BEING NOSTALGIC ...

During the school holidays I remember spending hose long, warm, summer afternoon listening to those long, warm songs on [What's the Story] Morning Glory. One of the tracks seemed to suggest that, unless I got off my bed, took off my headphones and actually did something with myself, ten years would go shooting past and everyone would be wonder where I was while they were getting high, in a champagne supernova in the sky.

"What a load of rubbish.' I thought at the time. We bizarrely received no real drug education back then to speak of but we didn't need it. Oasis were a living, breathing example of what recreational pharmaceuticals could do to the human mind. Ten years, as any teenage boy knows, is a century.

Pretty soon, I was 18 and time was still floating around like a sycamore pod floating in the gurgling current of a mountain stream. If anything, there was even more spare time on my hands than there had been in my childhood, mostly because I wasn’t wasting so much of it on pointless maths homework.

However, when you hit your mid-twenties, everything changes. Time straps a jet-pack to its back, lights the afterburners and sets off at Mach 5. The sun flies through the sky as if God's got his finger on the fast-forward button. Blink and you can miss a whole week. This was hammered home during the summer when I inadvertently ran into some old school friends in an old haunt of ours in Rednal. We used to go there a lot in the early 90’s, which we all agreed, seemed only like yesterday.

It's weird, isn't it ?? No-one ever says when you're in your twenties; "Gosh, it only seems like yesterday we were fifteen." But god, the time from when your dreams are smashed and you realise you'll never be a Formula One driver, to the time when your body starts to swell up, go wrong and fall to pieces really does go by with the whim and vigour of a Noel Gallagher guitar solo. When I was 18 my friends and I went to the pub, when we were 21, we still went to the pub. Nothing ever happened, nothing ever changed, and then, all hell broke loose.

One of us moved to France, one of us died in a drug overdose in a nightclub, one moved to America and got divorced, one had had a lung and most of his bottom removed and one was moved out of his flat by social services to secure accommodation in Solihull ... ... for no reason at all. Ten years ago we only ever used to go home whenever we ran out of money, or whenever the managers ran out of patience. In 2014, we all left ... because we had lawns to mow, and lofts to clear out.

I simply cannot believe how quickly time blazes past these days. It’s like God has taken the job of marking time away from Oscar Peterson and instead given it to Ozzy Osbourne !!

On Saturday afternoons I used to listen to music simply to pass the time until I could listen to some more. I had the time to read entire books and not only listen to Oasis songs, but work out what they meant. I used to travel fast purely for fun, now I only travel fast just to keep up with the clock.

I despair when I read in the papers about people who have given up city life thinking that when they're in the countryside time will settle down again and float past like a dandelion poppy in the breeze. But this isn't the problem, it's NOT where you are, it's WHEN you are.

In the old days you got married and had children in your thirties, made a few quid in your forties, enjoyed it in your fifties and retired in your sixties. Now you either do nothing in your teens, nothing in your thirties and by the time you're reached your forties you're dumped well and truly on life's scrapheap, a five-chinned has-been with a spent mind and saggy man-breasts. This means you have to try and cram your whole life into your twenties.

And that's why it whizzes past at eleventy million miles an hour.

Well, I'm 33 now, and I have decided that I want the Gibson back. I want to be lying on my back, chewing grass, and doing nothing but thinking about what my final words might be.

And I have already decided how that end will be.

I want to drunk, warm and happy, and then I want to explode.

A BLOKE'S PERSPECTIVE ON THE 'TWILIGHT' FILMS ...

There comes a time in every man's life when he must confront the cultural phenomena that sweep through the zeitgeist, leaving in their wake a trail of bewildered men, myself included. I speak, of course, of the Twilight saga, a series of films that have somehow managed to turn the ancient myth of vampirism into a high school melodrama with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

My initiation into this world was not of my own choosing. Picture the scene: I, a seasoned critic of life's more refined offerings, thrust into the cinematic equivalent of a teenage diary entry. The plot, if one can dignify it with such a term, revolves around Bella Swan, a character so remarkably devoid of personality that she makes wallpaper seem vibrant. Her love interest, Edward Cullen, is a vampire with the emotional range of a marble statue, which, oddly enough, is his physical condition in daylight.

The first film, with its brooding atmosphere and dialogue that could make even the most ardent poet wince, sets the tone for what is to follow. Here, we are not dealing with the likes of Dracula, where the horror is palpable, the stakes high. No, in Twilight, the stakes are... well, to be frank, they're about as high as a teenager's angst level.

