INDUSTRIAL ESTATE ROMANCE

Pavel and Agnieska were from villages eight miles apart, but they had never met until twenty-two days ago. They had smelled the same air growing up, fished the same rivers, but they spoke two completely different languages.
Pavel was from a small village in Czech Republic, near the Polish border, and Agnieska was from and even smaller village, in Poland, a ten minute drive from that same border.


They first met in a downmarket greasy spoon cafe in a West London industrial estate on a wet and miserable afternoon in November. Agnieska, who worked there as a waitress, had been clearing up a table and accidentally dropped a tray full of plates, smashing every single one into tiny pieces. Pavel, ever the knight in shining armour, with his trusting face and uber-denim attire, was down on his hands and knees in a flash, helping the immensely embarrassed girl, who appeared hugely grateful. A brief exchange of names clearly highlighted a familiarity in one another’s accents. This was followed by the apparent knowledge of where each other’s villages were, and an almost Surprise Surprise-like euphoria of long lost siblings as they discussed people from the area which the other may or may not know.


Over the next two weeks, Pavel would be in that cafe every lunchtime, standing by the counter as Agnieska served a vast array of boiler-suited men. Agnieska developed the habit of wrong changing her customers, because she was so engrossed in Pavel’s tales of his time in the Czech military service. Pavel, who worked nearby in a factory which installed the whistling noise inside hearing aids, had been in the UK for less than six months, and had gotten the job through his cousin Juri, who actually wore a hearing aid but wasn’t deaf. Pavel lived with Juri, and Juri’s wife, and Juri’s three week old baby who cried thirty six hours a day.

Agnieska had been in London for almost four years. She left for the UK after her fiancée was killed in a jet ski accident, and moved in with her older sister, who has since moved back to Poland and is getting married sometime in the new year. Agnieska doesn’t really have anyone to talk with since her sister left, and feels desperately lonely in the city. She spends her evenings with her cat, Magda, and her colouring-in books, which is a silly hobby from childhood that she has never been able to shake.



By the third week, Pavel and Agnieska had agreed to start taking their lunch breaks at the same time, and were often found strolling through the nearby cemetery, nibbling on corned beef sandwiches, kindly prepared by Juri’s wife. They would make up fantastically imaginative biographies for each headstone; biographies and life stories which involved Russian spies, the legends of vaudeville, and one goat rapist, which Agnieska just nodded along to, faking enthusiasm.


Then one day, in the fourth week, they were gone; and I never saw them again. I’d like to think that they had returned home to get married and raise a family, surrounded by their own family and friends. But you see, the thing is, I don’t actually know if that was even their names, or if he had a cousin, and she a sister. I don’t even know if they were from Eastern Europe. I’m just a dull grey granite headstone, sitting in a long-forgotten cemetery, who spends the day making up back-stories for the people who pass by. And for the record, my guy never went near any goats!

TUBE STRIKES AND THE DESPERATE JOURNEY HOME

I left work tonight in the knowledge that getting back to the safety of my own home was going to involve a tumultuous ordeal of torment and suffering, a salacious nightmare of epic proportions, and a fermented hotbed of misused and mispelt adjectives.

When the tube workers of Old London Town decide that standing around like a fart in a trance is worth top dollar, the rest of us, millions of people, are subjected to, what the ancient tragedian Sophocles once described as a “pisser of a journey”, upon returning to Athens from a caravan holiday in Dorset (Modern-day Belgium). A wiser, more politically-informed man would most probably tell me, “That’s not what they’re striking about! They’re striking because of unfair...” which is when I would block them out and return to my preferred ignorance.

After leaving the office, I negotiated my way through an industrial estate looking for a bus that would take me somewhere in the direction I was going, or at least hoping to go. The cold, sultry night air was filled with the smell of raw industrialism. Heavily grinding machinery, Polish women, and occasional wafts of freshly welded metal, which reminded me of my childhood. And welding.

In search of warmth, sanctuary and Willesden Junction, I wandered through the night; through an unknown and undesirable area, armed with nothing more than my printed-out Google Maps map, my “I’m from around this manor” fake attitude, and the fervent intention to roundhouse kick the head clean off the first Dickensian backstreet shadowman who dares to think he (or she) is going be making off with my phone and wallet. With my fake, streetwise attitude, I’m trying to send out a message. A clear message that, “If you mess with me; if you back me into a corner... I will pee.” 

