Of course, I’m aware that when writing this some of the people reading it may not be as big fans of the grappling arts as myself.  So this will be the first (and probably the last) of my blogs to include a glossary at the end to explain terms that you non-wrestling fans may not understand.

Anyway, for all my love towards those man-mountains clad in spandex and drizzled with baby oil, I could easily identify ten things that I despise.  So… here goes.

TEN:  A LACK OF MANAGERS

Eeh, when I was a lad it was usually quite easy to tell who the bad guys were when you watched wrestling on the telly.  Wasn’t just that the fans booed and they had hairier chests then the good dudes (that’s a FACT, go back and watch some videos) but they always had managers.  Sometimes male, sometimes female, usually evil (except Miss Elizabeth and to a lesser extent, Virgil).  There was loads of them – the best being Jimmy Hart, Slick and the legend that is Bobby Heenan.  Who do we have now?  Vicky Guerrero, whose managerial skills consist of being shrill.  I miss the managers, and this is in no way to do with wanting to work as one in the future because I have no wrestling skill whatsoever and I harbour dreams of being ringside for the heel stable of William Regal, Daniel Bryan and Seth Rollins.

NINE:  TOP ROPE FINISHING MOVES

You need a slight suspension of disbelief to enjoy wrestling, and to believe that two (or more) dudes fighting in a choreographed way with a completely fixed outcome is in any way realistic.  This is why the best finishing moves are either simple and can be done out of nowhere (the Stone Cold Stunner, RKO etc) or really complicated tie-you-in-knots MMA-like submission holds.  What isn’t realistic at all is when a fight pauses so one of the combatants can stand upon the top rope and jump off, usually twirling or somersaulting, and brings their body crashing down on their foe.  Which would probably injure themselves as much as their opponent.  I once watched a friend of mine in a fight, aged 12, jump open his opponent whilst screaming “ELBOW DROP”.  It ended the fight, but only because we were all laughing too much.

EIGHT:  KEN SHAMROCK

I don’t want to pick a fight with Mr Shamrock, mainly as he will hunt me down and rip out my Achilles before eating it in front of me.  However, if your glory years of wrestling are the “Attitude” era then Mr Shamrock was the constant ruiner of matches.  When he was new to wrestling he was too stiff (watch the footage of him vs Vader where they start knocking seven shades of shit out of each other), his facial mannerisms were either “calm and a bit angry” or “really really REALLY angry” and his promo skills were so bad that they made me want to make mini torches out of cotton buds and shove them into my ear canal.  At least his finisher was decent (see above) but he was living proof that the worlds of MMA and Wrestling are leagues apart.  After all, MMA is just enthusiastic hugging with the occasional punch to the temple.

SEVEN:  STEEL CAGE MATCHES

What could be more terrifying than two men fighting to the ABSOLUTE END within the four walls of a deathly steel structure?  Well, a gaggle of baby geese.  Good steel cage matches are hard to find – not Hell in a Cell matches, or Wargames, or even Elimination Chamber matches, they’re fine – but good steel cage matches?  I’m struggling to find any.  Out of the hundreds, probably thousands, that have taken place in history… I can think of two.  Bret Hart vs Owen Hart and Magnum TA vs Tully Blanchard, and the matches there were great because of the storylines involved, not the structure itself.  Plus, the old WWE cage was ugly blue steel and the formula was ALWAYS the same.  Good guy gets beaten up, bleeds a bit, recovers, climbs out as the bad guy tries to crawl out through the door.  Dull as fuck.

SIX:  THE TAG TEAM FORMULA

This point continues the one from above.  In the 1980s certain tag teams made that form of wrestling ludicrously entertaining.  For example, the Rock and Roll Express and the Midnight Express had a great feud where every single match was worth watching.  Trouble is, they got so good at the format that everyone else started to copy it.  The fact that you can now use the phrase “playing Ricky Morton” to describe the good guy in a match getting destroyed before he brings his partner in to clean up and get the win OR get cheated by the bad guys.  That’s it.  There’s no tension in a tag team match, not even in the indies.  Japan still kind of has it down, as does Mexico, but finding a decent tag team match in the USA is tricky (the last one I really loved was from Summerslam 91 – The Hart Foundation vs Demolition).  If you want proof, watch a match involving current WWE Tag Team Champions “Air Boom” (stupid, stupid name).  They all go like this:

*  Air Boom start out well

*  Bad guy team traps Evan Bourne

*  This stage lasts for about 8 minutes

*  Evan Bourne – after trying valiantly for ages – makes the tag to Kofi Kingston

*  Kofi jumps into the ring, top rope clothesline, SOS, a couple of kicks, Trouble in Paradise, he tags Evan back in, he hits Air Bourne (as it’s prettier to watch) and they win.

I’ve watched this match four times in the last month.

FIVE:  THE LACK OF PSYCHOLOGY IN INDIE WRESTLING

I’ve got a ton of DVDs from obscure promotions, from Japan, from all over the world.  I love watching all wrestling.  But you know what?  For however much I’ll get cross about the content of the WWE from time to time, at least they ensure that their talent understands psychology.  They’ve got guys who will work a body part and tell a story, rather than just hit finisher after finisher after finisher.  I adore indie wrestling – it’s incredibly entertaining but I can promise that there is usually one match on each card I own that takes this route. I sometimes think that wrestling in the indies is like being a new comedian – at every gig you feel you’ve got to smash out all your biggest, most offensive stuff and you’re afraid of telling a story.  Doing finisher after finisher is like being a comedian and shouting the word “cunt” repeatedly.  It might be entertaining to start with, but after the twentieth time at that show it’s pretty fucking tedious.

What makes this worse is that guys will take someone’s finisher and THEN GET STRAIGHT BACK UP!  No.  You are not Antonio Inoki and this isn’t the Tokyo Dome.  Watch the WWE.  You may hate it sometimes, but at least if someone gets hit with a GTS or RKO they stay down.  Finishers do exactly that.  A vertebreaker is not a transitional move.

Better still, watch a load of stuff from Japan.  Just not anything involving Inoki or Giant Baba.

FOUR:  PAST IT WRESTLERS

I’m a big football fan.  When someone can’t perform anymore, they retire.  They don’t end up playing in the top flight at the age of 50 just because they have a media profile or a film out.  Wrestling is a tough business – for all the fakery it’s hard on the body, tough on the mind and incredibly draining.  Guys that everyone should look up to got out of the business just in time – Shawn Michaels, Mick Foley, Edge.  They all knew when to stop performing and retired at the top of their game.  Bravo to them – walking away from good money to ensure that they can still walk when they’re 60.

Then you have guys who retire, come back, retire again, come back… and ruin any legacy that they may have by competing in AWFUL matches that nobody outside of their egos care about.  I’m looking at you – Ric Flair, Hulk Hogan, Roddy Piper, Kevin Nash, even Terry Funk.  Stop clogging up the system.

The Undertaker is excluded from this as he has the good sense to only wrestle once a year, and hopefully this year will be the last.

THREE:  TNA

I’ve been to watch TNA twice in this country, and enjoyed both of the shows tremendously.  You know why?  Because they weren’t taped for TV, so the wrestlers had time to put on decent matches, laugh at our chants and best of all, all the old deadwood stayed at home.  I watched some great matches and came away energised about wrestling.

Then, sadly, I watched their TV shows.  And their pay per views.  Sweet Jesus.

You know that your weekly TV show will be weak when you film it at a theme park in front of punters who haven’t paid to get in and just want to sit somewhere air-conditioned for a while.  Even worse if you look at some of their booking decisions:

*  Let Jeff Hardy anywhere near the top of the card, when he’s essentially a smacked-up waxwork

*  Build up a guy to become champ then decide against it because Hulk Hogan decides he isn’t ready (you should never listen to a man who clearly fancies his own daughter)

*  Wasting talent like Samoa Joe because he’s not Hogan’s cup of tea

Essentially I should amend this bit.  I quite like TNA, but until Hogan is living on a pacific island in an incestuous relationship with his daughter then I do feel that it’s quite doomed.  Hope not.

TWO:  PG RATING

I got back into wrestling at the age of 20 because I was flicking through Sky Sports one afternoon and happened to catch the Hell in a Cell match between the Undertaker and Mankind and was slightly turned on by the violence.  Stiff shots, death-defying falls, thumbtacks, blood, carnage.  Wrestling was like that all the time back then – racy storylines (sometimes stupid ones, but mainly good) and violent battles that appealed to the fanbase which was guys aged between 18-40.  Then advertisers started getting freaked out and the McMahon family decided that they wanted to get into politics, so it all stopped.  So what do we have now?  The same set of fans liking the sport (like me), plus a much more vocal amount of kids (who were there before when it was violent, just the same as they all play Grand Theft Auto when they’re 7).

This tactic strikes me as a bit stupid.  The boom time for wrestling was precisely when it had a “new rock and roll” vibe and it became cool to like it.  That’s what drove the viewing figures and the revenue.  Steve Austin was a rock star, for crying out loud.  It was a great time and you actively looked forward to watching wrestling.  Does that happen with the WWE now?  I don’t think so.

