Make Lard History

Not fit for purpose

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 22:47:00 +0000

Many years ago I was a member of a gym. I'll wait for a moment for the hilarity to die down. It's true - not only was I a member, but I actually went there on a regular basis. And I didn't just used to sit in the juice bar with a towel around my shoulders, making out that I was 'cooling down' - I actually went and used the equipment.

I had a proper routine, all worked out for me by a young chap who was a supreme physical specimen. If aliens had landed at the time he was assessing me, they'd have thought we were two different species. Over a course of six months or so I attended regularly. I used the cardio machines and the weight-lifting apparatus. I didn't use the free weight area as it seemed to be populated by lots of muscle-bound gentlemen who seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time looking at each other in the wall-to-wall mirror. Each to his own.

Briefly I attained a level of fitness that had otherwise eluded me. Well, I say 'level of fitness'. Essentially, I could walk up some stairs without getting out of breath. Ah, the memories.

The gym in question was part of a chain called Fitness First. That seemed a little counter-intuitive to me - I had no discernable fitness at first. In my case, 'Fitness Eventually' might have been more appropriate. In common with many people, over time my interest levels dropped and at the end of the contract period I cancelled, in order to spend more time with my sofa. The company needed a little persuasion for them to understand that I was no longer going to be visiting, but eventually they took the hint and stopped trying to take the monthly fees out of my bank account.

I was reminded of this when I read this story today. In summary, it was about a couple of members of another gym chain - in this case LA Fitness. He had been made redundant, she was eight months pregnant. They were living on benefits and were about to be made homeless. LA Fitness were refusing to allow them to cancel their contract and were insisting that this couple continued to make the payments for a membership they were no longer using.

Even when a journalist from a national paper intervened, LA Fitness continued to demand payment. After an inordinate amount of pressure, the company eventually decided to reduce the contract term. So instead of demanding £780 from an unemployed couple, they only wanted £360 from an unemployed couple.

I'm not making this up.

That's when social media sprang into action. There's nothing quite like a Twitter outrage, is there? Hundreds, possibly thousands of people weighed in to let LA Fitness know exactly what they thought of them. Which, to be honest, wasn't terribly much. A whole new vein of swearing was mined.

Let's be straight. Most of these chain gyms would like you to think they are there to change your body for the better. It would appear, however, that they are subscription-generating factories, using Nautilus machines as bait. Here's the thing: any contract that is sufficiently weighted in favour of one party to the detriment of the other may not be enforceable. I know this because of what I do for a living, but when it's January and you can't fit into your jeans, are you going to look at the small print when you waddle through the doors of your local gym? They know you won't.

Eventually, this evening, a rather curt stream of messages from LA Fitness' Twitter account told us that they had written to the couple to waive the contract. But the fact that it had to get this far should tell us something about the attitude LA Fitness has towards its customers. Seriously, guys, if you couldn't find it in your heart to be nicer, your head should at least have remembered your pocket.

I mention this not because I'm about to join a gym. That would indeed be a cause for comment. If anything, this confirms my long-held opinion that gyms are evil places that should be avoided at all costs. Let's be honest - the chance of me spending any more money at LA Fitness was remote even before today. But some of you out there might be about to enrol with a gym. That's fine. But there are others out there that might understand the concept of human decency.

Remember. If a company shows contempt for its customers, it does not deserve to have any.

My life in sport

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 22:20:00 +0000

Last weekend I went to a film premiere. I know, get me. There wasn't a red carpet, unfortunately. No reporters on the way in asking me what I was wearing. Shame really. I would have loved to been able to answer them with a confident "Jacamo. For men who love pies a little too much."

But anyway. The film. It was the latest release from my friend Chris, who over the last few years has done a number of these friend-sourced movies. I have mentioned them here before. They're great fun, even when filming them involves the possibility of injury. This latest one was a selection of short sketches tacked together for the general amusement of the discerning filmgoer. And Chris was generous enough to let me put one of mine in.

The sketch was based on a silly short story I wrote. And as most of you weren't present at the cinema screening on Saturday, here it is. I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking when I wrote it.

-o-

Whenever real sports fans are gathered together the same names will crop up. The legends of athletic history. Coe, Ovett, Redgrave. Thompson, Hoy, that one that goes to the toilet in street. These are characters spoken of in hushed tones. And to that list, that panoply of greats, we could so easily have added one more name.

My name.

For I had the ambition. And the vision. Not much in the way of natural ability, or, for that matter, physical fitness. But I was hoping that the ambition-and-vision thing would make up for these glaring omissions.

Because I not only wanted to bring gold back to Blighty; I wanted to introduce the world to a brand new Olympic sport. My name is Phil. And I was going to be the world’s first Sudoku Olympic Gold Medallist.

I was never the most athletic of people, growing up. My idea of strenuous physical exercise involved a game of chess next to an open window. But I thought it unfair that the plaudits only went to those able to work up a sweat. It was my considered opinion that the Olympics should be open to all; not just the grunt-and-jump merchants. And that’s when I had my brainwave.

At first, I’d considered developing Wordsearch as an Olympic event. But then I realised this would be giving an unfair advantage to Chinese competitors. After all, they would already be comfortable with the concept of writing up and down as opposed to side to side. So Sudoku it was.

I embarked on an extensive training session. I would start by learning the numbers. All of the numbers, one to nine. After all, if you’re going to be an expert, you need to start with the fundamental principles. At the same time I got my application in to the International Olympic Committee. Apparently they have to decide on things like this; it’s not as if you can just show up at the stadium with fifteen hundred copies of the Puzzler book and expect to be let in.

My parents were supportive, in the main. “He needs to do this,” my mother said to anyone who would ask. “He needs to achieve. He needs to push boundaries. He needs to win.”

“He needs to get himself a sodding job and stop living in our loft,” my dad would reply from behind the Daily Mail.

Over the months and years my Sudoku skills came on in leaps and bounds. I had a testing regime, practicing for up to twenty hours per day. At my peak condition I was a lean, mean, Sudoku-completing machine. I could do the ‘three lightbulb’ ones in 45 minutes.

But I needed further encouragement. I found out that Sir Steven Redgrave was visiting my town to give a talk on his life and career. I went to see him, and, when he had finished speaking, had a minute or two to explain my plans for greatness.

He had a couple of words for me. I did not understand either of them.

Eventually the momentous occasion arrived when the letter from the IOC arrived. This was it; the continuation of all of my hopes and dreams. A further step along the long and arduous route towards Olympic glory.

I opened it with trembling fingers and read the contents carefully. There were terms I did not fully expect, like ‘colossally inappropriate’ , ‘bringing the Games into disrepute’ and ‘please do not ever write to us again’.

And I’ll tell you something. I’m sure Jesse Owens never had this trouble.

Nine lives

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 22:39:00 +0000

I didn't mention it at the time, but December was a pretty crappy month at Fatboyfat Towers. I didn't mention it because everyone else was busy walking in their own winter wonderlands, jingling their bells and dinging their dongs merrily on high.You all have your various parades. And you don't need me raining upon them.

It started on early in the month when we noticed the cat was limping heavily. Bodie was ten years old and had been with us since we'd adopted him and his brother Doyle as kittens. Doyle hadn't made it out of kittenhood, unfortunately, which illustrated to us the folly of naming any pair of animals after a well-known double act. But Bodie was relatively healthy, in a feline way.

The fact that I've used the past tense a lot in that last paragraph should tell you where this is going, shouldn't it?

