Author: middleagefanclub

An English teacher for over 20 years. Huge football fan and a bloke who writes quite a bit. Average husband and tired father to two sometimes wonderful children. Runner, poet, gobshite who laughs far too much at his own jokes. No challenge should be faced without a little charm and a lot of style.

PE with Joe – how I found out that where there’s a Wicks, there’s a way.

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It seems cynical to say, but this whole Coronavirus lockdown thing has allowed me to start getting fit. And when I say fit, I mean really fit. I was fit before…for a man in my middle years anyway, but now I’m beginning to feel like some kind of middle aged superhuman! OK, that might be me getting a little bit carried away, but I’m feeling good.

It started as a reaction to the virus. As someone who is classed as being vulnerable to it, I decided early on that in order to combat the risks I’d have to stay fit. So I wasn’t going to be sitting around watching films and reading books, which had been the kind of situation I’d dreamed of for years. No, I was going to maximise my daily government sanctioned exercise window and then do as much as I possibly could around the house to be as healthy as I could be. The fitter I was, the more strength I’d have to fight whatever was going to get thrown at me.

When UK schools closed down I was subsequently given a fantastic fitness opportunity. This was the point where, with the focus on home-schooling, lots of people starting volunteering services and sharing ideas. And this was when Joe Wicks stepped into my life and began to get me and my family fitter than we’d been in years!

I was aware of Mr. Wicks before this time and had decided that he simply wasn’t for me. I have to admit that this was based largely on his appearance. As a middle aged man with a little bit of a pot belly, I found myself feeling secretly jealous of this newcomer who looked like he’d been carved out of rock and dipped in hair. As well as this, I decided that his kind of fitness simply wasn’t my thing. As a footballer and runner I was more into simply pushing myself to the limits and ending up feeling physically sick than what I saw as glorified dancing.

But then, a few years ago now I tried yoga and loved it. And so, when Joe announced that at 9am every day of lockdown he’d be putting on a half hour PE class for the nation I thought we’d give it a go. It wasn’t quite as instant a decision as that. In fact at first I just thought, ‘no way’. But then, through a combination of chatting about it with my wife and considering the fact that it’d be a way of keeping the kids busy for a while, I thought that we could at least give it a go. Now, weeks later, I’ve not missed one day since it started!

The workouts have been a pleasant surprise. Apart from some ill-fitting lycra gear – which through football and running, I already had – and a yoga mat, there’s been no need for equipment. No weights, no resistance bands, and no other bits of stuff that I actually don’t know the name of. In hindsight, I don’t know what I was imagining! I do know that I can’t be a pleasant sight however. I’m a shade short of 6ft tall and built like a telegraph pole, so clingy gym gear isn’t exactly flattering. But Joe’s enthusiasm has been the perfect counter to my paranoia!

I didn’t realise that it’d be as difficult as I found it at first. After that first day I ached in places that were unexpected to say the least. Who knew that your bum could hurt so much just by doing aerobic type stuff? And given that I’d lifted no weights, how come my arms and shoulders felt so weak all of a sudden? Or weaker than normal; it’s all relative!

What I do know is that I’m thoroughly enjoying my appointment with Joe every day. It’s tough work and gets a sweat on, but it’s a tonne of fun too. As I said, it’s difficult but as time passes I’m finding that my body doesn’t hurt so much anymore. And whatever the aches and pains I’m there every day looking for more. There’s nothing too complicated and it all comes in bursts of 30 seconds before a short rest and time for a drink of water, then we’re ready to move on to the next exercise.

He has us doing things like squats and push ups fairly regularly. But there are also things like ‘Spiderman’ where we lunge to one side and fire out our imaginary webs before switching swiftly to the other side. My ten-year-old son loves doing this one and joins in doing the web sound effects with Joe. I’m also doing a sound effect; it’s called the wheeze. We also do ‘Climb The Mountain’ where you’re essentially in a plank position but running your knees up towards your chest. And then there’s ‘Bunny Hops’ where we…well, we hop like a bunny (ears included), as well as ‘Joeys’ which involve us jumping from side to side, kangaroo style protecting the baby in our pouch. I’d advise you not to try to imagine me doing these things by the way as I fear that even the imagined sight could burn your eyes. But I can tell you that it’s loads of fun and you can certainly feel the benefit.

The whole thing has allowed for a little bit of father son bonding too. Me and my son both do the class and as such, we’ve both not missed one yet. We spur each other on and it’s something that we now have in common; something else to talk about other than just football! That said, as soon as the workout is over we’re off outside for a game of football as a warm-down! Old habits die hard. It’s been nice to talk aches and pains with my son though and it feels like we’ve got a little bit more in common as a result.

The days are never the same. We do a range of different exercise or it might be a variation where we do ten exercises before a break followed by the same ten after. Other times, we do twenty different exercises over the course of the half hour. No two days are ever the same though, which is definitely a good thing and it keeps an old dog like me on my toes and stops me from using boredom as any kind of excuse for missing a day.

Introducing music was for me, a bit of a nightmare. For a start, let’s just say that Joe’s musical taste doesn’t have anything in common with mine. But then, apart from the sheer trauma of listening to Dua Lipa, I found it completely off-putting. I was finding that I couldn’t hear the 5 second countdown towards the end of each exercise and believe me, I needed to be able to hear that! The relief of knowing that I only had 5 seconds to go until having a short rest was palpable. Having Joe shouting over someone like George Ezra meant that I now had nothing to cling onto!  But he’s decided not to use music every day and as such this adds a different level of variation.

Next came Fancy Dress Friday, which needless to say is not my bag! I hate dressing up simply because a lack of confidence tells me that I look an even bigger idiot when I’m dressed as a superhero or say – and this actually happened – Freddie from Scooby Doo. Joe seemed to relish the exercise even more while dressed like Spiderman though and was leaping around like never before. Meanwhile my son came down in an England top claiming to be Wayne Rooney. Safe to say that Fancy Dress Friday probably won’t catch on in our house. It doesn’t mean that we can’t still enjoy the exercise though and again, Joe’s enthusiasm is actually a little bit infectious.

The upshot of it all is that I’m more or less sure that I’m a convert to this particular form of exercise. I’m already beginning to think about how I can make it part of my day when lockdown or isolation ends and work comes calling again. Thankfully it shouldn’t prove to be too tough with modern advances in technology like the ability to have YouTube on your telly. And hopefully, as was the original idea, it’ll help myself and others to fight this virus.

Keep exercising and stay safe everybody.

 

 

Lockdown – The times they are a-changin’.

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I’ve been away from work due to Coronavirus restrictions now for just over two weeks. And while I’d usually try to avoid clichés in writing and never thought I’d be leaning on Ronan Keating for inspiration, the simple fact is that life has become a rollercoaster of emotions.

I’m not normally prone to extremes of emotion. I’m a fairly steady ship, all things considered. I can handle the ups and downs that life throws at me and tend to not bother others with how I’m doing. People have their own struggles, they don’t need to be involved in mine. It’s how I was brought up – internalise it, don’t talk, don’t share. As an adult though, I’ve learnt that you can talk, but I’m still far more likely to just keep things to myself and rely on my own mental strength to get through.

Lockdown has tested this and tested it severely.

I started the whole thing in quite a low mood. My first few days were spent more in self isolation than lockdown, but I was careful and made sure that social distancing rules were adhered to. I’d be pretty stupid to be simultaneously aware of being vulnerable to this virus while also gallivanting around the shops and socialising. Being away from work hurt though. As a teacher in a school in a disadvantaged area I want to be there helping, calming vulnerable students and besides all else, teaching them. But I wasn’t allowed and I brooded on this for days.

The announcement of school closures helped in a funny way. I was now in the same boat as the majority. I no longer felt like I was cheating my way out of work or that I was skiving. But then I found out that I couldn’t access my work emails from home, meaning that I would still be very detached from what was still actually going on in school. Almost two weeks on from the announcement and I’m still waiting for a reply to my email, hoping that someone in our IT department can solve the problem. Luckily, unbeknown to them, it’s been sorted by a teaching colleague (cheers Shaun) and it turns out that everything’s working without me. So no surprise there then…

School closures meant kids at home. And kids at home meant home-schooling, which while it made for another blog post, was a daunting prospect. However, in our house we’ve faced up to it with an unusually positive attitude and we’re trying where possible to do new things. Me and my 10-year-old son now have a daily lockdown Spanish lesson via the Duolingo app and we’ve all started drawing and painting again after a friend set up a Lockdown Creative group. We’ve both had to adapt a bit too – while my wife is a mathematician, she’s been turning her hand to Science too and I’ve been having a go at Geography and History. Never a dull moment, but a hell of a lot of hard work.

Lockdown has created quite an eerie atmosphere though. One of my favourite pastimes has been just looking out of the window, partly to enjoy the stillness of everything, but also to just see if anyone’s out there. I keep looking over at our football pitches with a sense of longing. I’d do anything to be able to put on a training session or shout from the sidelines as we play a match. But lockdown has taken those privileges away and while when I’m doing them it can be fairly stressful and all-consuming, now they’re not there I miss them desperately.

There have been various reports and estimates about the length of time that this will all last for. Personally, I was initially told that I’d have to stay away from work for 4 weeks – there was even a faint suggestion that it might be earlier – but now I just feel any hopes of this fading away. I’ve heard lots of reports of around the 12-13 week mark and many that suggest we may be at home until the new school year begins in September. It’s a strange and terrifying thought. That you won’t see friends and family again for this length of time is almost surreal. And that’s before I even think about my students. But then, given the times we’re living in, as long as I get to see them all again, it’s Ok.

While there have been plenty of positives about the whole lockdown situation, there have been a lot of negatives. I don’t mean just not going out either. The job losses, the closure of community hubs, the suspension of sport and entertainment and of course the death.

From a personal point of view, as an avid user of social media, some of the moralising has sickened me. The campaign to applaud NHS workers was a wonderful thing, but as the son of a former NHS nurse of some 37 years, I did wonder if those applauding had ever particularly appreciated what they had with our health service before this point. Or even, once they’d stopped clapping and Coronavirus became a non too distant memory, would they continue to appreciate it. You see, I lost count of the mornings that my mam would walk in from a night shift in tears or bruised and looking like a ghost of her actual self after a patient or a visitor to her ward had verbally or physically abused her again. Were some of these people now those posting self congratulatory Facebook updates? Was standing at the door clapping as easy as slapping a nurse who was trying to help your dying relative? Was it easy to forget nurses being spat on during their shifts because you were clapping and whooping? Maybe I was over-thinking, maybe I’m the one who’s moralising. I don’t know, but I kept my tributes to the NHS to myself and phoned home to speak to my mam.

As a footnote here, a week on from the initial applause for the NHS and having bumped into friends who work in hospitals on our daily government sanctioned walk, I found myself on my doorstep with several others in my street, applauding and listening to the fantastic noise being generated in our vicinity. To be fair it was a moving experience, but my original point and my original concerns still stand.

