Middle Age Fanclub

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

Back from Storm Ciara to announce a surprise postponement!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lovely morning.”

“Aye, just beautiful isn’t it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I take it all very personally”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not going out again? Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Discovering Munich.

October in our family is fast establishing itself as another holiday time. Never before had we travelled in this month, preferring for three of us at least, to spend the time lazing about pretending to be recovering from what had been a tough first half term back at work or school. We might attempt to go and buy a few things or to have a clear-out of junk so that we could replace it with the things we’d bought, but hopping on a plane for a few days away was never even close to the agenda.

And then, last year, we booked a trip to Berlin and spent what was a revelatory few days in the German capital. Armed with a wary view of Germans, gleaned from watching too much Dad’s Army & Stan Boardman as a kid, I never imagined that I’d actually visit the place. These were a humourless race. Hadn’t they divided it up with a massive wall? Wasn’t it all imposing tower blocks and enormous sausages? Well no. And no. And no again, just for good measure.

Berlin blew my mind and in doing so opened up the possibility that Germany might just be somewhere we should explore. The family enjoyed it too and none of us were ready to leave when the time came. And so, come the half term just gone, we found ourselves on a plane heading to Munich, getting all excited about once again using the U-Bahn, the S-Bahn and for the first time, the tram. Don’t get me wrong, we loved being in Germany for a lot more than just the transport, but those trains were particularly exciting!

We land in Munich early in the afternoon and after a few wrong turns locate the desk where we can buy our Munich cards and head out to find the train. As expected we only have to wait a few minutes – our train is actually on the platform, but we have to wait so it sets off exactly on schedule – before our S-Bahn train is heading towards Munich.

Within half an hour or so we’re getting off again – did I mention Germany’s uber-effiecient railways? – and making our way into the Autumn sunshine for what proves to be a short walk to our hotel. We’ll be staying at the Novotel Munich Arnulfpark – could it sound anymore German? – which we’ve purposely chosen, partly because it means we have to get the tram into Munich; another new transport experience! It turns out though that it’s also just a lovely hotel with friendly staff and a cracking breakfast, so we’re on a winner from day one! Our room is great and the hotel itself turns out to be everything we’re going to need for our stay in the city.

We check in and then quickly unpack our gear before setting off in search of a supermarket so that we can buy in some snacks and drinks. You never know when you’ll get peckish on holiday. It’s almost immediately evident that this is a relaxed and peaceful city. We first wander through the largely business district where we’re staying, passing the Google building and a massive kids’ park along the way. People are out and about enjoying the late afternoon sunshine and the unseasonably warm weather and it makes for a lovely atmosphere about the place. Welcome to Munich!

As we get closer to the centre of Munich the atmosphere remains cool and calm and we finally locate an Aldi where we buy our traditional tube of fake Pringles, some water and a big bag of crisps for me that will, in time-honoured holiday fashion, never actually get opened and eventually just be left in the room for the maid. I know, generous tipper, right? Don’t worry, we always leave some cash as well. And what’s left of the fake Pringles, of course.

After an early tea in a local Italian restaurant we head back to the hotel and have an early night. We’ve been up since 6am and it’s been a long day. Both children are asleep extremely quickly and we’re not far behind. We’re going to need a lot of energy for exploring Munich properly tomorrow.

Next day – a Sunday – after a buffet breakfast and some time to organise a rucksack we’re out early in order to discover as much of the city as we can. We take the tram to Haltbahnhoff Nord before heading to Haltbahnhoff to catch the S-Bahn to the Alte Pinakothek, one of many art galleries in the city. The Alte Pinakothek contains over 700 artworks, with paintings by artists such as Rubens, Degas, Van Gogh, Turner, Goya, Manet and Monet. As you might expect, it is absolutely amazing. The building itself is enormous – probably around the same sort of scale as Buckingham Palace, if you’re looking for a comparison – and it was purpose built to house some of the art collected by the Bavarian royal family. So you’ll see a helluva lot of art!

On a Sunday Munich’s galleries only charge 1 Euro for entry. Our kids went in for free. So for a lot less than the price of a decent Sunday paper we were able to see some of the most stunning works of art on the planet. Wandering round the ground floor we’re treated to room after room of stunning art. Without any fanfare or over-bearing signage you can turn a corner to be faced by a Degas or a Monet and so suddenly, without any real warning, being able to cast our collective gaze on Sunflowers by Van Gogh makes for an experience that I think I’ll treasure for the rest of my days. Even then, it’s left in the shade by Monet’s ‘Bridge over The Seine’ and ‘Woman Ironing’ by Degas, both of which light up my day.

Even our kids are interested and my daughter is particularly pleased to find some paintings by Arcimboldo, someone she’s studied at school. We’re all taken by the sheer scale of some of the work, especially the stuff by Rubens. Some of it stretches from floor to ceiling in what are vast rooms and It’s fairly humbling to imagine the amount of work that went into those paintings taking shape.

We spend a good couple of hours wandering around the Alte Pinakotech, but sensing the kids’ growing boredom after a while we head out in search of some dinner. Before we arrived we found it kind of quaint that Munich’s shops stayed shut on a Sunday, but then once you’re there and you realise that lots of the cafes are shut too, it’s not so quaint after all. Suffice to say, it’s a good hour later that we’re queuing up in a café for some food and even then there’s an unexpected setback as it turns out that because it’s Sunday, the chef’s off and so food is limited. In the end we settle for some tomato soup and it turns out to be an inspired choice.

After dinner we head out to find the Englische Garten. Now you’d imagine that given this particular park is bigger than Central Park in New York, it wouldn’t take much finding. Well think again. In looking for it we realise that, as great as we think Munich is, it seems to have a distinct lack of signposts. It’s a theme we’ll keep returning to as the trip goes on. It’s a tiny criticism, but no distinct signs to tell you where things are puts Munich at a distinct disadvantage. The streets are signposted, but the attractions are rarely given a passing thought, which would make things a lot easier to find. Both of our phones are dying and we’ve had to rule out the usually reliable Google Maps. And for some reason we just can’t seem to follow the paper map. Eventually we spot some trees in the distance and head for them and indeed it’s the Englische Garten!

We proceed to spend the next couple of hours before the sun goes down, wandering around the place. It’s enormous and we’re in no doubt that we’ll have to come back again, as we probably don’t manage to see even a quarter of it. We manage to see lots of landmarks, although the surfers can’t surf as their machine doesn’t seem to be working, but in all it’s a wonderful way to spend the afternoon. There are thousands of people here and not even a hint of trouble or ill feeling. It’s a lovely, harmonious atmosphere. Families are out strolling, groups of adults socialise, there are numerous people playing volleyball and football and lots of cyclists and runners. We end the afternoon by sitting in the enormous beer garden with a stein of cold beer and some chips, watching the sun go down. It’s all so brilliantly German. Or Bavarian, if that’s what you’d prefer.

We head out for some tea in an optimistic frame of mind. We’ve identified the place we wish to go and even have a couple of back ups in case of an emergency – thanks Trip Advisor! However, our Sunday curse pays another visit as we pitch up at not one, not two, but three of our favoured restaurants to find them all closed! This is our German adventure though and we’re determined not to head back to the hotel so we keep looking. And it’s then that we stumble upon the magnificent Hamburgerei where the endlessly enthusiastic waiter helps us make our choices and makes sure we’re perfectly comfortable. I think what we eat may be some kind of recipe for a heart attack, but boy is it good! We head back to the hotel late and tired, but with full stomachs and happy hearts. Munich is proving to be everything that we’d hoped for.

On Monday Munich resembles home. It’s cold and raining, but we wrap up and take the tram down to Sendlinger Tor and bumble our way down towards Marienplatz. On the way we stumble across an amazing building that will most likely live long in all of our memories. Asamkirche is a church that is almost hidden among a street full of designer shops. We noticed it because we looked up from underneath our umbrellas into the rain. It’s on quite a grand street and you could easily slip past without even noticing. But we’re wowed by the exterior and stop to work out what it is. Eventually, after someone pops out of the door, we decide we can go in and it’s breath-taking. It seems like every inch of the interior is decorated painstakingly and elaborately. It’s tiny inside and we only spend around ten minutes silently staring at the place, but it’s time well spent. And we so easily could have wandered past.

