The Descent into Middle Age (and my hopeless struggle against it).

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Eight tracks, CDs, DVDs…technology, Crosby style.

So, I’m in the process of getting my head around the question of  when it was that I got so old. I’ve thought a lot about this. Mostly in meetings at work or on my commute*. This in itself could be a sign of middle age. That lack of focus, being easily distracted, daydreaming. Either middle age or I have the brain of a toddler. Now there’s a thought…

In case you think that the answer is obvious, it’s OK, I too know that the answer to ‘When did I get so old?’ lies in the passage of time. I understand that time passes and we get older. But the passing of time doesn’t cover how my head works, how my body creaks or indeed the phenomenal speed of the growth of my nose and ear hair these days. And time passing’s not that funny either.

In truth, there are a tonne of ingredients that help answer the question. In fact, the reasons are too many to mention, unless I write a book. And I haven’t got the time for that – I’m too busy daydreaming in meetings. So let’s explore a carefully chosen selection of the ‘ingredients’ that help answer the question of how and when I got so old.

‘I was an even bigger mess before they came along, believe it or not’

  1. Getting a wife and kids – Now on the face of it listing the first thing that answers the question of ‘When did I get so old?’ as getting a wife and kids sounds like quite the insult. For all good intentions, this could lead to a slap at least and the divorce courts as the worst case, but most likely scenario. But I don’t mean it in that kind of way. In truth, my wife and kids are wonderful and have been the making of me as a human being. I was an even bigger mess before they came along, believe it or not. But as an adult who is honest enough to say that he retains the mind of a child, having a wife and kids still doesn’t seem right.  I mean, when you still make many of the same decisions as you did when you were 17, having a wife and kids is a perilous place to be and you could justifiably say that they’re the ones getting a raw deal here. However, it still feels all too grown up a concept to be part of. I’m part responsible for three other humans – two of them that can’t even hang up a school uniform on a consistent basis, have no volume control and seemingly have little or no knowledge of where the washing basket is – and that just doesn’t sit right. A wife and kids is the realm of adults and I still don’t feel ready to be one. A wife and kids is what my dad had, and frankly, the idea of being as old as him seems utterly abhorrent. I mean, I remember him at my age now – 46 – and he might as well have just wandered into our house from a Dickens epic as far as I was concerned. The trouble is I still feel pretty much exactly the same as I did in my long lost youth. When I hear my wife refer to her husband it still sounds vaguely ridiculous and far too grown up a club for me to be a member of. And when I realise that the husband is me, I feel heartily sorry for her. Seriously, when did I get so old?
  2. Shit at all trades and master of less than one – I’d assumed that as we got older us blokes just magically picked up skills. Middle age would have it’s comforts because I’d have a whole bunch of skills (or a skill-set if you’re in your twenties and reading this. Or you think you’re on The Apprentice). Washing machine needs plumbing in? No problem. Something needs re-wiring? Give it here. That fence has come down in the terrible storm? I’ll just get my tool box and some of the wood I’ve stored behind the shed. In fact, this kind of magic doesn’t exist. I can categorically state that I am as useless round the house as I was when I was three. And at least then I smelt nice. So not only did I get old – and let’s face it, confused – but I seem to have failed to pick up any man-skills along the way. And there is a multitude of evidence to back this up. I once tried to re-wire a light fitting and ended up electrocuting myself and blowing myself into our bath in the process. Literally blown across the room! I have mowed through the lawn mower cable, concreted in a washing pole that to this day still wobbles and put up a bathroom shelf (three times now) that slopes alarmingly downward and is so close to the underside of the accompanying cabinet that it doesn’t really function as a shelf. I also once had to fill the gaps in between the legs and top of an IKEA table with glue and newspaper so that it stayed steady and we could eat our tea off it because when I’d ‘constructed’ it, I’d done such an appalling job. And then, I gave it away to a charity at the end of it’s life in our house without even a second thought! Seriously, this could very easily be an endless list! How did I get so old and so useless? And when is it that I’m going to pick up my man skills?
