2013-05-19T06:37:14-04:00 Mr Pickwick http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/author/index.php?author=mr-pickwick Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Mr Pickwick Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3184447 2013-04-30T08:44:26-04:00 2013-05-02T11:28:33-04:00

Mr Pickwick http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mr-pickwick/
At the micro level, the answer can be best illustrated in the Pickwick household through the topic of cake. The Pickwick family are fans of cake, setting upon it like a pack of hyenas around a decaying carcass, wherever it can be found. Mrs Pickwick however is a woman for whom cake and guilt are regular bed fellows, convinced that cake will be her downfall but at the same time enjoying the descent.

The female hyena applies a more basic approach to food with no apparent guilt - I must fill my boots as it is not everyday I have the opportunity to sink my gnashers into a dead antelope and it might be a long time before another one comes by. Mrs Pickwick applies the same principle in respect of cake.

The question of whether we can have it all becomes simple. As soon as the cake appears, there is no etiquette in its consumption. It is the law of the jungle. There is no question of all. Often there is not even a question of any. The basic problem is I live with a bunch of thieving bastards.

At the macro level, the question is a lot more difficult as having it all is quite a lot really. And as you get older, it is a fact of life that you may have it all but have forgotten where you left it or indeed forgotten that you had certain parts of it and are pleasantly surprised when you find it. There may also be bits which you do not want either because there are not enough hours in the day to handle them or you would choose not to if you could (e.g. having haemorrhoids).

So, having it all really means having some of it unless you have staff.

In my youth, I had a friend who managed a portfolio of girlfriends concurrently. I had deep respect for him thinking he had it all as I had great difficulty bagging even one. I was jealous of him but even then thought his endeavours seemed too much like hard work and my fledgling morals would not be able to cope.

Having it all tends to be viewed in terms of stuff, good job, contentment, adoring children and family that prefer you to be there than not. Of these, it is only the first which is quantifiable - the others will vary according to how much of an arsehole you are although this view may be influenced by the amount of stuff you have.

And having stuff is like having a well-stocked bathroom cabinet full of Preparation H - you can never have too much. Indeed, the only man I know with a dressing up box recently confessed to me recently that he needed to add to it as he had to go to a football match dressed as a banana and did not have the outfit. He had stuff, but he needed more.

I feel sorry for women with large jobs and lots of children referred to as super-mums when they are asked if they have it all. Their lives are defined by their children on the basis that as they squeezed all of them out, they have a vested interest in them. If I had to go through the same squeezing process, I would not want anything to do with the extruded material. God pulled a blinder by inventing maternal instinct.

The truth of it is that when the number of children passes a certain point, the management imperative is not to lose any. And as we know, even our dear Prime Minister has been known to mislay a child in his local pub which was either folly or a hitherto unknown coming of age ceremony.

So, do I have it all? Since the haemorrhoids cleared up, I cannot complain. And I have enough Preparation H to sink a battleship.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3081448 2013-04-14T16:57:00-04:00 2013-04-14T17:16:42-04:00

Mr Pickwick http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mr-pickwick/
Both have been powerful Margarets - but have always been at different ends of the spectrum.

Lady T, capable of existing on minimal sleep whilst firing on all cylinders. Mrs P, a slave to her beauty sleep, frequently embracing the sandman by a least 9.30pm wherever she is and at times concluding prematurely whatever she is doing as a result.

Lady T, capable of reaching for the whisky bottle at midnight, going head to head with hardened old timers to debate social and political issues into the small hours. Mrs P, sometimes disabled by even the sniff of hard liquor causing her to be immobilised at an early hour, her powers of debate silenced, declaring she would never drink again from under a duvet in a quietening monotone until it was extinguished by snoring.

But both Mrs P and Lady T exhibited the same single minded force of nature. Lady T in her steadfast economic management and refusal to bring the UK under European Monetary Union. Mrs P in her choice of white goods and the way she regularly negotiates the Chelmsford one-way system. In both, the Lady was not for turning.

Also, it has been impossible to take a bad picture of either Mrs P or Lady T in any environment, even where attempts are made to distract them. Whilst others in the picture were often clearly troubled, the Ladies were not for gurning.

In his tribute to Lady T in the House of Lords debate last week, John Selwyn Gummer, now Lord Deben described Lady T as a very beautiful woman who "had beautiful hands and wonderful ankles and knew how to use both". I am pleased to say the same is true of Mrs P although I have not until today concluded my view on her ankles. I was fortunately able to do this without having to change my glasses or to disturb my lumber region. The latter in particular is normally inflamed when I am coming to a conclusion on ankles or other body parts in the immediate area belonging to Mrs P or whoever else may be around.

I do take issue with the noble Lord regarding the use of ankles. The mighty Google fails to enlighten if you search for "use of ankles". I did however come across a fringe interest site "ankle heel fetish", which contained some wonderful specimens although sadly not Lady T's. I have concluded that ankles are like the u-bend pipes under washbasins - you would miss them if they were not there.

Mrs P has exhibited fine skills of economic management throughout our romantic coalition applying tight control on the money supply although she was thankfully never afraid of inflationary pressure. Lady T on the other hand would have had none of this save for in her early days.

And what would Lady T have thought of the cost of the funeral and disruption from interminable events to celebrate her legacy in this age of austerity. Surely, the cost should be covered by the private sector reflecting true Conservative principles. And I have the answer. The funeral should be sponsored by Carlsberg with banners all over London with the face of Thatcher and the strapline "Probably the best Prime Minister in the World".

Now she has gone, I will hold onto my indefatigable and beautiful Margaret, her ankles, her hands and the whole damn lot of her, making sure I do not lose her in a vat of cream. After all, the Lady is not for churning.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2776792 2013-02-27T17:32:25-05:00 2013-04-29T05:12:01-04:00

Mr Pickwick http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mr-pickwick/
I reflected on this with a work colleague on a significantly higher pay grade than me who showed me how he was using his IPad to stream self-improvement clips on topics as diverse as corruption in sub Saharan Africa to alternative models for parenting.

