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Don’t Look Back In Anger

We were asked for a review of 2018.
Now we’re the type of people who prefer to look forward but…
We must deliver the will of the people.

NB – We are no slaves to time or truth so the content may not be chronologically or factually correct.

January – Dry. Kind of. More damp really, leaning towards wet. Save St Albans Pubs!

Trains – Bad. Ticket prices up. Although cancellations and delays were up too so there’s a kind of symmetry and order at play here.

a train — Let the train take the strain.

Buses – Bad. Why aren’t they electric? Why aren’t they warm? You wait ages for one and then…

Sinkholes – Bad. You wait decades for one then…

Potholes – Bad. Efforts to rectify are on a par with bailing out the Titanic with a teaspoon.

New Mayor – Great. Cllr Rosemary Farmer. We say “great” but only because we feel a Mayor called Rose Farmer may do something pretty with the park flower beds. Plus, we can only assume that the Royal National Rose Society based at the Gardens of the Rose is her family business. Which is nice.

Police – Great. New Chief Inspector vowed to tackle the wave of burglaries. Chief Inspector replaced (repeat as necessary) We think we’re still on the 3^rd one? It may well be Inspector Gadget by now for all we know. Tip – Never “vow” anything. It only leads to woe. Ask Theresa.

Tree Felling – Bad. They chopped down the tree at the Clock Tower. The tree had to come down for “safety reasons” not because it interfered with any planned projections of a Christmassy nature on the tower.

Christmas lights turn on – Enlightening. But if it gets any earlier then it’ll start to compete with Bonfire Night.

Christmas Fair – Fair. But somebody didn’t want it anywhere near where they live.

Housing – Fair. Plans for 15,000 in the district but nobody wants them anywhere near where they live.

Museum – Good (ish). But £7.75m? (could have built some houses). Does anyone else start singing “1-2-3 1-2-3 drink!” when they see the chandeliers in the Georgian Assembly Room?

a chandelier — We’re gonna swing from this chandelier, this chandelier.

UK’s Strongest Man – Good. But where, exactly, was the leader of the DUP? (Yes, we know).

St Albans Boy – V Bad. Fell “up to his nose” in Verulamium Lake. We never found out if this was head or feet first? One of which wouldn’t be quite so dramatic. We also wonder if, like Dr Foster, he never went there again?

child playing in water — Don’t drink the water!

Verulamium Lake – Bad. Still dirty. Ask the St Albans boy.

Heatwave – Good. Remember moaning how hot it was? Well, say “Hello” to burst pipes and slushy pavements people!

Back soon Folks! (After we’ve saved another St Albans pub!)

St Albans – Film 2017

‘The Mind’ is the theme of this year’s St Albans Film Festival. All the mind-related films below are previous winners of the prestigious American film industry’s prestigious Golden Lobe Awards and are being shown at secret locations locally this weekend.

Brain Man – Dustin Hoffman plays an autistic man from Harpenden who is very specific about which airline he flies with – “EasyJet. EasyJet never crashed…”

Billion Dollar Brain – a film documenting the decisions of the County Councillor who decided that the hottest day of the year would be a good time to get the contractors out to do tarmac repairs.

Inside Out – a woman from Bernard’s Heath can’t find the recipe for her toddler’s favourite Quinoa dish and goes crazy, turning the kitchen upside down in desperation, as she’s got an important lunchtime play-date with the new neighbours’ kids.

Citizen Brain – a story about a scarecrow from Flamstead who follows the yellow brick road to St Albans in search of something to put between his ears.

Singin in the Brain – the tale of man from Fleetville who attends every single tribute act gig at The Horn and can’t get songs by The Jamm, The Smyths and the Kings of Lyon out of his head.

2001: A Space Odyssey – a documentary detailing the problems encountered by just over two thousand cinema-goers in finding convenient parking facilities near 166 London Road.

A Beautiful Mind – a woman from Beaconsfield enters politics and selflessly dedicates her time in office to campaign for the one thing that matters above all else to her constituents: poo-sticks.

The (Re)searchers – a story about a couple of agricultural scientists from Rothampstead who follow the main road to St Albans in search of genetically unmodified Native American brain food for their niece.

Limitless – an extraordinary Council Cabinet meeting sees every member take mysterious pills in order to come up with a solution to Scum Lake (formerly known as Verulamium Lake).

Mad Macs – a burger flipper at the drive-thru in Griffiths Way flips his lid and turns vigilante when customers repeatedly throw food wrappers out of car windows.

Genius – a docudrama about selling sausage sandwiches at recently opened DIY stores.

3 Idiots – an everyday tale about men who go to Batchwood every Saturday night with only one thing on their minds: the chance to meet shy, retiring librarians who want to settle down and have children.

V for Vienetta – a man from Jersey Farm eats a whole ice-cream dessert and gets brain-freeze.

Mum’s The Word

So, you lose one hour’s sleep every Mother’s Day as kids wake you up early with their creative attempt at breakfast in bed but this year is a double whammy and you will actually lose two hours as the clocks are springing forward.

On top of that at some point during the day you will lose yet another hour when you go around changing all the clocks.

As your breakfast starts to get cold, the kids will insist that you open the card.

This will take shape in one of two forms.

An insulting “funny” one that is a not so subtle message from your other half that he wants to see results from that gym membership he bought you at Christmas or, worse still, the one they made at school!

This will be on cheap (probably blue) absorbent material that wouldn’t be out of place in a washroom paper towel dispenser and be adorned with a simple black vertical line topped with a small squashed yellow mass of papier mache.

“It’s a daffodil mummy”.

Anyway, if you are lucky enough to be able to open the “card” (despite an entire Pritt stick being used to fix the white paper to the inside)
it will reveal your child’s representation of their life. So pay close attention to the imagery.

Social Services possibly already have so you should too.

Warning signs are usually in the shape of

A – a cat/dog like image when you have no pets – check for neighbours livestock in your shed and your child’s bedroom immediately
(this task can be easier if your shed is your child’s bedroom).

B – a small stick figure with huge amounts of red coming from it may indicate a soupcon of friction with a sibling/fellow pupil.

C – Any sign of a milk float or an Amazon delivery van means you’ve been rumbled so you may well get an insulting card too!

Card(s) done. It’s the present or presents.

Now, we’re guessing you have some of those bath bubbles leftover from Christmas? You know, the ones that make you itch.
So, chances are it’ll be a box of the ambassadors favourite over-wrapped chocs or (and this really depends on the stocks at whichever petrol station is nearest to you) flowers.

Be grateful, it’s the thought that counts. Mind you, if the other half had thought about it 6 weeks ago, they might just have booked you in for a nice lunch then dropped you off at home while they took the kids to the park and ran them ragged so you could put your feet up and watch Love Actually. AGAIN!

Breakfast is stone cold now but the kids want you to eat it as they “made it speshul”.

Tell your offspring to snuggle up under your duvet while you go downstairs to warm it up.

IMPORTANT! Once you have deposited the breakfast in the kitchen bin do the following:

1 – Cover it up with something to avoid accidental discovery just in case anyone else in your household actually knows where the kitchen bin is.
2 – Advanced users only – smear chin with ketchup or egg yolk.
3 – Make yourself a decent cup of tea and return upstairs licking your fingers making “mmm” noises.

Well trained children will ask what else they can do for you but, if you’re lucky, yours will ask what you are making them for breakfast?

You will suggest Maccy D’s as by now you are really hungry and you’ve only had a Ferrero and cup of tea for breakfast – win win.

That’s it, the rest of the day will be like every other Sunday unless the other half actually did start planning 6 weeks ago!

Have a great day you Mothers! x

Today’s the Day!

Well if you’re reading this on Saturday 21st January it is.

The day we at AL3 Towers have been waiting for all year is St Dunandusted’s Day!

A day that has somehow been lost in history. Perhaps discarded as it didn’t have the marketing potential of the “special” holidays like Christmas, Easter, Pancake Day and Valentines?

Jan 21 is equally as special here at AL3 and we feel duty-bound to share it with you in our never ending effort to educate and inform.

St Dunandusted is the patron saint of “Normal”.

While “experts” argue about the origins, or even the actual existence of this forgotten saint, the facts are that this day marks the return of “normal” for many people throughout the civilised world or, as we like to call it, St. Albans.

Blue Monday – Survived
Christmas Day – Done
New Year’s Eve – Done
New Year’s Day Hangover – Gone (Nearly)
Twelfth Night and the decoration packing away – Done.
First day back at school and/or work – Survived.
Now back to “Normal”.

First task is DUMP (Dispose Unwanted Man Presents).

Yes, it’s the day you can officially get rid of the Limited Xmas Edition Dove for Men Gift Box without guilt and safe in the knowledge that Aunt Mabel is unlikely to pop in uninvited and ask why the aforementioned gift-pack is lying unopened under the coffee table.
In reality, you either have no room in the bathroom cabinet as it’s still got last year’s in there or you hate the smell of the stuff.
Incidentally, it’s also safe to store away novelty puzzles and amusing cat sketch books until you get time to drop them off at the charity shop or re-wrap as presents for anyone you know who is unfortunate enough to have a birthday in January.

Next up, of course, is ETC (End of Timetable Confusion)

The day also marks the time that all the wheelie bin days are back to normal. No longer do you come home from work and suffer feelings of self-doubt when you see next door have put their bins out. You hurriedly hunt around the house for the recycling calendar to check that you aren’t losing your mind and repeating the mantra “One day later last week, two days later the week before, back to normal this week” over and over again. Then you relax, your neighbour was wrong and you were right (but inwardly you thank them as you actually thought it was general waste and not paper, plastic and glass week). Cue replacement of the calendar back under the coffee table on top of the Dove gift pack.
Speaking of timetables, you’ll see the council sending out the gritters. Usually on the wrong days, and always missing the side roads.

Crucially, St Dunandusted Day means the implementation of
SHH (Stop Happy Hellos).

Now then. You really can (REALLY CAN!) stop saying “Happy New Year” to anyone you happen to meet when taking your unwanted gifts to the charity shop.
Let’s be honest If you haven’t said it by now the chances are you aren’t that bothered how happy their 2017 is or you consider them “covered” by your Facebook post or that text you sent early on New Year’s Eve to all the contacts on your phone (yes, even the ones you meant to delete after last year’s text).

It’s a worrying time of year for the
WIMP (When Is My Payday?)

Yep, it still seems as far away as it was when you got paid a week early in December. You check the bank account and see that little minus sign.

For one, albeit brief, moment you consider selling Aunt Mabel’s gift on eBay to raise funds but you remember last year when you tried to offload the shoe polishing kit she got you and the one bid you got was for 49p with the proviso you paid £6:20 for sending it to them recorded delivery.

You are skint, you are always skint on St Dunandusted’s Day, don’t worry.

But you do worry, Dunandusted Day means Valentines is coming and you promised yourself you’d do flowers and chocolates (even Hotel du Chocchy Woccy ones) this year.
Mind you Easter Eggs are on the shelves now so maybe you could combine the two?

