Shyness Isn't Nice...

There's a picture of all my family at Knott End in about 1973. My dad's a big, grinning grizzly bear in a Sunday Best suit. My mum's wearing tan tights and a mini dress and smiling from ear to ear. My Uncle Bill and Auntie Vi are all sex and newlywed sophistication, in tan leather jackets and matching shoes. Nana and Grandad are obviously laughing at something the photographer has said to make everyone smile (something blue, no doubt). My brother, aged 7, has got Kasabian hair and a stripey tank top and he's laughing too. My sister (who would have been 10) is wearing a really weird dress that looks like it was cut down from a frock designed for a much older person. But the look of joy and mirth on her face is priceless.

And then there, peeking out from behind my dad's legs, is a mop of curly blonde hair, the arm of a blue anorak and a little chubby leg with white socks and red shoes. You can't see his face and his hand is gripping on to my dad's trouser leg for dear life. Sometimes I don't recognise who it is. And then I remember - oh yes, Jim. You're shy!

Truth is, it's always been a bit crippling, really. There are really no decent pictures of me as a child, because I'm always hiding - either literally, behind my dad's legs, or hiding in one of the many imaginary worlds I created. So on the pictures where you can see my face (and there aren't many) there's a strange, faraway look in my eyes. I'm never smiling at the camera or at whoever is taking the picture. I'm smiling at the people in my head who are just as shy as me and understand what a terrible experience this all is. Which makes me sound deranged. Perhaps I was.

When I was 4 we moved to a small village. The only other person my age who lived in that village was a lad called Tony who nowadays would be described as having special needs. All through my childhood I tried my best to make friends with him. But it never worked. I frustrated him because he wanted to play silly beggars, pretend to shoot each other, dig random holes for no reason. I wanted to dam streams and catch fish in the pools they created, so I could look at them and understand how they worked. I wanted to invent convoluted make believe stories (often involving Doctor Who in some way) and act them out. Tony didn't have a scrap of interest in any of that and he can't be blamed for that. So I spent a lot of my childhood on my own. It wasn't all bad - I spent the entire summer when I was 9 years old sat on a haystack reading Orwell.

Secondary school wasn't much better. True, once I discovered Robert Smith and Morrissey I had role models, but I still had to hide the fact that I would genuinely much rather be listening to Mozart from most people. It led to bouts of depression. When I was 13 my dad built me a box on the shed roof. I know that probably sounds insane, but I asked him to do it and the fact that he readily agreed shows that he understood something about how my psyche worked. It was just big enough for me to sit in and it had a door I could lock from the inside. He knew, I think, that all I wanted to do was have somewhere I could go to read a book or draw a picture where no-one else could get to me. I shared a bedroom with my older brother, which sometimes upset me so much that I found I was unable to speak.

Books taught me another language, though. They taught me how confident, articulate people talked. By the time I had left home I had pretty much learnt how to hide my shyness from most people. And alcohol helped a lot.

It's still there though - put me somewhere like Sankey's, where I feel uncomfortable, and, no matter how many potions and chemicals I have partaken in, you probably won't get more than two words out of me. You'll probably notice my whole body stiffen and if someone touches me - even someone I know and care about - I will visibly recoil.

The other day, I was eating my lunch by the town hall here in Manchester and someone (I have no idea who they are) walked up to me and said "OH MY GOD! You're Jim Hewitt aren't you?" and I looked at them and froze. All I could say is "No." They looked confused and unconvinced, but I buried my head back into The Morning Star and pretended they weren't there. Some of you might think that's sad and a little bit pathetic. And that's because shyness isn't nice. Especially when you're too big to hide behind your dad's legs anymore.

Human Soup

The scene. I don't even know what "the scene" is. I grew up in a place where "the scene" didn't even exist. Well, that is unless you can count hiding bottles of Diamond White in the bins outside the Civic Hall disco in Ormskirk and throwing up on girls' shoes every Saturday night a scene.

Or perhaps the fashion that I started for holding a Cadburys Creme Egg in your hands until it went soft and then smashing it on cool kid's head counts as a scene. I suspect it doesn't.

Anyway, I digress. It seems, sadly, that I am expected to be part of a scene now. I've managed to avoid it for the best part of 39 years, but the time has come. I have to make my choice. Where in the name of holy crap do I fit in? It doesn't matter that I have spent the better part of my life debating this - I've got to pick a team and I've got to do it NOW!