It was me that took the phone call. That call. The fact that it was from The Nice Irish Vet That Katie Quite Fancies did little to lessen the blow. Bodie had an inoperable mass under his rear nearside and there wasn't terribly much we could do.

I had to go for a walk around the block. There was something in my eye, you see.

Circumstances meant that there was about a two-week period of time before we were able to take the final sad little visit to the vet. That was a horrible fortnight. We knew what was coming, but had to continue as normal. He was on pain relief, but even so he would look at us sometimes in a knowing way. I often had things in my eye over those two weeks.

People who don't have pets find this sort of thing difficult to understand. But these animals worm they way into your heart, you see. You can't bear to think of them suffering. But even more, you can't bear to think of them gone.

A week or so before Christmas we took that visit to the vet. It was very quick. Although I got something in my eye again.

Christmas passed. The house seemed empty. We went away to Cornwall for the New Year, which was a nice pasty-filled distraction.

Then last week I was looking at the local Cats Protection League website. In fairness, Katie had pretty much favourited the site and was spending much of her waking hours on it. But alongside the cute kittens at the local Centre there were slightly older cats being looked after by members of the public.

On Saturday we drove to the suburb of Harborne to meet Slinky, an 18-month-old male who'd been taken in by a lady called Caroline who makes maps for a living. I've never met a cartographer before, so that's one thing to cross off the list. As we sat next to Slinky on the sofa he purred gently and proceeded to sink his claws into my left hand in a calm and considered way. Blood dripping onto my wrist, Katie and I exchanged looks. I got the cat carrier out of the car.

Less than 12 hours later and Slinky had become Eric. This is mainly because he looks like an Eric. It is partly the effect of a bottle or two of some bloody good New Zealand Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc.

Last night I came home from work and parked in the driveway. Walking up to the door I looked in the front window to see the unmistakable shape of a pair of triangular ears poking up above the window ledge.

And it occurred to me. I wasn't standing outside a house. I was standing outside a home once more.

Dammit. Something in my eyes again.

I can't get no sleep

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 22:25:00 +0000

This morning a doctor placed a camera inside my nose. I'll be straight with you - I'm not confident of an Oscar.

The reason for this investigative documentary-making was to try and get to the bottom of some nagging problems. In fairness, most of the nagging has come from Katie. It's the only way she can get me to go and visit a health professional. Like most men, I'm pretty hopeless when it comes to this sort of thing; we chaps tend to wait until a limb is hanging off by its final tendon before making an appointment with the doctor.

But this time it was different. I'm not very good in bed.

I'll rephrase that. What I mean is that I'm not very good at the sleeping part of the bed equation. Apparently, what's meant to happen is this: you go to bed, lie down, close your eyes and sleep deeply for eight hours. On waking, you feel refreshed. Small birds and woodland creatures caper around you as you shower under a waterfall, singing brightly.

This is not the case for me, by all accounts. I can do the lying down bit. Closing eyes, I can do that too. I can close my eyes with the best of them. But it all goes somewhat pear-shaped after that. I'm not entirely sure what happens, but me and Mr Sandman are not close acquaintances. Generally I tend to hover around some shallow form of wake/sleep hybrid, making strange noises redolent of faulty plumbing and, according to my long-suffering bed partner, forgetting to breathe.

I'm no expert, but I suspect breathing is quite important.

As a result of my night-time perturbations, I seem to spend most of my time out of bed interacting with the world as if it's under a blanket of fog. Ooh, it's tiring, this life, isn't it? Meetings are the worst. Put me in a meeting past 1.00pm and I'll need to be stabbing myself with a pen under the table to avoid pitching forwards headlong into the chocolate digestives. People can see you're half-asleep, but they're invariably too polite to say anything, even when you're wiping biscuit crumbs from your eyebrows.

So the doctor was having a look this morning to see if I had any obvious obstructions. I was wondering if perhaps there was an errant pice of Lego from the early 1980s, perhaps. But there was nothing obvious. The doctor did say that losing weight might help. I've been here before, folks.

The next step is to go and have a sleep study. This is where I go and sleep - or try to do so - in a hospital bedroom while they run various checks on me. At least Katie will get a good night as a result.

Now if you don't mind, I need to prepare myself for bed. Well, you never know.

Random musings 2012

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 18:37:00 +0000

Another 12 months have gone past, in the manner of months since time began. And it's time for the annual random music post. Yes - we have been here before. In fact, this is the fifth year - which is practically forever in Internet Years. I know. I'm practically a sodding tradition, aren't I?

What do you need to do? It's really easy. Get hold of your iPod or other music playing device. Hit the 'Shuffle' button. Then tell us about the first five that come along. It's as simple as that. And no cheating - of something embarrassing comes along, you can't just hit 'next' until you get a cooler track.

Ok. Here goes for nothing.

1: Queen - Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy

It is a universal rule, or even a Universal Rule, that everyone has a copy of Queen's Greatest Hits somewhere in their collection. Even if you don't like Queen, you're going to have it. Don't fight it. There are tribesmen out in the Amazon rainforest who have never met people from the 'civilised' world, and even they know all the words to Another One Bites the Dust. And what about this particular track? Well. Looking back at it I just wonder how we never guessed the obvious about F. Mercury, Esq.

2: The Selecter - James Bond

Because no-one's record collection is complete without a Ska version of the James Bond theme tune, is it? Formed just up the road from me in Coventry, the Selecter were described as 'conspiring to make dancing the only way to walk'. Clearly they'd never seen me dancing.

3: Turin Brakes - Full of Stars

This track is from an album called Ether Song which I loved more than was actually healthy when it came out. Sun-dappled melodies, laid back vocals. Just marvellous. What's that? You've never heard of them? Take this as a gift from your Uncle Phil - go and check them out. No, put down that forkful of breakfast - you don't have time - do it now.

4: Kings of Leon - Birthday

Oh, you crazy Followill brothers. How you entranced us with your early blend of Southern rock and blues. A grittiness and soulful approach. Something new, yet harking back to simpler times. Then someone let you into an arena and showed you the reverb pedal. It all went downhill from there.

5: The Who - Baba O'Riley

Ace. I could have stumbled across any track from the Who's Next album and it would have been spot on. This is the opener, syncopated synths at the start and whirling dervish gypsy violins at the end. Mind you, I can't listen to it without thinking of the question I once had from a friend: "Who was this Barbara O'Riley anyway?"

Now it's your turn. Get shuffling and put your results in the comments.

Start as you mean to go on

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 07:38:00 +0000

Yesterday we spent a considerable amount of the day in the car, going to one end of the country on a Haribo high. Yes people, that's how we roll. Welcome to Cornwall.

Last night we saw 2012 in with some rather nice Champagne. Happy New Year. And cheers.

As you read this I am relaxing. I am so laid back as to be practically horizontal. We're in a small cottage with thick walls to protect us from the worst of the Cornish weather. Hunkering on down, that's our plan for the next week. We have books, we have music, we have deeply, deeply unhealthy food. Marmite features quite heavily. As does Nutella. But not at the same time. I have the draft of a novel to edit. Oh yes. It does not get better than this.

We're a few miles away from Looe, which, by all accounts, is lovely. In the week I fully intend to go into town and get some Cornish pasties.

Or, as they call them here, pasties.

I'm sorry to be so self-indulgent. No, sod it, I'm not. After a rather strenuous and stressful few months, I'm looking forward to this.

