Blog Of Two Head

I'm Not Even Supposed To Be Here Today! (Part Four)

2009-10-23T09:10:00.001+01:00

Revised and reposted to mark the sale of Redlands News after thirty years in October 2009.

Part One: "I assure you, we are open"

Part Two: "Title dictates behaviour"

Part Three: "Sounds to me somebody needs to visit the gym"

Part Four: "Sorry, we're closed"

Juxtaposition

It has to be said that it wasn't all bad when it came to the customers. Some of them would show signs of genuinely liking me rather than just being nosey and intrusive. Some would overhear a conversation that M and I were having and would go on to start a similar conversation on their next visit to the shop. Often, I would wear a band T-Shirt to work. They always got plenty of attention, whether in the style of "Ooh, The Beatles!" or the more commonly asked "What's a Shed Seven?"

Perhaps my most favourite customer was somebody who wasn't actually a customer at all. He was the guy who delivered our bread each morning, or to give him his full name "R The Bread." This was a man who loved his music. A man who didn't care if his tastes were cool or not. A man who once spent an hour and a half in the shop discussing the lesser known works of Dexys Midnight Runners.

I hope nobody was desperate for a loaf of bread that morning.

I looked forward to his visits every day. Maybe it was because we understood each other due to us both having to get up at an unreasonable hour to deal with crabby customers. Or maybe it was because my boss knew nothing about the music we were talking about and would look at us as if we were speaking in code. And that was on a good day.

My boss would try to join in ("tell me fellas, what do you think of Paul McCartney?") but would ultimately get lost - and we weren't even trying to alienate him. Honest.

He once asked me, "who are these Belle And Sebastian people?" Days later, I overheard him giving my answer in a very authoritative tone to a customer who had asked the same question. After that, I made it my mission to give him false information. That's why many people in Penarth are under the impression that Manic Street Preachers are a Christian-Rock band.

I must have a face that makes me approachable to the criminally-minded (or, as I was often informed, I'm "safe, bra"). Just like Dante in Clerks I was propositioned by two stoner types who said, "you look cool. We should hang out - you wanna get high?" I politely turned them down, although looking back it would have been quite a good method of escaping the world of annoying customers.

Although getting the munchies in a sweet shop could have led to disastrous consequences.

Other local crims would offer me fantastic sounding deals on dodgy Rolex watches and VCRs that they "didn't want anymore." Again, I declined. If they had offered the same deals to my boss, he would have made a citizens arrest, detained them in the stock room and got the community police officer around faster than you could say "Neighbourhood Watch Spokesman."

Catharsis

If it wasn't for the fact that I had two great support units in M and L and could come home every night to play marathon sessions of Resident Evil, I don't know how else I would have released the frustration of dealing with all those annoying incidents and people. In Clerks, Dante and Randal have a huge fight which ends up with them pretty much trashing the entire shop.

I would have loved to do that. The closest I ever came to such an event was the time that M came to meet me wearing a huge backpack (I can't remember the reason behind his fashion choice that day). It had been a particularly annoying morning as my boss had been busy creating a magnificent display of Kinder Eggs ready for Easter.

When it was time to go, I grabbed my coat and signalled to M for us to get out of there. As he turned, his bag caught the edge of the Kinder display.

Time seemed to stand still.

My boss broke the silence with a deafening "Noooooooo!" as two hundred chocolate eggs with a plastic treat inside began rolling towards the door. Trying hard not to laugh, we attempted to rescue them.

The thing is, it's hard to be agile when you've got a giant rucksack on. As M turned in the other direction, he knocked another display unit over and sent hundreds of Polo and Extra Strong mints flying.

Only the Fishermen's Friends survived.

We were struggling by now to contain our hysterical laughter. My boss was struggling to contain his tears of despair.

"Just go!" he cried. "Leave it to me."

The next day, everything was back in order and a sign on the window said;

"PLEASE: NO RUCKSACKS"

Denouement

Eventually, it was time for me to move on. By 1999, I was at university and the hours I worked at the shop meant that it wasn't very practical for me. It wasn't the annoying customers who forced me to quit in the end (although they certainly didn't give me any reason to stay), it was the mad rush to get to work in Penarth at half past four after a three o'clock lecture in Cardiff.

I eventually handed in my notice to my boss during a trip to Bristol to see Yellow Submarine. He had never taken me anywhere before, but somehow I found myself saying yes when he asked if I would like to go to a rare Beatles screening at the Cribbs Causeway cinema.

What can I say? I like to see old films on a big screen. Especially trippy, psychedelic ones.

During the scene when a cartoon Ringo is driving a car up and down some stairs, I turned to my boss and said "oh, by the way, I have to hand in my notice."

He looked mortified. He didn't even enjoy hearing Hey Bulldog in glorious surround sound. To me, no song had ever sounded sweeter. I was free!

He was still sad on the journey home. So sad that he missed the junction for Cardiff and we started heading for Southampton. I was a little scared that he was potentially about to pull off some extravagant kidnap attempt to make me stay, but thankfully he turned the car around and I arrived home at midnight.

My final day in the shop was largely unremarkable. I had anticipated a street party that would be attended by every single annoying customer from over the years. But no - if my boss wouldn't close the shop during a power cut, he wasn't going to close it just because I was leaving.

M came to visit me for old time's sake and L met me from work at the end of my shift. It was a nice feeling to be out of there. I looked forward to having a lie-in. I looked forward to being able to take my time coming home from university. For the first time since I was 14, I could do whatever I liked. It felt good.

Over a decade on, I have fond memories of those days, even some of the annoying customers. My mother worked at the shop until my ex-boss sold the business in October 2009. Whenever I visited from time to time, it was exactly the same as I remembered.

Rucksacks were still frowned upon.

Looking back, the best times I had in that place were the social times. I formed friendships and relationships that outlasted the time that I worked there. A constant supply of cheese & onion Discos was a bonus too. Ultimately, I think that Randal puts it best in Clerks when he says;

"This job would be great if it wasn't for the customers."

THE END

I wasn't even supposed to be there that day...
Working the counter at Redlands News, Penarth. Christmas 1995.
Note the huge pile of Cadbury's Bar Six at the front. I still miss them.

I'm Not Even Supposed To Be Here Today! (Part Three)

2009-10-22T08:25:00.000+01:00

Revised and reposted to mark the sale of Redlands News after thirty years in October 2009.

Part One: "I assure you, we are open"

Part Two: "Title dictates behaviour"

Part Three: "Sounds to me somebody needs to visit the gym"

Paradigm

You need to have some degree of self-confidence when working in a shop. It is a certainty that if you have the slightest of flaws, all customers will not only notice but also point it out to you. In Clerks, a customer enters the Quick Stop and tells Dante that he looks a little out of shape. As more customers come into the shop, Dante's critic ropes them in too - totally damaging his ego.

In my case, I had terrible skin. I must have been some freak of nature because, apart from my face, the rest of my body was perfectly clear. I wouldn't have minded acne in places where I could cover it up and hide away from it. But no, I had to have it all on my face.

Now, I'm sure that you are like me and would not go up to a complete stranger and say "bloody hell, what a horrible looking face you've got!" You might think it, but you understand that it would be insulting to voice those thoughts. However, I had the discomfort of being stared at and commented on by Penarth's massive population of indiscreet, ham-fisted residents. Some would try the sympathetic approach of "Oh, poor you, it must hurt so much" ("not as much as your words", I would think). Others would just blurt it out - "God, shouldn't you go and see someone about that?" As if it wasn't bad enough that I already felt self-conscious without anybody pointing out my blatant imperfections, my ego then had to take an additional battering each time a customer came in. You know, just to rub salt in the wound.

I was never sure whether to take it as a compliment when years later, after my skin had cleared up, customers would come in and say "Oh - are you new here?" Even today, I'll see somebody in the street who used to come in the shop and they'll say "Don't I know you from somewhere?" When I remind them who I am, the response is always the same - "Oh, you used to have terrible skin, didn't you? You poor thing!"

Of course, at 6'3" I am also rather tall. You can see that I had nowhere to hide. I had all the usual comments ("what's the weather like up there?") and they grated just as anything would after five repetitive years. Perhaps the strangest conversation that ever occurred as a result of my height was the one I had with three very posh gentlemen on their way to Glamorgan Golf Club. It went a little something like this:

Golfer: I say old chap, aren't you tall? What are you? 6'2, 6'3?
Me: Yes, I'm 6'3.
Golfer: Bally hell! Are you a golfer?
Me: No, video game golf is my limit.
Golfer: Damn shame, old bean. Damn shame. The chaps were hoping you could make up the numbers!

Whimsy

By now it is clear that in the comparison between Clerks and my life, I was Dante and M was Randal. It is only correct therefore that L was Veronica - Dante's long suffering girlfriend. I started dating L when I was 17. She was a friend of LF and we had got to know each other over a number of boring Saturday afternoons at the shop. It wasn't long before she became a regular VIP guest at Club Redlands News each week.

At first, L would run all the errands that I didn't have time to do. Hence her trips into Cardiff to buy CDs or to track down rare vinyl copies of The Best Of David Essex because I had an obsession with the song Rock On. Soon she decided that it would be more fun to hang out at the shop for hours. She had seen the fun M was having and she wanted a piece of the action. So, our Party Of Three was born.

Maybe it wasn't the best idea to have my porno-obsessed best friend and my curvaceous girlfriend in the same room, but we had fun all the same. If staring at L's arse all afternoon kept M away from the copies of Razzle then so be it. Soon the shop became full of flirting and sexual tension. The customers must have noticed too - one night, as I was locking up the shop with L and M, two little boys looked at the three of us and asked "are you going to go home and shag?" to which M replied "Yes!".

You've never seen two pairs of eyes light up so fast.

And in case you're wondering - yes, L and I are still together.

Quandary

Whilst there were many things that I would have liked to have done to the many annoying customers, I never wished any of them dead. That would have just been bad for business. Dante had to deal with a deceased customer and seeing how he coped, I'm glad I never had to be in the same situation.

I came close to having to telephone the undertaker once (and by that I mean the funeral director, not the American wrestler). A man came into the shop, slightly worse for wear after a long day of drinking in the pub across the road. He bought his things and left. However, it was a wet day. A very wet day. The step outside the shop was soaking. As this man stumbled out of the door, he lost his footing and fell on the pavement. Had he been sober I'm sure that he would have just got back up onto his feet. That would have been too simple though (and not a very interesting story). No, in his drunken stupor the man decided that he was in an episode of Starsky And Hutch. As he hit the pavement, he did a full 360 degree roll. Into the road. As a double decker bus was coming along.

I couldn't look.

I hid my face and waited for the horrible noise that was sure to follow. Miraculously, the bus missed his head by less than an inch. It must have been his lucky day. He lay in the road for a minute. Passers-by just stared in shock. Finally he began moving. He slowly got to his feet, brushed himself down and composed himself. As he crossed the road on his return to the pub, he shouted "your shop is a bloody death trap!"

Lamentation

Actually, he was right in a way. The shop wasn't necessarily a death trap but it was certainly a haven for illness. The thing is, our boss was a little bit tight. If something went wrong he would prefer to try and fix it himself rather than get a professional in. That was the reason why an already flickering fluorescent light began to flicker even more, giving me the most incredible headaches after each shift. In the summer, we had no fans or air conditioning (he didn't see the economic sense) so it was a melt-fest for both me and the chocolate. In the winter, it was freezing because a) he would insist on leaving the door open and b) having been told that fans can have a warming effect in the winter, he finally bought a cooling system which turned the place into a freezer from October to March.

I hope that our customers liked rock solid chocolate.

Perhaps the worst moment was the morning of my 18th birthday. It was bad enough that my boss had made mock-up newspaper billboards saying "COOL AT 18 - GARETH SPEAKS!" and posted them all over the shop and surrounding area. However, it was also the day that we suffered one of the longest power cuts in recent history. Rather than keep the shop closed, I was ordered to light some fifty-year-old oil lamps and sell the newspapers from the pavement outside. Strangely, as my shift ended, the power returned. To this day I'm still not entirely sure that it wasn't just one big birthday wind-up.

Randal asks Dante the same question in Clerks as both M and L asked me: "Why don't you quit?" The thing is, I knew that it could be a lot worse. Compared to other shop workers, I was on easy street. Apart from the many annoyances, I was really getting paid to hang out with my friends and eat as many sweets as I liked (well OK, I helped myself to as many sweets as I liked).

So I stayed there, but not for much longer. Eventually I saw sense. But that's another story...

Part Four: "Sorry, we're closed"

I'm Not Even Supposed To Be Here Today! (Part Two)

2009-10-21T10:57:00.000+01:00

Revised and reposted to mark the sale of Redlands News after thirty years in October 2009.

Part One: "I assure you, we are open"

Part Two: "Title dictates behaviour"

Vagary

For me, one of the best scenes in Clerks was the depiction of the strange behaviour that many customers exhibit when looking around a shop. Until I saw the film, I was under the impression that these antics were exclusive to Redlands News. It was some help (not much, but some) to see that other shop staff have had to put up with these annoying habits. It didn't stop the customers grating on my nerves, but it did help to stop the belief that these people had been sent from Hell to make my life a misery.

In Clerks, we are shown a man who is looking for the perfect pack of eggs. He opens each pack, shakes and examines each egg and smashes any that he does not approve of. Thankfully, Redlands News did not sell eggs so I was spared this sort of behaviour. If we had sold eggs, you can bet that not only would I have been in charge of dealing with the customer, but also with cleaning up the mess afterwards. So I can at least be thankful for that.

One type of customer that I did have to deal with (and also appeared in Clerks) was the Milk Maid. These are the people who are on a constant quest to find the perfect pint of milk. The milk bottles at the front of the fridge are immediately shunned by the customer as they are considered to be too old. The milk on the second row is examined but ultimately refused too. No, these people are not happy until they have taken every single bottle of milk out of the fridge until they are faced with that one magic example of super-dated milk.

Except they're not. That milk will have been delivered on exactly the same day as all the other bottles. If they're lucky, the bottle that the customer finally decides to buy may be, say, ten minutes fresher than the others. But ultimately, there is no difference. And if that wasn't bad enough, they wouldn't even put all the other bottles back, leaving me to do it. And guess what? Half an hour later somebody else would come in and repeat the process all over again.

To make matters worse, my boss had to be awkward. Instead of just using the sell-by date on the milk as a judge of freshness, he used a letter system too. Each day, a sticker with a letter from A to G representing each day of the week was placed on the lid of each milk bottle. At first this system was just for the benefit of staff, but customers sooned realised what the letters meant. This led to conversations such as:

Customer: What day is it?
Me: Saturday.
Customer: No. What DAY is it?
Me: Sat-ur-day.
Customer: No. What LETTER DAY is it?

Half the time I knew what they meant and just did it on purpose to antagonise them. This would leave them standing in the middle of the shop trying to count the letters on their one hand while counting the days on the other. A bit like Joey Tribbiani in that episode of Friends when he invents his method of remembering days ("Monday - One Day, Tuesday - Two Day, Wednesday - Huh, what day? - Thursday - Third Day").

At the end of one particular day, there was only one bottle of milk left. The customer still did the counting and while they were in the process of doing so, another customer came in and bought the milk without a second thought. How I laughed. Why couldn't all customers be that decisive?

The other customer annoyance was the way in which they paid. Some people would come for their cigarettes and pay for them entirely with pennies. Others would come in for a 10p sweet mix and offer a £20 ("I haven't got anything smaller"). However, the most annoying customers were the ones who would simply slam their money down on the counter (even though I would be standing there with my hand out) with not even a "thank you," but would still expect me to put all their goods in a bag for them, give them the change in their hand and still have a jolly smile for them.

So much for treating others as you wish to be treated in return.

Purgation

When faced with people and circumstances such as those described, it is really hard to stay in control. The problem is that customers always think that they're the first to say an (un)funny joke or ask a trivial question. With these people it is best to just give a polite smile or laugh and hope that they go away quickly. It is best not to call them an annoying customer and spit in their face, as Randal does in Clerks, no matter how much your conscience tells you that it is the correct thing to do.

The only time that I did offend a customer was actually quite unintentionally. I was in the stock room getting ready to bring some things through to the shop when I dropped a two litre bottle of apple Tango on my foot. Not only did it hurt, but it also exploded and sprayed me and the stockroom with sticky fizzy pop.

Without thinking, and not actually caring if any customers were in the shop, I let rip with a massive "FUCKING......HELL!" which lasted for about ten seconds and was surely heard on the other side of the Severn Bridge. Once I had calmed down, there was a long silence and I then heard an elderly lady say "I will never come to this shop again. This has highly offended me."

Of course, she was back again the following week when she wanted her new bingo card, but suffice to say I haven't had a drink of apple Tango since.

Speaking of bingo cards, they were often the things that offended customers more than any offensive language or bad attitude. Not just bingo cards either. Free CDs, free scratchcards, Sunday supplements - if they were supposed to get something free and they didn't receive it, that was reason enough for them to never come to the shop again. They wouldn't even ask if we had a replacement (which we usually did). No, they would take their custom elsewhere. One man was so angered because his fishing magazine was missing a free bait box that he actually left town and hasn't been seen since.

It almost makes me feel quite guilty that I took the box home to use as storage for my guitar plectrums. Almost.

Malaise

There is nothing more depressing than working in a shop on a hot Saturday afternoon and seeing all your friends going off to the beach, or the cinema, or anywhere equally exciting. Dante knew this feeling - he was supposed to be playing hockey on the day that his boss roped him in to working. However, he also had a great solution - get all his friends to come to him and play hockey on the roof of the shop.

This was also my solution. Unfortunately, the roof of Redlands News was not flat. This ruled out any kind of sporting activity. Not that any of my friends owned a hockey stick between them. However, it did not stop my film-making friends setting up their equipment on the pavement outside and recording footage of passers-by.

Other friends would come to meet me for school and form a little crowd outside the shop just so they could be amongst the first to read that week's edition of the NME.

During 1997, I was in a band called The Five O'Clock Heroes (not to be confused with the current American band of the same name - we played Beatles, Who, Jam and Small Faces covers. M was our lead singer but couldn't actually sing - so he rapped instead. You are missing out if you haven't heard Yellow Submarine gangsta style).

One day, I was so unhappy because I had to miss a rehearsal that the band came to me and had an impromptu busk outside. That was my signal to hurry up and finish for the day. Our drummer even brought his bongos to give it that real MTV Unplugged feel. It also kept the customers away for a bit which, ultimately, was all that mattered.

Harbinger

"Do you have a toilet in here?" - a question that I always dreaded. My boss had a list of rules pinned to a board that needed to be adhered to even if the world was about to end. These rules were the metaphorical foundations on which Redlands News had been built (the physical foundations were the remains of an old garage).

Most of the rules were tedious things to do with cleaning and shelf stacking. However, the two big ones were:

- Do not let anyone in the side door - not even a delivery - sneak thieves are about!
- Never let anybody use the staff toilet - sneak thieves are about!

I was never entirely sure why he had such paranoia about sneak thieves. In fact, I was never certain of the exact definition of a sneak thief. But then I also never quite understood why he also insisted on spelling Pepsi as "Pepsie," so I let it slide.

It wasn't so much that the rules were a problem, it was more a fact that we were not allowed to tell anybody about them (in true Fight Club / Book Review Club style). His theory was that if you told people they couldn't go out there, they would presume that there was something worth stealing. I'd like to see a sneak thief trying to discreetly get away with a few hundred litres of pop - I had enough trouble with that one bottle.

These rules led to the need for inventing many excuses for why a customer could not use the shop toilet (after all, just saying "no - we do not have a toilet" would not have given them the best impression of the hygiene standards).

Eventually, the preferred excuse was that the shop had plumbing problems. This would be enough to get rid of the customer. I'm not entirely sure what we would have done if that person had come back another day, still in need of relief. I probably would have just passed them a bucket and turned my back - that would be less embarrassing than thinking up another poor excuse.

Maybe our boss had the right idea, though. Dante let a customer use the shop toilet in Clerks and it didn't turn out well at all...

Perspicacity

Perhaps the worst thing about working in a newsagents was the fact that customers seemed to forget that you hadn't actually personally written all the newspapers.

In Clerks, a customer tells Dante and Randal about a newspaper headline which said that the world was going to end. The next day, when the world had not ended, the same newspaper said that Earth had been saved by a "Koala Fish Mutant Bird Thing." As neither of them had read the story, they had no idea what he was talking about.

This happened to me all the time. If a customer didn't understand a word, they would ask me what it meant. If they didn't agree with an editorial opinion, they would verbally attack me. If I hadn't read a tiny one-paragraph story on page forty-two of The Telegraph, they would look at me as if they expected me to go and stand in the corner and wear a Dunce hat.

And that was just the national newspapers. If it was a story in one of the local papers it was even worse. I would be expected not only to know about the story and the person, but also any extra gossip that may have been left out of the article. It was always my dream to be involved in a local scandal - an illicit affair maybe, or LOCAL SHOP ASSISTANT IN SEVEN-IN-A-BED ROMP - but knowing my luck it would have been the one time that they didn't want to talk about the news. Or the Penarth Times wouldn't find it interesting enough.

Typical.

Part Three: "Sounds to me somebody needs to visit the gym"

Part Four: "Sorry, we're closed"

I'm Not Even Supposed To Be Here Today! (Part One)

2009-10-20T15:53:00.000+01:00

Revised and reposted to mark the sale of Redlands News after thirty years in October 2009.

"Just because they serve you doesn't mean they like you"
The tagline of Clerks, Kevin Smith's 1994 feature-length debut, is possibly one of the most accurate statements ever made. Although one of the funniest comedies of the nineties, anybody who has ever worked in a shop, bar or indeed any kind of public service will know that truth is stranger (and funnier) than fiction. Only a man who previously worked in customer service could have made this film. It could be used as a therapy aid. It could also be used as a training aid, not just for staff but for the customers. Above all, it could be my autobiography.

Part One: "I assure you, we are open"
Dante

Dante Hicks is the protagonist in Clerks. Apart from Friends' Chandler Bing, I don't think that I have ever known another fictional character who is more like me. (OK, the guy from Mean Girls who sings Christina Aguilera's Beautiful comes close, but we'll ignore that for now).

Dante works at Quick Stop, a local convenience store that is frequented by all manner of customers. I did the same job from the age of fourteen until I turned twenty. The only difference was that instead of Quick Stop, I worked in a small Penarth establishment by the name of Redlands News.

Clerks begins with Dante getting an early morning phone call. It's supposed to be his day off but his boss needs him to work. Dante is promised that it will only be for the morning, but as the film progresses it becomes clear that he is going to be there for the long haul.

This kind of thing happened to me all the time. I was only supposed to work weekday mornings and Saturday afternoons, but eventually I would end up getting roped in to do the odd Thursday afternoon ("LB has failed her GCSEs, could you cover for her?") or a Sunday morning ("LF just remembered she has to go to church, could you cover for her?") or an entire Saturday ("Oh, I just decided to go to Symonds Yat for the weekend, could you cover for me?"). Of course, I knew that those GCSEs had really been passed and LB was going to get disgracefully drunk, or that LF hadn't suddenly found God - she had a hangover. Symonds Yat was true though. For some reason, my boss loved that place in the mid-nineties. Either way, I could never say no. My ego told me that they couldn't do without me. My common sense told me that I was just the cheapest member of staff.

Whatever the reason, I would find myself having to cancel all my plans and instead spend my day having to wrestle with a set of dodgy shutters on the front of the shop or chase up missing newspapers from the supplier. Just like Dante.

Vilification

One of Dante's first encounters of the day is a representative from Chewley's Chewing Gum. A man who hovers around the counter and confronts all cigarette purchasers with a decayed lung. His aim of course is to make those smokers buy his gum instead of cigarettes. In Clerks, Dante ends up being bombarded by cigarettes as the Chewley's rep has convinced everybody that Dante is the death dealer.

In reality I absolutely hated sales reps. It was always my fantasy to bombard them with their products. Be it Pepsi, cigarettes or Mars bars. I wanted to throw the whole stock at them.

You live by the KitKat, you die by the KitKat.

They were all the same. Pulling up outside in their shiny Mazda, they’d get out, guarding their briefcase with their life and wearing a suit that was clearly the only one that they owned.

Entering the shop, they would look me and the stock up and down.

"Are you the owner or manager?" they would ask.

"Neither" I would reply.

"Is the owner or manager here?"

"No."

Immediately, the perma-grin would disappear from their face. They knew that they would either leave with no sale or would have to come back another day.

Instead of just doing the sensible thing (leaving, never to return), they would still have to make their visit worthwhile. Therefore, I would have to endure comments such as "you know, if you just moved these Double Deckers half a centimetre to the left, you would increase your sales by 500 per cent."

Every time this happened, I always felt an urge to grab the nearest road cone and use it as a megaphone to shout "STOP TELLING ME WHAT TO DO!" However, I did manage to restrain myself. I promised myself that if I ever was the owner of a shop, I would ban all sales representatives.

Better yet, I wouldn't buy a shop in the first place.

Jay And Silent Bob

The two characters who became synonymous with Kevin Smith's later films originally appeared in Clerks. They were two stoners who liked to hang around outside the Quick Stop, talking rubbish to each other (well, Jay did the talking) and shouting comments to passers-by ("Hey, Grizzly Adams!").

Redlands News had more than its fair share of these types. It wasn‘t the teenagers of the town who posed the majority of the problems, though. No, it was a selection of Penarth’s pensioner population. OAPs who really should have known better.

I would arrive at the shop at 7.45am ready for an 8am start. More often than not, the pensioners would be there already. "What time do you call this?" was the phrase that always greeted me. A phrase that I still have nightmares about today. I always politely laughed at them, but this changed from a huge false guffaw in 1994 to a "humph!" by 1999. Yes, it really was that draining.

In addition to this, they would wolf-whistle at anything in a skirt (regardless of whether the female in question was 17 or 70) and yell "what else did you get for Christmas?!" if any driver dared to beep their horn at another car on the busy main road outside the shop.

These old boys were like something out of Last Of The Summer Wine. One of them even looked like Compo, complete with a bobble hat. Plus there was an old woman who could have given Nora Batty a run for her money when it came to her dress sense. Honestly, all they needed was an old tin bath (perhaps on wheels) and you would have thought you were in a constant time warp where it was always half past six on a Sunday night and you had to go and have a bath before the theme tune to Highway started. Yes, that horrible Sunday evening feeling when you knew the weekend was over and you had to go to school the next morning.

I experienced that every day of my teenage years.

Randal

Randal is Dante's good friend. In Clerks, he works in a video store near the Quick Stop. He is pretty much the only person who can help Dante to achieve some level of sanity.

If Dante was just like me, then Randal was just like my friend M. He didn't work in a video store (he actually worked at Asda) but he would come to the shop and hang out for the duration of my shift. He could often be found near the chocolate counter with his copy of the South Wales Echo sprawled all over the Boosts and Walnut Whips. If somebody wanted to purchase either of those delicacies (not very likely - I think I only sold one Whip in a five year period), he would begrudgingly move aside and let them take one.

However, his favourite hobby was to read the porn selection. Unfortunately, with the shop being so small, he couldn't really do this very discreetly. Plus, considering he was such a porno buff, his other problem was that he was very nervous about taking it down from the top shelf. This would lead to a series of events which would play out something like this:

M approaches shelf ===> Customer comes in, M backs off ===> Customer leaves, M returns to shelf ===> M gets a touch on a copy of Fiesta ===> Customer comes in ===> M takes down a copy of Railway Modeller and casually flicks through the pages.

Eventually he would manage to get what he wanted. Not truly appreciating the fact that Redlands News was a shop frequented by men of a more delicate age, able to have a heart attack at a moment's notice, M would then stand in the corner with his copy of Fiesta (or Mayfair, or Club International - the "classier" titles) mumbling to himself. I would be serving some elderly chap with his 12.5 grams of Golden Virginia or a tin of Snuff, while M would be there saying "bloody hell" or "God, they're as big as my head" or "how bendy is she?!"

Thankfully he stopped short at holding up the centrefold and saying "I think you can see her kidneys" but in all other respects he was just like Randal.

Syntax

When he wasn't busy with his porn, M and I would have in-depth discussions that could last for hours. Sometimes we would do impressions of awkward customers who had just been in the shop. Other times the discussion would be about a particularly attractive female customer. But the majority of our debates were about our big mutual interest - films and television. During these conversations, we quickly learnt a valuable lesson - a customer believes that just because you serve them, you also want to include them in your life.

In Clerks, Dante and Randall learn this lesson during a discussion about Star Wars. When trying to decide which is better out of Empire Strikes Back and Return Of The Jedi, a customer who has been eavesdropping decides that he has to join in with the conversation:

Customer: Excuse me, I don't mean to interrupt, but what are you talking about?
Randal: The ending of Return Of The Jedi.
Dante: My friend here is trying to convince me that any independent contractors working on the uncompleted Death Star were innocent victims when it was destroyed by the Rebels.

The scene continues with the customer (who happens to be a contractor) giving an in-depth account of his experiences on real-life building sites and giving advice on what he would do in a similar situation.

In our case, we were having a conversation about The Two Ronnies. We both agreed that Barker and Corbett were very under-rated and that some of their sketches were better than Morecambe and Wise. A customer, only hearing the last few words of the conversation, gave us a most fearsome look.

"You boys need a history lesson!" she said. "The Two Ronnies better than Morecambe and Wise? I have never heard anything so outrageous in my life! My husband was a Morecambe and Wise nut! He would turn in his grave if he could hear you now!"

She then walked out of the shop with her head held high. We never did get the chance to have a more in-depth discussion with her. I suppose we'll never know who was right...

Part Two: "Title dictates behaviour"

Part Three: "Sounds to me somebody needs to visit the gym"

Part Four: "Sorry, we're closed"

The S Files (Part Three)

2009-08-02T08:06:00.014+01:00

Part One
Part Two
A month or so after the disastrous Pool tournament, S decided that the reason it had failed was because "not many people like Pool." He soon came to the conclusion that he couldn't go wrong with a bit of Football. Trying to keep his costs low, S decided that he would organise a Five-A-Side tournament in his home town of Torquay during the Christmas holidays.

The fact that S struggled to organise a Pool competition within a one-mile radius of his Cardiff home should have told him that he might have a bit of a problem trying to organise something a little more long distance. He was not deterred however, and began sending letters and posters to his friends and family back home so that they could organise the event while he continued with his studies.

The one thing that he really wanted was somebody special to open the competition. Even S knew that he wouldn't be able to afford somebody like David Beckham, and when he telephoned Torquay United to ask if they could send somebody over, they unfortunately had to decline because they had a match on the same weekend.

As a last resort, he found himself trying to have a mobile phone conversation with somebody from a look-alikes agency (not, I'm sorry to say, Derek's Doubles) in the pouring rain one December day.

"How much is your David Beckham?" S asked, grimacing as he received the reply.

"How much?! I could get the real one for that price!"

He continued making a face as the agency replied.

"I think you'll find I could" he said.

He then shook his phone for some reason and put it back to his ear.

"I said...I.THINK.YOU'LL.FIND.I.COULD!" he yelled.

"How much for Michael Owen?" he asked, after much head shaking.

"That's more like it!"

He gave me the thumbs up.

"He's what?" he asked, unable to hear the agency. "I didn't hear you. He's a what?"

He covered the mouthpiece and looked at me.

"I can't hear what they're saying. I just want to book Michael Owen!"

He then returned the phone to his ear.

"Could I just book him please? No, no...I'm sure that will be fine." he said, still shaking his head.

S then gave the agency his details and I didn't see him again until after the Christmas holidays.

"How was your tournament?" I asked.

"The competition was good" he replied. "Eight teams signed up."

"That's not bad" I replied, genuinely quite impressed considering what had happened at the Pool tournament.

"The look-alike was a joke though" he moaned. "He was forty if he was a day and must have weighed about twenty stone"

I struggled not to laugh.

"Didn't you say anything to the agency?" I asked.

"I tried to get a refund but they told me that they had warned me when I phoned them."

He then went on to explain that the agency had tried to inform him that Michael Owen was a comedy look-alike. He was nothing more than a middle-aged man in an England shirt who still managed to open S' tournament to rapturous applause.

In his constant quest for female attention, S had developed a rather impressive party piece. It was this that earned him the moniker "Disco S."

Whenever we attended a large public gathering, there would come a point during the event when he would announce "right, I'm ready!" This was the cue for all members of the crowd to create a makeshift gangway down the middle of the room.

S would then walk to the end of the human corridor and take ten paces backwards. He would then begin running. As he reached the line of people, he would drop to his knees and slide the rest of the distance with his arms outstretched. This later became known as "Doing The S."

For those who may be inspired to attempt a similar move themselves, the main rule to bear in mind when Doing The S is to always make sure that the floor is uber-slippery. As S warned us on many an occasion: “Never attempt to Do The S on any sort of carpet surface or you WILL suffer INJURY!"

Soon after leaving university - very soon actually, it was the same day - I lost touch with S. I would see him around Cardiff from time to time and would always have a brief conversation. Usually, however, he was too busy running somewhere to be able to stop.

During my disastrous and ill-advised stint working at the Cardiff branch of Stationery Box (that’s another story), S came in one day to buy three packs of printer paper, a set of yellow highlighter pens and a Pokemon mouse mat. I can only imagine what he was planning, but unfortunately/thankfully he was in a rush, so I was unable to question him further.

Years later, I received a text message from R one Saturday night. The contents were hugely exciting:

You'll never guess who is on Blind Date? S!

At first I thought that he was joking or playing another instalment of The Look-alikes Game. But no, there on the television screen with his trademark blonde hair and dressed in a lemon-print shirt was S. He had finally managed to get himself on television for the first time since his Jim'll Fix It appearance. Fame at last!

Unfortunately, S' answers to his three questions were not quite cheesy enough and he was not picked by the lovely lady that evening. To be honest, it would have been asking a bit too much for his luck to last out quite that long. However, it was a perfect example of what must surely be S' life motto: Almost....But Not Quite There.

Although he had his strange ways and mannerisms, it was impossible not to like S. He was very ambitious and always had a plan, but there was never any arrogance. Well, alright, maybe a little when he Did The S, but it was so impressive that he can be forgiven for that.

Since his television appearance, S has not been seen or heard from since. His Blind Date episode hasn't even been repeated on Challenge (and believe me, I've checked often). I like to picture him dashing around Torquay, sticking up some posters and maybe organising an Olympic-themed party.

Come to think of it, he could be organising London 2012 itself!

Good luck to him!

THE END

I Would Like Mussel Soup

2009-05-20T07:30:00.005+01:00

The 100 Most Influential Television Programmes In My Life

#80: The Benny Hill Show

As an A-Level Media Studies student and later, as a Journalism undergraduate, I quickly became aware that it was almost impossible to offer an incorrect theory when analysing texts. With a bit of confidence and the power of persuasion, I managed to convince my teachers that there were deep hidden meanings in everything from Hi-De-Hi to the Shake N Vac advertisements.

Before long, I was pulling all kinds of nonsense out of thin air, justifying it with lengthy paragraphs consisting of a large dose of bluffing and a side order of accepted media theory. By the time I got to work on the music video for Bohemian Rhapsody, my essays were like a cross between the cryptic clues on 3-2-1 and the impossibly hard Logic Problems that always got left until last in the Christmas Puzzle Compendium.

I once wrote three thousand words on the significant colour of Terry Scott's socks in an episode of Terry & June and received a standing ovation.

Teachers were amazed by my insights and enthralled by my class presentations. But I never believed a word that came out of my mouth. Or indeed, my pen. I was aware that a large amount of supposed subtext was almost certainly accidental and unintentional. I had simply mastered the art of reading anything into everything. Or everything into anything. Either way, it got me into university and my bluffing skills became even more elaborate.

Watching The Best Of Benny Hill recently, I was reminded of one of my favourite sketches. Surprisingly for me (and for Benny), it's not a scene involving large breasts and/or stockings. Instead, it's a brilliantly well-written and extremely well-timed piece that pokes fun at the world of the pretentious critic. It was written twenty years before I sat my A-Level Media Studies exam, and well over a decade has passed since, but I have never seen a better examination of the laughable theories I encountered and, in some cases, invented.

"It's a dog's life":

Television has always been my passion, but if Media Studies taught me anything, it's that the medium should be enjoyed first and analysed later. Much later.

I once knew somebody who refused to watch films with Media students. His enjoyment was ruined by their constant criticism and analysis. I had a similar experience with, of all things, an episode of Neighbours. I never made the mistake of watching it in the Sixth Form common room again.

Benny/Pierre's actions at the end of the sketch say it perfectly. When I'm watching, say, Coronation Street, I don't need to actively appreciate every small detail in each scene. Most of it is processed subconsciously anyway, and I'm usually too busy ogling Katherine Kelly's legs.

These days it's less talking, more watching and a far more enjoyable experience is had by all.

Baggy Trousers

2009-03-05T11:50:00.001Z

It's amazing how an artexed ceiling can get you thinking about your life.

Waiting for L to come to bed last night - don't worry, it's not that kind of blog - one of the swirls above my head reminded me of my A-Level Welsh Oral examiner. I only met the man once, over a decade ago, but the memories soon came flooding back. During the exam, as I sat there chatting away to him, I couldn't help but notice that his flies were undone. Desperately trying to think of a way to let him know in Welsh - my two female classmates were next up, after all - I accidentally stumbled over a basic sentence about the weather. If it wasn't for his bloody trousers, I'm certain I would have achieved that A grade.

Well, once I start thinking about old times, there's no stopping me. Soon I was having vivid memories of my Stanwell school days. It was as if Paul McKenna had entered the room and regressed me. Which is much better than if he had entered the room and undressed me. Some people pay hundreds of pounds for a session like that. Regression, I mean, not undressing. That probably costs more. It depends on the kind of mood Mr. McKenna's in, I suppose.

Anyway, it made me realise that I always intended to get those stories written down and, seeing as I've spilled the beans on nearly ever other aspect of my life, now is as good a time as any to get my school days out in the open.

It's a long story, you may want to prepare a flask of tea and have a family bag of Revels on standby, but hopefully it's one worth hearing.

Let's start with Mrs. H, my favourite teacher. Generally she was a quiet mild-mannered woman, but if you got on her wrong side she'd let you know about it. I only managed it once - and it took six years to do so - and even when she did scream at me, she immediately apologised by tilting her head to one side and saying "oh, G, how could I be annoyed with you?"

I'm that kind of person, you see.

Anyway, Mrs. H was my Welsh teacher from the start of Year Seven until the end of my A-Levels. She was also my Head of Year for most of my time at school. It was in this role that she enjoyed her greatest moment.

I don't know about your old school, but my afternoon assemblies were generally pretty moribund. The usual daily announcements, a bit of singing and - if we were really lucky - a visit from one of those youth theatre groups, a community police officer or PH, the evangelist/artist who spread the word of God with a packet of brush-tipped felt pens and an A3 sketch-pad balanced precariously between two stools.

