There's not going to be much activity on here for the next week or so as I have exciting work trips to Sandwell, Cardiff and Altrincham all in the next week. Things don't get better than that. Before I got sidetracked by looking for pictures of people with dark good looks, I was putting holiday pictures up. Here's another one:



Can you guess what it is?

...and then there were 20!

Just had a hair cut and while staring at my face in the mirror, I thought of another lookalike for me. Can't remember specifics about when this was said, but it definitely has been.

Steady yourselves ladies, it's Mr Damon Hill:

While on the subject of Mr. Hill, I've just remembered something I found hilarious/disturbing in a newspaper once. I don't know if he still does it but Damon Hill used to run some days where people - rich celebrity knobheads mainly - could go and drive fast cars around a racetrack. A couple of years ago I read an interview in a Sunday paper Motoring supplement with rich celebrity knobhead Gary Rhodes. He was talking about how he had gone on one of these days and taken his young son along too. According to the stupidly-coiffed pan-botherer, his son had found the high-speed experience so enjoyable and thrilling that he said 'Daddy, my willy has gone hard'. Rhodes could only nod and say 'Yes, son, I know what you mean'. Quite.

Those who have seen my room might think that I still have that article somewhere, but sadly I don't.

Circle of Willis

Ever met your doppelganger? I hope not - it's bad news if you do. When I was younger, I had an Usborne book of Mysteries. In it there was a section on ghosts and I remember being pretty intrigued by it. There was a small mention of doppelgangers and the myth that if you ever came face to face with your doppelganger, you would die soon after. The belief stuck with me. Which explains why one night in the mid-90s, in front of the TV, a cold chill went down my spine. My family were watching ‘The Saturday Night Armistice’ with smug-faced funny man Armando Iannucci and there was a scene where odd-faced funny man David Schneider was interacting with the audience. Directly in front of the person Schneider was talking to was, well, my doppleganger. Usually when people say ‘you look like X’, I think ‘yeah yeah, he’s got dark hair and big eyebrows, well done’. But this was scary – it was like looking in a mirror. My sister found it hilarious. I was genuinely scared.

Back before TFI Friday imploded up its own ginger arse, it featured a popular feature called ‘Freak or unique’. This involved ordinary folk coming on and doing extraordinary things, such as drinking milk and then crying it out of their eyes, or making their eyes pop out of their head. For some reason I can remember one week a middle-aged bloke came on. He was billed as the man of 1000 faces and his USP was that he looked like loads of people. He stood and faced the camera while about 30 pictures of famous people popped up on screen around him. I think one of them was Ian McShane from Lovejoy.

During my recent holiday, two people commented on my resemblance to other people. This is not an uncommon occurrence. I’ve been getting it since I was a kid. Indeed, one family holiday several years ago was tarnished by some old bag in a Gloucestershire tearoom eagerly telling my parents “May I say that your son looks awfully like Rowan Atkinson”. Yeah, thanks for that. Clearly, those wounds cut deep. Although Rowan Atkinson/Mr Bean/Blackadder is by far the most common, my facial features are apparently shared by many others. When I was totting up the lookalikes I was planning on presenting them in the style of a football team, but as the numbers sped beyond 11, that idea was scrapped. I now almost have enough for 2 whole teams. These are all genuine – on at least one occasion I have been told that I look like each of these people.

So, here, ladies and gentlemen, is the Tombola lookey-likey chart rundown:

19
A broad one to kick things off: various members of the Greek national football team. When Greece won the European Championships in 2004, practically every time a player appeared in close-up, friends would look at me and snigger. (See also the Georgian football team).


18
Marti Pellow
This one doesn’t strictly fulfil the criteria of the list as nobody has actually said it to me in person. It was said in response to a picture of me somewhere else on the internet - unfortunately I can't find it right now, but will try and add it later.



In with a bang at 17, it’s: Mohammed Atta

In September 2001, I got a new student ID card. I was sporting cropped hair and a stern expression. Also in September 2001, Atta’s mugshot appeared in the world’s press, sporting cropped hair and a stern expression. Cue finger pointing and much hilarity. I look like a terrorist. Ho ho ho.




16 Paul from Neighbours.


On searching for this chap, I learned that he is now a successful Aussie Rules player.