I could go with the generic gay scene. There are lots of things about it that I like. The boys are pretty, for one thing. And no-one minds if you use hairspray and know all the words to True Blue (the album, not just the song). But there are downsides. I'm a fat get, for a start, and they tend not to like that. I also quite like to talk about Marxism, feminism, and Eva Peron in a non Madge based context. They don't like that kind of stuff in Cruz 101.

Then there's the bear scene. There are lots of fat blokes like me there. And there are lots of other blokes of all shapes and sizes that want to have sex with them. Ace. But the shoes are bloody terrible (you look at the next Bear Convention you happen across - you will never have seen as many bad Shrainers in your life). Besides, have you ever tried having an intelligent conversation with someone whose number one favourite activity is fisting? It's not pretty. I think I might get a temporary membership only.

Oh, I know! What about the alternative scene? There are people there who like Stereolab. There are even people there who like Lotte Lenya and hate Rage Against The Machine as much as I do. Oh, but wait. Stereolab aren't as cool as they used to be - everyone's listening to The High Llama's instead again now. And Lotte Lenya totally sold out when she went to America. Add to that the fact that I look terrible in skinny jeans and I think Morrissey is a bit of a dick. I don't think they'd let me in. Or they might. Just so they could wither me.

I could always get back into the left wing political scene. I did a politics degree when I was in my late 20s. I did it because I cared about politics as an activity and as a way of understanding the world. My dad was a Trade Union shop steward during the winter of discontent and I read Orwell when I was 7. That would be alright. Except that I can't stand marching - travel exhausts me and the thought of looking at someone's green dreadlocks for an hour makes me anxious. I'm not veggie, either. I don't even respect most people's reasons for being veggie. The bacon in that tartiflette would have me booted out in no time.

Which leaves me with one simple truth. I'm going to have to join them all. And bitch about none of them. I urge you to join me. Long live inclusivity (which is probably not a word, but ho hum!)

ADVICE TO PARENTS

I'm never going to be a parent. Period. It just isn't going to happen. For one thing, I'm WAY too selfish and I don't like the idea of my social life depending on having to find babysitters or find friends that also have rugrats. Secondly, I freak out when I'm left alone to look after a puppy or a kitten, so the idea of being left alone to care for a baby is probably a deeply terrifying one. Thirdly, I'm a fully paid up member of the Mox Club - I'm a gay, I suck cock and use industrial strength lube. So it's never going to happen naturally. Unless science comes up with something pretty bloody remarkable.

Thing is, though, although I am happy about the fact that I am never going to be a parent, I also think it's kind of a shame. Because, you see, I KNOW how children should be treated and brought up and it seems that most people who actual have them these days do not. They are completely and utterly and hopelessly clueless, for the most part. So, I have decided, in an act of pure and unselfish benevolence, to dispense my words of wisdom to the world, so that our children can have a bright and happy future and their parents can stop acting like a load of lobotomised idiots! Dr Benjamin Spock has absolutely nothing on me, I can tell you.

• Right - so the first thing you need to realise is that the world is not full of perverts, paedophiles, murderers, dangerous drivers and so on. It is perfectly safe for your children to go out and play. They do not have to be confined to the house or the garden. In fact, that's doing them way more harm than good. How the hell do you expect them to become socialised and streetwise and independent if all they do is fire water pistols at their brothers and sisters in the back garden? Get a grip - they'll be fine - the world is probably a lot of a safer place now than it was in Victorian times, and Victorian children were, for the most part, not murdered. If they were then none of us would be around now.
• Look again at my comment about dangerous drivers. I would like to revise it. The roads are only really dangerous because there is so much traffic on it. And most of the traffic on the roads when you are driving your progeny to school in your ridicuously huge, gas guzzling people carrier is other people driving their kids to school in their equally huge, gas guzzling people carriers. So it's simple. You should all stop doing it and then the problem would be solved. Your kids would be able to walk to school because there would be hardly any traffic. You probably don't realise this because you're probably never out on the roads during school holidays. But you should try going for a walk at 8:30 in the morning during the summer break. You'd be amazed.
• There is absolutely no reason for anyone else to give a shit about your kids. I don't mean that they wish harm on them, or that they won't do whatever they can to protect them and keep them safe. But they are YOUR kids - you chose to have them (or to keep them) and they are, therefore, your responsibility. If that causes you problems, for example, at work, then there is only so much help that you can expect other people to give you before they start feeling a bit resentful. Sooner or later, you're going to have to accept that having children involves making sacrifices. The very best parents realise that these sacrifices extend to more than having droopy boobs or not being able to go and watch the footie in the pub EVERY Saturday.
• When you go into a restaurant with your kids, or a cafe, or even MacDonalds, there are certain standards of behaviour that is expected of them. You should know what these are, but here are a few pointers: they should not be allowed to run rounding screaming and play fighting and annoying other people trying to enjoy their food; they should not be allowed to throw their food onto the table or the floor rather than eating it; they should not have tantrums and, if they do, they should be taken home immediately - IMMEDIATELY. In addition to this, you need to realise that if you buy your little kids adult sized drinks then they won't finish them - and that's a waste. So don't. Also, restaurants and cafes are not really suitable environments for little babies. Get a babysitter. Or invite friends round to your place instead.
• Speaking of which - things like milkshakes and cookies and pizzas and cheeseburgers should be thought of as treats. If you let your children have them every day they will end up obese and they will think that they can have whatever they want whenever they want it. This means they will grow up to be complete cunts.
  
