Spinning Head

You've got mail ...

2012-09-30T12:26:00.001+01:00

I find mail stressful, it's generally bad news, unrelenting demands for money, tax returns, numerous guilt trips that expose my chronic lack of organisational wherewithall. Paper mail (snail mail) is the worst as it's harder to ignore than electronic mail.

My pile of unread mail is like a window into my soul. It's Dante's Inferno down there. It's a view I try to keep buried deep within, not just from others, but from myself too. I know I need to do a tax return, I worry about it every night. I know I need to renew my insurance, I worry about that too, and so these rude, stark reminders in raw print thrust in front of me each morning just raise my levels of anxiety even further. If I wore a heart rate monitor when I opened mail I am certain I would see a 20% increase in heart rate. I don't need to exercise. No climbing stairs or joining gyms for me, no siree, to raise my heart rate I just need a pile of unopened post and I know I will soon be sweating like a 10K runner crossing the finish line on a hot summer's day in July.

Sometimes it feels good to at least open the mail, like the act of merely opening the envelope was all I needed to do, and in a genie 'puff' of smoke, all my worries will be gone. The next step is to file the letter, yes that feels good too. But not file properly, in a ring binder, or scanned electronically into a folder on my laptop which is then backed up every 24hrs to a secure vault in the sky (I'm laughing as I type at just how far I am away from such an organised approach). No, for me, merely placing the letter on a pile of other letters marked 'to be filed' is the best I can ever expect. The pile isn't actually marked 'to be filed' as that would require some modicum of order and planning, no, mine is just a wobbly pile of papers teetering on the cormer of my desk that is now so high, so tall, so wobbly, that if I were a company I would have been closed down on the grounds of health & safety.

And once the offensive letter is placed atop the Everest pile in my office, I can then go back to ignoring all those unpleasant duties and return to procrastinating my way through life, an art I have honed to perfection over the past 40+ years.

It's ridiculous, I know that. I'm a grown man, I am university edukayted for goodness sake, and I know that placing a piece of paper on a pile doesn't actually do anything - forms still need filling, cheques still need writing, standing orders need setting up and so on and so forth, but it's enough, just barely enough, to allow me to forget the Devil's work for a little while longer at least.

That is, until something happens, something like we need to get the car MOT'd, but we can't get it MOT'd unless we have a valid insurance. I'm sure I have insurance cover - fcuk - surely - and so I make my way to my wobbly pile of papers, don my crash helmet and safety goggles and rifle through the pile like a cartoon villain, arms whirling like a dervish, A4 paper flying everywhere. Even the dog hides.

Sometimes I find the insurance and yelp and roar like a US fan at The Ryder Cup after seeing Tiger Woods finally sink a fcuking putt for once, and I am full of goodwill and cheer as I make my way to the car garage proudly waving my insurance vowing NEVER to let this happen again.

But sometimes I'm not so lucky. I once advised a close friend who had been through difficult times and found themselves on their own after a break-up. She asked me for advice on home insurance as her partner always dealt with such matters in the past, so I talked her though the process over the phone as she logged on to a well known and immensely annoying comparison website, and after an hour or so she was the proud owner of cheap home insurance.

I was relaying the story to my wife when she said "who is our home insurance with?". I think I blushed, went to my office, donned my helmet and goggles and in a Fred Flinstone like manner I scurried my way through my mountainous labyrinthine pile of papers, only to find our policy had expired 10 weeks ago - we had been without home insurance for over 2 months.

So this morning I said to my wife that it's time to tackle the office paperwork. One hour later, the pile remains, but at least I have a new blog entry. And it's less than 4 hrs until the Ryder Cup starts.

Berlin

2012-09-05T13:14:00.005+01:00

Last week I was fortunate enough to visit Berlin. Initially I didn't want to go, particularly not for an outside-of-my-comfort-zone corporate event held at 7-10pm on a Friday night surrounded by 'luvvies' and other press/media types.

Nevertheless, I went, and due to the flight timings and late finish of the meeting, I had no choice but to stay overnight. Luckily, my meeting was in the heart of the city and so I booked a cheap hotel walking distance from the event and within striking distance of historic, downtown Berlin.

Why didn't I just stay the weekend, I hear you cry? Well, I'm a married man with kids. If I were single I almost certainly would have stayed longer, but the trip was short notice and we had things planned and I needed to get back. We had considered my wife flying out to join me, but cripplingly high last minute, (summer holiday), air fares put a dampener on that idea, and so I flew alone and was due to return back just after lunch on the Saturday.

I should point out that my default setting when travelling alone is 'recluse'. I hate eating out on my own. I feel desperately self conscious and tend to wolf down my food just to get out of the place as soon as I can, which I feel is a terrible waste of money and a real wasted opportunity, as eating out is one of the best bits of travelling, but I do need company.

Ergo, my initial plan for Berlin was to get back to my hotel at midnight, and use the late start to sleep in and catch up on some much needed rest before heading to the airport.

Thankfully, I didn't sleep well and was up and about by 9am. The sun was shining and I had three hours to kill before I needed to be at the airport, so I set off on foot to explore. I should perhaps explain at this point that I have only been to Berlin twice before in my life:

1989
I first went there in 1989 when I was inter-railing with my then girlfriend, now wife. Donna and I stayed a few days in Berlin during a very special part of its history. I remember there was a real buzz about the place. I had heard people talk about the "Berliner Luft", which literally means "Berlin air", but is a reference to the special atmosphere that seemingly permeates everything in Berlin. In the summer of '89 there was a lot of political unrest in Eastern Europe, especially the Eastern Bloc.

I'm no historian and I won't waste my time googling events but it was around the time the Soviet Union unravelled and geographical and political boundaries were being redrawn. Berlin was politically tense, there were suggestions of reunification and although that didn't happen until the following year, the "Berliner Luft" was in overdrive, pumping a heady aroma of anarchy, freedom and electricity throughout the streets of the old city.

We visited Potzdamer Platz and stared at the wall. Like many others during that time, we anarchically chipped some pieces off the crumbling relic, so maybe the transition was already underway, I'm slightly ashamed I don't quite remember. But I do remember the atmosphere. I remember visiting Checkpoint Charlie and reading about the heroic attempts at escape. I remember the stunning black and white photographs of men, women, children and even soldiers like Conrad Schumann trying to break through the barbed wire to escape to the west. Amazing stories of people hiding in car seats and suitcases to try and cross the border.

1998
The second time I went to Berlin was around 1998. I was living in Munich at the time and went to Berlin for someone's birthday or stag do, I forget which, but I will never forget the weekend as it was quite possibly one of the best weekends of my life. There were around eight of us. We did the sights again by day - museums, buildings, parks. In the evening we visited bars and drank a lot. We were seven English and one Austrian. I'm not sure why I mention that but it might help explain the drinking part.

On the main night, probably the Saturday, we went to a huge nightclub where I seemingly danced all night. Yes you read that right family and friends, I danced all night. The night club was like a vast aircraft hanger, there was lots of acidy house, trance, dance, I-have-no-clue-what-I'm-talking-about kind of music, great lightshows and what seemed like thousands of people all dancing their own dances. And there I was, dancing. I hate night clubs. I detest night clubs. I hated them as a kid growing up, they blighted my teenage and university years, those godforsaken places that always left me feeling miserable, alone and skint. Expensive, low quality booze, pretentious poseurs, the whiff of violence as the night wore on as testosterone mixed with sweat, I hated them then and I hate them now, but I loved that night in Berlin. The "Luft" was everywhere. It crept under my skin. I don't know what it was. I wasn't overly drunk, in fact I recall I drank water that night as I wanted to keep dancing, I wanted my senses to remain alive, my receptors on full alert. I wanted to savour everything. This was nothing to do with romance, but everything to do with deep friendships, the few of us who stayed there until the early hours didn't need to talk, we remained connected by the 'Luft', that made Berlin feel so very special.

It also felt safe, full of people that just wanted to have a good time. There wasn't that sense of violence that I usually associated with nightclubs. No packs of lads on the prowl looking for a fight or a vulnerable bit of skirt. This evening felt like humanity stripped bare, love reigned supreme, a love for life, love for humanity, love for the world.

