middleagefanclub

Proof that family and football don’t mix.

On Friday 12th April Newcastle United secured yet another ‘against all odds’ style victory. The 1-0 win away at Leicester City was, in a way, quite remarkable. We’d lost the previous two and were in danger of being dragged back into the relegation fight. Leicester, on the other hand, had won their previous four and were keen to let us know about their confidence via any available media outlet. We’d lost Florian Lejeune to another knee injury while they had Jamie Vardy in the form of his life. And so on and so forth.

As ever our lads put in an amazing shift, covering the ground, sticking doggedly to Rafa’s instructions and throwing themselves headlong time and again into tackles and blocks. Meanwhile, off the pitch, our travelling support were simply magnificent, turning out in vast numbers, out singing the home support throughout and then staying in the ground afterwards to show their appreciation for Rafa and his boys as well as just having a bit of an impromptu party.

That night tributes were payed to the team and the support – and rightly so. Sky pundits congratulated everyone concerned and social media was awash with videos of 3,000 Geordies asking ‘Who’s that team we call United?’ as loudly as their throats would allow, given their performance over the previous couple of hours. Rafa and some of the players joined in and Salomon Rondon even asked if we’d been playing at home. Magnificent.

However, as great as it all was, I was left wondering – in the very back of my mind – if anyone had spared a thought for me. In fact, I wondered if anyone would spare a thought for the thousands who would have had to go through the kind of trials I had gone through just to watch the game.

Now before we get started let me explain that this article isn’t quite what it seems. I’m playing the fool a little bit and laying on the sarcasm in quite a heavy dose. I’m not in any way making a parallel between myself and the people who took time off work or travelled through the night and stood in the cold and who do so every time we play. In terms of away trips I’ve been there and done that many times; I know the hardships but I’ve also shared in the joy. And I know that plenty of people will regularly have to go through a lot more just to watch us play on the telly. I’m simply talking about what should be the simple act of watching the match at home on my own telly on Sky. Let me explain…

On Friday I finished work after what was an extremely long, arduous term. I’m a teacher. I came home quite fancying a pre-match nap, but found that my family were indulging their passion for X-Box, or as I call it, shouting at each other with headsets on. So the nap was going to be impossible. Instead, as a little treat and a way of trying to take my mind off the match, I left them in the front room and disappeared into the kitchen to do some dishes. La vida loca, I know. Later, at the peak of excitement, I cooked the kids their tea. Beat that.

I don’t enjoy the build up to games and I never have. If I’m at work I have plenty to take my mind of it, but if I’m at home it’s always there nagging away at me and making me think ridiculous thoughts about whether my choice of pants, shirt or even mug will affect our performance. Stupid, I know and as Stevie Wonder once said, Superstition ain’t the way. It’s a habit that I can’t break though.

So on Friday night it was a case – as usual – of just doing anything and everything both to stay awake and to take my mind away from the game. The importance couldn’t have been lost on any of us and if, like me, you often take a pessimistic view, then you could have been excused for worrying that we could easily get beat and be pulled back towards Cardiff.

After a while though the build up to the game was on the telly. My family however were still hogging the living room like travellers on the local fields. Minus the alleged petty theft and casual violence though. Although my wife is quite handy at times.

Undeterred, I turned the telly on and was dismayed at the amount of coverage Leicester were getting. Vardy this, Rogers that, Maguire the other. So the usual type of Sky coverage then. Guessing that this was set for the long haul I ducked out and grabbed the ironing board, because when I said I’d do anything to take my mind of things, I really meant anything.

And so I set off ironing while watching images on a screen with the sound muted. Images of Carragher and Neville bigging up Jamie Vardy. This is Extreme NUFC watching, after all.

As a bit of time passed I started to feel a form of mild outrage though. Why were my family insisting on staying in the living room? Could they not naff off out for a walk or move their (metaphorical) caravans into the kitchen? Mild outrage turned to mild temper and, wait for it…I turned the sound on. Luckily just in time to hear Kelly Cates announce that they’d be back after the break to focus on Newcastle. Time to stop ironing, take the chair in front of the telly and focus on the Toon.

By this point my family are knee deep in the middle of a game of Monopoly. No, really, they are. And with Monopoly comes competition. And with competition in our house – surely in any house – comes shouting. Actually, in our house shouting seems to be the default setting. Whatever had prompted it, it was just more to get in the way of my enjoyment of the match.

Now at this point some people would be forgiven for wondering why my family don’t seem to care. Why, for instance at the risk of blatant sexism and gender stereotyping, my son hasn’t joined me. Well, this is because the rest of the family are all Leeds United fans. I moved here in my mid-twenties, married a Leodensian (that’s someone from Leeds, not a posh word for a lesbian or a lion tamer) and settled here. I’ve now lived in Leeds for twenty years or so. And at the risk of outraging many Geordies, I simply let my kids decide who they wanted to support, when the time came. Both plumped for Leeds, their local club. In essence they’ve swapped one misery for another, really. But more of that another time, eh?

The game is now creeping ever closer. We’re mere minutes from kick-off and I am well and truly settled in front of Sky Sports. I know our team and at the very back of my mind there’s a lingering sense of optimism. It is however, competing with an ever present planet sized chunk of pessimism that comes with being a Newcastle fan. So while I sense we can get something, I fear it’ll be a hiding.

Alongside the optimism/pessimism conundrum I’m now starting to get slightly irritated by the others in the room. As mild-mannered as I am, I’ve had to turn the volume up. Apparently the issue of going to jail and not collecting £200 is way more important than what’s going on in Leicester. I can’t really hear what’s being discussed on screen anymore, but I suspect it’d only make me more nervous anyway. But it’s OK, I think, because both kids will have to have showers soon, in preparation for bed and my wife will be off cooking the tea. It’s almost 8 o’clock for pity’s sake and I’m starving.

Needless to say at kick-off nothing has changed. No one is off showering, no one is cooking and none of the squatters has left the room. I attempt the odd subtle ‘Howay the lads’ in order to drop a hint, but to no avail. My son has bought Mayfair and now can’t afford much else – classic mistake. He’s blaming everyone else and asking for the rules to be bent. The Monopoly volume has actually raised while I’m subtly displaying the quietest outrage ever witnessed.

As the clock on the game ticks past 10 minutes though, I’m beginning to get more than a bit irritated. There is literally no sign of Monopoly finishing. No sign of children starting to get ready for bed. No sign of my tea. And no chance I can concentrate on what’s unfolding before me in Leicester. We’re holding our own though. I can’t relax however, as in my suspicious mind the moment you think a positive thought Toon-wise is the moment Manquillo misses a tackle or humps an over-hit backpass towards our goal. And of course off to my right three of the loudest people I’ve ever met are attempting to have a conversation about a bloody board game while all talking at the same time.

I repeatedly turn up the volume which piques the interest of my son who starts to ask questions. Bloody questions! I’m trying to concentrate on the game! He knows the players, the score is on screen, he can see who we’re playing! Aaaaagh! This truly is extreme NUFC watching!

The half is now ticking by quite nicely and we’ve got a foothold in the game. In fact, we’re the better side. Things are settling down a bit. My wife has departed for the kitchen and strangely, my son is now quite placid. And then my daughter starts dancing. The Monopoly board is still on the floor so she’s improvising somewhat, twirling ever closer to me in the armchair. After probably not even a minute it’s too much.

“Will you bloody sit down?!”

“Alriiiiiiight!”

Her outrage is palpable. She’s 12 and has mastered the art of answering back. And after all, what’s a living room for if it’s not for dancing around all the garbage on the floor while swinging dangerously close to an enormous Smart TV?

The tension has become too much for me. We’ve now reached the stage of the game where you can almost reach out and touch half time, but when there’s actually still quite a while to go. The half hour mark, as it’s known, when sometimes, just sometimes, even Newcastle fans can relax. But this game is so important. And as with every occasion I watch Newcastle on the telly I have to get up. I can’t sit still any longer so I’ll stand. Maybe if I wander around for a little bit time will miraculously pass. Whatever it is, the dancing has snapped something in me and I’m up.

My son decides that he’ll have a little wander too and between him, a now sulking pre-teen, a Monopoly board and three piles of fake money, it’s quite the job to actually find somewhere safe to place your feet. I turn my back for a second and my son chooses this time to engage me in conversation – probably asking who we’re playing again. I’ve momentarily left the game behind.

Luckily the volume has had to be turned up to a silly level so I just here the commentator’s voice go up in tone significantly. Something’s happening and it involves Matt Ritchie, a man in possession of a magic hat and a wand of a left foot.

Instinctively I spin round. Miguel Almiron has just lost the ball, but it’s heading back to Ritchie. My son is practically standing on my toes for some reason and it’s tempting just to push him over. Instead, I place my hands on his shoulders and hold him still. All this to watch a game of football. But this is extreme NUFC watching.

On screen, Ritchie feints, drops his shoulder and pushes the ball past a Leicester defender before delivering a great ball into the box. I can see Ayoze Perez moving towards it, but two small hands are also grabbing at my midriff. I scream at the telly.

“Get across him!” as Ayoze does just that. As he meets the ball with a powerful glancing header I simultaneously pick my son up and deposit him onto the armchair in front of the telly, while my feet leave the ground. Kasper Schmeichel’s dive is futile and in a flash the ball is in the net. I’m a foot off the ground punching the air and screaming again. I land on a pile of Monopoly money and skid, somehow keeping my balance, but scattering my son’s savings and property portfolio all over the living room. Who cares!This is no time for Monopoly!

My son – we’re his second team – leaps up into my arms as I celebrate. I attempt the trademarked Ayoze fingers-in-ears celebration with a child hanging off me, only to look utterly stupid as for once Ayoze doesn’t bother with it. It doesn’t matter. We’re deservedly 1-0 up.

The rest is now history. We won. Thirty eight points makes us look safe. However, that wasn’t the end of my headache. Oh no. As the second half got underway my daughter finally decided to have a shower which created more problems. Even with the volume pumped up high I still found myself competing – and frankly losing – with her shrieking the latest R&B dirge like a tortured animal channeling Beyonce. And no, I’m not exaggerating. Maybe I’m a little bit odd or maybe I’m just a grumpy old man, but I feel like I need to be concentrating fully on the game, almost as if I might spot a runner and be able to warn someone on the pitch – ridiculous, I know – and my daughter’s singing meant that I just couldn’t focus on matters on the pitch.

And then, just after half-time, my wife decided that tea was ready! Nine o’clock at night and I’m faced with a plate full to the brim of Mexican food. Chicken, salsa, rice, soured cream, all waiting for me to clumsily knock it off the plate as I watched the match with it on my lap. Would a half time tea have been too much to ask? I now have an X Factor audition upstairs and Speedy Gonzales’ tea in my lap when all I want to do is watch my team on the telly!

I try in vain to eat without throwing rice on the floor and also manage to drop soured cream on my jeans and all the while I struggle to really watch what’s unfolding in front of me. However, by the hour mark I’ve finished and despite the mess that I’ve made, we’re still 1-0 up.

Thankfully, we’re into added time before my next problem arises. But extreme NUFC watching has one last twist for me. Just before the fourth official holds up the board to announce our now traditional 5 minutes of added time my daughter arrives back on the scene. I’ve managed to see off my son who thought it best he watched the second half while perched on the arm of the chair, leaning on me and asking a series of inane questions. He’s now gone to bed. But then my daughter returns from her shower and decides that, despite her dad’s obvious tension, she has a few questions of her own. The main one of which will almost see me completely blow my stack.

With three points on the line and her dad watching his team, the team he’s spent forty odd years watching and frankly, obsessing over here is what she asks me.

“Is Alan Pardew still the manager?”

My family and football really don’t mix..

Leeds United: falling apart or ignoring the chaos and building a bright future?

So Tyler Roberts didn’t kick the ball out. Public outrage! For what exactly? What about the noble English art of sportsmanship? Do me a favour! But, but…Dirty Leeds? Well, no. Clearly not. From the outside looking in it looks to me that there’s a lot of blame being thrown around in the wrong direction. One thing’s for sure though; it was the start of a series of events that could shape the short term future of Leeds United.

To recap, during their final home league game of the season, against Aston Villa, when an opposition player went down injured, Leeds carried on playing and within seconds had scored the opening goal of the game. Cue hysteria! Sky pundits -who when they’d played the game themselves most likely were anything but angels – took the moral high ground so high they needed to parachute back down to ground level and the land we call ‘Havealittlethinkaboutthat’.

As the ball hit the back of the net there was a bit of a scrap between opposing players. Or, if you prefer the correct football media parlance, a melee ensued. The mass of bodies became a moving brawl, trundling across the field of play, pausing for a second or two before finding the strength, or the moral outrage to go again. Eventually, with the added excitement of stewards on the pitch – yes, on the pitch! – things calmed down enough for the referee to take some sort of appropriate action. Or so we thought.

The media and social media fallout since has been somewhat incredible. And as a football fan and a supporter of a team that, in my opinion, doesn’t get the rub of the green with the media, it’s made me wonder why. So, is it just a Leeds thing? If for instance Manchester City or media darlings Spurs or West Ham or God forbid, Manchester United had done the same, would it have been OK to play to the whistle? Would doing what you were taught as kids – play to the whistle – have been acceptable then? Because that’s all that happened really.

