More Funerals Than Christenings: Part I...

My stepfather, Don, died recently. He was a Welsh miner, he was kind and funny, and he always enjoyed a drink and a sing.

I first met him when I was 16. As a keen pool player, this was the age I could join a local working men’s club that had cheap snooker tables without another adult nominating me for membership. This was in 1985. I used the club on Saturday mornings and on Saturday evenings because this was when the tables were less busy. Don was on strike at the time and he’d often be in the club also wanting an occasional frame. As devout socialists, we bonded over the strike and a mutual loathing of Margaret Thatcher. A facet I admired.

Fast-forward nine years and I was back home from college, working as a fledgling writer and sub-editor to support my community theatre work. He and my mum had got together. It was a wonderful thing to see her having renewed optimism and hope after a tough divorce from my dad. I was also delighted because I knew Don and, more importantly, I knew I could trust him with my mum’s happiness. 

Soon after, I left for a new life in London knowing they’d be OK.

And, for 31 years, they were. They went on various travels and were content doing their thing, living in a terraced house surrounded by kids and grandkids and great grandkids who’d constantly pop in to visit. Yes, there were the usual family crises and dramas. But they came through everything with their union unscathed. And Don’s new family adored him. It was a perfect fit.

For a lot of years, Don battled health issues. The man who’d survived life down the mines and a police baton charge at Orgreave eventually lost large parts of his stomach. He fought cancer and infections as various bits of his body failed. But he always pulled through. He had a stubborn will powered by a grim determination. Another facet I deeply admired.

A couple of weeks ago, I got the call from my younger brother to come home. I knew it was bad. But trips back to Yorkshire are more for funerals that christenings these days.

Don had been in hospital battling a new infection. This time, the doctors couldn’t do anything else for him. An operation would kill him. The medics couldn’t cure him. He’d asked to come home. His prognosis was 24-48 hours.

Before he came back, a hospital bed was placed in the middle room of mum’s terraced house. Don also had a new TV to watch his favourite westerns and sports. We established a shift pattern to make sure he was never alone. Then it was a matter of waiting for the pain-killing medication to kick in. Or the end.

The first two days, he was constantly ill. He couldn’t eat and nothing was going into his system. As this was failing, his body was ejecting anything left in it.

On the third day, like a pub singer Christ, he awoke and we had 60 minutes of him cogent. The first order from Celtic Jesus was a drink. A proper one. This was served. Order two was a singsong. He then slept and he remained peaceful. He briefly awoke a couple of times, once for a brief singsong with his son and once to tell my mum ‘I love you with all my heart.’ Then he dropped back off as the morphine took his pain away and his exhausted body fought on.

It was amazing how quickly we all adapted to having him back in the room between the front room and the kitchen. Like it was a normal thing. In many ways, it was a normal thing. He was back home surrounded by the people who loved him, with the usual buzz of activity of our boisterous and competitively loud family. The only difference this time was that we knew it came with a time limit.

In the end, 24-48 hours turned into 164 hours. He put up a fight. It was a Thursday morning just before 12noon when he went. My mum was in the back yard talking to the next-door neighbour.

When he went, it was peaceful. We’d all become attuned to his new breathing patterns. Especially during the night. He’d often take a deep breath, then go silent. Part of you would be relieved and think, ‘I’m grateful the suffering is finally over for him.’ Then his breathing would restart and you’d think, ‘He’s still here. I’m so happy he hasn't gone yet.’

In many ways, Don was lucky. And so were we. We could have lost him so many times to so many different illnesses through the years. But the NHS, aided by his own iron will, saved him multiple times and brought him back from the brink.

There aren’t many people where good memories are the only thing I have. Family relationships and friendships are often complicated at the best of times. But my relationship with Don wasn’t. Ever.

I was lucky to get a stepfather I could love and respect. In the words of my wife, 'He was a mountain of a man from the Valleys.' I’ll miss him. We all will.

Man Pampering and Sexy Banter...

As I've aged, I've discovered the joys of a man pamper. Now at 55, I have leaned into this and I love my occasional trips to my local barber make me feel like the inner princess I secretly long to be. Or probably not so secretly. But I have recently switched to a Turkish barber as the folk there do the full gamut of wet shave and beard shaping, facial massage and nose/ear hair removal. 

A recent trip, however, demonstrated that I still have much to learn about the protocols involved in this brave new world. 

