Bus

I am pretty excited. I have just discovered a bus route that’ll cut my travel to work by about 15 minutes. My wife and I arrive at the bus stop full of expectation – she is with me to test the route. I smile at another couple who are already waiting. The girl smiles back.

The guy just nods. No smile.

He’s probably threatened by another male suddenly joining the bus queue. He knows that today’s maverick buses stop anywhere within a 10 metre range – he’ll lose face in front of his girlfriend if it stops near to us and we step on first. In other parts of the animal kingdom, pee markings would clarify where everyone is supposed to stand.

I nod back to show I understand.

He looks relieved.

Minutes pass of general glancing around. I read the nearby bus route information and discover something amazing. I prod my wife.

‘Listen…we are waiting for the number 40, but we can also get the number 65! They both go in the same direction!’

She stares at me with disbelief until I reveal the source of my information. She agrees with me that my discovery is, indeed, amazing.

We do more waiting. A few other people join the bus queue bringing with them more smiles, nods and worry. There is a chubby woman making her way down the other side of the street. She looks a bit like an Oompa Loompa. A young kid is trying to walk past her, but she is swinging her stumpy arms widely with each step – she has to do this to gather forward momentum. Years of walking experience must have shown her that, without the flailing arms, she grinds to an inevitable halt. The kid sees his chance and dashes past on the left side.

Everyone in the bus queue is watching, waiting. We are witnessing a small, but significant act of courage in the urban theatre. The kid whips his shoulder, matrix-style, to avoid a meaty Oompa Loompa hand. I hear a gasp behind me. It could have been nasty...but the kid is now strolling ahead, optimistic about his future.

There is no time for us to dwell on what we’ve just seen – the bus arrives.

People in the queue have noticed the bus is very full. Panic spreads and our previously harmonious queue becomes a medieval brawl. People who clearly arrived after us are pushing forward. The original guy must be wishing he’d done some peeing, but it’s too late now.

My wife uses her bag to fend off pushers and we’re on. All the seats are taken and I march down the gangway. Shortly, the gangway is pretty much filled. There is tension on the bus. The sitting people resent the standing people for leaning into their personal space; the standing people resent the sitting people for having seats. In French Revolutionary terms, the Standers are the revolutionary underclass and the Sitters are the bloated aristocracy.

I digress.

The bus closes its door and trundles along to the next stop. We pull up to a new bus queue – more panic and pushing. But there is a problem. The original Standers haven’t moved down the bus enough. I am the lead Stander, so I move down to create extra space. But the other Standers don’t follow! A man with a yellow hat is resolutely refusing to move.

The bus driver notices.

‘Will the man in the yellow hat please move down! People can’t get on the bus!’

Hatman has had enough of being oppressed by the two-tier class system of the bus. The Driver, after all, is also a Sitter. Ideas of bloody revolution, class equality and workers rights are probably whirling around Hatman’s beleaguered mind.

He has no option but to express this to the Driver.

He decides to say, ‘F**k you!’

Eloquent. Sitters are aghast – not so comfy in their seats now. Their leader has been challenged and the world has changed. Who does the Driver think he is? Perhaps we should all take turns doing the driving and have a rota-system for the seats. The Driver is just a human man, like the rest of us.

‘I’m not moving the bus until you move down the gangway,’ is the Driver’s teacher-like response.

Checkmate. The Driver didn’t get to the top by buckling in situations like this. Hatman toys with his iPhone and shuffles a few grumbling steps in my direction. I look at him, and pity his stupid hat and dreams.

The bus moves off.

The gangway action has distracted me, and I notice my wife is no longer nearby. I check around.

She is a Sitter.

Vendetta

Recently I’ve been eating a lot of spicy food. This isn’t part of any grand strategy or culinary plan. It just seems to be that I need spicier and spicier food to satisfy my taste buds.

The last weekend was a fairly good example.

My wife and I are heading to Bodean’s. For those of you not in the know, Bodean’s is the only place in London where you can get decent American BBQ food for a good price. So I’m feeling pretty smug as we walk in the door. Apropos of nothing, I am a regular attendee at the Bodean’s in Soho, but on this occasion I find myself at the Tower Bridge one (which is not as good).

A helpful lady walks us to our seats. She is a waitress, not just a helpful stranger. She gestures towards a small table for two. I glance at my wife and see her nose twitch. We are thinking the same thing. We are not a particularly chubby couple, but it’s nice to have space to spread out. I like to place my beer in a north-westerly direction from my plate, and my water in the north-east. The small table means both drinks will both have to be crammed due east. And I don’t know what my wife’s system for drink placement is, but I’m damned sure it’s more complex than mine.

The restaurant is perhaps 40% full and there are plenty of larger tables. My wife asks the waitress if we could sit at a larger table. The waitress is not happy.

