Do I look like a parking warden?

“Can I park here?”

A perfectly reasonable question you might say? Of course. So reasonable in fact that I didn’t think this question was destined for me! Yet as I walked across the village car park whilst back home in the ‘shire I hear this question repeated once again.

“Excuse me? Can I park here?”

I glance around. Nope, no one else within ear shot so this disembodied voice must be talking to me. It was way too early in the day to be having auditory hallucinations so I start looking around for where this question is coming from and notice the man in the blue car. He is staring at me intently even though I am wearing my usual neutral slash uninterested slash I haven’t had my morning coffee yet so you can fuck right off expression, yet his questioning persists.

“Well can I?” he says again with added gravitas.

“Er... yes?” I say uncertainly, as it does seem to be a pretty silly conversation to be having... in a car park. Come on, it’s not exactly cryptic.

“Yes I know that,” he says, “but do I have to pay?”

As I have already established, yes this is a car park and, to elucidate further, yes, it is pay and display. Still with me? I know it’s complicated but I’m sure you can keep up.

“Well it is pay and display. Has been since the start of May,” I say before yet again discussing the 10p for four hours parking charge debacle that has been, well, quite possibly the most controversial thing that has happened in Ellesmere in pretty much forever. Or at least since the last murder, sex scandal or the like. I’m kidding. No, that all happens in the next village along. It’s all go in Shropshire, that’s for sure!

“Can you make an exception?” he then asks, looking at me earnestly.

This is getting ridiculous I’m thinking, looking down to check that I haven’t by some miraculous coincidence somehow acquired a parking attendant uniform or even the appearance of someone who gives a shit.

My bemused silence is obviously not what he was hoping for.

“I only need a piss,” he says as if that will somehow validate this whole conversation, “Do you want me to just do it down my leg?”

If we are talking about stuff that I want him to do, urinating in front of me is not exactly high on my list, in fact it doesn’t even feature within the top ten.  I could quite easily provide him with a range of ideas of things that I would like him to do, starting with this; leave me alone, you weirdo!

“I’m disabled,” he continues.

Mentally? I want to ask yet think better of it. By this time my patience is wearing thin and I now have only 3 hours and 55 minutes of my own parking time left in which to buy the newspaper so I’m sure you can appreciate the urgency of my predicament.

“It would appear that you have already made the decision that you are not going to pay the 10 pence, so I think that regardless of what I say it will make very little difference to your final action,” I retaliate, flashing a winning smile at the same time to diffuse the mounting venom.

At this, I decide this is a logical point to stop this conversation before it turns into a whole to-do. Judging by the fact that following my last comment he then drove off to park his car, in the car park, so did he.

On my return to the car park a few minutes later, I see the man once again, this time at the ticket machine. He must have heeded my advice, I think and feel a momentary swell of triumph. As I carry on walking I smile at the lady passing by only to hear this from behind me as she reaches the machine a few seconds later:

“Do I have to pay for parking? I’m disabled!”

And so the cycle continues.

Going it alone.

Being an only child I’m used to doing things on my own; it kinda goes with the territory. And it’s not as if I’m averse to it either! I’ve flown half way around the world by myself, I’ve moved to a new city by myself; I’ve done plenty of things by myself, so why is it that going to the cinema by myself last night really got to me? It’s not as if it’s a place you go to have a conversation? That’s why you go to the dubious and overpriced all-you-can-eat buffet next door, thus rendering yourself incapable of conversation for the next two hours for fear that the extraordinary quantities of food might surreptitiously reappear should you open your mouth. In fact it’s positively frowned upon if you utter so much as a whisper or ask the person next to you to pass the pop corn, and God forbid you should lose track of the plot and have to be filled in on what’s happening. Let’s face it, some films need some explanation as you go along otherwise how would anyone have ever understood Inception?  But no, as a rule, cinemas should be exclusive caverns of solitude where one can go to appreciate the latest rom-com, action blockbuster, or in my case the final and most epic instalment of Harry Potter, in silence.

