Older and Wiser?

With the misunderstandings that arose from modern ‘down with the kids’ speak such as ‘sick’ I started to think about older sayings and realised in many ways our parents, grand parents, great grandparents, great, great grandparents, great, great, great, (you get the picture) are just as daft if not dafter than us. I’ve listed a few examples below:

You can’t have your cake and eat it. What? Imagine that in a shop:

Customer – ‘I’ll have the special chocolate fudge cake please’
Baker – ‘great, that’s 10 pounds please
Customer – ‘thanks very much, looks lovely’
Baker – ‘you can’t eat that’
Customer – ‘why not, I’ve just paid for it’
Baker – ‘you can’t have your cake and eat it’
Customer – ‘why not?’
Baker – ‘don’t ask me, you just can’t, everyone knows that’
Customer – ‘I don’t want it then’
Baker – ‘it’s yours now’

The cake industry would be creamed and it would spoil lots of kid’s birthday parties.

I slept like a baby last night. You slept in a cot, woke up several times crying your eyes out and your mum and dad came and rocked you back to sleep whilst you played with your squeaky toy duck? Each to their own; I slept like a very tired adult if you’re asking.

If I’ve told you once I’ve told you 1000 times. That’s a lie. If you’ve told me once you’ve told me once. What sort of example is that setting to kids?

Imagine that in a children’s classroom.

Teacher – ‘what’s 2 plus 2?’
6 year old – ‘5’
Teacher – ‘no it’s 4, I’ve told you that 1000 times’
6 year old – ‘no you haven’t, you’ve told me once and I forgot’
Teacher – ‘well if I’ve told you once I’ve told u 1000 times’.

That’s not going to get anyone anywhere.

The other one I’ve heard is:

Teacher – ‘quiet please’
*kids keep talking*
Teacher – ‘quiet please’
*kids keep talking*
Teacher – QUIET!!!!!! I’ll tell you until I’m blue in the face!

Don’t do that. The last thing that is going to make kids be quiet is the teacher turning blue. They’ll be uproar; it’ll b the biggest thing that’s happened all year.

Never look a gift horse in the mouth. Firstly, what’s a gift horse? And secondly, why not? What’s in a gift horse’s mouth that I can’t look at? To be honest with you I’ve checked Wikipedia and I don’t think gift horses exist.

You can give me all the ‘sick’s’, ‘heavy’s’ and ‘bad’s’ you like but these are just stupid.

Having coached football to kids since I was 17 I’ve always been interested in silly sayings and what you should and shouldn’t say to kids.

I was coaching a U6’s session back home in England once and the kids were all getting ready in the hall. Most of them couldn’t do their shoe’s up yet so I told them to line up against the wall and I’d come along and tie anyone’s laces that needed doing. Having always struggled with laces myself I was secretly hoping most of them had Velcro’s.

Anyway I’m going along and stop at one little lad (George) and start doing his laces for him. Whilst I’m doing them he looks at me and says:

George – ‘I’ve noticed something about you’
Me – ‘Have you buddy, what’s that?’
George – ‘Your ears are funny!’
Georges mate – ‘I’ve noticed that too!’

So I tied their laces together and walked off.

Recently missing being murked by two 5 year olds, Luce and I volunteered through NYCares to coach homeless kids sports in Brooklyn. I’d previously done IT with kids and running with the blind and both times got more out of it than them so thought we’d get a lot out of it. It was more about the taking than giving for me.

One lad, probably about 8 who had told me he had;

‘12 girlfriends’
‘are you sure?’
‘well it might be ten or eleven’.

Walked past a poster promoting a hip hop party, that had a girl on in nothing but a thong. He pointed at it and said:

‘that’s nasty!’
‘sick aint it’
‘nah it’s naaaasty!’
‘I’m confused; stop looking at it or you’ll go blind’.

More lying to kids but he bamboozled me with his language and I didn’t know what I was saying.

