Christmas time (damn those bell ends)

As befits the holiday season I returned to native shores to celebrate Christmas with the family. After enduring a particularly gruelling December, overdosing on festive spirit, the relative quiet of rural Värmland was just what the good doctor ordered. Global warming conspired to create a distinctly green Christmas but a couple of days ago a band of snow swept the southern parts of the country to create a -10C post-Christmas winter wonderland. Pretty, atmospheric and proper Christmassy.

My travelling jinx obviously had to continue; the journey to Scandinavia didn't quite go to plan. The entertainment for the journey was meant to consist of rewatching episodes 1-4 of Car Share, possibly the best commuter comedy ever. Instead my airwaves were completely gazumped by a fellow passenger with questionable social skills and an astonishing lack of self awareness. Word: douchebag. Before I had the chance to fasten my seatbelt she opened the floodgates to an endless stream of verbal diarrhoea of the stinkiest, unsolid kind. A big fat 7 in the Bristol stool chart. Praise the Lord we weren't embarking on a long haul.

Turned out we were both Swedes travelling back for the holidays but there the similarities end. Over the course of the WHOLE flight she kept rambling on about herself and her first world plight. My polite disinterest in her 'conversation' went unnoticed, or maybe it fuelled the fire. 

She's a dentist who's lived in London for a few years, having emigrated to do a masters in at UCL. The professors there weren't very helpful so she also had support from her professor at Sahlgrenska with whom she had a much more productive relationship. She's wanting to meet up with him over Christmas as she hasn't seen him for 4 years. She's in two minds over a suitable present. He's 85 years old so she's thinking to take him out for dinner at a fancy restaurant because people of that age already have everything they want, don't they? He drinks wine though, he told her once. She doesn't drink much at the moment herself, she had to put her social life on hold during her studies which were very demanding. She does go for brunch with her neighbours on a Saturday, after playing tennis with the male part of the coupling. He's a retired accountant and helps her with her books. It's really important to keep fit. It's also really important to eat well - home cooking with fresh ingredients. She loves fish. She's from Gothenburg so grew up round fish. Her family still lives in Gothenburg. They haven't been to visit yet, her studies were very demanding so she couldn't afford to take time off to show her parents round London. Or to socialise. She knows people in the UK though, she has friends in Plymouth, Nottingham and York. Travelling in the UK is quite expensive. Her friend in York is also a Swedish dentist, she's got a practice in Scarborough. Unlike her York friend she's not sure if she wants to stay in the UK long term. Having initially rented a 2 bed flat in Chelsea for 400 quid a month from a dental patient's ex-wife who was relocating to Australia and wanted a respectable tenant, she recently bought a flat overlooking Hampstead Heath. The flat is really lovely so she's reluctant to let it out and she doesn't want to sell it. She's tempted to continue with her studies though and she could do that in either England or Sweden. It'd be free to study back home and she hasn't got that much money at the moment, having completed her demanding masters and bought the Hampstead flat, so Swedish studies are tempting. She needs to have a chat with her old professor to get his input as to where to study. He's really well known in the world of international dentistry. He used to write articles for the British Dental Journal but he's retired now. His English is excellent. He helped her with her thesis as his English is better than hers. Her English is good enough though and she's found a job in a private clinic. She takes a packed lunch as her busy schedule makes it difficult to nip out to get lunch, plus she's still getting back to healthy finances after her very demanding studies and Hampstead flat purchase. She's hoping to save up a bit of cash to go on holiday next year with her friend. She hasn't been on holiday since starting her demanding masters. Her dad has just come back from a trip to Thailand, Vietnam and Burma, and she's quite keen on Thailand. It's all about the money though, she also likes shopping. Particularly at one specific shop in Gothenburg, she bought a pair of black boots there. She wore them to travel in. 

That's a pretty accurate summary of her 90 minute monologue, my infrequent contribution amounted to highlighting that not everyone is in the position to buy a flat in a sought after area in London and declining the invitation to brainstorm suitable Christmas presents for the professor. Oh, and repeatedly saying that I'm no longer a student. Once arrived I cunningly tried to shake her off at the luggage belt but the little minx managed to retrieve her suitcase in time to hop on the same shuttle bus. Another 30 mins of earache. Unlucky for some.

The bell end didn't ruin Christmas though and for the rest of the holidays I enjoyed the more dulcit tones of Christmas songs old and new. I also revisited a pile of my old vinyl albums. My dad has bought a massive floor standing contemporary jukebox with snazzy lights and a fully functioning record player. That's it there spinning The (newly Spotified) Beatles' red album.

A surprising realisation about my collection of vinyl was the overall standard. Never one for pretending that my choice in music is 'cool' or 'hip', I'm not ashamed to say that I own Milli Vanilli's Girl You Know It's True (gatefold) album. There are nevertheless some absolute classics right there - Like A Prayer, Raw Like Sushi, Thriller, Actually. And James Bond's Greatest Hits.

Back in the day, most of my albums, vinyl then CD, were purchased in Karlstad. The big city for us small town folk. My mum worked extra in a clothes shop there in the late 80s, just as my record buying was gathering momentum. We used to to along on a regular basis, perusing the record shops whilst she worked. Amongst other things I bought Green by R.E.M. on US import CD which came in those odd rectangular paper outer sleeves, and a box set of the entire Aerosmith back catalogue just for Dream On. Hit and miss.

Despite now living in an actual big city, I still do an annual Christmas sales pilgrimage to Karlstad. Clothes not records the stock in trade nowadays. I came across these on Boxing Day.

A shirt from Dressmann, 150 SEK/£11.50, down from 400 SEK. Nice pattern. A purple jumper from H&M, half price at 150 SEK. Excellent colour.

So after a rather ear splitting start, Christmas turned out alright in the end. And the return journey was bell free and Peter Kay full. 'Ave it!

