I saw my school had a reunion recently. Unfortunately they’d held it just after I’d left the country – so I couldn’t go. A pity really.. They didn’t have one for years, and then just after I’ve got no chance of going they-

…Hmm
…Oh
..You don’t think they…?
…
Naah…

Anyway – they had a reunion, at the Salmon Leap Pub in Totton. It was one of those places that, at the time, seemed to only turn a profit because it was a hundred yards from the nearest Secondary School. I remember once we’d finished performing our school play for that year and, being on an adrenaline high, the cast decided to head to the pub in the evening. Now – most of them went regularly, but I was slightly more… nerdy. So I decided to tag along and become part of the gang. I think it was there I first heard someone order ‘snakebite and black’ which is essentially lager, cider and blackcurrant.

And they say the English don’t have a palette for fine taste…

I watched everyone order their drinks and hung back until I was sure that no-one I knew was nearby. I leant forward with the most eighteen year old expression a fourteen year old can muster and said – ‘Do you have beer?’. The barman (who was either short-sighted and deaf, or had already drunk all their beer) explained they did. I followed up my slightly immature first statement with ‘Please could I have a glass of beer then?’ Which was nothing if not consistent of me. He asked which one and pointed to a row of taps. It was confusing, as none of them actually said ‘beer’ on them. They either said ‘Lager’ or ‘Ale’ or ‘Stout’ or ‘Brown’. I went for Ale as I’d heard a wizard mention it on a cartoon once. (Nerdy, remember?)

He asked if I wanted a pint and I said no, wondering why he wasn’t just getting my beer. Then he looked at me expectantly. I stared back at him, and (after about five minutes of this) began to worry he was falling in love with me. He asked if I wanted a half instead, and I said, ‘No – beer please’. He shook his head and poured me a half-pint of beer (sorry, ale) anyway. I drank it – and it tasted like sweat. Prior to now, most of the taste in my life had come from my Mum’s home-cooking and fruit chews of some kind or another. As I could think of nothing tastier than strawberry Chewits, I had assumed that everything that people enjoyed would taste roughly the same.

Apparently I was wrong. So I forced it down (Strangely, as I got older I got to first, enjoy the taste of beer, then went through a phase where I believed I must have it to run efficiently. But like any good oil – if you overfill on it, it tends to leak out of places it really shouldn’t. At that point I decided to cut down on my drinking).

So they held the reunion at the same pub. I’d always used to go there with my family at weekends for meals, which was nice. And behind it was a wonderful path that led through the woods, and near the river Test. At least, I thought it was wonderful when I was ten and would go on walks with my Grandparents. It wasn’t quite so nice after the pub kicked out and people were using it to perform one of three different activities (one of which you need a bathroom for, two of which you’d need a bedroom).

…The third thing was sleeping. Your mind is in the gutter.

Anyway. It got me to thinking about the school plays. Particularly those that we’ve seen since our kids have been at school. There was the first Nativity play that my daughter was in when she was five. She was playing the Innkeeper, and I spent most of the week beforehand trying to get her to tell Mary & Joseph they had tons of room at the Inn, and offer them an upgrade to a suite with free cable. It didn’t work – so unfortunately there wasn’t quite the cliffhanger ending I was hoping for.

But the best example of a school play has to be the last one we saw before we left for the USA. My daughter was thirteen at the time, and it was the first Christmas show since we moved just outside London. Prior to that we’d been in Wales, and the school had taken great pride in spending about three months of the year preparing for the Christmas Show. The first year they put on Bugsy Malone – then the next year was Grease. We assumed that going from a small school in Wales, to one just outside London would give us the same results but much – much – bigger.

The evening that we went, there were about 500 parents herded into the school hall – and the show started… I knew we were off to a poor start when the teacher hosting the event introduced the first band as ‘Tracey, James and William calling themselves ‘Bad Habitz’ – apparently they play ‘garage’ music, so let’s all pay attention and listen to some ‘garage’ music.’ Obviously, if there were an award for the poorest introduction ever – that would probably have won. However, you wouldn’t know as they would have introduced it as ‘…And the winner is – ah, who cares.’. The show went on for about an hour, with a close second place being awarded to – ‘And now our Caribbean band who have been working very hard recently. Of course they only started two weeks ago so don’t be too rough on them.’

…No honestly. She said that. But then came the big finale. When the Principal came out and asked us all to join in a chorus of some hymn or other. Now – as you know, when you’re at school and asked to sing, there are three kinds of people. Those that sing, those that launch into the first verse as though they’ve had slightly too much to drink, and those that (like most of us) mime to what the others are singing.

