Looks Familiar

I never really understand it when people say that someone has 'one of those faces'. I’m not sure what it would mean to have ‘one of those faces’ although I suspect it’s not a good thing. My face has so far got me through life without too much embarrassment. More importantly it got me through school without being beaten up, despite the glasses, and I went to a rough school so it’s a badge of honour as far as I’m concerned.

It has been claimed that my face resembles those of a couple of famous folk. Some charming friends claim I look a little like Elton John, although I don’t see it myself. I wouldn’t mind being a few quid behind him although I don’t think I’d enjoy his lifestyle, that would be a little too camp, even for me.

The same friends have also suggested that I look like the former writer of Doctor Who, Russell T Davies. Now this one I see. It’s a pity there’s no ‘Stars in their Eyes’ for writers of TV sci-fi, I would win hands down, and I just wish he would do something naughty and salacious as that might open up the opportunity for me to make some money as his lookalike.

Take a look for yourself, what do you think?

Having said that, Russell and I have the same look as 99% of all Doctor Who fans. Seriously, if you ever see the attendees at a Doctor Who convention it’s like witnessing the birth of a scary clone race of bespectacled middle aged men. The geeks will inherit the Earth, although all they’ll do is hunt down obscure British actors who played bit parts in old Jon Pertwee episodes so they can get their autographs.

I’m not often mistaken for anyone else but it seemed to happen quite a lot in Leicester. Well twice, and quite close together.

When I blogged last time I mentioned Leicester Market and this reminded me of mistaken identity number one. There I was, wandering through the covered area of the market, near the little shop that sold knock-off electricals, when I became aware of a strange little man following me. He reminded me of a modern day equivalent of Baldrick, short and grimy with hair stuck flat to his head. I figured he was either being weird and walking too close to me or he was about to mug me, either way I strangely decided to bring the matter to a head and find out, and so I stopped dead in my tracks. As did he.

I turned to look at him, not sure quite what my next move was going to be but he broke my train of thought by saying “Hello”. I figured that muggings don’t usually start with such social pleasantries so I said “Hello” back but then I had to ask the obvious question, “Sorry, do I know you?”

He believed he did, “Victoria Park” he said. I considered this for a moment. I knew where Victoria Park was, I’d been there once for a Radio 1 Roadshow but that was about the limit of my knowledge of the place, other than it looked like quite pleasant with people walking their dogs or kids having a kickabout on a Sunday afternoon. My new associate obviously thought I was being a little coy and decided to prompt me. “The toilets?”, he enquired.

The present Mrs Hayward says you can tell what I’m thinking by the look on my face. Baldrick must have got the message pretty quickly as I could barely stutter the words “I’m sorry but you have really got me mistaken for someone else” before he disappeared in embarrassed haste back into the crowded market. I stood there aghast for some time, horrified that he thought that I was someone he may have had an illicit liaison with in a public toilet. Who did he think I was, George Michael? Really, I’m not that sort of boy at all. I know I drank a lot when I was a student and got into all sorts of situations but that was definitely not one of them.

Sadly, as if to fly in the face of my protestations, mistaken identity number two starts with an encounter in a public toilet. Well, a pub toilet to be precise.

I used to go to a pub called ‘The Victory’ on Welford Road every Sunday night, sadly it’s not there anymore. I had joined a successful quiz team and we soundly thrashed the locals every week much to their disgust. Whilst visiting the loo one night I was contemplating the answer to a particularly difficult geography question when I became aware that the guy to my right was staring at me. Just to explain to any ladies reading, when you’re standing exposed at a urinal this is not the done thing. It’s not toliettiquette, if you were.

I glanced across as if to say ‘stop staring at me’ when the chap, a tall man with a brown bushy beard, said “Hello”. Having learned nothing from my previous encounter I politely said “Hello” back whilst rapidly finishing what I was doing. As I was in the confined space of a pub toilet I decided to keep things cordial so when he asked me how I was I said “Fine, how about you?”

“Not too good” he said, “my Dad died the other week”.

“Oh” said I, “I’m sorry to hear that”. My brain was screaming at me to shut up, I didn’t even know him let alone his father.

