It’s been over a year since my last critically acclaimed gym wankers post and after overwhelming public demand, I’m glad to introduce the second edition. More gym mutants for you to learn about. Enjoy.

From the waist up, Mr Top-Heavy is akin to a giant wombat. Predominantly based in and around the weights area, he spends probably 1h30 in the gym a day and consumes about 3000 calories. As such, he is built like a brick shithouse. Arms strong enough to turn coal into diamonds and a chest that requires bra support, there’s no denying his torso is an impressive feat of human engineering. But sadly, as the name suggests, he has forgotten about the area below the waist, where he has a severe case of ‘flamingo’ syndrome and now resembles two pencils stuck into a pear. Unfortunately, leg day is not part of Mr Top-Heavy’s regime which means he’ll often be found in jogging bottoms benching the 50kg dumbbells whilst sweating his tits off. Squats? Forget about it. Mr Top-Heavy has no time for them. There’s always room for one more bicep curl though.

Much like the early rising German laying claim to a sun lounger, Hoggers attempt to colonise about 3 different machines at once, dispersing whatever gym paraphernalia they have. Their phone will be under a bench, their water bottle will be on the leg press; they’re the territorial, pissing dog attempting to deter any competitors in what they consider ‘their patch’. Supersets, whereby you perform two or more exercises in quick succession one after another, can be an excellent workout. And yes, this may require the use of a few pieces of equipment. But no Mr Top-Heavy it does not warrant the use of a bench, the seated row and a 6 goddamn sets of dumbbells. Take your bottle of max gainer and do one.

The Grocer is rife in gym changing rooms across the country and are characterised by a formidable compulsion to display their meat and two veg to every poor sod unfortunate enough to share a changing room with them. Once showered, most would agree that the first port of call is to get dry, pop your boxers on and then go from there. Ohhhhh no, not the Grocer. He has to strut around the changing rooms with his pair of duck eggs slapping against his thighs for all to see. Initially, he strolls to the shower, towel rolled up in his hand, head cocked high and proud, cock dangling low and proud. Upon his return, the towel may briefly be wrapped around his waist, yet it’s only matter of time. He’ll hoist his leg up onto the bench to reach the particular tricky gooch area; stand wide legged drying his hair; whatever stance allows maximum air-time. Once suitably dry, he’ll put his shirt on, even do his hair; anything to ensure his appendage remains on show. The other day, some geezer spent 5 minutes bent over faffing with his bag, whilst his privates flapped down behind him like offal hanging from a butchers hook. Add his winking arsehole to the mix and you can imagine it wasn’t a pretty sight.

Men’s Health isn’t a bad magazine. It’s not great, but it’s not bad. I won’t purchase it but will certainly peruse it if I’m in a dentist’s waiting room for example. For some though, like Impressionable Ian. it speaks the gospel. As suggestible as Donald Trump’s supporters, Ian is well up to date with the latest fitness trends. And by up to date I mean what Ian reads, he buys. His most recent investment is probably a gas mask that assumably turns him into some oxygen enhanced super human. All he has to put up with is looking like a malnutritioned Bane whilst stalking around the gym in his over priced Nike get-up doing the farmers walk or whatever the cover model has said this month. All the gear, no idea.

 

Luke

The unfortunate death of Harambe was without doubt upsetting news. To recap, Harambe was an endangered silverback gorilla living in relatively primatial harmony at Cincinnati Zoo. However, just a day after his 17th birthday, he was shot dead by the zoo keepers. A 3 year old boy fell into Harambe’s enclosure and piqued the beast’s natural curiosity. Those who have watched the video would have seen Harambe dragging the boy through the moat like a rag doll then looming over him somewhat proudly. Harambe then disappears with the boy and the video finishes. It transpired, as we all know, that Harambe was subsequently shot for the safety of the child. And so the outcry ensued.

Many armchair experts questioned these actions. The zoo keepers were demonised for shooting the animal. According to @JaJahlrie they should’ve had instant acting tranquiliser. The bloody silly, qualified, spent years in training zoo keepers. If only they had employed him as a consultant. The parents were attacked for negligence. Kenz @Sixthstreet is ‘so sad’ that an animal was put down because of careless parenting. Apparently, Kenz, if he has kids which he probably doesn’t, keeps them on leads wherever he goes. The parents have endured torrid abuse since their ordeal which is completely unfounded. None of these trolls were present at the time and many will agree that it’s nigh on impossible to keep track of 4 children at every moment in time. Put simply, it is just a bloody unlucky accident. The inquisitive little tyke managed to navigate the stringent safety walls and fences put in place, which I’m sure were in-keeping with the zoo regulations of the USA, and fall into the enclosure.