Next we head to St. Peter’s church – anyone sensing a theme – where there’s a tower to be climbed in order to take in stunning views of the city. I opt out as I’m not at my best at heights, and while my wife and children climb I head inside the church where as I’m looking around at more architectural splendour, an actual service breaks out. I’m not at all religious, but I hang around at the back, unaware of what’s really happening due to the language barrier, but enjoying the lovely feeling of calm that spreads throughout the church. I stay for around 15 minutes, but eventually decide to leave for fear of my children barging in and shattering the peace.

When we meet up again outside it’s almost midday and so we quickly make our way to the Marienplatz where, in time honoured fashion, the bells will chime for the hour at the town hall and the figures that decorate the clock tower perform, for want of a better expression, a bit of a dance. Very Bavarian and despite the rain, entertainment enough to keep the kids enthralled and the adults happy for the ten or so minutes that it all takes.

After lunch – a much calmer affair than Sunday’s – we head for the train in order to get to the Allianz Arena, home of the mighty Bayern Munich, where we’ve booked on the 2.45 stadium tour and museum visit. Unfortunately, but predictably where our family is concerned, we’re late meaning that we have to run from the U-Bahn station to the stadium. Even then, the Munich signpost curse strikes again and we end up climbing to Level 3 of the stadium to get to what it turns out is the wrong bar. We’re directed back down the stairs and round the stadium where a friendly guide takes us to join our tour.

After years trying Graham still hadn’t mastered the art of the selfie.

As a football fan, this is one of the highlights of my trip. The Allianz arena is an incredible stadium – although obviously it’s no St. James’ Park! As we join the tour we’re sat in the posh seats having everything explained to us while on the pitch the LED grow lighting is helping the pitch recover on what is an increasingly dull day. It’s an impressive place and once the talking’s finished we’re given some time to take photos before we head off to the dressing room. More photos are taken and then it’s down into the tunnel where we line up in ‘teams’ ready to walk down the tunnel. The guide flicks a switch and we’re heading down the steps to the Champions’ League music. Suddenly I’m a kid again! Unfortunately though we’re not actually allowed near the pitch, which in these days of mega money pitches, is not all that surprising. It’s still a shame though.

We end the day by watching the lights on the outside of the stadium come on. The arena is lit bright red at night and it’s a dramatic sight. We get some photographs before heading for the U-Bahn for a short trip back into town and some tea. Tonight we try out 60 Secondi Pizza and while it isn’t quite as quick as the name suggests – obviously, I know – our pizzas are on the table very quickly and having come out of a brick oven, they’re delicious. Between the fantastic waiter’s smattering of English and my wife’s long ago learned German we get everything we need and I have to see it’s a lovely meal in quite a leafy area. Certainly, if you’re ever in Munich I’d recommend it.

Tuesday is our final day and after another hearty breakfast we check out of the hotel and drop our bags and cases there to pick up later. We’re determined to make the most of our final hours and as we don’t fly out until after 10pm we’ve got plenty of time for more adventure.

We head for the Munich Residenz, which used to be the main residence of the Bavarian royal family. It’s raining quite heavily today so we’re looking forward to getting inside. But Munich, we have a problem. We can’t find the door! We walk all the way round the building and what should be obvious isn’t too obvious. Where is the door? Our problem is solved when we ask some policemen if the residence is actually open and are told not today! The presence of lots of official looking black limos in the courtyard as well as TV trucks seems to explain why. In fact, on second glance there are lots of police around the place! Something far more important than us is happening, but we never find out what.

With the residence closed we head to the NK Documentation centre, a museum that concerns the rise of the Nazis in Munich. Having visited Berlin last year we were under the impression that it was the centre of everything at that time, so it’s intriguing to find out how important Munich was. The museum is fascinating and incredibly detailed and it’s interesting and saddening to see just how swiftly Hitler rose to power.

Afterwards, we head out into the late afternoon drizzle and take in some of the nearby sights, most of which are buildings and monuments that are linked to Hitler. The scale of some of these is staggering and it’s hard not to be impressed, despite knowing exactly what they once stood for.

With our impending night flight in mind we go for some tea. Tonight we eat at Jones’s American Diner where we all chow down on huge burgers in order to keep our strength up as we near the time to leave. We won’t get back to Leeds until the early hours and so we’ll need to fill up, which is exactly what we do. Once again, the food is delicious and in true German – and sort of American – style the service is excellent, with the waiter happy to leave us be despite the fact that it’s time for them to close!

All too soon though the day is closing in on us and it’s time to catch the train and the tram back to our hotel, pick up our bags and head to the airport.

Munich has been amazing and I’d absolutely recommend it to anyone who asked. There’s lots to do for families and I imagine that the presence of the many bierkellers, beer gardens, bars and restaurants, as well as some pretty high-end shops, would make it a great destination for people not accompanied by their mini-humans too.

We bid Munich farewell with heavy hearts, but all safe in the knowledge that we’re sure to be back again in the near future. It’s been a fantastic few days and we’ve discovered an absolutely amazing city. Munich exceeded all of our expectations and if you’re looking for a city break, you should definitely give it a go!

Legs like jelly and lungs fit to burst, but crossing the line with a smile – my experience at Parkrun.

As some of you know, for the last 18 months or so I’ve been on a bit of a quest to stay fit. And for those of you who didn’t know, well…how to put this? For the last 18 months or so I’ve been on a bit of a quest to stay fit. So now you know.

The quest came as part of a reaction to a health scare. In April 2018 I was admitted to hospital with quite severe heart palpitations and about a month later had to have an operation called a boob job. Just kidding, it was a cardiac ablation. Basically they destroy the bit of your heart that’s causing the problem by inserting catheters through your blood vessels and blasting the affected area with radio waves to create scar tissue that doesn’t conduct the electricity that is reaching your heart and causing the problem. Basically.

My reaction to this was to be a little bit frightened. On the whole it wasn’t a pleasant experience and it left me feeling quite worried that I might be a lot closer to death than I’d ever imagined. And so, as part of a lifestyle change, I began to exercise again. I began to run. Because, baby, we were born to run.

For the most part this has been a very solitary activity. Apart from a few early runs when my son would come with me, I’ve been out running alone. Having discovered X-Box though, my son has decided that he no longer cares about his dad’s health and thus I have no running partner and a son that couldn’t care less whether I live or die. And of course, I jest there. Dark humour and all that. Of course he cares. The whole family does. I mean, who would put the bins out if I keeled over?

I don’t mind the solitary side of things. I like running alone. It leaves me free with my thoughts – I don’t tend to listen to music – and since the operation I feel like I’ve become mentally a lot stronger too. So while as a young man I’d readily give in to the little voice telling me to stop, nowadays I’m made of sterner stuff. I’ll battle on when I feel tired and I’ll run through the periods when I feel like I might be sick. That solitary half hour or hour is more like a break – no one to engage with, nothing to bother me, except tired legs and lungs.

Recently though, my daughter had begun her bronze award in the Duke of Edinburgh scheme. As part of it she has to volunteer for anything up to six months and so, when she was struggling to find somewhere to do this, my wife intervened and contacted the people at our local Parkrun. The organiser, Michelle, couldn’t have been more helpful and agreed instantly to take on my daughter and her friend as volunteers. And this is how I found myself on a narrow lane in Oakwell Hall, West Yorkshire stood in a crowd of people buzzing with anticipation.

In truth Parkrun has been on my radar for ages. It appealed as soon as I read about it, but there was always something stopping me doing it. There are several local to me so I wasn’t short of options and wouldn’t have to travel too far, but that final push to take myself along had always eluded me. But then, with my daughter needing a lift to Oakwell Hall and there being nothing to do but hang around when I got there, I decided to take the plunge. And so I found myself standing on the aforementioned narrow lane in a country park in West Yorkshire wondering what I’d let myself in for one Saturday morning in late August.