I cooed with admiration of the source of Delphic inspiration he had come across which was genuinely impressive. I kept quiet though on a similar font of knowledge which I had downloaded from the Academy of Zombie Survival and listened to that very morning for the first time. While it will not change my life, it did make me reflect on topics as diverse as do gay people make good Zombies (I gather the problem is they do a lot of flouncing), a particularly disturbing Youtube group called "Zombie go boom" and reflections on a heavy implement recently acquired for disabling Zombies. They were all preparing for the Zombie Apocalypse. One referred to this as the Zombie "pot of lipstick", which I took to be the same, with a little bit of rouge and a body to die for, which of course they had.

It was a unique view on life (or more properly on living death) made all the more refreshing by the fact that the more vocal of the members of the Academy appeared to live in the West Country.

The problem with Self-Improvement is it is all very grown up. I have great admiration for grown up friends and colleagues who read "The Economist" for instance but when I try I start with enthusiasm before grinding to a dead stop after two or three articles. There are not enough laughs, no gossipy articles about celebrities. The journalism is first rate but I am essentially a little shallow and the times I pick up "The Economist" make me conclude that I am intellectually inferior to those who consider "No Economist, No comment". To make matters worse, I gather there is an App for the IPad which will read "The Economist" to you. For me, this would only work if it was read by Mariella Frostrup, husky and full of raw sex appeal or Ruth Archer from "The Archers" with her long Geordie vowels suggesting she would try anything. The reality is a little more Dalek-esque.

For me, it is "No Economist, No problem" now please pass me "Hello" Magazine so I can see how Kim Kardashian looks after her latest re-spray while being photographed naked with Mr West (Kanye as opposed to the bloke whose name is on tinned Salmon).

Self-Improvement is possible if you have the capability to remember what day of the week it is or even care. With me, this is not guaranteed. So, the benefit of reading a book on Emmanuel Kant as I return from work may be negated if my consciousness cannot get beyond my occasional view that I work with a bunch of Kants.

I find myself drawn back to Zombie survival. There is a simplicity of objective for the Academy and that is to be respected. "Zombie goes boom" does what it says on the tin (although I would not recommend it to the faint hearted) and you would not want to see the tin once they have finished with it. Alternative models of parenting may fall away if ones' children lurch awkwardly towards you with dark eyes, pale complexions and blood dripping from their mouths before ripping your heart out and eating it. There are transferable skills in preparing for the Zombie Apocalypse. The Academy may come across as West Country weirdoes, but they could be right. Brothers and Sisters - we should prepare.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2653230 2013-02-09T13:24:18-05:00 2013-04-11T05:12:01-04:00

Mr Pickwick http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mr-pickwick/
Appearing on my birthday, I was presented with the bundle with the Pickwicks standing excitedly around me surveying the new arrival. Unlike the delivery of the Ms Pickwicks, I was able to handle the final journey of the third into the World with careful breathing, a big push of the remaining packaging until Ms Pickwick junior announced the beautiful words "Congratulations Dad, it's an IPAD".

I stared proudly at it, delighted at the new addition to the family, wiping away tears in the same way I had done as I saw the Ms Pickwicks for the first time in their post birth pinkness blinking nervously as they looked at the hulking great brute that nature had chosen to be their father.

As a first impression, I was particularly impressed that my IPAD arrived with my name on it unlike the Ms Pickwicks. However, such is the enthusiasm of Ms Pickwick Senior for tattoos that the omission may be rectified shortly, tastefully inked in Hindi within an ornate design around it.

Once my IPAD was out of the packaging and had blinked into life assertively, I noticed an important advantage of an IPAD over a new baby. It is quite easy to hold. It does not wriggle and you are unlikely to bang it against door frames as you go from room to room.

There then followed a period of some thirty minutes when I had to prepare the IPAD to be ready to go. An account had to be set up; password decided and password reminder decided upon. Ms Pickwick junior saw me through the process memorising the password as I typed it in for later unauthorised use. The IPAD did not mind. It sat impassively occasionally telling me that my password did not match when I input it for the second time or was not strong enough.

In contrast, the configuration phase of the Ms Pickwicks was for far more problematic. To begin with, I was not familiar with the features of the bodywork for such a new model. The application of the nappy was a hit-and-miss affair throughout the whole process, and the Ms Pickwicks were not too pleased with my efforts expressing their displeasure in the only way they knew how.

In short, the Ms Pickwicks were not user friendly at all in their set up phase, a position that improved temporarily but deteriorated again when they reached teenage years. This is in contrast to the IPAD.

Next comes the ability to play with the new arrival. Ms Pickwick junior introduced me to the App Store from which I found she had made the IPAD the proud owner of a number of games, the only one of which I could comprehend required me to control a poor soul ejected from a Temple pursued by a surprisingly nimble bear and a pack of what looked like wild dogs. Despite his lot, the point of "Temple Run" required him to rather unbelievably collect rows of coins which had been lined up outside of the temple along his path. I have not proved successful at this game, preferring to focus on the survival instinct rather than combine it with the rampant materialism of the coin collection. I have looked in the App Store in vain for a Church of England version of "Temple Run" which commences at the point of the Sunday service when the Vicar announces "we will now offer each other the sign of peace" and the hunted is pursued out of the Church by enthusiastic evangelicals declaring "The Peace of the Lord" as they try to shake his hand.

Again, the IPAD wins over the new baby on the playing front, it being impossible to advance through the levels with the latter until the baby has reached adulthood. The simple fact is that you might not want to wait that long.

Maintenance is very important in the decision which to go for - an IPAD or a baby. With a baby (in contrast to IPAD), regular payments will be required to maintain the equipment which will rise considerably as the unit ages. It is also impossible to upgrade the baby as well unlike its mother (unless she has been future proofed)

So, the arrival of the IPAD has brought the patter of finger nails on its touch sensitive screen into the bosom of the Pickwick household. This has bought into focus the comparative benefits of the IPAD over the Ms Pickwicks and their ilk.