‘No, I’m afraid not. We may well be busy tonight and might need the larger tables for a bigger group.’

We don’t feel like arguing so we sit. We get the tiny table because of potential customers that may potentially need the larger tables at some potential point in a potential future. We fume a bit.

Our mood soon improves when my wife whips out her special Bodean’s Q card. This magical card gets us free stuff when we order and this makes me tremendously happy. Today we get free chicken wings. The lady offers us a choice of flavour ranging from mild to Diablo. Now, I’m as adventurous as the next guy, but Diablo sounds worrying. We opt for hot, which is one notch below Diablo, and wait expectantly.

Five minutes pass during which time we worry that we have only got one of the usual two bottles of BBQ sauce on our table.

The wings arrive. I silently thank the higher power that there are six. Odd numbers of food create awkward food sharing situations. After over thirty years of life, that is the one piece of philosophy I can claim as truly mine. So don’t nick it. Or do, but credit me.

Remember ‘Odd numbers of food create awkward food sharing situations.’ Pithy.

I digress.

We each take a wing and bite. They are unbelievably hot. Words cannot convey the searing spicy, heat of these wings. Imagine putting a small bit of the sun on your tongue and then stabbing your gums repeatedly. My lips go numb, my nose begins to run and my eyes start to water. I wonder if I will cry.

I look across the tiny table to my wife. We share a moment of complete agreement. Perhaps we will never agree on anything as much as we agree that these are particularly hot wings. I stare at the wing in my shaking hand.

‘There is no way they have hotter wings than this!’ I whisper through my pain, ‘She has given us the Diablo wings!’

My wife gulps down some water.

‘This is her revenge for our asking about a bigger table,’ she hisses, ‘she has taken spicy vengeance!’

I nod wisely and imagine the waitress peering covertly around a corner to watch our pain.

Now, when the situation requires it, I can be as small-minded and childish as anyone. I decide that this is just such a situation and that my wife and I will finish, yes finish, the entire plate of wings. That’ll show our vengeful waitress just who's boss.

I explain my plan to my wife but, if I am honest, I’m not clear if she is supportive of the plan or not. There are six wings and we have already finished one each. Leaving four. I munch bravely though my remaining two wings – speed is best. My eyes clear around 2 minutes later and I see my wife has also finished. Jubilation fades to confusion. She has left her last wing, fully untouched, in the plate. It is a thick, chunky wing and is swimming in the deepest puddle of hot sauce. I had avoided this particular wing, hoping my wife would eat it.

She obviously hasn’t.

From the way she is cleaning up with face wipes, it is clear she has no intention of proceeding any further. I point at the last wing accusingly. She sips her beverage and looks stubborn. The sort of look that says there is no chance on God’s green earth she’ll eat this or any other wing. I die a little inside. For I too am stubborn. And now the mantle has been passed to me. I peer down at the wing and prod it with my fork.

My wife tells me she feels faint. I tell her this isn’t about her. She had her chance. This is about me and the big wing. I need to focus – surely she understands that I don’t have time to worry about a fainting wife.

I grab the wing, glance around the see if the waitress is looking, and quickly scrape off as much sauce as possible. I eat it as speedily as I can and, after a minute or so of misery, am bathing in the warm glow of victory.

The waitress comes by after a short while and clears our plates. She doesn’t seem to notice that we ate all the wings. She is quick and professional. No awe, wonder, or words of congratulation. As she sweeps off, we are left pondering the possibility that the waitress did not engage in ‘spicy vengeance’ and that they weren’t Diablo wings. Just regular hot wings.

We tip well and leave Bodean’s to begin our walk home. We are in a strangely happy mood, giggly even. I’m aware that spicy food can release endorphins in your brain, but this is my first proper experience of the phenomenon. We amble across Tower Bridge chatting like giddy hippies and agree that, next time, we must order the Diablo flavour to remove any doubt.

The next day, we wander around Brick Lane and decide to go for a curry. For the first time in our collective lives, we order a vindaloo. It is great.

We are addicts.

A bit of futurology

Ok, this is a slight departure from my usual, light-hearted take on life. I've been in a bit of a Nostradamus mood recently, so thought I'd share my musings.

The whole concept of simulation has been bugging me. Like many of my fellow brethren, I enjoy the odd play on my Xbox. I don’t spend hours on the thing, but I've done my share of running around and killing baddies. I don’t buy into the idea that violent games have a harmful psychological affect on otherwise normal people. Yet. If you look at the evolution of game simulations over the last 25 years, you’ll see a change from square blobs moving jerkily across black screens, to the movie quality games available now. Advancement in quality will doubtless continue and the inevitable end point is an entirely immersive 3D environment, virtually indistinguishable from reality. Proper virtual reality. I reckon that running around in this environment shooting people in the head is likely to be a much more harrowing and damaging proposition than Grand Theft Auto. Scary even.

