'do

So little over a week ago I attended my first ever Television awards. I know exciting right?

It was The British Soap Awards 2012.

I instantly mass messaged my friends like an over excited school boy. Leading one of my mates to opine that the dress code is either "T*ts or Topman".

I opted for the latter.

The week dragged and the sessions of GTL in an attempt to look FTD increased.

And then Saturday finally arrived.

 I'd packed considerably lightly not out of necessity but instead to defy my colleagues' expectations that I'd roll up with several cases. It was tough work.

I'd narrowed it down to three. Yes, three bow ties.

The journey down was full rain and bizarrely paparazzi. Getting papped if you're not famous is the most cringe worthy thing ever. Like ever. You can almost see the paparazzo's disapproval as he realises that his shot is worth shit with you in the frame.

And with blinding lights I was convinced my second appearance on the Mail Online (The back off my head had already appeared once. What? It counts.) Would be one of a picture akin to Rocky getting punched by Apollo Creed.

We finally reached the hotel and there were rumours of Bieber and Matt Le Blanc residing there. We were on the lookout. No such luck but I did see Mark Wright.

After a mad dash to Oxford Circus, time was ticking and I returned to the hotel only to find that none of my plug sockets were working. I lied to the reception desk that it was imperative I charge my phone prior to the event whilst water dripped from my hair and I stood with my mute hair dryer in hand. Utterly convinced I was about to attend the awards looking like the sixth Jackson brother.

But thank the Metrosexual Gods we were on track with time to spare. And in case you were wondering I opted for a vintage velvet maroon bow tie. I mean it is after all called theguyinthebowtie.

En route ITV studios London and I'm pretty sure we've hijacked the car that belonged to some of the Hollyoaks cast. Who am I kidding, we definitely did, and the man's sat nav thing said so.

The car pulled into the studios and before us Dr Khan of EastEnders fame emerged. He got booed. I didn't know it was him and a ripple of fear spread through our car that we were about to get booed due to our lack of fame. Luckily that didn't happen. I did however get a whoop. I imagine this was because someone mistook me for Tamwar from Enders.

Oh yes. Tamwar. A running joke amongst my friends that we share the same penchant for glasses, awkwardness and bow ties. And what's that? Yep that's right we are both of South Asian descent.

The awards progressed in a surreal blur. Ringmaster Schofield presided over events. And thing I took away from it all was just how posh Pat Butcher is in real life.

That accent cray.

Awards over. We are now in a Wonka themed after party.  There were trees dripping with fake sweets and Joe Swash was there.

I found myself suddenly confronted by the fact that Tamwar Masood and I were in the same room. Anecdotally this is ok. But what if I got a picture with him? Genius right? It'd be totes hilair.

I somehow transformed into Borat. Following Pamela Anderson around. Instead I was following around a soap actor who was meant to be my doppelganger but in reality looked nothing like me.

So at the Candy Floss station, I tapped him on the shoulder giddy from the fumes of whipped sugar and said.

"Hello sorry to do this to you. But people we say look alike and I was wondering if it would be funny if we could take a picture together?"

It was as if I expected him to say 

"Yes that would be hilarious! Email me the picture and add me on Facey B".

He didn't but he was a really nice and polite guy. And as a result my anecdote went from saying I saw him to well, this blog.

The whole weekend was a blur and I often felt like Kevin McAlister in Home Alone 2 in a posh Hotel with money to burn. So at 11am I ordered the world smallest £7.50 cheesecake. It was ai'te.

Homeward bound and we're all somewhat dazed by a long day and when the show airs I proceed to freeze-frame a little brown bespectacled blur to show my family. I'm pretty sure it's me. It could of course be Tamwar Masood...

Did I ever tell you about the time I met him?...

theguyinthebowtie

great expectations

South Asian families are often brought up of a diet rice or chapattis (and other worldy foods, I'm not being stereotypical. just bear with.) We're also served up daily if not hourly with doses of the merits of hard work. Ever since I was young my parents would bleat on about how my brother's favourite song growing up was "Papa Kehte hain" this roughly translates to "What my Dad says".

Predating the wonderful "Shit my dad says" twitter feed, this Bollywood teen song was not about rebellion. Oh no. this was about one son's desire to make his father's dreams come true.

