Work

Birthday, Downsizing & Goodbye

Posted on by Peregrine

It’s my birthday today. I’ve taken a week off work to spend it with Mrs Grump. 

36. Late thirties. Strewth. 

Mrs Grump has been asking what I wanted to do to celebrate but I’m a strange creature in that I really don’t enjoy my birthday. My instinct is to just gloss over it, ignore it, pretend it never happened. I don’t really see the date that I popped out into the world as worth celebrating if I’m honest. 

“What are you going to do for your birthday?” people ask. Why do I have to do anything? Why can’t I just ignore it? 

Yet I feel bad when Mrs Grump makes an effort to ask me what I want to do to celebrate and I just can’t seem to think of anything. I can’t think of anywhere I’d like to eat, where I’d like to go and I know I come across as a proper miserable git. When others want to make a fuss of me, I say I’d rather they didn’t. 

In a strange contradiction, I also feel sad that I can’t celebrate my birthday. A part of me would like to enjoy it but it intrinsically doesn’t seem to be a part of me. I am incapable of feeling anything other than uncomfortable about the 16th May. 

But I have eventually decided on going for some Japanese food. 

It’s the same at Christmas; I just don’t feel comfortable receiving gifts. It’s as if I don’t deserve any of this treatment. 

For much of last year and the early part of this year I have been unwell. I won’t go into details but I ended up in a pretty dark place and no, there isn’t a punchline about not paying the electric bill coming (although it did cross my mind). 

Part of my recovery has been to see a counsellor regularly and I’ve recently stopped seeing them. Again, I could shoehorn in a joke, this time about dating, but I won’t. 

One of the themes that kept appearing was that I don’t feel good enough, that I don’t deserve certain things and I think this is one of the fundamental reasons for feeling so uncomfortable about my birthday. 

But one of the biggest lessons I learned was about tolerance and acceptance of myself. To listen to myself and not resist how I’m feeling. 

It is for that reason that I decided that life has been a bit overwhelming of late. Not only have I had various things to deal with in the many facets of my life, I’d also taken on multiple personal projects, writing, creating, trying to change career completely and even managing to get a spot volunteering for 2 weeks at one of the best advertising agencies in the UK. 

But it was all too much and I had no respite. Eventually, I broke. 

So I stopped. I stopped everything. I downsized the sheer amount of information I had to deal with. I downsized the external influences I was exposed to. We’re not designed to be bombarded by so much. I took all the pressure off from doing anything and decided that I would only deal with what I could manage. I’d discovered the hard way that I had limits. Who was I impressing anyway? No one. What was I trying to prove apart from trying to abate my own insecurities and worries? I just did myself harm by trying to do too much and berating myself when I was struggling. 

We have to show ourselves compassion and there are times when it is acceptable to say, “No,” to things; always listening to yourself and how you feel. It’s self preservation. Sometimes it means making tough decisions but for your own benefit because you are the most important person in your life. You have to protect yourself from harm. 

So I stopped writing comedy and stopped all the projects I had taken on. I found balance again and said no to a few things to alleviate the pressure. I don’t follow the news much because it’s negative. I have left Facebook which is so liberating. I don’t need to spend hours of my life scrolling through people’s online personas and cat videos. It’s too much info to take on. We are not designed to be bombarded by entertainment, advertising, news media from all over the world and Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, Instagram, Snapchat and YouTube. We are fundamentally creatures who are meant to manage our own survival through sourcing food, protecting our loved ones and ensuring we are sheltered from harm. Yes we are advanced enough to enter into social constructs but even that is limited. Know your place in the social hierarchy without the need to know what everyone else in your group is doing, what’s going on with every other group in your area, county, country, continent and beyond. I don’t think it’s healthy to take on so much information.

When I was in a calmer place I was able to exert my energy in a better way, rather than trying to keep multiple plates spinning. 

I’ve since got great job and promotion as a Training & Development Controller. I’m still in the insurance industry but my role is a world away from my previous role. I’m working for Head Office now. Yeah! I’m hanging with the big boys. It’s still early days but I love it. I’ve recently started back at the gym and will soon be the Birmingham equivalent of Wolverine. Maybe more Baldverine. 

I recently ticked another off my bucket list by having a go at stand up comedy. It went better than I could have imagined and I’m being encouraged to keep with it. I will, but at my own steady pace and not what others might expect. Primarily my energy is focused on the new job. 

