...ruffles...

Have you ever done that thing where you promise to pool all the photos you have from a wedding? It never seems to happen, even with the benefits of Flickr and their kin.

Have you ever thought about the number of photos you would have if you managed it? We took 43 decent photos at Spankee and Islay’s wedding last week. If that’s an average, you’re looking at over 4,000 in total, plus all the official photos. That’s a picture every 10 seconds.

And that’s just the visual stuff you capture, there’s also all the stuff you miss. Think of all the sounds, tastes and smells; think of all the interactions - millions and billions of them; most of which you have no idea about. You go to a wedding, but at the same time, you’re barely there at all. The Spankees had a ‘fake cake cutting’ photoshoot away from prying eyes – I only know this because as an usher I had the itinerary of the day, almost nobody else will know it happened.

Where else, but at a wedding, do you spend a day ‘stripping the willow’, chatting with a disillusioned tabloid photographer, finding out how difficult it is to edit articles for The Lancet, trying to identify whether those shoes were Jimmy Choo and trading jokes a minor celebrity?

And then there’s the effort, £1000 plus per hour to put the show on, every last experience, from the cake to the speeches to the flushing toilets provided by someone. And then there’s the bride and groom; the only people who truly know what’s going on and the focal point of the whole gig. Yet whilst so much is channelled through them; at the same time they are in an entirely separate bubble of their own bewildered happiness. At the end of the night, as people prepared to board the coaches back to the hotel, I left Spankee and Islay standing practically on their own in the middle of the dancefloor smiling widely, but apparently unable to know what to do next.

This is why weddings blow my mind. A hundred or so people, many of whom you don’t know and never will, but whose lives are separated from your own by just one or two people. You eat with them, dance with them, talk to some of them, hell, you even pray with them; yet you’ll never really know them.

Perhaps it’s not wise to analyse these things. All I can say is that Spankee’s wedding was one of the best I have ever been to. With infuriating logicality, he pointed out that nobody was going to say anything different. He’s right, as he usually is (whether it’s how mobile phones work or choosing a wife) but if we have a friendship based on anything it’s probably on house music, but otherwise it’s honesty. And it was a great day. He even said something nice about me and our friends that bashfulness ensured I forgot the moment he said it.

Alex James says that you shouldn’t know why your friends are your friends. If you do, then they’re not your friends, they’re your fans. I’ve tried analysing why my friends like me (indeed, if my friends like me), but have come to the conclusion that this isn’t my concern, I simply know who my friends are and how much I like them. And with that I’m quite content.

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Millie was 1 on Sunday - a year on from the weirdest day of my life. She's hilarious and everyone seems to enjoy her company. People are probably being kind, but they often comment on the fact she's the happiest baby they know. She changes constantly, and not just her nappies. I know that babies grow up fast, but nobody told me just how fast fast is.

From day 1 Millie has been part of the gang. We've always tried to have an open house policy with our friends; if they want to come round for something to eat or a cup of tea, they can. Even if there's 15 of them, which recently, there was. Emma knocked out a vat of lasagne and three desserts and we were off.

Millie is part of that culture and I would say that our social life, though different, is better than it ever has been. We still see all our old friends and we have a bunch of new ones. We haven't had a clear weekend for weeks.

I've also realised of all the things I like doing, the thing I like doing most is sitting around drinking tea with my friends. On Monday we sat in Katie and James' dining room sheltering from the rain that abruptly ended their BBQ drinking tea and chewing the fat.

These are people I've clubbed with, drunk with, partied with, holidayed with and been to school with. Yet of all the great things we've done together I enjoy nothing more than drinking tea with them. We still joke around in the same way we always have; about zonal babysitting strategies, Willy's plans for the holiday in the summer and Jo's new job buying soft furnishings for oil rigs in South America. It's where I feel the most comfortable.

What's more, not only do we sit around drinking tea like we have for years, we have babies hanging around with us; and I love it - it's the epicentre of my comfort zone.

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I got a letter from the bank today, hand written blank envelope, business card stapled at a jaunty angle. A personal letter to me, lovingly prepared by my own financial adviser. I have a financial adviser? Who knew? He's invited me to make an appointment for a free financial health check; a bit of 'advice' to sell me a financial product that funds Guatemalan whorehouses or an East African guerilla army.

