Trevor Neal2013-05-20T10:54:37-04:00Trevor Nealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/author/index.php?author=trevor-nealCopyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc.HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Trevor NealGood old fashioned elbow grease.Me, the Swimming Pool and the Man in the Showertag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.14400242012-04-20T19:00:00-04:002012-06-20T05:12:02-04:00Trevor Nealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/trevor-neal/
Inside the changing rooms we had a slight problem with a locker that wouldn't lock. We're a family of six; we were using two large lockers but one of them had jammed and the coin was stuck inside. I didn't have another coin. It was no big deal but I had to ask a member of staff for help- a lifeguard in a yellow polo shirt and red swim shorts, like the star of Baywatch, if it was filmed in Gloucestershire. But David Gloucesterhoff couldn't help. He had to call someone else on a walkie-talkie to come and fix it. So it turned into one of those, you know - one of those things. My wife and the kids headed into the pool while I sorted it out.
Eventually the locker was locked and I prepared to join them in the pool. Having been left responsible for all locker-related business, I was now sporting two locker key wrist bands, one on each wrist. You know the ones - like cheap, plastic watch straps, designed to conceal the sharp, metal locker key and prevent it from scratching and causing injury. The straps are made from sharp, abrasive plastic which ironically scratch and cause injury. If you pull them too tight they pinch the skin rather painfully as well. Once in place however, they make you feel like you're wearing some kind of Batman wrist gadget - especially if you wear two at once, as I was.
So now I was Locker Man, the middle-aged, balding, pale skinned, out of shape, semi-naked super hero whose special power is unlocking lockers.
Just before I entered the pool there was a shower area where signs instructed me to shower before entering the pool. Why? I didn't need a shower. I'd showered only an hour or two before. I wasn't covered in mud or filth of any kind. I wasn't radioactive either, as far as I knew. What's more I was about to get into a swimming pool containing enough chemicals to justify an investigation by a United Nations special envoy. And I was Locker Man. I could do what I want.
But I showered again anyway. I didn't want to appear unhygienic. Didn't want people to point at me and run out of the pool screaming because the dirty man was about to get in.
I didn't mind actually. I knew the pool would be cold and the shower was hot, so I was happy to linger for a bit longer - but that's when I was approached by one of the pool managers - fully dressed. He'd already smiled and said hello from a distance but now he was heading straight for me.
"Did you used to be on TV?" he asked.
I was a bit taken aback - not by the question, that's fairly common and doesn't bother me - it was more the situation. I felt slightly vulnerable. I wasn't completely naked. I was wearing swim shorts but I was still under a shower - having a shower. He was wearing a suit and tie, leather shoes and a coat. It didn't seem to bother him and he moved closer. He was within close range now. Close enough to get wet - but that didn't seem to bother him either.
"What programme was it?" he persisted.
I answered, trying to remain polite, thinking he'd quickly move on but he didn't. He wanted to shake my hand now. So he moved even closer. Water was splashing all over his clothes and shoes and he was shaking my wet hand. He was practically in the shower with me.
I don't want to sound ungrateful. I'm pleased he was interested in me enough that he wanted to shake my hand - but he kept on shaking my hand and wouldn't let go and now I really wanted him to leave me alone. It was just too awkward. I wanted to join my wife and kids in the pool but instead I was holding hands with a fully dressed man in a shower, talking about Saturday morning TV from 20 years ago.
In the end I had to make a run for it. I yanked my hand from his vice-like grip, leapt out of the shower and headed for the pool shouting, "Nice to meet you!"
But he wasn't giving up. He wasn't going to let me get away that easily. He was hot on my heels, telling me about his own family and how they used to watch the show. Standing pool side while he described fond recollections was all very well but he was wearing clothes and I wasn't; the effects of the hot shower had worn off and I was cold and starting to shiver. There was only one means of escape; an uncharacteristic and sudden dive into the pool. Splash! I was in. His muffled voice was barely audible above the bubbling in my ears as I swam as far as I could under the water.
Safe at last. But no. He dived in after me. Swimming behind me, fully clothed; still going on about Andi Peters and Ed the Duck. I'm not a fast swimmer. Ed the Duck who's not even a real duck is a better swimmer. It's the breathing thing. I've never really mastered the breathing thing, so I still do breast stroke with my head out of the water, like some elderly folk and young children do. The sodden manager caught up with me easily, even swimming in a suit and coat. And now he wanted an autograph. Not for him. For a relative. He was waving a pen and a soggy bit of paper.
I was left with no choice. I looked around. No one was watching. Thankfully my kids were at the other end of the pool with my wife, happily playing, so they didn't see. They didn't see me push his head under the water. They didn't see me holding it there, while he kicked and struggled, still gurgling about Peter Simon's Double Dare, Phillip Schofield's hair colour and Swing Your Pants. It took all the strength I could muster to keep him under the water. My face showed no emotion. No sign of what was happening. I even smiled at my kids across the pool in the distance.
I felt a bit bad. It was Easter after all but it was his fault. He'd brought it on himself. He'd crossed the line.
In a hygienically protected area, where you are forced to shower before entering a heavily chlorinated swimming pool, he wore outdoor shoes.
The dirty bastard.
Don't mess with Locker Man.]]>Me, the Truth and the Checkout Girltag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.13756352012-03-23T19:00:00-04:002012-05-23T05:12:01-04:00Trevor Nealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/trevor-neal/
I say weird. Actually, she was doing the normal checkout thing and I was doing the normal customer thing. That is, she swiped goods across a barcode scanner while I put them in plastic carrier bags (I know! I forgot the 'bags for life'... again - but I do use the carrier bags as pedal bin liners, so saving on the unnecessary use of proper pedal bin liners - if that makes it any better? At least when the bags are stuffed full of household rubbish they are less likely to get stuck in a dolphin's blow hole - unless we're talking about a dolphin with an abnormally large blow hole).
Anyway you're familiar with the supermarket routine, I'm sure. All fairly normal and not particularly weird. Although, to an alien race that do their shopping by inhaling consumables through their bottom nostrils, that situation would of course be weird. (Sorry to go back to blowholes again) But to me at that moment everything was fairly normal. Until she started to ask questions.
"How are you today?" she asked, smiling.
I was tired. I'd had a late night, the night before and I was probably a bit hung-over. I was grumpy about being in a supermarket on a Saturday afternoon. I was hungry and thirsty. I was slightly anxious about still having to buy a birthday present for someone before I could go home and I was in need of the toilet. I was slightly anxious about the economic climate and how it might affect my own financial situation. I was fed up with the recent spate of cold and wet weather and I was slightly depressed at the daily news of death and disaster in the numerous unjustified and unnecessary violent conflicts around the world. A friend of mine was having domestic problems. Several pending jobs at home were playing on my mind. My wife was under pressure at work and my teenage daughters were in the middle of mock exams. The general mood in the house was tense.
So I replied, as you might expect.
"Fine thanks", smiling back.
I assumed that would be the end of it. That's the normal deal with complete strangers. Polite question. Polite answer. Polite smile. Thank you and goodbye. But she persisted.
"Done anything nice today?" still smiling.
I wasn't sure. Had I? It had been a lazy morning - which is kind of nice after a late night but for me that comes with the flipside of being slightly frustrated that I've missed out on a chance to do something else and wasted valuable weekend time. Having said that, I shared some fun time with my two boys, beaten and humiliated on a Wii game and I'd enjoyed my breakfast and a refreshing shower. In a world where millions of people don't have access to fresh water and others risk death from starvation, those two things in themselves were definitely "nice" but at that moment, having spent the last hour or two wandering round a dull and uninspiring retail park with an overcrowded car park and stressed drivers, I was placing household goods and packaged food items into unpleasant guilt inducing orange bags.
