The countdown continues - exactly nine weeks today we land in Australia. Scary eh? I wouldn't go as far as to say I was bricking it but I'm certainly feeling more uneasy as the big day approaches.
I was on the phone to my mate Tim in New Zealand at the weekend. Although he's enjoying life over there, he kept re-ititerating how it hasn't been easy and he still misses home. Hed and Annabel have said the same thing, they live on the Gold Coast. Ste and Jen, our other friends, have just been the ultimate source of positivity about the whole thing, saying it's the best thing they have done. They've settled in Adelaide and are loving it.
I think we've been guilty of thinking that we were moving to some kind of Utopia and our lives would be perfect. But as the days before our departure get fewer I've started thinking how unnatural it is to up-sticks and move to the other side of the planet, to a region you've never even visited before. I mean, it's not like we're living in the Third World or under an oppressive dictatorial regime. Weather aside, life's sweet here. I was always a fan of the saying 'if it ain't broke, don't try and fix it' - then again, 'fortune favours the brave' is another of my favourites.
Anyhoo, we're shipping out and that's the end of it.
We've sorted out our movers, we're going with John Mason. They were the cheapest and also seemed the most professional.
And it looks like we'll be keeping the house over here and renting it out. We've got a letting agent coming to see us on Friday.
Struggling to find a karoake host/DJ for our leaving do, I'll have to widen the search methinks.
We've got a stack of stuff to do and that gets me down. So tomorrow, by way of pick-me-up, I'm leaving work at midday and going golfing with my good pals Clifford and Hank. Following that I'm going to The Jolly Sailor in Prestatyn with Deaf Dave and Comedy Dave to watch the European Cup Final and have a few scoops. I do hope AC Milan win, can't be doing with the Red Sh*te spawning it again. At least I'll be free from all that in Oz.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Saturday, April 14, 2007
The Summer Seemed to Last Forever...
100 days until we leave for Australia.
On occasion I feel trepidation, more so as the big day approaches. More often though I feel excitement and happiness inside. However, this internal happiness is bordering on smugness, an attitude which I loathe in others, so I'm constantly trying to suppress it.
The weather is improving in the UK by the day and, by all accounts, we're in for a scorcher this summer. I was feeling particularly smug the other day when I was thinking about the year ahead. With any luck by the time we leave, on 23rd July, we'll have enjoyed a nice summer here and with only a month or so to 'tough out' before the Aussie summer begins, we face almost a complete year in the full glare of the sun.
A year of summer! That'll do me nicely.
In other news we've had two sets of 'movers' round. Brittania Cestrian came first and have quoted us £3850 (approx. A$9625) for a twenty foot container from Rhyl to Albury. We were very impressed with their representative but think the price is a bit steep.
Godiva Enterprises came next but seem a lot less professional and organised but are a grand cheaper.
You get what you pay for I suppose, so it could be a case of seeing what we can afford. We'll get a couple more quotes and take it from there. If any of you out there in Blogland have got any advice or recommendations on movers then I'd appreciate any feedback.
On occasion I feel trepidation, more so as the big day approaches. More often though I feel excitement and happiness inside. However, this internal happiness is bordering on smugness, an attitude which I loathe in others, so I'm constantly trying to suppress it.
The weather is improving in the UK by the day and, by all accounts, we're in for a scorcher this summer. I was feeling particularly smug the other day when I was thinking about the year ahead. With any luck by the time we leave, on 23rd July, we'll have enjoyed a nice summer here and with only a month or so to 'tough out' before the Aussie summer begins, we face almost a complete year in the full glare of the sun.
A year of summer! That'll do me nicely.
In other news we've had two sets of 'movers' round. Brittania Cestrian came first and have quoted us £3850 (approx. A$9625) for a twenty foot container from Rhyl to Albury. We were very impressed with their representative but think the price is a bit steep.
Godiva Enterprises came next but seem a lot less professional and organised but are a grand cheaper.
You get what you pay for I suppose, so it could be a case of seeing what we can afford. We'll get a couple more quotes and take it from there. If any of you out there in Blogland have got any advice or recommendations on movers then I'd appreciate any feedback.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Friday, March 30, 2007
Money for Nothing...
The 2007 NRL season is underway.
As a rugby league fan I've always kept my eye on results down under, but this year, as we'll be there for the seasons climax, I'm following the action very closely.
My team, the South Sydney Rabbitohs, have made a good start with solid wins over arch-rivals the Roosters and Parramatta Eels. Russell Crowe and his mate with the gay name have really turned things around down at Redfern. Wooden spooners since their return to the big league, this year promises much more.
Rusty's got them new players, a new coach, new backroom staff and, more importantly, Armani suits. They may not be the best team in the NRL just yet, but they're the best dressed.
And, who knows, come our arrival in August, Souths could be right up there vying for a spot in the play-offs.
In other news, we're selling everything that isn't nailed-down, on e-bay. It's great, we've pocketed a couple of hundred quid already, on gear that we would have normally given to the dog shop. Old toys that the kids have grown out of, old clothes that I have grown out of, the wife's old hair accessories, even old footy boots. People will buy almost anything.
If you list it, they will come...
As a rugby league fan I've always kept my eye on results down under, but this year, as we'll be there for the seasons climax, I'm following the action very closely.
My team, the South Sydney Rabbitohs, have made a good start with solid wins over arch-rivals the Roosters and Parramatta Eels. Russell Crowe and his mate with the gay name have really turned things around down at Redfern. Wooden spooners since their return to the big league, this year promises much more.
Rusty's got them new players, a new coach, new backroom staff and, more importantly, Armani suits. They may not be the best team in the NRL just yet, but they're the best dressed.
And, who knows, come our arrival in August, Souths could be right up there vying for a spot in the play-offs.
In other news, we're selling everything that isn't nailed-down, on e-bay. It's great, we've pocketed a couple of hundred quid already, on gear that we would have normally given to the dog shop. Old toys that the kids have grown out of, old clothes that I have grown out of, the wife's old hair accessories, even old footy boots. People will buy almost anything.
If you list it, they will come...
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Bella Braga - Obrigato!
As far as jolly boys outings go our trip to Portugal was right up there with the best of them.
It didn't get off to the best start though, with us being behind schedule from the word go. We arrived at the check-in desk right on the bell with 45 minutes remaining before we were due to fly. The three orange-faced scouse girls manning the desk looked at us with disdain and continued talking amongst themselves. After a couple of minutes one of them turned to us and said,
"You do realise check-in closed two minutes ago."
We'd been standing there for almost five waiting for them to finish gassing about whatever orange-faced scousers gas about. Fake tan, no doubt.
"Yeah, sorry love" said Cliff, our team leader, showing uncharacteristic restraint.
"You should have left earlier" whined a different orange face, pre-empting a possible traffic defence.
"Er, yeah sorry love," repeated Clifford, "we had to go back for my mobile phone see." Clearly hoping to strike a chord with these phone-dependant oikes.
"Hmmm, you'll have to take your bags to 'Oversize Luggage' to get them on the plane but we can't be certain they'll be put on the flight. It's your own faults." said orange face number three unsympathetically.
And so we were allowed to check in, safe in the knowledge that we may be wearing the same trolleys for the next three days. Lovely.
