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.

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.

Now for those who don’t know roller derby it is, in my mind at least, a counter-culture sport that combines elements of F1, rugby and roller skating. The idea is to essentiallyfor twelve people to bomb around a track in an anti clockwise direction knocking people over with your arse.

Now the reason I got into the sport, other than the hot women (always a Brucey bonus), is that it seemed to be the absolute antithesis of most mainstream sports. Everyone was enthusiastic, eclectic, slightly bonkers, covered in tattoos and did it for the love of the game -not money. In short I dug the attitude, the people and vibe.

Nothing much has changed on that note, I still go because of the people and have made some grade A friends in the process but there is something about the game itself that is niggling at me. I’m not sure what it is yet, it could be that there isn’t a ball and that factalone is still spinning my internal compass all over the shop or it could be the elephant in the room that the sport is overly complicated. I’m not sure, but currently I feel like the one member of the cult who is vegan and doesn’t want to sacrifice the lamb.

(Note: Having kicked a basket ball in roller skates and nearly killed myself I’m not for a moment suggesting introducing a ball to proceedings however I still want to cross the game with Gladiators. I can see why punching and elbowing are outlawed but puglil sticks on skates? THINK ABOUT IT)

So yesterday I spent two hours in close proximity to my Derby ‘wife’ Gareth (quote of the month from my mate Chris: Why don’t you two fuck already? I think Chris is jealous) getting battered and bruised by a group of 10 men and 3 women on the Merby court. We did drills, did pack work and learnt to hip block each other – which is the first time I’ve been on the other side of the action.

All in all I survived it. I’m knackered, feel on my shitty hip about a dozen times but didn’t disgrace myself. Admittedly I need better glasses which don’t fall off every other second, a belt for my shorts (LOOK  UPON MY ARSE) and a better fitting gum shield. (I had to keep taking it out mid practice to drink out the excess saliva, or ‘lung butter’ as Sutton Impact described it.)

Anyway shortly after proceedings I got:-

a) Asked if I wanted to pay monthly to receive a discount

b) My official photo taken, where I look like a bearded rapist with a gum shield, soon to appear on the official website.

c) Asked twice if I’d like to bout in our official first match of the season against Croydon in September. So it looks like I’m here for the long haul and should train my arse off.

To quote the oft used poker saying: I’ve fingered so I might as well fuck.

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.

In retrospect I was probably more qualified to work as a particle physicist on the Hadron Collider.

I’ve had comparable bad evenings before, I’ve done stand up gigs in days of yore and experienced ‘the choke’, the knee wobbling moment you’re standing in the spotlight looking at angry individuals and a little voice softly whispers to you:-

“You have no idea what the fuck you’re doing do you?”

“Why do you do this to yourself?”

“Go home and watch tv.”

I’ve also had kidney stones but that was more a physical pain. I’d liken it to the end scene in Mission Impossible when Tom Cruise flies a helicopter into the Chanel Tunnel.

My roller derby experience was a vicious mélange of the two, a baptism of fire which was part two-hour endurance test and self-inflicted  humiliation. To top it all my new derby socks turned out to be pink and not red as the label said which I think subconsciously really undermined my authority and decision-making ability.

I learnt several things on Monday:-

1) Skimming through the rules Johnny 5 stylee is a really bad way of remembering things, even if you make the ‘sped up’ sound effect. You’d probably have more success eating the pages and hoping that somehow you digest their inner meaning.

2) I actually have no idea what a back block is. I know what it is in theory, sure, but when four women are sprawling on the floor and everyone is screaming ‘BACK BLOCK’ I have no idea who to penalise. Which is why I skated off and ignored you all. Sorry.

3) That I can skate solidly for nearly two hours. I can also skate and point although this did cause me to veer onto the track on a few times in the early stages – but with no real repercussions. I’m a rebel like that. It’s reassuring to know that the whole movement lark, and keeping up with a succession of  fast-moving ladies, wasn’t totally beyond me. I couldn’t skate seven weeks ago so thumbs up.

4) That if you send someone to the penalty box for a minor and then apologise afterwards they will say ‘that’s okay‘ but their eyes will say ‘I hate you.’

5) If you fail to tell the subsequent jammer to not start in the penalty box because you mistakenly sent the jammer previous there in a hilarious minor/major mix up then they too will hate you no matter how foppish and Hugh Grant-ian you act. In fact it just exacerbates the situation. Next time I’m going to trial a new arrogant/high and mighty/unapologetic attitude and stand by my decisions no matter how shit.

6) That I’d underestimated how sharp you have to be to be a referee. I doth my cap in the direction of Wheelspin Shady, Ballistic Whistle, Jay Peg et al who always look so unflappable and ice cool.

7) That if you complete a transition mid skate no one will care less, no one will clap and cheer or bat an eyelid, especially those who have already suffered at your cack handed decisions.Despite this deep inside I was delighted with myself and repeated the feat later on to complete indifference.

