Support your local(ish) team

IMG_4288YOU SHOULD always support your local football club.

I made that noble pronouncement for most of my adult life. Right until I had my own family.

My friend Nick predicted that would be the case. Long before Boy Wonder was born, Nick had a son and promptly enlisted him in Everton Juniors.

I scoffed. ‘You live in Sussex, mate, why not bring him up as a Brighton fan. It’s a lovely little set-up, just down the road from you. You should always support your local club.’

He scoffed. ‘My Dad supports Everton, I support Everton, my kids will support Everton. Wait until you have some of your own. Don’t tell me you’ll bring them up as Leeds fans?!’

Well, as Nick now knows, the answer is a firm no.

Tomorrow, I’m taking Boy Wonder to Middlesbrough to see his first ever live game. In a delicious twist of fate, ‘DaddyBoro’ are at home to (Dirty) Leeds.

A good win for the home team should not only entrench Boy Wonder’s love of ‘our team’ but also hopefully extinguish any association with the club of his birthplace.

Just to be sure, I’m buying him a magazine for the train journey north, a Boro hat and pin badge. I’ve promised him a proper breakfast, half-time pie and fish n’ chips before we return later in the day.

My friend Chris, a fellow Boro fan, isn’t sure it’s such a bargain:

Consigned to a life of misery, ridicule and unfulfilled promise with a pie and a hat.

He might be right but I think luck is on my side. After five years of mid-table mediocrity in the second tier of English football, Boy Wonder has come of age at exactly the moment we’re top of the league and gunning for a return to the razzmatazz of the Premiership.

Yes, that makes us glory supporters but in today’s world of accelerated gratification it’s my best shot of signing him up to my tribe.

Our anthem is Steel River. Our hero remains a Brazilian who isn’t much taller than Boy Wonder. In 1986, when I was 14, we went out of business. The impoverished town put its collective hand down the back of the sofa to help the club stay afloat and a 26-year-old local businessman did the rest. He’s still our chairman.

Steve Gibson will undoubtedly agree that you should always support your local football club.

Given his global outlook, running an international haulage firm, I’m equally sure he’d agree that ‘one of your local football clubs’ is fine as well.

Especially when it means your Dad can go to the match.

Whale V Fat

Fresh startBOY WONDER and I practised his new list of spellings tonight. When we got to ‘whale’, I added ‘like your Daddy, a big, fat mammal’. Bless him, he started spelling the word, pausing only to reply ‘you’re not fat, Daddy’.

But I am fat.

For men, that’s a hard thing to admit. We’re ‘big boned’, ‘stocky’, or it’s ‘just a beer belly’, like some lauded trophy.

The Duchess, bless her too, occasionally tells me Ray Winstone is attractive, which I think is a (loving) code. Mind you, in our 13 years together she’s never seen me sport yellow budgie smugglers. Nor has she seen those betting adverts.

I was first conscious of my weight when I started university, after a post-exam summer of indulgence, and the campus health advisor politely told me to lose a few pounds. The funny thing is, I was two stones lighter than I am now.

For most of my adult life, my weight went up and down without ever being too excessive. However, it shot up in my mid-thirties, beginning with our Italian honeymoon in 2006. Three weeks of gargantuan pizzas, robust pastas, steaks, red wine. Followed by a month-long world cup gala of pubs and parties.

Since then, I’ve often been disciplined at the start of the year, perhaps losing half a stone or more, only to gradually put it back on again. For example, by last summer I’d lost 10 pounds but ended the year exactly the same weight. As a friend says about himself, I’ve lost hundreds of pounds over the years. Yet, I’m still fat.

So, I’m interested in a new online community called Men V Fat. It was set up by a journalist who tried to get diet help a few years ago but found there was nothing out there for men. He says in a recent post:

Did you know over 80% of men are stressed at work, you’d be abnormal if you weren’t stressed. Did you know that issues with appetite are harder for men because they biologically need to consume more calories and because mass consumption is seen as a manly attribute (MAN v FOOD anyone?) It’s also painfully apparent that men get nowhere near the level of education that women do on how to cook healthy food and also advice on what constitutes healthy eating.

