Hair Tips for the Middle Aged

Some hairdressing tips for the middle aged which I’ve gleaned from my latest copy of Mature Times as I prepare for those end days. Not having a pension or long term secure accommodation aside, or a partner, or kids to take on the burden of looking after me, come to think of it, I don’t think anyone in the UK is preparing for middle age better than me. I’m leaving little to chance.

And recently, I’ve been looking at hair. This is an area the middle aged often get wrong as they fail to adjust to the fact they are no longer young.

Hairdresser Andrew Barton, a very camp looking man, had some useful dos and don’ts in June’s edition of Mature Times for the middle aged.

Frizzy unkempt hair is one of the worst ageing culprits.

The same hairstyle worn for too long dates you and adds on the years. – Someone tell fellow hairdresser Nicky Clarke.

Changes don’t have to be dramatic. Subtle changes every few years will keep you fresh and looking younger.

Have at least three or four haircuts a year. With ageing, the hair gets weaker and thinner causing split ends more easily.

So there you have it. No one’s telling you that you can’t go and have your mid-life crisis. No one’s telling you that you can’t go and run off with someone far younger than you and wreck your life. You can still do those things. But it’s important that you at least do them with good hair. Don’t be thinking you can still be doing these things with a younger person’s hairstyle.

You need to accept that once you’re over 35 that your hair no longer grows in the same way. The key to this adjustment is making it appear as if you no longer care about so many hairstyles that you once took for granted no longer being available to you. Deal with that and you can still go onto make the disgraceful life choices that will utterly destroy your life and hurt those you love.

These people will have nothing good to say about you. But at least, if you follow Andrew Barton’s hairdressing tips, none of them will ever be able to say anything disparaging about your hair.

The Advantages of the Aquatic Meeting

As you get older, the physical presentation gets harder. You need to work at staying in the shape you took for granted in your younger days. You can no longer get away with eating the way you used to eat.

The easiest way to get around any potential insecurities you might have concerning your body or hair coverage might be to meet potential partners in the pool or sea, not great for someone like me who’s no fan of that type of holiday, but I can see the advantages of such a meeting.

The aquatic rendezvous means much of the work would be done. Straight away, you’d have seen a great deal of one another’s bodies. The woman would already have seen you topless. If you have a belly on you or a hairy back, they’ll see that prior to the relationship reaching the bedroom stage. If there’s a patch of unwaxed hair on your back, she could look at it two ways. She’s either repulsed or takes it as endearing proof that you’re single and have no one in your life to take care of those difficult to reach places on your body. By being in that water, possibly thousands of miles away from home, you are in many ways as close as you can be to being in the bedroom. You’ve done a lot of the legwork. You’re not springing any unwanted surprises on each other.

I wasn't made for dancing

A combination of my innate shyness and inability to dance probably cost me the chance of meeting more women than I have done to date. Do you know how hard it is to meet women if you can’t dance? That whole clubbing arena wasn’t open to me as a younger man with my awkward limbs, and what were often trousers in a state of disrepair, restricting my movement.

Here’s the thing though. I don’t care too much. I never liked dancing. I’m too serious for dancing. Even if I could dance, I don’t think I could find the facial expressions that would correspond to each specific dance move. An expert could probably teach me how to dance, I don’t doubt that, but from what I’ve seen on TV and elsewhere, they never really focus on the dancer’s facial expressions. Being able to get the requisite facial expressions to fit in with specific dance moves is important, surely.

I know there are facial expression recognition experts out there, but they’d have to liaise with your dance instructor and that’s all likely to get too expensive. And quite simply, I’ve just never felt the overwhelming urge to dance. I’m a low key guy with a love of books and coffees and curioisty for all things dermatological. I would rather know how to cut skin growths out of people with limited equipment than be able to throw shapes and pull faces that are far removed from my everyday limited facial expressions.

