#21 - Mr Roy and Singapore Slings at Raffles

The white tiger is an incredible animal

If you ever spend time in Singapore there are two things you need to do. Firstly, go to the zoo and secondly, got to the Long Bar at the Raffles Hotel; the home of the Singapore Sling.

The day after Dav's birthday, or 'Dav's Boxing Day' as he referred to it, we made our way to Singapore's zoo. As a general rule of thumb, caged animals and funny smells aren't normally my thing so I wasn't overly fussed about this excursion. I'd also been to that part of the island earlier in the week to see the Night Safari. That was the night I was one bite away from what I expect would have been bowel-exploding salmonella poisoning as I cut through a raw piece of chicken tikka. If you listened carefully I swear you could still hear the chicken clucking it was that raw.

One baboon...

Still, we arrived at the zoo and it turned out to be the best tourist attraction so far. Far from caged and smelly, it transpired to be a fascinating, cageless and odourless experience. There were lions, white tigers, elephants, giraffes, meerkats, ostriches - you name it - they had it. But for me it was the baboons which were the most fascinating. Granted, they have that weird bum thing going on which looks like they've got atomic hemorrhoids but their human-like features and mannerisms are intriguing. Another tick in the box for Darwinism without a doubt.

Me, Dav and Garv

We spent most of the day there before heading back for our final evening. This taxi driver was the friendliest driver we'd met so far; unlike the driver who'd taken us to the zoo. He had two speeds - 100mph or stop. One particular cutting-up manoeuvre left me desperately pushing on the imaginary passenger brakes in the footwell of the car. But on the way back we had Mr Roy. He was a chatty chap who told us about an English family whose children he used to drive to school every morning. They moved back to the UK but had kept in touch. Apparently the little girl had even named her cat after him. I loved the idea of a little girl in London calling out for 'Mr Roy' to come in for his din-dins every evening.

The world-famous Raffles Hotel

That evening we made our way to the world famous Raffles Hotel to do what I expect every tourist does; visits the Long Bar for a Singapore Sling. Invented in that hotel sometime around 1915, the Singapore Sling is one of the world's most iconic cocktails. This classy long drink has stood the test of time and of course, unlike many cocktails of today you don't feel like a lecherous predator when you order it. Not a 'Slippery Nipple' or 'Screaming Orgasm' in sight here.

The sling is a classic - and that's reflected in the price. For six cocktails we barely had change from £100.  Still - as we sat in the bar, listened to the live music, took in the history of this famous hotel and reflected on our break, the price become an irrelevance. We knew that the chances are we'd never get the opportunity to be here ever again.

So that was it; number 21 on my list is complete. The definition of a lads' holiday may have changed but given the choice of a week of hangovers in 'Shag-aluf' or the views overlooking Singapore from the Marina Bay Sands; I know which one I'd prefer.

Give me this over a Screaming Orgasm any day

All that was left was for the long journey home; which itself wasn't without its drama. Dav and Hannah at one stage weren't even booked on the flight and I had to endure a man with halitosis sleeping next to me with his mouth wide-open for three hours. As I gagged into my pillow, I finally snapped and went for an elbow jab into his ribs to wake him up. Aggressive yes, but it seemed to do the trick.

Still, we made it back in one piece, with a whole host of new new memories to cherish. And what did I learn? Well, Singaporean taxi drivers are bonkers, westerners sweat in places you didn't think could sweat, for a bloke from the arse-end of Basildon; Garv's done pretty well for himself and to get a hangover in Singapore you need to be earning a six-figure salary.

In homage to the Singapore Sling, I've taken this track from the 80s film Cocktail...fairly sensible advice too in fairness...

#21 - Singapore Stories Part 2 - Garv screams, Segways and Dav turns 30

Universal Studios. Authentically Singaporean

I've never particularly liked theme parks. I think it comes from the time I went green on the pirate ship at Drayton Manor after I'd eaten a tub of KP's white chocolate Choco Dips. Or perhaps the time I got travel sick on the school coach on my way to Alton Towers. Or maybe the time I had to sit down after going on the spinning tea cups in Telford. Either way - a fan of needless adrenalin and endless queuing I am not.

Still, on the island of Sentosa stands Universal Studios; the Hollywood-inspired theme park, boasting attractions themed by all the classics; Jurassic Park, The Mummy, Shrek and my personal favourite, Sesame Street.

