I recently went on a date.

 
 
I’m not a big dater. It isn’t that I’m not incredibly eligible - I’m 22, unemployed and live with my mother - but it’s just not something I normally do. I once took a girl to see Step Up 2: The Streets, and was so engrossed in the film that I completely ignored her. It’s a really good film.

Dating has always seemed odd to me; the idea of appraising someone from the word go - deciding how much you like them, whether or not you can see a future; how long your marriage would last and the effects a divorce would have on your hypothetical children - is more than a little daunting.

But recently, I put on my going-out shirt, brushed my teeth and dabbed on some Old Spice. I was going on a date. I had her number, so I could give directions if she got lost (or spam her if she stood me up) and all the preparations were complete.

I left the house.

On the train however, I sneezed four times in a row, and had a minor panic attack before whipping out my phone.

“Could you bring hayfever tablets? Not a joke” I texted the girl I would soon be meeting, assuming that since she’d be appraising my attractiveness, a dry nose might be preferable to a wet one.

“Er, ok” was the reply.

Off to a good start then, and at least I hopefully wouldn’t spend the whole time crying. (Due to the pollen)

We met at the station, she gave me a hayfever tablet, and we walked to a nearby bar at which I could drink heavily to disguise my social awkwardness.

I walked up the bar and confidently asked for a bottle of Corona.

“This is a Sam Smith Pub” replied the barman. My date looked unimpressed.

“WKD?” I asked.

Once we’d sat down with our pints of Father Jumpy’s Scrumpy Ale (I hate Sam Smith pubs) we began to talk. Well, I began to talk, and she began to watch me talk. Oh how I talked and talked, I talked about music, about contemporary culture, and at one point about the difference between gherkins and pickles. “What is the difference between a gherkin and a pickle?” I asked. She didn’t know.



I then saw her rings, one of which was a fancy affair with a large (fake) gemstone in the middle. I asked to have a look at it, and she reluctantly parted with it in order for me to get a closer look.

“It’s really nice”, I said sliding it onto my middle finger. It slid on easily, like a buttered eel. I admired it for a moment before going to pull it off.

I couldn’t get it off.

“I can’t get it off”, I said.

My date began to laugh nervously as I heaved and strained, but it wouldn’t budge.

“The more you panic, the more your finger swells and the harder it is to get off” she said wisely, as I sat there panicking and swelling. I was mortified, not only because I had an ornate ring stuck on my middle finger, but because there was a chance I might be accidentally mugging a girl I’d only recently met.



Just as I was mulling over my options (disappear off to the toilets and use soap, or ask at the bar for some lard) and tugging at my finger, the ring flew off. The digit looked battered and sad, but at least I wouldn’t be leaving with my date’s jewellery attached to my hand.

“I’m afraid I might have stretched your ring” I said.

There was an uncomfortable silence. We both knew what I’d said, and the discomfort swelled like a giant balloon. It didn’t just swell, it caught fire and exploded - it was The Hindenberg of uncomfortable silences. My unintended double entendre, my unentendre, was out there and there was no escape.

I sat there for a few moments before I laughed and nervously tried to change the subject back to something less controversial.

“Did you know that the latin name for a gherkin is “cucumis sativus?”

What to do on your first date

 
 

Arrive late

Making a good first impression on a date is important - girls often base their entire opinion of a man purely  on the first few seconds of a meeting. For this reason, make sure you're at least 20 minutes late for the date - that way, the relief she'll feel when she realises she hasn't been stood up will be the lasting impression she has of you. You will be like a knight, rescuing her from an awkward situation. That you caused.

 

[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="350" caption="Late Knight"][/caption]
 

Imply that everything is her fault/subtly put her down

"Our order's only taking so long because you ordered salad - everyone knows salad takes longer to prepare than fillet steak with a peppercorn sauce and onion rings."

"I'm only late because you told me the wrong time."

"I love how shrill and irritating your voice is."

"It's a nice dress. I wish my nan let me borrow her clothes."

[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="210" caption="A simpler time."][/caption]

 

 

Imagine her naked and let her know that's what you're doing

This could either be as a reply to "what're you thinking?" which is the staple of awkward silences across the globe. Women appreciate honesty, so even if you weren't thinking of your date naked, pretend you're being honest and say you were picturing her naked. It will make her feel desired, and also make awkward silences a thing of the past.*

*not guaranteed.
 

