DAY FORTY: The E.N.D.

Day 40: The final day. Although I considered a number of outrageous and challenging tasks for my final adLenture, the most notable and meaningful thing I would do on Easter Sunday was obvious: complete my 40 Day Challenge. Back when my blog began, Day 1 signified the first time I had taken something like this on. In the same way, Day 40 is the only time I have actually completed a Lent activity. As I told you once before, I have tried and failed many times to keep my promises during the period. This year was different. Lent is now over, and I have done one new thing every day for 40 days. So that’s my new experience: finally complete my experiment4lent.

The past month and a half have been a mad, demanding and fulfilling time. One early positive effect of my adLenture was that I quickly realised how exciting my life has been to date. So many challenges I thought up or had suggested were deemed “not blog-worthy” because I’d done them before. Horse riding? Been there. Rock climbing? Done that. Hitchhike? Got the designer t-shirt. Even some of the more extreme suggestions – such as sleeping rough for the night and removing all body hair – were “off-limits” for not being completely new. So finding 40 new experiences was a challenge in itself...

What I did eventually come up with has led me on some weird and wonderful paths. From the culinary (I still can’t go into a Macdonalds and the thought of chicken feet will always make me retch), to the spiritual and the athletic, my experiences have been fantastically bizarre. Although some were less daring than other – remember walking to work, anyone? – certain days really tested my mettle. The gospel church, Silat martial arts and the Fish Pedicure in particular spring to mind. Not to mention getting my kit of in front of a dozen artists, numerous city workers and hundreds of Hungarian men. My physical appearance itself has actually transformed: though the tan has faded and my hair has grown, my teeth are still dazzling. Until the red wine takes its toll again, my smile at least will continue to remind me of the past 40 Days.

All that’s left now is to thank all of you. It’s been real, guys. Thank you firstly for reading; although I got a lot out of this whole experience, the real point was to write it down and potentially provide a bit of online entertainment for anyone interested. I hope I’ve raised a smile and perhaps even given you a bit of impetus to get experimenting for yourselves! I must also thank many of you for the kind feedback. Starting a blog was a bit daunting, so it’s been really encouraging to have my efforts complimented. Aww you guys!

Sentimental bit done, it’s now time for a promise: this isn’t goodbye, it’s see you soon. I’ll be back (in some way, shape or form) with more experiments and adventures to report. No concrete plans yet, but watch this space. In other words, keep following. Hit me up on twitter to keep on top of this. You know where to find me: https://twitter.com/#!/RichWatkins89. See you soon guys!

Day 40: Experiment4Lent. 100% DONE!

Peace & Love,

Rich xx

DAY THIRTY-NINE: ... Mountain High!

For the second (and clearly final) time during my 40 Day Challenge, I was to take to the skies and discover a part of the world I had not yet visited. While my earlier adLenture took me to the distant lands of Budapest, Day 39 saw me go to Verbier, one of Switzerland’s most celebrated ski resorts. Cue the snow, cheese and chocolate: it’s time for an Easter weekend ski break!

Switzerland itself isn’t exactly uncharted lands for me. Thanks to my Swiss roots, I have a lot of extended family in the area, and have therefore often visited the country. Verbier, however, is a resort I’d never been to, but had heard much about. Famous for its treacherous off-piste skiing (awesome) and banging après-ski scene (awesomer), Verbier is mountain town to see and be seen. It also happens to be the resort where my brother worked as a chalet boy three years ago, before falling down a mountain, being flown by helicopter to hospital and spending the next four months in a wheelchair. The town therefore has a bit of personal importance and seeing it for the first time was going to be an interesting experience.

Soon after arriving in Verbier – and after our chalet/skis/lift passes/empty stomachs had all been sorted out – we hit the slopes. Although I would class myself as a pretty competent skier (living in France for a year will achieve that), it had been two years since I was last on the pistes, and I always need a bit of time to acclimatise. Not today, though. Accompanied by Ben, an ex-competitive skier (enough said...), my first run saw me combat a gruelling mogul field. For any non-skiers, moguls are basically big bumps on the slope which can be hugely difficult to manoeuvre around. Half out of politeness half out of fear, I allowed Ben to take me down the treacherous piste. As is generally the way, if you don’t think too much about where you’re skiing, it becomes a lot easier. I pushed myself off, hurtled down the steep hill and made it down in one piece. Success!

King of Slalom

Later in the day, I tackled a genuine slalom course. This was a completely new challenge for me, and therefore added to the experieLent. Slalom is a form of competitive race skiing whereby you traverse quickly around poles while zooming down the slope. Again following Ben’s example I whipped down the slalom course, passing one pole after another. Not only did I not fall head-first down the mountain, but I actually competed the race course. Not in record timing (not even close...), but at least I didn’t look like a complete idiot. Eat my snow, suckers.

Before the end of my first day of skiing in Verbier, there was one final hurdle to overcome, this one being more mental than physical. While on the lift back down into town, my brother showed me where his near-fatal accident took place. Because most of the snow had melted in the spring sunshine, the area where he fell was now basically a sheer rock face. It was hard to imagine my brother actually skiing down this precipice, but easy to comprehend how he ended up with two broken heels, broken ribs, a broken sternum and a fractured back. Seeing where this life-changing event took place was a harrowing and slightly frightening experience, not least because I was now there on skis, putting myself in potentially dangerous situations (though obviously not the same ones). But then again, my brother was there too. If there’s one thing I can take from him being back on the slopes it’s that, as Noah and their Whale would say, life goes on. And, rightly or wrongly, there’s very little you can do about that...

