Hitting the Peaks!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

My FitBit Revolution

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

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

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

‘It also meant I could set goals…’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Personally I found it soul destroyingly embarrassing…’

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

Middle Aged Gigging

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

Is it me, or are kids just weird?

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

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

Daughter: I’ve got loads of boyfriends.

Son: Have you?

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

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

Daughter: I mainly go out with Ryan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Could you try chicken milk?’

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

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

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

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

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

Bagpipes. He meant bagpipes.

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

 

Sean Longstaff & the Geordie dream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And then came Gazza.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And wow, has he looked the part.’

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

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

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

‘Thankfully, the family remained on Tyneside…’

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

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

‘This boy can play.’

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

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

 

February: Making Every Day Count.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friday 1st February

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

Saturday 2nd February

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

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

Sunday 3rd February

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

Monday 4th February

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

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

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

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

Tuesday 5th February

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

Wednesday 6th February

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

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

Thursday 7th February

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

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

Friday 8th February

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

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

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

Saturday 9th February

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

Sunday 10th February

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

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

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

Monday 11th February

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

Tuesday 12th February

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

Wednesday 13th February

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

Thursday 14th February

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

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

Friday 15th February

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

Saturday 16th February

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

Sunday 17th February

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

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

Monday 18th February

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

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

Tuesday 19th February

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

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

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

Wednesday 20th February

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

Thursday 21st February

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

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

Friday 22nd February

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

Saturday 23rd February

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

Sunday 24th February

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

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

Monday 25th February

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

Tuesday 26th February

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

Wednesday 27th February

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

Thursday 28th February

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

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

 

 

 

 

‘Spygate’ – an enormous fuss about absolutely nothing and an utter waste of time.

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Binoculars? Check. Pliers? Check. Huge fuss and a two hundred grand fine? You what!

It’s been well over a month now since we heard the first squeals about Spygate in the media. And bizarrely, it’s taken almost all of that time to actually sort anything out. But after what was beginning to seem like an endless investigation by the English Football League, it all came to a stuttering end with an absolute whimper.

If you haven’t heard, in the lead up to their game against Derby County it came out that Marcelo Bielsa had sent a member of his Leeds United staff to ‘spy’ on a Derby training session. And oh, the footballing world went mad.

‘…I’m on an even keel where Leeds are concerned.’

Now, I’m no Leeds fan. I’ve lived in Leeds now for over twenty years and my wife and son are both fans, but I can’t and won’t betray my Geordie roots. I’m black and white; always will be. However, living here for such a long time has given me a different perspective on the club that it would seem everyone loves to hate. I can draw parallels between Leeds and Newcastle, between their fans and ours and that allows me to feel a certain amount of respect for them as a club. As such, compared to a lot of people I’m on an even keel where Leeds are concerned.

However, it seems that for many, Leeds will always be renowned as ‘Dirty Leeds’, forever defined by the antics of Revie, Bremner, Wilkinson, Strachan and Jones. And so, what happened in the wake of so-called ‘Spygate’ was really not that big a surprise.

Firstly, the introduction to the live coverage of the actual game in question – Leeds v Derby – was utterly dominated with talk of men cutting holes in fences. Ironic really that where pundits should have been using the homework they’d done to talk about tactics, formations and key players, they instead talked about Bielsa and his homework on tactics, formations and key players.

‘…Bielsa calmly admitted that he was solely responsible…’

Frank Lampard, the Derby manager, was interviewed and declared, ‘I don’t think that, at any level of sport, it’s right to send a man to break into private property.’ He also said that he was ‘very surprised’ by it. At one point I thought he might be about to have a little cry. Furthermore, in the same broadcast the Sky pundit and former player, Keith Andrews branded the whole thing not only ‘disgusting’ but ‘immoral’. A reminder – we’re talking about a bloke looking through a fence and not someone drilling a peephole through the wall into the showers. Meanwhile Bielsa calmly admitted that he was soleley responsible, but that he’d broken no rules. He would famously detail all of his other EFL spying via a Powerpoint presentation in a specially called press conference. Elsewhere, the likes of Martin Keown were ridiculously outraged and called for a points deduction for Leeds while Paul Merson – never one to shy away from hyperbole – disagreed, saying that such a punishment ‘would be a joke’.

Twitter and the internet in general exploded with talk of what should and shouldn’t be done. Vitriol spewed forth and it became difficult to see the woods for the trees. Maybe the spy himself could’ve swapped his wire cutters for a strimmer and an axe to help us all out?

‘…Leeds would be given a slap on the wrist…’

And then a few days ago it was all dealt with, without any of the fanfare and drama that the ongoing investigation had seemed to be preparing us for. The EFL issued a statement that amounted to the fact that Leeds would be given a slap on the wrist in the form of a £200,000 fine and that a rule change would be made, with clubs no longer able to spy on each other within 72 hours of a game. So, in the end, even the punishment admitted that this probably wasn’t an isolated case.

So what’s to be made of it all then? Well, for me personally Bielsa and Leeds have done nothing wrong. And the league’s rule change pretty much makes it clear that spying goes on and that, in fact, it’s an accepted part of the game. Remember, no laws were broken. And in fact, a closer look at it all tells us that the biggest crimes committed here were with some of the reactions and lies. When someone like Martin Keown is the voice of moral outrage you might be able to sense that the argument is not that strong.