2012
Back to last week, and within 30 minutes of leaving my hotel I had reached Potzdamer Platz for the 3rd time in my life, 14 years on from my last trip. There were pieces of wall still, kept as tourist memorabilia, watched over by a fake touristy guard who would put fake touristy stamps in your passport (for a tourist fee). Kind of tacky, but still very poignant. To see the 12ft high segments of wall plastered in graffiti really did bring back memories. To think I was now stood on the border, literally with one leg either side of what was the wall. It still felt bizarre. To see the buildings on that side of the street that now looked identical to the ones on the other side of the street, yet just 20 years ago they would have looked so architecturally different, the wealthy side - the poor side, the capitalist side - the socialist side, the open side - the closed side, a street separated by feet and inches, yet impossibly kept apart by a 12ft high, 96 mile wide concrete wall.

I then walked on to Brandenburger Tor, the Brandenburg Gate, probably the most well known landmark of Berlin. During the partition access through the gate was blocked for this was where the wall went. I took a photo. I had to. Ever had that feeling?

I continued my walk to the Reichstag. The very word sounds scary, immediately bringing to mind thoughts of Hitler, the Nazis, WWII. In fact it's been there since the 19th century and is now once again home to the German Parliament. It's so fcuking historical you can only stop, look up and stare in credulity. It's a truly incredible building. You try and soak up all that history but you can't, you just can't, it's too vast. So I took another photo.

At this point I had timed out and needed to head to the airport so I hunted down a taxi and was gone, but I vowed to come back again soon.

I love Berlin in a way that I also love Munich, but for very different reasons. I lived two years in Munich with my young family and it will always hold a special fondness and affinity for my wife and I. I think we could easily live in Munich again, but I love Berlin for very different reasons that I have found hard to communicate in this blog. I love its historical significance, I love the stories, I love the atmosphere. It really does feel special and unique. I know you can make that case for any city in the world, they all have their own stories, but Berlin's history is so far reaching, so dramatic, so close in time, and that seems to make it something truly unique.

At the weekend I told my mum about my trip to Berlin and she said my Dad had always felt the same. Apparently he had been several times on business trips and had always promised to take Mum one day. Dad must have bloody loved the place, all those museums and history. He never did take Mum before he passed away, but I like to think that, somehow, accidentally, I have stumbled across the same city, unknowingly falling in love with the same places he did.

I want to go back again one day. Perhaps I'll take my family next time, and maybe Mum might even come too.

2012 Olympics

2012-08-05T14:43:00.002+01:00

I have to confess, I was an Olympic 2012 cynic. Not from a sporting viewpoint as I've always loved live sport, but from a corporate standpoint. I had my fingers badly burned in the ticket lottery last year. I banked our family summer holiday on the Olympics, committing over £2,500 in ticket applications from opening ceremonies, gymnastics, rowing, swimming, equestrian, football through to the closing ceremony. All I got was football at Coventry. At first I put this down to bad luck but soon realised an awful lot of people who lived in North Buckinghamshire seemed to get tickets for non GB football at Coventry. Hmmm.

And then of course there was all the furore leading up to the events about empty seats, about corporate greed, and I became a real cycnic, so much so that we booked a week in the sun that overlapped the opening ceremony of the Olympics and I didn't really care. Quite glad to be out of there, I thought.

Fortunately, our villa in Spain had a TV, and fortunately, we tuned in to watch the opening ceremony. I was hooked. It was beautifully done, a very British affair, with real humour, humility, style and pomp which we seem to do as a nation really, really well.

And the following day as we arrived home, the games started for real. Rowing at Eton Dorney. Eton where? Cycling through the streets of London out into the suburbs of Surrey and beyond. Swimming, lots of swimming, and everywhere you turned there were crowds, huge crowds. Gymnastics, beach volleyball in the West End! The BBC TV transmissions were superb, every sport accessible live through multiple digital streams, excellent commentary, and those fans!

The first few days didn't see too many medals for Team GB but that all changed midweek when the rowing finals started at Eton Dorney (ah yes, Eton Dorney, familiar by now), and the cycling began at the velodrome, and then on the Friday the athletics opened in the main stadium and Bang!, on your marks, get set, Go!

Gold medals seemed to be raining down on the home nations. By the weekend we were third in the table which is amazing when you think about it. Yes we are a fortunately wealthy nation who can invest in such non essential luxuries, but 21st in the world population wise, and we are third behind China and USA. Quite unbelievable. The country was going wild, but what was becoming interesting was that it wasn't about the medals, it was all about the people, the individual athletes and their back stories.

I have been reduced to tears on several occasions over the last few days, seeing individuals who have sacrificed so much, people with such unrelenting dedication it makes you feel very humble indeed. These weren't famous people. The majority of the people were unknown, they were running amongst us last year, 2 years ago, 3 years ago. People who have been working a lifetime for this event. People who sacrificed hedonism, not just for a weekend, but for a decade or more. People who got up at 4am, day after day after day to train. People with part-time jobs. People who had to fundraise to get the money together for a second hand car to take them to the training ground.

People doing sports I know little of, participating in categories I barely recognise - Kirin, double sculls, repecharge, peloton, skeet, double trap - terms that come round every 4 years to most of us, but which are part of daily life for others.

To take just one example, I was utterly engaged and fascinated by the mens double trap - clay pigeon shooting to you and me. The pressure on those guys to hit those discs in less than 0.25 secs, time after time, the amazing talent required, the hours and days and months and years of dedication and training. And then the ultimate pressure is mind boggling. Imagine training for four years for an event, sacrificing so much, to find yourself in the final, to find yourself one shot away away from Gold, as did Peter Wilson. Imagine lifting that rifle, preparing to shoot for the release of the discs that would change your future from hereonin. Unbelievable. And the release of pressure afterwards is the end of four years of hard work, or in some cases over a decade of hard work. An easy sentence to write but just imagine that. We could all run our socks off on that Olympic track in London 2012, but how many of us could get up on Christmas day at 4am to go swimming, or go for a run? How many of us could do that day after day after day, foregoing parties, take-aways, booze and all the other temptations to which most of us succumb?

The tears and emotion are because there are no people more deserving than Olympians. The tip of the iceberg is August 2012, that's what we get to see, but when we then hear the back stories, so excellently pieced together by the BBC, we see the other 99% of the iceberg and it's that which makes us cry, because we see the true, naked human spirit in all its glory, and it's just beautiful.

We see sporting excellence every week, but often its ugly. Premiership football is the best and worst example. Undoubtedly these footballers have innate and profound talent, but its innately unpleasant. People who have been force fed money and wealth all their adult lives, people who abuse their position, who get drunk and smash up bars, who rape, cheat, abuse, bully.

Alan Campbell, who won bronze in the single sculls rowing, was pushing tractor tyres up a muddy hill in Coleraine on Boxing Day. No-one outside of the sport knew of him. He wasn't earning vast amounts of money for pushing those tyres up that hill, in fact it was probably costing him money. Contrast that with the Premiership teams playing football on Boxing Day, driven to the stadium in coaches, listening to 'drum n bass' on their Dr Dre Beats headsets as they exit the coach flanked by security gurads as they are whisked into the changing rooms. Players who refuse to come off the bench as a sub because they are sulking as they didn't get to start the game.

Don't get me wrong, there are superstar athletes in Team GB too, and there are no better examples of this than Jessica Ennis and Mo Farah. Perhaps not as wealthy as the footballers, but almost as famous. Yet what a contrast. Jessica Ennis is beautiful, and I don't just mean physically (although she is that too), but she has such charm, such grace. She makes time for people, she is modest, self effacing, totally charming but also passionate and successful. It can be done. Mo Farah is no different, a beautiful man. The image of Mo repeatedly slapping his head after winning the 10km last night is so humbling. He couldn't believe it, and there it was for all the world to see in all it's raw glory. Contrast that to Maradonna smacked off his tits on coke screaming into the camera after scoring in the World Cup, overweight and bloated on drugs. Or Joey Barton kicking a player to the ground and swinging out with his fists after receiving yet another red card for physical abuse.

I didn't want this to be an indictment of football, but it helps provide a contrast to all that's wonderful about the Olympics. I'm a real convert from the cynic I was two weeks ago. My corporate cynicism still exists but has been swamped by the emotion of the games and most importantly the athletes that make it all happen. And of course its not just Team GB as there are beautiful examples everywhere you turn, from Michael Phelps superhuman achievements, to Usain Bolt, to the new generation of athletes coming along like Missy Franklin.

But I don't think I have ever seen my nation get together like this, certainly helped by the fact we are Team GB, not individual countries, but it's really underpinned by the fact that we are watching the human spirit in its most beautiful form. We can all relate to these people in ways we will never be able to relate to Wayne Rooney.

I would give anything to be competing in London 2012, or any other Olympics for that matter. Ever since I was a child I have had a dream, always of me entering the stadium at the end of the marathon, in second place, the roar of the crowd as I entered the stadium making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as I closed in on the leader, overtaking him in the home straight to win gold.

I still have that dream now, 40 years on. It will never happen, it can never happen, It never happened. That makes me a little bit sad. But then I look at the other qualities people like Mo Farah, Peter Wilson, Becky Adlington, Missy Franklin, Chris Hoy, Michael Phelps, Vicky Pendleton and Jess Ennis have - humility, passion, respect, dedication, commitment, all qualities which don't have to be just consigned to the sports field. They can apply in equal measure to all of us, in any, and every, walk of life.

The Olympics are beautiful. I contend there is no other event on the planet that comes close to showing all of us how life should be lived. It's surely the greatest spectacle ever. And if we can all take something from watching these heroes, it should be that we can all become slightly better citizens of this planet. We can all watch and learn from what's happening here. Because it's all just so fucking beautiful.

Liar, you self righteous, pompous bore

2012-07-02T12:53:00.001+01:00

It was around the time I turned 40 that the hangover became a two day affair. As a younger man, a mug of tea and a bacon butty would usually clear the fug, but in my 40s, I noticed it took much more, and with a much longer recovery period.

As I get older, I have noticed I've developed a much more focused sense of my own mortality. Niggling aches and pains, recurring and persistent injuries that won't go away, and other medical ailments that were once just words you heard uttered by grandparents, are now being uttered to me, by my own doctor.

I'm certainly not alone here I think, friends of mine are also suffering more. High blood pressure, high cholesterol, overweight, warnings of heart problems, cancer scares, warnings of impending diabetes - these are all phrases I hear increasingly. Some directed at myself, some at friends of mine.

Sometimes, at least in my view, the medical responses are lazily diagnosed by disinterested GPs (I will blog about Statins one day), but generally the basic premise, the warning, is usually well founded in solid science. In layman's terms they're clear indications that our bodies are being stretched beyond their functional operating range, and we all face two choices in response to such news - we either carry on, ignoring the warning signs, continue to live life to the full and perhaps die at an earlier age (crash & burn), or we moderate our behaviour in some way.

I'm not preaching one approach over the other here. Each to one's own, say I. Some people are perfectly happy living their lives to the full, preferring to burn the candle at both ends, possibly dying earlier but leading a much higher quality existence in the meantime. I'm too scared to do that. Death worries me, I have too much still to do and I'm not ready to ignore these warnings, so my personal choice is to try and follow the second route of moderation.

As a younger person, moderation to me just meant having a day off, whereas in my 40s it really means lifestyle changes, serious lifestyle changes, and that takes a lot of getting used to. Especially for me as I haven't traditionally done moderation very well as I tend to do extremes. Intense days of excess, followed by several days of complete abstinence. And as I said earlier, that seemed to work as a kid. Flush out the old system, give your body a 'ctrl-alt-del' style reboot and off we would go again.

That doesn't work too well in middle age though. I've found that out, and that's why I'm now trying to practice the true art of long term moderation. That no longer means taking it easy Mon-Thurs then going balls-out Fri-Sun, it means taking it easy, (almost) always.

At first that was a depressing thought, but recently I tried it. This past weekend was an interesting one as I had social events Friday night, Saturday night and Sunday afternoon. All three events centred around drinking, as is the British way, and so all three came with a certain level of social/peer pressure to participate.

In the past, when trying to moderate and faced with such a weekend, I would have responded in one of two ways:

avoided the occasions altogether, made excuses and not turned up, or
dragged myself reluctantly to the events and sat in the corner avoiding as much human interaction as I could get away with, watching the clock, rocking from side to side, sobbing and stroking a dead sparrow, begging my wife to take me home so I could beat myself with birch twigs.

This weekend however, I tried a different approach. On Friday night I had one pint of Guinness, and no more. On Saturday night I had one glass of champagne to toast soon-to-be absent friends, and on Sunday I just drank soft drinks. Sounds easy doesn't it? But for me that isn't easy. For me, that first drink has always been like a klaxon going off in my head, the sign that we are now officially off and running, the red mist would rise and that first beer would turn into a second, that would turn into a third, then perhaps move onto wine if I was feeling bloated from the ale, maybe 2-3 glasses of Shiraz (ironically feeling virtuous having switched from hop to grape), then be driven home to continue drinking in front of the TV, rounding off the evening off with a couple of fine malts, convincing myself I deserved them using some kind of warped logic that also makes the drunkard think a kebab is a good idea at 1am.

And you know what? It felt good*. And that's because a significant knock-on effect of not boozing is an improved diet. The urges for that kebab or another bag of crisps are nowhere near as strong or as attractive to the sober mind as the inebriated one. The perverted logic that I need salty, fatty food to soak up the booze looks as flawed as it always should to the sober mind, whereas to the soused brain such logic seems scientifically sound and positively health promoting. "Yes, a burger from that white van opposite the taxi rank, that's just what I need right now, I am going to live forever".

I enjoyed my weekend. I did have a couple of drinks, drinks I enjoyed as drinks in their own right, not as precursors to an evening of hedonistic indulgence. I had many lucid conversations with friends, made some new acquaintances, and still remember their names. I slept well, rose early each morning, had productive days and returned to work on Monday feeling relaxed, fresh and raring to go.

* What utter bullshit. I looked on more than a little enviously at some of the imbibers who were slurping their way through several bottles of very nice red wine, pizza cheese stuck to their chins, and I desperately wanted to unshackle myself from this new, boring regime and get bloody stuck in. I wanted it badly and I felt utterly miserable nursing my warm, flat, sweet glass of coke. I looked on misty eyed. I called them names. I was insanely jealous if truth be told. I wanted to do that so much. I told myself it was the chimp inside talking, trying to get out, the chimp who desperately wanted me to be one of the troop, down with the lads, getting wrecked.

But I can't. Not any more. And it's hard.

Facebook holiday

2012-05-21T12:23:00.001+01:00

I'm taking a Facebook holiday. Not sure for how long yet but I've reached a point where I'm not enjoying it, and its starting to feel slightly addictive and intrusive. But more insidious is the fact that it makes me feel melancholy more often than it makes me feel happy, a sure sign that something is awry.

Over the weekend I 'unfriended' around 40 'friends', the main reason being because they weren't actually friends at all, they were vague acquaintances at best. Two of them I've met just twice. One of them I have only spoken to in a larger social group and never on a one to one basis, and, to my shame, one of them I have never met (they were a friend of a friend and I felt guilty). The other 30 or so were a mixture of business acquaintances (I have LinkedIn for them) or people who never, ever used Facebook. The latter group weren't doing any harm just sitting there, at least they weren't filling my newsfeed with dross, but I found the notion slightly creepy that people were maybe reading all about me, seeing my photos and updates, without actually giving anything back. What's social about that? Doesn't social imply two-way? It felt too much like stalking, so they were gone too.

Of the 160 or so I have left, I would estimate there are still 30 or so I would like to get rid of but feel too afraid to, as it could be socially awkward or embarrassing if I run into them in future. People I see but don't really care for much. My fault for 'friending' them in the first place I hear you say, a moment of folly for sure, but we are where we are, so now what do I do? And this is one of things I dislike about Facebook most. Caught in my own trap, trapped in a web sown by my own vanity.