He went on to ask me if I still drank in ‘The Mailman’. I’d never drunk in ‘The Mailman’ in my life but rather than tell him this I just said no, which was, in some respects, true. I tried to concentrate on washing my hands but he kept talking. He asked if I’d seen much of Dave recently. I knew someone called Dave and I hadn’t seen him recently, so regardless of whether mine and his Dave were one in the same, which was unlikely, I just said no.

He then asked me the killer question. “Do you still play with the band?”

This should have been my opportunity to say, “You know what, I think we’re at crossed purposes here, I don’t think I’m who you think I am”. That would have been the sensible thing to do. However, thanks to several pints of Everards Tiger (our winnings from the previous week) my brain decided that I’d gone too far and I may as well carry on with this charade. I was as surprised as anyone when I heard myself say “No, not for a while”.

Band? What band? I didn’t even know what instrument I was supposed to play or what the band was called. On my way back to the table he persisted on questioning me about people I didn’t know and I tried to be as evasive as possible until he left, which was after a good five minutes of him being stood by my table of friends, all of whom were becoming more and more baffled as they listened to our conversation.

When he eventually left I explained to them how this had all come about and they thought it was all quite amusing. So there it was, a funny pub story to tell people. Except it didn’t quite end there. I kept seeing him, in different places, and we’d have the same conversation about people I didn’t know and bands I’d never played in (I played the drums apparently).

The final time was when I was working behind the bar of a pub called ‘The Vaults’. He turned up at the bar, I served him a drink, and we started the usual ‘going nowhere’ conversation but I had nowhere to escape to. After a while another guy joined him and he decided to introduce me. He explained how I was Dave’s mate and I used to be in the band. The other chap looked confused. I think he knew straight away that I wasn’t Dave’s mate at all and could see that the nearest I had ever come to being in a band of any sorts was when I played the triangle at Sunday School.

They eventually retired to a table and I could see some animated conversation going on and they occasionally looked over. I suspect this was the evening that someone put him right and I do wonder what he made of my elaborate, if accidental, deception, because I sure as hell didn’t know how I’d got there. I was just being polite. Eventually I left Leicester so I never saw him again, which probably worked out well for both of us.

I suppose in both cases there’s a lesson to learn; if you are mistaken for someone else it’s probably best to own up to it straightaway. Otherwise you risk being arrested for lewd acts in a public toilet or asked to step in when the band’s drummer is taken ill, and with my sense of rhythm that really is a bad idea. 

Mind you, I got to do an encore.

Laughter Lines

Today I laughed at the wrong moment. It wasn’t a big problem, and not a very big laugh, more of a snigger, but completely in the wrong place. It was just something that someone said, which seemed funny to me, at the time.

I can’t share it with you because I don’t even remember what it was that was said exactly and the person who spoke didn’t mean it to be funny, it was just the way they expressed themselves. Upon hearing my small outburst the other person just stared at me blankly as if I were a fool, and my work colleagues ignored me, as if this was completely normal behaviour for me, as if I am a serial sniggerer, that I have some tourettes-style affliction to cackle at things that aren’t meant to be funny. Which is a worry.

I have a fairly dark sense of humour at the best of times. I sniggered when my mother-in-law told me a few years ago that she (or someone else) wasn’t going to a funeral as it had been cancelled. What? Did the deceased get better? Was it a terrible mis-diagnosis? I have a vision of the funeral directors loading the coffin in the back of the hearse and hearing a faint tapping from within. I can hear all the insincere explanations, “Sorry about that but you did look dead”.

I laughed when I saw an old man fall out of a wheelchair. God, that looks bad written down doesn’t it? Oh, but it’s true. You should have been there. It was hilarious. I’d come out of the back of WHSmiths near Leicester Market some time in the late 1990s (it wasn’t a time travelling branch of WHSmiths I might add, it just happened to be the 1990s at the time, it wasn’t a crappier version of ‘Goodnight Sweetheart’ where I turned a corner and ended up in 1996, sorry I’m going off the point) and there was this elderly couple parked up.