During this period of illness, I discovered how much easier it was to express myself through writing and how cathartic it can be. My comedy writing is still very important to me and I will still do it when I can, but again, I’m not going to put pressure on myself to produce volume. As for this blog, well, I’m not so much of a young bloke anymore. Still grumpy but not young. So it’s time to say goodbye and continue with the downsizing of external pressures and responsibilities. Time to put the energy elsewhere, taking fewer projects, spending more time looking after myself and more time with Mrs Grump.

So it’s goodbye from me. Thank you for taking the time to read this and follow my blog. I hope it’s made you smile from time to time. 

This week is Mental Health Week in the U.K.  It seems poignant to write honestly and candidly about my own challenges. 

I wish you all the very best and thanks again. 

Dan

The Arse Parrot

Posted on by Peregrine

The joys of commuting. The wonderful experience of being crammed into a small metal box with a bunch of strangers with varying degrees of personal hygiene is without doubt, one of the hilights of my day.

Take today, for example, I had positioned myself with an optimum chance of getting on the train within the first wave of commuters. This skill comes through daily practice of studying where the train doors will be when the train stops. Over time I have harnessed a skill like that of clairvoyance, knowing roughly, exactly, where abouts, approximately the train will accurately stop and therefore where to stand relative to the doors for optimum boarding efficiency. I pride myself in my accuracy these days, although it’s probably not the most interesting thing to brag about, especially at a training session at work during the introductions where you share an interesting fact about yourself during an “Ice-breaker.” Yes, you might have someone in the group who travelled to Africa to help build a well for an impoverished community; someone who trialled for a Premier League football team; or someone who met Paula Abdul whilst shopping for athlete’s foot cream in Boots the chemist; but throwing your hat in the ring, regaling the room with how you know exactly where the doors of the train are going to stop, unfortunately, doesn’t impress anyone.

Today was no exception with my train boarding abilities my friends, and I was one of the first wave to board the train. The choice of seats available to me was a joyous sight indeed; the spoils of my hard work being the choice of a rapidly decreasing number of available seats. Granted, not all of the seats would be an option. It depends how filthy they are and if there is any question of whether a stain is wet or dry, it’s just not worth the risk. Today, however, I opted to not delve quite so deep into the carriage, because I knew that the train was going to get very busy and the deeper into the carriage I am, the greater the slog to wade my way through a sea of commuters to get back to a door. Crowd surfing hasn’t been trialled yet but I think it’s a good idea. My stop was the third one along and so I decided to take a stain-free, aisle seat, next to a young lady and near the door.

This was my mistake. 

At the next station, a further mass of miserable office workers pile onto the train, making the population of commuters much denser. It was then that I felt a pressure on my left shoulder. I was not prepared for what I was about to find; for as I turned my head to the left, I found staring right at me, perched comfortably on my shoulder, a man’s arse. This bloke was taking liberties here. I mean, who did he think he was, perched on my shoulder, casually, like a boy band member, dressed in white, on a stool about to sing a tender love song to a bunch of screaming thirteen year olds in 1994! 

I din’t think this was a conscious decision by the man. I think it just happened but still, it was just there, as bold a brass, perched neatly on my shoulder. I’d had a long day at work, (well, it felt long); I didn’t want my face to be in such close proximity to another man’s exit hole, with only a couple of layers of material keeping us apart. That is assuming of course, that he wasn’t going commando.

I was hemmed in, I had nowhere to go and the owner of this anus was also squashed in, hence the shoulder stool he had found. My range of movement was minimal. I did what I could, I leaned away to my right. 

This, I could tell, made the lady to my right a bit uncomfortable because now she had a strange, yet ruggedly good looking and bald man, leaning towards her. She responded by also leaning to her right as far as she could go, which wasn’t far at all. 

This wouldn’t have been as bad, if that had been the end of it. But now sensing the space behind him, the owner of the balloon knot filled the space once again resting it on my shoulder like a Shitting Arse Parrot, like I was some sort of posterior pirate called Captain Brown-Eye. It was disgusting.

My only other option, because I couldn’t lean further to the right, I’d have been resting my head on the lady’s shoulder which to be honest, would have felt a bit like cheating, and on a packed train full of people, the female scream draws a lot of attention. So I leaned forward, and the cheeks kind of flopped behind me. I wondered whether to flip reverse the awkwardness by now leaning back to rest my head again his buttock like a fleshy gluteus cushion. Of course, I didn’t. That would be ridiculous and very wrong. So instead, I was now practically doubled up like I had a stomach cramp. Oh well, just two more stops to go.

At my stop, I stood up and followed my “close friend” off the train. He was taller than I and so I did think that this could have been avoided if he was a couple of inches shorter. But equally, I was also grateful that he hadn’t opted to turn around. It could have been like a scarf over the back of a chair! That would have been worse, surely. 