Apparently every parent in the room was one of the latter.

As the music started, we could clearly hear the principal singing – (he was type 2)  – as around him could be heard only the sound of lips slapping together in mime. Everyone realized at roughly the same time- looked at the person next to them- thought, ‘they’ll have to start start singing now’ and carried on miming. By now we were at the end of the first verse and the Principal put his hand up to stop the music. The band did that ‘slowing down, then stopping’ thing where it slowly descends into chaos (and have you noticed how it’s always the trumpet that finishes last?). Then the Principal glared at us all in silence. He took a deep breath and said – ‘Well… That wasn’t very good was it?’. We all, silently, agreed – but unfortunately we’d all reverted to twelve-year-old’s outside the Headmaster’s office. He continued – ‘We’re going to start again and this time I want everybody to enjoy it. I WILL BE CHECKING.‘. With that he signaled to the band to start up again. He wandered the aisles, staring into the faces of every one of the 500 parents in the room to confirm they had lungs – before moving on.

All in all it was a bit of a poor excuse for a Christmas show. Even my daughter came out afterward and said ‘That was awful, wasn’t it?’. I had to agree that, with the exception of her singing (which was the most awesome thing I’d ever heard), the rest of it had been like watching a Marilyn Manson concert hosted by that drunk Uncle that always shows up at Christmas. Both things are a little creepy – and put together it’s like Peanut Butter and Horseradish. So we left for the evening and I said I’d treat everyone to a meal at the pub on the way home. We stopped at a biker bar that was on the way, and I ordered a strawberry daiquiri.

…And that‘s why we had to leave the country.

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Today I was in Walmart, and saw an outdoor fly trap. That’s a battle you’re gonna lose, frankly.

Anyway, We went to visit with friends recently, and went on for a ride on their horses. Now, this may not seem odd to you – but this was my second, no – third horse ride ever. Let’s review what led up to this point…

When I was eleven we had exchange students from America visiting us. They were fourteen and therefore my life was Hell for two weeks, obviously. I remember distinctly them picking on me so badly one night, I ran out of the house crying and ran away from home in an eleven-year old kind of way. (In that I ran from the front of the house to the back – and hid). One of them opened the door and accidentally let our dog out – who, of course, came running to find me. Of course, I say ‘our’ dog – he was, in fact, my Brother’s dog (and called ‘Colonel’ for reasons lost to time). I grabbed him and decided the two to three minutes I’d been hidden was enough time for them to truly understand the error of their ways – and if I returned home now they would undoubtedly apologize and ask what flavor milk they could make me before I went to bed.

Unfortunately I had grossly underestimated their stress-tolerance levels, and one of them grabbed me when he saw me and tried to throw me back in the house. Luckily I was still holding Colonel who was quite fond of me.

So he bit my attacker.

On the nipple.

That’s when I discovered the meaning of the word ‘Awesome’. And I discovered that our guests pain-tolerance was not quite as high as his stress-tolerance. I still never got my milk though.

Anyway – as is the case when you have guests from elsewhere, several ‘days out’ had been planned. Unfortunately, we lived near the New Forest in Southern England – and there’s not a whole lot to do there. There’s ‘orienteering’ which is basically finding your way out of the Forest when you’re lost. And there’s having a picnic – which is finding your way into the Forest, and then getting lost.

However, they had found a ‘Riding School’. They had arranged a day out riding – and I was going with them (whether I liked it or not). Now, I’ve always had a slight fear of horses – of course, I have a slight fear of anything eight times my size with huge teeth and a bad temper. (There are people I could name, but I won’t). So I was a little concerned, but when I explained this to the instructor (okay – when I cried) – she kindly explained to me they would give me the horse that they give the reaaaaaaally bad riders (which just made me think it would be in an even worse mood by now). I got lowered onto the horse, put on my helmet, and we were off.

We started to head out of the front of the riding school, toward the road. I immediately saw the flaw in this plan as, for quite some time, England has also had cars on their roads as well as horses. And I saw a potentially lethal combination of speedy metal things and flighty horse things in my future. I was assured that my horse would just follow whoever was in front of it.

