Tag: lifestyle

What do you do when Santa Claus no longer exists?

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Santa was made redundant for being too wooden, leaving his mate, Santa, feeling all deflated.

So Christmas has been and gone, over for another year and ‘all that fuss for just a day’ as my mother used to – and probably still does – say. If you’re like us that would mean months spent planning, reviewing, buying, wrapping and then placing ‘just so’ around the front room, or if you’re very traditional, underneath the tree. The Christmas one that is, not the silver birch in the back garden. Christmas is stressful enough for all without turning it into some kind of treasure hunt. But it’s been a few weeks now and so we’ve all had ample time to recover, right? Well that depends on how you do Christmas, I suppose.

In our house this Christmas has been fairly monumental. I say fairly because there’s no telling whether next year will be just the same or in fact completely different. So already I’m thinking about next Christmas and as a result I don’t feel like I’ve adequately recovered from the one that’s just gone. The problem? The question of Santa.

We’ve brought our kids up to very much believe in Santa which has meant an enormous amount of lies and subterfuge. But, as they say in Hot Fuzz it’s all been for ‘the greater good’. Santa’s been a magical presence in all our lives, because of course, Santa is magical. As disturbingly perverse as a white-haired, well upholstered old man sporting a great big white beard and wearing a red velvet suit might be, we’ve all grown up to be touched by him, in the right way. And if you haven’t, then this probably isn’t the article for you. And if you’ve grown up with Santa and he’s touched you in the wrong way, well this isn’t going to help either.

Think about it. He lives at the North Pole. He’s in charge of a veritable army of elves. He’s quite the snappy dresser. He only works one night a year. He organises an enormous fleet of Coke trucks. He delivers presents to children all over the world, having watched them all year, placed them on a list and then assessed whether or not they’re worthy of his gifts. He flies around the world on a sleigh that is pulled by flying reindeer. One of his reindeer may or may not have ‘a very shiny nose’ which is also red. He gains entry to your house via the chimney, whether you’ve got one or not. And depending on where you’re from on the planet he has different names including Kris Kringle, Kerstman, Joulupukki, Black Peter and Babbo Natale. Now if that’s not a magical man, then I don’t know what is.

And now, we’re faced with the question of whether or not he’s actually real. I know. Ridiculous right? But in all seriousness, this is something that will hang over our family – and countless others all over the world – for the next year. My kids have reached the ages where they’re going to be exposed to the ugly truth. A truth so ugly that I find it difficult to speak it here. Suffice to say that they’ll come to their own conclusion about Santa.

My children are now 12 and 9. By the time Santa’s sleigh is being MOT’d in readiness for the next night of Christmas madness they will be 13 and 10. In short, it’s likely that either one or both will simply not believe any longer. The signs are already there. My daughter, the eldest actually found out ‘the truth’ a couple of years ago, but with a lot of guidance from us has retained at least some element of belief. She was angry at the time, threatening to tell her brother and declaring that she couldn’t believe we’d lied to her for all those years! That viewpoint was quickly talked out of her – it’s amazing how a cocksure side to someone can disappear when you threaten the existence of their Christmas presents!

I’m sure she’s in possession of the facts though as she’s now in Year 8 of high school, but it’s safe to say that there’s still a little bit of her that clearly believes, or at least doesn’t want to stop believing. This year she wrote a Santa list and she’s never explicitly told me that she doesn’t believe, which is all this dad really needs to know to convince himself of her continued innocence. But deep down, with my rarely seen sensible head on, I know she knows. I teach kids of her age and they’re simply not as innocent as you’d like them still to be.

My son, on the other hand, still seems to believe. He understands that the Santas in the shops aren’t real, but thanks to Christmas films such as Polar Express and Elf and a certain level of innocence that he’s always had, he still buys the whole Santa thing. But it’s definitely on the wane. This year, he mentioned to my wife that some Year 6 boys at school had been telling people that Santa wasn’t real. And he actually asked whether the Tooth fairy was made up. As a result it’s made me think that Christmas 2018 may have been the last of a certain kind. The last of the magical kind. And it breaks my heart to think of my children not believing any more.

So what do we do if and when Santa no longer exists? I’m kind of stumped. As I say, with my daughter it’s been a strange kind of transition and I can’t honestly say whether she still believes or not. She probably doesn’t, but she’s the pragmatic type who seemed more angry that we’d lied to her than about the loss of a cuddly white-haired old man who she’d never actually met. But I fear it will be a different story with my son, who is much more emotional and clearly more the type to believe totally in a cuddly old gentleman, however. The lead up to next Christmas could well be messy.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t think I’m adult enough – despite my age – to break the news. Or to deal with the question of Santa’s real identity. I mean, imagine the poor boy’s disappointment when he’s exposed to the shocking truth – no reindeer, no magic chimney, no sleigh and certainly no portly old man bedecked in red. And then the further disappointment of the fact that it has been me and his mam buying everything, hiding everything and wrapping everything, all along. It’s a lot to take in. The truth is about as far from fiction as you could hope for!

Our kids’ Christmas has always been a huge deal. The precision planning means that December has been a nightmare for years and that every Christmas Eve has been frantic and exhausting. Coupled with their belief that if it’s on Santa’s list that they can have it, it can make for a stressful time.

We’re both the product of traditional working class families, so the idea of budgeting for our kids has been high on our list. Every year we set a budget, but every year we try to spoil our children. It’s a tricky balance. For me in particular, although I loved Christmas as a child, it was often a bit of a disappointing time. My parents have often since admitted to the fact that there wasn’t enough money to give me and my sister what we wanted, however modest our lists might have been. And so, for a lot of Christmases I’d be willing Santa to bring me the things I’d put on my list, only to find that it wasn’t there on Christmas morning. Don’t get me wrong, I never let this disappointment show, but it was disappointment all the same and it’s certainly spurred me on in terms of the kind of Christmas I want my own kids to have. Within a budget, of course!

The point with the budget and the balance is that we end up doing a lot of online research – comparing prices, reviewing etc – in order to maximise what our kids get for their ‘money’. And when I say lots I mean months’ worth. Modern day shopping means that, as a parent, you have options. Amazon prices and Black Friday/Cyber Monday are there to be exploited as well as the many and varied sales that seem to crop up every other week. And, mainly due to my wife, we exploit them all!

Then there’s the twin terrors of hiding and wrapping presents, both of which end with you having to retrieve said presents from their hiding place on Christmas Eve! And all in the name of Santa Claus and the magical Christmas he brings! Presents have been bought and stashed in the boot of our cars for ages before being furtively moved into the house under the cover of darkness. Our loft has been crammed with stuff, but for some reason I’ve never been able to keep it all together, leading to many a frantic Christmas Eve spent scrambling about up there trying to track down one or two final elusive gifts for Santa to lay out. And then there’s the downstairs bathroom. For years my children seemed to just think this was a door that led nowhere, mainly due to the fact that it was always full of things being stored for another time and was thus out-of-bounds; from Autumn onwards these things would be Christmas presents. Needless to say, it was a revelation when I cleared the place out earlier this year and they realised that there was an actual toilet in there!

It’s a well-known fact that Santa’s elves wrap presents with precision following their many years of training in order to hone this skill. Now in my wife’s eyes, this has meant that in order to make the whole Santa experience as genuine as possible, our wrapping must be perfect! And that, ladies and gentlemen, pretty much rules me out. I am not a neat wrapper, meaning I’m solely responsible for the presents that the kids receive knowingly from us, but not Santa!

Wrapping also can’t be done in front of the children or within their earshot. So again, in the name of Santa, for years December evenings have been spent quietly and frantically wrapping after both children have gone to bed and have had enough time to be safely asleep! And always in the same paper so that our kids would never be able to suspect that it was us (the wife’s idea)! And then when it’s wrapped and brought out of its hiding place there’s the job of setting it all out just like Santa would’ve – we all do that, right?

So having written those last few paragraphs I can see that one of the things I’ll definitely do when Santa doesn’t exist is to do less! What has become a matter of routine that has grown and grown with each passing year actually seems like some kind of bizarre obsession when you read it back! But everyone will have their own ways and routines over Christmas and this simply multiplies if you’ve got children of a certain age. Even leaving things out for Santa can become something to think about. Do you just leave the whisky or milk and cookies out in a specific place? Do you have a special plate and cup? Do you leave something for Rudolph? Do you trail crumbs around to look like he ate and left in a hurry? Are you one of the people who leaves fake snow footprints as evidence that Santa’s been? The devil is in the detail and it’s the detail that adds to the magic of Christmas. Admit it, you’ll miss their faces full of wonder when they notice the crumbs or the half-eaten carrot? I know I will.

For all the work, planning, reading, wrapping and hiding that we do as parents, there will always be at least a moment that makes it all worth while. This year, at the sight of a carefully wrapped bike propped up on our settee, my son let out a series of squeals and ‘yeses’, punching the air and stamping repeatedly in unison. Genuine happiness that genuinely touched my heart. Similarly, my 12 year-old-too-cool-for-school daughter reacted with uncharacteristic glee when unwrapping small gifts like make-up and again my heart swelled just a little bit.

It feels fairly certain that next Christmas will be at least a little different in our house. Santa may well become just a decoration – a clockwork man who sits on the hearth and used to dance until my son’s curiosity got the better of him as a toddler. A bauble – of sorts – on the tree or a light up decoration stuck to the window. I’ll miss the strange reality of Santa and the hope he brings, but I hope it doesn’t make anyone sad. I’d like to think that rather than being entirely spoiled, without him Christmas will just be a bit different, but ultimately still Christmas and as the song says, ‘the most wonderful time of the year.’ Still exciting, still fun, still a time for excess – in moderation of course – but different.

I guess we’ll just have to wait and see. Now, how many days is it until Christmas?

 

 

Bling. Watch the point of it all?

 

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Four buttons, some circles and a light = instant respect from the kids, innit.

I work in a job that is a minefield of contrasts. I mean, the fact that I can have days, hours, minutes even where I will absolutely love it and still end up hating it (and vice-versa), sums up the contrast nicely. But that’s teaching for you. For all the fun of showing off in front of a room full of kids – because that’s really all it comes down to – there’s the sheer hell of marking thirty essays, or worse still, pieces of creative writing. For every moment of breakthrough you have with a fantastic, thoughtful answer from a student there’s a terrible moment of realisation that there’s yet another meeting to go to.

And yet, as I’ve gotten older my job has revealed another area of contrast that is both a delight and a curse. I’m finding that working with young people both keeps me young – not literally, we’d all be flocking to the profession if that was actually the case – and makes me feel old. Very, very old. Because the older you get, the more detached you get from younger people and what’s actually current.

