I was writing a monthly article for my local community magazine My G76 (see www.myg76.com) and I thought it interesting to bundle all the pieces together. Sadly the 21st entry will never see the light of day as the magazine has now closed. thansk to fiona at My G76 for publishing my ramblings.

21. Life on Mars.

This summer my family and I decided to take a holiday on Mars. Red rocks, miles of desolation, mountains, no plants, – you know – Mars. As a result I can confirm a few facts and clear up a few misconceptions.

Firstly, there is life on Mars. In the main goats and donkeys.  There’s no fresh water – although there’s a ready supply of beer and Indian food. The currency, should you choose to visit, is Escudos but they will accept Euros. The only practical mode of transport is a moon buggy (although at a push a Toyota Land Cruiser might suffice). It can get hot during the day – 100+ Degrees Fahrenheit (to use old money) is not uncommon. It’s also a fair hike to get there from Glasgow and, at the moment, there is only one flight a week.

Interested?

Ok so maybe we didn’t go to Mars but if someone ever wants to shoot a movie about the red planet they could do far worse than film on Boa Vista in Cape Verde.  I defy anyone to spot the difference between the southern half of the island and Mars (apart for the goats and donkeys.)

I also predict that Cape Verde will be one of the hottest tourist destinations for Europeans in ten to fifteen years. Ten islands a few hundred miles off the coast of Senegal. Miles of beaches. Caribbean sunshine and, in the main, un-spoilt.  It’s probably what the Canary Islands looked like in the 60’s.  Watch this space.

A tip if you do go – don’t hire a car. Unless you are a world four by four expert, in need of rattling every bone in your body, don’t do it. The best way to describe the roads, save the new one one built for the hotel we were staying in, is to imagine a badly cobbled lane that someone has taken a jackhammer to and that’s the M8 of Boa Vista.  Outside of this you are talking full blown, hard-core off-roading. I should know as we hired a Suzuki Jimny – look it up – the world’s smallest four-wheel drive car. It had wheel wobble that made me fear for my life and the sort of suspension that I used to fit on the skateboards I made when I was eight years old.

We enquired as to what there was to see on the island and were reliably informed that we needed to visit the site of a shipwreck in the north. The fact that the island is only twenty miles long and it took us two hours to get there is testament to the lack of maps, roads and directions.

We eventually arrived, courtesy of a very patient local lad we bumped into at the petrol station and the help of a German family who had hired a proper off road vehicle and driver, to find a stunning beach, resplendent with a decaying ship.

The ship was beached in 1968 and had been carrying food stuffs, general merchandise and large quantities of adult magazines. I had a quick hunt around just in case some issues of the aforementioned literature was still to be found and, as I flew home, I was left wondering at what an island with such a tiny population would have done with said magazines especially since, according to one resident, there was in excess of two tons of them.

Two tons!

Maybe I should have looked harder.

 

20. Lost or Stolen?

Coals to Newcastle. Sand to the Sahara. Add to that – Crime to a Crime writer. With swift slight of hand by a fellow train passenger, I’ve just become the victim of a real crime and I’m now one iPhone lighter than I want to be.  The sheer brazen way in which the perpetrator half-inched my phone when it fell to the carriage floor amazes me. I’m mid type on my laptop when I hear a thump. ‘My phone!’ I think – given it was resting on my bag I assumed it had fallen off. I close the laptop, check my bag and notice that the person behind me seems to be rooting around beneath my seat. By the time I stand up he’s sitting upright and tries to look surprised when I ask if he has seen my phone. ‘Why did you drop something?’ comes the reply. The look of innocence convinces me that maybe I was mistaken so I go through the ‘I’ve lost something routine’.

Check bag. Check jacket. Check bag again. Check pockets. Check floor. Empty bag. Re-check jacket. Re-check floor. Empty bag once more. Check floor once more. Pause. Consider where else it could be? Come up blank and go through the check and re-check thing all over again. Ask one of the other passengers to phone my phone – they do so three times – answer machine only. Back to the check thing.

A dozen phone calls to various lost property offices and the British Transport Police and I’m more convinced now, than ever, that the person sitting behind me on the train has flogged my phone down the pub for fifty quid!

Of course I could have lost my phone. I doubt it, but I can be forgetful.  Every time I leave the house my wife awaits my return – which is never more than sixty seconds later – and looks on as I hunt for forgotten keys, phones, briefcases, jackets, wallets etc. Hotels around the land now possess a range of my clothes, toiletries, chargers and assorted bric-a-brac. Pens lie in my client’s offices never to be collected. Half finished books lounge by pools in foreign lands. All in all I have to admit that I’m cursed with the forgetful gene. But I’m not the worst.

Many years ago I worked in a garage pumping petrol. It was the good old days when self-service was still a thing of the future. It was a Sunday just after lunch and a man in an Austin Allegro rolled in. I fill up the tank. £5 to the brim. And he looks at me. I’ve seen the look before. No money. So what does he do? He asks his seven year old kid to jump out the car and, before I can object, drives off shouting that he’ll nip back for his wallet and the kid can act as collateral.

Half an hour later, and with the child full of lemonade and crisps, there is no sign of dad. I ask the kid ‘Where’s your house?’ and he informs me that  ‘It’s near the school’ just as the Allegro reappears – burning rubber. The passenger door flies open and the mother rushes up to me to reclaim her child. I smile, she looks at me and points to the car. ‘He forgot about our son. He was heading off for golf when I asked him where John was? Can you believe my husband?’

Back then the answer was no. Thirty years on – the answer is probably yes. But please don’t tell my wife.

19. Weather God

The lads and myself are not long back from our annual pilgrimage to the beautiful island of Gigha. When I say lads I may be stretching the definition a little but our behaviour, over the four days, can often have more in common with a herd of teenagers than a clique of quadragenarians.

Some of us have been going to the island, on and off, for thirty years and the squad that descended upon the isle this year are now on their fifteenth consecutive long May bank holiday trip.  As with most men of our age we have embraced our ever blossoming OCD to great effect and each of us has our allocated tasks to perform. So well-worn is our desire for order that we have reduced the need for communication prior to the trip to zero because we all know exactly what is expected of each other. Food, accommodation, drink, transport, the kitty – even the weather are all the responsibility of set individuals.

Weather?