8) That my girlfriend didn’t want to jam whilst I jam reffed. Which was a shame as a good old chastising screaming match where I lost my rag would have rounded the whole debacle off nicely and made it memorable for all.

9) There are lots of rules to roller derby. In fact if I was ever President of the WFTDA (if they even have a President?) I’d really streamline the whole affair by removing all those troublesome minors and majors from the rules and let people have a massive free for all ala Mario Kart.

Anyway when Dean blew the last whistle of the night I could have hugged him. Christ, I would have kissed him if he’d given me the glad eye and if I had any energy left in my tattered broken body to catch him.  However now, as an older and wiser man by a fuller week, who has now read the rules (medal please) I’m ready for round two.

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

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.

However beyond all the above there were some very good reasons why I was joining Roller Derby, it wasn’t just about looking at girls bums as he insisted. For one I’d get to do some exercise, which would be novel, secondly I’d be able to keep a beady eye on my girlfriend who’d recently joined, not that I’m possessive (I SAW HER FIRST!) and lastly I’d get to be involved in a sport I actually really liked. Which was a concept I’ve had to feed to my male friends in bite sized chunks.

For years I’d been blindly following Premier League football without realising one thing – I don’t really enjoy it. The players were more often than not over paid imbeciles (who couldn’t spell – I follow them on twitter, I can’t help it) , the ticket prices were exorbitant, match day atmosphere hostile and it’s still perfectly acceptable behaviour to hate a stranger based on who they supported.

Roller Derby was the antithesis of this for me. People had fun. They played Rage Against the Machine. I had a good time regardless how the Femmes did (I’ve only seen them win once to date), it wasn’t treated like the most important thing in the world and above all there was always a nice vibe at a bout; between the teams and in the stands. People seemed to genuinely love playing the sport even at an amateur level, it showed in the bouts and on the players faces and I respected people’s committment.

So I joined up. I really think there were worse ways to spend my free time and I wanted to show my support.

I’ve now been skating for five weeks and enjoyed every moment of it. I’m still useless. Still confused by the rules. Still having difficulty moving cones and skating (co-ordination… fail…) But I’m getting there and hoping that eventually (touch wood) I’ll be able to NSO one day without making a complete tit out of myself. I’ll let you know how I get on.

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.

(It should be added that this incident occurs about three months after the disaster at the Japanese embassy where my interview was basically terminated when I got into a weighty discussion about The Rape of Nanchang – which is not a subject a prospective English teacher should tackle with three elderly Japanese men – they’d rather, y’know, skip that whole messy episode. So this was a bad time for me and my confidence was quite low.)*

Anyway so one day I was at the company and I went to the toilets (as you do) and to my horror I walked into the first cubicle to find that someone had blocked the toilet with a massive poo. They hadn’t even tried to hide the evidence with layers of bog roll, they’d just left it there proudly for everyone to see like their children’s art work. So I recoiled in horror and went to another cubicle.

After dropping the kids off at the pool I was washing my hands when the most senior individual of the company came into the toilets, I looked in the mirror and could see that he’d walked into the first cubicle and was clearly appalled with what he’d discovered.

It was at this point we made eye contact in the mirror and, knowing full well he detested my very presence, I thought to myself “this is your opportunity Max, win him over with a bit of banter.” So, seeing how he’d recoiled at the sight of the offending poo I said to him, smiling broadly and pointing at the cubicle, “I just did that.”

Of course he was utterly appalled with me, the shaking of his head gave it away. He stormed out of there so bloody fast I couldn’t actually explain what I meant. Christ, he didn’t even do his business. I’d disgusted him to the point where he couldn’t even bring himself to poo in my presence, which I didn’t think was possible.

I immediately got that sinking feeling you get when you drop a massive fucking, career ending, clanger and wanted to run after him to rectify the situation, however he was not the sort of guy who wouldn’t converse with me at the best of times so I thought chasing him through the offices and discussing toilet bowls was probably akin to career suicide (although I was seriously crashing and burning at this point). The wisest thing I did that day was stay in the toilet to swear at myself.

Needless to say my contract was never extended and I never returned to the company.

* Tip for anyone wanting to teach in Japan: When they say “Have you read any books on Japan?” Don’t proudly regail them with tales of the Japanese army raping and killing tens of thousands of women and children. Trust me on that. Pultzer award winning or not they don’t give a shit.

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

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.

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?

2) My Mum is a trooper, and a cleanliness freak, the joke is she can see dust in the living room from 10 metres. She’ll pretend she’s off to get a drink from the kitchen but if you watch her closely she’ll be surreptitiously dusting on the way out.

Last year Mum decided to nonchalantly tell me that she recently had a heart attack in the middle of the night. Or she thought she had a heart attack. My Mum only found out it wasn’t a heart attack when she decided to have a quick Hoover at 2am because heaven forbid the ambulance crew should have to see the house in a state.

