The Wheel

As the winter sun was setting on another busy Monday, and the early finishers were making their way’s home, Claire was also making her journey back across Stockport. She had been required to make the journey in order to hand deliver some important documents to a solicitor connected with our imminent house move.

The rain was, as usual, a companion for the wanderer, and this was the reason that Claire decided that with a new pushchair in tow, laden with two cherubs, the train would be an efficient means of transport. With the old pushchair that we had, it was impossible to use the train. The width of a double pushchair is slightly wider than the girth of an average-sized fat man, and this is the measurement that Rail companies use in assessing such decisions.

So with a touch of excitement about her, due to the kids experiencing their first train journey, she boarded the choo choo and off they went. The time it takes to put your bags down and unzip the rain cover for the pushchair is roughly the same amount of time as it takes to get from Stockport station to the hamlet of Heaton Chapel. As Claire tried to reach around the chair to open the door, and then try and alight on to the platform through an opening that seemed a lot smaller the second time around, she managed to wedge the front of the pushchair between the edge of the train and the platform. This area is infamously known as the “GAP”.

A little push, a pull, a wiggle, a big push, a slam, and eventually a sideways shimmy made the front wheel come away from the pushchair and drop right down the “GAP”. Claire then finally broke through on to the platform with all of the coolness of the Tasmanian Devil. A little ruffled she ran to the conductor, who was stood at the end of the train, and explained the tragedy in easy to follow syllables. The response to this was a sympathetic shrug, and a comment that she should see the stationmaster. Off the train then went, leaving Claire in the rain, on the platform, with a pushchair balancing on its two back wheels, and an angry disposition.

The wheel could be seen on the track, but was just out of reach. She looked for the stationmaster but inevitably he had already left for the day. He had probably had to go home to lift his mother out of the bath, so that they could continue the jigsaw that they had started the night before.

When Claire finally reached the house, she phoned several numbers to alert someone to the situation, and try and receive some help from the department that helps get things off of tracks for people. Suprisingly, this department does not exist, but a few people recommended that she ring the station at 8 o’clock the next morning.

On my return from work I was informed of the drama, and we decided to write a note to the stationmaster and put it under the door of the station, so that he would see it and rush immediately to the damsel in distress first thing in the morning. We had written our phone number on the note and, when he had rescued the wheel, he could ring us and we would collect it.

The following morning came and the rain was once again tapping at the window as we waited in the kitchen for the phone to ring. I know that you will not be shocked to hear that the phone never rang, but when you are in these situations you would rather believe in humanity and hope, instead of negative cynicism.

At 8 o’clock I decided to go to the station personally and speak to the stationmaster, and hopefully retrieve the wheel that he had probably collected and been too busy too have let us know.

But life seldom turns out the way that you think, and when I did get there the chump behind the ticket desk muttered something about health and safety, and that he wasn’t insured to go on to the tracks. He pointed me towards a timetable that had a customer services number on the back of it, and that maybe they could help.

I picked up the timetable and then walked down on to the platform just to see if I could find it and check that it was still all right. I had images of it being snapped in half and poking out of a bush that ran parallel to the platform. But, as I walked passed about 40 commuters on their way to Manchester, carefully scanning the tracks, I then found it at the end of the platform in perfect condition.

It was just resting on the nearest track, and was teasing me to grab it. I quickly weighed up the hassle that would be involved in having to ring up customer services and explain to them what the problem was, and then wait for them to arrive so that we could collect it from them; and the off chance of getting electrocuted and dying.

I am not an expert on the mechanics of the modern railway; I know a few tricks for fare dodging but technical knowledge has evaded me. So, I quickly asked a girl dressed in a nice business suit if she knew if the first rail was electric, or not. She shrugged, but in her eyes she was thinking who is this mad man that is talking about touching tracks.

A new pushchair wheel was, Claire and I had assumed to be, about £70. I quickly decided that £70 is enough to make me gamble on my own health, and so jumped down into the tracks and flicked the wheel off the rail using a rolled up timetable. I grabbed the wheel and then jumped back up on to the platform.

I was expecting everyone to cheer, and hail the hero that had just fought the system and won. Instead, they all just looked at this suited man jumping on to train tracks and coming back with a pushchair wheel. Their eyes were wary as if I would strike out at any second, or put my tie around my head and roar. I thought it best to just make a quick exit, stage left.

So the moral of this story is don’t drop anything down the “GAP”, when it says “MIND THE GAP” it damn well means it.

Property Ladder 2

I haven’t written an entry in this journal for nearly eight weeks. The reasons are of course endless, and you probably don’t care anyway, but for the record I have been exceptionally busy at work and have also taken my last exam again. It has been a busy time, juggling different aspects of my life simultaneously whilst all reach fever pitch at the same time.

Life tends to spit out these phases where you have to deal with everything at once. It isn’t so bad as long as you prioritise what the most important thing is at that moment and then try to do it to the best of your ability. You hit a snag when, because of the constant effort given to each pursuit, you are so tired that your best ability is still not that effective.

However, that is the reason and now things will resume more normal levels of intensity. At least for this week, because I now have a grand announcement to make… We have sold our house, and finally bought another in the village of Marple Bridge. It is a picturesque 18th century hamlet that has kept its olde world charm, whilst still installing phone lines and traffic lights.

The house we have bought is a humble 4 bedroomed house with views over the neigbouring hills and a garden that backs on to parkland and the River Goyt. We are quite excited to be getting this house, especially as it is out in the sticks in a nice area where there seems to be a real strong sense of community still.

However, it will still be sad to say goodbye to our current house. Heaton Chapel has been good to us over the years, and Claire especially has met a lot of nice people over the last year that all live nearby. But the promise of Marple Bridge will offer the kids a safer, more innocent childhood as we move away from the irritating element that occasionally stray into the “Chapel”. I’m hoping for no more pitched battles outside my house in the future.

We have only just had offers accepted at this stage so there is a myriad of obstacles to still encounter and navigate through, but we are confident that it appears quite straightforward in terms of a chain. I expect that we would be looking to complete at the end of January time 2008.

Enough of the house for the time being, you will hear plenty about this in the near future. A completely different thought occurred to me the other day.

Why do daytime television programmes interview the actors of soaps about the plot that their characters are involved with? I admit that I am not a subscriber of the various soaps on TV; my opinion is that if you want to see real life then turn off your telly and live your own instead. But I can still understand the concept of a soap and the need for people to escape from their own life and absorb themselves in a make believe world.

But what is the point of talking to an actor about their opinion of the, character they plays, destiny in a script that has already been written. It is because of the constant demand that there is for these soaps, that consumers cannot get enough of the people who are now part of their lives. But would it not be a better idea for interviews to be conducted in character, in the set of the soap. This way they can still provide additional material to the market without ruining the illusion of a parallel world. Also, it could provide the actors with more challenging work that would involve them being responsible for ad lib answers in character. Is the world ready for this? Just remember where you heard of it first.

Another idea that I have had will revolutionise the card giving culture of the UK. I don’t mind mentioning it here with the risk of the idea being nabbed and presented in front of Dragon’s Den in a year’s time, but I am asking for 25% of the profits when someone makes millions. But I am going to look in to the Patent possibilities before I unleash it to make sure that it is protected.

The Battle of Britain

Last Friday night was a night like many other Friday nights that are common in the Holley household during these times. The wind was mildly wisping from a south, south-east direction and the darkness had made itself welcome on Manchester Rd. Not the band, but the part of the day that follows the afternoon and early evening. Claire and I had settled the kids to sleep finally, and sat down to watch Jonathan Ross. Claire fell asleep, and eventually at the big hour of midnight that was enough, and like the runner-up of an endurance contest we took ourselves up to bed.