Oh, and last, but by no means least, it’s the day that 74% of you have already broken at least one of your New Year’s Resolutions.

We’ve already broken ours at AL3 by mentioning Wheelie Bins, Recycling, Easter and Valentine’s Day but good luck to you all with losing weight, eating healthier, stopping smoking and/or drinking (actually let’s make that “drinking less” no need to be silly) , going to the gym, spending more time with family and friends, having more me time, learning a new skill and finding the love of your life.

All of which you should be doing anyway as it’s normal and that’s what St Dunandusted’s Day is about after all.

Happy New Year

It’s the time of year to recognise those who have made notable contributions during 2016. So, acknowledging buffoonery, incompetence and all forms of complete numptiness across the district, we give you

The AL3 WTF New Year’s Honours List

St Albans Council Environment & Waste Dept.
MBE – Many Bins Emancipated

Anyone who has been brave enough to dip a toe into Verulamium Lake
The Order of the Bath (and pronto, we suggest)

All residents of Fontmell Close
OBE – ‘Ole, Bloody ‘eck

Anne Main
MBE – My Brexit ‘eaven

The majority of people in St Albans
OBE – Our Brexit ‘Ell

Nicholas Freestone
MBE – Mars Bowie Elegy

James Hanning
BEM – Brickyard Eventually Muted

Thameslink
CBE – Calamitously Bad Expresses

Paddy Delaney, accordion player
MBE – Music By Elbows

Priceless Roman mosaic in Arena foyer
CBE – Carpeted By Elves

Butterfly World
BEM – Butterfly Exit Mess

The Xmas Market
CBE – Closed Bloody Early

Frank Leclezio, General Manager, Alban Arena
For hosting a fab panto (‘oh, yes, he did…’) he becomes a Dame

All that remains is for us to wish everyone a happy and healthy New Year.

It’s Beginning to Feel a Lot Like…Easter (Again)

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Christmas is all about traditions and here at AL3 WTF we, like families across St Albans, like nothing more than repeating exactly the same festive habits year-in, year-out. In fact, so much so that it is customary for us to re-issue the same blog every single year. We’ve been doing this each December since our formation so that, err, actually means this is only the second time.
We’re ahead of the curve, to be honest. TV is all about repeats at this time of year and we’re blazing a trail for blogs to replicate that successful formula…
Here are eight ways to tell it’s almost Christmas in St Albans. Apart from no. 2 (+ 10 pts credit to the Council, the light turning on ceremony this year was actually pretty good; bigger, better and more spread out) they all hold true. Actually, no.6 is even more true this year: we thought it really odd that the Christmas Market finished on the 20th last and this year it shut on the 18th (deduct 15pts from the Council – tut, tut, tut – must try harder)
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It’s Beginning to Feel a Lot Like…Easter

…which means that it must be almost Christmas. We’re only few days away from Cream Eggs being beside every till, and rows of over-packaged chocolate oefs glaring at us menacingly from supermarket aisles.

Anyway, I’ll be surprised if anyone has the time to read this blog in the pre-Christmas rush. I’ll also probably be regretting spending valuable time writing it when I’m covered in Sellotape, garish ribbon and sparkly bows come midnight on Christmas Eve, but enough about my festive fetishes…

Eight Ways We Know it’s Almost Christmas in St Albans:

1) The staff in Metro Bank are all wearing Santa hats. I love a Santa hat, but there’s a time and a place for everything. I know that Metro Bank is working really hard to be ‘different’, but Santa hats from 1st Dec onwards? Really? Mr Banks from Mary Poppins would turn in his grave (if snooty banker characters from films had graves, that is).

2) The Christmas lights are on. The Christmas lights are on! St Peter’s Street never looked so joyful. Apart from last year. And the one before. When it comes to lights, we don’t exactly push the boat out, do we. The turning on ceremony was some time back in August, I think. Basically, it was an event more about hope than delivery. Security guards at each end of the pedestrianized zone were only letting through people with pushchairs. I didn’t actually see this security cordon, but it must have been in place as there’s no other way that such a high concentration of buggies could have come to be in the same crowded, noisy, dimly lit zone. It was like a Bugaboo convention. There’s a rumour going round that next year the council are going to turn the Chrissie lights off at dusk to save money and the town centre will be illuminated solely by the glow of pub-door cigarettes.

3) Every third house has an estate agent’s sign up. No, there’s been no sudden upsurge in the property market; these boards are to promote local schools’ Christmas fairs. If you need your annual fix of tombola action and the chance to get your hands on a ticket ending with a 5 or a 0 then this is the time of year for you. Mind, you’ll only win something you don’t want like lavender bath salts or box of monogrammed hankies (not the correct initial, obviously), but it’s the winning that’s important. Oh, and the raising of funds for the school. Oh, and it gives estate agents the opportunity to feel like they are part of the community. Yeah, right.

4) You’ve received an ‘exclusive’ mailer from every other shop on the high street inviting you to an ‘exclusive’ event where the only other ‘exclusive’ people attending will be absolutely everyone else in town. You probably got this much-prized invite because of some loyalty card you signed up for seven years ago just to get an extra 10% off some vaguely significant purchase or other. The thing is, we’ve all got loyalty cards for pretty much everywhere nowadays so they are hardly reserved for the diehard faithful. There’s no loyalty any more. We’ve all got disloyalty cards for everywhere.

5) The most frequent person to knock at your door is not a relative, friend or neighbour, but the postman or some other delivery driver bringing you stuff you ordered online late one night after too much wine. Still, you can always donate it to next year’s tombola. I got a dreaded ‘while you were out note’ the other day from well-known (but not well-respected) delivery company. In the comments box it said ‘Package left over side gate’. Thing is, we don’t have a side gate.

6) You really, really know it’s Christmas when the Christmas Market is shut. Closed. Geschlossen. Finished. Have I missed something or am I not alone in thinking a festive market might actually benefit (both stall-holders and visitors) from being open around, err, Christmas and not shutting up shop on the 20th. I don’t know about you, but my propensity to drink warm, spiced wine and eat German sausage always increases the closer I actually get to Christmas.

7) Christmas is almost here when half of St Albans has attended ‘Carols on the Hour’ at the Cathedral. With six consecutive sell-out performances of over a thousand people, you wouldn’t blame a clergyman for thinking ‘Where are you lot the rest of the year?’ Unlike the Christmas Market, the Cathedral has wisely decided to remain open for Christmas…
We folk of St Albans clearly loved COTH (Carols on the Hour). I am a man of the COTH. Makes me think there’s a winning formula here and that St A could get a few brand extensions going:
Barrels on the Hour – all the pubs kick everyone out every sixty minutes so it’s like an enforced festive pub crawl with people continually seeking alternative hostelries.
Darrlys on the Hour – every time the clock strikes the hour, some unfortunately named child of the 80’s is forced to run naked through Wilko’s with only a piece of tinsel to cover his modesty and a paper hat to adorn his mullet, whilst being squirted with limited edition Christmas-spice scented Mr Muscle by bargain-seeking shoppers.
Quarrels on the Hour – every sixty minutes local married couples are given a different topic about which to argue – from whose turn it is to put petrol in the car to whose relatives are the rudest. To provide the most conducive atmosphere for high-intensity quarrelling, this event will be hosted by a local supermarket.
Parallels on the Hour – this activity will be a synchronised slot parking event on Holywell: 23 cars, 23 empty spaces and 1 minute in which to all be neatly parked up. Local traffic wardens will award points for Style and Artistic Interpretation. Each hourly winner secures a place in the Grand Final to be held in the 20-minute only waiting bay outside the main entrance of the station.

8) Christmas is here when people are desperately buying last-minute books, CDs and DVDs in the supermarkets. Time was when these items were your stock Christmas presents: you’d be guaranteed to get a couple of each every year. Now, with the mass-ownership of Kindles, Spotify subscriptions and Netflix the people who buy you these gifts either don’t know you very well or panicked to get you something on Christmas Eve. Owners of e-readers, music subscriptions and film-streaming services are selfish: they think nothing of cutting off the gift life-line to which distant relatives have so desperately clung for years.
Me? I’m old-school: I’ve actually asked Santa for book (with pages) and a CD (complete with lyrics printed on a tiny booklet); it’s my way of showing I care about my present-buying relatives…

Have a fabulous Christmas and see you on the other side.

Now, where did I put that sherry…

St Albans’ First Non-European-Style Christmas Market

Following three years of somewhat mixed success, coupled with the Brexit vote, St Albans District Council has renamed the European Christmas Market. Henceforth, the seasonal pine-chalet convention will be known as the Non-Aligned Snorbens Town Yuletide Xenophobia Main Anne Street Market, or NASTY XMAS Market, for short.

This year, the NASTY XMAS Market will sell only British goods; the alpine chalets have all been returned to B&Q, the left-over gluhwein from 2015 has been poured into Verulamium Lake to help disperse the algae, and the German sausage stall has been sold on eBay to a sour kraut. The traders will now peddle their wares from traditional pale grey British Portakabins. Each Portakabin will be adorned with a trademark festive yellow drainpipe and seasonal graffiti greetings such as “Nigel woz ere” and “sh*t market” will be sprayed on each unit courtesy of local tag-wearing young offenders working under a council-funded community expression scheme called OIKS – Offering Insolent Kids Spray-cans.

Free from the prohibitive EU red-tape that restricts and spoils Christmas markets Europe-wide, the NASTY XMAS Market is now entitled to draw up its own laws and regulations so expect: fire-eating classes for the under 5s; a bye-law that ensures alcohol is only consumed by people who are armed with a freshly sharpened sword, and the wearing of highly flammable Noddy Holder masks will be compulsory for everyone entering the Vintry Gardens. Also be aware that every single food item sold at the market will have a silver sixpence hidden inside it.

The NASTY XMAS Market will sell only:
– Fish & chips
– Warm beer
– Flat caps
– Subscriptions to the Daily Mail
– Thameslink branded memorabilia (n.b. due to a shortage of staff, these items may appear smaller than promised, arrive later than timetabled, and will cost much more than they are worth)
– NASTY XMAS Market merchandise such as “My parents went to the NASTY XMAS Market and all they bought me was this t-shirt with a sh*t slogan on it” and mugs proclaiming “NASTY XMAS Market – the only place you can get sleighed and Slade and slayed”

To ensure mass appeal, successful high street retailers will also be hosting pop-up outlets at the seasonal vintry-fest. After a fierce bidding war for the prime spots, prominent Portakabins will be mis-managed by:
Bhs
Ratners
Woolworths
HMV
MFI
Kwiksave

Interestingly, on the official website for the market, the FAQs section contains a full and thorough list of no less than two (for those of you reading in black and white that’s ‘2’) key questions telling you absolutely everything you could possibly need to know about the 2016 market and planning your visit.

