I met Team GB's Nicola White in my local gym

Tuesday night: standard gym session at Oldham Sports Centre, only I recognise someone doing kettlebell swings at the back of the room. It's only Oldham's Nicola White, Olympic gold medallist from Oldham!

She was kind enough to stop for a picture. 

 

She told me she was living in London these days, but was back in Oldham seeing family. Being an Olympic athlete, she explained, she can use council gyms across the country for free. Her mum, working out with her, took the picture.

I mentioned how I was on the edge of my seat in the hockey final against the Netherlands. That penalty shoot-out was intense. Check out Ms White's equalising goal halfway into the match. Bosh!

Oldham's Old Town Hall Opens to the Public

Last night Oldham's new 'Old Town Hall' swung its doors wide to the public after a grand opening. A local youth performance group told a story of a young girl called Freya and her granddad... and the Oldham Giant.

Pretty moving story in all fairness, and hopefully instilled a sense of local pride in youngsters today. Our town's been bashed by the national media for decades now- think the race riots of 2001, the Panorama investigation into Yorkshire St's nightlife and the violence that came with it, and of course the Moors Murders. None of that was mentioned of course, but Freya still felt her options and her future were limited as she grew up in Oldham. But with the help of her granddad, and of the introduction of the lumbering papier mache giant, and a rousing theme tune, Freya begins to believe her town can be great again- like it was in her granddad's stories.

Impressive visuals, featuring aerial dancers and surrealist projections onto the facade of The Old Town Hall. Also decorated with projected images were the buildings opposite the Old Town Hall: The RBS and local coffee shops. After a short speech from Cllr Jean Stretton, MP Jim McMahon cut the ribbon and the crowds filtered into the renovated 175-year-old Grade II listed building. I joined the back of the queue and took a look around- the layout is quite unique with the Costa Coffee looking out onto Yorkshire St but the entrance to that unit down a corridor. The Odeon and all their signage has been designed to look modern but also to contrast against the vintage tiling which has been left exposed.

I'll drop in over the next few days to get food and a movie.

The Mix

EXT. CITY CENTRE STREET-NIGHT

CCTV FOOTAGE- B/W- NO DIGETIC SOUND

WALTER, 18, steps up to the camera in a checked shirt and stonewashed jeans- smart but trend-less. The camera appears to be in a doorway of some kind. He wants to get in, gesturing inside, trying a little charm. He's not doing well. As he steps closer to the camera, a DOORMAN'S FIST slams into his face. He staggers off.

Over the scene, CHRIS gives a V/O.

CHRIS

That's Mark, the doorman. He told me this cocky little fraggle stepped up saying “I know Chris Hulston.” Mark was like, “Don't use that name around here.”

INT. POSH HOUSE- DAY

Chris sits with IAN, his right-hand man, strangely close on the small couch. Ian has a scratch on his nose. They're watching the footage on a big-screen TV. To the left of the TV, his video rack holds the films Batman Returns, Blue Velvet, Maitresse, A Taste of Honey, Salo, 8mm, Philadelphia, Deliverance, Midnight Cowboy, WWF Wrestling and Spartacus.

IAN

What's his name?

CHRIS

Walter. I can't go back in there now because of him. You beat the shit out of him and I guarantee he'll go to the press. The club's door staff will see the article. They'll know I sorted it out.

Ian leans back and notices something sticking out from between the cushion and the armrest of the couch- a small riding whip.

Chris pulls out an unmarked audio tape.

CHRIS

Just so I know it happened. I'll be at a business meeting, so post it through the box and I'll check it when I get back. How's it going with this Charlotte, then?

IAN

Well, y'know. Can't believe I got tied down to this shit. If she didn't argue with everyone she meets, and she didn't punch grown men in bars, and she didn't drink pints and belch in strangers faces, meaning you've gotta wade in and protect her, and if she didn't get so wasted that going out with her was like looking after a fucking infant... she'd be a nice girl.

CHRIS

You'll figure it out with her.

IAN

I will.

Ian looks at the tape.

IAN (CONT)

I have a plan.

INT. COUNCIL HOUSE-DAY

WALTER sits on a couch. Puffing the herb, he stares at the TV. We can't see what's on-screen, but we can hear it.

TV VOICE

Unless you want to die a slow, painful death... Stop smoking now.