  3. Lawn Pride – not an annual celebration of all things LGBTCBGB (sorry if I missed anyone) in my garden, but the unnatural care and attention that I give to my lawn. I mean, I even call it my lawn. I used to watch my dad mowing his lawn, putting in stripes, treating it with all manner of lotions and potions and then putting the sprinkler on it and wondering what had to go so badly wrong in life that a bloke would care so much about a bit of grass. But now, in middle age, I totally get it. It’s like an addiction. In fact lawn pride makes crack seem like a more healthy alternative. And crack is whack as Whitney Houston once told us, while no doubt off her box on…well, crack. The worst thing about this, by the way, is that my lawn is relatively ordinary looking. It’s greenish, but covered in weeds. However, age has brought with it an almost psychotic level of stubbornness that renders me utterly unable to even consider the merits of getting it turfed again! No, I’d rather mow it (with stripes) treat it, water it, re-seed it, rake it, talk to it. And still it’s like a shit green(ish) patchwork quilt! As well as this, I’m competitive. I look at my neighbours’ lawns and grin smugly to myself when I spot a bare patch or some weeds. Pathetic really. (Mind you, I still have the best lawn in the Mews!) When did I get old enough to be so devoted to a lawn? And more pertinently, when did I become my dad?
  4. Who are you wearing tonight? Erm…George @ Asda – It’s occurred to me that as a young man I took pride in my appearance. I still do, to be fair, although that’ll be news to some. However, as middle age has encroached there’s been a definite shift in standards. I was never one to wear only designer labels anyway, but the warm glow I can now get from a bargain T-shirt at Sainsbury’s or Asda was also never there before! I haven’t yet lowered my standards enough to start buying supermarket shoes, but I have little doubt that it’ll come. And I’ve got even less doubt that it’ll be a quickly rectified mistake! However, picking up a clothes bargain in a supermarket has definitely become a middle-aged thrill of sorts. And when my wife informs that there’s a 50% off sale at Asda or TU (Sainsbury’s clothing brand, if you’re in your twenties) I can’t deny that I get a strange kind of tunnel vision. I’ll find myself raking through the racks, not aware of how I got there, checking to compare ages with my fellow bargain hunters and swiftly moving away if I see that they’re noticeably older than me. I don’t leave though. No, I simply do a circuit of the shop, maybe browsing young people’s things like artisan milk, cheeses that I can’t pronounce or maybe something in the Gluten Free aisle, if I want to look really trendy, before swooping back to TU to hunt down a bargain. Then I’ll hear myself explaining said purchases to Louise, saying stuff like, “But it was £12 and I got it for £6. Where can you get a shirt for £6 these days? And think of the Nectar points!” To be fair, I’m more likely to buy a new top for running or something than a pair of jeans or a shirt that I’ll actually be seen in, but the lure of the supermarket clothes aisles cannot be denied. When, oh when did this particular middle age addiction descend upon me?
  5. Missing the technology boat – My final ingredient had to revolve around technology because there’s so much about technology that I just don’t get. In fact, on this issue it’s like I’ve been middle-aged since about 25. It’s pretty much all just passed me by. I used to amaze my parents when, aged 15, I could work the video (Google video, young folk), but those heady days have long gone! So, here we go – tales of technology that confirm the horror of middle age to me, but at the same time leave me wondering when and how it all happened. Firstly, up until mere months ago I was still buying CDs. And DVDs. And I’ll be honest, I’m really struggling to ween myself off them. Apparently music floats on a cloud these days and you don’t even have to pay or it. I don’t understand Bluetooth and the fact that someone can call me in my car, via my car is just bizarre. Someone tried to explain Bluetooth by telling me that the devices are speaking