Tag: lifestyle

Middle Aged Gigging

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

Is it me, or are kids just weird?

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

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

Daughter: I’ve got loads of boyfriends.

Son: Have you?

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

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

Daughter: I mainly go out with Ryan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Could you try chicken milk?’

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

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

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

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

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

Bagpipes. He meant bagpipes.

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

 

February: Making Every Day Count.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friday 1st February

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

Saturday 2nd February

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

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

Sunday 3rd February

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

Monday 4th February

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

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

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

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

Tuesday 5th February

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

Wednesday 6th February

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

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

Thursday 7th February

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

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

Friday 8th February

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

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

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

Saturday 9th February

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

Sunday 10th February

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

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

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

Monday 11th February

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

Tuesday 12th February

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

Wednesday 13th February

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

Thursday 14th February

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

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

Friday 15th February

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

Saturday 16th February

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

Sunday 17th February

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

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

Monday 18th February

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

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

Tuesday 19th February

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

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

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

Wednesday 20th February

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

Thursday 21st February

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

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

Friday 22nd February

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

Saturday 23rd February

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

Sunday 24th February

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

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

Monday 25th February

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

Tuesday 26th February

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

Wednesday 27th February

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

Thursday 28th February

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

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

 

 

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Again, no real hard work involved then.’

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

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

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

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

‘A golden age of motoring it would seem.’

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

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

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

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

‘…everyone wants to be Lewis Hamilton.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘It’s clearly the same kid.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Despite my age, I don’t understand.

 

 

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

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

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

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

As a Coach…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As a fan…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

‘I’m knackered during the warm-up!’ – the trials of an aspiring coach.

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As a qualified coach, I know how to keep things simple for the Under 10s! Not quite sure I’ve mastered drawing though…

For the whole of December I spent my Saturdays and some of my evenings working towards my Level 1 FA coaching badge. It wasn’t something I actually wanted to do, but after a few gentle shoves from my club, I found myself heading for Huddersfield early on the first day in December. This would be the start of four consecutive Saturdays spent slogging through mornings of various classroom based theory and afternoons of practical sessions. But it would be worth it, right?

I actually qualified as both a Level 1 coach and a referee around twenty years ago as part of my teaching qualification, so, I must admit I felt a little bit put out at the insistence that I do it all again. That said, I suppose it’s obvious that such an old qualification should be considered no use after such a long time and so perhaps, with my team and my club in mind, I should be grateful for the chance to become qualified once more. But, at just after 9am on a Saturday, approaching the place where I’ll be put through my paces, I’m not feeling very grateful at all. Today will last from 9.30 until 5.30 after all – and that’s after having done a week at work. Could it be that I’m just too old for this kind of caper nowadays?

For anyone who doesn’t know, I’ve been coaching one of the Under 10s teams at our local football club for the past year now. I went along as a dad watching his son and ended up being the coach; a common tale from what I can gather. However, given the club’s status as a holder of the FA’s Charter Standard, I’ve been made to get my qualification, despite my misgivings. And I must admit, despite my grumbling, there was a part of me that was actually looking forward to it. I’ve loved football for pretty much my whole life and so the chance to spend even more time indulging myself in it does have a bit of an appeal. And then of course there’s being a bloke and having an ego. I can spend afternoons fluking the odd bit of skill, scoring a few goals and generally kidding myself that I’ve still got it, whatever ‘it’ might have been.

On the first week I checked into the reception of the venue to be greeted by around 15 other reticent faces. Barely anyone looked like they could really be bothered. It wasn’t long however, before we were being ushered out of the reception back out into the cold and pointed in the direction of a hut in the far corner of the complex. This would be our classroom, the magic building where all of us would become the next Klopp, Benitez or in the case of the locals, Wagner. That’s David Wagner, the Huddersfield Town coach, not the pervy looking long-haired Brazilian fella from the X-Factor of years gone by.

Inside the hut we’re welcomed by Norman, an FA coach who will be our mentor and coaching guru for the next month or so. He’s smiley and friendly and seems to know his stuff. And he really gets on our good side by telling us we’ll be running through our practicals on the indoor pitch because it’s bitterly cold outside and he doesn’t fancy standing around in the cold for a few hours! I think I’m going to warm to him, if you’ll pardon the pun.