‘Meanwhile you’ve been attending foam parties…and accruing a debt so monumental that it would rival that of some Pacific Islands.’

I’m not sure that this is the case for every teacher. I feel sure that there are entire swathes of my profession that were middle-aged when they started out as teachers and always will be middle aged. Again, not literally. Some people are just old at heart. In many ways it’s the nature of the teacher. I mean, you can’t tell me that at 22 and fresh out of university you have a great deal more life experience than the teenagers in front of you. In your early twenties, having only just emerged blinking from the cocoon that it higher education, it could be argued that you know absolutely nothing. Some of your peers have been to war, held down steady jobs, are married, have children, pay bills and have genuinely struggled through the years since their own education ended. And boy have they learned a lot. Meanwhile, you’ve been attending foam parties, sleeping through lectures that you turned up late for and accruing a debt so monumental that it would rival that of some Pacific islands. And you most likely won’t pay it back. And still, often in my job, people at that age are stood in front of classes of teenagers lecturing them on life experience. And in many cases it’s because they’re almost born to the profession. They’ve little experience, but are often old before their time.

The thing that prompted this blog was a recent in class conversation. I was asked what watch I had. Now, I’m used to being asked what car I drive or even what label my suit is. But what watch? Who cares! Well, it turns out that boys care, that’s who. It’s vital if you’re going to carry off the right image. The boy in question was wearing a big watch. You know the kind; buttons everywhere, oversized face, more hands than it knows what to do with and the odd (fake) jewel or two attached. I’m describing the watch, by the way, not the boy.

The boy clearly saw having the right kind of watch as some kind of status symbol. I think the young folk still refer to it as ‘bling’. But what status can a watch give a 15-year-old boy? The answer is, I don’t know. Does it scream fake designer label? Does it say nice Christmas present? Does it say show me respect? Or does it really just say, I can tell the time? I still don’t know. Needless to say though, he wasn’t very impressed by my spanking new Casio digital watch. I pointed out that they made great calculators. He didn’t get the irony. Or the joke. I told him it had a stopwatch. He wasn’t impressed. I told him it had little circles on it and I was yet to figure out what they were for. He was blank-faced. In fact, when I played my trump card and told him – while also demonstrating – that it had a light on it – he still wasn’t at all impressed. In fact, he seemed almost personally affronted. And he still hadn’t got the joke.

‘He still wasn’t impressed.’

I pointed out that my watch (Casio, £10, reduced from £20, Argos) was purely functional, that I had a nice watch, but that for now I wanted one with a stopwatch and that wasn’t valuable to wear for when I was coaching football. He still wasn’t impressed. And this got me thinking about how middle age has made me quite comfortable in my own skin. I no longer feel the need to rely on a designer label or the right pair of trainers to make me feel good about myself. Yet I do worry about getting a beer belly or a double chin.

Meanwhile, on Planet Youth, what you wear on your legs, body, face and even your wrist still says something about you. And the more I hear about it the more confused I become. As I mentioned previously, it has the power to make me feel young and old all at the same time. Young, because in a way, I can still kid myself that I’ve got my finger on the pulse but also because sometimes it’s just quite amusing to be kept up to date with all that’s trendy in the world. Imagine my 12 year-old daughter’s confusion as dad is able to regale her with tales of Stormzy, high-waisted jeans or better still, tell her that I too love that track on Capital, because it’s “sick”.

‘…Stormzy makes no sense to me.’

Yet I also get to feel old, because I want to tell my students that it doesn’t matter what watch you’ve got or who your clothes are made by; there’s a lot more to being a well-rounded, respectable human being than any of that! The constant talk of which watch to wear, which music I should listen to, which shoes I should wear can grind you down and wear you out at my age! There’s also the fact that Stormzy makes no sense to me – I mean you can’t even hear the words – I’d look daft in high-waisted jeans and that I really, really can’t stand Capital radio.

Recently though, I’ve heard and discussed what we’ll refer to as image issues (because they’re not strictly ‘bling’ and I can’t believe that people still refer to ‘bling’) that have disturbed me greatly and led me to wonder what on Earth could be going on with our younger generation.

The first instance came during a lesson that I was teaching. I say teaching; I wasn’t. Once a week classes have access to laptops and some vocabulary building software, so they work while I ‘supervise’. This mainly takes the form of asking them to stop getting the laptop to say the names of their peers in its ‘hilarious’ voice and making sure that they’re actually doing what it is they’re supposed to be doing.

It was while I was doing the latter and policing the screens that I caught sight of something deeply unsavoury on the screen of a boy at the front of the room. And no, it’s not what you think…it’s worse. I had gone to the back of the room – you’d be surprised how much this will flummox even the brightest of classes – so that I could get a better view of the screens. All of a sudden my attention was grabbed by the fact that one screen was clearly on Google. Google Images, in fact. And what was he Googling? Rudey ladies? Naked men (it’s an LGBeeGeesandTs friendly classroom, after all)? The kinds of fast cars that he dreams of? No. No, he was in fact Googling pictures of Crocs. Crocs, innit?

Now Crocs have had a bad press. And you know what? It’s fully deserved. There can be absolutely no defence of this type of footwear. Don’t give me the line about comfort, either. Crocs are ugly…fugly in fact. And when did comfort come into things for young people? My dad – 79, corduroy and checked shirt wearer, keen gardener, grower of prize-winning leeks and other vegetables – wears Crocs. Argument over. He’s not channelling some young rapper, he’s just got no shame anymore. No offence internetless dad who has literally 1% chance of ever reading this.

The Crocs thing got worse. I drew attention to it, hoping to shame my young friend into realising that when we’re meant to be learning new vocabulary, we should do just that. But he felt no shame. Don’t get me wrong, he quickly shut the page down and returned to what he should have been doing, but rather than turning a particular shade of crimson, he actually tried to justify his Croc-search. Apparently, Post Malone wears them. Well that’s alright then.

‘Here we have a man at the cutting edge of popular culture…’

I’ve never felt so old and confused in a long time. Now, I’ve heard of Post Malone. My daughter informs me that he’s ‘sick’ on a regular basis. I wish he was. Might shut him up. Post – I’m imagining not the name he was christened with – is launching a new range of Crocs. And this is what I simply don’t understand. I’m sure that money comes into it, but really…Crocs? Here we have – so I’m led to believe – a man at the cutting edge of popular culture – setting the trends, providing the soundtracks for thousands walking to and from school, making memories for his generation who years from now will listen to him being played on a Friday night, after work on Absolute 10s and think, ‘Wow, I loved that track’. And then he spoilt it all by teaming up with Crocs for a chunk of money.

However, while feeling old about Post, with his ludicrous name and endorsements for ridiculous footwear for gardeners, I also realised that it made me feel young at the same time. Because while I feel entirely negatively about Crocs and, however much thought I give to it, will never understand their attractiveness, I can see why the herd are following. This kind of thing makes me feel young simply because it takes me back to my own youth and some of the ridiculous trends that were followed then too.

I was born in the 1970s. This meant that adolescence and early adulthood, and all of the bonkers decisions that one makes at that time, hit in the late 80′ and early 90s. And to borrow a phrase that used to be popular, ‘what a time to be alive’! In terms of what we’ll loosely call style, here are some of the major influences of the time.

‘…granddad shirts, batwing jumpers, Ra-Ra skirts, mullets and perms.’

In the 1980s we had the back end of punk and the start of the New Romantics, as well as Ska, Mod and, as the decade ended, the first real seeds of dance music. Among other things this influenced fashion trends like day-glo socks (often worn odd – and orange and a green one, for example), drain pipe jeans, baggy jeans, baggy trousers, granddad shirts, batwing jumpers, Ra-Ra skirts, mullets and perms. Then the 90s brought us indie music and bands like Oasis and Blur, as well as grunge and dance music and the emergence of the superstar DJ. And again, this influenced our style, bringing with it more neon, check shirts, loose fit jeans, leggings, Global Hypercolour t-shirts and anything that a Gallagher wore.

As terrible as it all might have looked, we all wore it. Me, with two hairy pipe cleaners for legs, wearing baggy jeans. Why? Because of fashion, that’s why. Same with loose fit jeans in the 90s, because after all, The Happy Mondays told us that it had to be a loose fit. I’m sure I still looked like a right tw*t though. I had a wedge haircut in the 80s and thought I looked amazing. And if you’re laughing, imagining me with a wedge, just wait. It gets worse. When the footballer Chris Waddle, who was at my beloved Newcastle at the time, had the back of his hair permed, I very quickly followed suit. That’s right; a back perm, as it was known. In my head I looked just like Chris Waddle. On my head, once again, I looked like a right tw*t.

‘…someone else told him they’re fashion/bling/peng…’

So my point is, that I kind of understand why a 14-year-old boy might be pricing up Crocs on the internet in my lesson. It’s because someone told him that they’re fashion/bling/peng and, bless him, he’s young and doesn’t realise how ridiculous he’s going to look if he actually buys and wears them. I do feel like I should have a word though, because in ten years time when he looks at photos of himself wearing them, he’s going to think he looked like a…well you must know what comes next.

The final style subject that made me feel old, young, happy and sad all at the same time happened in another of my lessons. We do actually work, by the way, it’s just that sometimes kids talk. Anyway, a student was discussing hair. Not exactly a shock, right? I mean when you’re young hair and its varied and often experimental styles are one of the main things that make you stand out. However, this wasn’t any old chat about hair. The boy concerned is the type who likes to feel popular. He hangs around with what are probably the wrong crowd and the right crowd all at the same time. And he’s very image conscious. But he wasn’t concerned with hair styles, as such. Here we had a 16 year-old boy asking about the availability, price, risks and everything else to do with hair transplants! Already, so early on in life, the worry of looking just right had stopped him in his tracks. No doubt he has the watch, the shoes, the trainers and everything else that he feels he needs to feel comfortable with himself and his image, but, such is the importance of the way we look these days, that this lad is already so concerned about losing his hair that he’s making plans to stop the rot. Unbelievable.

Needless to say, I didn’t really come out in sympathy. In fact, I told him that in order to have a hair transplant a surgeon had to slice open your scalp, like one would open a tin, before sewing the bits of hair in from underneath and then putting said flap of scalp back complete with new hair. It’s amazing what kids will believe if you keep a straight face.

