This is a poem I wrote about a scene I watched from my kitchen window while doing the dishes. It was on a recent Spring evening, just as the sun was beginning to dip behind the trees. It had been a sunny day and crucially, I’d just cut the grass earlier that day.
I looked up to see a couple of blackbirds, which on closer inspection I could see were a male and a female. So, channeling my inner Cilla Black (one for older readers there and an old TV matchmaker if you don’t know) I immediately placed them together. Man and wife, if you like. A mam and dad, probably, foraging for food for their newborn Spring chicks. The birds love it when the grass has been cut; I’m not entirely sure why.
The fact that they were at opposite ends of the garden and that their movements were both graceful and jerky, yet obviously on the same wavelength reminded me of dancers in a ballroom. It was something I remembered days later when I had the time to start drafting the poem. Here it is.
Blackbirds
The lights dim and a sultry dance begins in the garden ballroom, tentative at first, but gaining pace and rhythm as the minutes pass. Trees sway and rustle in the evening breeze, an audience inspired to move, adding occasional ripples of polite applause as our pairing settle to a tantalising flirtation, at first far apart, yet soon together tripping the light fantastic, their dark figures striking a pose, drawing ever closer with each beat of the dying sun and as the light sighs its last this dance will reach collapse and these two distant partners, now nestled close, will return to the humdrum beat of their something else, their everyday a life away from this brief, glamorous scene until time and hunger dictates they should do it all again.
The idea with the poem was to use an extended metaphor of a ballroom and a pair of dancers to describe what was essentially two blackbirds out getting food. It was the way they moved, almost in tandem, that inspired the idea of the ‘sultry dance’ in the ‘garden ballroom’ and then it became a challenge to add as many dance references as I could so that a poem was formed.
It’s the second time I’ve written about blackbirds as I like to watch them in the garden. They can be quite territorial and there have been several occasions when one has flown way too close, squawking at me as if to warn me off. I don’t think they understand the idea of home ownership! Anyway, maybe somehow they’ll sense that I’m writing about them and make me the honorary president of their fanclub!
I quite like this poem. I’d have liked to spend more time drafting, but given time constraints – I’m a busy boy at the minute – I’m quite pleased with how it turned out. Maybe it’s one I’ll return to in time. I hope you like it too though!
So, after what feels like a lifetime chock full of business tasks fuelled by a combination of bizarre decisions and downright ineptitude, we’re mere hours away from another Apprentice finale. And even though I don’t feel that I’ve been as invested in the candidates as I might have been in previous years, I cannot wait!
This year’s finalists are gym owner Rachel Woolford and pie company boss Phil Turner. And it’s anyone’s guess who’ll win out. Unless you’re Lord Sugar of course, who I reckon won’t just guess who he gives £250,000 to.
Even in the interviews it felt like a bit of a lottery in terms of who would make the final. However, once it emerged that Tre didn’t have a business plan or really, a product and that Paul had chosen the wrong plan and that you or I knew just about as much as he did about scrubs, then the field was kind of narrowed down. In fact, given what happened in this year’s interview episode, I’m considering just turning up myself next year with some ideas scrawled down on a crumpled piece of paper titled, ‘Why I need Lord Sugar’s £250,000′ by Graham aged 53. I reckon I’d still have a bit of a chance of making the final.
Of the two finalists, it’s perhaps inevitable that we might look on Rachel as the favourite. Not only has she shown a fair amount of business acumen, hard work and determination throughout the series, but she’s up against Phil! Phil! The very same Phil who lost all of the first 9 tasks and seemed to be in the boardroom fighting for his life every other week. But then again, he’s in the final for a reason. We have to presume that Lord Sugar and his people have spotted something in him, surely. None of us has much idea what it might be though!
Last week, Phil added to his Apprentice legacy by revealing in the interviews that he hasn’t seen a set of accounts for his business for about a decade. OK, I’m exaggerating there, but the bloke literally sat and told scary Mike Soutar that he hadn’t seen his accounts for a couple of years. I’m no business viking (as no doubt someone must have referred to themselves over the years), but that feels like me not looking at the fuel gauge in my car for a fortnight and just hoping that I’ll keep getting to where I’m going.
Both candidates seem to have successful businesses and both just want to make them bigger. Fair enough. Rachel wants more gyms – and while we continue to obsess over how we look on social media then we’ll always need more gyms! I mean, where else would the country’s vain halfwits find mirrors big enough to pose in?
Phil, on the other hand, wants to expand his pie business after admitting that he didn’t have the vision to take it any further. And after he made a truffle flavoured vegan cheese that didn’t really taste of truffle…or cheese for that matter, in the last task, you can possibly see why he thinks he lacks vision I suppose.