Look at what Lampard himself claimed. According to Frank, the first they knew about any of it was when the police were on the training pitch, and thus much to Frank’s annoyance, his very important session was being interrupted. And yet the police themselves claim otherwise. Not only did they state that they did not interrupt a session, but also that although a man was questioned, he was outside the training ground and no mention was made of any pliers being readied to cut through a fence. A spy? He hardly sounds like James Bond. Lampard’s claims of a man crawling through the undergrowth just brought about images of David Bellamy, rather than football’s version of the Milk Tray man – and yes, I realise that both of those references really show my age!

How can anyone justify a points deduction here? At most it’s a little bit un-sportsmanlike, but then this is football, where sometimes finding sportsmanlike behaviour can prove to be nothing but a long and fruitless search. A bit like investigating someone spying on a Derby training session then. I love football, but we’re talking about a sport where cheating and un-sportsmanlike behaviour is rife and where often, if we’re honest it’s ignored at best and at worst, applauded.

‘Diving has become an art form.’

Bleating about what essentially amounts to scouting reeks of hypocrisy when we take even a brief look at the behaviour of those involved in the game. Every game that you watch will feature a player claiming for a throw-in, a free-kick or corner that blatantly wasn’t theirs. Occasionally players shout at ball-boys who they feel are taking their time getting a ball back. And who’s to say if the home club haven’t ordered their ball-boys to do exactly that? Diving has become an art form. Blocking and grabbing at corners is the same. Referees have been abused for years. Pitches watered in certain areas in order to benefit a team and recently there was the fact that Liverpool cleared snow from only a selected part of the pitch during a game against Leicester. Every corner taker tries to place the ball outside of the D, every free kick taker moves the ball and every player taking a throw-in will meander down the pitch in order to gain an advantage. Some bloke watching a training session and making notes is not really that big a deal. Especially when you take into account that people are sent to scout the opposition every week, albeit during matches and not training sessions where shape and set pieces etc are being worked on.

From a neutral point of view I have to say I look at Spygate and wonder if all this fuss is simply a Leeds thing. I mean, they’re hardly a favourite among anyone connected with football. Revie’s Leeds were hated, Wilkinson’s Leeds were hated, even O’Learys’ Leeds were hated, although for me that was more down to O’Leary than any style of play or players involved. Even spending money seemed to be hated when it was Leeds doing it. I mean, you’ll hear a great deal more disgruntled noises about Peter Ridsdale’s fish than you will about the spending of teams from Blackburn in the 90s to Manchester City today.

Would every team in the league provoke such reactions when they didn’t actually break any rules? Of course not. It’s hard to imagine Guardiola or Pochettino – both devotees of Bielsa and his ways –  seeing their clubs vilified for similar actions. In fact, it’s hard to imagine many teams in the top two tiers of English football provoking this sort of response. Perhaps my own club, Newcastle, could rival the level of outrage. I mean, if we dare to criticise the way our club is run pundits are fighting to get to the head of the queue to put us in our place or trot out the lines about our unacceptable expectations. I have a feeling that the likes of Richard Keys and Dennis Wise would need coronary care if Rafa had sent someone to watch a training session. And talk of pliers could well have them foaming at the mouth. (I must therefore start that rumour). Looking further afield, I’m sure that the likes of Millwall would also face a fine for essentially doing nothing wrong, but I’m afraid my list pretty much ends there.

‘It all makes a two hundred grand fine for watching a training session seem just a little bit over the top.’

Even the fine seems ludicrous to me. When Serbian players and officials racially abused England Under 21 players in 2012 they were fined £65,000. Argentina were fined less than £60,000 for instances of homophobic chanting in 2018, having been punished for the same thing on eight separate occasions in the two previous years. And in 2015, Croatia were fined less than 7000 Euros for having a 14 metre swastika on their pitch during a Euro qualifier. It all makes a two hundred grand fine for watching a training session seem just a little bit over the top. Almost like the FA took one look at who was involved – Leeds – and who had been upset – the Golden Generation’s Sir Francis of Lampard – and thought, well we have to be seen to be doing something. After all, Lampard scored that goal against Germany that went over the line but wasn’t given. There’s a contribution that needs rewarding.

That said, the reaction of other Championship clubs didn’t help either. Eleven clubs complained about the so-called scandal, with the likes of Bristol City calling for a points deduction. How many would have asked for similar if it had been Bristol City themselves being accused?

All in all, in my opinion, there’s been far too much made of very little here. Several people inside the game have made similar claims about their own clubs; players texting line-ups to each other, training sessions being watched for years and yet, all of a sudden with a foreign manager and a less than popular club it’s all over back and front pages and we need to bring back the death penalty. Well this particular well-placed neutral thinks that people need to calm down. We live in a world where the pursuit of marginal gains is somewhat worshipped. Look at the lengths in the world of cycling that Team Sky go to gain an advantage. In my world – education – we’re encouraged to do more and more to help kids gain a few more marks. And in football, they’ve been doing research on the opposition for years. ‘Spygate’? Get a grip.