‘Just for beards alone, there were 38 products available…’

I decided to conduct a little research to help understand the problem of image these days. I was astounded by what I found. Whilst doing some Christmas shopping online I was struck by the sheer amount of products available. I decided to investigate male grooming on the Boots website. Now, I haven’t got one, but I believe having a beard – and looking rather like a Geography teacher from 1982 – is de rigueur these days amongst young men. I even teach kids with beards, something that years ago, when I entered the profession, I would’ve never imagined possible. Just for beards alone, there were 38 products available, including stubble cleanser, beard balm, brush-in colour gel and a beard starter kit, which I thought we were all born with anyway. It’s just that some take longer to start than others.

If you then look at the category of male grooming in its entirety things become staggeringly complex. Unbelievably there are over 1500 products available on the Boots website alone! 1500 things for men to groom themselves. I still feel a little bit camp on the rare occasions I apply moisturizer, but imagine having that many things to choose form with which to make yourself like just right, imagewise. It beggars belief. Now I understand that some of these products will be in several different categories, but even allowing for a lot of that there are still probably well over 1000 male grooming products available on one website! These included 101 washing & bathing products, 162 men’s hair products, 54 male hair loss products, 497 aftershaves (497!) and even 115 male incontinence products, which frankly, made me want to wet myself a bit. This is all before you get to looking at things like Crocs and watches.

So while I can sit here, all rugged and handsome with my Casio watch on and possible wearing a t-shirt bought in a supermarket, it’s actually not that hard to understand why today’s young men can get so concerned with looking just right. I mean we haven’t all got my natural pizzazz, right? But still, the idea of sifting through over 1000 products to groom oneself before you even get dressed or are able to tell the time makes me feel like we might have gone a bit too far with this whole image thing. The right timepiece, the right car, the right shoes, the right tattoos – seriously, watch the point?

 

 

 

 

Berlin: in search of history, fun, culture…and The Hoff.

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It’s early evening and fairly dark by the time we get to Berlin. It wasn’t meant to be this way. Not at all. We should have been here earlier, when it was still light. After all, this was going to be a big family adventure. No private transfer to the door of the hotel and no sticking to those same four walls for food. We were winging it, exploring and showing the kids how to have fun in a big city. But then, like a giant fun sponge, Ryanair intervened and presented us with a delightfully unexplained one and a half hour delay. All of a sudden the omens weren’t so good and our adventure was seeming less and less like a good idea.

Given our delay and the time of day, our excitement is now slightly tinged with a nagging apprehension. It’s late on a Sunday and we don’t even know if Tourist Information will still be open and if it’s shut, how we’ll be able to find our way to Berlin. We’ve planned to take the train, described by the inhabitants of Trip Advisor as ‘easy’, ‘excellent’ and ‘efficient’ – the kind of words you’d fully expect to find when describing German public transport. But now, it’s getting later and it’s dark. We have two children with us and we’ve been on the move since around 9am. Should we not just jump in a taxi?

Thankfully, having collected our case – more adventure, my wife usually insists on about 3 cases, all of which are my responsibility – we arrive in a well lit part of the airport and there, nestled in the corner, is the wonderful sight of the Tourist Information office. We queue up for a few minutes before we are asked to approach the desk by a friendly faced young man. And it is here that I witness something utterly amazing that will unwittingly set the tone for our adventure. Forget the pyramids and the Grand Canyon. Squeeze Radiohead at Glastonbury to the back of your mind. And leave behind the phenomenon of the Northern Lights.

There is no sign that anything miraculous is going to happen, but happen it does. My wife, who has been warning me for weeks that just because she knows a bit of German, we can’t simply rely on her, proceeds to have a full conversation in German with the assistant! As someone who still struggles with English, this is genuinely remarkable. I am chock full of admiration, but better still, we now have our Welcome Cards and directions to the train. Suddenly, everything looks brighter and we are officially off and running in our Berlin adventure!

The miracles continue with the appearance of an actual angel on the train into Berlin. We have hopped on to a train that we believe will take us to Potsdamer Platz, close to our hotel, but we’re now struggling to work out the map of the railway. I can tell that my wife is worried and frankly, map-reading is not a skill that I possess. She’s probably right to be worried! But then up steps The Angel of Berlin. A young woman has watched our very English distress from across the carriage and comes over to offer help. Now, I don’t wish to get involved in any Teutonic stereotyping, but something had me half expecting Germans to be cool and detached. The reality couldn’t be further from the truth. So far on our trip everyone we’d encountered had been friendly. But now we’ve been blessed with our very own angel. Not only does she smile sweetly and explain things in perfect English, but when it turns out that the train is terminating at the next stop she comes back over to us and via the conduit of Google Maps, explains to us exactly which trains we need to take to get into Berlin safely. Short of leading us onto the train with a packed lunch and a cushion to sit on, The Angel of Berlin could not have been any more helpful or kind.

And so it is that not long later we emerge into the early evening chill of Potsdamer Platz, a busy area of central Berlin, packed with shops and restaurants. It’s a Sunday though, so it’s reasonably quiet and despite an ever present feeling that we don’t know where we’re going, we soon arrive wearily at our hotel. The Novotel staff keep up Berlin’s happy average for warm friendliness and once we’ve dropped out bags we then spend the rest of the evening wandering before stopping off at a local Italian restaurant for some of the biggest pizzas we’ve ever had. So far, so good for Berlin.

The next morning we’re up and out early. As part of our newly found adventurous spirit, we’ve decided to go off in search of breakfast rather than relying on the hotel. Now to some this may not seem overly adventurous, but with children as fussy as ours who are more used to an all inclusive buffet breakfast by the pool, this is Indiana Jones, Lara Croft and Bear Grylls all rolled into one! Unlike any of the aforementioned adventurers, however, we’ve done a little Trip Advisor research and are heading for Maracay Coffee to sample for their delicious sounding breakfast.

Our cover as adventurers and international jetsetters is blown in seconds as the assistant pretty much ignores my wife’s attempts at German and sorts our order out in almost flawless English. German efficiency, again! We scramble over to the last remaining table in this clearly popular café, sinking comfortably into the sofa and talking the kids through the selection of photographs of some of Hollywood’s finest that decorate the wall. In no time at all our order number is called and we’re wolfing down wonderful toast with butter and marmalade and cradling coffee or hot chocolate in order to guard against the cold outside. By the time we’ve sat, chatted and enjoyed the atmosphere of Maracay, we’re ready for the rest of the day.

Our first day is hectic, but only because Berlin boasts so many things to see and do. Even as we walk along Wilhelmstrasse, towards our first sights, we have to keep stopping to read through the information boards that tell us about the various SS and SA buildings that used to reside here, before being demolished. Soon though we’re confronted by one of the most iconic sights in any city on the planet: the Berlin Wall. It’s not all here – obviously – and it’s clearly in a state of disrepair, but what’s there is enough to stop you in your tracks. We stand and gawp at this shabby symbol of terror and injustice, trying in vain to explain its importance to our 12 and 9 year olds. It doesn’t even look particularly solid, but when you read about the ‘no man’s land’ between East and West and imagine the guard posts dotted along it and the barbed wire it becomes particularly chilling.

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It’s now getting increasingly cold so we take the short walk over to the Topography of Terror, a museum that documents the rise and fall of the Nazi’s and their reign of terror. A sign on the way in politely asks you to behave in a respectful manner here, but really, there’s no need. Mere minutes spent looking at the photographs or reading through some of the details of what went on is enough to stun you into silence. I walk round with my 9 year old son and find myself explaining almost every photograph or exhibit and while usually going to such lengths would be a chore, this is simply a necessity. He clearly can’t understand it all – who could? – but such is the quality of the whole place that he can’t fail to have learnt a lot. I realise that my knowledge of this period of history is not what it should be and I learn a lot myself. By the time we get to the end I feel slightly emotional and overwhelmed by it all. The Topography of Terror details the kind of things that you really don’t want to read about, but there can be no other word for the place than stunning.

As we blink our way out into the sunlight and the cold, we’ve gone from excited adventurers to a kind of stunned silence. We walk a little further on before stopping to consider our next move. We’re close to Checkpoint Charlie, so explaining it as a box in the middle for the road where people would be stopped and have their documents checked by soldiers, we head off! It’s not far and we’re done in around ten minutes, having taken a few photographs and attempted another, more comprehensive explanation of what it actually was – my son genuinely expected a cardboard box in the road after the first try – we move off, grab some dinner at Back Factory, a kind of German Greggs (but nowhere near as good, because what is?), and then retreat back to our hotel in order to add more layers of clothing with which to battle the winter weather. It is genuinely freezing and as a last minute packing decision I’d put base layer tops from football for myself and my son into our bags and now they’re on!

Our changes pay off and it’s a much warmer next few hours. We stride on taking in the quietly stunning Holocaust Memorial, a vast and thought-provoking tribute, the majesty of the Brandenburg Gate and then the Reichstag building. It’s slightly disappointing not to be able to get closer to the last two, but you can’t blame Berlin for that. Outside the Holocaust Memorial police are searching underneath a suspiciously parked van, while there are cordons everywhere by the Brandenburg Gate and the Reichstag – this is the world we live in now, I guess. It doesn’t spoil our afternoon and in fact, it’s just a thrill to be able to stand in front of most of the things that we see on this trip and fantastically, not once do we feel afraid or intimidated. Berlin is simply a very relaxed and cool place to be. We’ve been here less than 24 hours and we’re totally at home.

As night falls we make our way to Supreme Burger Bar and Grill for a well earned tea. It feels like we’ve walked for miles, but we’re in high spirits. Berlin has undoubtedly welcomed us and we’re thoroughly enjoying it. Following a theme, our waiter in Supreme is fantastically friendly, apologising for some of the menu being in German and explaining whatever he feels might need explaining, while also recommending a few things too. Following his lead somewhat, we all go for burgers, spending the next hour or so eating delicious food, chatting and just generally enjoying the glow that Berlin seems to have given us. We take the train home, stopping off at Podtsdamer Platz and the Berlin Mall to do a little bit of shopping. We’re a day into our time in Berlin and already using the train like pros! Our kids – a little bit sheltered at home and ferried everywhere in the car – are loving the new found thrill of public transport and well they might. Venture down into the S-Bahn or U-Bahn here and not only is it clean and safe, but – get this fellow English people – there are trains! They arrive on time, set off on time and, even better, they run  every few minutes. Not once in our trip do we have to wait any more than 5 or 6 minutes for a train to arrive. In terms of being English and using public transport, Berlin is like a trip into the future! Clean, reliable and safe – what’s not to like?