Anyway after getting my butt kicked at basketball by a bunch of 8 year olds, spending ten minutes untangling myself from two skipping ropes after attempting the double rope when in reality my single skipping rope skills were limited at best (don’t run before you can walk), teaching all the kids to say alright mate and watching Lucy run around the climbing frame chasing kids whilst pretending to be a monster for half an hour, we headed back to their home, got pizza takeaway, played table football and messed about on t’internet. The lads taught me how to jerk (not what it sounds like) and the girls taught Lucy how to colour in.

It was a great day that made me believe two sayings do make sense ‘kids say the funniest things’ and ‘you get out, what you put in’.

Although as I’ve highlighted you should always challenge these sayings that appear to be widely accepted regardless of how much sense they do or do not make.

When I was about 18 I was coaching football back home with one of my best mates Adam Di Mambro. We’d finished a stormer of a session, signed all the kids out and strolled out the school like Barry and Paul chuckle, happy as Larry (who’s Larry and why’s he so happy?). As we’ve walked out the main school doors we look up and there are three mums not looking anywhere near as happy as Larry standing there.

‘How are you doing guys?’
‘Where’s our kids?’
‘What kids?’
‘Jack, Michael and Sarah, we left them with you an hour ago, where are they?’
*Adam puffs cheeks*
*I twiddle thumbs*
‘eeeerrrm they must be inside’

Sensing this was fairly major we hurried back inside and put our heads together.

Me – ‘What have you done with them?’
Adam – ‘I dunno I didn’t lose them’
Me – ‘Stop there, don’t use that word, misplaced, no-ones lost anyone’

After checking under every table, every chair, in the sandpit and under all the plant pots (it’s always in the last place you look), we headed back outside and nervously explained to the three wicked witches of the west that we temporarily don’t know where there kids are.

‘Your telling me you’ve lost our kids?’
‘Misplaced’
‘I want my money back!’
‘Me too’
‘Me an all’

The session cost ten quid, we’ve misplaced three kids and all the parents attitude is ‘if you’ve lost my kid I’m not paying’. As the customers always right we looked into it and got them a discount and some vouchers for future sessions, they seemed appeased.

Despite the happy resolution that day proved two things to me 1. You don’t always get out what you put in and 2. Parents, not kids, say the funniest things.

For anyone that’s worried; we had just misplaced them, they turned up, they were fine, bit shaken but what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. You can’t wrap kids in cotton wool, they’d just look silly.

Also for anyone that’s interested this is what 8 year olds in Brooklyn are rolling to these days (they’re not rolling, they’d get their clothes dirty). My mates said they might have been trying to tell me something…

Doory, doory me…

I’ve never understood why ‘designers’ insist on messing about with doors. Who ever looked at the door and said ‘that needs work’.

Unfortunately a lot of people. We’ve got the revolving door which unless timed to perfection can go horribly wrong, normally used in big offices, I think it’s only purpose is to set the men from the boys at interviews. I normally get sent packing after taking five attempts to enter the revolving door of death whilst a big queue forms behind.

Then you’ve got the automatic door, designed by people who thought pushing a door was too much effort and results in people walking into windows. Not me but I’ve seen it happen. Unnecessary embarrassment.

Don’t even get me started on the automatic revolving door which quite frankly is a booby trap.

The worst of all is the spaceship door installed in trains in the UK. I was on the train once and some poor slightly obese lady forgot to lock it by pressing those stupid buttons. The light showed vacant and a man has pressed open. The poor woman is sat there for everyone to see. The man couldn’t apologise enough but really just once and then walking away would have been fine. He pressed the close button, then the woman went through the agonsing 15minute time period the automatic space door takes to close. She sat their motionless as some people turned away and others laughed. One man waved goodbye as it finally shut.

I’m sure she would echo me in my sentiments to ‘designers’ that the door is fine as it is, push it, pull it, focus your genius on global warming or celotape that never gets twisted which is really annoying at Christmas and leave doors alone!

Anyway moving on Luce and I decided to go and see a band called the Maccabees a few weeks ago. It was in Williamsburg (edgy, think Shoreditch) in Brooklyn so we decided to go over early and check out a few bars with the cool kids.

