Chef Off

You can’t go wrong with a bit of modesty I think. I mean, sure, there are arguably more glamorous ee’s to see, noun wise: bravery, generosity, sympathy and empathy are all gooduns for a kick off. Oh and telepathy, telepathy I’ll grant you would be especially bitchin to witness. In fact, to be honest, when you compare it to that lot, modesty is pretty much the Ringo of thee ee’s. But even if that’s the case I would say Ringo is still my favourite (metaphorically you understand, not literally, that would be insanity; literally it’s Paul. Obviously. ) I mention this soft spot for modesty only because I suspect it's that which lies at the root of my biggest problem with today’s seemingly endless crop of T.V chefs.

As far as I can see, it would appear to be perfectly acceptable in the world where cuisine and cameras meet, for a person to cook their dish from their recipe which they then procede to eat and afterwards they tell you how awesome they think whatever it is they have just made tastes. I mean, c’mon. That’s not okay, surely? Get over yourself! You made it! I always understood that if you’d made something you were proud of, it was the done thing to enjoy a quiet sense of self satisfaction, then give it to someone else and let them go all ‘I’ll have what she’s having’ over it. You didn’t hear me going on about how amazing the mug tree I made in 2^nd year Craft & Design was, did you? No. You didn’t hear anyone going on about how amazing that mug tree was, but for some reason the chefs…hey…wait a minute…how come nobody said how amazing my mug tree was?...you know what, that doesn’t even matter right now, because this isn’t about me, this is about those egotistical T.V chef’s and their God complex.

Actually it’s not even fair to call it a God complex because even though I’m not terribly religious, I remember enough from a couple of sleepy mornings at the Sunday School of Hard Knocks (nah, doesn’t make it sound any cooler, does it?) to know that Genesis is essentially a biblical cookery show for the creation of the earth and in fact it sounds like old Godfrey was actually pretty chilled out about what he’d just made. Think about it; ‘And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. God saw that the light was good. And God said “Let the water under the sky be gathered to one place, and let dry ground appear. God called the dry ground “land,” And the gathered waters he called “seas.” And God saw that it was good. And God created the great creatures of the sea and every living thing with which the water teems and that moves about in it and every winged bird according to its kind. And God saw that it was good.’

You see where I’m going with this? If creating the light of the earth was just ‘good’ how can a Beef Wellington be ‘exquisite”? If all the lands and seas were just “good” how can a Banoffee Pie be “transcendent”? If all the creatures on the sea and air were just “good” how can a Citrus Sorbet be “breath-taking”? Of course evolutionary science has now pretty much conclusively proved that the earth was here a long time before it’s claimed God cooked it up, but hey, what chef worth their salt hasn’t occasionally allowed themselves the odd cheeky wee ‘Here’s one we made earlier’ moment? Although just a little shy of 4.5 billion years earlier may be pushing it a bit; you certainly wouldn’t catch me serving people up something which had been left sitting out that long. Anthea Turner used to prepare hers earlier that afternoon.

I suppose early T.V chefs were a bit more in this vein. Take Delia Smith, she was just a nice woman, in a nice kitchen who used the Old Testament approach to presenting. Y’know, “On the first episode, Delia said “Let there be Smoked Salmon Tartlets” and she created Smoked Salmon Tartlets and Delia saw that they were nice. On the second episode Delia said “Let there be Apple Crumble” and she created Apple Crumble and Delia saw that it was nice.” Was it particularly exciting or particularly enjoyable to watch? Not really, but it was informative enough and…well…nice.

It was possibly the lack of enjoyment and excitement to be found in cookery programmes that led to the appearance of Jamie Oliver on our screens in the year 27AD (After Delia.) Oliver attempted to inject some excitement of culinary shows ostensibly by doing everything Smith had done, only faster and with worse grammar. There’s no denying he was enthusiastic though. Really enthusiastic. Too enthusiastic. So enthusiastic that watching him you felt, no matter what he was making, that the one ingredient it could probably use was a couple of handfuls of Ritalin.