But worst of all, is the self-promotion, people clambering over each other to tell all about their latest exploits. And the reason I hate it is that I have found myself doing it too. Why else would I post from a foreign airport? Or upload a photo of my Texan breakfast? I like to think I post updates from far flung places so friends and close family know where I am, but my close family know that anyway, and if they don't, they shouldn't have to rely on a social network to find out. The rest of you almost certainly don't care and I don't blame you. I don't care about 90% of the stuff in my newsfeed, yet I seem to log onto Facebook first thing in the morning, last thing at night and several times in between. I have even uploaded photos from my walk down the lane with the dog and I don't really know why I do that, but it can't be for good reasons and must have a lot do with vanity.

I also post jokes that I have read on Twitter or heard on TV. Why? To make people laugh certainly, but there's a part of me that wants to be seen as being funny. Yes, I copy jokes, ergo I am funny. I also copy YouTube links whenever I hear a good song. I post a good song, ergo, I am musically gifted too. Aren't I? Aren't I? What do you mean I'm living my life vicariously through others? I can't write songs or crack original jokes so I post other people's songs and jokes. I'm awesome me.

If you have read my very first blog you will know I have an ever so slightly addictive personality, so it shouldn't come as a surprise to you that I sometimes walk down the street experiencing things and immediately thinking "I must put that on Facebook". As I type this I am watching England struggle on the fifth day of the first test against West Indies. They are 29-3, Trott is out, and my first thought is that I must post that on Facebook. Let's think about that for a moment. Most of the world don't like or are highly disinterested in cricket, and out of my 160 or so 'friends' probably 10-15 care anything at all about the noble game. Ten of those won't be on Facebook, so I am 'talking' to about five people all of whom will most certainly be following the cricket themselves!

People who post live updates on BGT or X-Factor please take note.

Groucho Marx allegedly once said that he wouldn't ever belong to a club that would accept him as a member. Billy Connolly once said that anyone who wants to be an MP should automatically be banned from ever becoming an MP. And for the same reasons, I'm thinking that if ever I feel I need to post something on Facebook, then I probably shouldn't.

This isn't a sulk or a dig at anyone. I applaud the majority of Facebook users, people like you, who can enjoy it and use it responsibly, in the same way as I applaud the casual drinker, people like you, who can have one glass of wine and then stop.

So knock yourselves out Facebookers, enjoy. And of course to many of you we will find a way to stay in touch using more conventional means. If you enjoy the blog you will subscribe to it, and if you don't enjoy the blog then you won't have to wade through any more of my status updates. And if a relationship withers because we are no longer connected on Facebook, then it probably wasn't a relationship worth caring about anyway. Beautiful isn't it?

And when I feel I can behave myself and use Facebook responsibly, then I will be back.

Andy

PS/ England are now 57-4, Pietersen out, do I have time for one more update?

A sense of belonging ...

2012-04-29T19:09:00.000+01:00

The first 11 years of my life were fairly straightforward. I was born in the upstairs bedroom of the house I grew up in for the first 14 years of my life. My Junior school was in the same village and so everything was simple as all my friends were also living on my street (or very close to it).

Then, aged 11, I switched to my local Comprehensive which was in a neighbouring village, and for the first time I encountered the 'us and them' tribal divisions that affect us all at some point or other in our lives. To varying degrees obviously.

It's true to say there was a considerable degree of animosity between the local Kendray kids and us Ardsley kids from the east, who were now invading their territory. Not only were we outsiders but we were posh too. Posh is a very relative term, especially in Barnsley, and like most towns, it had its good and bad parts. Kendray was undoubtedly one of the rougher parts, separated from Ardsley by the daftest roundabout in the whole of Christendom, called Stairfoot. Stairfoot is in a valley, Ardsley up one side, Kendray up t'other, hence the place in the middle was at the foot of the stairs, at foot o't stairs, Stairfoot. Try it one day, you won't be disappointed.

Anyway, us Ardsley kids were not made to feel very welcome. To walk to school meant walking through the local council estate and regular kickings were handed out by the locals. I remember my older brother was the recipient of a fairly brutal shoeing, and I too ended up one year in a fight with a local kid (he was small) and I had to be driven home by Mr Earnshaw the metalwork teacher on account of the gang waiting for me at the school gates at 4pm. I slept fitfully that night and for many nights thereafter.

Games/PE was the scariest of all. I remember having Wednesday-itis, a stomach complaint every Wednesday accompanied by a rash on my back. Dr Matuk put it down to not very much and for weeks I just had to endure this puzzling ailment that recurred every Wednesday and subsided by Thursday. We had games on Wednesdays and I didn't enjoy it much.

Then a funny thing happened. Around my third year at the school, my mum and dad reminded me we had relatives in Kendray. A cousin of my dads had a boy who went to my school. He was in the year above me, but most importantly of all he was cock of the year. I appreciate 'cock of the year' might not translate far outside of the S70 postcode. It doesn't refer to the size of your nob, but to the best fighter.

Cock, as in rooster, I guess, and like wild animals, we had a pecking order, and I swear that every kid knew their place within the year. I knew who was above and who was below. Put a new horse in a field of horses and you will observe the same behaviour. The new horse will be attacked, kicked and bullied until finally the pecking order is worked out and order is once again returned to the field.

I have mentioned this to my kids and they thankfully look at me blankly. When I've asked my boys who is the best fighter at school they don't have a clue and think me very odd for asking it, but back then it meant everything. You knew your place and you stuck with it. I wasn't very high up on the pecking order and relied on my wit and charm for survival. This might go some way to explaining why I was driven home by the metalwork teacher.

Anyway, my cock of the year cousin took to me. I went to his for lunch some days, and I walked with puffed out chest through streets previously well and truly out of bounds to such poncey posh puffs as I. He was the coolest kid on the planet as far as I was concerned and I immediately became untouchable. I had a lucky escape. It was a truly grim school and a difficult five years for everyone there, kids and teachers alike. When I look back and recall some of the appalling bullying dished out by the kids and sometimes by some of the teachers, I shudder. I was no better than any other kid, I knew my place and whilst I wasn't a physical bully, I made my fair share of jokes to the detriment of others. If you were the last kid to be picked when football teams were created, your life was shit. I often wonder what happened to some of the less fortunate kids at that school. Kendray Oaks school was knocked down and no longer exists.

I then went to sixth form in Barnsley town centre. It was a lovely old college in a very nice part of town, and it was a college where kids from all over Barnsley came to do A levels. The net was now cast wider. There wasn't any of the bullying thankfully and because it was effectively a neutral venue we were all in it together. I enjoyed sixth form but was shocked at how hard A levels were. At school I had been one of the clever ones but this meant I was a target, not just posh but a smart-arse too, thank God for cousin Nige. I didn't revise much though. I thought I had to beat the competition, be better than the others and I would succeed, and this flawed logic gave me a false sense of perspective which was exposed as soon as I got to sixth form as I very quickly realised there were lots of kids way smarter than I was. I had to work hard for my A levels and felt I scraped through.

I then went to University in Colchester, Essex. It's about 1 million miles from Barnsley to Colchester. You cross about 37 cultures and 53 languages to reach it, and when I arrived I quickly experienced the "Eeh-bah-gum /Burnley Effect". That's my term, but one I guarantee anyone from Barnsley has experienced in some shape or other when down south. It goes something like this:

"Where are you from?"
"Barnsley"
"Eeh-bah-gum Baaaaarnsley! Dickie Bird! I've been to Turf Moor once"
"Turf Moor is Burnley"
"I know"
"I'm from Barnsley"
"Oh is it different?"

I also became very self-conscious whenever I spoke at University. I was like a pet that was brought out to perform at parties:

"Hey Ramsden, what time is your maths lecture tomorrow?"
"9 while 10, why?"
"Pffft! When is it? Say it again!"
"9 while 10"

It turns out that that the word 'while' functions both as a noun and as a subordinating conjunction, it's meaning varying largely by region and dialect. You fucking bet it does.

I saw nothing wrong with saying "while" instead of "until". When I said "until" I felt like a big toffee nosed Jess. It didn't sit well in my mouth and I couldn't help it. It's the same reason why today I still can't say "Waitrose" except as "Way't'rose" with a very softened, almost non existent "t". I'm told I sound common but if I say "Waitrose" in what I would grudgingly say is in fact the correct way with a very loud and clear T sound in the middle, it sounds so wrong coming from me. I'm sorry but I do sound gay.

