Century, Not Out.

The Eighteenth of October Two Thousand and Eleven. Tuesday.

Somehow we have made it to 100 blog entries. Thank you for reading!

There hasn't been one for a couple of days because here at Blut Vin Towers we're taking a short break before our next big endeavour: National Novel Writing Month!

Yes, NaNoWriMo as it is known for short is nearly upon us once again. I always have a half-hearted attempt each year and flounder. But back in 2004 (Dear God, is it really seven years ago..?) I had a go and completed it. Completed what? I hear you ask. Well, writing a 50000 word novel in one month. Every November writers all over the world are encouraged to give it a go. I going to have another crack this year and for good or ill I have decided to upload what I write on to this blog. That's right, an entire novel on me blog. I can't see it working, as I always run out of time and energy (it's just under 1700 words a day) but we're going to give it a go and see how far we get.

I'll be spending the next couple of weeks limbering up and hopefully getting some sort of loose structure sorted out so I'll know where I'm going, so there will be no blog until November the First when the novel begins. But I had a little go tonight at hitting my word count within a certain time and didn't do too badly.

So by way of a preview, here is a short prequel to what may or may not be my NaNoWriMo novel.

See you in November.

The Cone

Hello. I'll get into full introductions another time but for now all I want to say is that my name is -

Actually, scratch that. I'll tell you my name the next time. For now you may refer to me as The Jackal. Yes, I like that, The Jackal. I don't know who the real Carlos the Jackal was, but I remember my dad watching a documentary about him and when I asked what it was about my dad told me to shut up.

'I don't interrupt you when you're watching The Space Carpenters,' he said.

'Yes you do!' I replied.

'That's my point. It's annoying isn't it, so you should know better.'

I don't think dad gets The Space Carpenters as he thinks it's just a cartoon and he doesn't get all the irony and references that are in there. It's a sad fact that I am the only one in our family who has any sort of media awareness or critical faculties. This is how I have heard of Carlos the Jackal even if I don't know exactly who he is. I am always taking stuff in.

Don't try and guess what my name is from that. I'm not so stupid as to go for something obvious so it probably isn't what you're thinking of (or is it? Ha-ha! Elaborate double bluff).

This is like a DVD extra. When I started thinking about how I was going to tell the story of my idiot sister I thought long and hard about where would be a good place to start. In the end it was fairly obvious – it had to be from the Daytime Night – which I'll tell you about later, but basically it was when the first big weird thing happened and it was as light as day even though it was 8:47 in the evening. It's funny to think how long ago that is now and some of the stuff that's happened in the meantime but whenever we talk to someone and try and explain why they should come along and join us that always seems to be the start of the story. But on the few occasions I could get a word in edgeways and speak to my sister, between us we would remember odd little things that had happened before the Daytime Night that might have had something to with it.

So this is like something that happened before the main story started but it is part of the story all the same. Only it's not that big a deal.

I think part of the reason my sister (her name is Amber, by the way. I don't mind telling you her name because it's not one of the best and I don't think it would spoil anything if I told you now. I don't know what mum and dad were thinking of when they came up with that. My other sister is called May, which is much better. I have never asked but I wonder if mum and dad knew that they were going to have a girl the second time. I suspect they had a really good boy's name lined up – which is the one that they gave to me – but after using up all their creativity on a good girl's name for their first child they struggled when they unexpectedly ended up with another girl. I can think of no other explanation) didn't remember too much about this earlier incident when I mentioned it to her was that she was in a lot of trouble at the time and I think her limited mental capabilities have blotted out the incident due to trauma.

She was supposed to have come straight back from a concert that she had gone to see with her friend Michelle. I don't know who it was – one of these manufactured bands that spin off of X Factor or something. I don't actually like music. I don't know why everybody goes on about it. I'm not so stupid as to think it's rubbish or anything. A lot of clever people seem to like it as well as dim ones so there must be something to it. It just irritates me and I keep thinking there's something else I could be doing while it's going on. She had missed the last tram home and Dad had had to go into town to pick her and Michelle up. It was the first time she'd been allowed to stay out so late by herself so there was a sense that she had let everybody down by not acting responsibly.

