Adam Bird - My Personal Blog

On the 27th August 2022 I ran the East Grinstead parkrun which was the 189th event held at the venue, my 92nd parkrun and 27th different course I'd attended. The last time I visited East Grinstead was to pay a visit to my Nan who was in hospital having her wedding finger surgically removed. She was on a ward of females having a variety of cosmetic procedures. My grandfather, fondly know as Gramps teased the patients that were in the ward with her. Pointing to a lady who had a rather excessive bossum he said 'she's here to have her boobs reduced'. Looking around and pointing to a woman on the other side of the ward he said 'and she's having hers made bigger'. As I'm sliding down my chair getting redder and redder he says 'they should go in together, swap and save a few bob'. More than twenty-five years have passed since that moment and I finally felt comfortable returning to East Grinstead without being recognised. I needed to collect an 'E...

For several years, mainly whilst drinking in the British Legion Club before Gillingham home games, my Dad, my friends and I would talk about visiting France or Belgium to tour some of the battlefields and visit the cemeteries of the fallen during World War One. We talked about Belgian beer and how we might be able to combine the two for a weekend of history, culture and light entertainment. But after talking about it once too many times, a decisive action was required and plans were drawn up once and for all. History as a child didn't interest me, not in the slightest. I had to choose a humanity subject when I chose my options and the joy of dropping history felt wonderful. It was all in the past, black and white pictures that had no relevance to the ‘real-world’. It was nothing more than ignorance and whilst I wouldn't say that I've developed an insatiable thirst for the subject I've learnt that its relevance cannot be understated and in actually fact, our very exi...

At the beginning of the year I shared details of the private competition that we, as a family were taking part in. The challenge, devised by my father was to see which couple out of me and my wife, my sister, her husband and both of my parents could lose the most amount of weight over the course of three months. On Sunday evening the final results were in! In third place we had my sister and her husband who automatically finished last on account that neither of them turned up to for the final weigh-in. My sister might have used her car being repaired as mitigating circumstances, but truth be told, neither of them really entered into the spirit of the competition in the first place! In runner up spot, my parents finished, with a fairly non-spectacular weight-loss. I won’t indulge any figures here, but suffice to say, I thought that it would have been higher considering it is their own finances that are funding the eventual prize winners, which went to... Stephanie and I. To be ...

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 an...

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, bu...

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 ...

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...

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 ...

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 Reco...

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, th...

It all seems so far away now, but before the eastern delights of Hong Kong and the greatest day ever, twelve blokes headed towards the Balearic Island of Ibiza, some not knowing quite what to expect, but all looking forward to some sun, beers and for me, finally sampling some of the legendary nightlife that the White Isle is famous for. Being my stag weekend of course, I wasn't going to have things entirely my own way. Perfectly demonstrated before I'd even left for the airport! Gareth, being my best man, gave me prior warning that I would be expected to wear something of his choosing to the airport. Unfortunately I nearly never made it! In an attempt to get some well needed sleep before our early departure I drank a small crate of lager as a tonic to get me off, but it nearly worked too well as I slept through my alarm and was woken suddenly by a barrage of voices shouting through my letterbox at some silly time in the am. To the people in the street who were also woken, I...