It is a hard task to change the fundamental aspects of our character. They say the first seven years are most important, for those years are the foundation upon which the rest of our lives are built. In my early days, I learned that it was a sin of such mammoth proportions it would bring great shame upon our household, if I were to be a foodie fuss-pot. Asking for seconds was a compliment to the host, making room for pudding was a masterclass in etiquette, plates were to be scraped clean. Wolf it all down, child. Continue reading
There are some childhood rites of passage that never made it to the Isle of Wight in the ’80s. Although we did have a Wimpy restaurant, it speaks volumes about the beautiful (ish) island I once called home, that the Wimpy is still there. Is your childhood Wimpy still there? Thought not.
I went to the cinema once as a child, to see Michael Jackson’s Thriller. I remember announcing I didn’t want to go, being told I had to, then falling in love with Michael Jackson. By the time I was a teenager I’d ditched MJ in favour of Keanu Reeves, who after a few years muddling along with a pot belly, is hot again, so I win the long game. #NeverForgetKeanu Continue reading
Cast your mind back to the mid 90s. If you were of a certain age and predilection then, you may have been sucked into the impressive PR stunt that was Beanie Babies. Old muggins over here certainly was. ‘Buy now, cash in later!’ was basically their slogan, as far as I recall.
To help illustrate how valuable my Beanie Baby collection is, I enlisted the help of some friends… it’s a Beanie Baby / Sylvanian Family mash up! Continue reading
What is cool? While I acknowledge that one man’s cool is another man’s dork, my own personal definition of cool seems to be all the little things I spy in other people and long to have as assets of my own. I would certainly never describe myself as cool, what with my penchant for being in bed by 9pm. Continue reading
Four scores and eight years ago (or just eight years ago, as I don’t know what four scores are) I was nearing the end of my post-graduate course in journalism. I untacked an advert pinned to the school’s noticeboard looking for feature writers to work for the UK’s biggest press agency, based in Bristol, and took it home.
Then I invited a friend over for dinner. This friend was already a journalist and much further along her journalism career than I, for she did not stop to wang about smoking weed and achieving nothing for a few years. While we discussed my career options, I remembered the ad that was stuffed into my satchel and I pulled it out to show my friend. Continue reading
When I was a yoof, I used to hang about with a group of lads who’d shout ‘pigs’ whenever the police drove past. I didn’t approve. I prefer to say ‘5-0!’ like they do in the Wire. But not in a disrespectful way, because I bloody love the police. Just in a kind of Baltimore kidz on the street, rollin with my homies kind of way. I’m cool like that. I also say ‘Omar comin!’ and I hope you do too.
But yes, the police. The ambo’s. I love them all. We go about our daily life not needing their assistance. And then crash, bang, wallop – something goes wrong and there they are, ready to see you through your emergency. Continue reading