So I replied, as you might expect.
"Er... not really. Just shopping" smiling weakly.
Surely that was the end of it? I don't want to sound like an unfriendly git, too busy to share a few pleasantries with a bored supermarket employee but she'd crossed a line here. This was getting personal. And it didn't stop there.
"Going out tonight or having a quiet one?" more smiling.
What!? Why did she need to know that? Why did she want to know that? What did she mean by "a quiet one" anyway? How quiet is "a quiet one"? Is it sitting naked in furry slippers in a padded room on a sheepskin pouffe wearing ear defenders? Is that quiet enough? It certainly sounds appealing but that wasn't my plan that evening. (Although one evening soon now it will be). What if I say that I'm going out? Will it lead to more questions about where I'm going, what I'll do and who with? I had no plans to go out anyway. I'm an honest person. I find lying impossible. Even to total strangers. So I had to tell her the truth.
"Oh... just a quiet one" no longer smiling.
My mind started racing. "Damn! Why did I have to tell the truth? Now she thinks I'm really boring. Now she thinks I'm going home to watch Dancing on Ice and stuff my face with two-for-one Twirl Bites". I don't know why I should care whether she thought I was boring or not. I didn't fancy her. I wasn't trying to impress her. I didn't even start the conversation. I was just trying to pack my shopping as quickly as possible and get the hell out of there. Now I found myself having to justify my answer.
"I had a bit of a late one last night actually" pathetic smile.
Now I was talking like her. "Bit of a late one"? Instead of a few drinks and nibbles with fellow middle-aged friends at their place, which is what it had been, suddenly I was making out that I'd been necking absinthe and snorting cocaine off a pole dancers tits until the early hours. What the hell was I doing!?
That was it. That's when I snapped. Something went "Ping!" and I pulled out the gun. I told everyone in the shop to get down on the floor. The shop went silent apart from the incessant hum of electronic equipment and everyone lay down on the ground with their hands behind their heads as instructed.
"Nobody move and nobody gets hurt".
My tone was forceful. They knew I didn't want to use the gun but it was clear that if pushed I would kill them all. I'd had enough of the questions and I needed to get out quick. This was my only means of escape. I pointed it at the checkout girl.
"This is your fault!" I shouted.
"If I'm caught and arrested and sent to prison and my wife becomes a prossie to make ends meet (if you'll pardon the phrase) and my kids are forced onto the streets as pickpockets and drug dealers, you're to blame!"
She smiled sweetly.
"Are you collecting the school vouchers?"]]>Me, Camp, the Coach and Children's BBCtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.13344742012-03-09T19:00:00-05:002012-05-09T05:12:02-04:00Trevor Nealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/trevor-neal/
I've never been what you might call a sporty person but my two sons enjoy their football. Last week I turned up as usual to collect them from their after school training session. As I waited for them to gather up clothes and bags, their coach told me he was impressed by their increasing ability and enthusiasm. Naturally I enjoyed a moment of fatherly pride. But then he asked loudly in front of the other assembled mums and dads...
"Were you ever sporty?"
I hesitated for a second but decided to be honest.
"Not really..." I said.
That was all he needed and before I could say any more he launched into...
"No. Thought not. From what I've seen on TV, you were a bit camp!"
Just to make the point he repeated the words "a bit camp" several times, while doing a funny voice and flapping his hands about like Larry Grayson, much to the amusement of the other parents. Too camp to be sporty!? I was thrown for a second. My Daft Bloke Who Used to Be on TV guard was down and standing there on the school field I could have been 48 or 14, the embarrassment was pretty much the same.
It was just friendly banter. He didn't mean any harm. Besides he had a point. I had turned up dressed as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, listening to Cher on my MP3 player, eating a cup cake. So I just laughed it off and wandered back to the car with my two muddy sons. But all the time I was thinking...
"Hang on a minute... I was in the Cub Scout football team... I had an all-white Leeds United kit with numbered sock tabs and white football boots... I once cycled from London to Southampton on the hottest day of the year in a vest and Lycra shorts... I can be camp and sporty!"
Surely sport is one of the campest things going anyway. Bright, stripy outfits. Men in shorts. Gary Lineker. Synthetic fabrics. Team bonding. Cheerleaders. Body building. Leotards. The Olympics. Kevin Keegan. Jock straps for goal posts. Isn't it?
I wasn't going to win that one. Sport might have its camp corner but Children's BBC is way out there with tinsel, shopping and Elton John. On Saturday morning television I was part of a comedy double-act who portrayed exaggerated characters in ostentatious and over the top theatrical costumes that made jokes, often laced with sexual innuendo. That's fairly camp I suppose. Out of character I wasn't particularly 'manly' or 'macho' either. The football coach wasn't the first person to have made this observation. I am generally regarded as "a bit camp". Friends and relatives think so too; even my own children.
Check out any online dictionary and you will see the word camp has many definitions, from 'theatrical' to 'kitsch' to 'effeminate' to 'the behaviour of homosexual men'. Although not exclusively so, the word is most commonly associated with the behaviour of gay men. People who know me as a family man, like the football coach, clearly find it so confusing that describing me as 'camp' is the only solution. Without making judgements or wanting to sound defensive though, I am actually straight.
There was a time, obviously before the arrival of Loaded magazine, when I deliberately avoided behaving in a laddish or blokey way because it was trendier to be camp. I was a drama student in the early 1980s. Enough said. But it wasn't just me. This was the era of New Romantics, Frankie Goes to Hollywood and The Smiths. Even working class hero Paul Weller was suggestively posing topless and stroking his bare chest in his Style Council videos. Everyone was camp in those days.
As a young student, adopting camp turned out very useful after I caused the leader of the militant Women's Group to issue the feminist equivalent of a fatwa against me, for crimes against women.
It wasn't entirely fair. It was stupid of me but my reasons were sincere. It was a favour for a fellow male drama student. He was making a documentary about attitudes towards women and sexism and needed some provocative opinions on camera to spice up his film and spark debate. As a budding actor I offered my services and naively starting spouting sexist rubbish about how housewives should be chained to the kitchen sink.
In Manchester University in 1981, faced with the wrath of an angry Women's Group I was lucky to escape with my life let alone both testicles but thankfully the grovelling apologies and subsequent camping around campus saved me. Pathetic wimps like me were no threat to the future of feminism. So I was allowed to live.
My camp tendencies probably go back even further. In the '70s my childhood attempts to emulate pop stars like Marc Bolan, David Bowie and yes *cough* even Gary Glitter, clearly influenced my theatrical bent. As a very young boy my mum even stuck me on the catwalk, modelling children's clothes in the church hall. Vicars and young boys on catwalks. That's more camp than a Shih Tzu in a snow globe. It's no wonder I'm camp. I'm surprised I'm not the full wigwam; the total tepee.
These days I'm definitely not very sporty but I still enjoy the occasional bike ride or a paddle in my kayak (and that's not a euphemism). But in my opinion being a bit camp should not exclude anyone from taking part in or enjoying sport; so here's my Top Ten tips for fellow male campers who want to have a go at sporting activity:
1. Always wear the daftest, tightest or brightest outfit you can find
2. When emerging from the changing room - do a silly walk
3. While doing the silly walk, whistle or hum a retro TV sports show theme tune
4. Carry a handy man bag containing an energy drink and a packet of Mini Cheddars
5. Hop, skip and leap about enthusiastically without demonstrating any skill whatsoever
6. Try to not to get muddy by avoiding puddles even if it means avoiding the sport itself
7. If you are forced to stretch, strain or exert yourself in any way - always make a stupid noise
8. In the pub afterwards ask to see the wine list
9. Go home and watch The Big Bang Theory on TV
10. Write a blog about it
Good luck and have fun!
