Pippi

I know a woman with a heart of gold
A flame haired legend with a story to be told
She lives in a 'hood known as M9
She eats ice cubes in an inn called The Vine

A sister; daughter; mother and wife
She speaks with a voice that cuts like a knife
She worked in an office next to tram lines
I first met her in a town of swines

She wears long stockings with a 50s dress
I know her as Pippi, I have to confess
Her circle of friends are many and loyal
She has on occasion made my blood boil

An ebullient character who laughs like a drain
She'll pray for you if ever you're in pain
A good heart these days is hard to find
This is a woman who's one of a kind

Second Hand Shop Shark

I am from a music buying generation that started with vinyl, then cassette followed by CD. This transcended the peak of my album buying which was the 1980s. This decade commenced with the music cassette catching up with, then overtaking, sales of vinyl records. During my last couple of years at high school, vinyl had become unfashionable, through it's scratches and cumbersome nature. The small audio cassette was then the trendiest way to listen to your latest Iron Maiden, Def Leppard (or if you were so inclined Duran Duran) album. The CD didn't arrive until around 1985, and when it did hit the shelves of HMV, they were outrageously priced compared to tapes (cassettes). When Ozzy Osbournes' The Ultimate Sin album was released I could have bought the CD for around £8 (silly money on my meagre £60 a week warehouse workers salary) or the tape for around £2.99. My choice was already made for me.

I didn't start to buy CD's until the 1990s so my tape collection was huge by then. I still listened to them for many years into the 90s (occasionally having to repair them with sellotape etc) but by the millennium something had to be done about them. I boxed them all up and stored them away as any that I still valued musically I then bought on remastered CDs. 

Around 2003 I found myself between jobs so just prior to starting my next crap job in an ocean of career mediocrity, I decided to sell most of my old original cassette albums as I had become financially embarrassed. I separated them into boxes of condition as I only intended to sell the best condition albums. This was years before on line selling so I took them down to a second hand record shop in what is now Manchester's Northern Quarter. I had purchased second hand merchandise from this shop before and they always had notices up offering to buy unwanted second hand merchandise as well.

I drove into town in my Sierra Sapphire, parked up in the back streets of, what was then, a very seedy part of the city centre, and staggered to the shop weighed down with my box of tapes. The owner was behind the counter so I placed the box on the counter and asked him if he was interested in buying the tapes. He grunted something so I emptied the tapes on to the counter and he started to go through them. He didn't look too impressed as there was the occasional tut and sigh. After a couple of minutes he said "Aah I can see a pattern now to all these albums". "Oh you mean they're mostly 80s Rock and that kind of thing", I replied. "No I mean they're all shit", he said. "Oh", I said

He picked about 20 of them out in the end and offered me 50p for each one, which meant I was going to receive the princely sum of £10 for my troubles. This wasn't going to pay off the mortgage. I didn't want it to be a totally wasted journey so I accepted this and went on my way still with the majority of the tapes. Around a month later I revisited the shop to buy a second hand book and decided to have a quick look at the tapes. I immediately noticed 5 or 6 of mine for sale priced at £1.50 each.  I didn't bother buying the book I went for....

Love And Peace To All

People of the world, I wish you happiness
a world of peace and nothing less
an end to conflict for warmongering's sake
leaving children murdered in it's wake

Live and let live
we all live in one world
few causes are worth dying for
leave your flags furled


As the months turn the world keeps turning
create joyful memories, don't chase wealth
you can't put a price on time with loved ones
you're wished good luck and good health

Christmas Blessings

It is only as an adult that I fully appreciated the sacrifices my parents made to ensure that I and the rest of my immediate family had a truly festive Christmas time. All memories of my childhood Christmas's still leave me with a warm glowing feeling and bring a smile to my face every time. I now realise I was truly blessed to have such a selfless, loving Mam and Dad who wrapped us up in a world of wonderment which captured my imagination perfectly, from Father Christmas, reindeer and so on in early childhood, to thoughtful, gift giving and festive atmospheres in my later childhood and into my early teens.

As a child, of course, one has no concept of money and wider financial issues. After my younger sister was born I had 7 siblings but I'm also now more aware that being the second youngest was a privilege. My younger sister and I didn't have to live through crying babies around us as we were indeed those babies doing the crying. Our elder siblings made sacrifices of their own which I never had to go through. They also fought battles that were won by the time I reached my teens. Despite this, my younger sister and I were never spoiled either. My parents and elder siblings never allowed this to happen so I was given the perfect balance between deprivation and excess. I was soon put in my place if I ever said I "wanted" something. I was left in no doubt that I had to deserve any rewards so good behaviour was recognised and anything less than that was not tolerated, either by my parents or my elder siblings. This coming Christmas Day, in line with many of recent years, I will pause for a moment, raise a glass of something festive, and give my sincere thanks to my Mam, Dad(R.I.P), siblings and all those who made my childhood Christmas's so special with priceless memories that I hope to take with me into old age. 

May all those reading this have a suitably convivial Christmas.

A Troubled Love

Two heads together on a west bound train
Storm clouds ahead promise heavy rain

Woolly hats and padded coats keeping out the cold
Eyes closed and lifeless as sleep taken hold

Fingers entwined in warmed gloved hands
Dreaming of shared times in far off lands

Rocking and rolling on the sodden rails
Landscape changes to the mountains of Wales

Castles; beaches; piers and Celtic signs
Cars racing on adjacent roads ignoring speeding fines

Reaching their destination, the lovers are awoken
Nervous smiles and exchanged glances, no words are spoken

The platform beckons, they share a final embrace
They tenderly kiss, he walks away, now a tear on her face

Gently weeping, her face contorted with pain
She may or may not ever see him again

Woman At The Bar

A woman sits at the bar
has she travelled far?
where are her loved ones?
do they know where you are?

Warming the cockles
At an open roaring fire
Children's voices heard from the street
Flames dancing higher and higher

Sipping the water of life
In the shadow of the hills
Sun glinting off glass buildings
Where once stood mills

It's bustling outside
on this biting winter afternoon
the fray soon to be rejoined
as I'll soon depart the saloon

A furtive glance
the scene remains unchanged
workers keeping busy
as chairs are rearranged

She looks sad and alone
is she a fallen star?
so what's the story?
of the woman at the bar

Small Footballer, Big Heart

As a young boy of around 6 or 7 years old, my life revolved around football. I loved watching it, of course, but my greatest enjoyment was playing the game with a passion. I was small for my age (I still am) but overcame my stature with a heart as big as anyone's when playing for my school team. I used to practice for hours on end in my back garden keeping the ball off the ground with my head and feet and generally honing my close control and ball skills.

When I was 8 years old I broke into the school football team, mainly as a striker, but also occasionally as a left sided midfielder. My mentor was the PE teacher at my Roman Catholic primary school in east Manchester. His name was Mr Edgar. He was a passionate Ulster man and encouraged and developed my team mates and I into a decent team. Our home pitch was an all weather red shale surface which tended to give us an advantage as all other teams we encountered largely played their home matches on the grass-less mud-heaps of the 1970s. Our home kit was the Celtic green and white hoops which had been the school football team's colours for many years. They hadn't bought any new kit for our age group for several years so the shirts were like rags. On home match days Mr Edgar would empty the newly washed ragged kit out of a bin bag onto the floor resulting in a mad scramble to grab the least torn shirts. The ensuing pushing and pulling would usually rip them even more !

I stayed in the school team for the next 3 years. We never won a trophy but did have some excellent results along the way. Our away colours were all royal blue and in better condition than the home kit and the away days were always an adventure. We would be split into different parent's cars to take us to such exotic, far flung places as Longsight, Ardwick, Ancoats and Newton Heath.  My best ever performance was in a Catholic Cup match away to St Anne's, Ancoats, when I scored a genuine hat trick i.e left foot, right foot and, unbelievably for me, a header. I was all of 4ft something but still scored with a header direct from a corner. As I moved into the last year at primary school, aged 10, I wasn't growing at anything like the rate of my team mates and the opposition lads. I had developed my football skills even more, however, which kept me in the team but also regularly found me wanting in physical battles with opposing kids. This was the 1970s and, even in the professional game of that era, players weren't protected by referees like they are now. Despite regularly getting kicked all over the place, I stuck at it leading Mr Edgar to have a quiet word with me after one match.  There were 2 Chris's in my team so he used to refer to me as "Little Chris". He said "I've picked you for a trial for Manchester Boys". This was the most exciting moment of my life so far. I ran home to tell all the family. Some were impressed but others remarked "You?! How did that happen you little squirt?!" and such like. This didn't bother me as I was going to be the new Colin Bell !

There were 3 others from my school team also picked for trials which, initially, was for the east area district. In my first trial I was played out on the left wing (possibly Mr Edgar's input) but I didn't usually play in this position for my school team. Despite this I had a decent game and dribbled past the full back a few times and got a couple of good crosses in. My real success came though when I scored a goal.  We had an attack down the right hand side, on the opposite wing to me, resulting in a shot from the edge of the box. I followed in the shot as the goalkeeper parried the ball which rebounded to me. I took one touch then slid it past the goalkeeper into the corner of the net.  I was elated as I ran back to the half way line. There was a large crowd of parents, scouts etc on the sidelines but I could see Mr Edgar on the side closest to me. After the game he said "Well done little Chris. That goal may have just got you in the next trial".  Mr Edgar was proved right and 2 of the other 3 of my school team mates also got through. He also told me it was 50/50 for me up to the point where I scored, however, I had done exactly as he had always told me, which was to always follow a shot in for any rebounds etc and this had shown the scouts that I had a natural instinct as a goalscorer.