15 Joey Rainbow from Home & Away

Not a lot to say about this one either, aside from him having a ridiculous name. Both him and Paul were in their respective Aussies soaps in the early-90s.




14 Karate Kid



Nothing to say here. Think I only collected this one once.





13 'Andy' from Guess Who


While in New Zealand, a small girl found it hilarious that I looked like someone from the popular game.



12 Danny Bhoy

This is actually the first time I have looked for a picture of this clearly very handsome chap. He’s a comedian. A mate sent me a text a couple of years ago from the Edinburgh Festival gleefully informing me of yet another lookalike.





11 A mystery ‘very nice man’

This one’s just in for Matt really. We were on the bus en route to an exam (GCSE?) when a woman started telling me that I looked incredibly like someone she once knew:
‘He was a lovely man. He’s dead now. Are you his son?’
‘Er… no’.



10 Patrick Duffy

I swear I’m not making these up. A woman I briefly worked with at Debenhams provided this one.






9 Andy Caddick

Do me a favour. The guy who said this was surely taking the piss, right? Right? Look at his ears!






8 The Count from Sesame Street

A couple of people during A-levels found it very funny to say ‘One ha ha ha…two ha ha ha’ to me.





7 Nwankwo Kanu

During my first year of University, one of my housemates came to the hilarious realisation that I resembled a white Nwankwo Kanu. I was never sure whether they were joking or not.





Magically appearing at 6, David Copperfield

New today actually. I texted Potts (the one who pointed out Danny Bhoy) to ask which look-alikes he could think of and among the usual, he came out with this. He also suggested the anteater from the Pink Panther, and John Merrick. Cheers.





5 George Harrison

Another one I collected in New Zealand. I once dressed up as him while performing in a strange Beatles-tribute act at a school event. When I say 'perform', I mean pretending to play something that didn't look even remotely like a guitar that was made from two bits of foam and a metal pole.




4 Some scrawny whelp from a newspaper cutting



Sadly, I have absolutely no idea who this kid is. When I lived with a group of mates in 2002/3, this pic was torn from a paper and stuck on the kitchen wall. The comment refers to a 6th form excursion when I was supposedly caught body-popping topless in front of the mirror.







3 Nick Cotton


Ever actually wanted a plane that you are on to crash? I’ve come close. Picture the scene: flying back from Ibiza with a group of mates. The plane is full of groups of young, rowdy men and women. A stewardess walks down the aisle, spots me and shrieks, ‘It’s Nick Cotton innit? Nick Cotton!’.
Ma, I've changed ma. Lend us a tenner? Etc.



2 Rowan Atkinson

The bane of my childhood. I dreaded the morning after a new Mr Bean episode was on and the impending school taunts. My heart sank when I learned there was going to be a goddam film of the bastard*. Yeah, so Atkinson is a funny guy. But years of schoolyard mockery can really change the way you view people. I’m releasing some festering emotions here, but why do people (usually dickheads in bars) feel the need to loudly shout out that you look like someone? I can think of several occasions where this has happened and it still f**ks me off. There’s no way you can respond to it either: unless you want to end up getting smacked, you just have to politely chuckle as if it’s the first time you heard it, while inwardly cursing and wishing that you were a trained ninja. My usual solution is just to head in the opposite direction as quickly as possible. And then fire up my blood pressure by stewing over it for the rest of the evening and imagining violence upon the protagonists.

*Just imagine my joy this weekend when perusing the latest issue of Empire – a new Mr. Bean film is out soon! Hurrah!


1 Darius Danesh

Top of the charts, where he always wanted to be. At last! One who is actually considered ‘quite attractive’!

Doppelgangbang

This week is shaping up to be LookyLikey week here at Tombolablog HQ. We've already had Ms Newman doing her sad ipod impression and later in the week there should be something pretty special appearing here. At this point I should acknowledge my sponsor: this week's lookalikes are brought to you in conjunction with a black JB:

Peas in a pod

All this studying of the sad ipod face made me realise that I'd seen that face somewhere before....



Munch










Ipod

There are some sad things known to man, but there ain't too much sadder than

…the sad face on a broken ipod. Truly a tear-jerking sight (I imagine it jerks a whole lot more tears if you are out of warranty). I had to look at this a lot over the last couple of weeks as my ipod mkII (mk I met the same fate a year ago) hovered between life and death. Not good when you are about to DJ at a wedding using a playlist stored on it: ‘Sad face? SAD FACE??? I’ll show you a f***ing sad face!’. Strangely, trying to play anything off ‘Chemistry’ by Girls Aloud would usually result in it putting up the sad face again. After 3 weeks of intermittent working, it was finally laid to rest this afternoon.

