Sweet Charity

I have a genuine question this week for you. It’s not a Smart Alec question like “What disease did Cured Ham originally have”, or “Why do dogs get annoyed when you blow in their faces yet the first thing they do when you take them for a drive is stick their head out the window?” Important though these riddles may be, there is something much more pressing in my world.

This is a question I’m genuinely troubled by and I hope you can help me. There’s no hidden agenda and no trying to get a cheap funny line (unlike the paragraph above). I’ve been grappling with this question for a few weeks and I don’t know the answer, so I’m looking to you for guidance.

What do you do if you regularly buy the magazine for the homeless called The Big Issue from someone, or frequently give a few coins to a beggar who appears every week on your train home, and then one day you spot them talking on their mobile ‘phone?

Do you carry on giving money because you feel that what these people do with your gift is their own affair and if a mobile phone is more important to them than a bed for the night then so be it? Or, like me, do you start to have doubts? That’s the moral maze I’m trying to navigate this week.

I’ve always felt that selling The Big Issue is a respectable and honourable way for the homeless to raise enough money to feed themselves and raise them from the twin dangers of lack of respect and sleeping on the streets, ensuring they get a roof over their heads and safety. So am I mean or wicked when I find myself perplexed? I have found my feelings a bit uneasy as I wonder how they can afford a monthly tariff or pay as you go mobile, and then I get even more uncomfortable when I wonder whether it’s any of my business anyway.

So, do I give as unthinkingly as before or do I now question myself and their motives and cut back what I give? I ask because this has happened to me with two different Big Issue sellers in the past month, both of whom have had my money regularly.

The first bloke gets on my train home once a week and comes through the carriages holding one, battered copy of the magazine. He is very polite and his spiel never changes. “Good evening ladies and gentlemen. I’m not trying to sell you this magazine but just asking for money so I have somewhere to sleep tonight”.

This is all fine, but a couple of weeks ago he stood beside me at my station on his phone arranging to see his mates later in the pub. “I’ll get the first round”, he said. Now I don’t know how I’m supposed to react to that but when he gave his rehearsed, polite speech later on the train I refused to hand over my change. Was I wrong?

The other Big Issue seller is a very nice, polite lady who sits on an upturned box outside our local bakery shop and, again, I’ve bought the magazine from her in the past. Yesterday she was sitting chatting away on her mobile and I walked past without buying. Again, was I wrong?

There’s an old expression from the Wild West where someone who gives a present but expects something in return was called an Indian Giver. The cowboys didn’t understand the customs of Native Americans where it was traditional to give a present and then get one in return. If nothing was forthcoming then the present was taken back. Is that what I’ve become, an Indian Giver? I don’t expect a present in return but am I expecting someone who gets a donation from me to let me know how it will be spent or I’ll take it back?

Perhaps the idea is simply to go with your conscience at the time and, unlike me, not to think too much about it.

It is a genuine question I’m asking this week but I fear that there are no correct answers.

There's No Business Like Showbusiness

I’ve been going to the theatre a lot over the past few months and I must admit that this, for a modest, unassuming person like I am, can be a bit difficult. You see it’s hard for me to sit and see someone else up on stage getting all the attention and, unlike my real life, never stuttering or being stuck for a good exit line or wracking their ageing brain for what word comes next. Also, I envy their happy endings and exciting lives. You never see anyone on stage stuck in queues or trying to park at B&Q do you? And they don’t ever do mundane things like dig the back garden or clean the toilet.

The way that I’ve found is best to handle my envy of all this is to quickly stand up at the end of a show and pretend the riotous applause from the audience is for me. This only works for a moment as it leads to everyone else getting up and the cast receiving a standing ovation, but I’m sure they know it’s all really for me and that it’s my caring nature that is letting them share.

I only realised this week that my trips to the theatre have involved seeing too many musicals recently like Wicked, Jersey Boys, Dreamboats and Petticoats, Oliver, etc, and so a “proper” play now takes me by surprise. The realisation came to me when I saw a performance of Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice last week and wondered where the songs had gone and where the orchestra was hiding. If the bard had been really savvy he could have written a tune or two in his time and Shylock could have burst in to a ballad when demanding his pound of flesh. Maybe First Cut Is The Deepest?

