Last week wasn't the best time for me in my job as a teaching assistant for reasons I'll not bore you senseless with here by chronicling all the ins and outs and of course it'd be very parochial too for me to do so but I'm mentioning it here as it represented a thankfully rare time in my life when I can become fundamentally fed up with how it is panning out and following on from this quite depressed actually.
I'm as fallible and as flawed as any other human being and people who value me in their lives (aside from unconditional parental love and affection which I can overwhelmingly identify with myself for four years now and counting) would want me to actually be more forceful as a personality type and show what I can really do more than, in reality, I get round to as it happens.
I have always been my own worst critic though and however much I've tried to cultivate and hone a pokerface and become thicker-skinned in more recent times as an aid to getting on I cannot completely expel the fact that I wear my heart on my sleeve and I soon develop a deep and lasting emotional attachment to anything I put my heart and soul into.
The flip and down side to this feeling though is when it goes awry in some way as then I take it very much to heart and it's a big fall from grace for me.
What, I feel, has helped keep me sane and focussed down the years is an ability to see my shortcomings and own up to them as and when they crop up and as it's a much sought-after national trait of the British anyway I also like to think that occasionally I'm half decent at being self-deprecating too.
I also strive to remain down to earth and not get too up myself at any time.
So it takes a lot then to really get me down and almost despairing and last week was one such instance of that happening sadly.
More on this later though when the point to this piece will be more apparent.
As a precursor to the rest of this piece I would like to tell you about a Saturday night spent a few weeks ago at a suite inside Manchester City's Etihad football stadium where my family and I joined by my mother were supporting the parents of a class mate at my son's school during a fundraiser for the Christian charity they have set up and run called Make Jesus Known.
Celebrating five years of MJK's existence the denouement to an evening of musical performances, a former City player turned comedian selling various donated items and memorabilia to the packed tables and a talk on the work of the charity was a speech given by the former world boxing champion Nigel Benn.
Famously to sports fans and not just specifically those into boxing back in the late 80's and early 90's he was known as the Dark Destroyer and via some fierce contests in which he pulverised many of his opponents this moniker was very apt.
Here though on a cold and wintry night in Manchester was the polar opposite of that persona as now based in Majorca and an ordained minister he recounted his life both before his rise to fame and the less than happy reasons for his meteoric ascent including his brother being murdered by white racists right through to his life now having become a born-again Christian which he professes to have given his life meaning that he simply didn't have before despite the fame and fortune that boxing had brought him.
Please see here to give yourself a better flavour of the up to date Nigel Benn.
After he'd finished speaking an hour or so later I got his autograph and he was as gracious then talking to me as he had just been reciting verses from the Bible.
To be frank I'm one of those British people referred to in the other blog linked to who is crushingly cynical about former sports stars and other celebrities finding God and religion once their best days in the spotlight are over and whilst I was somewhat star-struck admittedly at the prospect of sharing a room with someone who'd been a formative part of my sporting education I also recall feeling that it was going to be a very predictable and probably dull evening overall and I'd not really learn anything new.
To some extent this prejudice I'd felt on entering was confirmed but based on the power of his testimony and the resonance of his words that were heartfelt I was also, oddly to me, touched by what Nigel Benn had said and the person he was now happily and so enthusiastically presenting to the world.
Amongst other subjects religion is a permanent feature of my internal mental landscape now in 2012 and on a daily basis it seems something will emerge either in the public sphere of current affairs and the news or more mundanely in my personal life when I'll churn it over once more and possibly even feel compelled to tinker with my previous default position on it.
You could arguably say, to use some modern parlance, that I am conflicted by it as from my earliest days I was brought up in the Christian faith with all the trappings that that entails like Sunday School and for a fair chunk of time during my teens as a member of a group attached to the church that was like a religious rival to the Boy Scout Movement.
Often ridiculed for it the social pressure from this got to me in the end which I'll freely admit to and I caved in and walked away from wearing a crisply-ironed uniform, polishing up a tiny pin badge to the point of exhaustion some weeks (mostly mental as I set myself extraordinarily high standards that sweat and other built-up grime would defeat) and taking part in drills during which I only very rarely questioned the point of it all.
It could all just have been rebellious adolescence on my part and no doubt immature thinking too but I do remember my leaving the Campaigners as a pivotal moment in my life vis a vis religion as for the first time I consciously rejected what up until then had been an integral part of my whole identity as a boy as well as playing football and cricket for the schools and clubs I went to.
It suddenly felt really uncool to have anything to do with Christianity but aside from this transient sentiment for a second as all teenagers go through phases when certain things become the flavour of the month and then as quickly fade from their affections for some obscure and usually nonsensical reason I felt a deep down disillusionment with the church and turned my back on God and that whole story.
Having been soaked in the faith though for such a long time I found that I couldn't shake it off just like that and embrace a whole new lifestyle where it never got a look-in.
I wasn't about to become a full-on hedonist even if the era was perfect for just that sort of life with Rave going strong back then and causing many a moral panic in the press pack.
More pragmatically my oldest sister had met and then got married to a man who had trained to be a vicar and so for the rest of my days (I am fortunate to have a very good and harmonious relationship with my sibling) I was resigned to the fact that religion would inevitably and effortlessly cross my path every now and then due to this family tie even if I purposely chose to ignore it at other times and could go to weddings and the like and enjoy a brief snooze when those attending were asked to pray.
I'm not quite sure where my wholehearted disaffection with religion came from as whilst I have an interest in science and how things have come into being I'm not zealous enough about it either to want to disprove the existence of God with a meticulously prepared statement as to the origins of the Universe and that sort of thing.
It perhaps comes from my dad more than my mum in terms of the influential figures in my life to have an intense dislike for pomposity and grandstanding from people as if they are the best thing since sliced bread and I think this explains my feeling fed up with religion more than anything else.
Back in my youth having relegated the never-shiny pin badge to a dusty drawer I felt the church and its custodians were very uppity figures and that it was as much to do with their own egos being massaged by an appreciative congregation as it was about the message of their sermons that was their motivating force.
The church needs messengers though whatever guise they come in and so really it was organised religion as opposed to God and Jesus that I was leaving behind as I felt it was too self-aggrandising and was too easily a prop for the more vainglorious types who seemed to run it.
After that like other things that can lapse in your life like the sports practised so readily at school once the serious business of becoming a fully-fledged adult takes over with the responsibility to take care of yourself I just let religion slip from my consciousness and got into other stuff.
This didn't bother me at all though and I can't say I noticed much difference in my life.
A rude awakening from my indifference took nearly another couple of decades.
It was in 2005 I met my wife for whom religion could best be described as in essence being her whole raison d'etre and so suddenly religion was thrust back in my face.
I couldn't have one (her) without the other and as part of the process of courting her I'd steel myself and be taken to various church events that she was very keen on going to as in Ghana where she comes from much of the national psyche of that country is inextricably interwoven with the practice of religion.
To fully get this I would advise you (as is shown here) to take yourself along one Sunday to a Pentecostal church that has a Ghanaian audience and see for yourself the fanaticism (I mean this in the nicest and purest sense of the word) of those attending as to the eyes and ears of more typically reserved and understated British folks it is like a refresher course in how to enjoy yourself and let yourself go more than the traditional Church of England's sober and reflective look back on those events in your life in the week just gone that you want God to forgive you for and understand.
Leaving your inhibitions at the door would be a fabulous start and my foremost tip to get the most out of it.
Close to seven years on since our blind date in a pub near the Museum of Science and Industry in Manchester I will own up and say that even if she hasn't wholly convinced me that making religion the main focus of your life is something worth doing I am no longer as openly hostile to it as I was just a relatively short while ago.
Which brings me back to my starting point as last week when I was feeling really down I started to do the customary thing I feel works well for me which is to count my blessings and accentuate the positive aspects to Graham John Robinson and all who sail in me etc.
Consequently my kids would get impromptu hugs and kisses from their dadda whether they liked it or not and I'd ask them to reciprocate as a basic gesture like this was working wonders for me by taking my mind off my problems.
It also unashamedly makes you feel good let's face it!
Some might say I'm just being a soppy old (ish) so and so and others with a more religious bent would point to the healing power of God's children (of whom I am also one I'm told) but I would just say that I'm seeking solace wherever I can get it in my hour of need and my kids are better than anything away from my wife that I have found since they landed in our laps to do just this.
This piece might seem very jumpy and possess an inconclusive tone to it to some people reading it - to be honest it's meant to be a work in progress on purpose - as I still really don't utterly know where I stand on religion these days even taking into account the positive experiences I've had of it in recent times some would argue which has rekindled a long-dormant awareness of it with my getting together with my lovely wife and then us spawning two equally gorgeous kids.
