A Bleak Winters Journey

As the two friends boarded the train at Heaton Chapel they prepared themselves for a journey that neither of them would believe. It was bitter cold that was biting their ears, and heavy rain that fell all around. The puddles were becoming lakes so quickly that Cunard were setting up business alongside them. There were no idle passers by, only people leaving for a purpose.

The first steps of any journey are usually the easiest, and the train rolled into Piccadilly on time, as expected. The sight that met our travellers though as the doors opened was a huge crowd of people all trying to leave the platform in one direction as fast as they could, but something was appearing to prevent them from doing this. It was a sight like the end of a football match where the hordes of supporters try to clamber out of the stadium by any means possible. There were elbows being pointed, and minor affray at every point. This was possibly the first sign that evil spirits were in the air, and that they should turn back before worse magic would unravel.

Once through the throngs of people at Piccadilly, (it turned out to be some ticket inspectors choosing Saturday afternoon to check 500 peoples tickets as they left the platform) a swift transfer to the other side of Manchester was necessary before catching the next train. This was swifter than first planned, and needed a mild jog for the last 5 minutes to ensure that no disappointment would follow. Whilst the rain and wind blew around them like a scene from Twister. It had metamorphosed into the day that people walked around with inside out umbrellas and dogs flying in the air like kites.

Manchester Victoria was reached in a record time by foot, and through the corner of my eye I could see Roger Bannister weeping. The two journeymen purchased tickets from the Victorian ticket office at Manchester Victoria from a girl called Victoria that looked like Victoria Beckham crossed with Queen Victoria. They reached the train and the conductor was called Sue.

A forty minute ride to Hebden Bridge was the next step, and so the passengers relaxed into the carriage, took the weight off of their feet, and remembered that it was 1pm and that lunch had been missed. A couple of chewing gums did not fill the void in their stomachs, so they began to eat fellow passengers, starting with the fattest and cleanest. By the time Hebden Bridge appeared in the steamy windows there was no other soul on board, just a pile of shoes and a News of the World.

The two travelling companions departed the carriage to find themselves on the platform of a station that looked like the kind used in American Werewolf in London. It was deserted and the station itself had not been changed since circa 1920. It was a classic station with one track in and one track out, and it needed Poirot to shuffle along to fully complete the scene.

It was so bleak that it inspired one of the travellers to quote, “There is more colour in Russia.” A phrase that should be emblazoned on every tourist information poster in the area. Finally the third train arrived to take our trusty guides to their final destination. A small backwater, in the bowels of the North West of England where time forgot to move on. It was still 1958, and peoples haircuts proved it. It was named after the witch hunt ritual of burning anyone called Lee. However, if I was called Lee and I lived here then I would be passing a box of Swan Vestas to the angry mob of farmworkers.

In search of some light refreshment, our heroes ventured to enter a local hostelry that had some friendly types outside the main entrance, only to discover a big blackboard outside stating in a “No Blacks” kind of way, “No Away Supporters”. As this was the only place to go before the stadium then the decision was made to journey on to the stadium. Often a good travelling technique when one finds that all other avenues are closed.

One compliment that has to be given to the population of Burnley is that they do not do things by half. If the decision is to keep the town looking like it did 50 years ago then this is what they do. A consistent portrayal of the era is echoed into every last detail, and so once inside the stadium the theme continued. The tannoy system was connected by bean cans and tight string, and only worked if the wind stopped, which it didn't for long. When finally the weary men sat down in their seats, there was a feeling that they had sat where many men have sat before. Literally, as they had not cleared away their dead.

The onslaught that then ensued was of biblical proportions. The brothers in arms stood together in the trenches, settling themselves and taking stock of their surroundings. The first long range missile came over the barricades, and a direct hit... kazamm... half the army were wiped out. Secondly, a fumbled hand grenade dropped right at the feet... boom... the rest of the army were decimated. Finally, a volley and a strike and… poww... the rest of the stragglers were floored.

That was it. Eleven minutes in total. Not a soul survived.

Gradually though, a miracle developed. As if from a zombie film, the dead army began to awaken. They came back stronger and more determined. Two attacks hit the opposition right where it hurts, and a third would make it level. The masses were shouting, “We're going to beat you 4-3, we're going to beat you 4-3”, and a renewed optimism was present.

It was short lived, however, and the travelling armies had another bleak prospect on the horizon. They would soon have to leave this shelter, and venture back into the land that time forgot. Not knowing what surprises would face them on the way.

The crowds left the pile of rubble and bricks, that local people call Turfmoor, and headed back to the homeland. Our two protagonists resembled Napoleonic soldiers returning from Russia, defeated, hungry, wet, and cheesed off.

When eventually the anachronistic skyline, of modern juxtaposed with old, silhouetted against a murky grey backdrop, the two travellers revelled in the warmth of the homecoming. As they departed from the train they had deserved a heroes welcome, a fanfare and parade. Instead, they were ignored and brushed aside, average people mistaking their battle scars for tramp-like dirtiness.

The pair trudged out of the Victorian station, passing the Victorian ticket office, long after Victoria had gone, looking forward to a cup of tea and a Victoria sandwich.

The Ambulance Preservation Society

As the sirens were heard, and the common sound of an emergency went wailing through the night, the ambulance weaved its way through the relatively quiet streets on its way to the hospital once more. It had made the journey many times but every trip promised new adventures for the fixtures and fittings. Perhaps this would be the journey when the defibrillator was used, or maybe the airway un-blockers that hang over the bed.

The men and women that make the life changing drive throughout the day are always very calm and professional. They save lives continuously, and I have often wondered whether they even realise anymore that they make more difference on a Tuesday evening than most people make ever. It amazes me that they can be party to abuse and assault from our ever greatening thick population. Eventually they will all change their tune and understand the vast difference that these people make, but sadly this will often follow a tragedy, or a narrowly avoided tragedy.

We must really appreciate the impact that this service provides and the huge steps that it has taken to improve our safety and care. I had never appreciated the amount of professionalism and speed to which these people operate. Multi-tasking at its very best. They must talk to the hospital and alert them of an arrival stating any issues and an ETA, explain to the driver where to go, communicate effectively with the significant loved one sat often in shock on the make shift passenger seat, fill in a form asking questions of a comprehensive nature, and ... oh by the way, save someone’s life as well. Seriously... if you or I was ever to try and jump in and do that then it would go pear shaped in a jiffy.

Well, as is our life, I was a significant passenger again last Tuesday night. As always, I was trying to keep rational and calm and answer questions as quickly as I could, whilst trying to talk to my little girl and try to reassure her that everything was going to be alright. It is a deeply enlightening experience and if it wasn’t so terrible then I would recommend it to everybody. You will never think so clearly and focused about one thing, apart from maybe a Tibetan monk that has spent years trying to perfect sitting on a leaf.

At these moments occasionally something will pop into your head that you would not normally think. Extreme lateral thought. This kind of thought happened to me last Tuesday night. I wondered if it was possible to live in an ambulance.

They’re like Tardis’ but without the aliens (they do have Doctors though... aah, you like that). An ambulance is the cool crash pad for twenty somethings that cannot afford a rung on the property ladder. “Moving” or “stationery” can be your choice. But bear in mind that “moving” would make you into a Gypsy, which isn’t necessarily the market I was looking at.

Let us have a look at the wonderful attributes that an ambulance possesses. A bed, a power source, more cupboard space than you can shake a stick at, two chairs for guests, a ramp to ride your bike in and out (especially useful if you go for the stationery model), communication ready, disco lights for those outside barbecues, and a big cab at the front. My tip would be to convert the front cab into a chemical toilet and then knock through to widen the living space. You will then have a completely functional pad and for a snifter of the price of a traditional studio flat.

What’s more, here are some more ideas to personalise your Ambul’ouse. Give it a cool paint job to make it look less like the type of vehicle that people will run to if they need help. Rip out the interior fittings, just keeping the cupboard space and other fixtures. Replace with some choice contemporary furniture, and go for a nice, chic dark wood effect. The shape of the van itself is a classic symbol of popular culture, which would be instantly recognisable and sought after by other medical profession obsessive’s.