I’ve sought a little education over the past few years. I’ve read Gary Taubes and Tim Ferris. I understand that processed foods, so prevalent in the food chain, are destructive. Lager is no friend, either. Yet, they sure are tasty and convenient, hey?

I used to exercise regularly. Even after the kids were born, I ran up to 25km a week, to the point where I was chasing a PB in the 2012 Great North Run. Now I’m struggling to complete a 5k. Yes, I’ve developed asthma over the last few years but I’ve let it defeat me. Yes, I was studying intensely last year but in hindsight exercise would have alleviated the stress.

Too many excuses. (The same goes for updating this blog.)

I can’t afford them any longer. The kids are six and almost four. They deserve an energetic father, now and in 10 years’ time.

Men V Fat says that you’ve got to acknowledge you are fat – don’t laugh it off – work out why, set some goals and start doing something about it.

So, here goes…

He’s football crazy, he’s football mad

BOY WONDER has got football fever.

It started with Lionel Messi and my account of how he ignored people’s anxieties about his diminutive build in his youth to become the best player in the world. Motivational speech over, I showed Boy Wonder this video collection of Messi dribbles and goals, complete with the South American ‘goooooooaaaaaaaalllllll’ commentary:

He was hooked.

So, I bought him the Pannini sticker album for the world cup. We’ve got Ronaldo and the England team but I expect to hazard bankruptcy in our attempts to secure the little fella who plays up front for Argentina.

I then allowed Boy Wonder and his sister to stay up for the recent champions league final. While she dozed off in the first half, he saw it through to the end of extra time. However, I now fear I’ve got a Real fan in the house. Hopefully, Ronaldo’s egomaniac antics will end that embarrassment before too long or Boy Wonder will realise that Messi also plays for the other team in Spain.

I bought them both world cup football shirts (£3 a piece in H&M, if you’re asking) – Spain for Little Buddha and Argentina, England and, subsequently, Brazil, for Boy Wonder. The Duchess is concerned this will lead to track suits.

We’re now counting down the days to the start of the competition next week. Boy Wonder hopes he’ll sneak in a few TV slots with me. I need to see what games are on when the Duchess is out or on shift.

When it’s all done and dusted, we’ve got our camping holiday and then the new English season begins. Will he still love football by then? Will he want to follow whichever team in the Premiership has the most recognisable world cup stars? Or can I finally execute my ‘DaddyBoro’ plan to lure him into my world (cup) of pain?

This is a high stakes game. I can’t afford to pay the penalty and see him fall for his local club, DirtyLeeds. Hmm, Boro striker Albert Adomah is representing Ghana at the world cup. I wonder if H&M stock that shirt as well?

Busy, busy, buzzzzz

'I'm a very mature student'

‘I’m a very mature student’

I’VE BEEN busy. No, I mean really busy.

At the start of the year, I began a postgraduate diploma. I figured I’ll be working for another 25 years so it’d be a good investment, give me that extra edge.

I knew it’d be hard, especially returning to academia after 20 years. But the Duchess told me: ‘It’ll only be nine months’.

Well, it is hard. Very, very hard. On Monday, I had to hand in two 2,500-word essays. I had just under a month to prepare and I must have researched a dozen books and another dozen journal articles for each topic. Made notes, ordered them, got my head round Harvard referencing.

I barely relaxed for the duration, didn’t watch TV once, studied most nights until midnight. And on the bus, the train, wherever possible. Despite all of this studious study I didn’t finish them until 3am on Monday morning. I’ve spent the time since convincing myself they’re crap, I’ll fail and so on.

I’m now preparing a 5,000-word planning assignment, due in July, and a 6,000-word project due in October. I’ll have to study hard throughout the period of the World Cup, not to mention most of the summer.

There is, of course, also the day job. Two lively, expectant children. Training for the Leeds half marathon and other duties like being a school governor.

Although this year is extraordinarily busy due to the diploma, I do wonder what it is about middle age, being a proper grown up, that causes such busyness?

I know lots of other people running sports teams for kids, training for Himalayan charity events, doing degrees before breakfast, having more than two children.