We’re up bright and early the next day and ready for more adventure. It’s already clear that Berlin has far too much for us to cover in our time here and so we’re trying to narrow down adult and child Top 3s to help with our remaining days. After another delicious breakfast at Maracay, we catch the train to Hackerscher Markt and then attempt to use our new ‘adventurer instinct’ to get to the DDR Museum. The sun is shining and it’s a beautiful and unusually warm day. Unfortunately though, after around two minutes of walking we’re losing faith in our instinct and my wife is forced to ask a passer-by, again in what appears to me to be fluent German. The lady doesn’t speak English, but after enquiring as to whether we are in fact English, she is lovely enough to be very precise with her directions. We turn and head in the opposite direction to that which our instinct had us heading in and within 5 minutes are taking the short walk along the river and entering the DDR Museum.

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The museum allows visitors to experience what life was like in East Berlin under Socialism. Having grown up hearing reports from East Berlin and the horrors of life behind the Wall, I’m intrigued and ready for a culture shock. I also experienced the fall of the wall and the joy of people who found freedom and so I’m expecting an interesting few hours. I’m looking forward to the section of the museum that will inevitably be devoted to David Hasselhoff, who of course we all know was instrumental in the fall of the Wall. He went looking for freedom and when he couldn’t find any, he just made it happen. Big up the Hoff.

We’ve tried to brief the children, but at 12 and 9, we realise that this might not be their cup of tea. However, within minutes both kids are enjoying the simulated Trabant driving and have smiles plastered all over their faces. The smiles and the intrigue continue too as we look at exhibitions about public life behind the wall, its politics and even a section where we go inside the flat of a typical East German situated in a mock up of a Berlin tower block. Looking at some of the décor I’m prompted to make a mental note to ask my parents if we have any East Berlin heritage – I’m certain that we grew up with similar wallpaper and furniture in our 70s front room!

Over 2 hours later we emerge from the museum blinking into the sunlight. There was not one mention of The Hoff in the DDR Museum, but I feel sure he’ll crop up somewhere else, later in our trip. It’s an absolutely beautiful day and the buildings around the River Spree look fantastic in the sunshine. We have a few photos by the river then wander off in search of food, stopping for more photos of the TV Tower. Sadly, we decide that we haven’t got time to actually go there as we have so much more to see, but at least it gives me another reason to come back one day. We grab some food – a quirky but delicious selection of hot dogs in a wrap – and then trek off down the river in search of the Palace of Tears, a museum dedicated to the separation of families during the time of the Berlin Wall. Again, it’s quite an emotional thing to see with lots of interesting artefacts and again we run out of time. It’s hard to get your head around the fact that someone somewhere once thought that the wall was a good idea, despite the sheer heartache that it would cause. It’s also hard to get your head around the fact that, yet again, there’s no mention of Hasselhoff.

While we’re not exactly sombre as we leave we decide that we need a break and find a table in a busy café called Flamingo Fresh Food Bar. We’ve been on our feet now for a large part of the last few days so the chance to sit down without the time pressure of thinking about where we go next is very much welcomed. Myself and the kids opt for fresh juice while Louise goes for her usual coffee, hoping for the shot-in-the-arm that caffeine often brings. There are cakes on display – delicious looking things too – but we give them a miss in favour of avoiding elasticated waist trousers for at least the next few years.

As we leave Flamingo and head for the train we see our first instance of any trouble in Berlin. I say trouble but perhaps what I should refer to it as is ‘a little slice of England’. We hear him before we see him. Shouting. Sporadically bursting out and travelling across the square. It’s very definitely a lone voice so we know it’s not exactly trouble with a capital T and as I say it’s in fact, quite English. As it turns out it’s man huddled up on a bench shouting at pigeons. He’s clearly been drinking or indulging in something. I mean why else would you take offence at pigeons? But it says a lot about Berlin that this is the only uncomfortable moment that we have in our four days. And it’s hardly uncomfortable, just a little sad, really.

Having figured out the source of the shouting we head over to Friedrickstrasse station to catch the train back to Potsdamer Platz and then back to our hotel. It’s only a quick change and dropping of bags before we’re back out – spirit of adventure and all that – and on another train – have I mentioned that I love the trains in Berlin? – over to Schoneburg where we’re off for our tea. Tonight, courtesy of a Trip Advisor recommendation we head to Evin’s Pizza Pasta and again, it’s a delight. We’re seated quickly and again the staff are friendly and eager to please. The atmosphere is nice and relaxed, encouraging us to spend a little more time than necessary to eat and in truth, rest. We’ve barely stopped for the last few days and so the chance to just sit is too good to miss. Our pizzas are enormous and incredibly tasty and by the time we leave to head for the train home, we’re stuffed!

As our final day dawns we’re determine to pack as much as we can into what remains of our trip. It’s our final day in Berlin and so breakfast – hello again to Maracay – is tinged with a certain sadness. Nevertheless, no one’s feeling sorry for themselves, despite our aching leg and sore feet, and we’re ready for more exploring. We make a slightly later start as there’s packing to do, and I must admit I’m not keen on our choice of places to visit this morning. We’re off to the Game Science Centre and as a confirmed non gamer, this promises little for me. But I’m gritting my teeth and getting ready to take the plunge as the rest of the family love playing games.

The centre is tucked away in Kreuzberg in what looks like a row of shops. I’m really not expecting much at all. However, as we enter it’s clearly a bit of a tardis. The inside of the place is clearly quite large and there seem to be a lot of things to do. For the uninitiated, the Game Science Centre is an interactive attraction run by game developers. You can play various games, controlling some by gesture, some with your eyes and others just in the traditional way, with your hands.

It doesn’t take very long at all to have me absolutely hooked! Before I know it, not only am I having fun playing games, but I’m laughing randomly at the type of things that I’m doing. The family are literally running between games. We make music, shoot stuff, dance, use a touchscreen to demonstrate how much of a competitive family we are in a four player game and even stop for a massage. They even have a Space Invaders style game where you shoot the aliens using ping pong bats and balls! The technology is fantastic and the variety even better. We even take a family vote to extend our time here and cut down on something else later in the day and by the time we leave everyone has had a fantastic time and we’re all smiling. But we have to move quickly…

We head uptown and catch another train over to the Berlin Zoo, where, with time running out on our adventure we literally race around to see as many of the animals as we can. The zoo is another fantastic Berlin attraction – clean, friendly and with an absolute tonne of animals to see. As you’d expect really because after all, it’s a zoo. We’d have loved to have more time to spend here, but with a case and bags to finish packing and a plane to catch we’re sticking to strict timings. So off we go, on to another train. Our final day has flown over and sadly we’re facing up to our last few hours in Berlin.

Before we know it we’re sitting in Schonefeld airport and there’s just time for one last moment of sheer German joy as we order a Burger King. The assistant – who once again speaks faultless English – is obviously and hilariously flummoxed by our request for plain burgers, questioning us on seemingly every salad item possible before finally agreeing to our request. His face though, as he asks us, ‘Not even tomato?’ is priceless and we’re reduced to stifling giggles. But the fun’s not quite over as we receive our meals and it becomes clear that my request for a Fanta just wasn’t healthy enough for him, especially on top of having no salad. Instead, he wordlessly replaces my Fanta with not one, but two cartons of fresh orange and having asked myself what The Hoff would do, I see no need to disagree and simply accept my fate. The folk of Berlin eh? Friendly, welcoming, lovely, but most of all, very, very health conscious!

As our plane takes off and we head home I’m tired, yet a whole load better for my time in Berlin. It was somewhere I’d wanted to see for a long time and now I have I feel very sure that I’ll be back again. Maybe next year? I genuinely hope so! Berlin has been an absolute feast – of history, culture, fun, walking, relaxing, smiling, friendly hosts and of course trains. Don’t forget the trains! No Hoff though!

Go to Berlin, get a Welcome Card, take the train…and have an adventure! And let me know if you spot The Hoff.

 

Watching television through my fingers: The Apprentice

It’s that time of year again. The weather is getting colder and soon we’ll have our first frost. The leaves are falling from the trees and our Autumnal hues are disappearing. It’s dark at about 5pm. Oh, and Alan Sugar has once again assembled a cavalcade of halfwits for our entertainment. The Apprentice is well and truly back!

I have a love hate relationship with The Apprentice. I’ve watched it for a while now and would happily describe myself as an avid viewer. A fan, even. It can be genuinely entertaining television, and for that, I love it. However, I can also say that I genuinely hate it too! Even though I’m well versed in its nuances and know perfectly well what to expect, this year’s ‘introductions’ brought the same resigned sigh from me as every year.

With the annual splash of tabloid press coverage and the first couple of episodes generally devoted to introducing us to this year’s candidates, you find that you can’t avoid these people and if you hear or read anything of them you probably can’t avoid coming to the conclusion that this year’s halfwits are not a great deal different from any of the previous year’s. So just what is it that makes The Apprentice both compelling and cringeworthy in equal measure?

The most obvious port of call in seeking an answer would be to look at the people involved. And the least obvious way of looking at them would be to start by tackling the experts: Lord Sugar, Karen Brady and Claude Littner.

“what makes Claude so very watchable…is his wide array of facial expressions.”

Claude Littner is a fascinating character and who undoubtedly makes for compulsive viewing. Even the smallest bit of reading via Wikepedia gives you an amazing insight into his life. He was born in New York to Jewish parents who had fled the Nazis in the 1930s. He was the Chief Executive of Spurs, is a multi millionaire and at one point was diagnosed with Non Hodgkin Lymphoma and given 6 months to live. However, what makes Claude so very watchable on The Apprentice is his wide array of facial expressions. Despite the possession of a fantastic poker face, Claude’s feelings are frequently given away by the kind of facial expressions that suggest he’s either desperately hoping that the Immodium will kick in or is about to break into an almost certainly faultless impersonation of Kenneth Williams. Ooh, matron indeed. One minute we’re watching yet another hopeless pitch or a poorly thought-through idea and the next the camera will cut away to a clearly squirming Claude looking like he’s just ingested a bag full of Tangfastics in one go. Brilliant editing and definitely a dark horse in the race for the answer as to why we watch the show. And if you’re not hooked on Claude in the early weeks, then just wait until you watch him in the interviews!

Then there’s Karren. Baroness Brady, the vice-chairperson at West Ham United. Not a personal favourite of mine, but still the possessor of a fine selection of disgusted facial expressions as well as a woman who instinctively knows the value of a perfectly timed put down. She comes across as a bit of a ‘teacher’s pet’, always ready to tell tales to Lord Sugar when yet another hapless contestant is backtracking on their involvement in the latest monumental failure. If it was all about Karren, then the viewing figures wouldn’t be anywhere near what they are. However, she’s a vital cog in the whole Apprentice machine.