Many professionals have waded in on the situation, some saying Harambe was of no danger to the boy, some saying the opposite. However, one thing I think we can all agree is that the safety of the defenceless 3 year old boy is paramount. And in that situation, the zoo keepers acted as they saw fit. Harambe weighed 200kg. The boy, I’d imagine , weighed about 14. Whether intentional or not, the monstrous creature would probably have hurt the child sooner or later. As such, the zoo keepers had mere moments to act. And by incapacitating the gorilla with immediate effect, they prevented any further fatal risk to the boy. Now that does throw up another argument; is a human’s life more important than an animals? Food for thought no doubt but not something I am going to dive in to at this juncture.

So as summations go, I think I’ve made my point of view pretty clear. The death of an animal is upsetting, the scenario was probably avoidable; but don’t sit in your armchair throwing out criticism and insults on matters that you literally know nothing about. There’s an interesting psychological phenomenon known as overclaiming, whereby dramatic and controversial news stories cause many to become experts in a variety of fields. This is clearly a stone wall case of this. The crux of the matter then; don’t be an overclaimer.

 

Luke

I originally planned on producing a spoof interview with Donald Trump, asking serious political questions and creating completely nonsensical yet believable responses. Then I remembered Trump had already done my job for me. The man is a walking parody, virtually impossible to satirise. A glowing example of the archetypal, quintessential, stereotypical, ignorant, brash American. This gerbil/scrotum hybrid has forged a worryingly strong following in the race for the White House and it’s highly likely that he will at least be the Republican candidate for the Presidential election, if not go all the way. A man who has committed so many unforgivable faux pas it genuinely wouldn’t surprise me if he turned up to his next debate sporting a white hooded cape and holding a flaming torch.

However, I use the term ‘faux pas’ lightly. These aren’t simply mishaps by a bumbling fool, they stem from deep-rooted and systematic ignorance held within a man that now has the platform to express himself to a substantially broader audience. And this ignorance most often manifests in pure and unbridled discrimination. Some of his particularly astounding remarks include physically and verbally mocking a New York Times reporter with congenital joint disorder, pledging for a ban on all Muslims entering America and insisting that he will force Mexico to build a ‘great wall’ on their border to keep out the rapists they are sending in. And the worst thing about these quotes; they were met with whoops and hollers from his brainwashed supporters. Cited recently and rightly so, does everyone remember the last time a man convinced swathes of people to follow his horrendous beliefs with shock tactics and scare-mongering propaganda? Trump is an incarnation of Hitler*; only with worse hair and less charisma.

*https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5NzhQWcc7h4 – this link will take you to a social experiment where Trump supporters unwittingly agreed with quotes by Hitler. 

Credit where it’s due though, the incestuous bigot is a self-made man, cultivating his substantial fortune from a small one million dollar loan from his father. Just a cheeky mill, no biggy. This supposed business acumen contributes massively to his popularity, yet he has a checkered history of failed investments.  To name a few; Trump Shuttle (airline), Trump Vodka, Trump Magazine, Trump Steaks, Trump World Magazine and Gotrump.com. All resounding failures that even with the backing of millions couldn’t grasp enough of a foothold in the business world to turn a profit.

Trump is constantly entering into petty and childish slanging matches with his opponents. The orange creature is campaigning to run the most powerful country in the world yet seems more interested in throwing around school-yard insults rather then discussing his policies and plans. He recently attacked his Republican counterpart Marco Rubio over how much he sweats, throwing bottled water around the stage. A grand, over-the-top gesture that his supporters love to see. Recently in response to a jibe about his apparently small hands, he helped allay any fears we may have had as to whether his penis was in the same boat. This is a man on national television attempting to become the Commander-in-Chief of America telling the nation about the size of his penis in a party political broadcast. Can you imagine David Cameron’s sausage ever making it into the news?! Oh no, wait a minute…

In all seriousness though, the joke has gone a bit too far now America. We let you off for letting Bush in to power but you’re pushing your luck now. You cannot allow this war-mongering sociopath anywhere near the Oval Office. Trump, or Drumpf as his ancestors were known, actively endorsed war crimes the other day saying that the families of terrorists should be killed. He has actively refused to condemn the former Grand Wizard of the Klu Klux Klan and say he did not want his vote. He actively incites racial hatred and recently encouraged violence against protesters at one of his rallies. He is a scourge on humanity; a cancer that needs to removed before it can grow any larger. And the sooner he disappears into obscurity, the sooner the world can move on from this momentary lapse of idiocy.