Q1: Can I take my dog? (A; yes, but please don’t is the advice)
and
Q2: Are the same stalls there throughout the 24 days (A: No, there will be “different stalls every time you visit” – this is assuming, we imagine, that you don’t visit the market twice in the same day. Plus, the market is actually open for 25 days, but here at AL3 WTF, we’re not ones to split hairs…)

More to the point, are these the only two questions in the minds of any potential visitor to our City’s outdoor festive offering? We can think of a few more obvious ones.

– Why does the market finish a whole week before Christmas?
– Will there actually be any signs or advertising this year?
– Is it true that Donald Trump will be Father Christmas in the market’s grotto?

Council Portfolio Holder for Festive Markets, Ivor Bigsack, said: “We want to make this the biggest and best Christmas market in Britain. To maximise the festive feel and spread the Christmas love as widely as possible, the 2017 EVEN NASTIER XMAS Market – Every Vendor Earns Nowt Non-Aligned Snorbens Town Isn’t Even Ready Xenophobia Main Anne Street Market – will open for business on 2nd Jan 2017, giving our town the year-round non-festive feel that it so richly doesn’t deserve.

”Roy Wood and Wizzard wished it could be Christmas every day, and with our new January though to December seasonal market strategy, in St Albans it can be. Of course, in 2016 the market itself finishes on 18th December, giving plenty of time for local people to do their traditional last-minute shopping on-line. I mean, here at the Council we’re not daft are we? We’re not going to go and do something really stupid like have the Christmas Market actually open near to Christmas; that would be absolutely plain sensible and way beyond our remit.”

Annie Brewster, Council Portfolio Holder for Tinsel and Glitter, did not say: “If I dress up as a fairy and sit on top of the tree do you promise not to take my picture and not to syndicate to every publication in Hertfordshire?”

Valentine’s Day: What Men Really Want

AL3 WTF surveyed 200 St Albans men earlier this week to find out what they wanted from their partner for Valentine’s Day. The results are quite revealing (for women), but quite obvious to men.

Firstly, let’s deal with the things men said they really didn’t want to receive/do. In reverse order:

5th place: Any permanent item with a heart on it. This means a mug (in fact, this especially means a mug); a t-shirt (‘Hey guys look at the cool t-shirt my missus bought me so that I can display my love for her even when cruel life separates us and I have to go to play 5-a-side with you lot’, said no man ever to his mates.); a ‘witty’ slogan on a piece of fake driftwood to hang up in the kitchen as a sign of undying love (or at least until Tinder pays out). Basically, anything that can’t be consumed whilst watching Match of the Day 2 on Sunday evening and has a life expectancy of more than 24hrs won’t be appreciated.

4th place: Jewellery. This is too much. And too soon in the relationship. Even if you’ve known him 20 years.

3rd place: Any card bigger than 12cm x 16cm. A card of greater dimensions will embarrass a man as it will, unfailingly, be bigger than the one he’s bought.

2nd place: A double mitten. This item allows couples to hold hands inside a giant double mitten. It really does. They do exist. They are for wearing in public. In public! Men fear receiving a double mitten more than the onset of erectile dysfunction.

1st place: The last thing any man wants to do is go to a restaurant that has a ‘Special Valentine’s Menu’. To men this simply means three things:
– exactly the same food as the normal menu, just with sickeningly re-named loved-up descriptors.
– rip-off pricing
– a room full of couples who’ve run out of things to say to each other

So then, what do men want to receive:

5th place: Alcohol (preferably something only he likes so he won’t have to share).

4th place: A night out with his mates as a reward for being such an all-round great guy for the last 12 months.

3rd place: Anything at all that arrives in the post on Monday 15th. This late arrival will put a man at ease all day on Sunday; watch him relax and enjoy the whole day. At the moment he’s told that his personalised/special gift hasn’t arrived, a smile will appear on his face, his shoulders will drop and the anxiety of the weekend will disappear as if someone has opened a pressure valve. He will love his partner all the more for her poor planning. AL3 WTF suggests choosing second class delivery for any item bought for a man and, perhaps, don’t order anything at all off Amazon until at least Saturday afternoon, just to be safe.

2nd place: A sexual favour. Don’t worry, this need not necessarily be performed by you if you’re not in the mood. If it suits more to provide a substitute then feel free; perhaps you have a sister or friend who could stand in for you and lend a hand (or other appropriate body part)?

1st place: The remote control. The man in your life will happily endure While You Were Sleeping on BBC1 on Sunday night, if you let him have full and uninterrupted use of the TV in the afternoon and all the following weekend so that he can watch the rugby on Sunday and then all the live 5th Round FA Cup matches the weekend after. This will cost you nothing. Our research shows that he will love you more than life itself as a result of this gift.

In the spirit of equality, AL3 WTF also surveyed local women to find out what they wanted. We had planned to ask 200 ladies, but it became very clear after speaking to only seven respondents that they all had absolutely 100% identical requirements for Valentine gifts. These were:

– a large card purchased from a specialist card shop, not a supermarket, a garage or Wilkos

– something to keep forever with a red heart printed on it (preferably a mug or t-shirt or sign for the kitchen that can be shown-off to envious friends)

– flowers. Preferably red in colour and in a bunch that’s bigger than that received by any visiting friend/sister/neighbour. If the floral arrangement necessitated an extension to the family mortgage than so be it; you are worth it, after all.

– chocolates. So what if it’s only five days into Lent. It’s bloody Valentine’s Day. What are you supposed to do. It’s not your fault. Eat them. Eat them all.

– a meal out. This must be somewhere with a Special Valentine’s Day menu. Nothing else will do. ‘Ooh look, they’ve cleverly changed all the names of the dishes so that they’ve got romantic descriptors…’

Happy Valentine’s Day. And remember, even if no-one else does, AL3 WTF loves you.

It’s Beginning to Feel a Lot Like…Easter

…which means that it must be almost Christmas. We’re only few days away from Creme Eggs being beside every till, and rows of over-packaged chocolate oeufs glaring at us menacingly from supermarket aisles.

Anyway, I’ll be surprised if anyone has the time to read this blog in the pre-Christmas rush. I’ll also probably be regretting spending valuable time writing it when I’m covered in Sellotape, garish ribbon and sparkly bows come midnight on Christmas Eve, but enough about my festive fetishes…

Eight Ways We Know it’s Almost Christmas in St Albans:

1) The staff in Metro Bank are all wearing Santa hats. I love a Santa hat, but there’s a time and a place for everything. I know that Metro Bank is working really hard to be ‘different’, but Santa hats from 1st Dec onwards? Really? Mr Banks from Mary Poppins would turn in his grave (if snooty banker characters from films had graves, that is).

2) The Christmas lights are on. The Christmas lights are on! St Peter’s Street never looked so joyful. Apart from last year. And the one before. When it comes to lights, we don’t exactly push the boat out, do we? The turning on ceremony was some time back in August, I think. Basically, it was an event more about hope than delivery. Security guards at each end of the pedestrianized zone were only letting through people with pushchairs. I didn’t actually see this security cordon, but it must have been in place as there’s no other way that such a high concentration of buggies could have come to be in the same crowded, noisy, dimly lit zone. It was like a Bugaboo convention. There’s a rumour going round that next year the council are going to turn the Chrissie lights off at dusk to save money and the town centre will be illuminated solely by the glow of pub-door cigarettes.

3) Every third house has an estate agent’s sign up. No, there’s been no sudden upsurge in the property market; these boards are to promote local schools’ Christmas fairs. If you need your annual fix of tombola action and the chance to get your hands on a ticket ending with a 5 or a 0 then this is the time of year for you. Mind, you’ll only win something you don’t want like lavender bath salts or box of monogrammed hankies (not the correct initial, obviously), but it’s the winning that’s important. Oh, and the raising of funds for the school. Oh, and it gives estate agents the opportunity to feel like they are part of the community. Yeah, right.

4) You’ve received an ‘exclusive’ mailer from every other shop on the high street inviting you to an ‘exclusive’ event where the only other ‘exclusive’ people attending will be absolutely everyone else in town. You probably got this much-prized invite because of some loyalty card you signed up for seven years ago just to get an extra 10% off some vaguely significant purchase or other. The thing is, we’ve all got loyalty cards for pretty much everywhere nowadays so they are hardly reserved for the diehard faithful. There’s no loyalty any more. We’ve all got disloyalty cards for everywhere.

5) The most frequent person to knock at your door is not a relative, friend or neighbour, but the postman or some other delivery driver bringing you stuff you ordered online late one night after too much wine. Still, you can always donate it to next year’s tombola. I got a dreaded ‘while you were out note’ the other day from well-known (but not well-respected) delivery company. In the comments box it said ‘Package left over side gate’. Thing is, we don’t have a side gate.

6) You really, really know it’s Christmas when the Christmas Market is shut. Closed. Geschlossen. Finished. Have I missed something or am I not alone in thinking a festive market might actually benefit (both stall-holders and visitors) from being open around, err, Christmas and not shutting up shop on the 20th. I don’t know about you, but my propensity to drink warm, spiced wine and eat German sausage always increases the closer I actually get to Christmas.

7) Christmas is almost here when half of St Albans has attended ‘Carols on the Hour’ at the Cathedral. With six consecutive sell-out performances of over a thousand people, you wouldn’t blame a clergyman for thinking ‘Where are you lot the rest of the year?’ Unlike the Christmas Market, the Cathedral has wisely decided to remain open for Christmas…
We folk of St Albans clearly loved COTH (Carols on the Hour). I am a man of the COTH. Makes me think there’s a winning formula here and that St A could get a few brand extensions going:
Barrels on the Hour – all the pubs kick everyone out every sixty minutes so it’s like an enforced festive pub crawl with people continually seeking alternative hostelries.
Darryls on the Hour – every time the clock strikes the hour, some unfortunately named child of the 80’s is forced to run naked through Wilko’s with only a piece of tinsel to cover his modesty and a paper hat to adorn his mullet, whilst being squirted with limited edition Christmas-spice scented Mr Muscle by bargain-seeking shoppers.
Quarrels on the Hour – every sixty minutes local married couples are given a different topic about which to argue – from whose turn it is to put petrol in the car to whose relatives are the rudest. To provide the most conducive atmosphere for high-intensity quarrelling, this event will be hosted by a local supermarket.
Parallels on the Hour – this activity will be a synchronised slot parking event on Holywell Hill: 23 cars, 23 empty spaces and 1 minute in which to all be neatly parked up. Local traffic wardens will award points for Style and Artistic Interpretation. Each hourly winner secures a place in the Grand Final to be held in the 20-minute only waiting bay outside the main entrance of the station.

8) Christmas is here when people are desperately buying last-minute books, CDs and DVDs in the supermarkets. Time was when these items were your stock Christmas presents: you’d be guaranteed to get a couple of each every year. Now, with the mass-ownership of Kindles, Spotify subscriptions and Netflix the people who buy you these gifts either don’t know you very well or panicked to get you something on Christmas Eve. Owners of e-readers, music subscriptions and film-streaming services are selfish: they think nothing of cutting off the gift life-line to which distant relatives have so desperately clung for years.

