Those Who Can, Do.

Next month I will have been scrawling nonsense on this little corner of the internet for a year and the whole exercise has taught me a lot about writing. I’ve found that for me ideas can’t be forced, I generally tend to have to be in the right mood or have been hit sufficiently hard by the inspiration stick to put something out that I’m happy with. There are hundreds of things I see or hear that I could write about but if I put finger to keyboard every time I had a half-baked idea for an article I’d bore the shit out of myself, let alone the people who are generous enough to give up some of their time to sit and read what I post on here.

That said, not all people who read things such as this page are generous. Allow me to explain…

I’ll happily admit that a major inspiration to start Small Tales came from reading a blog that is written by a friend. I didn’t know him when I first looked at it – although we’ve since become friends – and I found it to be one of the funniest things I’ve read for a long time. His observations and vicious wit are right up my street and easily on a par with anything a professional columnist could produce. With material ranging from idiots with iphones on the bus to his crazy neighbours and their ridiculous exploits, from his being crap at drinking alcohol to being accosted by a mad woman at a nightclub, my friend’s writing never ceases to pluck at least one belly laugh from me per article. And what struck me above all is his writing style; it’s engaging, fluid and he has the ability to pen things that are on one hand laugh-out-loud funny and yet at other times incredibly moving.

About two or three months ago I received a text from him when I left work, which read,

‘Hello mate, now I know you’re a good writer but my question is am I?’

It was a strange question because my friend isn’t the kind of emo-esque, insecure attention seeker that constantly needs affirmation or self-inflicted razor slashes to his arms to feel better about himself. A little bemused I replied and told him about how his writing had inspired me and asked why this sudden crisis of confidence. He went on to tell me that someone who had decided to remain anonymous had emailed him and effectively told him he couldn’t write for shit. I pressed him for more specifics and while the following isn’t verbatim quotation of what they said it’s along the same lines.

‘Anonymous’ told him that his writing lacked depth and substance, his style was shoddy and that he used foul language to cover up both his lack of intelligence and ability. Now from my grassy knoll that couldn’t be further from the truth and my first question upon being told this was, ‘have they sent you anything they’ve written?’ to which I was told no they hadn’t. I then asked if they had left their name and an indication of what qualifies them to make these sweeping judgements to which the answer was once again, no they hadn’t. ‘Anonymous’ didn’t even point to sections of my friend’s text that they’d taken offence to.

Now one thing I’ve learned over the years is that it’s easy to criticise. Anyone with an opinion – however badly informed – coupled with the power of speech or some vague semblance of literacy can slag something off. But for me nowadays, being negative is mostly a cop out. As the saying goes, it can take years to build something that takes seconds to tear apart and let's face it, destroying something hardly takes hard work, talent or imagination does it? Unless you’re one of those badass demolition dudes, but that’s not what I’m talking about here.

What ‘anonymous’ did was the literary equivalent of a dull-witted bully coming along and kicking over a sandcastle someone had spent time and energy creating. Of course there are things out there that are so crap they need a good bashing, take most of the music that makes the charts these days for example, but if you have to be negative about something at least put in some effort and be well-informed enough to back up what you say with some form of evidence.

I’ve found that it’s much harder to be positive about something, especially if it’s something you aren’t personally into. There are a lot of things out there that really aren’t my cup of tea let alone my glass of finest single malt, but just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean it doesn’t have merit. One of my biggest bugbears are people with no talent and no motivation other than to sit in their ivory towers dishing out what they loosely describe as criticism to people who have worked on something and had the guts to put it out there in public.

The internet is awash with semi-literate armchair critics who are happy to tear chunks out of someone’s work and yet haven’t produced a single thing themselves apart from their inane, boring, predictable rantings about things others have created. For my friend to be viciously criticised by this moron who didn’t even have the backbone to post their name on the email is a joke. So I’d like to take the shallow approach in my response to ‘anonymous’ and mask my obvious lack of intellect or depth by saying fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

I’d love to see the kind of thing that ‘anonymous’ could produce because I’m sure it would be of such a poor standard that I could give them a proper lesson in articulate bitch slapping. It takes balls to create something and put it out there for people to read, look at or listen to and it is nothing more than cowardice to attack something without so much as revealing who you are and why you think your opinion counts for shit.