University was hard, I was so out of my depth intellectually. My O levels had looked good at the time, but not when put in context nationally and I didn't have the tools, the grounding, I needed. I chose to study maths which just exposed my gulf in knowledge even more widely.

Somehow I bluffed my way through and I then took a job in London. Northern monkey done good. By now my accent had softened somewhat but there was always plenty to talk about when northern lad was around. Usually by ignorant southern twats who knew no better, but as London was their 'turf', it was OK.

I often returned home to Barnsley, usually to coincide with a home game and that meant meeting up with mates for a pint before the match.

"What thar doin nar Rammo?" [For 'Rammo' was my nickname, long before Rambo was conceived]
"I'm living in London"
"Eyup fucking hell thar talks dead posh theee nar!"

I couldn't win, I was an outsider at home, and an outsider at home. I didn't really fit anywhere any more. I always felt, and always have felt northern, particularly Yorkshire.

My favourite football chant of all time is the very tribal "Yorkshire! Yorkshire! Yorkshire!" which is sung at Oakwell whenever a non Yorkshire team comes-a-calling. We usually sing it when our backs are against the wall, which means it gets plenty of airings, and I love it because its exactly what I feel. It's childish, pointless, culturally unsavoury but I just love it and make no apologies for it, it's in my DNA.

But here I was in Barnsley, singing chants about Yorkshire, living in London, yet feeling slightly out of place in both.

Oakwell is Barnsley's football ground and even if the locals think I talk 'dead posh nar' it will always have a special place in my heart. I first went there in 1972 when I was 7 and I have been there every year since. This means it's the oldest place I still visit. We moved from my old house in '79 so Oakwell is the one and only constant (place) that still exists today. It's the last link to my childhood.

It's also special because my dad took me to Oakwell, and for 30-odd years that became our meeting place. I often went several months without going home but I would sometimes drive back up north for a midweek evening game, always my favourite with the floodlights on. I would pick up dad, we would go for a pint, watch Barnsley lose, go for another pint, listen to Praise or Grumble on Radio Sheffield, then head home for a brew with Mum before I headed back down the M1.

Saturday 19th April, 2008. Dad wasn't very well. I had a season ticket in The Ponty End that year for some reason. We were on the verge of relegation and due to play Leicester. My family and I were up visiting and my dad wanted to go to the game even though he wasn't feeling too great, so my mum, dad, my kids and my wife, all got tickets in the East Stand lower, near the corner flag, Ponty End.

I could see them from my seat. It was an awful game and we were losing and I looked over at Dad. He looked tiny and old and I remember it really shocking me. He was seated in what was known as the old Brewery Stand when I first went in 1972, standing room only back then of course. I think I knew he was seriously ill and I remember feeling really pissed off and angry that he was very probably going to die soon, and I really didn't want his last memory of BFC to be associated with relegation.

We were never going to score, but seconds before the game ended there was that murmur in the crowd, difficult to describe, but anyone who has ever been to an end of season game with relegation or promotion looming, will know only too well. Blokes with radios glued to their ears - a score had come in that someone else was losing. I forgot who it was, but it meant that even if we lost we would most likely stay up. We lost and we stayed up, and I remember looking across at my dad and smiling. He stood up and clapped at the end. That was as close as he ever got to unbridled ecstasy and joy.

That was my dad's last ever game and I miss him most whenever I'm at Oakwell. I always see him in the crowd, I always miss listening to Praise or Grumble with him in the car after, and I certainly miss having a pint with him. And if Barnsley ever do become rich and move to a new flat-packed stadium on the edge of town, the fate of so many clubs these days, then I will be absolutely gutted. I love Oakwell me, warts n'all.

My favourite 'al-fresco' toilet ever. Behind the West Stand, Oakwell.

Bit of a departure from my original theme, but the point I was trying to make was that I have never felt I truly fit in anywhere since I was 11. I don't mean that in a 'oh woe is me' way, it's just an observation and probably everyone has their own spin on this line unless you have lived in a cave all your life.

I'm sat writing this in Texas, I just got back from breakfast:

"Good morning sir, what can I get for you today!"
"A cup of tea please"
"Sure, hey is that a British accent I hear?"
"Yes I'm from Barnsley"
"Eeh bah gum they sure miss Owen Coyle at Turf Moor these days!"

I made the last line up.

Hindsight is a mischievous thing

2012-04-11T12:05:00.001+01:00

What do I have in common with Sir Ian Botham and Freddie Mercury I hear you ask? To answer that we need to return to August 1986, but before that let's travel briefly to the mid-70s.

I was a very skinny kid. Growing up I was always conscious of my bandy legs, pencil thin and knobbly kneed they were. Strong, muscled, masculine they weren't. I have a lingering memory of my mum coercing me to put shorts on during one particularly long, hot summer. It could have been the heatwave of '76, I can't recall exactly, but I do remember that I was so self conscious of my twiggy extensions that I refused to take off my (probably flared) corduroy trousers when I went out to play.

And yet here I am, in middle age, now overweight, and now as conscious of my heftiness, as I was of my skinniness as a child. I'm not the kind of person who gains and loses weight, I don't yo-yo like some people do. To borrow a mathematical term, my weight has been monotonically increasing since the day I was born, give or take the odd diet or Delhi belly episode, here and there.

This led me to thinking therefore, that there must have been a point when I was the ideal weight, sometime between 'then' and 'now'. There must have been a moment where my physical stature was just about right. I don't want to con my readership by suggesting I was ever Adonis-like in any way, and I am sure even back then I was still unhappy about certain features, but of course what I never realised or appreciated, was that that was it, that was the best it was ever going to be for me. Only hindsight offers me such a perspective.

I remember after I left university and started working in London, that I slowly started to become conscious of my weight. The heavy boozing through my university years and the inevitable slowdown in physical activity that accompanied it, were starting to take their toll. That was September 1986, ergo, I reckon August 1986 must have been when I was at my absolute physical peak.

I remember now, I went on holiday to the USA in August 1986. We were 2 boys and 2 girls fresh out of university. We travelled through Connecticut, New England, New Hampshire, Vermont, Montreal, Toronto, Chicago. We visited Niagara, we took in a baseball game at the White Sox, we stayed in cheap motels, we stopped wherever and whenever we wanted and we partied long into the night. I think one hot day on that trip I even took my t-shirt off, further evidence if needed that I was indeed at one with my physical self. Happy days.

Also during that month in August 1986, when I was enjoying my peak, one of my boyhood heroes, Ian Botham (a man who ironically also battled with his weight later in his career), returned to test cricket after a ban for taking Cannabis. He was recalled at The Oval against New Zealand, and with his second and 12th balls took the two wickets he needed to equal, and pass, Dennis Lillee's then world record of 355 Test wickets. Botham went on to play international cricket until 1992 but only collected another 30 or so wickets in those intervening 6 years.

August 1986 was also the month that saw Queen play their last live gig with Freddie Mercury as frontman. Mercury's final live performance with Queen took place on 9 August 1986 at Knebworth Park and which was rumoured to draw an attendance estimated to be as high as 300,000.

So the answer to the opening conundrum is that Andy Ramsden, Ian Botham and Freddie Mercury all enjoyed their peak in August 1986. Although none of us knew it. It's only with the luxury of hindsight that we can look back and identify the peaks and the troughs. At any point in real time, whether we feel low, or high, we never know if we have troughed or peaked until some time after the event. Ah, the benefit of hindsight.

'Beefy' probably thought he could take another 100 test wickets. Freddie probably already had the lyrics laid down for his next album, and as I drove along the freeways of North America, fresh out of university, reading Jack Kerouac, listening to Joni Mitchell, contentedly stroking my six-pack with one hand whilst drinking a Michelob with the other, I certainly never believed for one moment that I had a 20 year career at BT waiting for me at Heathrow in just 2 weeks time, along with a monotonically increasing waistline that would continue to grow with me from that day onwards.

Sadly Freddie is no longer with us, but Ian and I continue to waddle on. With life experience behind us instead of in front of us, we re-adjust and reset our goals to more realistic levels.

Ian and I both still enjoy a glass or two of red wine (allegedly), and I don't doubt that just as I occasionally sit back and think about that crazy, hot summer in North America, that Ian perhaps does the same, recalling the LBW of Jeff Crowe that gave him his world record 356th test wicket.