One particular afternoon, our Headmaster was on a training course and the diabetic R.E. teacher had run off to the canteen for an emergency jam doughnut. With nobody else on hand, Mrs. H was roped in at the last minute to get the job done. She wasn't going to miss out on her chance to shine and gave the performance of a lifetime.

Picture the scene: It's Thursday afternoon, the day before Comic Relief 1993 (the year of the tomato, I believe) and two-hundred teenagers are sat impatiently on a hard wooden floor. Suddenly, Mrs. H comes running down the aisle brandishing a ghetto blaster, a cardboard box and a cassette copy of Michael Jackson's Dangerous album.

"I won't be a minute," she assured us.

She was a bit longer than that, but teachers and school electrical equipment never mix well. Soon enough, she had placed the box down, put the tape in, pressed Play and then returned back up the aisle and out of the assembly hall.

For a few seconds we all sat in confused silence. Then the opening bars of Heal The World began and Mrs. H re-entered the hall, slowly this time, and walked solemnly down to the front. I've never been sure if she misjudged the short distance, or if it was all part of the plan, but for the remaining six minutes of the song she stood silently in front of us, slowly nodding her head in time to the music and sometimes mouthing along to the particularly thought-provoking lyrics.

As the song faded, Mrs. H paused for thought. The moment was tarnished slightly when she forgot to press Stop and Black Or White began to play. She dealt with it professionally though, by tilting her head to one side and saying "oooh, what am I like?!"

Then it was back down to the serious business.

"That was a song by Mr. Michael Jackson, a man who loves Africa," she explained. "If Mr. Jackson was here with you today," she continued, "he would tell you about all the ways in which you can love Africa."

There was a bit of sniggering from the audience, but most of us sat there in the hope that this was all going somewhere.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Jackson is not here with us today..."

Somebody at the back shouted "BOOO!" loudly.

"...yes, yes, it's a shame I know...but the point is, although Mr. Jackson is not here with us today, I am here to paraphrase the things that I am sure he would say."

This was going to be interesting.

"If you were listening carefully to the lyrics of that beautiful song, you will have realised that there are many things, big or small, that we can do to help Africa. Can anybody give me an example?"

No volunteers were forthcoming. Mrs. H offered to play the song again, but one of the other teachers at the back of the hall started tapping their watch furiously.

"Nobody? Well let me show you this..."

At this point, she reached for the box beside her. As she picked it up, a toothbrush and a trial-size tin of Lynx Oriental body spray fell out.

"Oh dear," she cried, tilting her head to one side and desperately trying to stop anything else from spilling out as the deodorant noisily rolled up the aisle.

"In this box, I have many examples of the things that we could send to Africa. Just think, if each of us made up a similar box we could all, as Mr. Jackson so eloquently pointed out, 'heal the world'."

Mrs. H then began talking us through each item: the toothbrush and body spray, a reporter's notebook, a pack of twelve Crayola crayons, a five-piece geometry set, three pairs of socks, a copy of Fast Forward magazine, a Whoopee cushion and a tin of Tesco peaches. It was like the conveyor belt on The Generation Game.

By now, some pupils were turning purple in their attempts to stop themselves laughing. Tears were rolling down some faces and the sound of gasping could be heard from others. But Mrs. H had saved the best for last. Reaching into the box, she triumphantly held up the final item.

"Something that we all take for granted - a sponge!"

The hall erupted in laughter. Mrs. H stared back, confused. To be honest, anything would have made us laugh at that point, but the fact that she had also pronounced it "spon-ge" instead of the usual "spun-ge" was enough to send a couple of hundred teenagers into hysterics.

"Yes, well I hope I've made my point," she said quietly, still confused.

A few people began a slow hand clap. Then a few more, and a few more again. Soon, wild applause filled the room. Some of the more rowdy pupils began whistling and chanting "Mrs. H! Mrs. H! Mrs. H!"

Suddenly, a huge smile lit up her face.

"Oh thank you, thank you so much, diolch yn fawr iawn, in fact!"

She then turned to the ghetto blaster, pressed Rewind and Play at the same time and filled the hall with the ear-piercing screech of cassette tape. She then pressed Play and walked triumphantly out of the hall, accompanied once again by Heal The World. The next day, we were informed that our entire year group had been given an hour's detention for the disrespect shown to Mrs. H. But we didn't care, we were honoured to have been present at the world's best, and most confusing, school assembly.

Mrs. H wasn't the only memorable member of the Welsh department though. Her place in school legend was secured with the infamous assembly and, later, the time when her husband appeared in the Public Opinion section of the South Wales Echo saying that he liked nothing more than "a good hump" (he was discussing speeding restrictions in Cardiff), but she did have an equally memorable colleague.

Mrs. S had originally arrived at the school as a supply teacher. She made her mark on day one.

"'Scuse me, miss!" shouted LP, "I ain't got no pen!"

"What did you say?" screached Mrs. S, like a cross between Eric Cartman from South Park and Skeletor from He-Man.

"I said I ain't got no pen!"

"Damn it, say it properly girl!"

"I. Ain't. Got. No. Pen. Miss" replied LP, sarcastically.

"That's it!" screamed Mrs. S. "I ain't got no pen, I ain't got no book, I ain't got no bag. Well I ain't got no patience with you! Now, GET OUT OF MY CLASSROOM!"

Nobody ever crossed her again.

In 1996, I did my compulsory work experience at school. It's not that I wanted to be a teacher, just that my first two choices were unavailable. The Raymond Revue Bar was deemed unacceptable for a sixteen year old, and Red Dragon FM had already filled their quota of teenage tea-makers. I admitted defeat and stayed at the school. I was placed in the Welsh department under Mrs. S' supervision. On the first day I was so scared, but she turned out to be absolutely lovely and even tried to give me the old black & white television from the staff room as a gift. I politely declined the offer, although I did take the opportunity to catch up on Shortland Street one afternoon. The reception was terrible, but at least I got my fix of New Zealand-based drama.

Years later, long after I had left school, I was on my way to the Glastonbury Festival and bumped into Mrs. S at Cardiff Central station. She was rushing in the opposite direction to catch a different train, but she did briefly say a surprised "hello." In fact, as she hurried off, I'm sure I heard her say "I ain't got no time", but I can't be sure of that...

Imagine if you will, or indeed if you can, a cross between Cassandra from Only Fools And Horses and Fred Elliot from Coronation Street. If you can manage that, you've got a pretty good picture of Mrs. D, my first form tutor and also my French and English teacher. So proud of her Northern heritage, she even spoke French with a Lancashire accent. Her most used expression was "Ou est La Rochelle? I say, Ou est La Rochelle?"

Mrs. D was a great English teacher and really brought books and poetry to life. She was obsessed with the author Danny Abse. I wouldn't say she was an Abse stalker, but she did manage to get him to come to the school to give a chat about his work. At the end of the Question & Answer session - I think I asked him something about his family's law practice, for some reason - Mrs. D took him to one side and said, "here y'are Danny lad, 'ave a drink on me!"

In Year Nine, we were studying a book called Across The Barricades about the troubles in Northern Ireland. Originally, Mrs. D had asked the Irish school librarian, Mrs. LO, to say a few words. Unfortunately, she had an accent more irritating than Nadine from Girls Aloud and was more interested in asking for "silence in the library", or for us to "sit down in the library", or indeed, anything to do with being "in the library."

However, as luck would have it, Mrs. D's husband was from Belfast, so she arranged for him to come in and give a first-hand perspective on the stories in the book. He was a real man's man, a cross between the sailor from the TinTin cartoons and Jim McDonald from Coronation Street. Strange then, that when he arrived at the school gates, she sent one of the boys from the class to meet him with a bouquet of flowers.

Once he got settled into his seat, he began telling a story about his younger years.

"I was sat in the pub, when I heard a huge explosion. I thought a massive fuck-you bomb had come through the window..."

"Patrick!" shouted Mrs. D. "I told you not to use language like that in front of the children!"

"I'm sorry," he replied meekly. "I just got carried away."

It was never quite the same after that, and we were left in no doubt about who wore the trousers in that house.

Mrs. D wasn't the only Northerner at the school. There was Mr. J the woodwork teacher, who looked like one of the Chuckle Brothers. He also had an assistant called Mr. R who looked like Geoff from Byker Grove and was apparently a roadie for The Who in the seventies. However, the cream of the Northern crop was Mr. B, one of the deputy heads.

I didn't have much to do with Mr. B until I reached Sixth Form. In 1997, HTV Wales came to the school to do an unfairly damning report. It caused a huge local fuss, mainly because Mr. B had a bit of a Cook Report moment during the programme and held up a huge piece of white board to hide his face, all the time shouting "who are ya? who are ya?" over and over again.

After the programme was aired, because of my interest in Journalism, I was approached by Mr. B and the Media Studies teacher, to make my own documentary in response to ITV.

Even if I do say so myself, it was a bloody good piece of amateur production. I hired PD as a camera man and we went around the school interviewing teachers and pupils. We called it Dead End Street, inspired by the Kinks song, and it ended with a shot of me outside the school gates saying "dead end street? I don't think so!", just like that bit in The Jam's Smithers-Jones or Macauley Culkin in Home Alone 2: Lost In New York. It never made it to television, but I did earn myself some fans. Most notably, a few girls from a couple of years below who insisted on following me home and trying to force themselves into my house. My mother was having none of it, and I finally realised how Rick Astley must have felt after he released Ain't Too Proud To Beg.

I thought that would be the end of my dealings with Mr. B, but I had one more encounter with him on the night of my eighteenth birthday. A group of us went to the Cefn Mably pub when I finished work at Redlands News - I needed to drown my sorrows after the whole "Cool At 18" debacle. Anyway, it was all high spirited and we got chatting to a local man called J who was originally from South Africa. He looked like Lou Carpenter from Neighbours, but sounded like Du Plessis from Wild At Heart. During the course of the conversation, we told him that we were from the local school.

"Oh man," he shouted. "I've been trying to get my son in that school for years."

With perfect timing, a bunch of teachers from our school came into the pub. They had been playing football and were planning on a quiet drink. Unfortunately, one of my friends muttered something along the lines of "oh no, it's Mr. B."

J didn't miss a trick.

"Hey man, you know these guys?" he asked.

"Yes," said I, "they're our teachers."

Without a moment's hesitation, he marched over to their table.

"Hey guys, my name is J and I have a son. I'd like him to go to your school."

One of the teachers tried to explain that this was not the place to talk about it. J was undeterred and continued to do his best to win their attention. After many awkward minutes, he stood up and started hammering on their table. "I always tell my son about the importance of getting your fucking piece of paper. You guys are going to stop him getting his FUCKING PIECE OF PAPER!"

We decided it was probably a good time to leave. That wasn't the end of it though. Next morning, we were summoned to Mr. B's office and, although he took it all quite well, we were told that it might be a good idea to choose a different pub in future, and to not mix with unpredictable South African men. It's a piece of advice that I've kept on board ever since.

Picture a man with the build of Herman Munster and a frown line on his forehead like Mr. Worry from the Mr. Men. I'd like to introduce to you Mr. P, the Biology teacher. He only taught me for the final six weeks of GCSE Science, but he more than made his impression.

Many teachers use a variety of different methods to keep classes under control. I'm no expert, but I think that a catchy little phrase would surely have to be up there as one of the more practical, and indeed friendly, ways to exert your authority. Mr. P certainly thought so. His three word catchphrase was dropped in casually at first, but as classes became more and more rowdy towards exam time, he had no option but to crack it out at least once a day: "Cut the sillies!"

Hearing that phrase today takes me right back to Mr. P's classroom. For some reason, a lesson on igneous rocks springs to mind, or "Ig-neee-ous" as Mr. P had a habit of saying. AM was being a bit of a disruptive git that morning, even more so than usual. Mr. P walked over to his desk and quietly asked him to desist. AM just looked at Mr. P and squeezed his forehead with two fingers, so as to create a fake frown line. It was really quite effective.

"Now, my boy!" said Mr.P, sternly. He liked calling people "my boy", even if they were girls.

"I like a challenge, and you my boy, are a challenge. Now CUT THE SILLIES!"

It would have been hard to take anybody else seriously, but Mr. P showed that he was a force to be reckoned with that day.

The female equivalent of Mr. P was, coincidentally, Ms. P. She was a tall, slim, stern-looking woman who was a deputy head for most of the week, but did a bit of JP-ing, for want of a better explanation, down at the local magistrate's court on a Friday. Needless to say, she scared me to death.

The first time we met, I made the schoolboy error of calling her "Miss P."

"Go out of the door and come back in, boy!" she boomed. "It's MIZZ, not MISS!"

I never made that mistake again.

At one point, there was a rumour going around that Ms. P had walked in on Mr. H (the non-diabetic R.E. teacher)...how can I put this?...pleasuring himself. Apparently, she took one look at him and shouted, "put it AWAY, Mr. H! PUT. IT. AWAY!"

To this day, I'm not entirely sure how I summoned the courage, but during a school trip to Granada Studios, I asked her if it was true. What can I say? She seemed to soften towards me when I showed off my expert knowledge of the residents of Coronation Street, and I saw an opportunity that couldn't be missed.

"A lady never comments, boy! Never!"

If this was The Bill and I was Sergeant Smithy (and let's just say that L would like that very much), I'd be taking her "no comment" as an admission of guilt. On the day in question though, I took no further action. Mainly because I was distracted by a Reg Holdsworth T-shirt and an ornamental version of Alf's Corner Shop.

Now, this may come as a surprise to you, but I'm no sportsman. Unfortunately, taking P.E. was insisted upon, so I had the pleasure of weekly contact with Mr. S, the games teacher.

A short man, he made up for his lack of height with some lightning speed. There's a scene at the end of The Blues Brothers when the army and a SWAT team are storming the Richard J. Daley Plaza and all you can hear is the sound of them chanting: "Hut, Hut, Hut." Mr S. was a bit like that. Sometimes, if I was in a particularly boring Physics lesson, I would gaze out of the classroom window and watch the action out on the sports field. Mr. S would be there, whizzing around the pitch as fast as his little legs would carry him, almost always wearing a tiny pair of khaki shorts and a T-shirt emblazoned with the slogan "BASKETBALL IS LIFE, THE REST IS JUST DETAILS."

Usually, he'd be shouting out random surnames in that chummy way that only P.E and Drama teachers can get away with: "Pass the ball, Woody!" or "Play it long, Gouldy!" or "For God's sake Lewis, you pecker-head, you're going the wrong way!" One day, as I watched all this going on, a sound came into my head. A cross between the clickety-clack rhythm of an old King George V steam train and the musical skills of Scatman John. Something along the lines of "skiddly bip, skiddly bip, skiddly bip." It was perfect, like Benny Hill on acid. From that moment on, it became Mr. S' personal soundtrack. In my head, at least.

I put up with games lessons for a couple of years, but by the time I was fourteen I'd had enough. Unfortunately, Mr. S was no pushover. I couldn't just go up to him and say, "sir, I've forgotten my kit" because he'd just turn around and say "I don't bloody care, you can play in your pants" or "no problem, you'll be on the skins team this week" (and when you're a chubby young thing, you really don't want to be on the skins team).

There was no way he could make me participate if I had a note though, so every Sunday evening I would go through the medical dictionary that my mother got free with the Today newspaper and choose a random, temporary ailment that could be used as a handy excuse on Monday morning. Of course, it would also have to miraculously clear up by the same afternoon. I'd then get my mother in a good mood - usually just after the big tearful reunion between a woman and her Australian half-brother on Surprise Surprise - and she'd do the honours with her signature.

Toothache, a sprained ankle, pneumonia - I had it all. I think I even got away with period pain once. Mr. S must have known what I was up to - he was probably taking bets on next week's illness in the staff room - but sure enough, he had no choice in the matter and I was permitted to stay in my uniform, carry the balls out on to the field and stand on the touchline, where I usually entertained myself by doing really over-the-top commentaries about the on-field action. Much to his annoyance.

However, Mr. S' finest moment was off the sports field. Three years into my stretch at school, they decided that two high-rise towers and a few dozen Portakabins were not the most inspiring environments for learning. Their solution was to demolish the whole school and start again from scratch. Obviously, this was a big job. So, while they erected the fancy new buildings, we were forced into temporary on-site accomodation.

During this time, our assemblies were held in a youth centre situated on school-owned land. Singing At The Name Of Jesus while the Street Fighter II machines flashed away in the background was quite an experience. Mrs. C had to pump that piano peddle for all she was worth, just to make herself heard over the sound of Ken and Ryu beating each other up. They were characters in the game, I hasten to add, not boys in my year.

Anyway, as winter approached and the sports field became muddier, pupils were starting to make dirty footprints all over the youth centre floor. Soon, the manager began to complain. Usually in cases such as this, a senior member of staff would be called upon to lecture us on the importance of respecting other people's property. It says a lot about Mr. S' standing in the school community that he - a humble P.E. teacher - was chosen to give the speech. To be fair, he did dabble in a bit of Geography teaching whenever one of the department was off sick, but this was a big deal. Mrs. H even gave him an introduction, as if he was a guest on Wogan or something.

So we're all sat cross-legged on the floor, the smell of sweat and wet mud is in the air and there's a sticky mess near the stage area - it's possibly a spilt can of Shandy Bass, but it could be a Top Deck Lager & Lime. Soon, the unmistakable sound is heard from the back entrance - "skiddly bip, skiddly bip, skiddly bip" - but faster this time. Mr. S is a man on a mission. He's even changed his T-shirt. This time, tennis is life and there's a big yellow ball on the back to prove it. Without any fussing around, he gets straight down to business.

"I've received some complaints from SL that some of you boys - not mentioning any names Woody, Gouldy, Lewis you pecker-head - are coming straight to assembly from the field without wiping your bloody feet!"

Mrs. H winced. Swearing was a pet hate and I hadn't seen her look like that since I lent her my copy of The Beautiful South's Miaow containing an uncensored version of Hidden Jukebox. Undeterred, Mr. S continued.

"So, I'm telling you all now, I will not tolerate shitty shoes in this building anymore!"

"Oh! Mr. S!" cried Mrs H, clearly in distress.

"I'm sorry Mrs. H," he replied. "But this has to be said. There will be no more SHITTY SHOES in here from now on!"

"Oh! Please, Mr. S! Nobody wants this!"

"Mrs. H, shitty shoes are a serious matter and I've had enough!"

Mrs. H couldn't take any more. Bringing the assembly to an abrupt end, she escorted Mr. S from the building. He continued mumbling about "shitty shoes", but he was soon drowned out by Mrs. C playing an impromptu, over-zealous version of Onward Christian Soldiers. His speech did the trick though, there were no further dirty protests in the youth centre from that moment on.

Sports-wise, that was the end of my association with the P.E. department. Unless you count pretending to die when Mr. G fired the starting pistol at Sports Day, or when I persuaded PL to do his impression of Mr. K, a student teacher with no sense of humour who marched straight over to us and said, "Oi, fatties, you make fun of me and I'll make fun of you."

It wasn't the end of memorable assemblies, though. Before the new school buildings were officially opened, we had one final session in the youth centre. It was led by Mr. L, one of the deputy heads and a History teacher - a short, chubby man with a lisp who liked nothing more than a good chat. He reminded me of Benny The Ball from Top Cat. On this particular afternoon, he came strolling down to the front of the room with a big grin on his face and an even bigger pair of scissors in his hand.

"Good afternoon, clath" he said.

See, I told you he had a lisp.