Yes we have our own resident Weather God in our midst. For the avoidance of doubt his job is not to forecast the weather – that would be a mundane use of his talents. His job is to improve the weather. In fact his job is more than this.  He is singly tasked to ensure that the temperature is pleasant and the rainfall slight.  Each year he’s instructed by us all to do whatever it is a Weather God does and ensure that Gigha is blessed with the sort of weather normally reserved for small Carribbean islands.

The intriguing thing about this bizarre request is that in the last fifteen years he has yet to let us down.  For fifteen years we have climbed hills, lounged on beaches, drank in beer gardens and played golf without the need for waterproof clothing or the feel of a thick fleece upon our persons. Statistically it’s an anomaly of extraordinary proportions. We are, after all, talking the west coast of Scotland in late April/early May. We should be delighted if we enjoy even the odd day of sunshine but our Weather God stares at the sky and dares the clouds to darken our frivolities. And so far they never have.

Go figure. If we were to reveal this fact to the public at large we could have our own entry in Ripley’s Believe It or Not. Our Weather God could easily become the Uri Geller of 2010’s.  His skill could transform our fortunes. Think of the demand for someone that can ensure that perfect wedding day will not need brollies or that the local fun day will require an extra large stall selling sun-tan lotion. William and Kate even benefited from our Weather God’s will this year when he gave a quick glance at the telly on the Friday and no rain fell in London.

Of course it could be that I am using rose tinted glasses to look back over many years of good times on the island with my friends but, deep down, I know this is not the case.  Deep down I suspect there is more to it all and I’ve already asked if our Weather God would work on four days of sun from the 27^th April to the 30^th April 2012. As such please take advantage of this event and book a barbeque for that weekend. No umbrellas will be required.

18. Digital Dilemma

Foreigner, Journey and Styx. Not a London based legal firm of lawyers but three ageing giants of the 1980’s US rock scene. Adorned in tight jeans (or for the brave – spandex), capped sleeve tee-shirts and topped off with long frizzy hair this trio along with other ‘legends’ such as Reo Speedwagon, Chicago, Asia, Huey Lewis and the News  – the list seems endless – represented a world of excess wrapped in the Stars and Stripes.  I mention them because I have been arm twisted by a friend into purchasing two tickets to see the triple act in full flow, well let’s be honest here – almost full flow.  They are not quite in the Zimmer territory of some of the 1960’s bands on tour at the moment – but I’m not counting on witnessing any Dave Lee Roth trademark, ten feet high leg splits.

What I am expecting is an audience that has, like yours truly, never quite let go of the 80’s. Not that I haven’t tried. Sometimes I can go months without playing OMD’s greatest hits. I once forgot the words to Relax by Frankie Goes to Hollywood – but rescued the situation by playing it thirty times on my iPod while in the gym – damn fine gym track by the way.

I still have every note, folder and book from my university days. Why? Good question. They have lain untouched since my graduation, twenty-seven years ago and I suspect that they may still be there, providing I’m still here, twenty-seven years from now.

It’s not a desire to stay young that drives this behaviour. Rather it’s my reluctance to let go of certain items. LP’s (for the young amongst you LP’s are Long Playing Vinyl Records) videos, DVD’s, books – I still have every one that I’ve ever purchased or been gifted. I can go on holiday with a dozen books and unless they are all in my bag on the flight home I feel cheated.

But I have a dilemma. A digital dilemma. As the proud owner of both a Kindle and iPod I now ‘own’ books and music that lack any tangible presence. My Virgin box is full of movies that are nothing more than one and zeroes on a hard drive. The radio show that I do every few weeks is no longer stored on a tape but is hidden in the guts of the station’s computer.

My hoarding is now moving from the physical to the electronic. I have a vision of me sitting in my dotage, surrounded by cracked and broken MP3 players, flaky PC’s and a pile of rusting hard drives.  But at least I can still own the vessels that hold my precious albums and paperbacks.

What’s to become of me with the next wave of content distribution – streaming. A world where Stephen King’s latest book or OMD’s fourth comeback album will exist in the so called ‘cloud’. What will I own then? A password? A user ID? Or maybe I will be able visit my collection once in a while. Stand next to some non-descript server in a darkened warehouse, stroking the metal casing. Digital tourism at it’s most extreme. Waiting for the day that the server is consigned to the scrap heap and I can purchase it, take it home and, happily, continue my hoarding ways.

17. Smashy and Nicey

Every second Friday I forget about the day job and, armed with a friend of longer standing than we both care to mention, take up the mantle as DJ’s on the local community radio station – Pulse 98.4. We enter the studios at three o’clock and pre record a two hour show of laid-back music (imaginatively entitled Laid Back with Gordon and Scott) and at five we move to live mode and host the drive- time show for an hour.

If you’re one of the poor souls who have heard us, you’ll understand why we have acquired the Smashy and Nicey tag. But we like to think that we put some care and attention into both programmes. We prepare before hand. Well, Scott does. He has become the king of Wikepedia in his pre show research. I fully expect him to pop up on TV sitting in that famous black chair to the introduction – ‘Mr Ballantyne you have two minutes on your chosen subject – Laid Back Music 1950 to the present day. Who reached number 9 in the US country Charts in 1967 with ‘Little Old Wine Drinker Me?’’

My research tends to be limited. In fact my co-host’s view is that I just talk rubbish for three hours.  Our audience is unknown. The station has no research budget to speak of and, as such, we rely on anecdotal feedback and the odd text  – you can text on 0753 898 4984 or find us live on www.pulseonair.co.uk – oops force of habit.

So, in a 21^st century orientated experiment I decided to employ the power of Social Media to see if we could stretch the listening boundaries of the station. Well when I say me I really mean a friend who lives in Germany and happens to have an international Facebook profile. Using her network we trailed the show with her friends and, at five o’clock, waited to see what feedback we got.

The result was a global jamboree. Individuals from Singapore, Uganda, the USA, Germany (off course), Spain and Australia are now official Pulse 98.4 listeners. Which is impressive when you consider it was six in the morning in Sydney, two in the morning in Singapore and ten in the morning in Los Angeles. As to what use the traffic report for the M77 or the gig guide for the West of Scotland would be in those countries is hard to fathom. And the news story about the new bin lorry that East Renfrewshire Council had just purchased will no doubt be the talk of the steamy in Kampala. I’m also sorry to report that the request for “Tú mirada me hace grande” by Maldita Nerea.  (currently riding high in the Spanish charts) beat the Pulse 98.4 record library.

What they thought of the Glaswegian accents will have to remain a mystery.

Oh and just in case you are wondering who did chart with ‘Little Old Wine Drinker Me’ in 1967 – you lose two points if you said Dean Martin. It was, of course, that star of screen, Robert Mitchum.

