I pondered many openings for the collection of scribblings that will follow. I thought about using something from Genesis but the last thing I want is to be sued by the Vatican, or even worse Phil Collins! So I pondered something more personal, something about me which would give you an insight in to myself and my way of thinking. The only obvious contender was “No but seriously, I’m NOT gay” so that was out the window. Then I thought about using a famous quote, “veni vidi vici” leapt to mind. Roughly translated it means I came I saw I conquered which to me sounds more like the autobiography of a famous squirrel. I needed something bigger than the bible, something which would stand the test of time, an opening which would lead everyone reading this to the unequivocal conclusion that this was the start of a story that would captivate them so much they’d want to read it to their grandkids. So with that in mind would you the reader please affect a drawn out reality TV show Geordie accent for the next two words.
Days 1-834 of my life were a bit of a blur so we’ll skate over them. I don’t remember much but I’m told there was wee, poop, sick and crying, (sounds like a good student night out to me). By day 843 I had mastered the art of climbing out of my cot and jumping onto my parents bed. The resulting thud could be heard by my mother downstairs, and before I could get to my shaky feet she had already scaled the stairs and was putting me back into bed. I can’t help feeling that with a memory foam mattress and some Nike Airs I could have easily made it to the landing.
By day 1250 I was at pre-school, these were easily my happiest memories of school life. There was a plentiful supply of lead based painted toys and as much pee-flavoured sand as I could eat. It was at pre-school that I had my first major bike accident. I was duped into swapping turns on the white sports go-cart with ubercool go faster stripe and hand brake, for a spin on the three wheeled tractor with pedals on the front wheel. Naturally I took her for a spin but lost control when I tried to turn in too sharply. Massive over steer and no real brakes meant my face connecting sharply with the ground and a trip to A&E. By landing on my face I had ensured that there was no lasting damage. Numerous tears and three stitches later mummy’s brave little soldier was back! As we all know chicks dig scars but at that age chicks were about as appealing as broccoli. For the next 15 years or so I blended in to the background nicely, just doing enough to keep the teachers happy and staying friends with the right people so as to avoid any playground nastiness.
After I eventually achieved average results at ‘A’ level I resisted the call of university and instead found myself working in the media despite the fact I wasn’t gay or anything. While employed at a radio station I was quickly adopted by numerous comfortable shoe wearers, who saw me as both an oddity and a challenge. I was shown the secrets of ‘gaydar’ and taught their language and customs. For a short time I contemplated turning to the pink side but my salary was nowhere near enough to cover the tight jeans, gym membership and subscription to Attitude, (vital essentials for even the most heavy handed of left footers). I worked in the engineering department I became rather adept at cleaning knobs. Word got round and I was rocketed up the managerial ladder but only to fall quickly back down when it was realised that I was in fact referring to the knobs on a mixing desk. A gloomy future in light bulb management awaited so I jumped ship and decided to head for pastures new. My CK One smelling friends put the feelers out and once more I had to politely decline but not before they had helped me secure a job in Bournemouth.
Higher powers within the Eurovision fraternity had obviously decided that it was best if they could keep an eye on me from their HQ up the coast. I felt they were unhappy that even though I was moving in the right circles, I wasn’t moving in the right circles. I was letting them down and I decided to have it out with them and come clean, but alas this was misconstrued to such a degree that I nearly ended up playing the lead in a Brighton panto.
Eventually the message was received but by that time I was too well established within the impeccably well ironed fabric of their empire. I did turn out to be of some use and was able to pass on the vital secrets about cars, football and general poor hygiene that had alluded them for some time. This information was used to infiltrate various pubs across the country so as they could be turned into tasteful wine bars as soon as the old management was removed.
This writing thing is hard, (stop thinking what you’re thinking). After the initial enthusiasm is used up the next blogs will really take their strain. It gets even harder when you realise that you’ve just written your life story in only six hundred words. That’s a word for every month and a half I’ve been alive. That’s means my entire existence would fit onto a few sides of A4. Even with a fancy font that’s still only about a few dozen kilobytes of computer memory.
I’ve just realised I’m actually a walking ZX Spectrum 48K. Life’s not all bad though, at least I’ve got rubber keys.