Ten years ago, most of us would have gone to work, come back, watched Hollyoaks, the Channel 4 news headlines, then eaten, drank, sat. We managed to waste hours watching TV, playing computer games, sitting in beer gardens. We were at the peak of our physical powers, unburdened by real work stress and we barely questioned watching trilogies with the curtains closed or two live footy games and an afternoon of six nations. Before going out properly.

Is it about being useful, as the hour glass turns the over way? Does busyness breed busyness? Do we all fear getting an ulcer if we dare to take our foot off the pedal?

Thing is, I haven’t really got time to think about it…

The parenting paradox

The parenting paradoxPARENTS ARE confused characters. We will our kids to grow and develop. We spend the rest of the time lamenting how quickly they’re growing up.

In the last few weeks, Little Buddha turned three and promptly got to grips with potty training after a few false starts (sorry to the Sainsbury’s person who mopped up that puddle near the pharmacy counter).

Shortly after her third birthday, she said goodbye to her lovely little private nursery and entered the big world of school, just like her brother a few years ago.

The Duchess’ text after dropping her off on the Wednesday lunch time summed it up nicely – the pride and the lament:

She was greeted like a Hollywood star. I—– has taken charge of her care. [Boy Wonder] greeted her arrival like a town crier and announced ‘Everybody, [Little Buddha] has arrived!’. H—– [head of unit] said that’s all everyone had talked about this morning. And she was off without a backwards glance with the promise of hot chocolate from G—–. I was a bit teary.

‘I was a bit teary.’ Our kids are still so young but for us it feels like we’re transferring from one distinct parenting era to quite a different one.

Dependency to independence seemingly in a blink of an eye:

  • Boy Wonder has dressed himself for a good year and Little Buddha is starting to reject our sartorial proposals. Pink or bust.
  • Recently both kids have slammed their bedroom door in our face. Like teenagers in training.
  • Little Buddha’s potty training success is good for our finances (and nasal passages) but we’ve just lost a whole routine of tummy kisses, sing-songs and chit-chat.
  • Last week, Boy Wonder corrected my knowledge about a historic figure. We checked the all-knowing oracle. Wikipedia confirmed he was right.
  • We rarely use the buggy. We’ve owned that vehicle for five years. It’s our Best Ever Purchase. By summer, it’ll be in a charity shop.

Given this minor revolution, it’s probably no surprise that the Duchess is once again Officially Definitely No-Seriously Broody. This is the trick of nature. The tantalising prospect of squidgyness.

I think about things like the steriliser, sleep and, sadly, the cost.

If we won the lottery…

Quote

‘Dad, is Santa real?’

SantaBoy Wonder: ‘Dad, is Santa really real?’

Me: ‘Why do you ask?’

BW: ‘That man walking into the shop said he wasn’t real.’

Me: ‘Did he now. He probably meant a man on the tele pretending in a film. That’s allowed, it’s not the real Santa, it’s just pretend.’

BW: ‘You said the Santa I saw the other day was the real one, the one who gave me the yo-yo.’

Me: ‘That’s right, he talked to you about what you wanted, didn’t he? And then you got a letter from Santa a few days later saying he knew you were doing well at school and he’d seen some presents wrapped up by the elves with your name on them.’

BW: ‘But we had a Santa man at school yesterday, who asked me what I wanted. But he wasn’t real. He didn’t wear glasses and I could see his dark beard underneath his pretend white one.’

Me: ‘Right… well that was probably one of the teachers pretending as it was your Christmas party. That’s allowed as well. We had a pretend one at my work party the other day, someone dressed up to get us in the Christmas mood.’

BW: ‘So, the Santa who gave me a yo-yo was real but not the others?’

Me: ‘Lots of people dress up as Santa, on the tele and for parties. They’re allowed to do that. But the Santa we took you to see, he wore glasses didn’t he, his beard was white and he knew you wanted a light sabre and some dinosaurs, so he must have got your letter.’

BW: ‘At school, the teachers said that Christmas isn’t actually about Santa. It’s about Baby Jesus.’

Me: ‘Did they now. Well, that’s a whole other story, son. A whole other story.’

 

I’m no glittering star

Glittering star 1PARENTING IS no fun for the anally-retentive.

