.

I’m going back a a good half a decade now, but recent circumstances have caused me to bring to light that faithful day the nugget and I got lost at Bewl Reservoir.  We set out that day on our own mini-odyssey, 17 miles around the perimeter of the reservoir.  Being young, idealistic, arrogant and incredibly stupid, we thought this would be easily achievable in a day. 17 miles right… a literal walk in the park!  How very wrong we were…

.

At this point I feel it best to copy directly from my notes that I wrote the day after the trip.  Apologies in advance for my poetic tendencies, though trying my best to be gloriously inventive with my prose, I was, and still am, very far from being an accomplished poet…  I’d always hoped to write a song about it though, which is why I present it to you in the format it was originally conceived in.  Warts and all.

.

Early morning start for this warm, autumn part, we stop off for lunch in some left field country pub and talk in circles round each other.

The nugget dressed in black, with his books on his back, takes a stab at making cracks about my choice of shoes.

Me, I’m in search of a new start, a lightning bolt, a spark.  Something stupid to waste the days on.

We park the car on the south side of the reservoir and chart our course back to the shore.

High on apathy, we cast bleeding eyes from the waterside out into the clearest sky we’ve seen since Canterbury.

The challenge is set, the promises met, to make it round the reservoir before sunset.  ‘Then we will be men‘, he says. Then we will be men.

Joking over, we stay close to the water and make our way through sinking sands, across the flat-lands of Bewl Reservoir.

Ahh hubris, the favoured resting place of the arrogant, but we are young and fearless walking over the passionless drainage with reckless abandon.

The afternoon of this relentlessly cool day, swiftly faded away under our very noses but we failed to notice the darkness creeping up on us caught up in endless excuses about how this moment came to be.

But we made sense of things on the riverside and made grand plans for our lives as we kept stepping further from the lights and everything we’ve known.

Our talking through, we lit up cigars and took refuge on a bench when we thought we were about half way round.  Little did we know that we’d barely scratched the surface, what seemed like forever was just a few miles in.

Ohhh the arrogance as we sat there in silence, feet off the gas, honouring our perceived achievement with the odd wise-crack.

Eventually, we got up and carried on into the unknown.  I had a good feeling about the mud until I end up knee high, momentarily stuck, until the nugget assists and I’m left covered in the stuff.

The walk goes on and the water keeps disappearing into the horizon.  It’s turning into one of the stranger days of my life as I pray for the light to last just a little longer.

We discuss turning back but it’s too late for that as we continue straight into the shadows.

Confidence fades with the fading of the day as the sky turns grey and coerces the sun to set.  The nugget keeps his spirits up with my constant forays into the mud.

Jeans caked in dirt and mud stains on my shirt, I’m walking heavy as my feet start to hurt.  The blood starts to flow from the cuts on my toes into my once clean shoes.

We start to pick up the pace as the light fades and water begets water begets water begets water.

My heart falters as the sun follows orders and sinks behind the horizon, we start to run in unison and look for signs of life in hope that we are not alone.

Then across phase 17 of the water hazard, a light shines bright through the trees and leads us away from this odyssey of stupidity, back to life and reality.

But shadow is all the road knows as darkness has fallen and we are still miles from the car park.  No pavements to guide us just roadside and car lights.

Using headlights to guide our line down the road, we walk blind in the meter of bushes we are shown.

The road seems endless until up ahead the blessed buzzing of light.  Far out of sight we step up the pace until we make sense in the haze, a burger king sign.

Rest-bite. A quick wash, 2 glasses of water, we left our wallets back in the car, so we starve a little longer.

Back out on the road, we slowly adjust back to the night and come up on the Bewl reservoir sign.

The nugget uses his phone to guide us home through the trees and creeps of this country road.

Up ahead the car sits solemnly in the gravel, I open the door and switch the engine on.  The lights beam across onto the water where we stood 8 hours before as I turn Bruce up loud on the CD player.

I place my bloodied feet onto the pedals and sit up in my seat.  We drive out of the country and back to the lights of the city.

We both agree that our mini-odyssey was an act of dangerous stupidity… yet, we wouldn’t change a thing.

My friend stands covered in mud as I drop him off at some non-descript bus stop and I can’t help but laugh my arse off as I drive on home.

.

NB:  I decided to put this story on record after a few days ago, Nik paid her first visit to Bewl Reservoir with a friend and had more or less exactly the same traumatic experience.  This after failing to believe me when I told her this story and the danger that the Bewl Reservoir possesses.

.

