And so it came to pass, dear reader, that on a cold, wintry night in the year of the Monkey, a young Friday burst, screaming into the world. Twas in London, on the 24th day of November, 1968, and things would never be quite the same for the young chap again... At this time, the fledgling Fri was severely lacking in clues - a situation largely unremedied even now. Friday had popped out almost a month earlier than he should have done. "Why?" I hear you ask. I shall tell you. There young Friday was, snug as a bug in a rug, in his mother's womb, when all of a sudden there was an almighty Thud!. Of course, all that had happened was that his mother had fallen over, but baby Fri did not know this. "Blimey!" thought Friday, "it ain't safe in here. Blow this for a game of teapots, I'm outta here!" In later days, Friday came to see this as a fortuitous move on his part, as had he been born when due he ran a high risk of being a Crimbo baby, and hence would have got only one set of prezzies a year. Close shave, eh reader! Due to his parentage, Friday was born a bit of a Heinz 57, with his genetic material sourced from his mother's Anglo-Saxon heritage, and his father's peculiar mixture of Chinese and Indian, by way of Trinidad and Guyana. Pedigree? What's that, then?

At this stage in his life, Fri lived in Blackheath, so called 'cos that's where they buried a gert pile o' plague victime in 16..., erm 16..., well sometime. Maybe this is where Friday picked up his tastes in things macabre. Obviously thinking that such a place was not the place to raise a wee sprog, Friday's parents moved themselves to Ashford, Kent. Luckily, they remembered to pack Fri along with their nick-nacks. For a couple of years the baby Friday was content with his lot, but eventually he grew world-weary and bored. In an effort to make his life more exciting, Friday's folks gave him a baby sister to play with, and then another.

Shortly, Friday and his sisters were moved north, to Warton, near Carnforth in Lancashire. It was here that little Friday learned to ride a bicycle, by being placed atop said contraption by a "friend" and pushed down a steep driveway. It was sink or swim. Friday sank. Stabilisers? We don't need no steenkin' stabilisers! Undeterred, well more-or-less undeterred, Friday persevered with his training, and before long could crash with the best of 'em, a skill he has not forgotten to this day. During his time in Warton, Friday also managed to bury a large number of Matchbox cars in the garden, never to be recovered, and when he was very nearly five, start school at Arch Bishop Hutton primary school. Things were fairly constant for a while, but they were about to change somewhat...

In the winter of 1974/5, Friday and his family left Blighty, and went to live in his father's homeland, Guyana, South America. He lived in Georgetown, and went to school at Stella Maris. One day, the six-or-so went home after school, telling of how he had seen a picture of God. Friday's mother explained that it was probably a picture of the late JC, a devastating blow for a devoloping Friday's mind, and one which was to push him in the opposite directon to the path of religion. Friday had already started on the slippery anti-religion slope some time previously when he created at Sunday school, bit the teacher's hand, and disturbed the ongoing service. However, at this time in his life, little Fri was still quite happy to believe the religious propaganda thrown his way by the school. Occasionally, Friday would visit his grandparents' stilted house, where his grandfather grew peppers, and a fresh chicken was always available for the plucking. Yummy, scrummy. All in all, the time spent in Guyana was a wonderful experience, and provided Friday with some of his most cherished memories. Alas, all was not quiet on the parental front, and in the summer of 1976 Friday and his sisters were whisked back to Blighty by their mother.

Remember the summer of 1976? The year of that great heatwave, and the drought? Well, if you weren't in Blighty at the time you won't, but it was hot. Damn hot. People were sweltering all over the place. All except Friday. Friday was running around in cardigans and pullovers 'cos he was cold. People looked at Friday as if to say "You're strange." Friday believed them. For a couple of months Fri lived in Cliftonville, a small seaside town near Margate, Kent, but on Hallowe'en 1976 Friday and his family moved into a brand spanking new house on a brand spanking new housing estate in Broadstairs, also in Kent. Here Friday made friends who had silly names, like Kenton, and whom he gave silly names, like Two Strips. It was in this location that Friday spent the greater part of his childhood, and fondly remembers such local sights as the VG, the hypermarket, the black path and the water tower. Friday lived only yards from his school, Bromstone County Primary, where he was taught by the three Ws, White, Woan and Walton. Friday also joined the local Cub Scouts, where he became first a seconder and then a sixer. Proud was the little boy to be leader of his own six, or seven as it eventually became. While in the cubs, Friday earned his bronze, silver and gold arrows and a string of those little triangular badges to wear on his arm. Friday did well at primary school, and deserved his place on "top table" alonside such boffins as "Super Derek". He also played his part in school activities, singing in the school choir and acting in school plays. In the school production of Chaos at Crusty Towers, Friday played Adam Wormould, the gardener. Friday also duly tried to wriggle out of sports day, but usually failed. At this time in his life, Friday was, quite frankly, a bit of a girly swot. Fortunately this was all set to change. However, in the meatime, Friday passed his 11+ test, so he next progressed to grammar school.

