How Nostalgic Are You?

So, seeing as recently I got married and all, moving out of the parental home was kind of necessary, unless we wanted to sleep on the sofas like Homer and Marge. But in the process of moving my stuff from my parent’s house to my own, you inevitably come across stuff that you haven’t used or even seen in years. During the move, I found tonnes of old stuff that I used to love, and therein lies the dilemma – do you keep this stuff you used to hold dear, or do you throw it out as it’s essentially taking up valuable space?

I know which side I fall down on.

I’ll pretty much want to keep anything, no matter how small or trivial. I’m a horder. So, the stuff I did throw out during the packing stage, I deliberated over. For ages. Now, six months on, I can’t remember any of the things I spent such a long time debating over whether or not I wanted to keep, but at the time it was as serious as life or death. Mostly it was just toys, but the decision to dump some (not all, mind) was a tough one. Yes, I realise I’m 26 and shouldn’t care, but I do. I’m sure some of you do too.

Obviously I kept some stuff. I have old VHS tapes, Playstation games and Lego, despite not having a VCR, not having a Playstation, and not having the desire to play with Lego(*). These things weren’t thrown out because they have one of the following two things; One, I spent money on them, and I’ll be damned if it goes to some charity shop considering the cash spent on them back in the day and Two, they have immense, immeasurable sentimental value. So despite the fact that I’ll likely never use them again, I’ll not throw them out because, well, they’re mine. And I love them. It feels right that they’re still in my possession, like I owe them my allegiance.

* such a lie by the way. It’s more that I only have a small collection and if I started building stuff I would probably end up buying loads more, and the Lego obsession would start again. I only ever built spaceships though.

So, I’m just wondering how many people are the same as myself. Do you keep things even though you know you’ll never use them again? Stuff that’ll sit in your roofspace not because you need to keep it, but because you just want to know that you still have it?

It gets me to thinking as well though if it’s a man thing. Cause my dad’s the same, he keeps stuff forever, (although some of his stuff would probably be worth money someday, mine literally is just junk) including things of mine, like schoolbooks and the like. I can understand that I guess, but it comes down to the same principle; they hold sentimental value, so things like my first primary school homework diary is probably sitting somewhere in the roofspace of my parents house. It’s not doing anything, but it’s still there along with piles of other school books. My mum would have them all thrown out, and I understand that too. It’s from more of a practical standpoint, that they’re taking up space, and whenever there’s a spring clean of the house, the topic always comes up. Mum asks me if I want to keep the old schoolbooks, dad says that we’re not throwing them out, and the decision rests with me. I normally try to avoid answering, looking all nonchalant and pretending I don’t care that they’re thrown out, even though I would, but all the while knowing that they never will. Dad wouldn’t let them get dumped.

So, I guess I am pretty sentimental and nostalgic when it comes to these things. I don’t think it’s necessarily a bad thing, but if you hear on the news about some bloke who went daft, knocked down his house and rebuilt it with Lego, I hope to God it’s not me.

Cheers
JC

[little footnote: I did a Google Image Search for that first picture and typed in "massive toy collection." It brought up images that were pretty NSFW, and I was in work. If I get a warning, I'll be most unhappy.]

Fish Food

My good lady wife is off today to get a pedicure.

From fish.

A little over a year ago I would have been perplexed by that. I still am a little perplexed but seeing as these fish places have seemingly sprung up everywhere, it leads me to believe that I’m the stupid one for thinking that fish’s sole purpose (sorry) is something other than eating dead skin off people’s feet.

But the whole thing kind of makes me want to vomit.

Mostly out of sympathy for the poor fish. Apparently, these fish (I don’t know what kind, but they’re tiny buggers) like the dead skin and general nastiness that forms on feet. That makes me feel so sorry for the fish, but also makes me wonder a) how this was discovered and b) what were these fish eating before, that feet grossness is preferable.

But it’s really the logistics of it that confuses me the most. You put your feet in the bowl of fish, and they slowly chip away at your feet. Fair enough, but are you given an allocated session? Or do you just sit there until you’re satisfied that the fish have eaten away enough of your dead skin? What if the fish aren’t feeling particularly hungry that day or if you’re feet aren’t gross enough for them to eat? Can you get these doctor fish on a pro rata basis? Highly unlikely. And, by extension, one could assume that you could immerse you whole body in a bath of these fish and come out of it fresh as a daisy. Although one could also assume that you’d have some doctor fish swimming around in your rectum also.

