst of hailstones, just for good measure. This kept going for about an hour without much letting up.

I wasn’t concerned; it was just a heavy shower, nothing to worry about. I looked out of the rear window behind where I was working. The garden was getting a little moist and the paved alleyway where the bins are kept was starting to gain large puddles but nothing out of the ordinary.

I continued to work and had just come off the phone to a particularly unhelpful individual at a well-known healthcare provider when I heard a dripping sound from nearby. I closed the window but it didn’t help. There was still a sound of invading water coming from somewhere nearby.

I quickly ascertained that it was originating from my right hand side just behind a shelving unit full of DVDs. With a bit of puffing, panting and swearing I moved the unit to one side to see a damp patch on the carpet. I followed the trail of the dripping water up to a cupboard attached to the wall. I opened the cupboard and, sure enough, from somewhere within this cupboard the offending rainwater was emanating. The only problem was that this particular cupboard was housing the fuse box and electricity meter.

I am, as I have observed previously, not a practical man in any sense. I looked at the bewildering array of switches and dials in desperation. My eyes were drawn to the biggest of the switches, helpfully coloured red. I couldn’t see what the label underneath read as time had faded it, but I figured that it would either turn everything off or be the ‘self-destruct’ switch. With considerable trepidation I reached in to the cupboard and, whilst making my peace with the world, I flicked it downwards.

Thankfully this seemed to do the trick as I found myself still alive and in a strange half-light in a silent house, apart of course from the incessant drumming of the rain. Electrocution avoided I deployed all manner of buckets, cloths and tea towels into the affected area.

Catastrophe averted I looked out of the window, only to see that whilst I’d been distracted the puddles outside were now a raging stream. Not only had the gutters given up, the drains had become redundant. I found some wellies and splashed outside to see if I could assist the drains by clearing them a little. This only had a very mild effect as more rain was falling from the heavens than being swept away by the drainage system, even with my assistance.

I looked at my grass and realised that I could only see half of it, the rest was underneath a newly formed swamp, replete with a frog hopping merrily amongst it. I retreated indoors, threw more towels at the dripping fuse box cupboard and stared miserably out of the window, wishing I’d been one of those people who’d won a speedboat on ‘Bullseye’ back in the 80s. ‘Now they’re laughing’, I thought.

After what seemed to be an interminable age the rain decreased a little and, whilst on the phone to a colleague, I looked out of the rear bedroom window to see that the road behind our house had turned into an actual river. In amongst this river was a fire engine with some sturdy firemen up to their knees in murky brown water trying to establish how they were going to fight the elements.

Funnily enough I nearly had need of firemen at lunchtime when I came close to setting fire to the kitchen whilst grilling some sausages. I reasoned that having suffered fire and flood I only had plague and pestilence to go therefore I may as well venture outside for a closer look.

The one thing that draws human beings together is a bit of a drama on your doorstep. In about half an hour I met and chatted to neighbours that I only knew as nodding acquaintances or had never seen before yesterday afternoon. Everyone had a tale to tell; where else there were floods, which roads were blocked, how they remember when this happened 20 years ago.

I, along with one of my neighbours, went wading into the water to see how deep it was, just like those reporters on the news. I then did what everyone does these days, took a photo and posted it on to Facebook.

Today is another day, which it would be really. The water has been pumped away. Upon calmer investigation I discovered that thankfully the incoming water had missed penetrating the fuse box by millimetres although still too close for comfort, and my garden is now less swampy and full of pond life. My newly sown grass is probably doomed but at least I didn’t live down the road behind ours as that floodwater came perilously close to turning up as an unwelcome house guest for some.

Yet still no contact from any reporters from the BBC, ITN, Sky News, CNN, Fox News, France 24, Al-Jazeera, or any of the other news organisations I can remember that sit within the 500s on my Sky box. All they want to talk about is UKIP or Russia which is most disappointing.

There’s a story right here folks, just waiting to be told, which will now fall into Bourne folklore.

“Those floods of 2014, I remember them well. The water was so high they had to send a Cross Channel ferry to rescue us, oh yes”.

Fire in the Sky

2013-11-05T18:46:00.001+00:00

As I was walking back into town on Saturday night I found myself considering my attitude towards fireworks. I say walking back as I’d made the journey not 20 minutes before, but I’d barely got myself settled with a warming pint of Bateman’s Salem Porter when I had a nagging doubt that I’d left the iron on.

Visions of my house turning into a hellish inferno took over my mind to such an extent that I decided that I had no choice but to head back home and check.

Unsurprisingly I’d done no such thing and the iron, unplugged and stone cold, sat on the ironing board mocking me and so I made my way back through the wind and rain to the comfort and warmth of the pub.

On my way home I heard the pops and crackles of fireworks from a local display and occasionally caught sight of a burst of colour, mostly pinks and greens, above the trees and rooftops. It brought to mind a conversation that I’d had just a couple of days before when I had my hair cut.

Whilst discussing the issues of the day, the hairdresser (not a barber you’ll note, I’m so metrosexual) told me that she was going to be going to a firework display nearby as she had apparentlydone for time immemorial. She asked if I was going to a similar eisteddfod of pyrotechnic wizardry and I told her that I wasn’t.

She seemed somewhat taken aback at this response and enquired whether I didn’t like fireworks. I went to answer but my brain hit control-alt-delete and I realised that I had no answer to the question. I don’t dislike fireworks, I’ve been to firework displays in the past, plenty of them, but equally I don’t seek them out as the basis for a night out. If they occur incidentally to whatever is going on then all to the good.

In essence I realised that I was indifferent to fireworks, or possibly ambivalent. In fact the latter indecision of whether I was indifferent or ambivalent kept my mind occupied until I returned to my pint, whereupon I instantly forgot my concerns and focussed on which Halloween themed ale I was going to try next. For the main part I stuck with the Porter as it brought me the greatest satisfaction on the drinking front, but I digress.

What it made me realise was that some people really like fireworks. Maybe it’s the inner child that enjoys explosionsand bright colours but, to me as I get older, firework displays mostly lead to disappointment as unless you’ve thrown a ton of money at it equivalent to the national debt of Greece you’re going to get something pleasant but unimpressive.