“You’re fired. You should be if you’re writing those gags.”

Lord Sugar himself is a fabulous reason to watch The Apprentice. But again, the reason for this, in my opinion, is not altogether obvious. In fact, when Lord Sugar is on screen, I’m often left cursing my eyes and ears. The reason for this is his seemingly inexhaustible range of puns and put downs. You’re fired? You should be if you’re writing those gags. Year after year they seem to get worse. And year after year, I continue to watch…and wince. I mean, look at this for a selection.

“I know the words to Candle in the Wind – it don’t make me Elton John… You think you can second guess or play me? Well let me tell you, I’m as hard to play as a Stradivarius and you lot, I can assure you, are as easy to play as bongo drums.” 

Figure that out then. I mean, the first bit…well being Elton John makes you Elton John pal. And you’re very definitely not him. In fact, you’re unmistakenly Lord Sugar off The Apprentice. But imagine the week he turns up in the boardroom doing Saturday Night’s Alright For Fighting. TV Gold, right there.

And then there’s, “How do you send people to a brewery that don’t drink? In Zee’s case particularly, he is as dry as a cream cracker in the bleeding Sahara Desert!” Now, I’m no expert, but does a cream cracker get drier because it’s in the desert? You could call it dry wit, I guess, but then again it’s not actually funny.

But it seems that being funny isn’t a really requirement in the world of Lord Sugar’s put downs. This next one is straight out of the playground and in fact, in telly terms, was last heard in a slightly different guise being uttered repeatedly by Jim Bowen back in the 80s on Bullseye. One contestant was genuinely told, “Fair? The only fair you’re gonna get is your bloody train fare home.” Face it, if that’s the way you’ve been fired then you’d probably be willing to pay him the £250k just to get out of there. And he could keep his train fare. How long though, before the £250k is withdrawn in favour of a caravan on a revolving stage with Lord Sugar telling the person fired, “Hey, look at what you could’ve won!”

And then finally, who could forget, “Call yourself an ice-cream man? Well I’ve got you licked, mate!” Having trouble remembering? No wonder. I just made that one up, but you have to admit that you could hear him saying it and it certainly doesn’t look out of place. The put downs continue to be terrible and yet, we still continue to watch.

Undoubtedly though, the reason for our avid viewing will always come back to the talent vacuum that is the candidates. In the interests of staying current, let’s have a gander at this year’s line up.

First out this year was Sarah Byrne, 29 apparently, although let’s just say that there’s more than a hint of a showbiz age. Sarah seemed to have imagined that being loud and Northern was exactly what Lord Sugar would be looking for in a business partner. Unfortunately though, she’d seriously underplayed the necessity for any business acumen and/or personality and as such just came across as an annoying gobby Northerner – and I say this as what some might call an annoying gobby Northerner. As far as I could tell she was one of those people who live their lives believing that they’d make good viewing for others. In fact, even an hour’s air time was too much. There are an endless amount of different reasons as to why Sarah was first out, but the less said about Sarah, the better.

“Sadly for David it turned out to be a case of going, going, gone.”

Next to face the firing finger was David Alden, a tax advisor from Yorkshire. A cross between Elmer Fudd and, well, a tax advisor from Yorkshire, he said that his friends called him the Duracell Bunny due to his boundless energy and tendency to ‘just keep going’. Sadly for David it turned out to be a case of going, going, gone. He has also said he had the ability to talk to anyone about anything. A shame then that ‘anything’ didn’t seem to stretch to ‘anything to do with business’.

Third to be fired was Frank Brooks who had claimed to be ‘brutal in the boardroom’. Strange then that when confronted with the boardroom he magically transformed into human jelly. He’d told the press that he was ‘two steps in front’. And he was right. He was two steps in front of the first two losers to be sacked. Just a shame that there were so many people still left in the competition, who as it turned out were at least a week in front of Frank.

After Frank, we lost Alex Finn, a 21 year old IT analyst from the Wirral who claimed to have the gift of the gab, but then insisted on asking the inventor of some fitness equipment whether it was insured in case it got lost in the post as part of his bid to be able to sell the product. The bloke decided against Alex as an option, as did Lord Sugar not long later.

A few weeks in and we were saying goodbye to Rick Monk, who’s name has to be rhyming slang for something, although I couldn’t possibly think what. Rick was the classic Apprentice candidate who doesn’t really seem to do anything, other than occasionally talk rubbish. Ultimately these candidates always get found out, either by being forced to become the Project Manager or being forced to answer a really simple question that they really simply can’t answer. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Rick who at least seemed to have the good grace to accept that when it came to business he made a very good halfwit.

So who else has me watching the telly through almost closed eyes? Well if you watched week 1 the name Khadija would surely spring to mind. Khadija managed to be pushed into being Project Manager in the comic book task, leading her team to produce the comic featuring an MC who rapped their way around the world learning different languages. They opted for French for their first comic. The snag was that neither Khadija nor her team knew more than ten words of French. So, smart move then.

“In terms of leading, this was much more dictatorship than democracy.”

Khadija, who considers people skills to be her most valuable business asset then proceeded to bark orders at her team, talked over them and basically made them feel like their ideas weren’t welcome and that they should just do exactly what she herself suggested. In terms of leading, this was much more dictatorship than democracy. And of course this inevitably led to her being compared to Kim Jong Un. Harsh? Not in Khadija’s eyes when she told us that if everybody was talking about this Kim Jong Un fella, then he must be doing something good! And of course, she’s correct. I mean that’s why we’re all talking about Donald Trump. And Hitler, Piers Morgan, Negan and Satan, right guys? Guys? Maybe not, eh Khadija?

Another ego seemingly functioning sans brain seems to be Daniel Elahi who describes him as the owner of a lifestyle brand. Now this always happens with The Apprentice. The tendency to talk bulls**t about what it is they do. Firstly, I don’t want my lifestyle branded – it would be called ‘Incredibly Dull’ if it was branded, but secondly I don’t have the foggiest idea what he’s talking about. Luckily though, he gets infinitely clearer when he talks about himself, describing himself as being like Daniel Belfort from The Wolf of Wall Street. Good call, Daniel. Inspirational.  A bit like saying, ‘In terms of being a bloke, I’m a bit like the Yorkshire Ripper’ when actually what you should have said is, ‘I’ve got a beard’. In truth, the only Wolf you can compare to is Wolf from Gladiators, mate.

Brilliantly though, Daniel didn’t seem to think that his ‘Wolf’ comment went far enough and went on to describe himself as having  ‘beauty and brains…I was blessed with both in abundance.’ Daniel there, a man in love with mirrors, but unable to clearly see his own reflection. See you this time next year, on Celebrity Petrol Station pal.

Having watched for a few weeks now there are still a number of candidates who I still don’t really know. You know the ones. You watch them for weeks but can’t remember which one they are. Two such characters this year are Camilla and Sarah Ann.

Now, I think Sarah Ann has been a project manager, but I genuinely can’t remember on what task. I’ve been too busy trying to figure out other things about her. The first thing was whether or not she was a mackem (that’s someone from Sunderland, for the ill-informed or those just lucky enough to have never heard of Sunderland). Turns out she’s from Teeside, which is better, but in reality, it’s just a bit like being from Sunderland. Next I found myself captivated by her eye. Not eyes. Eye. In terms of, ‘what’s that thing near her eye?’ It seems she has some bizarre piercing, like a bolt near the corner of her eye. Now I’m no fashion expert, but I never thought I’d see the dawning of Frankenstein chic. Sarah Ann obviously had different ideas though, which in a way is a good thing, because I can’t think of any other reason why viewers would notice her on The Apprentice.

Camilla has blonde hair. That’s all I’ve garnered from watching her for the last few weeks. A bit of reading tells me that she considers herself to be a ‘serious adrenaline junkie’, the kind of label that always sends a shiver down my spine. It’s the kind of thing that people seem to say in order to make themselves sound more interesting. But why should I feel interested in the fact that you enjoy feeling scared? Tell you what, next time I see you heading my way I’ll hide and jump out as you pass screaming ‘BOO!’. Deal? Good. Now could you just get off my telly, please?

“…he seems like a decent enough bloke.”

While there are always characters that you barely register are there, there is always at least one dark horse when watching The Apprentice. For me – and I’ll regret this when he stumbles his way through the next pitch, insults a major retailer and spectacularly loses his team the task – Tom is my dark horse. Now Tom is a tree surgeon which doesn’t immediately strike me as the type of profession that we associate with an Apprentice winner. However, when it comes to his credentials as a bona fide knobhead he’s severely lacking. And this can only be a plus point when you look around at the numerous knobheads he’s working with. It seems to me that Tom is active in all tasks, talking common sense, but staying just about low profile enough to survive. And he seems like a decent enough bloke. Now, I’m no business expert. In fact I really don’t know the first thing about business. But I sense, in Tom, someone who might just have the credentials to win it this year. Unless of course his big business plan is revealed as investing £250,000 in just chopping down more trees. I’ll be watching with interest.

From the sanity of Tom to possibly one of the most absurd idiots ever to appear on the show. Kurran Pooni. Kurran is a 22 year old law graduate who, before appearing on the show told the media that, ‘I’ll be honest, I don’t eat, sleep, breathe business, but I do eat, sleep and breathe success.’ Now, I’d struggle to believe that even without the ‘success’ bit at the end. It strikes me, having watched him for the last few weeks it’d be far more accurate of Kurran to say something like, ‘I’m dead lucky that I’ve got a rich mam and dad’. He seems to have spent almost all of the last few weeks simply strolling around the place. While others get on with the task at hand, Kurran seems to just go for a wander. He might have a little look at himself in the mirror, or the window of a shop. He might ruffle his hair a bit, play a bit of pocket billiards, but the nearest he gets to the actual task will be to mutter some kind of comment either disagreeing with the idea or giving some spurious reason as to why he’s doing nothing.

“You’re not exactly Stormzy are you?”

His performance in the shoe task beggared belief as he disagreed with the design concept and went for a wander. But the best was yet to come. The concept of the shoe was ‘urban heel’ and it seemed to be working (although the team would later lose). Not good enough for Kurran though who simply wandered about claiming to understand ‘the street’ and everything ‘urban’. Really though Kurran? Your dad founded an airline mate. Hardly the beginnings of some kind of urban legend. You’re not exactly Stormzy are you? And I’m not sure a double breasted suit is a style choice made by those on the street. Unless it was a homeless bloke who found one in a bin.

