A Very Awkward TASG Halloween

So, this is a day late, for which I apologise. Last night I tried to post a stalling message that read something along the lines of:

"DUE TO OBSCENE AND IMPROMPTU DRUNKENESS, THIS POST HAS BEEN DELAYED. NORMAL SERVICE WILL RESUME TOMORROW."

However, my drunken thumbs wouldn't let me send it. Damn them.

This, I believe, was a blessing in disguise, because I didn't have this idea until this morning. Now, I know it's not technically a comic as it's only one picture, but I am immensely proud of myself.

So, without further ado, my imagining of a TASG Halloween:

Desert Island Disks

This was taken at a TITANIC party. I thought the theme was almost apt.

I'd like to begin by saying being stranded on a desert island would be among my worst nightmares. Even if it was a picturesque Swiss-Family-Robinson island. All that sun and sand would drive me mental. So my collection of music, films and books would be something of a lifeline.


First up, the tunage:


I'd definitely take Morcheeba's 'Big Calm'. It would calm my nerves and the song 'The Sea' would be particularly apt. I'd also bring with me Metallica's Black album, Amy Winehouse's 'Back to Black', Damien Rice's 'O' and Paloma Faith's 'Do You Want the Truth or Something Beautiful?' I believe these 5 albums, between them, would chill me out, perk me up, help me vent my frustrations and - for those times when you just need to sulk - wallow in self pity.


Films would also help pass the time, of course. I'd bring Moulin Rouge because - I'm so clever - if I shut my eyes or merely turned away from the screen, it would work as a 6th ALBUM. Genius. After I'd depressed myself with Damien Rice, I'd watch Sister Act to cheer me up. O. M. G. Another film that has songs in the soundtrack and - therefore - a 7th album! Next up - The Commitments (8th Album! OK, I'll stop now), and Schindler's List, to remind me that the society from which I find myself isolated is capable of being pretty shit and therefore less worth missing. Finally, I think I'd need to bring some Tim Burton, as Allison did. Just in case we've landed on the same island, I'll bring The Nightmare Before Christmas, so that we don't double up. That will also mean we have something festive for the holiday season, if we're there that long.


And lastly, books. Oh, books. I would bring War and Peace, for I think that would be great for passing a HUGE amount of time. I think I'm being too practical here, concentrating too much on the desert island and not on what's actually my favourite, but hey ho. G R R Martin's Game of Thrones would probably sate my embarrassing thirst for fantasy literature for a short while, and Les Liaisons Dangereuses would bring a little bit of intrigue and drama into my otherwise long, repetitive days in the sun. I'd also bring London Belongs to Me by Norman Collins, just to remind me of what it's like to be a Londoner. And finally, and I'm not sure this will be allowed, my anthology of Shakespeare. Not only would this fill LOADS of time, but it would cure me of one of my most troubling traits; a very poor knowledge of Bard. Then, if I did ever get off the island, I could return to Blighty with my head held high, throwing about witty one liners and deep reflections of my time lost at sea.

A Cruel, Cruel Summer...

Actually, it wasn't. But how could I start a summer-themed post without referencing an Ace of Base classic?

So, fear not. My summer wasn't cruel. It wasn't, however, the all-singing, all-dancing booze haze it might have been.

At the beginning of the summer, Neil broke his ankle. Now, summer is his season. He is the fire to my ice* so it was especially hard for him to be holed up inside when he would have preferred to be basking in the sunshine. I actually didn't mind. I thought about changing jobs for a while. That didn't work. My one trip abroad was a one night work trip to Trieste (which is very pretty, I do recommend it).

I know it's incredibly British of me to moan about the weather, but for a long time it didn't feel like summer, rather an extension of spring. It's odd that as soon as the sun did come out - at the beginning of October - things began to look up.

Firstly, I watch my football team trounce local rivals QPR six goals to nil. That's a rare figure for Fulham to reach so I was, I believe understandably, overjoyed.

Then came some more big news. I'm really wary of jinxing it, so forgive me for not saying anything just yet, until it's set in stone, but it's looking like my life may be undergoing a fairly substantial change soon. Nothing huge; I'm not emigrating, crowning myself King of the World or giving up alcohol (or coffee, though kudos to the Canuck for succeeding where I've failed!) any time soon. But there is a possibility that those miserable, my life is going nowhere feelings may be quashed. At least for a while. And if it does happen, I promise you'll hear it here first.

In the meantime, I'd like to thank Allison and Lauren for being patient enough to let me recharge my batteries. It's fair to say that blogging has eluded me this year. I've been running low on inspiration. But I don't want to stop, I just needed some time to think. It wasn't you, TASG, it was me. And I'd like to come back now, if you'll have me?

Ciao for now. Lauren, my favourite new twitterer, I look forward to reading your summer post!

T
X

* On the subject of fire and ice, I lost at least two months of my summer to G. R. R. Martin's sprawling fantasy epic A Song Of Ice & Fire. I'm pleased to note that Risha has also succumbed to the temptations of Westeros. This makes me feel much better about myself.