See you all in a week.

(This post comes in recognition of Positive Upload Day. Spread the word.)

A positively good idea

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 21:26:00 +0000

If you think about it, it makes a lot of sense.

I mean, after all, it's not as if the news is full of uplifting stories, is it? Everywhere you look there is doom and despair. Nobody appears to have any money. Everyone is angry for one reason or another.

And that's before you even mention Simon Cowell.

But you expect that sort of thing from journalists. After all, good news doesn't sell newsprint. But what's worrying is that this approach seems to have had an effect on all of us. Have you seen Twitter or Facebook recently? Blimey, we're an angry, depressed bunch, aren't we?

This hadn't escaped my friend Mike. Those of you who've been reading this for any length of time may remember Mike. He wears red t-shirts and stands in front of road signs. But when he's not doing that he comes up with ideas.

And his latest one is jolly good indeed.

Basically, Mike has come up with Positive Upload Day. Wouldn't it be great if, he thought, for a 24 hour period, your Facebook wall or Twitter feed (or blog roll or whatever) was a collection of positive thoughts? Just small things, minor victories or simple pleasures. I met up with an old friend today. The sky this morning looked great. I heard my favourite song on the radio just now.

And so, for a day at a time, he's asking people to do the same. You can follow it all on Twitter or join the first Positive Upload Day (which is coming up on 1 January) on Facebook. I'd recommend you do both.

Because, when all's said and done, we make our own happiness, don't we? Why not give the process a little nudge?

Christmas 2011: hints and tips

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 18:56:00 +0000

Every year it gets harder and harder to enjoy Christmas. The pressure to have the perfect Yuletide is ever-increasing. But fear not, gentle reader. I have been working long and hard to bring you help and guidance.

Well actually, I haven't been working in any lengthy or strenuous way. But here we go. Don't all thank me at once:

When the calendar clicks around to April and the air starts to feel a little more warm, that's the time to put the sprouts on.
Christmas parties are not normally the right environment to have lengthy in-depth work-related conversations with the boss. Unless you firmly believe "I really love you mate," qualifies as 360-degree feedback.
Never forget the real meaning of Christmas; buying an unfeasibly large copy of Radio Times and then not looking at it for an entire fortnight.
At this time of year it is better to give than receive, so they say. 'They' being people who don't mind receiving novelty underwear.
Those people who say: "Really, don't bother. I don't need anything this year". They lie. Get them something or else they will treat you like a ginger step-child for the rest of your miserable existence.
Avoid having to deal with Christmas morning arguments between your children by not having any.
No, Noel Edmonds really does look like that these days. If you haven't been watching Deal Or No Deal throughout the year I can understand your confusion. A full 240 volts went into that hair, you know.
Christmas lunch is the one time you can get away with puns involving the words 'breast' and 'stuffing'. This may not be 100% successful if you're having beef.
It is a scientific fact that no-one has watched The Guns of Navarone while sobre since 1968. Do not be the first to upset the record.
Not sure of the correct glass for dry sherry? It's a straight pint glass - handles are for wimps.

Did you miss me?

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 21:52:00 +0000

I'm sorry. No, really I am. Terribly terribly sorry. I am apologetic in ways that only a seriously-lapsed Catholic can ever be. And I am lapsed, trust me. I don't know my Ave Maria from my Vorsprung Durch Technik.

I'm only too aware that throughout the world people have been anxious. "What's happened to Make Lard History?" they've been asking. "Almost three weeks and no posts whatsoever. What's that all about?"

I wrote 60-odd thousand words last month. This month? Bupkis. Nada. Nowt. Sweet bugger-all. Oh, the irony. One of the things you're supposed to get out of NaBloPoMo is the habit of writing regularly. "Write every day," they say, "and hang the quality control." It's supposed to make you more prolific; if you're getting used to knocking off a few hundred words before breakfast every day, the theory goes, you should be able to carry this on when you're not up against a deadline.

Unfortunately, Real Life is what happens when you're busy making plans.

But I'm back. Earlier this evening a friend asked me to help him with something, which meant logging into my Blogger account. And as I looked at the piles of dust, the cobwebs and dead flies, I thought to myself, "You know, this place used to have some life to it."

So I'm back. Hold onto, um, whatever it is you're supposed to hold onto at times like this.

So that's that, then

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 22:10:00 +0000

Technically I am now a novelist. The fact that I just had to check how many times the letter 'l' should occur in the word doesn't fill me with much confidence. But the fact remains that I have sat down and written a novel - a book of long narrative of literary prose (thank you Wikipedia).

And I've done it. It has a beginning, a middle and an end. It's called The Gentle Man and it topped out at just under 61,000 words. I wrote it as part of NaNoWriMo - which you probably know by now. And I've been raising money for a good cause. Which you might not have known, but now you do.

So what happens now? Well, I'm glad you asked, because I'm not entirely sure myself. I didn't write the thing with thoughts of getting it published. I did it for the fun of it, although whether sitting in my spare room wrangling sentences together with an aching backside probably doesn't count as fun.

I just re-read that last sentence and realise it looks as if I used my backside to wrangle the sentences. Clearly I didn't. I used Microsoft Word, which is pretty close.

But one thing I can say for the novel right now is this. It's pretty close to being unreadable. Oh, it's got all the novel-y things, like a plot, characters, setting, but it's really not pretty. Any novel you write in such a short space of time is going to lack any editing. And this one really does need going over once again. There are some gaps, too, things I thought about towards the end that would have been nice to have earlier on. So I'll go back and fill those in too. I reckon we'll be looking at 70,000 words in the end, which is still on the short side for a novel, these days.

Will I try and get it published? I don't know. Doesn't hurt to try, I suppose. But for the moment I'm leaving it well alone. We can enjoy more blog posts instead. Let joy be unconfined!

A quick one while he's away

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 22:34:00 +0000

Hello. I know, it's been a while. I've been busy. 53,418 words of busy so far. I've not actually finished the novel yet, so I still have that to deal with. But I took a break to write a 500-word bit of flash fiction. I'm just a giver, aren't I? Enjoy:

The Ballad of Dyspeptic Willie Madison

Dyspeptic Willie Madison was born under a bad sign. It read, “Ten Items or Less.” His unusual birthplace was down to his mother’s desire to get a year’s supply of baby supplies by giving birth in the supermarket. Tesco lived up to their promise, but his mother was less than happy. She’d been planning to visit Waitrose later that same day.

She didn’t give him that name, of course. That came from his time as the king of the bluesmen. After all, no-one in the delta would have taken him seriously with the name Craig Biggins. Apparently, according to the Blues Academy, your handle had to include a physical infirmity and refer to at least one US President. Dyspepsia was simply the next on the list. At least he wasn’t Syphilitic Bubba Washington.

His fame came easily enough. He had the blues and wanted people to know about them. He had a ready-made audience, hungry to hear what he had to say. A poet for the disaffected generation, Willie sang out loud and clear about the human condition. His first single, “Milk Carton Blues,” spoke of the frustrations of modern life.

Before too long, anyone who knew anything was name-checking Dyspeptic Willie Madison. His fame was rapidly followed by fortune. The houses, the cars. Life was good. Until the day he received a visitor.

“I am the Blues Angel,” said the mysterious stranger. “My name is unimportant, although you can refer to me as Hooch.”

“Hooch?” said Madison, reaching for the next bottle of Bollinger.

