My 1st day as a Movie Extra (and last)

Today was my 1st ever day as a movie extra. I joined a casting agency a few weeks ago with the sole intention of topping up my income. I just had to note down my experience and share it with you.

I'd just like to point out at this stage I have no delusions of grandeur. I am not a wannabe, trained actor or 'In the business'. I am not star struck or so obsessed with movies that I want to be part of them. I am a normal, plain, bog standard raging ego maniac sober alcoholic lunatic trying to start a new business who needs a little extra income to ease the load. I've never watched Ricky Gervais' 'Extras', though I'm told it's superb, so I'm not borrowing any material. This is purely my experience as a Movie Extra.

By means of background and setting the scene the first problem I encountered was my ego. It's out of control. It tells me I'm destined for greatness and displays an enormous amount of arrogance even though my real life facts do not back up this information. It's hilarious to observe, which I do every day. So I entered into the world of Movie extra work armed with nothing more than a 2 second appearance in a Tesco advert last summer and a physical appearance that apparently resembles 'David Beckham's uncle'. As told to me several times on set today (Bit of a blow as he's 38 and I'm only 3 years older, then again he wasn't a raging alcoholic for 15 years & a hard core smoker for 20)

I should have predicted trouble when I registered a few weeks ago. We were told to turn up at 11am somewhere in London and a strange mix of retired folk, young wannabees and trained actors turned up to have their photo taken and get on the books of this well known TV Extra casting agency, or to give it the correct title 'Supporting artiste' Agency.

I did as everyone else and felt thoroughly miserable. That's when the ego started. 'You're better than this shit'. It went into overdrive and I should have predicted the outcome there and then. Still on I went, registered and resulting my 1st job was today.

It was on a movie adaptation of a very successful novel, starring a Hollywood A-Lister (Mr X) - for legal reasons I am unable to name the film or the Hollywood A-Lister. The most I can say is that the novel is superb, very funny, dark, clever. The writer once described most British folk as 'dressed for the track but built for the pub'. Make your own guesses.

Now before I tell about you about the day. It's important to know how this casting agency works. As an Extra, sorry 'Supporting Artiste', you are effectively scum. A peasant. 3 Dimensional meat that moves. You are a walking prop so it's important not to feel too grand, smug or pleased with yourself.

I'm not too familiar with the industry but this company seems pretty full on. You get an email about the job. Then another email confirming if you're available. Then you get a questionnaire asking you to confirm 'Yes or 'No' if you can do the job. The small print states that 'YOU MUST BE FREE FOR THE AGREED DATES'. If you consistently turn down jobs or if you press yes and don't turn up, they operate what they call a 'ONE STRIKE AND YOUR OUT' rule.

They text this to you several times to remind you the week before & then the day before and to make you totally aware they are on your case, they text you the night before to remind you, 'IF YOU DON'T TURN UP WE WILL TAKE YOUR KIDNEYS, YOUR KIDS, YOUR HOME & SET LIAM NEESON ON YOU WHO WILL FIND YOU, TAKE YOU & KILL YOU'. As I said they are a harsh outfit.

They make you know in no uncertain terms you are movie scum and lucky to even have a sniff of waiting around bored shit less on a set all day for £100.

It was a 7am call on set at a grand old London location, an hour's drive from my home. I woke at 5am, was on the road at 6 and arrived at the venue at the right time. I thought of bailing and going home (or to work) several times but somehow kept going. All the time my ego was saying 'I bet Mr X Hollywood A-Lister doesn't have to fucking drive in does he?'. The Ego had started early, actually before I got up, as it was now comparing a 41 year old sales manager and part time MC/comedian to a Hollywood A-Lister. Good work Ego. It was clearly going to have a field day today.

I reached the meeting point at the catering trucks in one of the car parks and waited around with about 100 other people trying not to get in my car and head home. People were greeting each other like long lost friends (these as I later learnt were the professional extras who all do the same jobs) or standing around looking lost and lonely (me) or running around looking stressed (crew)

We were herded like Sheep into mini buses and taken to the set. It was on the mini bus that I experienced my 1st professional extra. It was an old boy who clearly knew the score and took great delight in telling me what films he had worked on, the actors he had met and a lovely tale about how he bumped into 'Rupert' (I'm thinking Everett not The Bear) in Covent Garden yesterday. He dropped in loads of slang when mentioning film. At one point he said so and so was an expert at DP. I stirred at this point as DP in my language is porn for Double Penetration. I was saddened to hear he was talking about Digital Photographer. He was a Movie Extra bore who borrowed other people's talent as his own and had been doing it so long had woven his life into being 'in the business', even though he was as much on the fringes as Norfolk is to Britain. He was effectively the human equivalent of Norwich.

Then it was straight into the glamour & excitement of being on a movie set. Plastic chairs, long tables, freezing cold and Waiting, lots of waiting, waiting and more waiting. All the Extras were herded into their pen (we had a separate area) but my hopes were raised at registration when they put me down as a 'featured part'. A named part where I would wear a costume, have different direction, maybe a speaking part and more money. Yes!!!! An upgrade to a bigger part, recognition and an invite into Mr X Hollywood A-Lister's inner circle. I'd be snorting coke from a hookers arse and playing cards with the jet set before dusk. I had made it. Something every Extra holds out in hope. To get spotted. To be hand picked and catapulted into Super Stardom

A quick trip to wardrobe department put a kibosh to all that when they looked at my name and said, "We've already got 3 of you in the featured part. There's been a mistake. Go back over there with the 'Supporting artistes'. Nuts my moment of glory shot down. It was back to the plankton and mass of nomad Extras. I was a nobody once again. My ego laughed. Get back to your pen.

It's a blow to the ego when you realise the chemical toilet is actually more important than you on set. You simply don't matter. Extras are lower than catering. You have to know your place and there's only one thing worse than an extra. An Extra who thinks they're above everyone and deserve a role in the movie. That's exactly where my ego sits. Harsh.

We were lined up and I was picked to partner a very glamorous woman as my date in the crowd scene of a glam darts match from the 80's. We were placed on a side table and told to cheer when the darts caller (delivered not as well as I would have) shouted 180!!! Our table wasn't even in shot so we all faked enthusiasm and I called on all of my 6th form drama lessons and threw false beer in the air and clenched my fist as a pretend darts player pretended to throw darts into a board at a pretend darts tournament with a pretend darts caller calling out 180 which didn't really happen (he got 45) to a bunch of people pretending to look interested and pretending to cheer. It was an odd start to the day,

They fucked around with our positions. 5 people were taken from our table and put closer to the action. The runner or 5th hand to the director twice removed (Essentially the equivalent of Princess Beatrice of importance) shouted over our table to someone who looked slightly more important and said "Don't worry about this table. These are Overspill"

Great. Demoted from the lowest possible position on set (Extra) to something lower, termed as 'overspill'. We didn't quite know what it meant but I figure it was the film set equivalent of Nick Clegg. We had hit rock bottom. To be fair to my Ego. It laughed hard at Overspill and managed to take it in good humour. Cracking jokes to anyone who would listen and received vacant looks. It made me laugh though.

The morning passed with exceptional dullness at this charade. 100's of people seemed to be employed as crew. Most holding ear pieces and running around like they were on The Cube. I'm not in the business so I don't know all the correct positions on set. But from what I could tell. The main dude was the Director (Dude 1). He had another dude (Dude 2) who shouted at everyone telling them what to do all the time. Then when Dude 2 stopped shouting, Dude 3 would come in and check the shot. This would then involve a team of Dudes (4,5 and 6) to debate the scene forcing a load of other technical Dudes to redo everything and shoot it again. My favourite was 'White board dude' and 'track' dude. Their job was solely to hold stuff up or lay down track.

Then you had the actors. These were looked after by make up and a team of lighting and other 'dudes' who gave them direction, encouragement and tea. Within these actors we of course observed Mr X, Hollywood A-Lister. THE DUDE, who remained stoically still, vague and slightly above everyone else throughout. However it was comforting to see the star of the film also looking like he wanted to end his own life after 3 hours of the same scene. We were not alone.