Oh, I know that if we slow it down it looks like he’s going to put the ball out, blah, blah, blah. And he might well have been thinking that. But he didn’t do it. And in doing so he broke no rules. None whatsoever. Or again, if you prefer media speak, he didn’t contravene any of the laws of the game. Fair enough, he broke some precious unwritten moral code. But how are we governing the game here? Because if it’s based around morals…well, football’s in more trouble than we imagined!

As for the goal scorer, Mattheus Klich, I feel sure that he wouldn’t have been aware of any fuss that might have been going on around him. What he did was what we all would have done. It was Boys’ Own stuff – he had a chance to score a goal in a huge game. His team were stuck in the middle of a bit of a goal drought. He was a professional footballer doing his job. And it was actually a good finish.

So did Leeds do anything wrong? Well, for me, no. Not really. Surely it’s just instinct to play the ball forward? And if we then look at the actual injury we might easily just think that there was very little to kick the ball out for. From my standpoint as a complete neutral there wasn’t even a foul. Both players went in for the ball, there was a momentary tangle and then Kodija went down. Yes, he was injured and subsequently went off, but I don’t recall a stretcher or a head injury.

We all know what happened next. Chaos ensued. Villa players took the moral high ground while also taking the law into their own hands, while Patrick Bamford took the opportunity to showcase his acting skills. Unfortunately, rather than winning an award he earned himself a ban. In fact, in many ways he was the only Leeds player to really do anything wrong. And if we’re punishing bad acting then some of those Villa players need pulling up for their impressions of modern day football hard men. I’m not sure the likes of Bremner, Clarke or Gray would have been too intimidated.

In among the moral outrage Bielsa emerged as the voice of reason, which given his language skills was quite some achievement. With a true British sense of fair play in mind he ordered the Leeds players – and yes, that does include you Pontus – to let Villa run through and score an unopposed equaliser. Villa then withstood the Leeds pressure to hold out for a draw, but that was never going to be the end of the matter. With a multitude of cameras covering any game these days more wrongdoing was uncovered and the scandal lived on. Bamford was banned, a Villa player was excused for punching an opponent and the debate about the rights and wrongs raged on.

Meanwhile the football season continued. Leeds stumbled into the play-offs with Villa a possible opponent further down the line. Another meeting would be compulsive viewing, but both teams have to make it happen. Villa have languished in the Championship for a few years now without ever realistically looking like they might get out, despite a play-off final last year. And their good run has to end at some point. Will their players cope with the pressure.

Elsewhere, Derby have stuttered through the season and only clinched their play-off spot on the final day of the season, while West Brom have only never really looked that convincing all year.

And that leaves Leeds. The biggest club left standing? Arguably, yes, although I’m sure Villa fans would argue otherwise. Personally though I’d love to see Leeds make it to the Premier League. It’s been a long time without them and Elland Road is the kind of ground teams and fans should want to be visiting. No disrespect to any team in the Premier League, but a club and a city like Leeds is bigger and more high profile than most and if this is the league that claims to be the biggest and best in the world, then you’d hope it would recognise the value of a Leeds over say, a Bournemouth or a Watford.

Looking at current form though, it’s clearly going to be an enormous challenge for Leeds in the play-offs. They aren’t in any kind of form. They’re not taking chances, despite creating a lot and they don’t seem to have a striker with that killer instinct that’s needed in such massive games. I genuinely believe that with someone like Dwight Gayle up front Leeds would already be planning for life in the Premier league. Without and they’re relying on Kemar Roofe, fresh back from injury, but yet to truly hit form. Furthermore, there are some problems in defence – as illustrated against Ipswich – with the absence of Barry Douglas proving crucial.

Leeds don’t go into the play-offs in great shape. However, there are factors that might just see them through. Firstly, there’s Bielsa himself. We know he’ll have done his homework, that’s for sure. Besides that though, he has a group of players that are not only capable of playing incisive and attractive football, but who are in clearly in awe of him as a coach. Bielsa has transformed Leeds’ fortunes and although the play-offs are a real test of his mettle and methods, his standing in the game dictates that he should still have enough to pull the team through. If you’re a Leeds fan, you’ve got to hope so!

Elsewhere – and maybe I’m clutching at straws here – I’d point to players like Kemar Roofe and Jack Clarke. Both, to some extent are returning from injury or illness and both searching for form. Could such major games inspire them? Roofe has scored goals while fit and you’d expect him to continue to do just that, while Clarke is a young player that’s likely to produce a trick and a moment of magic, things that Leeds are in real need of now.

Can the crowd make the difference? Well, you’d expect so. Leeds – like my own team Newcastle – have a loyal and long suffering fanbase and it can’t be denied that they make quite a racket, especially inside Elland Road. That should be inspirational; it has to be. These players must be desperate to get to the Premier League, given the season they’ve had and so the occasions that they’re going to be faced with over the next week or so shouldn’t frighten them. One of the key factors, you’d imagine, will be whether or not teams rise to the occasion. Anyone feeling intimidated isn’t going to attempt that killer pass, won’t play the ball first time and is liable to fluff the chance that comes their way.

Having spoken to Leeds fans there seems to be a split in opinion and feeling about how things are expected to go. Some are adamant that Leeds don’t do one-off games and have reverted to the safety of the pessimist. Others however have decided that Leeds’ play-off record has got to change sometime, that this group of players and this manager are good enough to handle the pressure.

It’s been an interesting season for Leeds. It’s been an interesting last fortnight. It’s could be an even more interesting next week or so.

The 2018 – 2019 Season – a grassroots football review.

As a long season in the Under 10s section of the Garforth Junior Football League draws to a close, and every coach’s minds turn to next year and how we step up, I thought it right to have a little look back. A moment of reflection or a review, if you will.

There’s nothing self-important here, by the way. I coach a team of Under 10s and while in my mind they’re a very special bunch of lads, in truth we’re nothing special at all. Not to be disparaging to my boys, but there’ll be hundreds, possibly thousands of teams just like us around the British Isles. The thing is though, these boys and this team have brought me so much joy over the last year that it’s more than worth a few thousand words. And it’s been a hell of a season.

I took over the coaching of the team part way through last season and while I’d like to think I got the boys a lot more organised, we still weren’t winning games. We were undoubtedly more competitive, but we still ended the season with just the single win.

Needless to say, I was desperate to see our fortunes improve this season. We organised some friendlies in June and July and having attracted a few new players, for once not only did we have numbers available, but we were actually improving. We quickly developed a noticeable style of play and identified key players for key positions. And the results were improving too.

Despite the optimism, we started the season with a 2-0 home loss, but it was clear for anyone to see that we’d got better. The team we played, North East Leeds, had dropped down from the division above us, so we took quite a bit from the game and although we didn’t score, we went close. And not too much short of a year previous we’d conceded 18 goals in a game, so a 2-0 loss here was nothing to be alarmed about!

A week later we travelled to Horsforth for an away fixture against a team who we’d played a few times last season, losing all but one where we’d equalised with 8 seconds to go! I must admit though, even early on in the season, I felt fairly confident. However, I wasn’t expecting quite what happened. We were fantastic that day. The desire to win was evident from the very start and we were passing the ball beautifully. By half-time we were leading 3-1 and ended up winning 4-2; a huge win for us. This was only the second time we’d scored more than 2 goals in a game since I was put in charge! It was only our second win ever! I think we were all a little shocked. This winning thing felt strange, but great!

And so began a four game unbeaten streak. We won the next two and drew the fourth game. Suddenly getting lads to turn up and want to play wasn’t a problem. In fact, by the last game of this particular run we had 6 subs. At times in the previous season we’d turned up with just 6 players! Now we had more than enough players and every last one of them with smiles on their faces. That said, you should try getting 6 subs on a field and giving everyone a decent time!

Next came one of the most disappointing parts of our season though. We lost 4-2 away from home against the team who’d beaten us in the first game of the season, but the worst of it was that we were 4-0 down at half-time having performed really poorly. For some reason the boys looked unfocused and a little overwhelmed. We rallied a bit in the second half, making sure that we were as positive as possible with our half time chat, but nothing would shake the memory of that first half performance. I sulked for the rest of the day and couldn’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the week! It’s funny how, even as a calm, rational adult, such things can affect us.

The next game brought a change of emotions and in many ways summed up what grassroots football at this level is all about. It was another away game and I was tickled to see that our opposition played in black and white stripes, like my beloved Newcastle United. As the teams were warming up though, the opposition coach came over for a quiet word. He explained that his team were having a poor season and had been getting hammered every week. He’d taken over just before the season started when they only had 6 registered players and the whole thing was a bit shambolic. He asked if we’d sub one of our players should we get too far ahead in the game. Knowing how things had been for us the previous season, I quickly agreed.

We won the game 7-1 and were excellent. We were fair, our players encouraged theirs and it was a pleasure to witness. I have to admit I felt guilty though. I felt sorry for their boys. This team were exactly what we had been the season before and I was pleased that, although we won in a one-sided game, we were magnanimous and mature about it. The best part of the whole morning came when our opposition scored. Every spectator, every coach and every player cheered. A lovely moment that got lovelier at the end of the match when all players shook hands. Our opponents left the field with some pride and something positive. Yes, we’d won at a canter, but it had clearly felt good not to be mocked and even better to have scored.

Our next two games continued the pattern we were setting. We played the same team – one league game and one cup – and won both well. Winning the second game also meant that we qualified for the Quarter Final of the cup, something that we wouldn’t have thought possible only months before. In their brilliantly naïve fashion our boys also took this to mean that we could genuinely go on and win the thing, which made me smile but also alerted me to a level of expectation that I’d not really felt before. A cup quarter final would most likely mean playing a team from a league above us and I feared that we could be in for a bit of a thrashing. Waiting for the draw to be made for the next round of games certainly had me tense though! I was relieved when we drew a team that we’d played before. We’d lost to them in the latter part of the previous season, but hadn’t been embarrassed, even though they’d stuck five goals past us. Maybe we did have a chance after all. This childlike optimism was catching!

As is the way with football we were brought crashing back down to Earth in the next few weeks. We lost our next three games and learnt a few lessons along the way. The teams we played were physical and pushed us around quite a bit. And we let it happen. My lads are quite the polite bunch when it comes to their football and so, when teams employed an under 10s version of the dark arts, we didn’t stand a chance. But this made me think. How could we combat such physicality? I didn’t want my team to start pushing people around and I wasn’t about to get the weights out, so how did we fight back, so to speak? I found myself scouring YouTube for tips and eventually stumbled upon some great ideas from Italy that looked like a bit of fun as well. I managed to ally these ideas with one or two of my own and for the next few weeks in training this is what we worked on. I’d recently gained my Level 1 FA Coaches badge and was brimming with ideas.

We’d have the boys pairing up and then working on their balance and their core strength while throwing footballs to each other. One exercise involved balancing on one leg while holding a football before pivoting the whole body forward so that you touched the ground with the ball. Then, keeping their balance, they’d pivot back up and bounce the ball to their partner who’d do the same again. Trust me when I tell you it was hilarious! The amount of our players who simply can’t stand on one leg is unbelievable. It was like watching the world’s worst flock of flamingoes!

Other balance games involved jumping over a line, landing on one foot and holding the pose until told to ‘Go!’ and sprinting five to ten yards. We’d also get them to sit down and balance with their legs out in front of them while holding the ball. The ball was bounced to their partner who’d balance and catch it after a few seconds. The drill would end with the pairs working on shielding the ball from each other, twisting and turning in order to hold their partner off and protect the football. It was amazing how quickly they started to use their new found strength and balance in games and extremely satisfying when we noticed it happening.

And then it was time for our Cup quarter final. Every available parent, sibling and even some grandparents travelled over to Wakefield with us and the excitement was tangible. Even at my age, I was desperate for us to win, desperate for us to put in a performance and compete and as a result I was feeling ridiculously nervous. The boys had worked so hard in training and in every match they played just to get to this point; where they could tell themselves, ‘We’re a good team.’ We warmed up, had a chat about our tactics, focus, work rate and supporting each other and we were ready to go.

The game went reasonably well, but in the end we were narrowly defeated. We fell behind midway through the first half when we didn’t close down and simply allowed our opposition to shoot and score. It’s something we have a tendency to do and probably common at this age. But we’d been the better side up until that point and I couldn’t help but be disappointed. Another sign of our progress though was that the boys didn’t let it get to them (unlike their coach!) and they carried on looking for an equaliser.

Not long before half-time, it arrived and it’s safe to say that the proudest man at the game was me. My son smashed in an equaliser, following up as the goalkeeper parried out a shot. I’d spent months sitting watching football with him and telling him that every good striker would follow the ball in, and he’d done just that. As he jogged back to his half of the field he looked my way and we both clenched our fists in celebration. It was one of those tiny moments of joy that you get as a coach and a dad, and as such, one of my favourite moments of the season.

We continued to battle on after equalising and for a short while we looked likely to get another goal. However, it wasn’t to be, and in the final few minutes we were first denied a penalty (home refs, eh?) before conceding a goal from a corner. Another followed and that was us done for. There were tears at the end. My boys had genuinely believed that they could win and this had hurt them. But they were quickly reminded that they’d done themselves proud and that this showed how far they’d come in a very short space of time.