I’ve taken a cynical view of other #lockdown social media posts too. And again, perhaps it’s mean-spirited of me, but some of it has made me laugh for all the wrong reasons. The main source here has been from (probably) middle class parents who appear to be trying to outdo each other with posts about what their kids have been up to. I read one saying that their 9 year-old-son was ‘taking advantage’ of lockdown (you know, despite all the death and that) in order to go through his parents’ record collection (because it simply had to be vinyl, didn’t it?) and listen to as much as possible while critiquing it. I simply don’t believe these people exist. And if they do, I feel for their kids. No doubt there are others whose children are learning Ukranian or studying sub-Saharan cave art or raising money for the oppressed indigenous people of Myannmar by having a gluten-free bake sale. They aren’t. But it makes you look interesting to more people on social media while we’re all locked down with nothing else better to do.

A real positive that I’ve discovered through lockdown has been the International Space Station. I know, it doesn’t sound particularly positive, right. More the domain of geeks. But let me explain. I discovered through a Twitter page that you could stand outside at night, during the particularly sunny week we had when the skies were clear, and watch it pass over the planet at a particular time of night. It got me curious and although I realised it would only be a light moving over, I found myself doing a little bit of research. It passes over the planet over 200 miles up, moving at over 17000mph. I was hooked. An actual space ship going over our house. And thus, for a few nights in a row I would be out in the cold, enjoying the silence and gazing skywards as a space ship with three astronauts aboard flew past the moon, Venus and over our house! It was only for a few minutes, but given the times we’re living in, it proved to be a few minutes of absolute joy. It’s something that I’ll continue to do when and where possible.

Lockdown has created a yearning for the outdoors, not just with myself and my family but with lots of others too. When it became clear that we would only be permitted one period of outdoor exercise per da,y my initial thoughts turned to finding ways around this. I was adamant that I’d be setting an alarm for 5am most days and sneaking out for a run. However, an ever growing sense of doom and paranoia put pay to that and I settled on the fact that we’d be out as a family, for a long walk, every night.

This should be a pleasant and positive experience and on the whole it is. However, two pressures have made things a little more serious. Firstly, in order to prevent boredom we’ve been trying to find different routes, which while being wholly possible is now becoming a bit of a pain. Then of course there is the sense of doom that one can feel when you bump into other people. Other people. They’re like the enemy! We’ll spot people approaching from a good distance away and while we’re happy to cross over, should it be safe, as time has gone on it’s become more of a game of cat and mouse. What if they’re turning off? What about the people on the other side? What about the person with the dog approaching from a separate direction? You find yourself still harbouring a sense of fear and yet second guessing the other people on the same side of the road as you! It’s quite bizarre and I don’t think I’ll ever look at going for a walk in the same way again!

The sense of paranoia multiplies tenfold in Asda (other supermarkets are available and indeed frequented). In the space of a couple of weeks I’ve gone from dashing around getting essentials from more or less empty shelves, while trying to think about not straying too close to others, to scenes more akin with what I’d imagined 1980s East Berlin to be like! Now we queue, at least two metres apart, in silence, for a good twenty minutes just so we can get in to the store. Security guards patrol the aisles while other members of staff block doors so you can’t leave via the wrong way. Shoppers eye each other warily, often mumbling or tutting impatiently if you get too close. People don’t seem to have figured out that it’s nigh on impossible to maintain a safe distance once you’re in a busier aisle. And don’t even think about not following the directional arrows on the floor! The weekly shop has become even more of a nightmare than we ever thought it could become.

The final word on lockdown must go to the mood swings. I stated earlier that I’m usually calm and can handle my emotions and not particularly bother others with them. Nowadays things have changed. Last week brought an almost opiate high when BBC 6Music played David Bowie’s ‘Let’s Dance’. I sang and danced around the kitchen with actual gay abandon and it felt great. But then while listening to Maximo Park’s ‘Apply Some Pressure’ I was reduced to silent weeping by the line “What happens when you lose everything?’ And then we had to go and watch The Undateables – one of our favourite programmes but one where my viewing was undoubtedly hampered by continuously finding that I had something in my eye…

Coronavirus has changed so much. As the weeks of lockdown pass and the global death toll continues to rise, it’s hard to put a timeframe on when things will feel like any kind of normal again. And will we even recognise what normal is anymore? I sense that even when we’re finally told that everything can go back to ‘normal’ there’ll be such a sense of doubt that normality will, in fact, take a very, very long time.

Until that time, stay safe and remember to look after those that need your help. And of course, keep reading!

Crosby Academy: Adventures in home schooling.

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Having been teacher for the last twenty years I’ve experienced a lot of challenges in the classroom. From earth-shattering breaking news like the attack on the Twin Towers to teenagers breaking wind that could well have cleared the classroom out for the day. However, this week I’ve been facing up to perhaps my biggest challenge yet. Home-schooling my own kids.

Monday 23rd March 2020 witnessed the birth of a new place of learning as Crosby Academy opened its doors for the very first time. We’re a small school. Tiny, in fact with a cohort of only two pupils and two teachers. We’re also a bit of a through school with students in Year 9 and Year 6. And with school closures meaning that students may not return to their actual place of learning this academic year, it leaves us sat between two stools, so to speak. Our Year 6 boy could well have seen his last Year 6 action, leaving us wondering if we should simply be preparing for, and getting ahead with, his start at high school.

But enough of the boring details. Let’s get to the fun stuff.

Following a non-existent consultation process I installed myself as Executive Principal of the academy. No interviews needed; I am absolutely the man for this job. I have literally no experience of this level of management, but figure that having worked with various SLTs in the past who seemed under-qualified to collect the trolleys in Asda, I’d be alright. That said, I wouldn’t know where to start if I had to start collecting the trolleys in Asda. Especially that bit where they stop the traffic by wheeling about a hundred of them out in a big row. Never mind, I’ll tackle that in my pensionable years.

Our main aim at Crosby Academy is to make learning fun for our kids. That’s a genuine sentence by the way; there is no punchline. From my point of view, it’s going to be a bit of a culture shock for all of us – we’re all out of our comfort zones, so let’s make sure we can cover lots of the skills the kids will need, but try to relax and enjoy ourselves at the same time.

With fun in mind, we start the day by taking part in Joe Wicks’ live YouTube PE lesson – a kind of aerobic workout, but I’m guessing, designed to be little more child friendly. Our Year 9 student opts out, as she does with most exercise these days, but other than that the whole school – staff and students – are ready to workout. We take our places in the ‘gym’ – our front room – and tune in to Joe’s YouTube channel ready to feel the burn, as they no doubt still say in gyms up and down the land, while staring at themselves in big mirrors and thinking about muscles like abs, quads and glutes.

At 9am Joe is in position, all skin tight top and a pair of shorts. He is enthusiasm personified, which is normally a bit much for me to take, but I remember our school motto, “It’s like getting an education on the Vengabus.” and put it out of mind. I make a mental note to start writing a school song though. My life is nothing without a futile exercise that will amuse me and me only.

We start with a five minute warm up. Some stretches and stuff to get the heart rate going. I am so busy focusing on bending my body into unnatural positions that I forget the 5 minute part and when Joe tells us we’ve finished our warm up I let out an audible “Whaaaat?”, having already worn myself out. But there’s no time to feel sorry for myself because after wittering on about ‘shout outs’ for a minute or so Joe launches into the first proper exercise. I think I might have to employ a new PE teacher; one that just does football and doesn’t ask for shout outs and then do things like tell the whole of New York, ‘We love you, New York’. We don’t. I mean, you’re alright but there are loads of things I love before you, like chocolate, Sam and Cat on Nickalodeon, Army and Navy sweets and almost everything from Greggs.

Despite my post warm-up fear, the next 20 plus minutes is actually really enjoyable. We speed through various exercises, including things called Jumping Jacks and Climbing The Mountain and there is even more talk of shout outs. At one point I find myself staring in some kind of fascination at Mr Wicks, whose abs are clearly visible even though he’s wearing a t-shirt. It’s like his clothes have been sprayed on and sculpted to him. Meanwhile I’m wearing the kind of loose top I wear for running that should hide a multitude of sins and still my little pot belly is shamefully visible. No matter – I still manage to stumble through the exercises. We seem to do more squats than is humanly necessary and at one point I fear that we should have set up a safe word beforehand, but I get through it. We all do. It feels like the toughest PE lesson ever, but as Executive Principal, I feel like I’ve sent an important message to my staff and pupils. It may well be that lycra and strenuous exercise is to be avoided by a man of my age, but I’ve sent an important message all the same. I might have to go and have a lie down, just while I figure out what it actually is though, you understand.

I decide that we’ll keep Mr Wicks at Crosby Academy. In my head we have the conversation about it. I tell him, “Mr Wicks *then I pause for dramatic effect, because I’m a man of great power now* we’d be more than happy to keep you here at the academy” and he looks at me a little bit in awe but all the while really chuffed, and says something like “wicked” and then gets carried away and calls me “geezer” before apologising. I tell him it’s OK and laugh while I ask the kids and the wife to ‘give a shout out to r Wicks!’. I think we’re having a bromance.

After our PE lesson, as we’re yet to go into lockdown, we go out for a walk, just as a sort of warm down. It’s a beautiful early Spring day, we’re keeping a safe distance from the very few people we encounter and we’re trying to keep the fun in education, remember?

Once we return to school Year 9 settle down to do some Art, while I take Year6/7 up to the Key Stage Fluid Suite (Dylan’s bedroom) to do some English. My daughter is studying for GCSE Art and with a lot of encouragement from us is beginning to believe in herself. She’s in fact very talented and is nowadays happy to just sit and draw or paint. Me and the boy leave her to it.

We’re doing some creative writing so we incorporate some of the ideas from Dylan’s school such as starting with an IQ, which it turns out is some sort of question where neither of us understands what the ‘I’ stands for. This is a bit of a worry given that my Year6/7 student will have had a lot of experience of using them, but I tell myself, it’s OK and that ‘school’s out’, so none of it matters. Learning on the Vengabus, remember? We work out however, that it seems to be a kind of learning purpose, but in the form of a question, so we muddle on through and settle on ‘Can I use interesting vocabulary in my description?’ Secretly I’m thinking more along the lines of ‘Can I get through this next hour without throwing his books out of the window?’ but I don’t let on.

I try to bring a bit of a flavour of high school to his work by making sure his writing is planned and making him stick to a timeframe. I also mark it soon after he’s finished and give him areas for improvement; what we call EBI (Even Better If) points. I’m not sure he likes it, but I try to be as positive as possible, given the fact that he’s my son and of course the only student in the year group. I’m thrilled to see that his first effort is pretty damn good. He’s a little bit shocked to discover that he’ll be re-drafting his work in tomorrow’s lesson though!

Following our English and Art lessons it’s break time and I decide to head out on duty. Our Year 9 student is out in the yard (our garden) so I decide to go and check on her. I think it’s important as the most important person in the academy, who it all revolves around (it’s all about me, not the bloody students), that I get out and mix. However, when I look for her she’s not there and I’m sent into a momentary spin. I’ve lost an entire year group!

