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Another step in the right direction: The Pontefract 10k 2024

Sometimes life’s just not fair. When I first looked at the projected weather forecast, 5 days prior to this race, it told me that it would be relatively cool and that there might even be a chance of light rain. So, in many ways ideal conditions for running. But as the day got closer the forecast changed and Sunday brought temperatures in the 20s and no cloud cover. Just what I would have wanted to avoid!

A year ago, the Pontefract 10k was my first race after having surgery to have a pacemaker fitted. Obviously, it brought its own challenges and in the end I was happy to finish in just under an hour. This year, with a lot more runs under my belt – albeit often taking two steps forward to then take two or three back – I was hopeful of a much better time. And then the hot weather decided to put in an appearance.

Last year’s race was meant to be the final one ever, but then late last year someone told me that Pontefract was on again and following a quick online search I found myself entering once more. I’ve ran this race for the last four years now and absolutely love it. There’s always a friendly, welcoming atmosphere, it’s well organised and despite the undulations of the course (so many hills!), it’s just a really enjoyable run.

I do feel a little bit guilty about doing runs like this. In the grand scheme of things it’s not that long ago that I was collapsing in front of my family and scaring the life out of them, so insisting on running these races might be a bit much. However, they in turn insist on coming with me and I know they’ll spend the time between seeing me start and seeing me finish worrying, but at least they can hopefully see that I’m getting stronger and stronger. However we all feel, I’m very grateful for their love and support and it’s always a boost when I see them near the end. Or hear them before I see them as is often the case!

We arrived early this year as we had to pick up my race number, but despite my fears of an enormous queue, it only took a minute or so to sort out. So we found a sunny spot and stood chatting in the sun for a while, with me doing the occasional bit of half-hearted stretching. All the while, at the back of my mind was the thought of exactly how hot it was going to be out on the run, meaning that my usual pre-race nerves were ramped right up.

Before I knew it though, we were shuffling forward and a local DJ was counting us down. And then, we were off! I gave a quick last wave to my family and began to run and gather my thoughts.

Pontefract starts with a long, long hill and every year I have to concentrate hard to pace myself as otherwise I go too fast and then suffer for it in the middle of the race. Today though, I’m still shaking off a bit of a cold and so as a consequence I’m running fairly steadily and hoping that it’ll pay off towards the end when I can really up my pace. Fingers crossed! Even this early though, my mouth was beyond dry, so while I’d half-heartedly told myself that I could run about 51 minutes, the heat was going to make that a tough ask.

Pontefract is a lovely run. It’s largely rural, so for most of the race you’re in the middle of the countryside and I used that a bit today in order to try and forget about the heat. The one problem with this rural landscape is that the chances to run in the shade are few and far between and so while I was slowly baking I tried to take my mind off things by taking in the views. I was kidding myself if I thought it was really going to work though and it wasn’t overly long before the heat was beginning to take its toll.

However, by around the halfway point I had ran for 25 minutes, meaning that a reasonably quick run was in sight. But oh, those pesky hills! There are a number of steep climbs on the way back towards the finish and so, combined with the heat, the second half of the race began to feel quite brutal quite quickly.

I kept checking my watch for both speed and distance covered and stayed really focused, even though I was slowing down with every climb. And then as we reached a hydration point I completely lost focus and slowed right down while trying to grab a bottle of water and then take a few big gulps without throwing the whole thing down myself. It was only when I threw the bottle to one side that I realised that I was jogging and that I should have tipped the remaining water over my head!

As we got close to the finish two things happened – firstly, I could feel a numbness in my wrist and left hand as my hands swelled up (again) in the heat. Off putting to say the least! Secondly though, I managed to find a last bit of energy in order to speed up significantly for the last mile.

As I turned into the final straight before the finish line I just decided to sprint. I knew that my time wasn’t going to be exactly what I’d been aiming for, but I was still well inside the 55 minutes that I’d told my son to expect for me. My legs were like jelly and I was far too hot, but I managed to pass a couple of people before just about staggering over the line!

It’s always a weird feeling finishing a race. I got a little bit emotional after this one last year as it had been the first race since my pacemaker and I was genuinely a little scared about doing it. At other times I’ll feel fairly fresh and be able to wander through the finish enclosure smiling and looking halfway alive still. Today, I revert to what is more or less type for me; shattered. I know I must look an old vagrant and like I might just fall over, but I don’t much care. I’ve done it and I’ve got a huge grin on my face.

So now it’s back to training for me. I’ll have a look at whether there are any other races to enter in the coming months, but in the meantime life outside of work and family will just be about running and recovering. I’m still fully aware that I’ve had a major scare and with the reasoning being that the fitter I am, the stronger I am, it’s just about more of the same.

I’m still here, I’m still able to run and I remind myself of this kind of thing every day! So however shattered I might feel after something like this, it’s still something to smile about.