Then, all of a sudden, I was alarmed to hear some raised voices in the street outside. I quickly raced to the window (one step from bed) and looked out at the mystery scene that awaited me. Four blokes walking to the east suddenly turned around and started tracking back towards the west, shouting abuse at an unknown recipient. All of a sudden one broke from the formation, running at the target, and when reaching the target began to knock him over and proceed kicking him on the ground.

It did not look like it was one of these travelling minstrel shows that tour the country putting on impromptu shows for their supper. Nor did it resemble the meeting of two old friends. It looked very similar to a scene taken from the musical “Italia ’90 – The Fans Fight Back”, and this similarity became closer when the three amigos that were a bit slow in the initial confrontation joined in taking on all comers.

Just as I was trying to commentate on the display of one-sided pugilism to Claire, and also thinking how handy it would be to have a red phone that connected me direct to Commissioner Gordon, the Boys in Blue turned up. Screeching around the corner with the Fanfair of the Sirens blaring out, the scene became one of chaos. The brave foursome that had obviously started the proceedings were well versed in this particular melody, because when hearing it they all tried to run off and hide somewhere. Two of which went down the side of our house, hoping for a Bat cave to appear out of our gable wall. When realising that the wall was pretty solid, they both turned around and then ran over the road to the alley opposite us. Thus escaping the long arm of the law, that actually wasn’t very long at all.

But the Police, like the Canadian Mounties, had their man. I could not tell if it was the first of the Famous Four, or another one of the supporting cast, but they did not seem happy. The Police, however, did seem happy. If there is a pet hate that any Officer harbours around the world is the feeling of going back to the station to fill out a desk load of paperwork without the inside glow of another job well done.

So, the scene began to calm down and the truncheons were re-sheathed. And after a couple of eyewitness reports were jotted down, everyone went back to have a post game drink of tea and discuss the possible winners and losers.

But, this event has spurred me on to want to move house more than ever. Not that my wanting to move house will actually move it on any quicker, but at least it will add to my frustration of not being able to sell my house. Running street battles outside your house is fairly high on the list of reasons to move.

Pete, Claire’s brother, has also travelled back from the US to visit us this week. This is nice, as he last saw us a couple of years ago, and since then we have been married and had two children. There is no worse a moment than, when you meet someone that you have not seen for a number of years and asked, “What have you been up to?” you can only shrug your shoulders and look vacantly at the speaker. It makes you feel that you have not contributed anything to your life in those years, and that you may as well have said that you had been in prison for the product that you had produced.

This was avoided though, and pleasing it was to be able to talk through the events of our life that had been missed by both parties either side of the Atlantic. The only problem is that the next time we meet we will have set a standard, and nothing less than a par performance will be satisfactory.

Also, nice for Dylan and Sophie to see their Uncle Pete and cry at him for a couple of days. But for a man that would admit himself that he does not specialise in childcare, he has taken to the task with grace and composure, and I am sure that one day the kids will pick up some valuable lessons from him.

Before I go, I nearly forgot the next edition to the Hospital saga. Sophie picked up a water infection, and also caught Bronchalitis last week, and had to remain in hospital for a few days to be monitored. She is perfectly well now, and is on the road to recovery. However, she is on anti-biotics that have turned her waste into a crayon type colour of blue and green. It does not look right, and the sooner they pass through the system the better for all concerned.

Both are now eating solids, to a degree, and they are making big improvements to the way they interact with us. Hopefully soon they can master the can opener, and the kettle, so that Claire and I can go out for five minutes.

The Revolution is Back On

For those of you that think I have disappeared off the face of the planet recently, then… tah dah! I am still here. I have not visited anywhere interesting, I have not met anyone of any note, and I have not been involved in anything that would make your ears prick up like a fruit bat. But I have had some much needed rest and have been keeping a low profile in my local sphere of existence.

One of the most comforting points to note is that we have not been to any hospital for at least a fortnight. I’m not the type of person that feels comfortable in hospitals because of some weird feeling that you feel safe. I come from the school of being as far away as possible from the thought of anything going wrong, and then if it does, think about it then. Until this year that way of life had kept me out of hospitals for most of it, but this year just goes to show that if you’re thinking of moving half way up a mountain in the middle of the Central Siberian Plateau, then make sure you have a contingency in place. A First Aid box may not be enough.

I’m aware that I do not always mention the skids in these little weekly anecdotes, but that is because a) I do not want to bore people with the newsflash that Dylan has just picked his first nose, and b) most of the interesting news about them is between Claire and I. One day, in twenty years, I will re-publish these memoirs with more detailed news on their progress, once I have the knowledge that it will all work out right in the end.

I am sure that Claire and I have a naturally high level of worry and sensitivity, compared to normal parents, due to what has happened. We are now six and a half months on, and Sophie is now in Newborn clothes and the weight is still monitored weekly. There are still tests being carried out regularly and we are trying to ignore all of that and listen to people’s advice of “just enjoy them”.

We are enjoying them for probably 95% of the time, but there is still that element of doubt and fear that creeps in to your thoughts and makes you so scared that you feel like crying. But we try not to, and we both act as each other’s councillor at those times. It gets a bit tasty when we both get down, but at those points we put on a Portsmouth FC DVD and realise that there are people worse off than us in the world.

But as a quick run down of progress. Dylan has learnt to stand, all be it for about 5 seconds before he takes a dive like a Portugese midfielder. He can also laugh at me (which is probably going to be a useful life skill for him), and has recently developed a high pitch squeal that he uses now to communicate with us. We are still none the wiser of what he means, but the cat goes upsatirs and fetches him things.

Sophie can now grab toys on her own, and is forming the cutest little smile. She is also sleeping all through the night, much to the delight of Claire. But, Dylan however, who is not really understanding what nighttime is for and still waking up once or twice for a feed, balances this out.

Sophie is catching up with her weight and getting close now to the lowest centile, where as Dylan’s line is beginning to form a big yellow M.

We also have a second viewing tonight from someone wanting to buy our house. Hopefully we can pull it off and start our plans to move. It would be nice to be in a new house by Christmas, although we are not in any rush to leave here. It’s just nice to finish something once it’s begun.

So there’s the update. I will keep you posted when interesting things happen, but like the farmer said to the milk-maid sitting under a Bull, “You don’t need to milk it!”

Down on the Farm

The Hospital

The man quietly put his key in the door and slowly turned the handle, making sure that he did not wake the inhabitants above. As he tiptoed upstairs he could hear a strange moaning coming from the smallest room, and now he drew nearer he could see that it was coming from the cot on the right. The small blue night-light was on, and in its glow he could make out the writhing look of anguish upon the boy’s face.

Acting quickly, and picking him up to comfort him, he rushed into the main bedroom where the mother was sleeping. There wasn’t any point in staying quiet anymore, so he woke her up and asked her what she thought was the matter with him.

By this stage Dylan was shaking, and his lips had turned a very dark purple colour. The look in his eyes could be compared to the look that a small wildebeest gives his mother as a lion approaches, and doesn’t know the word, “Help!”

After a few minutes pondering on the next course of action, they decide to take him to the local hospital where experts are waiting for the next purple-lipped case.

This journey involved picking up his sleeping sister and throwing the two of them in their car seats, and then racing off to the hospital as if they were being chased. It looked very similar to the Ant Hill Mob from Wacky Races pretending to be chased by Burt Reynolds from the Cannonball Run.

After a few hours, with a plastic bag strapped around his meat and two veg, his urine sample convinced the panel of experts that he had a water infection. To the untrained eye it looked like a glass of traditional lemonade, which still raised a few alarms that something wasn’t right.

The family were taken upstairs so that they could be kept away from the public. This suited them, as an alcoholic tramp was sitting just outside their cubicle shaking and randomly shouting.
After a quick ten hours the consultant finally popped his head around the door to check on the patient. A course of anti-biotics were administered and confirmation that the parents had behaved in the right way. Apparently the water infection can spread into the blood stream in babies, and this is serious stuff.

The poor, little man has now all but recovered, but ever since that day he has never been able to look at Burt Reynolds the same.

So that wraps up another adventure in the world of medicine and fear, tune in next week where I’m sure there will be another one.

The Wedding

It was a beautiful, sunny day in the Shropshire countryside as the Holley family rolled along with the scenery. Passing through hamlets of Tudor houses with old phone boxes. There were farm shops selling freshly dug potatoes, and it was possibly these that were to be served a little later at the wedding of a close friend of mine from University.

The venue was a disused stud farm set in the middle of about 100 acres of the greenest countryside I have ever seen. To express it in the manner of the poet James Blunt, “It was Beautiful.”

The house cost £2.5million a few years ago, and if I ever go to a more idyllic setting for a wedding then I will consider myself a very fortunate young man from Itchen.

The wedding itself was actually a blessing (the ceremony part happened a few hours before in a registry office). Picture the classic Hollywood interpretation of a wedding in the garden and you would be close. It looked very similar to Forrest Gump’s wedding to Jenny in Alabama. Anyway, a classical guitarist was playing in the background and the sun played along by behaving itself and staying put for the whole day.

The meal and evening soiree were adjourned to the Marquee that was situated in another one of the fields, and the whole day went swimmingly. Considering, the house was owned by his mum and step dad, the actual day was low key and relaxed. There were none of those waste of time frills that you get at so many weddings these days. Bottles of bubbles with hearts on, gold love hearts on the table, and a stringed quartet playing insipid music in the background. None of this occurred. This wasn’t about keeping up with the Jones’; this wedding was real and about two people making a commitment in front of people. The speeches, although brief, were honest and heart felt. Everyone there was relaxed and you didn’t see the usual scene of a representative of the wedding party running around because Uncle Fred has just eaten the posy.

The only problem with the day was my chair lifting technique let me down. I, along with most of the male contingent, carried through a pile of chairs from the first field to the Marquee. When I set these down I bent with my knees in the correct ergonomic fashion, but the trousers gave way. All up the seat, at least 20 inches. Claire had to perform an emergency operation that required several stitches; otherwise I would have been walking around for most of the day with my backside hanging out from its hidey-hole.

This wasn’t a case of a stitch in time saves nine, but a stitch in time saves the wedding.


Health Check

It is worth a mention that Sophie has just had her biggest weight gain so far, and put 8ozs on in a week. We are now going to be putting her on a diet before she gets too big.

A Day at Lords

A wise man once said that there was nothing better than to watch an enjoyable game of cricket on a warm summers day. I had neither of these this weekend, but we still sought to make the best of a bad situation. For this weekend saw the author travelling to the big smoke to attend the one-day final at Lords, the home of cricket.

The sun was still on its journey from the other hemisphere, and the streets were void of life, as we drove through the deserted markets and cobbled streets on our way to the station. Making the same voyage as millions of others through the ages, aiming to realise their dreams and achieve the riches that the gold streets of London offered, we felt in good company. My travelling partner, on this pilgrimage to the mecca of cricket, was an elderly gentleman that had never made the journey before. He desired to see the vista of Old Father Time looking down from the left tower of the pavillion just once, before the long, black cloud came down over his eyes. I also need to add that he gets quite irate at the smallest of obstacles, as is the trend for men of his age, depicted so neatly in the programme, “Grumpy Old Men”.

We arrived at the station, which was packed with excited people waiting to make the same journey, and as we eventually sat down on the train three fuses had already blown. There were not enough people serving coffee, the newsagents was not open and the Saturday kid waiting outside the door would not sell a paper for cash, and finally the seats that were supposedly reserved (if we were in the last century) were not. Not a bad start. But, by the time we had arrived in London things had calmed down and we were looking forward to the adventure of getting to Lords.

I had been to Lords once before, but that occasion was not so memorable, the third day of a four day game between Surrey and Middlesex. The place, however, has an aura of respectability and Englishness, and when you walk in through the gates you feel honoured to be there. Instead of the bars serving popular beers, they should be selling Pimm’s and cucumber sandwiches. The surrounding area of St. John’s Wood also feels the same. The district in which Abbey Road is located, the cornerstone of English music, is now filled with posh café’s and Australians everywhere. The buildings seem to be holding their breath, acting like an old war hero, who is tolerating some children running around him at a picnic on the Thames. Eventually their patience will be exhausted, and people will hear a large explosion from this small area of London, and nobody will talk about it but understand that it’s best left alone.

The talk on everyone’s lips was why did Hampshire win the toss but choose to field first. Half the crowd thought it was crazy whilst the other half had faith in our legendary Australian skipper. Through out the day that faith seemed more and more misplaced, as the game slipped further away from the Hawks.

We kept our bodies lubricated through the day, knowing that dehydration was a big killer in this part of the ground. As we became less capable of controlling our faculties, so did the Hampshire batsmen. One after another they were sent back to the pavillion, like naughty children that had received a punishment and asked to send the next one in. Apart from a stubborn resistance from Crawley, no Hampshire player deserved a lift home.

But then, thankfully, the rain came and put us out of our gradual slide into depression. The game wasn’t won or lost at this stage, but the writing was already on the wall and the anti-climax of the end to the day was at least some satisfaction. It meant that the Durham supporters who had travelled twice as far didn’t get to celebrate either.

The old boy and I then tried to weave our way back through London to get to our awaiting carriage. At the halfway point, we stopped off to fill up our water bottles and met some delightful Brazilians. We built up some what of a friendship with them and learnt how Queen were still massive in Sao Paulo. I didn’t have the heart to explain that Mercury was dead, and May had been discovered as the missing link between human and poodle. (A Pooman, for anyone taking notes)

After an inevitable delay at the watering hole we had realised that we had missed our train, and needed to rush back to Waterloo to catch the next one. This resulted in a slight mix up at Bond Street Underground where the elder of the duet was unfortunately left behind, as yours truly leapt down an escalator and on to the awaiting tube. Not often found in less athletic company these days I was quite surprised by this, but I still found the funny side as I disappeared off through the tunnel.

One way or another we ended up on the train home to Southampton, and finally made it back to our base in one piece. A good adventure had by all, but unfortunately the result of the game had gone. Cricket tends to be like that though. It is more the taking part and the being there that go to having a good day, rather than the outcome.

Sad News that Shook the World

Although I strongly disagree with bands re-releasing previously released material in a vain attempt to become commercially more successful, I have had to re-assess my opinions. Due to constant requests for this piece of literature to be added to the journal “Tales from the Revolution”, I have succumbed and re-issued it. However, commercially speaking, your hero is extremely unsuccessful with this blog, and no matter how many re-releases, I do not think I could be classed as “selling out”. This was written during my Swedish period, imagine Bjorn Borg, herring and sun reflecting off the water.

So, anyway, here it is. Sit back, think of simpler days without children, and enjoy.

Ladies and Gentlemen,

We have had some more very sad news from the killing fields of Heaton Chapel.

Shortly after the loss and subsequent mourning of our cat Nobby, the shadow of death has once more darkened the doorstep of our humble abode. This time Clyde, the better half of the once notorious duo Bonnie and Clyde (Clyde having deceased 4 years ago), has sadly fallen to the greater spirits.

He began his life in Stockport's Pet Smart, which has now changed it's name, another sign of the long life of this inspirational fish. I remember bringing him home in a polythene carriage, as big as my thumbnail was the only space that he took up in the world. I had purchased a small, simple dwelling for him and his much lighter sister, it had a light house which even from an early age became the consistent sanctuary of home.

Whilst living in the fair village of Didsbury, Manchester he had many admirers commenting on what big eyes he had, and such a lovely fan tail. But disaster struck his world when, only about a year old, he contracted the fatal disease of white spot. For this he had to be taken to the infirmary and spent a good long while in solitary confinement with only his thoughts, and some medication bought from the pet shop, keeping him of this earth.

This episode is probably the biggest reason why Clyde always demonstrated such courage throughout his life, very similar to a child that has been rescued from a fire and then in later years joins the fire service as a means of repaying their debt. Another drama occurred in Clyde's fourth year, when unknown to him he moved from the cold water utopia of Didsbury into the uncharted manor of Heaton Chapel. This took place in a white van with Sir Andrew Wood esq. holding him delicately on his lap, like a bomb disposal expert would hold a sinister bag. However, due to his hardy nature, Clyde breezed through this adventure and once again grew strength from his tribulations.

One more anecdote that displays the super standing of this fish, that by any other words would be a legend, happened in the autumn of his life. Middlesbrough were playing the fine team of Southampton in a crucial game to remain in the Premiership and, as is the custom for these events, there were some guests enjoying the hospitality of the Holley's. The lady of the house was cleaning Clyde's house and at an untimely juncture she was transporting the said fish to a temporary rest lodge and Southampton scored. The guests, in jovial spirit, roared simultaneously and this had come as a surprise to the Lady delicately holding the prize fish. She dropped him, and in a couple of seconds, that seemed to be an eternity, Clyde hit the ground with an impact that could be compared to a sledge hammer gently tapping the knee cap of a poor orphan with rickets. After a worrying few hours waiting to see if he would start swimming, Clyde did not disappoint and glided a couple of laps with a somersault at the end.

Clyde, affectionately known as Clydey, had out lived all of the playmates that had been paired with him through the years, a trait that could be likened to Hugh Heffner. One that would leave him with a content look on his gills in his wizened years. Even in the injury time of his life an accolade was bestowed upon him that has happened to no other fish in recent memory. The leading artists Simon Raine and Deb Jones honoured his life with, not one, but two portraits of this Neptune of the tank. These portraits are now on display in the Gallery of Modern Dining.

Clyde meant a lot to a lot of people, and was at the very forefront of fish becoming men.

Float in Peace.

Clyde 1999-2006

The Beautiful Game

I had been waiting for this weekend with three months worth of anticipation. It was the beginning of a new season, where the mess that you had created for yourself last term can be forgotten about, and a new slate in which your dreams can be etched. If only life had a similar timeline to a football season. You could really get things wrong and make terrible decisions, but it would only last nine months and then you could start a fresh.

However rationally I had been expecting the worst this season, my little optimistic devil on my shoulder was whispering to me that it was a new start and anything could happen. If only we could get a good start against Palace on Saturday. Maybe we could kick on from there and get some momentum. Then who knows what might happen.

Southampton 1 – 4 Palace!!!!!

That’s what you get for wishful thinking. Although I knew it was inevitable, I still felt a little depressed thinking about it on Saturday night. But that was the least of my worries. On Monday evening the situation became dramatically worse when, in front of my very eyes, we were knocked out of the League Cup by Peterborough. Who??!!?? Exactly.

Although we are clearly in free fall I think this is a symptom of a much larger issue. As a club, we do not have any money. Burley, the manager, has announced today that he had to sell our defence in order to keep the club from going into administration. The problem is without a defence we cannot carry on playing at the standard we are at. So it is a vicioius circle.

Leeds has been the high profile victims of this type of scenario, but we are close to doing the same. We have not made as bad a job of our finances as Leeds, but through the structure of the game currently, it is very hard to fight on an even playing field with other clubs in your league.

A brief synopsis of the problem is that if you get relegated you are paid a vast sum of money (approx. $20m) a year to manage your overheads that you still have in place from being in the Premiership. You get this payment for two years and then it runs out. This payment enables, clubs who get it, to buy better players and be able to attract them to your club in the first place.

Apart from Birmingham and Sunderland who went straight back up, there are currently four clubs that have this benefit. The clubs that do not have it are forced to be creative with their resources and mount an attack anyway. I’m not complaining about this per say. Football has always had its giants and minnows, and arguably this is what makes the game so special. But it is more the speed in which you can go from hero to zero that is affecting so many.

It can also work the other way though, and the poor unfortunates down the road can testify to this. Portsmouth were sunk from a collaboration of poor management, poor football, and poor investment for the best part of 20 years. But then a corrupt Croatian came in and pushed them up so far, and then the big pockets of a corrupt Russian did the rest. Now after spending millions of pounds Portsmouth are easily a top half Premiership side.

What this does is take away the sense of building something year on year, and with the same team, achieving success. The norm now in the premiership is to sell five players and buy five players, and hope that the short-term fix will buy you success. Young English players from Academys are under utilised or loaned out to lesser divisions, and this then has a knock on effect with regards to the sustainability of the sport at a grass roots level.

If Southampton has a gifted youngster that is groomed for a career in Professional Football, then he will no doubt be sold at the next possible window to a Premiership club. A la Theo Walcott, or Gareth Bale.

Southampton are a victim of poor leadership and a lack of investment, and the latter is needed more importantly in the modern game than a 20 goal a year striker. The majority of the tabloid talk in the summer is not about the latest Argentine wonder kid, or the topical contract negotiations, but the speculation that a club is being looked at by an investor that is the nth richest man in the world, and also owns an ice-cream company.

The game has been so widely corrupted by money, that it has removed any trace of player loyalty, and with wages of £100k plus a week, which business can ever hope to sustain any growth pattern.

All of the teams in the premiership have been taken over in the last 5 years or so, and if you don’t join this list then you have no chance of any progression. Southampton will continually slump until more money is invested.

My theory to improve things is to remove the top five or six biggest clubs and put them in to a European Full Time League. Then have a promotion and relegation system of one club a year. Then the equivalent of the Premiership will be closer fought with the possibility of anyone winning it, not just the same three clubs. The gap will then be closer to the Championship, which will have raised status because this will be the lowest professional league. Remove League One and Two due to financial pressures. Although traditionalists will initially object they will be quietened after the first season. These will be the same people that claim that International Football is still the highest level, even though nobody sees much Andorran representation in the Champions League.

I wonder where Southampton will be when Dylan and Sophie read this in 30 years time. Playing in the Hampshire League, or the Champions League. Hmmm…

Poofs, Parks and Pianos

This weekend was a quiet one, where the Holley family stayed mostly at home. But to prevent catching a vitamin B deficiency from not seeing enough daylight, we did manage to venture out on at least two memorable occasions.

To contradict the hypothesis that your life changes when you have children, all four of us went to a party on Saturday night. But those of you that have your finger reaching for the phone to alert the NSPCC of our irresponsible parenting, please refrain. This was not the type of party that I would have gone to a few years ago, where climbing over bodies on the floor was not a game of Twister but just the way that you had to get around. Neither was there a Police look out stationed in the front room in case an invite had reached the local constabulary.

No. This was a remarkably tame 30th birthday that had amongst its guests another baby, and an old lady in the front room that didn’t move out of her armchair. We were right at home with the kids with us, although as we are used to at the moment, we did feel like the unofficial entertainment. Where ever we go a crowd congregates to see the show, and I often hear people as they walk away expressing disappointment that they’ve seen better circuses.

It was a fancy dress party with the theme of the letter P, and after at least 2 mins of racking our brains Claire came up with the idea of going as 4 Poofs and a Piano. If any of you are aware of the barbershop quartet that feature on Friday Night with Jonathan Ross, then you will know that they wear t-shirts with the picture of one of the guests that is being interviewed on the show that night. As the birthday girl was going as a Pink Pixie, we thought it would be clever to have a picture of a pink pixie on our t-shirts.

Not until I printed the pictures of a pink pixie off the computer did I realise exactly how gay I was going to look. Effectively a pink pixie looks, from a distance, like a pink fairy, although a closer inspection would show that a pixie has slightly more pointed ears and cannot fly as high. However, I could not assume that any pixie specialist would be at the party to defend my case.

This party was in the sunny village of Marple, and regular readers will be aware that this is the very same province that we are thinking of moving to. All of the people at the party were strangers to us, but not to each other. They all lived in and around the village, and knew each other like Jessica Fletcher knows corpses in Cabot Cove. So, anyway, we turned up to the party wearing our white t-shirts with a picture of a pink pixie attached in the middle of them.

It would have helped if half of the party had actually watched Friday Night with Jonathan Ross and had a slight inclination as to what we were dressed as, because explaining to someone that didn’t know the show that we were 4 Poofs and a Piano, welcomed the comment, “Oh… right!” and a raised eyebrow. Also, the 4 Poofs and a Piano thing only works if you all stay together, so once separated and asked the question, “So, what are you?” and you reply, “A Poof, from 4 Poofs and a Piano” this encourages even stranger reactions.

Adding also the fact that it is certainly the campest that I have ever looked, and Dylan can proudly say that the first party that he ever went to was as a poof, the whole costume choice was a disaster. It went down like the proverbial Lead Balloon. But at least we can now say when we move there…

“But, we are the only gays in this village!!!”


Blur’s popular song from the mid-90’s seems to have been written about us recently. We spend any time when the weather is dry walking around parks, in fact we have probably spent more time in a park than a tramp recently, and this is what we did on Sunday. It must be the thing to do as a new parent because the park is full of pushchairs and parents walking around like zombies. This weekend we went to a big park that had it’s own coffee shop in the middle, this was exciting to a regular park dweller.

The weather was sunny and the lake in the grounds was reflecting small flecks of sunlight on to the surrounding fauna. In simpler days it would have been paradise to find a spot on the grass, read a book and have a lovely chilled bottle of white wine. However, these days that we live in are not simple, and we managed to sit down for an ice cream next to the lake for approximately 5 minutes. Then we were on the move, walking around the grounds, pushing the cherubs to prevent them from crying. But, still, better than sitting at home.

Parks hold an enchanting, magical power on a sunny day. They have the ability to recharge you, and fill you with energy. You result in feeling lighter and refreshed, after you have had an opportunity to daydream for an hour. The age of most parks gives you a rare feeling of connection with the past. You can stare at a lake, or a landscape, from a bench and really feel that you are not the first person to have ever cast their eyes over the undulating scenery. You can get lost in your thoughts, and resolve any inner conflicts that you may have, because on a day like this the world seems to be in harmony with itself and you are meandering along on the stream of life. A stream doesn’t try to go through obstacles, but it gently moves around them and happily goes on its way. When you are sat in a park, on a sunny day, you feel like you can see the obstacles and you gently just move around them. Instead of wasting energy in trying to pass through them.

Dirty Pretty Things

The anticipation of this blog entry has the same intensity as that experienced by the fellows stood at the bottom of Mount Sinai when Moses was on his 9th commandment. I do apologise for this but I was on holiday and as my life now does not follow normal guidelines, I actually have more time to write at work.

The holiday itself was a game of two halves. The first week saw us visit 3 separate hospitals over 5 days, whilst the 2nd took us down to Southampton.

Dylan has had his Hernia operation and the patient is now fine with all bits put back in the right place. He is now sporting a small scratch on his waist, that I may pretend is the mark that the aliens left when they were inserting something alieny.

Also, Sophie, can now only count to ten, a high five rather than a high six. Now when the angry mob come round our way looking for witches we won’t have to hide her in Claire’s handbag. The finger has been removed. The digit has been amputated. Unfortunately, it does mean that she has probably lost a couple of ounces because of it but we couldn’t really have kept it on just for the weight statistics.

The weather has obviously been appalling all over the country, and so the rain in Southampton now echoes my constant moan about the rain in Manchester. In fact, Manchester has been one of the driest places in the country in the last month. The week in Southampton was tarnished by the fact that we could not really enjoy any decent day trips because it was so cold and wet. But like the one legged man that painted himself pink to gain work as a flamingo said, “you have to make the best out of a situation”, still, I am glad that we are back home

I ended my vacation by attending the Arctic Monkeys gig at Old Trafford. We had been forewarned of the incredibly long beer queues so did not rush there to see any of the support acts. The Coral and Supergrass are disappointing warm up bands on the best of days and so there was no chance I was going to spend 6 hours in the place.

However, when we did turn up it was as if we had been transported into a war torn country where the vista more resembled a scene from Mad Max. We had to queue for over an hour to get to the bar, and they didn’t have any pork scratchings even then. And if that is not inhumane enough, I was then faced with one of the most harrowing images that my eyes have ever suffered. Now, I have been to many festivals and consider myself to be quite experienced in gig behaviour, but the toilet situation was out of control.

As is often the case in this type of event there was an area solely dedicated to the extraction of waste. As is also the case normally this area tends not to be big enough for the number of people there. But instead of an orderly waiting system, there was nothing of the sort enforced. Let me describe the situation. Picture a square of ten Portaloos per side, then also imagine a set of urinals in the middle of the square, possibly 16, all facing each other in two rows. All of the space around the urinals was filled up with people, both men and women (even though this was the Gents) all drunk and desperate to offload the last pint of watered down lager.

I managed to squeeze my way through the crowds and get to one of the urinal spaces. These came up to your waist so you were effectively standing in the middle of a crowd, for all the obstruction they were giving. So with boys and girls stood all around me I proceeded to alleviate the pressure that had built up inside. It was not an enjoyable moment but then things were to get a country mile worse. I looked up, being careful not to look anyone in the eyes opposite me who were also going through this living hell, I spotted a female stood up at the urinals with a slight recline. To describe the disgust that was etched on to the faces of those that witnessed it would be impossible to do, but I am sure as you are reading this you will have the same look on your own.

I walked out of the dirty courtyard, shaking my head, to see more girls just squatting in the middle of the concourse type area with friends holding blankets up to hide their shame. There were men acting in a similar way but that is not so shocking, we have come to expect that. As I returned to my group I had the unenviable task of reliving it through anecdotal form to their horrified faces. I do not like to be the purveyor of nasty images but I felt that it was my role as a social commentator to enlighten these friends of mine with the exact details, as to ensure that they would not make the same mistake as me.

Where is England?

Once a proud nation that stood behind its history and traditions, has now hidden them so far beneath a superficial cover of commercial nonsense that it is in real danger of losing the character that made it what it was.

In a time before the Internet, the mobile phone and even before you could fly, England stood proudly at the centre of the developing world. We developed Australia and America, and built an Empire. London was the richest city in the world, Manchester was the centre of the world textiles industry. The centre of the industrial revolution was here in blighty. For centuries we concentrated on making vast amounts of wealth, and selling our brand all across the world.

In a way, the English brand is still sold around the world. 90% of influential popular music from the last 50 years has originated in England. The Royal Family is still as popular today as they have always been, on foreign shores.

But, England is not a country, it is a State Sovereignship. The country is called The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Out of all of those other countries included, England are the only country not to have their own Parliament. It is the only country that doesn’t have a proud National Day. If you asked people what an Englishman stereotype was, most would reply “a football hooligan”.

Most English people abroad are an embarrassment to themselves, and are usually the most noticeable, the most disrespectful and the most ignorant. But this isn’t a surprise considering the state of our country at the moment. If you go out anywhere on a weekend night then you would be witness to binge drinking, fighting, drug taking and general chaos. This isn’t far removed from the Medieval days.

The brand that we now have to sell, is a one that we should be trying to hide.

The character of traditional Englishness is so hard to find. The eccentric chap who harmlessly bumbles through life, the old lady in the Tea Shop, the Village Fete, and the “never say die” attitude. All of this is still there, somewhere, and often turns up in the next Hugh Grant film. But instead of this being a fair portrayal of English life, it is no more than a look through our “The Way it used to be Glasses” and a re-enactment of simpler days.

Society has now replaced this with a short term, high impact, and convenient way of life. Nothing is real anymore. Everything is there to fulfil a temporary desire and when that has been spent we move on to the next want. The American cultural influence has changed the view of England beyond all recognition. Convenience has replaced Character, and with that change in the behaviour of the population we are now faced with a catalogue of issues.

Respect for others has now been lost because it is easier to look after yourself and achieve your personal goals regardless of other people. Obesity is now an issue because it is easier to warm up food that is not nutritional rather than cook fresh food that takes slightly more effort. Children are becoming more and more violent and lawless than ever before, because they have been getting away with it for so long. People aren’t going to cross the road to prevent something happening when it is easier to put your head down and ignore it, “it isn’t part of my world!”

Well the fact is that it is part of our world. By avoiding the reality of everyday life, and being swept along by the people that are making money from us, we are losing all of the attributes that made England proud.

The topical issue in the press at the moment is the out-of-control immigration policy, and how the country is over run by different cultures. Why is this bad? It doesn’t affect my day-to-day life or anyone I know. I have more issues with 50th generation Englishman that can’t be bothered to work, and sponge off the Government, waiting to trade excuses for handouts.

England used to be about self-respect, and respect for the community. This has now declined into a self-centred, apathetic society that will continue to get progressively worse while times are financially better than ever before, and also safer than ever before. No one cares because no one is affected. Ignorance acts as a large rock that you can hide behind, and as long as nothing gets over the top then you can carry on regardless.

So, again I ask, “Where is England?” The answer is that it is floating off over the Atlantic to become the next American State, where all of the issues that I have just described are rife. It won’t be long before we are shooting each other, or getting winched out of windows because we are 80 stone, making excuses that it wasn’t our fault but someone else’s.

Sponge Bob

It was on the way home from work on Friday evening that it all began. There was a light rain in the air and it was gently covering everything in sight with a fine mist. Although the weekend was beckoning, our hero had the face of a warrior returning to battle. He had been away from home for ten hours and had grown accustomed to the quiet, and relative peace, of an open plan office. The telephone rang and on the other end was his wife sounding surprisingly happy.

I received the news that an offer had been made on our house of 10 grand under the asking price, but at least there was interest. So now we had an offer accepted on a house in Marple, and it looked like we were going to be able to pay for it with something. So we were quite happy on Friday night, trying not to get too carried away due to the wisdom that Claire has gained from Estate Agenting for 3 years.

Throughout the weekend we then discussed possible negotiation strategies and inevitable counter strategies. We were like tycoons planning our next venture.

Today, however, our hopes have been dashed by the offer being withdrawn. Apparently the prospective couple have issues with the ease of parking that the house offers. This has not changed since the offer on Friday, so perhaps there car collection has. Either way, we our in the same position that we were in on Friday morning, now we will have to wait for the next sun to rise over the horizon.

Health Check

Sophie was taken to an emergency doctor on Saturday evening because her hand had become inflamed and looked very sore indeed. It does have an infection, and antibiotics have been given to remedy it.

As we were leaving the doctors though, a most surreal event happened. We turned a corner and there in front of our very eyes was a 7 ft Square Bob Sponge Pants urinating in a bush. It took me a moment to fathom the situation, and as I finally came to my conclusions, he pushed off from the small wall, that was holding the bush, and staggered off down the road. At first I thought that I must have inhaled something in the surgery that had caused me to hallucinate, and just as I was in the middle of my ponderings, two 118 men ran past me and carried on down the road in the same direction as Bob. I know that I haven’t had much sleep recently, but still, you don’t expect to lose it that quickly. The sight of Claire laughing behind was enough to convince me that it was not my diminished mind, but a typical Saturday night in Stockport.

Chunky Girl

Sophie is now 6lbs 4ozs. At last she has tipped the 6lb marker. Hopefully she can now push on and get a bit of momentum up and start chunking it on like Dylan did at that size.

Anyway, I realise that I haven’t really given much insight into our everyday life at the moment, mainly because I don’t think you will be too interested in it. But it is probably valuable to understand the pain and torture that is endured at the moment to ensure that future generations will not make the same mistakes. Pain and torture has been some what diluted in modern times, the Spanish Inquisition has hung up its tools, there are no more stocks in village centres, and most modern methods of agony infliction have been outlawed. People in the Dark Ages probably thought that they had it bad, but surely the constant nature of this particular grief has to be right up there with the great hay days of the Chinese Torture years.

It is relentless every day. As soon as one of them stops crying and feeding then the other starts. There is absolutely no time to do anything substantial on your own. We have grown used to being capable of doing most things with only one hand because the other one is employed with a baby. Sleep has become a distant friend, one that you see only every now and again but one that you know you will have a good time with when you do see them.

The other night we climbed in to bed, and for the first time in 6 weeks there was no noise coming from the nursery. At first I thought I had gone deaf, but then the realisation hit me that they might actually both be asleep. I pointed this out to Claire and we both closed our eyes and enjoyed the silence. This lasted for 6 minutes, and then Sophie woke up pretending that she had never been fed before.

In all fairness, they are now beginning to sleep more at night. Both need one feed in the night and can then settle quite quickly afterwards. We are going to attempt to get them in a routine now so that we can reclaim a bit of our evenings.

The "List"

Ignore everything I have just said. Try and be happy when you have a cold all weekend and two babies who, no matter how many times you explain, still keep crying. Although Claire has borne the brunt of the work this weekend, it has been a trying time. I have been feeling like the inside of a hiker’s shoe, and my nose has been running like a sewage pipe into the sea. I’ve been drinking Lemsip as if I were partaking in a perverse drinking competition, where beer was substituted by over-the-counter medicines. Happiness is a place that I visited once on holiday a few years ago, and I can vaguely remember it by the sunburn that I had there.

Anyway, I have bought my ticket to return there, so fear not, your hero will not disappoint you and become a grumpy old man in front of your very eyes.

The house situation is hotting up. We are putting in an offer for the Cross Lane property and waiting on two offers to come in for ours. We went back to Cross Lane this weekend, even due to the fact that in the war they would have left me to fend for myself. It is definitely our future house, there are loads of things to change but at the end of it we will have our house. So it will be worth it.

I also hope that someone will offer a figure for our house soon, as the constant cleaning up to show-home standard is really hard in between feeding times. People keep commenting on how clean we keep it even though we have twins. Yeah, right!!

Now we get to the real crux of today’s entry. The universal “List” that couples have that gives them immunity to any extra-marital relations. Let me explain the rules of the “List”. 1) There must be only one, or a select few, people on it. 2) If any chance comes up with yourself and that person then you have an All Access pass. Examples of the type of people that would be on these lists are the likes of Brad Pitt, Jennifer Aniston, David Beckham, Kylie Minogue, etc.

As most couples, Claire and I have a “List”. My list is very civilised, with one person on it, that being Cat Deeley. Cat and I go along way back, and she has always been the one for me. Now I will try to remember all of the names that are on Claire’s “List” currently.

· Jon Bon Jovi (Aging Middle-of-the-Road Rocker)
· Lawrence Llewelyn-Bowen (Gay Decorator)
· Diarmuid the Gardener (Gay Gardener)
· Dermot O’Leary (God Loving Big Brother Presenter)
· Kevin McLeod (Nice tweed professor type Grand Designs presenter)

As you’ll agree, there is trend of gay (or in the closet) designers mainly. This does nothing for my self-esteem, as a straight man that is bored with interior design. Also, the clear disregard for the rules, it appears as though it is open season on Claire’s list with half of the males on TV at one point making an appearance. However, I have lived with this truth for nearly ten years and attempted to move my life on despite it. But now there has been a new addition that has shocked my world to the point where I do not know if I will ever bounce back from it.

Jeremy Kyle has been added to the “List”. Jeremy Kyle. JEREMY KYLE.

There has to be a line drawn somewhere. I am not going to explain the obvious deficit of benefits that Kyle has, and the clear challenges that he has in every day life with his face. But suffice it to say that if Kyle is getting a mention, then soon she’ll be having the bloke at the newsagents on it.

I have lodged an appeal with the Universal “List” Board and they are taking this matter very seriously. I feel as though my chance of a better life with Deeley (sort of rhymes with Holley, by the way) has been ruined by this obvious abuse of the system, the accepted code that we all live by, the fabric of our very society.

I am shocked to the very core, and I hope that one day I am not writing to inform you all of the inevitable news that Claire has left me for the guy over the road with his handy toolbox, just because he was on the “list”.

The Happiness Rant

Isn’t it funny how most time saving devices do not really save any time at all. I came to this conclusion as I was thinking what time was like before all of these time saving devices were invented. People were more relaxed, spent more time conversing with each other and stress was not even known about. In an attempt by humans to save time, they have only succeeded in cramming more things into a day than they did before. These things are meant to complete a fulfilled life. Society tells us now that if you are not going to the gym at 6am, doing a full days work usually punctuated by a game of squash at lunchtime, and then back home for a jog and a 3 course meal, and then, if time, a two hour social event which you have to leave early to have enough sleep in order to start it all over again, then you are slacking and must try harder to not waste so much time.

You cannot save time, you can only spend it wisely, or not. Time keeps going no matter what you do. A stitch in time saves nine, but society now says a thousand stitches in time saves you nine. Life, the stuff that actually matters in our days, is often missed because (in the words of John Lennon) we are busy doing other things. We invent all of the other things that we strive for every day, like a perfect healthy body, or a new promotion, or a “life changing” holiday. When we reach one of these goals we do not sit back and pretend that life is now over and we have reached utopia. The thrill is always in the chase.

You look forward to opening presents at Christmas time, but once you have opened them and enjoyed them briefly, you look forward to the next 364 days when you can do it again. When you succeed in a promotion that you have been after for years, in a couple of years time you are unhappy and want to progress again. We are never fully happy because we always want something beyond what we have, beyond the stars just out of reach.

The easy way out of all of this is to concentrate on what we do have, not what we don’t. Life isn’t about packing as much as you can into your years, but about being happy for as long as possible. As nearly every problem that we have is contrived by us, it is us that can prevent these problems in our minds. To worry and be unhappy about life that is out of our control is the real “waste of time”.

We have created our own escapes from the realities of life in order to forget, or pretend that one day we will be happy. Organised religion is followed by millions all around the world looking for hope that one day things will be better, and waiting for signs or fate to come knocking on their doors. It is used as a shelter to protect people from life, the natural ebb and flow of life, with its ups and downs. Millions across the world also use drink and drugs for the same purpose, but society chooses to demonise some things but not others.

The real answer to happiness is within. It’s not about what you can have, but what you have already that counts. Life is about living the ups and downs and learning from the experiences, developing as a person, and growing wiser.

Property Ladder

It was a beautiful summer’s day. The rest of the country was under water and yet Manchester was remaining dry and standing like an old castle from yester year, stuck on a hill to ward off invaders. It may be overcast and even slightly cold, but at least we’re not scooping out water using a pair of old shoes. Manchester weather is predictable and boring, but it’s not extreme. You know what you’re getting.

Now the next chapter on the Holley clan moving house. We have had two viewings for our abode. A guy that probably just turns up to look round houses in order to keep himself warm, and a couple much like us BC (Before Children). The nice couple have now asked for a second viewing this Friday with a mother, who is apparently stumping up half of the mortgage. So all being well, we may get an offer soon.

The other side of moving is the target destination. We have found a house that we like in Marple, and we will need a second viewing to ensure that it has the potential that we think it has. It is a 3 bedroom house that now has 4 bedrooms. The upstairs is a little awkward, and if we bought it then we would have to go up into the loft to create a master bedroom and en suite. So a bit of work is needed, and we need to make sure that we can afford to do it. It is slightly intimidating, contemplating buying a house that we could stay in for 20 years. It certainly has the potential to offer us a lengthy stay of incarceration. But I don’t know if I could not get bored for that long. I’m already chomping at the bit to move from where we are, and the thought of staying somewhere and not getting annoyed with the location, or a person, or both, seems to be impossible. So, the chances are we will move, spend 5 years renovating it, and then move again. The thing is, I hate doing up houses, but I love sitting in them when they’re finished. You can’t have one without the other though. Ah, well, I’d better keep them old jeans and scruffy t-shirts handy.

Health Check
Sophie picked up a cough yesterday and we are unsure whether it is a simple cold, or Bronchalitis, an infection that is particularly prone in small babies. So it could mean another trip to the Hospital today. We were hoping that she would make the 6lb marker today, but with this happening she will probably struggle to put weight on.

Dylan on the other hand looks like he will be ready to eat Sophie soon, and we may have to keep them separate until we can teach him that eating sisters is not allowed.

Good and Bad Experiences

Another weekend, and another special day. This time my very first Father’s Day. I am beginning to expect waking up and being treated like a tribal demi-god, showered with gifts for the Almighty by naïve tribesmen with wide-eyed awe. (Or C3PO in a Star Wars reference) However, this is my last occasion for six months, so no danger of getting carried away with it and actually believing that I have a direct line with a super being.

But, it was quite nice while it lasted. A photo frame filled with the images of my two little cherubs, and a book on Tao Philosophy and its integration in the Winnie-the-Pooh stories. Strange!!! I will give you my review after I have read it.

Also, a victory was celebrated this weekend to match the efforts of Wellington at Waterloo, Nelson against the Spanish, and Robson and Jerome keeping Wonderwall off the top spot. Your hero, and auspicious author, has finally defeated the powers of evil and claimed his first Poker win. A sum, higher than a tank of petrol and lower than a tank, was received by me for playing with such skill that the other poor contestants could only sit by and watch as I pillaged their chips. I was in Salford as well, so I left quick smart afterwards in case there were any repercussions.

Due to the intoxication of this famous victory, I returned home in obviously jubilant spirits. Stood in the kitchen with another protagonist, Claire and a lady ready to give birth herself, I decided that now was my moment to join a special club of adult breast milk drinkers. I took my favourite shot glass out of the cupboard and poured myself a tipple, from a bottle in the fridge already chilled to optimal drinking temperature.

DISGUSTING!!!!!!

I’m glad I have taken my window of opportunity in a man’s life to do this legally, but my advice to any other in my position is, trust your first instincts and don’t be so stupid.

The worst part of it all, was after I’d had a go on the milk of human kindness, my fellow companion also puckered up and took a swig of the good stuff. I think that in a way my effort was an extension of a spiritual rite of passage, but the extra round is surely a deviant act.

A Birthday Message

It’s been a good week or so since my last entry, which I know is shoddy, but this will endeavour to summarise the events. 4 weigh-in’s, 3 hospital visits, 2 birthdays and barbecue in a pear tree.

To eliminate the boring facts and figures, that some people are drawn to like Binky to catnip, I can officially report that Sophie has now reached a weight of 5lbs 3.5ozs. We are very proud of this because it means that she is getting there, and as long as she is getting there then she is not going anywhere else. I still can’t wait until she does get there, and hopefully she’ll know when she gets there and stays there rather than turning round and coming back.

The hospital visits have come in quick succession. Monday - Dylan’s hernia check, Tuesday – Both their immunisations and blood tests for Soph, Wednesday – Check up for Sophie. All news is goodish from these visits. Dylan needs an operation to patch up his hernia, and Sophie has been tested to see whether she is actually an Umpah-Lumpah. But she is still growing and that is the most important thing.

Claire had her birthday last Wednesday and this went past without much ado. The older that you get the less important these days become. And then I had my 30th yesterday, and if ever a day matched the significance of the landmark reached, then this was it. A person’s 30th is usually a time to reflect on the wild years that have directly proceeded it and to feel slightly depressed by the thought that these will never be recaptured with the innocence of youth. For this to have been echoed yesterday would be an under statement, an under statement of equal proportions to the time when a dinosaur, having seen a big wave of water rising over a mountain, said, “It may get a bit cold for a while.” The only consolation is that I was so busy doing other things that I really didn’t get a chance to think about it anyway. There was no parade, but a can of beer and a cup cake with a candle in it were a perfect substitute.

It sounds as though it were the type of celebration that Eleanor Rigby would have enjoyed, but I am not sad about this. There are more important things to me now, and this is really the crux of it. Your 30th acts as a stake in the ground that signifies a change in the way that you live your life. Most of the people that I have always admired never reached this crossroads. What would Jimi Hendrix be like as a 60 year old? We will never know because we will always remember him as a 27 year old with hope in his eyes. The whole “live fast, die young, and leave a beautiful memory” school of thought is a great idea when you are under 30. But once you get over 30 it’s more like “live in the middle lane, and if you die, people will remember your beer gut”, this isn’t half as appealing. For some people this landmark happens before 30, and for some it happens after 30. But 30 is always the socially accepted line in the sand. If it happens before then you may still wonder what could have been, and if it happens after then you have probably stayed at the party a bit too long and the teenagers have started throwing things at you. For me, I peaked 3 months too early and this is within my tolerance level, so really I am not too perturbed by this new chapter……as long as eventually I get a bit more sleep.

To finish up, we had a barbecue at the weekend where at various points we introduced the kids to a lot of our friends that hadn’t been able to see them so far, because of the risk of infection to Sophie. This has helped Claire and I get on with things. We feel as though the initial stage is now over and we can start to form a new normality to our lives.

First Weekend Away

This weekend was the big drive down to Southampton, the very first holiday for the kids. They will not recall much of the journey, however, because their eyes were closed for most of it. So along with a stop halfway to feed them, this went as well as could be expected. It was a good job that they did get some rest because, like Rick Waller at a Cannibal’s Conference, they were not left alone for the rest of the weekend.

The weather was beautiful (too beautiful to be honest as I was burnt on the back of my neck) and this made the weekend even better. The summers in Southampton are much better than the ones that we are now used to in Manchester. It was like we were on holiday somewhere tropical. My skin has been gradually taught to fear the sun by a process of water treatment and torchlight, and now it needs to be coaxed outside a bit more gently. I have become the human embodiment of a mushroom so I must remember this in the future.

Sunday was slightly surreal, as I happened to come across a morris-dancing competition in Estbury Gardens. The troops of dancers tend to fall in to two categories; 1) the strange types that take it very seriously, and 2) the strange types that look like they should be locked up. Although a funny English custom that should be celebrated on summer days, it now appears to have been completely monopolised by the village idiot that for the rest of the year surfs for porn. Dylan and Sophie will not be getting enrolled in any of these groups when they are older. I am sure that the incident at Waco, Texas was started by a load of Morris Dancers that gradually became believers that what they were doing was normal.

By the end of the weekend we managed to get round most of the family that we knew about, and I even managed to see some family that I didn’t know about. Everyone was excited to see Dylan and Sophie, and a general consensus is that “Sophie is small”, ”She is small though”, “Isn’t she smaller than her brother”, “I’ve never seen anyone that small”. I think for the time being we may just pretend that Sophie is actually Dylan’s toy, and he just likes playing with dolls. It will make a difference to answer questions on the doubted sexuality of Dylan, rather than the obvious size discussion.

All in all though it was really good, and I am glad that we have now been able to show them to some of the people that matter. We can now go back to Manchester and relax.

A Tribute

This is a tribute to a man that has taught me so much about how to live, and the principles that are ultimately important. Although I only knew him for the final third of his life, he will have an impact on me for the whole of mine.

My Granddad had a humble beginning in life fighting for what he needed along with his older brothers. He then went and fought for his country in World War 2; and when he returned he then started fighting for his family, working hard jobs to support them and seeing that his children were brought up in the right way. In the last ten years he has been fighting the battle within, constantly keeping his health in check. I guess that he just got tired of fighting in the end, but in my eyes he was the Heavyweight Champion of the World.

My earliest memories of him, being cuddly and a safe place to be, never really changed. I have always thought of him as a rock that would always be there, right behind me in everything that I do, and basically a safe place that I could retreat to.

He once taught me how to organise a pile of cards in to a neat pack by jiggling them on a table, he once showed me how to make the perfect omelette, he showed me how to use the only tools that I still know how to use. He showed me how to grow vegetables in the garden, but to be honest I’ve forgotten all of that now. I only used to do it to spend time with just him in the garden.

All of these things are just trivial memories that I have but will always trigger thoughts of him in my own mind. The real lessons that he has taught me are the unmentioned ones. Just by being who he was and prioritising the important things in life, and not getting distracted by the noise that just doesn’t matter at the end of the day, is the real testimony that he has left me with. To have a big heart, and to be able to show it to the people that are in it.

I will always remember him.

Love, always.

The Circus is Back in Town

The new lambs have entered the abattoir of freak shows last night. Big Brother gets under way again and will no doubt enter into the conversations of the population as it infiltrates the consciousness. It doesn’t matter if you watch it or not, at some point you will be caught up in a discussion about it. For me this year, I feel that I might be watching it closely, especially at 4 o’clock in the morning when I’m up feeding one of my cherubs.

As usual there is an eclectic mix of freaks and egocentrics, covering a vast area of society, charging in to the house with the sole focus of being a star. On first viewing I would have thought that Chanelle will get close to the end for obvious reasons, and Tracey due to the fact that she will whip out her broomstick and start putting spells on people. Also, note the resemblance between Tracey and Fenella, the Kettle Witch, from Chorlton and the Wheelies.

Anyway, I will keep you posted on the events as they come about. Another issue on the horizon at the moment is the feeling of dread for England getting beat by Brazil and not qualifying against Estonia next week. When I read that we are resting Phil Neville against Brazil so that he can be sharp for the Estonia game, it is not surprising. I don’t think a giant pencil sharpener with a Phil Neville attachment would make him sharp… ever.

The speculation of Southampton getting bought is also interesting reading currently, although I can’t help once again feeling a sense of dread and imminent anti-climax when we find out that there is no one with deep pockets gazing longingly at St. Mary’s.

A Public Apology

After the last entry I feel that I should make an apology for the slander regarding the weather of Manchester. Yesterday evening I played a game of cricket underneath the orange sun. The birds were cheeping and there was a smell of freshly cut grass all around. All be it that the scene did lack some certain qualities that would make it dream like, namely a large glass of Pimms and a deck chair, but it was still in that general direction.

So after my outburst yesterday involving a ridiculous anecdote from Atlantis I feel that, in the spirit of fairness, Manchester should be represented evenly in the dock. The great cotton metropolis of yesteryear has its barmy evenings too and it does not just rain, rain, rain. Instead it goes rain, rain, rain, rain, sun, rain, rain. By the records, set by no one in particular, the next day like it will be near the middle of June. Also, in this wave of justice, it is worth noting for the prosecution that yesterday afternoon it was hailing at home, described by an eye witness as an “ice shower”. So there you have it, decide as you will.

We had our house valued yesterday, and the results were quite promising. The top estimate was £195k falling to a basement figure of £185k. If we get the top figure then this would mean that we could purchase a small castle in Marple, maybe even the Manor House. There is a lovely place I have seen that has a lake and a folly, and even one of those Greek replica ruins in the north wood. We might go for that. Or we could go for a 3/ 4 bedroom house with a small garden. Either or.