In calling his programme ‘The Naked Chef’ Oliver was also carrying on an inexplicable trend which continues to this day and that I am no closer to understanding. I can only assume that T.V producers must think there’s something to this reverse psychology lark because they have persisted in giving their food shows the most consistently unappetizing and unhygienic names you could possibly conceive of. First there was ‘The Two Fat Ladies’, which was basically Delia except fatter and two of em, then there was the aforementioned ‘Naked Chef’, which is both boggin and dangerous and now of course we have ‘The Hairy Bikers’ which is….ick. I dunno about you but I would say they’re getting worse. I keep turning on the tele, expecting to hear, ‘Now on BBC 2, we’re back in the kitchen with ‘The Sweaty Lepers’” or “Now on Channel 5 it’s time to cook along live with The ‘Wheezy Flashers’” or “Coming up next on Channel 4 a double bill of ‘The Kitchen Corpse”

Speaking of different channels, Channel 4, not to be out done in the cookery charisma department, soon decided to recruit their very own enthusiastic chef. Enter Gordon Ramsay. Enter Gordon Ramsay and exit everyone else in the immediate vicinity. I mean for the life of me I just can’t see the appeal of this man as a TV chef. I'm not an expert but he appears to me to be a borderline sociopath. Honestly, it’s like The Incredible Hulk went to Catering College. Why people go on shows like ‘Hell’s Kitchen’ and ‘Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares’ to be verbally abused at and humiliated by a man who, let's face it, looks like he was created when someone at Madam Tusaud’s accidentally left the Brad Pitt wax work a bit too close to the heater for a couple of months, is frankly beyond me.

Seriously, if you want to see what Tony Soprano would’ve been like as a Home Economics teacher, you should tune into Ramsay. Don’t get me wrong I like the swears as much as the next man, I’m Scottish, it’s kinda my job, but so much of those programmes is bleeped out it’s sometimes difficult to tell whether he’s making a speech or the smoke detector’s going off. I’ve never read one of his recipe books but if he writes like he talks there ought to be more f#%ks in there than in the Kama Sutra. See, clearly what Channel 4 considers enthusiasm, I would consider mental imbalance, but hey, I say ‘potato’ he says ‘Shut the f#%k up you little s#*t and get that f#%king potato ready the f#%king Gratin before I kick your f#%king a#$e”

From this point onward it was apparently pretty much required that all T.V chefs have a gimmick to make them watchable. For example, Hugh Fernley Whittingstall may have seemed like a return to the straightforward days of a nice, slightly dull, upper middle class person showing you recipes, until that is you actually saw the kind of things he was cooking: Octopus, bats, insects, even placenta once I’m sure. For a while there he was getting so weird and experimental (with the emphasis on the second half of this word) that you suspect the contents of his fridge would have had Hannibal Lector reaching for the nearest take away menu. Once my dad and I were watching one of his programmes in which he and another man were out hunting with shotguns. My dad, knowing about these things, pointed out he had his gun locked, loaded and ‘inadvertently’ pointed at his partners back. I couldn’t help feeling that if he did ‘accidentally’ shoot his partner, he would know exactly how best to prepare and serve his remains. I read a quote from him just recently saying something along the lines of ‘If we can eat cows and chickens, why not puppies?’ which should really tell you all you need to know.

If anyone truly represents the tipping point of no return, where gimmicks finally took over from cookery and presenting skills though, it would have to be Heston Blumenthal. I would say I don’t understand why he’s on the television but sadly I think I do. Does he have accessible recipes? No. Does he have appetizing recipes? No. Does he have any personality to speak of? No...but what he does have is a laboratory, fifty pounds of plastic explosive, a vat of liquid nitrogen and a rotisserie chicken. Sold! Basically if I had to sum Heston Blumenthal up in a a few words they would be, “Hugh Fernley Whittingstall in Space” But then that’s a bit unfair on Hugh because at least with his dishes there was a slight chance you could make them. If you wanted to try ‘Sautéed Yak Face’, for example, it was at least conceivable you could go out, find a Yak, kill it and hack off its face. Blumenthal’s recipes are so self-indulgently experimental and involve so many weird chemicals or expensive pieces of equipment that unless you’re making Buzz Aldrin’s packed lunch, they’re going to be no good to anyone.

I hope for the sake of whoever he lives with that he turns that mad scientist shit (see, told you I like the swears) off when he goes home. Imagine it, it would be insufferable; “Aw Heston your home, good. Listen man, I’ve had a nightmare day at work; you couldn’t make us a cheese sandwich, could you? “Yeah I could…but would not rather have something I’ve created with my new-“ “Naw, Heston just the cheese sandwich will be fine, thanks.” “Aw okay…Are you sure though? I got it from NASA. It cost fifty thousand-“ “No thanks man, really I’m sure, just a cheese sandwich would be great.” “Alright then. Oh, y’know what I could do is infuse the cheese with an element called-“ “Heston. No.” “Fair enough. How about I embalm the bread and then-“ “No.” “Or I could electro charge the“ “No!” “Right, but if I atomise the-“ “NO!” “I could always launch the-“ “Aw you know what, forget it! Just FORGET IT! I’ll make it myself!”