 Practically brainwashed. So with it came the hours of homework, reading and writing, and in my case lamenting that I wasn't very good at sports. But unfortunately my parents were left surprised that after all their focus on academics that not a single one of us became a doctor. And thank Allah they were placated later when my sister got her PhD. But with their ambition came a shred of hypocrisy. After travelling across the world and setting up home away from their family and friends we've often been guilt tripped to stay local otherwise we might end up like the kids out of Baghban. (A Bollywood film in which the kids fail to look after their parents in the autumn of their life. there's even a sad song in a phone box)

 

This didn't deter me though. Good on those kids I thought. I'm no Gordon Gekko but ambition is a good thing. And before I knew it I was shipped off to London in a horse and cart with promises of a great education and ticket to mix with the upper echelons of society. No...Wait that is the plot to Great Expectations.

It's been three years since I've graduated and moved back home. The status quo can often remain the same for months than in a flash everything changes and you can find yourself looking at your parents a little bit in awe. Not just for an amazing knack for money management (which I'm still waiting to inherit) but for their way they did set up life a world away from everything they knew. Of course they'll probably ruin the moment when they tell you to wear socks with your loafers because it's cold out. These days we've forged our own path and even though I joke about it I can't help but feel that we've taken that work ethic we were brought up on with us and hopefully apply it to becoming a reality TV brand.

I'm kidding.

 theguyinthebowtie.

brother of the bride part two

So yesterday was a big day for us here at the Akhtar Khan compound. I mean household.

My sister got married. Well officially. It was a true amalgamation of both our British-ness and Asian-ness.

The morning kicked off with the usual commotion that ensues when our family has anything to sort out. It was going to be a mad dash to the Register Office.
But as we all ran around in a scene not too dissimilar to the opening scenes of Home Alone. (1 & 2 - I've not seen 3).

The ladies of the house were at the beauticians preparing for the day ahead as time ticked along I got a crash course in dressing a toddler in a party dress. FYI you should not be able to see her vest underneath the dress.

I did not know this.

We made it to the Register office in time waiting for the Groom and his family to arrive.

The service went smoothly apart from when my niece dropped my phone during the all important "Does anyone have any objection bit"?

A soap staple.

This was followed by an inordinate amount of pictures outside the register office and town hall with our very own photographer to boot.



I've never felt so Asian.

After the ceremony there were several hours between the registration and the Islamic ceremony. Otherwise known as the nikah.

"A formal, binding contract is considered integral to a religiously valid Islamic marriage, and outlines the rights and responsibilities of the groom and bride. The marriage must be declared publicly. Divorce is permitted."

Thanks Wikipedia.

so as the evening arrived the same amount nerves began to pile up but rather than just the few guests that came to the ceremony in the morning, many more people were about to descend onto our house.

The groom's side. The bride's side. And the Imams.

So when the guys with the beards arrived we knew it was show time. Especially because my nephew was serenading them with JLS' "Do you feel what I feel?" upon their arrival.



The ceremony varies from the British one. Aside from the fact that everyone is called Mohammed yet the Imam still asked us how to spell it. (Between me and you I think he's in the wrong job.) There's also a greater family involvement and the whole thing was a lot more emotional. And dare I piss off the Daily Mail but more symbolic.
There's an eerie silence as the groom declares his loyalty to the woman he is about to marry all the while the bride is in another room. I think it's that silence that leads you to ponder the gravity of it all.

Or in my case whether it's acceptable to live tweet during a nikah.

I've never felt so British.

FYI it isn't acceptable.

So it wasn't just my 5 year old nephew who got the giggles.

My sister's part was more emotionally charged. An Asian daughter's journey into marriage is incredibly symbolic. So there were a few tears shed.



A Bollywood staple.

#Mashallah the ceremony went well. And after the groom's side depleted and my extended family outstayed their welcome, we reflected on the day in good spirits. Now we have the reception or actual shaadi to look forward to in June.

The learning curve continues. I'll keep you posted.

theguyinthebowtie

what i like about you

In the past couple of weeks a lot of my friend's have been discussing types.
It stands to reason that everyone's ideal choice of partner varies.

Sorry for stating the BLINDINGLY obvious but in my case it does vary from one week to the next.

This week it's Freida Pinto.


Just look at her.

O M Yes.

So whilst I've spent the last seven days waxing lyrical about all things Trishna. I've had to explain who Frieda is to certain people.

Yes we're on first name terms. Just don't mention Dev Patel.

