As a person gets older it’s widely accepted that they get wiser. It stands to reason, yes? You read more, watch more and simply experience more and all the while you’re like a little owl, made entirely out of sponge, just soaking up the good stuff. Because with age comes wisdom, right?
Wrong. Well wrong in my case, anyway. For me there’s an uncomfortable amount that leaves me wondering exactly what it’s all about. And it takes up an equally uncomfortable amount of my time.
That said, I feel fairly confident that lots of people will share my idea that there are just some things that you’re always going to be unable to get your head around. I mean, who among us can explain the popularity of creatures like Gemma Collins? Exactly.
“I’m a husband, father, son, teacher, graduate and generally something of a man of the world.”
I think we’ve established that in my case middle age has caused me to question quite a bit about myself. If you haven’t, scroll down past this blog and it’s all there. |There’s pictures if you get bored and it’s mildly amusing too. However, having put quite a bit of thought into it I’ve come to realise that there’s a great deal of stuff that defies any wisdom that I’ve managed to pick up along the way. I’m a husband, father, son, teacher, graduate and generally something of a man of the world. Stop sniggering. I’m kind of a big deal and yet I still find myself waiting for the wisdom that allows me to crack many a knowledge nugget. So let’s start episode one of another occasional series.
I’ll start with one that I know will prove controversial, especially here in Yorkshire. But here we go – I just don’t understand Rugby League. I’m not mocking it – each to their own. But I just don’t get it. I can watch it and to some extent feel entertained. But just when I feel like I understand it a question will pop into my head. I question why, if as I’m told, it’s a proper sport and a real man’s sport, does it attract so few supporters? The average attendance for the 2018 season of Soooooper League was just 8547. Surely it can’t be that good then? Also, if I do watch, I can’t get over the fact that it seems that every few seconds blokes just run into each other. Furthermore, the rule states that the ball can’t be passed forward, but to me it looks like it’s going forward on an almost constant basis. And given my feelings about being tactile, well I’m sorry, but there’s just a little bit too much groping going on. It’s less a sport and more like the scenes outside a nightclub at closing time when I was in my youth. In fact, the more I think about it the more it becomes like wrestling with added ball. And it’s not even a proper ball.
But it’s OK, rugby league fans. Here’s a little treat just for you. The next thing that, despite my years, I just don’t understand is Rugby Union. Again, I know this might prove controversial with some. In fact, my views on old rugbo have left some apoplectic in the past, which has only served to make me worse, I must admit. So in not understanding rugby union, you could say that I fail to understand maturity as well. It can’t be helped though – it really is a hilarious sport.
Let’s begin, again, with attendances. In the 2017-18 Rugby Union Premiership the average attendance was a mighty 14,165. So again, real sport, man’s sport etc, etc. Why does hardly anyone bother watching it then? And are you allowed to even attend if you don’t have, a) a Range Rover b) a faux agricultural flat-cap c) a wax jacket d) one of those old wicker picnic baskets and a tartan rug?
The hilarity really starts though, when you look at the game itself. Same excuse for a ball, same propensity (in my opinion) to pass it forward regardless. Then there’s the well rehearsed argument that we football fans always hear about rugby union. Get this – the players all call the ref ‘sir’. And they don’t backchat. Or swear. And they all love their mums. Thoroughly decent chaps. Just don’t mention eye gouging. Or having to drink your own urine from the local viscount’s welly. I don’t get it. I don’t care what you call the ref. I don’t care that they listen politely. If they’re that nice and well-mannered, then why is he having to speak to them in the first place? I’ll tell you why. Invariably it’s because Tristran has punched Spencer sqaure in the face again. Or because the heir to the Dukedom of Gloucester has just stuck his thumb up the arse of Prince Edward’s butler. Probably.
“Can we sing a song now, sir?”
And then there’s line-outs. We all line up while one of the ‘guys’ chucks the ball towards us. Then we lift another one of the ‘guys’ really high so he can catch it, only one of the guys from the other team might catch it. Oh, the jeopardy! And then, once somebody’s caught it, we all fall on top of each other. Any excuse for a roll around in the mud, which is great because soon there’ll be another excuse for a muddy fumble when the ref calls Scrum. Scrum, sir? Yes, sir. Grab Boselion-Smyth’s testicles, sir? Of course, sir! What’s that, now we all link arms, sir? Is there a hearty song to be sung, sir? No, sir? And I stick my head between Mortimer’s legs, sir? Rest his scrotum on the back of my neck, sir? Aah, brings back memories of boarding school. Can we sing a song now, sir? No, sir? Shall we just push each other until we all fall into a heap in the mud, sir? Jolly good, sir! Tally-ho, chaps!
Word for word that, as well. Obviously you have to be a lot cleverer than me to understand rugby. Or maybe I’m just not a real man? Perish the thought.
