101 Ways to Convince Your Psychologist You're Normal: It's Chriiistmaaaas

Celebrities you've never heard of, local radio and a national outpouring of love towards Noddy Holder. Christmas light switch-ons are in full swing and I’m already feeling grumpy about additional queues at the supermarket stores.

I’m going to say it, I hate Christmas. I know a lot of you get excited about the prospect of children arguing, disappointing roasts and the difficult question of whether ‘granny’ is sleeping off the meal or has actually died, but for me it’s just a time for hiding.

I’m not alone of course (well sometimes I am but I actually like that) as it seems the Odeon and Vue cinema chains are with me on this one, banning as they have the latest commercial from the Church. Force Christianity down a cinema going publics throat at Christmas? Oh no, we like Christmas but not if you're going to start mentioning Jesus and all that. Maybe I’ll just spend Christmas in the cinema where I’m safe from such propaganda. At least you get popcorn.

Staring at my undecorated flat I start you wonder when I became so adverse to Christmas? Am I being all moralistic about what Christmas should mean or do I just hate the idea of everyone else having fun? I’m the man that bursts balloons, baulks at baubles and brings a bottle of Shloer to the party. 

No more. I must have fun, I must start enjoying this before I become one of those strange, hairy men standing outside the shop with an ‘The End Is Nigh’ sign. Mind you, if the end really was ‘nigh’ I probably wouldn't spend my time painting a sign and making sure everyone knew about it. I’d have a cup of tea at least.

I had considered volunteering as a helper for the Christmas meal for the homeless like I used to many years ago.  The first time I went I got a little confused about the dress code, I mean you don’t want to show off your new winter knit to a multitude of folk who sleep outside so I wore what I considered to be ‘casual’ wear.

As I stepped into the church I was greeted by one of the organisers who started to lead me through to one of the tables.

‘I’m here a a volunteer to help’ I said quietly through my unshaven whiskers.

‘Oh!’ she replied with a look of disbelief, ‘well of course you can help as well.’

As I sat down I could see her talking to another organise and it was clear she hadn’t believed my ‘volunteer’ status but assumed I was homeless but too proud to say. In the end I relented, had my dinner, won a game of bingo and took a new jumper home with me.

I take a look at the website where you can volunteer your services but it seems they are over-subscribed this year with help. If you are going to be alone at Christmas though you can still come down to help. I’m not going through that again even if I am in need of a new knit.

The last two Christmas Days don’t give me much to offer in way of finding the whole fun side of the festive season.

Two years ago I spent it alone sitting on the toilet with diarrhoea whilst simultaneously vomiting into my sink. At least I didn’t put on weight.

Last year I got a little further by managing to at least cook a Christmas dinner but the night before and throughout the day I was being sick again. I didn’t get to eat a thing.

I’m slightly concerned that should the same vomiting bug hit me again this year it will have become a ‘tradition’. Each year people will say ‘oh you can’t pull your cracker until Mark’s vomited’. They’ll have little toilet shaped baubles on the tree, porridge will be provided as a desert to represent the suffering I go through to save mankind. You’ll get your kids to put out the Christmas bucket and see if Santa has left a spurs in the morning. I can’t let that happen.

So what do I do? How can I find this joy that seems to have left me at childhood? How do I embrace the bright lights?

I could get inappropriately drunk and photocopy my behind? The trouble with being retired is that your office party consists of only one invite. There is a slight chance of sexual shenanigans taking place but i’d probably just fall asleep on myself.

Maybe I should go and see Santa and let him know what I really want for Christmas? Sit on his knee, smile into those twinkling eyes and give him a little tug on his long, white whiskers. The trouble is I don’t even know what I would wish for. At least I’ve been a good boy this year so I still have the chance of some lego.

The problem is I’m too remote from people, I’ve become a hermit. I just need to see those I love and share in the silliness of the season. Laugh, throw a snowball, sing carols and drink spiced cider.