The letter included the line "as you enter a new stage in life, you need a different financial strategy". What friggin' stage of life am I entering? Family life? Middle age? I'll be 35 in August and I have a daughter; these facts alone appear to have triggered something deep inside their marketing machine.

On Saturday we had a party (a dinner party, naturally) with ten of our closest friends. There was a screech from the other end of the table. I didn't quite get the gist of the conversation but someone said "we're not middle aged!". From what I can gather, someone had resigned themselves to middle age because they were married with children, whilst others (also married with children) consider themselves to be anything but.

On Thursday, I was out with friends discussing how life is nowhere near as linear as it's made out to be. Without warning, having burnt off your twenties having fun and working hard you're confronted with a surprisingly small window of opportunity in which you're then expected to enter the conventions of 'settling down'. If you choose this path but haven't put in the ground work of meeting The One, getting married, being fertile, having babies (and of course, establishing the career trajectory to fund the whole thing) the window can wind shut leaving you with what looks like a blank scorecard.

It seemed to be a recurring theme; we're getting old, life is different to what we imagined and now time is slipping through our fingers like sand. Some of my friends have all the trinkets of settling down, some have none, some have some and some had them and lost them. The only common factor is that they're my friends and I enjoy spending time with them; I'm delighted with what they have, I don't judge them on what they don't. And, fuck it, we're all getting old all the time.

I tell you what though, although it's something about not worrying too much as long as you're happy, I am wrestling with trying to find the point of this post...

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It's been a funny week; slap bang in the middle of it was a trip to North Yorkshire for an exhibition for HR professionals. It's a bloody long way and practically all of it on the M1, so it was the dullest journey. The Gloom descended.

The exhibition was rammed full of women in tailored black suits and natty shoes, it's like an HR uniform. None of them were interested in what we had to sell.

The week is bookended by sociable weekends. We'd spent Sunday at Dan and Lucy's having lunch and hanging out; it rained as we sat in the conservatory. The pounding on the glass sounded like we were in a tent; it was a good feeling. Russ and Sam called and we've arranged for them to come over tomorrow. Something to look forward to.

But this made The Gloom deeper. I don't typically get too morose about work; I like working hard and being busy and achieving things, but Millie has helped alter my perception. I'm more aware that getting paid is compensation for not being able to do something more interesting with your week; it's not a bonus on top of the privilege of working your guts out. We have great friends and seem to have a better social life now Millie is around than before, I'd rather work.

Then, on Tuesday, when I was in Yorkshire a chink of light appeared. Out of the blue, Katie texted, she's coming back from Australia at the end of next month. Penny, Mike and Lottie are over for Christmas, Willy and Leo and baby Joseph as well as Simon and Islay should be around, and, of course, it's Millie's first. Australia Jo isn't back until January, but Christmas is going to be great, The Gloom lifted and took me all the way to now; the weekend. Bring it on.

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There are few greater experiences than a car crash Monday. Its what happens when you exit Sunday too quickly, usually having been propelled by a fantastic Saturday, or in this case, Friday. This weekend spat me out at a such a velocity I don't think I landed until Monday lunchtime.

Friday was Katie and James' superb wedding, surrounded by my favourite people in the whole world. Saturday was our baby class, which despite all expectations to the contrary, has been excellent. We are now fully licenced to turn our lives inside out. Then I had a sleep deprived out of body experience at the football, which was absolute garbage, but I no don't care. Saturday night was more time with my favourite people (sadly not all of them, this time). Sunday, I had to endure some extreme nesting from Emma (which basically involves smashing the house to pieces), then over to mum and dad's for dinner, then...

Petoowee! car crash Monday. Ace. Again! Again!

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Penny was a 16 stone teenager
Jo was a teenage goth
Katie is the member of a mafia family running a small Buckinghamshire village
Willy rents her husband from an agency

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...Is probably not a headline recently featured in the Jersey Evening Post, but it is that kind of place. Like so many others, we'd have overlooked Jersey if it wasn't for the fact Penny and Mike live there. It's got a kind of parochial, old persons holiday vibe about it (underpinned by unfathomable amounts of bankers' gold). The truth is, of course, very different. Penny and Mike, like their friends, are comfortable and confident people, the kind of comfort and confidence that is bred from health, (relative) wealth and the obvious safety of a small island.