It had been a couple of weeks since I’d last run and so my head was full of doubts. And there seemed to be hundreds of others here too. Most were fellow runners – I optimistically classed myself as a runner, despite my feeling that the last bit of today’s run might well be crawled – and then there were quite a few others either volunteering in some capacity or spectating. For a few minutes I was convinced I’d made a big mistake and wondered if anyone would notice if I simply wandered off in the direction of my car. But then I looked over to where a group of volunteers were standing, getting ready to head off to their marshalling points, and spotted my daughter and her best friend. Both were here as part of their Duke of Edinburgh bronze award…I couldn’t let them down. I couldn’t face explaining why I’d done the wrong kind of runner. So I pushed the positives.

One of the moments that I was dreading was the guidance for new Parkrunners. I’d got it into my head that I was sure to be the only one and that while someone lectured me about running, a whole load of Saucony clad young folk would be standing around eyeing me up and tutting at my inexperience.

Unsurprisingly, it was nothing of the sort. Firstly, there were around a dozen of us new to the run, so I could hide in company. Secondly, the talk was enthusiastic and good humoured; it was clear that everyone wanted us to do well. And finally, a quick glance around told me that there was no difference between us newbies and the veterans that we stood amongst – everyone was just here for a run.

Following the briefing of the virgins, I decided to head down to the start of the run. Still suffering from nerves and a little bit of self-doubt I headed towards the back of the ever growing group. Looking around it didn’t take long for me to notice that everyone seemed happy. There was a selection of ages and body shapes, the weather was good and it was the very start of the weekend. Amazingly, it didn’t take long for this Parkrun ‘vibe’ to take hold of me. While normally I’m cynical and quite resistant to smiling, I found myself gradually relaxing. Positive thoughts seeped into my mind and it wasn’t long before I was telling myself that not only could I actually do this, but that I could enjoy it and perhaps even do it well. Such is the atmosphere at Parkrun.

It wasn’t long before I was joined in the starting area by a lot more runners. A check of my watch revealed that it was a few minutes to the 9am start time. And then, at the head of the pack, sans megaphone, appeared race director Michelle. At first I struggled to hear precisely what she was saying, such was the noise of dogs around me. Actual dogs…that’s not me turning all pirate on you. But occasionally people would clap, so dutiful as ever, I clapped along, not sure whether I was feeling positive or not. Slowly but surely though I got to hear what she was saying and basically Michelle was being a one-woman motivational/relaxation tool. She also seemed to be a dog whisperer too, as the more she shouted, the quieter the hounds became. By the time she began asking whether there were any tourists or first timers I was relaxed and ready to run. I secretly hoped that the dogs had fell asleep – surely even I couldn’t finish last if the saying about letting sleeping dogs lie was going to be adhered to. And then, before I knew it, we were off!

At the back of the field we shuffle awkwardly forward, occasionally breaking into a jog, before slowing again as the road narrows. Luckily, by the time I pass my daughter for the first time, I’m doing something that resembles running. Despite the uphill start and the fact that the lane narrows to a path within a couple of hundred yards, I’m feeling fine as we reach the first turn onto a track I know well from family walks around the park.

For a short while I jog steadily along, sort of stuck behind people, but also running on auto-pilot and not particularly interested in upping the pace. And then, as the track widens enough a couple of runners pass me and it snaps me into some sort of action. I kick on a few times and get round some of the runners around me, picking up a comfortable pace and stretching my legs a little.

Soon, we hit the first downhill stretch and I negotiate this fairly carefully, aware of the fact that if anyone’s going to take a tumble, it’s going to be me. Then the track narrows again and the pace is back to a crawl, but I’m feeling relatively good.

As the track opens out we face a short, energy sapping uphill climb over some cobbles – well we are in deepest Yorkshire – through the car park and we’re about halfway around our first lap of the park. I’m suddenly aware of clapping and some shouting and when I look up I’m greeted by the sight of several high-viz jackets adorning a group of volunteers who proceed to do a wonderful job of congratulating everyone that passes on their progress, however slow we may be, or in my case how much our face resembles a plum tomato. And this is one of the many great things about Parkrun; everyone is so supportive and positive. At various points around the 5 kilometre course they stand and congratulate you or tell you what a great job you’re doing. And in the spirit of the whole thing you find yourself thanking them right back. As a veteran of 6 Great North Runs I know that I react well to such encouragement and crowd participation and although it’s on a much smaller scale here, it’s no less welcome.

We crest the hill and across the road from me is my daughter and her friend. Again, despite my embarrassment, it’s a boost and I lengthen my stride ahead of another downhill section. Another bit of a kick and I’m feeling pretty good – *coughs* for a man of my age – and I manage to pass a few people on the way down the hill. Near the bottom though comes a bit of a test. Oakwell Hall features a path that zig-zags down towards the stream at quite a severe angle, so you’re going back on yourself and taking some rather sharp turns. My legs are tiring and by the time I’ve hit the bottom of the hill and crossed the bridge over the stream I’m blowing a bit. In what I’m rapidly finding out is true Parkrun fashion there’s another volunteer twist as a female marshall stands shouting encouragement while shaking maracas at us at the bottom of the hill. Strange, but brilliant and the kind of thing that takes my mind of my aching body and makes me laugh in spite of it.

But there’s no let-up as we hit another steep uphill section. I make the mistake of running up the stairs and have legs like jelly at the top. Within a few minutes there’s another steep uphill climb, but by the top we’re heading towards halfway and as the trail opens up I realise there’s more people to be passed. By the time we hit halfway I feel a strange mix of being full of running and absolutely knackered! I’m feeling OK though and more to the point, I’m enjoying myself. There are more marshalls encouraging us, more downhill sections and, sadly, more uphills too, but before I know it I’m heading along the final few hundred metres of trail and powering -sort of – for the finish line. I have no idea whatsoever of how I’m doing or of what my time might be, but I’m enjoying myself and I know that I need to open up my stride and try to have a big finish. Just before we turn right into the final straight I’m passed by a couple of runners. I tell myself that it’s OK, they’re both a lot younger than me, but I try to respond and catch them. There’s nothing left in my legs though. Still, I spot a woman in colourful leggings ahead of me running with a dog. I’ve enjoyed my run, but I can’t get beaten by a lass in fancy dress. I summon up one last kick and seem to be catching her up, but it’s too late. As much as my mind wants to sprint, my legs have had enough. I’m making no more ground up today, so with my time in mind, I keep up my middle-aged sprint and try to pass the finish line with a tiny bit of style and probably slightly less dignity.

Whatever I might look like though, I’m done. And I think I’ve done OK. Parkrun may not be a marathon or any kind of huge test, but it’s a lot of fun. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed my morning. Everyone’s been welcoming and the runners come in all shapes, sizes and approaches, which is comforting when your legs are like pipe cleaners and as your body heats up it all goes to your face, making sure you look like the aforementioned tomato after about 500 yards.

It’s not really a race, but you’ll be informed of your position in the field and your time, so there’s always going to be that competitive edge. As it turns out, shortly after I get home I’m informed by email that I managed to drag myself around the 5km course in just over 31 minutes. It’s an automatic personal best too, due to the fact that I’ve never done Parkrun before!

As a result of the run I have to give myself a couple of weeks rest as my back reacts badly to the trail running. However, within a fortnight I’m back and this time I manage to take almost a minute off my personal best. Then, a week later when I’ve clearly caught the Parkrun bug I manage to get round in 29 minutes and 3 seconds. My third Parkrun and my third personal best!

I hope that I can go on and complete many more. For now I’ll stick to Oakwell Hall, but I have it in my mind to sample the atmosphere at others as well, because that amount of encouragement is strangely addictive. And maybe that’s the thing about Parkrun – a non-threatening, friendly, positive place where everyone – even your competitors – want you to do well. Who could ask for anything more while dragging their middle aged, lycra-clad body round a park?

It’s time for a new teaching year…and I’m stressed out already!

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From next week thousands of people will be returning to a place that they most likely have a love hate relationship with. A place that, while it brings them fantastic highs and untold joy, will also land upon them terrible amounts of stress and enough moments of disbelief in a typical couple of months to last a lifetime. Sounds like a cross between a crack den and a soft play centre, doesn’t it? Well in fact, I’m talking about school.

