Look at me, I'm a tough guy

I've been fascinated by my appearance for a long time.

I was a vain teenager, for sure. I used to gel my hair, meticulously position my spikey quiff, agonise over my trainers, pray to God for some facial hair, spend absurd periods of time adjusting the 'hang' of my jeans and only wear jackets I could imagine Liam Gallagher in.

I'm sure you were the same.

But shortly after turning 18, a disastrous thing happened. I began to lose my hair. And when you're not unattractive but not the most attractive kid in school and fairly self-obsessed, this is literally the worst thing in the world.

I would hate to estimate the time I spent during my college and university years attempting to cover a receding hair line and a bald spot. I hated it, I had less hair than my dad, and I desperately wanted to hide it.

My first tactic was to grow an afro, which was pretty successful for a while. People that aren't balding are surprisingly ignorant to the key signs of hair loss, so no one seemed to notice. Or they didn't tell me. But long hair hides all, as myself and Andre Agassi proved.

But it only worked for so long, it became lank, and there were obvious gaps. And as is the way with premature balding, to stop myself looking like a middle aged man the hair got shorter and shorter.

Until, five years after the worst thing that ever happened to me happened to me, I starting sporting a skinhead. It was without doubt the most liberating day of my life.

I was no longer hiding anything. Gone was the fear of everybody uncovering my secret: I was laying myself bare. And because I'm still only a bit bald, not totally bald, loads of people think it's a lifestyle choice. And I love it.

But the strangest thing to happen when you get a skinhead, is people treat you differently. Such is the powerful symbolism of people with skinheads that the general public seem scared of you. The stereotype is alive and well. And I like that too.

People don't cross the road to avoid me or anything, but I definitely get less jip. My brother thinks I'm Mike Skinner, or Zane Lowe, or a tough guy. My gran thinks I'm a psychopath. Normal people just think I'm tough.

Sometimes I sport a beard, longer than my hair, and then I get even less jip. But the real influence of my appearance became prevalent in a swimming pool changing room yesterday. I was at my local, getting into my clothes, on my own, in the small room kept seperate from the main room. It's more pleasant.

In came a kid, of around ten, who took one look at me and walked out. He scampered up to his dad, and I heard him say: "I don't want to change in there daddy, there's a man with a skinhead."

Awesome.

Those pre-match Wimbledon interviews

This article originally appeared here.

You know what I'm talking about.

That bit just before the players walk out on court where Gary Richardson sticks a microphone into a players face and asks them inane questions when the last thing in the world that the player wants to be faced with is inane questions.

It's dementing.

Firstly because the players won't talk. Why would they? Gearing up for the most important game in your entire career and you're asked how you're feeling. Er, DUH. Nervous, et cetera. Now I'm all up for real journalism and stuff, and getting in there when other people can't. But blood and stones spring to kind.

Secondly those interviews feel wrong. I don't want the BBC to be doing that for me. I want those players left the hell alone. They're too intrusive. No one is ever going to enlighten the viewer about how a professional tennis player actually feels before they walk out onto centre court because they're too worried about getting annihilated by Roger Federer, Rafael Nadal or a Williams sister. Ask any of those four and they won't talk because they're too worried about being annihilated by each other.

Thirdly, because of the above two reasons, they are universally rubbish. Answers like "I'll try my best" and "I'm pretty nervous" or "it's going to be tough" or "yes of course I'm looking forward to getting to the final" and "no, I actually don't think I have any chance of winning" and "yes, I really do think I can win Wimbledon one day" poor out of the poor athletes mouths as they fulfil a contractual obligation that ain't good for no one.

Still, the tournament as a whole was great and the final was phenomenal and it was fantastic to see Rafa Nadal win. Not only for the joy on the monster's face but it's good for the game isn't it? Yes it is. Unlike pre-match interviews.

Tom's magic bag

A strange thing keeps happening.

I've got an Adidas rucksack. It's unremarkable: blue and white, rucksack shaped, holds things while I walk. Except what it also does when I walk, is open all by itself.

I've tried a number of things to prevent, and the one which proved most succesful was zipping the zip in such a way that both parts of the two-part zipper were tuked away at one end of the zip. And it worked, for ages. But then today, with a bag overladen more than usual, the rucksack came undone, twice in one twenty minute journey.

But the two strangest things about this debacle, is that in a period of around a year that it's been happening, not one thing has fallen out of it, and not one person has alerted me too it.

You'd think (wouldn't you?) that someone, somewhere in London, would tap me on the shoulder and warn me that all the belongings I am currently carrying are in danger of being scattered across the pavement and road never to be seen again. Or maybe I'm being naive and people are waiting behind me for stuff to fall out so they can pick it up and pocket it.

But I'm beginning to think the bag might be magic. Even when on my bike nothing has ever, ever, (it must have happened over ten times), ever fallen out, even with it wide open. I'm not sure which I find more disconcerting though, that people look at my precarious position and feel no need to act. Or that on my back I carry a magic holdall.

Something, someday, has to give.