 

Luke

Most of you probably read Time Out on the way to work every Tuesday. You know the ‘Top Five…’ list they do; usually within the first few pages? Well, this is a complete rip-off of that. Enjoy!

1. The Bottle-Thrower

The repetition of ‘sorry, excuse me, sorry mate’ has paid off and you’ve managed to jostle your way through the scores of people to a suitable vantage point. With a hoarse voice and a hand so dirty from patting shoulders it could probably harvest potatoes, you start jumping and swaying with the motion of the crowd. You’re in your element. Until this joy is broken. Unbeknownst to you, some pissed-up halfwit about 10 metres back has just finished their bottle of cheap lager. Probably necked it didn’t they, being the bloody lad they are. It was then their true dickheadness reveals itself as they launch said bottle into the masses in front of them. To them, a hilarious moment of revelry they can enjoy with their equally half-witted mates; to their victim, a bump on the back of the head. Prick.

2. The Die-Hard Fan

You’ve only just met Ben. He’s a friend of a friend of your mate who booked the tickets. You’ll probably never see him again but in the spirit of normal social etiquette, you have a few drinks and engage in some general chit-chat. But then you make the mistake of asking ‘You ever seen this lot before?’ That is exactly what Ben has been waiting for and for the next 15 minutes, your ear begins to melt as Ben sprouts off every gig he’s ever been too. It often starts with ‘Oh yah, I knew them before they weren’t big. You know, when they were just playing in local pubs’ his tone becoming audibly more conceited immediately. We get it Ben, you’re a big fan; but unless you were there the time the lead singer revealed himself to actually be Tupac in disguise, we really don’t care.

3. The Fiend (see photo)

You’ve been nudged in the back six times in the past minute. ‘It’s a gig, they’re just excited,’ you think to yourself; ‘It’s bound to happen, maybe I just need to loosen up’. Then during a lull in the music, you’re nudged again. ‘OK, I’ll just give a commanding look, that should do it.’ However, no company training day or life lesson can prepare you for the monstrosity that meets your eyes. Pupils the size of magic 8 balls and sweatier than Pete Dohertys gooch, the shell of a human you see before you has clearly had a few too many narcotics. Completely unaware that a 2m no-go zone has formed around them like some sort of radioactive leper, they look directly through you and continue their drug-fueled shamble, your commanding look about as effective as one ply toilet paper. ‘I think I’ll leave them to it,’ you decide, ‘may god have mercy on their soul.’

4. The Designated Driver

It’s true, you don’t need alcohol to have fun. Then again, you don’t need shoes to run; but it fucking helps. No truer words spoken then when at a gig, surrounded by thousands of extremely drunk and extremely excited people. Whether you’ve drawn the short straw, doing dry January or simply don’t drink (maniacs), being engulfed by the inebriated is very rarely enjoyable. Adamant the alcohol contains some deafening chemical as no-one else seems to have noticed the volume is a tad excessive tonight, you try to get in the spirit of things; bouncing around, singing and the like. But you struggle to cope when your mates start planting smackers on your cheek, as if they are so overwhelmed by the emotion of the music they are forced to express themselves physically. ‘YOU ALRIGHT MATE’, they scream in your ear. ‘Yeh, quality mate’ you lie back through gritted teeth. An hour in and your knees are starting to ache, the stench of alcohol-infused sweat has surpassed safe levels and your cheeks are drenched with saliva. You persevere to justify the 75 quid ticket until you finally hear the dulcet tones of the encore. Oh sweet relief.

