Work sucks. In 9 years at the same workplace, I’ve been through some pretty tough times. Working weekends during a gloriously hot summer. Shedloads of unpaid overtime to make departmental ends meet. Two rounds of redundancies, and then being issued with the dreaded "at risk" notice myself. Watching countless friends head out the door, either pushed or of their own free will, fed up either way. But it’s never been quite as bad as it is now. Even "the afternoon of the phone calls" wasn’t this bad. And that was bad, believe me.

So it’s been a tough week. And it’s going to get worse in the morning. I have absolutely no idea what Thursday and Friday will be like.

To make things worse, my somewhat dysfunctional family is imploding. Again. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t two hundred miles away…while at the same time wishing it was more like two thousand.

Sports. Well, my hockey team is losing, and losing, and losing again. My shooting’s been rubbish (nothing new there), and I’m falling out of love with the sport. I’ve also had a bit of hassle due to an attempted break-in at the rifle club. Which I discovered on Saturday.

I don’t seem to have the time to go out for relaxed non-structured non-mad nights out. Maybe I bring it on to myself? There’s no maybe about it. I just miss heading out for a drink at the local with a mate or two. How come I used to be able to do that two or three times a week?

Sometimes I just want to curl up into a ball and hide away from the world. Rather than whizzing around at a hundred miles per hour while keeping completely still. When people ask me what I’ve been up to, I’m finding it difficult to come up with anything remotely interesting.

It may sound strange, but in the last few years I’ve come to understand why recluses and hermits do it.

Ho ****ing ho.

Unusually, this story starts while I’m sober, and ends the same way. I was dropping some borrowed books off at Rosy’s place. He wasn’t in, so they went in the paper recycling bin with a txt sent to Rosy telling him where they were.

As I first drove to the house, there was an old man on the other side of the street with lots of shopping bags, who thought I was a taxi. I told him I wasn’t, and dumped the books.

I went back to the car to find that the chap had crossed the road, in prime position to beg me for a lift home, just up Yew Tree Road. He was harmless enough, just a bit doddery and drunk. And Irish. Something of a stereotype, to be honest. He also looked absolutely freezing, it looked as though it might start raining, and I had nowhere else to be…so I thought I’d do a good deed for once.

I was Oliver’s new best friend, it turned out. He was most persuasive about this. I concentrated on trying to pick the valid directions out of his stream of consciousness.

So I drove him down to what turned out to be a little close just opposite the Man City training complex, and helped him with his bags — he was spilling turnips everywhere. When I realised that his place was just off the close, I decided that I should probably lock the car up. In the badlands and all that

So I locked the passenger side door…and realised just as it slammed shut it that my car’s dodgy central locking had decided to work for a change…and lock the driver’s door too. I was locked out of my car, with the engine on and my phone in the door pocket.

BUGGER.

No really. BUGGER.

I helped Oliver home with his bags, and asked if he had a phone — my plan was to phone home and see if I could get Housemate Andy round to pick me up so I could find my spare keys. Oliver couldn’t find his mobile, which I figure was probably just in a different pocket. No matter — he took me round to a neighbour’s place…who looked at us suspiciously and told us that she had no credit. At this point, I was thinking of running home anyway…but there was another neightbour to try. "Lovely girl, I’m sure she’ll help" slurred Oliver.

Like this one but smaller

Knocked on the door at no.4. A miniature Cyberman stared back at us through the window. Not a bad little costume, to be honest. Eventually, the door was opened by a rather attractive brunette.

"Is yer mother in?" asks my erstwhile companion, "this chap’s lost ‘is phone".

"I am the mother" she replies, looking less than impressed.

I shushed him and explained what had actually happened, and Emma (for that be her name) let me use her phone. Turns out Oliver was trying to get hold of the (older) woman in the flat above. Close enough, anyway.

No answer. All other useful numbers were in my phone.

Oliver wasn’t helping — he’d gone into "manic but well-meaning mode" if you see what I mean, where someone’s drunkenly trying to help but really isn’t.

