101 Ways to Convince Your Psychologist You're Normal: The Festival

Ah festivals.

I love and hate you in equal measure. For every great musical delight there is a portaloo that is a shrine to those people that can't quite fit human excrement into a plastic container.

Tonight though I am full of love. Full of love for the joy I am about to witness. A fragment of life where you hope time stands still and allows all my senses to be at one with the moment. Tonight it is Sufjan Stevens and I am happy.

It doesn't matter to me that three men, or I should say boys as they were beardless, ridiculed me for the colour of my socks and my rather natter shooting stick. I care not one bit that my hair has been hidden beneath my trucker cap or that as yet I have been unable to change my underpants. Soon I will be in a majestic heaven of sound and beauty.

I make my way early to a spot that’s central and just ten or so feet away from the from of the stage. There is eager anticipation, as there should be for the headline act on a Saturday night and already the numbers are swelling to a level that makes it hard to move in any direction.

If you have never heard of Sufjan Stevens then you are missing one of americas finest artists. A voice that is quiet and tender vocalises lyrics about history, love and loss whilst accompanied by musical scores that can range from old time folk through to electro pop. This is his first UK festival appearance in over ten years of producing eclectic albums and it’s going to be good.

Ten minutes to go and everyone is ready. Well everyone apart from a couple of german youths who are busy pushing people out of the way in order to make their way to the front of the stage. This produces a mixture of anger and good old British silent indignation.

I’m soon next in their path and I have a decision to make. A decision I would rather avoid as I hate conflict of any sort. Do I let them continue or do I make a stand for my fellow festival friends?

Questions begin to race through my mind. What is the social etiquette that applies in this situation? Shouldn’t I be welcoming of all our EU friends even Germans? I pushed into the toilet queue earlier (I really needed to go) and now I’m throwing accusing looks at two strangers who just want to enjoy Sufjan as much as I do, is that fair?

No. No! I will not be moved! I’ve come this far. I got here early. It’s my space and I shall protect it and the space in front of me like I suspect a knight once protected his damsel. I’m a knight, although a knight in dark glasses despite the lateness of the evening.

I muster up all my courage as they make their way towards me mumbling ‘excuse me’ in broken english. I look them in the eye. It’s now or never. This could be the moment that changes festival going forever. In future no-one will be pushed out of the way and the weak will high five each other and thank ‘Watson’. Maybe they will make it a national day of remembrance.

I’m going to do it! 

‘Excuse me’ says the male member of the intruders and before I can give a stoic rebuttal to their request then a group of men start shouting at them and telling them to go back to where they came from.  I’m assuming this didn’t mean Germany as that sounded more UKIP than even I wanted but even so I’m left in the position of just tutting loudly and nodding my head in agreement with my new right wing friends.

and 

They stop, look around and sense that the crowd has become one in this decision. It would be foolhardy to go any further.

‘They all hate us?’ a swaying german man asks as his female friend looks sheepishly down at the ground.

At this moment I should really confirm what they already seem to know, that even at a laid back festival the British are not ready to accept any more foreigners especially if they are six foot and spoil a decent view.

‘No’ I stutter. ‘Well, maybe a little bit, but you know we all did get here rather early and you cant just  turn up at the last minute.’  If I am a knight I suspect my damsel has just walked off in disgust.

We make small talk. It turns out I am standing with Thomas and Frieda from just outside Berlin and they have made this trip specifically to see Sufjan. Frieda seems particularly excited with her eyes just fixed on the stage that Sufjan will appear on whilst Thomas sways around whilst taking short tugs on a spliff.

It isn’t long before Thomas is making more trouble by swaying back and forth so much that he appears to be nuzzling the head of the girl in front of him. He does it a few times and I can sense the discomfort is bubbling away. He stumbles one more time before the girl turns around and shouts ‘can you stop touching my arse!’  Even I got embarrassed by that statement yet Thomas seems not to care.