 Day 39: Visit Verbier, face my demons and ski like a pro. BIEN FAIT!

Peace & Love,

Rich xx

DAY THIRTY-EIGHT: River Deep...

Due to a preplanned trip which will cause me to leave the UK before the end of my 40 Day Challenge, it was time for my final London-based adLenture. I decided to go out with a bang, and find something which would take me right out of my comfort zone and really challenge me. Following an elaborate joke, which developed into a serious conversation, which in turn then became a bet I couldn't back out of, my challenge was decided. Day 38 would see me abandon my pride and sanity as I went for a swim in the River Thames.

Before you ask, the crazed protester at the Oxford-Cambridge boat race was not me - though he only went and stole my thunder, the scoundrel! Despite the controversy and publicity that his swim garnered, however, I maintain that mine was far more of a challenge. Let me explain why. Rather than diving into the suburban outskirts of the Thames like the Australian activist did, I chose to swim right in the dirty centre of London. My location of choice: right under London Bridge, in the most famous – and perhaps most polluted – part of the Thames. Uh oh...

A few years ago, a wise but perhaps untrustworthy London tour guide once told me that the Thames was the cleanest city river in Europe. It’s dank, dirty colour simply comes from the wild currents which make swimming a highly dangerous activity. Followers of an alternative school of thought obviously insist that the waters are full of crap and contamination and can easily cause Weil’s disease (I won’t go into details on that one). Either way, this swim could prove highly perilous, but was a risk I was willing to take.

Ready...

Therefore, during my lunch break on Day 38, I descended down to the water. Having sneakily put on my sexy Speedos while at work, all I had to do was strip down and jump in. Easier said than done. Both the biting winds and curious onlookers suddenly made me hesitate; was I sure I wanted to go through with this?! Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately), my colleague Joel had come for the spectacle and wouldn’t let me return to work without getting wet first. And so, without further consideration, I quickly stripped and was ready to get into the water. Needless to say, a crowd had now gathered. The pressure was on.

...Steady...

I hastily ran down the steps into the water, thankfully shielded from the cold wind by London Bridge itself. This slight comfort didn’t last long, as the river itself was absolutely freezing. With a mixture of expletives and general cries of anguish, I entered the water: one foot at a time, nice and slowly. As all best laid plans of mice and men eventually go to pot, so my idea of a gradual descent into the Thames quickly got ruined. Remember the strong current I mentioned earlier? This caused actual waves to crash over the steps I was on, meaning that before I knew it I was drenched by huge splashes of ice-cold water. My expletives and general cries of anguish grew louder and louder. The crowds of city workers were loving it.

...Swim!!

And finally I was in. Adrenaline was basically flooding my bloodstream. WHAT a rush! Of course my breathlessness could have been down to my freezing limbs, but I like to think it was equally due to the pure excitement of the situation. I splashed around for a minute or two, before suddenly the currents dragged off both my flip-flops (I was definitely not going in there barefoot). I struggled to get my shoes back – first one, then the other – and finally decided that enough was enough.

I scarpered back onto dry land, where Joel was patiently waiting with a towel and warm clothes which I hungrily took. The crowds of onlookers still seemed entirely perplexed, and one particularly shocked young lady even cried out “are you bloody crazy?!” to which I casually reply “yes, yes I am”. In retrospect, perhaps I am slightly mad for voluntarily swimming in the Thames (in fact, this whole adLenture has made me frequently doubt my sanity). Regardless of this, my nautical challenge was absolutely hilarious and will provide a good story to tell for a long, long time.

Day 38: Take the plunge in the Thames. CHECK!

Peace & Love, 

Rich xx

EDIT: I have since found out that swimming in the Thames in Central London may actually be illegal. If that’s the case, ignore all of the above. It never happened. That’s my cue to leave the country...

DAY THIRTY-SEVEN: The Tweetest Thing

Staying connected in this modern world is of paramount importance, a fact which I have embraced as much as anyone. I use Facebook like oxygen and am generally more easily contacted by email than phone. Especially these days, with my 40 Day Challenge entering its final lap, I am pretty much always online. It is therefore slightly odd that I have not yet joined the masses in embracing the latest technological craze: Twitter. Those who know me are invariably shocked and confused when they learn that I’m not a Tweeter, and have tried to convince me to join their ranks on numerous occasions. Their efforts have always been in vain. Until now. Day 37 would see me take the plunge and join the realms of the Twitterverse.

Here goes...!

Creating my account was surprisingly easy. Having put this event off for at least a year or two, I had built it up in my head dramatically and expected it to be some kind of impossible feat. Email address and name entered, and suddenly there I was: a member of Twitter. Finding my username was slightly more difficult, which I guess is the price I pay for waiting so long. RichWatkins, RWatkins, R_Watkins, RichieWat were all unavailable. I never knew my name was so generic. Fortunately, I discovered that RichWatkins89 was as yet unused, so I settled for that. One step closer.

