Where The Cheats Have No Shame.

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

Quack Addict

Look I’m no prude right. For the most part I believe that people should, within reason, be left to their own devices and allowed to do whatever they want with their respective lives. Having said that however, evidently there are some people out there who should just steer well clear of drugs. Don’t get me wrong, addiction is a terrible thing that destroys the lives of near enough everyone it touches, but for some reason that destruction seems all the more pitiful when it affects someone with a degree of talent. Y’know, something special, a bit of promise. I mean, it’s bad enough watching the systematic decline of someone like Amy Winehouse in the papers every day, but when you’ve personally witnessed drugs take their toll on a hitherto talented performer, that stays with you. Believe me.

A little under two decades ago now I went to a pantomime – Jack & The Beanstalk I think it was – and a few of us in the audience were lucky enough to be invited backstage to meet the stars after the show. Now anyone who is at all aware of Keith Harris & Orville, will no doubt know what giants they were in the field of light entertainment around that time and therefore understand why this was the kind of once in a life time opportunity you simply do not pass up. So I duly went behind the scenes where I met Keith Harris, on his own at first. I remember he seemed a amiable sort of a fellow and we had quite an interesting chat in which he explained the concept and basic principles of fondue, which I was unfamiliar with at that point in my life. Eventually Keith excused himself, saying he was going to chase up Orville and that he’d be back in a minute.

Longest minute of my life. I don’t mind telling you I was nervous. This was big moment for me. We all have our idols – my dad had Bob Dylan, his dad had Marlon Brando and his dad had…I dunno, someone from his era…Moses or somebody – it just so happened that for most of my very early years I chose to aspire to Orville Theduck. Sure enough when he returned he was accompanied by his showbiz partner. It’s true what they say you know, you should never meet your heroes.

We struck up conversation again and it was soon clear to even me, a mere child, that something was seriously wrong. For a start Theduck was quite obviously having to be physically propped up by Harris, clearly in such a state he was unable to stand of his own accord. Also, I’m no neat freak by any stretch of the imagination, but he was hardly what you would call presentable either. In fact, shocking as it may sound, he was topless and wearing nothing but a nappy. I’ve since learned of course that concern for their personal appearance is often the first thing to go when the lethargy of chemical abuse sets in. I’m sure that’s what it was. His eyes were glassy and vacant, his pupils were huge, almost taking up the whole eye and his eyelids drooped slightly in the manner of someone struggling stay conscious. He said very little. Admittedly Orville's persona was always famously timid but that particular day he seemed shy to the point of paranoia. An impression backed up by the fact that the only time his eyes did move it was to dart shiftily momentarily to the left and right. Harris must’ve known something was amiss too because on the rare occasions when his friend did speak it was usually childish nonsense and you could see Keith's lips almost moving like he wanted to interject but just couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. After about fifteen minutes Keith Harris graciously said his goodbyes and literally carried an almost catatonic Orville Theduck back to his dressing room.

Sad. A difficult lesson for a boy of that age to learn. I should say at this point that I also met Cuddles, who was clearly speeding off his face. He was hyperactive, abusive and borderline violent. Amphetamines I shouldn’t wonder. But Cuddles was an arse, y’know, you expected it of him, not Orville. Puts a whole new perspective on that song he used sing, eh? “I wish I could fly/high up in the sky/ but I can’t” We all thought it was a touching lament about the limitations of flightless birds. It really a cry for help relating to his inability to achieve the same high as at the start of his habit, as also tends to happen. Don’t hear much about Orville Theduck these days, do you? I only hope he’s somewhere getting the help he needs.

The Eyes Have It

They say you can tell a lot about a person by studying their eyes. Supposed to be the window to the soul, aren't they? I think there's a lot in that actually, often I've found that upon meeting someone for the first time, a quick glance into their eyes can reveal several answers to many of the questions I might have about that individual without me even having to ask. What colour are their eyes? How many eyes do they have? Are they cross-eyed? Do they wear glasses? Are they asleep? That's to name but a few. Yup, take it from me, if you know where to look and what to look for then a person's eyes can hold a veritable wealth of information about them.