We went the next two games unbeaten with solid performances, before a game that had all of the good and bad of grassroots football. We played a team we’d previously lost to and were 5-0 down at half-time. The pitch was heavy, but the light drizzle that greeted the start of the game quickly gave way to heavy snow and for the first time in a long time players were asking to come off. But it wasn’t just the weather. The opposition’s coach was ridiculously loud and quite aggressive and some of the boys commented that they couldn’t concentrate. If intimidating the opposition is your thing at Under 10s level, then get on with it and feel good about yourself, but it’s not for me. We kept the talk brief at half-time accentuating the positives of our team and telling them to win the second half. And they did just that. The game ended – still in snow – 6-3 to the visitors, but we’d made an impression on their overly loud coach and he’d asked us to finish early as the snow got harder and my boys were pressing for another goal. I agreed and we finished the game, but we’d made our point! Once again I was left immensely proud of my boys, even if I was soaked to the skin. We gathered together in the clubhouse afterwards – players, coaches, parents and siblings – and made a massive puddle together!

As the season ticked on we began to play teams from the division above. The FA seem to just thrown in these extra games without explanation. We still had league games to play and even as I write and the season is finished there are teams in our league that we’ve only played once or not at all. I’m sure the task of organising the games is both onerous and thankless, and I’m not criticising anyone, but I can’t fathom out why we don’t seem to play the right amount of games.

Against opposition from a higher league we lost both games. But narrowly and we always gave a good performance. In fact, it felt like we really should have won them, but a combination of factors seemed to get in our way. Most of this was down to missing chances, but there’s one moment I’ll remember for the rest of my days. At 2-1 down, going into the closing seconds of an away game against Division B opponents, our right midfielder found himself in the opposition box with the ball in front of him. As the goalkeeper advanced he pushed it past him and was sent crashing to the turf by a high kick that had more in common with events in the octagon than Wembley. Surely a penalty, right? Wrong.

But this is where things took a turn. A bizarre turn. That football fans reflex prompted me to call out – ‘Ref?’ I simply asked the question – was that a penalty? No aggression, no attitude, not even particularly loud. I think both of us on the touchline asked. So what followed was mildly ludicrous and really quite amusing for me. The ref in question literally jumped up and down and screamed at me – ‘He got to the ball first!’ (he didn’t). I actually found myself asking him to calm down. I pointed out that I was merely asking a question, that there was no aggression and that, as the coach, I simply had to ask the question. He was not amused. But then again, neither were my team of 9 and 10 year olds. My own son was outraged and in tears in defence of his dad – ‘He can’t talk to you like that!’ – but we wisely let it go. We hoped, like the pundits tell us, that these things even themselves out over the season.

This then left our final two games of the season. And if ever I needed an indicator as to how far my boys have come in just over a year it was with these two results. The first game was at home and we were back to a league fixture. We’d played this team a number of times already in both league and cup games and remained unbeaten against them. However, the matches had always been tight. This time was very different. We won 8-1. I was stunned. I was thrilled. But I couldn’t really enjoy it. This had been the type of walloping we’d been given for most of last season and I must admit, I felt sorry for the opposition and their coach.

Don’t get me wrong, it was brilliant to see the lads enjoying themselves. They just controlled the game from start to finish and I was able to rotate players in different positions and give everyone a fair chance. But there were times when the other team just folded. Whatever they tried just either didn’t come off or was snuffed out by our team and it didn’t feel that satisfying after all. I’d watched players, coaches and parents revel in beating us last season and now I was left wondering what possessed them. I actually apologised to the opposition coach at the end of the game and I wasn’t really that sure what for.

Our final game of the season took us back over to Wakefield and as we warmed up I allowed myself the customary glance over at the opposition. They were big, they seemed to be knocking the ball around with confidence. This would be a test. How wrong you can be!

After an even first few minutes we went ahead and never looked back. Again, I was able to give everyone a decent run out and also to rotate players into different positions. We also gave our goalkeeper some outfield time and he promptly scored direct from a free-kick! We won 6-0. Less guilt and sympathy this time however, as opposition players were vocally critical of our ‘physical’ approach when we came off. We weren’t physical. Never are, never have been. I encourage the boys to stay on their feet and not to dive into tackles and we don’t push and shove. Perhaps all the work on our strength had payed off. Or perhaps, after over a year of hard work, we’ve learnt how to pass and move, how to support and encourage and how we never give up.

So there you have it. The trials and tribulations of another season of grassroots football. My first full season in charge and what a season! Next up? A well earned break. I’m exhausted! Then later on in the month we’ll come together for the end of year presentation and celebrate what’s been an amazing campaign.

Craft Beer: I can’t be the only one a bit puzzled, can I?

The past 6 or 7 years has witnessed a bit of a change in beer as those of us of a certain age used to understand it. We’ve gone from satisfying our pallets with things like Guiness, Boddingtons and other smooth brews to slowly discovering the birth of craft beers. I’ve seen them described as ‘a global phenomenon’, ‘a revolution and ‘a bubble’, all of which seem to mark them out as something quite mystical and exclusive. I’ve also seen them described as ‘a perfect example of the J curve concept’, but that just sounds a bit ridiculous and like someone’s making up a concept to make themselves sound clever. That way lies madness, as well as blue sky thinking, helicopter views, getting all your ducks in a row and more of the kind of corporate nonsense that makes me want to swear and throw things around rooms. Or stop watching The Apprentice.

Despite not being in my twenties, or in possession of an artisanal beard, skinny jeans or vintage brogues, I have still somewhat immersed myself in the phenomenon of craft beer. I’ve hurtled along with the revolution and floated with the bubble. However, unlike those who we may see in a ‘taphouse’ twiddling their freshly waxed beard and smoothing down their skinny jeans, I can’t just blindly go along with the hype for fear of saying the wrong thing. So here’s some thoughts on my odyssey through craft beer.

First and foremost, I think it’s great. For me, beer’s never been so tasty, varied and creative. It’s a wonderful thing to watch people with passion take a basic idea – beer – and run with it into a whole new world. And I can count myself very fortunate in being able to go along for the ride.

As craft beer reached my neck of the woods I was often left scraping around a bit in order to find it. Here, on the outskirts of Leeds there wasn’t a great deal of choice. Out in the studenty badlands of Headingley there was the brilliant Beer-Ritz, but a trip there would often take well over an hour and the thought of sitting in traffic either way was off-putting to say the least. There was also a fantastic place called Beer Huis in Ossett, but in truth I hadn’t heard of it and in fact it was my wife who introduced me to it when she bought me some birthday beers. So I’d shop local. This meant Asda where pickings were sparse, Morrisons where things got a little better or Sainsbury’s at the White Rose Centre where every so often there’d be a new beer to try or if you got really lucky they’d have a beer ‘festival’ that would showcase beers from smaller brewers from around the country. Now this doesn’t sound much compared to the way things are now, but I’ve got to be honest and say that I quite enjoyed the hunt for something different.

And then, a revelation. A breakthrough. I heard a rumour that our local B&Ms was sometimes a place that stocked craft beer. At a bargain price, of course. And suddenly there was more choice and different, more interesting beers to have a go at. But still not a huge amount of choice.

My sense of puzzlement with craft beer started, albeit in a small way, with the first type that I tried. As someone who’s go to beer was bitter, varied taste wasn’t always that high on the agenda. Until that is, the day that I spotted a bottle of Innis & Gunn Original Ale. I was fascinated to read that it might have a hint of a vanilla flavour to it and delighted that, when I tasted it, it actually did! Amazing, a beer with a hint of ice-cream! And so the journey into craft beer began in earnest.

But as my ‘journey’ advanced, so did my sense of bemusement. What were all of these hops that were being used and why did they make a difference? What was with the daft names for beers? Why did it cost so much? And why did all feel just a little bit conceited and a tiny bit of a closed shop?

I even puzzled myself a little bit. Never one to get overly obsessive about anything, I actually started to keep a log of the different beers that I was trying. I’d note the price, where I’d acquired it and make notes about the taste, before finally awarding it a mark out of 10, often deliberating for a while before awarding something ridiculous like a 6.8 or a 7.3. This wasn’t like me. And yet when I thought about it, it was actually just like me; only when I was about 12. You see around that age I was obsessed with Subbuteo (a table football game, if you don’t know it). So obsessed that I got beyond playing with real teams and instead disappeared into my own world, making up teams, creating whole squads of fictional players, recording results, scorers – you name it, I did it. I know, ‘Hello ladies’, right?

And now, here I was logging beers. I must have logged around 70 different beers before I realised that I was cheating myself. The truth is I’ve got terrible taste buds, so I’d be swilling beer round my mouth tasting little but beer, really. No hints of fruit, no sense of peat bogs, no oakiness…just beer. But it didn’t stop me writing tasting notes, because all I did was furtively look at the label and add a couple of things I saw on there to my notes. So if the label told me there was a hint of elderflower, then so did my tasting notes. Truth is, I don’t actually know what elderflower is! A wise, old flower maybe? I was only really kidding myself though and so I just gave it up as a bad job and a waste of time.

My confusion continued as I encountered proper beer shops. Now there were places that just seemed to specialise in craft beers, unlike the off licenses of my youth and the likes of Bargain Booze. However, I’d go into these establishments and feel under pressure. Should I have known exactly what I was looking for? I tended to browse, taking my time to look for something just right before taking my purchases to the till. But I always felt as though I was being scrutinised, judged even. I’m sure this was just my paranoia, but I would approach the till feeling wholly self conscious about my choices.

On my first visit to a Leeds store that I’d heard about I was asked, in a perfectly friendly manner, ‘Are you Ok there?’ and this immediately ramped up the pressure. I was fine. I just wanted to select some beers in my usual way, looking for eye-catching labels, reading the description and checking where it was from, but now I just felt stupid. Did I look like someone who drank Carling? Was that the problem? Like I say, the bloke was perfectly friendly, but I took his question to be some sort of ‘dig’ at my craft beer inexperience.

Don’t get me wrong. I understand that the problem here is more than likely me. It’s not the beer shop’s fault that I have such terrible search perameters when it comes to choosing beer. And if they stood there in silence while I looked around I’d probably be just as disturbed as if they spoke to me. But I’d maintain that in 75% of the specialist beer shops I’ve visited I’ve felt a bit of an atmosphere, almost as if the person behind the counter is sneering at my choices. And therein lies another of my problems with craft beer. There’s definitely a certain snobbery, of which I’m part. I’m not exactly vocal about it, but if I’m out and someone’s buying a Carling or a Budweiser for instance, I’m encountering a feeling of disappointment! So, with that in mind, if you work in a beer shop, with all your specialist knowledge, and someone like me walks in and chooses a selection of bottles or cans by looking for nice labels, while taking a good ten minutes to do so, then you’re probably entitled to have a little bit of a sneer!

It was on one of these visits that something else left me puzzled – the price. Now this is a problem I have with craft beer and it’s a problem that continues to grow the more I look around. The other day, in a beer shop, I spotted a can I liked the look of, by a brewer that I knew as having a good reputation. This was going to be mine. And then I saw the price. £8 for a can! £8! Eight of yer actual pounds! Now call me stingy, but £8 for a can of beer just seems a bit daft. I’ve paid less for t-shirts, for goodness sakes and probably a decade or so on, I’ve still got the t-shirt! In all honesty – and possible a little bit of ignorance as to what actually goes into making it – I cannot understand some of the pricing that I see. I mean, I like a bottle of wine and I’m not averse to paying double figures for that, but I can’t get my head around a similar price for a can of beer. When I look around the shelves at craft beer it’s becoming more and more rare that I see prices within an understandable bracket (for me) and a lot more likely that I’ll be looking at a can or bottle that’s going to cost me upwards of £4.

Before things get too negative I’ll re-affirm my feeling that craft beer is great. We even have a craft beer shop – hello Beer Thirty – in Morley now, meaning I can call round every so often to stock up or experiment a bit without any hassle whatsoever. It’s actually right next to my youngest child’s school, making it handy when picking him up, even if that is a little bit mercenary! More often than not though, a beer is more of a taste experience nowadays, rather than an excuse to hunt out the Gaviscon. With every new beer I discover I unearth a new taste and it really is a fantastic thing. I don’t tend to drink the same beers over and over again, preferring to experiment when and where I can. Beer drinking is fun again, in a different way. Where in my youth the fun tended to be found in the light-headedness that made me quite the smooth talker, but not the best walker, nowadays the fun is all in the taste. As a beer drinker of a certain age and with a bit of a health concern getting in the way, I tend not to drink to get drunk anymore. So the fun is limited to the taste buds, but it means I can wake up the next day and function. And although to some that might sound like no fun at all, I’d rather I was limited to one or two craft beers than one or two lagers or Guinesses.

Another craft beer ‘problem’ – for me, only for me, – is the types of pubs that are now cropping up. Sorry, did I say pubs? I meant taphouses. And this is where I look a bit weird and very old fashioned. You see – and to those who know me, this really isn’t news – I’m quite anti-social. I’ve covered this before, suffice to say that it’s not necessarily a dislike of people, but more a lack of confidence. Thus, I don’t really go in pubs anymore. I don’t have a local, partly due to the demands of my job and a lack of time and energy, and as such I’m limiting my craft beer ‘journey’. I must admit these taphouses look brilliant, but they’re just not for me. Nowadays I just have an aversion to pubs. Something in me seems to stop my legs from working when I get the chance to go in one and so, although handily positioned for going into Leeds where many of these new craft pubs are found, I just can’t do it. And as a result, I feel a bit left out with craft beer, despite my love of it.

