Ashmash

Seventeen

2012-01-05T15:28:00.000-08:00

When I was seventeen I vowed I would never forget what it felt like to be a young man struggling to find my way in the world.

I promised myself I would always carry the dramatic emotions of adolescence with me: the crippling angst, the loneliness, the injustices, the overwhelming joy of first love, the desperate heartbreak of first love lost. These experiences, I told myself, would act as a constant reminder to be a good, tolerant, considerate man.

I grew my hair, expressed my emotions in heavy music (played loud), smoked like a chimney, avoided work, and proclaimed revolutionary politics.

I swore that if I made it into maturity I would never become that which I most detested; my enemy - the middle-aged git.

I'm now 42 and when I look back I think, 'what a tosser'.

Fishing

2011-04-01T04:26:00.000-07:00

Uncle Lawrence was not a successful fisherman. In forty years' spent sitting patiently at the riverbank he caught just two fishes. One bit him so badly he nearly lost a finger, the other gave him food poisoning. He didn't eat it, but he let it cook for him in return for its freedom.

Yet despite being the most hopeless fisherman in history, he was devoted to his hobby. Every weekend you could find him in his favourite spot, sitting contentedly on top of the sewage outlet pipe with his rod, his sandwiches and a big box of maggots.

What compels us to continue to do things we are bad at? Was it really fishing that Uncle Lawrence enjoyed - or was it sitting on sewage pipe? And if so, what were all the maggots for?

Life prompts so many questions. If he were alive I'd ask him what he thought about for all those hours. What great wisdom did he acquire up there on his perch? It'd be disappointing if it was all about sewage and maggots.

Britain’s New Transport System

2011-03-31T05:41:00.000-07:00

Are you sick to death of your daily commute? Does your Ford Mondeo feel like an air conditioned coffin? Does your train carriage seem like a journey to hell for smartphone-equipped human sardines? Don’t give up; an end to commuter hell is at hand.

From Monday Britain’s long-suffering commuter class can switch to an Innovative New Transport System, which I have designed in my shed.

The Commuter Flinging Machine is based on a medieval trebuchet. Customers sign a simple insurance declaration, don a helmet, relax into the comfortable bucket seat (which is actually a bucket) and prepare for a high-speed, carbon neutral, congestion-busting ride.

Our team of competent technicians then plot your route using science and guesswork and prepare the machine (by winding back a big elastic band and pointing you roughly in the right direction). When everything is ready you give the thumbs-up and off you go.

All transport systems carry some level of risk and the fling is no different. The sky is full of hazards including tall buildings, electricity cables, helicopters, barrage balloons, birds and golf balls. Passengers who find themselves hurtling towards airborne obstacles are encouraged to close their eyes.

We will provide a landing mattress, but as each fling is an individual journey with no pilot, passengers take responsibility for landing safely on the mattress themselves.

Each fling will propel an average-sized passenger up to 20 miles. Longer journeys can be completed by relay. Thus a trip from Glasgow to Eastbourne will require approximately 200 flings with an accumulated chance of death of nearly 5,789%.

Edna Pennywhistle's Chin Hair

2010-08-22T11:12:00.000-07:00

Edna Pennywhistle was as bald as a balloon but for one solitary strand of sliver hair that sprouted from her chin. But what a hair it was. It grew at a phenomenal rate: six yards a day! Doctors explained: “In compensation for your otherwise baldness.”

In the summer giggling children would dangle from it whilst Edna swung them this way and that. Occasionally the hair snapped, dumping a child on its bottom or tossing it into the vegetable patch. But moments later, with tears dried and hair regrown, the game would resume.

Everyone agreed that such a remarkable hair should be put to good use. Uncle Eddie suggested Edna use it to abseil down to inaccessible cliff ledges and rescue stranded puppies.