Conspiracy theorists will have you believe that Phil is being set up to win. I mean, I certainly can’t remember a series where someone failed so spectacularly every week and then still made the final. Some have also pointed to the fact that in his win or bust task – the vegan cheese one – he was given the strongest of the other candidates on his team. But then, some of these people probably still think that the Earth is flat.
So, get yourselves set for an exciting final. There’s no clear favourite, but definitely an underdog. But, with the help of some, if not all of the other candidates from the series, there will be one last task to get through before Lord Sugar decides who he’s going to invest in. And of course, there’s my favourite bit of all; where the two successful candidates have to walk into the room for their pitch, usually down one of the longest walkways or staircases in the modern world. It has to be one of the most awkward TV moments of the year and every year a little bit of is secretly hoping for a trip!
Every once in a while, whoever you might support, a player arrives at your club and changes everything. The rules are thrown out of the window, the script torn up and the unpredictable becomes a part of your weekly diet. These players are just…different. Mavericks, renegades, geniuses, ballers, call them what you want, we’ve all had at least a couple over the years.
Hatem Ben Arfa was very much a maverick and for a short time he changed what we thought was possible from a player wearing the black and white stripes and gave everyone who watched him a chance to rub their eyes and wonder if what they’d just witnessed had really happened. His time lacked consistency and even a decent ending, but he left us with a ton of amazing memories.
Ben Arfa was signed in August 2010, from Marseille, initially on loan. It became evident quite quickly that we’d signed someone pretty special. There were flashes of inspirational skill, even though it took the player a while to find his feet. But find his feet he did when we played Everton away in the September of that season. As the half was coming to an uneventful close he took a pass to feet from Wayne Routledge. He then ignored the winger’s overlapping run, preferring – shock horror – to keep hold of the ball. At first he seemed unsure of what to do, but then, having turned this way and that, he faced up his marker, swerved to the left and hit an unstoppable shot from about 25 yards into the far corner of the net. A star was born.
Sadly, less than a month later, Ben Arfa’s season was over when he was the victim of a shocking tackle from Nigel de Jong in our game away at Man City. A broken tibia and fibia would mean that we wouldn’t see Hatem in a black and white shirt for another year.
Perhaps understandably after such a massive injury. Ben Arfa’s second season started rather quietly and he failed to really dominate games at first. However, he would really make his mark in January of 2012.
For those in attendance, Ben Arfa’s goal against Blackburn in the FA Cup may well go down as one of the greatest goals we’ll have witnessed live. As he received the ball in midfield there were three defenders in close attendance. But still, he turned and ran at them. It felt like fraction of a second before he was in the box at the Gallowgate end and despite what felt like half of Rover’s defence surrounding him, Ben Arfa continued to wriggle through. Finally, with opposition defenders pretty much surrounding him, he managed to drag the ball back onto his left foot and hammer it high into the net from the edge of the six yard box.
I’d seen plenty of players who could dribble over the years, but Ben Arfa felt different. Yes, he was inconsistent, but at times it felt like he had the ball on a string. The goal against Blackburn was very much one of these occasions.
Ben Arfa briefly lit up the Mike Ashley years. It felt like an un-Ashley type signing when we got him. He came with a reputation as a little bit of a trouble maker and was said to be on strike when we took him from Marseille. Subsequent years and multiple clubs would prove this to be the case. Why else would Marseille be letting him go out on loan? And yet, perhaps with re-sale pound signs in his eyes, Ashley sanctioned the signing and Hatem became an integral part of the team that also contained Coloccini, Cabaye, Tiote, Gutierrez, Cisse and Ba and would go on to finish 5th in the Premier League.
But, having fallen out with teammates and management left, right and centre at both Lyon and Marseille the writing was surely on the wall from the moment he signed.
Hatem was one of those players who created a buzz. Whenever he got the ball there was an expectancy that something was about to happen. It became apparent that Hatem himself didn’t always know what that something was, but he was tremendously exciting and frustrating in equal measure. Often, when he should have passed he went off on some fruitless solo endeavour, but then there were times when, just as it looked like he’d lost possession, he’d somehow create a yard of space and do something breathtakingly brilliant.
For me, he had a little bit of a Jack Grealish quality, in that he was just as likely to slow play down and turn back with the ball than he was to produce a moment of magic. But in his time at the Toon, we lived for that magic!
Ben Arfa though, will always be remembered for one moment; that goal against Bolton. He took the ball from Yohan Cabaye fairly deep in his own half, but what came next took the breath away. An outrageous flick and turn took him past his marker who was left flailing around on the turf. Then it was all about power. Ben Arfa evaded a desperate tackle midway into opposition territory, somehow managing to keep his feet as his ankles were clipped. Then he just ran for goal, running through two half hearted challenges on the edge of the box before poking the ball past the onrushing keeper with the outside of his foot.