I’m not entirely sure that one gets solved either. I’m now possibly a little too stuck in my ways to indulge myself and this is a real shame. I imagine that such modern bars – sorry, taphouses – are the absolute antithesis of the kind of places that I readily frequented as a younger man. Friendly, no air of threat or violence and with lovey beer to boot too. As opposed to the kind of place where you had to watch your back all night and listen to appalling music while drinking beer that inevitably left you so full of gas and air that you’d fear you’d burst! So in terms of the title of this blog, then yes, sadly I’m puzzled as well as missing out on something! Perhaps until the day I push myself a little bit more, I’ll remain puzzled. Whatever way you look at it, it’s clearly me that’s got the problem!

I’ll leave you with something I read in a magazine article about craft beer. The writer was indulging himself in a trip to Manchester – a homage? – to visit various ‘legendary’ craft pubs and sample, if I remember rightly, some quite mythical beer. It was a great read. But the best – and in a cringeworthy way, the worst – thing was when someone in the know told him the following.

“We’re nowhere near peak beer yet.”

I have to admit that this makes me puzzled and excited all at the same time. Still occasionally I’ll open a can or a bottle and have a sip and be absolutely blown away by the taste. I’m not sure I understand how it gets better, let alone how we’re nowhere near peak. But it’s sure to be exciting finding out!

Hitting the Peaks!

For as long as we’ve had kids we’ve tried to be an adventurous family. And while we’re not exactly off hang-gliding or free climbing sheer rock faces every week, we spend a lot of time trying to create memories for our children, while of course trying to massively limit our chances of dying. A kind of safety first and second approach to adventure, if you like.

Now, we’re also not exactly the kind of family that you’d find in an Enid Blyton book, so these trips are often far from harmonious. Tired legs can lead to words out of turn and arguments will inevitably ensue. Tired legs on gobby children with tired middle-aged parents? Well let me tell you, it can be a recipe for disaster! So when we recently visited the Peak District for the first time, I was prepared for the worst. But in actual fact, the fresh air and dramatic countryside seemed to have a positive effect on all of us and we had a memorable day. So let’s take a trip down Recent Memory Lane…

It’s mid morning by the time we set off for the Peaks. This is still very much a triumph for us. As I’m sure any parent will tell you, even the act of getting kids to put on shoes can be at least a fifteen minute mission, so when you’re preparing for an entire day out, with rucksacks to pack, snacks and picnics to prepare, as well as ensuring everyone’s got appropriate clothing on, it can take a while. And it doesn’t matter that my kids are now 12 and 9, they’re still almost impossible to organise.

Take the brilliant example from my daughter just this week. She assured us that she would be in and out of the shower in 20 minutes and as such would be sure to getting on with shower related activities as soon as she got to her room. The rest of the family was sat in our dining room at the time and this lies directly beneath our bathroom, so after 5 minutes had passed and we hadn’t heard her above us, I went to hurry her along a little. After all, there were only 15 minutes of her 20 left. So what did I find her doing when I got upstairs? That’s right she was crouched in front of a mirror and when I asked what she was doing the reply was simply staggering. ‘I’m just doing my make-up.’ Let me remind you that she was about to head into the shower. In make-up. As you can probably tell, with priorities like that organising them to actually get out of the house can be decidedly difficult.

Miraculously though we’re on the road by around 10am and with only an hour or so of driving to do we’re hoping we can find the place alright. And by that I mean the National Trust visitor’s centre, not the actual Peaks. I’m sure even we couldn’t drive round them. The traffic’s not too bad though and we seem to be leaving the M1 in no time and heading across country in no time at all.

This however, comes with its own problems. We’re heading across country alright, but these aren’t the kind of roads that we’ve gotten used to in Leeds. Not only are they narrow – in some places it’s a concern when a car comes the other way – but they’re bumpy and winding too. With kids in the car commenting on every last bump it gets quite tense! In fact, add in the fact that there’s no kerb to a lot of the roads and then sometimes we’re struggling to actually stay on them. Certainly, for a good 15 minutes it feels like every bend in the road may bring about an accident and by the time we return to some kind of civilisation and roads that can comfortably fit cars on, I’m feeling quite exhausted. Welcome to rural England, folks!

It can’t be denied though, that the scenery has become quite dramatic. Hills soar above us – they could be mountains, but sadly I don’t know the definition – there’s greenery everywhere and the sky seems huge. It’s certainly a beautiful part of the country and we haven’t even got to our destination yet. Unfortunately as I’m driving I can’t really take the full majesty of the place in, but I manage the odd glance up in order to get a taste of the place. People talk up the Lake District, but from what I can see the Peaks is every bit as dramatic.

Soon it becomes clear that we’re in the Derwent Valley. The roads are bigger, normal in fact, and we’ve dropped into the valley. We’re nearly at our destination of Lady Bower Reservoir. Our kids are strangely thrilled as we cross not one, but two cattle grids; so thrilled in fact that they talk about them some more when we go over them on the way home! And then there’s an expanse of water to our right – the reservoir – and within a couple of miles we’re pulling into the car park of the National Trust Visitor Centre.

Once parked up we organise ourselves – coats, hats, gloves and rucksacks again – and then buy a map. We decide to take a reasonably difficult route that features what seems to be an acceptable level of climbing – walking uphill, not actual climbing – and set off. At first it’s simple; nice and flat with plenty of lovely scenery to keep an eye on. But then, we take a sharp turn right and we’re greeted by what seems like a huge climb. Not to be outdone we stride on up the hill, passing families with younger children as we go. As we get to about halfway up the drizzle starts. All of a sudden our hike isn’t anywhere near as much fun. Within a few minutes we’re cresting the hill but the rain is now falling heavier. The terrain flattens out, but there’s no escape from the rain. We’re walking along the side of the valley, almost hugging the walls but getting battered by the weather. Impressively though, neither of my children is complaining.

We briefly find enough shelter to take a glance at the map. It tells us that in about 500 yards we have to go over a stile and then up another hill. Looking upwards reveals another big climb, but with no tarmac to walk on, so we hang about in our shelter for a while longer before bracing ourselves and setting out again into the still driving rain.

Once off-road the terrain becomes very rugged and very steep, very quickly. We’re basically clambering up a muddy, rocky path and while the rain has eased it’s still coming down. After about 10 minutes of trekking uphill, during which I’ve lagged behind a bit, (I’m 47 don’t you know?) we decide to stop for an al fresco lunch. I say al fresco, but it’s more sort of propped up against a farmer’s wall and huddled beneath a tree. Does that count as al fresco?

Of course this is the very time that several groups of people decide to come down the hill. No doubt they are a little taken aback at the site of us in a kind of awkward group hug eating a variety of now squashed sandwiches, but it doesn’t stop a profusion of the most Yorkshire of greetings – ‘Ow do’ – from them.

After about ten minutes we decide to press on, continuing upward as if we might actually reach the clouds. We continue to check the map, but to be fair the path is fairly obvious and at no point do I feel we’ll get lost. There’s also the odd pause to take in the view. As we climb higher the valley beneath us gets deeper and deeper and the reservoir below gets further away. This part of the Peak District is nothing short of breath-taking. But little do we know, that there’s much more to come on that front.

We climb for at least another 10 minutes before finally cresting the top of our ‘mountain’. And what a sight. Acres of countryside stretch out before us on every side and it feels like we’re on top of the world. There’s heather on either side of us with outcrops of rock punctuating it every so often. Sheep roam freely and there’s a sign that declares that there are grouse about too. Right on cue there’s a flutter of wings off to our left and almost like it’s bounced up off a trampoline – a grouse! When it lands it makes a bizarre noise and so I spend the next five minutes – with some success – replicating the noise to flush out more of them and amuse the kids. It works a few times and my youngest is definitely a little bit convinced when I announce that I am indeed, The Grouse Whisperer. Not exactly Steve Irwin, but not bad for a beginner.

With a long, flat stretch of path out in front of us we keep on walking. I can’t be sure how high up we are, but you can see for miles around. This was definitely a great choice for a day out. It’s now also quite relaxing as we’re walking on the flat and from what I can see up ahead there appears to be very little climbing left to do. Phew! Thankfully, the rain has also stopped.

We finish what’s left of our picnic behind yet another wall a little later in the walk and then set off for what appears to be the last few kilometres of our trek. Along the way we stop again to track the progress of a couple of kestrels as they hunt for some dinner. And there’s yet more time spent admiring the view. I’ve seen some beautiful places across the world and this place gives them a run for their money for sure. Certainly, someone more intelligent than me might well be quoting something like Wuthering Heights at this point. And yes, I know this isn’t where it was set.

The last part of our moorland walk sees us heading rapidly downhill and it’s more than a little bit scary. While not quite sheer, there’s a very steep drop off to our left and we’re walking down a very narrow path. While one careless step won’t see us fall to our death it will see us take quite a spectacular and painful tumble. However, we handle it like mountain goats and in fact the only time that anyone takes a tumble is when, as we’re almost at the bottom of the hill and it’s flattening out, my daughter decides dancing is the order of the day and immediately falls flat on her face. But with nothing damaged there’s time for a quick cuddle to comfort her a bit before we turn left and head back from whence we came on a much more familiar tarmac surface.

By the time we reach the visitor centre it’s late afternoon and we’ve walked for about 6.5km. Everyone is tired now, but there’s very little complaining. This fresh air is clearly having a positive effect on my kids! We decide that a pub tea is in order so it’s back in the car and off to the town of Castleton for some food. As a modern family – and by definition one who are incapable of making any decision without consulting a cornucopia of reviews – we sit in the car reading through Trip Advisor to find a likely pub. Oh, the spontaneity!

We settle on The George and I must admit I’m more than a bit delighted to find out that they seem to specialise in sausages! I plump for pork and tomato sausages and home-made chips and we take a table by an open fire. The kids have enormous pizzas, which they inevitably won’t finish so I know I’m in for a filling tea as ‘The Dad Handbook’ states that it’s my job to finish any leftover food so as not to bring shame upon my family. Something like that anyway. Whatever it is, it’s definitely a perk of the job.

Our food is very good and by the time we’re finished everyone is ready to head home. We relax for a little while longer and then stroll back through the town and into the car. I brace myself for more rally driving on the narrow local roads and then we’re off!

The Peaks and the Derwent Valley has given us a fantastic day out. A brilliant, but quite strenuous hike, featuring dramatic scenery, quite staggering natural beauty and quite a bit of height. If you get the chance, I’d thoroughly recommend it.

My FitBit Revolution

When it comes to trends and fads, I’m usually almost immune, especially when it comes to technology. I have a phone, a tablet, a laptop etc, but none of them are what you’d call cutting edge. They’ve certainly not been bought to keep up with fashion. I’d like to think that I’m old enough now to trust my judgement and make my own decisions, without relying on what a magazine or a website tells me I should be indulging in.

That’s not to say that my judgement is always right. Often, especially when it comes to clothes, I’ve opted for the less obvious choice and then been left wishing I’d bought the same as everyone else. One of the most notable instances was buying a pair of Adidas Gazelles and going for the bright green and yellow pair rather than the traditional blue and white that thousands of others plumped for. I spent years trying in vain to match my trainers to my clothes and regretting my choice, while everyone else went out looking cool. I still didn’t learn my lesson though.

As such, I’d resisted the idea of a smart watch or a Fitbit. They seemed more a fashion thing than anything to do with actual fitness and I wasn’t interested in knowing how many steps I’d done in a day or what my heart rate might be anyway. And the idea that I could have a watch that also informed me when I was about to get some kind of notification on my phone just seemed like information overload to me. Call me old-fashioned, but surely I’d just check my phone to see if my phone had anything to tell me?

‘It also meant I could set goals…’

However, as I attempted to get back to some sort of fitness following a heart operation, I started running again and in order to keep an eye on distances I downloaded a running app on to my phone. It became quite a comfort to hear the voice of an unidentified American woman telling me how far I’d run and what my average pace was. She’s now my 5th best friend, just behind Alexa in fact. It also meant that I could set goals and track my progress, as well as inevitably informing friends on Facebook that I’d been out running and was knackered, coupled with a picture of myself with a very red face. It’s important that everyone knows these things, especially as it’s not cool to post pictures of your food anymore.

Then I got ill. Nothing serious, just the usual seasonal stuff – heavy colds, a chest infection – and I also damaged my back, meaning that I had to stop running for a while. In fact, I’m yet to go out for my first run of 2019 and it’s now April. But when my son got a Fitbit for Christmas I must admit I was intrigued. He’d tell me on a half hourly basis about how many steps he’d done. He’d point out his heart rate and tell me his blood pressure, like a very, very junior doctor. In fact, when he started advising me to do the same I was convinced he was turning into Doc McStuffins or Doogie Howser. And that’s a niche joke if ever I heard one.

‘It set me a target of 7000 steps daily…’

So when it came to my birthday in February I was pleasantly surprised to receive a Fitbit. My wife saved me the agitation of setting it up and when it was ready I strapped it round my wrist and went to work. It set me a target of 7000 steps daily, which I’m sad to say, I don’t regularly achieve. However, at the very least I am now aware of exactly what I don’t do in a typical day. And I must admit, as a recently discharged heart patient, being able to check my heart rate at a moment’s notice is still genuinely comforting.

