Me, Camp, the Coach and Children's BBC

Camp as a row of tents. Camp as Christmas. Camp as me - apparently.

I've never been what you might call a sporty person but my two sons enjoy their football. Last week I turned up as usual to collect them from their after school training session. As I waited for them to gather up clothes and bags, their coach told me he was impressed by their increasing ability and enthusiasm. Naturally I enjoyed a moment of fatherly pride. But then he asked loudly in front of the other assembled mums and dads...

"Were you ever sporty?"

I hesitated for a second but decided to be honest.

"Not really..." I said.

That was all he needed and before I could say any more he launched into...

"No. Thought not. From what I've seen on TV, you were a bit camp!"

Just to make the point he repeated the words "a bit camp" several times, while doing a funny voice and flapping his hands about like Larry Grayson, much to the amusement of the other parents. Too camp to be sporty!? I was thrown for a second. My Daft Bloke Who Used to Be on TV guard was down and standing there on the school field I could have been 48 or 14, the embarrassment was pretty much the same.

It was just friendly banter. He didn't mean any harm. Besides he had a point. I had turned up dressed as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, listening to Cher on my MP3 player, eating a cup cake. So I just laughed it off and wandered back to the car with my two muddy sons. But all the time I was thinking...

"Hang on a minute... I was in the Cub Scout football team... I had an all-white Leeds United kit with numbered sock tabs and white football boots... I once cycled from London to Southampton on the hottest day of the year in a vest and Lycra shorts... I can be camp and sporty!"

Surely sport is one of the campest things going anyway. Bright, stripy outfits. Men in shorts. Gary Lineker. Synthetic fabrics. Team bonding. Cheerleaders. Body building. Leotards. The Olympics. Kevin Keegan. Jock straps for goal posts. Isn't it?

I wasn't going to win that one. Sport might have its camp corner but Children's BBC is way out there with tinsel, shopping and Elton John. On Saturday morning television I was part of a comedy double-act who portrayed exaggerated characters in ostentatious and over the top theatrical costumes that made jokes, often laced with sexual innuendo. That's fairly camp I suppose. Out of character I wasn't particularly 'manly' or 'macho' either. The football coach wasn't the first person to have made this observation. I am generally regarded as "a bit camp". Friends and relatives think so too; even my own children.

Check out any online dictionary and you will see the word camp has many definitions, from 'theatrical' to 'kitsch' to 'effeminate' to 'the behaviour of homosexual men'. Although not exclusively so, the word is most commonly associated with the behaviour of gay men. People who know me as a family man, like the football coach, clearly find it so confusing that describing me as 'camp' is the only solution. Without making judgements or wanting to sound defensive though, I am actually straight.

There was a time, obviously before the arrival of Loaded magazine, when I deliberately avoided behaving in a laddish or blokey way because it was trendier to be camp. I was a drama student in the early 1980s. Enough said. But it wasn't just me. This was the era of New Romantics, Frankie Goes to Hollywood and The Smiths. Even working class hero Paul Weller was suggestively posing topless and stroking his bare chest in his Style Council videos. Everyone was camp in those days.

As a young student, adopting camp turned out very useful after I caused the leader of the militant Women's Group to issue the feminist equivalent of a fatwa against me, for crimes against women.

It wasn't entirely fair. It was stupid of me but my reasons were sincere. It was a favour for a fellow male drama student. He was making a documentary about attitudes towards women and sexism and needed some provocative opinions on camera to spice up his film and spark debate. As a budding actor I offered my services and naively starting spouting sexist rubbish about how housewives should be chained to the kitchen sink.

In Manchester University in 1981, faced with the wrath of an angry Women's Group I was lucky to escape with my life let alone both testicles but thankfully the grovelling apologies and subsequent camping around campus saved me. Pathetic wimps like me were no threat to the future of feminism. So I was allowed to live.

My camp tendencies probably go back even further. In the '70s my childhood attempts to emulate pop stars like Marc Bolan, David Bowie and yes *cough* even Gary Glitter, clearly influenced my theatrical bent. As a very young boy my mum even stuck me on the catwalk, modelling children's clothes in the church hall. Vicars and young boys on catwalks. That's more camp than a Shih Tzu in a snow globe. It's no wonder I'm camp. I'm surprised I'm not the full wigwam; the total tepee.