• Prams and pushchairs are not battering rams. They are to transport your child safely so that you can do stuff - they are not designed to sweep other people out of the way and off the pavement. They don't make you invincible - if anything, having your child with you should make you even more safety conscious and people aware.
• Baby On Board stickers are just fucking stupid. So you have a child in your car - so fucking what?
• Dogs sometimes bark at children - it's because children behave erratically and sometimes make sudden, high pitched noises. They also tease dogs sometimes and some dogs have learnt this. It doesn't mean the dog is going to maul your child to death. Chill out a bit, for goodness sake!

In fact, that would be my advice to parents in a nutshell. Chill out a bit, for goodness sake. Follow the sage advice of Dr Jimmy Catsup and you will have happy, fulfilled children - and other people won't think you are the scum of the earth!

SECRET LIFE

OK - so let's get one thing straight - I am a USELESS blogger. I made a resolution as I was walking home from work today that I would get better. That I wouldn't wait for inspiration but that I would write about my life so that people who know me and people who don't get a better idea about what's going on for me on and off this tiny little island. It's the only way to unlock my blocked creativity. But first I think I need a fresh start. There have been LOADS of things lately that I really really should have blogged about, but never got round to. So, to wipe the slate clean, here is a brief and nasty summary of all those things.

• We spent a week in London and Amsterdam. The highlight of London was taking our friend Rachel to Duckie at The Vauxhall Tavern. She loved it and it loved her. The lowpoint was an absolutely bogging breakfast in the Angus Steakhouse. The bacon wasn't even cooked and, when I complained about it, the waitress went off to the kitchen and then proceeded to bitch about us really loud in Polish. We flew to Amsterdam in the middle of the worst storm for 20 years, but it was so worth it. We stayed on a ghetto houseboat in the Oosterdock (I think that's how you spell it) and had a whiteout on the first night because the weed was so strong. But The Sex Museum was hilariously stupid and I just loved the freedom of the place. We bought loads of porn. When we got home we learnt that our house must have been a pretty scary place to be in the eye of the aforementioned storm - apparently the waves were crashing OVER the roof. So we were pretty lucky that there was no damage.
• Stephen Hawking annoys the fuck out of me. He has dedicated his half life to writing a load of inconsequential bollocks about stuff that doesn't matter. OHHHHHHH! So the universe is actually comprised of a load of strings - we can't prove that, but we can take it on faith - and that brings us close to a theory of absolutely everything. Thanks for that, spackattack!!
• Customer Service Culture is killing off civilised society. People are turning into spoilt children who demand everything because they know that they will get it. We should be more like the French who seem to discard the idea that the customer is king - for them the customer is, at best, an equal. And I mean at best. That's the way it should be.
• The new season of Doctor Who started. It was the best opening episode since Rose. Catherine Tate was wonderful and the little baby aliens looked like the Pilsbury Doughboy. The Pompeii episode (which is tonight) promises to be really scary. And you can't even hide behind our sofa!!
• First I hated 4 Minutes by Madonna and Justin. Then I thought it was a bit of a non-event. Then, all of a sudden, it struck me that it's actually brilliant. And Justin Timberlake looks totally hot in the video. Who would ever have thought it? I bet Madge told him what to wear.
• My friend Rob is returning from NYC in a little under two weeks. I've missed him more than I thought I would and I want to hang with him more when he's back.

So, there we go - I have a clean slate and I can start writing about stuff again without worrying about the stuff that I didn't write about. Tonight we are taking Emily out for boozy fun. Expect more on that tomorrow...

