Terry....is Vexed

I have a crime to report but I don’t know who to report it to. The police are probably not bothered and Nick Ross has long since hung up his crime(watch) fighting cape. Yet this criminal behaviour is happening now, this very minute, somewhere. When I say somewhere, I mean Facebook.

Technically it isn’t a crime in the strictly legal sense of the word, although come the revolution when my followers rise up and crush the normal state of affairs then things will change. In Hayward’s Britain, alongside new and harsh penalties being dished out to individuals for the offences of noisy children inside pubs after 7pm, slow moving HGVs in the fast lane, and being in any way involved in the production, broadcasting or viewing of ‘Geordie Shore’, I will include a very important social media no-no.

The crime to which I’m referring to is that of ‘friends’ hinting at something in their Facebook status that they never intend to spill the beans on, or at the very least without other ‘friends’ having to go through the long and tedious charade of pretending to give a damn and having to ask them what it is that they are not making explicit and to check that, whatever minor catastrophe has befallen them, it has not left them harmed and/or bereft.

You know the type of thing I’m talking about. You see it all the time. If I were to do it I would put something like ‘Terry is angry’. Well, Terry probably is angry but that’s because he’s just spotted some friend or associate announce that they are ‘pissed off’, or ‘sad’ (accompanied by sad/teary faces).

I guarantee that when I post this blog on Facebook I will find that, within two or three posts either above or below, one of my friends will have unwittingly done this very thing. If it is you then you should hang your head in shame.

Not as annoying but still within the boundaries of criminal behaviour are those that announce they have had a good or bad day/news/trip to the shops, without explaining what it was that made any of these things good or bad.

In essence I’m referring to anything that involves another person having to ask the question “what’s up?”, or worse still “what’s up hun?”. The linguistic abomination that is “hun” should, all by itself, automatically become a criminal offence punishable by public flogging, but that’s a whole other matter.

However, for the main offenders of this heinous act of self-important attention seeking there will be a substantial prison sentence and a lifelong ban from using any kind of communication tools available to you, up to and including talking, sign language, grunting, and whimpering.

We are neither small children nor are we chimpanzees with only rudimentary abilities to indicate we‘d like a banana or that we’ve soiled ourselves. We are all intelligent, literate, right-minded adults who should be choosing to use this glittering social media forum to entertain, educate and inform our friends about the amazing, and wonderful, and terrible things that occur in our lives.

Feeling sad? Tell us why. Help us to empathise. Feeling happy? Share your joy and bonhomie. Nothing to say? Well, for the love of God, if you feel compelled to say something then at the very least try to make it funny.

I have to stress that this kind of behaviour doesn’t happen on Twitter, or at least very rarely, probably due to the overall design of the thing. If you post similar sentiments on Twitter you are likely to be met with a deafening silence which does no good for the soul of the individual seeking love or pity.

In that respect, it is in some ways more impersonal but it forces and encourages wit and imagination, more so than lazily tapping out a few self-regarding and humourless short words to a bunch of friends and family and school friends you haven’t clapped eyes on for 20 years on Facebook.

It’s not that the guilty parties are bad people. They are usually perfectly lovely people in the flesh but put them in front of Facebook and suddenly they are possessed by their inner demons and become immune to the norms of social behaviour. Quite rational individuals feel suddenly compelled to hide behind a status of incomprehensible hints and riddles.

So, as a plea, before my forces march across Westminster Bridge and surround Parliament, I urge you to stop and think before posting. Exercise your brain for a few seconds longer. The rest of us, well, if we spot this behaviour we need to resist the temptation to type out the usual bland and predictable responses and, instead, type the words (in capital letters) CRIME SCENE - DO NOT CROSS.

This simultaneously admonishes your friend for their crime and tells others to steer clear. That way I won’t have to come and burn your house down, so it’s for your own good really.

Hayward FM

According to a report last week, the sales of DAB radios have dropped more than expected, yet radio listening is at its highest point for years. This is of course due to the fact that radio can be accessed everywhere from TVs to phones to toasters. This is bad news for those companies that have thrown their lot into making those retro-styled DAB radios and great news for every tin pot local radio station in the country.

Personally speaking, I don't actually listen to a great deal of radio 'live', unless I’m in the car. I download a lot of podcasts, most of which are scaled down versions of radio shows, or even whole shows, so that I can listen to them at my leisure. The only conscious radio-based routine I have is to put my Sky Gnome onto Radio 4 first thing in the morning.