Now let me set the scene. As I walk through the cinema doors I’m feeling pretty good about this whole thing. I’ve even invented a little story to tell anyone who might ask why I’m there by myself; in town on business, night to myself, figured I’d have some down time with HP. That should make me sound busy and important enough! No one need know that I actually live round the corner and had ventured out after eating my ready meal for one... alone. Add to this that fact that I not only went to the cinema by myself, I did this on the night all singles fear the most; date night.

That’s when I first saw them.

The couples.

Hoards of them queuing with their share sized popcorn and giant sized Sprite with two straws. By this time I’m having flashbacks to the awkward teenage years where the cinema seems like the best place to go for a date, ‘cus let’s be honest, it’s not the sort of place where you get those long awkward silences that usually result in me blurting out something completely inappropriate to dispel the deafening silence. More specifically I’m reminded of the time when I was dragged by a quite attractive girl (yes, that really did happen, thank you very much!) to go and see Lord of the Rings much against my better judgement, only to have her consume the whole of the supersize drink and need to go to the loo four times. FOUR TIMES! Unless you have some seriously weird fetishes, that sure ain’t a basis for romance. If anything I should be thankful at having the opportunity to be able to go by myself!

Whilst looking ‘round to see if there was any other single cinema goer and realising very quickly that there wasn’t, I glanced at the couple in front of me and whilst I’m not in the least judgemental (I am really!) it would seem that even the morbidly obese had found love this Friday night. And with these two, you couldn’t even use the excuse of she had a pretty face as that would just be a lie.

To remain in keeping with the important businessman persona that I was cultivating, I reached for the obligatory Blackberry (the one I scorned at the time but now am almost surgically attached to) and penned what could be an important email, but was actually a sympathy quest text to my friend:

I’m starting to realise how mortifying it is going to the cinema by myself.

To which I received the response:

Are you already there? You don’t HAVE to go! If it’s any consolation, Kate Winslet is apparently a big fan of going to cinema on her own and she is a legend!

Well who can argue with that? Apart from the fact that I have one less Oscar, about 20 less million in my bank and am not a smoking hot sex bomb. As a 20 something unattached male, who invents a scenario to defy any question of singledom, I’m not even close.

Ever the wise words, but of course I knew I didn’t have to go, and faced with the option of leaving because you are so conspicuously alone is probably a worse hit for the ego that if I actually go through with it. As it happens my inner turmoil was interrupted by a terse Yes? from the girl at the ticket booth.

“Adult for Harry Potter at eight,” I say with fake confidence.

“Just the one?” she replies, using the inflection that denotes pity at the end of her sentence.

“What’s wrong with going to the cinema by yourself? Kate Winslet does and she’s a legend!” I want to blurt out, but instead manage a more conventional “Yes” through gritted teeth. Seriously, if this was a scene in a film, it would be black-and-white, in slow motion with the opening bars of All by myself being played over the top. Pathetic.

After making is past two more similarly simpering attendants, I headed for a seat at the end of a row near the back so that I could make a swift exit should the need dictate (or more to the point if the canoodling of the couple next to me passes the boundaries of social normality and I need to run for the hills!)

Trying to escape this I text my friend again:

This will all be worth it for HP.

To receive:

It will be- the film is brilliant! Don’t cry- I didn’t but my friend and her husband did!

Yeah likely! Crying over the boy wizard... I’m made of stronger stuff than that! It’s not as if I haven’t grown up with the stories being an integral part of my childhood or anything, or queuing for an hour just to reserve the next copy when it comes out in 2 months time, or making my parents drive me around various book shops (or actually any shop at all in a crazed panic) until they find it.... right?

So just over two hours later, after what was quite possibly one of the most seminal experiences of cinema that I’m ever likely to experience I receive the following message?

Any tears? Blubbering on your own in the cinema is never a good look J

No. No it isn’t.

