I have now officially totally lost control of my Groupon
adventure. As word has spread about my dumb escapades, cynical opportunists
have jumped on the bandwagon and bought me Groupons. They present them to me
proudly, safe in the knowledge that I would have to do them out of a sense of
basic courtesy. This had led to a litany of embarrassments, for example: I am
due to have a baby scan next week, and on Saturday I somehow managed to be bullied into spending
a first date on a “couple’s photo-shoot”. The poor girl clearly thought it was
weird, but for some reason agreed to it. As you can imagine it was monstrously
awkward, but she looked lovely. This was probably my favourite photo:
But the mischief has spread even further, I get calls, text
and e-mails from people laying down all sorts of gauntlets, totally unrelated
to Groupon, but united by the simple spirit of “why not?”. I got this message on Facebook a few weeks ago from my mate Andy:
I obviously didn't do it. (I'm not drinking at the moment). However, there was one offer I could not wriggle my way out
of. Yesterday I moonlighted at the mascot for Bristol Rugby Club: for one day
only I was “Brizzley Bear”.
The
offer came from Dan. A comedy promoter and marketing executive who has spent
five years of Saturdays running around The Memorial Ground in Bristol pretending
to be a giant bear. Dan did the first
half so I could watch him and learn the ropes, and then at half time I donned
the fur for 40 minutes of my own. The kids love Brizzly, so your biggest job is
giving all of them high-fives and fist bumps, The younger ones find it magical,
the older ones just try and rip your head off.
I must have ruffled a hundred heads, had a dozen hugs, and
posed for a thousand photos. I signed
more autographs in 40 minutes as a fictional bear than I’ve done for the rest
of my career combined. They swarm you as you walk around the pitch. I was not
required to complete a CRB check prior to the gig, I could have been anyone:
for all they knew it might have been Jimmy Saville under that costume. And the
costume is incredibly sweaty; this is a picture of me after the game:
A lot of the younger children think you might actually be a
bear, so it’s important they don’t see you with your head off. The above
picture was taken in the tunnel, and somehow some kids managed to crane their
neck around to see me, and quickly exclaimed “Brizzley’s not real!” before bursting
into tears. It turns out that this bear doesn’t shit in the woods, but he does
defecate all over children's dreams.
Dan’s signature move as Brizzly Bear is the worm, which the
kids love. So every time I walked around the pitch, I was met with a chorus of
Bristollian oiks screaming “Do the worm! Brizzly! Do the worm!” Now, I can’t do
the twatting worm, (as I almost screamed at one particularly persistent pygmy). I
tried to sate them with a hastily improvised robot, and I also tried to twerk, but
they weren’t interested. All they wanted was the worm: “DO THE WORM BRIZZLEY!”
Close to the end of the game, by the family stand, a enthusiastic steward tried
to steamroller me into doing it. “Who wants to see Brizzley do the worm?!” he asked. The
crowd erupted. I was furious-I mean, how dare he? I thought “I’m going to maul this prick!” And then
remembered I wasn’t actually a bear, but was in fact just a pathetic little dweeb. I tried
to whisper to the steward that I couldn’t actually do the worm, but this is very hard to
do whilst you have a furry space-ship for a head. He couldn’t hear me above the
relentless chorus of “WORM! WORM! WORM!” and the slow hand-claps, so I realised: "I’m
going to have to do the worm aren’t I? The actual shitting worm. I CANT DO THE
WORM!"
I did my best. It wasn't a proper worm. It looked like I was trying to have sex with the pitch.
Some children booed, a five year old threw their burger at me, an adult ripped
up his season ticket and was later seen in the car-park burning a home-made effigy
of Brizzley. I had failed. I had let Dan and Bristol down. But at least I was
finished, the humiliation was over. I could get showered and changed, and walk
unrecognized back to my car as just simple old Max Dickins.
CUT TO: Monday morning. Dan checks the Brizzley Bear Twitter account, and this is what he finds:
WHAT?! Go f*** Goldilocks? I don't even know where she lives! I am being trolled by a 12 year old boy because I can't do the worm! How has this happened? This isn't what my Groupon Adventure was mean't to be about! What had started off as a bit of Sunday fun has turned into a nightmare. But I don't want the actions of one dick to sully the memories of a glorious day, and I'll choose to remember the better moments, like when I met Humpty Dumpty:
