Why Topman Isn't Top Dog For Men in Their 30's

It was a mistake. It could happen to anyone.

I wandered into Topman looking for a pair of jeans. What greeted me was horrifying. Hordes of beautifully thin fancy boys wearing yellow skinny chinos, nautic loafers with more hairstyles between them than a Travelodge plughole. They were all staring at me. I was a pigeon amongst peacocks.

Not a wood pigeon either. One of those scabby city pigeons that have had their feet pecked off by their mates and despite not having facial features that lend themselves to communication, seem to be definitely saying KILL ME, PLEASE?

What was I doing here? As unwelcome as a veruca in The Sock Shop, I felt like Carrie post-pigs blood: confused, scared. And fat. Massively fat.

When I was a kid I used to feed the ducks on the canal but I’d always end up getting chased off by a gaggle of geese, hell-bent on making off with my breadcrumbs and dignity. This feeling was familiar but these geese were splendidly bedecked in split denim leather cardigans and three quarter length skinny cords.  I was dazzled by their beauty but knew I had to get out.

“They’re all gonna laugh at you!”

I started running past the jeans that you can’t get into unless you have a severe flesh eating disorder. I leaped over the ‘XL’ t-shirts that wouldn’t fit a Hobbit whose mother smoked through pregnancy.

I thought I’d found the exit but found myself staring down the ‘up’ escalator like Indiana Jones at the top of that waterfall.

I was surrounded by the real life mannequins (great name for a pub covers band) and in a state of panic. I was just about to start swinging a pair of tassled desert boots around my head when I noticed the focus swiftly changed to a different part of the store. As I peered around the stacks of bleach wash spray on jeans I noticed an older, larger gentleman had wandered into the shop.

My god, what was he wearing? Baggy cargo pants and a loose fitting Umbro sweater. And what’s that in his hand? In the middle of the shop, he’s only eating a fucking Greggs.  

What a schmuck. He didn’t belong here. We must punish him.

I joined the herd...

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Chatting Up Girls

There’s a Latin word for the young male who is adept at flirting with the opposite sex and that word is ‘arsehole’.  Of course, this comes from my own bitter teenage experience of chatting up girls being as successful as a Mogwai in a Miss Wet T-Shirt Competition.

If they didn’t go for the creepy open-mouthed staring then I’d have to try and start a conversation with words and everything. If you’ve ever tried to start your old banger of a car in the depths of winter you’re getting close to how impossible it was. If you imagine that car is also partly underwater whilst crack-crazed gibbons partied on the bonnet you’re getting closer.

Even worse was if a pretty young lady started talking to me I’d just freeze and turn bright red like a chameleon caught by his missus for not deleting his browser history.

So I’m not coming at this from any position of authority. But this was gold.

I was sat in a college canteen waiting for a meeting and there was a group of girls just minding their own business, talking about typical girly stuff: make up, hair, which one of One Direction they’d like to visit Second Base with. (Why the fascination with furniture shops?)

Then out of nowhere this lanky, overly confident lad strode up to them.  He was full of verve but this wasn’t genuine confidence. This was knock-off-fake-label-from-the-market-will-defo-shrink-in-the-wash confidence. I knew it, the girls knew it and he knew it.  But the jig continued.

He started to talk. Loud, brash, bold.

And even better - he’s putting on an American accent! At least I think he’s trying to be American. I don’t think he’d been classically trained, but if so I hope he kept the receipt. He sounded more like a Canadian in anaphylaxis shock.

“So, when’s your birthday?”

It could’ve been worse. He could’ve said star sign.

“Er, mine’s in May...”

“Oh yeah?  Mine’s in April.”

This guy is flying. He turns to the second girl.

“When’s your birthday?”

“June.”

“Mine’s in April.”

Wow. His birthday is in April! Always good to start with the most interesting thing about yourself I guess.

At this point the third girl is semi-turning away whilst trying to will her phone to boot itself up quicker than is technologically possible. Because she isn’t a Jedi, it doesn’t load up and he hits her with the question that by now we all know is coming.

“When’s your birthday?”

BOOM!

“November.”  

“So’s mine!” he says, to the surprise of everyone listening (me).

