Day 19: The Murder

When I was six years old, Boglins were officially the most brilliant thing in the universe. The full size ones with moving bits were always clearly out of my reach, but I was quite content with my collection of Mini-Boglins - which did include a special edition shiny gold one. I strongly recall having the desire to create a display case for them out of cardboard, although I can't remember if this ever came to fruition.

The only thing more exciting than Mini Boglins however, was Baby Boglins. They came in a little opaque plastic egg, so you didn't really know which one you were going to get. My little brother had a glow in the dark one, which I found absolutely fascinating. I'd seen glow in the dark stuff before I imagine, but the realisation that you could increase the strength of the glow by putting it near to a bright light qualifies as being fairly groundbreaking science when you're six years old.

In what felt like a Nobel prize-worthy gambit, I decided one evening it was time to push this science to the limit - placing the illuminated bulb of my bedside lamp about an inch away from the Baby Boglin and switching it on. I then went downstairs to watch Coronation Street with my parents, all the while buzzing with excitement over my undoubtedly brilliant creation - when exposed for this long, it would no doubt illuminate the entire room!

I don't need to tell you what actually happened, because you're not six years old.

The melancholic nature of its googly eyes amplified by the state of it's body and tail, which had now become a nonspecific shape of latex gloop - now partially attached to the wooden shelf it sat on. I'd killed a Boglin. My intentions were good - it was manslaughter at best - but nonetheless, I was panicked. I'd killed a Boglin. Not only that, it was my brother's Boglin. A Baby Boglin, for Christ's sake. I was in trouble.

But I had a plan - it was undeniably foolproof, a stroke of infallible genius. I would quite simply, do nothing. I would not touch it, or look at it. Eventually when my mother noticed the burnt Boglin corpse on my bedside shelf, I would turn and look surprised. I would tell her that I had no idea how it had happened, and that it was nothing to do with me.

Of course, I don't need to tell you what actually happened, because you're not six years old.

I doubt you'll even remember it to be honest, but I'm sorry I killed your Boglin.

Day 8: Two Hats

Sometimes I worry that I'm entertaining myself too efficiently. I'm constantly reminded of a backlog of seminal TV shows I've been recommended. I own a wide variety of critically acclaimed videogames, many unfinished - many still wrapped in cellophane. I've got Spotify in my pocket. In my fucking pocket. I'm continually trying to catch up on all of this, and I can't. This incredibly silly guilt means I often find myself trying to squeeze every moment of my free time trying to catch up - guzzling down other people's entertainment, never having to think of how I could make my own.

I guess the main problem I have is how difficult it's become to be utterly bored. Being bored seems rubbish at the time, sure - but it's also a great catalyst for creativity. Thinking about this has reminded me of a time once on on holiday, where my brother got so bored in an airport that he just started throwing things at my face. Eventually, something stuck.

So today, I'd like to teach you the rules of the best two player holiday game ever devised: 'TWO HATS'. If you don't have any reservations about looking like an idiot in a public place, this game will keep you genuinely entertained for hours. Teach it to children, and you might even shut them up for fucking days.


Two Hats - A Game of Two Hats.

First of all, both players will require a hat. Any hats will do, although some hats are more effective than others. Two hats is best played when travelling somewhere sunny, as this will provide the type of wide-rimmed hat that is perfect for a good game of Two Hats. Feel free to experiment with different forms of headgear to find the perfect balance between challenge and comedy.

The Rules:

- Whilst facing the other player, the aim is to lightly throw your hat so that it lands on their head/face and remains there. Once a hat has landed on your head/face, you are not allowed to remove it until the round is over.

- If the throw fails, the hat remains in the possession of the other player, who then takes their turn.

- If you do not have a hat to throw (because it is on your head/face) the other player takes their go.

- When a player has both hats balancing on their head/face simultaneously, the other player has won the round, and will then shout "TWO HATS!" (Optional.)

- One hat on the head/face of each player resets the round.

- If a players vision is partially obscured by a hat covering their face and yet still manages to land a hat on the other player's head/face, the strict bonus point rulings mean that this player automatically wins the round due to awesome.

TOP TIPS!!

- Use a light, flowing wrist action to carefully add spin to the hat, ensuring it slips itself onto their head without bouncing off.

- Aiming directly for the face can be deeply satisfying, particularly when you manage to entirely cover the other player's face (widely regarded by experts as being the true zenith of Two Hats) but exercise caution; this move is easiest to achieve with wide wicker hats, and despite looking like an idiot, your opponent may well retain good visibility for their next - potentially match winning - throw.

PLAY SAFE, KIDS.