It got me thinking about the 100′s of quizzes I’ve been to over the years, the best and the worse of them and how it really must be a thankless task being the host of such an event.

Firstly, you have to deal with the notion that you can’t please everyone at once.  There will be some people in attendance who want the questions simple, to the point and without much effort required whereas others will want there quizzes smart, concise and challenging.  Even if you are only there to read the questions out, participants will still attribute them to you and if anything is not to their liking it falls squarely at your feet.  The questions must also be clear and the answer must be beyond dispute.  A case in point, years ago the question came up, “Who is the Carly Simon song, You’re So Vain about?”  The answer is unknown, the question being open to so many theories I’m surprised it hasn’t featured on any number of the procedural crime shows that litter the TV schedules.  There was a huge uproar when the quiz master exclaimed that he would only give the points to people who put the answer as Mick Jagger.  The quiz had been irreparably tainted and quickly descended into farce.

.

Then you have decide on your delivery.  People like the questions fast but not ludicrously so.  Always repeat the questions a few times and make sure you have worded the damn thing correctly.  How to deal with hecklers and the inevitable questions that people will throw at you?  Never give clues.  It cheapens the whole deal, especially if you’re smart enough to have got the answer without the clue.  You really don’t want to hear extra help being given out… you either know the answer to the question set or you don’t.  Don’t be patronising though, if someone hasn’t heard you or is unsure of what exactly it is you’re asking, the small amount of grace you have to begin with is very quickly lost once you start acting like a smart arse

.

Then, maybe most importantly, the jokes and the asides.  For me, they are the deal breakers.  A quiz host has to let a little bit of their personality shine through.  When done correctly, it enhances the whole evening.  The inevitable tension dampened  and the mood lightened .  Keep them to a minimum though.  People are not there to hear your life story, especially through the medium of witty anecdotes.

.

I’ve come to the conclusion though that in life there are few things more excruciating than spending the evening in the company of an unfunny quiz host.  Its just not on… I’m sorry, I know your job is a toughish one, but please spare me the pain of having to shudder through your ridiculous jokes or play on words.  It must be pretty easy to tell that people are not finding you funny, just survey the number of rolling eyes in the room every time you open your mouth to make a funny.

.

The man in question last night had most of my pet-hates about him but fortunately they were all in small measures.  You could tell he was filling in and I suppose criticism should thus be kept to a minimum.  He was bad but I’ve had worse.  In fact I remember the evening quite vividly and can often be found telling the tale whenever anyone calls into question some ones distinct lack of humour.  The worse quiz host in history.  2nd year of university, a few of us happened upon a pub in the middle of Canterbury called The Seven Stars.  A grotty little place, townies rather than students vacated. We walked in just before their weekly quiz was about to start and decided on participating to help pass the time.  An schoolboy error to rule all other schoolboy errors.  The host, a jovial chap in his mid-20s spent the next hour constantly outdoing himself by running the gamut of all the bad jokes ever thought up (a few I’m sure he came up with himself).  We left that night with a little bit of ourselves forever lost to that place I’m sure.

.

After that night, it’s been easier to look on the good parts of every quiz host since.  There’s still an art to it though, and when a good one is found it makes it a hell of a lot easier to plan your next quiz fix.

.

First, a little history.  Around five years ago, it was a hazy 2005 summer, I’d finally booked a holiday to see my friend Jon in Boston.  Now, I’d been abroad before when I was younger, but they were mainly lad’s holidays with nights spent in bars and days spent in bed.  This time was different.  I was finally making steps into the world, widening my horizons and hopefully catching a bit of sun in the process.  I’d booked a month away.  Two weeks in Boston then two weeks in New York.  To say I was excited would be a grand injustice to my feelings at the time.

.

I finally arrived in Boston after a drawn out, two stop flight (I’ve flown direct ever since).  I had only one set of shoes to my name having never really seen the need for more.  A tatty pair of dark blue converse, fashionable yet deeply unsupportive of my creaky ankles.  Two hours into the holiday, we’d only walked a small distance up to the Charles and my feet were already aching.  With a whole lot of walking in front of me and the converse being nothing more than a fashion item, I bit the bullet and dived straight into the first shoe store we came across.

.

With the exchange rate at that time being heavily in my favour, I bought myself a new pair of white, higher-end Nike Air Max.  Within minutes of being back on the road I was walking on air, their cushioned soles taking the weight of my awkward steps.  To my enjoyment, they had already started to show signs of wear and tear… I knew right then, these shoes and I were made for each other.

.