to each other, but this is way too much to cope with. It’s so bizarre in fact that when I had it I was forever pressing the ‘reject call’ button rather than the ‘pick up’ button, not through fear, but through pure incompetence as I couldn’t work out which of the symbols were which. I’ve somehow managed to rid myself of Bluetooth in the car now, but I honestly couldn’t tell you how. I regard PowerPoint as hi-tech. I probably only use 10% of the technology on my mobile phone. Jesus, I don’t even like being on the actual phone. Sometimes the microwave puzzles me – it has 7 (count ’em) buttons. I once volunteered to have a Smartboard at work (one of the first, when Smartboards were cutting edge), but didn’t turn it on for about 3 weeks, preferring to just write on the whiteboard. I still do. I don’t like using the laptop unless it’s plugged in. I can’t use my camera. I can’t use the printer at home. Apple watches (if that’s what they’re called) are obvious witchcraft. Fitbits? Same. I love my hoover because it’s got headlights. I bought it though, because it has a tool to polish the wood floor with – this tool frightens me and is therefore still behind the settee. I have never used a filter on a photo. Cropping photos is quite the challenge enough. I had a Facebook account for a full three years before I actually used it because it genuinely baffled me. I can work Alexa, to a point, but only to play songs, which I still find way too exciting. But the fact that you can sort of have a conversation with a little circular electronic thing is something I find exciting and terrifying, all at the same time. Our soundbars still frighten me when I hear the sound behind me, rather than just coming out of the telly. Our telly, a smart TV, petrifies me and I don’t dare stray too far from Sky Sports. Meanwhile, my wife and kids can navigate their way around anything on it. I’ve never played PlayStation or Xbox. If I had one of those robot vacuum cleaners I’d follow it round, you know like those cats on YouTube? I regularly ask the family to pose for a photo then take a short video of them standing still and smiling for too long, because I somehow switched the camera button to video. I’ve never told them this. (One day these ‘films’ will be discovered and I’ll be outed as some kind of cinematic genius).  I don’t know the difference between gigabytes and megabytes. And I think PC World are just making TBs up, whatever they are. And mentioning PC World, I still remember Rumbelows, vividly. I will NEVER, EVER do the Asda shop online because it would mean that I didn’t get to go to Asda. Our washer plays a tune when you switch it on and this makes me smile and sing along. Every time. I still only use 2 settings on the washer though. And all of this has been true, as I said earlier, for many a year. But here’s a true story that, when I wonder if I’m really all that old, gives me an immediate answer of yes. A while ago, I wanted to add a photo that also provided a link to a video when clicked on a Powerpoint. I tried cutting and pasting for a good couple of hours before asking for help. A younger member of staff introduced me to something called Snipping Tool and talked me patiently through how to use it. Thus, readily armed, having written the instructions down on a Post-It, away I went. I snipped away and created a whole scheme of work with these wonderful links, regularly gasping when they worked and getting genuinely excited about telling people, ‘Look what happens when you click on the picture!’ Later, another younger member came into the office and I happened to mention Snipping Tool. The friend who’d showed me how to use it joined in and mentioned that I hadn’t known how to use it. I then said that I thought it was amazing. My mistake here was to glance back at these two people in their twenties as one of them gave the other one the kind of look that said something along the lines of ‘Oh, how cute!’. Not cute as in ‘phwoar, look at Graham’s arse’, but cute as in ‘Aw, the old person is amazed by the simple technology that we’ve been using for years”. The kind of look that you might flash to your partner during your first Skype conversation with granddad, as he struggles to look into the camera and talk at the same time. Although, it’ll be no surprise to learn that I’ve never actually used Skype. The kind of look that tells me I offer less and less to the world and that I really am drowning in middle age! And by the way, Chloe, you’ll have to explain Snipping Tool to me all over again for the new academic year.