These days I'm definitely not very sporty but I still enjoy the occasional bike ride or a paddle in my kayak (and that's not a euphemism). But in my opinion being a bit camp should not exclude anyone from taking part in or enjoying sport; so here's my Top Ten tips for fellow male campers who want to have a go at sporting activity:

1. Always wear the daftest, tightest or brightest outfit you can find
2. When emerging from the changing room - do a silly walk
3. While doing the silly walk, whistle or hum a retro TV sports show theme tune
4. Carry a handy man bag containing an energy drink and a packet of Mini Cheddars
5. Hop, skip and leap about enthusiastically without demonstrating any skill whatsoever
6. Try to not to get muddy by avoiding puddles even if it means avoiding the sport itself
7. If you are forced to stretch, strain or exert yourself in any way - always make a stupid noise
8. In the pub afterwards ask to see the wine list
9. Go home and watch The Big Bang Theory on TV
10. Write a blog about it

Good luck and have fun!

Me, Greggs and Dead Man's Shoes

I've always found shoes a bit stressful. Buying them. Wearing them.  Cleaning them. Finding a perfectly comfortable, hard wearing, stylish pair of shoes is a rare and wonderful thing. It's probably a hangover from my childhood.

Growing up in the 1970s, the only option for me as far as my mum was concerned was sensible school shoes, measured to fit and all leather. No plastic. No argument. At the time I hated them - until they started to bring out ones with daft gimmicks; like those with a compass in the heel just in case you got lost crossing a mountain range on the way to school.

Not something that really concerned me, living in Southampton, but I appreciated the thought and felt safer for it. I hadn't a clue how it worked but in the event that I did get lost I knew at least I could always take one shoe off, look at the compass and hop in a vague northerly direction.

Another brand which made boring black school shoes more bearable were Clarks 'Commandos' - given this name by the way because they were like British Army Commando shoes, not because you wore them without underpants. Other gimmicks included shoes with animal tracks of woodland creatures on the soles. Maybe the British Army wore them too. That would certainly confuse the enemy...

WW2 German Soldier 1: "Achtung! Foot prints!"

WW2 German Soldier 2: "Britisher?"

WW2 German Soldier 1: "Nein - just a deer wearing sensible size three black leather lace-ups."

Arriving home from school these shoes offered the additional bonus of leaving animal prints across the living room carpet after I'd stepped in dog poo.

By the time I reached the age of about 12 the rules were starting to relax. Outside of school I was allowed to wear 'fashion' shoes. This was the age of glam rock. At weekends my footwear of choice was a pair of green and red, square toe shoes with chunky platform soles and stack heels. These went with my extra wide, flared trousers, knitted tank top and pink paisley shirt, with matching kipper tie. From Clarks Commando to circus clown.

Later, Clarks brought out a very different type of fashion shoe. A 'sensible' fashion shoe which we called Nature Treks. These were made from soft, natural leather with a bouncy crepe or rubber sole which famously featured a leather upper folded asymmetrically across the front.

The general opinion was that they looked like Cornish pasties. Clearly years of Clarks conditioning had messed with my mind because I actually chose to have a pair. Replacing multi-coloured clown shoes with Cornish pasties was another strange style choice, but as comfort goes they were great. I think subconsciously they've been my benchmark for shoe comfort ever since. This causes confusion in Greggs the Bakers when I still can't decide whether to eat my lunch or stick my feet into it.

My search for decent, comfortable shoes still continues, but being a family man with four kids I can neither afford nor justify spending huge amounts of cash on expensive footwear for myself.

Buying good shoes on a budget is almost impossible unless you are prepared to camp out in the shoe department of TK Maxx like a wayward member of Occupy who's been tempted to the dark side by the lure of cut price Loakes.

Thankfully until recently, the need for quality shoes didn't seem to bother my teenage daughters who actually relished buying cheap rubbishy ones. I say shoes but really they were nothing more than cardboard slippers. They only cost something like two pounds but then again they only lasted about two days. Fashions have changed and recently they have discovered the joys of Doc Martens (probably the second most comfortable footwear I have ever owned). The era of them being satisfied with cheap shoes is at an end.

To satisfy my own needs I have turned to second hand shoes or 'vintage' as I prefer to call them. Either title is better than dead man's shoes, which is another name for them and a reason why some choose not to tread the path of vintage clothing at all.

And if you knew an old student mate of mine - it's a very good reason. He once bought a second hand suit from a charity shop only to find some unpleasant remainder of the previous owner still encrusted in the bottom area of the trousers. Undeterred, legend has it that he merely proceeded to clean the trousers with a tooth brush and then wore the suit. And then continued to use the toothbrush.

