Adam Bird - My Personal Blog

Case Study (Part 4) - kings-medway.co.uk

2012-02-22T20:28:00.000Z

Towards the end of last month, I read a status update from my Uncle Matthew who is Pastor of King's Church in Medway. His status championed the launch of his church’s new website and encouraged his Facebook connections to visit. Except that when I did, I wasn’t enthused by what I saw. After I put across my point of view he agreed with my assessment and accepted my invitation to review the current site and work with him and his team to start again - pretty much from the ground up.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve visited the church several times. On each occasion we’ve had a proactive discussion on what a potential new website should feature, how it should look and most importantly of all, how it should communicate - not just to visitors of the website, but to friends of people who belong to the church, or organisations that help on a daily basis to do good for the greater church community.

We made a decision early on that we were actually dealing with multiple websites rather than try to tell the full story across a single domain. We turned this into a three way split - the Church, Caring Hands and Light the Way. There is still a possibility of a fourth website, but this is still pending upon various other important matters unconnected with this blog, so I’ll leave that where it is for now.

The Social Layer:

Outside of the three domains set up to deal with each of the three websites, a social layer will be created to help spread and share the good work that happens both inside the church (Kings), outside in the local community (Caring Hands) and on a global level (Light the Way).

Each of the three sites will have an external voice (Twitter) telling the world what they are doing, have done, or are about to do. Whilst members of each community (Facebook) will be invited to attend events and partake in sharing content that is posted via each community's Page. Each of the three sites will also have an associated You Tube channel where imagery can be captured and added to the website or shared across any of the two communication channels (Twitter and Facebook).

Each site will also have at least one blog which will allow any invited member of the organisation to write a post keeping visitors to the website and to any of the social channels updated with all the latest goings on inside the church.

An example would be:

- A member of the church writes a blog post about the planning for the next Light the Way mission.
- This blog post appears on the Light the Way website, but I, as a potential visitor would have to visit the website to read it. Instead because it is a blog post, and I've visited the website before I can subscribe to the blog feed and have this appear automatically in my own news reader. Immediately one piece of content has reached me in either one of two ways.
- The author of the blog is also an page admin on Facebook, so they update the Light the Way Facebook page with a link to the new content.
- As I’ve also ‘Liked’ Light the Way on Facebook, I’ve now received three opportunities to read the same content.
- More importantly, now that I have, and it is on Facebook I can share this content with my own Facebook connections. From one person seeing a single piece of content, I’ve now exposed this to 500 of my own friends. If the Light the Way page has 100 people 'liking' the page and all 100 share a piece of content, you can see how quickly good news spreads!
- The author of the blog, just for good measure sends a tweet from the Light the Way Twitter feed with another link to the new post. This has now been picked up by me again as I’m also following Light the Way on Twitter. I then decide to retweet the link so that my own followers can read it.
- I wasn't the only one, the charity in which Light the Way are helping on their mission also notices’s the tweet. They have 10,000 followers. The charity retweets the Light the Way link and immediately it is picked up by a much bigger audience.
- And finally, now that the organisation has been broken down into three, each part of the church can now talk about one another, the church can share content that Caring Hands or Light the Way has created and vice versa.

It might seem common sense to me and it is, I deal with it day in day out and understand how each of the platforms work. I also understand how used correctly, they can do great and wonderful things for your business, or in this case organisation. Never presume that people will visit your website, get your website to the people - it's straightforward enough. But for my Uncle and his team, its unknown territory which they a, need to know how to use and b, know how to get the most from it.

For example, a particularly talking point was Facebook. At the moment the church has two Facebook accounts, one set up as a friend account and the other as a Page. The friend account has every attribute that you and I have, a DOB, a first name and surname and strangely for an organisation a Gender. Hang on a minute? How can an organisation have a gender? It doesn’t, which is why Facebook created 'pages' for organisations, authors, clubs, brands and businesses.

The biggest problem, particularly if you are a religious organisation with a ‘friend’ profile, is that you are mixing in the same Facebook social circles as those you have ‘friended’. You can now see all of your ‘friends’ problems, the status updates which moan about someone else, or links that they’ve shared, or even photos uploaded which could cause embarrassment and/or distress to either party.

By creating a ‘page’, you are then elevating yourself out of that social circle and putting yourself above it, so that that in your own ‘news feed’ (which is different to your profile) you will see only things that your organisation has ‘liked’. You no longer have friends and you can only share content that has been added by those pages that you've liked . Everything that people then do, everyone who ‘likes’ your page is then invisible to you as a page owner, leaving you then to take all of your great content and share it in the knowledge that you are only sharing it with those people who’ve explicitly said that they ‘like’ you - and if they no longer want to hear from you, they simply ‘unlike’ your page and you can carry on with sharing to those who are interested.

The Design:

Whilst the social layer eco-system gets put in place and members of the church learn to how to use and perfect each system, I have been left to think about and consider how the three main websites are to work and what they might begin to look like.

This, for me is the hardest part of the whole process. The main issue being that by trade, I am not a website designer. I bring to life other peoples designs, which does have its benefits. The websites I build day in day out are (mainly) beautifully but the downside is that I don’t use Photoshop or Fireworks to design, I use it to slice and optimise, which is fundamentally different. The only ‘design’ work I do is on the odd occasion like this where a little private project needs bringing to life and I’m the only one to do it!

My design ethos then, is pretty much non-existent other than knowing what I like and knowing what I don’t. I can look at all the websites in the world and tell you if I like them or not, but I couldn’t tell you why. It is instinctive. Some are more obvious than others, but at the beginning of this whole series of blog posts I reviewed and looked at a group of websites which I said that worked and others than simply didn’t.

My main design considerations then for this project were as follows:

- the design had to be modern and well laid out
- it had to fall into the later category of sites that I felt worked in my earlier blog post
- all three sites had a common ‘theme’ or something that linked them all together so that if you visited them all one after another you were dealing with the same organisation
- it encapsulated the brochure style of a static website, but incorporated all the elements of the social layer that was discussed above
- that Uncle Matthew and the key church stakeholders liked it!
- that each design incorporated a functional piece of JavaScript that I’d seen elsewhere, that I didn’t know how it worked, but I’d teach myself to build it

With all things considered and thought out, I’m glad to say that after nearly three weeks, after plenty of deliberation and revision, we now have a design that all parties are happy with and are now currently working at developing into a functional website!

The Shared Elements:

- Each site has its own color palette
- Each site has a header, a footer and a navigation that is exactly the same but identifiable through colour and logo.
- Each site links to each other
- Each site has vital elements in familiar positions i.e. quick links and social media icons
- Each site then has a content area, which can be used to display the specific site content individually using a design that is unique and stands out from the other two.

Not wanting to give too much away at this point, I’ve added a screenshot of the three sites sitting side by side - roll over the image below to see the colour version:

As always, please send me any feedback, opinion or comment either on the comments below or by email at adamdbird@gmail.com.

The Betrayal

2012-02-14T16:15:00.000Z

For a long time I’ve had this belief that Sky are evil and as a corporation have done more harm than good for English football, that they’ve taken the working class soul out of the game and made it a rich persons plaything. The only problem is, last night - I became its latest victim. I sold out. Sacrificed my team for the comfort of my lounge and added my last few pennies into the bottomless Rupert Murdoch honeypot instead of being there for the team I love.

Gillingham vs Southend on a Monday night. Nothing glamorous about that, but being a Gillingham supporter has never been about glamour. The closest I’ll ever get to see Gillingham in Europe was a friendly in Calais a couple of years ago and the Premier League seems just as far away. We were close once, not so long ago in fact, finishing 11th in what is now the Championship, but it is the ghost of those glory days that make the current level of mediocrity so difficult to bare.

When it was announced that Gillingham vs Southend was going to be shown on Sky, I was excited. Gillingham were flying high and on a good run, equally the case for Southend. The game promised to be a promotion six-pointer with the victor having all to look forward to as the season reaches its climax.

Unfortunately it hasn’t quite worked out like that.

Our last two games have seen us on the wrong end of 4-3 scorelines, coupled with a similar poor run before those two debacles. We are now out of the play-off positions and try as I might, I simply cannot see us getting back into them any time soon.

It is in these times of battle that you want your supporters to rally behind the team and help fight for the cause, but for once, I just couldn’t muster the will or energy and took the easy route out.

Coming back from London to a night match means stopping off in Gravesend to pick up the car, which makes me arrive in Gillingham later than I would like, I then have to fight for a parking space as close to the ground as I can get. The alternative is to go direct from London and wait for the 22.00 return train home after the game - it all seemed too much hassle. Plus it was still biting cold outside, even if rain had replaced the snow. Whilst back at home, Oliver was out having a sleepover at his Nanny Tracey’s house, so it was just Stephanie, Phoebe and I which it hasn’t ever been since Phoebe was born. When you add it all together, I can just about justify it - even if it doesn’t make me feel any better.

I’ve always considered a relationship with a football team to be an analogy for married life. Last night was further proof of that. Sky television, the beautiful, attractive alternative to the equally beautiful football club. Except that the football club has let itself go a bit, wasn’t as good as when you were younger and you feel the urge for a new experience. You try as hard as you can to put it off and give yourself all the right reasons why you fell in love with them in the first place. That you need to go, you need to make it work and that with your help the two of you can go on to bigger and better things. But the lure of Sky television, with all it’s warmth and comfort and HD sophistication was simply too much and I fell weakly to its advances.

Did I feel guilty afterwards? No, not really, not at all. Which is where the analogy ends. The first half summed up everything that is currently wrong with the team at the moment - it was actually quite sad to watch. It was like seeing an ex that had put on weight but was wearing a dress two sizes two small and was sleeping with a man that hadn’t washed for three weeks. You were left feeling sorry for them and a carried a sense of being somewhere better, a superiority complex and a realisation that you’d done the right thing.

As with all betrayals, you should say sorry and that you won’t do it again. So, sorry Gills - I am, but as for not doing it again, I’ll try not to.

x

Case Study (Part 3) - kings-medway.co.uk

2012-02-08T12:36:00.000Z

A lot can happen in the short space of a week. Since I wrote last time and showcased some of the websites that I liked and others that I didn’t, I have met with King’s Church Medway on two separate occasions and formulated the beginnings of a working plan. A plan, that by the time it is complete should see them sitting pretty with not one new website but potentially four!

Our first meeting last week was an introductory affair. I met my Uncle Matthew and Austin, a Deacon within the church who overseas the media department and built the current site. Alongside the two of them was a chap named Christian (ironically enough) who wants to help out and volunteered his services just as I had.

We spoke about some of the points that I had raised in my original blog post about the current site, we talked about their current working processes and chatted freely about what the new site should do and more importantly some of the things that it needed to contain. Christian also led us through some of his own thoughts, which were very similar to my own in that the new site should be powered by a Content Management System. Which will then enable Austin and his team to focus on supplying content rather than squeezing what they can into the confines of their current system.

The “oh shit” moment

What became clearly very evident during that first meeting was the scale and density of the project that I had invited myself into. The church itself is the place where people meet, worship and celebrate, but those people, in believing what they do have felt compelled to spread out, not just into Medway, but across the world in the form of ministry which is about helping those less fortunate than themselves.

As the conversation went on and each part of the church was explained to me and its daily impact on peoples lives I suddenly had a moment of “oh shit, this is actually a much, much bigger project than I thought!” I got home that night and had a rather sleepless time of it with ideas and thoughts running around my head as to how the new look like web site should work.

The four pronged attack

In thinking it through over a period of twenty-four hours, I made the decision that whatever happens, the project that we were now working on was not a one website affair. I mentally jotted it down and prepared something like this:

Church website

- For people interested in Christianity and who want to find a local church
- For congregation wanting to know what is happening and when
- Church life and what being a member of a church is all about. Why King’s Church Medway? What sets them apart?

Caring Hands

- What is Caring Hands and how is it helping change peoples lives?
- Who is involved in the project and how can I get involved?

Project Future Vision

- The church are currently in early stages of formulating a plan for the future which will have wide interest to the general public. This website will be an information guide for all.

Light the way

- What is the church doing for impoverished communities?
- What happens on one of these global missions? Where are you going and why?
- Where have you been and how can I get involved?

Sharing and creating

Last night, I shared with Matthew and Austin my thoughts (without the “oh shit!” remark). Both were in agreement that this was the way forward. I also took with me a mocked up screenshot of the homepage for each site and we stuck all four of them to the wall of the church hall. From there, we dissected each site individually and created a rudimentary site map for each using post-it notes and stickers to indicate if the content was to updated frequently and/or hosted by an external site (i.e. You Tube, Facebook, other social media networks).

In final analysis, it was determined that most, if not all of the frequently updated content of the site could be hosted and added to third party sites. Videos could be sent to You Tube and pulled back via the You Tube API, Photos could be shared on Facebook or Flickr, whilst Twitter could be used to act as the church’s voice and tell people everything that is happening. Finally, a blogging platform could be used for anything else, event information perhaps to keep people up to date as and when things happen, as well as talking about it after the event has taken place.

Considering that we now have four separate, albeit linked websites, our original CMS specification then becomes, not redundant, but far harder to implement. None of the team, including myself have any hands on experience of setting up a CMS. I’ve had to use plenty whilst at work, but these have always already been set up ready for me to use and maintain - never to build from scratch. The idea then at the moment, is to build four websites, without a CMS that incorporates a social layer in which King’s Church branded content is hosted and integrated to the site, whilst research into a viable CMS continues until decided otherwise that it isn’t viable.

Next steps

With the Light the way team heading towards the Philippines in March, immediate focus is upon setting up tools to enable them to capture the experience as it unfolds. How are the team preparing? What are the factors that need to be considered before a trip? What is the itinerary when they are there? All valuable information for interested parties to read and keep up to date with as the mission unfolds.

The immediate need:

- Creation of a blog to enable reporting as it happens
- Look and feel of blog not important at the moment as it is the mechanism for capturing the story that we want to use and become familiar with.
- Set up a Twitter feed for Light the Way so team can use platform for a) sharing short updates b) becoming familiar with the tool before the trip takes place, c) generating publicity.

Once Light the Way is ready and active, thoughts start to turn back again to the main church website and just how it might look - remember those post-it notes? Where do they fit in? Those three other sites, how do they marry in with the church and how does the design reflect that?

The challenge lies in wait!

PS: If anyone has any experience in installing and integrating a custom CMS, please email me at adamdbird@gmail.com.

Case Study (Part 2) - kings-medway.co.uk

2012-02-01T14:50:00.001Z

Last week I took a look at a website (www.kings-medway.co.uk) which belongs to a church run by my Uncle Matthew and are doing some wonderful work for their local community. I pointed out that perhaps the website could function better and look more professional. More importantly, it should show off some of that great work that is happening on a daily basis and be more accessible for the local people of Medway and beyond.

Whilst discussions are very much at preliminary stages as to the concept of the new website, I thought that now would be as good a time as any to look around at other church websites, get some inspiration and look at what people have done well, what type of content is being displayed and what pitfalls to avoid.

As design is always so subjective, it should be stated that those that I’ve not particularly liked might well be by others. It should also be worth remembering that someone, or a group of people have put the time and effort to make these websites work, and church websites are often created by volunteers and hobbyist’s - this then is not a critique of someones work. It is purely a list of examples showing what works for me and what doesn’t.

Here are some of the best and not so great websites I came across on my travels (click any of the visuals to open the website):

The not so good:

Christ Church (Tunbridge Wells)

- Despite the bright purples, it lacks general interest and a focal point
- 6 key sections on the homepage are difficult to make out against the main menu
+ Contains recent and up to date information

City Praise Centre

- Feels as if everything has been squashed into a small a space as possible
- Dislike the imagery used inside the main rotating panel
+ Navigation is simple and concise

Emmanuel Baptist Church

- Shows why a website shouldn't be left to stagnate, as things on the web tend to age very quickly.

Jubilee Church

- Needs modernisation
- Repeating background tiles on larger screen sizes
+ Navigation feels familiar and easy to use

Medway Family Church

- Shows why a website should be careful to choose a right template
- Feels corporate, as if it should be selling taps or something water related
+ A positive introduction message that says who they are

St Peters

- Too generic in theme, doesn't feel intuitively that it is a church website
- Lacks real interest
+ Information is up to date and easy to find

Waterford House Evangelical Free Church

- Lacks immediate visual appeal.
- Second item on the menu "India 2011", therefore second most important page on the site. Has a coming soon message. If it isn't ready, don't display it.
+ Social tools integrated into the site allowing visitors to share content.

The lot better:

Calvary Church

+ How a simple colour scheme of one or two colours can really make your website shine
+ Clean, concise navigation
+ Bright, vibrant, appealing event banner on homepage

Community Bible Church

+ Segmented homepage with each section giving you just what you need to know.
+ Photography carefully chosen and edited to complement the site design, not detract from it.
+ Homepage carousel compliments the site and functions correctly.

First Presbyterian Houston

+ Another example of how a few colours can make for an appealing appearance.
+ Site content split into seven clear sections for ease of use.
+ Content pages feel natural and well laid out

Hillsong London

+ Have opted for a full screen layout which is bold and different
+ Homepage panels offer a fun element looking for what they contain
- Top navigation isn't easy to use

Kings Church London

+ Proof that bold colours can work
+ Navigation feels familiar and easy to use
- Lacks a key welcome message

Mars Hill Church

+ Interesting navigation menu
+ Proof lots of content on a single page can work with the right design
+ Content pages are full of interest with graphical appeal

Silverdale

+ Use of stock photography to give a professional look
+ Easy to find what you are looking for
+ Content pages are well thought out without being copy heavy.

What do you think? Have you seen a great church website that I might have missed? Email me at adamdbird@gmail.com or leave a comment below.

Case Study (Part 1) - kings-medway.co.uk

2012-01-26T22:06:00.001Z

If there has been a common theme running so far through the early stages of this year, it has been work. Not the professional kind, which I’m still playing the waiting game on as to what my future holds exactly - but the stuff I do from home, the little something for a mate, or a friend of a friend. I’ve got a couple of little projects boiling away nicely, including my first Arabic language website which will prove to be an interesting technical challenge, a website for a local car accident repair centre as well as trying to keep up with the brilliant and inspiring courses from Code Academy.

Today then, I’m going to attempt something wholly new to this blog and add to my increasingly crazy workload, by starting a series of blog posts looking at the life cycle of a web development project. Starting at the beginning, in looking at an existing website, where it falls short, what it does well, all the way through to research, design and eventual redevelopment and deployment of a new site that hopefully practices everything that has been learnt during the whole process.

In doing this, I’ll hopefully be able to demonstrate in documented terms the challenges of a typical web development project, learn about what works and what doesn’t from the steps I’ve decided to take and most importantly, leave a trail of legacy documentation for the client whose website I’ll be reviewing, advising and working on.

Who is the client?

The website that I’ll be looking at is www.kings-medway.co.uk, which is a church in Chatham run by my Uncle Matthew. He is the Pastor of the church and has a team of people who look after, build and maintain the current site and related on/offline media.

The church itself is over 100 years old but has been known as Kings since 1977. In most recent times, under my Uncle Matthew’s stewardship the church has become a vital source of community resource, with Caring Hands - a drop in centre for the homeless opening and providing warmth, shelter and food for those who need it.

I’d like to thank Matthew for allowing me to do this. I know that his team have spent a lot of time getting the website ready and have spent many hours working on it. As I said to him, you’ve a member of the family that works as a web developer, so use him - family resource is free!

A look at the website:

Some of the problems:

- Generally, the overall design of the site is old fashioned and tired. It suffers from a lack of consistency with colour, type and template. The homepage has been split into two pages, one a dashboard type page covering everything that is happening and another a collection of links to further buried site content.

- The welcome page contains panels which animate, or cause flickering, whilst in itself is fine, too many repeating animations give the page an unattractive appearance. As a further note, a rough rule of thumb dictates that if the user cannot choose to pause or stop an animation it should self expire after three iterations.

- The colour scheme of the site is rather eclectic, which again is fine in moderation, but doesn’t work in its current guise.

- Collections of links are not grouped and consistent within their group. For example, social media icons should be familiar to the end user and grouped together so that all links are of the same format and ideally, of same size.

- Reviewing the code of the site, much of the content on the homepage has been sourced from third parties, whilst again, is okay in moderation, it is important that they are correctly used. For example, each rotating banner is calling an individual JavaScript file, which has been referenced within the page multiple times. This file should only be referenced once and called by however many objects appear on the page.

- Incorrect verb used on the Facebook link. By saying “follow us on Facebook”, it implies that you can subscribe to the Churches Facebook updates. But actually the user will have to add a friend request. The church, as a business should instead set up a page, whereby the end user can choose to “like” or “unlike” to receive notifications within their news feed.

- From a search engine point of view, there is nothing, apart from some short meta content within the head of the document that tells the robot what the site contains. All the content is image and javascript based, so there is little that can be used by Google (for example) to index the site.

- The Caring Hands part of the site deserves further prominence, but doesn’t stand out amidst the kaleidoscopic nature of the welcome page.

Next steps:

Alongside Matthew and his team, we need to look at the website in its entirety, work out what the website needs to do, what its function really is. Is it a brochure that tells the people of Medway about the great work that the church does for its wider community? Or is it a portal for its congregation to use as a resource and spiritual guide - is it a place for both?

Also, together, we need to work out what the limitations of the team are. Does the use of third party plugins and flash highlight a lack of html and css knowledge? Can this be found within the church - or can I offer my services in a way that makes it easier for the team to proceed once the new site is live?

Further feedback:

If anyone has anything further they'd like to add, I'd be really interested to hear of anyone else's opinions. Leave a comment below, or email me at: adamdbird@gmail.com.

Fat Birds Fighting for Fitness

2012-01-18T11:21:00.000Z

Towards the end of last year, my father proposed a family challenge - to lose weight. The person who loses the most weight, by April 1st out of my parents, my sister and her husband, myself and Stephanie would be treated to a weekend away at my fathers expense. We all signed up, agreed and now it is game on!

We could all be playing for a weekend in Allhallows, it doesn’t really matter, we all recognised that 2011 was a year of indulgence and our forever expanding waistlines needed to be sucked back in. Stephanie of course had the benefit of an excuse on her side, she was pregnant for most of the year and feeding for two - not that you would have known, she actually weighs much less now that she did before she fell pregnant so she must be doing something right.

It’s been interesting so far to see how all six of us have tackled this particular challenge, whether it is signing up to a diet scheme like Weight Watchers, skipping meals or cutting out various items of high-fat food and alcohol. For me personally, I never considered that I ate particularly badly in the first place, I just ate too much of it and at the wrong times.

Coming home from work, putting Oliver to bed and reading him a story, Stephanie and I tend not to eat until around 8pm, which I consider far too late for an evening meal. Our bodies don’t get time to metabolise before we go to sleep, so the more we eat then, the harder our bodies task is to do its job. My idea for this competition, rather than pay out for expensive diet campaigns and calculated calorie counts is to simply half my portions sizes of an evening, swapping out lunchtime sandwiches for lunchtime salads and cutting out the naughty indulgences, cakes, crisps and the odd biscuit or ten.

Just to make sure that I really am burning off fat, no weight loss campaign is complete without a little exercise. I’m not one of these people who enjoys exercise naturally, I find the gym a place for egomaniacs who love themselves more then they’d care to admit, but I do enjoy competitive sports like racquetball and football, even if I struggle to find someone equally as bad at both sports as I am to participate with.

Instead, I’m picking off where I left last year with good old fashioned running. When we were training for the Great River Race last year, my friend Stuart suggested to me that perhaps we could run down to the river from home, rather than drive. I surprised him with a yes and a new fad was born. Despite my initial lack of anything close to what was required, stamina, mental strength, decent footwear I slowly got better, a little faster, a little further, before Phoebe arrived as a convenient excuse and my running stopped before it really got started.

Nevertheless, with a new incentive, the running has got back on track and with eating better it won’t be long until I’m more a more comfortable, healthier size as part of a more comfortable, healthier family. And just maybe, in three months time, when the competition is over, it will be Stephanie and I on the beach at Allhallows supping from a can of diet coke and tucking into a batter-less fish on a wholemeal sandwhich thinking how worth it the whole thing has been.

Banner image from Dreamstime.com

New year, new plans

2012-01-11T23:25:00.001Z

Last year I decided to try and up the ante slightly, by posting a regular blog and writing at least once a week which I did, I even managed to complete the annual challenge successfully, which surpassed my own expectations. This year, we’ve only reached week two and I’m already struggling with finding something to write - the problem I have is, I can’t quite bring myself to break the habit just yet!

January is generally a tough month, financially and for some, emotionally taxing. With the dawn of a new year comes a series of resolutions to make the forthcoming twelve months worth something, to do something new, to challenge oneself and to make a difference to their lives. Reading Facebook status’s over the new year gave an interesting insight into how people perceived how they were treated; “2012, better be better than last year”, or “Bye Bye 2011, what a year that was!” For Stephanie and I, 2011 couldn’t have treated us any better.

I wrote at the beginning of last year that I wasn’t expecting too much from 2011, a year of getting used to being married and living in relative calm and harmony after the preceding chaos of 2010, stag weekends and wedding preparations. I’m obviously no Nostradamus as we ended the year with a beautiful baby girl and the final piece of our own private puzzle was complete!

With all honesty, I cannot tell you what this year is likely to bring, nor am I in a place at the moment to even guess. I find myself career wise at a bit of a cross-roads. Uncertainty in the workplace can sometimes be stressful and cause for worry, but I’m fairly philosophical and have the attitude of “whatever happens, happens”, but until I know with any assurance what my future, or indeed the agencies future is I’m unable to plan ahead and make decisions for the best interests of me or my family.

We’ve all got our worries and problems, it doesn’t matter what year, or month or even what day they fall on. I’m fortunate that I have great friends and family around me, they are my support network and I’m sure that rings true for anyone reading this. Jobs are lost, relationships break down and sadly people depart unexpectedly and leave us behind. I wouldn’t wish any of that upon anyone, but the truth remains, that those things are likely to happen to us one day, or have already and we are coming out the other side. For all the exotic holidays, new houses, new cars, babies and marriages or things to look forward to, there are those experiencing the not so enjoyable opposites.

So if anyone asking me, what’s the plan for 2012, it’s to remain healthy, to keep growing as a person and to appreciate the love and support of my friends and family - and most importantly, to appreciate and enjoy them every day, not just this year but the next.

Eyeballs, Needles and Two Brave Birds

2012-01-03T16:22:00.002Z

Last weekend Stephanie and I saw in the new year surrounded by the love and comfort of my parents, my sister, her husband and clan of children along with Phoebe and Oliver of course - but either side of that was two quite different and unexpected experiences with hospitals, needles and two females I love dearly.

Firstly, I was asked by my Grandmother if I could take her to the eye hospital on Friday, the day before New Years Eve, which was fine with me. A routine check-up she told me, no problem I thought. Except, my Nan is 92 years old bless her and from right out of the Devonian old school, loud with it too, which can be cause for moments of embarrassment from time to time. Like singing “hear comes the bride” in the middle a busy waiting room at one of the nurses as she walked by. The nurse took it in quite good fashion, apparently Nan has been doing it for the past eight months despite the nurse not getting married until September!

Anyhow, what ended up being a routine check-up turned into another treatment for glaucoma on my Nan’s right eye. Again, “No problem” I thought, or I did until learning that treatment involved an injection into the eyeball itself - happening whilst the patient is still awake! If that sounds rather grim to you, trust me, I can’t personally think of anything worse!

Not wanting to let a 92 year old women down, I went into the treatment room with her, helped her get onto the bed whilst the engaged-to-be-married nurse applied preparatory eyedrops to the necessary place. A doctor came into the room and began her work, whilst I held a shaking Nans left hand. When the doctor applied a clamp onto her eyeball, revealing all but the back of my Nans eye I asked her permission to turn away. It wasn’t very pleasant viewing at all and I’d perhaps forgotten just how large our eyes actually are. It was only out of morbid curiosity that I remained facing my nan and watching the procedure as it took place.

I have since decided that its quite important when given the opportunity to see something like this, that you should take it and learn something from it. I’m not going to say that it wasn’t that bad after all, as I’d be lying. But it may well happen to me one day and sitting there watching my Nan go through something like that I can take her courage and apply the memories of what I witnessed to aid my own reassurance.

Once I’d gotten over that experience and tried blocking it out over the new year with a large portion of turkey curry, a full glass of festivity and a small dose of revelry with my nearest and dearest, it became clear that Phoebe had spent the better part of new years day getting progressively more ill. She’d started developing a cold in the lead up to Christmas and over Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Boxing Day she’d had a blocked up nose and a steady cough, but on New Years Day her cries were notable of pain and discomfort rather than wanting cuddles and feeling sorry for herself.

Stephanie, for her own reassurance more than anything took Phoebe along to the Doctors, which was fortunately still open and from there she was told to take Phoebe along to the hospital so that she could get checked out by a pediatrician. The good news was, that although Phoebe had a rash that neither of us had noticed, she hadn’t caught meningitis but an overnight stay at the hospital was to be in her best interests.

Having Oliver in bed at home, I was caught in two minds. Both of us can’t be at the hospital and at home looking after Oliver at the same time, so I elected to stay at home and wait for Stephanie to call me. She was with her mum, so had plenty of adult company and of course the all important shoulder to cry on if the worry became too much for her. In the meantime I’m at home waiting, all the worst kind of thoughts and worries running through my mind and just as I find myself on the verge of mild hysteria, I was saved mercifully by Stephanie’s good friend Claire. She was originally supposed to pop in for an overnight bag for my wife, but suggested she swap places with me instead, which is how I came to find myself in another treatment room watching hopelessly as someone dearly beloved to me gets poked with a hypodermic needle.

I’ve never had a phobia of needles or a fear (in the eyeball excepted) when I’ve had to have an inoculation or blood test, but I can sympathise with anyone who says “I’ve a fear of needles”. It certainly wouldn’t surprise me in years to come if Phoebe turned around and said those very words to me, no doubt caused by the psychological damage from new year etched forever on her sleeping mind.

Finding a two month old babies vein is quite a difficult task by all accounts. It involves bending the wrist back quite acutely and tapping quite violently the front of the hand whilst cutting the blood supply off from the elbow. On the first attempt Phoebe certainly felt everything that was happening, especially the needle as it entered her hand and missed a vein entirely. Her ordeal was postponed for an hour or so as the Doctors had a greater need to attend to, which was fortunate as by the time they came back, Phoebe was able to sleep all the way through the second, successful attempt.

Seeing your children in hospital, wired up to monitors and being probed and pricked with hospital equipment is a nervous experience. We are fortunate that Phoebe had a fairly uncomplicated gastric virus and is now home and has since shown vast improvement. Plenty have and will go through much worse, but there isn’t much rational thought at times of worry.

Maybe it’s a way of life passing on a symbolic message, the end of a year and my grandmother, the beginning of a brand new one and my two month old daughter. Whatever the intention, I’ve certain learnt not to be squeamish, and that one day, I can only hope to be as brave as my Nan was. Something tells me that I won’t be, they’ll have to put me to sleep, so I don’ know anything about it - just like Phoebe.

2011, Year of the Blog

2011-12-28T19:11:00.001Z

At the beginning of 2011, I accepted the WordPress challenge, to blog more, to post one unique blog post for each of the 52 weeks of the year. This is blog number fifty-two, where I look back at some of the highlights and thank, you - the people who read them and come back time and time again.

I haven't got a favourite post, so I thought I'd have a look at the analytics and find out which was most popular with the people that read them, so here they are:

1) Regeneration, not a Grave End
Gravesend is currently in the beginnings of a major transformation. Both the 'civic quarter' and 'transport quarter' are being redeveloped as part of a multi-million pound regeneration scheme, which will eventually see a new one-way traffic system, a new bus terminus, a vastly improved train station and much improved pedestrian areas and access routes. However, if Gravesham Council had their way, the redevelopment wouldn't stop there.

2) I've a Stalker in Jesus
A coincidence for me is finding out that your birthday falls on the same day as the new girl you are dating, or buying a new shirt from Primani and wearing it to a party thinking “nobody will know it only cost me £4.99”, but when you turn up, someone else is wearing the same thing and you are subconsciously forced into avoiding them, whilst offering glances with knowing eyes for the rest of the evening. What then do you make of a series of occurring coincidences, all on the same subject, in a short period of time?

3) Follow that Fire Engine
Somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean sails a freight ship carrying its usual load of shipping containers heading for Europe, or Valencia in Spain to be exact. Within one is an extra special shipment, a Fire Engine affectionately known as ‘Martha’, who is on her way back to London after an epic nine month global journey which has seen her circumnavigate the globe in the name of charity.

4) Pink, Precious and a Whole Bunch of Pride
The human body is an amazing machine, the mechanics of thought, the intricacies and subtle nuances of the mind which stand us out as individuals as well as our own bodies carved out to provide us with our own identities aren’t things we consider on a routine basis. But last week, I witnessed my wife bring my daughter into the world and once again, reaffirmed for me just how blessed and precious life really is.

5) A Great River Race
Yesterday afternoon, west of here as I write this, six hardy souls boarded a Clayton Skiff, or a boat between you and I - and rowed it twenty-one miles from Poplar Rowing Club to Richmond in West London as part of this years Great River Race, passing under twenty eight bridges and passing sites; the Tower of London, Houses of Parliament and the London Eye to name a few, that tourists only ever really see from the safety of dry land. They did it despite rain not since biblical times, which threatened to sap the energy from them and ruin what is meant to be a fun afternoon on the river. I was one of those fortunate six - and here is my account of the race yesterday afternoon.

