Make Lard History

An analogy

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Wed, 10 Apr 2019 17:10:00 +0000

Imagine you're standing on a hill.

You're looking down on a town. You can see everything in pin-sharp detail. The buildings, the shops and homes. Cars moving along the streets. You can hear the activity; the town hall clock striking, maybe even the traffic if you're close enough. The wind tugs at your cheek. You can smell flower scent carried on the air. Maybe that bakery on the corner is putting out some enticing smells. You can almost taste it.

Now imagine you're in a room, and someone has just given you a photograph of that same scene. There's no perspective; it's literally two-dimensional. The picture's a little indistinct and it's tricky to pick out any detail. It's a moment frozen in time.

That's a little how I find living with a bout of depression. Essentially, you're seeing the same view, but only getting 10% of it. You're not living life, you're just looking at some of it.

It's perhaps not the most elegant of analogies, but it works for me. And the cruellest thing of all? When you're looking at the picture, you're being reminded of what's missing. You know what it was like to be on that hill, all senses buzzing in that moment. But you can't get to it.

You're just sat there in an airless room with a photograph. It's your "look what you could have had" moment. And that hurts. To an extent that you just don't feel like doing anything.

Over the last couple of years I haven't been as honest with myself as I could have been. When I was having depressive episodes, I'd just try and man-up and get on with things. So I'd be floating through life, not doing the things I used to enjoy, just existing. I used to write. Sing in a choir, act on stage, cycle ridiculous distances for fun. But not now, I'm not experiencing life, just observing it. Oh yes, I laugh and smile and try to be happy. Because I know what it's like to be miserable and don't want the people around me to feel like that.

But this morning I stopped. After another long night of looking at the photograph and remembering what it was like to experience the view. Instead of girding-up and going to work, I texted my boss. I'm not right, I said. Can I work from home today?

His reply was immediate. You're not working today. Take the time to rest. Recover properly.

I slept soundly for five hours - that kind of 'delicious' sleep where you wake up feeling fresher. It's the first time for a long time that's happened. I haven't opened up the laptop or checked the work phone.

I'm not sure if I've turned a corner here. But I think I'm getting closer to some form of realisation. I don't want to just be looking at photographs any more.

Taking the black dog for a walk

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Mon, 12 Dec 2016 18:00:00 +0000

I have a confession to make.

No, that’s not right. ‘Confession’ suggests I have something to be ashamed about. And I haven’t. Well, not in this instance, anyway.

I have some news to tell you.

Hang on. This is making things sound more ominous than they are. I’ll start again.

I haven’t been well for a while. Before you get concerned (and bless you if you were for a second there), it’s nothing terminal. But being (a) British and (b) male, we tend not to talk about this sort of thing. Which is wrong. So here goes.

I have suffered from depression, amongst other things, for quite some time. I’m fine. Well, obviously I’m not fine, and we’ll get to the details in a minute. But I’m seeking help; I’m getting good care and the people around me who know are very supportive. Currently that’s a small circle of people. I hope it’ll get a bit bigger in the days to come.

In my case, my depression is classed as ‘moderate’. It’s accompanied by anxiety and stress as I think the Doctor was having a three-for-the-price-of-one offer on the day of my diagnosis.

What’s it like? Well, I think it’s probably different for everyone. But for me, the best way I can describe it is by conjuring up a clumsy analogy.

You see that smartphone in your hand? It probably has a ‘battery saving’ function. When energy levels get low, it slows down. It can’t do more than one thing at once. The screen might dim, the various connections switch off one-by-one until it just about performs the basic functions of a phone.

Essentially, I’ve been in ‘battery saving’ mode for a couple of years.

I found myself withdrawing from things that I used to do. I gave up singing in a choir, I found myself no longer writing, I didn’t even want to pick up a book. I haven’t been on the bike for a few months. My personal mantra had become: “What’s the bloody point?”

During my worst phases, my day-to-day life is performed through a sort of fog. Short-term memory, decision making and motivation tend to go out of the window. And boy, do I get tired. I could sleep for Britain. Although I still wake up tired. which is a bit of a bugger, quite frankly.

But I’m getting help. And, given that one in four people will experience mental health issues at some point in their lives, I think it’s important that I talk about it. Which is why you’re reading this.

It might be the case that some of the symptoms I’ve mentioned are familiar to you. We all have bad days and reacting to them is perfectly natural. But if you’ve been feeling like this for a prolonged period of time, seek out support. It’s there.

I’d like to say that I’m the same Phil I was beforehand. Clearly that’s not the case right now. But I will get better. I still enjoy life. I laugh and I joke about things. People do get better.

And the more we talk openly about this, the easier it will be for everyone to get the help they need.

Yes, I want my country back, too

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Tue, 21 Jun 2016 18:55:00 +0000

It was a warm summer night in 2012 and I was feeling emotional.

The London Olympics had just started. Danny Boyle's opening ceremony was coming to its conclusion and, to be honest, we were all breathing a collective sigh of relief that it hadn't been terrible. In fact, it had been wonderful. We'd had nothing less than a celebration of Britain's place in the world in the 21st century.

There had been nods to the Industrial Revolution, a loving tribute to the NHS, plentiful recognition of a country that was accepting of its past, aware of the present, and mindful of times ahead. A country that felt comfortable in its skin.

As the 204 individual petals of Thomas Heatherwick's cauldron came together to produce a united Olympic flame, and the final chords of Pink Floyd's 'Eclipse' rang out across London, I felt proud to be a modern Briton.

But in the last few months, as the EU Referendum debate has raged on, I've honestly wondered what has happened to my country. A Britain that has previously thrived on being warm-hearted, open and internationalist. That has demonstrated time and time again the value of talking softly, not just reverting to the big stick. A nation that has faced tough times in the past and hasn't reacted by kicking over the table and stalking out of the room in a hissy fit.

I've heard what passes for debate. I've watched as proven mistruths get peddled, time and time again. I've read the papers continue their drum-beat of innuendo and smear. I've seen the accusations and counter-accusations. In comment sections and on social media it's been played out repeatedly.

And at no time have I recognised the Britain that we all joyfully celebrated in 2012. Civility has been replaced with sloganeering, understanding with conflict, fact with hyperbole.

This isn't my Britain. This sneering, closed-minded artifice isn't the country I love.

So on Thursday I will be voting. And I will be voting for Britain to play its part within Europe, remaining within the EU.

I've read the economic cases, the detailed legal analyses, the arguments that attempt to reduce real human beings to mere numbers. You'll have your own views on all of that, but that's not what's making me put my 'X' in the Remain box on Thursday.

It's this. I'm well aware that the EU isn't perfect. But I hope that when the dust settles, and the choice is made, we can look back on this few months of madness. Roll our sleeves up and work in partnership with our neighbours. Because you don't fix things by turning away.

That's not the British way.

This man can

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Fri, 02 Oct 2015 17:28:00 +0000

I hate bicycles. I hate cycling. Cycling is a silly idea. A bloody daft pastime.

All of these phrases were to be heard coming from my lips last Sunday. Well, I may have edited out the profanities, somewhat. I was mining a whole, fresh new vein of swearing, if you want the truth. There is now an area of Worcester (just around Feckenham, ironically) where the air is permanently blue.

The reason? I was about two-thirds of the way through a 100km bike ride. And it was beginning to get a little uncomfortable.

Let's re-wind a little, shall we? In July I rode 70km (about 43 miles, you Imperial people) in support of the British Heart Foundation. It was about 50% more than I'd ever ridden before. But I was quite happy about the whole thing. Here I am, being quite happy:

Note the slight concern on the face of the gentleman behind me. To be honest, given his view at the time I'm not too surprised. But despite the rather damp weather, I made it around and beat my personal best for my longest ride.

But looming on the horizon was a large cloud called 'Personal Challenge'. And like most clouds, this one could have bought on stormy weather. Or it could have contained silver linings.

I feel the cloud metaphor is a bit overdone. Let's move on.

When you've done 70 of anything, the next target has to be 100, hasn't it? I knew that there was what cyclists call a sportive coming up in my area that covered 100km and was meant to be perfect for the first-timer. To the uninitiated, sportive simply means: "It's organised, there will be lots of people doing it, but it's on public roads and we definitely can't call it a race so we'll come up with a vaguely exotic-sounding name for our cycling event."

This particular non-race was the Tommy Godwin Challenge Sportive, remembering a local chap, one-time Olympic cyclist and famed Birmingham bike-shop owner. In his last days he'd been cared for by the Marie Curie Hospice in Solihull; the sportive is now run annually to raise funds for it. They advertised it as a great introduction to sportive riding. In a moment of weakness I signed up for it.

