Shadows and reflections........

Dear Orange.....

2012-01-26T13:51:00.002Z

After three months of absence where I've been utterly bereft of any desire to blog due to the pace and complexity of life, it was going to take a special situation to stir me from my self-imposed writing exile. Thankfully the telecommunications industry came up trumps again.......

Dear Orange Customer Service Manager,

I am writing to let you know about a complaint which has annoyed me so much that I nearly lost my composure a couple of times and smashed my own face in with a toffee hammer. I’m hoping that won’t be strictly necessary but I can tell you, after the morning I've had - it’s not looking good.

In November I rather carelessly dropped my iphone into the toilet whilst attempting to multi-task. As you will be well aware, men are not renowned for this ability but I thought it within the realms of possibility to send a text whilst ‘feeding the fish’. (I’ve seen my wife do similar things, she’s amazing she can watch telly, text and glare at me in a disapproving way all at the same time)

But I was wrong, in fact so wrong that within seconds I’d dropped my phone into the bowl and was forced to plunge my hand into my own urine and rescue the said device from its ‘golden grave’. No man should ever have to immerse any part of his body into his own wee, it's primevally abhorrent but I know I only had myself to blame. (It could have been worse if you think about it for long enough......).

Naturally, the device was not keen on working. I’m not sure any device would. I’d had a couple of nights out previously and whilst I’m no chemical expert I think the contents of the bowl could have stripped rust from metal.

I tried all the usual barmy, crackpot internet gleaned remedies including storing the phone in the airing cupboard, inside a bag of dried rice and sacrificing a small animal to the Roman God Mobilius but my mind was always filled with the certainty that I was wasting my time. I did manage to get the phone to make a couple of warbly bleeps at one point but it was the kind of noise that an engineer designed the phone to make, purely to inform the user that it is never going to work properly ever again.

In desperation, I called your customer services department and without necessarily telling them about the pissy bit, I informed them that my phone had sustained water damage and was now deader than the Manchester United Premiership homecoming victory parade last season.

I was informed that for a princely sum of £150 I could have it replaced but I had to ensure that the old phone was returned via the same courier. Sure enough, it arrived the next day, delivered by a man who smelt worse than the phone I handed to him, but I gratefully received the new phone and thought nothing more about it.

Ten days later the old phone was returned to me in a tatty old envelope with my name and address scrawled on the outside in the kind of handwriting that suggests you may have outsourced your administration to a mental asylum. The kind that houses people who write their names on walls with their own shit.

The fact that the postman managed to deliver it to me is a testament to the service of the Royal Mail and I have suggested that this particular postman be immediately despatched to Egypt to examine the latest hieroglyphic artefacts. He is clearly a man of great talent.

I was perplexed at receiving the phone back and wondered if it perhaps had boomerang qualities but on inspection it was just an iphone that smelt vaguely of urine. (....and dried rice, not a brilliant combination in truth).

Two days later I received a very sternly worded letter advising me that I was to return the phone in the envelope provided (this time typed, nice touch...) as a matter of urgency and that failure to do so would result in an additional £300 being charged. I travel a lot with my job and tend to be stupidly busy but obviously I enjoy unnecessary trips to the post office as much as the next man, so off I went.

Again, I thought no more of it. Job done. Phone returned. A bit like last time, only this time with a bit more effort involved on my part.

You can imagine my delight when I opened my post this morning and found another package containing my old piss sodden phone, this time inside a jiffy bag. Tthis one had my name and address on it which appeared to have been written by my doctor. I’ve seen his prescriptions and god knows how anybody deciphers them but it was a lovely personal touch that I certainly appreciated.

I was still a little bemused at having it sent back to me again, especially as it arrived without explanation (or indeed a return envelope this time) and I even wondered if it had been condemned and returned to me due its unfortunate odour. So I called to find out......

Having negotiated the 4,678 options on your telephone system I realised that there was no option for ‘If you are constantly having a piss stained, broken phone sent back to you press number One’ option, I just pressed some random buttons and got through to some chap in the Philippines who couldn’t have sounded less interested even if he’d been practising for the ‘2012 Couldn’t give a shit award’. After a painful conversation he informed that I’d returned a different phone to the one issued to me and had been charged £450 instead of £150. I explained this was impossible and he then went on to tell me that he knew this because of some IMEI number or something... (I confess I was too busy looking for my toffee hammer and getting ready to spontaneously combust so I didn’t hear his explanation properly). I explained, in calm tones that this was impossible. The phone I had returned was the one provided to me 9 months previously. He asked if he could put me on hold and then promptly cut me off.

I immediately called back and through another sequence of random button presses I was put through to a lady who explained that she could do nothing as the ‘engineer’ was adamant that I had returned the wrong phone although he wouldn’t talk to me as he didn’t speak to customers and in any case he was busy writing names and addresses on the outside of shoddy envelopes.

Several phone calls later, I am still £300 down though I have spent the majority of the day talking to exceptionally polite and nice people in the Phillipines who are utterly devoid of any ability to help customers. So, you know, not all bad in all. All of this work stuff will have to wait.

I’d really appreciate a conversation with someone who is able to discuss my situation with me and resolve it to the point where I no longer want to spend the rest of my life wholly dedicated to persuading customers not to sign up with you. There are other things I’d still like to achieve in life but if that is my only course of action I’m fully prepared to commit.

It’s not about the money, it’s the principle. You have treated me like I’m dishonest. Which boils my piss. (though I won’t be dropping my new phone in it – You’d only send it back to me).

Regards

Alan

Sick swans

2011-11-20T11:07:00.001Z

The annihilation of Manchester United by 6 (six) goals to 1(one) will live long in my memory. Not so much because of the scoreline (we've beaten them by big margins before) but because of the ruthless and clinical manner of the performance and the shell shocked reaction of every United fan I know. Naturally of course, they have tried to respond with accusations that we are buying our way to success (a strategy they know only too well) and that the sending off materially changed the outcome (who knows). There is however a look in their eyes that suggests they realise this is the first of many hidings coming their way and that the pendulum of football has well and truly swung.

I'd like to think that my reaction to this monumental result was respectful, measured and appropriate. I'd like to think that except it is of course not true. I've been pretty much whooping it up ever since, lauding about the place like I scored the six goals myself and getting completely carried away with the whole thing.

My friends Paul, Neil and I travelled to Valencia for a three day trip to see City take on Villareal in the Champions league. It was my first euro away trip but it definitely wont be the last. We had an absolute blast from the minute we arrived and even an endless succession of work calls during the day couldn't dampen my fun.

Valencia is an incredible City, modern and vibrant with a lovely mix of the old and new. Some of the architecture is stunning and I made a mental note to revisit for a long weekend at some point in the near future.

It's also a City on the beach and within minutes of checking into the hotel we were in a cab heading towards the old port and tucking into several lovely courses of tapas accompanied by more than a few ice cold cervezas. The combination of the heat, the octopus and the beer was lethal and I was soon quite squiffy.

From there a taxi to the old town where the night was spent enjoying a carnival atmosphere outside an Irish bar (yes, yes I know.....) where approximately 50% of the songs were about the derby victory. It was like old times supporting City in my early twenties only this time on the back of success and I confess I enjoyed myself a little too much for my own good.

The next morning I was fragile and the prospect of another day on the pop was almost too much to contemplate. Almost. By 2pm we were on the coach for the hours journey to Villareal and by 3pm we were in the bars next to the ground despite the game not kicking off for another five hours. I spent a few hours on the phone sorting out some work issues which probably kept me sober enough to see the rest of the afternoon off in relative sobriety but in the hour leading up to kick-off I fatally decided to try and catch up with my friends Paul and Neil's drinking tally.

I say fatally because Villareal's away end is named the 'birdcage' and is unbelievably steep. At the bottom of the stand is a huge perspex screen covering the whole of the front of the stand. It's main purpose is to stop missiles being thrown onto the pitch but it also does a really good job of blocking the view of the game. I stumbled to my seat and missed my footing sending me tumbling down rows of seats saved only by some kindly City fans who managed to catch me despite collapsing with laughter.

Thankfully the alcohol I had consumed prevented the pain from affecting me too much and I was able to witness another thoroughly professional victory. The celebrations went on long into the night though in truth I was a spent force. After the coach journey back we had one beer and then retired for the night.

A fantastic euro trip all round capped off by a terrific win. I'm optimistic that we will make it through the group stages so I can make another trip next year to some other destination maybe even Barcelona. I'm not confident we'd get a result there but it would be a brilliant experience.

Leaves on the vine of time.....

2011-10-16T22:13:00.003+01:00

43 days have passed since my last post, largely due to work pressures and holidays but I also felt I just needed to live life a bit more, free from from the tweets and updates of social media and blogging. I love writing but with everything going on around me it had begun to feel like a chore, so the natural thing to do was to live life offline for a bit.

A lot has happened during that period, in fact so much has occurred that my mind can't quite compute how it is only 43 days since our Alton Towers trip.

I'll start with my first foray the into the world of Urban Exploration or Urbex as it is known. For those unfamiliar with the term, Urbex is the exploration and photographic documentation of urban environments that hidden or off limits for most people. Some Urban explorers go up, to the rooftops of the highest buildings. Others go under, to the hidden world of sewers and tunnels. But the area that fascinates me is the exploration of decaying and dilapidated buildings. There are a number of forums that cover the world of Urbex, with some amazing photographs and reports of buildings that have been left to the elements. Old hospitals, cinemas, schools, factories and mills hold a fascination for me. Buildings seem to hold echoes of the life that once flowed through them.

A friend of mine from Rossendale Chris Lord is a superb photographer and an avid Urban explorer. Most of his explorations are in and around the Rossendale area which is where I grew up. The familiarity of his subjects and the techniques he uses draw the eye and make you want to find out more. We'd discussed me accompanying him on one of his trips for some time, particularly as I wanted to learn how to use the expensive camera I was bought for my 40th birthday last year.

I drove up to Rossendale early and after picking Chris up we went to an old mill in the area that has been out of use now for over 40 years. A bit of sneaking, ducking, climbing and crawling was required to get in which would have been quite easy for me once upon a time, but in my autumn years......not so much. Chris was far nimbler and more adept than me and he moved around with confidence. Once inside the pitch black was pierced by his powerful torch whilst the one I had brought with me was laughably feeble by comparison.

We spent probably an hour walking around the different areas of the old mill taking loads of photographs and Chris showed me some camera tricks which are used to achieve dramatic effects, including light painting like below. In this instance, I stood with my back to a camera on a tripod and he stood in front of me and painted round my outline with a torch with the camera set to a long exposure.

The mill was one of the biggest in the area and up until the 1960's had employed more than 500 people. All the machinery was long gone but some of the equipment was still kicking around and the old engine room retained some of it's former grandeur.

Part of the Urban exploration code is to take nothing, damage nothing and leave things exactly as you find them, which we were very careful to observe. After a further look around we left as we had come in. I really enjoyed the experience and will undoubtedly return to the topic for future writing projects. I also have a much better understanding of my camera which I will put to good use.

The following weekend Mel and I flew to Naples to start our two week holiday with a week on the Amalfi coast. We'd both been before and it is one of my favourite places in the world. We'd planned our week months ago which is unusual for us but it didn't become real until we jumped in the hire car and started the frenetic and slightly scary journey to Sorrento. It takes some time to adjust to people driving millimetres from your rear bumper and overtaking you on blind mountain corners but eventually I adjusted and was whizzing along cliff-top roads with Italian abandon before I knew it.

We arrived at La Solara Hotel in the early afternoon, a beautiful hotel that I have stayed at previously. We were shattered from our early start but I wasn't going to let tiredness get in the way of gluttony and within minutes I was tucking into my first pizza whilst taking in the stunning views.

We spent a week exploring, eating, walking, eating, sunbathing, eating and taking in the beautiful scenery but mainly eating. Some of the food we ate that week will never be surpassed as far I'm concerned. Using the travel bible that is trip advisor we hunted down some of the most extraordinary culinary experiences I have ever had and I have eaten in some lovely places over the years. I was having to swim half a mile per day in the Hotel pool just to stop myself getting Channel 5 documentary fat.

The highlight of our week was undoubtedly our day in Capri. We actually went there by accident. We had planned to visit Positano by boat but missed the ferry by 20 minutes. We'd both been to Capri before and whilst it is lovely neither of us had any desperate desire to return. However, crossings were every 20 minutes so we hopped on a boat and chanced our arm.

We decided against the cliff lift and chose to walk up the steps to the top of Capri which is the second time I've made this schoolboy error. By the time we got to the top I was in need of a lung transplant and only a lemon slush drink saved my life. It was at this point that Mel seized an opportunity to partake in her own 'where's Wally?' photo. See if you can spot her.

After an hour or so walking round the shops and trying not to laugh at the price of things we decided on a whim to hire a scooter. I've always hankered after a Vespa but Mel has refused on the basis that she quite likes her husbands alive and breathing but she relented in Capri as the roads were quiet. The rules for hiring one were quite strict as the following conversation will demonstrate.

Man : Do you have a driving licence?
Me : Yeah
Man : Can I see it?
Me : No, I haven't got it with me.
Man : But you do have one, you say?
Me : Yeah
Man : Ok, not to worry. Just sign here in case you die so that nobody will think it's my fault or responsibility.
Me : Ok, thanks......

With that, we were off, tearing up the mountain roads looking like a pair of out of work human cannonballs. Some of the roads seemed to cling impossibly to the sides of cliffs like this one here which genuinely took my breath away.

Mel went from a scooter sceptic to demanding we buy one for our time in France in about five minutes. It was such a brilliant way to tour the island though I wouldn't dare ride one on the Italian mainland. My body would remain intact for about five minutes.

The rest of the week was superb with minimal interruptions from work. I had timed my holiday really badly and there were several work related issues that were playing out back in the UK that demanded my involvement but thankfully this was limited to a few calls in the evening.

On the Sunday we commenced the second leg of our holiday, rising early to drive back to Naples. From there we flew to Paris and after a bus transfer across the City we got the train down to Limoges which took about four hours. Mel's parents met us at the station as they were working hard as usual completing the holiday home renovation and had been there for two weeks already. Within 40 minutes we had arrived at our house in Chalus ready to start a second week. The premise was that Mel would relax, cycle and run as she always does and I would help Fred with the work on the Gite. Work put a bit of a spanner in the works though as I had to spend a few hours each day helping out with situations back at home as needs dictate but there are far worse places to be working from. The weather was unbelievably warm, far too hot even to sit out on our newly laid patio.

We had some great meals out, caught up with our friends in the evening and had a really relaxing week. The final stages of our project are in flight and the place is looking really good, much better than I had imagined in my wildest dreams.

Whoever holidays in our place will be assured a brilliant time in very comfortable surroundings in one of the prettiest and greenest parts of France. Our week there flew by and all too soon Sunday morning arrived and we were packing to come home.

It was at this point that Mel realised that in the midst of making all of the transfer arrangements she had somehow booked us onto a flight for the wrong day. Instead of the Sunday, we were booked onto a flight on Monday. There was no way I could extend our holiday, even by a day so a series of frantic calls to £1 a minute Ryanair hotlines (the robbing, exploitative scumbags) ascertained that the only option was to book two new tickets at a cost of £500. It was an incredibly expensive end to a holiday but not even the impish little shit Michael O'Leary could tarnish one of the best fortnights of my life. Great memories come from great experiences and I'll remember those two amazing weeks long after I forget about the painful body blow of a few hundred quid.

Oblivion (and back)

2011-09-03T13:00:00.002+01:00

Earlier this week Mel and I extended the bank holiday weekend to take my 10 year old son Harry away for a couple of days. I have only recently been reconciled with him after nearly five years (long story not for here) and we are still getting to know each other again. I suggested a trip to Alton Towers a few weeks ago, a suggestion which was incredibly well received and I think we were all counting down the days with excitement. I hadn't been since 1993 and was looking forward to revisiting a place that holds important memories for me.

I've been to Alton Towers five times. First with my parents aged around ten years old. I was forced to spend a day exploring the gardens and admiring the architectural beauty of Augustus Pugin. Actually admiring may be too strong a word, I recall spending most of the day with my hands in pockets, shrugging my shoulders, kicking gravel and repeating the question "Can we go now? this is rubbish...."

In the very early 1980's there were very few rides or attractions that were of any interest to a ten year old. The list of things to see and do included an adventure playground, a shit zoo (not the dog breed), a dolls house, skateboard track, a planetarium and worst of all dinosaur land. This last attraction consisted of huge model dinosaurs presumably designed and constructed by people who had never seen pictures or drawings of dinosaurs. (These fibre glass reptilian abominations were later to be found liberally scattered throughout the theme park, hidden away in tree canopies visible only from rides).

The day was most memorable for getting stuck mid-air on one of the cable cars that traversed the park. Any mere mortal would start to panic but I remember my dad pouring himself a cup of coffee from his flask and offering round corned beef sandwiches. I explained that there was no way I was eating food whilst dangling precariously 400 feet up from a rusty wire and in any case I only like corned beef sandwiches with branston pickle on.

I remember thinking that my friends were probably having a proper day at a proper destination like Blackpool or something and were probably at that very moment riding roller coasters and eating candy floss. It was only much later that I realised how lucky I was to have parents that took me to interesting places. Most of my friends never went anywhere at all with their parents.

On my return to school the following week, we were all asked what we had done in the summer holidays, I reeled off a long list of days out and things we had done and seen, other people in my class had very little to report. I remember being asked to write an essay entitled 'The day we got stuck in a cable car'

In the years that followed, I saw and heard about the various rides and attractions that had been built since my premature visit. I felt incredibly short changed as friends regaled me with tales of the Corkscrew and Black hole rides. It wasn't until 1983 that I returned on a school trip and tried these rides out for the first time. My memories of this trip and the return visit the following year are intertwined and mainly consist of queueing for hours, trying to impress girls, smoking fags, getting soaked on the water rides and getting a grade 'A' bollocking for being late for the coach home. Brilliant times.

My last visit was in 1994, when I went back with my friend Paul and once more queued for hours in order to sample the new rides Nemesis, Thunderlooper and Enterprise, a ride seemingly designed to shake loose and remove all of the small change from your pockets.

On Tuesday, we met and collected Harry from Nottingham Train station (he lives in Boston, Lincs) and travelled to a Hotel near Stoke where we hatched our plans for the following days rides, studying Youtube video's and detailed maps of the resort to plan our day with military precision. We determined to do the water rides last in order to spend the least amount of time wet and to hit the 'big rides' early to avoid the queues.

We were up early and wolfed our breakfast before setting off to Alton Towers at 9am in order to be there for opening time. After a minor mishap (the hotel had sold us an entry ticket which was dated 2010) we were in and hurrying towards 'the Forbidden Valley' where the rides Nemesis and Air are located. Harry and I queued and rode each in turn, whilst Mel sat and waited contemplating whether she felt up to it or not. Eventually she gathered the courage and we went on each in turn again, Mel's fear conquered.

We then had lunch before discussing whether any of us felt brave enough to ride on 'Oblivion' the worlds first vertical drop roller coaster. Fearless Harry decided he did, whilst sensible Mel declined. We climbed the steps and discovered there was hardly any queue. I now understand why.........

Mel had paid for on-ride photos and you can see here the differing reactions between the two of us. Harry's face is filled with wonder and adventure, the joy of anticipation. On the other hand, my face is etched with concern. If I remember that brief nanosecond correctly, I was wondering how to explain to my son why I smelt so bad and was trying to find a shop that sold trousers. Thankfully, I narrowly avoided that scenario. It was though, a very close call.

I came off the ride feeling like I'd been set on fire and put out with a cricket bat. For the first time all day even Harry looked off colour and we both needed a sit down. It's important for a man to set an example and I was soon on my feet insisting we press on to the water rides. Externally I was fine, inside I was a husk of my former self.

The rest of the day and remaining rides are a blur in my memory bank, I was physically and emotionally numb as evidenced by this photograph from the Flume where compared to Mel and Harry my face is not registering anything at all.

Immediately afterwards we returned to the car park. The journey back to Nottingham train station was very quiet indeed. Harry was shattered, we all were. As we drove back, I contemplated what a fantastic day we'd had and I also considered how extremely grateful I was that Harry would not have to write an essay on his return to school entitled 'The day my Dad shat in his pants at Alton Towers'.

Just not cricket......

2011-08-14T10:05:00.003+01:00

One of the more enjoyable aspects of my job is entertaining clients. Usually this would entail dinner in the evenings or perhaps a major sporting event at the weekend. Occasionally I get invited to an event during the week but more often than not there are more pressing priorities and a colleague will usually step in and host on my behalf. However recently one of our suppliers asked if I had customers who might want to go to the England v India test at Edgbaston. I didn't need asking twice and luckily I have two customers who are even bigger cricket buffs than I.

Cricket has been a constant throughout my life. It's never quite scaled the peaks of my passion in the way that football, fishing or music have but equally I can track the timeline of my life through the various test series and winter tours that I have watched down the years. Unlike football I never played to any real standard but I have at various times in my school and work years been an enthusiastic if hapless participant on the field. I have however, come to realise that I make a much better spectator than player and barring the odd ill advised foray onto a cricket pitch, I have limited my involvement to attending the occasional high profile game.

Whenever you mention that you like cricket, you typically get one of two reactions, wild eyed enthusiasm and instant affinity or rolling eyes accompanied by the word 'boring....'. To a point I do find the latter reaction understandable. For people with short attention spans or a constant hankering for instant gratification five day test cricket is the proverbial sporting paint drying. But for someone like me who thinks nothing of watching a motionless fishing float for eight hours or for people who demand subtlety and tactical nuance in their sport it is the most absorbing of all spectacles.

Test match cricket was always on in our house growing up, my mum was as keen as I am now and towards the end of her long terminal illness, her enforced immobility meant she became as big an expert as I have ever known able to instantly recall statistics which would have made David 'bumble' Lloyd feel threatened in his job. Fifteen years after her death I miss many things about my mum and discussing the trials and tribulations of the England cricket team is one of them. She would be very proud of the current team.

As a child my holidays were usually in a caravan somewhere in England and consequently as least two or three days were spent indoors sheltering from biblical rain and howling winds. When stuck in a caravan, laid out in front of a gas fire eating chocolate biscuits and trying to talk above the sound of water drumming on the roof, a day can last a month. On those days, I have indelible memories of watching Ian Botham on a tiny portable TV smashing the West Indies bowlers to all corners of the ground. Or Geoffrey Boycott seemingly batting for months on end for just thirty runs. I came to understand the fineries of five day cricket and it became my sport of choice for the summer months.

The third test at Edgbaston was a chance for England to clinch the series and claim the honour of being the number one team in the world. In the last decade, the England cricket team have been in the ascendancy but for most of my life were about as successful as my football team Manchester City. Seemingly all my sporting affiliations are entering purple periods though and I was more than a bit excited as I awaited my lift on Friday morning. I had somehow coerced a colleague into driving me to Birmingham. As any fan will tell you, watching cricket is a thirsty business and our supplier had thoughtfully laid on a free bar to resolve this problem.

We left at 8am and were in the vicinity of Edgbaston by 10am. With an hour still to go before play commenced the crowds were gravitating towards the ground many in outrageous fancy dress outfits which has become a staple facet of watching England play. Even as someone who is pathologically allergic to fancy dress of any description I am still able to admire the effort and the foolishness of these committed souls.

We followed the directions of a man holding a hand written sign saying 'Car Pork £10' and found ourselves in a residential area where we were directed to somebody's drive which we were assured belonged to 'me Dad'. His father was clearly a very rich man who owned several properties as the cars behind us were directed onto the drives of several neighbouring houses. Mind you at £10 per car per day, it's no wonder he can afford so many properties.

After a brief walk to the ground, we arrived at the main entrance. Our tickets were for 'the experience club' which was a huge lounge with a bar at one end and a never ending and constantly replenished buffet at the other. Never were the words 'winning combination' more applicable to a sentence than the previous one.

Our seats were on a balcony just outside of the bar and consequently I was able to slay my thirst without taking my eyes off the cricket. My customers, two hefty lads from Yorkshire were also extremely thirsty, probably due to the saltiness of the buffet and I managed to continue my fitness regime by making regular trips to the bar and back for them.

The cricket was in truth a trifle dull. Having established a handsome lead, England chose to press home their advantage and bat through the day to establish an unassailable runs total. This was undoubtedly the right thing to do but without the thrill of big hitters at the crease it wasn't the greatest spectacle I've ever seen. A seemingly endless stream of single runs were punctuated only by a couple of heavy showers that sent us scurrying inside for cover which necessitated further trips to the bar via the buffet.

The action picked up in the afternoon though my ability to focus on the game diminished with each pint. Wickets began to fall whilst Alistair Cook continued his own personal ascent to the top of his profession though at times it felt like he was taking the long way round. But as the day wore on the crowd became rowdier as it became apparent that the coronation of the England team as number one in the world was a mere formality. It was also obvious that coronation would not occur until the Saturday afternoon.

By the close of play at 7pm I was quite full and ready for home. Claire, my colleague and reluctant driver appeared enthralled as she drove us home whilst I regaled her with observations, theories and general buffoonery about our day. I say she appeared enthralled, I think she may have been in a hurry to get back home, I've never seen anyone drive quite so fast.

All told it was a fantastic day though I have now discovered that in a remarkable twist of irony, free bars are always paid for the following day, yesterday was a write off. I was fit for nothing except lying on the sofa...............and watching England being crowned the kings of cricket.

Raving not drowning.....

2011-07-30T21:33:00.000+01:00

Sometimes my blogs come easily and almost seem to write themselves. My tendency to attract bizarre incident, or my enjoyment of weird observation means I can literally hear words and sentences as events unfurl in front of me. At other times, I feel stuck in the mundane and have nothing to say of any consequence.

Due to the pressures of work and struggling with some kind of virus for a couple of weeks I've not felt much like writing. I've been suffering from a prolonged lurgy for nearly six weeks and despite two courses of antibiotics I was beginning to think I might never shake it. However, yesterday the clouds of illness began to clear and arriving back from London at around 3pm I decided I deserved to finish early for the week and would take an opportunity to go for a swim.