We broke for lunch. Crew and cast had a great spread, 5 choices of lunch, salads, meats, cheeses, tea, coffee and their own catering area. We had a take away catering truck which looked like a Kebab van from the 80's. I didn't fancy any of the shit unhealthy food on offer for us Plankton and helped myself to the only healthy thing on set from the Crews spread. A bit of salad and Mackerel.

This is when one of the White board holder upper spotted me and the following conversation took place; I've renamed him Mackerel Wanker

Mackerel Wanker - '"Oi that's for crew that is - your truck is outside"
Me - "There's no food left "
Mackerel Wanker - "That's not my problem put it down"
Me - "Calm down mate it's only a bit of fish"

I anticipated a stand off over the mackerel. I was actually munching on it and tensed, ready for him to try and grab it out of my mouth. Maybe this bit will get written into the film. Me and the Mackerel Wanker fight scene. Mackerel wanker standing for all those self style jobs Worth's who think they are better than who they are and only feel good about themselves by putting others down.

In the end nothing happened. he carried on being overtly sexist to the catering girls and I retreated back to the Supporting Artiste Pen. perhaps they should have given us a cage and just thrown in food at feeding time.

In the afternoon we shot the scene again this time from a different angle and this is where me and my new mate. Matthew the Punk & I hit the big time. The table next to us was one away from Mr X Hollywood A-Lister, in the back ground. Dude 1 brutally removed all the ugly fat girls from the table and replaced them with stunners. A simple 'can you lot stand over there and these girls stand in your place' was used. It was brutal and quick. There was no room for molly coddling on this set. He may aswell have said. 'Can all the Ugly ones please move to the side and let the better looking ones into the background shot please'.

We marvelled at the brutality and acceptance of this cull. We noted the remaining blokes just didn't match the newly brought in tottie. They were more Kwik Fit advert and punching well above their weight. Then Dude 2 (Sergeant major) shouted 'Can those two guys in the back come and replace these two here'. We looked behind us but he was talking to us. 'YESSSSSS. We had been upgraded from overspill to the big time. One table away from Hollywood. We were in the big time here. Prime location in the background of the camera shot straight at Mr X. A luxury upgrade

Fuck you overspill. No longer would I have to bore my future grandchildren and replay them the scene and say 'can you see me? Look at Mr X, then behind him. The bloke behind him, Well if you look past him you can see Grandad's right ear. That's me. Overspill"

No instead I will be able to show my future off spring (I know that's a projection as I'm not even married yet) the scene and Grandad will be there. Right behind a Hollywood A-Lister. Fucking Yes. The big time. That's got to be worth at least another tenner on my Extra contract. One table away. I could almost smell the glue on his wig. It was exhilarating.

I have to say I found the whole acting a silent exciting conversation difficult. Especially when my alter ego was shouting 'prick!!!!' in my ear. The self consciousness of a self centred fear based alcoholic ego maniac can be overwhelming at times.

I had to mime a conversation with a girl opposite me. I can't lip read & couldn't make out what she was mouthing to me so I had an awful moment of self consciousness, panicked & mouthed back the first thing that came into my mind. Unfortunately it was the word that is on my Fridge from Fridge scrabble which I looked at this morning before I left. The word was 'CockSpill'. My mind must have made the connection from 'Overspill'. The poor girl clearly lip read and instead of looking like she was enjoying herself, she looked like she'd been told her Family had been killed. It was a look of genuine shock. Or was it confused? Perhaps even appalled? I really hope that makes it in. She didn't really look at me again. Mind you I don't blame here. If any stranger mouthed the word 'Cockspill' to me I reckon I would throw them a swerve too. Maybe acting's not for me?

We were excused again. Then recalled. Unfortunately Matthew the Punk and I were relegated back to our original positions. The heady heights of Hollywood greatness were taken from us. Back to overspill. We had our day in the sun. The big time was so fleeting but we will always be left with our memories.

We were out of shot. Out of luck and out of energy. It rolled on and on with all the Dudes fussing endlessly. At one point I asked my table 'Is anyone else losing the will to live?' but was met with blank looks. Just me then. What's wrong with these people? Are they actually enjoying this? Luckily a couple of girls who had been dolled up all day agreed with me, making me feel better. Solidarity.

My mind was gone by now. I had had enough. 12 hours on set. Very little sleep. Tired. Bored. Grumpy. It was interesting to observe the more tired I got, the more my Ego shifted from ironic sardonic detached humour into downright hostility, shouting 'You should be in this fucking movie' on constant loop. Hate it when that happens as it takes over and I become a genuine miserable horrible bastard.

Did anyone else have this inner monologue? Did the 150 other extras go through such mental torture? I figured it was the alcoholic ego so I told it fuck off and everything was cool again. After all I actually chose to do this. My bad. Not theirs. Always easier to apportion blame elsewhere isn't it Nicholas?

We finally finished at around 7pm. As the professional Extra reminded me, "That's a wrap" (cheers for that cock head) and we were treated to a 45 minute queue to get our days timesheets filled in. The final humiliation. Mr X, Hollywood A-Lister was half way to Park Royal Travelodge by now sniffing coke from 4 hookers arses in his Blacked out Bentley. Instead we had to Queue like Teenagers waiting to French kiss Angela Eagling before we could even begin to fight our way home through the traffic.

The final nail in the coffin was being reminded we had agreed to a 2 day job and we were to be on set in exactly the same clothing as yesterday at 6am tomorrow. Fuck me!!! 3 hours kip and another 12 hours of hanging around as Cockspill for £100. Desperate.

I considered not going but the agency will just take my Kidney's and kill my family so I guess I should turn up. Plus the lovely woman I was paired with through out the day (Lead singer of Bony M as It turned out) taught me an invaluable lesson. 'If you make a commitment you stick to it no matter what'. Good advice I think I should heed. So I guess despite everything I did actually learn something today. It was worthwhile, plus I got a good blog material out of it.

Lets hope that Mr X will invite me into the inner circle tomorrow. If I was a betting man I would say this won't happen. Nor will I get upgraded to supporting actor. Nor will that poor young actress stand opposite 'Cockspill' guy. But I'd be well happy to wager that it will be my last experience of being an Movie Extra. The Nick Evans is better than that. I'm going to college to learn how to hold a white board. Even Mackerel Wanker was better paid than me today and he got a better lunch.

Never Again

The Nick Evans

PS - Yes I did go back and no I didn't get upgraded. All day as overspill. Serves me right right huh Ego?

xx

An Unfashionable Fashionable Holiday in the UK

When I think of holidays, I've become used to thinking of golden beaches, tropical scenes, long haul flights. Generally I think of abroad. We all think of different things when it comes to holidays, that's just the 1st thing that comes to my mind. What do you think of?

 

What is a holiday though? It's an escape right? A get away from every day life and all the stresses and strains we accumulate. It's a mental and physical break from our routine that's supposed to refresh & and bring a spring to our step. God knows I needed it.

 

Faced with the prospect of a long winter, with my mind busy from ideas, projects & must to do lists I was feeling slightly burnt out. I needed a break. Information overload. Emails, Texts, Whats App, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Blogs, Apps, work, life, congestion charge. No wonder we get frazzled.

 

So where to go? A week in the sun? North Africa? Turkey? I heard there are some amazing deals in Egypt this time of year if you don't mind the occasional Civil War riots.

 

In the end a new fiscal reality in my life (trying to start a new business) meant that it was holiday on a budget. A simple affair. Easy, affordable and one preferably to take an adorable 5 year old British Bulldog & a new girlfriend (not necessarily adorable in that order) . I knew just the place. It had to be the UK.