Running: As Spring heads into Summer, here’s a cautionary tale.

I’ve labelled this as a running blog, but with the weather beginning to heat up, I guess it’s just a cautionary tale for lots of us, really.

On Friday I went out for my usual after work run. I’m currently training for an upcoming 10k and so had hoped to run the same distance, just to see how it felt. However, even as I went out at just before 6pm, it was still 24 degrees, which is hot for us northerners. It would have been hot to sit in, but I chose to go for a run!

It was an absolutely beautiful evening. The sun was shining in a lovely blue sky and there wasn’t much of a breeze. But it didn’t take long for me to realise that this was going to be a bit of a struggle.

After a couple of miles, while I wasn’t struggling, I was uncomfortable. The heat meant that I was losing my focus and in turn I was thinking about the fact that I was too warm, too thirsty and beginning to feel tired. I had also begun to fuss about little things; my right trainer didn’t feel tight enough and this was beginning to really bug me, so I had to focus again quickly. I began to think about my route and also to give myself short term goals like quickening my pace or dropping my shoulders a bit or even just counting my steps to retain concentration.

It didn’t work. In the end I got my mileage all wrong. First, I got confused between two routes and took a wrong turning, believing that I had enough route left to comfortably manage the 10k without having to run up a ridiculous hill for the final half mile. Then, having checked my watch a few times, I misread how far I’d gone. The heat befuddled my brain enough that I couldn’t add up anymore and a while later was dismayed to find that I’d only done 4 miles when I thought I’d have covered 5! I knew then that managing a 10k was going to be difficult.

But things got worse. As I got closer to home I realised that my left hand was feeling a bit numb. Now, as a heart patient, any left sided action (pain, numbness etc) can leave you panicking. Something about it didn’t feel right and I was quite concerned. I kept on running though and as I did I realised that my watch felt too tight on my wrist. So, with a little difficulty. I loosened it off. But this still didn’t solve the numbness.

Slightly later and closer to the end of my run I noticed that my hands looked swollen. On closer inspection my wedding ring felt absurdly tight and as a man with thin, girly fingers this was a bit of a surprise! My hands and wrists had swollen right up and I can only put it down to being far too hot. Needless to say, after just short of 6 miles and with a big hill to come before I’d hit home, I stopped, rather than risking reaching boiling point!

When I eventually made it home my hands were still so swollen that I had to just stand with them in a sink of ice cold water for a good 10 minutes, while occasionally taking them out in order to drink more water. Despite trying to run in shade I’d put myself in real danger.

As I said, it’s a cautionary tale. And so, I’ll end with a bit of common sense advice (which I failed to adhere too because I clearly lack common sense). If you’re out for a run in the heat you’d be wise to…

Hydrate properly. Drink enough beforehand and maybe take some with you. And when you finish, drink copious amounts of water!
Maybe wear a hat, regardless of how gormless you think you’ll look. It’s still a better look than swollen hands or ending up flat on your back on a pavement somewhere.
Find the shade. Run in as much of it as you can manage.
Wear some suncream or sun block.
Make sure that you warm down and stretch properly once your exercise is over with.
And if your hands swell up so that you look like someone holding a couple of red balloon animals, get them in some water as quickly as possible!

Enjoy the warmer weather!

NUFC: Ten Things to Love About Bruno.

As we approach the end of another Premier League season rumours seem to be intesifying about Bruno Guimaraes. Across every type of media there seems to be almost a desperate push for the move. Whether it be Manchester City or Arsenal, PSG or Real Madrid, someone somewhere seems to think that Bruno is better off elsewhere.

We could go on and on about why, but that’s not the point of this piece. Southern based press, conspiracy theories and all that can wait. People seem to think that Bruno needs to leave but I’m guessing the vast majority of Newcastle fans would disagree.

Bruno Guimaraes joined Newcastle in January of 2022 from Lyon at a cost believed to be in the region of £36 million. He wasn’t quite an instant hit as Eddie Howe held him back in order to properly acclimatise to the rigours of the Premier League. Instead, he would come on as a sub in a number of games before finally making his full debut away at Southampton. And what a debut! It was in this game that Bruno scored his first Toon goal – an outrageous back heeled volley from a Dan Burn header across goal, right in front of the travelling fans. A star was born!

It’s fair to say that the love affair started that evening and has moved on at pace ever since. Bruno fell for us and we returned his feelings ten fold. In fact, you could say that we love Bruno almost as much as he loves Joelinton. The bastard (more of that later, if you didn’t understand).

For me, Bruno is easily one of the best central midfielders I’ve seen in over 40 years of supporting Newcastle. I can look back on a lot, but without thinking too deeply would struggle to come up with many to rival Guimaraes. Gazza, Robert Lee, Gary Speed and Yohan Cabaye spring straight to mind, but after that I’m reaching a bit. I mean, when you were raised on a diet of players like Kevin Dillon, John Trewick, Pat Heard and Amdy Faye, midfielders begin to stand out for all the wrong reasons.