I’m now pretty familiar with the sad face, and the saddest part of it for me is the way that it's down-turned mouth is a bit wonky and asymmetrical:

Life in the freezer

There's a bit in 'I'm Alan Partridge' when he's checking out his new house and he says that the bathroom is like 'being inside a big glacier mint'. Unsurprisingly, that line came to mind when I was wedged in a crevasse a couple of weeks ago on Franz Josef glacier (I also sickened Ak with a convoluted 'joke' about this being where they mine for glacier mints). Rather pretty eh?

I was initially going to use a pic of CP in the same section of ice. I could have called it 'Ice, ice baby' but chickened out as she might not appreciate me putting pics of her on here without permission.

Sod it.

I might do a holiday pic every day on here. Kind of like an advent calendar. Or, for this time of year, instead of it leading up to Christmas it could lead up to Rosh Hashanah. Shalom!

How do you get 2 whales in a Mini?

Go up the M4.

Works better out loud that one. Anyway, I've been on holiday! Here's a photo:


You should have seen the one that got away. That's the back end of a sperm whale, snapped off Kaikoura in New Zealand's South Island. Moon has a good video of it doing a dump as it dives.

More to follow!

Knit one, purl one, drop one, curl one

What with my estranged relationship with football and the increasing emphasis on here to gardening and wildlife, I’ve been detecting a few suggestions that I am losing my masculinity. I had this in mind when looking for a new pastime and so tonight I found myself enrolling at Streatham Ninjas: Ultimate Fighting Training.

HRNK! Not really, this evening I was actually to be found sat outside the National Theatre merrily knitting with my new friends from I Knit London. That’s right. I'm learning to knit. Deal with it. My first knitting project is a scarf:

As you can see, I’m being a little adventurous for a beginner by making it ribbed (more obvious on this one but the colour doesn't come out as well):

I actually started it at Christmas but then forgot what my mum and gran had taught me and so it lay in my cupboard for six months. And it may have stayed that way had I not spotted a flyer for I Knit London at Spitalfields Market recently. It’s a brand new knitting club that meets every second Thursday at venues across the city, and also has a stall at the market. Tonight the setting was the South Bank and we were entertained by ‘Mario: Queen of the Circus’ who juggles to Queen tracks, which was actually very impressive.

It being Thursday, I decided to give 5 a side a miss and go knitting instead (I can almost hear Ak slapping his forehead in Sydney from here), and I’m glad I did. Everyone was very friendly and I must thank Vanessa for helping me get started again. I did make one mistake after getting a bit overconfident and trying to chat and knit at the same time (I did 3 knit stitches instead of two, knocking out the rib) but fortunately she fixed it for me and I could continue. I added several rows to the scarf this evening and now I need to keep on at it so that I don’t forget it all again. I’d like to have taken my knitting on the plane to pass some time but that’s probably a non-starter.

I would also like to promote the current charity work that the knitters are working on: Knit a River. They are collecting blue squares to produce a river and act as a petition to promote the work of WaterAid. Squares have been donated from all over the world.

For those who are interested, the yarn I am using is Sirdar Denim Chunky:


And on that bombshell, I’m off on my hols! It’s possible that I will blog while away, but I wouldn’t count on it. Cheerio!

In Tom's Inbox #2

Yeah, so I'm recycling stuff here but sod it - this is still making me chuckle and I want to keep it for posterity. This greeted me this morning:

They must have been bloody desperate for a soundbite if they had resorted to emailing random British Psychology researchers... Sadly it did not reach me in time. I had a prior engagement discussing Led Zep on MTV Switzerland.

PS

You can listen to Felix's report on Syd's passing here: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5549695

I'm not sure where I would have fitted into it.

POST SCRIPT

Mystery solved! A Mr TIM Willis wrote the biography of Syd Barrett. Thanks to Dad for that.

and all the world is football shaped, it's just for me to kick in space

From the BBC website:

Former Liverpool midfielder Dietmar Hamann has joined Manchester City on a two-year contract. Hamann, 32, signed a pre-contract agreement with Bolton last month but then changed his mind, telling the club he wanted to join City instead.