I ushered him home, told him to get some rest, and asked Emma if she’d mind keeping an eye on the car. I then started running the two miles back home. Got to Wilbraham Road…and realised that leaving my car with its engine running, in Rusholme west of the Wilmslow Road, for at least 40 minutes, was not a great idea.

It’s at this point that I realised that I was an RAC member, and they do things like that…so I ran back to Emma’s and asked her if I could use her phone again, this time for an 0800 number. The RAC said they’d be 45 minutes, so she invited me in and we sat there chatting for a while. It was her son’s 5th birthday, hence the Cyberman suit, and we mostly talked about spiders. She made me a cup of tea.

Eventually, RAC bloke got there, laughed at me, poked a metal rod in between door and frame, and pressed the button to wind down the window. Job done. It took all of five minutes.

Well, they say one good turn deserves another…which sort of applied. I’d much rather not have needed to cash it in so soon, though!

So, it’s last November (scary, huh?) and I’ve been out for drinks with the hockey lot. Started in Didsbury and ended at Friday’s Discotheque. Oh dear.

It was dire, and there were fights. I got the drunk bus back home up Palatine Road, somewhat inebriated.At this point, it must be nigh on 3 o’clock on Friday night. I get off the bus and navigate the twists and turns between the stop and Tenby Towers. As I passed the bins halfway down Croma Ave (or is it Redcar? I can never remember), I heard a noise. I looked round.

It was nothing like this…

Imagine if you will a scene straight out of 1950s film noir. It’s a moonlit night, with a chill mist in the air. The panama-hatted gentleman, cigarette in mouth, catches the eye of the fur-coated lady who’d dropped her purse. He bends down to pick it up. She bends down too. Their hands meet. She drops her cigarette as he casts his away. The chemistry is instant…

It was absolutely, categorically, nothing like that.

Instead, there was a pretty blonde girl sprawled across the kerb. She’d come a cropper on the cobbles and toppled off her heels, hitting a wheelie-bin on the way down. Classy.

Santa was clearly a month early, but how did he know? And where was the brunette?

So I picked her up, dusted her off and walked her home, all the way to the end of my street. About 30 yards from my place. I helped the girl open her front door and she invited me in so I could write down my number. Which I did, before staggering home and collapsing into bed.

…or this — I just like the photo!

On Saturday afternoon, just before my hockey match, I got a txt:

"Thanks for walking me home. Did you say something about a party? Love M x"

This confused me for a moment, as I’d completely forgotten about the incident. But then I remembered! I’d picked up a pretty blonde!

So, the party. We were hosting a MUGSS pre-show party that evening, and I’d told the girl to bring herself plus housemates.

But I still couldn’t remember her name. Mary? Marie? Melanie? I ruminated on it through the match, without reaching a satisfactory conclusion. Margaret? Madeline? Mandy?

"By the way, my name’s Maria."

Ah yes, that’s it. I’d met a girl named Maria.

So, fast forward a few hours. I’m in the kitchen topping up the punch bucket, when a pretty blonde storms in, asking "Did anyone here walk me home last night?"…yep, she had absolutely no idea what I looked like! Turns out she’d been let in by a housemate and had already asked everyone in the living room.

I say hello, she looks confused, so I give her some punch. Her two housemates, Tom and Fernanda, are standing behind her looking highly amused.

So, a bit later, I asked them what was so funny. Well…

They told me that they’d asked Maria about this random bloke she’d brought back last night. She’d told them that she couldn’t remember much about me. I was, apparently, very English, which seemed odd with a name like Mahinda…quite tall…and definitely, absolutely, positively…blond.

Yes, blond. The one thing she remembered about me was my flowing blond locks.

Exactly how drunk do you have to be to think I’m a blond white guy?!

For a while there was a bit of socialising with the bunch from Maria’s household — like us, it’s a 5-person shared house. However, that’s tailed off, and she’s moved out, in with my mate Matt…but that’s another story. And not really mine to tell.

*sigh*

Times have changed. I just can’t be arsed to type things out at lunchtime. I’ve not been reading other people’s blogs, and neither have I contributed to my own. A sad state of affairs.