I heard that my love of theatre is shared with The Queen and Prince Phillip who sneaked in late to a West End show last week, climbing over everyone and sending tubs of Maltesers flying as they fought to get to their seats. I’d hate to be the poor soul stuck sitting behind Her Majesty though. After the initial nudge, nudge excitement, you can’t exactly ask her to take her crown off as it’s restricting your view can you? And what’s the etiquette? Can you ask her to sign your programme? Do you offer to buy her a choc ice at the interval?

Hopefully she would turn down the offer anyway as a programme and choc ice in theatres today cost roughly the same as the upkeep of Balmoral for six months. I often think the best actors in the theatre are the usherettes who put on a wonderful welcoming smile as they hand you one triple chocolate Ben & Jerry’s and say “that will be fifty pounds please. Have a good evening”. To make legal theft look so innocent and appealing takes some amount of acting.

The toilets in all theatres are tiny and look like they were built for royalty – King Arthur that is – and that’s why there are always queues outside these antiquated, quaintly aromatic, stalls. Perhaps when it comes to loos our current monarch has someone who does it for her – the queueing that is, not the actual sitting down bit.

I think it’s important for the public to support theatre, a tradition that obviously stretches way back to Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre days and even further, perhaps back as far as Bruce Forsyth’s first gig, so I fervently support my local theatre even though it is often half empty and puts on shows that are too arty with a capital “F”.

I find that supporting your local theatre is a bit like following your local football team in that you know it will always be a minor player, never win out on the big day and will always be unloved by others. I imagine it’s a bit like being a Liberal Democrat.

So I urge you to be that unfashionable supporter of your local theatre and all its silly ways and Victorian charm. It needs you if it’s going to survive. Just get along and support. But make sure you go to the loo before leaving home.

Sharp Dressed Man

I have a bit of a phobia when it comes to buying clothes. If I strain my ears I can just about hear you shouting “but you always look so elegant Paul, so what’s this with problems about clothes?”. That was what you were shouting, wasn’t it?

Well you see the buying bit’s easy for me so long as I go early and avoid the crowds, but I just can’t bring myself to stand in line and collect multi coloured plastic discs with numbers on to go in to some tiny, manky changing room where I’m supposed to balance on one foot to try on my purchases and see if they fit. This leads to my wardrobe being packed with trousers that are too short, jackets that are too big, and waistbands that are too tight, tho’ I confess chocolate may have something to do with that last one.

What is it that especially puts me off? I don’t know where to start. It could be the actual plastic discs, which firstly look cheap, secondly are easy to misplace, and fifthly make me feel I’m back in kindergarten being taught to count. Or maybe it’s the frayed curtains you have to pull across before stripping down, knowing it’s a waste of time anyway as they hang half way off. Or perhaps it’s the stains on the carpet, the smell of sweaty bodies or just that I hate shopping so much that I want it over and done with quicker than a Madonna marriage.

Whatever the reason I never, ever try on clothes before buying, preferring to throw them in a basket and hope for the best. So now you know why I very rarely wear anything that fits.

I bought a pair of jeans last week and, after pulling bits of plastic and cardboard sizing off, threw them on this morning for the first time. To my horror I discovered that they are the low waisted type where you are supposed to have your flies down around your knees and show off your lower back tattoo and designer underwear. Nowhere on the label did it give a clue that I would look like Scooby Doo’s pal Shaggy in a nappy, so now I will have to go out and buy designer underwear to show off above my new saggy waistband.

These “droopy drawer” jeans are fine if you want to let everyone see your Dolce and Gabanna Y- fronts or your Armani boxers - but I don’t have any. My underwear is a bit like the Scotland football team, washed out and losing support, and my designer labels at the back read simply Medium or Machine Washable. On a cold day they also read Boy, aged 10 to 12.

I seem to be alone in shunning designers for my undercarckers as everyone else seems to be following David Beckham and wearing expensive knickers just for show, so I think it’s time for a change. I’m considering starting up a new underwear range that will invert the retail snobbery while still making people proud to exhibit in public. I want to go to the other extreme, miles away from couture pants and trendy logos. Sadly it seems you can’t yet buy underwear with the Primark logo embroidered on the waist band, or Matalan either, and TK Maxx hasn’t woken up to the possibilities either. So, I am going to start my own downmarket range called Boot Sale.