Pretend you've forgotten her name and call her a man's name for the rest of the date

You will appear lofty and aloof, and girls love that. Nice guys finish last, dickheads finish first, but you're so above it all you're not even in the race. Put on a leather jacket, ignore her for at least 10 minutes, and she'll be like warm putty in your hand. Not that you care.
 

I couldn't find a picture for this one.

 

Don't offer to pay for anything

Thanks to the surprising success of feminism, women are generally now expected to pay for dates. When you've finished your meal, push the plate away from you, gaze lovingly into your date's eyes, and don't break the stare until she's paid the bill. It's very important that you keep staring. Imperative, almost. It will assert your dominance, and make up for the fact that you haven't had any money since you lost your job at the meat-packing factory.

 

[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="192" caption="Going Dutch."][/caption]
 

Beg for a second date, and if she says no - cry.

It just shows that you care.

 

[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="238" caption="Kind of like this."][/caption]

Being Ginger

 

I know that all of you reading this would never dream of making abusive comments about someone's colouring, but this post is more to attempt to inform you about what it's like to grow up with ginger hair. Bullying, abuse and even acts of extreme and unprovoked violence take place because of it, and while we can all have a laugh about ginger pubes, there's a line. Today I read an article by Barbara Ellen of The Guardian, in which she argues that we are getting our "PC knickers in a twist" by being unable to call someone "ginger kid" on their pizza receipt, and this (almost hilariously unfunny) post is my response.

As many of you will know, I am a ginger fellow. My hair isn't particularly red, or rusty, or orange (sadly) but it is definitely more ginger than blonde. I like my hair now, and I get comments like "oh isn't your hair a lovely colour" to which I say thanks, I grew it myself. But for every one comment in favour of my colouring, I get ten negatives. From strangers, from people on the internet (you'll notice that most gingers use black and white photos to get around this one) and from the people who used to beat me up at school.



According to Barbara Ellen of The Guardian, (who does NOT have red hair) the whole ginger issue is being taken too far, as she investigates the reaction a young boy had to being labelled "the ginger kid" on a Pizza chain's receipt. She argues that ginger-related abuse is not the same as other appearance based bullying, because look! Look at the little ginger guy! Isn't he hilarious! Oh don't be over-sensitive, it's just hair, little ginger guy, we're just having a laugh at your expense.

Whether you like it or not, redheads are a minority. No, we're not a race, or a sexuality or a religion, but for every 100 Europeans, there are four gingers, and in the world, we make up 1%. Naturally, thanks to dick-ish human nature, this makes us a target. But thankfully it's all just light-hearted banter, isn't it? That's definitely how it felt when I was being dangled over a stairwell by my ankles because of my hair colour. Ha ha! Oh you guys know sure know how to have fun.

When I went to South America, I wasn't allowed out after dark in built up areas. Why? Because of my hair. I was already stared at wherever I went, but if I had been out at night, I'd have been the most obviously muggable or kidnappable person in the whole of South America. My local friends were almost frantic in their worry to get me home before sundown, and I felt like an anti-vampire.

It's not just South America though, when walking or travelling in London at night, I usually attempt to cover my hair because I know it could (because it has in the past) make me a target. As one woman says of her experience on the Underground:

"I was on the Tube, pregnant, and I was really humiliated by this drunk yob. He was shouting 'do the cuffs and the collars match?' He got right up into my face. You don't do that to other people."

But it's just a bit of fun, right? We should stop being so sensitive. A quick search of Youtube brings up hundreds of videos of redhaired kids being bullied in the playground, of insults being thrown, of punches and kicks being used. A quick search of Facebook brings up numerous hilarious groups about people with redhair. A quick search of Google brings up numerous websites and news stories dedicated to the abuse redheads receive at school and in the wider world.

Barbara Ellen in her piece in The Guardian argues that:

"It's horrible to hear of children crying, but was "ginger kid" in this context malicious? The whole tone of the story is that Ross suffered some kind of sub-racist, or otherwise discriminatory, attack – almost on a level with "spaz kid" or "paki kid""

I would now like to direct your attention to James Brown (the hair-stylist, not the late singer) who recently launched "racist abuse" at a man at the BAFTAs. As the victim said afterwards,

"He thought he was being cool and edgy and I explained to him that it was an attack."

James Brown may not have meant to cause harm or emotional distress with his words, but thanks to the language he used, he did. And since 11-year-old Ross Wajtknecht has been bullied at school about his hair colour, it seems understandable that he wouldn't want to be reminded of this when he goes to buy a pizza. Words like "spaz kid" and "paki kid" are offensive because we as a society see those words as terms of abuse. The only reason society doesn't feel the same about "ginger kid" is because it's SO DARN AMUSING. To everyone but the ginger kid, that is.