If only we had known then what we know now, would we have followed different paths?

Carpe Diem.

The power of advertising

2012-03-29T14:39:00.001+01:00

I've been travelling a lot lately. Different countries, different continents and therefore different time zones, different foods, poor sleep patterns, a little extra stress, and as a result I suffered with what I can only politely describe as 'constipation'.

I know I am straying off the conventional blog path here, but with a fully signed up blog membership of 1, I hardly risk losing many punters.

I think it's all part of getting old, one of those annoying conditions that as a younger person you only ever heard about from your grandparents, or read about in the back of newspapers. It's the stuff of jokes. I wonder what's next - uncontrolled flatulence? acid reflux? incontinence?

So there I was in Texas, feeling a little, shall we say, backed up. And it isn't trivial younger readers, it becomes quite demoralising after a while, and when mixed in with jet lag and solitude, it can make you feel quite down in the dumps. So I was feeling a little moribund, it was Saturday morning and I was scanning the 76 channels on my Hyatt TV, when I chanced upon an advert. Here's how it played out ...

Attractive looking lady, mid 30s, rather dowdily dressed with dull hair, sat in an aeroplane seat with a real frown on her face. She's not happy, and then when a man tries to squeeze past her she frowns even more as he rudely pushes by, rocking her chair quite violently. She has one hand gently clasping her stomach.

Now I'm no media ad expert, but I think the man squeezing past was a metaphor for a 'blockage'. What I did know was that I recognised that frown on her face, for I shared that frown.

Cut to the same attractive lady, this time now dressed in bright colours, with beautifully conditioned hair, drinking a glass of water and taking some DULCOLAX, beaming a radiant smile, so brightly that it made me smile too. I wanted to wear a smile like that. Cut back to lady sat in aeroplane seat with NO-ONE sitting beside her and she wears that same disarming smile.

"DULCOLAX, gentle, predictable, overnight relief".

That sounded beautiful, I muttered the phrase again "gentle, predictable, overnight relief". It was like a sign from above. Here I was, bored, time to kill, dollars in my pocket, and constipated. There was only one thing for it.

Google -> CVS Pharmacy, Richardson, Texas -> DULCOLAX -> AVAILABLE IN STORE!!

And before I knew it I was haring down North Central Expressway 75 faster than a speeding bullet.

Pharmacies in Texas are big. In my local Co-op in England there is a small corner of the store that does medicines. It's tucked away at the back, but what's good is that you can stand in front of the entire range of medicines, and without making it obvious that you are looking at BOTTOM REMEDIES, for example, you can casually stare, feigning interest at the Aspirin/Ibuprofen in case someone you know passes by, and then slowly look down to your left at the 2-3 medicines of shame which are of real interest.

The CVS Pharmacy, Richardson, Texas is the size of a football field. It makes a Tesco Extra/Superstore look like a corner shop. There must have been 20 rows, each the length of a cricket strip, each specialising in a different "condition" or "genre'. So that's good, should be plenty of choice, I thought to myself as I entered.

In I walked, looking all casual. I knew I couldn't meet anyone I knew which was good. In situations like this I craved anonymity, but being in the USA you just never know when a stranger might come up to you and chat, the one thing any Brit fears above anything else, anywhere, at anytime, but when you're in a pharmacy looking for BOTTOM tablets you definitely do not need that, and I was becoming anxious at the prospect.

Aisle 1 - baby stuff, Aisle 2 - more baby stuff, Aisle 3 - shampoos, Aisle 4 - teeth, Aisle 5 - cold/flu, ... I walked on, .... , Aisle 19 - ARSE PROBLEM RELATED MEDICINES

And then it dawned on me that there is no hiding here. You can't use the old Co-op trick and pretend to be reading the back of the Lemsip packet whilst casually looking down at the BOTTY tablets. In CVS Texas, once you enter Aisle 19 you are committed, you can't be there for any other possible reason than for ***ARSE MEDICINE***!

DING! DING!!! HELLO EVERYONE! I'M ANDY AND I HAVE A PROBLEM WITH MY ARSE FOR I AM IN AISLE 19!!! YES THE ARSE AISLE!

And there was so much choice - active bacteria for the gut, haemorrhoid creams, suppositories, embarrassing itching. I was beginning to feel stressed, my back was starting to feel sweaty and I was suffering uncontrollable hot flushes like a menopausal fish wife (Aisle 13 as I recall).

The back of my neck was prickly with sweat, a sure sign I was feeling pressurised, as I scanned the aisles trying to make sense of the cornucopia of choices laid open to me. Finally, I saw the word DULCOLAX and zoomed in on Aisle 19, sectors 37-63, rows 4-28. They were located next to suppositories. Nice move CVS Pharmacy shelf stacker. You bastard.

At that moment a woman walked past with her two children. She was using Aisle 19 as a cut through, her ARSE was just fine, in tip-top condition, but as she passed by me she held tightly onto the hands of her two children who were staring boggle eyed, and in awe, at the awesome array of chattles on offer in Aisle 19.

"Come on Zach, Cory, stay close to Momma, that man has ARSE PROBLEMS!" I heard her think to herself ...

By now I had a decidedly waxy pallour, this was very traumatic, but I managed to focus - DULCOLAX 20, DULCOLAX 50, DULCOLAX 100. Never wanting to go through this appalling experience ever again in my entire life, I calculated that, aged 47, a packet of 100 would hopefully see me through to death, meaning I would never have to experience such trauma in the few years I had left.

To give me strength, I closed my eyes briefly and tried to conjure up the image of the attractive lady on the plane and that beautifully relaxed smile. I wanted that smile, this would all be worth it.

A bolt of electricity shot through me as I picked up the rather large box of DULCOLAX 100. It was at this point that I thought about the unfortunate name.

The '...LAX' part obviously screamed LAXATIVE!!! Why make it so obvious? I might as well have been wearing a t-shirt with ARSE PROBLEM written on it. It's embarrassing enough buying this stuff without plastering it all over the box. Why not call them SOFTABS, or at least put RE on the front of LAX to make them RELAX-TABS? I didn't want anything to do with the word LAXATIVE, I wanted gentle, predictable, overnight relief, that was far less scary and certainly way less embarrassing than buying something so forthright as LAXATIVES.

It's a slight diversion to the story, but the only time I had ever heard of people I knew using laxatives was at university. A girlfriend of mine shared a flat with another girl who was trying to lose weight, and I once had the misfortune of walking past the bathroom door when she was in there 'evacuating avec laxative'. The sounds I heard that day still haunt me 30 years on.

Back in Texas I recalled that story as I looked at my mega-pack of DULCOLAX 100. I didn't want that, I wanted the gentle predictable relief, I wanted to be like that pretty lady on the plane.

I was now getting in a bit of a state as I realised I had no choice and I still had to negotiate the checkout. I could see it far ahead in the distance, the happy go lucky, oh-so-fucking cheery bloke on the checkout was CHATTING to the customer checking out. WTF? You aren't paid to chat, you are paid to take the money, issue a receipt and move on to the next customer!

I contemplated the old chemist 'condoms' trick of buying other things, so the offending article would blend in, but I didn't want to carry loads of stuff back to the UK with me, and I didn't have many dollars, and I didn't want to extend the checkout time by paying with a card that probably wouldn't be accepted on account of it being 'foreign' and risk the chatty checkout bloke asking me where I'm from, etc.

So I headed to the checkout, just one in service, please, no queues. But what if there's a queue when I get there and the person behind me sees my LAXATIVES? I might have to kill him in the car park, yes I'll do that.

100 yards from the checkout and it looked like the customer was finishing up and no-one else was in line ... 75 yards, no queue ... 50 yards, still no queue ... 20 yards, no queue, chatty checkout bloke looking at me, no turning back now, heart rate quickening, throat drier than an Iraqi's sandal .... 10 yards, look into his eyes, not around the eyes ... don't be afraid, think pretty plane lady, remember that smile ...

"Hi there Sir! And how are you today!!?"

"Hi ... fine thanks ... just this *cough*" I couldn't bring myself to look in his eyes. I could hear someone approaching behind me ... this was just awful, I wanted to cry.