Things continued in the same vane at security where I had my swiss card confiscated, although I was allowed to post it back to my home address.
The lads jogged ahead while I filled in the necessary paperwork. This further delay prompted the airport tannoy to request my presence at the gate immediately. I was forced to break into a run, not exactly my idea of having a good time.
We all caught the flight and so did our luggage, which was nice. We picked up the hire car with minimum fuss and hit the road.
It took a little while for the lads to relax, as I drove around the first roundabout we encountered, the wrong way. No harm done though as the roads of northern Spain carry much less traffic than the U.K.
The rest of the journey was unremarkable, the boys played golf in the back on their mobiles while the team leader got some much needed beauty sleep in the front.
We crossed the border into Portugal and the already excellent highways improved further and the already quiet roads virtually became our own. I was able to pick my 'racing line' as we roared along. Bliss.
Our first objective on our arrival in Braga was to book ourselves into some digs before we could begin our pre-match preparations in earnest. We asked a lovely policewoman for directions to the Ibis Hotel, which we had previously seen signs for. Her helpful and concise directions led us in completely the wrong direction and we ended up at the Hotel Estacao in the city's north. It was cheap at fifty euros per twin room and it was fine. Right up our street to be exact.
Upon unpacking our gear we discovered that we'd forgotten to bring any charcoal or crayons for our planned day of brass-rubbing in Braga's many cathedrals. Undeterred we hit the streets in search of an art suppliers outlet.
We thought we'd call into the nearest bar for some directions as the local police had proven to be enthusiastic but inept guides.
Unable to speak Portuguese we used the international sign for brass-rubbing and shouted "CHAR-COAL" really slowly at people in the bar. Unfortunately they could not help us in our quest for supplies but we ended up having a good old drink with them anyway.
It soon became apparent that the Portuguese are excellent and most welcoming hosts, not to mention master bakers. It also became apparent that we wouldn't be getting much brass-rubbing done today as the beer and boiled eggs began to flow.
We soon found ourselves in the town square with lots of other Spurs fans enjoying the rare opportunity to soak up a bit of March sunshine. Braga is a beautiful place, their beer is cheap and it's people are short on height but big on friendliness.
We spent the entire day in and around the square, eating, drinking and being merry.
After an hours worth of power-napping back at the hotel, we went to the game. The ground was twenty-odd minutes walk away but we caught a cab anyway.
The stadium is a very impressive place, built into a sheer-face rocky hillside, it must have been a hell of a construction job getting this bad boy built.
As for the game, I left at half-time as I was starting to feel the effects of alcohol withdrawal and was in serious danger of sobering up, so I headed for the nearest beer and boiled egg dispensary. I found one in no time and watched the second half in there along with a load of tight-fisted Braga fans.
I continued happily on my solo bar-crawl until the lads and I were reunited in the bar nearest to our hotel. They'd enjoyed a much livelier second half seeing Spurs win 3-2 after being held goalless in the first half. The only downside to their evening was being subjected, along with many other Spurs fans, to a little bit of riot police brutality at the end of the game. It was nothing too serious though and the three of them managed to evade the liberally swinging batons of the Portuguese equivalent of SA Stormtroopers, the notorious GNR.
We wiled away the rest of the evening eating boiled eggs, drinking beer and talking bollocks. Which was, pretty much, what we'd been doing all day anyway.
Day Two saw us all remarkably bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at the breakfast table plotting our route north. We opted for the more scenic road running parallel to the motorway , or autovia, through lots of little towns and villages. When I say we, I actually mean Cliff, our illustrious leader.
After an hour of travelling we'd covered only about twenty kms and, by now, we had all seen enough Portuguese villages for a while, so we decided to try and rejoin the autovia. With ex-RAF bumboy Cliff on navigational duties, this turned out to have near disastrous consequences.
I will summarise, for the sake of my readers, what turned out to be a five hour journey into the Portuguese wilderness. A good deal of it off-road. And, believe me, off-road in a Seat Ibiza is neither fun nor a good idea. How we made it is beyond me. We crossed a complete National Park. A mountainside National Park. In a Seat Ibiza. A Seat Ibiza that I was responsible for.
To cut a long and uneventful story short we ended up in the sleepy northern Spanish town of Villagarcia de Arousa, about 70 miles from Braga. It took us the best part of six hours to get there.
To relieve the stress of the day we decided to partake of a beverage or six and we set about the task with a zest unrivalled by anything else I have ever witnessed. In the last twenty four hours anyway.
Villagarcia is a nice place and we had a good night there. One day I would like to return and have a proper look at it.
Next day we got up late, missed breakfast and raced to the airport. We arrived at check-in right on the bell.
This time the orange faces weren't as orange and were much nicer to us, even allowing us to check-in our bags without giving us any shit for turning up late and looking like we'd spent the last three days wearing the same trolleys.
How nice, I like it here.
It didn't get off to the best start though, with us being behind schedule from the word go. We arrived at the check-in desk right on the bell with 45 minutes remaining before we were due to fly. The three orange-faced scouse girls manning the desk looked at us with disdain and continued talking amongst themselves. After a couple of minutes one of them turned to us and said,
"You do realise check-in closed two minutes ago."
We'd been standing there for almost five waiting for them to finish gassing about whatever orange-faced scousers gas about. Fake tan, no doubt.
"Yeah, sorry love" said Cliff, our team leader, showing uncharacteristic restraint.
"You should have left earlier" whined a different orange face, pre-empting a possible traffic defence.
"Er, yeah sorry love," repeated Clifford, "we had to go back for my mobile phone see." Clearly hoping to strike a chord with these phone-dependant oikes.
"Hmmm, you'll have to take your bags to 'Oversize Luggage' to get them on the plane but we can't be certain they'll be put on the flight. It's your own faults." said orange face number three unsympathetically.
And so we were allowed to check in, safe in the knowledge that we may be wearing the same trolleys for the next three days. Lovely.
Things continued in the same vane at security where I had my swiss card confiscated, although I was allowed to post it back to my home address.
The lads jogged ahead while I filled in the necessary paperwork. This further delay prompted the airport tannoy to request my presence at the gate immediately. I was forced to break into a run, not exactly my idea of having a good time.
We all caught the flight and so did our luggage, which was nice. We picked up the hire car with minimum fuss and hit the road.
It took a little while for the lads to relax, as I drove around the first roundabout we encountered, the wrong way. No harm done though as the roads of northern Spain carry much less traffic than the U.K.
The rest of the journey was unremarkable, the boys played golf in the back on their mobiles while the team leader got some much needed beauty sleep in the front.
We crossed the border into Portugal and the already excellent highways improved further and the already quiet roads virtually became our own. I was able to pick my 'racing line' as we roared along. Bliss.
Our first objective on our arrival in Braga was to book ourselves into some digs before we could begin our pre-match preparations in earnest. We asked a lovely policewoman for directions to the Ibis Hotel, which we had previously seen signs for. Her helpful and concise directions led us in completely the wrong direction and we ended up at the Hotel Estacao in the city's north. It was cheap at fifty euros per twin room and it was fine. Right up our street to be exact.
