A New York State Of Mind In Aldershot.

Having squandered a little time with my good lady wife in the shopping metropolis that is Aldershot in Hampshire, i felt that we needed a little down time from window shopping at Luis Vuitton, Cartier and Lidl. Knowing there was a newly built restaurant nearby, we decided to give ourselves a treat and eat our lunch New York bar and grill style.

Carefully dodging the cabs on Maddison and 4th, or Aldershot High Street, we made our way to the mall, sorry, 'Morrisons' next to the Police precinct where 'Aldershot's finest' do their business of cleaning up this dirty town. 

Ok, it was a Frankie and Bennys, but the idea of sitting in a leatherette booth, eating a burger and fries appealed to me. I also liked the idea of being watched over by hundreds of black and white photo's of 50's mobsters, baseball players and random, portly looking Italian American gentlemen who in days gone by would have made sure that if i showed any disrespect, i would be 'sleeping with da fishes,' not in New York harbour, but in the local municipal duck pond.

I needed to get myself into a New York state of mind. I needed to think 50's, i needed to think mobster. Sauntering inside, i imagined myself in the real New York, sorry, 'Noo Yoik,' ordering a 'Cwaaffee,' lighting a cigarette and chewing the fat with 'Little Tony' and 'Paulie knuckles' at the bar.

However, instead of seeing the Statue of Liberty out of the window, if i squinted really really hard, i could see the reflection of the Army surplus store in the windows of Morrisons. A Police cruisers' siren cut the air... Or was that an ice cream van? It was hard to tell in the cacophony of what is 'Downtown' Aldershot.

Instead of Tony and knuckles, i got Sandra from Basingstoke at the bar, a waiter who i shall call 'Spotty youth,' and leatherette booth's filled with Aldershot locals, keen to take advantage of the lunchtime specials between breakfast and the fish and chip shop.

I soon learned that to get between the locals and their afternoon fries in this part of town could result in unpleasantness that could start in what is known here as an 'Aldershot Minute.' You could end up getting 'whacked.'

As the voice of Johnny Burnette singing 'You're 16, you're beautiful and you're mine' filled the air, i looked over towards the open kitchen area where the short order chef cooked ribs in a curtain of flame. Disappointingly, Little Tony, knuckles and the rest of the East Side Mob were not sat there playing cards, discussing the 'rubbing out' of Don Giovanni from the West Side, in the increasingly violent turf wars in Aldershot over who controls the drugs, the gambling and VD Veronica who plies her trade near the War memorial in Central Park, next to the swings.

Ignoring the fact that Johnny Burnette was hankering after 16 year olds, i looked over to the more private booths in the far corner. Joe Pesci was nowhere to be seen, Robert De Niro and Ray Liotta had gone out shopping with the kids and Al Pacino had obviously said goodbye to his 'little friend' and retired to Eastbourne to shout 'HooHaah..!' at little old ladies.

Dean Martin started to warble about a moon hitting your eye like a big pizza pie....

I snapped out of thinking about the consequences of such a lunar and culinary disaster when 'Spotty Youth' asked to take our order.

"Pastrami on rye, tomayto, (not tomato) sour cream... Hold the mayo with pickle on the side..." Is what i wanted to say, but didn't. I also refrained from using 'BaddaBing,' at the end.

"Two cheese burgers and chips please." I replied in my Midland accented English. 'Spotty Youth' smiled at me as he asked if there was anything else. I looked at him. In my mind's eye, i could see myself saying, " What? Do you think i'm funny? funny how? Funny like a clown?" but resisted.

"No, nothing else thank you." I said. Returning my gaze to the window, i marvelled at the buildings opposite as they towered a full 3 stories into the damp, overcast sky. The town of Aldershot, known internationally as 'The Crab Apple' and the world over as 'The town that never sleeps' (Except between the hours of 11pm and 6am.) certainly had the vision in those days of building big, i thought idly to myself.

I looked around once more and decided that Aldershot, however hard Frankie and Bennys try, will never recreate that New York state of mind. My mind wandered and in it, a line from Scarface appeared...

Tony Montana: Me, I want what's coming to me.
Manny: Oh, well what's coming to you?
Tony Montana: Aldershot, chico, and everything in it. 

BaddaBing.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

A Small Act Of Genteel Domestic Terrorism.

I recently found myself wandering the streets of Coventry once more in a vain attempt to pass the time. I avoided the cream cake emporium due to the unforseen circumstances i found myself in on my previous visit. I didn't think enough time had elapsed for my fuzzy CCTV photo to have been taken down from the 'Troublesome Customers' noticeboard, next to the 'Shoplifters / Vagabonds / Wanted' noticeboard in the staff room. Having had a shave and a haircut, returning me to my Tom Cruise good looks, i may have got away with it, but i didn't want to take the risk.

Since it wasn't Christmas and no family Birthdays were on the immediate horizon, i wandered the shop fronts in search of something, anything, to occupy my idle mind. Following a very agreeable coffee in a nice Italian coffee shop in the city centre that had no children in it, i was bored and as we all know, boredom leads to terrible, terrible acts... For i am now a wanted man.

I looked around. Clothes shops... No. Mobile Phone shops...No. I stared at the bland row upon row of shiny outlets owned by the Multi-National conglomerate corporation of  'Same Shit Different Logo Ltd,' with headquarters based in the tax free Virgin Islands and a CEO based in a £30m London town house in Belgravia with a holiday home in the Bahamas. I wondered just where it all went wrong for them... My inner Che Guevara surfaced and recoiled at the decadent west.