Burning the Christmas candle at both ends

The festive season is upon us, in case anyone needed a reminder. Tis the season to be jolly, joy to the world, hark the herald, mistletoe and wine. The Christmas commerce has seemingly not fully recovered from the financial crisis judging by the splurge of offers from well known high street brands that drop in my inbox with incessant frequency. These are trying times for a spendaholic. The 30%, 50%, 70% discounts are presumably designed for encouraging customers to spend their Christmas budget on gifts for loved ones and not themselves. Easier said than done. It is with grave difficulty then that this week I've resisted buying a pair of brogues from River Island for £25, down from £60. I could buy a Christmas present for that money. Then again I could do with a pair of brown leather brogues, casual, not too dressy. But I haven't done my Christmas shopping yet. Greed or generosity, it's an existential conundrum. Maybe my conscience will be less weighty if every other thing I buy is a present...

Christmas time also means that it's now been a year since I started blogging. The seed of which was sown just over a year ago in my friend Jeanette's front room in Harringay, north London. The aim was to chronicle my spending for the year ahead and see if keeping a running tally of my material outgoings would influence my spending behaviour. Safe to say that the answer to that one is distinctly unanimous and unambiguous. It's not changed one iota. My commitment to the cause hasn't waned. My bank balance isn't looking healthier. My wardrobe hasn't gone more capsule, not that there was any risk of that happening. Plenty of other things have changed over the year however, in particular relocating to the capital with its fervent lure of goods and services to purchase. It's like being a kid in one ginormous sweetshop filled with all the salt liquorices, Refreshers and pick & mixes ever produced.

As it's my first, and possibly only, Christmas as a Londoner I've launched a full scale Christmas party assault. This week alone I've been out on two work Christmas dos, one work leaving do and a cheesetastic Christmas dinner party with friends. I'm totally burning the Christmas candle out of every orifice. Knackered already and I've got another couple of Christmas dos and a pre-Christmas tipple oop north coming up next week. Think I need a holiday from life. The past week or so has very aptly summed up the cornerstones of my blog too - disaster, thriftiness and frivolity.

Disaster. Friday's leaving do was the third night tiles on the trot and I rather dramatically ran out of steam, possibly aided by the lack of sustenance to counter the booze. Two mince pies didn't quite do the trick. I eventually made it to Blackfriars to head home, the take away next to Stepney Green station firmly in my mind, but proceeded to pass out on the District line. When I came to it I found myself in Upney. Who even knew there was a place called Upney anyway?! Well I do now. It's 9 stations further east than I needed to go. Obviously I'd missed the last tube back west so had to Uber my ass home. And I couldn't be bothered stopping off at the take away either so ended up scoffing a whole bag of sweets just to get some 'nutrition'. Right disaster.

Thrifty. In the mood for donning some new outfits for the impending Christmas dos, I revisited my crafty past and turned out a couple of home styled creations with the help of Primark and eBay.

White shirt from Primark for a fiver with a stitched on frog motif pocket. I bought the fabric ages ago with the intention of making a baby growth for a friend's child but never got round to it, possibly because my lack of precise pattern cutting and sewing skills would combine to make the finished product look shit. At least I've managed to find some use for it now though.

White t shirt from Primark for £2.50 and felt rectangles for £1.99 from eBay. A bit of free hand cutting and wonder web, et voila! Two outfits for less than a tenner, clearly not exquisitely couture but good fun nevertheless. Just don't look too closely.

I also made good use of Tesco's Clubcard Boost to obtain these burgundy brogues. Already in the sale at £10 down from £20, I used a £5 voucher and boosted it to double the value so in effect the brogues didn't cost me anything. The best price there is.

Frivolous. Having already purchased two new winter coats the other month to complement the existing wardrobe options, one would assume that there's little need for extending the collection. Well... The clever marketing gurus at Topman know which buttons to press, and so it was that I fell prey to the 50% off coats and jackets temptation.

£45 it set me back which is frankly not a lot of money, and it looks pretty good, and I can now wear a different winter coat every day of the week, which is clearly a priority in life. 

So it would appear that the 'another year older, another year wiser' schtick doesn't quite stick. This time next year I'm bound to be looking back at another 12 months worth of obsessive compulsive purchasing and life mishaps. And that's definitely worth drinking to.

Because first impressions last

We got satellite TV at home in the late 80s. A ridiculously large dish facing southwards towards the Astra satellite, transmitting a plethora of weird and wonderful channels from the continent, mostly German so loadsa mullets. The thing I remember most vividly, apart from Peter's Pop Show, was a frankly ludicrous 'entertainment' show called Tutti Frutti, which combined quiz games and striptease. By the contestants. The extravaganza was complete with a bikini clad dance troupe, The Cin Cin Girls, who at frequent intervals revealed their bosoms, each one with a jeweled fruit covering the nipples. Pineapple, cin cin!

It wasn't all about mulleted German wannabe strippers however. Eurosport introduced me to snooker and figure skating. MTV transformed the way I consumed, invested in and engaged with popular music. This was of course back in the day when MTV was relevant, championing new artists, helping to elevate the music video to an art form, breaking new ground (The Real World was way ahead of its time). My 11 year old self lapped it all up with gusto. I'd spend hours watching VJ's like Ray Cokes, Paul King, Marijne van der Vlugt and Kristiane Backer, discovering artists I would've otherwise ignored. First and foremost MTV was responsible for introducing me to R.E.M. for which I'm eternally grateful. 

An added feature of satellite TV was the adverts. Swedish telly at this time consisted of 2 public service channels so ads felt oh so novel. For one reason or another certain ones still reside in my memory - Warsteiner alkoholfrei, C&A Young Collections, Alles Müller oder was, and Head & Shoulders - because first impressions last. Or having dandruff will ruin your life.

I was reminded of the significance of first impressions at a conference I attended earlier this week, around improving vulnerable people's experience of health and social care services. The opening presentation was delivered by a chap with a substance misuse past, now 20 years clean. He provided an open and frank insight into his own experiences as a homeless heroin user trying to access services like A&E and GPs. His unkempt appearance didn't go unnoticed by staff at such services and in his mind on occasion had a significant impact on the way care was delivered, or not as might've been the case. It's clearly not all about being dandruff free in the real world. 