Childish humour.

After queuing for an hour to go on what was effectively a Sesame Street ride for 5 year olds (yes, that was my idea) we dined in a 1950s-style diner before making our way towards The Mummy's indoor rollercoaster. Dav and Hannah were somewhat excited, I felt obliged as I'd traveled all that way and Garv, well, he turned out to be adept at looking after other people's stuff whilst they went on rides. Dav and Hannah loved every second, I however had my eyes ferociously shut desperately hoping not to see my burger and fries for a second time.

We eventually convinced Garv to join us on the family-friendly rapids water ride. After queuing for more than an hour in stifling humidity, the gentle splash of the choppy water was a welcome relief to us all...that was until an unexpected log-flume drop towards the very end. As the boat unexpectedly rose out of the water, the doors in front of us opened and over we tipped. Poor Garv however was looking straight down from the very top and let out what can only be described as a string of highly pitched expletives going along the lines of "f*****g hell, s**t, noooooo!!" It left Dav, Hannah and I in stitches - as indeed did it the two Japanese six year olds who were also in our boat. Not sure their parents were as impressed.

Marina Bay Sands at night. Wow.

The following day was Easter Sunday. I dragged the gang to the Botanical Gardens. The highlight for me being the wonderful lakes and orchid gardens; the highlight for Dav was being able to get a picture of Garv and his long-suffering wife, Hannah, next to a sign saying 'Ginger Garden'. Childish. Amusing but childish.

Our view from the top of the MBS

That evening we made our way to what has become the most dominant feature of the Singapore skyline; Marina Bay Sands. This goliath structure was funded by Vegas-cash and is a hugely impressive sight. Three skyscraper towers with a boat-like structure resting along its top. Inside is a very plush casino. Having never been in a casino, Dav wanted to sign of his 20s doing something new. So, in we went. We each placed a $10 (£5) bet on the roulette tables. We lost. We soon concluded that gambling was never likely to be our vice. Dav and I instead decided that a white bread addiction was more likely to do for us than a gambling habit.

Feeling wounded by our rush of blood that cost us £20, we made our way to the top of the Marina Bay Sands. The views from the top are simply sensational. The boats in the Singapore Straits and the lights of the city below are breathtaking. It was one of those 'how did I get here moments?'.

The southerly most point of Continental Asia

The next morning was Dav's 30th. Although not until 7am local time. Not to suggest he's a 'Little Englander' but he'd only recognise Greenwich Mean Time and, here's a fact, he never changes his wrist watch from GMT...he says he 'likes to have a bit of Blighty on his wrist'. Well in true British style it rained that day. And then it rained some more...then it drizzled...then it p****d it down. Still, in true Dunkirk-style, our spirit was not to be dampened. We made our way back to the island of Sentosa, or at least we tried to. The first taxi we flagged down claimed to not know where it was. The second taxi driver, when we said where we wanted to go simply said 'no'. Eventually we found a cab to take us the short 20 minute trip - although I soon wished we hadn't. He clearly wasn't the full ticket, driving bare feet and making an odd 'sniffing' sound every minute or so. It was, quite frankly, weird.

We spent the morning in the aquarium before the birthday boy was given free reign on his choice of lunch. So we finished our Big Mac and chips and headed to the beach. The words 'Brit abroad' spring to mind.

An artist's impression of how Dav may have looked

The beaches at Sentosa were beautiful as we stood at the most southerly point of Continental Asia overlooking the ocean. We didn't stay for long though - Dav had reluctantly been railroaded into riding a Segway for his birthday. Quite frankly, wild horses wouldn't have stopped me witnessing this. I love the guy to bits but nimble and agile aren't words I'd ever associate with Dav - although ironically it would be Hannah who almost went head first into a tree.

Later that night, Garv treated us to a meal at the exclusive Level 33 restaurant. It's also doubles up as a micro-brewery so it was ale all round for the birthday boy before we made our way on to the balcony of the restaurant and marveled at another glorious Singaporean evening.

Only one more Singapore-blog to go, I promise.

In the meantime, this is for Garv...

#21 - Have a lads holiday abroad - I head to the Far East

When I started this list, I was adamant that I'd missed out in my 20s. Amongst many things, I'd been deprived of a proper lads holiday abroad. You know, the sort of holiday where 'what happens in Benidorm, stays in Benidorm' which invariably means cheap cocktails, watered-down lager, sunburn and England football shirts.