We’ve nipped in the first bar we saw. There’s bars in New York that are known as dive bars and are seen as cool, in England they’d be seen as sh1tholes. Anyway $3 for a double lemonade and vodka, not complaining.

So we’ve knocked back a couple of glasses of paint-stripper and nature calls.

I’ve got in the restroom (where American people go to poo) and now lets make this clear; I’m no interior designer, Lawrence Llewelyn-Bowen I am not but I’ve instantly noticed the design fault. There’s a urinal and a toilet right next to it, pretty standard, that’s fine but there’s no door, shield, curtain, not even a sign saying ‘whilst weeing please don’t look at the person pooing’, which to be honest would have been nice.

To be fair to me I’m used to Americans pooing in unorthodox places, central park swimming pool for one but I’ll be honest I was uneasy. I’ve weighed up my options and decided against it, gone back to our table, told Luce, who loved it and had a couple more glasses of white spirit. By now my stomachs in turmoil and I’ve got that stupid over confidence we all get when drunk, when u think you’re much better looking, much funnier, have achieved much more in your life than u actually have and u can poo much quicker than is humanly possible. I’ve eyed up the toilet and looked back at Luce;

‘No-one gone in there for a while have they?’
‘Not since we’ve been here, you’ll be fine’
‘You reckon?’
‘Yeah go for it’
‘I dunno?’
‘Go on, I’ll keep an eye on the door’
‘OK, not sure what that’s gona do but thanks’.

So I’ve got up and made a bee line for the loo, looking back at Luce a few times for re-assurance, she’s nodding me on, I’m going in, I can do this!

I wont go into details but I’m doing well, safe in the knowledge Luce has got her eyes on the door (from the other side of the bar) I’m pretty confident. Then BAM, the door flies open. There I am mid-wipe in full view of the whole bar. Normally I adopt the sitting down approach but for speed I’d gone for the standing up position, you couldn’t make it up.

Already humiliated, ashamed and violated in many ways I thought the exposer would at least let me finish off in peace and come back later. No. He walks in and starts having a wee right next to me, I could have held it. I didn’t, but I could have done, in terms of distance I mean, he didn’t make any offers; anyway, moving on. The silence was deafening apart from the obvious, we’re both staring straight ahead at least I hope he was, I didn’t look and the feeling of discomfort was incredible. I thought I’ve got to do something to break the ice here. So I’ve gone for a winner in all uncomfortable situations and simply said;

‘Well this is awkward’

The man started laughing and suddenly I felt much more comfortable pooing next to a man who was weeing, amazing what a few well chosen words can do.

Despite our new found bond, I expected him to head out as soon as he was done, no. He goes to the sink which is directly in front of me and starts washing his hands, I’ve still not moved from the second he walked in. I’m all for hygiene but there’s a time and a place, this wasn’t it.

After what seemed like an eternity he walked out, didn’t say bye (which I felt was rude) and I had my privacy back, my dignity was gone forever, my pride dented, but my privacy was back. I finished off as quickly as possible and headed sheepishly back through the bar to where we were sitting.

‘You took your time, you OK, you look red?’

I’ve looked up and the exposer is only sitting opposite us (sitting, not shitting, that was me).

In the famous words of Delboy I looked at Luce (similar to trigger in many ways) and said;

‘Drink up Luce, drink up we’re leaving.’

After this day I will never moan about a door of any shape, size or form again. On that cold night in Brooklyn I would have taken any form of door, even an automatic revolving door admittedly not ideal for a toilet but it would have meant only one person saw me at a time rather than an entire bar.

God bless the door in all its guises, you are a close and trusted friend, please never leave me again.

Day out at the Central Park Pool

Now since I’ve been in the U.S. I’ve been introduced to lots of new words, one of them is ‘sick’, as in ‘dude, that’s sick dude’. The other day an American said to me ‘dude you should go to the pink elephant (a nightclub) on a Monday night, its sick dude’.