It's an odd place (that's odd as in, not like most places), the island is a myriad of roads and it takes an age to get anywhere, you sometimes feel that you're being drive around in circles whilst someone sets up the next destination - "OK, they're gone, take down the beach front surfers cafe, and put up the sports centre". On Saturday I sat in a pub all afternoon with Mike's Hockey buddies, old school friends of his, one of whom I met three years ago, the others I didn't know at all. On paper an afternoon with strangers would have filled me with dread, but we sat discussing the nuances of their five-a-side league and the politics of Jersey hockey. They bantered about the old days, less a series of jokes, more keywords about the past to trigger various guffaws - "Biology" [pause] "Ha Ha Ha". It's great that people can have friends like that, they're just like me and my friends, but whilst I was clearly the interloper, it never felt exclusive, there was no pretence or performance, they were just hanging out (though they admitted with a wry smile that Saturday afternoons down the pub after Hockey were unheard of).

The rest of the weekend; a party for Mike's birthday, a coastal walk, breakfast a Big Vern's, Blow Karting on an isolated golden beach and of course, simply hanging out with some of our oldest friends (and Penny's recently grown bump) left me feeling that all was well and good in the world. We flew home relieved of the stresses and hassles of our everyday world, and for a few days at least, it was like we'd left the hassles behind permanently.

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In the gym on Monday morning (another story) my iPod maintained its Kokomo and Clash fixation before finally choosing to play Snooks by Elbow;

Stuff was started
Things had ends
Stuff regarding all my friends
Some were married
All were fine
These are good friends these are mine

As I sprayed those around me with sweat and snot (why am I the only one?) I mused my fleeting weekend. The first time in two years everyone had been in the same place at the same time; from the moment Jo and Brian landed from Sydney on Friday afternoon until Katie and James departed for Melbourne on Sunday evening.

Willy and Leo’s wedding was a gently stylish affair. Sometimes with weddings you get to a point at the end of the evening when you’re too drunk, tired, exhausted or bored to keep going, but not this time. The ceilidh was frenetic, swinging the bride’s mother at 120rpm desperately trying not to fling her into the fiddle player with a beard the size of a nuclear winter. This was balanced against the serene surrounds of Ashfold School, sitting wearing balloon sculpture hats talking about Girl Guides and Hogwarts, the band apologising to the DJs (us) about the music they were about to play ‘oh yeah we don’t normally play this kind of stuff, it’s just a one off for the wedding’ and vice versa . I’m sure you can get bored of a cheese and crackers buffet, but it didn’t feel like it at the time. I could have lived there forever, cocooned from a world increasingly becoming a straight to DVD spin-off of 24.

Stuff is started, things had ends… conversations babble and blend about nothing and everything, about forthcoming children and existing mortgages, how to give a urine sample in three equal parts and how to make money from throwing people in the sea.

Blob, gloop, blob… a fluid interaction without edges or seams … Despite the time lags, everyone just gels back together as though continuing conversations held yesterday. …these are good friends, these are mine.

As suddenly as it began, it ended and the world and its woes returned. “…Bermuda, Bahama come on pretty mama Key Largo, Montego baby why don't we go…”

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Oh god, my sister has raised a two and a half year old urban sophisticate. Sophie’s first words to Emma when she came over the other day were “Oh Emma, I love your shoes”. She followed this, having terrorised the cats, by gushing “Oh, I love your stairs”. All very Sarah Jessica Parker.

All of this can probably be forgiven, however, when I asked where her new cousin Jessica lived (answer: Tamworth) she replied “London”. No she doesn’t, said I. She turned, looked me in the eye and replied “We all live in London”.

Oh yeah, the bloody world doesn’t exist outside Zone 6, I know her type. I tell you, she'll be double cheek air kissing and sipping Manhattans out of her beaker soon …

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I have another niece or nephew on the way in the next few days. This will be the third, Sophie was first then Izzy. Izzy is still a bit young, but Sophie has built up an impressive list of classic quotes in the last two and a bit years…

[on the telephone] “Hello can you see my candles they are lellow”
“Hello anybody”
“See you later see you Friday” [she has no idea what a Friday is, by the way]
“I saw a firework and I cried” [pronounced ‘twide’]
“Wow… and… wow”
“Cakes… FOR BREAKFAST!?”