Me, Hannah, Garv and Dav splash out
on one of the few beers of our holiday

If you've seen The Inbetweeners movie then you'll know what I mean. I'd had my post-A Level fortnight in Faliraki, but that was in my teens - and it was a holiday where the travel agents needed a signed letter from my mom saying I could travel.

As time's gone by though I've realised that partying late into the night, cocky holiday reps, third-division footballer haircuts and English fry-ups are my idea of a holiday from hell. That coupled with the fact that the 'lads' in question are all receding, nearly thirty-somethings now meant that I had to have a bit of a re-think on this one. 

Fortunately, with my friend Garv moving out to Singapore in January, a new opportunity presented itself. So, with my good friend Dav and his wife, and honorary 'lad' Hannah, we jetted out to see how our pal was getting on his new life in the Far East. The fact that that the trip promised free accommodation had no bearing on our decision to go there at all...honestly.

So we started our long journey to Singapore with a flight from Manchester to Zurich where we had an unenviable six hour turn around time before the second leg which would take us to Singapore. This lengthy wait in Toblerone-city which is also seemingly home to the world's most expensive Burger King, was courtesy of the over-cautious Dav who I think had secretly wanted us to be delayed in Manchester to prove his cautiousness correct. We weren't delayed, so six hours to wait it was.

We finally arrived in Singapore after a 13 hour flight and were greeted by two of the mainstays of Singaporean life; its schizophrenic-like weather conditions and its crazy taxi drivers.

Dav and Hannah from Garv's rooftop

As we stepped out of the airport, the wall of humid heat smacked you in the face like the opening of an oven door. You can't fail to sweat profusely in this sort of humidity; it is not a pretty sight. We made our way to our cab and the first character trait of Singaporean taxi drivers came to the fore; they expect you to know where you're going. We told the driver were we needed to go and he had no idea where it was. This apparently isn't an uncommon quirk as we were to find out later in our holiday. Secondly, they're nuts. As we left the airport, the heavens opened. I'd never quite seen rain like it before. This too is something you get used to in Singapore. At one point we drove through a puddle with such force that the car was completely submerged in water. I was convinced this was how it was going to end. I looked back at Dav and Hannah whose frozen expressions made me think they shared my fear...and the driver, he chuckled like a child riding through a puddle on his push bike. How reassuring.

"A kind heart is a fountain of gladness" - and a cool bear

We finally arrived at Garv's - and as far as views go - his is pretty incredible and certainly beats his last digs which was a wonderful view overlooking picturesque Brixton. He's on the 14th floor of an exclusive condo overlooking the Singapore skyline. The view from the top of his block is simply stunning. He's in the insurance game now. I asked him to explain to me in layman terms what exactly he does...ten minutes later when he'd finished explaining I was still none-the-wiser. Let's assume he's not working for Direct Line and leave it at that.

The first few days were taken up by the obligatory open-top tourist bus and ducking in and out of shopping malls to get a break from the stifling humidity and to let Dav dry-out in the heavenly air conditioning. It's fair to say Dav is a creature of cooler climates, proved by the walk on day three to Fort Canning - and former military base which is now a public park. Oh, and which, when we arrived, was shut. It's about a 25 minute walk from Garv's - or 45 minutes if Dav's in tow. It's fair to say humidity and walking don't mix with a man from Derbyshire whose ideal weather conditions are overcast, cool and with chances of a real ale later on.

Where modern Singapore meets Ye Olde Britain

Still, a quick stop off at the National Singapore Museum cheered him up (see how the definition of a lads holiday changes). The colonial past of this country is fascinating. The British influence here is still ingrained in the fabric of modern-day Singaporean society; from the language to the architecture. Lying beside the modern-day sky scrapers are the British-inspired village cricket pitches and the unmistakably British City Hall buildings. The Indian influence is really strong here too. Presumably shipped here by the British to police the island, Little India is a fascinating district. Garv took us there to dine al fresco. When I say al fresco, what I mean is outside, on plastic chairs, next to the over-spilling wheelie bins. It's the kind of place where you think you've got there a few minutes before the health inspector. But in Singapore, local is the way to eat...a bit like sausages, just try not think about how it's made. Plus, it's the cheapest way to eat. Food here is dirt cheap...unlike alcohol. A pint of beer can cost as much as £10 a pint. Suffice to say this 'lads holiday' was hangover-free!