Two things:

1. He clearly is an intelligent chap

2. Looks like my intolerance of players names being shortened is about to be tested to the limit. Check out the statement from Bolton's website:
"Although Didi Hamann signed a contract with the club, he has since had a change of heart and will sign for another football club within the next 24 hours." AAARGH!!!

Calm down, dear!

Tonight I was planning to write a catch-up piece of stuff since my last entry. It was shaping up to be a cavalcade of fun: going to Brighton, comedy sunburn, not watching the England v Portugal game (bloody hell, you’d think I’d punched a nun in the face by the reaction I got after that), crying at the separation of Dr Who and Rose Tyler, my new bird feeder (take that pigeons!), my impending jaunt across the world, the real live debut of DJ Disco Factors, my fab idea for a post-wedding gift, celebrity updates… but all that will have to wait.

It’s not the clearest photo, I know. It looks like the kind of shots you get on the front of the Mirror showing clumsy-footed biddy fiddler Wayne Rooney exiting a Toxteth knocking shop. But the paparazzi-style snap above was taken earlier this evening in my kitchen. I know because that paparazzo was me. That blob in the centre right? It’s a mouse. Not a rat in me kitchen, thank god. I’ve christened him Chester, which I think is a rather good name for a mouse in Brixton.

Months ago I thought I spotted a mouse scurrying across the kitchen floor but I’d seen no signs since and had pretty much forgotten about it. True, there are the odd squeak noises that sound like they’re coming from the back of the fridge, but I thought that maybe they were, er, wonky pipes or something. Tonight, while making my tea, the squeaks seemed to be more prominent. For the first time I tried to find out where they were coming from. I shone my torch round the back of the fridge and under the cupboards. No sign of anything untoward though. Later, returning to the kitchen… what was that?! I was sure I heard something dashing across the worktop. It was time to get to the bottom of this. So, after putting on my trainers (like pulling up your duvet to prevent being attacked in bed, I always feel far more secure when wearing shoes. Maybe it’s from watching Die Hard too many times as a kid) I stood quietly in the kitchen doorway with the light off. Sure enough, there was soon some rustling and a shadow dashed across behind the taps. The light went on but by now the mouse (I’d not christened him by this point) was getting pretty cocky. It strolled back along the top, and climbed down the back of the fridge.

Now I decided that I wanted a picture. So in true cartoon style I stood on a chair like that woman out of Tom and Jerry. I waited with my camera poised and aimed at the area where I’d last seen Chester. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. After 30 minutes of squeaking but no sign of anything murine, I was getting pretty bored. I had been standing very still, on a chair, like David goddam Blaine. Hello…here he comes… And just to muck me about, on the opposite side of the kitchen, Chester peeped his nose out from behind the oven. As soon as the above photo was taken, he scarpered. I then got all Ray Mears and searched for clues. Here are my findings (with cockney rhyming info labels. Apart from ‘crumbs’. I think they really are crumbs):

So what happens next? Well, I email my landlady telling her we are infested and then bugger off to Australia/New Zealand for 3 weeks! Pip pip!

Like the bird with no teeth, I was determined to succeed

Quick bird feeder update. The pigeons had worn me down and I’d given up. The only solution appeared to be to get a new feeder. So I did. Here it is, complete with the now rather sorry looking original behind it.


And after only about 12 hours in it’s position swinging from the washing line, I was delighted to see this from my bedroom window:


Take that, pigeons!

Nature's law

I went to the London Wetland Centre on Saturday. The highlight was the pair of avocets that were raising two chicks. But only the serious birders could take photos of them because of the distance involved. I had to make do with getting close to insects:

There are two kinds of people: my kind, and assholes

A large factor in the rise of the blog is the opportunity to vent spleens, to voice opinions, to rail against perceived injustice. Regular visitors to this site will have noticed that I tend to favour rambling tales about my escapades ahead of impassioned rants. You’re unlikely to find incisive political comment here.