All of these are in regular use around our house, whereas Gareth apparently has been known to eat his Frosties spluttering “Cereal… FOR BREAKFAST!?”

Such is the joy of a developing child. Farmer Jo’s little boy has just uttered his first word, and true to his family’s farming history … it’s 'loader'

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Tonight I’m going out with George and Gill, some old MBA buddies. When I did the course I learnt but two things. Most interestingly, I found out that structured training is not as good as learning through shared experience. The principle being that those who can’t do; teach, and extrapolating that further, those who teach, probably teach things you shouldn’t do. This is born out in research; structured training is, by definition, sanitised and often promulgates outdated practice.

So, in short, people who have mastered bad practice are simply passing on bad practice badly. This is often legitimised by hackneyed theory straight out of the Idiots Guide to Management Bullshit.

On Tuesday, we had a meeting which was supposed to be answering a fairly fundamental question – why do we put so much effort into producing something which has no obvious benefit. It was, instead, hijacked by a facilitator hell-bent on ignoring the issue at hand. Instead he put us through as many mind and consciousness expanding exercises as the time permitted.

It’s very much in vogue to punctuate any group meeting with a series of exercises that take you ‘outside the box’ and get the left and right side of your brain working in tandem. First we did some collective self reflection. Where on Tuckman's model of team performance did we think we were? Tuckman invented four stages in team building – which are something like Forming, Norming, Yawning and pawning your awning – the point at which team performance collapses to such an extent that is becomes necessary to liquidate equity that may exist in any light weight canvas structure (including small marquees and bivouacs).

Following this, we indulged in some individual reflection, having to write on post-it notes (obviously) how we thought we were seen and, on a different colour, how we would like to be viewed. My temptation was to write “Likes to eat cheese” and “Likes to eat chips”. I bottled out, which was a shame, given my Chief Exec put “Change agent who doesn’t listen” and “Change agent who does listen, but ignores you anyway”.

Then we had lunch, then we discussed for the briefest possible time, the question at hand. Then we had coffee. That out the way, we did some more collective reflection (same exercise, to see whether things had changed – they hadn’t) followed by some more individual reflection (why our preferred and real perceptions were different – probably down to my relationship with my dad or something). Then we went home with the central question unanswered.

The second thing I learnt in my MBA? Don’t eat the canteen’s Cornish pasties.

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[Phone rings]
"Hello?"
"Hi, it's Nobby I'm at the game so I thought I'd give you a wave, where are you sitting?"
"In Croatia eating an ice cream"

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After the debacle of Russ’ stag weekend, I suppose it was asking too much for the wedding (a couple of weeks ago) to go off without a hitch. Last year, on the morning of Australia Jo’s wedding, Penny drove to Heathrow to pick up Mike whose flight from Jersey was actually landing at Gatwick. What ensued was a breathless mercy dash from Heathrow to Gatwick, then to the church arriving with just seconds to spare (then I realised how long the service was going to be and made an even more breathless and sweaty mercy dash to the local pub for a wee).

On the Saturday before Russ and Sam’s do, Emma and I were discussing the logistics of getting to the wedding on Sunday. Penny and Mike would fly into Heathrow at about 9am, they would make their way to a local Travel Lodge and we’d pick them up on the way to Egham arriving in time for the kick-off at 3pm.

I joked, thinking back to Australia Jo’s wedding, “They’ll have loads of time, unless Penny’s booked them on a flight to Prestwick by mistake”. 9pm Saturday night, the phone rang. A tearful Penny was calling from Jersey. “We’ve got a problem” she said “we haven’t got a flight tomorrow”.

It turns out that they thought they’d booked their flight on the internet. Realising that they didn’t have a reference number, they phoned British Airways. But BA didn’t have any record of them booked on the flight.

We discussed the options. Ferry? Too long. Another flight to Heathrow or Gatwick? Too expensive. Could Emma’s friend who flies a Tiger Moth get over to pick them up? Possible, but not probable. Only one option was available, a flight to Coventry arriving at 9.45 on Sunday, with the return at 7am on Monday. So I had to pick them up at on Sunday morning, and for the second time in the Russ and Sam wedding preparations, we had a pre-5am start to get to the airport the following morning.