The initial turn was balletic, the drive with the ball all about brute power and speed and the finish almost an instinctive flick. If you watch it on YouTube, there’s an angle where he’s running at the camera and when he’s challenged in their half he cries out, as if he’s been hurt and might take a tumble. But it’s in the blink of an eye and rather than go over, before you know it, the ball’s in the Bolton net and the Gallowgate are up in celebration. From receiving the ball to it hitting the net took around 8 seconds and it’s something that won’t be forgotten for a long time for those that were there. What a goal. What a moment. Ben Arfa at his thrilling best.
Sadly, it wasn’t to last. Almost inevitably Hatem would clash with those in charge. Injuries would disrupt the rest of the 2011/2012 season, as well as a lot of the following year. Rumour has it that, like at other clubs, Ben Arfa fell out with his fellow players, with club captain Fabricio Collocini particularly irked by his behaviour. It’s said that Colo even went to the manager and asked for Ben Arfa to be benched for fear of a player rebellion. Once again, the Ben Arfa attitude had led to him finding himself out of favour and on the move.
There were fan protests about Ben Arfa’s absence from the squad – a Che Guevara style banner with Hatem’s face and the word Hope was regularly seen at St. James’ – and his plight become a bit of a focal point for general fan unrest at the Ashley regime and the running of the team by Pardew. He even appeared sitting with the fans for the home game against Cardiff that year. When Ben Arfa was finally loaned to Hull City, his career with the Toon was over. We would never truly see the man at the peak of his powers.
Ben Arfa’s time at Hull was short lived – amazingly he failed to find inspiration under Steve Bruce – and eventually Newcastle terminated his contract, leaving him as a free agent. His story at Newcastle was sadly over. But his story as a footballer would have much more to come with eventful spells at Nice, PSG, Rennes, Valladolid, Bordeaux and Lille following as well as an unexpected recall to the France squad. But at almost every turn, there was controversy and conflict and at present he remains a free agent.
Overall Ben Arfa made 86 appearances for Newcastle scoring 14 goals, and he never really fulfilled his potential. Still though, there can’t be many of us who wouldn’t have a goal from Hatem in their Top 10 Toon goals of all time.
As you’d expect though, there is one final twist in the Ben Arfa tale. What is he doing now? Not content with waiting things out and looking at finding another club, Hatem was last heard of as embarking on a career as a professional padel tennis player and was reported to be ranked in the top 1500 players in the world!
As a young man, Markus Torgeby quickly grew disaffected by a lot of what the world around him had to offer. He knew that society’s expectations were not for him. Despite being a talented runner though, he sensed that pursuing this as any kind of career was not going to work. Too often, injury or just not being in the right mindset got in the way of any kind of competitive edge. As he says himself at the start of the book, “My head was full of dark thoughts. I didn’t know what to do. I had to rethink what it was I really wanted, I had to find a way out of that well.”
What Markus did next – which is documented in the book – seems both astonishing and really quite wonderful.
‘The Runner’ is an international best seller and tells the tale of one man and his quest to find contentment. In short, Torgeby headed up into the Swedish wilderness to live in a tent and dedicate himself to a more simple life, where money didn’t matter, but running most certainly did.
It’s an amazing true life tale, beginning in Jamtland, northern Sweden where the temperature is -22 and Markus is the only person for miles around. This is where he escapes the norms of society, pitching his tent and living among nature complete with enormous amounts of snow, elk and even the threat of bears.
As you’d imagine from the title, running is very much central to Torgeby’s existence. When he vows to run every day, he means it and nothing will stop him, be that extreme weather conditions, injury or mental health issues. Torgeby isn’t just testing his fitness – he’s pitting himself against both the most extreme elements and also just the odds.
Running is where Markus is at peace and I have to say that resonated with me, as I’m sure it would with many runners. The only difference would be – and it’s a seismic difference – that while the majority of us are running around the civilised, normal streets or trails near where we live, Markus Torgeby is running around in one of the most isolated, northernmost territories on the planet! There are threats to life almost with every step he takes. This is not the tale of an everyday runner, despite the fact that he runs every day!
‘The Runner’ is actually really well written and Torgeby rarely shies away from telling us exactly how he’s feeling or what he thinks of the world, even if it can be uncomfortable to read at times. His blunt honesty is one of the most positive features of the book and it’s hard not to be impressed by Torgeby’s principles and way of life.
And then there’s the sheer courage of it all. As someone who rarely takes much in the way of risks, ‘The Runner’ makes for an absolutely fascinating read. Torgeby leaves home to live his life his way when he’s barely much more than a child. And yet, his lifestyle choice is utterly remarkable, especially when you know that he is burdened by the thought of his mother’s suffering, back at home. She suffers with MS and some of the most beautiful passages in the book revolve around her relationship with her son, as he cares for her and helps to make sure that she is still able to experience the wonder of the world around her.
After four years of living in his tent in the wilderness, Markus begins to come to terms with the world around him and the contentment that follows – I won’t spoil what that consists of – gives us a bit of a happy ending.