I said to mum as she was telling Amber off in the kitchen that I certainly felt let down. Mum clearly misunderstood my concern and told me to shut up and go back to bed. When she shouted at me Amber burst into tears which was a little unexpected. I felt a bit awkward so instead of pressing my point, which was my original intention, I left. I didn't think my mum literally meant for me to get back to bed – I thought she meant just get out of the way. So I stopped on the stairs so I could at least listen to the rest of Amber's dressing down.

That's how my dad caught me. He would normally use the downstairs loo, but I think he was a bit embarrassed by all this and had decided to go upstairs so that he wouldn't be pulled into the conflict.

'You're rotten, you are,' he said to me.

'I'm not. I'm just making sure justice is seen to be done.'

Dad sat next to me on the stairs and joined me in listening in to the scene in the kitchen. It was surprisingly one sided. Amber normally likes to give as good as she gets, but all we could hear was Mum going on and on about ditches and stuff you see on the news.

'Shouldn't you be sharing your disappointment too,' I asked of the figure huddled beside me.

'Don't,' he said. 'Your mum was really worried. Your sister let her phone go dead again – Mum couldn't reach her. It was Michelle who phoned in the end.'

'That girl's a bad influence,' I told him.

I don't know why that made him smile. 'You may be right. I think your sister's had a little bit to drink tonight. She had a traffic cone with her when I picked her up.'

'I hope you put it back,' I said, appalled. It was thoughtless acts like that that caused all sorts of problems on Britain's roads.

My Dad sighed. 'Yes Jackal, I put it back.' Only he didn't call me Jackal.

Amber squeezed past us and made her way up the stairs. She was trying not to cry again. We had missed the end of the telling off and as a result had not thought to scatter. It was too late. There was Mum.

'You – come with me,' she said pointing to Dad. Then she pointed at me. 'You – get to bed.'

It would have been interesting to listen in to my Dad getting a telling off, but the look he gave me as he walked off was so pathetic that I thought it best to leave him be. It isn't healthy for a child to see his parent robbed of too much dignity. I went off to bed fully expecting that to be an end to matters.

But the next morning I got the shock of my life when I looked out of my bedroom window. There, in amongst the overgrown tufts of grass that passed for our garden was a traffic cone! My own father had lied to me! A big orange lie pointing up at me, warning me never to trust anyone in my family ever again. I quickly marched over to Amber's room.

'Have you no concern for road safety,' I shouted, through her closed door.

'Go away,' was her considered response.

'I insist you take the time to replace the item that you've thieved immediately.'

'You're talking nonsense. Go away.'

'The cone. The traffic cone you've left on the lawn.' It couldn't really be called a lawn but that didn't stop us doing so anyway.

Amber opened her door ever so slightly. An inquisitive, if irritated, eye regarded me.

'What cone?'

'Yours. On the lawn.'

She opened the door and pushed me aside, heading for my bedroom.

'You don't mean the one from last night? Dad made me put that back.'

'Then he didn't do a very good job.'

By the time I had rushed back into my room, Amber was already over by the window. I joined her only to receive a clip round the ear.

'Are you trying to be funny?' she said. 'There's nothing there.'

There wasn't as well. That threw me a bit.

'Did dad tell you about the cone?' Amber asked.

I was still trying to figure out what was going on. Had I imagined it?

'There was one there a minute ago,' I said in a very calm voice that wasn't at all whiny. It has taken me a while but I don't get flustered in these sort of situations any more. It wasn't even a bit whiny.

'I said I hadn't been drinking. Well, not much, anyway. That cone really did follow me.'

If I was writing this as a story I would put that I did a double-take at that point. But this is real so what really happened was I just said 'What?'.

'You idiot. I didn't pick the cone up. It followed me to the car. I told Dad but he didn't believe me.'

