Today’s menu (illustrations by big kid).

Some personal listening highlights of the year.

Today we’re expecting our two nieces and their Mum. They’re at just the right ages to play with our boys, so it should be a fun day for them as usual, and a hectic one for me.

Best part of Xmas Day for me was late last night when my little kid got a book for me to read to him called “Dad”. After we finished he looked at me and said, “I love you, Dad!” and gave me a big hug.

WOLVES MATCH REPORT

We watched Wallace and Gromit this afternoon, which everyone enjoyed, little kid was particularly excited.

After that, despite protests from the kids, I watched United at lowly Wolves. I’d been convinced beforehand that this was a game the new Portuguese manager must surely win. At half-time it was 0-0 and I thought it was hard to see either team scoring (or not conceding).

Within a couple of minutes of the restart Bruno stupidly got himself sent off for fouling the Wolves right back in the Wolves' half. Needless, and it left the ten men looking bereft without their leader, talisman, only creative outlet and most likely goal threat.

Wolves soon capitalised and deservedly went ahead. I thought United looked a little better when Casemiro and Eriksen replaced the ineffectual Mainoo and Ugarte in central midfield late on, but even then United looked like they did under Ten Hag - lost.

Yes, we can see what the new manager is trying to do. 3-4-2-1. But it doesn’t work, for whatever reasons. And like Ten Hag, he has no Plan B. Can he have lost the dressing room already? He seems to have alienated Rashford and Casemiro, and while both have their faults, both could be important players, too. Their replacements are worse.

Wolves scored a second with virtually the last kick of the game, and their new Portuguese manager recorded his second win in two games playing 3-4-2-1.

In my opinion, United should be playing a counter-attacking 4-3-3 and playing to our strengths (fast wingers), which would secure our perennial weakness (central midfield), and protect our defence. Instead we’re playing a new system, which no one seems to understand and that seems to play to no one’s strengths.

Of course, maybe we just need more patience and in another ten games it will all look different. Or we could be looking over our shoulders at the bottom three.

Santa wasn’t in his Grotto today (elf and safety reasons), so me and little kid had to improvise.

A xmas miracle!

Both kids are asleep before 9 pm!

All set!

Plan for tomorrow:

🥕 Prepare and cook veggies for xmas lunch
🍿 Watch Sonic 3 with kids at cinema
🛏️ Get kids off to bed and sleep early (haha)
🎅 Get my Santa outfit on and deliver presents (which this year are already wrapped)

Little kid sleeps in his own bed for about three or four hours before waking up crying and climbing into ours.

At least he now just goes straight back to sleep instead of wanting to be awake and playing for two hours.

The last three nights I’ve gone to bed very late and missed all the drama. I’ve slept so much better as a result.

Unfortunately, getting up at 8:30 in the morning isn’t sustainable when the kids go back to school.

Big kid has been enjoying CrossFit exercises at school and at home.

Big kid: “Hey Google! What’s an air squat?”

Google: “An escort is a call girl or a prostitute….”

Me: “Hey Google! STOP!!!”

After numerous attempts at therapising my toaster (“WTF is wrong with you, you stupid machine!") I realised that it was too depressed to talk.

I put myself in the toaster’s shoes and realised it was burnt out. It was full of crumbs (golden memories of bagels, crumpets, muffins and waffles past). Attempted arson was simply its way of communicating that it couldn’t take any more.

I unreservedly apologise to my toaster for this gross defamation.

Toast in the Machine davidmarsden.info

Ten months on and bath night is getting easier.

Now all I have to do is say, “Who’s going to get in Eli’s bath first? Will it be Eli? Or will it be Dad?”

Quick as a flash he’s stripped and running to the bathroom to beat me.

BAD SANTA

Big kid is getting too clever.

I got him a surprise xmas gift he’ll love and set up an online account for him in advance so it’s ready to use on the big day.

This morning he switched his alarm off on his old cheapo kids smart watch and asked me what the notification about the order is.

I played dumb, but I’m sure he’s putting it all together.

As well as being addicted to Duolingo, my lad is addicted to crumpets, and I’m his crumpet dealer.

[@spgreenhalgh](https://micro.blog/spgreenhalgh) my ten year old is addicted to Duolingo. He has a 66 day streak and is compelled to keep it going. Plus he's learnt some Spanish (which he previously hated). I'm in two minds. I don't like the addiction, but the five minutes every day is a good habit.

Getting all the wrapping done as things arrive this year. Leaving it all until xmas eve is too stressful. Easier to hide, too.

Big kid reckons that the two boxes that arrived yesterday, and that I refused to open, contained xmas presents.

His theory is that I will open them to check that they are what the kids want, then return them with a note asking for them to be forwarded on to Santa for delivery early on xmas morning.

Our little tree now has lights.

Kids were excited but chilling out now to carols.

Boys are having so much fun on a Portal call with their “Papa” (my Dad, their Grandad).

Kids decorated our little xmas tree, but I left the batteries in the lights all year, so they’re ruined.

I think I might have binned the star lights I usually hang in the window - a relief as they cause a disproportionate amount of stress untangling and hanging them.

“Volcano with exploding baked bean and cheese lava” for lunch.

Big kid is getting one of his five a day.

Little kid not interested (despite his love of volcanoes, lava and baked beans).

Breathing calmed down so went for a short walk to the corner shop with Kid A where he bought a can of baked beans with his own cash.

Then we walked around the long block talking about how those beans are now his beans, what would happen to the beans if I reimbursed him with a bank transfer, what he could do with a bottomless backpack, the striking similarity between the Chinese lion adorning a neighbour’s drive wall and the Chinese lions outside the Chinese restaurant in Spilsby, and how Lime bikes are taking over the world.

Breathless!

A million housewives every day
Pick up a can of beans and say
“What an amazing example of
Synchronisation!”

Or in my case, “£1.59?! What a rip-off!”

Looking at The Royal Observatory in Greenwich for my space obsessed four year old. No under fives!

(They do have a special “Ted’s Space Adventure” for 4-7 year olds, but it looks naff and he wants to see the real thing.)

[@Denny](https://micro.blog/Denny) [@antonzuiker](https://micro.blog/antonzuiker) my four year old is obsessed with the solar system and Jupiter in particular. He would love this!

Me: Dinner’s on the table!

Little kid: I’m just painting Mars!

DUA LIPA'S TINY DESK CONCERTS

Dua Lipa’s Tiny Desk concert at home in between covid lockdowns in 2020 is the most watched Tiny Desk concert ever.

Which doesn’t surprise me at all as we must have watched it literally hundreds, if not thousands, of times.

My little boy absolutely loved it, and even me and big kid secretly liked it, too.

Love Again is my favourite.

She’s just performed a new concert at Tiny Desk HQ, and it’s also very watchable and listenable, with These Walls the standout track.

JON BATISTE'S TINY DESK CONCERT

Jon Batiste, like Alicia Keys, is a supremely talented musician and performer. This is another must watch Tiny Desk concert from 2019.

This is another video my little kid enjoyed watching, singing along to (before he could talk), and dancing to with his big brother (before falling asleep).

Don’t it make your soul shake?

ALICIA KEYS' TINY DESK CONCERT

If you haven’t seen and listened to Alicia Keys' Tiny Desk concert (Feb 2020) then I highly recommend that you do, even if - or especially if - you think she’s not your thing.

This is a video my little kid loved to sing along to before falling asleep for a mid-day or afternoon nap.

We all just wanna be shown some love

My first attempt at a very simple recipe my Mum used to make fifty years ago.

Little kid: “I like onion and cheese [crisps]!”

Me: “Cheese and onion pie?”

Little kid: " Eugh!"

I recently read: How to Write One Song by Jeff Tweedy (of the band Wilco) 📚.

It’s full of practical if fairly obvious tips on how to write and get your creative muscles going.

Here’s a poem I wrote based on two books I regularly read to my little kid at bedtime.

This lovely tree by the bridge over the canal near my kids' school at Toplocks is gone.

Yesterday’s Mac* ‘n’ Cheese went down well with me and big kid. It’s one of his favourites.

*Penne

SAUSAGES

Lincolnshire sausages are the finest sausages you can get.

I remember as a boy, fifty years ago, my grandmother making sausages at home for the local butcher. Sometimes, she would let me feed the sausage meat into the machine and then turn the handle to push it through into the skins.

A special treat then was boiled sausages for breakfast. The skins would fall off, and we ate them with white bread soaked in the soup or broth they created in the pan along with a dash of English mustard.

In later years, my Mum would travel to Boston in south Lincolnshire from her home in north Lincolnshire specially to buy sausages from the butcher who made the best Lincolnshire sausages.

She would freeze them and pack me off with ten or twelve wrapped in old newspaper whenever I came back to visit from university or when I first moved to Manchester and then London.

I haven’t had a proper Lincolnshire sausage for many years now. The ones we get now are made in Hampshire. They’re nice enough, better than any other variety of supermarket sausage I’ve tried, but you wouldn’t want to boil them.

They’re pretty versatile. They’re great with mashed potatoes and gravy, in a special Valentine’s casserole, in a Yorkshire pudding, with xmas dinner wrapped in bacon, in a bread finger roll with (or without) onions and ketchup, in a sandwich or, as my kids like to eat them, cold on their own in the bath after school.

The more his curiosity took over, the less control he had

Every time someone mentions Croissant (for cross-posting) I hear big kid’s Mum telling him, “You can’t have croissants for breakfast every morning!”

Four year old every few seconds: “WHAT. THE. HEEE-EEEELLLLLL???!!!”

Big kid has written a list of all the things that make him angry.

Top of the list is bananas.

HATS OFF!

Sat on a bench in a children’s playground, a older couple approach me. The man is wearing a Union Jack bobble hat, points at my cap and says, “Were you in Vietnam?”

Now, I’ve heard this or similar many times online, always from Reform, but never in person.

“It’s The Clash”, I said. “London Calling.”

“And Jeremy Corbyn. For the many, not the few.”

“Oooh! Jeremy Corbyn! We wouldn’t be in this mess if he was in charge!” He said.

Then his wife asked me if I knew how to share a story about Chesterfield to all her Facebook friends.

COPD

Last week I received confirmation of a diagnosis of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD) based on results of spirometry tests back in August (it took that long for my GP surgery to get the results from the test centre, and only after my own intervention after their repeated failures).

My GP helpfully seemed very keen to blame my twenty-odd year history of smoking.

I first smoked at about age 20. My parents were smokers (wasn’t everyone back then?). I was never a heavy smoker. The most I ever smoked was ten a day. It’s also true I smoked a number of other substances that didn’t come with filters. And then there was some vaping. I suspect that might have been the worst of the lot, but who knows? I haven’t smoked for ten years.