After picking my photo (a straight-forward choice: a flattering recent snap featuring my tan and whitened teeth), the rules of Twitter obliged me to “follow” some other profiles straight away. I had barely activated my account and was suddenly being flung into cyber-society at full speed. My first “followee” was easy. Despite only just joining the site, I already knew the so-called Queen of Twitter. Ms Gaga, I have now joined the ranks of your millions upon millions of followers. #yourewelcome

I then had to pick a few more profiles to follow, which included a number of friends, a handful of publications and numerous celebrities. My selection of Jessie J, Glee and Rihanna definitely says something about me, though I’m sure that as I develop my Twitdentity, my list of following (and indeed followers) will grow and hopefully become increasingly diverse. In fact, this is something I’ve decided I’ll have to accept about Twitter. My relationship with the social networking site is going to be a learning curve and each day will bring something new. Definitely a case of crawling before you can walk.

One Tweet and Counting

Before logging off Twitter for the first time, I had the essential task of composing a tweet (which is, after all, the point of the website). The pressure was on. It’s widely known that tweets say a lot about you, and writing something stupid can cause huge embarrassment. The first tweet is even more important – as Cheryl Cole will well remember. Therefore I needed to think long and hard about how to announce losing my Twitter virginity. After much contemplation, I posted my first ever tweet. No going back now! To see what I decided upon, check me out on Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/RichWatkins89. And, hey, while you’re there, why not give me a follow? Go on, you know you want to...

Day 37: Twitter-Time. #DONE!

Peace & Love,

Rich xx

DAY THIRTY-SIX: London Calling

Back when my adLenture was first created and I was still thinking up new and exciting challenges to tackle, I made a promise to myself. As well as finding bizarre and unique things to do, I would use this opportunity to make the most of living in arguably (in fact definitely) the greatest city in the world: London. Despite having been in the capital for five years now, there are still an infinite amount of London-based activities I could – and should – have done, but haven’t. By getting stuck in a routine, one misses out on exciting opportunities which wouldn’t exist anywhere else in the world. Day 36 would see me live a day in the Capital’s East End, and therefore remedy my naughty London negligence. Better late than never, eh?

To facilitate my Eastern venture, I called upon the services of Hannah, a good friend of mine and a resident of trendy Hackney. I was certain that, under her watchful eye, I would get a first-rate insider’s initiation to the area. I couldn’t have been more right. 

Flower Power

After cycling across London to meet Hannah (no public transport for me, the East End is too cool for that), we made our way to London’s famous Columbia Road Market. Columbia Road, despite being your average street during the week, comes into its own at the weekend as the city’s biggest and best Flower Market. Bursting at the seams with market stalls and crowds of customers, the market offers both a staggering array of produce and an incredible atmosphere. With unexpectedly good weather, it was the perfect time to first see Columbia Road’s offerings, which truly are breathtaking both in quantity and quality. 

The Likely Lads of the East End

With everything from traditional flowers (roses, tulips and lilies were in plentiful supply) to more obscure produce, such as palm trees and bizarre feather-like creepers, the market had it all. There were stalls selling seeds and promoting grow-your-own vegetables, and many types of flower with brilliantly kitsch names. The “Rain Daisy” was a personal highlight. Adding to the atmosphere were the flower sellers themselves. Bellowing out prices in typically Cockney style, there were deals everywhere you looked, with almost everything “going cheap” for a fiver. These flower-sellers also provided brilliant comic material to keep the crowds smiling. My favourite? “This plant won’t grow taller, will only grow wider. Just like my Missus”. Comedy gold. 

Play that funk music,
French girl!

After soaking in all that Columbia Road Market had to offer, Hannah and I wandered down a side road to get some food. We picked out some fresh olives and nibbled away, while listening to a local street performer sing along to her accordion. It turned out that this musician was a friend of Hannah’s: Garance, a quirky but talented French girl. I told you Hannah was cool! We then ventured a bit further from Columbia Road, heading down Broadway Market until we reached London Fields. At last, I was where all the cool kids hang (I’ve only been trying for 22 years...) Hannah and I chilled on the grass and observed some of East London trendiest scenesters. It had taken two weeks, but my haircut was finally coming into its own. 

To finish my big day out, I visited Hackney City Farm. That’s right: a full-on farm right in the centre of London. It was incredible. I became like an excitable child when I saw the wide selection of animals: chickens, sheep, pigs, donkeys, ducks, rabbits and goats – to name but a few. The last time I’d seen so much wildlife in an urban environment was in a disappointingly average film about Madagascar. This was so much cooler. Definitely visit Hackney City Farm; it’s like London Zoo but without the tourists and free of charge, and was therefore the perfect way to round up my trendy East London day. As I cycled home I was proud to have discovered a new area of London, and felt about a million times cooler than I did before.

Day 35: Take a ride on a Hackney Carriage.  LIKE, TOTALLY!

Peace & Love,

Rich xx

DAY THIRTY-FIVE: D.A.N.C.E.

I can proudly say that my friends are some of the most talented and gifted people I know (and that’s including yours truly). Life can be pretty interesting when your nearest and dearest are the Bright Young Things of tomorrow, including my good friend Vanessa, an award winning dancer who has repeatedly triumphed at nationwide competitions.  The reason behind my Vanessa love-fest (which will no doubt send her ego flying sky high) is because she was the brains behind my challenge for Day 35. With her prowess in all-things-dance, she recommended I attend one of her regular classes. Ladies and Gentlemen, it’s time to Bust a Move.