M.I.A recently released an amazing video for her song "Born Free" (ten minutes long, but utterly brilliant, violent, and found here) in which young red-haired men are rounded up by the police, transported to a minefield, and made to run across it, exploding in the process. Despite being more a metaphor for her own feelings on oppression, I can't help wondering what the public's reaction would be if red haired kids really were all made to run across a minefield.

"Hahaha! Oh stop moaning, you're so sensitive! Don't get your PC knickers in a twist, it was a joke!"

 

Links

"We all know a ginger whore"

The "Kick a ginger" campaign

The "kick a ginger" campaign goes beyond a joke (according to The Guardian)

Is gingerism as bad as racism? (BBC News)

Why surgeons dread redheads (a heightened sensitivity to pain. Lucky us)

Tackling Redhead harassment

Prince Harry asked for counselling due to ginger bullying

Schoolgirl withdrawn from school thanks to bullying

Schoolboy bullied over red hair hangs himself

Little Charley Bear - Review

 
 
(Originally seen on Best for Film)
 
As a child, I grew up with some classics of children’s television: Tintin, Noggin the Nog,Ivor the Engine, The Raccoons, The Animals of Farthing Wood, Rosie and Jim, Family Ness, Penny Crayon, Playdays, Sesame Street, Super Ted, Banana Man, Danger Mouse,Funhouse, Fireman Sam, Come Outside, The Queen’s Nose, Zzzap The Television Comic(which you may not recall, but Google it and enjoy “Cuthbert Lilly, he’s dead silly”), and many more. I could have made that list double the length, but think I’ve made my point.

What do children watch now? Well, perhaps they could watch Are You There, Charley Bear, a show about a bear whose curiously strong imagination lets him become a popstar and build a sandcastle. Now, if Grizzly Man has taught me anything, it’s that it’s safe to assume that bears have very little playful imagination, and if you were to put one in a limousine (as happens in the Pop Star episode) all you’d end up with is a large amount of upholstery damage and a dead chauffeur.

But no, because it’s a television programme for children, this bear is unrealistically adorable. Look at him! With his little glasses and fur, and lack of all intrinsic bear-like qualities. Is he going to climb a tree to teach children about how bears can climb trees? Is he going to maul a tourist? Well no, but he is going to go to space, meet an alien and play “moon ball”.

It’s easy to criticise children’s TV, or to suggest that they’ve dumbed it down since we were kids, but that’s because they have. Instead of a plot driven ‘postman who runs into difficulty’ show, or even a group of adorable aliens talking to each other via swanee whistle (The Clangers), Little Charley Bear boasts idiots’ favourite James Corden earnestly asking a computer-animated bear what he’s up to today.

What happened to telling children stories? Immersing them in an escapist world of make-believe? They needn’t be Columbo-style murder mysteries, but perhaps something a little less tedious than “HELLO CHILDREN, I’VE LOST MY PENCIL, CAN YOU HELP ME FIND IT?”

As an incredibly childish man myself, I can figuratively (and literally, thanks to my small feet) put myself in the shoes of a 3-6 year old child and have decided that Charley Bear would not have satisfied me. I need adventure, travel, treasure… not the disembodied voice of James Corden patronising a small CGI bear. Children have imagination which needs to be inspired with stories, not tethered firmly to vapid reality with “You know, maybe one day you could enter Britain’s Got Talent and only get one buzz.”

Here are a list of other rhyming titles I would like to see from the Little Charley Bearfranchise. It can also be read as a piece of performance poetry (but you’ll have to use your imagination. Is that going to be ok?)

‘Charley Bear Shaves His Hair’
‘Charley Bear and the Massive Pear’
‘Charley Bear and the Sordid Affair’
‘Charley Bear Reads Voltaire’ (or Jane Eyre)
‘Charley Bear Says a Prayer (To a non-specific, interdenominational deity)’
‘Do We Care, Charley Bear?’


 


 

 

I have taken up swimming.

 

When I was a child, Sunday nights were spent dreaming up imaginative ways to excuse myself from the next day's swimming lesson. First thing on a Monday, I'd be forced to don speedos (because trunks are apparently less aerodynamic) and flounder about in some water that was 80% chlorine, 20% children's urine.

I've never been much of a swimmer, I'd been awarded my 5 metre badge like all human children, but that essentially proves that I had the ability to float without drowning for ten seconds over a distance only five times the length of my tiny under-developed body.