TURNING ROY CROPPER

There are, of course, many ways in which I am NOT like Coronation Street's Roy Cropper. For one thing, I am not married to a post operative transsexual. For another, I do not have an almost morbid fascination with defunct British Railway Station signs (though I DO think they're quite cool - oh God!) But I realised yesterday, as I was walking to the supermarket, that me and Roy do have a few things in common. Maybe a few too many things for comfort, to be honest.

For a kick off, I'm an incessant worrier. As I get older I realise just how true this is. I worry about making coffee too hot and then, having taken corrective action, I worry that I haven't made it hot enough. I worry when my other half puts a status on Facebook that I can't readily interpret. I worry about the damp in the house. I worry about the fact that I'm worrying too much. I'm doing that now. But I also do something else that I've noticed Roy doing - I reprimand other people for worrying. Sometimes I almost snap my words of reassurance at them "Don't worry! You know it will be fine - it's only a couple of days, so just stop worrying about it."

Then there's the fact that I work in a cafe. True - it calls itself a coffee shop and bears very little resemblance to Roy's Rolls, but it's still a cafe all the same. I still make cups of tea and coffee and put things on the grill and have banal conversations with regular customers. And I still do too much of it really to have the kind of sparkling social life that I would like (and Roy Cropper would probably like too!)

But the most worrying and convincing resemblance between myself and Roy is my shopping bag. See, I've come to realise that plastic bags are pretty evil. There's no need for them - they choke up the environment and take forever to rot. So I only get a couple of them a week now (just enough to use as rubbish bags - otherwise I'd have to BUY plastic rubbish bags and that would just be silly). Instead, I've got this little jute shopping bag from M&S that I carry with me to the supermarket. Thing is, Roy Cropper's been doing that for years. Me and my friends used to have a running joke about it. True, Roy's is on of those tartan old lady style bags, and mine is a bit more eco, but the image is still the same. I'm still a man with greying temples, past his best, shuffling to the supermarket carrying a ladies' shopping bag. So, yes, maybe it's time to get on e-bay and start looking for those vintage station signs...

*pours very un-Cropperish glass of wine*

LA VIE EN GONDRY

There is a beach. In winter. Perhaps it is the beach that I live on, but the climate is different - snow streaks horizontally across the horizon. The murder of crows still scavenge everything that is washed up on the high tide, but they are big. They are very big - it is as though a class of schoolchildren dressed in crow costumes and are looking for crabs, sea anenomes and razor clams in the rock pools. But the rock pools are forests - full of bears and squirrels and horses stitched together from felt. And I lie here, in my little rotating room, and listen to the sea rush up and down the beach, twice a minute, sounding like the rush of blood to the head when I fell in love.

The house is small from the outside. Inside it is a labrynth - a tangle of rooms that shift and morph like an Escher print. But in colour. But that can be moved through. But are a model and not an image. And to move through the rooms of the house is not to move at all because it is the house itself that moves. I want to piss so the cogs I cannot see turn and bring the toilet to me. I want to fry an egg so a book is opened and a kitchen pops up from the page. I want to sleep, so the floor slides the bed under me and the arms in the walls undress me and tuck me in.

I go to work. The shop is huge but I am bigger. Everything is suffering from giantism, but I still cannot stand up straight behind the counter. I am dressed as a crow. Maybe I am a child and maybe the cappucino machine groupers and the innards of sea anenomes. None of this is certain - life may be a dream. But it is a dream made by animators - everything is made of paper and fimo. And it pulses, sways in time to the music that accompanies me wherever I go. I can do things with my feet. Anything is possible.

Where is the sky? Inches above everything that stands below it? Or is it a vast orb that moves further away from us the closer we get to it? Is it a metaphor for my friend in Hamburg or New York who I love so but can never reach? Have we had our minds altered so that we can no longer remember? I'm in Schilpol airport and on my way and he is in JFK. I'm at JFK and he is watching paper aeroplanes crashing in stop frame elegance into a cellophane Alster. Life is about beauty and longing. But none of it is real.

And a crowd has gathered outside. They want to share in the joy that is in this little model house. They want to see the love that I have here and now projected onto the windows. They know that I have to stay here and that I maybe will never leave. We will never leave. Or will we? The ending is never certain - it is not a cul de sac. It's the dual carriageway that runs past Route Du Rock - probably I (and everyone else who is a part of my story) will never have a clear idea about where it leads. But that view - the unknown line running to who knows where - is beautiful. And it is enough.

And still there is the beach. And the sun is coming out.

YOU ARE WHAT YOU THINK

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