“You can blame Muddy Waters. Now then, Madison, I’ve come to talk to you about your life.”

“Things are going great, Hooch. Look, I’ve got everything I need.”

“Yes. You see, that’s the problem. You’re meant to be a bluesman. Your life is meant to be one long struggle. You get the blues, it runs your life, man. Your woman should do you wrong. The boss should be on your hide every day. Look at you – it just ain’t right.”

“What do you mean?”

“Robert Johnson fought a long battle with his demons,” he said, his lip curling with disgust. “The only conflict you have is with the Planning Committee of Solihull Borough Council.”

“But they won’t let me build an orangery.”

“Enough of this. If you want to sing the blues, you need to feel some loss. I’m here to make things right.”

“But how?” asked Madison, his eyes widening.

“Just you leave it to me.” The angel clicked his long fingers.

The crystal flute of champagne dissolved from Madison’s fingers. As he stared, his designer clothes were replaced by beat-up denim. With a loud rumble, the walls around him started to crumble and fall. In seconds, there was nothing but expensive-looking rubble. Moments later, even this had faded away.

“You weren’t kidding,” said Madison.“I ain’t finished yet,” said the angel, pushing an old guitar into his hands. “Right,” he said. “Now you’ve really got the blues. Don’t you ever forget it.”

I've got blisters on my fingers

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 11:40:00 +0000

As far as I know, Hemingway didn't slice open the tip of his index finger one day into writing For Whom the Bell Tolls. Tolkien was not pleasantly distracted from his tales of Middle Earth by the people next door inviting him over for a beer or two. And Terry Pratchett, as far as I can reasonably tell, doesn't have to write about mortgages between the hours of nine and five to keep the (non-literal) wolf from the door.

With that in mind, to find myself 20,000 words in after six whole days of NaNoWriMo is quite remarkable.I'm ahead by about 10,000, which you think would give me some sense of smug satisfaction. It's a breeze, this writing malarkey, isn't it? Don't know what the fuss was about.

Repeat after me: don't you believe it.

This has been quite tough. Tough to set the time aside. Tough to motivate myself to sit in front of a screen and conjure up the words. Tough to make it through some of the scenes I've been writing. Which doesn't bode well for the finished article, does it?

The hardest part for me so far has been the whole concept of the dash to the finish line. Although you wouldn't know it to read this, I tend to like to go back and edit things. I can worry about a sentence until a well-known cliche takes place. (The original version of that last bit had cows coming home. See what I mean?)

But with NaNoWriMo the main intention is to get your story told, and get it done with a minimum of 50,000 words in the month. You don't 'win' by having 8,000 wonderfully crafted words. Mind you, it would be a failure if I provided the requisite 50,000 words but hadn't finished the story. You can't have a beginning, middle and fade to chorus. There does need to be an ending - I can't just write "And they all lived happily ever after" once I get to 49,993. Especially if we happen to be in the middle of a fight scene at the time.

So it really is a case of 'don't edit, just create'. Occasionally I'll look back at something I've written and a flush of embarrassment comes over me. Surely I can just spend a few minutes polishing that terrible bit of dialogue? No. For that way lies madness. Well, until 1 December, anyway.

In sponsorship terms, things are going well. I'm up to £200 at the moment, which, at 40% of my target, matches the word count quite well. One triumph this morning; national journalist Stuart Heritage wrote a very funny (and only slightly cruel) piece about NaNoWriMo on his LuvHat blog. If you're not too precious about the whole endeavour, it's great. If you are precious about it, well, don't read it. I contacted him on Twitter about it, to make the point that there's at least one crappy novel being produced for a good cause. Credit to him, not only did he respond, he also put his hand in his pocket and donated, then tweeted the JustGiving link to his 10,000 followers.

You might be even be one of them. Hello. Please excuse me, I need to go and write 30,000 words with only nine fully-functioning digits.

Right, I promise this is the last time I'll mention it

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Sun, 30 Oct 2011 19:01:00 +0000

OK then. You win. I give up. I'm going to have a go at this writing-a-novel-in-a-month thing. From Tuesday morning November is going to pass by in a flurry of creativity, stress and frustration as I try to conjure up the required 1,700 words every day. Several people have asked questions and I'll try to answer them here.

What are you going to do?

I'm going to do the whole NaNoWriMo thing and aim to write a novel of no less than 50,000 words in the month of November. I won't be alone - there are something like 250,000 people across the globe attempting the same thing?

So it's difficult, then?

I think so. I mean, I've never done it before. Mind you, I've never skied down Mount Everest, naked and clutching a rose between my teeth either.

Actually, forget that last bit. It's not a nice image for anyone.

Why are you doing this?

Two reasons:

a) To see if I can. Loads of people say they have a novel in them; fewer actually get down to writing it. Throwing away all inhibitions and just sitting down to write daily for a period of time is perhaps the way.

b) To raise some money for a good cause. I would like people to sponsor me to do this.

What's the cause?

Mind - the UK's principal mental health charity. They do great things - go read their website for more details.

Why should I sponsor you?

Several reasons. Firstly, it's a great cause and worthy of your cash. Second, you will add to my misery by piling on the pressure. And finally, I have a unique offer to make.

A unique offer?

Oh yes. The first ten people to sponsor me get a character in the novel named after them.

Blimey.

Indeed. But I get to choose what happens to your character. They might be a drug-dealer. They could be a raving idiot. They could perish in a freak yachting accident. Which would be odd, as I don't actually envision that sort of thing happening in the plot. Yet.

How do I sponsor you?

I'm very glad you asked. You can go here. Or if you know me in person, bend my ear a little.

Is there any guarantee we'll see a finished novel by 30 November?

No. I have to be honest with you. This will be hard. I've never done it before. (Remember the Everest-ski-naked-rose-teeth thing?) I make you no promises. Sorry, but there you go. I will have a bloody good try though.

It's worth remembering that even if I do finish, it's likely to be pretty poor, as far as polished novels go. Rushing around is not normally a good thing when it comes to things like this. But that's not really the point.

What's the book about?

Good question. Although I'm not allowed to write a single word of the actual book until 00:01 on Tuesday, I have an outline plot. There are some gaps. It's set in the modern day, with elements of fantasy, horror, humour, action and condensed milk.

How will you do this?

I will devote my waking hours to writing the necessary 1,667 words per day. Well, I say 'my waking hours'. The hours I spend at work will, of course, remain sacrosanct. In case my boss is reading this, I will continue to be fully focused on what, for want of a better term, I refer to as my career. I quite like having a job and the things that come with it. Like paying the mortgage, for instance.

I have got some days off in November, which I'll more than likely fill with catching up.

Who won the FA Cup in 1958?

Bolton Wanderers. It has nothing to do with the point in hand, but thanks for asking.

If you're successful, will I be able to read the final novel?

Really? You must be a sucker for punishment. OK then. But I might want to polish it a little first.

How will I keep up to date with your progress?

I'll put the odd update on here when I get the chance. Which kind of makes the title of this post a bit of a lie. So sue me. Or better still, sponsor me.

Do something that terrifies you 2 - this time it's literary

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Sun, 23 Oct 2011 21:27:00 +0000

Last week I wrote a post about doing things that were out of your comfort zone. Taking risks, doing things to which you were unaccustomed. And I wrote this in the final paragraph:

Onto the next challenge. There's something else I'm thinking of doing in November that quite frankly scares the bejeesus out of me.