The comparison however is only theoretical. For if I did announce to Mrs Pickwick that I would like a new baby, she would look daggers at me, this avenue having been dispensed with many years ago. Perhaps this is why I was given an IPAD for my birthday. And I would never have set up the IPAD properly if it was not for the Ms Pickwicks. So, we have all ended up in the right place!]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2468110 2013-01-13T13:47:00-05:00 2013-03-15T05:12:01-04:00

Mr Pickwick http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mr-pickwick/
The Pickwick Household has resembled a consumption ward over this time. Started by Pickwick daughter number 1, I assumed the mantle on Christmas Eve kidding myself that my sore throat was caused by hearty singing of "O Come all you faithful" at the evening Carol service before going wassailing in our village.

Since New Year, Mrs Pickwick, a woman of far more substance and grit than her sickly husband, has slowly lost her voice and is now sounding like Marge Simpson's lesbian sisters without the aid of cigarettes and a party lifestyle.

I had been offered the flu jab before Christmas but turned it down on the principle of what is the immune system if you do not use it. And for this reason, the unfriendly flu bacteria came along and kneecapped me.

The existence of flu is one of many reasons to be angry with the Almighty. While it does not rank in seriousness with man's inhumanity to man, Simon Cowell and repeats of "Last of Summer Wine" on the Yesterday TV Channel, its very existence indicates a rather vindictive attention to detail by the Big Man/Woman/Cheese designed to despatch the weak to the other place or inflame the temperament of the remaining sufferers who have to put up with it.

Flu is unique among illnesses in having its most serious strains associated with the male of the species. This is due to man's innate competitiveness in striving for the extremes in life or misfortune. The fact that Men have become the poster boys for flu has done them no favours. Their more fragrant counterparts give them no sympathy, justifiably angry about having to deal with periods and childbirth. This is a stick Mrs Pickwick uses to beat me with on frequent occasions meaning that any symptoms I have need to be off the scale before I get taken off the "put the dustbins out" duty, which for some women is the sole reason Man was put on this earth.

As illnesses go, flu is quite discreet, not requiring extreme reactions from those around which cause them to gag. There is some good in flu. You have to rest, it causes you to be warm and toasty and you can catch up with your day time TV watching. For this reason, it is carbon neutral and you will not get fat.

Since Christmas, it has been a voyage of discovery to carry my portfolio of illnesses with the hairy front face I have displayed since the Summer. For instance, one morning, the bathroom mirror highlighted the fact that my moustache was clearly suffering the after effects of a nasal Tsunami. And, a recent expression of love for Mrs Pickwick on my return from a hard day at work was greeted with her recoiling in horror as my furry friend had retained moisture sourced from an orifice a few centimetres above it. It is not surprising therefore that Mrs Pickwick has developed the same condition as me albeit a blessing for those around that her facial hair is considerably less prominent than my own.

Having worked my way through a variety of conditions, I have not as yet been graced by Norovirus, otherwise known to less pointed headed mortals as "The Winter Vomiting bug". Currently affecting some 800,000 people (which is roughly the same amount of people who watched "Celebrity Juice" over the Christmas period), it is transmitted by faecally contaminated food or water, by person-to-person contact, or transfer of the virus in the air leading to contamination of surfaces. It may be a coincidence too that viewers of Celebrity Juice have a greater propensity to drink from the toilet than Radio 4 listeners.

I have some inherent controls in my constitution which will protect me from catching it - principally being monumentally unsociable and having no desire to drink from the toilet.

The Pickwick Residence has therefore so far been a barf free zone. We plan to keep it this way by eradicating Keith Lemon from the house and curling up with John Humphry, Martha Kearney and Kirsty Young as often as we can.

I hope it will remain that way. I have had it with illness for 2013.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2352824 2012-12-22T15:50:58-05:00 2013-02-21T05:12:01-05:00

Mr Pickwick http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mr-pickwick/
The bus queue was growing, or more accurately the scattering of people who position themselves at a respectable distance from each other designed to make social intercourse impossible.

An eager neighbour bounded up to me, standing with body language expectant of communication. I wished him a hearty "Good Morning", hiding from him the punch-like feeling his approach had caused me and the distress wishing him "Good Morning" I was now feeling. I am sure he did it on purpose - I had told him previously that I do not do conversation in the morning.

As I winced in pain, I had had a moment of divine insight. The voice of Ms Garbo came to my mind with the catchphrase she made famous. "I - von't - to - be - alone" she said, spoken huskily, slowly and with Swedish angst pumping through every syllable.

This is not an uncommon feeling in the hurly burly of 21st Century living. But, its arrival in my head in a cold dark bus queue during my morning commute in the middle of Essex did take me by surprise.
During my commuting life of over twenty five years, solitude is something I have pursued with ruthless determination. I have hidden behind newspapers, retreated into shadows and stared intently on the far wall of a platform with a look of such pain on my face that I would be an unpleasant participant in conversation should someone I know chose to make the mistake of trying to talk to me. I developed this last technique from watching David Attenborough explain how the Sea Cucumber, an echinoderm (like the starfish) ejects its organs through its anus when threatened. My most extreme situation was spotting a particularly vile boss in front of me on an empty train platform. I would have gladly ejected my gall bladder at him through my arse to stop him talking about his golfing handicap. Instead, I stood motionless trying not to be noticed with a look of disgust on my face. All because, like Greta, I von'ted to be alone.

Returning to the morning's experience, I had by this stage exhausted every topic of conversation with my neighbour who still sat like a bottomless pit of social interaction wanting more. We talked about the weather, the darkness of the autumnal morning, the fact that he was not wearing a coat and that the bus was late.

Desperation led to inspiration. I closed my eyes, repeated Greta's phrase three times while at the same time tapping my shiny black shoes together. I had been raised with repeated outings of "The Wizard of Oz" at Christmas which led me to buy my first Judy Garland LP at the age of 16 despite not being gay.

I opened my eyes expecting to be in bed at home, being fussed over by Auntie M while Toto, the eager terrier licked my face. Instead, I felt the cold glow of a Scandinavian dawn take over my whole body as the spirit of Greta enveloped me. I was calm.

In my coat pocket, I found salvation in a paper clip which Greta had led me to. As my neighbour and I discussed who took the dog for a walk in our respective houses, I surreptitiously straightened the paper clip. As he told me that his wife takes the dog for a walk during the week and he takes it for a walk at the weekends, I plunged the paper clip into my palm, the surge of pain going through my arm making it appear that I was listening to him by the new found alertness in my expression.