In my childhood, I remember several episodes of severe shortness of breath, e.g., when running around the sports field at primary school I collapsed gasping for breath, and unable to continue. I was never diagnosed with asthma. I was told to get up and stop being so weak.

As I got older, whenever the football season started, I could never get through a full game. I put it down to lack of fitness and stamina at the time, but whatever it was, the symptom was breathlessness. I was told to get fit and sent off on cross-country runs.

I had regular episodes of shortness of breath throughout young adulthood that were not triggered by exercise (I’d more or less given up by then, helped by a dodgy ankle). I thought it might be hayfever or a dust allergy.

Fourteen years ago, I needed a thoracotomy on my right lung after a chest infection went wrong. I developed pleurisy, a collapsed lung and an empyema. In the post-op, my surgeon said my lung was “as good as new”.

In the years before covid, I had frequent chest infections requiring antibiotics and time off work to recover. Then and now, I wonder if that was triggered by the Southall Gasworks remediation and air pollution?

I now see that studies show that exposure to volatile organic compounds (including benzene, naphthalene and toluene) is related to COPD.

The good news is that I had no symptoms of COPD, so it’s been diagnosed at an early stage. I’ve started with my new inhaler, and my wife reports that I’ve stopped snoring.

I thought I’d done great with these pizzas, but big kid ate only three slices (he can usually eat all eight) and spat out his salami, little kid said he doesn’t like the sauce (it’s out of a tin, the same he usually eats), and the missus said hers was burnt and inedible (although she still ate it).

DIGITAL LEADER

Hoping we found a good solution to help big kid’s Digital Leader application.

He found it difficult to focus and get his head around answering the questions in a sensible (let alone helpful) way.

Instead, I recorded him speaking about the devices and tech he uses, how he helps his little brother and his parents to play games, and how using new apps like Duolingo has helped him to learn Spanish (when previously he hated Spanish lessons).

Google automatically transcribed his speech and copied it to Google Docs. There I edited out the ums and ahs and pasted it into his Discord chat with me. Then he copied it out by hand on to the application form.

🤞

Bunk beds built.

This morning, and quite possibly this afternoon, I will mostly be assembling a flat pack ‘shorty’ bunk bed ensemble for the kids.

Big kid is applying to be a Digital Leader at school.

In his application he wrote, ‘I want to be a Digital Leader because computing has inspired me to do what I do best. Which is computing.’

And, ‘I would be a goodgreat Digital Leader because I have infinet gigabyts of space."

Scored this bag of Akash Gold at the local Tesco Express.

Light and fluffy indeed.

Chilli sans carne was amazing.

Big kid gave the rice 11/10.

FUNNY OLD GAME

In the good old days, football was a simple game. You had eleven players and a substitute numbered 1 to 12, no shirt advertising, a referee and two linesmen, a manager, a trainer, a physio, a scout or two, tea ladies, drinking culture, long hair and perms, the club chairman, a board of directors, a club secretary, a groundsman, a stadium in the beating heart of the town or city, fans, standing room only, electric atmospheres, matches on Saturday at three o’clock, live coverage on the radio, match reports in the Pink Final after the game, and highlights on Match of the Day at 10:30 the same night. Tradition and history.

These days, it’s big business. You’ve got a hundred players in the first team squad, shirt number bingo sponsored by online sports betting companies, the reserves, the academy, a women’s team, out on loan, transfer windows, exiled due to poor man-management, five, seven, nine subs to choose from, a referee and a substitute referee, assistant refs, refs sat in an office in a business park (a clear and obvious error), refs at home, refs in the studio, refs in the crowd, a manager, a head coach, a goalkeeping coach, various other specialist coaches, multitudes of doctors, physios, psychologists, data analysts, worldwide scouting networks, dieticians, head chefs, gambling addictions, agents, chief executives, directors of football, technical directors, presidents of business, heads of legal, heads of state, matches at any time from noon to after the last train home, an advertiser’s stadium out of town, sitting room only, live streaming all day and all night. Profit and sustainability.

At one time, a manager of a football club could expect to run all aspects of the club to a lesser or greater degree, or at least have a major say in how it was run. Nowadays, managers, or coaches, are often restricted to, well, coaching players in training and on match days, and speaking to the media before and after games. They are seen as specialists rather than all-rounders, and more specialists from the world of corporate finance are brought in to fire the tea ladies and keep the manager - sorry, coach - fully focused on his job and not get distracted by wheeling and dealing in the transfer market, player contracts, or appealing points deductions for spending beyond the club’s means.

United

Indeed, this is how United plc’s Dan Ashworth keeps Eric ten Hag successful on the pitch. Oh, wait. I’m no fan in particular of Jamie Carragher, but he might have had a point when described United last season as one of the most poorly coached sides in the Premier League. United’s usual set up is a chaotic mismatch of players out of form, out of position, out of confidence, and out of luck. Individual errors rule the day, and most of the players look lost and like they’d rather be in the physio room or gambling rehab. We rely totally on one player - Bruno - to create chances and score. This is a colossal failure of recruitment, of management, of coaching, of captaincy, of teamwork.

Fergie took six seasons to win the title after twenty six years of hurt, and three seasons after winning the cup in 1990. His team often looked like it wasn’t making any progress, but the cup win did see a consistent marked improvement season on season (13th to 6th to 2nd to 1st). Ten Hag produced a masterful cup win against all the odds, although perhaps City’s players were caught off guard expecting an easy win after United’s lucky semi-final win against Coventry. Every season Pep has them playing in a clearly identifiable system and is never afraid to switch players or tactics.

Ingerland

It’s funny to hear Morgan Gibbs-White talk about Ingerland’s new interim manager Lee Carsley and describe his qualities as basically being a father-figure. Most top-level professional footballers are with their clubs from the age of eight, and likely spend more time than most kids away from their families and any normal childhood - living the dream, nonetheless. You can understand why they would value this kind of man-management, someone who will stick up for them no matter what.

Ten Hag hasn’t got that about him at all. He’s lost a whole load of players in one way or another because he didn’t have the heart or the head or the guts to stand by them when they needed him. De Gea, Maguire, Wan Bissaka, Casemiro, McTominay, Sancho, Antony, Martial, Rashford, Greenwood.

The spineless corporate bosses meanwhile took an age to decide the safest bet was to keep ten Hag. Failure is expected and gives them half a season at least to bed themselves in and some new players, too, in time for a new manager. If he does well, then they made the right decision. If they had appointed a new manager he might have failed, too, with the current players, and that would have reflected badly on the corporate bosses.

At least we’re not Chelsea. Telling your captain that he’s not technically good enough. Successfully scraping through the play-off round of the Conference League. Moneyball gone mad (although they could have a decent team in three seasons…).

Achievement unlocked.

Handed my four year old a slice of ham for his lunch.

“Yay! Pink chicken!”

Now we know what he meant yesterday when he turned his nose up at spicy chicken and said “I like pink chicken!”

SPUDS UP!

We harvested the last three of eleven potato bags at the weekend. A decent crop, and very tasty.

Highlights were regular watering and earthing up (using homegrown compost) with my kids, and big kid’s tenth birthday party where his friends got to (among other fun activities) harvest the first three bags and take home a potato bag each.​

Fond memories of going potato picking with my mum in the Lincolnshire Wolds in the early 1970s.​

Well, the super secure new lock on our super expensive new front door failed catastrophically today.

I couldn’t get my key out of the lock. We couldn’t lock the door.

The local locksmith arrived within fifteen minutes, diagnosed the problem (“you need a new lock, £180”) and proceeded to spend the best part of an hour removing the broken extra secure lock (finally, reminiscent of the birth of my second son, “it’s out, I’ll have to charge a bit extra…").

£265!!!

Thankfully the lock is under warranty, but not the labour.

Big Kids' Sports Day.

My polling station was empty when I went to vote around 1:30 pm.

My nearly ten year old looked at the TWELVE names on the ballot.

“Don’t vote Labour, Dad”.

He looked some more.

“There’s Joe!” he said.

“VOTE FOR JOE!”

ELECTION FEVER

My inbox is full of people asking for my opinion and personal experience of this UK general election campaign and who to vote for.

(Un)fortunately, as I sat down to type the words from my fingertips, my four year old decided he needed to express his thoughts instead.

It’s obviously not to scale (he’s only four!), but you can clearly see the Labour supermajority in red, and the Tory wipeout in blue. That they are a ‘uniparty’/two cheeks of the same backside is encapsulated in the red triangle atop the blue square in the centre.

The Green surge in vote share (in green, on the left) isn’t reflected in seats won, of course. In pink, you can see the rise of the independents, black is the Workers Party, and to the far right (in grey) is Reform.

The Lib Dems are an irrelevance (except in the South West) in yellow (this is where we had to stop, as he got very upset at the lack of orange).

“…when you look at it on a personal level, if Nelson was your friend or your neighbour, you would absolutely agree that he should be given the immediate right to settle.”

You. Absolute. Bastards.

If anyone knows of a crowdfunder to support this man’s legal challenge, I would like to contribute to it.
https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-england-merseyside-69016539

One of the reasons we never visit the place where I grew up.

“I just have to share?”?

I’m so glad I ate my salad before reading about the Eunuch Maker.

TWO LITTLE DUCKS

Along with thirty-odd other parents, I saw my nine year old off on his big adventure this morning, a school trip away to Wales for three nights. Everyone was super excited and nervous, and so were the kids.

The teachers accompanying them were super-organised. We’d had several in-person meetings prior, as well as countless Dojo messages and crumpled lists stuffed into school backpacks telling what to pack and what not to bring.

One teacher checked all the kids into the school hall and gave everyone an identifying number to stick on their top. Another checked in all the sealed and named daily medication bags. A third handed out school prepared packed lunches. A fourth mingled giving out reassurances as required.

The coach arrived on time, and the teacher who handed out the numbered stickers announced that children would go to the bus in groups of five according to the names and numbers he read out - a bit like child bingo. Everyone put their suitcase in the hold and carried their backpack and themselves on to the bus. Finally they were all ready to go!

MIngling teacher then asked if anyone needed to go to the toilet before they set off, and I swear thirty-odd kids all got off the bus and went an did their last minute business before (hopefully) all getting back on board. A quick hand count (“only raise one hand each”), and the coach drove out of the school grounds to waves and sobs from parents.

A few minutes later, little Abdul emerged from the boys toilet… (well, I didn’t hang around to see that, I just hope that didn’t happen).

STOP THE PLANES

My wife was born in Uganda. She’s Black, like our kids. She came to the UK when she was five.

She’s just told me she feels like she should put herself on a plane to Rwanda.

Then she said she realised she came here legally, she has indefinite leave to remain, and she’s a British citizen.