‘Listen mate if you want to touch anyone you can just touch me right’.  My damsel in in distress and yet this offer of support felt slightly more camp than I intended.  Thomas is soon hugging me whilst bumping into more festival goers making me look like some loved-up willing accomplice.

Eventually I am forced into further action and ask Frieda to look after him before someone gets really annoyed. Thomas sways a little more then takes my words as a signal to part. We are one German down but their is a collective sigh of relief, even Frieda seems more relaxed.

Lights dim. Sufjan appears at the piano from the gloom. The crowd roar. 

Thomas goes for a lie down. 

I felt sorry for my German friend for a moment, but it was only a moment. 'Make love not war' is my motto unless someone is pushing in and spoiling your view.

101 Ways to Convince Your Psychologist You're Normal: The Naked Truth

I'm naked and I'm not alone. For now I've kept my socks on as I feel it may be a step to far to remove those as well.

A bright light is switched on and I bask in my naked glory for I feel no shame in what I present before the world in the form of my 44 year old body.

'Your amazing' a voice says from beyond my gaze. 'I am' I say to myself, 'I am bloody amazing, I should be preserved like this for the world to see, I should charge admission’.

It's not often you find yourself naked getting compliments from two middle-aged women and a medical professional who has the kindly air of a professor who has yet to discover the technological advances of the modern age.

I'm at a skin clinic for transplant patients at my local hospital. In this environment I'm a minor celebrity, a man with a new heart, doctors and nurses love me. I do my best to fulfil my brief and regale them with stories of 10km runs and my charitable deeds. 

'Wow, you can hardly see it can you' says one nurse as she scans me up and down with a beaming smile. 'No' I say proudly. In any other situation a naked man might take that statement as a sleight on their manhood but luckily for me she is referring to my scar that's largely hidden behind a few wiry hairs.

This kind of glowing assessment is usual for those of us that have undergone a major operation and therefore I'm rarely concerned about whipping off my clothes and letting a nurse enjoy a good look at my incredible body.  Sometimes I’m almost too eager. A request to move my shirt can invariably lead me to take it a stage further.

It seeps into my home life too. I’m rarely afraid of taking my clothes off, surely it’s only fair the general public get an airing of my goods as well as those kind folk that serve the NHS so well. Only a few months ago I removed all my clothes in the pub following a request by a young lady. To be fair she did pay £10 for that delight. 

So as I lie here, relaxed in the glare of a bright spotlight, I’m feeling content and hoping for more compliments to come my way.  The consultant moves his hands gently across my arms and legs. It’s soothing and his words gently bounce around the room. ‘Good, very good’. I smile.

In some ways I wish I had thought more about my appointment than I actually had. I knew I would be getting undressed yet I still went for my standard, far too small, ‘old man’ pants. Black with no real design I feel they are letting down my celebrity status. What I need are some eye catching pants! My mind starts to wander as I think what I could wear.

As I ponder the strength and weaknesses of Superman pants against ones with the phrase ‘Organ Donor’ written on them, one of the nurses strikes up conversation as the consultant continues his tour of my muscled torso.

‘I wish all of our patients were like you’ she says as her eyes light up at the amazing statement she has just made.

‘Yes. I do my best’ I say whilst secretly thinking that I must be the best patient ever. Why aren’t other patients like me? Why must I be the one to lead all these terrible patients from the darkness of their poor ways into the light that is my incredible talent for keeping my skin pale. These mere fools need me. I should lead and let the weak follow.

We are finally finished with the examination. I’m perfect in every way and the consultant didn’t even need his little magnifying glass on some bits, so that must be a good sign.

Before I can start to get my clothes on the more elderly nurse asks me a question.  ‘Are you Claire Watson’s son?’ 

Of course the answer to this is a straight forward yes, but suddenly I have become more aware of my nakedness.  The conversation has become personal and I’m not sure what the etiquette is for conversation with parental friends when undressed. Surely there are some rules.

In many ways I’m glad I’m not in the Superman pants now as that sort of thing has its way of getting back to mothers. She’s already ashamed of my beard so I could find myself banished from evenings of idle chit chat in front of an overly loud television.