Well, I've heard some nonsense in my time. Actually, no I haven't, I'm only thirteen. But although I didn't believe her and my initial instinct was to tease her about it, she was doing that thing that girls do of looking really, properly upset. I wasn't entirely sure what the right thing to do was so it was with a bizarre mixture of relief and surprise that I noticed that there was now a traffic cone sat on my bed.

'What's that doing there?' I asked rhetorically. All right, I didn't really. I just stood there looking at it trying to figure out what was going on. But I'm sure someone's going to do a story of this at some point and that's what I would have said and I want that to be reflected in any fictional account of what went on.

'I told you,' yelled Amber. 'That thing's following me!'

I started to believe her, although I had no intention of giving her the satisfaction of knowing that. Besides, there was probably a sensible explanation for what was going on.

'Target acquired,' said the cone in a voice that sounded like the one that says 'Mind the Gap' on the tube. Then it disintegrated and left a horrible orangey dust all over my bed. My mum really gave me what-for for that and it wasn't even my fault but she wouldn't have it.

'What does that mean? 'Target acquired'?' asked Amber.

'I don't know,' I told her. But this is the point that I keep making. I might not have known exactly, but I had a feel for what was going down. I knew that something was on its way, while she didn't have a clue and soon forgot about it all. So when it all kicked off a few months later, it should have been me that was at the centre of the action – I'm into all this paranormal gubbins, it's my bag. Somehow, though I ended up merely as a sidekick. Fortunately that gave me the opportunity to offer useful insight and tell the real story of what happened. And that's what I'll do very soon. So I hope you'll join me for a tale I like to call:

My Idiot Sister Is The Chosen One

coming November 2011...

More soonliest.

Some Truths 02

The Thirteenth of October Two Thousand and Eleven. Thursday.

Kevin Horlock scored in the last minute of the 1999 Second Division play-off final to make the score Gillingham 2, Manchester City 1. Just before the restart, the third official indicated that there would be 4 minutes of injury time to play. I was at Wembley that day and I swear at that moment, despite us trailing, I knew we were going to win. I’ve never experienced that level of certainty - when there’s been next to no chance - before or since. Paul Dickov equalised and we won on penalties.

During a school trip to the Blue John Mines in Derbyshire we stopped off at a café to get a drink. While there, we experimented with putting Dandelion and Burdock into a cup of tea. For the record, it tastes sort of minty.

The first time I ever encountered a can of pop (of Coke in this instance) with the top edge bevelled to accommodate your lip was on Nuneaton station in 1988. I was on my way to Leicester University for an interview for a BSC in Physics with Astrophysics. Prior to then all my cans had been straightforward cylinders. I took the course, but came home after one term ‘cos it was doing my head in.

Before

After

The UK offices of the lift manufacturer Otis are based in Reading.

The southernmost London Underground station is on the Northern Line (Morden).

I have just checked the lyrics to Fat Bottomed Girls by Queen to find that the line is 'I knew life before I left my nursery.' For some reason, I have always sung this as 'I knew life before I left my laws degree'. Which doesn't make any sense - not least the phrase 'laws degree' but I have been content to sing that for thirty years, only challenging it tonight for the sake of this blog.

The problem began with the Worm's Inhuman Form. Or possibly the Worms In Human Form.

The two best theme tune composers are Barry Gray and Ron Grainer.

Stop Press! My brain has just exploded! Just found out that the Ron Grainer Orchestra did a cover of Joe 90 which you can find here.

More soonliest.

The Artist Formerly Known As Number Two Son

The Twelfth of October Two Thousand and Eleven. Wednesday.

It was No2 son’s birthday yesterday. Four years old. Why does that seem like an impossible amount of time in a way that No1’s twelve years doesn’t? I suppose it’s all the things that have happened in the meantime.

The first plans for further offspring surfaced back in 2001. After realising that we would pay less in mortgage payments than we were for our rent we bought a house with help for the deposit from our families. As time went on we would fill it up with all our junk but moving from the maisonette we’d occupied for the past year and a bit it felt like a palace. Plenty of room for the three of us – why not make it four?