I'm also uneasy at exactly how many fish there are in these places. Obviously there aren't as many as in the picture above (and if that picture didn't creep you out, you're lying) but are you able to see your own feet once immersed in the water, or do the fish take up the whole bowl, as they fight to eat the best part of your feet? That makes me feel very queasy, as if there's a swarm of fish all eager to devour my feet. And if the fish did take up the whole bowl it reminds me too much of the Vasta Nerda, or Krill, or Bioraptors for me to ever feel comfortable. Not that I'll ever be having one. And kudos to you if you didn't have to Google any of those thigs I just mentioned.

I guess it’s the same as people using leeches back in the day, but where now that would be considered madness, why is sticking your feet in a fish bowl (heh!) acceptable? Also, apparently it’s also highly unsanitary. Whereas a doctor or dentist cleans/throws away his tools after they’ve been used, the fish aren’t thrown out. One assumes your water is changed and the fish continue chomping away. It’s all very odd to me.

Anyway, I guess there’s some merit in it otherwise they wouldn’t be as popular as they are. I just hope to hear on the news someday that one employee of these places will go daft and chuck a piranha in a client’s water.

They wouldn’t need to worry about their gross feet anymore anyway.

I'm out

JC

Utter Bunkum. Bunkum, I say.

So, I’m in the wee shop across the road from my work, getting my daily scone/sausage roll, and I cast my gaze towards the newspapers and magazines. After reading whatever today’s tabloids have on their front page, I look upwards at the magazines. And frankly I am shocked.

I’ve noticed it before of course, but today’s magazine headlines really take the piss. I’m not talking about the Women’s Own type of rag however, with headlines like “I Married My Own Leg, Then It Tried To Rape Me” but rather the gossip magazines. Since apparently all women still have Royal Wedding fever, most of the gossip rags have gone for something “Wills and Kate ZOMG!” related. And they’re all spouting random bollocks and sticking a picture of the newly married couple on it in the hope that people will want to lap up anything no matter how stupid it sounds. For instance, the best one I saw today had to be “Pippa tells Kate: I’ll steal your crown.”

What? No seriously, what?

Where is their proof for that particular load of horse manure? Did she give them that quote directly? Did more magazine secure an interview with the sister of the new Duchess of Cambridge and she said that herself? I highly doubt it.

It’s bollocks. And if anyone buys said magazine in the hope that that particular headline has some truth behind it, well then I pity them.

I’m not surprised of course but it got me wondering, how is this sort of ‘journalism’ not considered libellous? It’s clearly made up, yet these publications do this every week with a different set of celebrities. I mean, if it’s alright to do it I’d start printing things like ‘Italian and Spanish are the same language’ and face no repercussions.

Another of the magazines had “Pippa’s (who seems to be the star du jour) constant phone calls to Harry.” Again, doubtful at the most, bollocks at the least. I mean, I guess celebrities are fair game, as they at least could be in on it, but you’d think someone who’s royalty would stand up and get them to stop the magazine printing this guff. Yes, the argument is there that the people these stories are about just don’t care, but if it were me, I would (no doubt adding more fuel to the fire).

And don’t get me started on celebrity columnists. Yeah, I’m sure you write one of those every single week, and don’t just allow them to stick your photo at the top of the page to try and sell more copies. Saying that though, if they didn’t we wouldn’t have had this hilarious Danny Dyer incident from last year.

At least men’s magazines have the decency not to bullshit us; football, cars, films and boobs. That’s what’s advertised on the cover, that’s what we get. Super.

Cheers
JC

Bath vs Shower

I’m not a bath person.

Given the choice, I’d always choose a shower. Not that I dislike baths or anything, sometimes there’s nothing better than a good soak, but if push came to shove, the shower wins.

Now, I know people who have regular baths (I’m married to one, in fact) And that’s grand . Have fun with that. But to me, a bath is like an abusive partner; great at the start but after a while the bad starts to raise its head [note: I’m not making light of domestic abuse here, it’s just a good analogy].