Part of me felt jealous of Torgeby while reading the book and I questioned some of my early adult decisions in life. It’s funny how something like this can take us back and make us more self critical. Ultimately though, at the age when Markus left home for the wilderness I was probably barely able to cook for myself, let alone live in a tent in some of the most unforgiving territory on the planet, so I was able to give myself a break after all!
Whether you’re a runner, health freak, someone with an adventurous spirit or none of those things, this book is a great read. For me personally, it was interesting to see that I had things in common with the writer and that we shared such a love of running. Ultimately though, if you like an interesting take on life or just enjoy learning about some of the bolder ways to live, then you’ll enjoy this book.
It’s the Easter holidays and as I’ve got some time on my hands I decided to sit down and try and write something for the blog. Other commitments have been getting in the way of late and so my blog has been very much neglected.
So, with not a lot in mind to write about, I thought I’d trawl through some notebooks and accompanying scraps of paper in order to see what poetry I have knocking about. It turns out that there are quite a few that have either been started or simply finished and then just left and so, after quite a bit of reading I decided to add this one to the blog. It brings back a lot of memories and I really like it.
Willow
As the spots of rain get heavier and begin to change the colour of the roads and pavements around, you scramble for the familiar shelter of the giant old weeping willow.
Everyone is out, the house locked up, but you chose friends, football and the top of the hill Wembley of a pub car park over the visit to family, and now that team mates have chosen bricks and mortar for cover, solitude in nature is forced upon you.
A mass of leaves and sagging branches provide ample sanctuary, so you position yourself so not to be seen from either road or the neighbour's house, shift your knees up to your chest and enjoy this place where there is no shouting, no conflict and no storm of any kind.
The willow tree in question here is the one that we had in the garden of my childhood home. Everyone else regarded it as a nuisance because of its sheer size and mass of leaves that would be shed in autumn and litter the surrounding area, but I loved it.
I’d play in it as a small child, inventing games and characters and swinging on those branches. As I got older it became somewhere to hide and just be on my own, away from what I remember now, rightly or wrongly, as a lot of shouting and anger in our house. Sometimes, as in the poem, it was just a convenient shelter of a different kind as the rain just didn’t seem to get through it. As I got older, I’d often stay at home when my parents went across to see family, but would rarely remember to take a key. These things got forgotten when there was a game of football about to start! And so, I’d end up just sitting under the tree to escape the elements.
In later years, after we had moved out, the tree was cut down. I still kind of miss it to this day.
Well, it would appear that we’re well and truly right in the throes of Spring! The weather is largely warming up – although we stood out in hail while volunteering at ParkRun this weekend – and the days are getting lighter all round. There’s colour in the garden and I’ve also been able to get some washing out on the line, which always makes me feel a bit more optimistic about the time of year…I don’t really know why.
Today though, I thought I’d write a little bit about my morning and the sights, sounds and the feel of Spring that I got to experience. Let’s just say that none of it really stuck to the stereotypes!
So, this morning, seeing that we were going to have dry weather until early afternoon, I took the opportunity to give our back lawn its first cut of the year. It’s always an arduous job as by the time the weather is good enough, the lawn has always grown to a good few inches in length and is soaking wet, meaning that it will take hours to get through. In truth, I despise having to do it!
At this point, I’ll introduce my neighbour. Now, don’t get me wrong, he’s a lovely, well meaning elderly gentleman who’d do anything for us. He’s also very hard of hearing and loves to chat. The job of listening to him generally falls to me and believe me when I say that sometimes this can be even more arduous than cutting the lawn as he never really hears what I’m saying and has a tendency to repeat a lot of what he’s already said to me!
Anyway, having got the mower out of the shed and put it back together – it’s over 10 years old and very much on its last legs – I started to mow, kind of knowing exactly what would happen next. I was still surprised by the immediacy though!
After no more than 20 seconds of mowing I heard the click of the neighbour’s gate – one of the first sounds of spring round these parts. And when I looked up, there he was. My neighbour. He didn’t really wait for me, just set off talking. So the mowing got delayed for a while!
Our back garden is bordered by houses on both sides. My aforementioned neighbour’s garden runs parallel to ours, but on the other side, the end of two gardens back onto us. One of these neighbours has a terrible habit of clearing his throat and nose, very loudly. He seems to save it all up for the moment he sees me in the garden as well. It’s not something I hear much of through winter as I’m not outside anywhere near as much. However, this morning just as I’d reached the end of the first couple of strips of the garden, there it was. Another delightful spring sound. A wonderful hacking of the throat and nose sounding like it had been played through Glastonbury’s PA system, all the way from inside his house to the middle of my garden. And every time I stopped mowing, there it was a again! This must have gone on for about 10 minutes! So, no nightingales singing, just the sound of phlegm!
