A calamitous event, especially one occurring suddenly and causing great damage

Being a disaster isn't easy. It takes a lot of effort. Years of practice, a relentless suppression of common sense, a method actor's commitment to the cause. At times physically and/or emotionally draining, disaster is not a mantle to assume for the faint-hearted. "You want disaster? Well disaster costs. And right here is where you start paying... in sweat". Debbie Allen knows.

The awards season is upon us, Whiplash for the win goddammit, so in the spirit of things I've prepared a list of those to whom I owe a debt of gratitude for achieving Towering Inferno levels of disaster.

First of all I'd like to thank God, i.e. Michael Stipe, because that's what every self respecting (American) winner would do at the Oscars and if Mr McConaissance himself says so then that's pretty much final. Any potential objection rendered obsolete. In his speech he explained that God "has graced me with opportunities that I know are not of my hand or any other human hand". Here I beg to differ though, God/Stipe has graced me with plenty of opportunities that I know for definite were of my own hand.

Secondly I want to thank my mum (still on the Oscars tip) for providing excellent lineage in the art of spending. Pedigree of the finest order. Honourable mentions also go out to my employers, current and previous, for providing me with the financial foundation to develop into a first class disaster; Asos, Primark, Topman, H&M, River Island, Zara, any other menswear retailer and various manufacturers of electronic equipment for continuing to pour out fuel for the bonfire of disaster; Tinternet for 24 hr shopping; Aviation for the ability for disaster to go global; life itself for providing untold recipes for disaster.

I've put in a Herculean effort for disaster greatness over the last week or so. Like the fluffiest, pinkiest Duracell rabbit I've just kept on going. My excuse: everyone's still peddling sales and we're almost into February. I've bought the following items in quick succession, all crucial purchases obviously, if not for playing the lead, then for providing Oscar worthy supporting roles:

Checked wool blazer from Topman - £22.50

Skinny stretch jeans from Topman - £24

Mustard chinos from Zara - £12.99

Black t-shirt with black patent print from River Islanwd - £5

Yellow printed t-shirt from Pull and Bear - £2.99

White printed t-shirt from Pull and Bear - £2.99

Multicolour printed t-shirt from Pull and Bear - £2.99

Blue wool blazer from Pull and Bear - 2 x £19.99

Green jumper from Asos - £5

So some might say that it's slightly excessive to buy 4 t-shirts in one fell swoop. Not me. Na-ah. Granted, I've got quite a few t-shirts already (disastrous amount to some, capsule collection to me) but I reckon quite a few of them are nearing retirement. I've got my t-shirts divided into two categories: those worthy of being on display and those that need covering up. There's obviously a natural turnover/progression so there's always a need for new starters. Call me a call centre, though not Ant Marketing. I draw the line at that.

The doubling up on the cost of the blue blazer is not an accidental typo. I mean come on. Rather, I made the slightly inexplicable manoeuvre of trying on a medium in the shop, deciding that it didn't fit, and buying a large instead. In the cold light of day, the large is just too big. Maybe I'd had an all you can eat dinner and a KFC family bucket tea that day or something. I grabbed the first opportunity to rectify the situation of course. I've now got a medium sized blazer which does fit, and a large one which requires more calories than Elvis. Oh well, the combined £39.98 for one wearable blazer is still cheaper than the original full price. Besides Elvis might be on the horizon.

I bought the bulk of the clothes in London, spent 5 days of work then leisure there last week. Highlights included dinner at Palomar and a cocktail bar tour of Soho with the mighty Gaspari and the free Daylight Music gig at Union Chapel in Islington. Knowing a fair few people down there has its benefits for sure.

One of the bands performing at Union Chapel was The Papas and The Mamas, a newly formed cover band with none other than Sarah Cracknell of Saint Etienne as a third of the female vocal power. Sadly but unsurprisingly Saint Etienne songs were not on the menu. Afterwards we all congregated in a pub directly behind the chapel and much to my delight The Papas and The Mamas were all in there. At one point I deliberately shuffled sideways so that I was stood next to Sarah Cracknell, just to be able to declare it in a blog like.