But who has the money?  I can afford to buy merchandise, DVDs, PPVs and event tickets.  My 11 year old nephew can’t.  What’s so wrong with violence?  For crying out loud, the product is American and when I was a kid we used to get told to not watch the A-Team because of the violence.  I still had a load of A-Team toys and ran around my playground spraying imaginary machine gun bullets at my classmates.  Nobody got hurt.  Just like in the A-Team.

ONE:  JOHN CENA

For those people who don’t like wrestling or have any frame of reference, let me tell you who John Cena is.  He’s essentially the golden boy of the WWE.  He’s often their champion, headlines most of their shows and is a fairly decent wrestler.  Fairly.

He’s also as charismatic as a slice of breaded ham and fans have been sick of him for the past two years.

When he wrestles, fans like me boo him.  Kids and women cheer him.  It then ends up in a feud between the fans as to whether he is loved or hated when there are more loved or hated wrestlers on the roster, but they don’t sell as many babygros or bibs to the slathering idiots in the mid west of the USA.  I’ve never met a wrestling fan who likes John Cena.  And when I say I hate him, I don’t hate him in a way that I’d pay good money to watch him get beaten up.  I’d pay good money to never watch him again.  I’m serious – I’ll start a whip round right now to try and buy him out of his overblown WWE contract.

He’s a square-jawed, white bread safe-option wrestler for the generic and bland product of 2012 WWE.  That said, there’s a revolution coming I’m sure.  I keep predicting that the glory days of anti-heroes and wrestling aimed at me is coming back.

Well, I’ve been predicting it for ages.

Then me and my mate Jon started this: THIS IS PROGRESS.

Plug over, here’s the glossary.

Follow me on Twitter.

GLOSSARY

Miss Elizabeth:  Manager of Randy Savage in the 80s and 90s.  Now sadly dead.

Virgil:  Servant of “The Million Dollar Man” Ted DiBiase (who was my favourite wrestler as a kid), eventually turned on him.  Was called Virgil as a dig at Dusty Rhodes, who booked the WWE’s rival shows.

Jimmy Hart:  ”The Mouth of the South”.  Genuine 60s one-hit-wonder who became involved in wrestling in the deep south Memphis hotbed in the 1970s.  Very good friends with Hulk Hogan, so has always been kept in work.  Wrote a lot of 1990s WCW wrestler theme tunes, and worked as both a good and bad guy.

Slick:  ”The Doctor of Style”.  Now a reverend.  Vaguely racist “jive-talkin’” manager from the 1980s.  Wore a flat cap to great aplomb.

Bobby Heenan:  ”The Brain”.  The greatest manager of all time, and one of the best colour commentators.  Referred to bad wrestlers as “ham and eggers”.  Despite being a manager due to his slight size, wrestled in many bloody and brutal matches in the 1970s.  Survived throat cancer recently, and is still tremendously popular with fans despite being retired.

Vicky Guerrero:  Current WWE manager of Dolph Ziggler and Jack Swagger.  Screams a lot.  Was married to the late Eddie Guerrero, former WWE legend.

William Regal:  British wrestler, billed from Blackpool but actually from Stoke.  One of my heroes, I remember watching him on “World of Sport” when I was growing up.  Incredibly funny and yet responsible for some brilliantly brutal wrestling moments.  Try finding footage of him roughing up Bill Goldberg in WCW, or his amazingly stiff fight against Fit Finlay where it seems obvious that they’re best mates with the amount of violence they trust one another with.  His autobiography is excellent.

Daniel Bryan:  Nicknamed “the best in the world” during his indie days.  Formerly called “The American Dragon” Bryan Danielson, changed his name for WWE copyright reasons.  Current WWE World Champion and one of my favourite current wrestlers (the other is CM Punk).

Seth Rollins:  Current WWE developmental talent (it’s kind of like a reserve team in football), formerly called Tyler Black in his indie wrestling days.  Cracking talent.

Stone Cold Stunner:  The finishing move of “Stone Cold” Steve Austin.  Usually prefixed with a boot to the gut.  It’s a three quarter facelock sit-out jawbreaker.

RKO:  The finishing move of Randy Orton, who looks a bit like David Beckham.  He does.  A three quarter facelock neckbreaker drop.

Ken Shamrock:  Former UFC champion that signed with the WWE in the mid 1990s.  Has a brother called Frank, who is also an MMA legend.  He had a storyline sister called Ryan, who was not really his sister.

Vader:  Born Leon White, a massive wrestler from Colorado who had his best times in Japan in the 1990s, but wrestled in the USA as well for WCW and WWE.  Responsible for Mick Foley losing his ear.

Bret Hart:  Legendary member of the Hart family.  Has a great autobiography (if a little bitter).  Was involved in the “Montreal Screwjob” where he was due to leave the WWE and they changed a match result without telling him in front of the rabid Canadian fans.  There’s a documentary about it called “Wrestling with Shadows”.  Now retired after a series of strokes.

Owen Hart:  Brother of Bret Hart, arguably the better wrestler.  Died tragically after falling from the rafters of the Kemper Arena in Kansas City at the “Over the Edge” pay per view in 1999.

Magnum TA:  Excellent NWA (the rival to WWE in the 1980s) wrestler who had a moustache to rival Magnum PI.  Hence the name (TA stands for Terry Allen).  Career was ended when he crashed his Porsche into a tree, but could have been the NWA version of Hulk Hogan.  Except he could, you know, wrestle and shit.

Tully Blanchard:  A member of the legendary “Four Horseman” stable alongside Ric Flair, Arn Anderson and Barry Windham (at least originally).  Lost a famous cage match against Magnum TA when he submitted after he had a wooden splinter jabbed into his eye.

The Rock and Roll Express:  Good guy tag team from the 1980s NWA that was most famously made up of Ricky Morton and Robert Gibson.  Morton would often get beaten up for most of their matches, coining the phrase “playing Ricky Morton”.

The Midnight Express:  Bad guy tag team from the 1980s NWA that was made up of two from Dennis Condrey, Bobby Eaton, Stan Lane and Randy Rose.

The Hart Foundation:  Tag team from 1980s/90s WWE.  Featured Bret Hart and his brother in law Jim “the Anvil” Neidhart.

Demolition:  Tag team from 1980s/90s WWE comprised of Ax (Bill Eadie) and Smash (Barry Darsow).  They were joined later by Crush (Brian Adams) so would sneakily swap their members around when it suited them.

Air Boom:  Current WWE Unified Tag Team Champions, comprised of Kofi Kingston and Evan Bourne.

SOS:  One of Kofi Kingston’s signature moves.  It’s a Japanese move called a Ranhei.

Trouble in Paradise:  Another signature move of Kofi Kingston, a jumping kick.

Air Bourne:  The finishing move of Evan Bourne, a shooting star press from the top rope.  Bourne basically does a reverse somersault and lands belly first on his fallen opponent.

Indie Wrestling:  Wrestling outside of the “big leagues” – in the past that would have been WWE, WCW and ECW, now it’s basically anything outside of WWE and TNA in the USA.  Smaller promotions – like Ring of Honor, which was featured a lot in the film “The Wrestler”.

Antonio Inoki:  Japanese-Argentinian wrestler, now retired, who has been running the top promotion in Japan for about 30 years.  Once wrestled Mohammed Ali.  Beating Inoki was incredibly rare.

GTS:  The finishing move of CM Punk, short for “Go To Sleep”.  Invented by Japanese wrestler KENTA, it’s a firemans carry dropped into a knee in the face.

Giant Baba:  Massive Japanese wrestler, died in the late 1990s.  Was Inoki’s rival both in the ring and outside it, running his own successful promotion.

Shawn Michaels:  Texan wrestler, known for being a bit of a bellend during his initial singles run in the 1990s, has since found God and mellowed out.  Now retired and a member of the WWE Hall of Fame.  Nicknamed the “Heartbreak Kid”.  Sang his own theme music.  It’s stuck in your head now if you know it.

Mick Foley:  One of the greatest human beings that has ever lived.  Great wrestler, now a writer and stand-up comedian.

Edge:  Top-level WWE talent from the 2000s who had to retire last year due to a neck injury.

Ric Flair:  The best wrestler in the world in the 1980s, now a bankrupt and tired husk of his former self.

Hulk Hogan:  An orange goblin.

Roddy Piper:  Wrestler and actor (he’s in “They Live”, which is ace) who has always been one of the best talkers in the business.  Still wrestles from time to time, and shouldn’t.

Kevin Nash:  Giant wrestler who is best friends with HHH (wrestler who is involved in running the WWE, largely as he married the owner’s daughter) and so still hobbles into a WWE ring from time to time.

Terry Funk:  Legendarily insane Texan wrestler who first retired in Japan in 1981.  He’s still wrestling.

TNA:  The main rival to the WWE’s output, owned by wrestler Jeff Jarrett and financially backed by Panda Energy.  TNA stands for “Total Nonstop Action”, but the company has recently been rebranded as “Impact Wrestling”.  Records its weekly TV show at Universal Studios in Orlando.

