Yoga giggles, Montegos and the theatre - #s 5, 15 and 17

The clock is ticking and the end of my twenties is fast approaching. So over the past few weeks I've been scrambling to get my final few things done. 

Yoga giggles - #17

An artist's impression of how I may have looked

As well as exciting new challenges, this list has been about broadening my mind; specifically towards things I've been quite dismissive of in the past. This very much includes yoga. To some it's the ability to transform mind and body; to me it's flexible show-offs who's definition of a good night is eating flavourless organic food whilst sitting in judgement on anyone who eats and heaven-forbids enjoys carbohydrates.

But I wanted to give it a go - you never know, I might be missing something. Turns out I'm not. Last week I took my very first - and what I suspect may be my last yoga class. 

It's fair to say that when it comes to flexibility; I have none. I have the torso of someone who's 6' 4" and the legs of someone who's 4' 6". This makes things like touching toes and kicking legs high somewhat tricky; I just don't bend that way. I did try to relax into it; I really did. But at one stage the instructor had people sticking out their tongues and rolling their eyes. It was at this stage I began corpsing and spent the next five minutes stifling my giggles. When the lady next to me clocked me laughing and started laughing too I caught a glimpse of the instructor looking somewhat unimpressed.

I decided this wasn't really me. But I have learnt that quiet contemplation and relaxing meditation doesn't really do it for me; my brain's doesn't switch off enough and I get distracted too easily. It also gave me cramp in my toe.

Who needs to bend and relax anyway.

New cars - #15

Grandad and his Austin Allegro

I've never been a petrol head. I'm the one who watches Top Gear for the challenges then switches over to try and catch A Touch of Frost on ITV3 when the test-driving cars bit comes on.

Cars have just never really been my thing. I can drive one - I know when one looks good but when it comes to break-horse powers, miles-per-gallon and carburetors I genuinely haven't got a clue.

I think it stems from the cars of my childhood. My grandparents set the tone; one Austin Allegro and one nuclear-yellow Austin Marina. For my parents it was an Austin Montego which was later upgraded to a Rover Montego; you can't say we didn't try our best to prop up the bucket-rusting British car industry.

Montegos. Can't think why our car industry collapsed.

Although at one stage we did move away from the shoddily built English cars to get a Ford Mondeo Ghia with electric front windows. My fondness for thoroughly unremarkable cars continued into my 20s and for the last 8 years I've driven a solid yet unspectacular Peugeot 206 which in its later years has developed what I'd term 'character'. Like when you turn the heaters on and the fan squeals in a high-pitched sound which only the dogs of Dudley can hear. Or when you're traveling at 70mph down the M6 and the warning light telling you that your door is open flashes at you. That's a bit scary the first time it happens. So I wanted to finally get myself a car which didn't leave me feeling anxious on any journey which is longer than 30 minutes and which didn't make me feel slightly like a failed hairdresser.

Bargain: my new wheels

So...I got this. I've never really wanted a Mini - but the finance package on this was too attractive; £10 from The Entertainer toy shop.

Ok - so I never managed to get a real new car. It was one financial outlay too far but before too long when my Peugeot inevitably gives up the ghost and goes to the scrap dealer in the sky; I'll be looking for help from anyone who can tell me the difference between a differential and a dipstick.

In a West End town...#5

The only reason to-date to go to the theatre

Putting aside the fact that I've still not really mastered this swimming lark; number five on my list has been one of the more illusive of my challenges. As I approach my thirties I've decided to add a little culture into my life. And what says pretentious culture more than an evening out at the theatre. 

Wolverhampton's Grand Theatre was never a mainstay of my childhood. A school trip to see J.B Priestley's 'An Inspector Calls' was pretty much the highlight of my theatre goings; alongside the thirty-eight trips to see 'Buddy - The Musical'.

So if I was going to do this I was going to do it in style; by taking in a show at the London West End. And although I haven't yet been - a show at the London Palladium is booked in for a few week's time. Michael Flatley's Lord of the Dance - not really my choice but hey, it's another one ticked off the list.

