2015, AND ALL THAT ...

Last night, Robert Dougall, the former BBC and ITV newsreader, stole my Aston Martin. Other than the fact that I don’t drive, let alone an Aston Martin, and Robert Dougall has been dead for fifteen years, this didn’t seem to bother me all that much. Later on that day though, I was determined to find it, and found myself stomping around in a swampy wood full of mangrove trees and mist.

A car then tore by. My car. Robert Dougall was at the wheel. Four people were leaning out, shouting and leering drunkenly as it tore through the foggy evening. The roof had been cut off and the seats replaced with tatty old deckchairs, the exhaust was hanging off, the pretty alloys were gone and every remaining panel had a massive dent in it. Then, without warning, it veered off into the undergrowth and crashed. I raced over to find a bloodied Robert Dougall trying to extract himself from what was left of the driver’s seat, covered in bruises and cuts and laughing hysterically. Then, without warning, the alarm clock went off, I put my trousers on, then I had a cup of tea and went to the shops to fetch some milk. Puzzled as hell.

I’m told reliably that, when we dream, it is the result of an active mind not shutting down properly, and this explains a lot recently. Regularly, I can fly, and it’s something soaring over Birmingham staring down at the massed ranks blissfully ignorant of me. I have played table tennis against myself and lost, engaged in conflict with a Baywatch helicopter in Red Dwarf’s ‘Starbug’ and fought a battle against a giant robotic Charlton Heston with the aid of the cast of “Auf Wiedersehen, Pet”. I have also won the Albanian Grand Prix driving Herbie, and flew over London in Dangermouse's Mk III flying car with Kevin Keegan in the passenger seat. As well as this, America won a contest where other countries just gave them points for no apparent reasons, and Britain came 54th, as usual. These are the sort of dreams you have after washing down a wheel of brie and a whole quarter of edam with a pint of Benylin and rum. I think I would like to have met Sigmund Freud, who probably would have deduced I was stark, raving mad.

And this year, he would have had good reasons for assuming so, because this is of course my last blog of what has been a year where a hell of a lot has happened. To be honest, unless you got married, engaged, or won a Ferrari filled with Maltesers and vodka in a radio phone-in, it’s unlikely to have been a year you’ll remember fondly. It was filled with huge, grim events. So is every year, of course, but in 2015 it seemed there were fewer light moments to offset the enveloping dread. And everyone has just seemed so angry, all the time. A whole planet, gritting its teeth. Hundreds protesting. Thousands marching. Millions waiting to attach their internalised rage to a hashtag at a moment’s notice. Celebrity deaths by the bucket load, war, the so-called refugee 'crisis', Jeremy Clarkson, Kate Middleton had another baby (why is this world so fertile and set my seed never gets sown ??) Isis. Syria. Gaza. Economic meltdown in Greece. It's a wonder that Billy Joel hasn't released a sequel to "We Didn't Start The Fire" yet.

We also had a General Election which proved nothing more than confirming politicians are less popular than Rolf Harris in a Veterinary Surgeon's practice. With the exception of Nigel Farage, who isn’t in the House of Commons, and Russell Brand, who isn’t even a politician. And speaking of politics, we have the horrifying prospect of Britain being led by Jeremy Corbyn, a man who rides a bicycle to work in shorts and probably has vegetables growing out of his arse, and America being led by Donald Trump, who looks like he's smeared superglue on his bonce and spent an afternoon breakdancing on his local barbershop's floor. We could all use a lie-down more than a knees-up. With so many horrific stories around this year, it's no wonder we were side-tracked by baking, selfies, bombings, massacres, murders, more celebrity child abuse cases and high-profile deaths. One after the other, after the other, after the other, no wonder "The Great British Bake Off" is so popular …

… and that's only what's happened in the NEWS.

This year, the company I work for moved offices, I went to Wales, Slough, Loughborough and London twice where I met Benedict Cumberbatch and Peter Capaldi, amongst others, got my heart broken by a young woman who not only blew me off on my own birthday after I asked her for her hand but subsequently buggered off to Norway to be with her hairy 17-stone woodcutter boyfriend (after wearing out the batteries in my sonic screwdriver with her cleavage !!), saw my nephew start school, saw my brother-in-law set up his own business, saw my cousin announce she was having another baby, saw my sister-in-law actually have yet ANOTHER baby, got to put my arm around the goddess that is Jenna Coleman, drank about 300 pints of Guinness and about 50 bottles of whiskey, and travelled to a lot of places with a lot of people.