The second trial was for 22 boys, cut down from the first trial. There was to be one match, 11 v 11, to determine the final cut. I was played on the left wing again with one of my school team mates in midfield (Jon Grisdale) on my team. I was happy with this as we always played well together in our school team.  As we lined up though, my heart sank. On the opposite side was Joe Cipolla.  He was a defender on our school team and a good friend of mine. I was gutted.  It struck me straight away that it was unlikely both of us would now get through. Joe is of Sicilian descent and was really strong. I played ok but felt like I let myself down a little in this game. Neither of us made the final cut but our unfeasibly talented midfielder, Jon Grisdale, did and he went on to successfully play for Manchester Boys for several years.

My secondary school didn't have the same interest in football like my primary school had. I was forced to play rugby, go on ridiculously long "cross country" runs through the mean streets of Openshaw, and even play bloody Lacrosse! but very little football.  As a result my development suffered and as I continued to grow only very slowly (eventually reaching 5 ft 7in !) I convinced myself I would never make a professional footballer. I still had a kick-about with mates and later played for works teams etc but my heart had really gone out of trying to take it any further.

In the modern game, of course, we have had small skilfull players get to the very pinnacle of the game. The likes of  Maradona, Messi, Aguero and half the current national Spanish team are diminutive and have all proved that small stature is not an obstacle today. In the 1970s I grew up in, big and strong seemed to be the foremost attributes. Of course, I'm not saying I would have been a world beater but in the modern era (together with a supportive secondary school football network, which I didn't get) I may have had a better chance of progressing in the game. Oh well, what might have beens etc.

Tom Mullins (Irish Rover)

He was born in poverty in the Irish Free State
A childhood in turmoil, his unfortunate fate
A feral boy with no order in his life
His destiny now sealed and marked "trouble and strife"

His name was Tom Mullins of no fixed abode
A troubled youth, then life on the road
A bear of a man with wild staring eyes
An Irishman with English ties

His shovel like hands bore scars of time
A rebel rousing drinker and no stranger to crime
A true Irish rover who never settled down
In whiskey and beer his demons wouldn't drown

When in his company his family were twitchy
He once had a fight in an incident named "Ritchie"
He would arrive unannounced, drunk and insane
The relations would scatter or hide in vain

Banging on doors and shouting abuse
Disorderly; obnoxious; terrifying; obtuse
"Keep quiet, don't talk, he may go away
Cover your ears and kneel and pray"

He fought the world and usually came second
He then disappeared, he was dead we reckoned
Years went by then word came through
The old timer had passed on, it was confirmed as true

His legend lives on in tales of his past
Let's hope Tom Mullins found peace at last

1978 World Cup - Argentina

My earliest football memories are from 1974. These include the FA Cup Final of that year (Liverpool v Newcastle); Manchester City's League Cup Final defeat to Wolves; Man Utd's relegation and the World Cup of that year. These were the days when there were only a handful of live football matches broadcast every year, this increased when there was a World Cup year as matches from this tournament were also broadcast live. This resulted in every live football match being an event all of it's own to all football fans. As a boy growing up in a football loving family, this would result in most of the family crowding around our black & white telly and it would escalate beyond football to more of a general social event.

I remember certain games from the '74 World Cup, including the final, but the tournament as a whole largely went over my head as the quality of the games appeared to be poor and it always appeared to be raining onto sodden pitches. Watching it in black and white also probably didn't help. Fast forward then to 1978.  I was 11 years old and in the prime of my boyhood football loving life. The World Cup had come around again and this time it was to be held in South America. This alone excited me, as it sounded exotic and almost mystical. England hadn't qualified, neither had the Republic of Ireland; Northern Ireland or Wales.  Scotland had, but none of this mattered to me at the time

2 months before the World Cup started I invested in a Panini sticker album. This album became THE most important thing in my life for several months during 1978.  Every team at the upcoming World Cup was featured with a few facts about each player. I poured over it every day and collected the stickers feverishly. I got into an agreement with a  few of my mates at school that we would do "swaps" on any that any of us already had. The players names alone seemed magical; Causio; Bettega; Zoff; Kempes; Van Der Kerkhoff; Luque etc etc. These were the days when there were virtually no overseas players in the English game so this all added to the mystery and excitement.

When the tournament started I wasn't disappointed. We now had a colour telly and the first game featuring Argentina was something I had never seen anything like before. The ticker tape cascading down from the stands, the colour and the noise all added to my open mouthed wonderment. The first couple of weeks saw the best football matches I had ever seen on TV.  There seemed to be spectacular goals in each game (rarely seen in the English First Divison at the time) and the skill of all the genuine world-class players on show was something that I couldn't comprehend at first. I remember watching an evening group game between Argentina and France and to that point in my young life, it was the best game of football I had ever seen.  Next day at school, that was the only topic of conversation amongst an over-excited bunch of 11 year old lads.

Older readers of this blog have every right to disagree with my appraisal of this World Cup, of course, as I am too young to have witnessed first hand both the 1966 and 1970 World Cups which, I'm certain, are also favourites for many people. However, I have watched every World Cup tournament closely ever since 1978 and, apart from Spain '82 and, to a lesser extent, Mexico '86, no other has come close to matching Argentina '78 for me. It had style, it had panache, it had controversy; it had an unprecedented array of world class players from almost every competing nation playing at the very pinnacle of their game. In my opinion, no World Cup since has quite scaled these heights. I do, however, have some hope for the Brazil World Cup in 2014. If any country has the potential to outdo the 1978 Argentina tournament then it is the football mad country of Brazil.

*Footnote - I never did collect the full set of panini stickers for this World Cup, but once the tournament started it didn't seem to matter as I was seeing them all play in glorious colour television.

**Further Footnote - I think Brazil 2014 may just have outdone it for me! 

Ode to a Cold

Feeling unwell again today
Got a head cold that won't go away
Been under the weather for a day or two
I'm a real man, though, so it's not flu

The head is aching, the throat's like glass
If I get any worse, they'll be saying a Mass
My energy's low, but my temperature's high
The tissues are damp but my humour's still dry

Daytime telly's not a pastime for me
Bargain Hunt's on again though as I sip my tea
I'm shivering as I slake my thirst
I might watch Neighbours, now there's a first

For the love of God, I've just sneezed on my screen
Can't see my words now they're sight unseen
Please pray for me to get on the mend
Or type me an e-mail and then press "send"

Chewbacca Mulvaney

During my time working for a telecommunications company in Cheetham Hill , I was effectively sacked from working on the trade counter and moved to their customer service section. This was in an old Victorian building with squeaking, creaky floors, minimum heating and maximum health and safety failings. The "customer service section" was actually just an open space outside a ramshackle office and adjacent to a 19th century warehouse area. I was given a worktop to carry out my duties. The year was 1990.

When I first started in this role, the only other person working in the same area as me was a raw 16 year old lad called Liam. His main task was to stick labels on telecommunications equipment. I attempted to strike up conversations with him. His voice was monosyllabic and it's strangled, nasal delivery had earned him the dubious nickname of "Chewie" (after Chewbacca, the Star Wars character).  He told me he was born in Ireland but his family had moved to Cheetham Hill when he was very young. He made it clear to me that despite his Cheetham Hill accented, Chewbacca sounding voice he was Irish and not English.

I warmed to Chewie straight away. He seemed to get overly picked on (nowadays they would call it bullying) from the older lads in the warehouse. This reached a peak during the 1990 World Cup as his vociferous support of the Republic of Ireland football team in a group match against England brought him extra "attention".  Chewie was no angel and he defended himself the best  a 16 year old could but he always seemed to come off second best so he regularly had my sympathy.

After the move to Salford Quays later in 1990 Chewie was integated into working with  the other warehouse lads. The "bat cave" I was stuck in was adjacent to his area of work. There was no door on the cave so I could hear all the "banter" outside in the warehouse area. It largely consisted of "Chewie Bashing" but as he got a little older he started to fight back more vigorously and, on a few occasions, he got embroiled in a few fisticuffs. It always calmed down again though, but my thoughts used to be he had a real fighting Irishman spirit and anytime he felt hard done by he was going to give as good as he got.

Regular social occasions were arranged at this place of work during the early 1990s and Chewie regularly made appearances. The issue was Chewie's already volatile temperament became explosive when he'd had too much to drink and on occasion he wanted to take on the world. Many times his workmates would put their own differences with him to one side and help him out of his scrapes. I rarely ventured to the same fleshpots as Chewie and the warehouse lads but I would hear all the stories on Monday morning of their disorderly behaviour. On one memorable occasion, they were on a night out in Blackpool and late in the night one of the other lads was having a "man to man" chat with Chewie, reasoning with him not to get involved in any trouble, as they walked along the promenade. Whilst in mid-sentence, Chewie's workmate suddenly noticed he wasn't beside him anymore and as he looked around Chewie was brawling on the ground with a complete stranger. They were pulled apart and the situation calmed down. Later on he was asked what all that was about. He thought maybe the lad he was fighting with had said something derogatory to him but he couldn't be sure.Classic Chewie.