16. Jailhouse Talk

I was recently asked to join two fellow crime writers, Alex Gray and Tony Black, on a visit to Barlinnie prison.  We were asked to do a reading for some of the prisoners to be followed by a ‘question and answer’ session. Alex has been on a number of these before but I was new to the whole prison thing.

Thirty expectant prisoners listened to the three of us read from our various books before we all gathered for a photo and some chat.  To say we were facing a critical audience was a bit of an understatement. In a previous event Alex Gray had been reading from her last book, entitled ‘Five Ways to Kill A Man’, when she mentioned the title. There was a cough and one of her audience was heard to whisper – ‘I know a lot more than five ways!’

But our audience was both attentive and inquisitive. Leading to quite a bit of banter.  After the reading Rhona Hotchkiss, the deputy governor, was kind enough to offer us a short tour of the prison.

Constructed in 1882 the prison is Victorian architecture at its most effective. Built when space was more of an opportunity than a challenge it could double as the set from Porridge in many places. Two prisoners to a cell is the norm. I spent a couple of minutes inside one of the cells used for those on their first night and it was enough to convince me I don’t want to become a resident.

The whole complex is a maze of buildings, walkways and walls.  With nearly a hundred and thirty years of history behind the establishment there are stories attached to every inch – ghosts (the third last man to be hanged in Scotland, Peter Manuel, still switches on the call light from his cell), infamous, (the building where Abdelbaset Mohmed Ali al-Megrahi was held on arrival is nicknamed Gaddafi’s Cafe) and the famous (Andy Scott – the artists behind the Heavy Horse on the M8 – is working with prisoners to put their own horse in the gardens this year) means there is more than a book to be written on Barlinnie – a whole series awaits.

There is an overriding sense of politeness to outsiders from both staff and prisoners.  More so than you would get walking through a five star hotel. Of course we could have been getting special treatment but my overall impression was of peace and quiet – not what I had expected.

My summation of the day – interesting, intriguing and instructive but I’ll not be in a hurry to go back – one day in prison was more than enough for this man.

15: Back in Black

As spring threatens to blossom did you noticed the predominance of black clothing this winter? I can’t tell if it has always been this way or if I’m just noticing it more. It was as if someone famous had died and we were all in mourning. I’d guess that half the individuals I saw on the street were, in part, clothed in black. Yet, and here is the strange bit, when I walked through East Kilbride shopping centre the clothing shops were not awash with black garments.  They were (and, ladies, this is the official top ten colours for spring) a rainbow of Honeysuckle, Russet, Coral Rose, Peapod, Blue Curacao, Beeswax, Lavender, Silver Peony and Silver Cloud. For the lads, and I have this on good authority, we should be wearing Barberry, Firecracker, Turf Green, Beeswax, Linen, Russet, Regatta, Blue Curacao, Lavender or Flint Grey.

You will notice that at no point does black feature. I looked up the winter colours in case there had been a mad focus on the darkest of dark shades. I mean, maybe the January sales had been one giant ‘funeral-cortege’ and I had missed it all. But no – black was not a winter colour.

In fact black hasn’t been a season’s fashion colour for years. As such I am left with the inescapable conclusion that although many of us step heavily in the footsteps of the fashion gurus of this world, we do not renew our wardrobe anywhere near as often as the fashion police would demand. Gok Wan can pontificate all he wants about the importance of new clothes in changing your life but as far as I can work out most of us are wearing old clothes – seriously old clothes. How else can you account for the dominance of a colour that hasn’t seen a cat walk in a decade?

Do me a favour. Go to the place you keep your coats and lift out your favourite (no doubt black) coat and consider how long you have had it? A year. Two? More. I’m not a betting man but, and lads this is so much more likely to be you than the girls, some coats have more than ten years behind them. Why? Lack of cash? Laziness? Love?

Well US Senator Jim Hargrove has a theory. He recently sited (and this is gospel) that an old fraternity brother of his had been wearing the same trench coat for twenty years. Why? Because, as was observed by this respected member of the US political landscape, the coat owner in question has been smoking marijuana for the last two decades. Seriously. Marijuana?

Now I don’t know if the trench coat in question is black. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t but does this mean that if your next-door neighbour/friend/colleague (delete as necessary) has been wearing the same coat since the eighties that he/she has a serious narcotic addiction?

Does this potentially explain the sea of black that flowed down our streets?  Think of the consequences if it did? Answers on a postcard! Oh, and while your out buying the stamp, see if you can dig out a non-black coat and maybe we can add a little colour to these depressing times. Personally I fancy one with just a hint of Beeswax.

Gordon Brown lives and runs his business in Clarkston. He is a published author and his new novel ’59 Minutes’, published by Fledgling Press, is now out. For more info visit www.gordonjbrown.com.

14: Religious Tea

When I was young the background music to life was the whispering bubbling of a kettle coming to the boil.  This was born of two grandmothers who saw tea as more essential than air and held the drink in the same tones of reverence that the religious reserve for their God. Tea was a beverage for every conceivable occasion. From birth to death – tea was the one constant. Every disaster and every celebration had to be accompanied by a cup of fresh brew. On my grandmother’s planet the gap, in time, between cups of tea was so infinitesimal that it held a mathematical definition all of its own.

And tea came with rituals that were engraved on the front door of their homes. Loose tea – never tea bags. Warm the pot first. Leave to infuse for at least a month. Cup – with saucer of course and never, ever, a mug. Milk before tea and then sugar. Stir for another month. Leave for a heartbeat. Take an appreciative sip. Utter the words ‘that’s a lovely cup of tea’ and reach for the biccies/cake/bun* – (*delete as necessary.)

I was weaned on tea and the sad truth is that few kids nowadays drink the precious liquid. Too challenging a taste. Fizzy drinks are easier on the palate, they are less hassle and heaven forbid that a child would be asked to handle hot water! I entered the hallowed halls of tea before I could walk. My first cup of tea was not even a cup. Made with the same care as one destined for the best china but at the last minute diverted and poured into my bottle. Too milky, too sugary, too cool – but it was tea. Sucking it through rubber must have been ok because it started my life-long love affair with the stuff.

My mother has inherited the tea-worshiping gene and her fervour, along with two ‘tea addicted’ grannies, has given me a zeal for the stuff that borders on the obsessive. I have never knowingly refused a cup. I see it as an affront. My intake can be north of ten cups a day, but , and sorry Grans,  for me it has to be a mug – oh and I prefer tea bags (I can hear the sound of distant tutting as I type this).