I had the wonderful Spring experience of clearing fallen blooms away too. We have an enormous camellia that gives us an abundance of huge bright pink flowers from February. It’s genuinely stunning. However, the downside is that by the time I come to cut the lawn, hundreds of flowers have fallen from the plant and litter the garden. And I get the job of having to pick them all up, as if I mow them they splatter all over the place. In turn, picking them up gives me the wonderful sensation of soaking wet flowers in my hands and also quite a few slugs, who seem to find the flowers far too good to resist. I hate anything on my hands, so this genuinely makes me feel queasy.
Later, sounds included a really annoying crow, some girls walking along the footpath that borders the back of my garden and swearing loudly and my neighbour’s wife asking if he wanted a cup of tea – she didn’t extend the offer to me. I also managed to unearth some cat poo in the long grass, before sliding through it a little later and suffering the stench of it every time I went near!
Finally, the sounds of spring reached a wonderful crescendo when my neighbour came to talk to me twice more; once to rant about the price of the new England football shirt and the modifications made to the flag of St. George on the back of it – capitalism, mate – and then to talk of something that seems to be uniquely him!
He’s a keen gardener and tends to order his plants off the internet. However, I swear that every time he does, they seem to mess up his order. And then, when he complains, the companies always seem to send him more than he needs. This isn’t just restricted to plants; he’s had plant pots too. And he always offers us his cast offs, which is nice, but even when we politely decline he just doesn’t listen and brings stuff around anyway! This happened again today, which given that we’ve only just started ‘garden season’ is quite some going! Anyway, to cut a long story short, despite turning them down we’re due to get a load of free mystery plants in a few weeks. Lord knows what we’ll do with them!
So, Spring has indeed sprung. But round these parts there’s no delightful birdsong or the smell of budding roses; no, just elderly neighbours, coughing and sniffing of Olympic proportions, wet and dirty, slug laden hands and the feeling of almost pulling a hamstring as you slide through hidden cat poo!
Reader, I hope your Spring is going better than mine!
I’ve been slightly fascinated by ballet for most of my adult life. There’s something amazing about a story told solely by dance and something incredible to me about those who can do so. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined I’d ever go to watch one though! As a working class lad from the north-east, I didn’t think I’d quite fit the profile for the kind of person who’d go out to watch the ballet and I didn’t think I’d ever get the opportunity.
However, things began to change in the early stages of last year while I was at home recovering from my heart surgery. While mornings were usually spent getting some kind of exercise, afternoons were for recovering from the mornings and by the time the evenings came round I was often fit only for sitting in front of the telly and that was about it! On one such evening, with the living room to myself, I was flicking through the channels looking for a change from the norm and there it was – Matthew Bourne’s Romeo and Juliet. I watched it, captivated.
Fast forward to February of this year and upon opening the final birthday present from my wife, there was a ticket shaped piece of carboard in a huge box. Expecting tickets to a gig or a comedy tour I flipped it over to reveal…tickets to Northern Ballet’s ‘Romeo and Juliet’. While I was surprised and a little bit puzzled, I was also really pleased.
And so, last Saturday, with mere minutes to spare – we were cutting things fine, as ever – we took our seats at the Grand, not really knowing what to expect. So, let me tell you a bit about the ballet.
The first thing that struck the both of us was a little detail about the audience; it seemed like about three quarters of them were drinking white wine in the theatre. Not in the bar, but in the theatre. In fact, while squeezing past a group to get to our seats one woman smiled and told me, ‘Just watch the wine’! Now, I’ve been to lots of theatre shows over the years and never have I witnessed such civilised debauchery! But almost everywhere we looked there was wine flowing.
Whenever I’ve thought about ballet in the past, I’ve heard an orchestra warming up beforehand. That kind of discordant mix of various instruments that I assume is musicians tuning up. I thought this was just a daft stereotype that I was relying on, but sure enough with seconds to go until curtain up, there it was! Even that was a bit of a thrill!
As the ballet started though, the orchestra playing Prokofiev’s soundtrack were wonderful. The set and lighting had a hazy, almost other-wordly feel to it and the sight of Romeo and Juliet on opposing balconies stretching to attempt to touch felt somehow profound. And then the balconies were pulled apart and the two star crossed lovers simply got further and further away from each other.
Another thing to point out here; for a very short while I was waiting for someone to speak. It is after all a Shakespeare play and so, as someone who has seen a fair amount of those in my time, I struggled a little to adjust. However, within what could only have been a few minutes I had relaxed into it and was simply carried away by the story and the beautiful way in which it was being told. I mean, who doesn’t know the story of Romeo and Juliet?
I don’t feel qualified to review the ballet from any kind of knowledgeable standpoint. Those on stage looked magnificent, at the very top of their profession, but unless anyone literally fell over, I couldn’t really judge.
