Life In Observation

A Life Like Everyone Else’s

After my dad passed away, I went looking in the old house for the diaries he had kept. Folk respond to grief in many different ways. I’m also conscious that they grieve for different reasons. My sorrow was at times selfish and introverted, a realisation of how my own life was passing me by without  hitting the mile marks that I hoped it would. When a person dies another’s pain is often weaved in with the knowledge that it may be their turn next.

The diaries seem to be fitting, a snapshot, a generic summary of the life of anyone. Hatches, matches and dispatches. Shopping and seaside trips, church and chills. To anyone else other than the subjective reader they are nothing out of the ordinary. The joy of celebrated occasions being two a penny, the pain of loss not felt. Perhaps the miss-carriages that mum had may evoke a brief piercing of emotion. Even then, as was the tradition of the pre-war offspring, they are recorded in a matter of fact way. In hospital the previous night, home the following day. My parents seemed to take this in their stride, somehow devoid of any surface emotion. Triumph and tribulation were the same. Everything in sepia, life was the gift, no need for any further trimmings of colourful pleasure.

We were not a nuclear family. Very few ventured to live much further than the barren outpost of Worthing. Most of the family lived in the conurbation. My Dad, Mum and his brother living in a few minutes radius for their entire lives. The diaries follow the pattern of regular and predictable feature, visits every other Saturday to sets of relatives, Sunday to church, then the walk down the park being our family’s Lord’s Day treat. I was rarely allowed to visit friend’s houses on a Sunday. It was just the way. I was resentful at the time; in later life I am more understanding. It was the religious culture of the age, although creeping liberalism soon found its way into the observations of faith.

The brief weekday references to very little betray how evenings were spent in front of the rented telly and days spent earning the crust. To a millennial such documentation would be the historical residue of a tedious existence, especially the references of frequent family illness. Yet to me, having lived most of the way through it, quite the opposite. It was like those days had been resuscitated. And so had my family.

Tonight I was thumbing dad’s later diaries. The final one in 2008. The earliest journal I have is 1966. They were married in the April. There is little build up excepting that they seemed to spend most of their time together. The story was told that dad would go to mum’s for a second dinner. His own mother may have had many splendid traits but cooking wasn’t amongst them. Again, matter of fact entries observe little reference to their disaster of a honeymoon. Gosport was the venue. It rained hard most of the time. Putting the old Gosport together with inclement skies affords an understanding of why the pinnacle of early married bliss was abandoned. Still, I’m sure given the dated concept of abstinence there must have been a few sparks from that damp squib of an excursion.

As discomforting as the miss-carriage references are, and the painful thoughts of the siblings that never were, the final week’s entry is the one that still breaks me. Dad stopped writing the week Mum passed away. The entry for that day as cold as the grave stone itself: ‘Jean passed away at 7.30’.

The finality of it all, the cold closure, the absent sentiment, adds to the piercing sensations. It’s not that his writing lacks any solicitude, because the emotions are lost in his generational way of expression. It is simply that everything ultimately comes to nothing, another story lost in the cycle of life and death. The 42-year production ceases without happy ending in a perverse reversal. Credits don’t roll, ‘The End’ just suddenly appears on the big screen, as if the film never had a storyline. Only the lights then fade out rather than illuminate the theatre. No ‘Here’s your best bits’. Everyone goes home. Only one person returns on their own.

After that week the entries stop, my mother’s demise seemingly ending dad’s interest in life. While she was alive so was he. ‘Till death do us part’ he said, and he meant it. Only now, without company or duty his own life meanders its course to the same fate, if less distressing, and his lack of diarist inspiration suggests his mind has already surrendered itself to the earth.

I’ve never documented my earlier life in this way; but then came Facebook… The place where we share our every thought and movement- whether folk want to read it or not. The dancing media of the current age should be a vivid jolt into the cycle of life, yet seemingly it is rendered toothless by its swamping volume. Even death seems a competitive jolly of likes and emojis.

My Messenger has many an entry from friends who have since departed. Thus it is for many. In year’s to come the memories app will reveal posts with my input whilst some remember the day I departed. Where is death’s sting when it is now so readily documented in such swamping sentiment ?

What was left in that final entry was a life like everyone else’s. If not yet, then one day to be.