It turns out that she’s channeling her inner Goth and avoiding the outdoors because it’s sunny and therefore not the kind of place for vampires. She’s in the room we use for messy play. Actually, let’s just correct that – she’s in her own really messy room doing her best impression of a tramp, in amongst all of her worldly possessions strewn about a 9ft by 9ft box room. She’s OK though and her mostly independent learning seems to be going well.

I decide to do what good leaders do next. I go and check up on my staff. I’ve done plenty of learning walks in actual schools, but not one in a home-school environment. That said, my home-school career is only hours old. However, I feel, given her inexperience as an educator, it’s time to pop into one of my wife’s lessons! Maybe I can pass on a few tips? I’m sure she’d appreciate that…

Obviously, she’s thrilled to see me and spends almost all of the time that I’m in the room with a big smile on her face. Or is that gritted teeth? There’s no pressure here at Crosby Academy though. I simply ask her about 14 different questions about what she’s doing and then, when I feel that I’ve had the answers that I consider the correct ones, I leave.

I don’t do any of this, obviously. But I do pop my head around the door to see how things are going. I haven’t heard any shouting from upstairs so it seems to have been going well and when I enquire that seems to be the case. It’s been a good first day and we bring things to an end rather early in order to give everyone a break and a bit of space away from each other.

For the rest of the week I’m largely responsible for all of the learning at Crosby Academy. Our Maths and Science teacher, my wife, who gets to specialise in all the boring subjects in one go, has to be back at work. In fact, given what is now a lockdown situation, she chooses to work from home, utilising one of our learning hubs here at the academy to make for a home office. Or rather, after a day trying to work at the dining room table with our daughter, she gives up and confines herself to our bedroom for the remainder of the week.

This leaves me as the sole teacher and as a result I give myself a promotion, following a meeting of the school governor (yes that is singular and the meeting amounts to me having a bit of a think). My title is now Admiral of Education – grandiose you may feel, but I’m the fella steering the learning liner, remember. It’s only me that’s responsible for the course of this particular pedagogical pedalo. And thus, admiral seems an extremely fitting title.

For the rest of the week we cover quite a bit of ground. We’re disciplined enough to make sure that we have school every day. Every morning at least two of us join in with Mr Wicks’s PE lesson and every morning I feel like he might be trying to do me an injury. No matter, I manage to stay with it for the week and although it’s difficult, it’s a huge amount of fun too. It feels like a nice way to spend doing some father son bonding time with the added perk that by the time it’s all finished and we’re back to some sense of normality I’ll have buns of steel as well as the possibility of actual abs, rather than just a little pot belly made out of crisps, chocolate and beer.

Our Year 9 student becomes largely autonomous, although I make sure that I check in on her progress regularly. So regularly in fact, that I’m positively wowed by the amount of education one can get from one’s phone these days…

My son – our Year 6 maybe 7 student – needs supervision, however. And so as well as daily Maths and English lessons, we spend time learning Spanish, learning about lines of longtitude in Geography, tuning in to a brilliant live lesson from a World War II bunker in History and then doing some Art outside in the sunshine. My friend and Art teacher Helen has set up a self-isolation Facebook group designed to get people doing art every day and so after our Art lesson I post both of our drawings in the group. It’s to my eternal disappointment that Dylan’s two cartoons from the Dogman books get infinitely more likes than my drawing of a flower from our camellia bush. It seems everyone really is a critic!

As the week ends I realise that despite the sense of dread that I’d had about home-schooling, I’ve really enjoyed myself. We’ve managed to have fun – I’ve only had the one tantrum after all – and I’d like to think that both kids have kept up their learning. Friends on social media have helped with ideas and through sharing things like the World War II bunker lesson and the Facebook drawing group and in the end it’s been a success. So much of a success in fact that I’m considering knocking on my neighbour’s door over the weekend to ask them if they’d like to join in with Crosby Academy. I could have a multi academy trust on my hands by the start of April.

Does anybody know what the rank above admiral is?

 

 

 

 

My not so splendid self-isolation diary

coronaWith Coronavirus in full swing across the world it was inevitable that it would eventually come knocking at my door. Last Tuesday was that day. I don’t have the virus, but as a result of underlying medical conditions have had to self-isolate after work told me to stay away for my own good.

I feel like there’s nothing actually wrong with me, but I must admit that I’d begun to worry about the way things were developing and the fact that I would be vulnerable to the virus. But while there’s a sense of relief at being at home, it’s mostly overwhelmed by a sense of frustration. So, in order to alleviate the boredom, I decided to write a blog.

My first day of isolation was largely spent around the house. I did pop out. I gave my daughter a lift to the top of the road to meet her lift to school and went to the bottom of the drive a couple of the times to put stuff in the bin. As you can imagine, it was mostly a mind-numbing experience. As a middle-aged man, I’ve worked for longer than I can remember and so you get used to a bit of social interaction. I work in an English department with fantastic people and so to suddenly be wrenched away from them has left a bit of a void. So it was a day of feeling quite sad really.

On a few of occasions the sadness was amplified too. It started when I received a message from my boss, saying that my calmness would be missed and that the right decision had been made. Thoughts immediately returned not just to my brilliant colleagues, but to my classes – from the over confident kids right through to the more vulnerable youngsters I engage with daily. With exams only just over the horizon it felt kind of desperate that I wouldn’t be there to keep them working hard.

When my wife told me about the Easter eggs at Asda it made me sad. A bit pathetic, right? But there is a reason. On Monday night we received the information that football at grassroots level had been shut down for the foreseeable future, meaning that as a grassroots coach, a big part of my social life was taken away there and then. Last year I bought all of my squad an Easter egg and the thought of not seeing their greedy little faces lighting up as they grabbed an egg this time around was pretty rubbish, to say the least.

Busying myself by tidying up didn’t help either. At one stage I put my football boots away and then realised that it might be a long while before I pull them back on again. In a day of small peaks and large troughs, this had me reaching new depths.

I quickly realised that I needed a plan. Part of that would include blogging and I would also have to be sending work in for my classes until the inevitable happens and the school is forced to close. But in order to retain some sense of sanity, I’d need to get out and about for the odd walk and to make sure I got some exercise.

Later on, there’s a cry from upstairs followed by the noise of hurried footsteps heading down towards us. ‘My school’s closing! My school’s closing!’ We immediately put the television on to be greeted with the sight of Boris Johnson confirming that, indeed, schools across England will close after Friday. I have to admit that it comes as a bit of a shock. The finality of it all. The country’s closing down and despite being someone who tries to never dwell on matters too much, I can’t stop thinking about it.

By around 6pm I’ve had enough. For the first time in a very long time I feel like I’m going to explode. Not literally, thankfully. Because the virus the leads you to explode sounds like a nightmare and I’d happily sit in the house for as long as it took to avoid that one.

I take the kids out for a long walk, hoping that fresh air will help us all out. Later that evening I resort to a tried and tested method of banishing my worries. A great big glass of red wine and a cornetto. It’s been a hell of a day.

Day two is different. Better. I take the kids to school and the pop down to Sainsbury’s to buy a few things. I’m not there to panic buy as we’ve always tried to make sure that we have a little extra in. I’ve said I’ll get cotton pads for make-up removal for my daughter. However, I’m forced to wait in the car for half an hour as the supermarket are giving over their first hour of trading to pensioners and the vulnerable. I could play the ‘high risk’ card here, but instead just go back and sit in the car and listen to the radio. What I witness over the next half hour is a little annoying to say the least as pensioner after pensioner unloads over-stacked trolleys into the boot of their cars. They’ve stripped the shelves like a rare breed of toilet roll locust. From my vantage point it’s clear to see that a fair few of them already have packed bags from other supermarkets in the boot. So even the old and vulnerable are panic buying! But it’s OK, we’ll just lay the blame at the door of stupid people instead. None of this could possibly be attributed to cuddly grey haired people.

When I return home I watch a little bit of TV before deciding that I’d be better off outside the house. So, I wrap up and go for a walk. Today, according to my watch, I’ll do over 21,000 steps and rack up some 11.3 miles. I walk and walk and walk. And when I return home, I head straight back out again, and walk up to the doctors to collect my wife’s prescription. It’s predictably chaotic and I leave empty handed. But at least I’m not sat in the house, watching telly and driving myself mad. And yes, I’m keeping a safe social distance from other people. If you’ve met me you know that social distancing isn’t just a rule for a crisis with me, but more or less a way of life!

In the afternoon I make a video and send it to some friends to see what they think. It’s a parody video of a teaching guru. He’s his own biggest fan. It may yet make a more public appearance, but for now I’m happy that my pals seem to enjoy it. It’s a lovely response, but in turn it serves to accentuate the fact that I really miss being at work. However, it’s something I’ve wanted to do for a while, so I’m glad that my boredom has forced me into action.

By Day Three I’m a great deal more calm. This will be the last day spent on my own as my kids will be at home from now on, what with schools closing across England. My wife will most likely work from home too. I watch a bit of television, but by about 9.30 I’m crawling the walls and so, I grab my wife’s prescription, put my jacket and trainers on and head out. The streets are quiet so it isn’t all that difficult to avoid people, but it’s a very different story at the pharmacy. I walk in through the automatic doors and take my place in what seems to be a very strange queue. There aren’t many of us, but we’re spaced out right across the floor of the pharmacy. There’s also a two metre barrier across the counter with red and white tape stuck between cones on the floor. I realise that things are serious, but I can’t help but smile.

The barrier isn’t the only thing that’s serious though. The faces of the pensioners in front of me are too. And they’re staring at me. I wonder briefly if I have porridge down my chin, but a furtive stroke of my face reveals that I’m OK. Then the woman speaks.

“You can’t be in here.”

“Huh?”

“You can’t be in here.”

“But this is where you get prescriptions.” I raise my little booklet prescription to illustrate my point.”

“But you can’t be in here.” I’m just about to lose my rag and start ranting about panic buying in Sainsbury’s when she explains.

“It’s three at a time. You have to wait outside.”

I shrug my shoulders and leave, hoping that I’ve missed the explanation on the door. But the only thing on the door is a sheet of A4 paper with a word-processed notice that informs all who cross the threshold that Coronavirus is knocking about. Considerate, I think, and resolve to watch the news a bit more.

Eventually, I’m allowed in and this time I’m successful. As I pay I make an exaggerated fuss of reaching over the 2 metre gap, flailing around trying to get contactless to make the required contact in order to transfer the money. I manage on the third attempt and hope that however dark the humour here, it’s made people smile. It hasn’t, unless you count me. I grab the prescription, stuff it in my pocket and leave. I head away from home. More exercise, more thinking time.

I walk and my thoughts turn to my Year 11 class. I didn’t tell them that I wouldn’t be back at the end of our final lesson on Tuesday. I didn’t want to unsettle them. At that point there were still exams to be studying for. But that was short-lived and now I feel quite rueful about the fact that I didn’t say goodbye. Every year they ask, “Will you miss us, sir?” My answer is always the same. In the nicest possible way I ell them “No”, not because I won’t ever give them a passing thought or because I don’t build relationships with the classes, but because there’s always another Year 11 group, another exam class.