I wondered why the Inland Revenue and Her Majesties Customs and Excise negotiate tax agreements of a few millions, based on an income of Billions, whilst at the same time sending Bailiffs to recover small benefits over-payments to families who can't afford to repay. I wondered why we tolerate the fact that more and more food banks are required in this so called affluent nation. Day centres for the disabled and the vulnerable, the old and the poor, closing for the lack of funds.

A small act of domestic defiance and protest was in order. Nothing to trouble the Secret Service you understand, i don't want to end up in Guantanamo being force fed water through a blanket with a cattle prod up my jacksie, no thank you.

I hatched my dastardly plan. 'I am a domestic terrorist genius,' i thought to myself, but without the added heavy armaments, lethal attitude towards my fellow man, a balaclava or the actual terrorising of the general public, i'm not a lunatic.

I walked into a well known retail outlet that sells cheaply made items from poorly paid third world children and sells them at a massive mark-up price and then keeps the tax free profits. You know the type. My heart began to race, a trickle of sweat formed on my brow wondering if Kiefer Sutherland was about to jump from the trouser rack (waist sizes 32 to 38) and torture me using a biro, a CIA business card and a coat hanger, whilst simultaneously downloading the shop schematics to his PDA. (Keifer, they are called 'blueprints' you tit.)

I banished all thoughts from my mind... The time was now... Should i fail, i hoped my small cell of fellow urban Guerrillas would remember me for what i was about to do, until i remembered i haven't any fellow members. I was an army of one.

I deftly swapped the price tags from an expensive suit with that of a cheaper, logo'd pair of trousers... Not once, but twice.

My plan was a simple one. As far as i'm aware, UK law states that the marked price on an item is what it should be sold for, so i figure the next customer will bag a bargain and the store will lose around £16.38p. That's £16.38p back into the hands of the public where it belongs. Having set the trap, i left. As an added act of defiance against the state and it's greedy money masters, i left without calling the Police with a code-worded warning message. I'm sorry, but i'm trying to start a revolution here y'know.

Anyway, that'll teach 'em. With a few more acts such as this, i reckon i could deprive Mr Moneybags, CEO of the Same Shit Different Logo Company, of quite a few poolside gin and tonics. As such, with my new secret urban Guerrilla identity, my next post will come from my secret cave hidden in the Surrey hills, just outside of the M25 near Dorking.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter, and has just given away his identity... Bugger.

Retail Therapy, Cream Cakes And Predictability.

It's become something of a tradition when i visit my Dad, that on a Sunday afternoon just after dinner, we dig into a box of cream cakes that i have bought in town earlier that morning.

Now what could be simpler than driving into town, having a coffee and a browse in the bookshop, followed by a short visit to the supermarket for a box of cream cakes..? In the normal course of events, nothing. This being me however, i found myself in an awkward situation that i had no idea how i got myself into before it was too late.

On arrival at the supermarket, i found that they had moved the aisles around and sorted the food out into different places in a smart and customer friendly strategic manner, as per the newest retail management practice manual, Page 62, entitled 'Regular Customer: Confusion and Mind Games.' The downside being for me, that i couldn't find the damn cream cakes.

Now i know the reason for moving stuff about in supermarkets is to confuse the customer and make us wander around the whole building in search of what we came for, and hope that we will pass the aisle with dustpans, plastic gizmo's and wet wipes, we will see them and exclaim, "Hey, you know what? My kitchen floor is filthy, i may need that dust pan and the wet wipes… i shall buy them forthwith." As if customers actually do that… Eh..? They seem to think we are utterly predictable, malleable and sheep like.**

Well i'm wise to them. Cream cakes is what i came for and cream cakes is what i am leaving with. Nothing more and nothing less.

I spied a loose gaggle of supermarket employees at the end of the aisle, helping those who have become stuck at the unmanned, self service checkout tills that needs a person to be there, in order for people to use them properly. I approached and without a second thought, tapped the nearest of the four employees on the shoulder and politely asked...

"Excuse me, i'm a little lost, but i expect YOU will know where the cream cakes are..?"

An innocuous question i think you will agree, but not when you have inadvertently picked out the largest of the large female employees and basically said that due to her size, she will obviously know where the cream cakes are.

I swear i didn't see her as that, It was not what i was thinking. As normal i was not thinking at all, i just picked the nearest employee of the group and that was it. A hello, followed by a question followed by disaster.

She glared at me. I swallowed hard. The situation was now dawning on me as to what i had just done, and however misconstrued my intent, i was now on the receiving end of a very hard eyeballing.

"Second refrigeration unit on the left, next to the milk and cheese." She said, foregoing the usual 'Sir' at the end. I let that go, now was not the time for impertinent questions and a lecture on the finer points of good customer service.

"Thanks… I… Errr… Thanks." I left hurriedly for the milk, cheese and cream cake aisle and could feel the daggers behind me. No matter, i made it unscathed and intact to the cream cakes and found what i wanted. There was no way i was going to retrace my steps to the self service checkouts though, so i made my way to the main checkouts.

Having wandered through the aisles, I approached the checkout with my cream cakes, two bottles of South African Pinotage, disinfectant for the toilet, a box of cereal and a plastic gizmo.