*  I only mention the commute to make it look like I’m listening in meetings, but if you’ve been in a meeting with me, you’ve probably noticed I’m not really listening. I’ve quite possible already told you this. However, if you didn’t know, if I’m in a meeting with you, it’s odds on that I’m not actually listening. I’m thinking about being old. Or worrying about technology.

Conquering my fears. What’s the worst that could happen*?

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Earlier this year I had to go into hospital to undergo a procedure on my heart. A radiofrequency catheter ablation, to make it sound way more important than it probably was. The cardiologist inserted tubes into my veins, via my groin and from there they sort of blasted my heart with radio waves in order to destroy the affected area inside my heart and sort out what was, at the time an abnormal heart rhythm. However you choose to describe it, it was a definite sign of middle age and a ridiculously left field way of making me think about life!

It was a relatively quick procedure, although it actually took just over 2 hours, and I was awake throughout, literally watching the whole process that was happening inside my body on a big screen in front of me. And it was a day that wasn’t without both humiliation and hilarity, all of which just served to confirm that I was indeed getting old. It was in fact so humiliating that I decided that something good just had to come out of it all. Prior to the operation, I was told I would have to shave. Not my face, I hasten to add. Not only was I on death’s door (and yes, I am keeping up that particular line in hyperbole), but they were going to make me face up to it having shaved a big square that went from the top of my legs, over my crotchal region, thankfully avoiding both tiny little mini Graham and the twins, and over my abs…OK, over my middle age paunch. As if my naked body wasn’t horrifying enough, it now looked like I’d not only invented the pejazzle, but got it horribly, horribly wrong.

Next, in order to have the operation I was made to wear not only a surgical gown, but also a big pair of paper pants – please don’t try to imagine this look; it will burn your eyes and leave you unable to sleep for the rest of your days. A lanky, skinny, hairy Geordie in what amounts to a crap dress and paper underwear. It’s amazing that Gay Times haven’t been on the phone throwing money at me for a photo-shoot, really.

I tried to take this whole ‘look’ in good humour, but even then it was traumatising. It felt like the NHS were having a good laugh at my expense, a feeling that was emphasised further when I tried to make a paper pants joke with one of the nurses and she told me that the funniest bit was that they got to cut them off! Again, terrifying. Imagine the poor woman’s disappointment – ‘Ooh, here’s the fun bit’ and then ‘Horror, horror, horror’.

The humiliation took a temporary break though when it was time to start the operation. Being a Geordie I rejected the pain relief and just asked for a matchstick to chew on throughout instead. Actually, I was given a local anaesthetic and morphine and it still hurt! The operation felt like it took forever. I was told to expect to be there for around 45 minutes, but it was only as I watched the digital timer on the wall tick over to 2 hours, ten minutes that I was told it was over. Relief? Well, not quite. In fact, just for fun it was time for a drop more fear coupled with another dollop of humiliation.

I was wheeled up on to the ward and then lifted up, exposing my arse again, and put on to a bed and made comfortable. But, not that comfortable, as it went. I slept for a while, but then woke up, uncomfortable. I read for a few minutes, before falling asleep again.

When I woke up again, something wasn’t right. I felt damp. I sat for a few seconds wondering if it was OK to wet yourself after surgery, whether the nurses would be horrified. And then I cautiously lifted up the sheets to have a look. I’d been bleeding. Just then a nurse came across and I blurted out that I thought I’d been bleeding. She looked, and gave out an audible gasp – not what the patient wants to hear! And so ensued yet more humiliation as two nurses bed bathed me, ripping away and binning my bedding and roughly rubbing away at my nether regions with wet cloths before eventually replacing my dressings and leaving me to rest some more. I’d always imagined any encounter with two nurses in bed to be a whole load more fun that it actually was.

My time on the ward, coupled with the next few days of just resting, gave me a long time to think. And I had quite a bit to think about. (I understand that this is Earth-shattering news to colleagues and friends alike who must find it hard to believe that there are times when I actually think). What should I do now? How did this happen? How poorly was I? And when did I get so old?