After a short silence I respond positively whilst trying to maintain my dignity as I struggle to get my trousers on. ‘Why couldn’t she have asked me once I was clothed?’ I mumble under my heavy beard. ‘This would never happen to a proper celebrity like..’  My mind tries to think of a suitable celebrity but only Dale Winton pops up causing me even more cause for concern.

In the space of ten short minutes I have gone from an adonis with no shame to a little boy embarrassed by his underpants. Maybe that’s what this clinic is about? Making me so ashamed of my body that I need to keep it fully wrapped up even in temperatures of 30 degrees. No wonder my skin is fine.

The truth is of course I don’t follow any of the hospitals rules. I rarely use sunblock and I enjoy getting out in the warm weather. I am what’s known as in the medical world ‘lucky’.

Home again and I’m soon back to feeling proud of myself. Why should I feel any shame? I am perfect in my own unique way. I strip naked and wander round my flat with carefree abandon and not even a full length mirror could stop me.

I cook my dinner. The pan spits. I dress.

101 Ways to Convince Your Psychologist You're Normal: The Bus Journey

It’s 9:03 and I’m standing at a bus stop trying to decipher the timetable.  I hardly ever get the bus but today I’m feeling like I am making a difference to the environment. I’m proud.

Whilst thinking about my carbon footprint I’ve ignored the fact I own two vehicles, one a VW Camper which I’ve just brought to the garage, hence my need for a lift home. Still, I could have got a taxi, so I remain excited about my new found love of public transport.

I’m alone. It seems my fellow travellers have already made it to their destinations today. Will the bus man see me? Should I stand outside or inside the bus shelter? So much to think about, these bus folk must know the secret signal. I’m a newbie, maybe I’ll just give the driver a jaunty wave.

According to the timetable I have two options. The first a 9:18 bus that seems to take me all around Norfolk, or wait for a 9:46 bus that is more direct and will take me closer for home. 9:46 I think. I’m in no rush, plus its sunny and I look like a man of mystery. A stranger. I could be from MI5. I’m not sure secret agents take the bus.

9:18 and a bus appears from around the corner.  ‘See’ I think to myself, ‘buses come in ones and on time, silly non-bus moaners.’ I stand outside admiring the 9:18 bus and its glorious promptness. It pulls up. I didn’t give a jaunty wave! I didn’t give the secret signal, or at least I don’t think I did?

I’m too English to tell the bus driver man that I do not require his services this fine, sunny morning. Instead I board the 9:18 and request a single to Norwich. We exchange £3.50 and ticket and I look at my fellow passengers and make my way to a seat with the confidence of a man who rides a bus every day. 

My ‘good morning’ followed by a knowledgeable look and tilt of my head as I take my seat is met with considerable indifference. People just shift uncomfortably in their seats and breath as I take a window seat with no-one beside me.

On the bus this morning is a young girl who is staring at her phone in a disinterested manner whilst listening to music on her headphones. There are a couple of older folk, sitting in pairs and discussing what I imagine to be crocheting techniques and the increasing price of Werther’s Originals.

Suddenly the doors of the bus swish open again. A middle aged lady is red in her face and out of breath. She nearly missed the bus. ‘Amateur’ I mumble to myself as I wait for my journey to begin. She wanders past me and I roll my eyes in a ‘why are they always on time when you’re running late’ kind of way.

As we make our way round winding roads and little villages more and more elderly folk make their way onto the bus by flashing their special little passes. I notice there seems to be no end of wallets and purses for these things and I imagine what it would be like to own one. It’s almost like an i-phone. A status symbol of sorts.

The bus in getting increasingly noisy and full. Lot’s of chatter is going on yet it seems there is only one seat left, and that’s next to me. Maybe I haven’t smiled enough, or worse maybe I’ve been smiling too much! One man dithered so much I thought he was going to drop his Waitress bag-for-life. I’m guessing a bag-for-life doesn't need to last long if your 92.