So if you see me this Christmas make sure you make me smile and shout ‘It’s Chriiiissssttmmaaaaaaaas!!’

As a small Christmas gift to my handful of readers I thought I would share some of my new found spirit. If you’ve read my book you’ll know I try to play the guitar and a few other instruments all with the ability of a small, partially deaf, child. I year or two ago I recorded a small tribute to the Christmas tunes we all really used to enjoy when we were young.

So sit back, get a glass of eggnog and enjoy a slightly disconcerting version of ‘Little Donkey’ by me. x

101 Ways to Convince Your Psychologist You're Normal: Slush

I love slush. Not the muddy type that makes skid across the road and fall on your posterior, but the brightly coloured, sugary type that makes your brain freeze. More importantly I love a Slush Puppy.

I’m sure I should be past Slush Puppies by now but my alcohol consumption has regressed to such a level that even an alcopop doesn’t really offer enough sweetness and post-consumption energy.

There is something about the friendly little dog dressed in his jumper and knitted bobble hat that just draws me in every time. Slush Puppy. Yum. Don’t mix colours though, oh no, that could be dangerous. Only a fool mixes his slush and I think we’ve all seen what happens to those that do.

As I sit slurping the icy goodness I wonder what made the slush people go for a dog as their brand image. Do dogs like ice I wonder? And do they only like it when it’s provided in a semi-melted state?

Apparently some nice gentleman called Will Radcliffe invented the Slush Puppie in 1972. He doesn’t mention why the puppy, plus at 40 years of age he’s hardly a puppy anymore. Staggeringly, since launch over 175 billion cups of slush have been enjoyed by just us european folk. That’s a lot of slush.

It doesn’t seem he ever got round to naming the puppy which seems a shame and sadly our friendly sloppy ice salesman died in September of 2014.

It must be the sugar but the more I slurp the more my mind has started to get upset about Slush the poor unnamed puppy, and I’ve even started to wonder if he’s related the the Hush Puppy? What is it with the ‘ush type brands and their love of dogs?

Well the Hush Puppies dog is a similar sort of Bassett Hound but luckily for the Hush version it seems his real name was Jason. Jason? A dog called Jason? These Americans really are a strange lot I think.

Maybe the brand concept should be taken further by other stores:

Lush Puppies* - small pieces of bath bombs and soaps all wrapped up in your own small doggy bag, perfect for those who just want a little smelly pellet of everything.

Homebase Gush Puppy* - strong, sticky backed neoprene tape that can be stretched round leaking pipes for an instant fix. Safe and strong, stop that leak before it becomes a gush.

Andrex Rush Puppies* - small individual packets of five moisturised toilet sheets, perfect for when you are caught in a rush. Carry Andrex Rush Puppies with you every day and never again have to face that paper-free cubicle.

*all ideas are a copyright of Zico Watson. Further product ideas available on request.

My one gripe is that this middle aged man can’t seem to enjoy the delights of a Slush Puppie from the comfort of his own armchair, thus avoiding looking like he has stolen some small child’s drink from a different bowling lane.

This I must solve. I want adult slush and I want it now! And no I don't want a cocktail, I want a man’s drink for I am a man!

It seems like it should be a simple formula, after all you need a sugary drink that has reached freezing point but not yet fully frozen. With equipment in hand I am soon on my way to making my own sugary heaven and I can share with you all the steps you will need to take to make this for yourself.

First you will require the following:

A freezer

One can of beer (any sort, so like me go wild and use Asda’s own bitter)

Your favourite glass

A pair of scissors

Some warm gloves

A few sheets of kitchen roll

Step One: Place your chosen beer inside the freezer compartment. 

Step Two: Wait for approximately two hours. 

This is the hard part. As a man I completely forgot the preparation time required and found myself wanting the slush immediately despite it only just going in the freezer. I ended up having two cups of tea, a lump of cheese and getting lost in a football match on TV. Preparation is key.