As far as I’m concerned I’ve had a brush with death. I know, I know, people suffer a lot worse and I understand that death is more than likely still a long way down the road. So maybe that’s a tad dramatic. But a brush with being quite poorly is not the stuff of blogs and when you’re lying bleeding in a hospital ward, I think you can be forgiven for imagining that the end just might be a bit more nigh (nigher?) than you’d ever imagined. And boy, did I bleed.

‘I’ve not jumped on the bucket list bandwaggon’

So what did I think about? Well, obviously, I wondered a lot about, when I’d got this old. Because old people have heart problems, right? As well as that though, I spent a long time thinking about family and friends, about the way I live my life, the things I’ve done and the things that I’d like to do. Don’t panic, I’ve not jumped on the bucket list bandwagon and God forbid I ever use the phrase road trip. But I came to some conclusions, that I thought I’d let people know about – at least that way some of you might be able to remind me about trying to be nice to people and stuff. And who knows, someone might get all inspired by my brave, brave struggle. Because I have been a very brave boy. I mean, they didn’t even give me a sticker, so you know who to blame for this blog.

One of the first things that occurred to me is that I’m too afraid of stuff. Sometimes I’ve got the hand-brake on and there’s really no need. I don’t mean that I shy away from being some kind of adrenaline junkie. Perish the thought. I’m still not the kind to throw myself out of a plane and tell everyone it was life-changing. It wouldn’t be. It’d just be daft. When I get on a plane I want to just walk down the steps to get off and inevitably think how hot it is in Majorca. No, there are simple things that I don’t do because I’m afraid of looking like a tw*t. So one of first things I thought about was hugs. Yeah, you read that right. Hugs.

I’ve always been very stand-off-ish with hugs. Tactile behaviour in general. I just wasn’t brought up that way and we simply weren’t a very touchy-feely family. We’re from Newcastle, not sunderland. A colleague once slapped my knee because I’d said something they found funny and I nearly jumped off the chair at this off-the-cuff physical contact. And there’s a good reason why I sit at the back in meetings, on my own. But there are many people that I love dearly and it rarely gets shown. So hugs, although it seems a bit silly, are a good starting point. Don’t get me wrong, I do hug my family, but not nearly enough. So the first vow was that they would be smothered with hugs. My wife and kids will be left in no doubt that I love and cherish them. It won’t be immediate, but it’ll be something I’ll work towards. A work in progress, as they say. A work that I think I’m doing quite well at up to this point. I hope they’ve noticed. I mean, what if something terrible had happened and my last hug with them had been days or weeks before?

‘I could have died, you know…’

Fear not friends, the hugs are coming for you too! Form an orderly queue, friends! And let’s not stop at hugs, eh? Let’s link while walking down streets and corridors. Let’s walk into meetings hand in hand. I mean, I could have died, you know…

I also thought a lot about my manner with people. I don’t think that I could ever immediately come across as being very friendly. I’m cynical, sarcastic, maybe even a bit grumpy and I reckon a lot of this comes, again, from being a little bit afraid. This time being afraid of new situations, new people. I think I’m different once I get to know people and vice versa. I love being around friends. I enjoy having a laugh with people and making people laugh. But I can imagine what’s said about me by people who have only just met me. And I have to admit, I’m always quite quick to make a negative judgement myself.

I avoid meeting people where possible. I can’t remember the last time I went on a course for work and it’s not because I think there’s nothing left for me to learn, it’s because I am so uncomfortable around people in general. The idea of walking into some conference room in a budget hotel, knowing no one generally terrifies me and I’d gladly sit on a table all on my own rather than join people and actually attempt a conversation. Ditto, going out for a drink with friends and colleagues. I genuinely worry about someone getting stuck with me and that then ruining their night! And when my son first joined his football team it must’ve taken me at least a month before I even said a cursory ‘Hello’ to any of the other parents. I actually coach the team now and I seem to have become quite friendly with everyone and quite possibly because they had to speak to me as their child’s coach, but God knows what they must’ve thought of me at first when I wouldn’t even stand with them!