5. The Uninterested Talker

The group you’re in is a mixed bag. Friends, siblings, friends of siblings; a real smorgasbord of individuals buzzing for the gig. Except one. Your sister’s mate barely knows who she’s about to watch. She read a message in their whatsapp group months ago and everyone else was going so blindly agreed to a ticket. In fact, she was only reminded about the gig a couple of days ago when someone posted a photo of the band in the same whatsapp group. As such, 20 minutes in her interest is waning as she realises she barely knows any of the band’s new stuff, let alone the old songs they are rattling off. This leads her to you. She doesn’t know you very well so you fit the bill perfectly. It might start off with a ‘you having fun?’ Next thing you know she’s chewing your ear off; what do you do, what music you into, what are your thoughts on the crisis in Syria? Incessant questions you meet with minimalist answers until eventually she gets the hint and sidles away with her tail between her legs to find some other unsuspecting soul to bother.

The Plight of the Pangolin

You probably haven’t heard of the Pangolin. I hadn’t until recently and I pride myself on science & nature being my chosen subject at a pub quiz. You may have glimpsed the Pangolins struggle passively, it’s cry for help dotted around the tube whilst you’re attempting to cultivate a little more breathing space. The Zoological Society of London go straight for the jugular with their advertising strategy; ‘Pangolins are being eaten to extinction’. There’s no clandestine message or subliminal undertones there, unlike those f*#king pretentious perfume ads. It’s straight to the point. And it continues ‘an estimated 100,000 are illegally traded every year’. It is being unlawfully hunted* to the point where, if we’re not careful, they will literally cease to exist on this planet. No more Pangolins. Nada, zilch, caput. But why should you care?

*I’ve read that they are a popular type of bush meat, with which I have no problem. African tribes have been eating Pangolin meat for centuries. They cannot be held accountable if they are feeding their family; it is the excessive nature in which they are hunted to be then used for unfounded reasons that I find deplorable.

Though protected by an international ban, the Pangolin still suffers from extensive illegal trafficking. Resembling the offspring of a mini anteater that’s had a saucy night with an armadillo, the cute, little blighters are thought to hold medicinal properties. Sought after by the Vietnamese and Chinese, they purchase the Pangolin to grind up their scales as a cure for cancer and asthma. A cure for cancer. You know, that illness that scientists spend millions of pounds a year on researching to discover new treatments; can someone let them know they just need to bash up a few Pangolin scales? Any sane person knows that much like Rhino horn, which is made of the same thing as hair and fingernails, is thought to cure illness, this is a load nonsense. It’s one thing to believe this fiction without any form of scientific backing, but to actually murder and trade these animals to point of extinction is beyond comprehension and really riles me.

And that brings me back to my question; why should you care? Well, because animals are innocent in this whole affair and they are the only ones we have. Humans are the cause of their demise and once they’re gone, there’s no getting them back. Tigers, gorillas and pandas are the poster boys of endangered species, but the likes of the pangolin are just as important. They all contribute to the finely balanced ecosystems around the World. We have a duty to future generations to preserve the beauty of nature and animals are the most important part of that. We can’t go on pleading ignorance, assuming the powers that be will eventually pull their fingers out their arse and do something about the Earth’s crumbling environment. It take us all as individuals to stand up and get involved to save our dying species.

http://www.zsl.org/conservation/species/mammals/pangolin-conservation-0

Luke

Consuming, intense, and at times even debilitating, sufferers of anxiety will be all too familiar with the aforementioned. The unsettling way in which anxiousness starts to manifest itself is difficult to describe, but as feelings begin to stir, an uneasiness rises from the pit of the stomach, almost taking your breath away. Whether seemingly unprovoked, or the result of a conscious fear, the initial angst only continues to grow, with side-effects increasingly prevalent at this stage. Sufferers will of course react in different ways and at varying points, with the levels of severity ranging from mild to unbearable. Deriving from the thoughts in one’s head, each bout is unique and personal, regardless of whether anyone ‘understands’ or not. A concoction of the intimate and the intangible, explanations and descriptions of anxiety are often convoluted.

Quantifying the time in which anxiousness inflicts itself is challenging. The sheer panic born out of anxiety, often to the point of an attack, is generally a relatively short-lived sensation. Whilst reluctant to generalise, there are similarities to notions such as claustrophobia and terror during episodes triggered through a fear. Whether it’s the uncertain, or conversely, prior knowledge, the unrelenting build-up of thoughts evoke a behaviour that leaves the affected inconsolable. Once the uncontrollable urge to escape has passed, be that through physically moving or managing to calm down, relative normality can resume. The ordeal of an anxiety attack is undoubtedly more apparent to others, and whilst more outwardly stressful, this is certainly not the only form in which anxiety constitutes itself.