 

It's become fashionable again to holiday in the UK. The recession has forced many of us to reconsider. We live here and sometimes you forget just what it is that's so great about your own country. What makes people from abroad travel half way round the world to come & visit. Sometimes it's easy to take for granted what's on your own doorstep.

 

It's certainly become more difficult to find unspoilt and natural places in the UK to go to. Invariably the best spots have become 'Bankified' - where people with money have bought holiday homes and pushed up the price. Parts of Cornwall, Devon, Norfolk, Kent & Wales have become trendy DFL zones (Down From London) - but that's just part of modern society. No dramas.

 

The price is also quite an issue in some places. UK is expensive. Cottages, holiday lets, guest houses. Even static caravans are pretty pricey in high season. You have to shop around to get a good deal - hence why camping has made a welcome return to the UK's holiday psyche. Getting back to our roots as a nation is a good thing in my book. Anyway I digress there, those bits where I verge onto social commentary are always a little boring aren't they? Still It makes me feel better.

 

Anyway - back to where to go. As a kid, because I was born in Llanelli I used to be delivered to my Nan's for a month in the school holiday. I loved it. Truly exciting for an 10 year old, going on the train from London with a summer special copy of Roy of the Rovers to spend a month by the sea.

 

Llanelli is a town. An old working class industrial port so it's not a tourist place. More headquarters for Disability Living Allowance & Mobility scooters these days although it's not without it's beauty. The Welsh coastline is stunning and Llanelli Beach I consider my spiritual home.

 

 

 

As a kid we used to be taken to Pembrokshire to stay at my Uncle's caravan. Wisemans Bridge, Saundersfoot and Tenby were magical, sweeping bays and beaches of unspoilt and gorgeous coastline with golden beaches, rockpools, slot machines and endless days of fun and adventure. It left a positive stain on my brain of good times and I knew it was the place to go for a week to clear the brain, enjoy some stunning coastline and get some space and perspective to my cluttered mind.

 

If in doubt always return to your spiritual home and nourish the soul.

 

Rhod Gilbert did a big advertising campaign for Visit Wales but I didn't need his ugly mush to know where to go. Pembrokshire coastline for me boyo. South Wales here we come. Tenby all the way.

 

A quick scoot on Google and a midweek break in a cottage was found just outside Tenby. Dog friendly and right on the beach. Cheap break as the kids are back at school and we were away. A week's holiday in the Pembrokshire Coastline - as my Nan would say, therewearethen.

 

This is my 3rd day and I'm loving it. The cottage is cool, the place is adorable. I can see the sea and the coastline is stunning. Bentley the bulldog keeps smiling and we're all very happy. I can feel the layers of London stress shedding from my soul. I like it.

 

Yesterday was our first full day. Here is a brief outline of what happens on a British Holiday;

 

Up at 9ish, dog on a lead and walk out to Lydstep beach. I have never been here. It is small, cute and desperately stunning. A small cove in the Pembrokshire coastline and it is beautiful.

 

 

Not a bad start to the day/holiday. You can feel the space and open expanse start to melt your stress. How can you be worried, fearful or stressed when you are confronted with these views? The dog loved it and it gave us a perfect opportunity to capture one of those cute dog shots that everyone loves. Here's our attempt;

 

 

Next it was time for a run whilst my girlfriend hit the gym. I went out on the coastal path to do my favourite thing in the whole world. Run across cliffs and deserted coves and bays. I find it thrilling, exhilarating, beautiful, peaceful and so so pleasing. I'm at my happiest doing this. Hundreds of feet drops to deserted coves. You pass a few dog walkers, ramblers and retired locals all doing the same thing - looking out to sea looking at the expanse. You feel a kinship and shared appreciation of mother nature. It is stunning and I love it.

 

I did a good hour's run/walk/look along the coastal path which was enough to charge my spiritual tank and it's back to the cottage for a lazy breakfast.

 

Next it's time to go into Tenby for a few errands and mooch about. The Bulldog is of course kept in tow. He's like a celebrity. People stopping everywhere to pat him, touch him, pose for photos. I wish I got that much attention but even I'm not that sick that I get jealous of a bulldog. He's a proper beauty.

 

Tenby is a strange place. The real Welsh don't call it Wales. It's a cute little fishing village that has become a trendy fashionable tourist destination. It's pricey and full of tourists (like me) but it's stunning and pleasing on the eye. Mind you it's still South Wales though so it has it's smattering of exceptionally funny characters (who of course don't realise how funny they are) and we met a few during our stay.

 

As soon as we parked in the £5 car park. We met Dave and Ron. Dave was an old welsh boy in shorts minding the car park and his mate Ron was a northerner carrying an Onion. When we remarked it looked like he was going to take a bite. He informed us, he was just off upstairs to have a meat and Raw onion sandwich.

 

"What meat Ron?" I asked

"I've got corned beef, Ham and tongue. Put it with a bit of raw onion. Lovely"

Sounds Interesting - we remarked. He became almost evangelical on the pluses of raw onion at our interest.

"I just love raw onion, it's so nice. Especially with apple. Give me an apple, onion and knife and i'm happy"

 

See - you don't get kind of character in St Lucia do you? We wished him and his meat & Onion sandwich well and moved on.

 

Within 5 minutes we had seen 3 mobility scooters. As regular readers will know I am from South Wales and South Wales is the home of the mobility scooter. We spotted one spare outside a local working mens club and couldn't resist the classic holiday shot;

 

 

 

Next it was into the small centre where all the shops are. Here I met 29 old girls on a day trip out from Swansea. They all commented on the dog and when I said he likes his tummy tickled just like his owner - I had a choir of 29 old welsh girls going ''OOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHH, naughty". Very funny. We had a nice chat and I learnt they were from an OAP's home and it was their 3rd day trip this year and they had been around town on a horse & carriage, had a pub lunch and were now heading to the beach. Typical Welsh women - they would have talked for hours. That's the other thing about here - people are so very chatty, friendly and happy. It's weird coming from London and takes some getting used to, being open and happy and communicative.

 

Bentley the Bulldog had a photo for an American tourist (should I have charged?) then we went shopping in my favourite shop in the world.

 

 

Everything for a pound + VAT. I love it and it always makes me smile. That's how switched on for the tourists they are here.

 

Next we had a cup of tea on the windswept harbour. Shivering into our steaming mugs as the wind whipped through our insufficient clothing. We laughed how lightweight us Down From Londoners are at such fresh September weather as locals walked their dogs in board shorts and t-shirts. I so need to toughen up. My Grandfather, a former steeplejack would not approve.

 

We hit the beach as the sun came out and Bentley had his first chance to gallop (if indeed a short stumpy bulldog can gallop) on the sand and swim in the sea. This is one of life's pure comedy moments. Bulldogs cannot swim and seeing him attempt to surf was genuinely comedy gold. Still he's better than me so I shouldn't take the piss.

 

It was a joy to see my girlfriend struck by the awesome beauty of the beach and coastline. The sun shone, the cloud formation was awesome, the tide was out and Tenby really came out in it's full splendour. It was breath taking in it's beauty and confirmed why Pembrokshire is one of the most stunning places in the world for me

 

 

We settled against the cliff, laying on the sand with the sun warming our faces. No words were needed. No Facebook updates or tweets required. We sat, we relaxed. We appreciated. It was one of those moments you treasure. Pure holiday gold

 

 

We found a beachside café, ate some seafood, the dog got more attention and then we drove along the coast to some more deserted bays. Parking alongside old couples staring out to sea, appreciating the beauty. catching a glimpse of our future in the rear view mirror.

 

And then it was home. Back to the cottage. Exhausted but content. Peaceful and happy. My girlfriend so tired, she's a London town girl and commented she'd had 'too much fresh air' - why she was so tired which is a phrase I adore. Very funny, so odd, yet so strangely true.

 

It was early to bed. Both sleeping early. Peacefully. Happy. A perfect day.