Pfft.

If I'd zipped the hoodie up, it would read 'REPUBLIC'. Just saying.

The last two weeks have forced me to reassess my relationship with the Royal Family. Relationship is the wrong word - it's not like they invite me round or anything. My opinion of the Royal Family would perhaps be a better wording.

A few weeks ago, I was certain. I was sure that they are neither use nor ornament and should be ousted in favour of someone like me, who would use the tax payer's hard-earned cash on drink and fun instead of fancy cars and castles. In this way, the country would be united under a monarch who was just like them.

However, in the run up to the wedding things have reached fever pitch. I walk past shops selling Kate Middleton masks. MASKS I TELL YOU. My brother's girlfriend is having a street party. The hairdressers on the High St is offering a ROYAL WEDDING DISCOUNT. It's as if the world has gone mad and I've unwittingly wandered into 1950.

But then it hit me...it's not annoying me. I don't look at all the hype, all the Union Jacks, and feel anger. I feel something else. Is it...patriotism? I think it might be. And that's unusual. You see the British don't often celebrate British-ness. It's quite a rare occurrence. Unless you're Welsh or Scottish in which you have loads of options. The English, then, rarely unite unless there's a World Cup on. But despite the differing opinions on the matter, at least everybody's talking about the same thing for once.

It's difficult to put aside 20 odd years of not knowing what the Windsors actually do, but I think for tomorrow I will try. I'll concentrate on the pomp that Allison mentioned. And, as I'm going to a Royal Wedding party, on the drink that I hope will be flowing soon after they tie the knot.

But after tomorrow it will be business as usual. Honest.

Kicking the Habit

Given that Lauren highlighted her habit of posting two days late in her Bad Habits post, I think it's only fair that I do the same. Especially as this is a week (and a day) late. Not two days.

Ashamed as I am, my lack of punctuality is not the bad habit I want to concentrate on. No. I am here to discuss the mother of bad habits, the habit that sends biting finger nails, turning up late for work and swearing running and screaming in terror: smoking.

This is really quite topical for me, as I gave up four weeks ago. This is harder than it sounds. It should be easy to resist the temptation to waste money on things that do you no good at all, but there's a reason that companies can make millions by 'helping' people kick the habit.

While I know that it was bad for me, I do miss it still. But I suppose that's part of an addiction isn't it, if you didn't miss it, you wouldn't be addicted. And I was.

I should say though, while I'm sure there is lasting damage, it's incredible how quickly the human body can turn itself around and start to repair itself. It's impressive, really. At first I wondered why not smoking was making me cough - I assumed it should be the other way round. Apparently it's the lungs getting rid of all the crap. Sorry, that's disgusting. But good, too. It was the best cough I ever had. And not just that - there's pins and needles as your circulation improves, your sense of smell improves. All this I'm grateful for, I just wish the insomnia would sort itself out.

Anyway, that's my uber-late bad habits post. Wish me luck, as I'm not out of the woods yet and could still succumb to tobacco's siren call. And don't go anywhere - royal wedding post coming right up.

Calling the Transatlantic Rescue Squad!

The Brit begins another long commute home, after a hard day at work. All he wants is his nice warm bed, or perhaps a nice cold pint. But his daydreams are interrupted by a noise. An annoying noise. A tinny, annoying, irritating noise...

No! It can't be! Evil Loud Music Chav Girl! Being able to hear somebody else's music while stuck in a train carriage is the Brit's Kryptonite. It turns him from a mild-mannered, rather pleasant young man into a slobbering, growling, rage-filled beast, like this:That can't be allowed to happen - he can't control his powers when in Rage-Beast form. He quickly summons his superhero support group. Within minutes, the Yank arrives, accompanied by her faithful companion, Goat Man.

They immediately set about drowning out Evil Loud Music Chav Girl's offensive tunes with some excellent songs of their very own invention. The Brit feels the rage begin to subside. Meanwhile, the Canuck has arrived and his doing her very best to avert the disaster that would ensue should the Rage Beast appear in the enclosed space that is a tube train.

She...erm...floats through the carriage, spreading cinnamon hearts and, aided by her sidekick Yoga Cat, restores the mob of angry commuters into the group of polite, quiet and ever so British individuals they started the journey as.

"WELL DONE TASG!" The Brit cries joyfully, relieved that his evil alter ego will not be revealed. "Come, I owe you both a pint, seeing as you did, like, fly across the Atlantic to stop me kicking off."

And so they went to the pub, which Evil Loud Music Chav Girl could not enter as she had no ID.

DISCLAIMER: Allison & Lauren: I can't draw, so please don't take offence at my doodles. Rest assured you look nothing like the above. The 'art' tag is meant to be ironic. Allison: I'm unsure as to why you've adopted such a Christ-like pose. Lauren: I apologise for your outfit, and hope you don't mind me drawing Goat Man.