"Is that all or do you need anything else today Sir?"

"No ... that's all ..." WHY DID YOU ASK THAT? WOULD I NOT HAVE BROUGHT 'ANYTHING ELSE' WITH ME HAD I NEEDED 'ANYTHING ELSE'? ARE YOU DOING THIS ON PURPOSE???

"Do you need a bag for that Sir?"

"Yes please" NO THANKS, OH BUT DO YOU HAVE SOME BLU-TAC THOUGH SO I CAN STICK THE BOX TO MY FOREHEAD AS I WALK OUT INTO THE CAR PARK? OF COURSE I WANT A FUCKING BAG!!!

I paid, I left, I got into my car, I locked the doors, closed my eyes, sat back and breathed an immense sigh of relief.

I had done it! It was a traumatic experience but I had done it. Yay for me!

I got back to the hotel and excitedly opened the packet.

INSTRUCTIONS: Blah, blah, blah ... "12 yrs and over - 1 to 3 tablets to be taken once a day just before bedtime".

Hmm 1 to 3. 12 yrs old and over. I reasoned thus - if a 12 yr old girl can take 1 tablet then a 47yr portly old bloke who weighs approx 3 x times what a 12 yr old girl weighs must need at least 2, probably 3, but what was it to be, 2 or 3? The USA is famed for lawsuits, especially where medicines are concerned, so they must always err on the side of caution, so 3 must still be safe. I bet you could take 4 or 5 but I'm not going to be silly, I will stay within the guidelines and take 3. I mean what's the point of taking 2 only to find it doesn't work?

So that night, after I brushed my teeth, I popped 3 tablets and tucked myself in for the night, dreaming of the beautiful aeroplane lady with the relaxed smile.

The clock was showing 04:17am when I awoke with stabbing pains in my stomach. WTF? Food poisoning? Then there was the gurgle. Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble, something was going on downstairs and no mistake. And then that twitch of the arse that accompanies every bout of diarrhoea. That subtle but unforgettable twitch of the sphincter that shoots an instantaneous message to the brain saying DO NOT FART.

What was going on? What had I had for dinner? Chicken salad, can't be that can it? I ran to the bathroom and glanced across at the 97 pack of DULCOLAX and the penny dropped.

I will spare you the detail of the next few minutes, suffice to say I was anchored to that piece of porcelain for 20 minutes, wailing like a deranged Banshee on acid as my life flashed, nay flushed, before my eyes.

The clock showed 04:39 when I staggered back into bed, shivering and sweating.

The thought of the smiley lady on the aeroplane made me feel rather cross.

Mr Big

2012-03-29T11:54:00.000+01:00

The thought of prison scares me, it always has. For as long as I can remember I've had a recurring fear of being jailed and then serially gang raped in the communal showers by "Mr Big" and his cronies.

I have no idea where that fear comes from. As far as I can recollect I have never been raped, nor have I ever had sex with another man, consensual or otherwise. I lead a fairly conventional life and I've never been to prison, either as a visitor or as an inmate.

And just to be clear, it's not jail itself I fear, it's the potential for physical and sexual abuse in jail from other men that bothers me. I don't worry about the isolation or the incarceration particularly, although I am sure that gets to you after a while, what troubles me most is the potential for physical violence and sexual abuse that I imagine is rife in there.

When I have expressed this fear to friends of mine, they have suggested that I must have latent homosexual tendencies, that I harbour a desire to be violated by a burly bloke, but isn't that a bit like saying, if I fear having my eyeballs gouged out with a rusty fork, that I must secretly desire to be blinded? It worries me though, what if my friends are right? Damn you, so called friends.

Getting old bothers me and will no doubt be covered in other blogs, but one advantage I see of getting old is that if I did ever go to jail, I would become less sexually attractive to the other inmates.

But hang on ... as I get older, I get weaker, less able to fight back, so perhaps I become MORE accessible with age and MORE of a target to testosterone filled young men with a pathological bias towards sex and violence.

Angry, violent men with no outlet for their sexual tension except for the quivering old bloke in the corner .... Oh God.

Seat 55E

2012-03-14T23:11:00.000Z

Choosing your seat on a plane is a science. As a fairly frequent traveller I take this job seriously as I tend to fly the cheapest, nastiest, most inflexible ticket available. This is particularly important on long haul flights, and in case you’re interested and ever find yourself booking a seat in World Traveller (Cattle) on a BA 747-400, Seats 52B/J are the seats to go for.

You have a window seat so are undisturbed, you have space to your left/right for bags and extra legroom into the row 51A/K space in front of you. I had seat 52B on the way out to Dallas, unfortunately on the return leg I was late selecting and ended up with seat 55G – that’s the right hand yellow coloured aisle seat on row 55 (see link below).

Seat Guru BA 747-400

Hang on, you said you booked 55G Andy, but this blog is titled 55E?

Let me explain ...

Upon arrival at 55G, the air stewardess asked me if the elderly lady in 55F could have my seat as she would need to 'use the toilet frequently' (she whispered this for full effect). The elderly lady was Indian and didn't speak English so her son interpreted for her. Her son was in 55E, so they had the two middle seats on the back row. She looked sad and a little scared, rather frail looking too. I couldn't say no, so I offered to swap with her, only to find the son took 55G, whilst elderly lady remained in 55F and I was left with 55E. Needless to say 55D was also occupied (by a middle aged lady).

The son of the elderly lady then proceeded to drink 7 (seven) cans of Heineken before the plane had even left American airspace, and was refused an 8th by the senior steward in charge.

It turns out the elderly lady didn't need the loo but her son certainly did!! What a stroke of luck for him!! One minute consigned to a middle seat with a serious drinking habit and a slack bladder, only to find he had duped the English guy on the aisle into a swap!!

Being the back row, there is very little seat recline due to the wall of the toilets (for there are 4 of them) located directly behind, and in flight, there is a constant queue in the aisles on both sides of row 55 as rows 40-55 (3+4+3 = 10 x 15 = 150 – 10 = 140) stand in line to empty their bladders.

I calculated. If a passenger needed the toilet on average every 3 hrs then on a 9hr journey that's 3 trips to the traps situated by row 55. Multiply that by the 140 passengers in that section of the plane and that equates to 3 x 140 = 420 toilet door openings, 420 toilet door closings and 420 associated chemical scented toilet flushes plus assorted peripheral odours *cough*.

And if, of those 420 trips, every 10th one was for a poo, that's an additional 42 headily scented aromas thrown into the aromatic mix and ambience now permeating row 55.

Also, whenever anyone uses toilet L1 (upper left quadrant), the wall of said toilet wall at the back of seat 55E rattles each time the door opens and closes, and it judders/bangs the back of seat 55E.

If the four toilets are used evenly throughout the journey, that’s approximately 105 bangs x 2 (1 on way in and 1 on way out) = 210 on a 9hr flight from Dallas to London, so that’s 1 bang to the back of seat 55E every 2.5 minutes, for 9 hours.

If 55E and row 55 were for sale in an estate agents window it would say something like this:

"Adjacent to 55D and F, 55E has to be seen to be believed, and is within close proximity of the toilets which are ideally suited for the elderly, the insecure, the alcoholic and the infirm.

On row 55 you NEVER need waste another journey waiting in line for the loo. That’s because there are no less than 4 (FOUR!) toilets within easy reach, and should your eyesight be problematic, worry not because your nose and ears will tell you every time the toilet doors are opened and closed!!

And as well as neighbours on both sides, you are also treated to an endless stream of (bladder filled and gas ladened) visitors who form a permanent queue right by your row! Don't be a stranger! Move to row 55 NOW and make many NEW friends!!!"

Incidentally, the yellow colour of row 55 on the seatguru site link above indicates there are “some drawbacks”. You have been warned.

The art of debating

2012-03-13T14:06:00.000Z

I was going to blog about religion, but I can't do that without first discussing 'debate'.

Let me explain what I mean. Fact is, I'm not very good at debating, and I think there are two reasons for that.

Firstly, I find I get too emotional. I tend to take things personally and gradually, during a debate, I lose the ability to reason and start to get defensive, taking criticism personally rather than taking it merely as a counter-argument. It's a shocking indictment on my own character and it's something I am ashamed of, that I can't maintain rational debate for very long without resorting to "fuck you!" type retorts, or cheap comebacks like "up your arse wanker!". Sometimes I say them inwardly, or under my breath, but you could say I have debating Tourette's, and like any Tourette's sufferer, it's not fucking funny so you can wipe that smile off your face. Wanker.

And the second problem I have with debates, and the reason why I could never join a political party, is that I always see both sides to any argument. I can be watching Question Time when some extreme left or extreme right wing nutter says something outrageous and the audience go wild, jeering and booing, and I'm sat there thinking 'Poor sod, he does have a point'.

Put me in a room with a Communist, a Lib Dem and a Right wing nationalist and listening to them I will find common ground with all three. I could find common ground with any one of them, some more than others, and I'm certainly not saying I sympathise with the actions of any particular extreme party, but I can often see where they're coming from, especially if they are good at debating. However, force me to debate something with the three same people, and the Tourette debater in me will end up telling all three of them to go fuck themselves and to stick their phoney, ill thought out policies up their arses. Wankers.

To be a good debater, or even to be an enjoyer of debates, you have to be able to extract yourself from the emotional layer and that's what I don't do very well. People think a great debater is simply someone who makes their points eloquently, but I would argue a great debater also has the ability to receive criticism, absorb it, adapt their position and then play back a counter to the counter argument, promoting further debate, and so on. Two good debaters is a great spectacle.

However when someone criticises me in a debate, I don't listen too much to the content, I just see a dickhead sitting opposite who is trying to put one over on me, trying to make me look stupid. Nob-jockey.

See the difference? See my problem?

So, back to religion. The biggest problem I have with it is that it's so divisive and therefore inextricably linked to debate. It's almost impossible to discuss religion without fierce squabbles emerging within seconds between the 'us' and 'them' camps, the believers and the non-believers, those that have seen the light versus the great unwashed.

So this is all very annoying for me because I want to discuss/debate it but I can't. And after confessing my Tourette's tendencies I doubt anyone will ever want to debate anything with me ever again.

Maybe I will discuss religion in another blog...

Mozart

2012-03-12T02:31:00.000Z

Crikey, I'm like a young Mozart, overflowing with creative juices. My writing talent knows no bounds as I embark upon a second post and it's still only Day 1. Where will this end? Will I slavishly blog my entire life? Wouldn't that defeat the object of capturing life's events in a blog, if the blog becomes life itself? Wooah that’s deep Andy, steady tiger it's still day 1, we don't want to scare the punters off.

Of course, what is really happening is what happens whenever I start anything. Throughout my life, I have begun things with such enthusiasm it defies belief. I love running, so I run from a standing start until my toes bleed and my shins splinter. Think Forrest Gump.

I stop drinking, I don't cut back on drinking, I become tee-total, almost religious in my fervent belief that alcohol is the devil incarnate, even depriving myself of Beelzebub's mildest temptations such as sherry trifle and liqueur chocolates.

I read, I love reading, so when I start a book the rest of my life is placed on hold as I lock myself away in toilets and bedrooms, feverishly reading in every spare second of every day. I stay awake all night reading, rendering myself incapable of anything the following day, except perhaps reading more. I carry my book everywhere in case I can grab 30 seconds to absorb a couple more paragraphs. And now I have a Kindle, with 3G, so I can download books from any corner of the world, 24x7x365.

I diet, I don't just cut back, I devise revolutionary food regimes, research anthropological archives for hidden insights into caveman nutrition. I study the diets of tribes, as yet undiscovered in the heart of the Peruvian jungle, and I order foods from niche health food stores on the web. I clear the fridge to make way for the new van-load of foodstuffs that will be ‘next-day’ delivered to my door, and will undoubtedly change my life forever, allowing me to live to be 100 yrs old and to still be running marathons. I have even ducked out of dinner parties during a health phase, in case I am tempted to eat or drink something evil.

I discover a new band, one tune from the radio can have me hooked, one major-to-minor chord change and I'm spellbound. I Google the band, I download their entire back catalogue, buy their auto-biography, order a t-shirt from eBay and learn everything from where the band members grew up, how they formed the group, what they like to eat and where they go on holiday. I have even joined fan clubs. As a grown adult, ffs.

And now I start my own blog. Not content with establishing the profile for the blog, setting up the basics, I have to fill it. I see other blogs with hundreds of entries and I want one, I want my own and I want it NOW. I want to be instantly established. I want to resign from my job immediately, to travel to Nepal and write 24hrs a day from the top of a mountain. It would need to be a mountain with wi-fi, obviously as I chose the online format (see day 1 post 1). Samuel Pepys never suffered like this.

And it goes without saying that all of the above fads, crazes and hobbies almost always, nay, always, end in doom and disappointment. I end up in the GP surgery with chronic running injuries and am told I might never run again. I succumb to a drink of alcohol and the flood gates open, the red mist rises and I drink everything in sight, from red wine to lighter fuel, often into the wee hours.

I go on a business trip, and, forced to break from my diet, I eat like a frenzied, deranged truffle pig, munching my way through fried breakfasts, 3-course lunches and 5-course evening meals, invariably washed down with fine wines.

I get tired of reading, surely there is more to life than having your head stuck in a book? So I don't read anything, not even a newspaper, or a bus ticket, nothing for months on end.

And on certain days I indulge in ALL my hobbies ALL at the same time. I watch Radiohead in concert (HD, surround sound) at 2am, whilst I guzzle red wine and eat a carb fuelled chickpea and wholegrain rice curry with an icepack on my leg to ease the pain and inflammation from my latest running injury, and in my hand is my Kindle where I shop for new books to read. And I do all this until I am sick or fall into a deep slumber.

You probably have the picture by now. I'm an all or nothing kind of person and so I fear greatly for this blog. After breathing life into it, giving it legs and a heartbeat, I wonder when the fog will descend, the weeds will begin to creep into the (soon to be) untended website and "Spinning Head" will start to decay, left rotting, throttled at such a tender young age, cast asunder, stranded and alone on the side of the road that marks my journey through life, just another one of my casualties, just another fad, just another silly craze.

I really should know better.

My new blog

2012-03-12T01:40:00.004Z

I've decided to write a blog. Which is funny because I don't really know what a blog is. I know it's a place where people write stuff online, but what do 'Bloggers' actually write about? After some research through Google it turns out that most blogs are either:

- "Moms" from Arkansas,
- corporations pushing products,
- or they're themed (cooking, mountaineering, cycling, Christianity, fishing, etc).

My idea of a blog isn't any of those, it's just a place where I write and store thoughts that come into my head, things that might be bothering me, amusing me, frustrating me, boring me, etc. The key in the last sentence is the word 'store', let me explain ...

I like writing, I've always enjoyed writing. I remember as a 7 yr old in 1972, I won a 'pick-a-platignum' pen for my story about "Sounds in the morning". I remember writing about "the water swirling in the kettle" and "listening to Tony Blackburn on the radio". It really was a beautiful, epic piece of prose. I jest, in fact I don't remember. And that's my point, as that story is long gone. Only the faint memory remains – the pen and those two lines of prose. I would love to read the whole thing again 40 years on to a) recall what mornings were really like back then, and b) to see what I wrote and to gain an insight as to how my mind was working back in '72.

I still like to write. I don't know what it is about travel but I often write on long flights. Often I don't write with any particular topic in mind, I just start to write and I love to see how my thoughts wander. Again, it's not epic stuff but it’s always amusing to read back at a later date for the a) and b) reasons above. Problem is I never keep any of that stuff, it gets lost gradually over time, written on scraps of paper or notebooks long since filled and thrown away.

So, I thought I would try and keep an electronic journal. But wait, writing notes on my laptop is no good because I NEVER backup my laptop, and I don't always have my laptop with me. I also change laptops every few years. Laptop, bad idea. In the end I concluded it needs to be online, because that takes all the effort out for me. I don't have to back it up and I can access it from anywhere using any device. This is the perfect medium for disorganised people like me.

So there we are – the blog is the perfect medium to capture thoughts, always accessible, always safely backed up on’t’internet.

This is my blog, so move on over Arkansas ‘Moms’ there’s a new daddy in town. And I have a Pick-A-Platignum pen. Somewhere ...