Adam Bird - My Personal Blog

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 wa...

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...

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 w...

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 ...

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...