I had a conversation in the kitchen at work with Pete, a former workmate who’s returned in his capacity as a contractor. He has many pictures of birds.  Anyway, he asked whether I was still blogging — apparently he’d been reading these very pages, having been forwarded the URL by someone else I didn’t realise was watching! So I’ve decided that I really should write something.

Plus, it’s been a really boring afternoon and I’m feeling slightly ill.

So what have I been up to?

Weddings, of course. And sports. Not as many beer festivals as usual, or trips away — my glamour trip this year was to Luxembourg. I’m definitely slowing down in my old age!

I’ve got a couple of stories — most of my friends have been well and truly bored of them by now, but perhaps those readers further afield might find them entertaining.

Guess I’ll start with one of the stories…

I’ve been called blond, and white, and obese. All in the space of five days.

I’ve been to Rome…and the sprawling metropolis that is Leeds.

There have been a couple more weddings, obviously. And a couple more to come. I even even wore a kilt. And no, I’m not going to dignify _that_ question with a response!

Unfortuantely, while the three months either side of today will have featured four weddings…it’s also featured a funeral of Aunty Hosana, someone who’d been very close to me when I was growing up. I’m not going to report on the funeral, but I’ve reminisced before about what she meant to me.

Continuing the sad theme, I’ve still not found love, so there’s no gossip for all you vultures out there. Well, there is gossip, but nothing of the positive variety…and I’m not going to go round blogging about it for a change.

On a lighter note, I’ve turned 30. Yes, I feel suitably old. 

Lastly, I’ve just been promoted, but not to the job I’d applied for. It’s weird — I’ve had four job titles in my 8-year odyssey at [company name withheld], and only one of them was a job I’d actually gone for.

Sorry folks, but it’s just kind of happened that way. I should get back into the habit — I’ve picked up a few good stories since I last wrote, anyway, and I’ll start with last night’s episode…

On the way home from work, I dropped some books and a shower head (don’t ask) off at Rosy’s place. As I left his house and headed back to the car, there was an old man on the street, with lots of shopping bags, who thought I was a taxi. I told him I wasn’t, and he begged me for a lift home, just on Yew Tree Road. He was harmless enough, just a bit doddery and drunk. And Irish.

The chap looked absolutely freezing, and I had nowhere else to be (for a change), so I thought I’d do a good deed.

He turned out to be called Oliver, and well into the "you’re my beshth friend" stage of drunkeness. 

So I drove him down to what turned out to be a little close just opposite the Man City training complex, and helped him with his bags — he was spilling turnips everywhere. When I realised that his place was just off the close, I decided that I should probably lock the car up. 

So I locked the passenger side door…and realised just as it slammed shut it that the central locking had decided to work for a change…and lock the driver’s door too. I was locked out of my car, with the engine on and my phone in the door pocket.

BUGGER.

I helped Oliver home with his bags, and asked if he had a phone — my plan was to phone home and see if I could get Housemate Andy round to pick me up so I could find my spare keys. Oliver couldn’t find his mobile, which I figure was probably just in a different pocket. No matter — he took me round to a neighbour’s place…who allegedly had no credit.

At this point, I was thinking of running home anyway…but there was another neightbour to try. "Lovely girl, I’m sure she’ll help" slurred Oliver.

We knocked on the door at no.4. A small child in a Cyberman costume stared back at us through the window. Eventually, the door was opened by a woman (a rather pretty brunette, as it happens) about my age.

"Is yer mother in?" asked my companion, "My friend here’s lost ‘is phone".

I shushed him and explained what had actually happened, and Emma (for that be her name) let me use her phone.

Turns out Oliver was trying to get hold of the (older) woman in the flat above. Close enough, anyway. 

So, the phone call home. No answer. All the other useful numbers were in my phone.

Oliver wasn’t helping — he’d gone into "manic but well-meaning mode" if you see what I mean, where someone’s drunkenly trying to help but really isn’t. I ushered him home, told him to get some rest, and asked Emma if she’d mind keeping an eye on the car. I then started running the two miles back home. Got to Wilbraham Road…and realised that leaving my car with its engine running, in Rusholme, for at least 40 minutes, was not a great idea.

It’s at this point that I realised that I’m an RAC member, and they do things like that…so I ran back to Emma’s and asked her if I could use her phone again, this time for an 0800 number. The RAC said they’d be 45 minutes, so she invited me in and we sat there chatting for a while. It was her son’s 5th birthday, and we talked mostly about spiders.

Eventually, RAC bloke got there, laughed at me, poked a metal rod in between door and frame, and pressed the button to wind down the window. Job done. 

Well, they say one good turn deserves another…which sort of applied. I’d much rather not have needed one myself, though!

I didn’t expect it, but this ended up as one of my favourite holidays!

In terms of my holidays, this was notable for lots of things:

• Most expensive (ouch)
• Biggest group (27)
• Coolest locations (Kensington Oval, amongst others)
• Most sun, sea and sand (lots)
• Most rum consumed (shudder)
• Most sport played (several matches)

This is VERY belated blogging as it is, but never mind.

There are many many photos on Facebook — mine are here and here.

Basically, we played hockey, we drank, we ate, we partied, and some of us even explored a bit.

First, I’ll lift the two letters home I stuck on Facebook — those’ll give you a flavour of the first few days….

Letter from Barbados

I’m in Barbados. It’s ace!

For those that don’t know (and I’ve been insufferably smug about it all lately, so there won’t be many of you), I’m over here for a fortnight, for the Banks International Hockey Tournament. That’s as in Banks beer, the local brew, rather than any financial institutions. I’m there with Sale Hockey Club — there’s 27 of us, comprising one mixed team and some travelling support.

The opening ceremony was on Sunday, at the Kensington Oval — a VERY impressive ground…well, half of it, anyway. It’ll be even better once they build a couple more stands on the currently empty side of the ground.

We got to parade around the outfield, with music and stuff — I think there’s 24 clubs involved, local and international, with most teams from the UK and Barbados. There’s also some Trinidadians, Germans, Dutch and Americans.

Our first match was yesterday, against some Scottish uni OTC types. We expected to get a hammering, with the opposition’s army-style fitness destroying us in the tropical heat. Instead, we won 2-0, and it could have been 6-0. Bring on the locals later this afternoon!

Hurricane Dean just missed us — a few of our touring party were here last week, and they got to experience the winds and rain at its edge. Scary. It’s winding its way across the Caribbean at the moment, and was due to hit Category 5 the last I heard. For those that don’t know, that’s up there with Katrina. It just missed Jamaica yesterday, I think, and was due to hit the Caymans and then Cancun.

Hope you’re all having fun back in Blighty. I think I’ll head over to the beach for a quick swim before catching the minibus to this afternoon’s game. Come on in, the water’s lovely

More from the Caribbean

First game, on Monday — the aforementioned 2-0 win against the Scots, which we followed up with a 0-2 (I think) defeat at the hands of a local side. By way of celebration, we all got well and truly blasted on Tuesday night — a tenner for all-you-can-drink action, including Mount Gay XO rum. Mmmmm.

So, Wednesday morning came, and we had two games. The first was at the Banks Brewery ground, so featured a lovely smell of malt. Which really made the hangover pleasant. We got beaten, 0-3 or something, by a local team who were helped by some absolutely shocking umpiring — the other foreign teams report similar stories. They were the better team, though.

Later on in Wednesday, it was another forces team, from a British regiment currently serving in Germany. We beat them quite easily, 2-0 again I think.

Thursday was the big day — a 10 o’clock match at the Kensington Oval itself, against Maples, a club based near where we were staying. We lost. 1-7. Our goal game early, while their ‘keeper was stuck in traffic. Bugger.

Well, it’s certainly not the first time a touring English side have been utterly destroyed at the Kensington Oval.

More Hockey-related Stuff

So that’s all I got time to write on Facebook about it. And almost the end of the hockey bit. All that’s left is the finals day.

Unlike many of the other teams, we watched all the finals, getting royally drunk in the process and hurling abuse at the refs. The best match by far was the men’s final — Grasshoppers vs. Dominion, I think.

Grasshoppers were a Dutch touring side full of ex-internationals — they were absolute quality, and a good bunch of lads. They’d brought lots of equipment to give to local kids, and ran hockey workshops as well. The local lads, Dominion (I think) were very big, very fast, and very fit. It was a really tight match, destined for extra time…until Dominion got about three short corners in a row right at the end…they scored from the last to take the match

And that was that. In summary, the first week of the tour was bloody hard work. I think I enhanced my alcoholic reputation, but doing so almost killed me!

We partied more than just about any other team (but were robbed of the "best party team" prize thanks to not really doing the official socials), and had a great time.

That’s enough for now — I’ll tell you more about the rest of the holiday when I sit down to write Part II…

At the moment, we’re in the bottom three of the Premiership. A position I got used to back in the mid-90s, but didn’t expect to see this season. At all. This season was going to be a march to glory and the Champions’ League…but then, which season isn’t for Spurs these days?

Last night, Spurs lost to Getafe, a struggling Spanish team, in the UEFA Cup. But that’s not important right now. The most significant event of the day was Martin Jol’s departure. A shad day for Spursh, to use his low countries slur.

During his 3-year tenure, Jol had dragged the club up the league, getting two 5th-place finishes. What’s more, it was largely done with attractive football, often full of breathtaking attacking moves. Tottenham football. When some Spurs fans say that they’d rather lose an incredible game 5-4 than win a dour one 1-0, they mean it. Forget the teacup rides and merry-go-rounds — it’s the the rollercoasters that you remember.

He was also media savvy, always there with a cheeky soundbite. Joyful in victory but also magnanimous in defeat — as anyone who can remember his interview after the 1-0 that never was at Old Trafford. The complete opposite of Hoddle, never mind Gooner George.

Lastly, he was (and still is!) a comedy Dutchman, with accent to match. Not to mention his brothers Cock and Dick. Oh how we laughed!

And now he’s gone. It was probably time for him to go — he’d clearly lost the dressing room, never mind the club’s higher management. He may not have been the main reason for the club’s recent slump (personally, I’d point fingers at a shambolically out-of-form goalkeeper and a perpetually injured defensive leader), but he was the manager.

Good luck to him. I hope that, one day, he manages his beloved Ajax to glory…or even gets the Dutch national manager’s post.

Goodbye Martin Jol

A long time ago, I fell through the floor while exploring in a disused farm building. Stepped on a rotten beam and the next thing I knew was that I was lying flat on my back on the ground floor concrete — a drop of at least four metres, I reckon. I was probably out cold for at least twenty seconds.

Why is that relevant? It’s definitely coincidence, but that’s my last memory before I was told that I was short-sighted and had to wear glasses. I was ten or eleven years old at the time.

So, this dream. For some reason, while brushing my teeth, I saw something strange in the corner of my right eye (it must have been my right, as that’s the one that used to have worse vision)…so, I pulled on it, and a large (as in, eye-sized and pretty thick) shard of glass came out. This scared me somewhat, but my eye was fine.

And I could see! Apparently, it was the glass that had caused my short-sightedness…and the other eye had been compensating, so that was fine now as well.

As to how no-one had spotted the glass before, I don’t know. I do remember thinking, in the dream, that it must have embedded itself during the aforementioned fall.

The rest of the dream consisted of me wandering around doing normal stuff without my glasses on, yet being able to see. I was pretty elated by it.

I wonder what it means?

Please, no glass eye jokes in the comments. This is a family blog!

This August, I finally made it down to the Great British Beer Festival (GBBF), at Earl’s Court.

Now, while I’m a regular at the Winter Ales Fest, pretty much the "other" national beer festival, I’ve not really been to the true beasts — Peterborough, Cambridge and of course this, the alcoholic daddy of them all.

So, I’d been planning for a few years to take the week off work and work it properly — helping with set up, bar work and take down. Unfortunately, work commitments got in the way — I couldn’t take the week off with a clear conscience — so all I did was late-Thursday to mid-Sunday.

Thursday

Got there pretty late, just in time to find Laura at the staffing desk, sign in, and manage a stint at the glasses counter. This, of course, qualified me for entry to the staff session at the end of the day.