What I do know is just how impressive and emotional the whole thing was. I knew that watching ballet in a theatre would fascinate me and I was in no way disappointed. For the majority of the time there was just so much going on on stage that I’d be trying to watch everything with a keen eye, fully aware of just how much I’d be missing elsewhere on stage. This wasn’t simply about the two main players. Every dancer excelled in their ability to convey emotion and the events of the story and the whole thing was just a feast for the senses (well, eyes and ears anyway!).
I sat watching for over 2 hours, admiring not only the fact that Northern Ballet’s troupe were just so graceful and powerful, but also marvelling at their stamina. As a middle aged runner, I’m thrilled with myself for going for a run for around an hour. I regularly speak to friends about how fit footballers are with the sheer amount of distance that they travel in a game, but the realisation of what these dancers were putting themselves through for such an amount of time couldn’t be ignored. I’m sure it’s something that seasoned ballet fans take for granted, but it was just another thing that absolutely fascinated me about the whole thing.
At this point, I wish that I had more knowledge to impart, but about as far as I go in this particular area is knowing the names of some of the moves. I’ve little or no idea what they look like though. What I can comment – again – on is just the level of skill involved. The choreography must have to be so incredibly detailed that for a mere plodder like me, it doesn’t bear thinking about. I watched in awe as dancers spun and soared in perfect time together and dovetailed across the stage with great agility and power in order to tell the story. Beforehand, I’d wondered if I might drift off given that the whole show was well over 2 hours long, but it really wasn’t an issue and I was invested in the tale from minute one.
I can’t finish writing without singling out Kevin Poeung, who played Mercutio and gave an incredible performance. He was just impossible to ignore and brought real personality to the role, adding just a dash of comedy and mischief where it was needed in order to accurately give us the unpredictable Mercutio that we would have expected. In short, Kevin’s was a brilliant and thoroughly entertaining performance among a cast that really were fantastic.
Watching Northern Ballet’s Romeo and Juliet was a genuine thrill for me and I’d really recommend going to see anything that they put on. And this wasn’t just something I think I can tick off some kind of bucket list, either. I’ll definitely go back to the ballet sometime in the future. So, if like me, you’re wondering what a ballet might be like, I could only recommend that you too take the plunge.
It was World Sleep Day last week and when I realised this I had a couple of thoughts. Firstly, I wondered how I’d never heard of this before. I mean, I’m a big fan of sleep and so having missed out on a formal day dedicated to it, I was kind of surprised.
My second thought was that I could write about it. Maybe an article about tips for getting to sleep – something that I’ve suffered with in the past – or even something scientific, like maybe 10 fascinating facts about sleep.
However, I ran out of time – too busy sleeping…just kidding – and therefore decided that I’d try and write a poem about sleep instead. There wouldn’t be much time to work on it or draft and re-draft, but I’d give it a go. As it turns out, this was a tricky one to write from the moment I introduced some rhyme and thus, I missed my deadline. Regardless, here you are; my poem about sleep and it just so happens that it’s a few days after World Sleep Day!
Sleep
Some nights like the proverbial baby, I close my eyes & slip away into that friendly coma to help me have a better tomorrow, maybe, but other times, sleep is broken, cruelly unstable and I'm isolated and counting lonely hours at the kitchen table reading while willing submission to come to the fore, but feeling just like the tyrant that I'll surely sleep no more. The nights where sleep is deep and fuller exhaustion carries me into a world of dreams, set sail on an ocean of movement and colour, making life seem different from the moment I wake while on other nights I drift off as I plot my route on an imagined or remembered walk or run, knowing this distraction will soon bear fruit as I drift away, out for the count, to sample life's chief nourisher once more.
As I mentioned previously, getting rhyme involved slowed the whole writing process down here. That said, without it I think I’d have had a poem that was plodding, at best. As it is, I think the rhyme helps. I usually see it as a hindrance as it narrows down the words that I could include and often spoils lines and although there are a couple of rhymes that might be just a tiny bit forced, I think in all, it works.
When I was thinking about sleep one of the first ideas that came to me was the theme of sleep being so prevalent in Macbeth. Books and plays are often my first port of call as an English teacher. So I made sure that there were a couple of Shakespearean references in there and combined them with my own experiences of sleep, which is something that I’ve struggled with a lot in the past. Hopefully, it works and you enjoy the poem.
If, like me, you’re about to meet up with a mate or two for a bit of a reunion maybe you shouldn’t read The Ritual just yet. Especially so, if you’re off on some kind of outdoor pursuit. You might get a little bit put off! Once you’re done though, I’d definitely recommend it.
The Ritual follows four university friends who, since graduation, have vowed to keep in touch by meeting up at least once a year to have some kind of break. This year, Luke, Phil, Dom and Hutch have decided to head into the Arctic Circle for a bit of an adventure. Because, when you’re approaching middle age and fancy a bit of a change, the unforgiving conditions of northern most Sweden are the first things to spring to mind! Like the tagline says, they should have gone to Vegas!