I followed my map meticulously, which got me lost many times, and, as if one of greatest explorers in history, I finally arrived at Willesden Bus Station, fully expecting a hero’s welcome. A welcome involving a sky full of ticker-tape, the flashing bulbs of the world’s press in my face, and a good-looking dame to smooch passionately with. Like I had just came back from occupied France in 1945, or as though I’d just completed the gargantuan Great North Run. But instead I arrived to find around seventy better explorers who had found the Bus Station quicker and more efficiently than I. I can only assume that they were all more proficient in the use of Google Maps, but by the look of them, I doubt it.

But standing out amongst this array of bedsit glitterati, one individual stood out, shining brightly like a blazing fire emanating from The Lighthouse of Alexandria; when The Lighthouse of Alexandria was surrounded by odd looking Turks. The Lighthouse in question was a young brunette with a pretty face and decent boobs, and the blazing fire was from her lighter. I watched her as she seductively pulled drag after drag from her cigarette, and sensuously coughed into her scarf. She knew I was watching her, and from her eye-contact, I’m pretty sure she could see into my mind and hear the poetry I was writing for her. I’m never 100% about eye-contact, and body language in general; and it can take me up to 12.7 seconds to truly freak a girl out, and I suddenly found myself inadvertently going for my record. I decided to just leave it. I have more taxing things occupying my mind. Like where these buses would take me, for a start; and would I even recognise any familiar places in the dark.

The bus was incredibly busy, and I found myself standing at the top of the stairs on the upper deck, waiting for a fellow commuter to get up so I could sit down. Suddenly, I thought I spotted an empty seat right at the back, so I set off towards the rear, when five feet from my intended destination, my stomach turned as soon as I saw that there was no spare seat at all. The shame! The long walk back to the stairs was like a death march. Fifty pairs of eyes, full of judgement and scorn, followed me as I slowly made my way towards my new status of ‘social pariah’. I could even sense Smoking Girl’s disappointment in me as I passed her, with her sitting there, acting as though I hadn’t just stared at her for an inappropriate amount of time only ten minutes beforehand. Talk about fickle! 

Towards the end of the bus journey, I had the horrid, sinking feeling that I’d been on the bus for far too long, that I’d missed my stop, and that my quest towards a hot bath was a long way from being completed. I decided to get off. The only thing I could think of doing was finding a cash machine and a taxi rank, and taking the £20 hit for the sake of simplicity and a hassle-free life. And in true Bay of Pigs style, at the eleventh hour, just when I thought all hope was lost, I saw it.

Like a glorious desert mirage, there at the top of hill was none other than... La Dorada. Just say that wonderful word with me. Laaaa Do-raaaada. Heavenly.  But this hacienda of happiness is no lost city of gold, or even the ancient ruins of Atlantis. It’s simply a chip-shop in Finchley Central, and a mere ten minute walk away from home and my hot Radox heaven. Instantly, all of my stress and anger washed away as if a mere skidmark on the porcelain. La Dorada was my North Star, and my bed was my manger.

To quote the great Sophocles once again, ‘There is truly no hardship, or period of extended darkness and sorrow, that cannot find resolution and harmony in the bottom of a scampi supper.’

COOL RUNNINGS: THE MUSICAL

It was the musical they said couldn’t be made.

Which for an incredibly non-competitive writer/producer like myself, seemed like the perfect opportunity to turn down such an offer and stay at home and watch daytime television. But according to my agent, I had to do it, as she needed the commission due to unpaid parking fines and a borderline hypoglycaemic episode in the Trocadero Centre where she caused £78 worth of damage to a pool table. At first it seemed like one of her many crazy and wacky ideas, like when she went speed dating in a mosque, or when she assassinated Malcolm X. But the more I thought about it, the more intrigued I became about her Malcolm X claim. She’s only 17!