For those not in the know, the Sky Gnome is a random piece of kit that Sky doesn’t make anymore. It’s essentially a wireless speaker for the Sky box so you can take audio from the TV wherever you go in the house. Technology has overtaken it but it was a pleasingly designed pyramid that’s remained quite hardy and enduring over the years. Anyway, I digress.

So, Radio 4. You see, I can’t cope with music or chirpy DJs first thing in the morning. The last thing I need from my wireless is a 12 year old bellowing at me in estuary English and offending my tender early morning eardrums by playing a Nicki Minaj song at me. For my older readers, Nicki Minaj sounds like a cross between Eminem and Lulu, just with less swearing and Irn Bru.

What I can cope with is John Humphrys or James Naughtie arguing with a politician. No up-tempo beats, just a couple of old men bickering with the world, like more well informed versions of Statler & Waldorf from The Muppet Show.

Give me an hour of that first thing in the morning whilst I’m making a cup of tea and coming to terms with being awake and I’m set up for the day.

Once I’m in the car I can be a fickle listener. Sometimes it’s Radio 2, occasionally Radio 1, and on occasions Radio 5 Live, as trying to listen to that station on the move reminds me of picking up foreign stations on short-wave radio back when I was a kid.

As you can see I mostly stick to BBC stations so that I get my money’s worth out of the licence fee. However, when the present Mrs Hayward is in the car, we have to listen to dreaded commercial radio stations, usually Heart.

“The best music variety” they say. I’m not sure how they can justify that as, whenever the car radio is forcibly tuned to their frequency, the same 5 or 6 songs seem to be playing on a loop, usually current chart based hits. Mind you, twice in 12 hours I heard the same Erasure song from the 90s the other day. Is that what they mean by variety?

The news reporting is also lacking some of the journalistic integrity that you’d expect. I know the BBC has come in for some flak lately, mostly from the same newspapers who merrily print stories without any kind of evidence and then quietly settle out of court later, but even they can be trusted to provide proper news. Heart however prefaced a story on their news on Wednesday by announcing that due to the recession (which I don’t think we’re in anymore, but that’s a moot point) that shopping lists are back in fashion.

Excuse me, what? Shopping lists are back in fashion? When were they out of fashion? And when were they in fashion the first time around? Shopping lists aren’t even a fashionable commodity. They’re just shopping lists. They’re practical items like food or buses or hammers. No-one sees fashion models clutching shopping lists and, if they did, they wouldn’t go, “Look, she’s got a shopping list, I must get myself one of those bad boys this season”.

As far as journalism goes, it’s sloppy. Just like those people who refer to things as being a ‘trademark’, usually in the context of something like ‘There’s Rolf Harris with his trademark beard”. It’s not a trademark, it’s a beard, or a hat, or a personality trait, or just some shit clothes they wear, but not a trademark. Being an Intellectual Property lawyer, this upsets the present Mrs Hayward no end.  At best they mean a hallmark, but that in itself probably upsets goldsmiths.

Maybe I shouldn’t be too bothered about this. After all, it’s due to my wife’s poor choice of radio stations that I’m subjected to inane DJs, adverts for local garden centres, and whiny voiced girl rappers. Yes, I’m talking about you again, Minaj.

I’ll just go back to listening to The Archers or Ken Bruce (I love Popmaster) when she’s not around. Perhaps technology will allow for these stations to be hot wired into my brain so I can tune out Heart and tune into something that’s not going to make me want to keep banging my head on a wall over and over because it’s less painful than hearing ‘Moves Like Jagger’ for the 13 millionth time in 10 minutes.

I might try to make one myself. I can call it my trademark radio brain thingy. Right context? Probably not. I’ll give Evan Davies a tweet when he’s next on Radio 4 and see if he can get me a slot on Dragon’s Den.

I’m out. 

Talking 'bout the Car Wash

I confess. I'm bang to rights. I cannot shy away from it any longer. I, Terry Hayward, am a lazy man.



Now this may not come as such a shock for some people. The present Mrs Hayward for one. It's not a universal laziness I must say. It really comes down to the onerous task of cleaning. Especially the car. 



Sometimes I think our car is too small, which is a ridiculous thought, but when I have to clean the thing it suddenly takes on the size and dimensions of a tank.