But comparisons are not what this is about. Rather than ramble and confirm what we all already know (he’s dead good at football), I thought I’d give you ten reasons why I (and probably a lot of us) love Bruno.

He just strikes me as a cracking lad. Bruno and family just make for a lovely story. His kids are Geordies and his wife seems very happy with the whole set up. Bruno seems to have time for everyone; a ready smile and a willingness to immerse himself in the city and the region.
He’s a current Brazilian international. Ever since I watched the Brazil team in the 1982 World Cup and heard about their 1970 side, I’ve been a little bit in love with their footballers. Apart from Fumaca, of course. He was shite. But the fact that Bruno gets in that side is a hell of a yardstick of his quality and I like that being part of Newcastle United.
His kids are Geordies and Bruno seems to be very proud of that fact and of just being able to be a part of our culture. For a lad to come halfway around the world and be obviously so in tune with this kind of pride is just wonderful. Imagine Mbappe, Ronaldo or many other so called superstars being the same. You can’t, can you?
His nickname/pet name for Joelinton just seems to be ‘bastard’. Much like Mirandinha being taught swearing by Gazza back in the 80s, someone has clearly got to Bruno! And Bruno seems to love it!
His celebrations. For a lot of us fans, football is about passion and joy. Bruno echoes that as a player. Whether he’s climbing on to advertising hoardings, doing little dances, kissing the badge, telling various people he loves them or just hoisting up a corner flag, Bruno seems to have something for every occasion. And he clearly revels in expressing that joy. So much so, in fact that there are occasion where he scores and gives us about 5 different layers of celebration! Remember the knee slide at Southampton away, remember the stripping off against Leicester at home, remember the flag waving at home to Sheffield Utd! There’s lots to love.
His laugh. If you’ve watched him on any of the club’s videos you’ll have heard that high pitched laugh. It always raises a smile and is just another sign of Bruno being a bloke who just loves life.
He’s ridiculously uncoordinated, yet still a brilliant footballer. I’ve seen Bruno play darts and I’m sure I’ve watched a video of him riding a bike or a scooter or a skateboard. He was shocking at all of it! It’s one of those little quirks that we can’t fail to like. Pu a ball at his feet though…different story.
His dad. Never before have I shown such an interest in Dick. The man behind the number 39 has become a part of the whole story of these last two and a bit years. Whether he’s accompanying his son and his family while they get interviewed or joining in with the singing in the pub or on the concourse at an away game, the man has become an unlikely star. None of us would have realised that Bruno’s arrival would lead to us loving Dick too…
His passing. I’m guessing we’re all fans of the outside of the boot pass that Bruno has, especially when it comes off. There was a notable one against Luton at home this year that led to Kieran Trippier’s goal. Bruno also does a nice line in ‘no look’ passes, with a one in to Miggy against Wolves a particular peach. The other one that springs to mind is a pass that I don’t have a name for, possibly because I don’t play FIFA. However, it’s a pass that almost looks like he’s scuffed it, almost a scoop. He seems to pretty much miss hit the ball, like he’s trying to dig it out of the turf and it’s quite a common pass that he makes. Teenagers might tell me it’s a knuckle ball, but I don’t know. Anyway, it’s a passing style that I like in amongst a range that I’m a big admirer of.
VAMOOOOOOOS! None of us are surely going to tire of that any time soon.

For me, it’s essential that we keep Bruno. For all the talk of that £100m clause, he’s worth much more to the club and the team. The goals, the showmanship, the clinical passes, even the run of games he went on this season to avoid that crucial yellow card are all illustrative of just how integral Bruno Guimaraes has become at Newcastle United.

Talk of him leaving feels ridiculous. Release clause or not, there shouldn’t be a valid reason to sell Wor Bruno!

Book Review: The Garbage King by Elizabeth Laird

The Garbage King is a story that’s largely aimed at kids, probably from Year 6 upwards. However, a good story is a good story, no matter who it’s aimed at. I stumbled upon it when I was looking for ideas for my reluctant reader son to try and thus, having read only good things about the book, I decided to give it a go myself!

The Garbage King tells the story of street children in Ethiopia and helps us to understand that regardless of their background, children are essentially very vulnerable and that anything can happen to any of them. Such is the case with Dani and Mamo, two kids from opposite ends of the social scale who end up on the street together.

After a harrowing episode in his early life where he’s sold to a rural family as a slave, Dani escapes back to Addis Ababa and begins his life on the streets. So far, life has been brutal and painful for Dani and the streets of Ethiopia’s capital don’t make things any better.