I drew the line at that. Regardless of where the person is on the A-Z list of celebrity, I wouldn't be able to think of anything remotely interesting to add to the conversation. Though at some point I might try "Do you know who I look like?". Rupert Cook on the other hand made good use of his encyclopaedic music knowledge and helped Sarah Cracknell out by answering her question about the name of the band whose song was the second one they covered in their mini set. Offspring Rupert said. Thank you Sarah said. Wow he's chatting to Sarah Cracknell and Surely not that Offspring I thought. Turns out there's another Offspring. They should've covered both, a rousing version of Pretty Fly (for a White Guy) would've gone down a treat.

My other celebrity encounters are limited indeed, a really rather embarrassing exchange with Phil Oakey in Gatecrasher ("I remember listening to you when I was a kid" is not cool) and a really rather amusing encounter with a pissed up Guy Garvey in Manchester after a First Aid Kit gig.

My all time favourite celeb moment though involved TV's Dr Christian. They were filming Embarrassing Bodies - the sex special, at Hallam University's fresher fair and working in sexual health promotion at the time, we'd been approached by the production team to provide a stand and represent the local sexual health services. At lunch one of the crew members took me down to the catering room for a free dinner. As we walked in Dr Christian was having a massive rant at the production team, effing and blinding about students asking him questions expecting him to know the answer.  The guy I was with did a loud 'ahem' and introduced me and immediately Dr Christian snapped back into his public persona and politely shook hands.

Maybe being a celeb is more of an effort than being a disaster...

Stupid is as stupid does

I did something really stupid last Friday afternoon. "Again??" you might decry if you're my mother. I'd love to be able to reply "I don't know what you mean" without the slightest hint of sheepish admission. Unfortunately that won't be possible. Whilst I see myself as a reasonably organised, sensible and careful individual, I'm never far from calamity. History keeps repeating itself on a fairly regular basis. Broken record I am. (That's a vinyl record for you kids out there, played on a record player with a tone arm that can get stuck in the middle of a tune if the vinyl disc is scratched. None of this digital download or streaming lark.)

My latest act of folly occurred as I was about to leave work. I'd been given a stash of post to drop in the downstairs post bag on my way out. The pile had been added to incrementally in a short space of time. As I was gathering my belongings, and the outgoing correspondence, I was handed a parcel by a colleague. I registered that it was a bag from Schuh which clearly contained a box of footwear and assumed that my colleague was returning a pair of unwanted shoes. Mail and parcel duly despatched in the post sack, onwards to Brewdog for food and ridiculously branded lager. The next day I received an email from Schuh informing me that my recent order had been delivered and thanking me for the custom. I was halfway through an internal "But I didn't get the delivery!" when it dawned on me what I'd done. So instead of a pair of amazingly bargainous Adidas ZX500 trainers taking pride of place on my shoe rack, a pair of amazingly bargainous Adidas ZX500 trainers have most likely ended up on the Royal Mail scrapheap of unfranked mailings. Or with a bit of luck they'll be mercifully delivered for a second time at some stage. 

So here's the intended subject of the blog post, as pictured on the Schuh website:

£26.99 they cost, which frankly is nothing. My excuse, one should always have an excuse, is that I wasn't expecting the delivery until midway through this week so it never for even a split second occurred to me that the parcel might have been meant for me. Stupid is as stupid does.

Much to the delight of @aimeehilton I thought I'd list the top 5 most stupid things I've ever done instead of gushing over a cheap pair of trainers. 

1. Scoring an own goal in basketball. You'd think it wouldn't be possible but I somehow managed. Junior school match between years 5A and 5B at Tingvallaskolan, Säffle, Sweden. I get hold of the ball, sprint towards the opposition's goal, and score with a perfect lay-up. Only it wasn't actually the opposition's goal, it was our own. And when the crowd was making what I thought were cheery noises, they were actually shouting for me to turn round. We ended up losing the game and I never participated in a school game ever again. My excuse: we'd swapped sides at half time. 

2. Trying to check in to a non-existing flight. Top tip for anyone visiting Istanbul: there are two airports, Ataturk and Sahina Gökçen. Flights to London Stansted depart from both. Make sure you check which one you're flying from before arriving at the airport. Although of course you would, you'd already know that from the point of booking the holiday because you're not way stupid. I am. My excuse: I was wired on Turkish coffee.

3. Trying to check in to an existing flight but on the wrong day. I got as far as the security belt at Oslo Rygge airport before a rather bemused security person informed me that my ticket was for the following day. Consecutive 4 hour round trips for my dad, exclamations of "Again??" for my mum. My excuse: I had originally been planning on travelling back to Blighty that day but somehow booked the flight the day after instead. 28 looks so similar to 29.