First of all, you have to run the bugger. Which means you have to ensure that there’s enough hot water so as you can have a hot bath. So, say you decide at 7 that you want a bath; you’ll have to wait til about 8 o’clock until there’s enough water to actually have a bath. A shower is always there with hot water.

Shower 1, Bath 0

Secondly, once you do have your bath filled there’s the stepping into it. And it’s always too hot. Because you can never get the temperature just right. You don’t want to get into a warm bath so that by the time you get out its cold, so you run a scalding hot bath so that by the time you’ve got feeling back, it’s pleasantly warm. A shower is never too hot, and if it is you can turn it down and in a few seconds it’s the right temperature.

Shower 2, Bath 0

Thirdly, and continuing from point 2, because you have run a scalding hot bath, there then comes the process of lowering yourself into it. I don’t know if other men do this, but a bizarre cupping ritual is necessary here, so as not to roast your down belows. Because aside from your feet, your danglers are the next thing to hit the water, and from past experience, it’s not fun when you can feel your sperm boiling inside your testes. I’ve never had this problem in a shower.

Shower 3, Bath 0

My fourth point is boredom. I get into the bath and after about 5 minutes become deathly bored. I’ve already slid under the water and shouted to hear my underwater voice, so I can’t really do that again. Listening to music gets dull, as I could do that whilst not in the bath, and that becomes all I can think about. People say read a book, but then I have a fear of dropping it in the water, thus ruining the entire book [I did this once, never again]. In a shower, you don’t have time to get bored.

Shower 4, Bath 0

Fifthly, a bath is actually quite disgusting. If you do spend a long time in the bath after a while, once you’ve washed yourself, and lie back, you’re literally swimming in your own filth. All the dirt of the day is floating next to you and you sitting in water that wasn’t as clear as it was when you got in. In a shower all my filth goes down the plug hole. Shower 5, Bath 0

Point the sixth, you can’t pee in the bath. Well, you could but that’d be nasty.

Shower 6, Bath 0

After you get out of the bath, you are always roasting. I have to lie down for a bit just to cool down. And then, as I don my dressing gown to relax for the evening, I find I’m still far too warm and start to sweat again, nullifying the effect of the bath in the first place. Never happens with a shower.

Shower 7, Bath 0

You never have to clean a shower. Well, not as much anyway. There are never any big dirty water marks after a shower.

Shower 8, Bath 0

I shall declare the humble shower the winner. And who doesn’t love a good douche?

Cheers

JC

Relaxing Uncomfortably

Inspired by Hotrod’s account of his haircut, I thought I’d spin my own tale of beautification. Actually, it’s going to be two tales, both of which risk me losing some man points, or even cause me to turn in my man card, but hopefully you’ll get a chuckle out of it, and it’ll all have been worthwhile.

A while ago, before I got all married up, we had to do a wedding list. We chose to do this in the House of Fraser. As a thank you from Fraser’s House, a complimentary make up thing was offered to both the bride to be, and the mother of the bride. For the groom, the free gift was that of a facial. Yes, a facial.

Now, not being a gay man I had never had a facial (and yes, that’s a sentence that works on two levels), so had no idea of what exactly it involved. Jenny had dropped words like ‘exfoliate’ and ‘cleansing’ to try and make me understand, but to no avail. My daily face washing routine involves, wiping my face in the shower with a soapy cloth before I go anywhere else on my body with said cloth. And if I get the order of that wrong, then my face doesn’t get washed that day.

So I approached the facial with some trepidation. When the time came, a not unattractive young lady came out and told me that the room had been prepared. That alone made me feel a little strange. What preparations are needed to do stuff to a person’s face? Anyway, I entered the room, and it’s your standard relaxing environment; candles, soft jazzy stuff playing, and mood lighting, which would all be grand if it weren’t for the Evil Chair of Doom, dominating the entire room. I’ve always though they should redesign these chairs in these beauty places (not that I’ve been to many), to make them look less like redesigned dentist chairs, with a whole at the top. It destroys the relaxation mood they’re trying to convey.

But unlike a massage, I had to lie on my back for a facial. Which was slightly more unnerving, as I could see everything she was doing, but more so because I didn’t quite know where to look. Do I just stare at the ceiling, or try and maintain eye contact? In the end, I went for something in between. Then I got a bit self conscious about my wandering eyes (so to speak) that I decided to try and start up a conversation.