Old Jack McPratt tempted her to tie a maggot to one end and use the hair as a fishing line. Reverend McVicar insisted her amazing chin hair was a sign from God-Almighty-Himself (though of what exactly he didn't say) and urged her to become a missionary in foreign lands, spreading the word and lending her hair as rope for various Anglican construction projects.

But years of living as a figure of fascination had their effect on Edna's mental wellbeing, and she developed darker ambitions. She took to using her hair to lassoo cats and fling them over walls, pull chairs away from elderly people in tea shops, garrott passing motorcyclists, and on more than one occasion she trained her chin hair into a dish, covered it in pasata and choaked an unwitting dinner guest.

But the hair that caused so much trouble was redemed when it one night it grew straight into an electrical socket and that was the end of Edna Pennywhistle.

Flies

2010-08-07T02:34:00.000-07:00

Aren't flies really annoying? You know, when you've got a big fat one buzzing around your living room. Buzz buzzzz buzzzzzz.

It's not just the noise. It's the way they nearly fly into you and you think they might go into your mouth or up your nose.

And they're so dirty. Every time they land you think: "Where's that bastard now? I wonder if he's busy spewing digestive juices all over my lunch".

We once had a fly trapped in our living room for so long it drove us nearly insane, but then we had the inspired idea of thinking of him not as an disease-ridden irritant, but as a pet. Pets have names so called him Terry. Instantly our hatred transformed into warm fondness for our new little friend. 'What's Terry been up to?' One of us would ask the other on returning home from work, "Oh just buzzing around." the other would respond laughing.

We even stopped being annoyed when he landed on our hair and we worried for him if he went missing for a while, what with flies being such short-lived creatures, poor souls.

Then we caught hepititus from some meat he spewed on, so we killed him with a newpaper. Bloody fly.

Slurp

2010-08-02T14:39:00.000-07:00

I like to think of myself as being an enlightened, tolerant man. I eat many types of vegetables; I embrace people of different faiths, sometimes three at a time; and I hardly ever mock people who stammer (although I consider it my duty to point it out).

But despite my unquestionable British fairmindedness, there's one thing that instantly makes me want to disregard my civilised self and go on a murderous rampage: people who slurp their drinks.

This morning there was a slurper in my train carriage. I watched him get on, clutching his grande-decaf-skinny-latte-whatever and amble to a nearby seat. The scruffy sod. I knew it was trouble; I have a sense for trouble of the slurping type.

Then it began, slurp, slurp, slurp. The bastard. 73 times he disturbed my karma. I counted them. Slurp, slurp, one slurp every three seconds. I timed them. Slurp, slurp, slurp, slurp. God only knows how many slurps he'd have managed had I not taken action.

It was an instinctive; I wasn't really in control. I didn't even realise I'd opened my lunch box, reached inside and taken out the pork pie. So it was as much a surprise to me as anyone else when I threw it, hard, at his big, stupid, slurping face.

The slurping stopped. I think I broke his nose. Some skinny-binny-grande-slurpachino was splashed over a few other passengers. You'd have thought they'd have understood really, but no, they seemed angry with me! The police were called. I was obliged to leave the train (two stops early). It was worth it though.

The waves, they wash over your face, but if you stay underwater long enough they wash away your skin.

Surprisingly Time Travel Is Rubbish

2010-08-01T05:02:00.000-07:00

Go too far back and you won't understand a word anyone says, and eventually you're bound to blow your cover by saying some thing stupid like: "Aren't the roads quiet", or asking a passing monk where you can get a replacement battery for your digital watch.

Go too far forward and your lack of electronic enhancements will single you out, as as will asking a space cop for directions to the nearest Curry's because you need a replacement battery for your digital watch.

Even if you bluff your way through you are bound to get the fashion wrong: are hats in? Should you wear jeans, lycra or a tin foil suit? Frankly it's anyone's guess but one thing is for sure: time travel will not meet your expectations.