So what else, despite my years, is still beyond me? Well, salad for one thing. People say that when it’s summer I should be eating salad. Why? Why will leaves cool me down? Why will some radish hit the spot just because the weather’s nice? I’m really not a fan of cold food anyway. We didn’t have a lot of money when I was growing up, but we had enough for a cooker and a microwave. Both of which made cold food not only hot, but edible. Everything tastes better hot.
“I do actually eat the odd salad.”
But the appeal of leaves is beyond me, hot or cold. I thought they were more for hedgehogs to be fair. I’m not against them per se. I do actually eat the odd salad. But they do nothing for me and therefore, I feel quite justified in saying that I just don’t understand salad. When people tell me that lettuce is delicious I just tend to think they’ve temporarily lost their mind. Or that their taste buds have shut down for the day. Or that if they went on ‘Who Do You Think You Are’ they’d inevitably find that they were descended from a long line of rabbits. Lettuce is just crunchy water. Cucumber’s the same. Absolutely pointless. I could live to be 150 and I still wouldn’t understand salad. Although I’d probably have to eat a it more of it to reach such an age.
Moving on, I’m going to bring things right into the 21st Century. Something that is both really popular and completely beyond any wisdom I might have is Snapchat. Firstly, the whole point of it seems pointless. You post a photo that won’t last. Why? But before you post it you can do the thing that I really don’t understand. You can put zany filters on it. That’s right kids! Ever imagined what you’d look like as a dog or even an animal who’s identity is a little unclear, but narrowed down by the presence of whiskers? Crack on, then. But before you post it – for a few seconds – why not put another filter on it so that you look just like you’ve smeared Vaseline over your face? Or maybe you could change the crazy filter so that you look like a cat, or a hamster. You could strecth your face…or squash it. The squashy face one seems particularly popular and yet if I walk up to a friend and squish their cheeks in a bit of a choochy face thing, that’s harrassment. Yep, I don’t get it. I’m sure this makes me more old age fanclub than middle age fanclub to some, but I don’t care. The whole thing simply makes no sense. Those of you who have read one of my earlier blogs might recall how for a long time I didn’t understand Facebook though, so maybe I’m the problem here and not Snapchat.
“…at one point I remove my hands from the steering wheel…”
Imagine that one day I gave you a lift. It doesn’t matter where. I gave you a lift and along the way I drove my car at the kind of speed that made you feel decidedly uncomfortable. I threw it round tight corners, swept around in long arcing u-turns and then drove us down a hill – again at break-neck velocity – that seemed damn near vertical. Oh, and at one point I removed my hands from the steering wheel and threw both arms in the air, whooping like I scored the winning goal in the cup final or had just won the lottery, while displaying the kind of facial expression one might associate with a mad man. Not the best car journey you’ve ever had, right? You wouldn’t be accepting another lift again any time soon. So explain to me the attraction of rollercoasters.
Despite my age, despite my travels, despite visiting several theme parks and even partaking, regretfully, in some of said experiences, I just don’t understand the appeal of rollercoasters. I don’t think I ever will.
“This was The Hoppings.”
Part of this lack of understanding could well be put down to chunks of my childhood spent around a far more rudimentary type of thrill-seeking than what we see today. Let me explain. In Newcastle, growing up, one of the highlights of the summer was the visit of a travelling fair; The Hoppings. Now this should conjure up images of the pastoral – village life, communities enjoying themselves, human harmony with a certain rustic charm and innocence. Well, might I suggest you get rid of that image, sharpish. Imagine a cross between scrap yard with rides and a particularly vicious open prison, where hundreds of teenagers and young adults would roam, snarling and scowling at each other, as well as often getting into fights. Imagine a place where rides existed, but the notion of health & safety didn’t. This was The Hoppings. Every year, I’d go and every year I’d have forgotten how terrifying it was. I won’t go into great detail, but in short, this wasn’t a place to be trusted and I’ve never understood the popular fashion of risking your life for around a minute of being thrown around while you scream at top volume. Call me old-fashioned, but I’ve always associated screams with pain.
And so it was that I grew into an adult who, despite the freedom to travel and indulge in whatever pleasures I chose, would never understand rollercoasters and other ‘fun’ of this ilk. My wife and my children, on the other hand, are confirmed thrill-seekers, but it’s roundly accepted that I’m much more a confirmed coat holder. I’ve visited several theme parks and am more than happy to sit out the adrenaline rush. That’s not to say that I haven’t sampled some of the rides, however. It’s not blind ignorance driving this. I’ve been brave and I’ve summoned my pioneering spirit in order to either prove something to myself or simply not spoil other people’s enjoyment. Yet, every time I do, I’m left with a mixture of bewilderment and terror. I don’t understand rollercoasters. I don’t understand the ‘thrill’. How can the feeling that you may die be in any way thrilling? How can being turned upside down and sent hurtling down a ridiculously steep hill be a thrill? No, sorry, despite my years, you’ve lost me with rollercoasters.