I asked her what was it that made her feel like she should deport herself.

Unsurprisingly, she said it’s because of all the anti-immigration rhetoric in the news. As she said,

It’s obvious no one wants my Black face here.

A local shop owner asked why big kid wasn’t at school. When I told him it was closed because it was being used as a polling station we got talking about the elections.

He asked me who I voted for, and then he told me he thinks “it’s going to be another hung parliament”.

Unusually productive morning.

• taught big kid how to convert fractions into decimals and percentages and vice versa
• voted for Mayor of London, constituency London Assembly Member and London-wide member
• bought some fruit and brown baps
• collected big kid’s prescriptions and recycled his expired epipens
• got six freshly baked garlic naans from my local naan shop
• got some decent exercise

Yesterday morning I took my little kid to see his best friend Lorenzo.

Yesterday afternoon I took my big kid to see his best friend Lorenzo.

Both Lorenzos live at number 13 and (perhaps less surprisingly) have Italian mothers.

Our town is 95% BAME.

Nine year old said he wanted to grow some potatoes, so we planted chitted seed potatoes in bags tonight.

He said he didn’t know it was so much work!

4 year old was born four years ago today, funnily enough.

Zack, 35, says: “I got pretty disillusioned after I found myself consistently matching with anti-Zionists, even when I set it to ‘Jewish only’.”

Zack put an Israeli flag emoji on his profile to rectify the situation. “It’s annoying because the more creative personalities I normally go for tend to be more anti-Israel.” Now he’s having fewer awkward conversations about the conflict, but the people he’s matching with are “less interesting”.

Source: Hinge and Tinder are swamped with anti-Zionism, say Jewish singles - The Jewish Chronicle

Can’t remember the last time I wore a watch. My nine year old wants it. Timpsons fitted a new battery free of charge.

JOURNALING

My nine year old started keeping a journal at school so we can read what he’s been doing at school every day. (Replaces the “What did you do at school today?” “Can’t remember” alternative). It’s terrific.

He wanted to know what I’ve been doing, too, so I am reciprocating. I’ve never kept a diary a journal before, but I’ve enjoyed doing it these past couple of days.

It’s fair to say, though, that my lad’s days are far more interesting and fun than mine.

BATH NIGHT

My little kid (now two months from being a not so small four) has gone right off the idea of having a bath at all in recent weeks. It takes two of us to get him in and give him a quick shower every couple of days.

To get him into the bath tonight, I tried something new.

I got on all fours so he could ride me like a horse into the bathroom while I hummed the theme tune to The Lone Ranger. He dismounted, undressed and climbed in without any bother.

Instead of drinking the bathwater, he had three cups of Ribena.

the Biden administration does in fact have tons of leverage it can use to stop the genocidal massacre in Gaza, it just doesn’t want to because it would be “politically unpopular” and because “Biden himself has a personal attachment to Israel.”

How has Israel managed to kill some ten thousand Palestinians in Gaza without managing to do any real damage to Hamas if Hamas fighters are hiding amongst all those civilians?

Caitlin Johnstone at Twitter

My kids were more interested in my egg timer app, which cock-a-doodle-doos when the eggs are ready, and bashing the egg’s head in than eating them.

Viking dress up day.

LAST WORDS

These are my last words writing from the café at the local leisure centre where I go every Wednesday during term time as a parent volunteer for my son’s swimming class. It’s their final session today.

My lad has gone from being so anxious about swimming that he didn’t want to go at all, to wanting to go for swimming lessons now the class sessions are over.

The café that was closed has reopened, although I still haven’t bought anything. They have new tables and chairs, too, which is nice.

It’s been something a personal journey for me, too. Having an hour or so in relatively undisturbed peace and quiet just to write whatever comes into my head (and publish to my micro.blog) has felt very therapeutic. I feel like something significant has changed within me, for the better.

I can’t say what, exactly, for a number of reasons, not in public. Maybe another time.

I’m also wondering if it’s a permanent change, or if it will all unravel. And I’m also feeling some sense of loss. Something that has been a part of me for a long time has gone. Even though it had an overall bad effect on my life, it was a regular companion. It won’t be missed, exactly, but it takes some getting used to, it not being here.

I’ll need to find somewhere else to write.

CURRICULUM VITAE (MEMENTO VIVERE)

Having been so bitterly rejected both in love and at work, I started to look around for new opportunities. I don’t remember how I found it, but a nursing home nearer to where I lived at the time (Cleethorpes) was advertising for a Therapeutic Activities Co-ordinator to develop a range of meaningful activities with frail elderly people who also had - iirc - impaired memory, or dementia. Right up my street (well, just around the corner).

This was the first time in my life (I was thirty years old) that I’d ever actually wanted a job, and I was determined to make sure I did everything I possibly could to get it (the money was better, too, although not a great deal). I think I really impressed them at the interview with the presentation I did (probably bullet points, but that was all the rage back then), but more my genuine enthusiasm and excitement at the prospect of doing what, at the time, seemed like it would be my “dream job”.

The role was to cover three separate nursing and residential homes in the Grimsby, Cleethorpes and Humberston area, all quite different as it turned out. I would also liaise with a colleague in Hull (where the company that ran the care homes had its headquarters), who had already been in post in his area for a year or so. Steve was a social worker by trade, and he was very upset to discover that I was not. He was also agitating for a substantial pay rise, and later on we would jointly present our case to the board of directors.

I shadowed Steve for a day or two and wrote substantial notes and reflections, before setting up my desk on the landing of the first floor next to the lift and the payphone (yes, really) at The Anchorage just up the road from Blundell Park. When I first entered The Anchorage it was a shock to the system. I was used to a welcoming, friendly, clean, freshly smelling (as much as possible), professional, and lively residential home where I used to work. The Anchorage was anything but. There was no welcome, staff looked harried, the place was so obviously run down and uncared for, it stank of piss, and all the residents appeared to be fully comatose.

That was on the ground floor. Upstairs was slightly better - at least the residents were awake. But it was like a madhouse, and brought back traumatic memories of a childhood school visit to the local mental hospital to sing Christmas carols to the moaning, leering, grabbing, drooling inmatespatients. The only redeeming factor now was that none of the inmates seemed able to move. I was going to have my work cut out here.

I think my boss expected me to have a timetable of bingo sessions, sing-a-longs, tea dances, quiz nights, etc. up and running straight away. But I would have to raise the dead first, and persuade the staff and manager to be supportive and helpful, In fact, a complete change of culture was needed. I spent several weeks getting to know everyone, not only there, but at the other two homes as well. One of the others was much larger with what seemed like a highly mobile group of very demented residents, while the other was more of a mixture of demented and simply frail elderly people. Once I got to know everyone, The Anchorage seemed to be mostly people with physical health problems, often compounded by the effects of a stroke.

The other two homes also had good, strong supportive managers, while The Anchorage had a temporary manager (one of the senior nurses), before appointing an absolute horror of a woman who mercilessly bullied me and made my job much more difficult than it needed to be. Luckily, most of the nurses and carers were good people.

To cut a long story short, we raised the dead. It turns out (who knew?) that even very poorly, very old people are up for conversation, doing things that interest them, socialising, going out, singing, dancing, moving, learning to walk again, reminiscing, and just living what life there is left. But they need help to do so. And when they get the help they need to do some or all of these things, it also turns out that they are often more continent, can walk again, need less of the carers' and nurses' time for personal care, feel better, have better health, and - crucially from the business point of view - live longer.

And when the residents are happier, have something to get up for, and are easier to look after, the staff are happier, too. We had a lot of fun. It was amazing. A highlight was organising three coaches and a disability-friendly minibus to take every resident from all three homes literally around the corner form The Anchorage to The Excel Club, which was (in the good old days), the premier night spot and bar for many of “my people” when they were young, for an afternoon of drinking, dancing, eating, socialising and reminiscing that I won’t forget (even if many of them them had forgotten by the time they got home).

The beauty of the whole endeavour was that people needing care were no longer seen as tasks to be performed and checked off on a list, but as people who had lives, stories, senses of humour, wants and needs like everyone else.

Such a great thing could obviously have no future, and when me and Steve presented the business case for expansion and pay rises to the board it was rejected outright. The most helpful training I ever did was with a trainer who advised me “don’t waste time trying to persuade people who aren’t interested - focus on those who are.” I’d tried my best, I really had. While I did really enjoy the job, I didn’t want to be doing the same thing week after week, year after year, with no prospect of advancement and for a company that clearly wasn’t interested or appreciative.

I started looking around again, and this time further afield. I felt I was in a rut, personally as well (it was all work and no play for me), and I needed a fresh start.

THRIVING?

My son’s school’s Thrive teacher is leaving. She helped transform my lad’s experience of school from being one where he had weekly if not daily challenges with regulating his emotions and his behaviour, to one where he enjoys school every day. She’s going to be very greatly missed.

I managed to tell her this today and thank her for her work. It was so sad to hear her story.

She has committed ten years of her life to helping our youngsters get the best start in life, and done lots of extra work getting accredited to do so. But, at the end of the day, she can no longer afford to continue, and has taken a job elsewhere in sales and marketing.

What a stupid, shit country we live in.

TEACHERS

Yesterday morning, I was sat in the foyer of my little kid’s children’s centre waiting for the staff to arrive so he could start his day. He was eager to get in, banging on the locked doors to the main part of the nursery. In my day, the kids would be trying to get out, not in.

Some other parents, younger than me, commented the same. Everyone recounted some particularly, sadistic child-hating teacher who regularly brutalised them or some other poor unfortunate during their formative years.

We’re lucky that teachers today seem to be so much friendlier, and supportive, and tolerant of differences and behavioural challenges. And generally just miles better teachers and humans.

There were exceptions, of course. I had one teacher in particular, who would have fitted right in with contemporary teachers (although probably not, actually, as he was a bit of a contrarian). But he was a great teacher, loved kids, and dedicated his life to teaching.

It always amazes me, though, when I see old school friends on Facebook reminiscing about some teacher we had, about how wonderful they were. Most of them were drunken bullies, whose hobbies revolved around making kids miserable and causing physical and mental harm.

They’d be locked up now.

CURRICULUM VITAE (AD ABSURDUM)

I spent most of my three years ‘working’ in Manchester down the pub. When I was in my shared smoke-filled office, I was more often than not playing a very early demo of football manager (four free seasons, on repeat), or compiling a regular comedy fanzine for the five-a-side footy team I helped to found and run. They were crazy and fun times.

Every other weekend, I got a train back to Lincolnshire for band rehearsals, recordings and occasional gigs. Although these were more often than not simply excuses to drink to excess.