Hang on… I don't usually pass the red wine / disinfectant / cereals / gizmo aisles on the way out… Oh, the utter, utter bastards.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

** The author would like to point out that he is in no way predictable, malleable nor sheep like.

Alfresco Dining And The Plastic Sachet Of Doom.

Finding myself at a local hostelry with my good lady, i thought it would be remiss of me not to indulge in a flaggon of real ale or two, along with a fish and chip dinner in the afternoon sunshine. It is after all, what sunny afternoons in the UK were invented for.

The hostelry in question, one of the now ubiquitous pub chains along the lines of 'The hungry donkey,'  'Big plate,' or 'Gut buster pub,' that pervade our once independent village squares and town high streets, was a pleasant enough place. They did however, insist on antagonising me for no good reason.

Having ordered my fish, chips and mushy peas, i got down to the business of filtering the as yet unidentified flaky bits from the bottom of my glass of real ale through my teeth, a real British tradition i think you will agree. The waitress soon arrived with a small original 18th Century antique faux wooden bucket, containing our knife, fork, napkins and what can only be described as a slack handful of condiments sealed in small, plastic sachets. Oh, the ambience of fine dining, pub chain style.

Our food arrived suspiciously quickly, but looked and smelled as it should so i banished any thought of ready meals from my mind and looked for the salt. As it turned out, the salt was at the bottom of the 18th century original faux wooden bucket, just next to the 'Made in China' stamp. They were in teeny tiny paper sachets which when opened, deposited small amounts of salt into your lap and onto the floor.

The vinegar was a bastard. Sealed in tough, rubberised plastic sachets, they were a test worthy of the Crypton Factor, in that if you did manage to open them, any attempt at removing the contents therein resulted in an arc of vinegar over your shoulder and into the eyes of the person on the next table... A small child in my case. I think i got away with it.

"Is everything to your liking?" Said a waitress.

"Yes, yes... Everything is just fine thank you..." Said I, as my missus rolled her eyes as if to say... "Here we go."

Having opened 3 sachets of salt and two of vinegar to my taste, a small gust of wind disposed of the empty plastic and paper on my behalf, over to the far end of the beer garden.

Next up was the Tartare sauce... Three sachets should be enough. Placing the first sachet of plastic between my teeth i managed to split it in two and dribble the sauce over my fingers and leave a small piece of plastic wedged in the tight gap between my two front teeth, dangling a half empty sachet from my mouth.

"Is everthing to your liking?" Said a passing waitress for no other reason than she happened to be passing. I think they are trained to say this to any person who is eating.

"Yeth, yeth... Efferthink ith juth thine thank you..." Said I, with my stiff upper lip.

As i licked at my greasy fingers, my better half had deftly opened the remaining sachets with the aplomb that only women married to stupid men can do, and deposited the sauce in a neat splodge at the side of my regulation, oversized pub chain plate. She looked at me as if i should be sat in a kiddies high chair, wearing a bib.

"Is everything alright..?" Asked yet another passing waitress. Whether she was asking as a result of boot camp training or at the plight of a grown man with plastic stuck between his teeth and tartare sauce on his fingers, i did not know. Nor did i ask.

"Can I hath a thooth pick pleath..?"

"There should be some in your bucket..." Said the waitress.

There was indeed some toothpicks at the bottom of our faux wooden bucket. small plastic ones, sealed in a paper sachet.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

The Big Breakfast Bru-Ha-Ha.

Man cannot live on toast and chocolate coco pops alone, so said Aristotle in one of his more lucid moments before the battle of Waterloo, and I would agree. On occasion, the full English breakfast is required to keep a working man on his toes throughout the day, preventing lapses in concentration before the 10:30 tea and muffin break.

With this in mind, I stopped off at a likely looking place for a plateful of coronary inducing trans fats in the form of some bacon, egg, sausage, beans, mushrooms, fried bread and hash browns. And since they had a sign outside declaring 'Breakfast served here,' I thought I was on to a winner.

It turns out that by arriving five minutes after breakfast had stopped being served I was in fact, onto a loser.

"I'm only five minutes late, no chance of a cheeky breakfast..?" I pleaded.

"Sorry love," Said the comely serving lady behind the counter, "We stopped serving breakfast, were now onto the lunch menu if you would care to have a look."

I picked up the faux leather bound menu and perused its contents. It turned out I could have egg on toast, beans on toast and mushrooms on toast. I could also have a bacon sandwich, sausage sandwich, bacon and egg sandwich or a bread roll containing all three.

"Can I have the egg, beans and mushrooms without the toast.." I asked.

"No, I'm afraid not. They all come with toast."

"Can I have the bacon, egg and sausage without the bread roll and combine it with beans, egg and mushrooms on one serving of toast..?"

"Sorry Sir... But that would be a breakfast. And we've stopped serving breakfast."

It appeared that the only way to get breakfast in this place was to order 4 or 5 separate lunch items, which would result in all the breakfast I wanted but with 8 pieces of toast and a leftover bread roll and five cups of tea, all for the princely sum of £16.95p instead of £4.75p for the original breakfast but without all the toast, tea and bread rolls.

I know. It's confusing. They could cook all of the breakfast items separately, and call it something else on the lunch menu, but wouldn't cook it and serve it together on one plate, because that would be called a breakfast... And they've stopped serving breakfast five minutes ago.

"Can I help you mate..?" Said an unshaven man through a serving hatch in the wall.