Completing the head-on smash of a pregnant pause which commenced once the dog walking subject had finished its course, there was only one thing I could do. I moved the hidden spear and thrust again it into another softer part of my palm. It felt so good, masking the irritation of having to be sociable and keeping my mind busy managing the pain while trying to contain the blood loss threatening to stain my pocket.

This has been a revelation to me. For I now realise that Greta is not just for the rest of the year, she can be for Christmas as well.

Christmas is a time when prolonged social proximity with ones fellow man can tarnish the achievement of peace on earth and goodwill to all men. I love my extended family dearly as I love the pop group Girls Aloud. But like Girls Aloud, I would prefer to entertain them in ones and twos rather than have them all at the same time. Thus, if Nicola and Kimberley were sitting around table for Christmas dinner entranced with my tales of fear and loathing in financial services, the magic would be ruined if Cheryl, Sarah and Nadine came in unexpectedly. Think of the girls, aloud. The same thing happens with my extended family leading me to utter the standard Garbo intonation "I - von't - to - be - alone" as I am tucking into the third bottle of red wine and they are all speaking at once.

Mrs Pickwick knows she is married to a grump but she is the sociable side of our pairing which aids the pursuit of peace and goodwill coming from the Pickwick family. I on the other hand grow bushy sideburns, turn down the central heating, bellow at passing children and exhibit a strong aversion to Board Games at Christmas. This, I believe makes me quite typical of the male of the species at Christmas.

Now I know that Ms Garbo is in the neighbourhood, she will be my secret weapon when I am incapable of uttering anything coherent at festive gatherings or trying to direct the collective hoards that Mrs Pickwick has invited to our humble abode to go home so I can watch the Top Gear Christmas Special. I will draw myself into a corner of the room quietly and tap my feet together in the same way that gave me salvation in the bus queue with the arrival of Greta. I will repeat the phrase until Greta arrives. In the spirit of marital cooperation, there is a strong likelihood that Mrs Pickwick may insert a plate of stuffed olives in my hand while I am waiting for Greta as we currently are running short of occasional tables and at least I will be useful.

This is to be my recipe for a perfect Christmas.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2245983 2012-12-05T14:27:31-05:00 2013-02-04T05:12:01-05:00

Mr Pickwick http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mr-pickwick/
The experience that brought this to mind was an early morning walk with the Pickwick pooch, Dudley before Mrs Pickwick and I left for the day and Dudley had the run of the house for his regular campaign of shock and awe. After covering the usual distance, Dudley assumed the position to make his regular deposit on my neighbour's green and pleasant land. I waited, relieved that the darkness covered the extent of Dudley's travails.

And as I waited, I caught sight of the naked mid-section of the neighbour framed in the bathroom window with the top part of the body cut off by the blind and the bottom part cut off by the sink. The existence of the frame and the fact that I did not have my glasses on rendered it impossible to identify the sex of the person in the frame.

Dudley had to apply more than his normal concentration that day to produce his daily emission owing to him having consumed more fibre than normal (viz. a sock) causing me to evaluate the sight in greater detail. I felt it unlikely that I could be cautioned for loitering given my blindness and the fact that Dudley was clearly well advanced in his task. And as I considered the scene, the sex was no clearer to me. I felt it was female given the length of time it was spending in front of the bathroom basin, the male of the species being less fussy with a greater propensity for spillage.

Having collected Dudley's work and congratulated him on his work whilst he pushed leaves at me in a random fashion in a misguided attempt to cover his tracks, I ventured closer to the window before discretion got the better of me closely followed by the acknowledgement that I was still blind.

Elsewhere in my village, there is a woman who can often be found going about her business naked in the front rooms of her ground floor flat. The common element of this story is of course Dudley who has a favoured patch of grass in front of her kitchen, from which he catches up on all of the comings and goings of those who have gone before.

This is a regular occurrence in Cameron's Britain if the places I have lived are anything to go by.

In the pleasant Surrey town where Mrs Pickwick and I used to live, such sights were frequent. I cycled from my house to the station to join the daily trek to office desk and back for two years. During the winter months, the sight of my neighbours having their morning oblutions was such a regular occurrence that I longed for a discount curtain shop to open up in the town to enable a greater degree of non-disclosure to be made.

From my careful examination of the subjects in question, I came to the conclusion that frosted glass is not enough. In a bathroom full of halogen lamps, the subject merely turns into a less appealing version of Dita Von Teese.

There was danger in this as well. On one particularly early morning, I ventured out of my back gate on my bike to get the first train of the day. As I accelerated, the front light of one of the neighbouring houses went on and I saw the wife of the town's decorator walk nonchalantly across the room without a stitch of clothing on. This sight temporarily paralysed me forcing me to cycle into the back of a builder's van. Regrettably, a passer-by witnessed my accident and announced playfully "I saw that van come out in front of you".

I could never look at the decorator's wife again from that day forward.

Which brings me back to George Osborne. He announced in his 2012 Autumn statement that "We're turning Britain into the most open and transparent and country on earth". This has put a shiver down my spine because within the leafy shires of Britain, there is already a considerable disclosure movement.

And I can tell you, it is morally repugnant, particularly what that woman in number 12 gets up to.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2168152 2012-11-20T18:02:36-05:00 2013-01-20T05:12:01-05:00

Mr Pickwick http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mr-pickwick/
It was on a dance floor surrounded by loved ones and friends who scrubbed up for an evening do. As is customary, when the formal proceedings of the evening were over, guests hit the dance floor which was where my problems began.

They go back some years and are quite common for someone of my sex. There is a famous Gershwin song which declares "I've got rhythm, I've got music, I've got my man, who could ask for anything more". Ignoring the fact that I have no use for a man preferring the female alternative as they have more styling, better body work, better compatibility and are generally less likely to fart in bed, I do want more.

Hips.

I have a complete inability to gyrate my booty in any manner without inducing hoots of laughter from those around me. I have seized up. My hips are purely cosmetic, only acting to suspend clothes from rather than enabling me to bump and grind in a suggestive manner.