Thanks Mr Bennett

For about ten years now I have been sitting in front of a screen typing thoughts and winding philosophical conclusions. A lot of my meanderings are social commentary, observations, preaching love for obscurities that most folk wouldn’t give a second thought to. I’ve lived much of this existence with a constant discourse in my mind. A spectator in life rather than a player.

Some of the pieces have had hundreds of readers, some very few. It’s not something that really concerns me. There is such a sense of fulfilment in writing, like it’s an outlet for the soul, albeit in my case an insight into the complexities of my thought patterns.

If ever an ego was massaged it was when a journalist once assumed I was part of his trade. The blog was also followed by the Scottish Journalist of the Year. I’m not sure how that came about but nonetheless it gave me encouragement. I have no advanced education in English or anything literary. This is simply a personal outlet for creativity or, perhaps better, a way of making sense of my frantic brain. The more I write the happier I am. I care little for the numbers on the stats screen (Although I do take a peek).

Humans are programmed individuals. Much of what we enjoy and choose to experience comes from external influences. This, of course, includes our beliefs and value systems. It’s why the world is a competitive orgy of marketing and indoctrination. My belief in ‘freedom’ and democracy comes from my exposure to its propaganda since as long as I’ve existed. My love for cricket was down to a friend introducing me to its delightful complexities in 1981. I’m not sure where my fascination with the written word in a social context emanated from. But I’m just glad it’s here. And although I don’t consider myself that adept at it there is a level at which I can contentedly function. A bit like the Sunday cricketer who never played in competition. He speaks not of international conquests but the time he made his first 50 on the village green, after being dropped four times, and how tasty the sandwiches were that day.

The effervescent inspiration to put key stroke to screen can be traced back a decade. To the unwitting encouragement of an author and playwright I new nothing of until that time, Alan Bennett. Most famous for stage and screen, something of which I am yet to be led to with any great fervour, he has also written a number of books which tell of his unashamedly northern roots through a dialogue of social observations. His ability to connect to lives of ordinary folk and make the mundane seem fascinating never fails to astound me. It’s as if the lid is taken of the patterns of life that make up most of our robotic nature. I’ve spent many hours digesting his insight and wit, so much so that it has had a huge impact on how I describe situations and environments. As a result, a football match report will contain little of the game itself but the scene that surrounds it. Thinking deeper, perhaps the cricket commentaries of Brian Johnson and TMS are also in my heart. I’m so sorry that I was too late for John Arlott.

My favourite painter, not that I visit many galleries, is LS Lowry. As most will be aware, his are an unusual array of stick figures in primitive and ever day features of urban life. There seems to be a connection between Bennett and Lowry, something urban, gritty, kitchen sink. Great novels have never seduced me, topical features are only read in boredom. Yet a description of life in the industrial north as told through the eyes of a beautifully dysfunctional family is compulsive. You can probably understand why I like Mike Leigh films too.

So, thanks Mr Bennett for finally helping me to discover what it is that makes me tick. No thrills, no material pursuits, just an insight and understanding of mundane existence and why there’s nowt as queer as folk.

Horizons Ever Distant- Football, The Toxic Drug

When I was young I used to attend the Boys Brigade at a local church in Lewes Road. I have a number of memories from that place, but as I write this piece an abiding impression of a handwritten note on a corridor notice board keeps coming to me.

I always used to notice it as a junior on a Thursday night, and when in the seniors, a Friday. It was a constant throughout my childhood, and it simply read: ‘Did you know more people go to church on a Sunday than attend football matches on a Saturday?’

Now I don’t know if anyone has ever stopped to count, and I don’t think the author’s research would have been too meticulous, but I accepted it as true-and still do.

But I thought it was a pointless comment then and I still do now. It seems to invoke a tribal delineation. A bit like the phrase ‘Christian County’. That rather makes me wince. I don’t think it’s a signpost to the enduring faith of our nation, more a call to identify with the Anglo-Saxon race. It has little to do with belief in Christ, which is what Christianity is about. If we were a Christian country then places of worship would overflow with joyful converts. The nation would be a better place.

The note I saw in those years has caused my thoughts to dwell on football and its place in the hearts of many. Especially why it is held so dear. What does cause us to devote so much of our time, emotions and earnings to pursue the club we chose as the valve of our search for…..what ?

The simple answer would be that it’s because of our love for the game. I’m not convinced of this. Having spent so much time on the terraces and in the seats, I’m conscious that a defeat for our chosen love rarely evokes emotions of admiration for the manner in which the beautiful game inflicted that defeat upon them. The love for football rarely trumps the enslavement to the team that have snared our emotions.

Ultimately, football is about identity. Identity is about ego. An ego is damaged when its identity is tainted. Especially, as is the infectious nature of a club that cements itself within, if we cannot walk away from that which ensnares us. Folk get emotional, tribal, irrational, and in some cases aggressive. It doesn’t make sense. But in some ways it does.

Someone once said to me that everyone has their vice. Since the dawn of time people have always searched for fulfilment.  I don’t think that many of us are aware of this search though, but nonetheless it has consumed us. For many this is found within the boundaries of what they see, the physical realm. Football is a prescribed drug, but often a toxic cocktail.

There is a simple point to my observation here. It isn’t that divisive. It came as a result of my own observation of obsessive behaviour about a certain issue that I saw in a friend of mine, although there are a million subjects on which the same observation could be applied to me. I’m a football slave myself. So I guess this piece is for me.

It’s as if we are programmed never to be fully satisfied- even if we have health and freedom. We just can’t seem to be allowed to take pleasure in a simple existence, so we look to compensate and are forced by this culture to indulge in a false reality of hope. Promotion for our team brings the remedy. A feeling of elation. But then a sense of anti-climax once the harsh reality of new and harder battles sets in. And so it goes on. This endless dream. And so they come again, the despairing emotions as we are set back again and again. At least we make lifelong friends in this fruitless pursuit. But every silver lining has a cloud.

I always try to tell myself that the easier it is to please me the more content I am. That a desire for little gain means there is less loss. That triumph and tribulation should be treated the same way. That life is fulfilment in itself.

Now I’m off to check the football results….

A Picture Of Memory

Queen’s Park looked a picture the other day, and in the modern age it’s very easy to create one. I do rather regret not properly pursuing photography as a hobby. I’ve always been interested in architecture and landscapes (and buses), but anything with a theme of green space draws me the most.

I think one of the conundrums the digital age brings is the need to photograph everything. To document our lives. I’m sure there are many upsides to this but it must be having an effect on the way we naturally engage with others. Then there is the need to share this on social media platforms, sometimes through simply addictive behaviour. I wonder what our motives are, to do this like a modern-day diary, or simply to fuel the ego with ‘likes’.

I think this is why I feel writing in this way is a more creative outlet for me. Certainly, I use Facebook, but never feel so contented as I do when I’ve put my thoughts into words in here. It’s as if I can channel my mind in an ordered way. My ability to communicate through the written word is so much more articulate than when spoken. I’m not totally sure why that is. Perhaps I am more relaxed and able let my inner feelings flow.

Perhaps the readiness and instant nature of pictures, as well as their widespread availability, means they have lost the appeal they once had. If I want to look at a landmark, or even a feature that is obscure and unloved, I can pretty much be assured that it will be available to me somewhere online. If I want to see what my destination looks like I can view it on Google Maps. There have been occasions when I have travelled to a place and felt its familiarity upon arrival- even though I’ve never been there. Perhaps some of the emotional edification is lost.

What cannot be so accessible to me is the things of old. For the most part they exist in cherished memory. Certainly, there may be some imagery, but there is no facility to walk the streets around as they were 40 years ago. To see the old church we used to attend before it burnt down, to see the family home as it was, to reminisce on structures long since departed.

All this will change. New generations will have their whole lives mapped out in technological wonderment. Whilst part of me wishes that had always been the case, another part wonders if just having memories and the feelings associated with them isn’t so bad. There is something more natural and comforting about an occasion that resides in your heart and not on a plasma screen, and the one thing we cannot return is our departed loved ones.

But Queen’s Park, Queen’s Park is one of those cherished memories. And it is still as splendid both through my naked and eye and sitting here as I type.

Queen’s Park

When To Woke Is To Stoke ?

When To Woke Is To Stoke ?

Same sex couples are mainstream, normal, natural. They are not a cause. And to be seen otherwise is to re-open a closed debate.

