Chronophobia is the fear of time, or more specifically, time passing. Apparently it is most prevalent in prison inamtes with long sentences. Basically, it generates feelings of fear, anxiety and short breathing at the prospect of time passing. Otherwise known as going ‘stir-crazy’. I think I developed a slight case of this in the summer of 2008, after a seedy event in my life cause me to have a Getrude from Hamlet moment – it forced me to look totally into myself and I saw the “black and grained spots” i.e was absolutely horrified by what I saw. Even an episode of Jonathan Creek delved into this curious phobia – a chronophobic character played by Dermot Crowley in a 1998 episode (“Time Waits For Norman”) actually removes hands off clocks and concocted an elaborate scheme in order to give himself “more time.” Even David Renwick’s brilliant dialogue perfectly encapsulated the concept of the phobia:
“Time? It’s slipping through out fingers…faster than ever….time can never be reclaimed. What is the past..where does it go?” (paraphrased-ish)
Which is obvious – time can indeed be never reclaimed.
“No point raking over the past.”
“Stop living in the past”
“You can’t change the past!”
“Get over it.”
All of the above may be true, so these all being the case, why are we all guilty of doing them? You can’t go back in time. Yet people always look to the past almost out of desperation when their world comes crashing down around them. Like inEastenders or any soap, say some character has an affair, one of the first lines they are guaranteed to utter is “If I could turn the clock back, I would.” Wouldn’t it be the answer to so many of our problems if we could? We’d all love to have a time turner like in Harry Potter. I know I would.
I myself spend, and have spent a great many years with my head buried in a sandpit of “What If”s. What if I’d got off my backside sooner and realised that at 16, most other gays go out and fuck everything in trousers for example? What if I’d realised that not everyone at school was out to get me? What if I had done this? Then this would have happened…the list just goes on and on. For me, hindsight is a curse and frankly I’d be better off forgetting everything. One thing I’ve always been guilty of is judging people on their own pasts and usually flying into a jealous rage because they have a more interesting past than me. All I have to show for my 21 years on this earth is a string of missed oppertunities, failed auditions and jobs, and a sexual past even the most repressed gay would sneer at. But does this really matter in the here and now?
I know damn well I can’t turn the clock back. I can’t go back five years, bleach my hair and start advertising myself as the newest boi/chicken on the gay scene. Nor could I go back fifteen years and realise that kids make friends when they start school, not running around the playground in their own little world. Not just that far back - I even fume at recent events such as “what if I’d put my camera in my pocket, least it wouldn’t be sitting on my table with a buggered screen”. But the sad fact is, yes, the past does matter. Because the past has shaped me into who I am today. And I don’t like what I am today. So I almost explode with frustration at my past self because it could have been a whole new kettle of fish had I stopped and realised what was happening in the REAL world, not just my own.
But yet, I don’t get people firing 20 questions at me for what I did six months ago, nor do they tell me they can’t have anything to do with me because of what I did on 22 October 2004. (Nothing noteworthy probably – knowing me probablpy another wasted day in front of a screen. YAWN.)
So to conclude another day’s innate ramblings. Yes, the past does have a meaning. You only have one shot at life. Therefore you should get the most out of it. Otherwise you will end up a sad and bitter old grouch. Just like me.
As I lay down my student life espadrilles, and immerse myself in the wonderfully demanding pastime of moving house for the fourth time since 2007 – I turn my attention to a key feature of student life – the cleaning.
These guys epitomise why landlords and homeowners despise students. I have lived in a drosshole like this in the past and believe me, it isn’t the fun and games portrayed in this film. Some may call me boring, uptight or no fun because in my Uni days I liked to live in reasonable conditions. Have you had to scrape mould of some animalistic slob’s 5-day-old spag bol pan just to rinse a mug in order to make a cup of tea? That’s suffering.
However there is one thing worse than being a complete slob – and that is it’s polar opposite – the person who tears miscreants limb from limb for every teacup left lying about. I proudly ensconced myself firmly in the middle of the two extremes, perhaps leaning more towards the Nazi side than the slob side. But what has fascinated and frustrated me in equal measure is how volatile this issue can be – I have seen relationships between very close friends deteriorate into full-on war because of issues surrounding cleaning. I have had virtual death threats from former housemates in the past because they felt I wasn’t pulling my weight surrounding cleaning.
People, especially landlords, took one look at me and thought: Male + Student = Less Personal Hygiene Than A Kings Cross Vagrant. Admittedly, my bedroom has always been a cluttered tip. But as far as I’m concerned, my bedroom is my space, the one my rent pays for, and I’m mainly the person that uses it. However, the kitchen, bathroom or living space (if the house is luxurious enough to actually have one) , places where everyone frequents, I am more inclined to be the big bad wolf. I once saw a bathroom on video which had a sink and bath full of fortnight-old vomit, and a carpet of rubbish stretching from the entrance hall, through the kitchen into the backyard; all in the same once-proud Edwardian terrace house now housing (all male, obviously) students. If I’d lived with these guys, they’d have wanted me dead (or probably gaffa-taped traffic cones to my bed or some other crazy student caper) for daring to tell them that their standards of cleanliness would have rats running screaming from their pad. I would have hated them not for their personalities, but because they were just so oblivious to how horrendous their living conditions. Did their parents not teach them basic cleaning practice?