Meanwhile, across town Mamo lives in a lovely house in a quiet, exclusive area. He has the trappings of a wealthy family, but is failing in school and his strict father is not impressed. Fearing his fate when his lack of academic progress is revealed, he decides that there’s only one thing for it; to run away. Before he knows it he too is living on the streets. But while one boy relies on his wits and guile to stay alive, the other is a sitting duck. And then a chance encounter between the two boys changes both of their lives.

The Garbage King is an excellent read. Elizabeth Laird gives the reader a brilliant, and I have to assume authentic view, of life on the streets of Addis Ababa. Certainly, as I was reading I felt like I could easily imagine what it looked like as well as hearing the sounds of the city and even being able to imagine the smell of some of the food being described. It was clearly not the kind of hustle and bustle that would be safe for a child though.

Danger seems to lie at every corner of Laird’s Addis Ababa, making The Garbage King a tense read at times. As a reader, there’s a genuine sense of fear for both of the boys, but especially the naïve Mamo. Luckily though, he has Dani to look out for him, so although life is now distinctly uncomfortable, there’s slightly less immediate danger.

There are twists and turns to The Garbage King, making it a real page turner at times. As poor Mamo lies freezing at night, too terrified to sleep, it made me think of my own son and how frightened I’d be if he happened to find himself in a similar situation. It’s bad enough when he’s out camping!

Laird’s characters are fantastically written. We’re onside with Dani from the very start of the novel. Life is tough for him, but he doesn’t complain. In fact, he shows guts and determination in order to get out of the initial situation that he finds himself in and when he’s finally made safe by the kindness of a stranger, we feel happy for him. He’s bright and likeable and so when fate deals him a losing hand, we’re willing things to get better. And when the various dangers of life on the busy city streets catch up with him, we’re desperate for him to stay safe.

As the novel rolls on the boys find their feet on the streets. As there’s safety in numbers, they fall in with a small gang, but danger and misfortune is still never far away. For now though, life is a lot better than it could have been had they not seen off a few of the predators that lurk in the shadows. Ultimately though, both boys just want life to return to some sort of normality

Will Dani ever see his sister again? Will Mamo be able to return home to his strict father? Well, you’ll have to read and find out!

I give ‘The Garbage King’…

Poetry Blog: Blackbirds

This is a poem I wrote about a scene I watched from my kitchen window while doing the dishes. It was on a recent Spring evening, just as the sun was beginning to dip behind the trees. It had been a sunny day and crucially, I’d just cut the grass earlier that day.

I looked up to see a couple of blackbirds, which on closer inspection I could see were a male and a female. So, channeling my inner Cilla Black (one for older readers there and an old TV matchmaker if you don’t know) I immediately placed them together. Man and wife, if you like. A mam and dad, probably, foraging for food for their newborn Spring chicks. The birds love it when the grass has been cut; I’m not entirely sure why.

The fact that they were at opposite ends of the garden and that their movements were both graceful and jerky, yet obviously on the same wavelength reminded me of dancers in a ballroom. It was something I remembered days later when I had the time to start drafting the poem. Here it is.

Blackbirds

The lights dim and a sultry dance begins
in the garden ballroom,
tentative at first, but gaining pace and rhythm as the minutes pass.
Trees sway and rustle in the evening breeze,
an audience inspired to move,
adding occasional ripples of polite applause
as our pairing settle to a tantalising flirtation, 
at first far apart, yet soon together tripping the light fantastic,
their dark figures striking a pose,
drawing ever closer with each beat of the dying sun
and as the light sighs its last
this dance will reach collapse
and these two distant partners,
now nestled close, will return to the humdrum beat
of their something else, their everyday
a life away from this brief, glamorous scene
until time and hunger dictates they should do it all again.

The idea with the poem was to use an extended metaphor of a ballroom and a pair of dancers to describe what was essentially two blackbirds out getting food. It was the way they moved, almost in tandem, that inspired the idea of the ‘sultry dance’ in the ‘garden ballroom’ and then it became a challenge to add as many dance references as I could so that a poem was formed.

It’s the second time I’ve written about blackbirds as I like to watch them in the garden. They can be quite territorial and there have been several occasions when one has flown way too close, squawking at me as if to warn me off. I don’t think they understand the idea of home ownership! Anyway, maybe somehow they’ll sense that I’m writing about them and make me the honorary president of their fanclub!

I quite like this poem. I’d have liked to spend more time drafting, but given time constraints – I’m a busy boy at the minute – I’m quite pleased with how it turned out. Maybe it’s one I’ll return to in time. I hope you like it too though!

The Apprentice: Here comes the final!

So, after what feels like a lifetime chock full of business tasks fuelled by a combination of bizarre decisions and downright ineptitude, we’re mere hours away from another Apprentice finale. And even though I don’t feel that I’ve been as invested in the candidates as I might have been in previous years, I cannot wait!

