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!