 

Despite my age, I can’t explain…(the second in an occasional series as I get older and understand less)

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A few months ago, in the first of this occasional series of posts, I speculated about the fact that wisdom came with age. Now I’m sure that this is very much the case with some people. Moreover, I have no doubt that all of us get wiser in some aspect, as the years tick by. However, as comforting as that might be, there are still too many things that I can’t really figure out. And I get the impression that this will continue to happen. I mean, I’ve got a blog to write…

I’ll start with an example that I cited early on in my first blog on this subject. I just don’t understand the categorisation of celebrities these days. When I was growing up there seemed to be only the two levels of celebrity; A-List (proper celebrities, big names, superstars of stage and screen, if you like) and everyone else. So you might have *showing his age alert* people like Bruce Forsyth, Michael Parkinson, Cilla Black, Morecombe and Wise, Bob Monkhouse and The Two Ronnies, amongst others in the A-List. Sinatra, Elvis, De Niro, etc would be  in the American equivalent. We all knew they were stars. They proved it by drawing audiences of untold millions to whatever they appeared in and besides that, they just looked like and behaved like stars. And then in the everyone else category you had people who, although they didn’t have the elusive star quality of the A-List, had talent. They were good at something and that made them famous. One hit wonders were gone in a second.

‘…the saddest thing of all is that very few of them appear to have a modicum of talent.’

Nowadays this has changed. The goalposts have moved and I just don’t understand. Not only do we have A, B, C and D-List celebrities, we have Z-List ones too! And the saddest thing of all is that very few of them appear to have a modicum of talent. It appears that nowadays you can climb the celebrity ladder and make millions without really having any star quality at all. Sadly this doesn’t seem to stretch to people who write occasional blogs about the type of random garbage that pops into their heads on a daily basis. But I’m not bitter. Honest.

Reality TV ‘stars’, YouTubers, Vloggers, Instagrammers; it’s ridiculous. Most seem to be as thick as mince and in possession of the kind of personality that wouldn’t have got them a conversation, let alone a TV series twenty years ago. I wouldn’t recognise KSI in a KSI identity parade and yet a trip to Google reveals that he has 10.5 million subscribers to his YouTube channel, which has had almost 2 billion views. And what does he do? Commentate on himself playing video games. This. Is. Beyond. My. Comprehension.

But KSI is decidedly small-time. The most popular YouTube ‘star’ is PewDiePie  – great name by the way; really showcases your talent – who does the same thing but has had over 39 million subscribers and over 10 billion views. Apparently he shouts a lot. And swears a bit. Talented lad then. Clearly intelligence is becoming a thing of the past.

‘No discernible talent on show, but she’s ‘fabulous’, apparently.’

And then we have the ‘stars’ of Reality TV. People like Gemma Collins, who seems to be more famous for talking about herself than anything. A woman who appears unprofessional at all times. And a woman who describes herself as things like ‘fabulous’ and a ‘diva’. A woman, who, as the old saying goes would eat herself if she were chocolate. If she could fit anymore in, that is. No discernible talent on show, but she’s ‘fabulous’, apparently.

I’m sorry. These people are not for me. I was brought up in an era where celebrities seemed like beings from another planet almost. Now, they’re just famous for being people. And what’s the point in that? I’m meant to be at some sort of wise old (middle) age, but sorry, I just don’t understand.

Closely linked to the current crop of Z-list celebrities is a creature called Cardi B, who the kids seem to dig these days. And yes, that’s right, I did just do a bit of youth-speak back there.

‘Again, no real hard work involved then.’

Cardi – I can’t actually confirm that her stage name is short for cardigan – appears to be some type of singer/rapper. From what I gather she became famous off the back of some videos posted to Instagram. Again, no real hard work involved then. I can’t confess to know too much, as I’ve barely heard a note she’s ever uttered. I find it quite difficult to get past her stupid name. I mean, Cardigan is a ridiculous name, unless you’re actually a piece of knitwear and B is clearly not her real surname. I bet that’s not what it says on her Nectar card.

To my knowledge, the one and only time I’ve encountered Ms B was via a video posted on Twitter. I can’t remember what she was railing against because I was so taken aback at the amount of foul language. Don’t get me wrong, I’m more than capable of a well-timed F-Bomb and not easily offended, especially by words. I’m a mother-flippin’ broad church, guys. I’m from the street. However, as someone who should be some kind of role model to people like my 12-year-old daughter, who worships Cardigan, she did not convey her message well. I have little doubt that her music will be the kind of dirge that seems to be on permanent it-all-sounds-the-same rotation on commercial radio, as well.

Now I realise I’m mere syllables away from sounding like my dad telling me he couldn’t even tell what they’re singing in the 90s, but Cardigan and her peers are a puzzle to me and I don’t really understand what it is they offer to the world. Maybe her siblings Tank-Top and Roll-Neck could explain.

Modern driving is another thing that I can’t get my head around. It would seem that while the test has got more strict, people’s habits when they’re actually driving have just got worse and worse.

‘A golden age of motoring it would seem.’

I learnt to drive in a time when the two broken lines across the end of a road before you got onto another road meant ‘Give Way’. Stop before you pull out and have a look to see if anyone else is coming along the road because if you just pull out, the person who’s already on the road may have to break sharply in order to avoid you. Simpler times. A golden age of motoring it would seem.

I’m also old enough to remember when you had to give way – there’s that alien phrase again – to the traffic coming from the right of you on a roundabout.