I explained my confusion as to the current breakfast / lunch menu, and the fact that all the ingredients for a full English breakfast were still on the menu, but now seem to be sold as lunch items separately and can no longer be combined.

"Yeah, sorry..." He said. "We stopped serving breakfast like, five minutes ago..? We don't do all day breakfasts."

I took a deep breath. A very deep breath. It would seem that they just didn't get it. I gritted my teeth. They did..! They did do all day breakfasts, except sold the very same items separately and called them lunch..!

"I can do you a bacon and egg sandwich..." He said unhelpfully.

"Can I get that with beans, sausage, mushrooms, a hash brown with a cup of tea..?" I asked.

He frowned, then lifted one eyebrow as if a great idea had just popped into his mind. "I don't see why not.." He said. "We could call it brunch."

"I would put that on the menu." I said.

"I might just do that..." He replied. "That's, erm... Let me see here... £4.75p please."

I despair of some people. I really do.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

Carry On Starbucks.

You probably think that I spend a lot of time hanging around in various coffee shops and you would be right, I do. Being on the road and waiting around is part of my job so I have imbibed my fair share of arabica goodness.

Today though, i thought the baristas at a certain Starbucks, (I will mention no names, Farnborough.) had started to flirt outrageously with their clientele. Either that or they were in full dress rehearsal for their amateur performance of Carry On Starbucks. Having ordered my usual latte, I was asked by the charming young lady barista...

"Would you like anything to eat Sir..?"

"No thank you.." Came my reply.

"I've got a lovely muffin..."

I raised my left eyebrow, stifled a schoolboy giggle, and refrained from letting out my inner Kenneth Williams. "I'm sorry what..?" I said.

"I've got a nice muffin Sir, if you would like it..."

At this point, my inner Kenneth was replaced by a full on Sid James. Just what was she offering to show me? It was obvious to anyone who doesn't have a dirty schoolboy / Carry On film orientated sense of humour, but not me... Oh no...

"And I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts..." I retorted.

She looked at me perplexed.

"Sorry Sir..?"

"Nothing... Just the latte, thanks."

Some people just don't get it do they..? I bet she has never even heard of Kenneth Williams or Sid James.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

The Husband Crèche Humiliation.

It has come to something when us blokes can't be trusted to venture onto the high street for a pleasant afternoons shopping for home essentials like toilet roll, cheese, (extra mature) a Toblerone, a child's toy light sabre and a box of cheap beer.




What do you mean? That's quite a normal sounding shopping list for a man who walks the streets of retail therapy alone and unsupervised. Now I know that last time the Missus sent me out hunting and gathering for salad, quiche and baby potatoes, I did in fact come home with a play station, 2 games, a war film and an iceberg lettuce, but that's not relevant here...

What is relevant, is that people obviously think that we men, as a whole, cannot be trusted and as such, have invented the 'husband crèche,' where we can be kept an eye on by more sensible people.

I am appalled. It is a gut wrenching sign of the times where I, as a grown man of advancing years, intelligence and experience, can be treated as a child and must be reigned in. Inverse sexism is what it is.

I am a man, a hunter, maker of fire and provider of shelter and protection. But I am also a modern man, so I must compromise, share and be equal to the concerns of my other half. However, I must stand firm and take control of this situation without confrontation.

So this time, I compromised a pint of best bitter, a bar stool and the possibility of a meat and potato pie as she went shopping for the accoutrements that our family are really in need of... Like fresh food and cleaning thingies.

In the 'Husband Crèche' we discussed and philosophised on the important matters of the day, things like the price of beer, battlefield conditions for the modern infantryman and does a cheese toastie, beer and Toblerone make for a balanced diet..? We came to the conclusion that yes... Yes it does.

Can't be trusted eh..? Even Descartes or Aristotle couldn't come up with these deep and meaningful theories on modern man, and they were proper philosophers. A Husband Crèche, that's what they needed back then... Now, where's my meat and potato pie..?

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

Inadvertent Exposure.

I'm sitting outside a TK Maxx, which in itself is a frightful thing to be doing. I didn't go in, I promise you. I just happened to be there when a young gentleman of the Shoreditch twat variety, or Hipster, hoved into view sporting the latest in eighties retro hairdo, clothes and footwear.

The sight of him alone made me giggle to myself, but then something truly awful caught my eye. I didn't mean to be looking but once I had seen it I couldn't look away. His too tight skinny jeans were, how can I put this... deficient in the zip department, and he was going commando. Everything was on display like the proverbial last turkey in the shop window.

There were people about. Ladies may faint at the sight of this man's unfettered meat and two veg and could drop like flies, no pun intended. Something needed to be done... Swiftly. Just not by me. I looked around to see if anyone else had been unfortunate enough to have witnessed this act of inadvertent indecent exposure... Nope, just me then.

As is always the way of my life, he started to walk in my direction. Why me? Do I ignore it or tell him? It would certainly be funnier to ignore it and wait for the inevitable scream that would happen any time now from a passing lady of the fainting persuasion. But what do I say and how do I say it..? Should i do it quietly and politely with a well recognised euphemism like, 'you seem to flying low there old chap..' Or should i just go for it and...

"Oi..! You..! Your dick's 'angin' out you plank..."

Thank you white van man. Ever the stoical, down to earth and plain speaking modern Englishman. He was parked behind me with a mouthful of burger and a cab full of other builder types, laughing.