What you probably couldn't tell about my eyes in particular just by looking at them, is that I have an astigmatism in the right one. Basically this means that instead of being the proper round shape like the left, my right eye is elongated at the back, sort of like a rugby ball. You can't tell from the outside because the messed up bit is all backstage in my skull, but it means I have blurred vision when viewing anything past the end of my nose pretty much. Why I am I telling you this? Aye well just cool your boots a second, alright? I'm getting to that. God, I don't know, honestly, you can't wait a minute, can you?

Anyways, I was offered two possible solutions to fix the problem. I could get a corrective contact lens which would crush the offending eyeball back into shape, or alternatively I could just plump for the tried and tested pair of glasses. Didn't really fancy either of those options frankly. The lens sounded bloody awful, like some sort of hideous, medieval torture device; although I thought I might be over reacting, so just to put my mind at rest I asked my optician if it was as uncomfortable as it sounded. He laughed, shook his head reassuringly and said, "Oh yes, yes. Quite painful, yes." Bit of an oddball my optician...still, at least he's honest. As for the specs, well, aside from them being quite old fashioned these days, they'd be a hassle too. In my experience if you're not constantly cleaning them, you're losing them or breaking them. Plus Macaulay Culkin had glasses in 'My Girl ' and look how he ended up. Exactly. Dead. Stung to death by bees. I wasn't about to make that same mistake, no sir.

Eventually I declined any treatment and soldiered on for a while, blurred eyesight and all. It was during this short time however that I'm sorry to say, I discovered what put the 'stigma' in astigmatism. I mean sure, they said nobody could tell the difference between my eyes, but I soon found this wasn't the case. People were subtle about it, but I could read the signs. I think it was the way when I was talking to someone, they would be smiling and holding eye contact most of the time. Bastards. Clearly smirking at my facial affliction! Suddenly I could relate to how The Elephant Man must have felt all those years ago. The final straw came when I was sitting at the dinner table one night telling a story and happened to say, "Steve and me" Straight away my mum jumps in with, "Steve and eye son, you say Steve and eye." I couldn't believe it, my own mother was at it now! I genuinely don't know what hurt more around that time, snide jibes like that, or the numerous lampposts I walked into due to my impaired vision. Probably the lampposts, to be fair…there was a lot of them you see…those really sturdy stone ones too…yeah, thinking back on it now actually, the lampposts, definitely the lampposts. Nevertheless eventually I got fed up with such devious mockery and made an appointment to be fitted with a corrective lens.

God, it was excruciating. Literally the only way I can think of to describe the feeling of having this contact in, is to say that it was as if those little guys from Gulliver's Travels – the Lilliputians – were having a 24-hour rave on my eyeball. I stuck it out the best I could for four days, but breaking point was reached on the morning of the fifth, when I woke up sprawled out across the floor with a raging hangover, a half downed bottle of cheap whisky in one hand and a crudely sterilized teaspoon in the other. I don't know what I was thinking, I guess in a moment of madness I just figured if Colombo could successfully pull off that look (which he really can, can't he?) then maybe I could too. It's just lucky I'm such a locally renowned lightweight or I'd have been in real trouble. Admitting defeat, I took the lens out and decided to take my mind off the whole thing for a while by surfing the net. Ironically, it was while doing this that by happy accident, squinting with my nose pressed right up against the monitor, I discovered this:

Nuff said really. Glasses seemed the natural choice after that. I hadn't forgotten the afore mentioned risks that went with such a decision mind, but I managed to find a pair that went nicely in an ensemble with my full protective bee keepers suit, so it worked out okay in the end.

Keep It Under Your Hat

You know what really winds me up? Course you don't, haven't told you yet, but I'm gonna, ohhh I'm gonna, I'll tell you alright, don't you worry bout that, you ready? Okay, here goes…

Right, so last December I'm out doing a bit of Christmas shopping, I'm wandering through the town centre, minding my own business – generally browsing up a storm – when all of a sudden this greasy little guy breaks away from a passing group of teens, stops dead in his tracks, points straight at me and shouts, "Ha! Check out Pete Doherty, man!" Now he had caught me slightly off guard to be honest, so I just sort of stood there for a minute staring blankly back at him as he triumphantly lapped up the weasely cackles coming from his band of cronies, before eventually slipping back in amongst them and shuffling off into the distance.

I genuinely didn't know what to make of it at first. Pete Doherty? What was that supposed to mean? He had definitely been pointing at me. Was it because we're both pale? Cos it's true, I am kinda pasty – always have been – but then, it was winter and nobody's exactly a bronzed god around that time of year, so I wasn't having that. Could be a sweat thing. There's no denying it, Pete's a pretty sweaty guy and while I like to think that I'm not normally, I was Christmas shopping and that's tough y'know, there's usually quite a lot riding on your decisions – especially when you're buying for women, because you're essentially out of your element. What might explain it then, is the fact that just previous to this incident occurring, I had been in this feminine looking shop searching for a feminine gift to give to someone, well, feminine (nah, nah, don't worry, it's nothing like that) and I had my choices narrowed down to either a small, but finely crafted ceramic duck (see?) or a big tub of sorta moisturising-relaxation-goo type stuff which looked like crap but smelt like heaven. Hands up, I'll admit it; I was seriously torn on that one for the first three and a half hours or so (look, I did say I was out my element) therefore it's entirely possible that all the pressure had got to me a little and I was now unknowingly sweating. I took off my hat and checked my brow…nothing, so I was ruling that out too. Then it hit me. My hat. I was wearing a pork pie hat.

So that's it, is it? It's come to this. If I choose to wear a pork pie hat, it has to be because I'm attempting to emulate a self destructive young indie musician with a heroin habit which – depending on your opinion – is either systematically destroying his talent, or else always outweighed it in the first place? It can't just be cos it suits the shit outta me? Y'know, if I'd been in the mood or the shape to chase after that gang – and I hadn't been completely convinced that they would've happy slapped me half to death if by some miracle I'd actually caught them – I might have explained to those giggling gimps that traditionally, the pork pie hat is only really connected with one sort of addiction and basically the clues in the name. That's right, when a person wears a pork pie hat they're, perhaps unwittingly, paying silent tribute to a legacy of rebellion and non-compliance stretching back much further than any recent troubled tabloid star with a guitar. What's more, in an effort to stop people attributing my headwear to some passing fashion fad in future, I'm taking this opportunity to officially document the secret history of the pork pie hat, right here, once and for all, just for the record.

You see, though it didn't actually come into existence until the early twentieth century, the origins of the pork pie hat date back as far as North America's first wave of lobbying for National Prohibition in the nineteenth century. It's a little known fact that, along with the supposed evils of alcohol at the time, pork pies were also being accused of having an almost equally negative influence on society. This was largely because, like alcohol, the consumption of pies during this era was staggeringly high, making these two vices in particular a target for both the Methodist and Baptist churches, who considered the excessive intake of each to be symptomatic of the sin gluttony. It's for this reason that still to this day, when overweight people are being taunted, reference is often made to their fondness for pies. Likewise, most people don't realise that even the famous British football terrace chant 'Who Ate All The Pies?' ironically has its roots on the other side of the Atlantic. The derogatory lyrics are said to be an exact recounting of the mercilessly repetitive cross examination inflicted upon one Robert Pinkerton – a famously stout, petty thief from Massachussets, locally rumoured to be of illegitimate birth – by the prosecutor Franklin Tudor-Grape, as he stood trial for a butcher's shop robbery in 1876.

Anyway, thanks to the Eighteenth Amendment of The Constitution, alcohol was finally banned in the U.S by 1920 and pork pies were to follow suit a year later when it was discovered that some bootleggers were soaking the pies in hooch and allowing customers to suck them dry before eating the evidence. To strengthen their case for widening the ban, the authorities hastily commissioned and released a flawed (and since disproved) scientific study, identifying the pork pie itself as a powerfully addictive opiate. Hence just as the outlawing of booze had lead to the creation of underground drinking clubs, so the clamp down on pies lead to the invention the pork pie hat. First credited to infamous bootlegger and mobster Johnny Toenails in 1923, this new variety of hat allowed people to safely transport illicit pies down to the local Speakeasy without fear of arrest, simply by positioning them under the hat (leading to the popularisation of the expression 'keep it under you're hat.') The genius of this new design was it's low centre of gravity and narrow brim, which meant there was little chance of the wind catching it, blowing it off and exposing your crime, as was known to happen in the early days of those daring enough to attempt to 'snack stack' as it was called, under a top hat for example.

There you go. Now you know how the pork pie hat came about. That's all true that is.

Part II: Seal Of Approval.

Actually to say nothing of note happened in London isn't strictly true. I was going to leave this last bit it out actually, as I consider it a bit of a pointless detail – but then I remembered that in fact everything I've ever written in this blog up to and including now has really just been one big collection of pointless details, so it'd be silly to start messing around with the formula at this late stage. Besides, I kinda need to see this written down, simply for myself, if only to try and help make sense of what I read back. You'll understand when you hear it. Right so, to save money on a hotel the in the centre of the city, we decided to bunk down at a little guest house on the outskirts of town. I'm not kidding, this was quite possibly the weirdest place I've ever spent the night and (thanks largely to my drinking habits) that's a pretty competitive list. For a start from the outside the place was like this quaint little cottage – similar to the ginger bread house in Hansel & Gretel I thought – but somehow it had ended up sandwiched between two really tall blocks of ultra-modern looking flats. It seemed properly bizarre, but I didn't really pay that much attention at the time, as I was still sore from the service station and just wanted to lie down. Anyway, turns out that was nothing because when we got to the little room, the whole thing, walls, ceiling and all, were painted the exact same shade of bright primary blue. The place felt a little like the Red Room from Twin Peaks…except blue. I half expected a smurf to appear during the night and start talking backwards. No, but wait, here's the strangest thing; while I was unpacking I happened to look up and see a professionally taken photo of a white baby seal cub hanging on the left hand wall, I turned round and saw another comparable one situated opposite on the right hand wall. You know the type, something like this…

Fair enough I thought, I suppose some people might find that quite soothing. Then as I was turning back round to continue unloading my suitcase, I caught sight of – on the adjoining wall, in between the two pictures of seal cubs – a massive photo of Seal...you know, the nineties soul singer guy...

What's that about?

Part I: Relax, It's Only The Electric Char

A while back now I was in London for a few days visiting a mate. I know, exciting right? – London! Londinian! The Big Smoke! The Bright Lights! The Nation's Capital! - well no, not really actually. It wasn't that great at all as it goes. I mean, I've been there before and it's alright I guess, but I just never stop being disappointed by the sheer lack of stereotypes in the area. Literally nobody you'll meet ever says, 'What a palaver!' nobody says, 'Ave a banana!' and no-one shouts, 'Cor blimey!' or 'Love-a-duck!' It's all a bit disheartening I find. Plus I don't know what they're using to clean their chimneys down that way nowadays, but it sure as hell ain't chimney sweeps, I can tell you that much. I couldn't find a single one and it wasn't for lack of trying. Don't get me wrong, I'm not slagging it off or anything: it's a very modern, multicultural, thriving place – which is brilliant – I'm just saying that, very early on in life 'Mary Poppins' gave me certain expectations of that town, which the reality has just never quite managed to live up to. Maybe that's the reason why almost every time I visit, I can't help feeling that if London really is calling, it must be talking to somebody else.

Still, I enjoy the drive down at any rate. Or at least I usually do – this particular journey was a bit of a pain, tons of delays and diversions and stuff like that, so I was glad when we eventually pulled in to a service station for a break. Always am. See I kinda like service stations...dunno why really, I'm the only person I know who does. They interest me in an odd sort of a way; everyone in them has somewhere different to be and is typically in an incredible hurry to be there, giving the whole place this sort of mad, frenetic energy which is sometimes fun to just sit back and watch zip around you. Nights are good too because when they're really quiet and near deserted, you can use the poignant alone time to just ponder life, the universe and everything, if you're the philosophical type. I'm not though, so I much prefer to spend the hours after dark gliding around on the slidey floors and playing the Dance Dance Revolution arcade machine until my ankles shatter. Once me and a few other nocturnal travellers recreated the Thriller dance routine step perfect on one of those things…and I mean step perfect, absolutely in sync, not one of us missed a move. It was genius. Nobody saw it, I can't prove it – but the important thing is that me, Martha the cleaning lady, a travelling salesman from Ipswich called Gary and the entire night staff at the Welcome Break branch of The Little Chef will always know what we achieved in those early hours.

On this most recent trip however, I didn't have time to stick around like that and was really only in to quickly pick up supplies. But while waiting in the queue to pay for my items, I spotted an advert for the in-station Electric Massage Chair. I had never seen anything like it before and was quite intrigued. The poster claimed that if you had one pound coin and three minutes to spare, the relaxing chair could leave you as stress free as the man pictured. Now you didn't see this guy, but take it from me, he looked almost illegally chilled out, so – bearing in mind the car ride hadn't been the best thus far – I figured I could do to get me some of that before hitting the road again.

When I finally found the chairs they looked comfortable enough; they were big wide, black leather things with a timer and a slot for money in the arm. Hopping on, I inserted the cash…nothing happened. I had expected it to start vibrating or something right away but I couldn't feel anything so I leaned forward to check the arm for any switch I might have missed. Nope. I slumped back in the seat feeling a bit ripped off…and that's when I felt it. These big metal lumps suddenly jutted out the backrest and cushioned only by a thin plastic cover, thumped mechanically into my spine repeatedly. It was agony! They started in the middle of my back, gradually smashing all the way up, before starting an excruciatingly painful vice-like, pincer motion, crushing my neck. I began to seriously wonder if the chair was trying to relax me or recycle me. Then the wrecking balls were off again, slowly beating back down to and working my kidneys. My kidneys! You can't even do that in boxing! I swear to God, if the inventors ever decide to market that thing to the public, they should call it the Sado-9000 and give it away with complimentary nipple clamps and a ball-gag, cos I promise you, that's the only sort of demographic who would be partial to this experience.

It soon became apparent that this process was going to repeat once a minute for two more minutes. I decided at this point I was gonna have to cry out. I was fine with it, I'm not proud like that. Unfortunately just as I was about to do so, a young mum and her child walked up to watch the chair in action and seemed to be pleased by the spectacle. Obviously I couldn't do it now. The blood curdling scream would have scarred the kid for life, so I put a brave face on for the remaining time. After it had finished and the audience was gone, I just sat there limply for a minute until I saw what looked like a station employee coming, giving me a chance to complain. When I sat up to do so she just winked at me, smiled and said "Another satisfied customer, eh?" before walking on. At first I thought she was taking the piss, it was only afterwards when I caught sight of my own reflection, I discovered that – thanks no doubt to the effects of the chair – my face was now locked in a weird lopsided smile and I was winking completely involuntarily.

Hands-On Advice.

Growing up is a pretty universal experience. It’s something almost all of us will have to go through at some stage. It’s not always the smoothest of rides either, which is why I think it’s natural that some older people who’ve already stumbled the chaotic path to adulthood will occasionally try to offer you advice on your own life, even if they don’t know you that well. I’ve actually noticed myself doing it a bit lately, fighting the urge to distribute words of so-called wisdom to strangers when they’re probably no required and definitely not welcome. On one occasion I saw this teenage guy in the foyer of a cinema and just felt like going straight up to him, grabbing him, spinning him round, looking him dead in the eye and saying, “For the love of god, man, do not get another piercing in your face. You look like you’ve been caught in an explosion at a scrap metal factory as it is.”

But I didn’t. I just bit my lip (which incidentally still stings like a bastard, ever since I had it pierced as a teen and it got infected) and left it. You’ve got to let people make there own choices I think. See, when you’re younger, yes, you get a lot of advice and yes, on the whole it comes from a good place, but the vast majority of which will turn out to be utter bollocks. So it’s all a matter quality control really; sifting through the mountain of tired old platitudes, which anyone can spout but will never help anyone do anything, to find those few genuinely valuable life lessons. For example, I’ll always remember this one afternoon, a good few years back now, when me and an elderly gentleman I knew to see though not by name were simply sitting quietly watching the snooker on TV in a pub. All of a sudden, without taking his eyes from the screen, he said to me,

“Aye. The important thing to remember is son, you can always tell a post-op transsexual by their hands.”

I don’t know why he chose that precise moment to share such a gem, but I suppose by this time he was getting on a bit and like all worthwhile guidance handed down to subsequent generations, it was designed to stop me making the same mistakes he had made. Maybe not. Who knows? I do sometimes wish he’d found the time during those long frames of snooker, to cover couple more of the basics though. More traditional stuff, like…oh I dunno…it may be a good idea to look both ways before crossing the road. I had to find this old chestnut out the hard way.

Initially, lying on the tarmac listening to the panicked high heels of the driver approach, I was all set to blame this accident on the inferior capabilities of women behind the wheel – but that was probably just the concussion talking, because in reality the whole, ‘women make worse drivers’ thing is a bit of a myth I reckon…besides, judging by the hands that helped me up, that particular maxim didn’t technically apply in this case anyway, true or otherwise.