Chewie left the company, then returned a few years later, then left again. I heard in more recent times that he found love and settled down. I have met quite a few violent, moronic lads over the years and despised them. Chewie wasn't one of them. He always had the potential to be violent, but he was far from moronic and his ire was only raised through severe provocation. He was a rapscallion, but also a very likeable character. Slainte Chewie! 

The Moose

In November 1994 I worked in a job in a department, adjacent to a warehouse, which was very much male orientated. At this time, I was very settled at the company but my role, alongside another lad, had become too busy as the organisation's turnover had increased considerably and there was more work than just the 2 of us could cope with. This led to my manager at the time interviewing, and then appointing, a girl of the same age as me to work alongside the other lad and I. We shall refer to her as "Moose".

As stated previously, it was an all male environment but this didn't faze Moose and she quickly settled into the role. She had an effusive, cordial personality and was fully prepared to join in with the lad's banter without taking offence and became a popular and valued member of the workforce. Her work ethic and general approach breathed new life into our department and it became a pleasure to go into work every day.  Of course, as in all workplaces, there were some moments of conflict but it was impossible to fall out with Moose. 

Approximately 12 months after Moose started, there was a restructure within the company and a new manager was appointed and placed in charge of our department. The dynamics changed considerably and not for the better. I had an immediate "personality clash" with the new manager and Moose and the other lad in the department also clashed with him in the following few months. The old adage of "if it's not broken, don't fix it" did not apply here. For the previous 12 months we had been efficient and hard working. The previous manager had recognised this and rarely interfered in our day to day work, which worked for us and the empowerment we felt motivated us.The new manager had a completely different approach.

In February 1996, Moose told me she wasn't happy working there anymore and was now looking for another job. Within a month of this conversation, she left the company. I was devastated.A couple of months later the other lad in the department also left. I was now left up the proverbial creek without a boat, let alone a paddle. In hindsight, I should also have taken this opportunity to leave the company at this point, however, I now had a mortgage to pay, had worked there 6 years and on a point of principal, didn't feel I should be forced out  like my other 2 colleagues. 7 years later I would regret my decision not to leave quietly at the point Moose left as my "career" at this company imploded.

After Moose left we stayed in touch and she became a close friend and confidante for many years.  Due to circumstances, I have not seen much of her in recent times but her part in the story of my life is a key one and I still think of her fondly.

1970s Urban Eco-Warriors

Watching Felicity Kendall on a chat show recently prompted me to recall my family's own version of The Good Life. As readers of a certain vintage will remember, The Good Life was a 1970s sitcom starring Felicity Kendall, amongst others, as one half of a middle class couple in suburbia who grew their own vegetables and kept pigs etc. As a child watching this I never fully appreciated the humour as, although we lived in the inner city, we also had vegetable patches in our back garden and ate our own produce so, as we were confirmed working class, I didn't fully understand the suburban joke.

I was the only one of my 7 siblings to be born in this house (the rest were born either in hospital or in a previous house) so I always had a special attachment to this home. The property also included both front and back gardens and it was in the back garden that my Dad and my Uncles created the vegetable patches complete with our own compost heap. To my knowledge, none of our immediate neighbours had anything like this but, as I grew up with it, it all just seemed perfectly normal to me.

In the patches we grew potatoes; carrots; lettuce; radish; swedes and many other seasonal produce. My siblings and I would help with the digging, sowing seeds etc and really enjoyed it. I only really knew vegetables to taste like they did from our garden and it was only in later life that I realised how much of mass produced supermarket food is bland and tasteless

Every year, in September, we would also go blackberry picking led by my mother.  We would fill up baskets of berries to be taken home and frozen, then over the winter months she would make delicious blackberry and apple pies and crumbles. Even typing this now is making my mouth water. In many ways we were very self-sufficient and maybe in modern terms we would have been seen as inner city Eco-warriors.
As I grew older and my interest in playing football increased, my love of our home grown vegetable patches started to wane as I would, along with others, also use the back garden as a football pitch but was told in no uncertain terms to keep my ball out of the vegetable patches. As I was honing my close control ball skills, I used to think to myself  "I bet Colin Bell never used to have to keep his ball out of a stupid vegetable patch".

By 1986 my Uncle had passed away, my Dad was no longer as mobile as he used to be and many of my siblings had left home. My interests had since turned to more rapscallion behaviour so the patches became disused. However, the halcyon days of playing the role of urban Eco-warriors remain very special to me and the smell of decomposing compost is still very dear in my heart, so much so that I recently asked the makers of Lynx deodorant sprays if they could bring out a "Rotting Vegetable" range.  I am still awaiting a reply so maybe they already produce this under another name.

When I Was Austin Powers

At the start of 2004 I decided to update my computer skills so in late January I attended Tameside College to enrol on a fast track IT course. It was an intensive day and evening course which I completed in around 4 weeks and received my certificates in early March 2004. After some recent unhappy experiences, I decided to avoid Job Centre Plus advertised work so I signed on at 3 or 4 new employment agencies instead. Armed with my new certification, I was confident that more varied job opportunities would open up for me.

Within days of signing up to these agencies I had received several offers of interviews and temp work. One of the better paid roles was working for a wooden pallet distributor in Greater Manchester through an agency I had not used before. I was invited to a pre-interview assessment at the pallet place to test the level of my computer literacy, as well as other tests. I went along to it in the first week of March and, aided by the knowledge gained on my recent course, I received a pass mark for all the tests (which lasted around an hour). A couple of days later I was invited for an interview to reach the next level. I queried the exact nature of the job with the agency as I thought all this testing was a bit excessive so far. They said it was basically a data entry job(?!). I went along to the interview and was seen by 2 managers. It was one of the most intense interviews I have ever had. I got through it but was confused as to why this vetting process was so extensive for entering details of wooden pallets on a database!

A day or 2 later the agency rang to say I had passed the interview and they now wanted to see me for a final interview with a view to arranging a start date. My inner voice said, "Am I trying to work for a bloody pallet company or are they some sort of cover for a network of international spies?!". I went along for the 2nd interview considering whether to dress as Austin Powers "International Man of Mystery", but decided to just put on a suit again (Armani, you know how it is for us power dressers). This time I was interviewed by 2 different managers. My inner voice spoke again when they sat me down, "Oh for the love of God, you distribute pallets, what are you, a top secret organisation bent on world domination, or do you want me to find the world's weapons of mass destruction or a cure for the common cold or something?!" I somehow managed to get through this stage as well and was given a quick tour of the building. All I could see were grim faced office workers and, further afield in a warehouse area, more pallets than I had ever seen in one place before. I was told the agency would be in touch with a start date. I returned home rather apprehensive about this role but decided to give it a go anyway.

The agency rang me to say it would be initially a 3 month trial period with a view to becoming permanent and, much to my chagrin, gave me a start date of 17th March. My heart sank. "Do they not realise that is St Patrick's Day?! Don't they think I have better things to do on this day (getting uproariously drunk etc) than sit in a depressing office chatting about wooden pallets!", my ever-present inner voice ranted. Reluctantly, I agreed and decided St Patrick would have to cope without me this year. 

The first day was intensive training on their database (now there's a surprise!). A young dark haired girl started on the same day as me. She seemed an interesting person. She was a drummer in a 3 piece rock band who were just starting out and were playing pub gigs etc. She had no car so I offered her a lift into town on my way home. She accepted the lift. It had been mostly a boring, but also difficult, day. As I dropped her off, I had to crawl through crowds of St Patrick's Day revelers, all inebriated at 5.30pm. I was so green with envy, my face matched the colours of the outfits. This did not improve my mood.

After 3 days, I realised that they were using the most over complicated, non user-friendly database ever created. This seemed to reflect the culture of this company. The reality was they were distributing pallets, that's all. They must have created this database after watching too many James Bond films. I continued to chat to the dark haired girl. She brought in a CD of her band (it looked genuine, her face was on the cover. I listened to it later and they were quite good) but the rest of my new colleagues all appeared to be post-graduates. I was post-Iceland Frozen Foods!  The managers had dressed it up in the interviews to be a fun place to work but in reality, for me, it was as much fun as scraping dog crap off recently purchased expensive shoes. When lunching with them I tried to talk about various other subjects, which mostly brought blank stares, then the chat would return to wooden pallets again. Soul destroyed and spirit crushed doesn't even begin to describe how I felt.

After just one week, I decided I didn't want any future at this place so I left the building with drummer girl to give her what would prove to be the final lift into town. During the journey, she was telling me about a previous assignment she had been on where a colleague had seemed to be doing OK then just didn't turn up the next day and she described this as "so lame". I didn't tell her that this was precisely what I intended to do!  I phoned the agency the next day and explained my position. I never used this agency again. Within 7 days I was working for a different employer via a different (very good) agency.

Naked Model Rescue

In mid November 2005, an agency I had been using for some time, assigned me to work for a local government adult education scheme in a converted mill in north Manchester. It was basically a data entry job

On the first morning of the assignment, I was met by mt new manager and led into a quiet room adjacent to the open plan office where I would be working.  He explained fully what he wanted me to do with some kind words of encouragement.  As he was talking to me I couldn't help but notice that he was the spitting image of Gerry Adams so we'll refer to him as "Gerry"

The work itself was non challenging and after about 2 weeks it was already becoming tedious. However, Gerry did his level best to freshen the work up and his sense of humour was desert dry.  When everyone in the office was leaving on a Friday afternoons, and they all uttered the usual insincere "have a good weekend" stuff, Gerry would reply "ah well, soon be Monday though" or "less than 72 hours and we're all here again" and other such remarks.  He always said it with a smile, nod and a wink. Some people weren't amused but I loved it and never tired of his dry wit.  He was a manager who never took himself or life generally too seriously (take note managers).  He got things done in his own way and never pretended the work we were doing was any more than it was. The tasks were boring but someone had to do it and he always made it known how appreciative he was for our efforts. My other colleagues in the office were an eclectic bunch and I didn't mix well with a few of them but Gerry's superb man management skills soon smoothed things over.

