Filed under: Attitude & Aptitude, Football, Nottingham, Nottingham Forest, Sport
By the time this comes out, I will know if Nottingham Forest have got relegated or not.
And while at the time of writing – April 26th – they’re [just] out the relegation places, I fear that will change.
Not simply because Everton are basically clear having beaten Liverpool last night.
Not simply because we’re playing Man City this weekend.
But because – if I’m being honest – we deserve to god down.
I hate saying that.
I pray for a miracle – or should I say, luck.
But it’s been a season that never seemed to get going … undermined by bad choices, petulant behaviour and – thanks to the Premier League and Referees Association – wrongful and unfair decisions.
What has made this worse is that for 2 years … it was wonderful being a Forest fan.
Magical even.
A togetherness between club and fans that I’d never felt.
Not even in the glory years of the late 70’s and 80’s.
It was a togetherness that basically willed them to glory.
Pushed them over the line to the supposed promised land.
And gave me one of the best days of my life in one of the worst periods of life.
And what did we find when we finally got there after those decades of pain and under-delivery?
Well, excitement … and disappointment.
Some of our making. A lot of where the game has gone.
And all of this was made worse by use and our cauldron of chaos.
No strategy. No plan. Just mayhem.
To be fair, some of this was to be expected given we got promoted with a load of loan players and no real expectation of ‘going up’ that season … hence we had to buy a squad in the blink of an eye. And some of it was because our owner has an incredible ambition and has backed that up with a level of investment we could never imagine. [Which, sadly, also was not allowed by the out-of-touch rules for promoted team spending]
But it seems we didn’t learn from those mistakes and mayhem this season and instead of letting our football do our talking, we allowed a side show of mess to get the spotlight and the headlines.
Some was justified. Most wasn’t.
It ended up being a distraction to the club and the fans … causing division, internal fighting and a label of being spoilt kids.
I want us to stay up, but if I’m honest – we shouldn’t.
Luton Town should, because they have shown the fight and togetherness we’ve sadly missed.
Not because we don’t have good players – we do, arguably the best we’ve ever had – but because we don’t have a common belief or philosophy.
Or should I say, not a consistent one.
Stubbornness. Arrogance. Misplaced expectations all added up to bad – or delayed – decisions that have cost us with the result being a team who took over 20+ years to get here, looking like a team who don’t deserve to stay here.
On one level, relegation will be a relief. The ability to let go of the angst and start again. But I don’t doubt the pain would then come back hard. The worry of not going back up. Of not learning our lessons. Of seeing good people and players being let go and replaced with imposters and imitations. Of being the poster child for failure. Again.
So I hope for a miracle almost as much as I hope for a reset.
To refocus.
Reconnect.
Reunite.
Fans. City. Team.
Because I love my club, but I don’t love what the Premiership turned us – and our fans – into.
Filed under: Birthday, Childhood, Friendship, Love, Loyalty, Mum & Dad, Nottingham, Paul
So today is the last post of the week.
A weird week – at least in terms of this blog – in so much that there’s been posts about love, gratitude, distain and judgement.
And while I could end the week with a post celebrating Jill’s birthday – which is tomorrow – fact is she hates being the focus of attention, especially on this blog, plus I basically wrote something for her on Monday. Haha.
Which means there is only one subject matter that I can write about today and that’s for Paul – who also turns 54 this Sunday.
As people who know me or have followed this blog for a while, you’ll know Paul is my oldest dearest friend.
He was born 4 days after me and we have been in each-others lives ever since.
Hell, given Mum and Dad have both passed away, he has known me longer than any other person on this planet.
Put simply, I love him … and yet, this past year has been the hardest for our relationship.
I’m not going to go into the details why except to say that sometimes life throws curveballs that are hard to comprehend, accept or deal with … but I don’t mind saying it has been incredibly challenging for both of us, even though the reasons behind it may be slightly different.
What I can say is no one wants or wanted to hurt each other.
Both people – I believe/hope – still care deeply for each other.
But shit happens and the result is we probably have both ended up hurting each other even though that would never be either of our intentions.
If truth be told, I might be the one who has made it worse because I have to admit I have found the situation particularly difficult to move past. There’s a whole host of reasons for that – but what has made it worse is the fact I now live on the other side of the planet, so it’s been much more difficult to find the time to spend the time together.
But what’s added to it is that we’ve never been in this situation before and I didn’t know how to handle it.
Sure we’ve had our highs and lows, ups and downs over the 5 decades we’ve been in each others lives … we even once had a falling out for a month or so around the time we were 15 … but this has been much more challenging.
Maybe it is down to our ages.
Maybe it is down to our geographies.
Maybe it is down to the implications of what happened.
Maybe it’s all of these things and more, but the result is I have been deeply affected by it and it has had a truly adverse effect on my health and wellbeing.
What is positive is we have spoken very openly and plainly about the situation. In many ways, it has been one of the most in-depth conversations we’ve ever had in our lives. However I can sense that if we don’t put in the effort to move past it and properly reconnect … it could manifest into a parting of the ways. Not in terms of us no longer being friends, but in terms of us no longer being an active part of eachothers lives.
In the movie Bend It Like Beckham, there’s a scene where the father – who had been against his daughter playing football – finally tells her he is OK with her passion. Happy even. Not just because she has convinced him of her true love of the game, but because he has realized being angry at her would be like cutting his nose to spite his face.
I should point out I was not angry at Paul. Disappointed maybe, but not angry.
But I have also realized there’s absolutely no benefit to me continuing to feel this way.
It solves nothing.
I know he didn’t want to hurt anyone.
I know he knows he wishes he had handled things better.
And I know I have 54 years of history with this person that doesn’t just encompasses my whole life, but is my life.
Why would I do that? Why would I walk away from someone I love … someone who so much of my life has been shared with … someone who – on top of everything else – is the very last connection I have to where I am from and the history of who I once was?
Why the fuck would I want to do that?
How stupid would I be to choose to do that?
The reality is Paul and I have gone through so much together … love, loss, good days and bad. We’ve weathered every storm because at the end of the day, we had each others backs and we knew we loved each other. Hell, even living away from England for quarter of a century didn’t affect us. It’s a bond that is in many ways, deeper than blood.
I miss my friend.
I miss who he is, what we are and what we have.
My life is lesser for him not being so in it and I want to change it.
And it starts with this post.
Now I appreciate Paul may never read it – he never reads this blog – but on this occasion I hope he does. Because I want to tell him I love him and miss him. That I’m happy he’s in a good place. That I want to be there for him and I want him to be there for me. That my life needs him in it. I want to talk stupid shit with him and tell him to stop seeing Forest because they always lose when he goes. I want to hear how the Frothy Coffee Man is going. I want to tell him he’s a beautiful idiot, but he’s my beautiful idiot. I want to tell him that I don’t want to grow older without him being there by my side. Literally or metaphorically. Or both. Spouting nonsense or being sentimental about the stupid shit we did and will no doubt do in the future.
I know things are different and will be different … but that doesn’t mean we have to be different and so while it’s not the sort of gift he can hang on a wall or put on a shelf, I hope he sees this as my gift to him. A gift of love and hope … that we can get back to being who we have been for the past 54 years.
So to you Paul, I want to say this.
I love you.
I’m sorry I didn’t support you as I am sure you hoped I would.
I’m sorry I found it hard to get past certain aspects of the situation.
I’m sorry if I pushed you to do something you didn’t want to do.
I’m sorry I’ve been communicating via text rather than calls.
I know you didn’t intend to hurt me or anyone else for that matter.
I know you’re a good person.
I’m happy that you’re happy.
I hope this makes a difference.
I hope you have the happiest of birthdays.
I miss you with all I’ve got and hope we talk and see each other very soon.
And very often.
Even if it means you pelt me with more snowballs.
Big love and hugs my dearest friend.
Rx
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Age, Attitude & Aptitude, Bands, Bangkok Shakes, Childhood, Dad, Jill, Mum, Mum & Dad, Music, My Childhood, My Fatherhood, Nottingham, Otis
You know those time capsule things that were all the rage for a while?
Where people bury artefacts from their life with the sole intention that it is dug up 20+ years later for people to marvel at. Or be confused by.
I always liked the idea of it but never got around doing it … mainly because I imagine the outtake is massively underwhelming unless you’re directly attached to it.
Well, I’ve been proved right … but in a way I love and am amazed at.
As many of you know, I was in a band called Bangkok Shakes.
Thee were 2 iterations of the band – with different singers and bass players – with the 2nd version almost becoming something of some note.
Till it didn’t.
Anyway, while I had a huge amount of fun – touring and recording – the fact it all ended when I was 23 or 24 means I only think about it when I occasionally pick up a guitar and play a few of the songs we wrote.
Enter my mate Sam.
I love Sam.
He’s a brilliantly annoying person … and I say that with utter love.
He also buys more ridiculous shit than me, and that’s saying something.
And yet despite his natural tendency for mischief and mayhem, he’s a wonderful, kind and caring human. Or he is until he gets something in his head, and then no one is safe.
Oh the stories I could tell …
In fact, I bet the people at Virgin Broadband are still counting the cost of trying to mess with him because he’s like a crime-fighting cockroach who won’t give up. Or die.
But his behaviour is not always acts of commercial terrorism, as I was soon to discover.
You see one day, he woke up and – for reasons only he will know – I was in his head.
Or specifically, Bangkok Shakes was.
So he decided to go on one of his legendary explorations resulting in me receiving a Whatsapp from him that said, “this is you, isn’t it?” with a link attached.
Ignoring all safety protocol, I found myself on Youtube, staring at this.
This shocked me for 4 very specific reasons.
+ The song it relates to was one I wrote in 1991.
+ It’s a song I didn’t know was anywhere near the internet.
+ It was a very early demo of a song we did, not the final recording.
+ The handwriting on the tape IS MY HANDWRITING. MINE! WTF?!
But wait … there’s more.
You see, I was so shocked that I put a screenshot of the Youtube page on insta regailing the whole story.
Enter Gareth Kay.
Now I love Gareth too.
He’s very different to Sam [thank god, ha] but as wonderful.
Gareth is a music obsessive so imagine my surprise when a day later – after seeing my instagram – he sent me an email with another link in it.
And yes, I pressed it without any consideration of network safety.
Except rather than take me to Youtube, it took me another site altogether … a fan site … a fan site featuring not just the stuff Sam found, but the ENTIRE GROUP OF SONGS FROM THE SESSION WE DID IN 1993.
Not only that, it also showed the inner sleeve of the cassette the demos were in … where I’d carefully written out all the song names and info of the recording. Including the ‘then’ phone number of our drummer, Jason!
Now I was properly flabbergasted.
How?
Why?
Where?
Of course I downloaded the tracks and while they sounded a bit pants – made worse by the recording coming from a tape that was obviously old and a bit screwed up – it was an utterly joyful experience.
A chance to revisit my past.
To be taken back to another time.
Where life was only about excitement, hope and energy.
And while I know we made a better version of this demo – and made a shit load of better songs after it – it was something very special for me. A reconnection to something that was incredibly important to me. Something I hoped would be the foundation of my entire life.
But how did this tape end up on this blokes website?
Well, it gets weirder … because this bloke is based in Perth, Australia.
He loves 80/90s rock and trades tapes from that era to build up his collection … which means that a tape that I helped create and wrote out in Nottingham, THIRTY ONE YEARS AGO in Nottingham, England, somehow ended up in the possession of a person literally on the other side of the planet who decided he liked it so much, he added it to the internet.
And I couldn’t thank him enough.
Not just for the memory and the connection to my home and history bu because I remember everything about that recording …
After spending a month in hospital because my retina in my eye continually collapsed, this was the first thing I did ‘back in the real world’.
It was a Sunday and I remember our singer – Joe – bitching about having to carry my amps into the studio as I was not allowed to lift anything heavy for a few months to ensure there was no strain on my eye whatsoever.
It was a quick session, designed to try out a few songs and be used to play to a few promotors we knew – but never for wider public listening – so if someone told me then that 3 decades later, I’d be listening to it on the internet from New Zealand, I’d have said you’re mad. And not just because no one would know what the internet was back then.
It was pretty emotional to hear it … and to play it to my family … because it represents a time where pretty much everything from that era has either gone or been left behind.
+ My parents were alive when we recorded that.
+ Dad hadn’t even had his stroke at that point.
+ So Mum was still working.
+ I lived in my family home.
+ I had no idea I was going to leave Nottingham.
+ I was working, but we were being courted by record companies so I thought things were about to change.
+ My wife – who was in Australia, a place I’d never been to at that point – would have been 17.
So Otis was -21, hahaha.
It was a chapter of my life that was wonderful, but I thought fully closed.
And while that door has not been smashed open, listening to those songs on that wonky tape cracked it open a little.
Which is why I laughed when Sam then came back again with another link … this time taking me to a page of old gig dates, where on Saturday 17th of some month and year, we played at the then iconic Narrowboat [RIP], scene of some of the best nights of my life.
We often look back at life with rose-tinted glasses.
Reimagining our history to be something more than it was.
But on this occasion, it was better than I remembered.
Not because of the music or my overly fancy handwriting … but because it allowed relatively new friends to walk around my old life … to let them inadvertendly know a bit more about the person they’d only casually heard about in convesation … to give me the gift of shining sunlight upon a time of my life I’d almost forgotten … a time of my life that was deeply important and special to me … one I never thought I’d be able to expeience again, let alone be able to finally share with the family I love.
And it’s because of that I want to say a huge thank you to Sam and Gareth, they may never know what they have done for me.
Just like that guy in Perth who somehow got a tape I wrote out in my bedroom in the early 90’s in West Bridgford, Nottingham.
They say elephants never forget, but neither does the internet.
And while that might be scary for some, it’s made me realise that maybe the time capsule is an even better idea than the worldwide web.
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Attitude & Aptitude, Comment, Dad, Daddyhood, Friendship, Goose Fair, Mum & Dad, My Childhood, Nottingham
Every year in Nottingham, there’s a fair called Goose Fair.
It’s a big deal … the biggest fair in the city and – I think – the oldest in Europe dating back to something like 1284.
It was one of the highlights of my childhood … originally going with my Dad and then graduating to my mates.
There’s a lot of memories associated with Goose Fair.
From winning my first pet – a goldfish – on the hook-a-duck stall to watching Wayne Green try to calm his hysterical frightened-of-heights girlfriend as the machine broke down with them at the very top through to falling down a hill in mud as my Dad tried to lead us on a shortcut back to the car and errrrm, failed.
I still remember us having to find a bathroom to try and clean ourselves up a bit, hahaha.
But there’s also some specific elements that embody Goose Fair to me …
Silly Rides.
Candy Floss.
Mushy Peas and Mint Sauce.
And then there’s fruit machines.
Fruit machines quickly captured my attention. Not just for their lights and sounds, but the thrill of the gamble.
I was introduced to it when my Dad innocently let me put 2p in a machine when I was very young. It was meant to simply be an introduction to one of the thousands of loud, colourful machines dotted around the fair … but then the worst thing that could happen, happened.
I won.
And so began a love affair with gambling.
Or the thrill of the gamble.
To be honest, this didn’t reveal itself until I was older and working in a pub. Suddenly I had access to these machines and quickly established a relationship with them. And while I never had enough money for it to become a problem, it became a problem.
I would quickly put all my pot washing/bar work weeks wages in them.
15 quid.
15 quid spent in a matter of minutes.
15 quid that I could justify because every now and then – and it was every now and then – I’d win more than I put in.
It was there that I realised I had an addictive personality and while it took me a few months to work out this was not good for me, I am extremely grateful I had both the willpower and stubbornness to stop it before it graduated to something far worse.
Same reason I stopped drinking – even though that was because of a night on a boat to Denmark aged 15 where I got so hammered I vowed I’d never do it again [and didn’t] – and why I never started smoking or trying drugs. In short, my natural disposition is to go ‘all in’ on anything I like … hence food took an unhealthy turn and that’s taken me 53 years to finally deal with it. Or at least get a grip on it.
The reason I say this is that last month I found myself at a Motorway service station at 5 in the morning. I’d just bought myself a breakfast and with a pound coin as change, my attention was caught by the flashing lights of the fruit machine.
For some reason I decided to go and check them out.
My god they’d changed from my day.
More expensive, more complicated, more choices.
But I decided to drop my lonely pound coin in one and see what happened.
And what happened is I won.
A lot.
Over 119 pounds … as you can see from the photo at the top of this post.
That’s a better return than bitcoin.
And while it made me happy, what was even more pleasing was I pressed ‘collect’ and walked away.
No desire to keep going.
No temptation to try another machine.
No trigger to find something else to gamble on.
It was a taste of the thrill without it becoming a need for a thrill.
And while I am under no doubt that my addictive personality is still there – lying in wait to fuck me up, even though these days its attention is about feeding my need and desire for wifi enabled gadget shit or guitars, rather than gambling – it was fun to have a taste of the fruit machine thrill, without needing the gluttony.
That said, I won’t take that for granted. I won’t push my luck.
I know for a fact not everyone is so lucky and there’s no reason why I should be.
Which it’s why it’s worth remembering the cause of addiction is not – as certain right wing press likes to promote – always driven by despair, it can also be ignited by success.
However small, however long ago.
So be nice to those who are in the throws of it, especially given so many in our industry and trying to ignite it, albeit under the guise of language like membership and loyalty.
See you tomorrow for more inspiring posts about the many flaws of humans. I’ve got so many this could be another 18 years of posts, ha.
Filed under: Anniversary, Australia, Childhood, Dad, Emotion, Experience, Family, Jill, Love, Loyalty, Mum, Mum & Dad, My Childhood, My Fatherhood, Nottingham, Nottingham Forest, Otis, Paul, Respect, Travel, Trust
So at 10:34 am today, it will be the 25th anniversary of my Dad dying.
25 years since that early Saturday morning call, urging Mum and I to get to the hospital quickly.
25 years since we were rushed straight to his bedside.
25 years since I heard my Mum gently tell him it was OK to go.
25 years since we witnessed his final breath.
25 years since my world shattered.
For the first time.
You’d think that given I’ve lived almost half my life now without him, I’d have come to terms with him being gone.
And on one level I suppose I have.
I certainly don’t carry the same level of pain and loss as I did those first years.
But in some ways, I miss him even more.
Part of this is because the half of my life without him has been the half where so much in my life has happened.
The good, the bad, the weird, the disappointing, the stupid, the wonderful, the unexpected.
Also known as the part of life where a parent discovers if what they did, helped their kids become whoever they want to be.
In my case, I’ve talked a lot about how Dad – and Mum – supported me.
Not financially – because we didn’t have it – but emotionally.
Encouraging. Listening. Enquiring. Advising. Helping.
It’s important I point out they were not some passively-engaged pushovers. Oh no. They were very engaged and any major decision or choice I was considering was always met with a bunch of questions.
But the thing is, these were never to undermine, only to better understand.
For them, the most important thing was to learn what I wanted to do, why I wanted to do it and how I had come to that decision.
That was their only motivation.
But it’s what they did next that – having become older and a Dad myself – I now realise was an act of incredible parenting.
Because if they felt satisfied I’d given real thought to what I wanted to do and really cared about doing it, then – even if they didn’t completely agree with my choices – they would actively encourage my decision.
Said another way … they trusted they’d had given me the skills to make the right decisions and choices that worked for me.
It’s why they supported my decision to not go to university.
It’s why they supported my decision to become a studio musician.
It’s why after Dad had a terrible stroke, they told me to still go to Australia, because they knew if I didn’t go then, I’d likely never leave Nottingham at all.
If anyone can think of a more selfless act of love than that, I’d love to hear it.
Of course they made mistakes.
We had disagreements.
I disappointed them more than a few times.
But if things went wrong with the stuff I was trying to do, they never said, “I told you so”.
All I was ever met with was love and support.
Sure, after some time had passed they may have asked me what I learned from what I did – or didn’t – do.
And occasionally – when Mum was out of earshot – Dad would ask what the hell I had been thinking when something had gone particularly bad/daft … but I was never made to feel I was stupid or had disappointed them, even when I know I probably had disappointed them.
It’s part of the reason I felt such an obligation to make my adventure to Australia count.
There were some tough, horrible times, not helped by the fact Dad was very ill and Mum had had to give up her job to look after him 24/7.
Yet every time I said I’d come home because Dad had got worse or I felt Mum was struggling under the weight of pressure and responsibility, they said [through Mum] “we miss you so much, but we don’t want you to come back until you’re ready and we don’t think you’re ready”.
And as much as I missed them and longed to be with them – and I feel a bit horrified to say this – they were right. I wasn’t ready. Not really. I was exploring and discovering life. Exploring and discovering me … which means they were as correct in their view as they were when they thought if I didn’t go to Australia when I’d originally planned, I’d most likely never leave Nottingham – let alone England.
Not because of guilt or duty, but – as uncool as it may sound – because I loved my parents dearly and never needed much of an excuse to want to be near them.
And despite them knowing this … despite them going through arguably the most challenging time of their life … despite them knowing they would miss me massively … they decided what they wanted wasn’t as important as what they wanted for me.
So with a breathtaking amount of love and sacrifice, they encouraged me to leave my family, my home, my city and my country … believing there was more for me outside of Nottingham than Nottingham offered for me.
Just to be clear, we loved Nottingham.
I loved it as a kid and I still love it now.
But – as my parents suspected – the life I’ve been able to live is a life that is much bigger than the one I’d have probably had if I’d stayed where I was. Especially given where Nottingham – and the UK for that matter – was at that point in time.
I’m not saying it would have been a bad life.
I’m not saying anyone is wrong if they have chosen another option.
But there was obviously a strong desire in me to explore – driven by an Australian woman I’d met – as I spent a year planning the possibilities of the trip before I even broached the subject with Mum and Dad about wanting to go.
And that’s why I felt so strongly that I had to squeeze every possibility out of it when they told me to still go.
In many ways, it was my way of repaying them for the the love and encouragement they’d given – and always given – me, with my bigger life decisions.
My view was that if I was going to be away from my wonderful parents, then the least I could do was to make it something they could feel was worthwhile … and by worthwhile, I mean something that represented living a life of fulfilment.
Now I’ve written a lot about that in the past and now, 25 years later, I hope I have – and continue to – do just that.
I know Dad would have been thrilled I’d lived around the world … found someone who loves me as much as I love them … had experienced the sheer joy of becoming a father myself … of loving Otis with all I’ve got … and, on top of all that, had managed to have and enjoy some sort of career – even though I know he’d have found it utterly, utterly bizarre. [By which I mean he’d have found the job I do bizarre, not that I had managed to have a career]
I admit, when I moved back to the UK after 25+ years away, I did question this. I wondered why I would come ‘home’ when my parents had passed.
But then I remembered they knew I loved them, they knew I was there at their final moments and – at least in Mum’s case – they knew literally everything in my life, except my friendship with Paul, was because of the adventure I went on. The adventure they enabled and encouraged me to do.
And while I would do anything to have just one more day with them both, this lets me feel I made – and am making – the most of it for them.
Not because they wanted that, but because I know they wanted that for me.
So thank you.
Thank you for the stuff you did and the stuff you never even know you did.
Thank you for it all.
Every single thing.
Because it’s no exaggeration to say all I have has something to do with you.
Maybe it was a nod at the right time.
Or a nudge. Or a word of encouragement.
Or the right questions. Or the needed hug.
It all mattered.
It all still matters.
You helped me believe in myself when I didn’t believe in myself.
You still do.
What a gift.
I’ll keep striving to make it all worth while.
For me. But especially for you.
For another 25 years at least.
I miss you Dad. And Mum.
Love you.
Rx