Mel and I joined David Lloyd in Cheadle a few weeks ago, which is probably half a mile from our apartment. It is expensive for a gym but we figured that would be more likely to make us go and so far that theory is holding up pretty well. My exercise of choice is swimming and the pool there really is great. I try to get up early and swim half a mile or occasionally go late at night when things quieten down a bit. On this occasion, I had no idea whether it would be busy or quiet.

The car park had loads of spaces which is rarely the case. As I walked through reception it did seem quieter than normal though the outdoor pool was full of kids enjoying a bit of rare sunshine with their parents. I say enjoying they were screaming their heads off but I think thats the same thing.

After a quick change I walked through to the pool to find it completely empty. I've never seen this before and made a mental note that stealing an hour in the afternoon would be a great time to take a swim.

Due to the aforementioned lurgy my swimming opportunities have been a little limited over the last few weeks but I was soon back in my stride and had completed twenty lengths in no time at all. I noticed the pool attendant placing a CD Player on a small table at the side of the pool and a couple of old people getting into the pool. I carried on about my business but on my return length I noticed a few more senior citizens loitering around the pool. By the time I had finished another length there was a massive gathering of grey hair, milling around, spilling into the pool and speaking in hushed tones . I stopped to investigate and was struck by the feverish, wide eyed expressions on their faces. They started to pile into the pool whipping the water into a white foam as they strode through the pool like a herd of antelope crossing an alligator infested river.

The crowd was predominantly female but with a few old men scattered throughout looking slightly awkward but equally enthusiastic. They started to take positions and one or two were limbering up and I could feel anticipation building. A slick of floral perfume and deep heat was now skating across the surface of the water and I could taste it strongly with each stroke to the point where I had to give up my swim and simply watch.

The excitement built further and their eyes became focused on the entrance to the pool, the limbering up became more frenetic. A few innocent swimmers came into the pool , took one look at the gaggle of OAP's, turned on their heels and left again.

Suddenly their moment arrived, the door opened and the minciest man I have ever seen came catapulting through the door in a green leotard charging down one side of the pool. The golden throng were ecstatic, clapping and cheering as he flounced his way around the pool and toward the CD Player. He acknowledged his parish and theatrically bent down to press play on the CD Player. Three seconds of silence only served to rebuild tension until suddenly the music burst into life as KC and the Sunshine Band advised everyone to celebrate good times. The instructors adoring public didn't need asking twice, they were on their toes and off before you could say 'oh for gods sake' and I realised that this aqua aerobics class was a regular fixture. These people knew the drill, for the next hour this was their pool and there was no song too cheesy for them.

The instructor was also in his pomp. Strutting like a deranged cat he prowled up and down the side of the pool making eye contact with each of his subjects and throwing me a look that made it clear that this was now his manor and I was on it.

His dancing and instruction was simply unbelievable, simultaneously feeding instruction and demonstrating the action with a face so serious that I suddenly burst out laughing. It was made clear to me by his congregation that it was not a laughing matter. They reciprocated his seriousness and mirrored his showy dance movements hampered only by the resistance of water and the flexibility of their ageing joints.

I was literally transfixed, I've never seen anything like it. The music went from terrible to unforgivable in no time at all and I quickly realised there would be no more swimming for me. The instructor was in full flight now though and was stood right next to the pool exit. I decided to make my way over there and time my exit to make minimum fuss. However, just as I completed that thought the instructor decided to mark the end of Van Halens 'Jump' with a leap on the spot. Which would have been perfectly fine were he not at the side of a pool and wearing trainers, he landed and skidded in one action, attempted to catch himself from falling on a hand rail and ended up on his arse. However being the true professional that he is he rolled over and back onto his feet just in time to seamlessly start dancing to Joan Jett and the Blackhearts 'I love rock n roll'.

His adoring public barely seemed to notice though I did see a few people turn round the other way presumably to stifle their laughter. I did no such thing and let out an almighty belly laugh as I exited the pool. I scampered for the exit and resolved never to chance a daytime swim again during the week.

Fallen Idols

2011-07-17T12:35:00.003+01:00

The second week of our holiday in France passed without major incident or accident. We had a few days out at local tourist haunts, meals at lovely restaurants and thankfully the weather remained fantastic throughout. Mels friends seemed to enjoy themselves and left looking more bronzed (burnt) than when they arrived. The time passed too quickly as usual and we were soon closing the shutters and saying goodbye to Gouhaut (the name of our house) for a few more months.

We dropped Mels friends Vicky and Sue at Limoges Airport last Saturday and then drove up to Calais for one night in the worlds worst hotel, the truly hideous Metropole. Our normal hotel near Calais is cheap and cheerful but on this occasion was fully booked. This alternative hotel was recommended on Trip advisor presumably by people who through some terrifically sad illness have been deprived of all of their senses. It managed to be tired, grotty, soulless, smelly and also happened to be in an area of Calais that made Beirut look cheery by comparison. We spent the night confined to the room surviving on a box of red wine and some crisps. Hard times.

On Sunday we rose early, were delighted to find our car still on the car park where we left it and were soon boarding Eurotunnel, arriving at Folkestone at 8am before completing our journey home without any delay. The fact that we managed 1600 miles in two journeys without any major holdups is a first and I suspect a last.

As can be expected on holiday my girth increased a tad as a result of my consumption of fine French food but cycling and swimming ensured the buttons on my trousers remained intact though compromised. I've worked hard this week to put that right through discipline and abstinence. Actually that's not true, I have exercised but my body still thinks its on holiday and is still demanding 3,000 calories a day. I'll have to have a word with myself.

On Tuesday night I was lucky enough to be invited to the Umbro launch of the new Manchester City home kit. I met a few people I speak with regularly on Twitter beforehand in a bar and we then moved onto the venue. All the usual Manchester City supporting celebs were in attendance as well as former players and various dignitaries. There was an early photo opportunity with Mike Summerbee, Tommy Booth and the FA Cup which I was delighted about....

Then a three course dinner followed by a presentation of the new shirt. In the bar beforehand I met one of my long time idols Mark E Smith lead singer and only constant of The Fall. He is notoriously a caustic, uncompromising individual and not the kind of person who readily poses for photographs with fans but I must have caught him in a good mood as he spent ages discussing City and generally holding court and being hilarious.

His vocal onslauught continued during the presentation when he continually heckled and blew raspberrys at the kit designer from Umbro who valiantly continued to try and describe the design aesthetics whilst coming under a barrage of one-man abuse. The presenter held it together pretty well in fairness and took it in good spirits. Mark sloped off, his work here was done. The video of Liam Gallaghers band Beady Eye performing Blue Moon seemed to act as his exit cue.

After dinner was a chance to mingle with other writers, tweeters, forum owners and celebrity City fans. I also took the opportunity to talk at Gary Cook the CEO of Manchester City who I'm sure enjoyed the experience immensely. I noticed 40 people waiting to share their opinions and advice with him, he's a lucky man.

It really was a great night and the perfect cure for post-holiday blues.

More tales of rodents and critters.....(euro edition)

2011-06-30T16:03:00.009+01:00

We arrived in Chalus on Saturday afternoon after a remarkably stress free journey by our standards. Of course there was the inevitable 2 hour queue for the Queen Elizabeth II bridge at Dartford on Friday afternoon. A lot of people would object to queueing for two hours just to pay to cross a poxy bridge, especially if that bridge were standing between you and the first holiday you had in a long time........and they would be right to. It really boils my piss, it's almost like the last ounce of stress is being squeezed from me before my relaxation can begin. But at least you have the view, which is as good as any view you will find anywhere in Dartford........

We eventually crossed on Eurotunnel at about 11pm and arrived at our traditional cheap and not very cheerful stopover hotel in Rouen at 2am, just in time to open a bottle of wine, glug it down between us in less than 15 minutes before falling into a comatic sleep. We were wide awake by 7am and after what has now become a celebrated event, the terrible breakfast at the hotel, we were back on the road by 8am.

With a couple of stops, we were within 2 hours of our place in Chalus when an old couple in an Audi chose to drift across all three lanes of the motorway without signal or warning forcing me into braking and turning my carefully packed Land Rover into a moving tumble dryer. We had packed three parasols for garden furniture which turned into makeshift spears and narrowly avoided impaling Mel and I. Bags moved from the back of the car to the front and Mel did a brilliant job of catching them with her head, whilst I wrestled with the steering wheel in order to prevent any fatalities.

We had a brief moment of stress where we realised how close we had come to tragedy before taking the easy way out, pissing ourselves laughing and continuing the journey as if nothing had happened.

We eventually arrived at 2pm, slightly frazzled but delighted to see Mels parents who have been working on our holiday home rennovation for the last six weeks. Mels sister Penny had also flown over on Friday afternoon and after a couple of journey loosening drinks we swooped round to marvel at the results of Pat and Freds hard work. We're far from finished and unlikely to be so until the end of this year but it's really taking shape now. Here is a preview of how the Gite is looking......

We still have much to do and much to earn to pay for it but we will get there in the next six months or so. We have a detailed schedule of work to organise in the next few months and we're all back again in September to supervise the final phase.

My time so far this trip has been spent organising a clearance of the mountain of packaging from the furniture we have had delivered, cutting grass and felling some trees around the gardens and generally tidying everything up. Naturally (being a man), I therefore created an enormous bonfire in an old steel drum I found lying around the old barn. I have spent three days burning rubbish, putting out stray fires and generally working hard to prevent the whole of France catching fire. My arms and legs are now pretty much bereft of any hairs and my face is a combination of sun bronzed and fire blackened. I smell like a fireman after a forty eight hour shift. Still it has been deeply satisfying at a very primal level . It also provided plenty of opportunity to get my little tractor out which is always a point of personal satisfaction.

When we arrived Pat explained that there had been an upturn in activity from our resident ceiling monster. Ever since we bought our house four years ago, our sleep has been occasionally disturbed by the sound of scampering and scratching in the ceiling from the loft that runs the entire length of the house. After a day or two it ceases to bother us and on the odd occasion where I have gathered sufficient courage to go up there and investigate there has been no sign of damage. Mel says that it is impossible to ascertain that by simply shining the torch round for two seconds and then quickly jumping back down but I have a feel for these things.

We take a fairly relaxed attitude to creatures and critters, its a fact of life of living in the middle of the country and Mel can't bear to kill any creature so we've let it pass. This includes the gigantic (and completely harmless) spiders that regularly inhabit our house and I have become fairly adept at the glass and sliding paper trick though on a number of occasions have thrown the glass out of the window along with the spider.

This time however, the noises are significantly louder, more regular and more.......playful. We had our friends Roz and Neil round for dinner and they mentioned the culprit could be a member of the rodent family called Lerot which is a kind of doormouse but bigger and slightly weirder looking. On further inspection, we've now seen two of the little blighters.

There are obviously quite a few up there and every night they have wild parties. I'm not entirely sure but from the noises they make I think they may be taking drugs. They make a sound like they are moving furniture around the loft interspersed with the pitter patter of their leaden feet dancing across the plasterboard.

I was planning a rodent assault similar to my successful campaign in the UK but made the mistake of showing the above picture to Mel. I also mentioned that they do no damage which now means they are a permanent fixture and she made me cancel the appointment I had made with Le Ratman.

It seems I am inadvertently attracting every species of rodent known to man to my life. I am like the Pied Piper of Hamlin except without the pipe and to be fair I am not from Hamlin either (though I could accurately be described as pied). I have seen more rodents in the last six months of my life than in my previous 39 and a half years. I only hope that this is not a trend that will continue or else in two years I will be completely surrounded by exotic vermin.

In the meantime, Fred and Pat are off back to Blighty in a couple of days for a well earned rest and Mel and I are here for another week. On Saturday her friends are arriving to spend next week with us so I'm sure that there will be plenty more opportunity for mishap and adventure and you can be sure if there is then you will read it here first.

Also, Mel is already laughing at the prospect of my new swimming shorts that I will be modelling for the first time tomorrow. The local outdoor pool demands that proper swim wear is adorned and they do not even allow swimming shorts. So for the first time since I was six years old I will be sporting some tight swimming trunks, an event that Mel has promised to capture for posterity.......

Interim blog

2011-06-19T10:43:00.000+01:00

Last week was a great week Mel got the confirmation that she had passed her Masters degree which made our very own 'annus horribilis' seem so worthwhile. We also began to make final arrangements with my in-laws Pat and Fred for last minute purchases for our holiday home in France which they have spent the last five weeks furnishing and decorating.

In just five days Mel and I travel over to our place in Chalus, for a two week holiday, our first break in nine months and twelve if you consider that in our last week there in September I spent the week pacing up and down the garden trying to sort a work issue out. The sense of relief in our house is therefore palpable and the countdown to Friday well underway.

We've both become a bit run down of late and I have spent the last week valiantly battling some form of weird flu bug that completely laid me out for two days and has left me drained. We are staggering toward the finishing line exhausted but excited at the prospect of a proper break and seeing the Gite furnished and almost completed. Expect better blogs once we get there.

Itchy and Scratchy.....

2011-06-06T13:12:00.004+01:00

If you asked my wife Mel, what annoyed her most about me she probably wouldn't know where to start. But once she did start she probably wouldn't be able to stop. Somewhere on that list would be my constant requests for her to scratch my back. I'm not sure when my itchy back started but it's pretty constant these days. She is usually willing to oblige, if only to shut me up but I can tell that she's not necessarily ecstatic about it. The main way to tell is by the weals she gouges into my flesh and the intensity with which she mouths the words 'for gods sake' though in fairness to her, that is usually when I wake her up at 4am to ask her to scratch my latest itch. I think she knows how grateful I am but didn't seem very pleased when I offered to buy her this T-Shirt.

A couple of weeks ago when visiting my Dad, I noticed he possessed a stick with a comedy hand on the end which he informed me was a back scratcher. You may have seen them, I think they are normally brought back as presents from cheap package holidays, like the modern day equivalents of straw donkeys. Try as I might, I couldn't persuade my Dad to part with it though he did helpfully suggest I could piss off and get my own.

So I did, I went online to Amazon (other money pits are available) and was delighted to see a whole range of back scratching devices. I was in a rush so I just clicked on the cheapest one at £5.99 and then pretty much instantly forgot all about it. I continued to pester Mel to scratch my itches and she continued to get annoyed at me for asking. However, later that week I answered the impatient repeated buzzing of my doorbell to find a courier holding an unfathomably large cardboard tube. I signed for it whilst simultaneously wondering what I could have ordered which merited such outlandish packaging. I opened the tube and inside the vast cylinder was my back scratcher. On one end was the aforementioned comedy plastic hand and on the other end to my complete delight, was a shoe horn.

I've never particularly had problems getting my shoes on. For a start I tend to buy shoes that fit me properly and secondly I'm not yet so fat that I can't bend down far enough to just put them on, though I am working on it. However, I try never to look a gift horse in the mouth and at just £5.99 this Swiss army stick was already looking like incredible value.

Two weeks later, I have to tell you I've never looked back. The stick has barely left my side, I use it to scratch itches I never even knew I had. I also take off my shoes and 'slip' them back on again many times a day, just because I can. I'm thoroughly delighted with my purchase and even wrote a review on Amazon to let the producers of my utility staff know how pleased I am. It reads:-

'This scratch horn stick is unquestionably in the top three inventions of all time but it does carry some risks which the buyer ought to be wary of.

Firstly, my wife always performed the task of scratching the inaccesible spots on my back and now she has been made slightly redundant now she has been relieved of this task. On the upside, she now sleeps through the night as I no longer need to wake her to perform this perfunctory task.

Secondly, I inadvertently scratched the back of my knee whilst using the shoe horn revealing to me an itch I didnt even know I had. I now devote a significant amount of time to scratching the back of my knees whilst inserting my feet into tricky loafers which is a habit I could have done without.

Thirdly, the stick itself is of such a length that it demands to be used as a twirling majorette baton though my wife assures me this is neither big, clever or indeed hygienic. Nevertheless, I can now march the entire length of the house and finish with a flourish by throwing it into the air and catching it between my teeth. Bonus.

Overall a superb acquisition. I'll be buying all my family and friends one for Christmas.'

I did notice on Amazon that there are a vast selection of different models, metal ones, telescopic versions, massage/scratcher combinations and also a 'deluxe' version of the one I have which is £12.99. I do regret not spotting this one when I placed my order as it does look a bobby dazzler and am thinking I might upgrade it for my birthday as at this rate I will have worn this one out.

The uses I have found for my stick are just incredible. Reaching high-up shelves, scooping ice cream, moving food around on the barbecue. All these things were previously tricky but have been rendered a cinch thanks to my trusty staff. Here it is in action:-

Fair's Fair

2011-05-28T17:26:00.002+01:00

When you think of food fairs, what springs to mind?

A) Beautiful home made produce fashioned from wholesome ingredients and sold by ruddy faced farmers wives with legs like oil rigs?

B) Over-priced pap concocted the night before from Supermarket bought ingredients in somebody's kitchen and knocked out for the equivalent of the GDP of an eastern European country?

C) Potions and cordials made from exotic plants that you have never heard of (probably because they don't exist) with exorbitant prices based on dubious claims as to their extensive medicinal benefits.

D) Cookery demonstrations from Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall lookalikes teaching incredibly difficult culinary techniques to an audience that has absolutely no intention of trying them at home.

E) All of the above

The answer is of course all of the above. Last week we went to the 2011 Food Festival at Tatton Park. Mel had bought three day passes through some discount website or other. Clearly, we had no intention of going for three days as we have lives that require living and also we are not rich enough to stay at one of these events for more than an hour or so.

Mel was stressed out of her mind with the final stages of her masters degree so we chose Sunday Morning as the time to go. The plan was get up, drive to Tatton Park, wander around eating free samples, drink some elderflower and madeupberry cordial outside one of the tents and spend an incredible amount of money on a small carrier bag full of produce before returning home to consume our booty.

There was one small flaw in the plan which affected both our plans and indeed everybody else's. The flaw actually revealed itself to us on the Saturday night when we were both kept awake by what sounded like a hurricane whistling around outside and huge drops of rain slamming against our windows.

We awoke from whatever sleep we had snatched and looked outside to see that the conditions were, if anything, even worse than during the night. The really strange thing about this weather was that it would suddenly stop to be replaced by bright sunshine for just long enough to lull you into a false sense of security before whipping you into it's squall once more and carrying your legs in directions your brain had no intention of travelling in. It was also secretly cold, whereby you didn't realise just how cold it was until you had already left the house dressed for a summers day and then had to spend the day trying to stop your teeth chattering.

We set off anyway, fuelled by Mel's optimism that 'it might be inside'. I think we both knew full well it wasn't but its often important to maintain these charades otherwise you would never go anywhere or do anything. I'm sure you've encountered them before - 'it might be good', 'it might be dry', 'it might be nearby' are other examples of the same genre of false hope. They all start with 'it might be...' and are in time replaced by ' it wasn't......'.

We arrived at Tatton Park via some weird back route due to me failing to pay attention to the Sat Nav and fortuitously avoided a vast queue of cars in both directions as we somehow popped up outside the entrance and drove straight in. We were horrified to learn that in addition to the £4 each for the tickets (they should have been £10!) we had to pay £5 to get into Tatton Park which was a bit cheeky given the event was being held there.

We were herded like sheep to the gargantuan ~~field~~ Car park and quickly realised we were one of the first to arrive. After handing over our tickets at the gate we hurried towards the nearest coffee vendor. I had been forced to leave the house after consuming just one cup of coffee which was just plain irresponsible on Mel's behalf to be honest. I can't function without coffee and I certainly can't converse. We therefore queued for 10 minutes for a cup of coffee which a sign assured me had originated on the slopes of a mountain in Guatamala. You could tell that it was expensive coffee because they charged you £4.50 for it. Nevertheless, it was a medical emergency so I had two.

We then allowed the wind to blow us like naive kites towards the start of the row of 'saw you coming' food stalls. Of course, any self-respecting foodie stalks the fair like a cunning fox assessing the merits of each vendors produce before deciding which items should be purchased. However, I'd had no breakfast so within two minutes I was the proud owner of three Pork Pies and I hadn't even reached the second stall.

Next up was a cheese stall and again I piled straight in. I was however remarkably restrained and bought just the one cheese albeit a whole one. People had started to arrive en masse and were being blown towards us. The lovely cafe bar areas were beginning to resemble war zones with upturned furniture and dishevelled punters regretting their summery attire. Occasionally an enormous downpour would be rendered horizontal by the wind lashing it into the tents which were being used as shelter.

Next up was a stall that belonged to a shop I used to frequent in Rossendale called Fitzpatricks, the last remaining temperance bar in the country. Temperance bars were set up in the 19th century in an attempt to keep the workers off the 'evil drink' by creating a pub like atmosphere but serving non-alcoholic cordials and beverages. As a kid, I used to love their Black Beer and Raisin and Blood Tonic drinks. Mel and I tasted samples and bought a couple of bottles. Delicious though they are (she sent me back for more this morning) they must have changed their pricing policy since the 19th Century or else the workers would have needed a stiff drink after just a brief visit there.

The conditions were already beginning to take their toll freezing our cheeks and I also noticed Mel checking her purse despite assuring me earlier she had brought plenty of money. When I asked her about it she said she was just making sure she had enough for all of the cakes she intended to buy. We went straight to the biggest Cake stall and availed ourselves of the largest, stickiest buns on display. We then hurried onto the fudge stall and again filled our boots before deciding that the weather was really not much fun at all and after being blown back to the Car Park we earned ourselves the dubious honour of being both the first to arrive and the first to leave that day.

In truth, it was for the best. The event was very well organised but I had made the mistake of going along hungry, a fatal mistake at these kind of events. We returned home just as the hordes were really descending on Tatton Park and twenty minutes later we were home consuming a weeks worth of calories in just a few short minutes.

The remainder of the week has been one of abstinence and exercise though I do still have a piece of expensive cheese in the fridge which assures me it won't eat itself. So................

New Territory

2011-05-18T18:24:00.003+01:00

This is my third attempt at a blog since City won the FA Cup and I doubt it will be much more successful than my first two attempts but I'll just go with it anyway. It's not that I'm struggling for words, it's just that the words don't seem to fit with how the whole experience of the last few weeks, culminating in our win on Saturday have caused me to feel.

Even in the dark days of the mid to late 90's I always felt I would one day see my team successful. Never at any point no matter how bad things got did I ever lose my grip on the feeling that one day the tide would eventually turn and City would return once more to being a winning club. To me it was simply a matter of time, until we lost the 'typical City' tag that has firmly attached itself to us over the last 35 years.

I'm not even going to go into the day, better written reports of the game, the atmosphere and the joyous outpouring at the final whistle can be found elsewhere. Suffice to say I lost my voice for two days, hurt my knees doing the 'Poznan' and my bouncing up and down muscles had seized up completely by the time we retired to bed on Saturday night. Whilst I managed my pre-match alcohol intake much more carefully this time round compared to the semi-final, I made up for it after the game and the hangover on Sunday was the biggest and frankly most enjoyable hangover I have ever had.

The constant stream of e-mails, texts and voice mail messages on my phone have made my permanent smile even bigger and best of all I shared the whole experience with some of my favourite people in the world, people I have grown up with and suffered the trials of misfortune with. We didn't say that much after that game, everything that needed to be said could be said with the eyes. Knowing looks between families and friends who knew they had witnessed something really special.

The overriding feeling since Saturday though is one of shock. I just cannot get used to the idea that I have seen my team win a trophy, that our ascent to the peak of football is now under way. There are those that say we have bought the trophy, as though football has hitherto been run frugally on a shoestring. One of the 6,458 articles I have read even had the audacity to suggest that the soul of Manchester City has been sold to our Abu Dhabi owners for petrodollars. Anyone who was there on Saturday and again at Eastlands last night will tell you that is utter nonsense.

The spirit of my club has been galvanised, we are no longer the comedy sidekicks to football's main attractions. Instead the noisy neighbours are having a party and on Saturday we ratcheted up the volume.

Mastering stress.....

2011-05-07T08:33:00.004+01:00

My wife Melanie is entering the last few weeks of her dissertation for her Masters degree and the stresses and strains are really beginning to show. Sleepless nights, heightened irritability, red eyes and nails chewed down to the quick - all classic signs of stress. Mel says I should pull myself together as it's not me doing the dissertation. She's actually fine if a little frazzled.

So I'm doing what any loving, supportive husband would do in these circumstances and I'm taking myself off fishing for a few days. She will I'm sure appreciate the ability to concentrate without me interrupting her to ask for the 12th time that day whether she's seen my car keys or relaying the latest utterly fascinating fact I've just read or heard on the radio.

We have just three weeks left before she finishes with Academia for good. This particular phase has been about 9 months during which time we have not had a proper holiday and we have both missed our place in France. We have a two week break planned at the end of June where we both plan to sleep solidly for 48 hours before assessing progress on our rennovation project. Mels parents are heading off there next week for 8 weeks to finish off the holiday home.

Yesterday we packed a removal lorry off which will be heading over to France in about two weeks time. I've also been indulging in the most stressful form of retail therapy, buying the remaining furniture for the place and watching our remaining funds deplete in front of our very eyes.

Next year, we'll be renting out the holiday home and recouping a little bit of the investment we have made. What was originally supposed to be a 2 year project is now approaching 4 years and we have spent double what we had originally planned. It is now looking fantastic though and whilst it has been stressful at times, particularly during the height of the credit crunch, we have both enjoyed the experience mainly due to the fact that Mels parents have done all the hard graft.

So I'll start the holiday countdown now with lots of exciting things to look forward to before then including of course next weeks FA cup final. I managed to get a ticket for my sister and I so we'll be heading down early to meet up with old mates. I plan to repeat every single detail of the semi-final. Same clothes, same route, same pubs. The only thing I will change is to consume half of the alcohol as I'd quite like to remember more of the day than the brief highlights of the semi which now reside in my memory banks. Somebody posted the following photo of us on the Wembley roundabout, a photo I am ashamed to admit I do not remember being taken....

I will of course let you know how that goes.....

Bank Holiday Bonanza

2011-05-02T13:18:00.008+01:00

Ok, let's start with the important stuff. Forget the death of Osama Bin Laden and the fact it is one all in the war against terror, ignore the Royal Wedding and the associated nationalistic fervour. The most notable event in our house last week was that my broadband miraculously and with little warning started working again.