It was then she realised it was probably indigestion.

3) My Mum apparently dated one of the Rolling Stones. Or so says her old school friends who she still works with although my Mum (and how blase is this?) isn’t sure if she did. I pressed her on this once and she said it ‘might have been one of the less famous ones.’

Chris de Burgh also made a pass at my Mum once. Causing my Dad to slap him. My Mum was not wearing red.

4) My Mum, whether intentionally or not, comes up with some cracking one liners. She is the lady who, whilst watching a documentary on TV, instantaneously answered the narrators musings on what would happen if a lady took Viagra with the following comment:

“They shouldn’t panic. They should keep a stiff upper lip.”

5) Some of them are unintentional, my Mum is now a very cosmopolitan lady, thanks mainly to her gay lodger Mark who has helped her realise that gay men are incredibly clean.

My Mum recently dismissed her previous fondness for the Daily Mail with this nugget, which still makes me chuckle:

“Max you’ve got to remember that all this gay business is very new to me, there were no gays in the 60′s, it’s like they’re breeding.”

6) My Mum once gave the builder a cup of coffee which he didn’t drink, much to her chagrin, until she realised she’d made him a sumptuous cup of gravy with milk and sugar.

7) One Christmas, when I was 16, my Mum, sister and two of my friends got completely obliterated on Christmas Eve. And I mean really obliterated. So obliterated that I tried to barricade myself in my room with an exercise bike at 4am so I wouldn’t be forced to listen to my Mum and sister sing ‘You’re Beautiful’ by Babybird for the twentieth time.

“Come and have fun!” she screamed as she tried to storm my room like the horrific offspring of a SWAT team and a hen party.

Anyway the next day, Christmas Day, we all had to spend the morning searching for the Turkey which Mum had ‘hidden’ in a drunken stupor and was only found when we gave up and she went for a shower. Apparently in her drink addled state that was the safest place for it to hide from the cats.

8) My Mum once fed Chicken to her handbag. It’s a long story involving her not having her glasses on which begins with Mum asking Mark to come into the living as Gladys, her cat which was on her lap, wasn’t moving, and ends with Mark asking why her handbag was covered in chicken strips?

Her defence: “It was curled up just like a cat.”

9) Still to this day my Mum swears I was once mistaken for David Beckham in Blockbuster Video. If that isn’t blind love nothing is.

10) And that’s it. She’s generally been a star forever. Cheers for Christmas Mum!

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.

So what did being a protestor actually involve in real world terms? Firstly you had to queue for alot of things. Patiently and quietly. You had to turn up nice and early (6pm), you had to queue to get your back stage wrist band, you had to be ushered through the inner catacombs of Wembley stadium in single file to a holding room (I am not a number!) and sit quietly for a further two hours before donning your protestor garb, (red or black hoodies with matching head gear and placards – we were very chic) which was then followed by a spot of further queuing by the wings of the stage. It was all very exciting. Like the time my cat brought a live squirrel into the living room but with less blood and less screaming.

And then we stood waiting for 20 mintues in the company of perhaps the most complaint and jolly group of protestors the world has ever seen (which included notorious hell raisers Anna ‘ohhhh cup of tea please’ Robb and Victoria ‘I like cats’ Henstock) I tried to shift down the line to join my mate Rocki only to be told by secuirty that “protestors aren’t allowed to swap places” which to me was the most absurd thing since General Patton declared “Gentlemen, there is no fighting in the war room!”

I actually said that to people as I stood in the queue but all I got was blank stares.

Dr Strangelove?

Non?

Fuck you all.

Anyway I eventually skulked to the back when he wasn’t looking. Not that he would have noticed anyway. What with me being dressed identically to 50% of the other protestors.

And then our moment of glory. With seemingly zero warning we were ushered out in front of 60,000 thousand baying fans who were taking our photos. I felt like I was a contestant leaving the Big Brother house except I had the banner. And I was dressed like a ninja/berk. People took photos and screamed indecipherable nonsense at me. I responded in kind. Somebody reached out to touch me (thanks?) I posed like a slut for three girls who were taking pictures of me, which to be fair is only to be expected as I do hold wooden placards in a particulalrly erotic fashion. (Between the legs, textbook.)

And then POOF! people suddenly decided a wierdo leaping around waving a banner wasn’t that interesing after all and that Matt Bellamy, armed with a guitar and wearing a sequined suit, who was only three feet above me on stage, was actually alot more entertaining.

Fans can be so fickle…

And before you could say ‘who were those plonkers’ we were ushered off by security like yesterday’s news. Like a group of colour co-ordinated lepers who had outstayed their welcome. I texted friends in the crowd to see if they saw me, which of course they didn’t, which only made my banner ‘I am not a drop in the ocean’ all the more ironic.

Still, top night and a free concert to boot!