His presentation struck a chord with me, as someone who's been involved in providing services for vulnerable people and at times struggled to remain non-judgemental and value neutral, particularly when faced with frequently occurring behavioural patterns. The cunning brain fills your conscience with all sorts of messages based on first impressions, it's up to you to filter these and act or behave accordingly. I hold my hand up and admit that there have been occasions professionally where I've jumped to conclusions based on someone's appearance. Best intentions and all that, sometimes you just have to give yourself a mental slap in the face. My only saving grace is that I'm fairly certain it seldom came across that way to the person in front of me. And noone's perfect.

Don't judge a book by its cover the old adage goes. Sometimes that's easier said than done. Head & Shoulders clearly recognised it. We are all closet cover judgers. Word: Tinder. Two words: heat magazine. Four words: No likey, no lightey. The way we look is obviously only one aspect of our personality and the multi billion pound fashion/beauty/grooming industry's airbrushing, self esteem crushing, debt inducing methods are highly questionable. Some people manage to very successfully navigate the shallow waters of shallowness with a 'fuck the lot of 'em' approach to looks and appearances. Nevertheless a lot of us lap it up like brainwashed minions. In my experience very few people wear clothes simply as a method of covering up their modesty, or have hair on their head just to protect the scalp from sunburn. It's a bit more than that. Making ourselves look the way we feel comfortable with, for sure, looking our best to others, possibly, making a first impression, surely the Head & Shoulders clever clogs weren't right?! 

In terms of impressions, my recent purchases may conjure up images of someone who's a slightly frantic spender, which has been well documented, someone who likes to buy (at least) two of everything, also true, someone who loves blue chinos more than anything in the world, perhaps a tad exaggerated, someone who values quantity over quality, very much the case. So here's the fruit of my labour:

French Connection black pea coat - £98

Another Influence camel overcoat - £110

Primark check shirt - £5

Primark burgundy scarf - £5

Primark black roll neck jumper - £8

Asos deep blue chinos - £10.50

Primark royal blue chinos - £10

Asos tweed trousers - £18

New Look brown brogues - £18.50

Le Coq Sportif purple trainers - £24

Asos blue suede shoes - £10.50

My autumn wardrobe has come a long way since the days of Tutti Frutti and MTV's Most Wanted with Ray Cokes, as has my way of seeing the world. Listening to the former substance misuse talker however, made for a timely reminder to do a stock check of my own values and how they influence my perceptions of others I come across. Because first impressions really don't have to last. 

Works of art

Yesterday I went on the free monthly Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Trans and Queer/Questioning (LGBTQ) tour of the V&A. Lasting an hour, the tour incorporated a range of museum objects with a link of sorts to LGBTQ matters - artist, inspiration, depiction, origin. It provided a fascinating insight into works of art that otherwise could've easily passed one by, either through their small scale, individual insignificance or lack of background info. Notable exception was the cast of Michelangelo's David. If you fail to spot that one you're worryingly oblivious to the world around you. My favourite stop on the tour was the Fashion room and the Charles James evening dress, which unbeknown to me was made out of a print designed by Jean Cocteau as an ode to his lover Jean Marais. Flowers and chocolates eat your heart out.

The V&A highlights better than most other museums that works of art come in all guises, shapes, sizes, materials and formats. It's not just about oil paintings and marble sculptures. Tracey Emin will argue, much to the chagrin of parents of teenage children, that an unmade bed is to be revered. Marina Abramovic found beauty in silently staring into strangers' faces for days upon end and Damien Hirst turned packs of E45 and Calpol into high brow. And works of art aren't simply confined to the sterile white walls of a gallery. Take for instance the street art of Shoreditch or this screen print by London based Felix Green:

I came across his work one Sunday afternoon at Brick Lane market and was immediately drawn to this design. Without hesitation I purchased a t shirt for £20, The design is nothing short of stunning, and should be considered a work of art as much as any of the tediously numerous depictions of madonna and child hanging in the Louvre. Bold, intricate, interesting, arresting. The kind of apparel that elevates both look and spirit in one effortless swoop. I've got my eye on a black sweat with a similarly awesome grizzly bear design and will continue to keep abreast of his sardonic offerings

I'm on a roll in the excellent t shirt stakes at the moment. Slightly less gob smackingly good but commendable still is this little number from a vendor at Spitalfields market:

Random animated cityscape, an elongated peacock and a Japanese style moon/sun. Who could resist? It only set me back a tenner too. Joy! The signage reckoned that all the items were hand printed, which I very much doubt. Nevertheless it looks great. Spitalfields is a proper little goldmine for quirky offerings. I shall definitely re-visit at an appropriate frequency. The street food looks pretty mega too.  

Being distinctly low brow by nature, wearable works of art like the above resonates more keenly with me than say the Mona Lisas or Venus de Milos of this world. Although every now and then I feel the urge to raise the brow bar a few notches. Long live the free museum! Or rather long live the statutory arts funding that keeps the museums free. The enemy of the people that is the Tory government hasn't yet managed to squander that one in the name of austerity. But works of art are so much more than museums. The beauty is that there's a place for all, literally something for everyone, and it's not all about the cultural elite. Art is right there on your doorstep. Go explore!

On a right mission

11.05am. Today I'm going on a London mission. Because I can. Life is only as exciting as you make it and when you live in one of the most exciting cities in the world, excitement should be gushing out of every orifice. Otherwise you might as well live somewhere else, somewhere cheaper with chippys serving chips and gravy.

My tentative itinary for the day ahead incorporates a museum or two, the free ones obviously, winter coat shopping, Korean burritos, a matinee screening of Sicario, a free Waitrose coffee, making good use of Transport for London's much welcome daily capping, and lots of walking in between. And the odd overpriced pint for good measure. Of course the overpriced pints may rob me of any ambition. I'm well down with that.