There are ways of dealing with issues like this without getting personal, though, as seen above, it is hard not to turn nasty. Cleaning rotas belong in workplaces, not homes. And don’t get me started on passive-aggressive tactics..(leaving rude messages on doors, sharpie marking every sheet of loo roll you bought). Tempting though it is to scream blue murder at the dirtiest of housemates, in the long run it just makes you look petty. So it;s a tough one to call. Giving them out gives one a sense of catharsis; receiving such diatribes can make one’s blood boil. I even went through a phase of taking the rap for everybody’s mess not just my own in order to prevent all-out war (and to jolt the real culprits into actually owning up). All this did was leave me open to be accused of absolutely every scrap of mess, even if it was nothing to do with me.
A few things I wish people would remember to prevent World War IV over cleaning:
1) If you don’t want people to nick anything, keep it out of sight and out of communal spaces.
2) Empty the bin, and take it in turns. Don’t just wait till it over flows. Witnessing another housemate’s misfortunes with a splitting bag of rubbish (containing a large amount of fermenting rice) on the stairs is proof of that.
3) Don’t keep cleaning up after everyone else. They just take the piss and then you get the flak if you stop cleaning up after them.
4) If it has mould on it, you may want to clean it now.
Friendships made at Uni have the potential to last a lifetime. It is such a shame they can be blown into smithereens by an issue as trivial as cleaning.
Nova – the little better car indeed!
Bit bizarre, I guess, reviewing a car that went out of production 17 years ago, but I am doing this to see how the driving experience stacks up compared to a supermini of this era. And because I have owned this 1989 1-litre ‘Jet Black’ (decals added by me) example for 3 weeks now.
The Nova was launched in the UK a year after its Opel counterpart, the Corsa went on sale. Built by GM Espana in Zaragoza, Spain, there was a plethora of trim levels and specifications available, from the 1.0 basic (like mine) to the rapid 1.6-litre GTE. Styling was remarkably restrained yet neat, and looks pure comapred to the overstyled and bloated Corsa of today. The 3-door models, unlike the 5-doors, had Audi Quattro-esque blistered wheelarches. The Nova’s tiny dimensions mean that parking is easy and visibility is in myriad supply. However there are styling cues which mark this is as a supermini from another era – square and orange blinkers, solid black plastic bumpers and grille, and small, skinny steel wheels.
The Nova was a huge seller in its day, but getting inside you wonder why. The interior, although solidly screwed-together, light and airy, is full of hard plastic and angular designs – very dated. The poverty-spec model really is that – The wipers have only two settings, no rear wiper, a manual choke control (remember them?). No ABS, central locking or any opf your silly modern computer gadgets that cost a fortune to fix when they break. No crappy i-Drive system here. You drive this car using the wheel, stick and pedals, and use your prowess behind the wheel to keep it on the road. The baby Vauxhall has no power-steering but thankfully the diminutive size and feather weight (760kg approx) mean it is easy to manouevre, although the turning circle resembles that of a double-decker bus. Don’t expect sportscar handling, though.
Engines available were 1.0, 1.2, 1.3, 1.4, 1.5 diesel and 1.6 injected. The petrol units, except for the 1.0, are OHC and of the Family II 8v series of GM engines. The 1.2 develops 55bhp (same as a modern Volkswagen supermini) but this is enough to shift the light little car about town fairly swiftly. In fact, the acceleration is nothing to be sniffed at, and the Nova can easily keep up with modern traffic. The 1.0, is a different kettle of fish. It is a rattly pushrod engine designed in the late 1950s and first saw service in the 1962 Opel Kadett, only to be brought out of retirement for the Corsa/Nova’s 1982 launch. The 1-litre is noisy and very unrefined, but again, the light weight means that despite a paltry 45bhp, you won’t be stuck behind mopeds and tractors. However the engine needs to be worked hard to keep up with modern traffic, and those used to modern superminis will find this tiring to drive.
Despite having a four-speed manual gearbox (yeah, times have changed since 1989) the Nova will cruise competently at 60 and 70mph, albeit makes a hell of a loud job doing so. Ride is a little harsh, but long journeys won’t break your spine. My previous Nova was a 1.2 merit and it performed a 5-hour drive from Buckingham to Cornwall without a hitch and remained reasonably comfortable. Handling is below-par, the soft suspension leads to horrendous body roll at speed around corners, but the quick ‘power delivery’ and low-gearing ensures a nippy driving experience.
Overall, in comparison to modern superminis, the Nova doesn’t measure up. It is cramped, a little tinny,noisy, unrefined, and not that fuel efficient (having said that, at current petrol prices a full tank can cost £32 max). Dated and unpleasant interior, lack of kit and a 5th gear make this car better suited to city life, though the boxy styling and raucous engine won’t endear you to the Joneses on Acacia Avenue. However the light weight, excellent visibility simple engine and construction, and no complicated computer systems to break down is bliss for the more frugal driver, although younger drivers may have to get used to the old-school manual choke. The simple values of the little car delivers a remarkable pure driving experience where everything can be reassuringly felt and responses are instantaneous, and in a time where superminis are the size of Sierras and everything has to be controlled by some computer, this is such a breath of fresh air.
Verdict:-
Vauxhall’s top-seller in Thatcher’s day still makes sense for a buyer on a budget, though the boyracer image can still put some off. The relationship between car and driver is much closer than in today’s Corsa, albeit can be too spartan for some. Willing, if noisy engines, roomy interior and great visibility make this a decent car to live with in town. But standards have moved on so much since the 1980s.
