Middle-age – Page 2 – Middle Age Fanclub

Some Thoughts on Father’s Day

Because nothing quite says Happy Father’s Day like fruit does!

As the father of two young children I look forward to Father’s Day every year. I’m lucky; I have two great kids – lively, thoughtful, caring and loving. Granted, they’re not always like this and like many parents, I assume, I spend several hours a week quietly calling them names under my breath and wishing they’d leave me alone! This isn’t being unkind, just honest. Sometimes, my lively, thoughtful, caring, loving kids are complete pricks. And despite loving them with all of my heart, I can’t deny it. But they never let me down come Father’s Day.

Now I suspect that we can attribute a lot of the credit for a succession of successful Father’s Days to my wife. She loves to plan. She explores ideas, leaving no stone unturned in the pursuit of the perfect gift. And she has a way of making the kids think that this particular idea was there’s all along and that this gift choice was the kind of thing they meant when they told her that they thought I needed more socks. Don’t get me wrong, I know for a fact that the kids themselves – my daughter can be particularly thoughtful – have come up with some great gift ideas, but they still often need the wife’s guiding hand. And that of my Amazon Wishlist! However, the gift is just a part of why I love this particular day.

Both of my children are capable of terrible behaviour. Both struggle to control their emotions and tears are commonplace in our house. I suppose, for their age, in some ways they’re just a little bit immature, like their dad. It can be frustrating, but I’d rather this than a pair of emotional vacuums, holding everything in. They’re typical kids and I feel sure that as they grow they’ll learn to supress their reactions while retaining that emotion and knowing how to deal with it. And this is part of the reason why I enjoy Father’s Day so much. My kids both seem to make a conscious effort to behave. It’s usually payed back ten-fold on the following day, but on that particular Sunday, they suddenly learn to breath and reign their emotions in somewhat. As a result, Father’s Day seems peaceful. An island of calm waiting to be battered by a storm of emotion for most of the rest of the year. There have been exceptions, when one child has decided that they couldn’t possibly not speak up or cause a commotion, but largely speaking Father’s Day is fun.

Another reason to enjoy Father’s Day in our house is because my kids still haven’t lost their enthusiasm for it. Myself, I switched to just giving or sending a card decades ago. Me and my old man get along, but he sees no great need to be showered with gifts – or affection for that matter – and I see no great need to keep buying him stuff he won’t really appreciate now that I’m an adult. I sat through years of Christmas, birthday and Father’s Day present giving with much the same reaction – ‘Aye, that’s nice. Thank you.’ *Puts present on the floor by the side of his armchair – he’ll make it disappear later*. Eventually there seemed little point in the gift side of things. If I was doing it seeking some kind of love or affection, it wasn’t forthcoming and if I thought my present was going to change my dad’s life, then that idea was quickly shot down by his reaction.

My own children, on the other hand, excel at showing their enthusiasm for Father’s Day. The routine is always the same. We’ll decide when they’re going to give their gifts and then they’ll go out to retrieve them. The gifts are always ‘hidden’, adding to the excitement (they’re in the hallway, I’m just not allowed to leave the room). They will then re-enter the room, with their gifts still ‘hidden’ behind their backs. And here’s where the absolute joy of this day kicks in for me. They can’t contain their excitement. Both faces are plastered with wide grins. They can’t stand still, even though they’re lining up as though they’re about to be inspected. And they both have a present held, and usually only partially hidden, behind their back – there are probably others, hidden in plain sight this time, in a gift bag on the floor. Every year I pretend that I can’t see any of them.

They take turns in giving the first gift. Each year they start with something small, usually of their choice; something they’ve generally bought to make up the numbers a little bit. This is where Disney dad takes over, although it’s never a difficult role to adopt. By now I’m genuinely thrilled at what’s going on. My kids are practically quivering with excitement, almost unable to contain themselves and I am the focus of their attention. Brilliant!

After each gift or card I get hugs. If they’ve added kisses to a card – and they always do – I indulge myself, forcing them to give me every last kiss that they’d drawn on their greeting. If the kiss is in any way more of a glance I’ll not count it, just to get more. We squeeze each other tightly and even with my general fear of hugs I could stay like this all day. Even though I absolutely love a present, this is the best part of Father’s Day and the main reason why I love it. We may argue and fall out throughout the year, but for this 10 minute period we have all the love in the world for each other.

On the subject of gifts, over the years I’ve had some memorable ones. I still have a bar of chocolate that’s wrapped in personalised packaging, telling me that I’m the best dad in the world. I think this makes it official. I can’t bring myself to eat it, because of course it’s much more than just a bar of chocolate. I’ve also had brilliant books and CDs – yes, some of us still live in the past – as well as the obligatory pack of socks, because everybody needs socks.

The most memorable gifts though have both come from my son. My daughter has given fantastic gifts too, but the ones that will always stick in my mind just happen to have come from my son. He’s always been a thoughtful boy. Since he could read properly he has taken the time to scrutinise greetings cards so that he finds just the right message for the recipient. And he’s always given lots of thought to his presents. Both gifts, although very well meaning, undoubtedly fall into the category of ‘quirky’. The first one that springs to mind was a banana. Not a bunch mind, just a single banana. I got other gifts too, but the one that he was most excited about was the banana. He was about 5 at the time. He knew that this was a fruit that I liked, so it was definitely appropriate. However, his reasoning was slightly more complex than this. Apparently, he’d told my wife that he had to buy daddy a banana ‘to make sure he’s healthy’. Given my heart problems of last year, it may be accurate to wonder if he’s actually some kind of wizard. Maybe he had watched his dad snaffling one too many chocolates or bags of crisps and thought, ‘this bloke’s out of control, here’s me being force fed fruit my whole life and my dad seems to be working far too hard cultivating a belly that he’s going to really regret in a few years time.’ Whatever the thought process, it was a gift that made me smile and one that I’ll remember forever.

The other most memorable gift though was a bible. No really. As ever, Louise checked and checked that this was really the present that he wanted to buy, in the hope that he’d change his mind, but no; he was adamant. The reason he wanted to buy me a bible? ‘Because that way God will keep daddy safe’. He was only about 6 at the time and of course that’s not an age when you question God, but either way it was incredibly sweet. So although it was a gift with a limited shelf life, when you consider the old maxim about it being the thought that counts, it was lovely.

I didn’t realise that bibles could cost quite a bit and apparently with this in mind, my wife and son trawled around the local charity shops so that they could buy a cheaper one and still have money left to spend on me elsewhere. Maybe I was being upgraded to a whole bunch of bananas, I can’t remember. In the end they settled on a hardback children’s bible with shortened versions of all the stories and some pictures to boot. So you can probably imagine my confusion when I opened it up!

As a matter of course we would then spend time reading it together, at Dylan’s request. We’d lie on our bed, cuddled up and read after his shower at nights, with me rationing the amount of stories, so that we’d get more times reading together! This really was the Father’s Day gift that kept on giving. And an even bigger bonus was that sometimes Dylan would fall asleep on me as we read and so we’d then just lie there for a while longer, warm and cosy with me content to just cuddle him in and listen to his breathing. So in the end, perhaps it really was a blessing that he bought me such a leftfield gift!