This year’s finalists are gym owner Rachel Woolford and pie company boss Phil Turner. And it’s anyone’s guess who’ll win out. Unless you’re Lord Sugar of course, who I reckon won’t just guess who he gives £250,000 to.

Even in the interviews it felt like a bit of a lottery in terms of who would make the final. However, once it emerged that Tre didn’t have a business plan or really, a product and that Paul had chosen the wrong plan and that you or I knew just about as much as he did about scrubs, then the field was kind of narrowed down. In fact, given what happened in this year’s interview episode, I’m considering just turning up myself next year with some ideas scrawled down on a crumpled piece of paper titled, ‘Why I need Lord Sugar’s £250,000′ by Graham aged 53. I reckon I’d still have a bit of a chance of making the final.

Of the two finalists, it’s perhaps inevitable that we might look on Rachel as the favourite. Not only has she shown a fair amount of business acumen, hard work and determination throughout the series, but she’s up against Phil! Phil! The very same Phil who lost all of the first 9 tasks and seemed to be in the boardroom fighting for his life every other week. But then again, he’s in the final for a reason. We have to presume that Lord Sugar and his people have spotted something in him, surely. None of us has much idea what it might be though!

Last week, Phil added to his Apprentice legacy by revealing in the interviews that he hasn’t seen a set of accounts for his business for about a decade. OK, I’m exaggerating there, but the bloke literally sat and told scary Mike Soutar that he hadn’t seen his accounts for a couple of years. I’m no business viking (as no doubt someone must have referred to themselves over the years), but that feels like me not looking at the fuel gauge in my car for a fortnight and just hoping that I’ll keep getting to where I’m going.

Both candidates seem to have successful businesses and both just want to make them bigger. Fair enough. Rachel wants more gyms – and while we continue to obsess over how we look on social media then we’ll always need more gyms! I mean, where else would the country’s vain halfwits find mirrors big enough to pose in?

Phil, on the other hand, wants to expand his pie business after admitting that he didn’t have the vision to take it any further. And after he made a truffle flavoured vegan cheese that didn’t really taste of truffle…or cheese for that matter, in the last task, you can possibly see why he thinks he lacks vision I suppose.

Conspiracy theorists will have you believe that Phil is being set up to win. I mean, I certainly can’t remember a series where someone failed so spectacularly every week and then still made the final. Some have also pointed to the fact that in his win or bust task – the vegan cheese one – he was given the strongest of the other candidates on his team. But then, some of these people probably still think that the Earth is flat.

So, get yourselves set for an exciting final. There’s no clear favourite, but definitely an underdog. But, with the help of some, if not all of the other candidates from the series, there will be one last task to get through before Lord Sugar decides who he’s going to invest in. And of course, there’s my favourite bit of all; where the two successful candidates have to walk into the room for their pitch, usually down one of the longest walkways or staircases in the modern world. It has to be one of the most awkward TV moments of the year and every year a little bit of is secretly hoping for a trip!

The Apprentice 2024 Final. Can’t wait!

Gallowgate Cult Heroes: number 7, Hatem Ben Arfa

Every once in a while, whoever you might support, a player arrives at your club and changes everything. The rules are thrown out of the window, the script torn up and the unpredictable becomes a part of your weekly diet. These players are just…different. Mavericks, renegades, geniuses, ballers, call them what you want, we’ve all had at least a couple over the years.

Hatem Ben Arfa was very much a maverick and for a short time he changed what we thought was possible from a player wearing the black and white stripes and gave everyone who watched him a chance to rub their eyes and wonder if what they’d just witnessed had really happened. His time lacked consistency and even a decent ending, but he left us with a ton of amazing memories.

Ben Arfa was signed in August 2010, from Marseille, initially on loan. It became evident quite quickly that we’d signed someone pretty special. There were flashes of inspirational skill, even though it took the player a while to find his feet. But find his feet he did when we played Everton away in the September of that season. As the half was coming to an uneventful close he took a pass to feet from Wayne Routledge. He then ignored the winger’s overlapping run, preferring – shock horror – to keep hold of the ball. At first he seemed unsure of what to do, but then, having turned this way and that, he faced up his marker, swerved to the left and hit an unstoppable shot from about 25 yards into the far corner of the net. A star was born.

Sadly, less than a month later, Ben Arfa’s season was over when he was the victim of a shocking tackle from Nigel de Jong in our game away at Man City. A broken tibia and fibia would mean that we wouldn’t see Hatem in a black and white shirt for another year.

Perhaps understandably after such a massive injury. Ben Arfa’s second season started rather quietly and he failed to really dominate games at first. However, he would really make his mark in January of 2012.