So Penny and Mike finally in situ, the wedding at the splendid Great Fosters Hotel went off with the elegant efficiency perfectly fitting for the bride and groom. Even if it was difficult to explain to the bride’s parents that the reason you’re there is because your oldest friends met them getting dressed in a toilet.

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You don’t know how pleased I am that conversations with my friends don’t circulate around our golf scores, expanding bald patches, or the relative loudness of my shirt.

Coincidentally, Spankee was on the same train as me last week, with barely a hello or how are you we embarked on a rambling conversation about everything from the origins of man and community to the perception gap of techno music (you always think it’s going to be loud, aggressive and abrasive, but it’s melodic, layered and emotional).

Spankee was slightly taken back by my uncharacteristic casual Gap work attire, and the fact I was working. I explained that was in full on crisis management mode at work trying to douse the flames of someone’s incompetence which threatens a fifth of our business. We mused about how our responsibilities had expanded, and how at work we’re almost entirely different people. “Perhaps we have working alter egos” Spanx suggested “Then I could be someone other than normal Graham Spankee”

He worked his way through a couple of monosyllabic American Christian names searching for an appropriate moniker: - Brett, Brad, Todd.

“I think I’m a bit of a people’s champion at work” I mumbled

“Yours is Pete Moss-Campion?”

We agreed that Pete Moss-Campion is a great work alter ego, then we giggled about it like twelve year olds for ten minutes.

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This weekend I will go to the football and watch Oxford play Mansfield, we’re top of the league and still unbeaten so I’m looking forward to it. The rest of the weekend is pretty blank, we may go to the cinema, we may see Katie, we may even visit the Dobscrub’s new baby, if Vicki conveniences us all by having it on Friday or Saturday (come on Vickster, some of us have to work). But we don’t have much on, and frankly, I’m glad because I’m emotionally spent.

The first time I remember meeting Sara she was in full Stone Roses chic in a pair of flared jeans and wallabies shoes. She was about 13. I don’t remember the first time I met Gareth, but it would have been about four years ago and Sara would have insisted on him dressing up in his best clothes when they came over. Sara doesn’t wear flared jeans anymore, and Gareth barely changes out of his slippers when he comes over. Things change.

They finally did the biggie last weekend and got married. In what was a full day, I nearly wrote off the Rolls Royce (with one working door) hired to ferry Sara around. The Pastor decided to call Sara Louise, “Louise Sara” during the vows. Two people did a runner when Sara walked in realising they’d got the wrong wedding, and then returned having forgotten their camera. A guest sitting at the front of the church in full view of everyone suffered the crippling embarrassment of her camera film rewinding and her phone going off… to which she cursed herself with an audible “Oh for fuck’s sake.”

During the reception, the best man Tim took his duties somewhat literally, his speech dismantled Gareth’s personality bit by bit with stories of vomit, drinking, and nudity, which were illustrated with pixilated photos. Afterwards Emma’s Grandma said that Gareth and Emma’s dad’s speeches were marvellous, but for some reason neglected to mention the best man. He also started a near riot by opening up some old East coast, West coast shit*.

Despite a minor panic over a late arriving DJ, the evening do saw Gareth’s often monosyllabic teenage brother turn from gangling pubescent to Fred Astaire, wowing the ladies (including, most disturbingly, my mum) with moves so nifty it was like he’d been force fed Ceroc lessons since a young age. He finished the night off at 2am returning to his teenage roots, ordering tequila and two vodka shots and then disappearing to the toilets to throw up.

There were other cameos, Donkman’s dancing, the appearance of a back up bridesmaid, Tom doing a Del Boy prat fall when trying to lean on the shoulder of his girlfriend just as she stepped away to talk to someone. Gareth’s mum’s first words when she appeared in her beautifully tailored, carefully chosen designer outfit: “Ooh I’m sweating like a pig”. Then there was Claire shaking her booty like a high class table dancer two minutes before bursting into tears like someone had shot her dog blubbing “It’s like she’s left us”. Another rendition of “One more tune” like we were back on the Stag. Emma’s auntie filming the whole shebang on a video camera the size of an elephant. Tim breakdancing. The dancefloor invasion during the first dance… by the mother and father of the bride. The Waitrose Paprazzi pushing their way into the cheap seats “’scuse me, scuse me, oh no I don’t want an order of service, I’m not invited”. Me and Katie looking on aghast as Gareth’s divorced parents enjoyed a tongue sandwich then walked off the dancefloor revealing themselves to not be Gareth’s parents at all. And what about the ushers and Sara posing for a picture whilst questioning through fake smiles “What the fuck is he doing” as one dirty old bugger tried to lick the ear of the photographer?

