Hail to the weather, for you make me look like a tit!

I shall have to start this post with a word of warning. Always wear glasses when cycling! This was probably the only good choice I made yesterday, preparing for a mystery shop in Selby.

Something that may have come apparent through other posts, I do a lot of cycling to cover my shops. It’s an excuse to feel like I’m getting fit when really I’m freewheeling downhill most of the time. It’s like when you buy a gym membership but never actually go to the gym; yet you feel like it’s working for you anyway.

Unfortunately, being outdoors most of the time leaves me fairly susceptible to the weather. And, seeing as it’s springtime and the sky is more unpredictable than England’s fast-pace bowling attack (sorry I’m watching the cricket at the moment), I encountered a delightful spot of hail whilst biking in my t-shirt.

Hail is pretty cool when you’re inside. You can watch it bounce off the cars and roads and laugh at all the silly pedestrians running for cover, hiding under their laptop cases and lever arch files.

But, what happens when you’re the one on the outside? When you’re the one stuck on a bike in the middle of the road? When you’re hands are burning with ice-cold needle pains? What happens when the holes of your helmet start filling up with hail, brimming over the side? I felt like some shitty bicarbonate of soda volcano for a school science project.

I had to stop off at the uni (still in the hail) to drop some books off at the library. Of course, the bike park with a roof over was full, so I had to park up outside in the storm, which is good for the rust to metal ratio currently accelerating on my bike as it is.

As I got up and began to walk to the library, a strange sensation tickled me. Ice that had been collecting in the gap between my belt and my lower back as I had sat on my bike had just found the space to slip down into my boxers. Delightful. So I was now soaking wet both inside as well as out. You have no idea how uncomfortable it is to try and defrost hailstones down your pants whilst attempting to walk in a vaguely reputable manner.

So, I walk up to the library with my buttocks clenched, drop off my books, and then go look for some others. I find the English section, found the genre I was looking for (poetry if you must know), and delved into the arse pocket of my jeans to find my pen and paper.

Shit.

My paper was a lot more moist than it was when I wrote down the books I wanted. I felt the back of my jeans to realise I had a huge wet streak right up the middle of my trousers. The water must have been sprayed onto my backside from the back wheel of my bike.

Great, so I had looked like a volcano and a waterfall at the same time, pedalling away. Plus the paper was ruined and so I didn’t know which books I needed.

It was still raining when I got out of the library, and so I decided to walk down to the station in order to avoid further wet streak development. Thankfully, the weather had dried up by the time I was on the platform waiting for the Selby train (if I had biked down I would have just made an earlier one). So, devised a little scheme to sort my trousers out, unnoticed.

By standing with my back to the wind on the open platform, I let the weather do its job. There’s a scene on Mr. Bean’s movie, when he spills water on his crotch and so wafts it in front of a hand drier in a public toilets in order to dry himself. I felt like Mr. Bean. Ever so slightly bent forwards, legs wide apart, letting the back of my jeans waft in the wind. To be honest, most of my dignity had gone by that point anyway.

The train arrived and I boarded nice and dry. I was happy. I had food awaiting me in Tesco in Selby, my bum was dry, and the Sun was out. This happiness lasted all through the train journey, all through walking around Selby, all through the mystery shop itself, and all the way back to the station.

I was still happy when the train arrived to take me back to Leeds. I was happy getting up off my seat and packing away my stuff. I was happy slinging my bag over my shoulder. What I was not happy about was the very dark stain, like gritty mud, that was left on my seat. ‘That wasn’t there before’ I thought. Oh dear. Feverishly scrambling and twisting my jeans I saw the remnants of the bike ride in the hailstorm. A great streak of mud, now dried, creeping up my legs. I’m guessing the road water that flecked onto my arse earlier was the source, full of mucky shite from car engines and dogs and post-grads.