That situation is not going to change now. However, while watching the France v Spain game in the World Cup this evening, I was reminded of one thing that really does p*ss me off. There are plenty of things that depress and upset me about football circa 2006 but I don’t want to talk here about diving, gamesmanship, or the increasingly insidious role of agents. Not even the spiralling wages and money obsessed culture that’s causing the game to implode. No, the thing that really bugs me is names. Specifically, the way that commentators (and Clive Tyldesley, when I am King you will be first against the wall) now feel chummy enough with the players to refer to them using cutesy nicknames. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you ‘Manu’ Petit, ‘Seba’ Veron, and ‘Rafa’ Benitez, to name but three. When those three arrived on our shores they were known as their mothers had intended: Emmanuel, Juan Sebastian, and Rafael. So why the change Tyldesley you monkey? Did they personally ask to be referred to in these matey terms? The nadir though has to be ‘Bolo’ Zenden. What?? Bolo?? His name is Boudewijn. There are few better names than Boudewijn. So where the frig has ‘Bolo’ appeared from? He sounds like a clown! Seriously, it makes my blood boil. Watching any televised coverage is liable to get me hurling obscenities at the screen. This whole sorry rant was sparked tonight by the appearance of Spanish midfielder, Francesc, sorry, ‘Cesc’ Fabregas. I suppose I can’t blame Tyldesley and his commentary brethren for calling him ‘Cesc’ as he appears to have removed his surname entirely and now has ‘Cesc’ on the back of his shirt. FIFA should stop faffing about with the technicalities of the offside law and clamp down on important issues like this. I want to see nicknames outlawed unless you are Brazilian.

So it’s hat off to my new favourite footballer, someone who is upholding the traditional values of the people’s game. Take a bow, Jan Vennegoor of Hesselink.

A cry for help

Comrades, I fear the worst. Spirits in the camp are low and we are now fearing the end. We have word that the enemy is growing in number and they are gathering on the horizon. Surely we do not have long before they make their assault. It feels like all we can do now is pray, and wait.

The goddam pigeons are really getting me down. The rain has knacked the masking tape and so my screw/pen combo has failed. And it's not just one or two pigeons now either - there are loads of the bastards. I apologise for the expletives but this is really depressing me now.

Munch asked why I'm trying to ban the pigeons anyway - why can only some birds dine at my feeder? Here are my reasons:

1. they eat everything. Everything. The other, smaller birds don't stand a chance.
2. they are heavy - constantly landing on the feeder will surely soon knock it off the window. It will then most likely break when it hits the floor. And no birds will eat then. Will you be happy then pigeons???
3. have I said they eat everything? well they do it bloody quickly too. If I were to refill the feeder every time it gets empty I would end up spending more on feeding the birds than I do on feeding myself. Some of the pigeons probably have higher BMI than me as it is.

So I need suggestions. And not just 'shoot them'. How can I be rid of this menace?

NO ESCAPE FOR HAIRS

I'm a bit late with this, but it has been sat as a draft for nearly 3 months so I may as well do something with it. This entry has been the ginger step-child that nobody at Blog Party HQ wants to talk about. I kept meaning to do a comedy pic of my face, perhaps with no skin on it or something but I never got around to it.


MEN! Not totally satisfied with your shave? Still searching for that smooth finish? Something that will improve your chances at work AND at home? You've tried everything: Single blade razor? Get with the program Sweeney Todd! Two blades?? Mach3??? How about Quattro???? Ok, electric? Get real. There's only one thing for it* : Go large and scrape 5 blades down your face.

Yep, in case you weren't already aware, Gillette has now launched the world's first 5-blade razor - the Fusion (http://www.gillette.com/men/index_fusion.htm). It’s due to revolutionise the British male’s shaving ‘experience’ later this year. We can finally wave goodbye to those remaining stubborn stubble that just WILL NOT be removed by FOUR blades.

Others will do the usual 'where next?' comments wittier and better than me (there's an amusing piece about the razor here: http://www.theonion.com/content/node/33930). The thought of it does scare me though. I once was a bit careless with the old Mach 3 and wound up with something akin to the Adidas logo etched into my chin. And a lot of blood splashing onto the porcelain. Having said that, if it can remove the outcrop of hair around the back of my lower jaw on the left of my face that I always seem to miss then I'll snap it up.

* until a couple of years time when someone raises the stakes YET AGAIN with the grooming equivalent of a Cat o' nine tails.