Fighting the flab – my battle with ‘Dad bod’!

So many temptations with which to add to that dad bod!

As a young man I never dreamed I’d have any kind of problem with ‘body image’. I’d grown up a skinny kid, partly down to health problems and partly down to being a fussy eater who was indulged by a somewhat doting mother. I was active and sporty, meaning that I struggled to gain weight as I was always on the move. Therefore, as the possessor of barely any noticeable muscle at all this led to sometimes merciless name-calling and cruel comments about my size. They’d call it bullying nowadays, but at my rough comprehensive school it was just a way of life. Some people would exploit any weakness that they detected and unfortunately, my lack of bulk and legs that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a passing flamingo, were often a target, especially as I got older and everybody else filled out. As I got older and stayed relatively small those that grew to be more of an adult size would find fun in pushing me around. Still though, it didn’t particularly bother me and I was never unable to function as a result of it.

However, it must have been something that sat there, dormant, waiting for its chance as in adult life it became a problem that would hold me back. Not in a terribly debilitating way, but in a self-conscious sort of way. I have a seven inch scar down my chest which stopped me from removing my shirt on sunny days. I’m hardly well built either, which made t-shirts my friends at all times! As previously referred to, I also have legs that would look better on certain types of wildlife, meaning that shorts were often in, well, short supply I suppose.

The notion of ‘body image’ however, seems to be a relatively recent thing and at the risk of sounding like my dad, they didn’t have it when I was younger. I was always conscious of my size or of my body, but it was just something else to deal with. I never thought to talk to anyone about it, let alone write anything down. Until I was around 15 I was only just over 5ft in height as well, so bodywise I had literally nothing going for me save for a Hollywood smile and an earlier than most bumfluff ‘tache!

For a short while I joined a gym in the hope that lifting weights and exercising in different ways would help me to bulk up. It didn’t and more to the point it bored me and ended with me feeling even more self conscious. After a while I just accepted what I was and eventually (and I really mean eventually) when girls started taking an interest I began to feel a little more confident in myself. I could make people laugh and hold the interest of at least some girls; I didn’t feel the need to lift heavy weights, wear vests and sweat like a stallion. But I still didn’t like my body. The skinny legs, the stick-like arms, the scar on the chest…I didn’t particularly feel manly. Add to this the fact that one side of my ribs juts out at the bottom as a result of not being put back together properly after my heart operation – surgery wasn’t as precise a science in the 70s – and you begin to feel like you should have been picked up by the circus at some point.

University helped me to love myself a little bit more (not like that; stop sniggering). Maybe it was being away from some of the same people I’d been around for years who’d possibly gotten used to their own clever banter and didn’t feel that it could possibly be hurtful. My dad, for instance, was forever mocking my legs – if I played football in shorts he’d tell me to put my legs away because – and I quote – ‘there’s a spuggy up there feeding young ‘uns. She’ll think there’s two worms down here.’ Classic. No, really, hilarious. Especially when it’s repeated three or four times a week. Maybe it was the sudden independence that somehow boosted my confidence or maybe it was the fact that I was now around a foot taller and at least felt I finally had something going for me. Whatever it was, those three years made me feel a lot better about myself in terms of my body. I simply wasn’t mocked anymore and as a result I felt at least a little bit of confidence.

The issue of body confidence has never gone away though. And annoyingly, with the onset of middle age it feels like it’s getting worse. I think the young people call it a dad bod, but whatever it is, it’s not particularly comfortable.

Now, I wouldn’t say I’m any kind of mess. But moving into my forties, and speeding towards my fifties has definitely brought plenty of unexpected body issues to go alongside the ones that I’ve carried around since my teens. Actually they’re more irritations than issues, but still, they bother me enough to actually spend time thinking about them. And that’s quite a surprise to me.

The biggest body irritant has to be my belly. I’ve never been in possession of a six-pack; not a proper one, anyway. In my early twenties, when I played football and ran a lot more often there was a lot less flab and some definite abs and even now I don’t exactly look like I might be 7 months pregnant. But there is a belly. And, try as I might to reason with myself about age, lifestyle and the stress of work, it really bothers me. Having spent most of my life worrying about being underweight I never thought I’d have a belly, especially as I’m still probably underweight! But it’s definitely there. And because it’s so unexpected I think I overplay its importance and worry about it far more than is healthy or even reasonable.

Nowadays, for the style conscious middle aged man, having a belly is a bit of problem whether it bothers you or not. You see, clothes are a lot closer fitting. Everything you look at is available in ‘slim fit’ and some even in ‘skinny’ fit. Style wise this is great. I can remember the 80s and 90s when clothes would literally hang off me and so now, when things actually fit properly, it’s much better. But things fit everywhere. So any slim fitting t-shirts that I might buy are sure to hug. But they can’t hug my belly. Not enough to actually hug it away. And so I find myself feeling self conscious a lot more. About four months ago my wife bought me an expensive compression top which I could wear while out running, but when I put it on I was appalled. It’s incredibly tight fitting, but despite its quality it couldn’t contain my belly and looking at myself in the mirror, I felt ridiculous. Needless to say it went back in the wardrobe and it’s only appeared in public in the last week or so.

In truth, I find that I try to hold my stomach in these days. On holiday, or if we go swimming it’s a conscious decision. While I have no real problem with the scar on my chest anymore, I now feel self conscious about a paunch that my wife assures me isn’t really there. I find myself walking around just that little bit more tense and sucking in the belly. I’m not trying to impress anyone. I’m not kidding myself that women (or men, the cheeky devils) may still cast a glance in my direction. But I do try to hold my belly in when I remember. I don’t want to feel like I’m being judged and I don’t want to feel like my nearest and dearest are quietly thinking, ‘he’s let himself go’.

On the belly front I’ve tried various things to help out. Sit ups, weights, running, walking, cutting back on certain foods like chocolate, crisps and beer, but I simply don’t seem to have the long term will power to make a difference. When I was exercising regularly and for a more significant and sustained amount of time it did make a difference and you could actually see the beginnings of a six-pack. But nobody’s impressed by a two-pack, least of all because actually divulging such information makes it sound like all you’re actually doing is informing them that you’ve got testicles. Even something as simple as a mere glance at my name tells you that there’s a fair chance I’ve got them anyway. And so, the exercise and the food sacrifice went south…a little bit like my belly.

With body image in mind, I’m currently trying to be much more disciplined about what I eat and drink. As lots of you will be aware I had a health scare last year and while I wouldn’t say it had a profound effect, it did make me think about my choices in terms of food and exercise. I’ve never been a big drinker, but for the last 6 months or so I’ve managed to restrict beer consumption to at the most 3 times a week. And even then it’s very rare that I’ll ever have more than one drink.