I had no response to my letter to Ian Livingstone, just a Direct Message on Twitter asking for my details. It appears that my blog containing the letter to him struck a chord with people and subsequently attracted thousands and thousands of visits, including someone from BT. Within hours I had a call from their 'response centre' confirming that we should shortly be back on-line. Sure enough, a quick check revealed that my drip of intermittent connectivity had become a trickle. Now one week later, I may not have a raging torrent of Internet terrificness but I do have a steady stream that allows me to function once more as a fully subscribed member of the 21st century.

However ironically, since my connection has been restored, I have been noticeably less interested in on-line activity than at any recent point in time. In the main this is due to studiously avoiding any media coverage of the royal wedding. It's not that I'm a fervent anti-royalist by any means, in fact my attitude to the monarchy could best be described as apathetic with perhaps a touch of republicanism.

I do of course understand the arguments about the revenue they bring in from tourists. These are the very same people whose ancestors rejected and in some cases murdered their own monarchies and on principle I would happily take their gullible money. However, the whole pomp and ceremony of the proceedings is so outmoded it feels almost comical and I feel the same level of squirming embarrassment as I do when watching those ~~idiots~~ enthusiasts that re-enact old battles from centuries ago.

Any family that needs to change its name (from Saxe-Coburg and Gotha) to Windsor, in order to be seen as 'more British' during the first World War will always struggle to gain my support and in any case my inverted snobbery will not allow me to show any enthusiasm toward inherited privilege.

However, my opinions are very different to my families, hence Mel, her sister Penny and her Mum had prepared a sumptuous buffet, bedecked the house in union jacks and cracked open the bubbly to celebrate the happy couples big day. In truth, they celebrate the opening of an envelope with almost as much gusto but this time they really pushed the boat out for the Royal Wedding. I was forced to scurry for cover and was unable to partake in any of the delicious foods on offer less I be accused of hypocrisy but thankfully I found a partner in cynicism in my Father-in-law Fred.

We spent a couple of hours in a deserted B&Q ordering our new kitchen for the holiday home in France and then headed off to a 9 hole golf course which was packed to the doors with other regal ceremony evacuees. They all wore the same expression, that of someone who had dodged a six hour bullet.

We carefully checked the radio only to discover the sycophantic gushing still in full flow, so we took our time and after a pint of bitter and a Fish and Chip lunch we cautiously returned home to find it was thankfully all but over. To our immense relief we discovered it had all gone well and that Princess Anne had made it over all the fences unscathed. The buffet had been demolished, the champagne quaffed and the girls were asleep, either overcome with the emotion of the big day or pissed on too much champagne depending on which school of thought you subscribe to.

Dear BT....

2011-04-23T09:53:00.007+01:00

After the high of last weekend, my ear to ear grin has been annoying everyone, even me. I needed something that would trigger my normally grumpy demeanour and bring me crashing back down to earth. Step forward British Telecom, a company seemingly devoted to infuriating and driving away its customer base. Given that it acts like the 'Fawlty Towers' of customer services, I thought it only appropriate to communicate with them in a reciprocal way.

Here is a letter sent this morning to Ian Livingstone - Chief Exective of BT.

Dear Ian,

Firstly, apologies for contacting you via letter. I would of course normally send you an e-mail but given the speed of the service you have provided over the last 3 months, I'm not sure that you or I would still be alive by the time it appeared in your in-box.

I did consider taking all of the equipment you have provided, along with the bills, flyers and assorted documentation that regularly fills up my paper recycling bin and setting fire to it all. I could then have sent this message through the medium of smoke signal but in the end I chose a more traditional and less drastic means of communication.

Over the course of the last 3 months, I'm pretty sure I have spoken to each and every one of your employees across the world and I am delighted to tell you that your globalisation programme has been a roaring success. Against all the odds and despite language barriers and cultural differences you now have a standardised service across all of your business units. They are now uniformly and unwaveringly useless, irrespective of location and function.

Despite hours and hours of trawling through menu systems, unnecessarily inputting my details into your automated systems (and then being asked to repeat them to each new person) I still find myself tortuously explaining the history of my problem to each of your many employees. The 'update' I must provide is now up around the ten minute mark, a routine I have now honed to perfection and take great pride in delivering. Unfortunately, my tale of woe is usually met with abject apathy or worse faux sympathy along the lines of 'I understand your concerns Mr. Leishman, we appreciate your patience and loyalty but let me stop you there, I'm going to pass you on to somebody who cares ever so slightly less than I do'.

I have whiled away many hours within the purgatory that is your automated menu system, listening intently to the pre-recorded woman explaining how important my call is and how BT is committed to providing great service. I don't know who that Scottish lady is but I can tell you her lack of sincerity and her hollow promises have forced me to re-evaluate my opinion of the whole of Scotland.

I now have a service which is worse than when I first raised a complaint several months ago. That in itself is a formidable achievement, particularly given the time and the resource we have both devoted to the problem. I'm almost reluctant to escalate any further for fear of what might happen.

I have met an entire army of your engineers over that period, vast swathes of them. In fact 'Coffee for BT engineers' now appears as a line item in its own right on my domestic budget. I have spent several days working from home, awaiting the latest engineer from whichever BT department has been blamed by the last one that attempted to solve my problem. I say working from home, I'm sure you will agree, working from home is a little challenging when your broadband speed is slower than glacial erosion.

Your engineers have all been unfailingly courteous, professional and spectacularly unsuccessful in addressing my problem. The quality of chin scratching has though been particularly impressive along with the honesty displayed by one of your engineers, who when I asked him if he had a BT Broadband service, replied 'You must be f**king joking'. I laughed for a whole two minutes before realising he was being serious.

Over the last month, my problem has evolved. I have gone from having an unstable connection that disconnected sporadically to having no service at all. Given that I was one of only four people idiotic enough to sign up to your BT Vision TV service, I now have only basic TV services, the Digital revolution is now for me just a distant memory. In fact, I am thinking of re-instating my old VHS recorder so that my wife can record Coronation Street. I now have to get in the car and drive to my sister-in-laws to send an e-mail which I think we can agree is not an acceptable state of affairs, particularly when I am sending the e-mail to her. That just seems silly doesn't it Ian?

The latest suggestion from your 'team' was to change the router which they would do for free if I signed up for another 18 months. Whilst I admire their entrepreneurship, I think you'll find if you check the copy of my birth certificate (enclosed) that the word 'Yesterday' does not appear against the column marked 'Date of Birth'. Instead, I went out and bought my own router and naturally it achieved nothing. There are as yet undiscovered lifeforms, clinging to the sides of hydrothermic vents in the worlds deepest oceans, that knew that my router was not the problem but desperation is a funny thing isn't it Ian?

I even tried to cancel my service this morning but was told that I would be in breach of contract and would have to pay four months worth of subscription for the privilege of putting myself out of my bandwidth induced misery. I can tell you that my appetite for doing that is broadly the same as it is for disembowelling myself with a teaspoon. So in complete exasperation I write to you to see if you can help.

I look forward to hearing from you. (by letter or on my wholly reliable mobile phone)

Regards

Alan Leishman

The time of my life......

2011-04-19T13:14:00.004+01:00

My nerves ahead of the cup semi-final were not helped by potential traffic problems. Due to some incident or other the M1 was closed over the weekend, which whilst not on our route to Wembley had knock on implications so we were determined not to get snarled up. My friend Paul arrived at 6.30am and we were straight on the road down to Wembley. The roads were already busy with coaches, mini buses and cars with flags and scarves flying. The services on the M40 were literally bursting with football fans and even at 8 o'clock in the morning it was already boisterous.

It may be a cliche to claim that Mancunians support City but there were certainly more blues on the road on our journey than reds, so either United fans were so used to travelling to Wembley that they leave it late or else they live just round the corner from Wembley and get up at lunchtime to travel to the game. I suspect a bit of both.

At just after 9.30am we arrived at the Harrow Hotel which as you have probably gathered is in fact a Hotel in Harrow. It's an approach to naming your business which everyone could benefit from, though as a hotel it did little else right other than being just one tube stop from Wembley and only £65 per room per night. However, we were there for an FA Cup semi-final rather than to review hotels so we dumped the bags and off we went.

All of the pubs were still closed so we killed an hour with strong coffee and sausage sandwiches and as tradition dictates used the condiments to map out likely team formations and tactics. Soon enough it was opening time and we found a pub called 'The Moon on the Hill' which whilst on a hill, was nothing like a Moon - not even a blue one so it completely failed on the naming front. It did however serve alcohol so I decided not to phone the Trade descriptions people.

Each pub was designated either City or United and this pub was already heaving. We sank a couple of looseners whilst waiting for a mate and his kids and then had a couple more to celebrate his arrival. When we were suitably refreshed we headed for the tube and off towards Wembley. As luck would have it we boarded a carriage full of United fans who were in full voice. Spotting my friends young lads City shirts they burst into some nursery rhyme they had all learnt about building a bonfire with City on top. They seemed a little shocked when their twee little song was returned with interest but we are well practised at this game.

Arriving at Wembley Park Station we walked up Wembley way through thousands of United fans as we headed towards the City end. It was still three hours before kick off but the atmosphere and tension was already building.

We had arranged to meet Paul's cousin David, a long serving Naval officer and as rabid a City fan as it is possible to imagine. Naturally, he had sought out the most tribal of positions to wait for us, a roundabout on the opposite side of the stadium where City fans had congregated to welcome each coach full of fellow blues and berate every coach full of reds. By the time we got there, there were thousands congregated around the roundabout. This is not my video, so apologies and thanks to the person who posted it on YouTube for posterity.....

The pubs around the roundabout were not admitting anyone else, particularly the Green Man which was overflowing with blues who had arranged to meet at the only pub that everybody knew the name of. The nearby supermarkets had closed their doors to the disgust of the thousands of fans milling around. However, a local off-licence was meeting the insatiable demands at £2 a can of beer.

The roundabout became more and more boisterous and a pair of United fans in a convertible golf with the roof down were forced to regret antagonising City fans when they became stuck at the junction. By the time they managed to get moving again their car was swimming in beer. So it continued for three hours with singing, bouncing, bantering, antagonising but mainly drinking.

The time soon came to head up to the stadium and the bright sunshine and electric atmosphere made the walk up to the stadium one of the most spine tingling experiences of my life. One of our tickets was an OAP ticket with the word concession written on it, a mere quirk of how we had distributed the tickets but nevertheless a nervous moment ensued which soon passed without incident. One entering the stadium we still had time for one more beer before entering the cauldron of noise. It was almost impossible to hear yourself think, a wash of noise. I've never heard anything like it even at the World cup semi final I went to in 1990.

I won't even attempt to describe the game, it has been covered thousands of times elsewhere and besides I needed to watch it back twice on my return to be sure of what really happened. The alcohol and the viewing angle from our seats made it difficult to get an accurate perspective on the game. What I can tell you is that when Yaya Toure scored the winning goal, I and everyone else in our half of the stadium went absolutely ballistic. Not for the 30 seconds or so that it would normally take to celebrate a goal but for a full 5 minutes.

As a seasoned City supporter, I fully expected United to come at us and I could barely watch. In fact I had to sneak off for a walk around the concourse at one point. It was really getting to me. The five minutes of injury time seemed to be in slow motion, the countdown accompanied by 35,000 City fans whistling like their lives depended on it. When the final whistle arrived I experienced a high like nothing else I've ever encountered at a football match. Complete strangers hugged each other and danced celebratory jigs together, the sound washing around the City end like a victory howl, song melting into glorious song.

I remember noticing the away end being empty within 2 minutes of the final whistle, I have half a memory of the players celebrating immediately in front of us and I vaguely remember falling over the seat in front as the one I was dancing on gave way beneath me.

The rest of the evening was a complete blur. Half remembered conversations and celebrations, drunkenly lurching from one pub to another, singing all around us, . We eventually stumbled to bed somewhere around 1am, exhausted and emotional.

Whether our win spells a true turning point for us remains to be seen and largely depends on how we perform in four weeks time. However, the significance of this result was about more than the FA cup. It was about achieving some form of retribution, redemption or payback for past suffering. For the team and fans alike it meant turning up on the big day, standing strong and showing pride in battle.

Without a shadow of a doubt it was a day I will remember for the rest of my life.

The Mancunian way........

2011-04-15T15:42:00.006+01:00

Tomorrow will be my first ever visit to Wembley to see City. Yes, that's right. I'm 40 years old and I've never seen them at Wembley. In fact, I waited so long to see them play there they have demolished and rebuilt it in the meantime.

In 1981, I was too young to go to the FA Cup final against Tottenham without parental supervision. My Dad is a United fan though like the rest of my United supporting family, he doesn't go to matches, so watching City was never going to happen either. I watched the centenary cup final on the TV and along with the mental scars, I still have the programme a mate brought back for me from the game.

In 1999, despite watching every single game home and away that season, my first wife insisted on going on an expensive, previously booked holiday to Cuba. To say that decision caused some tension would be like saying Gary Neville was not necessarily my favourite football player. The game against Gillingham entailed listening to the drama unfold through a mobile phone at a cost that still makes me wince to this very day. In no small part due to the fact I missed watching the literal phoenix rise from the proverbial flames, we divorced almost immediately afterwards.

So at 6am tomorrow, we will head off for the weekend to the biggest Manchester Derby in my lifetime. It feels like we say that every time we play each other but for me tomorrow is unquestionably the biggest yet. It represents a chance to really prove that we are changing the mentality of our club and that we represent a new force in English football that will consistently challenge for honours and in doing so beat the very best.

The hype is understandably at fever pitch and for once I think it's merited. I've never been to a derby game where there have been 35,000 of each set of fans. Normally in the league the away team usually receives 5,000 tickets or so, making away fans noisy yet outnumbered . Tomorrow I suspect you will not be able to hear yourself think inside the stadium. Add to that the fact that the early evening kick off means a good percentage of the people in the stadium will have been drinking for most of the day and so the atmosphere should be electric. I intend to be fairly electric myself.

Injuries and suspensions have made the game even more interesting and I genuinely think this game is far more evenly poised than some of the media have made out over the course of the last few days. A common view prevails in the press and radio and TV media that United have more experience of big games and their aspiration to achieve a double or a treble will see their quality overcome their noisy neighbours.

Unsurprisingly, I'm not convinced. I think there are a number of City's squad that have a point to prove, especially after Mondays inept performance against Liverpool. They have faced accusation that they are overly, if not wholly reliant on the injured Carlos Tevez and certainly the statistics support the fact that we are far more successful with him than without him. However, it seems to me that we are overdue a real team performance capped by some outstanding individual performances and providing Mancini plays him, I expect one of those to come from Mario Balotelli. He of the gloved hat.

Much has been written and reported about him. His petulance bordering on stupidity, his inability to come to terms with simple training garments, his seemingly endless capacity to self-destruct. Tomorrow will be his opportunity to prove that these are just the foibles of youth and that they are far outweighed by the force of his prodigious talent. He is as exciting a prospect as I have ever seen, he just needs to prove himself on a big stage and there really aren't many bigger than tomorrow.

We're staying over in nearby Harrow so tomorrow night I'll either be celebrating a famous victory in London somewhere or sulking in my hotel room. My feeling is that City will be victorious by either 2 or 3 goals to a solitary reply from United. Of course as a City fan, I fully expect us to lose the final in four weeks time but one day a Manchester City team will prove my inert pessimism outdated and I'll go and tear down that banner at Old Trafford myself.

Maybe, this is the one........

Ire

2011-04-09T09:19:00.010+01:00

My weekend in the lakes may have provided some serenity and inner reflection but by the end of the week I'm pleased to inform you that my ranting muscles were being given a vigorous workout on an hourly basis. Just in case you think I've gone all soft and lost my inner rage, I present three examples of topics which have really cranked up my blood pressure this week.

This weeks niggles:-

BT Broadband - I have spoken more to Rajish in their Indian call centre than I have to my wife this week. The nature of the problem means that each time I think it has been sorted, it reappears at a more inopportune time than the last. Consequently, I have achieved new levels of grumpiness. Were it not for the fact that Jeremy Beadle is dead, I would strongly suspect his involvement.

Each occurrence involves a call to their support number, a navigation through their unfathomable menu system and most annoyingly the input of your telephone number and account number which is immediately followed by this dialogue.

"Good morning BT, Could I take your telephone number and account number please?"

"The one that I just entered into your menu system?"

"Yes"

"errr...I just entered it into your menu system"

"Yes, sorry about that. Could I take it again?"

I can tell you that the first time this happens it is mildly annoying, the second time I see red and by the third occurrence I am ready to disembowel someone with a spoon.

There then follows a scripted run through of the 'morons guide to telecommunications' where I am asked to check several aspects of my installation. None of these aspects has anything to do with my problem and the futility of the conversation does make me feel slightly queasy and more than a little genocidal. I pretend to follow their instructions whilst sitting on the sofa, slurping coffee and pausing occasionally to add a sound effect. Eventually we arrive at an understanding that they are not going to solve my problem by following a script and I'm not going to solve anything through sarcasm.

The upshot of my situation is that if I sign up for another 18 months contract, they will send me a new router for 'just' £49 which may or may not solve my problem. This solution is about as appealing to me as eating my own shit so instead I will seek a new service provider to argue with.

Gary Neville - The bum fluff moustachioed prick was this week appointed as replacement football pundit for Andy Gray on Sky. Presumably this announcement took so long because finding a character more odious and less likeable than Andy Gray is actually quite difficult.

They must have really struggled as they elected for Rat Boy Neville, a man I would never, ever tire of punching. My level of contempt for this moron transcends my vocabulary and therefore I immediately and without hesitation cancelled my subscription.

Oliver Letwin - I don't blog about politics as it is such a divisive subject but I will make an exception for this buffoon. Some people are born with a face that accurately reflects their personality, his face looks like a total dick. In a private conversation with Boris Johnson, this heinous waste of human DNA was alleged to have said that he did not want to see more families in Sheffield be able to afford cheap holidays.

I may not come from Sheffield and I can certainly afford my own holidays but this really boiled my piss. As a punishment, I suggest he be immediately appointed the new Minister for Cheap Package holidays, a 21st century Judith Chalmers without the leathery skin. He should be packed off to review cheap, all inclusive package holidays for the rest of his career where he can hold focus groups with his 'subjects' where he explains why he wishes to deny them their annual two weeks in the sun whilst they take it in turns to pummel his torso.

I hate package holidays but I'd sign up for two weeks in Torremolinos if it meant I got to see this berk get his long overdue comeuppance.

Hopes may rise on the Grasmere......

2011-04-04T21:16:00.005+01:00

The stresses and strains of the last six months have really begun to bite for both Mel and I recently. With my work activity and Mel's masters degree dissertation and no holiday since October, we are both weary and more than a little frazzled. With no prospect of a visit to our place in the Limousin until June we decided last week that a weekend break was in fact fast becoming a household emergency.

The early spring sunshine and unseasonally warm weather of late meant a trip to the lakes was a feasible prospect. Both Mel and I spent so much time in the lake district as kids (not together, that would just be weird) that it almost feels like home from home. It is just an hour and a half drive away from our home in Manchester and after booking a hotel on-line we set off late on Friday afternoon for a weekend of fresh air, fine food and relaxation.

The Oakbank hotel in Grasmere was lovely, the food even better than the reviews on trip advisor had reported and after a bottle of wine and dinner we were both asleep by 9.00pm which whilst not very rock n roll is an accurate portrayal of our general sense of fatigue.

At about 3am I was awoken by the rumble of thunder and lay awake for an hour or so, willing the rainstorm to pass. The rain spattered rhythmically against the glass of our balcony door, eventually sending me back into a deep sleep. Alas, we woke at 7am to torrential rain and blustery winds which threatened to spoil our plans for a day of walking.

A simply astounding breakfast lifted the spirits and we ventured into Grasmere village to kit me out in appropriate walking gear to replace the makeshift attire which was never going to survive the conditions. I had to work really hard to avoid the identikit look of the lakeland walker but eventually found an outfit that implies I like to spend time outdoors but without suggesting that I have a secret hankering to look like a geography teacher.

We returned to the hotel to change, review the map and survey the planned route which Mel had chosen on the basis it was a 'moderately difficult' 7 mile walk. I was slightly concerned as whilst I have been living a very healthy lifestyle for the last 3 months, I still haven't started the fitness regime I keep promising myself. Things really began to look up though as the moment we left the hotel the sun came out, the wind dropped and the sky began to clear. By the time we left the main road and headed up the first path, we were bathed in sunshine and steam rose from the grass to signal the change in conditions. I'm not in the slightest bit religous but there was something celestial in the air. I could feel stress seeping out of me.

I reviewed the directions for our walk, which Mel had helpfully hung around my neck in a waterproof cover so as to ensure that everyone was fully aware I was a complete dick who was new to this walking lark. The author of the directions was somewhat scant in his/her descriptions of the route, the first instruction being 'proceed up the path, you will soon arrive at Alcock Tarn'. Sounded simple enough and off we went at a pace which was almost a gentle jog. What the directions failed to point out was that the path became steeper and steeper until eventually it felt more like an assault on the north face of the Eiger. My calf muscles were screaming at me and my breakfast threatened a re-appearance but after a 45 minute ascent we eventually arrived at the summit and what a view.

Once I had caught my breath and taken in the dramatic vista, I began to feel quite pleased with myself on my achievement of reaching the top. Perhaps I wasn't so unfit after all. Maybe I was cut out for this hill walking lark. Perhaps there is an Olympic hill walking event I could enter in 2012. Typically it was Mel that brought me down to earth by pointing out this little fellow.

It is of course a slug and it was sitting proudly atop the summit. Even worse, I had a strong suspicion I set off before it did. Still, we both got there in the end.

We continued on from the summit and a couple of minutes later reached the first destination mentioned in the guide. Alcock Tarn was originally called Butter Crags Tarn and is a naturally occurring mountain pond that was made bigger and stocked with Trout by a farmer named Mr Alcock (hence the name) about 130 years ago.

After I'd fascinated my wife with a few of the many thousands of facts that reside in my encyclopaedic brain, we set off for the rest of the walk with the sound of Mel muttering her gratitude in my ear. I couldn't quite hear her exact words, they seemed to make no sense, at one point I thought I heard her say 'clucking boring bar steward'. What could that mean? I must ask her.

We descended down a steep gravelly path which was significantly more dangerous than the ascent. After all whoever heard of someone hurting themselves by falling up a hill? After a couple more miles we happened across the Badger Bar in the Glen Rothay Hotel who helpfully provided some emergency rations of pints of Cider and beef and horseradish sandwiches and not a moment too soon. It had been almost five hours since I had consumed my thousand calorie breakfast and I was in danger of wasting away to literally nothing.

By this point (about the 5 mile mark) I'd started to seize up and we had to promptly pay the bill and set off again just to establish some momentum in my limbs before they went on strike and ground to a complete halt. I had a quick look around the foyer of the hotel for taxi numbers but a glare from Mel told me that we would be walking back to Grasmere.

The remaining section of the walk took us round Rydal Water in brilliant sunshine and was an absolute joy, with beautiful nature at every turn. We passed a swan trying to drown itself and a sheep that appeared to have collapsed under the weight of its own wool.

We arrived back at the hotel just in time for a strategic snooze before repeating our gourmet experience of the Friday night. We excelled ourselves by staying up until 10pm before hitting the hay once more.

Sunday was an early start, another olympic breakfast and a treacherous journey across the single tracked and appropriately named 'Hardknott pass' which is probably the most amazing and simultaneously dangerous road in the UK. There were points where you travel perilously close to the edge of a ridge and meeting a car coming in the opposite direction caused me to grip the steering wheel so tightly I thought my hands might fall off.

We descended down past Wastwater which was recently voted 'Britain's favourite view'. I have however replaced my photo with one from a BBC website as our luck with the weather had finally ran out.

Britains favourite view had become Britains foggiest view and we wisely stayed for just a few minutes before heading home via Whitehaven (yes, that Whitehaven).

The whole weekend was like a tonic for the soul. A perfect antidote to the stress and nonsense that has pervaded our lives recently and for me a kick start for my fitness campaign. Today, two days later I'm still walking like John Wayne with haemorrhoids but I'm determined that in future I will walk much further and for longer without discomfort and by this time next year I'm hoping I'll be able to beat that slug to the top.

Alls well that ends well, unless you are a mouse....

2011-03-31T10:46:00.000+01:00

Postscript:

So it appears that following two successive visits from Rat-boy our mouse problems are over. The scratching across the ceiling has stopped, the scampering across our carpets in broad daylight has ceased too and nothing has taken a shit in my fruit bowl for a full three weeks. It appears we have won the battle if not the war. Best of all there have been no nasty smells or sightings of rotting mouse corpses.

Last Friday, my father-in-law Fred and I went for our annual golf outing. I had to forage around inside our garage to find my set of clubs and other apparel which is no mean feat as I tidied up in there recently and consequently cannot find anything in there now. . Eventually I located it, loaded up the car and headed off to a local 9 hole course which is about our level. On arrival I unloaded the gear and was just slipping my foot into my golfists shoe when I realised it would go no further. The whole shoe was full of poison pellets which they had dutifully transferred from the traps in the garage to my shoe a few feet away. Almost like a parting shot from my my rodent friends.......

Just when you thought it was safe to go back on the internet - Killer Mice II

2011-03-19T09:59:00.002Z

"Dear Flatmate, We won't be around for a while, we've not been feeling too well. Must be something we've eaten or a bug or something. Anyway hopefully see you soon. Warm regards, The Mice"

Mice don't write letters (generally preferring e-mails) but if they did then this might be the note they would have left me yesterday. After posting my blog last week, my rodent situation escalated to Ratcon 1, the highest level of Vermin related panic possible. Activity moved from the occasional sighting during the day, accompanied by constant scratching around at night, to outright brazen behaviour that tested and then finally broke my patience and compassion.

Chewing holes in the fabric underneath my sofa was annoying. Skitting across the kitchen work surfaces was concerning but eating fruit and then shitting in the bowl was a step too far. I mean how am I supposed to get my five a day when there is a reasonable chance that any fruit I eat is contaminated by the contents of a mouses arse ?

Mel's cartoon-like leap up to the top of the sofa, to signal the sighting of the latest rascal was becoming a twice hourly event and we were forced to rethink our humane approach. We had tried to do the right thing, but the capture of two mice over a five week period was little more than an inconvenience to the rodent army that were evidently barracked in our loft.