It appears to me to be a win-win, and a solution to a much pondered problem. We save the landfills getting filled up with decrepit machines that no longer have a use, whilst housing young people and enabling them to move away from their family seat.

I must admit now though, that this idea is not new, and that I have blatantly plagiarised it from another point in history. The classic Gypsy caravan that everyone knows and loves, the type that was commonly seen on the Flake advert in the 1980’s, is in fact no more than a revamped Sky television van from the 17th century. Oh, well, it’s far enough away that I can’t be sued now.

England's Glory

I feel what it must be like to be a Man United fan this morning. I watched England last night and not only did I enjoy watching the performance, which was exceptional considering the reserves that were present, but also the confidence that I had in them getting a result. They now have a belief amongst themselves which has been present for the last handful of games and this can only be a good thing when it comes to preparation for the World Cup. Last night the obvious show ponies were not there, and it is hard to say whether this had anything to do with it, but the passion and desire to win, even in a friendly, was clear and apparent.

I have actually begun to enjoy watching England football matches again. This is something that I have not had since the days when I didn’t know as much about football. The initial event dies down the older you get, but the performance and the manner in which it is delivered become more important. Most fans only want to see a desire to win, and they will go home satisfied.

I like the Italian chic that we have now as a unit. There is a cool confidence that is comfortable knowing itself. Capello looks like the type of man that either the team play well for, or he will ring up a member of his family that will put horses heads, or a New Forest pony’s head in Wright-Phillips case, in their beds. That’s what we need.

However, to every ray of sunshine there must be a cloud racing across the sky to cover it. Ying and Yang. The law of nature. One England team does well as another falls apart. I am talking about the cricket team, who are currently on tour in India. All of the good things that I was saying about the football can be said in reverse for the cricket. Heads are down, no confidence, no real direction or hunger, no amazing talent coming through and surprising people.

I am sat here at six o’clock in the morning watching the third one dayer and preparing for the usual collapse. I enjoy watching cricket for the statistics that appear for every ball that is bowled, and you can always tell who is in the ascendancy by the number of statistics that the commentators say they are breaking. The records are all being broke by India. A young side with lots of talent and future.

The catalyst for the downturn in England’s fortunes was the prostitution of their involvement in the Stanford Series. They had their pants pulled down by a Texan billionaire and like an abused convict smarting from the showers, they are now recovering and getting back their confidence. Some of the young players though could have been turned forever.

Another thing about India that I have wanted to get off of my chest for a while is the call centre culture of the new Indian mega-industry. As an industry itself it is a bizarre concept, get a load of technology that will make it possible for anyone around the world to be connected direct to an Indian call centre, and then undercut call centres in other countries by 4/5’s to ensure the business.

The service levels are expectedly worse than the service levels of a domestic customer service line, but because of the cost companies chose to ignore this. A weird culture has developed in India itself, as the operatives pretend that they are English, giving themselves English names and using English current affairs briefs to converse with you on a “normal” level. All very strange, and I would encourage anyone to get them talking about current affairs if you get a chance. They will begin well and read what is on their crib sheet, but then as you delve into more detail they will just change direction of the conversation and talk about something else instead. You can have a bit of fun with it, that is if you’re in the mood for fun and not exceptionally frustrated.

Also, the operatives are under extreme conditions often having to commit to a company for two years and agreeing not to sign to anyone else if they lose their job with the company that they are with. Their accommodation is paid for by the company and therefore if they lose their job they are genuinely destitute until their ban is lifted. This is pressure to deliver. I feel that this pressure is unfair and you are asking people to deliver promises that it is impossible for them to make.

Most progressive companies are beginning to return from their Indian experience and resort back to British call centres, finally realising that the customer service is the only point of a call centre and if you compromise that then any money that you spend is wasted. But there are still some that are attracted by the carrot of low costs, and in the current climate, costs are everything.

At my work we now have our IT service helpdesk in India. The one benefit that has grown from this is that the IT skills of every European based employee have grown ten-fold. It’s amazing what you can learn out of forced frustration.

One day it will all come back I am sure, but we need to see it through first with tolerance.

Halloween and Hallo Obama

It was in the early evening, as the sun was going down for the day, the dust, which had been worn like a reminder of the recent cellar clear out, had just been washed from the pores. The white jumpsuit that had been bought especially for the occasion was taken from the sealed packet and donned with the usual efficiency. As he looked up from his shoe coverings he could see the flash of something black. It looked like a bat, but surely it was too early for such a creature of the night. There it was again but this time it could be seen clearly. It was covered in black PVC, the kind reserved for fetish parties. She had black cuffs that went around her slender arms, and a mask that protected her identity.

He put on his mask to conceal his identity also, and then both the mouse and the bat descended into reality disappearing into the night to fight crime and save the streets of Stockport, again.

Just another Halloween party for Claire and I, a very well dressed Bat Girl and a quite debonair looking Dangermouse. We were disappearing off to a house party where the only crime was that they had laid on food and I had just eaten.

We like a nice dress up. We always dread it at first but once we are in our costumes and take on the identity of the character we transcend in to their soul. For that night I was Dangermouse, the national treasure that I soon realised had not travelled as far as Italy, as he was unknown to some Italians at the party.

To be philosophical, perhaps we dress up to escape the monotony of our normal lives. We all like playing roles and there is something appealing about masking your real identity. Throughout the ages we have masked ourselves in attire that would add mystery and intrigue to the evening. The Halloween party of current times is just a reincarnation of a Venetian Ball. Or perhaps we just like dressing up to look like spanners once a year.

In the writing of this blog, history has been made. Finally the Americans have voted with their heads and they have now picked someone that they can hopefully be proud of. Obama certainly seems the real deal, not since Kennedy has anyone had the star quality, and in a country where this is important this is surely a good thing.
He talks about peace, and hope and a future. These have been alien themes for too long, and now maybe the world can begin to rebuild. Also, not since Kennedy has someone promised so much of these dreams and truly connected with the people of the most powerful country in the world. This can only be a good thing.

Still the American South are lost back in the Civil War, and the lines of segregation are very much those that ran along the Confederacy. Possibly because Obama is black, it was only 40 years ago that they weren’t allowed on buses, and maybe because the gun toting members of those communities still like war and other right wing pursuits.

But, thirdly and unfortunately another factor that could be the same between Obama and Kennedy is the assassination risk that he holds. Already there has been an attempt from a group of bungled Neo-Nazi’s, and now there must be a large number of sworn enemies of the president planning and concocting a death squad.

If history teaches us anything, it is that there is always a large section of society that does not embrace change, always a section that sees through the positive enthusiasm of a new way and cling to the old. There is always a business that was making money in the old way and will not in the new. These are the people that will try.

But as long as he stays away from Texas and doesn’t drive past any book depository, then hopefully the world can enjoy some much needed harmony.

However, in this time of jubilation, cast a thought to John McCain who has not only lost today, but also did not win over the people that a half brained idiot, half monkey, had managed to win over twice. It’s a strange world.

The Restaurant

The autumnal sun was beginning to set over the rural Cheshire landscape as I embarked on my journey to Cambridge. The weather was kind and sympathetic to my plight, and all else being equal, this journey could be no worse. Cambridge itself has been the centre of learning for generations, and in modern times a hive of activity in the bio-tech environment. There are a wealth of small independent companies popping up, with a mutual knowledge base and slight differentiating factors. In my exam mode, a wonderful example of industry clustering.

It was one of these small businesses that became the destination of my journey, and although my knowledge of Bio-tech’s and science is lacking from the average Pharmaceutical employee, their numbers are still numbers that go up in the same order.

An old Chinese proverb states that a journey of one thousand miles begins with one step. In my case, the journey was about 160 miles and I was in a car. But the Chinese cannot be expected to know everything. They did well with the Olympics, and are best in class when it comes to Wall building.

My car deserves a brief mention. It was hired from Avis, who I can now publicly declare are rubbish and if you had any choice in car borrowing then please do not use this company. I do not get angry with the help very often, but on this occasion I was incensed to the point of perspiration. I won’t go into the details but take my word for it, go with Hertz.