For my formal initiation into the world of organised dance (I’ve dabbled before, by which I mean I’ve done the robot many, many times), there's nowhere better to go than London’s Mecca of pirouettes and time steps: Pineapple Dance Studios. Made famous by the ultra-camp reality show depicting life within the dance school, Pineapple offers classes in basically all kinds of dance, from hip hop to contemporary, from cheerleading to pole dancing. It may not be cheap and it may be full of ego-maniacs mincing through the corridors – Louie Spence, you know who you are – but Pineapple really does do the dance world proud. And it’s open to all levels, even hopeless cases like me. Score!

With the location of my class decided, my sister – who had been coerced into accompanying me on this venture – and I then had to pick the style of dance I wanted to master. Although I came dangerously close to choosing pole dancing (which would have made a highly interesting blog entry), I eventually had to ask myself that all important question: which style will embarrass me the least? I settled upon “Commercial Jazz”, which I presumed would be a cross between routines from Chicago and Disney. Not so much.

Strictly Come Awesome

The class started with a warm up, which filled me with slight angst. My sister, having been to a similar class elsewhere, had frightful memories of being forced to do sit-ups and stretch yourself in highly unnatural and inappropriate ways. I wasn’t really up for this; in the words of Dynamite’s Taio Cruz, “I came to dance, dance, dance, dance”. I did not come to sweat, ache, burn and toil. Fortunately, the warm up was quite a relaxed affair. Our teacher, Karen, was bubbly (if not slightly zany) and didn’t try to push us too hard. Thank heavens.

It was soon time to learn the routine. I was ready for jazz hands and razzle dazzle and any other term with a double-z in it. Karen dramatically revealed that we would be dancing to “Alone Again” by Alyssa Reid feat. P Reign, a song which has recently been big in the charts. Hm. This wasn’t quite what I expected. Where was the theatricality? Where was the old school glamour?

Although the routine was less 1940s and more Top 40, it was still enjoyable. It started with some sexy-style body rolls, which obviously I exceed in (lolz), and then we got into the slightly “street” section of the choreography. Soon enough, I was popping and dropping like a pro, channelling my inner bad boy and making Eminen look like a public school tory boy. Well, in my eyes at least. After learning a slightly bizarre “floor section” – which basically involved us rolling around and lying face downwards – we had completed the routine. Time to put it all together: time to shine. 

After performing the routine with as much vim and vigour as possible (I particularly enjoyed the section where we step-ball-changed while air punching), the class was over. And this is where my day was made: Karen actually came and commended me and my sister on our efforts. Some may interpret this as a sign of “must try harder”. I understood it as a hint we should move on to the more advanced class. She was totally digging us Dancing Queens. 

Day 35: Get into the Groove. CHECK!

Peace & Love,

Rich xx

DAY THIRTY-FOUR: Spray With Me

In everything I say and do, I always strive to be completely and utterly “Reem”. For anyone who doesn’t know what “Reem” means, five little words will give you the explanation: The Only Way Is Essex. This little gem of a TV show has taught the British public – myself included – to love and cherish activities such as vajazzling, glamping and fake, on-cue crying. In honour of the cultural institution that is TOWIE, on Day 34 I indulged in another of the show’s famous pastimes: the Spray Tan.

My complexion isn’t exactly pale, and I’ve been known to indulge in a bit of bottled fake tan. However, this was my first all-over spray tan, a big commitment which doesn’t come cheap. For this, I made a visit to the Tanning Temple in Kentish Town, an apt name, given the almost deified status of beauty nowadays. I walked into the Temple and was met by a strong smell of hairspray and the unmistakable beat of a Girls Aloud hit. I was definitely in the right place. 

I booked my tanning session and expected to have to wait for an available slot. Impressively, I was to be seen straight away. These girls may be fun and bubbly, but they sure know how to organize a schedule. My “beauty therapist” arrived and introduced herself as Amy – a fabulously appropriate name (again, TOWIE) – before leading me down a corridor to where our session was to take place. If everyone hadn’t been so friendly this might have been the moment I got a bit nervous, but fortunately I was too busy giggling with Amy. I expect she found the idea of me getting a tan as bewildering as I did.

Work it baby!

I was shown a room in which to get changed. Changed? Into what? Amy said I could wear my boxers if I wanted (no thanks, I don’t want my pants to have brown stains on them, obviously), but recommended I might wear one of their paper thongs. ERM, YES! Thongs, as a rule, are always good for a laugh – especially if you can write on them. Designer underwear, literally.  The other obligatory piece of clothing was a cloth shower cap. Needless to say, I looked like an absolute tool in my outfit. Kind of like a really kinky dinner lady. Miaow.

It was then time for my tan to begin. Amy ushered me into another room with what looked like a futuristic egg in it. This would be my cocoon for the tan. We then had the important discussion of shades: Amy recommended “chocolate”, the darkest. I told her the darker the better (in for a penny, in for a pound) and decided that this was preferable to the other option of “celebrity glow”. This just made me think of David Dickinson and, as much as I love Bargain Hunt, his “glow” isn’t exactly my cup of tea.