This is why the last time I actually cleaned the car myself was some time in the last decade. In the intervening years I have discovered the joys of the automated car wash. I think it's because I always wanted my parents to go through one when I was a kid but they, in my opinion, were too tightfisted to take their car through the car wash, instead preferring to attack it with a bucket and sponge.



To young Terry the automated car wash appeared to be like a wonderful theme park ride, where the car would be engulfed in bubbles and buffeted by jets of water whilst I sat inside. I lead a sheltered life. Did I mention I came from the Isle of Wight...?



Of course the automated car wash isn't quite as exciting as that, although there's always the danger that the big drying implement is going to develop a fault and smash through the windscreen thereby decapitating me. I do like that thrill of danger in everyday tasks.



However yesterday, when considering a trip to the car wash, I decided that the inside of the car also needed a bit of a spruce. So I eschewed technology and visited one of those car washes manned by real life people. The hand car wash.



It was a new and exciting experience. Firstly my vehicle and I were ushered forwards into their lair, whereupon some men with limited English escorted me out of the car. They then attacked the inside of the motor with heavy-duty vacuum cleaners, removing all manner of debris and detritus.

Once this was completed I was encouraged back into the car, to drive around to the next stage where two rather large-handed men sprayed waterjets and foam at the car whilst I was left sat inside, wondering if that chip in the windscreen might finally develop into a crack and then smash altogether, cascading glass fragments and bubbles all over me like an S&M foam party. 



Once these burly men were satisfied that their job had been done they beckoned me to go further forwards in the car as they pursued me with their high pressure water jets. I then had to vacate the vehicle again as yet another big man came along and opened the door and nodded to the side. Even more men then descended, I know not from where, with cloths and chamois leather, and they hastily wiped the inside of the windows and the dashboard.



I was impressed by their speed and efficiency. No nook or cranny was left untouched and, before I knew it, it was all over and I handed a crumpled ten pound note to the big man.



Heading away from the car wash I noticed that they'd kindly attached a magic tree air freshener to the indicator stick on the left-hand side of the steering wheel, an unusual place to put it I thought. So now not only is the car sparkling clean on the inside, I also have a faux cedar smell wafting throughout.



As I drove away into the mean streets of Peterborough I realised that my days of visiting an automatic car wash were over. For just a few quid more than the automatic car wash these gentlemen had transformed my motor back to the days when it was nearly new. So much so that I was inspired to go and buy some new mats for the floor. 



I look on it that I'm keeping the wheels of industry turning and doing something to reinvigorate the British economy. Or at the very least the Polish economy. I may be a lazy man when it comes to cleaning the car but I'm a very energetic man when it comes to supporting local businesses.



Well that's my story anyway.

Wherever I Lay My Hat........

I don’t know whether it’s nature or nurture but somewhere deep within me there’s a Romany spirit. Not in a Big Fat Gypsy Wedding kind of way, I’m not likely to buy a caravan or aggressively manhandle women in a car park; it’s more wanderlust.

One thing I’ve learnt about myself over the past few months is how easily I settle into a routine, and that makes the flighty part of my brain quite cross, and so I always have that urge to up sticks and see another part of the world.

I suppose I could have gone backpacking when I was a younger chap but it didn’t appeal. At the tender age of 17 I’d discovered beer and girls and the thought of holing up in a bivouac in a desert didn’t seem as appealing as the new world I was exploring in my own back yard. It’s also not about just visiting somewhere, but moving lock, stock and barrel somewhere for a year or two, and to really live somewhere, warts and all.

I can only guess this may have something to do with the fact that I lived in three places before the age of 12. To a young and expanding mind this sets out the stall for how you live your life, constantly on the move. That need for a change of surroundings becomes the routine.

I never really moved that far, but there was always a change of school involved, and so that created challenges in maintaining friendships and having a sense of place, but I don’t think it harmed me. If anything it made me less clingy to one location because my childhood memories were scattered around.

So, for no good reason I’ve compiled a quick assessment of Hayward Homes past and present. All the places I lived and the ups and downs. Or the downs and ups, we’ll see how it pans out.

Calbourne, Isle of Wight

Technically I didn’t live in Calbourne, I lived at a place called, according to the map, Five Houses, but Calbourne was the nearest village. There weren’t actually five houses there. There were two and one of those as I’ve mentioned before was haunted. Also, the place was overrun with spiders, woodlice and other creepy crawlies, it was a good bike ride to get to my friends’ houses and there was an Alsatian who used to come and shout at me. 

