You know when you’re getting old when…

For many years I’ve known that adulthood has been bearing down on me like a persistent, unrelenting bull (great analogy – I’m sticking with it). Friends have got married, friends have had babies and friends have sent their kids to secondary school whilst I’ve been languishing in a post adolescent quagmire switching careers and playing Call of Duty. Like some London dwelling, media working Peter Pan who looks like Kenneth Brannagh and still dresses like nu metal is en vogue. It’s not that I’ve been actively resisting maturity, quite the opposite in fact, I’ve only been doing what has seemed perfectly natural to me. It would be insincere if I suddenly wore cardigans, read The Times and bought an Adele album just to blend in with the other, better adjusted, 30 somethings. Nosiree. That ruse would never hold water.

However despite this there have been a few occasions where I’ve taken a long hard look at myself and thought ‘Christ I’m getting on.’ I mean, the last thing I want to become is the 50-year-old male of equivalent Cher. Wearing skinny jeans to Morrison’s every Sunday.

1) The first warning, like the proverbial canary in a mine, was when at the age of 29 I volunteered to build schools in Borneo with a team of 12 precocious British teenagers who, to a man, had never heard of The A-Team. Which was awkward because my catch phrase for the project was ‘I love it when the plan comes together.’ (Genius.)

I said it everytime we had finished constructing a wall or something and took their semi enthusiastic smiles as recognition that I was some comic genius but no, it transpired that they just thought I was odd. They were just smiles to appease the over enthusiastic Project Manager…

Kids these days.

2) The other thing that has begun to haunt me, like a ghost bull (I’m on fire today!) was that when I looked in shop windows or stared out of the bus window the most prominent feature on my face, that always leapt out at me, were the frown marks on my forehead which look thicker and more prominent than my rather slender lips of infamy.

I’ve subsequently been starring at co-workers older than me and theirs aren’t as pronounced – probably because it’s me who has to put up with them, but still, they’re here to stay. PERMANENT. Can’t file that under ‘cultural misunderstanding.’

3) The most damning episode though, which renders the above almost meaningless (less than meaningless?) was my recent trip to Game to purchase Battlefield 3. The shop assistant asked if I had a reward card (I did) and we had to spend five minutes going through every one of my previous addresses until I reached the one I opened the card with – which ended up being my uni digs at Gladstone Terrace in 2002. Oh how we laughed as we kept going back and back and back through my life.

Then, without any prompting, and without really thinking, I said to the lady/girl/small child (she was probably 18 or something):

“Do you know my rent then was £30 a week back then?”

To which her only response was to nod meekly and say, rather unconvincingly, ‘oh… wow.’

I didn’t even say it in an old dishevelled voice. I really thought it was interesting (C’mon house prices! Who doesn’t love stories about rent?) and suddenly I’m just standing there being another  old prat making young people feeling awkward. I might as well tell her about dial-up broadband or the Black-fucking-Plague.

It was a really low point. An out-of-body experience where I could look down on myself and shake my head in pity.

Merby Madness

Somehow amongst all the different activities I’ve undertaken in the last few months (Women’s Roller Derby reffing, filming music festivals and starting a rather time-consuming film production job) I’ve also somehow been absorbed into the world of Men’s Roller Derby, Merby, mainly at the behest of my girlfriend, Carrie and platonic Derby ‘wife’ Gareth.

So yesterday I pottered on down to the open air Lidl that is Stoneybridge (North East London meets Sarajevo) to attend my first session with Southern Discomfort – the men’s off shoot of London Roller Girls.

Diary of a Baby Zebra 2

So last Monday night I had my first experience as a proper grown up roller derby jam referee in an East London sports hall, jam reffing a rec league bout. I was even entrusted with a whistle and everything – I was a proper grown up.

I didn’t have much preparation for the role, up until 3pm the same day I was banking on a routine evening practice until Sinister Mary  offered me the opportunity to ref. As her post put it: “It’s just skating while pointing.” Short and simple. How can you say no to that? I could point, I’d also once skimmed through the rules (Johnny 5 stylee) and I was in enthusiastic. I was the man for the job.

Or so I thought.

Happy fathers/mothers day

My Mum is a legend

Sunday was Fathers day. I don’t really have a Father, at least one I’m familiar with. I went to my fathers book signing in January and he didn’t recognise me which isn’t surprising given I haven’t seen him in 14 years. The weirdest thing about it all was I felt nothing – due to the fact that living in a 2.4 family unit was so long ago it was literally another life time.

The person who raised me, looked after me, and was always there for me was always my mum Geri. Who is one of the bravest, kindest and nicest people a soul could wish to meet.

So I suppose Fathers day for me was Mothers day too. As she has always filled both roles and made sure I wanted for nothing.