Car tested: Vauxhall Nova 1.0
Engine: 993cc, four cylinders
Power: 47bhp
Transmission: Four-speed manual
Fuel: 40mpg (approx)
Performance: 0-62mph: 15 sec
Price: £10-£1,000
Verdict: Simple values make this a refreshing change from the bloated, sanitised, so-called modern “small” cars.
Rating: 4/5
It depends on the individual, but I have always thought that these have gone hand-in-hand. Throughout childhood and most of my teens I was quite slim, growing from a skinny child into a broad-shouldered yet reasonably thin boy. I had no confidence in myself at all because I struggled with bullying and fitting in at school (yeah bring out the violins). Although I was never bullied for my appearance, people thought of me as a freak because I refused to be a sheep. In my late teens I went through a few dark times, and the thought of leaving sixth form (that’s high school to any American readers) a virgin was too horrific to bear. I lacked the knowledge and confidence to go out on the scene, so I tried going online. First guy I tried to meet with when I was 17, and he came to my work…but that backfired, with an idiot colleague’s interference and subsequent harassment at work from local chavs. The icing on this cake was my talking to the guy online again that night. I was called “podgy” and “unfanciable.” And we never spoke again.Charming.
Me at 18 - Grossly overweight
So with the stress of striving for Uni, work, learning to drive, and the realisation that I would never get laid, came the comfort eating. By the time I left school in May 2007 I was 18, weighed a whopping 17 stone, heavier than I’d ever been in my life. Proof that being a teenage chicken doesn’t always guarantee men lining up to bed you.
It is the classic cliche you find in Take A Break, but it really took a set of holiday snaps from a holiday to Cornwall to shock me into seeing what I had become. I used to work at a shabby convenience store back then, and I use to lard up with junk food purchased every shift before going home for my tea. Quite often the entire contents of my un-necessary shopping would be shovelled down my gluttonous neck before I went to bed. At the time I was finally in my first relationship, and I was the most arrogant, cockiest bastard you could meet. Now that I’d lost my virginity (unbelievable when you see how appalling I looked at the time) I thought I was the dogs bollocks and treated my poor then-boyfriend as a free rent boy, only seeing him when it suited me. I even went out on the North Bucks gay scene once to try and see if I could cheat (yeah, my delusion really knows no bounds sometimes), but as expected, people were repulsed by my drunken sweaty waddling. I naively didn;t realise this at the time, but obviously there is only so much shit you can put someone through in a relationship before they walk away. My boyfriend dumped me via MySpace in July 2007 when I came back from holiday – but to be honest by then I’d got so enormously fat that it was only to be expected. I spent that summer immersed in GYUK chat rooms, with horrendously photoshopped pictures, trying desperately to see if I could grab male attention. Of course it doesn’t work, I got bullied relentlessly online for my weight, despite never putting up one body shot. One incident sticks out most in my mind, and it still haunts me to this day: Some skinny shades-wearing queen (according to his display photo) under the username “gay richie 1991″ (if you ever read this, weep you shallow cuntbag) minced into a chatroom and proclaimed at large “the maximum jeans size should be a 36, anything over that is chubby and gross” and also came out with the corker “6 stone is the sexiest weight”. Already feeling insecure and having already been on the receiving end of online fat abuse prior to this, I challenged him. Without a flinch, he called me chubby and gross (which I was anyway), despite knowing nothing about me or who I was.
My few forays onto the gay scene have always made me feel like shit. Partly because I never pulled, and partly because it makes me feel horrendously insecure. Throughout early 2008 my weight fluctuated, and during a long and depressing summer between first and second year, I went on a major exercise regime and by September I managed to go from 16 stone 7 to a respectable 13 stone. My shirt size dropped from an XL to an M but I only managed to shift 3 inches from my waistline, going from a 40/38″ to a 36″. I later dropped further to a 34″ waist around January 2009.
Me at 20: January 2009 - slim but still not happy
Second year I managed to keep the weight off, with only a few pounds gained here and there, but I still wasn’t Mr Gay UK material, and by that time I was terribly unhappy. I mhad managed to slim down, but I was being eaten away inside by the fact that I was approaching 20 and still had only been with 3 men. The moment I arrived back at Uni, every spare day was spent meeting men met off gaydar. In my eyes, I felt I couldn;t be a proper gay unless I’d had a sexual track record as high as the Millau Bridge. My sluttiest phase (for me) was fucking one man a day, every day (& on 3 occasions, 2 men in 1 day) for one continuous week. The sad thing is, for some, that’s playing it cool. That week was extreme, but I still averaged two new sexual partners a week for most of that time. In my eyes, I had 3 years to catch up on to gain the sufficient amount of sexual experience for a modern gay 20 year old boy…when I was 19. My weight and negative body image had held me back for so long and now that I’d lost a lot of it, I realised that I’d wasted my entire late-teens worrying about trivial stuff. As far as I was concerned, I should have been a skinny little twink, with a Toni & Guy haircut (which I did have by this time funnily enough) and getting it in the ass from about a hundred men. Not the flabby nerdish loner I actually was. I felt like I was a disgrace to the word gay, because I wasn’t a cookie-cutter scene queen. Even now I am shit scared of going into a gay club or bar for fear of the barrage of nasty remarks from skinny queens.
August 2009 - At my slimmest and happy with my life
Looking back on second year in my current state, I long to be that shape again, even if AussieBum wouldn’t have been in any huirry to ask me to model for them. In recent months, standards have slipped somewhat and I have started to gain weight again. I am still wearing M-size shirts and 34″ jeans, but they are a tight fit as opposed to a loose fit. Since being with my boyfriend I expunged my neurotic lifestyle of Slim Fast and casual sex and finaly felt happy in my body and life. In August-October 2009 I was regularly cycling and eating healthily, and in September I went on a vegan diet. The veganism didn’t directly result in weight loss, but it certainly added to it. Now despite now being a vegetarian, I once again am having flashbacks to 2007-8 and I know that my weight is starting to creep back up – on my 21st birthday I was dismayed to see that I had passed the 14 stone mark once again. The only upside to this weight issue is that just after Christmas, some 34″ jeans from Primark that I’d bought in November wouldn’t even come up over my thunder thighs, but trying them again a fortnight ago, they actually fit me again. So I guess I have lost some pounds in the last few months, but gained plenty more (this was evident when I bought some new skinny jeans from Topman last month, and they would barely do up, despite my owning another 34″ set)- in short- I have to face facts, change what I eat and get my arse back on that bike!
April 2010 - After Weight Gain; you can see the M-size tee is under a heck of a strain
I don’t know what my current weight is, and what’s more, something is stopping me from telling everyone. I’m scared that people might sneer at me and turn on me for letting myself get so fat. I’m also aware that I may be judged for making blinkered attacks on my fellow gays and for being such a laughably virginal gay teen.
This probably is unusual for me because I don’t consider myself a typical gay blogger. Writing about my weight issues online has been a cathartic experience, espeically because I’ve correlated it with my experiences of gay culture, but I would really like to hear your views on this issue I’ve raised here.
Have you felt pressurised to be super-skinny because of what you;ve seen in Gay Times? Have you struggled with weight issues yourself since coming out? Has anyone else comfort-ate? I want to know your views an experiences!
Feel free to comment, tweet direct message or email and I will respond to you as soon as I can (usually on the day, but bear with me, I will get back to you!)
I really enjoy photography, and am proud to call myself an amateur photographer. Admittedly I can’t see my photos ending up in art galleries any time soon but its still a hell of a lot of fun! Plus, I am only armed with a Samsung L210 (10.2 Mpxls) which is designed for Facebook snaps and my Nokia 6110 Navigator (a paltry 2.0MPXL). For those who regularly consult my Flickr, there is a bit a key theme emerging.
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Old Cars. Cars are my lifeblood and always have been. I love glamorous classics, but I also have a lot of love for the unloved cars, partiuclarly anything pre-M-prefix (1995). Every journey I take I’m on the lookout for anything pre-1995 (unless its interesting or rare) and it’s been amazing what I have found lurking on the roads round my way. MKII Volkswagen Golfs are the most prevalent, perhaps so much so that I wonder whether it’s even worth snapping them! I have a soft spot for what are mostly dismissed as ‘old bangers’ because these 1980s and early 1990s cars are what I grew up with and I guess it saddens me to think of them as rare when I remember them being so common. I have loved meeting fellow Flickrers who also share my passion for the unloved, so if you have time, check out the photostreams of bramm77, Mick Travis, SpottedLaurel and mark.mitchell.brown. Bramm77 (AKA Sam) in particular has found some beautiful examples of old 1980s street scenery round his parts. Of course, there’s all my VSCC race meeting photos up too, but they were the stepping stones towards carving out a Flickr identity.
Buses – I’ve discovered my inner anorak bus spotter. I can’t help but be interested in the big old boxes that we rely on. I know my bus photos aren’t the best, but where I live, there is not offer of a diverse usage of interesting stuff, even after you wade through the sea of Dennis Tridents and MAN 18.220s. I have discovered that my hometown’s bus fleet has an Alexander Dennis/Transbus monopoly. At leasy they are British.
I eagerly took up the challenge of Project 365, mainly because I knew it would be a toughie. One Photo Per Day, Every Day, for one whole year. As I write this, I am up-to-date with 90 taken so far. Project 365 has presented me with such a plethora of challenges, though. For starters, the photos don’t always sum up my day, some have been taken for the sake of it, whilst several tend to be the same (you can tell a slow photo day when A] old VSCC photos appear on my photostream and B] the 365 for that day tends to be an item of food or a car!) I have tried to make my Project 365 reasonably diverse as well as being a yearbook of 2010 for me – I guess I fear it shows my life is very boring. There have been times when I’ve fallen behind and uploaded none for as long as 8 days as well. Project 365 is bloody hard!
I have been criticised for a lack of diversity in my Flickr, so I make sure I capture anything that catches my eye rather than just looking for old 80s cars. I also love urban decay as a photo subject, so another thing I am striving to endeavour is the side of Cambridge that the tourist brochures gloss over – in other words, taking snaps of the really rough bits of the revered Anglian city (there are loads of rank bits, Cambridge DOES have its own page on chavtowns.co.uk 
). One of my snaps has been used in a Schmap online guide to the city, as well 
I also realise that many of my pictures on Flickr have been retouched, but that’s only because the L210 sucks colour and soul out of the subject, because I don’t think it is meant to be a professional snapper’s tool. Hence why a lot of ym 365′s look better on Flickr than they do on their dedicated site.
Came across a rather wonderful podcast the other day entitled just that – two charming Northern lasses, Mia and Gloria, who discuss some of the more despicable food items on sale today. Worth a look.
As someone who likes to think he knows a thing or two about what’s good eating and what’s just plain shite, here’s what I feel whose invention or consumption should be considered a hanging offence. These are my top ten crimes against gastronomy.
1) Tinned Meatballs
Or most particularly value-branded ones. Seriously, does anyone enjoy eating what’s basically pet food in a gloopy substance masquerading as ‘gravy’ or ‘tomato sauce’? They have all the richness and texture of loft insulation and about as much natural ingredients as a vat of arsenic. I think personally a tin of Pedigree Chum mixed with some ketchup will have more flavour and nutritional value.
2) Nouveau Cuisine
Ooh I say! Controversial much? Anyone who enjoys food will know that extorting hundreds of pounds of patrons’ hard-earned cash for a small square of whale blubber sandwiched between pastry squares using bluebell-seed flour and butter gathered from cows with First Class Oxbridge degrees is just as bad as smushing a chicken carcass through some wire mesh so it resembles Strawberry Angel Delight then sold as the aforementioned meatballs in a can. My main beef with nouveau-cuisine is the supreme level of snobbery that’s attached to it. I recently stayed in a very nice four-star hotel, which offered an NC menu (easy to spot by the poncey Fanny Craddock-esque French names, high prices and odd ingredients combos) and the dishes that I sampled were….bland and salty. Give me a fry-up from a motorway-side greasy spoon any day of the week, thanks.
3) Ready-made pasta sauce in a jar.
Go on, accuse me of being a snob. I dare you. As a student who had to learn how to cook from scratch (it’s actually cheaper in most cases and better for you) I fail to see how letting a factory in Bridlington heating up some tomatoes with some herbs, onions and garlic for you (while pouring buckets of salt and chemicals in for shits and giggles) is quicker than doing so at home. Okay, so busy mums simply don’t have the time what with getting home from the office and picking Jemima and Theo from ballet and judo to slave over making a scratch-made pasta sauce for dinner. But surely, just chucking some garlic and onion with some tinned tomatoes (30p a tin, hello!!!) with some mixed herbs (20p a pot) in about half the time it takes to ‘simmer’ said jarred sauce. Plus, have you seen how much oil floats on top of these so-called kitchen miracles.
4) Doner Kebabs
Pages and pages have been written on how shit they are. Yes, at one point in my life I used to enjoy them. But as a newly-converted vegetarian the thought of one makes me want to to dive headfirst into a mincer. In a nutshell, the doner sounds rather appetizing: Grilled lamb with fresh, crunchy salad in a small pitta bread. Something you’d perhaps get in a bistro on Cherbourg high street, perhaps. The reality is that the doner is a 1600 calorie piece of junk, made with eyebrows, earholes and arseholes, possibly from the local morgue, mixed with fat, and served up with some soggy lettuce and ‘chilli sauce’, stuff which blows your head off but tastes like chemicals. It has about as much class as a backstreet abortion clinic.
5) Cheap white bread
Take a look at the ingredients list of a 30p loaf next time you’re in the shops. Bread is literally flour, yeast, water and sugar combined and proved. The list of chemical additives as long as your arm is worrying – why do you think these loaves are so cheap? With the texture of a wet sponge and the malleability of Silly Putty, is this really what we want when most of us cite the aroma of fresh-baked bread as our favourite? Doesn’t make bad toasties though.
6) Caesar Salads – particularly ones tipped as the “healthy option”
What does ‘salad’ mean to you? I found out that the average calorie count for a Caesar Salad served in a restaurant is 1100 calories. Yes. For a fucking salad. Why? Because they are larded with hydrogenated-mayo dressings and sprinkled liberally with deep-fried croutons. While they aren’t the worst item out there to eat, the calorie count alone is worth mentioning here.
7) McDonald’s Fries
All the food served by McDonalds is wank, but their fries take the biscuit, even above all the staff who wank into McFlurrys. A chip or fry is a stick-cut of potato. McDonalds are made of reconstituted mash and, wait for it, coated in a plastic substance in order to retain crispness. Not that they are. Greasy plastic-coated sticks of reconstituted mashed potato. Nice.
8 ) Pizza Hut Salad Bar – particularly the tomato pasta.
Pizza Hut, like any other globalised, franchised-to-hell food joint, stacks it high and flogs it cheap, without considering the quality of the ingredients or the taste, as long as its cheap and feeds the gluttonous gobs of the British. The salads are harmless enough, albeit clearly using veg that was rejected by supermarket packhouses, but my real gripe is the cold pasta in tomato sauce. For starters, this ‘tomato sauce’ has never seen a tomato, it is bright orange wallpaper paste, perhaps flavoured with some tomato puree and flecks of murky green masquerading as herbs, but its main component is modified starch, made in enormous batches on an industrial estate, splattered out of a hopper and sent to Pizza Huts nationwide.
9) EAMAYL Chinese buffets
Eat. As. Much. As. You. Like. How’s that for a bash up? You pay about a fiver and you can eat as many plates of Chinese takeaway-style food as you want until you’re literally bursting at the seams. It is good value, but some of the food is dire. The less you pay, the more likely you are to encounter appalling food. Bear in mind when you go to serve yourself, the food has been sat on a hotplate for god knows how long, under those big heat lamps, and its occasionally you see a member of staff ‘refilling’ some grease-saturated prawn toasts. Luckily, the likes of Ching-He Huang are stamping out these insults to the cuisine of China and showing us all that there is a world beyond luminous gloopy sauces and MSG.
And Finally, the MOTHER of all food crimes, number 10:
10) Pot Noodles.
Perhaps a surprising addition to this list, seeing as the Daily Mail and the generally uninformed assume that all students such as myself life off these. Well, wake up, some of actually bothered to learn to cook and be able to do more in the kitchen than just pierce a few holes in a plastic sheeted ready meal lasagne or just open up a tin of spagetti hoops. Pot Noodles are simply the bottom of the gastronomy barrel, in any culture. First hitting our shelves in 1978-9 by Golden Wonder (who now have launched their own Pot Noodle rip off after flogging the brand to Unilever sometime in the 1990s), some deep-fried noodles in a plastic cup, with a handful coloured sand for the flavouring ‘broth’ and a few dried peas, along with a sachet of sauce. Add boiling water, stir once or twice and get your fork and dive in! Laden with fat, salt and calories, and zero nutritional value of any kind, these are simply disgusting and its a miracle they are still on sale. To sum up their nastiness, there’s now a doner kebab flavoured one….Classy.
A few that didn’t make the list but worth a mention:
Vesta meals – The predecessor to the Pot Noodle (similar set up, just add boiling water to rehydrate) and was the first taste of the exotic for many kids in the 1970s. But still, a rehydrated meal? Come on.
Heinz Toast Toppers – Tins of gloopy ‘cheese’ with tiny cubes of ham to put on your toast, perhaps appeals to those who are too lazy to grate a bit of cheese.
Wetherspoons food, in general - You pay through the nose for a cheap frozen ready meal, microwaved about 3 times over.
The cast of Shank
NOTE: SPOILERS! Don’t read if you haven’t seen this!
It is not often I go and see a film, but when I heard about this low-budget indie flick (Or rather, the sex scenes were leaked onto some seedy site!) I had to track it down. Gay cinema is an interesting conundrum – it is either jaded coming-out-against-the-odds stories or about cross-dressing, in the vein of such films as ‘But I’m A Cheerleader’.
Shank is gritty, hard-hitting and uncompromising. As you can see from publicity shots, it is about chavs. More specifically Bristol’s gang scene. Being gay and chavvy, I must admit, is a delicious topic to explore as it’s something that we suspect goes on, but don’t want to admit. Similar to being a queer footballer, I suppose. Shank has been described as “Beautiful Thing on coke” which holds several truths; like the Jonathan Harvey bestseller, it explores a teenage boy from a rough background and his struggle with his gay feelings towards his best friend.
The story centres around 19-year-old Cal (a fiery debut from newcomer Wayne Virgo), member of a violent happy-slapping gang from Bristol who is secretly gay. He fancies his thuggish best mate Jonno (Tom Bott, a fantastically nuanced performance), who is screwing the violent gang leader, Nessa (a fantastic turn from Alice Payne). Cal gets his kicks from anonymous sex with strangers, including Bristol University lecturer Scott (Garry Summers), filming each encounter so he can get turned on by it again later. One day the gang target snooty French boy Olivier (Marc Laurent), a mincing, effeminate youth who is such an antithesis to the gang that you almost aren’t surprised to see him get a pasting. Cal falls for Olivier and the two form a relationship. When Nessa, who, “no fucking body turns against.” finds out, she is determined to get the two faggots once and for all, kidnapping Olvier and taunting Cal via vid-messaging to come and save his boyfriend. Cal stands up to his former allies once and for all, but as the showdown goes on, even Nessa is horrified at what happens….
Undoubtedly Nessa is the main antagonist for the movie; a nasty, temperamental rudegirl who nightmares are made of. Payne sneers and snaps her way through the tight script like Lauren Cooper-meets-Vinnie Jones. Hair scraped back, hoopy earings, a ‘wannabe Yardie’ accent and a plethora of ‘fucks’ and homophobia pouring from her mouth, Payne as Nessa really holds her own against the lads – an impressive turn from the only female lead here. We do see what made Nessa so twisted, and Payne’s brilliantly dramatic performance during that scene grabs the emotions, but the character is such a bitch that it is hard to feel sympathy for her.
Tom Bott as Jonno is also brilliant. The character is a dumb-arse, Nuts-mag-reading stud/jock who is clearly a closet case. Swaggering about the screen, yet showing deep turmoil in his eyes, and the sexual tension between Bott and Virgo is electric; this is easily one of the best performances of the film. Even during the climactic end scene, Bott manages to draw a grain or two of sympathy for Jonno despite his despicable behaviour.
Marc Laurent, was by far the weakest link. Although he showed sufficient amounts of tenderness when required, and managed to deliver English (not his first language, assumed) without sounding wooden, he just doesn’t cut the mustard compared to the rest and seems rather bored a lot of the time. Also, although facially he is striking, personally I found him too skinny and this was somewhat offputting. Also he and Virgo didn’t have much chemistry, even in the sex scenes. When Cal and Jonno almost kiss in Cal’s battered old Escort, the tension between them was so realistic that you find yourself begging Cal to just take Jonno right there and then. Also, would a rough kid like Cal even fancy someone like Olivier, apart from his exotic looks and money?
In a small role, Garry Summers does very well, but he only really gets one emotional scene and no real drama, so I can’t comment too much. Though his sex scene with Virgo is rather erotic, though because this is at the start and you don’t expect to see a chav boy get it in the arse and enjoy it.
Star of the show has to be Wayne Virgo in his first professional role as Cal. He avoids falling into the trap of being the chav who minces or likes a bit of Miley Cyrus (her music, not her tits) and plays it totally straight, Cal not appearing stereotypically gay at all. The only flaw in his performance, is his accent occasionally slipping into something more well-spoken at times.
Overall Shank delivers a powerful story and hits the viewer right in the gonads – no weepy coming-out-against-the-odds here. Undoubtedly director Simon Pearce (just 21 when he shot it – same age as me, unbelievable!!) took a gamble by casting unknowns and using a limited budget, but it pays off tremendously. No flashy CGI effects or lavish set pieces, the focus is on good, old-fashioned storytelling and proper acting, which you don’t a lot of in Hollywood. Casual, dirty sexual encounters are presented unfiltered and seasoned with copious amounts of charlie. A must see for those who want to see a new breed of gay flicks, and definitely one for those with a fetish for chavs.
Rating: 8/10
Director: Simon Pearce
Written by: Darren Flaxstone and Christian Martin
Starring: Wayne Virgo, Tom Bott, Alice Payne, Marc Laurent.
Likes: First-class acting from Virgo, Payne and Bott, adorable love story, stunning cinematography, unpretentious directing by Pearce, breaks the “coming out story” mould.
Dislikes: A bit too homophobic for its own good, hot sex scenes and nudity mean this is one to watch in company with a pillow over your crotch, some violent scenes which are a bit too disturbing for some, the street-talk is sometimes hard to understand, Laurent is wooden and unbelievable in the role of Cal’s love interest.
Nicole? Papa, j’ai grandi!
Renault Clio 1.2 Extreme
The Renault Clio has always been popular, ever since it was introduced in 1990 to replace the venerable 5 (which lasted another 6 years in production anyway). La Renault petite has grown over the years and the current, recently-facelifted model is the biggest in the supermini class. You can even have an estate Clio now, though personally I think this is stretching the ‘supermini’ mantra a bit far.
The facelift hasn’t done much to conceal the frankly lardy dimensions of the Clio. Pedestrian safety laws have governed all small cars to be gargantuan with identikit teardrop headlights and van-like front ends, a look spearheaded in 2001 by the downright bland Peugeot 307. The original twin-grille look of the MkIII Clio looked much better. However this is all down to personal taste and I think the first generation Clio looks remarkable pure next to this. Even the 1998-2008 MkII Campus model aged well despite a 10 year production run. Current superminis I think will date very quickly.
The interior is solidly built and well-laid out. However, in the more basic trim levels (I tested a 1.2 Extreme) the plastics are hard and somewhat cheap-looking. The steering wheel feels insubstantial but on the whole you do feel you are sitting in a car of the class above.
The Clio has always been praised for its handling and even basic Clios deliver a decent driving experience, with good roadholding and nippy handling. The steering is light which is great around town but poor on A-roads and lacks feel. The clutch bite is also very high and can be a pain in the arse when moving off at first. Ride is very comfortable in the typical French way and the car feels strong enough to be taken by the scruff of the neck and thrown about a bit. The 75bhp 1.2 engine (in contrast to the VW Polo’s sluggish 55bhp) is a nippy performer even in a car this big but lacks the revvy character of the 3-cylinder VW unit, plus the gearchange is a little slow on the uptake. But despite all this, the Clio still feels muted and sanitised compared to ones of old. Small cars are getting far too big for their boots now, and the purity of feeling everything as you drive, which you could in the old 5 and Mk1 Clio is being lost.
But, tastes and preferences have moved on since the 90s and I guess I am still stuck in the past. The Clio is a very good performer; strong engine, comfortable ride, decent space inside, as well as the all-important fun handling on the twisties. It also has excellent quality and cheap running costs. But the depressing interior of low-spec models, gawky clutch, slushy manual gearchange and the lifeless steering let it down. If you want a modern small Renault that echoes the fun of the 5, the Twingo is much better option.
My verdict:
Classy, grownup French voiture that ticks all the boxes required for a modern day supermini – comfortable, well-built, fun handler and plenty of interior space, but is negated by a too-high clutch-bite point, lack of steering feel and soggy gearbox. Highly recommended despite these flaws.
Car tested: Renault Clio 1.2 16v Extreme
Engine: 1149cc, four cylinders
Power/Torque: 73bhp/105 Nm/ 77 lb-ft
Transmission: Five-speed manual
Fuel: 47mpg
Performance: 0-62mph: 13.0sec / Top speed: 104mph
Price: £10,709 – £17,759
Verdict: Grown-up supermini, not as much va-va-voom as previous Clios. Not half bad.
Rating: 4/5
First in a series of reviews as I test drive modern day small cars – seeing as I haven’t driven a car in so bloody long.
Volkswagen Urban Fox 1.2
My first victim was the Volkswagen Fox, built in Brazil, and replaced the tiny Lupo. VW have turned from being the “peoples car” into a premium brand, and this is reflected in their solidly-built model line-up. Volkswagen’s conventional water-cooled cars never had the same character as the Beetle, all possessing neat, solid yet somewhat generic styling. The Fox, bottom of the VW range, is no exception. While it is undoubtedly a nice looking car, the styling is somewhat anodyne and rather forgettable.
The interior of the Fox feels solidly screwed together, and unlike most modern cars, the visibility is pretty good. Back seat space looked adequate (after all, a cheapo city car can only do so much, right?), and seems to be a decent companion for single boi/gal-about town. Dashboard is nice and easy to use, with a single multi-functional dial containing all the relevant information needed, rather remeniscient of the basic dash of the original Bug. Seats are chunky but feel rather hard and don’t really cosset, but what do you expect in an £8000 car? I also noted the backlights are no longer blue with red needles, but a more conventional white. I always liked the blue dials on VWs of not-so-long-ago, it injected a splash of pizzazz into their rather dull interiors. The Fox overall is a basic car, with manual mirrors and not much in the way of kit. As someone who enjoys driving cars rather than seeing them as a mechanical tools, less distractions to me are better. But some people like lots of toys to play with.
The 1.2 litre I3 engine is surprisingly noisy for a modern car. My 1.0 Corsa had a similar engine and even that wasn’t as loud inside as this. Press the accelerator hard on a B-road and a loud rasping fills the car, which sounds quite sporty (at a push, almost like a Porsche) but is coarse and wearing on A-roads or motorways. Not really great for a long journey. Other reviews have mentioned the 1.2 as being rather sluggish, yet, I found it to be quite a nippy little car. Not a patch on my 1.2 Nova, which had the same engine size and same power output, but was much lighter in weight. However, it may have only felt spritely because anything, to be honest is an upgrade from the downright gutless 1.0 Vauxhall EcoTec unit in my previous car. Handling-wise, the Fox is safe and stable, but doesn’t encourage enthusiastic driving….it feels somewhat dull and uninspiring. Competent round bends, but not one for the keen driver.
My verdict:
Solid, cheap and cheerful urban runabout. Plenty of space inside and an easy-to get on with dash. Easy to drive and to park. On the downside, it lacks character and razzamatazz, along with a crude and noisy engine. Overall, although there are more fun options out there for the city, for the cheap price, it does the job.
Car tested: Volkswagen Urban Fox 1.2
Engine: 1198cc, three cylinders
Power/Torque: 54bhp @ 4750rpm / 78 lb ft @ 3000rpm
Transmission: Five-speed manual
Fuel/CO2: 46.2mpg (combined cycle)
Performance: 0-62mph: 17.5sec / Top speed: 92mph
Price: £8,000-8,500
Verdict: Decent car for the money, but not the most exciting. No Beetle, except for the copious engine noise.
Rating: 3/5
The story and many people’s lips right now is thus: Kraft, that American giant specialising in many varieties of hideously artficial processed cheese, have bought out Cadburys. So what does this now mean? Will tho legendary violet ingots of Dairy Milk be replaced by the frankly inferior brown slabs of Hershey’s? Or will we be nipping to our local John Menzies for a bite size bar of Velveeta?
Cadbury’s have long been a national institution. If anyone was to be asked to name a chocolate bar, they’d say Crunchie, Wispa, or Dairy Milk. Name a box of chocolates. Milk Tray, Roses. Simple. Cadbury’s also cleverly play upon one’s sense of nolstalgia; they have a habit of bringing out new products and then taking them off the market after quite a short period of time. For example, who remembers sucho ’90s icons as Fuse, Astros, Spira and Strollers? (Strollers being a hybrid of Poppets and Mars Planets). We always recall our childhoods with sweets we loved, and I always thought I’d imagined the Strollers.
Just to refresh people's memories - here is what they looked like!
Some more old-school Cadbury
Look at the above picture. How many of these long-forgotten bars do you recall? Do you think Kraft will retain the purple and the heritage that Cadbury have left behind? or will they all just be branded Kraft instead? Somehow a Kraft Crunchie just doesn’t ring true.
The last five years seemed to be a deathknell for Birmingham-based industry. In 2005 we finally lost MG Rover after certain motoring journos (and I wont name names!) waged one hate campaign after another so our national pride in our homegrown motor industrywas eventually lost. Even though soon the new MG6 will be built at Longbridge, hopefully bringing MG back onto the scene, after the comparitive success of flogging a 12 year old two-seater by raising the price and fitting a new bumper on the front in 2008.
The slightly updated styling of the 1995-vintage TF is not enough to keep it fresh.
The stylish new MG6....should be sold and built here soon
The TF LE500 was probably not the best way to let people know MG are still around, as the design on it actually dated back to the 1995 F…the chassis was that of the 1980 Metro (significantly re-engineered in the 2002 rebrand to TF), already 15 years old at launch. The TF facelift in ’02 meant new bumpers and a new nose, but the rear aspect still echoed the original F. However, Auto Express gave the car a decent review and all 500 limited editions were quickly snapped up. Proves that maybe some national pride still exists. PS you can buy yourself a new TF here: http://www.mgmotor.co.uk/
The 6 looks promising because it is new metal from MG at last! The chassis is based on that of the Rover 75 (now the Roewe 750) and it features uprated, cleaner K-series units, but still, look at it! Neat, curvy, modern, European-looking (was designed in Birmingham) and hopefully won’t just be bought by 72-year-olds. As long as the quality and handling (plus the kit) are up to scratch and better, hopefully Top Gear won’t kill it, but then, they probably will cuz it’s just SO cool to bash British cars…
Finally, 2009-10 was the end of the ever-present MCW Metrobuses in Birmingham…but that’s another story!
You might ask how we went from chocolate bars to cars, but as an ex- Brummie (now live in East Anglia) I am very passionate about our manufacturing industry and the future of Cadbury’s is currently unknown.