Let’s be honest, the firework industry hasn’t really evolved since we were all knee high to a grasshopper. My expectations may be, quite literally, sky high but imagine if fireworks could explode and create, oh I don’t know, animal shapes like rabbits, and dogs, and kangaroos, or if they lit up the night sky in such a way that for a few brief seconds we saw famousworks of art like the Mona Lisa or The Haywain hanging magically in the air? Now that would be quite something.

Perhaps I’m wishing for the impossible but there must be someone out there who’s willing to have crack at it? I’m telling you, firework art, it’s the future.

Piggy Back

2013-07-07T12:49:00.001+01:00

It was two weeks ago, as I was passing the TV on my way to bed, that a news reporter stated that this could be Andy Murray's year. 'Here we go again', I thought, 'the same old hype about a British sports star only for it to end with them crashing out before the quarter-finals. It had happened so many times before with Tim Henman.

To be fair, I know nothing about tennis. I certainly didn't realise that Andy Murray is a little bit better at the old tennis game than Mr Henman was.

As Andy Murray is a Scotsman this lazy comment by a sports journalist grated a little. It reminded me of every single year that David Coulthard raced in Formula One. It became a running joke amongst a group of friends of mine that every year David Coulthard would say, or someone would say about him, it's his year. Of course it never was.

So in this digital multimedia social networking age I whipped out my phone and decided to put a humorous comment on Facebook. I was about to liken Murray to Coulthard. It would have been a little joke that would only be appreciated by a couple of people but that was fine.

As I was just about to put thumb to touch screen I thought of something more ridiculous to say instead. So it is now on record that I stated, just two weeks ago, that if Andy Murray won Wimbledon this year I would paint myself luminous green and ride a pig naked through the streets.

I chuckled to myself about this ludicrous image and went off to bed not thinking anything of it. Sadly in the following weeks it appears that some 'friends' have picked up on this. People who hitherto had no interest in tennis are now following it eagerly. I'm being kept abreast of Andy Murray's progress via numerous Facebook updates and text messages.

Some people have questioned my bold statement. Some people have even accused me of being anti-British. This is of course not the case at all. My observation was about the hyperbole that surrounds any British sportsperson, regardless of their abilities, which often leads to that sense of disappointment and the feeling that as a nation we're a bit crap, which could be avoided if we kept our expectations in check.

However, if by not supporting a Scottish tennis player I'm anti-British then so be it. Especially as he is reportedly not a big fan of the English himself. As we know, quite a few of our colleagues north of the border would quite happily be rid of us Sassenachs.

Besides, who said that I wasn't going to ride a pig in celebration at Andy Murray winning? It might be the case about that I will be so overjoyed at this result that I'll be prepared to do something so bizarre.

So today has come and he's made it through to the final. Am I stressed about this? No, not in the slightest. I'll be pleased for Murray, and won't be concerned that a van from a pig farm is going to show up outside my house.

To put it quite simply it's not really going to happen is it? The logistics and legality of the whole operation would probably make it a little prohibitive to start with.

Even if there was a possibility that I could ride a pig down the street painted bright green, I certainly wouldn't be doing it naked. It wouldn't be terribly dignified for either myself or my porcine friend. It would also get me arrested.

By all means I will welcome any mocked up photos, or sketches, or cave painting depictions of me on a pig but I'm not exactly going to be proactively seeking out a mighty hog to ride this afternoon.

I'm sure there will be disappointment amongst many of you. I mean, if it happens it happens but it probably won't.

The positive news is I've learnt more about tennis than I did before. Always useful for a pub quiz. I still don't understand the rather complicated scoring system but I do know that Marion Bartoli won the women's final.

I've also learned that if you make overblown statements on Facebook some people might take you more seriously than you intended.

I fear it may have been a statement that will come back to haunt me one day when there's a knock at my door and one of my friends is stood there with an Old Spot and a tin of green paint.

If so, then maybe I'll be the one on the news. Hog me up baby!

Under the Sun

2013-07-02T22:17:00.001+01:00

I've previously reflected within this blog that I really don't learn from my mistakes, and thus I am doomed to spend the rest of my life repeating the same stupid things over and over again.

For instance, you would think that if you suffered from sunburn once you would vow never ever to suffer that pain again. Apparently though I seem to welcome sunburn as if it's an old friend.

Let's just examine the evidence for a moment.

2004. Lanzarote.
Ignoring the fact that I was holidaying near the Equator in the middle of July I failed to remember that I might need to apply some sun cream on my back as I took a tentative venture into the warm Mediterranean Sea. In just a short 20 minutes my back and shoulders were grilled like a piece of smoked bacon. For the following days I couldn't put on a shirt without weeping. I made the best of it, it was my honeymoon after all, and despite the pain I still managed to bop to the Bulgarian Bee Gees who were playing in our hotel. Mind you, the 2 for 1 Cocktail hour helped to ease the pain a little. I vowed, of course, never to get sunburnt again.

2009. Somewhere in the south of France.
It was a windy day but the sun was shining as we ventured to the pool. Paying more attention to the wind than the sun I failed to apply any suncream to my pale white legs. They burnt. For the rest of the week I avoided trousers and every time I went to the shower I had to dance around so as to avoid too much direct water contact with my legs, because instead of soft and gentle water pouring down my body I felt like I was being bombarded with sharpened hailstones. I vowed, of course, never to get sunburnt again.

2013. Bournemouth. Yes, Bournemouth.
I was being sensible, at least to start with. I'd stopped on my way to the beach and bought some sun cream. I applied it carefully and liberally across my face and arms. Before extending this operation to the rest of my body I fell asleep on a sun lounger. Some hours later I awoke wondering why my knees felt a little warm. I applied some sun cream but unfortunately it was too late. My legs looked like giant Saveloys, my right foot had increased in size by about a third, and the burn marks on my calves looked like I'd been involved in some sort of industrial accident with hazardous chemicals. I have vowed, of course, never to get sunburnt again.

Time will tell of course, but my track record with this kind of thing isn't exactly encouraging.

All I can tell you is: don't do it. Its not worth the pain. Just because I have the memory of a goldfish with Alzheimer's doesn't mean to say you shouldn't learn from my mistakes.

In fact if just one person remembers my idiocy on a hot summers day and applies sun cream when they may not have done normally, I will feel that I've done my public duty.

Just stick the knighthood in the post. Ta!