Within the mill there were several adult education classes being conducted at any one time. Across the corridor from the office where I was based was the life drawing class. One warm afternoon a female model from one of these classes fainted whilst naked.  The first we knew of this was when the tutor from the class burst into our office looking for a first aider.  As fate would have it Gerry was the nearest one so he sprung into action.  The tutor had made it clear it was the life drawing class.  As Gerry exited the room he stopped suddenly, turned to us and said "I may be some time".  When he came back in, his face was beetroot in colour but he had managed to revive the hapless model with her dignity just about still intact. It must have been rather unsettling though to have a Gerry Adams lookalike stood over you administering first aid just after you'd fainted in your birthday suit!

When I made the decision to leave this assignment, Rob accepted it with grace. He organised a leaving drink and gifts and gave me a glowing open reference and said I could give his details anytime for future reference requests. He was a fantastic manager who always got the best out of his staff without upsetting anyone.  Above all he was respectful and respected.

Boston - American Dream Fulfilled

To date I have visited the United States of America just once. This occurred as a 40th birthday gift. When I was asked in the year prior to the trip what I would like to do for my 40th,  my dream was to visit the USA.  I had never had the finances prior to this to fulfill my dream and ever since I was a small boy (now I'm a small man) I had wanted to visit the US.  I thought it would never happen until Connie initiated the idea which then came to fruition.

I wanted my destination to be a city where I could experience true Americana. I have never had any inclination to visit the usual tourist destinations of Florida; New York; Las Vegas etc. My city of choice was Boston, Massachusetts.  I already knew this to be an American city with one of the longest histories, of which I was already interested in, and a perfect location for a 5 day break.

In late February of that particular year we embarked on the trip.  There were no direct flights to Boston from Manchester so we chose to fly with American Airlines from Manchester via Chicago.  The flight to Chicago was 9 hours with a quick turnaround for the Boston flight.  We saw nothing of the city of Chicago (only from the air) but did experience the enormity of O'Hare airport.  The internal flight to Boston was around 2 hours and we landed in a freezing, snow covered landscape in Boston in the early evening local time.  It was dark, so the taxi ride to the hotel in downtown Boston didn't reveal much but my excitement was palpable. We checked in to the Lenox Hotel then retired for the night as we were shattered from the journey. 

I will pick out a few highlights from the trip that may be of interest. On the first morning I awoke to sparkling sunshine streaming through the hotel room windows. I looked outside and saw the clearest, bluest sky I had ever seen. I couldn't wait to get started exploring the city so we were soon out on the sidewalk looking up at the skyscrapers.  The sights before me literally took my breath away.  I was so excited I couldn't speak!  For me it was all very well seeing these types of buildings on TV but the sheer enormity and scale of the surroundings impressed me beyond my comprehension.

It was freezing cold and the sidewalks were snow and ice covered but this just seemed to add to the experience. On this first day we had our breakfast in Dunkin' Donuts and made our way to see Cheers bar (from the TV show). I had been told that Boston was one of the most "walkable" cities in the US and this is what made it all the more attractive to me.  Once I had calmed down a bit we walked to Fenway Park, home of the Boston Red Sox. We had lunch in a bar adjacent to the stadium and I had my first taste of Boston beer (Samuel Adams).  I chatted to the friendly barman who gave us further tips on places to visit.  We went on a guided tour of the stadium.  It was off season so the pitch was covered in snow.  I am no particular fan of baseball but one didn't need to be, as the guide was informative and entertaining making the tour fantastically enjoyable.  I loved his Bostonian accent.

Later that day, we visited the bars of Boston which were lively and a mixture of young and not so young.  The most pleasing aspect of all this so far was how "non-touristy" it was.  The bars were mainly populated by local Bostonians, with the occasional Irish voice, so I was indeed now getting my wish of experiencing authentic East coast America.   

Over the course of the next few days we went aboard the ship "Old Iron sides", visited Boston Aquarium, browsed the independent shops, had a wonderful lunch in Cheers Bar and generally took in as much as we could in 5 days of all Boston has to offer.  We only had to take the "T" (underground train) once when we visited the outskirts of the city, the rest of the time we walked everywhere. I believe this is always the best way to experience anywhere you visit.

Possibly, the reason why this trip was so special for me was that, as a child, I had never been outside the UK or Ireland but had dreamt of doing so.  I had visited Europe many times as an adult but nothing came close to standing on American soil for the first time aged 40.  It was a truly unique experience and during my time there (apart from when getting inebriated in the bars) it made me feel like a child again.  Unconditionally happy which no words can fully express.

If you want an authentic slice of Americana, head for Boston, Massachusetts !

Pickpocketed in Paris

When Connie was 30 I booked a surprise 4 day break for us in Paris. I revealed the surprise a week before her birthday and once she had calmed down we prepared for the trip.

We landed in Paris on Good Friday of that year on a cold, brilliantly sunny morning. We checked into our hotel and, despite no one claiming to have even a grasp of English at the hotel, we quickly set about seeing all Paris has to offer. Over the course of the first 3 days we travelled all around the city via the underground. It was chaotically busy but we took in all the world famous landmarks, enjoyed some wonderful meals and generally had a thoroughly splendid time.

On the final day we had an evening flight home so decided to have one last half day of sightseeing. We took the underground train to visit the Sacre Coeur de Monmartre which is a world famous Roman Catholic church. We spent a few hours there and were suitably impressed. We made our way back to the same underground station we arrived at for the journey back to the hotel. It was even more chaotic than usual at the station and Connie and I struggled to stay together in the thronging crowds.

We both purchased our tickets and made our way to the turnstile barriers. Connie went through first and just as I followed a man stood in front of me and pointed at my trainers. I looked down then within a second he was gone back into the crowds. I was puzzled by this and from the other side of the barrier Connie had seen him block my path then disappear. She immediately shouted "check your pockets!". I put my hand into my right hand side pocket where my wallet was. Much to my horror, it was gone.

Connie bolted back over the barrier and we both ran through the vast mass of humanity, but it was hopeless and a lost cause. The thief had disappeared. We approached one underground worker after another to ask the whereabouts of the nearest police station and again made no headway due the language barrier. Eventually, we headed back outside onto the street and found a policeman. We just about made ourselves understood and tried to follow his directions given to us entirely in French. After an hour of fruitlessly searching we found a police station. We headed to the front desk and explained what had happened in English. The officer didn't understand us and, with sign language, pointed for us to go through a door and into another room.

We sat down in this room with around a dozen other people but didn't know exactly what we were waiting for. We asked if anyone in the room spoke English and no one replied. We now became frantic. My wallet had been stolen with the loss of some cash and all my bank cards, and our flight time was getting closer.  Eventually we were called into another room and told to sit down in a booth with a policeman.  He asked "parlez vous Francais?".  I replied "non".  He shrugged his shoulders and sighed. He asked one of his colleagues to take over. This second policeman seemed to know a few English words and a few basic phrases but his attempts to take a statement from us were proving virtually impossible. My frustration was now boiling over as I knew that, without a police report, an insurance claim would be extremely difficult. 

Just as we were about to cut our losses and head back to the hotel, we had a huge slice of good luck. In the booth next to us was a woman also reporting a crime.  She had been speaking in French and we hadn't really been paying any attention to her.  Suddenly, she popped her head around the booth and said "Do you need some help here guys?".  She spoke in what I thought was an American accent, however, it turned out she was a French speaking Canadian and was fluent in French and English. I could have kissed her (this wouldn't have looked good in front of Connie!) as she interpreted the whole story about our misfortune to the policeman who was able to take a full report of what had happened to me. 

As we left and thanked the woman for, hopefully, saving us from the loss of a lot of money, she explained why she was there and what had happened to her.  At almost exactly the same time as us and at the same station a man had pretended to accidentally drop a lit cigarette onto her leg.  She had a closed rucksack on her back but as she was distracted by the first man, a second man had opened her rucksack and grabbed what he could before both vanished. She explained the pickpockets usually worked in pairs so earlier while I was distracted by the man pointing at my trainers, his accomplice was stealing my wallet behind me without me feeling a thing. It takes them literally a second to complete the theft. She further explained that if you're unfortunate to be targeted on the French underground, there is very little you can do to prevent the theft. There are hundreds of thefts every day on their underground system.

It put a downer on the end of the trip but we didn't allow it to spoil it completely. I eventually recovered some money through the insurance.  Since this day I have become much more jumpy in crowds and have even reacted badly when someone has innocently knocked into me. One reason for this post is to raise awareness of how pickpockets work (in case you didn't already know) and demonstrate just how "professional" they are.  It should go without saying, but in busy public areas keep your guard up!