The wife had just hauled her husband out of the car and into his wheelchair but he wasn’t happy and was bellowing instructions at her while she buzzed round to try and get him organised and her bags out of the car. Unfortunately she had parked his wheelchair with the back wheels perilously close to the kerb. He didn’t realise this as he was facing the pavement but whilst she was distracted he decided that he wasn’t satisfied with where his good lady had placed him on the pavement and, giving up on his approach of bellowing orders at her, reached down to move the wheels forward.

Unfortunately this endeavour didn’t go as well as he’d hoped and his wheels rolled backwards ever so slightly towards the kerb causing the whole chair to tip backwards. For a moment, as the front wheels left the ground, he was suspended for a moment, neither falling nor completely on terra firma. In that moment I caught sight of his face. He knew what he’d done and knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. I don’t know why but that instantaneous look of panic followed by annoyed resignation to his fate struck me as funny.

He proceeded on his backwards descent and then all hell broke loose with the market traders rushing to help while I slunk back into the doorway of WHSmiths with tears rolling down my face. He wasn’t hurt, the poor old duffer, just a little shaken but perhaps next time he’ll leave the wheelchair manoeuvres to his long-suffering wife. Does that sound terrible? Perhaps you had to be there. If it had been on ‘You’ve Been Framed’ you’d have raised a smile, I promise you.

Then there’s the road ragers, they’re proper hilarious. This guy came racing up behind me on the A14 one Friday night. Now I’m no slowcoach myself but before I could make way for his obvious haste he decided he would undertake me instead and wave at me with his fist slightly clenched. I understand this to be a sign of aggression but as he was a little red faced fella his anger amused me and I smiled. Then I laughed, and before he could get past me it was clear that I was not sympathetic or threatened by his behaviour as he could plainly see me sat at the wheel hooting with laughter at his puffed up face. He roared off in disgust which was even funnier.

Mind you, about 10 minutes later I got caught up in a massive traffic jam and the chap on the radio said there’d been an accident ahead of me near Huntingdon and thus the A14 was shut. I sat in the traffic hoping it wasn’t my little red faced man who had gone further up the road, madder than ever that some ugly speccy idiot in a tie had just had the temerity to laugh at him and, with tears of rage in his eyes, had wrapped his souped up Vauxhall Astra around the rear bumper of an Eddie Stobart lorry.

I don’t know what the moral of this story is. Maybe that laughter is the best medicine, unless of course you’ve just driven into a truck, fallen out of a wheelchair or nearly been buried alive, in which case there are other medicines which will be of better use to you.

A Fishy Business

On balance, I think that it's fair to say that I like fish. They can be very tasty, like a nice bit of Battered Cod or Haddock, or a tasty piece of Salmon. I’ve even ventured into the world of Monkfish and I once had a Paella in Ibiza that looked like the aftermath of an explosion in an aquarium. I’ve also had fish as pets, mostly Goldfish, who don’t do a lot apart from swim around looking a bit confused. Thinking I knew everything I needed to know about fish you can imagine my surprise to encounter some fish who had set up their own business and entered the world of dermatology.

I’d heard from a work colleague about a new shop in Peterborough “…where fish eat your feet”. This got my attention from the off. I immediately decided that I wanted to know more so, out of curiosity, I wheeled past in my lunch break. Sure enough, one of the units in the Queensgate Shopping Centre, in between a shoe shop and a cycle emporium, was occupied by tanks of small black fish where people can go in and part with their hard earned money to dip their feet in and have the little blighters munch at your dead skin.

There were a number of people in the establishment with their trousers rolled up and their legs in the fish filled water but even more stood outside staring in at this phenomenon in disbelief and, in some cases, horror. A woman next to me caught my eye and pulled a face. At least I think that was what she was doing. Maybe she just had an unfortunate face. I smiled back in an ‘it takes all sorts’ kind of way but I had already decided that I was definitely going to have a crack at this.

When I got home I explained the plan to the present Mrs Hayward and a friend who was staying with us. We were going to ‘Appyfeet’ on Saturday morning to have our feet eaten by fish. I figured as they’d been on a spa day that they might be partial to a bit of alternative therapy, and, after plying them with a few glasses of wine, it turned out that I was right.