While my Fitbit – if I keep mentioning it surely someone will give me some money – hasn’t totally changed my life, it has made me much more aware of my own fitness. This is of course very important as a man of a certain age who is more than a little bit conscious of his grey hair and slowly growing belly. Certainly, just looking at them wasn’t solving anything – to paraphrase Shakespeare, ‘Whilst I threat, my belly lives: words to the heat of deeds a big fatty bum bum belly gives’. So the Fitbit, at the very least, let’s me track my good days and bad days. It represents the first steps in my battle to not give in to a belly, slacks and comfortable shoes. And when I’m not at work it stops me from sitting on my arse all day.

‘It doesn’t make up for the fact that I am my age…’

For years I’ve had the pleasant experience of being regularly told that I don’t look my age. No, really, I have. It doesn’t make up for the fact that I am my age, but it’s pleasant all the same. However, lately the age that people tell me I look has been creeping ever closer to my actual age. ‘You’re 47? Ooh, you only look 45’ isn’t the kind of flattery that gets you everywhere. And this makes me quite sad. So another reason to Fitbit myself into action then. Can it reverse the effects of ageing and will people start telling me I look like I’m ‘only’ in my late 30s? I doubt it, but it might make me feel a whole lot better about myself. I’ll know whether I’m making an effort or not. And at least, when people look at me and weigh up how old I am, they might not be able to spot my belly or any sign of a double chin. At the very least, by tracking my activity a bit more I might be able to somehow convince myself that I look good for my age.

And the battle against ageing is very real in a different way too. When I look at some of my peers – those who are as old as me or a similar age – sometimes it terrifies me. At a previous school my department insisted on sitting me down for a department dinner, where everyone brought snacks and stuff in order to celebrate my birthday. And if this wasn’t uncomfortable enough, my Head of Department invited our Deputy Head, a man I loathed but that he was desperate to impress. Anyway, we got chatting over dinner and someone asked how old I actually was. When I told them, it turned out that I was about a month older than the Deputy Head, who looked at least 10 years older than me. I think this may have been the exact moment that the struggle for fitness and perhaps some version of eternal youth, became very real!

When I was a kid adults used to tell me that ‘in their heads’ they only felt about 18 and I used to think that was utter rubbish. I’d look at their terrible clothes, grey hair and wrinkles and think, ‘I’ll never get like that’. And now I am those people. I feel like I’m only 18, but I clearly don’t look it. And while it doesn’t exactly terrify me, I know that I still want to look better and feel fitter. Hence the Fitbit revolution. And yes, I understand that it’s not magic and that I have to actually exercise more, rather than just glancing at a watch all day and fretting that I’m 4000 steps short of my target. This is undoubtedly and easier approach, but I don’t think it’s going to be all that successful.

The worry lies with where the revolution stops. For a while now I’ve had some of the gear. The base layers, skins or running tights; whatever you want to call them. My wife even bought me a top made from bamboo, so I’m eco-friendly (unless you’re a panda) but also, in some way that I can’t quite put my finger on, high performance as well.

‘But did you know of a product called Runderwear?’

But could my Fitbit become like some kind of gateway drug? Where does one stop? Counting steps is one thing, but I’m still keen to resume running. And if I get dissatisfied with my Fitbit, how much do I have to spend in order to make myself happy and achieve even better results? As I’ve mentioned, I’m not immune to wearing a base layer, even though on my bottom half I end up looking like someone’s put tights on two golf clubs. But did you know of a product called Runderwear? That’s right; underwear for running. It stops chafing and general discomfort while also sounding like the kind of idea you’d expect on Reeves and Mortimer’s Big Night Out or The Fast Show. But how far does my revolution have to go before I consider Runderwear? Do I really have to be that serious about things in order to cling on to a tiny bit of youth and get rid of what really is only a baby of a belly? I have to confess though that a heath scare a year ago coupled with the running APP and the Fitbit has had me genuinely considering Runderwear! It’ll be a bike or a treadmill next and all the gear to go with it. I must be strong.

Furthermore, with a Fitbit there’s the temptation to track things like your blood pressure or your sleep. But in my case this could be both futile and damaging. Firstly, I’ve never really understood what blood pressure actually is. I’ve had it measured on countless occasions but never bothered to ask what it’s all about. It always just feels like the doctor’s trying to hurt me with the machine. So why I need to be checking up on it from a watch, well who knows? With sleep, I know I don’t get enough. I’m not the night owl that I once was, but I’m more than happy staying up late. So to be told by my Fitbit that not only wasn’t I getting enough sleep, but that it wasn’t of the right quality might actually worry me closer to greyer hair and the kind of comfort eating that could only enhance those love handles. So I’ll stick to just religiously checking on my steps, I think.

‘Personally I found it soul destroyingly embarrassing…’

In a way, I’d like things to just go back to the standards of the 70s and 80s when it was clearly OK to just become a middle-aged man, with no pressure whatsoever. Certainly, it didn’t take my dad any effort at all to start wearing Farah slacks or badly fitting jeans. No one batted an eyelid, apart his kids. Personally I found it soul destroyingly embarrassing, but to others it was perfectly acceptable. Men got to a certain age and just stopped trying a bit. But as a teenager whose parents were older than those of most of my peers, I wasn’t keen on walking round with a bloke who could well have been mistaken for my granddad, with his jeans and slip-on shoes. Or a retired golf catalogue model in casual slacks. Nowadays though things have changed and there’s a definite pressure to stay young in any way you can. Sadly, I’m not immune to it, it seems and my Fitbit revolution is just more proof of it. I think having young children is part of it along with a little bit of vanity. Whatever I put it down to, I’m not the only one who’s checking their steps and wondering where I can walk to at work in order to get closer to that target. I might be on my own in pondering Runderwear though.

So this revolution may not be televised. But it will definitely continue at pace until that belly starts to recede.

Middle Aged Gigging

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As you get older everyday things will either get a bit more difficult or you’ll find that, having gained knowledge over time, you’ve become quite the expert. So for instance, as I’ve got older running has become harder. My knees aren’t what they used to be and out of nowhere I’ve developed a bit of a paunch that I now have to haul around as I run. However, as the years have gone by I’ve got better at sexy time. If you’ll pardon the pun, this comes with experience. I’ve become a passionate and considerate lover. Honestly, my passion can be measured by the fact that my wife can often no longer cope with its intensity. Lots of the time nowadays, unable to handle my passion, she’ll shout, ‘Get off me!’ because she knows that at my expert level, sexy time will almost be too much.

But enough of that. A man can only bare so much of his soul. I really hope that has been one of the most difficult paragraphs some of my friends have ever read though!

One of the things that has definitely got more difficult as I’ve got older is also one of the things that I seem to have spent most of my life doing. Going to gigs. Concerts. Watching a live band. Or, if you’re my dad, jigging. Whatever you might call it, it’s something I’ve been doing since I was about fifteen. The first band I saw live was Europe. That’s right, Europe of ‘Final Countdown’ fame. They of the big hair and leather trousers. And I can’t lie and tell you it was regrettable. It wasn’t. That gig made me fall in love with live music. I watched in awe as they completely commanded the audience and saw a potential future career as I watched ladies’ pants being thrown onstage at Joey Tempest. What was not to like about this?

While my musical tastes have changed over the years, my desire to go and watch bands has not. But what has changed is that my ability to watch bands has declined. In short, I’ve got worse at going to gigs. And it’s not as simple as retiring from being down the front and moving back towards the sound desk either. If anything I’ve got better and began to move further forward as the years have progressed.

Going to a gig can be an exhausting experience. The 15-year-old me left that Europe gig like a typically sweaty teenager having jumped around – and quite possibly indulged in some gentle head banging in order to get my long locks flowing a-la Tempest and co – like a proper metal-head for an hour or so. I wasn’t really a proper metal-head; I probably just got a bit carried away. But my point is this: getting carried away at a gig can be an exhausting business and this is OK when you’re under 30. In fact, if you’re fit enough, it’s probably OK if you’re under 40. However, at my age things have changed, gig-wise. Anything even slightly up-tempo, anything that represents a bit more than just shuffling about, and I’m faltering.

But a lack of energy isn’t the only that’s changed about going to gigs in your forties. Let me talk you through my most recent gig experience to illustrate my points.

On a recent Saturday I went to see the band Embrace at the 02 Academy in Leeds. This would be the final gig of a tour to promote the 21st anniversary of their debut album, The Good Will Out. Now Embrace are easily one of my favourite bands, I’ve followed them since they started out, written articles about them, bought their records and merchandise and attended too many of their gigs to mention. We even invited them to our wedding and received a lovely card from them politely explaining that they were out of the country and couldn’t attend. Our first dance was to one of their tunes. If all of that seems sad, then I guess you have to know the band, but believe me there’s a genuine bond between the band and their fans.

On the morning of the gig I just felt tired. I’d done a week at work and coached my football team on the Thursday night. A night out was not top of my list of priorities. That’s middle age for you, right there. Put simply, I was too tired to be bothered about something that I should have been genuinely excited about. I was too tired to be interested about something that I genuinely love. To give further context, this was and is an album that I truly love. There are so many songs on it and so many lyrics within those songs that mean something to me. I was 26 when it came out and pretty much starting to make a life for myself having moved away from home. It would have been around this time that we were planning to move back north from the Midlands and I would have been considering my career options, having not really had a ‘serious’ job after university. ‘The Good Will Out’ made a huge impression on me.

Tired or not, by the time we’ve got to around 5pm the privilege of babysitters has cost us around £200, so I’ll be going to the gig. In case you’re wondering, that’s not the going rate for babysitters, but these ones are my parents, meaning they need a hotel and we took everyone out for a meal on the Saturday; so £200. The doors open tonight at 6pm due to the fact that there’s a curfew in place, so by about 5.50 we’re heading off, safe in the knowledge that the curfew should mean we’ll be home early. How times have changed!

It has to be said that the main worry of this middle-aged couple on approaching the venue wasn’t the choice of clubs to go to afterwards or the ensuing hangover. No, the main worry was parking. I choose to drive nowadays, having left the wild days of drinking behind once children came along. Now we know there’s parking by the venue, but whether we’ll get a space is another thing entirely. This also leads to worries about clothing – it’s not cool to be going out in your coat, but it’s not warm in England in March either! If we get a space in the right car park it’s a very short walk, so at least we can retain an element of cool by not looking too concerned about the weather!

Inside the venue we head straight for the bar. For water. No, really. In fact, I don’t even want a drink of any kind for fearing of having to go to the toilet! Us middle-aged fellas don’t have the bladders that we used to have! But for all the practicalities, the absolute shame of going to a bar and ordering a bottle of water is almost too much to take. The shame is made worse as we’re told that it can’t be served in the bottle; it must be poured into a pint glass. Said shame is then multiplied when it looks like you’re the kind of bloke who takes a girl out and makes her share your pint of water. It’s all I can do not to explain myself to the girl behind the bar, but I stop, knowing that she doesn’t want to know about my bladder or my wife’s problems with dehydration. I leave the bar safe in the knowledge that she’ll find it all out in about 20 years anyway. This is neither the time nor the place for education.

It’s early and the crowd sparse as a result. We stand out like a beacon with our pint of water so we huddle round it just to keep it reasonably well hidden. At this point in time I’ve never felt so old. And this brings us to the next feature of going to gigs in middle age; the chance that you’re the oldest person there. We quickly establish that we’re not. Or at least we don’t look anywhere near as old as some. Some of our contemporaries this evening have actual white hair, so they must be older than us. But it’s still a genuine worry. No one wants to be the oldest swinger in town (and not that type of swinger, by the way).

Just when we’ve calmed our worries on this score though, we spot something that both unnerves us and sets us off in fits of giggles. Over to the side of the now ever-increasing crowd are three fellow gig-goers, who themselves stand out for all the wrong reasons. But they’re not huddled around a pint of iced water. Oh no. They stand out because their combined age can’t actually be a lot higher than mine alone. In fact, their combined age might actually be younger than me! And while their undoubted youth is one thing, it’s their attire that really catches my eye. All three are dressed in jeans, t-shirts and trainers. But it’s the kind of jean that makes it almost impossible for me to look away. Skinny jeans that sit way too high above the ankle. As my dad used to say, it’s like they need to put some jam on their shoes and invite their trousers down for tea. And as if to draw attention to the fact they’ve coupled their jeans with white sports socks. So you have jeans at calf level, followed by an inch or two of pale skin and then some bright white socks. It really makes for quite the sight.

This relates directly to being a middle age gig goer as well. On reflection, I realise that they were simply kids being kids. Who am I to judge their look? Perhaps they would have laughed at my attempts to look like Ian Brown when I was their age. And perhaps they’d have been justified. But for now, given my own middle age insecurities, it’s easier just to giggle a bit.

After a while, I feel more settled. We’ve taken turns holding the water, partly to lessen the impact on our image and partly because due to the amount of ice in it it’s too cold for our fragile middle-aged hands! The lights dim further and the support band enters the fray and it becomes clear that we have another middle age problem. It’s all too loud and too bright! The band is ‘Land Sharks’ and they feature two of tonight’s headliners, Embrace, so it feels rude to be behaving like a pensioner who wandered in through a side door by mistake. But it really is too loud and too bright! I’m beginning to question whether I can actually look in the direction of the stage when I realise I’m quite enjoying them. ‘Land Sharks’ are undoubtedly rocky (and that’s easily the most middle age clause I’ve typed in a long time), but it’s likeable; there’s a tune and a bit of a groove. And the singer is a proper old school frontman too. He commands the stage in a part Jagger, part Plant way and this means that I forget about the lights and forget how loud it is in favour of simply enjoying myself. I’m starting to feel a lot less out-of-place. I’m relaxed and although I can’t sing along, I’m definitely smiling.