Upon unpacking our gear we discovered that we'd forgotten to bring any charcoal or crayons for our planned day of brass-rubbing in Braga's many cathedrals. Undeterred we hit the streets in search of an art suppliers outlet.
We thought we'd call into the nearest bar for some directions as the local police had proven to be enthusiastic but inept guides.
Unable to speak Portuguese we used the international sign for brass-rubbing and shouted "CHAR-COAL" really slowly at people in the bar. Unfortunately they could not help us in our quest for supplies but we ended up having a good old drink with them anyway.
It soon became apparent that the Portuguese are excellent and most welcoming hosts, not to mention master bakers. It also became apparent that we wouldn't be getting much brass-rubbing done today as the beer and boiled eggs began to flow.
We soon found ourselves in the town square with lots of other Spurs fans enjoying the rare opportunity to soak up a bit of March sunshine. Braga is a beautiful place, their beer is cheap and it's people are short on height but big on friendliness.
We spent the entire day in and around the square, eating, drinking and being merry.
After an hours worth of power-napping back at the hotel, we went to the game. The ground was twenty-odd minutes walk away but we caught a cab anyway.
The stadium is a very impressive place, built into a sheer-face rocky hillside, it must have been a hell of a construction job getting this bad boy built.
As for the game, I left at half-time as I was starting to feel the effects of alcohol withdrawal and was in serious danger of sobering up, so I headed for the nearest beer and boiled egg dispensary. I found one in no time and watched the second half in there along with a load of tight-fisted Braga fans.
I continued happily on my solo bar-crawl until the lads and I were reunited in the bar nearest to our hotel. They'd enjoyed a much livelier second half seeing Spurs win 3-2 after being held goalless in the first half. The only downside to their evening was being subjected, along with many other Spurs fans, to a little bit of riot police brutality at the end of the game. It was nothing too serious though and the three of them managed to evade the liberally swinging batons of the Portuguese equivalent of SA Stormtroopers, the notorious GNR.
We wiled away the rest of the evening eating boiled eggs, drinking beer and talking bollocks. Which was, pretty much, what we'd been doing all day anyway.
Day Two saw us all remarkably bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at the breakfast table plotting our route north. We opted for the more scenic road running parallel to the motorway , or autovia, through lots of little towns and villages. When I say we, I actually mean Cliff, our illustrious leader.
After an hour of travelling we'd covered only about twenty kms and, by now, we had all seen enough Portuguese villages for a while, so we decided to try and rejoin the autovia. With ex-RAF bumboy Cliff on navigational duties, this turned out to have near disastrous consequences.
I will summarise, for the sake of my readers, what turned out to be a five hour journey into the Portuguese wilderness. A good deal of it off-road. And, believe me, off-road in a Seat Ibiza is neither fun nor a good idea. How we made it is beyond me. We crossed a complete National Park. A mountainside National Park. In a Seat Ibiza. A Seat Ibiza that I was responsible for.
To cut a long and uneventful story short we ended up in the sleepy northern Spanish town of Villagarcia de Arousa, about 70 miles from Braga. It took us the best part of six hours to get there.
To relieve the stress of the day we decided to partake of a beverage or six and we set about the task with a zest unrivalled by anything else I have ever witnessed. In the last twenty four hours anyway.
Villagarcia is a nice place and we had a good night there. One day I would like to return and have a proper look at it.
Next day we got up late, missed breakfast and raced to the airport. We arrived at check-in right on the bell.
This time the orange faces weren't as orange and were much nicer to us, even allowing us to check-in our bags without giving us any shit for turning up late and looking like we'd spent the last three days wearing the same trolleys.
How nice, I like it here.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
When in Rome...
In seven hours, at 0400hrs GMT, I leave home on my last jolly boys outing.
Portugal is our destination. The city of Braga to be exact. We're going to watch Spurs play the away leg of their UEFA Cup tie against FC Braga.
I'm not really bothered about the footy, I'm not a Spurs fan. I'm only in it for the cultural experience of a trip to the continent with the boys.
And, as Braga is known as the Rome of Portugal, I'm sure they'll be plenty to keep a culture vulture like me occupied.
The stadium itself is a sight to behold by all accounts. Built, seemingly, into a small valley with a steep rock face behind each goal, spectators only occupy two sides of the ground. A surreal viewing experience awaits us, I suspect.
Then again the surreal can become the norm on these trips, generally as a result of the strict alcohol consumption rules in place.
This is another 'last' for me. My life, at the moment, is full of these milestones. 'Last this, last that', 'this will be the last time I/we do this before we leave for Oz' and so on. Seems to happen almost daily.
Barring deportation, detention or death we return on Saturday morning. Whilst our outings usually last only two or three days they always manage to contain a whole heap of laughs, memories and never-to-be forgotten experiences. I hope and expect this one, as it will be my last, will be no different.
I'll let you know.
Portugal is our destination. The city of Braga to be exact. We're going to watch Spurs play the away leg of their UEFA Cup tie against FC Braga.
I'm not really bothered about the footy, I'm not a Spurs fan. I'm only in it for the cultural experience of a trip to the continent with the boys.
And, as Braga is known as the Rome of Portugal, I'm sure they'll be plenty to keep a culture vulture like me occupied.
The stadium itself is a sight to behold by all accounts. Built, seemingly, into a small valley with a steep rock face behind each goal, spectators only occupy two sides of the ground. A surreal viewing experience awaits us, I suspect.
Then again the surreal can become the norm on these trips, generally as a result of the strict alcohol consumption rules in place.
This is another 'last' for me. My life, at the moment, is full of these milestones. 'Last this, last that', 'this will be the last time I/we do this before we leave for Oz' and so on. Seems to happen almost daily.
Barring deportation, detention or death we return on Saturday morning. Whilst our outings usually last only two or three days they always manage to contain a whole heap of laughs, memories and never-to-be forgotten experiences. I hope and expect this one, as it will be my last, will be no different.
I'll let you know.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Friends Reunited
I haven't posted for a while. I could say things have been manic with our impending move to Australia but they haven't really. I mean, we been busy sorting 'stuff' out - ebaying and decorating mostly as well as 'researching' our move on the web, but everything is moving at a nice relaxed pace and seems to be falling into place nicely. Perhaps it's just that, with age, we've become better organisers and have increased tolerance to things that may have caused us to get stressed in the past. Perhaps we're too relaxed and should be doing more before it's too late, who knows?
In the last fortnight we've had numerous e-mails from our most helpful Settlement Officer in Albury, Johanna, regarding schooling for the kids, employment for us both and temporary accommodation. It looks like we're going to be staying in the Albury Motor Village. They've got a website, I'd put a link in if I had the technical know-how but I haven't. It looks nice enough, chalet/cabin style digs. I was a bit surprised at the price - $400 a week. I expected less to be honest but it still seems like the cheapest option for a short term stay.
This last fortnight has also seen me in contact with some 'old' friends. I say friends, one friend really, the other is my old platoon Sergeant from the depot.
He was a really good bloke and I remember him fondly. Old soldiers say that you never forget your platoon Sgt from basic training but most are remembered for being overtly sadistic and egotistical. Not Sgt. J. Lemmon. An absolute top bloke and soldier. Don't get me wrong he was no pushover, he could be as mean as the next man and was as hard as nails, but he had a fatherly, humorous way about him that endeared him to all us recruits.