We spend the next few hours discussing things like the qualities of a good coach, how we treat our players and the FA DNA, which is the blueprint for how the English FA want the game to be approached and the same path that is followed by all coaches, right the way through to Mr Southgate at the top.  Our discussions are somewhat hamstrung though, as we battle to get a word in edgeways. We happen to have a ready made expert on the course. You know the kind – no actual qualifications, but more than willing to share his vast experience with us, question the bloke leading the course and ask questions that have just been answered, because of course, he wasn’t listening. He’ll be like this for the next four weeks. Has he mentioned that he coaches 3 teams? Just a bit. Has he told us about the gala that his team entered and won every game? Only a few times. Are we bored of hearing him talk and would we all like him to just shut up? Have a guess. More of him later though.

We also talk ‘invasion games’ which is a new one on me and for a second I’m left wondering how I could’ve missed this concept, given the amount of time I give to football. Turns out though it’s just a bit like attack versus defence. Later, I’m also introduced to other labels for stuff that I already have a name for. After nearly 40 years of watching, playing and coaching football this is a little bit like learning a new language! I’ll probably just stick to using the same terms I always have for the sake of my Under 10s.

Being the social animal that I am I spend lunch time in my car, listening to the radio. If you know me, you’d expect nothing less. On the walk there though, I’m collared by one of the young coaches on the course. I recognise him. He recognises me. It turns out that he’s an ex-pupil, now 22. I’m fully expecting a punch in the face, but he’s nothing but complimentary. He now works in video analysis for a rugby league team and he’s keen to let me know that he got his GCSE in English!

For the afternoon session – as it will be for all of our Saturdays in December – we take to the indoor 3G pitch where we’re either running coaching sessions or taking part in them. Having paired up in the morning we’d designed sessions to run and now it’s time to give them a go. Now, despite a health scare earlier this year, I’d like to think that I’ve kept myself fit, so a few hours running around a pitch holds no fears for me. However, it’s a different story at the end of the warm-up! I’m knackered! We warm up for around 15 minutes, with several short, sharp drills and by the end of it all I can feel my heart hammering inside my chest. As the first pair of coaches set up their drill though, I catch my breath and I’m up and volunteering as they introduce their game.

This is the structure for the afternoon then. Each pair presents their drill and for 10 minutes, those who can still move freely take part. It’s a harsh baptism for this particular 46 year-old! During the first drill I’m not too bad, but in the midst of the second I realise I’m chasing shadows. Experience takes over and I gather myself and start to work smarter. I can’t chase every ball anymore so I start to read the game, cutting off space when I defend and moving into it when I attack, reading what opponents might do and crucially, moving less!

As we stand around afterwards giving feedback, I have a look at my fellow coaches. I’m fairly sure that I’m the oldest. Several of the group are between 17 and 22. In terms of my fitness, I’m out of my depth. I resolve to grow up a bit and realise that I just need to take part. It’s a better alternative than running until I drop! My partner, Nick, is similarly knackered and we’re glad of the rest we’ll get when it comes to both setting up and running our drill.

Our drill is well received and there is no negative feedback. People have obviously enjoyed it, as has the coach running the course and he’s generous in his praise. Even at my age I can’t help but smile. Even at my age it makes me feel proud. It’s a huge positive to find that your peers have loved what you’ve set them to do and I feel like we’re standing out in the best possible way. I jog my way through the rest of the day and after we’ve given peer feedback and written down our homework, it’s time, thank goodness, to head home. I’m exhausted, but have had an undeniably enjoyable day.

My next stop on the coaching journey is another Huddersfield leisure centre. It’s a Wednesday night and we’re set for three hours of fun learning First Aid. I’m genuinely surprised that the main focus of this course seems to be cardiac arrests. I coach 9 & 10 year-olds, but I’m assured that it can happen, so I’m glad of the knowledge gained. Our rather confident and talkative friend is there and proceeds, once again, to do a lot more talking than listening. God help anyone who suffers with anymore than a dead leg at the side of his pitch.

I leave at 9.30pm and drive home praying that at least one chip shop will be open. My prayers aren’t answered though and I’m forced to head to McDonalds insetad. Silver linings? Turns out every cloud is a cloud after all.

The following Saturday I’m put through my paces once again. Same format – classroom based in the morning as the coach battles with the self appointed Special One of the group, who continues to give us the benefit of his experience as often as he can. He coaches three teams you know. He coaches girls. He coaches boys. No doubt he coaches everything in between too. I believe Pep Guardiola started in much the same way, but unlike our fella, he doesn’t like to talk about it.