This leads to interesting questions for moral philosophers. Games are already developing in the direction of free roam worlds and increasing customisation. What happens when the ‘game’ player can customise the almost-real simulations of the future? What if you found out someone had created a simulation of you? How will we feel about people who do very bad things in these almost-real simulations? Will punishing or vilifying someone for engaging in distasteful simulations or customisations be the same as punishing someone for their thoughts?

I think almost-real simulation challenges the line between thought and action.

So, what does all of this mean? No idea. Smarter people than me will need to work it out. What is certainly true is that we are heading into an increasingly tricky world for the ethics leaders and law-makers to decipher.

Job Centre

If you have never had to claim job-seeking benefit payments from a Job Centre, you are very lucky. I am currently in the unfortunate position of having to do so and am required to attend fortnightly interviews at my local Job Centre to prove that I am actually looking for work. Needless to say, I find these regular visits somewhat disruptive to my job searching.

In the beginning I was filled with naïve optimism. I received an appointment card that informed me I was to attend the Job Centre at 11:22 every other Thursday.

11.22.

Not 11.20 or 11.25.

I found this encouraging and had visions of German-esque efficiency and customers being smoothly processed in 2 minute time slots.

Time passes. It is the day of my first visit.

I arrive at the Job Centre and am greeted by a double door. I see two door attendants standing inside. Neither moves to open the door for me, so I open the door myself. I smile at the door people: one man and one woman. I find I am smiling alone. No words are spoken so I continue on, triggering the female guard into action. She bars my path with a stumpy arm.

‘What are you here for?’ she snaps, jutting her chin out.

I explain that, like almost everyone else, I am here for my Job Centre interview. She seems suspicious, but gestures that I should move onward. Three metres ahead there is another woman leaning on a Welcome podium. I approach her and smile. I am still smiling alone. She musters up the energy to raise an eyebrow in acknowledgment of my presence. I realise that verbal communication skills are thin on the ground here, so I just wave my appointment card. She thumbs behind her in the direction of a large waiting area.

I walk on and find a spot on one of the seats. The seats are arranged in three sides of a square and face inwards. The area is fairly full, so we all sit in silence trying not to stare at each other. There is no interesting reading material available, but there is a slight smell of cheese in the air.

Across from the waiting area are four service desks numbered 1 to 4. All four have staff behind them but only one is attending to a customer. My hopes of quick and efficient service wane. There are no Germans here. It is 11.21 and here is what I can see: the young guy running Desk 1 is looking at his screen. He is not typing or showing any other signs of life and looks bewildered; the guy at Desk 2 is actually handling a customer – but he looks stressed and panicky; the lady at Desk 3 is lounging and typing fluidly – a little too fluidly – perhaps an email to a friend or Twitter; the older fellow at Desk 4 has pulled his chair back and appears to be looking intently at his shoes and is grunting occasionally.

Nothing good can come of this.

We wait.

11.22 is now long gone. Three of the desks have still not serviced any customers, but Desk 2 is now available and shouts ‘Mr Thomas’ to summon his next victim. I say ‘shouts’, but it is more of a whisper. ‘Mr Thomas’ he tries again, this time a reedy whine. I can only hear this because I am seated closest to Desk 2 - I am fairly sure Mr Thomas cannot. Desk 2 tries again several times. At no stage does he consider getting off his ass and walking the ten metres across to the waiting area. I inform the folk near me of Desk 2’s need for a Mr Thomas and immediately a small, chubby man gets up and shuffles across to Desk 2.

We wait.

At long last Desk 3 has completed her epic email. She seems pleased. Perhaps she was planning a birthday. She pulls out a piece of paper from her work-pile and stares at it blankly. She looks up in the general direction of the waiting area and whispers ‘Mr Thomas.’ Desk 4, who has stopped staring at his shoes and is now fiddling with his footrest, leans across and tells Desk 3 that Mr Thomas is already at Desk 2. Not much slips passed Desk 4 it seems. For completeness, I should mention that Desk 1 is now absent. He got up, still bewildered, and wandered off some time ago.

Desk 3 leans over to Desk 2 who has just begun to deal with Mr Thomas. There is much nodding as both agree that Mr Thomas is indeed being seen. Desk 3 returns to her work-pile and flips through it unenthusiastically. In the waiting area, we all lean slightly forward, anticipating our names being called next. After a few moments, she starts a new email.

So we wait.

It is now 11.45. Desk 4 calls me forward, creatively adding an ‘S’ to the end of my surname. As I walk across, I realise the cheese smell is concentrated in the waiting area. I ponder the possibility that someone over there has actually died.