 

It's Not very rock and roll. Not very headline grabbing. Not the kind of holiday day I would have imagined a little while a go. But you know what? You don't need 5 star hotels. Grand gestures. Over the top activities. You don't need tropical climbs. You don't need to spend £10k to get those post card moments. We got that for free today on Tenby beach. On Pembroke coastline.

 

We got that peace. That joy, that contentment. The sun on our face with our backs against a cliff with the view of the coast. Such space, such expanse. You could almost feel that pressure valve, that knot, that ball of stress in your head letting go. Easing off. Calming down. You can feel the air. hear the gulls, the bells on the boats. the wind whistling against the cliff.

 

It was a beautiful day. A real day. A holiday. Right here in the UK. And that ladies & gentlemen is real life that I so often miss. I'm pleased to have seen it yesterday

 

The Nick Evans

Tenby

Weds 11th September 2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

The Nick Evans on.....Change

Change, Change, Change (but not necessarily in that order)

Oh god no. Not change. Do I have to?

I'm not talking loose change nor a change of clothing. I'm talking about real change. Inner, personal, deep rooted lifestyle change. I'm not going to lie. It's a right fucking cunt of a thing to try and do but there it is. I guess it's inevitable to us all.

Change happens all the time. Even when we don't realise it. The world is constantly moving, weather atmosphere, energy, science, the transfer window (unless it's Rooney, Suarez, Bale - Yawn). Things happen all the time. It's called life and it's perpetual motion. So why do I find it so hard to do?

When I first went to AA 12 years ago, they said 'you don't have to change much Nick. Just everything'. I had no idea what they meant. Only now am I beginning to glimpse what they meant.

There is superficial change of course. Hairstyle. job, partner, place to live, exercise. All of these are valid and lead to feeling better about yourself. However if all you do is concentrate on cosmetic changes they will invariably wear off and that feeling of general dis-ease always comes back.

I should know as I speak from personal experience. I have been attempting these cosmetic changes for 12 years. They don't last. I find deep rooted inner change hard. As do most of us.

The real change they were talking about I guess is on a spiritual level. A deep psychological level. Sure lifestyle comes into that - it has to. But that just sends me into more confusion - do I change things and hope my thinking follows or do I change my thinking and hope my actions follow?

If you're anything like me I hate change. I am like most humans, a creature of habit. 3 sweeteners in my tea, usual place to stand in Yoga, usual seat in a meeting, sweep my hair back to the right. We find solace, peace and comfort in habit. But what happens when these habits affect you? What then?

And how the f**k do you change? How do you get a psychic change? How do I go from negative to positive? How do I go from dark to light? How the f**k do I quit smoking?

Recently it has been becoming clear that I need to make big changes in my life. It feels a little insignificant talking about this when there is so much pain and serious shit going on in the world but I'm going to take the plunge anyway.

If change was so easy there would be no obesity, disease, addiction, death, debt, suicide, divorce and misery. We'd all be cartwheeling bouncing around saying 'I FEEL GREAT'!!!! It would be like a permanent CBBC programme. There would be hardly any pharmaceutical industry, the counselling and psychiatry industry would fold and booze/cigarette producers would go out of business.

Change is ultra hard. Changing habits one of the hardest. Changing your mind set, thinking and spiritual life even harder.

For me I need to be right up against it to change. I need to take things to the edge to even consider another way. I need to be Either spiritually broken, in deep emotional pain or health affected before I contemplate changing. I feel I'm getting towards  reaching that point now.

Things are starting to gather pace and since I reached 40 the clouds are gathering - all of them pointing towards different degrees of change and if I'm honest I can't accept it, I don't want it and it's causing me emotional pain.

Not accepting something and carrying on as you always had because it worked for you 20 years ago, 10 years ago or 5 years ago I believe to be one of the biggest source of unhappiness and pain in the world.

Knowing you need to change but not knowing how or being prepared to try is a painful place to be. I feel a part of me is in that now. And I know I'm not alone because I see so many other people who all suffer in their own way and find change hard to do. It's hard isn't it? Especially alone. How many of us want to get out of unhappy marriages. Hate your job? Locked into the rat race, can't stop eating shit food, feel in a rut? Depressed, unhappy yet every day carry on wanting to change but not knowing how.

It's not the actual changing that's hard it's the ego's resistance to it. That's the money shot. Right there.

For me - It seems that's lots of things I have used or done instinctively over the past few years to make me feel OK, or hold me together are causing issues.

 

 

 

 

Smoking heavily. Gives me something to do with my hands, suppresses appetite and gives me a kick. I am totally addicted to nicotine.  Now my chest is burning, I'm wheezing heavily and it's not very sexy when you're going down on your girlfriend trying to deliver multiple orgasms and you have to stop, rake your throat out of phlegm and then cough up a belter - then expect her to be retain horniness and carry on? I don't see that in the Karma Sutra.

I know I should stop but I love smoking, i'm addicted. I use it as a distraction. I block emotion, feelings and life with it. It is the ultimate avoider.  But how the fuck do I stop?

I Always having to have something in my mouth.(insert Gay joke here)  Either diet coke. Sugar free gum, apple, grapes, cup of tea, cigarette. It's almost on an constant loop. Smoke, stub out, swig diet coke, pop gum, chew, spit out, smoke, stub out, chew gum, swig diet coke, eat apple, gum., smoke, swig etc etc x40 times. Fuck me can I not sit still and just be?

 

It's like a compulsive over eater, or drinker and drug taker always needing the next fix. Am I trying to fill up that empty hole in the soul? Is it the ultimate in avoidance? is it addiction, habit or just bad practice.

So what's the Result of all this? My teeth are rotting from so much diet coke. (god knows what insides are like) - chest wheezing from ultra smoking. Candida in blood stream causing extreme fatigue and hangover like symptoms from ultra addiction to sweetener. And still I continue - why? Because it's whats glued me together since I stopped drinking. I don't know any other way.

 

So what most people will be screaming out by now - why don't you just stop. Most normal folk have a choice in what they eat, drink, do. If they do too much they have that elusive thing called 'self control' and just stop. Addicts seem to have been born without the 'stop' or 'pause' button and carry on until the end.

In addition I have a dodgy lower back from lack of strengthening and years of ultra endurance running/ironman over past few years. (What's that Nick? A feeling? An emotion? Unsure of what to do - fuck me go out for an 8 mile run to avoid emotion or actually doing anything)

There's only so much you can run away from. Only so much the body can take and since I hit 40, holy fuck my body has been shutting down.

Of course it's age and getting older and my body/head are simply telling me. You cannot keep abusing me like this.' It's literally like I'm canning myself and used to feeling shit half the time

Am I addicted to misery? Do I love feeling shit? Is my self esteem that low that I want to keep myself down there because it's a comfortable place to be?

It feels like it is locked into a deeper low self esteem/fear based thing. The habits become addictions. The addictions become habits. You get away with it because other things make you feel good. These things make you feel good sometimes and there's always a little part of me that thinks. 'Well you don't drink or do drugs any more Nick so you can do all that'.

 

Part of me is terrified to stop. I stopped drinking, shagging. drugging. What the hell will I have left? it's the only thing holding me together. Even though it's actually making you fall apart - such is the cunning of addiction. The truth is it will help to set me free. Allow the spirit and real change to kick in yet i'm keeping it out by piling tons of shit in my body.

So - what to do to change this?

• Do you just stop everything? Lock yourself away and don't smoke, drink fizzy drinks, chew gum, stretch and do Pilate's for 8 hours a day whilst drinking wheat grass?

• Do you try and moderate and cut down on one thing at a time and try to slowly and gradually eliminate them from your life? (An ADDICT has no control over this. One too many and a thousand not enough)

• Do you go cold turkey on one thing A time?

• Do you attend a support group or 12 step fellowship over them? (Is there a 12 step programme for sweetener, diet coke, cigarettes, buttered processed meat, cans of tuna, gum, exercise a holic?

• Do you just carry on until your body and minds gives up and then radically change? (why wait until an illness to change?)