I’ve almost completely cut out crisps, which have always been my nemesis in terms of fighting the flab. Crisps have always had a heroin-like pull on me and I could eat them all day and still not have had enough. Even the thought of them makes me kind of wistful! The box of chocolate biscuits that used to reside in my desk draw at work has also now gone and has been replaced by two bananas a day. And even as I type I’m munching on my most recent dietary addition – a small daily tub containing pumpkin seeds, cashews and macadamia nuts.

But am I only kidding myself? Despite my size I’ve always loved my food and I live in constant fear of some kind of relapse. Walking around Asda on a Saturday morning can feel like some kind of purgatory as I try to avoid aisle after aisle of delicious fatty rollbacks! In fact, I can’t even walk down the biscuit or crisp aisles anymore, which I suppose is some display of discipline, however sad it might seem. Such is the hold that body image can have though. And it must be the same for thousands of middle aged men. We’re at a certain age; our bodies simply can’t exercise enough anymore and years and years of sampling various foods has led to this – a belly that suggests that you might just be about to go into labour.

And then there’s man boobs, or moobs as we’ve christened them for short. I can’t lie; I’ve spent a lifetime in love with lady bumps, but I’ve never actually wanted a pair myself. And it’s so far so good on this front, but I worry that it’s only a matter of time. While I don’t have impressive pecs, I do have something that actually resembles a masculine and muscular chest (small, but definitely made of muscle, all the same) and the thought that this could turn into something resembling snooker balls in a sock dangling from my chest area terrifies me. Because if slim fitting shirts and t-shirts bother me now, imagine how I’m going to feel if I develop moobs! Consequently, I don’t think I’ve ever been more serious about exercise!

As a middle aged man I’ve started to worry about lots of different aspects of my body. One of the more unusual aspects that I’ve begun to consider is the state of my backside. And no, I’m not about to reveal that I’ve got piles or anything like that. I’ve written some awkward paragraphs in my time on this blog, but the piles paragraph simply won’t be one of them. For one, thankfully middle age hasn’t brought that particular horror and for another thing, I don’t think I’d ever write about it if it had happened. I want to be sure that people can still look me in the eye if need be.

In fact, and almost as embarrassingly, what I worry about in an arse sense is actually whether or not it’s still pert. Yes, you read that right. As a slim fella I’ve always had a small bum. Pert too. But recently it occurred to me that, given my age, this might not be so anymore. I’ve even gone as far as checking it out. Not in an obsessive way, but briefly having a quick glance in the mirror. Thankfully, it’s not threatening to start hanging behind my knees or anything like that, so for the time being I’m fairly pleased. But of all the things I thought may concern me as I got older, this wasn’t one.

I think it says a lot about body image that as a man in my forties I’m concerned about having a saggy arse and it made me wonder if this is the kind of thing that other middle aged men worry about. I couldn’t bring myself to ask though. I mean, if it’s not considered wholly masculine to worry too much about your body shape, then I’m sure I’d be derided for asking that kind of question of any of my mates. However lads, if any of you have any concerns or have conducted any of your own personal market research, then I’m happy to talk. We could make a night of it – a proper boys’ night with some takeaway, a nice bottle of wine, candlight and a romcom. You know where I am…

Gaining grey hair was a sign that middle age was approaching. However, what sealed the deal with middle age, and simultaneously started me worrying was when I noticed that it wasn’t just the hair on my head that was changing colour; my chest hair was also going grey…and white in some places. I can’t lie…I began to pluck. And I kept on plucking. This was a visible sign of my body’s failure and its obvious lack of youth and I hated it with a passion. I’m not young enough in my outlook to think that shaving my chest is OK. That’s for a different, weirder generation. For me chest hair is cool and it made me feel decidedly masculine. But grey chest hair? This was calamitous. But the more I envisaged it this way, the worse it got. I seemed to be forever spotting new grey and as a result, forever plucking. In turn, my worry grew more. I didn’t want to be old!

In the end a combination of being unable to keep up with their growth and a gradual acceptance that I couldn’t win helped me relax. Nowadays I’m comfortable with it and in actual fact, this metamorphosis has slowed. I only really have a small patch of grey and white on my chest and the rest, perhaps due to my more relaxed attitude, has remained resolutely black. So while I have I kind of Cruella de Ville look going on with my chest, it’s not up there with the belly in terms of how it dominates my life. In terms of my body image and my ‘dad bod’, it’s OK.

The final area that concerns me more and more with my middle age is what it’s doing to my skin. Specifically, my face. I’m getting wrinkles. Not loads. I don’t yet look like I’m made of leather, but there are definite wrinkles and again it’s a concern. Vanity plays its part here. I think it’s widely accepted that men age better than women in general and they’re certainly not judged by how they look as they get older in anything like the way that women are. But I can’t shake the worry of wrinkles. I don’t see that wrinkles may make me look more dignified, full of character or interesting; I just see age catching up with me.

I’ve tried to combat this particular body image worry for years. I’ve used moisturiser for some time now in order to keep my skin looking at the very least acceptable. But even that is a balancing act. While vanity tugs at me urgently to look after my skin and not worry about what people might think should they find out about me using moisturiser, some misguided sense of masculinity tells me I’m committing some kind of crime against manhood. You see, where I’m from – and my dad and many uncles will back me up on this, once they’ve gotten over the shock of my skincare revelation – men don’t put cream on their face. And all joking aside, I think I’m from an era where lots of my peers probably don’t see it as normal either. And thus, although I use moisturiser to try and keep age at bay at bit, I don’t use it anywhere near enough for fear that I might just turn into a girl or something!

As someone who’s regularly been told that he doesn’t look his age, actual middle age has come as quite a shock and body image, something that’s always been quite an issue for me, has crept more and more into my thinking. I’m not prepared to accept my fate though. The idea of a ‘dad bod’ is fine, but let it happen to someone else’s dad. The belly can wait, as can the moobs and I’ll keep kidding myself that people – not just women, but people, after all I’m a modern man – are checking out my pert little behind. I don’t think I mind being objectified (or at least telling myself I’m being objectified), but I’m damned if I’m not going to fight middle age all the way!

My FitBit Revolution

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

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

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

‘It also meant I could set goals…’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Personally I found it soul destroyingly embarrassing…’

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

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

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

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.

Bling. Watch the point of it all?

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?

Honesty’s the best policy? Maybe not when you’re a dad!

All through our lives we’re told that honesty is the best policy. Your parents are the first to tell you this, followed by any number of well-meaning adults. Teachers, religious leaders, youth workers, police officers, neighbours, aunts, uncles, and pretty much any adult you encounter will tell you the same; it’s best to tell the truth.

However, when you grow up the boundaries start to shift. Take the process of applying for jobs for instance. You might find that honesty actually makes you the dullest possible candidate. So you add the odd interest or experience to your CV or your answers in an interview so that you shine that little bit brighter. In short, you lie. You know the type of thing. You might pick an obscure martial art and claim to practice it, adding that perhaps it might come in handy in your job. Tai Chi or something like that.