‘I’ll just put the kettle on’ is such a great phrase. It presages everything that is good about life. In the good moments it is the bonus ball that will make you a millionaire. In the bad moments it is the super sticking plaster that will fix all.

If there is a way to sum up the power of the almighty tea leaf take the following as a case study.

Let me start by pointing out that the cardinal sin in the world of tea is to rise from a chair, with others around you, and make a cup for yourself without offering to do likewise for those nearby.  For a few years I worked at STV where I was notionally in charge of the station’s marketing, viewers enquiries and the voice over team. We all sat in an open plan office around tables that accommodated six people.  Sitting next to us was our colleagues that looked after the programme scheduling. As such, and it did take a few months to convert people to the correct tea etiquette, a trip to the office kitchen could easily result in the requirement to make a dozen cuppas. I think the record was fifteen. Did anyone complain? Did the flow of tea ever stop? Were we better off for the tea run? Answers – no, no and yes.  A powerful brew.

Tea for me is the ultimate bonding agent, a polite way to bring people together – a relationship maker.  Am I over-playing its importance? Well let me just make another cup of tea and I’ll tell you some more.

By the way do you take milk and sugar?

13. The Six Man Sledge

On the 14^th and 15^th of April 1931 over 87.5 inches of snow fell on the town of Silver Lake in Colorado – all in a period of twenty seven and half hours. As far as I am aware, not one driver attempted to get in his car and drive off without first removing some snow.

Compare that with November/December 2010 in Glasgow where a fair proportion of drivers got into their cars, switched on the windscreen wipers and drove off with a crown of snow on their roof that would struggle to get under the rail bridge at Busby.

But this is not a rant fest and I’m not going to go off on one (even if such driver’s should be removed from their cars, keys confiscated and their licenses revoked). I make the point because the cold weather sent me on a nostalgia trip. As I write my daughter is off to the park for a bout of sledging. I adored sledging – not that I had the premoulded sleek sliding machine that she is dragging behind her. No, the pinnacle of my ingenuity was to sneak a six by four feet slab of Formica out of our house – blissfully unaware that it was intended to form the top of our new kitchen table.

It was the ultimate multi person sledge. Sitting at the top of my road, and we are talking the Mount Everest of the south side here, six of us sat astride the shiny surface. (If you want a sense of perspective on what is to follow take a trip to Simshill and stand at the top of the Farne Drive looking down to Old Castle Road).

The night was perfect. The road was clear of cars – as it always was back then. The snow was deep and untouched. The sense of anticipation was thick and it took only the smallest of nudges to set us off. With no steering and nothing to hold onto we clung to each other as we gathered speed. A lot of speed. Ski jumping type speed. We lost the first passenger as we passed our next door neighbour’s house at around thirty miles an hour. Numbers two and three were thrown clear as we mounted the pavement and bounced off a garden wall at closer to sixty. Number four was ripped from our bosom when his outstretched arm clipped a lamppost. By now we had topped the ton.  Two of us hung on – zipping backwards at close to the speed of sound – hearts racing, screaming into the iced air. The one downside, and it was a big downside, was that my road ended in a T junction and, with no possible means of steering around the corner, we exited the road, crossed the junction, hit the kerb, executed the perfect take off, flew into the garden of the house at the foot of our hill and died.

Well, not quite. What we actually did was drag the Formica back to the top of the hill, picking up the lost passengers as we climbed, and set off again in, as it turned out, a vain attempt to reach the bottom with six bodies on board.

As I remember it we tried to well past midnight but somehow we never managed to keep the six of us together for the whole trip.

There is a side story to this. The following morning, in the bright white of a snow lit day, the Formica top that had performed so heroically did not quite have the pristine shine and ‘fresh out the wrapper’ look of the previous evening. In fact it had more scratches than a nineties DJ and more chips than McDonalds. I can’t remember my father’s reaction but I think I may have wiped the bad from the good that day to preserve the wonder of the six-man sledge.

Out of sheer curiosity I’ve just checked online and a six foot length of Formcia can be had for a hundred quid at B&Q – expensive but I wonder if I still have the contact details of my five friends from back then…

12. Chewing Gum for the Mind.

I was checking on upcoming TV programmes a few weeks ago and noticed that the first ten Star Trek films were being shown back to back (well almost) on Film 4. So I hit the little red button a few times and set my machine to ingest twenty three hours of Trekkie fodder on to the hard drive. (Who knows how these things work – but then again I’m still stunned that you can pause live TV!)

I’ve seen all the films before – in some cases multiple times. So why record them – and worse still – after twenty three hours of down time – why watch them all?

Then again, why did I, one Christmas, ask for every James Bond film? Why do I start watching Doctor No, go all the way through to Quantum of Solace and start again at the beginning?

Why?

Escapism.

The need to get away from the day to day.

Or as I like to call it – chewing gum for the mind.

What’s yours?

I have many more.

• I confess to listening to Women’s Hour when I’m in the car. A great show and a guaranteed way to stop thinking about whatever it is that is bugging me. I also kid myself that it puts me more in touch with the females of this world. Well, come on, the medical stories alone have opened my eyes to a whole world that guys usually avoid like the plague.
• I read – and read a lot. Everything from the latest thriller to twenty year old editions of the Beano (I love the Numbskulls).
• I go to the gym. I hate it with a vengeance but I go and, half way through the rowing machine – and it is always the rowing machine – my mind can focus on nothing else but the little clock telling me I have only two minutes of hell to go. All my other thoughts simply vanish.
• I go to the pub. But this only works when there is nothing major happening the following day. I can’t relax when I know that the alcohol entering my system is going to come back and bite me in that important meeting at 9.30 the next morning. ‘Booze Breath’ is a big no-no. Changed days from when I started work life – working for a brewery – where ‘Booze Breath’ was part of the job description – oh how the world has moved on – but that is the subject for another day.
• I go to a concert – I’m doing the sad retro thing at the moment – OMD, the Psychedelic Furs and Status Quo are all tickets in my pocket before Christmas. Sing-a-long time – or rather dance-a-long – or in the case of Quo – head-bang-a-long.
• I write – the best escape pod on the planet. As someone once said ‘writing is all about making up lies about people that don’t exist’ – just a great thing to do! Even sitting at the computer doing this piece is an exercise in putting off what I really should be doing.