I forget how much I was being paid, but it seemed like a fortune (it wasn’t, but life was free and easy back then). My boss Terry was a quietly manic Irish gynaecologist who had somehow ended up leading European studies into vertebral osteoporosis. He had more faith in me than I had in myself. He would type things on to the computer screen and ask me to read them. I would say things like, “You need to slow down, mate. Use some spaces and punctuation.”

My main role was to input response rate data, which consisted of reams of handwritten register books from all over Europe containing names, gender, dates of birth, and what kind of fracture they had suffered, if any, and if they responded to our survey, or not. Thrilling work.

On the plus side, I got to go to a couple of conferences (excuses to drink to excess) in Bath and Prague. I remember watching Ireland beat Italy in the 1994 World Cup with a bunch of Italian bone doctors in Bath. And we stayed in a stereotypical concrete skyscraper communist-era hotel-cum-conference centre on the outskirts of Prague, but had enough free time to explore the gothic city centre in the midst of a wintry, thundery snowstorm while drinking Czech vodka.

As what felt like a last resort to motivate me, my boss sent me on a week long working holiday to Athens. My objective was imply to visit one of the research centres there and make sure they knew how to complete the response rate registers correctly. A two hour job, as it turned out. They sent me for a week, as it was cheaper than sending me for a day or an overnighter, flights only, I had to find somewhere to stay when I got there. When I arrived in the heart of Athens and got out of my airport taxi, I stumbled on to the street trying to catch my bearings. A ‘friendly’ local ‘took pity’ on my and asked me where I was from. “Manchester” I said. “Aha! Bobby Chalton! Nobby Sti-les! Come! Come! I have a bar! I will get you a drink!”

I walked into his dimly lit bar just around the corner. I bottle of cold beer was waiting for me. So friendly and welcoming! As my eyes became accustomed to the light, I looked around to take in my surroundings. A group of scantily clad young (and not so young) women giggled at a table opposite the bar. Red lights everywhere! I made my excuses and left!

After doing my two hours work, I spent the rest of the week walking all around the old town and seeing all the ancient sites by day, and drinking to excess in the evenings.

TORYBOY

ToryBoy The Movie is the account of filmmaker John Walsh’s disillusionment with what he saw as the corruption, lies, hypocrisy and general incompetence of Blair’s Labour government, and his conversion to the Conservative (Tory) Party general election candidate for Middlesbrough in 2010.

Under his own steam and £15,000 of his own money, John found his opponent, Sir Stuart Bell, the serial incumbent Labour MP, invisible and unknown to his local constituents who nevertheless voted him back in every four or five years (albeit with an ever diminishing majority). Bell was too busy, it seemed, living in Paris, and employing his family not to answer phone calls at his parliamentary office. Worse, his son stole £8,000 worth of stuff from Bell’s parliamentary colleagues, eventually serving sixty days in prison for the privilege.

Despite this record of failure, Bell was duly elected again, with Walsh coming in third behind the newly Nick Clegg-revitalised Lib Dems.

Last year, I had my own attempt to counter what I (and many others) saw as corruption, lies, hypocrisy and general incompetence of our local elected councillors. Standing as independent candidates, me and my two friends came fourth in the safest Labour ward in Ealing. It was good fun campaigning, and I enjoyed the physical activity of walking almost every street in my ward dropping leaflets, and the social activity of actually talking to people in person. And we helped to reduce Labour’s vote share and majority (not that it makes any difference to the result).

Still, people voted in their thousands for two councillors who have been in post for twenty four years each, while the problems everyone complains about are the same but worse.

Ultimately, it was another failure to add to my CV.

CURRICULUM VITAE (REPETITUM)

Following on from my success delivering the news to my local community, I took a break from the world of (very part-time) work to focus on… playing in my first bands. And learning to play the guitar. Much of which came at the expense of any interest in or motivation to study, or revise for ‘O’ Levels, and later ‘A’ Levels.

Living in a small rural market town, some of my friends, and my own younger brother, in fact, had Saturday jobs bush beating - literally (as far as I know) beating bushes to encourage game birds to fly to their sporting deaths. Let’s never forget that killing is a sport for our aristocracy and their hangers-on. Famously, at the time, the host of these shootings was “peppered in the buttocks” by our drunken home secretary Willie Whitelaw. You couldn’t get away with a name like that now.

My brother graduated from bush beating for toffs to hunt sabotage.

I did well enough in my ‘O’ Levels (one A, eight Bs, and a C), that my maths teacher told me I would “never amount to anything”. He wasn’t wrong.

My dad tried to motivate me after my mock ‘A’ Level results by leaving me a drunken handwritten note and caricature drawing of me with an arrow pointing to it (I mean, in those days what else could he have done?) saying: “THICK CUNT”.

Then he got me what felt like a punishing summer job at the duck processing plant where he was a line supervisor. Being the boss’s son was no fun when they put me on the killing floor. I became a vegetarian for nine years after that (although since returned to meat eating - that’s another story).

I messed up my ‘A’ Levels (three Es, and failed General Studies writing about the punk band Stiff Little Fingers). I was profoundly depressed, but had no one to talk to about it. Mainly because I had been brought up not to talk about or express any “bad” or “difficult” feelings. Random people used to come up to me and say “Cheer up, it may never happen”, but it in my internal world, it already had.

Music, and playing guitar in a band, was my only outlet, but we were young and totally delusional. We were a three-piece, but believed we were the next Fab Four. We played a successful debut gig in Cleethorpes at The Sub, but instead of building on that, we immediately packed our bags and gear into a van, and drove to London to live in a series of squats in Stepney, Poplar and Limehouse.

An older ex-school friend was part of an anarchist community based out of a bookshop, and helped us find, gain entry to, and occasionally get the water, gas and/or electricity working. In those good old days, you could easily “sign on” the dole and get enough to actually live on.

I read and heard a lot about the politics of anarchism, which I found very attractive to my idealism. That said, I couldn’t ever see how it would work in practice, in the real world. It would need a revolution, of course, but even then, it would need a revolution in people’s minds and thinking first.

Six months living in squats, a couple of lousy gigs and a demo tape later, we packed our bags and returned home.

ERROR 55 - INTERNAL COMMUNICATION PROBLEM

Boss: Can you order a new printer for the office?

Me: Sure. *orders a new printer for the office*

Office: Did you order a new printer for the office? It’s arrived.

Me: Yes, I’ll come over and set it up.

Office: No need, we already moved the printer from the other office. And we have a tech person coming in Monday to set it up.

BREAK IN TRANSMISSION

Last week’s swimming lesson was cancelled, and the week before that, we went away for half-term. To a very wet and wild north-east Lincolnshire right by the sea (or the Humber Estuary). With no wifi, and very poor data connectivity. In a tin can caravan.

But we all had fun, and the kids got to spend time with their grandparents who live nearby. And use their wifi.

On the night before we left I met up with a couple of my oldest and best friends, Murray and Aaron, who I hadn’t seen for ten (Aaron) and thirty (!) (Murray) years. It was really great to have a couple of pints and talk shit with them, just like the old days, as if it was only yesterday.

FRANK

Frank was my great grandfather on my dad’s side.

I only met him a couple of times. One time, me and my brother were made to wear the most ridiculous and embarrassing outfits, and we just felt very uncomfortable and ill-at-ease meeting this very old man from another time.

He was born in the early 1901. So he must have been 80 or so when we met him. Not so old these days, but back then he really was like a dinosaur, or a fossil.

I remember a couple of stories about him. After the Great War, when he was a young man with a new wife and baby daughter (my grandmother), he had to walk twenty-five miles to work, where he would labour hard for sixteen hours before walking home again, only to be brutally murdered by his father before going to bed and getting up the next morning to do the same thing over and over again. Well, he certainly had to work hard, just to survive and raise a family.

Life was no doubt much harder then than any of us can really imagine, but you try and tell that to the young people of today. Would they believe you? No!

My great grandmother, Ellen, was committed to Lancaster Asylum some time after my grandmother Freda was born. I don’t know what the reason was, but it’s possible it was because she was suffering from what would now be recognised as post-natal depression.

In those days, it was a life sentence, not to mention the shame it brought upon the family.

Frank divorced Ellen and married “Auntie Florrie”. I don’t know if Florrie was actually Ellen’s sister, but it’s possible.

Freda never forgot her mum, and secretly visited her whenever she could.

When Frank got the cancer that would kill him, Freda took him in and looked after him in her bed until he died.

GETTING DRESSED

My three and a half year old is going through that stage where he doesn’t want to get dressed in the morning to go to nursery.

I remember with my oldest lad some mornings I used to be in tears trying to get him ready.

Fortunately, their mum is now working from home and has taken on this task with the little one. My main job now is to remind my nine year old to “sit at the table and eat your breakfast” every two minutes.

Up until a couple of weeks ago, my secondary role was as assistant little kid dresser. I would sit him on my knee with one arm around his chest holding his arms down, while trying to hold a leg or a foot so that his mum could forcibly put on his underpants, socks and trousers without him kicking or pulling them off again.

Mum has now found a much more kid-friendly method, with no tears.

Underpants are now butterflies, fluttering around looking for somewhere to land. Socks, of course, make great foot-puppets. Trousers are caterpillars crawling on a tree branch, and his coat is a big brown bear who just wants a hug.

It’s still exhausting, but it makes the morning a little bit happier for everyone.

HAIRCUT

My nine year old had a trim the other day. No one else can really tell, but his massive afro isn’t quite so massive as it was last week, and certainly a little less knotted.

Should make it easier to get his swimming cap on.

His mum cuts his hair. We took him to a barber’s when he was younger, and I literally had to hold him down while the barber did his work.

I never liked having my hair cut. I used to have very thick curly hair as a boy, although not an afro. My mum used to use what she called thinning scissors, which were kind of like scissors with teeth. It felt like having my hair pulled out.

I think as kids we’re just so much more sensitive to all these things. And my lad’s hair is a core part of his identity. (When he was younger, he used to identify as a lion, so his hair was his mane.)

I managed to overcome my fear of hair cutting as an adult, and even found a reliable barber pre-covid. Since the pandemic, like many others, I bought a pair of clippers and do it myself now.

CATWOMAN

Last week, we had a visitor.

Catwoman appeared, to save the day!

All the way from leafy Surrey, she turned up in her Porsche 4x4 and catsuit to catch our community cats and take them to the vet “because they have cat flu”.

With her ten year old assistant, and cat trap, she tried for (what seemed like) hours to catch a cat, or a kitten, to no avail.

IMPOSSIBLE JOB

Last week, my boss asked me to produce a professional looking ten page job profile for a potential new appointment.

He provided me with an example from another employer, and asked me to use the same format.

He wanted me to find some suitable photographs “online” to use.

This was all outside of his skillset.

And mine.

He wanted it “by tomorrow” (Wednesday), and gave me the text he’d written for the first page, as well as the headings he wanted to use for the remaining pages.

The formatted example he’d given me was a pdf. I was very pleased to discover that Adobe now provides a free pdf to Word conversion, which certainly made my job easier.

It was easy enough to find photographs, of course, but not so much photographs that are free to use. My boss later told me he wasn’t worried about that, as he “wasn’t using them for commercial purposes.”

The next day (Wednesday), my boss emailed to say he would send me the final nine pages of text he still hadn’t written “tomorrow morning” (Thursday), and that “we” would “populate” the template document then.

While I was eating lunch the next day (Thursday), his email arrived leaving me two hours to put the whole thing together. I didn’t think it would be enough time, but just got on with it.

Two hours later, I still had two pages to do, but had to collect my kids from nursery and school, make their tea (or dinner, as they call it), and get them in the bath. I managed to finish it later while they watched TV.

My boss was very pleased, although he said he didn’t expect anyone would actually see it.

COMMUNITY CATS

Just around the corner from my lad’s school by the canal is a cul-de-sac which is home to some “community cats”.

Having spoken to a few of the people who live there, it seems that none of the seven or eight cats and kittens have homes or owners, but are looked after by the people who live there.

So they’re not strays, but they’re not feral, either. They’re community cats.

These cats have been around for as long as I can remember (which admittedly isn’t so long these days), but it’s only in the last few weeks that they have become of growing interest to my lad and some of his friends on their way to and from school.

What started off as simply “aw, look there’s a cat”, has now become a financial investment in daily supplies of cat food, and extra time in the morning and afternoon to stop, feed and stroke Tab, Abby, Popcorn, Tiny, Smoky, Toffee and one or two others I can’t remember the names of.

I made the mistake of sharing a few photos of these cats with my cat obsessed mother, who was very upset that they don’t have warm, dry homes and owners who overfeed them with specially bought and cooked fish. I’ve tried to reassure her that they look healthy (shiny coats), well-fed and looked after.

PLAY STREET

We used to play in the street outside our home as kids growing up in the 70s. In rural Lincolnshire. Of course, it wasn’t a main road, it was the road on our council estate. Pretty much everyone had a car, and many of the houses had their own garage.

In London, or Greater London, it’s generally not safe for kids to play in the street, although we’re lucky where we are that our little cul-de-sac can double-up as a relatively safe enough play area most of the time.

The road next to us is an HGV Access Road, thanks to our local ward councillor and current council leader.

It’s definitely NOT safe for kids to play in at all.

Not until the Water Company came along. For the past two or three weeks, they have closed part of the road where my sons' friends live to clear the pipes of wet wipes, sanitary products, fat and oil.

They’ve dug a massive hole in the road, which I’ve told my nine year old is The Pit of Tartarus. It’s all barricaded off, with heavy machinery, waste skips and various bits of equipment.

So the road is now a no through road, with access only for residents and deliveries.

My kids and their friends have really enjoyed playing out in the street whenever they can, thanks also to our “Indian Summer”.

Of course, there are plenty of drivers who ignore (or don’t see?) the signs telling them the road is closed, and drive down it anyway. My job was mostly to tell them, “No, you can’t drive on the pavement. Can’t you see there are kids playing? Plus, it’s a pavement. This isn’t the Wild West!”

Fortunately, everyone was reasonable enough when challenged to back away, turnaround and drive around following the “diverted traffic” signs.

Thankfully, my job was made redundant by the older kids in the group, who took it upon themselves to relieve me of my onerous duties. They barricaded the pavements with spare cones, and now they marshall the traffic. Much more effective!

CLASS

Thinking about Maths at school, got me thinking about the origin and meaning of class.

It’s a classic word, and means so many different things depending on the context in which it’s used.

Its Roman origin relates to the dividing up of society, or groups of people for war or military objectives.

My Latin teacher at school was obsessed with lining up the desks and chairs at the end of each lesson.

“Caecilius pater est” is the only Latin I can remember.

We rebelled, and persuaded our headteacher to teach us Classics in Translation instead. That was fun. Reading, and learning all about ancient Greek philosophy and mythology.

DISTRACTION

It’s easy to get distracted.

My nine year old told his mum last night that he was so distracted by thoughts in his head at school that the teacher gave him a blank piece of paper and a pen to “download” everything in his mind.

All he could think about was Super Mario and Nintendo.

Well, it was Maths.

I always liked Maths at school. Mainly because there was no homework, or writing, or revision to do. Either I knew it or I didn’t. And I mostly did, up until A Levels.

My “Pure Maths” teacher told me I would never amount to anything. I guess he was right about that.

My “Applied Maths” teacher tried to make lessons more memorable by telling us a story about a man who grew jellies in his garden. I guess he was right about that.

I got a B grade in O Level Maths. If I’d actually made any kind of effort I could probably have got an A. Things could have been oh so different!

THE SWIMMER

My nine year old is on week three of his school swimming lessons.

Prior to the first lesson, he was very anxious about getting his hair wet, and getting his nose under the water. This, despite the fact that he absolutely loved the sea and the pool on our holiday last month (and last year, and the year before that).

We bought him a swimming cap, which everyone has to wear in any case. He’s got massive natural afro hair, so the first three swimming caps we bought were too small.

He was very anxious about putting on his swimming cap for the lessons. I said I would help him, as I would be there, but of course, that never happened as they all just marched straight into the changing rooms leaving me alone with my coffee-free café.

Fortunately, one of the teaching staff helps him with his cap.

So he keeps his hair dry. And after the second lesson last week, he came home and informed us that:

• he put his nose under the water and survived
• he wants to go swimming at the weekend
• he wants a swimming “noodle”.

HUMAN SHIELD

The school asked for a parent to volunteer to accompany the children to their weekly swimming class.

They said I could sit in the café and drink coffee. No swimming required. I volunteered.

I’m basically a fourth chaperone, in addition to the three teaching staff. I simply accompany the children to their swimming class, and back.

The class teacher gave me the two page risk assessment to read on the first morning, and I’ve taken it upon myself to stand either at the back of the line of kids, or in the middle, depending on where there is a gap of supervising adults. I try to act as a human shield on zebra crossings.

That’s it.

While the kids are having their swimming lesson, I sit in the adjacent café (which is permanently closed, by the way) with my distraction-free writing device. I get an hour a week now to write in peace. It’s wonderful.

THE DOOR

The door was old, but it still functioned as a door. It opened and closed, and kept us safe and warm.

As it got older, it got a bit cranky and quirky.

The spring-loaded closing mechanism no longer worked as it should. If you were a small person, a cat or a delivery driver, you had to beware this big old heavy door slamming shut whether you were in, out, or somewhere in between.

Sometimes the lock wouldn’t work at all and you had to hope there was someone inside who would let you in. Mostly, it required a certain knack to unlock it. Which kept kids out, and ensured extra exercise for grown-ups getting up off the sofa to let kids in.

One day, the housing association’s sub-contractors came to take our door away. It was a fire safety hazard, according to a very expensive risk assessment they carried out several years ago in the wake of the Grenfell Fire.

They came, they saw(ed), they removed our old door in five minutes flat, leaving a gaping hole.

The new door is sleek and fancy.

“It’s a like for like replacement,” they said.

“Hmmm… the handle is on the right hand side,” I said.

“And the door opens to the left not the right.”

“I’m very unhappy,” said my wife.

“It’s not magnetic,” said my nine year old.

“Where’s they keyhole?” my three year old didn’t say, but the question must surely have been going through his mind as he tried to unlock the door on the wrong (right) side with the new key.

Signs of the times…

I learnt a new word today.

Big kid complained that little kid “yeeted” his Lego Pikachu.

I had to look it up.

Yeet: to throw especially with force and without regard for the thing being thrown.

OPEN LETTER TO PETER MASON

Publishing this as it’s in the public interest and I’ve had no reply to my original email sent on 1st July (Mason has, as far as I know, several personal assistants who read and respond to his emails, even if it’s just a holding acknowledgement response - I’ve had one before, as well as a next day reply, and a ‘no reply at all’).

I’ve also now submitted two Freedom of Information requests to get answers to my questions.

---

Dear Peter,

In your open letter to Angela Fonso and CASH dated 12 July 2021, you pledged that:

“[t]he Council will not take any further sponsorship from Berkeley Group.”

I was shocked, therefore, to see the new Mayor of Ealing tweet to thank Berkeley Group for their sponsorship of an event he organised and hosted.

In your letter mentioned above, you also stated:

“I am determined to ensure that the Council’s future dealings with developers are transparent, arms-length and do not give rise to concerns that it is privileging the relationship with developers above that with residents.”

I was dismayed, therefore, to discover (from Berkeley marketing material, hand delivered, photo attached) that a Southall councillor (Cllr Jassal) and a council officer (Evelyn Gloyn, Ealing’s Community Engagement Manager) are members of Berkeley Group’s new “community engagement” steering group. This clear conflict of interest with the health and wellbeing of residents who Cllr Jassal is elected to represent does not appear on Cllr Jassal’s declaration of interests on the council website. Cllr Jassal and Evelyn Gloyn are literally standing shoulder to shoulder with Berkeley Group, not at “arms-length”, as you pledged two years ago.

I note also that various councillors have continued to attend Berkeley Group’s marketing events (sold as “community events”).

I know you have a very strong commitment to leading an open and transparent administration, and so, therefore, I ask you to tell me:

1. the monetary value of “sponsorship” Ealing Council (councillors, officers, Mayor) has accepted from Berkeley Group since your letter of 12 July 2021, and for which events?

2. the Ealing Council policy for councillors, officers, Mayor, for accepting sponsorship, hospitality and gifts from developers, and to ensure that the Council will not take any further sponsorship from Berkeley Group?

3. the action you will take to prevent councillors, officers, Mayor accepting sponsorship, hospitality and gifts from developers in future, and publicly returning sponsorship already received from Berkeley Group.

4. the Ealing Council policy for councillors, officers, Mayor, to ensure future dealings with developers are transparent, arms-length and do not give rise to concerns that it is privileging the relationship with developers above that with residents?

5. the action you will take to prevent councillors, officers, Mayor privileging the relationship with developers above that with residents, and publicly disengaging from Berkeley Group’s profit-driven marketing schemes dressed up as “community engagement”?

Yours sincerely,

David Marsden

Personalised alarm call at 6:30 this morning as my little kid puked on my back.

Morning walk, ostensibly to source the kids' favourite ice lollies. Mission unaccomplished.

Enjoyed plenty of sun and relatively fresh air in our communal garden today. Kids enjoyed the beach tent, but the paddling pool kept deflating (not that we had access to any water to fill it). Cleaned out our tiny “shed”, and put up wooden blinds in the bedroom as well!

Three year old playing Scrabble for the first time. First word he tries to spell is his brother Zion’s name.

Little kid turned on his Amazon Fire “Kids” tablet.

A game asks him to enter his date of birth to play.

He types in “1234”, et voilà!

Big kid: “Dad! Dad! I killed the Ender Dragon, and I wasn’t even looking!”

Me: “What are you doing?”

Big kid: “Twerking backwards.”

First salad of the Sum…, er, Spring.

UNDER POISONED SKIES

Watched Under Poisoned Skies on BBC iPlayer last night.

It’s the sad and shocking story of children in Iraq dying from leukaemia as a result of toxic air pollution from mega rich oil companies burning off excess natural gas in the open air near their homes.

Benzene (found in the air) and naphthalene (found in the children’s urine samples) are the main carcinogens.

Levels of benzene are between 3 and 9.6 Micrograms per cubic meter or “µg/m3”.

Levels of benzene by the so-called soil “hospital” at Southall Gasworks were between 4 and 12 Micrograms per cubic meter or “µg/m3”.

SOUTHALL RESIDENTS TO GIVE BLOOD SAMPLES

After six years of campaigning for justice:

“The fact that gas used to be manufactured from coal has been lost to the public consciousness, but the chemical legacy remains.”

“These communities already have multiple disadvantages with air pollution, overcrowding and poor housing. This is another burden being placed on them.”

Via: Scientists to examine health fears at west London luxury development

READING FOR PLEASURE

Two years ago my then six year old took what turned out to be a permanent break from the daily fifteen minute Easyread lessons he’d been doing for six months to catch up on his reading. When he started, he couldn’t and wouldn’t read.

At the weekend he asked to go to the library where he chose a book by his favourite author. The following two mornings he read a chapter to himself before breakfast instead of watching TV.

Tonight he read a few pages out loud to me at bedtime, just to show off.

In the words of Bill Hicks:

I’ve noticed a certain anti-intellectualism going around this country, man …

I was in Nashville, Tennessee last week and after the show I went to a Waffle House, right, and I’m sitting there and I’m eating and I’m reading a book. I don’t know anyone, I’m alone.

I’m eating, and I’m reading a book. And this waitress walks over to me: “(tut tut tut) What you readin’ for?”

Wow, I’ve never been asked that! Not what am I reading, but what am I reading FOR?

Well, goddamnit, ya stumped me!

Why do I read?

I guess I read for a lot of reasons and the main one is so I don’t end up being a fucking waffle waitress …

Then this trucker in the next booth gets up, stands over me and goes, “Well, looks like we’ve got ourselves a reader…

Baked bread with my little kid using my pizza dough recipe (substituted wholemeal flour for white flour).

Turned out nice enough that we both ate it.

HORSESHIT PARADE

I visited the Palace of Westminster this week with my big kid on an educational school trip.

It was a very cold, wet and windy day, and we were patriotically under-dressed and sans brollies. We took a good lashing from Mother Nature.

The tour of the Houses of Parliament was cool, dry and stuffy, and the little radio headphones we were given so we could hear better were sub-optimal.

The House of Commons was closed to ordinary commoners like us, but the House of Lords was open as long as we refrained from parking our cold, wet and windy working class bums on our superiors' ‘holier than thou’ red leather benches. Police guards armed with sub-machine guns would forcibly remove any insubordinate eight or nine year olds, and presumably march them straight to the Tower of London (or shoot them dead if they looked like Jean Charles de Menezes.

The children asked a police officer why he carried a gun, and they learned it is to keep them safe. That may be true, but I didn’t feel safer, and there were no buses to flag down.

The children learned that murderous megalomaniac misogynist King Henry VIII is still held in very high regard in these parts, despite beheading two of his six wives, and creating a new religion and laws to divorce two more.

I asked the children how the chamber of the House of Lords made them feel.

Small.

We had lunch across the road outside Portcullis House where we could shelter a little from the wind and rain. Portcullis House is where elected Members of Parliament (MP) and their staff have offices. There were lots of posh-looking mostly white men going in and out and getting frisked inside by more armed guards. Out in the cold, we shared our lunch with toothless and homeless Len, who we found sleeping in the doorway next to us, and looking very wet and cold. Len told us he was “a midget, a dwarf from Burnley” and he’d come to London to sort his life out, but his marriage failed and here he was. He was very pleased to have a homemade tuna mayonnaise sandwich, a juice drink and a satsuma. My wife told me off when we got home, claiming that he will have sold or exchanged the sandwich for drugs.

We waited for our own MP Virendra Sharma to come and meet us as the teachers had arranged. No one knew what he looked like, so they asked me as my lad told them I had met him before (which is true). Then we played a game “Where’s Sharma?” until he appeared. Mr Sharma thanked the kids for coming to meet him, and asked them who wanted his job. His two assistants took photographs.

We ended the day by getting drenched walking up to see Downing Street and the Horse Guards Parade. Downing Street was, of course, guarded by more armed police and totally inaccessible to us ordinary folk, and the parade smelled of horse shit.

Finally got around to watching Our Friends In The North.

‘None of the issues the show mines so brilliantly – from inequality, deindustrialisation and the parlous state of Britain’s housing to homelessness and the corruption of our public officials – have gone away.’

Big kid’s current favourite song.

My little lad’s current favourite song.

TOP O' THE MORNIN'

Showing my age this morning.

I ‘heard’ my wife say, “My First Vegetables!” as our little boy chose a new TV show to watch.

I ‘saw’ a picture of a broccoli on the screen. I got a broccoli from the fridge (along with some carrots and a cauliflower) to show him and keep it real. 🥦🥬🥕

Turns out the show is called “My First Festivals, Series 2: 4. St Patrick’s Day”, and the picture was a shamrock. ☘️

At least the vegetables were the same colour as the Irish flag! 🇮🇪

Made pancakes, with assistance from kids.

No one liked them except me.

Win-Lose-Win.

Sarnie. White rye bread with caraway seeds, salt beef, celeriac remoulade, pickled gherkins.

Fronted adverbials excepted, gotta love my kid’s school!

Solidarity with all teachers today, especially those striking for better pay.

Eight year old is at home, and refusing to practice for his spelling test tomorrow because he doesn’t want to be a scab.

Big kid with the tree he planted at his school.

Little kid was vomiting every hour from 6pm until midnight last night. Slept until 6am, kept down a piece of toast and a cup of water, then had his breakfast proper. Now has his boots on and ready to go out in sub-zero temperature!

I hadn’t realised until today that they are building a new park with “viewing mounds” (similar to those at Northala Fields?) beyond Glade Lane park.

Little lad at the park this morning. He’s had a good day and week, then just before bed tonight started vomiting. Poor little thing. And us.

Big kid’s school storage units.

School caretaker this morning gritted the playground before we all arrived, and helpfully marked the still frozen large puddles with hazard cones so that the kids knew exactly where the best ice patches were for skidding practice.

Big kid woke up with a sore throat and didn’t want to go to school. Gave him paracetamol and told him he should spend the day in bed to recover. Half an hour later he bounced back into the living room with “I’m back”.

HP sauce in the gravy adds a sweetness and edge to the pie. The carrots and leeks roasted together are sweet and sharp, too.

Little kid cried when I gave him some on his plate. He had his favourite chicken pie instead.

Big kid is worried that the small glass of Baileys (use by date 10/2021) might kill Santa…

Cut my hair short with clippers today.

Big kid said, “Why did you cut your hair? I can see your head!”

Unpacking grocery delivery without thinking, and big kid asks, “Is that wrapping paper?!”

Little kid is totally captivated by this delightful story.

youtu.be/DPfClnEK3…

My kid’s teacher gave everyone a book for Xmas, which is an amazing thing to do.

According to my lad, everyone’s book was different…

I think he’s been well and truly rumbled!

Kids' books: Fame! by Alan MacDonald 📚

THE PROPERTY LOBBY: THE HIDDEN REALITY BEHIND THE HOUSING CRISIS IN EALING

There will be 14,800 new homes in 23 new developments in Southall over the next few years. 14 units over 10 stories high, and 7 over 20 stories high. Up to 40,000 new residents (and their cars)!

One third of the total new developments in the whole of Ealing borough (only Acton is getting it worse).

So not happening so much in the ‘white’ or richer areas of the borough, for some reason.

None of these homes will be genuinely affordable to most people currently living in overcrowded homes in Southall or Ealing, as Studio bedsit flats start at around £300,000!

Most will stay empty until they are sold to investors from China, Malaysia, Singapore, Bahrain(!) where they are actively marketed by the greedy property developers.

The same property developers who gave former Ealing Council ‘Leader’ Julian Bell and new Ealing Council ‘Leader’ Peter Mason (also a Southall Green ward councillor) over £30,000 in recent years to holiday in the south of France at the MIPIM property festival in Cannes described as a “booze ‘n’ hookerfest” by Private Eye Magazine.

Bell says, “it didn’t cost the taxpayer a penny”, but in Southall we are already paying with our health and quality of life thanks to the poisonous air from the development of the contaminated old gasworks site (due to complete in 2038!).

Town planner Mason says it was a mistake, and not what he expected(!).

Where will 40,000 new residents' children go to school (and how will they get there and back), how will they get an appointment to see a GP, which hospital will they go to when they need emergency treatment, and how will they get there on the roads already regularly gridlocked by too much traffic?

Worth taking the time to have a look at stopthetowers.info/other-cam…

Cllr Mason recommended we read Bob Colenutt’s ‘The Property Lobby: The Hidden Reality Behind the Housing Crisis’.

So I did.

What Colenutt says (and he has a wealth of experience in local authority housing and planning, and in the community resisting property developers), is that developers do have too much power (as Mason argues), but also that local councils and councillors do not do enough to resist, do not have the negotiating skills (contrary to how Mason originally described the importance of trips to MIPIM to ‘negotiate hard’), and too readily embrace the ‘financialisation’ of the land and property market brought about by David Cameron’s and Nick Clegg’s ConDem government in 2010.

So now, we have a very real housing crisis fuelling the huge profits of private developers, all facilitated and egged on by mostly Labour councils too easily rolling over and allowing them to build fewer and fewer ‘genuinely affordable homes’ (because “where’s the profit in that?").

What Colenutt says loudly and clearly is that without ordinary people’s and communities' resistance it would be so much worse, and that to all intents and purposes councils and councillors are in bed with the developers.

Non-fiction: The Property Lobby: The Hidden Reality behind the Housing Crisis by Bob Colenutt 📚

First mince pie of the season!