This diagnosis was given to me by my children, my inability to perform the dancing game on the Xbox Kinnect being so extreme that they felt honesty was the best policy. While I had been performing partly for comic potential, I was not wholly doing so, the competitive side of me wanting to strutt my stuff like the other Homies on the game.

By the end of the children's judgement, I felt like a steeplechasing horse lying at the foot of Beechers Brook in the Grand National with a broken leg waiting to be shot.

They have not let me on the dancing game since, fearful of the car crash that may ensue, aware that the sight of my stiff gyrations could upset the young and feeble minded.

My dancing house of cards has collapsed.

I did not realise how bad things were until my wife insisted I join her on the dance floor at the weekend do. This I did with the eagerness of a terrier waiting to be castrated. She ignored my yelping, placed the pliers around my testicles and I began.

Two to the left, two to the right, while I attempted to fend off imaginary pigeons with my hands being thrown at me at regular intervals from both sides.

I had no awareness of what music was playing knowing that if I continued with my foot shuffling and pigeon rebuttal movements, my testicles would remain my own and I would have fulfilled my husbandly duties.

There were similar car crash incidents occurring around me, including one poor soul who appeared to have been possessed by the Devil or was suffering from St Vitus dance.

Although I was terrified, I managed to gain a brief moment of lucidity during Don't Stop Me Now by Queen realising that there was no practical benefit to me of picking up one of the many imaginary guitars that had multiplied around me. When I realised Mr Mercury was telling me that "I was having such a good time", I was spurred into slipping my leash and running away to the bar where I panted with relief like an exhausted bunny having eluded a hungry fox. I was not having a good time.

Whooping with relief, I began talking to an older member of the party who told me he was unable to dance having torn ligaments in both shoulders when he rescued an eight stone Labrador from drowning. From that moment, I swore that if there is an obese dog needing to be rescued from the jaws of death, I would be first in the queue.

I knew I was in trouble. Mrs Pickwick appeared shortly after, hot and bothered after getting into the groove and demanded a drink. She insisted I return to the dance floor to perform my husbandly duties. To make matters worse, she had brought reinforcements who were enjoying my discomfort.

Returning to the dance floor, the mood had changed to the slow dance. This was a relief as I no longer needed to employ pigeon rebuttal movements.

I assumed the position and Mrs Pickwick and I rocked pendulum-like across the dance floor, she with grace and beauty, and me employing the marketing slogan of the 1970s toy which went 'Weebles wobble but they don't fall down'.

Mrs Pickwick was no longer berating me with her eyes, recognising that I had begun to look like a beaten puppy, which is never an appealing prospect if you have to dance with one.

Slowly but surely, the dark clouds which had rested over my head as I danced with Mrs Pickwick began to lift. There were times that the outlook appeared sunny, but always with patchy cloud and the threat of showers.

This was until the music changed to R Kelly, an American R&B singer whose name is best pronounced in a West Country accent. The song was I Believe I Can Fly which in my view deserves the same treatment.

It is fair to say that the mood had made me melt somewhat as I rocked gently from side to side with Mrs Pickwick, she looking at me with sympathetic encouragement. The flight instinct had gone and I now remembered the reason we were married.

As Farmer Kelly sang "Oi bee-leave oi con floy, Oi bee-leave oi con tarch the skoi" and then moved onto something about spreading his wings and flying away, I held Mrs Pickwick tight, spreading my wings, thinking about night and day and pushing through an open door.

I was a swan. I was a swan. I wasn't an ugly duckling anymore.

Or something like that.

Happy memories. It's nice to look back before the nurse gives me those little pink pills to make me better.

Night, Night...]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2052083 2012-10-31T18:32:59-04:00 2012-12-31T05:12:01-05:00

Mr Pickwick http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mr-pickwick/
The day of the flight, my guts had been fooled into believing that I had been eating cabbage and beans. This resulted in me inflating, drawing ever closer to my suited neighbours which exacerbated a proximity issue with one of them who could not fit between the arm rests and thus was overhanging me precariously. The position was so bad, I was convinced he would not fit through a manhole cover should it be required without the removal of one of his arms or some assistance from below.

I wondered what James Bond would have done in a situation like this. A lifelong James Bond fan, I have always enjoyed the impossibility of his predicaments. The opening sequence of "Casino Royale" would I venture cause every normal human being in such a position to release emissions of gastric-originated gases at periodic intervals coinciding with their bounding from girder to girder of the incomplete structure on which the chase was being conducted. The iconic parachute jump from the cliff in the opening sequence of "The Spy who loved me" would be accompanied by the most monumental rasping from my derriere if I was in that position, causing the Union Jack parachute to ruffle in its wake to the strains of Carly Simon singing "Nobody does it better".

I suspect that Mr Bond along with the regal parachutist that accompanied him during the Olympic opening ceremony are from the school of mythical beasts that never do anything like that. Regrettably, I come from humble stock.

My very ordinary-ness means that acute car sickness, fear of heights and stress incontinence would prevent me from being Britain's most famous secret agent able to participate in car chases or fight with assailants on the top of cable cars.

As regards success with the ladies, I do however have something in common with Mr Bond. I can cause the zip on Mrs Pickwick's dress to come down whilst simultaneously instructing the Pickwick pooch to both sit and stay with a single movement of my hand. Unfortunately though, our respective body temperatures mean I am more Coldfinger to her Pussy Galore, my hands as cold as a Muscovite in a snow storm. For any clandestine encounters to occur away from the attentive ears of the Pickwick children, I have to move from Russia for love for Her Majesty's Secret Service.

Returning to my dilemma, I was fortunate to be sitting on a comfy plane seat with cheap leather covers and sufficient padding to stifle the effect of any such gastric-originated blast. This was useful as I have been in such a position that blast waves can transmit panic to my neighbouring travellers.

I needed a distraction. Turbulence was too random as I could not time my stomach muscles with any certainty to coincide with the judders of the plane. It was as the plane landed that I prepared to fire. I directed the cabin air supply towards me, the plane touched down and I blasted off.

Not a flutter of reaction from my silent neighbours. I had got away with it.