• Do you carry on but not change and spend your life complaining and moaning that you need to change but don't (That's my favourite one clearly)

• Do you pray for a total higher power spiritual intervention and psychic change beyond human control?

• Hypnosis/counselling/CBT/psycho-analysis?

My truth Is I don't know. I really don't. I don't have the answers.

The change isn't just about these areas. It's in my thinking too. So long thinking negatively. Feeling I'm not good enough just fucks up any kind of ambition. So long being too frightened or unfocused that I dabble in lots but commit to little.

What do I actually do? What is my direction? when am I going to get on with things? Do I want to try to be a comedian? Why am I not writing and performing? Do I write a book? Do I do a recovery blog and video blog? Which area? Do I try and be funny? What the fuck - aarrgghhh!!!! Confusion!!

I'm as used to a certain way of thinking as I am to smoking cigarettes or chewing gum. I'm as used to procrastinating or putting things off or avoiding as I am downing diet coke. Could these all be possibly linked? How can I spiritually change if i'm loading my body up with toxins and shit?

I've been banging on about change for so long. I go through periods of ignoring it, covering it up but it's always there. tapping you on the shoulder. Like some relationships - you know when you go into one for the wrong reasons? Because your fearful of being on your own but you know it's too painful to try and do it alone and be OK on your own. Putting off real change gnaws away at your soul. It causes deep rooted unhappiness that cosmetic fixes can only alter sporadically

 

 

I'm convinced change can only come

a) - when the person's soul is ready

b) - when they actually ask for help in changing

c) - when the alternative is so unappealing they have to change

d) - when they try hard to and then the 'new way' becomes as comfortable as the 'old way'

I think Change change change can only come with the help of a higher power and the effort of yourself. God will give you the shovel but you've got to do the digging. Then in order to get it Practice Practice Practice. I think it's all got to go. I don't do moderation.

Its a good job I've got all the answers. Trouble is I've smoked 6 silk cuts, drunk 2 diet cokes, 4 cups of tea, chewed 5 sticks of gum during the course of writing this.

Do as I say not as I do should be printed on my T-shirt today. I have the knowledge it's that sodding ego resistance that causes the pain.

That ladies and gentlemen is the biggest conundrum, if we had all the answers and did everything ourselves then there would be no need for religion, church, 12 step fellowships, alcohol, drugs, prescription medication, tobacco companies, breweries, junk food outlets or undertakers.

 

Change is hard. I just hope I'm ready to try it soon (insert prayer here)

 

The Nick Evans

 

The Nick Evans - 12 years sober

Today is August 6th 2013. It is 12 years ago today since I had my last alcoholic drink. 12 years ago since I finally admitted defeat of my self will and gave up the ghost and asked something bigger than me for help.

I finally said; 'Ok god I'm fucked here. I can't go on doing it my way. I'm miserable. I'm desperate. Every time I run into a problem I drink. I cannot stop drinking on my own. My head is a mess. My life is in the toilet, My girlfriend doesn't want me. My job is fucked. I'm on my arse here. Help".

Yes that's right folks it got that bad that I went to AA. Lets face it you've got to be pretty desperate to go to that fucking place right? Church halls and full of weirdos 'sharing', hugging and no doubt preaching God. Oh god has it come to this I thought. This is the pits.

It's a cult full of cults (or words to that affect). Full of lilly livered do gooders too weak to handle things themselves. I'm better than this. I need professional help. Somebody qualified in a white coat with letters after their name. Surely AA is for the brainwashed masses?

The humiliation. The suffering. Who will see me? What will my friends think? Oh god it's officially the end of my life. No more fun. Just church halls, patterned jumpers and jammy dodgers. Kill me now. These are the thoughts that ran through my head. Presumably being arrested, pissing myself, passing out on Putney High Street in my Fulham FC match day uniform and countless grovelling apologies for bad behaviour weren't humiliating enough. But the thought of going to a 12 step recovery place which helps millions of people not die from a terminal addictive disease was. As you can see my thinking wasn't quite straight.

I was 28. Pushing 16 stone. Under my creaking belt I had notched Several arrests, 3 large scars, numerous blackouts, a head that said 'you're a piece of shit', self esteem on the floor, 3 written warnings at work, the nickname of 'besty' in the football club I worked, a girlfriend who couldn't bare to look at me let alone touch me, trousers covered in piss & still I turned up at the door of my 1st meeting and said "Go on then you fuckers. Heal me". My arrogant insane ego was nicely under control.

Only an alcoholic can look down on people from the gutter. Judging and moralising whilst your life is going down the khazi. I didn't think I was an alcoholic of course. I mean I didn't drink every day, was only 28 and still had a job, flat and girlfriend. (Sic - Job was about to go, flat was my girlfriends which I rarely contributed rent too and girlfriend was too nice/frightened to ask me to leave)

Alcoholics are people like my father right? Build up a family and then drink it all away, end up in the salvation army then street drunk for 26 years drinking Tenants Super on Shepherds Bush Green and end up dying of a hemorrhage all alone for 6 days in a state warden controlled flat at the age of 65. That's a proper alcoholic right?

Well yes right but also Wrong. From what I know now. Alcoholism is a diseases that is in us at birth. It is a terminal disease that without total abstinence effectively kills you subtly and slowly. It takes time, it is cunning and will wrap itself around all kinds of mad behaviour. You can get off at any stage, before it gets really bad or ride it all the way to the end but it will get you in the end. It won't be happy until it's robbed you, your family, your girlfriend of everything. Emotion, spirit, energy, money, self respect, self esteem. Everything.

It is like a juggernaut tearing everything in it's wake apart. The scary thing is most people don't even understand it or think of it as a disease. Instead they see it as people drinking too much or lack of control. Trust me it's not. 3 generations of Evans' have had it and it fucks up families, lives and acts as a ripple affecting everyone or thing in it's path.

Addiction is a sickness of the soul that must be filled with alcohol, drugs, food, sex, relationships, gambling. Anything to take away the 'head'. Most normal people of course have a range of emotions and bad days, years and problems. I'm not laying claim that addicts have it worse than others because we don't. It's just the destruction that's caused in trying to blot out these terrible feelings of inadequacy, low self esteem and ego.

But when you pick up and use that substance to change the way you feel because you don't like you. Then it sets off the phenomenon of craving and you cannot stop. It's the same for me in drinking, muffins, sex, relationships, pornography, smoking, diet coke, DVD box sets. Give me something I like and I will cane the fuck out of it until I can't do it anymore. The addict inside me is never satisfied. It is an illness of more and more and more. Rarely is it abated. One is too many and a thousands' not enough as the saying goes.

In my experience only a spiritual awakening of sorts can abate it and that goes for families affected by it too. It is after all a family illness. Do you think a partner of 5, 10 or 20 years is unaffected? Tried to change them? Understand them? Threatened them? No of course not - it's their problem as much as the addicts. But will they see it that way? Of course not the denial in them is as strong as the addicts though they usually don't think so. it is a disease that spreads far and wide.

My 1st ever comedy gig was in the Angel, North London 12 years ago. It was a Sunday. I had done a comedy course for 12 weeks and this was our graduation night. A 5 min gig to an assorted crowd. I had been drinking on and off for 5 months. Making guest appearances to meetings but not seriously wanting to do the programme or get a 'sponsor'. Fuck that, that's for real alcoholics I thought. I just need to settle down my drinking and get my head sorted'. Little did I know you must stop the drinking, attend AA and then the head gets sorted. NEVER the other way round.

Anyway I smoked 116 cigarettes that day, was petrified. Was put on 12th (last) and spent the night pacing. I was due to go on when I had a huge panic attack and thought everyone else was funnier than Eddie Izzard and Frankie Boyle on helium. I'm shit I'm going to bomb, I thought.

There was a girl called Marie. A Yorkshire lass. Tiny. She was standing in the hallway holding a large glass of wine.