Bowling Maidens Over

When I was a youngster I enjoyed playing cricket. This included semi organised games with mates in the park as well as informal thrashes on the driveway next to the family home. I was also fond of a game of  "French" cricket, with my siblings, which involved one's legs acting as stumps. One had a bat but one had to keeps one's legs perfectly still. One was out when the bowler hit one's legs (is it just me or is everyone else sick of me saying "one" all the time?).

We used a tennis ball when playing French cricket for obvious reasons but when we used the outside electric meter for stumps we sometimes used a "corky"  (genuine cricket ball). This resulted in next door's windows (a doctor's surgery) getting smashed on at least one occasion. These family games could be ferocious as there was a real competitive edge to our sibling rivalry as kids.

This gave me a grounding for the game as I developed an effective bowling action. Throughout my teenage years, football was still my first love, both playing and watching, but I also relished an opportunity to play cricket as well when the chance came.  This usually manifested itself in playing for work's cricket teams which brings me to the main point of this post.

In late summer 1995 I played for my then work's cricket team against a business rival's team at a shoddy, run down cricket club in south Manchester.  It was an evening limited overs game so I cadged a lift with a colleague to the ground on this warm, sunny, late August day.  Upon arrival there was just one changing room open for both teams and the facilities were basic to say the least.  The ground was also overlooked by some rather menacing looking council owned flats complete with the odd burned out car. This was definitely NOT Lords.

Our opponents won the toss and chose to bat first.  I was playing mainly as a bowler as my batting skills were strictly tail end material.  I was chosen to open the bowling so was thrown the ball to start the game.  I looked at the ball in disbelief.  It was in appalling condition as the seam was "raised" and dangerous. I spoke to our captain and expressed my concerns. He dismissed my complaints and said he had seen worse and "this isn't bloody Old Trafford you know".

My first ball was a wide, but after this I got into my rhythm and bowled a tidy over. Despite the condition of the ball, I was pleased with my second over then took my fielding position on the boundary as one of my colleagues bowled the fourth over of the innings (for those not au fait with cricket, another bowler bowls alternate overs at the opposite end of the pitch. Although if you are not au fait with cricket this will probably still mean nothing to you). 

During this fourth over the opposing batsman hooked a top edge high into the air and vaguely in my direction.  I wasn't wearing a cap so the sun was in my eyes. I made a vain attempt at a catch by throwing myself full length forward but the ball slipped through my fingers and went to ground.  I immediately picked myself up and returned the ball to the stumps.  Some of my fellow fielders heckled my dropped catch with shouts such as "what the hell was that?!" etc. 

As I returned to the boundary I felt a sharp pain from my left hand and, at exactly the same time, one of the onlookers at the boundary edge shouted " Eh mate, your hand doesn't look too good!". As I looked down the little finger on my left hand was sticking out at a crazy angle and blood was pouring from the webbing between my little finger and ring finger.  I knew straight away I was in trouble so sat down just beyond the boundary as a couple onlookers came to my assistance.  The bloke, who had first shouted to me, ran on the pitch to tell them I had a nasty looking injury. Despite this they never even stopped the game!

As I started to feel faint, one of my helpers ran to the first aid room in the club house. It was locked and there was no one around who had a key. I was immediately bundled into a car and driven to Manchester Royal Infirmary. The next bit is rather hazy but I do remember the driver saying "please try not to bleed on my seats too much".

Upon arrival at A&E I was helped in, and because I was walking (all be it very unsteadily) wounded I wasn't treated as a priority. Within 5 minutes, however, I was given a temporary bandage as I was bleeding all over the floor.  For the next hour, I sat in A&E in agony and alone as the driver who had kindly driven me there needed to get back to the ground.  This was still pre-mobile phone days so I felt very helpless and indeed very unwell.

Eventually, I was stitched up (with local anesthetic) and told by the doctor there could be some tendon damage. I was sent home with painkillers and antibiotics and told to make an appointment with my GP as physio would most likely be needed once the wound had healed.  Just prior to leaving, the captain of our work's team turned up at the hospital to tell me they had lost by 1 run and if I hadn't dropped that catch we would have won.  As it turned out we had indeed lost by 1 run and, of course, he was only joking but my sense of humour had long since deserted me.

Over the following weeks, my pain turned to anger as the raised seam on the ball had caused my injury.  My other complaint was that the first aid room was locked and, although my wound was relatively minor, a more serious injury could have been made much worse without some basic immediate first aid available. My concerns fell on deaf ears so this along with the injury to my hand, brought a premature end to my cricket playing days. I never bowled another ball again.

Build an Ark

Look up at the sky filled with rain
Just another day in Manchester again
Storms and floods, rivers bursting banks
You'd think we'd be used to it, us Mancs

You're low on Vitamin D, the doctor said
For a dose of the sun, head for the Med
But I've got ginger roots, said I to him
He looked at me like I was dim

He gave me some pills to give me a boost
I felt a bit better and not quite as goosed
The sun appeared so I ran out of the door
Then there were clouds and it rained some more

In my 'hood one Sunday a flash flood did arrive
I now had a lake where once stood a drive
I went to the shop in a pea green boat
No owl or pussycat, just a high visibility coat

Winter was sodden , now Spring is damp
It may be midday but I've turned on a lamp
If you want to spend time now in your local park
Climate change is here, you'd better build an Ark!

Manchester City V Manchester Utd - September 1989

This is a football related post but, for those who have no interest in the "beautiful" game, please bear with me as this is also a human interest tale of a maelstrom of emotions all to occur on one September day in 1989.

I am a Manchester City fan and when Connie (my Man Utd supporting wife) and I first got together in 1988, City were in the old Second Division and United were a First Division team. The fact that the 2 teams were in different divisions meant that there wasn't the same football related ferocity in the air as there had been previously and has been in more recent years. We had made each other aware of our football loyalties right from the start so we both entered into our relationship with our football eyes wide open and never envisaged there would be a problem. Oh how naive we were!

In May 1989 City won promotion from the old Second Division so Manchester derbies were now back on again. On a couple of occasions the previous season Connie had accompanied me to Maine Road for matches and there hadn't been any issues. In September 1989, when the first derby of the season would be played at Maine Road,  the football world was very different to today. It was only 5 months since the Hillsborough disaster and the Taylor Report  was a long way off being fully implemented. This meant that tickets for the City sections were on sale to City membership card holders but it also entitled the holder to 4 tickets. This was always going to be a recipe for disaster for this derby as the teams hadn't met for over 2 years and the media hype had gone into overdrive fuelling an already volatile football atmosphere in the city.

I had attended many derbies in the previous years with my mates and there was nearly always an atmosphere of real hatred in the ground. I was in the Kippax stand for a derby only 3 years previously in 1986 when it "kicked off" massively around me. When Utd took the lead in the game, around 50 Utd fans, who had made it into the Kippax stand near where I was standing, celebrated their goal. There followed a mass brawl, which I got caught up in, and it took the police an eternity to wade in and sort out the troublemakers. A year later in 1987 I attended a derby at Old Trafford and the City section I was in was pelted with coins for 90 minutes.

In late September 1989 Connie and I decided to attend the Maine Road derby together. In light of my previous experiences I insisted that standing was not safe (this was still in the aftermath of Hillsborough remember) and that we should only go if we can get seats in the North Stand. This was a City section and Connie assured me there would be no obvious celebration from her should Utd score. I went along to the Maine Road ticket office the week before the match and successfully bought 2 seats together in the North Stand using my City membership card.

On the day of the game neither of us wore any football "colours" and I drove to the ground, arriving about half an hour before kick off. We took our seats about 15 minutes before kick off and 2 issues struck me straight away. This was my first game at Maine Road since the Hillsborough disaster and I was horrified to see that City still had fencing around the ground. The only difference was the gates in the fencing were left open. The second issue was the atmosphere. It was very menacing and it was apparent some Utd fans were in the City section where we were seated. I was very uneasy but tried to play it down and assured Connie the police would quickly sort out any trouble.

By the time the teams ran out it was obvious hundreds of Utd fans had infiltrated the North Stand.  Around 50 of them behind the goal openly started chanting Utd songs. Connie and I were around half way back  in the corner of the stand and pockets of City fans were becoming agressive around us and were making moves towards the Utd fans behind the goal. As the game kicked off so did the fans. The first real trouble occurred in the Kippax Stand opposite where we were. The segregation had obviously failed there as well and we could see brawls breaking out in several areas. This led to the police, who were in our stand, rushing over to the Kippax to help their beleaguered colleagues.

After 5 minutes of the game we had watched very little of the action on the pitch as it was so chaotic off the pitch in the stands. This is when it got even worse in our section. Suddenly there was a surge of City fans from the back of the North Stand towards the Utd fans, who had been chanting earlier, directly behind the goal. There was a coming together and, as punches were being exchanged, Connie was now terrified and in tears. This spread to our section as well and individual fights started in the rows around us. This was the worst football violence I had ever witnessed first hand and it was occuring all around us.  I shielded Connie as the blows were coming from every angle and as 2 brawling morons fell into me I took an elbow to the head.  Slowly, police started to appear and the trouble subsided slightly in our section but behind the goal in the North Stand the scenes were becoming very distressing as fans were being pressed up against the fencing in the North Stand, as they tried to escape the fighting, and were being helped over the fencing and through the (mercifully) open gates onto the pitch. At this point the referee stopped the game and the players were taken off. Over the next 15 minutes or so Utd fans either voluntarily left the North Stand or were being forcibly ejected by the police. At this point Connie just wanted to go home. I persuaded her to stay to see if it would calm down.