‘I want to be seen as a nice bloke.’

While I lay wincing with the pain, wondering what was taking so long and how I’d got so old I gave this a lot of thought. I don’t want to be so cynical or grumpy. I want to be seen as a nice bloke. And that’s genuinely not a cry for attention in the hope that lots of people message me and tell me that I already am a smashing fella. No, it worried me so much that I genuinely thought about what it would be like if I died and came to the frightening conclusion that my funeral would be a horribly quiet affair. My wife and kids, parents, sister and ten or so others rattling around in a church or a hall somewhere looking around and wondering why there aren’t more people helping them get through the day. A terrifying thought, but one that genuinely occurred to me and that really bothers me. So it’s clear to me that I’ve got to make a bit of an effort to be more friendly. Mind you, I still won’t be volunteering to go on any courses for work! There’s a definite limit to being this being approachable lark! I might just give you a hug though.

When I left university, many moons ago, while I wasn’t exactly the most aspirational or ambitious young man, I had definite goals I wanted to achieve. I felt I could be a someone. I was 22 and ready to take on the world. In Ward 19 of the LGI back in April, it occurred to me that I very definitely wasn’t that young man anymore and while I wasn’t a nobody, I didn’t feel at all like a somebody. I felt sad, lonely and really quite scared. But the worst of it came in the days afterwards, resting up, bored and on my own in the house. I felt disappointed in myself and in the way things were turning out for that 22 year old who’d left university believing that he could achieve something special. Why hadn’t I tried harder? When did I give up? Fear again.

I thought about the kind of things I’d fancied doing over the years. Not just fancied doing, but been convinced that I could not only do, but be bloody good at. So off the top of my head, here’s a list of what I’d either fancied doing or had a go at – takes deep breath – write a novel (in fact, write a few), develop some kind of website perhaps revolving round football, try stand-up comedy, coach football, get fit, travel the world (or at least a fair chunk of it), write a sit-com, learn a musical instrument, record some music (in fact, record more music, but that’s a long story), develop the band Pie, do some charity work, become a journalist, master Tai Chi, make a successful podcast, salsa dancing (really), become a Head of English (but, you know, a cool one), work in a prison, develop a futbol de salao franchise, write a Eurovision song, write a Christmas song (we will do both of those songs, David Penny), go vegetarian, go vegan, swinging (just kidding), and join a book group. Twenty four things off the top of my head. The point here being, I’ve rarely really settled at anything. All of these things have occurred to me as ways of breaking the monotony of real life, ways of making my fortune and ways of helping me feel like it’s all worthwhile. Lying in my hospital bed, it all felt worthless. I’d allowed myself to be dictated to by fear. Not only scared of hugs and people, but now scared of trying.

So, I’ve vowed to try harder. This blog is a part of that. It allows me to be creative and hopefully it raises a smile from people who read it. But it has to be just one part of trying harder because in the past, as the previous list reveals, I’ve thought a lot about trying harder, but never really went beyond that. Actually, that’s a bit of a lie. One thing went beyond thoughts and into words that became a promise. At an interview (I can’t remember where) I listed Tai Chi as an interest and talked about it in what must have been a convincing amount of detail to a clearly rapt interview panel. I even went as far as to make a promise to start teaching Tai Chi to staff as a way of de-stressing after work. I got the job, but the Tai Chi classes never happened. The reason why? Not as simple as needing to try harder, really. The reason was that I hadn’t even done Tai Chi at the time. In fact, the Tai Chi video I’d been bought was actually still in the plastic at home! So there we go. I can add vowing to stop casually lying to blogging on the list of vows that I’ll now have to see through!

