Me, half a pint of cider, a pub quiz machine. Wednesday Night.

My friends had left the pub. 

But I remained, desperate to play on the quiz machine. The evening had been a pleasant one. We had enjoyed a continental beer, a bottle of inexpensive wine, a small meal, a few more beers. A very pleasant evening indeed. But it was not enough for me. 

I had a close eye on the quiz machine all night. Desperate to ply my 50p coins into that machine in the hope that my limited knowledge might give some financial returns. But my friends had left the pub, gone home, sayonara, goodnight vienna. Was this to be the end for me? 

No, ofcourse not. I remained in the pub, determined to get on that quiz machine. A group of lads and ladettes had assembled around the machine, laughing and joking, casually punching in random suggestions. 

I went to the bar, conscious of being alone in a pub at the age of 23, but also wondering how I might go about making some friends. 

I ordered a half pint of cider. The barman looked surprised, "half a pint?". Obviously this was not a half-pint type of pub. Real men only drank full glasses of beer, and anything else was considered a little bit strange. They probably didn't even have half-measure glasses, so I buckled under the peer-pressure of a minimum wage barman, and shamefully ordered a pint. 

Next move. I wondered over to the quiz machine, lurking on the edge of the quiz group, peering over shoulders - my plan was to interject with any answers I felt confident about. If they were the right ones, maybe they would gain me 'quiz machine street cred'. Whatever that was. 

Nothing came for a long time. I even got one wrong, shouting the name of a Rolling Stones song that I clearly had no idea about. Suspicious looks were aimed in my direction and I was officially blackmarked as a potential quiz dunce. 

Finally, the team lost all of their money and the quiz machine was left empty. I got in quickly, inserted a coin and selected a game. I was playing on my own, with no audience, and no support, but was doing quite well. I answered a couple of tough questions on sports and literature, two subjects which are very much aligned in the modern quiz machine. 

By this time I had drawn a small crowd. People were impressed with my steely nerve in front of trivia questions.  I was pressing buttons all over the place, answering on a whole range of subjects with the sort of calm and panache that would have earned me a spot on Jeopardy/Mastermind. 

Then it came. The once in a lifetime question I had been waiting for. 

Q. What did German writer Goethe request on his deathbed? 

      A. More light. 

      B. More life. 

      C. More dark. 

The pub gasped. Something stirred deep inside me, a distant piece of an article I had read somewhere in some library in some past life as a student. The answer was 'A'. Somehow I knew it was right. I pressed it. A green tick emerged, and the small crowd clapped in appreciation. A faceless voice from behind shouted "Great knowledge mate. Cheers to that". 

And that was it. I had got what I'd stayed behind for - a good dose of trivia and a few cheers from a few people i'd never met (and a small cider hangover the next morning). Some people might think it's quite sad to hang around in pubs on your own, the activity of an old man perhaps. To those people, i'd say, as Goethe did, to look for more light. And more quiz machines. 

To Do: Hang around in pubs. Not too often though. 

Golf ain't so bad.

Often people ridicule me for playing golf. 

"What an old man's sport! Do you like old people? Are you, like, the age opposite to a paedophile? Are you a geriophile with your golf sticks?" say my friends. "There couldn't be a more unsexy sport in the world than golf" says my girlfriend. 

And a part of me agrees with their reason. Not the geriophile part, but they do talk some sense about golf being a lame sport, with little action, no drama or thrills to mention. These were my thoughts as I set off to play a game on Wednesday with three retirees: Dave, John and Tom. 

Dave barely possessed any teeth, had a leathery face due to excessive drinking and had already lit up a cigarette before playing his first shot. Trying to start the day off with a bit of chit chat, Dave told me that he had just retired from a business he owned which manufactured fire sprinkler systems. What a thrilling venture I thought, and then that thought finished and I went back to thinking Dave was quite an unremarkable chap. 

We plodded along in the windy conditions, walking and golfing. What was the point in all of this? At least if I had gone for a walk in a national park then I wouldn't have felt obliged to talk to fellow walkers. But somehow, because I was hitting a little white ball around, I was locked in a social nightmare of awkward chit-chat. "Nice shot John", "unlucky there Tom". My friends were right, I was a young man playing an old man's game. What was I doing?

And then I saw something that changed it all. Playing behind us was a husband and wife, and I had noticed something peculiar about them. With every shot the woman would hand her husband a golf club, walk him over to the spot, place the ball down for him and then stand close-by. After he had hit the ball, she went back over, took his hand and then they walked onward. 

The husband was blind. He couldn't even see the golf ball or the grass in front of him. His wife was helping him to play a sport which he obviously loved playing. He couldn't even see where his shot was going, whether it was good or bad, he could only rely on the descriptions and help from his wife. 

In no other sport have I witnessed that level of compassion and desire to play. It was truly touching to see and made me look at the game in a whole new light. 

Dave smoked a lot, but he wasn't too shabby a golfer, and he seemed to be enjoying his retirement. Tom had just gone to part-time in his work as a councillor, and we had a bit of a chat about snooker. Mild-mannered John worked in the marketing department for cereal giant Kellogs, so I had a good chat with him about what brands really make the Kellogs machine turn. If you were interested, Special K, thanks to some nifty advertising, forms at least 40% of their business. John was apathetic about it thought, saying that he preferred coco pops.

So, to all those that think golf is a game for old people, you'd be dead right, it is. But there is nothing wrong with that. Just ask Dave, John and Tom - three very nice chaps who I enjoyed a good walk with on Wednesday. 

To Do: Play more golf. 

Warning: Politics may follow.

