An Evening with Peter Andre

The Peter Andre concert was not a success. I feared the worst when, stood at the bar, I overheard a conversation between women in their fifties who were wearing pink cowboy hats. Here is a snippet:

“Gina, did you wear your new bikini in Tenerife?”

“I certainly did. I’d love to show Pete my new bikini! If you know what I mean?”

What Gina was saying seemed fairly self-explanatory, which begs the question, was “If you know what I mean?” necessary?

Pete was wearing a glittery belt and took us on a nostalgic/unbearable tour of his entire back catalogue. Unfortunately, it wasn’t one of those “So bad it was actually good!” things and we left before Mysterious Girl. I was in a bad mood because I’m selfish and Louise hadn’t enjoyed my present and Louise was in a bad mood because she had just sat through an extended version of Insania.

There was a poignant moment as we walked through town, fraught and in silence to see the delighted crowd spilling out of the theatre down the road, talking about how fantastic Swan Lake had been.

I’d got this one wrong.

We, at least, managed to get the last train home although this was a close shave after I’d tried to redeem myself by taking us on a superfluous short cut. I didn’t get a seat and was stood in the aisle near a couple of punk rock women — the type who keep their festival wristbands on for years — in their early twenties. They were animatedly discussing their work for charities and dyed, matted dreadlocks notwithstanding, seemed like a pleasant pair. I listened in jealously, reminiscing about the pre-Andre days when Louise and I used to have nice conversations. When the train stopped, the women got up and I offered them a friendly, flat smile and raised eyebrows.

They didn’t smile back. One of them was scowling.

“Are you just gonna stand there? I need to get off. Move man.”

Move man?

I was shocked. They’d seemed so nice? Perhaps I’m not as good a judge of character as I’d thought? I’m certainly not a good judge of what entails a good night out for a woman’s twenty-eighth birthday.

An evening to forget although I can confirm that Louise enjoyed her bath salts.

While it is still too soon to laugh about the Andre debacle, the fallout didn’t last too long and Louise and I enjoyed a nice weekend. This is mostly down to the fact that it is nearly spring so it isn’t cold and shit all the time. Life is considerably better when you can do things other than binge drink or watch box sets for weekend entertainment.

The plan was to go for a long bike ride with a group of pals on Sunday, although promising numbers rapidly dropped to two, then eventually zero. I’m quickly learning that the large thumb icon on Facebook should not be taken as confirmation that someone is in. I was guilty of large thumb misuse myself and pulled out on the day, citing a bad Asda curry on Saturday night.

Those insufferable Just Eat adverts have made me reluctant to ever order takeaway again. (If you are thinking; “They might be bad adverts, but you are talking about them aren’t you eh? They’ve got you! Clever advertising!” I politely suggest that you piss off.) An important lesson was learnt though; don’t try and skimp and go for supermarket versions of takeaways. You save about £3, it’s nowhere near as nice and you feel ill the next day.

Instead of the peloton, Louise and I went for a hike (gentle stroll) along the Meanwood Valley trail, a walk my dad used to take me on when I was a kid. One of the highlights of the walk is an old viaduct in the woods, which is a good five metres high. I have hazy memories of my dad not forbidding, but actively encouraging my brother and I to climb around some sharply spiked fencing and walk along the top, which is perilously narrow. This was fun at the time, but with the benefit of hindsight, may have been slightly irresponsible parenting?

The better weather also means that tennis is back on and tennis is, of course, excellent. The first time I played tennis against Louise was last year. As we were warming up, I thought I’d show off by practicing my fast serve, which can be quite useful, if wildly inaccurate. I tossed the ball up high and pinged it with the sweet spot. A perfect connection. It felt great. As soon as the ball left my racket, satisfaction turned to alarm as I looked up and over the net. Louise had turned her back and was bending down and fumbling around with her handbag on the floor. As the ball soared through the air, everything became slow motion until time almost stood still. I could see exactly what was unfolding and was powerless to stop it.

“Watch out!!”

It was, of course, too late.

The ball bounced, skipped up off the tarmac and smacked the crouching Louise plumb in the side of her head.

No!

Feeling like an utter brute, I ran over to apologize profusely and check that she was okay.

“I’m so sorry. It was a complete accident. I didn’t….”

“It’s fine.” Louise said. And she was fine. Completely fine. Unfazed. She was chuckling.

“At least you didn’t hit a fast serve. That might have hurt me.”

This was not even intended as a (fully deserved) spiteful comeback to make me doubt my fast-serving ability. She genuinely didn’t think the ball had been going very fast. I’d thought it was as good a serve as I’ve ever hit. Fuming. Guilt, regret and emasculation within five seconds. A bad combo.

Spring is as good as it gets for me. A lovely respite in between rain and darkness and the May emergence of hay-fever, which annually rears its ugly head to derail my summer. I’ve been a hay-fever sufferer for two decades now — a hay-fever veteran you might (but probably won’t) say. Every year I forget about it until one morning I wake up with itching red slits for eyes and sneeze nine times in a row. I’ve heard that if you take hay-fever tablets a few weeks before it usually strikes, it can be an effective barrier. A lady I used to work with took this to the extreme and took them every day, all year round. Fair enough I suppose, although in December, I reckon you’re probably safe?

While I enjoy spring and fear summer, I’m sure that most people can’t wait for summer. Gina, for instance. A great chance to show off that bikini.