I have to count my blessings also in that he didn’t have jacket potato and beans for lunch. Every cloud I guess.

So let this be a warning to you, out there, in the urban jungle, these are unwritten rules of commuting. Never opt for an aisle seat, near the door on a packed train. 

Or, if you’re standing and it’s very cramped, consider a shoulder stool. 

Maybe that’s why large shoulder pads died out after the eighties?

P.S: If you’re wondering the relevance of the above image, I searched for Arse Parrot and that’s what came up. 

The Estranged Dilemma 

Posted on by Peregrine

I’ve been seriously considering quitting this blog. Before the thousands upon thousands of you start a very intense leaflet campaign, an online petition, maybe even write something on the side of a campaign bus, hear me out.

I’m estranged from my parents. We parted company sixteen years ago and through my concerted effort I have kept my distance. Call it self preservation. I won’t go into details because to be honest, it’s nobody else’s bloody business.

Earlier this week, I discovered that my Father has been reading this very blog. Clearly the popularity of this has spread Westward, around the globe and back from the East to Birmingham and that’s how he’s heard of it because I definitely haven’t told him.

Anyway, he’s read an old blog post of mine where I offered some advice about noticing your child’s talents and nurturing that, so they grow towards a vocation they will hopefully enjoy and find fulfilling. In that blog I also explained how I didn’t really get any guidance from my parents. My aspirations of being an artist were shot down. But I also explained that my parents were from a different generation. They had to leave school and get jobs to bring money in for the family. So as much as I felt I didn’t get much guidance, I kind of understood why. The point of the article was not to criticise my parents and I made a point of saying that I hold no resentment towards them and I still don’t; the point was to encourage and hi light to other parents the importance of nurturing talent in their children so that they don’t end up in an unfulfilling job like me. When I say nurturing talent, not in a Joe Jackson kind of way!

I’ve discovered that my Father has posted extracts from that blog post on Facebook and hasn’t exactly painted me in a good light. His friends who I’ve never met, have therefore made judgements about me without knowing both sides of the story but even so, according to their comments, I am clearly a terrible person. I must kick dogs, push old ladies over in the street, shout at babies and sell meth to children in nursery schools.

The sad thing is that they don’t know me, don’t know the journey I’ve taken, my struggles, my achievements and yet, based on the comments of someone who doesn’t know me either anymore, have made totally inaccurate judgements. I guess this must be like how Brad Pitt is feeling currently with the media. Have I really just drawn a parallel between myself and Brad Pitt?

I left Facebook because I was tired of the narcissism. I was tired of the negativity and the bullshit of it all. I was tired of people who you don’t talk to and don’t really know wanting to connect and have an insight into your life. And, I hate it when people air their dirty laundry on there to invoke a flood of sympathy from “friends.” It’s a surprise to discover some dirty laundry being aired on there is about you.

It’s difficult being estranged from your parents. There have been many times that I wished I had parents around to share my life with. When you go through certain times in your life and see the help, love and support that friends and cousins have had from their folks during similar times, it can amplify your own sense of separation. I really do wish it were different, but it is what it is. I was pushed and so I stayed away, which I believe, is for the best.

I think to go into the nitty gritty, to give my side of the story would be airing my dirty laundry but it’s nobody else’s bloody business is it? My intention here is to write about the effect of being estranged and discovering that I am currently some dirty laundry like a white shirt with unjustified yellow armpits, being aired on Facebook and how to react to that. This is certainly not retaliation with personal attacks. No, this is simple honesty and as a keen writer, it’s actually given me something interesting to write about and share.

So I’ve had a quandary. Should I close this down? Should the Grumpy Young Bloke be no more? Should he just lose his powers and become a Dave, a John or Kevin? I get enjoyment from plodding through my days, seeking inspiration to write something amusing for any strangers who might want to read it. Then to have someone you want to stay away from, and equally, want them to stay away from you, encroach into such a space creates a dilemma. It’s as though it becomes tainted. The bubble I had around myself, suddenly burst and in a reflexive response, my instinct says to close this down and try to keep that distance again. They might be trying to cling on to any remnants of their son, but I don’t want them to.