Where the magic happens

Amy then began spraying. It felt odd having a cold mist all over my body. Certain more sensitive areas caused me to giggle, and after having my bum sprayed I now believe I know what those fancy Japanese bidets feel like. When the time came to have my face sprayed I instinctively screwed it up to prevent breathing in any of the liquid. Amy, in the sweetest possible way, told me this wasn’t really tanning etiquette, as my face would be covered with patchy white lines. Heaven forbid. I immediately relaxed my features, praying that the damage wasn’t already done.

The spray was quickly over and Amy then left me for 10 minutes to “dry off”. Standing all alone in front of the fan I felt slightly violated, as though Amy and I had just shared a special, intimate moment and now I’d been left without any morning cuddles. I somehow don’t think that would generally be included in the price though. Once my tan had been set, it was time to examine the results. Certain areas looked quite a bit darker, but there was nothing shocking. Perhaps this would take time to develop, like a photo. Or a rash. Ew. I guess I’d have to wait and see…

Day 34: The Only Way Is Tan. SHUT UP!

Peace & Love,

Rich xx

Edit: My tan very much did develop over time. Looking in the mirror the next day, I was almost blinded by the glow. And the tan lines of the paper thong are just hilarious. Total trend-setter.

DAY THIRTY-THREE: Raise Your Glass

After my final food-based experience yesterday, I thought it only suitable to carry out one more drinks challenge.  However, instead of trying a new beverage (I think by now I've basically exhausted that possibility), Day 33 saw me drink one of my usual tipples in a way I had never before, as I went Wine-Tasting. In the immortal words of Rihanna: "I'll drink to that!"

Liquid dinner, anyone?

For this particular experience, I was in highly capable hands.  Peter, my astonishingly tall Danish friend (or The Great Dane, as he is fondly known) is a seasoned wine taster. And that’s not just a euphemism for a piss-head. In fact, Peter will be representing his country in the 2012 Left Bank Bordeaux Cup, one of the world’s leading amateur wine tasting competitions. In the company of such expertise, I felt like a bit of a pleb. They say Lambrini girls have more fun, but this one was suddenly way out of her depth. #wishiwasinessex

I’ll admit that it’s slightly odd that I’ve never actually been wine-tasting, given my intimate love for anything with an alcohol content level. The closest I’ve come to quaffing wine instead of downing it was when I visited a little French town for the release of its famous Beaujolais Nouveau in 2009. Their version of “wine-tasting”, however, was basically taking an empty glass around a big tent filled with representatives of different wineries and drink as much as humanly possible. This drunken quest ended up with me sneaking into the Town Hall, getting up on stage and dancing with a number of the village’s elderly residents (before eventually passing out). Youth is so not wasted on the young.

Bottoms up!
(Yes, I do realise it's a Champagne
flute. Minimal error.)

I hoped that today’s wine-tasting session with Peter would be a slightly classier affair. Certainly, it started off that way. Peter brought out two bottles: Tommasi Amarone della Valpolicella Classico (2007) and Pouilly Fumé (2008). The Amarone was a deep red wine produced in the Veneto region of Italy. Its flavour – I was assured – was full of dark berries, giving it a fruity kick. Our group of novices was shown a classic trick to gauge the quality of the wine: swill it round the glass and watch the lines (or “legs”, as they’re known) form as they trickle down the side. Often seen on film, this method is a quick way of sorting good wine from bad: the more legs, the better the wine. Apparently. I sipped my drink in quiet acquiescence of this method, none the wiser of how good wine should actually taste…

The white wines that Peter presented were really lovely. The Pouilly Fumé came first, to the delight of one of my tasting buddies, who had drunk this particular wine at her wedding. I was initially impressed by her experience of the product, until she pronounced its name as “Pooey Foomey”. Incorrect (as any Frenchman will tell you), and also slightly vulgar. This was supposed to be a tasteful event, so I fittingly turned my nose up at her potty talk. Tut tut.

The next bottle to be presented was Chablis, Premier Cru (2006): another lovely white wine with floral overtones. We all sniffed our glasses with copious nods of agreement and passionate noises of enjoyment. The more wine I drunk, the more enthusiastic I got. I was beginning to use expressions like “strong bouquet” and “vibrant hues”. Clearly the wine was getting to me, and I’ll openly admit that by bottle number four – a Faustino 1 Gran Reserva, from Rioja, Spain – I could have been drinking orange squash and wouldn’t have know the difference. Still, the wine kept arriving, the tasting continued and the glasses were dutifully emptied.

Not quite sure when this happened...

Needless to say, I can’t remember much of the rest of the evening. I eventually ended up in a taxi heading to West London, and am pretty sure that I crashed a private party at some point. A classy affair? Not so much. Still, nothing will quite beat folk-dancing with French OAPs. Wow, that’s something I never thought I’d write.

Day 33: Drink myself Red, White and Rosé. CHEERS!

Peace & Love,

Rich xx

DAY THIRTY-TWO: Funky Chicken

Day 32 had me in a bit of a fix. I had been so busy fulfilling various engagements that, before I knew it, the day was nearly over and I hadn’t completed my daily challenge. Ever loyal to the old “Keep Calm and Carry On” ethos (impossible not to be with it currently printed on every piece of merchandise in England), I calmly went to my arranged dinner date with the intention of naughtily ignoring the pickle I had got myself into.