V is for Vagina

There are certain things that you just shouldn’t talk about, and others that are best kept to yourself. Like when you’re out with your mates on a Monday night and you glance at your watch to realise, “Rubbish, I’m missing Glee! I mean... football... and porn... and Die Hard,” and then quickly down your pint and put your hand down your trousers to check that you haven’t in fact grown a vagina. Or that no matter what everyone else thinks, you reckon Susan Boyle would be wild in the bedroom and that you’ve actually added her to your freebie list. Stuff like that should be kept quiet, or maybe shared with a psychiatrist in a secure environment.

Now, during my lunch-break at work, my colleagues and I whittle away the hours discussing the various tribulations of the day, moaning about that particularly annoying child or two... or 47 to be more precise, and generally entering such a vegetative state in order to allow what remains of our sanity to be nursed back to health in time for the next tirade in a matter of minutes. God help any child brave enough to knock on the door and disrupt our moment of calm; trust me, it’s not worth it. As it happened, on that particular lunch time we were having an especially enthralling conversation about a rather impressive lunchbox sported by one of the members of staff (it had a built in ice pack; how cool is that?! Get it; cool? Well I’m laughing.)

Anyway, my usual semi-comatose lunchtime state was disturbed by the comfy middle aged lady who chaperones and mollifies the community’s old folks on their weekly visit to be entertained. Cheerfully called “Wednesday Club” this is an opportunity for us teachers to talk to the crumblies about things that are young, and fun, and alive in an although-this-is-optional-you-really-should-do-it-or-else, kind of way. I already spend twenty hours a week educating wayward youths so I think I’ll spend that hour polishing my halo thank you very much. So imagine how perturbed I was when I heard this gem pop out whilst I was tucking into my lunch:

“Well last week we had a rather fascinating talk about contraception. It did cause quite a stir you know; one of our most controversial sessions.”

Y’don’t say?

Whilst I am usually pretty happy to partake in conversations of a sexual nature and am quite open-minded, the thought of a group of over 70s putting condom’s on wilting bananas (make of that what you will) is enough to turn my stomach: definitely not a conversation to be having over lunch.

Nope. Nu-uh. Not happening.

But I was not going to escape that easily. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the woman glance around the check the coast was clear, then in a stage whisper (the sort that is favoured by my Nanna when asking whether we think the two nice men over there are life partners, and pretending to be ok with it although secretly cringing) she cheerfully announced:

“It was very informative, we learnt all about vaginal dams.”

Well that got people listening. In fact her razor sharp enunciation pretty much silenced the staff room. Almost. For it was at that exact moment that, quite overcome by this sudden announcement, I lost all ability to chew and my sandwich decided that my wind pipe was a pretty good place to take up residence. Way to play it cool Jack; one mention of a vagina in an unexpected context and I’m actually choking.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the concept of the vaginal dam, this is a piece of later rubber used when administering oral sex in order to not have the taste the various juices secreted. Well that was the definition that I offered my various stunned colleagues. Apparently I’m a dark horse. Pah! I think it was probably for the best in that case that I chose to neglect to mention that these implements are also used when rimming. Yes that’s right. Rimming.

Thinking Hoping Praying this discourse is reaching its natural end (and if not thinking that it is probably time to commit conversational euthanasia) none of us were prepared for the final, earth shattering blow.

“They come in all sorts of flavours too, just so you can tell the difference between that and licking a piece of cling film. Strawberry, chocolate and lemon!”

As if standard minge flavour wasn’t acceptable? Or perhaps a more authentic fish flavour would be suitable? Just imagine the old dears sitting there with their knitting needles and a selection of contraception in those otherwise useless china dishes, turning into latex connoisseurs, lightly licking and commenting of the construction of the bouquet.

Did I go too far?

“Quite a selection, although the lemon one wasn’t too well received. Imagine the zing on your hoochie!” which was followed by the knowing look that Miss Marple gets when the final piece of the mystery has just dropped into place: Poor Mrs Wainwright, I did warn her that the lemon flavoured vaginal dam had a bit of a kick to it and look what came of it.