"Thith afternoon, I would like to teach you about the importanth of thaying thank you."

Are you following so far? Good.

"Now, everytime I thay thank you, I'm going to cut off a pieth of my tie."

There was a reason for this at the time, but for the life of me I can't remember it at all. But basically, if you don't say thank you, you're likely to end up with a really big tie. Or something like that.

"In Thpain, they thay 'Muchoth Grathiath'" he continued, and snipped an inch off his tie.

"In Waleth, we thay 'Diolch.'"

Off went another inch.

"In Italy, they thay 'Grat-thi"

Soon, he was down to his final inch. It was surely over, wasn't it?

"In Jamaica, they thay...ha,ha,ha....'Grat-thi Mon'"

He stood there looking pleased with himself, wearing nothing more than a knot. Well, a shirt and trousers too, obviously. That would just be wrong, otherwise.

"Tho you thee, make thure you alwayth thay thank you."

Then he walked off, leaving Mrs. L - a large woman who once had a boy suspended because he opened both double doors for her as she came down the corridor - to pick up the pieces of his tie. As she did so, she made a noise not unlike Muttley in Wacky Races. Something along the lines of "shnuffle, muffle, muffle." I got the impression that he did that particular assembly a lot.

Mr. L was typical of the History department. Mr. TH was like a cross between John Major and Mr. Bean, although I suppose there's not a lot of difference between the two really. He made us watch the final series of Blackadder at least once a term and detested the phrase "joy ride" because he had witnessed a car accident near his home and, as he told us on many an occasion, "it's no joy when your head is rolling down the road on a ride of its own." It didn't stop people winding him up by singing Roxette's Joy Ride though. Of course, I never stooped that low. I just found his number in the phone book one Saturday night, rang him up and played Radiohead's Creep down the line. Next History lesson, he took five minutes to complain about the "idiots in the world" who "take pleasure in abusing the luxury of telecommunications."

I sat next to TR in History and we would usually end up making each other laugh by doing impressions of various teachers. Mr. TH noticed our laughter and asked me to read a Siegfried Sassoon war poem out loud as punishment. The piece in question began with the line, "does it matter if you lose a leg?" For some reason, I decided to recite it in my best Mr. P voice. TR couldn't contain his laughter any longer and blurted out a giggle that set the rest of the class off. Mr. TH slammed down his book and shouted "the loss of legs, or indeed any limb, is no laughing matter!"

In an effort to make amends, TR and I offered to help him pack up his classroom when the school was demolished. He accepted our help and sent us off to find "one or two boxes." I take any mission seriously, so we headed off to the local Spar, Post Office and even Redlands News. We must have collected around twenty boxes in total and took great pleasure in stacking them up to the ceiling. Mr. TH entered the classroom, took one look at our work and shouted, "I don't want all these! I want them OUT!" Unfortunately for him, we had a lesson to attend so made a swift exit.

Mrs. LL was much more easy-going. During our first ever History lesson in Year Seven, she introduced herself by saying, "I'm Mrs. LL and I love the Tudor Period because there's lot's of juicy sex - but don't tell Mr. TH I said that!" Bearing in mind that she was in her sixties and a softly-spoken Welsh woman, this candid confession came as a bit of a shock to our eleven-year-old minds.

I regard it as both a blessing and a curse to have come into contact with so many unique personalites at a young age, but I wouldn't have had it any other way. I learnt more about people-watching and life's characters during my time at school than anything else, but had it not been for those valuable lessons, I wonder how else I would have coped with the Eghosas of the world later in life. For that I am grateful, although I'm not sure that's the lasting lesson they wanted me to take away after six years of school.

Reasons To Be Cheerful

2009-03-03T17:25:00.002Z

I know it makes me sound as if I should be in an advert for Werther's Originals, but I don't mind admitting that there are many things about the modern world that annoy me greatly. I could probably fill a thousand blogs with rants about everything from geek chic to Dancing On Ice and the amount of times that Phillip Schofield mentions his Twitter account on This Morning. But what's the point? Sometimes it's too easy to get bogged down and depressed by it all. Instead, I like to remind myself of the good things in life. What better way to do that than with a mixtape, just like Select magazine used to do in the nineties. Except I can't find anywhere that sells C90s anymore, so it'll have to be an iTunes playlist.

Yes, without a hint of sarcasm or general piss-taking - this isn't ITV2 or E4, you know - I am proud to present a collection of songs full of genuine magical musical moments that can never fail to inspire, or at least bring on a big affectionate grin. It's a playlist that I like to call Now...I'm The Grandad. As with all good compilations, it's not available in any shops. But it should be.

Throughout this list I've included the song title, artist, an album that contains the track and a reason for its inclusion. Sometimes though, the lyrics just speak for themselves. Enjoy, and feel free to skip at any time. But I don't think you'll want to.

Wham Rap! (Enjoy What You Do) (Wham!/Fantastic/1983)

"I'm a soul boy/I'm a dole boy"

Junior's Wailing (Live) (Status Quo/Live!/1977)

"Is there anybody out there who wants to rock? Is there anybody out there who wants to roll? And is there anybody out there who wants to BOOGIE?! Tonight - LIVE - from the Apollo - Glasgow. We have the number one rock 'n' roll band in the land. Will you welcome - the magnificent - Status - QUO!" Jackie Lynton introduces the band before Francis Rossi greets the crowd with the most chilled-out "how are you, alright?" ever released on record, then gets straight down to business.

Time For Truth (The Jam/In The City/1977)

"Whatever happened to the great empire?/You bastards have turned it into manure"

Jump (Van Halen/1984/1984)

For many years, it has been impossible for me to watch the video for Jump without thinking that David Lee Roth looks like Steve McDonald from Coronation Street in a wig. This, plus the fact that it's Mark Webster's walk-on music and therefore conjures up memories of the Lakeside Darts, makes it an essential track.

Here I Go Again (Whitesnake/Saints & Sinners/1982)

Similarly, I've never been able to watch the video for this without thinking that David Coverdale looks like Frank Skinner in a wig.

Walls Come Tumbling Down (The Style Council/Our Favourite Shop/1985)

"And dangle jobs like the donkey's carrot"

Steppin' Out (Joe Jackson/Night And Day/1982)
5:15 (The Who/Quadrophenia/1973)

These two tracks go together because I can never hear one without thinking of the other. I used to have terrible insomnia when I was younger. In the days before you could switch on UK Gold at three in the morning and watch an episode of Keeping Up Appearances, I had few choices available to me while waiting for the morning light to arrive. Basically, I could either flick through an issue of Your Sinclair or switch on the radio. Unfortunately, even the radio stations weren't necessarily on a twenty-four service back then, but Radio 1 did at least provide some warm-up music before switching on properly at 5.30am, and this was a definite improvement on listening to Gyles Brandreth's Radio 2 trivia quiz. Amongst others, the songs played were abridged instrumental versions of Steppin' Out and 5:15. Laugh if you like, but I've only recently twigged the significance between the title of the latter and the time of the morning it was played. Ever since, the two songs have an added eerie, middle-of-the-night feel usually only experienced when watching Jeff Goldblum and Michelle Pfeiffer in Into The Night, the Ironside Hallowe'en special or the punk rock episode of Quincy.

Here Comes The Weekend (The Jam/This Is The Modern World/1977)

"If they tell you that you've got two days to live/then don't complain 'cos it's one more than you'd get in Zaire"

Charge (The Divine Comedy/Casanova/1996)

When we started dating, L and I found ourselves having sex to The Divine Comedy's Casanova album. I'm still not entirely sure how it happened, but there was obviously something about Neil Hannon's voice that got us right in the mood. Anyway, to cut a long, embarrassing story very short, the crucial moment arrived just as Neil yelled "Charge!" towards the end of the song and we've never been able to listen to it in quite the same way ever since.

The Girl Is Mine (Michael Jackson & Paul McCartney/Thriller/1982)

For the way in which Paul McCartney casually decides to call Michael Jackson "Mike", in that awkward, matey, thumbs-aloft manner that Macca has made his own over the years. Suddenly, Jackson isn't a pop superstar, he's a plumber from down the road who has just popped round to Paul's to give him a quote on that overflowing toilet cistern and to clear up that little misunderstanding about who'll be shagging the girl they both like. It's my boss at Redlands News all over again - so desperate to be down with the council estate kids that he started calling M "Steve", despite the fact that his name was, well, M.

Water (The Who/Who's Next (Re-Issue)/1971)

"And I'm sure there ain't one of us here who'd say "no" to somebody's daughter"

Good Thing Going (Sid Owen/Good Thing Going (single)/2000)

Sid "Ricky Butcher" Owen's criminally under-rated reggae cover version of Good Thing Going is one of the greatest soap-star-turned-pop-star moments in history. Even better than Stefan Dennis' Don't It Make You Feel Good and Life On The Street by Deuce & Sherrie Hewson put together. When Sid returned to Eastenders last year, there was a scene which involved Ricky telling Tiffany and Whitney that he was good friends with "the boys" from East 17. Seriously, I almost soiled myself at the prospect of him bursting into song and bogling around Albert Square. It never happened though, which was a shame.

Perfect 10 (The Beautiful South/Quench/1998)

"If he's extra large/That's me/Then I'm in charge"

Summer Nights (John Travolta & Olivia Newton-John/Grease OST/1978)

John Travolta's completely exaggerated "OH!" towards the end of this duet is so amazing and inspiring that I once disrupted a twentieth-anniversary screening of Grease by doing it on his behalf before he had the opportunity. The audience just presumed that Cardiff's Capital Odeon had installed a new 3D sound system and cheered loudly. It was a good day.

Rabbit (Chas & Dave/Greatest Hits/2005)

"Rabbit, Rabbit, Yap Yap, Jabber Jabber, Bunny, RABBIT!"

I Believe (Robson & Jerome/Robson & Jerome/1995)

Isn't Robson Green brilliant? He's an extreme fisherman, the king of ITV Christmas specials and has the best middle name ever (Golightly). However, his greatest achievement must surely be the triumphant way he delivers the "or touch a leaf" line in I Believe. It's done with such enthusiasm that you actually believe he's just walked outside and touched a leaf for the first time - "my God, a leaf!" Just don't get him started on new-born babies crying, glowing candles, drops of rain or, indeed, fish - you'll be there all day.

Bully Boy (Shed Seven/A Maximum High/1996)

Particularly the bit on the Shed Seven video compilation Stuffed, when the guy from the Bully Boy video comes running up to the screen shouting, "do you want some? I'm handy!"

The Living Years (Mike & The Mechanics/The Living Years/1988)

A great song made even better by the memory of Rolf Harris bursting into tears on TV-AM because it reminded him of his father. Mike Morris didn't know what to do with himself. It was a moving moment. They don't make songs like that anymore. Or breakfast television.

I Feel Love (Donna Summer/I Remember Yesterday/1977)
Baba O'Riley (The Who/Who's Next/1971)

Regular readers will know that I'm something of a sensitive soul, which may go some way to explaining why these two songs absolutely freak me out. It's something about the frequencies used in the electronic introductions I think, but whatever it is, I'm getting scared just thinking about them. Unfortunately, they're both great songs so it's not as if I can just erase them from my memory. Best follow them up with something impossibly cheerful, I think.

I Could Be So Good For You (Dennis Waterman/I Could Be So Good For You (single)/1980)

Ah, that's better.

Mince Showercap (Part 1) (Idlewild/A Film For The Future (single)/1998)

"Stop! Stop! I've got a recipe for hummus!"

Dyslexic Heart (Paul Westerberg/Singles OST/1992)

Picture the scene: It's 1993, I'm 13 and I've got a crush on an 18-year-old, Eddie Vedder-obsessed redhead. And I love redheads. Knowing that Pearl Jam appeared in the movie Singles and in need of a conversation starter, I marched up to the Penarth branch of Woolworths (R.I.P) and handed over fifteen quid for a just-released VHS copy of the film. It wasn't until I got outside that I realised the movie had a "15" certificate and - ha! - the sales assistant hadn't even asked for ID. Yes sir (or ma'am), I truly felt like a man! It didn't matter that the redhead still wasn't aware of my existence, I just went home and fell in love with the film (and Bridget Fonda) instead.

Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me (George Michael & Elton John/Ladies & Gentlemen: The Best Of George Michael/1998)

"Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Elton John!" Not only a great introduction, it also brings back memories of that episode of The Lookalikes Agency when Ray the Elton John lookalike battled his way through some really thick smoke to get to the stage.

Glamorous (Fergie/The Dutchess/2006)

I don't care if Fergie is actually saying "reminiscing about the days when I had a Mustang," it'll always be "moustache" to me.

You've Lost That Loving Feeling (Live On Pebble Mill At One) (Paul Shane/Unreleased, but recorded off the telly by holding a cassette recorder up to the speaker/1996)

"Baby, BABY!"

Alright (Cast/All Change/1995)

I got a lot of stick for liking Cast back in the day, but say what you like, John Power provided me with some great memories. He nodded at me when they supported The Beautiful South in Huddersfield, for God's sake. Nodded! However, it's Alright that brings back the nostalgia, thanks to a performance of the song at - I think - Glastonbury 1996 when John followed up the line "tell me what we came here for" with a brilliantly timed, heavily scouse-accented and completely deadpan, "Glaston-bury." I always add that little bit in my head whenever I hear it. See also: Rick Witter's ad-libbed grunt whenever Shed Seven did Chasing Rainbows live, or a moan of - possibly - pleasure from Martin Rossitter whenever Gene did Olympian. It's the little things that matter, isn't it?

Haunted By You (Live) (Gene/To See The Lights/1996)

"I feel like a returning football manager with the cup. Thank you."

Be The One (The Ting Tings/We Started Nothing/2008)

For the adorable way in which Katie White says "hey!" halfway through.

You Are My World (The Communards/Communards/1985)

The note that Jimmy Somerville hits, and maintains, towards the end of this song is absolutely incredible. Even by Jimmy's standards, it's amazingly high and long. And yes, I'm still talking about his singing.

You Surround Me (Erasure/Wild!/1989)

From one extreme to the other, Andy Bell's opening lyrics are so unexpectedly deep, it feels like he's trying to penetrate your skull. Play this side by side with The Communards and you'll feel thoroughly violated. In a good way.

Kimbaley (My Ma-Mama Say) (The London Boys/The Twelve Commandments Of Dance/1988)

I was a camp little boy, wasn't I? These days, you only hear African rhythms if you're watching Wild At Heart and Du Plessis has just fallen down a hole. Back in the eighties, The London Boys took those drums and infused them into a Eurodisco beat. I bloody loved that song, and the accompanying, brilliantly-titled album. R.I.P boys.

Margate (Chas & Dave/Greatest Hits/2005)

Apart from the fact that this song always reminds me of Only Fools & Horses and The Jolly Boys Outing, it's got a great bit of harmony in the chorus that is so nostalgic, it makes you want to pack a bucket and spade, hire a bus and head down to Margate. And I've never even been there! That's the power of Chas & Dave.

Deeply Dippy (Right Said Fred/Up/1992)

Notice how I tried to break up the campness with a manly, East End knees-up. It didn't work, did it? I love this song, particularly when the horns kick in and Richard Fairbrass does the "see those legs, man" ad-lib. I'm a sucker for a good ad-lib. That came out wrong, didn't it?

Girl On The Phone (The Jam/Setting Sons/1979)

"She knows where I get my trousers/where I get my socks/my leg measurement and the size of my cock"

Cheaper To Keep Her (The Blues Brothers/Blues Brothers 2000/1998)

I'm no Bobby Davro when it comes to impressions, but L says that when I sing the "if you decide to roam" bit of this song, it's like Dan Aykroyd is in the room. Or Morrissey. Either way, it's a result.

Ask (Live) (The Smiths/Rank/1988)

Speaking of Morrissey, he makes a lot of strange noises throughout the live Rank album. However, it's his introduction to Ask - what can only be described as an orgasmic grunt/yelp - that sits near the top of my personal list of Morrissey moments. It's only rivalled by his reply to a heckler at his Liverpool concert in 1999: "you wouldn't say that to Sir Harry Secombe!"

Dancing In The Street (Mick Jagger & David Bowie/Dancing In The Street (single)/1985)

One of the first singles I ever owned, along with Madonna's True Blue, I thought the video for this was the coolest thing ever made. I was only five, but I could fully appreciate the sight of two men standing back to back outside a deserted warehouse. I always wanted Bowie's white raincoat from the video. I never got it. The same thing happened with the white shoes that Shakin' Stevens wore on the cover on his 1984 Greatest Hits. Looking back, it was probably for the best.

Place Your Hands (Reef/Glow/1997)

Picture the scene: It's 1997, Friday night. I'm drunk on a packed bus from Cardiff to Penarth. In Grangetown, M starts singing Place Your Hands. For the next twenty minutes, I help him out with the "alright, now!" bits. For some reason I do this in a Jamaican accent. When we got off the bus at the Cefn Mably pub, the other passengers applauded. I've never been entirely sure whether this was out of enjoyment or relief, but at least it's better than the time I started taking my shirt off while singing You Sexy Thing after watching The Full Monty.

Informer (Snow/Twelve Inches Of Snow/1993)

"People dem say you come from Jamaica/but me born an' raised in the ghetto/me born in the one in Toronto"

AIDS Warning (Apache Indian/No Reservations/1993)

Seeing Mr. Apache performing this on the back of a jeep during the Apache Goes Indian series was one of the highlights of my teenage years. Certainly, it's up there with K7 performing Come Baby Come on The Word. It was like a cross between that bit in Good Morning Vietnam where Forest Whitaker drives Robin Williams around the town, and Status Quo's video for The Wanderer. Magical.

Mercy (Duffy/Rockferry/2008)

For the high-pitched squeak Duffy emits near the end of the track, which sounds like somebody has come up from behind and surprised her. Like Shaggy said, "it wasn't me."

The Boys Are Back In Town (Thin Lizzy/Jailbreak/1976)

For the way it reminds me of Oasis' Be Here Now tour in 1997 and, therefore, my first proper date with L. When the band walked on accompanied by the Thin Lizzy classic, the entire arena went ballistic. When they played Cigarettes & Alcohol and the crowd started jumping, you knew what Dan Aykroyd was talking about in Blues Brothers 2000 when he said; "you can never equal the rush you get when the band hits that groove." Except Blues Brothers 2000 hadn't been made in 1997. Oh well, you get the point.

Let's Get It On Tonight (MC Momo/Metropolis Street Racer OST/2000)

For a song written solely for inclusion on a video game soundtrack, it's a fine piece of craftsmanship. A Fresh Prince-style rap with the immortal lines; "the only thing that I could think about was expansion" and "that feels good/please continue"

I Wanna Sex You Up (Color Me Badd/CMD/1991)

Picture the scene: It's Christmas Day, I'm 11 and I'm watching Top Of The Pops. As Color Me Badd perform, my mother shouts from the kitchen; "oooh, you like this one! Why don't you perform it for your Auntie D?!" I accidentally stepped on the cat, it jumped up and dug its claws into my thigh, I knocked a cabinet over and nobody said a word during the turkey dinner. Not since I played the theme tune from Highway To Heaven on a Casio keyboard had I achieved such a reaction.

Come On Eileen (Dexys Midnight Runners/Too-Rye-Ay/1982)

How can you not include Dexys in a playlist? This will always remind me of my cousin N's wedding. Picture the scene: It's 1996, Penarth Conservative Club. I'm 16 and getting drunk in front of my mother for the first time. As I enter the gents - without my mother, I hasten to add - I hear my Uncle T responding to somebody's praise of the party: "yeah mate, too true, too FUCKING true!" I'm in so much shock at his candid reply, I ignore Auntie D telling me that she has requested some Quo and start having a conversation about the poetry of William Blake with my cousin T. The increasing tempo at the end of Come On Eileen did not help my state of mind.