I mentally packed away my well worn euphemism and sense of British politeness. I guess it's not required any more.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

The Gents Lavatorial Rule Book

A good blogging friend of mine, Scaryduck, commissioned a survey a while back into the toilet habits of the modern British male. Having been on the road for a few hours today, the time inevitably came when I would need to.. Err.. Relieve myself. There was a petrol station not far off so I decided that is where I would stop. Perhaps this story could go towards his lavatorial study...

Walking towards the gents door I noticed in my peripheral vision another man walking towards the same door. Having been here before, I quickened my pace knowing that the gents only had one urinal. If I get there first, he would have to use trap number one, not me. Those things are usually filthy in your average roadside gents lavatories and are to be strictly avoided unless you are in an absolutely unavoidable touching cloth scenario. I made it first with a few steps to spare and opened the door. The man followed in behind me. As we did so, I found to my horror that trap number one was engaged. There were two toilets and three blokes... This could go badly.

I stood at the urinal thinking that the man would do the decent thing by realising his gentlemanly faux pas and leave to wait outside. He didn't. He was about three feet behind me, unmoving. He sniffed. I coughed and stared at the wall dead ahead. You can't be in a small gents urinals and stand in silence. It's not the done thing, the rules of the urinals state that if one man sniffs then the other must cough, at least he knew that. Whoever was in trap number one remained silent, he too it seemed, knew the rules.

Maybe he was too shocked at finding out there was only one urinal and was too embarrassed to be seen by others walking straight out again. It would certainly look suspicious to any casual observer of the gents door. So I guess he stayed there frantically trying to remember the gents lavatory rule book.

Having finished my turn at the urinal I now turned to wash my hands and the full horror of the situation struck me. The tiny wash basin was directly next to the urinal, less than a foot away. If I washed my hands would the man stand next to me as he did his business? We would basically be touching each other at the shoulder, him peeing and me washing my hands. Under no circumstances is there to be any physical contact in a public toilet, it's rule number one in the gents rule book on pain of a potential beating by a stranger, or worse, an invitation to 'Go and observe the nearby badger set..' Also, there was a real danger of splashback or sidespray.

I prayed that he knew of his earlier mistake and would now show common bloke decency by waiting until I had finished washing my hands. Thankfully he did. I sniffed again, he coughed and trap number one remained silent. I took this a a sign that he understood the rules and was sorry for the earlier gaffe, a kind of bloke lavatorial audible sign language that everyone understands from an early age.
I turned and studiously avoided eye contact, again, another rule of the gents had been observed. I was relieved that gentlemanly lavatory honour had been restored as I dried my hands under the blow drier and left, but it was close. So very close.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

Home Improvement, DIY And Will I Be Needing A Sponge With That..?

I found myself on an industrial estate yesterday. I don't work there and no, I wasn't looking for illicit drug dealers, prostitutes or a shady cash deal on a new washing machine from a bloke in a van with no questions asked and no VAT.

I was there to deal with another kind of man who strikes fear into my heart every time my wife says we could do with a new bathroom, kitchen, carpet or self assembly wooden contraption for the bedroom or hallway. The DIY showroom man. This is a man who expects me, as another man, to know what I'm talking about. I don't. Sexist stereotyping... That what I call it.

I was there to buy tiles for the bathroom and was confronted by a myriad of square ones, oblong ones, shiny ones and ones that glow in the dark. Rows and rows of the bloody things. The man asked, 'What do we have already?' 'Square ones.' I replied... 'On the wall. I don't know how they got there and they won't come off.'

'What size wall in square metres are we talking about?' He said... 'Bath length and width, all the way to the ceiling.' I said. The funny thing was, he knew exactly the size I was talking about.

'What sort of tile are you interested in?' He asked... 'Waterproof ones I guess.' I said, knowingly. 'Any particular design?' He sighed. 'No flowers, and don't make my bathroom look like a gents underground urinal, other than that we are good to go.'

At this point, my wife chipped in with the correct dimensions, design choice with border tiles, tile size and quantity. She then ordered something called tile adhesive and grout.

I meanwhile, pretended to be interested in a ladder that was for sale nearby while my wife and the DIY man talked flexible tile adhesive and whether we had a stud wall or solid brick and would she be needing a sponge. What the hell does she need a sponge for..? 'Oh, I see, and what exactly is a stud wall..?' I asked.

'Ignore him.' Replied my ever tolerating wife. The man nodded and gave me a look that said he deals with incapable idiots like me on an hourly basis. I fiddled with the ladder as if I was a ladder expert and that he had got me all wrong. It turned out to be a two stage extendable ladder with rubber footings for extra safety, perfect for window cleaning and gutter maintenance. I recoiled. If I had one, my wife would make me climb it and do the guttering, so I decided that we didn't need one.

My eye wandered around the showroom. Power tools, lighting, electrical goods and hardware. 'Do we need any Pozzidrive screws..?' I asked... 'No.' Came the reply. 'Wall flange support rods?' Again, no.

I found the coffee machine which I made good use of as my wife managed to get a ten percent discount on the deal for buying everything in one go. She even got DIY man to load everything onto a big trolley with wheels. I told him where my van was.

Job done. That was easier than I thought. Oh and yes, we are getting a man in to do the tiling. I will let you know how it goes, I think he's going to need my help when he discovers that my wife said we didn't need those wall flange support rods. I won't say I told her so...

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

Getting On With Your Neighbours...

I have a theory. In fact I have many, many theories which could lead you to suspect I am sort sort of conspiracy theory nut job. I am not.