And the rest is history.  We became inseparable.  Every moment out, every place seen since that day, I’ve shared with those shoes.  They’ve been with me through the highs (the marvellous Maid Of The Mist tour at Niagara) and the lows (the Sidcup station walk from my house).  Hell, a few years back I bought a new pair of trainers to see me through my next road trip along the east coast of America.  Within a day I was back in the old work horses.  My feet and those shoes had become one.

.

For the past few years though, there have been grumblings from those closest to me about the state of these trainers.  The dirt, the rips, the holes… It began to feel like a witch-hunt!  I’m not going to lie, my stubbornness got the better of me and I started to play it like a ‘me and the shoes vs the world’ type of deal (or at least versus my mum and my girlfriend)!  The shoes and I became closer, a bond made stronger through adversity.  The shoes were here to stay.

.

The years rolled by and the holes became more pronounced until finally this year I made a pact with myself that when the summer ended and the rain came again, I would retire the shoes.  And here we are, the rain falling around us and my trainers finally unable to keep the water out.  Though it’s been a struggle to say goodbye, it’s time to move on…

.

Enjoy your retirement guys…

.

NB:  It’s very important to note that I am not actually throwing out the trainers.  I fully intend to pull them out every once in a while, when the weathers right and the mood takes me.

.

Jimi Jazz and I first met during the heady 1st year of Canterbury university way back in 2001.  During the first few days of university, we found ourselves on the wrong end of a few heavy nights out and instantly became mates.  We were not inseparable by any means, it was just that we’d always find ourselves in the same places at the same time, usually doing the same thing.  (Namely, enjoying the freedom (and generous student loan) that university had gifted us.)

.

It’s amazing how as you get older a lot of your fondest memories are brought sharply into focus mainly through association.  It would be pointless of me to describe how fondly I look back on my first year at Canterbury University only to say it was one of the best years of my life.  Great new friends, a grown up freedom that was always safely cocooned by loans, the blanket of education and hundreds of people in the same boat.  It was a year for dreaming but never having to face up to the reality of it all… Wonderful, carefree times, all played out on the Canterbury hilltop overlooking such a  glorious town with the Cathedral at it’s heart.  A time I feel that was made for lazy romantics like myself…  A time I fear I have long since struggled to get over.

.

Sure my view is rose tinted (it wasn’t all sunshine and happiness), but there is a great comfort to be found in knowing that there are great times to be had like those during the university 1st year and that hopefully there are people out there who are enjoying those same experiences now.  I will forever associate Jimi with that year, sure we remained friends throughout university but it was that 1st year we made our own.

.

Back to Saturday night and sure enough we caught up quickly.  Changes in jobs and loves were all briefly dispatched with.  Then came the nostalgia…  The good old days.  Anyone else listening would probably have been bored out of their minds or at least thought we were two raging egotists, eager to outdo each other.  But we talked the night through like our lives depended on remembering every detail of that year.  And just like that, the night was over.  Money spent, beers lingered over and our memories relived.  It’s always the sign of a good friend that no matter how long it’s been since you’ve seen them last, you easily slip straight back into the groove like they’d only been gone a day.  I count myself fortunate to have even a few in this life.

.

The goodbye was brief, manly yet meaningful.  Let’s not leave it another four years being the summation of it.  Then the train journey home alone, lingering wistfully on opportunities won and lost over the years.  Springsteen softly playing through my iPhone and me remembering how it was the only thing I’d play on my CD player that whole 1st year of university.

.

One of my great associations… I can’t listen to an early Springsteen album without thinking about that year.  I’d come home after a night out, usually lightly toasted, in good spirits trying to piece together the events of the evening.  Climb into bed, turn the lights out and press play on the CD player.  More often than not, I’d fail to stay awake till the end but every once in a while I’d begin drifting as Springsteen’s voice clambered from a whisper to a howl as the CD came to an end…

.

‘Tonight,          in,           Jun,          gle,           Land……..’

.

Every time I hear that line, it always takes me back to those days and rarely fails to bring a smile to my face.

“For me, the cinema is not a slice of life, but a piece of cake.” Hitchcock

.

It would be an exercise in futility for me to try and describe the importance of films in my life. The wonder they purvey and the happiness they bring.  I know only one thing for certain when it comes to the movies, a good one, like a good song, can make a whole lot of things in life make sense, a bringer of clarity to even the most downtrodden and confusing of situations.  Escapist fun yet educators to even the most hostile student.  Full of moments that appear to hold all the answers to whatever questions the world has to throw at us.  Sure, they have a lot to answer for (so many hours wasted wading through the mundane in search of cinematic gold)… but why hold such a petty grudge against such a well-meaning friend.