After 6 weeks of summer holidaying – or if you’re British, dodging downpours – us teachers (and other school staff) are set to return to work. Most, for any number of reasons, will be dreading it, which is something that lots of non teaching folk and those who don’t work in education simply refuse to understand. Well, allow me to explain.

You’d expect that after six weeks worth of holidays that we’d be fully relaxed, re-invigorated and enthusiastic to go back to work. And I’ve no doubt that some staff are exactly like that. These people are not to be trusted in my humble opinion. Wrong ‘uns, the lot of them.

This next academic year will be my twentieth in teaching. It’s a job I love – no two days are the same, there are highs and lows aplenty, there are some great people – we’ll leave the not-so-great ones for later – and working with kids will always make you smile. But I’m not one of the teachers who don’t mention the pull of the holidays. Thirteen weeks a year and I can honestly say I genuinely think that it’s still not quite enough. Every half term will leave me exhausted and so any time off is largely spent recuperating, rather than enjoying myself. I’ve never spent 6 hedonistic weeks in Ibiza or somewhere partaking in copious amounts of drugs and free love. More likely, I’ll watch a bit more telly and try in vain to do jobs around the house. For me, the holidays are vital.

So conversely, I find the going back to work bit quite the ballache. Now teacher or not teacher, I know what you’re thinking. Or at least the kind of thing you’re thinking. It’ll be within a ball park that contains outrage, a feeling of negativity towards my perceived ingratitude and probably the odd utterance of that strange phrase ‘Man up‘. I don’t care. And furthermore, I have plenty of colleagues and friends who don’t care either.

An old Head of mine used to compare teaching to being on an oil rig. The feeling being that mentally, we’d be completely out of reach for our families during term time, as if we were offshore, almost. It was a particularly challenging school, by the way. As each term ended she’d tell us to switch off, go back to our families and loved ones and spend precious time with them. So if you don’t like my trepidation about going back to work then you’re heartless; I’m off to a bloody oil rig, for Christs’s sakes.

Psychologically, the problems with going back to work can start at any time during the six weeks holidays. And we’ll all have suffered with it. I’m talking of course about the anxiety dreams. You’re sitting in front of a class who just won’t listen. They’re all laughing hysterically at you, even the nice kids. Especially the nice kids! Whatever you try, fails. And try as you might these kids just won’t listen or do what you ask. You might even end up in tears in front of them, pathetically calling out things like, ‘Guys?‘ (always as a question). Inevitably you’ll wake up in a cold sweat, heart racing and possibly in need of a parent. But that parent can’t help. You’re going to repeat that dream – possibly exactly the same dream – a good few times before stepping back over the threshold of your school again in September.

As a rule, I don’t suffer too badly with the anxiety dream and the out of control class. In fact, I usually save mine up for one big nightmare on the eve of my return to work, resulting in me going back looking worse and more exhausted than when we broke up for the six weeks! This year though, has been different. I’ve had a number of these dreams and every last one has left me sat in our bathroom, sweating and trying to yoga-breathe my way to some kind of tranquil mindset that will enable me to sleep again.

The worst one actually started quite well. I’m in control of the class, cracking the odd joke, everyone enjoying their learning and Mr Crosby is kind of a big deal around these parts. And then, slowly but surely, things fall apart. The odd bit of calling out, some general low level disruption. And just when it looks like I’m about to wrestle back control, a boy the height of a giraffe gets up and wanders into my cupboard before emerging again wearing a lampshade as a hat and wandering aimlessly around my room. Every time I try to get to him, he appears back in the cupboard. Try as I might, Giraffe-Boy Lampshade Head just will not listen. And you don’t get that in your council office, your accountancy practice or your supermarket. It’s not you sitting naked – sorry, fight that image, think of giraffe boy – sweating on the edge of a bath considering doing warrior pose or downward dog in order to get back to sleep.

The next thing that can contribute to a dread of going back to work seems like a nice thing, but in fact, it’s not. As an adult, I thought that those signs telling me that it’s ‘Back to School’ soon were no longer applicable. And then I went into teaching and found that every summer the lure of those Back to School signs and their promise of stationery was to prove all too much. Stationery is a huge part of life as a teacher. At least I hope it is and that it’s not just me clinging on to shiny notebooks and refusing to grow up! Even now, after nearly twenty years in the job, I still get a little bit excited at the thought of new pens, highlighters, markers and the like come September. And I still enter Asda with a spring in my step at the prospect of a rollback on notebooks and plastic wallets.

However, while the acquisition of such things is a delight it will quickly lead to stress. Now I’m aware that this is probably just a particular foible of mine, but there is a possibility that somewhere, within the educational community there are more of us. So let’s see how many people find themselves nodding along to this. The fact is I get ridiculously precious about my new stationery and as a result I tend to stockpile it. I become like a stationery squirrel, with drawers of pens, pencils, notebooks, folders and files that are so lovely I’ll allow no one to us them; including me. Sometimes the teacher in the adjoining room to mine – a friend I’ve known for years – will pop in searching for a pen and I reluctantly agree to get one, slowly ripping opening the packet with a rictus smile spread across my chops as I attempt to hide the fact that this is killing me! Lately pupils have started to ask if they can have a plastic wallet, something I have hundreds of. They need them to carry certain notes around and I then have to pretend that it’s no problem and that of course they can have a plastic wallet, when really, hidden just beneath the surface the real Mr Crosby is screaming, ‘GET YOUR OWN PLASTIC BLOODY WALLETS!’ But of course I look forward to going back to work and of course I’m sure that my behaviour is fairly normal. Whichever way we look at it though, the pursuit of the perfect stationery can be a particularly stressful thing for us educators.

Another one of the stresses, one of the painful adjustments that needs to be made by people in education returning to work can be found with clothing. Imagine that, for a 6 week period almost everything you wore was casual. You got up in the morning, and dependent on the weather, you slung on a crumpled pair of jeans or shorts and a t-shirt. If you had to go out, you wore trainers, almost exclusively. And sometimes, just sometimes, you didn’t even bother to give your hair – and maybe even your make-up, although I personally like to spend at least a week in summer dressed as Ziggy Stardust, just for kicks – a second glance. Now you may not admit it, but this would be a world of bliss. Except for the Ziggy themed days, which frankly can be a pain in the arse. Go on, give it some thought…

Nice, isn’t it?

I haven’t ironed a shirt for over 6 weeks. And, let me tell you, when I do iron a shirt I’m pretty damn precise. No corners are cut and each one can take quite some time. So my break away from this is absolutely fantastic. The same can be said for polishing shoes. I haven’t even looked at my work shoes for the entire summer. I’ve slobbed around in Stan Smiths, Nike runners and even flip flops without a care in the world. I’ve worn t-shirts and shorts for days on end – different ones, I’m not an animal. I’ve gone sockless, like some kind of ageing surfer. And now, within hours, I’ll be back in a routine of wearing a suit, shirt, tie and brogues five days a week. All of this formality – and I love to look smart – weighs me down. I don’t miss the days of suddenly remembering, I need to iron a shirt. But I’ll miss not putting a great deal of thought into what I wear. I know, that as an adult – almost a fully functioning one as well – I shouldn’t find any stress in this, but I do. And you would too if you were annually given a massive break from it.

Lots of people don’t realise something really, vitally important about the summer break. And when they find out the truth, it can prove difficult to handle. But, for the uninitiated, here it is. We get paid for the time off. It’s a question I’m quite often asked and when I answer that yes, of course we get paid it can lead to meltdown for some. And while I won’t go into the rights and wrongs of this fact here, I would ask this. If you got paid to take 6 weeks off work, every year and do anything you liked, or even nothing at all, would you miss that when it was gone? It’s simplistic and almost boastful, but I really, really like getting paid for not going to work. It’s not just what gets taken away that makes returning to work for those in education a stressful and sometimes even miserable time. Undoubtedly, what happens when you get there can grind you down as well.