Poolside at Garv's...scene of the mosquito feast

Weather-wise, barely a day went by without stormy rain. There was plenty of sunshine too - but mostly it was humid heat and rain. There was time to lounge by the pool...which we found out to our cost. A mosquito feast on Dav's legs poolside saw him wake up one morning with an infected bite on his shin which meant he spent most of the rest of the holiday having to wear trousers. The infected puss-filled blister was pretty disgusting. The child in me wanted him to pop it...I could see this being filmed and going viral on the internet, it was that gruesome. But Hannah said that probably wasn't very sensible. As we debated what to do with the patient, Garv helpfully consulted the world of Google to find a diagnosis; "according to the internet, if you're bitten by a mosquito and it fills with puss...it means your knob will drop off". So, chronic knob-rot was Garv's insightful diagnosis. Still, we had a Derbyshire man feeling sorry himself and a mosquito somewhere who now had Type 2 diabetes. To give you an idea as to how grim the blister was, we Skyped our friend Crewe back home. We showed him the wound and his response, in his monotone Manc accent was; "bloody hell, what were you bitten by, snake?".

Still, in fairness to him, he didn't go on about it *coughs*.

The first week was taken up by sightseeing, trips to a Night Safari, Universal Studios and taking in a local football match, which will be the feature of another blog later on.

Next up - Dav is 30, we visit the home of the Singapore sling and we meet Mr Roy the taxi driver.

In honour of the sweaty westerners in Singapore, I'll leave you with this...

Jack Whitehall, The Dixie Chicks and Sore Nipples

Well that was the weekend that was.

For the last few months this weekend has been penciled-in as D-day for my list. Poor planning on my part granted; but this was the weekend where I was set to complete numbers 22 and 27 from my list.

Number 22 was to take in at least ten new music or comedy gigs whilst Number 27, which for me was to be the toughest challenge yet, was to complete two half marathons...one of which had to be under 1 hour 55 minutes.

Chas 'n' Dave - not cool - but I clearly enjoyed it.

Let's start with #22. I wrote back in January 2013 about how music and comedy had played a big part in my life. Indoctrination by my father into 1950s rock 'n' roll as a child is something which, today I'm sure social services would step-in to save children from. But nonetheless, it had a big effect on me. As did endless hours in front of VHS tapes as a kid watching Only Fools and Horses, Porridge, Fawlty Towers and other classic BBC sitcoms.

So whilst my friends were taking in Backstreet Boys and the Fresh Prince of BelAir, I was listening to Eddie Cochran and soaking up the sarcasm and wit of Norman Stanley Fletcher.

So getting out to see live music and comedy was something I really wanted to do again. Well, this weekend, I've finally, completed my list of ten new gigs, and you can see that my dad's influence lingers on. The fact that I'd put Chas 'n' Dave in my top three gigs is testament to that.

Jack Whitehall

Jack Whitehall. Funny posh kid.

But whereas musically, I'm often drawn back to my childhood, my comedy tastes at least have moved on. On Friday night, I went to see Jack Whitehall - the new posh kid on the block - whose sitcom success with Fresh Meat and Bad Education has made him the freshest new comedy talent in the country. I went with my brother Ian, his friend Nick and my sister-in-law Sandi. Whitehall was very funny...perhaps not as funny as his debut stand-up tour - but funny nonetheless. His comedy clearly aimed at the BBC Three student generation, I did catch Ian and Nick glancing at each other on occasion with a rather confused look upon their brows. Sandi and I helped fill in the generational gaps which were clearly lost on these two mid-thirty somethings. Although I can understand why they'd be confused...this is the generation who held-up Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer as comedy geniuses...something which I've never been able to fathom.That was Friday night.

The Dixie Chicks

Saturday would see me do a 200+ mile round-trip to London to see a band which I've wanted to see for more than ten years. 

I should start this by apologising publicly to my friend Dav. I mocked him mercilessly a few years ago when he took himself off on his own to see Welsh opera-hotty Katherine Jenkins. Well, with no friends wanting to join me at the O2, I made my way to the UK's Country & Western Festival on my own. There's something inherently tragic about that, and if I'm honerst, a little bit of my died inside when I got there and sat on my own. But the self-loathing was ultimately worth it. It was also my first return to the O2 since (or the Millennium Dome as it was called back then) on Millennium Eve. As a family though we've taken a vow never to talk about that night again. 