Also, Yoga Cat is in the pub picture, you may not be able to see him. I didn't want you to think I didn't buy him a drink, too. He's in the bottom left corner of the window.

Tune into Friday's edition of the Transatlantic SUPERHERO Group (see what I did there?), brought to you by the Yank.

A Slurred Word from the Brit

If ever you feel like you need a drink, please refer to the above photo as a reminder of how bad an idea it can sometimes be.

Reading Allison's list of things she does when she's had a drink but would never do sober set some bells ringing. Singing, dancing, hugging, texting people I shouldn't; it's all a bit too familiar. One thing I always find myself doing when drunk which I've never had to do sober is running for the last train, leaping up the escalator at Fenchurch Street in a mad rush to catch the 00:25 departure. When sober, I won't even run for a bus.

I think I've blogged before about the time a bouncer escorted me off a dance floor after I fell over and I accidentally held his hand as he led me through the crowd. I don't think I've told anyone about how I was sick all over my dad on Boxing Day (I blame the bacon sandwich, not the hangover). The list of my alcohol-fuelled embarrassments is long and...embarrassing.
People at work have noted that after two pints I sound like someone from Eastenders (the bald one in this video here). I stress I sound nothing like this normally. My laugh also transforms into a pantomime cackle, and I think everything sounds like innuendo.

My friends, I am not a man who can hold his liquor without making a complete twit of himself. There may come a time, in the distant future, where I can nip to the pub for a swift pint without feeling the need to dance, cry or pull stupid faces.

And while part of me is impatient for a respectable drink, there's another part of me that's secretly in love with Drunk Tom, because he's more fun, less inhibited and sounds like a TV character. I don't think I'm ready to grow up just yet - besides, the sun's coming out for the first time this year and it would be rude not to greet it with a bevvy or two.

Cheers!

*pulls stupid face*

A New World Order

When I become King of the World, the first order of business will be to construct several thousand statues of me, in a scarf, pointing. The statues will be erected in towns, cities and sites of interest all over the world. What they will be pointing at is yet to be decided. Perhaps they should point in the direction of my palace.

My second piece of legislation, will see pavements divided into lanes. The slow-walkers will be forced into the slow-lane. People who walk fast enough will therefore be able to carry on at speed without having to slow down for dawdlers. I shall also be given the right to punch anyone who walks slow in the fast-lane in the back of the head, with no retaliation.

Hmmm. What next. Ah. I will receive an invite to every party in the world. An army of well-trained invite-readers will separate the good from the bad before forwarding any worthy of note directly to me.

And I will choose who wins the lottery, every week. I know this takes luck out of the equation, but I want to make sure the money is going to someone who needs it, not someone who is rich already or will just spend their winnings on drugs, or something. In this way, though it may not be the luck of the draw, it will at least go to somebody deserving.

I wish it were possible. My life would be so much fun.

I hate it when people are late. *shame*

Cast your mind back, if you can, to two weeks ago, when Allison and Lauren published their posts on their pet peeves. This is my effort and, as I'm sure you'll notice, it's incredibly late. Fortunately for me, the Yank and the Canuck were incredibly understanding - I've been away with work for a week, far from technology with but 30 minutes to myself every day. I'm knackered.

Not too knackered to reel off a few pet peeves, however. I've been storing them up.

Airports and travelling by plane: though I appreciate that being able to travel any where in the world in a matter of hours is extremely impressive, I'm not sure that there really need to be so many queues involved. On my way back from Italy I queued for a taxi to the airport, then for check-in, then security, then passport control. I queued in the shop for a bottle of water, I queued when getting on the plane. I queued when the plane landed, waiting for the people in front of me to get the $*%@ out of my way. I queued again at passport control, then for a train ticket, then for a ticket for the tube. By the time I got home, I never wanted to leave in case I'd have to queue to get out.

Hangovers: I think Mother Nature was needlessly cruel when she decided that anything that is either delicious or makes you have fun must have some kind of nasty side effect. Either you get fat, or wake up on the bathroom floor in a puddle of sick with a splitting headache. Why can I not get drunk, have fun, and feel well the next day? Would that be so wrong?

People who dawdle: I joined a Facebook group entitled 'I Want To Punch Slow Walking People In The Back Of The Head'. This is only half a joke. I really do want to punch them in the back of the head, it infuriates me. I only fear the consequences. Especially if said slow-walker is twice my height and built like a brick $%£@ house.

I'm so angry now. I think I'd best stop before flying off the handle into a fit of rage. Second post on its way - please forgive my tardiness!

I...I Will Be King

Harry Potter: My Literary Hero

This is not an easy post to write. Like Allison, I find heroes hard to find in a culture that celebrates fame for fame's sake, and catapults so many barely talented people into stardom when they've hardly had to lift a finger. I couldn't think of anyone who I really look up to,
every pro had a con.

My mind kept wandering to biblical passages about worshipping false idols, or the heroes of classical civilisation, ancient definitions of heroism and out-dated reasons to respect.