I take a seat at Desk 4. He has fixed his footrest and is sipping a cup of coffee while staring intently at his screen. He probably got the job based on such exemplary multi-tasking.

‘Have you been using the Internet in your job search?’

He still doesn’t look up from his screen. I assume he is looking at porn.

‘Yes’, I dully intone.

‘What does this say?’, he jabs a grubby finger at my form.

‘It says “speculative”.’ I reply.

His expression betrays total incomprehension.

After another 30 seconds of equally penetrating probing, my interview is over. I head for the exit and pass the Welcome podium, now vacant, and the two door monkeys who are deep in discussion about their new mobile phones. They do not open the door for me. I escape onto the street, relief quickly fading into dread as I consider the potential of future fortnightly interviews. As I begin my walk home, I spot Desk 1 standing with one of his colleagues a hundred yards or so up the street.

They are drinking Starbucks and laughing.

Legs and The Lord of the Rings

I have short legs and a long torso. It isn’t my fault and there is very little I can do about it. When I look in the mirror, the overall impression is that my waist is exactly halfway up my body. In other words, my torso contributes more to my overall height than many believe it should. T-shirts are always too short and trousers are always too long. Suave dress is a problem.

I often wonder what can be done about this sorry situation. I once read that people with short legs should wear matching colours on their top and bottom halves – this way, there is no clear breakpoint of colour midway up your body. This is supposed to stop people from noticing your short legs. It really doesn’t.

We live in an age of political correctness. So what is the polite term for short-legged folk like me? I spent a few minutes touring the Web today to try and find out, but I'm sorry to report that there doesn't appear to be an accepted term. I did find the following though:

A criminal = Morally challenged individual
Clumsy = Uniquely coordinated
Cowardly = Challenge challenged
To fail = To achieve a deficiency
Handicapped = Handi-capable
Ignorant = Factually unencumbered
Serial killer = Person with difficult-to-meet needs

More can be found here.

Anyway – I fear I have strayed from the point.

Here are my suggestions for PC terms for us short-legged folk:
- economical in the lower limb area
- low-waisted
- demonstrating frugality of leg
- strong-legged (my fav!)

I am happy to take other suggestions.

Sometimes I try to see the positives in having short legs. I’m reasonably sure I would fare better in a strong gale than the rest of you long-legged, spidery looking folk. Also, my brain signals don’t have so far to travel down my legs, so doubtless my feet should be more responsive. In fact, a recent study of the world’s best tap-dancers proved this. Probably. Also, let's not forget limbo-dancing! In the dark and underground world of unlicensed limbo, long-legged wannabes are roundly mocked until they wake up to their foolhardy ambitions.

I have a friend who also has short legs. Many times we have stood in bars, with our jean hems taken up, and glanced around at the smug, long-legged crowds. In Lord of the Rings terms, we are the stocky Dwarves and they are the willowy Elves. This makes me happy, because the Elves were assholes.

Vintage Adverts

The last Friday Four was fairly negative. So, in the spirit of karmic balance, this one isn’t. Here are four classic adverts from my childhood:

1. Milk Tray

In my opinion, one of the best adverts of all time. Three factors come together in perfect harmony: the James Bond-style music; the man who laughs in the face of sharks and; the astonishing ability to keep a box of chocolates dry underwater. But this was in the carefree days of the 1980s – nowadays, the only knife-wielding chaps found clambering onto boats are Somali pirates. How depressing. And all because the lady loves Milk Tray.

2. Hamlet

Since 2002 all forms of tobacco advertising are banned in England. This is a shame because Hamlet cigar adverts used to be quite amusing. The ad agency behind this one hit on the universal truth that comb-overs are always funny. Are they funnier than mullets? Tough question, though it is a lifetime ambition of mine to see a comb-over and mullet combined on the same head.

3. Carling Black Label

I remember thinking it was amazing that anyone could train a squirrel to do this. Fun advert, but not sure why the ad agency thought linking beer and athleticism was a smart idea.

4. Wrigleys

Boy meets girl on a bus. Boy gives girl a stick of gum. Girl breaks stick of gum in half and gives half back to boy. Boy gets off the bus, probably thinking the relationship was developing at too fast a pace for his liking. Boy turns and sees girl staring at him from the bus. Boy makes a gesture as if to say ‘I have no more gum – buy your own!’ Boy walks in to café to sit down, probably relieved. Last shot of the advert is the girl appearing behind him. Girl is thinking that the boy gave her a stick of gum, so now he is hers. This tense stalker plot, admirably set to the magnificent song ‘Alright Now’ by Free, makes for a classic advert.