This trip to the Dome wasn't as shameful as my first visit

More than ten years ago I stumbled, purely by chance, upon the music of the Dixie Chicks...and it was fitting that their performance marks the end of my quest to see more live gigs. 

They were sensational. The back-story to them is that ten years or so ago they were the biggest thing in country-rock music. Think the Spice Girls - but with talent. That's how big and game-changing they were for that genre. Girl power...with a stetson hat. But at their peak, at a concert in London, lead singer Natalie Maines dared, during a rendition of their Vietnam War-inspired hit 'Travelling Soldier', to openly say that she was ashamed that former-US President George W Bush was a fellow Texan. Her highly politicised jibe came at a huge cost. Radio stations stop playing their music, their records were destroyed in the streets and their career was in tatters. So, more than eight years after that night, they were back in London for the very first time. And I was there.

Over the finish line in 1hr 51m. Get in.

Sore Nipples

Then came Sunday. My second attempt at overcoming the mammoth challenge I'd set myself; to complete two half marathons...one of which had to be sub-1 hour 55 minutes.
The setting was Stafford. I was joined by my old school friend Amy and old school pals Becky and Kate. Today's weather was uncharacteristically spring-like for this early in March. In fact, today's practically been a mini-heatwave. One assumes the Daily Express will run with some weather-based front page story tomorrow telling us that we're set to fry this summer - or it'll be a washout. Either way, the lefty climate-change propagandists will be to blame I'm sure.

My mate Amy and I post-race

The heat didn't help - but as we pounded the rural country lanes of Stafford, something felt different this time. This was my fourth half marathon...none of the previous three have necessarily been great experiences if I'm honest. But today felt different - it felt as if this was one psychological barrier I could finally overcome. After running the Oldham half marathon in 2 hours and 1 minute back in October, I knew I had a lot to do. But, having abandoned the others earlier in the race (my second apology of this piece), it came to the ten mile mark, a glance at my watch, and I had a feeling that I might just do this. The hours of trudging up and down hills in Sedgley and Gornal may just have been worth it. As I ran into Stafford town centre after a grueling final two miles and saw the finish line, I knew I'd achieved the toughest challenge yet. I came in at 1 hour 51 minutes. A whole ten minutes shaved-off my last run and six minutes quicker than my personal best. And aside from a blister or two and  two very sore nipples, I survived to tell the story.

My biggest achievement to-date...and certainly the one I'm most proud of.

Before the race, Kate had suggested we think about this song if we were struggling...turns out it worked.

#26 - Angus, Angus and Angus...go to Angus

Arbroath, Scotland

So I've just got back from completing #26 on my list...paying homage to my Celtic ancestry and visiting, for the first time, wee bonnie Scotland.

Angus and Angus - with the other Angus taking the photo

Being born and brought up in Wolverhampton, you rarely stumble across another Angus - unless of course you hang around outside Burger King. I've always been quite proud of the uniqueness of our family name although our immediate family heritage traces us back to the North-East and Newcastle so the Scottish link has been somewhat diluted as the generations have gone by.

My primary school teacher, Mr Thomas, clearly missed his natural vocation in life as a stand-up comic - he never failed to have the rest of the class in hysterics when he'd say to me 'Angus me coat-up'. Hilarity prevailed clearly. Although my personal favourite is always "if you 'miss the 'g' in your name then you're really in the sh*t". Comedy gold...albeit a tad crude. I should probably say that Mr Thomas didn't come up with that one and went on to have a distinguished career in primary education.

This could have read Gill Brothers On Tour

In recent years, my eldest brother Ian has become quite the geneologist; tracing back our family history to mole catchers assistants in Shropshire on my maternal side and fish gutters from the north-east on the paternal side. But a strange anomaly cropped up on my grandad Angus' side. It appears grandad's dad was born after his 'father' had died. For the Only Fools & Horses fans amongst you, it's a bit like Trigger's family tree: "I never knew my dad...he died a few years before I was born". It looks as if great-great-grandma Angus might have had my great-grandfather by another man, but the child kept the Angus name. Sadly, we'll never know whether my grandad knew that or not; but in all probability, I should, really be known as Jamie Gill right now. Of course, that would make the heading of this blog rather redundant.