Step Three: Remove your beer and pull the ring pull open.

Step Four: Take the kitchen roll and mop up the mess that is on the worktop and floor.

Step Five: Pour a dribble of icy beer into your glass allowing the newly formed slush a little more freedom in the can.

Step Six: Put on your gloves and use the scissors to cut the top off your beer can (If like me you find you have cut your finger it would be best to find a plaster before any blood get’s into your icy nourishment.)

Step Seven: Pour the slush into your glass and enjoy your drink!

It really is that simple and despite my slush melting after five minutes I found it more than adequate given the amount if time I’d been waiting anyway.

Man slush. Slush Dog! And a dog with a name, probably Tyson or something and certainly not Jason. I think I probably need a few more runs at it before I go on Dragons Den but I can see a whole new market opening up like a calving of a giant glacier!

I might try a Guinness next. That would be amazing! Especially if the ice crystals formed a lovely white snow cap on top of the stout’s goodness.

After all the excitement of the day I am soon in bed and looking forward to my new venture.  What a kind, Ohio man started back in 1974 I will finish off in 2016! My mission awaits.

101 Ways to Convince Your Psychologist You're Normal: Colin The Bottom Man

I am sat with my mother. I don't often sit with my mother but she had requested I do so. Normally I would grumble but I'm offering her support. I feel proud. I’m being a good son.

Today we are visiting Mr Colin Oscar Pee and he is going to have a little look up my mothers bottom. Hopefully it'll be a fleeting visit as I really don't want to be here longer than I need to. Mind you hospitals seem so much more fun when you're not actually the patient, especially when intrusive investigations are called for.

There are some clinics that offer the visitor a glimpse into the future, the gastro clinic is certainly one of those as a mixture of pensive pensioners sit perched on their slightly panicking posteriors. If getting old means endless days waiting to be ‘probed’ then I’d settle for an early death.

Like the majority of the elderly we have arrived significantly early, after all you just don't know what could delay you on a five minute drive to the hospital what with all those wards and corridors to navigate. If it hadn't been for the 'nil by mouth' I'm sure we would have brought a picnic.

When I see 'nil by mouth' I generally take that as an indication that I shouldn't put anything in my mouth let alone swallow it, however my mothers interpretation of this rule has been to have beef soup followed by a mug of bovril.

This poses two questions. Firstly how is that 'nil by mouth'? (clear liquids apparently), and who in their  right mind follows beef soup with a mug of bovril? Wherever Colin goes today he is in for a surprise I shouldn't wonder. 

The amount of pensioners staring at miniature watches makes it obvious that that Colin is running a little late, too many bottoms I would imagine and maybe he's just a little fed up of being a bottom man. All that training, seven years at least, and then it comes to this.

Finally my mother is called through. The smiling nurse advises me that I might as well go for a drink as they will be an hour at least, I however suspect it will be longer once they find a combination of bovril and beef that they weren’t expecting.

Just as I find my change I realise that my mother has left me with her coat and handbag. Do I leave it here? Should I take it with me and roam the canteen looking like a small time crook or worse just a man with very strange fashion sense. I choose to stay, I have my kindle after all and a tea would only make me want to wee. God! I’m not drinking in case I want to wee, I really have arrived in my rightful place amongst the infirm.  

Before that thought grasped me I had started to feel very young and trendy amongst my fellow patients and their carers. I don't have a stick, my hearing is good and i'm using a phone instead of a pen and a crossword. One lady gets called. No response. Another call and still nothing. On the third attempt a lady jumps up with her stick 'oh you mean me!? I don't use that name!'

This means either the lady is a little mad and can't even recognise names she has previously had, or more worryingly she just decided that the nurse must be calling her despite it not being her name. In the land of Alzeimers the bearded, middle aged man is king.

