Grumpy Young Man

A few days ago I was channel surfing, trying to find a progamme to divert me from the intense feeling of self-loathing that comes from working in an open plan office, when I came to a stop on BBC 3. For those of you unaware of it existence, BBC 3 is the "yoof-culture" arm of the corporation, specialising in shows such as 'Freaky Eaters: Addicted to Cheese', and 'Fuck Off: I'm Ginger' (to which I'm always tempted to shout 'Oh, fuck off yourself, you moaning ginger cunt'). This particular nights offering was the wonderfully ridiculous 'Panic Room', a show so ludicrous it must have been commissioned by an adolescent, crack addicted orangutan.

The idea of 'Panic Room' is to take somebody with a phobia, and expose them gradually to more and more contact with the thing that makes them go all oogly-woobly, until they can manage to stop sniffling like a five year old whenever they see a slug or something. In reality we witness the hilarious spectacle of someone with a fear of spiders screaming in horror as an arachnid bumbles along on their stupid face. There is a women on this programme who has a fear of buttons, for crying out loud.

I accept that some people do have phobias. My girlfriend, for instance, has a crippling phobia of snakes. I'm not talking a withering dislike, I mean a shit your pants, hyperventilate, run-screaming-from-the-building-if-someone-says-slither, sort of phobia. On one fun day out I emerged from a gift shop with my hands my pockets, and was immediately smashed in the face by my dainty flower in the mistaken belief I had concealed a rubber serpent about my person. Naturally I deal with this psychological defect in the most adult and loving way possible, sending pictures of giant open mouthed pythons to her email address calling the file 'love is...', pausing on the National Geographic when I see a programme entitled 'Super Snake' or some other pop-zoology nonsense, and buying rubber snakes from gift shops.

The thing is I can just about accept this type of phobia as it is a fear of something tangible. It is possible to be killed by a snake, it is possible to be bitten by a venomous spider and, stretching the point, it is technically possible to choke to death on a button (if you are a fucking moron). One thing that can't hurt you is the Honey Monster. I am aware of a grown man who, when questioned about what scares him, will always reply with the name of Sugar Puffs bumbling spokes-retard. The question that should then follow is "what about thermo-nuclear war, the idea of everyone you love dying or David Cameron sprouting wings and farting sulphorous, right wing, hypno-turds all over the British Isles?", but annoyingly he is one of those lucky twats who exudes a childlike charm, meaning people just smile and find it endearing.

The point is, the chance of being killed by a snake or a spider in this country is ridiculously small, whereas the chance of being killed by, say, a bus is incredibly high. But do 'Panic Room' show people pictures of the number 42, before gradually ratcheting it up the tension cumulating in the hapless contestant running away from a double decker with me laughing manically at the wheel? Of course not. They are playing it safe, and that is a national scandal.

The BBC website recently ran a story headlined 'AirFix made me the man I am'. Now you'll excuse me if I find it a little disappointing that I didn't scroll down to see a picture of Peter Sutcliffe gazing out at me, it's just that model makers have the ability to seriously mess with my head.

It all starts from school I think. There was a guy in my class who was obsessed with trains. He made model trains, collected Hornby and die-cast trains, even pretented to be a train. For the entire break he would chug around the lines of the netball court, or, if Mr Forshaw would allow us on the grass, the football pitch, tooting his horn and lost in his own little world.
As kids are cruel by design, we tortured him. We would stand in his way, welly the football at him and generally be the sort of evil little sods that we now perceive all kids to be. We were sure that there was something medically wrong with this kid. There was, he was autistic.

The model industry is huge, no doubt about it. In 2005 model making firm Warhammer (Slogan, "Fun for teenagers who can't get laid") reported pre tax turnover of £115million, with a net profit of £13.9million. That's an awful lot of sexually frustrated, spotty geeks. Walk into any shopping centre in Britain and you will find Warhammer shops open late so that the terminally dateless can bring their hand assembled, meticulously painted Orks to the table, roll a dice and become 'King of Warhammer (Manchester Arndale Branch)'.

I know of fully grown men who set up train sets in their attics. These are intelligent guys with good jobs, some of them have kids. But woe betide any child who ventures into daddie's world. Everything must be perfect and we couldn't have grubby hands messing up the tracks could we? Honestly, if people like that ran Network Rail I may stand a chance of getting to Leeds in less than 5 hours.

You must understand that I have no problem with people collecting things. I have DALEKs and old Everton football club programmes dotted around the place, and I enjoy them. It's the obsession I can't deal with. I never take my DALEK to a special Time War shop, to battle against time lords and cybermen. I never look at my friends old programmes and say "Pat Nevin on the cover from the 1989 FA Cup semi final against Norwich at Villa Park? I'll give you 200 quid for it"

The fundemental difference between these people and people like me is how much we care about things. Your average model maker probably doesn't have last nights Burger King wrappers all over the table in the lounge. He probably would think twice about taking his brand new jeans to a rock festival where torrential downpours are forecast. He certainly wouldn't waste £50 drinking his own body weight in Jack Daniels every friday night. But he also misses out on the fun things that this reckless attitude provides us with.

Now if you'll excuse me i'm off to make a sandwich. It may not win any prizes, but at least i'll probably get laid tonight.