For hour after hour, I’d play on ‘The Triangles’, where tufts of grass became forests in which The A-Team could take cover and broken kerb stones transformed into a ramps that allowed my Knight Rider car to heroically leap any number of death-defying obstacles. I lost teeth, scuffed knees, argued, won (and lost) friends, not to mention Panini trading cards, on ‘The Triangles’ – all (crucially) without the direct supervision of my parents…
Now, I’m sure there’s a fair number of you queuing up to label me an overly sensitive snowflake. Fair enough, but I’m serious here. We, as a society, seem to have lost something. We’ve allowed ‘niceness’ to become a negative trait; something to be purged from our systems in case it shows up as weakness. “Show me a nice person and I’ll show you a pushover” is beginning to feel like the pervasive motto. I realised, standing outside that department store, waiting for in vain for my turn to enter, that I really miss niceness.
Can we have it back please?
“Imagine the scene: the sun is shining and the birds are singing. You’re on your bike, riding at that perfect pace: not too slow so you’re burning carbs, not too fast so you take in the vista around you. Your freshly-shaved legs are looking good in perfectly fitting shorts and your tan lines are maturing nicely – in fact, it would be easy to be mistake you for a pro. You chat with fellow riders who are great company, while other road users happily, safely and respectfully keep their distance. The only thing on your mind is what type of coffee to order when you arrive at the friendly little café that lies just beyond the crest of the next rewardingly challenging incline. Too good to be true? Not necessarily.”
In the course of human history, more arguments have started over who’s in charge of the TV Remote Control than any other subject.
You know it’s true.
So give your dad the ultimate gift: 24 hours of the TV he wants to watch – without criticism.
It’s that time again.
Up and down the country you’ll hear the shrieks as men (old enough to know better) hop around bathrooms trying to staunch the flow of blood after doing their legs a major mischief while trying to shave them smooth. Soon, once 1,000 tiny cuts dry, the same men are dousing themselves in talc and holding their breath as they squeeze into the Lycra outfits that make their professional cycling heroes look like supermen (sadly the effect on most amateurs can hardly be described as ‘super’). Next they’re out on the streets tentatively riding bikes that cost roughly the same amount as a starter home.
Did you ever see the piece I did for The Western Morning News about having my legs waxed? It’s well worth a read…