Every way I've looked at to express myself in this bit I've felt it might be unavoidable my sounding corny and hackneyed and so I've decided just to go for it and let others determine this for themselves.
To me then my family are the possible living embodiment of what religion means as something concrete that you can viscerally enjoy and I am thankful for them.
Whether or not they were created by a Divine Power is another can of worms which I'm sure I'll come back to at a later date.
For now what I'm really saying is that I'm open to persuasion again but for a wider crowd ie much of the rest of humanity in the UK at least to buy into this a few things have got to change beyond the comparitively lower level concerns of the General Synod last week, for instance, debating with itself as to whether female bishops should be permitted even if that is something I go along with myself.
Raking back over my life I think that another reason that I turned my back on the church is because my life experience during that time after leaving home was so jarring against what I'd been taught until then and in some cases a complete contrast to my comfortable childhood.
It could be that that was always going to be the case and there wasn't much I could've done to prevent this.
Life in the big wide world came as a nasty shock on more than a few occasions and I am in no way being disrespectful to those people that had done their level best like my parents and teachers at school to prepare me for it when I say that it shook my value system to the core as things that I'd once held dear were questioned to the point that I'd toss them to one side for not being useful anymore to me.
It'd be a psychologically omnipotent soul who is also religious who could also claim that they'd never wavered and had any doubts.
No such person has ever existed I feel and never will (even at my wife's church).
The point I'm making is that religion with its often repeated promises of salvation and a loving God etc. can frequently seem out of place in the frantic and unforgiving hurly burly of human experience and in a dog eat dog world.
This could possibly be why, to a larger extent than those within the church itself give credit for or want to understand, many people are resolutely secular and others proudly want to be known as atheists to go to the other side of the fence.
Personally I fall somewhere between these standpoints and could argue as fervently with an atheist as I could with someone like my wife whom I'd prefer to be more questioning of her faith even if I'm never likely to succeed.
To counter this apathy to religion the church has in recent times promoted itself via courses like the one here but for me it could even be said that this is too little and way too late.
Every Sunday or when I'm not preoccupied with something my family is doing or I'm ill etc. I will be a part of the congregation at my brother in law's church in Salford and despite my reservations about religion still it's no great bind as I like the other people who go there and the chilled-out ambience of the church building itself helps soothe my weary soul at the end of the working week.
It's therefore a source of comfort in my life.
This is not meant as a criticism and is more an observation (one I've told him about already) but I'd sooner my brother in law could mix up his interesting sermons which ordinarily reflect the Bible reading (that a few moments before has been revealed to the congregation) with an historical background to Christianity as apart from my liking history myself as a subject, in general terms I think the church could do itself a lot of favours and reach out to a bigger audience rather than just preaching to the converted the whole time if it touched on those areas where there is a gaping hole in the general knowledge of the public who are at home watching Sunday morning telly as well as the more esoteric passages from the Holy Book.
In this day and age of the internet some people might counter my suggestion by saying that if someone wants to really know all that stuff it's out there for them to access for themselves and the church doesn't have sufficient time and resources to devote itself to this.
I feel this would be a flimsy argument though as the church I think would be encouraged to know if they'd not completely sensed it for themselves already that instinctively I feel people do look for guidance be it through laziness on their part or whatever and so for the church not to fully exploit this trait in human nature is for it to be missing a trick and a big one too.
It shouldn't just be up to organisations like the BBC to provide this service and it be part of the National Curriculum in my view.
Fundamentally many people won't go to church or have anything to do with religion as they don't believe in God (from a Christian perspective that is as I don't want to discount the other world religions) but if the church went into their history a lot more rather than relying so much as I feel it does on heavy Biblical symbolism and recurring stories that can sound antiquated and clunky to a modern ear then they could well discover anew that people do want to be convinced deep down and just need something tangible to latch onto.
For too long it can seem to me like the church has got something to hide kind of and is being too secretive for no apparent reason unless there is something that it genuinely doesn't want people to know.
At the risk of sounding trite and too much like the back cover description of a Dan Brown novel I will leave it there.
I'd love to believe with all my heart as it's a great story and I realise that many committed Christians will say that that is what faith is all about by definition but whilst that might be fine for them I feel that they can't be too dogmatic and just expect others to implicitly understand what they mean.
Discuss!
Monday, 13 February 2012
Wednesday, 19 October 2011
Bradman c Allen b Larwood 8
Ordinarily you might not expect a heavy defeat ultimately for your home nation to represent one of your happiest memories following a sport you love but being at Old Trafford cricket ground in 1988 as the formidable and all-conquering Windies side of that era demolished England yet again (most of the team were veterans of the infamous Blackwash tour four years earlier and as such exalted company) felt like an enormous privilege.
I'm not sure how much the ticket was back then but it was worth every penny.
Close up and personal as opposed to lounging about on the sofa in the living room at home in Telscombe Cliffs and Crowborough before that (two areas I can intimately recollect having spent much of my youth there glued to the BBC coverage as it was then with the only thing missing being my having food passed to me Hannibal Lecter-like on a tray through a serving hatch so I didn't miss a ball) I had a fantastic day out and in my mind's eye it's a vivid time that feels like it happened yesterday as the old saying goes.
Entertained royally by my fellow fans with their earthy Manc humour who in the previous few days had been presented with a gift in the form of the tubby and neatly-bearded Mike Gatting who was newly released from his duties as the England skipper after his shenanigans with a hotel barmaid (they teased him mercilessly over it) I was in heaven really from a cricketing point of view.
As he patrolled the boundary edge near the City End scoreboard he could have very easily filled several fruit bowls many times over with what was being pelted at him from all angles and falling to the ground around, what had been just two years earlier as a victorious Ashes captain in Australia, golden boots that had suddenly become feet of clay.
He denied any impropriety naturally and nothing was proven but he'd been badly damaged by a story that he had invited in a woman who was not his wife into his hotel room.
To his credit he took it all in very good heart and played along although maybe in hindsight this was because he knew he had nothing more to lose as the team's main man having been deposed shortly before and was just glad to be back in the reckoning as a team member.
This was, after all, a more puritanical period in the history of the game in the UK with less forgiving selectors and team stability was hardly a prized asset in those days.
You had one bad game on or off the pitch and that could be your lot for a while.
Largely a wide-eyed and innocent 17 year old who'd never witnessed this sort of thing before as the aforementioned telly feed back then was not as intrusive and as pervasive into the murky goings on in the outfield as it is in 2011 I was able to pull my eyes away from this comical sideshow for long enough to enjoy the highlight of the day for me which was Mr Viv Richards (later to be Sir) echoing his sublime one day knock of 184 on this ground four years earlier with one here of 47 which he compiled beautifully in what seemed to be less than five minutes.
Blink and you missed another boundary (five fours and a massive six during this innings) it was that good.
You almost literally felt that ducking for cover should have been printed on the back of your ticket as advice in the event that the Antiguan ever got into his stride or to bring a hard hat etc.
Never mind that he made an otherwise decent England bowling attack against other nations look like a bunch of five year olds tossing up tennis balls to him (underarm too) I was just in awe of the man and as said before was prescient enough to know that, with my own eyes, I was viewing something really very special.
I also recall wondering if this is what, to some degree, it had been like for all those England sides during the twenties, thirties and forties who had had to come up against and attempt to overcome The Don as the Australian public called Donald Bradman (another to be knighted later on in life) who is unlikely to ever be beaten, statistically anyway, as the greatest batsman to ever walk out to the middle.
If so it must have been both scary for them from a professional perspective as, like Viv, he could induce severe bouts of self-doubt at your own ability surely and very frustrating as it can't be much fun chasing a ball around a field for most of the day which more often than not extended into a second day.
Anyway I feel it gave me an inkling of what it might have been like and in this light my admiration for the England team that had tamed the mighty Aussie and his other ten teammates (relatively speaking as he still averaged 56 odd in the series) during the extremely controversial Ashes Tour of 1932-33 (far, far better known as the Bodyline Tour) went up even more.
England won 4-1.
My interest had been stirred up three years before by an Australian-produced made for TV drama series which chronicled the events of Bodyline that was shown by the Beeb to promote the home Ashes series of 1985.
In spite of it being riddled with a myriad of historical, factual and technical inaccuracies like, for instance, the England wicketkeeper standing up to the stumps when a fast bowler was on it was nonetheless very watchable and really just brought that era and that series back to life to a wider audience as in the minds of the cricketing public it had never really faded.
As a newly cynical teenager and wannabe TV critic I remember being curious about what the main protagonists on the England side (as featured by the makers) were really like as even in my more innocent mind I still recognised severe Aussie bias heavily in favour of their players (whenever the actor playing Bradman appeared in the field a halo-effect would seem to envelop him in the guise of a hot and very shiny summer's day in Oz) and felt angry on behalf of my compatriots that they were getting the thin end of a very syrupy wedge.