It would seem that it’s all changed. Every day on my commute to or from work at least one car will pull out of a junction pretty much right in front of me. And guess what? I’m the one left to break sharply in order to avoid their shocking version of driving. What winds me up even more about this is that the person will then inevitably stay on the road for about 200 yards before turning off onto another street. So their journey is so important that they risked a crash rather than wait a few seconds in order to pull out safely and drive along the road for a tiny distance. I didn’t realise there were so many very important people on their way to perform surgery on the roads in and out of Dewsbury. Who knew it was such a hub of life and death science that no one could afford to just stop for a moment and let a car come past?

Almost as bad are the people who, although they don’t just pull out, insist that they must edge out across the line. The theory seems to be that if they edge out far enough we’ll be duty bound to let them out. Whatever happened to waiting your turn?

‘…everyone wants to be Lewis Hamilton.’

Roundabouts are the same. Full of VIPs tearing around too busy to stop. Or undertaking round a corner because they have to get in front of you. Traffic lights seem to have the same effect. I must watch tens of drivers go through red lights every day. And why? Well who knows, but I imagine that they’re all just very, very important. Perhaps they’re on their way to see Gemma Collins or Cardigan B. Whatever it is, I don’t understand the hurry or the lack of consideration for other people’s safety. My commute is beginning to feel like something out of Mad Max and while I loved the films, I don’t want to live the lifestyle. I think I’m in danger of sounding like a grumpy old man, but then I remind myself that all I’m asking people to do is stop when it says stop and drive like there might be other people about. Instead it seems like everyone wants to be Lewis Hamilton. And Lewis Hamilton’s a tw*t.

Now, I understand the need to suspend reality a little bit every once in a while. I’ve loved the Star Wars films all my life, but I know that none of it’s even remotely real. And I watch The Walking Dead with a genuine fear, despite being safe in the knowledge that zombies don’t exist. So what is my problem with kids’ television then?

I have two children. A girl aged 12 and a boy aged 9. They both watch quite a bit of television and although the oldest is developing a penchant for programmes like Police Interceptors, a lot of what they watch is courtesy of CBBC or Nickelodeon. So they ‘inhabit’ worlds where reality is very much not key to the plot. But herein lies the bit that I just cannot understand.

Firstly, my age-earned wisdom tells me that children live with adults. Social Services are rather fond of this type of family arrangement and besides the formality of it all, it’s just kind of traditional. You know the drill. Boy meets girl, they get all fond of each other, have lots and lots of fun and lots and lots and lots of special cuddles, before they decide to make tiny humans together and then allow said tiny humans to live in their house, despite them inevitably being a massive pain in the arse and almost always the reason why the fun is harder to recover from than ever and the special cuddles slow right down. *And breathe*.

‘…there’s suspending reality and then there’s plain old bollocks.’

Anyway, where was I? Aah, yes. Children who live with adults. So, with the concept of families in mind, can anyone explain to me the phenomena in children’s TV whereby a group of kids seem to live together in an amazing house without the presence of any parents or in fact, any adults whatsoever? I mean there’s suspending reality and then there’s plain old bollocks. One of my kids’ favourites is a show called Gameshakers. I believe the phrase that describes it best is batshit crazy. Not the most literary description, but genuinely the most fitting. Watch it, you’ll see I’m right. What makes Gameshakers so batshit crazy is the concept behind it. Here we have three or four children who appear to be around the age of 10, not only living in some kind of plush apartment together but, wait for it, they also run a hugely successful company that develops games for mobile phones. A reminder; they’re about 10.

And just when Gameshakers was absurd enough for me to find myself in quite the pickle trying to believe it all, whoever makes it threw in another random fact. One of the kids does actually have a dad, who while hardly ever being present in his life, is also a famous (fictional) rapper. Because as we all know, the best rappers hang out with 10-year-olds and develop games for mobile phones in their spare time. Snoopy Dogg Dog is famous for his rapping, but what we don’t all know is that he invented ‘Snake’ for Nokia.

My lack of understanding doesn’t stop there either. In a similarly ridiculous vain we have the shows Jesse and Henry Danger. Jesse, I’ve only just found out, is nanny to three children who also have a butler…but yes, you guessed it, no parents. Now that’s not too difficult to comprehend. Until that is, you take a look at Jesse herself who looks, at most, 18. And then we’re left wondering what set of parents, who have done so well for themselves that they’re never home in their decidedly plush apartment overlooking Central Park, have employed an 18-year-old to be nanny to their three precious kids? And so, predictably, I just don’t understand.

‘It’s clearly the same kid.’

Henry Danger on the other hand simply toes the same line as other shows and films before him. However, it does this in an even more ridiculous fashion. The premise here is that Henry is just a normal kid who happens to also be a superhero. So nothing new there then. Think Superman, for instance. Henry is a high school kid who changes to a superhero when he puts on a red and blue jumpsuit and an eye mask, often appearing in the same place he’d just mysteriously disappeared from moments earlier. And herein lies my problem. It’s clearly the same kid. Literally no one should be fooled. In fact everyone should just be asking, ‘Why’s Henry dressed like that?’ At least Clark Kent had the decency – in a far more innocent age – to take his glasses off.

Despite my age, and at least a small amount of wisdom that I’ve accrued along the way, I just can’t begin to understand kids’ TV and rather than making me laugh with its many fantastical scenarios, it just makes me more and more annoyed!

The next thing that I just don’t understand might come as a surprise to some. I understand a lot about social media, simply because I use it and have done for quite a while. However, there are several aspects that just leave me wanting to crawl into a dark corner.