I was pleased to read that things have gone well for him after leaving the army. It must be tough after twenty-two years as an infantry soldier and drill instructor to suddenly find yourself amongst the rank and file of Civvy Street with no recognised qualifications of any real worth. After a tough start he got himself into the health and safety racket and has never looked back, working all over the globe. He's retiring at 55, in a couple of years. Good on ya John, you got what you deserved.
I also contacted Jon Downie, one of my oldest and best chums. We went to school together, joined the army at the same time, albeit in different regiments, and have been friends forever. We always kept in touch with each other and teamed up whenever we could, which was tricky whilst being based in different garrisons/countries.
Jon left the mob after me and settled in Yorkshire. I visited him a few times there and he came 'home' to Rhyl regularly. On one of his trips home, about five years ago I reckon, we had a drunken fall-out. And, basically, that was it - we stopped contacting each other. Stopped being friends in essence.
I thought about him often but always put off getting in touch. Our row was relatively trivial in the grand scheme of things but still kept us apart. But, with us leaving for Oz in July, I thought I'd try a tentative text message to the mobile number I had for him. I say tentative not because I was nervous about getting in contact with him, on the contrary, I got myself quite excited about it, but because the phone number was from five or more years back. I haven't changed my number since then but almost everyone else has.
I sent the text. Within a minute my phone was ringing - it was JD. We chatted for fifteen or so minutes which is a long time for blokes. We both laughed about our hazy recollections of our drunken dispute.
It was as if we'd never lost touch. I guess that's the result of us having been such good mates. He's coming to Rhyl in a couple of weeks and we'll get together. It'll be just like the old days. He's coming to our leaving do as well.
I knew I could have called Jon at anytime if I needed his help, advice or whatever and vice-versa. It just took something like emigrating for one of us to make the first move. Blokes are stupid sometimes aren't they?
In the last fortnight we've had numerous e-mails from our most helpful Settlement Officer in Albury, Johanna, regarding schooling for the kids, employment for us both and temporary accommodation. It looks like we're going to be staying in the Albury Motor Village. They've got a website, I'd put a link in if I had the technical know-how but I haven't. It looks nice enough, chalet/cabin style digs. I was a bit surprised at the price - $400 a week. I expected less to be honest but it still seems like the cheapest option for a short term stay.
This last fortnight has also seen me in contact with some 'old' friends. I say friends, one friend really, the other is my old platoon Sergeant from the depot.
He was a really good bloke and I remember him fondly. Old soldiers say that you never forget your platoon Sgt from basic training but most are remembered for being overtly sadistic and egotistical. Not Sgt. J. Lemmon. An absolute top bloke and soldier. Don't get me wrong he was no pushover, he could be as mean as the next man and was as hard as nails, but he had a fatherly, humorous way about him that endeared him to all us recruits.
I was pleased to read that things have gone well for him after leaving the army. It must be tough after twenty-two years as an infantry soldier and drill instructor to suddenly find yourself amongst the rank and file of Civvy Street with no recognised qualifications of any real worth. After a tough start he got himself into the health and safety racket and has never looked back, working all over the globe. He's retiring at 55, in a couple of years. Good on ya John, you got what you deserved.
I also contacted Jon Downie, one of my oldest and best chums. We went to school together, joined the army at the same time, albeit in different regiments, and have been friends forever. We always kept in touch with each other and teamed up whenever we could, which was tricky whilst being based in different garrisons/countries.
Jon left the mob after me and settled in Yorkshire. I visited him a few times there and he came 'home' to Rhyl regularly. On one of his trips home, about five years ago I reckon, we had a drunken fall-out. And, basically, that was it - we stopped contacting each other. Stopped being friends in essence.
I thought about him often but always put off getting in touch. Our row was relatively trivial in the grand scheme of things but still kept us apart. But, with us leaving for Oz in July, I thought I'd try a tentative text message to the mobile number I had for him. I say tentative not because I was nervous about getting in contact with him, on the contrary, I got myself quite excited about it, but because the phone number was from five or more years back. I haven't changed my number since then but almost everyone else has.
I sent the text. Within a minute my phone was ringing - it was JD. We chatted for fifteen or so minutes which is a long time for blokes. We both laughed about our hazy recollections of our drunken dispute.
It was as if we'd never lost touch. I guess that's the result of us having been such good mates. He's coming to Rhyl in a couple of weeks and we'll get together. It'll be just like the old days. He's coming to our leaving do as well.
I knew I could have called Jon at anytime if I needed his help, advice or whatever and vice-versa. It just took something like emigrating for one of us to make the first move. Blokes are stupid sometimes aren't they?
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
The Empire Strikes Back
Not so long ago in a land far, far away...
The England cricket team finally gave their fans something to cheer about. They've had the worst possible summer down under so I'm glad they came away with the money in the one day tournament. Good fer them!
Despite not being English I still cheer them on whenever they play anyone else apart from Wales. Whether my priorities will shift when we're in Australia who knows? Depends how we're accepted I suppose. Supporting Australian teams would break the habit of a lifetime. However, when in Rome...
Someone came to look at the house tonight. A lady from the neighbouring town of Prestatyn. She didn't stay long and I don't think we'll hear from her again. She made all the right noises but, then again, no-one's going to come into your home and start slagging it off are they? I'm leaning towards renting at the moment. That way if Australia doesn't work out how we hope, we can always ship back and have somewhere half decent to live in. We'll see.
In other news Britain was hit by snow last week. We didn't get affected too 'badly' I'm afraid. It would have been nice to have a good dusting but didn't get much and what we did get didn't last. It was effing freezing though and I was forced to dust off my 'North Face' coat to combat the Arctic conditions. It's massive. I brought it in New York, a year ago this week funnily enough. It was freezing there too. The lads in work take the p*ss when I wear it. They compare me to Hagrid from the Harry Potter films. It does the trick though, its warm as toast, so what if I have to turn sideways to get through door frames
The England cricket team finally gave their fans something to cheer about. They've had the worst possible summer down under so I'm glad they came away with the money in the one day tournament. Good fer them!
Despite not being English I still cheer them on whenever they play anyone else apart from Wales. Whether my priorities will shift when we're in Australia who knows? Depends how we're accepted I suppose. Supporting Australian teams would break the habit of a lifetime. However, when in Rome...
Someone came to look at the house tonight. A lady from the neighbouring town of Prestatyn. She didn't stay long and I don't think we'll hear from her again. She made all the right noises but, then again, no-one's going to come into your home and start slagging it off are they? I'm leaning towards renting at the moment. That way if Australia doesn't work out how we hope, we can always ship back and have somewhere half decent to live in. We'll see.
In other news Britain was hit by snow last week. We didn't get affected too 'badly' I'm afraid. It would have been nice to have a good dusting but didn't get much and what we did get didn't last. It was effing freezing though and I was forced to dust off my 'North Face' coat to combat the Arctic conditions. It's massive. I brought it in New York, a year ago this week funnily enough. It was freezing there too. The lads in work take the p*ss when I wear it. They compare me to Hagrid from the Harry Potter films. It does the trick though, its warm as toast, so what if I have to turn sideways to get through door frames
Sunday, January 28, 2007
A Cold Day in July
This house selling lark is boring us rigid. We've been on the market for over a week now and we haven't had so much as a sniff. So, in an effort to generate some excitement into our lives, the wife and I set a date to leave for Australia - July 23rd 2007.