So now I leave you on this slightly disturbing thought; next time you are having afternoon tea with granny don’t be tempted to go rummaging through her draws, you never know what you might find. You can still learn a thing or two from the old folks; they’re the real dark horses!

The best laid plans...

Just over two years ago I gave up the graduate job that I had always wanted, hung up the suit, shredded the business cards and decided that I was going swap the board room for the classroom and become a teacher; a decision that actually rendered my then boss speechless for a number of seconds (which, I should add, was not an easy feat!)

But fear not, for I had a plan!

Before moving to Birmingham in September to start my training I would retreat to Shropshire to the sanctity of the family home to sort my life out, whittling away the months in a rural idyll; mowing the lawn, feeding the chickens and serving pints to the motley crew at my local pub. Perfect. (Blimey, I almost said lovely! Almost!)

Anyways, as luck (no, that’s not the right word) – fate would have it, my dad left his job to set up his own business at the same time so I would not be alone in my sabbatical. This meant that for my already overworked mum, the two men in her life would be spending a lot more time around the house, whilst she was out slaving away at a job she hated to support the her now housebound family. That’s fair, right?

So as it happened, my plan for a few months at home; saving money before heading back to the big city, didn’t quite work out as I had anticipated. After 3 years of working hard working for my degree, involving many hours of slaving over the books in the library and forcing umpteen pints of snakebite down my gullet (I believe that’s worthy of mention and should receive the necessary recognition!) had in fact rendered me completely unemployable. I was now confined to my parents’ house... which suddenly seemed very small and remote. After the initial fervour about which of us would do the cooking and cleaning, my dad quickly lost enthusiasm and I became what my friends hilariously dubbed a “house-child.”

Even though it turned out that I had a bit of a talent with the Dyson, this was not part of the plan!

After sending out my CV to as many places as possible, only to be told that I didn’t have the correct credentials, I took what was left of my self esteem to the job centre; the spiritual home of lost causes, alcoholics and serial baby makers; and signed on.

“How is your job search going at present?” the generic employee asked with the sort of enthusiasm that minimum wage buys.

“Well considering I used to work in recruitment, it’s pretty ironic that I can’t find myself a job.”

A panicked look passed across her face at the realisation that she wouldn’t be able to fob me off with the first job that comes along, for this lost cause knows his onions all right.

(Moment of frantic typing)

“Would you consider industrial cleaning?”

I honestly don’t think my eyebrows have ever reached such heights before.

It was now time for serious action and at times like this there is only one solution, and no I don’t mean turning to male prostitution, selling parts of my anatomy or working at McDonald's (listed in ascending order of the progressively horrific!) Google it is then! If that can’t solve it then nothing will! So tearing myself away from my busy schedule of, well... nothing, I made it my mission to find employment.

Google Search: Summer Jobs

Wait!

Google Search: Summer Jobs Abroad

Now that’s more like it!

I mean I’m seriously lucky in having quite possibly the world’s most awesome parents, but after a couple of months of being stuck in 18^th Century Shropshire with seemingly endless discussions of the dog’s toilet habits (“Bladder crystals, very nasty”), I needed to escape. And emigration (even temporarily) started looking like a pretty good option. Anyways I came across a website that was advertising for English tutors in Italy. You want to know the best part of it? The job description essentially asked for people who were loud, outgoing and not afraid to make a tit of themselves; a sure fire hit! Beware Italy; my idiocy is going international! And how hard can it be to teach Italian kids? Y’know, chow and all that? Pizza, Pasta, Pavarotti; I even had a Fiat! They were going to love me!

Where is this going I hear you ask? After an initial kink in the plan, I went to Italy. Twice in fact, and somewhere in there managed to get my teaching qualification to boot. This year in my absence I’ve sent my awesome and slightly madcap friend Hayley (the sort of friend who bullies me into walking 26 miles under the pretence of it being for a children’s charity, resulting in near hallucinogenic levels of blister pain and tiredness) off to learn about the joys of songs about jellyfish, finding out what a nickel and a dollar can buy, and teaching the most highly strung children known to man.