Whilst the massing of negative thoughts may reach a tipping point, prolonged periods of inexplicable anxiousness can be equally as troubling. There is a kind of feeling which can carry no real justification, at least consciously, that produces an uneasiness that is both as frustrating as it is de-motivating. The ability to relax is a commodity that often evades someone suffering a deep-seated anxiety. During the extended periods that leave one feeling distressed and on-edge, rationale and logic is often futile in attempts to rejuvenate. Hours, days, weeks may pass. The feeling that courses through the body is seemingly immune from distraction, wearing on with a tedious persistence.

Given the diverse, and often indescribable ways in which anxiety affects people, coping mechanisms cannot adopt a one-size-fits-all approach. As someone who would confess to having certain levels and forms of anxiety, experience tells me that experience helps. An over-thinker, I am susceptible to analysing and scrutinising almost everything in a manner that facilitates feelings of anxiety. However, having outwardly embraced that this is a part of my personality, irrational and uneasy feelings have become less consuming. Achieving a comprehensive understanding of the functionality of your brain is unrealistic – but an acceptance that these feelings may be a bi-product of who you are can alleviate some of the struggle. Truly conquering anxiety might be too much of a stretch, but the knowledge that it doesn’t define you should act as some respite. No amount of regret can change the past, and no amount of anxiety can change the future.

Sprawled across the pages of both tabloids and broadsheets, and already worthy of its own Wikipedia page, ‘Piggate’ has understandably gone viral. Since the latest accusation from Cameron’s pompous youth broke on Sunday, the very best of social media’s most creative and mischievous contributors have been in their element. Aside from the humorous adaptations of these allegations via images and songs, the sickening nature of the supposed incident should not be overshadowed. Whilst some would choose to use one of modern times most unbearable phrases, ‘banter’, as justification, this is yet another example of the nauseous lifestyle some of Britain’s elite have lived (or perhaps, even more scarily, continue to live) for too long.

It is common knowledge that Cameron was part of various cliques and societies in his privileged University days, not something that can draw much criticism per se. However, the kind of accusations whereby Cameron is said to have immersed his own sausage in a dead pig’s mouth sadly comes as no great surprise. A man, whom such great responsibility and trust is afforded, should not have association with this kind of behaviour, regardless of how many years ago it is said to have taken place. For me, this typifies the loathsome characteristics so many Tory party members, and leaders, appear to possess. Aside from the traditional right wing policies and values, it is the slimy, arrogant demeanour the likes of Archer, Proctor and now Cameron, have conveyed that erodes any faith in their intentions to protect Britain’s best interests.

Without question there are, unfortunately, members of other political parties who bear similar traits. The demographic for MPs traditionally has not enjoyed a great degree of diversity, which sadly remains true today. That said, I find the numerous pretentious right wingers comfortably more abhorrent than the rest. The stereotype of Conservatives being white, privately educated, males, is evidenced by much of the party’s current makeup. A recent study showed just under 50% of Tory MPs to have attended private school, this in comparison to approximately only 6% of the general public who are privately educated. Not a witch-hunt against those attending such schools, this point at least highlights the lack of diversity and true representation of society by the ruling party. Perhaps more cynically, I am however of the belief a certain culture is susceptible to develop in such an environment. Confidence spills over into arrogance, with these tiresome toffs easily identifiable through their egotistical and ignorant outlook. There is little regard for others outside of their circles, nor is there an appreciation or understanding of reality.

Thankfully there are exceptions, and perhaps the aforementioned personalities are in fact an exception rather than the rule. However, Cameron will undoubtedly have inspired both current and future crops of opulent idiots to engage in activities similarly as tasteless as ‘Piggate’. I only hope the new figurehead of the opposition can inspire a resurgence that steers us away from the current actuality. In a week where the Conservative Government look at potentially scrapping free meals for school children, it is time to fight for a Government that both better represents the people and genuinely cares about those less fortuitous. Forget those who are merely looking to pull pork and pick up the bacon.