So in a world with no Spartans, where vacuous, talentless individuals are placed on pedestals, where is the heroism? Who is there to respect? Politicians lie, footballers behave like children and celebrities fall apart in spectacular fashion, right in front of your eyes.

But I didn't lose hope, for once, because there are people I respect and look up to. There are people who display traits I'd love to have. They're just not famous. It's the people who have the guts to split up fights they're not involved in. Or who buy homeless people a cuppa rather than awkwardly avoiding their gaze or throwing them some loose change. Journalists who quit their jobs - despite the skin chances of finding a new one - because they disagree with the messages they are paid to put across.

So I've decided to give up trying to find a celeb worthy of my admiration. I'll save it for people who go out of their way for others, or those who face hardship and difficulty but still won't compromise when doing what's right. These are the traits I'd want in a hero, and sadly (or so it seems) traits that are lacking in today's legions of celebrities.

I totally have Bonnie Tyler stuck in my head now.

A Tale of Two Cities (Two Days Too Late)

1. I wake up. Late. Looking rough.

2. I miss the bus.

3. I don't get a seat on the train.

4. I'm swept along in a river of people, like Simba in the Lion King. The stampede scene.

5. I get the tube.6. While being swept along by another human tide, I pass Mufasa the lion's trampled corpse at Kings Cross Station.

7. I finally get to work.

8. And the rest of the day looks like this. Until half 5, at which point I repeat steps 1-7, in reverse.

Wednesday, however, did not look like this. On Wednesday, mes amies, I went to Paris! This goes some way to explaining why my post is somewhat en retard. Yes, it was a work trip, but Paris is beautiful and, thanks to Erin's incredibly patient other half, I got to see some of the sights (and to meet Erin herself making her the first real, live blogger I've ever met!).

This is what you get when you mess with us

I think Allison did a fine job of explaining exactly why Radiohead strikes such a chord. For me in particular, equipped as I am with a temperament that leans naturally toward melancholy, there are times when no other sound will do. Unlike Allison, I have no musical or historical knowledge. My brain is awash with things that happened today. Tomorrow, it will be empty, filling up rapidly with things that are happening around me. My ability to recall information is almost non-existent, which makes discussion of albums or even band members difficult.

My chosen song, however, was easy: Karma Police is never skipped when my iPod is on shuffle.

Why is it my favourite? Well...erm...I don't know. OK, I'll be honest. I WANT TO BE A KARMA POLICEMAN. Imagine that! I can picture the scene now:

A Karma Criminal is playing crap music out loud on a quiet train carriage, making other travellers uncomfortable and irritable. I notice this, and walk up to him in a cool, calm and collected manner.

"Turn that music off - think of your fellow travellers," I say.

"Or what? Who are you and what are you going to do about it?"

"I'm a Karma Policeman sunshine, and you're nicked. As to your punishment, you will spend a week in solitary confinement, with the sound of a hundred different songs playing all at once when all you want is quiet."

OK, I'm making myself seem a bit insane now, but do you understand my point? Imagine having the power to right the wrongs you see happening around you, to sample the sweet (yet cold) dish that is revenge by making wrongdoers appreciate the consequences their actions have on others. I think I've found my calling.

Realising that a brief, and disturbing, insight into the inner workings of my evidently troubled mind, would not make much of a post, I did take the time to look up the real meaning of the song. And what do you know; it was written for me. I shamelessly lift the following from Wikipedia to illustrate my point:

"It's for someone who has to work for a large company. This is a song against bosses. Fuck the middle management!" Yorke and Jonny Greenwood emphasised in interviews that the song had a humorous bent; Yorke said, "[It's] not entirely serious, I hope people will realize that." Seriously, that's me. I work for a large company and frequently find myself wanting to shout rude words at middle management. I experience rage almost daily, a rage that risks boiling over if, for a minute, I lose myself. I feel, always, that I've given all I can and that it's not enough. My God, this song is ME. The 'not entirely serious part' of Yorke's explanation I'm not so sure about. Rest assured that I've taken this song entirely seriously and, as mentioned, shall devote the rest of my days to becoming a Karma Policeman.

Who you gonna call?

The Karma Police! That's who! And yes, that gesture is supposed to indicate a phone, however it would seem that there's an extra finger raised. At least it's not the middle one!

Here Comes The Rain Again

"What's that?" I hear you say, "This is supposed to be an open letter to something you love!" That's correct, and rain is indeed something I love. Which is fortunate, being British and all.

Dearest Rain,

I fear language will fail me. How can words describe the depth of my feeling for you? How can I properly express my extreme fondness for you?

We've been lucky enough to share so many good times together. Do you remember how I missed you when I lived in Italy? How my heart yearned to see you again? And, when you eventually arrived, with a gloriously heavy downpour and deafening rumbles of thunder, how I frolicked happily, giggling like a schoolgirl, through the gridlocked traffic in Piazza Repubblica?