This year, in forced isolation, I’ll miss them terribly.

More middle age gigging: Embrace at Leeds First Direct Arena

IMG-20200315-WA0005It’s 2.31am. My ears are ringing and my head is full of songs. Sleep, at least for a little while, is no longer an option. So I get up to write some thoughts down to go towards this blog. Given the current climate it’s best to point out that I’ve not come down with the dreaded virus and it’s not worrying about the toilet roll and paracetamol stocks that’s woken me up so soon after getting to bed. No, I’ve got another bout of middle age gigging to blame. Clearly, the excitement of two gigs in 5 months is just too much to handle for this particular 48-year-old.

Around mid afternoon it didn’t look like this gig was going to happen for us. My wife is feeling ill and despite the fact that she’s doing her best to just soldier on through it, it doesn’t seem like the right thing to do. We’re going to drag ourselves into Leeds (I say drag; it’s a whole 6 miles or so!) and there’s a distinct possibility that we could be heading home before the first support band is done. I’ve said it before here and I’ll say it again; going to gigs in your middle age is not the experience that you would have had in your teens or twenties. Now, we have a whole load of other factors to consider.

One of these factors is the babysitter and having not heard back from ours for a while we were beginning to worry that they’d forgot. Sure enough, a mid afternoon text confirms that, yes, they’d forgot! A little while later though, they confirm that they’ll be here and it’s all systems go, but at a lot more relaxed pace than ever before. In fact let’s call it all systems slow.

Before I know it though, we’re heading out of the door, having said a fairly straightforward goodbye to our kids, who are normally a great deal more fretful than this. On reflection it’s clear that having had another night out just a few short months ago our children are becoming more accepting of our gallivanting. Considering that this is probably our second night out in the last calendar year it’s indeed very accepting of them to not be hanging off our legs and crying as we head down the hallway. On reflection though, given the global pandemic that we’re experiencing, it’s best that we don’t get used to this going out lark. I mean, I can always turn all the lights off in the kitchen and ask Alexa to play Embrace every so often and just jump around a bit, while having someone else in the house occasionally stand on my feet. I’m sure it’s much the same. Maybe this going out is actually overrated.

So tonight we’re off to see Embrace at Leeds First Direct Arena. Embrace are easily one of our favourite bands, if not the favourite, and in the car on the way we find ourselves discussing just how many times we’ve actually seen them live. We settle on somewhere near 30 times, so tonight is kind of a big deal.

As usual when we get in there I’m reticent to move too far forward. I’m a big fan of my toes and none too keen on other people’s elbows. Never have been. My poorly wife however has other ideas and in what seems like seconds we’ve snaked our way through the crowd, levitated a bit – as mentioned before, it’s one of her super powers – and hovered into a space about 5 yards from the front without anybody else batting an eyelid. Being the rebellious type these days, I haven’t even apologised to any one of those we’ve stood in front of either. Rock, and indeed, roll.

We take our place just in time to catch the last bit of local Leeds indie Legends Cud’s set. Having not particularly been a fan back in the day, it’s no great shame to have missed them, but there is just about enough time to realise that these days, singer Carl Puttnam is quite the ringer for Swiss Toni off The Fast Show. So while he’s throwing a few shapes as the set draws to a close I’m listening closely for any lyrics about ‘making love to a beautiful woman’ or any mention of junior salesman Paul. Sadly, it seems we must have missed that particular tune.

With a bit of time until main support Starsailor take to the stage I have a little look around me. It’s still a little bit weird to see genuine grey-haired folk standing around at a gig, especially so far forward. They’re usually stood around the sound desk just nodding. But then reality bites and I realise that although I’m not completely grey – more a rather suave salt and pepper sort of look these days – I’m very much one of this middle aged gang. And as much as I kid myself that I’m still physically fit for my age, I’m going to feel this in the morning. I would certainly hate to think that I’d done it on a school night and was faced with a day at work the next day.

As Starsailor arrive and launch into their first song, something incredible happens. I’ve said before that I’m terrible with lyrics and will frequently either forget them or just sing my own version with an inane grin on my face. I kid myself that this tactic will convince people that I’m high and therefore incredibly cool, rather than just quite old and forgetful. One day, you’ll find me right at the back of an Embrace gig, just doing my ironing and humming along, looking incredibly pleased with myself. Please dear reader, have a look at the address on the tag around my neck and have someone at the venue stick me in a taxi if it happens. However, tonight as the band play Alcoholic I’m transported back 19 or so years. Suddenly, I know every word. Every one of them. No really, all of the words. I have no idea where this gift comes from, but it’s a lovely feeling. Maybe Starsailor hold the key to eternal youth or something. I resolve to ask James Walsh about this should I ever bump into him in either of my favourite haunts, Asda Morley, or Sainsbury’s at the White Rose Centre. I’m sure it won’t be long given everybody’s current obsession with panic buying hand sanitizer and beans. See you Wednesday, James.

Starsailor’s set is fantastic. James’ voice is as powerful as ever and the band are wonderfully tight. They streak through some of the classics – Four to The Floor, Poor Misguided Fool and Silence Is Easy sounding particularly good – before ending with a fantastic version of Good Souls.

However, by 9.15, whatever has gone before is, in the nicest way possible, forgotten. For two reasons. One: my middle aged feet are killing. I’ve chosen to wear Converse boots and in return they’ve chosen to make me feel like I’ve got the swollen feet of an ultra marathon runner. I resolve to contact Hush Puppies about producing a special middle-aged gig-goers shoe. Something a little bit trendy, yet above all, comfortable. And featuring Velcro so I we don’t have to bend for too long fussing with laces. My legs hurt as well, and my back doesn’t seem to be enjoying my efforts at dancing along.

Then the house lights go down and the stage lights go into overdrive. There’s dry ice rising at the same rate as the tension. And then, we’re off. It’s Embrace.

The opening three songs – ‘All You Good Good People’, ‘My Weakness Is None of Your Business’ and ‘Come Back to What You Know’ – are amazing, as well as making for a shit-hot Scrabble score. In particular, the opener brings back some particularly simple but happy memories. I’m transported back to living in our first flat in Leeds and hearing someone leaving the pub next door singing the song at the top of their voice and being sat smiling at the fact that there were others who’d fallen in love with this still relatively new band. And, super special middle age bonus time; I also know a lot of the words! ‘All You Good Good People’ always makes me feel like I’m part of something, like I’m one of the people that it’s for. Maybe after all of these years I am. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. Despite the sore feet and creaking knees, I’m smiling along, happy to be here.

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In amongst a section of songs from the album ‘Out of Nothing’. ‘Someday’ stands out. It sounds great and like everything in the set tonight, it simply soars. By the time we’re singing along to the line ‘a light is gonna shine, for you and I’ I’m in my own little world and probably screeching at the top of my voice. I might even have my arms stretched up in the air like I’m having a Polyphonic Spree moment. Awkward. I’ve said this in middle age gigging blogs before, but apologies if you read this and realise you were standing near me.

Alongside ‘Someday’ there’s ‘A Glorious Day’ which is another one that brings the memories flooding back, especially here in Leeds, where Embrace’s own mini festival of the same name took place some years back in Millenium Square. We attended both days and then, while watching the DVD of it (remember them old folk?) some months later we noticed a familiar face could be seen repeatedly in the crowd – me! It’s now known in the house as ‘my gig’, often prompting the tired old line of ‘Have you seen Embrace at my gig?’ and is my very own claim to fame, albeit it a pretty poor one!

The pace of things picks up again as the band play ‘Last Gas’ and ‘One Big Family’. During both we’re guided through a bit of a singalong by Danny as we scream out the ba-ba-ba- sections. All of a sudden there’s something of the Bruce Forsyths about him as he motions and mimes to us when it’s ‘our turn’. Little does he know that in my head I’m fulfilling something of a lifelong ambition singing back-ups for the band!

During ‘Higher Sights’ and ‘Retread’ I think I manage to put myself in some kind of trance. It’s possible that this is a middle age thing. It may not actually be a trance, more that it’s just way past my bed time and I’m not used to being out of the house. However, for the sake of the music, let’s call it a trance. Both are songs that I love. Coincidentally and somewhat improbably, given my lack of memory for lyrics, both are songs that I know the words to. Hence the fact that it’s not long before I’m back to screeching at the top of my voice. I may have even closed my eyes for few seconds at one point during ‘Retread’ for the refrain of ‘Will you fight?’ later on in the song. The point is that the gig has reached some kind of peak at this point. This is why we love music, why we follow bands and, in terms of the blog, why we’re still hauling our tired bodies off the settee to go and throw ourselves around in rooms full of like-minded souls in our middle age.

After my trance/impromptu middle aged nap, I find myself checking my watch. I’ve staved off the yawning so far, but my body is telling me that it’s late. More middle age flagging than middle aged gigging. Oh for the days of being a teenager or in my early twenties again when I would leave the gig sweaty and shattered, but then continue on with the evening until the sun was coming up.

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I’m perked up somewhat by the sound of ‘Gravity’. This was the first dance at our wedding and – ridiculous as it sounds – we even invited the band. It genuinely felt like the right thing to do given how much Embrace meant to us. We didn’t think for a second that they’d show up, but having met them we knew that our invite and accompanying letter would at the very least raise a smile. As it turned out the band sent us a congratulations card which was read out at the reception much to our delight. ‘Congratu-fucking-lations’ it said and the person reading out the cards just read it word for word, like Ron Burgundy on the autocue! As ‘Gravity’ begins I wrap my arms around my wife and we sing and dance along together – any excuse for a cuddle! It’s another wonderful moment in yet another wonderful Embrace gig.

And then, Danny says a few sentences that are equal parts thrilling and terrifying to me and probably every other middle aged gig-goer in the room. ‘We haven’t asked this once yet, but we will now. We want you to go mad, jumping up and down for this next one.’ He advises us to settle back down during the verses, like some kind of health advisor who’s all too aware of the creaking joints and aching muscles in front of him. But it’s with some trepidation that we go along with the notion of going mad during the more up tempo section. It’s time for Ashes.

In what is now time-honoured tradition as the song starts Danny leans forward towards the audience and implores us to pogo by waving his arms and shouting ‘Up, up, up, up.’ And up we go.

Brilliantly, I find I can bounce for ages – a boast that I should only really share with toddlers and Tigger, but I’m pretty pleased with myself all the same. As always, the song is immense and the atmosphere in the crowd lifts another few notches. But it’s over all too soon. I resist an ever-growing urge to check my heart rate via my watch and concentrate on applauding the band as they leave the stage, safe in the knowledge that they’ll be back for an encore.

Sure enough, in what seems like no time, Embrace are back. It’s very much a sing-a-long encore ending with ‘Fireworks’ and ‘The Good Will Out’ and ensures that the whole night ends at very much a late forties friendly kind of pace. Even then though, there’s time for one last personal moment of magic. As he walks across the stage towards the end of the final song Danny is eyeing the crowd and giving thumbs ups. As he approaches my section of the audience, I swear I catch his eye and then, almost in slow motion he aims a thumbs up in my direction. In fact, not in ,my direction, more straight at me. My arms are already raised and I give an instinctive thumbs up back, he nods and in the blink of an eye the moment passes. But it was our moment. Even as a middle age gig goer, it’s a thrill.