This list could be much longer but, in my case, will never include the likes of DIY, gardening, car cleaning, cooking, decorating, maintenance, taxi driving (or as it is called in our house ‘giving the kids a lift’) or anything else that can have the word chore attached to it. In my book these are not moments of escape but the domestic equivalent of going to the office.

And talking about the office I’m off to work shortly but, if I time it just right, I will catch the dulcet tones of Jenni Murray on Women’s Hour where I believe they are planning to discuss the merits of ‘real bread’ – wonderful.

Gordon Brown lives and runs his business in Clarkston. He is a published author and his new novel ’59 Minutes’, published by Fledgling Press, is now out. For more info visit www.gordonjbrown.com.

11:Stuck

My family and I were on our way home from a weekend visiting friends in the Midlands. After a brief shopping stop at Gretna – signs appeared on the motorway informing us that the M74 was closed at Junction 8. A quick bit of map reading, and my wife tells me to exit at junction 9 and we will take the back way home.

Good plan.

Unfortunately Junction 9 doesn’t have an exit going north – it is one of those junctions with an on ramp going south only.

As such we soon come across two lines of traffic that are, to all intents and purposes, parked. We are going nowhere at speed. With nothing to do but occasionally nudge the car forward a few yards I start to people watch. It’s not normally something I get to do while driving and, after a while, I realise that sitting in a queue reveals a lot about a person. I suspect that there is a doctorate to be had in understanding the behavior of people in such a situation, A situation, and lets be clear about this, where you really have Hobson’s Choice – wait it out – but that doesn’t seem to sit well with some people.

I spent a good hour trying to devise some sort of classification- well what else was there to do?

Category 1: The Lane Jumper – with two lanes to choose from people in this category will squeeze into whichever lane is moving quickest.  It doesn’t seem to occur to them that it makes no difference. They are all wing mirrors and indicators – forcing their way back and forth slowly but ending up almost exactly where they started. Only they have elevated their blood pressure a few points and hacked off the drivers around them. Annoying meter score – 7/10

Category 2: The Fresh Air Music Fiend – despite the vast quantities of carbon monoxide swirling around -  the queue is a signal to open every window wide and, because you can, turn up the music. This is done in the mistaken belief that everyone else will be so impressed by your musical selection that they will see you as some sort of rock guru – WRONG. Annoying meter score – 5/10

Category 3: The Emergency Lane Bandit – ignoring both the danger and illegality of using the emergency lane these people hammer up the inside – clearly with some inane justification in their head for doing so. What can you say about this? Idiots isn’t even close to strong enough. Annoying meter score – 10/10

Category 4: The Power Nappers – with movement as rare as a Scotland away goal, falling asleep is always a danger. Take the man in the soft top MG a couple of cars front of us. Twenty minutes in and he goes for a kip – the queue moves – a honk of the horn from the car behind – and does he say thank you? – nope – a flick of two fingers – wonderful. Annoying meter score – 4/10

Category 5: The Dreamers – this is me. Another world beckons and I’m gone. Off to planet Gordon until my wife nudges me to point out we should be on the move. Annoying meter score – ask my wife?

All in all there is a probably a sit com in here somewhere – so if you are stuck in a jam sometime in the future feel free to send me a note of any new categories you spot – just click on www.gordonjbrown.com.

10: Travel

A few weeks ago I, through a combination of work, pleasure and stupidity, flew home from holiday in Turkey and, almost immediately, spent six days driving to Manchester, to Birmingham, Stratford-upon-Avon before turning north to Harrogate and finally back home.
I stayed in two hotels, a guest-house and fell asleep in the car half a dozen times. I grazed my way through Sainsbury’s bought sandwiches, Tesco bought pasties and Shell bought Coca Cola. I rose no later than seven and went to bed no earlier than midnight.
I became a wrong turning junkie and visited some of the unsung sights of England. For example I enjoyed the delights of the waste disposal centre for Central Birmingham. I circled the Morrison’s car park in Stratford three times looking for the exit and paid a brief visit to someone’s flooded front garden in Bollington.
I created a new way to negotiate a one-way system just south of Macclesfield, tried to fill my diesel car with petrol and made an attempt to pay the bill with a Makro card.
My luggage for the trip contained more shirts than I needed but I short-changed myself on pants and t-shirts. I forgot to take toothpaste, deodorant and shower gel but I could have held a fire sale of dental floss and after shave.
I decided to use the hotel gym to offset the late nights, and dropped a weight on my toe. Not to be discouraged I tried the gym again two nights later where I duly emptied a glass of water down my front and, a few minutes later, sat in the puddle.
One hotel wanted sixty pounds for access to the WiFi (sixty quid!) but a neighbouring hotel was free. I logged onto the freebie and it took an hour to download ten e-mails – by which time my lap top battery had run out.
On three occasions I walked to my next appointment without a jacket – and it rained. On two occasions I wore a jacket and the thermometer hit the mid seventies.
I gave one elderly lady directions in Harrogate – even though I had just arrived and it has been twenty years since I was last there.
If you wish I can also pass on ten post-codes where O2 mobile phones don’t work.
I have little or no recollection of any of the motorway miles and managed to think that Thursday was Wednesday for most of the day.
When I got home I discovered that I had lost two novels, a couple of pairs of socks, half a dozen pens and a piece of paper with a very important phone number on it.
I was on the point of moaning about all this to my friend in the pub when he pointed out that he had just returned from Basra in Iraq where he had flown on six flights, passed through twelve x-ray machines (five of which he had to negotiate just to get out of Basra airport), spent a sleepless night in Amman airport in Jordan watching the news and had stayed in a hotel in Basra that would have pleased Norman Bates.
Add to that the inherent danger in visiting such a place and I realized that, all in all, mine was a very normal trip by comparison.