Jeff Hardy:  One of the former WWE Tag Team “The Hardy Boyz” (with his brother Matt).  The more successful of the two.  Fired by the WWE for drugs test violations, famously ruined an entire pay per view in 2011 by showing up in no fit state to perform.  The match was cut short to 90 seconds.

Samoa Joe:  Great wrestler in the indies, now languishing near the bottom of the card in TNA despite being their former heavyweight champion.  His gimmick?  He’s a big Samoan guy who’ll kill you.

Hell in a Cell:  A special type of cage match – the cage is wire mesh and has a roof.  Mick Foley was famously thrown off of the roof of said cell in the match I describe.

The McMahon Family:  Owners of the WWE.  Vince and Linda McMahon (who bought the company from Vince’s dad, Vince Senior), daughter Stephanie and her husband Paul Levesque (the wrestler HHH).  Her brother Shane is also still a shareholder, but no longer works for the company.

Steve Austin:  The biggest WWE star of the 1990s before Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson took his mantle.  Now a TV presenter and film star.

PPV:  Pay per view.  The WWE has one PPV event each month (as does TNA).  They cost $45 to order and watch live, usually on the last Sunday of the month.

John Cena:  A slice of breaded ham.

Well hello, nice people.  With me having lots of fun things that I’d like to tell the world about, I’d like to have a lot more followers on Twitter.  So I hatched a daft plan today…

If I can get up to 5,000 followers on Twitter I will get three – yes THREE – tweeps tattooed upon my person.  I keep getting asked for clarification on how this works, so let me explain…

NOTE THE SLIGHT RULE CHANGE!

The best referrer will be tattooed upon me – based on either number of references OR the most creative way of gaining me followers

I’ll also have an independent witness choose TWO (yes, TWO) followers AT RANDOM to be tattooed on me

I’ll then have each of the above “winners” inked onto my skin.  It’ll be both their little profile picture AND their Twitter username. Yes, even if it makes me look like a dick.

For those that don’t know, I already have the following things tattooed on me – Ron Burgundy, a trainer, a power switch, Princess Peach, Zelda, Chun Li, Akuma, my Edinburgh show and DVD title (Tattooligan) on my stomach (that was another publicity stunt), a heart over my actual heart, a pacman ghost (Blinky, the red one), Starscream from Transformers and loads more.  You get the idea.

You’ll be finding yourself on my arm somewhere (I still have some room) as long as I get to 5,000.  And I leapt up by 400 people today, so hopefully it won’t take too long…

Plus I try to be a nice person to follow on Twitter anyway.  I mainly talk about comedy, cake, wrestling, comedy, football, tv, films, comedy and tattoos (obviously).

The twitter handle you need is @jimsmallman, and the hashtag I’m using is #getjim5000followersandhewillhaveyoutattooedonhim (as it’s short and catchy).

Do join in.  I’ll probably film it again, like I did the last time I did something really stupid…

10:  Identikit Stadiums

This is especially apt as a Leicester City supporter.  Filbert Street may have been a dump, but it was out dump:  Unchanged in eons, horrible for away fans, tight and cramped on the pitch, wonderful acoustics keeping all the noise in – even if it only held 21,000.  The Walkers King Power Filbert Way stadium (or whatever the fuck it is called this week) may have stellar views from every seat but it’s just not memorable.  I could sketch you Filbert Street right now, like an autistic kid on a New York street.  Could I do the same with our current home?  Nope.  I’m vaguely aware that it has some cantilevers, and I know what colour seats we have.  But it’s just homogenised and dull.  For the 2002 and 2006 World Cups the stadium designers had the right idea, with grounds shaped like giant eggs and bubbles and the like.  I reckon you could put our stadium next to St Marys, Pride Park, the Riverside, the KC Stadium and so on… and not be able to tell the difference.  Not Coventry’s ground though, that’s easy to recognise by virtue of the depressing air that permeates from it being in, well, Coventry.

9:  Chips Inside Grounds

If you’re planning on eating chips at the football, it always worked that you would buy them at a chip shop outside the ground before going in.  There’s some great places:  The chippy behind the away end at Hillsborough where they still cook them in lard; The place at Watford where the owners give away fans a discount because they’re Luton fans; The Chinese chip shop at Crystal Palace that is next door to a brilliant second hand electronics shop – so you can spend ages checking out PCB boards, old joysticks and original BBC Micros.  However, there has been a recent development that has ended the camaraderie of the hallowed chip-run, and that is clubs selling chips inside the stadium.  And not even proper chips.  Shit chips.  A polystyrene cone of quasi-french fries with no room to apply sauce (and the sauce that they give you is always knock-off own-brand “red sauce”).  Plus they’re always too hot.  Hotter than the centre of the earth, and fried by a disinterested 15 year old who wanted a free ticket to the game and has probably spent the day trying to deep fry anything that came to mind.  I have never had good chips inside a football stadium.  I have, however, had good burgers, hot dogs, pies, pasties, chocolate and crisps.  Don’t diversify, please.  Chips are for outside.

8:  ”…We’re By Far The Greatest Team…”

A lot of football chants are stupid.  As a Leicester fan, I get wound up when we sing about our Japanese midfielder Yuki Abe the following:  ”Yuki, he’ll eat your fucking dog”.  No he won’t.  He’s Japanese, not Korean.  Or French.  He’d probably eat all of your seafood, and maybe any raw bear you may have (which is called Kuma, like the Bear in Tekken) but not your Dog.  Not even if he was really, really hungry.  One chant that really gets my goat is the one that every team sings to the tune of “No, Nay, Never” which states that [INSERT TEAM NAME] is by far the greatest team the world has ever seen.  Really?  If you support Port Vale can you afford to make that lofty claim?  If you’re watching Sheffield United when have you been able to say you were even the greatest team in Yorkshire?  It’s silly.  Unless you supported the 1950s Real Madrid team or possibly the 1970 Brazilian World Cup side then you cannot sing this song.  Ever.  Just stop it.

7:  Wayne Rooney’s Bicycle Kick

Ok, Wayne Rooney is a pretty good footballer.  He’s certainly the best English player in the Premier League.  I even admit to finding him exciting to watch when he’s firing on all cylinders.  However, last year when he scored that bicycle kick against Manchester City it was not the greatest goal ever scored.  It wasn’t even close to Cambiasso’s for Argentina in the 2006 World Cup, or Maradona against England in 1986.  In fact, it wasn’t even the best bicycle kick ever scored in England – as that is, of course, Muzzy Izzet’s goal against Grimsby when Leicester last got promoted to the Premier League.  Pundits drew attention to the context in which Rooney scored his goal, in a local derby – fine.  But Izzet scored his after City had been reduced to ten men and were under the kosh.  The goal put us 2-1 up away from home and took us to the top of the league.  The cross from Andy Impey was perfect, and Izzet’s finish (from the edge of the area) was so sublime that upon celebrating it I burst a blood vessel in my head and then had a migraine for the next 3 days.  Of course, the goal is always overlooked because it was scored by lowly Leicester City.  Don’t even get me started on Trevor Sinclair’s bicycle kick for QPR, or Stan Collymore’s for Bradford, or the entire canon of Lee Trundle.

6:  All Non Adidas Football Kits

In the beginning, God created man.  Then, he created football.  In about 1978, he created decent football kits after years of wearing horrible woolly ones.  Once this happened, it quickly became obvious that one brand really stuck out:  Adidas.  Which is pronounced “Add-E-Dass” and NOT “Add-Eee-duss”.  With the three stripes on the sleeves, I can think of countless classic kits:  France 1982, Germany 1990, Liverpool 1988, Milan for the whole of the 1990s, Arsenal in 1990.  Brilliant shirts, all of them.  And you get to have Adidas branded training gear too – oh, how I wish I had an Adidas Leicester City tracksuit top to carouse around town in.  If your kit is currently made by the following, let me explain what it means:

Nike – Your board of directors cares more about their bank balance than what you look like.

Puma – Adidas turned down the chance to make your kit.

Errea – You are either an Italian Serie B team or Middlesbrough.

Hummel – You are Danish.

Canterbury – Hey, dickhead, this isn’t Rugby!

Umbro – We’re so proud of our British heritage that we sing the dambusters theme tune at least once a day.

Kappa – Hey! My shirt doesn’t fit so good!

Burrda - Who the fuck?

Lotto – If we won it then we could afford a better kit.

5:  Craig Bellamy

Imagine a footballer who has never played more than 100 league games for a club, and yet has somehow parleyed his limited skills into several multi-million pound moves, swelling his bank account and ego each time.  Imagine a player who you can’t ever really remember playing well, but surely he must have done something decent at some point because God knows the press seems to think he’s the cat’s pyjamas.  Think of a footballer who has managed to turn whining and off-field violence into an artform.  Think of a player that is somehow back at Liverpool despite not even doing well in the Championship last season.  Think of a man who essentially looks like every single chav scumbag in your town rolled into one individual with no neck, shit tattoos and probably driving an Escalade or tricked our Range Rover.  Think of the one player that you definitely never want at your club, and if you had him at your club you were left scratching your head after the requisite 25 games or so.  Ladies and Gentlemen, the man you are thinking of is Craig Bellamy.  He’s a diminutive, bad-tempered little cock.  With, I’d wager, a little cock.