I did some training. I think the operative word here is 'some', however. I went out every weekend on my bike. Apart from those weekends when I didn't. I rode to work (about 22 miles) a couple of times. Then drove back home. The most I rode in one go was about 35 miles. So it's fair to say I was a little nervous when I lined up alongside several hundred racing snakes, all kitted out in Lycra and gore-tex, outside the Marie Curie Hospice last Sunday.

Luckily, I had Team Lard on my side. You'll remember them perhaps from last year, when I reached the giddy lengths of 18 miles with their assistance. And I was taking nutrition seriously, with my pockets stuffed with various energy bars, gels and such.

To nick a phrase from Hunter S. Thompson, we were somewhere around Barston, on the edge of the borough, when the adrenaline began to take hold. "Slow down," called out Leanne. "Don't get too excited." We pushed on through Warwickshire, heading for Stratford-upon-Avon. The weather was perfect, dry but not too warm. Leanne counted out the ride in five-mile intervals; at each one I'd take a bite of energy bar and some water. Richard realised there was a long way to the scheduled stop point, he needed the toilet, and he was wearing bib shorts.

A note about bib shorts. To you, they look ridiculous; cycling shorts attached to sort of overall-straps that you wear over your shoulders. But wearing them means you don't have a waist-band digging into you. They do make emergency exits somewhat tricky, though, as Richard was finding out to his peril. We made sympathetic references to dripping taps, waterfalls, etc, and carried on.

By now we'd been overtaken by most riders. They'd let us go in groups of 20 or so, at two minute intervals. We'd now been passed by people who had started some 20-odd minutes later than us. They'd come by, in a stupidly high gear, their tree-trunk legs barely seeming to spin. I think it was meant to be inspiring, but each one was like a dagger to my motivation.

But it was after the halfway stop when I faced my wall. Or in fact, my hills. The organisers of the ride clearly thought it would be nice to chuck in some challenges. But not at the start, when everyone was fresh. Oh dearie me, no. The inclines (for there were plenty) came in when my tank would have been past empty.

I'd thrown some Shot-Blok energy gels down my throat. The reviews said you needed to take these some ten minutes before you needed the boost. Unfortunately, my metabolism was clearly still working at a glacial pace, so I saw no benefit as I hit the hills. I'd grind up them, puffing and blowing (and swearing like a Welsh poet), then hit the top and receive a completely un-needed energy boost when gravity alone would have done the trick. Lesson learnt.

I think Rich and Leanne sensed I was struggling. Other then the swearing, my witty repartee was sadly lacking. They gathered around, keeping the chat going and telling me that my old, fat, wheezy body was doing wonderfully well. We even had time for a selfie:

Heading back into Warwickshire, I staggered my way through Studley, heaved past Henley-in-Arden and soldiered on to the Solihull badlands. As I began to recognise local roads - roads I'd trained on that summer - there was a barely-perceptible lift to my legs.

And then I saw another cyclist.

They were right on the edge of my vision, going along the same road. This was my chance. My chance to pass someone. I'd overtaken one rider beforehand, but as he'd just swallowed a wasp I don't think that counted.

I put my head down and clicked into a higher gear. My co-riders must have wondered what had come over me. But this was my chance. This was my opportunity to not be the last in, the makeweight, the Johnny-come-lately. I thought to myself: I've spent a lifetime being the last one picked for the sports team, the one who doesn't volunteer for anything physical, the one who doesn't compete. It's not going to happen now.

One thing I can rely on is physics. Especially the bits that talk about momentum. Once I'd begun to gain some speed I could see I was slowly closing the gap to the other cyclist. You are mine, I thought. I'm playing the long game, yes, but this is the day when Phil does not come in last.

I got closer, Leanne and Rich urging me on. We were in Solihull properly now. Well, we passed a Porsche garage. The other cyclist was still going, unaware of the shock-and-awe that Team Lard was about to unleash. This was it! This was my moment! This fat bloke can do it!

The effect of all of this of this was slightly undermined when we found out that the cyclist in question was a kindly-faced woman in her late fifties, riding a bike that probably carried a basket on it during weekdays.

But I'm still marking it down as a victory.

We swept into Solihull Town Centre, heading back to the Hospice. Rich and Leanne held back as I approached the finish line, oblivious, just wanting my burning legs to make one more rotation, two more rotations.

And then it was over. They gave me a medal. I had a bit of a moment.

And that's about it. That's the story of how an overweight, uncertain, inexperienced cyclist went and rode 100km in one go. Yes I was slow, no I was not pretty, and yes I probably was a hazard to traffic. But I only went and flippin' did it, didn't I?

I quite like bicycles. I'm pretty fond of cycling. Cycling is a great idea. What a worthwhile pastime!

I refuse

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Wed, 02 Sep 2015 21:01:00 +0000

Like many of you, I saw those photos today. Pictures of that young lad, washed up on the shore of a Turkish beach. I'm generally unsentimental, but those pictures were a kick to the guts to me. I'm not going to share the pictures here; you can find them if you want.

But in the shock of the moment, it made me think. I'm going to get a little deep. Sorry about that.

When I'm around other people and see or hear their thoughts, in the real world and online, I notice that many of them seem to get their opinions from certain newspapers and outlets. It saddens me.

Of all the things that people could do with their time, particularly when they could read millions of things for free, they read the Daily Mail or similar. And they believe it all, too.

The headlines these days are simply generic immigrant/asylum seeker/refugee/welfare claimant hate pieces. Every day, the media screams hatred. “It’s the Muslims, it’s the immigrants, it’s the poor, they’re a swarm, they’re a burden, a drain.

This drip, drip, drip of scaremongering and hatred poisons us. No matter how immune or clever we think we are, we’re all vulnerable to it. We are all human beings, after all.

However, not enough of us question the constant drip of this awful hate mongering and we need to do that. If we as a species cannot be compassionate towards ourselves, towards the disenfranchised and disempowered, towards the planet, it’s over.

I refuse to hate refugees. I refuse to hate suffering families. I refuse to hate Muslims or Jews or Christians or Americans or Europeans or Africans or Arabs.

I refuse to hate you. I refuse to hate the poor. I refuse to hate the rich. I refuse to hate animals. I refuse to hate the planet.

I refuse to hate myself. I refuse to hate people of a different colour or sexual orientation or body size.

I refuse to be brainwashed by the hate mongers and headline writers.

Compassion. Mercy. That is what I believe in. I see good people all around me.

Send a signal, read something else.

Two legs good, four legs better

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Mon, 17 Aug 2015 20:25:00 +0000

I suppose I should have noticed the signs earlier. However, being (a) male, (b) quite dim and (c) easily distracted, there was always going to be only one conclusion.

It started when She Who Must Be Obeyed cocked her head to one side and started talking. I should know by now, this combination almost always leads to me getting the blame for something. Or spending money. Or getting the blame for something and spending money.

On this occasion she said, angularly:"Do you reckon Eric ever feels lonely?"

Eric, for those of you who haven't been keeping up to date, is a gentle soul. He is an out-of-work Left Bank Parisian philosopher that lives with us. Currently he is occupying the body of a black cat. In answer to SWMBO's question, I reckon Eric probably feels a number of emotions, although it's sometimes tricky to tell. He's impassive unless food is involved; then he becomes quite vocal.

But lonely? I wasn't so sure. So I said so. "I'm not so sure," I said. I'm good at that kind of thing.

"We're out at work all day," she said, her head having now reverted back to its default level setting. "Surely Eric would like a friend to play with?"

"I'm not so sure," I tried once more, hoping despite past experience that blatant repetition would work. "Cats are notoriously territorial. I don't think he'd like another one coming onto his patch." This at least had some basis in truth. We came into his service as he wasn't getting on with another cat in his previous home.

SWMBO left it there. I thought that was the end of it. But really, conversations like this are like unexploded bombs. They're rarely defused at the first go; they have a habit of hanging around ready to blow up when you least expect it, causing structural destruction and significant loss of life.

I feel I may have overplayed the 'unexploded bomb' analogy in that last bit. Let's move on.

SWMBO had the opportunity to volunteer for a charity several months ago - in this case it was the Cats' Protection League. I realised where this was going and thought I'd head it off at the pass. "Just make sure you don't end up coming back with a car full of cats," I said, trying to adopt a casual, nonchalant air.

"I'll be shovelling cat-crap all day. They probably won't let me anywhere near an actual cat. Don't worry."

She did not come back with a car full of cats. She did, however, come back with a phone full of pictures of cats. Including one of Fleur, a small, delicate little creature with huge eyes.