So, Cool Runnings: The Musical? On one hand it seemed like the ultimate challenge, and on the other two hands (a) I had nothing else on except for my house of cards project, and (b) it would give me the ideal opportunity to appear live on stage as the film character I’d always admired and modelled myself on... ED-209 from Robocop. But after some early drafts of the script, I realised that old ED-209, despite his frailties and interesting character developments, just simply wouldn’t work in the surroundings of the 1988 Calgary Winter Olympics. Downhearted, but not beaten, I went back to the drawing board, as I had left my cigarettes there.

The auditioning process was, initially, quite troublesome. We came under fire a fair bit for using white actors with brown face paint, which albeit unfortunate, in hindsight, was an ill-advised move. Nick Pickard (Tony from Hollyoaks) absolutely nailed the part of Junior Bevil in his audition, but due to protests from Childline and a group calling themselves The White Panthers, we chose to use only West Indian actors for the actual bobsleigh team. Tony, being the consummate professional, happily accepted the role of ‘Irving “Irv” Blitzer’, the role made famous by the late John Candy.


Of course, with this actual production being a musical, the one addition we had to make was of course, songs. So after two long and arduous weeks in the studio with my musical director, Jeff Goldblum (not thee Jeff Goldblum), we immediately fired out such soon-to-be-classics like ‘This Ice Ting Be Slippy’, ‘Yo White Girl, You Be Sexin’ Ma Mind’ and ‘Kanye Feel Da Love Tonight?’


So after four days of rehearsals, we felt we were ready to put on the big show. The stage crew and props guys did an incredible job recreating the ambience of Calgary (although I’m still sure the backdrop was actually Seattle).The lighting was... bright, and the sound was... heard. All 23 audience members, mainly friends and family, were packed into the Soho Theatre and we did a storming show. Sure, it wasn’t perfect. Sure, we hadn’t actually officially booked the theatre, and were made to stop the performance 18 minutes in due to security escorting us off the premises. But as Gaius Julius Caesar stated when he defeated the Mormons, ‘We Came, They Saw, We Conquered.’


Was there a lesson learned you ask? You're goddam right there was! When people tell you that there is something you can’t do, or there’s something that can’t be done, well, a lot of the time they’re actually right. So just leave it!

PORTRAIT OF A SERIAL KILLER

People are always stopping me in the street, or on the subway or even at my local Chinese restaurant, Wok This Way, and the two things they always seem to ask me, is “Excuse me, are you in the queue?” and “Who are your three favourite serial killers?”

Well, as someone who is always willing to embark on a good list, I answer that second question thus –

1. Charles Manson – When Charles was a child, his mother swapped him for a pitcher of beer and it took his uncle a couple of days to find him again. My first dog, Optimus Prime, a border collie with magnificent testicles, had a similar experience when mum swapped him at market for a kilo of gammon and set of darts, only for the lady to return him that same night complaining that he was dragging his bum along her carpet and leaving skidmarks. Charlie was always up against it in life. Being forced to wear a dress on his first day of school does not set an individual up in good stead. But despite all that, he almost won a record contract thanks to Dennis Wilson from the Beach Boys who took Charlie round all the Hollywood parties, introducing him to the west coast glitterati, who didn’t realise they were meeting a psycho maniac. Well, we’ve all been that guy, huh? Right? Guys? No? Also, true fact, Charlie’s getaway driver was a woman called Linda Kasabian, whose name was used by UK rock group, Shed Seven. Charles Manson is 75 years old, and currently serving life in Corcoran State Prison, California, and is eligible for parole in 2012.

2. Ted Bundy – Ted shares a similar story to Jack Nicholson in that, growing up, he was led to believe that his mother was his sister, and that his grandparents were his parents. His favourite game as a three year old was to wait for his aunt to fall asleep, before surrounding her with knives and other sharp objects, and sit grinning, waiting for her to wake up. Awww, bless. Little rascal. When my dad used to fall asleep in his chair on a Sunday, my sister and I would get changed into our school clothes and freak him out by telling him he’d slept for a whole day. I still recall his brief moments of panic with a warm sense of nostalgia. And what many people don’t realise about Ted, was that he actually defended himself in court, and did a pretty good job of it by all accounts. Not great obviously, but not bad considering the evidence. Better than Jack in A Few Good Men, that’s for sure. Ted Bundy was executed by electric chair in 1989. His last meal was lasagne and chips, and before his execution he was heard expressing deep regret for his actions, wishing he had chosen the chicken kievs instead.