Fortunately my own experiences with charity shops and vintage clothing have been less disturbing but it's still not easy finding the ideal pair of shoes, with or without shit on them.

Not so long ago, I thought I'd found a good pair on eBay. Definitely no shit. Good quality, clean, vintage tan brogues. Size nine. I don't know if a size nine shoe was smaller 40 years ago.

Apparently clothing sizes have increased in recent years, so maybe shoe sizes have too. Anyway when mine arrived in the post they felt like they were a size too small and particularly narrow as well. I really liked them. I'd been after a pair of decent old brogues for some time and these looked good, so I wore them anyway. They hurt my feet but I was determined not to give up on them.

One day wearing them about town in the rain, I suddenly noticed how comfortable my feet were feeling. I was very pleased. My persistence had paid off. I had finally worn them in and stretched them to fit; a tribute to the craftsmanship and quality of good, old fashioned, leather shoes.

Except I hadn't and it wasn't. The minute I stepped in a puddle, I realised my mistake. My wrong sized feet had in fact forced the shoes to stretch sideways and outwards, finally exploding the stitching between the leather uppers and the soles. Gaping holes appeared along the sides and cold puddle water was soaking into my socks.

As the knackered, old brogues continued to deteriorate, I spent the rest of the day with cold wet feet flapping about like a cartoon tramp. They needed binding with gaffer tape just to stay on. I could feel the eyes of others staring at me. I could sense children pointing and giggling. "Look at that man's stupid shoes!" I half expected someone to give me the price of a cup of coffee.

It was then I spied a branch of Greggs. A lightning bolt of realisation told me that the answer to all my problems was waiting for me inside, between the pizza baguettes and the steak bakes.

Minutes later, I'd binned the old brogues and emerged from the bakers shop with my feet inside two large Cornish pasties, grinning like a circus clown. To top it all, I had also removed my underpants, commando style.

And so, with my head held high and warm toes wiggling in a hot stew of meat and vegetables, clutching a tiny compass in my hand, I headed north along the street with a degree of comfort like never before.

Me, The Moon and Helium 3

The Moon is back! And it's bigger than ever. Not literally of course. It actually never went away and it's still exactly the same size (although I can't scientifically prove that). I'm talking in fashion terms of course and let me tell you, the Moon is going to be SO this millennium!

Back in the old days we all loved the moon. The Blue Moon, the Paper Moon and the cheesy one. We danced and snogged under The Moon of Love. We loved the Moon so much we even gave it a personality - and a face. Sometimes he wore a night cap and winked at us. He snoozed and snored by day and then woke up at night and smiled. A kind old, wise old, Moon.

Back in the very old days - the dark days - we relied on the Moon for its light; to work and fish and hunt and ride and sail and walk at night. Some of us worshipped the Moon (weirdos) but we all acknowledged its immense importance to our lives and our world; its effect on the seas and all the living creatures on Earth.

In recent history we strove to walk on the Moon. There was even a race to get there. Billions of dollars and rubles were spent on rockets and modules and all manner of space craft. Some were flown by dogs or monkeys; tortoises, fish and frogs. Even guinea pigs were used as guinea pigs. And then finally on 20 July 1969 we got there. A man landed on the Moon. Walking on the Moon. A man with a funny name. A man called Sting. Or was it Buzz? Or...maybe it was Neil actually. Anyway we got there. And then we got there again...and again...and again...and then...we all got a bit bored of it.

The Moon had lost its charm. We had all seen it close up on TV in black and white. Dry, dusty and not a Clanger in sight. Nothing to fear but nothing to get excited about either. On Earth, we started to put all this space technology to better use and created new satellites of our own. The new ones were much smaller - but they twinkled like stars - and they gave us so much. Like German porn channels; the ability to target our neighbours with nuclear weapons; and to drive to the nearest KFC without a map.

Who needs the light of the silvery Moon when we've got 42" LED backlit TVs bedazzling and beguiling us in our own living rooms? Who wants to freak out to a Moonage Daydream when we've got Grand Theft Auto? And who bothers to look at the Moon when we've got The Sun? Life on Earth was good and we didn't care about the Moon anymore. But all that is about to change.

As good as it is for some, the life we have on Earth has been officially branded as unsustainable. The global population is out of control; everyone wants three cars, five laptops and a walk-in fridge freezer and it's starting to get really hot in here. How can we keep it all going? How does an economy grow when it runs out of stuff to buy and sell?

Suddenly our eyes are looking to the skies again. Eyes bigger than our stomachs. Staring hungrily at the Moon. China, Russia, India all want in. A new kind of Space Race perhaps? A race of people who actually live in space? Maybe one day. But for now we just need to get back on the Moon.

