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”.