I've two days left in my twenties; just one more thing to do...

I'm still chasing cars...and I know my dad will like this...

A public apology to Clive and why some things are best left in the past

I have to start this latest entry with a public apology to Clive. It's been a while since my last swimming update so just to re-fresh your memories: I'm 28, I can't swim so I've been taking lessons at Wombourne Leisure Centre. Clive, of course, is the friendly and exceptionally patient instructor.

I swam two lengths in New Zealand
but I haven't stepped foot in the pool since. Complacency?

The only problem is I haven't been in the pool since March! I've well and truly lost my swimming mojo. A combination of generally being really busy and (this is probably the crux of it) I'm really struggling to get motivated to get myself out of bed at 8am on a Sunday morning.

And it's not due to get any easier either - the next two weekends will be another write-off as I've already got plans to meet up with friends. I think in my head I know I've still got a year to master this so missing a few weeks here of there won't matter. Or at least that's how I'm subconsciously justifying my blatant failure to myself. I know I need to get my motivation back - anyone got any ideas??

Still, on a more positive note - my quest to go to at least ten live music/comedy gigs before I hit 30 is going pretty well. Last night I went to the Wolverhampton Grand Theatre to watch 'Made in Brum' with my dad, my brother and my mate Bordy. Hosted by Birmingham's most famous (only famous?) stand-up comic, Jasper Carrott, it was a showcase of the best of the '60s and '70s music Birmingham had to offer. Some may scoff at the very notion of it, but actually the West Midlands produced some great bands during that era: Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Slade and ELO to name but a few. But what dawned on me last night was that sometimes, some things are best left in the past.

We all like to reminisce. Music is emotive and can transport us back to a particular place in time; a relationship, a holiday; a special occasion - but sometimes you need to leave those memories safely tucked away.

Last night, albeit entertaining, was actually quite depressing. An audience with what Bordy described as an average age of 102, trying to turn back the clock and recapture the joys of years gone by. You know there's a generation gap when you get outside the show and the Ring & Ride pensioners' bus is parked up waiting to take people home.

But aside from the audience, it was sad, and a bit creepy, to see some of the acts on stage. I've never really clocked it before, but my Mom has always said it spooks her out when you've got ageing pop stars in their 60s and 70s singing about 'sweet sixteen' romances. She's actually spot on. Whilst the music will remain, sometimes those who perform it need to step back and say 'I'm done'. One act in particular murdered a Buddy Holly classic - whilst I cringed and prayed it would stop, if you listened very carefully, somewhere in Lubbock Texas you could hear Buddy's grave spinning.

That said, Jasper was on good form - his quip that Jagermeister tastes like 'Badger's p**s' in particular made me chuckle. I loved watching and listening to Jasper Carrott when I was growing up. He's a clever comic - not having to rely on bad language to get cheap laughs. Good, clean, clever observational comedy. But it has dated a bit now. I think I'll choose to remember Jasper from my childhood days and park last night's memory.

I think there's a lesson for us all in here somewhere. Memories should be cherished, of course they should, but spending too much time trying to recapture the past means you might miss all the great things that are happening right now. Like last night's show, some things just need to be fondly left in the past where they belong.

Let me leave with you with this - a great song from a great Black Country band who deserve more credit than simply being wheeled out for a 'top Xmas song countdown' every December...

Scuba drowning in Faliraki, Bordy and Buddy

Scuba Drowning in Faliraki



The original Inbetweeners. Mif, Indi, me, Ben, Bordy and Naylor.

Since I've been learning to swim, I've been thinking a bit more about why I dislike it so much.
 
My first blog post about swimming gives you a flavour - but the more I think back, there are definitely two or three other reasons that spring to mind and would explain my fear and trepidation when it comes to being in the water.