.

I find myself tonight sitting idly at home having planned to get off to the cinema and see the new Christopher Nolan film, Inception.  This is a film I just know I’m going to love… great reviews, great cast, director with an exceptional track record, interesting idea… it’s like it was predestined, a gift from up high, a guaranteed 2 and half hours of enjoyment in front of the big screen.  It’s what they would call in horse racing circles ‘a dead cert’.

To put it mildly… I can’t bloody wait!

.

I find myself with something of a problem though… I haven’t got anyone to go with!

.

Now I want to be clear straight away.  I don’t like going to the cinema on my own.  Tried it, didn’t like it.  Videos and DVDs I am absolutely fine with.  The cinema however, is a much more unforgiving beast and a place I just feel too uncomfortable in on my own.  This leaves me with the self-imposed problem of vetting people for the type of film that I want to see.  (My arrogance at this point is not lost on me, but be aware that my movie snobbery is something I tend to regretfully revel in.)  Usually, my most accommodating of girlfriends is fair game for anything.  Recently though, I fear she has become disillusioned with my constant championing of either the high-brow or the very low-brow.  She’s definitely a ‘middler’ when it comes to the movies and likes to play it safe and unassuming with her choices.  I can completely understand her stance when it comes to films like Predators or a new Ong Bak movie. It becomes more of a sticking point when it comes to films that, although requiring effort, you just know are going to be good.  This is regrettably where she stands with Inception and why I’m left racking my brains for someone to go with at short notice.

.

Now I have brothers who love the movies too.  But my older brothers stance on films (a man who actually ‘liked’ Smokin’ Aces) is perfectly summed up in the response he gave when I asked him if he would like to come with me to see Inception:

.

me -  you up to much tonight?

.

bro – nope…

.

me - do you fancy coming to see Inception tonight?

.

bro -that’s the new Dicaprio film right?  It’s meant to be awesome…  The trailer looks amazing, great effects too!  -  I think I’ll give it a miss though… it looks a bit too complicated for me.

.

me - you do know that the directors last film was the Batman movie…  You liked that right?

.

bro – yeah… this one just looks like too much hard work.

.

Fair point, well made I suppose.

.

With other friends constantly tied up with work or committed to engagements with their better halves, I find myself at a point in life where going to the cinema has become a drama all on its own.  Long gone are the heady days of Tuesday cinema club.  Where all my school friends and I would go to the cinema to see whatever new release was on (on the so called ‘Cheapo Tuesday’ at Bexleyheath).  No matter how bad the film was, we’d stroll up around 7.30ish book the tickets, either sit straight down or grab a quick drink at the Frankie’s and Benny’s next door.  This was all done with no prior arranging and grew into quite a large social occasion for everybody and their friends.  People would literally just turn up! (Man, we saw some turkeys though.)

Don’t even get me started on the glorious university days on top of the Canterbury hill.  You couldn’t turn a corner without bumping into a film studies buddy. Saturday matinees, film screenings disguised as lectures, Cinema 3, evening classics in their original print.  Our cups surely did overfloweth…

.

Alas, those days have long since faded into trailer-like memories (in so-much as I only recall the good bits).  This year alone, it took me 4 months before I got round to seeing Avatar and that was with my dad!  (A marvellous experience truth-be-told.  I’ve never seen anyone more excited by 3D glasses!)  It just feels like so many cinematic experiences are just passing me by recently. And here I am tonight, dieing to see this movie I’ve been excited about for months now, but with no one to see it with!

.

I think it’s time to stop writing, give my dad a call and see if he’s free…

.

Now I’m being incredibly harsh here, and I know that this is a horrible lie and something that couldn’t be any further from the truth. It’s just that ever since someone (in most likely-hood, an asshole!) muttered these words to me when I had just graduated (me – “I’m thinking about going into teaching”… ahole – “well you know what they say, those who can’t do”), these bile-ridden words stuck in my gut like some unwanted post pub curry.

.

Recently though, I’ve come to accept that I’m always going to be the type of person who is never happy with his station in life – a ‘grass is always greener’ type of guy. This is not to say that I’m not able to appreciate how fortunate I am and how much worse off other people are. It’s just I fear that I’m doomed to go through life never satisfied with things, no matter how good I have it. I can never sit still, never settle down, I have the proverbial ‘ants in the pants’ twenty-four-seven.

.