So Saturday morning there we were, stood at the counter, happily parting with £10 to put our feet in a tank of fish for 15 minutes. We filled in our health questionnaires and signed the disclaimer and Mrs Hayward quizzed the young lady on the counter about the whole process. “Will it hurt?” – it doesn’t, the fish don’t have any teeth. “Do you feed them with anything else?” – they do, every night. “Do they just eat the dead skin” – no, they’ll strip your skin to the bone like Piranhas, yes they just eat the dead skin. “Can I catch anything off the fish?” – yes, fin rot, no it’s completely safe.    

So after rinsing our feet off like we were at the swimming pool (no, still haven’t filled my form in before you ask, but I will), we were poised over our own tank full of the little vampire fish. They’re actually called Garra Rufa but I’m no David Attenborough so I can tell you no more.

With some trepidation we dipped our feet in the tanks and the little fishies swarmed around our feet like we were in some aquatic version of ‘The Birds’. Our friend screamed, which startled the other customers if not the fish, but it was more to do with the initial feeling which is like having your feet tickled by, well, small fish, but very quickly you relax into it and let them get on with their job.

I can’t put my hand on my heart and say that you forget they are there, after all it’s a load of little fish snacking on your feet, but it’s not entirely unpleasant. I watched on as they got stuck into my heels with relish, and when I happened to open my toes it caused quite a stir to the point that I was concerned they were going to get themselves trapped in there. I’m sure I even saw one brandishing a nail file but I may have been getting carried away with the moment.

After our 15 minutes of fishy therapy we took our feet out, dried them off and marvelled at their respective smoothness. Now I’ve been to a Chiropodist in the past who chopped off my dead skin with an aggressive looking knife but at least with the fish I didn’t have to discuss with them where I was going on my holiday this year or risk blood being drawn. The effect was pretty much the same as well; my feet felt like I was walking on cushions afterwards.

Mrs Hayward was particularly impressed, which is surprising as she’s not usually the biggest fan of our animal cousins. This is the woman who at Whipsnade Zoo questioned whether Penguins were fish or birds, much to the amusement of the primary school kids near us.

She reckons she’s going back for another dose of fish nibbling and I would suggest that you try it out for yourself and see what you think. After all, it’s a talking point and 'Appyfeet' is not just confined to Peterborough, according to their website they’re springing up all over the place.

Maybe I’ll be tempted back but for the meantime I’ve booked myself in with a Spider Monkey that does Reiki Head Massage. I’ll give you his number.

Genius

I have finally realised what my ideal job would be after many years of trying different ones including a spell as a dinner lady, which was good for a free meal at the end of the shift, and as a regular in police line ups (I was the one that hadn’t done it) which was easy money really. The rozzers rang me one Friday evening and asked if I could grow a beard by Monday. I’d just shaved but said “yes, no problem”. Hell, you got £20 just for showing up. 

What I should be doing (apart from what I do now of course – “Hello” to anyone from work!!) is to be shut in a room on my own staring into space. I’m serious, because in between the long periods of time when nothing appears to be happening I will suddenly get an amazing, life changing idea that will make my employers richer than Avarice. As I am also an altruistic person by nature, which has now been scientifically proven, I share my ideas so that people with a bit of commercial nous can go and take my idea and develop it into a money making reality. All I ask for is a bit of cash from the profits so that I can go and get myself the occasional pint and a packet of salted peanuts.

Today I had two, yes two, amazing money making ideas which I am happy to share with you. Prepare yourselves, this could tear up all your preconceptions about society and change the world. Your life will never be the same again. Ready? OK, then I will begin.

Let me give you three words – Drive Thru Chippie. No? Bear with me.

I was driving down the A14 this morning and my journey took me past an abandoned pub called the Trinity Foot, which in itself is a great name. I intend to poach the name ‘Trinity Foot’ and use that as my pen name if I ever start writing crime novels.

As sad a sight as this once former public house is I could see why it wasn’t going to succeed selling intoxicating liquor next to a busy A-road and nowhere near any conurbations. While I was thinking about what else this unassuming building could transform itself in to, it came to me. A Drive Thru Fish n’ Chip Shop.