Apparently the 81 year old Harold Larwood in his home in Sydney woud receive fresh hate mail and irate calls from Australians who somehow got the impression that the series was still happening at that time and had no idea that he was in his dotage and feared that he was about to inflict even more punishment on their nation's batsmen.
All this I know from reading the award-winning biography of Harold Larwood which came out a few years ago written by the acclaimed sports writer Duncan Hamilton who had previously made you sympathise greatly for the maverick and eccentric former boss of Nottingham Forest Mr Brian Clough.
Plus made you laugh out loud as he widely quoted one of the most un-PC men in the UK back in his managerial heyday in the 70's and 80's.
Having thoroughly enjoyed myself reading that book and missing Cloughie enormously I had high expectations as I started on "Harold Larwood" - a short and simple title which perfectly encapsulates the humble and modest man whose life it is describing.
Finally finally I would get to see things from Harold's side of the fence and really what a shocking and sad tale it came across as.
As the fastest bowler of his era (despite a fitness regime that would mean he'd be not allowed anywhere near the England dressing room of the modern era as I can't see James Anderson preparing to open the bowling having pepped himself up with some snuff and a few pints of beer moments beforehand) he took 33 wickets for not many runs apiece during Bodyline.
Apart from those cold and hard stats he became the target of such vitriol (alongside his skipper Jardine whose tactics he was just following as a loyal team member) from the Aussie public that when the tension reached fever pitch at Adelaide during the Third Test after the Aussie wicketkeeper Oldfield got hit on the head from a rising Larwood delivery he recalls being so in fear for his life that he suggested to a teammate that they grab a stump each and took their chances if the crowd, as looked increasingly likely at one point, jumped the fence en masse and took out their anger on the England team.
Worse was to come though on getting back to England as on top of a very bad injury that he sustained from bowling his heart out on Australian pitches baked rock-hard under a relentless southern hemisphere sun he quite soon became the scapegoat of the powers that be that ran the game in England who wanted to distance themselves from the bad feeling generated in Oz and patch up the relationship with their counterparts 12,000 miles away.
Asked to apologise for Bodyline Larwood refused on principle.
Consequently Jardine and Larwood were to never play for their country again which led to the former miner from Nottinghamshire growing increasingly despondent as what looked at one point like a glittering career slid into what he saw as a big anti-climax.
Totally disillusioned with forever being tainted by the Bodyline slur from the media Larwood turned his back on the game and eventually took himself and his family to Blackpool where he struggled manfully to run a corner shop.
One day out of the blue one of his opponents during Bodyline - an Aussie batsman turned journalist called Jack Fingleton - dropped by and after a very merry afternoon in a nearby pub convinced Harold that he could make a new life for himself in the country that a generation before had reviled him.
As in England Larwood got on with things and was able, via an aborted stint in journalism and other work, to make a decent living for himself and lay to rest some of the Bodyline ghosts to the point where he came to feel more Australian than English he has said.
Reading the book about this most humble of lives during which he had to endure so much ridicule and bile despite being very good at what he did well ie bowling very fast and living in a modern era in which calling the club mascot a legend appears to be a given almost I felt like it'd be a very good thing if I could become one of Doctor Who's companions and be able to return to the 1930's and relive that period.
It'd have just been so refreshing I think and as at Old Trafford in the late 80's I could have seen for myself a true sportsman at the very peak of his powers as the following extract illustrates.
In a county match between Leicestershire and Nottinghamshire a bowler called Smith had bowled bouncers at Larwood's teammates which meant of course that Harold would exact revenge.
"Larwood's opening ball reared past Smith's face. He didn't see it, but felt the cold air as it rushed past him. The second took the edge as Smith backed off towards square leg. The ball shot towards gully, where Sam Staples caught it on the bounce. Smith began to pull off his gloves and walk off. 'Wait a minute,' Staples shouted. 'It was a bump ball. I didn't catch it'. 'Yes, you fucking well did,' said Smith, not daring to look back."
A sentiment shared by many an Australian I'm sure by the end of Bodyline ... well bowled Harold I say and rest in peace as to my mind he's a true English folk hero and one day he'll hopefully receive an even greater accolade than the MBE the Queen gave him not long before his death sixteen years ago aged nearly 91 when Lord's, the home of cricket, unveils a portrait of him in their hallowed Long Room.
For me and for Harold beyond the grave that would be the biggest honour he could get if you read the book.
Please do.
Even if you know nothing about cricket.
http://youtu.be/G8JyGUe_2t4
I'm not sure how much the ticket was back then but it was worth every penny.
Close up and personal as opposed to lounging about on the sofa in the living room at home in Telscombe Cliffs and Crowborough before that (two areas I can intimately recollect having spent much of my youth there glued to the BBC coverage as it was then with the only thing missing being my having food passed to me Hannibal Lecter-like on a tray through a serving hatch so I didn't miss a ball) I had a fantastic day out and in my mind's eye it's a vivid time that feels like it happened yesterday as the old saying goes.
Entertained royally by my fellow fans with their earthy Manc humour who in the previous few days had been presented with a gift in the form of the tubby and neatly-bearded Mike Gatting who was newly released from his duties as the England skipper after his shenanigans with a hotel barmaid (they teased him mercilessly over it) I was in heaven really from a cricketing point of view.
As he patrolled the boundary edge near the City End scoreboard he could have very easily filled several fruit bowls many times over with what was being pelted at him from all angles and falling to the ground around, what had been just two years earlier as a victorious Ashes captain in Australia, golden boots that had suddenly become feet of clay.
He denied any impropriety naturally and nothing was proven but he'd been badly damaged by a story that he had invited in a woman who was not his wife into his hotel room.
To his credit he took it all in very good heart and played along although maybe in hindsight this was because he knew he had nothing more to lose as the team's main man having been deposed shortly before and was just glad to be back in the reckoning as a team member.
This was, after all, a more puritanical period in the history of the game in the UK with less forgiving selectors and team stability was hardly a prized asset in those days.
You had one bad game on or off the pitch and that could be your lot for a while.
Largely a wide-eyed and innocent 17 year old who'd never witnessed this sort of thing before as the aforementioned telly feed back then was not as intrusive and as pervasive into the murky goings on in the outfield as it is in 2011 I was able to pull my eyes away from this comical sideshow for long enough to enjoy the highlight of the day for me which was Mr Viv Richards (later to be Sir) echoing his sublime one day knock of 184 on this ground four years earlier with one here of 47 which he compiled beautifully in what seemed to be less than five minutes.
Blink and you missed another boundary (five fours and a massive six during this innings) it was that good.
You almost literally felt that ducking for cover should have been printed on the back of your ticket as advice in the event that the Antiguan ever got into his stride or to bring a hard hat etc.
Never mind that he made an otherwise decent England bowling attack against other nations look like a bunch of five year olds tossing up tennis balls to him (underarm too) I was just in awe of the man and as said before was prescient enough to know that, with my own eyes, I was viewing something really very special.
I also recall wondering if this is what, to some degree, it had been like for all those England sides during the twenties, thirties and forties who had had to come up against and attempt to overcome The Don as the Australian public called Donald Bradman (another to be knighted later on in life) who is unlikely to ever be beaten, statistically anyway, as the greatest batsman to ever walk out to the middle.
If so it must have been both scary for them from a professional perspective as, like Viv, he could induce severe bouts of self-doubt at your own ability surely and very frustrating as it can't be much fun chasing a ball around a field for most of the day which more often than not extended into a second day.
Anyway I feel it gave me an inkling of what it might have been like and in this light my admiration for the England team that had tamed the mighty Aussie and his other ten teammates (relatively speaking as he still averaged 56 odd in the series) during the extremely controversial Ashes Tour of 1932-33 (far, far better known as the Bodyline Tour) went up even more.
England won 4-1.
My interest had been stirred up three years before by an Australian-produced made for TV drama series which chronicled the events of Bodyline that was shown by the Beeb to promote the home Ashes series of 1985.
In spite of it being riddled with a myriad of historical, factual and technical inaccuracies like, for instance, the England wicketkeeper standing up to the stumps when a fast bowler was on it was nonetheless very watchable and really just brought that era and that series back to life to a wider audience as in the minds of the cricketing public it had never really faded.
As a newly cynical teenager and wannabe TV critic I remember being curious about what the main protagonists on the England side (as featured by the makers) were really like as even in my more innocent mind I still recognised severe Aussie bias heavily in favour of their players (whenever the actor playing Bradman appeared in the field a halo-effect would seem to envelop him in the guise of a hot and very shiny summer's day in Oz) and felt angry on behalf of my compatriots that they were getting the thin end of a very syrupy wedge.