For those in attendance, Ben Arfa’s goal against Blackburn in the FA Cup may well go down as one of the greatest goals we’ll have witnessed live. As he received the ball in midfield there were three defenders in close attendance. But still, he turned and ran at them. It felt like fraction of a second before he was in the box at the Gallowgate end and despite what felt like half of Rover’s defence surrounding him, Ben Arfa continued to wriggle through. Finally, with opposition defenders pretty much surrounding him, he managed to drag the ball back onto his left foot and hammer it high into the net from the edge of the six yard box.

I’d seen plenty of players who could dribble over the years, but Ben Arfa felt different. Yes, he was inconsistent, but at times it felt like he had the ball on a string. The goal against Blackburn was very much one of these occasions.

Ben Arfa briefly lit up the Mike Ashley years. It felt like an un-Ashley type signing when we got him. He came with a reputation as a little bit of a trouble maker and was said to be on strike when we took him from Marseille. Subsequent years and multiple clubs would prove this to be the case. Why else would Marseille be letting him go out on loan? And yet, perhaps with re-sale pound signs in his eyes, Ashley sanctioned the signing and Hatem became an integral part of the team that also contained Coloccini, Cabaye, Tiote, Gutierrez, Cisse and Ba and would go on to finish 5th in the Premier League.

But, having fallen out with teammates and management left, right and centre at both Lyon and Marseille the writing was surely on the wall from the moment he signed.

Hatem was one of those players who created a buzz. Whenever he got the ball there was an expectancy that something was about to happen. It became apparent that Hatem himself didn’t always know what that something was, but he was tremendously exciting and frustrating in equal measure. Often, when he should have passed he went off on some fruitless solo endeavour, but then there were times when, just as it looked like he’d lost possession, he’d somehow create a yard of space and do something breathtakingly brilliant.

For me, he had a little bit of a Jack Grealish quality, in that he was just as likely to slow play down and turn back with the ball than he was to produce a moment of magic. But in his time at the Toon, we lived for that magic!

Ben Arfa though, will always be remembered for one moment; that goal against Bolton. He took the ball from Yohan Cabaye fairly deep in his own half, but what came next took the breath away. An outrageous flick and turn took him past his marker who was left flailing around on the turf. Then it was all about power. Ben Arfa evaded a desperate tackle midway into opposition territory, somehow managing to keep his feet as his ankles were clipped. Then he just ran for goal, running through two half hearted challenges on the edge of the box before poking the ball past the onrushing keeper with the outside of his foot.

The initial turn was balletic, the drive with the ball all about brute power and speed and the finish almost an instinctive flick. If you watch it on YouTube, there’s an angle where he’s running at the camera and when he’s challenged in their half he cries out, as if he’s been hurt and might take a tumble. But it’s in the blink of an eye and rather than go over, before you know it, the ball’s in the Bolton net and the Gallowgate are up in celebration. From receiving the ball to it hitting the net took around 8 seconds and it’s something that won’t be forgotten for a long time for those that were there. What a goal. What a moment. Ben Arfa at his thrilling best.

Sadly, it wasn’t to last. Almost inevitably Hatem would clash with those in charge. Injuries would disrupt the rest of the 2011/2012 season, as well as a lot of the following year. Rumour has it that, like at other clubs, Ben Arfa fell out with his fellow players, with club captain Fabricio Collocini particularly irked by his behaviour. It’s said that Colo even went to the manager and asked for Ben Arfa to be benched for fear of a player rebellion. Once again, the Ben Arfa attitude had led to him finding himself out of favour and on the move.

There were fan protests about Ben Arfa’s absence from the squad – a Che Guevara style banner with Hatem’s face and the word Hope was regularly seen at St. James’ – and his plight become a bit of a focal point for general fan unrest at the Ashley regime and the running of the team by Pardew. He even appeared sitting with the fans for the home game against Cardiff that year. When Ben Arfa was finally loaned to Hull City, his career with the Toon was over. We would never truly see the man at the peak of his powers.

Ben Arfa’s time at Hull was short lived – amazingly he failed to find inspiration under Steve Bruce – and eventually Newcastle terminated his contract, leaving him as a free agent. His story at Newcastle was sadly over. But his story as a footballer would have much more to come with eventful spells at Nice, PSG, Rennes, Valladolid, Bordeaux and Lille following as well as an unexpected recall to the France squad. But at almost every turn, there was controversy and conflict and at present he remains a free agent.

Overall Ben Arfa made 86 appearances for Newcastle scoring 14 goals, and he never really fulfilled his potential. Still though, there can’t be many of us who wouldn’t have a goal from Hatem in their Top 10 Toon goals of all time.

As you’d expect though, there is one final twist in the Ben Arfa tale. What is he doing now? Not content with waiting things out and looking at finding another club, Hatem was last heard of as embarking on a career as a professional padel tennis player and was reported to be ranked in the top 1500 players in the world!

Never a dull moment, eh?

Book Review: The Runner by Markus Torgeby.