]]>Me, Greggs and Dead Man's Shoestag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.13156472012-03-02T19:00:00-05:002012-05-02T05:12:01-04:00Trevor Nealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/trevor-neal/
Growing up in the 1970s, the only option for me as far as my mum was concerned was sensible school shoes, measured to fit and all leather. No plastic. No argument. At the time I hated them - until they started to bring out ones with daft gimmicks; like those with a compass in the heel just in case you got lost crossing a mountain range on the way to school.
Not something that really concerned me, living in Southampton, but I appreciated the thought and felt safer for it. I hadn't a clue how it worked but in the event that I did get lost I knew at least I could always take one shoe off, look at the compass and hop in a vague northerly direction.
Another brand which made boring black school shoes more bearable were Clarks 'Commandos' - given this name by the way because they were like British Army Commando shoes, not because you wore them without underpants. Other gimmicks included shoes with animal tracks of woodland creatures on the soles. Maybe the British Army wore them too. That would certainly confuse the enemy...
WW2 German Soldier 1: "Achtung! Foot prints!"
WW2 German Soldier 2: "Britisher?"
WW2 German Soldier 1: "Nein - just a deer wearing sensible size three black leather lace-ups."
Arriving home from school these shoes offered the additional bonus of leaving animal prints across the living room carpet after I'd stepped in dog poo.
By the time I reached the age of about 12 the rules were starting to relax. Outside of school I was allowed to wear 'fashion' shoes. This was the age of glam rock. At weekends my footwear of choice was a pair of green and red, square toe shoes with chunky platform soles and stack heels. These went with my extra wide, flared trousers, knitted tank top and pink paisley shirt, with matching kipper tie. From Clarks Commando to circus clown.
Later, Clarks brought out a very different type of fashion shoe. A 'sensible' fashion shoe which we called Nature Treks. These were made from soft, natural leather with a bouncy crepe or rubber sole which famously featured a leather upper folded asymmetrically across the front.
The general opinion was that they looked like Cornish pasties. Clearly years of Clarks conditioning had messed with my mind because I actually chose to have a pair. Replacing multi-coloured clown shoes with Cornish pasties was another strange style choice, but as comfort goes they were great. I think subconsciously they've been my benchmark for shoe comfort ever since. This causes confusion in Greggs the Bakers when I still can't decide whether to eat my lunch or stick my feet into it.
My search for decent, comfortable shoes still continues, but being a family man with four kids I can neither afford nor justify spending huge amounts of cash on expensive footwear for myself.
Buying good shoes on a budget is almost impossible unless you are prepared to camp out in the shoe department of TK Maxx like a wayward member of Occupy who's been tempted to the dark side by the lure of cut price Loakes.
Thankfully until recently, the need for quality shoes didn't seem to bother my teenage daughters who actually relished buying cheap rubbishy ones. I say shoes but really they were nothing more than cardboard slippers. They only cost something like two pounds but then again they only lasted about two days. Fashions have changed and recently they have discovered the joys of Doc Martens (probably the second most comfortable footwear I have ever owned). The era of them being satisfied with cheap shoes is at an end.
To satisfy my own needs I have turned to second hand shoes or 'vintage' as I prefer to call them. Either title is better than dead man's shoes, which is another name for them and a reason why some choose not to tread the path of vintage clothing at all.
And if you knew an old student mate of mine - it's a very good reason. He once bought a second hand suit from a charity shop only to find some unpleasant remainder of the previous owner still encrusted in the bottom area of the trousers. Undeterred, legend has it that he merely proceeded to clean the trousers with a tooth brush and then wore the suit. And then continued to use the toothbrush.
Fortunately my own experiences with charity shops and vintage clothing have been less disturbing but it's still not easy finding the ideal pair of shoes, with or without shit on them.
Not so long ago, I thought I'd found a good pair on eBay. Definitely no shit. Good quality, clean, vintage tan brogues. Size nine. I don't know if a size nine shoe was smaller 40 years ago.
Apparently clothing sizes have increased in recent years, so maybe shoe sizes have too. Anyway when mine arrived in the post they felt like they were a size too small and particularly narrow as well. I really liked them. I'd been after a pair of decent old brogues for some time and these looked good, so I wore them anyway. They hurt my feet but I was determined not to give up on them.
One day wearing them about town in the rain, I suddenly noticed how comfortable my feet were feeling. I was very pleased. My persistence had paid off. I had finally worn them in and stretched them to fit; a tribute to the craftsmanship and quality of good, old fashioned, leather shoes.
Except I hadn't and it wasn't. The minute I stepped in a puddle, I realised my mistake. My wrong sized feet had in fact forced the shoes to stretch sideways and outwards, finally exploding the stitching between the leather uppers and the soles. Gaping holes appeared along the sides and cold puddle water was soaking into my socks.
As the knackered, old brogues continued to deteriorate, I spent the rest of the day with cold wet feet flapping about like a cartoon tramp. They needed binding with gaffer tape just to stay on. I could feel the eyes of others staring at me. I could sense children pointing and giggling. "Look at that man's stupid shoes!" I half expected someone to give me the price of a cup of coffee.
It was then I spied a branch of Greggs. A lightning bolt of realisation told me that the answer to all my problems was waiting for me inside, between the pizza baguettes and the steak bakes.
Minutes later, I'd binned the old brogues and emerged from the bakers shop with my feet inside two large Cornish pasties, grinning like a circus clown. To top it all, I had also removed my underpants, commando style.
And so, with my head held high and warm toes wiggling in a hot stew of meat and vegetables, clutching a tiny compass in my hand, I headed north along the street with a degree of comfort like never before.]]>Me, Harry Potter and The Woman in Blacktag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.12840312012-02-17T19:00:00-05:002012-04-18T05:12:01-04:00Trevor Nealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/trevor-neal/Harry Potter DVD box set. It's his 11th birthday - the very age when Harry Potter discovers that he is a wizard. I hope my son turns out to be a wizard too then maybe I won't have to go shopping anymore. He can just wave a twiggy stick about shouting "DVDidius Box Settiosa" and it will appear. Job done.
I know what you're all thinking - "No one goes shopping anymore Trev, you big old fashioned idiot! Order it online you nob head". Well I would have done but I left it a bit too late and yes I know that's my fault but now I don't quite trust that it will get to me in time even with next day delivery and there's a weekend in between and if it doesn't arrive on Monday then I'll have to rush out to the shops and find one anyway so I may as well have gone out and bought it from a shop in the first place and now I've ended up with two. So there. That's the explaining about it. But it won't be easy even getting it from a shop. Not where I live.
I live in a small town. It's still 1989 here. It's not like those big cities where modern people live; modern people who walk the big city streets wearing trainers with wings. It's true. I was in a big city this week and I saw a young bloke wearing just that. A pair of green camouflaged trainers that had wings sticking out of each side. When I was a kid I often dreamed about a future where everyone was silver and we'd all fly around in hover boots but I never expected winged faux military sports footwear. I'm hardly one to talk but I have to say he did look totally ridiculous. Like Hermes, the Greek mythical winged messenger for the 21st century in day-glo skinny jeans and big hair, bringing us the message - don't buy expensive fashion trainers with wings, they're a waste of money - you still have to walk in them. If he shows up, just shoot him.
