Welcome to Venice, Lincolnshire

Turning on my TV this morning I was greeted with the usual early morning diet of news and features but, try as I might, I couldn’t find a single network that was reporting on the major news story of the previous day: The Great Bourne Flood.

It’s almost as if this remote backwater of South Lincolnshire had been rendered invisible to the news gatherers in that there London. They were more interested in dramatic pictures of The Shard being struck by lightning than some soggy yokels up to their knees in water, for shame.

Yesterday started warm and sunny, I was working from home but keeping a keen eye on the weather. Having recently laid fresh grass seed in the garden to deal with some threadbare patches and noticing how little green shoots of recovery were pushing their way up from the ground, I ensured that they were being kept fresh and watered. What better though than actual rain water to turn my sparse lawn into a lustrous green tableau of wonder?

As the afternoon progressed the dark clouds rolled in and I opened a window near where I was working so that I could hear the life-giving pitter-patter of gentle raindrops. I perhaps should have taken heed that all may not be well when the forthcoming shower was heralded by a blinding flash of lightning and an almighty clap of thunder so loud that I feared that the very fabric of reality had split asunder, releasing all manner of hellish demons and mischievous sprites upon the world.

The rain quickly arrived, falling hard and fast. Then it turned up a notch and came down even harder and even faster. The rain god looked down upon this small town and was dissatisfied. He stared hard at all the options available to him to up the ante with this deluge and decided to smash his fist down on all of the buttons at once just to see what would happen.

What happened was an impossibly deafening increase in precipitation with a healthy and prolonged burst of hailstones, just for good measure. This kept going for about an hour without much letting up.

I wasn’t concerned; it was just a heavy shower, nothing to worry about. I looked out of the rear window behind where I was working. The garden was getting a little moist and the paved alleyway where the bins are kept was starting to gain large puddles but nothing out of the ordinary.

I continued to work and had just come off the phone to a particularly unhelpful individual at a well-known healthcare provider when I heard a dripping sound from nearby. I closed the window but it didn’t help. There was still a sound of invading water coming from somewhere nearby.

I quickly ascertained that it was originating from my right hand side just behind a shelving unit full of DVDs. With a bit of puffing, panting and swearing I moved the unit to one side to see a damp patch on the carpet. I followed the trail of the dripping water up to a cupboard attached to the wall. I opened the cupboard and, sure enough, from somewhere within this cupboard the offending rainwater was emanating. The only problem was that this particular cupboard was housing the fuse box and electricity meter.

I am, as I have observed previously, not a practical man in any sense. I looked at the bewildering array of switches and dials in desperation. My eyes were drawn to the biggest of the switches, helpfully coloured red. I couldn’t see what the label underneath read as time had faded it, but I figured that it would either turn everything off or be the ‘self-destruct’ switch. With considerable trepidation I reached in to the cupboard and, whilst making my peace with the world, I flicked it downwards.

Thankfully this seemed to do the trick as I found myself still alive and in a strange half-light in a silent house, apart of course from the incessant drumming of the rain. Electrocution avoided I deployed all manner of buckets, cloths and tea towels into the affected area.

Catastrophe averted I looked out of the window, only to see that whilst I’d been distracted the puddles outside were now a raging stream. Not only had the gutters given up, the drains had become redundant. I found some wellies and splashed outside to see if I could assist the drains by clearing them a little. This only had a very mild effect as more rain was falling from the heavens than being swept away by the drainage system, even with my assistance.

I looked at my grass and realised that I could only see half of it, the rest was underneath a newly formed swamp, replete with a frog hopping merrily amongst it. I retreated indoors, threw more towels at the dripping fuse box cupboard and stared miserably out of the window, wishing I’d been one of those people who’d won a speedboat on ‘Bullseye’ back in the 80s. ‘Now they’re laughing’, I thought.

After what seemed to be an interminable age the rain decreased a little and, whilst on the phone to a colleague, I looked out of the rear bedroom window to see that the road behind our house had turned into an actual river. In amongst this river was a fire engine with some sturdy firemen up to their knees in murky brown water trying to establish how they were going to fight the elements.

Funnily enough I nearly had need of firemen at lunchtime when I came close to setting fire to the kitchen whilst grilling some sausages. I reasoned that having suffered fire and flood I only had plague and pestilence to go therefore I may as well venture outside for a closer look.

The one thing that draws human beings together is a bit of a drama on your doorstep. In about half an hour I met and chatted to neighbours that I only knew as nodding acquaintances or had never seen before yesterday afternoon. Everyone had a tale to tell; where else there were floods, which roads were blocked, how they remember when this happened 20 years ago.