Shortly afterwards the music stops, the band assemble at the front of the stage and there’s a last bow before they’re gone. Danny, Richard, Mike, Steve and Mickey, thanks. You’ve made an old man very happy indeed for around about the 30th time!

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Worst NUFC side ever? Sorry, but I beg to differ!

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There can be no doubt that these are dark times for Newcastle United supporters. And sadly that’s a sentence any one of us could have started an article off with at almost any point in the last fifty or sixty years. From the likes of Lord Westwood with his pirate eye patch, through the Seymour years, McKeag and most recently Mike Ashley, the ownership of the club has regularly been a shambles. I mean, if you think back, even Sir John Hall seemed, at one point, to be doing his best to mess things up by forcing Kevin Keegan to walk out. And those were the good times!

There have been questionable managers too. And that’s me very much using the word ‘questionable’ as a polite way of saying shite. In my memory we’ve had some shockers – Gordon Lee, Richard Dinnis, Bill McGarry, Jack Charlton, Ardiles, Gullit, Souness, Allardyce, Kinnear, Pardew, Carver, McClaren and the current incumbent Steve Bruce, who seems to be mainly getting by on his reputation of being a nice bloke who has a lot of admirers in the media. You can tell this as they constantly refer to him as ‘Stevie’ or Brucey’.

So, although I have to admit this season’s performances have largely been woeful and are getting worse, some of the outrage at our team and squad that I’ve witnessed lately has made me chuckle. And that’s what prompted this blog.

Now before some brave or eloquent soul labels me an Ashley apologist, a fan of Steve Bruce or the Anti-Rafa, well I’m not. Plain and simple. For the record I’ve been boycotting games now for the last 10 years, having given my season ticket up when cuddly Mike forced Kevin Keegan to resign. The whole Rafa thing simply strengthened my resolve to stay away. But it’s ridiculous to think that I could turn my back on my club entirely. Newcastle United are still my team, my birthright. As a result, I’d still say that I’m still worryingly obsessed with the club.

I’ve read a lot recently about how this season’s vintage is ‘the worst team we’ve ever had’ and I find that a little bit laughable, if I’m honest. It’s also a bit of an insult to quite a few of the squad. Let me explain.

I simply can’t agree that this is the worst team we’ve ever had. The tactical element is entirely down to our head coach and his team. Bruce, Clemence and Agnew, who by the way in my opinion has been given a very easy ride given his former allegiance to both Sunderland and Boro. But that’s something for another time.

Compare this team to several of the last twenty or so years and you can see how ridiculous a label it is to call them the worst. I mean, think back to some of the players in the teams sent out by Jack Charlton or Souness and you won’t have to look far to find some absolute duffers. However, for the purposes of the blog though I’ll focus my thoughts and the comparison on a team that almost had me throwing in the towel years before I finally did. For me, straight off the top of my head, the worst ever NUFC team that I’ve witnessed would be that of Sam Allardyce.

Allardyce, like the current incumbent of the job is coincidentally another media luvvie who seems to take every opportunity to ludicrously defend himself about the dullness of the side he put together at St. James’. For the record his team was clueless. The man, who still claims that if he was called Alladychio he’d be sitting pretty in a top job, was a disaster for us. Not only did he buy a load of absolute duffers, but he brought his horrible playing style too. We were awful under Allardyce. I would drive up from Leeds every other week and sit in my seat on Level 7 of the Leazes end wondering why I’d bothered. There was always hope, but that hope was usually destroyed within the first quarter of an hour of a match. The football bored me rigid. The idea always seemed to be to take a safety first approach and with some of the players in the squad – not many mind you – this seemed at best wasteful.

One particular match under Allardyce stands out as a beacon of drudgery and proof positive that times and teams have been worse. On 3rd November Newcastle played Portsmouth and I remember turning up full of optimism. Pompey were a long way from home and wouldn’t relish playing us at St. James’. How wrong I was. We were 0-3 down after 11 minutes and it genuinely felt like Pompey were playing a different sport to us. Our defending was described by the BBC as diabolical, our midfield was non-existent and up front Michael Owen wandered around like he was out for a walk with the dog. Sadly his dog seemed to have taken the form of Alan Smith and he was clearly on a short lead.

It wasn’t just the system though. Some of the players were amongst the worst that I’ve ever seen at Newcastle. There was Claudio Cacapa, who whatever your views on Joelinton, was quite simply the worst Brazilian to ever play first team football for the Toon. Centre half? Defensive midfielder? Even he didn’t seem to know what he was! He arrived on a free aged 31 and was given a deal worth £40,000 a week. He stayed for 2 years and played a grand total of 25 times. A woeful excuse for a footballer and part of, in my opinion, a far worse team than we have at the moment. In fact, if you think of those in today’s squad who could do that dual centre half/defensive midlfielder role you might well come up with the names of Isaac Hayden and Fabian Schar. Now, you’d be hard pushed to successfully argue that either of them lacks at least a bit of quality, Schar in particular looking a Rolls Royce of a player at times. And, if you were watching during Allardyce’s time, it wouldn’t take you long to work out that neither is the equivalent of Claudio Cacapa.

Alongside Cacapa there was David Rozenhal a Czech defender who, I must admit, I actually thought was quite a decent player at first. Turned out he wasn’t though. In fact he was very much a Czech version of Steven Taylor, who himself was also part of Allardyce’s squad. Rozenhal was Taylor, but without the Forrest Gump running and bad Platoon style acting when he’d handled the ball in the box. I daresay he didn’t wave at keepers either. He was very good at standing still while attackers waltzed round him though. So, in that way, very much a Taylor-alike. And again, simply not in the same class as the likes of Lascelles, Schar, Fernandez, Clark or Lejeune, all of whom would have waltzed into Allardyce’s side and all of whom are currently competing for places in what some would have you believe is the worst NUFC team ever.

Then there was Geremi, another alleged footballer brought in on massive wages by Big Sam. Inspired. Geremi came from Chelsea, who strangely seemed to make no attempt whatsoever to keep him. But in much the same way as we’re always the team that a stirker who hasn’t scored in ten games will break his duck against, we were similarly welcoming to high profile footballers that nobody wanted. Which brings me nicely on to another of the mainstays in Allardyce’s side.

Alan Smith had picked up a career-threatening injury at Manchester United and was never really the same player again. It was plain for all to see. All that is apart from Sam Allardyce who threw £6 million at our friends at Old Trafford and brought Smith to St. James’ Park on £60,000 a week. I remember reading about the potential deal before it happened and going through the same emotions I’d felt when it was reported that we were after John Barnes and Ian Rush some years before. Fear, panic…and a bit more fear.

Smith was at a stage in his career where it had taken such a bizarre turn that no-one seemed to know what to do with him. He could play up front, but had a happy knack of not scoring goals. He was never prolific in his heyday at Leeds, but by the time he reached us it was like he was the reason someone had invented that phrase about the cow’s arse and the banjo. Sir Alex Ferguson had used him as a defensive midfielder, but that didn’t work either. And as if you ever needed evidence of the man’s arrogance, Allardyce seemed to think he knew better.

Smith had even confessed that, ““My injury will restrict me from competing at the very highest level.” and said, “I know that I’m not as good as I was, simple as that.” Astonishing really. Imagine any of our midfield saying that now and think about your reaction. It was never going to work for Smith at Newcastle and under Allardyce, in my opinion, he was an integral part of a team that just didn’t work.  Another reason why this was a far worse team then the one we have now. And again, whatever position he’d have played in he doesn’t compare favourably to what we have now.

Allardyce’s team also included the player I rate as the worst I’ve ever witnessed in a Newcastle shirt. Abdoulaye Faye. Another who could play as a defensive midfielder or centre half – Christ, how many did Allardyce think he needed – words almost fail me when I think of him playing for us. Almost, but not completely. I can summon up the following. Slow, clumsy, tactically inept, couldn’t pass it, couldn’t control it, struggled to head it, made me think on more than one occasion of the bloke who rang Souness when he was manager of Southampton and claimed to be George Weah’s cousin and ended up on a short term contract; surely this wasn’t him again, but with a new name? I always wondered what my dad meant when he used to say players ‘couldn’t trap a bag of cement’. And then I saw Abdoulaye Faye and I wondered, for quite a while, if my dad was indeed some kind of wizard.

Faye is undoubtedly a brilliant reason why this season’s squad couldn’t possible be called the worst ever with any legitimacy, because it doesn’t contain Abdoulaye Faye.

Other notable names from Allardyce band of brothers? David Edgar, Peter Ramage, Mark Viduka and Charles Nzogbia. Look for their positional equivelants now and you could easily settle for the names of Ciaran Clark, Emile Krafth, Dwight Gayle and Alain Saint Maximin. Well I know who I’d rather have.

Times are hard at the moment. Hope is in short supply and frustration and anger is in danger of boiling over. But to suggest that this is the worst NUFC squad of all time is ludicrous. Blame Ashley and Charnley. Blame Bruce and his staff if you like. But don’t blame the players. Don’t include Ritchie, Saint Maximin, Almiron, Lascelles, Dubravka, the Longstaffs and any of the rest of them in something as stupid as your worst squad of all time.

 

Coaching football: When just in case becomes just too much.

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Back from Storm Ciara to announce a surprise postponement!

As a grassroots football coach it’s easy to become obsessive. I’ve blogged about this before. Training sessions, team shape, ordering kit, even how kids’ families might feel when their son or daughter isn’t picked. But our obsession with weather must be right up there.

Since going back to coaching I’ve become completely obsessed with the weather. One of the first things I do each morning at work is to bring up the BBC’s weather page on my screen. The tab is always open on my phone too. And as dull as it undoubtedly is, I’m forever checking. Percentage chance of rain, wind-speed and the search for the sunshine emoji are personal favourites. But it’s essential. No, really. It’s essential.

It’s not even a case of what the sky is doing on matchday either. Some weeks are spent scanning the day by day percentage chance of rain in the week leading up to a game in order to assess whether we’ll have a pitch or a swimming pool waiting for us on a Sunday morning. I spend more time refreshing the weather than is healthy really. But then you never know when the forecast will change and the rain will just disappear.

This week though I feel like my obsessiveness has moved on to a new, much sadder level than ever before. My team, Morley Glen Juniors Whites of the Garforth League, division 3a should have been in cup action. And we’re on a cup run, so this is exciting stuff. Although, when I say a cup ‘run’ I mean that we got a bye in the first round and today should have been the second round, but the season going as it has been doing, we’ll take any win possible. Even if we won a game that wasn’t even played against an opposition that didn’t even exist. In my head it was a tactical triumph.

As ever, having confirmed the match details with the opposition coach on the previous Sunday afternoon, I checked the weather. With the pitch in mind I went through every individual day. I’d be at work for most of it, but it feels important to know if it’s going to just rain all week or whether we can expect a drier pitch by the weekend. As I said before, it can be the difference between a pitch and a swimming pool.