Thanks Mum

 

Diary of a Baby Zebra

Not me

When I told my friend Chris I was training to become a Roller Derby ref he had only one question for me: “Are you having a mid-life crisis Max?” he said, resting a hand on my shoulder.

He had a point too, upon joining I’d simultaneously quit my oh-so cushy government job to again pursue a career in the film industry (the last stint didn’t really go too well), I was 31 and I’d decided on the derby name ‘Beige Thunder’. The signs weren’t good. If I’d gone out and bought a flash new motor I wouldn’t probably be having a fully fledged identity crisis. However as I pointed out to him:-

a) I couldn’t  afford a flash motor. Or a motor. But I did have a BMX.

b) I’d never actually grown up – sure I was 31 physically but mentally I was still in puberty – I think I plateaued at around 19 and never really recovered. So to claim I was regressing was ridiculous. 1-0 to me.

Timing is everything

I recently met up with a few friends in a London pub to discuss respective careers and got reminded of a particularly low point in my life that I’d like to share with you. Mainly because it’s now so far in the past that it’s actually fairly amusing. It’s time to take ownership and laugh.

Basically about five years ago I was working at a company that I really wanted to make a good impression at, I was given a temporary contract with the company lasting no more than one month and I wanted to stay. So I did all the things one should; worked hard, stayed late, attempted to network with influential people in my own overenthusiastic and cack handed way.

Scott Pilgrim Vs The World (Sweded)

Is it only a year since I did Enter the Dragon in 60 Seconds for Empire Magazine’s annual film competition? Apparently so. Anyway this year I went a bit up market, got a mate to help with production, and gave birth to a whole new different beast. A sweded film with green screen. Check me out. James Cameroon is literally looking over his shoulder wondering who this over zealous young(ish) buck is. Well it’s me. And this is this years entry, Scott Pilgrim vs The World. With cardboard props…..

I hope you enjoy. I even make a blink and you miss it cameo as Stephen Stills.

Dr Sketchy ahoy!

So on Wednesday night I returned to one of my new local haunts, Dr Sketchy (London) to draw naked models in ridiculous scenarios. Once again I failed to win a prize (just – damn you! Damn you to hell!) but managed to win a runners-up cupcake. Which is sort of a prize but you can’t show it to people as you eat it instantly. Or at least I do.

Anyway here are my two entries which I was kinda proud of in an infantile way:-

1) Task was to draw model ‘Militaryman Luke’ leading his gay troops into battle in 5 minutes. This was my homage to Dr Strangelove.

 

Charge!!!

 

2) Another task was to draw the female model Annette Bettie, ‘entertaining’ the troops. The compere had at this point loudly dubbed me ‘cock boy’ for my phallic doodles so I decided to do something more pedestrian and innocent. But then the 1 minute clock was announced and I defaced my harmless effort with puppet sex and a vibrator. I was trying to resist but the voices were insistent.

They always are.

 

"Entertaining the troops."

 

All in all considering I drew them in felt tip I’m awful proud. However the highlight of the night was when the compere held up the above drawing and showed it to the pub, “look what cock boy drew!” he exclaimed.

“Are you single cock boy?” he asked.

“Surprisingly not.” I replied.

“SHAME!” shouted an attractive woman to my left. Which made me blush.

A yearly ego boast for me and a cupcake! Felt like Christmas.

10 Favourite Stories about My Mum

I love my Mum, she’s classic, an urban legend, my hero and beloved surrogate mother to numerous waifs and strays. And for good reason.

Anyway in celebration of my dear old Mum, who has put up with me for 31 years, (she’s not dead or anything) here are my favourite 10 anecdotes – told with total affection.

1) Once when I was home from Uni Mum had to drop me at Hatfield station so I could get the train back to Lancaster, half way to the station she said it’d just be easier if she drove me the extra twenty miles to Watford Station so I didn’t have to change trains. Then, half way to Watford, she said she’d ‘just drop me back to Lancaster’ which is a 600 mile round trip. Still she did it on a whim to spend more time with me. That’s love isn’t it?

Muse

Behold my comedy magic

When you see a global email ping into your iinbox at work you expect the usual; sweets in the kitchen, someone leaving for pastures new who will miss you all terribly, an email about an uncoming football game. But what I got the other month was something a lil different. An offer to see a Muse concert none-the-less. At Wembley stadium.

Now when I get a carrot like that dangled in front of your face I rarely say no. Cos I’m a cheapskate. Even if, and please don’t judge me, you don’t really like Muse. I don’t dislike them either per se it’s just I’m rather indifferent to them. Like cuccumber in sandwiches or Norwegiens.

The only catch to the whole setup was that I dress up like a protestor, grab a placard and make a wally of myself in front of the entire audience. And when I say ‘catch’ I mean added ‘incentive.’ As I’m rather attached to my inner imbecile and like making a tit of myself in a consequence free environment.