Since then I've been asked about this mysterious challenge by quite literally no people at all. Thanks. It's nice to be loved. Very well then, here we go.

Is it possible to write a an entire novel from scratch, all 50,000 words of it, in a single month? While doing the normal 'having a job and trying to live a normal life' stuff? I'm not sure, but I'm thinking I'd like to know.

For the last few Novembers I've done something called NaBloPoMo - National Blog Posting Month. Throughout the month you commit to write a brand new blog post every single day. It's quite a challenge; you need to think about something to write and find the time to write it every day. But this year I knew I would be struggling. The posts haven't exactly been coming thick and fast, have they?

So I had an epiphany. Why not just have one great big stonking idea and concentrate on that instead?

I know. If I do this I suspect we'll be looking back on that statement with laughter in the weeks to come.

NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month and, during November, about 250,000 amateur writers worldwide commit to write a novel from scratch. The rules are quite simple. You can't start until 1 November. You must finish by midnight on 30 November. And you must write 50,000 words. That's actually quite short for a novel (anything under 40,000 is a novella, whatever one of those is), but still, it's quite a task.Just to give you an idea, you get about 250-300 words on a side of A4.

If I do this, I have to write 1,667 words every day. And just typing any old rubbish won't do. It really needs to have characters, a setting, plot, points of view, dialogue, etc. Typing the word 'Dust' 50,000 times really won't do, although it might get me into the Booker shortlist for 2012.

This is, without a doubt, one of the most stupid ideas I've ever had. And trust me, I've had a few. The helicopter-based challenge TV show set in Jerusalem, called 'Challenge Hannukkah' being just one.

But I think we can safely agree that I'm not one for physical effort. I can't climb mountains. I certainly don't do marathons. But writing? It's at least in the same postal district as my comfort zone. Hey, maybe I can even get people to sponsor me to do it and raise some cash for a good cause? You know, pledge cash and get a dedication, pay a certain amount and get a character named after you, that sort of thing.

But I'm still not certain. It's acually quite scary. Katie has been supportive. I mean, having me locked away in the spare room for a big chunk of next month is no laughing matter. But she hasn't said no, which I'm taking as support.

I need some opinions, people. Is this a silly idea? Should I just get it out of my system? Something you would support? Would you want to see the end result? (It would not be pretty - first drafts never are.)

Whaddaya think, loyal readers? The comment box is just there. Ahem.

Do something that terrifies you

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Sun, 16 Oct 2011 14:13:00 +0000

I have a comfort zone the size of a pretty substantial town. I must have, I'm very rarely out of it. Just about the only time I get a sense of fear nowadays is when I'm opening bank statements.

And I think most people could say the same. These days we very rarely have to face down the sabre-toothed tiger or fight off woolly mammoths on the rampage. We're rather more comfortable. We have central-heating and sofas. Nothing there too scarey, everything just-so.

To get the adrenaline pumping, some people seek out danger. They throw themselves out of perfectly serviceable aircraft. They might confront sharks in the wild. Or they could order a doner kebab from that dodgy place on the High Street, prepared by a bloke with a suspiciously shiny complexion.

That's not really my approach. Well, the kebab is an option, but generally I leave the life-threatening activities to others. I have dabbled with physical activity, of course, but met with limited success. So if I need to step out of my comfort zone I'll have to do other things that terrify me.

That's why I was to be found earlier this week singing in an upstairs room with a bunch of strangers. I know. Me, singing. I don't quite beleive it myself. While I can hold a tune to a degree, my range is somewhat limited. It's not what you might call a pretty noise. But, my friend Rebecca (she of the breast pump) is a professional vocal coach and when she said she wanted to form a community choir, I was interested. She promised that we wouldn't have to sing anything you would normally hear in a church.

I used to sing in a choir at school, ohmygod-number-of-years ago. We were blessed with an unconventional music teacher who realised that trying to get 17-year-old boys interested in Bach and Handel was going to be an uphill struggle, so the choir would do Queen numbers instead. We were enthusiastic. We sounded pretty good.

When I asked Rebecca, "I think my voice may be a little low. Is there a place for me?" she said yes, I could just be the rumbling bottom.

I think that was deliberate on her part. My interest was piqued.

So on Monday I was gathered up with about 20 other people. There were only four males, one of whom hadn't actually intended to sing, only having come to drop his daughter off. My rumbling bottom was clearly going to be needed.

But I was still nervous about the whole endeavour. What if I opened my mouth and a horrible noise came out? Would people point and stare, bewildered by my bullfrog call?

Actually, no. It was quite fun. Many of us had never sang out loud in public. But, with gentle coaxing from Rebecca, we managed to not completely ruin the song. It sounded quite good, to be honest.

It turned out that quite a few people wanted to fight their own personal sabre-toothed tigers that night.
So, comfort zone well and truly expanded. Onto the next challenge. There's something else I'm thinking of doing in November that quite frankly scares the bejeesus out of me. But that's the topic for a new post. Watch this space.

Age-related benefits

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Sun, 09 Oct 2011 21:45:00 +0000

I know that "Age is just a number" sounds like one of those awful motivational phrases touted by colossally dull people. But I'm rapidly coming to the conclusion that they may have a point.

Today we celebrated the 93rd birthday of Katie's grandmother. Lunch in a pub was the order of the day and I was placed next to the celebrant in question. She's really quite remarkable.

Maud is not quite what you would expect from someone ploughing relentlessly through their tenth decade. OK, so the body may not be as strong as it once was - she's not so steady on her feet these days - but in all other respects she's as sharp as a die. Unexpectedly so.

Somehow the conversation got round to money and she leant over to tell me how she remembered the Depression. No, not the ersatz one we've been going through since 2007. Not even the one we all shoulder-padded around in the '80s.

The Depression. The one with the capital D.

She told us about the Wall Street Crash of 1929, people losing their savings, jumping off skyscrapers, the whole shebang. It was still a vivid memory to her. (And yes, I'm well aware that there aren't that many skyscrapers in Stourbridge, but we must assume that Pathe News was doing its job at the time.)

And in a Black Country accent you could use to cut Brierley Hill crystal, she commented: "And it was all the fault of the banks. The bastards. You're better off keeping your money down your draws."

The rest of her family are clearly accustomed to Maud's pronouncements. But for me it was very nearly a gravy-out-of-the-nose moment. She returned to her chicken in a cheese sauce.

A few minutes later and the rest of us were talking about something else. Maud announced, apropos of nothing: "You know, it's possible to walk around in my garden in the nude, and no-one would see you."

I have no idea where that came from.

Then, as we were coming to the end of the meal, my mother-in-law ordered coffee. "I should warn you," said Katie's uncle, "the coffee here isn't great." He was right. It was an insipid beige liquid. To misquote Douglas Adams, it was almost, but not quite, entirely unlike coffee.

Or, to accurately quote my grand-mother-in-law: "That looks like a bowl of camel piss."

I know where Katie gets it from.

Indian summer 1 - English fashion sense 0

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Sat, 01 Oct 2011 16:13:00 +0000

I'm not entirely sure how to react to the unseasonable weather. More worryingly, a lot of wardrobes appear to be having the same problem.

Normally, by the beginning of October we're plummeting headlong towards Autumn. It's one of my favourite times of the year. Mainly dry, but cold. You can put on a sturdy coat and boots and go tramping through the fallen leaves, if you wish. Or, if you're like me, watch the mists and mellow fruitfulness through double glazing, preferably with soup nearby.