Nightmare. With the state of T.V chef’s today, it’s no wonder poor Delia was finally driven to drink and football hooliganism

Suggs To Be You

There’s a lot made these days in the media about the of the importance of preserving the planet and one of the most effective ways to do this we are told, is to recycle. Never one to shy away from my responsibilities as an eco warrior, I have decide to recycle an old blog I wrote roughly three years and never got round to posting. It’s been slightly updated mind, so I’m not being completely idle. In fact like I say technically it’s recycling so I’m not being lazy at all, I’m being green and it’s not just my time I’m saving it’s our planet. No, no, please, it’s no trouble, your welcome.

You know how sometimes there are people you really admire, but gradually over the years as they make one misguided decision after another, you begin to think: hmm, I don’t really like where this is going? Well over the last couple of years I’ve had a similar sort of thing with Suggs, of Madness fame. Now I won’t keep you long but just quickly let me explain what I mean. Madness first hung up their ska hats in 1986 or thereabouts and although they’ve been re-forming on and off again, ever since 1992, it never seems to last very long. I suspect this is due to the fact that – bless ‘em – their knees probably aren’t what they used to be while their waste lines are considerably more than they used to be, making the whole trademark funny walk thing a little tougher to sustain for any length of time. That’s understandable, it’s what Suggs does on his on his down time that worries me. You never know when or even if Madness are coming back you see, so I always sorta naturally assumed he would have a good solid Plan B on the go, but…

I was a little surprised in 2004 when I saw him presenting a show called ‘Salvage Squad’ about fixing old machinery that should have been scrapped long ago. God it was chronic. I mean, no harm to the man, but I don’t care how cool you are, there is just no way anyone can talk about rust for sixty minutes straight and hold my attention, or anybody else’s for that matter…there’s just no way.

I feared the worst in 2006 when I saw that, not only had he given permission for the lyrics of ‘Our House’ to be changed and used in an advert for a magazine called Full House (Full House/it’s a magazine that’s new/Full House/ lot’s of things for you to do…) but he’d actually lent his vocals to the thing as well! Look, I’ll level with you; I bought that magazine. I figured if it’s got Suggs endorsing it, it must be like…I dunno…The Great Gatsby or The Collected Works Of Shakespear or something, so – despite the fact that it was clearly aimed predominantly at forty-plus year old housewives – I went up to the counter, braved the sneering and bought it. ‘Lot’s of things for you to do’ they said. Aye, that’ll be right…one thing for you to do more like, and even then you’d only do it if there was a sudden shortage of toilet paper. Crossword wasn’t bad mind.

And I was gutted, properly gutted, in 2007 when I saw him using Our House again (albeit lyrically unchanged) only this time actually appearing in an advert promoting a particular brand of fish fingers (I don't do commercial plugs in this blog). You might remember it: this family are all sitting round the dinner table and the man himself is reading out questions about Omega 3 from a card. I’m not so annoyed about the song use in this case, it’s more the fact that – you ask my sister, she’ll tell you – I’ve been writing to Suggs once a year, every year for roughly the last seventeen years, inviting him to my house for dinner. Does he come? Does he f#%k, he goes to a house full of weird fish fanciers who, once they’ve got him there, inexplicably fail to ask him anything about his ska-tastic past and instead want him to ask them questions in an utterly mental quiz about the nutritional value of sea life. Eh?? Surely that was that then, I thought. It’s over. Done. He’s lost it.

I was such fool. I had stupidly overlooked one critical fact: Suggs isn’t just anyone; Suggs is Suggs. Yeah, he might have done a few crap things in the past, just to pay the bills, who hasn’t? In the end though, when it boils down to it he’ll always be an integral part of one of the finest (ongoing) bands in history first, and a karaoke game show host on channel 5/occasional corporate whore a distant second, as Madness' brilliant 2009 album 'The Liberty Of Norton Folgate' only serves to prove. (Yeah I know what I said, but when Captain Birdseye releases 35 years worth of quality pop music, then I'll plug his fish fingers. Wait...aw naw!)