Except…

No1 was a bit older and we were a bit less panicky parents now. And it was nice to have a little space and time, so maybe waiting a while was a good idea.

Five years later and we were about ready. Shu Shu had been working away in Hull while I had left the railway station to take on the role of househusband. Don’t laugh – it wasn’t a particularly clean house that I kept, but our son was washed, fed and taken to school reasonably effectively. It wasn’t fun, though. Shu Shu would spend several nights a week away from home – it was a bit of a stretch. We resolved that I would get my job back on the railway, Shu Shu would come home and we’d try for the baby that we’d been putting off.

We succeeded in the winter of 2006. It was November and we gladly told everyone that Shu Shu had fallen pregnant.

A week later she miscarried. It was so early that I don’t think we had got our heads around the idea of the pregnancy when we got this horrible news. We were almost apologetic when a work colleague of mine joyously hugged her only to be told it wasn’t to be. You start to have the niggling doubts at the back of your mind that that might have been the only chance you had. There didn’t seem to be any medical problems so we kept trying and early in the new year the signs were good. We waited this time before announcing, almost superstitiously not wanting to ‘jinx’ proceedings. But it all went well and as the due date was calculated it looked as if the new arrival’s birthday might be the same as his brother’s. Of course, he followed his brother’s lead instead and decided to turn up a fortnight late.

I remember deciding to find out the baby’s sex this time round, but I can’t remember the moment when I did or if or when I told his mum. I’d come up with No1 son’s name so it was Mum’s turn this time. She came up with a good one.

Another protracted labour. This time Shu Shu was determined to have a natural birth and muggins here was charged with reassuring her when the pain got too much. Oh man, it was like that episode of curb your enthusiasm (my Sixteenth Telly Recommendation – oh, I was laughing like a drain at this week’s episode) where Larry agrees not to let a dieter have cake ‘No Matter What’. She was in agony but I kept telling her to carry on without. Perhaps should have agreed a ‘safe’ word or would that have defeated the object? Anyway, in some ways it was more straightforward than last time around, in others, well, certainly more painful.

There must have been some concern as the paediatrician was brought in. Nevertheless, it was still going more or less according to plan albeit slowly. That is until the baby’s readings began to drop and it was decided to get it out as quickly as possible.

Dad puts on reassuring brave face and the team go straight for an episiotomy (and if you don’t know what that is, google it ‘cos I’m not going to tell you here!) and whip the child out. His extremely long umbilical cord was tied in a knot and wrapped around his neck so it seems like the right decision. Baby is fine and handed to Mother while the tidy up operation begins. In fact Mum is going to need a bit of work so Dad is going to have to look after baby while Mum is taken away. 

Which was fine, except I'd made a little error. I'd packed everything that we'd needed for the hospital, but somehow forgotten that there was a baby on the way and neglected to bring anything for him to wear. Luckily there were plenty of spare babygrows at the hospital and Christmas came early as No2 son was duly dressed in an outfit covered in Santas, holly and other yuletide paraphernalia. His first outfit was topped off with sky blue hat - excellent, the boy was a City fan from day one.

Everybody else cleared off, the delivery room was emptied very quickly. I had nowhere and nothing to do, I just stood there and chatted to my new son. He was very attentive back then, now he gets distracted very easlily. His bedtime story last night was punctuated by comments from his new Buzz Lightyear toy. But he kept coming back to the story - for the interesting bits.

Of course, his mother and I have now seperated. Strange to think that it'll soon be more than half his lifetime that he and I have lived apart. It was soon after I left that he was properly identified as deaf. I won't detail the farce of how long it took them to figure this out - it was frustrating enough at the time without reliving it. But it's been amazing seeing him develop into the seemingly indestructable young man he is today. Honestly, he's fearless, he throws himself about with no care for the possible consequences. His shins are almost always bruised and he'll think nothing of clambering all over you. I think he gets that from his tree climbing mother - I was never that daring.