By the time Land Sharks leave the stage I’m completely comfortable. Maybe they can add that type of thing to their posters – Land Sharks; relaxing the middle-aged since 2019. My thoughts turn to Embrace and I’m now genuinely excited by the prospect of seeing them again. But there are other middle-aged problems to contend with yet.

Firstly, my feet hurt. I mean really hurt. To use Geordie parlance, they knack. I’ve probably been standing here for less than an hour, but my feet are screaming that they’ve had enough. They’re telling the grown up section of my brain to go home and watch telly. I’ve opted for Converse footwear tonight and given their very flat nature, I think that they’re the problem. Mind you, I’ve had forty odd years of being able to stand up as well, so it’s no wonder my feet hurt. I decide to shuffle a bit from foot to foot to try and combat the ache. It doesn’t work – and I must look like an idiot – so I try to relax and shift my balance subtly to different sides of my feet in order to help. Whatever I do must be making me look like I’ve got bladder problems, which is unfair. I’ve got at least another decade before they strike. I have no option but to stand still and put up with it. I think of Land Sharks again and try to just relax.

As time creeps on yet another middle age gig problem arises though. Now I’ve never had the best of memories. However, if we bring spoken language into it, I’m lost. Lyrics, catchphrases, funny sketches from comedy…I can rarely remember it. At least not in any complete kind of form. So here I am, about to watch one of my favourite bands play their first album again in its entirety, and I can’t be sure that I’ll be able to sing along. I feel like my mother. As a child and later as a teenager, I’d be around the house while she was ironing or cooking and would be able to hear her singing. However, it was a distinct style that she had whereby she’d be able to sing actual lyrics for a short while, but it wouldn’t be long before she was just reduced to humming or other noises. Let me give you an example.

Picture my mother – short, dark, of average build for a lady – doing the ironing. It doesn’t matter what she’s ironing. She’s singing along to ‘Walk on By’ by Dionne Warwick. It goes like this.

If you see me walking down the street
And I start to cry each time we meet
Walk on by, walk on by

Dee, dee, dee Dee dee de dee dee dee dee dee dee deee De dee dee De dee dee Do doo doo As you say goodbye Walk on by

My mother can’t remember lyrics either. And she solved this by simply replacing them with noises when she’d forgotten. It seems it’s hereditary too. Although with me I don’t make noises; I just sing the words that either I think it is, or the words I think it should be.

Tonight though, as Embrace play through The Good Will Out, these are songs I’ve known – or maybe not known as well as I thought – for 21 years. Songs I can’t listen to without singing along to, after a fashion. It’s a genuine worry for me that I’ll forget the words to everything and look like some middle age civil servant on a work’s night out. Worse still, I’m about 5 metres from Danny’s microphone, so he’s bound to see me and wonder why I’m at his gig getting all the words wrong. Surely I should be off watching Scouting for Girls or something else equally shite? In my head the whole band are going to see me singing my own words and hate me!

As it happens, I surprise myself. I’m almost word-perfect in my singing along. Pitch perfect? Not so much. But who cares! I probably look a little too lost in the music to appear cool, but it’s an amazing gig. Embrace are, incredible and the songs still mean as much as they did when I first heard them all those years ago. As ever with Embrace it’s a bit like watching a group of old friends up on stage and there’s that wonderful feeling that the band are with us, rather than just artists performing for us. Songs like ‘One Big Family and ‘Retread’ are precious to me and they just sound immense tonight. Middle aged or not, I’ll never get bored of this band or these songs.

By the time the encore comes along though, I’m tired. I’m probably right when I say that I’m too old for this. However, the band play ‘Gravity’, the first dance at my wedding, and with my wife stood in front of me it’s an emotional few minutes and I think I’m safe in saying that it means the world to both of us. And then Danny McNamara has one last surprise. He starts by telling the crowd that he’s not asked us to be jumping up and down tonight and confesses that it’s partly because none of us are getting any younger. He’s not wrong! But then, he asks if we can jump around just once for the song ‘Ashes’. Now, while I adore this song, I’m not sure how long my legs have got left tonight, but I resolve to give it a go. About 5 minutes later, I’m elated, but I feel like I’ve run a marathon. I’m more sweaty than I’d like, but I’ve survived! My feet hurt, my legs ache, but there’s life in the old dog yet.

Let’s do it all again soon, lads! As long as I’ve had a bit of a rest. And if someone could remind me to wear sensible shoes next time, that’d be grand.

Is it me, or are kids just weird?

Another weird drawing. That’s me on the left. Read on to find out what I’m doing.

Behold below a conversation that I overheard a few years ago between my then 9-year-old daughter and 6-year-old son.

Daughter: I’ve got loads of boyfriends.

Son: Have you?

Daughter: Yeah. I had more, but I broke up with some.

Son: Oh. So who do you go out with?

Daughter: I mainly go out with Ryan.

Son: Ryan? Oh. Do you kiss him? Do you kiss him up the bum?

Now ask yourself the question in the headline for this blog. I dare you to answer no.

If you’re a parent this is the kind of nonsense you’ll have heard a thousand times before from your kids. In fact, the chances are that you’ve heard a lot worse or a lot stranger. If you’re a parent who also works with kids then this type of thing is probably an hourly occurrence. There’s a reason for that and there’s no escaping it. Kids are weird.

Just over twelve years ago, as I looked down on my newly born daughter lying on our bed – she was born at home – there were many things I imagined. This beautiful, scrawny little thing was coming with me on a myriad of adventures. We’d be best pals, laughing and joking, I’d be there for her dark moments and I’d share in her many triumphs. That much was sure. She’d be a straight ‘A’ student – because back then no-one had had the 0-9 grading brainwave – she’d be imaginative, friendly, bright, good-humoured, sensible. She definitely wouldn’t be weird. And yet, nine years on she’d be discussing her loads of boyfriends with her brother, who in turn it seemed had become some kind of pervert after only six years on the planet. And why? Because kids are weird, that’s why.

Think about it. Every parent will have marvelled at their kids talking to themselves or holding conversations with something imaginary, or even tangible, like dolls or cuddly toys. And they’ll have done this for ages as well. Cute right? No. Weird is the word you’re looking for. Face it, half of that conversation isn’t actually happening is it?

And then there’s the drawings. As a parent you’ll have received hundreds of well-meaning gifts in the form of drawings or paintings from your children. All handed over with a certain level of expectancy, and of course you manage that expectancy by reacting in a ridiculously positive way. This drawing or painting is literally the best thing you’ve ever seen and it’s so much better than the last amazing one they presented you with all of twenty minutes ago.

But in reality, these drawings are almost always bizarre. In our house – and I’m sure in many others – they seem to regularly feature penises. My son especially seemed adept at drawing me as an actual cock. A family picture where mummy is recognizably small and dark-haired, his sister, slightly smaller, lighter hair, but again quite human and Dylan himself, probably holding mummy’s hand as the smallest of the family. And then daddy, drawn as an enormous phallus with two feet attached to the bottom of him that inevitably look like balls.

To add to this artistic madness he once also did a family drawing where everyone was present and again, recognizably human, while I was not only todger-like, but I was also having a poo. He even triumphantly announced, ‘…and look, Daddy’s having a poo!’ And there can be no other explanation for this type of behaviour than the fact that kids are weird.

We capture this weirdness too. Keep it for posterity. Preserve it on cameras, USB sticks and clouds, thinking that we’ll go back to it and remember how cute our kids once were. Well, look beyond the cute and I guarantee you’ll find that they’re all just weird, freakish and beyond our comprehension.

Recently we were transferring some videos from a phone to a laptop in order to clear storage space. We found ourselves watching them again, as you do in a kind of ‘aaw, do you remember this’ kind of fashion. And we sort of did go ‘aaw’ and we sort of did remember those times too. But we also found ourselves wondering what on Earth we had brought into the world!

Two of these videos stand out. The first was filmed furtively over the top of a bedroom door after my wife had asked my daughter to brush her hair, ready for school. She was about 6 at the time; my daughter, not my wife. Of course, despite several enquiries as to the progress of the brushing, she wasn’t brushing her hair at all, hence the filming. But what was she doing? Well, she was perched on her window sill, singing a song to herself about having a party in her tummy, of course. I can still hear her now, out of tune as always, repeating the inventive line, ‘Party, party in my tummy’ in a kind of weak American(ish) accent. Weird.

The second video will always be cute. When my son is a strapping hulk of a man with children of his own, I’ll still be able picture him in this video. I’ll hear him too. For all but the last seconds of the film he’s as cute as a button, singing along with a talking teddy bear, who when you told it your child’s name, was able to put it in a song. He sings along happily, with the odd coy look at the camera or a giggle until, as the song ends, inexplicably, he makes the noise ‘Booooooooow’ (rhyming with ‘no’) before acting as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened and trying to grab the camera from his mum and demanding, ‘Lemme see!’ But, for the love of God, what was that noise? We’d never heard it before and have never heard it since and despite being immeasurably cute and endearing it can’t be denied that it is simply plain weird. What enters a kid’s head that informs them, just make a noise now?

My son especially, has provided lots of strange moments throughout his childhood. He went through quite a long phase of cutting up wiggly strips of paper and tucking them in the back of his trousers so that he had a tail. This was a phase long enough for it to be suggested that this might be some kind of obsession; almost like he thought of himself as some kind of animal. He was probably only two or three at the time, but the fact was, he seemed to do this on a daily basis and for an unreasonably long time. And there was no trotting around to accompany his tail, like a tiny horse. He would just make sure he had a tail and get on with the business of the day, like making weird noises in videos and asking his sister inappropriate questions.

Further standout memories of the weird in our house also include my son once asking me, ‘Will you leave mum?’ with no context at all as we sat eating our tea. Had he picked up a hint of marital trouble, despite there not being any? I wasn’t sure, but for a while I was staggered. I had no idea where it had come from, but boy, was it weird.

And in every household there’ll be a child who deems it appropriate to dress up as a super hero or a Disney Princess for a trip to the supermarket or insists on having some sort of strange order for eating food or refuses to eat without their favourite knife and fork. As a kid, I even had a cousin who went through a years long phase of adding food colouring to his meals. So you’d go to his house to find him eating blue eggs, green chips and maybe purple baked beans. And while I understand that it’s just kids being kids, it’s also undeniably because they are all very, very strange little humans.

As I work in a school, I’m subjected to lots and lots of examples of kids being weird. I should have enough anecdotes to write a book, but unfortunately either never wrote stuff down or wrote it down but never in the same place. However, from memory, geography seems to be a great source of weirdness in kids. Again, I understand that it’s just knowledge and that these are things that we simply pick up as we go along, but sometimes the strange way of looking at simple geography that kids have, can be absolutely staggering.

In the past I’ve taught Steinbeck’s ‘Of Mice and Men’ to thousands of children. And great fun it was too; putting on the voices, walking around like a big bear to mimic Lennie and trying to act like a flirtatious young woman while pretending to be Curley’s wife. There have been times when I’ve expected a delegation from BAFTA to burst through the door and yet here I am, writing a blog about strange kids, my acting still criminally ignored. In order to teach it though you have to give a class some idea on the background to the story – so The Great Depression, The Wall St. Crash, dustbowls, California, that kind of thing. And it’s here that the weirdness of kids has shone through time and again.

It would appear that there are many, many children out there without the slightest clue as to where America actually is. So before the history stuff I’ve often found myself drawing a whiteboard sized map in order to show where the USA actually is. Now if that wasn’t bad enough, once you’ve got some sort of approximation of where it actually is, you’ve sometimes then also got to go to the lengths of pointing out the East coast and the West coast, in order to show them New York, for Wall Street and then California, where, if you don’t already know, the story takes place.

Now, I’m sorry, as a teacher I totally understand that there are all manner of different abilities out there in children. Believe me, I know that work has to be differentiated in order to make it accessible to all. I also get it when kids are strong in one subject, but maybe not others. But, for the love of God, how can you not know where America is? Firstly, it’s enormous. Secondly, it will have had some significant level of influence on your life, culture, beliefs, the TV you watch, the music you listen to, at some point in your lifetime. And thirdly, why have you never seen a map of the world? I’d predict it was because you spent too long doing drawings of dads that looked like penises, that’s why! Surely this lack of basic knowledge says something about just how weird kids can get?

A few other instances of this general knowledge weirdness immediately spring to mind. The first one coincidentally links to Of Mice and Men, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to understand the dark depths of the mind that it came from. For context, if you don’t know me, I’m from the North East of England. Happily, I’m from the world’s greatest city, Newcastle, and as such I speak with the accent of those from the city. We’re known as Geordies and we have a Geordie accent; it’s quite distinct and reasonably well-known. Or so I thought.

A few years back a colleague came to tell me a story about what a kid – the weirdo – had asked them in class. Apparently the child had flummoxed my colleague by asking the name of ‘that Californian teacher’. That Californian teacher was me. Where I’m from isn’t even on the same continent, let alone country. I couldn’t sound less Californian if I tried. Even the weather is incomparable. And yet, said child had identified me as such. There is no link. There is no explanation, other than the fact that kids are weird and on this occasion, almost too weird for words.