By far and away, this is the most ridiculous letter I have read in The Times: 

"Sir, Numerous interviews immediately outside of 10 Downing Street show the letterbox positioned incorrectly and contrary to listed buildings approval. The letterbox is cut horizontally into the central timber stile (upright) and above the timber rail (horizontal). 

Cutting this letterbox through the upright stile weakens the timber door dreadfully. It should, of course, be cut into the horizontal rail. 

This property is a prominent Grade 1 listed building in a conservation area which is often seen around the world. As such, will the local Westminster planning department issue the building's resident with the appropriate notice? Failing which a £5,000 fine and/or imprisonment is the appropriate penalty."

CHARLES HOLCOMBE, Brighton

The Times, 11.10.2008

I guess this chap is right in many respects, and he is probably a qualified anal retentive. But in all honesty, during a time of extreme economic hardship, where people are losing their jobs all over the country (indeed, all over the world), how does Mr Holcombe have the time and moral energy to write this diatribe on a government letter box? Surely, there are more pressing issues?

Perhaps however, the conservatives should consider this the only viable way of relinquishing Gordon Brown of his position as PM, by stitching him up for his faulty post box. And I can only imagine that the ill positioned letter box is the reason why my letters to the Prime Minister have gone astray recently.

"Dear Prime Minister, Adam Burrows here, perhaps you can stick a few of my suggestions on your 'PM's To Do List':

• - Consider promoting X Factor's Cheryl Cole to a cabinet position in the next reshuffle, or at the very least, Danni Minogue. 
  
• - Start writing a blog (perhaps call it "The PM's blog", or "Prime Blog") in which you can let the public know all about your experience as our nation's leader. 
• - Create a chocolate bar called 'Credit Crunch', to consist of milk chocolate, raisins, biscuits and gold coins to alleviate poverty and fight the recession from the front line, the candy shops. 
  
• - Whilst the world markets are shrinking, now is the time to strike, go for gold and reclaim the British Empire. Go on, no one will stop you, surely. 
• - Return the Elgin marbles to their rightful owners. 
• - Virgin Trains is no longer the virgin it used to be, nationalize it.
• - Consider a name change, Gordon is a little drab but could be saved by a more vibrantly colored surname. Try 'Orange'. 
• - Change your bloody post-box."

Sorry for the rather political blog this week. I assure you, it won't be happening again. 

To Do: Think less political. 

"Credit Crunch" - The Movie

After four weeks of busting my ass for a television/film company, I was rewarded (extremely belatedly) with my first big ass paycheck. Ofcourse, I literally ran to the local HSBC to deposit that little paper slip of joy into my account. On the way, I thought of all the ridiculous things that could happen to this cheque on the journey.

A bus could fly past, travelling above the speed limit and causing G force winds to send the cheque high into the air, floating on a gust. About two hundred yards down the road, a waste disposal truck is chugging along. The cheque looks as if it is about to float down and settle on the road, allowing an easy pick-up. Instead, fate (and rubbish) is there to interject and the paper sliver falls straight into the waste truck, and nestles itself on a black bin bag.

I think quick, jump into a taxi, scream "Follow that waste disposal truck!!" to the driver. He's clearly an ex-marine turned cabbie so he puts his foot down and off we go. We come to a set of traffic lights, "Pull up alongside the truck" I shout, "I'm going to jump for it. Come and find me after, i'll pay you when I cash this cheque that I'm chasing." He agrees, caught up in the moment, he's not worried about the cab fare, he's just happy to be back amidst the sort of front-line action he saw as a marine.

There's no need to jump, the traffic light is still on red. I exit the taxi, and leisurely climb into the back of the rubbish truck just as it pulls away. I can see the cheque now, resting on refuge, so near, yet so far. The driver must know there's an intruder, he starts to swerve the dumpster truck from side to side, throwing me about in the process, dislodging the cheque.

This continues for about ten minutes before we arrive at the waste depot, and along with the rest of the rubbish, I am tipped out into a huge scrapyard, and knocked unconscious.

I open my eyes, not knowing where I am, tied to an industrial boiler with black bin bags. "Why were you in my truck?" shouts a voice from behind. A rotting lettuce, possibly iceberg, possibly romaine, is thrown at my face. "I was looking for my paycheck. It fell onto your truck." "You're lying! There are no paychecks anymore. What do you think this is? The Golden Years?" Another piece of rotting fruit hits me in the head.

Wham. Bam. Smash. Two bodies drop to the floor. Marine Cabbie comes to save the day, whacking the binmen with a spade. About fifty more binmen come flooding into the boiler room, but between us, we manage to fend them off with more waste. I grab the cheque, we exit through a window, and speed away in his taxi.

*****
Best of luck to everyone out there feeling the squeeze at the moment.

'Credit Crunch' - THE MOVIE - will be out in cinemas soon.

To Do: Cash more cheques, get more cheques. Seriously.

Girlfriends are more important than films.

An excerpt from recent Guardian article by Tom Perrotta, novelist and screenwriter:

"A few years earlier, I'd come perilously close to dumping an otherwise excellent girlfriend after she professed her admiration for An Officer and a Gentleman."

I mean, really. Come on Tom, let's set the record straight here. You're saying that you would gladly rid yourself of a perfectly good girlfriend so that you can stay indoors on a friday night watching Platoon on DVD, safe in the knowledge that no romance-loving woman is going to interrupt your party-for-one by asking to watch Richard Gere.

I'm sorry to say it Tom, but the truth is that no matter how good looking you are, the chances are that you still pale in comparison to Richard Gere. Let's face it, the guy has some swarve and panache which you can buy with a Hollywood actor's salary. You're girlfriend probably didn't admire An Officer and a Gentleman, she simply wanted to watch it for Dicky Gere.

To Do: Watch more Richard Gere movies to improve girlfriend skills.