Apparently the 81 year old Harold Larwood in his home in Sydney woud receive fresh hate mail and irate calls from Australians who somehow got the impression that the series was still happening at that time and had no idea that he was in his dotage and feared that he was about to inflict even more punishment on their nation's batsmen.
All this I know from reading the award-winning biography of Harold Larwood which came out a few years ago written by the acclaimed sports writer Duncan Hamilton who had previously made you sympathise greatly for the maverick and eccentric former boss of Nottingham Forest Mr Brian Clough.
Plus made you laugh out loud as he widely quoted one of the most un-PC men in the UK back in his managerial heyday in the 70's and 80's.
Having thoroughly enjoyed myself reading that book and missing Cloughie enormously I had high expectations as I started on "Harold Larwood" - a short and simple title which perfectly encapsulates the humble and modest man whose life it is describing.
Finally finally I would get to see things from Harold's side of the fence and really what a shocking and sad tale it came across as.
As the fastest bowler of his era (despite a fitness regime that would mean he'd be not allowed anywhere near the England dressing room of the modern era as I can't see James Anderson preparing to open the bowling having pepped himself up with some snuff and a few pints of beer moments beforehand) he took 33 wickets for not many runs apiece during Bodyline.
Apart from those cold and hard stats he became the target of such vitriol (alongside his skipper Jardine whose tactics he was just following as a loyal team member) from the Aussie public that when the tension reached fever pitch at Adelaide during the Third Test after the Aussie wicketkeeper Oldfield got hit on the head from a rising Larwood delivery he recalls being so in fear for his life that he suggested to a teammate that they grab a stump each and took their chances if the crowd, as looked increasingly likely at one point, jumped the fence en masse and took out their anger on the England team.
Worse was to come though on getting back to England as on top of a very bad injury that he sustained from bowling his heart out on Australian pitches baked rock-hard under a relentless southern hemisphere sun he quite soon became the scapegoat of the powers that be that ran the game in England who wanted to distance themselves from the bad feeling generated in Oz and patch up the relationship with their counterparts 12,000 miles away.
Asked to apologise for Bodyline Larwood refused on principle.
Consequently Jardine and Larwood were to never play for their country again which led to the former miner from Nottinghamshire growing increasingly despondent as what looked at one point like a glittering career slid into what he saw as a big anti-climax.
Totally disillusioned with forever being tainted by the Bodyline slur from the media Larwood turned his back on the game and eventually took himself and his family to Blackpool where he struggled manfully to run a corner shop.
One day out of the blue one of his opponents during Bodyline - an Aussie batsman turned journalist called Jack Fingleton - dropped by and after a very merry afternoon in a nearby pub convinced Harold that he could make a new life for himself in the country that a generation before had reviled him.
As in England Larwood got on with things and was able, via an aborted stint in journalism and other work, to make a decent living for himself and lay to rest some of the Bodyline ghosts to the point where he came to feel more Australian than English he has said.
Reading the book about this most humble of lives during which he had to endure so much ridicule and bile despite being very good at what he did well ie bowling very fast and living in a modern era in which calling the club mascot a legend appears to be a given almost I felt like it'd be a very good thing if I could become one of Doctor Who's companions and be able to return to the 1930's and relive that period.
It'd have just been so refreshing I think and as at Old Trafford in the late 80's I could have seen for myself a true sportsman at the very peak of his powers as the following extract illustrates.
In a county match between Leicestershire and Nottinghamshire a bowler called Smith had bowled bouncers at Larwood's teammates which meant of course that Harold would exact revenge.
"Larwood's opening ball reared past Smith's face. He didn't see it, but felt the cold air as it rushed past him. The second took the edge as Smith backed off towards square leg. The ball shot towards gully, where Sam Staples caught it on the bounce. Smith began to pull off his gloves and walk off. 'Wait a minute,' Staples shouted. 'It was a bump ball. I didn't catch it'. 'Yes, you fucking well did,' said Smith, not daring to look back."
A sentiment shared by many an Australian I'm sure by the end of Bodyline ... well bowled Harold I say and rest in peace as to my mind he's a true English folk hero and one day he'll hopefully receive an even greater accolade than the MBE the Queen gave him not long before his death sixteen years ago aged nearly 91 when Lord's, the home of cricket, unveils a portrait of him in their hallowed Long Room.
For me and for Harold beyond the grave that would be the biggest honour he could get if you read the book.
Please do.
Even if you know nothing about cricket.
http://youtu.be/G8JyGUe_2t4
Thursday, 30 September 2010
Emotional intelligence or simply being dishonest?? You decide ...
Seeking advice earlier this year on a delicate personal matter from a friend who works in the therapy industry she used a phrase that I'd heard of in passing before but to be honest had not given a great amount of thought to before then.
She described people as having lives that are "hardwired" meaning that, if I've understood her correctly, we are almost pre-programmed to follow a certain path in our lives and feel certain impulses despite our best efforts not to go down that route as we might well consider and know it to be irrational and foolhardy.
Definitely not in our best interests by a country mile.
We sort of can't help ourselves though in a way as it's gonna happen come what may.
I was grateful for her commentary on my situation and her moral support as a valued friend and it did sort of help me to achieve some kind of clarity and perspective on it even though I secretly wished that she'd given me say a more pragmatic five-point plan to follow to completely solve the angst I was feeling ... if that was ever going to be possible.
As things turned out and I'll not bore you with the details things went somewhat Pete Tong in all-too practical reality and the consequence of this for me on a personal level has been that pretty much ever since I've been turning over the situation in my mind over and over and wishing that I could turn back the clock.
I don't think it was necessarily that my approach to the problem was fundamentally flawed as my heart was in the right place but rather I'd overdid things due to my being too naturally enthusiastic as can be my wont (not always) and then as I'm a stickler for loose ends and simply hate being at odds with anyone wasn't able to cut my losses soon enough and realise that whatever I did however well-intentioned after that initial setback I was only actually making matters worse.
Digging an even deeper hole for myself.
It takes two at a bare minimum to play most ball sports well and when that doesn't happen you might as well pack up your kit and go home.
As mentioned before it's one thing to know this both at the time and with hindsight which as ever is a truly wonderful thing but other emotions are pulling you this way and that too and with some being stronger than others as well you can very easily slip up which is what happened with me.
A few months down the line and I've come to realise that it made a far bigger impact on me emotionally than I thought it would even if the fallout from such an initially strong feeling which then goes awry in inauspicious and ugly circumstances is inevitable no doubt.
As of today's date I'm still sifting through my feelings and trying my hardest to gain peace of mind on the issue.
I'm getting there and am a lot better off than even say a month ago but occasionally I lapse and feel ill at ease with myself over it.
I've been in two minds as to making it the content of a blog as whilst I'm not bashful when it comes to sharing how I'm feeling with others including complete strangers maybe I'm aware too that simply discussing it can stir and churn up some difficult thought processes in myself leaving me feeling quite tender and vulnerable for a while.
My mood though at the moment feels that without revealing names etc. it could work out to be a like a form of ongoing therapy for me.
It doesn't dominate my life thankfully (as much as it once did which is progressive) and I am reaching that point where I can look back on the whole episode and laugh at it to some extent but at the same time much of it does seem like so much unfinished business and in an ideal world where other people are limitlessly flexible, never take offence (perhaps through a misunderstanding) and have a lot of time for you with no work distractions etc. I'd give anything for a chat with this other person to put things right.
I am the eternal optimist I suppose or a hopeless dreamer ... hey I am Piscean after all which I'll go along with when it suits my purposes ie during a blog!
All in all as with much else I suppose I'm getting on with things and suppressing what I feel in my heart of hearts as utimately it's a futile exercise thinking that this fantasy of mine to have a reasonable chat about things can ever take place.
This is where the emotional intelligence title tag to this piece comes from as over the past few months and please forgive my preciousness perhaps I've had to bite my tongue on more than a few occasions and ride out the raw transient emotion of a particular moment and come through to a feeling of achievement that I was able to get through it without biting the head off some other person.
This in turn soothes my weary brow and gives me the strength to go on knowing that I can just move on in that moment.
It's an ongoing situation though as said which is where my question posed about my being dishonest really with myself comes from as I sometimes don't know if I can keep this up at times.
There can feel like there's so much festering away inside me that surely at some point it has to emerge and maybe not in the way that is going to work to my advantage.
There is a drastic solution which would involve me changing my life situation around quite a lot but it could well be that this'll have to happen as whilst my wife and my kids and my immediate and extended family are my main priorities I also have to take care of my own mental health to ensure all those things can get the quality attention that they need.
Anyway it's a work in progress and if you're interested I'll keep you posted.
Life eh?! Can be a bitch and then you die which is one phrase I learnt very early on ...