I’ve been a massive fan of music for as long as I can remember. My parents played me The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Mamas and Papas, Dionne Warwick, Johnny Mathis, Rod Stewart and loads more and from there a love of music was born. I was an avid viewer of Top of The Pops from an early age, soon developing my own tastes for artists such as Adam and The Ants, Duran Duran, The Jam and loads more. As I got older, my tastes broadened and I listened to an eclectic mix of music, collecting tapes and vinyl as I went. As a young man I fell in love with first The Stone Roses and later Oasis and Blur and entering middle age my tastes have continued to broaden. So if anyone can explain the appeal of either Ed Sheeran or Mumford and Sons, I’d gladly listen.
“I’m not knocking anyone for enjoying what he does.”
Sheeran and Mumford and have sold untold millions of records (although I realise that nowadays that no one buys music and it’s actually only views and streams that count). Both leave me cold. I can stomach Sheeran despite how bland at all is. His music simply passes through me, like a bad pint. And I’m not knocking anyone for enjoying what he does. Friends and family tell me he’s great and that’s an opinion that they’re completely free to hold. But they’re wrong. I don’t care about his Galway girl or his Lego house and if he’s thinking out loud, then you can bet I’m not listening. On top of it all, he has the look of a ginger potato. Despite my years, I simply don’t understand young Sheeran and his appeal.
Mumford and Sons however, are even more of a puzzle to me. What I like to call, ‘another level of Eh?’ A riddle, wrapped in a puzzle, coated in a conundrum and deep fried in bemusement. There can be no other verdict than the undeniable fact that they are shite. Two paragraphs ago I stated that I’d gladly listen to people’s explanations of them: I’d like to retract that. Mumford and Sons are not only beyond my comprehension, they’re beyond explanation. I’m no officianado, but when a band are not only exclusively made up members of the landed gentry, but all called things like Rufus and Hugo, you and I shouldn’t be listening. We should be actively protesting against them. So enough, of this; I’m off to make a placard. ‘What do we want! Mumford OUT! When do we want it? FIVE YEARS AGO!’
The final thing that I don’t understand, and the thing that actually prompted this particular blog is a little bit left field. Gregg Wallace’s smile on Masterchef. Or, given that he’s not a totally seperate entity when he’s away from that show, just Gregg Wallace’s smile.
“I’m not here to mock him or to get a few cheap laughs.”
Now, don’t get me wrong with this one. This isn’t a cheap shot at Gregg Wallace, who you could describe as a bit of an easy target. Despite certain things I’ve read – the ‘Greg?’ tweet to the army veteran stands out and he seems to be regularly annoying young women – I’ve got no problem with him. I’ve watched him on Masterchef and other programmes and he seems OK to me. And in terms of his smile, I’m not here to mock him or to get a few cheap laughs. I’m really not a fan of my own smile and regularly have to make myself laugh for the camera in order to not spoil family photographs. I genuinely feel like the bloke who forgot how to smile. So, I have no reason to start mocking Mr Wallace and his grin. I just don’t understand it.
Gregg Wallace’s smile is just a bit weird. In fact, it’s a lot weird. I’m sure it’s a genuine expression of joy and happiness, but is anyone’s smile meant to take up half of their face? Gregg’s does. Not only that, but his smile makes his shoulders scrunch right up and his eyes shrink, like he’s got terrible cramp. And let’s get this straight; he’s smiling, not laughing. His smile could mark him out as some kind of evil genius – it’s the smile of a deranged Bond villain, as far as I can see. When he smiles his knees seem to buckle and he visibly bends. It’s like that bit in old cartoons where the character takes the ‘villain potion’ and then starts to change dramatically, frame by frame and in overly jerky movements, into something green and evil looking.
“…you cannot unsee Gregg’s smile.”
I’ve watched on Masterchef as a contestant tells him what it is they’re cooking and Gregg will react by telling them something typically non committal like ‘Good luck’ and then positively explode into the kind of smile that might indicate he’s lost control of all bodily functions. It’s effortless, while in fact employing seemingly every fibre of his being and I’m fascinated. Gregg Wallace’s smile is like a dance move. I have to really concentrate in order to smile. I dread having my photograph taken and have often, on the quiet, been known to practice smiling in my bathroom mirror, such is my hatred of what it does to my face. Gregg Wallace’s smile though, is nothing short of a tour de force, like no smile you’ll ever see again. In fact, I’m sure that scientists, really clever ones as well, would confirm that once you’ve seen it you cannot unsee Gregg’s smile. It will never be forgotten and will in fact erase something really useful from your mind in order to just sit there and crop up for you from time to time.
Gregg Wallace’s smile is less smile and more chemical reaction and despite my advancing years, my descent into middle age and my many moons of learning, I simply don’t understand it.
So there we have it. Turns out I did grow older, but didn’t manage to acquire that much wisdom. Not enough to stop me wandering around daily, pondering the kind of things you ‘ve just read about. And certainly not enough to be able to explain Mumford and Sons, rollercoasters or the bloke off Masterchef’s mega-smile without my head hurting.