Today, I learned two truths. The first is that I appear to be particularly out of touch with the 'kids', and more to the point, their choice of vocabulary; and the second is that camouflaged trousers earn you instant respect.
It all started as I walked to work this morning at the highly unsociable hour of 6:00am. As I approached Romford Train Station, two girls of about 16 or 17 stood in my path and said something to me with a twitch of the shoulder; something that I've grown to see as particularly 'Romford'.
"Pardon", I said, removing my headphones.
"Will ya buy us some fags mate?" the shorter and fatter one asked in her truly Essex manner.
"Erm, no".
"Why the fuck ain't ya gonna get us no fuckin' fags?".
At this point, I really wanted to get into depth about the triple negative that had been thrust in my direction, but I thought I'd let it slide.
"Because I don't advocate smoking", I told them.
"Don't fuckin' what?".
Oops. I'd used the word 'advocate', and now they were confused.
"What the fuck do ya mean?". The slightly taller one with braces and hoop earrings big enough to drive a bus through perked up.
"I mean that I don't think people should smoke, so I won't buy you cigarettes". I felt that was a reasonable enough explanation.
"You big fuckin' gay". Fatty was angry. "Bet he couldn't get 'em anyway innit", she exclaimed to her friend.
Ahhh. Reverse psychology. I'd seen this play before and wasn't going to be fooled.
Headphones were placed firmed back into my ears, I turned on my heels and head off for my train. I'm sure that if I didn't have noise cancelling I would have heard a torrent of abuse follow me, but fortunately, I do.
On to the trousers. It's Tuesday, and Tuesday morning means one thing, Boot Camp. Last week, the midges / mosquitoes played havoc, so this week I was prepared with what I considered highly apt official army camouflage combats and a black t-shirt which adorned "Chuck's Boot Camp *Trainer*" on the back in big white lettering. No little biters getting to my legs this week. When I arrived, everyone else came stocked up with "Jungle Juice" or something like that; it was a repellant, that much I knew. Anyway, I digress.
Maybe it was the outfit that made me look like I'd just stepped out of basic training, or maybe it was the matter-of-fact way that I marched through Liverpool Street Station, but I found that people seemed to spend all of their time moving out of my way or giving me a knowing nod as if to say "Well done mate". I didn't wish to burst anyone's bubble being as I've never actually been in the army, so I just plodded on down to Saint James' Park and let them believe, well, whatever they jolly well wanted.
Unfortunately, I'm not the only person who does Boot Camp training out of Saint James' Park, and even less fortunate than that is the fact that the other group, is the real military. That said, I don't think they mind too much, because when they went jogging past our training spot earlier, they all gave me the same knowing nod as well as a few "Alright mate" comments. Good old army.
Funnier though was a chap out running with his dog, who, as he ran past shouted "Go on mate. Totally destroy them. BEAST THEM". God knows what he'd had that morning, but it was strong, that's for sure.
In short, the army, or more to the point, their attire, totally kicks ass, where as chavvy Essex girls totally suck ass. Fact.
Cameras, phones, jewellery, locker keys, water bottles and even the occasional sock. They're all things that I consider pretty 'normal' to find lying around the gym, but yesterday I came across something a little more unusual.