She described people as having lives that are "hardwired" meaning that, if I've understood her correctly, we are almost pre-programmed to follow a certain path in our lives and feel certain impulses despite our best efforts not to go down that route as we might well consider and know it to be irrational and foolhardy.
Definitely not in our best interests by a country mile.
We sort of can't help ourselves though in a way as it's gonna happen come what may.
I was grateful for her commentary on my situation and her moral support as a valued friend and it did sort of help me to achieve some kind of clarity and perspective on it even though I secretly wished that she'd given me say a more pragmatic five-point plan to follow to completely solve the angst I was feeling ... if that was ever going to be possible.
As things turned out and I'll not bore you with the details things went somewhat Pete Tong in all-too practical reality and the consequence of this for me on a personal level has been that pretty much ever since I've been turning over the situation in my mind over and over and wishing that I could turn back the clock.
I don't think it was necessarily that my approach to the problem was fundamentally flawed as my heart was in the right place but rather I'd overdid things due to my being too naturally enthusiastic as can be my wont (not always) and then as I'm a stickler for loose ends and simply hate being at odds with anyone wasn't able to cut my losses soon enough and realise that whatever I did however well-intentioned after that initial setback I was only actually making matters worse.
Digging an even deeper hole for myself.
It takes two at a bare minimum to play most ball sports well and when that doesn't happen you might as well pack up your kit and go home.
As mentioned before it's one thing to know this both at the time and with hindsight which as ever is a truly wonderful thing but other emotions are pulling you this way and that too and with some being stronger than others as well you can very easily slip up which is what happened with me.
A few months down the line and I've come to realise that it made a far bigger impact on me emotionally than I thought it would even if the fallout from such an initially strong feeling which then goes awry in inauspicious and ugly circumstances is inevitable no doubt.
As of today's date I'm still sifting through my feelings and trying my hardest to gain peace of mind on the issue.
I'm getting there and am a lot better off than even say a month ago but occasionally I lapse and feel ill at ease with myself over it.
I've been in two minds as to making it the content of a blog as whilst I'm not bashful when it comes to sharing how I'm feeling with others including complete strangers maybe I'm aware too that simply discussing it can stir and churn up some difficult thought processes in myself leaving me feeling quite tender and vulnerable for a while.
My mood though at the moment feels that without revealing names etc. it could work out to be a like a form of ongoing therapy for me.
It doesn't dominate my life thankfully (as much as it once did which is progressive) and I am reaching that point where I can look back on the whole episode and laugh at it to some extent but at the same time much of it does seem like so much unfinished business and in an ideal world where other people are limitlessly flexible, never take offence (perhaps through a misunderstanding) and have a lot of time for you with no work distractions etc. I'd give anything for a chat with this other person to put things right.
I am the eternal optimist I suppose or a hopeless dreamer ... hey I am Piscean after all which I'll go along with when it suits my purposes ie during a blog!
All in all as with much else I suppose I'm getting on with things and suppressing what I feel in my heart of hearts as utimately it's a futile exercise thinking that this fantasy of mine to have a reasonable chat about things can ever take place.
This is where the emotional intelligence title tag to this piece comes from as over the past few months and please forgive my preciousness perhaps I've had to bite my tongue on more than a few occasions and ride out the raw transient emotion of a particular moment and come through to a feeling of achievement that I was able to get through it without biting the head off some other person.
This in turn soothes my weary brow and gives me the strength to go on knowing that I can just move on in that moment.
It's an ongoing situation though as said which is where my question posed about my being dishonest really with myself comes from as I sometimes don't know if I can keep this up at times.
There can feel like there's so much festering away inside me that surely at some point it has to emerge and maybe not in the way that is going to work to my advantage.
There is a drastic solution which would involve me changing my life situation around quite a lot but it could well be that this'll have to happen as whilst my wife and my kids and my immediate and extended family are my main priorities I also have to take care of my own mental health to ensure all those things can get the quality attention that they need.
Anyway it's a work in progress and if you're interested I'll keep you posted.
Life eh?! Can be a bitch and then you die which is one phrase I learnt very early on ...
Saturday, 4 September 2010
Me and me old mate Skiddaw
From Monday the 6th I'll be back at work after forty seven days of public sector holiday time off and without wanting to sound defeatist prematurely feel quite certain that within a few days my personal stress level will have risen starkly as things which are beyond my control (my personal definition of anxiety) on pretty much most levels start to happen left, right and centre.
This seems to be par for the course where I work ... this may well chime with your own personal circumstances and be a universal trait of all modes of employment I dunno.
Judging by how life was at my workplace last year through on occasion self-inflicted wounds I'm approaching the new academic year with my usual in-born enthusiasm but it's tempered this time around based on the aforementioned knowledge that however well you can attempt to manage your personal situation outside forces can have a terrible habit of barging down the door and repossessing you and without any prior notice either.
Therefore my attitude to this blog has been to try and have some fun with it on the whole and be light-hearted as I don't just want it to become this rantathon which I turn to every now and then to get things that are bothering me badly off my chest as knowing myself as I do I'll just make myself more het up and it won't be as cathartic as ideally I'd want it to be.
Having enough stress at work to get my head around quite a bit of the time I don't want to prolong that soul-searching here.
I want to write about subjects that get my juices flowing and excite me rather than sap me of energy.
Last Tuesday as I was busily snapping away using a newly-bought digital camera taking pictures of the vista that envelops Derwent Water in the northern part of the Lake District I briefly let my mind envisage myself a week on sat on one of the cramped chairs (you have my utmost sympathy kids!) in the hall at the school I work at listening to the head and other senior staff very formally welcome their colleagues back and set out their aims and aspirations for the year ahead etc. and it instantly put me at odds as you might expect with the happy vibe I was experiencing as we bobbed gently from side to side in the wooden cruiser boat that takes tourists around this three-mile long stretch of freshwater.
I could almost feel my shoulders sag and my heart sink and I hurriedly returned myself to living in the moment by pointing out stuff to my little lad that maybe his Nanna sitting in between us had missed around the water's edge like ducks landing close by utterly oblivious to the human presence around them ... they got there first after all and so we are uninvited gatecrashers on their turf so to speak.
A freshly spawned dream of mine now would be to get a transfer to a school in Cumbria but in its fledgling state it's not properly thought out and there's no guarantee that the problems regularly thrown up in the environment I work in don't just happen in another form in what I deem to be a rural paradise on Earth just because there are more trees and wider open spaces to lose yourself in ... life of course can't work like that.
I suppose then that next week as I stand in the hall absentmindedly glancing down at my slightly scuffed and pointed black shoes whilst I'm on lunch duty ferrying the new year 7's to and from the bogs I'll cast my mind back to days like that spent climbing the mighty Skiddaw which is the fourth-highest fell in the Lake District area at around 930 metres or 3000 feet high and come over all wistful and long to be back there.
It really is such a magical place which I know to many of those who might chance upon this blog is preaching to the converted but it's worth saying again to underline it.
Preceding the short break we had up there I'd gotten back into cycling around Salford and Manchester in a bid to sharpen my fitness and get me in as good form as I could for my job an essential part of which is to be on your toes constantly just in case ... as I ascended this supposedly easier and inferior mountain according to the Rough Guide I'd read the night before with its handy and well-trodden path it dawned on me very quickly that there was a long long way to go before I could see myself as even half-fit as under the pretext of enjoying the view to my fellow walkers I'd stop every thirty yards along the loose slate or so to catch my breath and give myself a pep talk about making that bush over there second on the left where that goat is chewing his life away (you can't miss it!) and seeing how I felt after that.
My missus had a valid excuse for not being with me at this point as she was carrying our freshest sprog Phoebe in a baby carrier close to her chest and not even two months had gone by since she'd undergone her second C-Section operation and so it was fair enough that she accompanied my mum and our lad back to the car where the grassy part of the climb finished.
I'd not thought though as I said goodbye to them how much I'd miss them within such a short space of time as Skiddaw is that sort of place and has such an unforgiving gradient that any moral support from people suffering as much as you is lapped up in an instant and can will you on to greater heights if you'll pardon a really horrific pun.
Another definition of stress and loneliness for me is that it happens when there's no outlet for your feelings about something or someone to be expressed and they just end up tucked away in a cul-de-sac in the dustier parts of your mind ... this feeling was taking hold in me more and more as I scrambled by now my way up this very difficult climb which wasn't helped when on questioning a woman coming down past me was told that I wasn't even half way yet.
Thanks luv but I suppose I did ask.
As the twinges in my calves became more frequent and the beads of sweat that seemed in permanent residence on my forehead dripped off me like early morning condensation I thought how strange it was that I was actually feeling quite cold by now and really and truly putting my waterproof jacket on might be a really good idea ... surely though I'll just get hotter and hotter which in combination with us having skipped lunch until we got back meant I'd have to give up quite soon from becoming very giddy because of energy starvation.