12.52pm The first stop on my journey was the V&A Museum of Childhood in Bethnal Green. An ode to objects of adolescent stimulus, it was unsurprisingly crammed full of kids' toys and games, ranging from the home made to the cynically and exploitatively expensive. It was also crammed full of screaming and excitable kids. I lasted 20 minutes.

A wander down the length of Bethnal Green Road quite literally provides a London history lesson. At the eastern end there are still remnants of its multicultural modern past, E Pellicci caff and jellied eels. As you head west, witness gentrification take over, culminating in the edifice that is Brick Lane. The transformation divides opinion, as the Cereal Killer cafe knows only full well. Regardless if you're nay or yay, it's at least resulted in some fine street art.

I took in another symbol of the up-trending of East London in the shape of Boxpark. A 2 storey retail and food emporium housed in disused shipping containers. Yes really. Came across this little number in the sale for a measly £13.

My wardrobe wasn't really crying out for another printed sweat in grey melange (wearing one today even) but an iconic line from an iconic alpha male is just too good to resist.

2pm Planned to visit the Sir John Soane museum but there was a sizeable queue so fuck that.

2.25pm The Korean Burrito didn't materialise so opted for a more authentic offering instead. Beef bibimbap from Naru in Bloomsbury. Tried ordering a side of kimchi but it only came in share size which is a bit too much of a good thing, even for me.

3.15pm Digesting the somewhat underwhelming bibimbap with a Negroni in Bar Termini, Soho. Correction, the food was ok but their approach to customer service was a bit too authentic. En route to Soho I did a quick pit stop in Primark and purchased a cheapo mustard jumper for a tenner.

This time my wardrobe was indeed lacking. Not entirely sure why as mustard in colour as well as flavour is a firm favourite. I was trawling the net for mustard apparel earlier in the week and needless to say online items would have dented my wallet a tad deeper. Primark as always to the rescue.

5.10pm Beer o'clock. Rather stupidly strolled onto Regent Street in search of a coat. On a Saturday afternoon Regent St's akin to a mild form of rendition. Luckily I at least identified a coat to buy. I tend to get palpitations when faced with parting with large chunks of cash in one swift move so I hesitated and came away empty handed. A friend once told me that alcohol acts as a beta blocker so chances are I'll make a beer infused purchase later on. And then feel like a twat on the tube, brandishing a bulky shopping bag. Maybe I'll just buy it online. Noone likes a tube twat

5.25pm Apparently it's World Zombie day today. Who'd have known?? That's a zombiefied Ella from Frozen. Coming soon to a kids party near you.

6.40pm A girl on the tube has the best tote bag, apart from the Homogenic one from Bangkok that J has worn out. It said 'I went to the museum and got an erection'. Genius

7pm. Home and knackered, having opted for coat-less non-twat travel. Mission partly achieved.

And now for something completely different

The Labour party members, and £3 leadership voters and right wing infiltrators, have spoken and a resounding 59% backed Jeremy Corbyn. Pretty much universally derided by the mainstream media, prominent Labour figures and war criminals alike, Corbyn's victory leaves the party at a hugely important crossroads. Corbyn's preferred path will undoubtedly be to the left, a vast proportion of Labour MPs, aka closet Tories, want to turn right. As if on cue, a handful of shadow cabinet ministers resigned instantaneously, quoting fundamental political differences. Now correct me if I'm wrong, but was Labour not always meant to be a socialist party, representing the rights of workers and the general public whose social mobility is deliberately severely restricted? So maybe those who would rather resign than work alongside an elected socialist leader need to do a spot of self reflection. Which party did you think you signed up to in the first place? And whilst much attention was given to the possibility of inappropriate people signing up to vote in the leadership contest, perhaps the party need to vet their own politicians a bit more closely. Are you socialist? Yes. Oh good, welcome sir/madam. What about you, are you socialist? No. Well fuck off then.

Corbyn is obviously not the messiah (more likely a very naughty boy who fraternises with the IRA), he faces a massive uphill battle to unite the fundamentally different political ideologies of Labour MPs and members, he may lack the style and charisma of the typical party leader, and ultimately he may turn Labour into the new Monster Raving Loony party. What he can do, and surely will do, is to offer a completely different vision of the UK in the 2010s, one built on solidarity, unity, fairness and equality. Opinions aren't going to change overnight but I firmly believe that in the long term people can be convinced to expand the number they look out for from 1 to at least 2 or 3.

Throughout the campaign, the most common complaint people had with Corbyn was that he will make Labour unelectable. Unless anyone failed to notice, they already have been for the past two elections, failing to provide a compelling argument for old-New and new-New Labour as a suitable alternative to the grim Tory reapers. I for one prefer the opposition to properly oppose the existing government by proposing something completely different, not just right wing propaganda with a conscience. And Corbyn has shown already that Labour under his leadership will be an entirely different beast. Judging by the surge in Labour memberships since Saturday, his plain talking, no-nonsense, un-Westminster like approach has struck a chord beyond the hardcore Labour faithful. Interesting times ahead indeed. And with a bonafide Arsenal fan at the helm, what can possibly go wrong??

Speaking of something completely different, life in London is sure as hell a world away from my previous habitat in God's Own Country. As anticipated the temptation to part with money has proven rather overwhelming. I've now added Zara to the list of establishments that I struggle to walk past without having a sneaky peak in. So spontaneous purchase #1:

£19.99 parted with on a Sunday afternoon stroll round Covent Garden. And spontaneous purchase #2:

£30 donated to Topman's coffers on a Saturday afternoon stroll round Hyde Park. Rather worryingly both items were purchased at full price, zero discount, zilch reductions. Best get back to my thrifty ways asap or a London shaped irreparable hole will appear in my bank account. Hopefully though the abandonment of spending principles is temporary, part of the migration process. Novelty factor and all that. Unlike Corbyn who's introduction to life at the top is likely to be bumpy as, I've otherwise found the transition fairly easy to deal with thus far. Apart from the night buses. My nemesis they are. For no fault of my own, honestly. I've had back to back disastrous Saturday night bus experiences, involving falling asleep, late night pub pit stops, getting generally lost, a whole lotta walking, and costly taxi rides. Luckily I'm in Sheffield this coming Saturday so no risk of a back to back to back night bus palaver. Transport for London breathes a sigh of relief.