TV VOICE 2

New McBain chips! They go with everything! These kids just can't get enough!

There's a KNOCK at the door.

Classical music fills the room. Walter stands and slumps to the door.

TV VOICE 3

Order now for Classical Vibes. Relax to this serene collection...

Walter opens the door. A large leather-gloved FIST slams into Walter's face. He flies back into the corridor.

WALTER

No- no-

IAN pushes Walter onto his arse and begins laying into him. Walter's protests are heard over the music. It's a totally unfair fight. By the time the advert finishes, the man has left and has closed the door behind him.

EXT. WALTER'S HOUSE

Walking briskly down the road, Ian pulls a tape recorder out of his back pocket. He rewinds. The device SQUEAKS, then Ian presses PLAY. For a couple of seconds we can hear Walter getting the shit beaten out of him.

INT. IAN'S FLAT- DAY

CU- TWO-TAPE STEREO PLAYER

A tape marked THE CORRS is inserted into PLAYER A. A blank tape is inserted into PLAYER B. Fingers hit the record buttons.

The Corrs song “What Can I Do to Make You Love Me” plays over the scene, and over the following FLASHBACK MONTAGE:

INT. PUB- NIGHT

Ian and a girl, CHARLOTTE, sit together. He goes to hold her hand. She pushes his hand away and sneezes into her own hand. Then she picks his hand up and smiles at him.

INT. IAN'S FLAT- NIGHT

Ian's asleep on the couch. Charlotte carefully places some sandpaper into his outstretched hand. She tickles his nose with a pen. He reacts, scratching his face. She finds it hilarious. He does not.

MONTAGE/MUSIC ENDS

Ian takes the two tapes, marked BEATING and SONG, and puts one in each coat pocket.

EXT. CHARLOTTE'S HOUSE- DAY

Ian pops the tape through the letterbox. He strokes a local cat on his way out.

EXT. CHRIS'S HOUSE

Ian pulls out the other tape. As he shoves it through the waist-height letterbox he sees the markings: SONG. He freezes. The tape has fallen inside. He starts to breathe heavily. He looks through the letterbox flap.

INT. CHRIS' HOUSE

The cassette is on the floor. Ian reaches through the letterbox, his arm no-where near.

EXT. CHRIS' HOUSE

Ian hesitates, and then backs away.

INT. IAN'S HOUSE- LATER

Ian's topless, doing press-ups on his knuckles.

The doorbell RINGS. Ian stands. He looks around the room.

IAN

Hang on…

He picks up a belt and stretches it out, like he might strangle someone with it. It's the only thin he can find to defend himself with.

Ian opens the door. Chris is in the hallway, smiling flirtatiously.

IAN

Chris. Listen. Fucking hell-

Chris brings a finger up to Ian's lips.

CHRIS

Shhh... Wow. I can't believe it took us so long.

Ian's face changes from controlled panic to blank confusion.

Chris holds up the tape marked SONG.

CHRIS

Ian... Ian... I would never have put you down as the romantic type. Well, Mr. Creative. You don't have to do anything to make me love you. Nothing at all.

Chris pushes Ian back into his corridor, just using the finger still pressed to Ian's lips.

Ian panics and pushes Chris' finger away.

IAN (FIRM)

Out.

CHRIS

Yes. Yes, I am out. I'm out at last. You noticed, and I'm free because of you. I owe this freedom to you.

Chris pops the buttons on his own shirt.

CHRIS

Now do what you want with me.

Ian's BIG RIGHT HAND lands in his boss' face. Chris stumbles out. Ian slams the door shut. Undeterred, Chris hammers on the door.

CHRIS

Don't fight it, Ian! Accept your feelings darling!

MONTAGE

Shower dial being turned to the coldest point.

Water bursting out of shower head

Ian reacting to the cold.

Ian drying off. The doorbell RINGS.

IAN

Oh, fuck, here we go again.

Ian opens the door wrapped in a towel. CHARLOTTE stands in the doorway holding the tape marked BEATING.

IAN

Charlotte. I can explain, don't-

She SHOVES him back into his corridor and closes the door behind her.

IAN

There's something I need to tell you. I, er-

Charlotte SLAPS Ian, hard.

IAN

Argh! What the fuck?

She grabs him, ready to slap him again.

CHARLOTTE

I know you like this, you little bitch!