9: Music

I’m sitting listening to Armin van Buuren’s Unforgiveable from an album called Cream Future Trance. I love my Trance Dance music and, as I approach my fiftieth birthday, it seems that I am somewhat of a sad old man that won’t let go of his youth. At least that is what I’m told on a regular basis.
I’ve never been one to reach a period in my life and stop listening to new music. I don’t see the point. Sure I still listen to music from years ago – put it this way I’m going to see Status Quo, OMD and the Psychedelic Furs in the next few months – so I’m hardly rejecting my younger days. But, if I have a personal hobby horse (and I have many), I despair of people who not only reject, but actively avoid new music. You know the type. The Beatles fan who still thinks Dave Lee Travis is on Radio 1. The ABBA freak who thinks T in the Park is a picnic for old ladies in Rouken Glen. The people who perceive downloading as a fancy word for getting the trunk out of the loft.
iTunes has been a revelation to me. To others it is a product available from Boots to help them breathe easier. These are the same people that find music genres a mystery. Emo stars in Sesame Street – doesn’t he? Ambient is the temperature for a good bottle of red wine? Garage Rock is a collection of minerals from the trip to Ayr beach.
OK I can see why some people don’t move on. Why should you? You like what you like – right? But think of it this way. What if, back then, Mick and Keith had taken the same tack.
‘You now what, Keith? I like listening to the easy swing of Mr Glen Miller. Let us not form a pop group as I am happy with his clarinet and saxophone led tunes’
‘I agree. Mick. And, for me, the dulcet tones of Jim Reeves will satisfy me until I breathe my last.’
Your Rolling Stones fan wouldn’t be so much stoned as stoneless
iTunes just dowloaded its 10 billionth track. Not all of them are new but maybe, just maybe, there was the odd good one amongst the newer stuff. And maybe, just maybe, it might lead to a whole new world of music that you never knew existed.
I have a suggestion. If you know someone that lives in a musical time warp ask them to walk into HMV, go up to the assistant and say the following:
‘I am a fan of (insert your favourite band(s) name(s) here) and I am looking for similar music from new bands.’
No big risk there. No need to invest in the latest Chilled, Retro Boogie, Hip Hop, Rock fusion – just ask them to pop on the CD they suggest and listen. You can do the same thing from your armchair with iTunes – type in your favourite album and then simply click on the section that says ‘Listeners Also Bought.’ I just entered ABBA Gold and seemingly I would like Lilly Allen, Duffy, Black Eyed Peas, Mika, and Coldplay. And, if you are interested, Armin van Burren brought up OceanLab, Above & Beyond and John O’Callaghan – I have no idea who they are but my Visa card is already burning a hole through my laptop.
Go on try it – what is the worst that could happen?
Gordon Brown lives and runs his business in Clarkston. He is a published author with his second novel – ’59 Minutes’ coming out in August. If you want a bit more info why not visit www.gordonjbrown.com.

8. Holidays

My fifteen year old son has just put the last full stop on his fourth year exams. He tripped through the front door with a smile on his face and the look of someone who is just discovering what the phrase ‘de-mob happy’ really means.
I watched his demeanor and memories flooded back. It has been a while since I sat exams and I’ve forgotten what it feels like to hand in that final paper, and walk down a road that now seems to be more akin to a bouncy castle.
It has been much longer since I handed in a paper and knew that summer now beckoned. All seven weeks of it. Or, as I remember it from my school days, all seven years of it. The endless days stretching before me like so many dominos in a row – just waiting to be toppled in glorious slow motion.
What did I do with all that time? What would I do with it now?
I suspect that today I’d treat the school holidays a little differently. When I was young I would be up and out of the door before the birds had moved to full song. Today I’d probably lie in bed and sigh deeply. Back then I would play from dawn to dusk – stopping only to take on food and juice. Nowadays I’d drift from the bedroom to the telly, drink tea and contemplate the fact that the lawn needs done. As a kid I’d treat every day as an adventure. Now I’d treat every day as an excuse to treat tomorrow as an adventure. Off course tomorrow would never come.
But some things would be the same. I’d lose track of time. My thought processes would shrink to the point that my IQ score would be in single figures. Tasks would remain undone, beds unmade, hair uncut – goofing off the norm and I would revert to my youth at speed.
How can I be so sure? Well I have proof. Each year my friends and I partake of a lad’s weekend and, each year, I sprout acne, talk nonsense and act like a spoilt teenager – and that’s before the car has even left my driveway.
Wonderful.
Off course there is the downside to this. At some point, and it always seems too soon, it will be time to re-enter reality. A tight stomach, churning gut, gloomy head and a desire to find a way to extend the holiday ad infinitum. First day back at school/first day back at work – not much difference and then the countdown begins to the next break.
So would I really like to return to school holidays?
What do you think?

7. Exercise

Hands up if you currently have a membership to a gym. Keep your hands up if you have any of the following equipment in the house – running machine, dumbbells, running shoes (that you actually run in), exercise video (or DVD), book on exercise or any form of aid to fitness?
Hands up if you have a copy of Paul McKenna’s ‘I Can Make you Thin!’ or ‘Fifty Ways to Fill Your Stomach and Not Get Fat.’ (I made that one up).
Now hands up if you said yes to all the above but don’t use the gym membership or the equipment and only utilise the diet books to prop up the wobbly kitchen table?
Well for your information I am both dieting and exercising, and have been since Christmas. As a result three stones of fat have vanished and a touch of muscle has appeared. I am also an official pain in the backside because I will regale this story to anyone who cares to listen.
As a result I am now losing friends.
I have discovered it is perfectly reasonable, maybe even desirable, to belong to Green’s but never darken the doorstep or to own a book on low calorie options but still eat like a horse. It is not, however, acceptable to actually get fit or lose weight and expect people to be happy for you. People do not want to discuss weight loss or fitness unless they are fitter and slimmer than you – in which case they boringly want to waffle on about how much fitter or slimmer they are than you.
I’m still waiting on someone to say well done. But it isn’t going to happen. It’s why this whole exercise and diet thing is so tough. Those who are thin and fit just make you feel bad and those who aren’t, temporarily ostracise you. As a result I have now concluded that I should sign up to the gym for another year but forget where the building is situated and purchase one hundred books on diets while still eating a portion of ‘Death by Chocolate’ three times a day. That way you make everyone else feel good – regardless of their current physiological status.
So in the interest of regaining some form of social place in the world I am going to visit the fridge, or better still get someone else to do it for me, and tuck into that Scotch Pie that I know is lurking on the top shelf.
Brown sauce anyone?

6. Drip mats

I’m sitting in the local pub chatting with my friends and one of them informs me that he has read the latest  ‘A Brown View on Life’ and felt it was a bit of a random rant. So I ask what he would he rather I wrote about and, after two seconds deep thought on the subject, he points at the drip mats on the table and says ‘Write about them’.

I was about to tell him where to go when I stopped, thought about it a little and realised that you don’t really see drip mats as much as you used to. When I first entered the hallowed halls of the Beechwood (the pub that supplied my first legal drink on the day I turned eighteen) the place was awash with them. Beer brands spread them around like sweeties at a fun fair. Cigarette companies dumped them into pubs by the shed load. Spirits firms used them as if they were going out of fashion. Now they are rarer than a Eurovision song contest win for the UK. Cigarette companies are banned, beer companies, if they do them at all, often charge for the things and – even if they are made from recycled material – they don’t fit our new environmentally friendly world.