Salmon run

I'm moving to London. Life as I know it won't be the same, at least not for the next 12 months. Having waxed lyrically about my love of all things Sheffield only a few months back, upping sticks and departing to the Big Smoke might be seen as one big fat contradiction. Some might say treacherous. Some already have. The political elite would be proud. Say one thing and mean something completely different, cause a massive fuss in one direction as a smokescreen for murky behaviour in another, look after number 1 above all. Guilty as accused.

This was clearly not in the script. For 17 years I've lived and prospered in Sheffield, almost, but not quite, half a lifetime. Being a quintessential northerner in spirit, a quintessential northern city was always going to be an easy fit and I've had very little inclination to relocate over the years, even during periods of unemployment and unsatisfactory employment. July 2015 however and somehow the stars managed to align themselves to provide a compelling argument for sampling a slice of London life. I'll be starting a 12 month secondment at our head office in September, and in my head I'm treating it as a well paid gap year. A temporary departure from normality. A chance to play in the biggest and most exciting playground in the world. A tiny fish in a huge pond. I'm like a salmon on a run to do a spot of spawning before heading back to more familiar shores to settle.

Things were very different when I first landed in Sheffield in August 1998 to take up residence at Hallam University's student halls. Tony Blair and his babes were in their pomp, Sheffield Wednesday played in the Premier League, no one was particularly phobic about Islam, record shops were aplenty, cameras had film in them, Madonna's artistic integrity was still intact, a tweet was just a sound birds make, a tablet a slab used for inscriptions, a selfie stick might've referred to something altogether more private and the concept of sexting, cankles, jeggings and chillax hadn't yet been portmanteau'd. Bluetooth, blu-ray, USB, micro-SIM, say what??

First impressions weren't great. Stepping out of the train station we were greeted by run down Hallam buildings to the front, Park Hill flats to the rear. Sophisticated urban landscapes all round. Sheffield had seemingly not moved at all since the 1960s.

Luckily this year's hoards of freshers can enjoy a vastly improved vista, although Park Hill flats will outlive us all. The past decades have seen huge redevelopment of the city centre and adjoining areas, mostly but not wholly for the better. Personally I would've kept the Yorkshire Grey rather than replace it with a funny looking multi storey car park. And I'm still most upset that I missed out on the mythical Hole in the road. Nevertheless, whatever the relative merits of modernisation, the things that makes Sheffield great remains.

Sheffield end edging closer, the countdown to London has officially begun. I eventually secured an optimal flat share in Globe Town, within touching distance of hipster Mecca, and I'll be living in hope that the mere proximity will stimulate my facial hair follicles to multiply like an aggressive virus. It's London, miracles do happen. I may well find myself on a collision course with London itself. Pretentious, expensive, ostentatious, obtrusive, these are a few of my non-favourite things. I am however planning to embrace the whole experience with open arms, and if all else fails I've located a chippy in Holborn that does chips and gravy. Nothing else matters.

Of course new beginnings call for new looks. I've ruthlessly discarded droves of clothing and footwear to create space and ease the removal load, round 2 to follow, but at the same time I've been busy purchasing. Yin and yang and all that.

 Purple skinny trousers from Topman, £9.60 in the sale. Great colour but may need to reserve these for standing up gatherings only to avoid groin splitting.

Teal tuxedo jacket (£21.60) and geometric patterned pocket square (£1.60) from Topman, again in the sale. White shirt and black jeans to complete the outfit, bob's your uncle.

Grey suede shoes with beige and blue strip along the top of the sole, £16 from Topman. Likely accompaniment to above sartorial styling.

Long sleeved light blue shirt and short sleeved lilac shirt, £4.60 in the Topman sale. Cheaper than Primark. Say no more.

12 months a Londoner beckons, time will tell if the schtick sticks or if Sheffield will out. I suspect the lure of cheap beer, steep hills and dee-dahs will prevail. And chips and gravy obviously. Chuck in some scraps and I'm sold.

Cowards in every county

I saw a film the other day that was the epitome of thought provoking. 'The Reunion' is the debut feature from director, artist and provocateur Anna Odell, and although a couple of years old was only recently given a UK release. I can whole-heartedly recommend the film so spoiler alert for anyone planning on watching it. Here's the trailer to whet your appetite:

The first part of the film depicts the titular party of a class of high schoolers, 20 years on from finishing their GCSEs. The jovial atmosphere quickly takes a darker turn with the arrival of Anna (playing herself) who stands up and delivers a frank, no holds barred account of the bullying she was subjected to throughout her childhood by a number of people present. Disbelief, dismissal, denial, anger and confrontation ensues before Anna is forcibly thrown out of the party.

In the second part we learn that the party scene was a fictional re-enactment of how Anna would've liked the reunion to have played out. In real life Anna wasn't invited to her reunion and in response decides to make a fictional film and document her former class 'mates' reaction to watching it. Some agree to take part, some decline outright, and some find a convenient excuse for cancelling. The general theme of the people she did get to speak to is unaccountability. Responsibilities are exonerated on the basis of fading memories, of being young and silly, of others being the main culprit. Few people acknowledge the bullying took place and fewer still make any gesture towards atonement.

Watching the film prompted me to revisit my conscience of yesteryear. To my knowledge I was never bullied, nor a bully. I was fortunate enough to have a group of mates who I grew up with, we went to school and A-levels together, played in the same football team from boys to juniors and beyond, hung out together and so on and so forth. I was nowhere near the popular clique nor a social outcast, a classic 'inbetweener', despite having massive glasses and a permed mullet.