Those modern people from the big cities who snack on kelp noodle super food out of plastic pod trays sipping pomegranate and pumpkin smoothies wouldn't know what to eat and drink in my little town. The local bakers shop still sells shortbread biscuits with pink icing in the shape of Mr Blobby. And that's all. Well and maybe a pasty if you go in before 10.30am. The corner shop sells Happy Shopper cream soda. Where the hell am I going to find a Harry Potter DVD box set?
I know what you're all thinking - "No one buys DVDs anymore Trev, you big old fashioned idiot! Download the Blu-ray version directly into your son's brain with the online Harry Potter film streaming service Pottify". Well I would have done but it seems like a waste of a cheap DVD player to me and anyway I vowed not to download anything directly into my son's brain until he was 16 because of the nuclear threat and he hasn't even had the microchip injected into his ear yet because I was saving that for his thirteenth birthday and anyway if I download anything it won't be Harry Potter it will be Steve Martin's The Jerk. So there. That's the explaining about it.
There is a place nearby where I might find a DVD box set. The out of town shoppingplex for people with cars. I'll drive there. They've got all those shops that "The News" keeps telling us are going bankrupt soon. They had a box set in at Christmas, I saw it. It was Only Fools and Horses. They might have ordered Harry Potter in as well by now but I doubt it. They'll be bankrupt soon. Why bother?
Bloody Harry Potter. He's given me a right headache this week. Not just the DVD box set. His latest film has caused me problems too. Harry Potter and the Woman in Black. Certificate 12A. Certificate 12A means, if accompanied by an adult, any child under 12 can watch the film even though it's completely inappropriate. Now my son wants to see Harry Potter and the Woman in Black with some school friends as a birthday treat. He's walked past the poster on the way to school every day for the last month. He loves Harry Potter films. This one isn't in the DVD box set. So he wants to see it at the cinema. And he's allowed to. It's a 12A. Of course it's a 12A. The film makers know that every young Harry Potter fan in the land will nag their parents to take them to see it.
Then my twin daughters see it first. They're 15. "Dad! Don't let him see that film. It's terrifying. Don't take him!" They're serious. They think if their little brother sees it he'll have some kind of ghost fear fit and throw himself out of an open window. I'm more sceptical. But then they tell me all about it. And maybe they've got a point. Yup! That's a fun birthday treat. Take a bunch of children to watch other children commit suicide; cough up blood and burn to death. Better ask the other parents' permission first I suppose. Big mistake.
My wife texts around. The answers fly back. One parent says. "Your daughters are big wusses! Of course you can take my son to see it. He enjoys mental trauma". Another one - "my son is easily spooked. I'd rather he didn't see it. You are bad parents" - and finally "My son has just seen it. He screamed and had to be taken out of the cinema sobbing". Last year it was me who screamed and had to be taken out of the cinema sobbing. That's because we went to see Big Momma's House 3. This is a chance to get my own back.
I like horror films. I like scary films. They're just films after all. But to avoid any more stress we've decided we won't take my son and his ten year old mates to see Harry Potter and the Woman in Black. They can come round our house instead for Happy Shopper cream soda and Mr Blobby Biscuits. Then they can watch DVDs. That'll be interesting. We don't have many. If I don't manage to find the box set he wanted they'll end up watching Harvey Keitel in Bad Lieutenant, Texas Chainsaw Massacre and The Exorcist.
Happy birthday son!
*I've just looked at his birthday present list. He's just added camouflaged trainers with wings.
Where's that open window!?]]>Me, Benny Hill and the Milkmantag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.12677742012-02-10T19:00:00-05:002012-04-11T05:12:01-04:00Trevor Nealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/trevor-neal/
The Great British Milkman of yesteryear, suburban heroes of an undervalued public service. These cheeky chaps would whistle cheerfully as they sidestepped barking dogs and hopped over garden walls, in their mission to fulfil the daily doorstep demands of desperate housewives in dressing gowns and baby doll nighties, all over the country.
Benny Hill's chart topping tune from 1971 came to mind.
"Ernie... and he drove the fastest milk cart in the west"
Ernie's rival was Two-Ton Ted from Teddington who drove the bakers van. In the song Ernie is tragically slain by a rock cake and a stale pork pie, thrown by a jealous Ted. These days poor Ernie's rival might be the Ocacdo lorry driver, pelting him with kiwi fruit and butternut squash. But as this simple scene played out in my in head, in real life across the street, the milk float screeched to a halt. Well, actually it kind of rattled to a halt but still quite sudden for a milk float.
Then I heard the milkman. No whistling. No chirpy greeting. Just loud and aggressive.
"You f**king stupid c**t!"
My milky memories instantly evaporated like a can of Carnation. He wasn't shouting and swearing at Two-Ton Ted from Teddington or even 'Orrible Ollie the Ocado lorry driver. This was road rage Britain 2012; just another angry man in a milk float and his charmless outburst at an inconsiderate car driver. He made his point I suppose but I'm not sure he felt any better for it. Still shouting and cursing to himself, he trundled away. Written on the side of his milk float was the slogan "Milk and More". The car driver got more that's for sure. No milk though.
Appearing on children's TV meant I had to control my urge to swear if I wanted to keep my job. After so many years the habit's kind of stuck. In the Shawshank Redemption Morgan Freeman continues to ask permission to go to the toilet even when he's freed from prison. That's a bit like me. I ask permission. Then I go to the toilet and swear like a f**king trooper. Some people are just more openly sweary. I know "sweary" isn't a proper word but it's the best way I can think of to describe excessive swearing. Well, apart from "f**king loads of swearing". That's another very good way.
When I lived in a flat in south London, Mr Sweary lived in the same block. Not Mr Sweary from the Mr Men books. Roger Hargreaves didn't write that one. Well I'm fairly sure he didn't. It's not in the box set anyway. The Mr Sweary I knew was a friendly, cheerful bloke. He always greeted me in a pleasant enough manner, just with loads of swearing. Not like he had Tourette's. It was all very casual. Not aggressive either. Just very frequent. Every other f**king word in fact. I'm not f**king lying. It's f**king true. That's what he was f**king like. Not exactly every other f**king word but pretty f**king close. That's why he became known as Mr Sweary. Mr F**king Sweary in fact.
I think Roger Hargreaves must have written Little Miss Sweary though because I'm pretty certain my daughter read it. She's not in the same league as Mr Sweary by any stretch but she's always had a fascination with swear words, even as a little girl. I found a note book of hers one day that contained a short list of 'rude words'. Nothing terrible. Funny really. But I wasn't going to let it go that easily. I teased her often about adding new words in her 'little book'. She wasn't amused. When we moved to live on the coast, I knew she was going to discover a whole new world of them.
Seaside towns are a magnet for swear words. They arrive as predictably as the tide. Scribbled and scratched along the seafront like dead seaweed; inside the draughty promenade shelters, on the grey concrete walls and on faded wooden benches. If washed away, they quickly return to take up residence once more in these natural habitats. Other varieties of rudery find their home here too; like the hand scrawled large penis and hairy balls. Many different types are displayed in all their alarming glory. Their presence at the seaside has been a legal requirement in English coastal towns since local councils first introduced a bylaw, following the Large Penis and Hairy Balls Act of 1971.
But whereas the large penis and hairy balls can only be stared at in silent shock and awe, graffiti swear words offer the ideal opportunity for a curious young child to read them aloud to their parents - or worse - to their grandparents. Like the time we were on holiday in France. You'd think in France you'd be safe. But English seaside swearing is everywhere. Pardon my French. It's English.