Over the years this weird geography curse has struck again and again. Notable examples have been when a kid asked ‘Sir, where’s Bradford?’ Answer, it’s literally less than 10 miles away – and also when I got asked where Australia was. On this occasion I patiently pointed out that it was thousands of miles away on the other side of the world; I think I also drew a very basic map on the board thinking that it would help. It didn’t help though because the child still looked puzzled. Finally, she revealed the source of her bewilderment, crying, ‘Eh? But I thought it was in France!’ In France. Not near or bordering – which, by the way, would have been equally strange – but actually in France. It’s rare that I’m lost for words, but this occasion left me unable to answer!

While a lot of these weird anecdotes have been prompted by the behaviour of toddlers, my final few pieces of weird evidence have come from the mouths of kids old enough to know better. Both anonymous, but both very recent. Firstly there was the food advice given by a child to someone who was considering a radical dietary change – they were thinking of cutting out dairy, including milk. To my utter exasperation the following question rattled around my head and indeed the room for what seemed like forever, while I tried to figure out just where it could have come from.

‘Could you try chicken milk?’

Seriously, let that sink in. But while it is sinking in digest the next piece of child weirdness that I have to offer. Just this week I had a class writing an analysis of a poem. We’d taken a couple of lessons to study it and the class were interested and eager throughout. They had enjoyed the poem and after a brief chat about the kind of language features they’d need to be analysing in order to answer the question, I set them off writing. The silence was tangible. The ‘sound’ of a class just working, thinking about their response to a piece of literature. Wonderful. And then a hand went up and when I asked how I could help, they uttered the following question?

‘Sir, what’s empathy? Is it when you put yourself in somebody else?’

No. No, that in fact, is something very, very different.

As a final footnote, even today a child of 16 has asked me if I’m Scottish. This despite someone prior to the question asking me if I was from Newcastle (which if you don’t know is firmly in England). He repeated his question several times after being told that ‘no’ I was from England. And then as if this wasn’t bad enough the discussion moved on to all things Scottish, including the revelation that kilts were somewhat classed as national dress and, much to the amusement of the boys, were a bit like a big skirt. But this wasn’t the height. No. Not even close. A boy then asked this incredible question.

“Do they play them massive trumpets?” As a stunned silence engulfed the room the penny slowly dropped with me. I thought I knew what he meant by “massive trumpets”.

Bagpipes. He meant bagpipes.

Kids are weird. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

Sean Longstaff & the Geordie dream.

What we all dream of as little lads in Newcastle: a statue just outside the ground that looks quite like you.

For Newcastle United fans, it’s been very much a season of ups and downs. No change there then. For many of us it’s been that way for decades. We’ll beat the likes of Manchester United, Barcelona or even Melchester Rovers one week but get beat by Hereford or Whitley Bay reserves the next. We’ll go out and sign Keegan, Asprilla or Kluivert but we’re also perfectly capable of landing a Rob Macdonald, Kevin Dillon or Gabriel Obertan. And in terms of managers there’s a Kinnear for every Benitez. Actually there’s two Kinnears for every Benitez, unfortunately. We’re that good at ups and downs.

In the absence of trophies we’ve often been forced to look for other highs. I mean, those Intertoto Cups don’t come along every week, you know. Often these highs have been found in the form of maverick players; David Ginola, Laurent Robert and Hatem Ben Arfa spring to mind. This sits well alongside the message that we demand a team that tries and not necessarily a team that is bringing home the Champions’ League each season. Give us effort and a bit of skill and we’ll back it. Sadly, we’ve had to. Give us trophies and we’d back those too, but I think we’re all realists when it comes to silverware.

One thing that is almost guaranteed to make us happy though, is a local lad doing well. Like trophies though, they’ve been few and far between over the years. Unlike trophies, I suppose, there have been some in living memory – because weirdly, some people really don’t count the Intertoto triumph.

‘Some of them might even be from Blaydon, like me.’

As a very young season ticket holder I didn’t realise that the players might come from different places. In my innocent mind these people in front of me, clad in those mesmeric stripes were just ordinary blokes from the North East. Some of them might even be from Blaydon, like me. And barring a few Scots and the odd southerner, I was about right. But I still wouldn’t say we had any local boys doing particularly well.

As I got older and my understanding greater I was aware of the likes of Kenny Wharton coming through the ranks and the likes of Chris Waddle and Peter Beardsley being brought in. And I worshipped them for being local, like me. These were lads who were out there, fulfilling my dream of playing for Newcastle United; fulfilling the dream of thousands of others too.

‘And then came Gazza.’

We’d heard about the past and the likes of Jackie Milburn – Wor Jackie – granted veritable sainthood for being not just one of us, but a fantastic footballer to boot. But it had been years since a local lad of that quality had come along. And then came Gazza. Paul Gascgoine. For some of us – lots of us in fact – he would quite possibly be the greatest player we would ever see wearing the black and white shirt. For me, I’m pretty sure that still rings true. Forget his demons, his personal life, his off-the-field habits; Gazza was a one off and a world beater. He had a God given talent. And here he was living within a few miles of the stadium and representing his boyhood club. I was around 14 when he was in his pomp at the Toon and, in footballing terms he was everything I would have wanted to be – outrageously skilful, tricky, quick and beyond compare. I worshipped him. We all did and our feelings were given that extra boost because of the fact that he was local.

I was there on the night of Wednesday 25th November when we played Blackpool – I think in a League Cup game – in the pouring rain, amongst less than 8,000 fans as Gazza won it with a peach of a goal and celebrated in front of the Leazes End with the Ali shuffle. It’s a memory that will never leave me. When he left the club it felt like someone had ripped my heart out and I couldn’t work out why a local lad would ever want to leave. I remember my dad had said it broke his heart when ‘Supermac’ left and now I knew how he felt.

‘…Paul Dummett will never really make the heart flutter.’

Since Gazza the production line hasn’t really given us many to believe in. Lee Clark and Andy Carroll both gave us hope, but never fulfilled their potential with the club. The likes of Steven Taylor and nowadays, Paul Dummett will never really make the heart flutter. But we’d all still give our right arm to do what they did. And then there was Alan Shearer, the local lad made good elsewhere who, thanks to Kevin Keegan, returned in a triumphant homecoming in 1996 for a then world record fee. Hard to imagine these days, right?

Shearer, of course succeeded in every aspect of the Geordie dream, taking the number 9 shirt and going on to become the greatest goal scorer that the club and the Premier League had ever seen. Trophies and medals didn’t matter – he fulfilled every little boy from the region’s dream, something that people outside of the region still seem to delight in not understanding. We’ll leave them to it.

Sean Longstaff is the latest off a slightly slow production line. He looks like he’ll take a slightly different path. He’s not the number 9. In fact as yet, we can’t quite pin down exactly what he will be. Is he a number 10, is he a deep lying defensive midfielder or will he become a Shelvey style quarter-back of a player? Keyboard pundits and hopefully Rafa Benitez will decide that. One thing’s for sure is that Longstaff is without doubt living the Geordie dream.

‘And wow, has he looked the part.’

Those in the know have suspected for a while that here was a kid who would make it. But I must confess, as the past couple of seasons have gone by and he’s been out on loan, I had started to wonder whether he’d make it with us. However, just as he was breaking into the squad, injuries to Shelvey, Diame and then Ki’s Asian Cup call up pushed him into the starting line-up. And wow, has he looked the part. Even as more accepted first-teamers have regained fitness he has kept his place in the team on merit.

Longstaff has slipped into the team playing like he’s been there for years. An unassuming youngster with a quiet confidence and a wealth of natural ability, Sean is very definitely an old head on young shoulders. His eye for a pass, accuracy and work rate are allied to a certain amount of steel and strength in the tackle and he looks every bit the complete midfield player. Let’s not forget that he’s come up against more or less the best that the Premier League can offer in terms of midfields so far and has more than held his own, earning praise from not only Rafa but Pep Guardiola along the way.

For us fans his emergence is a joy to behold. And while we’ve willed him to do well, in truth, it hasn’t looked like he’s needed us really. He’s clearly a special talent. The next Paul Dummett? Yes, but only in terms of being the latest local lad done good. While Dummett is hard working and functional, Longstaff oozes class. Both are doing their club and city proud, but Sean promises so much more. In fact, until injury struck he had looked a shoe-in for at least the England Under-21 squad.

‘Thankfully, the family remained on Tyneside…’

And yet, he could have gone the way of many others of the past, including Michael Carrick, with whom he’s drawn comparison from several experts this season. Sean’s father, David, was a much admired ice hockey player and at one stage it seemed like the family may move to Canada where there were offers aplenty for David’s talent. Sean himself even indulged in the sport. Thankfully, the family remained on Tyneside and Sean, as well as his younger brother Matty were able to pursue their own careers. The Longstaff boys weren’t destined to follow the Robsons, Shearers and Carricks by moving away, but could yet emulate their successful careers.

Longstaff’s performances so far this season have been full of promise. As mentioned previously, he’s slotted in with ease and looks more than comfortable with the burden placed on his young shoulders. He understands exactly what he’s achieved and what the levels of expectation will be like. After scoring in the win against Burnley at St. James’ Park he told journalists, “You ask any young boy in Newcastle and I think that’s the ultimate dream – to score a goal in front of your friends and family.” So pleased was he that he forgot which side of the ground his parents were actually on, running instead to the opposite side in celebration!

‘This boy can play.’

Statistics show that Longstaff’s strength is in his work rate. The data suggests that he’s covering well over 10km per game. And this isn’t simply just ‘running around’ or boyish enthusiasm. This is calculated graft, reading the game and a natural awareness of simply where to be or where to get to. However, this is not what has supporters excited, although it’s undoubtedly appreciated. This boy can play. Look at his passing and there’s an element of Shelvey or Cabaye. Dare I say it in terms of accuracy there could even be a touch of Gazza. Whichever way you look at it, he’s our brightest hope – locally – in many years.

Sadly, a knee injury seems to have curtailed Sean’s season and it looks likely that he won’t pull on the black and white shirt until July or August. However, even with only 13 appearances in league and cup, Longstaff has given Newcastle supporters something that they have and will always cherish: a local lad living the Geordie dream. Long may it continue.

February: Making Every Day Count.

Ignore the bit about young people. This is some serious self-help business going down.

Self-help books. I’ve always wondered how, if you have the weight of the world on your shoulders, you would the time to read one. And what makes the people who write them right? Why should we take notice? Well, perhaps I need to have a closer look.

One of the best things about my job is the access to stuff that I have. Yes, I have incredible colleagues, teach great kids and it’s never dull. However, I reckon at least 75% of teachers will tell you that the most exciting part of the job is the stationary; the stuff. In late August every year stationers and supermarkets are packed to the rafters with teachers searching out new diaries, notebooks, pens and other stuff. And then when we get to school in early September, someone has ordered loads of other stuff that you’re practically encouraged to help yourself too. Over the years I’ve had countless pens, coloured pencils, planners, files, folders etc. Best of all though is the books. Sometimes people just send you books, giving you the feeling of an actual famous person who has stuff thrown their way daily. On other occasions you somehow manage to help yourself to books that are otherwise gathering dust in a cupboard, giving the feeling of an actual…thief.

Recently, while having a clear out of my desk drawers I discovered some bizarre stuff. Two self-help type books that I have no recollection whatsoever of acquiring. One called ‘Making Every Day Count’ which promises to help you solve problems, set goals and feel good about yourself and the other titled ‘Making The Most of Today’ which was much of the same. And so, I decided to try them out and blog about it as I go.

I’ve decided that I’ll be ‘Making Every Day Count’ but that I may well cheat occasionally in order that I’m ‘Making The Most of Every Day’. Depends on which book has the best advice, I suppose.

If I was cleverer and wittier I’d come up with a hilarious blend word to fit the occasion. You know, along the lines of ‘Movember’. But I’m not. So here we go on taking self-help advice for the whole of February. Self-helpbruary?

Friday 1st February

Today’s advice is to ‘Make a To-Do list’. Easy. My life is literally made up of a series of lists. So today, I learn precisely nothing apart from the fact that I’m already helping myself.

Saturday 2nd February

The book encourages me to talk about my fears with someone I trust. It’s a Saturday, a day for family, so I’m faced with a choice of my wife and partner of the last 24 years or my children, aged 12 and 9, neither of whom I could trust as far as I could throw them. The wife it is then. But then when I think about it, I don’t think I have any fears. Newcastle United getting relegated and Rafa Benitez leaving? Maybe, but I’d rather just shout at the telly or write barbed comments on Twitter than bother Louise. I’m pretty sure I’m not going to die any time soon – I was told only last week by my cardiologist that there are few fears there.

In the end, I give up on fears. It’s Saturday; there’s shopping to be done, football to be watched and probably countless jobs around the house to be tackled. Fears can wait.

Sunday 3rd February

‘I’ll focus on what I think of me’. Genuine self-help advice at the bottom of the page for today. Brilliant! Too easy. I think I’m alright, really. Despite my age I don’t think I look too bad, I’m fit and healthy and despite a burgeoning belly there’s not a lot that can’t be put right. I’m happy. In my head I’m the funniest person I know – if you know me you know that if no one else is laughing at my jokes, you can guarantee I most definitely will be. And as I proved yesterday, I have no fears that are getting in the way of just living my life. This self-help lark is beginning to look like child’s play!