The Moon has minerals. Very useful when ours run out. It's even got water - only about a cupful for every 300 tonnes of moon rock - but someone's guaranteed to make a fortune bottling it. But more significantly the Moon has much larger quantities of something called Helium 3. Novelty balloons and silly squeaky voices are here to stay. And so is Nuclear Energy.

Apparently Helium 3 mined from the Moon means highly efficient, waste free, nuclear power without radiation. With energy and minerals we can all carry on happily doing all the stuff we like doing. Eating and watching stuff. Probably not walking in the countryside or swimming in the sea but we'll have holograms for that. And it's all thanks to the Moon. So relax everyone. Keep calm and keep on keeping on. The future is bright. The future is pale moonlight coloured.

The Moon is back.

Me, The Queen and the Naked Couple Snogging

I live in Broadstairs on the East Kent coast, near Margate.

The Queen's coming to Margate today. She's going to see a naked couple snogging.

A lot has changed since I left London and moved here, in 2003. People said I was mad. Maybe I was but moving here wasn't. When I lived in Peckham everyone who I worked with at the BBC said I was mad. Maybe I was but living in Peckham wasn't. They lived in Acton and Ealing and Chiswick and Richmond. Media people lived in West London. I didn't. I had lived in South East London since leaving university. So had many of my close friends. I loved it. Still do.

Watching the riot police exercise their horses along a deserted Rye Lane in Peckham on a Sunday morning, from the window of my flat above the Job Centre in 1985, wasn't everyone's idea of "location, location, location". But it was home to me. Some friends had kindly offered me a room to rent and so that's where I ended up. But that's also where I stayed for the next 18 years. Not in the same flat (I'm not mad) - but other flats around South East London - eventually settling in a terraced house back in Peckham.

I lived in the Peckham house when I got married. My twin daughters were born there. So was my eldest son. Life had changed for me. And life had changed in Peckham. Media people lived there now too. Down the road, East Dulwich was media city. You can't move for media people in Peckham and East Dulwich these days. Queuing for their free range, organic, meat flavoured hair products. Shopping for their sun dried; wind cured, oak smoked toilet rolls. Pushing their balsamic sprinkled toddler buggies with their caramelised, sugar-free toddlers inside. I love it. I just can't afford it. This particular corner of South East London changed - big time. As Take That once sang, everything changes. As Paul Young once sang, everything must change. Ch.Ch.Ch Changes. The BBC is moving from Shepherds Bush to Salford. Literally, Media City. That's one hell of a daily commute from West London. Who's mad now then?

Moving away from London had nothing to do with the old cliché about being tired of life. I wasn't tired of life. I loved life. I still do. I loved London. I still do. But I love my new home as well. It wasn't all easy at first. Not long after we arrived in Broadstairs my daughter said a little too loudly in public, "I really miss the South Bank". We quickly shoved a coat over her head, bundled her into the back of our car and drove away at speed, to avoid being stoned to death by local residents. But she soon got over it. It wasn't difficult. There were national treasures here too. We had swapped the South Bank for East Kent. We had the swapped the Thames River for the English Channel, London's leafy parks for sun kissed (sometimes) sandy beaches and we had swapped the museums and art galleries for...um...well...er...the Ramsgate Motor Museum?

Sadly even the Motor Museum eventually closed - along with the Smuggler Museum in Broadstairs (if you can call a collection of scary shop window dummies with beards, a museum) and the Model Village. All gone. But as well as the losses there have been some gains. Useful new shops. Interesting bars and restaurants. A faster train journey. The Old Town in Margate has been transformed. And this year the Turner Contemporary opened in Margate too. A proper art gallery for the area and one which rivals anything of its kind in London. A taxi driver told me it's a waste of money. Then he told me that he'd never been.

The current exhibition Nothing in the World But Youth is excellent. Bright, brash, busy and bulging with bags to see and do.

You can listen to my audio contribution here by the way

http://www.turnercontemporary.org/media-channel/audio

But there's proper stuff too. Hockney, Warhol and Blake are there. Peter Blake was there in person last month and he signed my Stanley Road cover. My marvellous moment of Mod 'n' Margate . Turner is there of course and incredibly - something that would have seemed so unlikely during our first summer living in Broadstairs, when my kids were tearing round the windowless motor museum, high on petrol fumes - so is a breathtaking sculpture by Rodin - The Kiss. And funnily enough - it's much larger than you think. Larger than those coffee table book photographs. Larger than life. Two great big naked marble giants snogging. And today The Queen will visit and she will see them.