Anyway, when I was 13, I could barely swim. And yet, the teachers at my school looked upon me; a short, slightly obese ginger boy and came to the conclusion that I needed to be more awkward. So, whilst all the other kids slipped in and out of the deep end like greased otters, I was asked to bob unpopularly in the shallows. Occasionally a teacher would come to check that I hadn't been sucked into the filter.

By the time I left that school, I was able to swim one length of front crawl (ingesting about a litre of heavily chlorinated water and children's urine in the process) and around two lengths of windmill-like backstroke.

So why have I taken up swimming? A good question, given my history of near drowning incidents, school-lesson humiliation and standing on a poisonous fish in the Channel Islands.

I dunno, I just quite like it now. After a sabbatical of six years, I took to the water again recently, in an attempt to get one of those bikini bodies that everyone's been going on about this year. Upon entering the pool (a pencil drop into the shallow end that got me ticked off by the person in a high-chair) I discovered that I'd been missing out. Swimming is awesome.

That said, the people you'll meet in the pool (not to talk to, but to awkwardly brush up against and see naked in the changing rooms) are varied, and can be slightly annoying, especially on a weekday. The holy grail is an empty pool, but more often than not, there are a number of hazards to bear in mind as shown in the diagram below.

To conclude today's pointless post on how I've recently started to do exercise, here is a list of the different types of swimming stroke:

Front crawl - The industry standard stroke, but swimmer will usually embibe quite a bit of water and children's urine.

Backstroke - My favourite, but also the most difficult to carry out in a crowded swimming pool. I've now whacked two people in the face due to backstroke, one of whom was under 5.

Butterfly - a type of insect.

Breast stroke - not to be confused with second base, breast stroke is the clear favourite of those that don't like getting their hair wet. If though, like me, you struggle to synchronise the arm and leg movements, you'll quickly sink to the bottom of the pool.

 

The Five Least Romantic Films of All Time

 

(Originally posted in February 2011)

With Valentine's Day coming up, it's easy to get swept along on the tide of nauseating sentimentality - but don't worry, here's a list of films to watch on Monday if you're sick of the whole thing. Maybe you're single, or perhaps are looking for a way to subtly hint to your partner that you'd like to split up, either way these films are the antidote to romance.

Knocked Up

Unfortunately intended as a "romantic comedy" Knocked Up is more frightening than watching United 93 on a plane. It centers around the HILARITY that ensues when a one-nigh-stand results in pregnancy and the OH SO FUNNY awkwardness between the two parties involved. Predictably they fall in love and it's all wonderful, which is basically what always happens in real life after these types of things. Always.

If you're single: Pat yourself on the back for not having to worry about this particular issue. Never going near women means never accidentally getting them pregnant. You're onto a winner there.

If you want to break up: Watch it with your partner, and during the birth scene turn to her with tears in your eyes and say "I can't wait 'til that's you".

Munich

Perhaps romantic if you're an Ultra-Zionist, for the rest of us Munich is a dreary slog through the horror that is the world. Someone kills a bunch of people, someone else retaliates by killing EVERYONE in various horrible ways. When I first saw Munich, it took me six hours to watch because I had to keep pausing it for a few minutes to remind myself that happiness can exist in the world.

Munich is like the dementor's kiss of cinematic experiences, so chances are no romance will ever occur whilst watching it.

If you're single: Remind yourself just how awful human interaction is. Isn't it awful?

If you want to break up: Announce that you're vehemently pro-Israel and that in your opinion Eric Bana didn't do enough killing.

I Spit On Your Grave

When a film's genre is listed on Wikipedia as "rape revenge" you can probably tell that it wasn't made by the team behind Madagascar 2. In reality it's thought to be one of the most unpleasant and violent films ever made, and therefore is definite first date material. If you try it, let me know how that worked out for you. I'm going to assume not well.

If you're single: I probably wouldn't admit to watching this film alone.

If you want to break up: Insist that your partner watches this film with you because it's your absolute favourite, second only to The Lion King.

War and Peace

At 507 minutes in total, this Soviet bear of a movie is one of the longest films ever made, and thus the perfect way to show your Valentine just how much you like to spend time with her. Also it's in Russian, so I'd estimate that's about 500,000 subtitles you'll be reading - look away for any romantic shenanigans and you'll have completely lost what's going on and have to rewind.

No, War and Peace demands total, unwavering attention for 8 hours. No hanky panky for you, which means your relationship will inevitably falter and die, thanks to this film.