As a young man, Markus Torgeby quickly grew disaffected by a lot of what the world around him had to offer. He knew that society’s expectations were not for him. Despite being a talented runner though, he sensed that pursuing this as any kind of career was not going to work. Too often, injury or just not being in the right mindset got in the way of any kind of competitive edge. As he says himself at the start of the book, “My head was full of dark thoughts. I didn’t know what to do. I had to rethink what it was I really wanted, I had to find a way out of that well.”

What Markus did next – which is documented in the book – seems both astonishing and really quite wonderful.

‘The Runner’ is an international best seller and tells the tale of one man and his quest to find contentment. In short, Torgeby headed up into the Swedish wilderness to live in a tent and dedicate himself to a more simple life, where money didn’t matter, but running most certainly did.

It’s an amazing true life tale, beginning in Jamtland, northern Sweden where the temperature is -22 and Markus is the only person for miles around. This is where he escapes the norms of society, pitching his tent and living among nature complete with enormous amounts of snow, elk and even the threat of bears.

As you’d imagine from the title, running is very much central to Torgeby’s existence. When he vows to run every day, he means it and nothing will stop him, be that extreme weather conditions, injury or mental health issues. Torgeby isn’t just testing his fitness – he’s pitting himself against both the most extreme elements and also just the odds.

Running is where Markus is at peace and I have to say that resonated with me, as I’m sure it would with many runners. The only difference would be – and it’s a seismic difference – that while the majority of us are running around the civilised, normal streets or trails near where we live, Markus Torgeby is running around in one of the most isolated, northernmost territories on the planet! There are threats to life almost with every step he takes. This is not the tale of an everyday runner, despite the fact that he runs every day!

‘The Runner’ is actually really well written and Torgeby rarely shies away from telling us exactly how he’s feeling or what he thinks of the world, even if it can be uncomfortable to read at times. His blunt honesty is one of the most positive features of the book and it’s hard not to be impressed by Torgeby’s principles and way of life.

And then there’s the sheer courage of it all. As someone who rarely takes much in the way of risks, ‘The Runner’ makes for an absolutely fascinating read. Torgeby leaves home to live his life his way when he’s barely much more than a child. And yet, his lifestyle choice is utterly remarkable, especially when you know that he is burdened by the thought of his mother’s suffering, back at home. She suffers with MS and some of the most beautiful passages in the book revolve around her relationship with her son, as he cares for her and helps to make sure that she is still able to experience the wonder of the world around her.

After four years of living in his tent in the wilderness, Markus begins to come to terms with the world around him and the contentment that follows – I won’t spoil what that consists of – gives us a bit of a happy ending.

Part of me felt jealous of Torgeby while reading the book and I questioned some of my early adult decisions in life. It’s funny how something like this can take us back and make us more self critical. Ultimately though, at the age when Markus left home for the wilderness I was probably barely able to cook for myself, let alone live in a tent in some of the most unforgiving territory on the planet, so I was able to give myself a break after all!

Whether you’re a runner, health freak, someone with an adventurous spirit or none of those things, this book is a great read. For me personally, it was interesting to see that I had things in common with the writer and that we shared such a love of running. Ultimately though, if you like an interesting take on life or just enjoy learning about some of the bolder ways to live, then you’ll enjoy this book.

I give ‘The Runner’ by Markus Torgeby

Poetry Blog: ‘Willow’

It’s the Easter holidays and as I’ve got some time on my hands I decided to sit down and try and write something for the blog. Other commitments have been getting in the way of late and so my blog has been very much neglected.

So, with not a lot in mind to write about, I thought I’d trawl through some notebooks and accompanying scraps of paper in order to see what poetry I have knocking about. It turns out that there are quite a few that have either been started or simply finished and then just left and so, after quite a bit of reading I decided to add this one to the blog. It brings back a lot of memories and I really like it.

Willow

As the spots of rain get heavier 
and begin to change the colour of the roads
and pavements around,
you scramble for the familiar shelter
of the giant old weeping willow.

Everyone is out, the house locked up,
but you chose friends, football and 
the top of the hill Wembley of a pub car park
over the visit to family,
and now that team mates have chosen bricks and mortar for cover,
solitude in nature is forced upon you.

A mass of leaves and sagging branches provide ample sanctuary,
so you position yourself so not to be seen
from either road or the neighbour's house,
shift your knees up to your chest and enjoy this place
where there is no shouting, no conflict and
no storm of any kind.

The willow tree in question here is the one that we had in the garden of my childhood home. Everyone else regarded it as a nuisance because of its sheer size and mass of leaves that would be shed in autumn and litter the surrounding area, but I loved it.