After 6 weeks away from work we inevitably return to what’s referred to as a ‘training day’. Now without swearing it’s hard to express my negativity about these days adequately. But, suffice to say, I’m not a fan. Training days used to be relaxed affairs. You’d have an initial all staff meeting, a department meeting and then be left to your own devices to get organised. This meant that the pay-off for sitting through two mind numbing meetings was the joy of pottering. Bliss. And it meant that I had time to sort out everything I needed in order to be ready for the new term. But not anymore.

Nowadays, with education it would seem moving in a far more corporate direction, training days are…what’s the phrase? Oh yes…’a massive pain in the arse’. An all staff meeting can last hours while various people tell you about things like ‘vision’ and ‘missions’ while referring to you all as ‘guys’. So lots of my favourite words then. The schedule that you’re given might as well come with a match to destroy it as time and again people talk beyond their slot, so to speak. And that’s not necessarily a criticism – when talking in class or conducting an assembly or a staff briefing I inevitable run over time while getting carried away at the thought of just bunging in another joke or better still, talking about myself. But after 6 weeks away from the job, I’m not in the mood – or headspace if you’re under thirty – to be talked at. In fact, I’m probably not listening. And I’m not the only one. You, dear colleague, are probably not listening either, so that later when we get together in another meeting, none of us has the first clue about where we work anymore, let alone our ‘vision’.

On the first day back at work I will almost certainly be given a schedule of where I have to be at any given moment during the day. And, when I read said schedule, I’d bet my mortgage that I will whine like a small child something along the lines of ‘Why do I have to go to that?’ And this is because, after 6 weeks gone rogue, I have regressed to kidult. And now this kidult is being forced to behave like a proper adult once more. Three days previously I was playing Scalectrix with a ten year old or burying my face in a chocolate muffin while watching ‘A Place in the Sun’ or ‘Homes Under The Hammer’ and now someone far more skilled at adulthood is banging on about their mission. Don’t tell me that 6 weeks off is long enough!

It gets worse. At some point you will be faced with a mad scramble to gather together things like exercise books, a diary, a planner, pens etc. Bloody stationery again! Inevitably, you will get to a store cupboard to find it’s already been ransacked by the dreaded young, enthusiastic colleagues who were ticking it all off their desk planner while you stared at your classroom walls for a moment that turned into 20 minutes! But it’s OK, because you will rise above this stress and have the last laugh by entering their classrooms once they’ve gone home, to pilfer the books that you missed out on, while telling yourself that your 20 years service to the teaching profession allows you such privilege! Little do you know, that you’ve forgotten to pick up any of the set texts you’re meant to be teaching, because year in year out, you don’t actually look at your desk planner.

More stress will come in the shape of things that others have planned for you. For instance, I dread the Duty Rota email like no other email across the year. Even writing about it makes my blood run cold. Will I get outside duties again? Because believe me, winter in deepest Dewsbury is like, well…summer in Dewsbury really. Rain, wind and more rain. And then there’s the issue of who else is on duty. Will I share a duty, will I know this person, will I have to actually speak to them? This year I’ve been blessed in that although I’ve been outside I’ve had good company. Someone of a similar cynical mindset to me (cheers Paul). But what awaits me this year? In terms of conversation I only really do subjects like football, music, football and moaning. And so if I’m lumped together with someone, what do I talk about? I mean perish the thought that someone wants to talk about education. And what if it’s one of those younger members of staff, someone in their twenties? I can’t escape the fact that I may well have to stand on duty with someone who I’m old enough to be the dad of. What can I talk about? These people are off living a life, going out, travelling, seeing bands, while I’m inevitably battling for control of the telly with a teenager at home. It may well be easier to just see the doctor and get signed off with stress at this rate! (If you work in HR, that’s a joke. I’ll explain jokes at a later date, but I’m not going to get signed off work with stress).

And there may well be other surprise bits of responsibility. Because while I know that the Duty Rota is coming, it’s not beyond a more senior colleague to have a surprise up their sleeves with my name on it. In the past for instance I’ve been assigned as a ‘buddy’ for newer members of staff. That’s right, me, a buddy. Imagine being so shit at life that you got me as a buddy. I think I managed to catch up with this person twice across the year, partly because I’m fairly useless, but also because they had already been assigned a mentor. And so I spent far too much of the year worrying that I wasn’t really helping, while simultaneously wondering what my job might be as a buddy. If it happens again I truly feel for the poor thing that’s landed with me. I’m not exactly sociable or talkative, I’m fairly certain I can’t solve your crisis and I have a tendency to furtively leave the room when colleagues cry. I’m genuinely shy and don’t actually like meeting new people. Clearly someone sees something in me that I simply haven’t got. Some buddy! But this is the kind of thing that we face in those first days back.

Once the initial training day is over we’re then left with facing new classes. And this truly is a battle of wills. Pupils are trying things out to see how much they can get away with while I’m, as usual, maintaining a heavily sarcastic streak and well, seeing how much I can get away with, really. If I have a Year 7 class I always feel that I have to appear ever so slightly cheery and friendly, which again is quite the battle due to the fact that I’m not in the least bit cheery or friendly, but I have to make the effort in their early days at ‘big school’. After all, by the time they reach Year 8 I’ll simply be a familiar grizzled and sarcastic figure for them so the odd smile at this point probably isn’t going to harm any of us. It does add to the stress of the return to work though.

Further worry will arrive in the form of new seating plans and trying to work out just the right mix of pupils in order to keep classes stable. This is complicated by the need to have certain types of pupil sat in certain areas in order to keep any observers happy when they look at data. Ridiculous really. And another time consuming exercise that for at least one of my classes will be inevitable forgotten about for far too long, resulting in chaos every time they walk in and find that there’s still no seating plan. Later, I’ll kid them that it was a deliberate ploy, designed to allow me to observe behaviour, friendship groups etc in order to create the perfect seating plan…eventually.

So there you have it. Having had 6 weeks off work many of us will feel nothing like going back, however much we love what we do. And many more people will not understand the stress. But this time next week, I for one, will be back to being Scrooge, although I mot likely won’t have collected the texts.

Is it too early to start counting down the week until October half-term?

An ode to Matt Ritchie and why his injury could prove disastrous to Newcastle United.

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I was driving home on Wednesday night when I heard the news of Matt Ritchie’s injury. Ironically I was driving home to Leeds from Newcastle where I’d been visiting family and friends. My self-imposed boycott – 8 years and counting thanks, Mr Ashley – meant that even though I was home I wouldn’t be in attendance as Newcastle bowed out of the cup in traditional fashion once again.

Ritchie’s injury brought a much greater significance to a game that I’d fully expected us to lose. They say that with Newcastle United it’s the hope that kills you. Well, in terms of the cups, I gave up hoping a long, long time ago. So actually, I was fairy impressed that we’d put out a scratch team and actually drawn the match over 90 minutes. The loss on penalties was par for the course. But then came a different kind of hope.

As I watched the highlights and Hamza Choudry’s crunching challenge on Ritchie, I immediately feared the worst. Here was as good an example of a straight red card as one could hope to see. But it wasn’t given because referees and Newcastle often don’t mix. The sight of Ritchie hopping out of the challenge and trying to stay up before collapsing to the ground sent a shiver down my spine.

Matt Ritchie is my favourite player. In fact, if you look at my Twitter feed – @grahamcrosby – I can fairly regularly be seen to be declaring him the best player in the world. It’s as close as I’ll get to loving a footballer. I’ve always had a taste for wide players. I was one myself and feel that I can identify with their role. It all started in the 70s as I attended St. James’ Park with my dad to watch an utterly uninspiring Newcastle United side containing, over the years, the likes of Tommy Cassidy, Irving Nattrass, John Connolly and Alan Gowling. My favourite though, was Micky Burns. From memory he was a workmanlike winger who would graft up and down in front of me in the East Stand. There was no discernable pace and little skill, but I loved watching him. Micky Burns was the Matt Ritchie of his day. Possibly. Later I’d fall for wide men such as Waddle, Sellars, Lee, Tino, Ginola, Solano, Robert and Ben Arfa, but I’d never forget Micky Burns. I’d also have to put up with people like Alan Davies – God rest his soul – and Wayne Fereday, so I think I deserved the likes of Ginola and mad Hatem. But Matt Ritchie is my current beau.

