Know your audience

Even though I am not a comedian I get the idea that a key element of good joke telling is knowing your audience.

Seeing two jokes fall flat on their face in the last two weeks illustrated the point perfectly.

The first was at work, when I overheard two of my colleagues talking about babysitting.

Being new, I imagined it would be a good time for some team building. After all humour can build bridges... when it is appropriate.

So one of my workmates is explaining that she is looking after one of her nephews for the weekend.

“He can be a handful,” she says. “But my boyfriend is with me so we can probably manage him together.”

Without even thinking I said: “One of you can hold him and the other can beat him!”

Stunned silence.

My housemate would have laughed his ass off!

In the second incident the joke was on me. I was on the train to Wembley to see Arsenal v Chelsea in the FA Cup and the train was rammed.

At the next stop a giant of a Chelsea fan squeezes himself on... despite the fact that I am already being felt up (not by design!) by an old man.

I was reaching for my pockets to pull out my Mp3 player and he mistakenly thought I was trying to reach for his.

Without a trace of a mile on his face he says: “If you take anything out of my pocket I will remember your face, find you and kill you.”

The he bursts into gales of laughter.

All I could think of was the quickest way of changing my pants.

Forced sisterhood?

A million comedians have told a million jokes about the subtle and not so subtle differences between the two sexes.

Men are competitive, aggressive and forthright, while women are sensitive, intuitive and caring.

And for the most part a lot of it is utter nonsense and overblown stereotype.

Who doesn’t know (and love) aggressive members of the fairer sex and how many women adore sensitive men?

The only thing that always makes me, and probably millions of other men, laugh is the idea of sisterhood.

What is it about girl power? How are sisters doing it for themselves? And what does 'you go girl' actually mean?

Ironically, It's all a load of bollocks.

How many women tell their friends they are well dressed but then tell everyone how awful they look when there back is turned?

How many woman mercilessly insult another women and then smile enthusiastically and hug and kiss them when they turn up at their local?

How many women praise each other on their looks, weight and body shape until they get into a particularly nasty argument?

Men too can be cutting and cruel…but too each other’s faces.

Most importantly, we don’t form cliques and pretend to like each other just because we have matching genitalia.

It’s silly to think that all women should get along just because they are women.

Women should take a leaf out of the manual and just admit that they are envious of their better looking rivals, be honest enough to tell each other when they look crap or open enough to tell someone a dickhead when the situation warrants it.

In some respects women really do need to man up.

An evening with Walsh and the Beckhams

This week I was lucky enough to be invited for a dose of Wembley corporate hospitality by Royal Bank of Scotland Insurance.

Having never been in one of the boex at Wembley, I was impressed with the surroundings and, of course, made sure I had as much free beer and pies as possible.

Before the game started, someone mentioned that the Beckham’s had a box at Wembley, which happened to be just a couple of boxes down from our own.

Once they game had kicked off Victoria came out of  with the boys and took their sets, which, in part was more exciting than the game itself.

I never thought that seeing famous people would massively excite me – after all they are just like me and you – but happen to be exposed to the glare of the media. 

And for the time being I was relatively calm.

Even when Brooklyn started play-fighting with one of numerous security guards and was disciplined by his Victoria in public I was not overwhelmed by their star status.

However, that was all about to change.

After half-time, out of nowhere, Tommy Walsh came to share I box and I couldn't contain myslef.

Before, he had even taken his seat I had enthusiastically thrust my hand towards him and introduced myself.

As he sat talking about his journey – I was listening.

As he was regailing the PRs with tales of charity football with David Beckham – I was listening.

When he was telling his young son about his friendship with the guys in Spandau Ballet – I was listnening.

I was so absorbed I didn’t actually see much of the second half and I managed to take a couple of stealth picture of him.

Even though Heat Magazine wasn't interested in them I didn’t care… I bloody love Ground Force!

Casual smokers

Not content with being unhealthy I am also slowly smoking myself into an early grave.

Unlike some smokers I picked up the habit fairly late and the moment I came to terms with smoking I felt stupid.

Not because smoking is inherently bad for you (or that it makes you a social leper) but because I used to be a preachy non-smoker.

And there is little worse than that...except for a casual smoker.

The transition from non-smoker to lung blackener is gradual process.

Now I am out of the smoking closet, have left the self denial behind and come to terms with it, it is impossible not to look back at myself and cringe.

Like looking back at old photos of yourself with once fashionable clothes or stupid hair there is nothing more embrassing than the phases of being a a smoker.

And it’s all because the phases between becoming an adolescent smoker and an adlt smoker are so annoying.