I'm not quite sure how fitness works and maybe it was purely an adrenalin rush that was furiously pulsing through me but as time went on I felt better and better and more and more eager to reduce my breaktimes and press on as with each new vantage point reached and ticked off the view to both sides of me on this narrowing ascent was becoming increasingly spectacular and I was getting closer to fulfilling my goal of being able to say as I sat on the verandah of the static caravan belonging to my parents with its clear view of Skiddaw in the middle distance that hey I'd conquered that there hill and knew how the reverse view looked.
Unbeknownst to me at the time I would be shortly blearily eyeing the sign that tells anyone who is yet to give up that not too far away is the "Skiddaw Summit" ... to say that my heart did the moonwalk at this news is to mock the late Michael Jackson as I was joining in with his entire repertoire of funkier tunes at that point ... to celebrate this fact and with not another soul around except for the odd distracted goat that had seen it all before anyhow (each had assumed a Larson-cartoon caricature by me now perhaps half-deliriously) I at last left my personal mark on Skiddaw by having a well-earned pee (not as easy as it might seem bearing in mind that that high up the wind is so fierce I felt like one of the Ghostbusters and was vainly trying not to cross my stream - hopefully you'll have seen the film to get this).
Nature's reward for your effort to this stage is to level off the path quite appreciably and this passage that lasts for a good mile or so did help me assuage my frustrations of a little earlier when I felt I encountered for the first time the sneering and snotty demeanour that some of your fellow hardy people can show as you go past them as if in my England cricket cap and purple Converse trainers I'd foolishly deluded myself into thinking I could reach the top without need for all the climbing paraphernalia that was by the looks of it weighing them down.
As I felt better being within sight now of my goal I was a bit peeved to find that as well as being very generous only a few moments before Mother Nature could also be cruel and to demonstrate this had ramped up the last leg quite considerably as if she's testing your willpower like a dog that's not had a walk all day will almost rip the hand off its owner once a lead is attached to its collar.
Talking of dogs there were quite a few in attendance on the climb and my admiration for our canine friends increased a hundred-fold consequently as whilst they might possess two more legs their hearts are a lot smaller and they have less free will (they go where their masters go leading me to wonder if Gromit-like any dog whose owner had a property at the foot of the mountain had ever left a little note on the fridge giving thanks for all the chews but all things considered a move to Holland was the best thing for them as the cry of "Walkies" had lost its pull long ago) ... it's all relative I know.
Somehow and I'm not exaggerating there for dramatic effect I got to what was within spitting distance of the small monument that indicates that your arduous haul to here is almost at an end but with the wind blasting my cheeks this way and that I decided to take at a rough guess about a thousand photos instead ... this killed some time waiting for a couple who were sitting in the pile of stones that served as a shelter against the buffeting gust.
The relief on finally being able to slump down on those rocks however much they tore into my bum (they're not really made for comfort) was immeasurable really and I really savoured the moment by reflecting on those points when I'd thought sod this for a game of soldiers and instead felt glad I'd let them pass me by.
Anyway the views are what you can probably imagine them to be ... you do literally feel that it's like being on top of the world.
Pictures speak a thousand words as they say and via Facebook I'll soon be posting the ones I took and so please look out for those if you are at all curious as to what being on top of the world looks like.
As for the descent well that's another post and so for now I'll sign off by urging you to get up to Skiddaw, stare at it in awe from the base and then say to yourself ... "I wonder what it's like up there by that goat etc." ... go for it folks is all that is left to say!!
This seems to be par for the course where I work ... this may well chime with your own personal circumstances and be a universal trait of all modes of employment I dunno.
Judging by how life was at my workplace last year through on occasion self-inflicted wounds I'm approaching the new academic year with my usual in-born enthusiasm but it's tempered this time around based on the aforementioned knowledge that however well you can attempt to manage your personal situation outside forces can have a terrible habit of barging down the door and repossessing you and without any prior notice either.
Therefore my attitude to this blog has been to try and have some fun with it on the whole and be light-hearted as I don't just want it to become this rantathon which I turn to every now and then to get things that are bothering me badly off my chest as knowing myself as I do I'll just make myself more het up and it won't be as cathartic as ideally I'd want it to be.
Having enough stress at work to get my head around quite a bit of the time I don't want to prolong that soul-searching here.
I want to write about subjects that get my juices flowing and excite me rather than sap me of energy.
Last Tuesday as I was busily snapping away using a newly-bought digital camera taking pictures of the vista that envelops Derwent Water in the northern part of the Lake District I briefly let my mind envisage myself a week on sat on one of the cramped chairs (you have my utmost sympathy kids!) in the hall at the school I work at listening to the head and other senior staff very formally welcome their colleagues back and set out their aims and aspirations for the year ahead etc. and it instantly put me at odds as you might expect with the happy vibe I was experiencing as we bobbed gently from side to side in the wooden cruiser boat that takes tourists around this three-mile long stretch of freshwater.
I could almost feel my shoulders sag and my heart sink and I hurriedly returned myself to living in the moment by pointing out stuff to my little lad that maybe his Nanna sitting in between us had missed around the water's edge like ducks landing close by utterly oblivious to the human presence around them ... they got there first after all and so we are uninvited gatecrashers on their turf so to speak.
A freshly spawned dream of mine now would be to get a transfer to a school in Cumbria but in its fledgling state it's not properly thought out and there's no guarantee that the problems regularly thrown up in the environment I work in don't just happen in another form in what I deem to be a rural paradise on Earth just because there are more trees and wider open spaces to lose yourself in ... life of course can't work like that.
I suppose then that next week as I stand in the hall absentmindedly glancing down at my slightly scuffed and pointed black shoes whilst I'm on lunch duty ferrying the new year 7's to and from the bogs I'll cast my mind back to days like that spent climbing the mighty Skiddaw which is the fourth-highest fell in the Lake District area at around 930 metres or 3000 feet high and come over all wistful and long to be back there.
It really is such a magical place which I know to many of those who might chance upon this blog is preaching to the converted but it's worth saying again to underline it.
Preceding the short break we had up there I'd gotten back into cycling around Salford and Manchester in a bid to sharpen my fitness and get me in as good form as I could for my job an essential part of which is to be on your toes constantly just in case ... as I ascended this supposedly easier and inferior mountain according to the Rough Guide I'd read the night before with its handy and well-trodden path it dawned on me very quickly that there was a long long way to go before I could see myself as even half-fit as under the pretext of enjoying the view to my fellow walkers I'd stop every thirty yards along the loose slate or so to catch my breath and give myself a pep talk about making that bush over there second on the left where that goat is chewing his life away (you can't miss it!) and seeing how I felt after that.
My missus had a valid excuse for not being with me at this point as she was carrying our freshest sprog Phoebe in a baby carrier close to her chest and not even two months had gone by since she'd undergone her second C-Section operation and so it was fair enough that she accompanied my mum and our lad back to the car where the grassy part of the climb finished.
I'd not thought though as I said goodbye to them how much I'd miss them within such a short space of time as Skiddaw is that sort of place and has such an unforgiving gradient that any moral support from people suffering as much as you is lapped up in an instant and can will you on to greater heights if you'll pardon a really horrific pun.
Another definition of stress and loneliness for me is that it happens when there's no outlet for your feelings about something or someone to be expressed and they just end up tucked away in a cul-de-sac in the dustier parts of your mind ... this feeling was taking hold in me more and more as I scrambled by now my way up this very difficult climb which wasn't helped when on questioning a woman coming down past me was told that I wasn't even half way yet.
Thanks luv but I suppose I did ask.
As the twinges in my calves became more frequent and the beads of sweat that seemed in permanent residence on my forehead dripped off me like early morning condensation I thought how strange it was that I was actually feeling quite cold by now and really and truly putting my waterproof jacket on might be a really good idea ... surely though I'll just get hotter and hotter which in combination with us having skipped lunch until we got back meant I'd have to give up quite soon from becoming very giddy because of energy starvation.
I'm not quite sure how fitness works and maybe it was purely an adrenalin rush that was furiously pulsing through me but as time went on I felt better and better and more and more eager to reduce my breaktimes and press on as with each new vantage point reached and ticked off the view to both sides of me on this narrowing ascent was becoming increasingly spectacular and I was getting closer to fulfilling my goal of being able to say as I sat on the verandah of the static caravan belonging to my parents with its clear view of Skiddaw in the middle distance that hey I'd conquered that there hill and knew how the reverse view looked.