This particular theory is about serial killers and why, after being caught, the neighbours always say to the waiting press, "He was such a quiet man. Kept himself to himself..." It's because we don't keep an eye on our neighbours any more, that's why.

There is a reason why serial killers keep themselves to themselves and are quiet people. It's because they are quietly going about their business of slaughtering innocent people in their basements, and wearing their victims skin as a dress / underpants, whilst cooking brains with onions for their supper.

You never hear of the neighbours saying things like, "I always wondered what the blood curdling screams were about." Or, "I thought he was burying his bulbs a little deep, I never imagined he was actually burying the body parts of fifteen murdered prostitutes."

So next time you see see your neighbour with a wheelie bin, go and check the black plastics sacks inside. If you see him weeding the garden, ask if he needs any help to dig, his reaction will tell you all you need to know. Next time you are casually looking through their windows or letterbox, look out for bottles of chianti on the sideboard, it's a sure giveaway you're living next to a psychopathic cannibalistic killer.

My neighbour has, oh so politely, asked me to leave him alone, but I know what he's up to the fiendish bastard. A drop of red wine with his liver and onions? A likely bloody story. I never did like him, the freak.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

My Personal Revolution Against 'The Man.' This Is Just The Beginning.

I am not a man to worry about what others think of me. I consider myself a decent sort, approachable and honest of intent. I don't want to deftly remove cash from your account whilst selling you crap, nor beat you to within an inch of your life because you happen to disagree with me on a few issues.

I get through life pretty easily with minimal fuss and avoidance of confrontation. Until that is, confrontation comes my way. You only have to turn on the news to discover the vast array of confrontation that is currently ongoing around the world due to religion, politics, shady business deals and common thievery of resources on an epic scale. I am but one man with one vote, therefore small fry in the minds of those that seek to control.

As I say, I avoid confrontation but it sometimes has a nasty habit of seeking me out. Take yesterday for example. All I wanted was to stop for a coffee, rest a while and then move on. It would seem however that now you have to pay for the privilege of spending your own money. Everywhere you stop the car, you have to pay 'the man.' Well I don't want to pay 'the man.' Not any more.

Why should I pay 'the man' 80p for 30 minutes parking so that I can go and spend £2.65p for a coffee that takes me five minutes to get, therefore costing me a grand total of £3.45p for the whole experience? Lets say I wanted to buy a 50p newspaper a little later on in a different high street. 60p to park, for local councils are nothing if not inconsistent in pricing, plus 50p for the paper, £1.10p in total. That means I have to spend £1.40p to spend £3.15p.

Now I could, if I were the sort, not pay the parking charges in the hope of getting away with it. Nip in, nip out and drive away with the maniacal laughter of a seasoned super criminal, and no one is any the wiser. I am however, not the sort to get away with it. I never am. Trust me, the moment I walked out of sight would be the moment the parking attendant would discover my illegal transgression and hit me with a £60.00 charge for my impertinence against the system of 'the man.' (£30.00 if paid within 14 days.)

I don't want to pay £63.45p for a cup of coffee, (£33.45 if paid within 14 days) not even one where the coffee bean has passed through the digestive system of the lesser African jungle stoat. So I poke my coins into the slot of misery and pay 'the man.'

Well no more. Not only do I resent paying global business £2.65p for a coffee, I also resent paying 'the man' his slice of the pie. I have devised an ingenious plan to get my own back, thereby saving me a not inconsiderable sum of money in the process, and contributing to the demise of the high street.

I've bought a flask. 3 mugs of lovely hot java, made to my own recipe and without the corporate bollocks of sustainable, forest friendly, fair price marketing so beloved of the corporate suit. No more the comfortable seats, the choccy-Mocha-capo with hazelnut syrup and people watching on the local tree lined boulevards. No more.

I can now park in a condom, dog shit and litter strewn, council controlled roadside layby of my own choice, whilst at the same time, lifting two fingers to the parking charges of town centres. That my friends, is the sweet sweet smell of success, and of getting one over on 'the man.'

That'll show 'em.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

I've Just Slowed Down A Little, That's All.

So here I sit in my car, looking out to sea. Southsea, Portsmouth in the late spring is breezy with a washed out sun and the threat of rain. I sip at my just purchased hot chocolate and nibble on a sandwich. I feel relaxed.

Watching the Isle Of Wight ferries slip lazily over the Solent, eying the passers by in their wind cheaters whilst trying to enjoy ice cream, made for an enjoyable afternoon of people watching and general fulfilment in my life.

I looked into the car parked next to mine. An elderly couple, sipping hot chocolate, stared out from their own windscreen. The tiny old lady was frail looking. She removed a limp sandwich from her sandwich box and gave it a gummy mangling. I looked over to my passenger seat to where my own sandwich box lay and as I did so, noticed the old man in the car to my left. He was sipping a hot drink and eating his sandwich.

I returned my gaze to the waves of the Solent. Instead of me watching the passers by, the passers by seemed to be looking at me and my elderly companions, lined up in our cars on the seafront, sipping hot chocolate and gumming our sandwiches to pass the time of old age... Waiting for death.

I'm only 46 years old. I'm not ready to go yet. I only came here to eat my lunch and have a hot drink whilst watching the world go by. I switched on the radio. BBC Radio 4, that's good, there is some interesting debates on in a while.