Ritchie first caught my attention when he played for Swindon under the notorious, horrible, referee assaulting mackem fascist Paolo Di Canio. If you’re reading this Paolo, I hope all the dry cleaning in the world never got those knee slide trousers clean. I’d occasionally watch Swindon on Sky or just catch goals on highlights shows and Ritchie would always turn up.

He then went to Bournemouth, where a lot of Geordies will remember him for the incredible volley he scored at Dean Court against sunderland. Here was a player that I coveted, but never imagined we’d sign. He wasn’t French enough for a start. And so – and I can’t be the only one who does this – my imagined ‘scouting’ would once again go to waste. But sign him we did.

Arriving as we prepared for a promotion attempt, having been relegated under Rafa, here was a sign that we meant business. We payed £12m as a Championship team and persuaded him to drop down a division and to me as a fan, that meant a lot. Here was a bloke that wanted to take on this challenge. Here was a bloke who wasn’t frightened of the potential mess that was put in front of him. Here was Matt Ritchie – I felt at one with Rafa Benitez!

One of the first things he talked about would remind me of Kevin Keegan. And for me, Ritchie is a Keegan type player. In early interviews Ritchie spoke of his father-in-law, an exiled Geordie and how he’d tell him of the joys of Newcastle United. Ritchie bought into the club straight away and was quoted as telling journalists who asked about his decision to drop down a division, ‘You cannot pass up an opportunity like Newcastle’. Much like Keegan and his tales of his exiled Geordie father, Ritchie was endearing himself to the faithful straight away. Here was a player to fall for.

Since his arrival Ritchie has been a pivotal part of the team. And so his injury and the two months out that it threatens to bring will prove crucial to the Toon. Much is made of the captaincy of Lascelles, the finesse of Schar and the pace of Almiron, but for me Matt Ritchie is the talisman and leader of this particular group.

I coach my son’s under 11 team and can get quite obsessed with the role. This often means that when we sit down to watch games, I’m constantly ranting to him about how a player made a run or what decision was made. All in the name of progress though! Matt Ritchie is someone I always draw his attention to as an example of how things are done. My son is ten and impressed with Dele Alli’s handshakes and Jesse Lingaard’s dancing, and while I want him to enjoy his football, I also want him to see the value of passion, desire and working hard. Matt Ritchie encapsulates all of these qualities.

There will be much to miss about Ritchie in the coming months and thankfully some of his time out will be taken up by the first international break of the season. We’ll undoubtedly miss his work rate. Ritchie is a renowned grafter and footage of him sprinting back into position at the very end of last week’s win away at Spurs was great to watch, but nothing remarkable for him. He leaves nothing out on the pitch, as they say and he’s always looked like one of those players that might well die for the cause.

Ritchie also brings a wealth of experience, which often comes out in his talking on the pitch. Throughout any game he seems incredibly vocal; barking orders, cajoling others and generally chuntering along at himself. He seems bad-tempered with it, which can be a useful motivating factor for those around him. A lot was made of the relationship between him and Miguel Almiron last season, but I for one didn’t notice much to worry about. My take was that we had a seasoned professional talking a fairly young and inexperienced new signing through exactly what was required of him. Ritchie was merely Rafa on the pitch and acting as the kind of player that Sir Bobby Robson would have referred to as one of his ‘blue chip boys’. He isn’t afraid of giving out the odd bollocking either, which when the stakes are high is a valuable tool to have. I’m not sure kicking the arse of Christian Atsu, as witnessed last weekend at Spurs, would be found in any coaching manuals, mind!

Another excellent quality that Ritchie possesses is that he never hides. He demands the ball and commits everything to every single challenge and run. There’s the odd trick in him too and he can certainly pass a ball. His delivery from wide areas especially will be missed and could be something that costs us dearly with Joelinton and dare I say it, Andy Carroll waiting in the box. He reads the game well and is often in the right place at the right time to make a vital block or interception. Ritchie is brave in possession and hungry for the ball when out of possession and as we scrap for every available point in what could be a long next few months, it’s almost cruel that our under pressure manager has been robbed of this player.

The last thing that I think fans as well as players will miss is Ritchie’s enthusiasm. I don’t pretend to be ‘in the know’, but I imagine that he is the kind of character that galvanises a team. You can see it in the way he screams at officials when he senses injustice. It’s there in a very different way when there’s a goal and someone is the recipient of a dozen forceful slaps to the head – an in joke? I don’t know, but again it’s the kind of thing that appeals to team mates – the ones who’s heads remain unslapped – and fans. And it’s also there as he’s kicking the shit out of corner flags!

I sincerely hope that Ritchie isn’t missed too much and it would be nice to think that in his absence someone steps up to fill his boots. But this is Newcastle United where a crisis is never far away and rarely averted. Let’s hope that Ritchie’s back sooner, rather than later.

Newcastle United – a football club divided?

Unfortunately I couldn’t get a picture of the newly painted wall at SJP.

I’ve supported Newcastle United for forty years now and I feel like I’ve seen a lot. I watched blokes who looked like they’d just stepped out of the nearest pub representing us for years, but I’ve also witnessed the likes of Gascgoine, Keegan, Beardsley, Cole, Cabaye, Ginola and many others who have more than graced the shirt. I’ve watched us lose away at Bournemouth long before they were a Premier League club and I was there when Andy Griffin scored the goal in the Champions’ League that beat Juventus. And while I’ve never sampled the corporate hospitality of Premier League football, I’ve stood in a very different St. James’ Park to the one we know today. To paraphrase Lindisfarne, I’ve “wet on the wall” in the Gallowgate end, which if you’re old enough, is actually probably quite a pleasant memory.

I’ve sampled the agony and the ecstasy that goes with supporting Newcastle and I’ve sampled it in spades, but I have never felt as confused and conflicted as I do today.

Back in 1989 I walked past my cousin on the way into St. James’ Park for the opening day on of the then Division 2 season. Nothing remarkable in that, you might think, unless you’re a bit younger and have no concept of what Division 2 was. However, in terms of our support for Newcastle United that day, we were a family torn apart. That day I walked through a boycott in order to support my team. My cousin, on the other hand, was prepared to protest to end the rule over the club of a particularly unambitious regime.

With Gordon McKeag as chairman Newcastle had been run on a shoestring budget for years. We were the very definition of mediocre, with years of selling our better players and under-spending on their replacements and as a result were destined to stay beneath the top tier for years to come. The ‘Supporters for Change’ group had had enough and they organised a boycott of this first match. Thousands stayed away, some standing at various entrances to St. James’ Park, imploring those going in to change their minds and stay out. Despite my cousin’s plea – and some abuse at my ‘scab’ status – I went in.

I was rewarded with a 5-2 win against Leeds that included four goals for Micky Quinn, our new number 9, making his debut that day. I think I still have the issue of The Pink from that evening. But I was left desperately frustrated at the end of the season – as with many other seasons – as we failed to get promoted, losing to Sunderland in the Play-Off semi-final. Perhaps I should have boycotted. It didn’t work in that particular season and I continued to attend. However, within a few years McKeag and his cronies had been ousted by Sir John Hall, a movement at least in part brought about by boycotts and protest. By that time I’d begun a small protest of my own which I would carry out at every game attended. Ever in fear of authority though, I’d simply scribbled ‘McKeag Out!’on to the back of my scarf in marker pen and would furtively reveal it during matches, all the while fearing being kicked out by an over zealous McKeagite steward. With rebels like me about it’s no wonder social media does so well nowadays.

Almost thirty years on and there’s another boycott. This time though, along with many others, I’m taking part. And like myself back in 1989, many others are not. Newcastle, once again, doesn’t feel very united at all. Thirty years on and nothing has really changed. Yes, there’s been relative success in between times, but after 12 years of Mike Ashley’s ownership we’re faced with a club that is not only divided, but is sleepwalking through a period of utter mediocrity. For myself and thousands of like-minded souls now is the time to take action. A disregard for cup competitions in favour of the race for 17th place, a world class manager traded in for a journeyman from the managerial old boys’ club and a lack of consistent investment on players, the stadium, the training ground and the academy. The list could go on and on, but those are some of the headlines.