It seems like a straight forward decision to bring this to a close but then something occurs to me. Just who am I? Am I the same person I was sixteen years ago? Hardly; I used to have a centre parting for a start. How many experiences I’ve had, how many things I’ve done and achieved without help or support from anyone, by my own volition, and I’m not talking about vocation here obviously, although the insurance industry would crumble if I were to leave. Who am I? I’m a man who has been shaped by his journey of many different experiences. This Grumpy blog is only one small comedy outlet of this matured personality; just one facet of my life, a life in my bubble, with my beautiful soulmate Mrs Grump, in our Penthouse with a tree outside containing a wood pigeon and furthermore, happy, relatively content and still very much a work in progress. It’s not the full picture of who I am by any means. I’m still a stranger to you; unless you’re Mrs Grump or Malcolm who both sometimes read this. (I’m waving at you now Malcolm)

That negativity on Facebook was directed at a different person to the one that writes this. I actually take comfort knowing that. Similarly, reading this blog is hardly an insight into the inner depths of me. You can’t read this and know the person writing it. I don’t open up to you. I merely aim to amuse with observations of my day to day. So it’s fair to say that I am the Grumpy Young Bloke, but he isn’t me.

This blog, a creative outlet with literally…. ooh several followers, I enjoy. So why should I give up something so important because of who might read it, misinterpret it, twist it, and fuel their fire against a different person from all those years ago? If I stop this, they’ve won. They will have indirectly caused a chain of events that will once again make me miserable. They will have hurt me.

But I won’t be hurt this time. I don’t care who reads it. I don’t care what people think. This isn’t me, this is The Grumpy Young Bloke. Although at some point I can’t be considered a “Young Bloke” anymore. I feel like I’m pushing it as it is at 35.

So, lucky for you, the Grumpy Young Bloke will continue. “Hoorah,” I hear you cry. Read what you will, share what you like, interpret however you so wish but know this, this is not me, this is The Grumpy Young Bloke and if/when this comes to an end, it will be on my terms.

An honest and very candid post today. Forgive me but I write about stuff and sometimes it’s not always about commuting, coffee shops or arsehole cats. Service shall resume shortly.

P.S

Malcolm, why didn’t you wave back?

More Irony

Posted on by Peregrine

I was in the work kitchen, preparing the staple of British nutrition, English Breakfast tea, in a mug given to me by the workplace at Christmas. Everyone was given a personalised mug with their name and cartoon character depicting them. It was a nice touch. 

My cartoon character looks more like Mr Bean with glasses than me. And… AND he has a better hairline!! It may as well be bloody Oprah Winfrey on the mug!

Next to me stood a young lady who was filling her mug (brought from home. Maybe she wasn’t impressed with the likeness either) with cereal. When quizzed by colleagues she explained that she felt a bowl looked untidy on a desk as opposed to a mug. 

“You go girlfriend,” I didn’t say, but I did think that she could do whatever she wanted and I couldn’t really care less. I just needed my caffeine. 

In close proximity stood an odd fellow. One of her colleagues. He leans close to me so that I can feel his breath hit my face as he whispers, “I have to work with her every day. She’s as thick as shit.”

I didn’t respond to this coarse whisper. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a nod and a chuckle to concur with his degrading judgement of her with an air of misogyny.  

To be honest, I wanted to verbally destroy this man, but I didn’t because I thought that he wouldn’t remember the reference. Because, to some odd people, being a complete moose knuckle is a daily occurrence. It is simply who they are. So an act that was completely stupid, mind boggling and bizarre to the likes of me and the incredibly intelligent reader of this blog, and which therefore by default stands out as an unusual event, to the odd fellow, gets lost in the daily randomness of their brain farts. 

You see this is the very man who I witnessed with my own eyes (who invented that stupid statement? When do you ever borrow someone’s eyes to witness something? This isn’t Minority Report!) on his hands and knees on the floor of the gent’s toilets, looking at the wet floor under the hand dryer, then looking up at the hand dryer and announcing that, “It must have a leak.”

I shit you not! 

Furthermore, he thinks it’s perfectly acceptable to wear a white canvas belt with work trousers. 

So when it comes to sneering comments about intelligence based on someone wanting to use a mug instead of a bowl, with his track record of thinking a Dyson Air Blade, an electrical appliance for drying your hands has a water feed pipe, I really don’t think there is any denying who isn’t the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree. 

#baldmanproblems

Posted on by Peregrine

I’ve discovered that I have a “look.” A “look” that’s more common than I realised. Since I bought some new glasses with a thicker frame, it’s become very apparent that I am indeed one of the many who have adopted “The Look.”

It’s like when you purchase a new car. You feel great as you drive around in your red Ford KA and then you see another, then another and another. Your bubble bursts when you realise that every other bloody driver on the road has a red Ford KA.

I’m the same now with my newly discovered “look.” I’m just another bald man with spectacles. Just another bog standard photo fit; another face in the classic 80’s game Guess Who; another creative possibility for a child at Christmas with a new Mr Potato Head.