While the premise of the novel – which was also made into a 2017 film starring Rafe Spall – might suggest some kind of farcical comedy, it’s not long at all before nobody’s laughing. The weather is far worse than the friends had prepared for and within 24 hours everyone is soaked to the skin and it doesn’t feel like they’ll ever dry out. And this being the Arctic Circle, it’s beyond cold too. Throw in the fact that two of the group are what we might politely call ‘past their best’ fitness wise and this is really not the fun reunion that they’d planned. But then, deciding that a short cut is the best option, they get lost.
In theory, I’m a big fan of exploring the wilderness. I dream of trekking through isolated far off places and striding into the unknown, exploring landscapes that I’ve only ever seen on the television before. In reality though, I’d be pretty rubbish at it. We once encountered a rattlesnake in the Grand Canyon and I was beyond terrified! So, I can fully sympathise with the friends in the book and the injuries & lack of preparation that hinder their progress. I can’t begin to imagine the horrors that they’re about to face though.
Once they get lost they take more wrong turns and encounter a couple of eerie places that suggest that the forest not only has a dark history, but also that it may well be harbouring the kind of predator that no one wants to encounter. Have they been being watched all this time?
The Ritual sets out to scare us. And in parts, it succeeds brilliantly. As the predator hunts them down I could almost feel its presence. What it actually is remains a mystery as Nevill restricts his characters and us, the reader to glimpses in the dark and the frightened, snatched reports of those that have had some kind of mysterious encounter. And what’s more scary than the thing that you can’t even see, but just know is there?
When the friends are at their weakest, it strikes, deepening the fear for everyone concerned and as a reader you’re left trying to work out exactly what’s happening, but also if anyone will actually manage to survive. Gaining only glimpses and hints of the predator’s presence leaves us as confused as this gang of friends, but undoubtedly adds to the tension and horror that Nevill is trying to create.
Throughout their journey through this dense forest we learn snippets about pagan sacrifice and old Scandinavian culture – two of the gang have done their research – and as a reader yo begin to get the feeling that what is stalking the men is more than something as straightforward as say a pack of wolves or some kind of bear. And so, the story becomes more than just a horror piece, but also a historical piece too where we learn snippets about a place, history and culture that aside from stereotypes based around nudity and IKEA, we probably don’t know a great deal about.
I was fascinated to read about the fact that large parts of the landscape where the characters trekked would have been untouched by humans for hundreds of years. But then, when you think about it and how far north on the planet it is, this stands to reason. It adds to the feeling that ‘they should have gone to Vegas’ though!
The Ritual becomes more than a tale of four friends being hunted by a predator in a remote landscape with a brilliant, yet slightly absurd twist near the end. I can’t ruin it for you, but what seems like a rescue turns bad very quickly sit and it turns out that a sacrifice will be made. And it’s from as unlikely a source as you could imagine.
Nevill writes brilliantly, subtly building tension, throwing in more problems when we least expect them and also when the friends could very much do without them while presenting us with a group of characters that are both relatable and realistic. This is much more than just a thriller.
If you like thrillers, horror or a bit of a mystery, The Ritual might be the kind of book for you. I’d certainly recommend it! I’d give The Ritual…
Have you ever bought something based more on the way it looks on a shelf than for it’s actual quality? Ever rushed in and made an impulse buy without really thinking it through? I definitely have. For some reason with me it’s hats that bring out the impulse buyer, despite my little head. Newcastle United’s weakness in the past hasn’t quite been so specific; just footballers in general.
It’s fair to say that Newcastle United have never been afraid to gamble. We’ve always been fans of causing a bit of a stir. From spoiling Sir Stanley Matthews’ day in Cup Finals, signing Chilean brothers at a time when most Geordies couldn’t have found Chile on a map to…well you could bring it up almost to the present day when you think about it. I mean, after a couple of years of being here no one suspected what we were about to unearth in Joelinton did they?
One such gamble was the 1987 signing of Brazilian international, Mirandinha or to give him his full name, Francisco Ernani Lima da Silva. Signed from Palmeiras for the princely sum of £575,000, Mira had just scored at Wembley for Brazil in a Rouse Cup game against England. So of course, we jumped in two footed to sign the first Brazilian to play in English football as a replacement for Peter Beardsley, who just left to head to Liverpool. Clearly due diligence wasn’t so much of an everyday phrase back then.
Fifteen-year-old me was thrilled through. My logic was that he was Brazilian and so he couldn’t possibly be anything but class. I mean, I’d watched the 1982 World Cup and been gutted when that amazing Brazil team had got knocked out and I’d also seen plenty of footage of that Brazil ’70 side. My young brain imagined that all Brazilian footballers would measure up the same, like there was just something in the water in those parts!