My initial reaction was ‘well why would I want to go there then, each to their own but I’m not that type of person’ or ‘should I be looking to get a get well card, maybe send some grapes?’

Sensing I was concerned for the pink elephants welfare they quickly explained to me that it means good and isn’t meant literally. Lesson learned.

Anyway moving on a few weeks ago back in the summer Luce and I (proper English, I’m quite impressed even if your not) decided to go to the free swimming pool in Central park.

My images of a beautiful pool surrounded by sun lounges and people sipping champers being given out by supermodels were instantly dispelled when we turned up, there was a massive queue and we realized a lot of the queue occupants were sweating heavily.

We got to the front and the pool warden informed us the lockers had no locks, (which I’ve always felt was a drawback in any good locker) so we’d be well advised to buy a padlock. He pointed us in the direction of where we could buy one and said it would only be $3, which the lady behind us in line confirmed, clutching her new padlock proudly. We decided although we’d lose 20mins pool-time with the sweaty’s, it would be better than getting out to find someone’s nicked my best socks which handily tell me it’s Saturday. I struggle at the best of times but without them I literally wouldn’t know what day of the week it was.

We got to the shop and the shop assistant threw the lock on the counter;

‘$10’
‘The guard at the pool said they were $3’
‘That’s a different one’
‘Can we have the $3 one please?’
*Puts that one back, reaches under the counter and throws another 1 on the surface*
‘$3’
‘That’s the same one’
‘$3’
‘Bargain’

I walked out singing his praises, thinking we’d got a right steal until Luce explained to me he was overcharging us in the first place. So essentially I nearly brought a lock and still got robbed. At least my socks would be safe.

We finally got in the pool and were having a great time when the twenty or so lifeguards suddenly started blowing their whistles and waving their arms around frantically, which it soon become apparent meant, ‘get out the pool’.
We jumped out and I approached the nearest lifeguard,

‘What’s the problem mate?’
‘There’s a poo in the pool’

Now admittedly that’s not the answer I was looking for but that’s not the worst bit, before I could get my head round the fact I had just been squirting water at luce out my mouth, pretending to be an elephant he followed up with…

‘Give it 30minutes and you can get back in’.
‘Eeeerrrrr, errrrmmmm I’ll probably just head off mate, if it’s all the same to you’.
‘It takes 30minutes for us to filter the pool then it’ll be fine’.
‘I’m ok, I’ll pass, I’m a sh1t swimmer anyway…’

Unfortunately now in more ways than one. Never had that sentence been so true.

To our amazement Luce and I were the only two people who headed to the changing rooms. The other 3,000 swimmers sat there covered in poo water waiting to dive head first back into the poo pool.

Still hoping it was a horrible misunderstanding I listened as another man approached a different lifeguard to verify what the problem was, the same response came back which although upsetting wasn’t shocking, what was shocking though was the lady next to him who chimed up with…

‘Oh yeah I saw that floating over there’ pointing to a corner of the pool.

I mean I’ve used the phrase drop the kids (number 2’s) off at the pool (toilet) many times but I’ve never got confused and actually dropped them off at the Olympic sized shared public pool in one of the world’s most famous parks. As easy mistakes go, its not one.

Personally I blame all these cool kids messing with the English language and confusing people. If they just kept sick meaning someone’s not very well, left bad meaning bad instead of good, and left heavy meaning something weighs a lot then we might not get these misunderstandings that result in people pooing in pools.

Cool cats, take note.
(Cats as in people…)

You can take the boy away from Spurs…

So there we were Saturday morning 6.45am boarding the Megabus to Philly, $1 what a bargain; although I couldn’t help wonder what was wrong with the bus for it to be a dollar. The bloke next to me farted all the way there so maybe that was it. In hindsight paying for the upgrade to the no-farting area could have been money well spent. Anyway Spurs were playing Stoke live on Setanta U.S. at 10am so I couldn’t wait to get there, I’d worn my lucky pants especially and was buzzing (not like that, it wasn’t me)! I’d heard Philly was quite a small city (there’s the clue it’s not that small) so I’d printed out a list of sports bars and was pretty confident we’d have enough time between our arrival time of 9am and kick off time of 10 to find one of them that was showing the game and start the trip in style. I promised Luce a fried breakfast when we got to the pub, so bar Mr. Windybum she was happy as Larry.