It stands to reason and I can’t believe that no-one’s thought of it before. Simple, quick, and popular fayre, by the side of the road. I know that Harry Ramsden has spread his empire out a little but he’s not yet tried to take on the big boys of drive thru, like McDonalds and KFC. Of course my new venture needs a memorable name, ‘Chips Ahoy’ being my favourite, with a large, bright sign drawing in weary, hungry travellers.

As I travelled on I saw disused ‘Little Chef’ sites, more prime locations for your favourite fish n’ chip drive thru experience. ‘Chips Ahoy’ can even break out into the breakfast market with proper bacon butties, not that fake stuff you get in McDonalds (a flat sausage – that’s witchcraft I tell you). Drinks would have to come in canned and bottled form, as you would expect, and include the favourites like Coke and Lemonade but also more left field beverages like Cream Soda and Dandelion & Burdock.

I’m telling you now, this is a guaranteed copper bottomed winner, and you’re welcome to it. All yours. Go and make some cash but don’t forget who gave you the idea. I’ll accept a free meal as payment.

You’d think that was enough and my work was done for the day but no, it doesn’t stop there. Second brilliant idea of the day came when it occurred to me that the Royal Family don’t do what all celebrities do. They don’t write autobiographies. Well, Edward VIII did but he’d gone rogue by that point.

Now I’m unaware of any law banning Royal Autobiographies so maybe they’ve just never been asked. So there we have it. ‘The Queen: In Her Own Words’, or ‘Reigning in my Heart’, or ‘Elizabeth II, Rest of the World 0’. something like that.

Imagine the stories she has to tell. Seriously, if Kerry Katona can knock out an autobiography about her pointless existence then so can Her Majesty, and it’ll have more interesting stories in it to boot, although probably not so many about drug binges, winning ‘I’m a Celebrity…’ or quitting ‘Atomic Kitten’ before they got famous.

That aside, can you imagine what a best seller Liz’s book would be? Absolutely hugely massive, another guaranteed money-spinner. Now, I don’t have a publishing company at the present time and, in any case, given my comments about the Windsors in my last post I suspect I’m not the person to approach her until she’s cooled her jets a little, but I’ll happily take 10% of the profits, as I came up with the idea.

So there you go, give me a room and a pad of paper and I will make you millions. Any takers? Lord Sugar? Peter Jones? Duncan Bannatyne? Anyone….?

It's a Royal Knockout

I have to say I’m no Royalist. In fact I once used to have the opinion when I was young and foolhardy that the Royal Family may as well face the Guillotine and have their severed heads placed on spikes so that the tourists could queue up and have their photographs taken with them. I reasoned that it wouldn’t put your average visitor off as they probably savour a touch of the macabre in their lives, hence the popularity of such attractions as the London Dungeon and Madame Tussauds and the continual popularity of ITV murder based crime shows like A Touch of Midsomer Lewis and Thyme.

Being a bit older and wiser I have mellowed in my opinion especially since I realised that, in reality, the Royal Family have no impact upon my life for the most part, despite the letters I get in Her Majesty’s name from the tax mafia. However today I am, in some respects, glad that my plans to remove the heads of the royal household didn’t come to fruition as they have finally done something of note, and without the Queen’s husband offending anyone.

It has been announced that to celebrate the marriage of Prince Somebody to somebody else the pubs are able to stay open until 1am on the day of the wedding without any need for permission. Hooray!! God bless you ma’am, etc.

Let’s face it, nothing shouts ‘Royal Wedding’ like a BOGOF deal on blue WKD and some drunken women screeching ‘I Will Survive’ into the wee small hours on karaoke. Maybe I’m just thinking of one particular pub in Bourne, but you know the pubs I mean. Because at the end of the day it’ll be these rat infested hell-holes that will take advantage of the government’s generosity and not the nice pubs in town like Smiths (Smiths of Bourne, look it up, it’s very good).

I can hold out hope but you know the type of pub that’ll stay open, it’ll be the ones with no hand pumps, just keg lager fonts. The ones that have Sky Sports on continuously and which during the World Cup would have been head to toe in England flags (if of course the cross of St George had the JJB Sports logo in the middle of it – seriously, buy a proper flag!!!)

You know the type of pub I’m talking about, there’s always some really old drunk guy in there who everyone says used to be an ex-boxer but his family disowned him and he now gets into fights so that he can be assured of a bed at night in the local nick. It’ll be those pubs where everyone stares at you when you go in and the décor hasn’t changed since about 1992.