We’re not even safe from him out on the pitches for the practical sessions either! During the instructions he always has a question and during the feedback there’s always something that he would’ve done different or a nit to pick! By week three, when we all stand in a circle during feedback he’s actually taken to standing in the middle of it, as if he’s the bloke running the course. Worse though, is the fact that he doesn’t get any quieter!

During the afternoon work out I manage to injure myself, which if you’ve ever played football with me in the past, will come as no surprise. I’m delaying an attack by jockeying backwards instead of diving into a tackle – we’ve discussed this in the morning session, so I’m putting my learning into practice in search of Brownie points. However, my tired legs can’t keep up with my brain and I tumble backwards going literally head over heels and narrowly avoiding being stood on by advancing players. I feel something pull in my groin and I know that it’s going to be a long afternoon after that! I’m a big boy and soldier on, but I’m limping quite heavily by the time we leave. Clearly tonight will be spent with my feet up on the settee, recuperating!

On the plus side of things we tweak our successful drill from last week and, if anything it goes even better. People know exactly where they should be and what they should be doing and in the very last seconds a pinpoint cross is headed in spectacularly right in front of Norman, our coach and the FA mentor who has turned up! You couldn’t script this. I go on to use the same drill with my Under 10s in our next training session and again, it goes well. I might actually be learning something! That stuff about old dogs is clearly rubbish!

I have another midweek session, this time only until 8.30 and it’s about Safeguarding.  Because of my job I’m familiar with the subject matter so it’s not too draining. The next night I have a Parents’ Evening at work and so by the following Saturday, I’m worn out.

There’s no let up though and to make matters worse Norman has decided that we’ll have a short time to work on our drills before we go to the pitches to run through them. A morning exercise session! We’ll be doing some drills this morning, then some classroom stuff, followed by the remaining drills. I know straight away that my body will seize up once I’ve stopped and so the afternoon session promises to be testing to say the least. I mean, did I mention that I’m 46?

As predicted, as we warm up in the afternoon I can practically hear my joints creaking. My brain is screaming things like ‘sit down’, ‘hot chocolate’, ‘Wurthers Originals, pipe and slippers’, but I have to ignore it and push myself on. We change our drill completely – the only group to do so – and again it works well. So well in fact that the coach tells us that had he been running a similar session he’d have done the exact same drill. With bashful grins we write up our feedback knowing that Nick had taken the drill from the FA website the night before! Turns out there’s no substitute for experience after all! A good day all round and now we’re nearly qualified FA coaches to boot!

With no midweek session, the final Saturday dawns and it promises to be a short one. We’re classroom based today, writing up our journals and discussing football matters with Norman. Sounds great. My feet certainly favour this approach, as does the rest of my aching, middle-aged body.

I was told before starting the course that ‘all you have to do is turn up…you can’t actually fail’. But this has certainly been far harder than that. From what I gather, the course has changed due to the FA’s new ‘DNA’ approach. I’ve had homework, research to do and been faced with a very hands on approach during all of the sessions. It’s certainly not been a case of simply turning up and feigning listening every day. We’ve had to be proactive. We’ve had to think for ourselves. We’ve been put on the spot. And God knows we’ve been tested physically – or is that just me and the other older members of the group? Whichever way I look at it, I feel like I’ve earned my title of Level 1 coach, that’s for sure.

When we’re finished we say our goodbyes and I’m off to my car, tired but happy. There’s lots to do – Christmas is three days away – but as I drive home I realise that the whole thing has definitely been worth it. I’ve certainly improved as a coach. The three training sessions that I’ve put on across the time that I’ve been on the course have been varied, enjoyable and productive. I can see my players improving and they’re enjoying what we do. We haven’t had the chance to put our learning into practice due to games being postponed, but I’m really hopeful that some of the things we’ve worked on will bear fruit on the pitch. Whatever happens, I’m now more creative as a coach and hope that when I’m stood on the touchline trying to resolve some kind of problem or other I’ll be better placed to come up with a solution. Mind you, until the FA come up with a module on tying laces with frozen fingers, there’ll always be something that I can’t solve. Perhaps that’s on the Level 2 course…

 

 

 

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.