Mel went to stay at her sisters for a few days while I sought professional help. The apartment we live in is rented and we are therefore at the mercy of contractors mandated by our letting agents. We had mentioned our problem on a number of occasions without response, so on Monday I adopted my grumpiest demeanour and demanded action. Within hours, there was a knock on the door. Little could have prepared me for the sight that greeted me outside our house.....

There is a well known theory about people looking like their dogs and I have certainly seen evidence that backs this theory up. However, this man was evidence of a new phenomena, that some people actually look like their jobs. If you gave a small child a box of felt tips and some paper and asked them to draw a 'rat catcher' I'm pretty sure the result would come somewhere close to this man.

Of course, the above is not a real photo of the aforementioned pest control man. For one, taking a photo of him would have been rude and secondly a bit like a vampire, I'm not sure he would have actually appeared in any photo taken.

He was a brooding hulk of a man who communicated through the medium of sucking his teeth, grunting, sniffing and giggling at the mention of any mouse related activity. He wanted every detail, where had we seen them? What were they doing? What time had we seen them? How long had we been hearing them in the loft?

Each answer was met by a little whistle, a brief suck of his teeth and maniacal giggle. To call it unsettling would be a gross understatement. Once he was satisfied he had all of the data he needed, he returned back to his van. Out of morbid curiosity, I followed him down. His van was ancient and poorly maintained. It had no writing on the side but this was a rat-catchers van alright. You could just tell. Propped up in the passenger seat was an old woman so hideously ugly that my mind forbids me from describing her further. I'm pretty sure she was alive, but in truth it was hard to be sure.

He emerged from his van with the kind of shopping bag that I have not seen since my grandma died twenty years ago. The zip was broken and inside you could see all manner of contraptions, potions and pills. I moved closer to get a better look and was immediately overcome with a foul stench that I realised was coming from him. Recalling that smell now triggers my gag reflex and raises the distinct possibility I may see my breakfast again. It was as if his toilet routine involved little more than leaning slightly to one side and doing it in his pants. If Satan made an aftershave, it would smell exactly like him.

As he entered our apartment, he put on a little blue bag-like shoe on each foot. I wondered, almost aloud whether this was for his protection or mine. Once inside, he scurried from room to room becoming more animated and agog with excitement. He repeated some of his earlier questions just so that he could enjoy the sound of the rodent related responses. He closed his eyes as if he was literally drinking in the thought of every mouse. You may think I am exaggerating, I am not.

He moved around the apartment, strategically placing a plastic trap laced with poison in each room. In my bedroom, (which he confirmed as Mouse HQ) he placed a tray of poisonous pellets under my bed. He then went outside to the garage and laid further traps. He made plans to return on Monday to check on our progress and offered his hand to shake which I rudely declined - No. Chance.

Since then, I have slept a couple of nights at our place and a couple at my sister-in-laws. The sounds have subsided and I haven't seen a single critter in three days but have just begun to detect the faint aroma of mouse corpse seeping from some dark orifice or other. I am assured (by the smelliest man in Britain) that the smell will go after a couple of days but we'll have to see.

I mischievously and purposefully knocked on each door in the mews in which we live and regaled our experiences as some of the properties adjoin ours and there is no point exterminating our guests if they simply move into their properties. Most of our neighbours are ~~ancient~~ old and I was keen to offer help if they were experiencing problems too. My next door neighbour categorically assured me they had no such problems and if he did, he would let me know. As he spoke, a solitary mouse ran across the carpet behind him evading the foggy glare of his hovering wife behind him. I thought about mentioning it and then thought better of it. Sometimes ignorance really is bliss.

Of mice and women......

2011-03-12T13:12:00.002Z

About four months ago, Mel and I were having a glass of wine in our apartment when I spied an unusual movement out of the corner of my eye. This skittish, scurrying movement turned out to be a mouse and this sighting triggered a sequence of events that has cost us nearly £200, deprived me of hours of sleep and culminated in waking up this morning and finding one of them on my pillow. It looked at me as if to say 'what are you doing here? have you not gone yet?'

Like me, Mel is an animal lover. Unlike me, Mel's love of animals extends to rodents and other pests. Consequently, killing mice is not an option. Therefore we had to explore means of capturing the little critters without harming them. Some cursory research on Amazon (other money pits may be available in your area) revealed a whole world of products dedicated to the noble art of catching mice. Some of the devices are truly medieval and are designed to ensure that the mice are not just killed but presumably liberally scattered over a wide area. The humane ones however, allow you to catch the mice, drive to the middle of nowhere and release them to face certain death in the wild. Which is the kind that we went for. I did try and explain this dichotomy to Mel but her view is that as long as we don't have mouse blood on our hands then she can sleep at night. Unlike me.....

You see, neither Mel nor I are particularly good at sharing a bed. We both sleep in the starfish position and therefore at some point in the night I usually skulk off to the spare bedroom. This room has been nominated Mouse HQ by the rodents. It is the epicentre of their operations and they have made it clear, that I am merely an unwelcome visitor to their world. I should imagine that as we speak, they are working on creating a 'no entry' sign for the door fashioned out of bits of carpet and leftover food.

I try to sleep in there but I am often awoken by the pitter, patter of their little feet across hard surfaces or their noses exploring packaging left in the bin. Sometimes, I'm sure I can hear them talking about me, plotting about how they intend to breed like mad and take over the whole apartment. Flicking the light on triggers a game of musical mouse statues followed by five minutes of silence before their nocturnal antics commence once more.

The first humane traps we put down were baited with chocolate and inevitably we would wake to find the chocolate gone and the trap empty. At first, Mel and I suspected each other as we have been on draconian diets. Thoughtfully however, they would helpfully provide a pile of mouse shit in order to let us know that it was them that had enjoyed the chocolate.

Further research inspired Mel to invest in some Sonic repellents. At £30 each they appear to be a very expensive way to move mice from one room to the next. They have lovely flashing lights and helpfully if you push a button they allow you to hear a 'human' version of the noise that they emit at frequencies only mice (and other rodents) can hear. The manufacturer claim that they take a few weeks to take full effect but I have seen no signs of mice leaving with packed miniature suitcases yet so I remain sceptical.

A luxury humane mouse trap was then acquired. This 'mouse hotel' is enormous and can apparently house up to 8 mice at a time. Unfortunately, we have only had two mice stupid enough to wander into this contraption. Both were in the middle of the night and their welfare concerned Mel so much I was forced to get dressed and drive to a park in the middle of the night to release them.

Mel's sister Penny was kind enough to give us three leather sofas which we are storing in our garage before we send them over to France. They will be perfect for our Gite and I'm determined to ensure that they are not ruined by my gnawing co-habitees. One way or another, they are going to have to go. I'm more than happy to try the humane route for a little longer but they had better hurry up and be caught for their own sake or I'm going to get psychotic on their little arses.

Rossendale - A town called malice

2011-03-05T13:33:00.004Z

As you grow up you tend to go through waves of events that mark the progress through life of friends and family. 18^th and 21^st Birthday parties slowly become weddings and in turn (or maybe out of turn) Christenings and landmark birthday celebrations. These events become the only times when you see people who you once considered good friends, mates you once saw almost every night of the week. However life has a habit of getting in the way and opportunities to meet become fewer.

I remember my Grandad talking regularly about attending the funerals of his friends. He was a cheery, humorous fellow who liked a drink and relished the post funeral buffet as much as he lamented the loss of lifelong pals. The latest bereavement always seemed to hit him hard but was counterbalanced by the prospect of a pork pie and a few pints with his ever diminishing circle of friends. I guess that's where it all inevitably ends up for all of us. Thankfully I'm not at that point yet but I do seem to be attending a lot of 40^th birthday parties just now, so I suppose for me and my circle of friends we're all approaching half time in the great football match of life.

Last night I went to one of my oldest pals 40^th birthday party at a Rugby club in a borough called Rossendale where I grew up. I lived there from birth until my late twenties, so for well over half of my life so far. I don't go back very often other than to visit family though I still have a fondness for the place that I guess will never leave me.

Rossendale or more specifically the town of Rawtenstall where I lived, is in many ways a place that time forgot, a former cotton mill town dotted with dark brooding satanic mills, most now converted into apartments or stuffed with office workers. It is a place known to most people only for it's artificial ski slope perched precariously on the side of a hill so steep as to make the experience unreasonably dangerous.

Thanks to a long history of successively inept councils, there has been no obvious planning control or long term approach to maintaining any specific look, feel or continuity. On the contrary buildings, housing estates, shops, pubs have all sprouted up and taken root like ugly weeds in an unkempt garden. Years of industrial soot has been fixed to the walls by rain and stained the older buildings black contrasting with the ugly sand coloured brick beloved of developers in the 70's and 80's which tends to sport a permanent sheen of damp thanks to the drizzly micro-climate of the Pennines.

When I grew up there, it had a thriving though slightly gritty nightlife where people escaped their working class humdrum lives by ploughing their entire weekly wages back into a wide variety of pubs and clubs throughout the valley. Each town in Rossendale had its own nightlife, each subtly different and more dangerous than the next. Today most of those hostelries lie empty and boarded up or half empty, awaiting their eventual fate like a diseased lung betrayed by the smoking ban. Honourable attempts to diversify into restaurants and wine bars temporarily litter the streets awaiting their turn to be replaced by the latest ill fated venture aimed at a demographic that doesn't even live there.

Its once thriving high streets and shopping precinct are now derelict and Beirut like. Their purpose has been displaced by a series of increasingly bizarre supermarkets (think Tesco's & Asda but designed by Salvador Dali) and the once thriving town centre now lies literally in ruins awaiting long overdue decisions by a council, rightly labelled one of the worst in the country. Here and there are dotted pockets of enterprise like the butchers and delicatessen in nearby Crawshawbooth, which successfully serves a wide catchment area crying out for superior local produce.

However, most of the population seemingly prefer or feel forced to travel to one of the aforementioned supermarkets where they accompany their trolleys up the fantastically weird escalators to the top floor of the supermarket perched clumsily on top of one of the nearby hills. A few short miles away an equally strange supermarket perched atop a different hill forces shoppers to take their trolleys down a similar escalator. It really is worth a visit just to wonder what they were thinking of when they built these places.

The town that I grew up in is dead now, it has changed beyond recognition slowly choked of all life by the morons responsible for guarding its welfare. Thankfully, the people I grew up with are alive and well, sardonic and sarcastic to such an extent that you could be forgiven for thinking those qualities and traits were invented in Rossendale. They seek (and find) humour in the sheer idiocy of the fate of their town, rejoice in past memories and discuss how expensive their taxi journeys were for nights out in bigger nearby towns that would once have been considered a foreign excursion.

Nights like last night are always bittersweet for me. I have known Iasi since we were both four years old and it was great to celebrate 40 years of such a legendary friend. I also always find it life affirming to catch up with old friends and reminisce over old times. There is never a shortage of laughter in Rossendale, unfortunately it is usually at it's own expense. An oft repeated phrase is 'it couldn't get any worse' , but sadly each time I return, it has.

For me, leaving is always a more pleasant experience than arriving in Rossendale as the version I grew up in is gone and I don't want it's memory eroded by what it has become, the living embodiment of a song I grew up adoring - The Specials 'Ghost Town'.

I'm pretty sure that some residents of Rossendale reading this blog would feel aggrieved and perhaps let down by my portrayal of their town. Fair enough, though any anger may be better directed at the self serving bureaucrats that betrayed them in the first place.

Working hard is hard work

2011-02-17T20:05:00.001Z

It's a good few weeks since I have posted, largely down to being constantly on the move with work and also down to having very little to say of any real entertainment value. It is now six weeks since I introduced my healthy living changes and since then I have lost 1 stone 2lbs, drank only 8 units of alcohol (those were on two nights) and most importantly not smoked a cigarette. I fully intend to keep it that way, particularly now that the physical cravings have gone which occured about the three week mark. I still have the occasional hankering but that is linked to certain events or situations and passes soon enough. I have already started to develop a disdain for other smokers and the smell knocks me sick so I am well on the way to becoming a self-righteous, smug ex-smoker. Which is nice.

The beginning of February marked our annual sales kick-off in Cardiff which is ordinarily a fairly heavy weekend in terms of drinking. I somehow managed to abstain completely from alcohol barring a solitary pint on the Friday night whilst watching the England V Wales rugby game at the millennium stadium. I'm not the biggest rugby fan in the world. In fact if you were to produce a list of the worlds billion biggest rugby fans, you would find my name would not appear anywhere on it. However, my company kindly took all 500 or so of us to the game, which to be fair was an experience but not one I would repeat with my own money. I spent the entire game asking the two people next to me what was going on and despite being fully fledged egg chasers there were times when they were unable to explain it themselves.

I think any passion for a sport is a good thing and I won't knock rugby fans mainly on the basis that they are all bigger and harder than me. It's just never a game I have enjoyed on any level. We played a little at school but my memories of those few occasions are of being pissed wet through, cold beyond discomfort and completely bemused as to what exactly it was I was supposed to be doing. I've always struggled with the concept of a ball that is not round and all that rolling around on the floor with other men has always seemed a bit homo-erotic for my tastes, but each to their own and all that.....

Either side of that event I have been travelling all over the country with work and generally wearing a face like a bulldog licking piss from a very spikey thistle. I'm sure once I get used to my new healthy regime and work pressure subsides a little, I will learn to smile and laugh again but on the whole my sober experience has been a very sobering experience.

Tension and frustration levels remain high in our house as Mel's deadline for her MSc dissertation submission in May is looming on the horizon and there will be no holidays for us until that is out of the way. Work for me remains extremely challenging and fun is something that at the moment only happens to other people. I remind myself hourly, that all our current challenges are steps on the way to our chosen destination. I risk annoying myself with by using a motivational quote but I have always liked......

"The only thing that overcomes hard luck is hard work." - Harry Golden

....in which case, we are due some outrageous good fortune any time now.

Brief visit

2011-02-01T17:36:00.002Z

So Fred and I spent four days in France assessing progress and negotiating and planning future work on our barn rennovation. For Fred it was a chance to see the floor tiles which have set us back over 8,000 euros (it's a big space) and the electrical work that has now been completed. For me there was so much to see as I have not visited since last September due to work pressures and am unlikely to be out there again until July for similar reasons.

The dining table that Fred built for us is if anything more impressive than I could dare have imagined and our plans to spend next Christmas in France became a must on seeing it. It is positively crying out for a lavish banquet.

The holiday home has surpassed all my expectations. I was concerned it would be too dark when in fact the combination of floor tiles and white walls make it bright and fresh. (beginning to sound like that Lawrence dick off the telly now).

We have organised the next few months work though funds are finely balanced so we may not complete it quite as quickly as we had imagined but hopefully it should still be this year.

Fred then subjected me to four hours of outdoor work for which I was poorly prepared. The weather was bright, sunny and absolutely bitter cold. The work involved me holding one end of a tape measure whilst Fred took precise and complex measurements of the land around our house so we can start planning the landscaping. I'm pretty good at standing around and holding things and I think Fred was impressed as he kept asking me to repeat it, hundreds of times.

We made good use of our tractor for which Fred has fashioned a trailer from an old farmers wheelbarrow, a most impressive feat of engineering and absolutely perfect for carrying shit around.

I maintained my sobre regime throughout, eating healthily, drinking almost nothing (bar the occasional glass of cider) and I have now stopped smoking for a month. I feel I have cracked it, I have the occasional fleeting thought about it but it no longer occupies my every waking moment.

The fresh air and a change of scenery helped relieve my work stress and I came back refreshed and re-invigorated, an effect that lasted roughly 24 hours into my return to work. A tough 3 months lies ahead of both Mel and I as she completes her masters degree and I apply myself 100% to my work challenges. Health challenges permitting, Pat and Fred will return to France in a few weeks time to oversee the next phase of work and we will apply ourselves to the task of funding it.

My mind now turns to the long overdue but seemingly distant onset of Spring and more relaxing times ahead.

Happy Birthdays....

2011-01-16T15:35:00.006Z

Mel my wife is celebrating Birthday fortnight again, edging ever nearer to my recent landmark. To celebrate she had her oldest friend (as in length of time known not age) down from Hartlepool for the weekend. Like me she has been abstaining from all life's indulgences since New Year but she broke the fast in fine style this weekend. They got trollied on Friday night, losing all volume control and at one point were simultaneously drinking single malt whisky and eating cake. That's a very dangerous situation, right there.

On Saturday I made myself scarce at the football whilst they joined up with another bunch of girls and went for cocktails and lunch. I arrived to pick them up after the game where they were just completing their conversation about shoes that had started five hours earlier. My taxi service was commended for it's punctuality though my driving received some criticism for being 'a bit shit'. Charming.

Sunday lunch at Penny's took us into day three of her Birthday festivities and my good eating regime is creaking under the strain of temptation and iron-discipline will be required tomorrow to get back to good habits. I've now successfully stopped smoking for two weeks and I'm determined to lose weight too if only to fly in the face of the convention that stopping smoking causes weight gain.

This Tuesday we are off to Northcote manor for our gourmet Michelin star tasting experience. Unfortunately, Mel's mum Pat has been taken ill in hospital and her and Fred cannot now join us as planned. Hopefully she is on the mend and we can rearrange our thank you to them for all their hard work and Support. Mels 'official' birthday is on Tuesday and the best present for her would be her mum getting a clean bill of health.

A shadow of my former self......

2011-01-10T15:39:00.002Z

I'm one week into 2011 and my health regime is firmly underway. I have managed to lose 8lbs in a week, give up smoking and refrain from drinking alcohol. I've somehow achieved all of that without having any kind of breakdown and whilst Mel insists I have been withdrawn and grumpy I'm surprised she can notice the difference to my natural state. I've even watched Manchester City twice on TV without creating new swear words so I really am making good progress.

I'm determined to get back into shape and that shape is not the wheezing sack of potatoes that I have been doing an impression of for the last several years. One of my four chins has already disappeared and two of the other three are looking distinctly concerned for their future.

I've given up smoking with the help of Champix which is a drug you start taking whilst still smoking. Gradually, over the course of a week, the urge to smoke becomes less and less and each cigarette becomes slightly more repulsive. By last Tuesday the thought of a cigarette was making me want to heave and stopping altogether was a relief.

Champix is not without side effects. It makes you feel nauseous particularly straight after taking it, which has also helped ensure that I don't revert to eating the entire contents of the fridge. The other major side effect is more enjoyable and comes in the form of psychadelic, twisted dreams that are difficult to emerge from. I quite like it.

I have used an application on my iPad called Livestrong which helps me track everything I eat and any exercise I do (which so far I hasten to add has amounted to one brisk walk due to injuries sustained whilst hurtling headlong down by sister-in-laws stairs on Christmas day). I am limiting myself to 1500 calories a day which providing I eat the right kind of foods is not proving too much of a struggle. My fruit and vegetable intake has increased tenfold (admittedly from a low starting point) and my fat intake vastly reduced.

I don't particularly feel like I've suffered. Going back to work has kept me busy and has also allowed me to vent my spleen once or twice before resuming a zen like calm befitting my new monastic lifestyle.

Not drinking has meant that I am not hungover which means I don't feel the need to eat junk.The lack of alcohol is also ensuring any remaining nicotine cravings are minimal and manageable.

I realise that my current regime is not sustainable long-term but I'm committed to maintaining it for a month at least at which point I hope to have kicked the fags for good and can then move to a more sensible calorie intake and a few drinks every now and again.

Next week is Mel's birthday and we have a night away at Northcote Manor near Preston which is as fine a restaurant as any in the UK and we are also staying over for the night. We have gone for a 'gourmet tasting menu' and the excitement levels in our house are reaching a crescendo at the prospect of putting abstinence on the back burner for one night at least. Mels parents and her sister Penny are coming with us and it should be a lovely night.

Two days later, Fred and I are flying out to France for three days to assess progress, pay workers and plan the next stages of the project. I am really looking forward to seeing the work completed and am really keen to push on to concluding the renovation. I always enjoy time spent with Fred, he knows everything about everything and we amaze each other. I am amazed at the extent of his knowledge and the skills he possesses and he is amazed at the lack of mine. I think it's called a symbiotic relationship.

Blue Tuesday

2011-01-03T21:02:00.000Z

Tomorrow is Blue Tuesday when the nation returns to work with fragile resolutions just about intact, extended waistlines bearing chronic indigestion and a sense of relief that normality can re-commence. After the consumer led financial orgy that is Christmas, the money squandered over the festive period needs to be replenished and the population also needs to re-acclimatise to a diet that does not provide 5,000 calories a day.

The holiday adverts have started to appear already reminding us all that sunnier times lie in the near distance and the Cadburys creme eggs will be stocked in the shops over the next few days reminding us all that Jesus was in fact born inside a sugar filled egg or something. I forget now, it's so long since my catholic upbringing that I forget most of the religous festivals unless there is food involved. Good Friday when the death of Jesus is remembered with reverence and abstinence by Christians is a highlight for me as I am a big fan of the hot cross bun, especially toasted and buttered. Whereas Easter is just dead to me. I'm not a big chocolate fan so I just let that one go and enjoy the bank holiday.

Speaking of Bank holidays, we have one extra this year because of some bloke marrying some woman so we're already planning how best to incorporate that extra day within our comprehensive list of holidays in France. I am positively aching to spend some time in France and with little prospect of a week there until April due to work, I am planning a brief trip with my Father-in-law Fred to see the results of some recent work done on the holiday cottage. We have had floor tiles fitted throughout and I'll also see the fruits of Freds labor from the three months he and Pat spent there at the back end of last year. With my fitness regime beginning, my diet well underway and giving up smoking I need something to look forward to. That will do nicely.

Buffet season

2010-12-24T10:32:00.001Z

So it's here, the buffet season which is the main thing I look forward to each Christmas. Not for me the glitz and glamour of Christmas decorations, certainly not the religious periphery that we're told to remind ourselves about, nor even the gifts and presents bestowed upon each other on xmas day.

No, for me I look forward to the various buffet spreads, tantalising my taste buds and punishing my waistline. For the last couple of years, we have eaten out on Christmas day at a local pub in order to avoid the stress and strains that accompany a full Christmas lunch. This decision inadvertently caused a ripple effect which is most welcome. Christmas eve has now become a buffet-off amongst Mels family and being the world buffet champion for three years running now, I look forward to Christmas eve more than Christmas day itself.

Mel has been hard at work all week making Christmas cake, Stollen, Florentines, chocolate buns and this morning she is assembling two luxury Garland rolls, one sausage meat with quails eggs and black pudding and the other cheese and onion. I literally cannot wait and have taken to standing at the glass kitchen door like some kind of salivating window licker.

My contribution thus far has been to drink brandy, eat twiglets and make encouraging sounds whilst playing festive music on my ipad which I think you will agree is a valiant effort. I have just had to shell a dozen quails eggs and frankly I'm exhausted now.

Her sister Penny is cooking a turkey and her mum and dad have prepared a large ham and a Rabbit Terrine which I am particularly looking forward to. I will of course sing the obligatory chorus of 'Bright eyes' whilst simultaneously devouring the terrine and like any champion buffet eater will save enough space for cheese and biscuits and cake.

As I have said numerous times previously, I'm not the biggest Christmas fan but I'll make the effort for Mel and her family and will try really hard not to get legless tomorrow as I have on each previous occasion. A break from the mental stress and bother of the last few months will be most welcome.

Have a lovely xmas and I'll see you back here in the New Year.

Al.
x

It's beginning to feel a tiny little bit like Christmas......

2010-12-13T18:37:00.001Z

So we have reached my absolute favourite time of the year - The end of X-Factor. We have a love hate relationship with X-factor in our house. Mel loves it and I hate it. I used to really annoy her by making snide, sarcastic remarks from the sofa but now I just type them into Twitter and annoy everyone else in the world which seems to keep the peace in our house.

I don't particularly have a problem with shit karaoke shows, just when they dominate two hours of every Saturday and Sunday night for 10 weeks. Of course, I could choose to do something else but then what would I have left to complain about? I revel in the ludicrous self-importance of the judges and harumph my way through the hard luck stories of the mindlessly deluded contestants. What really bothers me is that there are literally thousands and thousands of talented musicians who will never get the recognition or success they deserve. These muppets can just about hold someone else's note and yet get adulation and fame simply by being part of this national freak show.

My pain is exacerbated by the fact that it is on immediately after Strictly Come Dancing which means an entire four hours of my Saturday night is lost to this drivel. I don't fundamentally object to Strictly as the contestants clearly work hard and demonstrate considerable skill but as anyone who has been on a big night out will attest, dancing is not my thing. I dance like a geography teacher trying to fit in at a school disco and I try wherever possible to avoid it.

So now we can get on with the serious business of Christmas before I commence my health regime. My body seems to know this and is stockpiling to accommodate. My alcohol intake is increasing as we approach the festivities although I have managed to keep my waistline in check through healthy eating. Last Sunday Mel and I went for a walk to Tatton Park with my Sister-in-laws dog Saffy. The snow was still fairly deep and that matched with a thick fog lent a slightly eerie atmosphere to the day. I took my new camera and amazed myself with some of the pictures I took.

The below picture was my attempt to capture that atmosphere although the artiness of the shot was slightly compromised by the ever inquisitive Saffy. See if you can spot her.

Down to earth with a bump......

2010-12-02T18:48:00.001Z

Now that the snow has finally hit London it has become headline news, dominating the news channels each competing to find the coldest parts of the UK and provide doom laden forecasts on how much worse the weather is going to become. If I have understood them right, temperatures could drop as low as -85 degrees and this cold snap could last well into the next century. Children are likely to grow up uneducated as all the schools are closed and basic provisions like caviar and champagne could run out within months.

Until yesterday my firm view was that weather was not in fact news, it was just weather. This was mainly because until yesterday the snow in the UK had only affected the East coast of the UK and other than some intense frosts, Manchester remained largely unaffected. This was bound to change at some point and that point was bound to coincide with my early morning trip to London for an important presentation.

I awoke at 5am and looked outside to see that somebody had replaced my urban metropolis with a fully formed Arctic Tundra. Snow flakes were dropping like stones due to the sheer size of them and I could just about make out my Land Rover beneath the several feet of snow. Being a hardy northerner, I set about digging the car out and then sat in the car with my engine running with the heating on full, weeping like a small child at the intense cold that had permeated my body. Eventually I thawed and the snow on my front and back windscreens had cleared enough for me see three feet in front of me.

I changed the driving setting to 'slippery as shit' and set off down the hill where we live towards the train station where my journey to London commenced. I had only turned the first bend when I noticed a BMW abandoned in the middle of the road blocking my exit. After beeping my horn for a couple of minutes, to the annoyance of my neighbours the owner of the car eventually emerged from his house.

"Do you want to get past?"

I assumed his question was rhetorical and said nothing until it became obvious he was in fact expecting an answer.

"errr....yes"

"I'll try, but I'm stuck"

I offered to give him a push and got out of my car whilst simultaneously realising that my work shoes were not necessarily the best footwear for the task I was about to undertake. I skated over to his car, performing two triple toe loops on the way and assumed the position that I have seen real men adopt when they are about to push a car.

The useless fop started to rev his engine causing the real wheels to spin like fury covering me in a deluge of brown slushy snow, head to foot. The shock of this assault on my senses caused me to stagger backwards and my banana-like shoes gave up any pretence of being connected to the ground and before I knew it I was on my arse and my head clattered against the road.

I had two more abortive attempts at pushing his car before giving up. I got back in my car and drove through a neighbours garden in order to get around him. It wasn't a smart move and I'm not proud of myself but I had to make my train and I wasn't about to let some idiot stop me from making it through. He seemed happy as I drove off and he even offered me his thanks by gesticulating with two fingers.

The journey to the station was a doddle, there was no traffic on the roads and the cars I did see were equally adept at driving in snowy weather. I arrived at the station with minutes to spare only to find my train delayed by 40 minutes. By the time the Virgin Pendolino arrived I was frozen solid and I huddled in my seat eventually feeling my circulation return. Naturally, there was an announcement stating that not hot drink or food was available for the journey.

Two hours later I arrived in Euston and began to hack my way across London to the South West where my customer was located. There was no snow anywhere but my boss called me to tell me that just 30 miles to the South East of London she was completely snowed in.

I made the meeting with minutes to spare, presented to my customer over the course of two hours and then made the return journey, which took just two hours back from London to Manchester and then a further one hour, forty five minutes to drive the four miles from Stockport station to our house in Cheadle.

I learnt my lesson today and worked from home.

Small steps on a long journey

2010-11-24T09:13:00.000Z

I'm off to Ireland for a few days again today, a country very much in the headlines for all the wrong reasons. I've visited the emerald isle on many, many occasions either for business or to indulge in my favourite pastime of ~~drinking~~ fishing. It pains me to see the country in such trouble and many people I talk to whilst over there are genuinely concerned not just for their own future but also for the next generation. In reality, what has happened to Ireland, nearly happened here and it was only the scale of the UK and the fact that we sit outside the single currency that prevented us from sliding down the slippery slope. My company is investing in Ireland though and I'm sure that they will come through this current crisis and emerge stronger and more resilient than before.

My heavy workload and the associated customer entertainment has forced me to re-evaluate my dietary approach and just by being careful what I eat and drink I'm now starting to shift my middle aged spread. By the time I get to Christmas I should be two stone lighter than last Christmas though inevitably I will regain a little through the consumption of mince pies and Jack Daniels. In the New Year I will quit my annoying smoking habit once and for all. To assist my notoriously piss poor will-power I will take Champix which has worked very well for me before when I gave up for a few months. I have smoked on and off (mainly on) since I was 13 and I am reaching the point where I can feel it's significant effects on my health. It has to go and in the New Year it will and I will then start to rebuild my fitness levels which tailed off in my late twenties.

Pat and Fred (my in-laws) return from France this weekend after spending six weeks out there working on the final stages of our renovation project. We have skyped regularly and have been really excited about the updates, our dining table looks amazing though our wi-fi connection does not transmit far enough for them to have shown me the Gite which our friends Matt and Helen tell us looks fabulous. In the next few weeks, the floor tiles will go down, the hot water system will be connected and when Pat and Fred return in the new year we will be on the home straight. I just need to focus on work and earning the money required to get through to completion. We have already had a number of friends, colleagues and family members interested in staying in there next year so there is a little bit of pressure on now to get it finished so we can test it next year at reduced rates and then let it out at full prices the following year.

We have an old piggery at the side of the house in its own little enclosed garden. Fred and I are evaluating various configurations of pre-assembled log cabins to replace the stone piggery (which is dilapidated beyond repair) and this will serve as additional accommodation for paying guests in the coming years.

The Old Piggery

I've said it before and I'll say it again. Pat and Fred are amazing and Mel and I are indebted to them beyond any measure. We're really looking forward to seeing them on their return and treating them for all their hard work.

Never meet your heroes....

2010-11-15T08:22:00.000Z

Someone once said 'never meet your heroes' and last week I did. We were fortunate enough (thanks to my pal Pauls wife Sallys donation to charity) to secure two tickets, access all areas with hospitality in the players lounge for the Manchester ~~snoozefest~~ Derby last Wednesday night. Once we had collected the tickets we descended into the bowels of the Eastlands stadium and after four security checks and various corridors and stairs, we found ourselves staring out at the pitch from the tunnel with the dressing rooms to our left, the managers office to our right and the players lounge just off to one side.

We bumped into Mancini in the corridor returning from an interview and our new £25m striker Balotelli dressed like something out of a Spike Lee film. On entering the players lounge we were surrounded by various players, mainly the ones who had not been selected. On various tables were the friends and families of the players. The room itself was hardly luxurious, more functional and a cold buffet and some hot food were laid on. It took barely seconds to realise that there was absolutely no alcohol in sight, reflecting Mancini's sensible policy of keeping alcohol away from players whilst on his watch.

I have never watched a Manchester Derby sober and we were not about to start now, so we went for a wander. We ascended in the players lift to the middle tier and went into one of the corporate lounges. We were immediately stopped by some prim and proper 'lounge manageress' who insisted that our VIP tickets did not allow us to order drinks from her bar. However, with a quick shimmy we avoided her and went to the other side of the bar and ordered drinks. Noel Gallagher and Mike Pickering (DJ and founder of M People) were entertaining a table full of City fans and the atmosphere was buoyant as the City fans contemplated the first derby in many years where we were favourites to win . After a couple of flagons we descended once more back to the players lounge which by now had filled with various injured or out of favour players.

We could hear the atmosphere start to build and we went to our seats to take in the pre-match banter and soon enough the game kicked off. Despite the initial cauldron of passion the atmosphere soon flattened as the game played out in a very docile manner, both teams cancelling each other out, afraid to make a mistake and sacrificing adventure for safety.

After a fairly dour 90 minutes we descended once more to the players lounge and were by this point surrounded by players past and present, all talking about the match and swigging from complimentary bottles of water or diet coke. Having no interest in carbonated beverages or curled up sandwiches and having little to say to those around us, most foreign and with a feint grasp of english we made an executive decision to retire to the pub over the road. It had been a fantastic experience and we both felt really privileged to have witnessed the heartbeat of our club but I'm not sure I would repeat it again. I felt slightly awkward, knowing that I did not really fit amongst these people. Being a fan is entirely different to being part of the fabric of the club and I was in danger of saying something embarrassing to one of the players so we left it at that and hoofed it to the pub.

On the way to the boozer, we were stopped by a man waving a microphone and his cameraman from some Arabic TV station or other.

"What do you think about Manchester Derby?"

"errr....yeah it was alright mate, bit boring"

"Why you like Manchester Derby?"

"ummmm....don't know really, it's just a big occasion filled with passion and ermmmm hatred. gets the blood flowing"

"....and what you think about American owners?"

"sorry?......"

"The American owners, the Glazers?"

"Oh right, yeah they're good lads. Hope they stay for a long time and continue to spend what they haven't got"

*bemusement*

"so... you like them? I thought everyone hated them and wanted them out"

"no mate....we love them...we'd love them to stay and ruin Man United even further"

"ahhh.....You are Manchester City fans"

"Yeah, me, him and all these people and all the people in that pub. Oh and all the people around you and most of the people inside the ground"

With that they scurried off in search of a better understanding of English football and presumably some United fans to interview.

A weird end to a strange night. A unique experience wrapped around a non-event of a football match.

Suits you sir.....

2010-11-06T09:14:00.000Z

This week entailed another business trip to Shannon for a few days. Often, the problem is that I'm regularly on a call when I pack for such trips and inevitably I forget something. On Tuesday night, I was on another mammoth conference call debating some particularly thorny issues over the course of a couple of hours whilst simultaneously slinging my possessions into my travel bag and ticking off my mental check-list as I went.

Work shirts - Check

Razor and cosmetics - Check

ipad and laptop - Check

I proceeded with haste to the airport for my 9pm flight and was just checking in for the flight when I had a sudden realisation that my bag was nowhere near as heavy as it ought to be. Realisation turned to curiosity and in turn into panic as I realised I had forgotten to pack my suit. I briefly contemplated two days of back-to-back meetings wearing a pair of jeans and work shirt combo and quickly decided that would not work at all.

With just twenty minutes to boarding I scurried around the airport looking for a solution whilst noticing that most of the shops were pulling down the shutters with one exception, the Hugo Boss shop. In my younger and more affluent days I regularly shopped there but the financial pressures of life have slowly readjusted my retail habits and these days I tend to just press my face against the window of such luxury establishments like some kind of Dickensian character. However, this was a full-on emergency and I stepped inside praying that a solution to my problem would not involve me taking out some kind of fabric related mortgage.

I moved along the clothes rail from medium to large, which is another journey I have embarked upon over the last few years and arrived at a plain blue suit which looked like a fit. I whisked it off the rail and headed to the changing room. I hurriedly changed and whilst it was not exactly neatly tailored it did fit reasonably well and I began to feel a sense of relief wash over me. Until I saw the priced tag - £440. I have not spent this amount on an item of clothing for many years but Hugo's monopoly meant that I reluctantly handed over my credit card.

The next two days were frenetic and pressured but I got through them whilst sporting the worlds most expensive ill fitting suit. No comment was made so I think I just about got away with it and breathed an audible sigh of relief (that didn't burst any buttons)as I arrived back at Shannon Airport on Thursday night for my 7pm flight home somewhat poorer than I had been 48 hours earlier.

I handed my passport in at the desk.

"Which flight are you on sir?"

"Manchester" I replied with a smile that was already beginning to fade.

"I have no record of your booking sir"

"There must be some mistake, I booked it myself" I said, instantly realising that was probably where the problem lay.

"I've just checked, you were booked on the 7am flight this morning sir"

"Bollocks" I replied, quickly realising this was intended to be a thought rather than something to externalise.

"I can get you on the 7pm sir, but that will be £150......."

In exasperation at my own stupidity, I handed over my now weary credit card and purchased another ticket to match my defunct self booked ticket.

I arrived home at 10pm £600 in deficit with a steely resolve to get myself organised in my personal life instead of just my professional one.

Yesterday was a day of catching up on my ever mounting work load interspersed with a Skype call to Pat and Fred my parents-in-law. They have been in France for three weeks now and have made terrific progress with our property project. Lights are fitted in the gite, doors hung, curtains bought and hung and best of all our gynormous dining table that Fred had offered to build for us is nearing completion. It truly is massive and will sit well in a room that is as high as it is long and wide. I can imagine it with a huge candelabra at one end and a pigs head with an apple in it at the other. Mel and I can sit at either end and ring each others mobile phones whenever we want to have a conversation. We may have to hire a servant to ferry condiments from one end to the other but is exactly what we wanted and I cannot wait to see it first hand. Regrettably, that may not be for a few months as my workload will remain as it is for a good few weeks yet.

Mel is studying for her masters too so stress levels are high in our house. It's a warm, comforting feeling to know that Pat and Fred are continuing to build our future life for us in the background whilst we plough on with more immediate priorities. Any light at the end of the tunnel remains a distant speck like a firefly in a cave, seemingly getting no closer no matter how fast we travel. Such is the way of our world right now and we must remind ourselves that we have a long-term plan and everything will be worth it in the end providing I don't spend all of our money plastering over my frighteningly monotonous schoolboy errors.

A comedy of schoolboy errors....

2010-10-30T09:59:00.002+01:00

A year ago we went to see the comedian Frankie Boyle a the Manchester Apollo only to find the place in darkness and for a horrible moment I thought we had arrived a day late. On closer inspection of the tickets we discovered that in fact we were a year early. I regaled this story on my blog last year and posed the question, who sells tickets 18 months in advance? The answer of course was Frankie Boyle.

On Tuesday, we returned on the correct night to witness one of his last stand up gigs as he is retiring from the circuit to concentrate on TV. He is notoriously irreverential and to some people offensive. I belong to the school of thought that anything is fair game to laugh at even if it is in a dark and slightly uncomfortable way. On Tuesday night even my hardened sense of humor was tested as he had obviously chosen to use this last hurrah as an opportunity to push his jokes ever closer to the bone. Don't get me wrong, he was very funny but there were times where I winced and indeed at least a couple of people walked out mid-act.

At these kind of events I get as much enjoyment from watching other people than the act themselves and Tuesday was a great case in point. Two couples in front of us sat motionless and mute throughout the whole performance except for the woman on the end who spent the whole night taking photographs on a crap digital camera and showed each dreadful, blurry photograph to her friends which I find distinctly odd. Surely she knows that by typing 'Frankie Boyle' into Google Images it will come up with hundreds of photographs of him which are ALL better than the ones she took.

Her boyfriend spent the night playing a skateboarding game on his iPhone and his friend spent the night watching him play a skateboarding game on his iPhone. These people had spent £120 to not watch and not laugh at Frankie Boyle. Very weird and for me endlessly fascinating.

Tonight we are attending a Halloween party at my friends Paul and Sally's house. The kids are obviously going to be in scary fancy dress but the parents in the main share my utter loathng of any costume related event. In my case, this stems from a Cub Scouts fancy dress party when I was aged eight, where my parents dressed me up as Darth Vader. Well I say Darth Vader. I looked like he would if he had worn black tracksuit bottoms, a hideous papiere mache mask, his dads black coat and a light saber fashioned from a cardboard tube. I spent the entire evening explaining what it was I was supposed to be and have been allergic to fancy dress ever since.

However, one of my friends this week commited a very basic schoolboy error. He rang Paul the host of the party Paul to ask whether the parents would be wearing fancy dress. Of course, there is only one answer to this question and thanks to Paul's devilish sense of humour I look forward to seeing my friend Ian being the only adult in fancy dress tonight.

We will be turning up fashionably late as there are twenty seven children attending. Whilst I love Paul and Sally's kids (my godchildren) I subscribe to the adage that ' kids are like farts, you can just about stand your own' and so we will try and time our entrance just before the start of the kids exit and avoid any unnecessary hearing damage from wailing banshees and cackling witches.

I'll report back next week.......

Bloggers block has blocked my blog....

2010-10-23T19:32:00.001+01:00

I just havent been able to muster the energy nor the focus to blog for a few weeks. Working long, long weeks means I have little creativity left by Saturday morning when I usually do my blogging. My routine is typically to brew up some volcanic strength coffee and just write. I've tried this the last two weeks and have somehow found myself utterly lacking in the writing department and aimlessly surfing football websites or some obscure website about fishing techniques.

The whole thing about blogging is to try and discuss something interesting, entertaining or humorous and describing long weeks of work is about as interesting as someone reading out a telephone book so I will desist for another week and try and ensure that something interesting happens which will spark my creativity. Either that or I will make something up.

The final push......

2010-10-11T17:37:00.002+01:00

We returned from our short break in France last Wednesday and before we knew it we were back into work at breakneck speed with barely a minute to reflect on the transition from relaxing rural France to frenetic, congested England. So I'll try and do it here.....

We managed a day in Brantome whilst in France, where I got a chance to experiment with my new camera. . We also managed a few drives through the beautiful countryside, taking in magnificent sites like Chateau Montbrun. Here are a couple of snaps I managed. Not brilliant but I'm still getting used to my camera...

We were determined to just relax and spend some time thinking about the details for the completion of the Gite as we enter the final stages of its renovation. A visit to Castorama in Limoges (owned by B&Q) gave us the inspiration for choosing the details. Wall tiles, floor tiles, patio tiles were all chosen and carefully photographed to send back to Fred and Pat who are departing for France next week with a trailer full of bathroom furniture.

We didn't argue much over the details, we have relatively similar tastes and neither of us much design flair but I think we have chosen well with the main criteria being durability and light colours to counteract the lack of natural light.

We caught up with our friends Roz & Neil, and their new pigs who were very cute and extremely edible looking.

We also had a lovely evening at our friends Matt & Helens with their two adorable boys Etienne and Louis where we put the world to rights and consumed more alcohol than is sensible for one night. They also bought me a fantastic Manchester City T-shirt for my 40th which must have stuck in their throats given their support of the 'other team'. I include a photo of Helen and the boys here purely due to her dislike of having her photo taken.

All too soon it was time to return armed with lots of ideas and thoughts as to completing our 3 year project.

On Saturday, Pat and Fred travelled down from Hartlepool to spend the day planning the bathroom fixtures and reviewing the ever increasing list of jobs that Fred will undertake for us during their 5 week stay. They are a really calming influence, dampening my tendency to get stressed and over-excited by it all and making pragmatic, down to earth suggestions. Just what I need as I hurtle around with work and find myself with little time to think and plan properly.

After they left, Mel and I impeccably observed our self-imposed abstinence from Alcohol following our consumption of half of Frances wine reserves. I say impeccably observed, it actually lasted for about 30 minutes before we cracked open a bottle of 12 year old single malt that I'd been given for my birthday and drained half of it. The accompanying bottle of champagne and three beers were probably a mistake but if your going to break a fast then I firmly believe you should do it properly.

As a natural consequence, Sunday was a write off with none of my pre-planned jobs ever getting beyond the advanced planning stage.

Another big week in work beckons but safe in the knowledge that our final push to finish our barn renovation is well underway and in safe hands (i.e not ours!).

I witnessed.....

2010-10-01T10:58:00.006+01:00

My 40th birthday party was fantastic. The three day birthday festival started fantastically on Friday night with a meal at my favourite restaurant, the Bay Tree in Cheadle with Mel and her family. I love spending time with her parents and her sister. It may sound trite, but I feel so safe, secure and loved and Pat and Fred always make me feel really special and Friday night was no different.

The food was lovely (belly pork and Black Pudding is a winning combination especially when combined with Dauphinoise potatoes which are like culinary crack to me). We laughed and drank like it was my 40th birthday the next day, which was lucky.

Saturday started amazingly, presents (Panasonic Lumix G2 camera) and top notch bacon sandwiches and a cheeky early morning drink fired me up for the day ahead. A totally unexpected Manchester City victory against Chelsea put me on a triumphant roll and I returned to get ready for my party. Seeing old friends that I haven't seen for years who had travelled significant distances to be there was a bit overwhelming and the presents and cards began to pile high. My friend Robin bought me a City shirt with 'Leishy 40' on the back, which I changed into immediately. He is one of those people that always get things right and his presents were absolutely perfect.

My dear friends Paul and Sally had made a book called 'the Legend of Leishy' documenting my life through photos and witty comment which choked me up a bit. A centre pin fishing reel from them finished me off and by the time I stood up to do a speech I was in pieces, though that could have been the two gallons of Jack Daniels I had already polished off.

My speech went OK but I misjudged it slightly, drifting into mawkish sentiment about my late mum and not really properly acknowledging the love and support I have had from Mels family over the last five years. I would like to state here and now that the optimism and purpose I now feel is entirely down to their encouragement and effort in getting our France Project off the ground and towards fruition. Meeting Mel was the best thing that has ever happened to me and I feel genuinely lucky and privileged to be a part of their family.

We stayed at the party until 1.30am and then returned home where I accidentally stayed up drinking until 3am collapsing into a heap and needing to be undressed by my patient wife. Naturally, Sunday was a write off though I managed to stay alive long enough to open all my cards and presents which were all brilliant.

Two very difficult days at work led up to our France holiday and we arrived here in the Limousin on Wednesday afternoon, shattered and ready for a break. Unfortunately work meant that I spent most of the next 24 hours on the phone to work whilst Mel slept and relaxed. My holiday only really started yesterday evening but I can now relax for a few days.

Every time we come to France something bizarre happens, like last Christmas when two local hunters showed up late at night to sell us a recently deceased deer. Anyway, yesterday whilst Mel slept upstairs in our farmhouse, I was working downstairs. our house is a 10 minute drive from the nearest town and really is in the middle of nowhere. Passing cars a major event and if we see two go past then inevitably one of us will say 'T-O-T-A-L Gridlock' in a comedic Jamaican accent.

So as I was finishing off the latest frantic and stressful work call, I noticed a middle aged couple approaching the house. they knocked at the front door and I prepared to converse in my rudimentary Cod French that I have adopted. It always takes me three days to even begin speaking French and I didn't feel ready for it. I answered the door and stumbled through a few basic sentences, introducing myself and apologising for my poor linguistic skills.

"it's alright, we are English too"

My sense of relief was palpable. I was just about to invite them inside, assuming they were a near neighbour when my spider sense began to tingle.

"Can I help?" I said whilst noticing pamphlets in their hands. In my experience, pamphlets are never a good sign.

"we're here to spread the word and we'd like to talk to you about God. We are Jehovah's witnesses. May we come inside."

"As a lapsed Catholic and a devout atheist, you most certainly may not. I have read about religions extensively and I'd like to say that yours is perhaps the most bonkers of the lot. When is the next end of the world day, you seem to hold them pretty regularly"

"there is no specific day, but the world will end soon and we can offer you salvation"

"No, your alright. I'm not in the market for salvation right now. In fact I've been stocking up on damnation recently, have you got any of that?"

"no....."

"never mind, bye then....."

I closed the door staggered that they had walked all the way out to our house just to peddle their own special version of shit.

I love our house in France, always throwing up challenges and surprises and seemingly the odd nutter too.

THE Birthday Blog.........

2010-09-24T12:57:00.001+01:00

I am writing this blog now, twenty four hours before my Birthday as I expect I will be unable to master hand-eye co-ordination to any proficient degree during the next forty eight hours. The 'celebrations' commenced last night with an impromptu gallon of wine with Mel last night after possibly the hardest working week of my career and a presentation on Wednesday which I will remember for good and bad reasons for the rest of my life. My policy of not talking about work in any detail prevents me from any further description but I will just say that when I got home on Wednesday night I was a gibbering wreck and I am glad it is over.

One thing I can share with you is that a few seconds before I was due to start my presentation we realised the room was not big enough to accommodate the audience. We decided to switch to another bigger room which involved transferring a large buffet. Whilst precariously balancing a large tray of sandwiches I inadvertently backed into a tray of Guacamole, Sour Cream and Salsa and was therefore forced to present to a large audience whilst sporting a 'Tricoleur' jacket which certainly helped to break the ice.

This morning Mel made me breakfast in bed mainly due to the fact that I was unable to get out of it. I had a bastard behind the eyes and could barely speak but it's good practice for the two days ahead.

My speech for tomorrow night remains a concept at this stage and I have typically left it until very late in the day in the vain hope that inspiration decides to pay me a visit but there is little sign yet. Mumbling a few thank-yous is apparently not enough and Mel is expecting me to be funny which I only really ever manage by accident so perhaps I can concoct some form of comedy incident, though in reality they tend to visit me uninvited anyway.

Tomorrow I am going to the City v Chelsea football match where I expect to have a dampener put on my day but that is the lot of a Manchester City fan and I have steeled myself accordingly for the dreadful inevitability of a 'wupping'. My friend Neil in France will be the one who emerges from the day with football satisfaction and I will just have to take it like a 40 year old man.

I have decided that as today is my last day of being thirty something, I will revert to childish behaviour of the kind that I was scolded for as a child. So an evening of skidding on my knees, picking my nose, playing practical jokes and talking too loudly should fit the bill. The fact that we are going for a meal to a posh restaurant tonight doesn't phase me. I'm sure if I explain, they will understand my errant behaviour.

Mel is displaying incredible amounts of patience at my mid-life meltdown and whilst I appreciate her understanding, she will probably run out of her stocks of both patience and understanding by Sunday morning. By then I will be 40 and I will use my new found maturity and sophistication to make it up to her in some as yet unthought of way.

Wish me luck, I'm going in........

Fewer shadows, more reflections......

2010-09-18T09:23:00.000+01:00

I returned from my business trip from Ireland on Wednesday night, a husk of my former self due to burning the candle at both ends and in the middle. Adare Manor was even more spectacular than the photos suggested.

Imagine all of the majestic country houses you have ever seen all wrapped up into one sprawling gothic package. 52 chimneys, 365 fireplaces and a shit load of American tourists wowing a lot. I felt privileged to have stayed there even though I spent little time in my room over the course of the two days. My two colleagues are keen golfists and they took their bats over with them and played a round in what I can only assume was fancy dress. They reported the course there to be one of the finest in the world which is no surprise given that Tiger Woods plays there each year.

Work is utterly relentless but fantastically rewarding but as a result Mel and I have seen very little of each other and when we have I must confess to having been a slavering wreck. Her botox business is building nicely and she starts her Masters degree in a few weeks. My work activity will continue at its current pace for a good few months yet so time will become an even more precious commodity.

My birthday is now just a week away, I have a speech to write at some point and tomorrow will be spent coordinating peoples menus for my bash next Saturday night. I am a little overwhelmed at the response to my invites, everyone has accepted and some people who are attending are very old friends that I haven't seen in a long time, so I am really looking forward to it.

Most of all, I am looking forward to our holiday in France which is probably my most deserved break ever. We intend to do little of consequence, the odd day trip here and there, catch up with some friends and planning the next phase of our work on the barn conversions. Pat and Fred (my in-laws) are over in France for a month in October and Fred is raring to go following his recovery from a recent knee operation.

We will then return to the onset of Autumn which will serve as a reminder to get our central heating fixed in Cheadle. It has been defective for months but my motivation to do anything about it has only arisen with the drop in temperature over the last week. Last night was just two degrees and I found myself wishing I had done something about it earlier. But that is how I roll.........my priorities dictated by what is immediately in front of my face.