Me? I’m old-school: I’ve actually asked Santa for a book (with pages) and a CD (complete with lyrics printed on a tiny booklet); it’s my way of showing I care about my present-buying relatives…

Have a fabulous Christmas and see you on the other side.

Now, where did I put that sherry…

Winter Is Coming

I know, I know. The weather boffins say winter starts at the end of November but, here at AL3 Towers, the solstice chart says winter starts on December 21st this year so it’s still autumn for a few more days as far as we’re concerned but, thankfully, it will soon be over.

Autumn.
The outhouse of all seasons and the sooner someone flushes it away the better.
Make that the full flush not the eco-friendly small button one.

Does anyone really look forward to autumn?
Really? Does anyone think “Yay! Goodbye summer, ’tis the season to be gloomy”?

if the Eskimo people have dozens of words for “snow” they only need one for autumn.
Mind you, it would still have four letters and begin with ‘s’.

Autumn,
Seriously, what does it have to offer?
You have to mess about with the clocks.

Ooh! An extra hour in bed.
That’s sixty minutes that you didn’t ask to have in return for what exactly?

Well, getting up for work in the dark and coming home in the even “darker” for one thing.
But then, the “extra hour” is very much dependent on what age your offspring are as they work on kidstime.

Speaking of younger members of the species, what spell gets cast that sees responsible caring parents send the little (in some cases literally) “devils” out onto the dimly streets to beg for sweets from complete strangers?

Yes, Halloween, one of autumn’s ugly siblings. Not satisfied with setting off a sugar fuelled frenzy that keeps my dentist’s Aston Martin on the road, it’s also deemed to be the time to boost the local farming economy by buying a ridiculous amount of that autumnal horror, the pumpkin.

All those good intentions of carving a masterpiece without letting the stinky flesh go to waste.

‘Pumpkin pie anyone?’
‘Mmmm, lovely. No, no it tastes nothing like soggy “any vegetable” mixed with burnt sugar at all.’

Of course, after it’s all over, there’s the carved carcass of your smelly overgrown orange tealight holder to deal with.
You leave it just outside the backdoor.You are, naturally, going to recycle it but it’s dark, wet and windy, BECAUSE IT’S AUTUMN, so you leave it until the weekend.
Then the weekend comes and the pumpkin has collapsed because that’s what they do. You lift it up carefully and it disintegrates in your hands with a ‘slop’ sound onto the patio. You then spend the next ten minutes in the dark, wet and windy conditions clearing it up. BECAUSE IT’S AUTUMN!

As if Halloween isn’t enough, we then foist the 5th of November on the sugar laden little people.
Having already allowed them a day of begging and glucose gluttony, it is now time for doting parents to thrust flaming sticks of chemicals in their hands and encourage them to wave them about! Yes, those very same elements your chemistry teacher made you wear goggles for are given to children.

Autumn.
Yes, people will say ‘look at the beautiful golds and reddish-browns of the leaves though’. But think about it, when else does the colour ‘russet’ get used?
‘Russet’ ,an autumn word, a poetic colour for autumn that can only rhyme with……….?

That’s right. Autumn the gusset of the seasons.

Besides. Do not be fooled by the leaves.

At best they are dead foliage. Mother Nature’s blockages-in-waiting.
At worst, they are camouflage for the lazy dog owner, a slip that is yet to be discovered.

Leaves here, leaves there. You sweep, you rake, you remove from the gutter but turn your back and there they are again. And while the leaves are falling to their death the grass is still growing! Taunting you because it knows it’s too wet for you to cut it and anyway the lawn mower is right at the back of the shed because you didn’t think you’d need it again because it’s AUTUMN and it’s when things stop growing!

Autumn.
As welcome as David Cameron at a Peppa Pig party,

But it’s not all bad is it?
I mean look at all those Autumn plus points.

You can get a flu jab.
You’ll need one to feel safe sitting on that steamy windowed bus full of sneezing commuters that takes you, in the dark, to the train station to get in the damp carriage on the train that’s 30 minutes late because it was delayed by russet leaves on the track.

Um, oh yeah, it’s grey, wet, gloomy and windy so you’ll be comforted by the TV schedule that has “I’m Strictly an XFactor Celebrity Dancing in Downton Out of Here” to entertain you before all the good stuff comes back in the winter.

If autumn was a “Strictly” contender it would be Anne Widdecombe.
‘Autumn dahhling you were a gloomy damp dreary disaster”

The TV adverts change for autumn.
Yes, you get the usual Xmas ones with huge tables of food and everyone having a good time, in large family groups that cover every demographic possible and make you wonder how many milkmen one house needs but you also get the autumn only “special ones”

They start advertising Xmas saving clubs in November? Handy.

The hair dye adverts with Davina Willabooby and the like start featuring feckin’ russet coloured hair! (As an aside – do you ever wonder how they get 86% of 137 women agreeing? We’ve done the maths and there’s at least one woman who’s not all there!)

But pride of place goes to the central heating ad with the tag line “tired of your old bolier?”

Now hands up how many ladies out there turn round to see if their other half is smirking when that comes on?

Nope. Autumn is the old boiler of seasons but, thankfully,
‘Winter is coming’.

Back next week and in case our paths don’t cross until next year,

AL3 wish you all a merry, peaceful and above all healthy Christmas.

Quorn in the USA

I am in a mixed marriage: my wife is vegetarian, I’m not.

Actually, technically speaking, she’s a pescatarian as she eats fish. (I find the term pescatarian a bit of a stumbling block as it conjures up images of the closing scenes of old Scooby Doo cartoons. You know what I mean: the bit at the end of every episode where the culprit’s mask is yanked off and he declares ‘I woulda gotten away with it if it hadn’t been for you pescatarians!’)

Anyway, my wife and I are just back from holiday in the land of the free and the home of the brave (no, not Hemel – went there last year and it’s a much cheaper way of getting a tan – only takes 6 minutes in a booth to go the same colour as Shaggy’s hair), and it quickly became apparent that in a country where you can be anything you want to be, one thing it’s quite hard to be is a veggie.

Day 3 and my wife had already sussed the need to be clear about her food requirements when ordering. We’re sitting on the sunny terrace of an independent burger joint – a restaurant’ish one, not a drive thru – we are on holiday after all. It’s lunchtime. I’m happy and would eat anything on the menu.

Wife: I’m vegetarian.

Shaven-Headed, Body-Builder Owner/Waiter Who Looks Like He’s Going To Burst Out Of His T-Shirt: You can have any of the burgers with a vegetarian pattie instead.

Wife: I’ll have the Swiss Cheeseburger.

SHBBO/WWLLHGTBOOHTS: Great choice.

Me: (silently salivating at the thought of meat for the third day in a row)

Wind forwards ten minutes and my wife is enjoying her burger. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that she’s particularly enjoying her burger – more than I’ve seen her enjoy a veggie burger for a very long time. Wind forward two more minutes and she is no longer enjoying life in any way, shape or form.

Wife: That’s bacon. There’s bacon in my veggie burger (points to three unmistakable rashers).

Me: Can I have it?

Wife: (dark stare)

Me: (poor attempt at cheeky smile)

Wife: (even darker stare)

I dutifully take the offending burger back inside and speak to the barman-come- manager-come-waiter. He (unsurprisingly) apologises and, somewhat stating the obvious, says ‘that shouldn’t be in there’.

SHBBO/WWLLHGTBOOHTS: Sorry, man. I do everything here except cook. I’m truly sorry.

I walk back outside.

SHBBO/WWLLHGTBOOHTS arrives a few minutes later looking rather sheepish (it was actually quite amusing to see a testosterone-filled, protein-packed body-builder look quite so coy, his brusque persona eroded by veggie-gate)

SHBBO/WWLLHGTBOOHTS: (to wife) Let me make amends. What can I do to make this up to you? Anything at all.

Wife looks pensive.

I’m intrigued as to how she’ll respond. What would I want if one of my defining beliefs was compromised so publically by a stranger? What if something I was so passionate about was undermined in such a way? I’d want something of note to compensate.

Wife: I’ll have some onion rings to take away, please.

SHBBO/WWLLHGTBOOHTS: (knowing he’s got off lightly) Absolutely. Absolutely. No problem at all. I’ll make it a large box and make sure they are really hot.

The next time I do something (allegedly) wrong – it shouldn’t take long, probably be when my wife reads this post – I’ll know that the price of redemption is not flowers, a Champneys voucher or a child-free meal out at Lussmans, but a box of onion rings. Everyone has their price; I have found hers.

Before we leave the restaurant, our daughter’s diaper (see what I did there – gone native) needed changing. I volunteered, despite my scepticism that such an establishment would have changing facilities. Actually, that’s why I volunteered, to be honest: safe in the knowledge that if there was a changing table anywhere it would certainly only be in the Ladies so, unfortunately, I’d be prevented from my fatherly duty.

Me: (after scouting around inside holding a smelly toddler): Do you have baby changing?

SHBBO/WWLLHGTBOOHTS: No way, dude; this is a dive bar.

Hmm. So a ‘bar’ that has high-chairs doesn’t offer the full spectrum of facilities? Anyway, I walked away happy; it’s a very long time since anyone’s called me ‘dude’.

Wind forward ten minutes and the nappy has been changed under a shady tree and the still half-full box of volcano-hot onion rings is in the (ahem) trash.

I tried to make light of the whole incident by telling my wife that I thought her choosing the Swiss Cheeseburger in the first place was one of her rasher decisions. She didn’t laugh.

She’s been a veggie since she was ten. Then again, I reckon most of us would review our meat consumption if at a tender age we were shown around a family abattoir in Ireland by a mischievous older cousin. His intention was to scare her; it worked.

While we were in the States we saw several of my wife’s relatives (being Irish, she has the classic large contingent of rellies Stateside). I was somewhat amused to discover that another (different) cousin we visited was also converted to vegetarianism by being shown round an (American) abattoir at a formative age. The very same life-changing experience, but thousands of miles apart. Well, as they say, blood is thicker than water. Now, I’m all for family traditions, but this is an absolutely offal one.

Said American cousin was the attractively named Johneen, a name I’d never come across before. I quite like it. It’s the feminine version of John; a bit like Noel/Noeleen, Joel/Joeleen or Philip and, err, Philippeen.

Which brings me – conveniently – back to St Albans.

Quorn – the meat-substitute – used to be owned by St Albans-based Premier Foods (their HQ is by the roundabout at the bottom of St Stephen’s Hill, just past the offices with the traffic-cone wearing Roman soldier statue outside). Premier Foods sold Quorn in 2011 and it’s this month been sold on to a Philippeen company (sorry, that should read Philippine company).

Quorn is sold in 23 countries; my guess is that America isn’t one of its larger markets.

Announcing the purchase, the new owner’s CEO, Henry Soesanto, genuinely said: “Quorn represents an important new leg in our offering” which, I think, was a rather unfortunate choice of words.