So my kids and their cousins were typically amused when, walking back from the beach, my nephew, aged six, decided to read aloud, everything that was written on the outside walls of a French public toilet. I'm not a prude and despite the fake tone of indignation, I'm not really bothered by swearing - it can be a very effective tool; to make a point, to relieve tension and used in the right way, it can be extremely funny. But there is still something very shocking about hearing a young boy shout "c**t" in front of his grandma.
"That's one for your little book", I said to my daughter at the time. She's 15 now. She doesn't need the notebook. It was probably full by the end of her first day at secondary school. This week she swore at me. Admittedly I had been winding her up about something so I was expecting a response, like the usual weary "Oh go away!" Instead, this time she snapped back with "f**k off!"
She didn't mean to. She was mortified when she realised what she'd done and apologised a million times which was kind of sweet. I didn't let her off the hook too lightly though. I went into silent anger mode for as long as I could manage. I'm a dad. That's my job.
Next time she'll remember to ask permission first.
*In my research I discovered there are numerous definitions of the word "pinta". My use of the word is pronounced "pie-nta" as in the old fashioned British slang for "pint of milk" not "pin-ta" as described in the online urban dictionary as - "when a woman passes gas during buttsex".
That's a new one for my notebook anyway. ]]>Me, Paul Weller and the Twinstag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.12523672012-02-03T19:00:00-05:002012-04-04T05:12:01-04:00Trevor Nealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/trevor-neal/
I grew up in Southampton. It was 1977 when I heard first heard Paul Weller sing In the City.
"In the city there's a thousand things I want to say to you" (In the City)
It was The Jam's debut single. I was 14 and suddenly everything fell into place. I don't think Southampton was the city he was singing about though because it was two years before he finally showed up. 1979; the height of the mod revival. Now he was saying things to a million other teenage boys, as well as me. The Jam had become the biggest band around. They were on tour, promoting their fourth album Setting Sons. And I had a ticket.
On the day they were due to play, I was doing a Saturday job in what was snappily called "a shop within a shop". I worked in Debenhams for a company that sold "door furniture" called - Knobs and Knockers. (It's true. I still have the badge to prove it).
Anyway there was me, a teenage mod, behind the counter of Knobs and Knockers, looking more like a knob than a knocker, when suddenly in walks Paul Weller. Paul Weller! In Debenhams. In Southampton. I guess even a mod god can be a knob now and then and he definitely has his knockers but that day he wasn't interested in either. Thank Mod for that. The shame of selling him a knob would have far outweighed the honour of serving him.
To my relief he headed towards the stationary department with his minder to buy a birthday card. Not for the minder. I don't think it was the minder's birthday. I don't know whose birthday it was. It doesn't matter. After hesitantly following him around the shop for a while, I eventually chose the moment to say hello and get an autograph. Paul was polite. He paused from looking at the cards, took the pen and my Knobs and Knockers notepad and signed his name. I floated back to work, ecstatic, with a grin wider than a brass letter box.
I'd waited a long time but finally, that evening; there I was, down the front, jumping up and down to the sound and the fury of Eton Rifles. I have to admit my woollen lined, over-sized, ex US Army parka and blue tonic suit, were a bit warm for the occasion but I didn't care. This was what I'd waited two years to experience. At last. The Jam. Live.
Afterwards I queued to meet the band backstage, alongside an army of sweat soaked, parka clad fans. Soon enough we were chatting again. Me and Paul. Twice in one day. He didn't mention Debenhams. He probably didn't want to embarrass me about the Knobs and Knockers thing. I didn't care anyway because it was then I noticed that we were wearing the same shirt! Me and Paul. Quarter inch, blue and white stripe, buttoned down, Ben Sherman style. That clinched it. We were real mates now - for life.
"Thick as thieves us. We'd stick together for all time." (Thick As Thieves)
And so we have, pretty much. Admittedly it's been a bit one-sided but me and Paul have stuck together for 35 years.
In the late 80s or early 90s, I did an ambulance workers' benefit in London, with my comedy partner Simon Hickson. Paul was on the same bill. He tapped me on the shoulder and asked "Where's the sound check?" I was speechless and just pointed. We didn't talk about the old times together, in Southampton, in 1979, when we wore the same shirt. But that was okay.
Some years later, I sneaked into a recording of Later with Jools Holland at the BBC in which Paul was appearing. I stayed for drinks afterwards and he was there mingling with everyone. I didn't say hello. That's how close we were. We didn't need to speak.
And I think that was Paul sat in the window of a café on Kensington High Street a while back. I walked past and caught his eye. Again, no words were spoken. They weren't necessary. We've always had that kind of easy going friendship.
"It doesn't matter if we never meet again. What we have said will always remain" (Start!)
Paul's been a good friend over the years. He's shared all kinds of interesting stuff with me - Tamla Motown, Fred Perry, Otis Reading, scooters, Tootal scarves, Red Wedge, loafers, Rickenbacker guitars, The Small Faces, Peter Blake, bowling shoes, the Kinks, polka dot shirts, the Who, dog's tooth trousers, northern soul and a whole bunch of embarrassing haircuts.
It's been a long time since we last met. In January he became the proud father of twin boys - John Paul and Bowie (definitely twins not triplets - one named after a pope and the other after a large knife).
So, congratulations, Paul. Now we're both dads with twins. Me and you. I have two other children as well. I'm five years younger than you and my twins are 16 this year. You are 53, with five other children and your twins are newly born. And so now I can give something back in exchange for everything you've given me; For once in our 35 year friendship, at last I can finally share with you something from my experience; from my life. And it's just a few simple words...
GOOD LUCK WITH THAT THEN, MATE!
Oh and here's a punch line for the Modfather and The Proclaimers -
And the Proclaimers said... "When you go will you send back, a Lambretta from America"
*tumbleweed*
I'll get my parka.]]>Me, Morrissey and the Archbishop of Canterburytag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.12155402012-01-20T19:00:00-05:002012-03-21T05:12:01-04:00Trevor Nealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/trevor-neal/
It was a big day for the church. The Archbishop of Canterbury was coming to lead the service. He's a big cheese. Not like 'Britain's Favourite Cheese' Cathedral City. I mean, he's a big wig. And a big hat, to be fair. He's a big noise. A big whisper would be more appropriate in church but it doesn't matter, you know what I mean. If the Archbishop is coming to the local church, it's a big deal. Mum said the vicar hoped it would be full for the occasion and that she'd like it if the family joined her. Fair enough.
By the time we arrived the church was pretty packed. It's not a big church. I hoped to slip in at the back, low key. No such luck. Mum was up on her feet waving. "Yoo hoo!" She'd saved the only seats left - right at the front. Then the vicar, a friendly outgoing man saw us too. "Follow me!" he said cheerfully and then, rather too loudly, "this way please!" and then led me, my wife and the two boys down the centre aisle, right to the front. My teenage daughters had chosen not to join us. They were at home, unusually keen to revise for their GCSEs. Their embarrassment levels would have hit meltdown.
So now all eyes were on us as we were led to our seats by the vicar himself, fully gowned up for the occasion. Like a holy, cross-dressing usherette. I could almost hear the regulars tutting to themselves. "What are they doing here? Is it Christmas again already?" It looked like we'd requested front seats. We hadn't. They were empty because no one else wanted to sit there. Nobody wanted to appear that keen. No-one else wanted to sit so close that they'd be able to see right up the Archbishop's nostrils. Anyway there was nothing I could do about it now. So we sat down and soon enough the service commenced. And there he was. The Archbishop himself, holding his crook, wearing his gown and his pointy hat, just as you'd expect and sure enough, I could see right up his nostrils.
