April Fools

When I was a student at Hull University, lo those many years ago, I was involved in a cruel and unusual April Fools prank that I still feel rather guilty about now.

It wasn't my idea, you understand. I could never have dreamt up anything that reeked of so much wrong. I didn't have much to do with the prank's execution, either. I just grabbed a seat at ringside, kept my mouth shut, my face straight and watched it all unfold.

The target was my very dear friend, Jude, who was (and still is) one of the loveliest and most genuine people I've ever had the good fortune to meet. Unfortunately for Jude, however, she used to be (but isn't any more) a tad gullible. This loophole in her personality profile was something her trusted circle of friends were not averse to exploiting.

It was 1993, I guess, and a bunch of us were sitting in the living room of the house that Jude shared with our mutual friends Jo and Rick. We were all watching daytime TV when the telephone rang and - as planned - the rest of us feigned laziness so Jude would have to pick it up.

On the other end of the line a man claiming to be an engineer from the phone company told Jude that emergency work was currently being carried out on the local exchange. Her telephone line would be out of order for the next hour and, as a result, she would not be able to make or receive any phone calls. If her phone were to ring during the next hour then this will be caused by the engineering works and she should not - under any circumstances whatsoever - answer it. He was quite emphatic about that.

Over the next hour, the phone rang on several occasions and, on each occasion, Jude refused to answer it. Then, almost an hour after the engineer spoke to her, it rang again.

"Is it an hour yet?" asked Jude.

"Yes," we said. "It's more than an hour since you spoke to him. Answer the phone."

It was still ringing. "I'd better not answer it yet," said Jude. "It might be dangerous."

"Yes you should. It could be urgent. Answer the phone."

It was still ringing. Slowly, reluctantly, she reached for the blower and - at the very instant it left its cradle - a terrible, blood-curdling scream erupted from the receiver.

We could all hear it.

Panicking, she pressed the blower to her ear and heard a second voice yell: ""Blakey! Oh my God! You killled Blakey!" Jude slammed the blower into its cradle and looked at us in terror.

"I think I've killed someone," she sobbed.

And, for about half an hour, that's just what we let her believe. Until, that is, our friends who made the phone call arrived at the house and admitted to everything...

Oxford, Cambridge and Hull

We arrived back home from Hull the other week safe and sound and ever-so-slightly knackered. Or at least I was. Knackered, that is. Clare, Lily and Optimus were just safe and sound. As I mentioned previously, we went to Hull to collect a pram that can change into a pushchair and that's why we call it Optimus Pram. Or, at least, that's why I do.

I was a student at Hull University between 1990-1993, so returning to my old stomping ground for the first time in a long time was always going to be weird. Over the years I've carefully maintained a massive stockpile of rose-tinted recollections associated with the place. I suppose that's something that most people who went to college do, with the possible exception of graduates from Sarajevo Poly.

Still, Hull was where I met some of my closest and most trusted friends. In that respect I'll always have a lot to thank it for. During those three years there were good times, bad times and some extremely batshit crazy times. This was, after all, the place where I was interviewed on a local radio news programme after fleeing for my life from an exploding aerosol factory. It was where I spent every Sunday afternoon at a workingman's club that offered a regular line-up of bingo, live yodelling and striptease. It was where I shared a house with three friends and a 6-foot tall mechanical bear. It's a place that's hard-wired into my history and has helped make me the person I am today. In that respect, then, it probably has a lot to answer for.

As Clare, Lily and I approached Hull the other week and I caught my first, still-breathtaking glimpse of that ridiculously long suspension bridge spanning the Humber Estuary, I found myself thinking of all those other times I did this journey, back when my Dad did the driving and I just struggled with directions. My dad passed away in 1995, and now - years later - it was my turn to be the responsible adult sitting behind the wheel. I mused on the way that life has a funny way of throwing up such ironies, until I remembered that I still struggle with directions.

After picking up the pram from Hessle, we made our way towards the city centre. As I'd expected, things had changed in the way that things invariably do. Having lived in Birmingham for most of my life I know that modern British city centres are more than a wee bit partial to extensive plaster surgery. Hull, it seems, was no exception. The change in the retail landscape was the first thing I noticed: the Jacksons chain of regional supermarkets had all turned into Sainsbury's Locals, the Armadillo comic shop was now a coffee shop and the sight of the massive new St Stephen's Shopping Centre (next to the revamped Paragon railway station) caused my eyes to do a reasonable impersonation of Marty Feldman's. Hull's been hit hard by High Street homogenisation, I alliterated wistfully to myself.

This feeling swiftly passed as we swiftly passed the neighbouring LA's nightclub. From the outside, at least, it looked exactly the same as I remembered it from 18 years' ago. This was quite an achievement, as back then it looked rather dated.

"Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose," as they say in South Yorkshire.

Preamble for a Pram

We're off to Hull tomorrow to get a pram.

Did I mention that I'm going to be a dad? Oh, it seems I didn't. Well, Clare's pregnant and our baby is due in April, so that's why we're off to Hull tomorrow to get a pram.

The reason why I didn't mention this monumental, life-changing, most-important-thing-to-ever-happen-to-me-in-my-life event any sooner than this is because I wanted to tell people about it in person. By the time I finally got around to doing that, however, Clare had already started a pregnancy blog. She's doing such a damn fine job of it that I felt somewhat ill-equipped to discuss our shared experiences on here. Instead, I decided to stick to the subjects I know best, namely, popular culture, low humour and saucy limericks.

The reason why we're going to Hull to get a pram is because we bought it from someone on Ebay who lives in Hull. It's a long way to go to get a pram, I guess, but it does give me the chance to revisit my old stomping ground. I spent three very-fondly remembered years at Hull University, so tomorrow will give me the opportunity to give Clare and Lily a guided tour of my past. No doubt I'll still be writing blog posts about it six months from now.

Anyway, the pram is a black Quinny Buzz and it looks something like this:


As Clare observed, it has "a certain Batmobile-ness about it..."

Being somewhat clueless when it comes to babies, prams and most practical matters, I was surprised to discover that the Quinny Buzz isn't just an ordinary pram: it's a pram that can change into a pushchair. That's impressive - to me, at least. A pram that can change into a pushchair, a pushchair that can change into a pram. I didn't know that sort of thing was possible.

I've already started calling it 'Optimus Pram'.