Mr Soesanto (that’s a surname you can’t say out loud without doing it to the tune of Sinitta’s 80s hit So Macho) would have been disappointed to hear of UK research findings revealed this week which state that 37% of vegetarians eat meat when drunk. Really? 37%?

Next time you’re in a pub with a veggie friend and they claim that they’re ‘just popping out for a fag’ you might want to check up that they are not actually popping outside for a hot faggot. (As we’re in the UK I can use that term; I’m confident that AL3 WTF’s readership in the States is non-existent. And if there is a random American reader, just think how confused they’ll be and what a hot-bed of non-discriminating promiscuity St Albans will appear!).

As far as I know, my wife has never eaten meat when drunk. However, it’s her birthday next week so I’m very happy to put this to the test.

If anyone knows of a good veggie restaurant in St A that I can take her to then please let me know. Failing that, I’m thinking Prime Steak & Grill on London Road and go heavy on the onion rings…

The Boys Are Back In Town

We have been ‘away’.
No, not at Her Majesty’s pleasure (although that would have been considerably cheaper).
Besides, we have dirt on the judge so that was never gonna happen.

Where have we been?

Well, maybe we were at the publishers working on a book deal, or perhaps we were trying out some stand-up material at the Edinburgh Festival? We could have been mixing with stars of stage and screen (The Krankies are still big aren’t they?) making preparations for the release of our first film.

Or perhaps we were abducted by aliens?

All, any or none of these may be true but, what really matters is, we’re back and – by the look of things – just in the nick of time.

Something has been going on. Yes, right here, in St Albans, under your noses and frankly we’re a bit surprised and a little bit disappointed you haven’t done anything about it!

Admittedly, you couldn’t have done much about the first “change”.

You see, we arrived back at AL3 Towers and the very first thing we noticed was that we’d been “unburgled”!

For those of you not familiar with this phenomenon, this is when you arrive back home to a place that’s cleaner and tidier than when you left. So startling was the transformation that I had to go outside to check both the colour and number on the front door were correct.

At first we let it go. We figured, that as we had left in a hurry under the cover of darkness, that we’d actually left the place a lot tidier than we initially thought.

But paranoia is a powerful thing and it had a disturbing effect for the rest of the day until it casually cropped up in a conversation with “The Perp”.
I say “casually” but it’s difficult to use the phrase “Have you noticed your cutlery tray is clean” in a casual fashion.

It was the mother-in-law.

We hadn’t noticed but, as soon as we got back to HQ, we checked the aforementioned tray and it was indeed spotless. We also noticed we had 29 teaspoons. The tray has never had that many teaspoons in it! What was going on, that’s one for every cup with leftovers for ramekins and still some to spare?

That night, in an attempt to relax and put the “unburgling” behind us, we sat down to watch some TV. Now remember, we’d “been away” so hadn’t seen anything for a while.

The adverts were on. Nothing strange there you’d think and, to start with, there wasn’t. Shiny hair because she’s “worth it”, “been involved in an accident at work?” then, wait a moment, rewind, play. What did he just say?

There he was, our (third) favourite Barry, emerging from a slide on primetime TV saying “Wow, I’ve never been through a pipe quicker!” Really? (Apart from the fact he probably has) WTF?!

As if that wasn’t enough, before we’d recovered, a toy monkey with a vajazzle then tried to sell us tea!

Seriously, we thought that maybe the “unburgular” had used a cleaning product that contained some hallucinogenic chemicals (maybe the sort that 3rd fave Bazza tries to flog?).

We needed some fresh air to clear our heads. A walk, surely that would help and bring some normality back. So off we went, we even took some sandwiches with us wrapped in some newspaper.

First signs were good, very good. The grass verges were still too long but that was good, that was “normal”.

We headed towards the park. It was a mistake, how long had we been away?

There it was. The Lake. How could this be? What had happened? Why had nothing been done?

The air was no longer fresh, we peered at stagnant liquid that was now fit only for The Creature of The Black Lagoon.

Our appetites gone, we threw our uneaten sandwiches in the lake* and began to read the newspaper they had been wrapped in.
*It’s ok, the ducks ain’t gonna eat the bread cos the ducks have sodded off refugee-stylee in search of cleaner waters. Actually, maybe there’s a quacking “unburgular” that will save the lake, do ducks have mother-in-laws?

Anyway, hopes were fading, we thought we would manage to find a small morsel of normality in the shape of a letter in the newspaper from our (second) favourite Barry.Yes, it was written in the style of one who is inebriated with the exuberance of his own verbosity, but actually it was quite sensible and not likely to wind anyone up.

Nothing, not even Bazza 2, was normal. We were fading fast.
We had been away and everything was different. This isn’t what it was meant to be like.

Wandering into town, we are ashamed to admit, we had given up. Nothing would ever be the same.

Then it happened, we arrived at the market. The market! Of course! Why didn’t we think of it sooner? But wait, what if it had changed? That would truly be the end.

Well, it was busy – that was normal.

There was the smell of fish and fromage – that was normal (nicer than the whiff of the lake!)

But what about the real test?

Were they there?

The litmus test. The Grumpies. Were they there selling their wares?

Holding our breath, hardly daring to look through the fingers of our hands covering our eyes we peeked.

There they were. Grumpy 1. Arguing with a customer who had handled his wares. Grumpy 2. Moaning about people standing by her stall.

Normal service resumed! Not that we’d ever buy anything off either stall as we don’t tend to walk around town dressed like..

But, sometimes, it takes something bad to make you feel good.

We were back and we felt good.

So we went to The Boot (other pubs are available) for a welcome home pint.

And, on the way, one of the stalls near the end of the market was playing music.
Did our ears deceive us? Could it be magic? No. it was our (1st) favourite Barry singing.

And we sang along because we were ready,
“Ready to take a chance again, Ready to take a chance again with you”.

Every Loser Wins

There are certain occasions in life when one has to make the odd sacrifice.

You know? Like when the other half comes home with complimentary tickets for the opening night of her best friend’s niece’s experimental contemporary dance group production and you simply ‘have to go to show support’?

Think incomprehensible floor writhing, starkly lit stage, a wooden tea chest as the sole prop and a soundtrack that will either make your ears bleed or induce a deep sleep followed by loud snoring until other half digs you in ribs. Two tortuous acts of modern movement each 1 hour long with an intermission just brief enough to have a pee or a warm can of lager – but never both.

And then there is SCHOOL SPORTS DAY.

The annual gathering that brings young and old together for a few hours of what’s-the-pointism.

Of course, you ‘have to go to show support’.

This years ‘event’ was to be my last ever Junior School sports day, bar any surprise family additions or becoming a teacher.

Still it was sunny, I wouldn’t be at work and I’d be getting tanned.

So, the usual last minute decision re appropriate attire had to be made.

Despite blisteringly hot conditions, shorts and trainers were a no-no. Turning up looking like you are actually hoping there is a parent’s race is a sports day social faux pas. Then again, wearing jeans and sensible shoes would leave this, slightly competitive, dad at a distinct sporting disadvantage should there actually be a race.

Decision made – jeans and trainers. A look that said ‘I really do NOT want to be picked for the parents’ race but, if I am, bring it!’

Mind you, I imagine the whole Sports Day fashion choice must be sooooo much worse for mums.

Apart from potentially looking like Mrs Way Too Keen if you turn up in your running gear, Ms Glam Boobs aka Jimmy’s Mum is bound to be there to cheer him on all fake-tanned in ripped jeans, crop top, high heels and designer shades isn’t she?

Don’t fret Ladies. The situation is lose-lose. Just, for pity’s sake, wear a sports bra if there is even the remotest possibility of you ending up in the sack race.

‘Lose-lose’?

That’s totally unlike sports day where ‘Every One’s A Winner Baby, that’s the truth (that’s the truth)’.

The formula for this particular school was simple.

It was a non-competitive, competitive, team event decided by individual performance where there are no winners or losers just those who get points for their team and those who don’t.

Really? I know there’s no ‘I’ in ‘Team’ but there is in ‘Win’?

As usual the 1:30pm start was delayed which meant trying to find shade, a drink and avoiding having conversation with other parents for half an hour while the kids are sorted into their teams.

Still it was sunny, I wasn’t at work and I was getting tanned.

As mentioned, just to make sure there’s absolutely no danger of competition rearing its non-pc head, each competitor, err I mean participant, was sorted into a team that was clearly identifiable by shirt colour. I say ‘clearly’ as the Green Team comprised of shirts that were green, dark green, light green, bluey green, greeny blue and yellow. Yellow? ‘Molly, you’re supposed to be with the Orangey Team under the other tree!’ Anyway, 20 minutes later and all teams were sorted and looking suitably disinterested.

A whistle from the headmaster and the groups were each led to their respective ‘event station’. Well 5 of the groups were. For, yea verily, it was written that the 6th team shall rest and drinketh cups of water as part of a rotation system that not even the headmaster could fathom.

The head blew his whistle again and the fun began.

‘Fun’? Really?

First event.

3 Bean Bags. 3 Hoops. One hoop very close, one not so close, one impossibly far away.

Objective? Throw bean bags in hoops.

Points? 1pt per bean bag in hoop.

(Make that rewinding tape noise in your head here. Hell! Make it out loud if you want.).

WTF?! Yep, any bean bag in any hoop was a point. Didn’t matter if it was – near, far, wherever you are………..this event was so not about risk and reward.

The kids were bored, the parents were bored.

Still it was sunny, I wasn’t at work and I was getting tanned.

Next up, pointless side to side jumping that deserves no further description.

Blow the whistle headmaster, please blow the whistle.

Welly throwing next. This had promise after Jimmy, son of Glam Boobs, threw it over the first marker, over the second marker and narrowly over someone’s Granny. Unfortunately this lead to the teacher explaining that you got a point for throwing the boot anywhere between the two markers. Distance wasn’t actually the factor.

Perlease! In my day that would have been the signal for targeting any adult you could then quickly declaring ‘Oops! It slipped out of my hand Miss!’ (A phrase I’ve used many times myself over the years).

Two buckets. One with water, one without, 5 metres apart. Objective? Move water from bucket A to bucket B using a sponge which also acted as team baton.

Hot sunny day, kids, water. Surely this was a cue for a soaking? Nope, one by one the Green team members dutifully loaded the sponge and carefully transported water to its destination. Until it was Jimmy’s turn. If it was on purpose it was genius. Little Jimmy arrived back at the changeover with more water than he left with and the sponge receiver got soaked. The Greens immediately changed tactics which involved dipping sponge in bucket A, soaking team mate, re-dipping sponge running to bucket B and back before handing over sponge in a style guaranteed to dampen. This is what the crowd wanted but the whistle blew too soon and it was off to the final event of the rotation.

Team Green’s final event was kicking the ball into the goal. Something that could be highly recommended for those who play at Clarence Park stadium on a Sat afternoon.