Unbeknownst to me at the time I would be shortly blearily eyeing the sign that tells anyone who is yet to give up that not too far away is the "Skiddaw Summit" ... to say that my heart did the moonwalk at this news is to mock the late Michael Jackson as I was joining in with his entire repertoire of funkier tunes at that point ... to celebrate this fact and with not another soul around except for the odd distracted goat that had seen it all before anyhow (each had assumed a Larson-cartoon caricature by me now perhaps half-deliriously) I at last left my personal mark on Skiddaw by having a well-earned pee (not as easy as it might seem bearing in mind that that high up the wind is so fierce I felt like one of the Ghostbusters and was vainly trying not to cross my stream - hopefully you'll have seen the film to get this).
Nature's reward for your effort to this stage is to level off the path quite appreciably and this passage that lasts for a good mile or so did help me assuage my frustrations of a little earlier when I felt I encountered for the first time the sneering and snotty demeanour that some of your fellow hardy people can show as you go past them as if in my England cricket cap and purple Converse trainers I'd foolishly deluded myself into thinking I could reach the top without need for all the climbing paraphernalia that was by the looks of it weighing them down.
As I felt better being within sight now of my goal I was a bit peeved to find that as well as being very generous only a few moments before Mother Nature could also be cruel and to demonstrate this had ramped up the last leg quite considerably as if she's testing your willpower like a dog that's not had a walk all day will almost rip the hand off its owner once a lead is attached to its collar.
Talking of dogs there were quite a few in attendance on the climb and my admiration for our canine friends increased a hundred-fold consequently as whilst they might possess two more legs their hearts are a lot smaller and they have less free will (they go where their masters go leading me to wonder if Gromit-like any dog whose owner had a property at the foot of the mountain had ever left a little note on the fridge giving thanks for all the chews but all things considered a move to Holland was the best thing for them as the cry of "Walkies" had lost its pull long ago) ... it's all relative I know.
Somehow and I'm not exaggerating there for dramatic effect I got to what was within spitting distance of the small monument that indicates that your arduous haul to here is almost at an end but with the wind blasting my cheeks this way and that I decided to take at a rough guess about a thousand photos instead ... this killed some time waiting for a couple who were sitting in the pile of stones that served as a shelter against the buffeting gust.
The relief on finally being able to slump down on those rocks however much they tore into my bum (they're not really made for comfort) was immeasurable really and I really savoured the moment by reflecting on those points when I'd thought sod this for a game of soldiers and instead felt glad I'd let them pass me by.
Anyway the views are what you can probably imagine them to be ... you do literally feel that it's like being on top of the world.
Pictures speak a thousand words as they say and via Facebook I'll soon be posting the ones I took and so please look out for those if you are at all curious as to what being on top of the world looks like.
As for the descent well that's another post and so for now I'll sign off by urging you to get up to Skiddaw, stare at it in awe from the base and then say to yourself ... "I wonder what it's like up there by that goat etc." ... go for it folks is all that is left to say!!
Tuesday, 17 August 2010
Is this the hardest job? Oh yeah ...
Before I kick off in earnest I beg any possible readers for forgiveness that despite trying really hard I'm very likely to dip into using cliches at times as it's that sort of subject.
In addition I will more than once state the bleeding obvious ... please don't throw anything ...
I'll be honest and admit to loving with a passion taking my little lad for a walk somewhere as apart from the physical health benefit to him and to a far lesser extent me, him getting the mental stimulation too from being outside in the open air and coming across many sights and sounds that he might previously have only seen vicariously on telly and us as a general thing spending some time together (the quality is not my main concern) it's a wonderfully easy and freely available opportunity for me to pad out an activity with him which won't involve (so much) spending a concentrated and energy-sapping period of time during which the following questions repeatedly and invariably pop into my head ...
1) What educational worth is he getting out of this?
2) Is this in some way (maybe very tenuous and obscure but valid all the same) teaching him the wrong values for his future life?
3) Am I encouraging lazy and bad habits in him from him doing this?
4) Is he plain old bored?
5) Is there any chance he could hurt himself badly doing this (which I'll never ever forgive myself for)?
6) Does he seem happy in himself?
I could go on and on and on listing my other numerous anxieties but you could have a Europe-sized mountain of washing up to do and might need to be catching a bus urgently and so I'll leave you to think up a few of your own if you're keen.
The point I'm making is that what to Matty is a very simple activity can be, depending on my mood at the time as well of course, riddled with self-imposed and probably totally irrational self-doubt for me as his dad wondering if I'm doing good by him.
Alternatively and I'll perk up soon I promise I'll ponder whether I'm spending enough time with him, whether he feels loved as we do stuff together and also be panicking that once this latest thing has run its inevitable course with a child who like any other other possesses an attention span shorter it can seem than your friendly neighbourhood goldfish whether I've got something else lined up to go straight into so that there's not a vacuum ... again when I think about it for long enough during a calmer time I realise how daft I'm being for fretting so much.
All in all and when all is said and done it's just so very, very tiring and before you know it you feel drained with much of it emanating from emotional exhaustion.
However much I know this I can't help myself and for me that's the definition of being a parent which if you'd not worked it out already is what I'm wittering on about.
People who know me well enough will know that regarding self-confidence I dip my toe in the water at the quieter end of the pool as whilst I'm not showy I'm not afraid of speaking my mind too and having an opinion on most subjects.
Mixed in with a very self-critical personality anyway I guess it's inevitable a post like this would happen.
Thus please don't take some of what I say to be dead gloomy as really my aim is just to be as candid as possible ... the bottomline is that I love my little lad to bits and likewise his sister who has joined us recently.
It is the biggest cliche of all and as an ongoing thing I learn this to be the most self-evident thing there is going that having kids is a huge nay mammoth responsibility ... the best analogy I can think of is that it's like being an on-call doctor but one whose shift lasts all week (this may happen in some areas already I dunno??!) and whose pager has developed an internal fault meaning that whatever you do to it (bringing in steamrollers and state of the art precision-guaranteed bazookas to turn it off) it'll beep every few minutes with it occasionally jamming leading to there being a precious gap of a few hours.
This same doctor is then needed to be on the ball even if their body is telling them that it feels like it's just climbed L'Alpe D'Huez on a Penny Farthing and unlike with the children of other people that you've maybe babysat or spent a few hours with and had the most fun in ages as they made you feel young again it dawns on you that you can't give them back to their parents as hey you are their parent.
Please don't get me wrong as I'm in no way complaining or wanting to feel sorry for myself ... far from it.
Rather it feeds into what will by my final line in this post which is pay a heartfelt public tribute to my mum and dad and other relations who chipped in down the years begging me to eat up all my pudding and the like and put my toys away as that taught me self-discipline and say thanks so very very much for being there as I know exactly now what you went through.
My most sincere apologies too for the grief I gave you about countless bits and bobs that seemed so important at the time.
I love you mum and dad and know my lad feels the same about me as he told me so on our walk today!!
In addition I will more than once state the bleeding obvious ... please don't throw anything ...
I'll be honest and admit to loving with a passion taking my little lad for a walk somewhere as apart from the physical health benefit to him and to a far lesser extent me, him getting the mental stimulation too from being outside in the open air and coming across many sights and sounds that he might previously have only seen vicariously on telly and us as a general thing spending some time together (the quality is not my main concern) it's a wonderfully easy and freely available opportunity for me to pad out an activity with him which won't involve (so much) spending a concentrated and energy-sapping period of time during which the following questions repeatedly and invariably pop into my head ...
1) What educational worth is he getting out of this?
2) Is this in some way (maybe very tenuous and obscure but valid all the same) teaching him the wrong values for his future life?
3) Am I encouraging lazy and bad habits in him from him doing this?
4) Is he plain old bored?
5) Is there any chance he could hurt himself badly doing this (which I'll never ever forgive myself for)?
6) Does he seem happy in himself?
I could go on and on and on listing my other numerous anxieties but you could have a Europe-sized mountain of washing up to do and might need to be catching a bus urgently and so I'll leave you to think up a few of your own if you're keen.
The point I'm making is that what to Matty is a very simple activity can be, depending on my mood at the time as well of course, riddled with self-imposed and probably totally irrational self-doubt for me as his dad wondering if I'm doing good by him.
Alternatively and I'll perk up soon I promise I'll ponder whether I'm spending enough time with him, whether he feels loved as we do stuff together and also be panicking that once this latest thing has run its inevitable course with a child who like any other other possesses an attention span shorter it can seem than your friendly neighbourhood goldfish whether I've got something else lined up to go straight into so that there's not a vacuum ... again when I think about it for long enough during a calmer time I realise how daft I'm being for fretting so much.
All in all and when all is said and done it's just so very, very tiring and before you know it you feel drained with much of it emanating from emotional exhaustion.