File This Under 'Genius'

So my business proposal to open a nail bar exclusively for men, which employs only ex-convicts, called 'Hard As Nailz' has thus far been met with mixed reviews. I genuinely don’t see why, makes sense to me. Prisoners after all have a long historical tradition of being handy with files, only this time instead wasting their energy on futile escape attempts behind iron bars, they’ll be cleansing, shaping and buffing behind nail bars, all the while learning a trade for a guaranteed job on the outside and (hopefully) being rehabilitated. Also by employing some of the larger, scarier, tattooier* (hopefully) reformed criminals, it would eliminate the stigma which for too long has gone hand in soft hand with the taboo world of male grooming. The idea that it is somehow solely the persuit of the spineless, effeminate, sorry excuse for a man would be long gone. Trust me, no male would dare step through the door of ‘Hard As Nailz’ unless he has limitless courage in his heart and at least £14.00 in his pocket (that’s actually very reasonable, I checked.) Yup, it'll be a pretty nail biting experience alright, which when you think about it, actually works out pretty well. You and your member of staff could also have a game of that favourite penitentiary pastime (no not that one) Five Finger Fillet while your hands on he counter just to really man it up bit.

Anyway, as I say my quest to put the ‘man’ back into manicure has proved less than popular with two key groups, essential to the ventures eventual success; investors with money and more generally, people with ears. I’m a little annoyed to be honest, I had a tag line ready to go and everything: ‘Hard As Nailz: There’s nothing cute about our cuticles.’ Now all that potential has gone to waste just because of ‘obvious health and safety concerns’ whatever that’s supposed to mean. I mean it's not like we wouldn't have procedures in place for worst case scenarios. I'm not stupid. Like for example if you come to get your 'nailz' done and one of our nail technicians gets a little over excited and maims or kills you then you get 50% of the price of this visit and a coupon for a free manicure next time round. If we slash your face, then we slash your bill, that's the Hard As Nailz promise!

Nobody ever seems to like my inventions man. Gets me down sometimes, y’know? I’m only consoled by the fact that, like all true geniuses (is that how you spell that? Oh the irony if it’s not) I won’t be properly appreciated until I’m dead. Which, yeah okay I’ll admit it, if ‘Hard As Nailz’ ever opened and I went there, there's a chance that may be sooner rather than later.

*If it isn’t then it should be. Sort it out Oxford English Dictionary.

Science Seeing Stars

I’ve got to be honest; I’m getting a little fed up constantly being told by seemingly everyone and their granny just how ‘fascinating’ Professor Brian Cox is in his ‘revelatory’ new series ‘The Wonders Of The Solar System.’ Now don’t get me wrong I’ve got nothing against the man personally, or even the show he presents in particular. I’ve watched it a couple of times actually and found it to be informative and enjoyable enough, probably thanks in no small part to its perfectly engaging, likeable and awright-to- look-at-if-you-like-that-sort-of-thing-I-suppose host. My problem is more with the bizarre notion which seems to be doing the rounds that what this floppy haired pin up is telling us is somehow groundbreaking, earth shattering news. It’s really not.

Look, the irony of all this is that I’m not even especially interested in our solar system or the possibilities of space travel or any of that lark. Truth be told it’s all a bit over my head (*BA-BOOM-BOOM-TISH* Thanks very much, I’ll be here all blog, don’t forget to tip your waitress) and anyway as far as I’m concerned, people on earth obsessing about other planets thousands of light-years away is a bit like staring out the window at a mansion miles off in the distance while the fire alarm goes off in your flat and bailiffs slowly remove its contents. However despite this genuine lack of interest, even I know that Brain Cox is not exactly taking us into new intergalactic territory here.

The reality is, scientists – good old fashioned, supremely intelligent, socially awkward, terrible jumper wearing, no significant other having, untelegenic scientists – have been telling us this stuff for decades. Literally decades. They’ve spent all that time closeted away in laboratories and observatories, peering through telescopes for weeks at a time, hunched over pages of incomprehensible data hour after hour or continuously comparing minute fragments of anonymous rock. Testing and re-testing, analysing and re-analysing – all this hard work precisely so they could bring us ‘The Wonders of the Solar System’ a full generation before the current programme of the same name. Did we care? Did we buggery.

But you put all that painstakingly compiled knowledge in the former synthpop keyboard playing hands of the BBC’s own scientific D:reamboat and within a few weeks everybody in the country is Stephen bloody Hawking. You can’t tell me that doesn’t put the scientific community’s collective noble gas at a peep just a wee bit.