4. Chucking my house keys down a drain. With some degree of justification, I used to be paranoid about losing my keys on nights out. As I was heading out to some random student night, maybe Blessed at Republic or Shag at The Leadmill or Shag 2 at The Leadmill or Stardust at the Nelson Mandela building, who knows, they all blend into one, I got the 'clever' idea of hiding my keys in the bushes outside the front door at Fairfield Lodge. That way there would be no possibility of losing them whilst pissed. What I'd failed to spot however was the bush-covered ground gently sloping towards a drain so as I put the keys down they slid down the slope and straight into the drain. Idiot. Needless to say I've carried my keys round with me since then. My excuse: people do the silliest things when sober.

5. Posting a refund application without a stamp or addressee. One of the many cancellations and disruptions caused by the London bombings on 7 July 2005 was an R.E.M. gig at Hyde Park. I'd got a couple of tickets and had been looking forward to seeing them live in concert twice in a week. Cancelling was of course the right thing to do and the ticket agent offered a full refund, all I had to do was return the tickets by post. For most people that would mean putting the tickets in an envelope, writing the company's address on the envelope, putting a stamp on the envelope and dropping the whole thing in a red post box. Me on the other hand missed out the middle steps, rendering the whole process absolutely meaningless. Might as well have set fire to the tickets. 80 quid chucked away just like that. My excuse: temporary insanity.

The moral of the story is to run a mile if I suggest making travel arrangements, safekeeping valuables or handling mail on your behalf. I've been doing the same for the past 27 years whenever I've heard the word 'basketball'. Scarred for life.

Constant craving

Today at dinner time, lunch if you're not from t'up north, I took the “What's the right diet for you?” test as promoted on BBC's homepage. Beats reading depressing/biased/misrepresented world news. Plus I'd already browsed the red carpet looks from the Golden Globes before going to work. I had a sneaky feeling about the outcome of the test as soon as I stumbled upon it. Actually not even sneaky, full on guaranteed. I love food. I love eating, I love cooking, I love baking, I love preserving, I love pickling. Unfortunately I also lack discipline when it comes to things I enjoy doing, hence I eat a lot. And often. Three meals a day, elevenses, pre-elevenses, afternoon treats, supper, snacks whilst cooking, bring it on.

Anyone who finds gluttony repulsive is hereby advised to stay well clear of an all you can eat establishment if I'm in it. No dish is safe. Going on an all inclusive holiday would be plain scary. I treated my colleague Lisa to a fine display of feeding prowess during a recent stay at Southwark Travelodge, sampling everything from the breakfast buffet. Fry up, cereal, toast, yoghurt, pastries, fruit, Babybel, orange juice, coffee. Even the scrambled eggs made from powdered egg. No dish left untouched.

I cook myself large portions of food glorious food most evenings, solo eating for two basically. Nouvelle cuisine it most definitely ain't. On the flipside I eat a balanced diet, lots of veg, not a lot of processed foods, snacks aside of course, and do a fair bit of exercise. Me and Swedemount have been out this evening even. Nevertheless my BMI is firmly rooted in the red so the diet test was always going be a foregone conclusion. “At the end of a typical meal, how often do you feel like you haven’t had enough to eat?” All the time (go back for seconds). “If you pass a plate of biscuits or a bowl of crisps, how often will you pick one up?” Always (bloody rude not to). “Do you eat large portion sizes?” Always (no shit, Sherlock). “When you’re out at a meal with friends, do they all seem to get full before you, even when you’re eating the same thing?” All the time (finish other people's plates clearly).

Funnily enough such consumption patterns have a name according to the Beeb: Constant craver. What would KD say? I apparently have 'a strong biological drive to eat' so that's my excuse from now on. My biological drive instructed me to have a slice of cake, a big bag of crisps, a portion of cheesy chips on the side. I confess. Mea Culpa. In fact I reckon I also have a strong biological drive to shop, to drink, to spend money. And you shouldn't deny what comes naturally to you.

Step forward one pair of KG by Kurt Geiger boots.

My previous bout of self control was finally broken by a promise of an extra 10% off the sale price. The marketing team at Asos must just be sat there going 'Sucker!'. £45 they put me back but je ne regrette rien. They're damn fine boots. And damn uncomfortable. Wore them out on Saturday and within the hour I'd acquired a great big blister. First reaction: bleed for fashion, no pain no gain and all that. Quickly dived in to Boots though and emergency first aid applied in the middle of a busy Sheffield high street. Who cares about dignity anyway? Damn fine boots reign.