Get a hard boiled egg. Draw a pair of glasses on it with a marker pen. Congratulations, you’ve just created “The Look.”

The other day I stepped into the reception area of work as I was heading home. I found a colleague who happens to be a bald man (completely shaved like me) with spectacles, signing out. Next to him, the coffee machine repair guy who just so happened to also be bald (completely shaven like us) with spectacles. He also had a striking ginger beard but he still sported “The Look.” He was part of the club.

“Bloody hell,” I said, “Three in a row!” I was genuinely enthused by this moment. I contemplated getting a selfie with them to share on social media to bring joy to all who gazed upon the three bespectacled baldies like we had just been uncovered on some kind of baldy scratch card where three baldies with glasses can win you a hair transplant and laser eye surgery.

Or we could have a selfie with our heads side by side, looking downwards. If we drew nipples on our heads and if the lady on reception stood behind us, we could be recreating that three breasted woman in Total Recall.

three-beasted-hooker

Unfortunately, I wasn’t met with the same level of enthusiasm in return. There’d be no time for banter here; no Total Recall re-enactment today. Personally I think they just need to open their minds.

Anyway, needless to say, I didn’t ask for a selfie.

Then today I left work a little late and had to get a dash on for the train. There’s a fine window of opportunity but who should I see running across my path as I burst through the exit door? Yes, a bald and bespectacled man, heading for the station.

As he ran past other commuters heading in that direction, I realised that my sprint for the train was now redundant. I will not be part of some humorous spectacle like a bald man charity dash or a glitch in the Matrix! I will not be a source of amusement! I was laughed at enough in the playground but not at thirty five damn it!

The fact that he was running in a kind of overly zealous, bouncy, children’s TV presenter way didn’t help and I didn’t want the other commuters to think I was chasing him.

Plus I’d probably try to beat him. It’s completely incongruent with the unwritten urban law of bald brotherhood. A baldy should never go head to head with a baldy.

So to prevent ridicule, I missed the train.

People with hair will never know the struggle.

Peaky Blinder

Posted on by Peregrine

I was on the very busy train home. We were crammed in like sardines but I had managed to bag myself a good spot next to the door. This meant that not only was I the welcoming face of commuting for those embarking on the journey home, I was also in prime position to dash off as soon as the door opens at my station. It’s imperative that I reach my Grump Mobile as quickly as possible so as to not get caught in the queue of traffic attempting to leave the station car park.

 

I was stood there minding my own business and wondering who it was around me who was emitting the natural au de armpit fragrance. My instinct was telling me it was the young lady with the shocking fake tan.

 

Fake tan is something I’ve never understood. Surely it would be better to buy and apply creosote rather than fake tan? You see, the trouble with fake tan is that it’s… well… fake! Obviously fake. If you’ve plastered yourself in fake tan, everyone around knows that you’ve been trying to apply an even covering but instead look like you’ve gotten into a fight at a Dulux tester pot counter and lost to someone armed with Orange Mocha or whatever the colour is that you’ve rag rolled yourself in.

 

On the opposite side of the vestibule area, near the door on the other side of the carriage, were three guys in their early twenties. One of them was doing most of the talking. He was one of those guys who likes the attention he gets when his voice penetrates the silence of a small group of strangers in a confined space. He has an audience. We don’t want to be an audience but alas we are trapped and have no choice.

 

So he confidently cracks jokes and makes his friends laugh who remain more composed because they don’t really want the attention of complete strangers looking at them.

 

Then I hear him say to the other two, “Yo, have you seen dat show, Peaky Blinders?”

 

I knew immediately that he was referring to me.

 

Firstly we had just made eye contact and I could almost see the cogs working in his mind and his face change as he’s hit with a lightening bolt of inspiration. That, and because I was the only guy in the vicinity wearing a cap.

 

I am a bald man. Therefore, it goes without saying that I am a man of many hats. It’s what we do. We can’t have different hairstyles to change our appearance. We can’t decide to grow our hair, spike it, shape it, cut it or choose between a side parting, no parting or centre parting. We have always got a very large centre parting! So to change our style, we rely on accessorising. Hats are our accessory with practical benefits of maintaining warmth in the winter and protection from the sun in summer. All bases are covered.

 

Sure enough I was wearing a cap not too dissimilar to ones worn in the television show Peaky Blinders. With my black jacket on and shirt collar protruding from underneath the jacket layer, maybe I did appear to be Peaky Blinderesque.

 

The guy was obviously taking the piss. So how best to react to it? Ignore it? Acknowledge it? Metaphorically disembowel them with a verbal onslaught?