Something my conscience couldn't be quite so decisive about though was whether I was completely free of guilt. 'The Reunion' shines a rather bright spotlight on the by-standers. Whilst not being the instigators of bullying they still allow it to happen, through ignorance, self preservation or insecurity. Can I be so certain that I wasn't part of the collective ostracising of X? Was I never concerned about what people would think of me if I was seen with Y? Can I categorically rule out that my actions, explicitly or implicitly, had a negative impact on Z? No, no and no.

Still it's easy to assume that everyone experienced the school years much in the same way as you did. You were all there in the same place at the same time after all, and you had a great time so why would others not have? You had your mates around you, all living nearby to each other. Surely everyone had at least a few friends? You were always invited to stuff. Everyone were no? You were just kids and didn't know any better. We're all alright now though right? Right? When some people would gladly recall 'the fantastic 9 years we spent together', others would recoil in horror at the mere mention of school or childhood, convenient shortcuts to self doubt and emotional regression.

Perhaps it's my muddled conscience, or simply an innate dose of schadenfreude, but few things give me more pleasure than finding out that the guy who everyone at my school branded thicko has entrepreneured himself to considerable personal wealth whilst the girl who everyone fancied is now looking haggered and unrecognisable. Who wants to trade places now eh?

As for me, I have happily remained an inbetweener. Although I've ditched the perm and the mullet for an altogether more dapper appearance. Age does have some benefits. In 1995 I would've jumped on the bus to Karlbergsgymnasiet, Åmål in a black Automatic For The People t shirt on top of a black turtle neck long sleeve. In 2015 I stroll up and down the two hills that separate home from work looking like this:

A pair of 'tobacco flannel' trousers from Montague Burton. £9 they were. Bar-gain. As a wee 12 year old I wouldn't have been comfortable wearing a pink cashmere jumper (£9.99) or a pink paisley shirt (£15.99), and the mere suggestion would've been met with a dark as tar stare. The merry 37 year old version is more than obliging though. Throw in a turquoise gingham shirt (£15.99) for a trio of winners from Zara. Just need to lose a bit of the weight gained in the intervening 25 years.

So whatever shape or form it takes, we should all stand up to bullying. Overwhelming evidence highlight the negative impact that childhood bullying can continue to have in adult life. So think again if you reckon it's just one of those things that kids get up to. If you get a sudden flash of guilty conscience for something you did, or something you didn't do, back then, at least do something positive to atone. Friends is a Swedish anti-bullying organisation who produce some of the best campaigns I've seen. Spread their message. This ad was soundtracked by one of my favourite bands ever, Kent, and for those of you out there who don't speak Swedish I've done the good deed by translating the lyrics below.



You'd think the loneliness would be the hardest part, but it's when you notice me that I get really scared.

Explain please so I can understand, why you go quiet when I'm there and giggle when I leave.

Tell me why it has be me with my back pressed up against the wall, no defence against the cruel words, who has to fight, scratch and bite because of simply existing.

There's no reward and I make no demands, other than never having to suffer in silence.

Ham and cheese

I'm just back from an early summer Scandinavian break, taking in south west Värmland and the most expensive place in the world Oslo. The former is clearly superior in every which way. Travelling on the hottest day of the year meant things got off to an unbelievably unpleasant start but once we landed on Scandinavian soil, with the balmy night in all its glory, everything was going to be ok. A merry gang of 8 set off in a hired minivan and it soon became clear that the rays of the midnight sun don't just stop at the Arctic circle. Having grown up on these shores I should've been accustomed to the light-as-day nights around midsummer but maybe I'm more of a naturalised Brit than I would dare to admit. Here's a pic taken at 3 o'clock in the morning.

The visiting Brits were treated to a vast array of quintessential Swedish fare: canoeing, midges, woodlands, lakes, the game of Kubb, the right hand rule (of driving that is, nowt sinister), Systembolaget, trolls, traditional snapsvisor, and of course tons of dill.

The distinctive, aniseed flavour of the Anethum graveolens herb defines Swedish cuisine and is pretty much unavoidable, particularly in the tastes of summer. Pickles, condiments, sauces, soups, cod roe, crisps, booze, they all come in dill flavours. Swedish new potatoes cooked with dill, pickled herrings, sourcream with fresh chive and rye bread with cheese pretty much sums up summer for most Swedes. Me included. And barbecues. We love a good barbecue.

As a purveyor of all food in great quantities, a visit home consists of eating a lot and doing very little of anything else. In the Thorén household a typical day starts with breakfast of porridge/yoghurt, ham and cheese on Polarkaka bread and coffee. Always ham and cheese. Then at mid-morning it's fika time: coffee with an assortment of cinnamon buns, cakes and cookies. A couple of hours later and a lunch of Swedish new potatoes cooked with dill, pickled herrings, sourcream with fresh chive and rye bread with cheese is gulped down with 3.5% lager. Then there's afternoon fika too of course. Löfbergs Lila coffee with an assortment of cinnamon buns, cakes and cookies. And come evening time there'll be a barbecue of marinated meat/spicy sausage/salmon, dauphinoise potatoes and a green salad. And some more 3.5% lager. Later on there may even be a cheeky Irish coffee on offer. My parents are always busy doing stuff so they work it off. I on the other hand have done my usual thing and returned to the UK carrying newly purchased Dressmann boxer shorts (pack of 2 for £15), salt liquorice and an increased body mass index.

As a homage to the ham and cheese breakfast, I recently bought this black t shirt, along with a short sleeved check shirt, from Topman:



They were both in the sale obviously, totalling £18, and I even got an extra 10% off thanks to the sewing escapades of @aimeehilton. Jambon et fromage to all.

Dr Tucker previously requested the recipe for Swedish meatballs, and risking upsetting the proper connoisseurs/besserwissers with a somewhat unauthentic creation, here's how I roll. As I don't tend to cook to recipes, far too much attention required - freestyling is way more satisfying, you'll have to take things with a pinch of salt. Literally.