I also satisfied my strong biological drive at Topman, coming away with a light blue short sleeved shirt and a black polo shirt for a bargain 12 quid in total.

That's me done with the January sales I reckon. The shops should hopefully be resuming full price regimes any day now anyway and that's like garlic to a vampire for me. At the very least it pushes me back to Primark. Mind you when nature calls, the constant craver obeys. It really would be rude not to. Constant craving has always been after all. KD says so.

In running there is truth

Went out for the year's first run last Sunday, the first for about a month. The multiple Christmas smargasbords and other festive excesses have unsurprisingly left a fatty legacy. That ghastly McKeith woman was right about one thing: you are what you eat. Exercising better/more starts here. In my unbridled enthusiasm and optimism I opted to leave the Swedemount's at home, figuring that I'll be too hot running 21k in lycra. Big mistake, it was bloody freezing. Had I looked outside I would've possibly registered that the ground was covered with frost, as it was I was too busy scrambling around for suitable mid-run nutrition, unfortunately options were decidedly limited.

Armed with a handful of Skittles and seriously under-dressed for arctic conditions I set off. Tiswas a struggle to get round but get round I did despite crucial body parts sending me distress signals. Since I started running properly in December 2013 I've grown to think of it as a somewhat therapeutic undertaking. Whereas at first the only thing on my mind as I meandered round 6 or so miles in 60+ minutes was how much I hated running, I now see it as a welcome opportunity for pondering life's important questions. Did I turn the heating off? Can I afford a new pair of trainers? How much money can I spend on a pair of jeans if I buy a cheap pair of trainers? What shall I have for tea? If I pay a grand off my student loan every year, when will I have finished paying it off? What was the name of that god awful horror film that Shelly from Twin Peaks was in? (Stephen King's Sleepwalkers). All the important questions, totally way existential.

Somewhere between what used to be the Corner Pin but is now some random office and the Shell garage on Carlisle Street East, after I'd rejected both trainer and jean ambition but before the Twin Peaks conundrum, I decided that I really must buy that new camera I'd been mulling over and ideally straight away. Why wait anyway? Ever since I lost my keys somewhere along the route of a 21k run I always bring my bank card with me on a long run, just in case, so I adjusted my running route slightly so that it finished more or less outside Argos on Angel Street. A short moment of catching my breath followed by grappling with the new catalogue-free modus operandi and I'm sat on the tram with a new gadget and aching bones. Cue tram conductor dishing out tried and tested platitudes. “You didn't check the weather forecast this morning then?”. You're killing me honestly.

Forking out £129 and I'm now the owner of a Canon Powershot SX510HS, light weight and compact it is and all.

I've already got a previous incarnation of a Canon Powershot but like Hugh Hefner I don't really see the point in putting up with things getting old and tired when there are new models available. Plus this one has built in WiFi and a much larger zoom. Sometimes size matters. I've not had much opportunity to play around with it, the camera that is, but it takes a pretty clear screenshot of the telly and a really detailed extreme close up of the remote so it all bodes well.

Hugh Hefner aside, the main reason for buying a new camera is because I've recently booked a flight to Seoul in late April to visit South Korea in full spring blossom and I'm planning on taking a whole heap of pictures of weird and wonderful things. Aided by the Cloud and the seemingly mind blowing connectivity of South Korea I'll be able to share pictures as I go along. Everyone jumps for joy. Apart from my savings account which is now officially an endangered species.

I've been to South Korea 3 times previously. First time at birth and up til 8 months of age. Can't really remember much. Second time was in 1987 when my parents took me, my sister, brother and nan on a 2 week organised group travel along with other Swedish families who'd adopted children from South Korea in the 70s. Remember a bit more from then, got to visit loads of urban and rural sights, massive mountain set Buddha statues and such things, ate bulgogi, raw garlic and ginseng chicken, met my foster mother, stepped onto North Korean soil, bought True Blue on tape and insisted on wearing a Donald and Daisy Duck (most likely a girl's) t-shirt. Olympic fever was widespread. The third time was in 2002 for the World Cup, which was absolutely amazing, despite Sweden losing to Senegal in the last 16 to a golden goal. What a rubbish invention that was. I've still got my counterfeit Freddie Ljungberg top. One of the highlights was watching a South Korea game at Seoul's version of Times Square on the screens normally reserved for advertising, sat in the middle of a blocked off, 14 lane wide crossroads, amongst hundreds of thousands of enthusiastic, but ever so polite, Koreans.