At the next stop two people get on, both elderly and one who seems a little confused. Apart from the headphone girl, I’m the youngest on here. Do I give up my seat? It says on a little notice that I must. But I’m a transplant patients. Where is my sign? ‘On your second organ, please take a seat ahead of pregnant ladies’.

The confused lady sits next to me. I smile. She shifts a little over to her right. The other passenger stands and looks around for signs of sympathy. I turn my gaze away and look busy on my phone. I tap out a message to a friend ‘I’m on a pensioners magical mystery tour’. I consider a smiley emoji but decide this could be disrespectful to my standing passenger friend.

As I hear the swoosh of the text being sent I’m overcome with the shock of a thought that has only now entered my mind. I am a pensioner! These are my people! This is my life to be ever more trapped on a bus travelling with a variety of hats and tote bags. I sink into my seat.

Finally at our destination and the bus has barely pulled up when all the pensioners leap to their feet and fight to the front of the queue. Nimble and full of elbows and prods, the elderly can certainly move when they want to. I wait and try not to think of my pensioner status.

Once home I reflect and look out of my window.  Every day at about 10:30 two very old gentleman turn up in their car, get out with walking sticks in their hands and feed the cats. This seemed unusual at first, feeding the ducks is normal, but the cats? The cats seem to recognise their car and about half a dozen of them run after it as it pulls in.

As I thought about my fear of being a pensioner I began to wonder if it was sadder to be an old man spending his morning feeding cats or if it was more sad to be a middle-aged man watching them every day from his window.  

Have asked the old men for an apprenticeship and I’m going to buy a wallet for my bus pass. 

101 Ways to Convince Your Psychologist You're Normal: Man Flu

I’m ill. 

On seeking an appropriate amount of sympathy I am advised by friends that I have man flu. I protest. ‘There is no such thing as man flu’ I complain heartedly whilst coughing up a small amount of nothing. 

Even if there was such thing as man flu, surely I deserve more sympathy as a transplant patient? This isn’t just man flu after all, this is man flu on steroids. Literally in my case.

My close friend Jennifer is the first to show less than the required amount of sympathy whilst we make our way through a mid-week roast. Yet she too will succumb to this ‘man flu’, she too will need sympathy and support from her friends, yet she will only really suffer from ‘flu’, as Jennifer is of course a woman and not a man.

I will fight my illness like a man. I will stand up for men everywhere and show that we can fight this virus like the stoic, strong figures we are. I will be a role model for those boys emerging, blinking and terrified into manhood. I shout ‘I am a man!’ and then retreat to my bed as shouting seemed to make my chest hurt more.

First of all I need to check the symptoms of ‘man flu’ and then make sure I have all the equipment I need for such a battle.

‘Man flu’ as defined by wikipedia is of course just a common cold or the flu with exaggerated symptoms that causes the man to seek extra attention and care. In my case my ‘man flu’ is in fact a chest infection. I know this because my doctor stuck his stethoscope to my chest and tapped it a few times with his fingers.

I pop to the pharmacist and pick up some supplies. I get myself some antibiotics (as prescribed of course), some paracetamol with caffeine to keep me awake, some linctus because I like the taste and then some whisky from the supermarket next door.

This should be easy I think, despite my cough trying to pull my mind towards a negative place. I take a full load of antibiotics, pain killers, linctus and wash it down with a little whisky. This is the mans cure I decide. This is what men do! I haven’t even phoned my mum!

Feeling upbeat I read through some ‘man flu’ news to see if my display of courage is reaching men everywhere, and as I do I come across an interesting article. A survey of the British workforce in 1999 found that men took half the sick leave of women. No wonder we find it tough, what with our busy workloads. Despite my retirement status I take this as another moral victory against my unsympathising female friends.

A few days in and as yet there is no sign of improvement. I’m tired, I’m coughing all the time, I mean ALL the time and as yet I’ve not even had a cuddle.  Even the toughest of us need a cuddle from time to time. I bet even Bear Grylls gets a cuddle when he gets home I think to myself.