Try A Little Tenderness (Otis Redding/Dictionary Of Soul/1966)

For the live version during the Stax-Volt tour of Europe in 1967 which saw Otis Redding return to the stage five times for increasingly energetic encores of this one song. It's worth the price of the DVD alone.

One Step Beyond (Madness/One Step Beyond.../1979)

You haven't lived until you've witnessed Darryl Fitton, Tony O'Shea and Brian "Pecker" Woods doing the nutty boys dance at the end of a darts championship. If I could only see one moving image for the rest of my life, that would be it. Failing that, it would have to be something involving Suranne Jones' breasts. Preferably to a Madness soundtrack. As Paul Weller once said, "yes, I think I would like that."

Carnation (The Jam/The Gift/1982)

For the best bassline that Bruce Foxton has ever played.

Ol' Rag Blues (Status Quo/Back To Back/1983)

Well, I had to finish with the Quo, didn't I? I could probably write an entire blog cataloguing the manly moments in Alan Lancaster's life, but if I had to choose just one, it would be the video for Ol' Rag Blues. Manly Al just looks so happy to be there, surrounded by sweaty men assembling scaffolding and two busty beauties. Wham, Bam, I am a man! And with that said, we've come full circle.

Don't you feel better about the world now?

Darts & Accessories

2008-06-21T14:47:00.007+01:00

Giant malls and department stores are all well and good, but one of my favourite shops will always be Darts World on Caroline Street, Cardiff (also known as Darts & Accessories). Nothing too special about that, you might think. Except for the fact that some of the accessories are nothing whatsoever to do with the grand sport of arrow-flinging.

I was initially introduced to the shop by M. Until that momentous day in 1995, I had always just walked past the shop thinking that it was merely a newsagents that also happened to sell darts-related products. On that fateful day, we were about to cut through Caroline Street on our way to the bus station when M suddenly stopped and sheepishly announced, "I just need to get something."

I followed him into the shop and thought nothing of it. As he walked towards the back of the premises, I stopped to peruse the many types of darting goods that were on offer - inflatable ones, electronic ones, rubber ones. It truly was a remarkable selection. However, as I picked up a set of Red Dragon flights for closer inspection, I noticed that M had walked through a set of saloon doors at the rear of the shop.

Now call me naive, but even though there was a sign saying "Strictly Adults Only" above the doors, I followed him through. I wish that somehow I could have been prepared for what hit me. Instead, I was bombarded by a wave of XXX titles as well as many items which could be used by the reader whilst enjoying the publications. Basically, some of the most hardcore examples of pornography to be found outside of Amsterdam.

Pumps, inflatables, sharp objects - and not a dart or accessory in sight.

Yes, that day I truly became a man.

Perhaps the most surreal aspect of Darts World was the fact that even though the products were kept strictly behind closed doors, you still had to take them through to the main shop if you wanted to buy something. That’s how M found himself in a queue of six people, clutching his copies of Titty Extravaganza and Ball Busters while the people in front of him paid for their crisps, sweets and cigarettes. At the counter, they put his purchases in a brown paper bag - just like the old days.

It is my theory that not one dart or accessory has ever been sold in that shop. I have walked past many times over the years and not once have I ever seen anybody coming out carrying a dart board sized box or examining their latest set of flights.

Perhaps “darts and accessories” is some sort of secret code for hardcore porn that is only known by those truly in the know (a bit like the way Kenneth Williams would refer to "traditional matters" or "Q" in his diaries when discussing his sexuality, or the way that many hairdressers were called Bona Riah in the '60s in reference to polari).

I suppose that it’s really a stroke of genius on the part of the store owner. Caroline Street is famously one of Cardiff's most seedy side streets. It is home to at least two “private” shops and an entire row of take-aways that should only really be frequented when drunk.

However, M would never go into the real sex shops. This was mainly because one of them was situated on the main bus route into The Hayes area of Cardiff and he always feared that his mother would one day go past as he was about to go in. We once drove all the way to Newport just so he could go to their private shop, and even then it took all of the combined energy of me and L to push him through the door. He quite happily shopped at Darts World, though. I suppose I understand his logic. If somebody sees you going in, you're not necessarily on your way to buy porn. And if you're worried that they might be waiting outside for you, you could always buy a dart board and hide your purchases inside.

Ingenious.

The S Files (Part Two)

2008-06-10T10:32:00.009+01:00

Part One

Just before Easter 1999, we were informed by Cardiff University's Cultural Criticism department that we were to take a compulsory field trip to Llancaiach Fawr Manor near Caerphilly. It's a living museum where they re-enact the Civil War period. It wasn't until we had paid our non-refundable fee of £5 that S realised the trip coincided with the wedding of his brother in his home town of Torquay.

Rather than cancel his trip to Llancaiach Fawr, S decided that he would be able to make it back to Devon as long as the field trip ran perfectly to schedule. It also relied on the condition that the coach driver would drop him off at Cardiff Central on the way home, allow him to make his train with ample time to spare.

On the day of the trip, I arrived early at the Humanities building to find S lugging a huge suitcase through the gates of the car park where our coach was waiting.

"I thought if I got here early, I could claim a seat for my suitcase," he explained. "I've got my brother's wedding present inside and it's quite delicate. I don't want it to get damaged."

As he was struggling somewhat, I helped him with his case to the bus. When we got to the door, the driver took one look at S and one look at the case.

"You can't bring that on here son," he said. "It'll have to go in the luggage compartment"

"But there's some delicate content in there!" cried S.

"It's OK son," said the driver. "It'll be a smooth journey."

Reluctantly, S handed over the case and we climbed aboard the bus. There was a loud thud as the driver threw the case into the bottom of the coach.

Once the remaining students were on the bus, we headed off in the direction of Llancaiach Fawr. It was quite a stressful journey, mainly because everybody had to put up with S shouting "my suitcase!" every time the bus went around the slightest of corners. A bit like Piggy from Lord Of The Flies .

As we got closer to our destination, the driver had to navigate a particularly tight turn - rather like the hairpin half way around the Monaco Grand Prix circuit. The panic on S' face was clear for all to see.

"My good man!" yelled S from the back of the bus, sounding like Hyacinth Bucket from Keeping Up Appearances. "Can I just remind you that there is a very delicate object in my suitcase?!"

By this time I was beginning to wonder if I had warped into a scene from the movie Speed. I had visions of S crawling into the luggage compartment in order to diffuse some kind of explosive device that would detonate if the coach tilted beyond a certain angle.

The driver had no such concerns. He simply looked into the rear-view mirror, rolled his eyes and turned on the radio.

When we arrived at the manor, it was suggested to S that he should leave his suitcase on the bus as the same vehicle would be taking us home.

"No, I can't risk it," said S. "If we fall behind schedule, I intend to make my own way back to Cardiff."

The driver looked quite pleased about this. He didn't even try to make S change his mind. He simply climbed into the luggage compartment and the next thing we knew, a suitcase was flying out in S' direction.

We soon found ourselves walking through the grounds of a manor, with actors recreating scenes from 1645 and S dragging along a suitcase with an I Love Torquay sticker on the side.

With each new room that we entered, S looked more and more flustered. He would look anxiously at his watch every thirty seconds or so and did not want to join in with any of the activities, instead choosing to sigh deeply, getting louder each time.

It was unfortunate therefore, when he was chosen by one of the Civil War characters, Mistress Sweet, to demonstrate how comfortable a seventeenth-century bed could be.

"Oh no, no, no...I really can't leave my case," he protested.

"Nonsense! Come on!" instructed Mistress Sweet.

I felt an urge to heckle.

"Come on S! This is the best offer you've had from a woman all year!"

But I managed to restrain myself.

Eventually, S surrendered and climbed upon the bed. He then dragged the suitcase up with both hands and laid it beside him.

When Mistress Sweet climbed onto the bed and started bouncing up and down, I honestly thought that S was going to have a heart attack.

"Please! I'd like to get off now" he whimpered.

Of course, after all that, we had now fallen behind schedule. It was predicted that we would now be arriving in Cardiff an hour later than originally planned. That was the final straw.

"Right, I'm off!" snapped S, as another character from 1645 started showing us around the garden. He walked off and nobody attempted to stop him.

On the way home, we kept our eyes open for any sign of S but he was nowhere to be seen. We tried sending him text messages but he didn't reply. When we called his phone it went straight to voice mail. Back in Cardiff, there was still no sign of S anywhere and it was not until the following Monday that we finally saw that he was alive and well.

When I asked him what had happened, he explained that he had found the nearest bus stop and waited for the first one to come along. Unfortunately, he was unfamiliar with many of the Welsh names listed on the timetable and had to guess which one to catch. As time went by, he realised that he was not going to get back to Cardiff in time.

As it turned out, if he had stayed at Llancaiach Fawr with us, the coach would have dropped him off at the train station with minutes to spare. However, luckily for him he managed to eventually get a bus to Newport and was able to board his train from there.

He got home to Devon in perfect time for his brother's wedding, but we never did get an update on the status of the delicate item or whether his brother appreciated the effort that S had put in to protect it.

Weeks later, S had more than made a name for himself in the Cultural Criticism department. We had been told to bring an item which could be regarded as being post-modern to our final seminar of the year. Nice and vague, then. The majority of us had opted for something small and simple. Indeed, I had taken a brightly coloured vinyl record which went down better than expected with my tutor.

As I approached the main entrance of the Humanities building, I spotted S pacing up and down in the reception area.

"Oh good, I'm glad it's you," he said, as he spotted me trying to skulk around to the side entrance. "Could you help me carry my post-modern item upstairs?"

"Of course," I replied. "Where is it?"

"I had to bring it in a taxi. I unloaded it into the secretary's office."

As we walked into the room, I was greeted by four huge boxes.

"It's my A-Level Art project," he explained. "I recreated a Roy Lichtenstein piece on a grand scale."

We then did our best impression of the Chuckle Brothers as we heaved each individual box up three flights of stairs, chanting "to you, to me" as we went.

When we finally got the last of the boxes into the seminar room, our tutor looked at them with her mouth agape.

"S! You didn't need to go to all this trouble," she cried.

"Well, that's just me!" he replied.

Yes S, that was exactly you. Always going one step further than everyone else. In fact, you were a pretty good example of a post-modern object yourself, with even more surprises to come.

Part Three

Say What You See

2008-06-10T09:47:00.004+01:00

The 100 Most Influential Television Programmes In My Life

#81: Catchphrase

I suppose, in many ways, Catchphrase could be described as a high-tech version of Win, Lose Or Draw. Certainly, whenever a game of Pictionary got a bit boring when I was a youngster, I’d often put on a bad Irish accent and pretend to be Roy Walker.

You know, just to spice things up a little.

Catchphrase used computer graphics and a little character called Mr Chips to cryptically act out well-known phrases (later, when they had run out of sayings, they included film and song titles). Two contestants then had to buzz in with their correct answer and the person with the most points went through to the final. This was called Super Catchphrase - a word search format which required them to move across an alphabet board in a straight line, guessing all the catchphrases behind each letter. I suppose it owed a lot to A Question Of Sport’s Picture Board round or Blockbusters.

The real pleasure in watching Catchphrase came from the contestants. They often took Roy Walker’s advice a little too literally when he said “say what you see!” For example, if Mr Chips was illustrating the phrase “don’t put all your eggs in one basket”, the contestant might buzz in and say “er, man with two baskets, er, sharing out some eggs” to which Roy would reply “Ooooh, that’s good….but not quite right!” (in later series, he developed a very annoying habit of excitedly shouting their answer back to them which implied that they were correct, only to say “you’re wrong” in a deflated tone).

However, there is one episode that earns the show a place in the television vaults.

Words don’t actually do it justice. Just watch this:

I particularly like the way in which the innuendo went straight over the head of the female contestant, Marita. Although having said that, she also had one thousand pounds less than the male contestant so she obviously wasn’t the greatest catchphrase-spotter either.

By the end of the nineties, Roy Walker decided that he would step down as Catchphrase host. He has rarely been seen on television since, bar some appearances on Phoenix Nights and all those talking head shows about classic television (usually just to talk about that clip).

The show was never the same with the new presenter Nick Weir (although he did manage to fall down the stairs at the beginning of his very first episode, breaking his leg in the process. He seemed to confuse Catchphrase with You’ve Been Framed, and ended up presenting the rest of the series on crutches). They tried to revive it again more recently with ex-Blue Peter presenter Mark Curry.

However, it was quite clear that the show had enjoyed its peak a long time ago and I preferred not to spoil my memory of what was a genuinely entertaining programme.

Waistcoat Wednesdays

2008-06-10T09:34:00.004+01:00

The 100 Most Influential Television Programmes In My Life

#82: Win, Lose Or Draw

It must have been fun to be a game show creator in the nineties. It seemed that all you had to do was walk around the board game section of Toys R Us and take your inspiration from the back of the boxes.

During this time, we were treated to the television versions of Cluedo and Trivial Pursuit, amongst others. I was always disappointed that my personal favourite, Game Of Life never made it to the small screen. It was the ultimate end-of-term, bring-your-toys-to-school game. Of course, it was pure propaganda with its ultimate goal of “get married, get a job, have a baby” but I just enjoyed putting little pegs in the back of a plastic car and refused to comply with society’s expectations. Seeing as that’s how I live my real-life, I suppose the game could claim credit as being the foundation of my personality. My life, sponsored by Hasbro.

Anyway, my favourite board-to-screen adaptation was Win, Lose Or Draw, a variation on the rules of Pictionary.

As if thirty minutes of watching people draw dodgy matchstick men wasn’t enough, Win, Lose Or Draw had the added bonus of celebrity participation. Ever wanted to see Michaela Strachan draw a horse? How about Bobby Davro’s pictorial rendition of “never judge a book by its cover,” or Barry McGuigan’s insane attempt to storyboard the complete Godfather trilogy in under sixty seconds? Perhaps Tommy Boyd’s (the Wide Awake Club version, not the Scottish footballer) surprising artistic ability is your turn-on? Win, Lose or Draw was definitely the show for you.

Originally presented by Danny Baker, Win, Lose Or Draw was the perfect way to spend a weekday morning. If you were off sick from school, it was the ultimate pick-me-up. If you were lucky enough to see it during the holidays, it made the sense of freedom even greater. In fact, I reckon Bruce Springsteen had probably just watched a summer marathon of Win, Lose Or Draw episodes just before he wrote Glory Days.

Baker was his usual zany self. He had a fantastic mind for trivia and would take every opportunity to show it off. He would set impromptu questions with the offer of a mug as a prize. He brought in a warning system, complete with yellow sticks if the celebrities dared use their hands instead of a pen. He was determined not to let Win, Lose Or Draw become another Give Us A Clue, and succeeded brilliantly.

It could have been a disaster when Danny Baker decided to quit and a replacement was brought in. However, Bob Mills made the show his own. His humour fitted the show perfectly. He knew that he wasn’t presenting Mastermind or University Challenge and didn’t make any attempt to attract a more upmarket audience. Well, he did wear a waistcoat on a Wednesday, but that’s about it.

After seeing Win, Lose Or Draw, games of Pictionary were never the same again. I even made my own yellow cards to give people warnings if they didn’t play the game properly (this included the unforgivable crime of refusing to call me Danny or Bob during the contest).

And yes, I even wore a waistcoat. A brown suede number that made me look like a young, chubby, short-haired Francis Rossi. If I could have grown a beard, you'd have sworn that John Virgo had just moved in next door. Good times.

Good Morning, Sports Fans

2008-06-09T10:17:00.001+01:00

The 100 Most Influential Television Programmes In My Life

#83: Sky Sports

I love the way Sky Sports try to make everything as attractive and extravagant as their football coverage. I once watched an hour of Ten Pin Bowling followed by an extended session of Carp Fishing. I didn't even have any interest in either event, the coverage was simply so appealing. From the flashy graphics to the hard-rocking opening theme (and the obligatory Poker company sponsorship), I was on the edge of my seat. However, it wasn't the sporting action that kept me engrossed to the end, but the Class A commentaries.

For almost the entire duration of the bowling show, the two commentators discussed the merits of wearing a well-fitting glove. The Finnish competitor was apparently setting a new trend by wearing a black leather glove on his right hand which left his thumb and two fingers exposed. His American opponent, on the other hand (literally - he was left-handed), wore a glove that only left his thumb exposed. Completely ignoring the actual bowling action, the commentators debated at length about the various pros and cons of such attire, before deciding that perhaps the American competitor had the right idea. Unfortunately, they decided this at the exact moment that the Finnish competitor took the lead with his third strike in a row. Thus the debated raged on. The American bowler really opened a can of worms (which is quite a difficult feat when you're wearing a leather glove) by pulling a roll of masking tape out of his bag (disappointingly, the bag was not covered in Wigan Casino patches in true Northern Soul style). He proceeded to tape up his exposed thumb so that he could really get a feel for the ball.

That's what the commentator said anyway. Personally, I had visions of him getting his hand stuck in the ball and going sliding down the lane after it in true Fred Flintstone fashion. Sadly, this didn't happen but his plan worked and he went on to win the game.The commentators were astounded. So astounded that they never did come to a final conclusion about the right kind of glove and just repeatedly discussed how it was a most amazing comeback. I'm sure that kids all over the country were rushing to B&Q for masking tape supplies before their weekend trip to SuperBowl.

The fishing show came across like an extended sketch from The Fast Show, but was the most rivetting thing I've ever seen. Having never been fishing myself, I was amazed at the things they use for bait. It's not just simple maggots anymore. It's peach scented pellets and bouncy little plastic balls and all kinds of fancy kit. I suppose if you get stranded out at sea, or in the middle of a lake, you at least have a tasty supply of fruity snacks and a toy if things get really desperate.

You don't get that kind of entertainment with worms. Unless you're a cat.

It all seemed to work though - I actually saw them catch a 30LB Carp - truly a monster of the lake. It would have made quite the feast with a bag of a chips, but they threw it back in.

Who needs mainstream sport when you can watch that?

I Could Be So Good For You

2008-06-07T10:45:00.002+01:00

The 100 Most Influential Television Programmes In My Life

#84: Minder

In Minder, Dennis Waterman played Terry, a boxer who had done some time in prison. George Cole played Arthur Daley, a used car salesman and importer/exporter who employed Terry as a bodyguard. Together they made up one of the best on-screen partnerships of the '80s and spent almost every episode wheeling and dealing or, in Terry's case, ducking and diving like all good stereotypical East End chaps.

Like many of my favourite programmes, one of the best things about Minder was the theme tune. If a list of the greatest television theme tunes of all time, Minder would be at number one (or possibly number two, behind Grandstand. But hang on, there's the Diff'rent Strokes theme too. I clearly didn't think this through).

As a child, my bedtime was nine o'clock. Unfortunately, this also happened to be the exact time that Minder started. Through my bedroom floor, I would hear the muffled strains of the piano kicking in, followed by some funky bass, a horn section and a nice bit of pub singing. I Could Be So Good For You. Oh, how I loved that song.

Finally, the time came when I was considered old enough to watch Minder. The first time I actually heard the theme tune in all its glory was simply wonderful. I felt like one of those elderly people who get a new hearing aid and walk around saying, "it's amazing! I could hear a pin drop!" I was inspired to learn every word and can still do a good rendition today. But I'll restrain myself for now.