Having said that, the actual car was very nice. It was an executive class Citroen which is not up there with the Mercedes or BMW’s of this world but still for a man of my simple pleasures, it purred along the M6 like a Siamese cat on a banister. So after a brief interlude on the toll road for a Costa coffee or as it should be called “Cost-alot Coffee”, I then reached my destination at seven o’clock.

The hotel was a lovely example of a hostelry in a semi-rural setting that’s main focus is business travel. But unlike many of the genre, the Felix Hotel was an AA 4star establishment and one that, at first impressions, I would be very comfortable in. They type of hotel that if you were paying for it yourself then you would probably have resided in one of the competition that was in more of a central location to Cambridge, but as I was enjoying the hospitality of Uncle AZ, it was more a case of a hearty clap of the hands and an enthusiastic “Happy Days”.

The restaurant was the hotels “jewel in the crown” and, as I have previously mentioned, due to the hotels remote nature, there was no other choice than to endure the nouvelle cuisine. I have two simple rules of thumb in restaurants; firstly, look at the price, if it makes you blow out your cheeks and chortle at the fact that at least you’re not paying, then it’s probably good; and also secondly, if it has items on the menu that I have no idea what they are, and more surprisingly have never even heard of, then again, it is probably good. This restaurant ticked both of these boxes.

The standard was exceptional. I have no complaints what so ever, it was first class. My fellow diners, however, you could have been excused to think were less than content. As it was a Monday evening, restaurants across the land complain of low numbers of covers, and the Felix was no exception. Apart from me there was only one other table in my half of the restaurant, obviously the half that was reserved for the more discerning diner.

“I must say, the pork is hardly, how I would describe, tender.”
“Is this a beetroot salad, or just slices of beetroot interspersed with chutney?”
“This fish reminds me of the course that we once had in Madrid.”
“Was it not in the Alps?”
“Oh, do you remember the charming little Auberge in the mountains, still the most favourable venison that I have ever experienced.”
“Do you know my favourite way of serving fish finger sandwiches is with a fine spread of Marie Rose sauce.”

This was snippets taken from the conversation to my right. As the meal progressed the comments became more and more pretentious. I could not help but snigger to myself at certain points and to my relief later on, thank goodness I was undetected.

As I was thinking to myself that this could be the most pretentious restaurant that I have ever been in, and buoyed by the glass of red wine that I had, I asked the head waiter if this was the usual standard of clientele that he could expect most evenings. To my relief he replied, “No. Those are the owners, and they are interviewing for the Head Chef.”

Finally the comments began to make sense, and like a clever film that had an unexpected twist at the end, it made me go through everything that I had witnessed and see it from another perspective. It now all made sense and the snobs had gone from pretentious snobs to loaded restaurateur snobs. A whole different category and one that can be more tolerated.

The moral of this story is to never judge a book by its cover. Perception can always be distorted. The wise man holds off on an opinion until he knows all of the facts.

Happy Days

A long time has passed since my last blog, and I can only apologise to my readership that has become dependent upon my words. We have missed the Olympics and the start of the football season, both of which would have received comment by me if we had been there. But unfortunately we are where we are, and there is no point going back over old ground. A regret in my life that I will always carry with me, like a burden upon my soul.

I feel as though I must offer some explanation for my absence. As you may know, I have two young children and this means that I do not have the spare time that once, as a youth, I had. I have decided that the novel I am writing deserves more perseverance than this journal of rants, and so I have dedicated more time to that. Therefore, due to my limited time, this blog has suffered. I now have a weekend morning to myself again though (the last one since my last blog two months ago) and I would be a mere shadow of the man I thought I was if I was to neglect you further.

You have, however, caught me in a mood of optimism about life and the journey that we are all on. I am very much in the frame that life is what you make of it, and so therefore I am attempting to whinge about things less and look on the positive of all situations more. Although this is hard in a society where I have been conditioned to whinge about even the weather, and to look positively is a lost art. I heard a quote the other day which I thought backed up my new philosophy, “There is no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothes.” Everything is about perception in life, what appears bad at first is only different to what you had expected initially. If you think of things as bad, then it will be a self fulfilling prophesy and turn out bad, but vice versa, think of things as good and watch the results pick up.

A perfect example of this happened to me last weekend. We have been told by a number of people to go to a disability play group every other Saturday, as it will be good for both Sophie and Dylan, and also it is run by parents that have been through a lot of what we are experiencing now. So anyway, reluctantly I went along, not particularly knowing what to expect, and also a long way from my comfort zone, but thinking that it will be good for Sophie.

So, we were in there for about 20 minutes introducing ourselves to the parents that had set the group up 7 years ago due to a lack of any kind of facility existing before. Everyone was very nice, and a real spirit was in the room. I started to feel really good about how I can help other people, rather than just what I can get out of it myself. When, all of a sudden, Sophie had a seizure. It was large enough for us to have to administer the rescue drug, and call an ambulance. The ambulance then proceeded to turn up and whisk us off to the Stepping Hilton without delay. Although we felt kind of embarrassed that we had created such a drama, these people had obviously been there before and were the calmest group of people that we have ever experienced in such a situation.

In my new positive framing way of life, I was able to step back from the immediate drama and contemplate how bad this really was. Obviously, it is different to how the script would have been written, and it is not the path of least resistance, but there are a lot of positives to the situation as well. While it is going on and you are involved in the heat of the moment, nothing else matters in life. Existence becomes very simple and you only have one thing to think about. It is very real, and brings out an almost primal instinct in you to save a loved one. Your confidence grows and you do the right thing naturally.

The downside to this type of event, and I feel I must give you a balanced view, is that after the initial shock is over, one has time to contemplate on all of life’s mysteries. This is when it is hard to remain completely positive. But it was not as bad this time around.

We will continue to go to the ABC Group, as they are known, and continue to help others that need it. It is something that I would probably have never been involved with if my life had not taken this route, but now it has and I have accepted it, I am happy with it. I also want to be involved with fundraising, and any other way that I can give my time to helping others. I am in a fortunate position, but it will only be realised if I do something with it. I have one friend that went to Romania to help with the orphan situation, another that teaches less fortunate children maths in his lunchtime, and another that gave football training to Down syndrome kids. The most that I have ever contributed is a bit of money that I could afford to give away. I think these people are inspirational and I want to be a bit more like that.

Anyway, it is all good at the moment, and hopefully I will not leave it so long before my next update. Happy Days!!

Cafe Culture

The weather is absolutely glorious at the moment while I am writing this blog. I am sat outside a coffee shop in Heaton Moor with the sun in my face enjoying the continental atmosphere. I imagine that this would be the life of a writer. Sat in the sun, watching the world go by, and using your imagination to get lost in a made up world. I cannot think of any better way to spend my life, but I will have to see what destiny has in store for me. At the moment I sit in an office all day, with no windows, and never use my imagination. My imagination is like an under used muscle, and when I sharpen it it works a lot better, but I rarely get the chance.

I have had quite a nice week in the mainly sunny weather. I travelled to Cambrdige on Wednesday and that is a lovely place to visit, especially in the sun.

The punts were travelling past on the water that was reflecting the ancient images of architecture in the truest sense of the word. The place has an atmosphere of learning, obviously this is expected due to the fact that it is one of the worlds leading university towns. But, in the summer when most of the full time students are back at home in summer jobs, the place is full of overseas students experiencing the English culture.

It makes the whole place buzz in the same way that Barcelona does, it feels as though anything is possible if you would only apply your mind to it. Which of course I was the embodiment of due to the fact that I wanted to eat, and after putting my mind to it, I found an Italian restaurant and succeeded.

I sat in the restaurant on my own watching the hordes of revellers walking past from my al fresco vantage point. I began to think of dear old blighty and how it is subtley changing, away from the focus of the media.

The papers have you believe that knife crime is threatening to obliterate the entire youth generation. Benefit fraudsters and immigrants are fighting in the streets, and turf wars are developing in sunny hamlets.

But I think there is a large sub-culture developing in the small pockets of niceness that we still have left that is evolving into a more cosmopolitan lifestyle of cafe bars and culture.

There is much more opportunity to sit outside now and watch people pass by. Most of these places will still involve you being accosted by some homeless person. However, if you sit and watch people pass by in that type of area then inevitably a contingent of those people will inhibit your voyeur position.

But if you sit in a nice area then the people will respect your position, and like a peacock trying to attract a hen, they will perform for you. All manner of struts and catwalks did I witness in Cambridge, as the beautiful people all went by. Occasionally these were punctuated by the strangers in life, that are usually more interesting to watch.

In Manchester, the strangers are usually smack heads, but in Cambridge they are intellectuals that have blown their minds reading crazy philosophies of paranoia and medieval witchcraft. I saw one guy speaking of the end of the world, which I thought was a cleche but people actually exist, and also a man in a Jester's hat attempting to interest people to come to an evening he was holding.

They were weird but people just tolerated them better than in most places. There was no abuse thrown at them, or chairs, and people just accepted them as part of the free entertainment.

Now I am sat in Heaton Moor, a place literally around the corner from where I live. The ambience is still pretty much the same. The people walking past are a bit more urban, but still the respect is largely still there. This continental approach is helping England become more tolerant and that can only be a good thing.

This writing has been made possible today by Claire and I coming to an arrangement that every weekend we get a morning each to ourselves. I can then use that to write and Claire can use it to do what ever she wants to do. Hopefully this will avoid any arguments that we have had about time to ourselves, and make it better when we are all together.

A Gentlemen's Game

As June begins, it signifies and end to the growth period of spring. The leaves are out, the grass has been freshly cut and leaves the aroma that hay fever sufferers hate, and the new series of Big Brother has begun. Everything is at its most beautiful. It sparkles in the radiant light, and a soft calm falls over everything. Especially at six o’clock at night when the sun is on it’s downhill, sprint finish. Its nights like these that you know your hero likes to partake in a gentle spot of cricket.

Once again I turned out for the Astrazeneca XI, this time pitting my guile against the strong side from KPMG. As they are a team of Auditors they are not the most charismatic of opposition. Most of them are still living with their mother’s, whilst diligently building a fifth track to the Euston Road recreation in the spare room. But they are still an opposition none the less.

This was our first adventure this season, and where the likes of KP would be in the nets all winter, keeping his eye in, I was watching cricket on the telly. So, this meant that at least I still knew the rules. I had a plan though, I would practice for ten minutes before the game and everything would fall back into place.

KPMG could be likened to the Germany of inter-company cricket. As I have mentioned, they are lacking any real bona fide personalities, but they are well turned out, very efficient, and well organised. They needed eleven people and they came with eleven people. They were there to play cricket and so they had their whites on, neatly pressed.

My team however looked like a real ramshackle bunch of misfits compared to this example. For one, we only had nine players. Two were somehow confused about dates, and although clever enough to hold down jobs, a cricket match was obviously one step too far. Secondly, Only five people had whites, and so the rest of us were attired in a mix of relatively light coloured football kits with tracksuit bottoms or shorts. We looked like the prisoners team in Mean Machine as we ran out to take on the guards.

From the beginning it looked bleak, but somewhere under the surface we had an energy waiting to be released. As we elected to bat first from the victorious toss, there was a sense that “Gosh, they couldn’t even win that!” Our Captain and gentleman, walked back to where we had congregated with a steely determination in his eyes, with a message that he knew and no one else did, and it was his job above all else in life to pass that message on. He did this extremely well, and told us that we were batting first.

Then to my surprise he continued by saying that, “Mike is the only recognised batsman here, so he will open.” Until this point I was mucking around at the back of the group doing keepy-ups with a cricket ball, but this put me completely off my stride and made me volley the ball thirty feet away.

It was true that last season I did have some success with the willow, and had retired with maximum score on several occasions. It is also true that near the end I was opening, but I still thought that sooner or later someone would come in that knew what they were doing. My whole philosophy on batting at this inferior level of cricket is to do what ever you are going to do… properly. None of this dangling the bat on the off stump, or hesitantly driving through mid-wicket. No. What you need to do is move your bat like you mean it, because even if you don’t connect with the middle of the bat at least you will put some speed on the ball and hopefully make it harder to be caught. This worked for me a treat last year, and so I eventually rode out to the square joking and laughing and in altogether high spirits. Actually looking forward to hitting the ball in anger and playing cricket.

After the masquerade of asking the umpire for your middle stump on the crease, which at my level is such a waste of time but it is the done thing, I then settled in to the first ball. A medium paced delivery coming down the leg side. I saw it all the way and thought to myself a quick knock through square and off we go.

I played the shot and the next sound I heard was the stumps falling over and the cheers coming from the saddo’s. I’d only gone and played on. I was gutted. First ball, and out. Walking back to the pavilion, I was the receiver of some predictable banter, mostly from my own team and that was it. A year I had been waiting to play cricket, and it lasted less than a minute.

After a reasonably successful innings in the end, of 105 off 20 overs, we then skittled them out for 58 for 9 and it came to the last wicket to end their torture. It ended up getting skied by their number 8 and it went up and up and up, and then it came down and down and down right over my head. This was my chance to redeem myself, and at least finish in style. I took the catch and the game was over. We had hammered them, and for all their whites and organisation we came through victorious with absolutely nothing to do with me.

Cricket is like that. It is an individual game played in a team. There are lots of individual battles that make up the match and if you have a stinker then you have to trust your teammates to do their bit. This time it worked out. Although I don’t know how many more chances I will get at opening if I continue in that form.

Birthday Blitz

I guess that sometimes life isn't always as easy as you think. Sometimes the easiest tasks can cause friction and conflict with others. I never mean to cause offence, or irritate other people but sometimes this happens and I can't then make it instantly better.

Maybe if I can eliminate the frustration in my world, then I will be more tolerant of other views and actions. I am very easily wound up, and I don't really think that I do anything wrong, but I obviously do. I am a peace loving man that spends most of his time at war.

Oh well, anyway. Never mind....

I wrote a blog last week but then I lost it through technical issues, so I will try to recap on the birthday week.

I had to bake a cake for the people at work, and the same recipe was made in the US and Sweden. It was a global celebration of my 31st birthday. The only time that something has happened on this global scale is Live Aid, but I think my birthday even topped that.

The cake was nice and everyone enjoyed it, including the CFO of Astrazeneca who was in our office for the very first time in eight years. Typical.

The rest of my birthday was pretty much uneventful, until at the weekend we went to the Bodyworks exhibition. The German autopsy doctor who is exhibiting his collection of dead people in the Science and Industry Museum in Manchester.

I was expecting it to be quite gory and morbid, but instead it was beautiful. The way he had displayed them in different action poses, showing how the muscles, tendons, nerves and bones all worked together was fantastic. I learnt more in that museum than I ever did in Biology at school.

The strange thing was that the more muscle I looked at, the hungrier I became. It was like a load of meat laid out on a table before a barbecue, and I couldn't wait to sink my teeth into it.

I don't think I could actually become Hannibal Lector, but I may understand cannibalism a bit more. I think that is the test between a psychopath and a normal person, we all have urges but most of us can control them.

We then went to the nearest beach we could find which was Formby just north of Liverpool. It was a lovely beach full of sand dunes, and forests. Also, because it wasn't that sunny, it was nicely empty and you could appreciate the natural beauty more.

I was given a filter coffee machine for my birthday and so since then I have been wired on black coffee. I am sure I have had illegal substances in the past that give a similar feeling to this, but this is legal. Isn't it funny how in our society we have something’s that are legal and something’s that are illegal, and it just depends on a subjective view. Two of our biggest killers in the UK are Cigarettes and Alcohol, not the Oasis song, and both of these are legal. Strange.

The kids have been brilliant this week, with no dramas to speak of except a small incident with Dylan and a hot cup of tea. But this was a storm in a teacup, literally. (Comedy Gold)

I think sometimes happiness is in front of everyone, but for some reason we can't see it all of the time. Like a man in a dark room trying to find the light switch. Sometimes you just are happy, and sometimes you are searching for it. But it's always there, in front of you, you just need to look at it in a different way.

There's a lot mentioned in the media about happiness and what the secret to it is, as if it is the Holy Grail, and must involve a life’s study and exploration. Instead happiness is part of life. You have to be content with what you have, and not strive for the unattainable. You must challenge yourself, but do not punish yourself for failure. And accept that everything changes and things are not always perfect. Also, an argument is like a prison cell, and the longer you are in it so the walls get higher.

Peace.

Strange Days

Occasionally one finds themselves dropped in to some surreal situation, where they cannot really work out how they happened to be there or how exactly it would end. This happened to me last Friday when I found myself in one of the Executive Vice Presidents offices of AstraZeneca with my arm round them.

First of all may I just say that this was at their request not mine, and yours truly will not be having any charges made against him, or restraining orders slapped down.

The VP in question is leaving, after single handedly ruining our department and the morale of a reasonably professional team, and moving to a terrible posting as the President of the Portugal Marketing Company. Obviously everyone's hearts we're bleeding as they heard this news, and the sense that she would be sorely missed was present in everyone's minds. The fact that she had justified a collection of £16 amongst 60 people speaks louder than any way I could describe it.

So, we gathered on her last day to celebrate the passing of one of our times great leaders, and we stood there and listened to the drivel that was subjected at us, almost like a medieval collection of jesters that were gathered before their Queen.

After she had been presented with her gift of a build your own board game, and wait for it, a set of crystal wine glasses (how did these come out of £16) the surreal times started to begin. Either Harry Potter had just cast a money spell, or her PA had somehow robbed a jewellers. Either option is quite unbelievable, and I started to feel as though I was draped off of a tree in Salvador Dali's much celebrated "Time".

In the end, we tramped back to our desks like an army of ants going back to the hill, and put our noses back on the grindstone. Only to be interrupted again by her PA stating that the VP would like a picture in her office with the "Team".

Well, considering that 90% of us had never been her office before, the fact that she was going to compose a picture of her team all around her desk was most definitely conjuring up a slightly distorted view of reality. But we obeyed, as we can still hear the cries of those that haven't obeyed in the past, and we all walked into her office.

We all lined up on either side of her, and I was picturing the camera being an AK47 and we were in an execution party, but there was no room for the second in charge. Oh, no, what to do.

It was okay, he immediately dropped to his knees in a manner that gave away that he had probably done that before in this office, and we continued. A couple of shots were taken and we started to disperse.

"Everyone stay for one more, but this time lets put our arms round each other."

At this point, I was struggling to keep it together, and so it all happened in a blur. I was thinking of The Office and David Brent's unfortunate manner, while all around me people were putting their arms around the person next to them in a sign of solidarity. We all managed to grasp each other, and I even had my fingertips on the Queen Bee, but No. 2 was still on the floor with no one to clutch. So he ended up with his two hands aloft either side of him with the people nearest him holding a hand each.

We resulted in looking like the end of a West End musical, in the Vice Presidents office. I wonder if the market investors have any knowledge of this Carry On Corporate that goes on in the 8th largest company in the FTSE100. I doubt it.

Hopefully that photo will be framed somewhere in Lisbon, to remind her of the day that she had friends, even if it was for only a minute.

Also, I just want to mention another completely surreal news story this week, involving Ronaldo. For those of you that have been living in a cave at the bottom of the Great Barrier Reef all week, he has won the Premiership and the Champions League with Manchester United but could now move to Real Madrid.

It is stated that he currently earns a pittance of £100k a week, but now Real Madrid are rumoured to be offering £300k a week after tax. Obviously the loyalty that he should give Man United for nurturing him into the Best Player in the World is non existent, and who can blame anyone for not being able to live on £100k a week!!

At what point does the amount of money that you make become irrelevant. What more can Ronaldo do with £300k a week, that he cannot do now. I am baffled by the amounts that footballers earn. £75m over 3 years. He could be injured for them all. Strange days.

Pills, Thrills and Bellyaches

It's been a month since l last wrote a blog entry and you're hero has been found discovering the new world, going on holiday, and another hospital adventure. But first things first... the saints just survived on the last day of the season. We were down 3 times on the last day but we somehow managed to escape. I have whinged about the current state of English football before but there is no harm in having another rant.

The whole game is now about money. Saints find themselves without any, at a time when all other clubs have gone past them. In the space of four years we have dropped from 8th in the Premiership and the FA Cup Final to nearly relegated from the Championship. In the same period we have witnessed Portsmouth travel in the opposite direction, not due to organic growth, or an amazing crop of youngsters brought through from the Academy, but through money.

If you can’t beat them then join them. This has been the problem that Saints have faced. No-one who has been in charge of Southampton has been able to find any investment for a club who have a new stadium, one of the best Academies in the country, and a proven support base if we were back in the Premiership. Portsmouth have millions due to a Russian fisherman, and yet the club remains lacking in all of these three areas. How can Southampton not attract any investment?

A millionaire now owns every single Premiership club, and bank rolled by them. Also, every club has been taken over in the last 5 years. This is the ever-changing face of English football. Loyalty has been replaced by a P&L, and the players who jump around clubs because their agent tells them to have reflected this.

Until we are taken over, the reality unfortunately will be one of survival in the Championship. Without money we cannot buy a team to compete consistently with those that can buy the better players. West Brom and Stoke who have both spent quite enough over the last year have both been promoted. We could rely on organic growth to get ourselves out of the quagmire but if you need examples of why this will not work then cast your mind back to Walcott, Bridge, Bale, Baird. All have played for their countries before they were 20 and all came through the Academy at Southampton. Unfortunately they also left Southampton for MONEY as soon as they could. Surman will be the next to go.

I am aware of how bitter this rant sounds and how envious of other clubs we are, but this stems from the frustration of having clubs like Hull, Stoke, and Bristol City overtake us. The final word on this subject is that we need someone to buy us, and then we can look to the future.

And breathe….

I travelled to the US a few weeks ago for work. I flew into Philadelphia and was then whisked away to the international city of Wilmington in Delaware. In the 3 days that I spent there I have come to the conclusion that it is a town on one road with big blocks on either side that are only differentiated by the corporate logos on the outside. It is as if God, after building most of the world like an elaborate model railway, then came to Wilmington and used Lego to knock it up in a few hours.

Having said that, one observation that I made was that it was all very comfortable. The corridors and doorways are massive, probably due to the oversized nature of its inhabitants, and the facilities all around you are designed for comfort and ease. The bed was big and soft, compared to the average hotel bed in Europe, which is usually quite hard. It would be quite easy to sink in to a Wilmington life where you feel protected by a big cotton wool ball and forget about the problems that are being faced in other areas of the world.

The news channels are all local, the newspapers are all local, and I found it quite tricky to find out the Champions League scores when I was there. You can live in a bubble, and only be interested in the immediate events directly in front of you. The people at work, who spent most of the time talking about local issues, echoed this behaviour. This is culturally very different to anywhere I have been in Europe, or major cities in the US. It is a much more provincial attitude, that has not been affected by the rapid globalisation of other areas in the world.

I personally think that this way of thinking is out dated and the world has changed too much for vast areas of civilisation, like the US, to ignore it. I also think that too much the other way is also a bad thing, where people have no understanding of what is around them and cannot connect with communities. A middle ground must be found where an awareness of the Macro issues affecting the world are juxtaposed with the tolerance and understanding of local communities. But there you go, that was my assessment of Wilmington.

While I was out there I met Pete, and we had a few drinks, a meal and eventually spent the night together. This was all above board, and the tache from previous entries has been shaved off. Wilmington is only a couple of hours away from Baltimore, where Pete lives, and so he crashed at the hotel and then went straight to work the next morning.

Unfortunately on my last day, Sophie was taken into hospital due to another seizure, and so while I was on my way home the wheels were set into motion for the “worst case scenario” plan. While Claire is on her own, it is obviously hard to look after Dylan as well as Sophie in hospital. So the cavalry were called and everything went smoothly. Sophie came out the next day and everything was fine.

Last week we escaped to Centreparcs in the Lake District. If you have never been it can be compared to a village in the woods, where trees hide nearly all other lodges and dwellings, and you have the sense of being secluded. It is very peaceful, but also has a great indoor swimming pool and Spa centre. The kids loved the swimming, and the playgrounds, and we loved the Spa centre. We went with Chan and Woody and their kids, and all had a good time.

Halfway through the week Dylan caught a bug, probably from licking every surface he could get his tongue near, and so he wasn’t very happy for a couple of days. This then made us nervous of Sophie catching it, but luckily she avoided it and there was no major catastrophe. One day we may be able to go away and not worry about the worst thing that could happen, but at the moment we are still being proved right a lot of the time.

The Tache

It was dark, and there was a cold wind blowing from a southerly direction. The kind of morning that reminds you of how warm your bed is. There was no joy in waking up at 4.30am deliberately, as opposed to the usual reason of one of the cherubs crying. For a change, both of them were fast asleep dreaming of milk and Iggle Piggle.

I took my morning ablutions in silence, and crept downstairs with my bag. As I left my front door, I took a one last look back to mentally etch the image in my mind, and then moved on with a heavy heart.

I was not leaving home for good, only for 4 days, but it felt as though I was abandoning everybody. But as I moved to the waiting car, my heart lifted as if a thousand birds were carrying it. If I did not know that Heath Ledger was dead then I may have fallen into the presumption that he had hired a Ford Focus and was sat outside my house.

Ian had agreed, to pick me up, the night before and thank god he did. If I looked anything like this cowboy now then it would have been a long journey to North Manchester in the taxi. He was wearing the hat that I have on in the picture to the left, also sporting a similar tache. As we headed off it must have looked like a Brokeback Mountain version of Thelma and Louise. Or a really dodgy American Cop show from the 1970’s that was never aired due to the sensitive nature of facial hair.

It became worse when we all met up and at least 7 people had also made the effort of growing the mudguard. We started to resemble a Deep South Bluegrass convention, and I don’t mean Devon. Liverpool Airport was under no illusion that we were to be messed with, and the drinking began at a time when I would normally be eating my Frosties. It then stayed at a consistent rate for the next 4 days, and so this is where my detailed commentary dries up.

It was hot in Valencia, Spanish, and expensive due to the strong Euro. For all else you can use your imagination. It was a stag party of 16, mostly from Salford, with no agenda apart from two football matches on different days.

Damien was the perfect roommate. I saw him for some time in the afternoon, and the rest of the time was when I woke up and would see him lying face down on his bed with all of his clothes on and shoes. He also had some good news regarding his current contract and a possible get out clause. So fingers crossed that one day he can achieve what he deserves.

Ian enjoyed himself and it was not awkward that his future Father-in-law was there too. I’m looking forward to the wedding now so that we can all meet up, and have that knowing look to each other that you get when you’ve been away and have stories between yourselves. Like war veterans but a bit nicer and nobody died.

There was one injury though, as one of the party broke his ankle on the last night and had to get a cast in a Spanish Hospital. We then cut the cast off before getting on the plane back home, which caused a lot of amusement for us, and not much for him.

This week I will be travelling to Philadelphia with work, more specifically Wilmington. I will be there for 3 days and travelling for 2. So hopefully I will have some more interesting tales to write about in next week’s instalment. If I’d have kept the tache then there would have been a possibility of looking like an American.

Yee Ha!!!!

The Beard

As you can witness from the photo to the left, I am currently sporting a manly beard. To my dismay it has grown, with more than a cameo appearance of, ginger. I feel that each man, and occasionally woman, must go through this period of life called affectionately “the Beard Years”. It doesn’t have to last for a year but as long as you have a good thatch, and more importantly, that people notice it immediately. It brings a whole new dimension to your image and one that forces you to defend your new look continuously.

I assume in the 1970’s, when beards were more commonplace, there was more tolerance to your common all-garden beard, but now the popularity has waned. People have been quite rude about my growth, and at times I have heard it crying to itself on my chin.

Fortunately, others have enforced my voyage into the land of facial hair, and so I have had a fall back when people publicly ridicule me. Also, with a reason backing you up, it can get you through the many days of doubt, and give you the endurance to last the distance.

My reason has come from a stupid idea generated from the Ian Scott School of stupid ideas. The stag party that I am going on next weekend to Valencia will be the climax of this hairy experiment. 16 lads travelling to Spain with beards would be one thing, a collective of professors, but we are not going with beards. No, no, we are going with long “Porn Star” moustaches. The beard is one thing, people in 2008 still have beards occasionally, but no one since 1977 has ever sported a long moustache except The Edge. 16 of us will stand out like a bunch of gay Germans. Not the best way of entering a new country.

In order to pass this joke off as best as possible, I think that to do it properly is the best strategy. This is why I have given myself a 5-week run up, so that by Showtime I should have a moustache to rival Merv Hughes, and Hulk Hogan. At least this way, if at anytime I am found on my own through the weekend, it will look like a fashion statement rather than a joke. Of course, if I am with the group then it will look like a joke, and if I am with one other then I will look like I am holidaying in Spain with my Partner. But these unfortunate scenarios are unavoidable because, one rule for any group of lads travelling together is that, to be an outcast in the group is social suicide. It will open the door for a weekend of abuse from the rest of the group. The same thing happened in medieval times when the Friar’s went in to their first monastery. One of them thought it would be funny to get them all to shave the tops of their heads, leaving a circle of hair like a halo. It was only meant to be a one-off joke but it then caught on and the rest is history.

The other worry that I have, apart from being adopted by a particularly friendly local named Pedro, is the amount of alcohol that undoubtedly gets consumed on these types of visits. Like the moustache, you have to find a balance between keeping in with the group and not having your stomach pumped in Valencia General. I have some experience in this field, certainly more than the moustache, and I hope for this to get me through. With age has come a certain amount of wisdom, even if this is not obvious to the onlooker. As long as you’re there at the beginning, then as the day draws on you will all begin to find your own pace. As the younger members trail blaze in front, you can keep up the rear with a bottle of San Miguel that has been in your hand so long that your hand has grown new skin around it.

This isn’t a real problem and I have complete faith in myself being mature enough to bring the sun down each day without waiting for the whistle. The one concern that is niggling in the recesses somewhere is my roommate. Now if I was rooming with a nice, quiet lad who read a book before bed with a cup of cocoa, then happy days. But I am with Damien who, whilst I am accounting for the Pharmaceutical industry, is playing with a band all day every day. The monotony of normal life is but a distant dream for this young man, who being 4 years my junior, is well versed in drinking for breakfast, dinner and tea. It will not surprise me to envision a situation where I am getting into bed, and he then bundles through the door carrying a bottle of something that he is pleased to punch with because he has managed to nick it from the hotel bar. We shall see.

So the next instalment will inform you of the incidents of particular note that happened during the weekend, obviously censored for decency. Will a group known as the Moustachio Hunterios violate us all in a Spanish prison? Or will we get to the Valencia vs. Racing Santander game on the Sunday unscathed? Please tune in, same time next week for another thrilling episode.

Island Paradise

Now to business, right away. The destination for last weeks little venture was the olde English stately home called Tatton Park. Buried in the Cheshire countryside just past Mere, the house offers the whole Pride and Prejudice view of everyday life 200 years ago, if you were really rich and looked quite similar to a horse. We went on Easter weekend and that is always a mistake wherever you go on Easter weekend in this country. I don’t know why so many people go out on a bank holiday weekend compared to a normal weekend. Is it because it is out of the realms of reason to think that you could actually go on a day trip on any day? What makes Easter Sunday different to any Sunday? But there you go, that is the way it works, and who are we to question the age-old unwritten by-laws of this land.

Due to the festivities, the park was packed with like minded people, and we shuffled around the place in droves looking at the signs for the Tuck Shop, the Restaurant, the Stable yard, the Farm, the House, the Country Garden Shop, the Gift Shop, the Garden Furniture shop, and the McDonalds. Well, the last one was made up, but still you get my meaning. There was about as much connection to our historic past as when Portsmouth put up the Spinnaker Tower to reflect a glorious shipping heritage.

The whole feel of the place was one of mass marketing. Normally, the English take things the other way and keep it quaint and small, and probably go out of business. But this is probably the future, as the controllers look to America to see how it’s done and make as much money as possible from each natural resource. The particular thing that gave me the hump from the beginning was, after joining the National Trust to get free parking at these types of places, having to pay £4.50 for parking because the grounds are run by the council, not the trust. Surely that is what my taxes are for, heaven knows I pay enough of them.

In summary, I strongly recommend that this could be one of the most disappointing places ever to visit in the UK, and it would be more fulfilling to sit at home and stick pins in my eyes than to even contemplate going to Tatton Park again.

We also had to leave in a hurry because Sophie was in pain due to a water infection, this involved Claire going to the hospital with her but luckily they both came home later that night.

We are in the land of my fathers this weekend, sunny Southampton, and so we thought that we would take the opportunity of going abroad. So, yesterday we travelled to the Isle of Wight and the kids first ever trip overseas. Okay, it doesn’t include passports, visas or jabs, but still a boat trip and a holiday feeling.

The Isle of Wight is a lovely place where even though it is so close to the mainland it has a completely different feel about it. The way of life seems so much more relaxed, and especially out of season, the people tend to just potter around. Coming into Cowes yesterday reminded me of the way that you enter Sodermalm in Stockholm, as the buildings hang to the edge of the incline, each trying to clamber to reach a view of the sea.

The same calmness that Stockholm has, because of the water surrounding it, is felt on the Island. You instantly relax and this may be for two reasons that were noticeable yesterday. Firstly, the quiet is deafening. There are not many cars there and so that normal level of noise pollution is absent. All that is left is the rolling of the waves and the odd seagull looking in vain for some discarded fish and chips. The second difference that we noticed was the trust that was on display. There was a milk float at the side of the road, fully laden, unattended for a long time, and no one would even dream of doing a Bob Geldof. There were doors left open, and signs in shops saying “Back at 3.45”. It all adds to create a nice atmosphere. Imagine doing a bank job on the Island, and then having to wait an hour because you’ve just missed the ferry. It’s a little bit more expensive over there, but sadly isn’t that the case now for a level of niceness.

So, 10/10 for the Isle of Wight, it just sits there and says “come over and enjoy me, take me as I am, I’m not changing for anyone”.

Natural Born Swimmers

As another cold front came over from Scandinavia this week, March became colder than January and February. Could this be as a result of Global Warming, or just a cold March? We will never know. It snowed last night and there is still an enchanting feeling when you wake up and see a familiar vista covered in white.

I wonder if the same feeling is experienced in a place where snow is more common. I wonder if the Eskimos would feel the same if they woke up and saw rolling fields of green, and a sun high up over everything. The ice hole that they had once used for fishing had now become a babbling brook meandering through the landscape on its way to the estuary. They would probably be too concerned with the fact that their house had become a puddle around them, and the reason that they had woken up so early was the fact that they were wet and their possessions (some furry boots, a furry hat, a stick with a spike on the end, and a 1973 edition of The Kayak Annual) were floating around them.

I think it probably best on that scientific evidence to leave the meteorology to the experts and to just plough on (get it) with the rest of this blog. But as a last point on the matter, if this Global Warming thing does take off and is as successful as people are predicting, then it will be commonplace to see young Inuit’s washing up on Mediterranean beaches in nothing but furry Speedos. I hope that the G8 Summit have planned for this catastrophe, but I’m sure Bono will be all over it. Praise the Lord for St. Bono. But I have just realised that this would be horrendous as it is an anagram of Nob Tos.

Anyway, I have digressed far from my chosen path. The introduction and enlightenment of the kids first ever swim. We have waited for a year, due to one reason or another, and the most practical point is that Claire cannot hold them both up at the same time. I was off work for a couple of days, and we seized the opportunity much like our ancestors would have seized lunch.

We rang to check on Wednesday morning that Stockport Pool was open for small people, and after confirmation via a recorded message, we set off with this destination in mind. On an aside, have you ever considered how ahead of his time Stephen Hawkings is? 20 years ago he started talking like a Speak and Spell, and now he has influenced probably 50% of all telephone calls and rising. How long before people begin to speak in this way to each other, face to face? It will save energy if you can pre-record conversations that you are going to have with people, and for teachers, they could record lessons from the National Curriculum, and then finally the Government will be able to control minds. Hawkings is a prophet in biblical proportions, and like 1984, this fictional material is becoming a reality. Watch out.

So we set off for Stockport Pool, only to get there and not be able to park anywhere within a midget tossing distance of the place. So we turned on our heels and headed for Cheadle Baths. A smaller, private leisure centre type affair but we had incredibly timed it perfectly with a Tots session, which was just about to begin. Claire and I thought this might be a bit too much, you know, an instructor on the kids first ever visit to a Pool. I’m all for encouraging them but this sounded a bit too “Pushy Parent” for us. But considering that we had driven around all morning I was reluctant to then go home without tasting even a morsel of concentrated Chlorine.

I took Dylan and Claire took Sophie, and we met on the other side of the footbath transformed. It always reminds me of an episode of Mr. Benn, where you leave someone dressed quite normally and then see them again in a couple of minutes as if you were on a beach, busy pinning things to your person. I quickly noticed that I was the only Dad there, which instantly made me feel a little awkward. Once this would have been a dream of mine, but now everything was so much different. We slowly walked into the little pool with them, and showing their breeding, they both absolutely loved it. Claire and I were both keen swimmers in our former years, and so any offspring should really have some kind of attraction for weird acoustics and chemistry lab smells.

We have a little inflatable chair that we put Dylan’s legs in, and he enjoyed the kicking around under the water, like an over excited duck. Claire then tried to get him out of it, and to her surprise, she had found that he was stuck. After some struggle, which in water is always harder than if on terra firma, we finally managed to free the boy from the boat. Which then instigated uncontrollable laughter from Claire, which made others in the pool turn around and stare in our direction. She told me that his nappy was still on under his new baby Speedos, which at first I did not realise was the reason for the humour, until I then looked at it and realised that it had blown up like a bike tyre. How was I to know that you weren’t meant to take a disposable nappy into the pool? After a bit of thought I probably should have worked it out, but there you go, that’s life.

I then had to perform the walk of shame, carrying Dylan out of the pool, past all of the other Mums, back into the changing room. Only to then appear again a minute later with a leaner, meaner version of Jamie Oliver in trunks. After that it was plain sailing, and the instructor was not from the Dave Heathcote School of instructors, but more just a co-ordinator that sang some songs and we all stood in a circle around her. Very nice.

But now another milestone has flashed before us, and equally important is that it happened without any real major incident. Tick.

Last week, Claire did not have her pick of day trips because of a birthday party that we had to attend for one of our friends, but today we are going to go to somewhere mysterious. Like I said before it has snowed so it should be great where ever we go. I know you will all be on the edge of your seats, so hold tight and I will update you next week.

One more point of interest is that Dylan has made his first ever card from Nursery. A lovely rabbit, which looks as though, it has been hopping around close to Chernobyl. But it is the first present that we have received from either one of them, and this made me feel very proud.

Grand Tudor Design

The inevitable anti-climax of the birthday week has finally passed and we have now resumed normal service. Sophie has had a few episodes, and Dylan has a cold that seems like it has come from the very depths of Siberia, but with this aside we appear to be winning. So much so, that I am writing this from about 20,000ft above the North Sea on a Swedish adventure that has actually gone ahead as planned.

Similar suits surround me, reflecting the type of person that I might become if I don't do something about it. These trips are great for my own personal ambition of getting out of this life and doing something else that fits me better. Although something has just amused me, a soulless face asked the Air Steward," is there a choice?" when asked if they would like the meal. He clearly meant if there was a choice between Beef or Chicken, or something, but the Air Steward just replied, “It is either Yes, or No.” This amused me because the guy’s reaction didn’t even change; he just nodded his head and took the Beef.

Anyway, on Sunday we decided to travel to the oldest Timber-framed, moated country house in Britain, Little Moreton Hall. I thought that it would take about half an hour to get there, so I kept it a mystery to Claire whilst hilariously pretending that we were going to approximately 50 other venues along the way. Although Claire didn’t rise to any of these pretences, I thought they kept getting funnier and funnier. Eventually, it even tried my patience and when we finally turned up after an hour I started thinking, “this better be worth it.”

But surprisingly, it was beautiful. It stood alone as a quite humble, Tudor house amongst green fields and farm buildings. It was exceptionally uncomplicated around it and presented the property with a certain amount of reverence. It was built 500 years ago at the time that Elizabeth I was being crowned, and boasted one of the first examples of bay windows. There was intricate glass windows everywhere that must have given the house an amazing brightness inside compared to other houses of the era, much like the modern houses made with walls of glass. The Tudors were on it, even if they didn’t have the technology at the time.

We tried to go on a tour of the house, until Sophie thought that she clearly knew more than the guide from the National Trust and after a number of frustrated looks round from the audience, we thought it best to wander around on our own. But this allowed us to get in to the coffee shop that was actually in the house. A strange experience, having a spotted dick with custard in a room that is half a millennium old, and still being able to pay by card at the end. It makes you wander about the events that have taken place in that room alone.

This house was being built, as an example of new architecture, at the time that Shakespeare was writing Romeo and Juliet. Isn’t that incredible. We take for granted the amount of history that we have in this country compared to other places. Of course the anorak types, the National Trust lifers that seem to permeate all of these buildings, surrounded it. But I think these buildings are cool. They offer a glimpse through another life, and considering Cinemas are crammed with people experiencing that 2nd or 3rd hand, you would think that these places could be given a promotional push to a different market.

Sweden should be a few degrees colder than the UK, but pretty close. I am going to take the opportunity of visiting where I used to live and meeting up with a friend that I met when I was there. These trips are always a conflict for me between looking forward to the freedom that they offer, but conversed with the guilt I feel of leaving Claire with the kids and the anxiety that something will happen while I am away. But I did just read a quote that said, “ that this day will always be ‘twenty years ago’ one day.” It all passes. These are just moments added up together in some random fashion. And a bright one will eclipse a dark moment, because that is the way.

The First of Many

As a wise old Chinese man once said, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.” This can be equally said for a lifetime of many years beginning with one year, and what a year it has been.

It was a year ago last week that we were rushed in to the emergency caesarean situation at Stepping Hill Hospital after receiving the news that Sophie, or Twin 2, had stopped growing in the womb. From that first initial shock, through the exceptional anxiety of the first two weeks, through the 3 months that we then spent in hospital every day watching Sophie grow as much as she could, through the scares that we have continually had since she has been at home (and also one scare with Dylan), and the ongoing struggle to give each of them the support that they need – I think that it is safe to say that Claire and I have changed infinitely.

I almost class myself as naïve and carefree a year ago compared to the man that I have now become. I know that through the tests that have come our way I can cope with most things that life can throw at me, and this has given me a sense of invincibility. It has helped me to put life into perspective and understand what’s important, and what really isn’t. Southampton struggling in the Championship is still wrangling with me, but it is under control and pigeonholed in the slightly irritating box.

Life is something to be grasped at immediately, because you never know what is coming up, and the biggest tragedy of it all is if you do nothing. If you give something a go and it doesn’t come off, then at least you’ve tried.

Anyway, after the year that we have had we thought it would be nice to have some friends round to the house to celebrate their first birthday, and the future. But in true neo-Holley style it all went pear-shaped and we had to tell 40 people that it was off due to Claire feeling as rough as some heavy-duty sandpaper. So in the end the celebration was kept low-key, with just a couple of friends coming over to have a cake.

But we did manage to get out on their actual birthday, which was on Thursday, and we travelled to Chester to the Blue Planet. Unfortunately this was not a museum for Pornographic material, or a tribute to Blue Peter, but an Aquarium. It had one of those tunnels that you walk through and can see Sharks willies and stingray mouths. But the kids loved it they were looking wide-eyed at the fish probably thinking that we had taken them to, literally, another planet. It must be quite astonishing to experience fish for the first time, no-one ever knows what that feels like because by the time we become adults we have erased all of this memory. But imagine trying to work it out in simple terms. They’re in the bath but they don’t come out for air, they don’t have any arms or legs but they still move, and strangest of all, they live in a television set. Crazy.

So we blew their minds for an hour or so, and then came back to reality. But it was a really nice day.

This gave Claire and I the catalyst for another one of our ideas. We would try and have as many day trips as we could in order to visit places around where we live that we have never been to before. The rules are that every Sunday one of us picks the destination and we then take off and explore. Only conditions are that one of us has not been there before, and we have to go where the other person wants. There is no negotiation.

Then, in a Bill Bryson manner, I will report on the trip in the following Blog entry, reviewing all aspects of the place and giving any funny anecdotes that have occurred whilst on the journey. This will provide the reader with a better insight into the beautiful world of the Northwest, and also stop being bored so much with your heroes’ incessant philosophical rubbish that ends up being written each time in the absence of any real content. So, today is the first day of this new plan, and as I won the toss in a strict ECB rules flip, I will decide the first destination. Now, as usual, it is raining in Manchester, so I must come up with somewhere that will not dampen our spirits as much as it dampens our clothes. (Brilliant)

Little Moreton Hall is the venue for the first day trip. It was built in the 15th Century, and is apparently the best example of a timber-framed moated country house in Britain. How can we possibly never have been there before? How can anyone be expected to carry on living without seeing the best example of a timber-framed moated country house in Britain?

The Rumble in the Jungle

As one season moves into the next, it provides one with time to look philosophically at the changes in nature and how these are reflected in my own personal frame of mind.

Winter is traditionally a time for keeping your head down and letting the cold storms blow over and with any luck escape without any lasting effects. Expect the usual floods in some areas, and the snow concerns in another, hope your heating keeps working but be prepared for the annual whinge about how much it costs.

Then Spring slowly comes out of its hiding place. It gradually becomes a little bit warmer, and then all of a sudden the sun starts shining and you remember what it feels like to be alive. The same streets that looked depressing and grey a fortnight ago, are now joyous with the hope of spring. The whole of nature comes to the party. The flowers start shooting up, and young animals come out of their winter beds for a first look at the big world.

All of this goes on at this time of the year and so it is no wonder that people also perk up. For me, this year especially, I feel that I have come out of a long hibernation and I am now energised to achieve what ever I want.

This winter has been particularly bad, and without dwelling too much on the negatives, I have compared myself to Rocky in the final round against Apollo Creed. I’m in the corner of the ring and every event is another punch winging its way on to my face. I’ve looked over at the Ref to stop it but he can’t see me through the blood and puffiness. Another trip to the hospital… bang… the worst Christmas I have ever had… bang… Claire’s Grandad dying… bang… Sophie again in hospital… bang… cancelling the New Year plans… bang… guess who in hospital… bang… work being the most stressful it has ever been… bang…

And then the sound of a distant bell can be heard amongst the din of leather on flesh, and the primal screaming from anyone within earshot. Is it the iron bell that they talk about at the end? Then the sun shines through, and you are bathed in light, you can’t feel the pain anymore as it subsides into the experiences that will one day make you richer.

My “bell” (to keep the analogy going) was the news that I had passed my final exam for CIMA. Now to most people this would be quite a routine event and although cause grounds for celebration, you would then continue with your normal life. But for me, this exam had almost taken human form by this stage and was acting as a monstrous devil dancing on my future grave, taunting me with failure. Five years has gone by in the time that it has taken me to pass one exam. It had affected me so much, I knew that the only way that I would win would be to pass it and then close that chapter and move on. Until I had passed it I knew that it would never end.

So the relief of passing this, otherwise quite meaningless, exam is that it has shone a different perspective on my future path. In the short term it has resulted in a pay rise and promotion prospects, but in the long term it has enabled me to once again dream of other avenues in which my destiny lies. Now that I am qualified you would think that I would now put on my battle dress, and march into a corporate career that will achieve outstanding honours and command the utmost respect from all of my minions. But to me it means that I can now concentrate on other opportunities in the time when I am not working.

I plan on writing these blogs more often again, so that I can look back and work out what is happening. When I first started writing these, the revolution was already under way, it has continued changing and now I feel as though I have the energy to continue with it.

Happy Days!