Time passed. A brief conversation took place. At least one of us had their head on a slant. The earth span a couple of times on its axis. We removed 40 bags of rubbish from the spare room. And then we became a two-cat family. I was stitched up, ladies and gentleman. Stitched up, boxed up, stamped 'Gullible' and marked for life.

We've gone through the whole exhausting New Cat Protocol, where you constantly have to remember where each animal is, whether they have access to food and litter, each other or the outside world. There's no rest; you have to think about whether the cat flap is locked, what happens if you open this door, who's behind it, etc. It's a bit like that 3D chess game they play on Star Trek.

Eric has taken to the interloper with good grace, so far. He tolerates this young furry whirlwind, up to a point, then does the nearest feline approximation of a shrug before going out to discuss matters with Statler and Waldorf, two long-haired black cats that live diagonally opposite. After they have set the world to rights, he'll come back in, studiously ignoring Fleur as she drinks from his water bowl, before placing himself where he can be sure she'll not be able to ambush him. She does that a lot.

Fleur runs up and down the stairs like a dwarf elephant on meth, 24 hours a day. She constantly tries to annoy her elders. She produces a quite startling amount of poo, to be frank with you. You know, I'm not sure if this was a good idea.

Oh. Ok then.

In which I write another interminable post about cycling

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Fri, 26 Jun 2015 20:20:00 +0000

I'd like to introduce you all to my current instrument of torture. Don't worry. It's not going to be that sort of post. Here it is:

The bit I want you to concentrate upon is the tiny pedal-y thing with 'Shimano' written on it. It's what's known as a 'clipless' pedal. Which seems odd, as the basic idea is that you clip your feet into it, but I'm sure someone far more knowledgeable than me will be along to explain why in a distinctly adenoidal way.

When I got this bike a month ago, it came with the standard plastic flat pedals that we're all used to seeing. A pretty simple concept. You put your feet on them and push down one at a time until you can't. Repeat until you have reached your destination, then stop and have some cake.

But people told me that I needed to go clipless. Physically attaching my feet to the pedals would make things so much more effective. I could pull up with one foot while pushing down with the other. It would make me faster. Hills would flatten. Lengths would shorten. I would become a Cycling God.

First of all I needed to purchase a pair of cycling shoes. These are ridiculous items which fail on almost every level when it comes to assessing the usefulness of footwear. They even have holes pre-drilled in the soles. And they look very, very silly.

You're not meant to point this out, of course.

One of the things I've learned about cycling is that you have to make yourself look silly. But it's an unwritten rule that this shouldn't be brought to anyone's attention. All of a sudden, the scales would fall from everyone's eyes, the artifice would crumble and we'd all be looking at each other, saying: "What were we thinking? Wearing skin-tight manmade fibres, crouching over bikes that weigh the same as a crisp packet, our feet pushing down on tiny metal stumps with disco slippers."

But I digress. So, earlier this week I replaced my pedals and set out to test the whole concept. Beforehand, I sat on the bike, propped up against the open garden gate, and practiced the whole 'clipping-in and clipping-out' thing. Because it's quite handy to be able to put a foot to the floor when you've stopped. I don't know if you've noticed this, but bikes are inherently unstable. The last thing I'd want to do is fall over, isn't it?

I think you can see where this is going.

So I went out. I followed a 25-mile circuit I hadn't done for some time, since I'd been under my doctor's orders to not over-exert myself. It wasn't the length, more the elevation. This route included a road called Rising Lane, named in a completely non-ironic manner by someone several hundred years ago. I was keen to see how I got on.

And it was good, largely. The pedals made a difference. When I came to any junctions it was relatively easy to unclip my left foot and lean over that way. All was good.

I headed back home and was coming through the leafy suburbs of Solihull when I thought I'd pull off the road to stop and have a drink. I'm not one of those flash Harrys who can reach down for their bottle, drink and ride at the same time. Baby steps, and all that.

So I rode onto the pavement and slowed. I unclipped my right foot. I leant left. There was a brief period of time when quite a lot of things happened.

Gravity is a cruel mistress, isn't she? Mind you, paving slabs aren't much more benign.

So I now have a little less skin on my left knee and elbow. And what have we learnt, dear reader?

Cycling. It's a bloody silly pastime.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

There is some method behind all of this. As well as being generally beneficial to my well-being (comedy elbow and knee scrage notwithstanding), I'm using my new-found liking for cycling for good. Next month I'm doing the British Heart Foundation's Heart of England Bike Ride with the mighty Team Lard and if you'd like to sponsor us, that'd be peachy.

The link is here. Ta everso.

The story of the shirt - an update

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Sun, 31 May 2015 23:03:00 +0000

You won't remember this. I wouldn't expect you to do so. But five years ago I made a bit of a promise. And it was all because of a shirt.

I'm not going to expect you to go back and read a five-year old post. But it went like this. For Christmas in 2008 my parents bought me a very nice shirt. What we call a 'going-out' shirt. It was a little on the small side so the plan was for me to take it back to the store and change it. This was derailed somewhat by the sudden death of my father, three days later. The shirt went into the back of the wardrobe and I forgot about it.

In October 2010 I wrote about how I'd stumbled on the shirt again - the last present I ever received from both of my parents - and how I was going to use it as motivation to lose some weight.

Well. That went well, didn't it? Almost as well as the promise I made to walk Hadrian's Wall (current status: I bought some maps). Or the one about completing the Three Peaks Challenge (current status: I completed 0.6 of a Peak). I've even made various pledges about writing more often (this is the first post I've made in six weeks; knock yourself out, folks).

But a stopped clock is right twice a day. A promise made can become reality, given enough time. And so it was with the shirt. My mother reached her 80th birthday the other week. Having finally started the long process of losing some lumber, I wore the shirt.

I can't make any claims towards sartorial elegance. Quite frankly, for me clothing performs the dual functions of stopping me getting arrested and giving me somewhere to keep my keys. But, wearing the shirt for the first time, honouring the promise I'd made nearly five years previously, was a bit of a moment.

There is more to do. The carbs are still lurking, ready to make me put the shirt away in the back of the wardrobe again. I'm not going to make any promises this time. I have a bit of a poor track record where that's concerned.

But for the present time, let's celebrate the little victories. And in the meantime, does anyone want to buy some maps of Cumbria?

The Poundland Ironman

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Mon, 06 Apr 2015 20:41:00 +0000

I realise it must be a little worrying for some of you. I write about some health issue or other, and then you get nothing but radio silence for over a month.

I mean, for all you know I might have already pitched face-first into my soup, clutching at my chest and whispering some final truths to my dining companions, together with the logon for my internet banking so Katie could cancel the direct debit for the Mens Health magazine subscription.

Of course, in these days of social media we never truly disappear, so most of you will know that I am, in fact, still vaguely upright. I have been prescribed a veritable cornucopia of pills. And I'm here to tell you that those inexpensive blood pressure monitors you can buy in Boots are cheap for a reason.

I religiously logged my BP for a month. As the doctor ordered, I chose different times. Sometimes I monitored in the morning. Sometimes I monitored in the afternoon. Sometimes I monitored in the...well, you can see where this is going. I was a monitoring fool. But the numbers remained stubbornly high until I went back to the doctor for a follow-up. I'd literally just measured my pressure at home beforehand and marvelled at the numbers which suggested my heart was working away like a fire appliance. So when I asked him to do it at the surgery, there were mixed emotions when the numbers he got from his old-fashioned but clinically calibrated device were significantly lower than the lump of plastic at home that had tormented me for the preceding four weeks.

So I'm back on the bike, having solemnly sworn to She Who Must Be Obeyed that I would avoid hills and other general silliness. This makes me happy as I feel like I'm doing something positive, and my 1,000 mile challenge is back on. I'd quite like to do something impressive, cycle-wise, later this year and getting out there regularly is a step in the right direction. I'm beginning to feel guilt if I don't get on the bike, so emotional self-blackmail is back on the menu.

As you'd expect, I'm not out of the clutches of the medical profession yet. This week I'm back at the hospital again for something called an Ambulatory Blood Pressure Test. Essentially, after a certain amount of prodding and poking, they're going to strap a blood pressure monitor to me, which I'll have to wear for 24 hours. Throughout the day - and, worryingly, the night - this thing will go off at regular intervals so they get a true picture of how my internal plumbing copes over a longer period.

They say I'm not to stay at home, but to go about my normal business as they need to see how I cope with the rigours of everyday life. Of course, given that my everyday life isn't normally interrupted every 30 minutes by beeping and the muffled sound of inflation and deflation, this is by nature a little artificial, but I'll do the best I can.