Nothing else particularly happened in the opening sequence. The two characters just walked around a car, glaring menacingly at each other. With a song like that, the producers correctly decided that nothing else was needed (although I did love the motion-stop method later on in the sequence that just screamed early era Only Fools And Horses - clearly, they don't make them like that anymore).

I had previously only seen George Cole in the St. Trinian's films that Channel Four always used to broadcast during holiday afternoons. He played Flash Harry in those movies, a character not unlike Arthur Daley. I was therefore quite confused when I first watched Minder, because I couldn't understand why he wasn't being chased around by a gang of feisty girls in school uniform. However, I soon came to appreciate the comedy of Arthur Daley and it was not long before I was addicted.

My obsession for all things Minder grew even more over the years. Thankfully, there was a lot of merchandise to satisfy me. Firstly, I received the Minder computer game for my ZX Spectrum one Christmas.

In those days, almost every television show had a computer game spin-off (and was usually made by DK Tronics too). To be honest, the Minder game wasn't a patch on something like Bullseye (which used a primitive light gun to fire the darts) or Yogi Bear And The Greed Monster (full use of all seven colours), but it did have two things in its favour.

Firstly, a simply fantastic loading screen. The game, like all Spectrum games, loaded from a cassette tape and usually took around ten minutes to complete the process. Game developers attempted different ways to make the loading process more interesting. Some were more successful than others. Nigel Mansell's Grand Prix, for example, simply put a stopwatch on screen. Minder was way better than that. During the loading sequence, the title gradually turned red until it looked like this:

Then, the second amusement kicked in once the game had fully loaded. A very basic (worse than a mono ringtone) rendition of I Could Be So Good For You. I could have cried.

In fact, I think I did.

Unfortunately, the game itself could not live up to expectation (either that or I was just unable to play it properly) and it was soon retired to the shelf, then later a box under the stairs where it still remains today.

My next piece of merchandise was the Arthur Daley book:

However, there was not enough Dennis Waterman in it for my liking so it was soon placed on top of the cupboard next to my mother's hefty Farmhouse Kitchen tome (although I did re-discover it years later and found that it made highly enjoyable toilet reading).

Of course, no Minder completist's collection was complete without the two 7" singles released by Waterman and Cole. The first (and most famous) was the full vocal mix of I Could Be So Good For You. The second was a Christmas single called What Are We Gonna Get For 'Er Indoors? It was a superbly crafted two-way duet about the difficulties in deciding what to buy for your wife at Christmas. They even performed it on a Christmas special of Top Of The Pops. The lyrics were performed entirely in character too:

Arthur: I've got a lovely furry coat.
I could tell 'er it's mink.
Terry: Nah, she'll suss it's skunk,
'cos it don't half pen and ink.
Arthur: It doesn't
Terry: It does.
Arthur: Who'd know
Terry: I would.

Simply wonderful.

I was mortified when Dennis Waterman quit the show in the early '90s. His replacement, Gary Webster (later of Family Affairs and a film about a group of gamblers who play high-stakes Monopoly with real houses and money), was good enough but not up to the high-standard previously set. Plus, they turned the theme tune into a hard rocking riff. However, the new opening sequence did contain one of my favourite visual jokes - Webster getting distracted by a couple of attractive ladies in short skirts.

That was enough to keep me watching until the show was finally cancelled in 1994.

Baby, BABY!

2008-06-07T10:21:00.005+01:00

The 100 Most Influential Television Programmes In My Life

#85: Pebble Mill At One

Pebble Mill At One was a lunchtime magazine show (named after the Birmingham studios from which it was broadcast) presented by hosts such as Judi Spiers and Ross King. They would interview the latest round of celebrities with a book to plug and would sycophantically tell them how wonderful it was to have them on the show. Pebble Mill (along with '80s era This Morning) was the ultimate in "off-sick-from-school" programming. Nobody really watched it because they wanted to, they watched it just because it was on.

However, in 1996 the face of television was changed forever. Pebble Mill began as normal, Judi Spiers doing her usual brand of Victoria Wood-inspired comedy then settling down into her chair. So far, so moribund. Then she introduced the day's musical guest: Hi-De-Hi's Paul Shane.

Over the years, I have spoken to many people about what followed. Nobody can actually explain why he was the musical guest that day. He didn't have an album to plug (in fact, he was on the show to discuss his forthcoming show Oh! Doctor Beeching) and was not generally famous as a singer (although he had warbled a few golden oldies during his days on the club circuit). Perhaps the musical act for the day had pulled out and Paul over-zealously stepped in? Who knows? What is certain, is that Paul Shane walked down the studio steps accompanied by the opening bars of You've Lost That Loving Feeling.

Things weren't going too badly, all things considered, until the song reached it's high-pitched climax. Unfortunately, the song was a little out of Shane's range and he was clearly beginning to struggle. You could see the panic in his face, but he had already committed himself. What would he do? Soon, we had to wonder no more. He took a deep breath and yelled:

"Baby, BABY!"

Just two little words cemented him into television history for eternity.

Disgracefully, his appearance on the show was once voted one of the 100 Most Embarrassing TV Moments by Channel Four viewers. However, I do not give too much credit to any show presented by Jimmy Carr, so I regard that opinion as void.

No, this was superb and I can only presume that it influenced Peter Kay's Phoenix Nights, as it reminds me of the club singer in that series who forgets the words to his song and instead emits a screech that sounds like the breaking voice of a fourteen-year-old boy. A bit like the time when TK sang Where Is Love during Stanwell's Year Nine Eisteddfod.

Unfortunately, the Pebble Mill studios were demolished in 2005. It is now impossible to visit the site of Paul Shane's infamous performance. The area is to be redeveloped as a science park, although I think they really need to erect a huge statue to Paul Shane so that future generations may admire him and ask "who was that handsome man, mummy?"*

*A bit like that statue of John Bachelor "Friend Of Freedom" in The Hayes in Cardiff. I still don't know who he was, but he certainly makes a great road cone holder for many a drunken student.

You Ain't Seen Me, Right?

2008-06-06T14:26:00.006+01:00

At Redlands News, the exploits of my boss were not just reserved for the members of staff. Many customers were also peeved by the numerous rules that they needed to follow:

- No more than three customers in the shop at once between 8-10am.

- Please do not place greasy fingerprints on the glass.

- Please do not stand on the newspapers.

In addition to this, when he was in charge of the shop (my mother managed it the rest of the time and still does to this day) many customers felt that he had a real "them and us" mentality about him and felt that he was always looking down at them.

They were correct in this assumption.

As with any kind of social unrest, it was eventually decided by a select few customers that action needed to be taken. What they did next left a lasting impression on all those involved.

It was late October, 1998. For a few days I had noticed a small group of youths walking slowly past the shop. Earlier that month, the boss had decided to show off his new found philanthropic side and had installed a five-foot plastic bear outside the shop. This bear had a slot in his head into which coins and notes (and, over time, cigarette packets and chewing gum) could be placed. It was my opinion that these youths were just admiring the new feature with a feeling of awe.

I was incorrect in this assumption.

On the morning of November 1st, 1998 I arrived at work to find my boss sitting on the step near the shop entrance. It is fair to say that he was sobbing. I soon realised that he was sitting in a bear-sized space. I quickly realised what had happened, but he told me anyway.

"Somebody thought it would be a good Hallowe'en prank to steal Bertie!"

(This was the first that I had heard about any name being given to the bear, by the way).

"The worst part of it," he continued "is that they cut the chain that fastened him to the shop and they seem to have used it to carry him away. It was a very expensive chain."

At such times, it is often better to let the grief flow from the victim. I simply stood there, letting him get it all out.

"The one good thing is that I emptied the charitable donations yesterday afternoon."

It soon became clear what had happened. Those youths had not been admiring the bear with a feeling of awe. They were in fact waiting for emptying time, when they could steal it without being accused of taking from the needy. Pranksters with a conscience - the world needs more of them.

I thought nothing more of it, apart from the fact that I thought it was a superbly thought-out heist. It could really have formed the main plot line for any James Bond film. My boss on the other hand, in his typical style, took it as a personal insult and was not going to let them get away with it. Within days, a sign had been put up in the window asking for any information. A large advertisement had also been placed in the Penarth Times that read:

MISSING BEAR

A charity bear has been stolen from Redlands News. No money was inside. Assistance required to secure his return. Modest reward offered.

I was quite amused that there was never any mention of the bear being plastic. I had visions of thousands of Penarthians making sure that all doors and windows were locked at night in case they received a visit from South Wales' answer to Gentle Ben.

I half expected to see a piece dedicated to the theft on ITV's Crimestoppers. I would have willingly participated in a reconstruction of the event. Instead, two weeks went by and no information had come forward. I believed that the matter was closed but things then took quite a sinister turn.

I was sitting alone one cold, dark November evening watching an edition of TOTP2 (this was in the days when it was still good - when they had the Recorded For Recall section and you didn't have to listen to Steve Wright's smug tone all over it). I was enjoying an archive performance of Marc Almond and Gene Pitney's duet of Something's Gotten Hold Of My Heart.

As I read the trivia at the bottom of the screen (apparently Gene got so excited in the recording studio that he decided to take his shirt off and record his vocal topless), I was interrupted by my doorbell.

Not expecting any visitors, I gingerly opened the door to find the same gang of youths from Hallowe'en week standing in a huddle on my step.

"Oh God, they've come to kidnap me now," I thought.

However, I showed no fear.

"Hello," said I.

"Listen. We've come to you because you're one of us" said the ringleader. "We know you're alright. Not like that bloke who owns the shop. We took the bear, but we can't keep it hidden much longer. If you want it back, it's waiting for you down at Cogan playing field."

And off they ran. I was most disappointed that he chose not to follow up his sentence with the words, "you ain't seen me, right?" as he ran away. But perhaps that would have been a little too contrived.

Cogan field is reasonably close to my home. However, there was no way that I was going to walk down there alone on a freezing November night. After all, it could have been a cunning trap.

So I did the next best thing. I got on the phone to my step-father and asked him to drive me there. He may only be 5'7" but he played cricket and table tennis to a county level, so I figured that he would be pretty handy with a bat if we encountered any trouble.

It wasn't that I particularly wanted the bear back, more curiosity. Having said that, the shop had become an even more unbearable place to work since Bertie went AWOL, so maybe I had some incentive to help. Plus it was quite an ego boost that the gang had chosen to make their confession in my presence.

We arrived in Cogan approximately ten minutes later and pulled over in Penarth Leisure Centre's car park. Nobody else was about. We also couldn't see the bear. We decided to take a walk along the footpath and it was then that we found him.

Bertie was at the top of an embankment, lying on his side next to the Cardiff to Barry railway line, with a chain around his neck and one eye missing. He also seemed rather charred, as if he had been included in some of the Guy Fawkes festivities earlier in the month. We climbed up the embankment to his resting place and managed to push him back down the slope.

As he was too heavy to carry, we had to roll him all the way back to the car. I hate to think what anybody would have thought if they had seen us. When we got to the car we realised that, at five feet, Bertie was too big to fit in the boot of my step-father's Rover. One of us came up with the idea of putting the bear on the back seat. Again, because of its height, the bear's head would have been poking out of the sunroof.

Finally it was decided to heave him on to the back seat in some kind of bear recovery position.

Soon after, we were driving back through Penarth with a five-foot plastic bear lying on the back seat of the car, wearing two seat belts and his head hanging out of the right-rear window. We truly felt like heroes. As we turned on the radio, Benny Hill's theme tune began to play. Nothing could have sounded sweeter at that moment.

We let Bertie sleep off the effects of his ordeal on the back seat overnight. The next morning we drove him to the shop to be met with open arms by my boss. I felt like a returning football manager with the cup. What a morning!

Despite the state that Bertie had found himself in, my boss bought a new chain and tightly secured him in his rightful home.

We never did get our "modest reward" but standing there charred with one eye, Bertie actually received more charitable donations than ever before. That's good enough for me.

Angela, She Wrote

2008-06-06T12:55:00.004+01:00

The 100 Most Influential Television Programmes In My Life

#86: Murder, She Wrote

I think Angela Lansbury is fantastic. I can’t put my finger on the exact reason, but I think it’s because she’s the human equivalent of a plate of corned beef hash. All of her performances are comfort food for the soul. Whether it’s her vocal abilities as Mrs Potts in Beauty And The Beast, her portrayal of Alice Garrett in The First Olympics: Athens 1896 or any of her Christmas-related characters (of which there are many - Lansbury really is the queen of the festive period). You can’t watch Angela Lansbury without thinking of afternoons at your grandmother’s house - she’s bought a dozen ring doughnuts and a family-sized custard tart from Ferrari’s bakery and is forcing it all down your throat along with a glass of Corona fizzy orange.

Or was that just another of my unique childhood experiences?

Of course, one of Lansbury’s most famous characters is that of Jessica Fletcher in Murder She Wrote. Nothing says cold-winter-afternoon-curled-up-on-the-sofa-watching-telly-while-it-pisses-down-outside better than this quaint (but great) crime drama series.

Jessica Fletcher was a very lucky woman. A retired English teacher turned crime author, her hometown of Cabot Cove was rife with violent crime. There were enough shady characters and events in that one little place to keep her inspired for the rest of her life. In addition to this, whenever she went on a tour to promote her latest book, crime seemed to follow her. She’d turn up in New York, London or Paris and no sooner would she step off the plane before finding herself mixed up in some sort of sinister plot. Of course, the police would always be puzzled, or on the brink of arresting the wrong person when Jessica would step in to save the day, all within forty-five minutes.

Although the storylines were often similar or a little contrived, they were always well written and acted. As with many detective shows, the pleasure came not from the crime itself but the way in which the culprit was uncovered. Jessica Fletcher is up there with Lt. Columbo in this respect. She has the talent of being able to wrap people around her finger. She gives the impression that she’s just a little old lady who couldn’t possibly understand the ways of the criminal mind. But that’s not the case. She has a powerful imagination and is able to solve crimes that have stumped even the greatest police minds. And that’s why she’s so watchable - she’s an ordinary person doing extraordinary things. She manages to stick two fingers up to the authorities (but without ever having to be so uncouth herself).

On the whole, Lansbury’s ability to play the unlikely hero so well has become her trademark throughout her career. Her characters tend to have a Cinderella quality in that they begin the tale as a lowly maid, but end up having a much bigger importance by the end of the story. Perhaps the best example of this is Mrs ‘Arris Goes To Paris - one of my favourite Christmas movies (I insist on watching it every December along with It’s A Wonderful Life and Jingle All The Way - luckily, Channel Five usually oblige on all three counts). She plays the titular Mrs (H)arris who has had a lifelong dream to own a Dior dress. By the end of the film, she has not only made it to Paris, but hooked up with a Count along the way (played by Omar Sharif - who else?).

Typical Lansbury. It's a modern fairytale.

Blog For Whoever

2008-06-06T11:48:00.008+01:00

It's funny how the most unlikely things can remind you of something else. I was watching the video for Give It To Me by Timbaland (featuring Nelly Furtado & Justin Timberlake) this morning when I suddenly realised how much it reminded me of the clip for Love Wars by The Beautiful South. The way that Timbaland tapped his thigh in time to the rhythm whilst travelling on a tour bus was reminiscent of Dave Stead seemingly playing the drums on Paul Heaton's head (also on a tour bus) in the latter. It's a rare video, but you can see it around two minutes into this documentary (which in turn reminds me that they don't make "doccos" (to quote Professor Tulloch) like they used to - if you get hooked, you can also watch part one and part three).

Anyway, as I sat there with a weird mental image of a Timbaland/Dave Hemingway hybrid flashing through my brain (they both nod their head in a very similar manner), it made me realise how much I miss the band. Like a child who suddenly acknowledges that his dog is dead and they'll never play "catch the stick" together again, it dawned on me that The Beautiful South are no more.

Growing up, the band were my second favourite musical obsession (after Quo, of course). I was a fan from the moment that I heard Song For Whoever on the Smash Hits Party '89 double-cassette compilation. However, it wasn't until 1994 and the release of Good As Gold (Stupid As Mud) from the Miaow album that I truly became a completist. Any band who can ride bicycles up a hill accompanied by an elephant (and still carry on singing) is fine by me.

I just missed them on their tiny '94 tour that called at Newport Centre (something I still regret to this day), but I played Miaow constantly and it is still one of my favourite albums. It was the first CD I ever owned that contained swearing ("we'll fuck them off over there" in Hidden Jukebox) and I truly felt as if I was growing up. Such small pleasures.

Within weeks, I had written off to the address on the packaging with a request for more information. I almost collapsed when I received a hand-written postcard from bass player Sean Welch thanking me for my support. We subsequently exchanged further letters, and he even sorted me out with a signed picture (which still has pride of place in a frame next to a signed Girls Aloud calendar) and a "Northern Scum" T-Shirt (which my mother would never allow me to wear in public "in case it offended somebody").

Like Jim Davidson and his Emerson, Lake & Palmer obsession, I wouldn't shut up about The Beautiful South. As with my love of Quo, I was mocked mercilessly by school friends who didn't see the fascination. But I didn't care, I knew that I was on to something good (and even managed to have the last laugh when those same people were singing along to Rotterdam in the sixth form common room years later).

Over time, I collected the band's previous albums in reverse order. I remember tracking down 0898 on a day trip to York and spent the entire journey home listening to it repeatedly on a Walkman. Choke was picked up in an HMV sale and LP gave me her mother's copy of Welcome To The Beautiful South in return for a ticket to see them at the Cardiff Arena in 1995 (but then we had a huge falling-out over something stupid and M ended up coming with me instead - he was the only other person who shared my passion for the band).

It seemed that we were jinxed whenever we went to see them in concert though. The first time was spoilt by sound problems (support band The Lightning Seeds had to leave the stage after two songs) plus there was a bomb scare in the encore. I was never entirely sure why anybody would choose to terrorise a Beautiful South gig in Cardiff, but there you go. I was particularly annoyed because it meant that they couldn't play Woman In The Wall, my favourite song, but I suppose it's acceptable given the circumstances. Eighteen months later, the band returned to Cardiff but this time without Jacqueline Abbott (who I had a major crush on at the time) who was feeling unwell. But at least they played Woman In The Wall.

Then it happened. The sort of thing you hope for when you're a fan of a small band, but at the same time feel resentment when it does. Carry On Up The Charts: The Greatest Hits was released and The Beautiful South were suddenly huge. Clearly a lot of people were closet fans, because the ones who mocked me at school were now sharing my obsession and finally, for once, I was a fan of a "cool" band. Of course, this meant that I had to go one better than everybody else. When The Beautiful South announced two huge summer stadium concerts in 1997, I travelled all the way to Huddersfield with M to see them headline at the McAlpine Stadium. Not only that, but we queued outside the venue from 6am on a Saturday morning to ensure that we were down at the front.

This time there were no problems. Not only did The Beautiful South put on an impeccable show, I also got to see Teenage Fanclub and a whole host of other bands. John Power from Cast waved at me, Bridget from Angelica smiled in my direction (or it could have been a grimace) and The Lightning Seeds (with backing vocals from the 25,000-strong crowd) did a rare performance of Three Lions (at a time when it hadn't been milked to death). It didn't get much better than that...at least I didn't think so.

In 1999, The Beautiful South were still big enough appear second on the bill beneath REM at the Glastonbury Festival. It was here that M, L and myself saw one of their best ever performances. The timing was perfect - the sun was setting, we were relaxing at the back of the main field (just next to that famous solitary tree), the band did a greatest hits setlist and we sang along to every word.