 

“Nah! I aint seen it!” replied one of his friends. “Why?”

 

Brilliant, the joke had been put out there. It could have just had a laugh and put straight to bed, but now it is being prolonged. It’s going to be left to linger on the air like au de armpit.

 

“Oh, it’s just dat I’ve see someone who looks like it like.” Yes, he said, “like it like.”  Another friend of his craned his neck around like something out of the exorcist and looked in my direction.

 

So now I had to decide what to do. I couldn’t just ignore it, the reference was so loud that it was obvious. Any apparent lack of awareness of what had been said would be so obvious it would be embarrassing. No, best to tackle this head on. ‘Smile at them,’ I thought to myself. Not in a kind of cheeky, flirtatious smile you might send across a carriage to someone who catches your eye. (Something which I’ve never done by the way). No this was going to be a straightforward friendly knowing smile. A hypothetical tip of the cap to say, “Good one fellas. I know it’s a gag about me and I’m totally cool about that. I am so cool and confident in my own skin that I take no offense to your accurate observation.

 

I would gain their respect by demonstrating that I can laugh at myself. They’ll think I’m cool. Maybe they’ll want to “hang out” or whatever the on trend noun is for sitting in a skate park with a few bottles of cheap cider. I wouldn’t be hanging out with them though. They’re not the kind of people I would fraternise with.

 

So, to the guy who made the observation and the exorcist one, I nodded and smiled.

 

There, that’ll gain their respect. I have revealed myself to be a cool guy, up for a bit of banter.

 

But I haven’t. You see, I wear glasses and when I wear a cap with my glasses, sometimes when I move my face in a certain way, for example chewing or smiling, my glasses do something weird.

 

There I was smiling and nodding and appearing to float in front of my face are my glasses having lifted off my nose and hitting the underside of my cap’s peak. There the lenses hovered, vibrating slightly like a plucked guitar string in super slow motion. I resembled a cartoon character when the male lead sees an attractive female and their eyes pop out on storks. That was I. But this wasn’t a cartoon, there were no attractive females, just a handful of youths, a lingering joke aimed at me, au de armpit, my smile and my glasses floating out of control in front of my face.

 

I don’t think I gained any respect. But I was first out of the car park.

It’s Me!

Posted on by Peregrine

I stepped off the train this morning and onto the escalator. As I ascended into Grand Central / New Street Station (Is it a shopping centre? Is it a train station? Both!) and I became aware of the wonderful sounds of string instruments. It was somewhat ethereal.

My fellow commuters briefly snapped out of their Monday morning depression and had similar quizzical looks as we tried to work out the source of the grand music.

I had to pass through two ticket barriers and so I removed the annual ticket from its small photo ID wallet and fed it into the slot in the barrier which quickly snatched it from my hand and then spat it out at the top of the barrier. Upon retrieving it, the gate opened and I stepped through.

I let the sounds of the music guide me to a central area of Grand Central/New Street Station to find a  group of commuters watching a string quartet playing the dramatic Game Of Thrones theme tune. It was a promotional thing for the new series that has started. When they finished, they started again and I then noticed that the musicians, despite playing the music to absolute perfection, looked like they were slowly dying inside. From a distance they were playing with exuberance but their eyes betrayed them. All four of them looked like they were so bored of this same tune that they had been playing over and over since perhaps 7.30AM and were due to continue to play over and over until well after rush hour.

I thought that it was kind of like doing lines at school as a punishment. But instead of writing, “Santa Claus is not evil and I have no need to defend myself against him,” the music teacher has said, “You will play the entire theme tune for Game Of Thrones for two and a half hours!”

After hearing the tune for the second time and then after a two second break before they started again, I headed for the second ticket barrier to get to platform 5.

But where was my ticket? I had it just a couple of minutes ago. I checked my pockets, my man bag, my pockets, the pockets of my man bag, my pockets, my man bag pockets again, my back pocket, my man bag again and finally my pockets. Nothing.

Panicked, I saw two sweepers chatting so I asked them if anyone had handed them a pass. “Check lost property,” one said pointing to the sign for “Lost Luggage.” In there I was greeted by a chap in his early twenties who looked like he was fighting to keep awake. Sitting slouched feeling sorry for himself, he was either tired from the early start or the continuing sound of the Game Of Thrones theme tune was really starting to get to him.

My pass, much like his enthusiasm, his hopes and dreams, wasn’t there.

This was not a good start to the week. That bloody music didn’t help either! It only amplified the very dramatic situation I had found myself in.

I emptied my pockets and bag of their entire contents in a quiet little corner because, despite checking these twenty times previously, you never know.