Terry in June

2013-06-07T08:24:00.001+01:00

As I write I can see bright sunshine forcing its way past the thick curtains and into the room. The light is beckoning me to get up from my winter induced malaise and the heat from the flaming orb is daring me to venture outside and bare (in a civilised British way) my anaemic and ghostly legs until they are rendered aflame.

It's amazing what a spell of clement weather can do for the restless soul. I'd spent many weeks staring discontentedly at the all pervading grey skies and the rain battered landscape. My usual sense of stoicism in the face of British weather had evaporated as the months rolled past with no regard for the seasons.

I had ranted at the impotent weather forecasters. Well, most of them. It's hard to get angry at BBC Breakfast's Carol Kirkwood as her effervescent and uplifting personality is quite inspiring first thing in the morning, especially when she's forecasting doom and gloom in a jolly manner whilst sheltering under an umbrella at a flower show.

I had raged at unseen deities of various religions (I don't discriminate when apportioning blame for snow drifts in May) and had already begun to form half-arsed plans to abandon this chilly sodden rock and decamp to a warmer location. Mexico appeared to be a suitable option as I've always been fond of their hats.

Thankfully, whichever one of the Gods that controls the weather, most likely to be one of the Norse ones, suddenly heard the rumblings of discontent and has now put 50p in the meter, flicked the right switch, and something reminiscent of summer has now arrived .

This means that I can calm things down, cancel my flights to Guadalajara, bear a respectable amount of flesh, and venture outside, probably to a pub garden somewhere.

If there's a better way to spend a balmy summer's day, I've yet to find it.

Cheers!

A Short(s) Story

2013-04-17T19:58:00.001+01:00

Having finally gained sight of a strange glowing orb in the sky I have been able to shed some winter clothing. As a consequence, I went rummaging through the chest of drawers loosely assigned to the task of holding items that could be described as ‘gym wear’ in search of suitable shorts.

What I found was most unsuitable. Scrunched up at the back of the drawer were some sorry looking shorts made from shell suit like material. I’d bought them cheap last year and, over the course of a couple of months, they seemed to slowly disintegrate around the crotch area.

I feel it necessary to add a disclaimer at this juncture to reassure you that I am a very hygienic individual and pay particular care in ensuring that my gentleman’s area is clean and spotless and in no way diseased or rotting.

I put it down to my physical exertions in pursuit of the perfect body. To be fair, I’m still waiting for the perfect body so it looks like I’m going to have to make do with the pale and listless cadaver I’ve been lumbered with but I’ll keep plugging away regardless.

What probably caused my shorts to dissolve was the very fact that they were as cheap as chips. Cheaper in fact. So, there I was, just yesterday, wandering aimlessly around the bewildering world of Sports Direct in search of more sturdy replacements.

The important thing to stress here is that I am a total fish out of water in a sports shop. I maintain an unerring sense that I shouldn’t be there. Give me a Bookshop and I am like the proverbial pig in a pile of its own doings. It’s a more familiar environment where I feel at ease. The sports shop though is much more alien and complicated.

Sports Direct itself is a claustrophobic jumble of clothes and equipment stacked from floor to ceiling, the very epitome of the ‘pile it high and sell it cheap’ philosophy of retail. This in itself is daunting for those who just wander in, casually searching for suitable shorts.

Eventually I settled on three pairs made of adequate materials and all of wildly differing prices. One pair were a fiver and another were £20. I figured that this probably all evened out and in the end I’ve purchased three reasonably priced pairs of shorts.

You might wonder why I didn’t buy three pairs of the same. This is because Sports Direct caters for the broadest range of shapes and sizes imaginable but holds limited stock of what I would call a normal size. You could buy shorts from extra small to 4XL. I’m not sure what type of sports a man in 4XL shorts is doing but the man in the extra small shorts could buy the larger pair for the same price and fashion it into a cape for that added touch of flamboyance on the squash court.

When I eventually reached the till, I realised one pair of shorts did not have a price tag. The cheery girl behind the counter summoned a colleague to climb through the sportswear jungle and find an equivalent pair so that she could relieve me of the appropriate money. Whilst we waited for his return she regaled me with the story of the day someone tried to buy a football which their stock records claimed no knowledge of. “It’s always happening”, she said, “there was one time when our stock take went on to three in the morning”.

Her insights in to the day-to-day running of a large sportswear outlet were cut short by her perspiring colleague returning clutching a similar pair of shorts to those I was attempting to acquire. He pointed out, breathlessly, that she’d have to type the code from the label into the till as they weren’t the same size as the ones I was buying. As soon as his back was turned she looked at me conspiratorially and said, “I have a quicker way” and she just scanned the bar code from the pair of shorts I wasn’t purchasing.

I decided to refrain from pointing out to her that this shortcut may well be the reason that they possess footballs of unknown origin and why their stock takes drag on into the early hours of the morning as by now I felt my business there was concluded.

As for the shorts, one pair has seen action of a sporting nature and so far so good. No dramatic wear and tear to be reported. If the remaining two pairs either melt or catch fire whilst I’m undertaking a squat thrust, I’ll be sure to mention it, albeit from a hospital bed.

Sweet Addiction

2013-03-29T08:29:00.001+00:00

The room was small, dark and creaky. Every footstep by any creature other than the smallest of mice could be heard in this old and dusty building. I stood up from where I had been sat, on a flimsy wooden chair, to face the circle of strangers sat around me. My throat was as dry as the sun and my heart was beating so loud I expected that other people could hear it. I briefly closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and said, "I am Terry Hayward, and I am an addict".

When I eventually found the courage to look around the room, I was met with empathetic eyes. We all knew the pain of our addiction, the lost days, the broken relationships, the anxiety of waiting for the next hit. There were times when I found myself physically shaking, just waiting for another chance to crush some candy.

That's a drugs reference isn't it? That's what you're thinking, but no. If only it were that simple.

My addiction is far more insidious. As I stood in this room with fellow souls I regaled the sad story to them. It all started as curiosity. The present Mrs Hayward had become much quieter of an evening and was spending many hours, staring in a trance-like state at her phone. This wasn't the usual text messaging to her friends about shoes or No7 products in Boots, this was something different.

What I discovered was that it was a game. An innocent little game on her phone, called Candy Crush. After some persuasion she briefly showed me the screen and I realised I'd seen this before. I'd once seen a smartly dressed man on a train playing this, to the extent that he missed his stop entirely. I had judged him for being weak and childish but now judgement has turned to compassion as I too found myself downloading the game to see what all the fuss was about.