I should know. This afternoon, in act of extreme cruelty, the Duchess invited the Kids to build their own robot. Within minutes, our dining room was an explosion of cereal packets, glitter sticks and cotton balls.

Of course, it’s essential that parents motivate their children to be creative, stretch their imagination, get messy in pursuit of artistic freedom. I just insist it’s done in our house between 8am and 6pm, Monday to Friday.

Not only did the Duchess ignore my weekday rule: she got the Kids all fired up a mere half hour before she set off to work for one of her weekend shifts. I’m pretty certain I heard her cackle on her way out of the house. Cruel, like I said.

Glittering star 2I don’t think I’ve got a medical strain of OCD but I’m definitely not a lover of disorder. When I get home from working away, I have three priorities (which I feel are best expressed in tidy bullet list!):

  1. Spend time with the Kids, put them to bed and so on
  2. Hang out with the Duchess, watch three episodes of Masterchef
  3. Check the cupboards and urgently rearrange the precarious leaning towers of pots and pans before they topple over and ignite chaos across the cosmos

Our house is full of incredible Papier-Mâché sculptures that I’ll always treasure. But, to paraphrase Otto von Bismarck, it’s like sausages and laws: I don’t want to see them getting made.

But sometimes you’ve just got to take one for the team. So, this afternoon we built a robot. We kind of had fun.

I learned that I’m not just good for racing, chasing and wrestling.

The Kids learned never to reply in the affirmative to the frequent question ‘Have you finished with this now, honey?’.

Learning phonics: ‘I’ is for Impatient

Learning phonics BOY WONDER is learning phonics. Hopefully, one day he’ll be able to teach me how it works. In the meantime, I’m doing what I can but sadly I’m showing far too many flashes of impatience.

A few weeks ago, he brought home his first reading book and the Duchess and I went into ‘this is where it starts’ overdrive. Previously, we’d held off, purporting to follow the Scandinavian laissez faire, ‘just let them play until they’re seven’ philosophy. Secretly, we didn’t want to be pushy parents, accused of ‘hothousing’ our poor son and pushing him towards therapy and heroin before his ninth birthday.

However, the moment his teacher handed us the book bag – a bloody book bag! – containing letter tiles and a book – can you believe it! – we went into full-on surrogate teacher mode.

Of course, the Duchess proved far better at it all. She put appropriate words on the stairs, filled in notes in his little school-book to let his proper teachers know how he was getting on. Remembered to ask him to read to her each evening.

Volcanic eruptions

Meanwhile, when it was left to me while she was working her evening shifts, I did my best but perhaps got a little carried away. The first time I drilled him for 20 minutes until he knew the word ‘volcano’. The next evening, I opened his notes expecting to learn the teachers thought he’d probably be off to university aged 12. Instead, they asked me to help him learn the word ‘is’.

The accompanying book, about a woolly mammoth in a pit, playfully repeated and varied the words ‘is’, ‘it’, did’, ‘in’ and ‘into’. There were about 10 pages. By page three or four, I realised I was nurturing a goldfish. Come on, Son, we’ve just done that word on the previous page. You shouldn’t even need to spell it out, you should just remember that one.

Phonics 2But spell it out, he did. Most of the words, on all of the pages. Finally, we limped to the last page, which finished with a simple ‘it’.

‘I-t, i-t, i-t, i-t…’ he gainfully chanted. I nodded, pinched my fingers, like Lionel Blair on Give Us A Clue, to denote he was practically saying the word. Just shorten the pause there son, you’ll have it and we can pretend this is all going well.

‘I-t, i-t, i-t, i-t…’ Yes, go on Son, close the deal, land the big fish. ‘I-t, i-t, i-t, i-t, i-t, i-t… DID!’

DID! Did you say DID? That’s DID, over there on that page? Does this word look like that one?

Thankfully, a few weeks later, thanks to Boy Wonder’s eagerness to learn and the patient support of his Mum and teachers, he’s racing through the books, correcting his mistakes almost overnight and demanding new words on the stairs.

Meanwhile, I’ve scratched ‘teacher’ from my fantasy career change list. I’ve got a lot to learn.