Legend of Bartuke

Somethings in life really are a skill: Painting, Golfing, Sailing, Clay Pigeon Shooting – the list goes on. One particularly useful skill is hairdressing/barbering. Unfortunately, I recently underestimated the skill required to perform even the most modest of haircuts. Because today is Saturday and I am feeling particularly ridiculous, I will complete the rest of my blog in story book format – hopefully you can print this out, keep it and one day read it to your children/large collection of cats. (Needless to say anonymity has been preserved)

Once upon a time, in a dark dark region of a grand grand kingdom lived a young man named Bartuke. Bartuke was famous across the land of Drofdarb for two things: i) his undying love of World #1 ranked tennis players and ii) his never changing, perfectly preserved hairstyle.

Although Bartuke had often dreamt of different hairstyles he could never realise them, for Bartuke had sworn an oath to the Drofdarbian priesthood many moons ago which prevented anyone but his own mother,  the Duchess Zil, from cutting his hair.

On Bartuke’s 15th birthday the evil Lord Newo vowed that Bartuke’s hair would one day be cut in such a way that the entire Kingdom of Drofdarb would look upon Bartuke with disgust. Lord Newo even offered a reward of 1000 Rubicons for whomever could break Bartuke’s oath and cast his consistent strands to the ground.

At around the age of 22,  Bartuke’s mother took leave to care for a nearby ally who had fallen ill over the winter. As the seasons passed Bartuke’s hair grew and grew. At first Bartuke took measures to ensure an even covering. Several ancient remedies were used and only those closest to Bartuke could tell that something was awry.

As the greens of Summer turned to the browns of Autumn, Bartuke strained to honour his oath. In the winter months Bartuke reached his lowest and his hair it’s longest. Bartuke reached out to his only saviour, the Duchess, and in the dead of night travelled to a secret meeting point. It was here that Bartuke was given a new lease of life, his hair trimmed and commitment to the ancient oath restored. His joy was short lived…

The new year brought with it heavy snowfall. The citizens of Drofdarb struggled from one day to the next. Lord Newo fed off the unhappiness. He publicly condemned Bartuke and his long hair for the harsh winter; his speeches stirred hatred in even the kindest of the Drofdarbians and it was not long until the whole kingdom seemed to be hunting Bartuke.

Bartuke’s council soon expressed their concerns about his safety. They showed him the hordes of scissor-wielding masses who were battering the manor door. Seeing the danger for himself, Bartuke reached out to the Duchess once more,  this time Zil was unable to help him – the oath was about to be broken.

Bartuke began to draw in on himself. He retreated to the Manor study. Only his closest friends were permitted access and soon Bartuke publicly banned any Drofdarb from entering the Manor – he could not let the citizens see him this way.

In the early summer months, Bartuke had become a shadow of his former self and eventually, under intense persuasion from his closest Council, Bartuke permitted entry for a mysterious travelling barber. The barber claimed he could restore Bartukes hair without breaking the ancient oath. In desperation Bartuke agreed. The mysterious barber wasted no time – chopping, cutting and shearing the hair from Bartuke. During the ordeal, Bartuke requested that he see a mirror. The barber resisted, saying that the use of a mirror would break the oath. Reluctantly, Bartuke agreed.

Finally the ordeal was over. Bartuke, upon hearing the news, leapt from his chair and vaulted to the mirror. Horror! He had been ruined, deformed, mutilated. Full of rage he span around to face the masked barber. In a moment of terror the barber slowly unveiled his face – it was Newo himself!

Bartuke fell to his knees. The oath had been broken and Lord Newo had destroyed him. The Drofdarbians were cast into an era of pain and torture. Taxes were raised and all were enslaved. Bartuke lived out the remainder of his days as a Camel trader on the Drofdarbian plains, here he could lay unrecognised and plot his revenge…

Yep. I let my dad cut my hair. I let him do it because my mum, who is the only person ever to cut my hair, was away. In retrospect this was a really bad idea but I was desperate. Was it worth it? No. Did I look like an unhappy Friar Tuck? Yes. Would I do it again? No. Was my hair-line composed of perfect 90 and 45 degree angles? Yes. Do I now live on the Drofdarbian plains trading Camels? Well actually….no. I went to a barbers called “Figaros” who repaired my monk-cut for the reasonable price of £9.