I got on the train, threw my bag on the seat beside me, and slumped down on the seat. My happiness had left me somewhat, for I had just walked around a whole town with dark streaks of mud up my trousers, after having dried them out discretely on a station platform, after having walked round the university library with a thawing backside, after having collected the majority of produce from a brief but heavy hailstorm in my bicycle helmet!

I was slightly disheartened. But then again, a Mars Bar easter egg for 99p including two bars? My day was a success after all.

Brighton of the North?

I don’t think I have ever woken up as early as 7:15 am in order to do a mystery shop. Unfortunately, it showed.

Today I went on a ride up to the west coast, behind the Lake District, to Barrow in Furness. If Market Rasen was the middle of nowhere, Barrow is definitely the end of nowhere.

However, it was the train journeys that were the main source of contemplation on this trip. An 8:15 train from Huddersfield to Manchester was greatly appreciated. You’ve got to love it when an unexpected train appears to speed up your journey.

Unfortunately, even though I picked an early train, I didn’t pick the right carriage. I had to sit on a table sharing with four other monged out tired commuters. I felt slightly awkward. But why should I have? The table seats are there so that four people can sit around the table. So why did I feel as though I was intruding, sitting next to three other complete strangers? Socially, why will people walk to the far end of the train simply to get a seat on its own? I was just glad I had a seat.

What made my journey slightly baffling was the dietary habits of a woman sat across the isle from me. She ordered a tea in a disgracefully deep Oldham accent, and asked for three milks and three sugars. Three milks! in one of those teas? There’s more milk than bloody water then! And three sugars? She won’t need to eat for a week after that energy rush.

So with the tea junkie’s thirst unnaturally quenched, I left the train at Piccadilly. The station really is very snazzy. It’s just so vast. In fact, it’s so big you can’t find a bin anywhere in the place, as it’s a ‘terrorist target’. I walked half way into Manchester just to find one.

As I was mooching around Manchester waiting for my train and on a lookout for a bin, I had a gander at the Hilton Hotel. For some reason people don’t seem to like Manchester’s Hilton. Apparently the sticky-out wedge bit is an eyesore, well, most people I know say it is anyway.

The thing is, surely the point of the building was not to look aesthetically amazing, but at least to be an icon of the skyline. Take Madrid’s Puerta de Europa, the two leaning towers. They look fairly abysmal in my opinion, but then again I recognise them and relate them to the city. So they are icons. The Eiffel Tower is just a lump of scaffolding built to be knocked down again a year later. But it is an icon with Paris. So even though the Hilton may not look good at all, it helps to give Manchester its own iconic identity.

I tried to explain this to a passing tramp, but he wasn’t listening.

I then got onto the train for Barrow. A long journey made worse by the fact I was absolutely shattered and my ipod had already died. Luckily, I had an inane business man sat near me. It was clear he had been bought a new phone for his birthday by his wife who feels that a new Blackberry will give him less stress; he didn’t have a clue how to use it. A very smooth Bollywood ringtone kept bluring out into the carriage, and all he did was look at it, as though perplexed at what to do. The ‘hello’ noise he sent down the line was so confused, as though he had never seen a ‘talkie phone’ before. He kept taking his hand away from his ear to look at the screen in mid-speech. It was like he’d been dropped out of the sky from the 19th century. He even ran off the train at one stop and them ran back on again. Poor man.

Eventually we began to snake into the Lake District, most certainly the most beautiful place in England. What was even better was to see that lambing season was in place. Now I know what you’re thinking; aww look at all those lambs springing and prancing and oh so cute. Well, let me tell you I was licking my lips. More lamb for the slaughter mwahahaha! Only kidding, but I was wondering, why are lambs deemed ‘cute’, whilst sheep are disgusting, woolly, grotty, smelly, tangled and shaggy? At what point does a joyous lamb become an ugly sheep?