Nothing.

So with the sixth rendition of the Game Of Thrones theme tune, I thought I would ask the two chaps at the gate I had passed through first.

With desperation I asked one of them, let’s call him Vikram, “Excuse me, has anyone handed in a lost train pass within the last 5 minutes?” “What’s the name?” he asked. “Grump,”* I replied. “Grump,” he whispered. I wondered if my notoriety had reached these shopping centre / public transport kingdoms. Damn it, I was starting to even think like a bloody Game Of Thrones character.

He strolled over to a little cupboard and opened it up. He removed a pass and opened it. Lo and behold, in time with a very dramatic part of the seventh version of the Game Of Thrones theme tune, I saw the photo ID card, that familiar bald, dome shaped head and miserable face that I see in the mirror on a daily basis. “That’s it!” I said.

“Nah, it’s a different name,” said Vikram. Was this guy serious? I had told him the name and he had repeated it to me. “Grump!” I repeated with an obvious air of frustration. If only I had my bloody broadsword. “G. R. U. M. P. Grump!” I said with a raised voice. Still Vikram looked at the pass, with my name on it, clearly written in block capital letters, but he still wasn’t convinced.

The music reached another swell as I pointed to the pass, to the one obvious thing about it that could surely end all this confusion. “You see that? That’s a picture of my face!” I said clearly on the brink of going full-on barbarian any second. My weapon? Forget a broadsword or axe. I’ve got a man-bag.

“Oh, yeah, right,” said Vikram, finally handing the pass to me. I thanked him because I was brought up with manners, and relieved that the drama was now over and grateful that a good willed person handed the pass in, I set off to miss my train and escape the eighth rendition of the Game Of Thrones theme tune.

On the later train heading to work, I suddenly found myself humming the bloody theme tune. It had become my ear-worm and would continue to haunt me over and over and over.

Bloody Game Of Thrones. I don’t even watch it!

 

 

* Please note that the author’s real name isn’t Grump. He has a secret identity to protect!

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The 90s

Posted on by Peregrine

I was sat at my desk doing insurance stuff. I know, sounds exciting doesn’t it?

Not a lot happens in our office. Our entertainment seems to be hedging bets on whether the notorious member of our department will phone in sick, and if they do, what will it be this time? An overnight skiing accident? An all terrain knitting calamity? Or perhaps the classic allergy to carbs causing a nasty swelling of the hepaglobulous region.

That option isn’t there anymore because they left a couple of weeks ago.

Therefore, any change from the monotony and status quo is indeed thrilling and captivating.

Today we had a brief visitor; a chap from another department. I didn’t recognise him but I did recognise his incredibly floppy hair. It had all gathered at the front and seemed to match the long, laid-back gait of his walk, the skinny jeans and baggy, red jumper.

Now as you know, as a bald man, I tend to get follicle envy from time to time. Not only because I no longer have a choice in the matter, but because I find it a travesty to bear witness to what can only be described as a “hair crime.”

I looked across to my nearby colleague, let’s call him Kevin. Kevin is a comrade, someone who also enjoys a good moan sometimes, but above all else, a bloody nice bloke. He’s a bit younger than I and if I’m honest he’s better than the job he’s in. I said to my insurance brother, “Look at him and his floppy hair.”

“The Corrs,” he replied.

I looked at the floppy haired chap who looked like he could play bass in an indie band but I didn’t get the reference to an Irish family pop quartet from the 90’s.

“Eh? The Corrs?” I asked.

“Yeah, cos he looks like he’s from the 90’s. That’s what the 90’s were all about weren’t it? The Corrs.”

This readers, left me shocked and somewhat appalled. Kevin, who was only very young during that period but still, his definition of that era, a culture, the period of my teens when I had bad hair and aspirations of being a heavy metal drummer, was summed up by three hot Irish sisters, a fiddle and some cheesy pop songs. I think they had a brother in the band somewhere, I can vaguely recall there being some bloke in there but hey, did I mention the sisters were smoking hot?

“What? The Corrs? You’re defining an era by The Corrs? What about the rise of Grunge? What about Nirvana? Brit pop? Blur and Oasis? The Corrs? The Corrs!?” I was obviously quite passionate about this as this was my teenage years which still only seem like yesterday. It’s not the 80’s which can be summed up by Chris De Burg or the 70’s that everyone knows is summed up by Clive Dunn’s Grandad.

Kevin looked at me wounded, silent and a little uncomfortable, like I had just kicked his dog.

So, for your pleasure, behold! I bring to you, The 90’s!

 

 

Did I mention the sisters were hot?