Now I'm back in the UK, we see each other far more often than we once did. I feel I've grown close to you again, regardless of that year we spent apart. Even now, as temperatures begin to rise and that pesky Sun begins to peek through the clouds, I know in my heart that the Great British Summer will not tear us apart. Au contraire, you'll make a number of unexpected, out of the blue appearances that will fill me with joy and keep me happy until winter rolls around and we can get better acquainted again.

You understand me, you do. How could you not, after such a long friendship? I'm amazed that whenever I feel down, your grey, threatening clouds reflect my mood and - on the rare occasion that happiness seizes me - how your playful little raindrops bounce merrily off the pavement, sparkling and glittering in reflected light. I know you're not at the top of everybody's guest list, but I don't care about that. You're at the top of mine. I've never been one to worship the popular kid - everybody raves about how great the Sun is, and I don't get it. I'll always root for you - the underdog, the unappreciated.

And that just about sums you up doesn't it, Rain? You're unappreciated. All the good that you do - you make plants grow, rivers flow, my hair look cool. Sure, you've ruined the odd pair of jeans - and there was that time I wore converses with holes in and had to dry out my socks on the hand drier at work. But what's one small blip, one tiny, insignificant misunderstanding in a lifetime of happiness?

It's nothing, that's what it is. While you, my friend, are everything.

As always, I wish you the best and wait with anticipation for our next meeting.

Yours truly,

Tom

My name's Tom, and I'm a scarf addict.

Last week, I innocently mentioned that I enjoy buying scarves. I thought that would be all there was to it. But no - my mystery topic, courtesy of Allison, arrived in my inbox at the weekend: "MY AMAZING SCARF COLLECTION."

I wasn't sure how to begin, so I released them from my wardrobe for a while. In doing so, I realised that at least three are missing, which is upsetting. But I'll save my tears for later, in the meantime - without further ado - please let me introduce you to...my scarves. I hope you understand the importance of this situation; it's like meeting the parents, only a much, much bigger deal. So here's the gang:

1 - THE STRAY. I'll be honest, I have no idea where this one came from. I don't remember buying it and I suspect it's not actually mine. However, I obviously liked it enough to either steal it, or adopt it and give it a loving home when it had been left out in the cold by its first owner. I'm selfless like that.

2 - THE IT-SCARF. This scarf sits comfortably at the top of the scarf social hierarchy. It's easily the most popular, the one most often found around my neck. One of the reasons for this is that on the reverse it's grey, black and red, which goes very well with my black coat that's red under the collar. All hail the King of Scarves.

3 - THE CHAV. Bought in a market for a fiver, this fake Burberry scarf was one of my less-informed purchases. However, on the odd occasion I do feel brave enough to venture out wearing it, if I ignore the judgemental glances of my fellow commuters. You see, in the UK, the Burberry brand was hijacked by chavs. The wearing of such a cheap imitation Burberry scarf may convince other people, in more expensive and respectable scarves, that I'm going to steal their wallet and spend their hard-earned cash on cheap cider and cigarettes.

4 - THE ELDER SCARF. This is the oldest scarf in my collection. I've had it for about 10 years now. Every now and then I think of an item of clothing, pair it with a colour or pattern, then yearn for it obsessively until I find one exactly like what I'm imagining in a shop. I think it's magical, honestly. I have a gift. The green hoodie in the frog photo was one of these. Other instances of this include red converses and a blue and black horizontal striped jumper. This wonderful black and white scarf was another, and my desire was not misplaced. It has served me well through many a harsh winter, and will continue to do so.

5 - LA SCIARPA ITALIANA. No, it's not an expensive Italian silk scarf. It's a football scarf, which I purchased when I went to see Cagliari (the city I lived in) play Treviso. I bought the scarf before realising it was actually really short and wouldn't fit around my neck without serious risk of strangulation, so I ended up wearing it like this instead:

6 - THE MIGHTY FULHAM SCARF. On the subject of football scarves, here we have my new Fulham FC scarf, which was a Christmas present. I'm hoping that it's cold enough for me to warrant me wearing it on Monday night, when FFC meet Chelsea at Craven Cottage. We'll need all the help we can get. Come on you Whites!

7 - THE SURPRISE ENTRY. This was also a Christmas present. Apparently I asked for it, but I have no recollection of doing so, whatsoever. Not that I'm ungrateful, it's very nice and I shall wear it, I'm just worried that my addiction has started to take over my soul. Perhaps it's slowly eating away my free will, making me ask for scarves (or worse, steal them) and then making me forget all about having done so. Sly. This could get me in trouble...

Well, I hope you enjoyed this root around my wardrobe, and that it didn't bore you too much. If you ever get a cold neck, you know who to come to. HOWEVER, if you think my scarf collection is a bit over the top, take a look at my ties (and I don't even need to wear one to work):

There are over 20 here. And, again, there are some missing.

Sorry! I was busy spoiling myself!