So, who am I going to say thanks to for the fact that I am ending yet another year somehow with my sanity still intact ?? Well, no need to name them all here, you all know who you are, thank you, and I love you all very much.

Let's see what 2016 has in store.

Happy New Year everyone !!

SEASONS GREETINGS … AGAIN

Isn’t it amazing at Christmas time ?? You see people indulging to such great extremes. There are sides to human nature which I think sometimes make you question the sanity of certain individuals. For instance, why is it that just before Christmas, you see people buying so much food, you would think that there is a major famine crisis impending. They buy so many loaves of bread you would think they were going to feed an army. Buying so much milk, you would think it’s used to feed a class of school kids for a week. (That is if Margaret Thatcher hadn’t scrapped that of course).

And kids often get through so many selection boxes to send the shares of Cadburys, not to mention several other confectionery companies, though the roof. It is incredible that, in such a relatively short period, how much is bough and consumed. But talking of over-indulgence, did you know that the average person consumes around 7,000 calories on Christmas Day ?? That's enough to make that bloke from 'MAN vs FOOD' stop in his tracks and wince.

Attractive young girls stop male shoppers dead in their tracks as they wander through the department stores, asking if they have a special lady in their life that they want to buy a present for (to which the answer by the way, sadly, is still no !!). Their sole aim is to get you to buy an expensive bottle of perfume or some other item which will cost you a pretty penny. Which they usually achieve by pumping the said products into your face with the force of a blunderbuss, having first seemingly applied it to their own mushes by means of a garden trowel. 

They give you such sweet talk as they look you in the eye and reveal their pearly white teeth. But only the really gullible would fall for their spiel, but then there are those who lean towards the criminally intended, such as those dodgy street sellers or those who exhibit their wares at car boot sales. Believe me, there are characters out there who would make Arthur Daley and Del Boy Trotter look like small-time amateurs in comparison. Even burglars and thieves are probably doing more overtime because they think there is more booty to be found. All thanks to people foolish to leave wrapped presents on their car back seats.

Until recently, however, there was one feature of Christmas that filled me with absolute terror and dread. It genuinely made me shiver with fear whenever it was mentioned. It was the mould on the smoked salmon, the ARGOS sale advert during “Miracle on 34th Street”, the damp log on the fire; the works do. Christmas in Britain these days is almost completely ruined by the nature of office parties. The streets become overwhelmed with people who have drunk more liquid than a thirsty elephant owned by George Best and have managed to completely lose all sense of ability to walk in a straight line. And the atmosphere in every restaurant and pub in the country is utterly wrecked by those who order food not so much for its taste, but for its aerodynamic efficiency.

What’s more, it’s almost impossible to actually get anyone on the phone because they are either finding an outfit to ruin or trying to book an appointment with the hairdressers. There are people out there who put more effort into office parties than the actual family event itself a few days later. A few years ago I decided enough was enough … and decided to get involved in organising one myself. I thought it would have been like helping to organise my best mate's stag do, then I realised that THAT sort of night out – lots of projective vomit and silly hats - is as far likely to be removed from yours as well as mine. We really needed all office party stereotypes removed, and it was almost a bit like asking Stevie Wonder to organise the World Snooker Championship. So we all went bowling instead. And my best mate's fiancé subsequently called their wedding off.

Thus, having subsequently handed responsibilities over to someone who actually knows what they're doing, our last last few Christmas Office bashes have been great, more fun than watching a wombat stuck in a washing machine, a great way to put another year of hard work behind us. And the best bit of all, there was absolutely no snogging or any bottom-photocopying involved. So, now all I need to do is shake off this three-day hangover, go and watch the new Star Wars movie and look forward to a brand new episode of 'Doctor Who' on Friday. Then spend the next week in hibernation.

Merry Christmas Everybody !!

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 !!