3. Richard Ramirez aka The Night Stalker – Despite a brutal year-long killing spree which terrorised the Los Angeles area in the mid 80’s, Richy Ramirez had incredible cheek bones, and is definitely the poster boy for all serial killers. (It’s not a tough group to be the best looking in, to be fair). I am a single guy, yet Richy, a convicted rapist and killer, is bombarded daily with offers, even getting married in 1996! So when it comes to getting some action, it’s Richard Ramirez: Serial Killer 1, Gary 0. But in fairness to me, I doubt that most of Richy’s friends are bloody couples!! Richy was finally captured when a group of vigilant neighbours, including two teenage brothers, recognised him from his photo in the newspapers, chased him down the street and beat the living shit out of him. Now that’s a story to go back to school with! That definitely beats my back-to-school story of meeting Bruno Brookes at the Weymss Bay caravan park one summer. Richard Ramirez is currently awaiting execution in San Quentin State Prison, and is studying for a degree in Lawn Management.

Big shout outs and noticeable mentions to Jeffrey Dahmer, Jack The Ripper, Aileen Wuornos, Peter Sutcliffe and Lucas Johnson from Eastenders. I’m sorry you all missed out on the Top 3, but unfortunately, on this occasion the gags lay elsewhere. Please note, that I do not condone serial killing in any way, shape or form. Other things which I do not condone are three-way marriages, oriental Elvis impersonators, and indifference.

MY PERFECT DAY

A girl I know recently asked me what my perfect day would be like, from morning to night, anything I want. I explained to her that my perfect day would involve a continental breakfast in bed, riding my horse, Mr Pepperlungs, along the beach, a walk around Portobello Market shopping for cute little items for my bathroom, finished off with a hot bath surrounded by candles, essential oils, and Enya. But we all know, including the girl, that the words you’ve just read are blatant lies designed solely to ‘up’ the chances of an unlikely visit to the Impregnation Station. Now usually, if I were to think of a perfect day, it would be packed full of stories involving sensuous ships passing in the night and sweaty limbs glistening in the sun, but we’re not going down that road today. We’re keeping it clean. For the most part.

 

OK, The first thing that would happen in my perfect day would involve me being gently woken by Martha Reeves and the two remaining Vandellas, in the corner of my bedroom singing soft gospel music. One of my many Amazonian Nude Servants (my ANS’s) feeds me slices of melon as I listen to Martha do her thing. My ANS then pours me a coffee and leaves. I thank him for his services and tell him to help himself to a biscuit. Now it’s time to get up and get clean.

  As I stand upright in a shallow bath, two of my female ANS’s, Samu and T’shana, sponge me down, making me all nice and clean and ready for the day. Forty five minutes later and it’s time for breakfast, which would constitute a light toasted ham sandwich with melted cheese and a nice runny egg in the middle. I better go, there’s a helicopter waiting for me outside. (a Gazelle SA342 no less. Helicopter Life’s Helicopter of Season, Summer 2009) The chopper’s here to take me to Downing Street, for my weekly catch up with Dave, who likes to float a few ideas past me before he goes to parliament with them. “Easy up on education, Dave!” I tell him. “You’re making the job market too competitive.” He argues that in doing so, more people would be unqualified and on benefits. “Well make the people on benefits work for it. Make them clean up their areas, help with recycling and visit and chat with old, lonely pensioners. That way they’re doing the country a service. Simple politics!” He nods, knowingly, then orders his own ANS to make us a couple of Tequila Mockingbird cocktails. We throw a few darts, smoke some cigars then I hit the road, slightly tipsy. Time for lunch.

 

I’ve booked a table at The Ivy for myself, Paul McCartney, Paris Hilton and George Lucas. Paris has brought a bottle of tequila and a bazooka, and is intent on giving Paul, George and myself the wildest lunch of our lives. Vintage Paris. Before she flips however, George informs me of his plans for a Star Wars sequel, and wants me to play the son of Luke Skywalker, Gavin-Lee Skywalker, a poet and balladeer, who shuns the Jedi ways to embark on a more bohemian lifestyle of live music and free living. The Troubadour of Alderaan is expected in cinemas in Summer 2011. The ghost of Luke (who died during childbirth) will be played by Tom Arnold, who blew George away at his audition.