I know what your thinking though… get over it and just grow the hell up! And it’s true, it’s about time I swallowed my ridiculous sense of self-importance and actually took part in life. Some of the smartest and my most favourite people in the world are teachers and I think the job they do is beyond reproach, it’s just that I never saw it coming once I stuck my head in the clouds aged 23 and refused to look down. So once again, I’m back in the initial, tenacious pursuit of something that one month ago I would have scoffed at the mere mention of me becoming… I’m going to be a teacher.

.

Which brings me to today.  I went into school for the first time as something other than a student. My good friend Ad, only recently a teacher himself, graciously allowed me to shadow him and a few of his work colleagues for the day… call it basic teacher training if you will. Access to the staff room (and more importantly, staff room toilets), ability to walk into any area of the school at will, infinite amounts of tea, straight to the front of the queue in the cafeteria… maybe I was getting carried away on some undernourished power trip but I’ll tell you something… I really enjoyed myself.

.

More importantly, I think I may have found something of real substance. A career I could do well at and possibly make a difference in. Now if only someone would give me a job!

Arranged a trip to Philadelphia with the Nugget, kind of felt like a day release, only with added baseball and cheese steaks.  Journey was a picturesque if somewhat frustrating one through Jersey with assorted tree surgeons blocking the road and making traffic a pain on a hot Saturday afternoon. We finally arrive at the stadium of the Phillies around 2ish with stomachs grumbling and brows sweating. Out of the car, straight into a harsh afternoon sun, we just know it’s going to be a fun if somewhat uncomfortable day.

.

With the Phillie’s game not starting till 4, we made sure we gave ourselves enough time to walk the half  hour journey up 10th street, straight into the cheese steak centre of the world.  Thats right, deep in the pasty, worn down suburbs of down town Philadelphia lies two of the best cheese steak proprietors in possibly the whole world: Geno’s and Pat’s… Fierce rivals, staring each other down on opposite sides of an anonymous street. Standing toe to toe in the afternoon heat like greasy meccas, over run by swarms of hungry people, littering the pavements and roads, searching for a queue end that could quite possibly not exist.  Our plan is to get in, try a cheese steak from each place, get out, and, on the long walk back to the stadium, compare notes.

.

Geno’s is first up, shorter queue, less selection on the wall, both of us get cheese steak provolone with onions, ruthlessly dealt with before finding a seat on a cobbled wall just across the street.  What can I say… quite simply superb, the perfect mix of fresh bread filled with fine slices of meat, cooked just right and smothered in fresh onions and a provolone cheese that perfectly integrated itself into every mouthful.  A tiny piece of greasy heaven on a sticky, sunny afternoon.  Somehow its deliciousness makes us even hungrier and we need to know if Pat’s can live up to what can only be described as a moment of nirvana.

.

With steak fat stains on our shorts, we join the back of a now shortened queue at Pat’s, perked up in anticipation of what’s to come.  As we approach the front, a menu now stares us in the face with many more options than before.  What to do… peppers, cheeses, sauces?  I try and maintain the integrity of the experiment by ordering the same as before, ‘provolone, wit’ (the Nugget challenged me to order in as few words as possible).  The Nugget fancied the peppers and american cheese… schoolboy error I know, but the boy will not be dictated to!  We find a seat this time, and straight away the subtle differences between the two places become apparent.  Pat’s baguette is practically overflowing with meat, almost twice the size of Geno’s.  Fresh bread, perfectly fried onions, an unbeatable combination once again.  This time though the cheese has been packed too tightly into the crevasse of the baguette meaning an uneven distribution of cheese to meat.  Hell, I’m nitpicking… It was amazing too and despite being close to bursting, we devour our 2nd cheesesteak and make off into the hazy heat with huge smiles on our faces and bloated guts on our persons.  Our shorts were stained and our t-shirts were tight around our bellies…

.

The long walk to the stadium down 10th street flies by as we discuss the experience we just had in minute detail… In summation, both cheesesteaks were otherworldly and were well worth the hour roundtrip in the blazing heat.  Pat’s had more meat but Geno’s was of better quality…  Overall scores on the doors:

.

Geno’s: 10 (out of 10)

.

Pat’s: 9 1/2

.