There are no instructions of any substance. You just mysteriously pick this simple game up. You move different coloured blobs (or candies) into a matching row of three which crushes them. Then all the other candies move down and the whole pointless process continues for level after level. I don't know how many levels there are. I'm beginning to suspect they are infinite.

Sometimes on a level you have to earn a certain total of points, sometimes it's against the clock, and sometimes you just have to clear all the jelly. That evil, evil jelly.

Before I realised what I was doing I had played five rounds and lost all my lives. A little moustachioed character leered at me from the screen and told me I had to wait half an hour for more lives. That was fine at first but as I got better and progressed past the first few levels those half an hours became longer and longer. It got bad. Real bad. I even downloaded Angry Birds to fill the gap while I waited for Candy Crush to give me more lives. This was getting serious.

I was mentally deteriorating. In my head, birdsong was being replaced with the whistly Candy Crush tune from when you lose a life, the music on the radio couldn't be heard over the relentless clanging tune that plays as you shift those candies around. If people spoke to me, I believed that they were interspersing their conversation with the encouraging word, "Sweet", and every time I closed my eyes I could see, yes see, the Candy Crush screen.

Then one day I woke up, and as the sun was streaming through the windows, I stretched and pronounced to the world, "Another day.....another full set of Candy Crush lives".

I didn't realise it at the time, but I needed help.

You will be pleased to hear that I'm now receiving that help and getting my life back. I am blogging again, as you can see, and today I'm going back to my first love. Beer.

You see, when you wake up, like I did last Monday morning, and realise that you never got out of your pyjamas, or left the house all weekend, then I can sort of live with that. However, when I realised that the weekend had been completely dry because I hadn't had time to pour myself a drink because of a ridiculous game on my phone, then I knew things had to change.

Today I am going to Sheffield, one of the spiritual homes for real ale in the UK. I shall be putting myself in the supporting arms of brewers and publicans, and I will cleanse myself with pale ales and/or stout. It's the only way.

If you need help to beat your addiction then I encourage you to join me. We will not let brightly coloured candy ruin our lives.

Thank you for your time. See you on the other side.

**If you have been affected by any of the issues in this blog post then please contact the BBC Action Line, who probably have a factsheet or something useful they can send you. Although don't tell them I sent you. Not after the last time. There was quite a hoo-hah. Sssshhhh!!!! **

Lord of the Dance

2013-02-19T22:33:00.001+00:00

This very evening I found myself at Body Pump, which sounds like some sort of deviant practice but is, in fact, a harmless fitness class. It's a mix of weightlifting and dancing so it's well suited for a man with my muscular prowess and natural rhythm.

To be fair, my dancing skills are radical and unshackled from the restrictive doctrines of conventional wisdom on the subject. I steadfastly refuse to be a slave to the beat and recognised dance moves are not my masters. For me, it's all about the spontaneity of flinging my leg in the air and not knowing where it might lead me.

We're a rare breed us natural dancers. I rarely catch sight of a like-minded soul, mostly as we're both caught up in the moment to notice each other, but once, on a surprising holiday in Ibiza (surprising for the fact that it was me, in Ibiza) I saw one chap who flailed past me as I was spinning in the opposite direction. I was impressed. He'd obviously been studying my technique for some time and was keen to incorporate some of my fancy footwork into his own wild fusion. That or he too had knocked back several jugs of Sangria, it's sometimes hard to tell.

Mind you, even when I'm sober as a Judge, the music can take control and I have to be very careful. Tonight I very nearly kicked one chap in the shin and a young lady up the derrière. Mind you she had also adopted a laissez-faire attitude to her backward kicks and came within a whisker of wiping out my gentleman's area with her size 6 Nike trainer. For one moment I saw my testicles' lives flash before my eyes, a sobering vision indeed.

In the end I escaped unscathed and unharmed. Dancing doesn't get harder than this, especially when you throw in a weights bar and some dumb bells.

Maybe next year this freestyle weights dance combo will make it onto Strictly. Until then the motto has to be.....keep dancing!!

Say What You See

2013-01-27T16:41:00.000+00:00

Whilst traversing through the world we often engage in brief conversations with all manner of people. Most often they are just polite acknowledgements, a cheery “Good morning”, unless it’s the afternoon of course.

We’ve all trod that fine line around midday where we’ve wished a stranger “Good morning” and you realise you’ve engaged with some clock-watching pedant who feels compelled to correct you that it’s now three minutes past twelve and so it should really be “Good afternoon’, whereupon you pick up a stray tree branch and bludgeon them to death, or at the very least wonder why you bothered in the first place. If you stick to “Hello” you should be on safer ground chronologically speaking.

The recent cold snap has meant that certain people I have encountered have felt obliged to go into more depth and ask my opinion on things, which makes me realise that I need to be more conscious of what I’m wearing. You see I’ve been wearing my woolly hat more often, but it is a hat that bears the logo of Southampton Football Club. Therefore, I have found myself in the past couple of weeks being questioned about the recent sacking of our manager, a certain Mr Adkins, and the replacement with one Senor Pochettino.

The problem is that I don’t have a view. Yes, it was surprising, but it’s football. I’m sure he’ll either be good at his job or he won’t. Yes, I care, even more so after an ale or two, but the rest of the time, c’est la vie.

So, after the initial confusion of being asked “What do you think of the new manager?” whilst I’m scraping ice off the car, the conversation doesn’t really have a lot of legs.

The problem gets worse when people strike up a conversation out of nowhere and with no context. There I was in Tesco, trying to get out with my small amount of shopping as quickly and efficiently as possible by using the self service machine when one of the staff caught my eye and said to me, “I like the food there”. I looked down at my basket full of pizza and ice cream and wondered what in particular had caught his eye when he followed this up with “I was there yesterday lunchtime”.

I’m told that my face gives away what I’m saying so he must have seen a face that said “What on earth are you waffling on about?”

He attempted to help, “Do you work there?”

It was only whilst I was forming the words “Work where?” when I realised I was wearing a polo shirt bearing the name of my local pub. I’d got it for free at their 10^th anniversary bash and had slung it on for my brief sojourn for wine and sustenance.

