Birthdays

Birthdays. Birthdays. Birthdays? Are they really that great?
It seems the older you get, the less significant they become. As a youngster you crave them, and as an adult you try your best to ignore, repel or deny them completely. Yesterday I celebrated my 26th and for me it was just like any other day. I probably shouldn't even use celebrate to describe it, it was such a non-event... event. Not that that is a bad thing, I had a very nice dinner at home with my family. Fun filled presents of youth such as Playstations, Bikes and Toys are a distant memory and pratcial gifts have taken over (This year I asked for some new glasses and some shelves!).

It wasn't always like this though. I've had some memorable, comical and emotional birthdays, here are a few highlights...

I can't recall an awful lot from my 4th birthday but one thing that sticks in my mind is that I had a Thomas the Tank Engine cake, it was a thing of beauty. Though, for reasons I am still not fully aware of 22 years later, it got covered in rather a large amount of sand and was completely ruined. The only other memory of that day is me... crying. One year later and fully recovered from the emotional trauma of a sandy cake, the aptly named 'Mr Magic' arrived to entertain some friends and I. Back in 1988 he was likely seen as an upstanding member of society, his act nowadays probably screams paedophile. Anyhow, he would ask volunteers to come and assist him with different tricks and everyone duly obliged. When it came to my turn I decided the best course of action was to refuse, shout, start crying and run upstairs to my room to cry some more.
Not off to the best of starts...

Things were looking up by my 8th birthday, arguably one of THE greatest days of my life. Not only did I get a Nintendo Gameboy but the family and I were off on holiday that very day! I also clearly remember that I was wearing an official England 1990 World Cup shellsuit, it was one hell of an outfit. If that wasn't enough my darling mother had spoken to the airline about it, so for about 3 seconds on that day I sat in the cockpit and piloted the flight from London Gatwick to Palma. I was pretty fucking good too. And to top things off it was also the day that Tottenham beat Nottingham Forest to win the FA Cup. They haven't won it since mind. Nevertheless, a truly unforgettable day.

I was back on form by my 11th birthday. A trip to Chessington World of Adventures was on the agenda and I was uber excited. On the morning of the excursion my mum wasn't feeling too well and said she wasn't going to come. She further reinforced her argument by saying she was scared of the rides anyway, that I couldn't argue with. It didn't stop the waterworks though, and once again the tears started cascading down my face. It did the trick though, my mum did attend and most probably had a rubbish time. Sorry mum!

Birthdays 12, 14 and 16 had two things in common, they were all parties in my infamous De Beauvoir road outhouse, and thankfully, there was no crying, from me anyway.
The 16th was the most momentous, it was the first birthday party I've ever had where alcohol was allowed to be consumed. That one fact accounted for most of the physical and mental damage that was caused that night. One broken outside toilet window (Robert Tait), One broken greenhouse window at number 46 (Tom Taylor) and one vomit splattered carpet (Amy Adams, no relation). Usurping all of those was me telling the girl I was besotted with (not in a dangerous way) at the time to fuck off. It was a combination of stress and terrible timing! It most probably happened during the 8 minute version of 'You Don't Even Know Me' by Armand Van Helden. Note to self, never let Jack Burton make you a mix tape.

On my 21st I decided to try something new. For the first time in my life I set foot in a casino, and the phrase beginners luck has never been more appropriate. At the Grosvenor in Southampton I somehow robbed them of close to £300! However, the real magic was to happen in the Reading branch of the Grosvenor a few days later. After losing £80, Daniel Maskell tossed me a £5 chip as a half arsed birthday present and told me to try my luck. On an empty roulette wheel I placed the chip, naturally, on number 21. It was the only bet on the entire table. The ball whizzed around the wheel and with a dash of Hollywood, a sprinkle of fate and a shit load of luck the ball rested inside number 21. It was a birthday miracle, and one that was worth a cool £175.

I nearly forgot about my 9th birthday!

Did you ever have a birthday at a time when you were completely obsessed with something?
Well, in 1992 I was WWF crazy (the wrestling federation not the wildlife fund) and every present I got that year was wrestling related. Wrestlemania VI on video, a WWF microphone, WWF figures, A replica ring complete with spring loaded turnbuckles and a replica WWF championship belt. The crowning glory was the white pants I received, complete with Ulitmate Warrior picture emblazoned on the front. I can still picture myself jumping up and down on my parents bed mimicking different wrestling moves in said briefs, good times...

Nowadays though, for me, birthdays are just another day. I have always preferred Christmas day because there is a collective enjoyment to be had, There is nothing better than sharing your happiness with close friends and family. Speaking of which, one of my closest friends is getting married in ten days time, and I can barely contain my excitement. If that wasn't enough, in December I'm going to become an Uncle. Birthdays just don't compare...

The Old Woman and the Monkey Story

I love stories. I love hearing them and I love telling them. A witty anecdote can impress, amuse and astonish anyone. It also helps if you don't mind laughing at yourself. This is a prerequisite for me as most of my stories revolve around my own ineptitude. "As long as I don't end up in hospital it will be a successful weekend" is my most famous beginning to a story. If you ever want to hear the whole comedy of errors feel free to ask next time you see me!

On to the featured narrative...

This is only a short tale but the uniqueness of it left me no choice but to come out of blogging retirement to share it with you. A small, middle aged woman came into the shop today, she had a kind of Susan Boyle vibe going on, only less satanic. After perusing the shelves she asked politely if we had any monkey related products other than the door hangers she had already spotted. My boss informed her that we had a tin of monkey plasters and she was overjoyed to purchase them at the reasonable price of five English pounds.

Then she began talking...

At first I paid little attention as most customers tend to talk boring nonsense but her delightful Scottish accent encapsulated me. I was hanging on her every word. She was a teacher and the monkey plasters were for her pupils. I was about to ask why but there was no need, she was on a roll. It turned out that long ago her class had adopted a monkey. Sadly though, it was on its way to join Bubbles, Koko and King Kong in the big jungle in the sky. In the animals honour the class were holding a memorial service, very sweet I thought.

The wee teacher was not finished though. I was curious to find out how the poor monkey had met its demise but was hesitant to ask. It didn't matter as the motormouth lady was not stopping! It had been in quarantine she explained, so I immediately concluded that the poor thing was riddled with more diseases than a Thai hooker. I couldn't have been more wrong.
After a lengthy period away from civilisation the hairy primate was allowed to roam wild and free again. Not knowing exactly where, geographically, the lady was referring to, I chose to imagine an African jungle in uuh... Africa somewhere. However, she informed me that it's first foray back into the outside world took place on a golf course!

This poor choice of location was to be the downfall of the unfortunate monkey. As the teacher casually unfolded the conclusion of her story she slowly began breaking into a childish grin. I was completely focused on her face, my mouth also starting to form into a smile and she uttered the inplausible words "the poor thing got hit in the head by a stray golf ball!"

UNBELIEVABLE.

And suddenly she was gone, like a fart in the wind, shuffling out of the shop to tell someone else her preposterous but true tale. I never once doubted her and I still don't, at least I think I don't. I had so many questions to ask... Why take a monkey for a walk on a golf course? In fact that's it. WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU TAKE A MONKEY FOR A WALK ON A GOLF COURSE!?
Actually, one more question... How do you tell that to a group of primary school children!? the poor little nippers would have been distraught!

If they had a Darwin Awards for animals this would have to be right up there. How unlucky.
Rest in peace my banana eating friend... Rest in peace.