Paul’s there for a favour too, just as I expected. He wants to put Wings back together and he wants me in the band. I take a lot less convincing than with the Star Wars sequel proposal, but I keep my poker face on so that I can bargain my own dressing room out of him when we go on the road. Paul’s a notoriously tough negotiator, but I soon end up with not just my own dressing room, but a personal assistant, Boots vouchers and 5 free tickets to every show in China. In off the red! Then I slink out unnoticed before Paris starts shooting the chandeliers out. I’d better get my skates on if I’m going to make my show.

 

That’s right, my sold-out Wembley concert is tonight, so it’s back on the chopper and off to North West London to rock Wembley’s socks off. The tickets sold out in 1 minute and 48 seconds, which apparently is a world record or whatever, but I don’t worry about things like that. I’d do it for free, but no-one’s ever asked, so...

  Support tonight is provided by Oasis, The Libertines and Chico, who do storming sets to be fair to the lads, but the 140,000 people out there (Wembley was extended solely for my concert) are all here for me. It’s my name their shouting, and my bootleg merchandise they’re wearing.

  I appear on stage in a haze of ice-smoke, both dry and wet. The lights explode and the power chords erupt. All night I stand, posture and groove in centre stage wearing my tight leather trousers, bare-chested and drenched in primal allure. Some women are throwing their underwear onstage, and some are throwing flowers. Some are even throwing their babies at me, but they are swiftly ejected by my security staff and taken immediately to a secure psychiatric unit. There will be no baby throwing at my concerts! We’re not going to have another Rio De Janeiro on our hands! No way!

  After a five-song encore (including a 40 minute version of Freebird) I leave the stage to rapturous applause, high on adrenalin and wired on poppers. All the usual back-stage groupies are there trying to grab my attention. Moss, Diaz, both Geldofs, Ariel the Mermaid, and they all want a piece. I take numbers, but more out of politeness than sexual intent.

I decide to stay at my Greenwich flat that night, and enjoy a glass of red wine and some vegetarian sushi on the balcony overlooking Canary Wharf and the Thames. I’m now going to snuggle up with some pasta and my The Hills: Season 2 DVD. Lauren is clearly still into Brody, and I think she’s going to kick off with Jen and Heidi. Good times.

 

So that’s my perfect day folks. But if this was in fact my reality, would I really be happy? Of course I’d be bloody happy, but in reality, having everything you’ve ever wanted would leave you with nothing else to wish for, or to look forward too. The positives would undoubtedly outweigh the negatives, sure, but we really do need something to drive and inspire us in our day-today lives. It’s different for everybody. Some want love, some want fame and recognition, where others look for money and power. But you can take it all back, because I don’t need any of it, just as long as I can keep my dear beloved ANS’s.

TIME FOR HEROES

‘A happy visionary fantasy of hopes, ambitions or magnificent awesomeness, experienced while awake,’ is how UK publication Helicopter Life describes Daydreams. Daydreamers get such a bad rap in society, thought of as head-in-the-cloud slackers and conniving Communists. But daydreaming can be hugely constructive in many contexts. Not only for people in creative and artistic professions, such as writers and film-makers, but daydreaming is also incredibly beneficial to important people like research scientists, mathematicians and homosexuals.

 However, my daydreams seem to take gentle strolls down more egotistical paths than that. I go all out in mine. In my daydreams I’m a cross between Jack Bauer, John MacLean, T-1000 and Pacey from Dawson’s Creek. In my daydreams I am the quintessential lone renegade in a city of injustice, and I’m out for blood. And justice. My daydreams have Superman wearing a pair of Gary Crombie pyjamas by the end. Sometimes in my daydreams I’m even played by Josh Hartnett for crying out loud!