He's a good speaker. But I suppose he should be. He's the principal leader of the Church of England; a line going back more than 1400 years, responsible for leading the third largest group of Christians in the world. He does a lot of speaking. And despite regularly rubbing shoulders with prime ministers and royalty, he still manages to appear relaxed, informal and inclusive. I suppose after all he is just a man, standing in front of a congregation, asking them to love Him.
As you might guess, he wasn't engaging enough for my eight-year-old son. Within minutes, he was on the floor drawing pictures of Club Penguin Puffles - (my son that is, not the Archbishop). Then he started drawing pictures of me, with wild hair and only one or two teeth (it was nice to have hair). By the end, he'd drawn pictures of all the family with wild hair and one or two teeth and a similar one of the Archbishop - who also had what appeared to be horns coming from the top of his head. Interesting.
There was tea and cake afterwards in the church hall and The Archbishop was there, mingling and chatting. Feeling childish heightened the sense of mischief I always get around dignitaries, people in authority and occasionally celebrities. It's not something I'm proud of.
It reminded me when me and my comedy partner Simon Hickson were students in Manchester. We saw Morrissey at the train station. We were jostling for Standard Class seats. Morrissey was heading for First Class. At that time, The Smiths were huge and being lefty students, living in Manchester, we duly worshipped them. Meat is Murder was the big album of the moment and both of us loved it. We knew all the lyrics and everything.
The same sense of mischief overwhelmed me then. And Simon too. As fans you'd think we might have run after him and asked for his autograph or told him how much we appreciated his words and music. But we didn't. Instead we started mooing like cows. Very loudly, following poor Mozza down the platform. Mooing. Like the doomed, brown-eyed creatures he sang about in his vegetarian protest song, Meat is Murder. Moo! Moo!
Why did we do that? Maybe we expected him to be more like a man of the people and sit in Standard Class - so idiots like us could moo at him, all the way from Manchester to London. Sorry Morrissey. I really am a big fan but that I day I chose to show it by mooing at you.
I didn't moo at the Archbishop. He's never released any great records. My wife might have decided to boo him in protest at the Church of England's institutional sexism. But she didn't. On that score, if we had chosen to hold him personally responsible for all the wrong doings of the Church throughout history we could have booed him all day. But we didn't.
Instead I encouraged my son to give him the 'special' drawing he had done. Which he did without hesitation. The Archbishop took the drawing and looked at it - the wild, crazy hair, the lack of teeth, the wonky eyes and the horns on the top of his head. The poor bloke. What was he supposed to say? It was clearly an unflattering drawing even by the limited artistic skills of an eight-year-old and this put him in a slightly awkward position. So he smiled generously. "That's a bit scary" he said and handed it straight back. I left the hall giggling to myself like a naughty kid.
What was the point? None. Why did that amuse me? No idea. Surely this was the most pathetic, half arsed, deluded, non-attempt at undermining authority and challenging the establishment in the history of the world ever. And I encouraged an eight-year-old to do it for me. So cowardly too. Truly pathetic. I beg forgiveness. Pray for me.]]>Me, Suggs and the Unnecessary Pen Incidenttag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.12103002012-01-17T19:00:00-05:002012-03-18T05:12:01-04:00Trevor Nealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/trevor-neal/
It was Friday the 13th.
I wasn't attacked with a machete, by a bloke in a hockey mask called Jason, or anything. I was on the 16.42 from St. Pancras to Margate. If there had been a bloke called Jason on the train (and the chances are there was), he would have been holding a hot beverage in one hand while juggling a KFC Twister and an iPhone in the other, not a machete. He'd have been wearing skinny jeans, a quilted jacket and too much hair gel, not a hockey mask. More likely to spill his Moccachoccochino and drip salsa and mayonnaise all over my shoes, than spill my blood.
Anyway, neither of those things happened.
What did happen wasn't a big deal at all really but at the time it did strike me as quite funny. So I tweeted about it on Twitter. I managed to describe the whole awkward incident in a single tweet. It struck a chord with other Twitterers and I received a few responses.
One caught my attention. It was from a sharp witted man who, amongst other things, writes an entertaining column for a newspaper. His response was this - "I'd get 700 words out of that tweet" and then - "#moneyforoldrope". It was a charming, funny response and it made me laugh but then typically made me think more seriously about myself.
I had just spent the last week or so wondering what to write for my next article for The Huffington Post. I'm new to this blogging thing and although I'm enjoying it immensely, I often struggle to decide what to write about. I've only got myself to blame. It's a not a lack of potential subject matter after all. There are a billion things I could write about every day. So the problem is clearly me. And I know why.
This isn't meant to make me sound deep or clever but the problem is - I think too much. I know this is true because Suggs out of Madness told me.
I was in Magaluf years ago, doing a TV show called Beach Fever, with my comedy partner Simon, and Suggs, the Madness man, said - "You know what your problem is? You think too much". I don't know why he said it. I don't know why he thought I even had a problem. There was probably a reason but we were drunk at the time and I can't remember the details - but he did say those words - and in my book, Suggs is a wise man.
He definitely hit the nail on the head for me. I do think too much. Not in a wise and clever way like Socrates or Plato or Suggs even but just in a hesitant, nervous, kind of way. It's been the same writing these articles. I spend too much time thinking about what I should write instead of trusting my own instinct and just writing.
Not being spontaneous can be a good thing. In polite situations or circumstances of a serious nature, I often get Mind Tourette's. All kinds of inappropriate thoughts enter my head and sometimes I literally clench my jaw through fear that I might say out loud the obscenities inside my brain. At those times I'm glad I hesitate.
I'm generally quite a guarded person I suppose. No idea why. Fearful of saying something too revealing perhaps? Frightened I might say something to offend? Always needing approval? Desperate to be liked? Who knows? Maybe all of those things. Maybe none. But I'm working on it. And I am trying to loosen up.
I'm not exactly prolific now but there was a time when I could barely bring myself to tweet at all. I suffered from Twitteralysis - a paralysed twit. I remember my first time on Twitter. After a few hours of typing inane nothingness, someone tweeted "You've not said anything real yet". That was a bit weird. But it had an impact. Even a year ago, for me, writing an article like this would have been unthinkable. I mainly write scripts. Characters. Sketches. Other people. Writing about myself or expressing my own opinions in print is a new challenge.
By the way, this is what I tweeted that day.
"Dropped pen on train. Cant find it. Young woman next to me lends pen. Then I'm unable to do crossword. Pen unnecessary. Bit embarrassing."
I haven't added to the story but I've written 763 ropey old words #whendoIgetpaid? ]]>Perfecttag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.11857242012-01-05T19:00:00-05:002012-03-06T05:12:01-05:00Trevor Nealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/trevor-neal/
Not everyone's bothered by these things, obviously, but at some point, we will probably all fall into the trap of seeking perfection in something or other.
Something we desire will have to be 'perfect' - something that, by dictionary definition, "conforms absolutely to the description of an ideal type", or "having all the required or desirable elements, qualities or characteristics; as good as it is possible to be."
Some of us might have spent the last few weeks fussing about achieving the 'perfect' Christmas - which is clearly a ridiculous and futile aim, unless you happen to be Jamie bloody Oliver or Heston bloomin' Blumenthal and you just happen to be sponsored by a major supermarket chain and just happen to live on the set of a fake snow covered TV advert.