If you're single: Watching this gives you quite a lot of street-cred among the right kind of people. "What kind of films do you like?" they'll ask, as they twirl their handlebar moustaches. "Oh, you know, eight hour Soviet epics", you'll reply as you sip a pink gin.

If you want to break up: Wait until the film finishes, and then announce that you've got War and Peace 2 on dvd and that you MUST WATCH IT NOW.

P.S. I Love You

It has all the hallmarks of a romantic film - a beefy Irish (but actually Scottish) beefman, a simpering, irritating female lead, and a premise more emotionally manipulative than that video where Christian the lion meets his old trainer. But in reality, P.S I Love You leaves you feeling drained - an empty shell of a human who just watched a deceased love one toy with his grieving partner's emotions for 90 minutes.

Gerard Butler writes his girlfriend notes before he dies, and somehow knows how she responds to each one. It goes something a little like this.

Dear Kate (or something) - I've died, but you've got to keep on living your life! Go out with my best friend Jonty.

I can't go out with your best friend Jonty!

I knew you'd say that, and I'm touched by your loyalty, but you must!

Oh, OK then.

Whereas in reality, if any of us were to write our surviving partner notes, they'd probably be more like:

Dear Kate (or something) - I've died, but you've got to keep on living your life! Go out with my best friend Jonty.

Sweet! To be fair he was always more attractive than you.

I knew you'd say that, and I'm touched by your loyalty, but you must!

I've just said I will! Jeez it's like your not even listening.

If you're single: why on earth are you watching P.S I Love You?

If you want to break up: Your partner will now have such high expectations of the relationship, that by just carrying on as normal (i.e not dying and leaving romantic love notes) they'll ultimately leave you for someone more Irish.

Living in a Cave: Eurovision

 

(This was originally published in 2010 in Lancaster's Student Paper "SCAN". Everyone used to love my column. Not a euphemism.)

 



It makes sense that so much of Britain’s TV comes from overseas; when we’re left to our own devices, we make things like Come Dine with Me (essentially a show where you watch people eat round each other’s houses) and that comedy programme - you know, the one where Jeremy Kyle makes fat people cry.

But luckily we live right next to Europe, the land of Versace, Ikea, and the Crazy Frog. The quality might be mixed, but those wacky mainland Europeans can be a lot of fun which is why I like to think I’m not the only man in Britain who, once a year, prints out a scorecard, locks his testicles away in a desk drawer, and sits down to watch the Eurovision Song Contest.

I’m not ashamed (I’m a little ashamed) to tell you just how much I love it; for one night of the year, I discover countries I didn’t realise were actually in Europe (Israel, Azerbaijan, Spain), I marvel at how recently the 60’s seem to have arrived in Moldova, and I gasp at the size of the Armenian entrant’s breasts (really big).

It might all be cheesier than an episode of Glee, but that’s the reason it’s so much fun. We as a nation aren’t above it all either; every year we enter, and every year the rest of Europe puts us in our place. This year Serbia fielded an entry with a singer that looked like a cross between an Afghan hound and H from Steps that had partially melted under the hot studio lights - and they still finished twelve places above us.

Each year the host nation puts on an interval show, which takes place while the votes are counted so the audience doesn’t have time to realise how much of a pointless waste of life the whole thing is. Every year sees something bigger and weirder than the rest; last year, Russia confused everyone by lowering weird dancers-in-birthing-pools from the ceiling onto a fairly freaked out audience. This year it was Norway’s turn, and they decided on a flashmob, with thousands of people all around Europe doing the same dance at the same time.
I was blown away by how wonderful and spontaneous it all looked, but then stumbled across some YouTube videos of the rehearsals where I could hear someone off-screen barking orders, as hundreds of terrified Lithuanian performing arts students danced falteringly, their stitched smiles masking their terror. One girl at the side stumbled slightly and fell to the floor, but did anybody help her? Of course not. This is Eurovision.

Ignoring the slightly sinister facts behind the big European Flashmob Extravaganza (that I in no way made up), it was really well done. Eurovision is known for being tacky and tasteless, but Norway managed to find a way to make the event look vaguely classy, and the big dance was a nice way of bringing all the competing nations together.
So, to conclude, it was the most awesomest thing in the history of the world, and anyone who doesn’t like the Eurovision Song Contest is just wrong and clearly has no heart.

Finally, since I’m (hopefully) graduating in July, this is my last column. Thanks for having me, and to any Glee fans I offended, I apologise. And if you’re a fan of Twilight, I’m not sorry.