This was the only event where the team were told what the target score was. 15 the score to beat. A purpose! Suddenly they came to life. Things didn’t start that well when first greenie (my youngest daughter) stepped up and kicked the ball over the crossbar, the fence, tree and halfway down the field! Fret not, Greens had a secret weapon. Yep, little Jimmy couldn’t miss. The boy had an eye for goal, 10, 11, the crowd and kids actually got excited, 12, 13, 14, hit the bar, 15 then just before the whistle went, Jimmy hit the winner! Big cheers from all concerned.

There were some relay races (which Jimmy’s team won) and some egg and spoon races (Jimmy won his). The sack race didn’t take place (much to my daughter’s disgust) there were no parent races (much to my disgust).We didn’t find out which team won and, at time of blogging, still don’t know! (Much to everyone’s disgust).

Still, it was sunny, I wasn’t at work, but I got sunburnt!

Things You Think On Sports Day

Mum & Dad – Do I have to go?

Mum & Dad – Why does it never start on time?

Mum & Dad – How long is this going on for?

Mum & Dad – Why don’t they use real eggs anymore?

Mum & Dad – That ginger kid is burning.

Mum – What does she think she looks like?

Dad – I really should congratulate Jimmy’s mum on his performance.

Mum – Do you really have to congratulate Jimmy’s mum after every event?

Just the 52 of us, me and him, and him and him and her…..

We (Me and Him) were sitting in the AL3 WTF Research Centre aka “The Hub” (or something that rhymes with that) the other day and noticed that our Facebook page had just passed 50 likes.

52 to be exact.

52! That’s one for every week of the year, the number of playing cards in a standard deck, the number of white keys on a piano, the international dialling code for Mexico and the atomic number of the element that an old school pal used to call “Tell-your-mum”*.

52! That’s 50 more than the two of us ever expected.

You, our Facebook followers, you are our Spartans!
Only there’s not 300 of you and you (probably) don’t have shields or big spears.

Snorbanites! Prepare for glory!

“This is blasphemy! This is madness!

Madness…?

THIS IS SNORBANS!”

And this is AL3 WTF’s first ever (and quite possibly last) competition.

It’s simple.

There are two judges.

Just the two of us, Me and Him.

Write a caption for this picture.

Just stick your caption in the comments with your email or email us via the envelope thingy top right of the page or, if you really don’t want to scroll up, just email us here AL3WTF@gmail.com.

The one that amuses us (Me and Him) the most will win a prize.

In the (quite likely) event the judges can’t agree there will be two prizes.

We can almost hear you squealing now “What’s the prize?!, What’s the prize?!”

Well that would be telling but, it will be unique or, in the event of disagreement between Me and Him, one of a (very nearly) unique pair.

Final date for entries is 31/05/2015.Winning name(s) may be published, judge’s decision is final, blah de blah de blah blah blaah.

Oh yeah – you can tell your friends and friends of friends that they can enter too but, rest assured, they will never have the A-Lister status of you, “The 52”, for

“Tonight we dine in (enter name of favourite St Albans eaterie here) !!

*It’s actually Tellurium.

Old El Paso Fiasco

So here we are, Mother’s Day gone, Easter over, first week of half-term all done, the clocks have magically sprung forwards (except the ones for the oven, microwave, two cars, three wrist watches, bedroom hi-fi, kitchen wall clock, bathroom wall clock and the 1984 ghetto Boomblaster) AND the sun has come out! But the threat of a disturbingly dark menace is about to descend upon some of us…………

I speak, of course, of the most unwelcome double act since Jedward (if only they had been christened Peter and Rick?). Yes, DIY and gardening.

Yes, duty calls for Snorbenite males. Our better halves, under the guise of interior design/landscape gardener experts, pay no heed to the fact that the football and rugby season ending crescendo is upon us. Instead, without fail, they begin the annual ritual that is the writing of (imagine a Vincent Price voice-over) ‘The Little List of Things’.

The only certainties about ‘The List’ are that it shall contain things that are little, things that are not so little and things that are big. For verily, it is written that, though ‘The List’ may hath items crossed off it when they are completed, new items will be added by the Forewoman once she hath watched the latest episode of Kirstie’s Fill Your House (with stuff you didn’t know you wanted) For Free. Well, that’s “Free” unless you can get it ready made or have to cover it with Farrow & Ball liquid gold.

My interior designer was preoccupied over the recent Bank Holiday so I, temporarily, escaped ‘The List’ but it stills hangs like the sword of Damocles waiting to drop whenever it is most inconvenient.

Not for me bedding plants and emulsion colour charts, oh no, no, no dear readers. My Bank Holiday sports fest was to be interrupted by the urgent need for ……………packets of fajita mix!

Yes, fajita mix and yes it was ‘urgent’. There was an emergency and I was required to make a mercy dash to get the ‘Old Alamo’ fajita kit and be quick (or should I say ‘muy rápido’) about it too.

‘What could possibly be “urgent” about Old Amarillo fajita mix?’ I hear you ask.

Well, dear reader, I am reliably informed that, due to the current composition of your standard fajita mix packet, there is a condition called “EXTRAS” – EXcessive Tortillas Remaining After Supper. This can lead to Cupboard Room At Premium (see pic) syndrome and despite my thoughtful suggestion that they may come in handy should we be caught short for toilet paper the pile never seems to decrease.

Where were we?

Ah yes, mercy dash.

‘Ok my dearest, sounds simple enough’ (silly me).

‘It’s in the yellow and red box, but not the Original recipe one. You have to get the one with “extra mild super tasty” written in blue.’

‘Ah, so that’ll be the yellow and red with a bit of blue on it box then?’

‘Just ask in the shop if you’re not sure!’

So, with those words of encouragement ringing in my ears, I left for the joy of Painsbury’s. Now I must confess that I mostly shop at Waitrose, mainly because, when I first moved to Snorbans, I was led to believe that it was compulsory if one was to be accepted in social circles. PS – Before any accusations of snobbery are made, I have been known to pop into the odd Chavsda too.

However, I had ulterior motives for going to Painsberries. No, not to look at the latest TU spring collection. Firstly, it gave me the excuse to nip into Homebase to look at all the gardening and power tools that I had no intention of buying or, even if I did buy them, using. It’s a man thing.

Secondly, I wanted to look at and photograph the location for AL3’s pet project.” If you build it they will come.” All will be revealed in a later blog but, suffice to say for now, ‘support us or the puppy gets it’.

PS -To the lady passer-by who saw me taking pictures and gave me a look as if I’d farted at her baby’s christening (wind-breaking at other religious gatherings is also available) I was just taking a photo!!

Anyway, important stuff done, I strolled over to the superstore and (to my delight) the only thing longer than the till queues (presumably Waitrose was closed?) was the distance to the aforementioned paquete de tortillas. Superstore? SuperLONGstore more likely.

Suffice to say, an hour later I was homeward bound armed with 3 packets of Old Eldorado fajita mix all resplendent in yellow red and blue, well at least two of them were. Why don’t people put things back in the right places?!

Two would be enough though, we won’t be having fajitas more than twice in the same week surely?

I returned, hunter-gatherer duties complete and satisfied in knowing that there would be no panic in our home should we run out of toilet paper.

Obviously the error in the shop (1 in 3 failure rate) was mentioned by the interior design department who deemed it “typical”.

‘No, no I ask for nothing in return dear, after all, my reward is your pleasure my dearest.’

I was swiftly reminded that I was fortunate that the best things come in small packages.

OBVIOUSLY she was talking about fajita kits!!

Hasta luego muchachos.

Summertime, and the livin’ is easy

Fish are jumpin’ and the grass verges are high.

Here’s our guide to some of the exciting things that will be happening in St Albans over the next couple of months plus a few that we’d like to see in the not too distant future.

The City & District council have spent most of the entertainment budget on fly-posting the whole area with their most informative publication ‘Community News – Summer in the City’ leaflet.

Personally, I’m intrigued at the mention of the new full colour 3D illustrated St Albans City Centre map and guide, only 2 quid from the Tourist Information Centre (no we don’t get commission).

Mind you, I’ll be first in the queue for a refund if a scale model of the clock tower doesn’t pop up and poke me in the eye when I unfold the map but they do say ‘3D’ so surely I won’t be disappointed?

To be fair though, as long as it’s got the beach volleyball court location clearly marked, (presumably near the ‘bottom’ end of the park) it’ll be the best £2 I spend all summer.

There’ll be the usual giant puppets at the Alban Weekend and the equally scary Morris men will be banging their short sticks against each other as they dance.

Which reminds us, the International Organ festival will soon be upon us too. Although seeing it advertised in the leaflet with a picture of altar boys made us wonder if someone’s got the wrong end of the stick?

The Verulamium museum is holding numerous events this summer among them are a few that we would have been proud to have thought of ourselves.

Just for the kids, there’s the ‘Make your own Roman Fridge Magnet’ sessions.

WTF?!

Now we’ll give the Romans credit for central heating and concrete but we at AL3 know for a ‘fact’ that refrigerators were invented in 1066 by Korean ice cream van driver Mr Sam Sung.

There’s also a talk entitled “The Wicked Lady”.
Who was she? What naughty things did she do? What happened to her?”

Well (SPOILER ALERT), we can reveal that she is a 54 year old woman from Sandridge who shoplifted all over the county (a strange penchant for HDMI cables and Lego sets), is banned from numerous shops in the area and has been given a 2 week suspended sentence.

Herts Ad court report, once again, we thank you.

Coincidentally, there are ‘mock’ trials being held at the Crown Court as part of the Magna Carta 800th anniversary.

Perhaps the town planners who are responsible for the Premier Inn and Blue and Red bank in St Peters Street could be put in the dock for crimes against the City’s architecture?

Now, I expect you all put hands in pockets to help bring to life St. Albans very own boutique cinema and (KERCHING!) there it is. The Odyssey.

No longer will Snorbenites need to traipse into Londinium to see such Art House classics like MOOMINS ON THE RIVIERA (book now for this weekend’s matinee and ‘no’ we don’t get commission).

Anyway, the council will soon be asking the good people of the city for a couple of million towards the £8m needed to turn the old town hall building into a replica of the Obama’s current residence. Apparently it will be a museum and at that price we can only imagine what events they will hold there for the kids when it’s open. Make your own Roman thermo-nuclear reactor?

Finally, here are three things that may, or may not, be in the minds of the council.

Yes, they may sound ridiculous but just promise to remember where you heard it first and we promise not to say “we told you so”.

They aren’t going to pedestrianise the High Street but plans are afoot for a trolley bus system from the Abbey Station up the hill. It’s still being decided on where the trolley bus will terminate but the Peahen is our bet.

This will coincide with the new twin ice rinks planned for the former site of the gasometers down by the retail park. Our source at the council told us “The last thing anyone wants to do after two hours of acting like Torville or Dean is to schlep back up Holywell Hill into town so we’ll try and have the trolley bus system in place in time for the opening”.

In the unlikely event that the tram and skating options don’t work out, there’s also a compromise contingency plan involving turning Holywell Hill into a giant waterslide but this is so ridiculous we won’t go into any detail here.

Enjoy the sun (if the grass verges aren’t blocking it out) and remember –

If you build it, they will come.