1. This may sound like an excuse, and there's no scientific evidence to back this up as far as I'm aware, but I think it could be genetic. My parents aren't great swimmers and my grandad couldn't swim either - a slight problem considering he was in the navy during the war. He only learnt to swim when they threw him overboard in Malta and shouted back - "now swim you b*****d!". I hope I don't drive Clive to these sorts of extremes.
2. My mom has kindly reminded me this week of a Haven holiday we had in Weymouth when I was younger. Seaview holiday park - and Jamie decided he could swim. He was not going to wear his armbands, he insisted he could swim. Afterall, my brothers weren't wearing armbands - why should I. I sunk. I was hauled out soaking and sobbing.
3. Scuba diving in Faliraki. Clearly not my wisest decision. If I can offer one piece of advice to all non-swimmers out there; if you're incapable of swimming a length in the pool at your hotel, don't assume you'll be fine underwater at sea.
   
   It was my post-A Level lads holiday. Now, for some unknown reason, probably because there was nothing to do during the days; especially after my best pal Bordy lost our only football and our frisbee (in the ocean and hotel roof respectively); I signed up for a scuba diving session.  So, one morning our group took a boat trip out to sea.
   
   Eventually we arrived at our scuba diving destination. It started badly. Our mate Indi missed the step off the jetti and crashed straight into the water. This greatly amused me - but my laughter was not to last. Anyway, we go through a quick safety briefing and the Aussie instructor tells us that the most likely problem we'll encounter is water getting in your goggles. If this happens, tap the bottom of your goggles with you palm and breath out of your nose to flush the water out. Sounds simple.
   
   Into the water we went - and I honestly loved it. For about 5 minutes I was in the sea, I could breath, my eyes were open and the views were spectacular. Then water began to seep into my goggles. Not to worry I thought, I'd listened to the briefing, I know how to sort this minor problem... 

   

   Had Bordy not lost the frisbee perhaps
   I would never have ventured out to sea.

   
   
   I pressed my palm against the bottom of goggles and breathed out...through my mouth. My mouthpiece (you know, the really important bit that gives you oxygen) flew out of my mouth. I was then overcome with panic. I gasped for air, inhaling most of the ocean in the process and then completely forgot the other piece of information the instructor gave us. 'Paddle with your feet and you go up...paddle with your hands and you go down'. So of course I thrashed my arms around which resulted in me sinking further and further down. I started making the distress signal and I was fished out by the Aussie guy who rather embarrassingly towed me back to the boat. I remembered at the time thinking two things: one, I genuinely may die here and, two; why is my mate Naylor laughing so much.

Well, I guess my fear of the water stems further than wet socks in the changing rooms at Heath Town baths and swimming with the kids with the snotty noses.

Overcoming the fear

So - I had swimming lesson number three this morning. It was not good.

It feels a bit like when you learn to drive. You start thinking you've got the hang of it then you have two or three sessions where you do nothing but stall. Today I stalled.

Clive is being really patient with me which is a good job - because I'm at the stage where I'm getting frustrated with myself. It's a bit of a viscious cycle - the more frustrated I get, the more tense I become and the more likely I am to sink. I'm fine with the floats - but when they're taken away, for some unknown reason I forget the basics and I start to flap. It's all psychological so I know I have to overcome the fear. Clive can give me the basics around technique and breathing - but only I can overcome the fear. The one good thing to come out of it - I'm more determined than ever to do this. Ok - it may be harder than I had originally thought - but I won't let it beat me.

The Day The Music Died

I can't let the 3rd February pass without paying tribute to one of my oldest and bestest mates, Adam Shakespeare (nee Ward). Bordy - happy birthday mate - hope you have a great day. Thanks for the happy memories...

And finally, the reason I never forget Bordy's birthday every year. Of course, 3rd February 2013 marks the 54th anniversary of the day the music died. On a cold, wintery evening in Clear Lake, Iowa - rock 'n' roll lost one of its most talented pioneers. With no heating on their tour bus, Buddy Holly hired a small plane to fly the headliners onto their next gig. Well, the rest is history. He perished that fateful night alongside Ritchie Valens, J.P Richardson (The Big Bopper) and their pilot Roger Peterson. As Don McLean sung in his anthemic American Pie, it was the day the music died.

Fact of the day: Buddy had fish and chips at the chippy on Snow Hill in Wolverhampton, true.

Here's to you Buddy...