I had left my calling card but no-one noticed. They were shaken but had not stirred.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1907095 2012-09-23T09:28:37-04:00 2012-11-23T05:12:02-05:00

Mr Pickwick http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mr-pickwick/
The speaker was introduced as having been recognised by the Observer as one of the UK's top intellectuals. And the biographical notes reported that he had once been the subject of a question on "University Challenge". What it neglected to say was - did anyone get it right?

It is fair to say that Mrs Pickwick is the intellectual in our union. When she suggested the event, my answer was not an immediate yes. Reflecting on it, I agreed concluding the evening may release my inner Kierkegaard but if it did not, we could smooch in the back row.

Our speaker was definitely one of the big brained fraternity. There were two things that distinguished him as a philosopher. Firstly, he had not dressed for the event. His choice of clothes resembled what is currently sitting at the bottom of our dog's basket and occasionally dragged to the centre of the lounge to be chewed contentedly. Secondly, he possessed a small beer shelf above his trousers, likely to have been grown from hours spent in the pub discussing Metaphysics, Aesthetics, Religion and the use of Occam's Razor (as well as Occam's Shaving Brush and Occam's After-Shave Balm).

He spoke for one hour with only minimal notes, taking questions afterwards for a further thirty minutes. Beginning slowly (what is the cause of a fire? The match, the person who lit it, the oxygen in the room, etc), he accelerated to the relationships between the various branches of philosophy, philosophy and science and culminated in that old chestnut - the Meaning of Life.

I clung on for dear life as he moved from Metaphysics to Aesthetics, from Plato to Aristotle. However, as one subject was added, I dropped the previous one. When he reached the Meaning of Life, everything he had spoken about had gone, crushed under the wheels of the articulated lorry of life following me on my road to the unknown where it left a sickening stain.

When he asked for questions after one hour, my brain was still clinging on to his talk for safety, relieved it had survived but needing a drink and a rub down before it could do more than the animal patterns of behaviour he had spoken about. I had lost the power to challenge, to ask why or how, the very things which distinguish human from animal behaviour. To remain in that state much longer, there was a danger I would eat my young when I returned home.

Thankfully, the ice was broken and questions appeared from those around me - the case for Atheism versus Agnosticism, the evidential basis for right and wrong. My particular favourite came from a woman whose booming voice declared she did not need a microphone before asking whether life should have a plot or a narrative of life should have a plot. As the learned one spoke, the questioner and her companion nodded energetically and rather impressively in perfect synchrony.

Throughout the talk, I realised there were a number of men in the room, shuffling in their seats, their gaze wandering all around the room from the beautiful women in Row 2 to the fineries of the Victorian room we were sitting in. They were sat next to partners who were concentrating so intently on the talk, it seemed they were glued to their seats. The silence was shattered when the man in front of me knocked over his empty beer bottle causing his companion to move for the first time.

On waking the following morning, I lay in a semi-comatose state with Mrs Pickwick contemplating the fundamental questions in life - to get up or not to get up. After a while, Mrs Pickwick declared "I thought his response on the question about the reason his basis for his Atheism was not good enough". She said this out of genuine conviction but also knowing that my inability to respond would force me out of bed to get her a cup of tea. These actions however raised the philosophical question - can altruism exist?

On balance, I was glad I went to the talk and reflected on what I had learnt from it during my journey to work the following day. As I waited to get on the morning bus from my Essex home, a girl appeared from the bus who was orange owing to her propensity for self-tanning. This reminded me of what he had said about the difference between Human and Animal behaviour - "Animals do what Animals do". The orange one who had passed me was doing what animals do. She had not asked why or what was the point. However, she was orange and I was not. At least that was a positive thing. Everything else in life is a bonus.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1870333 2012-09-10T09:29:25-04:00 2012-11-10T05:12:01-05:00

Mr Pickwick http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mr-pickwick/
My hair growing prowess has never been strong. I have always been jealous of big haired continentals whose thatch resembled the tight weave of an expensive carpet. As regards to facial fuzz, I was unable to generate any meaningful 5 o'clock shadow without recognising a large time difference. A youthful attempt to grow a moustache lasted longer than it should have done, growth on my top lip being so patchy I had to perform a daily combover on my top lip with a toothbrush. My moustache kept me out of the job market during this period - I know this because on the day I shaved it off, I was offered a job.

I learnt early in the courtship of my wife that if she wanted a facial scrub, she would purchase one from Boots which felt so good you could eat it. Thus, heavy petting was verboten if there was any form of hairy resistance on my face likely to cause evidence of abrasion. My manly odour too could not compete with the apricot or other fruity odours available from the concotions purchased from Boots. Sensuous odours are of course key in the courtship process, a friend of mine advising me that his ardour would be inflamed if his wife wore bacon earrings (H Samuel - if you are reading this, please take note).

Whether I have mellowed with age or simply overlooked a universal truth, my beard has softened as it has grown. Although it does not have the sheer salon feel of a Persian cat after its regular bath, it does not cause the injury that stubble would do. This had to be the case or Mrs Brian Blessed and virtually all female nobility in Victorian times would not have been seen in public after heavy petting sessions.

My beard is still in its infancy. When I catch sight of myself in reflections, my instant reaction is shock followed by the type of reaction that Leslie Philips (of "Carry on Films" fame) gave when he met a beautiful woman. I hope I don't get found out.

I was confidently predicting that I would be pilloried at work given my newfound beardedness. I wasn't, although the only nay-sayer suggested that my head could be inverted with little effect on my appearance as there was more hair on my chin than on my head. I did partake in a beard softness test where an energetic French colleague concluded that I had the softest beard out of the recently bearded at work.

Now I can hold my beard high, Beard World presents style choices to the new wearer. Beginning at full beard, the wearer can adjust the beard to become the chin strap, goatee, the soul patch, the bulbo, the mutton chop and even the friendly mutton chop (I wonder whether it has a vegetarian alternative). The existence of many of these styles however reflect the fact that the wearer has no-one close enough to advise them they look ridiculous.

I have time to pick my beard style. The Mutton chop would best reflect the type of person I am - past my prime, a little tough and with a layer of fat.

I have not reached the trimming stage yet although have been lightly pruned by my wife in a bid to control the encroaching jungle. This is one of the many "for better, for worse" actions (together with ear and nose hair removal) she was required to sign up for when she married me.