It’ll be those pubs with several fruit machines, but no quiz machine, and a minimum of three pool tables where you know it’ll be ‘winner stays on’ at all times, because that’s what the big guy with the tattooed head and the chunky jewellery says, and who are you to argue when you suspect he’s probably carrying a knife and a number of anger management issues, especially since his wife left him/went missing.

It'll be those pubs that are always ‘under new management’ and every Saturday night there’s a police car parked outside it after someone looked at someone else the wrong way, and always promotes its drinks offers on those neon pieces of card cut out in a star shape.

It sounds like I’m knocking these establishments, and I kind of am, but this is because they’re not to my taste. I prefer to have a nice quiet drink (preferably a real ale or two) in civilised company without the underlying threat that if I accidentally brush past someone at the bar then I will find myself in A&E with the blunt end of a pool cue down my throat and the impression of some geezer's oversized ‘Dad’ ring emblazoned across my face.

I may sound like an ungrateful subject but it’s never the nice pubs that stay open late on these occasions. I like a pub with a convivial atmosphere, where you can buy wine from a proper bottle rather than from a little pump at the bar, and they serve other spirits rather than just vodka (check the optics, if you can see at least four industrial sized bottles of fake Smirnoff then back away slowly, but be careful not to spill anyone’s pint).

I also like to go to the loo without traipsing through the puddles of other customer’s urine, where they don’t sell whiskey flavoured condoms or inflatable sheep out of a machine, and without someone staring at me when I’m trying to pee.

Oh, and be careful if you happen across a guy called ‘Cheeky Monkey’, but that really is another story. 

A Taxing Problem

I'd thought it couldn’t get any more complicated than last year. It all started when I found out that I could claim back some tax relief on my mileage through work (yeah, I know, boring, but stick with me) so I completed a simple form and sent it off to the nice people at HM Revenue & Customs. After a few weeks they requested more information like a mileage log, my job description, my P60, my blood type, the name of my first pet, and what my ideal Sunday afternoon would be. Despite thinking that some of this information might not be strictly relevant I decided that I still wanted the money so I politely did as requested and sent it off.

A few weeks later they wrote to me again – my form had become detached from the paperwork, so could I complete another one? I grumbled a little but I duly filled it in again and sent it off. A few more weeks passed and they wrote to me once more to tell me that all the paperwork that my previous form had become detached from had now also gone missing into the ether. I was beginning to get the impression they didn’t want me get my greasy mitts on the cash but I pressed on, re-sent my paperwork and after another few weeks they acknowledged my tenacity and sent me a nice cheque for a couple of hundred quid which was less than I expected but very welcome all the same.

So this year I considered whether it would be worth the hassle of the 'Groundhog Day' scenario of constantly filling out and sending the same paperwork over and over again but decided that the money would be nice, perhaps just after Christmas, to tide me over into the New Year. So I sent off a new form………and that was my first mistake.

The now not-so-nice people at HMRC wrote back to me to tell me that my form was worthless to them as I had blissfully passed unawares across some arbitrary threshold. As I understand it my last three salary payments have been made to me on dates corresponding with a waxing crescent moon and consequently they need me to fill in a dreaded tax return.

A couple of days later another letter arrived, they had obviously had a chat amongst themselves and come up with an amazing wheeze just to annoy me. This new letter explained that they’d decided that I should fill in a tax return every year, bwah-ha-ha-ha-ha-haaaaa!!!!!! OK, so the letter didn’t include the manic evil laughter but it may as well have done.

What the tax mafia don’t seem to realise is that me and numbers are only passing acquaintances. I can add and subtract and multiply and, at a push, divide, but I don’t like it. I like calculators and Microsoft Excel that do all the hard work for me without having to scribble archaic symbols and cross out lots of numbers because they’re not the right numbers, according to the number police.