It seems odd now, but they didn’t actually give us any instruction on how to pilot a horse (or whatever you call steering one of them). They just kind of assumed it would all work out. Unfortunately, when we hit the road, my horse stopped. Now, I don’t mean to suggest it stopped before we got onto the road. It did enough to get us onto a bend on the road, then stopped. As I was on the last horse I just watched the others ride off – and mine stared after them. I tried shouting ‘Forward!’ ‘Yeehaa!’ ‘Giddyup!’ and ‘Move you BLOODY HORSE’ but nothing happened. Not even a flinch. Then I detected a slight movement in the muscle underneath me. I was sure that my command over the animal kingdom has encouraged the horse to move forward, respecting me as it’s master for the rest of the ride. But instead it turned right.

It didn’t walk anywhere. It just turned right. And if you’ve been visualizing this so far, (and if you have, I’m better looking than that in real life), you’ll know that I am now sat astride a horse, parked across a road, on a bend, in a Forest. That’s when I heard the car coming. I again begged the horse to move. My equine vocabulary expanded even further (although nothing more than four letters). He still didn’t move. If anything, he moved less. I’m not even sure he was breathing at that moment, he was so keen to make his point. The car noise got louder and louder and I could hear it was coming around the corner I was parked across. The car arrived and slammed on the brakes and, parked less than 3 feet from my (still stationary) horse was my Dad. Clearly he’d noticed my enthusiasm when we got there and decided to keep an eye on me. Or he just didn’t want to have to pay them for a new horse.

So – that’s the first time. The second time sounds like a joke – but I swear it’s not.

I first met Liz in my Drama class at School when we were fourteen. She’d just recently moved from the USA to a second-rate secondary school in Totton. She used to sit on my lap and let me look down her top. And today she’s still surprised when I don’t pick up on subtle hints… So it was ultimately eight years later that we got together. One of the first times I went to pick Liz up for a date she was working as a Head Groom at a stables. When I turned up she was going out for a ride and asked me to hop up behind her. Obviously, I was terrified – but I was also a guy. So I didn’t show any fear and vaulted up, missed slightly and slid back to Earth, then used the step like everyone else did.

Liz took me on a ride through beautiful English countryside, we stared as birds flew past, we waved at people in cars. And at one point we headed deeper into the Forest, and she shouted ‘Duck!’. At this point – I kid you not – I looked for the duck.

The low-hanging branch hit me in the throatal area. I hit the Earth in the groundal area. I swear I heard a horsey laugh. Liz was sweet enough to pretend the tears of laughter were tears of concern, and she threw me over the back of the horse again and took us home.

That’s two.

So that brings us to now, and our ride out on the horses recently. I shared the stories above with our friends to give them a chuckle before we left. I finished the story to watch them glancing at each other in a ‘how much does it cost to call the vet out?’ kind of way.. Eventually (after they’d checked their insurance premiums) they let me on. I rode on ‘Rags’. Rags is, essentially, a cuddly ball of fur with four legs, two ears and teeth. He looks not unlike the horse in the ‘Thelwell’ cartoons. And I ride not unlike the.. Oh, you know where I’m going with this..

We headed out of the barn and down to the lake. Taylor was leading us – and eventually we had to cross the lake itself. Well… I say the lake itself, it was more a river. Okay, a stream. Well – maybe a ditch.

Okay. It was about ten inches across. But horses have a great sense of self-preservation – and they can quickly ascertain that they do not have gills. And therefore water constitutes an unreasonable level of risk – and they won’t do it. (Horses make great health & safety auditors for this very reason). Now here I thought I would be lucky as my horse would realise it couldn’t go any further and save either of us any more embarrassment. Unfortunately, this time I had been given the one that just followed the ones in front – so he headed through regardless.

I could tell when we reached the other side because the screaming stopped. I was, after all, worn out. There were a few, more particular, horses that didn’t want to cross though, so Taylor was instructed to find another way home that avoided crossing water again. And he did that very well. Unfortunately, to do so we had to go up and down about four sheer slopes – and then along a cliff edge that was about a foot wide. Again – Rags merrily plodded up and down and up and down with me riding slightly behind my lunch. As we walked along the cliff edge Liz shouted ‘Branch!’ (See – she remembers!) And I ducked, narrowly avoiding the low hanging branch.

We came out into an opening and I was exhilirated! I had ridden a horse – and not fallen off! The horse seemed to have enjoyed it – and was that feeling I could feel the hint of me enjoying it too? I leant forward and hugged Rags, and thanked the Lord for a wonderful day.

Around that time is when the dog jumped out at us.