Whether the house has sold or not, we're leaving. If the house sells sooner than that, well, we'll cross that bridge if, and when, we come to it.
We decided on Thursday night. Cory told us last week that he is 'doing the Troop' this June. To the uninitiated this means that he, as part of the 1st Battalion The Welsh Guards, will be 'Trooping the Colour' in London, and we wouldn't miss that for the world. As we're staying for that, we may as well let the girls finish their school year. They 'break-up' on the 20th July. So the plan is - have our leaving do on the 21st, sober up on the 22nd and get the flock out of here on the 23rd!
We're booking the flights today. Manchester to Brisbane, four people (two big, two small) one-way with Singapore Airlines - £2,086. We'll spend some time with our good friends Hed and Annabel in Brissy, which ties in nicely with Heds 40th birthday celebrations. Hed's also going to assist us with various aspects of administration, medicare, buying some wheels, etc.
From there we'll head to Sydney and do the touristy thaang for a few days. I'll sneak off on my lonesome at some stage, probably a Friday arvo, and head off on my pilgrimage to the GarryOwen in Balmain.
Then onwards to the City of Albury, unless there are any other points of interest on the way that my reader/s (Jen!) think may be worthy of a toilet break.
We should arrive there sometime around the 7th or 8th of August but we're flexible on those dates at the moment.
We're leaving Britain at the height of its summertime for Australia in mid-winter, so at least we won't have to worry about a change in climate.
Whether the house has sold or not, we're leaving. If the house sells sooner than that, well, we'll cross that bridge if, and when, we come to it.
We decided on Thursday night. Cory told us last week that he is 'doing the Troop' this June. To the uninitiated this means that he, as part of the 1st Battalion The Welsh Guards, will be 'Trooping the Colour' in London, and we wouldn't miss that for the world. As we're staying for that, we may as well let the girls finish their school year. They 'break-up' on the 20th July. So the plan is - have our leaving do on the 21st, sober up on the 22nd and get the flock out of here on the 23rd!
We're booking the flights today. Manchester to Brisbane, four people (two big, two small) one-way with Singapore Airlines - £2,086. We'll spend some time with our good friends Hed and Annabel in Brissy, which ties in nicely with Heds 40th birthday celebrations. Hed's also going to assist us with various aspects of administration, medicare, buying some wheels, etc.
From there we'll head to Sydney and do the touristy thaang for a few days. I'll sneak off on my lonesome at some stage, probably a Friday arvo, and head off on my pilgrimage to the GarryOwen in Balmain.
Then onwards to the City of Albury, unless there are any other points of interest on the way that my reader/s (Jen!) think may be worthy of a toilet break.
We should arrive there sometime around the 7th or 8th of August but we're flexible on those dates at the moment.
We're leaving Britain at the height of its summertime for Australia in mid-winter, so at least we won't have to worry about a change in climate.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Objects in the Rear View Mirror...
Today I went to the dentist. I lost my denture in a drunken stupor following one of the many Xmas drinking binges I went on. I imagine it's now residing in someones rose bush between where I got dropped off and home. So it's going to cost me £158 to replace. What a waste!
Anyway, my trip to and from the dentist takes me through some of North East Wales' nicer scenary and villages. Whilst travelling through Halkyn you get a great view of the surrounding area, the estuary and across to Merseyside. You really get the feeling of height above sea level when you can actually see the sea.
As usual I had to stop for Halkyn's most common species of resident, the sheep. They care little for the laws of the highway and even less for the green-cross code. Whilst waiting patiently for them to amble across the road, it dawned on me that there is no difference in the English language between the singular form of this creature and the plural. In Welsh we have dafad for the singular and defaid for the plural. Why it has taken me this long to realise this who knows?
Eventually I journeyed on and pretty soon I was grateful for the delay. For in my rear view mirror I spotted a piece of my past. An old friend.
I had to look twice but there was no mistaking the unique shape of a Landrover One Tonne. This one still bearing its military colours - army green with random black 'blobbage'. During my service days these were the most fun vehicles to drive. A massive V8 engine gave them heaps of power and a mean sound. The drivers position, being slightly ahead of the front wheels, gave a very different, entertaining perspective to a journey.
Used mainly by the Artillery, our paths crossed all too seldomly, but I took every opportunity that came my way to take one for a spin. As the engine was housed between the drivers' and passenger seat, repairs were always conducted under cover, out of the rain and cold. This fact also endeared them to me. The One Tonne remains my favourite wheeled vehicle of all-time.
I was tempted to race ahead in my car, pull over, jump out and try to flag the driver down. I know that the type of people who seek out, purchase and, more often than not, renovate military vehicles like this are, invariably, very willing to discuss their prized possession. Self-preservation stopped me taking this course of action though as I thought that the driver may decide to mow me down, thinking I was some sort of deranged, toothless lunatic attempting a car-jacking.
So I let him go. I return to the dentist for my denture dress rehearsal on Tuesday, so I'll keep my eyes peeled for him. Who knows I may even get to take it for a spin...
Anyway, my trip to and from the dentist takes me through some of North East Wales' nicer scenary and villages. Whilst travelling through Halkyn you get a great view of the surrounding area, the estuary and across to Merseyside. You really get the feeling of height above sea level when you can actually see the sea.
As usual I had to stop for Halkyn's most common species of resident, the sheep. They care little for the laws of the highway and even less for the green-cross code. Whilst waiting patiently for them to amble across the road, it dawned on me that there is no difference in the English language between the singular form of this creature and the plural. In Welsh we have dafad for the singular and defaid for the plural. Why it has taken me this long to realise this who knows?
Eventually I journeyed on and pretty soon I was grateful for the delay. For in my rear view mirror I spotted a piece of my past. An old friend.
I had to look twice but there was no mistaking the unique shape of a Landrover One Tonne. This one still bearing its military colours - army green with random black 'blobbage'. During my service days these were the most fun vehicles to drive. A massive V8 engine gave them heaps of power and a mean sound. The drivers position, being slightly ahead of the front wheels, gave a very different, entertaining perspective to a journey.
Used mainly by the Artillery, our paths crossed all too seldomly, but I took every opportunity that came my way to take one for a spin. As the engine was housed between the drivers' and passenger seat, repairs were always conducted under cover, out of the rain and cold. This fact also endeared them to me. The One Tonne remains my favourite wheeled vehicle of all-time.
I was tempted to race ahead in my car, pull over, jump out and try to flag the driver down. I know that the type of people who seek out, purchase and, more often than not, renovate military vehicles like this are, invariably, very willing to discuss their prized possession. Self-preservation stopped me taking this course of action though as I thought that the driver may decide to mow me down, thinking I was some sort of deranged, toothless lunatic attempting a car-jacking.
So I let him go. I return to the dentist for my denture dress rehearsal on Tuesday, so I'll keep my eyes peeled for him. Who knows I may even get to take it for a spin...