Regular beard maintenance is required, a beardy friend telling me he had trimmed his man fuzz as he was going away for the weekend and did not want to look homeless. Such a commitment may be lead to the death of my furry front face.

With retirement, I will have the opportunity to grow the full Brian Blessed, knowing that I will be a shoo-in for Santa, should the need arise.

Overall, the jury is still out on my furry friend. While a welcome addition to my face covering up the developing jowls and thus creating a tamed wilderness on my face, the dangers of soup and snot are ever present turning it from the Good to the Bad and Ugly. If this happens, it would be a case of Hasta La Vista, Furry.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1852477 2012-09-03T15:29:06-04:00 2012-11-03T05:12:01-04:00

Mr Pickwick http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mr-pickwick/
There are key differences between being a nerd and being a wimp. To begin with, I am a perpetual collector of leaflets, knowing that one day the fact that Mrs Edwards will be giving a lecture on Bonsai trees in the Church Hall will be the "must-go" event on a cold November evening. I can live with my nerdishness, particularly as I know nothing about Bonsai trees.

But wimpishness is worse. It is an acknowledgement to those who merely observe you that you have a variable backbone when it comes to life adversities, however big or small.

Take a recent experience I had had holidaying in Croatia with my family. On the first day, my 13-year old daughter and I went to a spot where we were advised we could swim from the rocks at a place known as the "Hole in the Wall".

We found the entrance and walked carefully down the steps carved into the cliff, past the bar clinging to the rock teeming with so many specimens of the beauty of youth that if you consumed the experience, it would give you gas.

The steps continued past a rocky promontory where olive skinned youths dived into the churning sea, emerging from the waters to laugh disdainfully at the risk they had taken and receiving gazes of adoration from those around. I, on the other hand was more concerned about the rocks hidden in the sea below me, knowing that a life of cakes and ale would cause me to go down further should I copy what they were doing, hitting the rocks which such force as to cause massive internal bleeding, added to when I was rescued and hauled up the cliff face prior to commencing a long stay in hospital.

I continued further to a safer spot to enter the waves, led confidently by my daughter. It was then that disaster struck when I stubbed my toe, proof of the excessive risk we were taking.

Sea level was at a ledge of rock covered by slippery sea greenery located to deter the foolhardy from entering the bluey depths. My fears were confirmed when I saw a hidden ledge of rock beneath me with a similar slipperiness. I knew that if I slid effortlessly into the waves from this spot, I would knock myself unconscious as I hit the ledge, my head shooting back onto the rock behind me, causing me to inhale water and drown as my helpless daughter looked on.

To make matters worse, the effect of the warm sun was to render the sea so cold that when my daughter suggested I get into the sea first as she would feel better if I was in before her, I replied that I could not as it was too cold.

I realised that my catastrophic dive into wimpishness had gone too far and that to save any faint remnants of respect my daughter could still have of me, I had to be brave. I therefore told her that if she went in first, I would come in straight after. It was a precious moment, much like when as a baby, she took her first unaided steps from my helping hands, although this time our roles were reversed.

True to my word, we leapt in together, the sea now red with the blood pulsating from my toe and bobbed around for a time as the constant stream of youth continued to enter the waves from the rocky promontory above, like hungry penguins in search of herring to bring back and regurgitate for their young. I, on the other hand was with my young and knew that regurgitation though likely would be greeted unfavourably by her.

The Adonises with their bellies full of herring timed their return to land to co-incide with the regular pounding of the sea, propelling them back on the rocks in one movement. My daughter and I watched this with a combination of admiration and horror knowing that this was our route home. It had to be said also that we were distinctly lacking in herring.

My daughter emerged successfully first followed by me with the grace of a harpooned whale being landed.

Overall, I hope the experience has confirmed to my daughter that her father is wimpy, but he tries his best. I tried to communicate the same message to a small boy holding a water pistol who stood in the surf as I emerged from the sea on my hands and knees, my feet not being able to tolerate the stony beach beneath my toes. He did not look convinced.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1745140 2012-08-05T17:50:00-04:00 2012-10-05T05:12:04-04:00

Mr Pickwick http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mr-pickwick/
The issue came up this morning during a discussion with my wife about the "50 Shades of Grey" phenomenon when she declared emphatically "if you trussed me up, I'd be off". I reminded her that technically speaking this was not true as she would be trussed up.

This week also I have seen her attention taken away from me by a series of young, good looking, powerful and often rich young men with chiselled bodies so well defined that they resemble an anatomy book without the labels. Throwing the imaginative fire power of "50 Shades" into the mix, I have become concerned that the temptations could be extreme.

Take this afternoon. Doing some light gardening as is my role in life, the peace of the day was shattered by excited screaming from my wife, punctuated by the occasional "yes...yes...yes...", "oh my God", "oh wow" and more superlatively "of wow, f*king wow" like a crazed nymphomaniac.

I basked in the sound, dreaming what the neighbours were thinking, but knowing in my heart of hearts that my wife was being entertained by two other men.

I swept through the door of the lounge, my beautifully etched half naked body (it was hot) glistening in the afternoon light as the intensity of my eyes bored down into my wife who lay expectantly on the lounge sofa.

"It's 5-3 in the 3rd set"

I turned to view the cool Swiss and glum Scot battle it out for the second time, and knew that I had been edged out again.

It has been like this all week.

Wall to wall BBC coverage has caused such a weight of sport to be on the TV that when I suggest to my wife that we have an early night, she replies "Yes let's, it's the Graeco Roman wrestling semi-final on BBC".

I had it out with her concerning the Swimming. She ventured that she would love to feel the bodies of a couple of male swimmers, to appreciate their definition - there would be nothing more than that. (I fear the same would not be a valid defence if it was me and a couple of female swimmers).

When I saw the rowing at Eton Dorney, I accepted that she had a point during the medalling of the Men's Coxless Fours. It was apparent that these teams were far from coxless as they strove to podium. Indeed, their collection of genetically modified fruit and vegetables contained within their lycra wrapping has I am sure created such a feeling of inferiority as to cause every red blooded male in Great Britain to reach for the fruit bowl for some assistance.