I put him right but he seemed a little disappointed with this response and I went away feeling as if I’d let him down somehow, despite the fact that I never started the damned conversation in the first place.

Finally, this morning I was approached in the gym by a ruddy-faced man with a bushy ginger beard who informed me that he agreed with me.

I momentarily considered the many ill-informed and downright illogical beliefs I hold and wondered which one it was he might agree with. Could it be that he agrees that the universe is just a small particle of dust, like the sort that catches your eye at home when it passes through the sunlight streaming through the window? Maybe he agreed that it’s possible to be trapped inside a dream (it happened to me, but that’s another story)? Or could it be that he agrees that if you drink beer after drinking spirits it will sober you up?

Then I realised that the hairy fellow was looking towards my torso and wasn’t necessarily admiring my newly emerging abdominal muscles that are presently involved in a gruesome and fruitless territorial battle with my stomach, but was in fact staring at my t-shirt, which bore the phrase ‘Running Sucks’.

So, the lesson here is, I need to look in the mirror before I leave the house to remind myself of the talking points that may arise from my choice of clothing and prepare more interesting responses than, “Er…yeah”.

The alternative of course is not to go out, or at least not when sober.

Festive Wisdom

2013-01-02T19:24:00.000+00:00

So there it went, faster than an Austrian out of a balloon, the Christmas holidays have zipped by and we are now in the most miserable month of the year, January. The month that generates the most divorces, unwise career moves and (in some cases) suicides is upon us. Happy New Year!

However before we embrace the gloom and realise that going cold turkey on booze and chocolate on the 1^st January is a stupid idea that rarely pans out beyond the first couple of weeks I am taking a quick look back at the important things I learnt during the brief festivities.

Indulge me a little if you will, it’ll put your mind off the fact that the back pain you’ve noticed is in fact your liver screaming for mercy and that the shaking is just a craving for even a Strawberry Cream from the now empty Quality Street tin.

So, in no particular order:

1. When it comes to presents I’m still a kid. Out of all the sensible presents I received, the ones that I keep coming back to are the remote controlled helicopter, the yo-yo, and the magic trick where the bug disappears. All of these things took me back to being 8 years old again. Joyful.

2. When it comes to presents, sensible is the best way forward. OK, so there’s a balance and I get equal joy from socks and shirts, and slippers, and smellies, and beer. Lots of beer. I think it comes down to the fact that it saves me from buying them myself. You know, that self satisfied feeling when you consider that you won’t have to buy any shower gel until at least March. Wonderful.

3. Invite less people for Christmas dinner. Oh, don’t get me wrong, it’s lovely to have the family over, everyone coming together and laughing and eating and singing, and……well, no that’s not the reality is it?

I mean, in a larger house where we had a staff of chefs, butlers, and housekeepers maybe, but the cold hard reality is that I am usually to be found outside freezing my arse off on Christmas morning, cleaning garden furniture so that it can be brought into our comparatively modest lounge so that everyone can sit down. Of course by the time I get inside my efforts are rewarded by the fact that everyone have sat themselves on the nice chairs and I’m perched on a stool at the far end of the room wondering where all the sprouts have gone. We didn’t do that this Christmas.

No, this Christmas it was just the present and future Mrs Haywards for dinner (the latter of whom was entertainingly hungover) and it was easy and blissful. Yes, we saw family later at the outlaws’ house and that was great, but not having a houseful for dinner at Chez Hayward meant that I didn’t get frostbite and I could gorge myself on sprouts until my heart’s content.

4. Biscuits are the new Milk Tray. The previous Christmas we received, from numerous sources, about twenty-three boxes of Milk Tray. As welcome as they were we didn’t really know why we received so much Milk Tray in particular. I guess there was an offer on, although amusingly every box was of a different shape and size. This year, not one offering of Milk Tray emerged from underneath any shiny wrapping paper, although we did receive biscuits. Many tins of biscuits.

Initially I thought this to be curious, as I’ve never been bought biscuits in my life. Then I realised the genius of it. Biscuits do not suffer at the hands of the New Year purge. They are acceptable to keep so that I am now well stocked in biscuits until at least the middle of February when I deign to consider the Custard Cream or anything with fruit in it. Beware, because if I don’t know what to get you next Christmas I will be following suit and buying biscuits, by the droves. So, if you’re not a friend of the shortcake finger then tell me now. That’s not a euphemism by the way.

5. Rock Lobster is a very long song indeed. 6 minutes and 50 seconds to be precise, which I hadn’t realised. You see, as I mentioned, we saw family later on Christmas Day and one of the younger members dragged me off the sofa to play on Just Dance or Let’s Dance, or some such Wii based dancing game. I perused the options available and realised quickly that I am less au fait with current chart hits then I had realised. I therefore plumped from something I knew of from back in the day.

On came 'Rock Lobster' and off I went, expending all my energy in the first minute, not realising that there were still another six agonising minutes of swaying, and hopping, and jumping to go. Given this was early evening and I’d been drinking since 10am (well, it was Christmas Day) I’m surprised I could even move and more surprised still that all the peanuts and crisps and cheese from the night before didn’t bring on some sort of snack food based seizure.

Suggestions that “I do another one” were ignored as I sweatily resumed my place in some comfortable furnishings and enjoyed my father-in-law’s interpretation of 'Jailhouse Rock', which should have scored many marks for enthusiasm and entertainment but lost a shedload for technique.

So that, as they say, is that. All of Christmas in a nutshell. I can now hibernate for at least eight months until I see a hint of tinsel in a shop or the merest suggestion that Noddy Holder is about to announce “It’s Christmas!” through a shop’s PA system.

Now, in the meantime, what the hell am I going to do with all these un-drunk bottles of Mulled Wine and Advocaat?

Terry....is Vexed

2012-12-13T22:30:00.001+00:00

I have a crime to report but I don’t know who to report it to. The police are probably not bothered and Nick Ross has long since hung up his crime(watch) fighting cape. Yet this criminal behaviour is happening now, this very minute, somewhere. When I say somewhere, I mean Facebook.

Technically it isn’t a crime in the strictly legal sense of the word, although come the revolution when my followers rise up and crush the normal state of affairs then things will change. In Hayward’s Britain, alongside new and harsh penalties being dished out to individuals for the offences of noisy children inside pubs after 7pm, slow moving HGVs in the fast lane, and being in any way involved in the production, broadcasting or viewing of ‘Geordie Shore’, I will include a very important social media no-no.