For the love of nadal….

You can’t be serious. A round robin?

Ever been in one of those situations? One of those skin tingling, teeth scraping, worryingly cringy situations? The kind where you desperately want to say no but you’re too polite to do so. I am in one of those situations…right….now.

My neighbor, lets call him Norbert, is around 60 years old. I have never really spoken to Norbert except for the odd “Hello”, “Alright”, “Cracking day” etc. With this in mind you can imagine how surprised I was when Norbert shouted me over one day and said..

Norbert: Is it squash or tennis you play?

Ok. Don’t panic. Just some general neighborly chit-chat, I thought.

Me: Erm, Squash. Me and my mate have just started actually.

At this point Norbert stood up (wearing only his short green shorts and Italiano mustache) and looked much, much too interested to suggest that only a general neighborly chat was taking place.

Norbert: Yeh, I used to play Squash. Quite enjoyed it. Where do you play?

By this time I was starting to smell a rat. Is he going to….? No surely not….

Norbert: Maybe I could come down with you two next time you play. Saturday right?

Gulp. Did that just happen. What do I say? Be forceful, stay firm and just – say – no.

Me: Yeh sure. I’ll give you a shout next time we’re going down.

Completely, completely, completely wrong answer. This puts me in the following situation:

1. I have a 60 year old Italian retiree watching my every move in the hope I will invite him to play Squash.
2. I need to hide my Squash racket at the end of the street so that Norbert cannot see me taking it out of the house.
3. I must provide new excuses, almost daily, as to why I didn’t invite Norbert to the game.

I had just about got to grips with these three challenging points when, walking back to my house, I heard..

Norbert: Has your Mum’s car got a flat tyre?

Pardon? Is this some sort of cockney rhyming slang distorted by the Italian language into something truly random? Unfortunately….no.

Norbert: Yeh, I noticed It was flat. Actually. Wait here. I’ve got just the thing. Does the car have a cigarette lighter?

Does any car built in the last 30 years not have a cigarette lighter? At this point Norbert went into Norbert’s house and came back out with a cigarette-lighter powered tyre pump. I took the pump and scurried back to my own home as quickly as etiquette allowed. I then placed the pump on the Kitchen table and turned around to shut the front door – BHAM! There was Norbert!

Norbert: Remember this is all psychological for when we’re 9-9 and you realise that you should let me win because I lent you the pump.

At this point I felt quite frightened. Was Norbert hoping to come in? Will Norbert hound me until I invite him to play? Did Norbert slash my Mum’s car tyre in some cunning plan to get himself invited? Where I go from here is anybody’s guess. Wish me luck and say hello to Norbert….

Round Robin anyone?

for not only does Norbert want to play squash. He wants to play it in the most squalid manner – the Round Robin. If anyone is not familiar with this method – I won’t bore you with the details. Needless to say it is the least manly, most cringe-worthy way of playing any sport. I have been polite so far but Norbert has raised the bar and I cannot, must not comply. I will not play a Round Robin.

For the love of Nadal….

PS. That’s not really Norbert.

Join the revolution

In a world where everything seems quite rubbish at the moment – Crossbow cannibals, Cumbrian shootings, recessions and oil spills – certain things still seem determined to make me smile.

Source of happiness 1:

This week I purchased, for my sandwiches, a pack of two cooked chicken breast fillets from Tesco. Today I cut through the tremendous volume of packaging to find not two but three breasts! How can this be? Do we not live in a world full of rigorous quality control? A world in which each pack of chicken is accurately weighed and accounted for? It seems not. Perhaps I am the fortunate benefactor of a rogue Tesco employee who has become disgruntled with his corporate overlord and decided to break the company down from the inside, breast by breast (by breast).

Of course it could just have been an accident but that’s not very exciting or revolutionary. If you are the revolutionary Tesco employee reading this, I thank you, if not then please join the revolution and provide 50% extra chicken for all!