I’d play in it as a small child, inventing games and characters and swinging on those branches. As I got older it became somewhere to hide and just be on my own, away from what I remember now, rightly or wrongly, as a lot of shouting and anger in our house. Sometimes, as in the poem, it was just a convenient shelter of a different kind as the rain just didn’t seem to get through it. As I got older, I’d often stay at home when my parents went across to see family, but would rarely remember to take a key. These things got forgotten when there was a game of football about to start! And so, I’d end up just sitting under the tree to escape the elements.

In later years, after we had moved out, the tree was cut down. I still kind of miss it to this day.

Spring, where the first cut is the deepest, noisiest and the smelliest!

Well, it would appear that we’re well and truly right in the throes of Spring! The weather is largely warming up – although we stood out in hail while volunteering at ParkRun this weekend – and the days are getting lighter all round. There’s colour in the garden and I’ve also been able to get some washing out on the line, which always makes me feel a bit more optimistic about the time of year…I don’t really know why.

Today though, I thought I’d write a little bit about my morning and the sights, sounds and the feel of Spring that I got to experience. Let’s just say that none of it really stuck to the stereotypes!

So, this morning, seeing that we were going to have dry weather until early afternoon, I took the opportunity to give our back lawn its first cut of the year. It’s always an arduous job as by the time the weather is good enough, the lawn has always grown to a good few inches in length and is soaking wet, meaning that it will take hours to get through. In truth, I despise having to do it!

At this point, I’ll introduce my neighbour. Now, don’t get me wrong, he’s a lovely, well meaning elderly gentleman who’d do anything for us. He’s also very hard of hearing and loves to chat. The job of listening to him generally falls to me and believe me when I say that sometimes this can be even more arduous than cutting the lawn as he never really hears what I’m saying and has a tendency to repeat a lot of what he’s already said to me!

Anyway, having got the mower out of the shed and put it back together – it’s over 10 years old and very much on its last legs – I started to mow, kind of knowing exactly what would happen next. I was still surprised by the immediacy though!

After no more than 20 seconds of mowing I heard the click of the neighbour’s gate – one of the first sounds of spring round these parts. And when I looked up, there he was. My neighbour. He didn’t really wait for me, just set off talking. So the mowing got delayed for a while!

Our back garden is bordered by houses on both sides. My aforementioned neighbour’s garden runs parallel to ours, but on the other side, the end of two gardens back onto us. One of these neighbours has a terrible habit of clearing his throat and nose, very loudly. He seems to save it all up for the moment he sees me in the garden as well. It’s not something I hear much of through winter as I’m not outside anywhere near as much. However, this morning just as I’d reached the end of the first couple of strips of the garden, there it was. Another delightful spring sound. A wonderful hacking of the throat and nose sounding like it had been played through Glastonbury’s PA system, all the way from inside his house to the middle of my garden. And every time I stopped mowing, there it was a again! This must have gone on for about 10 minutes! So, no nightingales singing, just the sound of phlegm!

I had the wonderful Spring experience of clearing fallen blooms away too. We have an enormous camellia that gives us an abundance of huge bright pink flowers from February. It’s genuinely stunning. However, the downside is that by the time I come to cut the lawn, hundreds of flowers have fallen from the plant and litter the garden. And I get the job of having to pick them all up, as if I mow them they splatter all over the place. In turn, picking them up gives me the wonderful sensation of soaking wet flowers in my hands and also quite a few slugs, who seem to find the flowers far too good to resist. I hate anything on my hands, so this genuinely makes me feel queasy.

Later, sounds included a really annoying crow, some girls walking along the footpath that borders the back of my garden and swearing loudly and my neighbour’s wife asking if he wanted a cup of tea – she didn’t extend the offer to me. I also managed to unearth some cat poo in the long grass, before sliding through it a little later and suffering the stench of it every time I went near!

Finally, the sounds of spring reached a wonderful crescendo when my neighbour came to talk to me twice more; once to rant about the price of the new England football shirt and the modifications made to the flag of St. George on the back of it – capitalism, mate – and then to talk of something that seems to be uniquely him!

He’s a keen gardener and tends to order his plants off the internet. However, I swear that every time he does, they seem to mess up his order. And then, when he complains, the companies always seem to send him more than he needs. This isn’t just restricted to plants; he’s had plant pots too. And he always offers us his cast offs, which is nice, but even when we politely decline he just doesn’t listen and brings stuff around anyway! This happened again today, which given that we’ve only just started ‘garden season’ is quite some going! Anyway, to cut a long story short, despite turning them down we’re due to get a load of free mystery plants in a few weeks. Lord knows what we’ll do with them!

So, Spring has indeed sprung. But round these parts there’s no delightful birdsong or the smell of budding roses; no, just elderly neighbours, coughing and sniffing of Olympic proportions, wet and dirty, slug laden hands and the feeling of almost pulling a hamstring as you slide through hidden cat poo!

Reader, I hope your Spring is going better than mine!

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