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Gotta Get to Rehab...
Things are getting out of hand on the belly front. The Christmas festivities have taken a heavy toll on my waistline. Haven't set foot in the gym since November... and it shows.
I'm weighing in at 16st 4llbs. I was 14st 7llbs in the summer when we did the Three Peaks. My proposed fitness campaign was due to commence on January 2nd but thus far hasn't even looked like getting underway. Definately tomorrow.
I'm weighing in at 16st 4llbs. I was 14st 7llbs in the summer when we did the Three Peaks. My proposed fitness campaign was due to commence on January 2nd but thus far hasn't even looked like getting underway. Definately tomorrow.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Bar GarryOwen
The estate agent put the 'For Sale' board up outside the house today. This will be the first time I've lived in a house that is on the market. We've chosen Peter Large after taking advice. I met him a couple of years ago when he valued our old house. Nice bloke, named after the size of his wallet apparently.
We briefly considered attempting to flog it ourselves to avoid paying the middle man. People do it these days, using the internet. We'll give Peter and his team a month or so and review the situation then.
I've been doing some serious surfing over the weekend, checking out a prospective local in Albury. The pubs look pretty good, much better than I expected based on my memories of Sydneys pubs from my visit in '96. The pubs were like slums but the punters within these slums were top notch.
Our local was the GarryOwen Hotel in Balmain. What a gaff! It reminded me of drinking establishments I'd visited in the Third World, a giant ashtray surrounding the bar with a lone armchair complete with upholstery spring poking through it's seat, positioned far too close to the cracked, worn-out dartboard. We called in one Friday afternoon for a swift one and ended up leaving on Sunday night decked out in the rugby league shirts of our choice, given to us by the lads we had met during the session. I've still got mine. South Sydney, the pride of the league, with the number one on the back. Given to me by Yummy, who, despite his handicap, ran all the way home and back in the rain to present it to me.
I plan to return to the GarryOwen when we move to Oz. It's had a right touch-up since that weekend in November ten years ago. It looks like a gay bar now, with shiny metallic furniture that looks less inviting than the broken chair from '96. It bears more resemblance to an Ikea showroom than a boozer. It's even got its own website.
I'd love to catch up with the gang that kept us royally entertained and made us feel so at home when we were twelve thousand miles away from home. They even managed to squeeze a 'punch-up' in for us, which despite the obvious violent overtones, still managed to be a comical and ultimately friendly segment of the evening.
I doubt whether the GarryOwen of today would permit that sort of behaviour, let alone encourage it as was the case back then. Couldn't see the dartboard on the website photographs either. Nor any of the faces I would recognise anywhere. No Yummy. I imagine they've moved on, unhappy with their local being turned into Bar GarryOwen, selling latte and mochachocachino. On to somewhere where they can watch the dogs, spit, curse, have a punt and thump each other.
I hope they took the dartboard with them...
We briefly considered attempting to flog it ourselves to avoid paying the middle man. People do it these days, using the internet. We'll give Peter and his team a month or so and review the situation then.
I've been doing some serious surfing over the weekend, checking out a prospective local in Albury. The pubs look pretty good, much better than I expected based on my memories of Sydneys pubs from my visit in '96. The pubs were like slums but the punters within these slums were top notch.
Our local was the GarryOwen Hotel in Balmain. What a gaff! It reminded me of drinking establishments I'd visited in the Third World, a giant ashtray surrounding the bar with a lone armchair complete with upholstery spring poking through it's seat, positioned far too close to the cracked, worn-out dartboard. We called in one Friday afternoon for a swift one and ended up leaving on Sunday night decked out in the rugby league shirts of our choice, given to us by the lads we had met during the session. I've still got mine. South Sydney, the pride of the league, with the number one on the back. Given to me by Yummy, who, despite his handicap, ran all the way home and back in the rain to present it to me.
I plan to return to the GarryOwen when we move to Oz. It's had a right touch-up since that weekend in November ten years ago. It looks like a gay bar now, with shiny metallic furniture that looks less inviting than the broken chair from '96. It bears more resemblance to an Ikea showroom than a boozer. It's even got its own website.
I'd love to catch up with the gang that kept us royally entertained and made us feel so at home when we were twelve thousand miles away from home. They even managed to squeeze a 'punch-up' in for us, which despite the obvious violent overtones, still managed to be a comical and ultimately friendly segment of the evening.
I doubt whether the GarryOwen of today would permit that sort of behaviour, let alone encourage it as was the case back then. Couldn't see the dartboard on the website photographs either. Nor any of the faces I would recognise anywhere. No Yummy. I imagine they've moved on, unhappy with their local being turned into Bar GarryOwen, selling latte and mochachocachino. On to somewhere where they can watch the dogs, spit, curse, have a punt and thump each other.
I hope they took the dartboard with them...
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Hell Hath No Fury...
Spoiler ahead -
Tracey Barlow's just biffed old Stubbsy round the cranium with a statue. Go Girl!!
Can you get 'The Street' in Australia?
Tracey Barlow's just biffed old Stubbsy round the cranium with a statue. Go Girl!!
Can you get 'The Street' in Australia?
Friday, January 12, 2007
Windy City
Forget Chicago and Wellington, if there was a windier place than Rhyl this morning then you don't want to be going there. As I looked out of my bedroom window a scene of carnage greeted me. Wheelie bins, litter and fence panels were among the bigger pieces of debris strewn across the green. Poor old Tim from across the way spent all weekend fixing his fence up only to see it destroyed by gale force winds during the wee small hours. That's his weekend sorted out. I should give him a lift actually, he helped me repair our garage door.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Dude Looks Like a Lady
NYE was a good night out. A good old-fashioned knees-up in several of the towns pubs, all of which hold special memories for me and the wife, collected down the years. A fitting end to our involvement in Rhyls New Years celebrations, as residents at least.
Fancy dress was, once again, on the slide although there was still plenty around. Possibly in the region of twenty per cent of revellers had donned costume for the big night. There were some good ones too - the most outstanding being the young lad in the Esp, who looked resplendent in his blazer, tie and slacks, only to turn around to reveal the back cut out of his rig showing his mums shocking pink bra and knickers.
This time next year, if everything goes to plan, we'll be seeing out the old and welcoming in the new in sunnier climes - Albury, NSW to be exact. The house gets measured by the estate agents this week then it's up for grabs. When it's gone so are we...
Fancy dress was, once again, on the slide although there was still plenty around. Possibly in the region of twenty per cent of revellers had donned costume for the big night. There were some good ones too - the most outstanding being the young lad in the Esp, who looked resplendent in his blazer, tie and slacks, only to turn around to reveal the back cut out of his rig showing his mums shocking pink bra and knickers.
This time next year, if everything goes to plan, we'll be seeing out the old and welcoming in the new in sunnier climes - Albury, NSW to be exact. The house gets measured by the estate agents this week then it's up for grabs. When it's gone so are we...
Monday, January 01, 2007
The Boys in the Royal Blue Jerseys
Would you adam and steve it? My birthday wish came true! Everton walloped Newcastle 3-0! Three goals scored by the home side at Goodison Park is very much a rarity these days so for it to occur on my birthday was a nice touch. The only downside of the event was the fact that we didn't get to see the game. We traipsed around Rhyls sodden streets in a vain attempt to find somewhere showing it. As it turned out no one was showing it because, for once, Evertons game was the only one not featuring on anyones satellite feed.