This is why I have written a handy guide for wannabe Time Lords. I Go Time Travelling Now And Then is based on my own extensive time travelling experiences, plus some imagination, and is full of handy tips that will help you make the most of you excursions to other eras.

Here are some top tips to get you started:

The best way to fit in when visiting the middle ages is to grow a beard, pick up a skin disease and look puzzled at the effects of gravity.

Never waste your time going to North Wales, Rochdale, rural France or any of the southern United States. How will you know whether your time machine has worked?

Don't under any circumstances have sexual relations with any of your own ancestors. Aside from being grubby and immoral, it can really bugger up a family tree:

Nan: "It's uncanny, you're the spitting image of your grandad."

You, awkwardly: "Yes, there's a reason for that..."

Finally don't assume that you'll doing everyone a favour by meddling with events. Your actions can have unexpected consequences and murdering Hitler in 1932 won't seem like such a good idea if you return home to a nuclear wasteland where the few remaining people speak French.

The Alternative 2012 Olympics

2010-07-30T15:10:00.001-07:00

I'm setting up a rival 2012 Olympics.

The Ordinary People's Olympics will not feature agonisingly fit young people showing off in lycra running outfits. There will be no jumping over things, or swimmming quickly, or hop-skipping-and-jumping into freshly raked sandpits.

My Olympics will have mass-appeal and will not make you feel inferior for being unfit, unhealthy, old, fat, lazy and/or diseased.

Headline events will include 'shouting at people', 'all-you-can-eat endurance', 'distance vomiting' and 'riding a bicycle into a wall'. I am confident that Britain will be able to field a strong team, win most of the medals and restore our lost sense of national pride.

True to the Olympic spirit, my games will champion international harmony. Athletes from Israel and Syria will be tied together and participate in pairs, and competitors from France and Germany will be combined into one superteam, which will be called 'Germany'.

Soon-to-be-ex-Prime-Minister Gordon 'Charisma' Brown will open the event by setting fire to his own hair and toppling off the podium into a pit full of curry sauce.

Footnote

For consideration as an official sponsor stuff a padded envelop full of cash and greasy food and send it to "Ashmash's People's Olympiad".

Following Rules (a cautionary tale for lighthouse keepers)

2010-07-30T14:51:00.000-07:00

Bernard Lovel lived by the rules. No lighthouse was ever so diligently manned as his. Every duty was attended to with upmost commitment and thoroughness; even the most trivial and pointless regulation was followed exactly and to the letter.

“Without rules society would descend into anarchy” he would say. Then he'd declare: “A world without rules is a world without Bernard Lovel!" (which is about as close to a joke as Bernard ever got).

Such was his dedication that Bernard even maintained a list of his favourite lighthouse regulations, which he reviewed weekly (on Monday evenings at half-past-eight). The list seldom changed and the top item was always the same: Fire Drill.

Bernard loved Fire Drill as others might love a happy child, an expensive HiFi, or a new artificial limb that is way better than the withered stump it replaces. He looked forward to the monthly Fire Drills like an excitable child looks forward to fireworks. And who could blame him? Fire Drill was so wonderfully rulebound.

These are things that had to be done: Firstly he would pretend to press the alarm button. Then he'd mimic making a distress call on the radio. Finally he'd don a high visibilty jacket and assemble himself on the large rock outside the lighthouse. He would not let himself back in until he had checked his name off on the staff register.

Unfortunately Bernard's slavish dedication to protocol was to be his downfall. For on on November 23rd 2009, Bernard found himself enacting Fire Drill during a Force 11 Storm. Other, less committed souls, might have deferred the Drill, but not Bernard: he stuck to his task like superglue sticks flesh to plastic.

Who knows what satisfied thoughts went through his mind as he sat on the rock awaiting his fate. Perhaps he felt a small wave of pride just before he felt the massive wave of salty water that swept him from the rock. But on the other hand, maybe he finally realised what a tit he'd been all along.