The first point of realisation was when I was having my nose and ear hair removed. For virgins in this area, this involves having the ends of several big cotton buds doused in hot melted wax, then the barber sticks them up your nostrils and in your ear canals. These are left for five or ten minutes until the wax solidifies around any hairs, then the buds are ripped out. This leaves you hairless in these areas. It sounds grim but it is not hugely unpleasant, and it does mean you don't have to bother about this aspect of your appearance for a month or so.

I was having this done while I also had a hot tower covering most of my head. After round one of having the buds inserted and ripped out, the barber decided he needed another go. He duly did this. Then he tapped me on shoulder and he removed my face towel. 

'Look,' he said, showing me the discarded buds with various bits of hair on them. 

I did not know what the appropriate response to this was. So I came out with:

'That's excellent work. I didn't realise I'd become such a circus freak.' 

His English wasn't great and my thick Yorkshire accent probably didn't help the translation process. He looked perplexed for a moment, then he placed the towel back over my head and left me for five minutes. 

A young woman than took over doing my beard. Already un-nerved by nose-ear-wax-gate, I was a tad on edge. She started by complimenting my beard. I told her that I used beard oil. She told me that was a wise decision. 

'I love men with beards,' she said. 'It makes me very sad when they do not care for them.' 

She then told me to lay back and relax. I did and I zoned out for a bit, mindlessly agreeing with bits of casual conversation, but being careful not to agree with anything that may make me a member of the Tory Party, the Reform Party or any other form of racist. 

As she was massaging my beard (not a euphemism), she said:

'Shall I text your wife and tell her you're not coming home?' 

Not knowing what this meant, I switched into logical mode and replied:

'But you don't know my wife. I also don't think you have her number.'

She looked perplexed. I felt she was about to explain the fact that this was not a serious attempt at seduction, but flirty banter between customer and trained professional. 

Instead, she simply sighed and said: 'You're probably right.'

She then searched for a hot towel and put it over my face....

Confessions of a Plumber...

I have just enjoyed my first major triumph of 2024.

I got home from training last night and the Missus told me the shower door needed fixing and the shower head had come unmoored. And, even though she is a DIY Queen, she could not fix it. 

Some 20 minutes later, I emerged like a victorious Spartan warrior with screwdriver in hand. I told her I've fixed both things. She looked at me quizzically. I say 'quizzically'. I mean like I'm a liar whose track record at previous DIY tasks would make anyone doubt this claim. 

'Really?' she asked? She went off to check and returned impressed. 'You have actually fixed it. But how?'

I borrow a line from one of our favourite sitcoms, Peep Show, to celebrate my moment. 

'Plumbing's easy, isn't it?' I replied. 'It's basically Lego with water.'

Goodbye 2023 & Hello 2024...

 

This year has been both shit and fabulous. It's been shit because the Missus suffered a bad fall and incurred a wrist injury in January that required some pretty serious surgery. She now has a lovely scar, plus various bits of metal and several screws holding bones in place. Needless to say, her ceramics work went on hold for a while. 

On top of that, her knee injury is slowly deteriorating, meaning she's in constant pain as she waits for her name to reach the top of the surgeon's list. We also lost our much-loved new cats, Dotty and Dolly, within the same two-week period in the same month. 

January was, quite frankly, a month that can fuck the fuck off and stay fucked the fuck off.

Fortunately, the rest of the year did get better with a relaxing holiday in Greece in the summer and a slightly flasher holiday in the Dominican Republic to celebrate the other half's 60th in November. Other highlights included the Boy publishing the third installment of his excellent comic, Sagas of the Shield Maiden, and some memorable gigs catching up with old friends.

From my point of view, I set myself four big goals in 2023:

• Get a new job
• Complete 175 classes at BJJ
• Write a new play 
• Get my brown belt at BJJ

The one I failed on was the new play. The new job was a biggie, and doing 175 classes and getting my brown belt at BJJ were huge ones to tick off. But the play didn't happen.

Sadly, my own writing has fallen by the wayside in the last two years as work became all-encompassing. With a new job, though, I'm now travelling into London twice a week, so I'll have two one-hour commuting/writing sessions where I can kick back in. And that will make a new play, and a couple of smaller creative projects for 2024, a real possibility.

Purely to be accountable to myself, here are my goals for 2024:

• Draft No.1 of new play by June 
• Draft No.2 of new play by December
• Pass probation period at work
• Complete 150 BJJ classes 
• Complete 100 BJJ weight training sessions 
• Compete in 10 BJJ tournaments 
• Read 5 books by Charles Dickens 

This is all do-able. But let's see where we are in six months. Because we know life can always boot you up the arse when you least expect it...