I wanted to shout YOU SAID APRIL A MINUTE AGO YOU MORON but that would’ve blown my cover so I whispered it into my sleeve instead, FBI style.

Instead of realising this guy was a fraud, Girl No 1 is vexed.

“How can you have two birthdays?”

Panic flooded his face, like he’d left the oven on in April and it was November.

“April’s my American birthday. I celebrate my UK one in April.”

“Ohhh, so you’re American?” said the Stepford girls, in unison. (Not the trade union, they just spoke at the same time.)

“You betcha sweet ass I’m American!”

Short of cramming the phrases sidewalk, Uncle Sam and relaxed gun laws into the sentence, this was all a little clichéd.

“We all thought you were from Newcastle.”

“Oh, I spent a bit of time in Geordieland last autumn. I mean, fall.”

Jesus. This reverse Dick Van Dyke routine was a riot and even the girls were starting to snigger. Catch Me If You Can this was not.

Then he asked for their phone numbers. Not one of them in particular, just a blanket question like he was conducting a survey. In a remarkable turn of events, two of them gave him their digits and he strutted off into the sunset.

I guess the world loves a dickhead.

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My 5 Worst First Dates

Everyone has been on at least one bad date.  I’ve been on plenty.  Here are my top 5.

1.Liar Liar Pants on Fire

This girl strolled into the bar with the following opening gambit:

HER: I need to tell you this – I lie all the time.

ME:  Okay.

HER:  Yeah, my last boyfriend and I split up because I couldn’t stop lying to him about everything.

ME:  Ah, right.

HER:  We loved each other but it just couldn’t carry on like that.

ME:  Hmm, okay.

HER:  Just thought you needed to know before we start.

ME:  Ah well, do you want a drink?

HER:  I’ll have a Smirnoff Ice please.

ME:  Is this a trick?

I doubted every single thing she said after that, so I decided to join in and start making stuff up.  By the end of the night I’d told her I was a stuntman, was forty-third in line to the Danish throne and worst of all, that yes, I’d love to see her again.

2.You Remind Me Of Someone

I’d got chatting to this girl on a night out with some mates.  She seemed lovely and we arranged to meet the following weekend.

As we got our first drinks in I remember looking at her and thinking she really reminded me of someone, but couldn’t immediately figure out who.  Kind of like when you see an actor out of context, it can drive you to madness (or Google, which I find is more user-friendly).

The night wore on, the drinks kept coming but still I couldn’t place her.  Who did she look like?

As we left the bar and walked into the night air, it suddenly hit me like a cricket bat to the face.

She looked like me.

I never saw her again, except when I looked in the mirror.

3.Guess Who?

There’s not many scarier propositions than waiting for someone you met the previous weekend but can’t remember what they look like because you were more legless than a snail who stood on a landmine.

Of course, when you met them on Saturday night they looked like a movie star.  But without the ale and disco lights it turns out that movie was The Hills Have Eyes.

Standing there waiting is like playing a roulette table.

Right, she had black hair and she was average height. I think. Oh here she comes now.  Wow! She’s lovely, well played me!

No, that’s not her. Oh god, is this her now? Is that a limp or is she just off balance? Christ, what have I done? Just run for it...too late, she’s spotted you. My word, she really is the spit of Phil Neville...

A mate of mine once spent the tail end of a Saturday evening chatting to a lovely tall, blonde lady. It was only when they met for a drink the following week that he noticed she only had one arm. (Maybe she lost it sometime between the Saturday and the Tuesday, in which case she was marvellously upbeat about the whole thing).

4.Why So Intense?

It’s a first date so I like to keep things light. Talk about trivial matters.  But that’s not for everyone.

One girl I was out with decided that the student union bar, 20 minutes into a first date was the perfect place to give me a blow by blow account of her grandmother’s horrific experience in a Polish refugee camp during WW2.  Whilst not disputing the importance of such events I did question this context to give it another airing.

It was made all the more sombre by the rugby team bashing out a Cheeky Girls medley on the karaoke, just as she got to the most gruesome bits.

5. Scored From The Rebound

I once went on a date with a girl who was undoubtedly very lovely, and undoubtedly not over her ex-boyfriend who had left her.