Four-pen durch technik

Something’s got to give. Saturday morning, 5am, another pigeon alarm call. The bars are preventing them eating the food but the screws aren’t having the desired effect. Two pigeons are regularly sat on the feeder roof, still attempting to gorge on the yummy seeds contained beneath. I admire their perseverance, but also want to kill them. There appear to be two solutions:

1. make further modifications and try and stop them sitting on the feeder top. If they can’t do that and also can’t get to the food, hopefully they’ll piss off and let me sleep.
2. admit defeat, remove the feeder from my window and put it on the kitchen window instead. This won’t solve the problem of the pigeons eating all my food but it will end the relentless cacophony outside my window every morning.

For the time being I take option 1. I foolishly believe that I can conquer nature. The screws I used clearly aren’t big enough, I need bigger, taller spikes so that it’s impossible for pigeons to land on the feeder top. But what can I use? More scrabbling about in the kitchen (trying to find 12 inch nails – the idea of a spike now appeals to me in my vengeful, sleep-deprived state) and I come across a stash of old biros. Most of them seem to be those free ones you get with mailouts from the RSPCA etc. I take four of these, remove the ink bit and tape these to the top of the feeder. Come on then pigeons – I’ve raised the stakes. Seconds out…Round 2!

I don't want no pigeons

I'm sure there are blogs dedicated to restoration of a classic car, or maybe the progress of a charity in their efforts to raise money to fund the erection of a Brian Clough statue in Middlesbrough, for instance. My blog, Blog Party (thanks again), appears to now be a simple vehicle for chronicling my messing up of a perfectly attractive bird feeder. It now looks like a prop from Mad Max.

Came back from a weekend up north and virtually the first thing I did on returning was inspect the feeder. I wasn’t particularly confident that my feeder fortifications would have worked and I was right: the pens were either knocked over or knocked off entirely, and again there was virtually no food left.

So, after a month of generally happy bird action, I took the very unhappy decision to remove the feeder from my window. A sad day indeed. However, sweet dreams are made of this. Hopefully.

The feeder has now taken up residence on the kitchen window. The pigeons may have won the battle, but the war goes on. While trying to figure out my next move I realised that, by happy coincidence, my pens fitted neatly over the screw spikes which should make them much more difficult to knock over. So I added 3 more. Over to you, pigeons…

Pimp my feeder

Another day, another blog about feeding the birds (for anyone with a Profanisaurus, I definitely am not talking about ‘feeding the ducks’). Last night I had a mystery to solve. In the morning the feeder had been virtually full but by the time I came home it was empty. It looked like someone had hoovered the thing – there was nothing left in it. I was baffled – what could have done that?

I didn’t have to wait too long to find out. At 5am (hurrah!) I was awoken by lots of noise outside my window. I was amazed to find a pigeon was flapping about, attempting to land on the feeder. After a couple of failed attempts it successfully landed and began to peck away. I scared it off by throwing a pair of boxer shorts at the window. Dirty pigeons, they love a bit of it.

I tried to go back to sleep, but now I was too busy thinking about how to resolve the situation. I had to stop pigeons using the feeder – no other birds would stand a chance and it would also cost me a packet in bird food. It may have been 5am, but it was time for some more Blue Peter DIY.

First, I used masking tape to make a bar across the front of the feeder hopefully preventing bigger birds from being able to land on it. Don’t worry though – I stuck 2 pieces of tape back to back so that there was no stickiness open to the air and there was no risk of causing any avian injuries. Satisfied with my handiwork, I tried to go back to sleep. A few minutes later, more racket. My initial delight at the recent success of the feeder was beginning to wane. Hoist by me own petard for birds. Somehow, the pigeon had managed to get past my makeshift bar and was back on the feeder gobbling up the food once more. A second pigeon was attempting to land on my windowsill. So back out again, this time adding two more bars. But I couldn’t stop there. No, I had to show those pigeons that they should give up trying to get onto the feeder, and piss off and let me kip.

After a root about in the kitchen (05.40am), I found some spare screw-type things and stuck three of these onto the roof of the feeder in order to stop pigeons landing on there. At ease RSPB wardens, I was careful to use flat-topped screws so there would be no impaled birdie accidents.

At the end of all this, my feeder now looked like it could go a few rounds with ‘Sir Killalot’ on Robot Wars:



It reminds me of the petrol station on the way out of Manchester towards Liverpool that’s practically armour-plated. The masking tape bars are only likely to be a short-term solution though – heavy rain and they’ll be knacked. Any ideas?