Dan

I visited Krakow recently for a stag do. Though not necessarily the best way to immerse yourself in the local culture and really get to know the subtle nuances of the old town, you can still get a grasp of the local atmosphere. I would certainly recommend Krakow. Beautiful architecture and cheap beer; you can’t really go wrong (I’m sure we barely scratched the surface but on a stag do, these were the main two things that stood out).  As well as that, considering there was 27 of us, we didn’t experience one iota of trouble or aggro (from the locals anyway). Further to this, our 27 was a mix of different ethnicities; Black, Asian and even a jock in there. This is a pertinent point for a few reasons.

It’s a stereotype that Poland isn’t the most tolerant of countries when it comes to race. In no way am I condemning all Polish people as racists but I think the general consensus would agree that that stereotype exists. As such, it’s fair to say that some of the ethnic contingency of our group were perhaps apprehensive about the trip. It was then on the second day that these concerns were realised at the Wisla Krakow football match. It was the staring that was the real issue. No one acted (the 27 of us may have been a deterrent) but some of the supporters clearly took issue by openly staring and muttering to one another. It wasn’t subtle; everyone one of us noticed it clear as day. It goes without saying, there’s no place for that behaviour in any society.

Yet, this is very much juxtaposed to an incident on our first night. I was staying with the best man and two others and extremely early on the first morning, we had a knock on the door. The best man answered and stood in front of him was a pretty large policeman. By all accounts, Alfred (not his real name) a black member of our group was in the back of their police car. Fearing the worst, the best man assumed Alfred had been arrested and required his identification. However, after being led down to the police car it transpired that the policemen had found Alfred asleep in a car park, managed to find out the hotel we were in and brought him home. Clearly intoxicated, he was still comatose in the police car and it required the best man and a chuckling policeman to carry a snoring Alfred up to our room (apparently he was the ‘heaviest man’ the best man had ever carried; ‘so dense, as heavy as lead’). Kudos to those policemen and their extremely positive actions.

So what do our experiences tell me? That it’s the ignorant culture still residing within football that is the real problem here, and allowing that stereotype to transcend in to the rest of the population is displaying as much ignorance as those I’m writing about? Perhaps. Or conversely, were they representative of an under developed appreciation of multi-culturalism that is widespread throughout Polish culture? Additionally, was Alfred just lucky that it was those particularly compassionate police that found him? Or is that nature something more prevalent in the Polish police force than you would imagine? On this occasion, I’m going to let you draw your own conclusions.

Luke (with a little help from Dan)

Many of you will be well aware of this story. Mainly because I love telling it but also because it is one hell of a story with a couple of exceptionally graphic snaps to go with it. For those who haven’t, this is an exact account of that fateful day; the day that put a budding journalist’s career, if not life, at serious risk. Let me paint you a picture with my imagination brush…

August 2013. Myself, George Odling, Scott Raper (yes that is his real name) and Hursh Rughani were 9 days in to our travels. After a grueling few days partying on Koh Phi Phi, Thailand, we were jaded and in serious need of some rest and recuperation. Henceforth, we embarked on our journey to Railay Beach, a small, idyllic penisula near Krabi. A long, hungover day ensued. Though dehydrated and hungry, spirits remained high as we reminisced about the week gone by. After negotiating a boat, a coach and another boat throughout the course of the day, our destination was finally in sight. It was an overcast day with the usual level of humidity, but we were hopeful the following day would be spent lying on the beach, topping up our levels of vitamin D. We disembarked and strolled around the small town in search of a suitable hotel to spend the night. Being such a small town cut off from the mainland, the prices were substantially more then we were used too. As thrifty travelers, we persevered in our pursuit of economical accommodation; the conversation swaying between how much we couldn’t wait for dinner that evening and how many massages we were going to have the next day (insert your own ‘happy ending’ joke here). We also stumbled across this cat love-in (has no significant part to play in the story, I just like the photo). Eventually we had to succumb to the jacked up prices and chose a spa hotel for 800 baht a night (about 14 quid). Overpriced but we were past the point of caring. We arranged to meet in approx 10 mins after dropping our bags off so George and I went on our way to find our room. And so the madness began.