The problem is that whilst numbers dominate us every day, for me they have no heart. They just exist to make me happy or sad, rich or poor, young or old. They carry no romance. I know, for example, there’s a road called the A1. I drive on it occasionally. I like to see landmarks on it, like the Harrier outside RAF Wittering, or the pointy-roofed Little Chef at Markham Moor. But the name, the A1, is emotionless. Now if you call it by its other name, the Great North Road, immediately I am thinking of stagecoaches and Dick Turpin, and I know where the road leads to. Cars are the same. An Audi A5 or a BMW X3 may be good cars but I would rather go back in time and have a Triumph Herald. It sounds nicer, like it was made by the fluttering wings of Angels.

So the thought of filling in a tax return with more meaningless numbers does not fill me with any thoughts of pleasure, but many hateful and resentful feelings towards Her Majesty, and her Revenue & Customs. Seriously, if she invites me to her Grandson's wedding I’m not going now.

When they receive my online journey into numerical hell I’m sure they will be less fascinated with my receipts from filling stations the length and breadth of the UK, they won’t care where I’ve travelled and what wonders I’ve seen, they’ll be more interested in whether my earnings are such that my tax code should change from one meaningless number to another.

In the words of ‘The Prisoner’, “I am not a number, I am a free man”. Unless of course I make a real hash of it and I end up in prison. Anyone know a good accountant?

Vorsprung Berk Technik

I have realised that I know nothing useful about cars. I like to think that I know how to drive them although those who have been my passengers may disagree. As to what goes on underneath the bonnet I have no idea. For all I know, under the mass of metal that technical people call ‘the engine’ there could be monkeys on tricycles making it move, although I’ve not seen any mention of this in the adverts.

What made me think about this was an occurrence on the way to Southampton on Saturday. There I was, minding my own business, cruising down the A43 at a steady speed when suddenly I noticed a jolt on the accelerator pedal and my speed slowed. It’s then I noticed a little innocuous light on the dashboard. Illuminated was a little picture of a car next to a giant spanner. Even to the mechanically illiterate like me it suggested that all was not well.

The present Mrs Hayward, who up to this point had been sound asleep, was suddenly awake and sat up attentively like a Meerkat, as if some sixth sense had kicked in. I abandoned the A43 at the next junction while Mrs H rummaged around in the glove compartment for the manual to ascertain whether it was my fault so she could shout at me.

This little event has made me realise that, unlike men of yore, in the event of a car-related breakdown I am helpless and have no option but to put myself in the hands of the gentlemen from the Royal Automobile Club. Of course there may also be ladies in said club but I’ve yet to see one fixing cars, and I’ve been rescued by a few now.

So the sad fact is that I know absolutely nothing about how the car moves, apart from putting petrol in it. I have seen under the bonnet and am aware of some key areas, such as oil and water, although this is only as a result of a previous mechanical misdemeanour. This means that I can stare thoughtfully at the dipstick and declare, apropos of nothing, that we need more oil, or possibly water. I am also familiar with screen wash. In fact I would call that my specialist area after the actual driving part.

Other than that my knowledge of things such as tyres, carburettors, suspension, etc, is non-existent and I have to nod sagely and make what I think are appropriate sounding noises when the man from the garage flagrantly ignores Mrs H and discusses the vehicle’s woes directly with me.

I’m good in a crisis though. I know how to stop a car when the engine blows up whilst in the fast lane of a motorway (the A1(M) near Peterborugh on a cold December night – they deployed an RAC man to come and get us, but as he was in Durham he wasn’t a lot of use to us), or at a junction when the cam belt had been chewed off by the monkeys and snapped (A34 on another cold December night – we were towed out of the way by the police and I left the steering wheel locked so the WPC in our car had quite a surprising journey around the roundabout), or when the clutch broke (Danes Camp Way, Northampton – a passing motorist with a fag hanging out of his mouth arrived and investigated our hot engine without starting a fire, much to our relief), or when the handbrake snapped while I was trying to park on a very steep hill (City Road, Sheffield – I had to go and find a flat piece of land to park it on, which if you’ve been to Sheffield you’ll know is quite a challenge).

So, I should learn more about the motor vehicle as, whilst my driving style is sometimes flamboyant a la James Hunt or Lewis Hamilton, I don’t have a reassuring pit crew in easy distance to sort the problem out. Surely the very least I should know, as a man with a house and a wife, is to how to change a tyre.