As we approach Citizen’s Bank Park (the home of the Phillies; crap name, beautiful stadium), the game between the Twins of Minnesota and the Phillies of Philadelphia is already underway and the crowd are already ‘ooh’ing and ‘boo’ing.  By the time we reach our seats, in the nosebleeds behind homeplate, the Phillies are 3-0 down.  We squeeze ourselves into our seats, the sun, closer than ever, beating down on our backs.  The Phillies respond - top of the 2nd it’s 4-3 to the home team.  The Nugget and I stare off into the distance at the magnificient view straight down 10th street and into the glorious shadows of the skyscrapers and high rises of Philidelphia.  I find it hard to concentrate on the game as I become transfixed by its beauty, naively imagining the lives and adventures happening in and around its glistening buildings.  From a distance, I think I fall in love just a little… not with the reality of Philadelphia but instead with the ideals and the possibilities it houses.  For the first time in a while I become aware of the actual moment, who I am, who I’m with, where I am and where I want to go…  I start to smile, then the crowd rises to its feet, another home run for the Phillies. (There would be 9 ‘long balls’ in all, a record for the ground!)

.

The game turns out to be a classic, a roller coaster, see-saw, humdinger of a battle.  Phillies are up 5 in the 9th… a third of the crowd has left, they think it’s all over.  The Twins rally, first two runs are clawed back… no outs.  They call on the closer, ‘Lights Out’  Lidge.  He promptly lets two runners on base.  Mauer’s up next, the crowd boo… catches two sighters then ‘BAM’, straight over the wall and into the ballpen.  The Twins are tied.  Two young guys sitting next to us, quiet all game suddenly jump out of their seats.  The old man in front curses and is promptly scolded by his wife.  I look at the clock and wonder how long the game will last.  Not very long it turns out… The Phillies try there hardest but the wind has been knocked out of them.  The Twins bag 3 in the 11th and the Phillies can’t tie it up.  Twins win 13-10…

.

What a game… What a day…  The Nugget and I start the long drive home to Jersey, tired, sweaty, burnt but in good spirits.  Philadelphia, you’ve won our hearts.

.

Flights delayed at Houston (earlier tornado caused understandable issues!), borderline starved, four fifths asleep, enthusiasm for holiday slowly dwindling.  Managed to perk myself up by putting on ‘August And Everything After’ by the Counting Crows on my iPhone.

.

It’s one of the great wonders in life, how the most frustrating or depressing situations can be instantly dampened and in some cases rectified completely by the best music.  What was a down in the dumps, ball busting, exhausting wait has been swiftly turned into a toe-tapping, head bopping, endless possibilties kind of deal.  I swear these Americans must think I’m a little bit crazy, grinning like a cheshire cat whilst simultaneously air drumming at various intervals.  I start to notice that the seat next to me in the packed terminal is empty and has been for some time.  This despite 99% of the other seats being filled and a lot of people standing around idly, waiting for their plane.  I worry that maybe I have my music on too loud or I look like the type of person who is prone to smelling bad. (They’d be close to the truth the day after curry night back home.)  I wonder if I look like the kind of person you would just rather stand than sit next to and the reasons why this could be, I’m certainly not the most intimidating of men.  Just as I start to indulge in my paranoia, a man takes his place in the seat as unassuming as can be.

.

It kind of reminds me of how it feels to walk through Covent Garden (or Canterbury high street on a Saturday afternoon) accosted by the various touts and charity workers angling for a minute (or ten) of your time. As you approach, you catch a glimpse of them in the distance, plot your escape and practice your firm but friendly “no thanks” in your head.  Then as you get nearer you start to pace your walk to time it just right so that as someone else is got, you’re able to sneak by unnoticed and unbothered. It’s the strangest thing that this is a real source of pride if you get it right, yet if they see you and you see them and they don’t even bother to ask you, you feel strangely affronted. It’s a split second thing but it’s almost like they let you walk by, that your not worth even asking.  What’s wrong with me?  Do I not look charitable?  Am I not the type of person you want in your store?  It’s certainly an exercise in narcissism on my part.  Ridiculous on so many levels, a passing thing for sure but one that leaves me questioning the dangerous fragility of my delicate self-esteem!

.

Back at the airport, the man who sat next to me’s plane is called and he gets up to walk to his boarding desk.  The empty seat next to me remains unused as every other seat in the terminal is filled up and still people are just standing, waiting… there must be something wrong with me!  (That or my music’s too loud).

.

Let me get you up to speed…  About 3 years ago, I’d just turned 26, on the surface happy and carefree, underneath a barely holding it together mess.  Poorly pursuing a career as a musician, without a Born To Run to my credit yet and unfortunately no sign of one on the horizon.  Things are starting to go well, I’ve finally found myself a girl that I think could be the one and I’ve just finished my first album. This is the album that’s going to break me, the key to the kingdom, the piece of the puzzle that will allow me to finally get that contract, that safety net, that palpable slice of reality that I can hold in my head, that says someone believes in me as a writer and that maybe I’m going to be alright at this.  The hook that I can hang all my hopes and dreams on.  I release the album, it’s certainly good but by no means great.  I feel the potential is certainly there though and if I ever get the chance to record a proper album with proper resources, the best of these songs and the rest that I have written since university will make for something great, something that takes a good shot at the stars.  But I’m proud of it still, and know that I’ve given myself a fighting chance, if I get it to the right people, of climbing the proverbial ladder/getting a foot in the door.