So now I’m sitting here, reminiscing about Italy and revelling in the irony that the first year I’m actually earning proper, real, grown-up money is the first year I can’t afford to go away. Sad face.

What was it they say about the best laid plans?

Fuck ‘em and move to Italy!

Ciao.

High Standards?

I sometimes wonder if I’ll turn into one of those grumpy old men who sit around moaning on about the youth of today, discussing the good ol’ days and handing out Werther’s to anyone under the age of 30 in the vague hope they might help me across the road or clean my gutters. Or worse, become one of those toothless old men who sit in their recliner chairs ogling the lusty widow across the street, uttering the groan inducing “In my day...” or “When I were a lad...” at the beginning of every other sentence. If I do, then it’s probably time to have me committed. Either that or bump me off and inherit... well... whatever’s left to pay on my student loan and the various Premium Bonds that seemed like such a good idea at the time.

But then I got to wondering about who I’m going to share my latter years with? Who’ll be the Bonnie to my Clyde; the Kate to my Wills; and more importantly who’s going to be there to help me try out some of the stuff from Sex for the over 60s?

I guess I’ve been thinking a lot about relationships recently; mainly the fact that I’m not in one and everybody else is. This was reinforced by the fact that I had to separate two thirteen year olds from exploring each other’s tonsils only to be greeted with, “But Sir, they’re in love.” Love? What do thirteen year olds know about love? The only love they know is for the latest emo pop princess, or the most recent incarnation of a sultry blood-sucker.

Fear not; I have a solution!

I have signed up to online dating, because let’s face it, if that doesn’t result in true love, then what will?

Now the first time I dipped my toe into the pool cesspit of internet dating, this was courtesy of the old housemate and her friend. I should have been suspicious that something was going on; after all there is only a certain amount of time two girls can stay quiet before a plan for world domination (or fixing up single friends) comes about.

“Have you checked your emails recently?” was the innocent tag to my imminent romantic humiliation. On opening my inbox I saw this message;

Re: Registration for My Single Friend

What?! Am I really so socially inept that even my friends realise that I’m not going to be able to meet someone without a) serious external influence of relationship veterans, or b) a page about me on what can only be described as an online cattle market!

“What is this?”

“Well you’re not exactly doing much to help yourself, are you?” was the response.

I would just like to point out at this stage that as a 24 year old male, I see nothing wrong with sitting in at 8 o’clock on a Saturday night, wearing my pyjamas, drinking hot Ribena (it was a cold night!) and watching X Factor (although it might be slightly unforgivable that I was actually quite enjoying it!) I mean what woman wouldn’t find that an attractive combination? Surely all I’m missing is a copy of Reader’s Digest and a snowflake print jumper and I’d be quite the catch!

Needless to say that after a few minutes of perusing the various talent (if that’s the right word) that Birmingham has to offer, and finding out that I actually had to pay £30.99 for the privilege of admitting that I couldn’t find love like a normal person, that I quickly put this idea to bed. But then I discovered...

Free Online Dating.

Score! What can possibly be wrong with that?

(Now did you want the full list or the abridged version?)

The first thing that should have started the alarm bells ringing was the fact that as well as the usual Are you looking for a relationship, dating, friends etc, there was a button that said intimate encounter. Let’s face it, it may as well have said, No strings fuck, can’t guarantee it will be great but if you are desperate enough to use this site what do you expect. STI included in the package. Needless to say I didn’t tick that box.

Anyway as luck would have it, soon after I signed up to this site I received notification that BubblyBunny176 (or one of her equally desperate friends) had sent me a message.

“Hey babez, yu luk cute. B wikid to hear from ya chick. Msg me bak. Xxx”

If anyone can translate what that actually means through the plethora of phonics and substitutions, then please enlighten me!