So two things seems like a decent start and a good place to end this particular episode of insight into middle age. I’m blogging and hugging. No doubt some people reading this will have a bit to say about the kind of bloke who thinks hugging people is significant progress. And you’d be right to a point. It’s nothing life changing, but a definite starting point. Now, where did I put that Tai Chi video?

* Much to my childish delight my cardiologist is called Dr Pepper.

When did I get so old?

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Young people, doing young stuff, yesterday. Possibly.

I decided to start a blog for a number of reasons – some serious and some just the usual inane knobheadery that sadly dominates my thinking.  However, it occurred to me earlier this year that I felt old. Simple as that; not particularly bad, but definitely old. Stuff hurts when it never did before. The legs don’t recover so quickly anymore and there’s loads of things about ‘youth culture’ that either irritate me immensely or that I just don’t understand. I’m ‘only’ 46, but life’s definitely changed. So, rather than sitting moaning, I thought I’d write this.

So, when did I get so old? What makes me feel old? And why does it concern me so much?

‘my heart had been racing for four days…’

The main thing that made me feel properly old (and actually made me think there’s loads of stuff that I should get done, like a blog or taking a year off and backpacking to Machu Picchu, man) was falling ill. In March I took the unusual step (unusual for me, being male, Northern and like,totally macho) of going to the doctors. To be fair, there was good reason and I only felt a tiny bit wimpy about going. I’d felt rough for a month or so but now my heart had been racing for four days.  Now I’m no doctor, but I know that your heart is much better when you’re not feeling like it’s trying to punch a hole in your chest. Every night during that time I went to sleep thinking that I’d wake up and everything would be back to normal. Every morning though, I woke up and wondered if anyone would spot my heart trying to escape from my chest as nothing had changed. Because, of course in my mind when people aren’t gazing into my eyes or checking out my sugarlumps, they’re staring at my pecs.

Anyway, I was forced to admit what was going on to my wife because frankly, I was getting a little bit scared. And so, despite my protests, she made me an appointment and I accepted my fate – to sit in a waiting room with Morley’s elderly, listening to lift music until way after my actual appointment time before going in to have a doctor listen to my chest and then look at me like I’d utterly wasted his time.

But then when I actually did go in something quite surprising happened. The doctor looked a little bit concerned. He touched me far too many times with his freezing cold stethoscope. He ‘ummed’ and ‘hmmmd’ a lot until it got to the point that I thought he was going to tell me I probably only had hours to live. But then foolishly gave me an option. Go straight to A&E to get properly checked out – no thanks – or wait for him to ring them and maybe arrange an appointment with the hospital at a later date – yes please. So, still convinced that it’d all magically go away I decided that rather than waste anyone’s time I’d just go with the later appointment and head off to my coach’s meeting. Job done, yay, I was still young and invincible!

Only, I wasn’t. About an hour later my phone rang and I had to excuse myself from my meeting after the doctor basically told me to get to A&E or he’d send an ambulance my way! I think I even heard him use the phrase ‘blue lighting’ and I was sure he didn’t want me to feature in a moody 80s music video. So, in a bit of a daze, off I went. (And in case you’re wondering, yes, Chuck Norris here drove himself to A&E, heart problem and all).

‘I was still in the same shape as I was in my early 20s’

A little while later and I was stood in the A&E department of the LGI asking myself the question, ‘When did I get so old?’ Still though, with a mixture of bravado and my head telling me that I was still in the same shape as I was in my early 20s, I was sure it’d just be magic tablets and getting sent home, wondering what all the fuss was about and worrying that Louise was going to make me eat more of those vegetable things she’s so fond of.

And then a nurse told me they were going to put a cannula in my arm. Now I’d heard that name on Casualty – cannula, not nurse, I’d heard of nurses ages ago – a cannula sounded serious! They tell you it’s going to feel like a ‘sharp scratch’ but it bloody doesn’t. It bloody hurts! Why were they wanting to hurt me? Nurses and doctors came and went, poked and prodded me, asked me many of the same questions (don’t these people talk to each other?) and still there was no sign of any magic tablets.

What happened next was definitely not expected though. A doctor came in and, with her best serious adult face on, told me that I was being admitted. Like, kept in hospital and given a bed on an actual ward. They left me on my own for an overly long time – enough to start really worrying – while I tried to carefully choose my words in texts to Louise. During this time another nurse came in to take yet more of my blood and when I told her about my magic tablets theory she replied with ‘Well, it’s a good job you came in, because if you hadn’t…’ and just left it at that! Now I really felt old! What? What would have happened if I hadn’t come in? She never did tell me.

Eventually I was allowed back out into the waiting area and Louise came in with an overnight bag. And if there’s one thing that’ll make you feel old, it’s the wife. Just kidding, it’s an NHS waiting area. I try not to judge (not really) but let’s just say that all human life is here. And at least 90% of it has dressed itself head to toe in Sports Direct and is no longer in possession of many of their original teeth anymore! Several of them also need to stop bringing pairs of police officers with them to hospital, but that’s another story.

‘…some bloke was wheeling me on to a cardiology ward in the middle of the night…’

Eventually I was taken up to Ward 19 of the LGI and while I felt perfectly able to walk to a lift and find it myself, our wonderful NHS had other plans. That’s right, as if I didn’t feel old and battered enough they were going to take me there in a wheelchair. A few days earlier I’d been chasing 9 year olds round a football field – I’m their football coach, not the Childcatcher or anything worse, don’t call Childline – and now some bloke was wheeling me on to a cardiology ward in the middle of the night with several almost dead pensioners. Probably.

And it was that type of assumption that led to my next bout of asking myself, when did I get so old. On the ward I got talking to a lovely bloke who had suffered a heart attack a few days earlier. We talked about the NHS, how amazing the staff were and what was happening to us. I realise now that I must have looked terrified and he was being incredibly nice and trying to calm me down. After a while though, I caught a glimpse of his heart monitor. His heart was doing something like 62 beats a minute. Mine? 148! Not the kind of race I want to win, however competitive I might be! WHEN DID I GET SO OOOOOOOOLLLLDDD? The bloke with the dodgy heart was seemingly perfectly relaxed while the aspiring Rafa Benitez here was more like Dot Cotton! He’d nearly died, but I’d been telling myself that some magic tablets would put everything right. I was old, I was poorly and worse, I was more scared than ever.

And so that was the thing that brought it all home to me and made me think, amongst other things, about starting to write a blog. I was allowed home the next day and took the rest of the week off work. I rested. I napped quite a lot. I read, watched telly and I did a lot of simply sitting about daydreaming. So, a lot like work life really, except that lots of people were nice to me, rather than calling me a dick all day!

A month later I was back in hospital, again for a short stay, in order to have a procedure where they inserted tubes into my groin and fired radio waves at my heart. But more of that thrilling adventure another time. I’d had a small scare, but now, a few months on I’m feeling like I’m getting better. I still feel tired, but I’m back out doing tentative runs, I’m back at work and I’m back coaching my team again. I can do dad stuff without feeling worn out and I’ve even dropped telling Louise ‘I nearly died you know‘ in order to get out of doing too much or eating fruit and veg. I’m even remembering to use my inhaler.

Best of all though, and despite the realisation that middle age is definitely upon me, I’m still here.

Let’s get ready to ramble!

Welcome to my blog! Against all good advice I’m going to try and not really specialise in one particular topic. This is partly because I’ve got a lot of ideas and just wanted to share my thoughts on lots of different things, but also because the things I’d consider myself some kind of ‘expert’ in are the things that tend to just make me rant, and no one wants to read constant rants. So I guess what I’m saying is get ready for the random rambling of an absolute gobshite.

Hope you enjoy!

“You can over-egg the pudding, Graham” – one of my ex-bosses

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