How do I know this then, if I’m so completely uninterested by the whole subject you may ask? No really, you may, go on...Well, it’s true, I couldn’t give a monkey’s, but for a while there a good few years ago now, another thing I couldn’t do was sleep. At all. So it was during a period of temporary insomnia that I stumbled upon ‘The Sky at Night’ a programme shown in the wee small hours of the morning and presented by respected amateur astronomer Sir Patrick Moore. Here, I thought, was viewing so delightfully dull that it might just be a potential cure for my condition. Unfortunately it wasn’t and I ended up accidentally learning something. Exactly the same something which I heard Prof. Cox explain to me again just a few weeks ago. They’re basically the same show. Why then has Sir Moore – a knight of the realm no less – spent all those years in the deepest darkest corners of the TV schedules, preaching to both his loyal audience, while Prof. Cox – a nineties dance act’s ex-keyboardist no less – lands straight in a prime time slot and grabs everyone’s attention. It can’t ALL be about image, surely? We can’t have reached a point in our existence where we’re so driven by celebrity culture that we’ll only pay attention to someone if they used to be in a band and are easy on the eye?

But what else can it be? Like I say ‘The Sky at Night’ and ‘The Wonders of the Solar System’ present pretty much the same information, just in different ways. “The Sky at Night” never had fancy computer graphics or aerial helicopter shots; all it had was the sky (you guessed it) at night. Come to think of it, the slightest wisp of a cloud appearing over the stars and they didn’t even have that. Far as I could tell Sir Pat’s budget barely stretched to a chair for him and his guest (who although usually an immense intellect and highly respected professional in their field, more often than not had chat which made the Radio 4 shipping forecast sound like James Brown at his performing peak.) If somebody so much as pulled out a graph you knew it was gonna be a racy one.

There was none of this idea you get in ‘The Wonders of the Solar System’ of filming locations which are apparently ‘the closest thing on earth to the surface of other planets.’ Aye, pull the other one Cox. “Venus has a surface temperature of 467 degrees. Much, much hotter than this Hawaiian beach I’m on at the moment, there’s simply no way these bikini clad lovelies could exist long enough to serve me drinks or rub my shoulders on Venus.” “Neptune has a temperature of -225 degrees that’s considerably colder than this five star alpine ski resort. There’s no chance I could survive long enough to ski down the slopes of Neptune like this...” “Many of the planets in our solar system have a volatile liquid surface, this Jacuzzi I’m in is as close as we can ever hope to get to that on earth.” Sure it is Brain, sure it is.

Having said that...I mean fair play to him; there’s no denying Brian Cox is making this astrophysics guff much more palatable for us. He’s the celebrity cheese on the slightly stale dry bread that is science. Who knows, that might be the way forward – a recent study supposedly showed that Britain’s education system had slipped from 4^th worldwide to 14^th when it came to science – so perhaps it’s the responsibility of more boffins to embrace popular culture, get us all interested, for the good of the nation. There can be little doubt more people would be aware that Stephen Hawking was the first man to combine general relativity with quantum theory to predict that black holes should emit radiation and evaporate, if he’d had a roll-on part in ‘Hollyoaks’ say. Likewise more people could identify Antony Hewish as the man who led the research group which discovered the first pulsar, if he’d dated Courtney Love for a couple of months. Conceivably we might all know that Bart Van Bok suggested that small dark globules of interstellar gas and dusk are collapsing to form new stars if he’d been a member of G-Unit (admittedly this man is in fact dead, but what the hell, never did Tupac or Biggie’s career any harm) And maybe, just maybe, more people would tune in to dear old Sir Patrick Moore if his body was covered in tattoos a la David Beckham. The fact that I had to Google ‘astrophysicists’ to find these first three men and their achievements should only go further to proving this point.

Na. You know what? Na. Forget that last bit. Screw the good of the nation. I don’t want my scientists in the public eye, on chat shows, mixing with celebrities; I want them indoors, researching things and discovering stuff. Complicated stuff, stuff that I couldn’t even begin to comprehend, because that’s what that’s what they do, it’s what they’re good at and it’s why I love them. Never mind image or fashion, proper scientists should be too busy to go for a decent haircut, let alone to Lady Gaga’s after show party or whatever. A good man or woman of science should never be found in a copy of ‘Heat’ (unless it’s some massive textbook on the intricacies of thermodynamics – whatever that is.) Equally when it comes to learning about the solar system, personally I’d prefer to hear it from someone who can’t demonstrate exactly how bright the sun is simply by flashing their Hollywood smile. Sure Patrick Moore’s getting on a bit, he isn’t ‘cool’ and he doesn’t have the friendly easy-going presenting style of his predecessor, but you know what, A lifetime of presenting ‘The Sky at Night’ will do that to you. Let’s see how chirpy and enthusiastic Brian is after staying up to look at stars all night every night for fifty three years. Bottom line, if I want to know how to give my hair that just washed sheen all day long; I’ll ask Professor Brian Cox. If I want to know the average lifecycle of one of Jupiter’s moons (or where to find the Blue Switch Palace in Super Mario Bros) I’ll ask Sir Patrick Moore.