Lunan Bay...just north of Arbroath

Still, there's Scottish blood in there somewhere and it's a beautiful country which I've never visited.

So, this weekend, Ian, Alex and I made the 800+ mile round trip to the land of our forefathers (well, someone's forefathers anyway).

When I think of Scotland, I think of the craggy, heathland terrain, glacier mountain tops overlooking crystal blue lochs with locals swigging the finest malt whiskeys by an open, crackling fire against a backdrop of kilts, sporrans and bagpipes.

We went to Arbroath. I can assure you none of the above were present. In fact, to quote one of our party, Arbroath is "deprivation with a splash of quaintness".

An engineering and fishing town on the eastern coast, just north of Dundee, Arbroath has real historical significance - it's the home of the 'Declaration of Arbroath', the declaration of Scottish independence in 1310. But it's clearly a town struggling in recent years with the economy and traditional industries in decline.

Still, it's in the heart of Angus; which, according the tourism board is the birthplace of Scotland.

The harbour at Arbroath 

We booked into our B&B (The Brambles - if you're ever in town stay there, Murial and Wooly are lovely) before heading down to the harbour-side where there are some impressive coastal views overlooking the cold, menacing-looking North Sea. 

We spent Friday night exploring the town and taking in a few local taverns. To say it was cold on Friday would be an understatement. In fact, to quote the portly Scotsman stood next to me at the pub urinal "Jeez, it's so cold in here I think my hands have grown". Again, think about that one...there you go. 

Alex and I at Lunan Bay

We finished the night with a local delicacy. Protected by the EU, a bit like Melton Mowbray pies and Champagne, the Arbroath 'Smokie' is sold practically everywhere. It's a smoked fillet of haddock which has to have been caught within a certain radius of the town. It was surprisingly tasty - but left all three of us gasping for water in the middle of the night as its salt content took at least three years off our life expectancy...and I'm sure my ankles have swelled through water retention ever since.

Saturday morning saw us rise early and take a short car trip up the coast to the beautiful and picturesque, albeit bitterly exposed, Lunan Bay. We then headed further north to the fairly unimpressive and forgettable town of Montrose.

In the afternoon, we were to visit Gayfield Park, the home of Arbroath's football team, to take in the relegation 'six-pointer' against fellow strugglers East Fife. (This windy experience will be part of my next blog.)

On Saturday night, having been frozen to our cores at the football, we made our way back to the local taverns we'd visited the night before; supped a few more McEwan's ales before deciding the give the local nightclub 'DeVito's' (that's right, bizarrely named after the pint-sized Hollywood star, Danny DeVito) a wide berth and headed for a traditional Arbroath curry - with a proprietor who seemingly graduated from the same school of customer service as Basil Fawlty.

We decided against a night in DeVito's

On arrival we asked for a table for three, she asked 'have you booked?'. We replied 'no', to which, seemingly put out by our brazen attempts to eat in her establishment, she looked around at the half empty restaurant, huffed, then led us to a pokey table where we were jammed in between the coat stand and another table of diners.

It would make a classic Gordon Ramsay Kitchen Nightmare episode with the over-bearing owner leaning over and hawkishly watching the every move of the poor waitress. Then followed a dead-pan debate with Alex about whether you have onion salad or onion chutney with poppadoms. For me, I personally like my curry served with lashings of sarcasm and a side order of face like a smacked-ar*e'.

Still, it added to the entertainment of what was a great weekend. Arbroath's a nice little town and probably a good base to stay for a day or two if you're heading further north to the Highlands for a holiday.

I get the feeling there is Scottish blood in our DNA...but I'm glad our ancestors headed south...if only because it's a lot warmer down here!

So, #26 - visit Scotland....done.

I'll leave you with this...which always makes me want wine gums...

Just Another Saturday Night

Cardboard city in Wolverhampton

I'm writing this latest blog in a bit of a haze. I guess that's what comes of sleep deprivation in almost sub-zero temperatures on a Saturday night in Wolverhampton.


Last night myself and a bunch of colleagues layered-up and spent the night in a cardboard box in Wolverhampton city centre to support the YMCA's 2014 Sleep Easy campaign.