4:  Glory Hunters

I support my hometown club.  Most people I know support their hometown clubs.  As well as my Leicester City obsession I have friends that support Woking, Aston Villa, Nottingham Forest, Coventry City, Leeds United, Yeovil Town, Brighton and Hove Albion, Swansea City and so on.  I of course have friends who support the big sides too.  But you know what?  Everyone that I know that does support Manchester United, Liverpool or Arsenal has done so for their entire life, based on geographical or family connections.  I bear these people no ill will whatsoever.  What I can’t stand are the Johnny-Come-Latelies who latch onto the latest fad team and claim their undying love.  How many kids have you seen wearing Chelsea shirts in the last few years?  Or Blackburn shirts in the 1990s?  What about British kids who support Barcelona?  Unless you live in a Tapas bar YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO DO THIS.  Admire their football.  Enjoy their games.  But do not – EVER – claim to me that you support them when your only chance of watching that team involves you going on a stag weekend with a distant cousin.  Manchester City are already a big club.  They don’t want your money or your support, nor do they need it.  If you go to football matches and you take a camera you’re a prick.  You should be fully aware of what your stadium looks like as you’ve obviously been going there since you were little.  If you ever utter the sentence “I used to support [TEAM NAME] but recently I’ve really started to like [TEAM NAME] then you are worse than dead to me.  You’re worse than Hitler, Dracula, Richard Nixon and the Child Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang rolled into one.  Dick.

3:  The Man Who Sits Near Me Who Ruins Everything With His Constant Commentary

In my seat at the Walkers King Power Filbert Emporium of Soccer Based Games (East stand, block J2, row AA, seat 235) I can hear the constant musings of one man.  He dresses top to toe in Leicester City themed clothing.  He wears a hat that covers a balding blonde mullet ala Hulk Hogan.  His accent is as Leicester as it can be – he could effortlessly pull off the most Leicestershire sentence ever which is of course “Oohyah fighter, there’s a wabby in me plaggy bag” (translated as “I say, there is a wasp in my carrier bag”) – and he never, EVER shuts up whilst watching a game.  Firstly, he only seems to like players that aren’t brilliant.  He is the only man alive that believes that Matt Oakley is a footballer, for example.  He thinks Yuki Abe is lazy, Kasper Schmeichel is “dodgy”, Sol Bamba can’t defend and that our strikers are “league one level”.  Of course, he’s allowed his opinion.  What really gets my goat is when he tries to predict what will happen.  A midfielder will win the ball and switch the play to the far side of the pitch.  As soon as the ball cannons off his boot he’ll scream “great ball”… and it’ll go out of play for a throw-in.  If a striker has a speculative shot he’ll scream “it’s in!” and you can guarantee that it most certainly isn’t.  Then you have his stats, which he gets wrong constantly.  He once claimed that Manchester City had never beaten us in Leicester, while his idiot friends nodded in agreement.  He’ll claim that we’re buying ridiculous players – last season he told someone to bet their house on us signing Thierry Henry because he’d apparently seen him on the A46 Travelodge.  We can however rely on him to drunkenly fall up the stairs at least once a season.  Once he did so, spilling bovril over Tony Cottee.

2:  Fans Crying When Their Team Gets Relegated

It’s the last day of the season.  It’s come down to this.  Three points and you stay up.  A point and results going your way and you might be safe.  A defeat and you’re probably down.  Your lot go 1-0 up but with ten to go they equalise and it’s squeaky bum time.  Then in injury time – disaster! – they scramble it in from a corner and you’re listening to the radio as intently as you can, trying to find out what’s going on at other stadiums.

If this has happened to you – and it has me – then that’s fine.

When the final whistle goes, it’s all over.  The scores come in over the tannoy and that’s it, you’re down.  And as the cameras pan across your end of the ground, people are seen crying.

These people are idiots.

When City got relegated to League One a few years back it was harsh, but not a reason to cry.  In fact, the only reason I have ever cried at a football match was when we left Filbert Street and they switched the lights off (I think I hugged my dad and sobbed that “it’s all so final”).  My favourites to watch in these situations are fans of clubs from the North East.  Why are you crying?  You’ll still exist next season.  Also, what the fuck did you expect to happen?  If you’ve got relegated on the last day of the season then SURELY you’ve been fairly rotten all year?  How is this a surprise?  Could you not steel yourself just a little bit in expectation?

Pussies.

1:  Realising That You’ll Never Play

At the age of 33 I am now finally having to live up to the realisation that I probably won’t ever play professional football.  Probably.  There’s an awful moment when you realise that a breakout football star is a couple of years younger than you (mine was Michael Owen) and you lower your expectations.  Maybe you won’t make it in the Premier League, but you could get snapped up by a non-league team, score against a league club in the cup and then get snapped up by a League One side for the remainder of your twenties?  No.  It won’t happen.  Every single football fan wants to be out there, scoring the goals and living the life.  If it was going to happen to you then it would have happened when you were ten.  Not now, tubby.  You’ve not even managed to walk to the shops in two years, how are you going to boss a midfield for 90 minutes?  It’s over, dude.  You’re finished.  The dream is never going to happen.  Face it.  At the moment there is even a manager in the Premier League that is younger than me.  And more attractive, dynamic, successful and looks way better in a suit than I could ever hope.  That’s it.  Game over.  It’s just FIFA, Pro Evo and Football Manager for you now.  And even then there are a million people better at it than you.  Go online now and you’ll get your arse handed to you by an 8 year old in Venezuela.

Also, stop playing Sunday League.  It demeans us all.

http://twitter.com/jimsmallman

As a kid I’d imagine myself in films constantly – sometimes of my creation (I genuinely came up with an idea for a typical British farce at around the time A Fish Called Wanda came out called, and I’m not kidding, Bollocks!  Yes.  With the exclamation mark) and sometimes the sequel to a film I’d watched recently.  Never a prequel, because they weren’t in vogue as yet.  I invented central roles for myself in Back to the Future 4, Ghostbusters 3 and Commando 2.  I was always a hero, which is confusing as my only cinematic ambitions these days are as follows:

1:  Appear as a zombie in a horror film.

2:  Be a henchman in a Bond film.

Between the ages of about 14 and 33 (so, now) my little imaginary voyages have limited to three different themes dependent on my mood.

FOOTBALL

I’ve long imagined myself under cover of duvet as the star player at my beloved Leicester City.  The strange thing is that I’ve always imagined myself as being 28 years old, no matter how old I was in real life.  I had a backstory and everything, one that hasn’t changed in years (and is always applied to my footballing self in video games and Football Manager).

I wasn’t good at football at school (so far, so true) so I moved to Japan to study at the age of 18.  There I played for my university and was noticed for my prolific scoring prowess, despite my lack of height or speed.  I was an oriental Lee Trundle, if you like.  At 19 I was snapped up by Gamba Osaka and I broke the J-League scoring record in my first season, becoming an overnight sensation.  At 20 I was snapped up by Russian giants CSKA Moscow in a £1 million deal, but after 3 games (and 4 goals) I snapped my cruciate ligament and was out for a year.  New management meant that I fell down the pecking order so I left the club to sign for Pohang Steelers in South Korea.  There I had a brilliant comeback season, scoring 24 goals in the same amount of games.  Despite doing well in Korea my Russian wife (oh yes) was homesick so by 22 I was back in Russia playing for Zenit.

I topped the goalscoring charts in Russia in my first season in St Petersberg but split with my wife and fell out with the Zenit fans over their racist attitude to opposing players.  I asked for a transfer and was granted one, moving to Belgian giants Anderlecht for £3 million.  At this time I was selected for my first cap for Russia (I had been granted citizenship thanks to my estranged wife), who won the bidding war for my international services with Wales.  England showed little interest, which would come back to haunt them later on.  At Anderlecht I started brightly but then faded from view after breaking my ankle.  By the time I was 24, I was on the move again as they slashed their wage bill.  I made the move to Germany to play for second tier St Pauli, helping them to the title with 41 goals that season.  Due to financial irregularities though, I was forced to be sold by administrators (despite the fans coming up with various schemes to raise money for me to stay and me offering to play for free) and at 25 I moved yet again, this time to 1860 Munich.

I was sent off in my third game for Munich and reacted by grabbing the referee by his shirt collar and threatening him.  I was then suspended for two years, reduced on appeal to the rest of the current season.  1860 terminated my contract and I spent the rest of that year coaching kids in Japan and the USA.

By 26 my suspension was up and I was looking for another club.  I begged Leicester City, who were struggling in the Championship, for a trial and was granted one.  After scoring 5 goals in 2 pre season games I was offered a two year contract and took it, declaring my undying love for the side I had supported from birth.  As a relative unknown in England I started the season on the bench, but scored 2 goals on my debut against Nottingham Forest and never looked back.  In my first season we won the Championship at a canter, claiming the title by March as well as winning the League Cup and qualifying for Europe.