In the end we solved our most recent problem by following the advice in the manual – by turning the car off and turning it on again. It seemed like a very 21^st century solution.

Maybe the monkeys just needed a rest.

Terry the Fish

I have made tentative enquiries about swimming lessons. It feels a little embarrassing if I’m honest, that a big old lump like me should be looking at donning fluorescent armbands, grabbing hold of a polystyrene float so tightly that my hands fuse onto it and take to the water. That is of course if I’m going back in time to 1982 to have these lessons.

OK, so my tentative enquiries have so far consisted of looking on the Bourne Leisure Centre website. The next is filling in the application form and dropping it off. Apparently lessons start three times a year; in January, April, and September. The website outlines that lessons are for adults who are beginners and are a “little afraid of the water”. A little? Let’s see, how about very afraid. So afraid that I am convinced that every time I step into a Municipal Baths that I am about to drown, horribly, possibly whilst choking on a discarded plaster.

This is why I need to grow into this idea slowly. My plan is to go to the pool with the present Mrs Hayward and build a little confidence. Mrs H is concerned about this as she feels that I will be relying on her to rescue me if I get into trouble but I have pointed out that a) they have their own Lifeguards and b) I am not likely to go much further than waist deep. Most probably I will be overtaken by three-year-olds sliding elegantly through the water like Conger Eels whilst I cling on to the edge of the pool as if my life depends upon it.

When I go on holiday to places where there is a pool or even better, the sea, then I do, over the period of the week, take tentative steps into the water after unflatteringly inserting myself into a rubber ring (usually the one that looks like a big tyre – it’s about as manly as rubber rings get).

Over the course of the week my confidence grows until I am happy to bob around, slightly out of my depth. Weirdly I prefer the undulating sea rather than the flat sterile pool. I even like a bit of a wave to sweep me back to shore a bit, although this could have ended in disaster in Gran Canaria a few years ago when the mother of all waves reared itself up and I had no choice but to be swept along in the hope that I stayed upright within the ring.

For once my beer belly saved my life as I was so jammed into the thing that even the cruel sea could not extract me from it. The fact that I surfaced somewhere off the coast of Morocco is neither here nor there.

So, the plan is in (slow) motion and I’m quite excited that before long I will be cruising through the water like Flipper. I may be too late for the Olympics in 2012 but look forward to my future career as a thong-wearing Lifeguard on the beach at Skegness. It’ll be like Baywatch: Lincolnshire.

Watch this space.

Fit as a (large) Fiddle

I used my new Wii Fit Balance board for the first time yesterday. Anyone who has done likewise will have had the same experience as me. To get to the fun and games you seem to have to confess to being an overweight and unhealthy slob and set targets to improve your health. All of these shameful and embarrassing confessions are played out in front of a gurgling and chirruping machine that warns me that I am so unfit that I will probably die very soon, probably whilst I’m on my way to the fridge to check out that slab of Stilton that’s been demanding my attention and offending the nose of the present Mrs Hayward. It has even made me commit to losing some weight in a couple of months and, rather disappointingly, made my little Mii character slightly more portly than I’d designed him.

Don’t get me wrong, the Wii Fit Board is a marvellous little bit of kit and once it’s told me the sad news that I’m so hideously obese that I may have to take down a wall to get out of the house and that I lean to the left a bit (although that could be to the right as I had the board round the wrong way for a time) the games are fun, and this is the point of it. It’s a gaming device rather than a miracle weight losing machine for those of ample girth, despite what Helen Mirren says.

So for a real improvement to my fitness I’ve committed to a couple of New Year resolutions that will either be ‘kill or cure’. One is to do a fun run in Peterborough in October. I don’t like running unless it’s to the bar at last orders so I’m chalking this one up to a mid-life crisis in the same vein as last year’s plan to walk up Mount Snowdon.

Added to that list is learning to swim. Yes, I know, I should be able to do this at my age but I can’t and somewhere along the line I gained a fear of being more than waist deep in water. I particularly don’t like swimming pools because they’re slippery so heaven help the person who tries to teach me to swim.

I also have a secret resolution to watch less reality TV and go to the pub more, but I don’t think my Wii Fitness trainer will approve, so I won’t mention it, not just yet.