But once the facial started I got a bit nervous. I mean, this person was essentially cleaning my own face. I’ve become quite adept at doing that myself, however trying to maintain a conversation while lying flat on your back, with someone rubbing your face is quite hard. I started off with a few ‘hello’s’ and ‘how are you’s?’ and got all the ‘when are you getting married?’ stuff out of the way. But then I ran out of topics of conversation. After a little while of rigorous thinking, I decided to talk about her job, and I thought to myself that she must get some right uggo’s coming in for facials. And I said that to her. Then I thought to myself, hang on, did I actually just say that? And in doing so did I just declare myself as not an ugly person? Well, that’s a bit presumptuous of me. And not really my decision to make. I might think I’m gorgeous (note: I don’t) but to assume that another person thinks the same, well…it’s a bit of a dick thing to say, isn’t it? I toyed with the idea of hastily back tracking my way out of it, in a charming Hugh Grantish kind of way. But in the end, she just sort of laughed and continued rubbing my face.

I said nothing else for the rest of the facial.

So, in my silence I began to notice other things about the room. Specifically the music. It was soft, jazzy stuff; heavy on the saxophone. I was racking my brains to try and work out what it reminded me of. And then it hit me. But I wish it hadn’t. It sounded like the music they put on sex scenes on those soft focus movies they used to show on Channel 5. And don’t you dare judge me, you were 14 once too. So, for the rest of the facial I was trying to think unsexy thoughts, which is hard when the saxophone reached a crescendo (and we all know what that means) and you settle back into a post orgasmic bliss. She just continued rubbing my face.

The third thing that made the facial a little odd (although this time for her, not me) were the little things she put over your face every so often. I don’t know what it was or what it did, but with my eyes closed, it felt like she was putting a toilet seat cover over my face. It covered everything aside from my nose and imagine it looked fairly stupid. What made it worse though is that (and I really couldn’t resist doing this) was that fact that I stuck my tongue out every so often, just cause I thought it would be funny, and in so doing I was mimicking an old Real Ghostbusters toy I used to own: Fearsome Flush he was called.

She just continued rubbing my face.

I wouldn’t recommend a facial if you’re male. I didn’t really feel refreshed, exfoliated, or even cleaner afterwards. I just had a red face for like an hour after, and looked like I’d been on E’s. And it was really really weird.

The second self beautification story involves me, a burly Egyptian man and lots of oil. Oh yeah, it about to get sexy up in here…

So I’m on my honeymoon and there’s a health spa on the resort. Some reps came down by the pool every day and don’t leave you alone until you order a treatment. So we did. We ordered one treatment for that day, and a second a week later. And by gumbo, it was odd.

First of all we requested that both of us get massaged in the same room. That didn’t happen. I was taken aside by a big Egyptian dude, who I’ll call Julio for easiness sake, and this guy couldn’t speak English (not that I expected him to, what with me being in his country and all) so it made following instructions difficult, so he resorted to treating me like a dog, pointing to where he wanted me to go, and saying “Go there.” This did unnerve me a bit; as it was possible I was agreeing to something that I didn’t really have any idea of what it was. I’m British and therefore don’t like to say no, even if it meant I ended up getting bummed.

Thankfully I didn’t.

So, as I’m lying on my belly, he asked if I wanted him to go soft, medium or hard (note: not getting bummed). I replied medium, and holy shit, if that was him going medium I’d hate to see hard. It was painful, especially on the legs. I know a massage is supposed to be relaxing but I was clenching my teeth just so as not to yell out in pain (note: still not getti…ah, never mind).

Now, in situations such as these my brain either goes for the funny, or the scary. The funny is usually what if I accidentally fart while this person is massaging my back. Oh, how embarrassing.

However, as we weren’t able to converse in a language I knew my brain went to the scary. Looking down through the hole in the bed, I noticed there was a tray the same shape and length of the bed I was lying on, and it was kind of the same depth as a bath. And I started freaking out. I honestly believed this guy was going to slit my throat and collect my blood in the tray below. We’ve all seen Hostel. It happens. Compounding matters was every so often during the massage he asked “You like?” which any other time would have made me laugh, and is a perfectly innocent question, but right now it sounded menacing and slightly ominous. To paraphrase Sideshow Bob he was sending me to Heaven, before sending me to Hell.