We arrived at the hotel at 9.30am (30mins till kick off), dropped our bags off and asked the concierge if he knew of anywhere that would show English Soccer. No communication problems with this one but he hadn’t heard of Spurs so I had to spend 10 minutes explaining to him how we were the best team in England, we had a flying dwarf on the wing and a giant robot upfront; 9.40am not good. Luckily he said the Fox and Hound would have it on, just a block away. We ran around to be on the safe side; shut. Quite chuffed with my organizational skills I pulled out my list of sports bars and started dialing. Five bars later, several communication issues overcome (normally by passing the phone to Lucy) but still no venue found; now I’m panicking. Sixth call and Luce puts the phone down,

‘I’ve got a name?’
‘Great, what is it?’
‘The deluxe bottom bar’
‘The deluxe bottom bar?’
‘Yeah’
‘Have u got the address?’ I said flagging down a cab
‘No’
‘How we gona get there then?’
‘He said to phone info’
‘So we’ve got to phone info and ask for the deluxe bottom bar?’
‘Yeah, don’t blame me, it’s what he said!’
‘What’s the number?’
‘I don’t know’.

118118 didn’t work, (never trust a man with a moustache) so we headed back to the hotel to ask the concierge. By this time it’s chucking it down with rain and Luce is starting to wonder if this is worth a fried breakfast. I offer to throw a cup of hot chocolate in and she’s back on board.

I run into the hotel lobby and the concierge who’s now practicing the robot whilst humming Ossies going to Wembley under his breath asks me what’s up? I explained the Fox and Hound was shut till 11am and asked if he knew where the Deluxe Bottom Bar was? Amazingly he hadn’t heard of it so passed us the yellow pages. That had a superb bum bar and a cracking booty saloon but no deluxe bottom! 9.55am and I’m not happy. The arse themed morning had so far been a real bummer.

By this stage I’ve brandished Philly the worst city in the world and was considering a paddy when Luce as ever showed a calm head and asked if the hotel had an internet café. Twelfth floor; great! I took the stairs after the lift didn’t arrive within the second whilst Luce chose to stick with the lift. I fell onto the 12th floor (cursing McDonalds for their small meals being English Super-Size) and Luce who’d been there a good 5 minutes said I’ve found a bar, ‘Let’s go!’

Down the lift, high five the concierge, straight in a cab, ‘The Dark Horse please mate, quick as you can!’, ‘In one piece please driver’ Lucy chimed up, ‘Two pieces is fine mate, just hurry up! Great city by the way’. Ten dollars later and we arrived!

10.15am; could be worse. Then I’ve seen the sign ‘CLOSED, opening hours 11am – 2am’. I’ve done the only logical thing to do and launched into a full tantrum whilst Lucy’s opted for giving the pub a call, (where would she be without me?). ‘Come round the back, go in the no entrance door and then go up the steps’ instructed the very dodgy sounding barman.

After a slight detour through the kitchen, I pointed out a rat, (that got me out of breakfast), we found the stairs and up we went.

10.20am, still 0-0 we’d made it! We lost the game so I won’t talk about that but we were robbed, 1 shot they had, 1 measly shot, we had 19 that’s nearly 20!

Leaving the pub I thought the day was a lost cause, nothing famous Philly had to offer could make me smile but I hadn’t bargained for a kid dressed as a bumble bee being chased by chickens; which is exactly what I got! Outside the pub a local farm had brought some small animals down for the local kids to see. Bumble bee boy had broken into the chicken pen and was being chased around in circles by 4 chickens, priceless!

After a stinker of a morning that had been dominated by bums who’d have thought it would be a bunch of cocks that cheered me up. Life; it’s a funny old game.