The week looked great. Day after day of dry weather, one or two warm-ish temperatures, sunshine and a bit of a breeze. Our pitch would be brilliant. And then I read Sunday. The cloud and rain emoji spelt trouble, but maybe it’d be a case of getting on with it and getting soaked again, like we have done on several occasions this season already. But there was an exclamation mark. In a triangle. A weather warning. And clicking on to the actual day would reveal the small matter of potential 48mph winds. Driving home that evening from work the news then informed me of the approaching storm, this one given the charming moniker of Ciara.

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As the week progressed it seemed that the wind speed was increasing day by day. I’d refresh the weather several times a day just in case the storm had miraculously changed direction and was now heading for Spain or somewhere else that wasn’t Morley. But oh no. This lass Ciara was very definitely heading our way. Ever the optimist though, I was still texting all concerned on Saturday night, confirming that yes, the game was still on and that I intended to have a walk over to the pitch on Sunday morning to check exactly how things were. The now predicted 68mph winds weren’t going to cause a problem.

And so it came to pass that I left my front door slightly before 8am this morning and headed out into a quite horrendous storm. I could hear the scale of the thing through the bathroom window while having a shave half an hour earlier. I could see it from the kitchen window when I went downstairs. But a combination of guilt and stubbornness prevented me from calling the match off from the comfort and warmth of my own home. Surely, once you were out there, you could have a game of football, right?

There was no-one around as I started the five minute walk to the pitches. Scanning the houses around me seemed to reveal that people were still in bed, perhaps playing hide and seek with Ciara. The main road also revealed no cars. But still, I pressed on. Of course I did.

In actual fact, it didn’t feel that windy. It was raining, which probably didn’t bode well for the pitch, but the wind wasn’t too bad. There was hope for this game yet.

And then I turned a corner and headed up a narrow path that leads to the pitches. Now the wind stopped playing games with me. Suddenly I was being battered and it was actually quite tricky to walk in a straight line. Like three years at university encapsulated into a matter of seconds, but with less lager.

Staggering like a drunk I had to keep my head down now because the rain was actually stinging my face. But I still hadn’t checked the pitch. There was a glimmer of hope for this game and the magic of the cup was still alive. I kept on going, still with no other human soul anywhere in sight. Where were the dog walkers that normally left us a Sunday morning surprise? Where were the runners in badly matched shades of lycra? Who knew?

Before I knew it I was out in the open. Ciara was flinging me round like a rag doll (Wow, reading that back, perhaps I’ve got a Mills and Boon or a Fifty Shades in me yet?) but I was ridiculously determined to carry on. Pausing to edge my way up a muddy grass bank in order to avoid a path wide puddle, I pressed on as best I could. I slipped and slid and for a moment feared that I was going to end up face down in the mud, but I leapt the last bit in hope and desperation and made it to the other side of the path. I mean, how stupid would I have looked falling in the mud? Well, in truth, no more stupid than I did with rain streaming down my face and a veritable lake down my front, but my obsessive coach’s nature tells me that as yet, this game hasn’t actually been called off.

I briefly recall playing in horizontal snow last season and imagine that we could yet have a game. And then I reach the pitch. Even at a distance the surface water is clearly visible and I know that unless we play in wellies we haven’t got a game. But still I feel that I should walk on the actual grass to just confirm it. I’m wearing fly knit running trainers that give no protection at all and my feet are already damp, but there’s nothing like the feeling of actual water squelching between your toes to confirm a postponement. So out I stride.

Except I can’t stride out as it’s far too slippy. So I tip-toe on to the grass like some kind of wet, clumsy ballerina. We still have white lines, which is a plus, but in no time at all I’m ankle deep in liquid mud. I hang around for a few minutes, just walking on the pitch, maybe in hope of a dry patch, but it’s inevitable that we’ll have to postpone. I love football, but it’ll be no fun whatsoever to play in this, let alone stand around barking instructions at my team.

I spot a dog walker approaching and it’s this sight that brings me to my senses. We exchange pleasantries, each as funny as the other in a not funny at all kind of way.

“Lovely morning.”

“Aye, just beautiful isn’t it?”

We’re vying the title of Archbishop of Banterbury here, but rather than claim the sceptre and funny hat, I walk on, heading for home. I’m soaked and there’s a path wide lake to avoid on the way back.

When I get back the whole family are waiting for me. My wife and daughter both tell me how ridiculous I look and how stupid I’ve been, but it just makes me laugh. My son joins in, probably more out of relief that he doesn’t have to go out into the storm and attempt to play football. I know why I’ve been out. I understand that I could have called this game off from the safety of my home, but that wouldn’t be right and proper. Other coaches will understand.

I dry off – every item of clothing is wet (I’m definitely writing that racy novel by the way, ladies) – and head downstairs for breakfast. Picking up my phone to relay the postponement to all involved, I see that I have a message. I open it to find that, from the safety of his home, the opposition coach has texted.

“That wind’s probably going to spoil the game mate.”

The lengths we go to: A review of ‘A Christmas Carol’ as performed by the English Department (and a Maths teacher) of Thornhill Community Academy

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Bob Cratchit’s sideline as a gangsta rapper was clearly of no interest to Scrooge who much preferred grime.

Labelled as ‘Laura’s Ridiculous Idea’ and granted its own Facebook Messenger group in order to get things organised this version of a Christmas classic was always going to be a tall order to pull off. But boy, did they manage it!

Late last year and indeed last decade, following a casual phone conversation, the idea was put to staff that the English Department at Thornhill Community Academy in Dewsbury should attempt to put on a version of Charles Dickens’ ‘A Christmas Carol’. The usual avenue of getting an outside theatre group in had proven far too expensive, but we still wanted our kids to have some sort of theatre experience. In a school that prides itself on doing things our own way and constantly striving to go the extra mile there was nothing else for it. We’d do it ourselves.

A wild idea? Yes. A bridge too far? Well, given that this was the famous ‘Educating Yorkshire’ school, then surely nothing was impossible. Needless to say, following several meetings and conversations as well as a few begging requests for props and costumes on social media, an ensemble cast was put together and a play began to take shape. A script was found, music and scenery arranged and staff put themselves forward for several roles each, some with a great deal more enthusiasm than others *coughs* Mrs Sinclair. (Episode 3 of Educating Yorkshire if the name rings a bell. Believe me, she’d want you to know).

Our production was to be put on twice in one day. A morning performance for the whole of Year 11 – and any staff that could make it along – and then a matinee performance, if you will, for Year 10 during the last hour of a busy day.

By the day of the performances the cast had managed to run through a whole two (count ’em) rehearsals. After all, any English department is a busy one, but let me tell you, the work we do here at TCA takes up an extraordinary amount of time. And thus, rehearsal time was at a premium. However, everyone in the camp – and also a lot of the pupils who would be in attendance – were excited and showing no signs of nerves on the morning of the performance. I say everyone, but personally I was terrified and all I had to do was work backstage and press a button occasionally.

Now although ‘A Christmas Carol’ is quite a serious play it was evident from the time the curtain went up (I mean, we have no curtain, but when writing about theatre, dahling…) it was clear that the objective of the whole cast was to have some yuletide fun. And so, while Scrooge (TV’s Matthew Burton) made his entrance he was roundly, and in an exaggerated fashion, snubbed by those making merry on the stage before we cut skilfully to his counting house – a beautifully prepared couple of desks and a different backdrop.

The pre-Christmas merriment continued as the play went on. The undoubted star of the show, Mrs Sinclair, brought out many a laugh, not least with her portrayal of Scrooge’s charwoman. Bent double, moving like some kind of hunchbacked Mick Jagger and in possession of what can only be described as a hybrid regional accent it was hard to keep a straight face as she asked, “Warm yer bed, sir?” Of course, this was a moment that one wouldn’t find in the novella, but it kind of set the tone for the rest of the action.

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Emma, Laura & Bryonny proving that for actors sometimes words just get in the way.

Other highlights would include the whole cast – those on and off-stage – gesturing furiously towards what we’ll laughingly call the mixing desk – in a vain attempt to get our ‘visual technician’ to change the background when Scrooge tried to talk to Marley’s face in a door knocker that hadn’t yet changed to a door knocker from a street scene. Our ‘visual technician’ was me, left in charge of the clicker for a screen with a PowerPoint on. It had taken me mere minutes to relax and enjoy the performance so much that I forgot my job. A little like my role in the school nativity as one of the three wise sheep (probably) about forty years ago when I got so distracted by concentrating for my prompt that I forgot my one line – ‘baaaah’ – entirely.

Personally, I enjoyed watching the sheer glee on the faces of my colleagues every time they took to the stage. I don’t mean that they were grinning like idiots, but their enjoyment of what they were doing was all too obvious. As a very shy bloke I wouldn’t have dared attempt to act and so the brilliance of the performances in front of me was a joy to watch. The play was worth an imaginary admission fee for the ad-libs alone, but the approach of our actors was just brilliant. Another thing to admire about our talented department.

Later, and much to the astonishment of the audience – and the audible delight of Mrs Bell – Mariah Carey showed up at Fezziwig’s party and the English department gave a master class in how not to dance and how to avoid the actual rhythm of the track. As Scrooge watched on accompanied by a ghost that appeared to be wearing a christening gown on her head, Fezziwig’s Christmas party fairly rocked to the sound of ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’. Nearby, the all female section of the cast involved at this juncture did their best dad-dancing and all of a sudden it wasn’t so clear to see why Scrooge missed his days with Fezziwig so much. Sadly my request that ‘Horny’ by Mousse T be playing was rather criminally ignored. I mean, what kind of party doesn’t feature Mousse T? And what kind of adaptation of a Dickens classic is complete without teachers dancing to ‘Horny’? Oh, hang on…

Further highlights included Scrooge talking like a parrot – and apologising for doing so – the appearance of a child’s unicorn in place of a horse and carriage and a veritable cavalcade of accents, none of which seemed appropriate and some of which seemed to morph from region to region as the lines went on. Mrs Stylianou in particular, with her hybrid Welsh/Carribbean/Glaswegian accent, brought a certain mirth to proceedings that made it difficult not to laugh from the sidelines. Well accustomed to her bad accents, this reviewer just shook his head. Getting back to the appearance of the unicorn by the way, I have no doubt that one will also appear in a student’s written response about ‘A Christmas Carol’ in the near future, just as guns and cars are referred to in essays on Romeo and Juliet as a result of the Baz Luhrmann film. Fingers crossed it’s not a GCSE exam response!

As the curtain went down (we still didn’t have an actual curtain) and the players re-appeared to take their bow there was rapturous applause from those in the cheap seats. The assembled staff and students had clearly enjoyed their hour’s entertainment.

There was a special and deserved round of applause for our director, Dr Laura Price (not an actual medical doctor; a fact we have to confirm at our school on an all too regular basis) who had worked ridiculously hard to make this all possible, as well as taking on at least three roles too.