Anyways, back to the train. We passed a station named Ulverton. The sign read ‘Ulverton, Historic Market Town’. Historic, I deduced, means it’s been there a while, but are we also to assume that to use this term means that whatever is 'historic' is famous for being so? So, is Ulverton famous for being a market town? I’ve never heard of it. And as far as I’m concerned it isn’t something to boast about, with my past experience of market towns consisting of Market bloody Rasen!

I’m glad I didn’t have to stop at Ulverton.

Eventually I got to Barrow in Furness, did my shop, bought a swanky little bottle of high percentage Peroni (which I have just finished and won't be hurrying off to buy another), and strolled out. Barrow itself seemed a nice place, although two things intrigued me.

Is Barrow the Brighton of the North? Walking past a building, there was a huge sign saying ‘Love Barrow’, but in a seriously camp font (see picture above). To intensify the campness of the town, as I was walking towards the station, a 65 year old guy minced past me in very tight white jeans and a flowery open-collared shirt. I can just image him being kicked out of London in the 60s and he reconciled to Barrow to start up a northern gay movement. Not that I have any views in particular for or against gay people, but to see a gay O.A.P strut past a camp ‘Love Barrow’ sign was certainly an eye opener.

Back to the train for the ride home and I was knackered! At this point I’d like to apologise to George Chubb, whom I commented on in my Namibia Diary for sleeping whilst traveling. I did the same. I was so tired. I know how he felt. My head began to droop on the glass window. My eyelids slowly fell. My head cracked on the windowsill and I smashed my eyebrow. Wait… shit that really hurt! Luckily no one saw.

I gladly got back to Huddersfield to find I’d just missed my train. So, I got the bus home. Now this is where I can feel like a right old codger… I remember when it was 50p to get the bus from town to home. It’s now bloody £2.20!!! I could almost get a taxi for cheaper than that!

Money these days, it’s just not what it used to be.

Cheers Brain. That was a stupid thing to do!

About a month ago I applied to do nine mystery shops in two weeks, something I was grateful for at the time as it meant more booze and food for me. Unfortunately, in my mass hysteria of applying for visits, I went a bit too far in the delirium and accepted a shop in Horsforth, just next to Leeds.

‘Excellent’, I thought, imagining unbound riches to be had from Horsforth’s Tesco Express, ‘I’ll do it on Sunday. Hey, I could even bike there!’

So Saturday night came and I had a more detailed look at the map to see just where I was heading. Oh crap. It was nowhere near any station, bus route or airport. It was also a six-mile trip from Leeds centre. I was screwed.

‘No worries’, I again thought (I’ve had a lot of those thought things recently as you can tell) ‘I can just bike it’.

Now, a word of advice for all those who fear physical exercise; don’t do it! (In opposition to Nike’s old slogan there) After a Saturday night out of birthday celebration in Leeds and only four hours sleep, I got out of bed to play a bit of football. Mistake number one; playing football for the first time since Christmas after a hefty night out is not a good idea.

Football went on for too long. Half the players got sunburnt. That’s right, you can get sunburnt in March! I think I escaped the monstrously powerful rays of Apollo, and so was in good spirits when it came to my bike ride. Unfortunately, I had eaten nothing that day, it was getting onto 1 o’clock, and I had six miles to ride until I could eat.

And something else dampened my mood in more ways than one before I left for Horsforth. For some idiotic reason, there was a dog show on in the sports hall down at the uni. I walked past it and it stank! Like wet tarmac on a hot day. It was disgusting. I looked in to see a hoard of dogs all groomed and plucked and walking at their masters’ heels. It was like the regional qualifiers for Crufts. Possibly one of the most disgusting, pretentious things I have ever seen. Dogs with glittering collars, expensively preened coats and even one shitty little Chihuahua sporting a beret.

It was a horrible, smelly sight. The thing is why do you have to treat your pet like the goddess of the house? How can you spend so much money and time and effort on a thing that licks it’s own bollocks? Why do you want to show off the fact that you own an animal that in some diverse, definitely disturbing way is meant to look beautiful and elegant? Have these people seen what dogs do? They slobber about everywhere, panting like a fat London Marathon runner in a Scooby Doo outfit, and lick your face with the same tongue that’s been on its arse!