So the fact that we're seeing temperatures approaching 30 degrees is a bit of a shocker.

I mustn't grumble, however. It's quite nice. The other night I drove home towards a spectacular orange and red sunset. I sat there, gazing in wonder at the palette of colours, the sky a perfect unblemished bowl above my head, graduating to navy, purple and black. I thought how insignificant I was.

Mind you, I also thought that the previous week, and it was raining.

But as I've been dusting off the air-conditioning unit in the bedroom, so have my fellow citizens been doing the same to their wardrobes. And I'm sorry to say this, but we're not very good at dressing for warm weather, are we?

This was brought home to me in no uncertain terms as I was out and about this morning, performing various chores. I won't bore you with the details, as you would find them, well, boring, but suffice it to say I was brought into close contact with many examples of the Englishman In Heat.

I say 'Englishman', because ladies seem to be pretty good at this sort of thing. Good choice of fabric, nice floaty items, it just seems natural. But us chaps? No, we're pretty hopeless. It's not for me to pretend to be some sort of fashion guru. My hot weather outfit is essentially the same as my cold-weather outfit, just without a coat. But there were some deeply disturbing sights out there today.

I saw men who had clearly raided their summer beach holiday wardrobe. Pale white legs poked bravely from under wackily-designed shorts. Fine if you're a 20-something surfer, heading out to hang ten off Malibu. Not so appropriate for the queue at Acocks Green post office.

I observed a number of bare-chested gentlemen. This is not a good look. Pigeon-chested, bony-ribbed, beer-bellies, lobster sunburn, dodgy tatoos, the whole gamut of guts was on display. And I hate to be a social commentator, but there's nothing that says "I'm not in regular contact with the mothers of my children" quite like a bare chest, baseball cap and shellsuit trousers, is there?

An attack of the shudders was brought on by the sight of sandals worn over socks. This is beyond cliche, men of England.

They have the right idea overseas. On those occasions when I've been in hot countries during the Summer, the locals put us visitors to shame. We'll be there in rather too much manmade fabric. T-shirts with designs paying tribute to surf clubs that don't exist. Those thongy flip-flop sandal things, in which I maintain it is impossible for any grown man to have any semblance of dignity. I include myself in this number. Forgive me, I know no better.

But then we'll be shown up by the waiter at the bar, the taxi-driver, the local business-man on his way to the office. They cope so much better than we do; OK, they're acclimatised, it's in their culture. But they do linen trousers in M&S, you know.

So while it's great that we have this one last hurrah for the summer, there's a part of me that can't wait for the colder winds to start blowing. After all, I've got a lovely coat that has a few more winters left in it.

The lost art of tutting

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Sun, 25 Sep 2011 13:25:00 +0000

As a race we English used to be so good at expressing mild discontent. But it's something we no longer seem to do very well. For our own sakes, we need to regain the tut.

There was an almighty wailing and gnashing of teeth to be heard all over the world last Wednesday. People were upset, and in many cases genuinely angry. And what was the cause of this disquiet? Was it yet another phase of the economic cycle queuing up to kick us all in our collective backsides? Was there some natural tragedy that had unleashed terrific forces against humankind? Was Justin Bieber going to make good his promised threat of a world-wide tour? What was it that was causing everyone to be so pissed-off?

Facebook had made some changes.

That's right. A website that we're not obliged to visit, that costs us the square-root of bugger-all to use, had changed the way in which it operated, causing literally minutes of re-adjustment.

I'll admit, I think some of the changes weren't exactly well thought-out. I'm a fair believer in the "Not Broke, Don't Fix" philosophy myself, and I quite liked the simplicity of having all news updates in reverse chronological order with no faffing. That ticker at the top right, that tells me about people I know liking comments about people I don't know on the threads of other people I don't know? That's annoying.

But to see the fury being directed at the Facebook corporation, you'd have thought Mark Zuckerberg had been caught impaling babies on spikes. It wasn't really measured. A roll of the eyes and a 'tut' would probably have sufficed.

On Thursday it was the funeral for a friend and colleague of mine. He was about my age, with a wife and two great teenage kids. Lots of friends, in and out of work. A genuine man, funny, hard-working and good to be around. The world is a poorer place for his passing. And as I think about his friends and family coming to terms with their loss, it occurs to me that we need to be a little more healthy with how we deal with bad news.

Changes to a website really don't amount to much. You have the right to be annoyed when things don't turn out your way. But if you go all out; if you express the most extreme of emotion - often violently - for something like that, how on earth are you going to be able to cope when something really bad happens?

Save the strong emotion - be it outrage, anger or grief - for when it's genuinely needed. We need to re-introduce the good old-fashioned 'tut' for everything else.

Turning around

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Sun, 11 Sep 2011 16:45:00 +0000

On the table in front of me there's a tiny slip of paper. On it are printed the words "Your life will be happy and peaceful." Underneath there's something in Chinese script. For all I know, it could be saying "Your mother sells whelks in Hull."

I think I'll go with the English language version. Fortune cookie messages aren't to be ignored, especially when they're broadly optimistic. A little positivity shouldn't go amiss. And if there's the right day to be writing that last sentence, I think it's today.

The fortune cookie came from the Chinese takeaway we had at Brother No.1's house last night, after spending some time playing with my niece, who is now walking and officially Into Everything. She also knows how to say "apple". Nothing else, just "apple". She'll either be a nutritionist or a fan of over-priced but incredibly-attractive computer equipment when she's older.

Just to bring the tone down a little for those of you out there with your kids. Your child is not as cute as my niece. Don't worry. Simply accept it, move on and learn to live with this inalienable fact.

So why am I obsessing over a fortune cookie message? Over the last few days there had been a few setbacks. I'd been busy. The regular worries were getting more, well, regular. And, for that matter, worrisome. I'd been getting a little grumpy. Down in the dumps. The black dog didn't exactly have its paws on my shoulders, but I could hear it snuffling about in the leaves outside. I'd been thinking it wasn't worth bothering going back to writing class when it started once more this week. When all's said and done, what would be the point?

The point is this. "Happy and peaceful" doesn't come about if you sit and wait. Happiness is rarely an accident. Our American cousins even go in pursuit of it, which I always used to think was a little overly-aggressive, but I suppose as long as humane traps are involved, I'm relaxed.

Go and spend some time with a 15-month-old. Accept some help from friends. When the email from your writing tutor comes through, reply to it (only don't do three re-writes like I did). Take some time out. Seek out comfort. Get your house filled with the smell of baking bread and spiced curry lentil soup. Jump up and kiss your wife/husband/boyfriend/girlfriend/family pet. When they ask what that was for, say, "Nothing. Now be careful." Do things that scare you. Sign up for that community choir your friend the singing teacher wants to set up. Just write random rubbish on the Internet if that floats your boat.

You may find, turning around, that things were never that bad in the first place. And that fortune cookies sometimes speak a lot of common sense.

I won't let it change me

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Mon, 05 Sep 2011 20:49:00 +0000

I somehow thought it would be a little different. My letterbox would rattle unexpectedly, and there on the doormat would be lying an auspicious envelope.

I'm not completely sure how a simple item of stationery can be seen as auspicious, but there you go.

I imagined I would rip it open with fevered fingers and excitedly scan its contents. There would be a letter - probably with nice a gold-block letterhead from a publishing house - a statement and, last but not least, a cheque.

