I’m most likely to refer to myself as British in a self-deprecating way; perhaps referring to something I’ve done as ‘typically British.’ Two very common examples of such Britishness are:

• An aversion to conflict with strangers. Rather than reprimand someone when wronged, we’d rather let off steam with a quiet disapproving tut, then carry on with our mundane British lives.
• A fondness for queuing. See a queue: join it. Who cares where it leads? If it’s a long queue it must be for something good, so get involved. We British bloody love our queues.

I read an interesting post at crackerwax.com where the angry Scotsman (himself no ‘typical Briton’) describes being told to “Fuck off” after asking a youth to turn down his music on the bus, while the rest of the bus – all conflict-averse Brits – sat staring straight ahead, not wanting to get involved.

Angry Scotsman Crackerwax, in fairly sedate mood

This inspired me. Next time I was in a situation where I knew I SHOULD say something, I decided I WOULD say something. As it would be my first attempt I decided I should CHOOSE MY TARGET VERY CAREFULLY, which is exactly what I did in Sainsbury’s car park last week. No point picking a fight with Mike Tyson without a couple of sparring sessions, is there?

I would have been no use whatsoever in Crackerwax’s Youth On Bus situation. I’m not good in conflict situations. When I get angry I lose my composure and invariably revert to loud swearing where calm reasonable debate would be better suited.

Which brings us to Sainsbury’s car park. It really shits me when people just discard their shopping trolleys in the middle of the car park, especially when there is a clearly defined trolley park nearby. Last week I watched a woman who was parked two cars away from a trolley park, push her trolley across the walkway and just leave it there. It was maybe an extra five yards to the trolley park. So, I decided I would say something. Not just a tut. I geared myself up to say something in a calm and reasonable manner.

Unfortunately what came out was:

“WHY DON’T YOU PUT YOUR TROLLEY OVER THERE WHERE YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO YOU LAZY BOLLOCKS?”

She stared at me, confused but not entirely offended. Shamefully witless banter went back and forth:

“Are you a security guard or something?”

“No, but just put your fucking trolley in the little trolley shed thing instead of just dumping it.”

“I’m not the only person who’s left it there.”

“That’s not the fucking point. Don’t be so fucking lazy.”

“Who are you, the car park gaffer or something?”

Around this point I realised I was a very distant and embarrassing second place in an argument with a retard. I’m ashamed with my sign-off comment, a short and simple:

“You dozy cunt.”

I know, I know, I know; you don’t need to say anything. A man should never call a woman a cunt, unless it’s some sort of dirty-talk sex game, which this most certainly was not. My foray into speaking-up had ended in disaster. Time to quit and consign myself to a life of typical silent British resentment.

Until yesterday and an incident in an entirely different Sainsbury’s. I am in the queue for the self-service check-outs. The queue consists of a weedy probably-homosexual man and me. We are the queue. A youth appears to the side of the queue. He’s not in the queue! He’s started his own queue. This could get messy – it could be carnage. If one of the self-service check-outs on his side becomes available he’ll get in there first, and I know the weedy definitely-homosexual man at the front of the queue isn’t going to do a damn thing about it.

(It’s worth pointing out that I did once challenge someone for a clear case of queue jumping at the self-service tills in Tesco. Quite politely I told him there was a queue that he had just bypassed. He said something akin to “Whatever, I was queuing for this one.” I responded with a loud “Prick.” He called me a gobshite and suggested we “continue this outside.” I hid in the travel centre and ended up buying a week’s holiday for two in Turkey.)

A queue

But back to Sainsbury’s. I decided I’d say something. Something calm. Something reasonable. He was with his mate. If a fight had broken out, the odds would have been against me. I tapped him on the shoulder. “We’re queuing here mate.” I said, gesturing back over my shoulder, tensing up for the inevitable haymaker one of them would throw at me.

“Oh, sorry mate,” he said, and joined the back of the queue.

That’s how you do it. No swearing, just a polite statement of dissatisfaction resulting in nothing more than a very awkward moment in which several frightened British folk stand around wondering what in God’s name that maniac in the brown coat thinks he’s doing. Someone could have been killed.

Try it yourself. Next time someone pushes in front of you, leaves a shopping trolley in the middle of a supermarket car park or mugs a pensioner, just say something in a calm reasonable voice as opposed to tutting quietly to yourself and not getting involved. We’re a whole generation asleep at the wheel. Make a stand. Do something outrageous.

spacemonkeygaz.com lawyers would like to point out that no responsibility can be taken for anyone killed, injured or embarrassed attempting to follow any of the above ‘advice’

Firstly, I think it’s fair to say that I was wrong in my first blog. Blogs aren’t pretentious, and neither are they just for self-important types with high opinions of themselves. There are lots and lots of very interesting, entertaining and helpful blogs out there, and I’d like to bring a couple to your attention:

• http://iainobrien.co.nz/ – Iain O’Brien, New Zealand Test cricketer, nice chap. Interesting blog about the life, trials and tribulations of a professional cricketer. Currently sweating his nuts off in Sri Lanka.

• http://crackerwax.com/ – the insane ramblings of some chap who works in the same building as me. A definite candidate to do one day what can only really be described as “A Michael Douglas in Falling Down.”

• http://baldyblog.freshblogs.co.uk/ – now, serious head on for a moment. Without meaning to repeat what is written in his wonderful blog (and because I can’t do it justice), Adrian Sudbury – an old classmate from secondary school – was struck down with leukaemia, and he used Baldy’s Blog to chart his progress. Sadly he lost his battle exactly a year ago, but his friends and family are still contributing to the blog. It sounds clichéd I know, but no-one ever had a bad word to say about Adrian, and the courage he showed in his final months was truly inspiring. Just go and check out his blog, OK? Then sign up to be a blood and bone marrow donor.

But back to more trivial matters; specifically my attempt to write a novel. Before I start I’d like to point out that I don’t see ‘novelist’ as a career step towards fame, celebrity mates, posh London nightclubs and the like. I’m quite aware that it’s a tough career, and it’s rarely an especially rewarding one, financially.

So why do I want to be a writer then? Because it’s what I enjoy. Since school I’ve always loved writing and telling stories. I did an A-Level in English Language but regret not choosing to pursue it further. I took what I thought was the safe option: accountancy. I bottled it. I thought that in order to be successful as a writer (of any description) you had to be either insanely talented or unfeasibly lucky. I didn’t back myself to be either.

Here I am, twenty-eight years old, the soul-destroying big 3-0 a worryingly-near sixteen months away, and the urge to tell stories is still there. It hasn’t turned into a full-on mid life crisis yet. Not quite, anyway.

I’m not purposefully dragging this out, honest. I’ll write a bit about the actual novel idea soon, I promise.