Dogs, in general, are disgusting creatures. But what makes them worse are the owners. Pampering the beasts with coats and hairstyles, collars and shampoo. Do you ever see a goldfish with a bow tie on? Has anyone ever seen a cat with a permed fur-do? Do you ever see a hamster with Dutch clogs on? NO! Because animals are not humans! They do not think like us. They do not act like us. They don’t look like us, smell like us, taste like us. They are as alien to humans as the apple I’m eating as I type. So why do people treat them like us?!

Anyway back to the journey. It all started badly as I realised I had parked my bike next to the dog show. Luckily none of the hellish creatures had pissed on my bike, but I did see a trickle from the wall across running down under my front tyre. Great, so I have to bike with piss in my face.

Those six miles were the longest I have ever ridden. It took an age. Gravity was the only thing pushing my feet down on the pedals. Cars in traffic jams were going faster than me. Me, with my head and shoulders slumped over the handlebars as though I was asleep. People walking their dogs were going faster than me. Me, gasping for air as though I’d just resurfaced form the bottom of the ocean. A learner driver even overtook me. I was so embarrassed.

Eventually I got to Horsforth, rode past the shop twice before finally finding it, bought myself a pint of milk and a sandwich, and enjoyed the best meal I’d had in a long time, sat in the Yorkshire sunshine.

I was hot and tired, but had a six-mile slog back to Leeds to deal with, and then another trip up to Ilkley on the train. Why the hell did I accept to do these visits on a Sunday?!

Eventually I get back to Leeds, aided by the fact that there’s a lot more downhill on the way back. I parked up in Leeds station in time to catch a departing train, and settled in to read a bit of the old Chaucer.

Having got to Ilkley, I bought myself a cheeky bottle of ale and some red onions amongst other things, and got on the next train home.

By this time I was shattered. I had eaten an entire sandwich all day, my stomach felt bad but not hungry, I was nevertheless energyless, and I couldn’t understand a word of this Chaucer.

What made it worse was the actions of a little old woman. Now, I’ll admit at this stage that no, I shouldn’t have had my feet up on the opposite chairs, but I was so tired and my shoes were clean and I wasn’t hurting anybody. But no, my terrible seating position still led to a wiry eyed old bint marching up to me, tapping me on the legs and proclaiming “Oi. Feet!” pointing at my raised limbs.

I couldn’t be arsed with a witty reply and so just put them down, sarcastically saying “sorry”. She replied with this by telling me I would be, and then walked, head held high, back to her seat. The thing that really annoyed me was that she acted as though she was tackling the youth of today head on. Yeah! go get those horrible miscreants that quietly sit on trains and read English from the 14th Century! Those guys are the scumbags of society. No worries about the twenty or so kids who hang around on street corners all day. Nah, just target that unruly academic instead.

So, with me very pissed off, very tired, stomach hurting and feet on the bloody floor, the train set off. Just to brighten up my day I got a text off my mate Tom, gleefully explaining how England were demolishing France in the 6-Nations. Great, so the best game England have played since the 2003 World Cup Final and I’m missing it.

I got into the station and quickly sprinted home on my bike, hoping to catch the last action. I worked out later that I biked 16 miles that day. When I finally got into the flat France were just scoring a try. No worries though, cos surely England were going to score more.

No. Of course they weren’t. 34 points and I saw none of them. So, with my tired legs, beaten morale and confused insight into Middle English literature, I headed for the shower, only to be dragged out to the park for another hour of football.

An utterly knackering day that I am still recovering from. It’s now Tuesday.

Pointless Warnings from the Health and Safety People

Today I went on a mega bike ride to do a mystery shop. On this ride I encountered many hazardous obstacles. I was nearly mowed over by a car not indicating on a round-a-bout (twatty BMW driver), I almost choked to death on bus fumes, and an unruly child glared at me from across the road.