When it beeps, I'm actually meant to drop what I'm doing, stop what I'm doing, sit down and raise my arm to keep the cuff at heart height. Which, of course, will be nicely unobtrusive and not at all a disturbance. Driving is going to be fun, given that whole pesky 'turning the steering-wheel and changing gear' thing. But the kicker is this - I'm not allowed to speak while the monitor is doing its business. I'm thinking of wearing a sign. I have meetings at work that afternoon. My colleagues aren't used to seeing me go quiet and then hearing the sound of rushing air coming from my person.

Well, not since I ditched the high-carbohydrate diet, anyway.

In a way I've been here before. Several years ago when I had sleep problems, the very same hospital strapped another set of monitoring equipment to me to wear in bed. We came the the conclusion that one of the things likely to stop me sleeping was having medical analysis equipment attached to me. I remarked at the time that I was gussied up like the Poundland Darth Vader; this next week's experience will be somewhat similar, but I'm imposing it on my co-workers too.

They are lucky, lucky people.

I'm fine, honest

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Sun, 01 Mar 2015 18:58:00 +0000

There comes a point in every person's life when the march of time begins to stamp quite firmly on your toes. When you start needing more regular maintenance, a little more attention from the specialists. When you begin to be more than just a nodding acquaintance to the receptionist at your doctor.

Quite frankly, the fact that it's happening for me now is a mixture of disappointment and amazement. Disappointment that as I face my 45th birthday next month my inevitable descent into decrepitude is underway. Amazement that it didn't happen sooner, given the poor choices I made over the last few decades.

But I'm fine, honest.

I say that because there's a chance someone who reads this will know my mother. And while she's busy enough lighting a candle for my immortal soul every week, quite frankly she doesn't need the additional hassle of worrying about my body too. She'd need extra matches. I've told her much of what follows anyway, but if worrying were an Olympic discipline she'd win gold, silver and bronze, so let's keep this between ourselves, shall we?

It all started when I had my semi-regular medical check about a month or so ago. The typical run of tests, proddings and samples. (They actually gave me the choice of not having 'the-usual-test-they-give-to-men-of-my-age-involving-a-thumb' and I declined. You'd at least need to buy me dinner before I'd let that happen.)

I was in relatively good shape - well, for me - at that point. I'd lost about 25 pounds in the previous few months, had started up regular exercise and wasn't eating so much beige food. Most of the numbers from my tests were ok, or at last heading in the right direction. There was one problem. My blood pressure was high, and no matter how often they tested, it remained stubbornly elevated.

They sent me on my way and told me to make an appointment with my GP, who would prescribe me something to bring it down. Of course, later that day I did what every person does nowadays, and googled the potential impact of hypertension.

That was a silly thing to do, and certainly didn't do my blood pressure any favours. I made the appointment.

I'm no medical expert, but by all accounts, a resting blood pressure reading of 230/170 is a Bad Thing, so my GP tells me. So now I'm a diagnosed hypertensive. God knows what it was like when I was carrying two stone in extra weight last year, when I was doing sponsored bike rides (ironically, for the British Heart Foundation) and hauling my sorry arse around the lanes of Birmingham and Solihull, going red in the face and breathing like a bronchial locomotive. Best not to think about it, eh?

My instructions are this: just keep taking the pills, and avoid strenuous exercise. So I'm off the bike for the moment. But I'm fine, honest.

That was until the chest pains.

It turns out that when you present yourself at your GP again, complaining about chest pains, it's a cause for some concern. Especially if you're male, middle-aged, overweight, with high blood pressure and a family history of heart problems. Lots of boxes were ticked that day, I can tell you. I ended up going to A&E (ER for our American readers). There was no real drama at this point, apart from the looks emanating from She Who Must Be Obeyed when I told her I'd had the chest pains for a week or so. My telling her that it therefore "probably wasn't a heart attack" did not go down too well.

At the reception to A&E, there's a sign that essentially says: "If you have chest pains, come to the window IMMEDIATELY", however this is England so I queued. On explaining my symptoms, I was given a bright orange card and gently told to make my way through the door on the left.

This was how I ended up in the Resuscitation Room. I understand now; if they'd made a fuss at the front desk, rung alarm bells, shouted the word "STAT!", or, for that matter, mentioned the words "Resuscitation Room," chances are that wouldn't have helped matters.What with me being an unknown quantity, cardiac-wise.

Over the next seven hours I had more proddings and pokings. Three ECGs, two blood tests, a chest x-ray and cup of NHS tea. I'm not sure that the tea was the best part of the experience, but needs must.

The analysis showed that I wasn't, in fact, having a heart attack. Which was nice. It was probably a muscle strain in the chest wall. But I am off to see my GP again next week, to see what we can do about my blood pressure, which still shows numbers previously only seen by NASA.

It's ironic, though, isn't it? I'd hoped I'd turned things around. I'd found a form of exercise that I didn't actually hate, I'd begun to think about what I put in my mouth (behave yourselves) and consider how nice it would be to have a long, undramatic retirement in 20-odd years instead of another pie. Because the last thing I wanted was to be part of the healthcare system, other than shelling out a chunk of money in National Insurance every month so it can look after other, more needy cases.

But I'm in the system now, and on reflection it's the best place for me. Hopefully we'll get past this relatively minor nuisance and I'll be back, holding up traffic and picking up where I left off on that '1,000 miles in a year' thing. I look sadly at the bike and SWMBO tuts disapprovingly. It is, to quote Dylan Thomas, "a bit of a bugger".

But I'm fine, honest.

A Grand Don't Come For Free

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Sat, 10 Jan 2015 17:32:00 +0000

Last year I entered a strange and mysterious secret society. Well, not that strange, I suppose. Or mysterious, come to think of it. On reflection, I guess it's not so secret.

Ok. I entered a society. Sort of.

You may have seen me mention it in one or two of the many postings I made in 2014. I suppose you could have missed it, buried as it was in the near-photographic recollection of everything else that happened to me in the twelve months. But for those of you that weren't paying attention, I became a cyclist.

I know. It surprised me too. I just thought I'd obtained a bike. But no. Without realising it, I had become a member of the Cyclorati. It turns out that when you walk your new bike out of the shop, the Cycling Gods catch sight of you and put you under their spell, or something. I can't explain it.

I mean, there I was, minding my own business, when I realised I wasn't getting any younger (apart from Benjamin Button, who is?) and my waistline was expanding to equal my age in years. That's never a good thing to realise as you plummet headlong into your mid 40s, is it?

I'd toyed with the idea of regular exercise in the past. Approximately a million years ago I'd been a regular member of a gym. Of course, by 'regular member' I mean I had a direct debit going out of my bank account and some lovely branded towels in the airing cupboard. But after the first few months of going, I'd come to the conclusion that sitting on my sofa with some biscuits was much better for the soul.

More recently, I'd taken up going for long walks in the countryside. But, lovely though the countryside is, it tends not to move too quickly when you're walking through it. I get bored quite easily, you see.

So, inspired by my workmates, many of whom were ardent cyclists, last April I went out and got something called a Giant Escape 3 Hybrid. I was slightly disappointed to realise that 'hybrid' doesn't mean 'it has an electric motor to help you up hills' (although such things do exist), merely that it was a sort of mix between a road bike and a mountain bike. Here it is:

But here's the thing. I actually found that I quite enjoyed riding the thing. After my first purchase of padded shorts, it hurt a lot less. You can't see in this photo, but the saddle is not a seat. Oh dear no, it's a shelf, upon which you may rest your derriere from time to time. But don't expect anything in the way of comfort. My backside is, basically, my suspension.

We were lucky in that 2014's weather was relatively benign and so I ended up going out on it regularly, all the way up to December. And I was out on it once more on the second day of 2015, when the rest of the civilised world still seemed to be sleeping off the port and sausages.

And as I headed out on 2 January, I had a thought. I'm not one for New Year's Resolutions. But it's quite nice to have a target to aim for. And there I was, 2015 stretching out in front of me like a sodding great big 52 week-shaped blank canvassy-thing. So why not set myself a little challenge?

I'm in the position now where I can do 20-mile plus rides relatively easily, although hills are still an issue and I tend to bimble along at an average 10 mph, so I'm not what you call competitive. But why don't I see if I can hit a mileage total for 2015? How about 1,000 miles over the year?

Your serious cyclists will by now be collapsing in laughter. One thousand sounds like a lot, especially if you write it in words, but to your seasoned lycra-jockey it really isn't. Some competitive events - open to amateurs, believe it or not - hit 600 km (360 miles) in a single ride. I'd think twice about driving that distance in a fully-fuelled car, to be honest.