***The Brit would like to apologise for the delay to the service. This was due to a technical error that has now been rectified.***

I shouldn't lie; there was no technical error. In fact, the only reason this post is late is because I've been enjoying myself a little bit too much since the end of January. I suppose that makes the theme of this post even more apt, as for the first time in six weeks (but seven, yes seven, weekends) I have a small amount of money with which to spoil myself rotten.

Like Allison, I include drinking and eating out in the list of activities that make me happy. Unlike Allison, I probably do them too much. It sounds terribly stereotypical, but a nice, cold pint in a nice, warm pub makes me happier than most other things. I'm not sure if it's a sign that I'm growing old that I look forward to pub nights more than clubbing. I find clubs increasingly frustrating, and yearn for a comfy chair in a corner of an old-fashioned boozer instead.

Eating out turned into an addiction for a while; I've since toned it down so that I only do it when I really have something to celebrate, or if I really need cheering up. There's something wonderful about sitting in a restaurant chatting over a drink while your food magically prepares itself in another room without you having to lift a finger. That sounded offensive to the people that cook the food, didn't it? I didn't mean that - I envy the culinary skills of professional chefs. It's just that eating out is even more fun if you imagine the kitchen to be like that scene in Beauty and the Beast when all the cutlery starts singing in a French accent. You definitely don't get that when you cook for yourself.

I am also guilty of spending a large amount of money on a season ticket for the football team I support. While sitting for an hour and a half in the cold watching a ball kicked around a pitch may not be everybody's idea of fun, for me it's a treat. I especially like mid-week evening games; the walk from the tube station to the stadium takes you through a beautiful park right on the banks of the Thames. The walk is probably about a mile long, and the anticipation and suspense build with each step. Admittedly, we don't always win and on these occasions following Fulham feels like less of a treat. But when we win (as we did yesterday, by the way) it leaves me feeling ever so satisfied.

Other than that, my other vices include buying shoes (as admitted in the comments on Allison's post), books (because I refuse to move with the times and invest in an e-reader) and scarves, of which I have several.

You know what? It's been nice writing about the things I like. While they may not be absolutely necessary, I'm not sure I'd want to live without them. It would feel like January every month if I did that. *shudders at the thought*

Over to you, Lauren!

Skint, Brassic and Broke in Blighty

Sometimes I dream of a world without money, where one could barter with services, exchange goods and do favours for friends. In my mind, it's a beautiful place. Of course, if on Saturday I win the lottery I'll change my tune completely. The moment the money hit my account I'd be prancing round like Liza Minnelli in Cabaret: "Money makes the world go round, the world go round, the world go round..." It would not be a pretty picture. Besides my lack of it, my biggest issue with money is that I don't understand it. Gold standards, exchange rates, inflation; these are all things that go straight over my head.

And then there are The Markets. What are The Markets, exactly? And how do they manage to buffet the little people around according to their evil whim? I physically can't comprehend how something that must have at one time been created by mankind, now rules over it. I hold my hands up and admit the there's much I don't understand, and I don't want to sound like I'm rubbishing the economic systems I know nothing about, but this is the full extent of my knowledge on the subject.

I'm writing this on the tube as I speed (I mean trundle painfully slowly) beneath the City of London, where the streets are paved with gold and a banker's bonus would pay off my parents' mortgage. Where dreams are made and payout records are broken.

I've read a lot recently about how deregulation of the bankers led to the economic crash in 2009 and, in a way, I sympathise with them. Perhaps, if when I first started on a regular salary I had saved some money, or at least budgeted, I would not be in the dire economic straits I am in today. But I was young, irresponsible and - as already demonstrated - completely and utterly financially naive. How could I say no when the bank offered to increase my overdraft? I thought it was free money. And when they sent me a credit card - the one that screamed USE ME every time I opened my wallet, how was I to resist? Other people did and do manage to resist though - and I envy their intelligence. I don't want to blame anyone but myself, but somewhere along the line I failed to grasp the true value of the coins in my pocket and the numbers on my bank statements. And, as with the banks, there was nobody there to regulate my epic spending levels.

Unfortunately, the taxpayer steadfastly refuses to bail me out; yet even so I am clawing my way slowly, but steadily, back into the black. It was a lesson I needed to learn, and part of me is pleased I went about learning it the hard way. I was ill-equipped to make any sort of financial decision and while I still don't understand the bigger economic picture, at least I've finally figured out my own.

Funnily enough, when I held my wallet upside down for the photo above, I found £1.46 I didn't know I had, and €0.20. So thanks TASG, for coming to my aid yet again!

Next instalment: Lauren vs The Dollar Bill

I (heart) TEA - A TASG Production

Me and Charles Darwin



Guys. My video is rubbish - I was balancing my computer on my knee so the screen is wobbly, I accidentally dazzle myself with a tiny torch which I then bang against the keyboard for the rest of the video (without realising that it would be picked up by the mic. I am that stupid). There's also a bit where my phone vibrates and it sounds like a fart. A fart it is not, I promise you.


I am sorry. You deserve better, and are used to higher standards. Allison's video was great - Lauren's a vlog wizard. I have let the team down.


That said, without further ado, I introduce myself, Tom 'The Brit' Read, speaking about British stereotypes.


Good luck. If you get through the whole thing, I owe you a cuppa. Or a pint.

A Brit Abroad

After reading of Allison's globe-trotting Monday, I was quite tempted to steal it. Seriously; coffee, alcohol, FOOTBALL and polar bears. What more could you want? No. No, I'll keep mine. I'll follow Allison's route tomorrow. Today, my itinerary is as follows:

MORNING: Paris, France

I'm strolling down a leafy Parisian boulevard, minding my own business, when out of the corner of my eye I notice a familiar face.
Me: "NO WAY! Allison?
Allison: "Hi -"
Me: "What are you doing here?" Having a croissant I see. I LOVE CROISSANTS. Mind if I join you?"
Allison: "Erm, well..."
Me: "Of course you don't. So tell me, how are things? All good I hope. I had a nightmare journey yesterday, I tell you. I got the train over from London last night, stuck in a tunnel for HOURS."

At this point a dashing young French man emerges from inside the café. I realise that Allison has company, and that I'm sitting on her company's seat and have started tucking into her company's croissant. I realise I am intruding on an otherwise very romantic picture.

Of course, as much as I would love to meet Allison face-to-face, my perfect morning would not actually involve gatecrashing an otherwise perfect date. But it would be in Paris. I find the city enchanting. It's so different to what I'm used to - London strikes me as a butch, brash and masculine city compared to its elegant, pretty yet no less bustling counterpart across the Channel.

So here I am, Paris. It's autumn and the trees that line the streets are shedding their brown leaves. I'm sitting on a balcony, overlooking a sea of rooftops, buildings jostling for space as far as the eye can see. The noise of a city waking up and dragging itself to work fills the air. The sky is blue and clear; a bright sunlight bounces off the pavements still wet from an early morning shower. It's a little cold, but I have a coffee to warm, and wake, me up.

And then I go and gatecrash Allison's date. Bonjour François!

AFTERNOON: Chia, Sardinia, Italy

'Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun' is truer than you may think. I'm the only one here. The locals have retired to their homes for lunch and to shelter from the heat. But I live in such a cold and grey country I stubbornly refuse. Instead, I sit on the beach, listening to the waves break on the shore as flamingos fly over head. Seagulls' cries float on the wind as a cloud passes over the sun.

On the the cliffs that jut out into the sea to my left, a ruined tower stands. It's incredible that it's still standing, at least in part. It must be as stubborn as me. And then I realise that my face is on fire. Aw crap.

[EDIT: This part would obviously not occur on the perfect day, but will occur without fail on every other holiday I go on. In October I went to Frankfurt with work. I spent all day, every day inside and came back with a tan. I have no idea how. Sunburnt Tom in picture below, for reference. Ouch.]

EVENING: Athens, Greece

I stand on the Acropolis looking out over the city, watching as the sun sets and shadow creeps over the rooftops. Behind me stands the Parthenon; an ancient wonder that I've been wandering around for the past half an hour. I've been taking it in, imagining how it used to look and wishing I'd seen it in its former glory. I wonder who walked this path 2,000 years ago and what sights the lifeless, stone eyes of the Erechtheum's caryatids have witnessed as time passed them by. The setting sun shines through its columns as I begin to head back down the hill. Back in the city, I choose a restaurant with a table outside. I sip at a cold glass of Mythos as I wait for my moussaka. The calm, before the storm.

NIGHT TIME: New York, US of A.

Yes, I've finally dragged my sorry arse out of the Old World and into the New. Where better to spend an evening than the city that never sleeps? Not that I've ever been, but I'm pretty sure I would be hard-pressed to not have a good time. I love cities, I love hustle and bustle, bright lights and loud noises. I drink until I'm drunk enough to dance, dance until I'm too tired to stand, sit and remind myself that I shouldn't ever dance in public.

And I tell you what else I'd do; I'd get the Subway really late at night (or early in the morning) because I've heard that in the Big Apple it runs all night. Imagine that for someone from London, or "the City That Packs Up and Goes to Bed at 12", leaving you to battle your own way home.

And then I wake up, and realise I'm incredibly late for work.

2011 Things I Want From This Year

The obligatory New Year's Eve photo (this hug lasted 20 minutes). Compare and contrast with Allison's photo - you can see the Canuck is by far the more presentable.

Anyway - the title. Don't worry, I won't be listing 2011 of anything. It was just a cunning little ploy to lure you in (or scare you off?). I will, however, be talking about what I'd like the new year to bring, looking forward and not back - which for someone who spends his life looking over his shoulder is quite a big deal.