SPECIAL XMAS LUNCH MENU

Starter: Seasonal Word Soup

Main course: Roast Gobbledegook with all the trimmings including sage and EU stuffing balls

Dessert: Traditional lemon biscuit

Christmas Lunch Special Diet Option for Non Special Diet Registered Pupils

Our catering company is offering a Christmas Lunch and for pupils who do not normally use the service and have an allergy but would like to take part in the Christmas lunch the below options are available.

This is only for pupils who have an allergy/intolerance that is covered by the 14 in EU allergen legislation*. If the allergy/ intolerance is outside the EU 14 and the pupil is not registered as a special diet with the catering company, then they must continue to have a packed lunch.

This is designed to safeguard children who have food allergies and intolerances, while allowing then to take part in the Christmas Lunch, and to also support the catering staff involved in the preparation and service of the Christmas Lunch. Please refer to the Dietary Safeguarding Policy for more information.

Please complete the form below by ticking one or more of the options you wish your child to have. Please sign and date to consent you are happy for your child to be served the selected options and return it to the school who will then hand this to the kitchen staff.

All the boys are poorly today. No more fevers, but bad coughs, and none of us has an appetite. Should be a fun day!

Christmas tree and lights up. Boys did most of the tree decorating. Much quicker and less stressful than previous years.

Kids' stuff: https://davidmarsden.info/2022/11/29/kids-stuff.html

KIDS' STUFF

I have successfully replicated this study at home, and can attest to its reliability and validity.

An ethnographic study in Madrid charted the gradual “take over” by the child (accoutrements like toys, furniture, and special foods, and the removal of “dangerous” or breakable items) of the domicile, leaving less and less “adult” territory (Poveda et al. 2012).'

The Anthropology of Childhood: Cherubs, Chattel, Changelings by David F. Lancy 📚

Both boys are staying at home today. Big kid bounced into school yesterday after recovering from two days of fever, cough and sore throat, but didn’t eat his lunch. Think he’s just tired. Little kid has a raging temperature, but eating ok.

Got soaked the skin collecting big kid from school (who, it turns out, ate and drank nothing all day…). Last time I got this wet was on my way to record this interview for the BBC…

Big kid better, back at school. Little one sat on my lap chuntering away with a fever.

Little one is a good few months behind with his talking. Putting the grocery shopping away this morning, he spotted something*, went over to Mum and said, “Come on!” Took her to the object of interest in the kitchen and said, “What’s that?!”

*🍫

Strep throat and scarlet fever reported at my son’s school. That might explain Kid A’s sore throat, cough and temperature…

Kids rearranged all the furniture last night to recreate the space rocket from Wallace and Gromit’s ‘A Grand Day Out’. Zion is wearing his space suit and helmet, and holding some space poop, which can heal wounds

It’s started.

Little one ate his usual two Weetabix for breakfast. Now he’s sat on my lap helping himself to my cornflakes.

An hour after both kids are usually asleep, they’re both still up and currently rearranging all the furniture in the living room.

TV dinner.

Religious leader phoned my lad’s school today to feedback on their visit yesterday.

I have never met children who were so knowledgeable about my faith.

Little one went for a blood test at the hospital this morning. Paediatric outpatient ward was lovely - calm and welcoming - and he was seen straight away. Nurse was brilliant and my boy was as good as gold. In and out with no fuss at all. NHS at its best.

“Once in a generation opportunity to look behind the scenes at the replacement of the lock gates at Lock 94, Grand Union Canal, Ealing.

Saturday 26 & Sunday 27 November 2022.”

canalrivertrust.org.uk

Canalside @ Glade Lane Park UB2 4PG

Lad has returned safe and sound from a school trip to a religious centre. Asked what he enjoyed most about the day he said:

There was no learning!

These boots were made for splashing.

WASHED UP

✅ Made breakfast and packed lunch for Kid A.
✅ Dropped Kid B at nursery 😭.
✅ Dropped Kid B at school.
✅ Collected kids' clothes from store.
✅ Listened to the end of The AbsoluteLee podcast and the start of The Prince of Aberystwyth while sitting in traffic.
✅ ☕ and breakfast.
✅ Prepared chilli con carne.
✅ Work call.
✅ Unblocked bath drain.
✅ Received grocery delivery.
✅ ☕.
✅ Washed up…

It’s obviously good that David Baddiel has finally apologised in person for his racist abuse of footballer Jason Lee twenty-five years ago.

That he did it on his new TV show should boost viewing figures substantially with a helpful knock on effect for sales of his book.

Five hours sleep is enough for my two and a half year old, for now at least, so he’s sat on my lap chitter-chattering away while eating hot buttered toast and drinking cold milk.

Making pizza today, so defrosting some fresh yeast.

Meantime, it’s breakfast. Egg and home fries for me. Weetabix for the little one, and bagel for the big one.

Big one is in the bathroom feeling nauseous because of the smell of smoked paprika.

Wife is eating fish and chips while watching Korean soap on her tablet, while our little one sits on my knee eating chips and watching Sesame Street on TV.

Big one is fully immersed in Minecraft.

Kids did these paintings with Mum this morning while I had a lie-in.

Early lunch with my little one. Pie, chips and mushy peas!

My eight year old has watched so many US kids' TV shows that he now self-identifies as American.

HIGH TRAFFIC NEIGHBOURHOOD

Took me an hour (as opposed to 10 minutes) to drive my lad home from school this afternoon, thanks in part to the High Traffic Neighbourhood (‘Improving access for HGVs’) in Southall ‘Green’.

Like a rat, I tried the side streets and back roads option and found those to be jammed, too, and Scotts Road - although confusingly still two-way throughout - is now No Entry from the eastern end.

I would have abandoned my car and got out and walked/scooted home, but there was nowhere to leave it - all the pavements (and even the double yellow lines) were parked on, or being used by, er, pedestrians.

The more virtuous brothers and sisters amongst us may righteously question why me and my lad weren’t scooting/walking anyway? Why are we driving when Southall is known for its traffic gridlock?

We have done it a couple of times. It takes us 40 minutes each way in fine weather. My lad would love to do it every day, I’m sure, although not in the wind, cold and rain. I don’t believe my dodgy feet/knees/hips/back would manage it daily, either.

And why are we going to a school so far away from where we live?

Well, it’s the best (and happiest) school in Southall. And it’s the one that is furthest away from the gasworks stink and toxic air. We wanted to give our little asthmatic boy some clean air five days a week, if we could. (Of course, we since found out the school is under the Heathrow flight path, and next to the smoky narrowboats moored on the canal….).

(In case you are wondering, the ambulance somehow squeezed down the middle of Western Road, fortunately no well-intentioned bollards or planters in the way.)

A SUCCESSFUL HOME DELIVERY AND THE LOCKDOWN/LOCK-IN.

My second son was born late Saturday night (what would normally have been my beer night) two weeks ago, after a short, but intense, labour.

He was delivered at home by two brilliant midwives, who were fully protected courtesy of customised #tinap bin bag aprons, unused clean air protest dust masks, and disposable gloves my wife stocked up on back in February when – without any scientific advice whatsoever – she somehow accurately foresaw the current coronavirus global pandemic somehow reaching the UK's shores (and airports). Practising prudent use of valuable PPE supplies, the midwives wore their own prescription spectacles to protect from splashes to the eyes. (This is, of course, not true. They had NHS supplied aprons, surgical masks, and gloves.)

Home delivery

Now, we've had our groceries, pizza and most other household and personal items delivered to our home, rather than dealing with the stress of actually going out and having to interact with other people, for years, so a home delivery of our new son might have seemed like an obvious choice.

But a home birth was definitely Plan B, and only came to be Plan A due to coronavirus related issues with hospital birth and childcare arrangements for our nearly six year old, which now favoured delivery at home.

Preparing for birth

My boss had told me a few days prior that 'home births are great, because you can make a cup of tea'.

So, I stocked up on tea bags, and prepared myself mentally and physically for the big day by repeatedly ignoring my wife's pleas to listen to her hypnobirthing mp3s on the expected role of the 'birthing partner' (whatever that is), and getting through the last of my beer stockpile in anticipation of several years of enforced sobriety (in order to deal with nighttime and next morning emergencies).

I'm just thankful we never got around to implementing my boss's idea for a work appraisal, because his multi-tasking expectations are clearly way beyond my capabilities.

Labour of birth

While I fully accept that I had the easiest job on the night (bar my nearly six year old, who thankfully slept through it all in the adjacent bedroom), I was very pleased the main bit was over relatively quickly (three hours) as my right arm and hand were getting tired.

To ease the pain of contractions, and in the absence of any pain relief other than 'gas and air', my wife insisted (on pain of death) that I massage her lower back for two minutes every three minutes.

In between massages/contractions, I had to top up her glass of filtered water and hold it to her lips for her to drink.

Birth

When the baby's head came out, slowly, I remember thinking it was weirdly like watching a picture coming out of a printer.

When he was out, I immediately noticed his testicles seemed abnormally large, the size of giant tea bags. (Turns out they were swollen with fluid.)

'He's a boy, he's definitely a boy!' I said.

I could have done with some gas and air myself at this point.

After birth

My wife has been pretty amazing through it all. I don't know how she copes with the lack of sleep, although I'm doing my best to make sure she gets a couple of hours whenever she can when she's not busy feeding baby.

I have done a few nappy changes. Son no. 1 is always delighted whenever his little brother pees all over me, which was really his main reason for wanting a little brother in the first place.

Lockdown/Lock-in

We're mainly homebirds, so the lockdown/lock-in has not been too bad for us. And we're lucky to have had everything we needed, including toilet paper, flour, use of our communal garden and area where we live for exercise, sunshine, unusually fresh air, and seeing red kites and egrets flying over, among other lesser spotted wildlife.

My eldest lad has suffered the most, as he misses his school routine and friends, which is compounded by his not realising that he would no longer be the centre of attention now his little brother is here.

INCONSIDERATE CONSTRUCTOR

Lorry driver on his phone while leaving ‘Southall Village’ building site, right next to school entrance during school run.

Got a load more verbals from the driver and his colleagues on site - ‘Did he hit anyone?’, ‘He doesn’t work for us!’

All part of the Considerate Constructors Scheme, aka Couldn’t Care Less Scam.

12 week old son just laughed properly for the first time. Now he can’t stop.

Baby son is one month old. Feels like we’ve had him five minutes and forever.

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO... JIMMY CARTER?

A little under three years ago I eulogised about Jimmy Carter (the footballer, not the peanut farmer) in a musical response to 20lb Sounds eulogising about Jimmy Carter (the peanut farmer, not the footballer).

I wondered why Dan, the band’s Liverpool-supporting singer-songwriter, had neglected the opportunity to write about a player who is widely acknowledged (from a cursory search of fan forums) as one of Liverpool’s worst ever signings?