But he is as daft as his old man and I'll settle for that. 

So that's the offspring's birthdays sorted for another year. Next, in about three weeks time, it's my turn to get just a little bit older...

More soonliest.

Story With Hair and a Quiz In It

The Ninth of October Two Thousand and Eleven. Sunday.

Hmm. That talk about Bruce Willis’ hair the other day has sent me in a strange direction as I reflect (reflect? Is it that shiny?) on the top of my head as it emerges through my own thinning thatch. Ah, what it is to be a real man with so much testosterone running through your veins that your hair migrates from where it’s most attractive to interesting new places like your ears and shoulders. I affect a beard, peppered with grey when at its shaggiest, both to compensate and to remove the problem of catching a couple of facial moles when I shave. I have made my peace with the fact that age and dignity demand I keep my locks shorn but it wasn’t always so. Not that many summers ago I had a beautiful dark Niagra of hair that would have greened Rapunzel’s eye. But that is only an incidental detail in the tale I like to call ‘The Night of That Pub Quiz’…

It all took place nearly twenty years ago when I was taking my Theatre Studies A level at Leigh College as a not-so-mature student. Now, Leigh was a good 30 minute-or-so bus ride from where I lived with a fair walk at either end. A good bit of exercise normally, but this day I was getting home later than usual after a rehearsal for one of our marked performances. I was a bit tired and headachy when I got back and ready to call it a night.

I got a phone call from the friend who became my Best Man the following century:

‘Quiz night, Hend.’

‘Tired. Headache. Bed.’

‘First prize: ten pints.’

‘I’m on my way…’

We were a team of three – my Best Man’s dad was there too. We got in with time to spare for the quiz. It was all very pleasant – I don’t remember the details and couldn’t tell you any of the questions we faced. But when the scores were added up we were tied with another team for first place.

The quiz was being run by the dj and he announced that there was to be a tie-breaker – could a representative of each team come forward. I was nominated by my team-mates and with some trepidation got up from my seat.

‘Nico!’

As I got up, somebody shouted this out to me, receiving cheers and laughs from the other pubgoers. I had no idea what they were on about so I simply gave one of those ‘I’m in on the joke’ laughs and prepared for quiz combat.

The dj explained the tie-breaker format. The intro of a song was to be played and the first person to shout out where you would be most likely to hear this tune would be the winner. In my mind’s eye I see the dj putting a needle on a record – I can even see its blue label. Is that right? Did pub djs still use decks in the early 90s? Nevertheless, for the dramatic purposes of this story that’s exactly what happened. The familiar but not-quite-recognisable intro began with both teams poised. Then the lyric began:

‘Something old, something new…’

‘Engagement!’ cried out my opponent.

‘Wedding!’ shouted I, a split second later. My friends, in this case it was better to be right than be quick. I turned in triumph to my fellows. Ah, one of those brief moments in your life when you are man of the hour.

Rather ridiculously, though, we had to get through all the beer that night – no prize tokens or the like. I was already three sheets to the wind (as I said here, not much of a drinker…) so I don’t think I got through all my prize. But despite my lack of expertise upon matters alcoholic I can tell you this: free beer tastes great.

Later, I pondered with my Best Man the question that I didn’t have the answer to – who was Nico?

He pointed to my long, slicked back hair.

‘You look like Steven Seagal in the film Nico’ he explained.

This was my reward for not letting a headache best me – I was both quiz champ and action hero. Ah, hair. It was nice knowing you.

More soonliest.

Off to the Shops

The Sixth of October Two Thousand and Eleven. Thursday.

Right, off to the shop. Better make a list:

Bagels - plain or sesame

Vimto (not the rubbish sugar free one)

Value apple juice

4x250ml bottles of Irn Bru for a pound.