Find the room. Drop the bags off. Freshen up. Out the door. That was the plan. We found the room. First stage complete. We entered the room and put our bags on the floor. Stage two complete. Things were looking good. I then went onto our small patio to have a look around whilst George christened the toilet. Naturally I shut the exceptionally clean french windows behind me to prevent mozzies getting in. Thailand is an exotic country with all manner of nasty bugs; I didn’t want them ruining our nights sleep. I had a look around the gardens and was overwhelmed with excitement. Until all of a sudden, my daydream was shattered by a sharp thud and huge shattering to my right. I looked over to see the french doors crashing down as George stood there in shock. Not only was this glass exceptionally clean, apparently even invisible to the naked eye, but it was also very brittle. My immediate reaction was to start laughing however, George’s words ‘Luke…fuck…my arm’ stopped that in its track. I leapt in to the room to see a volcano of blood erupting from Georges arm. I’m talking blood gushing in all directions. This was no graze.

From some unknown region of my being, my survival instincts kicked in and (as cheesy as it sounds) I ripped off my vest and tied it tightly around the wound. We then wrapped it further in a towel and sprinted out the room. We crashed into the reception and starting screaming for help and were met with what must be the most gormless bloke in Thailand, if not the world. As if the litres of blood we were covered in wasn’t enough, we started shouting ‘ambulance’, ‘help’ and then finally ‘look at the state of us you bellend’. He eventually realised we were in some serious distress and ushered us down to the dock. I left Odling and ran back to the room to grab his passport and money, etc. Along the way I realised our two travelling companions must have been wondering where we were so I proceeded in shouting at the top of my voice ‘Raper…Raper…Raper’. I quickly realised that probably wasn’t a good idea and fortunately they appeared from around a corner. I explained the predicament and they truly understood the gravity of the situation when we walked in to our room and saw the CSI crime scene we’d left behind.

On returning to the dock, I found a pale and partially blind Odling slumped up against the wall. A local had kindly wrapped a tourniquet around his arm to stem the bleeding. I say tourniquet, it was actually an inner tube; they’re a resourceful bunch the Thai race. In the brief time we were on the island, the tide had gone out so between us and the long-tail boat that would take us to the mainland was about 100m of sandy bog. Fortunately the locals had rallied so we jumped on the back of a tractor which ferried us across. The boat got on its way and we headed towards the mainland. About a 20 minute journey. Along the way Odling said ‘mate, I think the towel is too tight, I can’t move my thumb’. That will become relevant later…

We reached the mainland and jumped on to the back of a golf buggy which drove us too a taxi. A further 30 minute drive and we finally arrived at the general hospital. Odling was lead away whilst I was left to mooch around reception. I kept myself busy reading local magazines/looking at the pictures in local magazines, assuming any minute now Odling would come bowling through from A&E with a couple of stitches, a signature witticism and we’d be on our merry way. Time grew on along with my appetite so I indulged in some Ruffles crisps to keep my strength up. It dawned on me that Odling was probably peckish as well so I popped my head in to see how he was getting on. I was met with the words ‘Luke…it’s really bad’. ‘Fucking hell’ I replied, spraying Ruffles across the ward. See, on the journey to the hospital George and I had speculated about the severity of his injuries, assuming he had just nicked a vein resulting in the tremendous amount of blood. Oh no. This was a tad worse than we thought.

WARNING: GRAPHIC CONTENT…

Turns out the reason George couldn’t move his thumb on the boat wasn’t because ‘the towel was too tight’ It was because he had severed 3 tendons in his arm. By all accounts, none of the doctors on-site could actually find Odlings tendons to reconnect them because they had pinged up towards his elbow, so we hopped in a taxi and were sent on our way to a larger hospital 30 minutes away. This hospital was not much better; probably worse if anything. Firstly, the moment George’s wound was uncovered, the nurse nearly fainted. Not a good sign. Then flies starting buzzing around it. That wasn’t particularly pleasant either. He began to get led away for an x-ray. On his leg. ‘No mate, it’s my arm. Is this gaping mouth-shaped hole not a give away’? It turned out another Caucasian male had been admitted with leg injuries; I guess we all look the same to them. Things then started to look up when they realised we had private health insurance, ‘Ahh, Mr Odaring, we gone send you to the private hospital’. The private hospital that was 3 hours drive back up to Phuket. Well, we’d come this far. In the ambulance we jumped and were joined by, I think, the most beautiful woman in Thailand. As I said, things were looking up. Knackered, I set up camp in the front whilst George laid down at the back. Our joy was short lived though when our new travel companion was quickly replaced by a small, not beautiful man. A man who proceeded in not allowing George to cover up his cold feet and also quiz him about why he wasn’t married and if I was his boyfriend.