I, along with one of my neighbours, went wading into the water to see how deep it was, just like those reporters on the news. I then did what everyone does these days, took a photo and posted it on to Facebook.

Today is another day, which it would be really. The water has been pumped away. Upon calmer investigation I discovered that thankfully the incoming water had missed penetrating the fuse box by millimetres although still too close for comfort, and my garden is now less swampy and full of pond life. My newly sown grass is probably doomed but at least I didn’t live down the road behind ours as that floodwater came perilously close to turning up as an unwelcome house guest for some.

Yet still no contact from any reporters from the BBC, ITN, Sky News, CNN, Fox News, France 24, Al-Jazeera, or any of the other news organisations I can remember that sit within the 500s on my Sky box. All they want to talk about is UKIP or Russia which is most disappointing.

There’s a story right here folks, just waiting to be told, which will now fall into Bourne folklore.

“Those floods of 2014, I remember them well. The water was so high they had to send a Cross Channel ferry to rescue us, oh yes”.

Fire in the Sky

As I was walking back into town on Saturday night I found myself considering my attitude towards fireworks.  I say walking back as I’d made the journey not 20 minutes before, but I’d barely got myself settled with a warming pint of Bateman’s Salem Porter when I had a nagging doubt that I’d left the iron on. 

Visions of my house turning into a hellish inferno took over my mind to such an extent that I decided that I had no choice but to head back home and check. 

Unsurprisingly I’d done no such thing and the iron, unplugged and stone cold, sat on the ironing board mocking me and so I made my way back through the wind and rain to the comfort and warmth of the pub.

On my way home I heard the pops and crackles of fireworks from a local display and occasionally caught sight of a burst of colour, mostly pinks and greens, above the trees and rooftops. It brought to mind a conversation that I’d had just a couple of days before when I had my hair cut. 

Whilst discussing the issues of the day, the hairdresser (not a barber you’ll note, I’m so metrosexual) told me that she was going to be going to a firework display nearby as she had apparentlydone for time immemorial. She asked if I was going to a similar eisteddfod of pyrotechnic wizardry and I told her that I wasn’t.

She seemed somewhat taken aback at this response and enquired whether I didn’t like fireworks. I went to answer but my brain hit control-alt-delete and I realised that I had no answer to the question. I don’t dislike fireworks, I’ve been to firework displays in the past, plenty of them, but equally I don’t seek them out as the basis for a night out. If they occur incidentally to whatever is going on then all to the good.

In essence I realised that I was indifferent to fireworks, or possibly ambivalent. In fact the latter indecision of whether I was indifferent or ambivalent kept my mind occupied until I returned to my pint, whereupon I instantly forgot my concerns and focussed on which Halloween themed ale I was going to try next. For the main part I stuck with the Porter as it brought me the greatest satisfaction on the drinking front, but I digress.

What it made me realise was that some people really like fireworks. Maybe it’s the inner child that enjoys explosionsand bright colours but, to me as I get older, firework displays mostly lead to disappointment as unless you’ve thrown a ton of money at it equivalent to the national debt of Greece you’re going to get something pleasant but unimpressive.

Let’s be honest, the firework industry hasn’t really evolved since we were all knee high to a grasshopper. My expectations may be, quite literally, sky high but imagine if fireworks could explode and create, oh I don’t know, animal shapes like rabbits, and dogs, and kangaroos, or if they lit up the night sky in such a way that for a few brief seconds we saw famousworks of art like the Mona Lisa or The Haywain hanging magically in the air? Now that would be quite something.

Perhaps I’m wishing for the impossible but there must be someone out there who’s willing to have crack at it? I’m telling you, firework art, it’s the future.

Piggy Back

It was two weeks ago, as I was passing the TV on my way to bed, that a news reporter stated that this could be Andy Murray's year. 'Here we go again', I thought, 'the same old hype about a British sports star only for it to end with them crashing out before the quarter-finals. It had happened so many times before with Tim Henman.

To be fair, I know nothing about tennis. I certainly didn't realise that Andy Murray is a little bit better at the old tennis game than Mr Henman was. 

As Andy Murray is a Scotsman this lazy comment by a sports journalist grated a little. It reminded me of every single year that David Coulthard raced in Formula One. It became a running joke amongst a group of friends of mine that every year David Coulthard would say, or someone would say about him, it's his year. Of course it never was. 

So in this digital multimedia social networking age I whipped out my phone and decided to put a humorous comment on Facebook. I was about to liken Murray to Coulthard. It would have been a little joke that would only be appreciated by a couple of people but that was fine.

As I was just about to put thumb to touch screen I thought of something more ridiculous to say instead. So it is now on record that I stated, just two weeks ago, that if Andy Murray won Wimbledon this year I would paint myself luminous green and ride a pig naked through the streets.

I chuckled to myself about this ludicrous image and went off to bed not thinking anything of it. Sadly in the following weeks it appears that some 'friends' have picked up on this. People who hitherto had no interest in tennis are now following it eagerly. I'm being kept abreast of Andy Murray's progress via numerous Facebook updates and text messages. 

Some people have questioned my bold statement. Some people have even accused me of being anti-British. This is of course not the case at all. My observation was about the hyperbole that surrounds any British sportsperson, regardless of their abilities, which often leads to that sense of disappointment and the feeling that as a nation we're a bit crap, which could be avoided if we kept our expectations in check. 

However, if by not supporting a Scottish tennis player I'm anti-British then so be it. Especially as he is reportedly not a big fan of the English himself. As we know, quite a few of our colleagues north of the border would quite happily be rid of us Sassenachs. 

Besides, who said that I wasn't going to ride a pig in celebration at Andy Murray winning? It might be the case about that I will be so overjoyed at this result that I'll be prepared to do something so bizarre. 

So today has come and he's made it through to the final. Am I stressed about this? No, not in the slightest. I'll be pleased for Murray, and won't be concerned that a van from a pig farm is going to show up outside my house.

To put it quite simply it's not really going to happen is it? The logistics and legality of the  whole operation would probably make it a little prohibitive to start with. 

Even if there was a possibility that I could ride a pig down the street painted bright green, I certainly wouldn't be doing it naked. It wouldn't be terribly dignified for either myself or my porcine friend. It would also get me arrested.

By all means I will welcome any mocked up photos, or sketches, or cave painting depictions of me on a pig but I'm not exactly going to be proactively seeking out a mighty hog to ride this afternoon. 

I'm sure there will be disappointment amongst many of you. I mean, if it happens it happens but it probably won't.

The positive news is I've learnt more about tennis than I did before. Always useful for a pub quiz. I still don't understand the rather complicated scoring system but I do know that Marion Bartoli won the women's final. 

I've also learned that if you make overblown statements on Facebook some people might take you more seriously than you intended. 

I fear it may have been a statement that will come back to haunt me one day when there's a knock at my door and one of my friends is stood  there with an Old Spot and a tin of green paint. 

If so, then maybe I'll be the one on the news. Hog me up baby!

Under the Sun

I've previously reflected within this blog that I really don't learn from my mistakes, and thus I am doomed to spend the rest of my life repeating the same stupid things over and over again.

For instance, you would think that if you suffered from sunburn once you would vow never ever to suffer that pain again. Apparently though I seem to welcome sunburn as if it's an old friend.

Let's just examine the evidence for a moment.

2004. Lanzarote. 
Ignoring the fact that I was holidaying near the Equator in the middle of July I failed to remember that I might need to apply some sun cream on my back as I took a tentative venture into the warm Mediterranean Sea. In just a short 20 minutes my back and shoulders were grilled like a piece of smoked bacon. For the following days I couldn't put on a shirt without weeping. I made the best of it, it was my honeymoon after all, and despite the pain I still managed to bop to the Bulgarian Bee Gees who were playing in our hotel. Mind you, the 2 for 1 Cocktail hour helped to ease the pain a little. I vowed, of course, never to get sunburnt again. 

2009. Somewhere in the south of France. 
It was a windy day but the sun was shining as we ventured to the pool. Paying more attention to the wind than the sun I failed to apply any suncream to my pale white legs. They burnt. For the rest of the week I avoided trousers and every time I went to the shower I had to dance around so as to avoid too much direct water contact with my legs, because instead of soft and gentle water pouring down my body I felt like I was being bombarded with sharpened hailstones. I vowed, of course, never to get sunburnt again.

2013. Bournemouth. Yes, Bournemouth. 
I was being sensible, at least to start with. I'd stopped on my way to the beach and bought some sun cream. I applied it carefully and liberally across my face and arms. Before extending this operation to the rest of my body I fell asleep on a sun lounger. Some hours later I awoke wondering why my knees felt a little warm. I applied some sun cream but unfortunately it was too late. My legs looked like giant Saveloys, my right foot had increased in size by about a third, and the burn marks on my calves looked like I'd been involved in some sort of industrial accident with hazardous chemicals. I have vowed, of course, never to get sunburnt again.

Time will tell of course, but my track record with this kind of thing isn't exactly encouraging. 

All I can tell you is: don't do it. Its not worth the pain. Just because I have the memory of a goldfish with Alzheimer's doesn't mean to say you shouldn't learn from my mistakes. 

In fact if just one person remembers my idiocy on a hot summers day and applies sun cream when they may not have done normally, I will feel that I've done my public duty.

Just stick the knighthood in the post. Ta! 

Terry in June

As I write I can see bright sunshine forcing its way past the thick curtains and into the room. The light is beckoning me to get up from my winter induced malaise and the heat from the flaming orb is daring me to venture outside and bare (in a civilised British way) my anaemic and ghostly legs until they are rendered aflame.

It's amazing what a spell of clement weather can do for the restless soul. I'd spent many weeks staring discontentedly at the all pervading grey skies and the rain battered landscape. My usual sense of stoicism in the face of British weather had evaporated as the months rolled past with no regard for the seasons. 

I had ranted at the impotent weather forecasters. Well, most of them. It's hard to get angry at BBC Breakfast's Carol Kirkwood as her effervescent and uplifting personality is quite inspiring first thing in the morning, especially when she's forecasting doom and gloom in a jolly manner whilst sheltering under an umbrella at a flower show. 

I had raged at unseen deities of various religions (I don't discriminate when apportioning blame for snow drifts in May) and had already begun to form half-arsed plans to abandon this chilly sodden rock and decamp to a warmer location. Mexico appeared to be a suitable option as I've always been fond of their hats. 

Thankfully, whichever one of the Gods that controls the weather, most likely to be one of the Norse ones, suddenly heard the rumblings of discontent and has now put 50p in the meter, flicked the right switch, and something reminiscent of summer has now arrived .

This means that I can calm things down, cancel my flights to Guadalajara, bear a respectable amount of flesh, and venture outside, probably to a pub garden somewhere. 

If there's a better way to spend a balmy summer's day, I've yet to find it.

Cheers!

A Short(s) Story

Having finally gained sight of a strange glowing orb in the sky I have been able to shed some winter clothing. As a consequence, I went rummaging through the chest of drawers loosely assigned to the task of holding items that could be described as ‘gym wear’ in search of suitable shorts.

What I found was most unsuitable. Scrunched up at the back of the drawer were some sorry looking shorts made from shell suit like material. I’d bought them cheap last year and, over the course of a couple of months, they seemed to slowly disintegrate around the crotch area.

I feel it necessary to add a disclaimer at this juncture to reassure you that I am a very hygienic individual and pay particular care in ensuring that my gentleman’s area is clean and spotless and in no way diseased or rotting.

I put it down to my physical exertions in pursuit of the perfect body. To be fair, I’m still waiting for the perfect body so it looks like I’m going to have to make do with the pale and listless cadaver I’ve been lumbered with but I’ll keep plugging away regardless.

What probably caused my shorts to dissolve was the very fact that they were as cheap as chips. Cheaper in fact. So, there I was, just yesterday, wandering aimlessly around the bewildering world of Sports Direct in search of more sturdy replacements.

The important thing to stress here is that I am a total fish out of water in a sports shop. I maintain an unerring sense that I shouldn’t be there. Give me a Bookshop and I am like the proverbial pig in a pile of its own doings. It’s a more familiar environment where I feel at ease. The sports shop though is much more alien and complicated.

Sports Direct itself is a claustrophobic jumble of clothes and equipment stacked from floor to ceiling, the very epitome of the ‘pile it high and sell it cheap’ philosophy of retail. This in itself is daunting for those who just wander in, casually searching for suitable shorts.

Eventually I settled on three pairs made of adequate materials and all of wildly differing prices. One pair were a fiver and another were £20. I figured that this probably all evened out and in the end I’ve purchased three reasonably priced pairs of shorts.

You might wonder why I didn’t buy three pairs of the same. This is because Sports Direct caters for the broadest range of shapes and sizes imaginable but holds limited stock of what I would call a normal size. You could buy shorts from extra small to 4XL. I’m not sure what type of sports a man in 4XL shorts is doing but the man in the extra small shorts could buy the larger pair for the same price and fashion it into a cape for that added touch of flamboyance on the squash court.

When I eventually reached the till, I realised one pair of shorts did not have a price tag. The cheery girl behind the counter summoned a colleague to climb through the sportswear jungle and find an equivalent pair so that she could relieve me of the appropriate money. Whilst we waited for his return she regaled me with the story of the day someone tried to buy a football which their stock records claimed no knowledge of. “It’s always happening”, she said, “there was one time when our stock take went on to three in the morning”.