This led to talking to someone I work with who I must mention are in their late teens. He succinctly described his type in three words. Quirky. 50s. Polka dot.
Now I know what he meant but I was still left somewhat perturbed by the inclusion of polka dot. But as I said his answer was succinct and to the point. Which is what succinct means.

So I took to my phone book and asked a cross section of my friends if they could describe their type in three words what would it be.

It sparked a flurry of...confusion.

Nearly all of them thought I was tricking them into revealing something about themselves that they weren't willing to share. So I begged and pleaded and on some occasions I sang Craig David's seminal classic "What's your flava?" in a bid to inspire them. Incidentally have you noticed how that's being featured on the walkers advert? For shame.



The answers came thick and fast when I promised anonymity. Many of the adjectives described physical attributes. I don't know if this is because I have incredibly shallow friends or if it's the way I worded the question.

When I challenged those who just gave physical attributes they seem unabashed. As if it hadn't occurred to them that personality may be an issue. Case in point Georgia Salpa.

The most popular attribute that wasn't regarding physical appearance was humour. The ladies love a tall good looking man who can make them laugh.

yeah I probably said" What do you mean me?" to several girls during these conversations. Oh how we laughed.

The guys weren't as specific. One person came back with simply "Living, Breathing, Female" Although does that mean she doesn't have to be conscious. Creepy.

Only one person said intelligence. That was a she.

But all in all the female of the species didn't vary that much from the male.

But like I said before perhaps I just have a cross section of vapid friends and I doubt my findings are going to have Oxbridge shaking in their well polished boots.

What I have found though is that the two most popular answers which are attractiveness and humour are incredibly subjective. So in reality I was no closer to finding a common answer. And I doubt just three words would get me any closer. It has given me a bit of leverage though.

theguyinthebowtie

is your life a sitcom?

The other day I was sat (I won't say where) contemplating about life the way that one does when they're on the loo.

It was at this point I realised that I have few years left in my life plan to fulfil a certain aspect of it. Yes I have life plan. And... You're not surprised.

This life plan was made at the tender age of 16 and it clearly stipulated that by the age of 27 my life would look a lot like this:



Although I'm nowhere closer to achieving living in the Big Apple with some very good looking friends and David Schwimmer. I did think that if someone stripped away the fourth wall of my lounge and placed a studio audience there: how many of the sitcom rules would I fulfil.

I know, totally post modern right?

So here are the rules:

The first and foremost is having a tight circle of friends. That's a given.

Preferably they should be good looking.

I don't make the rules I just write about them.

A tight circle of friends provides the tapestry for your sitcom. It gives you four or five varying personalities. Sometimes you piss each other off but most of the time you take the piss out of each other. Most importantly you find yourselves incredibly hilarious in the most normal of situations. Oh and I don't think it's a coincidence that family remains somewhat peripheral in all the good sitcoms.

On a side note it's helpful to have a loveable douche in your gang.



Secondly there has to be an element of love. Unrequited or the other kind.

Is that called requited?

Anyway ideally this is the kind of love that you're willing to chase through an airport for whilst something like The Guillemots "Made up Love Song #43" plays as you pound a city pavement.



Or you know something less specific.

I said it before and I'll say it again: "will they won't they's" are TV gold



Thirdly your environment has to be a character itself. If you're lacking a relatable or dynamic environment. Your life ain't no sitcom. #doublenegation

Cities help. Then on the behind the scenes commentary you can talk about how the city was like an additional character. I'm told people love this.

Rule number four is not so much a rule but adventures in life as well as sitcoms help.

Remember that time when? I know. Innit. Yeah. LOL.

See.


Road trips are easy solutions. But the audience is fickle and remember they like familiarity.



As I mentioned music is a massive, integral part to your sitcom life. *Turns down Alexandra Burke's "Elephant"*. It lets you know when you're about to be heartbroken.

Or it just plain cheers you up...it's a key signifier and can map out your past.

Sometime I like to pretend that my keyboard is a piano.

So is your job a joke? Are you broke and is your love life D.O.A.?


theguyinthebowtie

rep.

This time last week a very eloquent blogger by the name of @pipogypopotamus wrote a blog about how he felt "My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding" was detrimental to the Romany Culture he belongs to.

The press sat up and took notice.

Being a part of a minority makes you somewhat territorial over your culture and rightly so. Therefore when part of your culture is represented on television in a bid to entertain rather than inform you can be left with a sour taste in your mouth.
Ask anyone in their 20s and over, of an ethnic minority and they will recall a landmark time when someone of their ethnicity appeared on TV.