.

For some unknown reason I just stop working…

.

I get the album to my friends, they all love it or are kind enough not to give their opinions.  I revel in the attention but realize that they are my friends for a reason and shouldn’t get carried away.  I initially send the album out to a handful of reviewers, wait a few weeks, hear nothing, wait a few more weeks before finally receiving my first review.  I got this guitar and I learned how to make it talk...  I eagerly open the website, scan down the page to the reviews section… It’s absolutely scathing, my gut aches, my heart sinks, I read the rest of the guy’s reviews.  His whole section is littered with cutting witticisms and snide comments, even the stuff he likes he slags off… I’m shocked and suddenly lethargic, I retreat into my shell.

.

Now I’d be lieing if I said this was the reason I stopped doing any work with my music, stopped sending it out to people, stopped gigging properly, stopped telling every other person I met to buy my album but this would be a gross untruth and one that I kid myself about way too much for comfort.

.

The truth is, I’m lazy, I’m complacent, I’m proud, I’m REALLY lazy and as stupid as it sounds, I’m scared… basically I’m a giant fool.  It’s not that I don’t think I’m good enough, I really do think that I am.  It’s just I don’t want anybody to think that I know that I am… as stupid as that sounds.  Modesty is a great quality to have but there are some occasions where it becomes a giant crutch that can stop you from fighting for things that are really worth fighting for.  Pride too, sometimes I think to want it enough is to look desperate, but really, who gives a shit!  The people who matter wont care and the others, well…  The things you want very often walk hand in hand with sacrifice, real sacrifice, yet I indulge myself in all the comforts that my fortunate life on earth has gifted me.

.

So I stopped working.  A few empty gestures at gigs here or there, a few emails that never got followed up, but basically I stopped pursuing what I thought I wanted to do, the dream, the holy grail, the hope…

.

As the year flew by, I found myself wasting days with carefree exuberance.  Even more quickly a horrible ache at the pit of my stomach started to set in.  The rot that reveals the truth, that maybe your not doing enough and that things are not quite right even though it’s easy to trick yourself into thinking they are.  That final moment before sleep, the moment you lie back, head on pillow, facing up to God in the ceiling, finally alone with yourself and the choices you made during the day.  The consequences of your actions finally catching up to you, the foolishness, the worthlessness.  That half hit moment of clarity where reality bears its crushing weight upon you, that moment before the release of sleep and dreams of how things could be.  You awaken to all the possiblities of the day, the promises you made to yourself before bed… today will be the day, to prove yourself, to be all you can be, to finally achieve something of worth.  All this before the day sweeps you along and provides reasons for you to delay making good on these promises… pretty soon you’re fighting against the tide, unable to resist the pull of the waves that carry you back to the safety of dry land and away from the endless possibilities of the sea.

.

Slowly this rot got the better of me and I decided it was time to change, to stir things up a little.  Actually, that’s not completely true, it’s not so much change that was sought, but instead a pursuit of hope, the basic human need to dream or to believe that something good or better is waiting for us out there in the future.  For me, it was the need to know that I not yet wasted a life.  I know it seems silly, I was 27 for crying out loud!  To me though, it seemed like I was running out of time, like this pursuit of greatness that had promised so much had in fact yielded, well, next to nothing.  Like the train was about to leave the station and I was still at home wondering which shoes to wear…

.

This fear, coupled with a slowly formed self-realisation, led me to explore other avenues I felt I could achieve something of substance down, in other words, I decided to hedge my bets.

.

With somewhat reckless abandon, I quickly decided upon pursuing a career in one of the most difficult professions I could, one that was so far out of left field that I couldn’t possibly achieve it unless the stars aligned and the universe shifted.  Despite having shown little interest in the field before now (except being an avid ER watcher, before Clooney left), I decided the thing I most wanted to be was a doctor!  What the hell… no science background, no decent qualifications, no work experience, no chance.  (Why not just try becoming an astronaut and get it over with?)

.