The crime to which I’m referring to is that of ‘friends’ hinting at something in their Facebook status that they never intend to spill the beans on, or at the very least without other ‘friends’ having to go through the long and tedious charade of pretending to give a damn and having to ask them what it is that they are not making explicit and to check that, whatever minor catastrophe has befallen them, it has not left them harmed and/or bereft.

You know the type of thing I’m talking about. You see it all the time. If I were to do it I would put something like ‘Terry is angry’. Well, Terry probably is angry but that’s because he’s just spotted some friend or associate announce that they are ‘pissed off’, or ‘sad’ (accompanied by sad/teary faces).

I guarantee that when I post this blog on Facebook I will find that, within two or three posts either above or below, one of my friends will have unwittingly done this very thing. If it is you then you should hang your head in shame.

Not as annoying but still within the boundaries of criminal behaviour are those that announce they have had a good or bad day/news/trip to the shops, without explaining what it was that made any of these things good or bad.

In essence I’m referring to anything that involves another person having to ask the question “what’s up?”, or worse still “what’s up hun?”. The linguistic abomination that is “hun” should, all by itself, automatically become a criminal offence punishable by public flogging, but that’s a whole other matter.

However, for the main offenders of this heinous act of self-important attention seeking there will be a substantial prison sentence and a lifelong ban from using any kind of communication tools available to you, up to and including talking, sign language, grunting, and whimpering.

We are neither small children nor are we chimpanzees with only rudimentary abilities to indicate we‘d like a banana or that we’ve soiled ourselves. We are all intelligent, literate, right-minded adults who should be choosing to use this glittering social media forum to entertain, educate and inform our friends about the amazing, and wonderful, and terrible things that occur in our lives.

Feeling sad? Tell us why. Help us to empathise. Feeling happy? Share your joy and bonhomie. Nothing to say? Well, for the love of God, if you feel compelled to say something then at the very least try to make it funny.

I have to stress that this kind of behaviour doesn’t happen on Twitter, or at least very rarely, probably due to the overall design of the thing. If you post similar sentiments on Twitter you are likely to be met with a deafening silence which does no good for the soul of the individual seeking love or pity.

In that respect, it is in some ways more impersonal but it forces and encourages wit and imagination, more so than lazily tapping out a few self-regarding and humourless short words to a bunch of friends and family and school friends you haven’t clapped eyes on for 20 years on Facebook.

It’s not that the guilty parties are bad people. They are usually perfectly lovely people in the flesh but put them in front of Facebook and suddenly they are possessed by their inner demons and become immune to the norms of social behaviour. Quite rational individuals feel suddenly compelled to hide behind a status of incomprehensible hints and riddles.

So, as a plea, before my forces march across Westminster Bridge and surround Parliament, I urge you to stop and think before posting. Exercise your brain for a few seconds longer. The rest of us, well, if we spot this behaviour we need to resist the temptation to type out the usual bland and predictable responses and, instead, type the words (in capital letters) CRIME SCENE - DO NOT CROSS.

This simultaneously admonishes your friend for their crime and tells others to steer clear. That way I won’t have to come and burn your house down, so it’s for your own good really.

Hayward FM

2012-11-22T16:28:00.000+00:00

According to a report last week, the sales of DAB radios have dropped more than expected, yet radio listening is at its highest point for years. This is of course due to the fact that radio can be accessed everywhere from TVs to phones to toasters. This is bad news for those companies that have thrown their lot into making those retro-styled DAB radios and great news for every tin pot local radio station in the country.

Personally speaking, I don't actually listen to a great deal of radio 'live', unless I’m in the car. I download a lot of podcasts, most of which are scaled down versions of radio shows, or even whole shows, so that I can listen to them at my leisure. The only conscious radio-based routine I have is to put my Sky Gnome onto Radio 4 first thing in the morning.

For those not in the know, the Sky Gnome is a random piece of kit that Sky doesn’t make anymore. It’s essentially a wireless speaker for the Sky box so you can take audio from the TV wherever you go in the house. Technology has overtaken it but it was a pleasingly designed pyramid that’s remained quite hardy and enduring over the years. Anyway, I digress.

So, Radio 4. You see, I can’t cope with music or chirpy DJs first thing in the morning. The last thing I need from my wireless is a 12 year old bellowing at me in estuary English and offending my tender early morning eardrums by playing a Nicki Minaj song at me. For my older readers, Nicki Minaj sounds like a cross between Eminem and Lulu, just with less swearing and Irn Bru.

What I can cope with is John Humphrys or James Naughtie arguing with a politician. No up-tempo beats, just a couple of old men bickering with the world, like more well informed versions of Statler & Waldorf from The Muppet Show.

Give me an hour of that first thing in the morning whilst I’m making a cup of tea and coming to terms with being awake and I’m set up for the day.

Once I’m in the car I can be a fickle listener. Sometimes it’s Radio 2, occasionally Radio 1, and on occasions Radio 5 Live, as trying to listen to that station on the move reminds me of picking up foreign stations on short-wave radio back when I was a kid.

As you can see I mostly stick to BBC stations so that I get my money’s worth out of the licence fee. However, when the present Mrs Hayward is in the car, we have to listen to dreaded commercial radio stations, usually Heart.

“The best music variety” they say. I’m not sure how they can justify that as, whenever the car radio is forcibly tuned to their frequency, the same 5 or 6 songs seem to be playing on a loop, usually current chart based hits. Mind you, twice in 12 hours I heard the same Erasure song from the 90s the other day. Is that what they mean by variety?

The news reporting is also lacking some of the journalistic integrity that you’d expect. I know the BBC has come in for some flak lately, mostly from the same newspapers who merrily print stories without any kind of evidence and then quietly settle out of court later, but even they can be trusted to provide proper news. Heart however prefaced a story on their news on Wednesday by announcing that due to the recession (which I don’t think we’re in anymore, but that’s a moot point) that shopping lists are back in fashion.

Excuse me, what? Shopping lists are back in fashion? When were they out of fashion? And when were they in fashion the first time around? Shopping lists aren’t even a fashionable commodity. They’re just shopping lists. They’re practical items like food or buses or hammers. No-one sees fashion models clutching shopping lists and, if they did, they wouldn’t go, “Look, she’s got a shopping list, I must get myself one of those bad boys this season”.