On the plus side however there were fields, and countryside, and so many places for a young lad to play. Farmers’ fields were just massive play areas and I have very fond memories of the place. Had I reached my teenage years there it would have probably driven me insane as there was nothing much to do, unless I was going to become a farmer, but that didn’t happen, which is a relief as I can’t milk a cow and the smell of manure turns my stomach, so all to the good.

Nursling, Hampshire

Technically I didn’t live in Nursling either, but again it was the nearest village. I lived on Foxes Lane. It’s not there anymore; it’s now a B&Q car park. When I did live there though it was like Calbourne but with added fun. A motorway had split Nursling in half and we were on the abandoned side. Next to our house was a steep embankment. This could only mean one thing; a length of blue string tied to a tree meant that I had a makeshift abseil rope.

Behind our house there was a patch of what we called ‘the wasteland’ where I used to play with friends. It was a fairly uneven patch of land but the tour de force was what appeared to be a large crater. Many hours were spent speculating what may have caused it, a crashed spaceship being our favourite option, and we’d go searching for the aliens that were obviously now hidden out in the nearby Industrial Estate.

There was plenty of countryside on our doorstep, and a railway track, amazing for someone who came from the Isle of Wight. I accept that there’s a railway line on the Island but not like this one. These were exciting trains that went to exotic destinations, like ‘that there London’. There were some horses in a field opposite the house who I used to feed cow parsley to (not sure if I was supposed to), and there was an abandoned road we discovered where we could cycle up and down with abandon. Also, when I got older and braver (about 10) and my parents were out, I could cycle to Redbridge station and catch a train to Southampton on my own. My parents never knew, and that’s what made it all the more exciting.

Totton, Hampshire

Totton felt amazing when I arrived there as a tender 11 year old. It was only a normal town with houses, and streets and shops but I’d never lived in one before. When I finally left, in my twenties, I realised I’d been there too long as I’d grown to hate it. Everything about it just seemed to annoy me, the miserable, ageing shopping precinct, the large Asda dominating the town centre with the same faces behind the tills that were there when I was a kid, and the lack of a decent public house, one that wasn’t filled with aggressive track-suited chavs, all meant that I still to this day slightly resent visiting it.

It did, however, have its plus points. All my friends were a stone’s throw away, it’s close to Southampton and public transport links were, in my day, good. Having a big Asda was actually quite handy, and I was always slightly impressed by Eling Quay. There’s Totton looking a bit run down and sad, but walk a couple of streets and there’s Eling with it’s boats and church, and tide mill, and pubs. It was an incongruous sight, but a very welcome one.

Leicester, Leicestershire

I loved Leicester. On the surface it’s a fairly standard East Midlands city but it became my home when I chose to go to university there in the 90s, to the point that my visits home during the holidays became less and less frequent.

I can’t pinpoint what I loved exactly, maybe it was the convenience of a city, the freedom to be away from my folks, the many wonderful pubs, the many friends I made, a lot of whom were residents of that fine city rather than my fellow students. The only reason I left was because I ended up living on my own in a grim studio flat after my degree course, flitting between temp jobs, and I realised I needed to save some money, but it was a wrench and I remained a very frequent visitor for the next couple of years.

After years of pining for Leicester I recently realised that the flame has dimmed and it’s been consigned to the back of my mind as being ‘that place I used to live’. Leicester has changed, the pubs I drank in have closed and, in some cases, bulldozed to make way for the future, and with it my memories and fondness have faded, just a little.

Sheffield, South Yorkshire

Sheffield was the city I cheated on Leicester with. I made new friends, drank in new pubs, and rode on the tram system, even once going as far as Halfway just to see what was there. Not much, as it turned out.

I’m fond of Sheffield and for some reason it felt like a thrill to live there but I’m a sucker for dramatic views, and my bedroom window in the attic of an old stone house on a hill meant I could see all across the city below and all the way up the hill on the other side. It was magnificent.

The atmosphere of the city was always great and of course Meadowhall is on your doorstep for all your retail opportunities. Myself and the present Mrs Hayward were tempted to move here after I finished my course, but she got offered a job near her home in Peterborough and so fate played a hand in my next move.