Five A Day

2010-06-20T16:54:00.000-07:00

Do you get your five-a-day?

Yesterday I had seven, but the day before I laid in 'til midday and only managed three. Some days I don't have any at all. If you're clever about it you can take advantage of a three-for-two and two-for-one together and get five-for-three, see?

Grandmother swore by having nine but would have none until a quarter to midnight and then stuff them all in one go. Uncle Teddy has his whilst hiding in the bushes and spying through his neighbour's bedroom window. The dirty bugger. Mother said you get used to not having any when you live on a submarine, but when you reach dry land you can't get enough.

According to my doctor you should always wash them first but I once had a girlfriend who prefered them caked in mud. She had an amazing appetite; one day we managed 23 between us. It was fun at first, but I just couldn't keep up with her and we split up. I should have eaten more fruit and veg I guess.

Defy Gravity with Geoffrey

2010-03-21T10:12:00.000-07:00

In yet another triumph of shed based engineering, I have constructed a working anti gravitation device. Thirty really powerful vacuum cleaners strapped to the ceiling counteract the effects of gravity. When the delicate balance of opposing forces is achieved I can float two feet above the ground.

My device works almost too well. Last night I spent five hours trapped in mid air, unable to go up or down. I could have been there literally forever had a friendly hedgehog not chewed through the power lead, breaking the equilibrium (and electrocuting itself in the act). I’m not sure if the hedgehog realised my predicament and wanted to help or if it just thought the power lead was a massive worm. I have decided to name my device after him anyway. Unfortunately I didn’t know his name so I have called the device Geoffrey.

My next plan is to build a cradle to support the vacuum cleaners, turning Geoffrey into a Revolutionary Flying Machine. That smartarse Dyson didn’t think of that did he?

Management Theory

2010-03-21T10:10:00.000-07:00

There are four levels of employee in any organisation:

Juniors
The lowest rung of the corporate ladder is populated by hordes of graduates who get paid a pittance but do all the work. What they lack in work status they more than make up for in parties and shagging opportunities. Thus they are simultaneously despised and envied by everyone else.

Supervisors
These are ambitious juniors who can’t get laid and who live under the naïve delusion that they are building a career. They tend to take themselves very seriously and are extra hard on the juniors, especially the good looking ones who get a lot of sex.

Middle managers
These grey-faced depressives alternate their time between pointless meetings and hiding in toilets. They are going through a divorce/mental breakdown/midlife crisis and wear the pained expression of a wounded gazelle who knows the game is up. On rare moments of glory they might get lucky with a junior at the Christmas party.

Directors
Directors are the least competent people in any organisation, who through a series of promotions given to them ‘just to stop them from ruining everything’, find themselves being in charge of things that they don’t understand. They get paid the most and have the most benefits, but are the least productive or accountable. Directors are the most likely to die suddenly and don’t get any sex at all.

Whose Head Is In Your Freezer?

2010-03-21T10:08:00.000-07:00

That’s the title of my new TV game show concept. Catchy isn’t it?

Like all great game shows the format is simple. Each week a different celebrity guest wheels a portable freezer onto the stage and answers questions from a panel who try to establish Whose Head Is In Your Freezer?

When every panel member has made a guess, the celebrity is invited to open the freezer to reveal whose head they chose. It could be anyone, from Admiral Lord Nelson to Delia Smith. But because of legal reasons we will probably have to substitute lifelike papier-mâché replicas instead of actual heads, especially if the subject is still living.

The celebrity is then invited to explain why they chose that particular head and everyone applauds.

Finally any panelists who guessed correctly get to determine whether the head is put on a spike in the Whose Head Hall of Fame - which will be in the Blue Peter studio - or flung into a ditch. If none of the panelists guessed correctly, everyone signs the head and it’s donated to charity.

I think the show would work well on Channel 4 (just after the news) and ideally would be co-hosted by Lesley Grantham and Anne Widdicombe.