A Royal Pain

Jacques Peretti. Anyone? No? Well count yourselves lucky. Jacques Peretti is a Guardian journalist who now apparently has a lucrative little sideline in expose documentaries. His series of programmes, usually called something like ‘What Really Happened?’ have been all over the television schedules again recently. Here’s a few of the classics I’ve stumbled across of late:

Princess Diana: What Really Happened? Michael Jackson: What Really Happened? Paul Burrell: What Really Happened? Dodi Fayed: What Really Happened? William & Harry: What Really Happened? I mean for god's sake, enough already. I tell you what, here’s one for you man, Jacques Peretti: Who Really Cares?

Don't get me wrong I like a good bit of investigative journalism as much as the next man but seriously, you wanna see these things, they’re just the worst kind of TV. There’s none of the intelligence and humour you get with Louie Theroux, none of the edginess and insight you get with Nick Broomfield, none of the sense of purpouse you get with your man there who went undercover to show racism alive and well in the British police force (whose name temparoraly escapes me, sorry pal)* and none of the giant, tattooed, knife wielding, cockney skinheads you get with Donal McIntyre. These people frequently go into highly volatile situations, meet extremely dangerous people and regularly risk being turned into human pin cushions in order to shed a bit of much needed light on what's usually a genuine social problem.

Our Jacques on the other hand simply lines up a load of people 'close' to his subject, usually a cousins flatmate's hairdresser's milkman, then points a camera at them while they eagerly put the boot in, collecting all the best unsubstantiated gossip they’ve got and he closest he ever actually comes to interviewing the focus of this whole pointless exercise is knocking on their door then legging it. That’s not journalism, that’s playing chappy. Me and a bunch of mates used exactly this technique when trying to retrieve a ball from my next door neighbour's back garden when I was eight. First we asked a lot of people from the area about the man in question, then we went to his door, chapped it, bottled it and ran. Had I known at the time we could’ve filmed this process, called it “My Inflatable Danger Mouse Ball: What Really Happened?” and sold it to channel 4, I would’ve undoubtedly done so.

Look, this isn't me sticking up for the people he’s investigated. I’m not a fan of any of them as it goes. Most of them aren’t even worth it anyway. The royal family for instance hasn't been even remotely interesting since Victoria, let alone their bloody butler. As for the King of Pop, frankly I'm not sure I wanna know. Does anyone? On the off chance that I’ve drawn his attention with this rant and I find Jacques Peretti raiding my wheelie bin tomorrow, ‘researching’ his latest documentary, Andy Dowling: What Really Happened? I’ll do him a favour and save us both some time. Not a lot.

*His name is Mark Daly and a fine job he did too.

C - Man To He-Man

I’ve heard it said that human beings, whether they’re aware of it or not, tend to instinctively assign specific rolls to others within their so-called ‘family unit’ in order for it to function more effectively. Survival thing apparently. Dates back to the days of pack hunting or clan fighting or something, I dunno. May well be true. However if it is, then frankly I’m still at a bit of a loss as to just exactly which role I’m supposed to fulfilling for my unit. The only position I think we can safely rule out at this stage is that of ‘the intellectual.’ Incidentally, if this point you’re quietly thinking to yourself, ‘Pff, clearly. Look at the spelling’ then shame on you, shame I say! Yes, I know I spelt it ‘rolls’ the first time and no, I’m not going to change it, because maybe if you’d hop off your grammatical high horse for a minute, you’d realise that there are certain life scenarios where this particular spelling is perfectly appropriate. So, small independent family bakers and travelling acrobat troops, that one’s for you.

The brains of the family has always been more my sisters thing really. I mean this girl’s up to her eyeballs in qualifications already and currently in the process of perusing more. Me, not so much. Don’t get me wrong, there’s no favouritism in our house – both offspring’s respective achievements have always been celebrated completely equally – but let’s face it, a BSc Honours Degree pinned up on the wall next to a fully completed Little Chef Children’s Menu Wordsearch tells it’s own story (even if the word ‘sausages’ was hidden diagonally AND backwards.) Yup, despite my loved ones being both emotionally and contractually obliged never to say it out loud, I think it’s quietly accepted round our way that if I ever come home with a degree of any sort, I should be taken directly to casualty where it can be adequately dressed and sutured as soon as possible to avoid permanent scaring. Moreover the only test I am likely to be given which may result in letters being put after my name will be on a breathalyzer. Not that any of this bothers me you understand. Life’s all about balance I reckon and me and my sis both play our important parts in maintaining a healthy educational one. She allows the family to hold it’s head up high, while I keep it’s feet firmly on the ground. It’s a good system. Her ambitious, intelligent, successful ying; to my lazy, average, unimposing yang.

Having said that, I did briefly entertain the idea of going on to further education, though truth be told, as horribly superficial as it may sound, the only reason I ever fancied becoming a Bachelor of anything was precisely so I could use it not to stay one for long. A chat up line basically. Now I suppose I might just have gone out and pretended to be university alumni, but in the end I deemed that too risky. For all I knew there was some secret handshake or hidden codeword they taught you upon completing your course, which savvy people could use to catch you out. Perhaps even a special intimately placed tattoo they brand you with when you finish that those in the know could demand to see. Besides I could only pull the whole charade off convincingly after years of acting school. Just more work. No, best play it safe: buckle down for a few years, work hard and try to come out the other side with something suitably impressive. It was simply a question of what to aim for. Far as I was concerned it was all about how it sounded, so I decided to try the respective boasts out in my head first (and when I say ‘head’ I mean of course, mirror.)

“Hello, I’m a Bachelor of Science.” Hmm. Bit too niche maybe. Lot of people find science slightly daunting – including me – could be quite alienating. A tad cold and clinical too, not very sexy. “Hi, I’m a Bachelor of The Arts.” Better. Still somewhat vague though and a smidge delicate sounding, not very manly. Trouble was, none of these credentials – with all the years of hard work they entail – came anywhere close to matching the tried and tested power of those three magic words, “I’m a fireman.” Undeterred however, I ploughed on and discovered there was such a thing as a Masters degree. 'Master' eh? Now we’re talking. Back to the drawing board (again, mirror.)

“Hey there, I’m a Master of Science.” Much more like it. That suggests unparalleled genius – we’re talking science fiction territory – somebody with the potential to build robots, give superpowers, harness the use of time travel even. Chicks dig time travel. It’s a lot to live up to mind. The genius act is a tough one to sustain for any length of time. If we’re out in a pub for example, one trip to the quiz machine and I’m scuppered. Next! “Sup? I’m a Master of The Arts.” Excellent. No qualms about manliness there, if anything the ambiguity is a plus. If anyone asks which arts, I can choose between ‘Ancient’ to make me sound like a Wizard, or ‘Deadly’ to give the impression of a Ninja. Unfortunately this option wasn’t without it’s pitfalls either. All it would take on an evening out in a bar, is for one pissed up man mountain to hear of my rumoured abilities, get a bit competitive and bam, that’s me dead in the water...or more accurately, the bar.

It was no good. I had gotten close, but nothing seemed to impress adequately. I was all set to give up and head for the costume shop to book the helmet and hose ensemble (leave it!) when it hit me. He-Man. More specifically He-Man: Masters of The Universe. It was perfect. You tell someone you’re a Master of The Universe they’re too busy being struck dumb with awe or swooning to ask questions. We had a winner. A little bit of research and I’d be setting off on the academic glory trail. Except, annoyingly, that’s when the trail went cold. Couldn’t find it anywhere. Master of Science: five years, Master of Arts: roughly the same, but no Masters of The Universe. Strange. Adam Grayskull must’ve got it from somewhere. Maybe it was an Open University thing. Nope, no sign of it in their prospectus either. Then, gradually, I began to realise the sad reality of the matter. It wasn’t just Adam Grayskull, was it? It was Prince Adam of Grayskull. Oh I see. It’s like that is it? Something only open to the privileged few no doubt. One big boys club. Not so much ‘I HAVE THE POWEEEER’ as ‘MY DADDY HAD THE MONEEEEY’ eh He-Man? Clearly everyone was so dazzled by the giant silver sword on his back, they neglected to notice the giant silver spoon in his mouth. Bloody typical.

Well if that’s still the state of our education system in this day and age then you know what? You can keep it. Besides if you thought those gowns looked slightly ridiculous, imagine having to graduate in this:

Where The Cheats Have BoNo Name.

Cor blimey, it seems there truly is nowhere that U2 front man Bono (real name Paul Hewson) won't venture these days in order to raise awareness of the terrible plight currently faced by third world Africa. Of course we know about his well publicised jaunts to places like No.10 Downing Street, the White House and even the United Nations, all in the name of gaining justice for the planets underprivileged nations; but imagine my surprise when, on a routine stock up at the local shop, I heard whispers that none other than Bono himself (real name Paul Hewson) was in attendance at the bowling club not five minuets walk away! Needless to say this I had to see.

Naturally I was more than a little sceptical on my way there, but sure enough, when I arrived at the outdoor venue I found a huge crowd jostling to get a better view of what was apparently some fantastic spectacle. Maybe one quarter of the slightly overrated Irish stadium rock giants really was here I thought. There was only one way to find out for sure though, so I started working my way carefully through the reverentially hushed mass of people, until finally coming to a stop behind a quite unfeasibly tall man whom I assumed was most likely to have the best view of whatever was going on. When I asked him what all the fuss was about, initially he just looked at me as if I had three heads, before finally asking if I was serious. I said I was, and so my freakishly tall chum was kind enough to briefly and quietly fill me in on the cause of all the obvious excitement. Seemingly that particular afternoon the green was playing host to an important men's semi final in the fifty-first annual Local Lawn Bowls championship. I had arrived during the tense second set of a grudge match between Terry 'Golden Bowls' McManus and Jack 'The Jack' Thatcher, who had a rivalry stretching back nearly as far as the early nineties.

Now intriguing as that sounded, it wasn't quite what I had come expecting to see, so feeling a little disappointed by such an anticlimax I reluctantly started back towards the exit. Ironically it was just as I was approaching the main gate to leave that my attention was caught by an loud, invasive cough followed by a definite murmur of discontent from the assembled bowls enthusiasts. I turned instinctively to see what the commotion was and that's when first laid eyes on the man sitting on the bench near the back; there, kitted out pretty much entirely in stylish rock 'n' roll leathers apart from a straw Stetson and trademark dark glasses, stroking his chin, concentration locked on the bowls – to my amazement – was renowned humanitarian Bono! (real name Paul Hewson.)

I did, in all honesty, feel a momentary rush of adrenaline and even fleetingly considered approaching him for a casual chat. As it turns out though I was glad I didn't, when – after three more unnecessarily distracting coughs, two ruthlessly precise loud sniffs and one mercilessly calculating, extraordinarily drawn out creak of leather trousers – it became shamefully clear that the globally celebrated rock star was blatantly attempting to sabotage the game plan of one Terry 'Golden Bowls' McManus! Of course the match officials were quick to act, taking immediate steps to have the offending observer removed. We all watched on with a mixture of sheer disbelief and excruciating embarrassment, as unexpectedly a clearly enraged Bono (real name Paul Hewson) suddenly erupted, struggling violently against the valiant attempts of three elderly stewards to forcibly eject him. He kicked his legs and flailed his arms wildly, all the time screaming at the top of his lungs about once giving his shades to Pope John Paul II, having George W Bush as part of his BT friends and family discount service and the time he beat Nelson Mandela in an arm wrestling competition. I don't mind telling you, it was a genuinely sorry sight. Finally he was awkwardly jostled out and the match was allowed to continue.

After what will undoubtedly go down as one of the greatest (and most controversial) matches in the history of regional lawn bowls had concluded, I decided to round off what was a pleasant summer evening in the local pub. It was here I found the fallen Irish icon sitting alone in the corner, nursing the dregs of his third pint and looking thoroughly dejected. Taking a degree of pity on him, I decided to buy both he and myself fresh pints and join him. It was later that evening he rather drunkenly confessed to having an accumulator bet on the result of the match which would've been worth almost £250 had Jack 'The Jack' Thatcher triumphed. He did try to qualify his sporting skulduggery however, by assuring me that the winnings would've been going straight to Sir Bob Geldof either to use on aid for Africa...or at least decent haircut.

The night looked as if it may end on a positive note after all, when myself and said rocker decided to form a team for the pub quiz later that evening. It was going well too; that was until it came down to the crucial tie break and Bono (real name Paul Hewson) was asked to name any African capital for a crucial two points...and d'yknow he couldn't name one. Not one. Sad