I should mention that on my profile I said that I was a Masters student and that I worked within the generic area of “Education”, so what on earth made BubblyBunny176 think that I would be attracted to poor spelling and appalling grammar? I mean seriously? I spend enough of my life correcting shoddy grammar and adding punctuation at work. I’ll tell you something love, nothing gets me going like a girl to can punctuate; use a semicolon correctly and I’m yours.

Let’s face it; I’m going to be single forever.

Everybody needs good neighbours...

When it comes to neighbours, I don’t seem to have much luck. As it happens I would like to think that I am a pretty awesome person to live next door to; I don’t throw loud parties or play loud music at random intervals throughout the night, granted you might hear some extremely questionable renditions of chat toppers when I’m in the shower, but other than that I’m pretty damn good. So why is it that everyone around me seems to think that they need to make up for this by pushing the boundaries or what is socially (and in some cases morally and psychologically) acceptable?

This story all starts with the eponymous “Lumber” and more to the point Lumber’s girlfriend. The illusive Lumber was a Computer Science student who lived in the room directly above me in halls. He was the sort of guy to whom the normal rules of social etiquette didn’t seem to apply and he existed singularly in a world dominated by a circle of online friends. He did however make rare appearances to wonder the halls, dirtying our toilets and (even more unforgivably) stealing that one slice of cold pizza left in the fridge that was meant to cure that throbbing Sunday morning hangover. Much to mine and my other housemates’ surprise, it turned out that Lumber did not live a completely solitary existence.

Enter the girlfriend.

Now as Lumber was the shy, retiring sort, I was expecting his girlfriend to be similar in her habits. Boy was I wrong. Enter the drama student with an afro nearing the size of her shapely derrière, and a booming voice to match. I guess opposites attract and all that. Unsurprisingly, Lumber secreted away the Girlfriend in his room and nothing more was heard of them.

(Much later on...)

“Jack”

Hmm? What? I’m sleeping!

“Jack!”

That’s not a voice I recognise?

Then it dawns on me; Lumber is also called Jack.

“Oh Jack!”

Holy Mother of Jesus, this is not happening!

As we all know it’s bad enough having to endure hearing other people having rampant sex, but hearing this interspersed with our shared name being shouted out and a sudden warped vision of the most dysfunctional shagging ever, is simply perverse. If my name is being shouted in relation to some sort of sexual activity, it’s only polite that I should be involved in some way! The fact that was emanating from a couple who most people would be cautious about putting together even if the survival of the human race depended on it, was just rubbing it in!

As luck would have it, (and I’m pretty sure that’s not the best way to describe what is coming next) both parties reached a very loud and excited orgasm quite quickly and I was finally able to get some sleep. Nonetheless, I discovered the next morning that their antics had escaped from the bedroom. I uncovered this fact much to my horror when I caught sight of a rather long and curly hair stuck to the wall tile; the afro was gaining its revenge. Now I’m one of those people who’s a bit OCD about cleanliness, especially in the bathroom. I actually got into trouble at uni for suggesting that the cleaner could leave some cleaning products so we could clean when she wasn’t there only to have to face her wrath as she took this to mean she wasn’t doing her job properly. (But now that I come to mention it, Vera dear if you’re reading, that brush like thing next to the loo is for cleaning it not for decoration; just so you know!) So imagine my horror when I discovered that the Girlfriend seemed to spontaneously shed her afro after sex. (Please God let it have been the afro!) Kind of reminds of that spider that sheds its skin then eats its partners... come to think of it I hadn’t seen Lumber for a while, but then again that was nothing unusual. Anyhow, it was when the little Afro Monster reared its head from the drain and decided to attach itself to my toe that I made a decision; I needed to live alone.

Now before I was able to achieve this I had to grapple with the following;

The Chinese with their smell

The historian with the panty-liners

And last but by no means least; the psychologist with the knife.

This all ends with the fact that now I’m all grown up and soon to be entering the world of the home-ownership, and wonder with much trepidation what the permanency of this will entail following on from my previous spate of bad luck? I’m just waiting to see what the Good Lord of Apartment Blocks has got in store for me, ‘cus let’s face it, I’ve had a bit of a raw deal recently!