And yet, many fans continue to vow to attend matches. Somehow, the blatant disregard for our club doesn’t seem to matter. Somehow, it’s not enough.

I understand. I can empathise. I get it. But I can’t follow suit. Not again.

The lure of your football team is enormous. Look away now Premier League tourists, but silverware doesn’t have to matter. Glory doesn’t have to be a Champions’ League campaign or wining the league. What matters is the pull of your club. The feel for the town, the city, the region. The feeling of being surrounded by like-minded people from all kinds of backgrounds, all pulling in the same direction. The love of the club and those players and that shirt. That badge. So I understand that people don’t want to boycott. I understand that people don’t want a matchday without St. James’ Park or a trip down the country to watch Newcastle. Especially as, in my opinion, we have a special club in Newcastle United. But it is possible to stay away and in many people’s view, it is all we have left if we want change.

It’s sad to see but our fanbase is now split. Boycotters are criticising those who attend and those who attend are questioning the loyalty of those that boycott. And it’s exactly what the likes of Ashley, Charnley and Bishop want. Divide and conquer, right? The club know that the supporters will find it nigh on impossible to give up on their team. After all, that trophy drought – 50 years and counting – is well publicised. And yet we still fill the stadium every other week. So Ashley and co have gambled for a while now. Keep the spending low, survive in the Premier League and they’ll still turn up. And in doing so, there’s a big chunk of money to be had as a reward, as well as all the free advertising you can cram in.

Every so often there’s talk of a takeover to placate those who are genuinely disgruntled and by the time it comes to nothing you’ve renewed your season ticket in some act of blind loyalty. And as fans, we’ve fallen for the same tricks for the last 12 years. So how long before more change their minds and decide that enough is enough?

The trouble here is a question of loyalty. As the song goes, “we are the loyalist football supporters the world has ever seen”, so staying away goes against the grain. Our loyalty has been blind for a long time now. Take out Keegan’s, Robson’s and Rafa’s teams – and in fairness a season worth of Pardew – and recent history doesn’t leave a lot to be loyal to. But we’ve stayed loyal. Rafa brought us more hope than we’d had in a long time and meant that the loyalty was more than worth it. So now, post Rafa, thousands are staying loyal and criticising those that have had enough. The fans who are boycotting are largely pro-Rafa, while those that choose to still attend matches seem to now be picking Rafa apart. Turns out they never really liked him or his tactics after all. And there are many who are calling those who boycott out on the question of loyalty. In my own case, for example, after forty years of support, where thirty odd of them have seen me attending games, I’m not a fan.

But, in my opinion, loyalty can be shown in different ways and there’s a big picture that needs to be looked at here. The boycotters can see that the club have broken their transfer record twice in the last 6 months or so. We can see that other money has been invested in the playing squad – although, net spend, net spend, net spend…but let’s not get too bogged down there. We can even see that an entire wall at St. James’ Park has been given a shiny lick of black paint. Oh, and that the players’ entrance has been revamped. However, this isn’t enough to buy our loyalty. And it’s not enough to ignore the last 12 years of mismanagement and neglect. Not by a long way.

My loyalty is to Newcastle United, not Mike Ashley’s Newcastle United. I owe nothing to the Sports Direct Arena and nothing to the large scale advertising project that has been inflicted on my club for over a decade. My loyalty tells me to stay away from all of that, because in staying away I live in the hope that myself and thousands of others are forcing change. Hopefully change of ownership. This is loyalty to a cause. A cause for the good of Newcastle United. And in sitting in the stadium and handing that man your cash every week, nothing’s going to change. You can support the team, but I fear that it won’t change a thing. It won’t be enough.

For myself and thousands of other Newcastle supporters – and like it or not, that’s what we are – it’s time for change. In effect, thirty years on, we are still supporters for change. We can’t ignore over a decade that’s served up JFK, Wise, Pardew, paddling pool ice baths, awful kit deals that lead to awful kit, the horrific mismanagement of commercial link-ups, threatened player strikes because of year in, year out bonus cock ups, Lambias, Yohan Kebab and Charles Insomnia, sneaky, childish V signs from owner to fans, staff pizza nights by way of reward for professional sportsmen and world class coaches, pitch side headbutts, exclusive interviews that fail to ask pertinent questions, the open derision shown to fans by not only the ownership, but at times the management – Steve, Pards, Joe, I’m looking at you – , players signed from YouTube, banning the local paper, press conferences where journalists are referred to as c**ts…face it, the hits just keep on coming and this could be almost an inexhaustible list. Suffice to say though that my loyalty doesn’t stretch to that.

The mess made of Rafa Benitez’s contract was too much for me. It was too much for a lot of us. The disingenuous claims made by the club hierarchy since Rafa went have left a bitter taste. Out of it all has come The Magpie Group, the NUST and several other protest groups, all fighting for the same cause – to oust Mike Ashley and end his disastrous tenure of Newcastle United. All too predictably though, I still class myself as a Newcastle United supporter. I can’t completely desert the club. I was brought up with this club and it’s in my bones. Yes, I made a decision almost a decade ago now to give up my season ticket and not go back to St. James’ Park until Mike Ashley was gone, but I resent the views of people who still attend and now question my loyalty or accuse me of not supporting the club.

And this is what it’s come to. Name-calling, bitter claims on either side, ignorance and especially online, a whole host of smart-arse remarks. But the people who still populate the ground on matchday cannot question our loyalty in boycotting the games. All those years ago, I felt embarrassed walking past my cousin and his mates in the Supporters For Change. But there was no abuse on either side. I understood what he was trying to achieve and he understood my need to go and support the team. Nowadays, I won’t criticise those who attend. I don’t really understand what it’s going to take to see them vacate their seats, but I won’t criticise them. Perhaps, by the time the next game comes around, some more will decide to boycott. Perhaps, it’ll take a season or perhaps, like me, it’ll take decades of misery.

The point here is that Mike Ashley isn’t doing a very good job of running Newcastle United. An understatement if ever there was one! And we’re not talking about winning trophies here and fans making unreasonable demands. The mantra has always been about a team that tries and pride in the shirt. No one supports Newcastle United as part of a pursuit of trophies. Ashley himself has admitted that he’d give himself ‘1 out of 5’ for his ownership of the club. He admits he’s a negative. He simply hasn’t got the skills to run this particular football club. And despite all of this there are still thousands of fans that are quite prepared to stick by him, which makes us more divided than ever.

And the we get to the appointment of Steve Bruce as the new manager, Rafa’s successor. Now, I’ve nothing against Steve Bruce. He seems like a nice enough bloke and I particularly liked the Twitter account where he turned up at people’s weddings. Not real, you say? Well, I’ll have to look into that. Serial wedding crasher or not, in my opinion Steve Bruce doesn’t have what it takes to manage Newcastle United. He’s never done well at Premier League level and his appointment smacks of a managing director who is out of ideas. Uninspiring, unambitious and in many ways, desperate. Surely even those who are still attending, those that renewed season tickets, can’t actually believe that Steve Bruce is the right choice.

Newcastle United are more divided than ever. An owner who is despised, a managing director who doesn’t appear to be up to the job and a manager that isn’t wanted and deep down, must realise that he isn’t wanted. Add to that a fanbase who are now very much in two opposing factions. For me, this boycott has to work otherwise it’s terrifying to even think about the future.

Parenthood: the dread of living with a teen!

Once upon a time it was Hello Kitty and Barbie. Now? Make up…just make up. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a teenager.

At the end of June another chapter of my parenting journey came to a close. The baby years have gone and the toddler times flew by. Then we tackled life at primary school and all of the hurdles that would bring. Next, double figures happened and the end of the primary years, which was all too quickly followed by the challenges of high school. And now, it seems we’re to be in possession of one of those teenagers.