But to hit 1,000 miles, the distance of each ride is less critical. Consistency is the key. I need to get on my bike weekly throughout the year. I need to perhaps get on it more often than that when daylight and weather allow. And I need to satisfy the nerdy statistician in me by keeping records and ticking-off the miles as they pass.

I'm not doing this for any good cause. I don't want to be sponsored (although I might do the odd event in the year). I'm not even certain I'll end up finishing it. But it just seemed to me to be worth an attempt.

Don't worry, though. This blog will not turn itself over to bike-related discussions. I'm exercising so I can live, not the other way around. But, if anything, it gives me a reason to update it.

And for the record, the current statistics are: 15.4/1,000.

Mind the gap

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Sun, 04 Jan 2015 16:14:00 +0000

Well. This is a little embarrassing.

Over the last few years, there have been gaps in postings. Sometimes you may have gone a couple of weeks without seeing anything new here. Occasionally you may have seen a month or so go by.

I say "you" in the plural, although that's probably a little ambitious these days. I can count the readership of this blog on the fingers of one thumb.

But the last time I put anything up here was August last year. And 2014 itself was hardly a prolific year for postings, was it, dear reader?

I'm aware that on a regular basis I come back to this blog after such a gap and say things like: "This time it's different"; "I'm going to knuckle down and update this regularly"; "I'm determined not to let this slip again".

Which is all utter nonsense, isn't it? Because by and large, there's always another stonking great big gap lurking around the corner.

So then. 2014. I acted in a couple of plays. I took up cycling and found that I actually quite enjoyed it. I went to Morocco again. I lost two and a half stone in weight (about 35 pounds if you're one of my non-readers from 'Murica).

And yet I did practically no writing. Shocking. Especially given that I had some good source material. In 2010, when I was neither acting, cycling, losing weight nor visiting the mysterious continent, I wrote 109 posts. Last year I did seven. SEVEN!

I'm not going to make any promises, because we've seen where that gets us in the past. Let's just see how 2015 pans out, shall we?

Pedalling nonsense

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Sun, 10 Aug 2014 16:31:00 +0000

It occurs to me that I never really gave an update after my last post, in which I made a frankly shameless attempt to beg for your money for a cycling event.

I mean, I ask you for your cash, tell you I'm off to ride a bike around the West Midlands (well, around a really quite small bit of it) and then...nothing.

For all you know, dear reader, I could have been lying in a ditch somewhere for the last few weeks. I could have been set upon by a band of rabid stoats who are holding me hostage until their demands are met*.

It could happen.

Well, it didn't. I'm here today to tell you that I completed the 18 mile circuit and didn't die. I only had to get off and push once, and that's solely because I mucked up the changing of the gears when a sudden hill appeared. That's my excuse, and I'm sticking to it.

Look. I even have photographic proof:

I was shepherded around the course by two friends, Leanne and Rich, who are much more competent cyclists than me. They wear lycra and have ridiculously light road bikes. I mean, look at them. They're thin and fit. An alien landing on Earth and looking at the three of us wouldn't even think we were all the same species, for God's sake. They even thought to take off their helmets for this photo. That's the sign of a proper cyclist.

They kept close to me as I bimbled around the circuit, being overtaken by everyone. I think we were passed by an eight-year-old on a Raleigh Chipper at one point. They are serious cyclists and would normally have been off, like wheeled greyhounds, but they stuck to me and made sure I wasn't left alone to die in a pitiful steaming mess by the side of the road.

But here's the thing. I've been cycling now for a few months. I only get to go out maybe twice a week at the moment. And I haven't really logged hundreds of miles yet. But I actually quite enjoy it. Perhaps I've found a form of exercise I can get along with? Walking is too boring - it takes a long time for the scenery to change. If I took up jogging it's a toss-up as to what would fail first, my heart or my knees. But I've found I can get on with cycling.

No-one's forcing me to do 100 miles up a mountain at 25mph. I can go at my own pace, and I seem to be getting used to it. When I first did 10 miles I was indistinguishable from a corpse by the time I finished. But now I'm easily pushing on past that and adding more miles every time.

Here's the real test. It was tipping down with rain this weekend so I didn't get a chance to ride. And I've missed it.

Whoa. This is scary. Whisper it quietly, but I even found myself looking at some road bikes online the other day.

I used to look at middle-aged-men-in-lycra in a slightly bemused way before this started. But I think I'm beginning to see the point. Mind you, winter's coming. A couple of weeks of ice and I'll be saying "Bike? What bike?"

But at least while the sun's out I might be able to make a bit of a difference to the waistline.

*(Independence for Stoatland. All weasels to be kept in harnesses. Severe punishment meted out to anyone who can't tell the difference).

A never-ending cycle of madness

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Sat, 19 Jul 2014 20:40:00 +0000

So a few months ago I got a bicycle.

I know. It's a terrible cliche. Large bloke gets bike. Large bloke covers himself in Lycra. Large bloke gives it all up as a bad idea within six weeks. Large bloke puts bike on eBay.

But the fact of the matter is that I don't want to weigh 18 stone any longer. I tried going for walks, but the scenery didn't change quickly enough. I didn't want to join a gym, because, well, that just seemed ridiculous. So cycling it was.

I was quite sensible about the whole endeavour. I didn't get one of those racing bikes that weigh the same as a crisp packet. I got a sensible bike, with flat handlebars, so I didn't have to crouch down like a racer. The saddle is still like sitting on a razor blade, but I'm told you get used to that over time.

I am surrounded by people who cycle at a vastly different level. They come into work on a Monday morning and talk about the 80km they did at the weekend. They have bikes that seem to be made of approximately 12 carbon atoms that cost something equivalent to a Central American country's nation debt. They chatter about things like cadence and chainsets.

Meanwhile, I talk meekly about the pitiful miles I have done, sweating up the hills and extravagantly crapping myself on the way down again. I don't mention the times I have to get off and push, my heart pounding like Santana's rhythm section while stars float in front of my eyes.

But I've gone and done it now, haven't I? Tomorrow morning I'm actually doing an organised cycle. The plan is that I'll do 30 kilometres (about 18.5 miles to you and me) which is a few miles more than I've ever done before. Real cyclists will be sniggering up their Lycra-clad sleeves already, but it's a bit of a big deal to me.

I'm doing this for the British Heart Foundation. I lost my dad to heart disease nearly six years ago, so it's a sacrifice I don't mind making. It's a worthwhile cause so any discomfort on my part (and distress caused to spectators as they watch this blubbery mess cycling around Solihull) is just a means to an end.

If you have a few spare quid, the link is http://www.justgiving.com/philsawyer2

I must be out of my mind.

This Man Attacked His Face With A Sharp Instrument - What Happened Next Will Astound You

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Sun, 01 Jun 2014 20:35:00 +0000

I have, for the last six months or so, been a member of a select group of men.

When I have passed by, ladies have looked at me and felt the full power of my previously-absent manliness. People have looked upon me as a font of wisdom. I have been considered a sage of our times.

I have been in the same club as Brian Blessed, Abraham Lincoln and William Shakespeare. And Conchita Wurst too, but there's not terribly much I can do about that.

Yes, since late last year I have been hairy of face. I have been able to pause and stroke my chin in a thoughtful way when asked a tricky question. Other bearded men and I have been able to acknowledge each other in the street with that raised eyebrow that says: "Hello, brother of mine."

I have been able to spend an extra five minutes every morning in bed. It's been ace.

But all good things must come to an end. I'm sorry, ladies. I grew the beard last year for theatrical purposes. And it is for the same reason that it's coming off. My next play is not set in the fuzzy 70s, but in the smooth-chinned 50s. It was written by Noel Coward. I even wear a dressing gown at one point. Rough-and-ready just won't cut it.

So I thought I'd treat you, dear reader, to a visual story of my journey. Because every man, no matter how grown-up he is, uses the removal of a beard to try out a few different looks. Here we go.

Step 1 - our start point. Full 'Extra in an Elizabethan Feast Scene' mode. It's quite magnificent, isn't it? Right, fire up the Braun.

Step 2 - the Van Dyck. As worn by cavaliers, laughing or otherwise, for 300 years or so. See also 'Bassist in a nu-metal band.'

It was at this point that I realised I was going to have to forego the 'Lemmy', as I'd already got rid of my jowl-hair. Oh, dear reader, imagine my disappointment. But this is an occupational hazard. You can't go backwards. Never mind. Onwards and upwards.

Step3 - the Zappa. I think the Soul Patch is a look which never really went away. Mine has had a little bit of every drink and morsel of food I've consumed over the last few months. Farewell, little patch, I think I'll miss you the most.