Monday 4th February

Today we hit a snag. I open the book and read the following – Today I’ll think like an optimist. Oh.

Whether it’s the amount of childhood dreams that I’ve not achieved, whether it’s a lifetime supporting an under achieving football team or whether it’s being brought up in a distinctly risk averse environment, I think I’m much more of a pessimist. Or at the very least, a realist.

But, I try to be optimistic. Maybe I won’t have to almost constantly ask my Year 10s to be quiet. After all, they’re in a library. Maybe my Year 11 boys will just get on without any inappropriate language or silly, juvenile behaviour. And maybe, just maybe, when I get in from work there won’t be X-Box related shouting that forces me to retreat, wordless to the sanctity of our bedroom where I will sit and read, alone. Maybe, for once, the kids will hear the door and bolt from the living room into the hallway where they’ll smile as they shout ‘Dad!’ before engulfing me with cuddles. Maybe my wife won’t have had to work all day on her day off and she’ll be calm and happy and stress-free.

And maybe, as I discover when every optimistic hope is launched back at me with ferocious force, it’s better to be a pessimist and never be disappointed.

Tuesday 5th February

Today is the day that, according to the fresh page that I’m faced with, ‘I’ll find ways to use my talents’. Aah, my talents. These include dancing like Mick Jagger, signing slowed down, ‘club-singer’ versions of any song going and keepie-uppies with a football. Oh, and sarcasm. But that is already used heavily on a daily basis. And I don’t think my students would even know who Mick Jagger is, let alone want me to mincing, pouting and clapping my way around the classroom, telling them about my lack of satisfaction. As a result, I find no ways to use my talents.

Wednesday 6th February

I open the page and am immediately baffled. The instruction reads, ‘I’ll be grateful for a time when I didn’t get what I wanted.’ Sorry, what? Why would I be grateful for that? So I read the little parable that goes with it. To summarise, Ben Affleck is a big, big star, but once upon a time he had no money. Apparently he’s glad he didn’t get the part on Beverley Hills 90210.

Now I get it. As it goes I’m also grateful I never got a part on Beverley Hills 90210. I’d have never fit in. There’s no hope of me looking or sounding stylish, classy or posh and not only that but they drive on the wrong side of the road over there. Nightmare. Thanks for the advice, Ben.

Thursday 7th February

Today – my birthday – I’m told by my book that ‘I’ll solve a problem peacefully’. Now I’d like to think that I’m a fairly peaceful kind of person. When you’re built like me there’s little point in raging at everything, let alone getting into confrontation. And so, this should be easy.

My job throws up lots problems. If I’m perfectly honest I don’t think I ever get too stressed out about that. However, today, I’m serene. Like a millpond or a beautiful sunset. Even when a kid simply doesn’t understand what a gooseberry is, even though it’s been explained at least 5 times by both members of staff in the room. He’s still sure that it’s a sweet. Still, I smile and move on, even though this is a situation ripe – don’t you dare pardon that fruit based pun – for sarcasm.

Friday 8th February

Friday. The end of another busy week and the book suggests that I ‘ask someone I respect for problem solving tips’. Now this is difficult. Not because there’s a lack of people I respect; I’ve never worked with a better group of people.

No, it’s not that. My problem lies with the fact that I generally try to just quietly solve problems myself. True, sometimes that’s by ignoring them until the last second, but usually stuff just gets taken care of. I even tried this tactic with a heart problem and might have gotten away with it had it not been for that pesky doctor.

So, tired and weary, for today I’ll keep my problems to myself. But in the future, maybe I’ll try to share.

Saturday 9th February

It’s Saturday and I’m rushed off my feet. The sanctuary of work seems a long way away and I’m knee-deep in food shopping, washing and trying to plan for a meal out for my birthday. I’m ignoring the book and helping myself. Today’s advice can wait until tomorrow.

Sunday 10th February

Today, the Under 10s football team that I coach have a cup Quarter Final. And amazingly, the book tells me to think about my dreams last night and ask Are my dreams trying to tell me something?’ I dreamed of football. I generally do on a Saturday night and if I wake during the night I have to try really hard not to start considering tactics and team selection for the next day.

Clearly my dreams are trying to tell me that I’m worryingly obsessed with football and that I need to grow up…

In terms of yesterday’s advice, I was asked to do a good deed. To do today’s ref a favour I sub one of my players within seconds of him shouting at said ref about a decision. Good deed done.

Monday 11th February

‘I’ll talk to my teacher’. Instead, I talk to several teachers. Because I’m a teacher. Surprisingly, it’s mostly absolute garbage, but it helps. Well, that was easy.

Tuesday 12th February

Today the book asks, ‘Do your parents seem weird?’ and advises me to love them just the way they are. My parents are both in their late 70s (although my mother keeps her actual age a closely guarded secret) and they’re typical pensioners. So that’s an easy ‘yes’ to the first question. I literally have no idea how their minds work…apart from slowly. And while I could assassinate their characters in thousands of words – cantankerous, narrow-minded, grumpy, etc – I love them anyway. It’s written in the contract really.

Wednesday 13th February

My job has always presented me with a bit of a conflict. That conflict is this; I love my job, but I don’t really want to do my job. There’s no lack of commitment – I’ve been a teacher for almost 20 years – but it isn’t what I really want or wanted to do. It wasn’t a calling for me where I had a blinding epiphany. Truth be told I wanted to be a footballer or a journalist. Today’s life advice tells me to think about my dream job. I do. Every day. But I wasn’t good enough to do either and well, something has got to pay those bills.

Thursday 14th February

Predictably, today’s way to make the most of every day is romantic. ‘Today I’ll send someone a secret Valentine’ it reads. As a happily married man this isn’t going to make me feel good about myself. I feel the book has taken a bit of a turn. Will it be telling me I should jump off a cliff by the end of the month?

It’s safe to say I won’t be sending anyone a secret Valentine. For the sake of my marriage and several of my bones.

Friday 15th February

The book suggests I get a pen pal today, but given advancing technology and the fact that I am no longer 12, I’ll ignore it. Instead, I choose the task in ‘Making the Most of Today’, which tells me to ‘Be tolerant of others’. Now this is a challenge. However, promising myself a rewards trip to the beer shop tonight, I vow to rise to the challenge. I ignore the shouting out during my form’s House Quiz and I bite my lip rather than commenting that ‘No one cares’ when the Maths questions are both stuff about what ‘x’ might be if 3x is combined with another sum that for some godforsaken reason has brackets around it. Finally, faced with my last class of the week – who are also my worst behaved – I smile my way through the hour and try to gently encourage and cajole some of my most lazy pupils into putting pen to paper. I am Disney teacher. I have to say though, I feel a lot more relaxed at the end of the lesson. But boy, walking through the doors of the beer shop has never felt so good!

Saturday 16th February

Today it’s suggested that I ‘Start a feelings journal’. I come from the very far north of England where feelings aren’t really encouraged in the men. Thus, I will help myself to a day off today. I haven’t got time for feelings, let alone writing them down.

Sunday 17th February

Today’s advice plays right into my hands. In order to help myself I’m ordered to believe in myself with the simple statement, ‘I believe in me’. Job done. While I wouldn’t describe myself as confident, to use the modern parlance, I back myself. I don’t wander around telling myself you got this, because I’m not a complete idiot, but I have belief. And realistic expectations. I’ll grumble my way through a day, but I realised a long time ago that there’s no point in giving up. I don’t need an inspirational tattoo or a mantra, but I do believe in myself. Even at the worst of times I’ve got through, and sometimes that’s as much as you can ask.

Well, that was very serious, wasn’t it?

Monday 18th February

The first day of our half term holiday and the advice is perfect for me. I’m told to focus on how a challenge is working for me. This is ideal as today is the day we’ve chosen to head to the Peak District for a bit of a hike. I say a bit of a hike but we’ll be doing 6.4 miles. Quite the challenge for someone who had heart surgery 9 months ago.

Heading constantly uphill for the first mile through ever more driving rain, it’s difficult to work out how this challenge is working for me. My knees hurt and I’m soaked through. Self help, my arse. However, having stopped for a sandwich part way up the hill – it might be a mountain, I don’t know the definition – I take in the view and realise that yes, this is working for me. It’s inspirational. I’m not at one with nature or anything, but a little later on as we’re right at the top watching grouse fly over the moors and then observing a kestrel as it hovers close by, I’m utterly relaxed. And to top it all, by the time I reach the end of the hike, although I’m tired, I’ve more than done my steps for the day so my Fitbit can stop buzzing at me!

Tuesday 19th February

Another great piece of advice. I have to do something I love. I start by taking my son to the fields near our house for a bit of football. I’m his dad and his coach, so this one to one stuff also benefits the team. It’s warm and more or less deserted so we spend ages doing shooting drills – him shooting and me throwing myself around in goals. Definitely something I love with someone I love.

Later, I cram in some writing – this bit of the blog plus some more of another – while discovering new music. I listen to some Death Cab for Cutie, a band I’ve always been aware of but never actually heard until a few days ago. Turns out, they’re great.

I had to do something I loved. I love football, my kids, writing and music. Today was a good self-help kind of day.

Wednesday 20th February

The guide tells me that today I’ll admit my mistakes. Now I’d like to think I’m honest enough to almost always admit when I’ve made a mistake. However today was officially a bit of a rest day. I mean, we went on a 6 mile hike on Monday! As a consequence, apart from a visit to Asda we don’t really leave the house, preferring to sit in and watch ‘Solo: A Star Wars Story.’ It’s brilliant. No mistakes to admit.

Thursday 21st February

It’s Thursday and half term is drawing to a close. But it’s all OK, because my self-help guide tells me that I can exercise my right to make four big mistakes today. Bizarre. How does this help me? Is the book telling me that I’m Ok to go and rob a bank? That’s a big mistake. I don’t think I’d get away with that, book or no book. Could I run down the street naked? Perish the thought! No one would eat again for a week if they witnessed that.

I’m a fully grown adult. I’m going to make a decision here: I’ll just try to not make any mistakes today; big or otherwise.

Friday 22nd February

Today’s advice assumes I’m a shrinking violet; a humble man with no sense of ego whatsoever. I can’t follow today’s advice. But I assure you that I will absolutely follow it, to the letter, when the time comes. Today’s advice? I will take credit for my success. Of course I will! I might even shoehorn myself into taking credit for other people’s success as well.

Saturday 23rd February

Now I can’t lie, I love time alone. I don’t think that I’m ever more comfortable than when I’m simply on my own. It’s not that I don’t like people; I love being around people, although at the same time I wouldn’t call myself enormously friendly or effervescent. I’m just perfectly comfortable in my own company. So today, when I look at the relevant page in my book and it says I’ll spend time alone, I’m certain that this is advice I can follow. Consequently, I pop upstairs for a lie down to read my book, nip through to the kitchen to do some dishes on my own and then eventually head outside to wash my car, while listening to the match on the radio. Bliss. Bliss, that is until while crouched down to clean my wheels I pull something in my back and have to hobble around in agony before heading back inside to find someone to moan to. It would seem I can’t help my self.

Sunday 24th February

Apparently today, I’ll notice a problem and come up with a solution. I can’t help but notice a problem. I’m full of cold and am struggling to even walk due to a back problem gained while spending time alone. And yes, I understand how wrong that sounds, but even in pain I can see that it’s mildly amusing and suitably juvenile.

Regardless of my problem though, the team I coach have a game and there’s kit to be carried. Another problem. Luckily, two parents offer to carry everything when we arrive at the ground after noticing that the coach is walking like a hunchback. Strictly speaking this is not self-help, but it’s definitely a problem solved. I decide not to push my luck too far by asking for a cheeky massage.

Monday 25th February

Back to work. Or maybe not. I get up, showered and dressed, but while eating breakfast realise that I’m in the kind of pain that requires at the very least a little cry or preferably a lot of lying down. I’m not sure that my students would behave all that well if I was just lying down. Clearly, I can’t go in. I’m in genuine pain and I can’t really walk. Coincidentally the book tells me to notice changes in myself, so I take heed and call in sick. Then, I go for a lie down.

Tuesday 26th February

This self-help lark is easy. Although I’m still off work today’s advice is ‘I’ll let my mind wander.’ This is just how my mind works. It rarely focuses, but my oh my, can it wander. Wander, wander, wander, wander…ooh, the family’s home. Well that went quickly.

Wednesday 27th February

Tragically, today I’m told to suggest a family meeting. Unfortunately I have an acute aversion to any kind of meeting so I pretend that it’s Tuesday again and let my mind wander. And let me tell you, it’s much, much better than a family meeting.

Thursday 28th February

Sadly, it’s the final day of my experiment. I’ve quite enjoyed having a little bit of focus to my days, other than the usual stuff. However, I think what I’ve taken from this whole thing is that self help is OK, but it’s really too easy for everything else to get in its way. I have a family and a stressful job. I also have a life to get on with. Just getting on with stuff in general is my self-help.

Fittingly, the last bit of advice offered to me by the book is I’ll ask for help if I need it. It really is fitting because I generally don’t ask for help. I’d much rather soldier on and try to just solve problems myself. But, with middle age firmly upon me and an ever more busy life, from now on, I’ll ask for help if I need it. Bring on March.