As luck would have it, I was to dine with my good friends Danya and Olivia, who happen to be pretty experimental themselves and had by chance picked a restaurant which would provide me with a more than adequate challenge. These girls have been demanding a Blog shout-out on for a while now, so I did wonder if the whole evening was a ploy to get a mention. I wouldn’t put it past them, the cheeky minxes.

And so it was time for my final culinary adLenture, and this recurring theme was to end with a bang. Danya, Olivia and I were in Yum Cha, an authentic Dim Sum restaurant. Nothing too remarkable there: I’ve had Dim Sum many times before. However, on the menu in this particular eatery was a dish I had never even contemplated sampling before: Chicken Feet. As soon as I saw this on offer, I knew I had my perfect experiment for the day. Bon appétit.

Ewwwwwwwww!!!

When the Chicken Feet arrived, they looked every bit as disgusting as you’d imagine. Despite being garnished with bits of chilli and a typically gloopy Chinese sauce, the food looked really quite foul. Seeming like a cross between fried fingers and moist twigs and smelling like a soiled KFC, the Chicken Feet did not appeal. It was therefore with reluctance and trepidation that I picked one up...

I would love to say that I was pleasantly surprised, I really would. Having been proved wrong several times throughout my adLenture, I did think that this might happen again (especially after our waited assured us that the delicacy was “vay nice, yes!”). Unfortunately, my dining experience cannot be described as an enjoyable one. My two friends and I all bit into the feet at the same time, and all immediately recoiled in shock – “it’s the shared experience of Dim Sum that I love the best”, Danya romantically gushed. The moist appearance of the food had led us to believe that they would be soft and gooey. How wrong we were. The feet were riddled with bones, and were very tough on teeth. This was a shock, but one I felt I could deal with. What was less manageable was the slimy texture of the skin around the bone. Imagine the wet flesh you often find on cold chicken wings. Now imagine eating nothing but that, covered in a sticky sauce. Not a pleasant experience, I assure you.

Half amusement - Half absolute revulsion

The worst part of the meal was actually getting the feet to an edible state. The bones inside were all in tiny morsels (as is the case with feet, even in humans – a horrible thought, admittedly), and much attention was required not to swallow any. In fact, once you got rid of the vast quantity of bone, there was very little meat to actually speak of. As such, my overriding memory of the feet is of attempting to eat them, and not actually doing so. A messy business, to say the least.

We all eventually got through a chicken foot each, and were faced with still one more in order to clear the plate. Danya “accidentally” dropped hers in a candle. Olivia point blank refused. I, in the spirit of experiLenting however, managed to stomach one more. I’m still not really sure why I did this, and I assure you that this is not an activity which improves with practice. The thought of it still makes my skin crawl a bit. Gooey, fleshy grossness. *Voms*

Day 31: Get Cold Feet over Chicken Feet. DONE!

Peace & Love,
Rich xx

DAY THIRTY-ONE: Strike A Pose

Not so very long ago, I made the following statement: “voluntarily getting starkers in front of a dozen other people is not quite on my agenda”. Well Day 31 has seen me eat my words as I lent a hand (as well as my foot, leg, arm, torso, bum and my you-know-what) to a group of artists. Yes, I would be attending a Life Drawing class. As the model. Modesty, it was nice knowing you.

For my naked challenge, I travelled all the way to Ealing Broadway (non-Londoners, this is far - from everywhere), to visit a cool little organisation called OPEN Ealing, an arts centre specialising in “excellence, inclusion and aspiration”. An honourable objective, even though it’s never been my personal aspiration to get undressed for a bunch of strangers...

I arrived in the West London studio flustered and sweaty; after running late in the unexpectedly warm weather, I was a hot mess. Luckily, sweat patches aren't an issue in this particular line of work. A complete novice to the class, I was oblivious to the protocol. Do I strip off straight away and stand proud? Do I ignore what’s about to take place and go make small-talk with the artists? Do I wait awkwardly in the corner, every now and then undoing one button of my shirt, then instantly regretting it? I opted for the latter and definitely received some slightly concerned looks. Conveniently (and probably for the sake of petrified models such as myself), there was some wine on offer. I dutifully downed three glasses without coming up for breath. Dutch courage has never been more essential.

Finally the time came for the class to begin. The course instructor, Jack, showed me a side-room to get changed (i.e. strip), and before I knew it I was completely de-robed and striding towards the centre of the room. I didn’t stop to think; I couldn’t. Any reflection at this point and I would have run a mile. And so there I was: butt-naked, displaying my best assets for a room full of serious artists. I WAS BRICKING IT. And, like any red-blooded male would be, I was absolutely petrified of becoming excited. As I stood for my first neutral pose there was one, unwavering thought ringing in my head: “Not now, Rich, any time but now”.