Anyway, we eventually reached Phuket and after receiving a guarantor from Insure & Go, George was whisked off for surgery. I fashioned a bed on the plastic sofa in his room and, having consumed enough M150 to bring Michael Jackson back from the dead during the previous eight days, began hallucinating about all manner of things, specifically talking parrots (banned in most countries, M150 is the Thai equivalent of red bull known to contain amphetamines). George returned a couple of hours later after successful surgery and so our tortuous journey neared an end. It was certainly a memorable 7 hours. We spent a couple of days at the hospital watching the film channel; ‘We Bought a Zoo’ is a real tear-jerker; and a doctor mentioned that if his arm got infected in Cambodia or Laos, they would not hesitate to chop it off. As such, George made the tough but necessary decision to head home to recover for 6 weeks. We met back up with Scott & Hursh and a day later George was on a plane heading back to sunny London. It was this point it dawned on me how surreal the whole situation had been. But we’d got through it. And if you want one piece of advice, never, ever pay 14 quid for a hotel with single pane windows.

Luke

It’s a little known and very distressing fact that suicide is the biggest killer of men under the age of 50. It’s prevalence in our society is resounding, yet, along with mental illness, it is often seen as a taboo subject rarely discussed. I will be the first to admit that I saw suicide as selfish; a cowardly act undertaken by someone who had no consideration for those they left behind. It wasn’t until recently I realised how wrong I was.

Depression is a disease; a mental illness which manifests in feelings of worthlessness, guilt and deep sadness. Its not a simple case of ‘snapping out of it’. Those in deep states of depression see no way out and sadly this can have devastating effects. Yet often those closest are unaware of the emotional pain a sufferer is going through. They create a facade; a defensive shell to hide their inner struggles. I’m sure everyone reading this has had periods of distress in their lives; you’ve lost your job or broken up with your partner. These are without doubt difficult times. But for a victim of depression, extreme levels of sadness can be triggered at all times for the simplest of problems. Even when things are going well, the voices in a sufferers head can constantly belittle them. It is difficult for me to say exactly how a sufferer of depression feels, as I have been lucky enough to not suffer from it myself, however, sadly I have experienced what depression can result in.

For those who didn’t know, a good friend of mine Tom Clark took his own life in October last year. It came as a complete shock to me and many of his friends; the thought of something like this happening to him (or any of my friends for that matter) had never crossed my mind. Tom was an incredible bloke. A cracking sportsman, I met Tom when his brother started a Saturday football team after university. An integral and popular member of the team, Tom and I played and socialised together for nearly 5 years. Training, competing and going out with people every week allows strong friendships to form quickly, none more so than with Tom. Funny, intelligent, gregarious; on the outside Tom had everything going for him. Every member of team had a personal gag with Tom. He was very highly regarded but unfortunately it’s self evident that he did not think so himself. I was shaken to the core when I heard the news. In fact, I scarcely believed it at first thinking it was some kind of sick joke. Then, like I’m sure all his friends and family did, I began to second guess myself. Maybe there were tell tale signs that I missed, perhaps a comment here or there that I should have picked up on. But I guess as the saying goes, hindsight is a wonderful thing.That brings me on to the adjective that not one person who ever met Tom would associate with him…selfish. Tom was the antithesis of selfish. He was kind and considerate. In his mind, he was doing everyone a favour by taking away the burden of his life. How wrong he was.

My experience has led me to reassess my ignorance and completely change my point of view. Subsequently, the real reason I am attempting to tackle this subject matter is to encourage people to look a little deeper at their friends and family rather then merely accepting what they are allowing you to see as the truth. Perhaps a friend has been a bit quiet on your whatsapp group recently or they haven’t been about as much. Even if there aren’t any clear signals, stop the bravado and simply show you are willing to listen without judgement or fear of ridicule. There is an unwillingness in men when it comes to discussing mental health and emotions in general but talking can go along way to preventing tragedy. And finally, next time your train is delayed because of ‘some selfish person’ on the track, take a second and think who that person is, what they’re going through and what a privilege it is to not feel the way they do.

Luke