If you’d like to form your own opinion, which I strongly suggest you do, you can check out my friend’s blog HERE. But do us both a favour if you want to slag either me or my friend off, at least leave your name and justification for your negativity.

And whatever you do, remember this golden rule: those who can, do. Those who can’t, bitch.

Crutch Power

I’m just about to go back to work after a three week sojourn due to having had a knee operation to repair torn cartilage in my left knee. It’s been a problem that I’ve been putting up with for about two and a half years and finally I’ve had it fixed. I have to admit though, it’s been an enjoyable time off despite my movement being hindered by having to use crutches for a couple of weeks after the op. But while I was consigned to hobbling around I discovered that using crutches had an interesting and rather pleasant side effect.

Now it’s no secret that I’m not a fan of people in general, I am a bit of a misanthrope to say the least. Whenever I go out and walk down the road I think I either become invisible or activate some kind of twat attracting energy field. God knows how this is possible, I’m hardly a blend-into-the-background kind of bloke, but somehow when I go out people either don’t see me or think I’m some kind of gaseous being they can walk straight through. Not with the crutches though, oh no, with those strapped to my arms things change.

I discovered this revelation when I went out of the house for the first time after the operation. Against the advice of my long suffering girlfriend I donned my crutches and we went out into the outside world. I had to get out of the house, I’d been cooped up in my flat for four days and was starting to go a little stir crazy so even a trip to the supermarket was a welcome distraction.

I hobbled round the corner onto St James’ Street here in Brighton, which is generally a cauldron of tourists, students, crazy locals and a random assortment of junkies and alcoholics. I readied myself for the usual barracking when I discovered the crutches had bestowed on me a new power. Rather than drawing dickheads to me like flies to a steaming turd, people actually acknowledged me, even moved out of my way apologising as they did. It was incredible. I tottered along the road and was stunned at the sudden politeness where before I would have been rudely bumped into and ignored.

Then I saw two of my most feared adversaries behind me, a pair of pushchair wielding mothers, the kind who either use your ankles for target practice or barge you out of the way into oncoming traffic. As usual, the women were pushing their offspring two abreast, loudly discussing which of their spawn was more intelligent than the other, totally disregarding the fact that other people wanted to use the pavement as well to do selfish things like avoid getting run over by buses for example. I looked at Charlotte and flashed her a grin that said, ‘let’s see what happens here then, because I’m not moving.’ Poor Charlotte, not only was she fretting about me being out of the house in the first place, she now had to deal with me invoking a stand-off between myself and a couple of baby buggies. See why I refer to her as long suffering?

I slowed down, made myself as wide as I could with my crutches and braced myself for impact. But where normally I would be unceremoniously shoved out of the way, this time the effect of the crutches was indisputable. As they drew closer, for once they appeared to notice me and you know what? They crossed the road. They crossed the bloody road to allow me to go about my business unhindered. It transpired that crutches could thrust consideration on even the hardiest of pushchair wielders. Incredible.

That was the watershed, I decided that I’d have some fun with my temporary disability and get in people’s way as much as I could to see how they’d react. If they did so in the wrong way I’d be in a position of righteous indignation and could expose the offenders’ for the impolite, selfish bastards they were. I think by this point Charlotte had given up and decided to let me wage my stupid little personal war.

A few minor skirmishes later and we were at the supermarket, another venue where I’m generally pushed around and ignored. Nonetheless the same thing happened, people went from being their usual ill-mannered selves to being astoundingly courteous, aware of my struggle and making ay for me.
But then in the dairy section I confronted my true nemesis; another man on crutches. Damn. Okay, I thought, let’s see how far I can push this thing.
There was a Mexican stand-off as we faced each other in the aisle, wondering which of the two of us would yield and give way and eventually my opponent must have realised I was in much worse shape than he was and he capitulated. Fabulous, a clean sheet. The crowd roars.

A week later however, things were back to normal. My crutches were no longer needed and I went down the supermarket once more, bereft of my magical supports. Although I was still limping pretty badly it seemed that without the power of the crutches I had again donned my invisible suit and had become a target for arseholes to annoy. My short lived reign of crutch terror was over. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.

I still have the crutches though, the hospital didn’t ask for them back and I forgot to return them, and you know what? I’m thinking of busting them out in a few weeks time ready for the Christmas rush, just to see what happens. If nothing else it’ll satisfy my inner wanker.

From Nijmegen with Love

In 1998 I met a guy called Jan Liefhebber at a house party. It was back when I lived in one of the numerous and infamous party houses on Maples Street in Hyson Green, Nottingham. My time in Maples Street is a whole other story in itself, far too big to summarise properly here, but suffice to say it was one of the craziest times in my life, for better or worse. Jan was visiting the UK from Holland with his girlfriend, Jenny, who grew up in the next town from me. We’d all been at a club night that finished at 2am and when we were kicked out us Maples Street reprobates decided to have an open house after party and Jan and Jenny came along. I chatted to Jan and Jenny for some time and found that Jan ran a record label called Highland Beats and was very active as a DJ as well. After talking for a while I eventually went to play some records myself, which was a good move because based on that little set I did, Jan and Jenny flew me out to play in Nijmegen not long after.

My debut gig in Holland was for his Highland Beats label party at a fantastic club in Nijmegen called Doornroosje. After that I spent the next couple of years going back to the Netherlands to play gigs with or for Jan at squats, clubs and fields in Amsterdam, Nijmegen, Groningen and Deventer. During that time I met some amazing people and fell in love with the country, not just for the availability of quality Dutch smoke but because there’s a real love of techno over there. But then I moved to Brighton, took up my studies at university and unfortunately lost touch with the Nijmegen contingent.

Skip to a few months ago, and through the wonder of Facebook I got back in touch with Jan and Jenny. I found that Jan is as driven by his music as he ever was and as well as being a DJ, he’s now also a producer and has released some damn fine music in the past ten years. I’m more than pleased to report that Highland Beats is alive and kicking and coming up to it’s 41st release with no sign of letting up anytime soon.

Not long after getting back in touch with Jan, he kindly invited me to play at his birthday party on the 1st October at an amazing venue in Nijmegen called Waalhalla, a chance I fucking jumped at. It was an incredible party and I met with some old friends who I’ve not seen for a decade or more, as well as meeting some new people who are equally cool. Waalhalla is a skate park that doubles up as a music venue and I had one of the times of my life there last weekend and one thing is for sure, I won’t be waiting ten years before going back out there to party again.

I made a little short film on the night so you can get an idea of the kind of party Jan had for his birthday, check it out. From Nijmegen with Love… enjoy.

Hello Dave!

Late last night I got wind that Prime Minister, David Cameron was going to be appearing at Hove Town Hall on his Big Society tour. What a stroke of luck, I thought, because I work at Hove Town Hall and have more than a few questions I’d like to ask him. At the very least I wanted to say ‘hi’ to our Dave. Davey C. Our Dave: Man of the People.

I wasn’t alone either, lots of people from unions GMB and Unison arrived in the hope of being able to say ‘hi’ too but unfortunately we were to be disappointed. As the crowd stood waiting for our illustrious leader to arrive a bus load of hand picked people were shipped into the hall, smartly dressed and clutching non-threatening questions; well you wouldn’t want Dave to have to think on his feet would you?

Eventually Dave turned up about ninety minutes late, meaning that most of the people with jobs to go to had melted away by the time he arrived, leaving only a handful behind. Mind you if DC and Cleggy-boy have anything to say these people won’t have pesky jobs to go to soon, so they’ll be able to hang around waiting for him to their hearts’ content.

Another mistake the anxious crowd made was they thought he’d be walking in through the front entrance and dutifully waited for him there. Imagine their surprise when he snuck in unannounced around the back. Such a modest man, not wanting to make a fuss. Strange to think that he’d rather sneak in a back door rather than meet the people with spontaneous questions to ask him, it was almost as though he was avoiding them. Surely not, what with him and Clegg wanting to engage the nation so much.

I was actually hoping Nick Clegg turned up with his boss, sorry… civil partner, I mean coalition colleague, because I wanted to ask him if he could pull the knife out of my back that he accidentally stuck there during the general election. It is still sore you know.

In the end only about eight teenagers, presumably on the summer break before going back to sixth form, were left out back waiting for him. A young lad with a guitar accompanied by a young girl sang lovely catchy protest chants in the hope of serenading our Dave as he left the building, but they were to be disappointed. The young lad was genius in his playing because he left his guitar out of tune, I suppose in some avant-garde fashion that I don’t understand now that I’m getting on a bit. And I think the girl thought Dave might be so impressed with her singing that he would have a word with his mates Simon Cowell and Piers Morgan about getting her on the X-Factor or Britain’s Got No Talent. She must have thought that because there’s no other reason for her turning up caked in make-up, wearing a gold lamé jacket and a wide brimmed hat. She was obviously a future pop star because she also sported odd shoes and did Christina Aquillera hand gestures while she sang. Badly.

I was told later, when all the excitement was over and I was making a cup of tea, that when Dave was at the West Hove School just before coming to my place of work, the moment the cameras stopped filming he refused to speak to anyone, adults and kids alike, and quickly legged it away before you could say ‘crap policies’. Bless him, he must have been tired. Maybe that’s why he didn’t want to speak to us at Hove Town Hall. It must be tough being Prime Minister.

The Birds

When I first moved to the south coast from the Midlands, I used to love the sound of seagulls. When I lay in bed in the morning during those first rosy months I’d smile as I heard them, an audible reminder that even if I couldn’t see the sea I was no longer landlocked. On my way to work in the mornings I’d see them in numbers stamping up and down on the dewy grass to fool worms into surfacing and it would make me chuckle because they looked as though they were dancing at a seagull rave.

How quickly things can change.

Now when I hear a squawk from one of those creatures it makes me want to go on a full-on gullicidal rampage. I want silence their foul beaks once and for all. It isn’t so bad in winter because the windows are closed and they’re harder to hear but in the warmer months it can get almost unbearable. Summer means lighter mornings and seagulls nesting on the rooftops, tending to a new generation of squawking monstrosities. The summer light and protective nature of the gull parents causes periods of incessant screeching, generally at some ungodly hour of the morning I only usually see when I’m out for the night. Once the shrieking has woken me up, getting back to sleep amidst the cacophony can prove almost impossible. If there is an afterlife I’m going to track down whoever came up with the idea for ear plugs and shake their hand.

As well as their continuous screaming, seagulls are also becoming increasingly aggressive, so much so that I’m under the impression that they’re building up for a war of supremacy with us humans. One of my friends was up on his roof for some reason the other day and was dive bombed by the bloody things. Another friend recently came back after a night out to find that he’d been the victim of a seagull home invasion. This friend said that he, ‘got home to find a seagull in the living room and bird shit everywhere. It took a scrape out of my arm as I chucked it out by its legs.’ I’m pretty sure the seagull hadn’t simply wandered accidentally into his flat, I think it was bloody squatting. I imagine it had also been helping itself to his drinks cabinet and food cupboards. Shame it didn’t know how to use the toilet.

And the mad thing is we protect this vermin.

What with the shrieking, aggression, squatting, bin bag attacking and general winged thuggery I think it’s about time the government repealed the protection of these sky rats so that we can embark on a pre-emptive cull and hopefully avoid the imminent war.

I think that Hitchcock was right and they’re are out to get us. In his film The Birds it’s the seagulls who attack first; coincidence? I think not. I reckon that The Birds is a warning; Hitchcock saw this day coming and knew that the seagulls would be the generals of the bird army.

My friend, Alex came up with a perfect description of their squawks. He said that, ‘it sounds like they’re laughing at you.’ I don’t think I could have described it better myself. They’re laughing because they’re taunting us, they know that their time is coming. Seagulls aren’t our friends, they are our nemesis. The next time one shits on you don’t pass it off as a random act of airborne crapping, know this: it was aiming for you because it hates you and wants your home, your food and your position in the food chain.

Beware the gulls

My Country Right or Wrong?

I know that there are a lot of you out there who are either indifferent or vehemently against it but I’m enjoying the World Cup. I love hanging out with friends, eating good food, drinking beer and watching football until I’m fit to burst, but there are things about it that turn my stomach as much as it does for those who are avidly anti-football.

Firstly there’s the relentless March of the Advertisers, ramming product after product down our throats, refusing to relent even when we gag. Before this tournament even started I was sick to the back teeth of football related commercials and now it’s upon us it’s worse than ever. But the thing I find most frightening of all is the jingoistic slant given not only to the advertising but to more or less everything surrounding England’s participation in the World Cup.

There’s that vomit-inducing advert for Carlsberg lager for one, with, as Charlie Brooker explains, ‘a cameo from virtually every notable English sporting hero of the past 50 years, pausing briefly for a patronising moment of silence for Sir Bobby Robson, before depicting an ethereal Bobby Moore, bathed in heavenly light at the top of the tunnel, standing proudly beside a lion’. I’m trying not to empty the contents of my lunch onto the keyboard as I type. All this to advertise a Danish lager. Very English.

Then there’s an even a darker, more disturbing side to all of this. It started with the ridiculous rumour - which spread around Facebook like wildfire - that the police were ordering pubs to ban England football shirts and George crosses as they could offend other races, to which masses of the great unwashed responded by telling those allegedly offended to take off their turbans and burkhas before leaving the country. Once again the George cross was hijacked by the racists and many fell into line baying for blood before stopping to think about it for a few seconds.

Newsflash morons; the same equalities laws that protect turbans and burkhas also protect your rights to wear an England shirt to the football. The only time the shirt becomes an issue is if you start acting like a dick, in which case you’re a dick whether you wear the shirt or not. Three words idiots: do some research.

A certain section of those same England supporters think that wearing an England shirt during a World Cup means its okay to be frighteningly nationalist and racist. I was in the Midlands for the first England game against the USA last Saturday and was spending some time in a small town with a good friend. We watched the first half at her place and then went down to her local for the second half. The pub was packed and I fought my way to the main room with the big screen.

What I found wasn’t a room full of enthusiastic football fans boisterously cheering on their team; I found it full of screaming nationalists draped in George cross flags, more interested in shouting at each other about how they were ‘England ‘til I die’ than watching the match. Disturbed and irritated I moved to a smaller room to try to get a decent view. I was attempting to employ my special super powers of x ray vision see the TV through the back of someone’s head when I was accosted by a skinhead guy in an England shirt.

‘Great’, I thought, just smile and ignore him, but when he spoke he seemed pretty friendly. We got talking about the match, tactics, team selection and for a second there I was about to berate myself for assuming what I had when he came out with this:

‘Tell you what though, mate, there’s too many fuckin’ coons in the England team. I looked and there’s less fuckin’ black people in the South African team than there is playin' for England for Christ’s sakes.’

Just when I thought I’d met someone who broke the mold I was cruelly denied; it was like having a shot that seemed destined to go in saved off the line. By a Nazi. In an England shirt.

Finally I want to bemoan the negative media coverage of the England campaign. We draw our first match and what happens? The media goes into a doom and gloom frenzy, so much so that if you took their opinion seriously we might as well pack the team on the next flight home and forfeit the next two games. Why does the English media make our team out to be such losers? We didn’t lose. We drew against a USA team full of premier league footballers, it’s hardly the end of the world. And correct me if I’m wrong but didn’t both France and Portugal draw 0-0 in their opening games? Didn’t Brazil struggle to beat North Korea in theirs? Didn’t current European Champions, Spain just lose their opening match to Switzerland? And to be fair we would have won the opener if Robert Green hadn’t decided to cement his name in English World Cup history by smearing butter on his gloves before the match. Why can’t our media save their judgments until after the tournament, can’t they just get behind the team? I wonder if the Brazilian media does the same?

Before I go, allow me to reveal something to my fellow England supporters. We aren’t going to win the World Cup. Never in a month of Sundays. I accepted this some time ago and do you know what? I enjoy major tournaments so much more than if I go into them expecting us to win. When I watch a major tournament today when England manage to qualify, I go into it expecting to have my heart pulled into my mouth, my nerves shredded to pieces and my liver to be severely punished. What I don’t do is turn into a frothing nationalist ready to unleash my inner fascist and use the occasion to spout racist abuse. The whole thing should be fun, a celebration of one of the most popular sports in the world, be a way for different cultures to come together and get along. Enjoy it, every stomach churning moment of it.

We won’t win but I’m determined to have fun, right down to that heartbreaking moment when whoever it is misses that vital penalty and England go crashing out. Again.

Marathon Man

Well that’s it for the election, all done and now it’s up to the parties to work out who the hell is going to run the country. It’s not the result I wanted but it’s not an outright Tory majority, which is a slight sweetener to the bitter pill we have to swallow. But anyway, I’ve already said more than enough on this election, time to put up my hands and step away from the burning wreck that is British politics.

Back in February you may remember me telling you how I was staring out of my window on what was an absolutely foul day when I suddenly saw runners appear in their droves. Well, they came back a few weeks ago but in greater numbers, and this time they weren’t alone. Where beforehand the only people watching were close friends, family, local ‘eccentrics’ and a smug git behind a keyboard in a warm, dry flat, this time the streets were lined with people as far as the eye could see. They’d come to watch the first Brighton Marathon and I was more than impressed with the numbers who turned out to support it.

I had one of the best seats going because the start/finish line and the halfway point were almost directly outside my window, and to cap that all the roads had been closed meaning for once there was no noise from cars, motorbikes or buses. Instead the incessant drone of engines had been replaced by cheering and rapturous applause; it was a wonderful change from the norm. There was none of the annoying start stop of engines at the traffic lights directly outside, gone were the middle age men in their soft-top sports cars, no more bus drivers leaning on their horns every time someone else tried to use the road. It was bliss, even if it was to be only temporary.

Nor were there planes in the sky thanks to a certain volcano having a whale of a time over in Iceland. When Eyjafjallajokul went pop it was as though Mother Nature flipped us the bird and reminded us arrogant little monkeys who was really in charge. With the majority of European airspace shut down an interesting side effect was evident as soon as you looked at the sky. It was clear. No clouds but more importantly no vapour trails from the engines of countless planes. Where before they’d gone unnoticed, filtered out of vision in much the same way as I block out the almost constant traffic noise, the clarity of the cloudless sky made them conspicuous in their absence.

As the morning progressed and more runners made it to the halfway point, the cheering and applause went from intermittent to continuous and watching from my living room it was impossible not to smile. It was surreal eating my breakfast and hearing sounds of encouragement through the open windows instead of the rumble of engines. It was almost like I was being cheered on to eat my toast and drink my tea. When I’d eaten I checked the route map on the website and went out on my bike to see what I could see.

I found the entire seafront area and surrounding roads free of cars except for the odd one moving at walking speed with a frustrated looking driver behind the wheel. More surprisingly I found the streets lined with people not just around the start/finish point but around the entire route, all of them cheering on the runners. Wherever you went there was a party atmosphere with people in the streets drinking, cheering and smiling, lapping up the sun and the first real day of spring. It was a welcome relief after the long winter.

As I made my way into Hove I went past a pub called the Seafield that had speakers set up outside and as I passed I heard Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now pumping out. That made me grin. It reminded me of the scene in Shaun of the Dead where they beat the shit out of the zombie landlord and I wondered what an undead marathon might look like.

Music punctuated the whole route, although not all of it was good. Typically the hordes of amateur drummers were out in force. What is it about ‘hippies’ with no talent for playing musical instruments that makes them think that they can play a drum? Just because all you have to do is hit the thing doesn’t mean when you do what comes out sounds any good. And being Brighton these ‘drummers’ are everywhere. As soon as the sun vaguely pops out to say hello these racket-mongers flock to the parks of our towns and cities and start hammering away on the bloody things with the rhythmic capabilities of an octopus having a seizure. Between the noise of the crap drummers and trying to avoid the pikeys and poi spinning freaks its enough to put you off going to a park in good weather. But I digress.

The lack of cars and planes made me realise just how intrusive these things are in our lives and how much we filter them out, carrying on as though they aren’t there. But when they’re gone the world for me is a much better place, especially when all around you is full of positivity as it was during the marathon. Don’t get me wrong cars and planes are great inventions, they’ve helped me enjoy some of the best moments of my life and will again, but do we really need so many?

And I may have given runners some grief in that previous post from February but you have to hand it to people who do marathons, that’s one hell of an achievement. I even saw one guy in a full stormtrooper’s outfit, who didn’t look too happy incidentally, and another guy with a full army kit on from backpack to boots. Insane. I’d struggle to walk 26 miles nowadays let alone run it, so hats off to all those who did the Brighton marathon that day. It almost inspired me to do it next year… but then I had another pint.