Making things worse was the fact that I had no idea where Jenny was, and in my brain the same thing was currently happening to her. Happily I got out of there without losing any blood, and was escorted to another room for an exfoliating coconut scrub. The scrub itself was fine, but afterwards they wrapped me up in towels for reasons I have yet to discern. And when I say wrapped me up, I mean really wrapped me up. Snug as a terrified bug in a rug. Have you ever seen Dexter? You know when he wraps the people in saran wrap before he kills them? It was like that, except with towels. I was actually planning an escape strategy in case anyone came at me with a knife. That’s not even me being funny; I really had it all worked out in my mind. There was a candle stick in the room I was planning on using as a weapon.

Once I’d been released from the cocoon of doom, I was told to jump in the Jacuzzi. This was the most relaxing part of the session, mainly because there were other people in it with me. I relaxed further when I saw Jenny coming out of a private room. I don’t think the same things were running through her mind during the massage as were running through mine.

But then again, we didn’t go for our second treatment.

So maybe they were.

Walking Etiquette

As I was walking into town this fine lunchtime I noticed that there was a fellow work colleague waiting for the green man to appear at the crossing. Now, this colleague wouldn’t be someone I could really hold a conversation with as a) she’s a woman, not that that’s a problem but combined with, b) she’s around 50, and as such isn’t someone I can really make small talk with. Well, I could but it’d be half hearted small talk. And I imagine it’s the same for her.

So as we both wait for the red man to change to the green one, it becomes almost like a race. Which one of us is going to fire out of the trap first, so as to be walking ahead of the other? As it turned out it was her (I was fiddling with my phone and didn’t notice that the traffic had stopped), and she was halfway across the road before I had even started moving. Trouble was, despite her having a head start, she wasn’t a particularly fast walker. Unlike myself. And I had caught up with her not too far down the road.

So I found myself in a quandary. Do I continue walking behind her or do I overtake?

There are considerable problems with both.

If you decide to walk behind the person, it eventually looks like you’re following them. Not so much a problem if you’re at least a little familiar with said person, but if it’s an acquaintance it becomes a little odd. Especially if you need to take the same turns as the person in front, which inevitably you always do. I remember I was in a similar situation once at night, and unfortunately it was another woman who was ahead of me. You don’t want to seem rude and overtake, but being a fast walker I always end up catching up, and then I realise that I’ve caught up and then start to slow down. Which looks even more suspicious, as it looks as though I’m trying to hard not to look like a mental person. At points, I do remember wanting to reassure this poor girl by shouting “IT’S ALRIGHT. I’M NOT ACTUALLY A RAPIST. CONTINUE WALKING.”

That may have been a bit odd though.

Because let’s face it, anytime anyone is walking behind you, you get paranoid. And suspect that this person is evil, and wants to violate you. When in reality, they’re just doing the same as you. Only 50 yards back. It’s the same when you’re driving and the person behind takes every turn you do: “Oh no, this person is going to follow me and kill me in my own home.”

And also, it makes it slightly uncomfortable for the person in front, if someone behind is closing in but not quite overtaking. Do you slow down to let them pass, or do you speed up to create a large enough distance between you, and possibly knacker yourself in the process, because as you do that the person behind will match your speed, and you’ll have to walk even faster to maintain the distance you’ve put between you? Vicious cycle.

And then, if you overtake. Well, then you’re just rude. You’re basically undermining the speed and stamina, hell, the entire life, of the person who you’re overtaking. Saying “fuck you and your little short legs. You can’t even walk fast; you must be a terrible lover, parent and person. I despise you. And your children, and your children’s children.” The worst bit though is if for some reason you have to stop and then a situation arises where you may have to overtake that person again.

I tell you, it’s a stressful business this walking lark.

Anyone else encounter problems like this? Or do y’all just walk like normal people?



[note: it’s very hard to find pictures of what I’m describing here. It’s doubly hard to find pictures of ‘threatening behaviour’ or ‘stalking’ when in work, so as such, this blog is pictureless. Soz.]

So yeah...

...I got married and stuff.

And as a result, the blogging suffered. The last two months of 2010 got a bit mad, but never fear! I'm in my new house with my lovely wife, and we now have a laptop, so the blogging RETURNS!

But not yet.

Later.

Promise.

JC