I think it’s time to kiss goodbye to the dream of the blonde with the bikini and resign myself to the fact that it’s going to be the serial killer with the chainsaw.

Of course it is.

Now that's classy!

Oh Birmingham! I’ve only been gone two weeks and what’s happened to you?

I’ve always rather liked the fact you don’t have any airs and graces. I like that you don’t try too hard to be cool, and that you’ve got a bit of a funny accent. I like that on a Sunday morning you look like you’ve had a damn good time the night before judging by the amount of empty bottles and used condoms on the floor. Admittedly I’m not too keen on the unsavouries that hang around in your underpasses, armed with a house brick and ready to swap your new phone for a nice concussion, but everyone has their bad points.

So imagine my shock when I returned from two weeks in the ‘shire to find a certain Mr Jack Wills residing on your high street! What on earth is that doing there? Did it aim for Stratford and miss?

To prove that my eyes were not deceiving me, and under the pretence of needing a new pair of shorts, I decided that it was time for further investigation. Now much as it shames me to say so, I have graced the floors of one of Mr Wills’ shops before, (well when in Chester it is quite acceptable for one to pay a visit to a University Outfitters of such distinction), but was met with such fug of hedonism and chorus of yahs, daaaahlings and daddy-I-absolutely-must-have-this-pinstripe-blazer-immediately-or-I-will-simply-wither-and-die, that I became rather nauseous and left.  

Now before crossing to the dark side, I decided that I had better make some sort of effort not to look like the regular high street riff-raff, so made sure that my shirt collar was flicked up in a way that says I might be posh, but I’d trounce you in a game of slaps round the back of the boat house, and tried to look like I belonged there.

On arrival at this shop establishment, I was welcomed by one of those smug bastards who are paid to stand by the door and show you what you could aspire to should you choose to shop there.

“Good afternoon, how may we help you today,” he intoned with hugely elongated vowels that suggested his native Brummy accent had been subjected to years of elocution lessons. Nonetheless, the look that accompanied this sent a much stronger message; “Actually mate, Primark’s that way.” But no, I was not deterred. I would get to the bottom of this imposter that had sneaked its way in whilst I wasn’t looking.

Needless to say I wasn’t met with the same level of hedonism and vulgarity that its Chester counterpart demanded. Instead I was greeted by the sight of a couple of bemused looking kids who has obviously stumbled in, too illiterate to read that this was not actually a further branch of Jack Jones, and a couple of haughty looking girls asking if that gillet is available in sunflower? (Sorry luv, we’ve only got the body-warmers in yellah, will that do?) For fear of dirtying the upper floor of the shop with my critical gaze, I was swiftly directed to the gentleman’s department on the lower floor.

Anyhow, I figured whilst I was putting myself through this rather surreal experience that I would look for said pair of shorts that I entered the shop under the pretence of buying. After several minutes of perusing the casually cluttered shelves I spotted a pair that I thought would do the trick, all the time under the watchful eye of a shop assistant who obviously thought I was in no way capable of affording such fine fashion. Nonetheless I kept up the charade of browsing until I established that the shop assistant was indeed correct; I couldn’t afford the shorts (nor would I want to at nearly sixty quid!) so left whilst my dignity was still intact, because let’s face it, this probably would be a perfect time to stage the latest chapter of my idiocy.

“Come back soon,” the guy on the door said as I stalked out.

He may as well have told me to fuck off.

So anyway Birmingham, I didn’t think you were the kind of city to give in to peer pressure in order to fit in with the likes of Oxford and Cheltenham, but you do seem to be making an effort to reassure me that you’re still the place that I know and love. And just so you know, I thought it was a nice touch that one of your Big Issue men (you know the one; he sounds like he has had his voice box ripped out as he slurs Biiiiisssue outside the cathedral) actually sneezed on it before he offered it to me this time.

Now if that’s not classy, then I don’t know what is.