The biggest surprise of all was being singled out in Gareth’s speech. Apparently me and Emma have offered “support, advice and above all common sense” which, whilst I’d have preferred “Elk racing, Leer Jet flights and fire breathing” was very touching.

So ubiquitous is the presence of Sara and Gareth in our lives, I had totally forgotten how close we are as friends. But moreover it confirmed to me that we’re on track with the Ruffles Philosophy. Y’see, we want a house that our friends can come to anytime they want. You may have to take us as you see us, which is usually in a mess, but you’re always welcome, the kettle is never cold.

I love the way Sara and Gareth come over in their tracky-bots to do little more than chat the world away, eat takeaway and watch the telly or how Simon appears on a Sunday to watch the 1980 version of Flash Gordon. We may not impress you with our cooking, or the size of our house, or our off-beat holidays to Upper Volta but if you come over there’s no pretence. Totally relaxed, totally normal. I like having friends who let us be like that.

On Saturday Gareth helped confirm to me that the philosophy is working, if during the 20 months of organising, we helped make things a little easier then I’m happy.

*we went to a split site school; there were two lower school’s Lower School East and Lower School West which merged into one upper school in the fourth year – there were rivalries.

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Nobby can’t work the new Blogger interface, Simon’s too busy adventuring, Michelle Ineffable is heavily ensconced in writing her dissertation, and Jo Who’s Quintessentially Steppenwolf is still spinning out from Glasters.

I need blogs fill the white spaces in my day, but there’s a dearth of posts on my regular blog tour. Why oh why do these people insist on having lives?

I thought I was going to have to rely on Nobby accidentally stumbling across the ‘publish’ button from time to time. His confusion around new Blogger is rather like the old man with his video camera who manages to get the stop/start button the wrong way round and films four hours of grass, then just as he lifts the camera to focus in on something interesting, turns it off.

My void has been filled with the launch of Vicki Dobscrub’s pregnancy blog. I feel strangely paternal towards Vicki anyway, so it’s reassuring that I can keep myself abreast how things are progressing. This is despite the fact I’m almost certain Nobby won’t let me within six square miles of the baby once it is born.

I’m also delighted to report that Vicki can write, and has captured with some aplomb what it’s like taking Nobby to a public place, things can only get better.


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Having been super busy recently, I haven’t posted much up on the site. In a panic to appease my growing fan base (I’ve decided now to refer to all readers as ‘fans’) I posted an all too hasty note about the boat race. Rubbish wasn’t it?

So to alleviate my fans, here are some snippets of conversations held throughout that day: -

Conversation number 1: - Russ and Sam are going to Canada on holiday

Simon “So you’re going Whale spotting?”
Russ (nodding in acknowledgement) “Visiting relatives…that’s not to say we’re related to Whales”
Sam “Although in a sense I am, because I’m half Welsh… and half Canadian”
Scott “Exotic”
Russ “Yes, but we don’t have water spurting out the top of our heads”

Conversation number 2: - Simon looks for his college colours

Simon “I haven’t seen anyone in my college colours (Churchill)”
Scott “Why do Churchill have pink and brown college colours”
Simon “Apparently it’s the first principal of the college, it was his wife’s favourite colours”
Scott “Oh right, like the colour of her dogs or something… er… one being a chocolate Labrador, and one having fallen in a vat of Immac”

Conversation number 3: - Tips for business luncheons

Mike “I’m having lunch with my new employers tomorrow, any tips?”

Responses included: - 

• Order just after everyone else does, or just before
• Don’t have noodles, sucking them up and having them slap your forehead on the way in doesn’t leave a good impression
• Don’t drink anything, although as they’re paying, you should drink as much as you can, it will relax you and loosen you up
• Wear clowns boots and a twirly wirly bow tie
• Would you like us to come and sit at the next table reading newspapers with eyeholes to give you tips and see how you’re getting on

Mike visibly shrivelled muttering something about being “nervous beforehand and terrified now.”