I said to her, "I can't go on Marie I'm going to be shit",

 

She said "Don't be silly you'll be fine, have some of this" and thrust the glass in my face.

 

Now I had been off the booze for a week and was going through my Am I? Am I not? phase. I knew booze was the problem but I couldn't get my head around being an alcoholic (after all the yard stick I had was my Father. The daddy of all alcoholics who made Ollie Reed, George Best and Richard Burton look like teenagers) - I was trying not to drink.

 

"I can't drink it", I replied to Marie.

 

"Why not?" she said

 

"Because I'm an alcoholic" I replied,

 

"Fuck off" she hissed "Get it down your neck"

 

So I did. In one. Then I said to her "Get me a quadruple vodka" (which kind of proves the point)

Wolfed that down as well. Did my rather shoddy 5 minute gig whilst shaking like a dog with Parkinson's taking a shit. Then it was over to the pub for the after show where I drank 6 pints of Lowenbrau.

I had a strange sensation in that pub. I wasn't getting drunk and realised that I had been using booze for years to mask my fear, the fact I hated myself, didn't think I matched up and was useless. I realised that when the booze wore off I would still be like this, as I had been like that all my life and the booze wasn't the answer. It was weird. I had the feeling that booze was pointless. The problem wasn't the booze it was me and if I drank I would never fix the problem. I felt I didn't need it.

I got home. My girlfriend was barely speaking to me, in fact she left for a few days and went AWOL. I was sober but not going to AA and I was frantic. She was nowhere to be seen and after 3 days my head was fucked. I wanted to drink so badly. To get smashed. Annihilated. Check out. The head was on fire and I couldn't handle it. Pacing around, chain smoking. 'Holy Fuck, what do I do?'

It was at this moment I realised it was either give in to my head, do it solo and go back to drinking or pick up the phone to a guy in AA who had given me his number and say I need help. I chose the latter was in a meeting that night and haven't picked up a drink since. I gave myself over that night even though I didn't realise it at the time. I needed something else to replace the booze and treat my head which was shouting 'Drink, drink, drink'.

Don't get me wrong I fucking hated AA. Mine is not I went to a meeting, stopped drinking and lived happily ever after story. I Didn't want to be there but there was something about the old school blokes who were many years sober who had probably spilt more than I had drunk, They had something, were talking about real stuff yet were sober, attended AA and seemed to have the devil about them, laughed, didn't take themselves too seriously, were proper blokes & sober.

Despite my head I stayed. I bitched, moaned, shouted, judged, criticised, disrupted, had a huge 'FUCK OFF' on my forehead, I Was angry, So angry I became known as Angry Nick. But I kept sober. I kept going to fuck loads of meetings as despite my head I knew my way didn't work and so began what has been 12 years of slow reduction in my defiance, rebellion and anger.

I grew to love it. All it' imperfections. It's sickos and dicko's, weirdos, freaks and geeks, its magnificent kind souls, its generosity of spirit, it's incredible sound and practical yet deeply spiritual ideals.

I grew to love the people who shared for 15 minutes, even though I wanted to stab them in the eyes, (and ended up sharing for 20 myself) the Chelsea treatment centre lovies who talked of 'boundaries' and 'inner child' that made me want to throw up, the mentally ill who spoke more sense than the know it alls. I grew to love it all. AA, the pub with no beer. The bottom line was it was a more attractive proposition than what I had. So I stayed and have been going back ever since.

I got it totally wrong. It is not a cult. It is not lilly livered or for the weak. It is for the incredibly courageous who make the choice to deal with the hard yards of alcoholism and not drink and try to change one day at a time. It is not church or full of do gooders. We are not saints.

 

At heart alkies are slippery bastards and that's what I love about it. I love that a load of self important, egotistical, intolerant, arrogant ego maniacs (like me) with an inferiority complex all sit and listen to each other and govern the most democratic meetings I've ever seen. We live by a set of principals and traditions that holds the fellowship together. Left to our own devices us alkies always know best & we would tear it apart without traditions. Steps keep the alcoholic sober and traditions keep AA sober.

It is phenomenal. It is humble. It is spiritual. It literally saves millions of lives (and livers) and it is proper fucking ace!

I know there are many who knock it & good luck to them but I know if you are an alcoholic, then a 12 step abstinence based programme is the only thing that works in my experience. You arrive broken and defeated full of self will, ego and pride and slowly (very slowly) over a period of time can recover and live a reasonably normal ish life (as long as the real world doesn't discover how much of a lunatic you really are) with fear, worry, anxiety and rage all manageable.

Don't get me wrong. I'm by no means healed, fixed or recovered. It is a daily battle and it takes a long time to shed old behaviours, thought patterns and addictive personality traits that stay with you like a faithful old dog. Some are hard to shift. I fuck up regularly. Hurt people. Make bad decisions based on self. It's a long haul. Layers of the onion reveal more aspects of the disease. Then after a period of time you find that alcohol is just the tip of the iceberg and a symptom of alcoholism. It is a disease in the person not the bottle and it takes a long time to break it down. You are never fixed but the defective traits get smaller, or easier to spot and head off at the pass.

You have to experience the pain of getting things wrong, running on self will then changing before you can even begin to change on a deep level.

 

I feel I'm only just embarking on that process now, after 12 years. My next ambition. Emotional sobriety not just physical. Fuck knows how long that will take though I'm up for the journey.

I fear I'm being too open here. To honest. It is after all an anonymous programme and I've blown mine all over the shop. perhaps it will come back to haunt me. Perhaps it will work against me. Perhaps people in the fellowship will disagree with me doing it. Perhaps people will think I'm a loudmouth and know it all preacher.

What I do know is they say 'to thine own self be true' and this feels right. It feels good. It feels like me.

 

So to sum up - what's better. Drinking or Sobriety? Well I'll let you be the judge of that - you vote;

 

Here's me when I was drinking;

 

And here's me in sobriety;

 

 

Which one wins?

 

Thanks to all that have helped over the past 12 years. Here's to lost loved ones both in recovery and through the disease.

 

If alcohol is costing you more than money and you want to seek help with your drinking visit www.aa.org

 

** The views discussed in this blog do not represent AA or any other 12 step fellowship, they are my own and should be treated accordingly. I do not speak for AA or any other organisation **

 

PS - Here's a little video I did to pay my respects to sobriety

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tLzhK2x3vb0&feature=c4-overview&list=UUJaFzQu9gPlAntWn6Frz2Ng

 

The Nick Evans

xx

 

 

 

The Nick Evans Mans Guide to Summer

THE NICK EVANS MANS GUIDE TO SUMMER

(Warning This Blog contains partial nudity and misogyny)

 

 

 

It's summertime!!! Britain swelters. The heat wave continues with no end in sight. The Lions beat Australia, Murray is Wimbledon champion, England are caning the Aussies in the Ashes & Chris Froome won the Tour De France. Fuck me, does it get any better for a bloke? All that's needed now is discounted Stella and free hand jobs on the NHS (by Stella) Even Kate & Wills joined in by delivering a Royal baby boy. Don't worry the Mans Guide to being a Royal will follow in the next few weeks

 

With all this sporting excellence I've had a constant semi on for the past 2 months. This is a little tricky when you're sunbathing in your Speedos in the park, but nothing an experienced campaigner can't hide with a handily placed copy of Mobility Scooter Monthly #Nonce.

 

The weather is simply splendid & it feels like the first genuine Summer for ages. Not the measly week of Sun we usually get. This is proper Summer. Pub gardens, BBQ's, River Thames, Pimms, melting roads, rail tracks buckling, long tailbacks, sun beating down from 6am, brown singed grass, thousands of fleshy bodies packed onto a tiny bit of grass, heavy binge drinking & girls in tiny outfits (unless you're in the North of England - then it's all year round) - Yep it's the great British Summertime.