In trying to become closer to the girl or boy of your dreams you might find, again, that honesty might not make you that attractive. He or she might not see your full potential as a lover or life partner if you tell them that, actually, the furthest you’ve travelled is Cleethorpes, you haven’t really given any thought to ambitions or that you don’t really have any interests. So you might combine these type of things and spout forth at great length about your dream of taking a gap year and travelling the world. Because, of course being confined to the toilet in your Far East hostel as you gradually make the air funkier and funkier is a truly endearing image and undoubtedly the stuff that dreams, and partners, are made of. If only you had someone to share this passion with…

“Lying to your kids is pretty much what the first chapter of the Dad Manual is devoted to.”

As a dad I’ve found that telling lies is more or less essential. Two words: Santa Claus. A few more: The Tooth Fairy. You see what I mean? Lying to your kids is pretty much what the first chapter of the Dad Manual is devoted to. Then you get to the interesting stuff like Dad Jokes and Dad Magic. I mean, who knew you could produce a coin out of a kid’s ear just by becoming a dad? And did you even realise just how funny you were until you had kids?

Over the years I’ve told many, many lies to my kids. All harmless stuff, but lies all the same. I’ve dated supermodels (believable, I know), I can speak Spanish (hola), I’m a trained street dancer (if you’ve seen me move the only surprise here is that I haven’t claimed to have been Patrick Swayze’s dance coach for Dirty Dancing, because I think it’s plain to see that his character may well have been modelled on me), I can make a block of sugar hover on the top of a cappuccino by using magic (my son was genuinely upset when he found out that this wasn’t magic, just the sugar floating for a while on the froth), I was in the SAS (I’m certainly one mean looking hombre, that’s for sure) and whenever we visited a particular theme park when my kids were younger I would delight in telling them that we were visiting the power station with the massive cooling towers that we had to pass on the way there. This was a lie which they fell for, literally every time.

“I became Gregg Wallace and my daughter faced up to her very own Masterchef final.”

So when my daughter decided that she was going to cook the family tea recently, it became a true test of whether or not honesty really is the best policy. My daughter is 12 and in Year 8 of High School. She’s learning to cook, amongst other things. And we we’re putting her cooking to the test because my wife, in her wisdom, had agreed that we’d eat my daughter’s spaghetti Bolognese for tea. My idea of freezing it and letting the kids have it for teas when we’re at work was rejected so that we could all put it to the taste test. So I became, Gregg Wallace and my daughter faced up to her very own Masterchef final.

Now there wasn’t a lot to this particular spaghetti Bolognese. A supermarket bought Bolognese sauce, some spaghetti, an onion, a handful of mushrooms and some lean beef mince. What could possibly go wrong? Well, as it turned out quite a lot.

“…I’m quite a picky eater…”

On the day in question I’d been thinking about this Bolognese, sporadically, all day. It was something that genuinely terrified me for several reasons. Firstly, I’m quite a picky eater – I don’t like onions and I’ve never liked beef. I genuinely don’t get the fuss about beef at all. To me, it’s just really bland. Bland and very forgettable. But I’ll tolerate sometimes it so that the beef lovers in the house get to chow down on cow. So the fact that this was a Bolognese made with beef mince immediately troubled me and deep down, I already knew that I wasn’t really going to enjoy this meal. Obviously this worried me, because I knew that my little girl would be desperate to impress. However, I also knew that she’d be bright enough to recognise that it was never going to be a favourite with dad.

I’m also not a fan of too much sauce on pasta (fussy and a little bit juvenile, I know, I probably need to grow up) and having looked at the pile of ingredients on the kitchen table I imagined that I was going to get a mansize dollop of the stuff all over my spaghetti. Protesting simply wouldn’t cut the mustard (applause for the cookery based pun, please) with my wife who thinks I’m just being fussy and juvenile and that I need to grow up.

“…a curry, a Mexican, something with a lot of garlic…”

On the night in question I wandered into the kitchen as my wife was dishing up our tea. Where usually the downstairs of the house will be filled with the wonderful aroma of whatever’s cooking, tonight there was just a strange nothingness. Usually the smell of what’s cooking will be mouth-watering, – a curry, some Mexican, something with a lot of garlic – but tonight no such aroma existed and as a consequence my mouth was unusually dry. This was not a good sign at all. My enthusiasm waned with each passing second and it looked like my dad lying skills would be put firmly to the test here. In fact, I was going to probably have to employ some advanced level Dad lies.

A look at what appeared on my plate only confirmed my fears. Dollop after dollop of a sauce that seemed to have had all the fun sucked out of it by the power of beef. And as I looked closer it just seemed to get worse. Onion. Great big chunks of onion. I knew that this was going to crunch in my mouth and I knew that eating this Bolognese was going to be a bit of a trial. For me, crunch is fine…in a packet of crisps. This is ironic as I imagine a packet of crisps is exactly what I’d go looking for later on, when the kids had gone to bed and I was hungry due to lack of tea! As I continued to stare I felt sure that all the red was draining away from the plate and I was left contemplating a distinctly grey Bolognese. I knew, however, that the more I stared, the more conscious my daughter could be of me not eating. There was nothing for it but to tuck right in!

“This was a forkful and then some.”

Now every fibre of my being, every sinew, wanted to sift out some of the stuff in the sauce. Let’s just nudge that onion to one side and smear some of that mince a little across the plate. I had to show enthusiasm though. I had to lie. So I gripped my fork, said a silent prayer and I dug in. Right in. Inner than in. As I lifted the fork towards my mouth I could immediately see that I’d overdone the enthusiasm. This was a forkful and then some. A forkful that could have probably become a mouthful for at least two of the people sat around the table. But I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t fake a wobbly hand and drop some. I knew that my daughter was watching and that she’d been waiting for this moment, not just all day, but for the last few days. She’d been genuinely excited by making a Bolognese and providing tea for the family, which was lovely. Meanwhile, I had been dreading it! I mean, who is actually the adult here?

As the first part of the food hit my tastebuds, I realised that the adult was definitely not me. That said, I faked a smile, let out a big beaming ‘Mmmmm’ of satisfaction and resolved to chew. Just chew. I’m her dad and if I can’t – in her eyes at least – enjoy her cookery skills, then who can. No really, who can?

After what seemed like an eternity I was still chewing. That enormous first mouthful just wouldn’t go away. My teeth seemed to be bouncing off the mince and the crunch of the onions was worse than I could have ever expected. I just kept ‘Mmmmming’. This seemed like a good course of action.

“How can you get a Spag Bol wrong?”

Finally that first mouthful was gone, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. Actually, I could, but it would have been in no way complimentary or encouraging. I realised that I should just Dad lie and move on, but I couldn’t. And this was not the time for blurting out something along the lines of ‘How can you get a Spag Bol wrong?’, ‘Does anyone fancy KFC?’ or anything worse. So in the spirit of keeping my mouth shut – which is a valuable lesson that, I must admit, mainly women have taught me over the years – I stuffed another forkful in and gave myself time to think. More chewing. More bouncing. More onions. Still no flavour though.

Suddenly, just as I was swallowing the latest tasteless morsel, I had a thought. A moment of blinding inspiration. I knew exactly what I was going to say and do. And so I said and did it.