‘…he’s a hideous, attention seeking w**ker.’

Firstly, there’s the need to post everything. Pouting in your front room? I don’t care. Funny cat videos? Whatever. Asking if anyone remembers stuff from the 70s, 80s and 90s? No, maybe, just about. I don’t want to see what you look like before you go out – what you look like when you get in would probably be a lot funnier. Donald Trump has said WHAT? Admittedly funny at first, but not anymore.  Piers Morgan said WHAT? Well, yes, of course he did. Because he’s a hideous, attention seeking w**ker. This, I can cope with though.

By the far the worst and most unfathomable part of social media is something I’ve only relatively recently discovered. Kids seem to have their own social media. A social media far removed from the miserabalism of Twitter, the nostalgia of Facebook and the…well the photos of Instagram.

I learnt about sites like ‘Musically’ and ‘Like’ via my daughter and not only was I perplexed by what I found, I was staggered by what it did to her. Now, she’s always been quite the attention seeker/drama queen, but this turned her into a monster of quite epic proportions.

The idea with such sites seems primarily to be that you film yourself miming along to a song. And with that come the inevitable actions, along with the adding of effects and editing. Now, I know, I know, I know, that it’s just a very girly thing to do and that as a result I should understand perfectly well. I mean, among those of us who are middle-aged, who hasn’t stood in front of a mirror with a hairbrush microphone before? (I’m asking for a friend, obviously). And essentially, it’s just an extension of that. Until you investigate a little bit or literally have to live with the effects.

‘I imagine it was what living with Mariah Carey would be like…’

Within weeks of downloading one of these APPs my daughter had turned into some sort of diva figure. She would constantly update you on her ‘likes’ and her ‘fans’. She’d walk around the supermarket making hand gestures, miming along to songs that weren’t playing and incessantly flicking her hair. I imagine it was what living with Mariah Carey would be like, only without the voice. She was always, always on her phone. The bedroom door would be slammed shut and she’d spend hours prancing about in there, filming herself. It was a level of ego that even I struggled to get my head around! But it was also a level of worry that I was totally uncomfortable with. This is the internet and social media; what 12-year-old really understands that? Furthermore, this 40-something didn’t understand it either. We live in an age of grooming and trolling and all manner of unthinkable things that happen online, so for a parent, the need for my daughter to want to seemingly devote her life to being some kind of mute internet pop star was utterly beyond me. Thirty second videos of someone doing the same thing over and over again, only with different music and subsequently turning into a monster with it. No thanks. Can’t 12-year-olds just be 12-year-olds again, climbing trees, larking around in fields and playing football?

My advancing years mean that I’ve witnessed many examples of the final example of things I don’t understand. The years haven’t helped. I still don’t understand it. And more to the point, it irritates the hell out of me.

Why do people insist on leaving crumbs in the butter? Or the margarine or other spreadable butter substitutes?

Currently, when opening up the Flora – other brands are available – in our house, you are inevitably confronted by patches of crumbs. The reason for this crumb infusion? Our youngest has been given a little more responsibility and is now allowed to butter his own toast. Now this can kind of be excused. His little hands haven’t quite got used to the action of dipping the knife into the spread and when he takes some out it’s usually not enough, meaning repeated visits to the tub. Hence the crumbs. My daughter does it too.

But not every house has children to blame. So why oh why do the crumbs seem to congregate in the butter? It seems so easy to avoid. And the thing is, it makes me not want to butter anything. I have to manoeuvre the knife through the spread trying to find virgin Flora and to be honest, it’s all a bit too much like hard work. But I don’t want to eat other people’s crumbs, even if I’m related to them! Surely, I’m not in a minority of people who magically makes crumbs stay on their bread?

Despite my age, I don’t understand.

 

 

Miguel Almiron: A New Hope?

 

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Forget the money, the league and anything else; we all know they only sign for the bridges.

After several months of will we, won’t we, with peaks of excitement followed by troughs of an all too familiar despair, on Thursday 30th January Newcastle United, finally signed Miguel Almiron, a player identified as a priority several months before by Rafa Benitez.

The signing also broke a long-standing and well-publicised transfer record for the club. Fifteen years after we signed Michael Owen from Real Madrid for £16 million, we completed our search down the back of the settee to scrape together the slightly more than £16 million (although even that figure is shrouded in mystery) that it would take to complete the transfer of Almiron. So what does this mean for us, the fans? And what could it mean for the club?

‘We want a team that endeavours to be better.’

Firstly, Almiron’s arrival brings excitement. Every fan of every club loves a new arrival. They bring a chance for change. At a very basic level they mean that your team might be a bit better. As Newcastle United fans – despite what attention seekers like Merson, Keys and Gray might tell you – that’s all we want. We want a team that endeavours to be better. We’re realistic and understand that the Premier League title and the Champions’ League are out of our reach; but we do want our team to compete. Put simply then, Almiron gives us a better chance to compete in an increasingly competitive league.

Now I can’t confess to being the type of person who has the time or the inclination to sit and watch the MLS. As such, I have precious little knowledge of Almiron. But I’ve watched the clips shared on social media and via YouTube, and with fingers firmly crossed, I’d say we’ve bought a proper player. I’d like to think that I’ve gathered enough experience of football over the years to be able to be fairly sure of that. Almiron appears to bring the kind of flair and imagination that entertains; that gets fans out of their seats. In terms of continental flair players, think more Hatem Ben Arfa and less Diego Gavilan. And that can only be a good thing. It’s what we wanted from Kenedy and what, sadly, we’re still left wanting. Let’s hope then, that Miguel can fill the void.