I took the kids on a bike ride along the cliff tops towards Margate once and I saw a couple snogging in a car. Well, actually I think they were more than snogging, so I encouraged the kids to cycle past quickly, pointing out to sea at a non-existent item of interest to distract them. It's the seaside. You expect that kind of thing in a region steeped in the traditions of Kiss Me Quick. But I didn't expect a Rodin to be just down the road.

Me, Dad's Army and the End of the World

"We're all doomed!"

It's the classic catchphrase uttered by Private Frazer in Dad's Army. We've all repeated it, (admittedly with varying degrees of accent authenticity), and many of us can still hear the original echoing inside our heads, thanks to the genius of actor John Laurie and the continuous BBC repeats.

Actually, according to Wikipedia, the original phrase was simply:

"We're doomed".

Maybe he said it both ways, in different episodes. Who knows? Someone knows I'm sure.

And they have no doubt dedicated a whole website and chat forum to it.

Correctly or not, on the grapevine of playground chatter - social small talk and pub banter - over the last 40 years or so, some of us have introduced an "all".

Maybe not all of us do the "all". I'm sure there are plenty of serious Dad's Army fans and comedy boffins out there who will claim proudly that they have never made such a ridiculous error - but I'll have to confess - I've done it myself.

I've used the "all". I don't mind admitting it. It's not as bad as the horrendous pop culture slip-up a friend once made. Back in the 1980's, she thought Fun Boy Three's Our Lips Are Sealed was calledIsland of Seals - and she even sang it out loud - in public. Oh the shame of it.

My point is - correctly repeated or not - "We're all doomed!" has become something far more than just a repeated moment of British sitcom glory. It has become a social tool, and a significant one at that, particularly in moments of conversational awkwardness and day to day feelings of depression.

I would guess that it is being well used right now, in the current climate of economic gloom and global catastrophe.

If you happen, as I often do, to start one of those unfortunate conversations about the news headlines and then get a bit bogged down in the grimness of it all - the impending global economic meltdown, World War III and the BBC's cancelling of Shooting Stars - then Frazer's catchphrase is the stock get-out.

At some point in the conversation, (preferably before you've reached the point where one of you decides to jump out of the nearest window, or climb into the bath holding the toaster), it has thankfully become accepted that one of you will open your eyes wide, arch your eyebrows and say in a high pitched, cod Scottish accent "We're all doomed!".

Polite laughter follows. Mood lifted. Job done. End of topical news conversation. Now you can get back to talking about proper stuff, like shoes and haircuts.

It's no big revelation I know. Every day we use repeated social codes, behaviour patterns and old clichés to avoid acknowledging the fragile and futile nature of our own existence. Frazer's catchphrase, though, is one of my favourites and I don't think I'll ever tire of it. The fact that it has become a repeated cliché kind of makes it all the more fun.

We all know it's coming in a conversation. Sometimes we even say it together in crazy comedy harmony. It's a cosy mutual friend and an emotional shield to protect us from the scary, hooded figure in the corner of the room, pointing a bony figure at us and waiving a scythe.

Some days, the final day of our doomed-nation feels like it's already upon us. You watch the news on TV and it feels like the world is spinning out of control, faster and faster. If you're from my generation, the over repeated words of another Scottish TV character might come to mind.

"Cap'n! The engines cannae' take it any longer".

Scotty from Star Trek warning Captain Kirk from the engine room of the Starship Enterprise that the ship is about to explode.

Or maybe you just get a bit grumpy at the pointless stupidly of it all, and merely mutter, again in a Scottish accent like Victor Meldrew in One Foot in the Grave:

"I don't believe it"

(Begin Media Studies essay on The Use of Dour Scottish Stereotypes in British Comedy.)

"We're doomed!"

In that simple, darkly comic phrase, Frazer was telling those around him that they were heading for an untimely and unhappy end. Inevitable destruction and ruin. Judgement Day. And we laughed.

When we repeat the same phrase we use it to mask our fear of the unthinkable. Our sense of helplessness in the face of calamity. And we laugh.

Thank Frazer for that.

Me, Christmas Puddings and the Perfect Body

The perfect body. The perfect kitchen. The perfect holiday. The perfect car. The perfect life.

Not everyone's bothered by these things, obviously, but at some point, we will probably all fall into the trap of seeking perfection in something or other.