What's truly fascinating, in a car crash sort of way, is the love triangle that ensues. Bella, caught between Edward, the sparkly vampire (yes, sparkly - a concept so ludicrous it defies commentary), and Jacob, the werewolf with a penchant for shirtless scenes. One might think this a metaphor for the eternal battle between the cold, cerebral, and the warm, passionate. However, it's more a testament to the script's inability to decide on its own mythology, let alone its characters' destinies.

The films are littered with moments that drag on, not unlike the teenage years they depict. There are scenes where characters stand, gaze into each other's eyes, and then... more standing. It's as if the director was paid by the minute of silence rather than by the narrative development.

Yet, one must give credit where it's due. The Twilight saga has achieved what few franchises dare: it has made vampirism mundane, werewolves into mere puppy love, and romance into something one might find in a tween's diary, complete with doodles and hearts.

As a bloke, my perspective on these films is one of bemused horror. Here is a world where the most pressing issue seems to be whether one should date a vampire or a werewolf, rather than, say, the existential crises that actual adulthood bestows upon us. 

In the end, Twilight is not for the likes of me, nor, I suspect, for anyone who values plot over the sheer spectacle of teenage longing. But perhaps that's the point - these films are a mirror to a demographic I've long since left behind, a reminder that not all cinema need be profound, just as not all love stories require depth to be adored.

So, here's to Twilight, the saga that turned vampirism into a high school drama, and made me, for a fleeting moment, wish I could go back to the simplicity of teenage infatuation, if only to understand why one might choose a life of eternal night over the warmth of a sunlit day.

A WINE REVIEW ... (SORT OF !!)

As I sit down to this humble task of reviewing a bottle of wine, one might wonder why a man of my usual proclivities, more accustomed to the critique of culture, art, and the human condition, would stoop to the level of beverage commentary. Yet, here we are, with a bottle of M&S's Chenin Blanc in hand, a testament to both the democratization of wine and perhaps, the democratization of taste.

The label promises "citrus and tropical fruits", a description so vague it could apply to a fruit salad at a mid-tier hotel breakfast buffet. But, with scepticism as my companion, I pour the golden liquid into a glass, and I am immediately struck by its hue, a reminder of autumn sunsets rather than the harshness of the British winter outside.

The first sip is a revelation, not because it's ground-breaking, but because it's so unpretentiously enjoyable. Here's a wine that doesn't demand you to have a PhD in Oenology to appreciate it. There are notes of lemon, yes, but also a whisper of something akin to mango, if mango had gone on holiday and come back slightly disappointed. It's crisp, clean, and utterly devoid of the bombast one might associate with more self-important vintages.

This Chenin Blanc from Marks & Spencer is the kind of wine one would take to a dinner party hosted by friends who appreciate good company over good wine - a rare breed, these days. It's not the wine you'd discuss at length to impress a sommelier; it's the wine you enjoy while discussing life's more pressing matters, like why British summers seem to have abdicated their traditional duties.

At £7.99, it's a steal, not because it's cheap, but because it offers more than its price tag suggests. It's the kind of wine that makes one ponder the irony of wine snobbery when, at the end of the day, what we all seek is pleasure in a glass, not a lecture on vintages and terroir.

In this age where every glass of wine seems to come with an essay on its heritage and lineage, M&S's Chenin Blanc stands as a beacon of simplicity. It's not about the wine; it's about the moment. And in that moment, this wine does what all good wines should do - it fades into the background, allowing the laughter, the conversation, the joy of good company to take centre stage.

So, here's to you, Marks & Spencer, for producing a wine that reminds us why we drink in the first place. Not for the accolades or the pompous tasting notes, but for the sheer, unadulterated pleasure of a well-spent evening.

THE TOP 20 THINGS I WOULD DO IF I WAS AN EVIL OVERLORD ...

1) My Legions of Terror / henchmen will have helmets with clear plexiglass visors, NOT face-concealing tinted ones !!

2) My ventilation ducts will be far too small for a human being to crawl through.

3) My noble half-brother, whose throne I have usurped, will be killed, NOT kept anonymously imprisoned in a forgotten cell of my dark, dingy dungeon near any possible escape routes.

4) I will NOT use any plan in which the final step is horribly complicated, e.g. “Align the 12 Stones of Power on the sacred altar then activate the medallion at the moment of total eclipse”. Instead, it will be more along the lines of; “Turn on that thing there”.

5) The artefact which is the source of my power will NOT be kept on the Mountain of Despair beyond the River of Fire guarded by the Dragons of Eternity. It will be in a socking great big dirty safe-deposit box with a big lock. The same applies to the object which is my one weakness.

6) If a group of my henchmen fail miserably at a task, I will NOT berate them for incompetence then send the EXACT same group of idiots back out to try the same task again !!

7) When I've captured my adversary and he says, “Look, before you kill me, will you at least tell me what this is all about ??” I'll say, “Nope”, and shoot him. No, on second thoughts, I'll just shoot him, and THEN say “Nope”.

8) After I have kidnapped the beautiful princess, we will be married immediately in a quiet civil ceremony, NOT a lavish spectacle held in a castle in three weeks' time during which the final phase of my plan will be carried out !!

9) I will NOT include a self-destruct mechanism unless absolutely necessary. If it is necessary, it will NOT be a large red button marked “Do Not Push”. The big red button marked “Do Not Push” will instead trigger a spray of bullets on anyone stupid enough to disregard it..

10) When my guards split up to search for intruders, they will ALWAYS travel in groups of at least two so that if one goes missing, the other will immediately initiate an alert and call for backup, instead of quizzically peering around a corner.

11) I will NOT design the Main Control Room in my impenetrable fortress / space station so that every single workstation is facing away from the door !!

12) One of my advisors will be an average eight-year-old child. Any flaws in my plan that he is able to spot will be immediately corrected before implementation.

13) All my slain enemies will be cremated, or at least have several rounds of ammunition emptied into them, NOT left for dead at the bottom of a cliff near a village of wise, kindly old martial arts teachers !!

14) My vats of hazardous toxic chemicals will ALWAYS be covered when they are not in use. Also, I will NOT construct flimsy wooden walkways right above them !!

15) I will NOT employ any device with a digital countdown. If such a device is unavoidable, I will set it to activate so that when the counter reaches 117, it explodes just as the hero is just putting his plan into operation.

16)  I will NOT utter the sentence “But before I kill you, there's just one thing I want to know”.

17) If an advisor says to me “But my liege, he is but one man. What can one man possibly do ??”, I will reply; “THIS, you pillock !!”, and shoot him between the eyes.

18) I will NOT have a son. Although his laughably under-planned attempt to usurp power would easily fail, it could also provide a fatal distraction at a crucial point.

19) I will NOT have a daughter. She would be as beautiful as she was evil, but one look at the hero's rugged countenance and she'd betray her own father … especially if the hero looks like Johnny Depp.

20) Despite its proven stress-relieving effect, I will NOT indulge in ever increasingly loudening maniacal laughter.

Now, if the makers of “Stardust”, “Star Wars Episodes I-III”, “The Princess Bride”, “The Mummy”, “The Chronicles of Narnia”, “Eragon”, “The Golden Compass”, “Enchanted”, "The Spiderwick Chronicles", and all those fantasy films we’ve been subjected to over the past few years could PLEASE bear these rules in mind !!

Thank you.

DIARY OF A TECHNOPHOBE

I must confess, I've become something of a technophobe, or rather, technology has turned me into one. In this age where every gadget promises liberation, I find myself more chained to the whims of silicon and circuitry than ever before.

Once, I was a man of the world, undaunted by the march of progress. But now, returning from the sun-drenched vineyards of Italy, rejuvenated yet humbled, I am confronted by a deluge of emails that require passwords I can't recall. The irony is palpable; I, who once navigated the complexities of life with aplomb, now find myself reduced to scribbling "Password1", "Password2", "Password3" on a sticky note, a modern-day Rosetta Stone for the digitally dispossessed.

My foray into the digital dating scene, an endeavor suggested by a friend equally bewildered by technology, was nothing short of a comedy of errors. Imagine, if you will, two technophobes, one trying to 'wink' at a potential suitor only to inadvertently send a friend request on the social network of yore. We then retreat to the more professional landscape of LinkedIn, where we can 'stalk' without the fear of social faux pas, only to realize our digital footprints are as visible there as they are on the sands of time.

The world has changed. Where once we exchanged numbers with the simplicity of pen and paper, now we're expected to engage in a digital dance that feels more like a tango with a machine than a human interaction. My mobile phone, a relic from the early 2000s, serves more as a reminder of simpler times than a tool for modern communication. Its lack of "smartness" is, paradoxically, my shield against the incessant beeps and buzzes of modern life.

This transformation into a technophobe is not without its merits. There's a certain satisfaction in resisting the tide of progress, in choosing to live slightly out of step with the current. It's akin to listening to jazz in an age of electronica; there's beauty in the discordance, in the refusal to conform.

Yet, as I ponder over my digital conundrums, I can't help but feel a pang of nostalgia for the days when technology was an aid, not a master. We've come to a point where our devices dictate our lives, where every moment not spent staring at a screen feels like time wasted. Perhaps my technophobia is not fear but a longing for a time when life was less about connectivity and more about connection.

In this digital dystopia, I stand as a quaint figure, perhaps anachronistic, but with a silent plea for a return to the simplicity of human interaction over the complexity of human-technology interaction. May we all find our way back to a world where technology serves us, not the other way around.