Sadie (the dog) is awesome. She’s lovely and friendly and very excitable. And, apparently, to horses, she looks like a big ball of teeth with a gun… Because Rags decided to run. I know the word isn’t ‘run’, it’s ‘gallop’. And I know some people have related the graceful movement of the horse to the world of ballet. But let me tell you, if Rags was dancing ballet at that point it time, it was most certainly the Nutcracker. I don’t know how to put this delicately. Pick the most sensitive part of you. Now, if you’re most people you will have picked the second most sensitive part of you because you’re protecting the most sensitive. So think again. Got it? Good. Now imagine someone stood next to you picks up a horse like a baseball bat. And they swing it repeatedly into that particular part of you. And they don’t stop until the horse has had enough.

That’s somewhat what it was like. And we began to run all the way home. Halfway back someone shouted ‘Duck!’ and I, after learning through two previous equine outings, and to avoid any more pain, threw myself wholly off the horse.

…And onto the duck, which bit me.

This, Ladies and Gentlemen, is why people invented the car. And the icepack.

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Today I went to see Star Trek at the cinema. I liked it. Then I came home and read about it on the internet. Now – given most of what I write ends up on the internet I thought twice about writing this… But I think I’ve officially had enough…

‘Of what?’ I hear you ask. (Although, clearly I don’t hear you – and I’m fairly sure you didn’t say it out loud. If you did – you have larger problems than the point I’m about to make).

Anyway – My beautiful wife & I found ourselves with a joint day off – and no kids. So we decided to go see a good movie. Now, we’ve both been fans of Star Trek in the past (although not Trekkies or Trekkers or Truckers or Trickers or Snickers or whatever they call themselves) – but we had lost our interest in recent years.

(As a side note – I used to sell merchandise at Star Trek conventions. The last one I attended I was confronted by two ‘klingons’ (for ‘klingon’, read people wearing makeup and costumes and then trying to act tough). These ‘klingons’ would only speak Klingon (surprisingly, the language of Klingons. In the same way as people in the USA speak America and I speak England)… And they refused to speak in any Earth-based language even when I was screaming at them that it was all made up and therefore could not be their first language if, indeed, they had managed to master one yet.))

So – we went to see the movie on a Monday morning at 11:30am. I had suspected it would be a quiet screening and we could relax and enjoy the movie. Before we went to the cinema we stopped at Walmart and bought several pants-pocket sized boxes of candy so we could smuggle them in. We actually found ourselves considering what to do if they were searching people for illegal candy purchased outside of their kiosk. Then it occurred to me then that I’m in a country where they would be fine with finding a gun – but illicit candy would get me ejected from the movie…

We used our best ninja/candy smuggling skills and got through security (well, Angela behind the counter), and entered screen 9. There were around 20 people. Sat in the middle of the cinema was what I can only describe as the ultimate Trekster. (Yes, let’s settle on Trekster for now). I mean no disrespect to any Star Trek fan out there (I’m one of them) – but there is a stereotype for a reason. And today I met him. Let me explain why –

He was taking up approximately one butt-cheek per seat.

He had a garbage can full of popcorn to his right.

He had a propane tank of coke in front of him.

And he had his imaginary girlfriend to the left.

He smelt like lonely.

I smiled at him as we sat down and he gave me a look that said, ‘You are clearly attempting to illicit an emotional response from me in order to connect in a, frankly, shallow and meaningless fashion. I find that action illogical and – while not attempting to emulate my hero, Spock – I find myself in the unique situation of being able to register a level of disdain by raising my eyebrow in the fashion that he would employ in any of the previous movies or TV shows in which Mr. Nimoy has played the character most excellently’.

…Although I may be overthinking it. It may also be that, for him, raising one eyebrow is considered a morning workout.

So – the movie started. Awesome. Really enjoyed it. Go see it if you can. If you don’t like it – we must like different things. Sorry about that.

But if you don’t like it – do me a favor. Don’t go on the internet and write a ‘review’ that essentially tells other people they are wrong for not agreeing with you. Don’t tell me I’m an idiot for enjoying a movie. Don’t tell me it was badly written and that I’m not capable of understanding higher concepts.

Here’s the thing – I’m not stupid. My daughter is in Mensa. (Yeah, I agree, that would have been more effective if I could have said I’m in Mensa – but unfortunately I came up one point too short. Possibly the worst parenting I’ve ever been responsible for was when I was told that she had got in, and I had missed out – and I asked them to recheck the results as I was sure they should mean the other way around. Possibly if I was one point more intelligent I wouldn’t have asked them. And if I was two points more intelligent I wouldn’t have written that in a blog my daughter will no doubt read).