The Night I Arrived

About twelve hours after tearfully (it was hayfever) saying goodbye to my friends and family I arrived at Candlewood Suites, the hotel I was staying in for the first 6 weeks of the Internship. I’d arrived on a late flight so was given directions to the pub where everyone was meeting.

My ability to remember directions has never been a strong point. Once my Mum tried to guide me out my room and I still ended up in the cupboard. So I decided to stop at the West Inn Hotel to check if I was going the right way.

‘Hi mate’, I said to the concierge, ‘Am I heading the right way to Dorians?’
‘Dovians?’ he replied quizzically,
‘No Dorians’
‘Borians?’
‘No Door-eee-ans, it’s a pub’.
‘Pub?’
‘I mean bar’
‘What’s it called?’
‘Dorians’
‘Hold on, Brad do you know where Borians is?’
‘Nah not heard of it, I’ll call information’
‘Hi there, can you tell me the address of Borians in Newport?’
*phone down*
‘They haven’t heard of it’
‘It’s not called Borians’
‘Why didn’t you say that then?’
‘Have you got a pen?’ (Miming pen and paper as best as I could)
*scribbled down Dorians*
‘Oooh Dorians, just round the corner, your 30 seconds away’.
‘Cheers lads, it’s my first day here, I’m from England’
‘Welcome to America’
‘Thanks’
*walk to bar*
‘Can I have a drink?’
‘A wink?’
‘Nah a drink mate, make it a whiskey’.
‘You want a wink and you’re feeling frisky?’
‘I’ll get my coat’…

Journey to Work

Right outside my work there’s a man who stands collecting money for the homeless and giving out food. No I’ve not been hustled again, he’s genuine; he’s got a table and wears a t-shirt with ‘help the homeless’ on it. He’s basically Jesus.

Anyway everyday he pleads with NY’s mere mortals to ‘find it in their hearts to help’. Then last week I was waiting to cross the street to my office and this man came bopping across the road blowing raspberries all the way across.

To be honest he was berry close to being hit (you can have that one), he should have at least waited until the lights turned orange (I’ll stop now). I was pretty shocked and felt really bad for him. I’m no psychologist but in what was probably more a cry for help than a coincidence he circled the homeless table continuing to blow some top draw raspberries. And what did Jesus do? Pushed him and shouted ‘if you want help come back when you’re acting sensible!’

The homeless man was unable to say anything that wasn’t raspberry related so I thought I’d speak for him. I approached Jesus (who I was starting to believe wasn’t the real thing) and said, ‘I’m not homeless, affected by drugs, drink or mental health problems but I am sensible. I’ve forgotten my lunch, can I have a sandwich?’

He stood there in silence.

So I blew a raspberry at him and ran off. I think I made my point.

‘Soccer’ in Harlem

Missing the beautiful game and aware I’d been living off a strict diet of burgers and ramen noodles (5 packs for a dollar) I decided to get involved in a 5-a-side game that was taking place in Harlem (nice place). As soon as I got there I immediately noted the no guns poster which for an infant’s school I thought was a tad extreme but with hustlers everywhere you can never be to careful, wise move kids.

I strolled in the hall a bit nervous. Not so much about the guns but I didn’t have any indoor football trainers so I’d gone for a pair of green plimsolls combined with not having done my hair I felt like it was my first day at school (which incidentally I forgot to wear pants on and my Mum had to come in at lunch time as Mrs Fendall was getting an eyeful, exceptional vision for a 60 year old) anyway moving uncomfortably on I was nervous.

My mates showed up which settled my nerves as there was a group of 5 year olds who kept staring at my feet. One had cornrows which for me is an early sign of dread locks so I was sure he was going to end up hustling a tenner out of me for his left over packed lunch.

Anyway the strength in numbers saw the 5 year olds off and we were ready to start playing. The set-up was; 5-a-side, no keepers, first to two goals, winner stays on, 2 hour duration. There was a team of African lads who looked decent and a team of Mexicans who didn’t look quite as good. We only had 4 players so we grabbed an African lad called Leo who looked their best player in the warm-up. I’d lulled the other teams into a false sense of security with the unorthodox attire and as a glass half full kind of man I fancied us for the full 2 hours.