Her insights in to the day-to-day running of a large sportswear outlet were cut short by her perspiring colleague returning clutching a similar pair of shorts to those I was attempting to acquire. He pointed out, breathlessly, that she’d have to type the code from the label into the till as they weren’t the same size as the ones I was buying. As soon as his back was turned she looked at me conspiratorially and said, “I have a quicker way” and she just scanned the bar code from the pair of shorts I wasn’t purchasing.

I decided to refrain from pointing out to her that this shortcut may well be the reason that they possess footballs of unknown origin and why their stock takes drag on into the early hours of the morning as by now I felt my business there was concluded.

As for the shorts, one pair has seen action of a sporting nature and so far so good. No dramatic wear and tear to be reported. If the remaining two pairs either melt or catch fire whilst I’m undertaking a squat thrust, I’ll be sure to mention it, albeit from a hospital bed.

Sweet Addiction

The room was small, dark and creaky. Every footstep by any creature other than the smallest of mice could be heard in this old and dusty building. I stood up from where I had been sat, on a flimsy wooden chair, to face the circle of strangers sat around me. My throat was as dry as the sun and my heart was beating so loud I expected that other people could hear it. I briefly closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and said, "I am Terry Hayward, and I am an addict".

When I eventually found the courage to look around the room, I was met with empathetic eyes. We all knew the pain of our addiction, the lost days, the broken relationships, the anxiety of waiting for the next hit. There were times when I found myself physically shaking, just waiting for another chance to crush some candy.

That's a drugs reference isn't it? That's what you're thinking, but no. If only it were that simple.

My addiction is far more insidious. As I stood in this room with fellow souls I regaled the sad story to them. It all started as curiosity. The present Mrs Hayward had become much quieter of an evening and was spending many hours, staring in a trance-like state at her phone. This wasn't the usual text messaging to her friends about shoes or No7 products in Boots, this was something different.

What I discovered was that it was a game. An innocent little game on her phone, called Candy Crush. After some persuasion she briefly showed me the screen and I realised I'd seen this before. I'd once seen a smartly dressed man on a train playing this, to the extent that he missed his stop entirely. I had judged him for being weak and childish but now judgement has turned to compassion as I too found myself downloading the game to see what all the fuss was about.

There are no instructions of any substance. You just mysteriously pick this simple game up. You move different coloured blobs (or candies) into a matching row of three which crushes them. Then all the other candies move down and the whole pointless process continues for level after level. I don't know how many levels there are. I'm beginning to suspect they are infinite.

Sometimes on a level you have to earn a certain total of points, sometimes it's against the clock, and sometimes you just have to clear all the jelly. That evil, evil jelly.

Before I realised what I was doing I had played five rounds and lost all my lives. A little moustachioed character leered at me from the screen and told me I had to wait half an hour for more lives. That was fine at first but as I got better and progressed past the first few levels those half an hours became longer and longer. It got bad. Real bad. I even downloaded Angry Birds to fill the gap while I waited for Candy Crush to give me more lives. This was getting serious.

I was mentally deteriorating. In my head, birdsong was being replaced with the whistly Candy Crush tune from when you lose a life, the music on the radio couldn't be heard over the relentless clanging tune that plays as you shift those candies around. If people spoke to me, I believed that they were interspersing their conversation with the encouraging word, "Sweet", and every time I closed my eyes I could see, yes see, the Candy Crush screen.

Then one day I woke up, and as the sun was streaming through the windows, I stretched and pronounced to the world, "Another day.....another full set of Candy Crush lives".

I didn't realise it at the time, but I needed help.

You will be pleased to hear that I'm now receiving that help and getting my life back. I am blogging again, as you can see, and today I'm going back to my first love. Beer.

You see, when you wake up, like I did last Monday morning, and realise that you never got out of your pyjamas, or left the house all weekend, then I can sort of live with that. However, when I realised that the weekend had been completely dry because I hadn't had time to pour myself a drink because of a ridiculous game on my phone, then I knew things had to change.

Today I am going to Sheffield, one of the spiritual homes for real ale in the UK. I shall be putting myself in the supporting arms of brewers and publicans, and I will cleanse myself with pale ales and/or stout. It's the only way.

If you need help to beat your addiction then I encourage you to join me. We will not let brightly coloured candy ruin our lives.

Thank you for your time. See you on the other side.


**If you have been affected by any of the issues in this blog post then please contact the BBC Action Line, who probably have a factsheet or something useful they can send you. Although don't tell them I sent you. Not after the last time. There was quite a hoo-hah. Sssshhhh!!!! **