There was also a frisson of excitement among the women of my household noticing that one of the American team was in my wife's words "ready for action". She neglected to say what he was readying himself for action for although he did have the makings of an ample fruit salad.

I have decided that I need to turn the tables this week in order to grab my wife's attention for the remaining Olympic week. Baron Pierre de Coubertin believed that the most important thing in the Olympic Games is not the winning but the taking part. This, I believe is where I have gone wrong. I should have been "Going for Gold".

My secret weapon is therefore a recording of the cheers of the crowd during Mo Farrah's 10,000 Gold Medal performance (in case our duration is longer than the normal which would be covered by Jessica Ennis' final 800 metre winning race), followed by the National Anthem.

The Union Jack will fly high above Pickwick towers this week - that is unless Team GB has more Medal performances in which case, to quote Dick Dastardly "drat, drat and double drat".]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1696026 2012-07-23T15:36:33-04:00 2012-09-22T05:12:05-04:00

Mr Pickwick http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mr-pickwick/
To make matters worse, a few of friends and peers are currently wrestling with their own mortality. And, meeting work colleagues for a drink this week, I was horrified when the question "How's Phil" was asked, and the answer was "He's dead". True, it was followed up with the statement "none of the men in his family live long" as if this made it OK. The men in my family have big feet and cry when watching soppy films. This has not though contributed to their premature demise.

Reflecting on the precariousness of my state, I viewed the slumbering mass of my fellow man over 40 years of age on the commuter train taking me home this week to identify possible solutions. It was not a pleasing site. The ravages of time had taken their toll. Skin was loose. Noses were bulbous. These were people crying out for cosmetic surgery or at least a proper moisturising routine.

And most obviously, their faces showed little lightness of expression, almost to a man. In short, they needed a damn good seeing-to to bring their mojo back to its proper sparkling state, now concealed by a jungle of worldy pressures allowed to build up over the years (and bindweed of course, which every gardener knows gets everywhere).

I accept that this solution is a little one-sided and would require an extensive consultation period from a key stakeholder group. The beauty of this though is that if there is no consensus, the objective could be achieved on a unilateral basis with no external stakeholder involvement.

The time is right. Women of the world are gripped by "50 Shades of Grey" mania. There is a rich furrow to be ploughed. The key we learn from positive reviews is that women like it because Christian Grey does all of the rights things for the woman without even being asked. Whether this includes putting the rubbish out, bathing the dog or purchasing tampons without question is not made clear in the reviews. There is also a significant group of negative comments summed up beautifully by the article headed "10 Reasons 'Fifty Shades of Grey' Made My Vagina Shrivel Up and Die" making this in every way a route not to be travelled.

As a sex though, Men are our their own worst enemy. Doing all of the right things without even being asked is practically unachievable. It is like trying to break into a safe with a stethoscope - sometimes you will just not hear the click which leads to the door flying open.

There is another solution. Soldiers have long been woken from their sleep in barracks with the rallying cry "Hands off cocks! Hands on socks"! Reversing this will put lead in the pencils of today's mid-lifers.

The Noble Bard has as ever given us mid-lifers our rallying cry:

"And you, good Yeoman, whose limbs were made in England; show us the mettle of your pasture;
Let us swear that you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, straining upon the start.
The game's afoot. Follow your spirit and upon this charge cry
God for Harry, England and Saint George"

Gentlemen (of a certain age). Rise up and heal thyself. The solution is your own hands.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1656955 2012-07-08T06:23:47-04:00 2012-09-07T05:12:12-04:00

Mr Pickwick http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mr-pickwick/
However, my hair began to look a sparse. It no longer reflected my mood or recent activities as it always had done - sticking up (angry or flustered); sticking out on one side (irritated by nits on one side); sticking out on both sides (irritated by nits on both sides) and kempt (hot date and/or recently washed to remove nits).

The state it had become, commonly known as the comb over has been ingrained in me as the ultimate fashion faux pas like tank tops or socks with sandals (although in the latter case, I pray for a resurgence). However, as the natural state of my hair was the comb over, technically speaking it was an "over" as there was no need for a comb.

My wife treated me with the same sensitivity on my comb over as my mother did when I had a poo behind the lounge curtains in my formative years, the beginning of my rocky road of personal life experience. My mother sat me down on her knee and said "Sam, it's not nice to do a poo behind the lounge curtains; promise me you will never to do it again".

My wife gave me a similar message about my comb over although thankfully given the psychological parallels, I was too big for her knee.

I knew instantly that it was wrong to poo behind the lounge curtains and to have a comb over despite there being something comforting about each.

I had the same conversation with James the Barber, a wise owl who had felled his share of comb overs during his career. As I sat waiting in his shop, I heard him say to his current customer with his customary empathy and tenderness "you should stick around - the next customer is going to get the shortest haircut of his life"

I admitted the time had come and sat in the chair as a condemned man.

Aware that I was still reluctant, James showed me two pictures from his phone to prove that he was right. They were of a man who bore a slight resemblance to me - the first taken some years ago with a nerdy hairstyle close to mine; the second, the man looking considerably better following the full shear. And the name of the man - Karl Pilkington, from "The Idiot Abroad".

This was justification enough - it had to go. And so, my comb over went, tumbling to the floor like a mighty oak (albeit with a long term wasting disease) and my hair given a "Number 2" cut.

I knew straightway that I had done the right thing. The family gave me the thumbs up with one dissenting vote from my youngest mourning the passing of the chance to do a Beckham on it.

Since being shorn, I have enjoyed the fact that I look a lot harder. I have been called "bruiser" and "bad ass" in my new incarnation, which works until I open my mouth and put the Lily into my Savage.

I have developed a glare in my dealings with people where I need to have the upper hand. My Achilles heel is however that I am more likely to declare excitedly how much I like their shoes than to head-butt them.

There are practical benefits to my reduced thatch - the nits have nothing to cling to and my shampoo bill has been reduced by the same factor as my hair.

I will never go back to poo-ing behind the lounge curtains, a view my mother always questioned as from that day on she never hung full length curtains in the family home. And I will never return to the comb over, unless of course David Beckham gets one. By that stage however, it could be too late.]]>