According to the YMCA, nearly 9,000 young people sleep rough in the UK every night. It's a frightening statistic - especially when you think that around 80% of those are homeless through no fault of their own.

Myself, Charlie, Pauline, Cara, Olly, Jo and Brit - colleagues from Wolverhampton Homes - wanted to raise awareness of the plight of the thousands of kids who have nowhere to call home - and to help raise a few quid to help the YMCA in the Black Country, who not only provide shelter for young people, but who help give them that first step into getting off the streets and handing them back their lives.

We were each issued with a cardboard box which were to become our homes for the next twelve hours. It soon dawned on us that when your homeless, what do you do? We'd all come prepared with sleeping bags and extra layers of clothing but with only one deck of cards between us - it became obvious that the next twelve hours were going to go by exceptionally slowly. After making one game of 'chase the ace' and 'cheat' last for almost an hour, the temperature started to drop so we made the most of the shelter of the student union hallway for a cup of coffee and a bit of warmth.

It's a spacious city-centre-living, eco-friendly property 

We then joined the other 25 or so people who'd signed up to take part; mostly students, YMCA workers and volunteers; around the camp fire to hear stories from those in the group who'd actually been homeless and who the YMCA had helped to get back on their feet. Without exception, the stories were heart-wrenching. One guy, Liam, had come over to England from Northern Ireland as a teenager to be reconciled with his mom. But before long his mom abandoned him for a second time in his life leaving Liam homeless and with nowhere to go. All of the people we heard from had become homeless because of family break-ups. The laughter and camaraderie we'd felt earlier in the evening was slowly being replaced with a sense of sadness and a realisation of how fortunate we really are.

My cardboard box selfie

Come 1am, with the temperature dropping towards zero, we clambered into our boxes to try and get some sleep; a task at which most of us failed. The biting cold wind, the sirens, drunken football fans chanting and the tormenting chimes of St Peter's church bells made sleep nearly impossible. It's strange how church bells during the day go almost unnoticed - but at night, their piercing sound rings so loud with its hourly frequency (but feels like every five minutes when you're in a frozen slumber) reminding you where you are - and how slowly time can pass when all you crave is warmth and comfort.

I dozed in and out of consciousness, but the longing for rest was futile. At nearly 7am we staggered out of our boxes, looking cold, disheveled and humbled. Sleeping out for just one night really takes its toll on your body...and your mental wellbeing's not in great shape either.

Cara described it as the worst night of her life. Difficult to disagree with that sentiment. But whereas we could slope away to our cars and head to our homes and warm beds - thousands of kids aren't that lucky. The thought of having to spend another night in those conditions genuinely could make me cry. And we had a safe place to stay, hot drinks and toilet facilities on-tap. It's no wonder homeless kids often take to drugs and alcohol abuse. You'd need it just to numb out the cold, the noises, the loneliness. 

In 2014 in the UK, no-one should have to live like this.

Pauline and Cara's body language says it all.

So; cold, hungry and humbled I feel strangely satisfied that I've done my bit. I spent the night with some great people and we've helped raise a few pounds so that maybe a few kids get the chance to have the fortunate life which I know I take for granted.

If you can spare a few quid, you can donate here.

I'll be back in a week or so having hopefully completed number 26 on my list of 30 things to do...I'm off north of the border.

Let me leave you with this...

#29 - I reach my Tipping Point

Ben, Lisa, Jake, Daniel and me (and some random's green shirt)

The studio lights, the pressure, Ben Shephard's handsomely chiseled jawline. This was possibly the most surreal of all my challenges so far.

This week I completed number 29 on my list...to appear on a TV show.

I've always wondered what it would be like to be on TV. I've quite often briefed people before they go on camera - but I've never been thrust into the limelight myself.

My mom and grandad are the closest things we have to celebrities in our family. They appeared on a Christmas special of the Generation Game in 1970-something - and forty years on, it's a great story to tell. So I thought I'd have some of that.

The show: Tipping Point. The jackpot: £10,000. National humiliation: priceless.

On Wednesday I traveled to London to film what it turns out was the 200th episode of ITV's afternoon flagship quiz show, Tipping Point.

But this quest started last November with a hastily filled in application form followed by a surprising phone call in January asking me to take part in a phone interview. Pacing nervously, I scored a 9 out of 10 after failing to state that the human organ associated with the word cerebral is the brain (apparently head isn't an organ).