Despite our great promotion season we weren’t tipped to do well in the Premier League, something that we quickly confounded with an amazing 4-0 victory over Manchester United at Old Trafford on the opening day.  We remained unbeaten all season, winning the league, cup, league cup and Europa League.  Despite offers to move to so-called “bigger clubs” I remained at City as we started our first ever pursuit of the Champions League.

That’s normally where I start my adventures in my imagination.

WRESTLING

I know, it’s never socially acceptable to admit that you’re a wrestling fan but I bloody love it.  Yes, it is just men in their underwear pretending to fight but I’ve wanted to be a wrestler since a very young age and my imagination offers me the arena to come up with yet another great backstory.

Of course I don’t wrestle under my own name, preferring instead to compete as “Jimmy Barnett”, a nod to my ancestry and also a clever little reference to an old-school NWA power broker back in the day.  Starting my career in England, I reached a certain level of success before moving to the USA to attempt to find fame and fortune.  I had trials for the WWE but never made the grade, instead wrestling for independent federations all across North America.  After competing in a juniorweight tournament in Philadelphia I’m offered the chance to tour Japan with NJPW.

There I have to adapt my style, moving from my original high-flying tactics to a more grounded, hard-hitting style.  I develop an in-ring personality where if I get hit in the head too often I no-sell it and “snap”, smiling and laughing at my opponent before going on the offensive.  The fans and press there nickname me “The Ripper” because of my British accent and bad-guy lust for blood against their heroes.

I eventually return to the USA and my success in Japan has been picked up by independent promoters and geeky smart fans who have watched DVDs of my contests.  I get pushed well in marquee independent promotions like Ring of Honor and Pro Wrestling Guerilla, never being trusted to hold a title (as my alcoholic past is often in their minds) but taking part in bloody wars with Kevin Steen, Steve Corino, Super Dragon and Davey Richards.  I’m given the chance to talk more, getting a name for myself for my amusing and often foul-mouthed promos.  I debut my soon to be well-known and oft-copied finishing moves – the Straightjacket Clutch (cross-armed camel clutch), Drunk Driver (leg trap inverted sheer drop brainbuster) and The Living End (high angle clawhold STO) and receive the first of my four five-star matches from the Wrestling Observer.

I then secretly sign with the WWE, making my debut at a RAW taping in Philadelphia (the smart fan stronghold).  John Cena is wrestling a match when I merely walk down the aisle carrying a chair, and sit on it next to the ring, commentating on Cena as he wins his match.  The kids in attendance have no idea who I am but the smart fans do, chanting “Ripper” at me.  I curse a couple of times towards the end of my time at ringside (all planned, of course) and the broadcast is hastily shuffled to commercials.  The internet is abuzz over this.

I keep coming out week after week, calling Cena out and saying controversial, non-PG things.  I threaten to break the WWE PG rating initiative in “the most violent way possible”, eventually interfering in a Rey Mysterio match, where I severely injure Rey (he is retiring anyway) and unmask him, chaining him to the ropes and hitting him in the face with a chair until Cena comes out to save him.  The next week I attack Cena in the ring, bloodying his face with a chair and repeatedly hitting him with The Living End.  The fans barely notice that the rating on RAW has changed from “TV-PG” to “TV-MA” over the past weeks as violence between me and Cena becomes commonplace.  A match is signed for Summerslam in my adopted American hometown of Cleveland with the stipulation that if I lose, I leave WWE.  If I win, I can hire six wrestlers from anywhere to join my “Black Bloc”.  I beg the fans to show the world who they support, telling them if they love the Ripper and his violence to wear plain black hoodies to Summerslam and pull their hoods up as the bell rings for my fight with Cena.  80% of the crowd does, and I win after Cena’s best match ever (about time he had a fucking good one).

The next night on RAW I come out and choose my six wrestlers to join me, all of whom will be committed to violence, good wrestling and NEVER returning WWE to the dark days of PG ratings.  I choose two wrestlers that have never made it into the WWE before – Samoa Joe and Davey Richards, plus four that had recently been released – Awesome Kong, Giant Bernard, Bryan Danielson and CM Punk.

That’s where the imagining then begins.  We’re on the way to Wrestlemania at the moment with dissention being teased between me (World Champion) and Punk (WWE Champion).  But is it all a ruse?  TUNE INTO RAW TO FIND OUT!

GIRLS

I’m a man.  Of course I curl up some nights and think about girls.  You’d be surprised though, for a man of my admitted perversity it’s never filth.

There’s always one girl that I’ll be totally lovesick over.  It changes every now and then, but the sickness often lasts for a year or two.  It’s always someone that I’ll never tell, and has always been someone that I’ve never ended up with due to shyness, cowardice and a lack of faith in my own looks and personality.  For all the truly ridiculous things that I’ve done in my life, I often drift off to sleep imagining that I’m a character in some kind of awful romantic comedy, just one that has been slightly twisted by my acid-casualty mind.

I will imagine stuttered conversations and accidental brushes of hands, I do think about spooning the object of my affection while tightly gripping a pillow, and I do dream of unexpected kisses from a girl long after I’ve abandoned any hope of anything happening and they’ve fallen head over heels in love with me, all of me, warts and all, despite my limitations.

If my imagination is a film there are lots of shots of us laughing, chasing each other around parks and fields, and the soundtrack is usually by Mogwai or The Joy Formidable.

The sad part about this is that I’m now 33 years old.  I’ve been imagining these things for a long time and none of them have happened yet.  I have to face the reality that these things will never happen.

In fact, 2 out of these 3 things are guaranteed to never happen.  It’s just a sad fact of life.

Because let’s be honest, at 33 I could probably still become a wrestler.

Tonight, as I walked back to my car after performing in Birmingham, some youth chose to punch me in the face.  I was more stunned than hurt – his clumsy pugilism merely vaguely bruised my forehead so I doubt that the cowardly fuck will be troubling the highest echelons of boxing at any point soon.

I have no idea why he decided to attempt to give me a pasting.  He walked out of a bar across the road from where I was working, strode up to me, said nothing and lamped me.  It did lead to a very awkward moment where he expected me to go down and I just stared at him and said “ouch”.  He then considered hitting me again, panicked and buggered off.  A very odd moment in my life.

This happened just off Broad Street, a place that pretty much resembles my idea of hell on earth.  Hundreds of drunken revellers being as pissed as it is possible to be without sleeping on a bench every night, all trying to have loud conversations with people over booming R’n'B music in the vain hope that they can possibly go home and have awkward sex.

This is, of course, a Saturday night out.

I’ve been working at the same venue for the last couple of nights and I was astonished upon leaving last night just how short girls dresses are.  I must stress – I was shocked.  Not “pleasantly surprised”.  Genuinely shocked.  Where do they get these dresses from?  Hang on.

(Goes to look)

Ah, Lipsy.

Anyway, I should be pleased about this as a heterosexual man.  Women wearing less should be a cause for celebration, surely?  No.  It just reminds me that I’m getting old and that I’ve got a seven year old daughter who’ll probably be out and about doing the same thing in about ten years.  Maybe that’s why that dude punched me – he must be a parent of a girl and the sight of so much flesh panicked him.  Poor little guy.

I’ve noted that on these Saturday nights out that there are three distinct groups that form pretty much all of the so-called revellers in bars and clubs.

ONE:  ALL GIRLS TOGETHER

Masses of girls together, usually wearing as little as possible.  At least one will be crying, one will hate all of the others and half will not be wearing their heels by 11pm.

TWO:  THE BOYZ

A load of lads hanging out together, spending a lot of time proving they can drink more than the others and staring at the uncovered backsides of the girls that are out and about.  From my experience this weekend they seem to all look EXACTLY the same:  Very short hair, polo shirt, shit tribal tattoo.  Hey, fellers?  Just because your polo shirt is from Lyle and Scott it doesn’t mean that you’ve managed to escape your social class.

THREE:  COUPLES

Jesus, these are the worst.  A group of four or more couples, where all the women are friends (NEVER the men) and the guys are forced to sit next to each other and pretend to like the others.  They like to remind you that they’re all attached and happy and that they don’t NEED to be out on a Saturday night, but they choose to be because if they stayed at home watching television they’d worry that they were missing something.  Nope.  If you stayed in when you were single you didn’t miss anything, you miss even less when you’re attached and merely spend a fortune trying to relive your youth which you only see through the rose-tinted spectacles of booze and drugs back in the day.

Of course, I say all of this whilst hiding a guilty secret.

Yes.

I have never enjoyed a Saturday night out.

When I say “never enjoyed” I don’t mean that I’ve been on hundreds of nights out and they’ve all sucked.  I mean that I don’t think I’ve ever had a Saturday night out.  Not with dancing and fun and conversation and the sort of epic adventures that drinkers and revellers enjoy.  The kind of weekends that prompted Pete Tong to tell us all that they started on Thursday and have idiots text into Radio 1 talking about how they were going to “large it”.  Cunts.