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At the age of 13 I turned up to a maths exam without a calculator – the effect was catastrophic – my mark was lower than expected, meaning I dropped down a group for maths, meaning my GCSE grades weren’t what they could have been, meaning my A Levels suffered, meaning I didn’t get into either Oxford or Cambridge University and in a moment of teenage forgetfulness, my hopes of a rowing blue were scuppered forever.

To the people who know me, I hope your snorting your coffee out of your noses at the phrase “My GCSE grades weren’t what they could have been”.

Russ invited us to his club, I didn’t really like Russ until I found out he had a West London club, now I’ve found him to be one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. When he asked us to join him to watch the boat race, we were all over it faster than you can say “I’m 19, at Trinity College, I feel the need to wear a blazer, fedora and slacks.”

Although we watched just 12 seconds of live rowing as first the reserve crews, and then the proper race sped by our balcony vantage point, it was a fantastic day with friends, drinking (too much for a school night) and having a right laugh.

Whilst I could, and maybe will, elucidate further than this, I won’t because to say it was just great fun says it all really.

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Rents in Marylebone are oppressive as it is, but in terms of rents paid per utilised square metre, the Linhope Corner has to be the most expensive real estate in the northern hemisphere.

Whilst the whole of Linhope is a chaotic nod to modern day consumerism, it is just one small corner of the living room that appears to be utilised with any great vigour. Usually my visits are brief, often starting at 3am after a night out, we will get in, Simon will survey the detritus of Linhope Corner and analyse who is currently in the house, and what has been going on there.

“Hmm, cigar, copy of FHM, TV control, half bottle of whiskey, Baz clearly went out on the spaz*, didn’t enjoy it too much, came home, watched TV fell asleep and is currently upstairs in bed, hmm the FHM is puzzling me… I concur that he’s alone.”

If I stay at Linhope, The Corner is where I sleep, it’s where the sofa bed is, and the widescreen TV which only plays Soccer AM and The Simpsons (oh, and Seinfeld now), and the copies of The Sun and FHM, and piles of change (ask Simon to do his ‘Barry’s Pocket’s Routine’), and the games consoles, and the blurry pictures and tokens of ventures past, and many other media related short term consumables.

Try moving everything you own into three-square metres of your house, that’s what it’s like. It’s so densely packed with stuff you can’t help thinking that perhaps it’s an art installation and that the actual living takes place elsewhere. On Saturday I went over to find, for the first time, all three of the residents sitting in Linhope Corner enjoying a lazy Saturday morning. Barry lounged across the sofa, Davis was slouched star shaped on one chair and Simon was geeking on his laptop in the other. Soccer AM was musing in the corner. Through some miracle of mathematics and particle physics they all actually fitted in.

*Linhopian slang

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So says the great Gaulish chieftain leader Vitalstatistix. Time is a social construct that provides us with a framework around which we can lead our lives without having to resort to total anarchy or self-subsistence, so lets remind ourselves that celebrating New Year, is an excuse to party but and no more.

Penny’s hair party went royally ‘off’. I was quite proud of the capacious afro purloined for me by Simon but was royally usurped by two even more substantive ‘fros which enjoyed clear height of about 4 feet. In addition to the ‘fro-o-rama was Simon’s Charles the first cum 1970’s NY pimp chic, Mike’s demonic David Seaman, complete with ‘tache and Andrew’s blonde ‘Scott from Neighbours’ mullet, this was the most terrifying of all because if you’d never met him before you’d have gone away thinking ‘bad haircut’ rather than ‘bad wig’.

My desire to go ‘fro was inspired by George Berry, a Wolverhampton Wanderers left back during the 70’s. His ‘fro was immense, you suspect that during training they’d practice free-kick and corner routines by gently flicking the ball into his hair and letting him trot off unabated into the goal, as defender pleaded ‘Hairball!’ to the referee. George’s ‘fro was so large that it was said many people, when they met him for the first time were shocked to find that his ‘fro was immaculately spherical and not, as they had imagined, cubed. The reason for the confusion? His ‘fro was so big that precious few pictures of him managed to get the whole hair do into the frame.

A rare good New Year, except for a hangover so bad it caused a paradigm shift in drinking aftermath history and of course, it means work tomorrow, boo.

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