Never mind, I had an enjoyable birthday, drinking with my oldest friend Weeble. We called into our old haunt 'The Barrell', formerly the town centres premium watering hole. It's had a re-fit in an attempt to restore it to its former glories, returning to it's old name and layout after a couple of name changes and attempts to turn it into a nightclub. It was quite fitting that we dropped by yesterday on my last birthday in town. We had spent a good portion of our misspent youth in this place and we reminisced as we sat there. Two other members of the 'old guard' came in whilst we were there and , although we never knew them that well, we gave them the nod and said 'hello' just like in the good old days when I had a fringe.
Tonight is New Years Eve of course and for the first time in nineteen years I won't be going out in fancy dress. Rhyl has traditionally been Party Centraal on NYE with virtually the entire town donning costume for the night. It was almost compulsory in days of yorn but over the years the tradition has sadly been on the wane. Even I shan't be bothering tonight as I've been void of any idea what to dress up as really. I can't keep putting one of the wifes dresses on - people will suspect. I was going to do Borat in his Kazakh speedos but decided it would be too cold and a bit on the obscene side as well.
So tonight we're going as ourselves as, I'd imagine, many other people will. I hope the tradition continues and becomes what it was once again, for it was a truly memorable period in the history of Rhyls nightlife.
On that note, wherever you are and whatever you do tonight have a good one. Blwyddyn Newydd Da i chi gyd! Happy New Year to you all!
Never mind, I had an enjoyable birthday, drinking with my oldest friend Weeble. We called into our old haunt 'The Barrell', formerly the town centres premium watering hole. It's had a re-fit in an attempt to restore it to its former glories, returning to it's old name and layout after a couple of name changes and attempts to turn it into a nightclub. It was quite fitting that we dropped by yesterday on my last birthday in town. We had spent a good portion of our misspent youth in this place and we reminisced as we sat there. Two other members of the 'old guard' came in whilst we were there and , although we never knew them that well, we gave them the nod and said 'hello' just like in the good old days when I had a fringe.
Tonight is New Years Eve of course and for the first time in nineteen years I won't be going out in fancy dress. Rhyl has traditionally been Party Centraal on NYE with virtually the entire town donning costume for the night. It was almost compulsory in days of yorn but over the years the tradition has sadly been on the wane. Even I shan't be bothering tonight as I've been void of any idea what to dress up as really. I can't keep putting one of the wifes dresses on - people will suspect. I was going to do Borat in his Kazakh speedos but decided it would be too cold and a bit on the obscene side as well.
So tonight we're going as ourselves as, I'd imagine, many other people will. I hope the tradition continues and becomes what it was once again, for it was a truly memorable period in the history of Rhyls nightlife.
On that note, wherever you are and whatever you do tonight have a good one. Blwyddyn Newydd Da i chi gyd! Happy New Year to you all!
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Penblwydd Hapus i Fi!
Or Happy Birthday to Me! As they say in English. I am 39 today. Not a particularly special birthday numerically speaking but a poignant one for me nevertheless, as it's very likely to be the last one I spend in the bosom of family and life-long friends.
And what do I have planned for this momentous occasion you ask? Nothing special really. I've got an electrical repair to carry out at my brothers place which I may or may not do. To knock the skin off a few at the driving range is the next goal followed by a visit to my folks seeing as we go back such a long way and , who knows, there may even be a birthday gift there to mark the occasion. My plan then follows a rather predictable pattern. I intend to rock up to the Esp (my local), find myself a pew, probably the one by the fruit machine and get cooked, nice and slowly, the way it's meant to be done.
At some stage I'll be watching my beloved Everton take on Newcastle on the foreign satellite broadcasts widely available in pubs and clubs in Rhyl these days. It'd be a nice birthday treat for me if the Blues bucked their recent trend of being the least entertaining team in world football and produced a display that warranted my thirty five years of unquestioned loyalty to them.
For it was on this very day in 1971, my fourth birthday, that my Dad gave me the wonderful gift of a blue shirt with a white trim, white shorts and stockings. Why Dad picked this kit is a mystery that I've never ventured to solve. Most parents, especially amongst my peers, virtually force their offspring to support the same team as they do. Employing such despicable tactics as dressing their infants up in miniature replica kits then photographing this heinous crime in order to brandish this photographic evidence at any stage during their childs life when they show the merest hint of showing favour to another team.
This is important stuff too. Very important stuff. For the ardent fan, which is almost everybody in the U.K., you are forever linked to your teams fortune. They suffer, you suffer ten-fold. Likewise with all the other emotions involved. Success for the vast majority, especially Evertonians like me, is an all too infrequent and fleeting visitor. Probably unbeknown to him at the back-end of 1971 my Dad made a decision that has had a massive impact on my life. A massive impact.
Dad's a Liverpool fan from Billy Liddells days, Evertons deadliest and only real rivals. I hate them, which makes his decision all the more difficult to fathom. We lived in Hampshire at the time and I was an easily pleased kid, he could easily have palmed me off with a more local team, Southampton perhaps or one of the London giants like Arsenal maybe. Imagine my delight in this day and age if he'd have picked blue shorts to go with that blue jersey - Chelsea would have been my team. Urrrgh! Even contemplating supporting someone else sends a shiver down my spine.
Like I said I've never questioned Dads motives, I've just been grateful, very grateful. But for what? For the vast majority of my life Everton have been an average to poor side rarely providing value for money for the paying fan. We've had our moments of course, the mid-eighties was terrific but failed to materialise into a dynasty the like of which seems to occur these days following a period of great success which 1984-87 truly was for Everton. The remainder of the time has found me at the mercy of mocking work-mates and friends who, fortunately, have grown bored of such easy prey and turned elsewhere to get their kicks.
Having said all that, me following Everton right or wrong, great or grim has helped to make me what I am. A character who appreciates the good times and has learned to roll with the bad. With sharpened wit due to having been forced to seek verbal repertoire elsewhere than the football based responses spat out by supporters of 'corporation' teams. It has bonded me with like-minded individuals the world over whose company I have revelled in and will continue to do so.
In song the great Johnny Cash named his boy Sue to prepare him for anything the world could throw at him, my old man made me an Evertonian. Being an Evertonian hasn't made me what I am, my Dad has.
So Dad, for this and so much more I thank you. If you present me with a gift today that provides me with a nano-fraction of the stimulation and entertainment that the one you gave me thirty five years ago has done then you would have achieved something impossible. A win for the Blues would be nice!!!!!
P.S. My mum's not a bad old stick either!
And what do I have planned for this momentous occasion you ask? Nothing special really. I've got an electrical repair to carry out at my brothers place which I may or may not do. To knock the skin off a few at the driving range is the next goal followed by a visit to my folks seeing as we go back such a long way and , who knows, there may even be a birthday gift there to mark the occasion. My plan then follows a rather predictable pattern. I intend to rock up to the Esp (my local), find myself a pew, probably the one by the fruit machine and get cooked, nice and slowly, the way it's meant to be done.