Due to some intense pressure from my colleagues, I've decided to make one resolution for 2011 - I usually don't make any. I would like (and this will require both forward planning and dedication on my part) to reconnect with some of the friends I've let slip away. People I've lived with, laughed with, spent hour after hour talking rubbish with. People who now live far away, whom I seldom see but think about often. I know that it's a fact of life that some friendships don't last - sometimes, there's little you can do to halt the decay as two friends grow apart and lose the things they held in common, that held them together. In times like these, there's little point in fighting it.

But there are others that can be salvaged, and should be. There are many people who have meant a great deal to me in the past - and still do - whom I haven't seen for years. And so, I aim to go and see at least 5 of them, wherever they may be. To reminisce, to reconnect and to reassure them that they aren't forgotten. As an added bonus, I will have an opportunity to visit other towns and cities. I know that I live on a tiny island, but I've hardly seen any of it and it's been so long since I left London, even for a weekend. I can't even remember the last time I headed north. This shall change in 2011.

I would also ask that 2011 brings with it a few other changes. 2010 was more or less stagnant - a long, hard uphill slog with precious little reward. I am in much the same position now as I was last January. Hopefully, with a bit of effort and hard work, I'll be able to break out of the rut I find myself in and embrace something new and exciting. I think I need to feel like I'm progressing, and, if I can just tackle my laziness, this is perfectly achievable.

So, in 2011 I shall rekindle old friendships and, in doing so, see somewhere other than the capital. I'll also be keeping my fingers crossed that, come January 2012, I'll be able to look back and see that my life has changed for the better - rather than having stayed exactly, and depressingly, the same. That's not too much to ask, is it?

In the back of mind however, I have a sneaking suspicion that 2011 will not be a good year. I know it's a pessimistic outlook, but sometimes you have to trust your instincts. But while I've decided my year will probably be rubbish, I've decided that your 2011's must be fantastic. They simply must. I won't have it any other way, you hear?

Time Flies, When You're Having TASG Fun

This is me handing out awards, by the way. In my first effort, I looked a lot more insane - I thought this was more in keeping with the friendly nature of the TASG.

Tom's whole body creaks as he pushes himself up from his rocking chair. He hobbles over to the front door, and is greeted by an infant with a decidedly odd accent.

"Oh, you've grown so much, little TASG!" says Tom, "I remember when you were but knee-high to a grasshopper!"

This scene would perhaps be more suited to a later edition of The Best of TASG, but you know what I'm getting at. We've come a long way, baby - we've shared a lot; in fact I think I've shared a bit too much at times, and it's been fun. Looking back over our stellar first three months, I'd like to highlight to following as my Best Bits:

Best Overall Post:

From Allison, our resident Canuck, my favourite post has been Fears, Beers and Cheers. This, in my most humble opinion is what the TASG is all about, and I have no shame in admitting that the paragraph beginning with 'Do you blame me...' tugged at my heartstrings. It's like you were strumming my pain with your fingers Allison, singing my life with your words.

And from Lauren, our American chum, Being Realistic Is Never My Thing. Lauren, I love your oddity - and I mean that in a good way. You're a little bit mad, and I admire that. It would only be better if you were from Mars and therefore a Space Oddity, but I shall make do. Anyway, this post did not disappoint - only you could say you wanted to grow up to be Librarian Hippie Elvis and pull it off. I was pleased to read you've always been as weird and wonderful as you are now. Long may it continue.

Funniest Post:

Allison: An Open Letter to my Resumé. The frustration is evident, but it's also bloody funny. 'Don't get me started on your friend Cover Letter'.

And Lauren, the relationship application form in Maybe I Should Just Be a Nun is, I think, your funniest effort to date. Huzzah. I think both of the above would have been easy to write in a way that vented frustration and little else, but you both made really funny reads from quite difficult topics.

Best Title:

Allison: F%#k it, I'm Just Going to Get a Bunch of Cats. I promise I don't only find this funny because it contains a cunningly disguised naughty word - this post was a strong contender for for Allison's funniest post, too.

And Lauren, Attack of the Yank. A short, succinct and very apt title for her first TASG post which was a bloody good read. (A favourite line being 'I was born at a very young age, though I did not feel the need to talk or grow hair until I was approximately four years old. People not only thought I was retarded, but they thought I was a boy.')

Best Embarrassing Photo:

I like this award in particular, because the embarrassing photo wasn't even something we discussed before posting. It just happened, and I like that it did. So, without further ado, my votes for the Best Embarrassing Photos, 2010, go to:

Allison the Canuck for tips on disguises to avoid those awkward moments in I'll Leave You Alone Forever Now.

The second award in this category goes to Lauren the Yank for the New Wave Teddy Bear photo from Attack of the Yank. It had to be, really.

And so I draw this here post, and TASG 2010 to a close. I shall see you all on the first Wednesday of 2011, by which time I will hopefully have recovered from what's sure to be a significant hangover.

Best wishes for 2011 to Allison, Lauren and everybody who reads (now this is starting to sound like an acceptance speech - I must remember to thank my agent), let's hope it's a good one all round!

Over to you, New Year Teddy Bear.