The first set of these aforementioned daydreams (and I use the word ‘set’ due to multiple variations on the same theme) came about after events such as 9/11 and 7/7. I’m talking about the fight against international and domestic terrorism. Sometimes at work I would find myself on flight KF209, zipping over the Atlantic Ocean from New York back to London after a successful meeting with L’Oreal, who want me to be the face of their new range of concealer products. While deeply engrossed in a fascinating article on Bolkow 105 Air Ambulance helicopters, my spidey sense tingles and I look up to see a terrified air-hostess with a smoking hot body being held by a balaclavad man, who is holding a knife at her throat. (I’m using a balaclava on this occasion to avoid any racial offense, but usually they’re either Pakistani or Russian)(the latter being used more for their accent than anything else) Anyway, I rise slowly off my seat to a tirade of shouts from the terrorist. ‘Sit down or I’ll kill her!’ he screams. I then take off my sunglasses and throw them onto the floor, crushing them like a menthol cigarette. ‘You’re not killing anybody today, pal. Not on my watch,’ before whipping out a shiny Colt 45 hand cannon. ‘How did you get that past customs?’ asks the bewildered air-hostess. ‘Don’t worry about backstory,’ I tell her, smoothly. ‘The only thing you need to worry about is your husband, your conscience, and our impending wild and passionate affair.’ (That’s just how this lone renegade rolls!) In the flicker of an instant, I raise my handgun, and with barely no line of sight, I let off a round which passes straight through the terrorists left eye, through the cockpit door and into the back of the captains head. But due to an outbreak of colourblindness at Pilot HQ, there’s no co-pilot! The shaken air-hostess grabs the microphone for the PA system. ‘Is there anybody on board who was in the air-cadets for four years and once went to Norway in a Nimrod after school one evening, and who thinks they can fly this plane?’ I pout my lips and raise my hand.

The second daydream is not original and basically consists of me winning the World Cup with Scotland, with me being the Maradona ‘86 of the team, orchestrating every attack and putting my body in front of every thunderbolt the opposition unleashes. I’m 32 now, and haven’t played in any team, 5-a-side or 11s, for many years, yet like every boy of my age and nationality, I still harbour genuine hopes of a late call-up to the national squad. And if we’re being honest, with Scotland being Scotland, it’s not entirely out of the question. I still think I could add value to the squad. What I’ve lost in pace, I make up for in fatigue. I did audition Josh Hartnett for this role too, but that smooth-talking dreamboat from Minnesota has two left feet, and is more a hockey guy anyway.

My third most popular daydream involves me saving a child from being run over. This started as an actual sleep dream I had and stuck with me, before being promoted into the echelons of my most popular daydreams. Basically, it’s me walking down the street, and just as I’m about to pass a group of pretty French girls, I see a child out the corner of my eye. The child, usually a two year old girl, has let go of the buggy her mother is pushing her little brother in, and makes a dash for the road between two parked cars. But there’s a double decker bus coming straight for her! So with no regards for my own safety, and heavy traffic in both directions, I leap out onto the road, race over to the girl, pick her up in my arms with not a second to spare, and leap onto the bonnet of one of the parked cars. The bus screeches to a halt, I light a cigarette, and the crowd goes wild. And before I know it, I’m suddenly grabbed and pulled into the ample bosom of the relieved woman pushing the buggy. In my life I fluctuate a lot between thinking having kids would be incredible, to then thinking it would not be so incredible, so the woman in the dream fluctuates between a hot single mother and a dirty Mexican nanny.

I’d like to think that this is indeed how I would react in such situations. With bravery, style and aplomb. But I fear this would not be the case. Realistically, I’m ashamed to say that I’m probably more of a freezer. When people take suddenly ill on the tube, I seem to back away, panic and hope that somebody closer to me is medically trained. I do know that if it was only me and the ill person in the vicinity, I would spring into action with no hesitation, 100%. And if I was in a stand-off with an armed terrorist, and I had a gun, I’d probably would fire off at least one shot. I talked about fear recently, and another fear of mine is the thought that I may be walking home one night and see four or five dangerous-looking youths beating up an old man. What would you do? I’d like to think that I’d do something, but then, if I did, it would almost certainly result in my death. I pray that I, nor any of you, never find ourselves in that position. And in the mean time, I’ll go back inside my head and embark on a one-man mission to find and arrest Osama Bin Laden.

