A brief summary of the author’s life so far.
Organically conceived, I was introduced to the world during a lull in activities, in one of the chicer quarters of the East Midlands, sometime in the 1960s. I was subsequently raised as biodegradable, long before it was ever fashionable, which deprived me of the carefree joys of a non-recyclable childhood. Memories of my early years are inexplicably blurry but a reliable source has indicated that I was a rather confused, delicate child, with small elf-like ears and shortish vowels.
I was delighted when the playful pet name bestowed on me by my loving parents appeared as a puzzle solution on Countdown!
I hit my formative years in the 1970s. It was a decade in which the Troubles in Ulster and industrial unrest seemed to be in the news every day; a decade which culminated in the advent of the pernicious brand of Conservativism that continues to shaft the country to this day. It was a time when football hooliganism had become a national past-time and made attending football matches a rather nerve-wracking experience for any young man with sensibilities and a dislike for violence. It was when childhood dreams of playing for Leicester City, Celtic and AS Saint Étienne were brutally shattered by the realisation that you needed talent to do so. It was when the white-framed racer bike that I’d had my eye on for ages and had hoped for as a Christmas present, had somehow morphed into a fucking Raleigh 20 shopping bike by Christmas Day. Looking back, apart from the Magic Roundabout, (the Eric Thompson one), Kojak, and Punk, the 1970s were pretty shit.
A bike like this left my mid-teen credibility in tatters.
I passed the eleven-plus exam and got into grammar school just in time for the education authority to announce plans to phase them out. The transition from Grammar School Scholar (GSS) to Comp School Pleb (CSP) happened in what was then known as the fourth year; the year before my ‘O’ Level exams. I excelled in English, Modern Languages and History, and just about got by in my other subjects. Relative success in my academic endeavours rewarded me with an opportunity to study at university. I wasn’t really into the idea and based my course choices on where I wanted to live, rather than what I wanted to learn. Things didn’t end well. A cavalier approach to attending lectures and completing assignments was poorly received by my lecturers, and after I had failed most of my end of first year exams, it was politely suggested that I should explore other options.
Once out in the big wide world any hopes of happening upon a “fun” or rewarding career dissipated and I drifted aimlessly from one dreary, low-skilled job to another for several years. I eventually came to the conclusion that a degree might improve my career prospects after all. So, I popped into a local university and signed up to do a languages degree. This time, much to my joy, the academic authorities awarded me a rather nice one just a few years later.
Aged thirty and now a graduate, but still woefully bereft of any hint of a coherent career strategy, I opted to do a PGCE and become a teacher. The profession held two main attractions for me: the pay wasn’t too bad and more significantly of course, there were holidays. Lots of holidays. I reasoned that taking this path would at least pay the bills, whilst affording me time to pursue any more interesting options that might come along. Nothing ever did though, so teaching has pretty much been my lot.
Recently, I was hurtfully described as a “man of a certain age”, with all its negative connotations. I hate with a passion, the need for today’s shallow, judgemental, social-media addicted society to put people into boxes. I concede that I have outlived a lot of dead people; I hope this will continue for a good while yet. I recognise that I am a bit pudgier around the head and midriff. And yes, I forgot where I’d left my car in Sainsbury’s car park, only to realise that I was actually in Waitrose. But, other than that, I’m still surprisingly easy on the eye and sharp as a tack. Nonetheless, I shall shortly be embarking on a rigorous regimen to restore full visual contact with “little me” by early 2024. I have also decided to proudly self-identify as louche and largely continent, despite the split infinitive this involves.
To my continued vexation, years of diligent investment in the National Lottery have yielded chuff all. This is a huge pain in the arse and a bitter disappointment, as I’d hoped to be flush with cash by now and living the life of Reilly.
Sadly, needs dictate that I must stoically plough on, regardless. Nevertheless, I’m still buoyed by my puerile sense of humour, and abandoning all expectations has imbued me with a fresh sense of optimism. As a distraction from the inconvenience of having to work for a living and behave like an adult, I plan to focus on two new and exciting artistic projects in my spare time: writing insightful posts on this blog and producing tasteful, niche content for my new OnlyFans channel.
*My names and their etymology.
“Timmy” is a diminutive form of Timothy, from the Greek Timotheos (Τιμόθεος) meaning “honouring God” or “in God’s honour”. This would appear to be a misnomer given the facile scribblings posted on this blog which, unfortunately, are a pretty accurate reflection of the level its author operates on.
“Tuppence” is a variant of two pence, or two pennies (2d) in old money (£sd), and is also a discrete way of referring to a lady’s “gubbins” in more genteel circles of society.
Disclaimer.
The contents of this blog may on occasion be an embellishment of actual facts and events, or even just made up and are purely for the purposes of the author’s entertainment.