As I look around I realise that there are also a few other sons about today nodding politely whilst clearly not listening to what their mothers are saying. We become aware of each other and I make a point of folding my mothers jacket up neatly and placing her handbag on top of it. ‘Hah’ I think to myself ‘your mothers probably wish they had a son like me!’ I feel certain I’m the best son. Maybe one of the nurses has a little medal I could have.

Time passes slowly and it seems that everyone else is returning from Colin and his assistants. Where is my mother? What are they doing in there? 

One old lady returns from behind Colin’s door and slowly makes her way over to her husband. She looks like she needs to take care with every step and still appears slightly dazed. ‘Can we go home now!’ her husband barks as he heads first out of the door. I shake my head in disgust and look around for moral support. I find it. Our looks are full of contempt. How could anyone be so heartless.

Finally my mother appears. She seems jolly and as usual is quick to point out to the nurse with her that ‘this is my son’. This is a disaster as it means the poor lady has been subjected to my life story. 

‘I’ve heard so much about you’ she says. Too much I shouldn’t wonder, and it’s bound to be that nurse I see when I’m next naked again in hospital. Typical.

Before I can ask if it went OK my mother proceeds to tell everyone about the contents of her insides. I shrink inside my jacket as she continues to regale her audience about Colins skills. Faces mix from confusion, sympathy and horror.

‘Can’t we just go home!’ I say rather too loudly for even my liking. The expressions show that I have now lost my place as ‘the best son’ and I have joined the other elderly husband as an uncaring carer.

As I leave I look to the nurse for my medal but none is forthcoming. Feeling a failure I look back to my fellow sons for some much needed camaraderie and support. They look at me with smiling, smug grins, their places in the ‘good son table’ now looking down on mine.

We leave and I hope we don't ever have to see Colin again.

101 Ways to Convince Your Psychologist You're Normal: Heroin & Hookers

I drink tea, quite a lot of tea in fact. I also am partial to a portion of cheese at least once a day, sometimes I even go back for more especially if its brie. Ah brie, how I love your warm, inviting embrace.

Small addictions that make a mid-life man, wearing a pair of slightly too comfortable slippers, smile.

My mind drifts off and creates that image. Is this what I have become? Safe, respectable, boring. Boring? I can’t be boring I say to myself. Only last week I claimed that some post had gone missing so that I could get two for the actual price of one. Living on the edge. Theft by stealth.

I’ve  felt quite nervous since, imagining how the story could break in the newspapers ‘Postman Brings Down Internet Fraudster’. Maybe I should just switch off my broadband until things blow over? 

What was I thinking? Why did I need that little kick of excitement that fooling a multi-national corporation brought? Why are my only addictions cheese and tea? Surely by now I should be at least addicted to coffee and joining swinging clubs for the over forties?

Actually I do have one other addiction but like most actual addictions it’s one I shy away from and try not to talk about. And besides everyone likes ‘I’m A Celebrity’. Yes  I’m ashamed but I know I’m not alone in having that dirty secret.

I take another sip of my tea and push deeper into my slippers. As I try and reflect on my life it becomes apparent that I have had to live by a set of rules dictated by a set of doctors. ‘Don’t eat this’, ‘don’t drink alcohol’, ‘you cant go there’ and you ‘certainly shouldn't insert that there Mr Watson.’

I want to rebel. I want to do all that I shouldn’t. Yes! I will ignore the asthma clinic’s advice about using my brown inhaler more than my blue one. Screw you! 

It’s not enough though. I need heroin and hookers and I’m not leaving this world until I get them!

My respectable self knows that jumping feet first and going straight from tea to heroin could be a bit of a gamble. It’s not that I think I need heroin and hookers now, just sometime in my life. My thoughts of death are so frightening I think it’s only fair that my final curtain call should be made a little more fun, my last few moments a blur of drug induced haze and loose women. Bliss.

That’s decided then. That will show the world I’m not boring and without zest for life. The only questions remaining are knowing when I will die and how to secure an arrangement with the right people to provide the service at short notice. 