Day 7: What did you get for Christmas?

Gladly welcoming a break from incessant British weather babble, we all love a bit of January small talk. Where were you for new years? What did you get for Christmas?

But the second one - for the last 3 years at least - has always put me on the back foot. Why should it matter what I got for Christmas? I can't see how that would make the day feel particularly special... There's no wholesome sentiment behind this though I should add - I've just accepted the fact that the bar has been set too high. There's nothing you can get me. Literally nothing.

One year, I couldn't wait. On the 24th of December, a stealth mission to Blockbusters netted me 3 minutes of absolute exhilaration. At that point my dad came into my room. Taking one look at the expression on my face, I was busted. The next day it snowed. Friends played in the street throughout the day, egging me to come and join them. I didn't need to. I was exploring icy tundras of my own. So from now on when you ask me what I got for Christmas - I'll tell you all you really need to know: This year for Christmas, I didn't get The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time for the Nintendo 64.

I got a couple of really nice bits and bobs, which i'm genuinely very grateful for. But the fact remains: I didn't get Zelda for the N64. I didn't get it last year either, or the year before. It's a fact I'm very aware of every year. You could buy it for me next year, if you'd like. But it's no good - I won't be thirteen years old.

I can only hope that one day I'll be able to pass this magic feeling on to someone else, because for Christmas in 1998 I got ZELDA, on the N64. And you can buy me anything, but you will never, ever beat that.

You may think me a cynical misery, but I assure you I say all this with absolute joy. I never went out to play that day, closing the curtains to shade the television from the bright white light reflected off the white Christmas that tried to entice me outside. Looking back, I have absolutely no regrets.

So, what didn't you get for Christmas?

Day 4

I want to join the gym at some point in the next week. Word on the street is, flailing your arms around a bit is a pretty effective way of staving off the overwhelming desire to either curl up under a duvet indefinitely or destroy the world with a hammer (3 days sans-nicotine, people - I promise I'll cheer up soon).

It'll only cost me about £15 a month, and there's a gym literally thirty seconds away from my office. Just one slight problem to deal with first however - the entire process of joining a gym fucking terrifies me.

First up, I need EQUIPMENT. Unfathomably dull conversations I've overheard throughout my life have evidently informed the back of my brain that I will need special shoes. Advice from friends remains vague, yet consistent: I should go in and explain what I want them for, and the people in the shop will help me.

This is a kind lie. I've seen your Dad's Hi-Fi. Bloke in the shop said it was top of the range. Every day, grown men inexplicably leave Dixons with enough HDMI cabling to tie a small horse to a radiator. I know what happens when you go to the elephant graveyard.

HELP ME THEY ARE RED THEY LOOK GOOD ARE THEY GOOD? OH GOD.

The website of the gym I've chosen somewhat suspiciously invites me to "Pop down to the Basement... We'd be delighted to meet you... BOOK YOUR INDUCTION NOW", the latter part hyperlinking me to an email address of a woman called Kim.

But I've already been inducted into the world of the gym though, about 7 years ago at 'Dave's Gym' in Northwich - an establishment I feel in retrospect would be more aptly named 'Dave's Macho Academy'. Myself and an equally geeky chap called Ryan went once or twice to PUMP SOME MO'FO'IN IRON before retreating to KFC for a post work-out meal of hydrogenated fat served in red bucket. Ryan admirably seemed unfazed by the world of metal discs and strange contraptions, but I however was consistently secretly terrified of almost everything. I still have very fond memories of this however, and seem to recall that at one point in KFC I cracked what we decided at the time was likely to be the funniest joke ever in the history of everything.

YOU COME DAVE. MAKE GOOD ARMS.

I admit, it's unlikely the gym based in my office block will be anything like 'Dave's Academy for the Mentally N/A', but it still retains a giant '?' hovering above the entire experience. My entire life I've feigned natural competency by simply observing how things work from afar before jumping in, but from what I've read in the papers, spending your nights peering through windows at aerobics classes can have unwanted ramifications.

As I reach the end of my brain splurge for today however, my broken resolve has dragged me to an inevitable conclusion: Next week I'll begrudgingly buy some overpriced trainers and a T-shirt/tracksuit bottoms combo that will somehow manage to make me look ten years younger and ten years older simultaneously, ensuring that I look suitably out of place whilst I fumble around failing to admit that I am in fact still just a frightened boy who'd rather be bathed in the comfort of fried chicken.

But first of all I suppose I'd better email Kim to book my INDUCTION. A woman who apparently can't wait for me to come and meet her. In a basement.

I hope for her sake she's bought enough HDMI cabling.