Step 4 - the Adult Performer. "Hello, Missus, I've come to repair your boiler......"

Step 5 - the Traffic Policeman. "Can you tell me how fast you were going, sir?"

Now then. I thought long and hard about the next phase of the transformation. Obviously this next character is a divisive figure, whose actions affected millions of people in the last century. This moustache is one that is inextricably linked to one individual. But, fellas, we've all wondered what we'd look like if we adopted this man's look, haven't we?

Here we go.

Step 6 - the Charlie Chaplin.

OK, OK. I know. You were expecting someone else. It's Ron Mael from Sparks. I can't see why this look didn't catch on.

Step 7 - my face is really, really cold.

That was a really odd 20 minutes.

How to win friends and keep your customers

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Thu, 29 May 2014 16:05:00 +0000

Over recent years it's become blindingly apparent that I spend an ever-increasing fraction of my income having zeroes and ones piped into my house. In other words, I'm paying a heck of a lot money for broadband.

Every now and then I have a rush of blood to the head and think about moving my ISP somewhere else. But then I have a cup of tea and a biscuit and the urge dwindles.

It's not that I'm rich enough to stand the loss. I am not. I am, as is well known, monumentally lazy (the post counts alone on here should tell you that) but also somewhat resistant to change. My internet connection sort of works, after a fashion, so why would I want to risk it with someone else? Added to that, my ISP also provides me with cable TV and a landline so quite frankly it just seems to be a bit of a faff.

So when Virginmedia (for it is they) sent me a letter last night, practically begging me to ring them to see what they could do for me as an existing customer, it seemed like the answer to my prayers. Perhaps I could get a better deal and not have to uproot everything.

So I gathered up some information. I looked at what I was getting for my monthly payment. I looked at the competition to see what I could get elsewhere. Then I dialled the number on the letter from Virginmedia.

"Our operators are busy and the wait time is 30 minutes," said the message. I looked at the phone in my hand like a drunk does at the bottle of whisky in those comedy movies when he's seen something unlikely.

I am not a marketing person. No, really. But even I think it's a bit daft to lead on your existing customers, motivate them to think about what they've got and what they could have, and then leave them hanging.

I contacted Virginmedia on Twitter to tell them that is was a bit daft. Fair enough, they responded, asking me to fill out an online form. Which had a field on it for a password I have never used. I couldn't get past it - it was a mandatory field - so I couldn't contact them that way either.

Virginmedia's Twitter team did seem genuinely as if they wanted to help (it's probably a nice difference from dealing with irate teenagers complaining that they can't shoot their friends on online gaming as fast as they'd like) but they wouldn't let me DM my details to them.

"Oh no," they said. "That's not secure. Send us an email instead."

So according to this technology company, sending a plain unencrypted email, which will bounce around several unknown and random email servers before reaching its destination, is the way forward.

I have seen the future, dear reader. And I think it involves letters and the Royal Mail.

Random acts of kindness

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Sun, 27 Apr 2014 17:57:00 +0000

It has been a funny sort of week. Funny peculiar, not funny ha-ha. But they say that any week you can walk away from must, by definition, be a good one.

Oh, hang on. That's aeroplane landings isn't it? Never mind.

On Monday we came back from an overnight stay. We'd had a good time but She Who Must Be Obeyed was not in the best of spirits. In fairness, she was probably in a better condition than the mouse that Eric, our cat, had left on the kitchen floor. Actually, it was the lower half of a mouse - we never did find the top - but that wasn't the salient point.

After I had cleaned up the kitchen so it looked a little less like the set for a rodent snuff movie, I turned my attention back to SWMBO. She was sitting on the sofa, a pained expression on her face, rocking slowly backwards and forwards. She didn't feel too well. To emphasise the point, she said, "I don't feel too well."

She suffers from an intestinal condition which much of the time stays fairly benign, but occasionally flares up. Thinking it was just another case, she dosed up on codeine and went for a snooze. However, as afternoon turned into evening it was clear that all was not well. It was 10pm on a Bank Holiday Monday and things didn't look too positive.

We drove gingerly to the out-of-hours surgery, SWMBO now mining a whole new vein of swearing. After waiting in a room full of other people's coughs, we saw a triage nurse. And this is when I stopped worrying.

It's sometimes a little tricky to get into the health system in this country. But my experience on Monday showed to me that, once you're in the system, you're generally surrounded by people who want to help.

A doctor checked her over and immediately referred us to the main hospital next-door. As we limped along a corridor, a member of staff - with her coat on, making her way home - stopped to ask if we needed a wheelchair.

On the ward, we encountered a fierce-looking Ward Sister. But while she entered our details and dealt with several other people, we saw her stop a young female patient who was leaving.

"Where are you going?" she asked.
"I've been discharged. I'm going home."
"On your own, at this time of night? Don't be silly. There's no bus. I'll call you a taxi."
"But I've got no money."
"Then we'll pay for it. It's gone midnight, dear."

SWMBO pulled her regular party trick of fainting during a blood test. The nurses took this in their stride, unflappable, ever-cheerful. "Just sit down here, there's no rush."

She was placed on a ward and we waited. I noticed the staff - not just nurses, but other medical staff, domestics, doctors - going about their business. Efficiently, quietly (it was gone 1.00am by this time), but with utter care for their patients.

Eventually a young doctor came and examined SWMBO. "Yes, you did the right thing coming in. This isn't your normal flare-up and I'm afraid we'll have to keep you in. Let's get you a drip going."

At about 4.00am I left her in a hospital bed. The Ward Sister saw my evident confusion, stopping me at the exit to write down the ward's phone numbers and visiting hours.

"She hasn't got anything with her," I said. "I'll need to bring a change of clothes in the morning."
"Don't worry about it," she winked. "We'll provide her with what she needs. And we won't stop you if you come back outside of the visiting hours."

In the next two days, while they stabilised her condition, ran several scans and generally patched her up before releasing her, I had plenty of opportunity to witness the care first hand. I thought it would be worthwhile - after all, at the age of 44 I've probably got more of this to look forward to as bits of me stop working.

It was first class. But more than that, it was delivered at a human scale. From the surgical attention, all the way down to the cheerful woman pushing her tea trolley around the wards, everyone was there with one purpose. And it wasn't about the bottom line.

At no point did I get an invoice. No-one is asking me to fill in insurance forms. This is the UK's National Health Service and I cannot imagine living in a country without it. I know it's not always perfect. Sometimes it doesn't work as it should.

But it's a system that puts people first. And we muck about with that at our peril.

The roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Sun, 16 Mar 2014 22:32:00 +0000

So, exactly one month after the last post, in which I said I'd be posting more often, you get another one.

You lucky people.

But it's a Sunday afternoon, one of the less-credible Bond movies is on the telly, so I'm easily distracted. And it was on an afternoon just like this, a few months ago, when they pulled me back in.

Oh yes. You think you can leave. You believe you can put it all behind you. But they're incessant. They'll find you. And they'll get you to do what they want.

They're not the Cosa Nostra. They're much more scary than that. I have re-joined the shadowy world of Amateur Dramatics.

It was a normal Sunday afternoon about six months ago and I was idly looking at Facebook. A status update popped up from my Auntie Bibby.

I should explain. Bibby is not her real name. That would be odd. She's really a Vivienne, but as youngsters we all struggled with the letter 'V', so Bibby she became and 40-odd years later Bibby she remains. She is the lynchpin of the murky world of AmDram in South Birmingham. The Capo di Tutti Capo, the head honcho. Oh, she'll deny it and say it's a harmless pastime, but Auntie Bibby is the main recruiter. One quick conversation with her and before you know it, you're in the chorus for a production of HMS Pinafore in a community hall.

Some 20 years ago, I thought I'd got out. Oh, I'd started reasonably enough, hefting scenery backstage for a pantomime. But then it'd developed into something else. I'd had to learn lines and remember not to bump into furniture. They'd had me in period costume. Oh the horrors. But I'd escaped. I'd put that life behind me, or so I thought.

But there was this message. It was a Sunday afternoon and I'd just had a bacon sandwich. I was as relaxed as it was possible to be without chemical help. The message said that a local amateur dramatics group was looking for some help. One of their male actors had pulled out of a play due to go on stage a few months hence. Could anyone out there in Facebook-land help?

I thought about it. I wandered around the house a bit. I might even have had a cup of tea. It was that serious.

I called Auntie Bibby, to be told the play in question was Alan Ayckbourne's Absent Friends. A play that I had actually done all those years ago. The part in question was, in fact, the same character I had played before. It was almost as if Auntie Bibby intended me to be pulled back in.