Feeling low I suffer a moment of weakness and post an ill selfie of myself on Facebook. Initial comments are full of the requisite sympathy with plenty of ‘hugs’ and kisses being sent electronically to sooth my furrowed brow.

Then it starts. ‘Don’t whine’ says one, ‘Pull yourself together man!’ says another with a helpful smiley emotion as though that will help. Worse follows though. Much worse. I’m sent a comment telling me to ‘man up!’ and it has been sent from a man, a comrade, someone who knows what our struggle is like. Hurt I retreat back to my whisky.

Sad I speak to Jennifer and to my surprise she is suffering more than I am. This is good news! Well maybe not for her but certainly for mankind. We have similar symptoms, similar coughing fits and she has even said she is so sick she wants her mother! Men 1 v Women 0.

As the week makes it way to a close we have been neck and neck in our suffering. Both of us in sick beds, both spreading little white bundles of snot across our respective homes and both of us having to pluck up the energy to do tasks that can’t be avoided. On the Sunday we both get ourselves out of sick beds and make our way for a brunch meeting with friends.

Along with myself and Jennifer are my friends Sarah, Andrea and Lisa and as we regale them with our woes they are quick to offer sympathy, but sympathy that only seems to go in Jennifer’s direction. ‘Oh you poor thing’ they say warmly, ‘how have you coped with being so poorly?’.

I cough. Nothing. I cough a little louder, yet it seems my symptoms are invisible compared to Jennifer’s. Typical. I bet this is why wars start. Men suffering unduly with their man flu whilst taking less time off sick and all the while being ignored. No wonder we get angry. I can feel myself ready to invade some little known South American island. 

Every time I mention how hard it’s been the sympathy goes back to Jennifer. I’m so annoyed I even forgot to mention the steroids I’d been on, or how I’d coughed so hard I made myself fart on every cough. Apparently to get sympathy you just need to ‘sniff’ and have red eyes from all that sneezing. 

It’s been a tough week and I head to manful.info for a little support. I find it in the reassuring wisdom of one Katherine Taylor who posted these words in the sites guestbook.

‘I am a woman and I believe in Manflu. I respect every man and know that men have a flu strain and women have a moaning strain. We each have our weaknesses and we should freely admit them. Bless the handsome male race.’

I imagine Katherine to be a beautiful, caring woman with big eyes and soft, warm arms. I would soon be better under her doting care. I dream for a minute and then I realise the sad truth. Katherine must actually be a man.

I cry.

101 Ways to Convince Your Psychologist You're Normal: Menage a trois

I'm feeling proud. Tomorrow I will run my first 10km race against 15,000 athletes at London's Olympic Park. 

That's not why I'm proud though. My puffed out chest has more to do with my immature, internal giggling at the fact I am heading towards my hotel with two young women and we are sharing one room.

My mind is imagining all the silly things I can say to the receptionist upon our arrival. 'Yes Madam, I'm here for your 2 for 1 offer'. I smile as we pass yet another quality looking establishment.

Sarah and Jennifer seem less excited about this prospect and more intent of getting out of the balmy, summer heat and into a room for some much needed sleep. 'Not far now' I say cheerily. I sense that they've heard this once too often now to take it too seriously. 

Finally we stumble across our lodgings for the night. At first view it looks like an old Victorian building in need of a bit of love and attention. I ignore the dilapidated windows and jauntily step inside a gloomy corridor.

Now is my opportunity. I will make witty comments that will make the receptionist smile. I will appear the epitome of an English gentleman making gaiety for the amusement of all around him. 

A disheveled man in his forties looks up from a chair where he is watching football on a small portable telly and across from him is a small cubicle protected by what appears to be bullet proof glass. It has the tiny holes allowing for brief conversation, the type you usually find in a bank.

'Are you booked in?' asks a man from behind the glass panel. He doesn't appear to be wearing any kind of badge or uniform as I'd hoped, and his manner leads me to think he won't find my 'three for a bed' comments witty in the least.