Of course I can solve one of these questions by choosing the timing of my own death yet even Dignitas, the assisted suicide service, use the tagline ‘to live with dignity’ which is the very opposite of what I want.

Maybe they have a ‘death without dignity’ section? Looking through their advice though it seems unlikely that they will cater for my needs ‘Frequently, members want to die in the company of those closest to them. Dignitas emphasises the importance of involving friends and relatives in the process'

Friends and relatives? 

They also mention that the barbiturate is added to water and once drunk ‘the patient falls asleep within a few minutes, after which sleep passes peacefully and completely painlessly into death.’

Painless it might be but I would imagine I’m going to be paying by the hour and a few minutes is not going to be enough, although I’m sure some past girlfriends may say I will adequately achieve my goals in that time.

I’m not sure I’m ready for the one-way checkout of the Dignitas clinic just yet but I do need to take their advice and that ‘assisted dying requires careful preparation.’  So where to find my heroin and hookers?

A quick search on google reveals that two ladies have produced a smartphone app where customers can ‘order’ them for anything up to £500 a time. I think of my phone signal whilst in hospital and imagine my final, frustrating attempts to get wi-fi as my barbiturate gets mixed. Ah well at least its promising.

Heroin proves more difficult and I know google isn't going to provide the answer. Somehow I need to find my local dealer and the closest I have come to a dealer was a lad in work who was doing a good line in panini football sticker swaps.

There is only one thing for it, I’m going to have to make my way out of my flat and search for a ‘score’.  I’m not even sure if that’s the correct terminology, but what I do know from watching ‘The Wire’ is that I need to wear a hoody and I should look for kids hanging round corners.

I make my way to a dimly lit park that acts as a thoroughfare to a number of small streets. I sit down on a damp bench and pull my hood up and put on a pair of dark glasses. I imagine I look pretty ‘street’ although my flask might be giving the game away. I tuck it in my pocket. 

Nothing. It’s just cold and damp. Maybe I should be giving some kind of signal?

I try coughing. Short sharp coughs. I choke on myself and actually start coughing more than I intended. Far from being a face in the shadows I’m now looking like someone in urgent need of the heimlich manoeuvre.

I see someone! A thin dishevelled figure appears through the fog. Could this be my dealer? As he moves closer I see he has an even more dishevelled greyhound with him. Heroin chic of the doggy kind. He moves closer to where I am sitting. The greyhound hunches over and does a poo. They leave.

No drugs and he didn't even pick up his dogs excrement. I head home feeling I have had enough excitement for one day. It’s cold and I’m really looking forward to my slippers.

Maybe heroin and hookers isn’t all that.

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

All around me is destruction.  Paper falling from the skies as I stand looking out in panic and frustration.  Why? Why does this have to be this way? For all we have become as a society, for all our achievements, that it should come to this causes me great anguish.

I close my eyes. I close them and begin to wonder what a world would be like where this never had to happen. It’s a beautiful scene full of serenity and calm. It’s sunshine. It’s warm. 

I slowly open my eyes again whilst trying to hold onto the calming images that have now infiltrated my tired mind. I pick up the toilet roll and for the umpteenth time try to start the roll off without tearing it into a million little pieces.  

Why in 2015 are we unable to invent a toilet roll that can be used from it’s very first two-ply sheet? I don't want mismatched bit’s of ply or indeed a roll that wishes only to be one-ply.  I also don’t want to wipe my bottom with various sizes of torn tissue paper, no matter how soft or covered in aloe vera.

Life is full of frustrations.  I’m convinced that we wouldn’t need psychologists or anti anxiety medication if we could just solve a few simple problems. We all cope with the major stresses in our lives but the moment the bus is two minutes late we go into meltdown.

So for today I am a grumpy old man and this is what I need solving in my life. Everything on this list should be proceeded by the age old cliche ‘we can put a man on the moon but we can’t..’  