Top Ten ISAs

(Institutions of St Albans: Ten local things to be proud of)

1. Window shopping on Holywell Hill.

I refer, of course, to the much-loved pastime of sitting on Holywell Hill, engine on, clutch half engaged, waiting for the lights to fleetingly turn green. You can look at the fancy radiators, the expensive kitchens and strain your eyes to read a Chinese menu; you can remind yourself that one day you must actually go inside the White Hart Hotel and look for a ghost. Surely I’m not the only person who thinks ‘Is that yet another new gents’ hairdresser?’ You can repeat this thought every few months as they seem to come and go pretty fast around there.

The best shop ever was the fish pedicure place a few years ago. You could sit in your car and soak up the carbon monoxide and wonder what sort of muppet goes in there. I did (go in, I mean). It was my birthday. I did it of my own volition. They put me in the prime window seat. A school bus stopped right outside. I was laughing at the fish; the kids were laughing at me; the fish were eating dead skin from my feet (I don’t think they were laughing, but how would one know with such tiny fish – or even with big ones). Anyway, it was my birthday treat to myself. Afterwards I went next door for lunch. Best cheese-stuffed whitebait I’ve ever had.

2. Barry Cashin

With a name like a third-rate pawn-broker, Barry is a living legend. Well, local at least. Hell hath no fury like a Barry scorned. So if you are a car driver, a cyclist, a breast-feeding baby, a noisy child, a parent, someone who has birthdays, someone with long (or short) hair, bald, or just minding your own business keeping yourself to yourself and quietly going about your daily life in St Albans, then sure as Barry rhymes with Gary, you’re in grave danger of one day incurring some Cashin wrath.

I don’t know if the local paper has a Leader Board to keep tabs on the most prolific senders of letters, but if they did, sure as Cashin rhymes with bashin’, Barry would top it.

Love him or loathe him, Bazza makes our top ten. (I’ll admit that I ‘like’ him, inasmuch as he spices up the Letters in the local rag and elicits ‘outraged’ responses from others.)

3. St Michael’s Folk Festival

If there’s a finer place to be every first Wednesday in July then I’m yet to find it. St Micky’s Folk Fest has it all: beer, Morris dancers, barbecues, swords, beer, bands, a dragon, a closed-off road, beer. Even though the number of pubs in that neck of the woods is falling fast, the Festival is the most quintessentially English summer’s evening out you could hope for. You should go. You really should.

I once saw the ‘off-duty’ dragon get its camera out and take a photo. ‘Nuff said.

4. St Albans Mums (or SAMs to use their abbreviated title)

No, not just mothers of St Albans, these women are a bunch of complete mothers. Ask Jeeves, Google, Teletext, your Great Aunty Joan – in their day these were trustworthy founts of all knowledge, but none – repeat none – came anywhere close to ‘St Albans Mums’.

SAMs is a Facebook group. You can (assuming you’re a mum, in St Albans, and accepted to join the group) ask a simple question – maybe you’ve a tricky social dilemma and would like a little help – and get up to 6,000 responses. Of course, any simple yes or no question will give you 3,000 in favour and 3,000 against so you’ll be none the wiser, but you’ll have got your thoughts out in the open and shared with kindred spirits which, after all, is what being a woman is all about, as far as I can tell.

So, if you’re unsure what to wear today (“Will it be cold?”); want to know if what your child does is normal (it is); or if what your husband does is normal (it isn’t); if you want to know if somewhere is open/closed or if anyone can recommend a cake maker (I can and I’m not even in the group) then whatever you do, whatever you do, don’t use your initiative or common sense; throw both of these out of the window and ask a bunch of local strangers. After all, it’s obviously better to crowd-source random opinions than think for yourself. And, yes, you should get that rash looked at.

5. “Any bowl for a pound”

Camden, Portobello, Brick Lane, Borough – there are many great markets, but if you need batteries, fitted blinds, almonds or large pieces of foam for fancy dress then St Albans is the place to head. Legally it should be “Contents of any bowl for a pound” because you don’t actually get to keep the bowl. Just sayin’.

6. St Albans armed forces

The frigate HMS St Albans is well-known – though I’ve not once seen it on the lake in Verulamium Park – but our other local unarmed forces are less well-equipped. Military fitness (or milfit for short) is a big thing in St Albans. If we’re ever invaded by marauding hordes from Hemel, then we can sleep easy, safe in the knowledge that we will be robustly defended by new mothers in numbered bibs and middle-aged men carrying kettlebell weights. No army does a star jump quite as well as our lycra-clad public park warriors. Although bibbed-up like a bunch of Year 7 girls at a netball tournament, these fitness enthusiasts are our territorial army-in-waiting. “We will fight them on the beaches”, or at least jog to that tree and back and then go for a skinny latte.

Our air defences are located on the outskirts of the city at RAF Chiswell Green. Should aggressors choose an air attack (only on still, summer days, please – early mornings or early evenings preferred) they would be repelled most defiantly by a squadron of hot air balloons (or is it just the same one seen lots of times?). Armed with champagne bottles, these Virgin beasts can fire corks at ranges of up to 5m.

7. St Albans Half Marathon.

Where else do you take part in a high-profile event at the mercy of blazing sun? Oh, yeah, Qatar. Everyone should do the half marathon. Not, obviously, at the same time otherwise there’d be nobody left to hand out cups of water.

One blazing June a few years ago, I was running down Bluehouse Hill, cup of water in hand when I spied someone in the sparse crowd I knew. He was facing the other way so, safe in the anonymity of a pack of runners, I threw the full cup at him and kept running.

I’d like to now apologise to the stranger who got soaked, as it later transpired that my friend wasn’t even watching the event that day. Sorry.

8. Westminster Lodge car park.

‘Build it and they will come.’ ‘Come and they will park.’ ‘Park and they will pay.’ ‘Pay and they will complain.’ ‘Complain and they will be Cashin.’

9. CAMRA

Easy to ridicule, I know, and as a white-sock wearing, Capri-driving native of urban Essex, I love a stereotype, but you have to admit that as pressure groups go these guys have done a pretty good job over the years. (Real ale is presently in rude health). Plus, what other campaigning group allows you to drink your own bodyweight in beer each week all in the name of research.

Based on Hatfield Rd within a limp arm’s reach of a Cornish pasty from Morrison’s bakery counter, CAMRA (Campaign for Real Ale) is St Albans born and bred.

I know that it’s probably only a question of time before I join their swelling (in more ways than one) ranks. Beer. Real beer. What’s not to like. Plus, it’s just dawned on me that my enjoyment of Morris dancing and CAMRA would go pretty-much hand in hand.

10. The Alban Arena

Confession: I love the Arena. Top (mostly) entertainment within walking distance of my house. I go a lot. Ok, so I might be a bit less selective than I would be if I had to schlep into London to watch something. Why the Arena can’t link number of tickets sold and type of event to number of bar staff on duty is beyond me. The amount of revenue lost by people giving up queuing for drinks and popping out to the Wendy Barn instead must be huge. And think just how desperate people like me must be to view a Wetherspoons as any form of ‘better option’.

My wife asked me last December about Arena tickets I might like as a Christmas present. I gave her a list of ten comedians. Ranked in order of preference. Unfortunately, she’d already bought me some tickets. The show she’d bought (Paul Merton/improv) didn’t even make my top ten. Her risk. My loss. The only thing that would’ve been worse would have been any show on ice. ON ICE? Why the ice? I don’t get that. Thing is, with a young daughter I fear that prospect is heading my way some time soon.

Central Perks

We left our daughter with a stranger the other day while we went swimming. It was the first time we’d done this. (Left her with a ‘stranger’ that is, not gone swimming – although, thinking about it, it is the first time we’ve been swimming together – holidays aside. We don’t go swimming as a couple. The fact my wife can’t actually swim being a key limiting factor.)

We’ve left our daughter with relatives before and she does a couple of days at nursery, but this was the first time we’d left her with some random person. Ok, so some of our relatives could be considered ‘random people’ (my brother delighted in ensuring one of the first body parts our daughter could point to was her sternum, after she was entrusted to his care for an extended period. Not for her pointing merely to her ‘nose’ or ‘eyes’. Of course, I kept this key piece of anatomical knowledge alive; I didn’t want him to think that his hard work had gone to waste.) We did two visits and four ‘settling in’ sessions at nursery before we left our daughter with registered childcare professionals at an Ofsted inspected premises. When we wanted to go swimming, we just booked a babysitter by dialling Guest Services on ext.3403.

Ok, so we were at Center Parcs (always feel like that should be ‘Centre’ Parcs – I’ve an irrational dislike of that mixing of French and American-English spellings). But we were leaving our child with a stranger for the first time…to go to the water park. We weren’t going to a family funeral or some other absolutely essential event like a 15% off day in Feather & Black (is there ever not a sale on in that shop?). We weren’t actually even going swimming; we were going to play on the water slides with other adults who were also leaving their toddlers for the first time with a ‘vetted babysitter’, as described in the Guest Manual in our lodge.

I was against it. I volunteered not to go. Not because I don’t like water slides, outdoor rapids and sitting on large rubber rings whilst zooming down oversized plastic tubes – in fact, I probably like these more than most people – just because I was against it. Just because. Plus, I knew I’d then have the cast-iron get-out clauses of ‘I told you so’ and ‘It wasn’t my idea’.

We had a nervous 24 hours between booking the ’sitter and speed-changing in a humid cubicle.

‘What if it’s a man?’ I said. ‘It won’t be,’ my wife replied, based on nothing whatsoever. ‘What if it’s a teenager?’ I said. ‘It won’t be,’ my wife replied, based on nothing whatsoever. ‘What if it’s a …’ I was interrupted by a complimentary guest magazine hurtling towards me.

To leave the single most precious thing in your life (complete Figurini Panini football sticker albums and chronological set of St Albans Beer Festival commemorative glasses excluded) with someone you’ve never even met before is unnerving.

We spent the whole preceding day not talking about it, save for my brilliant suggestion:

‘What would you prefer – me complaining all evening that I don’t trust her or me leaving before she arrives and you shouldering the responsibility as to whether she’s a fit and proper person to look after Bridget?’ (Bridget isn’t our daughter’s real name, but people always hide the identities of their children so I’m just following suit. Her name nearly was Bridget, though (or would it have been Bridgette, or even Brigid – we never got that far, thanks to the timely intervention of morphine – it’s a long story).

We came to a compromise: The ’sitter (I dislike that term, having now typed it twice. I want her to stand, walk around, sing, play games – be a mix of Mary Poppins and Nanny McPhee, perhaps with a sprinkling of Taylor Swift for my benefit, not slump in front of the TV watching TOWIE while my daughter cries) was due at 7.30pm so we agreed that I’d leave at 7.25 so as to absolve myself of all parental responsibility. A brilliant plan, I thought, and one guaranteed to ensure I had a conscience-clear evening of water slides and inflatable rings, followed by two swift pints in what passes for a ‘pub’ at Centrerere Parcs (CAMRA members and anyone with a sense of taste and a desire for quiet drink turn away and save your eyes – think Jarman Park meets Luton Airport bar).