Something we desire will have to be 'perfect' - something that, by dictionary definition, "conforms absolutely to the description of an ideal type", or "having all the required or desirable elements, qualities or characteristics; as good as it is possible to be."

Some of us might have spent the last few weeks fussing about achieving the 'perfect' Christmas - which is clearly a ridiculous and futile aim, unless you happen to be Jamie bloody Oliver or Heston bloomin' Blumenthal and you just happen to be sponsored by a major supermarket chain and just happen to live on the set of a fake snow covered TV advert.

And just for the record, my perfect Christmas pudding doesn't have a pomegranate stuffed in the middle and it's not soaked in triple filtered, organic Tuscan acorn wine either. It's half eaten, wrapped in foil, at the back of the fridge next to half a tub of out of date double cream, waiting to be re-micro waved at 1am after a night down the pub, thank you very much.

Another recent obsession has been giving or receiving the 'perfect' Christmas present - which this year in the absence of an Xbox 360 for my 8 year old son, was a 3 foot-long blue and orange plastic sniper rifle instead. Much cheaper than an Xbox and it's capable of firing soft foam bullets along the length of our landing, into the shower. Perfect.

His Arsenal football kit was nearly perfect, but it didn't have Van Persie and the number 10 printed on the back. But he wasn't that bothered (he's only been an Arsenal fan for a about a week anyway. It was Barcelona before that) and he still happily wore it from Christmas Day to New Year's Day, gradually accumulating festive food and drink stains down the front.

Food stained sportswear might not be everyone's perfect style statement. But what is? Well, for my teenage daughter, it's a pair of Vans (casual canvas shoes that is, not two vehicles for transporting plumbing tools and building materials) and red jeans. But next Christmas it will probably be something else. Hydrogen fuelled booster boots and a pair of holographic, 3D iGoggles maybe? Who knows? But as long as it's the right brand of booster boots - I'm sure they'll be just 'perfect' - until the next thing.

Perfect isn't constant.

For some unfortunate women the desire for 'perfect' breasts has had tragic results. Ruptured French implants, leaking industrial silicone around the body is far from perfect. In response to this alarming news, a radio commentator said we must all stop trying to conform to a false and unrealistic image of bodily perfection - because we can't all be perfect. Of course we can't. I don't mean to sound like Jessie J, but, nobody's perfect. Nothing is perfect. Perfect doesn't exist. Or does it?

According to a quick Google search, a number of things are indeed perfect. One enthusiastic blogger lists them as: tea on a mountain top, a Leatherman Multi-tool, Moleskine notebooks and hot noodle soup. I would say he needs to get out more, but in fact he's one of those outdoor types so actually he's rarely in.

Hot noodle soup? Not so perfect if you're allergic to noodles. Not if your throat swells up and your skin explodes into a geographic itchy red rash every time you so much as look at a noodle.

And what if you just hate soup? Then no soup is perfect is it? Liquidy food might be your idea of culinary hell - even if it is lightly sprinkled with Heston's gas frozen, crumbled, marinated, ostrich feathers - in fact, especially if it is.

Indoor types might be less wholesome. What makes the perfect pizza? Thin crust, stone baked with Parma ham, washed down with a glass of Prosecco? Or deep pan, with chicken tikka, pineapple and a cheese filled crust with a beaker of Fanta Fruit Twist?

Lou Reed's Perfect Day was feeding animals in the zoo and later a movie too and then home - to more struggles with drugs, alcohol and a troubled ego. For someone else (although I can't really imagine who) it might be sitting down to watch a DVD box set of the complete series of The Darling Buds of May. A Perfick Day.

Striving to achieve perfection though, in an imperfect world where nothing is perfect, just seems perfectly mad. Perfect doesn't exist. Well, except that film starring Jamie Lee Curtis and John Travolta...oh and that storm which engulfs Clooney's fishing boat. Apart from that, perfect doesn't exist. Everything is what it is. Everybody is what they is...or are. No two people are the same. Things that aren't perfect are in fact perfect. That's how it is. That's the way it should be.

We're all wasting our time trying to be or have or do or say something perfect. And we should remember that by not achieving perfect, we're not settling for second best. We're not just putting up with who we are or what we have. Perfect is a non-existent, unobtainable figment of our collective imaginations, fuelled by TV advertising and multi-billion dollar industries. Perfect is a myth. So why don't we all do ourselves a favour, stop tormenting ourselves and just relax?

Imagine a world where none of us felt pressure to conform; to be something or someone we're not. A world where we didn't feel constantly dissatisfied, in our endless search for better or best. That would be perfect...Doh!