Yorkshire Pizza (mushroom)

10 Bird's Eye Vegable, sorry, Vegetable Fingers

Cheshire Cheese

Spreadable Butter (see if they've any offers on - I'm not paying £3 if they've got 2 for £4)

Light Choices Pea and Broccoli Pasta (Microwavable)

6 Pack of Seabrooks Crisps (preferably Pink Flavour, but whatever's on offer)

Tin of Vegable, sorry, Vegetable Chilli

Nacho Kit

Proprietary brand variant of 'Shreddies', e.g. Tesco Malt Wheats, Sainsbury's Malties

Hash Browns

Linda's Sausages (McCartney, that is)

Redbush Teabags

2 Imperial Leather roll on deodorants for £1

Carex Shower Gel

Radio Times

Houmous

6 White Pittas

Warburtons Toastie

£100000 Scratch Card

That should do for now. Text me if I've forgotten anything.

More soonliest

I Used To Be Confused (Now I Just Don't Know)

The Fifth of October Two Thousand and Eleven. Wednesday.

Working a quiet evening shift by my lonesome this evening. Time for a bit of philosophising and navel gazing (your opinion on this may vary).

One of the things I like about Unbreakable (we haven’t had a film recommendation for a while, have we? Let’s make this the Seventh Film Recommendation) apart from all the superhero stuff is the notion that we each have a place in the world. It’s a romantic idea, and appeals because of that. I’m not a believer in fate, or destiny, but as a shorthand for finding something that you’re good at that’s worthwhile Bruce Willis’ nagging dissatisfaction with his life until he develops superpowers and starts knocking around in a cape is a workable Hollywood metaphor. I bet director M Night Shamaylan felt he’d found his place in the grand scheme of things until he started coming up with rubbish like Signs and The Village (deffo not recommendations!). And Night, while I’m at it, what’s with the cameos? You’re not Alfred Hitchcock and you’re doing a perfectly good actor out of their bread and butter so stop it, eh? (actually, he might have stopped but I haven’t seen his last couple of films so I don’t know. Was he in The Last Airbender? (he asked, rhetorically)).

Here are some facts:

I like trains and I like riding on trains and I like working out rail routes.

I don’t like work.

Working at Scarborough Station is the only job I’ve ever had for more than two years. Apart from a one year break in 2004 I’ve done essentially the same job for 12 years.

I have no ambition to do any other rail-related job. It can be stressful dealing with people face-to-face, but maps and routes and all that nonsense is what it’s all about as far as I’m concerned. Working in an office, checking performance or delays or something like that, while nominally a higher grade job seems less interesting.

When it all comes together, when the best deal on a ticket is found, it is actually pretty satisfying.

I have no desire to work at any other station because, quite frankly, Scarborough is the best railway station in Britain. Oh yes.

So, at the end of it all, the question is, have I found my place in the world? Is this what I’m supposed to do – at least in terms of work? I’m still interested in writing, and occasionally even enjoy it. But I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m not driven enough (and probably not good enough) to earn a living at it. In the intro to this blog I define myself as a writer and railwayman.

Why isn’t that enough?

Middle-aged angst ahoy: I’m 43 next month. I’ve (just) got more hair than Bruce Willis. I’m going to end up putting on a cape and trying to beat people up, aren’t I?

I’d better put the kettle on and quell the urge.

More soonliest

Just One More Elementary Thing

The Fourth of October Two Thousand and Eleven. Tuesday.

Just time for a quick pitch for a new action adventure detective show! There may be some people out there saying I'm mad for chucking out this creative gold where anyone can pick it up but I'm all about the empowerment, man, so if you like these ideas and you want to run with it, you go girl!


Imagine, if you will, a future dystopia a bit like the one in Blade Runner. Not exactly the same, you understand. Just sort of like that one. But not that one. Crime and really complicated murder schemes are on the increase as society's problems rocket out of control. There's probably real rockets as well. That's not important. But it would look kind of cool. Rockets are cool.