His appearance is one of a pimp, or at least how I imagine pimps to look not having actually met one. He has a nylon short-sleeve shirt that is a couple of sizes too big hung over cream slacks. His hair jet black and slicked back over his head with jewellery, of which I assume are fine gems, adorning his chest, wrist and fingers. 

'I have a family room booked in the name of Watson' I less confidently state under my breath. I turn to look at Jennifer and Sarah who both look more nervous than me and are currently under the watchful gaze of our new dishevelled friend. 

'Sign on the bottom here, you can leave all that other stuff' my pimp informs me. That 'other stuff' being the information that most hotels think of considerable importance. Maybe this is the new relaxed policy of a new care-free London, but I don't think so. I sign with a squiggle that I hope resembles nothing like my true signature. As I'm doing so I notice the room rates being advertised. We are paying £75 for the joy of a family room, yet it would appear for just £35 we could have a 'daytime only rate'. Maybe there are a lot of people needing a nap in the day I think to myself. Even so, it's quite an expensive nap.

I realise now that I'm the one suddenly looking like a 'pimp' with Sarah and Jennifer my young 'ho's'. This is not good. Neither of them look like a 'ho' but I can already sense them trying to cover up any element of bare skin.

'Follow me' says our chief pimp. We follow clutching our bags close to our chests and looking at each other for silent reassurance. We go up a couple of flights of stairs and are then lead to a small room containing a double and single bed. The heat of the room is several degrees higher than outside and the smell is that of musty sweat. 

We lock the door behind us and stare at each other in amused shock. This was not how I imagined it. I was hoping to act like a naughty child who was doing something slightly cheeky, but now I am being viewed as a man that rents out ladies by the hour. 

Sarah and Jennifer begin to relax a little and make fun of my new found status. They also start to wind me up as I try and respond to a few Twitter followers who are wishing me well for tomorrow. My mood was meant to be one of frivolity and giddiness, instead it's turned tetchy and tired.

'We're all just a little too hot!' I say exasperated. 'Everyone is just a bit too hot' I repeat just in case the girls aren't sensing my mood. They laugh. They laugh and continue to tease. I wonder how many pimps would let this happen? Not only am I pimp but I'm now a failing pimp who has lost control of his 'ho's'

Grumpily I throw myself on the bed and start to try and get some sleep and as Jennifer cleans her teeth in what appears to be an airing cupboard, there is a knock at the door.  Sarah looks at me as if to question the right approach to take in this situation. As the man in the room I realise I must take charge. I must answer.

I pull open the door to find a rather confused foreign gentleman in his twenties clutching a small bag. ‘Is this the right place?’ he mumbles as his eyes dart about through the crevice of the door into our dim lit room. ‘I don’t think so’ I respond less sure of myself than I should be at this point. My own confusion has the desired affect and he leaves but I am left wondering what people think we are offering in this ‘family’ room of ours.

The next hour is spent listening to an argument, the sound of a wardrobe being dragged across a room and various creaks and groans as we all try to sleep. My three in a room joy has become a nightmare and I can’t wait for morning to arise. I realise I am not cut out for a life with more than one female in a room at any one time, and I certainly won’t make a good pimp.

In the morning the heat isn’t any less bearable to we just pick up our things and quickly head down the stairs to the exit. No-one seems to be about, just a lady on the steps outside having a cigarette who looks at us wearily as we leave. She doesn’t thank us for our custom and we don’t look back as we hurry down the road.

I’m sure Olympians don’t prepare like this, and I’m sure rooms are booked with much more care. Maybe I should have paid more attention to trip advisor. As one customer put it ‘I have been to many hotels in Europe. I have seen much. But this is much worse than the cheapest hotels In Romania shortly after the Ceaușescu era’. High praise indeed.

If your ever heading into London and want a cheap place to stay, go anywhere, go sleep rough, just don’t stay at the Travel Inn, Stratford. Not unless you’re a pimp in need of a daytime rate.