Somebody mentioned the Christmas word to me today which should be illegal before November. I'll be honest, I'm not the biggest fan of the Yuletide season, it's an enormous disruption, an expense I can do without and in truth the only joy and goodwill I experience is when it's all over and my liver can recover. Humbug? Probably but the last few Christmas's with my mum before she died were heartbreaking affairs and no matter how hard I try that is the feeling that is stirred within me each year. She died fifteen years ago last week and I miss her as much today as I did in the immediate weeks and months after her death from cancer. She was my best friend, my inspiration and a really intelligent funny woman. The only person who has ever matched her in those characteristics and in my affections is Mel and I feel very lucky to have had two such people in my life.

* Having read that last paragraph back I realise how maudlin and self-indulgent that sounds but if you can't reflect at your 40th birthday then when can you......so bugger it, it's staying......

Good Manors

2010-09-11T09:36:00.001+01:00

It's not very interesting to start every post by stating how busy I have been but I do like to update my blog regularly and I have had no opportunity to do so for 2 weeks. Mel has just returned from a short break with her Sister Penny in the lake district so I have had to cope on my own for five days. Luckily I was away with work for 2 of those days otherwise I would have had to call the emergency services for help. I always enjoy being on my own for about an hour but then quickly miss someone to project my inane drivel upon.

On Monday I leave for Ireland for three days for customer meetings in Shannon. I always look forward to my trips as it is a beautiful part of the world and my customers are lovely people but I am particularly looking forward to this trip. My customer is well connected in Ireland and has negotiated an unbelievably keen room rate at Adare Manor which will make a nice change from the soulless places our travel policy normally allows.

In reality, I will spend little time there but still, Just Look at it!

As a consequence of my travels and workload I have neglected friends and family so my impending 40th takes on more significance as it will likely be the first time I will have seen everyone for months. We leave for France three days later and again I am looking forward to catching up with our friends on the other side of the channel. I'm not the best at keeping in touch with people and at the moment I am so brain dead by the time Friday arrives I am good for very little at the weekends. I normally save my half arsed resolutions for new year but my 40th birthday seems an opportune moment to commit to making more of an effort to stay in contact with the people that mean the most to me.

My main birthday present, a Panasonic Lumix G2 camera arrived this week and I was allowed to test it before it was put away and I think you can expect more photographs in future blog posts, it really is a thing of beauty. For the first time in my life I have read a user manual and I am determined to get to grips with photography as it is something that has always fascinated me. Whether I have a talent for it or not is debatable but between my fishing trips, France holidays and our regular walks in the countryside I should have ample opportunity for some good snaps.

These false dawns are coming thick and fast......

2010-08-30T16:20:00.002+01:00

Following on from last weeks post, Mel and I discussed my 40th as it is now all booked and we are sending out invites today. We agreed it would be a good idea for me to start my health kick early, lose a few pounds and arrive at my intimate gathering feeling and looking good.

The early signs were encouraging, I swam half a mile twice in three days ate sensibly and even though I was working hard I got plenty of sleep through the week and was definitely feeling better as we approached the bank holiday weekend.

On Friday night Mel said she was going shopping with her sister Penny and asked if I would like to meet them both at TGI Fridays for dinner. My response was resolute,

'No chance Mel, if you want achieve results, you have to make sacrifices. Success is a series of small steps leading to the ultimate destination and none of those steps are called TGI Fridays'.

I could tell she was impressed with my iron discipline as she said 'ok, piss off then, you'll have to make your own tea' which is marital code for 'nice one Al, you really seem to be taking this seriously'.

I sat down very pleased with myself and envisioned the response of my family and friends as the the new svelte like version of me arrived at the restaurant and they all gasped at my toned physique and congratulated me on launching into my 5th decade with renewed vigour and focus.

Suddenly my daydream was interrupted my a noise.

'.....and what would you like to drink with that Burger?.....'

'oh right, err I suppose I'd better have a double Jack Daniels and diet coke please, make sure it's diet yeah' I replied desperately trying to cling to some crumb of dignity following my complete capitulation.

I went to bed on Friday night filled with self-loathing, oh and loads of meat and various Tex Mex starters. But as someone once said the road to victory is littered with setbacks and pitfalls and I awoke on Saturday morning with a ruthless self-determination. After a small bowl of bran flakes served in the normal bowl instead of my 'special cereal bowl', I was at the pool at 7.30 and the Cheadle Aquatic torpedo as launched into the first of 30 lengths.

I can tell you that as I returned home I was filled with an inner glow. I was now ready to face the weekend ahead armed with an almost spiritual knowledge that my arch enemies, temptation and hedonism would be unable to dismount me from the moral high ground I was now perched upon.

'what's that Mel?'

'oh, it's your payslip from work, isn't this bonus month? '

'yeah, pass it over here'

I opened it without much enthusiasm knowing what it contained and also knowing that it just about covered the myriad of commitments in both France and the UK.

'ermmm.....you know how I said there was an outside possibility I could get a bit more bonus......?'

'yes.....'

'and you know that Artisan Kitchenaid you always wanted and the new i-pad I've been hankering after?'

'yeeeeessss' she replied, revealing a slight boredom with this line of questioning.

'well it is more and quite a bit more, so let's go......'

Within seconds we were in John Lewis performing our own version of supermarket sweep, feverish with retail frenzy given how long it is since we were in any position to treat ourselves.

Within an hour my wardrobe was replenished, my gadgetry requirements more than met and a bottle of my favourite Amarone Red wine was also purchased.

Three hours later and despite having an early start on Sunday to attend a friends wedding in Hertfordshire we sat at the kitchen table drunk on fine wine and retail therapy. I'd love to tell you we ate sensibly and in moderation but you wouldn't believe me anyway.

Predictably our journey to the wedding was tortuous given our delicate states and it was only the four glasses of champagne, bottle of red wine and 6 double Jack Daniels and diet cokes consumed after the wedding that rendered me human once more. We had a great time to be fair but my new regime was not so much 'put on ice' more 'slung disdainfully into the deep freezer' from where I have just retrieved it.

I now sit poised to venture out for another half mile swim though I hanker for some sordid food to fuel the next false dawn of my health kick.

More obsession about getting old........

2010-08-21T10:28:00.001+01:00

I worked so hard last week that by the time I got home last night I was barely capable of cognitive thought. It's not an attractive vision I paint but I spent yesterday evening dribbling and nodding off every ten minutes. Thankfully a good nights sleep has rendered me human again and I can indulge in some serious Olympic standard relaxation.

We have a boozy lunch planned at the local restaurant 'the Bay Tree' in Cheadle where I will be holding my 40th birthday bash in just a few weeks time (gulp). It's by far my favourite eatery and I have had some brilliant nights there with friends, customers or just with Mel. It's achievement is transforming simple quality ingredients into amazingly flavourful food with great service and an ambience that just sits perfectly with me.

I am starting to get nervous about my birthday party on September the 25th. I hate being the centre of attention (no, honestly I do.........) and I wanted a small intimate affair but the list of invitees has already grown to 30 people and will inevitably increase as we get nearer.

Following that we have a week in France from the 29th of September which will be our last visit to Chalus this year. I'm hoping we can get some more work started on our Gite project as work has got in the way of making any plans over the last few weeks and I am keen to press on so we can rent it to family and friends next year before renting it to the holiday market in 2012.

Becoming 40 is something that I remember thinking about as a teenager. I went to my Dads 40th and was already drinking and smoking and I remember thinking how ancient it seemed. That barely seems a couple of years ago and I almost feel like someone must have stolen ten years of my life somewhere down the line. It was probably when I went to Liverpool......

As I sit, nervously awaiting my 5th decade it doesn't seem so old anymore. I vigorously nod when people spit the cliché "40 is the new 30" at me. Whilst I desperately want to believe that, my body reminds me that in fact 40 is just.....well 40.

I've noticed myself involuntarily grumbling about modern music and fashion, feel myself sneering at the young generation for looking so smug with themselves as if they invented having a good time and I regularly find myself thinking about comfy clothes to wear when I am at home.

The thought of a nice meal and an early night make me feel warm inside, a night out on the tiles makes me feel slightly nauseous and I start worrying about taxis, hangovers and whether the music will be too loud. I'm really trying to fight against it but make no mistake, I am entering middle age at breakneck speed. It will not be too long before a box of tissues appears on the rear parcel shelf in my car and I start to wear my comfy pants outside of the house. The trousers/trainers combination that has made me laugh every time I have seen someone wearing it, no longer seems so heinous. These are worrying times and I fear the changes are irreversible.

I therefore resolve to live my 40th decade much more healthily than the preceding 20 years. That wouldn't take much effort in truth but I really am going to make the effort. I'm under no illusion that a new regime of healthy diet and lifestyle can repair the damage caused by 20 years of excess but at least I'll feel able to buy one of those mens health and fitness magazines that have nudged lads magazines off the shelves without feeling like a complete fraud.

My wife Mel lives healthily and is as fit as a fiddle and whilst she likes a little drink and a good time as much as the next person, she balances that perfectly with a great diet and a regular fitness regime. This week in addition to working long hours at the Hospital she has found time to run the house and start her new Botox and fillers business venture called Sparkle. To see her so excited is a real pleasure and her initial nervousness is turning to confidence. I am so proud of her and her happiness and sense of adventure are more important to me than any birthday milestone.

Sheikhing all over..................

2010-08-14T11:50:00.004+01:00

As the more avid (or awake) of you will have noticed, there has been no blog. Work has been a full on whir and my feet have barely touched the ground and as that is not a very interesting topic for a blog so I thought I'd spare you.

Today is a very special day. Today is the start of the football season.

It feels like a little lightswitch has been flicked on, a switch that has not been working for three months (though it did flicker during the world cup). However, I always find it difficult to get overly animated about watching England. I'm as patriotic as the next man, but Club football is what sets my pulse racing. It doesn't help that the national team are serially disappointing but in truth it's because I like to reserve my tribalism for Manchester City.

As the old joke would have it, I have stuck with Manchester City through thin and thin. I have suffered the highs and lows over 30+ years, the highs never quite scaling the summit and the lows delivering regular low blows on an almost annual basis.

I used to support a football club run by a TV & Hi Fi salesman and then subsequently a manufacturer of toilet paper. Boardroom unrest was a constant and bad decisions were habitual. We had a ground with four unmatched stands, each reflecting a period of optimism for future success that was never quite delivered. Calamity and Pathos was embedded into the fabric our club and I often wondered whether I supported them because of that or despite it.

Now I know that is despite it, because the tragicomedy that was my football club has gone replaced by a new era. Owners with seemingly bottomless pockets, a professional well run club, a genuinely world class squad, proposed expansion plans that extend beyond football and a future that stretches out in front of us like a route to football greatness.

With Manchester City having spent over £100m for the second summer in a row everybody's expectations are high and the stage is set for a statement as to what's to come this season. These days it's different, we've gone from being everybody's second favourite team to being the genuine envy of every other football club expressed through resentment and hypocrisy. Our new team will need to bed in quickly and show a complete disregard and disrespect for the top four and the nonsense that surround them. City have the players to worry anyone in the premiership, the big question now is whether Mancini can get them to function as a successful team.

Being a Manchester City fan however, I already have my defence and story straight should we deliver a damp squib of a performance and Redknapps Tottenham lay the proverbial banana skin in front of the fledgling City team. It will take time, just not too much I hope.

Regardless, it's nice to have proper football back. Tonight we are at a family barbecue where somebody has made the mistake of hiring a karaoke machine. In sobriety, I claim to hate karaoke machines and show disdain for them generally. However, after just a few units of alcohol my sneering attitude is replaced by an attitude of please get off I think you'll find it's my turn again.

Tonight will either be a rousing chorus of 'Blue Moon' or a miserable rendition of "I guess that's why they call it the Blues". Stay tuned to find out.

Classicalfresco

2010-08-01T18:27:00.002+01:00

We were at Tatton Park yesterday for the annual Halle Orchestra picnic in the park event. After the last few days of rain and some gloomy weather forecasts the signs were not good. Mel and her family had spent a lot of time preparing a heavenly feast and we set off in the minibus at 5pm with a certain amount of trepidation and sure enough five minutes into our journey it started to hammer down with rain.

However after a small shower we had no further rain and even had an hour of sun in the late evening. We ate and drank like royalty and spent a good 2-3 hours just taking in the atmosphere and people watching. Having arrived in plenty of time, we had secured a fantastic spot with a good view of the stage and were hugely entertained by the many groups of people bringing enormous tables, padded chairs, candelabras and gargantuan picnic baskets turning up at 7pm and appearing bemused that they couldn't find a spot near the front.

The performance was pretty good on the whole however the planned Tenor Wynne Evans had cried off ill (questionably according to the Guardian) and his last minute replacement Geraint Dodd was in the opinion of our party a bit lacking sounding a little like Vic Reeves pub singer routine. Natasha Marsh did a great job though and the traditional firework crescendo set to Wagners Rise of the Valkyrie was absolutely spectacular.

Today we went to see the Joy Division Unknown Pleasures exhibition in Macclesfield. I have had a fixation with Joy Division since my very early teens and I couldn't pass up the opportunity to see some rare artefacts. In the end it was pretty good but I do actually own quite a few of the things on display and I wasn't blown away in truth.

On the way back we stopped at a pub called the Butley Ash where Mel and I had possibly the worst meal ever. Managing to make Chicken and Chips taste THAT bad is actually a tremendous achievement and the 'Chef' should be proud of his/her achievements. The abomination was served about 45 seconds after ordering it and we tried to take some enjoyment from our food but this proved impossible. In addition to the rancid food our ears were assailed by the sound of a dog whelping, screaming and scratching at the floor above our heads. We tentatively complained though we were nervous in case some kind of punishment was dished out.

We complained about the meal and were not charged for the food but even then I still felt hard done by as my hearty appetite had now subsided, my stomach churning on what little food I actually managed to eat. It was a lovely pub in a lovely location but a terrible waste of a Sunday dinner.

Ravaged by time.....

2010-07-26T14:29:00.000+01:00

There has been a severe shortage of time since returning from Holiday. A real drought, in fact an absolute dearth of it. Work has been full on with deadlines to meet and no time to readjust to working for a living once more after my holiday in France. My body was crying out for a post lunch cider on Monday and demanding a little snooze but I had to bully it into submission in the name of earning money.

Mel's business plans for her new botox business are in full flight since she passed her course last Sunday and very shortly she will be practising her new found skills, administering youth giving serum to the needy and helping those ravaged by the cruel passage of time.

Mel's parents have been down in Manchester fitting her sisters new kitchen, which has necessitated barbecues and eating out and we also had a wedding to attend on Friday night, when I forgot how old I was and accidentally stayed out until 4am, drinking as if I might never be able to drink again. Naturally, I spent the rest of the weekend recovering and promising myself I would never make that mistake again.

Social commitments are coming thick and fast and my 40th birthday is now visible on the horizon like a gathering storm. I am frustrating Mel by being very non-specific about how I would like to celebrate as I feel that it may arrive quicker if I think about it too much and I'm trying to squeeze the last drops of enjoyment out of being thirty something.

I remember attending my fathers 40th birthday, I was already drinking and smoking by that point and I vividly recall thinking about how ancient forty was and how far away it seemed. It feels like only a couple of years since then as time races forward the older you get like some kind of 'law of diminishing returns'.

It is of course, just a number and age is just a state of mind. It just feels like such a big number and big numbers negatively affect my state of mind. I may have to register as a patient with Mel's new business (Sparkle) and see if she can't somehow slow my inexorable decline into middle age.

A Perfect Storm

2010-07-18T10:53:00.006+01:00

We arrived back yesterday from two sun soaked, fun filled weeks in France. Our journey back was for once an absolute delight and my relaxed frame of mind and a few glasses of Bordeaux allowed me time to reflect on a brilliant holiday.

Mel and I were able to spend five days together alone in our house in Chalus which is a rare luxury for us. We usually have family or friends over with us which is lovely in itself, but we rarely get time to take in the beauty and serenity of the Limousin and explore previously unvisited delights.

We had a day in Périgueux a beautiful city just 50 minutes from Chalus and a regular day out for us when in France. This old Roman city is an amazing place to spend a day amidst the public squares and winding ancient streets filled with 'saw you coming' gift shops nestled between eateries and wine shops.

Our remaining time was spent relaxing and drinking, mostly drinking and absorbing the current status of our renovation project. The interior of the Gite is now fully boarded out, the electrician and plumber have completed the first fix and we are confident we will complete the interior at least by the end of the year. We will be renting it out to friends and family next year to test the place out with the intention of marketing and letting it out from April 2012.

The old house which was sited at the rear of our property has been demolished. In some ways it was a shame to drop such an old building but it was crumbling anyway, too small to serve a useful purpose and also dominated the garden blocking the light into our house. It was a haven for insects, bugs and bats who all seem to have relocated to the old piggery sited on the other side of our property.

As I mentioned in my last blog, Mel is a keen runner and cyclist and I agreed to accompany her on her runs through the countryside on my bike. I didn't struggle too much but some of the hills had me coughing up a lung and reminding me that I need to get fitter as I hurtle towards my 40th birthday.

On the Thursday of our first week, my friend Paul arrived at Limoges where I collected him for our long overdue Carp fishing holiday in the region. We have known each other since we were just four years old, he was my best man and I his. We have fished together since we were kids, graduating from Lancashire mill ponds to large lakes, moving from small fish waters to our shared passion of the pursuit of the king of freshwater fish - the carp.

The Limousin region is perhaps the epicentre of the carp fishing world. Carp have resided in the lakes and rivers of the region for hundreds of years, forming a significant part of the local cuisine in times gone by. Whilst they are still eaten with some regularity neither Paul nor I are remotely interested in their culinary qualities. For us, they are a fish of beauty, power and guile.

Over the last three years I have been able to fish a number of picturesque lakes and ponds in the area but none that hold fish of a significant size. I was lucky enough to capture a 37lb specimen on my honeymoon (no really) three years ago but Paul had not broken the 30lb barrier, those fish being relatively rare in the UK where he has done most of his fishing.

Thanks to my friend Neil , I was introduced to a friend of his that owned a picture perfect lake of about five acres just a few minutes from our house. Alan was reticent to allow people to fish on his lake as he is concerned about the welfare of his fish but on introduction, he understood that we were just as concerned for piscatorial welfare as he is and agreed to let us fish for a day or two. He had added about fifty large carp to the existing stock about two years ago but was unsure how they had grown or indeed whether the bigger fish still existed.

Any angler would tell you that the chance to fish an unfished lake is a once in a lifetime opportunity and to say we were excited would be an understatement. After collecting our £200 worth of bait from just over the border in the Dordogne we headed to the lake arriving on the Friday and setting up camp, my hands shaking with excitement.

After a couple of hours setting up we were almost immediately amongst the fish, each one bigger than the last. Paul was as usual the more successful angler, something I have had to live with for 35 years. However, we both caught fish over 20lbs and as the sun began to set the action became ever more frantic and by 3am I was physically shattered and wound my rods in just to get some much needed sleep.

The second day was equally idyllic, the hot weather forcing us to seek shade for short periods before returning to the fishing which slowed a little but not much. On the second night, we were treated to the sight of a distant violent thunderstorm with fork and sheet lightning illuminating the moonless sky every couple of seconds. It was a dramatic sight which caused a tingle down the spine and the air seemed charged with electricity mainly because it was charged with electricity. With more than a little concern, we realised that the storm was indeed edging nearer and from nowhere a stiff wind developed signalling it's imminent approach.

This would ordinarily have been a good time to wind in the rods, they are made from carbon fibre and would prove an ideal conductor for lightning and of significant danger to our health. Paul chose this course of action as any sensible person would do.

As usual, I chose a different course of action- I fell asleep. I was awoken an hour later by two things. One the screaming sound of my bite alarm signalling a take from a carp and secondly, the intense storm over head. I had a moment to consider my next action, I could not leave the Carp towing my line around the lake and instead I dashed for my rod to the sound of laughter coming from Paul's bivvy to my left as I played the fish, lit up strobe-like by the lightning that flickered all around. I really did feel vulnerable particularly as I had neglected to put on my rubber bivvy shoes that would have at least offered some protection in case of me being struck.

Thankfully the fish spat the hook and I threw down my rod and dived for cover as the sound of Paul's laughter intensified to a cacophony of mirth. Now wide awake, I contemplated my near death experience and was just recovering my composure when Pauls rod screamed away. 20 minutes later he landed a fish of 33lb 12oz, which we later discovered was the biggest fish in the lake having been introduced 2 years earlier at 33lb.

In the end we stayed for four days and nights catching nearly fifty fish between us. The lake owner was pleased with our pictures and records of the fish we had caught and he gave us an open invite to return any time we liked.

We spent a further two days fishing small lakes and exploring the River Vienne for future missions. Paul returned to the UK on Thursday and Mel and I spent the last night soaking up the sunshine and drinking to our future life together in France.

In all, a fantastic holiday and a taster for the idyllic life that lies ahead for us. For now a return to work beckons and there is money to be earned to finance the next stages of our project.

A tale of two jams........

2010-07-04T19:31:00.003+01:00

.............Well actually several...... We set of to France on Friday afternoon and made good progress until we reached the bottom of the M6 when we suddenly hit the mother of all traffic jams. After sitting for more than an hour we eventually got moving but by this point we were now facing rush hour traffic. Consequently, we hit more traffic jams including seven miles approaching the Dartford crossing. Our 7.30pm crossing on eurotunnel eventually became a 10.15pm crossing and our pleasant evening drinking a lovely bottle of wine at our hotel in Rouen was cancelled as we did not arrive until gone 2am. We still necked a bottle of wine but that was more through sheer relief rather than a celebration of the beginning of our holiday.

We were up and about early yesterday and on the road by 9am. We were just rejoicing in the fact that roads are so much clearer and travel so much easier in France when we ran smack bang into another monster jam near Chartres. We eventually arrived frazzled and exhausted at 4pm yesterday, 24 hours after we set off.

A brief stop at the Intermarche near Chalus allowed us to stock up. Predictably, our basket contained much more booze than food and we both sensed a big drink was in order. By 5pm we were sozzled more through tiredness than alcohol but it felt amazing being back at our house. It really is a privilege that we never tire of and seeing the results of all the hard work that has gone on in our absence was a pick me up after our journey.

We sat in the evening sun, drinking in the nature that surrounds us in the Limousin. Mel noticed that our Cherry tree was in full fruit and despite our inebriated state we were soon perched perilously on stepladders picking our newly discovered treasure and we both had one of those moments where we realised just how lucky we are to have each other and the life we have created for ourselves.

I felt significantly less lucky this morning when I awoke with a thumping head and a raging hangover. It didn't take long though for our surroundings to wash away the effect and a drive into Limoges through the winding country roads lifted our spirits considerably.

This afternoon was given up to relaxation and recovery. I battled with the bizzare internet solution from Orange, finally getting on-line a few hours ago whilst Mel had one of her famous holiday snoozes and this evening we dined on the famous French dish of Chicken, Chips and gravy. (you can take the man out of Manchester....).

Tomorrow I am going hunting for new fishing locations and I've promised Mel a bike ride which will be a test for me given my current level of fitness but it will be a nice problem to have. Mel has been researching recipes for Cherry cakes and Cherry Jam's , in fact anything with Cherries in it as we have an abundance of them. I'd better pedal hard tomorrow if I am to survive the calorific effects of her endeavours.

Another boring blog..............

2010-06-29T17:33:00.000+01:00

Just three days left until we set off to France. We will arrive on Saturday and I'll be able to see first hand the progress that has been made on our renovation project. I took the car to the garage this morning to have the tow bar checked as it was faulty the last time we were in France. Apparently the fuse was broken, a tyre needed replacing and the brakes were worn. I emerged three hours later and three hundred quid lighter which was a shock to the system. Still we can travel with confidence......

I have approximately six days work to complete in three days which I suppose is just the way of the world and I will also need to spend at least a couple of days of our first week of the holiday working on a customer project that needs to completed by next Friday. Not perfect but Mel will be understanding as always and I'd rather be working with a glass of cider in my hand in rural France than drizzly Manchester. That said, the weather here in the UK has been fantastic and we can only hope that our traditional bad luck with our holiday weather does not blight us again this year. If I hear one person say "Well, it was nice here last week" I will literally not be responsible for my actions.

We're looking forward to catching up with our friends in France and I am particularly enthused about seeing my money go further as the pound continues it's climb against the euro. When you consider it was more or less parity at the beginning of the year and yet today a pound buys 1.24 euros it will make a huge difference to our holidays but more importantly to our renovation budget which has taken a hammering this year. The analysts who based on previous forecasts know less than I do have said that there is some way to go and could reach as high as 1.35 by the end of the year which would make me very happy indeed.

I feel slightly queasy about the sheer volume of things on my to do list and I really ought to get down to writing that list in order that I can have a proper panic rather than one based on guess work. However, my chief list writer has also been very busy this last few weeks so it looks like it's down to me.

At least our journey will be more sedate. We were having a slight panic that out journey coincided with the World Cup quarter finals and it would have been a rush to get there. However, thanks to our hapless national team we can now proceed at a leisurely pace safe in the knowledge that nobody we meet, English or French will have much interest in the remaining games.

Last week I was in London for meetings and watched the England V Slovenia game in a bar at Tower Bridge. I drank more than I planned on an empty stomach and in truth was in no position to make a poorly planned journey to Romford by Train. In fact I was so 'fatigued' that I fell asleep, almost missed my stop and in the panic left my phone on the train. The first loss of phone I have experienced in 20 years of owning one.

I'm a little conscious that my blogs have become a little factual and if I'm being brutal with myself, a bit boring of late. This is as much to do with work being demanding and not doing much socially. Our holiday always provide me with opportunity for mishap and entertaining tales so I promise you more colourful blogs in the coming weeks.

Bob-a-job week

2010-06-19T09:43:00.001+01:00

So the football has been disappointing, annoying, depressing, noisy and inept and that's just England. This morning I noticed England flags in the road, torn from cars and symbolically strewn in the road (but not quite the end of the road). I've also noticed that I suddenly know a lot of Scottish people, even here in Manchester the Council are having to consider hiring extra council workers to cement over all the cracks in the pavement that our tartan friends have suddenly crawled out of.

This week I have been in Ireland with work and one of the first things I noticed was USA flags adorning pubs on my journey from Dublin to Shannon. Now I might just be paranoid but I'm beginning to think that they don't want England to do well. Just a nagging suspicion.......I suppose I'm beginning to understand how it might feel to be a Man United Supporter.

Football aside, I've had a very rewarding and successful week work-wise and it's now just two weeks until we leave for France for our Summer break. My pal Paul is flying over for our second week so we can spend some time fishing for Carp. We've fished together for as long as we have been friends (over 30 years) but lately real life keeps getting in the way and we are overdue some boyish banter and child-like japery.

On Thursday night we managed a few hours on the River Ribble near Preston, a beautiful stretch near a village called Osbaldeston. I'm a bit out practice and the lack of rain meant the river was extremely low. I didn't fancy our chances but was happy to immerse myself in the stunning nature. Paul had other ideas though and was soon landing his first barbel. Naturally he was delighted and he really felt this might be one of those sessions where things just went right.

Those hopes were dashed however when out of nowhere a horde of Cub Scouts descended like a swarm of bees into our swim, splashing around in the river, throwing stones and being incredibly noisy. Despite remonstrating with their scout leader they continued for about an hour before trooping off. Presumably they had gone to collect their 'angler baiting' badges which must have been introduced since I was in the cubs. Surely they should have been taught about consideration for others and respect for nature? Seemingly not.

Paul was fuming, his chances of a bagful of fish in tatters. Me? I was torn between trying to see the funny side of things or attacking young lads with my catapult.

Coupe du monde

2010-06-12T14:34:00.003+01:00

So the world cup has begun and so has my four yearly transformation into a couch potato. I've been really careful about my eating (I'm trying to avoid saying I've been on a diet) for the last few months, losing a stone in the process but today Mel and I had a KFC bucket for lunch so I could limber up properly for today's matches.

I've watched all the games so far and am about to take in Argentina V Nigeria before the England game this evening. It doesn't feel like the tournament has really fired into life though yet and probably won't until our game versus the USA later. The Vuvuzela's are in evidence as predicted and they are indeed annoying though ever so slightly less annoying than the constant complaining about them which if anything is drowning them out.

I was told by someone that if your TV has a Sound EQ setting in the menus you can filter out everything at 300hz (or khz or something) and the sound of a billion mating hornets stops or at least fades to a low drone. I'm rather hoping I will acclimatise to it or maybe hoping that the England Brass Band will drown it out later which is something I thought I would never say.

I'm off to Ireland on Monday for customer meetings and will probably catch some games on Monday and Tuesday evenings though presumably they are watching the game through gritted teeth still seething about the arm of Thierry Henry. We will be in France from the quarter finals onward so we will see the other side of the coin. I wonder whether the French are in any way ashamed to be at the World Cup as a result of a cheat. I seriously doubt it.
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On a final world cup note, I see the neo-nazist Daily Mail has descended to new depths with publication of a new letter from one it's more ignorant readers (which is quite an achievement in it's own right). It reads as follows.

Wouldn't it be great if TV coverage of the World Cup was limited to England's games, those of hosts South Africa and of the tournaments 'big guns'.

Then we would be spared the ordeal of having to sit through a match between Bongo Bongoland and the Former Soviet Republic of Bulimia and other meaningless events.

Mike Phelps
Yeovil, Somerset

As the overused saying goes, you could not make it up.

The rennovation game

2010-06-07T18:29:00.001+01:00

It's nearly three years since we bought our lovely place in Chalus in the Limousin region of France. Mel and I were married that year and I remember the excitement at our rennovation project and thinking we would have it completed within 9 months and that we would be renting out the barn conversion as a holiday home in 2008.

In that three years we have seen a global recession, the collapse of the pound versus the euro, the decline in the UK property market and a whole host of other issues which impacted those original timescales. Consequently, after an initial burst of activity (and expense) we stopped all work on the rennovation during 2008 and awaited calmer financial weather.

Thanks to some improvement in the economic climate, the sale of our house in Didsbury last year and an improvement in the value of Sterling we started again earlier this year. Mel's parents have encouraged us to push on with our project and a couple of weeks ago the major work on the outside of the property started in earnest.

I have attached two photographs, as you would expect before and after:-

It may not look like it but we are about 80% of the way there now and are confident we will be renting out the property on the left of the picture in 2011. There is still much to do of course and Marcus, Neil and the team have done a cracking job of demolishing and clearing the old house and the wall that previously divided the two properties. It's a shame they had to go but they were in a terrible state and we are now able to treat the suddenly huge garden as a blank canvas. The next job is to build a new dividing wall that will give our guests privacy when we are there and a pool will be installed in the coming months. Progress continues apace inside too and final fixes to the plumbing and electricity will be done in the next few weeks and we will be fitting it out and furnishing it before the year is out.

The holiday cottage will be a four bedroomed property (all ensuite) with a huge lounge and kitchen opening onto a large patio which will house the pool. We will be fitting it out to the highest standards even though that will deplete our remaining funds significantly, it will be worth it in the end.

We go out there for two weeks at the beginning of July, which we are both ready for as we are working hard to earn the money to complete the project. When we return, Mel will start her training to become an Aesthetic Practitioner which allow her to administer Botox and fillers which will help to bolster our earnings and possibly provide us with an additional income for when we eventually make the move to France full-time in a few years time. It will also mean, she will probably practice on me so expect me to post pictures of myself looking permanently surprised.

Here are another few photo's of Gouhaut.

Virtual reality

2010-05-29T09:27:00.002+01:00

I remember a night many years ago, in 1981 to be precise, my Dad dragging a neighbour back to our house from the pub and waking me up to come down and see 'this new computer thing' that he had bought that day. The neighbour looked slightly apprehensive about the whole thing, his quiet night in the pub spoilt by having revealed his latest purchase. He had inadvertently revealed to the pub that he had bought the future and whether he liked it or not my Dad decided it was his job to ensure that he shared that vision with me.

Half an hour later, our neighbour was stood in our front room. He unpacked the carrier bag he was clutching and revealed a box emblazoned with the words "Vic 20". Within minutes he had hooked it up to our TV and after waiting for an incredibly long time for the tape to load, I then witnessed my first ever video game.

Of course, in retrospect it was unbelievably crap. Chunky block graphics moving across a poor quality TV screen did not provide the most immersive experience but it blew me away. Here was a game, like the ones I had seen in the Arcades but on my telly. Even though I was only eleven, I stayed up until nearly midnight playing the small selection of games that he had acquired with his computer. They were all pretty much the same in truth but I couldn't get enough. I recognised the future when it was in front of me and here it was beeping and whirring like a prop from Star Trek.

I barely slept that night or for several nights afterwards, the possibilities seemed to me to be endless and of course I was right, they were.

A couple of months later, once my neighbour had started pretending not to be in so that I couldn't play on his computer, my parents eventually bought me my own - the substantially better Commodore 64. Suddenly, it was my neighbour knocking on our door and my turn to start pretending not to be in, though the nuclear glow of the television radiating through our flimsy curtains was a bit of a give-away.

The Commodore 64 was a mightily impressive machine with a full 64k of memory (see what they did there) and consequently the games were a leap ahead of those I had played previously. At that time you could buy magazines which had printed programmes of games, which you typed in over a couple of days before discovering there had been a printing mistake and the whole thing crashed losing your work forever. On the positive side, I became a very adept two fingered typist as a result and my swearing came on in leaps and bounds.

Over the next few years, I couldn't get enough of Computers and video games, swapping tapes at school with Pals, scouring ads for second hand cast off's and trying and failing to learn how to programme them. As a result of my newly acquired infatuation two things occurred which changed the course of my life forever.

Firstly, my career choice was defined. On leaving school I immediately joined an IT company, at first as on a Youth Training Scheme and then graduating through the ranks, taking in a variety of roles and eventually ending up in Sales. I witnessed the birth of the IBM PC, the introduction of Microsoft Windows, the move away from huge mainframe computers costing millions towards tiny servers costing thousands. I still work in IT today, these days selling outsourced service contracts to major corporate customers.

The second thing that my early life experience of Computers gave me was a lifelong love of video games. I have witnessed the evolution from the chunky graphics I described earlier to the lifelike, realistic games of today. As my career has progressed and my interests broadened I have had less and less time to spend playing video games but I still make the time for games of FIFA football with friends and have the odd foray into whatever innovative gaming experience is the flavour of the month.

This week was a good example, I had read reviews and heard anecdotally about a game called "Red Dead Redemption" that was causing a stir. In this game, you play a cowboy in the old west. The game is entirely open ended, you can travel wherever and whenever you want, taking on missions and meeting people on the way. The choice of whether to be good or bad is entirely yours and the graphics and sounds are absolutely breathtakingly realistic.

Mel bought me the game as a surprise, as I have been working hard and been away quite a bit with work. She doesn't pay much attention to my gaming exploits but I think finds it faintly amusing as I sit in front of the TV cussing at my own ineptitude. The downside to not spending much time playing them is I am absolutely useless at them but it's not the winning it's the taking part that counts, or that's what I keep telling myself anyway.

Anyway, astride my newly acquired horse and exploring the western world I was now inhabiting, I spied a dog scratching around in the undergrowth. Spotting an opportunity to practice my rifle skills I took aim and was about to finish the the job when Mel bellowed "Don't you dare!". Like me, she is a huge animal lover and totally infatuated by anything canine but surely she didn't object to my virtual character shooting a virtual dog with a virtual rifle. I glanced round, she did.

We had a real world Mexican stand-off right there in the living room and there was only going to be one winner. I pressed the necessary buttons to make my character drop his rifle and dismount his horse. At which point I was savaged by a pack of dogs and my character died therefore bringing my game to an abrupt end.

I've barely touched it since, afraid of killing something innocent or being torn apart by something sinister. Maybe after all these years, it's finally time to hang up my controller. (or perhaps just stick to football games).

Summertime (and the living is easy..... when the chicks dig you)

2010-05-23T10:45:00.005+01:00

There is some debate about exactly when Summer starts and finishes and different definitions exist. In the Northern Hemisphere Summer is most commonly agreed to be the whole months of June, July and August.

However, in my opinion, the start of summer proper can be more accurately pinpointed. The first waft of seared animal with accompanying smoke, the early morning sound of garden power tools, the unedifying sight of a pale, white persons torso with scorched pink areas are all good indicators that the season has turned. All of those things occurred yesterday, so I can therefore formally announce that Summer has indeed started.

Since selling our house in Didsbury and moving to our Apartment in Cheadle, the only thing we have really missed is our garden. Don't get me wrong, I was never much of a gardener. In fact, I used to pay someone to maintain my garden, in order to ensure the survival of the plant life in it. Both Mel and I have a remarkable ability to kill any plant no matter how hard we try not to.

So in addition to borrowing my sister-in-laws dog to validate walking in the country, we also regularly cajole her into holding impromptu barbecues just so we can laze around in someone else's garden. Yesterday, having studied the weekend weather forecast, we were up early buying Pimms, red wine and raw animal. Mel made a Tiramisu to add a level of sophistication to proceedings and I put on my special barbecue pants. We were banging on Penny's door by 11.30am.

By 3pm we had demolished the Pimms, the associated mint and fruit foliage accompaniment providing a valuable contribution to my five a day. Cheap Champagne was opened followed by red wine and at some point in the afternoon we remembered to put the barbecue on. The day was fiercely hot (27 degrees) and I found I had a thirst that was almost impossible to quench. I did however, try valiantly. Inevitably, this meant more trips to the toilet and as the day wore on the bathroom seemed further and further away and in the end I chose the outdoor option down the side of Penny's house. (Classy, I know).

Whilst 'feeding the fish' I spotted something moving in the undergrowth and my ears were assailed by a shrill chirping. On close inspection I discovered a tiny little Blue Tit chick struggling through the grass and repeatedly banging its head up against the composter. Being the nature lover that I am, I picked it up and went to show it to the girls. Mel didn't want to see it as she hates to see any animal in distress and after a brief look Penny chose to Google the RSPB web site for any help or guidance they might be able to offer.

I noticed a Blue Tit hovering around and after watching it for a few minutes noticed it entering and leaving a nest, in a hole in the brickwork of the house. Ten minutes later I found myself stood wobbling atop a set of step ladders and taking my life in my own hands I successfully returned the chick to it's nest.

It's not every day I get to save the planet and I celebrated my ornithological miracle with another bottle of wine returning periodically to ensure the chick had not fallen or been evicted again. I think both Mel and Penny were impressed by my oneness with nature though I do have a hazy memory of someone saying "will you shut up about that bloody bird".

I'm considering persuading Penny to hold another barbecue today just so I can check on it's well being.

Smoke me a kipper, I'll be back for breakfast.....

2010-05-21T16:03:00.006+01:00

Thank you for those who have pointed out the lack of blogs for the last 10 days. I have been enjoying myself and tearing around the country working in equal measure and in doing so accruing just about enough information to blog about.

Last weekend Mel and I celebrated our third wedding anniversary with a weekend away. I'm pretty sure that she would have liked a trip to Paris or Rome perhaps but I am an old romantic at heart so I took her to Whitby.

Whitby holds a special place in my heart for loads of reasons. It is the perfect UK seaside destination, brilliant atmosphere, fantastic restaurants and just the right amount of seaside tackiness. It was also my mums favourite place and we holidayed there regularly as a kid. Sadly she died fifteen years ago after a long battle against breast cancer but whenever I feel melancholy about her, I just think about Whitby and holidays there as a kid and I instantly feel better.

The final reason for going there is that when Mel and I first met four years ago, we went for a weekend there and arranged to meet my friends Paul and Sally (I wanted their approval!).

That weekend started off really well in a beautiful old Hotel just outside the town, with champagne on arrival, an enormous suite and I clearly managed to make quite a good impression. On the Saturday morning we had a walk through the town, round the harbour and up the 199 steps to the Abbey atop the cliffs. It was the end of March and so the tourist season hadn't yet begun and though quite cold, the mist coming in from the sea made the whole thing so atmospheric it was untrue.

In the afternoon, we found a brilliant seafood restaurant and booked a table for four later that evening, arranging to meet our friends in a bar around the corner. By this point I was beginning to get quite nervous. What if they didn't like her? What if she didn't like them? What if it's awkward or someone makes an arse of themselves?

Thankfully they got on like a house on fire, they adored her and she them. Unfortunately, it was slightly awkward and someone did make an arse of themselves. - Me (you'd already guessed that eh?)

I'd had a few drinks to wash away the nerves and a few became a lot and before anyone realised I was blind drunk on alcohol and infatuation. By all accounts, I lost my volume control early on and my swear word surpressant mechanism was broken beyond repair. Worse, I spent the evening telling Paul and Sally how lovely Mel was in a way that might have been mildly acceptable had she not been sitting next to me. Most cringeworthy of all, I asked Mel to marry me several times on the way back to the Hotel even though we had met just a few weeks earlier.

To this day, Sally cannot hear the word Whitby without bursting out laughing and to be fair she does a pretty good impression of me that night - every time I see her. She mimics my stagger, my glassy eyed thousand yard expression and the peculiar brand of bonhomie that I shared with the whole of Whitby that night.

So last weekend, we went back and I was delighted to discover the ban on my presence within the town had been lifted. We stayed at the brilliant Willows guest house, a short walk from the town centre, ate fish and chips on the harbour on arrival and enjoyed a bottle of champagne to toast our return.

On Saturday, we walked around the harbour, drank coffee, laughed at tourists and walked a long distance without it ever feeling like exercise. We bought some presents from us to us at one of the 'saw you coming' shops including a chain for Mel with a piece of Whitby Jet dangling from it. (I'm sure she could describe it much more eloquently). I made do with a Salvador Dali melting clock which looked brilliant in the shop but looks slightly out of place in our apartment.

At the end of the harbour in Whitby is a large lighthouse. A sign at the bottom explained that for a pound you could climb up to the top and take photographs. Mel didn't fancy it as she had already worked out but had failed to explain that to get to the top, you would have to climb several hundred very steep, old worn steps which wind around a very narrow central chamber. Whilst I did indeed get some good photographs I could hardly keep the camera still, as I was shaking like a shitting dog after my climb to the top and if anybody reading this is in Whitby and finds the lung that I coughed up when I reached the top, I'd be delighted to get it back.

On Saturday night, we had a brilliant meal at the Moon and Sixpence (highly recommended), several cocktails, partook in some super people watching and then had our second early night. We left after breakfast on the Sunday morning after walking back into town to buy some of the famous Fortunes Kippers. (They are a thing of beauty and perfection but must be served with a considerable garnish of Rennie).

So no incidents, no drunken antics, no major embarrassments, just a lovely relaxing weekend. Maybe I've cracked it, perhaps I have grown up just in time for my 40th. However, I fear I may be turning into Ken Barlow. I found myself pointing out different varieties of birds and dragging Mel around old ruins (though she drew the line at reading gravestones). I'm really quite worried about myself.

A game of two halves.......

2010-05-10T09:05:00.003+01:00

After a long week at work Mel and I went out for a quiet drink on Friday night to the hotel around the corner with inevitable results. Our levels of self-discipline are at a low right now and several drinks later we arrived back at our apartment a tad inebriated.

Saturday night was my sister-in-laws dinner party. Penny had spent all day creating a sumptuous array of Chinese and Japanese food and had bought Saki to add a splash of authenticity to proceedings. We had a fantastic time though it appears I was the only one who likes Saki as I was the only one who fell asleep face down on the dining room table at 1am.

Sandwiched between these two alcohol related episodes was a healthy, brisk walk up a table-top hill called Musberry Tor in Rossendale with my Dad. He had borrowed his girlfriends Shih Tzu dog and we borrowed Pennys bichon frisse as somehow walking without a dog never feels quite right.

The walk to the top was a bit of a struggle for me though Mel and my dad seemed to have no such trouble. I really must work on my fitness level.

The area is littered with ancient abandoned farms from centuries ago when the hills were populated with over 2000 people. Today there was no-one except for a few hardy walkers and a panting, sweaty, fat-boy from Cheadle and a couple of effeminate dogs. The weather was warm but windy so my Dad decided that his Ali G outfit would best suit the conditions.

The view from the top was breathtaking or at least it would have been if my breath hadn't already been taken by the ascent.

So a boozy weekend counter balanced by vigorous exercise was probably just about the right combination. Next weekend we celebrate our wedding anniversary in Whitby, the scene of our first proper date. We travel up on Friday night and I'm going to ensure that I do more exercising than drinking especially given the last time we were there my nerves got the better of me and I degenerated into a shouty, sweary cartoon version of myself. The people of Whitby deserve to see the softer, gentler version of myself.

Silence isn't always golden......

2010-04-27T20:50:00.002+01:00

My wife Mel has gone away to the lakes for a few days with her Sister Penny and her little dog Saffy. Consequently our apartment is eerily silent which I find quite unnerving. It's not that she is particularly noisy, actually scrub that, she is particularly noisy and so are her family. I was brought up in a house where very little was said of any consequence unless it was strictly necessary or life was in danger. Not in a bad way you understand, it's just that my Dad was always worn out from work, my mum usually engrossed in a crossword or a book and thats just the way it was.

Mel's family are the opposite, each family member competes for airspace waiting for a brief pause in the conversation before diving in and quickly ratcheting up the volume to a spinal tap 11 . I try to compete and indeed I am no shrinking violet but I usually lose and end up doing a lot more listening than talking unless I've had a lot to drink in which case I do all the talking and non of the listening.

I've got used to it over the last few years and sitting here in complete silence doesn't feel quite right. I have to keep putting music on as I keep thinking I've gone deaf.

Mel and her sister have been walking around Derwent Water which is the scene of one of my most famous schoolboy errors (No 6 in a series of 432,755). We went walking there a couple of years ago in early spring and stayed for a few nights at the Horse and Farrier which is one of our favourite retreats. On arriving, I realised I had brought only one pair of underpants and for some unfathomable reason decided to go hiking without any on and save my one pair for dinner later that night. It was a decision I was to regret.

It might not have been such a bad decision were it not absolutely lashing it down. In addition, we went to buy proper hiking footwear at a local market. We only had limited money with us, some of which Mel spent on a fantastic pair of hiking boots and with the rest I bought.......a Manchester City beach towel which had caught my eye. Believing that hiking boots were unnecessary if not downright girly, I set off on our ten mile walk wearing a pair of trainers that were inadequate in every conceivable way. They would have been fine for a walk down a very dry and very short path but were wholly inadequate for a 10 mile hike through rain drenched fells and fields that were so swampy they had a Lord of the Rings feel about them. The fact that we didn't meet Gollum on that walk is still a surprise to me to this day.

After five miles I was in utter agony. The lack of underwear was causing me severe gusset issues forcing me to walk like John Wayne and my feet were wetter than a kippers knickers. Thankfully there was a ferry on the lake which took you back across the lake to just a few hundred yards from our starting point. However, Mel had other ideas. Resplendent in her state of the art walking gear she insisted we press on. Despite begging and I think even crying at one point, she insisted it was good for me.

Four hours later we finally completed the ten miles by which point I was pretty much a broken man, a husk of my former self.

By that point I was soaked to the skin, with blistered feet and a medieval gusset. I was wailing like a Banshee and walking like a robot from an early science fiction film. We consoled ourselves by eating a fish and chip lunch in some devastatingly expensive restaurant in Keswick whereby I was forced to sit on my previously acquired Manchester City beach towel by the owner so that I didnt leak all over her furniture.

It remains one of my most painful yet fondest memories. It's the kind of story that has grown in my memory. I am prone to wild exaggeration and story telling but Mel called me tonight to say that she and Penny have repeated the walk today, in considerably better conditions and after five miles they did catch the ferry back from halfway round the walk. In a moment of weakness, she conceded that it must have been tortuous for me after all and perhaps she had been a little demanding. Such admissions are staggeringly rare.

Below is a picture that she took of me on that fateful day.

Is it safe to come out yet?

2010-04-24T11:28:00.002+01:00

Is it just me or does everything feel just a little bit weird at the moment in the UK? As the general election looms closer bringing political uncertainty through the medium of television, volcanic ash spews into our atmosphere, grounding our aeroplanes and clogging up the news channels. Personally I find droning tales of extended holidays and descriptions of difficult journeys home do not make for interesting viewing.

The economy is spluttering back to life but with every chance that the patient may have a relapse at any time. Retail figures this week suggest that people are returning to the shops in droves but not actually brave enough to spend anything. It's a day out I suppose

Spring has truly sprung and it feels like people are cautiously venturing out into the sunshine, apprehensive of what they may find outdoors. However nature doesn't understand recessions and social uncertainty and the results are blooming marvellous.

The football season is nearing it's end and I for one am glad. I'm not sure I can take much more this season. The Manchester derby was a grand day out, a great atmosphere and a disappointing performance and result from my perspective. Prior to last Saturday every time Mel had attended with me, City had won. That spell was broken last Saturday. I think Mel was relieved, I think she had visions of me dragging her round various far flung European destinations on a cold Tuesday night next season like some kind of good luck charm.

Today I am nursing a hangover which I obtained by accident. We arrived home last night to the first warm, balmy evening of the year. Before we knew it, we were in a Turkish bar which has just opened down the road, eating a mezze spread and glugging red wine like there was no tomorrow. We then moved on to my sister-in-laws where we sat outside, putting the world to rights whilst seemingly trying to extinguish some kind of unquenchable thirst. We arrived home at 11.30pm, which felt like 5am in old money.

Consequently, I feel like something shat inside my head and even a bacon sandwich and a series of vigorous domestic tasks haven't shifted it. We had planned a day out, a walk around some previously visited natural landmark and an overpriced lunch at the inevitably Karrimor infested cafe/restaurant. This excursion appears to be in some doubt, as even watching Saturday Kitchen feels difficult right now.

In any case, I'm not sure it's safe to go out.

Shabbiness is next to Godliness.....

2010-04-17T09:33:00.002+01:00

I have had a number of e-mails, comments and enquiries as to my well being, generally wondering why I have not blogged for a while. You will be relieved to hear there is a very good reason for my shabbiness on the blogging front. I couldn't post or write anything because no matter how hard I tried, I simply couldn't be arsed.

Mel and I returned on Tuesday from our Holiday in France. Leaving our house in Chalus is always hard but this week was particularly difficult. So much work is going on now in our barn renovation that I find it difficult to tear myself away. The plumbing is in, the wiring is being installed and my Father-in-law Fred has worked relentlessly to push the whole project forward. We are immensely grateful for his and Pat's help as they have spent the last two months there, organising, sourcing and managing the whole project.

In addition, We are having two old outbuildings demolished in our garden plus a number of connecting walls. The whole garden, belonging to our house and the barn will be landscaped and the whole place will look totally different when we return in July.

I spent most of our ten days there stressing and fretting about everything, sticking my nose in where it didn't belong and desperately trying to appear like I understood the finer details of what was going on. Fred humoured me and tried to explain complex and technical things to a man who struggles to change a plug.

I am learning though and things are beginning to make sense. We made several really important decisions regarding the pool we are having installed at the back of the holiday home and the surrounding patio. We also chose internal fixtures and fittings and compiled a budget for completion which is a little scary but it is vital we push on and complete this year as we want to start renting the holiday home next year to recoup some of our investment.

Having said I was stressed and fretting, it's important that you understand that I enjoy every single minute of our time there. It's a different kind of stress from the everyday hub-hub of life in the UK. Seeing the project come to fruition is immensely rewarding and I forget all about my real life and instead become some kind of cider quaffing, cheese eating, workaholic that finds it difficult to sit still for a single minute.

Just prior to our arrival my new sit down mower had been purchased by Fred and after a cursory driving lesson I was off whizzing around the garden mowing grass that won't even be there when we return.

We spent some time just holidaying too. Either discovering new places in the Limousin or in my case spotting and investigating lakes that I intend to fish in future. We visited a lovely town nearby called Brantome which is just 40 minutes drive away in the Dordogne.

We had a lovely day there lunching and drinking Cider by the river.

I also managed one afternoons fishing with our friend Neil which was almost wholly unsuccessful from a fish catching perspective but just wallowing and relaxing in the amazing nature was a complete privilege right up until I saw this fellow swimming towards me, at which point I hid behind Neil just emerging for long enough to take this photo.

I had no idea that Adders could swim but will bear this in mind now the next time I decide to take a dip in one of the local lakes.