Once the players were back out on the pitch, it had calmed down but Connie was now possibly the only Utd fan left in the North Stand. I was on the point of calling it quits and going home when City took the lead and then scored again within a minute. All the fans (with the exception of Connie of course) now appeared to be in their designated areas so there was no trouble after each goal. City won the match 5-1 but my joy was dampened by events off the pitch. There was one bright moment for Connie as we were seated in line of Mark Hughes' volleyed goal early in the second half, however, she was too traumatised to even move.

The events off the pitch on that particular day were disgraceful and, needless to say, we never attended another derby game together. The total breakdown of segregation on that fateful day has led to segregation between us on derby days for the last 23 years i.e ,we don't even watch Manchester derbies in the same house!

Food For Thought

Where are you from?
Where are you going?
How are you living your life?
What do you think is worth knowing?

Are you making a positive difference?
Can you see the bigger picture?
Do you want a better quality of life?
Do you wish you were richer?

Look closer to home
Put your loved ones first
Drink from the well of love that surrounds you
Don't dehydrate; quench your thirst

Love alone won't pay the bills
Of this you can be sure
Don't trap yourself in worry and doubt
Think positive and find a cure

Consider the daily decisions you make
Wasting time is a preventable crime
Enrich your life in non material ways
Do it while still in your prime

Make time to listen to your friends
You chose them for a reason
Look beyond your inner circle
Find one for every season

These words are written for you
Please take from them what you need
If just one line has made you think
Then my day's been very good indeed

My Sister, My Friend

Growing up in the east of the 'hood
a shared bond with common blood
11 months divide a sister and brother
with a loving and caring father and mother

What of the sister and her early days?
the youngest of  8 and unique ways
a hundred teddies and a bunny called Bobby
a love of Duran Duran and a calligraphy hobby

She wore skinny jeans with long brown hair
an independent streak and a confident air
Beverley Hillbillies and it's ready wit
Granny, Ellie-Mae and Jed Clampett

House parties in the old huge abode
her own bedroon at 4 North Road
80s fashions, no social media or internet
mobile phones not invented yet

Always a sister and always a friend
strong and determined with an ear to lend
sharing my childhood with her was a pleasure
years of memories forever to treasure

Belfast

I have visited Belfast twice in the last 5 years. Like many other people I was fearful of visiting this part of Ireland during the worst years of "The Troubles". The daily reports of sectarian violence throughout the 70, 80s and into the 90s  made the prospect of visiting Ulster an unlikely scenario.

As a youngster I tried to ignore the problems in Ulster and was too busy, for the most part, enjoying my childhood in Manchester to be concerned with the political issues of Ireland. However, the explosion which decimated Manchester city centre in 1996 was a watershed moment in my life. How had we reached the point where people from the island of my mother's birth sought to cause serious damage to the city of my birth? I was as devastated as the city itself in the aftermath and as this was so close to home for me I began to study the history of Ireland in more detail than I had previously.

The previous paragraph was relevant to this post as it may provide you, the reader, with an understanding of why I wished to visit Belfast in particular at the earliest, safest opportunity.  In 2007 I decided the time was right and, although my wife sought some re-assurances, I informed her of the massive changes in this part of Ireland in recent years with the positive effects of the peace process (her fascination with the Titanic story also helped swing it!).

I don't wish this post to turn into an advert for the Northern Ireland tourist board so will keep the rest of it as objective as possible.  I realise that many readers of this post may have visited Dublin many times for various reasons but not so Belfast. In brief it has the appearance of a modern European city now with all the rebuilding of the city centre, but parts of it still retain Victorian architecture.  However, where as Dublin city centre can be awash with stag and hen parties; paddywhackery and generic bars and restaurants, Belfast, so far, has maintained it's own individuality.  It has it's Wetherspoons as well now,of course, but authentic, friendly pubs and places to eat serving local produce are plentiful.

Further afield in Ulster, similar to further south, there are miles of beautiful countryside and the Giants Causeway IS all it's cracked up to be. If you can visit it on a dry, sunny day (not the easiest thing to do!) then you will get the whole "other worldly" experience.  Belfast city centre is, in many ways, now a safer place to be than many British or Irish town and city centres (I felt safer there than I do in Manchester on a Friday or Saturday night) but if you do venture out onto the Falls Road or the Shankill Road, then I would advise taking a guided taxi tour or jump on a sightseeing bus for a rounded view of history in this part of the world. Go on, give it a go and visit Belfast!

Feline Sleepless Nights

I have previously introduced you to Cinders. She was the loveable black and white family cat who had a taste for stick insects (see Cinders And The Stick Insects Post). She lived to quite an age and eventually succumbed to ill health. Prior to Cinders (and her predecessor Queenie) it is my understanding that mice could be a problem in the area where we lived so it made sense to keep the feline line going and get another cat.

Tibby was a male cat and was named by my mam. Something to do with his colouring (a variation on Tabby?).We bought him as a kitten and were told he was weaned but when I saw him for the first time I thought he looked quite small, even for a kitten. He was a crazy little fella and was more playful than Cinders was at the same age. He was also far more vocal than any cat I had ever heard before.

When he was less than 12 months old he came back in the house one day limping and dazed. We lived on a main road so the busy traffic was always a danger to cats. We weren't sure exactly what had happened to him so he was taken to the vets. He didn't have any broken bones but the vet concluded he had taken a blow to the head and  he had bruising to his back legs. He was still young and the vet was confident he would recover. We concluded he may have taken a glancing blow from a vehicle on the main road.

Shortly after this episode we had him neutered and this seemed to keep him in the house more than previously, at least during the day. We also noted that his behaviour was even more erratic than before and he developed a few strange tics and mannerisms. He was also fond of playing with other male cats. After neutering this was maybe unsurprising but his behaviour with the other tom cats seemed to be a bit "too friendly". Within the family it was now thought Tibby had feline sexuality issues.

As time went by and Tibby got older he still hung around the gay cat village at the bottom of our back garden. When he was in his later years I moved to a different bedroom in the family house. This bedroom overlooked the driveway and the back door. He became virtually impossible to keep in the house overnight.  Despite various different measures being taken he would always find a way to escape into the night.

This became a major source of irritation to me as between 3am and 5am every morning he would howl at the back door to be let back into the house. This was directly under my window and regularly awakened me.  He was on the receiving end of my wrath when I let him in and I would sit him down and talk through his issues with him. The following night after one of these man to cat talks he escaped again.  Sure enough at 4am there he was howling under my bedroom window.  Bleary eyed I stumbled down the stairs to let him in as I had now done a hundred times before.This time he strutted past me with a half eaten pigeon in his mouth.

I managed to grab him and he let go of the mutilated pigeon on to the living room floor.  He looked at me as if to say "I'm a cat and this is what we do". Tibby was known to us as the worst hunter in the feline world.  We had observed him trying to catch birds in the past and it was a pathetic sight. So pathetic in fact that the local magpies would sometimes circle him and have a good cackle at his efforts. As he looked at me and down again at the pigeon I told him not to think he was so clever. It was obvious he hadn't caught this pigeon, he had just chanced across it and brought it home to annoy me.

Tibby passed away at around 10 years old. He life was not as long as Cinders but he more than left his mark in my world. So long Tibby you little rapscallion.

Salford City Council's Poster Boy

In 2010 I was working for a local council. When the opportunity came to partake in a photo shoot there was no turning it down. My ripped physique and chiselled jaw line were designed for releasing to a wider audience so a photo shoot was the perfect vehicle to showcase my obvious talents.

The marketing department were requesting volunteers for the photo shoot to highlight environment issues i.e energy saving etc.  I put my name forward and once I had seen the application it was apparent I would pass all the criteria.  The questions included  "Are you fit?"  My answer - "Yes, extremely".  "Do you consider yourself photogenic?" My answer -  " Obviously, haven't you seen my portfolio?". 

On a sunny June morning I set off for "the shoot", as we models say.  I signed a few autographs on the way in as word had got out that I was making an appearance (bloody Twitter!).  My make up was applied (by me) then I was introduced to the 7 other models for the day. They were 3 men and 4 women.  Obviously, the women got very excited when they saw me but I had to disappoint them immediately by revealing this would be a fully clothed shoot as my agent had already checked with the authority and insisted any bare flesh photography had to be pre-arranged with her as it may infringe my image rights.

All 8 of us were kitted out with props etc and over the course of the day we were asked to create various scenarios for our collective shots. However, there were some unseemly scenes at times as every shot I was in brought a scrum amongst the others to be involved with me. Once all the shots were "in the can" as we say in the profession, I said my goodbyes to the others and made my way out of the building. I quickly jumped into my Renault Clio (03 plate) and headed for home.

I was told that once the shots were edited they would be released in a poster campaign throughout the city and there would also be some cardboard cut outs to be placed around council buildings.  I knew that mine wouldn't last 5 minutes before some hysterical fan ran off with it.  Around a month later the pictures were released and my vision of gorgeousness started to appear everywhere.  They used a shot of me with a few others as "wallpaper" on the council's computer screens for a while and many times as I was passing desks around the offices during the day I would catch women of all ages gazing at the wallpaper on their screen. It's true, I really am a dreamboat. It came to a point where only pictures without me on them were used as wallpaper as not enough work was being done.