Maybe it's because they could never top that, but I never felt the same level of passion for The Beautiful South after that night. Yes, I admit it. I neglected them towards the end of their life. I bought all the albums, of course, but I never gave them the same level of attention as I had in the past. I stopped going to see them live and I would listen to new albums once or twice before putting them on the shelf. I suppose you could say that I took them for granted. I had the attitude that they would always be around and I could get back into them later. I didn't take much notice when they announced their split last year, but it has now hit me that a great band has been lost. A group who never really cared if they were cool or not and seemed more like a group of friends having fun than a professional musical outfit. But maybe that's what made them so good.

Thankfully I have my memories - and a great soundtrack to accompany them.

Roll The Dice!

2008-06-05T11:11:00.011+01:00

As an undergraduate student I was a lot like Garfield the cat. I ate a lot of junk food and always dreaded Mondays - the day of the most boring lecture ever written: Symbology In Media. This lecture consisted of us watching numerous episodes of long forgotten 80's Australian soap A Country Practice, listening to Professor Tulloch's bell theory and watching Eghosa writing copious notes at the front of the theatre.

To numb the boredom pains, my friend R and I created numerous little games at the back of the class. They started off on a low-key basis (making subtle changes to television programme titles to create Eghosa-style errors; Westenders, Carnation Street, Home & Further Away), grew in popularity (combining an item of food with an item of clothing to create amusing combinations like Beef Tracksuit. These would leave us breathless with stifled laughter, tears rolling down our faces until we could let it all out at the end of the lecture) and eventually left a lasting legacy.

Our final game was so big that it had to be played during the days between lectures with the results being announced (and laughed at) the following week: Book Review Club.

This game had many rules. The first rule was, of course, that you didn't talk about Book Review Club. It was 1999, we were students, Fight Club had just been released. What else would you expect?

The rules then went on to state that the participant(s) must:

-Think of the most unlikely celebrity.

-Go to the Amazon website and find either a biography or a book based on the chosen star.

-Write a review in formal style but with many subtle, intentional inaccuracies and comedy references.

- End the review with the words "Roll The Dice" or "Best Of Order Please." Don't ask me why, it was R‘s idea.

- Get as many "this review was helpful" stars as possible.

Every week, lectures were spent thinking of the chosen celebrity for the following seven days. Within six months, we had built up quite a portfolio of celebrity reviews. It was such fun that R’s brother LH even started playing the game.

Nine years later, those reviews are still on the Amazon site and are accumulating helpful votes from the biography-loving population.

Tom O'Connor

The famed presenter of ITV's Cross Wits. He used to be a teacher, you know...

Des O'Connor

No relation to Tom - just a happy coincidence. However, if you will call your autobiography Bananas Can't Fly! you're asking for trouble. LH's is the review at the top of the page.

Jimmy Hill

Famous for his chin. And a bit of football apparently.

Uri Gellar

Concentrate! I'm not sure who wrote this - it wasn't me - but it's the one that begins with "Johnathon Margolis" and ends with the brilliant "this is even more convincing than the book Uri wrote about himself."

Eric Hall

Eric Hall is a sport agent with a very outgoing personality. His catchphrase is "Monster!"

Greg Martin

Greg Martin is the son of Beatles producer George Martin. He's quite the playboy. Unfortunately, somebody called Juan has since added a review, although I have a very strong suspicion that he was inspired by our Book Review Club style.

Michael Crawford

There are quite a few genuine reviews here too. However, LH's is the one that refers to Mr Crawford as the British Sammy Davis Jr.

Ronan Keating

One of LH's later efforts. He constantly refers to Roland Keatings.

Peter Stringfellow

Ah, Peter Stringfellow - King Of Clubs. Again, a couple of people have posted reviews since (and they actually enjoyed the book). My review contains one of my favourite pieces of criticism: "I received the book as a gift after gaining a place at university, as somebody thought that it would be useful for my degree." Scathing words indeed.

Lenny Henry

Arooga, Arooga! Oh no, that's John Fashanu.

Angela Lansbury

Good old Angela Lansbury. Mrs. 'Arris Goes To Paris was one of my favourite films when I was younger. I therefore had plenty of ammunition for this one. However, I think R has to take first prize with his introduction: "I was guided to this biography by a fellow fan who goes to the same church as me."

Joan Sims

Ah, Joan Sims. The star of so many Carry Ons and the video for Morrissey's Ouija Board, Ouija Board.

Bob Monkhouse

Bob Monkhouse is genuinely one of my all-time comedy heroes. That didn't make him immune though. R seemed to have a bit of theme running through his review: "If worshipping Bobby Monkhouse was a religion than this text would be the bible" and "Three Hail Mary's and a read of Crying With Laughter later, I am truly a convert to the church of Monkhouse."

Bruce Forsyth

Brucie wasn't safe either! His career was in a bit of a trough when these reviews were written, so a few serious reviewers have come along since his Strictly Come Dancing comeback. Just scroll to the bottom of the page.

Jeremy Beadle

This is the only book from the above list that I have actually read. I found it for 50p in The Works and thought it would pass an hour. It is very similar to Alan Partridge's Bouncing Back in that nearly every anecdote ends with the phrases "needless to say, I had the last laugh" or "needless to say, they were one of the nicest people I ever met." For some reason, only my review survives (the other one is genuine) - it wasn't even particularly funny. Not even Beadle's untimely death earlier this year could bring in the reviewers, so I'm guessing that my copy has not yet risen in value.

Jim Davidson

"It's only a game so put up a real good fight" sang Captain Sensible in the theme tune to Big Break. I hope Jim had his boxing gloves on (or at least a snooker cue) because these are three of our best reviews. "Too many people get hung up on political correctness, but if you ask any of the boys down at my local Social Club who they would rather see out of Jim Davidson and Alan Davies, you will hear a resounding chorus of JIM! JIM! JIM!"

An attempt to revive Book Review Club was made in 2006. Unfortunately, Amazon have tightened up their admissions policy since the late nineties and only LH's critique of Eamonn Holmes made it through the net. However, it's a fitting end (and tribute) to a game that did a lot to brighten up cold, dark Monday mornings a decade ago.

Picturesque Matchstickable Album Covers

2008-06-05T10:32:00.008+01:00

The artwork for last year's Status Quo album - In Search Of The Fourth Chord - inspired me to compile a list of - in my opinion - the greatest Quo album covers of all-time. They all have something in their favour of course, so I had a tough job. However, after digesting, deliberating and cogitating the evidence (as Loyd Grosman used to say on Masterchef), I came up with the final ten (and a couple of leftovers). Here they are in chronological order:

Picturesque Matchstickable Messages From The Status Quo (1968)

This is where it all began. Let's face it, there's no better way to signal your arrival onto the music scene than by sitting on top of a giant pile of Swan matches. We've also got a rare appearance from Roy Lynes before he got off the train at Crewe and never returned, plus John Coghlan in the first of a long series of photoshoots where he looks thoroughly pissed off. As if that wasn't enough, Francis Rossi is wearing the brightest pair of red trousers I've ever seen and there's an opportunity to see Baby Alan Lancaster - the hard rock sound hadn't arrived yet, so he couldn't possibly call himself manly at this point. As an added bonus, there's a black and white photograph on the reverse that looks like it was taken in Victorian times (Rossi's moustache makes him look like some sort of railroad tycoon) and Ronnie Scott even lends a hand by speculating that "this will be the first in a long line of international hits for The Status Quo." He must have been basing his (absolutely correct) opinion on this spectacular piece of artwork because Paradise Flat was never going to take the world by storm. It's way too creepy for starters.

Ma Kelly's Greasy Spoon (1970)

Now you're talking. The arrival of the classic Quo sound is signalled by an old woman sitting at a desk and smoking a fag. She obviously attended the John Coghlan school of modelling because she looks thoroughly pissed off. But then she's got every right to be, I suppose. This was Britain in 1970. The Beatles had just split up and Quo's second album Spare Parts had been a flop. Plus her cup of tea had gone cold because the photographer was obsessed with getting the lighting just right. Cheer up love! This album's got Shy Fly and (April) Spring, Summer And Wednesdays on it - Alan Lancaster can finally face his family!

Dog Of Two Head (1971)

Any album that begins with a masterpiece like Umleitung needs to have a special cover. This more than lives up to it. It's a bulldog with two heads (with a painting of Windsor Castle in the background). Could Quo BE any more British? You'd be correct in thinking that this is the reason I'm now scared of dogs, although I do like the way that all four members of the band seem to be heading in the dog's direction like some sort of four-pronged meteor attack. I believe that the drug-taking may have begun by this point.

Piledriver (1972)

Genuinely one of the greatest rock album covers of all time. Quo had found their style and had a pose to go with it - side by side, legs apart, heads down, it really doesn't get better than that. Actually it does. Turn the gatefold over and you're faced with a picture of a gorilla sitting on a rocket. A gorilla on a rocket?! Nothing says hard rock better than that (except the fantastic solo from Big Fat Mama).

Quo (1974)

"Help me, mother!" I cried, as I studied this album cover on the way home from a record fair. "Alan Lancaster's head is growing out of a tree!" She offered little comfort and I was traumatised for life. Even now, I'm still creeped out by the way that the roots spell "Quo." I take some solace from the fact that Rick and Francis don't look too convinced and, in comparison to previous shoots, Coghlan is positively grinning. It's a blinder of an album though, kicking off with Backwater and ending with Slow Train - just a shame it lasts little more than half an hour.

On The Level (1975)

It might not be very manly for me to say so (sorry Alan), but Francis Rossi's hair has never looked better. Who would have thought that it would all fall out within thirty years while Rick stands by saying "haha, I've still got my curly blonde locks and I've had quadruple heart bypass surgery!" I always wanted hair like Francis when I was a teenager. Unfortunately, when I tried to grow it, I ended up looking more like Ruth Madoc from Hi-De-Hi. I can laugh about it now but at the time it was terrible. Anyway, this is probably just my favourite Status Quo album. It's got all the classics - Down Down, Little Lady, Bye Bye Johnny - plus a football crowd singing You'll Never Walk Alone in the run-out groove. No wonder John Coghlan is looking a bit awkward - he obviously knew that it would be a tough act to follow. But more importantly, what is Alan Lancaster hiding in his clasped hands?!

Live! (1977)

"Is there anybody out there who wants to rock?!" shouts the MC. "Is there anybody out there who wants to roll?" he repeats. "Is there anybody out there who wants to BOOGIE?" he yells. That's all well and good (the answer is "yes" to all three, by the way) but I've got some questions: "Is there anybody out there who wants to see John Coghlan wearing some kind of tooth around his neck (and looking pissed off) on the inner sleeve?", "Is there anybody out there who wants to see Alan Lancaster (gasp) smiling?!" and finally "Is there anybody out there who wants an album where the sleeve is half live footage, half photoshoot and you can't actually tell what the bloody thing is called?!" All those questions were asked at the actual show, but they had to edit them out in order to fit a fourteen minute version of Roadhouse Blues onto side two. It's a great concert though, especially when Rossi starts mumbling something about the balcony starting to collapse - I do hope everybody made it home safely.

Rockin' All Over The World (1977)

By this point, Quo are such hard rockers that they've caused an earthquake which reverberates around the world. Honestly, this cover has the proof. According to the readout at the bottom of the picture, Quo measured 7.5 on the Richter Scale. That's nearly twice as strong as the tremor that hit Kent last year. That's what happens when Lancaster starts pounding away at You Don't Own Me. It's not global warming causing the world's freak weather - it's Quo! I've heard that the government are trying to force everybody to offset their Quo emissions. Every time you play Rockin' All Over The World, you have to cancel it out with James Blunt. Hmm, I think I'd rather take my chances.

If You Can't Stand The Heat (1978)

Do you see what they've done? They've taken the well known phrase "if you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen" and turned an electric hob into a long playing record! Ingenious! Plus, when you open the gatefold, it looks like a giant book of matches! Wowzers.

Under The Influence (1999)

Fast forward twenty years and the Quo have settled into middle age in the time-honoured tradition - they've opened a pub. At least, that's what this album cover implies. "I'm just popping down the Under The Influence for a swift half, love - don't wait up, they've got Jeff Rich on bar duty and he insists on doing a ten minute drum solo between each customer!"

Almost But Not Quite There

A selection of Quo album covers that didn't quite make the cut:

Blue For You (1975)

Talk about taking things literally. You need to look at this through filtered glasses to stop yourself going blue-blind. All four members of the Quo are dressed head to toe in denim. I think they may have been sponsoring a well-known jeans company by this point.

Famous In The Last Century (2000)

Or, Quo attempt a tribute to the Sgt. Pepper cover but give up halfway through. Still, you have to applaud the effort - there's Elvis, Groucho Marx, John Lennon, Marilyn Monroe and Her Majesty The Queen (but we all know that she prefers The Who). You'll notice Rick laughing and pointing at somebody down below - that's the same reaction that LH's father received when he attempted to buy the cassette version of this album at his local Asda. Kids today, eh?

Heavy Traffic (2002)

What the hell is going on here?! Quo being chased down a London street by an elephant that is bigger than any of the buildings?! No wonder Rick had a heart attack! It's good to see that Rossi's waistcoat remains in pristine condition throughout though, but I'm a little worried that John "Rhino" Edwards is about to trip over some police tape and (surely not) Andy Bown is about to get squished like a bug. Who's going to play the intro to Rockin' All Over The World now?! They clearly didn't think this through. One of the better albums in recent years though. They say that fear inspires you and there's surely no greater example than a thirty-foot elephant.

XS All Areas - Greatest Hits (2004)

There aren't many album covers where one guitarist looks constipated and the other looks like the scary mask from the Scream movies, but Francis and Rick pull it off in style. Yes, Quo have still got it in abundance.

One Word Or Two?

2008-06-05T09:01:00.007+01:00

The 100 Most Influential Television Programmes In My Life

#87: Give Us A Clue

More than any other television programme, Give Us A Clue is the ultimate reminder of my early teens. I can't hear the theme tune (especially the "Michael Parkinson....Liza Goddard......and Lionel Blair!" bit) without it feeling like half past three on a Monday afternoon. I would get home from school, turn on the television and be greeted by the cheery faces of the above-mentioned celebrities.

So, what's it all about? Simple really. The producers took one of the most famous post-dinner party activities (charades) and turned it into a light-hearted panel game.

Yes, if you've ever wondered what Barbara Windsor did between the Carry On... films and Eastenders, she was usually treading the boards of the Give Us A Clue studio. Of course, it's easy to mock and say that the show was filled with has-beens, but the opening sequence would often inspire a generous helping of questions from the viewer at home - was that Kenneth Williams desperately trying to remember the charades signal for 'film'? (Yes), was that Wayne Sleep mincing? (Yes), what was Angela Rippon wearing? (Sorry, it went by too fast) and....surely not? Spike Milligan??? (YES!)

It was a show filled with theatrical types, introduced by a theme tune that managed to reduce Liza Goddard's full name to two syllables (something like "Liz Gdd"). But wait, it gets even better - where else could you see footballer Bruce Grobelaar in a pink top (pre-match fixing allegations) and Gordon Kaye from 'Allo 'Allo (post-tree falling on his car in the 1988 storms)?

The real reason that I loved this show is because I genuinely loved the atmosphere that it generated. It felt like all the contestants were friends. You got the impression that they were just taking a break from their respective West End performances and fancied a gentle game of charades. It almost felt intrusive, as if I had stumbled upon a celebrity dinner party going through the rituals before the sex games began.

And all this over a delicious plate of corned beef hash.

Needless to say, Give Us A Clue became my teenage game of choice at family parties. I insisted on being Lionel Blair, of course (being the campest child in my family's history, there were never any arguments) and would take great pleasure in flailing around the room whilst trying to mime Mrs 'Arris Goes To Paris or The Boys In Blue to my auntie. Of course, it would all end in tears when everybody else decided that they wanted to play Pictionary instead and I'd be left fuming at their disregard for cult films starring such luminaries as Angela Lansbury and Cannon & Ball.

Ironically, when Give Us A Clue was finally removed from ITV's schedule, it was replaced by Win, Lose Or Draw - Danny Baker's big screen adaptation of Pictionary. I can only imagine the volume of tears that Lionel Blair must have shed.

The S Files (Part One)

2008-06-04T11:42:00.002+01:00

You would be forgiven for thinking that the exploits of Eghosa 'Jose Muffy' Aimufha were more than enough to keep me entertained during my time as an undergraduate. However, I was blessed during this period to have yet another object of ridicule. That "object" was S. Or "Disco S" as he became known, for reasons which will become apparent later.

S was one of those students who can probably be found on every campus at every university in Britain. In fact no, make that the world. S had ambition, but this was not enough for him. He saw himself as an entrepreneur and wanted to make a name for himself in the world of student showbusiness. He would stop at nothing to get himself recognised. Unfortunately, this was also his downfall. Very often, the higher he set his sights, the further he had to fall.

I originally met S during my very first day of enrolment at Cardiff University. I had initially exchanged some polite conversation with him in the queue to have our photograph taken for our identity cards, but presumed that I would not see him again - I didn't even know that he was on my course. Later that day, I strolled over to the Humanities building to enrol on my extra module - Cultural Criticism - when I suddenly heard a very breathless voice behind me.

"G! G! Wait up, man!"

Not thinking that anybody would know my name at this point, I continued walking and presumed that they were calling a different G. It is, after all, a very popular name in Cardiff. However, the voice persisted.

"G! G! G! Wait up!"

Being of a nervous disposition, and feeling like a small prawn in a vast ocean, I must admit that I felt quite unnerved at this point. As the voice got closer, I braced myself for the moment of impact. Then I felt a hand slap me hard on the back.

"Man!" (and no, it wasn't Eghosa) "I've been chasing you all the way from the New Theatre"

I was now at the top of Park Place, a good ten minute walk from the New Theatre, which already shows the level of commitment for which S would became famous. The fact that I hadn't heard him until this point already shows the lack of planning that would also become his modus operandi.

I didn't have time to wonder why he hadn't called me previously, because he started babbling.

"I'm going to enrol for Sociology. Somebody told me that only girls take it, so I'm guaranteed to pull! I'm interested in the links it has to Journalism too, of course. I'm no sexist. What are you signing up for?"

"Cultural Criticism" I replied, hoping that he would take a deep breath before speaking again.

"I didn't see that on the list. Oh, oh, oh....it sounds good....oh, but the girls in Sociology....oh, do you think girls will take Cultural Criticism?"

"I'm sure there will be some" I answered, by now breathing on his behalf.

"I'm changing my mind. Oh, I'm so glad I chased you. I would never have known."

He then alarmed me by assuming a pose not unlike the one Bruce Forsyth did at the start of The Generation Game. From this position he then stood with his legs apart and his arms in the air.

"I'm gonna take CULT....URAL.....CRIT.....ICISM!" he shouted, attracting some attention from a group of attractive girls who were probably on their way to enrol for Sociology. He then stood normally, unaware of the strange looks now aimed in our direction.

"Man, I'm so glad I met you. Let me make dinner for you tonight!"

"Oh no, I couldn't....umm....I...umm...I...."

Think of an excuse, quick!

"I won't take no for an answer" he insisted "I make a mean pasta dish!"

"Great" I replied, deflated.

Two hours later, the smell of burning spaghetti filled the room in S' flat in Talybont.

"Twenty-five pounds!" S yelled from the kitchen, as he held his hand under a cold tap after burning it on the molten saucepan.

"Twenty-five bastard pounds for a book of photocopies!"

He was referring to a book that we had been forced to buy in the Cultural Criticism department. It contained every single piece of reading that we would require for the entire year and meant that we didn’t have to buy the individual books.