Source of happiness 2:

Box Sets! If you are unfamiliar with the joy of DVD/Blu-ray box sets then you need to… stay in more! For a relatively modest sum it is possible to purchase around 20 hours of entertainment. I usually pay around £20 for a box set which contains 12-24 episodes of (generally) high quality TV. My list contains such greats as House MD, Prison Break, Prisoner, Dexter, West Wing and Six feet under. No longer do I wait like a puppet on a string for the next episode to come my way – with a simple “navigate”-“enter” combo I can watch the next episode whenever I please – fantastic.

I’m sure that, even when the chips are down, everyone has there own weird source of amusement and happiness. You might not be lucky enough to receive a free chicken breast or obtain the latest series of Dexter but whatever it is just be grateful and think of those less fortunate than yourselves.

For the love of Nadal…

Beer bombs and “proper” streets.

Imagine the scene…you are sat, on a notably comfortable couch, enjoying some assorted tunes courtesy of Spotify when a UFB (Unidentified Flying Beer) flys toward you and your equally shocked friends. Is it a Bird? No. Is it a Plane? No. It’s cheap Australian lager!

I understand that Chavs exist. I also understand that wasps exist but I don’t know why! Perhaps some evolutionist can explain? I remember reading an article describing how many scientists believed  human civilisation would fork into two separate branches. The first would be a set of slim, tall, educated lifeforms – think Prince William whilst the other set would be stupid, ignorant, short and obese – think Vicky Pollard.

A sign of things to come

I would certainly subscribe to this theory as it seems the revolution is already happening in Bradford – hopefully I will end up on the first side!

The beer bomb caused more shock than damage but it does bring a few worries/questions to mind:

• Why throw a full can of beer?
• What if the beer bomb had been something more sinister?
• What if the beer bomb had hit a little baby, pet or family heirloom?
• What if the beer bomb had been caught, rotated, fired back and decapitated the lemmings who threw it?
• What if I had held a pint-glass right at the point of contact with the floor – would I have had a free pint or would there have been too much head?

Unfortunately none of these questions have been answered. I left around an hour later hoping to see the culprits – I didn’t.

Fortunately, I was given a ride home by a good friend of mine. Another friend was also taken home and when asked to point out his street of residence replied…”the next proper street on the right please”. What is a “proper” street? We hypothesised that maybe the neighbouring streets were fake or somehow unreal, filled with inflatable houses, cars and a postmen going about their inflatable business – probably not. My friend (who I will only identify as Dr.Z ) never fully justified his comment but if anyone is familiar with an example of a non-proper street, please let me know!

For the love of nadal…

Oh the Grand old Duke of York…

Well that’s it. Bank holiday over. There isn’t another one until August now, I believe.  I started off the day in a somewhat passive mood and wasn’t aiming to do much of anything; luckily my girlfriend was in a more active mindset and persuaded me that a trip to York was a good idea – it was.

For those who don’t know it, York is a walled city, formed by the Romans and situated in the north of Yorkshire. It is famous for its historic architecture and typically middle aged feel. As a Yorkshireman I feel quite proud of York and it is reassuring that not all of Yorkshire has been neglected in recent years.  In contrast to Bradford, the streets are full of fashionable, tasteful retailers and there are a good number of pubs, restaurants and cafes all being enjoyed by a wide range of people from a wide range of backgrounds.

For anyone tempted to visit York, I would heartily recommend “The Kings Arms” pub which is owned by the Sam Smiths brewery. This place serves pretty awesome craft beers at literally half the price of the commercial, more popular beers; a pint of bitter clocks in at about £1.50 whilst the freshly brewed lager sets you back about another 40p. Bargain.

York’s most famous landmark is undoubtedly the Minster, it is pretty impressive and certainly looks spectacular from most viewpoints around the city.

The Minster

I probably would have gone in and had a look around but there were far too many tourists to allow the experience to be enjoyable. I couldn’t really quibble at the tourists (since I was one) and instead chose to enjoy the city by soaking up the atmosphere in a less forced manner – browsing the streets, bookshops, parks and ruins at a pace which seemed fitting for the city and surroundings.