When the cardboard cut outs appeared they only produced 4 and none of them were of me.  When I queried this with marketing they gave some lame excuse about budgets or something but I knew the truth.  Any cut out of me would obviously go missing and they were too stingy to replace them.

This is the end of this tale.  Some parts of it are true and some others have been altered very slightly.  I shall leave it up to you, the reader, to decide where the alterations are.

Comic Strip Crush

As a 10 year old my biggest hero was Roy Race. For the uninitiated Roy was(and still is!)the captain of Melchester Rovers Football Club from the Roy of the Rovers magazine A few pence of my weekly spends went on this publication for several years as a child.

Occasionally, my older brothers would pick it up and have a good chortle at some of the reading material within the pages. They used to find opposing team names like "Everpool" and "Sundercastle City" hilarious, being just 10 I didn't understand their mirth. I knew there were "real world" teams with similar sounding names but in my imagination they COULD have been real teams.

Every week would end with a cliffhanger on or off the pitch  i.e a penalty waiting to be taken in the 93rd minute or the Cup draw would be about to take place with all the players crowding around the radio hoping they would draw "Kings Park Rovers" or some such fantasy team.

My section of the shared bedroom wall at home with 4 brothers was covered in pictures of Roy and his teammates. He captured my imagination so intensely that for a while I even had a schoolboy crush on his drawn wife called Penny, that's right I even remember her name which of course is not in any way weird at all..

In typical 1970s style she only made an appearance when preparing a meal or attending some "gala" or other with Roy but to me she always looked gorgeous. Of course, these were the days before the WAG culture so I felt I had my 10 years old credibility intact being smitten by my made up hero's wife.

When I had stopped worrying about Roy's next move, my attention would turn to the other features. which included one which forced me into writing a strongly worded letter to Roy. They had a quiz every week which would include photos of so-called well known players which you had to guess the identity of. It wasn't a competition as such. It was just for fun and they would give you the answers the following week. At the time I felt it was one of the hardest quizzes possible for a kid my age. There were normally around 10 photos every week and usually only one of them would be a First Division player. The rest tended to be made up of journeymen players from the lower leagues.

I got really frustrated with this and one week I didn't know a single one of them. This made me so angry I very nearly didn't dream about Roy's Mrs that night.. I decided to ask a few of my brothers if they knew any of them and the ones who didn't tell me to piss off, and feigned interest didn't know them either.

I decided to write in and address my letter to Roy himself. but just hoped my criticisms weren't read by Penny as this would have made me think I had blown my chances with her. My childhood morals hadn't formed yet. A couple of weeks later a letter arrived addressed to me.  This was the first letter I had ever received in my nascent life..I was so excited my hands were trembling as I opened it. Inside the envelope was a photograph and a return letter written by.......Roy himself !  I bloody well nearly fainted!

Once I had calmed down and started to read it. Roy said that he agreed some of the players were difficult to guess but he had fans of all ages so he couldn't make them too easy. Anyway, I thought "What sort of shit is this Roy?!". I'd told him I was 10 years old in my letter but felt like I had already learned everything there is to know about football so thought this was a cop out. I calmed down eventually and showed it to my semi-interested immediate family and became more appreciative that I had at least received a signed photo from the great man himself .

Don't be alarmed, I wasn't still believing in Father Christmas and the tooth fairy at this age but the waters were still a bit muddied where Roy was concerned. I do remember for a while wondering why Melchester Rovers were never in the FA Cup draw that I heard on the radio.

I finally realised it was all fantasy when I was...35.

School Year From Hell

I thoroughly enjoyed my primary school years. I made lots of friends and received an excellent education.  Due to an anomaly I wasn't given the opportunity to take my 11+. The kids who attended my primary school were split across 2 local government areas, Tameside and Manchester. There had been a boundary re-structure in 1974 and I found myself on the "wrong" side. If you lived in Tameside you could take the 11+ and , if passed, be given the opportunity to go to a Grammar school. My side of the boundary was in Manchester with no 11+ option so I was packed off to the local Comprehensive school.

My first year in my new school in Openshaw was fairly tough as many of my friends from primary school had gone to other schools (passed the 11+ etc, I'm not still bitter) so in some ways I had to start again`. I got by, however, and by the second year I was a little more settled. In the last term of this year we were told our year had to go to it's sister school in Ardwick for the 3rd year then we would return back to Openshaw for the last 2 years. A ridiculous state of affairs. It was related to class numbers and resources etc but for us this was preposterous. I had previously been able to walk to my school in Openshaw but the move to Ardwick would now entail 4 buses a day. 

In September 1980 I embarked on what would become my "school year from hell". The school in Ardwick was being closed down and was in a state of disrepair. There was only one other year left in the school.  This was an all boy "5th" year meaning they were 15 and 16 years old so were 2 years older than us. The areas we came from were hardly salubrious but this bunch in Ardwick were a different breed. Many of them were drawn from some of the toughest areas of inner city Manchester and when they saw us turning up in the first week they were watching us like starved sharks.

The playground quickly became a world of intimidation, bullying and violence. Our only hope was safety in numbers so our year realised we would have to pull together and put past issues between us to one side, at least for the duration of this school year. . in the first week of the new term, "The Ginger Twins" gave a couple of us a few slaps around the head then kicked our ball onto the school roof. This happened several more times so we just didn't bother playing football in the end and decided just trying to stay alive was a more preferable pastime.

At the end of the previous year at Openshaw, there were stories about what a hellish place this Ardwick school was. My school was RC. and the nearest local C of E school in Ardwick was known to be full of out of control thugs who carried out regular beatings in the streets around the school of their (soon to be us!) neighbours. Our new 5th year co-habitants were already aware of our fears so they also demanded "protection" money from us as they said it was common for the the other school to invade our playground for bouts of mindless violence. Oh what a marvelous time we were having!

I soon decided that my education was going to have to be put on hold for a year and It would be a case of simply surviving this daily hellish experience. My 3rd year schoolmates worked out a strategy where we would all stick together and look out for each other at bus stops etc. This largely worked although there was regular verbal intimidation to and from our school. We were vastly outnumbered of course as they had 5 full years of trouble.. The fact that the other year in our school also saw us as "outsiders" and were also trying to "do us"just made it all the more of a scene from Satan's hollow.

ne bit of light relief was the arrival of an ice cream van every lunchtime. However, just before the first half term the Ginger Twins organised a raiOd on the van which resulted in the van being tipped onto it's side with the ice cream man still inside it. The Police were called (but Sting wasn't available) but unsurprisingly, no ice cream van ever returned again to the school. Goddamn it! No education AND no ice cream.

In the aftermath of "IceCreamGate" the teachers fully implemented their corporal punishment right of the day and the behaviour of the 5th years improved slightly over the next 2 terms. This all changed again in the Spring of 1981. This was the year of massive social unrest in the UK and serious disorder and rioting was breaking out in Brixton, Toxteth and Moss Side amongst many other parts of the country. In the last term of the school year this unrest had spread to our school. There was a permanent feeling of tension in the air and violence was now back on the agenda.

As I was leaving the classroom one day in June there was widespread panic in the corridors. Schoolkids were running in all directions in a scene of mayhem. Suddenly, a teacher appeared from another class to tell us all to get back in the classroom and lock the door. There was a major incident and the police had been called. Our school had been invaded my baseball bat wielding teenage psychopaths. The incident was eventually dealt with but later that day some teachers were called in from our parent school in Openshaw to monitor the ongoing disaster zone.

The last month of the term ended in complete mayhem. Many inner city areas around the country were going up in flames and, as the 5th years were on the verge of leaving school for the last time, they were doing their best to ensure this school in Ardwick was also going to pay a price. By this stage I was so stressed that just getting home in one piece was enough of an achievement for me. When the term ended in late July, I was mentally and physically wrecked.

I returned to some kind of normality again in the 4th year back at Openshaw but was left with a real feeling of bitterness that after being denied the opportunity to pass the 11+ I had also been subjected to this year of hell. Dark days indeed.

Celebrate The Rights

Two lost souls destined to meet
Conspiracy theories amid webs of deceit
Fractured hearts and friendships lost
Reckless acts whatever the cost

The fickle fingers of life's fate
A love created on an infamous date
A dwindling fire of painful guilt
New found spirit and bridges built

Forgiven, not forgotten, forever a sinner
Healing time, hearts and minds a winner
Demons they come and then they go
Reaching new highs, then a new low

Onwards and upwards the saying goes
Look to the future and bury your woes
Leave heartbreak and angst in lost love songs
Celebrate the rights, don't mourn the wrongs

Mancunian Madman Punches Goose In Beak

In April of this year my wife and I attended a literary festival in Scarborough. We networked with various authors as we were staying in the same hotel as most of them. When I say "networked" I mean I looked on in awe of them in the breakfast room and the bar in the evening. My literary "career" was very much still at it's nascent stage so without having a published book myself to talk about I felt out of my depth.

On the Saturday afternoon the sun came out so we decided to venture out to Peasholm Park which is a delightful green area in a quiet part of the town. This park has extraordinarily friendly squirrels so as we made our way through the woods I was able to hand feed them with some nuts I had procured in advance. This excited me somewhat as I had never done this before (I'm aware some consider then vermin)

In the centre of the park is an island with a waterfall and one linking bridge  from the main part of the park.  This looked very becoming so I was eager to explore further. As we crossed the bridge there were some hastily written warning signs that the island was currently home to nesting Canada geese which could be very aggressive. As I am a real man I disregarded this as poppycock so we continued onto the island and up a steep curved path towards the top of the waterfall.

