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.