An elite band of police scientists come up with a time machine. Only it can only pick up DNA. Or something. I haven't really worked that bit out yet, but they can't use the time machine to solve crimes. No, they'd like to use it for that but for some reason they can't. So what they decided to do is use the time machine to create a sort of 'super-detective' who can combat all the crime.

So they go back in time and they get a bit of Columbo's DNA and they get a bit of Sherlock Holmes' DNA as well. And they combine it and make the ultimate detective.

But get this: Not only is he a brilliant detective, but they've put the DNA in a robot so he can dish it out as well!

Pretty cool, huh? Well, I thought so until I did a google search and saw that there's already someone with a Facebook page for Sherlock Columbo. I hope someone hasn't already had this idea. I bet they haven't thought of the robot angle, though, if they have. I'd better get a rest. My head's hurting with all this thinking.

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One Over The Eight

The Third of October Two Thousand and Eleven. Monday.

I don't really understand Drink. That's Drink, the noun with a capital 'D'. I don't have a problem with drink, the verb ('Over Macho Grande? I don't think I'll ever get over Macho Grande...) I can even do that drinking out of a glass backwards thing that gets rid of hiccups.

But Drink as in alcohol. It's never made complete sense to me.

Sorry, don't know why I put that there. I'm out of my head on Yellow Bentines.

As I went through my teenage years I made the traditional progression from cider to lager. At some point in a pub in Bolton I made the transition to Guinness as my beer of choice, but I think this is as much an affectation as anything else. Choice of booze seems to be a a fashion statement and I've never had the first clue about that either (although I did cut a dash round and about Robin Hood's Bay yesterday in my cardigan full of holes. Turned heads it did).  I guess with the Guinness I'm trying to be a little less obvious, but it's still Rutger Hauer and white horses in the surf type expensive advertising campaign stuff isn't it? Rather tha micro brewery real ale that nobody's heard of. My friend the American Pop Cultural Attaché has been known to frequent beer festivals - there's actual photographic evidence of it on the interweb - so maybe she understands the subtle differences between one beer and another. But it's something I've never been able to get my head around.

Oh, and don't ask me about wine. I only drank white for many years - don't know why, just force of habit. I had a rioja once and liked it so I might have a glass of that as a safe red, but I can stare at the plonk aisle in the supermarket for, oo, minutes not knowing the difference between a Chardonnay and a Cabernet Sauvignon. Like so many things, I suppose it wouldn't be impossible to cultivate a taste for this stuff but I've never really enjoyed drinking. No, really. The horrible spinny dizziness and gut rot that comes with it all has never really appealed. I've just had a glass tonight cos my neck muscles are all knotted up and tied in a bow but it occurs to me that it is weeks since I last touched a drop. I enjoy the conversation that flows after a drink or two but it's a means to an end rather than something I actively seek out.

I don't know why, but this is beginning to feel like a confession or an apology. Because I like tart flavours I have been know to take vodka with lime. But I am absolutely clueless about spirits. Never really got whiskey - won a bottle in a raffle and had no more than a glass - can't remember if I've ever seriously encountered gin or brandy. Wouldn't know what to do with a cocktail.

Is it that part of me that refuses to be an adult? I've already stated my preference for Irn Bru. I've never wanted to learn to drive. I shirk responsibility on a regular basis. Is that it? All the adverts for booze these days come with the disclaimer 'please enjoy responsibly'. Am I not responsible enough to truly understand liquor?

I wouldn't mind, but there's a brand of gin called Hendrick's - you think I'd enjoy that.

Apparently it's blended with cucumber and rose petals though, so that's a write-off (or a right-off. What's the correct expression?) They're suggesting cucumber as the garnish instead of a citrus fruit too. That's what I mean, I don't get any of it. I'm naturally suspicious of cucumber to begin with. I'm wary of a fruit that pretends to be a vegetable just to get in salads (I feel that way about tomatoes too - dreadful things).

This hasn't helped. I'm still none the wiser as to the esoteric appeal of booze. I think I'll have a nightcap and sleep on it.

More soonliest.