 

Men struggle in the summertime. It's the genetic compound of testosterone, heat, lager & sweaty bollocks. So I thought I would write a little Mans guide to the Great British Summer time to help us blokes get through it and give you girls some tips from the inside to help your man. I haven't tailored it for trannies or hermaphrodites though, so if you are a little unsure of your sexuality simply take the Mans guide, chop it in half and slap on a pair of heels from Primark. It will all make sense then.

Enjoy;

Fitness

Some Men want to show off their body in summertime. Preparations would have begun with endless bench pressing and bicep curls to look good in a vest. Here's a tip for you men. Nobody looks good in a vest. The only way you should wear a vest is if you are in a retirement home. Think Uncle Albert and think on.

Men do not care about proportionate muscle mass, it's all about the upper body to show off the 'guns' and 'pecs'. They may have the legs of a chicken and the chest of a bear but that's all that matters for summer man. The result is they look like an upside down pyramid, otherwise known as 'tossers.'

You will see these strange specimens walking around arrogantly with over large sun glasses and tightly fitting vests to show the kind of body they think is fit and everyone thinks is fat. Tread carefully around these meat heads. Heavy acne on the back and an ultra 'take themselves too seriously' look means they are on steroids. Watch out for this - it will mean they are close to complete violence or mental breakdown. Think Raul Moat in a souped up Astra.

Early morning runs outside in the sun with your top off is a joy of summer for some men. Sucking in the view, the weather and the great outdoors is a cracking way to start off the day. In addition there is always a regular dose of fitties you will pass so the ability to genuinely guilt free perve is immense. Forget the view of the country side check out the amount of camel toes you can spot as they run past in their Lycra. The only way to start a summers day

For men not interested in fitness the Summer poses a problem. Man tits - how do you hide them? Usually with both hands after a regular diet of BBQ burgers & beer. They cannot be covered up by heavy jumpers or jackets, so the faithful shapeless large t-shirt is at a premium. Vests are a definite no go in this instance, unless of course you have no shame, morals or sense of pride. I'd advise any male Fat Goths to remain indoors for the length of the summer. This weather is not for you. Remain in your darkened room eating Black Forest Gateaux listening to Morrisey until Autumn. Only then is it safe to venture out.

Summer Fashion

Men generally have the style of Mary Queen of Shops on Acid. No more is this exposed than during the summer. The hot weather is tricky for men & they generally fall into 3 categories.

Those who never try. Those of who try but fail miserably. Those who succeed in failing but are comfortable doing so.

The best summer wear is of course anything from Sports Direct. This involves 3/4 length tracksuit bottoms/shorts which have the material of bible paper. These cheap little fuckers are actually heat conductors and encourage the terrible man disorder called 'sweaty nad syndrome' . This is when Mens bollocks become over heated and leak down the inner thigh.

 

Any long period of sitting will mean this runs to the arse cleft and once that goes you have an all over sweat situation that no amount of talc or deodorant will fix. This is effectively pants Armageddon and smells worse than a portaloo at Glastonbury. It's groin meltdown, like a BO Bomb has gone off. Stay well clear.

In this instance girls. Never ever contemplate giving him a blow job. You may as well suck off a shit covered Pig. It will be more appealing than your man in groin meltdown.

 

Other favourites of men in the summer is of course the cargo/combat shorts. Usually worn by men who wouldn't even get to level 2 on Tour of duty, let alone real combat. These should never be worn by any man over the age of 40. That's just wrong. If they do, they should be sent to Afghanistan and used as target practice.

 

This is followed by the trainers, short shorts and socks brigade. Everyone knows this is codename for paedophile. Never ever wear this combination unless of course you are a 1970's former Radio 1 DJ or totally deluded.

 

 

The final No go is pale blue shirts. A terrible error in the heat wave and on public transport. This will result in large dark circles under your arms making your arm pits look like they've been crying. This is not a good look or smell and will make girls run a mile. On the other hand if you are a lying bastard MP it maybe a good idea to be photographed once in a while with these.

 

 

This will of course give your PR department plenty of material to spin that you are a man of the people and like 'one of us'. Your not, you're a lying demon politician with sweaty armpits. Get back to your air conditioned Jaguar you cunt and fuck off.

Of course the ultimate for men in summer is the safari suit. It fits all manner of occasions. Work, Pub, Party, BBQ and jungle. It's a top all rounder and if you have the balls (tightly strapped down of course) to wear it you will receive admiring glances, ultimate respect and shot loads of abuse from everyone you meet. Don't be put off boys - our ultimate goal is to do a Roger Moore. Once you have achieved this status you have made it.

 

Sport

A crucial component of summer. For Gods sake watch it on the box don't play it.. A kick around in the park will invariably lead to full rigomortis so it's best avoided. The only sport played should be on the Playstation 2, especially when hot and sunny outside. Wasting a gorgeous summers day whilst trying to get to the Premier league on Championship Manager is an important component of the male summer.

 

If pushed you are allowed to play a game of Swingball against your 5 year old nephew. Make sure you win though at all costs even if it means cheating. If all else fails play an occasional game of rounders. Not for the sport element as we all know it's not proper sport, but because you can laze away in the outfield drinking Cider. The summer sports of choice are of course cricket, rugby Union, cycling, Golf and sweating.

BBQ

The ultimate male domain. This is what separates the men from the boys. No woman should come within 500 meters of the BBQ, unless of course she is naked, in high heels carrying Beer for the Chef. This is purely male territory. Real men shouldn't go for the gas ones. Those are for pussies and men with wispy taches. It's got to be old school charcoal, so the food is black and tastes of embers.

It's a well known fact that Men gauge their masculinity by how they light a BBQ. Firstly pack it with fuckloads of firelighters and twigs soaked in lighter fuel. Then make sure you hunch over it with your face within touching distance downwind with a small lighter and endlessly attempt to light it. Make sure you ignore helpful tips from your girlfriend like 'why don't you use this rolled up newspaper as a torch' and plough on. Your pig headed method should work after 30-40 minutes and by now you should have used every swear word under the sun and made up a batch of new ones. FuckingBBQFuckingwankfuckingfestwanktitbollocks

If you haven't by now burnt your hair then you have lit the thing too easily. You simply must wrestle with it like it's a bear. By now you should have set light to half the garden but at least those bastard coals will be hot. Make sure you put enough on to cook for the British Army and the BBQ will be warm until September.

 

 

Make sure you lump all the meat on together, no matter what size and cook everything for exactly the same time. Employ the 'rythmn' method to your cooking. When it is black outside it is done. Argue with anyone who suggests 'it needs a little longer' by eating several chicken drumsticks, insisting they are fine and developing botulism several days later.

 

Remember Men - NO FUCKING GREENS! The only thing green at a BBQ should be the lawn you cook it on and then it should be burnt and blackened after wards.

 

Seaside

An essential part of the mans summer. You must have a day trip to the seaside. To make it less stressful, avoid driving. Waiting for several hours whilst she gets ready and then load up 8 bags like your going trekking in Nepal is recipe for disaster. If you add kids to the equation you can basically add another 7 hours onto your journey time and 100% stress.

Of course the inevitable traffic and riot in the back seat, with constant demands to stop will mean it would be quicker to get treated on the NHS than drive your family to the seaside. Go by train, it's easier plus there is infinite perving potential behind your sunglasses of course.  

If you are just taking your woman it's a great opportunity to show off your prowess & win man points. Feign interest in little craft shops and boutiques & she will think you're enjoying romantic strolls around town virtually guaranteeing you a blozzer later on. Even seem interested in her conversation and pretend not to stare at other women in bikinis behind your shades. You will have her eating out of your hands by the end of the day & if she's proper filthy. Your ring piece too. Though I wouldn't suggest rimming on a first date and it's certainly not a romantic end to a perfect day out. Remember that boys.