Stamford, Lincolnshire

When the (at the time) future Mrs Hayward and I first moved in together it was in a little house by Stamford railway station. In the brief 18 months or so we lived there we got married so I have a lot of fond memories of that time. I also have a memory of streaking naked around the little court of houses we lived in, so ecstatic was I that Rowetta had been voted out of The X Factor. I may have had a little bit of alcohol before venturing on this scheme and the amount of heart attacks I caused to our elderly neighbours is unrecorded.

I still love Stamford, it’s a beautiful looking town and I would move back there in a heartbeat. The only down side is the cost of houses. For the same price as our barely two bedroomed house by the station, you could buy a good sized family house in, somewhere, er, well, like…..

Bourne, Lincolnshire

Ah yes, the hometown of the present Mrs Hayward. Say what you like about it, and I often do, it’s a nice little town with a couple of decent pubs and a motor racing heritage that was celebrated the other weekend with a cavalcade of old cars being driven by the likes of Damon Hill and Sir Jackie Stewart.

There’s also nothing nicer than driving back home after a day in ‘that there London’ to the tranquillity of the countryside. I don’t have to lie in bed at night listening to lorries rumbling past or police sirens or goods trains loaded up with gravel, the most you hear in the dead of night is the occasional Owl hooting in the distance. OK, so one night a Fox was outside screeching and it scared the be’jesus out of me but that’s about it.

The slight downside is the travel. If you want to go anywhere you have to drive for half an hour before you come to a decent road, and if you want to catch a train you have to travel back in time to the 1950s as the line has now long since gone. If you want to catch a bus you can, but only on every second Tuesday, and then only if the moon is on the wane. Bourne. You’ll never leave.

So that’s it. That’s where I am. In deepest darkest rural Lincolnshire. Those itchy feet though, they’re getting itchier, and no amount of athlete’s foot spray is going to cure that. The Romany in me wants to hitch up his caravan and move on. Time to stick a pin in a map and see where I end up? Perhaps, but I suspect that if I suggest leaving Bourne to the present Mrs Hayward she might just stick a pin in me. Ouch!!

Low & Mighty

I have come to the conclusion that I am either the most common, run of the mill, Mr Average you are ever likely not to notice, or that I am an abhorrent, mutated, freak of nature.

Some of you will have already formed an opinion but hear me out, I’m going somewhere. You see the thing is, I went out at lunchtime today to look for a new suit. Nothing special, an everyday, run of the mill suit for going to work and sitting at my desk and pressing buttons and, well, we’re not here to talk about the nature of my work.

I wasn’t looking for an expensive suit, just a cheap one. The cheaper the better. So I ventured to a local large supermarket who I was confident would be able to furnish me with just the very thing.

I mean, what better place to go, with their huge square feet of retail opportunities, surely I would be spoilt for choice of colours, shapes, and sizes? Well, that is, apart from my size it would seem.

Now I don’t think I’m an unusual size, a bit short in the arm maybe, but not so much that anyone has ever mistaken me for a Velociraptor. 

However, try as I might, not one suit jacket was available in my size. If I’d been some long-armed giant I would have been well catered for. They had lots of suit jackets for these mythical massive-chested gangly creatures, but nothing for someone a bit smaller.

Let me be clear, there’s no way I can ever be described as petite either. The last shirt I bought was a medium size (a fact that had me dancing about and whooping with such glee in a changing room that other customers were concerned that I was either being attacked by a troupe of boisterous but well-meaning Vikings, or that I was having some sort of operatic-themed seizure, but that’s another story) so I’m smack-bang in the middle of average sized clothing for men of my demeanour.

So there you go, case solved, I’m Mr Average but one who’s turned up to the shop too late to get any clothes that fit him.

The thing is, as I’ve mentioned, my size has recently, well, shrunk a little. This I understand to be a good thing. After all, no-one says to you “Have you put on weight?” Well, not unless they’re an elderly relative. They seem to revel in that kind of socially challenging behaviour.

However the thing is that even when I was a little portlier around the midriff, I still struggled to find clothes. So have the rest of the country’s men shrunk with me or, well, what? 

So I have a choice. I either need to shrink further so that I am the size and shape of Yoda from Star Wars, or that I grow upwards and outwards so that I become Mr Creosote from Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life.

It’s hard to know which way to go, but after a recent trip to an all you can eat buffet restaurant last week I think it might be easier to slide down another “wafer thin mint” and get clothes shopping.

I can always trim the sleeves down.