Remember, this was a long time before Fumaca would grace our club, so my thinking wasn’t quite as stupid as it sounds. I mean, Mira was quick and I’d just watched him score at Wembley as well, so what could possibly go wrong?
To be fair to Mirandinha, things didn’t really go immediately wrong. After an introduction to St. James’ Park before a home game versus Nottingham Forest where he decided to wear a white suit, Mira made his debut a few days later at Norwich. Watching the highlights on the Tyne Tees news the following evening, I was impressed. Mainly, this was based around his ability to run really quickly and shoot from around half a mile from goal, but to teenage Graham, this was exciting stuff. Especially when you think I’d spent the few years before this watching the likes of George Reilly, Tony Cunningham and Billy Whitehurst stomp across the turf at St. James’.
It didn’t take long for Mira to gain his own song. Older readers will remember it fondly…perhaps more fondly than you’ll remember the player, in fact. “We’ve got Mirandinha, he’s not from Argentina, he’s from Brazil, he’s f***in’ brill”. Clearly, this one had more the influence of Black Lace than The Smiths, but it was mildly funny and soon caught on. The other chant of just repeating ‘Dinha, Dinha, Dinha’ was stodgy by comparison.
Mira scored his first goals in a 2-2 draw at Old Trafford in the September. The first was a free kick from just outside the box, while the second was a header at the far post from a corner. He quickly struck up a good relationship with the young Paul Gasgoigne with Gazza often supplying the passes for Mira’s runs and Mira ignoring Gazza in favour of having yet another shot when the situation was ever reversed. The same would be said for Mira’s strike partner Paul Goddard who would often be left screaming at the Brazilian in frustration when he’d shot rather than passed to our far better placed number 9.
The unlikely friendship with Gazza also led to some quite strange English lessons and on more than one occasion Mira would answer innocent questions with a tirade of swearing, much to the young Geordie’s amusement.
In his first season Mirandinha was a relative success, even if he was easily the most greedy player I’d seen outside of school. He reminded me of the kid who brought the ball to school and would insist on playing by his rules as a result. Still, he managed to score 13 goals in 32 appearances in that first season and all seemed well. But this is Newcastle United remember…
We sold Gazza before the 88/89 season and frankly, the team fell apart. Mirandinha would only score 11 goals in a fractious season and was sold back to Palmeiras at the end of it, with the club finishing bottom of the league and being relegated back to the old Division 2. He was a more surly, unsettled and moody presence during that second season, making less and less contribution as the season went on.
In fact, my most stand out memory of Mirandinha came after one particular game, rather than during. It was an FA Cup 5th round tie against Wimbledon and I remember suffering with the usual bout of mindless optimism as I got to the ground. We’ve all been there as Toon fans. But this was our year, as far as I was concerned.
We got beat 3-1 and stunk the place out. Now those two teams didn’t like each other and so at full time, frustration got the better of Mira, who first refused to shake Andy Thorn’s hand and then – incredibly and before my very eyes – ran up behind the Don’s keeper, Dave Beasant and launched a flying kick at his arse before sprinting down to hide behind Peter Jackson who was innocently heading towards the temporary changing rooms at the back of the Leazes. To this day I still can’t quite believe what I witnessed, and it remains my abiding memory Mirandinha’s short time at Newcastle and one of my most vivid memories of any game as a Newcastle fan after 40 odd years of support.
You could argue that Mirandinha was just a case of the right club at the wrong time. He arrived at the back end of the McKeag years, not long before Sir John Hall bought the club and brought Kevin Keegan back. Maybe Keegan could have got a better tune out of our first Brazilian.
Undoubtedly, Mira possessed the raw ingredients to be a success and his record of 24 goals in 71 appearances is hardly bad. Remember these were very different times for English football and there were literally no other Brazilians or even Portuguese speakers in the squad. In fact if I remember rightly, when he signed he was the only foreign player on the books. The change of culture alone would have been incredibly difficult to deal with, let alone the difference weather!
As it was though, Mirandinha was an experiment that didn’t quite work and most likely an attempt by the board to bring in a cheap replacement for Beardsley, who had gone to Liverpool for three times as much as Mira cost. Mira was lightening quick, strong and very direct; equal measures edge of the seat excitement and tearing your hair out in frustration. But for a while he was the darling of St. James’ Park. Definitely a bit of a cult hero.
Footnote: While researching this I came across Mirandinha’s managerial record and was so astounded by what I found that I thought I had to share. Having played for 12 clubs, including Palmeiras on 3 separate occasions he would then go on to manage a total of 20 clubs in both his native Brazil but also Saudi Arabia, Malaysia and Sudan. Staggering. From learning English from Gazza to managing a club in the Sudanese Premier League; amazing when you think about it!
Middle Age Fanclub 