6) £200. What would you do?
The fine people at Archibald Ingall Stretton, the advertising agency in which I work are just as keen on personal staff development as they are on ensuring our professional know-how is up to scratch. Which is why, as part of our personal development, they wave a carrot of two-hundred British pounds as an incentive, to go out into the big bad world and learn something new.

7) An Angry Bird turned Happy Bird
In today’s modern society it seems that in general terms it has become very easy to moan about anyone and everyone, via either a Facebook status update or a tweet, but voicing gratitude sometimes gets forgotten or isn’t as widely recognised. In this, my latest #postaweek2011, I’d like to thank Apple for their excellent customer service and highlight the problem in which they resolved for me, just in case anyone reading this also has the same problem happen to them.

8) Baby Bird's Blossoming
Time off work is always nice to have, but last week I had the extreme pleasure of three days spent entirely with Oliver, the little man. This was the same week in that Stephanie and I found out which primary school he’d would be starting in September. The combination of these events and the things that I surprisingly learnt about Oliver led me to ask the question - where on earth has our little baby gone and just where has this little boy come from?

9) A Car-talouge of Catastrophe
There is a reason I don’t own a Ferrari, other than the fact that I don’t have enough money to afford one, something would happen to it. Something ludicrous, a quirk of fate or once in a lifetime sequence of events would befall it and it would break, someone would break it, or failing that, a meteorite would fall out of the sky and land directly on top of it.

10) A Poem for Valentines Day
A blog can be a story, an article, a quote, or a picture, it can be a link or a collection of links. It can be an opinion or an assessment, a review or an analysis. It could if you wanted it to be, a song or a poem, which seeing as it's Valentine's Day, I thought I'd do something brave and share with you a piece of poetry. Even better than, I'm sharing with you a piece of poetry that I wrote myself!

Although I haven't yet decided whether or not I'll be religiously pursuing the weekly post challenge in 2012, I've certainly got into the habit and can assure you that there will be more blog posts to look forward to!

Thank you all for reading and on behalf of Stephanie, Oliver, Phoebe and I. Have a wonderful 2012!

Mascot Marvel

2011-12-19T12:44:00.002Z

Standing in the tunnel, looking out at the stadium. It’s packed, a pre-christmas ticket bonanza that has put an extra three thousand bums on seats. The smell of grass, of fried food and the intoxicatingly pleasant sharpness of deep-heat which tickles the nostrils as the ears cope with the roar of the crowd and the stomach deals with the nerves. You’re dressed in the blue of your team, standing there at not yet five years old holding the hand of a total stranger. A man who leads out ten others to do battle against the other group of men dressed in green and black standing side by side in the long, deep space where shouts of encouragement bounce around the walls. The referee signals that it is time and off you go, into the noise which has reached a crescendo, eight thousand people on their feet to welcome their heroes, you leading the way, across the pitch and lining up in front of the main stand, with your Daddy standing by watching, tears in his eyes, feelings of pride swelling up and watching as you cope with the occasion admirably and take it all in your stride - and most importantly, with a smile.

Ever since Oliver was born, people would ask me, “when will you start taking him football?” I always replied that once he was five, his very first match would be as a mascot and then he would go as and when he wanted to from there on. Except it didn’t really work out that way. Oliver has been to the Gills on a few occasions now, making his debut when he was just two years old and enjoying his first away game earlier in the season at Crewe Alexandra, but the mascot dream still lived on.

I rang the football club the day that the fixture list was published and enquired as to reserving a mascot spot for the game closest to Oliver’s fifth birthday, the game against Bristol Rovers on Saturday 17th December. “No problem” they said, and they went on to tell me everything that the day involved before finally getting to the price. For £250, Oliver could be a mascot, with four tickets in the main stand, a packet of souvenir photographs and a full replica kit - which when you add it all up isn’t as expensive as it first seems. The only problem was, it wasn’t really something that Oliver wanted to do, it was something that I wanted to do for myself and experience the occasion through the eyes of my son. Ultimately cost was the biggest factor and it wasn’t something that we could afford to do as a luxury present, so both Stephanie and I decided it would have to be filed away again as another unfulfilled dream.

But sometimes, in life, things happen by chance, by a stroke of luck or more often than not, by the kindness, generosity and quick thinking of others.

By displaying my level of displeasure through the medium of Facebook and various status updates, word of mouth reached friends of mine and eventually through to a man named Mike Reason. Now Mike is the father of one of my longest friends Andrew, fondly known as Reaso, who other than myself is the biggest Gillingham fan I know. The three of us over the years have spent many a mile sitting in a car travelling the length and breadth of the country in sometimes excruciatingly painful circumstances to watch the Gills - displaying a true dedication to the cause, which for Reaso and I has started to manifest itself in the upbringing of our own two boys. Quite often we talk about the future and how we’ll all, three generations of Bird/Reason be sitting in a stand someplace, in the cold, wind and rain watching a level of ineptitude that begs the question from George and Oliver “Daddy, why couldn’t you have been United fans?”, or something heartbreakingly similar.

Anyhow, Mike is one of a group of Gillingham fans, known as the Dockyard Blues, who rent one of the hospitality boxes in the Medway stand. Sometime during the summer he received a telephone call from someone on the clubs marketing team asking him if he would be willing to sponsor one of the players for the forthcoming season. “No problem” he said “only if you throw in the mascot package for the Bristol Rovers game”. Which is how Oliver found himself lining up on the pitch at five to three on Saturday afternoon holding Gillingham captain Andy Frampton’s hand, whilst I stood at the side of the pitch feeling as sense of pride and levels of gratitude to Mike and the Reason family that I won’t ever be able to repay.

I never was a football mascot myself, probably again due to finance or that I never really showed an interest. Not until 1990 when the tears of Gascoigne captured mine and a million other hearts and the lure of football immediately became more appealing. By that time I was probably too old, you don’t really see many mascots over the age of ten, or you might do, but not in my mind - five was always the magic number.

Much of the pre-match ‘banter’ was about having a great time, remembering it, are you getting excited yet and oh, make sure Oliver does too! Talking to him before the game, I’m not too sure that he really knew what to expect and all the way through the day, he just took each part as it came. Oliver wasn’t alone in enjoying the experience, which quite possibly helped in the fulfilment of his day as he was able to join in and follow the older kids - there were in fact six of them altogether, it wasn’t just Oliver getting an early Christmas present.

First off, upon arrival, getting into the kit and taking delivery of the all important autograph book and Gills pen, which came in handy just five minutes later as we walked through the stand and into the changing room where all the players were sat waiting. Even at thirty-one years old I get a little bit star-struck and suffer from not knowing quite what to say, but Oliver, with his pen and little book didn’t have so much of a problem. Walking around, shadowed by his older, football mad cousin Joshua, handing his autograph book over and politely saying thank you to a group of, to him at least, complete strangers. Last on the bench and closest to me was Luke Rooney, who I didn’t expect to see as he’d been having contract issues with the club. But as he was signing his name I made some lame gag about photocopying it and sticking on the end of a contract, which was received with a polite laugh and me vowing to remain silent!

From there, we went on a tour around the stadium, seeing some places which I hadn’t yet been to, like matchday control and the upper echelons of the Rainham End wing above the Great Hall where the boardrooms sit. Oliver missed a lot of this part of the tour wanting instead to have a pee, which nearly ruined his big moment just minutes later. We’d arrived at the most exciting part (in my eyes), going onto the pitch for the first time and kicking the ball around. But Oliver had only touched the ball twice before coming bouncing off the pitch and asking to go once again to the toilet!

During the warm up, all the mascots had photographs taken with a player of their choice, or in Oliver’s case a player of my choosing. I went for Danny Kedwell whose admission upon signing for the club in July was that he was a Gillingham fan and used to stand on the old Rainham End watching the team when he was a boy growing up. He also said that signing for the club was a dream come true, which for me epitomised what we all, as Gills fans want to see in any footballer lucky enough to wear the shirt.

After the long build-up and years of waiting, the day, as is usual in these circumstances went by in a blur. But standing on the touchline and hearing the tannoy announcer screaming “lets hear it for the Gills” and seeing Oliver lead the team will always stay with me. I expected tears and although I was slightly choked up, I was concentrating more on willing Oliver not to fall over or do something erratic like run off into the centre circle, but no. He was as good as gold and the best thing for me, was that he was genuinely looked as if he was having a great time and enjoying himself, which with subsequent question and answers has only proved to be the case. When I asked him what his favourite part of the day was, he said "when the horse gave me a lollypop" (Tommy Trueblue, the Gills official mascot was giving out sweets) and more recently he said "going onto the pitch and playing football".

Falling in love with the beautiful game happens, like meeting our wives and girlfriends - differently to us all. I fell in love with football through the tears and heartbreak of another man. I wanted Oliver to be a mascot at the Gills so that he too could fall in love with something that has given me a lifetime of pleasure and romance. It might not have happened right there and then on Saturday, only given the fullness of time will we be able to tell. But he has been giving a memory to cherish, which I wasn't quite able to give him myself. Like fate, playing it's hand, Mike helped give Oliver that gift, one that I will be eternally grateful for. One that hopefully Oliver will be able to attribute as his own "Gascoigne moment" years from now.

View some photographs of Oliver and his day on Facebook

For the Record

Oliver's match as Gillingham Mascot

Gillingham lineup: Ross Flitney, Andy Frampton (Matt Lawrence 41), Garry Richards, Joe Martin, Danny Jackman, Charlie Lee (Matt Fish 78), Jack Payne, Curtis Weston (Chris Whelpdale 81), Lewis Montrose, Danny Kedwell, Frank Nouble Subs not used: Paolo Gazzaniga, Stefan Payne

Bristol Rover lineup: Scott Bevan, Gary Sawyer, Dan Woodards, Lee Brown, Byron Anthony (Cian Bolger 35), Craig Stanley, Andy Dorman, Mustapha Carayol, Joe Anyinsah (Oliver Norburn 81), Elliot Richard, Chris Zebroski (Matt Harrold 78), Subs not used: Micheal Smith, Jordan Goddard

Result: 4-1

Attendance: 7,750 (246 Bristol Rovers Supporters)

Choosing our Future

2011-12-11T15:17:00.001Z

Heading towards the end of the year, one cannot help but look back at the last twelve months and onwards to the dawn of the new year. Depending upon each and every one of us, we’ll all have different plans, different aspirations and feelings of excitement, apprehension or even damn right fear. For me, the beginning of 2012 is somewhat an unknown quantity, the start of a new journey for sure, but the question is - where will that journey take me?

Life has a habit of throwing a curve-ball every once in a while. Work this year has been good, I’ve settled in nicely into an agency that contains many of the nicest people I’ve had the fortune to meet. But sadly, we received the news that our biggest client is taking their business elsewhere and what was looking forward to another successful year changed into something that is filled with, at least for now, uncertainty and lies very much in the realms of the unknown.

Sometimes, things happen for the better, bad things happen, but good things come from them. We hear horror stories of people being made redundant and being on the streets weeks later as the search for new jobs become too much. But I’ve always been on the glass is half full side and in the event of the worse case scenario, I’ll move heaven and earth to get myself back in a position that I need to be for my family.

Whether my future lies at the agency I’m in, or at an agency elsewhere, I could be in the fortunate position of having a choice. If I decide to look for a new role elsewhere I could find something totally different, outside of the agency environment, in the city for financial services or any business looking for a front-end website developer. Wherever I end up, I know that I’ll most likely be happy because I am doing a job that I love and enjoy. Having nice people around you, like I have now, is an added bonus, but the work I do is a pleasure and not many people get that privilege.

A friend of mine, has a great job, from the outside looking in. Works at a bank in the city. Lives at home with his parents, must have a nice nest egg somewhere and yet he too is looking at 2012 as a year of change. Whereas I, my change comes from having to, his change comes from wanting to. The truth is, he doesn’t like the constraint of a 9-5. Getting up in the morning, getting a train to London, sitting at a desk for eight hours, seeing the same people, solving the same problems, dealing with the same issues. He feels that it isn’t what he was put on this planet to do. Trouble is, he doesn’t quite know what his purpose is and wants to go off and find it.

I’ve always thought that I use my mind too much, thinking too deeply about everyday things, but my friend, he does that too. The difference is, I’m happy to do all of the monotonous things in life as I have a reason for doing them. I have a wife and two children that need a roof over their heads and food to keep them well and healthy. My friend, is a single man, has no ties and can hear the lure of the world calling him. He is fortunate in that he has been out, seen some of the world, visited places that only a very few dream of seeing. He wants to go again, put a back-pack on his shoulders and unleash the free spirit that has been restricted inside an office block for too long.

Except that he can’t, society won’t let him. Friends and family say “you need to be settling down now” and as a father I can see why family would say that and I can see their point. But as a friend? I wouldn’t be offering friendly advice if I sat him down and told him that he needed to settle down, find a girl, get married and have children just because that’s what I, or my peers are doing. I’m doing what I’m doing because that is where the path of my life has taken me. The cards are being dealt at the moment in my life which may dictate whether I have a job or not for the new year and I respond in whichever way I have to. He has the cards in his own hands and can deal whatever hand he likes.

As a friend, my advice would be to follow your heart and go with whatever it is that it tells you. My friend isn’t stupid, he can take advice when it’s well reasoned and well argued, but I wouldn’t be a good friend if I turned around an started telling him what he “should” be doing, because as far as I can see, the only thing that he “should” be doing, is what he damn well pleases. Why sit, day in, day out doing a job that is “successfull”, because a measure of success is the salary that you get each month, or because you work in a place that everyone has heard of? Success is going to sleep each night content with what you have done that day and looking forward to waking up the next day to do it all over again.

Whatever happens, happens. And as much as we think otherwise, we do have certain control. Outside influences; colleagues, managers or friends who’s advice is well intentioned but made in judgement rather than counsel - we do have choices and we live by those decisions. I could find another job and hate my new environment or stay way I am and be part of a rebuilt agency that goes from success to success. I live and die by those decisions, but that’s the key point. When all is said and done, and we reach the end, not just of a year, but of a life - could we live with choices we made?

Pride in My Town

2011-12-04T13:06:00.001Z

Behind every Facebook status update lies a bigger story. A thought we’ve shared that only has meaning to a select few, or from time to time, our view on a story much bigger than ourselves. These last few days, it has been like that. The sadness behind the status I posted on Friday and then last night, something new, something profound, something that helped one come to terms with an act of despicable evil that arrived and landed, allegedly upon our doorsteps.

Thursday night, I came home from work, I was running late, so went straight upstairs to say goodnight to Oliver before he fell asleep. I came downstairs afterwards to say hello to Stephanie, my wife and I immediately saw that something was wrong? “Are you okay?” I asked, but she wasn’t and burst into tears. A couple who we’d met at a party two weekends ago had given birth to a beautiful baby boy, shared his name with our own son, but sadly complications during the pregnancy meant that the baby passed away two days later.

Our thoughts had been with them, they still are. But Saturday night came around and during the advert breaks, our phones came out and Facebook switched on. A friend of mine posted something quite nasty, something vitriolic, wishing death upon persons unknown at an address in the town that I live. I thought it sounded quite harsh and out of character of the person who posted it. But they weren’t alone, other status’s were of similar tone. Anger, disgust, shock and tension. Research found the root of all of this. It was in the news, on the Sun website, on the Daily Mail website as well as the BBC - news that made the harsh status sound quite calm and composed.

It has been reported that a month old baby from Gravesend was now in intensive care. The baby had a cardiac arrest en-route to hospital as a result of their injuries sustained during an alleged act of abuse against them by their parents. Both the articles that appear on the tabloid websites make some quite serious accusations against the accused without really backing up their stories with proof and reasoned argument.

Either way, if what has been written is true, the gravest crimes have been committed against the most precious of all victims. Crimes that go against everything we are naturally programmed to do. We are born to nurture, to care and to console. Which is why, when people hear of such things, they automatically tune into a powerful response that tries to make sense of something that is so very senseless.

Two Facebook status’s, two very different stories, both heartbreaking, both make you look at yourself introspectively, your children and your families and be grateful for what you have and if possible, appreciate them that little bit more.

Last night though, wasn’t just about my status, it was everyone from Gravesend, all showing a real sense of community spirit. Yes, there is anger and yes there are people who are willing to carry out ‘revenge’, but in the main, people displayed humility, caring and deep levels of upset for what has been allegedly committed in our town.

Via the medium of Facebook, certain details have come to light, the house in which the alleged perpetrators live, which last night became the scene of an emotional vigil. Locals standing outside with candles and leaving teddy bears in prayer that the child, whose name has also been ‘released’ pulls through and makes a recovery from their heinous injuries.

Whilst Facebook and the social media scene is great for expressing feelings of shock and anger, there are obvious pitfalls. At certain times, like during the August riots, when Facebook was awash with rumours and speculation that did nothing but create a climate of fear and worry, last night certain reports of the baby's death were untrue and unhelpful. When emotions are running high and people are discussing lynch mobs and revenge attacks it becomes a time for calmness and clarity of thought. This morning, Kent police have issued a warning which says exactly that.

Acts of evil aren’t something confined to the television, or the movies. They are, unfortunately around us and from time to time shock us with their severity. On ever rarer occasions, they happen around us, in our towns and shock our communities. Acts of evil are not a true measure of society, its how society deals with it that counts. Candles, teddy bears and quiet tears of prayer standing hand in hand with our neighbour are cause of pride. Anger, revenge and promise of retribution, however well intended are not.

Having family and a wife who work in foster-care comes with the understanding and knowledge that there are young people in this country who are being brought up in very different and sometimes dangerous circumstances. It’s not right and never will be - as long as there are people, like those that stand outside with candles and hearts that are worthy and compassionate those children are in with a chance. With prayers and a loving home, hopefully the baby at the centre of all this will be to.

Ghosts of Christmas Past

2011-11-28T14:35:00.001Z

With the pregnancy and a million other things happening, Stephanie and I haven’t really paid much thought to Christmas and now that life has calmed down somewhat it is about time that we did!

Growing up, Stephanie and I had very different Christmas’s, which means as a couple, we have quite contrasting views as to what Christmas means to either of us. Stephanie would spend her day surrounded by extended family around a huge table tucking into turkey and trimmings whilst for me, it was always a smaller affair, just the four of us, toys, tears and tantrums, which to me is what Christmas is all about.

Now that Phoebe has arrived safely and our family unit is complete, I wanted our first Christmas together to be a quiet one, with just the four of us. I’ve no romantic ideals about sitting around a roaring fire, toasting chestnuts and listening to Good King Wenceslas playing quietly in the background. Phoebe is far too young to appreciate the experience anyway, but to me, having a quiet day, letting Oliver open his presents (if he is a good boy and Father Christmas brings him any) and sitting down to dinner with just the four of us for the very first time is my idea of Christmas heaven.

Stephanie meanwhile has a very different ideal, wanting us to be around either her parents, or mine, where the rest of either family is likely to be. The scenes at both houses are rather more different, with people buried under maelstroms of wrapping paper and everyone sitting down to dinner on planks of wood balanced between two chairs, fourteen people sitting around a table which is normally built for four. I call it carnage and chaos, Stephanie prefers to call it fun and atmospheric - either way, everyone has a great time.

Whichever way we decide to go this year, whether its a compromise half and half, or spent in peace or madness it’ll be a Christmas that Oliver is likely to remember and as it’s Phoebe’s first, she shall most certainly not. Stephanie and I talk about what our Christmas’s were like growing up and what it was that we did. They were obviously moments that meant a lot to both of us and for us to want to replicate them is always going to ask of the other person to be disappointed.

What we have now though, is an opportunity to make two very special children happy and make their Christmas times as special as ours were. This year has been particularly difficult, so we might not have hundreds of pounds to spend on toys and the long list of items Oliver has begged Father Christmas for during the advert breaks whilst watching Ben 10. But what we do have is family and friends around us, Oliver has his cousins and grand-parents doting on him. Christmas time is about family, the importance of just the four of us as well as the extended ones. Trying to balance them all out so everyone gets an equal share is a balancing act, but whatever Stephanie and I define as a “traditional” Christmas has long since past.

Just like Charles Dickens and his Christmas Carol, Stephanie and I between us have seen the Ghosts of Christmas past. With a bit of magic sprinkle dust we can learn from that, take all the best ingredients and make sure that the Christmas’s of present are as good for our children, if not better - so that Oliver and Phoebe aren’t haunted by our failures in the future.

Things that go bump in the night

2011-11-20T20:01:00.001Z

Time seems to have very elastic properties right now. The past two weeks have flown by in a blur of babies and excitement and yet, life as we knew it seems so distant and long ago. November has been a monumental month in the grand scheme of things, not only did I witness the safe arrival of my daughter Phoebe, I was published for the very first time.

'Things that go bump in the night' is an anthology of Ghost Stories written by students and collated by tutors of The Write Place, a creative writing school in Dartford that I have been attending this year as a part of a work sponsored initiative. The “Me, Me, Me” fund allows each staff member £200 to learn something new and being published as part of the anthology is the unexpected but delightful climax of a year where I have learnt a huge amount.

The book itself is available from Amazon at a bargain price of £3.16 in e-book format, which makes it compatible with their Kindle e-book reader, or any associated Kindle software which can be downloaded for your smart-phone, tablet or if you prefer your plain old computer (Not sure which is which? The best way to check is to visit the Amazon Kindle page).

As expected with any anthology there is plenty of choice for the reader, so whichever way you like your horror, ‘Things that go bump in the night’ will sure to have something for everyone; gothic horror, poignant tales of the unexpected, contemporary fiction and even a small dose of comedy!

As well as myself, there are twenty other contributors, which I’ve listed below along with the name of their story:

Zoë's Car by Christine Webb
Nana's Helper by Gerry Savill
Better Late than Never by Catherine Burrows
The Cherry Orchard by Angela Johnson
Buddha by Natalie Kleinman
Good Ghost, Bad Spirit by Stephen Reed
Highly Strung by Rosemary Goodacre
One Man and his Cat by Michael Deal
The Old Medicine Chest by Pat Clarke
Daffodil Hill by Samantha Whayman
Flight 45 by Andy Prue
Christmas Cottage by Elaine Everest
Stained Glass by Linda Tovey
Gone by Barbara Clements
The Puppet Master by Giovanna Burgess
Boo! by Adam Bird
The Voice from the Old Pumping Station by Judith Webb
Small Blessings by Mark Bigg
Innocent until Proven Guilty by Valerie Miller
Danny's Special Project by Tracy Phillips
The train to Necropolis by Francesca Burgess

Being in such distinguished company was something that I never expected at the beginning of the year, joining up to a class where I knew nothing about what to expect. But for me, seeing my name down in print hasn’t been the highlight, its the process that taught me so much along the way that has been a real blessing.

My story in the Anthology is called “Boo”, I’ll let you download a copy and read it, so won’t post any spoilers here, but the version that you’ll (hopefully) read is very different to the story that I wrote to begin with.

Firstly, I should confess, I’m not a fan of the genre, blame it if you like on the scourge of Hollywood films that consist of unbelievable creatures/maniacs chasing unbelievable characters (mostly female and/or teenagers) resulting in a ninety minute muddle of where the only thing horrific is the acting. For that very reason I decided that this project was going to be way out of my comfort zone, but to try and do something that will do myself and the genre justice.

I thought that by writing a children’s story I would have greater freedom in putting something unbelievable in a more believable setting - using a child imagination for the ‘ghost’ and wrapping a story around the child’s experience, but although well written, it didn’t really work first time around.

If at first I was disheartened, I can look back now and be glad of it. Nothing is ever done first time around, whilst writing, particularly for a short story, you need to follow a few golden rules which looking back, were absent from my first draft. I’m grateful for the advice and encouragement from the tutors and the classrooms elder statesmen who also passed judgement on my first and second drafts - passing all their experience and know-how so that I could deliver something that would fit in with the anthology and have something that I can stand up and be proud of.

Writing a blog on a tiny space of cyber real estate for a handful of people, least of all myself has been fun and I will continue regardless. But writing for the greater public, who invest a small fee to read something that I’ve written has been an amazing challenge and has inspired further ambition in me, least of all the completion of my novel which I’ve talked about but need to go that extra mile and finish. It’s a daunting prospect, it took three revisions for a short story to get it up to scratch, goodness knows how many iterations will be required for a full blown novel!

But nonetheless, that’s a challenge I a shall relish for another day! For now though, I’m still celebrating being part of a collaborative effort and enjoying the success of being part of a talented team of writers. All of whom should be thoroughly applauded and kept an eye on in the future - as make no doubt, they will all, I’m sure, go onto have much more success with other ventures anytime soon.

Download the book now »

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Pink, Precious and a Whole Bunch of Pride

2011-11-14T14:47:00.001Z

The human body is an amazing machine, the mechanics of thought, the intricacies and subtle nuances of the mind which stand us out as individuals as well as our own bodies carved out to provide us with our own identities aren’t things we consider on a routine basis. But last week, I witnessed my wife bring my daughter into the world and once again, reaffirmed for me just how blessed and precious life really is.

Phoebe Anne Bird was born on Wednesday 9th of November 2011 after a short, sharp labour that was in stark contrast to her older brother who took twenty-nine hours to reach us back in 2006. I only had Oliver’s birth as a guide to the whole process and as detailed here, it wasn’t an experience that I particularly enjoyed, purely for the duration and the feeling as a husband of being very much a spare part.

An awful lot has changed in the five years that Oliver was born and I am sorry to say, not for the better. With local hospitals closing and birthing policies amended our second experience was a rather different affair.

I was woken, once again by Stephanie in the early hours of the morning. At one o’clock she informed me that her waters had broken, that she had called the hospital and that her mum was on her way around. I was to get ready, which I did, rather less enthusiastically than last time around as I believed I had the next two days to prepare myself. I also packed a small bag of provisions as light entertainment to keep me occupied; an iPad, a few books, War and Peace and the entire back catalogue of 24 just in case.

Stephanie experienced her first set of contractions en-route to Darent Valley, which would normally have meant the hospital saying it was too early for us and to stay at home. But Stephanie had been carrying a lot of water during the pregnancy, the hospital were concerned and fortunately for us, that was the reason we were making our way rather than waiting patiently at home in our lounge.

On arrival at the hospital and after a brief examination, it was found that Stephanie was 2cm dilated, another measurement that would normally have meant being sent home, but as it was, the water issue saved us again and we were found a bed after an hours wait on the ward. All the time that this was happening, Stephanie was having contractions closer and closer together and at each one a further wave of pain was causing her further discomfort. This was the first warning sign registering in my mind that we were dealing with something very different to what we had experienced with Oliver.

Once we were on the ward, a room of four beds that contained two sleeping mothers I was acutely aware that this was now happening. I hadn’t needed bother with my array of boredom busting devices, my hand was needed again; either to rub gently Stephanie’s back, mop her brow or allow it to be squeezed ever so violently as a mechanism for coping with the pain. The midwife, not quite so up to speed as I was offered Stephanie two pain killers in an effort to stem the tide of pain, which was akin to using a plaster for an amputated leg.

After another half hour wait the midwife popped by again for another inspection and had a sudden “oh no” realisation that I had an hour previously. She disappeared rapidly and popped back two minutes later wheeling out the gas and air which Stephanie guzzled quite thirstily to get through another hours worth of contractions. The poor sleeping ladies on the ward probably were not sleeping very soundly at this point as Stephanie bravely coped with everything that was happening as quietly as possible, which wasn’t really very quiet at all. I just hope that the two ladies had already given birth and were not in on an overnight stay due to some complication as the fear of given birth would only have been heightened listening to Stephanie’s gasps and cries.

After a healthy dose of gas and air, the midwife and nurse were starting to monitor the baby and were, for a few moments worried about the heart rate, which had dipped to less that half of what it should be. Stephanie, totally drunken from the pain relief was still of a sound state of mind telling the staff at the bedside that they needed to make sure that they were clear when they were talking to me as I was hard of hearing and that they needed to shout, not that she needed to, it was clear to me exactly what was going on. Stephanie was in labour and we were still on the ward.

I asked the midwife what would happen, would we be giving birth where we were right then. She said no, but I wasn’t as convinced as she made out to be. After a while on the gas and air, the contractions were coming quicker and sharper, Stephanie was starting to push. The midwife wasn’t happy “don’t push Stephanie, I will be really cross if you push, we are not ready yet” but there is no way of stopping once nature and the human body have started the wheels in motion. The baby was coming and it was coming now.

As soon as it became clear to the midwife that things were now in action stations we were on the move. We never made it to a delivery suite, but instead, we were wheeled down the corridor to the recovery room where women are brought after having a cesarean. Hardly the most suitably place for a child to be born, but a hundred times better than on a ward with an audience.

At this stage of the proceedings, time is no longer recorded. We could have been there for five minutes, we could have been there a week, but whatever happened in that space of time, I have nothing but admiration for Stephanie and what she went through. Clearly scared and clearly in a lot of pain she told me that she loved me and that she loved Oliver. She was in a state of such severe emotional detachment that she honestly believed that she was about to die.

Now I know that there may be people reading this who are pregnant or have given birth in a manner that was a whole lot different to the experience we had. But in writing a personal blog, I have to be as true to the experience as I can possibly be. What Stephanie and I went through is by no means the norm, it’s simply an event that happened to us.

If previously, or up until that moment I felt like something of a spare part I finally felt a sense of worth. My role was more than just a hand in which Stephanie could squeeze. I was there to look into her eyes, which were on stalks outside of her head as she pushed, or reassure her that everything is fine when the little army of people standing at the foot of the bed are wearing faces of concern and rushing around at the behest of the little general that barks instructions to the people around her. I could see the baby as she made her way out, unaware of sex or what was happening on any technical level - but it didn’t matter at that point, Stephanie still needed to make one final monumental effort.

Which she did and out came the baby at exactly 6:45am, which was flopped onto Stephanie's stomach as one of the nurses cut the cord. The baby was purple and to my mind, not moving. Then it was gone. I hadn’t seen what we had and as Stephanie had already found out during an earlier scan she told me that we’d had a little girl - but I thought that we’d lost her.

When Oliver was born, he too was taken away, but we didn’t even have the opportunity to see him before he was taken to resuscitation, which was directly behind me in the same room. I had no fear then, I could see what was happening, but this time around I really did fear the worse. There was a brief moment of unknowing. The nurse in the room with us was reassuring, but in my mind, she’d just spent the previous goodness knows how long telling Stephanie that everything was great and wonderful so I took it as nurse speak for the worse kind of news.

A short while later, someone came back into the room, asked me if I’d like to see her. “Is she okay, is everything all right?” I asked, and yes, she was. She was fine, needed a little puff of oxygen. She’d been through a lot. So I asked Stephanie, can I go, and I did, walked off out of the room into the room opposite with a whole bundle of emotion that I had no names for. Which was really strange as when I saw my little girl lying in a little crib I was hit by a load more and I still don’t have names for those either.

She was wide awake, wrapped up snug in a hospital issue blanket and her eyes were open as wide as they could go. Looking up at me as I said “hello, I’m your Daddy”, barely audible through the tears and sobs of relief as I realised how scared I’d previously been.

When Oliver was born, I shared that first cuddle with him and held him, staring at the wonder of it all as Stephanie was being repaired and I did the same for Phoebe too. There was a definite difference between the two, the macho bravado and the “that’s my boy” attitude with Oliver compared to the pride and preciousness of holding your little girl for the first time and promising her that you will do your utmost to look after her. But the one thing that has stayed the same, that’s my full and unwavering respect and admiration for my wife. What she went through, the fear, the pain to provide me with the two greatest gifts a man can have. I have no answer for that, other than the ones that I made on the 11th of September last year.

Together, we have everything that we have ever wished for and we are incredibly blessed, fortunate and lucky people, we appreciate and are massively thankful for that. If I stopped and thought about it, asked myself why, I’d go a little mad, so I won’t and will instead continue to be eternally grateful.

And finally, on behalf of both of us, we would like to thank everyone for all the well wishes, beautiful pink things, flowers and cards. We have such amazing friends and family and we thank you each and everyone of you.

Sir Alex Ferguson

2011-11-07T11:00:00.000Z

Yesterday marked the twenty-fifth anniversary of Sir Alex Ferguson’s tenure as manager of Manchester United, a record which is staggering considering the trigger-happy culture which runs through modern day football like a shameful cancer - but then nothing about Sir Alex Ferguson’s reign can be called ordinary.

I was just six years old when Sir Alex Ferguson walked through the doors of Old Trafford for the first time and took over a struggling Manchester United side that had the likes of Norman Whiteside, Paul McGrath and the England captain Bryan Robson. I hadn’t heard of those names at that age, I don’t even think I took an interest in the game at all. But as my interest grew, the one remaining constant is that man, 'Old Red Nose' from Govan in Glasgow, a ship-builders son who has gone on to be knighted, rewrite the history books and become, in my opinion the greatest football manager of all time.

Twenty-five years in the same job, for the same company is a good innings for any man whatever profession, but in footballing terms it is something of an anomaly. I can think of Dario Gradi of Crewe and Guy Roux of Auxerre who was in charge for 44 years, but without resorting to the Internet not many other names roll off the tongue. But its not only longevity that Sir Alex will be remembered for.

Manchester United had up until that point a fine and varied history, defined in the main by their exploits in the sixties, the Matt Busby era and winning the European Cup inspired by one of the finest footballers who ever lived, George Best. All this came after the Munich air crash disaster had wiped out the beating heart of the club and the “Busby Babes” were borne from the ashes. But until Sir Alex Ferguson’s appointment the long search for a league title had been fruitless and numerous managers had come and gone, haunted by the past and each ending in glorious failure.