We socialised plenty with our friends old and new who are lucky enough to live there. Neil and Roz were very generous with their home-made cider despite being up to their eyes in their own renovation projects. I tried to lend a hand putting up a new fence but it appears that my practical skills are unbelievably even worse than anyone had previously assumed.

We had a lovely meal at our friends Matt and Helens. Thankfully for them I drove on this occasion sparing them my red wine fuelled diatribes which I normally bless them with. We also met new friends at a party Tamira and Marco who have opened a campsite and Gite business near to our property and we took great inspiration from them as to the life we will eventually lead when we move their permanently in a few years time.

On the whole a fantastic trip. My heart belongs to the Limousin, it is literally my favourite place on earth and our future guests who holiday at our property are guaranteed an amazing relaxing time in fantastic surroundings which for my money equal the beauty of anywhere else in the world.

After a stress free 24 hour drive back we returned to the UK with a bump. I had two days of meetings in London this week where the hustle and bustle was a stark contrast to the serenity we had experienced for the previous ten days. On a positive note the grounding of all UK flights due to the Volcanic ash meant that our apartment in Cheadle has been unusually quiet without the constant drone of flights overhead.

Today Mel and I are off to watch the Manchester Derby which will be Mel's first. I really don't think she has mentally prepared herself for the cauldron of passion she will witness later today and I am praying to the gods of football for the right result otherwise work will be a tortuous experience next week.

Lacking Culture? I have plenty......

2010-03-28T11:56:00.006+01:00

I have many vices in life. I have long battled with my nicotine addiction, drink more than I probably ought and have a tendency to binge on certain foods. Curries, crisps, cheese & Ginsters savoury products have all formed a considerable part of my diet along with a life-long love of yoghurt. However, it seems that I have cracked this particular vice and may never eat yoghurt again.

Let me explain.....My wife Mel has very few vices. She doesn't smoke, drinks in moderation, keeps fit by cycling to work every day and running and swimming regularly. However, she has one very worrying vice that she doesn't seem to be taking control of and in fact it seems to be getting worse. My wife has a QVC problem. I often switch on the TV to find it already on the QVC channel. Strange packages arrive regularly though usually it's the latest Gerald Ratner style costume jewellery or cosmetic products extracted from plants that never existed. I can live with this vice as I usually match her shopping habits with my own purchases of books and CD's that weigh the postman down most days.

However, her QVC addiction took a worrying turn a few weeks back when she proudly announced that we are now the proud owners of an 'EasiYo Yoghurt maker'. (their capitalisation not mine). Now, I'm a sucker for a gadget as much as any other man and as I mentioned I do have a penchant for Yoghurt of any description so I was fascinated to learn how this contraption might work. We excitedly opened the box, expecting to find some kind of dairy churning device, or maybe some bottles of live culture which would be added to effect the process.

It transpires that the 'Yoghurt maker' (I will stop the quotation marks soon honestly) is in fact a plastic container which is accompanied by several sachets of powdered yoghurt and some pouches of flavouring and some......actually that's it. You take the sachet of powdered yoghurt, put it in the plastic container....sorry the 'machine', add some hot water and then put it in the fridge for several hours and eventually you gets something that resembles Yoghurt. I say resembles because it's not like any yoghurt that I have ever tasted.

The package comes with a booklet explaining the health benefits of yoghurt and some suggested recipes(!) and the sachets are available in all kinds of yoghurt, French style, Greek Yoghurt, Natural - you name it they are all available. The booklet contains photographs of people excitedly consuming their EasiYo yoghurt with the kind of facial expression that suggests they have only just received their delivery from QVC.

After significant experimentation, it appears that they are all exactly the same. They taste like Yoghurt would if you dried it out into a fine powder, added some hot water, put it in a plastic container, shook it up a bit and left it in the fridge for several hours. Sure, the flavourings make it palatable and slightly more like Yoghurt but not much.

This 'device' (no honestly I will stop soon) can save you literally pennies over a decade providing you are the kind of person who eat Yoghurt in quantities ordinarily consumed annually by a small country. By the time you have bought the sachets, added the flavourings and made a batch you have racked up a household debt which only Ocean Finance could resolve but you also have enough culture in your fridge to organise your very own jazz festival.

Consequently, Yoghurt has pervaded every corner of my life. It is everywhere I go, skulking in the fridge forcibly evicting fresh foods and arguing with the cheese. It has started appearing in cereals, lurking in dips which I am consuming in vast quantities and it appears there is no food substance which wouldn't benefit from the addition of yoghurt. I must assume that my cholesterol levels are at an all time high. Still EasiYo tell me, the addition of the culture 'Biffidus madeitupus' will help my stomach combat other nasty bacteria that I didn't even know I possessed. Presumably these bacteria get so pissed off with the vast amounts of dairy produce that they have to share the stomach with that they pack their bags and leave.

I have a vision that the man behind this brand (it must be a man) lives on his own Carribean Island, counting his money and avoiding any contact with dairy products of any kind. I imagine that the people at QVC who peddle this shit possess more Yoghurt than Ski and Dunsters Farm combined.

Now that I am cured of my desire to consume yoghurt of any kind, I wonder whether the same principle would work with my other vices. After all, the other great 'maker' in my life - the Sodastream cured me of craving carbonated drinks for almost ten years.

Perhaps QVC sell a 'Cigarette maker',or a 'Cheese machine'. Tune in to find out.

Work Party (Two words that do not belong in the same sentence)

2010-03-20T09:53:00.000Z

The first real signs of spring occurred this week and I could feel my spirits lift. The sun has appeared every day this week and you can smell spring in the air and I'm not just talking about the shit that the farmers have already started spreading on their fields.

My mind inevitably turned to fishing as it always does at this time of year. I'm looking forward to getting some lake and river time in France fishing for carp in between jobs that need doing. I'm also a member of the biggest fishing club in Europe - Prince Albert and I was excited to learn that they have acquired three more lakes in the Midlands including one which has not been fished for 30 years. The only problem is that all three lakes are out of bounds for the next two years unless you undertake a 'work party' which will give you a special permit.

In my old fishing club a work party was a doddle, half a day of cutting branches, clearing paths and drinking coffee whilst talking about cutting branches and clearing paths. They were almost enjoyable.

Armed with that experience I booked myself in last week for a work party near Chorley in Lancashire. I was the first to arrive at 8am and my spider sense began to tingle when I spotted three huge mounds in the car park. One was sand, another gravel and the third ballast which is basically rubble.

One by one, other members arrived. Each face wore the same troubled expression as their visions of a pleasant day in the country evaporated into thin air and were replaced by the reality of a day of hard labour.

Eventually the work party organiser arrived. Wheel barrows and shovels were issued and instructions given including the inevitable health and safety demonstration.

The next six hours were tortuous beyond words as I carried barrow after barrow of each pile around to the other side of the lake to assist in the reconstruction of new fishing pegs. Everyone was feeling the same way and a mutinous atmosphere began to develop. Tempers were frayed, people accused of slacking and just as chaos was about to break out the organiser eventually allowed everyone to leave with their precious stamp in the book.

The drive home was horrific as my arms struggled to grip the wheel and my feet strained to push the pedals. I knew I would be in trouble the day after. As a man who is used to pushing a mouse around a desk, I began to appreciate just how out of shape I was and wondered how people do manual jobs day after day.

Sure enough, I spent the next two days walking like John Wayne though it has spurred me into getting into better shape. (which will be my third 'new start' this year)

My in-laws Fred and Pat have made huge progress in France. The central heating boiler has been replaced, electricians organised and the plumber starts on Monday as we turn the shell of a building next to our house into a luxury holiday home that will boost our income in the short-term and in the long term provide a basis for semi-retirement in order that I can pursue my writing ambitions. Fred is working really hard each day, though he has kindly saved a number of jobs for me. I'm looking forward to rolling up my sleeves and getting back involved in the ever increasing list of jobs that need to be completed.

In France, the weather is even better than here and with less than two weeks to go until we set off for our ten day trip the countdown has begun. Mel and I are both well overdue a break even if it will be a working one.

On Travel........

2010-03-06T09:37:00.002Z

OK, hands up who likes travel? Go on hands up, let me see those hands.

Everyone says they do but I suspect that in reality like me you enjoy destinations much more than you enjoy travelling to them.

There are enjoyable ways to get from one place to another but unless you're aboard the Orient Express or on afloat on some luxury super cruise liner the whole travelling experience is a fairly miserable one. If your travelling by air then you usually need a holiday at the other end just to recover.

There are two primary reasons why air travel is such a soul destroying, mind numbing experience.

The first reason is quite simple. The clue is in the words 'public transport' and the answer is of course, the public. Maybe it's just me but whenever I go anywhere near an airport I seem to be surrounded by people who look like they have never seen an airport before. The kind of people that still point at aeroplanes in wonder.

The problem starts at check-in when after the obligatory queue it becomes apparent that all vital travel documents are buried deep in the bowels of the inevitably oversized baggage that people carry. These portable wardrobes are frantically emptied, the contents searched through and eventually passports and tickets are located.

Then come the questions.

“Did you pack the bag yourself?”

The excruciating pain of thought is etched on the face of the passenger. Did I pack myself? Maybe someone else did it. My wife placed a shirt in my case. Does that still count? As a general rule, unless you live in a large country estate with staff catering to your every whim, the answer to this question is usually yes.

“Could anyone have interfered with your luggage”

Again, deep computation washes across the face of the respondent. Could they? Maybe the taxi driver did something when he was removing the cases from the boot of his car. Perhaps I was hypnotised by a drug baron who then planted half of Columbia in my vanity case whilst I was under his influence. Again, for the avoidance of doubt, the answer to this question is “No”

So it goes on until tickets are issued, which the traveller then hides in their hand luggage ready for the next stage of this whole tortuous process. The security scan.......

This stage of the travel process has become a whole lot more painful since the feckless idiot shoe bomber Richard Reid tried to blow up an aeroplane with a pair of Clarkes brogues. Thanks to that muppet, we must now remove belts, shoes and watches before proceeding half naked through the scanner like a new entrant to a concentration camp. But first another question....

“Do you have any liquids or gels in your hand luggage?”

Now that is a tough one. Can I phone a friend? Could you define liquid?

Inevitably, the person in front of me chooses this moment to reveal the true extent of their stupidity.

“No, just some aftershave, and a bottle of water”

“I'm afraid you can't pass through with those, you'll have to throw them away”

“......but that bottle of Blue Stratos was a present from my wife in 1978”

“Well I'm afraid you can't take it through. Technically it's a gas judging by the smell your giving off but despite being 80 years old and seemingly infirm you could well be an Al Qaeda operative hiding some super invisible terrorist weapon that we haven't thought of yet in your bottle of aftershave”

Eventually after discarding nine different kinds of liquids and gels the apparent first-time traveller is allowed through the scanner inevitably tripping the alarm with their large bunch of keys, unfeasibly large mobile phone and Big Ben sized wristwatch that they had somehow forgotten about.

By this point my will to live has already got in a taxi and gone back home leaving me to endure the remaining torture.

Fellow passengers then draw out the enormous sums of money from the cash point required to replace the bottles of water and cheap aftershaves they were forced to abandon before finally making their way to the departure gate.

It is at this point that people realise that the £20 they spent on a priority boarding pass was wasted as everybody else has done the same and there is only one person standing in the normal boarding queue – namely me.

Here, the second of the two reasons for air travel being such a miserable experience becomes apparent. The Air Travel industry itself.

These people consider their occupation to be at the very top of the self-importance tree. Just the look in these peoples eyes reveals that somehow they look down from their moral high ground on everybody in the world bar none.

Doctors? Puh

Surgeons....Pffft

Nobel Peace winners.....tree hugging wankers.

Nobody comes close to their level of importance in the world. These people are on first name terms with the pilots, the ultimate masters and you are just minions, amoeba floating in an enormous tin can.

Passports and boarding cards are checked twenty times in order to assert their dominance over you. You are now their bitch and they will tell you exactly what you are to do, when you must do it and heaven forbid that you get it wrong or ask a question. Male or female they wear their twenty layers of make up like a tribal battle dress as they go to war with the very people who pay their wages.

Boarding itself is perhaps the most tortuous stage in the journey with 400 people snaking their way across the tarmac and up the steps whilst the one passenger who has actually made it on board carefully removes their scarf, coat and searches through their bag for the John Grisham novel that they have been reading since 2004. This process is then repeated until the final passenger (me again) eventually gets to sit down three seconds before the flight takes off.

The in-flight safety demonstration ritual soon gets under way. You know and they know that in the event of an incident blind panic would ensue but it is seemingly incredibly important that you know where you whistle is on your life jacket. If you have just plummeted 30,000 feet whilst still clutching your oxygen mask to your face and dispersed yourself over a wide area your going to struggle unless you know where that whistle is. So pay attention......

Once you are finally in the air and you are familiar with the steps you must take prior to imminent death, the timeshare style sales pitch can then begin.

All Airlines do this now though Ryanair have now elevated this stage of the journey to new heights. Satan himself (Micheal Ryan) and his little imps (his employees) have realised that once on board you are literally a captive audience and that once you are safely in the air, their marketing assault can begin.

“Our staff will shortly be coming through the aircraft with a selection of hotdogs, pizzas and other food which reflects your probable poor diet.”

“For those coffin dodgers who are unable to last our short flight without their Benson and Hedges, our staff will soon be swanning down the aisle with a selection of smokeless cigarettes”

“For those of you with miserable lives and aspirations gleaned from hello magazine, our staff will shortly be selling scratch cards”

…......and so it goes on. Beaten into submission, passengers spend the rest of the flight incapacitated by raging indigestion, covered in silver crayon from the scratchcards, puffing on imaginary cigarettes and wondering if the seventy eight euros that they now have remaining will last them the rest of their holiday.

Eventually the flight reaches it's destination and after standing for forty five minutes in the aisle whilst fellow passengers collect their belongings from each others overhead lockers and reverse their undressing routine you eventually disembark the aircraft.

Passport controllers are always friendly people ready to welcome you to your destination and after failing to get a single word from them you must then partake in the final and potentially most humiliating stage of your journey, the baggage carousel.

Seemingly about fifty percent of the population really enjoy this process. I don't, I hate it more and more the older I get. Swarms of people crowd dangerously close to the carousel, straining their necks for a brief glimpse of the bright pink ribbon that they tied around their suitcase handle to aid identification.

“It's there, I can seem mine, there it is look!”

“I can't see mine though, it will be last off. It always is....”

“I know that if I wait for one minute it will come to me, but if I run round the other side barging people out of the way I could save thirty seconds, come on follow me”

And so the journey ends, tempers frayed, relationships in jeopardy, wallets emptied and the miserable experience of air travel is over at least for now.

Longing for the Limousin.......

2010-02-27T12:28:00.006Z

Four weeks from today we will be waking up in our house in Chalus with a ten day break stretching in front of us. Mel's parents set off tomorrow as Fred will be coordinating the rejuvenation of our renovation project. We joke that we are sending our our house servants on ahead to buff the pillows and light the fire. In reality, I feel both guilty and eternally grateful at the same time as they have a list of jobs to do that gets longer by the day.

I am so excited at the prospect of our barn conversion bursting back into life after being mothballed for 18 months or so. We are pretty sure we will be in a position to let it out to our first guests next April and it can then start to 'wash it's own face' instead of draining our coffers.

I miss our house in Chalus so much. It's very weird. We have spend probably 15 weeks there since we bought it nearly three years ago and yet in my heart it feels more like home than our place in Manchester. I was brought up in a place called Rossendale and whilst we lived in a town (Rawtenstall) many of my friends lived on outlying farms and remote houses. Perhaps that is where my love of country living came from.

I must make a conscious effort to refresh (restart) my French language studies as it is over 4 months since we went there and I always regret not making more effort as soon as I arrive. My vocabulary does not stretch much further than asking the way to the beach which is of little use as it is over two hours away.

Whilst we are there I will fulfil a lifetime ambition when I buy a sit down mower. I really will feel like lord of the manor when I am swanning around on it. We will also finally replace the central heating boiler that a series of plumbers destroyed a couple of years ago.

Even though it takes thirteen hours door to door I'm even looking forward to the drive, especially the rural parts of the journey. I'm no petrol head, in fact I couldn't give a hoot about cars but driving in France is as good as it gets.

Most of all I'm looking forward to the cider I made last summer which should be ready now (I'm drinking it even if it's not). I stripped the neighbouring farmers apple tree (I believe this is know as scrumping) and spent an evening at our friends, Neil & Roz's pulping the apples. It was surprisingly hard work but unless some catastrophe has occurred in my absence it should be reaching a state of deliciousness any time now and I'm hoping to be staggering around for at least two evenings on the strength of it.

"Look at the concentration on my face"

You can't buy History......

2010-02-21T20:14:00.002Z

My blog today is I suppose football related. I'll make no apology for that but in reality my comments could apply to a number of people and situations. Allow me to set the scene....

From time to time phrases enter the public consciousness and become everyday parlance. Often they are phrases borrowed from comedy shows, TV adverts, or American sitcoms or similar. They often raise a very gentle laugh through the nostril on first hearing but quickly become tiresome and eventually inspire pathological hatred in me towards the guilty cliche monger. A really good example is "Simples!" from the Insurance ad, which was not even funny in the first place but this phrase is now the staple preserve of the moronic, internet poster.

In football, the phenomena is even more pronounced. Very little is ever said in football that is not a cliche of one form or another. At the end of the day, we're all sick as a parrot or over the moon and all credit to the lads we just have to take each day as it comes. You get the picture.

But there is one particular phrase that I keep hearing in relation to my beloved Manchester City and whilst I do try and just accept that we are in the public eye for various reasons, I'm afraid I'm going to have to call this one out. That phrase is "You can't buy history". I know where this started, it came from United fans alarmed that their long suffering neighbours may have finally awoken and had suddenly become "noisy" neighbours. (there's another one). It has since been adopted by anyone for who City's new wealth does not sit comfortably.

I have a few problems with this phrase. Firstly. it's not true. You can buy History. Chelsea have spent hundreds of millions and won trophies that will be recorded in the history books and will live long in the minds of their supporters. Blackburn even did it in the 90's, even though it did not last long, their premiership winning season is more than just a footnote in the football almanacs. Man United spent big in the 1990's and in doing so created the most successful period in their history.

The second problem with this phrase is that we already have plenty of history. Here is a list of our honours :-

Domestic
Football League First Division (first tier)
Winners (2): 1936–37, 1967–68
Runners-up (3): 1903–04, 1920–21, 1976–77

Football League Second Division / Football League First Division (second tier)
Winners (7, record): 1898–99, 1902–03, 1909–10, 1927–28, 1946–47, 1965–66, 2001–02
Runners-up (4): 1895–96, 1950–51, 1936–37, 1999–2000

Football League Second Division (third tier)
Play-off winners: 1998–99

FA Cup
Winners (4): 1904, 1934, 1956, 1969
Runners-up (4): 1926, 1933, 1955, 1981

League Cup
Winners (2): 1970, 1976
Runners-up (1): 1974

Charity Shield
Winners (3): 1937, 1968, 1972
Runners-up (4): 1934, 1956, 1969, 1973

Full Members Cup
Runners-up (1): 1986

European
European Cup Winners' Cup
Winners (1): 1970

It may not be the longest list in football and it certainly lacks recent entries but nevertheless it puts most football clubs to shame.

But the biggest problem I have with this phrase is that it seems to have been adopted by foreign football players when ruling themselves out of transfers that were never going to happen in the first place. This weekend Mascherano and the hapless Dirk Kuyt have both used it in interviews.

Kuyt (pictured below) who is possibly the worst and least prolific striker ever to have graced the premiership was particularly vociferous in the papers today.

"City can't buy history and I would always go for Liverpool's history, rather than City's money" said the useless, waste of DNA.

If they carry on signing and playing players like Kuyt, Liverpool may just find that their history becomes a distant memory and their rejection of City's money is particularly ironic given their mounting debt situation. Funniest of all Kuyt actually seems to think that playing for City might be an option that he would be in a position to reject. He really is living in his own fantasy world.

Bloggers Block.....

2010-02-18T19:49:00.004Z

One week on and my cold is finally abating and I am feeling more like myself though I still feel like I could sleep for a week. A restful weekend should see me right.

I haven't written on here as I genuinely have had very little to say of any consequence or humor and every waking moment has been spent working or thinking about work, which in truth does not make for interesting blog writing.

I will try harder, perhaps over the weekend but in the meantime just in case you missed it, here is the culmination of four years intensive training for French Skier Marion Rolland at the Vancouver winter Olympics.

"It is no secret that the sport of alpine skiing can be quite dangerous at times, as competitors are always at risk to experience rather disastrous tumbles down the hill, but rarely do we witness such a humiliating fall right out of the starting gate. After all, there is barely a slope at that point.

Unfortunately, all that was needed was a tiny hill and some snow for Marion to take this rather awkward spill. Maybe it is a good thing she didn't make it through to the more difficult sections of the course"

I can tell you that I laughed like a drain which gives you some indication of the depths to which my mind has sunk. Normal service will be resumed.

If Bonnie Tyler gargled with gravel........

2010-02-08T20:13:00.000Z

............she might sound like I do. I've been away for four days in Birmingham at our annual sales kick off and woke on Sunday morning feeling like I'd eaten broken glass and I was coughing like an asthmatic sea-lion. I felt progressively worse throughout the day and then slept all night and most of today. I suppose being at a conference with nearly a thousand people, it was a fairly safe bet I would pick something up.

I am pathetic when I'm ill. I don't want to talk to anyone, don't want to do anything and see the world through a sepia coloured negative filter. On the rare occasion I have ventured out of bed today I've sat on the sofa bemoaning the state of the world and try as I might I could find nothing positive. I tried reading but found myself staring at the page, I tried listening to music but found everything rubbish and tried watching TV but couldn't find anything worth watching. I've tried writing today's blog but am fed up of it now so will finish it in two paragraphs time.

Mel's parents are down for a few days and are staying at her Sister Penny's house. We were supposed to go round tonight but Mel persuaded me to stay home and she has gone on her own. Probably for the best as I even feel contagious.

Having been through a stressful couple of weeks, I was really looking forward to getting back to some kind of normality and once I get shut of this lurgy I'm sure I'll feel better but for now I'm just harumphing around the place like a grumpy gremlin.

Work smarter not harder........

2010-02-03T19:37:00.000Z

.....is something that I have routinely failed to do. I was in London with work on Sunday and Monday, have done long days in the office yesterday and today and will be away in Birmingham for the next four days. I'd really quite like my life back. I've had a number of calls from people sounding really relaxed saying "I havent heard from you in a while..." and my all time favourite "you sound stressed, what's up?". That always has the desired effect on me. Well it does if the desired effect is to make me want to set fire to someone and put them out with a cricket bat.

Sometimes you just have to accept that there are periods in your life where things are a bit 'on top' as they say in Manchester and you just have to weather the storm. I will feel a new lease of life next week when there is time and space in my diary to catch up on my day job and hopefully indulge in some writing, relaxing and Mel time.

I bought a new laptop on Saturday and that is stressing me out too on account of the fact that it keeps crashing every five minutes. I don't know if it's a genuine problem or a 'user error'. Either way, it's my responsibility and therefore my fault that Mel has not beaten her top score on Bejeweled Blitz or whatever it's called. I happened to show her this game on my phone when we were on holiday and over the next few days began to wonder why my phone kept disappearing. Then she discovered the game existed on Facebook and I've barely spoken to her since. I get the odd 'get in' or 'shit' uttered over the top of the laptop but that's about it. This is my comeuppance for all the hours I have spent playing FIFA with friends and is in truth no more than I deserve.

The new Factory club (Fac251) opens this weekend in Manchester. It's a project by Peter Hook (New Order) and Mani (Stone Roses/Primal Scream) both big inspirations to me over my years. It's a three roomed club which will serve as a live music venue. It looks fantastic on the website :-

http://www.factorymanchester.com/

As a former Hacienda regular I can't help feeling like I need to go at least once, though I wonder whether they have a door policy that excludes middle aged men.

Mild Panic.

2010-01-29T14:34:00.001Z

I'm having one of those days today. Like when you lean back on a chair and the legs nearly give way but you just catch yourself and get that funny feeling in your stomach. I've felt like that all day today.

Some of this relates to my current workload which is slightly asphyxiating. Another factor is that Mel and I have become very disorganised over the last few weeks as we were caught up in the whole Christmas thing and then immediately drifted into holiday mode. There are piles of unopened post with different degrees of 'Urgent' written on the front. I am working my way through them but only at such a pace that my distress does not turn to panic. Last night I awoke in a sweat, remembering that I had not completed this years tax return which is due in tomorrow. I had done it, just not returned it which I have now remedied.

I think the unbridled optimism which I brought back from our holiday last week was pinned down and beaten round the head with the blunt instrument that was the football result on Wednesday night - which I am still finding very difficult to talk about. I should be used to dissapointment as a City fan of over 30 years but unfulfilled promise is so much more dissapointing than abject shitness. I shall make a note of that for future reference.

So this weekend (or the bit that I will not spend working) will be consumed by domestic tasks and head tidying. I'll get some exercise in between as that always helps the soul. I am also away from Thursday next week for four days at my companies annual sales-kick off event. I love and appreciate every minute I spend with Mel and I always feel robbed when I don't see her for a whole weekend.

My thoughts are also returning to our France project. We will be kicking it back into life in the next few weeks, our aim being to finish the barn conversion by the end of summer so that we can rent it out as a holiday home in 2011. Our next trip there will not be until the beginning of April and I genuinely yearn for some time there. As Mel often observes, I am only truly content and at peace with myself when I am at our place in France. The simplicity of life, the sights and smells of nature and the warmth of people there soothe away the stresses and strains of our life in the UK like nothing else. In the future, we will live there and I will fulfil my long harboured writing ambitions and catch carp whose surging runs will take my breath away. I often dream about that.

I feel incredibly lucky to have my in-laws right behind us in our project as without them we may have given up on our dream long ago. Fred, my father-in-law is the technical brains behind the project and what he doesnt know about the practicalities of construction and rennovation is well.......probably very little. Pat, my mother-in law provides the passion and vision and is always encouraging us and reminding us how great things will turn out once the project complete. It is so easy to forget that when your caught up in the maelstrom of corporate life and the drudgery of a UK winter.