Meeting Francis O’Keefe

As my ex-girlfriend would no doubt agree, I have a strange habit of attracting weirdos.

Whether I’m on the train, in the supermarket or just walking down the street crazy people seem to be drawn to me like a magnet.

Last weekend I’m back in Luton. It's Sunday and i'm in a pub sitting with my Dad and a friend of the family. A man walks over and asks to sit down.

The man, an old Glaswegian fella, looks harmless enough and settles down with a pint of Guinness.

While I’m looking at a pretty brunette in the corner playing the games machine, the man mistakenly thinks that I’m trying to make eye contact with him.

Just looking at him has sealed my fate. He has made a friend.

The white-haired man stands up and thrusts a hand in my direction. I take it and shake it.

“I have never met a black man,” he slurs.

I start to worry, he's clerly drunk... and by the sound of it he's probably a bit prejudice.

“I have never met a white man, or a green man or a yellow man,” he adds.

Okay, so he’s not racist, just a little drunk. I think about what he says. In it's own way it's profound - if a little cliched.

“I’m Francis O’Keefe – will you walk with me?” At that point I begin to have doubts about his sanity.

“I guess so,” I reply. I wish I could move seats because I want to laugh – and if you laugh at a wild-eyed drunk.

“I believe in two things,” Francis continues. “Love and care. Will you walk with me brother because If not you can just fuck off.”

I look over at my Dad and he’s laughing… I drink the rest of my drink swiftly signalling that I think it’s time to go.

As I get up to leave Francis stops me. And thrusts his hand out again…

“I’m Francis, I have never met a black man,” he says again.

He clearly has no recogniton of the converstaion we have had little more than five minutes ago.

I have to get out or I'll burst. Laughing into my hand I quickly put me coat on - as I leave, Francis waves warmly.

As the pub door swings closed I have another quick look in at my new friend.

He’s ambling towards the games machine with his hand thrust out in front of him.

Beggars and choosers

There’s an old saying – which I think is British – that perfectly sums up our collective attitude to gratitude…beggars can’t be choosers.

Personally, I think it’s pretty apt. If you’re in need all donations should be gratefully received but apparently not everyone shares my views.

I found this out to my peril on Friday night. I’m out in Soho with my housemate, my colleagues and some of their buddies and we’re standing outside a pub.

The weekend’s finally come out of hiding and we’re in high spirits; smoking and drinking and laughing.

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see a homeless woman ambling towards us.

I immediately begin to look solemn (for some reason I think it’s disrespectful to look too happy in front of the destitute) and begin rooting around my pocket for loose change.

I always try and give money to the homeless – not because I’m charity minded but because I believe in Karma – but being on the breadline myself there is only so much I can give.

So the homeless woman, seeing that I’m feeling charitable, come and stands next to our group with an old coffee cup in her hand and extends it in my direction.

My hand is in my pocket looking for a suitable donation, and the first coin my hand settles on is a five pence piece.

I smile at the homeless lard, feeling the warm glow that only comes form helping your fellow man, and place the coin in the cup.

She smile back....until she looks down and notices the denomination of the coin I’ve handed over.

Angrily, and with a look of utter disdain on her face, she empties the cup in my hand - which only had my shiny coin in it in the first place - and rages off.

I look at my drinking buddies no utterly bemused and they look back barely containing their amusement.

I guess beggars can be choosers.

PDA (Public Displays of Affection)

Being single – and I’m sure other singletons agree – that there is nothing worse than PDA.

Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with holding hands on the street. A cuddle in the park is also fine in my books. Even kissing on the tube is alright.

But dry humping near Oxford Circus station at rush hour is enough to make anyone feel queasy.

I’m leaving work with my colleague and as we round the corner to the tube station the resident homeless fella (which I have nicknamed Rufus – I don’t know why…he kind of looks like a Rufus) is leaning against the wall opposite.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see that his hips are thrusting but as he’s usually drunk at this time I just blame on Stella.

But on closer inspection his girlfriend (who I call Jane. Don’t ask) has her legs wrapped his waist and is enthusiastically bucking up against him.

All this at 5.30pm on a weekday – what’s more no-else seems to mind, or perhaps care, as they continue their daily dash out of the City.

My colleague, who was also been looking on chuckles and says “Jealous?”

I don’t even dignify it with a response.

The Nike Human Race

On Sunday I ran 10km.

I don’t know how I managed it but I did it.

About six weeks ago my housemate charitably entered me into the Human Race - 10km of sheer hell for the Lance Armstrong Foundation.