Micky Boyd - ten years on from our reunion

In September 2003, I was reunited with my old school friend and fellow Stockwell man, Micky Boyd. I hadn’t seen him for thirteen years. He picked me up in his courier van from the corner of Fentiman Road, SW8. Within moments, I found myself struggling to adjust to his massive weight gain, since shed, and the hair loss. His ginger mullet – he claims it was strawberry blonde – went in the mid-nineties after years of, in his own memorable words, ‘pushing it around’ as he looked to cling onto it.

Meanwhile, it required some effort on Micky’s part to get used to my new nose, which he’d picked up on straight away, and our friendship had resumed just as I was on the cusp of going into my most intensive rhinoplasty period. Micky had fixed his own nose – much mocked at school – too. Early on in our reunion, as we got to know each other again, swapping rhinoplasty stories filled in any awkward silences until pretty soon, the comfortable friendship of old had been re-established and we didn’t need to rely on nasal surgery stories so heavily.

Micky remembers my mum well because according to him, she was the only person who thought him good looking during his childhood. Funnily enough, years later, my aunt also remarked on Micky’s good looks. It’s as if only the women in my family find the man, whom I consider to be a good looking fellow, attractive. Over the course of the ten years, Micky has bought me a considerable number of meals, but I like to think the compliments paid by my family in regards to his looks mean it’s not all been one-sided.

Eventually in 2010, after two years of talking about it, we recorded a podcast, Please Don’t Hug Me, that went out every week from the hotel I was living in. I recorded and edited the show myself. It was an arrangement much like the school magazine Micky and I used to do, Mick and Dan on the ball, where basically I used to do all the work, and he’d lend his name to the project, much like George Foreman did with the grill, though my research shows that Foreman had a little more input on the grill than Micky did on the podcasts. It never looked right. Two men recording in a tiny room, one sat in a foldable chair in a pair of three-quarter length shorts, his weekly arrival every Thursday picked up by the hotel CCTV cameras.

For several years prior to the reunion, I had been preoccupied with finding out what had happened to Micky. It was extraordinary that we only lived ten minutes away from each other until he left the area in the mid-nineties, and yet for six or seven years, we never ran into each other.

Then, in February 2000, a few days before my mum died, I’d had a strange dream about Micky, totally out of the blue, after not seeing him for what at that point was eleven years. I was so unsettled by that dream that I jotted it down in my notebook. I still have my notebook from that day. ‘14/2/00 – Dream about Micky Boyd. Bouffant hair. Definitely him. Looked like he was trying to warn me about something’.

I couldn’t shake that dream from my mind for the next few days. I remembered that Micky was the first friend I’d known lose a parent at school. That is what I took from the dream, without fully appreciating how difficult that must’ve been for him at that age to lose a parent given what I went through with my parents in my mid-twenties.

We’d first contacted each other again at the end of 2001. Micky had just become a dad. I was already on my third flat in just under a year since losing my mum. In hindsight, I should’ve waited a little longer before telling Micky about the dream. It’s not really something you tell someone you haven’t seen for eleven years, ‘Hey, I had a dream about you. You were warning me about something and my mum died a few days later’. I think it unsettled him. I didn’t hear from him for another two years.

When we finally reunited in the autumn of 2003, I realised as good a guy as he is, there was very little about him that was as profound as his bouffanted dream version. But still, he’s a good friend. A little slow on putting together junior-sized desks as I discovered last week, and borderline aggressive if you mention the varicose vein on the back of one of his calves, but overall the reunion has been a success.

Now it just feels odd that for thirteen years we weren’t in each other’s lives. Having said that, I’m glad that we weren’t in touch for the big events, like his wedding and the christenings of his kids because I have an awful track record when it comes to attending those kind of big showy events. It’s likely if we’d been in touch at that time, my no shows would have broken the friendship.

This is the way it was meant to happen.

Comforting Style Needs Working On

It became apparent to me that every time I was comforting a woman after a close friend died, whether it was his mum, my aunt or someone else I barely knew, that I had a tendency to rub them in a way that is only appropriate if they’re your partner. It’s something I really need to address. I shouldn’t really be feeling bra straps – that has no place in the grieving process – or pinching hips, when I’m comforting someone. That’s not comforting. It troubles me. My comforting style’s not good. Definitely got to work on my comforting.

The Hallway is critical

Some of you reading this will be stuck living in tiny studios, effectively units, paying way over the odds to live in the city. You might be embarrassed about your small living space, understandably, and fear it could cost you with the ladies. But don’t fear. It is possible to keep a tenuous foothold in the dating game if you work on the hallway.

The hallway is critical. Get that right, and it’s possible to create the illusion that you’re successful and that people are stepping into a big place. Hang some expensive looking pictures on the wall (read your tenancy contract first). Stick a bookshelf in there. Stock it up with a few travel guides. Back in my studio days, that always impressed women. You bring someone back, keep them in the hallway for as long as possible. They have no idea that beyond that door lays a disarmingly tiny living area. You steal that first kiss in the hallway, it has to be in the hallway, and you’ve snared them. By the time you take them into the living area, it’ll be too awkward for them to turn back.

Just work on the arms

You get men who go all out to get into shape for their ladies. Me, I don’t hold with that. I just work on my arms. Keep them big. Make the ladies feel safe. Completely disregard the rest of my body. When you hold that woman at night and she checks your arms, any doubts she has about your ability to protect her in the event of an altercation, they just disappear. Every now and then you just make sure you lose your temper over minor things so she thinks you might have anger management issues. That way, you ever get into a confrontation, she’ll fear for the other man and pull you away. You never get found out.

Bonding

I’m not really a people person. I’m no good at bonding and what’s more, I’ve no interest in bonding. I even worry on my way to work that if I end up in a major accident with my fellow commuters, sharing such a terrible experience will bind me to them. I look around my train carriage some days and think, “I wouldn’t want to bond with some of the people on here’. If I emerged unscathed from the wreckage of an accident, would I just be able to walk off and head to work or back home as normal, or is someone going to stop me and get my personal details which will then be circulated among the other survivors? Would I be forced to get involved in the ensuing inquiry? Would I feel obligated to attend every anniversary gathering?

I always get on the emptiest train carriage, so if anything happens, I would only be in touch with the fewest people possible. I’d attend the inquiry only on the most crucial days. The survivor’s group would press for me to be more involved but I’d be mindful that being a survivor is bound to damage one’s chances with the ladies. Say you allowed yourself to get too close to another survivor. Some years later, you meet a girl, and when you introduce her to this other survivor, she’ll ask the inevitable, “where do you know each other from?” You see her face drop as your friend tells her you became close after you both survived this terrible tragedy. Straight away she’s having visions of you waking up in the middle of the night, terrible flashbacks, screaming, cold sweats, kicking her in the bed. If we’re ever in an accident, and you see me walking away from the wreckage, just let me carry on walking. Please.

The Merits of the Restrained Eulogy

Like a lot of guys who find themselves in relationships, I’m always asking myself one thing, “How easy would it be to get out of this if I needed to?” A decade ago, my dad helped me get out of a relationship when he realised that my then-girlfriend would always screw her nose up whenever she saw me in a pair of sand-coloured desert boots she considered well past their sell by date.

With his help, I was able to extricate myself from a relationship that was dying on its knees. Banned from the then-girlfriend’s birthday bash for failing to give assurances I wouldn’t be turning up in the boots (I said I would leave the boots at home if she lost the ridiculous toe-ring), Dad persuaded me that by turning up in the boots, the relationship would come to a very abrupt end on what was a special night for her. He just needed me to trust him, he told me, and he would get me through it. And you know what, he called it right. I timed my appearance with the desert boots to coincide with her cake being brought out by one of the waiters, and she caught sight of them whilst she was blowing out her candles. I think one of her friends had to blow out the last two or three as she started hyperventilating. It was a birthday she would never forget, one that probably haunts her to this day. I continued to wear the boots for another couple of years, never forgetting that they were largely responsible for me getting my life back.

Dad taught me that in relationships you’ve always got to think outside the box. Think long term. If there’s something your girlfriend doesn’t like about you, that’s your exit route right there.

“Always have half an eye on the break up”, he’d tell me. “Don’t swap too many cds, or lend too many books. If you do, always have a friend ready who can step in and collect them on your behalf when things have come to an acrimonious end.”

But he wasn’t done there. Oh no. “Always keep the relationship on edge just in case your woman has an accident and ends up with hideous facial injuries. If that happens, you can walk away and say ‘well, we weren’t getting on anyway’”.

You would not, as Dad told me, want to be in the pub with your mates when this girl turns up looking like something off a Channel 5 documentary and plants a smacker on your lips. You want your mates to think, ‘yeah, I’d do her’.

Dad’s no longer around but his spirit continues to guide me through the rough terrain of relationships. He’d be so proud of what I’ve now become.

Because of dad, because of this journey he set me on, I know not to propose to a lady if she’s diagnosed with some terminal illness. I wouldn’t make that mistake. Taking your vows in a hospice is all heartbreakingly romantic, but she’s going to die, just like Ralph Fiennes in ‘The English Patient’, and I don’t want to end up a widower who’s then got to somehow explain to my next woman that I was once married for three hours.

I’ve learnt also not to take a partner on holiday too early on in the relationship. That would be making a rod for my own back. Once the relationship settles into the inevitable mundane routine of ‘couple life’, she’d take any opportunity to hark back to the halcyon early days and how I used to always take her away. Don’t get them used to a good thing. Don’t give them something to fall back on. Keep it boring. That’s the key to a good relationship. Boring.

And if I outlive my wife, I would go easy on the eulogy. At the funeral, I wouldn’t pay too great a tribute to her. There might be women present – younger, much younger, than my late wife – who fancy stepping into her shoes, but if I went overboard on the tribute, these women would find the prospect of filling her shoes daunting. My wife might have been a great woman, but I would exercise restraint and perhaps throw in a few of her failings into the eulogy so my prospective suitors don’t think making me happier would be too hard a task.  I would be aware that I would have a whole new and exciting life to lead once I get through the grieving.

I think Dad would be proud.

Gang Heavy Area

If you live in a gang heavy area, don’t date an attractive woman. It’s inevitable the gang leader will be attracted to her – they’ve always got to have the pretty girl for themselves. If you do find yourself with a head turner, make the quick decision to let her go. You’re in gang country. It will not have gone unnoticed that you’ve got some serious talent on your arm. The gang will be talking about your girlfriend, no doubt about it, but they’ll also be wondering about you. Who you are, what you do, and most importantly, how you got that girl.

 You ever seen a film that features a gang leader with an ugly girl on his arm? It doesn’t happen. The gang leader can be and indeed often is ugly, but he’s always got a looker at his side. None of his underlings are allowed to have a better looking woman. That’s the way it goes. And you swanning around with a sort superior to his present bit of fluff isn’t going to make him look good in front of his gang. They will be waiting to see what action he takes. If he just lets this ride, he will look weak.

 Don’t worry too much about your girlfriend. She’ll get over you. And quickly. Gang life’s exciting. What can you offer her by comparison? Seriously, don’t even think about holding onto her. This guy, his face probably scarred from a knife fight when he was making his way up though the gangster ranks, is likely to be handy with a blade. Do you really want to be hassled by gang bangers on your way to the shops for a pint of milk? No, of course not. Let her go.  And unless you’re moving to a better area, make sure your next lady’s a bit of a pig. Your life will be much easier.

The Kiss on Each Cheek

Meeting friends’ girlfriends that you don’t know too well can be awkward. How do you greet them at those early meets? A handshake’s not on. I can’t do the handshake. Shaking a woman’s hand, to me, just seems very masculine and wrong. That leaves the continental style kiss on each cheek which can, if you’ve only justmet someone, come across as over familiar, and be fraught with danger. It’s all about the timing. If the timing’s off, then you got a problem on your hands.

Recently, after meetinga very good mate’s girlfriend for the first time, (by the end of that first meeting she was calling me ‘Dan’, which I loathe), against my better judgement, I opted for the continental kiss and ended up kissing her on the lips. Awkward. Not half. It was her fault. All she had to do was proffer her cheeks. The left first, then the right. Simple. We both pretended it hadn’t happened. But even now, knowing her far better than I did that night, this kiss is still there between us. We both know it happened.

Another recent incident saw me and a mate’s girlfriend drag out a conversation to a painful degree, as we both tried to weigh up whether we were going for the continental kiss or the handshake. Having seen her shake various friends’ hands that night, it was obvious which she favoured but she wasn’t getting my hand and a continental kiss was probably six months too soon for us.

Next time a mate’s introducing me to their new girlfriend, I’m just going to go with a ‘hello’ and perhaps on leaving, I’m thinking my exit could involve a fleeting hand on the small of her back. I’m contemplating piloting this during the summer. I’ll see. But I am seriously contemplating putting the continental kiss behind me.

The Hair Agreement

I’m not entirely happy with my hair. I didn’t really want to get to this age still doing the long hair thing. Didn’t want to be a cliché, a longhaired writer, albeit a failed writer. I’m starting to go silver around the temples, like Reed Richards, leader of the Fantastic Four, and when that happens, this long haired business has to stop.

For me, the next couple of years, as the countdown to forty begins, are essentially about finding a more sensible hairstyle to carry me through the next decade.

A decade hopefully that will maybe see me stop temping, stay longer than six months in rented accommodation and you know, maybe have kids. But I don’t want to have my kids seeing me with this ridiculous hairstyle. If I was in a band, this hairstyle would be acceptable. But I’m not. Instead, I spend much of my time filing and photocopying, and this hair doesn’t really lend itself well to those mundane office tasks.

I don’t want my kids looking at my hair and thinking daddy does something far more exciting than he really does. I’ve spent so much of my life lying, I’m aware that I am more than capable of lying to my own kids. Before I know it, I’d be at the breakfast table tying my hair back, telling my kids I’m off on tour with my band when I am in fact going to my latest dull Public Sector job.

Anyway, I raised this hair thing with the girlfriend and to her credit she understands where I’m coming from. Which also leads me to believe she too may have been thinking that I need to embrace middle age and stop going round with a leonine hairstyle more befitting a twenty something.

But the girlfriend thinks I’ve got a very large head and having seen pictures of me with a shaved head, she’s concerned I may try and revive that look. I probably would if I wasn’t with her. In fact, when I worry about losing her, I often console myself that if I do, I’d at least be able to shave my head again. And then the next girlfriend would only know me with a shaven head. She wouldn’t know I’m more suited to these other longer hairstyles.

I think the girlfriend though now understands that I’m only keeping my hair this length for her rather than myself and that me doing this for her rather than myself, isn’t good. She how accepts that it’s probably best for me to be happy with how I look but she’s asked that if I do go short again, just to give her advance warning, a call or a text, perhaps an email with a link to a picture of a celeb with a similar shorter hairdo. Something, anything, that will help her prepare for the moment when she has to set eyes on it. And I think that’s good of her. I can work with that.

ATM

I was at an ATM machine earlier in the week standing in the queue, and I noticed a couple at one of the machines. The woman was at the machine but the man was right at her shoulder, peering at the screen, talking to her about the amount she was taking out. I was struck by this. I’m assuming this was a joint account.

And it got me thinking, at what point in a relationship do a couple come together and let each other know how much they have in savings, or do they never quite do that? Is the way round keeping your savings secret from your partner negotiated by simply agreeing to put in a certain amount of money into a joint account every month? Would it stop there or would your partner still be expecting you to volunteer further information on your remaining earnings?

At what point in a relationship do you let your partner know what money you’re on? There’s that risk isn’t there, that if you break up, this person is suddenly out there knowing what your earnings are and who’s to say they won’t disclose that to their next partner?

Let’s say you have £10k in savings. 10 grand your partner had no idea you had. Now, you spring that on them when you’re about to commit to each other, whether through marriage or living together or having a kid, it may be that your partner casts their mind back to your dates, and how much you spent on those nights, and retrospectively concludes that you’ve been a bit tight. They may wonder why, if you knew you had these savings, you made them go Dutch on the Nando’s meals?

Kid Cop

From 1980 to 1992, seminal US police drama Kid Cop gripped the country. Running for 13 seasons, the show to this day holds the record number of Emmy wins and took place entirely in my imagination, starring, well, me, Victoria Principal, Burgess Meredith and in later years, the fat Danny Devito look-alike lieutenant from Cagney and Lacey.

There were two factors behind the launch of this hugely successful show, of which the complete DVD Box set, if it existed, would make a wonderful Christmas present.

The first was my crush on Victoria Principal, aka Dallas’ Pamela Ewing. The second was the fact that when sleeping in the same room as three other people, if you didn’t nod off quickly, the chances were, with all the snoring and turning and as was the case frequently, nocturnal bust ups between mum and dad, the easiest thing to do would be to retreat into a fantasy world, which is what I did.

You’re sharing a communal toilet with 13 other people; you don’t want to be leaving the flat to go to the loo in the middle of the night. It was about keeping your mind occupied. And thus one of the world’s greatest ever cop shows was born.

Admittedly, some of the earlier episodes don’t stand up 30 years on, full of plot holes and the highly implausible lead character, an 8-year-old gun carrying New York child cop, is hard to get your head round.

But when people ask me how did I cope living in one room, I give them two words: Kid Cop. And no gimmicks. Cop spelt with a ‘C’. This was a serious show. By constructing a show that originally played out at 9pm on a Monday night, I was able to escape this daily nightmare of sleeping in a room more overcrowded than a Bangkok prison.

My character’s name was also ‘Danny’. I was a gifted child. This gifted bit I only thought about much later in the eighties as I started to test how watertight and plausible the story was. So I had this gifted thing going on, and a shadowy Mr Fix It type guy murdered my parents, played by Rutger Hauer, whose character sold kids to childless families, not too dissimilar to what was happening in Argentina at the time. I was a well-read child.

Now I think the reason I had my parents murdered, and basically they were killed off in every fantasy I had, was simply because their strong Spanish accents did not lend themselves well to English language dreams. They had those annoying Ossie Ardiles type heavy accents and would just have brought the show down. I didn’t mess around. They were killed off before the halfway point of the pilot episode.

Anyway, somehow, I escaped Rutger Hauer’s clutches, and I should add this wasn’t taking place in Stockwell, it was set in New York, and to survive, I was shoplifting from some huge department store, which was how I came into contact with Victoria Principal’s policewoman, whose character retained her Dallas forename.

Again, and I’ll confess, the plot holes for this leap of faith were never properly dealt with, I ended up, at the age of 8, working for the NYPD. I was, readers, an eight year old with a gun. Which given what’s happening in our city streets these days, doesn’t sound so far fetched.

By the mid-eighties, the show, which borrowed the Hill Street Blues theme tune, had become more of an ensemble piece, owing to the loss of its lead. Fans will recall this was largely triggered by one of its more remarkable storylines, which actually threatened the future of the show. And that was when Victoria Principal’s character was killed off in the Space Shuttle disaster of January ’86, almost halfway through the show’s run, which heralded a switch to a much darker show and a more troubled future for my character who really struggled to move on past her death. And around this time, there started to be more frequent cameos, at least one a year, from Rutger Hauer, as he sought to kill of my character before I blabbed about his kidnapping programme.

Viewers were shocked that Victoria Principal had been allowed to leave the show. Principal was replaced by Sharon Gless, aka Cagney from Cagney and Lacey, who would stay with the show for its remaining six seasons, and she joined Don Johnson who had joined the show the previous summer. Kid Cop was now becoming a who’s who of the best eighties American TV cops.

My character’s relationship with Sharon Gless lacked the highly charged sexual chemistry that was there between Victoria Principal and me, but Cagney was able to get into my character’s head and quickly became a confidant.

Other ongoing storylines involved an even younger Kid cop than me, Richie Barreno, who was actually an old family friend – the youngest child of my parents’ original landlords on arriving in London at the start of the seventies. Richie was six years younger than me and also had to overcome the heavy blow of watching his parents being killed – I showed no mercy to the Spanish accent. He lived with me in New York. As far as I can recall, we lived alone, two under tens, making do, quite comfortably in the big apple, with Victoria Principal looking in on us from time to time. I don’t know what we did with utility bills. I’m assuming as the elder of the two, I was in charge of paying them, and we probably split them equally with me tossing him the water bills so as to give him some responsibility.

In real life though, in Sept ’85, Richie’s family had moved back to Spain, and to deal with the pain of losing him in real life because he was like a little brother to me, I wrote him out of the story. Every now and then, usually Christmas, when he came back to London with his family, I would bring him back for a few episodes, but the on-show relationship between the characters became estranged, mirroring that of Batman’s and the original Robin, Dick Grayson, also known as Nightwing to Teen Titan fans.

By the late eighties, this imagined show was playing a bigger role in my real life. And I think it’s because I was starting to think as a writer, so I would really try and work the stories out properly. As my peers studied for the inaugural GCSE’s back in ’88, I was busy working out storylines.

Christmas ’88 saw the show stripped across 5 consecutive weeknights as Rutger Hauer’s character closed in on mine and Don Johnson’s character was forced to send me into hiding. The rumours in the media were that I wouldn’t be coming back, that I was taking my first tentative steps in the film world. During my sabbatical, the show coped really well without me, although my shadow always loomed over it. But by the summer of ’89 I was back. And really different. As well as returning to the show on the back of my first shave in May ’89, my character now knew that he would have to face his master Rutger Hauer and put an end to him once and for all. But not before taking part in an underground Martial Arts tournament in Hong Kong, largely influenced by the fact that in the autumn of ’89, myself and a bunch of friends had watched Van Damme’s Blood Sport on at least a dozen occasions.

It was in late ’89 that I first spoke publicly on Kid Cop. I was 17, and had just joined this comic strip writing class in West London as I embarked upon my dream of becoming a comic strip writer. Kid Cop was the project I intended to write for it. And I’d met a guy that month who went on to this day to become one of my closest mates and possibly the most influential peer I’ve ever had. And I ran the idea past him and he absolutely destroyed it. I was not ready to tell him that I’d devised the show whilst sharing a room with the rest of my family. So it would be some time before I was ready to talk about it again. My confidence in the show and the world I had created had been absolutely dented.

In the summer of ’91, on the same day that I had puked during an interview at the Marble Arch branch of Littlewoods, I attempted to commit the idea to a novel. Running all of 2 pages in longhand, the show had been renamed ‘Crumbling Rock’. In this, the characters had been transferred setting wise to Gibraltar, an area I knew intimately as my family originated from the last Spanish town before Gibraltar, and I’d had a number of summer breaks there. Despite the relocation, the idea was still for my character to somehow find their way to New York. Rutger Hauer’s character was in it and the whole gifted child

Origin was still in play. My character and his older sister were living with their grandparents – again following the death of their Spanish parents – and my character would receive regular visitations from his dead mum, which was a kind of subplot. If I remember rightly, she would appear in the middle of the night, as ghosts are prone to doing, and had a penchant for playing the piano.

By now the show was coming to an end, and in the final episode, in the summer of ’92, my character confessed to Sharon Gless, on a beach, that he’d killed someone and she had to arrest him there and then. And from then on, there was this massive courtroom drama in which the world became aware that my character was in fact the same boy who had disappeared 12 years earlier. It was the epic ending that the show, now showing signs of tiredness, had deserved.

Kid Cop. The complete 13-season box set is out now and I can’t recommend it highly enough. Well, it’s not, not really, but I wish itwas, don’t you?

The non-Father Christmas of '77

In Christmas ’77, when I was 5, my mum took my little sister and I to Morley’s in Brixton to see Father Christmas for the first time. Also with us were my aunt and my two older cousins. When it came to my turn, I remember approaching Father Christmas a little warily. Now I can’t recall if I climbed onto his lap or not, but I do remember him telling me he was just going away and would be back shortly. And as he left, I decided to peer through this letter box which was at his side, and I’m assuming that was so kids could post their letters to Father Christmas.

Now thinking about it, because of what I saw once I peered through this letterbox, this must’ve been built into a wall or a portable screen, because when I looked through, I saw this Father Christmas remove his hat and beard, talking to other colleagues behind this screen, and he was completely bald. He lit up a fag, and I was gob smacked. And I think I told everyone there, I was in a frenzy, but my mum calmed me down as the guy returned and gave me packet of cowboy and Indian figures which were all the rage for kids of my generation.

But this incident still didn’t destroy my faith in Father Christmas and I think when I started Secondary school, I still believed in him, or at least wanted to believe in him.

And every year, probably til I was at least 12, despite my mum’s inability to hide presents properly, which I kept spotting in wardrobes, I think I still clung onto the belief that he was real. And I always planned, but always fell asleep, to get up in the early hours if Christmas Day, hide behind the front room sofa and wait for him to turn up thinking I would be able to talk my way into riding in his sleigh for some of the night. But he never did show up.

So in the final year of still believing in him, I prepared a questionnaire for Father Christmas, left it on our marble green coloured second hand table which we’d got from my aunt – we always got my aunt’s cast offs – and a selection of those viscount mint filling biscuits with the green foil wrapping because I figured he’d be hungry.

I woke up in the morning to find the questionnaire had been filled out, and the handwriting was identical to my dad’s. My dad just couldn’t be bothered to even attempt to disguise his handwriting. I was crushed.

Bed Vacancy

As a kid, dad told me, you can’t just wait for things to happen. You’ve got to make them happen. The fact this conversation took place at night, in the bed we shared for 2 years from 1987 to 1989, meant I wasn’t really open to any positive messages. When you’re sharing a bed with your dad, positive thinking doesn’t work.

When I once grumbled about sharing a bed with Dad, he told me I should thank my lucky stars he wasn’t a nonce. “If this was happening in some third world country, you’d probably get touched up”.

When I got my fold up bed in September ’89 (a pivotal month when I also bought our first VHS recorder – the landline would arrive a year later) and moved out of the marital bed we’d been sharing, dad’s initial fear was that mum would seize the opportunity and step back in to fill the vacancy. He told me that by leaving the marital bed, I’d now put loads of pressure on him to save his marriage.

Fearing mum would move over from the lower bunk prompted dad to finally make his move and asked for a divorce. Mum got to keep the kids and she didn’t fight him for the 12ft coat rail he’d bought in a bid to utilise space in our bedsit.

The coat rail experiment never worked. Dad said we weren’t open to the idea. Open to what though? Turning the bedsit into a cloakroom? Years later, not long after mum had passed, Dad turned to me and said, “You know Son, we missed an opportunity there with that coat rail. If you guys had been more receptive, we could really have turned things around, made home a great place to be. That rail came with a sprung locating height adjustment but you guys just didn’t want to know.”