15 minutes passed and I moved on to my next position, thankfully without having stood-to -attention. This risk was now a highly unlikely one, as my subsequent poses were more intricate: sitting, leaning, reclining or perching. Nothing particularly extraordinary. Unless, of course, you can’t move an inch for 30 minutes. In which case, even the slightest strain becomes an agonising ache. Much to my surprise, I very quickly forgot all about my vulnerable state of undress, as I was forced to concentrate on holding positions with my shoulder  painfully throbbing, my back awkwardly stretched or my leg riddled with pins and needles. The best I could do was to think about something unrelated and put all my energy into not moving. This is a difficult onus, and I challenge anyone to do it without aching.

Eventually, my time in the spotlight was over. I speedily put my clothes back on – though was worryingly getting used to the liberty of my de-robed state – and then came the fun bit: looking at the artwork. Other than one of the attendees who drew me as a big circle with disproportionate limbs (it was only his second class, I was reassured), most of the work was really quite complimentary. My already well-looked-after ego was sent sky-high and I couldn’t take my eyes off how generous some of the artists had been, if you know what I mean... If you don’t believe me check it out yourself:

Day 31: Strip off and get stuck in. TICK!

Peace & Love,

Rich xx

DAY THIRTY: Relax, Take It Easy

I’ll be honest with you. This whole adLenture business has been really quite draining. Putting myself in these bizarre situations for you all to read about has been enjoyable, but just a bit hectic. So on Day 30, at the three-quarter milestone of my 40 Day Challenge, I decided to take a bit of down time and relax. And what better way to do this than meditation? Today’s new experience would help me find my centre and make my totally “Zen”. Groovy baby.

Working in the City of London, things can get a bit manic. Surrounded by over-worked bankers and drained financiers, it can be hard to find a moment to relax. Fortunately, in the midst of the madness, there exist several areas of relaxation and calm; you just have to know where to look for them. One such place is the Free Medidation class organised by MOOT, aptly titled “Stressed in the City”, just in case there was any confusion who these classes were for.

On my quest for calm, I asked my colleague and fabulous friend Joel if he'd like to come with. He eloquently replied with: “Hell yes, I’m gonna find the f**k out of my centre”. I think that sums Joel up pretty well... We arrived at our meditation a bit nervous but I assured Joel we could leave at any point, and we took our seats in the circle of our fellow spiritualists. In fact, the mediation was entirely friendly. We began by each giving our names and rating our current stress level from 1 to 10. I was a pretty chilled 4. The lady next to me described herself as 9. I didn’t know whether to smile sympathetically or call an ambulance.

After a quick stretch, we all sat down, feet firmly on the ground and backs straight, ready to begin our 20 minute silent mediation. The instructions were simple: close your eyes, clear the mind and repeat the phrase “MA-RA-NA-THA” silently to yourself. In the inevitable event of the mind wandering, gently bring your attention back to this phrase and refocus the mind. This process was quaintly compared to a train station. Thoughts, like trains, would come and go; you just have to make the decision not to board the train and allow the thought to pass by undeveloped. Cute.

Our leader struck a gong three times to signify the start of the meditation. I began breathing deeply and repeating the mantra to myself. “MA-RA-NA-THA... MA-RA-NA-THA... MA-RA-NA-THA...” So far, so good. But then my mind got the better of me. I tried sticking to the mantra, I really did. But unfortunately my train of thoughts went a bit like this:

“MA-RA-NA-THA... MA-RA-NA-THA... This is really fun, I wonder if Joel is enjoying it? Oh crap. MA-RA-NA-THA... Hm, I managed not to get on the train, that was really good Rich! I wonder how many other people are at this train station? I feels kind of empty. Oops. MA-RA-THA-NA. Or is it MA-RA-NA-THA? I can’t remember. Oh no. I’ve forgotten the mantra. This isn’t good. Maybe I should just pick one of them? No, I don’t want to do this wrong. Think, Rich, THINK. Definitely having ravioli for dinner. NO, THINK! I can’t believe I’ve forgotten the mantra. I’m making a mockery of this whole thing. Hm, I wonder who’ll be on Strictly Come Dancing this year? It would be amazing if they got One Direction. Ahh Harry Styles. NO, this is so not the point of this. Ah bollocks to it, I've lost it. Let’s just think about Harry Styles”

Needless to say, my meditation didn’t go quite to plan. Although I did feel more relaxed after the 20 minutes, I don’t think it was by the correct method. Joel said he had visions of climbing a hill and felt like every breath was banishing bad energy. He therefore looked slightly disappointed (and a bit confused) when I told him I spent my time thinking about teenage pop stars and reality TV.

Our leader told us not to evaluate meditation sessions as “good” or “bad”, and that all positive efforts would help on the path to relaxation. This encouraged me. Maybe all hope is not yet lost and, presuming I remember the mantra next time, I’m sure I’ll soon achieve full spiritual Zen-ness. But for the time being, Dalai Lama I am not...

Day 30: Meditate the stress away. CHECK!

Peace & Love,

Rich xx

DAY TWENTY-NINE: Show Me Your Teeth

To fully comprehend the importance of what you’re about to read, you must know the following: I love my teeth. Despite my devotion to tea and preference for red wine over white, I try damn hard to take care of my teeth and will always, always opt for an open-mouthed grin over a lippy smile (or what I like to call “a lazy attempt at happiness”). Therefore, when the idea of my 40 Day Challenge was born, there was one new experience which was immediately on my list. Yes, on Day 28, I went to get my teeth whitened. My adLenture has now become an adDenture. Sorry, it had to be done.