I watched Dr Who this week. Well, I’ve actually been watching it in its present form since 2005. For the most part, it has been a thoroughly enjoyable experience. I’m not quite into the last couple of series as I’d like to have hoped. This certainly hasn’t come about because of any prejudice towards a female headline act. Quite the opposite. I love Jodie. Her acting has been of a high standard. It’s the scripts that seem a little weak- and seem rather preachy, sending out less than subliminal cultural messages that seem to be an over-riding theme of the show rather than a natural hallmark of a progressive society. An exception was the Rosa Parks episode. I really enjoyed that.

This week there was a couple, married and in a same sex relationship. Perfectly natural and normal. Well, certainly to me anyway. Whilst the inclusion of this angle on relationships is relatively new to British TV, it’s nothing new to present day society. Social attitudes have changed significantly over the last 30 years. Such a happening way back when would have caused uproar- as indeed it did in Eastenders in January 1989, when we saw a same sex kiss on British soap opera for the first time, The Sun, in a quite tepid assessment by its standards of the time, described it as a ‘love scene between yuppie poofs’. Such a view would be classed as borderline hate language these days. Looking back, it’s hard to believe that such verdicts were published in the mainstream media. But they were. The Sun actually went a lot worse than that at times. Dark days.

But we live in a new, and I feel more enlightened age.

So why did I question the writing this week ? I was trying to work out why a situation I feel so comfortable with caused me to question its inclusion. There’s nothing wrong with a same sex couple kissing on screen. It would be a bit strange if I thought so. My concern was not in relation to the situation itself. It’s a reflection of our society. The question for was the reasoning behind it and the unintentional by-product of that. If it’s a simple part of a script then all is well. But if someone is trying to make a point, it’s not. Same sex couples are not a culturally debating tool, not anymore. Except in a few extreme quarters. They shouldn’t be used as such. If they are then we in danger of eroding the progress of normalising status. I didn’t feel that it was just a natural occurrence here, which it should be, but an ongoing campaigning message on a matter long since over addressed.

Dr Who is no stranger to same sex relationships. That’s fine. But over time I’ve sensed a desire to make a point that has long since been made and, for the most part accepted, within society. How much this is repeated to excess in other TV offerings I don’t know. I don’t watch a great deal of it. My worry is that in continually making a point, when most of the opposition left is on the hardened extremes, credence is given to the need for further mainstream debate on a cultural subject matter that is no longer an issue for the majority of folk.

No society is 100% agreed on all matters of human life. There will always be counter views. But, regardless, a shift in cultural norms can move what was once a contentious issue to something that is mostly seen as natural and normal- like same sex marriage is. The danger of labouring the issue, and continuing to fight an army defeated for the sake of a few snipers, is that the subject matter becomes a special and unique point of interest, the very thing that it moved from to become mainstream. It’s a bit like when someone goes out of the way to say the gay people they know are cool and nice people. Why do they need to convince folk ? They don’t- or shouldn’t. Unless it’s still a contested issue- which it mostly isn’t. But labouring the point suggests it is.

This is not to be complacent over the possibility of toxic attitudes not returning or still needing correction. But this is what individual witness and hate laws are there to extinguish. It will never completely go away but will erode through new generations. My fear is that inadvertently campaigning for rights and values that have long since arrived, rather than strategically engaging with lingering opposition, often serves to re-ignite old battles rather than consign them to the history books.

I’d rather not give the dinosaurs of the past a new battle, as if there is an insecurity about whether society has really changed. This, at risk of miss-interpretation, is not to say this new learning should not be reflected in modern production- it most definitely should as a snapshot of daily life. It is to say that it should not be there to saturate a point that no longer needs making- except to a few hardcore disaffected. And they are hardly worth the effort.

We need to take joy in normalising the progress of society. We don’t need to start drawing old battles that have long since been deserted for the sake of a few hardened snipers. It gives them a cause to re-group.

The Time I Tried To Catch Santa Claus…And Why It’s Okay To Be A Little Sad Around Christmas…

For as much as I remember I was always indifferent to stories about Father Christmas. Having met him once or twice in different places, he seemed a slightly distant character. I recall seeing him in the grotto at the London Road Co-op in the mid-70s. He asked me what I wanted for Christmas. Pointing to a small present in the ample stack of gifts, wrapped in purple tissue paper, I said I wanted that. He asked again about my over-riding hopes but I merely pointed again. At that juncture he gave up. His job was done, and he sent me on my way with the gift.

On another occasion, it appears I was about four from diary accounts, I had been taken round the school for some unknown reason, despite being ill. Escorted into a classroom to meet Santa again, feelings of both confusion and indifference descended. I was probably given some sweets and hastily sent into retreat lest my lurgy infect the others. It’s amazing how ill we all got in those days.

Father Christmas on home territory was another thing though. And to shock him in the act of laying the presents at the bedside would be the holly grail. One Christmas Eve my brother and I began to negotiate a plan. I remember distinctly us talking about the prospect, although I don’t recall the finite detail. I’m guessing I must have been no older than five as, given that my brother was three years older, I’m sure doubts about his existence would have already crept in on his side. Then again, perhaps he knew it was Dad and was happy for me to lead a plan.

Such a plan would always fall down if both of us slept through the time of capture though. And it nearly did. Excepting that when Dad, in full costume, gently opened the door, I was stirred. Here was the moment. But, honestly, what was I to do ? I bottled it. Far better to feign sleep and inspect the presents after he had gone. I remember hearing the brimming pillow cases being put to the floor. He exited and, once the coast was clear, I got out of bed and had a good rummage. Nothing was opened, obviously, and everything was as though we had slept all the way through it.

At 5am, or quite possibly earlier (perhaps a lot earlier) the call to my parents’ room was heeded and the opening ceremony began. But the abiding image of those Christmases past is the one of Father Christmas in the doorway, shallow light behind him, and the beginning of the magical day. A time that will be forever consigned to fading memory. And a catalyst for some feelings of sadness now.

As much as this time of year is about coming together (although there are 364 other days), it can be a time of sad reflection if a key component of that has been taken from you. I’ve lost both parents now and have no offspring of my own. So, perhaps there is a part of me that wants to get this whole thing over and done with. Then part of me wants to use it as a learning curve. Up until Dad passed last year, I had only spent one Christmas day away from home. Last Christmas I spent with my cousins, and they made me so welcome. I felt their kindness and was grateful. They knew it was difficult for me.

This year is a different set up. I’ll attend the quirky Christmas Day cricket match at Preston Park in the morning as I have friends playing. I’ll then visit the cemetery to lay flowers on the parent’s grave. After that I intend to visit an older person in my block who is on their own. I also know someone else in that situation and may well pop over there. The last two efforts have been driven by the knowledge that what affected me may be shared by others.  Only much, much,  worse. And that is what makes it okay in a ‘there go we by the grace of God’ way..

It’s not been something I’ve really shared. I think this is for two reasons. Firstly, I don’t want any sympathy. I believe myself to be a person of privilege. Secondly, I was uncertain about accepting the likely invitations that may ensue. It’s my chosen plan.

Sometimes in reflection, and powerful emotion, I become aware of how a re-direction of its emphasis and sharing can make everything seem so much better.

But I am also conscious that for some folk, fresh from upheaval and tragedy, would find such a move hard. And it is for them I speak. Some will have company despite. But their minds will be reminded by their hearts that they are still broken. That’s why I am so happy for what my cousins did last year. And now its my duty to turn that around. It’s hardly a selfless act. I am conscious that I am doing it for me as well. As with many of my entries I write things to understand my own psychology. But perhaps I am writing this to emphasise those thoughts as well. Yes,  I’m doing it for me too. I’m no martyr for other’s hurt.

I’m a little sad, but actually I can rationalise this. In fact, I can turn it in to positive emotion. I’m quite looking forward to things now.

So, I ask myself the whole point of what I am writing and why I am compelled to say it. I can summarise it like this. Christmas isn’t an easy time for many. I’m getting through that and have reached a turning point. So, worry not for me. I’m fine and fortunate. But I also think it is good to sit with, rather than distract, from other folk’s sadness. There is this notion that it means a burden shared is one doubled. But in this case, it’s not. Quite the opposite. Christmas, after all, is just a title for a festive break. If it becomes as much about understanding the frailty and the temporary nature of existence then I think it takes on a more powerful meaning.  I was fortunate to get support in this. I think many others are not.

Perhaps Ethel next door needs more than just a bottle of wine and Christmas card to make her, or us, feel better. Perhaps she just needs to know that her next-door neighbour wants more interaction than that and, as soon as the day passes, will not be retreating to their castle.

Yes, that’s what I was trying to say. You see, one day, that may be us.

Crikey, this sounds so preachy on review. But, hey, ‘Ethel’ might be grateful for that. It’s a shame it took my own experience to discover it.

Riding The Ninth Wave

Thursday last the UK voted in a general election like none other in my extending lifetime. Unlike any other the election centred around a single issue- leaving the European Union. As much as additional factors were introduced to the affair, it felt like that a large number of cigarette packets had been laid on a table and a plethora of biros brought in to write policy on to. The public were not interested in such things as much as the central issue. As such, policy was invented on the hoof and impossible promises made. It seemed few believed or even cared about such promises. The sad truth now is that the incumbent government may feel a degree of unaccountability over this. After all they have five years at a minimum and a most complicit media to re-direct the key issues.

Perhaps I’m bitter. This is something I might concede. But I feel I have some justification. I’m sad that the governance of this nation should be decided upon an issue that five years ago was not high upon the list of people’s concerns. I’m upset that the relentless bombardment of the media kept it as a single issue. I’m upset that there are friends of mine from other shores who the prime minster believes have been treating Britain as their home for too long. I don’t believe that when 57% of the population ignore the leading party that it gives them the right to govern without accountability. Although some would like to say otherwise, I consider this to be the same whoever tops the poll.

What’s done is done. But the future isn’t just one night.

As the election was all about the future of our relationship with Europe, and the rest of the world, I find myself holding the position that I held back at the time of the referendum. I’m not a die-hard supporter of the institution of the European Union. For me it adds a greater and more unreachable layer to democracy. In many ways I identify with the concerns of many folk who feel alienation. What I am wholeheartedly committed to is the fusion of the hearts and minds of those who believe in progressive socialist/social vales and justice. I don’t consider myself to be apart from the mainland (as I call Europe) except by a thin stretch of water. For me, free movement was a wonderful thing. I had concerns about the immediate pressures it placed on public services but not its principle.

I wondered that the referendum might lead to the break up of the Union and endless right-wing governments. Thursday night and some of the language and atmosphere that has been prevailing in recent times seems to confirm this. I hope, if I re-visit this entry in five years’ time, that I have been proved wrong. I hope to be here in five years’ time. I also hope that hard won social values of the liberal years are here in five years’ time. Who knows ?

It’s not a Conservative government that I fear as much as an illiberal hardening of hearts towards the role of this nation in the world. A return to splendid isolation that is based on an inflated view of our place within it. A perverse view of Britishness (if Britain stays a thing) that is more about what it doesn’t like rather than what it does. An ignorant, or at best condescendingly accepting, view of everyone else.

In this short jot I have presented thoughts as much for me as you. I’ll re-visit further down the line. Hopefully it’s the biggest load of bollocks I have ever written.

The earliest piece of writing I have of mine is an address written in a bible concordance. I was about nine or ten. It is noticeable by its fullness in the description of where I live. As much as my views over the years have changed my ‘identity’ hasn’t. Part of me feels that has died. Less because of its political impossibility and more towards where here, and on the mainland, things are headed. Again, I hope I am wrong.

I feel that the UK, when assessed on its social progress since 1945, is riding the ninth wave. If we manage this one, we should be okay. I’m not confident. But it’s not just me that determines it. Keep the faith.

Mother’s Day- Debt, Gratitude And Regret.

Yesterday, having seen a number of entries in Facebook where people were celebrating the joy of their mothers and the happiness of the day I put an entry of my own lamenting the passing of mine and exhorting folk to treasure what they had. On following reflection I decided to remove it labeling such a point as ill timed and, perhaps, slightly self indulgent. Nonetheless, after a dream I had in which I was getting ready to tell a congregation about my own mother’s influence during her life on this planet I decided to do just that. Being the self-effacing person she was I know she wouldn’t approve. This isn’t the first time in my life that I’m going to be disobedient to her instruction.

Ten years ago Mum passed away- and it wasn’t peacefully. Neither was it a happy release- although I convince myself she is in a better place now.

In 1973, after a long fostering period having been given up after birth, Mum and Dad chose to make me their second adoption. This against a warning from an unnamed source that such adoptions always spelt trouble. What was noticeable during my childhood was how she always stood my corner despite my continuous behavioural issues. Although very passive in nature, I was very hard work with a penchant for deceptive and cunning behaviour. I was a “little rogue with a heart of gold”. Her, perhaps rather subjective, words. Although I fear any exaggerated trace of that precious metal has somewhat eroded in the years since- even if the rogue has since disappeared.

It was the affectionate bond that sealed our relationship. Mum had always stood up for the underdog (although having had the good fortune that befell me in such an adoption my then vulnerable nature still doesn’t seem worthy of that phrase). When I arrived in Brighton I was described as ‘backward’ something that she wasn’t having. I was taught at school and taught at home. The label didn’t last long. Even when one family member, unwittingly within earshot, suggested I was the source of all trauma and discord within the family and that they should “never have had him” she wouldn’t listen. The headmistress in my infant school rarely called Mum to inform her of my regular visits to her office. She knew she couldn’t win.

This was Mum. A selfless individual who knew nothing but kindness and altruism. She, as a childminder, was familiar with youngsters. She did this to ensure that the extra cash that came into the house meant Christmas and holidays. It is a deep source of regret that I didn’t recognise this earlier. But then I guess most of us don’t.

Mum’s attention over time turned to the plight of the elderly. She had been a dedicated church goer all her life, one of the proper faith in action Christian types, and she frequently organised outings and also ran a club for older folk on Fridays at the Holland Road Baptist Church. All this was conducted against a back drop of frequent illness (as Dad’s diaries allude to), agoraphobia (she couldn’t go out on her own) and diabetes. Just for good measure I’ll throw in five miss-carriages over a ten year period and you can see that this selfless image I am creating holds a true likeness. In short she was a credit to this planet and was served a great injustice as reward.

In 2004 Mum showed the first sign of Alzheimers. Dad having kept this from me until it became apparent on the Christmas Day when I turned up and felt a clear indication that something wasn’t right. When Mum sat at the table she looked at me and said “Where’s Mum ?” I looked at Dad and he explained “She says that sometimes”.

What ensued over the next four years was an affliction that causes me to question the purpose of life itself. Mum’s condition deteriorated to the point that she almost became a shell that spoke repetitive and unintelligible words and clearly lived in constant distress. My father, unlike myself, was a constant beacon of shared suffering. One day I asked him how he coped effectively alone in a shared environment with the woman he had loved for over 40 years. “When I took the vows I said till death to us part” he responded. If you’ve got this far just read that again. Can you feel the frisson and the emotions that arise ? Dad and I hadn’t always seen eye to eye. From that moment on we did.

There was talk in the final days of putting Mum into a nursing home for a little while to give Dad some respite. Something that was dismissed out of hand. Dad was going to see this through to the fast end that was approaching.

In early July 2008 Mum caught a chest infection and the option was given to treat or not. “What happens if we don’t treat her ?” I remember asking the doctor late that evening. “She’ll probably slip away quietly during the night” he responded. He had already mentioned that there wasn’t long left and I looked at Dad thinking that it was his decision to make without influence. After all, I had felt cowardice at not being able to handle Mum’s plight and being the anchor I should have been. It wasn’t for me to make the ultimate decision. Dad chose to issue treatment. A recovery occurred but only temporarily.

On the 22^nd July I received a call at 7.30 in the morning. I had already had a premonition of the days events that proved correct. Mum had spent her final moments in Dad’s arms and left this rotten existence. She was 73.

Mum’s desire to make a difference, to care, and to place others before her, had always trumped any such personal affliction. This is rare testimony. One that is difficult to live up to and a source of crushing sadness to me in many a small hour. If I had recognised then what I recognise now I feel that such pain wouldn’t haunt me.

But this is the point, isn’t it? And the advent of Mother’s Day only goes to amplify it to the point that it needs recognition at a deeper level.

There is a harsh lesson that I have learnt and I would wish to spare others. This is the knowledge that mother’s will always do the best job they know how, make honest mistakes, love you despite, and leave you feeling proud. But sometimes the clatter of cultural madness we find ourselves in gives rise to an unintended ignorance. And for some the realisation comes too late. Like it did for me.

Whatever you take from this just remember Dad’s words and think about and take note of my regret. I just wanted to say something even if it doesn’t make sense. I miss my Mum like all hell- just like all those opportunities to give more back than I did.

Recycled Rhetoric-The Things People Say..

Words captured in time. 24 hours in December 2009… 

It’s strange how looking back I remember the context and situation even though this file has been buried for years.

• I’d prefer to be world champion at Donkey Kong than not…
• Look, I’m up to my eyes in it…
• I’m sorry to have troubled you….
• Wise words from a tall and lanky man….
• Because he didn’t get help with his rabbit….
• This is my busiest time of the year-I’m just twitchy at the moment…..
• Can I take a message ?
• I’m expecting visitors now
• You can’t there’s no-one in
• You do have a website don’t you
• It’s massive- It’s got so much information on there
• You’re still looking impassive
• I’m quite indifferent to that attribution
• Its always difficult isn’t it ?
• I can’t hear you sitting right over here…
• I’m not interested-sorry
• I’ve got to say ‘no’ this time
• That was quick wasn’t it ?
• Mine is not one for surprises
• It was a defensive motion
• You can make a pre-emptive strike but you never know when to do it…
• It’s curtailed every effort I’ve made thus far…
• Can you call back ?
• My three year old’s screaming..
• She’s has got quite a good voice
• He won’t be here till this evening
• He’s a busy man
• That’s a bit disappointing to hear they accepted the money as well…
• The time goes slowly when it’s like this
• You needed the comfort and support and you had it..
• It was so lovely because of the wall
• What are you being subjected to this evening
• You’ve got to have warm clothing
• My wet patch has already dried up
• I think that was the time I went to the studios
• I don’t do it now cos I don’t sleep as well as I used to..
• It’s a safety measure
• Saucy members of the Royal Navy
• Occasionally I had six
• Just by the coke..
• Nothing that’s real drives them-They’re not driven by reality-they’re driven by fear..
• Some of them are a bit weird and counter intuitive..
• Especially the old black and white ones..
• What you’re looking for is the abstract..
• People say “I want that, I want it Green”
• The greys have been merciless in their extermination of the reds..
• I’m convinced there’s a law of averages that kicks in..
• Well I hope you have a good holiday
• All this for 22 miles…
• Do you realise we’re still in France?..
• Cats go to ground, Dogs go home…
• Pledge allegiance..
• The debit card was still declined
• It’s alright–It’s my glasses…………….

• Merry Christmas, Mrs Palmer..

Sober Judgement

‘Embarrassing’, ‘humiliating’, ‘the worst defeat in our history’. In some contexts- perhaps. But that is not the way I feel this about last night. I actually feel quite different this morning. Or perhaps indifferent. But I do feel angry, and it’s not just towards a spineless display by footballing countrymen who play at the highest level. It’s towards, as usual, the sense of superiority that defines the nationalistic attitudes of some within England.

As the match evolved last night, above and beyond the frustration that was felt about our players being unable to penetrate the defensive wall that the Icelandic defence became, I was distracted by a piece of commentary that compared the game to the San Marino match of 1993 where England went 1-0 behind in the first few seconds of the tie- coming back to eventually win 7-1. It took time, was the suggestion. One gets the impression that we would have needed a lot more than another half an hour this time. Another match perhaps. It was even suggested that Iceland were now firmly stuck in their half for the duration. Yet they were the ones who came closest to scoring in the second half.

Clive Tyldesley’s comparison of this match merely summarised the sense of entitlement that many feel, and Europeans justifiably mock. Here was an Iceland team that had seen off the challenges of Hungary, Austria and Portugal in the previous group stages. They have beaten the Netherlands home and away in qualifying, got the better of the Turks over two legs, and equalled the Czechs. A group England would have found a challenge. But, no. Were they minnows, cannon fodder, and an easy passport to our rightful place in the Quarter Finals ? Were they were a necessary inconvenience to our rightful passage ? How awful that they had the gall to beat us. Absurd, haughty, language and ideology.

It’s time, in the light of all that has happened recently, to think of ourselves with a little more sober judgement. It’s time to stop assuming that distant history gives right to an elite status in the present age. Whether this is on a sporting stage or a cultural one. For me, last night was a summary of much of the happenings of the previous week. There was an assumption that somehow it was our divine right to proceed on our own terms and with preferable accommodation from others, and now we face uncertainty and soul searching. I’m a very patriotic Englishman, my chest was pumping with pride at the recent Rugby Union series win in Australia. But my love for my own country doesn’t invoke an elitist attitude towards others, whether ‘smaller’ or not. Once we stop becoming drunk on the instilled heroics and muscle flexing of the distant past then we might be able to pave a better way.