At some stage I'll be watching my beloved Everton take on Newcastle on the foreign satellite broadcasts widely available in pubs and clubs in Rhyl these days. It'd be a nice birthday treat for me if the Blues bucked their recent trend of being the least entertaining team in world football and produced a display that warranted my thirty five years of unquestioned loyalty to them.
For it was on this very day in 1971, my fourth birthday, that my Dad gave me the wonderful gift of a blue shirt with a white trim, white shorts and stockings. Why Dad picked this kit is a mystery that I've never ventured to solve. Most parents, especially amongst my peers, virtually force their offspring to support the same team as they do. Employing such despicable tactics as dressing their infants up in miniature replica kits then photographing this heinous crime in order to brandish this photographic evidence at any stage during their childs life when they show the merest hint of showing favour to another team.
This is important stuff too. Very important stuff. For the ardent fan, which is almost everybody in the U.K., you are forever linked to your teams fortune. They suffer, you suffer ten-fold. Likewise with all the other emotions involved. Success for the vast majority, especially Evertonians like me, is an all too infrequent and fleeting visitor. Probably unbeknown to him at the back-end of 1971 my Dad made a decision that has had a massive impact on my life. A massive impact.
Dad's a Liverpool fan from Billy Liddells days, Evertons deadliest and only real rivals. I hate them, which makes his decision all the more difficult to fathom. We lived in Hampshire at the time and I was an easily pleased kid, he could easily have palmed me off with a more local team, Southampton perhaps or one of the London giants like Arsenal maybe. Imagine my delight in this day and age if he'd have picked blue shorts to go with that blue jersey - Chelsea would have been my team. Urrrgh! Even contemplating supporting someone else sends a shiver down my spine.
Like I said I've never questioned Dads motives, I've just been grateful, very grateful. But for what? For the vast majority of my life Everton have been an average to poor side rarely providing value for money for the paying fan. We've had our moments of course, the mid-eighties was terrific but failed to materialise into a dynasty the like of which seems to occur these days following a period of great success which 1984-87 truly was for Everton. The remainder of the time has found me at the mercy of mocking work-mates and friends who, fortunately, have grown bored of such easy prey and turned elsewhere to get their kicks.
Having said all that, me following Everton right or wrong, great or grim has helped to make me what I am. A character who appreciates the good times and has learned to roll with the bad. With sharpened wit due to having been forced to seek verbal repertoire elsewhere than the football based responses spat out by supporters of 'corporation' teams. It has bonded me with like-minded individuals the world over whose company I have revelled in and will continue to do so.
In song the great Johnny Cash named his boy Sue to prepare him for anything the world could throw at him, my old man made me an Evertonian. Being an Evertonian hasn't made me what I am, my Dad has.
So Dad, for this and so much more I thank you. If you present me with a gift today that provides me with a nano-fraction of the stimulation and entertainment that the one you gave me thirty five years ago has done then you would have achieved something impossible. A win for the Blues would be nice!!!!!
P.S. My mum's not a bad old stick either!
Monday, December 25, 2006
Where Streams of Whiskey Are Flowin'...`
Our visa has arrived. We now have the right to live and work in Australia for the next three years. Great eh? We think so.
It's been a long road of application process and at times it's been a right royal pain in the arse. Fortunately for me the burden of paperwork and hoop-jumping has largely been taken care of by the wife, who's given it everything and some more to ensure our success in achieving our goal.
All we have to do now is sell the house. If you're interested it's going on the market for around £175,000.
It's been a long road of application process and at times it's been a right royal pain in the arse. Fortunately for me the burden of paperwork and hoop-jumping has largely been taken care of by the wife, who's given it everything and some more to ensure our success in achieving our goal.
All we have to do now is sell the house. If you're interested it's going on the market for around £175,000.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Christmas Do's......and dont's.
Monday today. Not any old Monday but the Monday following the works Christmas do. A nerve-wracking and cringeworthy day for many as their Saturday night exploits are re-lived in the cold light of day. This year wasn't too bad for me in comparison to previous years embarrassment. I can't deny I was well and truly spannered and was guilty of a bit of profiterole-throwing and a couple of episodes of dirty dancing but that's about the long and short of it. Just to confirm my behaviour wasn't too offensive I made a furtive Sunday afternoon phone call to a more sober colleague who agreed that I hadn't upset anyone too badly on the night as far as he was aware.
Whilst this was of some relief to me I still wasn't feeling totally confident this morning. Given that, on the equivalent Monday in 2003 following my most notorious Christmas do experience, I had been completely oblivious to the storm that awaited me on my arrival at work, it was with no little trepidation that I entered the office today.
Everyone was quite quiet for the first half hour- so far so good thought I. In time little tit-bits of Saturdays activities were discussed confirming a couple of my misdemeanors but thankfully no skeletons were emerging . As the day wore on I was becoming more confident that I had come through this festively decorated minefield pretty much unscathed.
I was pleased. After all, this had been my 'comeback' do following my year-long suspension from works functions following the 2003 Xmas bash when I committed a catalogue of faux-pas and my own, self imposed two year sabbatical in protest at the afore mentioned suspension. I wouldn't have gone this year, to be honest, were it not for the fact that it was possibly my last Xmas do seeing as we will hopefully be living in Australia this time next year. But went I did and determined to have a blast, I succeeded.
They're an odd concept works do's. Drinking with people you don't really count as friends, people you wouldn't normally socialize with. People you don't know that much about really, even though you spend the vast majority of your waking life with them. So they can be quite awkward events to say the least, the very least. I think my little break from such gatherings helped, plus the fact that I'd spent a good portion of the afternoon in various Chester pubs by way of 'warm-up'. All in all it was a blinding night and more importantly I didn't make too much of an arse of myself for once. Which is nice.
Whilst this was of some relief to me I still wasn't feeling totally confident this morning. Given that, on the equivalent Monday in 2003 following my most notorious Christmas do experience, I had been completely oblivious to the storm that awaited me on my arrival at work, it was with no little trepidation that I entered the office today.
Everyone was quite quiet for the first half hour- so far so good thought I. In time little tit-bits of Saturdays activities were discussed confirming a couple of my misdemeanors but thankfully no skeletons were emerging . As the day wore on I was becoming more confident that I had come through this festively decorated minefield pretty much unscathed.
I was pleased. After all, this had been my 'comeback' do following my year-long suspension from works functions following the 2003 Xmas bash when I committed a catalogue of faux-pas and my own, self imposed two year sabbatical in protest at the afore mentioned suspension. I wouldn't have gone this year, to be honest, were it not for the fact that it was possibly my last Xmas do seeing as we will hopefully be living in Australia this time next year. But went I did and determined to have a blast, I succeeded.
They're an odd concept works do's. Drinking with people you don't really count as friends, people you wouldn't normally socialize with. People you don't know that much about really, even though you spend the vast majority of your waking life with them. So they can be quite awkward events to say the least, the very least. I think my little break from such gatherings helped, plus the fact that I'd spent a good portion of the afternoon in various Chester pubs by way of 'warm-up'. All in all it was a blinding night and more importantly I didn't make too much of an arse of myself for once. Which is nice.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)