*Turns to the right. Looks daughter in the eye. Taps daughter on the back of the head while she’s trying to eat*, “Not bad that, kid.”

It’s official. I am my dad. I’d just searched high and low through my mind for something inspirational to say to my 12 year-old after she’d made us tea and there it was. A bit of a slap to the back of the head and a “Not bad”. Dad of The Year stuff, I’m sure you’ll agree. Imagine how great she must have felt hearing this. Imagine the warm glow that would shoot through her. All the trouble she’d gone to must have seemed totally worth it now because Dad told her that her Bolognese was “not bad”. Not good. Not delicious. Not smashing or tasty or even plain old nice. Just “not bad”.

“I could have critiqued her, told her that the beef was greasy and chewy…”

However, as the title of the article might suggest, I surely hadn’t done the wrong thing here either. In a world where no child is allowed to lose anymore and every kid, ever, is praised for simply turning up, I’d not given my kid a negative. I’d toed the party line. And I hadn’t lied, much. I’d protected her, just as a dad should. I could have critiqued her, told her that the beef was greasy and chewy, the onions not to my liking and that I was waiting patiently, but without hope for the moment that I’d really be able to taste something. But I didn’t. In fact, rather than a pre-prepared lie and an easily uttered “delicious”, I’d given my response some thought. Two almighty forkfuls worth of thought, in fact. And I’d argue that my honest, if uninspired “not bad” was better than your ‘it doesn’t matter how bad it is I’m going to force it down and tell her it’s “delicious”‘. My daughter now has something to aim for, while you’re just getting more of the same ‘delicious’ food next week.

As it turns out, I didn’t finish my tea. My Spaghetti Bolognese – mainly great big crunchy chunks of onion – was later scraped off into the bin. No one really enjoyed it, not even my daughter, the chef. She ended up having a little cry, but she was supported, cuddled, loved and told that it was OK. I didn’t tell her that I was going to the chippy once she’d gone to bed either. If I’d told her the lie that it was amazing or delicious, I still wouldn’t have finished, prompting the bigger lie that it was simply because I was full up. There was no Masterchef style critique, no stinging remarks about flavour combinations or presentation. Just advice. Keep trying, don’t worry, that kind of thing. She didn’t even have to do the washing up!

The week after she made chicken kebabs. They really were “not bad”. Certainly better than the Bolognese. I held back on the happy slapping though; there’s only so much enthusiasm a bloke can muster after a day at work. There were no tears and less lies though. Our plates were cleaner too, which in itself was a glowing tribute, and an avoidance of the lie that our tea was ‘delicious’. So we all learnt something. My daughter learnt that value of being honest. and me? Well, I learnt that honesty really isn’t always the best policy when you’re a parent.

Despite my age, I can’t explain… (Part 1 of an occasional series)

As a person gets older it’s widely accepted that they get wiser. It stands to reason, yes? You read more, watch more and simply experience more and all the while you’re like a little owl, made entirely out of sponge, just soaking up the good stuff. Because with age comes wisdom, right?

Wrong. Well wrong in my case, anyway. For me there’s an uncomfortable amount that leaves me wondering exactly what it’s all about. And it takes up an equally uncomfortable amount of my time.

That said, I feel fairly confident that lots of people will share my idea that there are just some things that you’re always going to be unable to get your head around. I mean, who among us can explain the popularity of creatures like Gemma Collins? Exactly.

“I’m a husband, father, son, teacher, graduate and generally something of a man of the world.”

I think we’ve established that in my case middle age has caused me to question quite a bit about myself. If you haven’t, scroll down past this blog and it’s all there. |There’s pictures if you get bored and it’s mildly amusing too. However, having put quite a bit of thought into it I’ve come to realise that there’s a great deal of stuff that defies any wisdom that I’ve managed to pick up along the way. I’m a husband, father, son, teacher, graduate and generally something of a man of the world. Stop sniggering. I’m kind of a big deal and yet I still find myself waiting for the wisdom that allows me to crack many a knowledge nugget. So let’s start episode one of another occasional series.

I’ll start with one that I know will prove controversial, especially here in Yorkshire. But here we go – I just don’t understand Rugby League. I’m not mocking it – each to their own. But I just don’t get it. I can watch it and to some extent feel entertained. But just when I feel like I understand it a question will pop into my head. I question why, if as I’m told, it’s a proper sport and a real man’s sport, does it attract so few supporters? The average attendance for the 2018 season of Soooooper League was just 8547. Surely it can’t be that good then? Also, if I do watch, I can’t get over the fact that it seems that every few seconds blokes just run into each other. Furthermore, the rule states that the ball can’t be passed forward, but to me it looks like it’s going forward on an almost constant basis. And given my feelings about being tactile, well I’m sorry, but there’s just a little bit too much groping going on. It’s less a sport and more like the scenes outside a nightclub at closing time when I was in my youth. In fact, the more I think about it the more it becomes like wrestling with added ball. And it’s not even a proper ball.

But it’s OK, rugby league fans. Here’s a little treat just for you. The next thing that, despite my years, I just don’t understand is Rugby Union. Again, I know this might prove controversial with some. In fact, my views on old rugbo have left some apoplectic in the past, which has only served to make me worse, I must admit. So in not understanding rugby union, you could say that I fail to understand maturity as well. It can’t be helped though – it really is a hilarious sport.

Let’s begin, again, with attendances. In the 2017-18 Rugby Union Premiership the average attendance was a mighty 14,165. So again, real sport, man’s sport etc, etc. Why does hardly anyone bother watching it then? And are you allowed to even attend if you don’t have, a) a Range Rover b) a faux agricultural flat-cap c) a wax jacket d) one of those old wicker picnic baskets and a tartan rug?

The hilarity really starts though, when you look at the game itself. Same excuse for a ball, same propensity (in my opinion) to pass it forward regardless. Then there’s the well rehearsed argument that we football fans always hear about rugby union. Get this – the players all call the ref ‘sir’. And they don’t backchat. Or swear. And they all love their mums. Thoroughly decent chaps. Just don’t mention eye gouging. Or having to drink your own urine from the local viscount’s welly. I don’t get it. I don’t care what you call the ref. I don’t care that they listen politely. If they’re that nice and well-mannered, then why is he having to speak to them in the first place? I’ll tell you why. Invariably it’s because Tristran has punched Spencer sqaure in the face again. Or because the heir to the Dukedom of Gloucester has just stuck his thumb up the arse of Prince Edward’s butler. Probably.

“Can we sing a song now, sir?”

And then there’s line-outs. We all line up while one of the ‘guys’ chucks the ball towards us. Then we lift another one of the ‘guys’ really high so he can catch it, only one of the guys from the other team might catch it. Oh, the jeopardy! And then, once somebody’s caught it, we all fall on top of each other. Any excuse for a roll around in the mud, which is great because soon there’ll be another excuse for a muddy fumble when the ref calls Scrum. Scrum, sir? Yes, sir. Grab Boselion-Smyth’s testicles, sir? Of course, sir! What’s that, now we all link arms, sir? Is there a hearty song to be sung, sir? No, sir? And I stick my head between Mortimer’s legs, sir? Rest his scrotum on the back of my neck, sir? Aah, brings back memories of boarding school. Can we sing a song now, sir? No, sir? Shall we just push each other until we all fall into a heap in the mud, sir? Jolly good, sir! Tally-ho, chaps!