To top it all I Googled the word drip mat and found that there are ‘Real’ ones and ‘Fake’ ones. The article even suggested that calling it a drip mat is an affront to some people – seemingly it has to ‘beer mat’.  I leave it to you to look up the web and find out how in the heck a drip mat, sorry beer mat, can be fake – it really isn’t that interesting.

Today’s drip mats have been transformed into a social advertising medium for the likes of sexual health or help the elderly – dull as dishwater to read when you are supping your pint.

I used to work in the beer industry and, to me, drip mats were sometimes a source of creative genius. I clearly remember a Guinness campaign where they encouraged you to build a house of drip mats in the same way you would with a pack of cards. The Tennent’s Lager girls graced them  – wearing just enough to make you flick over and see if there was a better picture on the other side. There were quizzes, stupid facts, puzzles – there was even a cigarette firm who scribbled the words shopping list and the name of their brand on one side – leaving the rest of the drip mat blank for you to write down the weekly messages. John Smith’s Bitter produced ones that you couldn’t tear – and much to my surprise they really were tear proof. I also remember a set by a whisky firm that contained giant letters – encouraging you to play a Scrabble type game. The fact that the letters were designed to spell their brand didn’t stop you trying to make rude words from them.

So for the friend who asked me to write about drip mats can I say a big thanks – as this has been a short, and pleasurable trip down nostalgia lane.

Gordon Brown lives and runs his business in Clarkston. He is a published author and if you want a bit more info why not visit www.gordonjbrown.com.

5. ‘Maybe.’

Things have been fairly manic of late.  I always thought that life would calm down as I got older. I’m not sure what made me think that this would be the case but I know why it isn’t happening. You see I’ve fallen in love with a very seductive and tempting mistress. Her name is ‘Maybe’ and she is the ultimate forbidden fruit.

‘Maybe’ is a divisive mistress. She revels in being non-committal and teases me into thinking that I still retain some vestige of decision-making authority.  But she is a cheap, two-faced charlatan who so easily, against my deepest desires, transforms into her alter ego – ‘Yes’. The solution to this wicked lady is to court and marry her brutal sister ‘No’ – but being wed to ‘No’ would make life so much more confrontational.

Take the following example as proof of my dilemma

Mother that is a friend of a friend – ‘Do you want to come to see my baby daughter in a five hour singing and dancing extravaganza of mind numbing blandness and non-existent talent on the same night that Scotland are playing in the deciding qualifier match for Euro 2012 – to which I believe you have a VIP ticket?’

Me – ‘No!’

Same mother, but now indignant – ‘Sorry but did you say no? This is my daughter we are discussing. The shining apple in my basket of life. What is wrong with her? Why would you insult her, my family, all my ancestors, and myself by declining such a rare and generous opportunity.  Even though I understand that the said game of football is being played out in the wonderful city of Prague and that you have been offered both a complimentary flight and hotel room, along with free alcohol and food. So I will ask you again. Do you wish to accept my invitation?’

Me – ‘Maybe.’

You see the problem.  I think that by saying ‘Maybe’ I can postpone the moment of pain involved in using the word ‘No’ knowing I’m going to say ‘Yes’ anyway. I have tried many times to break my relationship with ‘Maybe’ but she draws me back time and time again. So I have developed a cunning plan. It came to me after watching the Jim Carey movie ‘The Yes Man’ in which Mr Carey discovers that life can be far more interesting if he says yes to everything he is asked to do.  Following this theme I think we should declare a ‘National Day of No’. For one day in the year we should say ‘No’ to every request – just to prove we can live without that vixen ‘Maybe.’

‘Do you want another slice of cake?’ – ‘No!’

Easy.

‘Do you want a complimentary ticket to see the ‘Best of the Eighties’ tour that is town?’ – ‘No!’

Still easy.

‘Do you fancy a free round of golf at Gleneagles?’ – ‘No!’

Harder but I’ll live.

‘Do you want a gratis, all inclusive four week holiday in a five star resort in the south Pacific with a thousand pounds spending money thrown in?’  – ‘Maybe!’

My ‘National Day of No’ is doomed from the start.

4. ‘Them.’

I was invited to take part in a blog debate on the way that modern technology is invading our lives. A colleague of mine posted the following on the site:

“Starting from our very email address, a hidden host of psychological manipulators will profile us and every digital movement we make. They will track us around the web and they’ll know every sordid little thing we are up to. Every weakness, every failing, every hidden desire.

They’ll analyse every purchase we make, every specialist interest website we visit and each specific page or even word we dwell on. They’ll track us around every dating website we join and every naughty photo we look at. And then they’ll pounce. But not in our faces. Behind our backs.

Yes, they’ll sneak up on us by delivering covert and clandestine digital messages that will get to the very heart of our secret fears, hopes and dreams. And by Christ will they make us part with our money? And we won’t even know they are doing it.”

Paranoia is a dangerous thing and If I had a penny for every time someone told me that ‘they’ (whoever ‘they’ are) were watching our every move, listening to our every conversation or controlling our every desire I’d have a couple of quid. 
 I bet good money that the first person to send a letter was scared that ‘they’ would read it. (More likely the first tablet sent in Egyptian times – or before) 
But there are two things that occur to me that give me hope for a future where I’m not a victim of Big Brother:

a) There are 6.5 billion people on this planet to track – a number growing at a rate of knots.

b) There is a wealth of communication channels – Facebook, Twitter, Bebo, Myspace, this blog, e-mail, MSN, other blog’s, websites, forums, live chat, video conferencing, mobile phones, landlines, broadcast radio, local radio, internet radio, You Tube, web TV, snail mail, conversations in the street, debating societies, rock god’s pronouncing on the world, film etc etc etc – and the number of options is also growing at a rate of knots.

My hope lies in the fact that there is a simple equation that will protect me from ‘Them’.

The ‘Them’ equation:

(The growing number of people on the planet) multiplied by (The growing number of channels available for communication) =  (An inability for technology to track everything we do and say).

In essence people AND technology will defeat people WITH technology.

Now I’m off for a quiet lie down in a lead-lined cell – underground – but then again I hear the CIA have attached detectors to worms that can translate my thought waves at a distance of one hundred miles and through a mile of granite rock.