It can mean that much.

You may doubt that anyone in their 20s would remember such an event but the annual circus that is Big Brother brought in characters from all walks of life and it wasn't long before the kids in school regaled you with what General Achmed was doing and in what way it related to your life.

So how do these people you have never met become some sort of representative for you? Even if they are barely a shadow of what your day to day life entails?

Are we dividing our society or are we beginning to acknowledge the different parts of it?

That's why it's with great trepidation I approach "Make Bradford British". But I promise to keep an open mind until I've watched more than the just the trailer.



And it's not just reality contestants that somehow become representatives of you.
I have fond memories of when Goodness Gracious Me appeared on TV. It felt like a comedy about the British and Asians and rather than just British Asians being the punch line; we were laughing along. But tastes in television can change and it seems that now more than ever the more extreme a character or a story the more likely it is to be on TV.

Mr Khan has become somewhat of a YouTube hit and at the risk of sounding like the Daily Mail, I'm dreading the release of his sitcom; Mr Khan Community Leader. A primetime BBC sitcom that's about to be launched. It feels like a bad pastiche of British Asian life and something that's going to be detrimental in the long run.



Generalisations can also happen in drama and even though I joke about it now, people have genuinely asked me how my life compared to East is East. Would you get an arranged marriage? Do you get to meet them before you marry them? All questions that I have been asked within the last year.

I'm not offended by it but it amazes me how people think that a film set in 1960s Salford about a mixed raced family is an insight into my life as a British Pakistani in 2012. But when the dog jumps on the woman that bit is #barehilair.

"It's not fair cuz I love curry an' all".

But that's the lighter side. In the last decade society has turned their spotlight towards the British Pakistani culture and asked us to root out the dark elements. It's something that we have to do. We have to understand why these things are happening in our culture. Documentaries have monopolised on this and it feels like almost every week we have a variety of extreme programmes on TV. But I genuinely feel that often it's a case of sweeping generalisations and one sided arguments which can cause greater damage and runs the risk of isolating those parts of our society.
They say these things work in cycles and perhaps the Backlash for Big Fat Gypsy Weddings has begun. I recently took great offence towards "Exposed: Groomed for Sex" on BBC 3 which whilst looking at a serious issue manipulated the facts in a bid to get those sensationalised moments that would great sound bites.

You can watch that here.

So a more serious blog than usual, but once again props to @pipogypopotamus for making a stand.

theguyinthebowtie

the rules of the bromance

I'm about as educated on the Bromance as Gillian McKeith is a doctor.

I'm just not a typical "bloke". I once tried to kill a millipede armed with some hand wash. But I think that's another blog.

The Bromance is a sacred union between two guys although that's sounds a lot like a civil partnership. But if you saw my brother Adnan and his best mate Chris it'd probably be an accurate description.

On a side note girls can NEVER be your bro, bro.


Maybe I am the only person who had a lif affirming moment during "I love you, man". But recently things have turned out more...bromantical. Although I imagine things will sour after they read this blog.

Here are the 5 rules of the Bromance I have pieced together from movies and the Jersey Shore.

1) What happens on a man date stays on a man date

Under no circumstances can details of an "MVP" night out be relayed to anyone outside your circle of friends. You'll be surprised how quickly escapades of Kansas chicken brawls can go viral...

2) Physical Contact is only allowed at the beginning and/or end of the night.

This should go without saying but it's better to be safe than sorry. The man shakes/hug and at the beginning or end of the night is the only true physical contact allowed. Followed by the patented "Didn't we have a good night?" man hug at the end of the night. Details can be found here.

3) Crying is allowed...but cannot be acknowledged by anyone present.

If your Bro is broken hearted and starts crying; the general consensus is a pat on the back and a sharp exit so he can cry to Drake without any judgement. You can never mention the tears again but can interchange it with expressions such as "he was cut up".

4) It is completely okay to share the same bed with that other person if no other suitable sleeping locations.

I'm not going to get into this. But suffice to say I have elbowed my actual brother in the face and pretended to be asleep. We've all been there, right?

5) Being the Wingman

I'm terrible at this. I've been known to interrupt moments of "chirpsing" when a great track drops. But you need your bros when you throw your hands up in the air sometimes
Saying AYO!

Ahem. Soz bruv.



theguyinthebowtie