And just for the record, my perfect Christmas pudding doesn't have a pomegranate stuffed in the middle and it's not soaked in triple filtered, organic Tuscan acorn wine either. It's half eaten, wrapped in foil, at the back of the fridge next to half a tub of out of date double cream, waiting to be re-micro waved at 1am after a night down the pub, thank you very much.
Another recent obsession has been giving or receiving the 'perfect' Christmas present - which this year in the absence of an Xbox 360 for my 8 year old son, was a 3 foot-long blue and orange plastic sniper rifle instead. Much cheaper than an Xbox and it's capable of firing soft foam bullets along the length of our landing, into the shower. Perfect.
His Arsenal football kit was nearly perfect, but it didn't have Van Persie and the number 10 printed on the back. But he wasn't that bothered (he's only been an Arsenal fan for a about a week anyway. It was Barcelona before that) and he still happily wore it from Christmas Day to New Year's Day, gradually accumulating festive food and drink stains down the front.
Food stained sportswear might not be everyone's perfect style statement. But what is? Well, for my teenage daughter, it's a pair of Vans (casual canvas shoes that is, not two vehicles for transporting plumbing tools and building materials) and red jeans. But next Christmas it will probably be something else. Hydrogen fuelled booster boots and a pair of holographic, 3D iGoggles maybe? Who knows? But as long as it's the right brand of booster boots - I'm sure they'll be just 'perfect' - until the next thing.
Perfect isn't constant.
For some unfortunate women the desire for 'perfect' breasts has had tragic results. Ruptured French implants, leaking industrial silicone around the body is far from perfect. In response to this alarming news, a radio commentator said we must all stop trying to conform to a false and unrealistic image of bodily perfection - because we can't all be perfect. Of course we can't. I don't mean to sound like Jessie J, but, nobody's perfect. Nothing is perfect. Perfect doesn't exist. Or does it?
According to a quick Google search, a number of things are indeed perfect. One enthusiastic blogger lists them as: tea on a mountain top, a Leatherman Multi-tool, Moleskine notebooks and hot noodle soup. I would say he needs to get out more, but in fact he's one of those outdoor types so actually he's rarely in.
Hot noodle soup? Not so perfect if you're allergic to noodles. Not if your throat swells up and your skin explodes into a geographic itchy red rash every time you so much as look at a noodle.
And what if you just hate soup? Then no soup is perfect is it? Liquidy food might be your idea of culinary hell - even if it is lightly sprinkled with Heston's gas frozen, crumbled, marinated, ostrich feathers - in fact, especially if it is.
Indoor types might be less wholesome. What makes the perfect pizza? Thin crust, stone baked with Parma ham, washed down with a glass of Prosecco? Or deep pan, with chicken tikka, pineapple and a cheese filled crust with a beaker of Fanta Fruit Twist?
Lou Reed's Perfect Day was feeding animals in the zoo and later a movie too and then home - to more struggles with drugs, alcohol and a troubled ego. For someone else (although I can't really imagine who) it might be sitting down to watch a DVD box set of the complete series of The Darling Buds of May. A Perfick Day.
Striving to achieve perfection though, in an imperfect world where nothing is perfect, just seems perfectly mad. Perfect doesn't exist. Well, except that film starring Jamie Lee Curtis and John Travolta...oh and that storm which engulfs Clooney's fishing boat. Apart from that, perfect doesn't exist. Everything is what it is. Everybody is what they is...or are. No two people are the same. Things that aren't perfect are in fact perfect. That's how it is. That's the way it should be.
We're all wasting our time trying to be or have or do or say something perfect. And we should remember that by not achieving perfect, we're not settling for second best. We're not just putting up with who we are or what we have. Perfect is a non-existent, unobtainable figment of our collective imaginations, fuelled by TV advertising and multi-billion dollar industries. Perfect is a myth. So why don't we all do ourselves a favour, stop tormenting ourselves and just relax?
Imagine a world where none of us felt pressure to conform; to be something or someone we're not. A world where we didn't feel constantly dissatisfied, in our endless search for better or best. That would be perfect...Doh!
]]>We're (All) Doomed!tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.10990862011-11-18T18:00:00-05:002012-01-18T05:12:01-05:00Trevor Nealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/trevor-neal/
It's the classic catchphrase uttered by Private Frazer in Dad's Army. We've all repeated it, (admittedly with varying degrees of accent authenticity), and many of us can still hear the original echoing inside our heads, thanks to the genius of actor John Laurie and the continuous BBC repeats.
Actually, according to Wikipedia, the original phrase was simply:
"We're doomed".
Maybe he said it both ways, in different episodes. Who knows? Someone knows I'm sure.
And they have no doubt dedicated a whole website and chat forum to it.
Correctly or not, on the grapevine of playground chatter - social small talk and pub banter - over the last 40 years or so, some of us have introduced an "all".
Maybe not all of us do the "all". I'm sure there are plenty of serious Dad's Army fans and comedy boffins out there who will claim proudly that they have never made such a ridiculous error - but I'll have to confess - I've done it myself.
I've used the "all". I don't mind admitting it. It's not as bad as the horrendous pop culture slip-up a friend once made. Back in the 1980's, she thought Fun Boy Three's Our Lips Are Sealed was called Island of Seals - and she even sang it out loud - in public. Oh the shame of it.
My point is - correctly repeated or not - "We're all doomed!" has become something far more than just a repeated moment of British sitcom glory. It has become a social tool, and a significant one at that, particularly in moments of conversational awkwardness and day to day feelings of depression.
I would guess that it is being well used right now, in the current climate of economic gloom and global catastrophe.
If you happen, as I often do, to start one of those unfortunate conversations about the news headlines and then get a bit bogged down in the grimness of it all - the impending global economic meltdown, World War III and the BBC's cancelling of Shooting Stars - then Frazer's catchphrase is the stock get-out.
At some point in the conversation, (preferably before you've reached the point where one of you decides to jump out of the nearest window, or climb into the bath holding the toaster), it has thankfully become accepted that one of you will open your eyes wide, arch your eyebrows and say in a high pitched, cod Scottish accent "We're all doomed!".
Polite laughter follows. Mood lifted. Job done. End of topical news conversation. Now you can get back to talking about proper stuff, like shoes and haircuts.
It's no big revelation I know. Every day we use repeated social codes, behaviour patterns and old clichés to avoid acknowledging the fragile and futile nature of our own existence. Frazer's catchphrase, though, is one of my favourites and I don't think I'll ever tire of it. The fact that it has become a repeated cliché kind of makes it all the more fun.
We all know it's coming in a conversation. Sometimes we even say it together in crazy comedy harmony. It's a cosy mutual friend and an emotional shield to protect us from the scary, hooded figure in the corner of the room, pointing a bony figure at us and waiving a scythe.
Some days, the final day of our doomed-nation feels like it's already upon us. You watch the news on TV and it feels like the world is spinning out of control, faster and faster. If you're from my generation, the over repeated words of another Scottish TV character might come to mind.
"Cap'n! The engines cannae' take it any longer".
Scotty from Star Trek warning Captain Kirk from the engine room of the Starship Enterprise that the ship is about to explode.
Or maybe you just get a bit grumpy at the pointless stupidly of it all, and merely mutter, again in a Scottish accent like Victor Meldrew in One Foot in the Grave:
"I don't believe it"
(Begin Media Studies essay on The Use of Dour Scottish Stereotypes in British Comedy.)
"We're doomed!"
In that simple, darkly comic phrase, Frazer was telling those around him that they were heading for an untimely and unhappy end. Inevitable destruction and ruin. Judgement Day. And we laughed.