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And therein lies the ‘thing’ about my place of work. This play was the epitome of what has become our mantra over the years – work hard, be nice. I’ve worked at schools where staff would gladly put on a show, but all too often these could turn into a vanity project. The staff panto at a previous school, for instance, was clearly always just a chance for the head to feed her ego by playing an overblown villain. This was anything of the sort. The people involved certainly didn’t need any more work. In amongst the planning, teaching, exam marking, after school lessons and other extra curricular work that we do, the thought of putting on a play was indeed a ridiculous idea. But the people that I work with will stop at nothing to help our kids. And so, vanity and in some cases dignity were put to one side, in the name of education and in order to give our pupils an experience that they otherwise would be very unlikely to have (and by that I mean a theatre visit, not just a chance to see their teachers dressed up and messing about). As I said, work hard, be nice.

It’s no exaggeration to say that this show was a triumph. It wasn’t slick or enormously polished, but it was a whole world of fun and I have to say my admiration for the people that I work with, already sky high, went up another few notches. The play was put on a day before the end of quite a brutal half term and yet my colleagues couldn’t have been more enthused about the whole thing. Me? I put the nerves to one side, scaled a flight of stairs off stage and pressed a button occasionally, but heroically.

I fear that the performance will now become an annual thing, meaning I’ll feel the pressure to get out there and perform. But, given what I watched at the end of term in December, I reckon my colleagues would carry me through. And if it’s got me thinking of taking the plunge on stage then it must have been a success.

Sniff the air folks…that’s the smell of a BAFTA!

Life in grassroots football: How to turn your Under 11s four match losing streak into a personal crisis!

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Right lads, read this, take it all in and get out there and play like Brazil. Oh, and enjoy yourselves!

Every week, I try to make the last words that I say to my team exactly the same. “Enjoy it”, I say. And I mean it. I won’t lie though. I desperately want them to win because I know that winning football matches is a great deal more enjoyable than losing them. It’s simple really. But I always tell them ‘enjoy it’.

There’s no doubt that there’s a boat load of enjoyment to be had from running a kids’ football team. Certainly that’s what everyone will tell you. It’ll be a tonne of fun. They’re right as well. It is fun. So why am I currently turning our form into some kind of personal crisis then? Well let me attempt an explanation.

“I take it all very personally”

First up – and I know from conversations with other coaches that I’ve got no exclusivity here – I take it all very personally. When I played, as a kid and as a much younger man, I wanted to win. Desperately. Now, as an adult, I won’t ever send a team out thinking that any of us will enjoy it if we get beat. I certainly won’t. I don’t even enjoy it when we’ve got beat and played well. I might tell the kids that it was enjoyable to watch, but that’s a carefully placed white lie. When I played I would brood on defeats or bad performances for days on end. Nowadays, as a coach, it wakes me up in the middle of the night. ‘What could I have done to prevent that from happening?’ I tell the kids that I enjoyed watching them play, but inside I’m already asking myself how I could have changed things in order to avoid that defeat. Or I’m wondering how what we did in training on the Thursday and what we spoke about before kick-off didn’t make it to the match.

Kids don’t enjoy defeat either, especially when it’s a run of them. This thing that was meant to be fun isn’t anything like fun when the other team are laughing at you or celebrating yards away as you sit and have a drink of water miserably at the end of the game.

“I didn’t shout and bawl and I wasn’t cruel.”

And then as a coach, what do I say? I understand the need for positivity, but I think sometimes you have to be human too. Sometimes I just find it really tough to choose my words. And it becomes something that I worry about. Another reason to lie awake on a Saturday night. After our last game, and at the end of the four game losing streak that kind of prompted this blog, I’d had enough. I didn’t shout and bawl and I wasn’t cruel. But I couldn’t tell them lies. Not on this occasion. It had genuinely felt like every instruction given had been ignored. It had genuinely felt like, as coaches, we’d been let down. Of course I didn’t tell them that, but they were left in no doubt that they simply hadn’t been good enough. We’d been forced to make three substitutions because of the attitude of some of the boys and the fact that they’d decided to shout at not just the ref, but their coaches, parents and each other too. Of course, I then worried about that as well! Should I have been negative? Did I need to say anything? Would I need to sit them down again before the next training session and be all ‘cuddly’ and positive? In the end I said no more, but I must have thought it through at least a dozen times in the days between the game and training.

I did end up spending even more hours on football that week coming up with a code of conduct for the boys with some ‘rules’ and sanctions. I gave it out at training still feeling like I might be taking it all too seriously, but then comforted myself later with the thought that I’d taken out the bit where I wanted them to sign it! I’d planned to photocopy each of the signed code of conducts, so that I had a copy as well as the boys! I’m still keeping it in mind for next season though! After all, they’ll be coming up to 12 by then…

As coaches we took that day personally. In the heat of the moment I genuinely considered quitting as it just felt like I wasn’t making any kind of difference any more. As I do on many a Sunday, I found some time to sit and think things through in the afternoon after the game and came to the conclusion that I was taking things a little too seriously. There was no option but to carry on, making sure that training was purposeful and fun and that we worked more towards getting things right in games. After all, it’s an under 11s team, not someone fighting to win the Champions’ League. But it demonstrates how easy it is to become completely obsessed by the small part we play in football. And I’m sure I’m not alone in being this way. I hope I’m not, anyway!

“…I’ve allowed running a team to become too big a part of my life.”

The lengths I go to and the time I put into my team probably pales into insignificance when measured against some coaches. But I still feel that I’ve allowed running a team to become too big a part of my life. In the lead up to a game I can be regularly found scribbling down teams and formation on the backs of envelopes or scraps of paper. I’ll invariably then proceed to lose the envelope and have to search out another one and do it all over again! The trouble is that a combination of a big squad of players – we have 16 kids for a 9-a-side team – and a poor memory means that every team is different again as I forget a player and include someone else. Suffice to say the whole envelope thing can be unnecessarily stressful!

I used to keep a record of every game we played as well. I’d mark each player out of ten, record scorers and write a paragraph or two about how we’d played and things to change. Family life and work has put pay to that particular obsession though as I can just never find the time anymore. Again though, the little orange book is something I’m thinking of bringing back for next year!

When I’ve got time I get out my little magnetic board with the counters that represent players and play about with it, working out who’d be best where and what I’d need to tell them in order to get the best out of them in said position. I haven’t yet had the bottle to use it at an actual match, but the time will come when I finally convince myself that it’s not that embarrassing and that it’s what other coaches do! I’ll stress myself out about that too.

“…please don’t get me started on dog walkers!”

And then, in terms of obsession and crisis, we get to the pitch. Our pitch takes up so much of my time that it’s criminal really. I live quite close to the club, so in times of bad weather I’m forever thinking about it. What will that near side touchline be like? Will the top goalmouth be holding water? Is the grass too long in the corners and is it possible that my lines have disappeared again? As a further consequence of living close, I’m forever checking the weather forecast for the week a well, just in case there’s a few days worth of rain that I need to panic about while being unable to actually do anything about it.

All this is of course before we even touch on the subject of kids using the pitch to ride bikes on. And please don’t get me started on dog walkers! It seems that every time I go over to re-paint the lines someone has let their dog use our pitch as a toilet and then conveniently not noticed! And I swear that every time I’m leaving having re-done those lines someone will proceed to walk their dog over our pitch, even though they can see me coming out of the clubhouse! I’m beginning to feel paranoid; that someone is watching me paint the lines while simultaneously winding up Fido ready to go and run all over our grass!

It gets worse. I can often be found hanging out of my bedroom window, craning my neck to see if I can get a view of the pitch from about 400 metres away. I can’t, but it never stops me trying! Sometimes I’ll see dog walkers or, Heaven forbid, kids playing football and quietly curse to myself while trying not to worry too much. I’ve genuinely become a pitch bore and I fear that I may need to seek some kind of professional help in order to shake the disease.

The final form of obsession can be found on the morning of any match. As a supporter I’ve been ridiculously superstitious for as long as I can remember. Nothing too crazy…just the lucky pants, the lucky socks, the lucky top, not using any plates, bowls or mugs that are the same colour as opposition shirts, the lucky pebbles found on a beach stuffed into coat pockets, buying a programme from the same place week in, week out. Just the kind of things I’ve found as a Newcastle United fan that are proven to work and responsible for all of our success over the years. I mean you can’t always rely on the likes of Mike Ashley, Joe Kinnear and Alan Pardew.

As a coach I’m much the same. If we lose I won’t wear the same top for the next game. I’ll change tracksuit bottoms after a bad result too. I put things out in a certain order when I get to the pitch. I haven’t quite got to the lucky pebble level yet, but I know it’ll happen. I just haven’t found the right pebble yet!

We finally have a game again this weekend after the last four were postponed due to the weather. After what has felt like months and months being obsessed and feeling like I’m in the middle of some kind of personal crisis I have an outlet! I hope that we go out and play well. I hope that the formation I’ve been considering will work and that the changes I’m planning won’t be too much. I hope we can win. And, you know obviously, I hope everyone enjoys themselves. Whatever happens I’m sure I’ll sulk and moan and overthink every last second of it!

 

 

 

More middle-aged gigging! The Bluetones at Leeds Stylus.

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Picture the scene. Tea time in an ordinary three bedroomed semi in suburban Leeds. The telly’s on. A family – mine – are sat around watching a bit of post football television.

“You’re not going out again? Really?”

“You’re always going out! It’s ridiculous. What about me?”

Now if you’re thinking that this is perhaps my middle aged reaction to my teenage daughter heading out on some shopping trip or hanging about with ‘the girls’, then you’d be wrong. Horribly wrong. This is in fact the kind of dialogue that my kids hurled my way on Saturday evening when, without warning – unless you count the many warnings that they simply didn’t listen to – me and my wife headed out to watch The Bluetones at Leeds Stylus.

The sense of outrage is palpable. The sheer horror undisguised. The grief is multiplied by the fact that it’s Uncle Richard babysitting and not fun loving, just out of his teens cousin, Martin. Thankfully though, it’s mostly put right by the simple fact that we’re having pizza for tea. This serves to calm the nerves and rationalise the fears of what might happen should your parents have the brass neck to go out for the second time this year, for a few hours. Kids eh? Possibly the simplest and most complex things ever to walk the face of planet Earth.

As I’ve documented in a previous blog, middle aged gigging is fraught with tension, pitfalls and problems. The first of these is brought to light fairly quickly this evening when we realise that we don’t know where the gig actually is. Well, we know where, but we don’t recognise the name of the venue. And this was never the case when we were young and cool. A Google search allays a few of our fears, but even when we’ve parked up, we don’t really know where we’re going. For a start it seems to be part of the student’s union and sadly, it’s been a long time since either of us were students.

And this brings into play another fear. Will there be actual students at our gig? Are we about to have to watch an entire gig from one of our favourite bands while simultaneously hiding in a corner trying to disguise the fact that we’re the oldest swingers in town. And by ‘swingers’ I mean people attending a gig, not people conducting illicit sexual relations with the partners of other middle aged folk. I mean, even the image of me naked, let alone other more out-of-shape-forty-and fifty-somethings is enough to prompt you, dear reader, to be sick in your mouth. So come on, pull yourselves together: stop picturing me naked and read on!