Yippie Ki Yay Kimosabe!

FACING YOUR FEARS

FEAR: An emotional response to a perceived threat. A basic survival mechanism occurring in response to the threat of pain or danger.

 
There are 3 things in life which strike absolute terror throughout my entire body and soul, and today I had to man-up and face one of these fears. The three things are (1) snakes, (2) albino people, and (3) dentists. Snakes are my true nemesis in life. When I see one on TV, I immediately have to put on my slippers. (Classic snake defensive tactic) They terrify me. It’s the way in which they slither across the ground in such a arrogant, cavalier manner, and the speed at which they attack. Be it the sleek, snappy buggers, or those gigantic boa constrictors that wrap themselves around you, slowly squeezing your breath out. I detest them all. At school, a boy took his pet snake into class one day to do his presentation on the subject, and to this day I still think there is a Gary-shaped hole in Miss Lowry’s classroom wall. I preferred to do my class presentations on more conventional subjects such as Jeffrey Dahmer, Marylin Monroe vs The Kennedys, and Mrs Doubtfire. (Interesting fact: Mrs Doubtfire was one of Sinatra’s all-time favourite films, along with Timecop and Val Wilder: Party Liaison.)

 I feel guilty for my second fear, as albino people clearly did not ask to look like the walking dead. But this fear traces the furthest back into my childhood. There was a Children’s TV show called Look and Read, and for a few weeks the featured show on L&R was one called The Boy From Space. The alien boy mentioned in the title was an albino whom the Earth children called Peep Peep, as this was all he could say, which was, in hindsight, a very racist thing to do. If you don’t think so, just ask my Iranian friend, My Family Were All Killed, who is a crackin’ lad, but who cries a lot, and always disappears when it’s his round. Anyway, Peep Peep was pursued by The Thin Man, another albino alien. But this Thin Man was not a friendly looking alien like the cheeky Peepster. Oh no, The Thin Man was the absolute antithesis of friendliness. An evil, horror of a man, whose gaunt, soulless face would come to haunt my dreams for many years to come. But I've checked imdb.com and that actor's now dead, so screw him! I’ve recently read on such websites as Wikipedia and jizzhard.com that there is such a thing as albino snakes, but so far I refuse to believe these claims. I don’t think my nerves could handle such a truth.

But the fear I had to face today was actually the last one I mentioned. The last, but by no means the latest. The Dentist. (Dum Dum Daaaaaah!) So, it was 3:15pm and I was sitting in the waiting room shaking like a French soldier, and any minute someone was going to appear, call my name out, and then... then it’s judgement day. It was possibly quite a big procedure, so I was praying that the hygienist/assistant girl was not too attractive, because I’m always immensely vulnerable at that moment, yet if she was pretty I’d still feel the need to throw some charm her way, because that’s just how it works, and I was too busy focusing on not crying. I was in luck. She was middle-aged and looked a bit like Seabiscuit. So I was in the chair, and after five long days of pain and painkillers, I now found myself lying to the dentist, saying that everything was fine and that I was just passing so thought I’d just pop in and say hello, but he didn't buy my lies. Not for one single second. ‘I’m going to run some tests,’ he said, before tapping the tooth in question with a steel tooth-tapper (What?! I’m not a trained dentist!) before blasting it with some cold air. ‘Was that sore?’ he asked. ‘No,’ I lied ‘That felt really, really nice.’
Anyway, to cut a long story short, he whipped the syringe out, gave me two jags (as I proceeded to breath so heavily that I’m sure some tooth decay came flying out of my nose), he drilled for an eternity while I displayed some of my favourite Riverdance moves. He followed this with some more dentistry action in my mouth, and then popped in a filling. Job done. So, whilst standing at the reception afterwards, whimpering, checking my t-shirt for blood, I knew that my biggest dentist fear was about to present itself. ‘That will be £72 please, Mr Crombie,’

 'NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!'

People face their fears in many various ways. Some people talk about them, some laugh at them, some yell at them, and some even smother them in their sleep. But for me, the way I dealt with my fear was simple. More lying. I said I was on Jobseekers Allowance, they bought it, and left without spending a penny!!‘

Simple economics.