Actually, now that I think about it, what did people say prior to the 20th July 1969, when man actually did land on the moon? Maybe there was less frustration? ‘Fucking hell why wont my pen work? Mind you we cant’t put a man on the moon so maybe I’m expecting too much.’ Happier times I imagine.

 Anyway, I digress, so here goes:

Lids on jars.  I mean who can actually open these? I’ve seen grown men weep as they try to prize the lid off a jar of gherkins. Yes gherkins! This should be included on the annual ‘World’s Strongest Man’ competition. Stuff pulling a truck with your testicles, this is the real challenge for the muscled freaks.

Lights that don’t light up.  Old bulbs were so magical.  You flicked a switch and there it was.. light. Amazing! Yet now I have to wee in the dark whilst my light decides if it wants to reach full power or not during the next hour.  No wonder they are energy saving.  A light that doesn’t work is even more energy saving so I imagine that’s what the future holds for us.

Forms of identity.  Why do we need to identify who we are in a world where everyone knows every fucking detail of my life as it is? Plus the post office put a card through my own letterbox and then ask me to prove that I am the person it was intended for.  You gave me the card, you figure it out!

Phones actually being able to make a phone call. First there was mobile phones, now there are smart phones and yet I still constantly find myself somewhere where there is no signal at all. You call someone from a snow covered village and leave a message asking which pub you were going to be meeting in. After four hours of shivering you get a text ‘sorry, only now got your message, we all had a great time. Now in the bath’. Fuck off Vodafone, destroyer of my social life.

Giant remote controls. I use ‘power on/off’, ‘channel up/down’ and ‘volume’.  Yet my remote control has 41 buttons! 41! I’m fairly certain they landed man on the moon with less controls than that. In fact I got so annoyed I have become very retro in actually getting up to turn my TV on and off. 

If we are going to have self service checkouts then make them self-service. That little red light of ‘assistance required’ comes up on every visit I make. If I wanted assistance I would have gone to an assistant. Yes I look over 25, yes that is the right item in my ‘bagging area’ and yes I am only buying condoms, milk and a razor blade but that’s just how I live my life.  Would we accept this inept level of technology in anything else we do? Bring back the milkman I say.

Train tickets. One journey, fifteen tickets. One says ‘only valid with your ticket’, the other says ‘only valid with your receipt’ and then you have other tickets that have no real purpose other than to ensure you don’t know which is your receipt or your ticket. To add to that, in 2015 the way to validate your ticket is still with a hole punch.

So that’s my grumbling over for another morning as my toilet roll lies shredded on the floor.  Surveying the scene I wonder what my psychologist would say to it all? ‘Pull your pants up’ would probably be one suggestion and ‘can we discuss this somewhere else?’ would be another, but ultimately she would probably would just smile and nod her head. Or cry. Yes probably cry.

One final thought. I was reminded whilst writing this that it had been World Mental Health day recently and hurrah for that as we need to promote that mental health issues are not something to be afraid of.

It got me wondering though. Is there a World Alzheimers Day and if there is do they have another one two weeks later when they've forgotten they had it in the first place? 

101 Ways to Convince Your Psychologist You're Normal: Mid Life Crisis

I am standing alone, surrounded by an assortment of cotton garments with only a young, blonde and trendy girl in her early 20’s for company.

I am a man in the midst of a mini mid-life crisis.

My entire life seems to be fuelled by life’s inevitable ageing process and the desire that we should remain bouncing happy souls leaping from one exciting trampoline to the other. I am 45. I don’t bounce. I more do an over enthusiastic rock star leap that is followed by a bend over, exhale of air and a realisation that both of my legs will no longer leave the ground at the same time.

‘No’ I say to no-one in particular. ‘I will not start moaning about what it’s like to grow old!’  I don’t want to end up becoming one of those people reminiscing about what is was like in the good old days. I’m still young! I must embrace it!