Perverts

I am sitting in a children’s playground. Don’t worry, I am here totally legitimately with my sister-in-law and my small nephews who are running around playing. From where I am sitting, I can see the gate that separates the play-area from the rest of the park and a big sign just to the side stating that unaccompanied adults are not allowed. Apparently, you must under all circumstances be in the company of kids. Anyway, the sign gets me thinking - it is clearly there for a reason. Is it there to deter local paedophiles perhaps? And so, as I sit chatting to my sis-in-law, another murky part of my brain is starting to worry about whether I live in an area with a known pervert problem.

Maybe the council put these things up in every play area nowadays? I decide to spend the next few days wandering around the local children’s play areas to check for similar signage. Though perhaps this is not wise - I don't want to be mistaken for a wandering pervert. But I am still keen to know whether it is just this specific play-area or all play-areas.

My sis-in-law runs off to stop one of my nephews from eating a sweet he has just found on the floor. I glance around and realise that there are no other kids in the vicinity. Maybe local parents know something we don’t. Maybe we have come to a known ‘hotspot.’ I feel ill.

Sis-in-law returns with nephews in tow. She announces that they must go off to find a nearby toilet for my nephews who must pee without delay. I agree to look after bags and coats and the pee-party strolls purposefully out of the play area.

Wait.

This is very bad.

A cold-sweat shivers through me as I realise that, unwittingly, I have become an unaccompanied adult. And worse than that. An unaccompanied man. I notice a few people stroll though the park and glance into the play area. They spot me and instantly decide I am dodgy. I try to think of the best way to look normal and unthreatening. I consider standing up and shouting ‘I am not a pervert!’ but worry this would seem too defensive. Almost as if I had something to hide. Perhaps I could shout ‘I have nothing to hide!’ but this would simply be strange.

I pick up my phone and dial my wife. She will know what to do. She always knows what to do. Her voicemail clicks in and I leave a garbled message about perverts and how I am not one. I hang up and look for any sign of the returning pee-party. They are long gone and doubtless wandering the streets of South London cursing the council for lack of public bathrooms.

I remain seated and hope for someone to come into the play-area. I have cleverly worked out that if a young single mum comes in with her kids, while she might view me suspiciously, everyone else passing through the park will just assume that I am the dad. A nice, kid-friendly dad. In the current situation, limiting the number of people who think I am a pervert is important. We are in damage-limitation territory.

I turn around to see if any single mums are approaching. None are. But something else is horribly amiss. There is a man sitting on a far bench in the corner of the play-area. I hadn’t noticed him before because the area is quite large. But there is definitely a man. And he is totally alone. I should point out that there are many free benches in the normal park, so he has absolutely no reason to be where he is. He sees me looking at him and picks up his phone.

Pervert.

Planes and Babies

I am sitting on the return flight from Milan-Malpensa to London Gatwick. Three rows behind me there is a baby screaming. Loudly. The screaming began when the plane boarded and now, one hour into the flight, even the most saintly passengers are beginning to look pained. The baby has two distinct screams. A loud and rhythmic WAH WAH WAH and a high-pitched, drawn out EEEEEEEEK. This has also set off several other babies, cleverly placed at different parts of the plane for maximum coverage.

Now, I do realise that there are some things that you just can’t say and some you shouldn’t even think. But consider this. Research (probably) shows that the screaming of a baby is the most stressful sound to the human ear. A quick flick through Charlie Darwin’s books will tell you that the reason for this is evolution. The baby has spent millions of years deliberately developing a really annoying sound so that Mommy and Daddy could hear it from the back of the cave and come running to check it wasn’t being eaten by dinosaurs. We agree then, that it isn’t politically incorrect to state that the sound of a crying baby is irksome. If prolonged, and new mothers would agree with me, it is actually tortuous.

In fact, if I deliberately played tapes of screaming babies for hours on end to a prisoner of war, someone in Geneva would probably get very upset. Forcing someone to listen to endless screaming in a confined space is therefore tantamount to torture if:

1. they are not free to exit from the area;

2. it isn’t self-inflicted (i.e. they haven’t introduced the source of the screaming themselves).

I ponder this for a few minutes. I am currently strapped into a seat in a confined space. I obviously can’t exit. I certainly haven’t chosen to have kids myself, and therefore the source of the screaming is not of my doing. I worry that I am being tortured, or, as the Americans would say, subject to enhanced interrogation techniques.

I shift in my seat to see if I can spot the baby ringleader. I spot him and see that he doesn’t even have tears in his eyes. These are attention screams not, ‘Help there is a dinosaur!’ screams. His mother is holding him on her lap with her face set in an unexpectedly peaceful expression. I notice, with horror, that she is wearing earphones.

‘Look!’ I prod my wife, ‘She’s got noise cancelling earphones! Surely she should be enjoying her baby’s dulcet tones?’

My wife, who is calmly reading a book, has a quick peek over her headrest.

‘I think you are being intolerant,’ she sighs, confidently turning a page, ‘and babies are necessary for the continued survival of the species, so you have to expect them on planes.’

‘But we don’t have noise cancelling headphones,’ I hiss, ‘and this is obviously not the first time her kid has screamed forever, so really she should have brought enough for the rest of us. Or at least take hers out in a gesture of solidarity!’

I stew on this for some time. Headphone mother doesn’t seem to care that her kid is screaming. I wonder what would happen if I started to scream and how long it would be before someone told me to shut up.

‘Is it ok to tell other people’s babies to shut up?’ I prod my wife again.

She is ignoring me.

‘Not ok.’ I concede.

I consider writing a note to the airline to ask them to investigate the feasibility of placing all passengers with babies in a special soundproofed section. It will never work, I realise. Where would it end? Special sections for people with pungent feet or dull conversation or the need to pee every two minutes? There will be no end to the special sections.

I look around fearfully, wondering what special section I would be put in. I lock eyes with the headphone mother. She smiles and, grateful for a friendly face, I smile back. Sometimes, I conclude wisely, things are probably better just the way they are.

1980s movies

Given the slightly dark nature of last week’s four, I have decided to lighten things up with the four best movies of the 1980s. In no particular order:

1. Heathers (1989)

Christian Slater’s character is kind of a 1980s rebel without a cause (remember the James Dean film?). I imagine, then, that the writers thought long and hard about the character’s name before they settled finally on Jason Dean. Now Dean is a rebel, but not so much of a rebel that he doesn’t go to school. He does go to school but only so that other kids can see him being a rebel. This one sneaks onto my list purely because of the scene in the school canteen where Dean, the new kid, is hassled a couple of part-time school bullies and full-time clichés, Kurt and Ram. Dean is unhappy to have his lunch disturbed and pulls out a handgun. General merriment ensues.

Best quote: ‘Dear Diary, my teen-angst bullshit now has a body count.'

2. The Secret Of My Success (1987)

I like this because Michael J Fox is in it. Literally no one is cooler than Michael J Fox. He plays Brantley Foster, a kid who has just finished college and starts work for his uncle who is the top dog at Pemrose Inc. For some reason, he starts in the mailroom. Anyway, he decides he doesn’t want to work in the mailroom – he wants to be a ‘suit.’ So he lies, manipulates and deceives his way into an executive office. He also steals his uncle’s mistress and executes a successful hostile takeover bid. At the end of the film, he replaces the experienced Board of Directors with himself, his mailroom pal and his aunt. The genius is that we like him for it!

Best quote: ‘Look, I like you, I really like you, but I gotta tell you, I have become seriously and emotionally involved with someone who isn't my aunt.’

3. Young Guns (1988)

I actually prefer Young Guns 2, primarily because of the classic and emotional Bon Jovi song, ‘Blaze of Glory.’ However, Young Guns 2 was released in 1990 so it doesn’t make this list. I suppose I could change the list to being the best movies from 1980 to 1990 inclusive, but I feel I would be changing the world to fit my own selfish desires. So we are stuck with Young Guns 1 or simply Young Guns. The cast is basically the 1980s Brat Pack and includes Emilio Estevez, Keifer Sutherland and Charlie Sheen. Tom Cruise also makes a cameo appearance as a cowboy with big sideboards (or sideburns if you are American). See it here. Apparently he turned up during filming and wanted to have a go at being in a gunfight. Young Guns is a great film but for the longest time I felt something was missing. Recently, I have identified the missing element as Michael J Fox. I am sure with all the digital wizardry available now, some big studio could use CGI to include MJF. I hope you agree that this would benefit us all.

Best quote: ‘If we're caught, we're gonna hang... But there's many a slip twixt the cup and the lip.'

4. Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986)

Surely everyone has seen this movie. If you haven’t, you should consider skipping a day of work or school to watch it. There is nothing more to say about this movie. Except that Matthew Broderick plays the lead and Michael J Fox isn’t in it. MJF was probably first choice but had to decline because he was being Marty McFly in Back To The Future. Who is the better actor, Matthew Broderick or MJF? MJF.

Best quote: ‘Life moves pretty fast; if you don't stop and look around once in a while, you're gonna miss it.’

Feel free to pick up any of these movies over the weekend and provide full and frank feedback in my comments section. I won’t take any film comments personally as I had no actual involvement in the making of any of these films.

Trousers

It is wedding season and I have to go to one of them. This means a trip to Italy which is a good thing. Unfortunately, it also means I need new clothes and so I find myself walking down Jermyn Street in Central London on a joyless quest for trousers. It is a mild day, not warm, but for some reason I am sweating. A lot. Usually, I consider myself to be entirely normal in the sweating stakes...and quite a snappy dresser. Not today. I observe the following:

• the trousers I am wearing are clearly too big for me – frustratingly, the fabric around my pockets is blowing slightly in the breeze;
• what appears to be an oil stain has made a home for itself a few inches to the right of my crotch;
• I have a sweat patch emerging right in the middle of my light blue shirt and, though I am wearing a jacket, it pains me to admit that I am walking along with what can only be called a ‘sweat target.’

As I walk along I notice a few sympathetic looks from passers-by. I stare back imploringly, hoping that they can see that I don’t know what has happened any more than they do.

I sense my sweat patch getting worse but I can’t look down as that would draw attention. I want many things at this moment, none of which is attention! I consider the options. Perhaps I should take off my jacket? That would help me cool down and perhaps the sweat target would disappear. But how quickly? How quickly do sweat targets disappear? This is definitely an under-researched area. I estimate perhaps two to three hundred people would pass the sweat target in its full, exposed glory before full evaporation. Perhaps a group of tourists would take photos. I opt to leave the jacket on.

I slide into a trouser shop. The man behind the counter glances up and observes my big trousers and oil stain. He looks slightly like an annoyed and well-fed Elmer Fudd. I have a sudden urge to explain everything. I want him to understand that I am just a normal human man, but intuition tells me there will be no comfort here. Fudd remains silent and raises an eyebrow enquiringly. He is probably hoping that I will just ask directions or something. For a micro-second, I consider asking the way to the nearest hospital – perhaps I could imply that I was dying and with little time to waste worrying about oil, sweat or big trousers.

I regain my confidence and ask if he sells grey trousers that aren’t part of a suit. I specify this because I want to avoid any confusion - I am not in the market for an entire suit and want this to be known from the outset. I am a man who knows what he wants, a force to be reckoned with. Fudd points a finger to the rack of grey trousers directly in front of me, clearly labelled with a big square sign that says ‘Trousers – Grey.’ I nod at the man. He doesn’t nod back. This is because the man thinks that I am an imbecile.

I grab a pair of trousers and head to the changing room. I pull the trousers off the hanger and notice that, although the waist size is correct, the length could only fit a man with freakishly long legs. I worry. Fudd has now positioned himself directly outside the curtain and tells me, ‘Don’t worry about the length. We turn them up to fit your leg, Sir.’ He puts an emphasis on the word ‘Sir’ that is both unpleasant and unnecessary. Almost as if I am not really a ‘Sir’. I see my face in the mirror and it looks like an angry face. I suspect Fudd is being patronising. Does he tell everyone about the long legs or just me? Clearly Fudd has taken against me and my honour is being tested. I consider asking him to duel.

I step out of the changing room with the ends of the trouser legs flapping behind me, determined to assert myself, and see my wife walking in to the shop. She is here to help me pick trousers because she thinks me incapable of picking the right size trousers on my own - the weight of history is in her favour.

‘Why are you so sweaty?’ she demands.

Armed with no suitable response I just shrug.

She peers critically at the trousers as Fudd waves an evil hand towards a full-length mirror. He is clearly unsure about the waist-size and jabs his finger into my waistband. We meet eyes. I know that I am sweaty and now, I fear, so does he. I consider saying something to ease the tension - perhaps a witty anecdote about my friend James. Best not, I think wisely. Fudd makes a sound that I can only describe as a dry retch and removes his finger slowly from my waistband. I feel that we have formed some sort of bond. Not a happy bond, like a man has with his dog. More the sort of bond that a hostage might have with a kidnapper. Finally, I feel in control.

My wife, unaware of all that has passed, circles and prods a finger into my left love handle to test its fatness. Apparently satisfied, she spots the tie-rack and hurries off like a magpie. The man, sensing a sale, follows her and, as suddenly as it was formed, our delicate bond is gone.

Ten minutes later we have left the shop. I have new trousers and my wife is admiring the tie she has picked out for me. We pass a few steps down the street and bumbling towards us is my mate James. James is wearing a T-Shirt bearing red and yellow lettering of subtlety, beauty, and poetry (‘It is my duty to please your booty!’). He is half-shaved and has surpassed me in the sweating stakes. I suspect he has surpassed everyone.

I open with, ‘Profound T-shirt, my friend.’

‘Quite big trousers!’ he expertly counters. ‘Where did you get that tie? Wouldn't mind grabbing one for myself if you don't mind us being tie brothers?'

In life there are rare moments of perfect bliss. Rare confluences of action and opportunity. This is one of them...

I smile and point at Fudd’s shop.

James pulls up the bottom of his shirt to wipe his round, sweaty face, and heads straight in.