Around halfway up there were a couple of geese just to the right of the path on a grassed area.  As we drew level with them one approached me and hissed menacingly.  I laughed in it's face and used a vulgar turn of phrase directed at the angry goose (the second word of which is "off")  and continued up to the waterfall.  Little did I realize at the time that this goose had well and truly marked my card and was now biding it's time safe in the knowledge that his moment would come again.

The island was also home to some very pretty gardens so we sat down for a while and relaxed in the tranquil surroundings. Half an hour or so later we decided to make our way back. As there only appeared to be one path in and out of the area we were now in, we re-traced our steps back down the same path we came up.  Half way back down I noticed the same 2 geese again.  One was obviously a female and was nesting. However, the other one that I had the run in with earlier, was now standing tall in the middle of the path. He was wearing an expression of "come and have a go if you think you're hard enough".

As we got closer he took a couple of steps closer to us which stopped us in our tracks. The smile was wiped off my face this time as he reared up, flapping his wings and spitting in the most hideous fashion directly at me. His body language was screaming at me along the lines of  "You're not laughing now are you" " Tell me where to go did yer!" "I'm going nowhere!".  The stand off continued for another minute or so. He wasn't backing down so as I took a step to the right he did the same. I took a step to the left and same again. All the time he was flapping and spitting. His tongue was serpent-like.

At this point Connie (my wife) said "Just leave it, we'll have to find another path back out". I wasn't having this as I wasn't going to be beaten by a stupid devil goose! I made one more attempt to pass him then he lurched at me. Connie screamed as I ducked (pardon the pun) out of the way of his satanic beak. I took a few further steps back and was so wound up I considered striking him in self defence but quickly noticed there were various signs nearby indicating we were on CCTV.  I could vision the headlines the next day in The Scarborough Herald, "Mancunian Madman Punches Goose In Beak".

I accepted defeat so we headed back up the path the way we came. As I looked behind me,  my nemesis followed us a few steps and was straining his neck forward in some kind of parting shot. As we got further away he stopped, then returned to his nesting goose wife. After a lot of messing around we eventually found another path avoiding the Canadian goose thug and were able to escape unscathed. 

Back at the hotel that evening I did consider sharing this tale with the writers in the bar but thought better of it, so instead I ate a packet of dry roasted peanuts and went upstairs to watch Match of the Day.

Find Your Place

Square pegs and round holes
Bars set too high with unachievable goals
Carrying out tasks that don't come easy
Listening to dull chatter, some of it sleazy

Wasting time listening to "the man"
He knows nothing, he's an also ran
Making sows ears out of silk purses
Looking for doctors then finding nurses

Offices and factories paying the bills
Headaches and stress soothed by pills
A means to an end just to get by
Never truly happy, living a lie

Life is enjoyable without the rat race
Every day's a good day once you've found your place

Wounded Heart

If you have a wounded heart
Amid troubled times of woe
Search your mind for positive thoughts
With time the pain will go

With darkness in your soul
And spirit crushed to dust
Better days will lie ahead
In this you must trust

This hostile world we live in
Can be a cold and lonely place
Build on your talents and strengths
Let this be your saving grace

Grief, sorrow and sadness
Emotions we all can feel
Be kind to yourself and see the light
Your scars are soon to heal

Pathetic Pen Friend Attempt

I was 16 years old and did something totally out of character. I bought a copy of Smash Hits magazine. I usually read either Sounds or the NME (New Musical Express). These 2 papers catered for my musical tastes of the day. Smash Hits most certainly did not  It's readership largely catered for pubescent girls. I think maybe Kim Wilde was on the front cover or something which persuaded me to part with my 30p. Anyway, I flicked through all the crap then saw something which caught my eye. It was a page of ads for pen friends. This was something I wouldn't normally have given a second glance but I was feeling a little vulnerable at the time and lacked self confidence.

As my eye scanned the page, one particular ad caught my attention. It was for 2 girls aged 16 looking for pen friends with a similar aged boy with similar interests. Well, I was the same age and among their "liked" bands were Big Country. They were one of my favourite bands at the time and had some credibility. This was unusual for Smash Hits as their featured artists most weeks were from a fluffy pop nonsense background. 

The address was a PO box number so I reached for my "MCFC Are Magic" pen and proceeded to write to them. At this stage, of course, I had no idea where they lived or what they looked like etc so I asked a few questions of this nature in my letter. The most unusual part of their ad was that there were 2 of them. 2 girls wanting friendship with 1 boy?  I did think it a bit strange but it didn't stop me wanting to get involved(!)

I sent off my letter with my address enclosed and really didn't think that more of it. Around 2 weeks later I received a letter back from them in the post. They were calling themselves "Gladys" and "Mabel". There was also a photo enclosed of them both. However, they were both wearing hats and large sunglasses which largely concealed their identity and gave me not much idea of what they actually looked like. The letter did reveal that they lived in Yorkshire and they wanted to know more about Manchester and what other interests I had etc. They were also asking for a recent photo of me. 

As already stated, I was lacking in self-esteem and, aged 16, I wasn't confident in showing them my spots and growing mullet so I rummaged through some photos I had and found one which was perfect. Someone had taken a photo of me from a few months earlier which had cut my head off so it was just me from the neck down sporting one of my Fred Perry t-shirts and a pair of skinny jeans (This was 1983). I thought "This will do nicely".

I set about writing another reply letter and enclosed the photo. They had revealed their full postal address so I sent it off to Yorkshire. Approximately 2 weeks later I received another reply.  This time I wasn't in when the post arrived so when I got home there was a letter for all the family to see on the dining table addressed to "Clandestine Chris". This brought much amusement to my immediate family as they were previously unaware that I was writing to anyone. I fielded my family's questions the best I could but felt rather humiliated. In this second letter Gladys and Mabel were pleased I had sent a photo and complimented me on my legs(!) They had also sent a second photo of themselves fully revealing their identity (don't worry they were fully clothed!). The fact that they weren't Kim Wilde/Debbie Harry lookalikes coupled with the "Clandestine" comment drawing attention to me and themselves meant that I didn't write to them again or send another photo of me (how shallow is that ?!) so this pen friend relationship lasted 2 letters each which, in anyone's book,  is rather pathetic don't you think?

Half Man Half Biscuit, The Boardwalk, 1990

During the peak of my gig going days I went to see a band called Half Man Half Biscuit at The Boardwalk club (this closed down in 1999) on Little Peter Street in Manchester. I went with a mate on a cold and wet midweek night. It was very much The Hacienda era (I was never part of that scene at all - I preferred alcohol to drugs and moshing to dancing) and The Boardwalk was only 5 minutes walk from there.

I met my mate in Piccadilly, then we downed a few pints before walking down to the gig. We had to pass the Hacienda to reach The Boardwalk  As we approached the Boardwalk a young couple in their 20s(male and female) asked us if we knew what time the Hacienda opened. They spoke with a German accent. At this time The Hacienda was world famous and people were regularly attending from all over the world. We had no idea, of course, but as there was no one else around at all, we told them it looked unlikely that it was open that evening. They were very disappointed as they were travelling around Europe in a camper van and only had this one night in Manchester and had come specifically to visit The Hacienda. 

They asked us if we could advise them of a decent place where they could go for a drink. I told them there were lots of pubs and bars around the city centre that were worth a look and advised them the Oxford Road area might suit them as it was (and still is, of course) a favourite student hang-out. We told them we were going to see Half Man Half Biscuit and asked if they had heard of them. Unsurprisingly they hadn't. They briefly spoke to each other in German then the lad asked if we wouldn't mind if they joined us for a drink. I wasn't sure about this.

Our plan had been to have one more pint in the City Road Inn then head to the gig, so we told them we were going there but before we knew it the 4 of us were sat in the aforementioned pub with pints of Lowenbrau in front of us. We started chatting about where they had been, where they were going next after Manchester etc and we seemed to get along well. The lad was fluent in English but the girl was less so. This meant he did most of the talking. We ended up getting a second pint in and before long we were all going to the gig together. They had no tickets of course but they were still able to pay in at the door. Once inside, they drifted off for a while so it gave my mate and I a chance to chat about what was going on here.

The gig was ok but HMHB are one of only a handful of bands I've seen who are better in the studio than on stage. Margi Clarke(actress) also joined them for a couple of songs which was rather unexpected. At the end of the show I expected to say "Auf Wiedersehen" to the couple then go our separate ways. This is not what happened.

We rejoined the German couple at the end of the gig and they wanted to thank us for our hospitality by inviting us back to their camper van for a "nightcap". I was concerned they were either axe murderers or that they had a porn film crew waiting behind the curtains of the van. Putting this in to context we'd had several beers and one's judgement is not always sound at times like these so we agreed to take up their offer though, to be fair, they had seemed genuine so it wasn't that tough a call. 

Their van was parked up near the Hacienda for the night so they unlocked it and we jumped aboard. It was spacious, clean and well stocked with lots of food and alcohol. We chatted for a few hours and consumed far too many more beers and snacks. Our departure from the van is still a bit hazy but nothing untoward happened. I assure you!

My mate swapped phone numbers with them and kept in touch. Indeed on one occasion he even visited them in Germany whilst attending a music festival.