Listed on the Telegraph’s ’Top 40 signs you are having a mid-life crisis’ is such things as still going to festivals, buying an expensive bicycle and starting to dye your hair.

The day I start taking advice from the Telegraph will be the day I am officially in an end-life crisis. Who are these poor fools that make this tosh up. And anyway, I didn’t drive to the shops today in my two seater sports car, I walked! So I win.

Looking around I see a young man with his appropriately aged girlfriend looking at clothes. He starts by picking up various t-shirts that shout ‘crisis’ regardless of your age, luckily he is slowly directed to more suitable choices despite his protestations.

Is this what a mid-life crisis is truly about? Us older folk have either lost the partner in our life to provide some sense to our fashion choices, or have we lost the will to go out with them in the first place?

I look at the younger man and feel pity. ‘I am a man who makes his own choices!’ I roar with the loudness of a kitten with a sore throat. 

As he passes me I can see the makings of a small beard, small clumps of growth in an otherwise barren landscape. I stroke my fulsome yet greying beard and think that the man, or should I say ‘boy’ is going through an early-life crisis by trying to be a man before he is truly ready.

All this pondering has still not lead to a decision and it’s a decision I must make today and one that could alter the course of my life, for I am a man in need of new pants.

The Telegraph does not offer me much assistance on the type of pant suitable for someone of my age but I take a punt and assume Mark’s & Spencer's would be the retail provider of choice. Conservative, middle England, ageing and suitably spacious.

There is something that is striking about M&S when you first go inside and it’s the absence of any notable stairs. Escalators yes, but stairs no. Top Shop seem to just have stairs, and H&M offer an escalator one way but stairs down again. It’s as if we slowly lose the urge to walk anymore for fashion. You know you are in a mid-life crisis if you are walking to get there, otherwise you're on the escalator to comfy, slow death.

I make my way up through the floors feeling unease as I pass every zipped, thick cardigan. I’m soon faced with an array of socks and a variety of briefs and trunks offering ‘comfort’ and a ‘cool and fresh’ range. Old people obviously like their private parts to be just like their eggs, and hopefully not hard boiled.

Who doesn’t want ‘fresh’ anyway? ‘Ooh look some un-fresh pants!’ I imagine the youngsters to say as they return from a festival on their overly expensive bike. Idiots.

My choice of colours seems to consist of various shades of grey and black with the odd purple strip or two thrown in.  There also is a lot of white, which considering the leakage issue of the elderly seems like a risk. 

Over in the corner an elderly couple are looking at the briefs. The gentleman looks in a state of true bewilderment whilst his wife proceeds to say things such as ‘you won’t want a waistband’ and ‘you want to make sure they have some give in them’.  It genuinely looks like the only way to maker her husband smile would be to say ‘I’ve booked you in at the euthanasia clinic.’

It reinforces my belief that I am young. A mid-life crisis just shows that you're not prepared to give up yet. You're still embracing life over death, and whilst you might be closer to it you still aim to die in the arms of an expensive hooker with cocaine plastered over your rock-star leather jacket.

Rah! I am young and I’m going to defy you M&S! I am going to run down your escalator and make my way to the land of youthful wonder that is H&M!

Colour! There before me is tantalising colour! And jersey shorts offering all sorts of patterns. Even David Beckham, a mid-life crisis man if ever there was one, stands proudly in his elasticated waist and button fly.  Ah yes the button fly, made for the young who have time on their hands from the need to urinate to actually urinating in itself.

I select carefully knowing that every woman will judge me the moment my jeans come down and plump for some ‘Evil Knievel’ style blue with white stars and some red and white ‘USA’  flag type jersey shorts. I even get some with little fox’s on as every woman likes a little furry animal in their life.

Readily armed I head back off home proud to have not fallen for the lure of old age just yet. I am full of vitality, vigor and youth. I am a festival going man with a new set of pants.

I get home. I try them on. They are not comfortable. I sigh.

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.