(Montana – If you do read this – the above was a joke, or it wasn’t and your Mom was the one who asked to recheck. Pick which one is more believable and go with that. Please let me know to avoid any more embarrassing incidents like this…)

So – movie good – Dad dumb. But not that dumb. I went to school, and college, and I’ve read books. Proper books. With no pictures. And chapters. And I can’t believe how irritating some of the people who write internet reviews/comments are.

First of all, any review that starts with you generally not liking a movie because it hasn’t got the actors you wanted in it are kind of missing an obvious point. Much as I love them – the surviving original guys are really old. No-one wants to watch a movie about old people unless it stars either Paul Newman or Meryl Streep. Particularly a sci-fi movie. People tend to want to watch fast shooty things that go ‘phwee!’ when they watch sci-fi.

(Oh, and don’t get me started on people that don’t like it being called ‘sci-fi’ – ‘because it’s actually science fiction’. And then they tell you it’s not science fiction at all because it involves things that aren’t scientifically proven and therefore should be ‘fantasy’. Here’s the deal – you are wrong. We call a door a door because most people agree it’s a door. Therefore if most people think a science fiction (or sci-fi, which – whether you like it or not – is actually short for science fiction) movie has spaceships and things that light up and time travel… Then IT IS.)

Now – knowing you people (no, not you – I mean the guy that doesn’t like it being called ‘sci-fi’.) as I do, you are probably saying something about that being very populist and that gradually we’ll all disappear down a drain of lowest common denominator. Here’s the interesting thing about that. You’re wrong again. Wow – for someone so smart you are certainly Mr. Ron Wrongster from Wrongtown today, aren’t you?

Defining something by the populist definition doesn’t mean things get dumber. Everyone being happy and content with the simplest of things also doesn’t mean things get dumber. Generally speaking, people who don’t listen to others and don’t consider their opinions, and don’t learn from them… They get dumber. (And yes, I’m conscious I’m doing the exact same thing to you – but in fairness, I’m trying to make reasoned arguments why I believe you are wrong – and also, I’m fairly dumb, and I accept that).

If I find the smell of a flower the most amazing thing in the world, and I need no more stimulation. That doesn’t make me dumb. If I enjoy Shakespeare and find his words the only ones that speak to me – that doesn’t make me more clever than the next guy. (Although it does make me about 400 years old).

So don’t even begin to tell me that just because I enjoy a movie – I’m dumb. And don’t tell me ‘Spock wouldn’t do that’ or ‘Kirk wouldn’t do that’ because;

a. They’re not real, and
b. You don’t know them (primarily because of point ‘a’ – but also because, even if they did exist – they wouldn’t hang around with you.)

Regardless of how vivid your imagination is, you didn’t meet them, have drinks with them, or become friends with them – and no person’s viewpoint is less valid than your own. (Except, possibly, your imaginary girlfriend).

And talking of the audience. Don’t speak for them. Don’t tell me they were all really disappointed unless you spoke to each of them invidually and got a viewpoint. And don’t tell me you did – because you didn’t. They had all got out of the screening by the time you’d leveraged your left buttock out.

I just read a note from someone who commented on the low intelligence of people who clap at the end of the movie. You see, he’d heard four or five people clap at the end – and asked why they would bother doing that when there was no-one to hear it. Ergo – they’re stupid. Then he went home and posted this on the internet. To be clear – he made a lot of noise when there was no-one else nearby. He didn’t ask for feedback, or comment, or discourse. But of course, he’s so intelligent he didn’t see the parallel. Somehow he thought his voice was more valid or important than the people in the cinema. (Note – I bet the people who clapped were there with their friends. See a pattern yet?)

Oh, and don’t even get me started on the people who discuss their disappointment with the fact that the physics of a black hole aren’t accurately represented in a movie with time travel and aliens. While I’m open to the idea that aliens exist. I’m fairly sure Vulcans don’t. And if they do – one called Spock doesn’t. And if he does, he’s gonna come over here and kick your butt for pretending to be his friend.

In short – if you have to insult other people, just tell your friends when they’re in the same room as you. If you can’t get any friends to be in the same room with you… Consider the reason, before you go find somewhere else to vent.

…Phew. Now that’s out of the way.. I liked the movie. It was shiny and had big explosions. Mmmm… Shiny….