3. ‘Facts.’

“I’m a bit of a freak when it comes to reference books. Take this Christmas – among my stocking fillers were titles such as ‘How to Make a Tornado – the strange and wonderful things that happen when scientists break free!’, ‘The Lucky Bugger’s Casebook – tales of serendipity and outrageous fortune.’ and ‘A Mess of Iguanas, A Whoop of Gorillas… an Amazement of Animal Facts.’ I love the things. Can’t get enough of them. Our house is full of books that are crammed with trivia.

I can bore the world in nonsense. Trust me – my friends and family will happily back me up on this. For instance do you know that the FBI can identify an individual by the jeans they are wearing. It seems that if they get a good enough quality photo from a CCTV that shows a close-up of a pair of jeans they can identify and match the weave – just like finger prints. Or that bats almost always turn left when they leave a cave. Or did you know that the period before the Credit Crunch was known as the Credit Binge?

I’ve no idea what the attraction is in such inane gibberish. I can waste hours reading titles such as ‘Why Don’t Penguin’s Feet Freeze.’ or ‘How to Avoid a Wombat’s Bum. – (the former is to do with the blood vessels in the legs and the latter doesn’t tell you to how to avoid it only that the animal has a habit of running flat out and then stopping dead letting any pursuing predator smash into its bum bone).

Do I really have to know that Jeremy Clarkson’s mother made her fortune from Paddington Bear merchandise. Why would I need to be aware of the fact that an average metal coat hanger is 112cm long when straightened? Would anyone care that the British Associations of Toy Retailers Toy of the Year in 1965 was the James Bond Aston Martin die-cast car?

In what part of the world will I ever find use for the fact that there is no single English word for the back of the knee or that it is quicker to say ‘world wide web’ than ‘www’ (three syllables versus nine – try it).

I’m sure that my kids were once fascinated to know that your skin weighs twice as much as your brain or that some snails have their reproductive organs located on their head. But it all gets a bit much unless you are careful. And it’s dangerous. Very dangerous.   You can look a king sized wally if you quote something that is wrong.

It is not true that a duck’s quack has no echo. Running in a zig zag will not help you escape a crocodile. Coca-cola will not dissolve a tooth if you leave it overnight. Bob Holness of Blockbuster fame did not play the saxophone on Gerry Rafferty’s Baker St (although if life were fair it should be true).

Stephen Fry and QI have even turned ‘fact bashing’ into a hit TV show but will I stop reading this rubbish? Absolutely not. Why would I? I might be reading the world’s most erroneous statements but come on – be honest – how could you live not knowing that Billie Piper made her TV debut impersonating Posh Spice or that rubber bands last longer when they are refrigerated or … well you get the idea.”

2. ‘Books.’

I’m sitting on the edge of my Gran and Grandpa’s creaking old brass double bed It fills every inch of the room and it is where I will divvie up the Scottish Cup tickets for the North East of Scotland for the nineteen seventy six cup final between Rangers and Hearts (3-1 in case you wanted to know) – my Grandpa was connected to the Scottish Football Association. It’s the late summer of nineteen seventy-five and I’m three floors up on the corner of Cross St and Mid St in Fraserburgh and the smell of the fish gutting factory is heavy in the air. I’m thirteen years old and I’ve just finished ‘Tom Swift and His Cosmotron Express’. Tom and his friend Bud Barclay have just seen off the evil VIPER and I’m clean out of books. I’ve read every Hardy Boy, Tom Swift and Famous Five book going and my Gran walks into the room

‘I’m going to the library. Do you want anything?’ she asks.

‘A book,’ I mumble.  I’m so a teenager.

An hour later she returns and drops James Herbert’s The Fog on the bed. I pick it up and read the first line – “The village slowly began to shake off its slumber and comes to life.”

Life changed.

People lopping off other people’s private parts – blood – violence – SEX. I was hooked and the fact I read it from cover to cover that afternoon and went out the next day to get James Herbert’s first book – The Rats – told me that Tom and the Hardy Boys were history.

Since that moment I can’t remember a day that I haven’t had at least one book on the go – more likely three or four. I was, and still am, a book junkie.

It is all so prescient now – right now – as I’ve just had my first novel published – Falling – and I can trace it all the way back to that day in Fraserburgh. Without my grandmother’s efforts to please her eldest grandchild I reckon my life as a novelist would have been stillborn.

Thanks Gran.

1. ‘Stuff.’

It’s nearly Christmas and for many people it’s time for the attack of the ‘pressie panic.’  What should I get for Gran? Does my son really need an X Box, a Playstation AND a Wii? When will I start shopping?  A friend of mine is a Christmas Eve shopper; in fact it’s now a matter of pride that he waits until the last possible moment to buy anything as he knows it winds up his partner.

This got me round to thinking of Christmas presents that stand out. Presents that I really appreciated. And that’s where I started to struggle. I’m not being ungrateful but presents that I remember with affection are a bit thin on the ground and that’s a bit of a worry. So I talked to my wife about it and the conversation shifted to all the stuff we have bought over the years and what items we value. We started to draw up a list and it took on an interesting slant.

Take for example the double, collapsable buggy that we bought when our youngest was a few months old. It was a star – three trips to the US and my eldest, by now five and the size of a seven year old, happily flopped into it with his sister when the going got tough at Disneyland. Designed for a a couple of light babies – good for ten times that. Brilliant. Or the fold away cot that is still in use today with my brother’s newborn – fifteen years after we bought it – a multi coloured gem that has provided a string of children with a play area and bed non stop since the day it was removed from its box and shows no signs of being retired to the bin just yet.

What about the folding card table that we inherited from my mother in law. Forty years old, cheap as chips when it was bought, repaired within an inch of its life and now serving as a table for the barbecue food – genius. Then there’s my waterproof radio for the bathroom. Shaped like a penguin; eyes for tuning and sound, bow-tie for selecting FM or AM, mouth for speaker -  it has faithfully worked for years whether it is in the shower with me singing or sitting in the rain as I repair the garden fence. And, to top it all, bathroom radios recently won the award for the most useless item in the house. Voted on by WHO? Useless! My penguin is crying at the insult.

So what will I be looking forward to this Christmas? A thigh massager for the car? A holographic picture frame that changes colour? A four foot high Rubick’s cube? I have no idea but, as you open your presents this year, just take a moment to think about the stuff that has made a difference to your life. The stuff you look at and think – now that is a great thing to own. I bet you’ll be surprised.