Of course eating is important so whatever you do - DO NOT TREAT HER TO HEALTHY FOOD. This is a big no no - instead binge on fish & chips, whelks, hot dogs, candy floss, doughnuts, crepes, ice cream, fudge and sweets. Seaside fayre is for the clinically obese and you must at all times scoff whatever you can fit in your cake hole. Binging as a couple is fun, however this is counter productive as she will be far too full to give you a blow job later on. You have to weigh up the odds. Blow job or freshly cooked ring donuts? If all else fails and she is too full you can use the ring donut to finish yourself off later.

Your final mission to affirm your masculinity is to win her a cuddly toy on the pier. You are not allowed off the pier without winning your woman some kind of furry monstrosity. It can't be for something shit like hooking a duck. Instead you must throw, kick or hurl something as fast as possible to win. Either dart board, coconut shy or tin can alley. This is essential for a man that you get a crowd, spend £2 for 3 balls and then spend £62 on 21 goes until you finally win.

 

Any man who leaves without winning anything for his bird is effectively cock less and may as well throw themselves off the pier. You are a fucking disgrace if you leave empty handed. You have no place in Mans world. You are letting down the whole of man kind - This is historical and goes back all the way to pre historic times. (well at least black and white anyway)

 

 

This is it boys, Man up. The ultimate test of masculinity and no matter if it costs you £100,000 - you are getting her that one eyed furry fucking gnome. Male pride is at stake here and there is no limit to what you spend to retain it.

 

Remember, whatever you do boys - DO NOT EMPLOY THIS TECHNIQUE UNLESS AT GAY PRIDE

 

 

Once you have bagged her the furry toy you can rest easy. She will be putty. You are officially her hero and you can look around the seaside and feel a sense of superiority over other men who have left empty handed. You are now a man my son. Go home immediately put up some shelves and reverse park. You are on a roll. You are Lord of the pier.

Summer Holidays

These fall into different categories. If you are married with Kids it's technically not a holiday. More a test of endurance. Being on call 24/7, being forced into 'having fun' and being relentlessly jolly will have you craving the sanctity of your shit job and commute in no time. Hang in there.

If you are in a couple you can take her to a romantic little fishing village in the Mediterranean where you can join the legions of other couples wandering around aimlessly hand in hand turning slowly bored and joylessly eating silently in yet another over priced taverna. It's a perfect place to get away from it all, plug in the Ipod, read a book and ignore each other all day.




The true test of a new relationship will be to last the full 7 days without wanting to throw yourself under a Greek trawler. Man up boys. Just remember the footie season starts in 3 weeks.

For an ultra romantic night out take her out to a local bar and watch the pre season Emirates cup. If Sunderland v Coventry isn't enough to get her wetter than Manchester in June, then woo her at the Karaoke after several schooners of Ouzo. It's a well known fact that girls love being sung to, trouble is by the end of the night you will probably sound more like a wart hog mating than Frank Sinatra. Know your limits. Stick to Angles by Robbie Williams. It maybe a shit song. You may sing it like Stephen Hawkins with a throat infection but she'll definitely nosh you off for trying. Bless.

If you are single, its of course the lads holiday. It doesn't matter where you go as all you'll be doing is swapping the inside of one pub for another. Make sure you do not engage in any local custom and speak louder than at home to make yourself understood. It's important to eat local dishes such as KFC & Dominoes and enjoy excursions to historical attractions like the longest established massage parlour in town. If you come back without being arrested, beaten up or in this state you haven't fucking Lived boys!!!


At least one hospitalisation is mandatory for a lads holiday as is an STD. That's a bonus and one to be proud of. Be careful though boys to get tested if you are in a loving monogamous relationship. It's a tricky conversation down the line if you don't.

The final holiday is of course the Great British camping/caravanning holiday. A timeless classic. If your camping make sure you prepare badly, not like those pros who have pop up fridges and cookers. Never go Glamping. That's for people who read the Guardian and watch Grand Designs, Pitch your tent and make sure you look as proud as the first explorers up Everest when you've succeeded. Modern tents are a piss of piss so you shouldn't go far wrong, however if you do get in trouble never consult the instructions or seek advice from your woman. That's recipe for disaster,. Her job is to load the fridge and sort out bedding. Make sure you pitch your tent downwind from the toilet and shower block so you are woken to smells of frying bacon and raw sewage. Always a livener first thing in the morning.

Of course if camping is too basic you can always go caravaning. There are the professional caravaners of course. Who own their own & tow it holding up the entire traffic for 12 miles. It's mandatory to have dopey long wing mirrors and caravans that sound like dildos (Maruader anyone?)  This is essentially a small house on wheels, transferred to a small plot of land. The real pros get the awnings that extend into a conservatory and hang up washing lines and create a walled garden. If you are living in one of these for a week be careful not to eat heavy carbs, The chemical Khazi will become the bane of your life. If you can last more than 2 days in one of these tiny things you are most certainly clinically insane.


Instead I suggest hiring a static. Or an 8 berth. These big bastards are superb. 3 bedrooms the size of a Smart Car boot, walls thinner than Posh Spice and a kitchenette where the only thing Michelin is the tyres it's balanced on.



To be fair modern static Caravans have gone all posh and are reasonably luxurious now. Real toilets and spunk stain free bedding so they are highly recommended for families or couples. If you survive a week in a caravan with your bird she's most certainly a keeper boys. The one for you.

I personally think Caravan holidays are cool. The on site shop which always looks like a Russian cash & carry from the 80's. The clubhouse choc a bloc full of overweight holiday makers playing Bingo and throwing shapes to the nightly Disco. Kids running amok wired on sugar and a smattering of ageing Lotharios from Preston who still think they 'got it'. Presumably they mean mild Racism and Diabetes Type II.

It's a classic British Holiday people and I urge all Men to experience it at least once in their lives in order to receive full Man points (and a bad back from crouching down all week)

SEX

The heat makes men ultra horny. Summer heat. All the skin, bikinis and girls on show makes men behave like a dog with 12 dicks. Walking around certain parts of town is like a fanny grenade has gone off. It literally comes at you from all directions and you don't know where to look first. Men must beware of neck injuries at this time of year as 'rubber necking' is rife.

A general tip is to pick a spot outside a café in the sun. Borrow a cute dog for several hours and then sit back and wait for the tottie to come to you. This will save you rubber necking and provide you with a relentless stream of summer perving right in your face. It will literally come to you and you can sit back, relax and enjoy the view. Happy hunting!!

It's a well known fact that on average 87% of blokes are shit at sex. It's hard enough for girls to put up with their blokes pounding away on them at the best of times let alone in 105 degrees heat when his face looks like A Beetroot salad & he's sweating more than Stuart Hall at a scouts convention. The most popular position in summer is Doggie. That way you don't have to see each other's purile faces and the sweat can be deflected to the sides. Watch out for Sex on the beach though boys. Sand in the foreskin can literally last for months and a sandy arse cleft can leave any man screaming in agony on wiping. Tread carefully nobody wants to be admitted to A&E with terrible rectal injuries and try to explain it's because of heavy wiping from a sandy cleft. It won't wash boys. Literally.


So that's my little guide to the summer. I hope it's been useful. Remember girls it's hard for us blokes in the summer. You think you've got it hard. Get the perfect bikini body, shave your bits, fight off drunk guys, sweaty tits, fishy fanny, pressure of the media to look good in summer, the kids on holiday. I know you have it tough but spare a thought for the poor blokes. We have to last nearly 2 months without Premier league football & put up with all the endless hours of Royal baby shit. Not only that but we have to attend picnics/summer fairs and pretend to look interested. We've got to get our legs out & pretend not to stare at girls for nearly 3 months. Shit the bed, it's murder for us boys. Thank god for the Freight Rover Cup Regional qualifying rounds beginning this weekend. Without it I think I'd have to go and get myself some brightly coloured Chinos and kill myself.

Only 165 days to Christmas. Enjoy the rest of the summer.

If you want any man tips you can email me at itsevo@hotmail.com or visit the website www.mansummertimesweatyarsecleftandbollocks.com

The Nick Evans
#Yorkie

xx

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