Fast forward to November last year and I was on stage in front of a paying audience. I remembered my lines. I avoided the furniture. I even got some (deliberate) laughs. So it ended there, yes?

Well. No, it didn't.

We're in early rehearsals for our next play, and this time I'm learning the words of Noël Coward. And bloody hell, but he did like writing them. I've got speeches coming out of my ears. The trick, of course, will be for me to make the come out of my mouth. But every Thursday evening I and the rest of the Billesley Players do our level best to put this show together. And in-between, I'm often to be found with a script in my hand.

So if you're near the Old Repertory Theatre in Birmingham in early June, you'll be able to see me hyperventilating my way around the Old Master's words.

Who said nothing good ever came from Facebook?

In which I explain my prolonged absence

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Sun, 16 Feb 2014 15:37:00 +0000

I blame Steve Jobs.

I know I shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but in all honesty it's his fault. I haven't written anything for ages. I have done very little creative work over the course of the last few months. My productivity has reached a new low.

I mean, look no further than this very blog if you want proof. There's been the square root of bugger-all in terms of updates. I can hardly call myself a blogger, can I?

And it's all down to the late Mr Jobs. Or, more to the point, one of his inventions.

Because, some four-or-so years after the rest of the Western Hemisphere, I obtained an iPad in 2013. It was about two-thirds of the way through the year; you can plot its impact on me by looking at the frequency of posts from me. At one point it was relatively healthy; every week or so. But once I got iPadded, it dropped lower than a snake's belly button.

Do snakes have navels? Probably not. But I'm on a roll here, don't distract me.

At first I thought it would be ok. I could take it or leave it. Nothing was going to change. I could give it up tomorrow if I wanted. But then, night after night, weekend after weekend, the device inveigled its way into my existence. It got under my skin.

And I hadn't even needed to have a compatible docking mechanism fitted.

So, instead of doing something useful every night, I've been hooked up to Apple's finest. (And yes, I'm well aware that other tablets are available. I'm sure they have the same effect. It's like comparing crack cocaine with crystal meth.)

There's no doubt that the iPad has its attractions. You switch it on and everything's just there, immediately. The faff-factor is practically zero. I turned on this laptop today and, after waiting what seemed like a fortnight for it to boot up, I've now had to install seven Microsoft updates, reconfigure my antivirus and deal with Adobe, Java and others being all needy.

Quite frankly, it's all a colossal pain in the arse. And you can quote me on that.

So iPads are great for consumption. You can sit there, making the most of other people's content. You can read from any newspaper on the planet, watch obscure films, hear some terrible music and see a quite depressing array of videos of cats doing something inopportune. You can, if you like, use up a quite significant proportion of your life slashing at pieces of fruit and doing unspeakable things with cartoon birds. If you're like me, you can test your knowledge of obscure rock music on QuizUp against the rest of the planet. (Fatboyfat - 'best in Classic Rock Music in the UK', if you're interested.)

But this is all consuming. It's not producing. And I know there will be someone from Apple's marketing department who'll tell us that any number of people with fascinating facial hair use their iPads to create content. But, let's face it, most of us use ours while we slob out in front of the telly, upping our Candy Crush score while stalking old school friends on Facebook. (I went to a boys' school, so that's a little worrying.)

We've become battery hens, pecking at our screens for a quick hit of feed. And that's fine for some people. Witty Facebook updates and Tweets might be enough for many.

But three years ago I wrote a novel. Last year I had two screenplays that got filmed. In 2014 that novel is still no closer to getting edited and published. There are no new films in the pipeline.

I guess the iPad and I need to be nodding acquaintances, rather than best buddies.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a screenplay to think about.

"3.7. Over and out."

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Sun, 01 Dec 2013 23:31:00 +0000

There are a number of inevitable signs of ageing. The odd ache here, the occasional pain there. The inability to get out of (or into) a chair without grunting. We expect this sort of thing.

But no-one ever warns you that your childhood heroes will - also inevitably - get old and start to pass on.

This was brought home to me a couple of days ago with the news that Lewis Collins, best known as Bodie in the late seventies TV series, The Professionals, had died at the age of 67.

For those of us of a certain age, this show has a special resonance. To explain, I have to take you back to Britain 35 years ago. It was a world of brown polyester. Politicians all looked about 100 years old. Newscasters spoke in measured tones, displaying carefully received Home Counties pronunciation.

If you were, like me, an eight-year-old boy, whatever TV you saw, on the three channels we had, was strictly limited. If you wanted to see a cop show - and let's face it, which eight-year-old boy wouldn't - you'd probably be faced with a succession of American imports.

Don't get me wrong. Starski & Hutch was great. But to this young Brit, it might as well have been set on an alien planet. People drove cars the size of small counties. They ate in diners where they'd casually toss dollar bills on the counter before leaving. There were a lot of guns. And inexplicably, they'd have telephones in every room of the house.

I was easily impressed at the age of eight.

But then The Professionals came about, and it was totally different. They drove Ford Escorts like that chap across the road. They had banter. Rather than gunplay, Bodie and his bubble-permed sidekick Doyle would normally give the baddies a quick slap.

It was a little shabby around the edges. It was grim and grey in places. It was ours.

On Friday nights, if we were very lucky, Dad would have have gone to the Boundary Chippy for our tea. We'd lie on the floor, all five of us gathered around our rented Granada TV, watching as the heroes of CI5 set the world to rights and winked at a lot of girls along the way.

And let's be honest. Who couldn't fail to have their eight-year-old mind blown by this?

I can almost taste the vinegar.

So farewell then, Lewis Collins. You and your CI5 colleagues made a big impact on me. Maybe I'll go and drive through some cardboard boxes next week, just as a tribute.

If you're around my age, you'll know exactly what I mean.

Crystal clear

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Wed, 28 Aug 2013 22:32:00 +0000

Exactly 15 years ago today. I was sitting in this very room. I was playing Gran Turismo on my Playstation, with a moustachioed gentleman called Stuart.

That's not exactly the main topic of this post.

As we tried to upgrade our virtual Nissan Skylines, we were drinking John Smiths Bitter from cans. John Smiths, for those of you who don't know, is terrible beer. It is beer for people who don't like beer.

Again, that's not really the main topic of this post.

But Stuart was there for a reason. He was to be my Best Man, for the day afterwards - 15 years ago tomorrow - I was to get married. It was Stuart's job to drive me to the church. Not in a Skyline, but a Micra. It was that kind of deal.

Fifteen years later - our crystal anniversary - and Stuart is no longer on the scene. I don't play Gran Turismo, and avoid John Smiths Bitter where I can.

But Katie is still here. I'm at a loss to understand why, but I'm grateful every day.

You should not marry the person you can live with. You should instead marry the person you can't live without.

Sing it, Van.

(If you can't see a video of Van Morrison singing our first dance song here, blame YouTube, Apple, the Internet Cabal, Piers Morgan or all of the above.)

Back to life, back to real ale and tea

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Thu, 11 Jul 2013 21:12:00 +0000

Yes, I know. It's been a while. About six weeks, in fact. Sorry about that. I've been busy, you see.

Well, when I say busy, I'm playing a little fast-and-loose with the whole concept. A significant proportion of my time in Marrakech last month was not, in any way, stressful.

Colourful drinks by the side of a pool featured quite heavily in the proceedings.

But it would be wrong to say I spent all my time in a sedentary position. We did get up and around, from time to time. Since our return, whenever anyone's asked me about Morocco, I've mumbled something along the lines of, "Oh yes, a fascinating country."

Which is partly my way of deflecting attention away from the whole 'lying by a pool, drink in hand, European house music in the middle distance' thing. Because in fairness, that only applied to a small amount of our time over there.

Morocco - or at least the bit we saw - is truly fascinating. Get yourself over there if you don't believe me. (Just not right now; it's Ramadan and the temperature's in the high forties. The people were lovely when we were there last month, they must be somewhat distracted at the moment. I know I'd be.)

It's a terrible cliche, but there was something for everyone. 900-year-old cities, the hustle of the souks, the muezzin's call to prayer drifting in on the afternoon's breeze. I even managed to be vaguely arty with my photos. My memory card was groaning by the time we got back; hopefully I avoided any cheesy 'here I am standing in front of a landmark' ones:

OK, scratch that:

Djemaa al-fna Square. Simultaneously one of the most exhilarating and scary places I've ever been. Snake charmers, story-tellers, chaps with monkeys, beggars and blokes trying to flog knock-off Dr Dre headphones. If you want it, you can get it here. Although you might need a shot afterwards.

It wasn't all hustle and bustle. We went up into the Atlas mountains and visited the Berber people there.