Two years later (thanks to the wonder of the internet, and possibly also the wonder of Doug Whitfield and his Music Manumit Podcast), I received a reply:



Around this time, I also received another reply:



(For those of you of a technical and/or inquisitive nature, I’ve posted screenshots of these comments because I lost the ability to link to them as actual comments on the original blog post during one of my many blog migrations.)

Now, I don’t know if this is the real Dan Lynch or if it is Doug Whitfield pretending to be Dan to somehow boost his podcast ratings, but who cares?

I tracked Jimmy down and found a recent interview with him on the Millwallant podcast, in which Jimmy ‘tells us what it’s like to be a professional footballer and also demonstrates his genuine knowledge and passion for the game.’ I found it really quite insightful, all the more so coming from a player who most people have forgotten, never heard of, or so easily disparage based on his ‘failures’ at Liverpool and Arsenal.

If you prefer to read, there’s a similar interview on the Arsenal website.

What got me obsessing about a fairly obscure ex-Millwall, Liverpool, Arsenal and Portsmouth footballer again? Well, Dan’s band 20lb Sounds took five quid off me in time for Xmas 2012 on the promise of an album release in February 2013. Since then there have been a few updates about how the album would be ready ‘next month’, ‘in time for Xmas’ and how much Dan and the boys were enjoying their holidays in the sun. But no album. Until now. A year later. But only for backers, for the time being (see footnote 1). I had a listen this morning, and, really, it sounds great. Well done, to all concerned.

So I decided to have another go at my own take on 20lb Sounds’ Jimmy Carter. I could have teased and tormented you all by not releasing it for another two years, and only to people who had given me money to do so, but I’m not like that.

So, without further ado, and introducing MC Jimmy ‘The Cartz’ Carter rapping an intro (footnote 2), and Richard ‘Smash it!’ Keys rapping the chorus-to-verse bridges (footnote 3) as part of his rehabilitation and bid to replace Richard Scudamore as chief executive of the Premier League, here’s my new, updated easy listening version of Jimmy Carter:

Teaching REM’s The One I Love to 7 yr old.

Had to change the words to ‘The One-Eyed Bug’.

UNITED, BORN AND BRED: SUPER GLUE MACARI

The only United match I’ve been to in recent years was last season’s FA Cup tie at home to Spurs, courtesy of E.on’s sponsorship and their Family Football initiative. I went with a couple of my ‘clients’ from work, had a great road trip and fantastic all-round experience. One’s a Spurs fan, and I know he felt a mixture of joy and anxiety sat in amongst all the United fans (even in the Family stand) when Spurs went 1-0 up. But both were amazed by the genuine friendliness and good-natured humour of the locals as we mingled around outside the stadium before kick-off. I’m pleased to say that both are working or about to start work now. I really believe that going to this match (and we also went to Wembley and White Hart Lane) helped to put a bit of the spark back into their lives, to begin to believe and to hope again. The Theatre of Dreams, indeed!

I went to a few games in the ’90s when I was working in Manchester, mostly European nights, which then weren’t that well supported. I remember seeing David Beckham play one of his first games and you could see right away that he was a special talent. Before that, I saw Roy Keane when he was still at Forest. I think he scored a hat-trick at Bolton (where I was studying) and he was another one that you could see was on another level, right away. My favourite game in the 90’s, though, has to be Sheffield United away in a midweek game. We won 3-0, fabulous counter-attacking stuff and fantastic goals from Cantona, Hughes and Sharpe!

Back to the late 70’s again, my dad took me to see United get walloped 4-0 at OT by Cloughie’s Forest and I saw the 3-5 thrashing we received at the hands of West Brom, not to mention the 0-0 versus Wolves with George Berry. We were frigging crap a lot of the time, occasionally brilliant, but never consistently good enough.

I have a lot to thank my dad for. Thanks, Dad! He got me a Subbuteo set one Xmas and meticulously painted on the United colours, numbers and even facial hair of the players. I was gutted when my ickle Lou Macari broke both legs and he was never the same player again despite being able to return for the next match thanks to a tube of superglue!

The best thing about all of this, though, is being able to immediately rebut all the ABUs1 who, when I tell them who I support, start their tired old accusations of glory-hunting, London Reds, etc. I started watching United when they were at their lowest ebb (in terms of league status) since they became popular worldwide. I’ve personally endured almost twenty of the “years of hurt” growing up watching those other reds (funny how so many of the kids I went to school with in Lincolnshire were Liverpool fans) win year after year with just a few crumbs of comfort coming our way in the FA Cup. Both my mum and dad were and still are ardent United supporters and if it wasn’t for them I’d probably be a Mariner or worse!

So, thanks, mum and dad, for uniting and ensuring that I was born in Stretford General!

RED MISSED: HOW STEWART HOUSTON AND GORDON HILL MADE ME ANGRY AND DEPRESSED

United’s FA Cup tie with Wolves last weekend and Auntie’s ‘flashback’ (Rio Ferdinand?), reminded me to finally get around to posting a few of my own memories, originally prompted by George Best’s sad demise in November.

George had quit United long before I can first remember watching them. But Best remained an important part of my United life - the school chant was “Georgie Best, Superstar, He walks like a woman and he wears a bra!” - and Dad would always remind me that whatever “my” United did they were never as good as Best, Law an Charlton and the rest of Busby’s Babes.

I can see what he meant, now! And he did concede that watching Cantona, Kanchelskis and Giggs at their peak was probably just as exciting.

Anyway, 1974-5 season was my first, when United were in the old League Division Two. I didn’t understand the significance of the different divisions then, just enjoyed the BBC’s and Yorkshire TV’s occasional match coverage when we took on the regional challengers of the time - the big guns of York City, Rotherham United, Hull City and Sheffield Wednesday, if my memory serves me.

That year we won the D2 title and returned to the top division.

We then got to three out of the next four Cup Finals (when that meant something), winning just once (but against Treble-chasing Liverpool).

Six years after we had won the European Cup with Best, Law, Charlton and the rest we had teams comprising (as I remember them):

1 Alex Stepney, then Paddy Roche, then Gary Bailey
2 Alex Forsyth, then Jimmy Nichol
3 Stuart Houston, then Arthur Albiston (who popped up on Five Live recently)
4 Gerry Daly, then Brian Greenhof, then Sammy McIlroy
5 Brian Greenhoff, then Gordon McQueen
6 Martin Buchan (c)
7 Steve Coppell
8 Sammy McIlroy, then Jimmy Greenhoff
9 Stuart Pearson, then Joe Jordan
10 Lou Macari
11 Gordon Hill, then Mickey Thomas
12 David McCreery, then Ashley Grimes

Stepney was a legend, the last of Sir Matt’s European Champions. Bailey was talented - I remember a couple of full-stretch diving saves he made in the 5-3 home defeat by West Brom….Houston was the first person I’d ever heard tell someone else to fuck off. That he did it in response to baiting from a total stranger on the terraces was even more startling to me then.

Ever since I always had a sense that Houston was quite evil. I’m sure he isn’t! It reminds me, too, of the televised live England game when Ray Wilkins told the (Uruguyan?) ball boy to “give me the fucking ball”. Not to mention when Eric jumped into the crowd feet first!

McIlroy was ‘the last of the Busby Babes’ (probably also ‘the new George Best’), but never quite managed to live up to it, despite being a great servant to the club. I was really sad when he had to leave not long after Bryan Robson and Remi Moses arrived a few years later. Not long before he moved on he scored a fantastic solo goal against Wolves.

Buchan was the ever-dependable rock and heartbeat of the team. Scored a couple of last minute
equalisers, drives from outside the penalty area, one at home to Everton?

Coppell had an economics degree apparently. Probably would make a good manager one day…. Career cut short by injury.

Pearson was an up-and-at-them, no fear, old-fashioned centre forward, replaced by Joe Jordan, an up-and-at-them, no fear, old-fashioned centre forward with no front teeth. Wonderful!

Macari was the mischief-maker-in-chief, apparently ran a chip shop outside the ground and provided the role model for free-scoring (Celtic) strikers to sign for United, dry up and move back into midfield….

Gordon Hill’s demise was a source of childhood grief for me, which even now I find difficult to understand. Lee Sharpe followed suit more recently. Thomas was a cheeky-chappy, work-hard, play-hard type with silly hair.

McCreery was our not-so-supersub and Grimes was never a United player, surely?

Which brings me back to the current team/squad. Who are the Ashley Grimeses of today? Van der Sar looks a bit like Paddy Roche, but so did Roy Carroll. We need a world class keeper, still.

Gary Neville will be looking forward to the Liverpool rematch in the Cup, no doubt!

Wes Brown might still come through as genuine class, but realistically he’s always going to be a squaddie. Same applies to Mikael Silvestre. Gabriel Heinze has been missed and I expect he will partner Rio in central defence next season, that’s if Patrice Evra comes through at left back.

Then there’s Vidic, O’Shea, Richardson, Bardsley….

Who will replace Roy Keane? That’s probably the wrong question. Football’s a team game and the best teams don’t rely on one player, but on individuals gelling as units within the team. United at their best could win without Keane (and his central midfield ‘unit’ partner Scholes, as they did in Barcelona) or Cantona or Beckham.

As a TV-highlights-and-live-radio-only kind of fan I’ve seen and heard Alan Smith, Darren Fletcher, John O’Shea all do well in there. Let’s hope Scholesy can return and even that Giggsy is allowed to play out his last years through the middle.

Out wide we have Ronaldo, Park, Solskjaer and Richardson - we need reinforements there, too.

Up front we look strong with Rooney, Ruud, Saha (when fit) and Rossi, although there’s always room for improvement.

What’s our first XI look like now? I don’t think Sir Alex knows, which is half the problem. Mine, assuming everyone is injury-free:

1 Howard - may as well give him his second chance, now
2 Neville - no brainer (the choice, not Gary)
3 Heinze (leave him at full back for now)
4 O’Shea (I’d like to see him given a run in the ‘holding’ role)
5 Ferdinand (with O’Shea holding the defensive cover in midfield this would free up Rio to be more adventurous)
6 Brown (he’s fit, playing well, give him a run)
7 Ronaldo (just stick with him)
8 Rooney (start him wide left, but let him play wherever he sees fit like Eric did)
9 Saha (start as central striker)
10 Van Nistelrooy
11 Giggs (central midfield role, playmaker, can swap with Rooney and Saha
12 Scholes (back up for Wayne or swap with Saha or Ruud for a less gung-ho approach!)

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2nd XI:
1 Van der Sar
2 Bardsley
3 Evra
4 Fortune
5 Vidic
6 Silvestre
7 Park
8 Fletcher
9 Smith
10 Rossi
11 Richardson
12 Solskjaer
13 Pique

Did I miss anyone?