Charlotte rips off her blouse to reveal a black PVC catsuit.

CHARLOTTE

I can't believe it took you so LONG!

She slaps him so hard it brings a tear to his eye.

IAN

You fucking psycho!

CHARLOTTE

Oh... keep talking baby. Keep talking.

She kisses him hard on the mouth. He pushes her away, HARD, mid-kiss. He slaps her face. She's laughing now.

CHARLOTTE

Come on, you wuss. Is that it?

Ian runs out, still in the towel.

IAN (Shouting back at her)

Don't speak to me again, you crazy bitch!

Charlotte is still stood in Ian's flat, breathing heavily, staring at the door.

CHARLOTTE

You know you liked it... come on... prove it.

She roots through his wardrobe- shirts, trousers, jeans- no PVC. No whips. No chains. No leather. No rubber.

She goes through his drawers: elastic bands, paper-clips, a pack of cards that have come loose at the bottom and have spread across the drawer. She plucks out a scrap of paper.

CHRIS

0798064

It's not just a scrap- it's an envelope. Charlotte opens the tucked-in flap. It's stuffed with £20 notes- a few hundred quid-deep. She checks the drawer for more. She pauses and pulls out what looks like- from the back- a white rectangular card. From Charlotte's side, it's a photograph. It's Chris and Ian. They're both drunken, shirts untucked, outside a bar at closing time. They're hugging, looking somewhat gay.

FLASH FRAME- CHARLOTTE'S THOUGHTS:

Chris and Ian locked in a kiss.

EXT. CHRIS' HOUSE

Chris opens the door in a dressing gown, eyes full of sleep.

CHRIS

Who are you?

Charlotte stands on the doorstep with the photograph in one hand and the envelope in the other.

CHARLOTTE

I'm your boyfriend's girlfriend. Soon to be ex-girlfriend.

CHRIS

Er, what?

He looks at her outfit.

CHRIS

Okay. I can roll with this.

Charlotte puts the photo in his face.

CHARLOTTE

You turned my boyfriend gay, you bastard.

CHRIS

I wish I had. I AM bisexual, but Chris just works for me.

CHARLOTTE

You're a pimp?!

CHRIS sighs.

CHRIS

No. There's something I want to show you.

INT. CHRIS' HOUSE

Chris and Charlotte sit on the small couch. Chris is showing Charlotte a scrapbook that he's assembled, stuffed full of newspaper clippings.

CHRIS

Look. This is all me and Ian. But you didn't see this here, okay?

CASH GUARDS ROBBED

SHOTGUN RAIDERS HUNTED

LANDLORDS WARNED AFTER PUB RAIDS

STREET RIOTS WERE “PLANNED”

PIRATE VIDEO DEALERS HUNTED

LOCAL COCAINE NOW CHEAPER THAN A CAPPUCCINO

EAR FOUND ON PAVEMENT

MAN GETS HEAD STUCK IN RAILINGS AFTER DRUNKEN NIGHT OUT

Chris shrugs.

CHRIS

Might need to blackmail him one day. You never know.

CHARLOTTE

Wow, I had the wrong end of the…

She finds the same riding crop that Ian found, down the sofa.

CHARLOTTE

Stick. Is this yours?

Charlotte and Chris smile at each other.

INT. IAN'S FLAT

Ian sits at his desk in his lounge, filling in an RSPCA job application form. He's on the phone. An answer machine beeps.

IAN

Chris, it's Ian. Being a gangster is gay. I'm out. Out of the game, I mean, not... Well. Enjoy your life.

On the form, under MARITAL STATUS, Ian ticks the box SINGLE.

INT. CHRIS' HOUSE

Chris' ANSWER MACHINE blurts out Ian's message, but there's no-one around.

INT. CHRIS' BASEMENT

Chris is gimped up and chained to the wall. Charlotte stands in her catsuit in front of him. She WHIPS Chris hard. He loves it.

CREDITS ROLL.

Hunks in Trunks

I’m actually beginning to type with last night’s fake tan and baby oil still stuck to my hands, and pretty much every other part of my body. The shower didn’t remove it all.

Hunks In Trunks is Walkabout’s national current competition- a selection of local men brave enough to strut about on stage in Speedos, competing against each other. I, of course, volunteered when asked a few weeks ago.