However much I know this I can't help myself and for me that's the definition of being a parent which if you'd not worked it out already is what I'm wittering on about.
People who know me well enough will know that regarding self-confidence I dip my toe in the water at the quieter end of the pool as whilst I'm not showy I'm not afraid of speaking my mind too and having an opinion on most subjects.
Mixed in with a very self-critical personality anyway I guess it's inevitable a post like this would happen.
Thus please don't take some of what I say to be dead gloomy as really my aim is just to be as candid as possible ... the bottomline is that I love my little lad to bits and likewise his sister who has joined us recently.
It is the biggest cliche of all and as an ongoing thing I learn this to be the most self-evident thing there is going that having kids is a huge nay mammoth responsibility ... the best analogy I can think of is that it's like being an on-call doctor but one whose shift lasts all week (this may happen in some areas already I dunno??!) and whose pager has developed an internal fault meaning that whatever you do to it (bringing in steamrollers and state of the art precision-guaranteed bazookas to turn it off) it'll beep every few minutes with it occasionally jamming leading to there being a precious gap of a few hours.
This same doctor is then needed to be on the ball even if their body is telling them that it feels like it's just climbed L'Alpe D'Huez on a Penny Farthing and unlike with the children of other people that you've maybe babysat or spent a few hours with and had the most fun in ages as they made you feel young again it dawns on you that you can't give them back to their parents as hey you are their parent.
Please don't get me wrong as I'm in no way complaining or wanting to feel sorry for myself ... far from it.
Rather it feeds into what will by my final line in this post which is pay a heartfelt public tribute to my mum and dad and other relations who chipped in down the years begging me to eat up all my pudding and the like and put my toys away as that taught me self-discipline and say thanks so very very much for being there as I know exactly now what you went through.
My most sincere apologies too for the grief I gave you about countless bits and bobs that seemed so important at the time.
I love you mum and dad and know my lad feels the same about me as he told me so on our walk today!!
Saturday, 14 August 2010
Should I Stay or Should I Go??
For me one of the few downsides to married life when compared to my days as a young, free and single bloke is that my opportunities to be spontaneous and act on a whim are increasingly limited and a case in point will occur next weekend when Brighton and Hove Albion FC travel to play Sheffield Wednesday at Hillsborough.
I'm itching to go quite frankly as the last time I saw the Albion in the flesh was when they played Stockport County a few years back courtesy of my sister Michaela and her family as a birthday present ... the game (a 1-1 draw if I remember rightly?) was mainly memorable for a ding dong on the touchline involving a hot as lava Sammy McIlroy (the County boss at the time) who was clearly having a bad combover hair day as it might have been windy ... judging by how the ball was flying madly all over the place it no doubt was.
Whatever the quality of the game it was just so refreshing and enlivening to be back amongst the Albion faithful even if I felt mostly out of synch with the chants having not been to any home games at the old and now defunct Goldstone since the mid-90's and thus was playing catch-up songs-wise as well as watching the game.
It's all very well following a side through the media on the Beeb's Five Live, Sky Sports and in the Guardian and the like but you can never get a real sense of course for how the season is likely to shape up from cold and hard stats as much as you can from seeing the raw effort and passion put in by your heroes as they hopefully bust a gut (and heaven forbid a groin or achilles tendon) for the club ... from that you can decide whether unbridled optimism is realistic or not and go from there.
Back in April when my bike was in rude health or in other words the frame was properly aligned and the gear indexing whirred quite merrily (a sound accentuated beautifully by the ultra-tranquil and serene surroundings of the Peak District and specifically the Snake Pass aka the plain old A57 to route planners) I cycled the 40 odd miles that separates Salford from the South Yorkshire city to stay overnight with some generous hosts in my aunt and uncle whose window view overlooks the type of countryside that if you were rendered housebound for whatever reason would make the whole experience a joy to behold and make you consider grumbling about your lot the height of bad manners.
Gruelling as you'd expect and mainly so on the ascent after the market town of Glossop with a three mile stretch of smooth but energy-sapping sinuous tarmac I surprised myself with my enthusiasm to keep on going despite having never encountered this sort of terrain in Salford where the streets appear to be suffering from some kind of pothole lurgy and the steepest climb I've found so far is close to where I live with a 15% gradient for about 150 metres or so.
I'll admit to dismounting a short way in to the first climb but from there I made Sheffield in around another two and a bit hours and was whizzing along the lumpy lanes at times like I was a sole breakaway rider in one of the Grand Tours or so I'd like to dream ... stopping off at one other point to ease some cramp in my hands (a first for me) I made very good progress and the following day despite it being hillier going back I made even better time and only got off to have a couple of bottles of Coke and even the pros take those if you watch closely.
However much your legs can be burning the buzz you get as you turn onto a flattish section and can look back on your achievement of the last two miles or so of a steadily rising hill is something I heartily recommend to anyone able to get on a bike safely.
The descent (as much a thrill as any fairground ride you could mention as you seem to freefall minus a parachute at around 35 miles an hour and I was being passed easily by more seasoned guys) into Glossop is wonderful and sets you up for the ride back into Manchester and beyond that home sweet home.
All in all I had a ball even if in hindsight it might be that that was where things started to go awry for the bike leading to a six week hiatus since the end of June waiting for the German manufacturers Focus to fulfil their national stereotype and return it promptly as good as new ... tick tock as I'm still waiting ... clearly they could learn a lesson or two from their national football side.
My faith can last til this Monday though and then I can make the decision as to whether a trip to the game is on or not ... just don't tell the wife yeah!!!
I'm itching to go quite frankly as the last time I saw the Albion in the flesh was when they played Stockport County a few years back courtesy of my sister Michaela and her family as a birthday present ... the game (a 1-1 draw if I remember rightly?) was mainly memorable for a ding dong on the touchline involving a hot as lava Sammy McIlroy (the County boss at the time) who was clearly having a bad combover hair day as it might have been windy ... judging by how the ball was flying madly all over the place it no doubt was.
Whatever the quality of the game it was just so refreshing and enlivening to be back amongst the Albion faithful even if I felt mostly out of synch with the chants having not been to any home games at the old and now defunct Goldstone since the mid-90's and thus was playing catch-up songs-wise as well as watching the game.
It's all very well following a side through the media on the Beeb's Five Live, Sky Sports and in the Guardian and the like but you can never get a real sense of course for how the season is likely to shape up from cold and hard stats as much as you can from seeing the raw effort and passion put in by your heroes as they hopefully bust a gut (and heaven forbid a groin or achilles tendon) for the club ... from that you can decide whether unbridled optimism is realistic or not and go from there.
Back in April when my bike was in rude health or in other words the frame was properly aligned and the gear indexing whirred quite merrily (a sound accentuated beautifully by the ultra-tranquil and serene surroundings of the Peak District and specifically the Snake Pass aka the plain old A57 to route planners) I cycled the 40 odd miles that separates Salford from the South Yorkshire city to stay overnight with some generous hosts in my aunt and uncle whose window view overlooks the type of countryside that if you were rendered housebound for whatever reason would make the whole experience a joy to behold and make you consider grumbling about your lot the height of bad manners.
Gruelling as you'd expect and mainly so on the ascent after the market town of Glossop with a three mile stretch of smooth but energy-sapping sinuous tarmac I surprised myself with my enthusiasm to keep on going despite having never encountered this sort of terrain in Salford where the streets appear to be suffering from some kind of pothole lurgy and the steepest climb I've found so far is close to where I live with a 15% gradient for about 150 metres or so.
I'll admit to dismounting a short way in to the first climb but from there I made Sheffield in around another two and a bit hours and was whizzing along the lumpy lanes at times like I was a sole breakaway rider in one of the Grand Tours or so I'd like to dream ... stopping off at one other point to ease some cramp in my hands (a first for me) I made very good progress and the following day despite it being hillier going back I made even better time and only got off to have a couple of bottles of Coke and even the pros take those if you watch closely.
However much your legs can be burning the buzz you get as you turn onto a flattish section and can look back on your achievement of the last two miles or so of a steadily rising hill is something I heartily recommend to anyone able to get on a bike safely.
The descent (as much a thrill as any fairground ride you could mention as you seem to freefall minus a parachute at around 35 miles an hour and I was being passed easily by more seasoned guys) into Glossop is wonderful and sets you up for the ride back into Manchester and beyond that home sweet home.
All in all I had a ball even if in hindsight it might be that that was where things started to go awry for the bike leading to a six week hiatus since the end of June waiting for the German manufacturers Focus to fulfil their national stereotype and return it promptly as good as new ... tick tock as I'm still waiting ... clearly they could learn a lesson or two from their national football side.
My faith can last til this Monday though and then I can make the decision as to whether a trip to the game is on or not ... just don't tell the wife yeah!!!
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