Grappling with Grappling: New Beginnings...

My BJJ is important to me. And not just for keeping me active. It's amazing for my mental health. I go to classes, I forget whatever is happening at work, and I simply try to get better at what's in front of me. I can solely focus on that. And just that.

Everyone else is focusing on the same goal, too. It's a beautiful environment, and all the martial arts schools I've trained at remain amazingly supportive and safe spaces. Which is odd if you consider the fact you're basically training to punch, kick, throw, choke or joint lock people.

Having now trained in martial arts for more than a couple of decades, I know I'll never be really good at them. And I'm not fishing for praise. I've trained with enough good people to know what their general standard is and what mine is. Even on my best day.

But I'll be OK at them and I'll slowly continue to improve. And I can live with that. Connecting the mental to the physical is not a skill set I have. My brain doesn't work like that. I genuinely admire athletes in any discipline that can see a move or a technique and immediately translate it and absorb it into their own physical vocabulary. In another life, I saw stage performers and dancers who could do that. It was as impressive in that environment as it is in this one.

One path to a better understanding for me at my first martial art was teaching and running classes. Because I knew I had to understand it in a different way. My knowledge had to be vertical and have depth rather than just be horizontal and cover lots of ground with no real foundations. And I had to explain it and translate it.

So getting the chance to teach a beginners' class at No Gi BJJ is a real win. It means I have to drill down into whatever I am teaching and re-familiarise myself with things I know and do, then have to explain them.

I call the classes my 'Learning to teach' classes and, five in, I'm thoroughly enjoying them. I'm sticking to things I know reasonably well and learning loads more about them as I prepare my lessons. It's a genuine privilege.

My first martial arts teacher's teacher was a hapkido grandmaster who'd trained since childhood in a monastery with other martial arts masters in Korea. This may sound a bit Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon. But when Japan invaded Korea, indigenous martial arts were banned. This saw lots of Korean masters seek sanctuary as monks in monasteries where they continued to practise their skills in secret until they could do so again in public. 

He always said, "Through teaching, we educate others. We also teach ourselves." 

It's so true. It's also a new route on my continuing journey. I'm a competitive fighter at 54 and I'm now teaching BJJ. Who'd have thought that would be a thing for a speccy Yorkshireman with a love for cue sports, comics and the Sisters of Mercy? 

Not me. But it is. And it's really cool. Even if I am not.

All Greek to Me...

Work has been stupidly busy and the Missus has been feeling tired and dealing with constant bouts of pain as she waits for a knee operation. Thank Christ for an 11-day break in Kos.

We like Greece and we've been lucky enough to travel to quite a few of the country's islands. But we'd never been to Kos before and it was pretty fabulous. We spent most of our time sat on a beach reading books on sun loungers and swimming in the sea, then heading out for food in the evening.

The town of Kardamena where we were based was big enough to have everything and small enough to not be over-populated with tourists. We also ventured to the island capital of Kos and we did some museum and visitor exploring stuff. This included seeing the Tree of Hippocrates, where the Father of Modern Medicine educated his followers. 

We also saw an amazing blood red moon. It was a pretty relaxing holiday. 

Then, on the last day, British Airways cancelled our flight home with about four hours notice. Cue a stressed period or trying to find alternative flights and book new hotels rooms. British Airways were no use whatsoever during this process. Nowhere to be seen. And un-contactable by phone. It was the worst customer service I've ever had. 

And the cunts still owe me the additional money I had to shell out.

Football Crazy...

I quite like football. I didn't like it much for a long time because my dad was a local footballing star and I eschewed the sport. I mean, who wants to follow in the footsteps of their parents, right?

But I needed an identity crutch when I arrived at college, so I rediscovered my brief interest in Leeds United and it's stuck ever since. I haven't seem Leeds live since the play-off finals in 2008 at Wembley. But I remain a TV supporter who'll also listen to them if the commentary is on the radio.

This year, I've also jumped on the Wrexham bandwagon. I've seen them play at Aldershot. This was such a good day out that I also ventured out to see another National League match in Dorking v Scunthorpe.

The National League is quite good. The tickets are cheaper, you're closer to the action and the players are less churlish. The way Leeds United are playing, I may as well get used to attending such fixtures as it looks like we're heading back down there.