Fellow smokers, have you noticed that when non-smokers tell you how badly you are killing your lungs, casual smoker remain strangely quiet and never mention the fact that they smoke?

And casual smokers only smoke, or so they claim, socially – when they are having a drink.

But by far the worst is that they hunt in groups. And then they bum your cigarettes – never before has a pack of ten so quickly turned into a pack of two.

Casual smokers have a little smoker inside them struggling, scratching and clawing their way out desperate to blacken their lungs.

Either let the little bastard run free – or have the will be to commit an act of violence him.

Whatever you decide go and buy your own!

Racial profiling

As sure as an Englishman will always acknowledge a fellow Brit abroad, minority groups do much of the same here in the UK.

As a black person I often acknowledge other black people when I see them in public. Usually a nod of the head followed by us both muttering “alright” quietly and then going our separate ways.

It is not just black phenomenon either, I have seen my Asian friends do the same thing. In fact it is not even strictly a racial thing. If I see other Arsenal fans I will nod and mutter at them too.

It works particularly well when you are in a place where you are less likely to find people of the same background. It worked much better when I lived in Preston compared to where I live now in East London.

Some of my friends think it is strange and perhaps even racist. But it’s just a bit of fun… or so I used to think.

It seems that people are racially profiling me to make me do shit for them.

This phenomenon, which I call getting ‘blacked’ (insert your own racial term where appropriate), occurs when people try to use your colour as a flimsy pretext to get you do something for them.

I am always getting ‘blacked’ by the guy who sells The Nation newspaper, I constantly get ‘blacked’ by a tramp I see on Oxford Street and the 1,000 yard is useless against the charity guys who ‘black’ me almost on a daily basis.

And some people actually fall for it. Some guys hand over money and give up time on the basis of it.

Not me though – I’ve decided to walk with my head down from now on.

Of mice and men

As a man I am faced with a common dilemma.

At what point is it acceptable to confront a fellow guy? The issue can be very murky - a number of variables come into play. Is he bigger than me? Has he got hard mates? Will my mates run away if all hell breaks lose?

Then of course there is whether or not you should even raise your hands in anger? My clenched hands are pacifists and rarely strike people.

However, at the weekend my commitment to remaining calm was tested to the limits.

It’s Saturday and I’m in Market Place – great music but aggressive regulars – so the chances of trouble are high..

Needing a drink I fight my way to the bar and ordered four bottles of beer (I’m not flash it was on offer for £10!).

On my way back a guy cheekily asks me if he can have one of my drinks. I laugh and continuing trying to battle my way back to my spot on the dancefloor.

“Give me one of your drinks,” the comedian says. He grabs one of the bottles in my hand and tries to wrench it from my grip.

With my hands full he manages to grasp it and, before I can remonstrate, he’s taken a large swing from the bottle.

Crunch time.

I turn back to fight my case, after all, I’m no mug, I’m a big lad, I can handle myself, this man is taking a liberty.

I spin on my heels.

He’s bigger than I remember.

"The bastards!"

The policeman and I looked into my bedroom.

The contents of the bottom draw had been strewn everywhere - including the emptied cases of a few racy DVDs.

“They took your smut too?” the officer said smiling. I nodded, like every man I thought they were well hidden. “The bastards!” He added laughing.

Rewind five hours and I hadn’t even contemplated that my flat was in the process of being ransacked. The thing about being burgled is that you never think it will happen to you.

So after having a few post-work drinks and picking up some take away on the way home -I did not entertain the belief that I could have been robbed - even after my key got stuck in the door.

After 15 frustrating minutes of standing in my hallway I decided to call a locksmith, who, as it turned out, would also rob me later that night.

The locksmith - who kept reminding me his company was called Goldilocks (like it was the wittiest company known to man) - had spent a full hour trying to open my door when the guys upstairs came in from their night out.

And that was the first time thieves crossed my mind.

“You sure you haven’t been burgled?” one of them said.

“I don’t think so,” I replied. “Wouldn’t my door be open if I had?”

How wrong I turned out to be. Once Mr Goldilocks opened my front door all my possessions - and my housemates possessions were strewn across the floor. I assumed that shelf had collapsed.

But when I saw the hole where the Wii and TV used to be my heard sank.

“That’s £150 please,” Goldilocks muttered refusing to look me in the eye. “Sorry about the burglary.”

After another 90 minutes the police finally turn-up.

Apparently the thieves cam through my housemates window - which they crowed open - and then ran to the front and latched the door.

So now they are enjoying our Wii, TV, computer monitors, cameras, clothes, PSPs and trainers.

Not to mention my collection of films under my socks in the bottom draw.