Ingredients:
Approximately 500g minced beef or ideally a mixture of minced beef and minced pork
1-2 slices of bread, crust cut off and crumbed in a food processor
Enough milk to coat the breadcrumbs
1 small-ish onion, finely chopped
1 egg
A sprinkling of flour
Generous pinch of salt
Generous pinch of pepper
Pinch of ground allspice

Method:
Soak the breadcrumbs in the milk in a large bowl
Let the mixture stand for a few minutes
Add the mince, onion, egg, flour and seasoning
Mix to an even paste
Let the mixture rest for a few minutes
Take a dollop of mince and roll into a perfectly rounded meatball
Continue rolling til all the mince has been used up
Fry in butter/oil in a shallow frying pan for about 8-10 mins, finishing up in a warm oven if needed
De-glaze the pan afterwards with water and stock to make proper good gravy

Enjoy piping hot with boiled new potatoes, gravy, pickled gherkins and lingonberry jam. Or a dollop of slow cooked onions and some grated carrot. A-ma-zing! And not a dill in sight.

World leader pretend

About this time 24 years ago I picked up a copy of R.E.M.'s Out Of Time from a record store in Arvika, Sweden. I was there as part of SK Sifhälla's P77 football team playing in a tournament (which we won). I'd come across the Losing My Religion video on MTV a few months earlier and was simply blown away. Whatta tune, whatta man, whatta bonkers video. Buying the album was a no brainer, and boy did I reap the rewards. By the time Automatic For The People was released the following year I was hooked. I mopped up their entire back catalogue, bar Chronic Town, couldn't quite get my monthly parental allowance to stretch that far. I searched high and low for rarities, video recordings, bootlegs, posters, whatever I could get my hands on. No magazine rack was safe, literally. My sixth form library quite generously subscribed to NME, and most editions had a nasty habit of finding a convenient hiding place in my bag.

I saw them live for the first time during the Monster tour, at Stockholm's Maritime Museum, with The Bends-era Radiohead providing support. Possibly the best live gig double whammy ever. Thom Yorke's vocal causing time to stand still during Street Spirit, Michael Stipe going nuts in It's The End Of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine). Seriously unreal. In total I went to 10 R.E.M. concerts in 7 different countries, and only the very last one, at Berlin's Waldbuhne, was a bit of a dud. Not even Stipe could get enthused by Around The Sun.

R.E.M. have provided an omnipresent soundtrack to the vast majority of my life, from compiling mix tapes for my portable cassette player at GCSE to streaming tunes through Swift-less Spotify as a responsible adult. As a result, listing an R.E.M. top 10 is a tricky proposition but I'd say these are the ones I've played the most:

Wolves, Lower
Perfect Circle
So. Central Rain
Pretty Persuasion
Feeling Gravitys Pull
Begin The Begin
Losing My Religion
Country Feedback
Drive
Bang And Blame

My tastes have fluctuated since my first introduction to music in the form of Wham's Make It Big, courtesy of my sister. Had a proper grunge phase in the early 90s, long hair, flannel shirts, the lot. A few things remain constant though - Swedish pop, Kent, Madonna and R.E.M.

And Michael Stipe is pretty much god. As a precocious teen I was proper obsessed. Couldn't get enough of the man. Even tried to dress like him. Inspired by the What's The Frequency Kenneth? video I acquired a pair of black boots and baggy black jeans in Stockholm, and ordered an original red star t shirt from the US of A. Coolness personified, world leader pretend.

I've since discarded the red star t shirt, unceremoniously dumped on the scrap heap as I briefly embraced 'club wear' no doubt. So as a way of coercing myself to pick up the screen printing gear, I decided to recreate the iconic t shirt, but in black to stay true to the Kenneth video.

I've not done any screen printing for years, which shows. At least close up. Anticipating the potential for a printing disaster, I went all out and spent £2.50 on the t shirt from Primark. Good move. Believing in your ability is one thing, preparing for eventualities is always sensible. Or what say thee Kenneth?

Better the devil you know

The other day saw the conclusion of a brief spell of uncertainty that had preoccupied my mind to a level not experienced for some time. The finer details will be left untold, suffice to say the outcome wasn't to my benefit. Despite the issue itself being of minor consequence, for a short while the effect felt palpable - mood, outlook and thought processes all took a knock, rendering me somewhat apathetic before grappling control of my senses and, more importantly, regaining a realistic perspective.

Afterwards it prompted me to reflect on how minor incidents, as well as major events, can affect us in such a way that we end up taking it personally. Even the kindest or most thoughtful words of consolation fail to halt the process. What we're left with is a set of largely unhelpful and angst ridden questions: What's wrong with me? Why me? When will I learn? What's the point? What can I eat next?

I'm firmly in the category of people for whom, regardless of what we've achieved in life, confidence remains finely poised. For the most part I'm of jolly good spirits but a gentle jolt can tip the curve downwards, even when the trajectory has been steadily rising. One would think that life experiences and increasing maturity automatically generate resilience and pragmatism but the human mind has its own way of playing tricks.

To me it's largely because of that complete pain in the arse known as vulnerability. Like the lymphatic system it's lurking under the surface, ready to come to the fore as soon as there's the slightest crack in the veneer of our usual public persona. And like the lymphatic fluid, it appears out of nowhere, without warning but right on cue, and takes a while to disappear again. When vulnerability is at its peak the words of comfort and encouragement that others' feel compelled and willing to offer have really very limited impact, apart from demonstrating that people care. It's a storm that one has to ride.

As someone who's risk averse in many respects, I prefer to keep my vulnerable lymphatics in check through considered avoidance. Venturing beyond familiar paths is necessary for progress but in this instance I agree with Kylie, or alternatively Sonia: Better the devil you know. I much prefer myself when I'm freed from existential angst. I function a great deal better. Nothing ventured, nothing gained goes the counter argument. But venturing and coming back empty handed isn't all that great either, it makes you feel a right fool.