Kurran survived by a whisker in the boardroom and mainly because Lord Sugar made the extraordinary decision of dragging the whole team back in order to fire the person he wanted, rather than anyone that Jackie had brought back. However, forced into the position of Project Manager this week, he finally bit the dust. His failure – and, to be fair, that of his team – was spectacular and he was forced to walk, ill fitting clothes, sling, bouffant and all. On exiting the boardroom he simply sat down, smiling inanely and no doubt thinking that Lord Sugar didn’t know what he was doing, that he’d live to regret his decision and that the hilariously named ‘Jet Pop’s’ promotional video was in fact a work of genius. Whatever he thought, I feel that in the great tradition of these type of shows this was very definitely the last we’ll see of Kurran.

Speaking of Jackie brings up a lot of questions. She seems to be the candidate that you can’t work out. Do we like her or hate her? Is she rude and arrogant or just a bit forward and someone who actually knows what she’s talking about? And where is she from? Is she American, Canadian, a little bit Irish? What is that accent and when will it settle down? So far she seems to have performed fairly well, making thousands of pounds worth of sales as the Project Manager on the last task, albeit in losing the task and generally working hard at everything she’s been faced with. Her performance in the shoe pitch, as some kind of representative of ‘the street’ was totally cringeworthy, but let’s just thank the lord that she didn’t do anything as stupid as try to rap. Let’s face it, it’s the kind of thing that’s been done before and left you wanting to disappear down a hole on their behalf. She followed this up with another terrible performance in the airline pitch, which you imagine is marking her down in Lord Sugar’s estimation.

The final word on Jackie has to go to focus on one of her pre-show publicity quotes. “I’m not intimidated by anybody, or anything.” Seriously though? I think we have a candidate for next year’s ‘I’m a Celebrity…’ Bring on the fish eyes, crocodiles bollocks and kangaroo wangers! Let’s see you front up to those bad boys!

“Wow. Where to start?”

Perhaps the polar opposite to Jackie would be 22 year old, Sabrina Stocker, the owner of a tennis events company. Now hang on. Tennis events? Does that just mean playing tennis. Does she own a company that organises tennis games? Sabrina seems to be a bright, bubbly blonde. She describes herself as ‘a mix of Willy Wonka drinking an espresso martini…classy and sophisticated on the outside; inside, a little bit crazy and wacky but full of brilliant ideas.’ Wow. Where to start? Sabrina sounds like just my type of person. Indeed, there’s nothing I like better than someone who describes themselves as wacky and has to point out how much fun they are. It’s good that she’s reaching out to the common people though with a reference to an espresso martini, a drink that I’d never actually heard of. And there’s something not quite right about a 22 year old who describes themselves as classy. When I was 22, it would have been a fairly kind to describe myself as ‘a bit of an arsehole’ or ‘still acting and dressing a bit like I’m 14’. I was fresh out of university, with out of control hair and attempting to corner the market on the look that could only be labelled ‘Primark Stone Roses’. In short, I was probably a bit of a mess. What I definitely wasn’t was classy. And at 22 year, neither is Sabrina. Classier than me, definitely, but essentially just posh.

Sabrina was, however, the winning Project Manager in the latest task. It’s safe to say though that this was very much a team effort, with the likes of Jasmine, Tom and Kayode holding things together. In fact, Sabrina’s insistence on including ACDC’s ‘Highway to Hell’ as the soundtrack for an airline launch very nearly cost them the task and showed her up as naïve, rather than classy. That decision, in fact, was classic Apprentice. A shining example of a candidate with so much self confidence and arrogance and such a desperation to be responsible for a decision, any decision, that they simply ignore the blindingly obvious fact that they couldn’t be more wrong, because they couldn’t be more convinced that they couldn’t be more right.

Another young candidate is Kayode, who in my opinion has missed a trick in not labelling himself a business Jedi and temporarily re-naming himself Kayoda. I mean, this is The Apprentice after all, where previous candidates have made claims such as, ‘as a salesperson, I would rate myself as probably the best in Europe’, ‘Everything I touch turns to sold’ and ‘I am the champion thoroughbred that this process requires’. So being a business Jedi named Kayoda isn’t even that outlandish. Like I say, the lad’s missed a trick.

“…another attention starved candidate begging for attention.”

Kayode has actually proven his worth at times during this series. He’s sold well, pitched well and never hidden from a challenge. Certainly, he wouldn’t be a surprise as a winner. In the grand tradition of the show though he’s proved that he has a natural ability to act like a d*ck. His insistence on including what was a tedious and misplaced joke in the airline video was nothing short of stupid. Again though, it was classic Apprentice – another attention starved candidate begging for attention. Any attention. And hang the consequences.

Finally this year, we have Jasmine and Sian. Both are proving themselves to be strong candidates, but once again both are proving themselves to be more than capable of coming across as clueless and completely lacking in any sense of self awareness. The perfect recipe for making you watch television through your fingers. Sian – the owner of a swimwear brand that no one’s ever heard of, or surely she wouldn’t be on the show – has already declared herself to have beauty and brains, which of course are two of the toppermost ingredients that Lord Sugar looks for in a business partner. Meanwhile Jasmine, who has the job title of Learning and Development Manager – me neither – has told us that ‘All is fair in love and war…and business is war’, which when you actually think about it, doesn’t make an awful lot of sense.

As it stands we’re down to the final ten candidates. Incredibly, again, one of these people will benefit to the tune of £250,000 in terms of an investment in their business idea. All of these people will, at some point or several points over the run of the show, be shown up as the kind of person you probably wouldn’t fully trust to boil your kettle. And yet, year after year, one of them will invariably shine through and prove themselves as a worthy winner. Now given the profile of some of the field of competition, there’s not always an awful lot of shining needed, but still, it’s some achievement. And it’s the kind of achievement that has millions watching year in year out. Even if it is through their fingers and very often – especially in my case – while machine gun shouting expletives at the telly.

 

 

 

Lace tying with frozen fingers, wrestling with goal frames and ever so precisely painting white lines – Welcome to grassroots football!

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It’s either very windy or we’ve used the wrong flag.

Picture the scene. It’s 11.50 am on a Saturday in early September. The sun is high in the sky and it is already an unreasonably hot day. In the middle of one of 5 football fields in Morley, West Yorkshire three men are chatting. All are tired, having only just completed a week at work, as well as running an hour and a half training session each for our respective teams. One of us has also only just finished an hour long fitness session for some of the members of both teams. Two of us are recovering from operations, although mine was a few months ago and so it’s safe to say I’m over the worst. All are hot – that’ll be the sun for you; not always a regular visitor to these parts. And as a result of the heat, two of these three men are wearing shorts. The other – me – really, really wants to wear shorts, but is sticking to tracksuit bottoms, the legacy of long, skinny, hairy legs that resulted in many a cruel childhood taunt as well as being the butt of my father’s best and most hilarious joke about putting them away because, ‘there’s a blackbird up there, feeding her young ‘uns, she’ll mistake them for worms’. I believe that young people nowadays call this banter. I just always wondered why my dad couldn’t get a new joke. Suffice to say, I prefer the safety of the heat to the peril of shorts.

“…Saturday has almost gone.”

We’re eight days away from the opening day of the season for Under 10s teams in the Garforth Junior Football League. Our pitches need to be bigger and we’re moving to a flatter area, so this means that we’ll have to measure both new pitches out, before marking the lines in white paint. I’ve been told that this will take around three hours, but I reckon that’s quite the over-estimation, given that I’ve marked three pitches out before in less time than that, on my own. I’m wrong. We finish just over four hours later. I’m tired, hot and I haven’t eaten since breakfast – it’s now 3.30pm and Saturday has almost gone.

I’ve only been involved in grassroots football for 10 months now, but already I’m addicted. I started out as just a dad, taking my then 7 year old to train with his first football team. This was a task I’d dreamed of doing from a young age – I always wanted to be a dad, taking his son to football. It was too late on in the season for him to actually sign for the club – and frankly he was way behind almost all of the other boys in terms of ability – so he trained every week. We were there come rain, hail, wind and snow. It didn’t matter. I watched him develop and get a greater idea of what was required of him on the pitch. By the time he was asked to sign on he’d improved enough to hold his own and when the moment finally came for him to put on his first match shirt I almost shed a proud dad’s tear, even though he was almost drowning in every item of the kit. The socks would have comfortably pulled up around his waist.

Two months into that season, however, and I was asked to take over the running of the team. Turns out other parents and club officials were unhappy with the coach and so, when I did OK filling in when he went on holiday, that was enough to convince people of my qualifications for the job..

I must admit, I had no intention of ever coaching the team. The thought hadn’t even entered my head, even as I watched on, frustrated at some of the training sessions being put on. However, when I was asked to take over I couldn’t say no. As a teacher, I’d coached before. As a football fan I would regularly watch matches, screaming at the telly about the wrong pass or a terrible tactical decision. As a man, the offer was way too good for my ego to resist and as a Geordie, well, we invented the game and are born with an encyclopedic knowledge of it, so denying the kids of that would have just been cruel!

I’ve been ‘officially’ in charge of Glen Juniors Whites (Under 10s) since the middle of November 2017. My team are what we call the ‘development’ side, essentially the kids with less ability in the squad that makes up the two teams within the age group. However, what my boys might lack in skill, they more than make up for in desire, togetherness, hard work and spirit. But they’re adding more and more skills as the weeks go by.

“…half the squad gawped as if a pterodactyl had just swooped past.”

Training sessions have often been spent working on basics – can we stop the ball and pass it, can we take a touch and get a shot on target or can we sprint from one cone to another? But even then this throws up some unlikely and often amusing scenarios. On any given Thursday evening I can be preparing to give instructions when I notice that four or five of the boys are engaged in something other than listening; important stuff such as ‘dabbing’ or ‘flossing’. Just last week a boy rode past on a bike and I had to stop the session while half of the squad gawped as if a pterodactyl had just swooped past. And my worst fears were confirmed when, as we played a match on a field near the airport, one of my defenders nudged the other one and they both turned their eyes away from the game going on around them and pointed in wonder at a passing low flying jet! It doesn’t matter how many times you tell them to stay focused you can guarantee that there will be at least five moments in any one match when you catch someone, switched off and gawping open mouthed at something remarkably unremarkable.