"S-Boy is gonna be one poor student by the end of this week......shit, the bacon's on fire!"

S' flatmate looked up from his copy of Cardiff University - Rules And Regulations and didn't have to say a word. His face spoke volumes. Clearly, this was a regular occurrence at Chez S.

As we chewed on rock-hard bacon and tried to suck up spaghetti that looked as if it had been in a forest fire, S regaled me with a story about the time he appeared on Jim'll Fix It as a child.

"I've still got the badge!" he proclaimed, sounding a lot like Jed, Alan Partridge‘s crazed fan. "I'll show it to you later. I brought it to Cardiff to show off to the ladi-eeees!"

His flatmate gave me a look as if to say "not again", but before I could give further reaction S had already changed the subject and was informing me about a money-making scheme that he was mulling over in his mind.

The Talybont complex was one of Cardiff University's main housing areas. As such it had many communal buildings such as a sports hall and social club. It was at the latter venue that S planned to hold The Inter-Hall Pool Tournament 1998.

I learnt quickly that the three things which S craved most were girls, money and popularity. So far, I had seen little evidence that he had made any headway in either category. However, his pool tournament was designed in a way that would hopefully bring all three.

"As the organiser" S explained, "girls will love my leadership skills."

Again, his flatmate looked up from his book and just stared at him.

"Secondly, the players in the tournament will be so pleased to have something to aim for that they will all want to be my friend."

I have to admit, I wasn't convinced at all by this stage.

"Finally, if I charge each player to enter the competition, I can make a profit."

As I had only known S for less than half a dozen hours, I kept my reservations to myself.

I didn't see him again until ten days later, at our first Cultural Criticism lecture. I was already sitting at the back of the lecture theatre when he arrived with seconds to spare. He sat down next to me and began rummaging in his bag.

"I've got something to show you" he said excitedly.

He then pulled out a pile of low-quality A4 paper that had an even lower-quality advertisement printed on one side.

Inter-House Pool Tournament

Please sign your name at the bottom of this form if you would like to take part in a pool tournament.

Winner will receive an engraved trophy and £100 cash prize.

Entrance Fee £3.00

Phone S for details.

"That should get them rolling in!" he said. "I'm going to buy the trophy this afternoon. I'll easily be able to afford the cash prize and still make a profit. There is one snag though."

He then explained that the Talybont social club would not allow him to hire the venue for the night. In addition to this, they also wouldn't let him hire the pool tables. This meant that the tournament would have to be played on a normal night, when people who were not signed up for the competition may also want to play a game.

His solution was to make all competitors bring 50p in addition to their entrance fee. This coin would be placed on any pool table to reserve it. This would apparently guarantee that all games would be played to schedule.

I still wasn't convinced, but supported S enthusiastically and wished him good luck.

At the end of the lecture, he ran out of the theatre (he ran a lot) and began pinning his posters to every available message board. During that time, wherever you looked in the Cathays area, you'd be sure to see a pool tournament poster. Usually crumpled up, or covered in footprints, or thrown in the bin.

A week later, S arrived at the next Cultural Criticism lecture looking rather disheartened.

"Do you want the good news or the bad news?" he asked.

"Bad news" I replied.

"I've only had five people sign up for the tournament"

I tried to keep a straight face.

"I'm not going to be able to organise a tournament with an odd number of players!"

"I'm sure it'll pick up" I lied. "What's the good news?"

"Ooh! I bought the trophy! It cost me sixty quid but it'll look great."

I didn't like to point out that so far only £15 worth of competitors had signed up and he still needed to get the trophy engraved, so I was glad when the lecturer took to the stage and silence descended upon the room.

Another week went by before I saw S again. This time the look on his face was even worse.

"I've got seven competitors, I found out that I'm not allowed to charge for entry, and when I asked Brain's Brewery if they would sponsor the event, they laughed in my face!"

I struggled not to do the same.

"Are you still going ahead with the tournament?" I asked.

"Oh yeah, I can't let my fans down. I'm going to have to enter it myself to make up the numbers though."

I'm sure that if he had taken the tournament plan to the British Pool Organisation, it would have been frowned upon immensely. I had to admire him for his persistence though, no matter how foolish I believed it to be.

"I've drawn up a tournament schedule anyway" he said. "The winner should be decided by the coming weekend. We only have seven games to play in total because of the small numbers."

Two weeks later, the tournament had still not been completed. Each time the players went to the Talybont social club, all the tables were busy. The 50p reservation technique was frowned upon and games were delayed for days at a time.

Eventually, six weeks after he organised it, the pool tournament came to a close. S was knocked out in the first round by a first-year Sociology student (even worse for him, a male Sociology student). It was eventually won by a Pharmacy third-year called Brian.

True to his word, S got the trophy engraved and paid the prize money out of his Student Loan. After refunding the tournament registration fees, he was a grand total of £191 out of pocket. At that rate, S-Boy really was going to be one poor student.

A sensible person would have put it all down to experience and admitted defeat, but not S. He never did anything sensibly and there was still a lot more to come...

Part Two
Part Three

Samantha Fox Has A Very Nice Pair Of...

2008-06-04T11:08:00.002+01:00

The 100 Most Influential Television Programmes In My Life

#88: Blankety Blank

A lot of fun can be had following the world of the A-list celebrity, but it’s often even more of a buzz to delve into the world of - I'll try to be delicate here - the has-been.

There are many places to view this exciting species in its natural habitat, but none has ever been more pleasurable than an episode of Blankety Blank.

Although Terry Wogan had originally presented the show (with a stick-shaped microphone), I first saw Blankety Blank during the Les Dawson era (still widely regarded as the best). Of course, at the time I was not familiar with Dawson’s work as a comedian but I loved the way in which he made fun of the contestants, participants and prizes (“for the benefit of anybody who hasn’t got an Argos catalogue, here’s some of the rubbish you might be saddled with tonight”), including the consolation prize of a Blankety Blank cheque book and pen. He gave the impression that he hated every minute of the programme, but really it was clear that he was having a whale of a time.

Blankety Blank particularly appealed to me because it was a game show that relied on words and phrases. Funny and educational! Dawson would read out a sentence and a contestant would have to guess which word the celebrities would choose to complete it. For example, if Les said “Tom Cruise is very….” you would probably say “short.” However, the contestants (after lots of tom-foolery from Ray Allan and Lord Charles or the guy who played Brian Tilsley in Coronation Street) would eventually say “over-rated” and you would receive no points. You would then be defeated by your opponent (usually a very jovial vicar) who correctly answered “eyes” in response to “Samantha Fox has a very nice pair of…”

One of my favourite things about Blankety Blank was the theme tune. It took a basic melody and just repeated the title of the show over and over again. A variation was used in the final round (Super Match) where the female singers just sang “super match game, super match game, SUPER MATCH GAME!” over the same tune. It’s my ditty of choice if I ever want to tell L what I’m up to using the medium of song: “Writing a blog, writing a blog, WRITING A BLOG!”

Following Dawson’s sad death, Blankety Blank disappeared for many years before returning with Lily Savage as host. Surprisingly, it was just as good. Savage/Paul O’Grady had a similar attitude to Dawson in that (s)he made fun of the proceedings yet also managed to make the contestants feel perfectly at ease.

And the prizes were still just as bad.

What Is History?

2008-06-02T09:50:00.000+01:00

On the morning of September 30th 1998, I was one of fifteen scared Journalism students standing outside a Cardiff University meeting room nervously waiting for our seminar tutor to arrive. We had been introduced to the group of postgraduate students who would be taking the classes during our welcome lecture the previous week. We all agreed that we would not mind which tutor had been assigned to us, as long as it was not the fearsome looking man who had been sitting in the front row of the lecture theatre, wearing the full national costume of Nigeria and making notes faster than the lecturer was actually speaking.

I think you can guess what happened next.

Distant footsteps could be heard further down the corridor. We all looked in the direction of the sound. At precisely this moment, a leg covered in the most luxurious Nigerian silk appeared at the corner. It was then followed by another. If the theme tune to Reservoir Dogs had started playing at that moment, I wouldn't have been surprised. Better yet, the theme from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly.

Yes, it was Eghosa.

He walked down the corridor towards us, seemingly in slow motion. His eyes pierced into us and he seemed to be smirking, as if thinking "I'm gonna eat you alive."

After what seemed like an hour, he arrived. He uttered not one single word, but simply reached into his pocket and pulled out a key (good to know that national costume can still be practical). He unlocked the door and walked in. We continued standing outside. He looked at us, still not speaking, and it seemed as if his eyes were now acting as magnets drawing us in to his world. Or at least, into the room.

We each took a seat. At least three of us fought over one at the back of the room, aiming to be as far away from Eghosa as possible. Unfortunately, I lost that battle - not a good omen - and I soon found myself sitting next to the man himself.

After taking an eternity to unpack his briefcase (which seemed to only contain his copious notes from the previous lecture and an apple), he arose from his seat and walked to the white board. Picking up a marker pen, he wrote something illegible on the board. Then he spoke.

"My name" he bellowed "is Eghosa Aimufha."

We all stared at him with a nervous look. Partly because we were all scared of him and partly because nobody wanted to tell him that he had written on the board with a permanent marker.

"You will notice that there is a 'G' in my name" he continued. "May I please inform you that the 'G' is silent. SI-LENT!"

Nobody spoke. He looked pleased with himself.

"Now that we have cleared that little matter up, I have one thing to say."

We waited nervously.

"What is History?"

No replies were forthcoming. Partly because we were not sure if the question was rhetorical and partly because we wondered how he would manage to teach us Journalism if he didn't couldn’t even grasp the basics of History.

"Are you people deaf? What is History?"

I was seriously contemplating using the excuse of "yes, I am deaf" at this point. Anything to break the silence. But then he proceeded to break it himself by tapping loudly on the white board and pointing in the vicinity of his illegible writing.

"Maybe you cannot understand my accent" he barked "What. Is. His. Story?"

Nobody had spoken for ten minutes and there were no volunteers to be the first to break that trend.

"This is getting silly, man" he said, as if he had learnt English from watching one too many episodes of Desmond's. "Won't somebody tell me the answer?"

Then he pointed at me.

"You - tall boy!" he yelled, not even caring about my name. "You can tell me about History!"

I cleared my throat and tried to remember the definition that I had learnt off-by-heart when I was at school.

"Well, Eghosa" I began, sounding the 'G'.

"Tut, tut, tut, man" he responded. "The 'G' is silent. SI-LENT! It is E-hosa, E-hosa, E-hosa. Say it with me. E-hosa"

Soon, a group of fifteen first year Journalism students were chanting his name in a very eerie fashion. We did this until the end of class and he never did get his answer.

The following week, I was not looking forward to the second seminar. I already knew that these weekly meetings would be the low-point of the course. I had been to other seminars during the previous week and they had been led by the most lovely, understanding postgraduate students you could imagine. They played games with us to help us learn each other's names and understood that we were the new kids on a very strange block.

But Eghosa was different.

Maybe that's why, ten minutes before our second seminar was to begin, I was the only person waiting outside the meeting room. I began to feel nervous. Had I memorised my timetable incorrectly? Should I be somewhere else? And then the big one hit me.

Am I going to be alone with Eghosa for an hour?

My fears were allayed a little with the arrival of T, who was also from Cardiff, and C from Bristol. The three of us stood there in fear. We knew that nobody else was going to arrive. Why didn't we have the sense to stay in bed that morning? Just as we were debating whether to leave and go to Starbucks, the unmistakable sound of footsteps was heard and Eghosa's theme tune started to play in my head. We were trapped, and he was coming towards us like an ant to a crumb.

The same routine applied. He unlocked the door. We walked in silently. He unpacked his briefcase. The only difference was that he didn't have to write on the white board - his question from the previous week was still there for all to see, along with a comment that somebody had added that read "which idiot did this?"

He looked at the three of us. We were huddled together in the corner.

They hadn't told us about experiences like this in the prospectus.

"Hmmm. It seems that there are one or two people absent" he said, looking in the direction of an empty chair as if somebody was sitting in it.

We hoped that he would send us home. But this was Eghosa.

"Not to worry. Now. Where were we?"

He was actually going to teach us?

"What is History?"

Does this man have eyes?

"You - blondie!" he said, pointing in the direction of C and still not caring about names, "what is History?"

"Well, umm, it's, err, complicated" she stammered.

"Woman! There is nothing complicated about History" he shouted.

We couldn't believe what we were hearing.

"For the last time. What is Heeeeeee-storreeeeeeeeeeeee?" he screamed.

By now, the three of us were sat in each other's laps, clinging on for dear life.

"Man. You guys. Do you not listen in class? The definition of History is simple. It is His Story!"

We looked at him, hoping for more of an explanation. After staring back at us with an accomplished grin, he picked up the permanent marker and wrote something else illegible on the board. As before, he tapped impatiently.

"Now. What is Censorship?"

If we had been characters in a comic strip, the word "thud" would have been written above our heads as we collapsed to the ground.

By now, my stories about Eghosa were spreading throughout the Journalism department. Other students, who didn't have to endure the suffering each week, thought that he sounded hilarious. They all had lovely seminar tutors though. One person who did understand the problem was R. He had experienced Eghosa first-hand in another seminar. In fact, it is partly thanks to Eghosa that we became such good friends in the first place. We bonded by telling stories and showing off our Eghosa impersonations. Although we also had a mutual appreciation of Alan Lancaster-era Status Quo, so that helped too.

Our favourite stories involved Eghosa's great talent for getting television programme titles wrong. His habit initially led to confusion. He made references to "Scott In Antarctica" when we should have been discussing Scott Of The Antarctic and referred to "A Countryside Practice" rather than A Country Practice. However, it soon became natural to hear these slip-ups and the new titles somehow sounded even better. Indeed, I still can’t get used to the current trailers for the Sex & The City movie, because I always expect them to refer to “Sex And The City Life”, as Eghosa used to say. Of course, this always leads to disappointment, but when a newsreader recently slipped up and referred to Jessica Sarah Parker, I did wonder if Aimufha had perhaps taken up a new career as a television scriptwriter.

Perhaps the funniest thing is that nobody ever corrected Eghosa. I remember during one lecture when Eghosa got a little confused about Professor Tulloch’s Bell Theory ("every time a bell rings in A Country Practice, somebody is talking about AIDS"). On this occasion, nobody really blamed him.

From the back of the theatre, we saw Eghosa in the front row raising his hand.

"Excuse me" he yelled, interrupting Professor Tulloch mid-sentence, "could you please clarify your theory about 'A Countryside Practice?'"

Tulloch looked a little confused (not to mention a little flustered), then did as he was requested. However, he didn't correct Eghosa. Instead he started referring to "A Countryside Practice" himself for the rest of the lecture. It was such a strain on him that he broke out into a coughing fit so vicious that he had to send his female co-lecturer out to get him a jug of water. She was clearly not too pleased about that.

As the weeks went by, it became clear that nobody was ever going to turn up to Eghosa's seminars apart from me, T and C. I'm not entirely sure why we continued to attend, to be perfectly honest. Probably due to some mutual fear that the very week we didn't turn up would be the exact time that Eghosa would finally remember to take a register of attendance (that's the only way that all the absentees got away with it - no member of staff was even aware that they weren't turning up). Knowing Eghosa, he probably would have still yelled questions at an empty room.

By now, R and I had re-named Eghosa as "Jose Muffy" because of the way that he always emphasised the "Hosa" and "Muf" parts of his name. In fact, R had even written "Jose Muffy" on the official end of semester Tutor Evaluation form and no member of staff even noticed.

In addition to this, we had created a fictional world in which we envisaged Eghosa living. A world where he called everyone "man" or "woman", where every sentence began "What is..?", and where, when he wasn't speaking, he would walk around saying "Aaayyyy!" like a Nigerian version of The Fonz.

It is hard to picture this without smiling, which is why it was probably not the best idea to let my imagination run riot during one of Eghosa's seminars.
He was asking his usual questions and offending C by calling her "blondie" for the umpteenth time. I was miles away, thinking about how funny it would be if Eghosa was a character on Emmerdale ("Hey man, what is farming?"). I was awoken from my daydream by Muffy banging on the table in front of me with a thirty-centimetre ruler that had "Nigerian National Bank" written on the side.

"Hey man, why you always smiling?" he asked.

I said the first thing that came into my head.

"You just make me so happy, Eghosa!" I replied.

"Man, you is a strange boy. And it's a silent 'G'. SI-LENT!"

I must admit that I felt a tinge of sadness when Eghosa was replaced after the Christmas break. Apparently, he had received such heavy criticism in those end of semester evaluations that it was decided that he may be better off returning to his research duties.

However, Eghosa is still at large in Cardiff. The last time I saw him was in the Tesco store on Wellfield Road (or is it Albany Road? I always confuse the two). He was interrogating a sales assistant at the time:

"Hey man, how much are these eggs?"

I felt a strong urge to go up to him and say "that's a silent 'G' Eghosa. SI-LENT!" But I was in a rush for a bus and he would have kept me there all day.

Chips N Tits

2008-06-01T14:09:00.000+01:00

My step-father is a superb after-dinner speaker. At least, he would be if he could contain his excitement and stop telling the stories during the meal! In his youth during the 1960s-70s, he was a successful sportsman and enjoyed the life that came with it. Over the years, he has told me many great stories about his exploits around Cardiff. Many of his tales are clearly a product of the past, which is probably why they are still so entertaining today.

I’m sure I never did them justice, but when I wasn’t turning into Mick Hucknall, I would often regurgitate those golden oldies to my university friends during lunch. Or perhaps a particularly boring lecture. Either way, a big favourite was always the one about a long-forgotten, Friday night tradition.

The site where the Cardiff Marriott stands (an area which, thanks to demolition and redevelopment, currently looks like a war zone) was once a fruit market where my step-father began his working life. At the end of the working week, he and his co-workers would go along to an establishment to unwind. By day, the premises acted as a standard pub and restaurant. By night, it would show adult movies and stage a revue show called Chips N Tits.

The idea was quite simple. Your group would be seated at a table and served a delicious meal of chicken and chips. A chance to enjoy a breast before the breasts, I suppose. At the end of the meal, the lights would dim and a drum roll would begin. A young lady would then appear on the small stage and remove her clothes in an erotic manner. Anyone foolish enough to sit in the front row would be treated to a show so in-their-face that they would have some difficulty finishing their meal.

At the end of the performance, the house lights would be turned back on in time for the barman to call last orders.

It was during an evening of Chips N Tits that this particular story is set.

My step-father was never happy to just watch the main show. He liked to speak to the performers afterwards too. I suppose that you could say that he was Cardiff's first (and possibly only) Chips N Tits groupie.

He soon became a regular at the venue and his face became recognised by staff members and performers alike. He actually became the unofficial Chips N Tits chauffeur and would often find himself driving the girls back to their homes in the early hours of the morning (any excuse, eh?). Splott, Tremorfa, Lisvane - no distance was too far.

He therefore thought nothing of it when a new performer asked him for a lift home one night. As usual, he just asked her to direct him as he drove and away they went. It wasn't until he got to the M4 and she still hadn't shown any indication that they were nearly at her destination that he thought to ask “where do you live?”

"Wolverhampton", she replied.

True to his word, he did take her all the way to her door. As my mother was present when he told me this story, I'm not entirely sure what happened when they arrived in the West Midlands. However, I do know that he arrived back home in Cardiff at lunchtime the next day and slept until the following morning.

By the end of the 1970s, Chips N Tits was no more. However, as one friend once remarked, "I'd pass on the Wetherspoon's Curry Night for the Chips N Tits deal any day."