The Chase

Posted on by Peregrine

I had left the office, stepping out into the dark, damp and drizzly evening and I had mere minutes to make it to the train station. I started to get a jog on. Not quite a run. I was in a thick coat, dressed for business, and it wasn’t really a sprint kind of situation. A jog would suffice. Plus, I was dressed for winter wearing a scarf and my winter hat of choice.

 

One of these:

Screen Shot 2016-01-13 at 19.57.46.png

 

I know, it’s not exactly a fetching look but I’m almost 35 and I feel that “fashion” has had to make way for the preferred choice of the mature man, yes, “functionality.” As a follically challenged man, this type of hat provides warmth to both the exposed parts of my cranium as well as keeping my lugholes protected from any cold draft. I hate cold lugholes, don’t you?

 

I didn’t fasten the strap of my hat under my chin, I needed some ventilation, especially as I was jogging along. Besides, I’m not seven years old. Although, I admit I have fastened it in the past, yes, but only on exceptionally cold mornings!

 

As I jogged along to reach my train in good time, I became aware of the clip clop sound of footsteps at pace behind me. They were more regular than my own steps and getting louder, I was indeed being followed. Or was I being chased? I contemplated looking behind to see who it was but I thought I might look like I’m afraid or paranoid. I could have just suddenly turned in a pre-emptive strike scenario. But that might unnerve an innocent commuter who, like me, were merely in a hurry to make the train. I still didn’t feel very comfortable with this situation though. ‘Great, I look like I’m being chased. I look like an executive man-bag thief!’ I thought.

 

Now a part of me, namely, my competitive ego, thought that I should pick up the pace so that he wouldn’t overtake me. This could be a physical challenge and I could use this to spur me on to make the train in record time. But what if he picks up the pace and I end up in a sudden race? I wasn’t dressed for this and I’m wearing a stupid hat. I’ll be sweating buckets and needing my inhaler by the time I get to the platform! So I decided not to take the bait. No, today will not be a day of athletic competition between two office workers. I’m a grown man, comfortable in my own skin without the need to allow the ego to throw me into sudden competition. I’m better than that.

 

Eventually, I was overtaken by a taller man than I, in business attire, without a hat, running. He wasn’t jogging like me, he was definitely what I would consider running. ‘Great, now I look like I’m chasing him!’ I thought. Then I thought, ‘He’s getting away, you look like you’re losing this chase!’ So I think I may have sped up my jog a little to maintain a certain gap between us. He was now essentially my pace runner.

 

We blitzed past pedestrians heading in the same direction. I wondered if they thought we were part of a new executive running club. I thought of the strapline, Literally Running The Business. ‘I bet we look like a pair of bloody fit blokes,’ I thought. I don’t know what it is about running and my apparent belief that it impresses people. It’s something ingrained from school, when the only way I could impress the girl I fancied was to just run as fast as I could. It never worked. Mainly because, by the time I’d reached the far end of the playground, she had forgotten who I was and Neil Malone had stepped in with his Nike trainers. Damn you Neil Malone with your Nike trainers!

 

The fact is that a 34 year old bald man running doesn’t impress anyone.

 

We continued to keep the pace, running along the wet pavement; our shadows shifting and altering as we both pass each street lamp. As I looked down, I saw his shadow; the light from the street lamp ahead casting the shadow of a running man behind him. I also noticed my shadow cast in front of me from the street lamp behind me. It was then that I noticed the flapping of the sides of my hat. They resembled something. I almost stopped as I realised that our shadows looked like a man being chased by another man, in a dog costume. Yes our shadows resembled an artistic representation of the pursuit of a shoplifter at Euro-Disney. If it was a modern art film, it could be called Le chase a la Goofy. 

 

But I didn’t give up, even though I could see my opponent fellow runner start to slow down. ‘No stamina,’ I thought.

 

He stopped running and continued at a walking pace. I thundered past him, jogging / running, my dog ears flapping in the wind, my man-bag under my arm, my lungs gasping for air as I ran past the diesel guzzling black taxis outside the station.

 

But still, I reached the station first. I was the winner! Better luck next time loser!

 

You can call me…. The Greyhound.

 

 

Christmas Jumper

Posted on by Peregrine

It’s Christmas Jumper day today at work. For once I thought I’d get in amongst it and searched high and low through the shops of Birmingham to find the tackiest monstrosity I could find. 

Thank you Primark for £9 of Christmas wearable tack!

Today at work, sporting this fine garment, it’s clear to see that jealousy is in the air. 

From me that is. 

For I am jealous that no one else looks like a dickhead.