Our ‘development’ status has also meant that our team has not been successful in the traditional sense of the word. To put it bluntly, last season we played 17 games, won one, drew one and lost the rest. For a couple of months we simply weren’t competitive. And yet still we made progress. In our second game of the season, facing a team whose senior side actually play non-league football we were trounced to the point of ridicule from our opposition. I was ‘just’ a parent that day, but still it was difficult viewing. The home team’s parents were brutal and openly mocked our boys. The home team themselves swapped goalkeepers, giving their regular keeper the chance to play outfield – the ultimate act of thumb biting to your opposition – and he promptly scored a hat-trick. Two of our boys left the field sobbing, refusing to carry on. However, when we scored our first goal of the season – our consolation in that game – their coaches were visibly angry, shouting at their 8 and 9 year old defenders for losing their man and costing their team a goal. That was progress. We’d broken our duck and to paraphrase the great Kevin Keegan’s infamous Sky TV rant, told our mighty opposition, ‘we’re still fighting for this game’.

The progress continued throughout the season and we were rarely trounced again. We were generally competitive and almost always scored. My boys were happy playing football and I found that I was also making progress as a coach. But I quickly learnt that there are always surprises in grassroots football.

One of the biggest (and dullest) surprises about becoming a coach at this level has been the admin. Before each game last season we would have to line the kids up, with their ID cards ready to be scrutinised by the opposition coach. In turn, I would have to take a long hard look at their team to check whether all was on the level. I lost count of the amount of times I cracked the same joke – that they couldn’t play a particular player because he was obviously not the kid in the photograph. The coaches all saw the funny side, but judging by the faces of some of the kids, they genuinely believed that I wasn’t going to let them play. Sometimes, 9 year olds just don’t have a sense of humour.

“I’d hand mine over looking like I’d got a four-year-old to fill it in.”

On top of this we’d then have to fill in team sheets, ticking off the kids that had played. At the end of each game you’d get them signed by the opposition coach, note the name of the referee, award a Fair Play mark – we once got marked 97 out of 100; what had we done to merit a 3% deduction? – and then swap sheets with the other team, making sure that we only swapped the right colour sheet. And let me tell you, filling in one of these sheets in the middle of January when your hands are frozen is nigh on impossible. I’d hand mine over looking like I’d got a four-year-old to fill it in. These sheets would then have to be photographed together and emailed to the league for them to verify what had gone on, like if they hadn’t seen a bit of paper the game hadn’t actually happened.

This system has now changed into something that should be a great deal easier – an internet based system, backed up with the sending of a text to confirm your result. However, neither are available to me due to the fact that the FA are yet to issue me with a log in and still haven’t sent me the text. The season, however, is almost a month old! I’ll never learn to love admin.

Easily one of the most unpleasant things that we have to put up with in grassroots football has to be the weather. Standing on a touchline means that you’re left wide open to the elements. Steve MaClaren’s time as England manager means that there’s no way in the world that I’d dare to use an umbrella, so I’m frequently soaked to the skin. And I never thought I’d buy another pair of football boots once I’d got into my forties, but warming up on park pitches often means puddles and mud and trainers simply don’t cut it. Yet still, I’m regularly getting back into the car and having to drive home with soaking wet feet! Our referee sometimes wears wellies (and probably has lovely dry feet as a result), but I’m afraid that male vanity won’t let me go that far!

On top of the rain, this winter we were blighted with quite a bit of snow and although this meant the postponement of several games – and the bonus of a warm Sunday morning for all involved – we couldn’t avoid training. Our club trains at a local high school during the darker months, as they have a 3G pitch and floodlights, meaning that we can train through even the most inclement weather. Great news! This is bad enough when the cold is bitter and the wind blowing in from across the moors brings with it an element of ice. Layering takes on a new meaning! However, coach a session through a storm and you will truly know the meaning of cold. Shackleton, Scott, Hilary and all the other Polar pioneers were amazing explorers, but could they do it on a wet and windy Thursday night in Tingley?

“…have you ever tried tying someone else’s laces with frozen fingers?”

The cold weather, combined with a team full of kids under 10 can also bring another problem that, at first, I hadn’t reckoned with. I’m regularly asked to tie their laces! Now here, we have a bit of a problem. From what I can gather I was taught to tie laces in a rather peculiar fashion – one so peculiar that my wife has asked my kids to ignore the way I show them! So when I tie the laces of my team it quite often results in some very funny looks – and they can’t even tie laces! Furthermore though, have you ever tried tying someone else’s laces with frozen fingers? Let me tell you, it’s quite the conundrum and there have been numerous times when I’ve considered asking an adult for help, before remembering that I am an adult.

At the moment the weather is good. We’ve barely had a spot of rain during training or games and some of our pre season friendlies were played in baking hot sun. Wonderful as you stand and bask in the glorious heat, but terrible when you get home and look in the mirror to realise that, yes, you are receding, otherwise those livid red patches of sunburn on your increasingly large forehead would never have appeared. But the sun will fade and soon, as with every season, we’ll be out there, every Thursday and Sunday getting soaked, frozen or both. We’ll walk across pitches and simply sink into a puddle, because after all this is grassroots football and our pitches are often at the mercy of the local council. Our games may be played on pitches where there are no lines, just cones to give players a rough guide as to when the ball goes out of play, because the coach hasn’t had the time to mark the lines given the fact that he’s a husband and dad and has a full time job. And barring the generous help of parents, this is all the responsibility of the coach. Again, I hadn’t realised that I’d have to be doing this before accepting the role and probably imagined that the football fairies were responsible for white lines, Respect barriers, goals, nets and corner flags. Thankfully, the parents of our boys are quite willing to rally round and help out, although I think some of this is done more out of pity than anything else, as they watch me wrestling with a set of goals!

“…scoring goals is always the dream.”

Another surprise – which really shouldn’t have been – is the number of 9 year olds who only want to play as a striker or a midfielder. Now I understand that almost nobody wants to play in goal, but in our team that stretches to defence as well. Even our best defenders are reluctant to say the least. In training, before a game, mid game and after a game you can be sure to be pestered by the same’ish question – ‘Can I play in midlfield/as striker?’ Playing regularly is sometimes not enough – scoring goals is always the dream. It’s understandable, I suppose. I mean, who wants to be John Stones or Kyle Walker (or God forbid Phil Jones) when they could be De Bruyne, Lingard, Ali, Kane or Aguero? And while it can be irritating, especially during a game, to be asked, I have to say that my boys are always good enough to accept the my decision. It never stops them asking again though!

Recently I managed to have a morning that encompassed many of the plus and minus points of grassroots football. So let me end by telling you about it.

Picture the scene. It’s 8.45am on a Sunday in late September. It’s no longer sunny and in fact it’s getting more and more like winter as the days pass. Two men stand on adjacent football pitches. We’re both tired. We’ve both been at work all week and one of us was out inspecting the pitches yesterday afternoon. Despite the coolness of the air one is wearing shorts, while the other, sensibly, has opted for tracksuit bottoms. There are sparrows feeding their young ‘uns nearby, after all.

We’re three weeks into the new season in Division C1, for Under 10s, of the Garforth Junior League. Our pitch is bigger and flatter and the white lines have recently been re-marked by one of the other coaches. One coach has managed to erect the first of his goals and is busily working on his corner the flags. The other, me, has managed to get all of the parts of his first goal out of the bag and has laid them out, as per the YouTube video he watched last night so that he’d finally know what he was doing. Unfortunately he’s forgotten the drawings he did in order to remember. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Is the cross bar three long sections or two and a small bit? Are the posts two long sections high? Has he got enough connectors? Hang on, is someone secretly filming this? Can he expect a visit from a heavily disguised Ant and Dec any time soon to eventually tell him he’s been pranked and he’s going to look like a total fool on live TV some time soon?

“The other coach is done. The pressure is on.”

Twenty minutes later and he has assembled some sections of the goal. But they clearly don’t actually go together to make a goal. So he’s just randomly put some bits together. Maybe he’ll just make a raft? He’s quietly cursing. The other coach is done. The pressure is on. He has a thought. He’s missing a bit that he needs. So back he trudges to the clubhouse to hunt among the other goals for the missing section. Five minutes later it’s clear that the other section doesn’t exist and he has made it up. Back he trudges to his raft.

It will take another fifteen minutes before he has two working goals. He has to take a look at the other coach’s complete goals in order to work out where he’s going wrong. And by that time some parents and team members have turned up and helped out. Corner flags are being placed in the ground, the Respect barrier is being put out. Kick off is in about 20 minutes and he hasn’t even said ‘hello’ to his team, let alone started warming them up. And then he spots something that will delay things even longer. A kindly dog owner has allowed his or her pooch to poo on the pitch and then pretended not to notice. He quietly curses some more. Oh well, at least it’s a new experience. Digging a carrier bag out of his kit bag he proceeds to remove the offending sloppy brown calling card, before trudging back over the fields to place it in the bin provided by the council for such things. It’s a shame that the dog’s owner didn’t know these things exist. Maybe someone should paint them all bright red and put pictures of dogs on them. He reminds himself never to get a dog.

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With about ten minutes to go before kick he is finally ready to warm up his team, before giving a quick team talk. The team still don’t all have shirts due to an order taking way too long, so some will play in borrowed club hoodies. The game, somewhat bucking the trend of the day, will go well and our team wins, despite being 1-0 down at half-time. However, there’s just time for one more moment to leave the coach looking to the skies for the kind of divine intervention that he knows doesn’t really happen. From somewhere, during the game, a goalkeeper’s shirt arrives and it’s decided that one of our subs can go around to the goal and, when the ball is down the other end of the field, get our keeper to swap his outfield shirt for the keeper’s top. Easy, yes? In the hands of two 9 year olds, no and the coach is left to watch on in sheer horror as first, the message is totally confused and our sub starts to wander back carrying the goalkeeper’s shirt. Then, deciding that he needs to carry out the instructions our keeper takes his outfield shirt off and is left without a shirt for a moment as the ball approaches. Luckily it’s cleared away and he can put on the right shirt. But no. No, he can’t. The boy simply cannot get the shirt over his head or his arms through the arm holes, due to wearing goalkeeper gloves! The coach quietly curses. After what seems like an eternity though, the problem is solved and we have a goalkeeper wearing the correct shirt. The goal is intact and we go on to win. It’s been a hell of a day, but I’ve absolutely loved it!

Welcome to grassroots football!

Run for your life! (Dramatic, I know, but probably the first in an occasional series)

 

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Tights, camera, action. June last year, when I was healthy!

So Saturday 6th October turned out to be a big day. To the casual observer, nothing earth-shattering happened. In fact, to pretty much anyone but me, today was just an ordinary Saturday. To a point it was a very ordinary Saturday for me too. Asda shop, bit of dinner, bit of telly, put a wash in. Standard Saturday action in our house.