So here I sat in row of car bound, elderly people waiting for the inevitability of the cold clutch of death as we ate our sandwiches and sipped our hot chocolate. I wanted to run from the car and leap, bollock naked into the sea shouting "How's this for being middle aged?" But then remembered my bad back and decided against it.

I could sit on the sea wall, bare chested, drink a can of Special Brew and whistle at the passing babes. No, maybe not, there's a chill in the air and a threat of showers later in the afternoon. Summers aren't what they used to be when I was a lad. Anyway, I'm not as buff as I used to be. Moobs are not de-riguer.

I took out a sandwich and bit manly into it. Mayo slipped down onto my chest staining my newest fleece jacket. The Missus is going to kill me. I noticed that the little old lady in the car next to me had nodded off. In the car to my left, the old man was looking through a pair of vintage binoculars at the passing ferries. It started to rain.

Has my life really got to the stage where I would happily sit in my car, listening to Radio 4 and drinking hot chocolate? Hell no. I'm still youngish, I have all my own grey hair and most of my teeth. I might even go down the pub tonight, have a few large ones with the boys... Ah, hang on, it's the last in the series if Midsummer Murders, I can't miss that.

No. I'm not old yet. I've just slowed down a little. That's all. That's what I tell myself as I feel my eyes getting heavier, and I nod off the tunes of Jamie Cullum on Radio 4.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

Ass Hattery In A Disabled Bay.

I've just encountered a Dick splash, Ass Hat, and all round fuck witted moron. And I'm not saying that because he drives an overpowered, low profile tyred, BMW with privacy windows.

I'm not even saying it because he got out of the car and proceeded to have a conversation with someone on his blue toothed phone, loudly, so even I knew that sales were better than expected, Jeff in the Audit division is a tosser and that yet again, he's going to be late home.

His cheap shiny suit gave me good laugh, so it wasn't that. No, the reason I am calling him a dick splash, ass hatted, fuck witted moron is that he parked in a disabled bay when there were plenty of other parking bays behind him and next to him.

Clearly, this is a man on a mission. A goal to be achieved, targets to hit and a boss to suck up to. He is a focussed man. Nothing will get in his way.

He is also not disabled. He did not display a blue disabled parking badge.

So, in time honoured English fashion, with a sense of good nature and fair play, I waited for him to go to the store. I then parked my van behind him, got out and left. I am writing this as I sit with a coffee and ample time until my next working appointment.

He's probably late for his. In the words of the great Sergeant Major Williams from it ain't half hot mum... (If you are old enough to remember it..)

"Oh dear, how sad, never mind."

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

Elizabethan insults I shall use more often...

Listening to the spotty, slack jawed, baggy trousered youth of today, you could be forgiven that the English language has, how can I put this... 'Gone shizzlin' gangsta blud, innit..?' Yes my dear boy... That's 'Bitchin.'

Forgive me kind gentle reader, i am sorry to have shocked you with such profane language, uttered by street guttersnipes outside your local off licence. Mind you, offensive profanities are not the reserve of today's ineffectual youths in hoods, my word no...

In my life's quest for flowery language, there can be no other verbal insults as good and effective as the Shakespearean Elizabethan of yesteryear, and youths in hoods would be well advised to pick up on this. For example, you may be outside your local purveyor of fine ready rubbed shag to be accosted thusly...

'Oi... Battyboi... Gizza dolla or I slice you innit...'

On being insulted in this manner, a gentleman of sobriety and self worth such as myself would be inclined to flatten the cream faced loon with a blow worthy of inclusion in the Queensbury rules. However, quick wit is the key here, and the manifestation of your superior breeding and well read mind should prevail over mere thuggery. Your riposte should be rapier like...

'You Scullion, You Rampallion, You Fustilarion... I shall tickle your catastrophe. indeed Sir, A weasel hath not such a deal of spleen, as you are toss'd with.'

Write that down. Learn it. It may save your life one day. I'm sure that a reply such as this would so confuse the poor little tyke. He may say something like... 'Say whaaat..?' That is the moment of your destiny, as you would have plenty of time to make your lightening like escape on foot to the nearest office of the constabulary, as is your duty as a citizen.

Mind how you go...

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

Aisle Blockers.

I'm not talking of people in churches, stopping people from getting married, no. You know who you are, you utter bastards. Yes you, you and the other people you are talking to in the biscuit aisle of our local supermarket.

You stand there, as if nobody else exists, talking about the kids, the school run, and the price of fish. You are standing there with your shopping trolleys, three abreast, thereby blocking my advance from the cheese counter to the fig roll shelf. (I know they are not strictly speaking biscuits, but bear with me ).

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I apologise for ramming my trolley into your ankles, thereby interrupting your story that would command high fees on the after dinner speaking circuit. However you must admit that by standing and yammering on in the middle of a supermarket aisle is just a tad tedious to the likes of us who like to get in, shop and get out.

Did I say I apologise for ramming your ankles with my trolley..? I did..? What I meant to say was fuck you.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

The Coffee Shop Creche.

I would just like to reiterate the fact that i am a tolerant, likeable and approachable sort of chap. Having said that, there are times when all i want to do is give someone a good, hard slap.

Take this morning for instance. I entered a coffee shop with intent to have a medium latte, a toasted panini and 20 to 30 minutes rest. Maybe even read my Kindle and take in an article or two for purposes of worldly education.