Terrifically dangerous I know, but one thing was NOT dangerous but still thankfully brought to my attention thanks to the council. The horror of overhead cables!

(At this point I want to mention that this post is more about ranting that shopping)

Now, as you can see from the picture above, overhead cables are apparently dangerous. Danger, danger, high cables! And so forth.

What I really want to know is why there are signs for things that are A) unavoidable, B) not dangerous, and C) possibly the least of my worries on a road?!

Why are there no signs to tell motorists to fucking indicate? Why aren’t there signs that tell you when busses are going to fart out their toxins into your face? And where are the ‘Danger, unruly children’ warnings???

What am I supposed to do with information about overhead cables? It means absolutely nothing to me! And why is it dangerous? On my bike I am probably about six and a half feet off the ground. These ‘dangerous cables’ were miles in the air in comparison! Not even lorries are that tall. There might as well be a health warning to hay fever sufferers concerning foliage in the vicinity.

Basically what annoys me most about this is that whoever put the sign there did it in case they get sued by some tit being zapped by a cable. Now, it you’re that stupid enough to get electrocuted by a cable 100 feet in the air, then you don’t deserve compensation, but maybe free access to a home.

I’ve got to say though, I do like the little triangle with the picture of the thunder bolt in it. Just in case you can’t read the word ‘DANGER’, we have to make sure that everyone realises the importance of the cables above us, so the picture is necessary.

Outside my house on… Gipsy lane?

Yesterday was a knackering day for mystery shopping, mainly thanks to antics the night before. After staying up till 4 am playing Buckaroo Jonny and wondering why I acquired a Billy Joel record that night and not the ABBA one, I managed to get myself a cheeky 5 hours kip, before grabbing my bike and heading off into Leeds.

It’s strange but Leeds Uni at 10:30 in the morning is dead. Probably because people try to wrangle their timetables around so that they get Friday off, and the ones that do have to get up on Friday morning simply can’t be arsed. Therefore, bugger all people were about.

But no complaints, at least there were less people to avoid.

So, after printing off my Google Maps (TM!!!) and successfully applying to study in Copenhagen (normal procedure on a Friday morning), I began my still-alcohol-fuelled marathon down to Armley for my first visit of the day.

Armley, how can I put this, is just ‘a place’. There is nothing there that would wow you into repetitive visits, but then again, there’s nothing wrong with it. All it is is a part of Leeds. That’s pretty much all I can say, and the mystery shop visit was as simples (as the meerkat says) as it gets.

So, after a bike down Armley I eventually make my way back up to Leeds train station, to board a tin-pot carriage full of, to put it mildly, troglodytes, on their way to Sheffield. The train was packed and I had to sit next to a man who looked like he’d beat me up if I sat anywhere near him, so I perched on the end of my seat.

Thankfully, I got off at the first stop, and strolled into Rothwell.

Now, most rural villages I’ve been to look like they’ve stopped in the 1940s, but not Rothwell. It’s actually a really nice village. It has houses with well-groomed gardens, cars that still have all their hubcaps on, and people who don’t look like they’ve seen the pits of Hades and know what’s coming to them.

The only thing that confused me about Rothwell was one road sign, simply saying ‘Gipsy Lane’. I don’t even know if ‘gipsy’ is a politically correct term any more, “Oh it should be changed to ‘Traveller Lane’”, but even if it is deemed acceptable to white haired, middle aged Conservatives, I would still want to question as to why the council decided that advertising the fact you have gypsies is a good idea?

Why would you want to make the statement that gypsies, who are let’s face it people who are unwelcome into local communities, once stayed here? I can just imagine a tour bus; “And on your left there is Gipsy Lane, where people shit on the floor and intimidate the community. And now on to the Parish Council…” I doubt it bodes well for the tourist industry in Rothwell.