In the most stereotypical kind of truth, my daughter has been a teenager for years. Or at least she’s acted like one. And I know that not all teenagers are the same…but for the sake of a good read let’s stick to the stereotypes. I’ll write this with a caveat though. For all of her faults, my daughter is a sweet, caring and loveable kid. I’m very proud of what she is and what she’s becoming and, despite the fact that we clash and no doubt find each other equally irritating, I adore her. That said, if what’s gone in the previous 12 years is any kind of guide, then these teenage years promise to be interesting to say the least.

As the teenage years begin I guess I have to face up to the fact that my little girl – for that’s what she always will be – is going to turn into a woman. This is a tough reality for me, as I’m sure it will be for the majority of fathers. But it’s a reality that begins with those dreaded teen years. As many girls of her age will, she’s already moving on with her interests. She’s never been particularly interested in boys, viewing them as some kind of necessary irritant. However, just a few weeks ago I was present when she declared that a boy was ‘fit’ and a little bit of my heart broke, never to be repaired. The words were enough, but the delighted smile that spread across her face was the killer. The boy in question happened to be Zac Effron, so at least I can comfort myself with the fact that they’re very unlikely to meet and thus she can’t begin to explore what ‘fitness’ means and leads to.* Big sigh of relief. But it confirmed to me that my little girl is, in many ways, well and truly gone. And I feel sure that this side of things will go rapidly downhill now that the age of thirteen has been reached.

She confided in my wife that in Year 7 she’d had a boyfriend, but this had only lasted for a day! So there’s good and bad in that – bad = boy, while good = her boredom at him following her around like a lap dog. However, her choice of ‘boyfriend’ had been appalling – a ridiculous name, seemingly always in trouble at school etc. The kind of choice that was never going to impress her school teacher father, hence confiding in her mother!

I fear that this is the kind of choice that she’ll continue to make though. As teenhood – have I just invented a phrase – approaches she seems to label any boy who does any actual work or shows any sign of intelligence as a ‘geek’ and therefore untouchable, which for now is fine, but in the long term I’d rather she was going for the hard-working geeks than the ridiculous, half-witted bad boys that she seems to be attracted to. For now though, she seems a little behind the times in terms of her interest in boys. I teach kids of the same age and lots of them appear far more advanced than my own darling daughter, – goodness me I hope so – especially the girls. You only have to be on a corridor with them and you’re sure to overhear something that you really didn’t want to hear and that means you can never look them in the eye again. I sincerely hope that my nearly teen daughter isn’t thinking along the same lines for quite some time to come!

One thing that she is definitely advanced with is make-up. This is one that is very much against our wishes as well. I say ‘our’ wishes, but I suspect that my wife is ever so slightly in cahoots with my daughter on this one. I’ve been there when one of them has unintentionally mentioned some make-up that my daughter was going to get or had been promised, so the rules have definitely been relaxed without me knowing anything about it! My daughter also went through what can only be described as an out of character phase where she was regularly making her bed, hoovering her room, putting washing away etc, in order to gain pocket money. Now despite the incentive of money, she’s never been particularly interested in this before. But then, all of a sudden she’d be pointing out that her bed was made, or leaving the hoover outside her room to indicate that she’d been busy ridding her carpet of small animal carcasses or whatever disease had festered there in the years since the last time she’d hoovered. (And if you think this is unkind there’s an open invite to pop round and have a look at her room – enter at your peril).

It turned out that what she was doing was earning just enough money to go out and buy the odd bit of make-up in order to supplement the small amount that she already had. And as a result of this she’d also decided that she could walk all over the rules – a much more regular occurrence for her – and come down plastered in make up for no apparent reason. We’ve managed to curtail this to a point, by repeating the message that she looks so much better without it, and image being so important to a girl of her age, she’s listened to an extent. Still though, if we’re going out she tends to disappear for much of the afternoon, before emerging early evening looking like she’s wearing some kind of tribal mask. I expect this very much to continue as she moves through her teen years and the mask to get more and more colourful!

For as long as my daughter has been able to express an opinion she has done so, forcefully. Now, as she enters her teen years, I fear that her level of perceived expertise is going to see her opinions go into a potentially dangerous overdrive. Don’t get me wrong, on important issues like race, sexuality etc she has formed good, liberal, accepting opinions. She’s against no one (well apart from the aforementioned geeks and me) which is not only good, but a lot less time consuming than if she was forming dangerous opinions. In fact, she’s more likely, if we have an opinion against anyone or anything, to defend them, however unreasonable. As a staunch Newcastle fan I’ve found it quite disheartening and disturbing when she’s routinely defended Sunderland fans. Maybe she’s just incredibly chilled out – she’s really not – or maybe she’s just wrong.

As she enters her teenage years though, the one thing she has strong opinions on seems to be style. Now given her formative years, this is quite the surprise – many’s the time she’s come downstairs in a variety of colours and styles that simply didn’t match – reds, yellows, pinks, spots, stripes, you name it. But now my daughter has developed some kind of style. She likes nice clothes and is constantly telling us how she’s ‘planning an outfit’. I suppose that this is to be expected, especially when she’s not paying for said outfits! But the worrying thing seems to be that she has installed herself as some kind of fashion expert. And this is where her opinions come in.

Recently she’s decided that she must have her bedroom decorated. Grey and pinks, dahling, don’t you know. And such is her sure and certain belief in her status as some kind of style guru that she literally won’t listen to anyone else’s opinion. The fact that she currently resides in a room that look like squatters must have invaded years ago doesn’t seem to occur to her at all. She simply cannot keep it tidy. And I won’t embarrass her here by detailing the levels of untidiness, but suffice to say, you need to take your own ideas and multiply them by around a million to even get close.

We recently went on a shopping trip – a speculative one where we were more looking for ideas than actually buying anything. We found countless grey items, probably in even more than fifty shades, and yet she rejected them time after time. And this is understandable for a short while, but when it becomes clear that this is just because she is adamant that she knows better than you do on every subject ever, it gets a little frustrating. And again, I can only see this getting worse as the teen years advance. I imagine we’re leaving behind the years of buying her clothes from George at Asda that’s for sure, which will leave me as the only one in our house still wearing stuff from that particular designer!

Which brings me nicely onto clothes. As a self identified style guru my teen daughter has also decided that it’s perfectly within her remit to be openly critical of what her family are wearing. In fact, she seems to be making it her business to pass judgement on the style decisions of almost anyone and everyone, family or not. The ‘wrong’ t-shirt will instantly – and loudly – be deemed ’embarrassing’, while she herself is wearing something like a crop top with a coat over it…on the hottest day of the year. But it gets worse. She sees no problem, no lack of simple manners even, in declaring an item of clothing ‘ugly’. And why? Well, because teen wisdom seems to dictate that she must know so much better than anyone else.

Worse than the loudly proclaimed opinions is the choices that she wants to now be making. As a toddler and even as a primary school kid, we could get away with sticking to a budget and to an extent dressing her head to toe in clothes from a supermarket. But then she began to grow out of this. And we tried to accommodate it, but it’s quite a balance trying to buy your kid the ‘right’ clothes while also attempting not to bring up a spoilt brat. So now we’re told (and she really does tell as opposed to asking), ‘I need a Tommy Hilfiger top’ or ‘We have to get me a pair of Adidas leggings’. And this becomes a problem for me, personally. I was brought up in a household where the things that I wanted were often out of reach of my parents’ pockets, so to speak. So I became used to not getting most of what I wanted and I quickly realised that there wasn’t much point in asking, but also that it was a bit unfair on my parents to ask anyway.

As such, my daughter’s demands cut no ice with me. I want her to have the types of things that I didn’t have, but I also want her to appreciate them. And her teenage way of demanding stuff can be quite difficult to live with. So again, it’s going to feel like an eternity seeing her through these next 6 or 7 years!

I hope that seeing my daughter through her teenage years will be a largely enjoyable and ultimately rewarding experience. I know that there will undoubtedly be trials and tribulations along the way. But I hope that she begins to see that we’re not the enemy and that she simply doesn’t have all of the answers. That way harmony lies. Let’s wait and see!

Just in case your reading this, Zac Effron, should you ever turn up on my doorstep, asking for my daughter, you’ll be given very short shrift indeed. Take your fame, your Hollywood riches and even your impressive pecs, and nick off.