But on Saturday, I did something – and achieved something – because of a spur of the moment thought. Let me explain, with a bit of background.

If you’ve read any of my first few blogs or are a friend or colleague, you’ll know that April was true to T.S. Eliot’s words as ‘the cruellest month’ for me this year. In short, my health took quite a dramatic downturn and I found myself having a heart operation. Obviously this wasn’t in the plan. However, it was made all the more annoying by the fact that before it had all happened I’d felt fitter and stronger than I’d felt in years. I’d dragged myself back out running months earlier and, with the help of my kids, was going out regularly, losing my gut and generally enjoying the feeling of being fit. We’d got our own little running club – Team Crosby – and quite frankly it was absolutely brilliant.

And then, I started to feel rough. I really was having to drag myself out for runs and slowly but surely I stopped. I told myself it was just a succession of colds or bugs and that when Spring came, I’d be healthier and back out, feeling good. But it didn’t happen.

Immediately after my surgery, running was impossible. Apart from the obvious danger to my heart, I had huge black bruises from the surgery creeping from my groin down towards my knees. Walking hurt, and so I put any thoughts of running as far to the back of my mind as I could muster. And let me tell you, there’s a whole load of nonsense to get through once you’ve been parked at the back of my mind.

So for a while running and fitness in general was a no-go area. After all, I had an excuse to not feel guilty. But every time I opened my wardrobe my running gear seemed to be staring at me and so gradually the whole subject was cropping up again and again. I could feel myself getting a bit more of a tummy, but for a while, I was able to satisfy myself that there was no need to get my trainers on and no need to worry. After all, I was coaching my football team every Thursday and so jogging around a field while doing that was exercise enough. Running was slipping away from me and I was convincing myself that, at my age, I didn’t need to bother anymore. I was apathetic and, if I’m honest, I was a little bit scared. So I hid behind the fact that I’d been poorly and joked a lot about the fact that I could have died, you know.

If you don’t know, I’m a teacher, and this means that I have the pleasure and privilege of 6 weeks off work in summer. I won’t lie; it’s amazing to get up every day and know that I don’t have to pull on a shirt, suit, tie and shoes and go to work. What it does bring though is the time to think. And the time to get out and about and do things that I can excuse myself from while I’m at work because there’s never enough time. So I did a lot of thinking. And I started to take my son to the local football fields a couple of times a week for some football practice. And because of this, I did some tentative running. We’d warm up before playing by running around the fields and I managed to drag myself around and do just short of 2 kilometres a few times. It was never comfortable though. In fact, it was horrible and really quite embarrassing. I felt old, fat and unfit. So when summer ended and work started and I felt pretty much justified in quietly consigning running and Team Crosby to the back of my mind, once again. Perhaps forever.

So Saturday 6th October, with its Asda trip, telly, dinner and putting a wash in, was kind of momentous for me. Running hadn’t really entered my thoughts for anything other than fleeting moments since August. And then I read a friend’s post on Facebook – thanks Shaun – about Park Run. Something clicked. I have no idea why. I wanted to go for a run. We had some dinner and I mentioned that I might go out. My wife said we were going to watch some telly and have a coffee, so I decided I wouldn’t bother just yet. I’d go out later. I think my wife is quite frightened of me going out running again. She can’t see me. She doesn’t know I’m safe and despite the fact that I’m probably a right royal pain in the backside to live with, I know that my being ill had really shaken her. But I was determined to get out and run.

At just after 4.30 in the afternoon, I found myself stood by my front door looking ludicrous in running tights, shorts and a running top. If you’ve ever seen my legs, you’ll understand. But I felt calm and I felt ready. And at least if I get running the neighbours don’t have too much of me to laugh at. So off I went.

I live on quite a big hill so within 50 yards I was climbing. But I felt good. There were three people up ahead on my side of the road, so being the self-conscious, lanky, skinny bloke that I am, I crossed the road. I quickly caught and passed them. Someone might have commented – my tights are really quite snazzy – but I wasn’t going to give it much thought. Halfway up the hill and I was running well, travelling quickly. About ten yards further up the hill and I felt my legs turning to jelly! It had been a long time since I’d run up here! I focused, and reminded myself that the top of the hill wasn’t that far off and that once I got there it was a left turn, a stretch of flat and then, thankfully, a slight downhill stretch.

By the top of the hill I’d slowed a bit, my stride getting shorter. But I was still running. I turned left and ran around the bend. As I looked up I spotted another test. Two men were standing outside of a local pub. They were certain to comment on the deathly pale fella stumbling and wheezing past. I told myself to shut up, straightened myself up from being hunched over a little from the top of the hill, and ran on. As I passed there wasn’t even the slightest murmur. I concentrated on running again as the downhill stretch started. The paving stones here are a bit of a mess and the last thing I needed was to trip and fall flat on my face. Louise would never let me out again! On I ran.

At the bottom of the hill I turned right and tried to loosen my shoulders a little. I was tensing up, tiring. Suddenly the American lady that voices my running app told me that I’d run my first kilometre. I listened for the time and nearly fainted as she told my that I’d been running for just over 6 minutes. I was flying! This was just the boost I needed.

Another slight uphill section was followed by a second downhill, past a host of houses. I imagined people hurtling up to their windows as a man with a face the colour of a tomato stumbled past. I go a terrifying shade of scarlet when I’m running and it usually feels like my face is swelling up. Attractive, huh? It’s partly for this reason that I also run along on the far side of the road for this section. Partly that, partly because it’s slightly going the long way round and partly because for some reason running on the actual road makes me feel a bit like Rocky! I never do the shadow boxing, but I imagine a trail of children running behind me, smiling and trying grab at me.

At the bottom of this downhill section I’m faced with a dilemma. Do I go straight on and end my run early when I run out of flat or do I turn a sharp right where I can run a long flat section before being faced with a steady uphill climb that will inevitably end my run, having gone a little bit further? I’m still feeling reasonably fresh so I head right. I’m now on the bottom end of my estate, I know people who live down here, so I say a silent prayer – please don’t let me encounter anyone I know, not while I’m impersonating a tomato and pretty much head to toe in tight lycra. I run on, feeling strong, staying upright and trying to remember to relax. It’s quiet here and I can hear myself panting as I go. Maybe I should have had another blast on my inhaler before I left.

I’m just approaching the left turn that will see me head uphill and through a nice leafy part of our estate when I’m given a bit of a boost. In front of me, coming the other way are my wife and son, both out for an afternoon stroll having set off a few minutes before I did. I give them a wave – I know my wife will be worried, but I’m clearly still alive – smile and tell them I’ll see them somewhere at the top of the hill.

This section is all uphill and it lasts a few minutes. This is going to hurt! My app doesn’t seem to have told me how far I’ve gone and now I can see that there’s a couple of people walking dogs up ahead. Suddenly I’m not focused and I can feel my legs getting heavier as I begin to climb. Late last year, running on the same section, I’d been knocked off my feet by three dogs snapping at my ankles, leaving me caked in mud. I notice that, again, one of the dogs in front of me is off the lead. And it’s some kind of Spaniel – notorious mentalists those dogs. I quickly weigh up my options, but there’s not a lot of choice. I can turn left again and end up on one of the main roads going up a slightly steeper hill or I can keep going and get past this dog. I can’t face a steep climb, so there’s only one thing for it.

As I crest the hill I’m about twenty yards behind the woman walking the dog. The dog is off on the field to my right, sniffing at bushes, but the woman is right on my course in the middle of a narrow path. I get closer and closer, but she doesn’t seem to hear me. It feels like I’m wheezing and panting and my legs are heavy. Now I’m frightened that she’ll think she’s about to be set upon by some heavy breathing pervert. I leave the path and run on the field, risking alerting her crazy dog as well as slipping in the mud, but at the same time allowing her to feel safe from the lycra clad, tomato faced Geordie aerobics instructor that must be quite the most alarming sight she’s seen all day. As soon as I’m round her I veer back on to the safety of the concrete and compose myself. The dog hasn’t noticed me and I can’t hear her sniggering. I’m not caked in mud and everything is fine. The ground is flat and will be for a while. My legs have survived the climb uphill and on reflection, I don’t feel so bad.

I allow myself a glance at my app. It tells me I’ve done just over 2 kilometres. Now what? My path leads me directly to our football fields, but I don’t want to stop now. I’ll do a lap, see how I feel, despite the fact that I know running on a field will sap the energy out of my tired legs.

I’m flagging now. Clearly, my enforced rest has taken its toll. My lower back hurts, my left calf feels like it might cramp up and as I reach down to feel my pulse I can feel that my heart is racing. Reaching for my wrist to feel my pulse has become quite instinctive since being poorly and I’m slightly alarmed at how fast it seems to be going. In the past, I’ve often convinced myself I’ve ran far enough when these type of thoughts happen, but not today. I’m quick to snap myself out of anything negative. I can’t stop now. My back hurt beforehand and of course my heart rate’s up – I’m running. There’s nothing else for it but to press on. I’m settled – however much this hurts I’m going to run 3 kilometres, which will represent the furthest I’ve ran in a long, long time. Let’s get this over with!

I pick up the pace as I reach the path that goes halfway around the bottom football field. I’ll have to run halfway round on the grass, but I’m going to do it. I’ve just done my first lap and a half when my wife and son appear at the top of the path, across the field from me. I try to shout and tell them I’m keeping going, but I haven’t quite got the breath for it, so I just keep running on. My legs are wobbling a little and I’ve not got a lot left, but as I look at my app I realise that about another lap will get me up near my 3 kilometres. As I run down the far touchline I allow myself to think back a few months. I remember being disharged from a ward late at night and making my way tentatively through the hospital to meet my family who I know are outisde waiting in the car. I remember limping out through the automatic doors worrying that I’d cry the minute I saw them. I never did and much to my surprise, I still haven’t.

The detached voice of the running app snaps me out of my thoughts and back to today as it tells me I’ve covered 3 kilometres, averaging just over 6 minutes per kilometre. Wow, I’ve been flying. I’m bloody 46, you know. My son is up ahead, his hand out for a high five. I’m done. I slow up slightly, slap his hand and bring myself to a halt. My hands go to my knees and I double over, before I release myself, spin round and join my wife for the walk home. I want to punch the air. I won’t be able to stop talking about this for hours and she’ll get to hear about every step, poor woman.

It’s a small victory, baby steps, but I feel really, really good. Same again next week.

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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