Often you will read that Mark Robins was the man who saved Sir Alex Ferguson’s job, during an FA Cup tie against Nottingham Forest, Robins scored a late winner, sealing Manchester United’s progress in the competition which they went on to eventually win in a replay, 1-0 against Crystal Palace. But whether that is fact, or another legend that has grown from rumour is neither here nor there, the simple fact is, that triumph was the beginning of a long dynasty of trophy laden years that continues up until this very day.

In those intervening years, we have had the introduction of the Premier League, the money and glamour that Sky television has brought, turning the top level of English football into a monstrous cash-cow where the ‘product’ is more important than the value. The Bosman ruling which give more power to the player, meaning that they can sit and wind their contracts down and sign for another club that is willing the pay them obscene amounts of money. Sir Alex has adapted through all of that as well as fighting on the pitch and coming out on top against a host of adversary's, Howard Kendall and Leeds United, Jack Walker’s Blackburn Rovers, Kevin Keegan’s Newcastle, Arsene Wenger and his Arsenal ‘Invincibles’, Abramovich and his rouble inspired Chelsea and today’s modern day challenge, the might of Manchester City and the middle-eastern powered bastard of a once great club.

The great thing for me as a lower league football fan is that I can appreciate the higher echelons of the footballing pyramid without getting involved in the bitterness and animosity which comes from success by opposing supporters. Yes Liverpool do have a wonderful history and yes they do have two of the greatest ever managers (Paisley and Shankly) on their own roll call. But then, so do Arsenal with Wenger and Herbert Chapman, as do Leeds with Revie and Tottenham with Nicholson and the list goes on and on. But when all is said and done and when one is asked the question. “Who is the greatest football manager ever?” I don’t think that you can look past the man from Govan.

So much has been written, so much will continue to be all the time that the great man is in charge. But for me, a man who can win the amount of trophies he has, with the style and flair that his teams play, the players he has brought through and the manner in which he is clearly held in such high regard from the players he has managed and his peers throughout such a period of change, there can only be one answer.

It’s all a matter of opinion, football is based around that. But all the time Sir Alex remains as Manchester United manager that’s where my opinion lies. Any dissenting voices, at least for now let them argue on. But in ten, twenty years time and we look back, it’s only then we will truly be able to say, and be thankful for that we were the lucky ones and we were around to witness the greatest.

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Watch out for the Bad Signs

2011-10-30T20:50:00.002Z

One of the highlights of any year is that time in the calendar when a favourite author brings a new novel out. Everything you read in between just plugs the gaps and anything read afterwards are just half digested words as you sit wondering how long until the next novel comes out. I’ve just closed the back cover of one of my favourite writers, Roger Ellory, his new book Bad Signs and as is customary, I thought I’d write a review and share it with you.

Bad Signs tells the story of two boys, two half-brothers and their journey growing up together, the loss of their mother at a young age to an act of senseless violence and being put in juvenile detention for nothing other than what else to do with them. The younger brother Clarence Luckman, the thinker, the boy so very unlike his violent father attributed his life to growing up under a bad star, a bad sign that follows him around like an impenetrable shadow. Clarence, along with his half-brother Elliot Danziger, known as as “Digger” are heading out of juvenile detention and up into the big house, two wasted lives destined for institutionalisation until they are broken out and taken hostage by Earl Sheridan, a degenerate of the highest order, who drags both brothers along whilst committing a string of violent crimes that inspire and terrify the two brothers to an extend that neither of their lives are the same ever again.

As with all of Ellory’s books, they are based upon a core, fundamental principal, this time around he looks at man and his ability to commit the most heinous deeds. What are the reasons, the motivations and the trigger that sets these events in motion? Bad Signs, attempts to answer these questions and once again leaves the reader thinking long afterwards, in my case, is an evil man naturally born evil, or does a switch to a dark side exist is all of us?

Just as these bigger questions and answers that are found deep inside the novel, there are many themes that appear in Bad Signs that will feel familiar to those, who like me are fans of Ellory’s work and plenty for the newcomer to appreciate and enjoy. As with all eight previous novels, we find ourselves again set in an American setting, as Texas plays host. This time however, we travel back in time to the 1960’s which helps the author with his story and the investigation technique which runs as a secondary viewpoint as the carnage unfolds. This story would not have worked had it been in a contemporary time-frame, the sixties being a time when several high profile killing sprees shocked and horrified Americans and changed the way that police investigated crimes of this sort, which is explored slightly as one of several sub-plots within the novel, the psychology and genetic make up of a psychopathic mind.

The very nature then of criminality and taking an investigative look into the minds of those who perpetrate grave acts, means that there is a level of violence in the book that might be uncomfortable reading for some. A measure of the authors skill therefore is making those deeds come across almost as a matter of fact and not gratuitously, as can be the case from time to time with authors elsewhere. But it’s not all blood and hiding behind the duvet reading the book with the light turned on, one of the things that I have celebrated and championed the author for in the past has been his ability to transcend the crime-fiction genre, which he has done once again - to a lesser degree perhaps than in A Quiet Belief in Angels and Candlemoth. Elements of romance and coming of age adds colour and vitality to the darkness and brutality of crime, offers the reader hope and once again adds weight and argument to the question I found myself asking above.

If I was to have any criticism at all, and it is none levelled at the author, its is the American language. When things start from “the get-go” or someone is hiding “out back” rather than out the back, it becomes slightly grating and I find myself wanting to correct the character on his vocabulary! Probably a good example then really of how well the characters are written if that is my only gripe!

As someone who has a new found ambition to do something with their own writing, authors like Roger Ellory continue to be a huge inspiration. My project, The Bicycle Man, has been in part inspired by the author and his works of which I am unashamedly a huge fan, which is hopefully the greatest compliment that I can give right now.

I too am trying to write something about life, in general and the essence of truth, the power of what we believe we know to be fact but coping with the circumstance when we find out that everything we know is a lie - except I can only hope to have the success that he rightly deserves and will hopefully keep on getting.

But whatever you read, whether you write or not, if you have a favourite author, write about them, write a review on Amazon, give their books as a present to someone else, tell someone else about them. One thing I have found out in my very short journey so far, is that to be successful takes effort, a lot of effort and then a lot more effort on top of that. The authors you read, the authors you champion are gifts in themselves and they can only keep selling books if people buy them, even if you don't buy this one, have a look on Amazon and find out a bit more - or ask me and I'll let tell you all you need to know.

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In the Write Place

2011-10-23T21:34:00.000+01:00

At the beginning of the year I explained about the agency I work for; Archibald Ingall Stretton - how they give each member of staff £200 every twelve months to go off and learn something new. I also explained that I’d be enrolling on a writing course and using my allowance to see if I had it in me to write something greater than the words you find inside of my blog. With that allowance now expired, I thought I’d share with you how it has been and what I hope to do next.

With anything new, when one enters a space that is outside of ones comfort zone there comes a period of time where everything encountered comes as a surprise - my first few lessons were just like that. My first piece of homework, set after we’d spent two hours talking about famous fairy tales and were asked to retell a fairy tale from the perspective of the first person I went off and wrote a version of Hansel and Gretel which came in as a 10,000 word story! I later found out that this was in fact around 8,500 more than what was expected and subsequently the tutor has had to start adding word count limits onto homework tasks so that I don’t spend another sleepless week trying to get things done in time!

Shorter writing and short stories are very much the name of the game when it comes to this particular course. And as things have started to become clearer and as time has gone by I’ve started to become aware of the wide world of short story writing and the competitive nature of the community in which this is built around. There is a large market of magazines which writers of classes like mine can be published and earn money for doing so. There are also magazines written specifically for those who want to write for those markets. There are also competitions both online and in those publications which offer good financial incentives for winning and other prizes such as holidays or the opportunity to have manuscripts reviewed by editors from large publishing houses.

The irony is, all the time that I’ve been taught how to perfect the art of writing a short story, I’ve spent all my spare time over the past four months writing something a little bit more substantial in the form of a novel, which I’ve mentioned through the pages of this blog on two previous occasions. I am now nearly at the 70,000 word mark, which is around three quarters of the way through through this project and goes by the working title of “The Bicycle Man”. As I work towards its conclusion, in ways that are new and alien to me, working in a manner that I feel comfortable with, plotting on the fly and very much each word being written in response to the one before it.

I realise that this technique is hardly refined and is unlike the one being taught to me on a week by week basis. But I am pleased with how the novel is progressing, even if I am aware certain areas will need to revisited and rewritten to make them shine - its the nature of the job, which for me has been the toughest lesson to learn.

At the moment, all of the members of The Write Place have been invited to submit a short story for inclusion into an anthology of ghost stories, to be titled “Things that go bump in the night” - which is to be published at the end of the month on the Kindle. Not being particularly fond of ghost stories I decided to try and lighten the tone with a story for children, which although well written needed much work to be suitable for publication, as also has been my second submission - an adult, darker version of the same story.

It may well be back to the drawing board for now, but if at first I felt offended and upset that my work had been so critically pulled apart, I’m now grateful that it has - even for a second time. If I want my story to appear in a publication I at least want it to be at the best it can be, even if maybe I cannot see where the issues lie straightaway and that my story doesn’t meet the required “formula”. It’s about taking on board what is being advised by people who do this professionally day in, day out. More importantly, it’s about growing a thick skin when it comes to finishing my novel and putting it out in the real world for people to review and make decisions upon its suitability for publishing.

Which is why next year when the Me, Me, Me fund comes around again, rather than spend it on something new as it is intended, I’m going to spend it on learning how to get better at what is that I’ve found this year and have loved doing. After taking an enforced sabbatical next month for when the baby comes and then December the tuition fees I’ll pay myself. But next year, the ambition has to remain high, else there is no point in doing it. Getting The Bicycle Man published and hopefully writing novel number two and why not? If you asked me this time last year would I have written some of the things I have this year, I would have said no - so who's to say what this time next year will bring?

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My Bucket List

2011-10-17T10:21:00.000+01:00

Earlier this year, I read the heartbreaking story of a young girl named Alice, who had written a “bucket list” after hearing that she that had a terminal form of cancer. I hadn’t heard of the term before, which apparently comes from the movie of the same name starring Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson. Alice isn’t the only person to have been inspired by the movie, thousands of ordinary bloggers have done the exact same thing.

A ‘Bucket List', according to the movie, is a list of items one would like to do before dying, or kicking the bucket. It might sound rather morbid, but we are all dying in an inevitable kind of way, and having now watched the film and seen the list of items that were depicted by two fictional characters from the minds of Hollywood writers - I thought I’d have a go myself.

Firstly, this task isn’t as straight forward as it might look. It’s easy to write a list of things, but in my view, they need to be things that are achievable. I’d like to land on the moon, or have a threesome with Angeline Jolie and Megan Fox, but they just aren’t going to happen. So items that made my list need to be things that in the grand scheme of things are perfectly doable within the current parameters of my life right now. Which leads me to the other thing, variables.

Had I written this list ten years ago, or attempt to write it again in ten years time, my list will change dependant upon my current circumstances and well being. I feel perfectly fit and healthy enough to do a parachute jump right now, but would I feel the same in ten years time? Likewise, the thought of having a book published ten years ago would never have crossed my mind.

Other things that I’ve not included on the list, are the usual things that we all wish for rather than make happen ourselves, like remaining healthy, living long and being prosperous, making the most of our lives and being kind towards others. Those things I believe are mandatory requirements, so the items below are really things that I’d like to do or experience myself.

So here, in random order of importance, is my Bucket List.

- Watch every Gillingham FC game in a season
- watch an Old Firm
- watch a Manchester derby
- watch a Merseyside derby
- watch El Classico
- watch a Milan derby
- watch the World Cup Final
- visit all 92 League Club grounds
- visit Machu Pichu
- visit Cedar Point
- visit Six Flags Magic Mountain
- visit all the Disney Parks
- have a child graduate
- go to Monaco Grand Prix
- go to Singapore Grand Prix
- drive Route 66
- climb the Sydney Harbour Bridge
- do a parachute jump
- do a bungee jump
- publish a novel
- inspire someone into doing something great
- be an extra in a movie
- visit the Grand Canyon
- take my children to the places that inspired me as a child
- visit the Great Wall of China
- take a hot air balloon ride
- build a treehouse and camp in it overnight
- have a religious epiphany
- take an award winning photograph

What would yours be?

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Sencity 2011

2011-10-10T13:29:00.000+01:00

On Saturday evening just gone, I went to the O2 arena with my sister, her husband and my mother for an evening out at an event called Sencity 2011, which was held within the Indigo nightclub which sits under the famous O2 tent. Sencity is a club night promotion held for deaf people and their friends and family, who can enjoy a multi-sensory experience where music isn’t the main attraction. For someone who was rather nonplussed about going, the night turned out to be a pleasant surprise.

Firstly, a little bit of history. Deafness in our family is like a badge, it is who we are. Mum is the eldest of five siblings - all of whom are deaf, born to a deaf mother. The sisters, all have deaf children of varying severity. The boys, as we’ve now scientifically discovered, help prevent the gene which carries the defect from being passed on as it’s carried within the tail of the sperm which fertilises the egg (it’s amazing what men in white coats can do nowadays). Which for me comes with a slight blessing, as it would appear at least for now that my own children will be exempt from what is a life defining affliction. Unfortunately, there is a prevailing female dominance in the family, my sister has three girls, my auntie has four, so the deaf gene will continue to be passed on for the next few generations at least.

Having a serious hearing loss hasn’t affected Mum’s ability to enjoy music, which some people find hard to understand. How you can you enjoy something that you cannot hear? But it’s not always what you listen too, music is a multi-sensory experience in itself, what you can feel, both physically and through the emotive response to the lyrics or through the personal emotion that the artist portrays through their performance, which is exactly what Sencity was all about.

The venue, a large bowl in which the dance-floor is spacious and well proportioned had upon it a smaller, raised dance-floor which vibrated in time with the music, which was a mixture of dance music and urban R&B. On stage, various deaf DJ’s went through their sets, some accompanied by sign dancers, which were as described, people on stage dancing, whilst signing along to the lyrics of the song. Also on stage was an Aroma DJ, mixing like a mini apothecary various potions which when ready and smoking, wafted across the arena quite pleasantly, adding to the overall experience and atmosphere of the occasion.

My particular highlight was Signmark, a deaf rapper, who was accompanied by a signer and had the subtitles of the lyrics displayed on the wall in the background. You could quite easily have been at a gig in the main arena next door such was the level of professionalism in the performance - but a key thing I noticed, was whenever a performer was on stage, the dancing stopped. Everyone pays attention to the signer, or the lyrics as they scurry quickly across screen, one of a couple of subtle differences that I picked up on a night of very new experiences.

But it wasn’t just the value of having each of the five senses heightened. My cousin Charlotte, who we met there, brought with her a friend, who has perfect hearing and it was the pair of them that highlighted for me the real value of Saturdays event. On a normal night out with her friend, Charlotte has to rely on her to interpret things that have been said, or keep asking questions such as “what did he/she just say?”. But on Saturday night, the shoe was very much on the other foot. Charlotte, signing away to a guy, who she’d just got talking to as her friend watched on trying to work out what was being signed. Asking Charlotte what was being said and if she could say back something on her behalf, even saying to me that she didn’t realise “deaf blokes were so fit”, which I attributed entirely to her youthful ignorance.

Ultimately, it wasn’t about me, I was just along for the ride and had a thoroughly good time in the process, but for people like Mum and Charlotte it was a chance for them to feel part of something ‘normal’ where they are the ones who know exactly what it is that’s going on and the hearing are in the minority trying to keep up. Music, ultimately is just noise which evokes a sensation or an emotion, things that just because you can’t hear doesn’t mean you don’t have. In fact, as a thousand people testified on Saturday night - probably the opposite.

Banner image from Dreamstime.com

Digital Evangelism

2011-10-03T13:46:00.000+01:00

As in life, users of the Internet can be loosely grouped into demographics, or categories dependent upon age, or behaviour. We use them at work in planning for a website, add a little bit of fictional background information, give them a name and call them ‘persona's’ which are designed to try and work out ways in which the project we are building can be used to serve them purposely. The other night, a chance conversation led me into taking my own persona and dissecting it into pieces, not for research but to stand up for who I am and what I work and believe in.

A friend of mine greeted me on Friday night by saying “how are you doing, how is your second life?” which I wasn’t quite sure how to take. Originally, I took it as it was intended, as a bit of banter, taking the piss - we do it all the time, nobody is, or should be immune. But being a sensitive creature and one prone to over analysis, I pondered the question over the space of a few days and thought, actually, this might be a good topic for discussion. In the banner above, I have labelled myself as a digital evangelist and although I might be spreading the gospel at work, the pages of this blog haven’t really been used as a pulpit in which to speak and share my views about living today in a digital world.

Firstly, I sought to find an explanation, get some further details, or some elaboration upon what it was that appears to be funny about what it is that I do - but when asked what they were referring to, neither friend were actually able to offer much in the way of an explanation, which is understandable. It’s the whole thing about taking the piss, it means nothing other than highlight how shallow and well thought out the original comments were in the first place.

I feel that perhaps I should begin with a distinction, highlight the difference between what it is that I do and what it is that is perhaps perceived. Second Life, first of all, is the name of an application in which users can create an avatar and create a fantasy life and live within an online world that is fictitious and evolves separately and at a pace which is defined by the people within it. Whereas I, use social networking platforms to share real information, real content about myself with friends and family, as well as curate digital content, ideas and innovations with people I work with and others within my field of expertise.

The Internet is no longer a place inhabited by long haired, unwashed IT geeks hiding within the dark and just the glow of their laptops for company. Nor is the Internet available to those sitting purely at a computer, not with mobile, games consoles and handheld’s easily available - and all connected to the digital space. The Internet surrounds us and impacts our everyday lives whether we like it or not, particularly now that social media platforms such as Facebook and Twitter have massive amounts of users sharing and contributing digital content for friends, family and colleagues to watch, read, listen or interact with.

My website was born out of necessity and has since evolved for what I used it for now. I build websites for a living, it’s the perfect place to practise things on, a skunk works environment where I can tinker with code and create. Demonstrated as I have, with a scrolling bookcase with books I’ve read or a personalised map with places I’ve visited - or showcase some of the other sites that I have worked on. Nothing revolutionary but it helps me out professionally.

It was originally intended as a place to keep my Dad in contact and up to date with the family whilst he was out in Iran, long before Facebook was fully established. Even now, as he flew out to Libya last week on his latest assignment, mobile communication and telephone systems weren’t working in Tripoli, but the Internet was and Dad was able to contact us via Facebook to let us know he had arrived safely.

Nowadays, I use this site for my blog, an online place where I can record things that have happened, or chart the journey through a pregnancy, which I will have done now for both of my children. I can recall thoughts and worries about the wedding last year and the excitement about researching honeymoon destinations or more recently record the steps I’ve taken into writing something bigger in the form of a novel which is entirely new, exciting and terrifying in equal measure. I don’t write for approval, for any particular audience other than for myself. I find that I know myself better as a result and am able to compartmentalise better thoughts and reasons that certain things happen and where it is that I am going.

In fact, if it wasn’t for writing this blog, I would never have entertained the thought of writing a novel, proof if you like that one small step in one direction takes you on a massive detour into weird and wonderful places you never expected.

It’s this example, and ones like these that continue to drive me into doing what I do. The Internet empowers people, people use it as a research tool, an information gateway and an entertainment source.

Take the example of the little old lady who brought a computer and hooked herself up to the Internet because everyone said she should. She had never been abroad before, was too scared or had no reason to. Yet she started researching her family tree and opened up a can of worms, revealing part of her ancestry that was unknown and in which led her to being invited to the US as a guest of honour in a small town which was established by her forefathers. She is not alone in her case, there are plenty of couples out there who have to thank a dating site for bringing them together or Skype for allowing two people to continue a relationship despite the width of oceans and continents between them. People who have strange phobias that they thought were unique to them until they use a search engine and find a whole manner of people who have been afflicted with the same condition.

I don’t expect everyone to share my enthusiasm for this particular media, not do I expect everyone to love watching television, reading newspapers or listening to music. I also realise that not everyone wants to use or embrace these things as much as I do. For example, with Facebook. I very much share the vision Mark Zuckerberg has, where people collect and record everything of any importance with their Facebook profiles. With the pending release of the new timeline feature you’ll be able to map back to not just when you began to use Facebook, but right from the beginning of your birth - which I find hugely fascinating. Your account is then your life story, wrapped up in a Facebook branded frame, which is of absolute no interest to anybody other then yourself and your friends, but can live on long after you’ve gone. For no other point other than prosperity and philanthropy. We are all here for just a blink in an eye within the grand scheme of things and if I can leave behind a tiny digital footprint for someone to divulge a meaning upon later on in time then why the hell not? I’ve never once said that my life is interesting, which it isn’t, it is what it is and if I want to share certain things I only do it because I can. It takes a second to record something that has just happened, but forever trying to remember it.

Which then leaves me returning back to my original question, what would my online persona say about me?

Well my name is Adam Bird, I’m a power-user, meaning that I spend more than 50 hours a week connected to the Internet. I work within the industry and understand how the Internet works and is put together. I help build branded pages for clients that have been thought about and have a creative idea behind them. I write a weekly blog for my own personal use sharing information and stories with friends and family members who live locally, nationally and globally. I believe that the Internet as a medium empowers people and that used correctly can enhance peoples lives. By creating the right tools and with the right technology we can innovate creativity and unlock peoples potential, whilst leaving an ever-lasting digital footprint for the future, just like the books and information we had of the past.

A second life? Would be nice wouldn't it - I just hope that it is as fulfilling as this one.

Ready for Launch

2011-09-25T15:37:00.000+01:00

As the months roll by and we head into October, we become ever closer to finally meeting Baby Bird II, who has slowly been growing within the confines of Stephanie’s womb and will make an appearance when he or she deems themselves to be perfectly ready - in or around their due date of November 3rd.

As pregnancies go, we have been fortunate with this one, no precautionary overnight stops at the hospital or worries about minor things that first time around seem like major obstacles. It is generally perceived that the second pregnancy is easier for parents to cope with and fortunately, so far that seems to be the case. If anything, the only real worry that Stephanie has faced, has been having to cope with the baby’s sporting process. It’s a bit of a footballer apparently with Stephanie’s inside being kicked, booted, twisted and pulled on a regular basis, which anyone who knows and has seen this in action will testify to being quite a sight!

We have also spent the past eight months of so deliberating about names and I think its fair to say we have our final choices now. It has been a difficult process. Names that either of us have liked, the other one hasn’t or in most cases, we’ve both liked it, but have a close friend who has a dog or a cat which shares the same name. It might sound a bit silly, but take the name Millie for example, which both of us like. A friend of my Dad, he had a dog called Millie and it was the ugliest four-legged creature I have ever seen. I still remember it, even though it has been dead for a number of years. If you are going to choose a name for your child it needs to be the right one! As to letting the readers of this blog know what we’ve chosen? Well, you will have to wait a month like everyone else!

Other final preparations have also been made, the nursery has been given a spring clean, with my Stephanie’s sister-in-law coming around later this afternoon to specially clean the carpet (anyone need a cleaner - let me know, I’ll put you in touch) and we’ve got down all the original stuff from Oliver’s birth washed, ready and recycled. The only thing that we’ve not done is got all the blue stuff down yet as not knowing what we are having there isn’t much point!

Finally, to round off the Baby Bird news and to give us that huge sense of impending excitement a rather large holdall sits patiently by the front door, armed ready with all sorts of lotions, potions, contraptions and the vital necessities required when going to the hospital ready to give birth. If we weren’t sure quite what we were letting ourselves in for, the bag acts as a constant reminder - as if we could ever forget.

A Great River Race

2011-09-18T18:45:00.001+01:00

Yesterday afternoon, west of here as I write this, six hardy souls boarded a Clayton Skiff, or a boat between you and I - and rowed it twenty-one miles from Poplar Rowing Club to Richmond in West London as part of this years Great River Race, passing under twenty eight bridges and passing sites; the Tower of London, Houses of Parliament and the London Eye to name a few, that tourists only ever really see from the safety of dry land. They did it despite rain not since biblical times, which threatened to sap the energy from them and ruin what is meant to be a fun afternoon on the river. I was one of those fortunate six - and here is my account of the race yesterday afternoon.

I had originally been pencilled in as being passenger, which all entrants are required to carry - but due to issues within the crew a vacant spot for cox became available. I received a surprising text message only 78 hours before the race from Will, who is skipper of the Oarsome Foursome crew informing me of my unexpected promotion. I didn’t really mind about taking on the role, although some pre-warning and explanation would not have gone amiss! My main worries were the vocal energy needed to keep the crew in rhythm as I’d already mentioned previously in the confines of this blog, steering is relatively easy and felt confident about that, but shouting madly at people isn’t really my forte.

My race preparations were not really in keeping with the amateur sporting code, instead I’d spent the afternoon prior to the race with the people from work on a “team building”, exercise which was another term for alcoholic revelry. We spent the majority of Friday afternoon at the London Cocktail Club learning about mixology and sampling various potent concoctions which left me slightly worse for wear on Saturday morning. I received a call from a worried skipper early Saturday morning ensuring that I was fit for purpose and that I hadn’t suffered absinthe poisoning or the dreaded alarm clock pass-out - which I have done on previous important occasions (my own stag do anyone?).

Fortunately for me Cox’s are not required to submit a mandatory breathe test, so had no worries on that part. Instead I was more concerned about suitable attire for the afternoons race. The weather looked okay to me, nice sunny skies, but I remember last year feeling a bit chilly towards the end of the race, so decided to play it safe after some advice from the skipper, wear jeans, take a waterproof jacket and wrap up warm. I decided to take some shorts as well and another change of jeans just in case the ones I was wearing got wet - the ability of foresight being a blessing as this particular story unfolds.

After I’d demolished a pre-race meal of a rather large McDonalds, again violating any sporting code but satisfying my post alcoholic appetite we made our way via a PLA water taxi to the beach at Poplar Rowing club, where preparations were made to Magog, our Clayton Skiff vessel for the day. Stuart and Keith were screwing, bolting, sawing, drilling, gaffer taping, clamping an array of cushions, flagpoles, refreshments kiosks for each rower and an assortment of other bits, which had we known what was coming; central heating, damp proofing and a roof would have been a better alternative.

Once however, final preparations had been made, I took a look at the weather, was feeling rather warm and a touch sweaty, so decided to change into my shorts; which at the time was a great idea! Even as the race got going, leaving Poplar at 14:07 on the dot, keeping in line with the military organisation as the cannons went off around our ears and crews began earnestly rowing as their lives depended upon it, I felt quite comfortable and steered our fine Magog through the early traffic with calm and confidence.

Now coxing for me is like driving. You have good drivers (me) and bad drivers (everyone else), it’s the same upon the river. As Stuart, Keith, Foordy and Will made haste and Anthony, youngest of all Foords counted loudly, keeping the pace which compensated for my lack of vocal encouragement I was left to avoid the bad and even worse of other cox’s. None more so than a hulking great viking boat which had a crew of about twenty, all rowing this heavy great boat with oars that were four meters long and going at a rather pedestrian pace. We are allocated arches for each bridge that we are meant to go under, miss them at your peril by all accounts, so it was important that I made each bridge correctly. As we were rowing considerably faster than the Viking boat, I took us around the left hand side (bow side for coxing enthusiasts), who were themselves overtaking someone else, but we all needed to swing right and through the archway furthest to the right of the bridge - else we’d miss our allocated arch. As we were alongside, I expected, like any right minded individual would, that the boat alongside us would move over, but it didn’t until I gently moved closer and was forced to bully them out of the way - mission accomplished which was gratefully received by the crew, maybe not so much theirs!

After this little scuffle, we carried onwards as the clouds grew darker and the water grew choppier. We had already hit some big waves passing the docklands and a tourist boat had sped by causing the water to ruffle wildly in it’s wake. Poor Anthony, youngest of the Foords who had stood in at the last minute as my replacement as passenger. He was the one who received the full weight of the waters wrath as he was perched delicately on the front of the boat. A pair of wet trousers never hurt anyone but as we approached the House of Parliament, the weather took a turn for the worse. One of the benefits of coxing is that you can see what is approaching, as opposed to everyone else who is facing the other way. It was quite surreal watching the rain ahead, like a brick wall that we were about to hit with force and face the circumstances, which in this case was a right royal soaking.

This was BIG rain. Huge, heavy and stinging. I managed to get my waterproof jacket on and camera bag covered up before I was too wet, but with the water acting like a volatile, spoilt child ensuring the boat was straight with just one hand was a near impossible task. The rain continued at its heaviest for nearly and hour, and it only really stopped fifteen minutes from the end. But coming up to each bridge, the applause from the spectators really gave the boys a lift and as we passed underneath we were given a nice five second respite from the rain that seemed to grow colder as we went on.

Towards the end, when the four oarsmen were at their most physically tired, the knowledge that they had nearly reached their goal inspired them to new heights. The counting returned from the front of the boat, Stuart bellowed “ROW” loudly in rhythm with the oars and our worn out Magog was forced up a couple of gears until the finishing line passed by with a cannon salute and the sound of musketry ringing once again in the ears.

The end of the Great River Race is normally a time of celebration. Champagne corks pop amidst the carnage of getting the boats out of the water. Beers are sunk and backs are slapped as everyone congratulates everyone else on a job well done. But this year was a slightly muted affair - at least for us. I cannot talk for everyone as we had already left. Attempting to get the party started Stuart ordered beers, but the two Foords and I stood there, with a pint in our hands I could barely bring it to my lips as my hands were shaking too much with cold.

By the time I got home, my clothes were just a damp mess, right the way through to my underpants which I could still have easily wrung out. But snuggled on the warmth and comfort of the sofa I read a Facebook status from Anthony, youngest of the Foords, which read “worst experience of my adult life” and I laughed, it could have, should have been me. But whilst his afternoon was particularly unpleasant, as ours all were, we are left with the day after the night before syndrome where things are put into perspective.

Not many people get an opportunity to row up the River Thames, some of these boys have done it at least four. But rowing up the most famous river in the whole world which is bathed in history, viewable the entire length of the route by artifacts and reminders, during weather conditions that need to be written and described to be believed is something that I will always remember. Worst experience of my adult life? Maybe, but one of the most memorable, almost certainly!

Mr and Mrs Bird - A Redux

2011-09-11T11:14:00.001+01:00

Exactly a year today, Stephanie and I married at the Little Silver Country Hotel in Tenterden. I could sit and write about the whole day, how much it meant to us to be surrounded by our friends and family and having them enjoy the day with us. Or the romance, or the fear and nervous excitement in the build up. But then, pictures sometimes speak louder than words - here is a selection of photos that tell the story of a day we'll never forget.

Celebrating September

2011-09-04T22:27:00.001+01:00

I am naturally one of these people who has a fondness for the past, things that I've done, good times, looking back feeling nostalgic and reminiscing about holidays, occasions, friendships and the way things used to be. It's not actually a trait that I am particularly fond of, it makes me feel older in mind than I should necessarily be. If I'm like this now, what will I be like if I ever make it to a ripe old age?

Nevertheless, now that we have entered the month of September, I can't help think back to this time last year, to my stag party, my wedding day, the feelings that were evoked of finally "coming of age" and now, even further back, the ten year anniversary of my first boys holiday to Malia and even further still, the twentieth anniversary of starting secondary school, which coincides nicely with my first child starting school next week for the very first time.

Another one of those traits which I dislike about myself is thinking too deeply about things. Rather than saving it all for when I've drunk too much and wallowing in the bottom of an empty glass I tend to do it quite regularly, in quiet times, sitting on the train coming home from work, or more recently when I'm out running (I told you exercise was bad for you). But thinking about this post as I was running this morning and the content for looking at all things that have happened in September, I remembered something that should have, but never did - my birth.

I was due towards the end of September but being the impatient soul that I am, I decided to fight my way out eight weeks early, so was born instead towards the end of July.

It is a question that I have thought about often; how different would things have been had I been arrived on time? Had I been born when I should, I would have been a year lower at school, would have made different friends, might have passed the eleven plus, so might have gone to a different secondary school etc etc etc. All 'what if' questions and maybes, I know, but as I say, what if questions in which I have pondered over in more reflective times. Ultimately none it matters and none of the answers have ever given me cause for regret - how could they?
Instead, September is a month in which, particularly now as the memories of last year are so fresh and that there are always photos now which act as reminders - even the dodgy ones, of the wedding, the surprise honeymoon and at the beginning of the month, the three day stay in Ibiza which fulfilled so many dreams for me and have spent the last twelve months wondering just how the hell I can go back.

Since the first of September, I kept thinking to myself, this time last year I was dressed up in a Tweety Pie outfit flying to Ibiza, this time last year Will and I were at Es Paradis with Foordy and Shove having the "best night ever ™". And so it continued, with the depressing realisation that a year ago I was dressed up in a pink tutu, bikini and fluffy boots as a women with a face caked in make-up walking down the sunset strip and dancing - squashed up with thousands of sweaty clubbers in Amnesia. The little moment I had with myself as the sun went down on the last night of our stay in Ibiza and as I sit and write this we would have been making our way home, ready for me to begin a week filled with nervous excitement at the wedding only seven days away.

Everyone says "your wedding day, it's the best day of your life". I remember speaking to previous couples who had been married and asking them how they enjoyed it and that they would say the same things as the famous saying that everyone says. I would think, "oh that's nice", perhaps patronisingly or condescending, but only because I hadn't experienced it for myself. But looking back, after Stephanie and I had gone back to our room on our wedding night and we were tucking into a midnight buffet that the hotel had arranged for us, talking about the day that had just passed, the excitement of finally finding out where we were going on our honeymoon and that we would be going to Hong Kong in just a few days time. The panic over what to pack and the amount of time we had to do it - and I stopped for just a moment, said to Stephanie, "I couldn't ever relate to people who have been married and said that their wedding day was the best day of their lives, but I can now, that was amazing!" and it was! Whenever I go to a wedding now, I have so much envy for the bride and groom as they are going through what we went through that I want to do it all over again!

It would seem that I'm not the only one with a fondness for anniversary's. The BBC website had an article last week looking back at the Germany vs England game where we beat them in Munich 5-1, which is so still vivid in the mind, despite the graininess and appearance of age in the photographs. It was ten years ago that happened, which meant ten years ago that us boys went to Malia, today in fact marks that particularly anniversary! We were all so fresh faced and young, just like the boys from the film Inbetweeners

Our anniversary next Sunday, the day that Stephanie and I married last year, also marks the tenth anniversary of our arrival back in the country from our Malia trip as mentioned above, but on a global scale, that day will always be significant to the events that happened in New York on the same day, when terrorists struck at the heart of democracy and tried to add fear into everything that we believe in, but ultimately failed. It saddens me that we are, as a global nation still fighting those battles, but are starting to win the war, finally and one day we can look back and say that it was all worth while - but until then we're just looking at the clock and remembering those who were sacrificed.

It's funny how so many things have happened this month, through coincidence or design. That's life I suppose - with plenty more left to go. I just hope that there will be plenty more to celebrate and look back on when all's said and done.

A Summer Through Time & Living in the Minds of Strangers

2011-08-28T21:01:00.001+01:00

At the end of June, I disclosed through the pages of this blog that I was at the beginning of a project. Under the working title of “The Bicycle Man” I’d began writing something that I termed as “substantial” without actually going as far as saying that it was an attempt to write a novel. At the time, I’d barely written over a thousand words - tonight, just two months later, that word count stands at a catchphrase under 30,000. Does it mean therefore that I have to enough to start calling it something else?

In writing this blog, purely for my own benefit as a way of encouragement to myself. A way of measuring a milestone and saying “this is what you have done so far, keep going”. In two months I have gone from having an empty word document with a photograph (seen in the banner above) of a man I’d never spoken to and an introductory few paragraphs that sparked a set of questions with answers that I needed to deliver. And now, I have some substance, of who the man was, where he is now and how he managed to tell his story. I still have no idea where it’s heading or how it’s going to end, but I am getting there!

The problem I have right now though, is the ugly old monster of confidence. In my mind, I think to myself, what’s the point? You've spent all this time, all this effort and for what? It won’t ever be published, people won’t enjoy it and it won’t be no good. What’s the point in a manuscript sitting somewhere on the cloud, accessed by me from time to time to read and depress myself about the time that I could have spent doing something more productive?

Self doubt is a poisonous thing and I cope with that by badgering my sister, sending her finished chapters and asking her for an opinion, or anyone else who may ask me about what I’m doing. When she replies back, “yes it’s really good”, I then worry even more, is she is only just saying that because she is my sister, does she hate it really? I get myself into this vicious circle and if it wasn't for the fact that I've written so much it’s any wonder I haven’t ctlr+alt+deleted the whole thing.

Instead, what has pushed me so far is not necessarily about the length, or whether or not it is good enough, has been just the shear determination and will to finish something. I might not ever have a published novel, but at least I can say that I have written one, that I have been through the process and beaten my own demons whilst doing it. More importantly, that it has been a pleasure and a source of enjoyment and that come the end - whenever that may be, there will be huge sense of loss for the people I’ll leave behind. The characters that I have created, The Bicycle Man and his wife, his best friend Pete who went missing just when they’d finally had the chance to start living and Ian, the man whose sympathetic ear helped heal some wounds in his own life as The Bicycle man unburdened his.

Whatever happens, success or failure, I’ll remember this summer as the summer I went back in time, researched the war, read a book called “Lost voices of the Royal Navy” in an attempt to understand better the horrors of the sea and sacrifices that many sailors made for our country. What it was like to be an evacuee and how some people were not as fortunate as others, a human lottery where dependant upon your number your fate was sealed with sometimes fateful circumstances. Or if not looking back, sitting on the train on my commute home with my “Ian” head on, thinking about possible scenarios I could put him in and how he might deal with them. Or his wife, Lucy, his best mate Rob, or the copper Ian turns to - a continual growing cast that need a back story, an angle and a role to play within the narrative.

To ask again; do I have enough yet to call it something else? Well... no, would be my honest answer. I’m fearful of calling it a novel as I’m not sure I want the pressure, but it’s almost certainly beyond the scope of a short story! I'm going to keep it simple, it is what it is - one of two unfinished documents sitting snuggly within the confines of my computer, this being one of them. Let’s just leave it at that for now...

A Sad End to a Smart Start

2011-08-21T12:38:00.001+01:00

This week is a sad week in the Bird household. For Oliver particularly, but also for us as parents, as Oliver leaves Smart Start, the nursery which he has been attending for the past three and a bit years before heading off the week after into the big brave world of Shears Green Infant school and full time education.

With Stephanie and I having to remain in full time employment and unable to rely on the constant goodwill of our families we needed to find a day nursery in the local area for Oliver to stay two days a week. At the time, we were living on the Overcliffe, which was just down the road from Smart Start day nursery which is owned and managed, funnily enough by the parents of our good friend Stuart. We’d also heard glowing reviews from other friends whose own children had attended the nursery so it was always going to be our first choice.

Despite having such a personal relationship with the nursery owners Stephanie and I have nothing but wonderful things to say about the nursery and it is part of the reason why this week is tinged with such sadness. Oliver simply loves getting up each day and going to school, telling Stephanie and I about his day upon his return and the things that he has done and the friends that he has made. We are both hugely grateful at their role in his development and encouragement of the things that he enjoys doing and allowing his personality to flourish, which is just as important in our eyes as learning numeracy and reading at this stage of his education.

It would be too easy for us to be accused of bias, that because of our friendship we are bound to say nice things, but this couldn’t be further from the truth. The nursery manager is only one person and has little involvement with Oliver’s day-to-day life within the nursery. There is a whole structure of classroom attendants and room managers which Oliver sees day in, day out and it is these people that have made his time at nursery so special, rewarding and fulfilling.

So what makes it all so sad? The fact that Oliver is leaving somewhere that he has always been happy, even if he did say once that the teachers were trying to kill him and on another occasion that the teachers hadn’t fed him which were tales of his over enthusiastic imagination, tales that Stephanie and I still laugh at, fuelled by goodness knows what. Its another step towards growing up, where those funny innocent stories get replaced by the gritty realities of real life, exam pressures, homework, school playground bullies and the frustrations of having to learn.

As a pregnant and emotive Stephanie and I discussed this week at the dining table the other night and she sniffled back a few tears, I said to her that it’s not all bad, we have another child due soon and he or she will no doubt be attending Smart Start at some point - after all, every child should have Smart Start, we’re just so very glad that Oliver did!

Finally, I thought I’d ask Oliver some questions about his time at nursery. Here is what he said.

Q) Who is your favourite teacher?
A) Maria, it was Sarah, but she went so it’s Maria now.

Q) What’s your favourite dinner you have at school?
A) Cheesy Pasta, it’s yummy

Q) What will you miss most about Smart Start?
A) Everything!

Q) What is your favorite thing at Smart Start?
A) Playing with K’nex

Q) And who are your friends at school?
A) Mia, Kelly, Caleb and Joshun!

The Journey Begins

2011-08-15T12:02:00.004+01:00

I remember my first Gillingham away game. I remember the second one too, in fact, I could probably give you a snippet or a fact from them all. Like that first one, which was way back in 87, on the open away terrace at Southend United. My younger sister Jessica was also there and I remember my fingers being stained from eating a packet of Bovril flavoured crisps. But the thing that I remember more than anything else was swallowing a whistle which I had sucked inwards rather than blowing out in order to make a reverse whistling noise and having my Dads best friend performing the Heimlich maneuver to wrestle it out when it got wedged in my windpipe. It’s why I thought that I’d better record Oliver’s first Gills away game - as it wasn’t quite so interesting.

I’d had a call from Bampy on Friday afternoon, would I like to go to Crewe on Saturday? Our weekend was already planned and it involved gardening, running, rowing and taking you down the park to learn how to ride a bike with two wheels, but Bampy was adamant that I went! I explained that Mummy was at work and we’d need to get someone to look after you for a couple of hours, but his response was rather surprising - bring you with us! He was already taking Paris as some great child swapping routine was already taking place, so I agreed, we’d be going!

It took us just over four hours to drive up to Crewe, it would have been quicker but Bampy was doing an experiment with fuel economy and you decided to play another one of your bathroom games. We stopped off at the services where you asked “are we at the football now?”, “No Oliver we are not”. Bampy got us all a drink whilst we went to the bathroom. I’d told Bamby to get you only a small drink as I knew how difficult you found keeping anything in. No sooner had we gotten back in the car, driven for half an hour you told us that you needed to use the bathroom again. Not being able to stop for another twenty miles we asked you to hold it in, which was a task that you only just about managed before we got there in time.

Once we had arrived, parked the car outside the ground and brought our tickets, which itself was an experience. The lady in the ticket office refusing to charge you for a ticket as you were under 5, despite the price list clearly showing under 11 ticket prices as a fiver. We thanked her very, very much and asked ourselves whether we’d be afforded the same treatment back home at Priestfield? Anyhow, onto food, we wanted to find a Pizza Hut, or something Oliver and Paris friendly, but all we found were fish’n’chip shops. Crewe must have more fish’n’chip shops per mile than any non-seaside town I’ve ever been to, but we picked a good one with a nice seating area for a well deserved prematch meal, which included a nice Mr Whippy for desert, which you carried all the way back with you to the ground whilst Bampy disappeared to the bookies after a hunch that the Gills would run out winners 2-0.

Once in the ground, we found a place to sit, second row from the front, which was great for you and Paris as you could watch everything that was going on. For five whole minutes you sat in relative peace and quiet, watching the players train and to your amazement kicking the ball “really, really high into the sky”, but the novelty soon worn off and you preferred to mess around in your chair which folds up when nobody sits in it - annoying me, the person in front and the person behind in the process.

Through further bribery, sweets, iPhone threats and what not, we managed to get through the first half without me having to moan at you too much. Gillingham scored twice, much to my delight, but Bampy sat there looking rather nervously at his betting slip and wishing it was the final whistle rather than the one for half time. After Gillingham had scored there second goal, and Bampy had said to Paris that Gillingham were winning 2-0, Paris asked him “what ones are Gillingham?”

The second half began, you were more fidgety and bored, managed to drag me away from the action for yet another bathroom break, which fortunately didn’t coincide with any on the pitch action, so nothing missed. More fidgeting ensued before you said to me “Daddy, I don’t know what to do?”, “What do you mean, you don’t know what to do?”, I don’t want to watch football” you said, “I don’t like football, I don’t know what to do!”. If there was a more hurtful thing I’d ever heard you say, I cannot remember it, but there we were an hour into the game and you deciding that you didn’t like football! Until the Crewe player hit the ball so hard, missed the goal and went over the stand, which was your personal highlight of the day as it was the first thing you told Mummy when we got home.

Much to Bampy’s disappointment Crewe pulled a goal back, which meant, for Bampy and I, along with the other 293 Gillingham supporters a nervous finale to game. You and Paris made up the official total of 297 away fans, but wouldn’t have seen the three goal line clearances or the fantastic saves made by our goalkeeper Ross Flitney as you were too busy giving each other Chinese burns or in your case, staring at the people behind you despite my numerous attempts to tell you otherwise.

All in all, a semi-successful day, Gillingham won meaning that they had two league wins out of two, Bampy lost his bet, but broke a new fuel economy record, whilst yours and Paris’ first Gillingham away game passed by merely as a statistic. To sum it all up, I’ll leave that to Paris, Bampy asked her “Paris, did you enjoy that?”, “Yeah”, “Would you like to go again?”, “No!”

For the Record

Oliver's first Gillingham away match

Crewe lineup: Steve Phillips, Harry Davis, David Artell, Adam Dugdale, Carl Martin, Ashley Westwood, Lee Bell, Luke Murphy (Ajay Leitch-Smith 67), Shaun Miller (Max Clayton 87), Byron Moore, Nick Powell (Danny Shelley 64), Subs not used: Alan Martin, Caspar Hughes

Gillingham lineup: Ross Flitney, Barry Fuller, Andy Frampton, Lee Martin, Matt Lawrence, Charlie Lee, Chris Whelpdale (Curtis Weston 34), Jack Payne (Stefan Payne 83), Danny Spiller (Matt Fish 88), Lewis Montrose, Danny Kedwell, Subs not used: Paolo Gazzaniga, Garry Richards

Result: 1-2

Attendance: 3,401 (297 Gillingham Supporters)

In Awe of the Foursome

2011-08-08T12:12:00.002+01:00

In recent years, a group of my friends, organised and skippered by my good friend Will have taken part in the Great River Race, an event which takes place every September on the River Thames and sees a large quantity of boats, of varying classes being rowed by crews of varying sizes from Greenwhich to Richmond, a course that meanders through central London for more than twenty long, hard miles.

Last year, I participated for the first time. Not as a rower, but as passenger, which all boats entering are obliged to carry. “What a great day out!”, you might think, “aboard a boat sailing up the river Thames, taking in the sights and relaxing serenely on the river as it heads west past Fulham and the leafier, greenier parts of the London waterway system”. Except it isn’t quite that comfortable. Magog, which is the name of our boat, isn’t really suited to carrying a passenger. The oarsman and the coxswain are suitably accommodated for, but any passenger is asked to perch precariously on a triangular platform at the bow of the vessel, leaning up against a broomstick which acts a flag-pole carrying our rudimentary insignia, whilst also ensuring that your legs are suitable positioned and not in the way of the last rower who needs to be given plenty of room to do what it is that he needs to do.

All in all, the experience last year was very much an eye opener. I had started to go out with the guys during their training sessions from near the sea school at Gravesend and once, twice a week they would row up river, or down dependant upon the tide, whilst I coxed, itself being something I’d never done before. But these training sessions were never particularly long or strenuous affairs and I hadn’t realised just what importance the coxswain role is to the team. Rather than just steering the boat, as I tend to do whilst dodging other maritime vehicles and having a nose around at what is happening along the shore. The cox acts as a rhythm keeper and a morale lifter as was perfectly demonstrated by Mark during last years race who constantly counted to ten at the top of voice and screaming “come on”, “you can do it” to the team - something which I’d not be able to do as nearly as well, preferring to keep quiet and watching the world go by.

Having seen the guys row for what amounts to just over three hours, without stopping, the effort, the determination and guts required to break through the pain barrier of fatigue on more than one occasion was pretty awe inspiring. I’ve never been much of a sportsman, preferring less strenuous sports such as Pool perhaps or PlayStation and tiddlywinks, but this year, somehow, I’ve been included into the party again but as a passenger stroke rower instead - meaning that once one of the crew has hit the physical wall of pain, I’ll be taking over and relieving them for a mile or so just whilst they recharge their batteries and can get going once again..

Now as I say, I’m not quite sure how this came into being, I thought that I was helping out from time to time again during their summer training and that any rowing I took part in was just an experience of saying that at least I’ve tried it, but I now I find myself having a month to get myself into some kind of sporting shape - which to put things mildly, will require a rather large miracle!

For the past two weeks I have been running (yes, running), from the house to where our boat is moored and rowing during part of each training session trying to get some kind of grip on the technique, rhythm and more importantly stamina required to make sure that I’m not letting the side down come race time. If there was one thing that stood out last year was that each of the crew to a man rowed for the team and not each other and there is no worse scenario in my mind having to row even a short distance and letting the whole crew down - so I have lots of work to do over the next few weeks or so!

Still, whatever happens, if I fall overboard or row like Steven Redgrave it can only be a good thing, a bit of exercise and fitness has never harmed anyone and if I can reduce some of the excess pounds which have applied themselves to my waistline since I stopped smoking and got married it can only benefit my long term health and vitality!

Find out more information about the Great River Race right here.

In Hessenthaler, We Trust

2011-08-01T13:42:00.001+01:00

Life as a lower league football supporter is never easy. You base three months of your life in the hope and expectation that the new season is going to be better than the last, that the team which left you deflated at the end of the previous campaign undergoes a miraculous transformation and that in those three summer months those players suddenly morph into world beaters and take the league by storm.

Last season as a Gillingham fan was not much fun. It started as all seasons do with expectation, the return of Andy Hessenthaler as manager and according to the club “the biggest budget of the division”, nothing less than promotion would be acceptable and we were on a mission to bounce back to League One at the first time of asking. Supporters had just witnessed the pitiful manner in how the club were relegated on the final match of the season before, away to Wycombe Wanderers, which was personally my lowest moment as a Gillingham Football Club supporter - a team bereft of passion, of desire in wanting to wear the shirt of the club with pride.

In the end, it was all one huge anti-climax, the team couldn’t get going, the long term away record which saw us go a whole season away from home without a single away win hung like an albatross around the players neck and continued half way into the last campaign, finally ending in late November with a single goal victory over Oxford United. By then the damage had been done. The club were languishing towards the bottom of the league and were outplayed and outclassed at home against Dover Athletic, the team who ironically had supplied us acrimoniously with our management team the summer before.

It was a case of too little, too late, the team started churning out results and went on a long and near record breaking undefeated run, pushing us up into the play-off places and at one point threatening the top three clubs for that elusive automatic promotion spot. The team however, ran out of steam, with two, easy on paper home fixtures in succession a play-off place was to be a formality. But watching Gillingham is not for the feint heated. We proceeded to lose at home against both sides, Barnet and Macclesfield Town, both teams hitting four goals against us. Abject defensive performances that had echo’s of the Stimson team that performed so terribly away from home the season before. Fortress Priestfield was no longer. Teams had come, done a job on us or in the case of the two teams above, outclassed and outplayed us. At least with Hessenthaler’s predecessor we could hide behind the success of our home form, which was one of the best is the country but now, even our home games had become depressing affairs.

I have a family and mortgage now, bills are due, long gone are the days when I’d be able to spend each weekend travelling the length and breadth of the country in the name of Gillingham Football Club. I do unfortunately have to pick and choose. I go to away games that are close by, of if the opportunity presents itself a long haul away game to a club that I haven’t yet been to. So to watch my team at home nowadays, I expect a little more, I want to be entertained, to see goals, to see effort, commitment and if you are lacking in natural skill, those traits are even more important.

Since May passed, then June, the club had been quiet, no news is good news, or so they say. Rumour abounded on the Internet, players we maybe signing, our best out of contract players who had been offered new deals failed to sign and went on to bigger or better things, or in the case of Akinfenwa, back to his old club Northampton, which added more fuel to the fire. “The club have no money, no ambition and that we’d be relegated next year”. But these were the voice of WUM’s (Wind Up Merchants), who sit behind keyboards and type away the first things that come into their heads without measured reasoning or information to back up their arguments, to kill the drudgery of the their daily existence.

Instead, at the beginning of July, the club announced over the course of two days, a list of seven signings which, more than anything was a huge sign of intent from the chairman and management team. Andy Frampton, Lewis Monstrose, Chris Whelpdale, Charlie Lee, Ross Flitney and Matt Fish all signed as well as Danny Kedwell, which was most refreshing of all as during his press conference he came out the closet as being a passionate Gills supporter and used to stand on the old Rainham End as a kid growing up. As a fan you want to know that your team are up for fighting for the cause and their is no better player than the a player turning out for the team he supports.

No sooner had the plan started to come together, disaster struck. Firstly, after we’d recruited another striker, Dover Athletic’s Adam Bircall (they really don’t like us), suffered an unfortunate serious knee injury after only a few fleeting appearances during pre-season. This coincided with Ian Hendon, our assistant manager leaving for West Ham which now leaves the club in some what of a mini-crisis. We are now left with a last minute search for a new striker to cover long term, as well as a new coach to take some of the work load off of the team manager and coaching team.

Whelpdale who helped rescue our season in a brief cameo loan spell are a cut above League Two standard, but we remain terribly short upfront, particularly if anything was to befall Kedwell, a player himself who is untried and tested at league level.

At the moment, despite the new season being only five days away, we look to be in good short term shape. We may not be entirely ready for the duration of a long campaign, what with still having some tinkering to do up front, but the chairman who should be applauded for his backing and trust of the manager will be working hard on resolving that. The budget has been stretched and the players have been brought in to give us a fighting chance. It’s down to the much loved and respected Andy Hessenthaler to lead the way now, prove that he has got what it takes and that he can be a manager for us half as good as he was a player.

If I have to make a prediction, which I should do really, I’m going be bold and predict a successful promotion winning campaign. We seem to have a more solid defense, the signing of Andy Frampton could prove to be a masterstroke. We have competition at right and left back, which we haven’t had for a while and as I said above our midfield looks to be the strongest in the league. I’m confident that the club will find a solution to our striker woes and that with the midfield we have, creating chances will not be a problem. Taking them, as always is the difference between success and failure, which for us this season - is not an option.

COYG!

The Great Sofa Swap Saga

2011-07-24T09:23:00.001+01:00

Sometimes, do you ever get the impression that your life is like the Truman Show, that things happen to you on purpose and would never happen to anyone else? My blog is a personal account of things that I’ve done, or things that have happened to me, stories that may have no relevance or interest to anyone else, but I make no apologies for that - it wouldn’t be a personal blog otherwise. But I wanted to share this story as it typifies the strange but true occurrences that seem to happen to me, for no apparent reason - a magnetic attraction to the strange and surreal.

Stephanie and I were given a three piece suite when we lived in our flat which belonged to the parents of my good friend Will. They were getting a new sofa after 20 years and as ours at the time where a mish-mash of things we’d found or rescued we gratefully accepted their offer of providing a home for their old furniture.

That was five years ago, and since then, we’ve moved, back to my parents old house and had a baby, which has grown up into a fidgety toddler and now a boy who likes to explore and fiddle with things, as well as a cat that likes to scratch and generally paw at anything that resembles a fabric of some kind. So our hand-me-down furniture has aged more in the last five years than the preceding twenty. We needed to get some new ones finally, despite my financial misgivings as it hasn’t been nice inviting people around to sit on sofa’s with holes in or covered up with old blankets.

On Monday past, as we knew that our new furniture was to arrive this week, Stephanie called the council and asked for them to pick up our old furniture, which they do upon request, for the sum of £20. “Yes Mrs Bird, they will be around on the 21st to pick that up for you”. Wonderful Stephanie thought, that is tomorrow, I’ll get my brother around this evening to put all the furniture outside ready for the morning.

Except, Stephanie got her days all wrong. The council were coming on the 21st, Monday was the 18th, so for three days last week, we had the unfortunate sight of a cream leather 3 seater, a 2 seater, an arm chair and a pouffe sitting out in the wind and rain, making the street look an eyesore which is made worse by the fact that our house is on an elevated position in comparison to some of our neighbours - certainly no room for camouflage or careful concealment.

We were talking at work and via facebook about similar instances of leaving furniture outside houses to be picked up, a work colleague explained how he had once put his sofa out and on his return home he found someone looking down the sides for lose change! But even so, that didn’t prepare me for what happened on Wednesday night, the night before the council were due to take our sofa’s away.

Stephanie came into the house whilst I was cooking dinner. “There are some people outside” she said “who want to take the sofa’s away - I’ve said yes, they’ve given me the £20 back what we paid the council”. And there were, believe it or not, two girls of Eastern European descent waiting for their partners/brothers, whoever they were - muscle, to carry these rain sodden sofa’s back to wherever it was they were taking them. It must have been a fair distance, because an hour or so later we got a knock on the front door. It was the two young girls again, apologising because they couldn’t get the sofas through their front door and wanted to know if they could possibly bring them back and have their £20 back! So there we were, sitting watching television on garden furniture in our lounge at 10.30 at night, watching out the window as our sofas of the past five years were walked up the road and back, one final hurrah before being mercifully crushed by the rubbish bin men the following day.

As I said at the beginning of this post, it’s one of those stories that may not mean anything to anyone else, but the idea of blogging for me, is recording what has happened at a particular moment in time. In years to come, this will still be there, looked back upon and laughed at as we remember sitting there dumbfounded by the family who obviously had nothing and the desperation that they must have been going through to carry a rain sodden, ripped old sofa goodness knows how far up the street and back again.

A Lotto Dream, or Nightmare?

2011-07-17T12:00:00.001+01:00

Over the past few weeks Europe has been gripped in a state of lottery fever, as the EuroMillions jackpot reached the dizzying heights of £160,000,000, sparking stampedes to the newsagents in the hunt for the elusive winning numbers. On Wednesday night, that jackpot after 14 consecutive rollovers was won, by a Scottish couple from Falkirk, who stated upon winning “The next steps are going to be the most difficult... with great wealth comes great responsibility”.

It would take an average man, on an average salary of £30,000, thirty three years to earn £1,000,000 and 536 years to earn the figures won by the aforementioned Scottish couple from Falkirk, so you can understand quite easily why people are in such a frenzy buying tickets to earn such a fortune.

Stephanie and I have been playing the lottery for nearly two years, two pound a week, same line, same numbers, same result - nothing! We have won £10 once in the entire time, which came with much fanfare only two weeks ago. We had started to think that the numbers were cursed, or the lottery website was ignoring us. But nonetheless, winning the lottery would change our lives, but would it actually change it for the better? If we’d have won that EuroMillions jackpot, what would we have done with vast amounts of money?

We could leave it in the bank, live our normal lives, pay ourselves the same monthly salary but not have to go to work for the rest of our lives and let subsequent generations do the same until the pot runs dry. Or we could create our own lottery by picking 160 friends from our Facebook list and give them a million pound each, which would be a two finger salute to any strange Auntie who had decided to block us. We could put Oliver in private school and give him the greatest education money could buy, with external tutorship so he can learn languages and play the piano, drums or guitar. We could travel the world during the school holidays, spending lazy summers on a Greek, Pacific or Caribbean island. I could spend half of the winnings on Gillingham Football Club and wipe out the clubs debts, help them get promotion to the Premier League on a tide of money built upon weak foundations. We could build the ultimate mansion in the Kent countryside with roller coasters in bedrooms and water slides that put Disney to shame. We could become space tourists in one of Richard Branson’s intergalactic spaceships or emigrate to Australia and live out our days by the beach.

But then, that’s the fantasy of it all isn’t it? The reality I’m sure is far different, real money, real choices. How much do you give to your siblings, are we being too generous, or will they still think we’re being tight? Do we give to Aunties and Uncles who we never see, but to the friends that we do? Do we give it to both, just because we can? Do we give money to a person we know would probably use it drink him/herself to death, or walk away from their family on the back of their new found wealth? Who gave us the right to make those kinds of choices? What charities to we donate to, the ones closest to us, or the most poignant? How do we say no to an opportunity knowing that we have such wealth behind us? Will putting the children through private education detract them from the reality of the lives we faced growing up, the not getting everything we asked from Father Christmas, the holiday’s to Wales and Scotland that we loved and enjoyed, but overlooked now that the money has made the world our oyster?

So that quote again, at the press conference, “The next steps are going to be the most difficult... with great wealth comes great responsibility” - rings so true, and if you think about it, would winning such money actually make your life any richer?

If I have ambitions to want to be able to write, I need to look at people at their circumstances, how their characters react to the changes around them. How would one person cope with a death of a loved one, or how would they cope with an unexpected windfall?

The reality, at least for us, is that it doesn’t really matter, because however much we play, the odds are against us. It has never, or will never happen to us - but we can still dream can’t we?

Babies, Games, Birthday's and A Persian Flavoured Wedding

2011-07-12T13:53:00.002+01:00

Generally speaking Stephanie and I don’t have wonderfully exciting lives. We go to work, come home, have dinner and veg out on the sofa, watch a film together or maybe I’ll retire to the other room and spend an unhealthy amount of time on the Interwebs, writing another incessant rambling piece which passes as my blog whilst Stephanie watches a gruesome documentary about murder and it’s ensuing investigation. It has then, for the past week been something of a nice change to the usual routine with some days out, new experiences and the pleasurable involvement of somebody elses very special day.

Last weekend, Friday, it all kicked off with the archibald ingall stretton... away day. The first Friday of July is declared an official work bank holiday, in that the whole agency disappear somewhere together and come back the following day feeling rather worse for wear. More specifically, a rather beautiful house in the rolling hills of the Oxfordshire Cotsworlds, near the market town of Bicester. Middle Aston House played host this year, whilst the archibald ingall stretton... staff indulged upon drinking and whiling away the afternoon with football, cricket, touch rugby and the more sedate but aggressively combative croquet. Despite a stray baton during softball, which hit the poor head of User Experience firmly on the head, causing a delay in play and a rather large lump on her forehead which meant she had to rest up and spend the rest of the afternoon with an ice-pack for company. Away day’s are rarely uneventful occasions, which proved to be the case with one of the digital designers having to have the alcohol, sorry blood that was seeping out of his foot after accidentally treading on a broken bottle, patched up in a late night visited to Accident and Emergency whilst the rest of the agency continued to drink the bar dry and dance along to a late night selection of disco music.

Whilst I was away in the heart of the Oxfordshire countryside, Gillingham Football Club decided to announce a whole host of new signings which was further supplemented on the following Monday with a seventh, Charlie Lee, bringing an unsteady and unfamiliar breath of confidence over us long suffering supporters. Clearly easily excited, Reaso and I got in contact and decided that there was only one thing for it. We’d have to travel after work to Ashford and see the Gills in action during their very first pre-season friendly. There is something very unique about the lower-league football supporter, they tend to be a loyal breed, most of it is misplaced, but when you find yourself in the middle of a field on a Wednesday night with 1,000 other possibly deluded supporters, you cannot help but feel part of something very special. As it was, for the sake of prosperity, Gillingham fielded two teams of equal ability, one in each half and won comfortably 3-0 over an Ashford United side that were playing their first ever competitive match (previous incumbents Ashford Town went bust at the end of last season), in a stadium that consisted of one single stand, a rather large area around the pitch that was marked out with a fence that supporters could mill around quite happily, either on the touchline or under either cowshed that was situation behind either goal. Sound idyllic? Indeed it was.

The following day, something else entirely different and of infinite more significance. An appointment at the hospital where we were due our second scan, the one that’s due in or around the twentieth week, the magical scan where they can more or less be 100% certain about the sex of your baby.

Stephanie and I have been in much deliberation, “to know, or not to know”, that really has been the question. Stephanie, for practical and pragmatic purposes wants to know whilst I, quite simply don’t. I remember the exact moment that Oliver was born, that magical split second in time that the nurse had lifted him up and away from us to the resuscitation area where they had to work on him for a short, terrifying few moments. Within that moment of transit, all I could see was his little body and the revealing of his appendage that let us know finally what out first child was to be. With that in mind and my own insistence that each child gets treated exactly the same I ‘d rather not know. I want that special revelation all over again, which brings with it that first unique bond with your just born baby which I believe would be desensitised if I was to find out now.

So there we have it, still a surprise for the next few months at least. But the good news, is that for the real reason of the scan, confirmation everything measures well, and there are no underlying medical issues that we are aware of and so we can head towards the final trimester with the hope and excitement of the previous two.

With everything safe and well, Stephanie and I were able to look forward to a busy weekend whilst showing off scan pictures and the answering of “do you know what you are having?” questions. The only thing that could spoil my happiness did spoil my happiness when ten minutes before we were due to leave the house on Saturday morning for a wedding. After my suit had been carefully ironed after it’s long hibernation, I put it on in readiness to leave the house. However, in the subsequent space of however long it’s been since I wore it last, I have grown - considerably it would appear. With no suit to wear, I had to rustle up a shirt and trouser combination from the bottom of my wardrobe, which made me feel entirely uncomfortable for the rest of the day.

If my discomfort was distracting it didn’t spoil what was to be a lovely day and a great wedding, which for the family was a actually a huge pleasure to have been invited. After working in Iran, Dad kept in contact with a colleague he worked with at the time, a lady by the name of Noush who now lives in the UK and has met and fallen in love with an English guy named Rob. It was actually quite touching to hear her speak during the speeches about how the Bird family have welcomed her and been a help to her since she arrived in the country, which I attribute entirely to my Dad. Despite the differences in cultures it felt like a true Great British wedding with a vicar, a beautiful bride looking elegant in white with a jolly good knees up afterwards - even if the food was a lot nicer with meats and salads of Persian origin that did nothing to help me increasing waist line.

If Dad occasionally gives us reason to feel proud of him, for reasons we least expect, it was perfect opportunity the following day to show our gratitude as he’d reached the milestone birthday of fifty. Around my parents house we all converged to enjoy a lazy afternoon in the garden enjoying a hog-roast that had been cooking slowly for most of the day, a DJ arrived and parked up in the corner playing a mixture of music that provided a perfect soundtrack to the beers and wines that were drunk and conversations that kept the afternoon flying on by. Glyn and Shona, long time friends of the family arrived with a Pinata that provided my personal highlight of the afternoon. All the children lining up patiently to beat the poor thing with a stick aiming to crack it open for the sweets inside. All the kids took a leisurely thwack except for Indigo who had been saving all her rage, all her angst and all of her effort to take it out upon the poor, unsuspecting Pinata, which she swung at with all her might... and missed, oh how we laughed!

If the past week has been a social exception to the rule, there are always the things that normally happen around the house to keep us on a normal footing, such as this past week, we’ve been trying to keep Oliver dry of a night and out of pyjama nappies. We knew that this path would be full of little accidents so as an incentive we suggested to Oliver that if he made it five nights in a row with a dry nappy we would buy him a Ben 10 watch, something he’d wanted since he lost the last Ben 10 watch he’d had. Four nights all ticked off and congratulations all round, Oliver was desperately looking forward to his new watch, which explains why on the fifth day we were woken up to an inconsolable little boy who’d had an accident in the night. He broke our heart with the tears and attempted explanation that he couldn’t quite get out, which is why we are not firm disciplinarians and a hunt for a new watch goes on as we speak!

Gardening Gripes

2011-07-03T19:08:00.001+01:00

There are chores that we have to do, there’s no escaping them. Washing up, hoovering, laundry and putting out the rubbish, they all need to be done. There are some chores, that don’t need to be done quite so often, but are actually quite enjoyable, so you don’t mind doing them and quite happy finish them off with a smile on your face. Then there is gardening. The worst chore known to man.

My main gripe about gardening, apart from the million little things that fly around annoying me, in some cases putting the fear of God into me, is that none of the machinery is actually very good. Ok, so I’m not going to go out and invest in a hi-tech combine harvester type mower as advertised by Forrest Gump, but if I spend £100 on a mower, I’d expect it to at least mow. Rather than me having to go around the garden six times to get every stray blade of grass and random weed that refuses to meets its inevitable demise. But by far the biggest and singularly most annoying thing, not just in gardening, but possible the entire universe is the strimmer. Because mowers cannot quite mow right to the edges, you need an extra piece of equipment to get everything looking nice and trim. So what invariably happens is that you plug the strimmer in, walk over to the edge of the lawn, press the start button, wave the strimmer over the stray grass before cutting. At this point, any random stone gets in the way, flies up and into your shins, causing gashes of varying severity. But then, just as soon as you’ve screamed “ouch”, the strimmer starts wailing a horrible high pitched screeching as if it is itself in pain and not you. This signals that the wire underneath the strimmer has snapped off. So you go, to the plug, remove it for safety reasons, go back to the strimmer which is at the end of the garden and reinsert the cord so it can now slice more stray grass and slam yet more stones into your shins. The whole sorry process is then repeated, depending upon the size of your garden, once every meter or so, which in our case is extremely fortunate as our garden isn’t very large!

Which is why, when it comes to our own garden I tackle any routine chores with the most displeasure. We have, what is supposed to be a lawn in our back garden, which with many thanks to Colin, my father in law - looks quite nice framed with the fences panels that he kindly painted and a couple of little rock formations to the right hand side and to the rear, until on closer inspection you realise that the ground is bumpy and that the grass is losing it’s battle for supremacy with the well loved and respected weed.

Birdseye view of the garden

Before this summer, that’s all we had, along with a washing line that ran through the middle of the garden, that didn’t quite rise up and down like it was supposed to, until Stephanie decided that Oliver needed to have an eight foot trampoline, which was ‘bargain of the century’ from a one off sale at Asda. “Cool!” said Oliver, “Boo” said Daddy. As the logistical nightmare became a reality upon completion of the assembled trampoline. One small garden, one large trampoline. Didn’t and hasn’t really worked.

So I had to take the line down, and replace it with a rather more functional rotary line (at yet more expense) and attempt to make the trampoline as level as I possibly could, which has subsequently proved to be a little more difficult. I had been at a happy medium all the time that the trampoline was in use and the garden didn’t have me in it. But everytime I’ve mowed the lawn since, I’ve had to try and fight my way around and under the trampoline. Something had to give. And it did, quite spectacularly.

I realised that the get the trampoline level, I had to dig a bit of a hole. But I needed some place to put any unneeded soil. I could dispose of it, but the thought of filling up another endless number of soil bags, as we did with our front garden a couple of years ago was too much to bare. So I decided there and then, that we would be having a raised bed which we would attempt to grow vegetables in! I am sure that you are as suprised at the juxtaposition as I am!

Which is why, over the past two weekends I have been digging, relocating pathways, constructing temporary retaining boxes and blistering my office sensitive hands into smithereens! I may hate gardening above all else and all the things that annoy me, but I’m actually looking quite forward to seeing how this pans out, if we can actually grow a decent crop in our own little patch. But the important thing here, is that we get the chance to involve Oliver and the new baby when he/she is old enough. Show them were food comes from and how long it takes to grow, which is probably worth the gashed shins and constant gardening gripes. Isn’t it?

Slave labour!

Scaredy Cat

2011-06-28T21:37:00.002+01:00

The path of fatherhood has been many things, mainly a journey of discovery through various stages of development, enlightening moments, humorous moments, frustrating moments and in the case of posterity, intriguing moments. It has been interesting recording at what exact point in our lifetimes we first learn to speak, to walk, to grow a first tooth and roll over onto our stomachs, all key moments that we sit and discuss with friends around a cup of coffee and air of admiration, but at what point in time do we start to learn the darker traits that make us human, feelings of hatred, hopelessness and fear?

Last night, I sat with Oliver, our nightly story time routine. It’s his choice, his bedtime is 7.30, he can stay up until 7.45 without a story, or on the dot with a book. He chose to have a story. I’ve done this so many times, the same stories, the Gruffallo, the Stick Man, the Gruffallo’s child and A Very Lonely Night. So I suggested a ‘big boy’s’ story, one of the Roald Dahl books perhaps. “The one about a Giant?” I asked, remembering how he’d been telling me about his dreams of giants not so long ago.

So he lay, as I sat, enunciating each word clearly and asserting emphasis on the mood of mystery as the story unfolds, Sophie awake in the witching hour, until I got to the part that reads:

She saw the Giant straighten up again and she saw him poke the trumpet in through the open upstairs window of the room where the Goochey children were sleeping. She saw the the Giant take a deep breath and whoof, he blew through the trumpet.

Oliver was sobbing, big fat tears rolled down his cheeks, “what’s the matter I ask?”, “this story gives me a really bad feeling!” I turned away, to laugh, it sounds wicked of me I know, but it was his choice of words that surprised me more than anything. I’d understand if he said, “I’m scared Daddy”, but it was the feeling of being scared that he didn’t like - but couldn’t quite identify immediately. He went onto explain that he was scared and didn’t like the story, leading me to abandon the BFG and opt of the Twits instead. He much preferred the account of a man with too much food in his beard and how the man would stop and eat food that he found inside, ultimately falling to sleep with a smile upon his face.

Then today, I get a telephone call, from Stephanie. Can I please speak to Oliver, he is really scared of the thunder and wants to talk to me about it! “Don’t worry Oliver”, I said, “it’s only God, clearing his throat in the sky, nothing to worry about!”, “But Daddy” he replies, “it’s really loud and I had to turn the TV off!” Oh the hardship and sacrifices a four year old must make!

In the space of two day’s, two things, strikingly different circumstances, but the same emotive response. What is it that makes us fear different things? When does fear become irrational, and is it possible to overcome each of our fears?

In the case of Oliver, I could force him to sit and listen through the BFG, learn the story and understand that once you get to know him the BFG isn’t quite so harmless, that it is only a story and all make belief. But in the real world, with real people, the same thing applies, Stephanie has an irrational fear of Sharks. Why? The joys of a Hollywood movie at an impressionable age. She can’t possibly walk down the street without the fear of being eaten by Jaws, but it’s never going to happen is it? My sister, sitting on an aeroplane, on the verge of nearly having to be sedated, despite a cocktail before embarking of alcohol and Prozac. Why? Because the plane was going to crash and she was going to be a victim of a terrorist atrocity.

Laughing as I write this, it’s true isn’t it? We laugh at the things other people are scared of, but confronted with our own fears we shy away and become gibbering wrecks. Is the best way to overcome a fear, stare at it face on and show it that it won’t beat you. Scared of spiders? Pick one up, scared of heights, jump out of a plane, scared of water, learn how to swim? If only life was that easy!

On the flip side however, there is the use of fear as a fuel. Scared of being made redundant and losing your house not being able to get a new job, so you work harder, faster, learn more in an attempt to become indispensable, not that none of us are. Scared of dying too young, so you run further, eat healthier, cut out the late night and the cigarettes.

In Oliver’s case, the two recent examples are easy to explain, feed a child’s imagination with the wonder and mystery of Roald Dahl’s finest, whispered in an eerie tone, let the internal human mechanism take control. Add the unexpected and unknown noise of a thunderclap overhead recording the loudest on recent records and you ask yourself is it any wonder? But I’ve taken more than a passing interest in what keeps us awake at night. Since last week, when I started telling the story of the bicycle man and having to add fictional fears to a fictitious character. Why is it the someone refuses to die? Not the fear of dying as the character is a religious soul, but the fear of never finding out what happened to his missing friend, even though he knows it’s almost likely he’ll find out in the next life anyway. Where did that seed of fear originate, who nurtured it, and how does he overcome it? It’s nothing revolutionary, nothing new, it’s part of what makes us human, right from the moment of birth it would seem.

The Bicycle Man

2011-06-22T13:10:00.000+01:00

Enrolling on a Creative writing course has been a rich and rewarding experience. It is all very well being able to write a blog from week to week and have your parents tell you that they enjoyed reading it, but having complete strangers sit and listen appreciably of your made-up mini tales of fiction is a completely different feeling.

Confidence is a great thing and I guess that's what I have been looking for. But it can also be very dangerous. With the little confidence boost that I've recently acquired I've taken on the challenge of writing something a little more substantial.

I'm not going to come out and say "I am writing a book" as that isn't quite what it is. I was out on a family day out at Riverside Country Park a few months ago and after we had made our way out to the evocatively names "Horrid Hill", we came across an old man, sitting on a bench, watching the world go by. Next to him was a bicycle, parked carefully just in front of him.

I thought to myself at the time, about the effort that it took for us to get here and how it must have been ten times worse for him with his bike. Why then was he there, it must be some place of importance perhaps, what is it that he thinks about looking out all the way down river?

I had the camera with me that day and took a candid photograph which whenever I look at it, the same questions arise. Why then my own interest in a random stranger? I really cannot answer that. From time to time, you see a person on that street that is a little out of the ordinary and wonder what story it is that they would tell - I just decided to have a go at telling it.

So I sat down and started to write, about the man, who I named James talking to his deceased wife, Annie and how she offers him comfort knowing that she was there, at the place they met as children. About how he still wonders about Pete, his childhood friend that disappeared and how it was stopping him from dying. He didn't want to die without ever knowing what happened, despite knowing that he'll have all the answers when he reunites with his wife in heaven.

And then I stopped, read it back and had a whole load of new and unanswered questions. Who is Pete, what happened to him? Does James find out the answers to the mystery? What are the answers? So I've carried on writing, not with any real plan at the moment, but instead guided by a selection of A3 pieces of paper, names written on them with questions. Is he Dead? How did he die? Is he part of the mystery? What is the big mystery? Ages, timeliness and personality traits, relationship status and other vital bits of imaginary information.

The point is, I have something tangible to write about and the importance of confidence to do it. I just need to keep the momentum going and see what comes of it. I'm not going to say that I'm writing a book, because I'm not. I'm trying to tell the fictional story of a man I never met. I may not finish it, I may waver and get distracted, real life will almost certainly intervene but all the time that I have that photo, the possibility exists that a story will come of it. Whether or not it's good enough for publication, well let's cross that bridge if we get that far.

Nesting

2011-06-12T15:27:00.000+01:00

Last night just as Stephanie and I were starting to fall asleep, she nudged me to say that the baby had woken up,“How do you know?” I asked. She then began to tell me about the strange feelings and sensations that she was currently experiencing in the darkness of our bedroom. These internal nudges and movements, constant reminders of the miracle growing inside, the beginning of the maternal bond between mother and child.

You can see that Stephanie is pregnant at the moment, in fact, it surprised me just how much when she informed me last week that we’d reached the half way stage! Whilst she is having that physical bond with her child, I won’t be able to feel any movement for a few more weeks, until the bump has filled out and physically witness the baby starting to kick.

I am however, not entirely useless at this stage. For the past few weeks we have been getting some of the house in order, particularly the nursery where the baby will sleep when he or she is a little older.

When we moved into our house, the room had just been vacated by Craig, my Mum and Dad’s foster child, who had inherited it off my sister. Having brought the house off my parents I had wanted Oliver to have my old room, but knowing that we would one day (hopefully) have another child, we cleared the smallest room out first, created a nursery whilst my old room laid untouched. Once Oliver was old enough and we had fulfilled my own fantasy, a football themed bedroom Oliver finally moved out, leaving the nursery empty.

In the subsequent three years the nursery has become home to old toys, old clothes, bits and pieces that we haven’t managed to bring ourselves to throw away. Sentiment gets in the way of practicality “but this toy was the one Oliver was playing with when he smiled for the first time”. It’s only when you go back to it years later and it’s covered in dust and you realise, it’s only an old toy, the memory lives on in your mind, you don’t need the physical reminder.

When Stephanie was pregnant with Oliver we had a blank canvas to start with. The excitement of our first child was heightened by creating a living, breathing environment for our new born baby. Our spare room in the flat that we lived in at the time was used as a home office. Well it, was a room with a computer inside! But once everything had been removed, the walls were white and we had a space to begin from nothing.

This time around, it is a matter of taking what we have already got, neutralising everything, moving the keepsakes we were given, the ornaments that spell out Oliver’s name and the teddy bears he was given as a baby and creating a warm and inviting place for the new baby.

Really, the tasks that we are doing now could be used as an analogy for the whole second baby experience. Rather than something new, exciting, unknown and mysterious, building a new world from the reality we’ve always known, we are perfecting, compromising, rounding off the sharp edges of the lives we are now living. The new baby will hopefully be the final piece of our puzzle and it’s just a matter of rearranging the pieces that are already there.

The Appeal

2011-06-05T12:42:00.000+01:00

Last week we received notice that our appeal for an infant school place had been unsuccessful. Whilst this might sound like particularly bad news, it isn’t really, although the results of which will have a lasting effect upon our day-to-day lives.

At the beginning of the year we had to fill out an online form listing the three schools we would like Oliver to attend in preference. We chose Riverview as our first choice and Shears Green second. To make sure that we got either first or second place we put Cobham down in third knowing that this was highly impractical and almost unlikely to be chosen.

Academically, Riverview and Shears Green are equally as good as each other, so we are very lucky that it could have fallen either way, but what made the application process more interesting is that as a child, I went to school at Shears Green, whilst Stephanie went to Riverview, so it was in a way, a little race to see whose footsteps Oliver would follow in.

But for practical purposes Riverview was our number one choice. We are so very fortunate that we have a family who continue to help us so that Stephanie and I can both go out to work. It’s not a lifestyle choice, it’s a matter of necessity that both of us are in full-time employment, bills need to be paid. With this in mind and that Stephanie’s parents live close to Riverview, that our nieces and nephews all attend the school would make picking Oliver up afterwards all the more stress free.

It may seem a little frivolous, but this was the reasoning behind our appeal. We read all the documentation beforehand and the criteria in which children are allocated to specific schools. It all made sense and was 100% fair. We could have been given reason to feel guilty had Oliver been accepted into Riverview and someone else a lot closer hadn’t, but we would have felt a lot worse had we not at least tried. Not for our sakes, or indeed for Oliver’s, but for those people who continue to help us on daily basis.

LoveFilm? My top 10

2011-05-29T11:57:00.001+01:00

For the past six weeks or so Stephanie and I have been members of LoveFilm, a postal rental service whereby for a fixed monthly fee, you can watch as many movies from their database as logistically possible. Simply browse their catalogue, select what films you would like to watch and they randomly choose two for you to watch at home. Once you are finished, send them back and they’ll send you two more.

Being parents now, a visit to the cinema is a rare occasions, we have to invariably find a babysitter and so the last minute spontaneity of our courtship is something we’ve long lost. With our LoveFilm membership it gives us a chance to catch up on what everyone else has been watching and talking about for the past few years and see if there are any films that break the monopoly of my top ten list.

We’ve all probably been asked, “what’s your favourite film” and we’ve probably all got an answer, for whatever reason. Like a book, what you may hate another person will love, what you’ve though wonderful someone else may detest.

So on the understanding that a personal blog is about capturing your particular thoughts of a particular subject in a moment in time. Here is my top ten film list as of May 2011.

Forrest Gump
First on my list, a Tom Hanks movie which most people have probably seen. I saw this for the first time at the cinema on a Friday night with my parents, and the second time the following day with a girl I was in love with at the time. This film is a perennial tear jerker no matter how many times you watch it, life really is a box of chocolates.

Braveheart
Despite probably being not 100% historically correct, this film, on first viewing will have you captivated from the first scene to the last. As an Englishman you are left with a sense of repulsion for the acts committed by so called King and country as you get behind the underdog avenging the murder of his one true love. Romance, action, bloody battles and revenge. What more could you ask for?

The Pursuit of Happiness
There are movies that you have never heard of, despite having one of the biggest names in Hollywood as the staring role. You press the information button on the remote control to see what the latest movie is all about and you think, “sounds alright, nothing else on” and you sit for the next two hours totally engrossed with what’s playing on screen before realising that you have tears streaming down your face and no matter how hard you try you just cannot man the hell up, but it doesn’t matter because your wife is doing exactly the same thing and both of you realise just what an amazing film you’ve both sat and watched.

Pulp Fiction
Probably one of the coolest films ever made. Okay so it has violence, drugs, bad language, blood, gore and sexual perversity but it has Samuel L Jackson, Uma Thurman, John Travolta and Bruce Willis all brilliantly directed by Quentin Tarantino on the backdrop of the greatest movie soundtrack ever.

The Shawshank Redemption
I’d hazard a guess that if you asked a thousand people what their top ten films were, The Shawshank Redemption would be on all of them. Amazingly atmospheric, narrated by Morgan Freeman who’s voice alone haunts this movie in such a poignant way that whenever you hear it elsewhere you always think of Andy Dufresne..

Man on Fire
This is a movie about vengeance, revenge against those who have perpetrated great evil against you. But this is Denzil Washington who has been wronged and unlike other movies you genuinely sympathise and want revenge just as much as he does. Guns and action aplenty.

The Goonies
Goonies never say Die! The movie that as kids, we always borrowed from the video shop. Chunk, Sloth, Mikey, Data and the guys. Steven Spielberg's much loved action adventure for kids everywhere.

Dumb and Dumber
Growing up, Jim Carrey was my favourite actor and this is without doubt his funniest film. Harry and Lloyd, two pals on a trip to deliver back Mary Swanson’s briefcase. From the first line to the very last, you’ll be LOL'ing the whole way through.

The Usual Suspects
Like Fight Club, Momento, Seven and Magnolia, those films which you watch for the entire duration only for the last scene to flip everything on it’s head and leaving you asking “what the hell just happened?” in this case, who actually is Keyser Soze?

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
Jim Carrey, check, Kate Winslett, check, Kate Winslett with died pink hair and running around in bright pink under-crackers, double check. This film, in which Jim Carrey plays it all serious is very cleverly executed, just make sure you pay attention at the back.

The End?

2011-05-24T16:58:00.001+01:00

Last Saturday, the 21st of May, passed just like any other, much to the confusion and dare I say it - annoyance to a preacher named Harold Camping and his followers. Harold Camping is a Christian Evangelist and predicted with utmost certainty that on this date, the world would come to a catastrophic end for millions, and the start of something wonderful for the believers of Christ, as this date would see the ‘second coming’ or the ‘rapture’ as prophesied in biblical texts.

It would be easy to laugh, to ridicule and use Mr Camping as another example of Christian eccentricity but their are plenty of Christians making obscene and outlandish claims on a daily basis, such as the one about living life as a Christian means that you are not allowed to mix with non believers, or that two family members cannot socialise as their churches have different beliefs. But those people don’t get the negative publicity and ridicule as a good old “end of world” proclamation does.

In fact, Mr Camping has done more harm than good to the Christian faith, people reading these headlines use them as further bait to ridicule and laugh at the “Jesus creeper/bible basher” majority who understand their faith and are more in-tune with the real message of the bible which is that the nobody, least of all God knows when the rapture is going to occur.

Anyhow, my knowledge on biblical prophecies is fairly minimal and not the main reason for me writing upon this topic. What does interest me, however is the human interest in “The end”, our curious fascination with the exact moment when human life ceases to be no longer. Be it through a natural disaster, a religious leader returning to earth to claim His servants or being obliterated by the Martian Navy Seals. It seems that whichever way we are destined to go, we want to know about it, embrace the Hollywood depictions and yet seem to revel in mocking anyone putting an exact date upon our inevitable demise

The Internet is awash with millions of articles and discussions about Armageddon, Judgement Day, Worlds End and events of an Apocalyptic nature dating way back to since time began all the way through centuries of the future. Next year is of some particular interest, with the ancient Mayan calendar ending on December 21st 2012 (Oliver’s birthday unluckily enough!), but even then, this event only really bares any significance due to the 2012 blockbuster movie of the same name and the resulting Internet rumour and speculation which is likely to increase exponentially as we draw ever closer to that potentially fateful date.

Reality however paints a far bleaker picture, as Benjamin Franklin once said "but in the world nothing can be said to be certain except death and taxes". We are all heading for our own Judgement day, the day when when we find out once and for all what lies beyond the secret walls of death and learn categorically without doubt what eternity holds. Does the idea then that we may all, at once be hit from a rock from outer space, comfort us? Knowing that by dying instantaneous along with our loved ones that we will not be leaving anyone else behind and that the personal nature of death becomes a shared experience?

Since writing this, Mr Camping has been in the news once again, adjusting his dates accordingly. Which means, that by his latest calculations we have until October 31st of this year to complete our business and say our farewells, after of course doing all the things that we wanted to do. In fact there are a rather large amount of worrying stories about people who took Mr Camping’s word as gospel, gave up their jobs, sold their houses and made a manner of other preparatory moves to conclude their earthly existence.

Wouldn’t it be nice if things really were that simple? That a global announcement was made, “Ladies and gentlemen a meteor is heading our way, you’ve got six weeks to say your goodbyes” and we were left to our own devices. Would we all patiently put our houses up for sale, quit our jobs and wait patiently in line for the next plane to the nearest desert island? I’d hazard a guess that things would be nothing like the sort.

Maybe it’s the fact that from a selfish point of view, we as human beings want to be the last out the door? Knowing that the Apocalypse happened on our watch, in our lifetimes not eons down the ages and that we were the last of our kind? That our lives were lived out like the conclusion of an expensive movie and that the answers to our questions were answered right at the end?

But then again, if you start thinking about it too much we can surely forgive Mr Camping for being a little bit crazy?

Swimming, Swans, Slides & a Swoosh!

2011-05-17T00:24:00.002+01:00

Sometimes we forget what a truly beautiful country that we live in. We get stuck in the monotony of life, the same places, faces, commute to work, back again, routines and school runs and sometimes you need a reminder that it need not be that way. Our country has sights worth seeing, villages worth visiting and natural habitats that allow children to get up close and personal with wildlife and animals.

Last week, Stephanie, Oliver and I spent four nights in Weymouth with Stephanie’s parents, Pat and Colin. We collected tickets out of the newspaper which allowed us to apply for a five day break at any of the country’s Haven holiday parks - all for the bargain price of £9.99. With Oliver not yet in school, it was the perfect opportunity for us to take a break outside of term time for what’s likely to be the final time!

On arrival at the Seaview holiday park, after a nightmare two hour delay on the M25 we were longing for a swim in the pool, or a refreshing drink in the late afternoon sun, looking down at the water in which the name of the camp implies. We decided to take a stroll around to the sister park next door as the swimming facilities were slightly better, but having arrived late on in the day, we didn’t have a great deal of time.

Before we left, Oliver was talking non-stop about the things that he was looking forward to doing - swimming being one of them. But all dressed up in his shorts and arm bands, his courage deserted him when it mattered.

The last time Colin had taken Oliver swimming was in Mexico back in 2007, when Oliver, not yet a year old would quite happily sit on the edge and throw himself off for one of us to catch him in the water. This modern day Oliver, refused to get in, before relenting - just about! Only after words of encouragement and bribery forced his hand into slowly edging his way down the steps, top lip quivering with cold before finally he grabbed onto my shoulders, scared and gripping me for dear life.

We managed to end our brief swim with Oliver in the brave new territory of just about floating by himself, albeit still holding firmly either of our hands but he’d already come along way in a short space of time. Over the course of the next four days, Oliver’s progression was impressive. By the end of the week he was doggy paddling, (with arm-bands) the entire length of the 20m pool and back again. He even went as far as swimming around the rapid powered lazy river attached to a float, not bad for less than four hours work!

There was some guilt when we saw the fear in Oliver’s eyes, swimming should be fun, which it was, but it took a little work to get there. Stephanie and I have since made a vow that we will try and take him to the local swimming pool on at least a weekly basis, so that next time we go away, he’ll hopefully be swimming rings around us both!

One of the things I was looking forward to before we arrived was being reacquainted with the beach at Weymouth, famed for it’s sand sculptures and shallow waters, Portland Bill and Chesil Beach for their unique form and setting, which evoke childhood memories of a camping trip that I spent with my own parents and was keen for Oliver to have memories of something similar.

As the weather was so nice on our first morning we decided to see the coastal sights then rather than wait till later on in the week when the weather might not be quite so good, which ultimately was a great decision in the end as we enjoyed the finest weather of the week that day!

One thing that I had not prepared myself for, was the view from the top of Portland. Maybe I was just like Oliver when I went as a child, more interested in climbing rocks and up hills rather than standing at the fence edge and nodding with admiration. Now that I am of a respectable age I looked down and appreciated the view of Weymouth Bay, the port and the view along 18 miles of Chesil beach, which curved off into the distance.

You could, if you wanted park you car at the summit of Portland island and walk around the coastal path, taking in the views and finding secret coves and sheltered bays. But with Stephanie being pregnant and Oliver being a little too adventurous with his rock climbing we found it easier to travel the coastal road by car, stopping whimsically and heading down to Portland Bill, the very southern-most part of the Island where the light houses are situated and the terrain is at it’s rugged best.

We spent a good two hours at Portland Bill, stopping for coffee at the beautifully named Lobster Pot, but spent the rest of the time climbing across the rocks looking for crabs whilst Oliver spent the entire time throwing any rock, stone, boulder back into the sea that was physically possible. We took a walk along the cliff face and watched a set of hardy canoeists setting out for an afternoon adventure, braving the waves as they crashed violently against the rocks.

At one point, I very nearly became another nautical statistic. Standing not too close to the edge, but close enough taking photographs of Oliver and the scenery when a big wave hit and crashed over me from the bottom down. Stephanie later commented that it was the funniest thing she’d seen in a long, long time, but I was more worried about damaging the camera and a set of soggy pants than her viewing pleasure!

Chesil Beach still on our list of things to do, we decided to kill two birds with one stone by picnicking on the beach. Oliver was once again besides himself, he was in stone/pebble/shingle heaven! Ever since he could crawl he has had a fascination with stones and as we made our way up and over Chesil beach to the other side, he gave himself just one goal - to return as much of the beach to the sea as he possibly could!

Although sunny, it wasn’t as warm as perhaps we would have liked with a brisk sea breeze meaning that everyone was in need of a coat, whilst Oliver and I warmed ourselves up by running up and down the huge banks of steep pebbles which at every step we’d collect more than our fair share in our shoes, making for extremely uncomfortable climbing. But the best part of all was listening to the waves come in, crash against the stones, before recoiling back out to sea, dragging with the water the noise of a million stones rocking back and forth.

We’d had our fair share of walking so far during our first day and although Oliver had enjoyed himself hugely, he wouldn’t give up on his one big dream. The huge “curly whirly whirly” slide he had seen on the internet. Everywhere we stopped he would ask us “are we at the indoor play centre yet?”. So much for trying to include Oliver in our planning! By showing him things on the web before we left we didn’t realise that they would stick so firmly in his mind!

We set off to find Sharkeys, the indoor play area right on Weymouth harbour so that he could experience first hand the large “curly whirly whirly” slide which managed to live up to such high expectations - the look on his face was worth the entrance fee alone. You go all that way, to a different place, a change of scenery, but it’s the same pleasures that keep him amused.

There was one draw back to having such beautiful, if not windy weather. It wasn’t until we got home and sat down for dinner that we realised our faces were all still rather warm. I looked myself in the mirror and looked stupidly back at myself, a bright red face, with white “panda eye” marks where I had been wearing sun glasses all day. Stephanie, red as well, but distinctively more noticeable with her bright white eyebrows which glow in the dark, much to her embarrassment. But the blushes went to Pat, my dear mother-in-law who wears her hair with a fringe that comes down over half of her forehead. The sun had given her a nice toastie shade, all except for the patch of skin under her hair which was all nice and sheltered from the warmth. This became known affectionately as Pat’s ‘swoosh’, the piece of fringe that swooshed down across her head, which she would either have to brush the other way to give her a nice all over tan, or keep concealing her unique white patch.

If we thought that the weather was going to hold out in time for us to tan over the white bits we had all made for ourselves we were in for disappointment. The following day was overcast and threatened rain. The only way to brighten up the day was for a dose of laughter, always the best medicine. Who better to make us laugh than a range of primates at the nearby Monkey World? If you ask Oliver what his favourite part of his week was, he’ll tell you about the monkey with the tongue. A gorilla which walked around the enclosure, ignoring us gawping through the perspex window waving stupidly and pulling faces until when, reaching Oliver he stopped, cocked his head and looked Oliver square in the eyes. Oliver, pushed his face up close to the screen and started pulling faces, poking out his tongue and rolling his head from side to side. Much to Oliver’s hilarity the gorilla started doing it back and mimicking Oliver’s actions. Oliver couldn’t stop laughing and was going on about it for the rest of the day. Certainly made our day too that’s for sure.

Seeing as we were in term time, Monkey World was fairly quiet, which allowed us to see the all the sights by early afternoon, leaving us with some more needed time to explore further the Jurassic coast for which this part of Dorset and the UK is famed for. One of the biggest tourist spots is Lulworth Cove, a perfectly rounded cove which sits by another picturesque village of the same name. Although the weather has been seasonally warm for April and May, the water takes time to warm up, so paddling in the bay was a brave as I would venture. Plus, it was also remarkable hazardous, particularly with a four year old boy throwing all manner of rocks, stones and boulders only inches away.

At this point, I was struck, not by Oliver throwing stones, but one of those long repressed childhood memories. Standing by the water with Oliver, reminded me of standing next to Dad on a similar stretch of water. Just as Colin did when he joined us and started to skim stones. He was knocking on the eight, nine and ten bounces whilst I was lucky to get just two or three. I remember thinking as a kid that you needed to be an adult to do this right, which I found out to be untrue, you just need to have a technique, which once again I find myself lacking. Still, there is plenty more time for me practice until Oliver realises my skimming shortcomings, if not, he’s still got either Grandad to show him how it’s done!

After another busy day on our feet we were all desperate to get back and put our feet up, maybe get some fish and chips as we were all too tired to cook!

Night times on a caravan park are what you make them. There is a full schedule of cabaret, children’s entertainment and disco’s late into the night. But with the park barely full and a lot of older people enjoying the early season peace and quiet the night time entertainment was lacking in atmosphere despite the hard work and enthusiasm of the entertainment team. Instead, we stayed until nine each night so that Oliver could see and join in with the kids show before passing through the fun-zone on the way home. The fun-zone is an area which consists of all manner of arcade games, penny machines and slot machines. If you were lucky, or spent a rather large amount of money all your game winnings were converted into tickets which pumped out of the machine bases in return for a prize which you exchanged at the kiosk. Despite Stephanie’s unbelievably lucky jackpot win on a penny machine which she would never repeat again even if she played until she was a hundred, we ended the week with a paltry 300 tickets. Enough for a small rubber insect, creature type thing the glows when you shake it, scant reward in the end for all the investment we put in!

Whilst others partied, or sat and watched football in the bar, or had an early night in the caravan, we, once Oliver was tucked up in bed, would get the cards out, as would the tea and coffees and Pat’s home baked biscuits for sustenance - who said that we lead exotic lives?

With the evenings being low key affairs we were afforded more time in the mornings to pack a picnic, have a hearty breakfast and plan for the full day ahead.

Our last full day in Weymouth and there was still plenty for us to do, it was just a matter of finding something suitable for all of us. Luckily, we chose right again and visited Abbotsbury. A little village towards the northernmost point of Chesil beach. Here they had a children’s farm, which gave Oliver a chance to get up close and personal with a varied range of farm animals. It was another place, like Monkey World that had a children’s play area bringing his unique slide count up into double figures.

Although the farm was good fun, it was only part of a potential three stop itinerary, second on the list was the Abbotsbury Swannery, unique in global terms for being the only place that you can walk through a colony of nesting swans. It was also another piece of well organised planning that saw us arriving on the stroke of midday, feeding time, which allowed Oliver and the other young children present the chance to feed the masses of swans on the freshwater lagoon. It is actually a sight worth seeing, you lose count how many birds there actually are and that they are so beautiful to begin makes it that extra special.

We decided that the third attraction on the Abbotsbury passport we’d miss out, the gardens, which would only be ruined by Oliver trampling over the well manicured flower beds and other exotic shrubs. Instead we travelled along the coastal road to Bridport, stopping once again on the opposite end of Chesil Beach for our picnic before heading on again.

Now, not so long ago I wrote about Follow that Fire Engine and their epic road trip and how there are famed and respected roads that evoke a romantic notion of the all classical road trip. The B1357 from Weymouth to Bridport would not have looked out of place on any part of their epic journey. Meandering up and down, through trees, fields and blind summits, whilst the view of the sea is always on your left, or right depending on the direction of travel. At certain points you’ll be going up hill to come to a layby at the top. It’s always worth pulling in for a look as you’ll certainly never be disappointed. The below image is a small version of a panorama I took at the top of one such hill. Click on it for a high-res colour version which will give you a much better understanding of the scenery which we tried to absorb and take in.

Five days is never enough time for a break away, but you’ll be surprised how much you can squeeze in with a bit of planning and common sense. We wanted to visit Paultons Park, the latest big thing in the UK theme park industry with their new Peppa Pig land for the children. But rather than waste valuable fuel travelling too and from the park from Weymouth we decided to stop off on the way home instead.

After a big build up before hand “Oliver! We are going to see where Peppa Pig lives” it ended up being somewhat of an anti-climax. On arrival at the park, we walked in the direction of Peppa Pig and all of her friends, but stopped off to ride some of the other attractions beforehand. Some of these were quite adventurous, especially for Oliver who has been growing in confidence on a daily basis. By the time he had arrived on his first Peppa Pig attraction he was asking to get off before it had finished as it was “boring”! Which sums up really what Peppa Pig world is all about. It is really beautifully done and the land looks bright, appealing and there are a good range of attractions, but for a four year old boy, the attractions were a little too tame. Maybe they would have suited him more twelve months ago, but kids are braver than we sometimes give them credit for.

I started this blog by stating how sometimes we get bogged down in the monotony of our surroundings and don’t see them for what they are. Familiarity breeds contempt and all of the usual cliches apply. Far flung holiday destinations are all fine and well, they give you life experiences and the weather is nearly always guaranteed to be good. But a lesson that Stephanie and I learnt is that is possible to have a great time, on a modest budget and give Oliver a chance to do some new and exciting things.

A final word if I may, to my in-laws, Pat and Colin. A thank you for the invite, for allowing me in particular to relive some childhood memories, to be a kid again and for letting me share some of those memories with Oliver, whilst of course creating plenty of new ones. A great break isn’t all about the destination and the weather, it’s about the people too - until next year!

* If you are on Facebook, you can see some more colour photos of trip here and here.

Once in a Blue Moon

2011-05-08T12:46:00.002+01:00

Next weekend the FA Cup final will be contested at Wembley stadium, the home of football, the closing chapter of another dramatic season of English league football. The trophy will be awarded to the winner of either Stoke City or Manchester City, two teams that I have no real association with other than the last time Manchester City played a final at Wembley it was against my Gillingham team, managed at the time by Tony Pulis, ironically now in charge of Stoke City, which brings to life a wonderfully scripted sub-plot to what is already an intriguing game.

Since Stoke City reached the final, blog posts and online analysis have focused on Tony Pulis, that day at Wembley and a recent interview on the BBC Sport website revealed some insight into the thoughts of the man and what it would be like to avenge that day nearly 12 years ago.

Feeling nostalgic comes naturally to me, particularly when looking back at Gillingham Football Club’s finest ever moment. That game, Gillingham vs Manchester City was played at the old Wembley Stadium on 30th May 1999. A game that any person within the stadium that day will forever remember. Tony Pulis led us out to battle knowing that this was to be his last game as Gillingham manager whatever the result after an acrimonious falling out with club chairman Paul Scally, unknown to us supporters cheering on from the stands that day.

But my own story starts earlier that season, when dreams of a playoff place were just beginning. My friend Stuart and I made our way to Maine Road, the spiritual home of Manchester City, their previous stadium. We went by train to Manchester to see Gillingham play a “massive” club, a team we’d only seen play on the television and was the away game highlight of our season.

I’d taken with us my bible, a book for away supporters, how to get there, where to drink and where to find a decent pre-match pie. But we felt the book got it wrong that day. We found the pub we’d picked out, slap bang in the middle of Moss Side, a notorious working class housing estate of which the stadium was nestled slap bang in the middle. It’s notoriety was probably exaggerated, but as two 19 year old boys we weren’t to know any different.

We sat in the pub, jackets done up, colours hidden, keeping ourselves to ourselves. We were sat next to two tough looking fellas who made us feel uncomfortable, but the ice broke when they asked us if we were Gillingham fans, “good to see you lads, we don’t get many away fans in here” they said, and a two hour conversation on football followed. The stand out parts of that conversation were the questions “Who are Gillingham? Where is Gillingham? And are you any good?”

If they hadn’t heard of Gillingham Football Club back then, there cannot be many a Manchester City fan who is yet to familiarise themselves with Kent’s finest. All thanks to events on that famous Wembley pitch on a miserable May Sunday late in the last millennium.

Us Gillingham supporters were just elated to have the chance to play at Wembley. Scenes at Priestfield on the final game in front of the old Rainham End were unparalleled, beating Preston North End by a single goal over two legs, scored by current Gillingham manager Andy Hessenthalter saw our club reach Wembley for the first time in our 108 year history.

The day itself, planned meticulously, was simply to get to London as earliest as possible, have a hearty full English and let the drinking commence. I’d painted my hair Gillingham blue, Stuart his scalp and Stephanie who was attending her first ever football match permitted blue streaks to cut through her blonde locks. I finished my loyal ensemble with customised flag of St George draped over my back. Oh to be nineteen again!

Full of dreams, hopes and desires, singing loudly on the tube to Wembley reality didn’t bite until the walk up Wembley way. Down the station steps, under a bridge and Wembley, in all it’s glory placed ahead of you with thousands of fans dressed in colours walking up the greatest approach to a football stadium in the world. I never thought I’d see Gillingham at that famous old stadium and unashamedly I was hit by the emotion of the occasion and allowed a tear or two to escape. This was Gillingham Football Club, mercurial underachievers, never been outside the bottom two divisions of the English football league against Manchester City, fallen giants - there was only one team expected to win this game and it wasn’t us.

The old Wembley stadium, with it’s twin towers which stood as an icon of a thousand dreams was in need of drastic repair, it was ageing, decrepit, the ghosts of failure and glory mingled in the concourse along with the smell of burgers, piss and alcohol. There were 40,000 Gillingham fans in the stadium that day, waving flags and wearing the Gillingham blue, whilst Manchester City, exactly the same number, but decked in the famous Sky Blue that they are synonymous with. No corporate ring of reds seats around the middle of the stadium, two sets of fans, sat on wooden bench seats, miles away from the pitch with columns blocking partial views of the action.

After the first 45 minutes the score was equal, two teams testing each other out, like boxers, throwing punches but not really hurting one another. Until the unthinkable happened late in the second half, Paul Smith played the ball through to Carl Asaba and he unleashed a ferocious shot past the hapless Nicky Weaver. Pandemonium on the Gillingham side of Wembley, David had given Goliath a bloody nose and David’s supporters could smell the blood. Nine minutes were left on the clock and the ultimate dream was in sight, until, six minutes later, the ball played again to Asaba, who like a magician back-healed the ball telepathically into the path of Robert Taylor who needed no further encouragement. Bang. The ball is in the back of the net, the hearts of every Manchester City fan are in the pits of hell as the Gillingham fans go absolutely mental. I turned around to Reaso, dazed, shocked, the greatest day of my life and said “We’ll be going to places like Blackburn next season!”.

Gillingham had promotion to Division One for the first time in their history. Just three minutes of normal time remained and the party would begin. Watching the Manchester City fans at the opposite end of the stadium, some were streaking out, no instant return, the giant had been slain and it was all over for another season. But whilst there was still a pulse there was still a chance, and that pulse was given a shot of adrenaline in the 90th minute. Kevin Horlock popped up with a goal, there was a scramble to get the ball back to the middle so they could start all over again.

One man changed our destiny that day. His name was Mark Halsey, he was the referee. He was the one man in that stadium that believed their would be 5 minutes of added time. For what, we didn’t know. History doesn’t care about details, just facts. Facts that say Paul Dickov, in the dying seconds, in the 95th minute of a pulsating game pounced on a loose ball and buried it past his best friend, Gillingham goalkeeper Vince Bartram. The noise was unbelievable. The Manchester City fans couldn’t believe it, pandemonium had been replaced by delirium and the sound of 40,000 Gillingham fans howling in pain.

My greatest hour as a Gillingham fan stopped right there. The build up, the 94 minutes previously I can sit and watch, replay in my mind all day long. The rest of the game, we knew how it would go, we resigned ourselves to our fate as soon as Dickov scored. It went to extra-time, it was another goalless half hour. Penalties and Gillingham never score in normal time so why would a shootout be any different? Smith, Pennock and Butters all missed, Nicky Weaver went on a lunatic glory run around the goal and across the greyhound track to leave an abiding final image etched on the mind. That or the sound of 40,000 people singing “Blue Moon” at the tops of their voices which left the hairs standing up on the back of the neck.

Twelve years later, it still feels painful, as I’m sure it does for the players. But for Tony Pulis, the manager, in his final game as Gillingham boss, he was hurting too. That’s why I’m convinced Stoke will lift the FA Cup final next weekend. For Tony, and for all of us who were there that day.

Baby Bird - Part II

2011-05-02T12:33:00.000+01:00

For the past thirteen weeks, Stephanie and I have been harbouring good news. I’m proud to finally announce that Stephanie is pregnant again and that come November, we’ll hopefully be celebrating the safe arrival of a long awaited brother or sister for Oliver.

As much as you try planning life’s big events, moving out, getting married, having children they do inevitably get mixed up with circumstances, uncertainties and the perennial question of “am I doing the right thing?” Making the decision to finally have a child with Stephanie after so long in courtship set off a huge chain of events that tied us to one another for the rest of our lives. This time around the decision to have another child came with a sense of freedom and an acceptance that what we was about to set off on was another journey of excitement and trepidation.

Having a child the first time around, everything is new, every day brings something different, whether it be Stephanie’s body changing in response to nature’s pre-programmed setting that creates the perfect vessel for motherhood, or the first moment you see the baby kick and the ‘bump’ starts to pulse like something from a sci-fi movie. This time we know what to expect, and far from diminishing the experience, it actually enhances it as you know what is coming up.

We’ve been asked quite a few times since we shared our news if we had a preference to gender. We’d both obviously like a girl to complete the set, one of each. But ask Oliver you’ll more than likely get a different answer (“a sister Daddy, a Boy”), who’d like a brother to play with. Stephanie has an older sister and the pair of them get on really well and are close, whereas I never had that. Me and Jessica get on really well, but there are differences between how two brothers or two sisters get on than one of each sex. Having said that, if we do have another boy there will be the inevitable question, shall we try once more for luck? The danger being that wanting a girl starts to become an obsession and the unlikely, but not unheard of event of rejecting the third child because of them not fulfilling a desire.

Last week, we met our growing child for the first time in our twelve weeks scan, the marking point at the end of the first trimester where it is suggested “safe” to inform people of your news. We had already told our close friends and family and “revealing all” via Facebook and the blog was the next logical step. Stephanie was already pregnant first time around when I started my blog back in the summer of 2006. Documenting feelings, events, things that happened became therapeutic at the time, a coping mechanism for these strange and foreign things that were happening daily around me. It’s the reason why I do this. My life isn’t exciting, I don’t have a jet set job or adulated by millions. It’s hardly the diaries of Samuel Pepys, but if I’m lucky to live to a ripe old age I can look back and remember these milestone events and how they happened, why they happened and more importantly - who they happened with.

You’re Nobody till Someone Loves You

2011-04-24T09:53:00.003+01:00

For the past three months I have been attending a Creative Writing class, which has been paid for by the Agency I work at under the idea of "learning something new". Last week we had a feedback session on short stories that were written based simply upon a song title, of which we had to choose from a long list of options. Feedback on my short story was really positive, based upon the song title "You’re Nobody till Someone Loves You", so I've made the brave, or mad decision to share it with you via my blog. Please feel free to leave your own opinion on the comments below - it makes a huge difference knowing what people liked and of course the parts that could be improved.

Dear Mum,

I never thought I’d write that word; ‘Mum’, those three little letters, a single syllable word, an affectionate or lazy term for Mother. Nor did I believe that I would have one, a mother I mean, a matriarch, an emotional leader and provider of a family. I’ve always had one of course, biologically - I wouldn’t have been here otherwise, but never a real one, not one like you.
     I read only yesterday, an article in a newspaper. It was about a lady standing on the sandy beach of a seaside resort. As the waves lapped gently over her feet and the seagulls cawed above her, she felt something hard brush against her toes. She bent down to see what it was, and to her surprise realised that it was a bottle. Within it, was a letter, recognisably German, beautifully preserved and hand written, each letter carefully crafted from the nib of an elegant fountain pen. But the lady, not knowing a word of the language except possibly “danke”, was intrigued, what secrets were held within, what was the story that was being told?
     She took it home, carefully broke the bottle and unravelled the parchment inside, releasing the pungent, musty smell of time and ocean. She read and reread the letter as if by reading it enough she’d somehow manage to find the translation from within its soul. Words had no meaning, but no doubt, she felt a melancholy tone, like a rhythmic poem, or a piece of classical music that you could detect sadness, tragedy but not know nor understand the words.
     She typed it slowly and carefully reproduced each letter onto her computer, feeding slowly a translation programme she had found on the Internet, which felt intrusive, as if digitally revealing the guarded secrets of the mysterious author. She pressed the button which said “translate” and after a pause, as if the computer had to think about it for a moment, until on the right hand side of the screen appeared, in broken English the heart of the mysterious German. It was a love letter, a young man revealing his hidden desires, his words of thanks to a lover who had saved him from trouble, who had changed his life and how he couldn't find the words to say to her just what she meant to him.
     This letter then, isn’t to a lover of mine, but to you Mum, like that German boy, a women who saved me. Who showed me what love is and what it means to be loved. To each of us who are human that we can always believe in hope and that wherever we come from, what ever the illicit results of two misguided loins, that someone can still mean something and that someone can achieve a purpose, however normal it may be.
     You knew my history, you’d have read my file meticulously understanding what you were inviting into your home and family. But for the sake of giving this letter a proper context in how it fits in with my life, you should hear it from me, in my own words, not that of bureaucracy, a nameless, soulless narrative of fact written by yet another social worker.
     My biological mother, a victim, nothing new, nothing unique, a fairly attractive teenage girl, left school, got into a bad crowd, found drugs a tonic to dull the pain of unemployment, let alcohol take over her body, to numb the physical effects of the arguments she had with my father. I was of course a result of that tempestuous relationship. My father used my mothers heroin ravished carcass for his own pleasure. It wasn’t love for him, she was a means to an end. She had what he needed to rid the tension, whether she allowed him or not. It’s a miracle looking at the facts that I was actually conceived, let alone born with my faculties intact. If that was the one thing that my mother did right, was to stay off the scag until I was born. You hear of babies being born addicted, that along with milk to nurture them, they’re fed methadone to wean them off the drug that their mother’s body infused during gestation.
     Once I was born, and after my father had been jailed for life for the brutal, drug fuelled murder of our next door neighbour who he’d wrongly accused of sleeping with my mother, my older brother Steven and I were taken and put into foster placement. we grew up, moved from house to house, family to family before one day being torn apart from him. This is where our paths in life split, our destinies changed and we stopped being siblings, but just two people who were joined by DNA.
     Brother Steven was three years older than me, he had it worse than I did. He protected me from my father and had to support me whilst my mother was comatose, drunk or sitting in her chair, an expired cigarette in her mouth, ash hanging limply asking politely to be dropped into a tray.
     We were afforded visiting rights, supervised visits all the way up until I was fourteen. He was seventeen by then and his reputation for trouble was well documented. It started out of rebellion, little things, nicking sweets, hiding toys, breaking windows and claiming innocence even if there were witnesses saying otherwise. It soon moved on, as broken foster carers washed hands of him, the downward spiral sped up. Joyriding, burglary, smoking drugs and dealing in pot on those days he decided he needed an education.
     There was a difference between us, like I already said, like you already knew. You took me in for the first time when I was just ten years old. I was weary, not like most ten year old boys. I was cautious, didn’t trust anyone and never did I let my guard down. I knew who I was, I felt unwanted, I felt useless and I felt tainted, the son of a murdering, rapist father and a druggy of a mother.
     I wanted attention, I wanted more than anything to feel loved, to feel wanted and a place where I fit in. I remember one birthday, it might have been seven or eight. It was just a number, but the memory is just as strong. Blowing out a birthday cake and a nameless face says “make a wish son”, so I do. I make a wish, but instead of wishing for roller blades, or a new video game, I wished for affection, a hug that came from the heart of the person who supplied it.
     The first time I witnessed unconditional love, I must have been about five, playing in a garden whilst the foster mother sat on a chair talking to her daughter. One of her grandchildren came running out of the house, bounding down the garden and into the foster carers arms. The look on her face as she gripped her grandchild tight, eyes closed but revealing so much. I thought to myself, or at least tried to remember when someone had hugged me that hard.
     When you took me in, I remembered your kindness and I remember everyone else, your two children and their kids, the other foster child you had with you, it was almost strange. Everyone seemed happy, content and joyful. Your house had rules, like most foster carers did, but you were fair, if anyone had any issues you would all sit down together and talk about it, like some kind of Swiss Family Robinson. I hadn’t been in that environment before, but I took to it, felt naturally accepted, but in my mind, I knew that on a whim I could be transferred, gone and be taken to another family, the carousel of the great unknown waiting to pick me up and spit me out all over again.
     As the weeks turned into months and I had been with you for a couple of years I slowly began to let my guard down. Our relationship grew and I felt part of the family. The spectre of being whisked away and re-homed felt remote and jaded, as if belonging to another life.
     My relationship with my brother seemed to deteriorate, even though we were seeing each other regularly. I was encouraged to work hard at school and reap the life long benefits of a steady education. He had left school and was one arrest away from prison. I would say to him “Stephen, you cannot live like this, you need to stop”. I was young and naive, I did not know that once the rot sets in, how difficult it is to stop.
     He resented me, the times that I asked him to think about what he was doing, his reply, gratifying his deeds, “come with me”, he would say, “your foster family. They don’t want you, they just want the money they get for feeding you. Come live with me, we’ll move away, go to London and get jobs”
     Our declining relationship hit its head that night on the street. He came to your house, how he found where I lived, I’ll never know. I never told him, he must have followed me one day. Who knows? He knocked on the door, you answered, he asked for me, and you called. I came down the stairs, I was revising - a concept alien to him.
     “What are you doing here?” I asked,
     “I need to speak with you” he replied,
     I did not want him in your house, I don’t know why, I had nothing to be ashamed of, but him being inside, would have been a stain on your hallway, or lounge, but instead, we stood on your drive.
     “Nice place you got here brother, they must sure get a lot of money looking after you”
     “The guy has a good job, works for a bank” I replied
     “Oh yeah? One of those high street ones, maybe we can knock it off, that’ll sort us out brother” he said, laughing.
     He was on something, his eyes were glossy, pupils dilated and he was sweating in the cool autumn evening.
     “Look Steven, can I call you tomorrow, I need to get back, I have studying to do, I’m sorry” I pleaded, wanting him gone.
     “Fuck you brother, you have no time for me anymore, you and your posh clothes and posh shoes, who do you think you are?” he screamed, getting agitated.
     “I’m sorry, Steven, I’m sorry. What do you want me to do? It’s not like that” I said trying to calm him.
     “Of course it’s like that brother! You’ll soon come running to me when they kick you out on your sorry arse, they want a son of a murderer living with them, no way?” He continued to scream.
     “They know who I am, they’ve known everyday for the past four years. I am not my father, you are my fathers son. Stealing, thieving and now, your doing drugs, what are you doing? What are you doing? Coming here, on drugs and wanting me to come with you? Come with you where, to some shit-hole and fill my body with the same shit that our mother poured through her veins”
     I’d never raised my voice to my brother, never. I was scared of him, but he’d come to the only place I’d ever felt safe and that fuelled my bravado.
     He stared down at me, we were more or less eye to eye, I could smell his breath, a pungent smell of marijuana and alcohol, I felt a sense of sadness, I could see my reflection in his eyes and the contrast between the two of us. How did it all go wrong?
     Then I felt an intense pain in my side and heard a slight pop as the knife went in. He spat into my face, and said “fuck you, you aren’t no brother of mine”.
     He dropped the knife, turned and ran. I slumped to the floor and remember calling for help. I had my hands down on my side and could see the blood. I remember thinking that I was going to die, on your doorstep, I was already in heaven so I had not far to go.
     There was an angel above me as I lay upon the floor, she held my hand and said that everything was going to be okay. She was holding my stomach together with her hands and using a piece of cloth to stem the flow of blood. I saw sadness in her eyes and I’d seen sadness before. This was grief, as if someone was loosing a son, or a husband. It was unconditional, and raw, it was real and it was best thing that had ever happened to me.
     You were my angel Mum. You held me together, in the literal sense, held my life together as it threatened to flow out of my stomach. You showed me that someone did care, that I was important and that my life was worth saving. Most importantly, you showed me that you’re nobody till someone loves you.

Yours always, your Son.

A Car-talouge of Catastrophe

2011-04-17T11:36:00.001+01:00

There is a reason I don’t own a Ferrari, other than the fact that I don’t have enough money to afford one, something would happen to it. Something ludicrous, a quirk of fate or once in a lifetime sequence of events would befall it and it would break, someone would break it, or failing that, a meteorite would fall out of the sky and land directly on top of it.

Last week, whilst sat eating our tea, we heard an almighty bang. Outside, there had been another crash. This time however, we found ourselves unwittingly involved. One of the vehicles had somehow managed to lose control, spin and crash into the rear of our car which was parked for the night by the side of the road. The impact of that, pushed our car onto the footpath and forward into the car parked in front of ours, the neighbours shiny, near vintage Mercedes. The female driver luckily was unhurt, which is the main thing of course, but yesterday, our worst fears were realised when the garage called and confirmed what we had suspected, that our car had been written off. This is just the latest event, in a catalogue of prangs, bangs and damn right thievery which seems to have unluckily befallen us, detailed for your reading pleasure below.

The Renault Clio:
Nothing drastic, but a sign perhaps of what was to come. Will, my good friend, despite not being able to keep still, broke the sunroof in an over eager attempt to open it during one sunny road-trip to Manchester. This meant that the car for ever whistled as the sunroof never closed correctly. He also, on the same trip annoyingly kept pressing the hazard warning light on and off whilst driving around the M25 on our same return trip. The parts of any Renault are susceptible to over use, and this proved to be the case. Even when off, the hazard warning lights would turn themselves on and keep flashing until the battery was completely drained. A welcome visit each time I left work and was on first name terms with the AA who would have to be summoned just so I could make it home.

The Blue Vauxhall Astra:
Where do I start? First off, parked on the road, next to the flat we lived in at the time. I wake up in the morning to see that someone had thrown a jack at the windscreen. This left the windscreen just about in tact, and a nice couple of juicy dents in the bonnet as the jack bounced down and onto the road - never did find the person responsible!

Shortly after, driving back from work, at the bottom of Singlewell Road, someone crashed into the back of me after failing to slow down. I pulled over, but they couldn’t get their car started. I got out, helped push the car sensibly to the side of the road, but noticed that the car had no keys, and was just a bundle of wires from the steering column. The car had been nicked, and the guy who crashed into me offered, by way of compensation a series of power tools and expensive champagne which he had in the boot to help pay for the damage. A burglar with a conscience?

Then there was the angry little old lady who reversed out of her drive without looking, too late for me to avoid, but just enough time to limit the damage. Six months of legal arguments until I received her version of events. It was clear that she had no idea where I had come from, and had not looked where she was going, else she would have clearly seen me coming. After my dossier of fact, she claimed liability, but far, far more hassle was caused than was really needed.

Finally, Stephanie, who inherited the car as her main form of transport when I started commuting up to London. Sitting happily as the last car in a line of traffic, until a speeding truck misjudged the gap and crashed quite heavily into the back of her. She was fortunately just fine, apart from a semi-serious case of whiplash and the good blessing that she had just dropped the little man off and wasn’t on her way to do so.

The Little Red Corsa:
We decided to downsize, save on fuel economy and car tax, brought a little Corsa, just to get from A - B as cheap as possible. Until someone decided to climb into our front room window during the middle of the night whilst we were sleeping and run out the front door with Stephanie’s handbag and car keys. A nice little car, for nothing, for someone with the morals of a alley cat. It was found nine months later burnt out in Sevenoaks, about 15 miles away as the crow flies.

The Turquoise Vauxhall Astra:
This was the one I told you about, whilst we were eating our tea, got in the way of a pirouetting Ford Fiesta and is now good for scrap, along with the car that caused the damage and the poor near vintage Mercedes which too has been written off.

The good thing is of course, that nobody has been hurt. We can list these calamities with a wry smile, there are plenty of people a lot worse off. The only one that really leaves a sour taste is the stolen vehicle, and how the perpetrator is still walking free, although I’m sure he’ll have his comeuppance one day. But still, for us, it’s back down the showroom with a sky high insurance premium through no fault of our own. Although this time around, I think we’ll dodge the Vauxhall forecourt, I’m sure it’s not their fault, but we’ve got to try and change our luck somehow!

Next Generation, A New Love Affair

2011-04-09T12:27:00.008+01:00

In the May of 1995, half a lifetime ago, my parents somehow managed to put together enough funds to take Jessica and I on a holiday that we’d never forget, to Orlando in Florida. Fast forward sixteen years and my parents are getting ready to relive the dream, with Jessica, her husband and their merry band of children, recreating childhood memories and igniting a new love affair within the minds of the next generation.

Whilst they bask in the warmth of the Floridian sunshine, I shall, unfortunately be making do with the unpredictable comforts of the UK and have resigned myself long ago that with a jealous heart and misty eyes I’ll have to listen to their accounts, stories and things that I’ve missed upon their return. At least I can console myself with the fact that I have been immensely blessed and have a vault of memories to withdraw from and remain hopeful that Stephanie, Oliver and I will, with luck have our own trip in the future, once we have finished putting our family together and have sufficiently recovered from our recent financial frivolity to make it all possible.

But as they look forward, I thought that I’d look back, remember some of the highlights and digitally immortalize some of those memories that have been living in a cellophane wrapper for too long and try, if I can, to tip my sister over the edge with excitement so that her children are for once telling her to calm down rather than the other way around.

I was fourteen, approaching my fifteenth birthday by the time we returned, and Jessica, just two years younger. Too old arguably for the “cutesy” and the real magic of Disney, the meeting of characters and staring with wide eyed wonder as the hero and heroines of the films you’d grown to love walk on by whilst waving in tune to the ambient soundtrack that repeats joyously in the background. Instead, it was the thrills and spills of adrenaline filled coasters and rides that we were after. UK Theme Parks palled into insignificance at that time and the closest we had ever been to a water park was the ill fated Fantaseas which briefly excited the people of Kent before slipping into the hill on which it was built.

With so much anticipation, it was, to our surprise, a first day spent at SeaWorld, a place which, at the time never had a single adrenaline filled ride to it’s name. Marine education and conservation was the name of the game, a series of shows and attractions that were strictly timetabled and up to you to match up with the unique itinerary which was handed to you at the park gates dependant upon what time you arrived. Which in our case was slightly later than scheduled, on account of a wasted visit to the travel company’s “welcome meeting”, which was just a ruse to get you to purchase overpriced park tickets. Oh and not forgetting the ten minutes Dad spent investigating why smoke and a foul smell was coming out of the bonnet of the hire car. Apparently this is what happens when you drive two miles with the hand-brake on!

If at first we thought SeaWorld possibly anticlimactic, we soon put those feelings away in the “we won’t ever be ungrateful again” cupboard and went on to enjoy a day that vastly exceeded our expectations. It pleases me massively that whilst researching this piece, some of the shows that left us spellbound are still taking place; Clyde and Seamore and Shamu the killer whale still perform daily, the latter of which still takes great pleasure in drenching people sat within the first 20 rows of the stadium enclosure - including yours truly! At least I’ll have something to relate to when my nieces and nephew tell it back to me, jabbering excitedly I expect, all four of them at once.

After the surprise and delight of a memorable first day, the remaining two weeks flew by visiting places in which we’d dreamt about for so long, a different theme park on a different day, parks like Magic Kingdom, Hollywood Studios, Epcot, Typhoon Lagoon, Blizzard Beach, River County (sadly now closed), Wet and Wild, Busch Gardens, Kennedy Space Center and Universal Studios.

Whilst it would be nice to retell the whole two weeks in fabulous macro detail, it would do nothing other than to highlight my memory banks which have been glossed over with the innocence of childhood and enhance what I’m about to miss out upon.

But of the many highlights there are a few that stand out just a little bit more than the rest; like viewing for the first time the Cinderella castle in all it’s fairytale majesty which leaves an indelible smile on your face for the rest of the day, Or after you have plummeted down the rampaging waters of Splash Mountain you find yourself automatically singing loudly “Zip-a-dee Doo-Dah” amidst a futile attempt to wipe the rivers of water that are cascading down your forehead.

Having the run of Kumba at Busch Gardens, three consecutive rides without queuing or having our names recited back to us as a farewell from ET, or re-riding and giving fake names that we thought would trick the computer as if it somehow knew that we were childishly jesting.

Intergalactic adventures with C3PO and R2D2, the feeling of being anywhere other than earth as you hurtle through the dark in Space Mountain. Or nearly falling overboard in fear as an animatronic Jaws jumps out of the water and scares you witless, as does falling 13 stories in a lift which is straight out of the Twilight Zone.

Riding a water-slide with a name like Humunga Cowabunga, or falling 80ft out the bottom of a trap door eight times during the course of the day and being teased each time by the ride attendant; “I’ll count to three... 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6... oh sorry”, and just as you stare at him wondering just what the hell the delay is he presses the release button which sends you on your way vertically into the channel of water below.

Looking at Mum as she wandered into the Lagoon in search for Jessica and I, but without her glasses and with water in her eyes her vision was cloudy, and being deaf, she couldn’t hear the warning klaxon that menacingly warmed of pending doom. A three metre wave that hurtled towards her, along with 3,000 swimmers and the look of confusion, fear and panic as she gave in to the inevitable soaking. The one thing she was avoiding, the only person at the waterpark that day, possibly ever, who went with the soul intention of not getting their hair wet!

That then, is the one real thing that I will truly miss, not the parks, the cleanliness and cheerful disposition of everyone you meet, the magic as adults become kids again and children are allowed to be children, it’s Mum. I’m going to miss her more than all of the rest of it put together!

For some reason, the heat and humidity not only messed with her hair, but messed with her mind. Dad, Jessica and I laughed so much at the non-stop entertainment that Walt Disney and Co had laid on for us, but Mum took her own special brand of entertainment along for the ride as well. Take for example her standing in the middle of a cave on Tom Sawyer island moaning and deriding the fact that the cave was far too dark for human safety as she couldn’t find her way out. Dad took one look at her and suggested that by removing her heavily tinted sunglasses she wouldn’t have as much of a problem.

Or each time we got back to the hotel and played the ever so unoriginal but constantly pleasing practical joke messing about with the floors on the lift which she fell for each time. Sauntering out as the lift arrived on the fifth floor only for us to quickly shut the door behind her and head back on our way to the correct floor above leaving her behind to walk the rest of the way up.

But the best one of all was after a particularly nice Chinese meal one night and realising horror struck that she’d managed to tuck the table cloth into her skirt, forgotten about it and subsequently upon leaving the restaurant walked halfway up International Drive politely nodding at people who stared at her until she discovered the rather large piece of linen waving in the wind. How none of us hadn’t noticed, we’ll never know, but such stories add a humorous subtext to what was an unforgettable two weeks.

Just as the four of us have grown and multiplied, (had Stephanie, Oliver and I had gone with them all this year we would be looking at a party of twelve people!) Orlando too has changed and developed beyond recognition. Universal Studios and SeaWorld have diversified and added new parks, as has Disney with the introduction of Animal Kingdom. All the old classics are still there, carefully maintained and lovingly looked after, so it will be interesting to hear on their return what they remember and how much better things are now.

What remains to be seen though and intrigues me massively, is wondering if the magic will penetrate the younger minds of my nieces and nephews like it so clearly has with Jessica and I? I mean would my nephew, who is almost three love it so much that he feels the need to propose to his future wife at Euro Disney like I did, or is he too young to appreciate and understand? The two eldest girls, 9 and 7 are at an impressionable age so no doubt they’ll be full of it when they get back, even if they might not appreciate how lucky they are until they are a lot older.

In just over a month, the wait will finally be over. Jessica and my parents have been waiting a long time to relive the magic, Harry Potter, Toy Story, Cars and the Simpsons, a few modern day names that are sure to wow and delight, alongside those things that fascinated Jessica all those years ago. Buffet food chains with more choice of jellies for breakfast than their were cereals, or the supermarkets with candy aisles that would make Hansel and Gretel jealous. Escapism with reality, fantasy and storybook dreams brought to life. The magic of Disney coupled with the unconditional love of family and children. It’s the greatest show on earth kids and I’m just gutted I won’t be there to see it. And although I am not in this chapter, I’ve been in this particularly story and I am sure I will again. Maybe, another sixteen years from now, our family will have grown larger still, children will have had children and the magic will be pass onto another generation, from ours to theirs and on again, just like Walt Disney would have wanted.

Baby Bird's Blossoming

2011-04-03T17:01:00.001+01:00

Time off work is always nice to have, but last week I had the extreme pleasure of three days spent entirely with Oliver, the little man. This was the same week in that Stephanie and I found out which primary school he’d would be starting in September. The combination of these events and the things that I surprisingly learnt about Oliver led me to ask the question - where on earth has our little baby gone and just where has this little boy come from?

Of course I perfectly understand the concept of time and growth, but it continues to amaze me when I see our little boy doing everyday things of his own accord. Like running over to piece of play apparatus in the park and hanging himself upside down unassisted whilst I run over in blind panic thinking that he is going to fall, snap his back and crush our world around us. But he is fine, totally in control of himself and swinging happily, with the agility and strength of a monkey.

On Tuesday past, we visited Riverside Country Park with my Mum and Sister, alongside my youngest niece and nephew which not only gave me a great insight into their everyday lives, gave me a chance to see Oliver on a “normal” day, what he gets up to whilst Stephanie and I are at work.

Before we left, having breakfast together I asked him if he had any interesting dreams in his sleep the night before. “Of course! Daddy”, he said, as if I had asked him a stupid question, which it probably was, but when queried further he went on to recount it, in his own, unique way; “I was being chased by a crocodile over a waterfall, and I went falling down, really, really fast and had to hold onto the crocodiles tail so that when I landed I wouldn’t crash, but splashed really, really big, up into the sky”.

It was blatantly obviously that this was being made up as he went along, which made for very humorous listening, you could almost see the cogs whirring along in his mind as he told back his nocturnal tale, but I couldn’t help but wonder; where had this imaginative streak come from? How can I nurture this?

Whilst out at the park, Oliver and his two cousins were having a great time playing with all the equipment, throwing themselves at the trampoline type mesh in the ground, or hurtling down the slide in as many different ways as possible, backwards on their bellies, forwards on their backs but headfirst - just like we used to do when we were kids. No encouragement needed, inherently ingrained into our human makeup that when four years old and confronted with a slide, one must attempt to slide down it all ways possible.

“Come on then Oliver” I said, “we are going for a walk along the river”, “But I don’t want to” he replies “it’s boring!” Oh dear, gone with the nappies and Farley's rusks, a command to do something will never be completed again without an opinion or counter argument. Walking is no longer seen as “cool”, he now knows his own mind, would rather swing, slide, climb, run and get dirty than walk along a tow-path staring at reeds, mud and the tide as it ebbs further out to sea leaving nothing but the pungent smell of mud and rusty shopping trolleys behind.

If there is one pleasing aspect, at least for me about Oliver getting older is that he has finally started using his bedroom for how we intended it. With his little plastic ball, he can spend a good hour at a time now running around the astro-turf carpeted room practising his shooting skills into his makeshift goal that we spent so much time investing in creating for him. I’m sure before the year is out, we may well hear once again from Oliveria Birdinho, Oliver’s footballing alter ego as he retells his early training sessions at Camp Nest!

It isn’t all physical feats that surprise and delight, Stephanie and I were shopping last week at Bluewater for Mothers Day and stopped in TGI Friday’s for something to eat. Oliver being with us was given a goody bag to keep him entertained until our order was ready and the subsequent breaks inbetween courses.

In the bag was a booklet of games and activities, one of the games, consisted of questions aimed at children under ten. He asked me what it said and what was it, so I read through and found a couple of the questions that I thought he’d be able to cope with “name 3 parts of your body“ I asked, “erm”, he replied, cogs visibly whirring once again, Stephanie and I waiting expectantly, guessing he would say things like arms, legs, mouth, eyes etc but no, out came “bones, skin” and looking at me, glancing at my face and saying “eyebrows” as if it was looking at me, was the first thing that came to mind (if you see me any time soon and notice that I have a neatly trimmed and manicured mono-brow you’ll understand why).

And so, in four and a half years, our little baby has grown, gone through his formative toddler years and is now ready to start the greatest days of his life, at the same primary school I myself went to not so many years ago. A little boy who I thought had an addiction to sweets but learnt he hadn’t and that it was Apples he can’t get enough of. That his levels of logic exceed and are consistently higher than those of his mother, no doubt due to the sprinkling of PlayStation and iPhone related entertainment as well as the more traditional jigsaw puzzle pastimes.

But whilst Stephanie and I lament the loss of those carefree days, we can celebrate, along with those who have helped and continued to assist by offering their services as child carers of a job well done and that together we have brought up a unique and individual child who will no doubt continue to surprise and amaze for many years yet.

The Help

2011-03-27T17:46:00.001+01:00

Last week I wrote about a team of people who are on the cusp of fulfilling of a dream, to drive a fire engine around the world and how it reminded me of things that I’m still to do. Namely a road-trip across America, to see the sights, enjoy the tastes and smells whilst embracing a diversity of culture that is barely rivalled in any other country on the globe. Someone else once had a dream. He spoke about it in-front of millions and was ultimately murdered in cold blood because of it. His name was Martin Luther King.

Imagine then if you can, an alternative road-trip, one that’s taken in a DeLorean like Marty McFly, which allows you to drive across America whilst zigzagging through the great space-time continuum. How different would your story be? What would you have made of Martin Luther King and the civil rights movement, which you probably learnt about, like me - in school? Add to the learnt dates, names, facts and figures, an understanding of the depth of feeling and assess how large the stain on humanity it really was.

In the past few days I finished reading a book called “The Help” by Kathryn Stockett, which is set in the deep south just as the civil rights movement was starting to gain momentum. A story of three women from opposite sides of the ‘divide’ living in Jackson, Mississippi in the 1960’s, each telling their individual stories whilst collectively providing the reader a glimpse into how people lived their lives back then.

This is as a whole, a work of fiction, cleverly written so that it sounds authentic without adding romance or dramatising what is a delicate subject to many. Without sensationalising the narrative the reader gets a genuine glimpse of how people were treated as second class citizens, such as being made to urinate in special built toilets at the end of the garden despite having a perfectly good bathroom in the house that was never in use, or having suspicious looks thrown your way if something went missing, despite trusting you enough to look after and nurse their children.

Aibileen and Minny are the two maids whose narrative is told alongside Miss Skeeter, a white women who grows up alongside a generation of ‘society girls’ but begs to be different, wants to do something with her life, wants to write and have a job and not just marry someone suited to her by her parents and have elevenses at the local tennis club.

Through Miss Skeeter, Aibileen and Minny form a secret friendship as they tell her their stories of working as maids for white families either as bringing up white children, 17 in all for Aibileen and Minny who is better known for her cooking, which is descriptive and appetising despite the chronically unhealthy sounding recipes, with ingredients such as; okra, grits, fried chicken, baked hams and black eyed peas used religiously.

Despite the richness of flavours and masterful way in which the author has written three distinct voices to create three characters you miss long after the book has finished, you can’t help but ask yourself, is this how people were actually treated? Is this really the way in which people were led to behave, treat as “normal” and have such genuine lack of respect for another human being purely on the basis of colour?

A measure of a great book - in my mind, is if your left asking yourself poignant questions, despite laughing wholeheartedly at several places throughout the story, or cheering like a banshee as the underdog strikes back. But more than that, a great book evokes a time and a place where you feel that you want to visit, even if it is to right a wrong or educate someone on what they wrongly know to be true.

Follow that Fire Engine!

2011-03-20T10:03:00.001Z

Somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean sails a freight ship carrying its usual load of shipping containers heading for Europe, or Valencia in Spain to be exact. Within one is an extra special shipment, a Fire Engine affectionately known as ‘Martha’, who is on her way back to London after an epic nine month global journey which has seen her circumnavigate the globe in the name of charity.

I first heard about Follow that Fire Engine towards the end of 2009 as the first Facebook event invitations got issued from a friend of a friend. James Morrow, or Jimbo as he was introduced to me by my good friend Stuart, ironically a fire fighter himself.

These event invitations were fundraisers for an expedition of people, who were raising money and awareness for their pending trip. An ambitious journey which would see them driving a fire engine around the world aiming to raise money for three charities close to the hearts of all of them, whilst attempting to break a Guinness Book Record in the process.

The challenge was initiated by crew leader, a man named Steve Moore in memory of his father, a fire fighter from Dorset who passed away in 2009 after a brave battle with lung cancer. The expedition is a fundraiser for three related charities; Macmillan Cancer Support, The Firefighters Charity and The Roy Castle Lung Cancer Foundation.

An exceptional idea for three exceptional causes I am sure you’ll agree. But what makes Follow that Fire Engine stand out, if it doesn’t already for it’s poignant purpose, is that each of the crew that participated at any given point throughout the journey paid for it themselves. Shipping, fuel and living expenses paid for by money that they have personally invested ensuring that each and every penny raised goes to a good cause.

The aforementioned Jimbo, swapped his life as a golf tutor to be part of the crew, initially met up with the expedition for the second leg (Moscow to Beijing) before flying off and enjoying winter amidst the sunnier climes of Africa and South America as an independent traveller before reuniting with Martha and the crew for stages 7 and 8 (Grays Harbour to New York City).

Actually knowing someone that is personally involved in a project of this magnitude I felt obliged to watch, read and listen via the social networks and have since come to understand just what a monumental achievement that these guys are undertaking - and whilst I enjoyed reading about their travels across Europe and watched videos of them touring Asia and Australasia, it wasn’t until they ended their three week sail across the Pacific Ocean and hit the Western seaboard of continental USA that my feelings of admiration and respect became sprinkled with a light-hearted jealousy and squeeze of resentment!

For a long time, at the top of one of those never ending lists of things I need to get around to doing before I die is road-tripping across the USA. Flying into New York City, picking up a hire-car on one of those drop-off schemes and making my way to San Fransisco or Los Angeles on no particular schedule or eye on the clock - unlike these guys who have now done that, but in a reverse route and against a strict schedule.

America has an abundance of famed routes, along with Route 66, you have, just to name a few from many, the US Highway 1 and 101, or Pacific Coast Highway as it’s more commonly known,. There is also the Blue Ridge Parkway which winds through the Appalachians, the Mohawk Trail of New England and the iconic alien desert landscapes of Nevada and New Mexico, places that Jimbo has since claimed to be his particular highlight of the US route; a place where you are literally alone, man and machine amidst crumbling sandstone and a thousand ghosts of solitude.

There is something ideologically romantic about a quintessential road-trip wherever you are in the world, it probably stems from the excitement of childhood when you were taken to the seaside in the car with your parents and you’d catch the first glimpses of the sea. Hollywood has obviously helped and literature too, but mentally imagining globally famed and respective road-trips along the Great Ocean Road in Australia for example; the Italian Amalfi Coast Road or meandering through the Causeway Coast Drive in Ireland evokes scenic images of panoramic wonder which plays like a postcard out of the windows of your car, which morphs magically from your standard Ford Focus to a souped up soft-top with the roof down, wind in your hair, beneath deep blue skies and the soundtrack of a guitar rock-anthem blaring against the gentle wash of the nearby ocean.

And that is exactly what Martha and the Follow that Fire Engine crew have done on a day to day basis for the past nine months across 5 continents and 28 Countries racking up an awe inspiring 26,000 miles. But in watching as the tour reaches its conclusion it looks to me that, for each crew member that has taken part it’s not just the legacy of seeing the world in all it’s majesty that will be remembered. Camaraderie and companionship, teamwork and leadership and the music that will forever play as a soundtrack to their memories as they recall the light hearted moments, the tough times and those moments of shear oddity that will never be recreated or retold in the authenticity in which they happened - despite how often they look back through the immortalised medium of the internet.

Whatever you do, when you have a moment read through their blog, catch up with their video diary on You Tube or simply view the pictures on Facebook, nine months of stories such as coming to the rescue after a terrifying traffic accident on the Lithuanian border, which if you only read one article, make sure it’s that one, or playing nine holes of golf in Mongolia, endless rounds of cricket, including outside the White House in Washington DC, border crossing problems, shipping issues and having the destiny of the project held within the whimsical hands of a scrupulous customs officer.

As inspiring as the whole project may already be, for me personally there is nothing more inspiring than people who lead the way, showing that if you want to do something, do it. Feats of endurance, of human endeavour should be applauded, respected and celebrated - the reason for me writing this. I know nothing of Steve Moore other than what I have watched and read on the internet, but the world needs more people like him, encouraging others to believe in the greater good. Great people with great ideas saying “anything is possible” and having the balls to prove it.

Which is why I’ll be there, in Greenwich on 10th April to welcome Martha and the team home, with Stuart as he meets up with his returning friend Jimbo, listens to the stories and accounts of how during his time in America he managed to consume 56 burgers in an equal amount of days, whilst I stand along with the other mere mortals and applaud a special group of people and their one of kind leader in performing a spectacular job in the most life changing way possible.

Reading Books and Acts of Childish Vandalism

2011-03-13T10:04:00.003Z

Last week a friend suggested that I have a look to see what national day/week it was and write a blog post upon the subject. A great suggestion I thought, but the timing was slightly out. The only day in March that really appealed to me was World Book Day, but having already published my post for the week I thought I’d save that particular subject for the future. Since then, I’ve been assigned a task - to write an article about my local Library and so this week, I’ve concocted a blog post which is a mixture of all of that!

My article, which I have submitted as part of my writing class was to look at our local library and talk about it, as if writing for a newspaper perhaps. With it came a 500 word limit; meaning
I was up and over that long before I’d even made an introduction!

Within it, I spoke about our own central library in Gravesend, how Kent County Council are going against the current trend and are actually placing some much welcome investment in the form of a redevelopment of it’s Victorian Carnegie building and reconstructing the annexe block next door. The article goes onto explore the philanthropic background of it’s founding investor and the essence of what makes us human.

However, the personal experiences which I added as a form of habit were lost in the final editing process, but in doing so I felt that perhaps the anecdote was maybe too funny, if only for my sister Jessica’s benefit, not to retell at a later date.

A quick perusal through my bookshelves and you might come across Swallows and Amazons, written by Arthur Ransome. You will notice that it stands out against all the other books, not least because of the artwork decorating its spine looks as if it belongs within another era, but its the plastic dust-jacket which gives it away - immediately screams “library book”.

Although it’s lost that clinical, library type smell, open it up and you will see that within it’s yellowing pages, the ‘due back’ date stamp reads ‘10th April 1993’ - only a small matter of being 18 years overdue!

Its not the fear however of a monster fine that scared me into going back after all these years, nor is it the alleged ghost which haunts the bathroom, causing a mysterious lavatory to flush late into the night. It is instead of a juvenile accident and the fear of punishment which is the sole cause of my self-imposed exile.

Back in 1993, Jessica and I, enthusiastically encouraged by our mother to chose a selection of books from within the children’s section, whilst she went off and selected from the adult range.

Within the area marked ‘little ones’ was its focal point, a bright red train which doubled up as a book repository. There was even a little cabin which you could escape inside with a book and read for a while.

All around the outside, making up the rest of the train construction were shelves laden with books aimed at a much younger audience than my sister and I were at the time.

Dotted around the floor space were little plastic chairs varying from one bright shiny colour to the next, red, yellow - prime colours mainly. These chairs, little did I realise, were not built for growing teenage boys, but for tiny toddlers instead.

Finding a place to sit, with a nice Enid Blyton novel, the Secret Seven, or Famous Five for company I sat upon one of these flimsy thrones - only for the back two legs to give way and for me to fall squarely and firmly onto my back leaving my own two legs waving wildly into the air.Jessica burst into howls of laughter, which in the library is the equivalent as screaming blue murder in the street, whilst I struggled to get back up and survey the damage that I’d caused to this plastic chair.

We decided together that this was a grave crime and that our punishment would be severe and painful. As many a criminal before us has made a rash decision to cover up their crimes my sister and I did exactly the same thing. We put the broken pieces back together and placed the chair as if it was still one unit into the cabin of the train.

Making haste, we met up again with Mum and left with our newly acquired books attempting to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Neither of us said anything about my heinous act of vandalism and that was, I believe, the very last time that either Jessica or I ever stepped foot inside that building!

So then, when the newly refurbished library reopens its doors in June, it is a chance for me (and possibly Jessica) to start again from the beginning, bury the fearful memories thinking about a life of juvenile delinquency and save ourselves a few pound in the process.

Time has moved on quite considerably since 1993 and the library as well as modern society are quite different from back then. The truth is that generally speaking, for many reasons, the humble library book is no longer a means of entertainment for the masses, people are either too busy to invest in the time it takes too read a novel and would prefer watch the film instead, or are not reading in schools in the quantity and quality that we would come to expect.

People who read religiously are just as much to blame, and I use myself here as an example - as a person who finds it much easier and convenient to browse Amazon from my computer or phone and place an order which invariably arrives by courier the very next day. I can do this within the comfort of my lounge or whilst wedged between two fellow commuters on the train on my way home.

There are also a third set of people, the new crew, who read books, but in the form of an electronic copy on a Kindle or other handheld device. They buy books at a much cheaper price and have them delivered immediately via the airwaves from a retailer of their choice, which is just a more clinical, soulless exercise of convenience than my own method of sourcing reading material.

Which is why, keeping a thriving library and events such as, “World Book Day” are so important. We shouldn’t need an incentive, or a reminder to encourage children to read. We shouldn’t deny children free and easy access to a range of literature and the lands of fantasy dreamt from the depths of an authors imagination.

It’s not just make belief worlds of wizards and witchcraft which enable children to disappear into chasms of fiction. Literature teaches us about everyday things such as; history, humanity, general knowledge; geography and culture. But most importantly of all, it fuels our own creativity and fills our minds with ideas and inspiration, teaches us that anything is possible.

A friend of mine recently said that they’d never actually read a book in their life, which I actually found quite sad, like people who suffer through poverty or famine. You’ve got at your fingertips a window into which beyond lies infinite realms of fun, laughter, entertainment, comedy, sadness and much, much more besides.

Granted, it is a little bit of investment of your time, but that comes for free, the wealth of the end rewards though, are rich and plentiful.

An Angry Bird turned Happy Bird

2011-03-06T11:58:00.003Z

In today’s modern society it seems that in general terms it has become very easy to moan about anyone and everyone, via either a Facebook status update or a tweet, but voicing gratitude sometimes gets forgotten or isn’t as widely recognised. In this, my latest #postaweek2011, I’d like to thank Apple for their excellent customer service and highlight the problem in which they resolved for me, just in case anyone reading this also has the same problem happen to them.

First of all, before I begin, I owe an apology to those kind Facebook friends and family of mine who openly offered me sources of inspiration to base this week’s blog post upon. I was perhaps a little hasty in sending out an SOS seeking a topic after what I falsely believed to be writers block.

Based upon the excellent suggestions made to me I was able to find out a little more about the crisis in Libya, this years Fair Trade Fortnight and that erm, coughs, Justin Bieber was actually born in Canada! But there was one suggestion, of researching which national day/week was forthcoming and writing a blog based upon it, which ultimately led me towards the path of enlightenment and a pending blog post.

However, not wanting to get back into coincidental occurrences (my brain still hurts from last week) it was one of those random events that happen from time to time which sparked a different thought in the mind and caused a minor eureka moment - so that’s what I’ll blog about instead. From not having anything to write about, I now have enough content for the next two weeks!

Anyhow, back to the topic at hand, and it begins this week with the little man, Oliver, aged just 4, who has steadily grown an obsession with my iPhone. It is fast becoming an actual pain rather than a source of amazement “Wow Oliver has beaten my highest score on Doodle Jump!” has since been replaced with “No Oliver you are NOT playing my iPhone. It’s 5.45am and I am FAST ASLEEP!”.

If Oliver isn’t working out how to blow up frogs with an array of assorted arsenal of avian weaponry, he will be solving the puzzle of how to cut a rope, whilst collecting pieces of candy and transporting all elements into another frog’s mouth, which by the way, begs the question, what is it with app manufacturers and frogs?

Not all apps test the logic of a developing brain, there are apps built specifically for children. Or at least I would hope so. Those that involve a character of some kind, which by speaking towards the phone whilst waiting patiently for the character to repeat it back to you in some annoying squeaky cartoony voice. I haven’t seen many commuters screaming into their phones on the train at night saying “you smell Mr Pooey Head” or whatever really funny things kids come up with these days.

But the app makers for the Talking Friends Collection franchise have been quite clever in monetizing their apps, the following account is what happened with Oliver, my message to Apple and the resulting message back.

Each of the Talking Friends Collection apps has a splash page which highlights which of the other apps you have installed. Oliver taking after me gets quite OCD if he is hasn’t got the full set, so I get repeatedly asked if he can have all of the new ones each time they appear. We have a rule, he can have any of them as long as they are free.

The other day, a new one appeared, Talking Gina, a giraffe, which like the Talking Tom (cat) was free. I downloaded it, put in my password and gave it back to him whilst keeping an eye on what he and the app were doing.

Around the screen real estate are a set of icons, which depending upon what you press takes you to different areas, or performs a different animation upon the character within the main frame. One of these buttons, a child enticing icon of an ice cream which when pressed allows you to feed Gina the Giraffe a delicious frozen treat. After just three more button presses Oliver had managed to purchase 20 virtual ice-creams in which to feed his new pet Giraffe.

Except, as I had been watching him, I didn’t think that he was doing anything wrong. It was only when the final “thank you for your purchase” message popped up that set the alarm bells ringing. After taking the phone off Oliver and checking my iTunes purchase history I realised that those three button presses had cost me £2.37!

Luckily I had been watching, goodness knows how much Oliver could have racked up had I left him to his own devices! It wasn’t the token amount that had been spent, it was the ease in which you could spend it that worried me. So I set off and hunted out an email address to the iTunes customer service desk.

I explained to them what happened, that I understood it was my responsibility as an adult and that I accepted all liability for the mistake. My point was, and still is, that the application developer is building tailor made content specifically for children and using cunning methods of in-app methodology to get children to buy virtual content easily and unknowingly.

Apple sent a rather nice apology email back, confirming that they would be refunding me the money back and gave the below steps to ensure that any in-app purchases are disabled.

The following steps outline the method for switching off in-app purchases for the iPhone. Below this I offer a bit more as way of an explanation why you might consider doing this. Five very easy steps, which might just save you a penny or two!

1 - Select settings

2 - Select general

3 - Select restrictions

4 - Enter a password

5 - Turn in-app purchases to off.

It may well have only been £2.37, very small fry in the grand scheme of things. Had it been a lot more financially punishing I probably wouldn’t have been quite so passive, but I would have been equally responsible. But as parents we can be as careful and as responsible as we can, but still get outwitted by unscrupulous application developers.

And finally, thank you to Apple, who showed that huge mega corporations can still have a heart and use their common sense. It remains to be seen whether or not the app developer of the talking creature apps is asked to recall their product or at least amend it so that everyone is clear what charges are being incurred.

I've a Stalker in Jesus

2011-02-27T08:49:00.001Z

A coincidence for me is finding out that your birthday falls on the same day as the new girl you are dating, or buying a new shirt from Primani and wearing it to a party thinking “nobody will know it only cost me £4.99”, but when you turn up, someone else is wearing the same thing and you are subconsciously forced into avoiding them, whilst offering glances with knowing eyes for the rest of the evening. What then do you make of a series of occurring coincidences, all on the same subject, in a short period of time?

My first blog post in this series of #postaweek2011 articles was entitled Faithless not Hopeless, where I looked back at my attendance at last years Alpha Course and summarised my feelings and my own view of Christianity. I spoke about how my parents and surrounding family had an unnerving faith, which I was lacking, all due to not having the belief that they share - that there is actually a son of God and that they are having some kind of relationship with Him.

I thought that was it, my one and only post about faith, religion, Christianity or otherwise, get it over and done with, write about other stuff. But since then, a series of strange events, coincidental in nature have befallen me which I list in more detail below. Am I right in believing that I have a reader of this blog who could be defined as a “Higher Power”, or am I reading much too far into normal everyday things?

Firstly, over the course of two meals, both at my parents house, I heard during the first one, belatedly my Dad’s full and frank testimony. As I mentioned in my previous post, I had snubbed his baptism as an act of childish petulance. I heard him speak openly and honestly about how he was exiled out to Iran and the relationship with God he developed over the time that he was there. On my second visit, an impromptu “come dine with me” style evening which Stephanie and I were the only non believers in a party of eight.

After a Valentines day themed desert, a choice of either a heart shaped chocolate mouse or a decadent strawberry fool, conversation turned into something deeper. Stephanie and I heard how the couple who were dining with us used their unwavering faith as a mechanism for coping with the loss of their newborn son. Tears flowed from Stephanie as she tried to understand the complexities of such a breadth of emotion and how faith empowered it, whilst I sat with not much to say - how does one ask questions about something like that?

Ordinarily I would agree with you and taken my usual sceptical stance. Of course, if you keep company with people of faith, you are going to talk about it. There is nothing unusual or coincidental here. Unless you add it to the mix of my next few weeks.

Walking from the office to Charing Cross station, amidst the tourists, with their Canon or Nikon camera’s taking photographs of the pavement and equally uninteresting things, shoppers weaving in an out of stores laden with carrier bag’s whilst aromatic smells of a thousand restaurants waft through the air, stirring the stomach through a sensuous wringer. Telltale signs of consumer excess, western commercialism.

Commuters dodging around each other under a canopy of umbrella’s, racing to get home, fighting to remain dry, unlike the tramp. I call him that, as that’s all I ignorantly know. Not street person, not homeless person or whatever is politically correct. A tramp, hiding under a coat-cum-duvet, face hidden beneath his or her hood.

It’s February, it’s biting, freezing cold and the person within this man-made cocoon that doubles up as their home must be soaked, unimaginably uncomfortable, teetering on the edge of darkness.

But sitting there on the floor outside Leicester Square tube station, as the world goes crazily on around them, I see that this person is reading a book instead! Gloved hands with the tips cut off - mittens, holding a shaking book as steady as they can, entitled “The case for Faith”.

I had to double look back, nearly collided in amongst the pedestrian carnage that surrounds Leicester Square at rush hour. I had to see it again, make sure that it wasn’t a trick of the eye - was this really a book that a person in such a dire situation would read? If you were at the bottom of the bottom and in their shoes. Would you be reading a book of this kind?

Even now, would you consider the questions and answers of faith sitting there reading this on your laptop, Ipad or mobile device?

I’d previously read “The case for God” by the same author, Lee Strobel, a book I had borrowed from Mum in an effort to discover my own answers. I know what this series of books are about. They are not considered easy reading, experts from the fields of science, history, theology, philosophy all try and understand and answer some of life’s hardest questions.

Chapter 6: If God really created the universe, why does the persuasive evidence of science compel so many to conclude that the unguided process of evolution accounts for life?

Was this sighting a coincidence maybe, or was it something more?

Outside Charing Cross station, you get an assortment of, what shall we call them - characters? Eccentrics, weirdo’s, people who don’t conform to societies perception of normal. Like the African man of a morning who will be shouting incoherently about how the government has murdered his ‘brothers’ with an array of hand drawn placards as evidence to back up his claims. Or the guy with a saxophone, busking of a evening playing a mournful jazz solo which always reminds me of the band on the Titanic playing wistfully until the last inevitable moments.

Tuesday then, the one just past, a new character standing outside Charing Cross station, nearly five years commuting and I’ve never seen him before in my life. I’d left the office quite a bit later than I normally do. Who knows, if I’d left on time I might not have seen him. But saw him I did. A fairly elderly guy, grey, tight curly hair. He was tall and quite imposing, but standing as he was. Erect, like the Statue of Liberty with his arm aloft, high above his head. Instead of the Liberty torch he held a single piece of laminated paper, with one word upon it, bright, blood red. “Jesus”.

Weirdo I thought! What’s he trying to say? What’s his point? Is he proclaiming to be Jesus or something? If I see him again I thought, I’ll ask him.

Following night, Wednesday. I left work again, not my usual time, but not as late as the night before. Around the corner from my office, walking onto Oxford Street, about to take my short cut through Soho, when in my peripheral vision, in amongst the throng of people walking in the opposite direction was a fairly elderly guy, grey, tight curly hair. Just like the night before he had again, his arm erect, he had the same sign in his hand, inscribed with the same blood red word. “Jesus”.

Thought to myself, there’s that guy again! In the whole of London, I just happen to see the same man at two different locations, on two different days at two different times - weird! Again I wondered what is his point? If I see him again, I thought once more, I’ll ask him.

Coincidental surely? Or something more?

That same night, Wednesday, I had gotten a later train than I would usually get on account of leaving the office later than normal. I sat, reading for a while as I usually do, although for once, I couldn’t read for long, too tired I’m thinking, so I have a nap instead. Wake up, approaching Dartford “Sorry ladies and gentlemen, due to a delay in service, this train will terminate here”. Whatever. I hate South Eastern trains, with a passion. They are useless, beyond useless.

I disembark, sleepy, angry and forced to wait around like the other sheep who are at the mercy of a company who aren’t fit for purpose.

Seven minutes standing in the freezing cold, waiting for the next service to Gravesend. Train finally arrives, so I embark, find a chair, sit down, well, slump, with the hump and get my phone out, vent my spleen at South Eastern through a tweet. Go onto Facebook, what are people up to? Having tea, in comfort, watching football, well Arsenal, if you want to call it that. Look out at the wind and the dark, it’s raining again, can’t see much except for the miserable weather and it’s reflection of how I’m feeling.

I realise I’m sitting on a newspaper, lets have a look at the news shall we?, I thought, understanding that there are far more significant things going on in the world other than my disrupted commute. I pick up the newspaper, it’s open already, folded over onto pages 14 and 15, I take one glance, someone has grafittied on the page. ‘No change there’ I thought, normally you will find newspapers with intelligent one liners like; “your mum’s a whore” or “for sex call” and someones number will be listed. Or in the case of photographs you’ll see Posh Spice adorned with a little goatie beard, or her husband with a male appendage hanging from his forehead. This message slightly different, read:

“Please accept ‘Jesus’ problem solved”

All that I mention above flashed back before my eyes, the honesty of testimony, someone sitting on the street, on or in the verge of their darkest hours but seeking the answers in a theological book of some substance. An apparition of a man with a sign in his hand that said “Jesus” who appeared randomly twice in two days and now this, it really was the last straw! I would be wrong in saying I didn’t have a tear in my eye, but giving a wry smile, thought to myself, well, I did ask for proof!

Turning the page over, page 14 another message from the subliminal spiritualist:

“Jesus loves you, Please read Bible, ‘Revelations’”

I looked through every single last page of the newspaper, no other graffiti was found. The person who wrote these messages intended for someone to read them, of course they did. But the random way in which it came to be in my possession left me looking upwards and feeling rather humble!

Is someone then, really trying to tell me something, or is it all a collection of chance and circumstance? Family members reading this that will be suggesting something spiritual, I know that. And, whilst I know what I should probably be doing by way of a response, the sceptic in me is still saying “show me one more sign”.

What do you think? What are a series of circumstances celebrating the same subject over a period of time called, and am I right in applying them to a divine source?

Regeneration, not a Grave End

2011-02-20T16:40:00.001Z

Gravesend is currently in the beginnings of a major transformation. Both the 'civic quarter' and 'transport quarter' are being redeveloped as part of a multi-million pound regeneration scheme, which will eventually see a new one-way traffic system, a new bus terminus, a vastly improved train station and much improved pedestrian areas and access routes. However, if Gravesham Council had their way, the redevelopment wouldn't stop there.

Last year, plans for Gravesend's 'heritage quarter' were rejected. These plans, put together by developer Edinburgh House included new housing, a new public square, a children's play area and enhancement of the river to include better walkways and garden areas. Also included in the grand masterplan was a controversial 32 storey residential block, which proved to be the cause of much upset and discussion amongst local residents.

As long time readers of this blog will know, I was quite forthright in my condemnation of the planned Ebbsfleet Landmark, going as far as appearing on the BBC's Politics Show to make my feelings known. The plans however were permitted, but work is yet to begin on actually building the 50m horse that was eventually chosen as the winning design.

Why then, would I take such a staunch stance over one project, but take the opposite view on something else? Particularly when I'm now having opposing views to the people who were supporting me against the Ebbsfleet Landmark?

A stones throw from my house sits a pub, The Old Prince of Orange, which until earlier this week I learnt was actually, the second pub on it's current site. The original (below) was knocked down and replaced in 1933.

In it's place a new pub was built:

What would a coach driver in the 1850's have said if you'd have told him that his regular watering hole, which he had stopped off on his way back from Rochester each day for the past twelve years would be knocked down 80 years from now, and that a new, bigger, more modern building would be built over the top of it and would last for another 80 years and possibly many more?

Would he have complained? Would he have written a letter to the land owner and said that modern people should leave well alone and that his pub had been around since 1633? That the new plans were a disgrace and were not considerate to the towns history, that we need to keep an old, decrepit, falling down building for the sake of keeping the town's character?

Or would he have been proud, that his pub was going to be rebuilt, that it would last another 300 years, would have another 300 years worth of stories, lives and laughter's under it's all modern new roof?

I discovered the Gravesend Yesturyear [sic] Facebook group, which contains a fascinating collection of photographs from down the years, including the one I have used above. Many of the photograph's show the town centre, a vibrant, busy, economic centre where local people used to work, shop and play.

But times change, societies change and as horrible as reality is, town centres no longer serve that purpose any more. Bluewater, Lakeside, Hemstead Valley and other out of town, purpose built shopping centres were the death knoll for small towns like Gravesend. Dartford, Strood, Chatham and Gillingham, all places modernly labelled, quite openly as “shit holes”. The first opportunity Gravesham Borough council get to regenerate and rebuild the town centre into something more modern, more suitable for twenty-first century living people start complaining, protesting and campaigning "save our town". Sorry chaps, but the town has long been lost anyway. The Gravesend of our youth is not the Gravesend of now.

I have my own memories going into town on a Saturday afternoon, pick'n'mix from Woolies and off to the cinema to see a film with friends from school, all unsupervised. Parents knew where we were and quite happy to leave us to our own devices and I'm only 30, fairly young in the grand scheme of things. People older than I, will have those memories and a lot more besides.

But whilst nostalgia is a wonderful thing, we shouldn't let it cloud our judgement. There is nothing I would like more than to see the Gravesend cinema rebuilt back to it's former glory, but it's unlikely to happen (the cinema itself is no longer there, all that's left is it's boarded up façade). Would rebuilding it serve the best interests of the town, or to satisfy my own dreams of days gone by?

Yes, the 32 storey residential block was perhaps a step too far, but the rest of the scheme, all things considered was an opportunity for our town to take a step forward, instead of looking two steps back. Gravesend used to once serve a purpose, but like many a town, it's fallen under a dark cloud. Immigration and anti-social behaviour, graffiti, spitting, foul language, will still be there no matter what the town looks like. But if the town is allowed to fall further into disrepair and we continue to allow it to be neglected, it will only ever get worse.

Anything of historical importance, the library, the pier are already being fondly restored. People moan about sight-lines and preserving the views, but really?! What views? Ours? Of Tilbury, of a power station and the ships that sail into Tilbury docks? Or those of said sailor's looking over to us? What would you rather look at? A collection of architecturally contrasting 1990's riverside apartments with a backdrop of a 1970's shopping centre and an intriguing church building which speaks of an older historical significance?

Or would you rather see a fresh, revitalised town, that looks 'just built', a new town, planned for a new generation, with dotted elements of history, the church, the pier, the odd pub or two. A town that evolves with time and pays careful consideration to what came before it. I know what town I'd prefer.

A Poem for Valentine's Day

2011-02-13T16:59:00.003Z

A blog can be a story, an article, a quote, or a picture, it can be a link or a collection of links. It can be an opinion or an assessment, a review or an analysis. It could if you wanted it to be, a song or a poem, which seeing as it's Valentine's Day, I thought I'd do something brave and share with you a piece of poetry. Even better than, I'm sharing with you a piece of poetry that I wrote myself!

A few posts back, I asked the question "£200, what would you do?" and went on to tell you about my creative writing course and my expectations for it. Well, off I went, my first week and was immediately assigned with my first task; the monthly competition:

'With St Valentine's Day taking place this month we require a poem of no more than 20 lines celebrating unrequited love. This can be in any form. To be handed in on...'

“Great!” I thought, “nothing like starting at the deep end!” But have since spent many a quiet moment thinking about what on earth I could write, in this form, about a subject I am very fortunate to have not too much experience in.

Whatever your views are on Valentines Day, whether you are an old romantic at heart and go to great lengths to make your partner feel special, or sit under the “I don't need a specific day to tell my partner I love them, I tell them everyday” cloud, is entirely up to you. But there are plenty of people out there who are deeply in love, secretly in love and going through things that I can only imagine.

Trying to put myself into that mindset took me back to my early teenage days, those awkward times when any girl so much as spoke to you, chemicals reacted, anatomical appendages extended and your heart would send your brain messages that needed to be decoded by the Enigma machine.

So I sat, at my desk, pencil in hand and threw a load of words together, baring in mind that my current written poem anthology stands at zero entries, and wrote, after much tinkering, chopping and changing, something that I felt was not only suitable enough for human consumption, but would be able to be entered into a creative writing competition without the judges collectively laughing and thinking 'who on earth wrote this?'

As a further attempt to massage my confidence I went and spoke with the agency poet laurette, an insanely intelligent chap named Rish, who read, corrected and congratulated me on a piece well done, which left me feeling rather pleased for myself and happy that I hadn't made too much of an embarrassment of myself!

In Tuesday's class I'll be forced to hand in in my completed poem, but before I do, I wanted to share it with you to pass the all important 'readers test', so with much fanfare and no further ado, I'd like to present you with, my poem, on the subject of 'Unrequited Love':

A Lover's Woe

Eternal prayer at cupid's altar
Dear father, I worship your daughter
Broken heart, torn asunder
Raindrop tears, sound like thunder
Neglect, rejection despite my affection
Intense pain, death by injection

If you'd like to comment, please do so, or even sharing your own words on the same subject would be amazing!

Deadline Day Drama & Goodbye Gary

2011-02-06T12:45:00.000Z

Deciding to write a blog post a week was a bit of a brave challenge, my previous postings over the years were rather more sporadic, but related to something that genuinely happened or was about to, whereas so far, I've had to think a little bit more about my content. "If I can't think of anything", I thought as I started, "I could always talk about football". Except this week, football was all I could talk about!

Last Monday was "Deadline Day", the over-hyped Sky powered non-event which normally passes without so much as a whimper, reporters spend their day camping outside top flight stadiums and/or training grounds feeding back nonsense rumours like “I can state, that David Beckham WILL NOT be re-signing for Manchester United, I repeat he WILL NOT. Although I'm hearing Ian Holloway, the Blackpool manager IS interested”. Whilst we at home, we all know it's a load of rubbish but sit engrossed as the mocu-non-drama unfolds on screen. Except last Monday, the footballing world finally went mad.

It started off with Chelsea wanting to take Liverpool's star striker Fernando Torres to Stamford Bridge. The American owners said “fine, but it will cost you £50 million”, Roman Abramovich, the Russian oligarch, who isn't short of a few pence signed a cheque and everything was left down to “El Nino” to decide upon how many roubles he wanted per week for his trouble.

Liverpool meanwhile, who had already been working frantically to secure the services of £23 million Luis Suarez, the precocious Uruguay international from Ajax were left with a large number 9 sized hole in their front line and needed a replacement. Step forward Mr Andy Carroll, the Newcastle talisman, who was the seventh highest goalscorer in the Championship last season, but took to the Premier League this year like a duck to water, scoring 11 times and making his England debut in November against France.

Newcastle finally accepted a mind blowing £35 million for Carroll's services and left themselves with nowhere near enough time to sign a replacement, so for now at least, they have a large amount of money burning a hole in their pockets until the summer when the transfer window reopens, whereas Liverpool, have their man, albeit at a highly inflated price.

What normally then is a day of rumour and hyperbole, last Monday for once, was a genuine event. I followed via Twitter watching sports journalists from around the UK getting themselves in a 140 character tizz as the social networks went into overdrive. BBC “Transfer clock watch” and Sky Sports News Ticker tape spewed forth information, reaction and opinion.

But now that the dust is settled, what's my view? Well as a Liverpool fan, losing Torres was a massive blow, any team in the world that lost their best player would be a blow. But Torres hasn't been himself for a long while and maybe it was for the best all round. If someone is going to offer £50 million for his services, then why not? Football is a funny, but sometimes cruel old game. It could go either way, he could lead them to the promised land of a European Cup trophy or just as equally make his debut today, get injured and never play again, like Pierluigi Casiraghi. It happens.

As for Carroll, well there has been much debate about the size of the transfer fee. £35 million, which is more than David Villa. Yes it is ridiculously high for a player of Carroll's ability and experience, but to try and put it into some kind of context, it was the last day of the transfer window where clubs will pay a premium, plus he was a Geordie playing for his hometown club, where to entice him away from his own kind adds another premium on top. Plus Liverpool and Kenny Dalgleish are investing for the next five to ten years. £35 million could seem a bargain if he has a career the club management and fans hope for him to have.

But football madness and transfer fees aside, I am actually pretty gutted. Sitting in the sun last September whilst in Ibiza for my stag weekend, watching the world go by, this guy who I thought looked like Andy Carroll walked by as we sat in a bar. I was sat upon on a ledge that was decorated with adverts for that night's party. He paused to feel one, arm outstretched just in front of my face, which I thought was quite strange considering the intimacy of it. Rather than saying “Hi, are you Andy Carroll” and wishing him well, I let him go on his way and turned around to the boys instead and asked them “Wasn't that Andy Carroll?” If I'd known that he would go on to play for England and sign for Liverpool I would have wished him all the best and brought him a pint or three!

If wishing, Andy Carroll and all the other players who began new careers in the past month all the luck and success, spare a thought for Gary Neville who announced that he would be hanging up his boots with immediate effect.

He was one of those players who started their careers at a time when I first started to become interested in football, making his debut way back in 1992. He is probably one of the highest profile players to have gone on to fulfil his career, or at least the most decorated in that time, leaving me think “My God, how old am I?”.

Yes he did play for Manchester United and yes he was an outspoken gobshite, but he epitomised everything that you would want to see from one of your own clubs players. Dedication, passion and a fight for the cause. If there was one man other than Alex Ferguson who would stick up for the interests and well being of Manchester United it would be Gary Neville, which endeared him further to the Manchester United supporters, and a figure of hate to everyone else.

Capped 85 time by England, he was England's highest capped right back, a record which anyone would be proud of. He played in THAT game against Germany in Munich, which automatically places any of those eleven players into the higher echelons of footballing godliness, as well as five major tournaments, including the oh-so-nearly European Championships in 1996.

But looking back on his career, if someone was to have brought him on transfer deadline day back in 1992, a fee based upon what they hoped he would do, rather than what he had done, how much would he have been worth?

Football is a funny old game, as a Gillingham supporter it's hard to relate to these multi-million pound expenditures, in fact, even on a human level it's hard to relate. Give me £50 million and I will show you what I could do with potential, I could fulfil a million dreams, not those of an elite few. Score goals, I could achieve goals way beyond those from six yards or 35 yard screamers. But then, nor could just I, any of us could.

£200. What would you do?

2011-01-31T09:54:00.002Z

The fine people at Archibald Ingall Stretton, the advertising agency in which I work are just as keen on personal staff development as they are on ensuring our professional know-how is up to scratch. Which is why, as part of our personal development, they wave a carrot of two-hundred British pounds as an incentive, to go out into the big bad world and learn something new.

This could be anything of our choosing, like learning how to wing-walk, speak Dutch, or cook like Gordon Ramsey. Perhaps we're away on our holidays and get the chance to learn how to Scuba Dive, or Bungee Jump – all skills that enhance our personal being, or personality traits. After all, what better way to find courage and confidence than by doing something confident and courageous?

Last year, my first with the agency, I let this benefit pass me by. I decided long ago that wing-walking was something that I could put off for another day, and that Dutch people had pretty good English anyway. What I really wanted to do was something more run-of-the-mill; a creative writing course, or failing that a beginners guide to digital photography enabling me to finally work out how to use my recently purchased SLR.

Finding a course however, proved to be a bit problematic! No matter how much I tried, I just could not find a time and location that fit in with my lifestyle. The Gravesham Adult Education centre had plenty of courses for me to choose from, albeit if I didn't work on Monday's or Wednesday's between the hours of 10am and 2pm. The closest evening course to me was Folkstone, a place just over an hours drive away. For the want of trying, I just could not find anything suitable, so gave up with nothing short of a whimper.

Come January, the window of opportunity opened again and before I started looking at local airfields, I decided to broaden my range of Google search terms. At first, they once again proved to be not much help indeed, until quite randomly, I came across The Write Place, the answer to my prayers. They held evening classes, it was in Dartford, which is local enough for me and most importantly, it fit in with the allocated budget – a “Hallelujah” moment if ever there was one! A brief email correspondence later, a verification check with the nice lady in HR and off I am now - all set to start later this week!

Where then does my ambition lie? What am I hoping to get out of this class? Well, initially at least it's a one month trial, to see if I like it, if it is actually for me. Rather than the agency I work for investing a large amount of money on something that I won't complete, it's better all round if I scout it out beforehand so that I can make an informed decision about carrying on.

Having authored this blog now for just under four years. A period of time that remains a lot longer than I ever envisaged, and have written a whole lot more than I ever though possible. It's opened a couple of doors, (well one, my forgettable experience on the BBC's politics show!), it's been biographic, it's been honest and most importantly it's been fun. I wouldn't have written what I have if I hadn't at least enjoyed it. But for now, it's probably a right a time as any to find answers to at least some of my questions.

Have I got it within me to write something entirely fictional? Is it possible to take my outlook on life and impose it upon a narrative that people will understand and more importantly, enjoy? Is it possible to learn how to write with a natural flare, or is it something that you are born with? Can I, as a blogger, who over the past four years has developed a tone of voice, a way of writing things down that I am comfortable with, devise for example, a female narrative? Express the pain in which she feels on a daily basis or describe the joys of a first time experience? And finally, have I got it within me to describe a place, a time, in which I have never been, never seen and capture the essence of authenticity with only words that I know and understand?

Tough questions indeed, but, quite easily, the answer to all of them may well be a simple and resounding "No". In the same time that I have been authoring this blog, I have read near enough over 120 books, various pieces of literature over a range of genre's, mainly crime fiction, but a range of different characters have made their mark. Whether it be characters that I have loathed, characters who have felt like long lost friends only for that back cover to close for the final time and leaving me with that sense of sadness, a poignant longing and a wonder of what will become of them.

There have been characters who have made me laugh and although it pains me to admit to it, there are those who have made me cry. But all of them have one thing in common, they are fully formed, entirely three dimensional and live and breath across a ream of paper bound together by glue and the reader that holds it within their hands.

It's almost that fact alone then, that provides a cast iron guarantee that whatever flows from the recesses of my mind and imagination will not see the light of day. A commuter will not be sitting on the Circle Line on a cold wet Monday morning being kept warm by the fluidity of my prose. Not because I have a lack of confidence nor lack the courage to believe in what I have written. I understand my own limitations. I understand that my imagination won't allow me to dream up tales of fantastical heroism, that is for the JK Rowling and Terry Pratchett's of this world. Crime writing has a plethora of authors who are constantly coming up with intricate 'who-dunnits', it's any wonder half of them aren't behind bars.

Whatever happens, I'll be learning something new. By learning how to write more creatively I can bring more life to my blog, maybe during #postaweek2011 I might actually write something a little more evocative, totally fictitious and scare my few readers with the darkness bounds of my imagination! At least if all else fails, next year I'll be able to write about my adventures in the skies as a wing-walker in intricate detail!

A Great British Summer

2011-01-24T21:43:00.001Z

January, the month in which people are supposed to spend in a state of morbid depression, a fact now celebrated by an unofficial date that is officially known as 'Blue Monday'. A day in the month which scientists reckon that they have proven, beyond any reasonable doubt to be the most miserable day of the year! Last Monday, instead of feeling blue, Stephanie, Oliver and I decided that the only possible remedy would to be to book a holiday and give us all a reason to live again!

Both Stephanie and I know that, baring any financial miracle that 2011 is to be a year of consolidation, settling some overrun debts from our wedding last year, whilst planning for the future and providing Oliver with a long awaited sibling. Our plans to slowly circumnavigate the globe, or to rebuild our home have been put on ice and have been replaced instead by the Karma Sutra and “50 Thrifty Ways to Manage your Weekly Budget”. When Stephanie's parents asked us then, would we fancy a long weekend away in Dorset – we positively jumped at the chance!

By adding Dorset to the pomp and pageantry of Aprils Royal Wedding, plus Oliver's August trip to Devon with my parents and Octobers half-term sojourn to an as yet, undecided English Riviera, this year is shaping up to be a very patriotic affair! And why not? They put the world “Great” next to Britain for a reason!

There is something uniquely special about the quintessential English seaside town. People my age and from my home town will remember long car trips down to the coast, probably to Margate to ride the Scenic Railway at Bembom Brothers, or Dreamland, however you referred to by name the very same place. A place that had a big wheel that was fashionable long before all the big cities started doing it. A place that since my generation, has been in terminal decline.

Margate, like many places dotted around the country have clearly seen better days, but there are still some crown jewels sprinkled around our island. Weymouth was a place where, as kids, we went off for the weekend, slept in tents on the shores overlooking Chesil Beach and had carefree days bathing in the waters of Weymouth harbour, a beach naturally sheltered so that you could walk out for miles and still be barely submerged.

It's been a few years since I've been to Weymouth, but being a water-sports venue for the Olympics next year, I'm expecting her to be looking at her very best - in preparation for being under the glare of the worlds eyes in eighteen or so months time.

But before then, Stephanie and I, along with Stephanie's parents get to enjoy five days of educating Oliver on some of life's finer things. The familiar, feel good soundtrack of the seaside penny arcade, and the strong sticky smell of beach confectionery, toffee apples and candyfloss, sticks of teeth breaking rock mingled in with the staple of an all English summer, fish and chips!

Here's keeping our fingers crossed that other Great British tradition doesn't rear it's ugly head, the unpredictable weather!

A Tale of Two Strippers

2011-01-18T00:03:00.002Z

Week three of the #postaweek2011 challenge and so far I've managed to discuss faith and social morality, so perhaps it's time for something a little bit more light-hearted! How about a couple of fairly humorous anecdotes about recollections of boys trips from yesteryear, loosely inspired by BBC3's fly on the wall documentary, Sun, Sex and Suspicious parents? Okay then...

Before I set my confessionary heart on the line, it would probably be a sensible idea to tell you just what Sun, Sex and Suspicious parents is all about. It's fairly straightforward, each week we follow two teenagers heading off into Europe, with their friends in tow, as they undergo a modern day rite of passage; the week long booze, drugs and sex fest – the single sex “lads or lasses” holiday.

Little do these innocent teens know as their (possibly deranged) parents are following behind and watching each move they make from a variety of secret vantage points. You could be forgiven for thinking, this guy watches too much TV, but my excuse is, it's January, money's tight and there will be plenty more interesting things to write about later in the year!

Anyhow, back to the programme and back to the first episode. Two teens heading off to Malia, parents following, one set watching as their sweet and innocent daughter eyes up suggestively a Greek water sports instructor and the other, watching their son, dressed up in drag, with his head down the lavatory regurgitating his previous half hours excess.

It was at this point that I had a horrible flash back to Wednesday 5th September 2001. The night England beat Albania 2-0 at St James Park in a World Cup Qualifier. That same night, by way of a thank you, the Greek proprietor in which we sat within the confines of his bar gave our party of eight a Raki each, thanking us for our custom. Four people wimped out, so me, being a 21 year old idiot that I was decided to waste not, want not. Down the hatch, we're on holiday, lets have it!

Bang, lights out!

Next day, I wake up. What the hell is that? Covered in slime, grime and God knows what else! From what I have garnered from the resulting decade since, is that after the football, those fateful Raki's flipped a switch. Next bar along the strip witnessed another strip. That of an inebriated football fan who should have known better. The only thing that I have in common with a Greek Adonis is that our names begin with A, so I dread to think just what the hell that must of looked like. But friends or foe reunited me with my clothes and I walked back. Got the beer bus, one way please, did not pass go. Found my bed, collapsed, clothes disappeared all over again.

Reaso came back, just to make sure I was alright, a good friend, or perhaps not? Noticing my rather, spread eagled demeanour, switched all the lights back off, except the one above my bed. Illuminated like a prize turkey. Went back down the strip, left the door open as he went, left me be. He wasn't to know, or maybe he had a prophecy, but those girls, they won't forget. The excitement of their first all girls holiday, the joy of arriving at their hotel in time for a night out, vodka down the hatches and “Oh dear God!”, the horror of the boy in the room next door, “Welcome to Malia”. We won't actually go out on our first night, we'll spend the night making “Ugly naked bloke” look pretty, graffiti and make-up, won't he like that when he wakes up!

Watching then, as this poor lad, on holiday with his mates, blind-folded, doing a shot during a drinking game only for his parents to remove the blind-fold as part of the “grand reveal”, I felt his pain! Fortunately though for him, he knew where the line was, and didn't venture too far across it. His parents actually congratulated him on his conduct, said that they were proud. If only I could have said the same for mine!

This week, a new episode and as opposed to last week I thought this one was going to be okay, which it was, to start off with! This time around, same format, different parents, different teens and a new location, Ibiza! This time though, the memories were still beautifully raw and instead of the same feeling of trepidation, I had a huge feeling of longing as I wanted to go back and relive the stag weekend all over again. I didn't have the worry of thinking, “glad my parents aren't watching this one” as of course my Dad was with us when we went.

It wasn't until the very end that the old flashback's kicked in and the cold sweats of recollection hit hard. Basically, the grand revealing was to take place in a lap dancing club in the West End. The unsuspecting teen, his friends watching as he enjoyed his first experience of a lap dance. Big grin on his face, mates cheering, “Go on son!” at the very moment his parents walk in and “Surprise!”

Although I couldn't relate to the entirety of his embarrassment, poor fella, it was a little too acute for even my liking! But he doesn't quite hold the monopoly on embarrassing first lap-dancing experiences!

For Reaso's 21st birthday, we spent four nights in Las Vegas, home of the Showgirl. But for a trio of 21 year blokes, the thought of witnessing scantily clad ladies in the flesh was a little easier imagined than done. After all, this was Las Vegas, this is where the mobsters live and dark dingy spaces are used for lewd and despicable act's... Isn't it?

We convinced ourselves that we were better off out, we didn't know what we were letting ourselves in for, but mystically, every time we opened our guide book we'd open randomly at page 69. Gentleman's lounges, lounges for Gentlemen, rooms with a view, whatever, however you wanted to dress it up. Come on guys, “We are in Vegas”, we chorused to each other until it stuck.

Last night, off we went, Cheetahs, the Gentleman's lounge for beginners as it didn't say in the book. Your stereotypical nondescript building, covered in neon lights, some not working, some blinking when they shouldn't be. Your big, bulky motorbikes parked outside, the glitz and glamour of the strip a shadow away.

In English terms, a dive. The exact reason why we weren't enthused to begin with, but “we're here now guy's, we can't just leave. One drink and we're off” a mutually signed contract by the three of us that was never binding.

Three bottles of bud, standing at the bar, looking at the floor, don't want to look elsewhere in case the punk with the leather jacket and eyeballs tattooed wants to know just what the hell we are looking at. Couldn't drink the beer as felt too sick through fear, so just stood there, making small talk “beers nice”, “like your watch Roz”, “maybe we should have one dance, we're here now”. “you first”, “no, you go”, “no you”.

Standing there like three prize plums, it's any wonder we wasn't thrown out for being homosexual, let alone being approached by a lady wanting to engage in conversation. But engaged we were, and so taking the bull by the horns, I sauntered off with the first female that spoke to me, to find a quieter space so that we could discuss Leo Tolstoy or the like.

The room in which she led me into was full of like minded couples sitting on rather comfortable, but cramped benches, the ladies, quite chivalrously decided to make more room by sitting on their chosen partners laps where discussions were whispered in ears and demonstrations of flexibility and subtlety were commenced.

I sat on my hands (because I was led to believe that a bouncer can chop them off if you accidentally touch) and nodded like a parcel shelf ornament as she whispered something I couldn't quite work out in my ear and began her routine. “Wow, Vegas is awesome! I love this place. This lady is really bendy! Did she really just do that? Might have to remember that one” And so it continued, still sitting there, time going slowly by, the fun and excitement turning to mild panic as I realise that I need to pay this lady for her time “excuse me, when does this finish?”, I asked “I told you honey, its twenty bucks a song” she replied. “oh... okay luv, we'll make this the last one then!”

Her routine finished, currency exchanged hands and off I went, back to the others, who were waiting for my return. My reaction would determine whether we stayed or went and despite looking forlorn and embarrassed as I trudged back, I informed them, that in my role as pioneering gentleman's club guinea pig I had spent a small fortune and proceeded to teach them of the pitfalls and protocols which I had only just learnt myself.

Some people seem to get themselves into a pickle no matter what their best intentions are. Looking back, Reaso seems to be the common denominator, maybe he has been an unlucky omen! But no matter what bad luck as befallen me, I can be thankful that at least my parents were not watching via secret cameras in the room next door! At least they were bold enough to let me make my own mistakes. Unlike those poor teens, who we shall continue to watch as they head off to Ayia Napa, and other places I haven't been to, hopefully not being reminded each week of ghost's in which I though had been long suppressed!

Murky Waters of Soapland

2011-01-11T19:31:00.000Z

I had anticipated difficulties when deciding to embark upon this #Postaweek blogging challenge; finding suitable content, making the time to meet each deadline, but more importantly writing what I wanted to write about in a coherent and concise way. I wanted to also challenge myself by writing something that maybe I would have steered clear of, by giving my opinion on something that people may disagree upon and have their own views, but then isn't that part of what writing a blog is all about?

Over the past few weeks, more and more has been written about Eastenders and the controversial storyline involving a newborn baby's death and the subsequent aftermath, in which a grieving mother swaps her dead child for her next door neighbour's healthy one without them knowing.

It may sound like something from a nightmare, but the reality is, these scenes are being played out in lounges across the nation on a near nightly basis and we are living through each characters eyes as they come to deal with, on one side a false bereavement, the other the loss of a long desired child. Whilst us, as viewers, have the added benefit of an insight into the truth.

Television is, by and large a fictitious medium. We watch television programmes as an escape, as entertainment, or in watching soaps, view a social commentary to what is supposed to be happening in peoples lives across contemporary Britain. We are supposed to be able to relate to the characters successes or failures, happiness or disappointments and in some cases are actually able to use these situations as guidance for our own lives.

Every once in a while a "shocking" storyline hits the screen, whether it be a lesbian kiss, or an incestuous relationship. A storyline that is deemed to be too controversial for the Great British public, who aren't quite ready for the discussion of a sensitive subject and would rather it be buried away where they think it belongs. It hits the screens, a manner of complaints are made, OFCOM get involved and newspaper scribes are quick to mount the high horse and feed us opinion telling us how wrong it all is and that the world has gone to pot.

A lot of the criticism aimed at Eastenders is the reaction Ronnie had to finding that her baby had passed away. By her swapping babies as a defence mechanism against her grief it is alleged to give a bad impression on those people who genuinely have lost a child. It may be just me, but does anyone genuinely believe that? Or that in some way, when a baby is a victim of SIDS, blame should be held at the feet of the parents?

Are we then to take the world of Eastenders seriously? If so, could we offer a plausible reason for her actions? A look at the characters back story will tell you that somehow in the past twelve months or so, her daughter was run over and killed moments after discovering she was actually her long lost child. She then proceeded to get herself pregnant again and lost the baby at the hands of her evil father, who only went and got himself murdered the next day.

In no way am a justifying the storyline, which I find particularly crass, uneasy to watch and unnecessary. There have been several rather disturbing scenes, none more so than when father Jack showed grieving Alfie a mobile phone photo of 'his' baby son. The faint look of recognition was haunting and sent a shiver down the spine.

Being a father the very thought of losing a child, through any circumstance, fills me with dread. In fact, the only way to comprehend the idea is to not discuss it, don't even entertain the thought, take the "it'll never happen to me" approach. But then, so does the thought of my wife having an affair, or my parents being murdered by a deluded vicar, all story lines which have frequented our screens in the not so distant past.

At what point does acceptable become unaccepted? If soaps are supposed to represent contemporary Britain shouldn't they be tackling issues that we read about daily in the newspapers, despicable and desperate acts such as those committed on Baby P for example, albeit an extreme one? Would the perpetrators have managed to commit such evil deeds had a soap been bold enough to bring such topics into our front rooms?

The point is. Soaps don't represent contemporary Britain, they are representative of a group of peoples' imagination, a voyeuristic look into people's lives who don't actually exist, written by 'creative' people who take a subject matter to the extreme. Call it entertainment, drama or content suitable for the trash. But if something can evoke an emotion, a powerful one, or provoke a reaction, a negative one then should we restrict it or encourage it? Or maybe do what I'm going to do. Concentrate on real life.

Faithless not Hopeless

2011-01-07T00:19:00.003Z

Towards the back end of last year, I did something out of my comfort zone. I went to Church and completed "The Alpha Course" where I learnt a little bit more about the Christian faith. This year, I have decided to write more, so that's what my first weekly blog is going to be about. I didn't say this was going to be easy.

All my life I have had the spectre of Christian faith surrounding me. My mother, a believer in God but not a practising christian encouraged Jessica and I to learn all the stories, the doctrine and a hymn or two. We were packed off innocently to Sunday school each week like good boys and girls. We learnt about David and Goliath, Samson and his hair, Jonah and the whale, all those Old Testament stories which children the world over are told.

As we grew older, my dear Nan began to get further and further into the church, attended regularly and transforming her and my Grandad's lives. I say that with fondness, as they changed from people who were in trouble with the police, to sensible law abiding citizens. But hindsight is a wonderful thing. I didn't quite see it that way as a child on the verge of becoming a teenager.

Nan and Grandad had moved up to Northamptonshire to be closer to the church. I say church, as that's what we were led to believe, but any time spent online looking at "Jesus Army" the words 'cult' and 'caution' are not far behind. I felt at the time that my grandparents were being led away by the church and my relationship with them was suffering as a result. We'd have the odd summer stay overs, we used to write (yes kids, with a pen), but we didn't see them very often. Our visits would include a trip to the house in which the Jesus Army used to live, great huge houses in the countryside with people wearing tie-die clothing and blessing you as walked by them.

In all honesty, as an impressionable teen, it was quite terrifying! We had the one unlucky experience of attending a full Sunday service. People repeating choruses from songs over and over like incantations, others shaking and convulsing whilst screaming in an unrecognisable language (known as tongues). Bodies passing out around us under the hands of people praying. Jessica and I stood in the middle like two aliens from outer space wondering who the hell these people were and could we please have our grandparents back?

It would be too easy to say that my experiences as a child have shaped my belief as an adult, indeed, I am sure that there is a contributing factor somewhere. But too much water has passed under the bridge since then for me to hide behind those memories.

Whilst Mum always had this flickering flame of faith burning inside her, Dad was the polar opposite. He would laugh at her, take the mickey and generally act as an atheist without proclaiming to be one. I decided to take my Dad's side and didn't believe 'any of all that' either.

As an adult, that all changed. Mum who had started going to church more regularly with a friend from her office took Dad along with her one day and they both enrolled on a course which explored further the Christian faith - the Alpha course, which over the space of twelve weeks turned my Dad from a non-believer to a born again Christian.

I was invited to attend Dad's baptism, but declined. Probably unfairly. My view at the time was one of disgust. Dad had spent his whole life laughing about it and taking the mickey out of Mum, I wasn't going to go just because he had changed his mind! Again, that recurring theme, hindsight, bites you on reflection! Oh how we could change the world through hindsight!

At the time Dad was discovering things for himself, my Uncle Matthew, my Mum's youngest brother was making headway through the streets of Medway, doing some pretty special things with the area's homeless community and turning from almost a street preacher to a pastor of his own church, which became a home from home for the rest of the family when my Nan passed away in the early naughties.

It certainly seems that everyone around me is a person of faith and that I am indeed the black sheep of the family. Mum and Dad had asked me politely for years whether I'd like to enrol in that years Alpha Course. Every time I politely declined - until last year. I felt that I owed Mum and Dad a favour or two, everything that they had done with the wedding and the honeymoon and being awesome parents in general. So when they asked, I said yes! Mum's face was already prepared for a negative reaction, so it was quite nice to surprise her with a yes.

Alpha, a twelve week course, starts of with rather lofty ambitions, it markets itself as "Taking on the biggest questions in the universe" or "The meaning of life is _____". Each session starts of with a communal meal, followed by a speaker who each week speaks upon a various topic, from "Is there more to life than this" all the way through to "How can I be filled with the Holy Spirit?". I had always suspected that the Alpha course was engineered as a mechanism for conversion. Get people who are fairly interested in learning more, feed them information, shower them with kindness and demonstrate the power of the church through subtle coercion.

In the end, I wasn't too wide of the mark. You are fed plenty of information, none of it fully lives up to the question that they use in the marketing, "The meaning of life is _____", well there isn't much of an option to choose from. It's Jesus or nobody, which isn't really what I wanted to hear. I was hoping for a little more rounded discussion but quite happily took on board what the people within our group were discussing, who were, each of them the nicest people you could hope to meet. Which again, probably didn't help my cause - maybe I needed an agnostic, or a Buddhist sitting within our group for a more rounded discussion. But as a conversion tool? I would be a little harsh if I said that it was used solely for that purpose. If you want to be, then there is plenty of opportunity to do so. But there is no pressure to get involved, or to even participate in the discussions each week.

I have no regrets going, I learnt a lot. The major thing that I got from the course was understanding finally where my parents were coming from. Why my Nan and Grandad made such a big commitment to uproot and move their lives away. But, crucially I still haven't found that missing ingredient which they all share. Faith. Ask yourself what I asked me. "Can you believe that there was once a dude called Jesus?" Yeah, that could be true. "Did that said dude, who went by the name of Jesus get crucified upon a cross?" Yes, again, in the realms of possibility that could work. Finally, "that dude, who died, and was locked in a stone tomb, did he walk out back out of it a couple of days later?" Erm... well exactly. That's where I get lost too, and that's the faith part that is missing!

Thinking about it all a bit too deeply, it would be easy to feel sorry for myself. After all, if they are right, Mum and Dad are off to a nice cushy everlasting party with the big guy, whilst I'm suffering heat exhaustion with the condemned.

To a lot of people, they'd be reading this and thinking, "So what?". A quote that you are reminded of during Alpha by CS Lewis (of Narnia fame), who once said:

Christianity, if false, is of no importance, and if true, of infinite importance. The only thing it cannot be is moderately important.

A quote of which I tend to agree, which makes it all the more frustrating that for some reason I'm not seeing what everyone else is seeing, or should that be feeling?

At least Lewis didn't have the problems of family members who profess to be Christians, but singing off a totally different song sheet to everyone else. Whether that is down to misunderstanding teachings, or just personality disorders is open for debate. But how one Christian sibling can say to another, "I can't have a relationship with you as our churches believe in different things" is more confusing that the riddle about the bloke escaping from a stone tomb! Or how by becoming a member of a church means that you sign your rights to privacy away and have to watch where you park you car in case of being spotted outside the wrong persons house.

Confusions and questions will always remain, even for the most holy. The why and where of humanity will never be answered by us mortals, even with all the faith you can muster. So for now at least I have to find a happy medium somewhere. I have tried reading, I have tried listening and talking, but I'm no closer to sharing in with my parents faith. I wish to thank them for it, or at least Mum for when I was growing up who gave me my moral barometer which I will carry with me for life, and shall pass down to my children. I'd even encourage them to go with Nanny and Bampy to Sunday school so that they can learn the stories I learnt, although I will draw a line at any church service held within a school campus in Northamptonshire!