Nothing could go wrong. Nothing.When the spotty teenager or middle-aged male babysitter arrived, I’d not be there. My wife would be armed with a toddler not called Bridget and a get-out-of-jail emergency plan. This pre-agreed escape route was that if the ‘vetted’ babysitter arrived looking like he/she had been vetted in the animal medicine sense of the word, my wife would promptly pay in cash and say ‘thanks, but no thanks’. Either away, my appointment with Tornado, Twister and Torpedo was assured.

The knock on the door came at 7.22. Damn. My selfish, unfair plan de-railed in an instant. Debbie (real name – can’t imagine this blog hitting national headlines) was lovely. In fact, Lovely with a capital L: a warm, kindly, person with grown-up children. She was a cross between Mary Poppins and Nanny McPhee (well, the Taylor Swift bit was probably too much to ask in the first place). She worked in one of the shops on the site. If only they’d told us this in advance then we could have ‘vetted’ her ourselves by creeping around said shop and trying to eavesdrop on her conversations to check if she was nice to small children.

Debbie was brilliant. Our friends had Jean, who was equally great, apparently. With names like Debbie and Jean, our children were in safe hands.

Now, I don’t know much about babysitters as we fortunately have relatives locally, but one of the things that concerned me most was the cost only being £6.50/hour. When you’ve precious little by way of advance information to go on, price can be an indicator of quality. Now, I use the term ‘only’ with real caution. But, remember, we were at Center Parckcks; a place where, despite being in a forest (of sorts), once inside the barrier the cost of living exceeds that of uptown Manhattan, with everything about 30% more than in the real world. So our £6.50 was really only about £4.90. Plus, we booked Debbie indirectly so I’m sure CP took a cut somewhere along the line. This means, very roughly, we’d probably paid the real world equivalent of £3.90 an hour for a top-notch babysitter. In advance this made me nervous. With hindsight, I now think it’s probably about the only flippin’ bargain available anywhere at a Parc Central. You live and learn.

p.s. The water-slides were great.

I’m an alien, I’m a legal alien…

I’m a North Londoner in Saint A.

Yes, like my fellow contributor (see To be or not St A), I am not a native.
I’ve lived here for just over 7 years and what’s not to like?

The journey from North London to South Hertfordshire is not too far as the crow flies but believe you me, St. Albans is, in nearly every aspect, a world away from Edmonton.
Yes, Edmonton, London N9, not all bad, but not much good these days either.
Anyway, in case you never get the opportunity to visit (and I can’t imagine why you would bar a court summons) here is what you’re not missing.

Trees
St Albans has them. And, as if you don’t already have enough, you are building a forest down the road just so you can have some more.
‘Building a forest’?
Edmonton had a huge space just out of town suitable for a forestation project. There, by the river in the valley, nestling between the reservoirs, they did plant. Edmonton Solid Waste Incineration Plant.
St. Albans has tree-lined avenues and parks brimming with dozens of mature trees.
Even Edmonton’s municipal golf course didn’t bother with them. After all, the electricity pylons that cross the fairways and the discarded supermarket trolleys in bunkers provide all the “natural” hazards an aspiring golfer could wish for.

Enough nature for now.

Community
St Albans actually has competitions to name things. My better half (St. Albans ‘born and bred I tell ya’) informs me that ‘The Maltings’ shopping centre was named by an old school chum of hers. I imagine there wasn’t a competition to name Edmonton Green’s shopping centre which is called Edmonton Green Shopping Centre.

Pubs
There’s a plethora of pubs and restaurants in St Albans and a coffee shop explosion (which this tea lover will ignore). In Edmonton there were two pubs you went to. Your ‘local’ and your football match pub. However, etiquette dictated that you didn’t go to the latter on non-football days as it then reverted back to being someone else’s local and your welcome would consist of stares, grunts, disapproving looks and foul-mouthed mutterings. The barmaids are pretty mean in N9. Conversely, the pubs in St. Albans are varied as are the ales and clientele and you can pretty much feel welcome in any of them. And amusingly, you have two within a stone’s throw of a place called ‘Temperance Street’, what happened there then? That’s like having two ‘saunas’ near Angel Road!

Now, I’ve dined in a few of the restaurants in St Albans. Some really good ones and a couple of not so good ones but everything is catered for from breakfast through to dinner (or do you call it supper?). Recommendations on request. Edmonton has restaurants, mostly of the takeaway variety. No recommendations but, to my knowledge, no restaurant of any kind in St Albans has been closed due to (nature alert) the discovery of cats in the freezer. But please let me know if I’m wrong.

Schools
Now there are a couple of good, nay, very good schools, in my home town but St Albans is dripping with them and I am not aware of any of the Junior schools having their surrounding fences topped off with barbed wire as I was dismayed to see at my old school the last time I passed by. I did wonder if it was there to keep intruders at bay or to stop the teachers from escaping?
Another, minor observation (although AL3 WTF would like to point out that ‘minor observation’ is frowned upon nowadays. We like trees, just not Project Yewtrees!) is this. There are a high proportion of St Albans schoolboys all seemingly coiffured by a boy band’s tonsorial artiste. Nothing wrong with that though, just sayin’.
As for famous pupils, I’ll trump your Stephen Hawking with Sir Bruce Forsyth. Yeah, Theory of Everything, but can he remember all the items on the conveyor belt?

City Centre
The centre of the city is nice. St. Peter’s Street. Trees, more trees! Mind you, beware ye the brightly coloured bank and hotel lights for they pave the way for massage parlours and a 98p shop.
One big plus of the City centre is that, should I ever wish to recreate some of the atmosphere of my old stomping ground, I just have to stroll along St. Peters Street early on a Sunday morning. Avoiding the herd of MAMILs* as they prepare for their weekly cycle ride, walk past the 99p and quid shops and there it is. The unmistakable scent of Eau du Wee by Chav Pour Homme, still lingering from the previous night’s Waterend Barn hordes who have marked their territory (presumably so they can find their way back to the taxi rank after Veeda – or is it Adelaides?).
*MAMIL – Middle Aged Man In Lycra

There’s the clock tower and its views. The only towers in Edmonton are of the block kind and the views are industrial parks and concrete. St Albans Industrial parks are away from the city centre. I’m hoping the concrete crop circles left behind by the removal of the gasometers near Homebase will be turned into ice rinks for Christmas. A quick skate, walk up Holywell Hill (though for some reason pronounced Hollywell – why?!) to see the lights, night cap at the top end of town and home before anyone has sprayed their trail.

Traffic
Wait, are the tables turned? Is St Alban the patron saint of potholes, parking restrictions and penalty charge notices? St Albans doesn’t do cars really does it? A couple of weeks ago my morning commute was bliss. I quickly realised that this was because I was travelling unhindered by the usual stream of Jeep Rover Q7s and their drivers apparent lack of girth awareness. Seriously school runners, you can get a bus through there. Yes, you Mrs Oversized SUV, in fact, a bus did get through just before you but your lack of width perception prevented movement. Half term was too short.
Edmonton traffic is, of course, constantly moving. Admittedly, fear is the key. Keep moving or get car-jacked. Only joking (or am I?) but, if the traffic does stop, you can be pretty sure there’s a road rage and/or police incident ahead.

Central locking on. Avoid eye contact.

To be or not St A

Hands up who’s from St Albans? No, I mean actually from St Albans rather than moved here because of trains, schools or just to be near a Dunkin’ Donuts. Exactly; not many, not many.

Anyway, what makes you from somewhere in the first place? Since the local maternity unit closed in the mid 80’s, no-one – home-births and roadside emergency deliveries aside – has actually been born here. Our new bundles of joy* mainly first appear in Luton, Stevenage or Watford (the ultimate ‘lesser-of-evils’ choice, perhaps?) or, as is often the case, much further afield and subsequently move to St Albans once the desire to ‘settle down’ themselves gets too great. It hurts most Snorbenites that their off-spring will be forever burdened by their introduction to the world being a WD, LU or SG postcode. But not as much as it hurts people from Harpenden to have their children both born in Luton and be saddled with a Luton dialling code, so look on the bright side. My daughter was a WD birth. This pleased me. Greatly. It’s every parent’s calling to want their off-spring to have a better start in life than they did. Not many people can say that about their child having ‘Watford’ in the appropriate section on their birth certificate. I can. As my own form states ‘Romford, Essex’. Such is the stigma associated with this that I even lie to my telephone bank and the answer to the relevant security question states my place of birth as somewhere less embarrassing; somewhere with more up-market and exotic connotations. I refer, of course, to Hemel. Petty, but true that I’ve lied. I mean, Romford! Have you been to Romford? Of course you haven’t. If you had, you’d not been reading this; you’d be out racing round what passes for our low-rent ring-road or doing (Dunkin’?) doughnuts in some deserted car park somewhere. Plus, chances are, you wouldn’t even be able to read in the first place.

St Albans draws people in like iron filings to a magnet. It has a lure. Something. Though many people are not quite sure what. And, unlike those red, horseshoe-shaped magnets from the cartoons of yesteryear, there’s no comedy ‘off’ button: once you’re in, you’re in. I know loads of people who’ve moved to St Albans; I know of hardly anyone who has moved away.

Anyway, what makes us who we are? We St All-banians are growing in number. In years to come, there will certainly be more old All-banians, but will there be as many surviving Old Albanians? I know a real immigrant Albanian who lives in St Albans. He is (unfortunately, for the purpose of this piece) not an OA. However, I know he spends most evenings pondering whether when he’s old he’ll be an old Albanian, or an old All-banian. Or repatriated by UKIP.

I like St Albans. In fact, I like it a lot. I voted with my feet (which is an electoral concept that makes the single transferable vote look positively dull). I moved here for six months in the late 90’s. And stayed. This is the longest I’ve ever lived anywhere. Does this mean I’m now technically from St Albans? Have I been given a free transfer to St Albans by Essex?

My other qualifications for naturalisation are fairly limited: I’ve been up the Clock Tower; I’ve been to every pub in St Albans (yes, every – I like to be thorough when it comes to watering-holes); I’ve done the half marathon; I’ve been on a rail-replacement bus service. I’ve flirted with starvation whilst queuing at the Waffle House. What else does it take to qualify?

For the purposes of research, out of the blue I asked my wife where she was from. After the initial blank look, she stated ‘halfway between Dublin and Belfast’. Clearly, where she is from is defined by two places she’s not from? But she was born in London. So where’s the sense in that? She sees ‘from’ in the context of ‘where I grew up’. I, too, am going to adopt this principle. One day, when I eventually grow up, I’ll then know where I am truly from.

* terms & conditions apply

The AL3 WTF New Year’s Honours List

It’s Beginning to Feel a Lot Like…Easter

Eight Ways We Know it’s Almost Christmas in St Albans:​

Eight Ways We Know it’s Almost Christmas in St Albans: