YOU SNOOZE, YOU LOSE

One of the reasons I do what I do as regards this blog is that I'm not really good at waking up. Seriously, I have nearly injured my hand turning off the alarm clock. On my bedside table you'll find eye covers, ear plugs, and a Jeremy Clarkson book. I don't read it first thing in the morning, of course; the book is to throw at the birds when they get too noisy. (Don’t worry the RSPB - it's only the paperback version).

For my birthday I once got an alarm clock that sang; 'Waking up is hard to do'. As if we didn't have reason enough to hate Neil Sedaka. I can't even sleep when the snooze button is set. Post-alarm-clock sleep is like a shower that will, at any moment, turn ice cold. I've always had trouble falling asleep anyway, something to do with those bedtime stories of yore...

"And the monsters came to overtake the city and make their homes in the closets of children everywhere. The end. Good night, son."

Chances are you've spent your day mumbling to co-workers, bumping into furniture and performing pedestrian chores. Your brain spends the daylight hours in a state of drowsy semi-consciousness, and only decides to spring into life when the lights go out. And ‘morning people’ really take the jam out of my doughnut. By the time you wake up, they've already jogged ten miles and rebuilt the patio.

"You're supposed to wake up at sunrise," they say, "like a rooster."

Rubbish, you’re not supposed to wake up at any time that isn’t natural. And if a rooster wakes me up at sunrise, you'll know exactly what I'm going to be having for breakfast that morning !!

Last week I went to a Doctor Who convention in London with a young woman who gets so little sleep herself owing to the crazy amount of sheer stuff she crams into her life it's frightening, and owing to the travel arrangements we had made, subsequently cancelled, then remade again, I had to haul my sorry carcass out of bed at 4am.

First, I didn't even know they made a 4 am; but as I lay in bed, eyes bleeding, EH EH EH EH, I started to wonder:

"What if I did go back to sleep ?? I'd make new friends..."

It was cold, too, one of those days when the blankets fuse to your body like an-over amorous shower curtain. It took 30 minutes to finally haul my sorry carcass into full consciousness.

Have you ever been so tired that you can't even get up to go the lavatory ?? You almost want to let it be and deal with it later. Maybe there's a market for this ... Presenting the new deep-sleep adult undergarment ... Yellow and blue makes green !!

My brother-in-law’s best friend Dave, father of twins, bragged about 'sleeping in' till 7 a.m. Let this be a lesson to you young people. When they say to use precautions, this is exactly what you're protecting yourself against. Dave's kids go off at any old hour, and he can't throw a exactly lob a book at them and not worry about taking heat from the RSPB.

And why, since we're on the subject, would anyone actually want to sleep like a baby ?? They wake up crying; they don't know where they are … It's like the life and times of Paul Gascoigne.

Fact: If the alarm clock woke you up this morning, you did not get enough sleep. And now you're being catty. There. It's been said. You almost can't blame the people at Starbucks.

"Yeah, gimme a triple espresso latte and, uh, serve it in a syringe."

Starbucks isn't the only pusher in town either. Whatchyou want, man, whatchyou want ?? We got Red Bull, Vivarin, Buzz Bites, Monster III and Pro-Plus. Then we skid away to our next appointment - no time to say goodbye, hello, I'm late, I'm late, I'm late. They say that the Native American Indians had no concept of time, that it was a gift along with alcohol, firearms, and Rock ‘n’ Roll.

The point being that there is little in life that can't be helped by eight hours sleep and a bowel movement. So ask not for whom the alarm clock buzzes; it buzzes for thee. I'll therefore leave you with these wise words of wisdom from The Beatles, namely a track from “Revolver”, aptly titled, “I’m Only Sleeping”;

When I wake up early in the morning,

Lift my head, I'm still yawning,

When I'm in the middle of a dream,

Stay in bed, float up stream.

Please don't wake me, no,

Don't shake me,

Leave me where I am,

I'm only sleeping.

Everybody seems to think I'm lazy,

I don't mind, I think they're crazy,

Running everywhere at such a speed,

Till they find, there's no need.

Never a truer word spoken, nighty-night !!

WEDDING WHEEL WOES

Last summer a friend of my sister was getting hitched to her long-term beloved just before he was setting off to finish his Army training prior to his tour of Iraq.

Admittedly, my role in the proceedings was as minimal as they come, (I didn't even get a bloody invite) but this still served to remind me that this whole business of getting married is more complicated than translating the instruction manual for the Chinese Space Shuttle. Into Klingon.

(The less said, of course, about my own pitiful attempts to even get remotely close to getting to the altar myself, the better).

This rather convoluted metaphor sprang from the fact that my brother-in-law and I were roped in to help get some cars sorted out for the big day. Wedding plans being wedding plans, family feuds had been commonplace, the caterer was adamant she wouldn’t do asparagus rolls, the vicar had said that unless the guest list was significantly trimmed down the church doors would have to be held shut with a crowbar, the marquee that was initially ordered had a brown lining and the planned honeymoon in Egypt was aborted for reasons nobody still knows about to this day.

Anyway, despite all this, surely getting some wheels sorted out would be the easiest part.

“Don't worry, my Dad works in the motor trade and I talk to uncooperative receptionists for a living. Any car in the world is a phone call away” I said. Like an idiot.

First of all, despite the fact that my old man actually WORKS for Aston Martin, it became apparent that his own colleagues couldn't organise an orgy at a strip club, which meant our first choice option was out of the window quicker than a roadrunner with a stick of dynamite wedged up his bottom trying to find his way out of a matchstick and sandpaper factory. Blindfolded. In the dark.

The man at Bentley trotted out a ridiculous message that, when decoded, indicated that the cost would be such that, in order to cover it, the wedding ceremony itself would have had to been held under the wheel arches.

Then the squeaky-voiced chap at Jaguar rather delightfully offered us up an XJR12, but considering this was an old barge of a car built during the last days of Ford ownership, the odds of it not breaking down on route to the church meant it was somewhat prudent to turn it down.

The very friendly young lady at BMW was delighted to be able to help, but at this point the bride somewhat huffily put her foot down, saying she’d rather turn up at the church in the back of a lorry than in a BMW.

As we began to grind our teeth to talcum powder in frustration, I suggested going down the ‘Top Gear’ route and ordering a bright lime green Lamborghini Aventador, but several glares and protocol put the knockers on this particular scheme. Then the groom suggested a hot air balloon, in case the wind got up and blew his future mother-in-law all the way to Tunisia. This was also shot down to such an extent the whole damn thing was nearly called off.

Finally, with no help from me, the unusual idea of going for a Range Rover surfaced. Yes, said Land Rover, they would be delighted to help. Then it got complicated …

“Would a red one do ??”

“No.”

“How about a green one ??”

“Yes, that would be super, thank you !!”

“It’s an SE model.”

“Ooh, even better.”

Then the bride piped up AGAIN, saying green was an unlucky colour for a wedding car and she didn’t want it.

“(sigh) Okay, what other colours have you got ??”

“Errrrm ... brown ??”

“Errrrm ... NO !!”

“We have one in white ??”

“Yes, yes, white would be perfect !!”

“It’s not an SE.”

At this point, we didn’t give two hoots what it was as long as it had some wheels and a method of propulsion capable of getting a young lady in a big white dress, along with her mother, two miles from a house in King’s Norton to a church in Northfield. An ox and cart would have done by this point. Various circuses were a little reticent about lending us an elephant. And we also failed to find anyone who even owns a camel, let alone someone who would let us tie some balloons to its testicles. The options kept coming and were just as quickly struck off.

"A horse and cart ?? What if it rains on the day ??"

"A steam engine, or a tractor ??"

"Errrr, the bride’s only meant to be fashionably late."

Even the suggestion of a good old fashioned Rolls Royce was determined to be ‘a bit naff’. It was then at this point, the best man suddenly stepped into the fray with a massive grin on his face and his mobile phone by his ear. He absolutely refused to tell us what he had planned; only that it would make everyone laugh.

This made the groom extremely worried. I still haven’t seen the wedding photos to this day, but I can’t help wondering whether or not it was a 1998 Nissan Sunny ZX-GT with go-faster stripes. If that was the case, his colleagues will probably still be wondering why he keeps turning up for work unable to digest solid food and with his head still stuck on back-to-front …

If I ever get married, I'm turning up in a go-kart.