Sitting in the house of a village elder, we watched as he made sweet mint tea with which to greet us, passing the water several times through the pot - a ceremony as old as time itself - before pouring it from on high, a stream of hot sweet liquid into narrow glasses.

The effect was lessened only slightly by the Sony Trinitron TV in the corner of the room, hurriedly covered up with a cloth. The 21st century gets everywhere.

We went out to dinner in the medina, the old Marrakech, in a riad. That's basically a townhouse with a very nice garden in a central courtyard. We sat, watching the sky slowly darken from cobalt blue to inky black. red-clad waiters silently brought course after course. Arabic and African musicians entertained us. It was, without any doubt, a night I'll remember for ever.

Going out to a Harvester doesn't really compare.

Returning to England was a real culture shock. I missed the heat. I missed being woken every morning by the tree full of finches outside our window. I missed walking back to our room at night with the bullfrogs and cicadas providing a chorus. I missed the smile of Ismail, the barman whose idea of a gin cocktail was Lots Of Gin. I missed the Brownian motion that passes for traffic over there (I'm not kidding - we were in the country for one hour before we saw our first dead body on the road).

Morocco? Fascinating country.

Visca el Barça!

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Mon, 27 May 2013 21:57:00 +0000

I have for a very long time thought that to be British was in many ways similar to having won the lottery in life. Don't get me wrong, I'm well aware of other places. I know also that people from elsewhere probably consider their homes as being pretty good, too

I won't disagree. Especially after having spent a few days in Barcelona earlier this month.

I mean, Barcelonians (I am almost certain this is incorrect) have pretty much won the rollover in life, haven't they? You've got the combination of a great climate, cloudless blue skies, a gentle breeze rolling in from the Med.

You have a city that mixes gothic with modern, where you let artists design your buildings. Look at these:

That final one is the Basilica de la Sagrada Familia, which they started building in 1882 and is still underway now. I'm not a particularly church-y person, but it pushed my buttons.

I can imagine town planning meetings in Barcelona must be like:

"I'd like to put this building up. It's a little bit left-of-field."
"Does it have a roof like the back of a giant dragon?"
"Erm...no."
"You're just not trying, sunshine. Come back next week."

If you live in Barcelona you have art galleries, museums and parks on your doorstep. You can get from one side of the city for a few euros. You have the technological quarter, with wide airy boulevards taking you into and out of the centre with ease. You seem to figured out the whole 'living well in a modern environment' thing. You have sensible living areas and spaces to work and live in.

Your local cuisine is like this:

You have a football team that is successful and admired by everyone in Europe. That's something that just doesn't happen, normally.

If you live in Barcelona, you're surrounded by waiters who don't know when to stop when pouring drinks (I accept this might be a tourist thing, but bear with me). This is what passes for two sangrias:

This is not a poster for sensible drinking. We flew black from Barcelona with livers like pickled walnuts.

I'm sure, like any other large city, there are less favourable elements. But in short, if you live in Barcelona, I'm bloody jealous of you. You really have won the lottery of life. I'll be coming back to see you again at some point in the future. And I'd recommend that anyone reading this does so, too.

On the Marrakesh express

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Thu, 02 May 2013 20:42:00 +0000

This is most unlike me. Us. It's most unlike us.

For a number of years, our idea of a holiday has been quite simple and described using these five words: get away from it all.

Quite what It All is, we've never been quite sure. But we aim to distance ourselves from it at least once a year. So our holidays have involved going somewhere quiet, relatively private and lacking in both hussle and bustle. Climate doesn't enter into the equation.

There's a reason why we're not fussy about the weather at our intended destination. I am, by nature, north-west European and don't go in for heat. Warm weather is just so damned un-British. You get all sweaty and unpleasant. You have to worry about what the sun's doing to your pearly white flesh. I have Irish ancestors. We don't worship the sun, we run away from it in fear.

An early holiday with Katie, not long after we got together, saw us spending some time on a beach. And while she went a deep golden brown, I opted for Shade of Lobster and spent a significant proportion of the next fortnight screaming, "Don't touch me!" in a strangulated falsetto.

Which is not what you want to be saying in the early stages of a relationship.

So if, on holiday, I look out of the window to see rain lashing down, I generally say, "Marvellous," out loud, reach for a good book and put some John Martyn on the stereo. I am a man of simple, temperate tastes.

Which is why it's all the more puzzling that we've booked two weeks in Morocco in June.

I've checked and, yes, this is an African country. It's bordering the Sahara desert. We'll be just outside Marrakesh, home of the beguiling Jemaa el-Fnaa, the busiest market square in the continent. A heady mixture of spices, souks, mosques and ancient, history-soaked streets await us. We'll have the Atlas Mountains off in one direction, home of ancient Berber tribes. I will eat quite a lot of lamb dishes.

All of which sounds lovely. But I'm going to melt.

I'm told that everywhere will have air-conditioning. It's a modern country, after all. But you still have to walk from one air-conditioned bit to another air-conditioned bit. And I don't think the ancient souk is going to be quite so well-equipped. Thinking about it, in order to be respectful to the locals, it occurs to me that you need to cover up a little bit. So the Speedos are out of the question, which, on reflection, is probably a good thing.

I've just looked at the temperature for Marrakesh. A couple of hours ago, in the early evening, it was a balmy 26 degrees celsius, or 79 degrees in old money. But with undisguised glee, Katie tells me that she's researched the typical daytime temperature for June. By all accounts, 40 (104 in fahrenheit) is about par for the course.

Seriously. I am going to melt.

The famed Berber storytellers, who gather in the market square at night, are going to have a new tale to tell. About the pale ghost from the north who simply burst into flames one day.

This should be interesting.

Gone solo

noreply@blogger.com (fatboyfat) — Sun, 21 Apr 2013 21:30:00 +0000

There are any number of things that I'm quite good at.

OK. I accept that was a little ambitious. I'll try again.

There are some things I'm quite good at.

Still too much? I'll try again.

There are one or two things I'm quite good at. But there is something new I need to add to the burgeoning 'Not Very Good at This' pile. I would make a lousy hermit.

On the face of it, being a hermit sounds quite reasonable. You get plenty of time to yourself. It's nice and quiet. You don't tend to get people calling you up about PPI reclaiming. In many ways, hermiting has a lot going for it.

Yes, that's a word. Because I said so, alright?

But I'm not cut out to be a hermit. Mainly because I'm not very good spending prolonged time on my own. And as far as I'm aware, you can't be a hermit that goes and mixes with people during working hours. That won't do. That's not hermiting.

My inability at spending time by myself has been brought home to me this weekend. She Who Must Be Obeyed has been away since Friday morning, visiting relatives in Southampton.

(I need to digress here for a second. I mentioned to someone last week that Katie was going to Southampton. "Lovely," they said. "Have you ever been?" I asked. "Well, no, I haven't," they said brightly, "but I've been to Northampton." True story.)

Anyway. My wife will have been out of town for three whole nights before she returns tomorrow. I am in the house on my own. And at first it sounded like it could have been a blast. I could have drunk beer and eaten unhealthy food, for instance. This apparent freedom is only lessened by the fact that we do that when she's here anyway, so no change there, then.

I had a disgustingly long lie-in yesterday morning. But we tend to have long lie-ins at the weekend in any case. I lounged on the sofa for a significant proportion of the day. Again, nothing new there.

But I was beginning to notice the difference. I went hours without speaking. And telling the cat off for bringing in another bumble bee from the garden doesn't count. It's not a particularly memorable conversation; the cat doesn't really go in for snappy comebacks.

I'll tell you this. Our house is scarily quiet when there's just me there. After I'd derided the cat for another insectoid murder, we settled down. Eric scuttled off to his radiator-hammock-bed device, doubtless wondering why the smellier of the two humans he owned was alone. I tried to read a thrilling article on the internet about World War 2 artillery shells. I have no particular interest in the subject, but I thought I should try and do something different. But the silence was overwhelming. Really oppressive, and ever so slightly unnerving.

I went out. I came back in. I find it best to do those two activities in that order. If you try to come in before you go out, you're essentially circling yourself in the hallway of your home. And that way lies madness. I came back in to a silent, forbidding house. I never realised the sound the central heating boiler made when it comes on. When the fridge-freezer kicked in I almost jumped.

Tomorrow evening, Katie will be home. She'll be talking to me about her weekend, and checking the house to see whether I've managed to break anything. There will be Something Wrong that is my fault, and she will remind me of this fact. Whether it is my fault or not, she will, of course, be right.

Good. Because I think my short hermitage is sending me slightly mad.