I digress.  My point is that I quit drinking aged 20.  Prior to that I’d never liked clubs and bars.  I now work in comedy clubs every Saturday night.  I still don’t drink, have precious little time to socialise and after gigs people seem more scared of me than wanting to hang out.

Anyway, if you’re reading this you’re probably thinking that you’ve had loads of great Saturday nights out.  I will not deny this.  I will merely remain annoyed and jealous about it.  Trouble is, I don’t think I can fix my aversion to Saturday nights out now.  As:

a)  I’m likely to be working every Saturday night until the end of time and convincing people that Monday is my Saturday doesn’t really work.

b)  I’m nearly 33 for fucks sake.  That train has sailed.

c)  Large groups of people are always suspicious of little me, drinking coke while they get hammered.

And most importantly of all:

d)  It seems that I have a face that people like to smack.

THE FOLLOWING TOOK PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 13.30 and 22.00 ON SATURDAY DECEMBER 19th 2010…

13.30 – BARWELL, LEICESTERSHIRE

I open my door and stride into the cool winter air. I’m prepared for a tricky journey – being a plucky BBC employee I’ve seen the weather reports and instead of lying in bed all afternoon catching up on my sleep I’m leaving early for my gig in central London. Plan is pretty much this:

1: Drive the two hours to London

2: Possibly see some snow showers

3: Not worry about #2 because I’m a mighty human in a car

4: Get to London

5: Find a pub

6: Watch Leicester City beat Ipswich Town on TV in said pub entirely populated by chirpy cockneys eating Pie and Mash

7: Do gig and make much mirth

8: Go home, finished for Christmas and happy with my lot.

As I leave there is a light dusting of snow. I smile to myself, thinking about how Christmassy it looks. Bless.

14.00 – LUTTERWORTH, LEICESTERSHIRE

Journey so far is a piece of piss. Nobody on the road as people are warned off the road by what I wittily call “scaremongering”. It’s only some snow. And besides, I’m on the M1 already and smashing it down to London. I think about how I’ll show off to my London based comedy chums, listening to them talking of struggling on the tube when I’ve travelled 120 miles – like a green room version of the Four Yorkshiremen Monty Python sketch.

At this point I am planning my dinner. I reckon Mexican, somewhere near Embankment.

14.15 – DAVENTRY, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE

It’s snowing a little bit, but is clearly no match for my mighty iron steed. Brrrrrrm.

14.30 – NORTHAMPTON, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE

The snow has stopped. Stupid fucking weather forecasts. Although I am buoyed by knowing I’ll be well early, clever little monkey that I am.

15.00 – NEWPORT PAGNELL, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE

Quite need a wee, but pass the services knowing that Toddington has a Marks and Spencer and they do wasabi peas. Besides, I know I’ll be there in 15 minutes or so.

15.01 – 1 MILE BEYOND NEWPORT PAGNELL, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE

How come it’s so cloudy and foggy and that all of a sudden?

15.02 – 1 MILE BEYOND NEWPORT PAGNELL, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE

Fuck me, it’s snowing like a bastard.

15.05 – 3 MILES BEYOND NEWPORT PAGNELL, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE

Ah, it’s slowing down. Besides, the roads seem fine.

15.10 – JUNCTION 14, M1

Probably no point getting off here now, traffic is sluggish but it’s bound to be a little congested. I laugh at the saps queuing to leave the M1. MORE MOTORWAY FOR ME, FUCKERS!

15.11 – ABOUT THREE FEET PAST JUNCTION 14, M1

More snow.

15.12 – ABOUT THREE FEET PAST JUNCTION 14, M1

More snow than backstage at a Motley Crue concert. In Switzerland. Midwinter.

15.13 – AS ABOVE

A car in front makes a bold move and drives forwards, then sideways, then into a barrier. I laugh in the style of a man who is mildly aware that he’s fucked. Still have over four and three quarter hours to showtime. Pride myself on leaving early enough, although do briefly think I may miss City’s scintillating start in Ipswich. Everything is bound to clear up soon.

15.20 – TWO FEET ON

I have spent the previous seven minutes getting excited every minute when the car in front moves a couple of centimetres. Have decided that the man in the car in front is a twat for the following reasons:

A: He has a personalised plate. Not a good one, like J1MMY or something like that. One so obscure that only he knows that it refers to the time he was born and the initials of his dog or some shit.

B: He’s driving a car with too much torque, so it’s struggling to get the power down on the snow. I have no idea what this means, but I’ve watched Top Gear.

C: He is leaving TOO MUCH ROOM BETWEEN HIM AND THE CAR IN FRONT.

15.30 – ANOTHER TWO FEET

Now swearing at the radio. Thanks to the weather I’m having to listen to Blackburn vs West Ham. Laugh briefly when the commentator describes Avril Grant as having a hang-dog expression. His face is the actual dictionary definition of the phrase.

16.00 – ANOTHER TEN FEET

Start inventing new swearwords for the people in Four Wheel Drives who seem to think its acceptable to drive on the hard shoulder merely because they have bigger wheels. And secretly regret buying a tiny little Ford Fiesta and giving a flying fuck about fuel economy. The best words I’ve invented thus far are “festwich”, “clinth” and “banzunt”.

16.30 – ANOTHER FIFTEEN FEET

Brief sense of excitement of hitting 8mph for three seconds is ruined by looking in my rearview mirror and realising that I have moved absolutely clinthing nowhere.

16.45 – NO PROGRESS

Start going through the cartoon cycle of despair. I’ve pretty much exhausted anger, I’m now onto wanting to weep. On the verge of tears until I watch a man climb out of his stationary car and walk to the hard shoulder to urinate. He steps onto what he thinks is a grass verge and vanishes up to his waist in snow. I laugh so hard that I stall the car and he definitely notices.

17.00 – ANOTHER TEN FEET

Match kicks off in 20 minutes. Have a feeling I may miss it.

17.15 – ANOTHER TEN FEET

Gig kicks off in 165 minutes. Have a feeling I may miss it.

17.20 – ANOTHER TWO FEET

Small surge in movement makes me foolishly think that I can get to Luton then get a train to London. Because of course the UK is well known for its reliable railway network that can cope with any small problem and is in no way ever delayed because of a wet leaf here and there, let alone a fucking blizzard of biblical proportions.

17.30 – ANOTHER TEN FEET

Cancel gig. Worry about the money I won’t be earning that I may have already spent on tattoos, cake and hats.

17.35 – NO CHANGE

Realise that even with the gig cancelled I’m still not going anywhere. Wonder if I have a junior hacksaw to cut through the barrier and do a U-turn. Google Maps tells me that, with traffic, I’m over 90 minutes from the next junction. Which is three miles away. Fuck my life.

18.00 – TWO AND THREE QUARTER MILES TO JUNCTION 13

Man in front with private plate gets stuck. I watch him for a bit and then get out and push him as he accelerates. He moves on and I shout “I AM THOR! STRONGEST MAN IN THE UNIVERSE!” as a white van driver stares at me, agog.

18.15 – TWO AND A HALF MILES TO JUNCTION 13

Listening to 606 as City are already two down. Can only tolerate it for two minutes at a time before I either want to punch the listeners or Robbie Savage in the face.

18.30 – TWO AND A QUARTER MILES TO JUNCTION 13

Weeping.

18.45 – TWO MILES TO JUNCTION 13

Get deeply annoyed that the kids in the car next to me are watching a DVD. Try to keep pace with them to watch it over their shoulders but am blocked by a pie van. It was Toy Story 3 as well.

19.00 – ONE AND THREE QUARTER MILES TO JUNCTION 13

Remember how much I need to urinate. Consider sneaking onto the hard shoulder to relieve myself but then look at temperature gauge and realise that if I do so my penis will actually shrink back up inside me like a too-wide bellybutton.

19.15 – ONE AND HALF MILES TO JUNCTION 13

Everyone else has started using the hard shoulder as a lane and I no longer care about my strict adherence to the highway code. I’d drive over a sweet old lollipop lady if it got me to that fucking junction a minute sooner.

19.30 – ONE AND A QUARTER MILES TO JUNCTION 13

Screaming.

19.40 – ONE MILE TO JUNCTION 13

A SIGN! A MOTHERFUCKING SIGN FOR A JUNCTION!

19.50 – HALF A MILE TO JUNCTION 13

The traffic seems to be sorting itself into wheat and chaff. Chaff being the people choosing to stay on the M1, wheat being people like me who are leaving the M1 with no plan at all. Note that the other side of the M1 is equally fucked. I had not thought about that. Arses.

20.00 – EXITING THE M1 VIA JUNCTION 13

Start singing “Take on Me” by A-Ha in celebration at getting to 15mph. Realise I have no plan at all. I can go to Bedford or Milton Keynes. I reason that the easy road layout of Milton Keynes would be the best option to get me to the A5 and my steady route home.

20.15 – SOMEWHERE IN MILTON KEYNES

Whoever designed this place was fucking mental.

20.30 – STILL IN MILTON KEYNES

Seriously, how could you pick out landmarks in this place? Even if the entire concrete monstrosity wasn’t covered in bastard fucking snow?

20.45 – THE A5, HEADING NORTH

Somehow a single lane A-road is better gritted, salted and cleared than a major motorway. Although the Little Chef is closed and an Olympic Breakfast would be awesome right now.

21.00 – STILL THE A5

Hit a bump in the snow. A bit of wee comes out.

21.15 – DAVENTRY

The snow just fucks off. Seriously. Vanishes. Like I’m playing a bad video game.

22.00 – PARENTS HOUSE

Throw myself on the mercy of my mum and dad. Beg for food, shelter and somewhere to have a wee.

22.05 – PARENTS HOUSE

Piss like a racehorse.

22.10 – PARENTS HOUSE

Relax on sofa. Try not to think about what I could have done with the 8 and a bit hours I’ve spent in the car. Deeply troubled by the lack of snow in Leicestershire. After my day I want to build a snowman just so I can punch it in its stupid fucking carroty face.

A lot of people find it hard to believe that I went to university, never mind that I got a decent degree. I’m not sure why this is. I mention stories of my student days onstage a lot, I have used my education to get myself more than one stint of gainful employment and I’m certain that my mother has shown several hairdressers photos of me on my graduation day (which works as a rudimentary bush telegraph in rural Leicestershire).

Possibly the reason for the doubt over my educational credentials comes from my general scruffiness. In the eyes of most people, university graduates of the male persuasion come from two differing schools of fashion:

1: Smartly dressed, well turned out, impeccably groomed and resonating with intelligence and the wealth that brings with it.

2: Crazed, bearded nutcase wearing a tatty jumper, odd shoes and ripped cords. Clearly a mathematical genius.

I’m certainly not smartly dressed enough to convince anyone that I’m doing well – although, may I add, looking this spectacularly mediocre seems to cost me a lot of money – and the sight of me in a suit is one of the funniest things that you will ever see. I don’t even own any shoes. Why should I? I’m never required to wear them. If I get invited to a formal occasion I either a) wear black converse or b) don’t go.

I can’t grow a beard, which is a shame. I’d love to straddle that line twixt madness and genius like so many beard wearers can. I’d like to buy my clothes exclusively from charity shops (preferably garments that someone has died in) then take my bearded face on the streets to scream equations at people whilst drinking horlicks from one of those faux-aluminium stay-hot mugs. And people would look at me and think “I bet he went to a good university. What stories he must have of his time in Russia, being courted by the KGB before writing an oft-quoted thesis on the genetic structure of ants”.

The way people look at me at the moment is a fleeting glance – only ever a fleeting glance – never a penetratingly inquisitive stare or a worried look. They make one of two assumptions: That I am not worth their time and energy to imagine my delicately woven backstory, or that I’m a bit of a chav because I wear trainers and have tattoos.

Of course, what I should clearly wear to illuminate my fellow man of my illustrious educational background is a university hoody.

I work a lot at universities. I adore doing so. Students are great, they really are. Most importantly of all, my young friends are the DVD buying public of tomorrow so I love and respect them all. They love comedy, drink a lot (making me hilarious) and have enough free time to follow me on twitter and the like. Good on them.

Of course, that’s MOST students.

The students that I find baffling are those that wear these university hoodies, which come in two types:

A: Plainish coloured hoody detailing the name of the university in a vaguely American collegiate font on the front. For people who seem to forget where they are, or want to show off about going to their university. Which I can understand if it’s Oxbridge, I guess. Less so if it’s Harper Adams Agricultural College.

Or [INSERT NAME OF A TOWN NEAR YOU SO I'M NOT LIBELLOUS OR ANNOY A UNI I'VE WORKED AT], as those fuckers are dumb.

B: Dark coloured hoody detailing the name of the university on the front then whatever godforsaken “society” said owner is a part of on the back, often with a completely insufferable nickname to go with it. These people like to consider themselves as “wacky” and possibly, argh, “random”.

Unsurprisingly, when I was a student I was neither part of a society nor proud enough of being a part of the population of De Montfort University that I felt the need to advertise it. I think it’s the societies that irritate me the most – I can just about understand sports teams giving each other nicknames and wearing hoodies maybe on the way to a game (but at NO OTHER TIME) but these are GENUINE societies that I have seen marked out by hoodies on various campuses across the country:

“Latin and Ballroom Dance Society”
“Young Conservative Society”
“Countryside Alliance Society” (at an inner city university)
“Tea and Cake Society” (I would actually join that)
“Young Abstinence Society”

The last one was my favourite, as it included the owner’s nickname on the back.

“Blonde Slapper”

I think my deep seated hatred for these hoodies is a consequence of two things. Firstly, I dislike the general university hoody because I miss being a student. I have a mortgage now, responsibilities, bills and the like. I miss the carefree days of studentdom and working at universities only seek to remind me of this.

Secondly, I really do believe that joining a society at university is merely a CV padding exercise OR an excuse to get drunk. Why not do what the rest of the world do?

* Lie on your CV. I claim to have invented wool.
* You don’t need an excuse to get drunk. Just do it. In your home. Whilst listening to the Smiths and crying yourself to sleep, like I did. None of this being sociable and partying nonsense. Education, solitude and alcoholism.

Of course, this saves you £34.99 for the hoody. Which you can spend on drink.

I did think that wearing the university hoody was to create a sense of belonging. But how often have you seen someone in the uni holidays wearing a hoody from a far distant place in your home town, presumably while they are on holiday? Have you ever seen ANYONE go up to them and say “oh, you’re studying there? Well done!” or “I used to study there myself” and exchange some kind of secret handshake? Never.

Of course, none of this has anything to do with the fact that I went to a fairly ropey university and that hoodies were not invented at the time.

Nope.

And besides, if you must wear a university hoody, you don’t even need to be a student. Merely walk down Oxford Street in London and check out one of many street stalls. For about a tenner you can buy a hoody that reads:

“Cambridge University – London, England”

That’ll show them all. Even with it being vastly incorrect it’s still a better option than saying you went to Luton.

I have a temper. It takes a lot to push my buttons enough to make my face crimson and my blood boil, but there are certain little things that you can do to guarantee that I’ll become irate. Not just mildly miffed (in the way that middle class people feel the need to write a letter to someone) but proper testicle-dropping, teeth-grindingly irate. Some of the things that do this to me have already been mentioned in these little rants. Others include:

Insulting any member of my family or friends.
Moving my wheelie bin too far from my house because you think it’s YOUR wheelie bin.
Calling the Police to tell them I’ve parked over your driveway when I haven’t.
Knocking on my door to tell me to move my car when I’m parked on a public road.
Getting your solicitor to write me a letter about my perfectly fine back fence.

OK then, the main person to make me angry at the moment is my next door neighbour. In fact, his entire family. He’s the only person in months who is capable with a sheer ham-fisted lack of social skills to make me want to commit actual murder. Of course, I didn’t tell this to the Policeman when he came round. I find they frown upon that.

You know how people go on about the old days, when you could leave your front door open and how everyone in a street knew everyone’s business? My mother always says that she wants a return to these good old days, despite her hating the people who live directly opposite her and not talking to any of her neighbours for the last ten years – unless you count saying hello whilst making an excuse to go back inside as a detailed conversation. I certainly don’t want a return to those days either. You know what I want? A return to the apathetic late eighties, where everyone was wrapped up in their own business. People were depressed and had no prozac, people had no money but speculated wildly, every man was for himself and therefore no-one bothered getting to know their neighbours and better yet, this was in a time before anyone had a clue what legal rights they thought they had over fucking fences.

I will gladly wear a pinstripe suit, pink shirt, braces and red spotted tie every day if we can somehow bring this way of life back.

I would love to be a fly on the wall in my neighbours house every night. I see the blinds twitch every time my car pulls up (and I’ll be honest, I’ve taken to pulling up with a screech of brakes with Metallica playing very loudly to make sure I see the twitch every night – they haven’t invested in double glazing yet, presumably waiting to sue me for some reason). I’m sure that my very existence irritates them beyond all belief, in the same way that theirs bugs the heck out of me. I want to catch them outside in the dead of night measuring how close I’ve parked to their drive with a small plastic ruler that came in a special Snoopy pencil case in 1988. I want to have been in that very house the day they thought that a useful way for the Police to spend their time (in Barwell, for fucks sake, well known for its policing issues at present) would be to call them and complain (I imagine in a whiny tone that belies my neighbour blinking back tears of frustration) that someone had parked an inch over their driveway.

Where was I? Oh yes.

Anger.

When I was a child, Hinckley had a McDonalds in the town centre. I would go there for a treat every now and again. This became a virtually daily ritual when I was studying my A Levels and could drive – we would skip lessons and go there for breakfast. It was at around this time – and yes, I’m a late starter in this regard – that I discovered the joy of tearing the top bit of paper from a McDonalds straw, and then blowing the rest of the papyrus sheath in the face of a friend.

Ho ho ho.