When we repeat the same phrase we use it to mask our fear of the unthinkable. Our sense of helplessness in the face of calamity. And we laugh.
Thank Frazer for that.
]]>The Queen Sees Naked Couple Snoggingtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.10864692011-11-10T13:05:06-05:002012-01-10T05:12:01-05:00Trevor Nealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/trevor-neal/
The Queen's coming to Margate today. She's going to see a naked couple snogging.
A lot has changed since I left London and moved here, in 2003. People said I was mad. Maybe I was but moving here wasn't. When I lived in Peckham everyone who I worked with at the BBC said I was mad. Maybe I was but living in Peckham wasn't. They lived in Acton and Ealing and Chiswick and Richmond. Media people lived in West London. I didn't. I had lived in South East London since leaving university. So had many of my close friends. I loved it. Still do.
Watching the riot police exercise their horses along a deserted Rye Lane in Peckham on a Sunday morning, from the window of my flat above the Job Centre in 1985, wasn't everyone's idea of "location, location, location". But it was home to me. Some friends had kindly offered me a room to rent and so that's where I ended up. But that's also where I stayed for the next 18 years. Not in the same flat (I'm not mad) - but other flats around South East London - eventually settling in a terraced house back in Peckham.
I lived in the Peckham house when I got married. My twin daughters were born there. So was my eldest son. Life had changed for me. And life had changed in Peckham. Media people lived there now too. Down the road, East Dulwich was media city. You can't move for media people in Peckham and East Dulwich these days. Queuing for their free range, organic, meat flavoured hair products. Shopping for their sun dried; wind cured, oak smoked toilet rolls. Pushing their balsamic sprinkled toddler buggies with their caramelised, sugar-free toddlers inside. I love it. I just can't afford it. This particular corner of South East London changed - big time. As Take That once sang, everything changes. As Paul Young once sang, everything must change. Ch.Ch.Ch Changes. The BBC is moving from Shepherds Bush to Salford. Literally, Media City. That's one hell of a daily commute from West London. Who's mad now then?
Moving away from London had nothing to do with the old cliché about being tired of life. I wasn't tired of life. I loved life. I still do. I loved London. I still do. But I love my new home as well. It wasn't all easy at first. Not long after we arrived in Broadstairs my daughter said a little too loudly in public, "I really miss the South Bank". We quickly shoved a coat over her head, bundled her into the back of our car and drove away at speed, to avoid being stoned to death by local residents. But she soon got over it. It wasn't difficult. There were national treasures here too. We had swapped the South Bank for East Kent. We had the swapped the Thames River for the English Channel, London's leafy parks for sun kissed (sometimes) sandy beaches and we had swapped the museums and art galleries for...um...well...er...the Ramsgate Motor Museum?
Sadly even the Motor Museum eventually closed - along with the Smuggler Museum in Broadstairs (if you can call a collection of scary shop window dummies with beards, a museum) and the Model Village. All gone. But as well as the losses there have been some gains. Useful new shops. Interesting bars and restaurants. A faster train journey. The Old Town in Margate has been transformed. And this year the Turner Contemporary opened in Margate too. A proper art gallery for the area and one which rivals anything of its kind in London. A taxi driver told me it's a waste of money. Then he told me that he'd never been.
The current exhibition Nothing in the World But Youth is excellent. Bright, brash, busy and bulging with bags to see and do.
You can listen to my audio contribution here by the way
But there's proper stuff too. Hockney, Warhol and Blake are there. Peter Blake was there in person last month and he signed my Stanley Road cover. My marvellous moment of Mod 'n' Margate . Turner is there of course and incredibly - something that would have seemed so unlikely during our first summer living in Broadstairs, when my kids were tearing round the windowless motor museum, high on petrol fumes - so is a breathtaking sculpture by Rodin - The Kiss. And funnily enough - it's much larger than you think. Larger than those coffee table book photographs. Larger than life. Two great big naked marble giants snogging. And today The Queen will visit and she will see them.
I took the kids on a bike ride along the cliff tops towards Margate once and I saw a couple snogging in a car. Well, actually I think they were more than snogging, so I encouraged the kids to cycle past quickly, pointing out to sea at a non-existent item of interest to distract them. It's the seaside. You expect that kind of thing in a region steeped in the traditions of Kiss Me Quick. But I didn't expect a Rodin to be just down the road. ]]>The Moon is Backtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.10762652011-11-04T19:00:00-04:002012-01-04T05:12:01-05:00Trevor Nealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/trevor-neal/
Back in the old days we all loved the moon. The Blue Moon, the Paper Moon and the cheesy one. We danced and snogged under The Moon of Love. We loved the Moon so much we even gave it a personality - and a face. Sometimes he wore a night cap and winked at us. He snoozed and snored by day and then woke up at night and smiled. A kind old, wise old, Moon.
Back in the very old days - the dark days - we relied on the Moon for its light; to work and fish and hunt and ride and sail and walk at night. Some of us worshipped the Moon (weirdos) but we all acknowledged its immense importance to our lives and our world; its effect on the seas and all the living creatures on Earth.
In recent history we strove to walk on the Moon. There was even a race to get there. Billions of dollars and rubles were spent on rockets and modules and all manner of space craft. Some were flown by dogs or monkeys; tortoises, fish and frogs. Even guinea pigs were used as guinea pigs. And then finally on 20 July 1969 we got there. A man landed on the Moon. Walking on the Moon. A man with a funny name. A man called Sting. Or was it Buzz? Or...maybe it was Neil actually. Anyway we got there. And then we got there again...and again...and again...and then...we all got a bit bored of it.
The Moon had lost its charm. We had all seen it close up on TV in black and white. Dry, dusty and not a Clanger in sight. Nothing to fear but nothing to get excited about either. On Earth, we started to put all this space technology to better use and created new satellites of our own. The new ones were much smaller - but they twinkled like stars - and they gave us so much. Like German porn channels; the ability to target our neighbours with nuclear weapons; and to drive to the nearest KFC without a map.
Who needs the light of the silvery Moon when we've got 42" LED backlit TVs bedazzling and beguiling us in our own living rooms? Who wants to freak out to a Moonage Daydream when we've got Grand Theft Auto? And who bothers to look at the Moon when we've got The Sun? Life on Earth was good and we didn't care about the Moon anymore. But all that is about to change.
As good as it is for some, the life we have on Earth has been officially branded as unsustainable. The global population is out of control; everyone wants three cars, five laptops and a walk-in fridge freezer and it's starting to get really hot in here. How can we keep it all going? How does an economy grow when it runs out of stuff to buy and sell?
Suddenly our eyes are looking to the skies again. Eyes bigger than our stomachs. Staring hungrily at the Moon. China, Russia, India all want in. A new kind of Space Race perhaps? A race of people who actually live in space? Maybe one day. But for now we just need to get back on the Moon.
The Moon has minerals. Very useful when ours run out. It's even got water - only about a cupful for every 300 tonnes of moon rock - but someone's guaranteed to make a fortune bottling it. But more significantly the Moon has much larger quantities of something called Helium 3. Novelty balloons and silly squeaky voices are here to stay. And so is Nuclear Energy.
Apparently Helium 3 mined from the Moon means highly efficient, waste free, nuclear power without radiation. With energy and minerals we can all carry on happily doing all the stuff we like doing. Eating and watching stuff. Probably not walking in the countryside or swimming in the sea but we'll have holograms for that. And it's all thanks to the Moon. So relax everyone. Keep calm and keep on keeping on. The future is bright. The future is pale moonlight coloured.