Day 35: Stealing Thunder

Thundercats, eh? Legendary. I've got a fantastic T-shirt with the logo printed on it - it's a tight fit, black - genuinely greyed and weathered by 8 years of wear and tear. The red transfer is cracked vertically through stretching, and aside from my beloved Interpol T-shirt it's probably the only genuinely vintage looking bit of gear I own.

I bought it when I was 17, and whilst I've seen loads of different versions over the years I've never spotted another one that's quite like the one I own. It's been envied by many over the years, and I've had to stop a variety of people - mainly women, to be honest - from stealing it.

I could never give it away of course - the Thundercats are legendary, a classic piece of kids TV history; an unforgettable part of the 80's childhood. But here's the kicker: Honestly? I don't actually remember the Thundercats. I don't remember their names, I don't remember what they got up to on a weekly basis. I vaguely remember the swords, and that irritating furry thing that followed them around, but apart from that, nothing; a guilty secret I've carried around for the best part of a decade.

I'll continue to wear the shirt though, the logo emblazoned on my chest shining as a beacon of shame. Should you see me wearing it in public, you must point at me and slowly shake your head in disappointment - eyes ablaze like a pantomime witch - and I in turn will break down onto my knees, and begin to weep uncontrollably.*

Do you know what makes it worse, though? Button Moon. I remember Button Moon, and every candid detail of the adventures of the blasted Mr. Spoon. There's no justice in the world.

When faced with this kind of adversity, who wouldn't forge a childhood?

* Actual melodrama may vary

Day 9: Shoe Smack

Those of you who have affection for my lungs will no doubt be pleased to hear that I'm well on my way towards actually getting myself into the gym. I bought some suitable trainers (Cheers to Adam Richardson for tips) and a cute little duffel bag to put my things in. I've even filled in the vast collection of health forms to ensure the gym I don't have epilepsy, asthma, a broken heart, or shit limbs.

Today however, I'm worried that part of the process may have opened Pandora's Box. Yesterday afternoon I spent half an hour casually looking at shoes online. Since then, i've bought three pairs of shoes. My colleague George doesn't think there's anything wrong with this, but he may not be the most impartial judge considering the fact that the amount of money he spends on shoes is comparable to the US military budget. As with any ridiculously invented pseudo addiction, it all started very quickly: at around 11:00am today I found out that Adidas were launching a range of Star Wars inspired shoes.


Turns out however, they weren't available to buy just yet. So naturally of course, I went online and bought two pairs of entirely unrelated trainers, for no apparent reason. Most worrying of all was the decision to buy a pair of converse with a design that almost exactly matches my somewhat distinctive red and black gloves. This would have been acceptable, if not for the fact that I already also own a COAT which is IDENTICAL to my gloves. I ran this by a bunch of people I know before clicking the big buy button of course, and everyone told me it was a terrible idea. But in a brash move of fashion defiance I decided to take the plunge regardless, embracing the mindset of the metaphorical man on a bike who's perched on the precipise of a steep slope; his friend recording video from below. It's a dangerous move to make, and I'll probably regret it immediately - but if I send the clip to Jeremy I might just win £250.

But obviously I've justified it to myself that I'll never wear all three at once, but even despite this it's still clearly overkill. I mean, what's the next step on the girlyometer after triple-accessorization? High heels? Glittery mascara? How long till the police kick the door in to find me with an orange in my mouth wearing suspenders?

Clearly Star Wars and Adam Richardson are to blame. I'll start drafting my letter to The Daily Mail later. In the meantime -for the love of god, stop me from buying any more shoes.