The first fifty times, this was funny. It was always funny because I would be the only one able to buy a McDonalds every day (thanks to my burgeoning business selling pornography to my peers) and therefore the one most likely to have a straw. I would do it to an unsuspecting friend, they would jump and flinch, we would all laugh and so on.

After a while, I would carry on doing it out of a sense of duty but it really wasn’t having the same effect as before. So I feel that I got out of that particular game at the peak of my career, with around 65 faces struck with paper and only my shoulder and right forearm ever struck in return.

Fast forward several years. I have graduated university and have been to Next for a job interview. After I leave their head office I go for McDonalds. I sit in a plastic booth in my suit, mulling over the events of the day. I’m very much in my own world when…

FFFFFFFFT.

I am hit in the face with the paper sheath from a straw. I look around me: Could this be one of my old adversaries taking revenge? It hardly seems likely. The only people within striking distance are a McDonalds employee (sullenly wiping down the life size plastic sculpture of Grimace), an old lady who upon further inspection is only drinking a coffee, and an 10 year old child who is staring at me, beaming.

I have been made humble by my prepubescent enemy.

At this point I find myself blinded by completely pointless rage. I should sweep the whole event under a metaphorical rug but I cannot. I look at my drink – I already have a straw. I could get up and get another straw to fire back but the whole charade would lack decorum. What do I do?

I do nothing.

Fast forward again several years. Any time that any person I know repeats the event of what I like to call “Black Tuesday” is met with my wrath. Pointless, childish wrath. Girlfriends, nephews, my own Father. All have been met with fist shaking and cursewords as they stare at me bemused. For to them, all they have done is have a mild laugh at my expense. To me, they have besmirched my honour with a slap in the face made from 95% recycled paper.

Recently I sat in a McDonalds drive through (I refuse to spell it “thru”) with Amelia, my 6 year old daughter. Someone had taught her the skill of straw-sheath blowing. She giggled and smiled as the paper flew past my face and ricocheted on the drivers window behind my head. I laughed back. But I smiled at her with a grin that I hope gave away my true feelings:

If she wants a war, there will be a war.

I love my daughter more than life itself. But I know what will happen the second that her aim improves. I have already secured myself ten spare straws in the side pocket of my drivers door for that very second she comes even merely close to striking my visage.

She will face my papery vengeance, daughter or not.

There comes a point in every life where you have to make a decision on what path to take. Just like Luke Skywalker turned his back on the Dark Side, or Adolf Hitler decided to become a mass-murdering cock with a natty line in moustaches. I once faced that choice. The decision to dedicate my life to the good, the worthy, the needy… or to be selfish, self centred and a little bit evil.

I remember the day I made that choice.

I was sat watching television in the lounge of my parents house. We had recently had an Astra satellite fitted, the precursor of Sky TV. What I really liked to do with this lovely analogue device was wait till my folks had gone to bed and retune it to the german channels where pornography could be readily viewed through slight distortion. One particular favourite was TeleKlub (“Der Kino Kanal”) where the best in banned video nasties could be balanced out with ropey eighties porn. One excellent night was spent being scared by “Zombie Flesh Eaters” followed immediately with a wank – half out of terror, half lust – over “Sperma Spiele” which I’m led to believe means “Sperm Games”. How would they even work? Unless they were having competitions to test muzzle velocity.

They didn’t, as it turned out. Mainly just shagging.

Anyway, the day in question. I sat on my parents sadly-missed floral sofa, flicking through the channels. The satellite decoder made a very satisfying click as it thunked its way through the 16 channels on offer. I avoided MTV, as I was not yet of the age to have opinions on music. But I did stop on the sports channel. And there I watched my first episode of WWF Wrestling Challenge.

Wrestling was not that new to me. I had been forced to watch World of Sport by my Gran and her Husband (Dave) every time we visited them on a Saturday, with Dave always grabbing me in a wristlock and shouting “submit” until I cried enough for my Gran to yell at him and I would be sent to the paper shop to buy some sweets while they had a massive row. I did not like wrestling. I thought it was boring and hokey, with my parents always reminding me that it was fake.

But by 1989 – when my revelation occurred – the WWF was the talk of the playground. After my discovery of it I would go on to ridiculous levels of fandom for a good few years. Every morning we would recreate the in-ring action we had seen that weekend, swap stickers from our WWF sticker albums and do impressions of Randy Savage. Because he was the easiest to do an impression of. I even got a day off school once because my mate Lee knocked my fresh TB scar off, drenching my school shirt in blood (unbeknown to me as I was still wearing my Nevica ski jacket) with a well timed double ax-handle from his desk.

So I was already aware of the WWF thanks to the playground buzz. My friend Richard already had a lot of official videos that I wasn’t really interested in until now. I watched the first couple of matches, my eye half on the action and half on the game of football taking place in my street between kids I didn’t like. But then I heard the strains of Rick Derringer’s “Real American” and out strode Hulk Hogan. He was the real deal, the superstar that all the other kids were talking about. The crowd went INSANE for him, every single man, woman and child getting to their feet to welcome into the arena not just a man, not just a wrestler but some kind of demi-god, superhero and action figure all rolled into one.

He spoke. He uttered forth phrases that drew squeals from the collected masses; Americanisms, references to saying your prayers and eating your vitamins and how he would vanquish his foe. None of this was contentious to me – I was an idealistic 11 year old boy. I knew I was an atheist and I wasn’t a fan of sanatogen, but this was Hulk Hogan. He was already a legend. I knew that the talking was merely the precursor to him kicking some serious ass.

I forget who he was wrestling that day, but the match lasted about 30 seconds. I can sum it up for you as follows – and I know that this match was meant to be a squash match, but it’s the sheer wooden nature of what transpired that offended me.

Hogan enters ring, tears off t-shirt. My mum brings me a cup of tea and shakes her head, saying “what a waste of a good t-shirt”.
Opponent attacks. Hogan takes a small beating for a few seconds.
Opponent punches Hogan. He shakes his head, points his finger and shakes his head some more.
Opponent tries to punch Hogan. He blocks it and hits him back.
Opponent runs at Hogan. He hits him with a big boot.
Hogan bounces off ropes and lands a legdrop.
Ref counts to three.

Even though I’m 11 years old and I know that I should join the other baying thousands in smiling at his win, I can’t do it. I go from seeing him as the legend people had falsely told me he was to seeing him as a balding, orange, overrated, wooden and pointless figure. What I had just watched was as fake as British wrestling. I had suspended my disbelief as I watched the other matches, but this? His terrible promo before the match and performance within it was as bad as those of Big Daddy, with kids trailing in his entrance and his one move. Horrible.

Luckily the next match was the Million Dollar Man, Ted DiBiase. And everything about him was amazing. His entrance music, his mean streak, his crispness in the ring. Next up was Randy Savage, a bad guy at the time. He leapt across the ring like a cat with bad intentions, desperate to hurt his opponent. These guys were good to watch. As I watched more wrestling I became even more enamoured with these bad guys – Ric Flair, The Big Boss Man, Jake Roberts, Curt Hennig, even the Honky Tonk Man. But it wasn’t their superior skills that I enjoyed. It was the prospect of them beating Hulk Hogan. I couldn’t bear the sight of him. When the Ultimate Warrior beat him for the WWF Title at Wrestlemania 6 I was agog with excitement, even if the Warrior was the most useless, steroid infested waste of oxygen that ever drew breath.

I lost interest in wrestling in around 1993, as I was 15 and it turned out that girls and drink held a lot more interest for me. In 1998 I got into it again, after accidentally seeing Mick Foley fall off the Hell in a Cell whilst channel hopping. I then spent my time researching who was still around, trying to get myself back into it. And lo and behold, I found that Hogan was still around – now trying to get on my good side by being a bad guy. It didn’t work.

He was terrible as a good guy. As a bad guy he was even worse, not acting like enough of a coward, only expanding his moveset to include eye and back rakes and he took something that was earth shatteringly awesome (the Outsiders) and turned them into a joke that eventually destroyed WCW and indeed competition in wrestling.

And then when WCW died, he somehow parlayed his way back into the WWF fold, with fans cheering at his very presence like the mindless sheep that they are. They had Austin, the Rock, Michaels, HHH and so on to deify but they chose the Orange Goblin as their hero instead. All he did was make me hate wrestling once again, sapping my love for it that I had built up over the years. Now I only watch independent wrestling or the occasional pay per view because my joy has been so sullied.

But back to my revelation. That day back in 1989 I set my stall out. If everyone else thinks that one man is the highest possible power, the ultimate force and the real deal – in spite of all the evidence to show that he is hokey, fake, false and unworthy – then I can question it. I decided that day to ignore the cheers of the sheep and back the others, the black side of the coin, those whose opinions were reviled and whose actions were deemed unsavoury. And I have taken that idea on throughout life, driven first by my dislike for Hogan and then amplifying it to bigger ideas and more complex theories. And this is where I stand today.

And for all of my hatred for Mr Terry Bollea, I must thank him for something.

Because his existence seems to have made me a satanist.