After wondering for some time over the credentials of the road names in Rothwell, I eventually found my Tesco and had a lovely visit. Annoying though, I later found out I had bought a loaf of white bread instead of brown. Pathetically anal for some I know, but I do like brown, or granary, bread. White bread does have a tendency to taste of fluffy plastic, and is the least filling thing ever produced since MacDonald’s started doing Happy Meals (TM!!!).

Eventually I arrived home, still having had nothing to eat, with my beer and white bread, destined for the bed.

All I want to do is……… Bicycle!

Today I bagged myself a shop in old Leeds town, a safe place that I actually know my way around. I also didn’t have to spend shit loads of cash just to get there, wait half my life on a concrete platform, nor did I have to inflict my bridges to more miles of crippling walking.

Because guess what… I biked today!!!

Oh yeah! It’s so much easier to mozey on round a city when you have a bike, or at least you think it is. The problem is, is that Leeds is just one big fucking one-way system. Because I’ll get my ass sued if I hit someone on the pavement, biking to Clarence Docks, which is a mighty fair way from Headingley, took a lot longer than expected.

The other problem is with Leeds is that the entire road system is clogged with buses. Now, for those of you who don’t know or who are too lazy to ever bike, buses are a cyclist’s worst enemy. They stink, they’re huge, they’re unpredictable, their wing mirrors stick out further than Lee Evans’ ears, and to wrap it all up the bloody drivers seem to have taken up the sport of cyclist mowing!

This is unhealthy for us bikers, who see the two-wheeled method of transport as a green, save-the-planet effort that should be commended, not challenged by Eastern European bussies.

Anyway, back to Leeds. There’s something odd about the people in Leeds. The city is very much divided into social segments. Up the hill is where the students ‘chill’, with our ipods, hair and baggy jeans. Just off the Headrow are the bankers, with their ties, sweaty suits, and balding scalps. They strut along the pavement, briefcase and shiny shoes, and take no notice of any pleb in the region. Then we get down to the proletariat at the bottom of the hill. This is where the open market and the public transport hub lies, and so attracts the lame, the old and the unhinged. This is also where we find the chavs, the slightly older dole-goers, and the even older Jim Royale style beer-bellies, who support the Reebok Classics and Umbro jumpers that are oh so appealing.

It’s noticeable but not unexplainable as to why sets of people mingle in their own areas of the city. A banker would never see himself down the local market, buying food that has been touched by human hands. Chavs very rarely come up to the university part of town, simply ‘cos there’s nothing there for them, and there are so many students they can’t even pick one off singularly to bully and shout abuse at.

But back to the mystery shop itself. I had to go down to Clarence Dock, a very swanky little development PAST the chavs and the proles and over the river, past the Hilton Hotel (oh yes, bring on the affluency) and round to the canal docking-yard.

I’ve got to say, it’s a snazzy piece of development. Lots of shops, flats and offices all looking over the canal, which is actually clean. The shop itself went fine. But I did please myself with sitting by the canal for a while and chomp my ham sandwich (which of course was fairly bland).

I wondered about the people around here. This is clearly where all the bankers live. Down past the chavs and the plebs and out over the river and next to the canal. A little safe-haven from the troubles of lower Leeds that they have to drive past in their air-conditioned Astons every day (well who doesn’t get 6-figure annual bonuses?).

It disappoints me actually that people are either too posh and up their arse to get around in anything but a car, or else they are too fat and lazy to use anything but public transport. In my entire tour of the city today, I saw two bikes, one of which was mine. That ain’t good enough I’m afraid. There should be Amsterdam-style bike parks all over the city. There should be cycle lanes that don’t just follow the one-way-system.

To be honest I’m not exactly on the verge of urging some mass campaign for the bike, but I would like to see more of them around, rather than a billion child-mowers ploughing through the city.

But then again, Theo and Quint do need to get to school on time before daddy earns a mint from RBS, whilst Kerry and Shane need to get into town early to achieve as much pavement spitting as possible.