The Joy Of Simple Pleasures

Oh, if only one could make a hobby of idleness!

If reclining by oneself, binge-watching the latest Netflix series and slowly merging to become one with the sofa, was a hobby, I would truly be an artisan.

When it comes to timing dashes to the kitchen with ad breaks, I’m a pro. I’ve perfected the art of cramming as many episodes into our waking hours - I watched the entirety of Breaking Bad over a long Bank Holiday weekend. I smelled like a builder’s crotch by the end, but it was a fine series, some of Bryan Cranston’s best work.

I’ve even found the perfect angle to recline on the sofa that lets me balance a plate on my belly whilst still maintaining optimum viewing (the trick is to strip to the waist - a plate is less likely to slide off on bare skin than, say, a Hawaiiwan shirt, as I discovered while eating a particularly hot bowl of spaghetti during a marathon session of The Sopranos).

It’s not for lack of trying, of course. No, when it comes to hobby sampling, I’m a true Jack of all trades: guitar (short fingers), painting (no patience), LARPing (I already find it difficult to meet women), football (a resolute “no” to any and all exercise, if you please).

You name it, I’ve bought the expensive kit for it and now it sits, unused and unloved, on the floor of the spare room.

I even tried S&M for a bit - that was a strange week.

£200 for a month’s membership of what I thought was an upmarket kink club in Soho (‘the Hellfire Club’ - the name oozed danger, sex, and glamour), only to discover it was a motley collection of fat lorry drivers and their haggard wives meeting up in a community centre in Brentford. They used the local cricket team’s bats as paddles, for goodness’ sake.

I enjoyed yoga, for a while. The ambient music, the soft mats, the incense, the slightly hippyish instructor who spoke in dulcet tones and smelled faintly of jasmine - very soothing.

That is, until she had us try the downward facing dog. The Gurdwara down the road was giving away free samosas that morning, and who doesn’t like free food? I had six, naturally, forgetting in my greed about my English sensitivity to spice. An hour later, the intensity of my downward facing dog resulted in something not even the thick, acrid smoke of the incense could mask, and I left with my tail between my legs.

Things rather came to a peak last month when, after a brief dabble with geocaching (see my notes on exercise, above), I decided to give crack a go. I’d just watched a fascinating documentary about the US drugs trade and, in a fit of derring-do, decided to give it a bash.

During my soul-crushing week at the Hellfire Club, I met a brute of a man, Leon, who had taken me aside and assured me in hushed tones: “if you needed sumfink, you know - hash or Es or smack or whateva - I’m your man.”

I gave him a call and politely enquired about buying some crack. He was very eager, offering what he called “top-class” crack at the low price of £50 per rock. That seemed reasonable enough, and we agreed to meet later that evening in Hackney Downs Park, and I set about planning what to wear.

I’d never bought drugs before, and wasn’t sure what the appropriate attire was. A suit seemed overly informal, and I didn’t want him to think I was a ‘narc’ (I’d done my research on the lingo, of course). In the end, I settled for a black AC/DC t-shirt and an outsized leather jacket bought during my motorbiking phase (it lasted a day - I sped off from my front drive in the morning and ended up in A&E by lunchtime with a shattered elbow and a deep-seated hatred for all things two-wheeled).

Arriving at the park I met Leon as arranged, and I hoisted myself up into the cabin of his Scania for the transaction. He tapped a small, clear bag of murky brown crystals on the dashboard and held his grubby hands out for the money. I pressed five crisp ten-pound notes into his palm and inspected the bag, flushed with the thrill of my very first drug deal.

But no sooner had the money changed hands than four police officers burst out of a nondescript white van parked nearby, the glare of flashlights blinding us as they cuffed us and hauled us away to the station.

My only encounter with the law to date had been a speeding ticket from an overzealous young traffic officer (22 in a 20 zone, I ask you), so naturally, I was a nervous wreck.

I sat in the dim interview room alone, wondering which gang I should affiliate myself while serving at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Was there much demand for a former public schoolboy with a weak chin and bowl haircut? Would my speeding ticket give me any ‘hardman’ cachet inside?

My fear turned to confusion when, after an hour of fretting about the health and safety issues posed by prison tattoos, a red-faced copper with a Cockney accent and a swagger to match kicked open the door and told me I was free to go.

I followed him, bewildered, to the station reception, and he informed me that apparently Leon’s drug-dealing credentials had been somewhat inflated, and he had in fact sold me a gram, not of crack cocaine, but popping candy.

Indignant, I informed him I would like to press charges against Leon for wanton deceit in breach of the Trade Descriptions Act of 1968. The officer laughed in my face, called me a ‘posh dickhead’, advised me to stick to shooting foxes rather than heroin, and pushed me roughly out into the street.

I left hastily with my head down and hands in my pockets, lest anyone should recognise me and alert my employer. I never got my £50 back.

Yes, it was a low point, and it didn’t get much lower than that.

Not everyone finds their passion, I suppose. Some live for the thrill of playing their music to a live crowd, while others are happy to spend their leisure hours hiking across the Yorkshire moors.

But for me (and others like me), I think there is a simple pleasure to be found in the bliss of doing nothing. It is something that requires minimal financial investment, and one anyone can excel in.

In fact, I implore you to do the same. Give it a go - it’s a damn sight easier than buying crack.