Torture

Mankind has a long and murky history of not being very nice to itself. At one point there were entire industries and professions built around how to inflict the maximum amount of suffering on the human body. Tipping my hat to our dark past, I have gathered together what I believe to be the four most heinous and odious torture devices from the damp shadows of bygone eras:

1. Persians: ‘Throw them to the ashes!’ is a phrase that appears often in ancient Persian manuscripts but has baffled historians for quite some time. Luckily for us, a clever German man named Bruno has recently solved the conundrum. He reckons that the Persians would place a thick layer of ash on the floor of a room and then lock someone in it. The person would have to remain standing, otherwise they would start to inhale the ash. Inevitably, the victim would eventually collapse from exhaustion and inhale the ash. This would lead to a slow and painful suffocation. You can read about it in a Spiegel article here. Very creative.

2. More Persians: The Tub is also mentioned in the Spiegel article above - it is far too disturbing for me to repeat, but is perhaps the most dastardly torture on this list. Something was clearly very wrong with the Ancient Persians.

3. Greeks: A nasty little man called Perillos invented the Brazen Bull as a novel method of execution. It was a hollow, bronze bull that a person could fit inside alongside an elaborate system of bellows, tubes and horns. A fire would be lit under the bull and the person within would slowly roast. The bellows would convert their screams into the sound of an enraged bull and smoke would blow through the bull’s nose. A deeply unnecessary illusion! However, the pixies of karma obviously have a black sense of humour, as when Perillos proposed his lovely device to the ruler of Athens, Perillos was given the honour of being the first to test it out. Lesson: don’t invent torture devices! Sinister stuff.

4. Europeans: The Pear of Anguish was used by the medieval Europeans. Great name. It seems to have been a fairly popular way to dispatch witches, homosexuals, blasphemers and liars. It was a metal device shaped like a pear that would expand and blossom once it was shoved somewhere terribly unpleasant (I think you get the general idea). And, just in case an interruption (what is the correct collective noun here?) of academics descends on me, I should point out that this torture device might only have existed in the minds of twisted medieval writers. Alas, the dangers of fiction.

On that macabre note, have a fun weekend!

Man and Bag

I am sitting on a tube train with a baby blue woman’s handbag. Two older women are sitting on either side of me with their handbags on their laps. My handbag is also on my lap – I am aware of how this looks but there is nowhere else to put it.

I have the bag as my wife had packed it full of precious things that she needed for an after-work party. She couldn’t take it because it was too heavy. Now, as planned, I am meeting her for lunch with aforementioned bag. I feel strange.

The recent trend of man-bags has confused things. It is no secret that I am not a fan of man-bags, probably because they have only been adopted by underweight men who keep obscure vinyl records and art and drugs in them. I am not like these men and therefore wouldn’t feel right carrying a man-bag. I decide to remember not to buy one. Ever.

However, a man-bag is very different from a handbag.

A man sitting opposite me stares at my bag. He has noticed it is a woman’s bag and that it is mine. He has a beard. A manly beard. He has a manly beard and I have a womanly bag. He strokes his beard and I stare at it wishing I had one. If I had a beard like that everyone would surely know that there is no way the bag could be mine. No man with such a beard would carry a bag like this. The man is looking at me looking at his beard. I avert my eyes and look around at everyone else.

Everyone else is looking at my bag.

I consider making a pretend phone call to talk loudly about the bag and how it isn’t mine. Unhappily, I realise that I put my phone in the bag before I left home – this was based on the idea that I had a bag and so might as well use it. I imagine myself rummaging through the bag on my knee and the beardy man opposite me nodding to himself in smug confirmation. I sweat. There is literally no way I can rummage.

The train is approaching my stop. The lady on my left is looking closely at the bag. I am worried she is going to ask me where I bought it. But then, I realise, a question would be a very good thing. I could answer that I don’t know anything about the bag as it is my wife’s. Then everyone would laugh, pat me on the back and realise that I am normal. I look at her and smile in what I hope is a friendly and encouraging way. Apparently it isn’t. Distrust flickers immediately across her face and she turns her head sharply to look at something that isn’t me or my bag. In my heart I know that any hope of a bag question is lost.

I return my gaze to the beardy man. Now, I don’t mean to stare at him, but he is seated in the default position for my stare. Politely, I search for something above his head to look at. I lock onto a funny advert. I start to read it and chuckle. By the time I have finished I notice that no one is looking at my bag. Everyone is carrying on with their own business and thinking about emails and who smells of wee (...yes there is a smell of wee in the tube carriage).

No longer the subject of scrutiny, I am overjoyed and filled with appreciation for my fellow man. Clearly, people are rarely as simple-minded as I believe them to be. I stand up and walk towards the doors that have already begun to open. I step out of the door with a smile on my face and renewed hope for humanity.

‘Nice bag mate!’ I hear, as the doors swoosh behind me.

That was probably the wee person, I tell myself.