The first 4 matches saw us sweep all before us before the burgers started kicking in and we were knocked off by the Africans. As soon as we lost Leo aka Judas went running back to his mates and we needed a new signing. The Mexicans had a rolling sub so we asked if we could borrow one of their men. Queue fat Mexican Gerry (never his real name), fat Mexican Gerry wasn’t their best player and our side was looking weaker. After a few mistakes by the big man I got a little bit annoyed and spoke loudly at him to take his hands out of his pockets. Gerry didn’t have a hand though did he! He was wearing all black with long sleeves so it looked like he was playing the whole time with one hand in his pocket but he wasn’t because he didn’t have one.

‘Only kidding Gerry’ I shouted, ‘English sense of humour mate, ignore me, keep going son, 110%, that’s my boy, lovely trainers!’

Luckily for me Gezza (he wasn’t that fat and you shouldn’t be fattist anyway) seemed to take it well (he probably couldn’t understand me anyway) so after the game I went up to him, patted him on the back and went to shake his hand; the wrong one. At that stage I wished I was back in class winking at Mrs Fendall…

Everyones a Hustler

From my tough upbringing in the ghettos of Basingstoke I’ve always thought I was down with the kids, but NY has taught me life isn’t always what it seems, sometimes you have to look under the bap to check you’ve got a burger.

Hustle 1 – It was my first week in the big apple and I was everyone’s friend.  A man approached me rapping, different but I was all for embracing the culture so hit him back with a few rhymes of my own.  We hit it off and he put his hand out for a spuds, after an awkward ghetto hand dance we settled on a traditional shake, at this point I knew I was in trouble.  He was trying to sell me a CD (my chatting was better, although I’m pretty naughty) and he wouldn’t let go of my hand.  I thought give him 2dollars and the big scary man will let go.  Only had a ten, turns out they don’t do change.  Got it home, blank; probably for the best!  Bring back HMV.

Hustle 2 – About 3 weeks in and I heard MGMT were coming to town to do a summer gig in Central Park.  Once I established who they were (youtube, check it out) I decided I wanted in.  So I did what any sensible person would do, arranged to meet a rasta down an alley and agreed to splash double the face value on two golden tickets (not literally or I would have got a steal).  I got the tickets back to my desk already feeling uneasy about exchanging half my wage for two very dodgy looking bits of paper and gave them the once over.  I immediately noticed he had spelt his own name wrong on the tickets compared to his email address.  Suspicious?  Possibly.  Upon closer inspection of the smallprint, the copyright 2008 sign whilst we were in April 2009 set the alarm bells ringing.  Three months later and the gig date arrived, Luce and I turned up nervously clutching our tickets and handed them to the doorman with a big cheeky grin (it worked on Mrs Celand at school so thought I’d give it a go):

 ‘They’re fake’ he said instantly,

‘How do you know?’ I replied,

‘Theres no paper tickets for this event’,

‘Can you double check because I brought them off a rasta.’  At that point I knew he probably wasn’t going to get his boss.

Hustle 3 – About five months ago I walked past a homeless woman by my work, she had a sign saying ‘HOMELESS AND PREGNANT PLEASE, PLEASE HELP’.  I walked straight by like everyone else, then got about 200 yards up the road and thought, ‘I’ve got 3 dollars in my pocket and I’ve just walked past a pregnant homeless woman who’s starving just so I can get a bag of crisps and can of coke tomorrow’.  I turned around, went back and gave it all to her, she looked so thankful and I felt like Mother Theresa; win, win!  Five months later she still sits there with the same sign and weighs 2 stone less.

I’ve been stung more times than a naturist covered in honey drinking a beer in a beehive but ultimately I’ve learned some lessons.  Don’t buy tickets off men with dread locks, don’t give money to starving tramps and download all your music illegally.  Culturally I’m becoming more aware.