Auditions

I was then invited to an audition at a hotel in Birmingham where I had to sit another general knowledge quiz before being asked to 'do a piece' in front of a camera. There were about 20 or so others at the audition, all trying to out-personality each other. It's suffice to say that some of the weird and wonderful of the West Midlands were on form that day. The 'stand-up' comic who started doing exceptionally inappropriate Nelson Mandela impressions and the drag queen backing-dancer from Walsall were two particular highlights. Still, I must have done something right - I got the call back. I was going on the telly! Of more than 10,000 applicants, I'd made it.

So this week I headed down to London to the less than glamorous studio setting of a wet and windy Wimbledon industrial estate. I sat in reception and took in the TV memorabilia which included an original 1970s Darlek, a poster of the Iron Lady and a receptionist who seemed somewhat exacerbated by that morning's post: "that's another hand written letter for Simon Cowell, he was only here once and that was years ago!".

An original 1970s Dr Who Darlek

I was eventually joined in reception by fellow contestants Lisa (from Kent) and Jake (from Halifax). Lisa and I were both TV show virgins but Jake was a veteran of the TV game show world having been knocked out (not literally) twice in Pointless.We were to be joined later by Daniel - contestant number 4.

We were eventually ushered into 'the Green Room' where we'd nervously chatter for the next few hours as we prepared to meet the Tipping Point host, Ben Shephard and battle it out for that £10,000 jackpot.

We'd been told to bring five changes of clothes...apparently black, white, blue, stripes, checks and pastel colours are a no-no in HD. They soon told me that all of my clothing choices weren't right for the cameras so they delved into their costume department and presented me with a less-than fetching two-tone green shirt. It felt as if it was an omen.

We chatted to the research assistants who were there to keep us company and they re-told various anecdotes of funny answers in the auditions. My personal favourite was 'name the 19th Century female author who will appear on the new £10 note'. Even if you don't know the answer to this - surely 'I don't know' is a better answer than Rihanna?

After a spot of lunch and a touch of makeup we were led into the studio to film the final show of the series and Tipping Point's 200th show.

We were wired up with the microphones then took our places behind the podiums where our names were illuminated for all to see. I think it's fair to say, and please pardon the language, but I was shaking like a sh*****g dog at this stage.

Then in waltzed Ben. Turns out he's a really nice, unassuming bloke who put us all at ease by taking a few 'selfies' on his iphone and having a chat to us all about how we were doing.

We recorded our intros - I was torn about whether to say I was from Dudley or Wolverhampton...difficult to decide which sounds worse on TV?

the glamorous 'Green Room'

For those of you who have never seen the show - just think general knowledge questions followed by a huge '2p' machine which used to be in holiday arcades as a kid. Put a coin in at the top, watch it drop on to the shifting shelf below and see if it nudges other coins off at the bottom. Nudge the coins off and you win. Well this is the same...but huge - and lit up like a Vegas brothel (or at least what I imagine a Vegas brothel to look like).

Fingers on Buzzers

Then we were off...fingers on buzzers and all that.

The rest is a bit of a blur. I buzzed in to the first question and got it right. I didn't want to play the counter yet so passed it over to one of the other contestants. He failed to get any counters out - I'm feeling smug. I then buzz in for question two. Correct again. This time I decide to play...and the counters move - but not enough to tip it over the 'tipping point'. Ben utters something about karma.

In any case - I answered four questions in round one - got them all spot on too. Quantitative Easing and naming 'Dale' from the 1990s cartoon Chip and Dale Rescue Rangers where personal highlights for em. But, sadly, the machine wasn't willing to pay out. Although I did set up one of my fellow contestants for a massive 13 counter drop (bugger). So, with just one counter over the edge, although not getting a question wrong, my stint on the show was over. Had I only taken note of the phrase 'only play if you think it will pay'. 

So I didn't bag the £10,000 prize, in fact, I didn't even get my BFH (bus fare home for those not familiar with Bullseye). But it was an incredible, albeit surreal, experience. A few months ago I thought this would be one challenge too far - but I did it. Granted, humiliated for all eternity for falling at the first hurdle, but by no means disgraced. The show airs later this summer.

#29 - bloody brilliant.

For the outro...the game show as a kid I'd loved to have go on...in spite of Jim Davidson.