Sometimes it's better the devil you know when it comes to sartorial matters too. Red checked shirts are already a feature of my wardrobe but when something works you might as well do it to death. This one came with a 20% discount on the sale price courtesy of Asos, £8 quid for a shirt of decent quality. Thumbs enthusiastically up. The fabric is unexpectedly thick so it might have to wait for its premiere til later in the year.



The same delivery also saw the arrival of these plimsolls by Rock & Revival. With the discount they came to £10.40. Having retired a pair of white high-topped plimsolls recently, there was an opening for a replacement which was duly filled.



So regardless the devil, I'll stick with the one I know than get carried away with the one I don't. In the main. At times I might dip my toe in the unknown, or take a full on plunge, because every now and then you venture and come up trumps.

A disastrous 6 months

 

The other day marked the halfway point of my spending chronicle. 6 months in already, time flies when you're being a disaster. Disasters have more fun. Disaster is the new black. Don't know about anyone else but I've not had a shabby 6 months at all, bereavement aside. Been to Sweden three times, South Korea once, London five, celebrated a birthday, consumed copious amounts of food, copiouser still amounts of alcoholic beverages, been to the cinema 22 times, got myself BT Sport at home, and of course spent a fair chunk of money on material things. Time to take stock therefore. What kind of disaster am I? A minor mishap or full blown calamity?

In total I've spent 2290 pounds and 62 pence on stuff that some might argue (unsuccessfully) superfluous. That equates to £381.77 per month which I think is fairly reasonable. Go go minor mishaps! 6 monthly reports call for a graph of course:

So far so good. On closer inspection however, it appears I've bought 45 items of clothing and 9 pairs of shoes. At this rate I might break triple figures by the end of the 12 months of blogging. That's probably quite a lot of clothes. And shoes. Epic force majeure! Although come to think of it, almost all of those clothes, and definitely all the shoes, were bought in the sale so that makes it all ok. Minor mishap for real. Me 1 Buyers' remorse 0.

Buoyed by a holiday underspend and an investment windfall, I've gone on a bit of spree of late. All awfully vital purchases clearly.

 
 

A Kenwood Chef KMC010 to take care of all your baking and cooking needs. Been wanting to get my hands on one for a good, good while. It's a mechanical marvel, a home cook's wet dream. All for the price of £349. It comes packaged in the most ridiculously over-sized box so having it delivered to your work is not such a good idea. Trust me. I also grabbed the opportunity to buy a mini mill to go with it, £25 which includes 4 glass jars with lids. Soon to be filled with freshly ground coffee beans.

I'd managed to wreck the screen on my old Samsung Galaxy S5 in the space of 11 months so went out and bought the new and improved version, though not the one with a bent screen. A line has to be drawn somewhere, and it was drawn at £538. Splashed out £8.30 on a new-with-tags River Island checked shirt from eBay and £4.50 on a green knitted jumper from Topman. Come winter time you may just find me wearing both at the same time. And of course I couldn't help buying some more footwear. River Island loafers with tassles £27.50, Base boots for £20, Base brogues for £21 and Rock and Religion plimsolls for £7, all from the trusted companion that is the Asos sale.

So, 6 months worth of disastrous spending has come to an end, here's to another 6! Who knows what the future has in store? Or what stores will feature in future? All will be revealed in due time (although if you're Asos you're in with a good chance).

Random acts of kindness

The altogether depressing outcome of the general election has left many (non right wing) voters in a state of despair. A couple of weeks in and Cameron and his cronies have already let their intention be known, in case anyone had been foolish or blasé enough to disregard it during the campaign. 13 billion pounds worth of welfare cuts, EU referendum, the Transatlantic Trade and Investment Partnership, making industrial action really rather difficult to mobilise, the next 5 years are going to be brimful of unbridled joy.

It's easy to feel a tad deflated, just like the UK economy itself, as it would suggest that for most Brits the main priority is to look after number one. Caring, compassion, community, who needs it? Thank heavens then that people are still able, willing and keen to support fellow humans in a difficult situation without hesitation and without making a big song and dance number out of it. Philanthropic donations are clearly enormously significant for the beneficiaries, and there's a distinctly humane ethos behind them, but the financial clout required for such a grand gesture is the reserve of a distinguished few. The rest donate their time, skills, expertise, enthusiasm and money, knowing full well they won't have a boulevard or hospital wing named after them, rather because they're fully committed to the cause.

My colleagues informed me that during the evening social at last weekend's Younger Women Together event in Cardiff, a fellow hotel guest got chatting to staff, volunteers and clients at the event and upon discovering that everyone there were women under 45 who had been diagnosed with breast cancer he decided to buy bottles of wine and champagne for all, without fuss and fanfare. Simply because breast cancer had affected people near to him and that was his way of showing support. Such random acts of kindness can make all the difference. Obviously a freebie makes one happy but more importantly it shows that people care. That you are not alone.

Incidentally caring and togetherness are two of Breast Cancer Care's organisational values. The only UK wide support charity for people affected by breast cancer, we provide services that inform, educate and empower, to make sure noone has to face breast cancer alone. All our services are free to access thanks to the generous donations made by individuals, groups and corporate partners. As a charity that receives very little statutory funding, random or planned acts of kindness really do make all the difference.

I've done my bit by signing up to the weekly lottery, a mere £1 per week with a top prize of 1000 every week. I've also purchased one of these nifty collapsible water bottles called Ohyo for £4.99:

Not everything has to cost money either, charities and community groups are always looking for people to donate their time, skills and experience to help deliver services or run events. For example, you can sign up to volunteer at Breast Cancer Care's Pink Ribbonwalk in Bakewell on Saturday 13 June. I have.

So I encourage everyone out there to pick a charity or two whose cause speaks to you and give a donation, do some fundraising or become a volunteer. Our volunteer manager Lisa assures me that people who volunteer live longer so not only will your random acts of kindness help others but it'll contribute to a long and prosperous life.