As months went by and the sheer size of this task dawned on me, the worthlessness finally got too much and I finally applied to become an officer in the Met Police.  This was the career I had kind of set out for myself when I first left school at 18,  long before I laid my head in the clouds and fancied a shot (albeit a piss poor one) at immortality.  Now I’m not saying that becoming police is a bad thing or was something that I was adverse to doing.  It’s just that at that moment I applied I knew I’d accepted my fate, I’d finally stepped in line, put away childish things and decided to do the right thing and grow up.  The police, the one place I knew would take me, that I could build a decent career in yet hopefully provide me with a sense of worth that I’d always been seeking.  To cut an already long story short, I successfully passed my interview and fitness test and patiently awaited my start date.  Finally, I could start earning a decent wage, move in with the girlfriend and start to settle down a little, free from the weight of expectation I had naively placed on myself to achieve something of note, something great.

.

Back to the present. It’s now over a year since I passed my interview and fitness test for the police.  The country’s taken a beating, recessions hit hard and the new people in power leave us under no illusion about how bad it could all become. No-one is leaving their jobs, I’ve received a letter from the police saying how they have recruited too many new officers and there has been less staff turnover than usual.  They tell me it could be a while before a start but assure me that they are working on solutions to the problem.  I get on with my life, happy in the knowledge that at least I have this job waiting for me.  Soon it turns from being a safety net into a crutch, a hook I can hang all my worries and troubles on.  “Don’t worry, it will all be sorted out/made better when I join the police…”

.

6.30am in Baton Rouge. Phone rings and I have a gut feeling it’s someone from the police with news. (They had promised to be in touch around this time.)  Something inside me knows that the news is not good, otherwise why would they call?  A woman at the end of the line, gentle London accent, with a weight on her voice says ‘sorry’.  There’s nothing they can do, they couldn’t come up with a solution, my name (along with 2000 other people’s) has been crossed off the list and I’d do best to try again in 3 years time…  It’s all over for now, baby blue…

.

I try and think of ways of prolonging the inevitable, to at least put up a fight, I’ve been waiting nearly a year and a half!  But nothing comes to mind, just a reluctant acceptance of my fate.  I put the phone down, lie back in bed and stare up at God in the ceiling.  Suddenly my gut starts to ache and I try and reason with it.  But I can’t.

.

I’m back at home, double knotting my shoe laces as the train doors start to beep at the station…

Fasten seat belt sign off and it’s time for my first leisurely stroll to the bathroom whether it’s needed or not.  Get down bag from carry on, sit down and take out notepad.  Write a few blogs/lyrics, get out iPod and make notes on new songs recorded pre flight for scrutiny.  Play a little football manager on specially bought iPhone app, lunch break, toilet break, plan more of the actual holiday, research contacts from unsigned guide, try and catch some sleep and if not, maybe watch a movie or two.  So far, so good, an hour down, one and a half blogs written.  Then comes the proverbial ‘spanner’… I look around the cabin and can’t help but notice a lot of peoples movie screens and the fact that they appear to be playing a lot of things I really want to watch!

To deviate a little. I notice they have a parental control option on the screen.  Now, you can stop your children from watching bad stuff on their screen, but there aint a thing you can do about them watching the gratuitous sex and violence that is easily viewable on other peoples screens dotted about the cabin!  At this very moment I’m switching between watching City of God and Forgetting Sarah Marshall, being easily viewable on peoples movie screens in close proximity.

Back to my flight, I switch on my own screen and see that they have a very healthy selection of movies sorted out into convenient categories.  I was looking to go with the safety blanket that is a good old action movie (in no mood for comedy and I’m certainly not going to watch anything I actually want to see!) Amongst the selections I notice a ‘classics’ section which inevitably perks my interest.  I can’t believe my eyes, The Godfather, Citizen Kane, Gone With The Wind, Lawrence Of Arabia… who the hell is going to watch these cinematic epics on a screen only slightly bigger than my fist?!

Ok, so  I can see how a couple of three-plus hour movie-films is a nice lot of entertainment padding between wheels up and wheels down… but… Peter O’Toole slowly approaching across the desert? On this size screen surely all you’re left with is the desert plus a weird, hazy dot. Not quite the same, huh? And wouldn’t Gone With the Wind become so un-epic you’d have to start calling it Off With the Gentle Breeze… I don’t know. Just imagine seeing one of these great films for the first time on a plane. With all the associated elbow bumps, toilet breaks, announcements, and scratchy sound. Who wouldn’t reach for the in-light mag half-way through after wondering, possibly aloud, ‘what the hell the fuss is all about.’

As far as The Godfather goes I reckon it’s ok to keep your friends close and your enemies closer, but only if  you can’t lean forward and touch the screen you’re watching it on with your nose.