He certainly looks the type who’ll drive us forward. A strong runner with more than a touch of flair and pace. He’s shown that he has an eye for goal with 22 goals and 19 assists in his last two seasons and so I’d hope that the least we could expect is excitement. If he can chip in with a few goals and assists before the end of the season, then he’ll have settled in nicely. He also, from what I’ve heard and read, seems like someone is isn’t afraid of hard work, which given our league position is again the kind of player that we’ll need. Flair is OK to a point, but in the position we find ourselves in, graft is king; especially in the eyes of Rafa.

Again, from hearsay – the noun, not the manufactured pop group from Pop Idol – I gather that Miguel is very much a positive influence around a club. Certainly from the photos and interviews with former colleagues, he seems quite the contented soul. The football fans in Atlanta, it seems, are nothing but grateful for his contribution over the last two years. And on a very basic level, he smiles a lot. So let’s hope that’s a good indicator of a player! With the Hispanic influence of the likes of Rafa and his staff, Fernandez, Manquillo, Ayoze, Perez, Kenedy, Rondon, Joselu – yes, even Joselu – he has a better chance of settling in quickly and if his roots mean that he can strike up some kind of understanding with our centre forward, then all the better.

‘…for every Rafa, terrifyingly there’s a Marcelino.’

We have a history with players from South America though and so we all know that it’s not always that simple. In terms of influence and positivity, for every Perez there’s a Mirandinha and for every Rafa, terrifyingly there’s a Marcelino. We can only hope that Almiron settles quickly. And in terms of a Mirandinha comparison we can only hope he refrains from kicking goalkeepers up the arse.

Some have questioned Almiron’s size, wondering if he has what it takes to adapt to the sheer physicality of the Premier League. In truth, only time will tell, but if you look at players around now like Aguero, Sane, Sterling, Salah, Fraser and Erikson as well as players from the recent past like Modric and Suarez, then size isn’t everything. You could argue that all of these players are also exceptional footballers, but again with Almiron we don’t yet know.

In terms of the future Almiron could have a huge effect. Could his signing be a signal that the purse strings are being loosened? Well, given the overwhelming evidence of the last 11 years, then you’d say probably not. But given that you’re a Newcastle United fan, you’re the eternal optimist by definition, otherwise you’d have given up the ghost years ago! So let’s hope that his signing leads to more of the same. Could Almiron help bring success? Conceivably, yes. But it’s obvious that he’s going to need help in the form of more signings of at least similar quality if we’re to start battling for trophies. While his signing brings a certain level of optimism, it doesn’t blind you to the fact that January still left Rafa with a great deal less than he’d asked for.

Which brings me to the man himself. Rafa Benitez. A man who has invested so much into both our club and community over the last few years. Although still not enough if your name’s Richard Keys. And if your name is Richard Keys, then pop off back to hanging around the sixth form gates; this blog’s not for you.

‘But this is NUFC and life is never, ever that simple…’

It’s been speculated that Almiron’s signing might well be the gesture that helps persuade Rafa to sign a new contract. And it’s true, there’s a certain poetic kind of logic to that. He desperately wanted the player, so why would he leave mere months into coaching the fellaa? But this is NUFC and life is never, ever that simple or straightforward. It’s a nice dream, but really? Almiron – and I mean this in the most respectful of ways – should be viewed simply as a start and I feel sure that Rafa will think very much the same. I mean, for all the good feeling he brings, we’re still playing with somebody else’s centre forward leading the line and a bloke bought from Stoke’s reserves as back up. So while signing Almiron might make Rafa feel like we’ve got more of a chance, I’m sure it won’t make him sign the first contract that’s stuck under his nose.

Looking at the signing from another ‘future’ angle, I wonder what he might do in terms of the development of players like Sean Longstaff, Mo Sangare, Kelland Watts and the like. Certainly in terms of Longstaff who will at the very least be training with the first team for the foreseeable future, Almiron could be a fantastic influence and totally compliment his style of play. And from a slightly different angle it could be interesting to see how he might link up with the likes of Shelvey.

‘He won’t have missed the league table…’

As ever with Newcastle it’s important to look at the darker side of things though. Almiron comes into a club that in many ways is in turmoil and into a team that is fighting relegation. It’s to be hoped that he settles quickly and begins to exert his influence on the team so that we can start to gain even more positive results. However for any player coming into a fight such as ours there will always be a question mark. That said, I’m sure he’s coming in with his eyes well and truly wide open. He won’t have missed the league table and I’m sure that he’s been informed of the current stand off between fans and owner. It has to be hoped though that his focus is solely on the team and results. He’s certainly going to find that he’s a long way from Atlanta in every sense of the phrase.

One thing is absolutely certain about the signing of Miguel Almiron. Our fans will be behind him from the off. His signing has caused a definite excitement; one that we haven’t had from a signing for a number of years. For me, there’s even a certain parallel between signing Almiron and signing Asprilla. Granted Asprilla was already very much established in the game, but still in terms of how he’d settle and what he’d produce, an unknown quantity. Well Tino definitely produced the goods. Let’s hope Miguel can do the same.