As far as journalism goes, it’s sloppy. Just like those people who refer to things as being a ‘trademark’, usually in the context of something like ‘There’s Rolf Harris with his trademark beard”. It’s not a trademark, it’s a beard, or a hat, or a personality trait, or just some shit clothes they wear, but not a trademark. Being an Intellectual Property lawyer, this upsets the present Mrs Hayward no end. At best they mean a hallmark, but that in itself probably upsets goldsmiths.

Maybe I shouldn’t be too bothered about this. After all, it’s due to my wife’s poor choice of radio stations that I’m subjected to inane DJs, adverts for local garden centres, and whiny voiced girl rappers. Yes, I’m talking about you again, Minaj.

I’ll just go back to listening to The Archers or Ken Bruce (I love Popmaster) when she’s not around. Perhaps technology will allow for these stations to be hot wired into my brain so I can tune out Heart and tune into something that’s not going to make me want to keep banging my head on a wall over and over because it’s less painful than hearing ‘Moves Like Jagger’ for the 13 millionth time in 10 minutes.

I might try to make one myself. I can call it my trademark radio brain thingy. Right context? Probably not. I’ll give Evan Davies a tweet when he’s next on Radio 4 and see if he can get me a slot on Dragon’s Den.

I’m out.

Talking 'bout the Car Wash

2012-11-04T12:20:00.001+00:00

I confess. I'm bang to rights. I cannot shy away from it any longer. I, Terry Hayward, am a lazy man.  

Now this may not come as such a shock for some people. The present Mrs Hayward for one. It's not a universal laziness I must say. It really comes down to the onerous task of cleaning. Especially the car.   

Sometimes I think our car is too small, which is a ridiculous thought, but when I have to clean the thing it suddenly takes on the size and dimensions of a tank.  

This is why the last time I actually cleaned the car myself was some time in the last decade. In the intervening years I have discovered the joys of the automated car wash. I think it's because I always wanted my parents to go through one when I was a kid but they, in my opinion, were too tightfisted to take their car through the car wash, instead preferring to attack it with a bucket and sponge.  

To young Terry the automated car wash appeared to be like a wonderful theme park ride, where the car would be engulfed in bubbles and buffeted by jets of water whilst I sat inside. I lead a sheltered life. Did I mention I came from the Isle of Wight...?  

Of course the automated car wash isn't quite as exciting as that, although there's always the danger that the big drying implement is going to develop a fault and smash through the windscreen thereby decapitating me. I do like that thrill of danger in everyday tasks.  

However yesterday, when considering a trip to the car wash, I decided that the inside of the car also needed a bit of a spruce. So I eschewed technology and visited one of those car washes manned by real life people. The hand car wash.  

It was a new and exciting experience. Firstly my vehicle and I were ushered forwards into their lair, whereupon some men with limited English escorted me out of the car. They then attacked the inside of the motor with heavy-duty vacuum cleaners, removing all manner of debris and detritus.

Once this was completed I was encouraged back into the car, to drive around to the next stage where two rather large-handed men sprayed waterjets and foam at the car whilst I was left sat inside, wondering if that chip in the windscreen might finally develop into a crack and then smash altogether, cascading glass fragments and bubbles all over me like an S&M foam party.   

Once these burly men were satisfied that their job had been done they beckoned me to go further forwards in the car as they pursued me with their high pressure water jets. I then had to vacate the vehicle again as yet another big man came along and opened the door and nodded to the side. Even more men then descended, I know not from where, with cloths and chamois leather, and they hastily wiped the inside of the windows and the dashboard.  

I was impressed by their speed and efficiency. No nook or cranny was left untouched and, before I knew it, it was all over and I handed a crumpled ten pound note to the big man.  

Heading away from the car wash I noticed that they'd kindly attached a magic tree air freshener to the indicator stick on the left-hand side of the steering wheel, an unusual place to put it I thought. So now not only is the car sparkling clean on the inside, I also have a faux cedar smell wafting throughout.  

As I drove away into the mean streets of Peterborough I realised that my days of visiting an automatic car wash were over. For just a few quid more than the automatic car wash these gentlemen had transformed my motor back to the days when it was nearly new. So much so that I was inspired to go and buy some new mats for the floor.   

I look on it that I'm keeping the wheels of industry turning and doing something to reinvigorate the British economy. Or at the very least the Polish economy. I may be a lazy man when it comes to cleaning the car but I'm a very energetic man when it comes to supporting local businesses.  

Well that's my story anyway.

Wherever I Lay My Hat........

2012-10-20T12:40:00.001+01:00

I don’t know whether it’s nature or nurture but somewhere deep within me there’s a Romany spirit. Not in a Big Fat Gypsy Wedding kind of way, I’m not likely to buy a caravan or aggressively manhandle women in a car park; it’s more wanderlust.

One thing I’ve learnt about myself over the past few months is how easily I settle into a routine, and that makes the flighty part of my brain quite cross, and so I always have that urge to up sticks and see another part of the world.

I suppose I could have gone backpacking when I was a younger chap but it didn’t appeal. At the tender age of 17 I’d discovered beer and girls and the thought of holing up in a bivouac in a desert didn’t seem as appealing as the new world I was exploring in my own back yard. It’s also not about just visiting somewhere, but moving lock, stock and barrel somewhere for a year or two, and to really live somewhere, warts and all.

I can only guess this may have something to do with the fact that I lived in three places before the age of 12. To a young and expanding mind this sets out the stall for how you live your life, constantly on the move. That need for a change of surroundings becomes the routine.

I never really moved that far, but there was always a change of school involved, and so that created challenges in maintaining friendships and having a sense of place, but I don’t think it harmed me. If anything it made me less clingy to one location because my childhood memories were scattered around.

So, for no good reason I’ve compiled a quick assessment of Hayward Homes past and present. All the places I lived and the ups and downs. Or the downs and ups, we’ll see how it pans out.

Calbourne, Isle of Wight

Technically I didn’t live in Calbourne, I lived at a place called, according to the map, Five Houses, but Calbourne was the nearest village. There weren’t actually five houses there. There were two and one of those as I’ve mentioned before was haunted. Also, the place was overrun with spiders, woodlice and other creepy crawlies, it was a good bike ride to get to my friends’ houses and there was an Alsatian who used to come and shout at me.

On the plus side however there were fields, and countryside, and so many places for a young lad to play. Farmers’ fields were just massive play areas and I have very fond memories of the place. Had I reached my teenage years there it would have probably driven me insane as there was nothing much to do, unless I was going to become a farmer, but that didn’t happen, which is a relief as I can’t milk a cow and the smell of manure turns my stomach, so all to the good.

Nursling, Hampshire

Technically I didn’t live in Nursling either, but again it was the nearest village. I lived on Foxes Lane. It’s not there anymore; it’s now a B&Q car park. When I did live there though it was like Calbourne but with added fun. A motorway had split Nursling in half and we were on the abandoned side. Next to our house was a steep embankment. This could only mean one thing; a length of blue string tied to a tree meant that I had a makeshift abseil rope.

Behind our house there was a patch of what we called ‘the wasteland’ where I used to play with friends. It was a fairly uneven patch of land but the tour de force was what appeared to be a large crater. Many hours were spent speculating what may have caused it, a crashed spaceship being our favourite option, and we’d go searching for the aliens that were obviously now hidden out in the nearby Industrial Estate.

There was plenty of countryside on our doorstep, and a railway track, amazing for someone who came from the Isle of Wight. I accept that there’s a railway line on the Island but not like this one. These were exciting trains that went to exotic destinations, like ‘that there London’. There were some horses in a field opposite the house who I used to feed cow parsley to (not sure if I was supposed to), and there was an abandoned road we discovered where we could cycle up and down with abandon. Also, when I got older and braver (about 10) and my parents were out, I could cycle to Redbridge station and catch a train to Southampton on my own. My parents never knew, and that’s what made it all the more exciting.

Totton, Hampshire

Totton felt amazing when I arrived there as a tender 11 year old. It was only a normal town with houses, and streets and shops but I’d never lived in one before. When I finally left, in my twenties, I realised I’d been there too long as I’d grown to hate it. Everything about it just seemed to annoy me, the miserable, ageing shopping precinct, the large Asda dominating the town centre with the same faces behind the tills that were there when I was a kid, and the lack of a decent public house, one that wasn’t filled with aggressive track-suited chavs, all meant that I still to this day slightly resent visiting it.

It did, however, have its plus points. All my friends were a stone’s throw away, it’s close to Southampton and public transport links were, in my day, good. Having a big Asda was actually quite handy, and I was always slightly impressed by Eling Quay. There’s Totton looking a bit run down and sad, but walk a couple of streets and there’s Eling with it’s boats and church, and tide mill, and pubs. It was an incongruous sight, but a very welcome one.

Leicester, Leicestershire

I loved Leicester. On the surface it’s a fairly standard East Midlands city but it became my home when I chose to go to university there in the 90s, to the point that my visits home during the holidays became less and less frequent.

I can’t pinpoint what I loved exactly, maybe it was the convenience of a city, the freedom to be away from my folks, the many wonderful pubs, the many friends I made, a lot of whom were residents of that fine city rather than my fellow students. The only reason I left was because I ended up living on my own in a grim studio flat after my degree course, flitting between temp jobs, and I realised I needed to save some money, but it was a wrench and I remained a very frequent visitor for the next couple of years.

After years of pining for Leicester I recently realised that the flame has dimmed and it’s been consigned to the back of my mind as being ‘that place I used to live’. Leicester has changed, the pubs I drank in have closed and, in some cases, bulldozed to make way for the future, and with it my memories and fondness have faded, just a little.

Sheffield, South Yorkshire

Sheffield was the city I cheated on Leicester with. I made new friends, drank in new pubs, and rode on the tram system, even once going as far as Halfway just to see what was there. Not much, as it turned out.

I’m fond of Sheffield and for some reason it felt like a thrill to live there but I’m a sucker for dramatic views, and my bedroom window in the attic of an old stone house on a hill meant I could see all across the city below and all the way up the hill on the other side. It was magnificent.

The atmosphere of the city was always great and of course Meadowhall is on your doorstep for all your retail opportunities. Myself and the present Mrs Hayward were tempted to move here after I finished my course, but she got offered a job near her home in Peterborough and so fate played a hand in my next move.

Stamford, Lincolnshire

When the (at the time) future Mrs Hayward and I first moved in together it was in a little house by Stamford railway station. In the brief 18 months or so we lived there we got married so I have a lot of fond memories of that time. I also have a memory of streaking naked around the little court of houses we lived in, so ecstatic was I that Rowetta had been voted out of The X Factor. I may have had a little bit of alcohol before venturing on this scheme and the amount of heart attacks I caused to our elderly neighbours is unrecorded.

I still love Stamford, it’s a beautiful looking town and I would move back there in a heartbeat. The only down side is the cost of houses. For the same price as our barely two bedroomed house by the station, you could buy a good sized family house in, somewhere, er, well, like…..

Bourne, Lincolnshire

Ah yes, the hometown of the present Mrs Hayward. Say what you like about it, and I often do, it’s a nice little town with a couple of decent pubs and a motor racing heritage that was celebrated the other weekend with a cavalcade of old cars being driven by the likes of Damon Hill and Sir Jackie Stewart.

There’s also nothing nicer than driving back home after a day in ‘that there London’ to the tranquillity of the countryside. I don’t have to lie in bed at night listening to lorries rumbling past or police sirens or goods trains loaded up with gravel, the most you hear in the dead of night is the occasional Owl hooting in the distance. OK, so one night a Fox was outside screeching and it scared the be’jesus out of me but that’s about it.

The slight downside is the travel. If you want to go anywhere you have to drive for half an hour before you come to a decent road, and if you want to catch a train you have to travel back in time to the 1950s as the line has now long since gone. If you want to catch a bus you can, but only on every second Tuesday, and then only if the moon is on the wane. Bourne. You’ll never leave.

So that’s it. That’s where I am. In deepest darkest rural Lincolnshire. Those itchy feet though, they’re getting itchier, and no amount of athlete’s foot spray is going to cure that. The Romany in me wants to hitch up his caravan and move on. Time to stick a pin in a map and see where I end up? Perhaps, but I suspect that if I suggest leaving Bourne to the present Mrs Hayward she might just stick a pin in me. Ouch!!