The amount on the cheque would be almost unimportant. As long as it clearly comes from a publisher and has the word 'Royalties' stamped across it in large letters - red would be a nice idea - that would do the trick.

I'd be able to take it to the bank and smile in a way that I thought was nonchalant as I handed it over to the cashier. She (for it would have to be a she) would look up at me, doe-eyed.

"Oh, this?" I'd say. "It's just a royalty payment from sales of my book."

Did I mention I'd had a book published?

Ahem.

This was not how it happened. In fact, the reality was a little more...real. I received an email. For once this wasn't coming from a stranger seeking to part me from my hard-earned. In fact, it was telling me that some money was, for once, coming my way. And no Nigerian princes were to be involved.

"Here is your royalty payment for sales from 31 July," it said. This was indeed a thrilling moment. i had earned money - real money - from the sweat of my brow. I could now hold my head high alongside the Hemingways, the Wildes, the Tolkiens of this world.

I'm aware I've chosen three dead writers there. Bear with me.

My excitement was only marginally lessened when I noticed that the total amount due to me was £3.56. Probably best that it didn't come as a cheque. I don't think I'd be impressing many bank cashiers, somehow.

But there are wider effects. As my publisher is based in the States, they withheld something like $1.00 as tax. I like to think that somewhere in Idaho a Federal employee has been able to buy some replacement staples for the office as a direct result of my writing. Enjoy your staples, unknown filing clerk. You're welcome.

Now then, if anyone out there hasn't bought a copy, perhaps you can oblige. Who knows? Perhaps we can raise enough to buy that person a stapler?

Unlucky for some

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Mon, 29 Aug 2011 18:49:00 +0000

This morning found us driving through the Buckinghamshire badlands, returning from an overnight stay after helping friends celebrate their wedding.

As I concentrated on giving stern looks to the drivers of various Nissan Micras seemingly welded to the middle lane of the M40, Katie gently slumbered in the passenger seat. And I let my mind wander.

On this morning, precisely 13 years ago today, I was struggling with a neckerchief-type arrangement and looking suspiciously at the frock-coat I was about to wear. I think a wing-collared shirt was involved, too. I don't normally wear clothing that involves hyphens. But it was the morning of my wedding day. I should have thought myself lucky. Katie was having to wear a headdress that would attract attention from Amnesty International if employed in less-enlightened countries.

13 is an inauspicious number, they say. But I feel lucky. I'm lucky to have spent the last 13 years married to someone who puts up with me.

Let's face it, I'm no George Clooney. I have the waist of a Giant Redwood. When concentrating, I sometimes forget to breathe. I can be a moody bugger at times. Sorry, make that "I am" and "always". I get frustrated at Sainsburys when they have a "10 items or less" aisle, audibly correcting one of the country's largest retailers on their poor grammar. ("10 items or fewer" in case you were wondering). I snore. Seriously, I sound like someone kick-starting an Airbus when in bed. I spend way too much time staring at the screen of a computer.

And it has to be said - I am, from time to time, extravagantly flatulent.

But despite all that, I've found someone who accepts all my faults. And this morning, waking up next to her in the Smallest Hotel Bed in Christendom, I felt as lucky as I did 13 years ago.

Love you K. But as I'm not too good with words, I'm getting a little help from The Man:

A slight technical issue

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Mon, 22 Aug 2011 21:38:00 +0000

It's never a good idea to be assigning inanimate objects a personality. I've never been a fan of giving cars a name, for instance. The same goes for items of computer hardware. However I've been sorely tempted by my wireless router over the last few weeks.

Wireless routers are (when they work) indistinguishable from magic. You can be there, sitting on a sofa some considerable distance from your internet connection, and yet you're getting wonderful experience after wonderful experience delivered to your warm lap.

I realise now how that sounds. Never mind.

But it's only when the technology fails that you realise how entitled you've become. The magic stops working and you're left bereft, stomping up the stairs to press various reset buttons, pull out power leads and count to 30. Life is so unfair.

That's been me for the last fortnight or so. While She Who Must Be Obeyed has intelligently reverted to simply opening a book and enlarging her mind, I've been stomping like a brachiosaur who's annoyed at the lack of ferns.

I'm just trying that out as a metaphor. I'm not sure it's entirely successful.

A few days ago I realised that there was a way out. This is actually a two-router household. My ISP sent me one out of the blue about 18 months ago. I didn't like to contact them and ask why in case they realised their mistake and asked for it back. My wireless saviour has been collecting dust in the spare room all this time. And this is where I thought some mind-trickery might work.

I got the new router out of its box and immediately the old one started working again. At least it did for a few hours, then it dropped its connection once more. So I started reading the instructions aloud. Full service again.

I marvelled at this turn of events for a few days, until tonight. Nothing would work. I got the quick installation wall-chart out for the new router. Nothing. I unravelled the ethernet cables. Not a thing. I even read the warranty card. My wi-fi was no-no.

So I took a deep breath. But before pulling the plug I tried one more thing. It's hard to describe in words, but perhaps the following video will help to explain. Just replace the Austin 1100 with a Belkin F5D wireless router. And replace the branch with a D-Link installation disc:

An open letter to Abercrombie & Fitch

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Thu, 18 Aug 2011 21:41:00 +0000

Dear Mr Abercrombie and Mr Fitch

Hello. I'm sorry to write to you out of the blue, so I'll try to keep it brief. I'm not exactly in the habit of writing to fashion brands. But you've been in the news recently, so I suppose you have to expect unsolicited letters from the general public.

I read today that you were offering to pay some tv personality money to stop wearing your clothes in public. I must admit I had no idea who this Michael Sorrentino chap was. Although anyone who is seemingly happy to call himself "The Situation" is quite possibly a bit of a cockwomble, I suppose.

I do know a little bit about Abercrombie & Fitch, though. I went into one of your stores once. To this day I'm not entirely sure why, but there you go. You seemed to be having a problem with your lighting at the time - in fact the main source of illumination appeared to be the teeth of your staff.

Your staff. Let's talk about your staff, shall we? They're a piece of work, and no mistake. The chap who was idly sorting out t-shirts, for instance. He had the jaw structure of a Greek god and looked like he'd just stepped off a catwalk somewhere. He looked at me and I could almost hear him wondering whether we were the same species.

It's quite something to be made to feel inferior by someone who is clearly younger than several items of my underwear.

Then I looked at some of your clothes. That's quite some mark-up going on there. I hope you're making sure the people stitching your logos onto the otherwise normal-looking hooded tops are getting a decent proportion of the cash you're asking. Ninety-four quid. You're practically redistributing the wealth.

I went to speak to a young girl behind the cash desk. I think I made her nervous. Sorry about that. I don't think I acted in the way she was expecting. I know. Weighing 18 stone means I should be jolly by default, I suppose.

So here's the deal, chaps. I am not in your demographic. I get that. I am so far away from your natural demographic that I'd need sherpas and satnav to even get close to it. I don't even know what 'preppy' means. Is it something to do with bowling?

Anyway. I'm the wrong side of 40, as is my waist and BMI. The last time I was even remotely toned, Madonna actually was Like a Virgin. That's a long time ago, I know. You really don't want people like me mucking up your brand, do you?

So stop messing about with this Situation bloke. Get the chequebook out, fellas, or I'm going to be wearing your stuff in public. You think that a brand can't be damaged by over-exposure? You might want to give your friends at Burberry a call.

Look forward to hearing from you.