Whatever happens, the signing of Miguel Almiron is a step in the right direction. Whether it’s a baby step or some sort of seismic leap…well we’ll have to wait and see. Whichever way you look at his signing though, it’s going to be an interesting next few months. Same as it ever was then.

You say you want a (football) resolution?(With apologies to Lennon & McCartney)

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Graham’s resolutions were coming along slowly, it had to be said.

Football has always played a huge part in my life. It’s an addiction, a love, a nuisance, a hindrance, an obsession. I let it control my emotions and sometimes even my way of life far too much. I really need to grow up! Even so, in the past year or so, as I’ve taken on coaching a team, it’s only really got worse in that aspect. So I decided to do something about it. I decided to make a fresh start and make some resolutions that, if I’ve any sense, I’ll endeavour to stick to. Let’s hope I can find some sense in the coming year then.

So, football-wise, in 2019 I will be mostly doing the following. A little late, I know, but better late than never. Life-in-general wise the resolution stays the same; be as happy as possible…and stay alive!

As a Coach…

Resolution 1 The first thing I’ll try to do more of is to make use of the skills I’ve acquired on my recent Level 1 coaching course. These range from trying to use a whiteboard to get tactics across to encouraging my boys to eat more healthily.

When I started on the coaching course the idea of using a whiteboard to get my point across seemed laughable. However, having used one to talk a group of adults through what was required of them in drills, I can see the benefit. Players learn through seeing how the play will look…it doesn’t matter if I look like a bit of a tool standing at the side of the pitch referring to a whiteboard!

In my head the idea of getting my lads to bring a piece of fruit to every game seems great. However, the idea of that actually coming out of my mouth seems ludicrous. Bashful as I might be though, it’s a change I’d like to make. Maybe it’ll focus players at half time if they’re munching on a banana or a handful of grapes, rather than kicking a stray football around or gazing at the other team listening to their coach! And focused players listen more!

Resolution 2 *Crosses fingers* I will endeavour to rotate my team. The FA preaches this message at junior level. They’ll tell you, without any sense of irony or even a knowing wink, that matches at this level are essentially friendlies. If I had a pound for every time I’ve heard this in the last few months, well, truthfully I’d probably have about £16, but you get the point!

Speak to other coaches however and it seems that the majority are still giving an ever so slightly different message. Coaches want to win. Speak to your players and it’s the same. The kids want to win. It’s fun running coaching sessions and going through the games on a Sunday morning, but coaches, players and spectators will all tell you that they feel better after a win. Even at my age, if we win on a Sunday morning I feel much happier for the rest of the day and I’m unlikely to sit wondering how I could have changed things. I can only imagine for the 9 and 10 year olds that coach, winning feels better too.

So where does that leave rotation? Well, it’s a nice thought and definitely something to work towards. This season, where possible, I’ve started games with my best 7, or at the very least the best 7 available. I’ll sub players off so that everyone gets some time on the pitch, but make no mistake about it, I’m trying to win the game.

A little background might clarify and help with any outrage for anyone reading this and wondering where the modern-day spirit of just taking part went to. Last season my team won 1 game, drew 1 game and lost all of the rest. I think that amounted to around 16 losses. We got more and more competitive as the season wore on, but still kept losing.

Hence, the best 7 starting this season. It’s worked. We’ve won a lot more than we’ve lost and made it to the Quarter Finals of a cup competition. As a result – I hope – it seems that everyone is happy. However, I’d still like to think I could change my team a little more. I’ve experimented at times and we’ve survived. I won’t make wholesale changes, but I think I can manage to continue the tweaks.

One thing I think I’ll steer clear of though is the FA message that we should rotate player positions. For me, and for other coaches I’ve spoken to, it’s clear whether a kid is a defender, midfielder or striker. I’m certainly not going to play a different goalkeeper every week. I won’t change positions purely for the sake of it, but I will try to give everyone a go.

Resolution 3 Confession time. Until about four months ago I hated putting on training sessions for my team. OK, hate is probably too strong a word, but it’s safe to say I didn’t enjoy it at all. I often felt time pressured due to work and family commitments and it was a struggle to think of anything useful to come up with for our Thursday training sessions. Furthermore, the mad scramble to finish work early, pick up my son, provide tea for both kids, get changed, make sure my son has everything he needs for training, packing equipment into the car, going back out and then setting up drills before supervising it all for over an hour was providing me with a lot more stress than I would have liked. It was in danger of becoming an exercise in just filling in time for an hour, rather than doing things that were constructive. In short, I was out of ideas and way too short on time.

And then, over summer I found some time. I spent some of it wisely, thinking through drills, drawing diagrams and scribbling down instructions – building up a small bank of resources to use. Miraculously, training was better received and I was actually enjoying it. But again it wasn’t to last and when work got in the way again, I began to run out of resources. However, gaining my Level 1 badge has helped and now, not only do I have access to more resources, I actually feel like a coach.

Which makes this resolution quite easy. I will do my very best to become more creative and innovative with my coaching. We’ve already experimented a little bit with exercises brought in from athletics and sprint training and, given time, I’m going to explore different areas to see where we can learn from. I’m planning to bring in more stretching and warm downs, but that has to just be a start. Recently we’ve worked on some strength-based stuff, incorporating core strength, balance and an almost yoga type approach. I’ve discovered that you haven’t lived until you’ve witnessed the sight of a group of 9 and 10 year olds working on balance exercises! It’s undeniably much more fun running training sessions when the squad is smiling, so being the natural smiler that I am, we’ll continue to give it a go.