Its not that I’m not charity minded but my first answer was no. I’d rather donate the money than kill myself pretending to be a long-distance runner.

In truth I did it for my housemate. He had two decades in friendship in the bank and I didn’t want to let him down, so in exchange for some running shoes I reluctantly agreed.

As part of my strenuous training regime, which only began three weeks before the start of the race, I cut back to two cigarettes a day and had take-away only twice a week.

Also I thought it would be wise if I began to run.

So every day for the last three weeks (apart from the mornings when I couldn’t get out of bed) I went for a 2k run and by Sunday it was the furthest I had ever run without coughing up my insides.

But I ran around the streets of Wembley without stopping.

I didn’t care that old men, pregnant women and one-legged midgets all sprinted past me, I was intent on achieving something for men of my ilk.

So I dedicate my time of 73 minutes (and my Nike Run T-Shirt) to all other overweight, out of shape, nicotine addicted men roped into a cause they never wanted to be a part of.

If I can do it anyone can.

My race result (http://nikeplus.nike.com/nikeplus/humanrace/leaderboard.jsp) 166,000 out of 1.1m worldwide.

Are you really that hungry?

A couple of Sundays ago I was out in North London with my flatmate, his girlfriend and his brother and on the way back we decided to pick up something quick for dinner.

We’re walking to the bus stop when my housemate points and says ‘Waitrose’ - already I’m prepared for the worst.

I never feel comfortable in that place. They should have pictures of Jeremy Clarkson outside with a sign saying ‘You have to be at least this middle-class to enter'.

Not wanting to be the nay-sayer I agree and we begin wandering around looking for the basics for a lazy Sunday lunch so I amble over to the rotisserie chicken counter.

As a basic rule I am less and less surprised by what I see in supermarkets these days. Living in London anything goes in the local Safeway.

A sight I see more often than others is children eating.

Mothers too weary to fight with their nippers give up and let their child eat a packet of crisps as they walk round the store, presenting the empty bag to an annoyed cashier at the till to pay for it.

So – with that in mind - I’m waiting for my lemon and garlic whole chicken when a man sidles up to the counter next to me struggling to open a large box.

I turn my head to see what he’s doing just as he begins to sink his teeth into a Waitrose family size quiche.

I know that food shopping on an empty stomach is a bad idea but are you really that hungry?

Just an average European nation

British sport officially died in London on November 25th 1953.

Prior to England’s football match with Hungary they had not lost a match against a team outside the British Isles at Wembley since 1901.

The visitors won 6-3 and, after such a loss, you would have thought that the misplaced belief of England’s tactical and physical superiority would have died that day too.

But it didn’t. More than 50 years on the ‘Rule Britannia’ mentality still lives on – and it is rife in almost all sports.

If we really that great we would surely have more than one football and one rugby world title to show for it.

And with the Olympic games just days away there is talk of Britain bringing home a record medal haul.

Aside from the talents of Colin Jackson, Sally Gunnell and Linford Christie there has been very few world class British athletes to shout about in the last 15 years.

Like most people I’m sick of pretending to be interested in rowing or the ‘brave’ efforts of Paula Radcliffe – who will probably quit again if she can’t make the podium.

For the first time in half a century let’s be honest about our prospects.

We won’t win the World cup.

We won’t win the Ashes

And we won’t bring home a sackful of gold medals.

It’s about time we accepted our true place in the sporting world as an average European nation and not a global superpower.

People watching…because humans do the strangest things

The Vikings

I’m on the tube with my brother and we’re coming back from watching the Emirates Cup. I’m happy that we’ve got seats until he reminds that we’ve just lost to Juventus and I put my stern face back on.

I remind him that we need to change at Holborn so we amble towards the doors. As the train pulls into the station we notice three girls dressed as Vikings complete with horn hats and extra small Scandinavian smocks (which I doubt were ever worn during that era).

My brother tells me that it must be a hen party, we both shake our heads and tut and such behaviour. As we get off the train I sneakily crane my head to get another look until my I receive a sharp brotherly nudge in the ribs for being so obvious.

As I walk up the platform I notice two older women sitting on a bench on the platform talking in quiet hushed tones.

As we approach, I realise they are also staring at the three Norse woman but for quite different reasons.

The train finishes pulling out of the station, the women’s whispers suddenly become audible. Without warning the lead Viking drops her purse and spins around to pick it up.

We’re all caught red-handed.

Thinking they’ve been caught bitching about strangers the waiting women begin to grin guiltily.

I pretend that the green laces of my Adidas are the most interest things I have ever seen.

Meanwhile, my brother struggles to contain his laughter…