My pursuit for a toothpaste-advert-esque smile took me to a small boutique hidden in Camden. For the non-Londoners, allow me to explain the irony here. Camden is famous for its somewhat “quirky” residents – such as the lady who rides the 29 bus eating cigarette butts.  These individuals aren’t exactly known for their top standards in hygiene and you’re probably more likely to find a Camden local with missing teeth, rather than perfectly white ones. I was therefore somewhat dubious as to the dental treatment I would be receiving in London’s infamous Punk district. (Disclaimer: I love Camden and all its griminess, hence why I’ve lived in the area for four years. Please, nobody shoot me...)

However, the Miami White Salon is exactly as you’d expect a professional dentist’s to be. It had all the usual suspects: the reclining chairs, the framed qualifications on the wall (yes, I did check), the classical music playing in the background to calm one’s nerves. Miami White is also home to perhaps the friendliest, bubbliest dentist you will ever meet. Cassandra welcomed me with a cheery smile and we merrily chatted about the good weather and our matching sunglasses. As we exchanged hugs and air kisses at the end of my appointment, I felt like I’d made a new friend. I recommend you go to Miami White, for the good company of its staff at least!

Anyway, back to the teeth whitening itself. After signing a scary disclaimer and having the chance to ask any final questions (“Will it hurt?!”), we began. One question I hadn’t asked but in hindsight perhaps should have was the obvious “what’s going to happen here?” I genuinely didn’t know if the whitening would be done by gel, plates or paint stripper. Perhaps I should have done a bit more research.

Hannibal Lecter in his early days...

After Cassandra fitted me with a frightfully unattractive cheek retractor which prevented asking any further questions (and made me feel very self-conscious) she started applying a gel to my teeth. “Ohh, so that’s what this entails!”, I thought to myself. Well, not quite. Once the gel was applied, the friendly dentist placed some UV-protective glasses on my face and pulled a contraption down over my mouth. Yes, it was a laser. This was all rather unexpected. Once she had switched the laser on, Cassandra then left the room. I was all alone, lying under a laser, not knowing how long this would go on for and not really able to move. With the classical music reaching its crescendo, this whole thing felt like a scene from Final Destination. I prepared myself for the worst...

Ok, so perhaps I was over-reacting slightly. Evidently, I survived this experience, and also survived the second set of 15 minute laser treatment. And the results? My pearly whites really are a bit pearlier and a bit whiter. Thankfully my smile doesn’t resemble Ross’ in that episode of Friends, and the difference is subtle enough for nobody to suspect the unnatural cause of the improvement. Well, except that I’ve now published it on the internet. Let’s just keep this between us?

Day 29: Get the perfect smile. ALMOST THERE!

Peace & Love,

Rich xx 

DAY TWENTY-EIGHT: Tie Me Kangaroo Down

After the resounding success of my Game sandwich a couple of weeks ago, Day 28 saw me once more cross London Bridge, descend into Borough Market, and embark on another food-based challenge.  As my last lunchtime venture saw me sample a typically British delicacy, this time I decided to spread my wings a bit further and see what delights could be found from further afield. More specifically, Australia. On today’s menu: Kangaroo Burger.

Meat Madness

To source my exotic lunchtime treat, I headed directly to the Gamston Wood Farm market stall, famous for its quirky meats and bizarre offerings. Gamston Wood’s specialty is ostrich; their typical product base includes everything from ostrich meat to eggs to feathers.  In addition to this staple, Gamston Wood also sources other exotic meat to add to their menu.  It’s a bit of a lucky dip of what might be available: Elk, Buffalo, Zebra, Wilderbeast, Reindeer and Springbok have all been known to appear, as well as other more mysterious offerings such as Kudu and Wagyu. It’s like a safari on a plate! Apologies to any vegetarians reading...

And so when I arrived at Gamston Wood’s market stall, I didn’t yet know what delight I would be sampling. It all depends on what’s on offer that day. On this particular occasion, it was Kangaroo. I was somewhat worried by this... My feelings towards the Kangaroo were, like most 90s kids, formed by Skippy and the Hundred Acre Wood’s most famous Mother-Son duo. Eating a Kangaroo has never been something I've particularly wanted to do, in the same way that I wouldn’t opt to eat a cuddly toy or Bambi.

G'Day Mate!

In reality, I was reassured, Kangaroos are less cutesy creature, more aggressive beast, and have been a source of meat in the southern hemisphere for many, many years. This slightly softened my feelings of disgust and I felt calm enough to order my Kangaroo Burger. Sue, the owner of Gamston Wood Farm and my waitress for the day, put the Kangaroo meat on the griddle and started frying away. A couple of minutes later and my lunch was ready: a succulent burger served with onions, cheese and salad.

To tell you the truth, if you’d told me I was eating a beef burger, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. That’s not to say the food wasn’t delicious – the burger was juicy and the flavours well-balanced – but it wasn’t exactly extraordinary. When you really thought about it, the Kangaroo was kind of “meatier” than beef (as vague and unspecific as that is), but admittedly the most startling thing about it was the very idea of eating Kangaroo. Once you got over that hurdle, the rest was plain sailing. Or should I say plain hopping...

Day 28: Eat Kangaroo. CHECK!

Peace & Love,

Rich xx