All the competitors met on the night (although I knew Mike from Cuba Cuba and recognised a couple of others). Any of us could have seen who the top 2 were going to be- they were unblemished gym addicts and traditionally handsome. We quickly decided to treat this as a fun event and not to have Mr. Universe- style competitive bitchiness.

The upstairs bar was cordoned off for the competitors to chill in: it was important that the crowd didn’t see us until we were due on stage. Kat, Donna and Sarah- Walkabout staff- took excellent care of us to make sure we knew what was going on. Of course, we were only allowed to know part of that. The upstairs bar also doubled as a changing room. I’m not going to go into too much detail here, but I can assure you that things have changed since PE in third year. I’m not too far down the smaller end of the scale, it seems. Although the Speedo style trunks were dangerously oversized for my meagre 30” waist. It was also pointed out to me that most guys shave armpits now. Hence, I have just taken a break in typing to do so and my armpits now itch like fuck.
Waiting was the hardest part- the nerves took hours to kick in. We were plied with sambuca and given a few bottles Before going on stage we were lathered in tanning oil and baby oil by the girls. (Okay, they did the backs. We had to do the rest ourselves. It’s Walkabout, not the local massage parlour, the Georgian.) Some of the guys were taking the piss a little bit and being a bit too flirty with Donna and she was getting irate. I stepped in to calm things down…
Those of us who did work out were priming ourselves- I was doing press-ups with claps in-between like DeNiro does in Taxi Driver, and a couple of others bicep-curled gas canisters that we found near the bar.

I had the perfect position in the running of things: being the second contestant to go on stage meant I got an idea of what was happening (although I got bollocked for looking around the curtain at the side of the stage) but I could get my appearance out of the way and not piss myself with nerves beforehand. I knew I had to do something with Kat, involving a liquid of some kind.
I was called out and I gave it some gusto. The presenter (not the DJ) asked me a few questions. Thankfully these didn’t relate to sex, otherwise I’d have been fucked. (Is that a pun? I don’t even know…) I had to deliver my best chat up line.

“If I see two girls at a bar, I’ll probably walk up to them, put a hand on their shoulder and say: ‘Ladies- I don’t wanna come between you- or do I?…’”

I’d like to break from the story at this point to inform you that Colin, my top friend on MySpace, texted me the next day with regards to writing this blog. He said, “Don’t forget to mention how your chat-up line went down like a lead balloon”.

So you can imagine the reaction I got. People in Oldham don’t do highbrow wit.
After proving to Oldham why I don’t chat up girls, I proceeded to lie Kat down on the stage, pour whipped cream on her boobs and stomach, stick a few strawberries over her and lick them off, occasionally feeding her a strawberry mouth to mouth. It was pretty cool, although I could probably have got away with a lot more.

I waited backstage. One by one the guys went up and gave it their best, usually returning to the corridor looking like the girls had molested them with fridge paraphernalia, not the other way around. After this the judges were given a break to decide who gets the top three places.
So, to keep the crowd entertained, Kat, Donna and Sarah- in bikinis- went on stage. I could hear the crowd cheering- mostly male voices among the music- and a few minutes later they came back to the fire exit where we were waiting. They were laughing, covered in chocolate sauce and whipped cream. I was thinking, thank God the photographer’s out there…

Meanwhile, we knew what was going to happen next. All the competitors were called on stage together. Third, second and first places were read out. They were adorned with Olympic-style medallions. Along with this, the man receiving gold- a vain steroid abuser with poor muscle definition and a tiny cock- was given a Sony PSP. And then we were free to party.
Me, Mike and Colin went to Cuba Cuba, still wearing the Speedos and flip-flops. We managed to get past the door and onto stage and dance for about 10 seconds before the manager bollocked us for public indecency. All good fun though. I also got reprimanded by the doorman later, after dressing, for undressing again. I was fucked by this point.

It was suggested by a close friend that I could have won the competition if I’d have pushed the boat out more- by squirting that cream in a few other places and being a little more brave. Cuba Cuba, like many bars, may have had fairly strict regulations on what you can and can’t get away with. But Walkabout- for the record, an international chain found near you- doesn’t really. You can display boundary-pushing behaviour and the doormen will roll their eyes and smirk. If you see a competition like this, don’t wait to be roped into it. Just ask. I keep looking for these challenges. As Eminem would say, “The older I get, the dumber the shit I get in.”