How could you tell this, Sam?  I hear you ask.

Because she told me as she was taking her coat off would be my answer.

She then spent the next hour going on about him and how she was going to show him exactly what he’d lost.  I started to sympathise with his decision.

Then she took me to a bar because she knew he’d be there.  The night ended with her trying to glass him, me holding her back, security escorting us from the building and her punching me in the ear.

I still see him now and again in town. We don’t speak or utter a sound, we just nod and move on, like old cellmates.

Follow me on Twitter @samaverycomedy

5 Things I Don't Understand

1.Lads Who Get Drunk and Get Their Todgers Out

You know the lad.  He’s sound, normally.  At least when sober.   Polite, respectful, your mother used to love having him round for tea every Tuesday after swimming when you were in school.  But tonight he’s had a pint and he’s swiftly morphing into one of the most annoying whoppers since post-war records began.

You need to get him in a taxi or at least get him away from that chap with the prosthetic leg before he asks to borrow it to play a prank on someone.

But what’s this?  Oh shit.  Jagerbombs.  Which irresponsible fuckwit bought them?

He necks two, screams ‘FREEEEEEEDOM!’ and then as quickly as a Mogwai goes all Gremlin on you, starts to undo his kecks.  Before you know it, his pants are round his ankles and his tackle is out for all to admire. 

Except it’s freezing cold and he’s hardly Dirk Diggler, so admire is probably the wrong word.  Pity is probably closer, although not as much as you pity the poor couple on the table in front of him, desperately still trying to enjoy their packet of Cheesy Moments.

This is a situation in which there are no winners.

2.Goths

I’m not having a pop here, everyone has the right to dress and act as they wish, so long as they’re not infringing on anyone else, I just cannot fathom the gothic lifestyle.

For a start, they must sweat like bastards.  All that leather, hair lacquer and face make up.  And let’s be honest here, very few of them look like the athletic sort.  (Hopefully in 2014 we’ll see the first openly-Goth footballer.)

If I was a Goth I think I’d only adhere to it during the winter, otherwise I’d have runny make up all down my face, like I’d been water-boarded in an egg-white omelette.

The second thing is, it must be a nightmare getting ready for bed with all those straps and belts.  Even worse if you were in the throws of passion with a fellow Goth, as surely the mood would dissipate when you couldn’t get your boots off.

“Just pull it Sheila!  No, put your finger in for leverage, that’s it!  No?   They’re still too tight.  Ah, fuck it, let’s just go and hang round outside Quiggans.”

I had a fight with a Goth once.  I tickled him, he smiled and I was declared the winner.

3.Sword Swallowers

How is this even a thing?  It’s vaguely impressive to watch when you’re a kid and you go to some scabby two-bit circus, but how the frig do you find out you’re good at this in the first place?  I remember once walking along whilst enjoying a Solero when I banged into a lamp post, thus pushing said Solero further down my gullet than I would have liked.

My reaction was panic, swiftly followed by relief and then embarrassment.

Not, ‘Hmm,  I wonder if this’ll pay the mortgage?’

4.Maths

Maths makes me feel like a special needs dog trying to follow a riddle in Welsh down a bad phone line.

School was horrible.  To this day I still think they got me confused with someone else - I was promoted into Set 1 even though I was struggling in Set 2.  I spent the a year being bottom of the set by a country mile, similar to that season Derby County spent in the Premier League.

I did however use my maths schooling in a real life situation once.  A load of scallies surrounded me at a bus stop and demanded my phone. 

As they beat the living piss out of me I remember thinking to myself, 'What would Pythagorus do?'  I reckon he would've cried for his mum too.

5.Music Streaming Sites

How is anyone making money from these?  Obviously the sites will take our subscription fees, then of course the labels take their cut, but what about the artists who make the music?  I spoke to a fairly well known singer songwriter who told me she got the grand total of £1.09 from Spotify last year.  That’s not enough to buy half a cup of decent coffee.

The famous story is about Lady Gaga getting something like thirty quid streaming royalties for Poker Face, despite it having millions of listens.  Or something like that, I haven’t really researched this bit to be honest.

Maybe there’s more money in sword swallowing?

Follow me on Twitter: @samaverycomedy