Unfashionably yours,

etc.

I get up, I get down

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Tue, 16 Aug 2011 21:37:00 +0000

People aren't going to be queuing up to ask me for a lift over the next few weeks. To be honest, I'm not normally surrounded by would-be passengers, but for the time being my motoring solitude is even more guaranteed than usual. And I blame Danny Baker.

Yesterday evening, I'd finished all the work I was due to do and was about to leave the office. I was off the clock and there were few colleagues around. I had a quick look at Twitter before departing. (Before you ask, it's @fatboyfat. Thank you). I give you this detail: 1) to give you some narrative to the story, 2) to build some dramatic tension, and 3) so that anyone from work reading this doesn't think I was dossing about on social networks when I was supposed to be working.

One of the people I follow is the fore-mentioned writer, journalist and radio presenter. And he had tweeted the following set of seemingly random words:

@prodnose: Yesterday a morning came, a smile upon your face. Caesar's palace, morning glory, silly human race, If the summer changed to Winter...

As I say, for most people - and I suspect that includes about 99% of you reading this - this just seems like the deranged rantings of someone with only a passing relationship to sanity. To an extent, you might be correct. But for me, and a very small group of others, it completed a mental circuit. For these aren't just words. They're lyrics.

"Yours Is No Disgrace" is a song by Yes, from their cryptically entitled 1971 album, The Yes Album. At a mere seven minutes long, I like to think of it as one of their more accessible, radio-friendly tunes. The sort of thing you could whistle to yourself while performing menial tasks involving livestock, perhaps. The snippet shown above is actually quite lucid. It goes on to include lines such as "Battleships confide in me and tell me where you are, Shining, flying, purple wolfhound, tell me where you are."

There was a whole lot of inhalation going down in '71.

For those of you who haven't yet closed their browser in disgust, I can admit this; my name is Phil and I am a bit of a Yes fan. I know. More to be pitied than anything else, I suppose. Admitting a liking for this is right up there with having a passion for Morris dancing, steam traction engines or arcane practices involving latex. I couldn't care less.

So, as I read those words yesterday evening, I thought to myself: "It would be quite nice to have this on in the car going home." Now I've come out to you, you're assuming I've got it really bad and cart a whole load of progressive rock CDs around with me. But you'd be wrong. That way lies foolishness. And as I walked to my car I realised that my only hope was the very very old and crotchety iPod I keep in my glove box.

This was my first iPod, bought many years ago when we were all still suitably impressed by the concept. A white brick, with a click wheel and monochrome LCD screen. It's not my main iPod. ("Ooh, look at him with his two iPods," I hear you say). It has sat in my car, unused, for ages. It's endured the freezing cold of winter, the stifling heat of what passes for summer. My understanding of technology was enough to convince me that it was going to be, to coin a term, buggered.

But no! I connected the leads with trembling fingers and it worked straight away. There I was, marvelling at the mighty 20gb of really dodgy music I possess. Time to do some rediscovering.

Last night we had "Yours Is No Disgrace" at full volume, followed by "Awaken" - 20-odd magnificent minutes of, well, magnificent oddness. I got goosebumps at the end of that one, and I suspect there are about 12 people on the planet that would understand. This morning we had the Close to the Edge album (from which we also get the title of this post). I have found that one track can get me most of the way along my 20-mile commute. Value for money, you see.

Then this evening we got "The Gates of Delirium" and "Sound Chaser" from Relayer. These tracks are close to unlistenable, you might say, were you to encounter them on a dark night. There appears to be hand-to-hand combat going on in the first track, whilst the bassist, drummer and guitarist seem to be having a heated argument in a locked wardrobe throughout the latter. It's dense, borderline impenetrable.

It's bloody marvellous. But until I get bored, you probably wouldn't want to be a hitch-hiker.

It seems I have contrary tastes. I like things that others absolutely hate, like sweaty Stilton, peaty whisky and marmite. To this list we must add very strange - and deeply unfashionable - music.

Good. Let's hear it for weirdness.

Panic

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Sat, 13 Aug 2011 09:30:00 +0000

The last few days have been deeply depressing and I didn't really know whether it was something I felt qualified to write about. The level of disorder in England - and my own home town of Birmingham - has provoked sorrow, grief and anger.

These aren't concepts normally covered in what is meant to be a light and fluffy blog filled with whimsy and nonsense. And, to be honest, I'm a little removed from it all, in my middle-class, middle-aged, suburban supreme isolation. The nearest I get to urban deprivation is Tesco's own-brand breakfast cereal.

But as I sat watching the updates on Monday and Tuesday I saw how people were reacting. Status updates on Facebook are amazing, aren't they? You get to see everyone's immediate thoughts. And then there are comments on blogs, Twitter posts and the rest. People were scared and angry.

Me? I felt all of those emotions, too. I love my country. England is a still a great place to live. We get along, by and large. What we've seen over the last week or so is, in the main, unrepresentative. But it happened, and we need to be grown-up about it and look into why it did.

Some things are inalienable. I hardly think I need to say this, but for the avoidance of doubt I will anyway: what we saw happening on our streets was criminal activity. No ifs, no buts. The people responsible for it need to be found and should face the full force of the law.

But at the same time as there was panic on the streets, there was a clash between those expressing opinions from behind keyboards the length and breadth of the country.

At one end of the spectrum we had people clamouring for action. I saw comments asking for armed troops on the streets and, even further, a shoot on sight policy. Hang 'em high. Crack some skulls. Let's see our streets running with the blood of rioters. It will make a point.

This country thankfully doesn't have many examples to draw from, but it is a fact that we don't have a great history when it comes to armed troops on the streets.

The lurch towards martial law is something we've seen and condemned in other countries. Is it really something we want here? Norway saw 92 people massacred recently and vowed to learn lessons. We lose a few branches of JD Sports and want to embrace death squads.

I mentioned earlier that there was a spectrum of views. At the other end, we saw people quick to make a political point. These riots were a form of protest, it was said. It's about the Tory cuts. Somehow this is a continuance of the uprisings we've seen in North Africa already this year - people joining up to make a point against an unpopular government.

I'd have some sympathy with this view if it wasn't for the fact that this activity didn't appear to be aimed against the instruments of State; rather it was directed towards retailers. Last time I checked, Richer Sounds wasn't a government department. And many that bore the brunt weren't even very corporate; it was the local newsagent, 24-hour minimarket, family-run furniture store.

So I can't subscribe to the 'protest' point of view either. I fall somewhere in between these two extremes. It's not easy having opinions that don't fit into the normal left vs. right arguments.

One thing we have to do - and this seems to be a deeply unfashionable view - is to learn from this. I say it's unfashionable because many of those baying for punishment believe that looking for explanations is the same as condoning violence.

It really isn't. If your house floods, you look for reason why, to prevent it happening again. Trying to explain the flood isn't condoning water.

What seems to be clear is that there is a section of society that doesn't act in the same way as the rest of us. It's not just a question of poverty - not every poor person was out nicking TVs. People are growing up in environments where the normal boundaries don't seem to apply. Education isn't attractive. Role models might be thin on the ground. The corrosive influence of gang culture is ever-present. Tribal finger-pointing and desk-banging rhetoric won't solve this.

Instead we should consider the words of Tariq Jahan, whose son was amongst three young men killed by a hit-and-run in the heat of the disorder earlier this week. I am proud to share a city and a country with him.

It's not easy. I don't know what the answers are. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't try.