Word for word that, as well. Obviously you have to be a lot cleverer than me to understand rugby. Or maybe I’m just not a real man? Perish the thought.

So what else, despite my years, is still beyond me? Well, salad for one thing. People say that when it’s summer I should be eating salad. Why? Why will leaves cool me down? Why will some radish hit the spot just because the weather’s nice? I’m really not a fan of cold food anyway. We didn’t have a lot of money when I was growing up, but we had enough for a cooker and a microwave. Both of which made cold food not only hot, but edible. Everything tastes better hot.

“I do actually eat the odd salad.”

But the appeal of leaves is beyond me, hot or cold. I thought they were more for hedgehogs to be fair. I’m not against them per se. I do actually eat the odd salad. But they do nothing for me and therefore, I feel quite justified in saying that I just don’t understand salad. When people tell me that lettuce is delicious I just tend to think they’ve temporarily lost their mind. Or that their taste buds have shut down for the day. Or that if they went on ‘Who Do You Think You Are’ they’d inevitably find that they were descended from a long line of rabbits. Lettuce is just crunchy water. Cucumber’s the same. Absolutely pointless. I could live to be 150 and I still wouldn’t understand salad. Although I’d probably have to eat a it more of it to reach such an age.

Moving on, I’m going to bring things right into the 21st Century. Something that is both really popular and completely beyond any wisdom I might have is Snapchat. Firstly, the whole point of it seems pointless. You post a photo that won’t last. Why? But before you post it you can do the thing that I really don’t understand. You can put zany filters on it. That’s right kids! Ever imagined what you’d look like as a dog or even an animal who’s identity is a little unclear, but narrowed down by the presence of whiskers? Crack on, then. But before you post it – for a few seconds – why not put another filter on it so that you look just like you’ve smeared Vaseline over your face? Or maybe you could change the crazy filter so that you look like a cat, or a hamster. You could strecth your face…or squash it. The squashy face one seems particularly popular and yet if I walk up to a friend and squish their cheeks in a bit of a choochy face thing, that’s harrassment. Yep, I don’t get it. I’m sure this makes me more old age fanclub than middle age fanclub to some, but I don’t care. The whole thing simply makes no sense. Those of you who have read one of my earlier blogs might recall how for a long time I didn’t understand Facebook though, so maybe I’m the problem here and not Snapchat.

“…at one point I remove my hands from the steering wheel…”

Imagine that one day I gave you a lift. It doesn’t matter where. I gave you a lift and along the way I drove my car at the kind of speed that made you feel decidedly uncomfortable. I threw it round tight corners, swept around in long arcing u-turns and then drove us down a hill – again at break-neck velocity – that seemed damn near vertical. Oh, and at one point I removed my hands from the steering wheel and threw both arms in the air, whooping like I scored the winning goal in the cup final or had just won the lottery, while displaying the kind of facial expression one might associate with a mad man. Not the best car journey you’ve ever had, right? You wouldn’t be accepting another lift again any time soon. So explain to me the attraction of rollercoasters.

Despite my age, despite my travels, despite visiting several theme parks and even partaking, regretfully, in some of said experiences, I just don’t understand the appeal of rollercoasters. I don’t think I ever will.

“This was The Hoppings.”

Part of this lack of understanding could well be put down to chunks of my childhood spent around a far more rudimentary type of thrill-seeking than what we see today. Let me explain. In Newcastle, growing up, one of the highlights of the summer was the visit of a travelling fair; The Hoppings. Now this should conjure up images of the pastoral – village life, communities enjoying themselves, human harmony with a certain rustic charm and innocence. Well, might I suggest you get rid of that image, sharpish. Imagine a cross between scrap yard with rides and a particularly vicious open prison, where hundreds of teenagers and young adults would roam, snarling and scowling at each other, as well as often getting into fights. Imagine a place where rides existed, but the notion of health & safety didn’t. This was The Hoppings. Every year, I’d go and every year I’d have forgotten how terrifying it was. I won’t go into great detail, but in short, this wasn’t a place to be trusted and I’ve never understood the popular fashion of risking your life for around a minute of being thrown around while you scream at top volume. Call me old-fashioned, but I’ve always associated screams with pain.

And so it was that I grew into an adult who, despite the freedom to travel and indulge in whatever pleasures I chose, would never understand rollercoasters and other ‘fun’ of this ilk. My wife and my children, on the other hand, are confirmed thrill-seekers, but it’s roundly accepted that I’m much more a confirmed coat holder. I’ve visited several theme parks and am more than happy to sit out the adrenaline rush. That’s not to say that I haven’t sampled some of the rides, however. It’s not blind ignorance driving this. I’ve been brave and I’ve summoned my pioneering spirit in order to either prove something to myself or simply not spoil other people’s enjoyment. Yet, every time I do, I’m left with a mixture of bewilderment and terror. I don’t understand rollercoasters. I don’t understand the ‘thrill’. How can the feeling that you may die be in any way thrilling? How can being turned upside down and sent hurtling down a ridiculously steep hill be a thrill? No, sorry, despite my years, you’ve lost me with rollercoasters.

I’ve been a massive fan of music for as long as I can remember. My parents played me The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Mamas and Papas, Dionne Warwick, Johnny Mathis, Rod Stewart and loads more and from there a love of music was born. I was an avid viewer of Top of The Pops from an early age, soon developing my own tastes for artists such as Adam and The Ants, Duran Duran, The Jam and loads more. As I got older, my tastes broadened and I listened to an eclectic mix of music, collecting tapes and vinyl as I went. As a young man I fell in love with first The Stone Roses and later Oasis and Blur and entering middle age my tastes have continued to broaden. So if anyone can explain the appeal of either Ed Sheeran or Mumford and Sons, I’d gladly listen.

“I’m not knocking anyone for enjoying what he does.”

Sheeran and Mumford and have sold untold millions of records (although I realise that nowadays that no one buys music and it’s actually only views and streams that count). Both leave me cold. I can stomach Sheeran despite how bland at all is. His music simply passes through me, like a bad pint. And I’m not knocking anyone for enjoying what he does. Friends and family tell me he’s great and that’s an opinion that they’re completely free to hold. But they’re wrong. I don’t care about his Galway girl or his Lego house and if he’s thinking out loud, then you can bet I’m not listening. On top of it all, he has the look of a ginger potato. Despite my years, I simply don’t understand young Sheeran and his appeal.

Mumford and Sons however, are even more of a puzzle to me. What I like to call, ‘another level of Eh?’ A riddle, wrapped in a puzzle, coated in a conundrum and deep fried in bemusement. There can be no other verdict than the undeniable fact that they are shite. Two paragraphs ago I stated that I’d gladly listen to people’s explanations of them: I’d like to retract that. Mumford and Sons are not only beyond my comprehension, they’re beyond explanation. I’m no officianado, but when a band are not only exclusively made up members of the landed gentry, but all called things like Rufus and Hugo, you and I shouldn’t be listening. We should be actively protesting against them. So enough, of this; I’m off to make a placard. ‘What do we want! Mumford OUT! When do we want it? FIVE YEARS AGO!’

The final thing that I don’t understand, and the thing that actually prompted this particular blog is a little bit left field. Gregg Wallace’s smile on Masterchef. Or, given that he’s not a totally seperate entity when he’s away from that show, just Gregg Wallace’s smile.

“I’m not here to mock him or to get a few cheap laughs.”

Now, don’t get me wrong with this one. This isn’t a cheap shot at Gregg Wallace, who you could describe as a bit of an easy target. Despite certain things I’ve read – the ‘Greg?’ tweet to the army veteran stands out and he seems to be regularly annoying young women – I’ve got no problem with him. I’ve watched him on Masterchef and other programmes and he seems OK to me. And in terms of his smile, I’m not here to mock him or to get a few cheap laughs. I’m really not a fan of my own smile and regularly have to make myself laugh for the camera in order to not spoil family photographs. I genuinely feel like the bloke who forgot how to smile. So, I have no reason to start mocking Mr Wallace and his grin. I just don’t understand it.

Gregg Wallace’s smile is just a bit weird. In fact, it’s a lot weird. I’m sure it’s a genuine expression of joy and happiness, but is anyone’s smile meant to take up half of their face? Gregg’s does. Not only that, but his smile makes his shoulders scrunch right up and his eyes shrink, like he’s got terrible cramp. And let’s get this straight; he’s smiling, not laughing. His smile could mark him out as some kind of evil genius – it’s the smile of a deranged Bond villain, as far as I can see. When he smiles his knees seem to buckle and he visibly bends. It’s like that bit in old cartoons where the character takes the ‘villain potion’ and then starts to change dramatically, frame by frame and in overly jerky movements, into something green and evil looking.

“…you cannot unsee Gregg’s smile.”

I’ve watched on Masterchef as a contestant tells him what it is they’re cooking and Gregg will react by telling them something typically non committal like ‘Good luck’ and then positively explode into the kind of smile that might indicate he’s lost control of all bodily functions. It’s effortless, while in fact employing seemingly every fibre of his being and I’m fascinated. Gregg Wallace’s smile is like a dance move. I have to really concentrate in order to smile. I dread having my photograph taken and have often, on the quiet, been known to practice smiling in my bathroom mirror, such is my hatred of what it does to my face. Gregg Wallace’s smile though, is nothing short of a tour de force, like no smile you’ll ever see again. In fact, I’m sure that scientists, really clever ones as well, would confirm that once you’ve seen it you cannot unsee Gregg’s smile. It will never be forgotten and will in fact erase something really useful from your mind in order to just sit there and crop up for you from time to time.

Gregg Wallace’s smile is less smile and more chemical reaction and despite my advancing years, my descent into middle age and my many moons of learning, I simply don’t understand it.

So there we have it. Turns out I did grow older, but didn’t manage to acquire that much wisdom. Not enough to stop me wandering around daily, pondering the kind of things you ‘ve just read about. And certainly not enough to be able to explain Mumford and Sons, rollercoasters or the bloke off Masterchef’s mega-smile without my head hurting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fatherhood: falling into the traps I swore I’d avoid.

A little over 12 years ago I became a father. This was something that left me very excited indeed. It was the pinnacle of any achievements I might have had (although I’ll be honest, it didn’t have a great deal of competition). I enjoyed it so much that I did it again a few years after. Again, it felt incredible. It was no less joyful second time round and as expected, fatherhood has given me memories that I’ll take to the grave.

So why do I feel so disappointed in myself as a dad?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not looking for sympathy here and I’m certainly not claiming that I’m a terrible dad. This is not, in any way, a cry for help. We don’t need to increase the hugs. In truth, I’d bet that there are countless dads (and mams/mums/moms) who feel exactly the same as me. Deep down, I know that I’m doing a decent job. I’m there for my children, I try to always set them the best examples and, along with my wife, I’m determined that we create memories for them that they’ll cherish and take into adulthood. I’d like to think I’m preparing them pretty well for the real world.

But the truth is that I find fatherhood a genuinely frustrating job. It seems like the harder I work at it the more frustrated I get. I was going to be a natural. A fantastic father. The don of the dads. The toppermost of the popermost. You get the picture. (If you don’t, tough. I’ve ran out of alliteration). However, despite the best of intentions, it’s rare that I ever really actually feel like this.

‘Me and my kids would inevitably connect – I’d worship them and vice versa’

I love kids. Always did. Funny little people with boundless energy and a unique take on things. It’s a cliché, but a lot of the time I felt like me and kids were singing from the same hymn sheet, intellectually. And so, when I had my own, although I knew it was going to be hard, I felt pretty much over-qualified for the role. Me and my kids would inevitably connect – I’d worship them and vice versa. We’d have fun, we’d learn together, we’d laugh, we’d snuggle up and feel safe and loved and we’d explore the world together. And we’ve done all of these things. But I still feel – and it’s probably every day – that I’m getting it all terribly wrong.

There are a number of things about fatherhood that I think I’m bad at. For a start, I wanted to be patience personified as a dad. I understood that kids would test my patience like perhaps nothing else, but I felt prepared for that. In 2006, when I first became a dad, I’d been working with kids for 5 years. Older kids and other people’s kids, but kids all the same. So I thought I’d probably had my patience tested to its limits. Believe me, if you can listen to a thirty teenagers reading Shakespeare and not explode, you imagine you’ve got patience in spades! So what is it about my own kids that makes me so impatient? If I ask them to do a job – say helping me pick the leaves up off the garden – it’s only a matter of seconds before I hear myself snapping, ‘Oh, I’ll do it myself!’ It’s ridiculous! Rational me realises that they’ll drop some leaves before they get to the garden bin, but grumpy dad just cannot help himself. And what does any of it matter? They’re 12 & 9, of course they’re going to make mistakes. In fact, face it; they’ll be bloody awful at absolutely loads of things. I’m decidedly middle-aged and God knows I lack talent in a myriad of areas. So why can’t I accept it in the two miniature humans that I helped to produce?

So promise number one to my kids – this member of the Middle Age Fanclub will work on his patience. Drop the leaves, it’s fine. Mind you, pick the things up afterwards though. All of them. And quickly!

‘…it really feels like I’m not enjoying what should be the most precious moments with my two most precious little people.’

Perhaps the best thing about having kids is the sheer enjoyment of many of the things that you’ll do with them. And yet, I fear I don’t enjoy my kids anywhere near enough. I have moments of dancing around the kitchen with one of them or snuggling up and watching bad telly with them where I’m fun, loving dad and I’m simply enjoying spending time with them. I’ve baked cakes with them, taken them to the woods to build dens, taken them walking in streams, dressed up for their fancy dress themed birthday parties amongst other things. But I fear that those moments have been few and far between and that when my children look back on their childhood they’ll come to the heart-breaking realisation that it just wasn’t that good when it involved dad. Middle age has made me an adult who tries to think far too sensibly and it really feels like I’m not enjoying what should be the most precious moments with my two precious little people. Meanwhile, their mother (my lovely wife) finds it effortlessly easy to act like a ten-year-old with them – signing, dancing, tickling, play-fighting, gaming…you name it and Fun Mum will have been doing it with them!

I coach my son at football and so quite regularly take him to the field where we’ll work on his finishing (and there you have it – read that sentence back and it can’t be long before you’re asking where the fun is; we’ll work on his finishing indeed). All too often during these sessions I find myself frustrated. I called out ‘Right’ and he went left, his 108th shot of the morning trickled into my arms or he went to control the ball and it slid easily under his foot. Afterwards and even as I’m writing this I’m beating myself up – what does it matter? He’s 9! He’s regularly there for an hour, he must be wiped out. He’s doing all of the running while I play in goal, a largely static position, especially if you’re a fully grown adult and your opponent is 9 years old. He, however, NEVER complains!

Promise number two? Much, much more of fun dad. If you’re shot was a bit weak, well at least it was on target. High five, little man! Now let’s go and have a water fight!

Now you wouldn’t know it if you don’t know me very well, but I love a chat. So when I became a dad one of the things I found myself really looking forward to was my kids learning to talk and being able to have a chat. Like I say, funny little people with a unique take on things – our chats would be long and funny and positively enriching. And both of my children have given me immeasurable joy with some of the chats we had when they were toddlers. Seemingly endless questions about how things worked or what something meant that I was able to give them answers that made them happy, or even better, tell them Dad lies and watch as they completely believed what they were told. Again though, reality bites.

‘Why was she reluctant to talk?’

When my daughter first started primary school I looked forward to picking her up and finding out about her day. She, on the other hand, had other ideas. My daughter has rarely given me chapter and verse about her day, meaning our chats have often been over within a minute. At first this worried me. Why was she reluctant to talk? Was she being bullied? Was she profoundly unhappy with the whole concept of school? So, I read bits and pieces in books. Apparently this was perfectly normal – their day is their property and they’re not always too fond of sharing that with others. She was tired too – including Before and After School Club she’d often been there for over 8 hours; she didn’t want to talk, she wanted to watch CBeebies and have something nice to eat. So gradually, I reigned in my expectations and learnt that any response about her day was better than nothing and that we were chatting after all. We could snuggle up and watch telly together and what did it matter that we hadn’t chatted about phonics or throwing beanbags around in PE? Needless to say though, I looked forward to her getting older and less tired and being able to tell me more.

But here’s the rub. She’s got older and the chats are still often fruitless. Initially, she’d tell me more, but as soon as we got through the door of the house she wanted to leave all things school behind. Home meant food, home meant more television and eventually home meant going up to her room to stare at a screen. We’re repeating the process with my son, who although far more chatty is never engrossed enough in conversation to tear himself a way from a screen for too long. To paraphrase Cliff Richard and at the same time confirm my status as very definitely middle aged, ‘It’s not funny, how we don’t talk anymore.’

My third promise has to be then, to listen to them when they do talk. It’s far too easy to tell my kids, ‘I’m busy’ and to complain that ‘We can’t all just be chained to our phones and X-Boxes all day, you know’, so I need to push things aside and make that time for them, regardless of whether I’m ready or not. It won’t be long before we enter moody teenager faze and then they won’t want to talk at all to uncool dad. So now, whether it’s the latest video posted on ‘Like‘ by my daughter or what my son’s killed on Roblox Jail Break, I’ll do my best to listen intently and pull my interested face. Just like being in meetings at work.

‘I’m immensely proud of my two mini humans’

Another area for improvement in my dad skills (dadding?) is probably with something that we all do. My parents certainly did. However, I need to stop comparing my kids unfavourably to other people’s children. I don’t see enough of other people’s kids to have any kind of comprehensive knowledge, so why do I insist on asking mine things like, ‘Why can’t you be (insert particular quality here) like__________________?’ It’s ludicrous. Don’t get me wrong; I’m immensely proud of my two mini humans. They’re both bright, loving, funny little things so why am I bothered that someone else’s child seems to be – on occasion – brighter, lovelier or funnier. After all, is it not my job to nurture all of these positive qualities in them? My daughter must have spent her entire time while in primary school with me and her mum comparing her to her best friend, with us thinking that some of the qualities said best friend had would magically rub off on our darling daughter. I’m now learning that I can be satisfied with my kids, just the way they are. We can work together on making them fully functioning human beings and if that means ignoring some of the negatives, taking a deep breath or walking away for a bit in order to not blow my stack at them, then that’s what I’ll do.

Next promise – leave them be. My children are amazing and probably no more angelic or irritating than most, so from now on (as much as I possibly can) I’ll cherish what’s there in front of me, not give them the impression that they’d be better off being someone else.

The last fatherhood trap that I’ve definitely and shamefully fallen into is in the response I give when I’m questioned on something. It doesn’t really matter what the question is as long as I’ve already issued the order. The question, Why do I have to turn my tablet off/undo the laces on my trainers/eat my mash before my sausages/put my school bag in that particular place/play on the trampoline/not sit in that chair/not sing/not eat my cereal like that, will always, always be met with the same answer. Altogether now, Because I said so! And it’s the response that usually accompanies the ‘No’ to lots of other questions too!

This response used to infuriate me when I was a kid. Often there seemed no good reason for not letting me do stuff and looking back there really was no good reason. I mean, what harm could I come to by venturing into that cottage made entirely out of sweets that we stumbled across in the forest? Yet my dad especially would always tell me it was No, and because I said so. I hear myself saying it now and often can’t fathom why I’m saying it. I even consciously try to stop myself saying and before I know it, whoops there it is! I guess it’s part control and part trying to keep the kids safe. But I’m sure, with my rational dad head on, my kids can be too well controlled and too protected. Because, surely if I said so, I can just as easily unsay so. Common sense says that if I can unsay the odd because I said so my kids will have at least a little more fun, as well as perhaps enjoying being around their dad some more. And anyway, we haven’t even found a cottage made of sweets in our woods.

So the final promise has to be that I’ll think before I speak. They can eat their sausage before their mash, they can keep their tablet on for a little while longer. They probably can’t go and explore the cottage made out of sweets in the woods, if we find it, and there’s no way in the world, that they can take their trainers off without untying the laces either. No crimes against trainers can be allowed in our house.

And there we have it. Whether it’s a hyper-critical look at my dad skills or whether I really am Victorian dad, changes will be made. My son is nine. We share interests – the scene is set for lots more years of dad and son fun, provided I can relax a little more and enjoy what he brings to the world. My daughter is 12; she has precious few years of her childhood left and I’m going to do my absolute damnedest to help her relax her way through them and enjoy things. And why should she be able to relax? Because I said so!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I could have died, you know…’

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

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

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

‘I want to be seen as a nice bloke.’

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

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

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

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

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

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