I can't wait. I was deliberating between South Korea and Japan but ultimately chose South Korea because the flights were cheaper and the cost of things is a lot less. Frugal as I wanna be. It'll be really interesting to experience the place as a weary and cynical 37 year old as opposed to a naïvely excitable youth. A week in Seoul and a few days in the ancient capital of Gyengju, "the museum without walls", is on the intended itinerary. Plus eating lots and lots and lots of Korean food. Word: Kimchi. And I'll be damned if I get Gok-ed there. Word has it the shopping is first class and dirt cheap so I may throw caution to the wind and get both trainers and jeans. Live a little!

Way existential

A new year is upon us, 2014 is dead and buried, it's all about 2015. For those of you who still want to cling on to the last throes of Christmas, here's my favourite seasonal musical offering of 2014, very kindly introduced to me by @maxthoren: Weeping Willows covering Stevie Wonder's 'Someday At Christmas'. Marvel at Magnus Carlson's vocal.

Anyway it's already the 3^rd day of January which can mean only one thing: SALES!! I did a quick little sojourn round the Sheffield high street yesterday but managed to apply a surprising amount of restraint and came away empty handed. Aided no doubt by the fact that I omitted Primark from my itinerary. I have of course already spent some GBP in the sales, does the Pope shit in the woods or what? A bonus feature of Asos Premier is having access to the sales a day early, yes please. Again I managed an element of restraint and opted not to buy a pair of Kurt Geiger boots for 50 quid. A thing of beauty they were too. I did buy an Asos' own brand holdall in navy polka dot though. My current one is rapidly falling to bits and I've long been searching for a suitable replacement that isn't tarnished by a large sports logo but also doesn't cost a bomb. Frugal see. This one seemed perfect on paper and only 12 quid, however when I opened the parcel the end product was pitifully small. I'd either misjudged the measurements or they were listed incorrectly, quite possibly the former. A pair of trainers more or less filled the whole thing up. Holdall my arse, more like holdfuckall! I excel at travelling light when I go away, only bringing the bare minimum luggage, but it'd be nice to be able to pack more than just some spare footwear and a fresh pair of boxers. Refund R Us.

I also purchased a couple of Asos' own brand chinos at a bargain-centric price of £6 each. These daddies are definitely staying put.

Chinos should be the basic staple of every man's wardrobe, they're like the carbohydrates of clothing. In the sharp words of Cher, the virgin who can't drive: “They're way existential!”. A quick glance in my wardrobe revealed that I already have chinos in royal blue and red berry, in fact I'm an orange pair away from a rather precisely gradient rainbow, but the more the merrier. Particularly at that price. Grabbing the first available opportunity to wear my new acquisition, a must surely, I ventured out to the cinema, via the high street, in this ensemble (Cher speaking again):

I'm not much for new year's resolutions, not really much for new year's as a concept even, but my motto for this year is all things better – eat better, drink better, sleep better, spend money better, buy better clothes, enjoy myself better, get better haircuts, go on better holidays, exercise better, live better. By 'better' I really mean 'more'. A slave to capitalism I am. Karl Marx is most definitely sending me evils from up above/down below.

Start as you mean to go on, the first day of the year that wasn't a complete write off featured the first cinema trip of 2015. I love the cinema but I don't go nearly as often as I should. To rectify I'm going to aim to go once a week for the next 12 months and see what happens. Might have to take in the odd action dirge and rom-com schmaltz but it'll be worth it.

The cinematic year couldn't have started any better, Birdman (Or The Unexpected Virtue Of Ignorance) is quite possibly going to be the best film I'll see all year. Spectre and Star Wars – The Force Awakens, will (hopefully) be great but in completely different ways. Birdman was simply put astonishing. Award worthy brilliant. Excellently acted – Michael Keaton, Edward Norton, Emma Stone (who'd have known), clever, darkly comic, engaging, exhilarating, technically flawless and with a brilliant soundtrack. Shot and edited in such a way as to create the impression that it's a few long single takes set in real time, it's absolutely mind blowing. Alejandro G Inarritu take a bow. Do yourself a favour and set aside a couple of hours for Birdman, you won't be disappointed. It's like way existential!