Thankfully, our first element of tension, is dissolved when after a relatively short walk I find memories of my PGCE at the University of Leeds come flooding back. I know – sort of – exactly where I am and before we know it we’re heading into the building and down the stairs towards the Stylus. We don’t have a ticket though and instead are relying on picking them up on the door, so there’s an anxious wait while the girl scans the list before finally finding our names and highlighting them. She stamps our hands and we’re in. However, here’s another potential crisis point if you’re a middle aged gig goer. How can you preserve the memory in the time honoured fashion if there’s no ticket? What do I put in a box of memories that’s destined for the loft? What do I frame with other tickets in order to attempt interesting artwork that the wife will not allow on our walls?

Overcoming this tiny existential crisis we go into the gig. It’s early and the crowd is sparse so we head to the front. Sort of. I’ve always been too polite at gigs. It’s got worse as I’ve got older. So now, in middle age, while I’ve got a bit bolder in moving forward I’m still unlikely to stand straight  in front of those people who’ve left a gap. Don’t get me wrong, it’s their fault if they’ve left a gap and someone’s inevitably going to stand there, but it most likely won’t be me. So we stand and ponder for a couple of minutes. My wife is a lot shorter than me – a clause that will undoubtedly get me into trouble – while retaining her status as an intellectual giant – a clause that might just get me out of jail – so she likes to be as far forward as possible. So we’re caught between two stools, so to speak.

I’ve been going to gigs with my wife for a very long time. It’s a wonderful thing. We like much of the same music and it helps us get on. I’ve noticed my wife has certain mystical powers that only come out at gig time, but I’ll only let you in on the one in case you’re ever at the same gig as me and we need to use her power’s for the greater good. She can levitate. Genuinely levitate. And as such, while I’m worrying about standing in front of a couple near the front, she levitates into the space, forcing me to follow. I’ve let slip that she does mind control as well now. But she’s levitated and I’ve not even noticed her moving, which in turn helps me overcome my middle aged gig politeness. We’re now just three people from the front of the stage. If this was someone like Take That I could reach out and touch Mark Owen’s testicles as he gyrated in front of me. But it’s not and I doubt Mark Morriss would enjoy such over familiar fandom. Anyway, we’re no longer between two stools. Just metaphorically within touching distance of Mark Owen’s scrotum. It’s been quite a journey in a very short space of time.

As a younger man I had a reasonably encyclopedic knowledge of music, especially with what was new at the time. So during what are referred to generally these days as ‘The Britpop Years’ I knew my stuff. And of course, this is where my love of The Bluetones came from. Nowadays however, my grasp of things has slipped. Having a career, a marriage, children etc; these commitments will get in the way of any kind of interests and my knowledge of bands has suffered. Hence tonight, even though I’ve read who they are, I still have no idea who the support band are. In fact, there are two support bands, but being middle aged these days, the temptations of having a proper tea and staying in the warmth for a little bit longer meant that we weren’t out in time to be queuing at the doors and being two of the 23 people who may have watched the first support.

We make it in time to catch the second support though, although due to middle aged hearing and a lack of annunciation on the singer’s part I couldn’t tell you what they’re called. However, I can furnish you with a few observations. Firstly, they sound and dress a bit like Joy Division. There are hints of The Fall in there too. Secondly, they swear quite a bit. ‘Fuck’ this and ‘fuck’ that and no doubt ‘fuck’ the other as well. Risqué. Thirdly, they’re quite brave. Why? Well they follow one song that has a chorus of ‘this in not a joke, not a fucking joke’ with another that asks ‘Can I speak to a manager please?’ If you think about it there’s a certain level of confidence there, right?

Once they’ve left the stage a glance at my watch tells me that we’ve got about 25 minutes until our heroes, The Bluetones arrive. They’re touring their album Science and Nature, released in 2000, which for fans is a bit of a classic. Not only that though, having played the album through in its entirety, the lads would be back with a second ‘Greatest Hits’ set afterwards. This is great in theory; a real treat. However, given my age, it actually throws up another middle age gigging problem. By the end of these two sets, while I may experience a certain euphoria, to misquote Khia, my legs, my back, my everything is going to hurt. It’s bad enough having to stand still for this long, but tapping a foot, raising the odd hand, arm, pair of hands to clap, actual dancing, well of this is going to take its toll. And that was never a worry when I was a younger gig goer. And this is before we even give a thought to what state we’ll be in the next day.

Age is a constant concern at gigs these days and as such I find myself turning around to check the rest of the audience. I scan both balconies – although their more like ledges in the Stylus – and have a good look at everyone behind me and I’m more than a bit pleased to see so much grey and white hair, as well as many a bald head. We’re all middle aged gigging together and as far as I can see there’s not a hipster student type in site!

There is one more slight problem of a middle aged nature, however. It’s cold out tonight and I’m feeling the cold a little bit more these days – another reason to revoke my Geordie membership as well, I know. So I’m wearing a jacket. It’s not quite sitting at the football with a tartan blanket round my knees, but I feel that it marks me out as old. It reminds me, once again, that middle age has well and truly hit, but there’s nothing else for it. The days of being cool are sadly long gone.With a two hour set ahead of me I’m going to get hot, but there’s no way that I’m tying my jacket round my waist. I can’t avoid feeling like a bit of a twat though. That said, I’m surrounded by middle-aged gig goers, so I can afford to relax a little bit and it wouldn’t be a surprise to find more jackets knocking about. As long as there are no gilets, eh?

Whatever my age, the pre-gig excitement remains the same. So as 9pm approaches, I’m watching the door at the side of the stage like a hawk. And when it opens a fraction, letting in a tiny bit of light, my heart leaps a little bit. Seconds later and our heroes are taking to the stage. Without checking I’d say it’s around 24 years, maybe more, since I first saw them live, but just the sight of The Bluetones walking onstage still makes me smile. In fact, as I get older and especially as a few years ago we attended their ‘farewell’ tour and I thought I’d lost this forever, I think it makes me smile a whole lot more. It’s widened a little bit more tonight as well as the lads are resplendent in white jeans and white lab coats – Science and Nature, you see?

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The gig is an absolute triumph. Frontman Mark is on top form, regaling us with tale after tale of life in The Bluetones over the years. And the songs don’t sound bad either! First up it’s Science and Nature and we’re treated to a number of favourites. It’s an album I’ve always loved and the sound of opener Zorro immediately lifts my spirits a little bit more. Suddenly the self consciousness of the middle age gigger is gone. I don’t feel like a mature student or in fact a bloody English teacher and I’m shuffling from foot to foot in something that resembles at least a kind of rhythm.

We’re quickly in to ‘The Last of the Great Navigators’ and Mark is crooning the line about believing ‘there’s something good around the corner’ and do you know what, he’s never sounded more convincing. The beautiful ‘Tiger Lily’ is next before drummer Eds takes centre stage – kind of – with the ‘Ch-ch-ch-ch’ refrain from ‘Mudslide’. We’d been listening to this round the tea table before we came out and bizarrely none of the family can actually do it, apart from me. As I’m the bloke who always sings the wrong lyrics this is quite the achievement, believe me! As the song kicks in and I’m doing it – obviously – my wife turns around with a knowing smile. A knowing smile that says, ‘Yes, you can make a noise, but face facts love, when it comes to actual words you’re like a four-year-old.’ I don’t care and I’ll take any victory I can get, even if it is that I make noises better than anyone else.

Perhaps the last time I heard ‘Blood Bubble’ live was when we saw this album toured originally, although given my age and my memory, I could be wrong. But it’s sounding great tonight. I’m a sucker for an instrumental. And then we’re into the wonderful run of ‘Autophilia’ and ‘Keep The Home Fires Burning’. By now I may well be singing – loosely – at the top of my voice. This makes me a little self conscious as you don’t want to spoil anyone else’s night, but gig after gig after gig I can’t help it. I suppose after all these years these songs just mean a lot and I rationalise my brief worries with the thought that the band’s amps and mikes might just make them a bit louder than me anyway. If you’re reading this and thinking you were stood near me as I yelled along and it spoilt your night, I’m sorry. And I’ll extend my apologies for getting the words wrong so much as well. I was in my element though!

The set ends in frankly remarkable fashion, even if it was completely scheduled and not a surprise to many present who simply know the album. I’d like to think I speak for a lot of Bluetones fans though when I express my total and utter undying love for ‘Slackjaw’, the band’s humble, beautiful and wonderful ode to lost love. It’s a song I could listen to again and again and not ever tire of, with the added bonus that it’s short enough even for a perennial lyric loser like myself to remember all the way through! And with that in mind, if you’re reading this Mr. Morriss (either of you) I’m available for back up vocals on this one in the future.

A brilliant set is ended with the wonderful ‘Emily’s Pine’ and the band are off stage as quick as a flash. We’re into what Mark has referred to as an interval for the benefit of an ageing audience and he’s even given us permission to retire to the foyer to purchase drinks and locally sourced ice creams, but apart from a few middle age bladders being emptied, as you’d expect, we’re going nowhere. (And I hope you appreciate the lack of a ‘never’ in there to avoid using an awful pun, Bluetones fans).

Before there’s time for my joints to seize up the boys are back on stage and we have the second half of the show to look forward to. This time it’s a ‘Greatest Hits’ set and we’re treated to a few that aren’t always played, like ‘Freeze Dried Pop’ – revealed by Mark as a potential top 27 hit that never happened – and ‘Fast Boy’.

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But it’s the old favourites that dominate and put the perfect glaze on tonight’s gig. ‘Bluetonic’, ‘Never Going Nowhere’ (with Mark chanelling The Eurythmics), ‘Solomon Bites The Worm’ and many more, as they say, are played to the delight of all in the crowd. We end with ‘If’ and a brilliant moment of Bluetones magic as Mark asks for the phone of the woman in front of us in order to film the whole thing for her. There are cameo appearances for the rest of the band including a lingering shot of Adam’s crotch before it’s handed back. Tomorrow, the video will ‘go viral’ as they say, albeit on a smallish, Bluetones sized scale and thousands will view it on Twitter. I will spend much of the day ruing the fact that it could have been me and thinking about the benefits it would have had for this blog! I gather myself, forget the blog – knowing my luck Mark wouldn’t have pressed ‘record’ anyway and look to the stage. After a well deserved bow The Bluetones are gone and it’s almost time to head home. But what a night!

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We end the night with a visit to the merchandise stall to make some apt age-related purchases, including a tea towel and some fridge magnets. Never has gigging felt so middle aged and yet so bloody brilliant. I’m shattered, my feet hurt, my ears are ringing and I know that Sunday is already even more of a write-off than usual, but boy am I happy! The Bluetones are a band to be cherished and thankfully – and you promised, Mark – they’ll be back again in 2020. And there are new songs to look forward to as well. Can’t wait. The battle for renewed gig fitness starts now for this middle-aged gig goer!