As a fan…

Resolution 1 There can be no doubt about it; as a fan of Newcastle United times have rarely been darker. In fact, in many ways, this is as dark as it’s been. I was born into the era of a man named Lord Westwood, an owner who had an eye patch and a vice-like grip on our finances, both factors that made him seem like some kind of Bond villain. I’ve lived through years of trophyless drudgery under narrow-minded chairmen and a succession of under-achieving managers. Luminaries like Gordon Lee, Jack Charlton, Willie McFaul, Jim Smith, Sam Allardyce, Alan Pardew and John Carver signing average footballers to play cautious, functional football. Or worse still, somehow signing fabulous footballers and then not knowing quite what to do with them. All the while this seems to have been accompanied by an almost constant stream of excuses and an often embarrassing lack of personality.

Despite the years under Keegan and Robson and the relative success that they brought, my 40+ years as a Newcastle fan has been painful, to say the least. I am yet to see my club win a major trophy. And yet, I’ve carried on blindly following.

I idolised the club from an early age, pestering my dad to take me to games. Then, I fell ill and a heart problem was discovered which ultimately led to me spending a lot of my early years in hospitals. After several operations I found myself in the Heart department of Newcastle’s Freeman Hospital being readied for a major operation. What I really remember though is being surrounded by cards and gifts from family and friends; after all I was only 6! One such gift came via one of many pretend aunties and uncles (if you’re a child of the 70s and 80s, you’ll understand such extended family). ‘Auntie’ Sally and ‘Uncle’ Roy had written to the club to tell them all about me and incredibly the club wrote back and arranged two free season tickets for the following season when I’d be fit and ready again! And so began a life-long love affair that unfortunately would often leave me feeling cheated.

And then, eleven years ago we were bought by a billionaire and initially things looked like we were about to go all Manchester City flavoured. But then we learnt the truth about Mike Ashley. Or rather we learnt that Mike Ashley tells lies. Without going into too much detail (I sense another blog), Ashley has overseen a shambles for the last 11 years, refusing investment, ambition and creativity. We’ve sold star player after star player and replaced them with bargain basement bores. Dissenting voices have been cut dead and fan dissatisfaction ignored.

In short, I gave up my season ticket years ago. This was partly down to having children, but partly down to the future I foresaw for my club. Matches bored me and I resented the drive to and from Newcastle. Ashley promised much, but gave very little and when Keegan walked for the second time, so did I. I continued to watch games on TV, but visits to the stadium were more and more rare.

Now, with a third recent relegation looking more likely and the chances of Rafa Benitez staying getting slimmer by the day, I think I’m done. Even blind loyalty has to end somewhere. I know that my resolve will be tested, but I can’t take a great deal more disappointment. The penny-pinching, the image of the club being dragged through the mud, the lack of investment in players, training facilities and even the stadium; enough’s enough. My first NUFC related resolution has to be to say ‘If Rafa goes, I go.’ This will break my heart, but I have to face the reality that what I’m presented with at the moment is not my club. It’s a façade for a budget sports shop under the guidance of a man who couldn’t care less about the club, the people or the region. And I can’t support that.

Football is no longer the same sport that I fell in love with. The terraces I ‘grew up’ on are no more and the grounds have a sanitized, one-size-fits-all feel. There is an undoubted disconnect between fans and players with players now earning untold millions per year and relying on media training to get them through any interaction encountered. Fans have changed too. I can stomach all of this, but I can no longer ignore the blatant disregard for my club that is shown not only by the owner, but by a certain bitter section of the media too. At least in the short-term, I want out.

Resolution 2 Write a blog. I’ve invested a great deal in a football club over the years and I’d like to share at least some of my feelings for and about that club. Newcastle United has given me some of my greatest highs and lowest lows. There’s more than one story to be told.

Whether you follow football or not I promise there’ll be something in there for you.

Resolution 3 Find something to fill a Newcastle United sized gap. Quite close to Elland Road there is a structure that has caused me mild excitement for a number of years now. They’re building an ice-rink! I say building, but it’s been very much an on-off affair. However, recently there have been signs of life and the building work has clearly resumed.

Now, before anyone thinks I’m going to fill my NUFC void by going ice-skating, think again. The idea of attempting to stay upright on a veritable knife-edge is simply not me. I’ll walk, I’ll run, I’ll shuffle…I won’t skate.

My hope is that Leeds is about to get an ice hockey team – I think I read something somewhere, a while ago. It’s a sport I have a bit of an interest in having watched matches over the years, most notably while on visits to Toronto and Vancouver some years ago during the Stanley Cup play-offs. The sport is huge, the following passionate and the action non-stop. And if Leeds does get a team, I assume they’ll start off at the bottom of the pile, won’t be successful and maybe without a great deal of idea of what they’re doing. I mean, how much more like Newcastle United could I want? Clearly, I’m hell-bent on replacing one kind of misery with another! However, it might be just the kind of thing I need to make the break.

Like any resolutions these ones are only any use if I keep them. And it’s not something I’ve been much good at in the past. However, maybe 2019’s the year of the football resolution! Let’s hope so.