Hello, I’m Alfie. No, I am not Alfie – my actual name is Gareth. And were it not for a barmy last minute pre-trip decision to visit an untested local barbers, I would still be Gareth. As it is, Russell has dubbed me “Alfie”, a time-traveling WWII machine-gunner – a new persona that has caused much hilarity among our silly group.
I blame this barber because it is all his fault. Seemingly unwilling to understand the term (much used in his profession, I would imagine) “trim” – he attacked the back of my beloved head of hair and left me with a bloody great big flippin’ wedge . It’s like a cliff face, it’s scary. So you can visualise this better, think back to that fleeting craze at primary school when all the bully boys had steps shaved into the back of their noggins (my mate Gary had “GAZ” scrawled into his – which, in an early example of my, now much derided impressionable character, I did actually beg my mum to allow me to have) – well, just like that.
To cap things off, this “haircut” cost me £14 and because I’m such a tit, I tipped the guy three quid – one for every inch of much-missed precious volume. I hate getting my hair cut. “Like you’ve just stepped out of a salon” translates for me as crippling disappointment and the realisation that I’ll be spending the next two weeks in the shadows. Well, I’m Alfie for now and until this one particular section of my hair grows back, I shall remain him. Ironically, the internal agonising that this hair-butchery has caused me will probably result in my stupid bonce being too nervous to grow hair for the next 5 weeks – the exact duration of this trip.
I must admit though, despite the mockery and self-loathing, being Alfie does have its moments. On Thursday, after the hugely successful gig in New York, a large crowd of adoring fans gathered to have pictures and cuddles with ol’ Russ. As I made my way to the bar for a little drinky, a lone female voice from the periphery addressed me – “Alfie? Is that you Alfie?” – my heart sank. “Oh no”, I thought, “is this my life now?”. As it turned out, the girl had already had a picture taken with Rusty Boots and now, probably for a bit of a laugh, wanted one with me – Alfie. I detest having photos taken, I always look like a right twit. But I thought, “Well, if it’s Alfie she wants, it’s Alfie she should get”. I committed to that photo with all the passion and giddy energy of a young George Formby.
So I think I’ve reached a turning point with this new personality of mine. Gareth would never have agreed to that photo – I’m warming to Alfie. In any case, I know a dog called Alfie and people seem to like him, he’s nice.
Aww Alfie. Let’s see a pic of your wedge head then? Go on.
I too know a dog called Alfie but we don’t get along. Maybe your’ll be a nicer one… ?
You should write a book! “How my haircut led to extreme fame and womanizing”.
I believe “Alfie” that I insisted on a picture with you last Thursday night, and I even called you by your real name, yet no mention of me, eh? Oh well, I hope this isn’t the last blog you do, I really liked it. And to be honest, you’re about the closest thing to Matt Morgan we have right now. *sigh* I miss Matt. Anyway, your hair is lovely, no need to stay in the shadows.
I remember that word getting around, “Alfie has a fan club now!” Can’t have anyone left out ;)
awww it was nice of that woman to entertain that young WWII refugee at the bar, he probably looked all lost and vulnerable.
i too hate getting my hair cut, although i know i look ridiculous with hair shoulder length or longer i always feel a sense of mourning for the hair that has been ruthlessly hacked from my head (by a person with dubious qualifications) and a deep burning sense of shame as i have to step back onto the cold windy streets (that feel all the more cold and windy on my exposed scalp) to greet people who once used to call me a friend.
Going to the hair dresser’s is like going to the dentist…you never know whether you’ll come out with or without a “trauma”…
(I got a new hair cut once,…and it was was way to short, then, people gave me new names…GUY’s NAMES…so, at least you didn’t have a verbal sex change ^^)
£14 on a haircut? what did you expect?
you pay peanuts – you get monkeys cutting your hair! sorry..
Actually, Gunner, that haircut is tres chic at the moment with all the cute boys in Williamsburg (part of Brooklyn, NY which is pretty much where all the cool kids are now -like The Village was in the 90′s).
The cuts are long on top (almost like a trial sweep-over that starts at the crown and goes to your forehead), with a tightly cut cliff-angled crewcut round the back. It kinda reminds me of a mix between a Nazi (no disrespect to anyone) and the famous five. Pip pip!
The boys in Williamsburg are starting to sport their Spring facial hair too -so team up your WW2 cut with a nice aviator ‘tash and you’ll be w.Burg chic….although you may also be mistaken for a traffic cop too…
LOVED the NY show btw. I’ve since read Russell’s book and cyber stalked him on YouTube so much that my internal dialogue is now a mongrel mix of an Essex -slash- London -slash- NZ- slash- Aussie – slash – Brooklyn accent.
Very sad.
I wish I knew a dog named Alfie now.
£14 is expensive for a haircut? Seems pretty cheap to me!
If I see you at a show I’m definitely asking for a pic with you. I already did it to Nik once. By the way, are you on Twitter?
Alfie… hmm. Are you a womanizing prick that looks like the poor man’s Jude Law?
No, no. You seem like a very fine gentleman!
£17 seems like a really difficult amount to pay for a haircut. How did you come to the decision to not just tip a pound and give him fifteen quid? Moreover, as you were feeling “three quid” generous – why not just go crazy and give him a twenty? There must have been change fumbling and all sorts of uncomfortable shenanigans going on during that transaction; made all the more difficult due to the unexpected, undesirable outcome of the actual haircut.
Most importantly however, your forthright and definite “I MUST tip you THIS EXACT AMOUNT” malarkey has now no doubt convinced that barber he gave you a fucking brilliant haircut; you’ve inflicted the exact same forties throwback fate on countless subsequent customers… There’s hundreds of bewildered, disillusioned post-haircut victims – aimlessly wandering the streets… bombarded by eighty year old women wanting their ration books stamped.
Hang your dramatic angle haired head in shame… hang your head in shame.
I have a little dog called Alfie!!
I shall have the same love and affection, although also loathing and detest for you as i do for him.
Enjoy the trip!!
xxx
I don’t know, Alfie–I MEAN GARETH–, I think it actually looks good. I can’t be the only girl who appreciates a little clean cut and old-fashioned (wait, the latter isn’t often considered a compliment, is it?). Or the only one with a slight WWII fetish. Am I right? Hello? Anyone? Just me?
Oh, fine.
I’m sure you have a great personality, too… Ahem.
Dear Gareth,
Actually, I never got a pic with Russ. You would think I would have left heartbroken and empty-handed (No pic with old Russ) but instead I left the show smiling and happy! I got a photo & conversation with a wonderful englishman! (Gleefully cackling like a schoolgirl) I could tell that as I referred to you as “Alfie” which then accompanied your stomp of the stage that you were a bit uncomfortable with the name. My apologies but yet again I am left wooing. I think it is my personal mission to start the Gareth Fan Club! The question now is ” Where should I begin? hmmmmm………