Laura. It was her email, beckoning CAMRA youngsters in the Manchester/Cheshire area to a trip to the Hydes Brewery, that kick-started my journey into active CAMRAdom. In the six years since, she’s had a few children and her husband, Mark (aka Goliath) is the head honcho of the whole damn GBBF.

The staff session. In Earl’s Court’s upper hall, there is a whole whopping great area for staff and staff alone. This includes the Volunteer Arms, a fully-stocked and very well kept bar, open for most of the festival. And free. With over a thousand thirsty staff over the week, it’s actually bigger than some beer festivals!

So, I drank a few pints before catching the coach back to where I was staying — free coaches are laid on just after midnight to take you back to your accommodation. I was staying at one of LSE’s halls (Carr-Saunders, I think), close to Tottenham Court Road, which wasn’t bad at all.

Friday

I worked at the Mid-West bar on Friday, which caused a bit of confusion as most people weren’t quite sure what it meant. Fortunately, it wasn’t anything to do with the cornfields of Kansas or Ohio, but more the area encompassing Staffs, Cheshire, and possibly Derbyshire and Herefordshire too. Weird, but it did include a few breweries I knew, e.g. Beartown.

I should point out here that the basic layout is of two large bar squares, comprising eight bars each, with food, brewery stands, etc. laid out in between the two of them. Each bar correseponds to a particular geographical area, e.g. Wales, Scotland, Northwest.

On Friday evening, I met up with Jordan, Barney, Kathy and John for an evening of Monty Python goodness — we went to see Spamalot…which was absolutely bloody brilliant! Full of in-jokes, bad puns and, of course, great big sharp pointy teeth. It’s a beast, I tells you!

I wouldn’t get back to the fest in time for closing, so went for a pint with the others before meandering back to my bedroom and crashing out. I really was knackered by this point.

Saturday

On Saturday, I reported for duty at the Wales bar. Not too many beers I knew…but there were plenty of tasty dark ales to keep me happy.

Late afternoon arrived, and I headed off to help with the Young Persons’ Bar Crawl, led by Gus, our intrepid Young Members’ Group leader. This was brilliant — lots of people, lots of banter, and lots of free beer. It was a real buzz, a whistle-stop tour carried out at absolute breakneck pace. I think I played my part in getting a fair few people signed up…although there were the Aussies who kept asking for "something cold and fizzy". Not round here, mate.

Back to the Wales bar then, and on to the big staff party at the end of it all. Much food, much beer, much merriment. And a life-sized fibreglass cow. Thank you, Badger brewery, from whom Daisy was confiscated. Long story.

The coaches left at something like 2am, and we were all knackered.

We’d sold huge amounts of beer (270,000 pints was the final total), had something like 64,000 people through the door…who consumed just over a metric tonne of scratchings. 1020 kg of very fine pork scratchings. Wow!

I made it to breakfast on Sunday morning…just…and thence back to Earl’s Court to help with the take-down. I ended up helping out in the loading bay — tracking down barrels and stuff so that the various breweries’ vans could load up and leave. Definitely good exercise for the arms — lugging part-full casks around, World’s Strongest Man style!

Didn’t have my watch on, so ended up late meeting Amandhi. We ended up heading to Euston and chatting for a while before I caught the train back home.

In Summary…

All in all, it was a hugely enjoyable (long) weekend. However, I think I prefer working at the Winter Ales Fest (NWAF). GBBF is the flagship event, a different scale to the others, and is run very professionally. It has to be. But I just don’t find it as much FUN.

NWAF is, not exactly amateurish, but more laid-back. As a result, it’s got more of an informal vibe. The customers help with this — I found the general banter at GBBF a lot worse than at NWAF (or any other Northern beer festivals), especially on Friday evening. Maybe it’s because they’re Londoners, or are just there to drink after hard days at their respective offices (but that’s the same as NWAF). I dunno. I just enjoyed it less.

Would I go back there? Possibly — I’d still like to give it the whole week and see what it’s like to do it properly. But, given the choice, I’d prefer to take my days off for NWAF.