Imagine walking behind me as I proudly show off my new, swing low, jeans with my boxer shorts showing at the back with Boot Sale proudly on display. You’d think that I was a stylish bloke wouldn’t you? And, like all really tacky, cheap stuff, it will cost the earth. I’ll make them for a couple of quid, sell them to Harrods at a fiver and they’ll retail at two hundred and forty quid. With buttons at the front, I bet they’ll fly (pun intended).

In a similar vein I looked at the bags carried by women on the train the other day and found they’re all branded as either Bradley, Kipling or Timberland. So, if women are really in to showing off designer labels on bags then I’m going to launch a range called “Fake”. Someone with a sense of humour would surely spend a few hundred pounds on that wouldn’t they?

Meantime, until I can get my business plans drawn up, I’m off to buy new underwear. And no, I’m not trying those on first either!

Get Out Your Lazy Bed

Getting my daughters out of the house for school in the morning is a bit like being a news reader on a twenty four hour news channel. It’s a painful struggle, you use the same words over and over again, and you end up looking haggard and exhausted while feeling relieved that only a couple of people were watching you.

Every morning as the moment of departure approaches, I use a script that goes something like “It’s eight o’clock. Stop looking in the mirror and start looking at the garden gates.” Then, “it’s five past eight, you’re late and you’ll wear that mirror out.” I follow this with “it’s ten past eight now, it’s really late, and I’m going to break that blooming mirror.” Then, “it’s quarter past. Do you think you’re Simon Cowell?”

This morning I thought Katherine Jenkins had slept over at our house as my oldest daughter appeared looking like she had been experimenting with a clown’s make up box a little bit early for Halloween. My pleas that she is too young to wear mascara and lippy to school were met with ridicule of course and expressions that suggested I belonged in a home dunking biscuits in my Horlicks and keeping an eye out for thieves stealing my teeth from the bedside table.

I was on the receiving end of similar pity when I watched the MOBO awards with her a few nights ago. These are awards for Music Of Black Origin and go to musicians who make garage, r’n’b, and black pop hits. The organisers decided to have the awards this year in Glasgow and I made the mistake of laughing out loud as the poor, out of their depth, presenters desperately repeated to a bored audience
“are you ready to party?”, over and over again.

Being born in Glasgow I could have told them that to get the crowd going they should have forgotten the party bit and just changed one letter, shouting instead “are you ready to pastry?”. Since Glasgow is not renowned for being a city with a large black population, a sticky bun would have been understood and appreciated much, much better.

I made the mistake of saying this out loud and daughter number one tutted and shook her head with sympathy as if looking at road kill. Apparently, when I can talk knowingly about whether Tinchy Strider or Dappy are more crucial to the success of NDubz, and where Taio Cruz’s sunglasses fit in to today’s musical style movement then, and only then, will I be entitled to voice an opinion. I rushed for my dictionary.

It only seems like yesterday when Teletubbies were role models for my kids, hoovering up any mess and getting to bed early ready for adventures on their scooters the next day. Sadly, the big sun in the sky baby that smiled and giggled on that show is probably now a student at university giggling in the beer bar and hoovering up illegal substances and rolling her own.

This week Tesco have announced they’re bringing back Action Man, a toy from an era when Dappy was in a nappy and kids grew up at a normal rate. The soldier was pensioned off and put in civvies years ago but thanks to the media reporting daily from conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq kids want the pensioner back, so now the old timer is heading for stores with all guns, or should that be gums, blazing.

Of course he’s changed and his off duty clothing will now probably include a hoodie, lots of bling, and a pouch for keeping his asbo safe. Unlike real soldiers he is getting an update to his kit and it creates an interesting scenario for Tesco as it doesn’t matter if his battery operated laser guided missiles or the walkie talkies don’t work. Take them back for a refund and the girl on the Customer Service desk can say “but they’re not supposed to work. They’re authentic.”

I still have my Action Man from the first time around and I was discussing with him how kids grow up too quickly. Well I say discussing… it’s pretty much a one way conversation but he has a cord in his back that I pull and he says something like “let’s kick some butt”. He’s been a bit indecipherable since I washed him in my bath when I was ten.

But, as I said to him, in some ways kids today don’t grow up quickly enough. Thinking about my morning rant at my daughters to get them off to school, I wondered when they will eventually grow up enough to get to the stage of actually being able to tell the time unaided by a foghorn timecheck from dad, and also knowing instinctively to avoid mirrors because of the disappointment of what they’ll see.

It will make mornings in our house so much quicker and quieter and I, for one, can’t wait.