I suppose today’s post wasn’t all too interesting but, then again, the main purpose of this blog (at time of writing) is to document the thoughts and events of my day to day life.  In the absence of much to write about; a cool person would probably not write anything and go surfing – well I’m not cool and I can’t surf!

For the love of Nadal…

Time at the bar ft. (an) Abrahams

Usually at this point on a Sunday evening I am just starting the typical series of events which transitions me from the Weekend to the working Week – luckily today is one of those very special Sundays which is followed by a bank holiday. Joy.

Yesterday night my friends and I headed to a traditional, British styled pub  in the centre of Bradford – City Vaults. I really like this place but unfortunately it is one of the only “nice” pubs still open in the city centre. It really is a shame that so many of these, once popular, establishments are shutting down (some estimates put the number of pub closures at 52 a week nationally). I could probably understand it if there was a new wave of trendy or stylish wine bars/bistros in Bradford but, as anyone familiar with the city knows, this is not the case.

As is quite common with my friends, the evening’s conversations generally involve the creation of some sort of list or ranking. This week it was the turn of “Most Overplayed Songs” .  A partial list:

• Crazy in Love
• Seven Nation Army
• You’re Beautiful
• Skater Boy
• Chasing Cars
• Heaven is a halfpipe
• Chelsea Dagger
• Take me out

There were a lot of others but my musical knowledge is such that I have difficulty naming them. One notable entry was the “BN BN” biscuit theme tune which is, in my opinion,  a musical masterpiece of unrivalled proportions.

The songs above are certainly not all bad but they were just played at such a frequency that people stopped appreciating them as much as they once did. I suppose this happens with most things;  I remember “back in the day” when I was at University I developed an insatiable appetite for “Frikkadellan” – for anyone not familiar with these beauties, they are a chunky circle of meat, heavily salted and fortified with fat until such a point that refrigeration and sanitary storage is no longer required – a student’s best friend!

Gotta love that pork!

Of course all good things must come to an end and, after around 150 weeks, 60000 calories and 200g of salt, I realised I had overplayed the “Frikadella” tune.

The moral of this story is that a) too much of a good thing can become really annoying and b) although German Pork products are tasty, they are not healthy and don’t smell that great when microwaved.

Have a good bank holiday!

For the love of Nadal…

In the beginning

The first post should really be something gripping and thought provoking however I am a little concerned that the setup of one of these ‘blogs’ has been so easy. In the days when every website signup form seems to have a dozen check boxes including at least three double negatives and 1 Jedi mind trick

“Tick this box if you do not want to stop Spam.plc and our affiliates prohibiting the non-delivery of content to your inbox”

I am pleasantly surprised that I have been able to start such an endeavor with little more than a welcome email and a confirmation of my password.

Of course my happiness will be short lived when I press submit and find that I have spent the last couple of minutes writing something that can only be posted to the “whole” internet for a premium fee/subscription and/or a cultish sacrifice of some sort. This view is probably incorrect, and certainly cynical, but recently I have become slightly frustrated with supposedly “free” software jumping out of the bushes and mugging me – an example:

I recently downloaded a tool which said it would, for free, convert my iTunes into MP3s. I spent a (not insignificant) amount of time gathering up all my favourite songs and then clicked “Convert”. At this point I got some remark, based loosely on the english language which said

“The version software which is here free will convert 1/3 of all the tune you select. To convert all the tune you select buy the premium edition for $29”

I am fairly confident in my mathematical ability and can say with utmost certainty that $29 is not free. At least I have the amazing “free edition”. Wow…there really is nothing quite as useless as a tool which converts 1/3 of every song you own; what possible use could anyone have for this? Imagine a shop which sold a third of an umbrella, hammer, chair or condom …there really is no point to it.

I was fairly determined when I signed up that I wouldn’t write a cynical blog and so my next posts will be more uplifting and hopefully informative. We have covered a lot of ground today though – Genetics, the French Open and “trick” software – if you missed the first two items you must be viewing the “free edition” of my blog – sucker!!

For the love of Nadal….