Chatham House Grammar School, to be precise, in Ramsgate. Here Friday sampled the delights of bullies, rugby, hockey and school detentions. Secondary school was really not Friday's bag, and he bcame ever-increasingly obstinate. He made the transition from Cubs to Scouts, and promptly dropped out when he realised the religious aspects of that movement. Hmm, religion. It was at about this time in his life that Friday sat back and looked at a few of the things which, up to then he had taken at face value. Friday examined the evidence for and against the existence of God, or any god, and eventually came to the following conclusion: " Religion? What a pile of old tripe, that it." From hereon in, Friday would have no truck with the insidious tendrils of organised religion. While at CHS, Friday never did manage to hit a six through the Headmaster's study window. In time, Friday's mother grew tired of Broadstairs, and decided to move the troop northwards once again, and so it came to be that Friday arrived in Lancaster on the afternoon of August 1, 1983.

Of course, a new school was essential, and Friday was enrolled at Lancaster Royal Grammar School, and embarked upon his O-level courses. LRGS would not let poor old Friday continue his German studies, so he had to take History instead. Ack! Joining a new school was hard on Friday. All the other lads had made their friends and settled into peer groups, and poor lickle Fri never really felt that he belonged. He developed an awkwardness with strangers with plagues him still. Sure, he's all very happy chatting on IRC or via Usenet, but get him in Real Life[tm] and he often tends to go into shy mode. Fortunately, this does not usually last too long, and within a fairly short period you will have a happy, bouncing Fri on your hands. Where was I? Oh, yes. School. Friday became ever more lazy in his academic endeavours. He really didn't need to put much effort in. Friday is proud of a comment made in a report by one of his schoolmasters: "[he] fails to apply himself, and is all to happy to coast along on natural ability." Friday had potential, of that there is no doubt, but was quite happy to do a grand total of zero hours revision for his O-levels. Ho hum. Friday forgot about his exams, and watched Live Aid on telly. Mid-way through August the results came through. Luckily for Fri, he still managed to come away with eight O-levels. Fri failed three of them; English Literature, History and Divinity. Quelle surprise! Of course, if an exam's worth failing, it's worth failing in style, and Fri posted a score of U, U, U for his three failed exams. Fri was proud.

So, onwards, ever onwards, Fri started his A-levels. He chose Pure&Applied Maths, Physics and Biology. This was an awkward combination for the school, and they tried to dissuade Friday from this combination. Friday would not budge, and so was allowed to do his chosen subjects. Friday thinks there was one other person doing the same combination, but he wouldn't swear to it. A-levels were a good laugh. Friday got to dissect a rat, breed fruit flies, play with a mass spectrometer, look at atoms of gold with an electron microscope and do dubious experiments with vast quantities of electricity. Once again Friday rode the crest of the wave of natural ability, and almost entirely failed to apply himself to his studies. No, scratch that, he did entirely fail to apply himself to his studies. Friday once had his IQ measured at around 161, and was invited to join Mensa. He refused, mainly because he had no desire to join an elitist club, particularly not one which numbers Carole Vorderman and denizens of the tabloid press among its members. The bright young star, who had once promised so much, payed for his laziness and exited his school years with a mediocre BCCC A-level tally. Oh, well.

Of course, Friday went on to higher education. Not because he particularly wanted to, but because that was what was expected of him from various interested parties. Fri didn't really know what he wanted to do. He got a place at the University of Manchester to read Psychology, but in the end settled for a B.Ed. in Mathematics. Off trotted an eighteen year old Friday to college, where, although he made some good and lasting friendships, he was generally unhappy, and once more felt that he did not belong. Furthermore, the course was a complete pile of rubbish in Friday's opinion. In the second year of college, Friday came home at Easter with a large pile of work to do for his teaching practise. Friday looked at the lesson plans-to-be, and thought "Nah. If I can find a job, any job, within the next two weeks, I'm not going back to college." Fri looked in the paper, spied a vacancy for a dogsbody, and applied. A couple of days later the secretary phoned up. "Can you send us your CV?" she asked. "My what?" answered Friday. After the secretary had explained, Friday hastily scribbled a few sentences on a piece of paper, and sent it in. They must have been desperate, because Friday was granted an interview, and got the job. Fri sent a letter to college, explaining that he would no longer be following his course.

Friday's work career started with him transferring data from a mainframe to a PC. It was very yawnarama work. Fortunately, after a couple of months the company realised Friday's potential and that he was wasted on such mundane tasks, and they made him a programmer. He started writing bits and pieces of software for the company's forecasting packages. Friday programmed in Fortran. Eventually Friday took on more and more responsibility, including maintenance of the network and other such stuff. Friday suddenly realised what he should have done at University. Never mind, such is life. With the new-found cash in his pocket, Friday was finally able to pass his driving test, and buy his first car. A 1500 semi-automatic VW Type 1 (Beetle), which he drove around for three months before piling it into the side of a police car one cold January night in 1991. Fri escaped with a fractured knee, but the Bug was totalled. Luckily for Fri, it was Rod the Plod who was at fault, and Fri eventually got some cash for his pains. Out went Friday, and bought another Beetle, which he lowered, and which served him well until the fateful day when it threw a rod on the M6. Anyway, that aside, work continued for Friday, and he made the fatal error of tying himself down with at mortgage, an action he now sometimes regrets. Well, you live and learn, don't you.

Friday is married, has never been to the United States[1] and cannot swim. He is argumentative, silly, obstinate, funny, moody, dark, impulsive, adorable, shady, complicated and bright all at the same time and to varying degrees. He was once called facetious, but he thinks it was a case of mistaken identity. *grin*

So there you have it, dear reader, a story of dubious interest I'll agree, but one I wish to tell nonetheless.

[1] actually, this situation has since changed. Friday has indeed been Stateside, but that's a story for another time...