I ensconced myself on a particularly comfortable single seat at a small table, not wishing to take up the freely available 3 seater sofa that looked far more amenable for my weary body to sink into. See..? I'm not the sort to take up 3 spaces whilst reading a broadsheet newspaper for 2 hours whilst making my coffee last all day, with a smug look on my face that says.. 'I was here first, i got the sofa all to myself, so fuck you..'

Anyway, having just sat down, my quiet reading was rudely interrupted by 3 mums in their early thirties, trailing baby buggies, shopping and an air of superiority. The two kids that accompanied them were obviously free range. They shouted a lot. they squealed and spilled juice on the floor.

I imagine they were called Benjamin and Rupert. I wouldn't know because during their play time in the coffee shop not once did their mothers even attempt to calm them down, ask them to stop squealing and shouting and generally being little shits. They talked to each other about soft furnishings and how their holidays were going to pan out this year in Tuscany or some such crap.

Then... The as yet unseen baby woke up. It was obviously also in training for the highest pitched kiddie squeal competition. Mummy ignored it. My blood pressure was rising. Just as i was about to rise, Jackie Chan stylee, delivering a kick to the head, she picked up the small ball of screeching flesh. She smelled it's bottom...

'Ohh... has little baby poo-poohed..?' Oh for fuck's sake.

Free range Benjamin or Rupert bumped past my table making my coffee wobble. I gave the child a good hard stare with a look that says that i'm about to rip your legs off... only it was wearing trendy dungarees which would have made it technically difficult. I looked at Mummy, with her trendy scarf. My mind wondered just how long it would take to choke a fully grown adult woman with a trendy scarf. She didn't admonish the child probably fearing that doing so may inhibit his creative inner self, scarring for life the adorable little darling.

I wondered whether i could get away with a sly little kick to it's shins. Would trendy mummy notice if i drop kicked little Benjamin through the window? I discounted the idea for i am as i said, a tolerant, likeable and approachable sort of chap. My article went unread. I didn't want my coffee and the relaxing half hour break was in tatters.

What irked me is that i had paid good money, not just for the coffee and toasted panini, but for the ambience, the atmosphere of cafe culture.

I did not pay to sit in a creche of screaming, free range, shit smelling, snot nosed mini Ruperts. I like children, really i do. I used to be one. I however was taught the importance of behaviour in a social setting.

One day, i'm gonna really hurt someone.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

Waterstones... Do you want my money or what..?

Shopping for stuff on the high street is bad enough for any self respecting bloke with a love of wasting time on other small matters, like having a life, watching telly and drinking fine ales. So it is bloody annoying when a well known high street retailer says that they will be having a big launch of a new product that i wanted to have a look at, and then fail to deliver.

Now i don't want to mention any names here Waterstones, but when you say that on a certain date you will have said gadgets on show, the very least you should do is, well, have them on show. Especially when you have been saying that you will have them on show for bloody months using big posters and suchlike, and i have travelled to a big shop, far away, especially to look at them with a view to buying one.

I didn't buy one from your store because i couldn't satisfy myself that it was what i wanted. So i looked at another model that was on show. I played with it, i felt it's gadgetyness, clicked the buttons and admired it's design. I wanted one. Now.

Imagine my surprise then when i queued to spend my hard earned cash to buy said gadget, to be told that there were not any in stock. So, let me get this straight Waterstones, the gadget i came to see that you had promised would be here, was not, and the gadget that i wanted, the one that was displayed.. for sale.. was not in stock.

Fine then... I shall spend my hard earned cash elsewhere. Fools.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

Punditry Awry...

So... The Football season has started again here in the UK. 90 minutes of watching grown men kick an inflated pigs bladder around a grassy patch for a few hundred thousand pounds wages per week.

Over paid, with an over inflated ego and an over inflated sense of public adoration sums up your average Premiership football player. You are probably realising by now that I never really got the football bug.

I would watch my friends and colleagues transfixed to the screen, pint of beer in hand hanging on every kick, header, foul and goal. Every one a player, every one a manager, everyone a referee, the overwhelming desire to be on the pitch and show them how to do it properly.

"We was robbed.."

"The referee is a disgrace.."

"That guy should never be in that position... TACKLE..!"

"Get in you beauty..!"

I would sit there and feign a mild interest. Trying to think of something to say should I be asked a tactical question or deliver my verdict on a passage of play.

"Er.. Yeah... The fullback was maced when he got spatchcocked on the mullet with a blinder from the number 6. And.. Er... Oh yeah, the referee's a dick... And blind."

Phew, I think I got away with that. Football... Not my thing.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter.

A Ringside Seat...

I'm still working in London, and at this very moment I am sitting on the edge of the worlds anus, looking into the abyss that is Leicester Square. I can smell the oily fug eminating from the plethora of fast food joints, burger bars, fried chicken emporiums and pizza palaces.

Wherever I look I can see shops selling London themed tat, Olympic tat and any old tat. Theatre ticket touts, charity street muggers, street artists and talentless entertainers. High rent pubs with high rent prices selling low rent beer and food.

Yet strangely, the place is packed with tourists and people of every creed, colour and country. They spend their cash like water. They wander, cow like, peering into windows, admiring the grotty scene spread out before them.

Dominating the views are the cinemas, the casinos and bizarrely, a large building, five or six stories high, dedicated to a sweet. It's called M and M World. People take photos of it like its a cultural icon.

I sit here and watch as the masses pass by leaving their money behind, and wonder just how Leicester Square has got away with it for so long.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter