Monday 28 November 2011

There's Only One Gary Speed

When I first heard the news of the death of Gary Speed my first reaction was one of disbelief, followed swiftly by shock, and then immense sadness.

Natural human curiosity then took over as I wondered how this could have happened. Surely it must have been an accident, perhaps a car accident, an horrendous pile up on the motorway. That would have been shocking but well within my capacity to understand. 

Failing an accident, perhaps then it was one of those situations where someone in apparent good health collapses and dies from a previously unknown condition that suddenly strikes. That would have been equally tragic, but again well within my capacity to understand.

When the news emerged that Gary Speed had committed suicide I was shocked beyond belief. I just couldn't - along with everyone else who's commented on this tragic death - understand why a man, who had so much to live for, should suddenly take his own life. 

I didn't know Gary Speed, I'd never met him, I'd never been in the same room as him, although as a Leeds United supporter I'd seen him play many times. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he plays football though, and he'd always struck me as a decent, honest, caring man. 

It's always shocking when someone feels they've reached the point in their particular situation where death is the only way out.  There will have been a reason why he took the course of action he did but it may well be a reason that nobody else will understand.

It has been said that Gary had everything, a beautiful wife, two lovely children. A successful career as a manager beckoned to surpass perhaps, even the one he'd enjoyed as a player. In the final analysis though, it matters naught if a man has everything but lacks the thing he needs most: a reason to live.

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Wednesday 23 November 2011

Listen Here

Although I'm an avid and voracious reader - I have been known on occasions to have three or four books on the go at once - I've always been a bit sniffy about audio books. Surely they're for lazy people who can't be bothered reading, or the blind or partially sighted, who either can't see at all, or have difficulty in seeing the printed word. 

Well, let me state here and now, I've had my Damascus road moment when it comes to hearing books being read. Recently a friend of mine sent me a link to The Guardian online with the offer of seven free John LeCarrie audio books. If there's anything I like better than reading it's summat for nowt, so I downloaded the books and more in hope than expectation started listening to Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. 

It turned out to be a complete revelation. The chap reading the book didn't just read the book, he read it with characterisation and that made the experience far more memorable. Thinking that was maybe a one off, I joined http://www.audible.co.uk/ and took advantage of a free offer. I downloaded Before The Poison, by Peter Robinson, a favourite author, and again was amazed by the quality of experience. This is an excellent book by the way and well worth reading, or hearing.

Audio books I've belated come to realise are perfect for those times when you would read but can't because to do so might have repercussions; cycling or doing mundane tasks at work.

Having a complete antipathy to paying for something if it's unnecessary I thought I'd use the world's premier search engine http://www.google.co.uk/ to see if there were any free audio books to be had anywhere, and discovered the amazing site, http://librivox.org/ where out of copyright audio books can be downloaded free of charge. Of course modern books are not available but all those classics that I never got round to reading can now be enjoyed. I've started off with Arnold Bennetts's, The Old Wives' Tale, and am finding it just as enjoyable as the others.

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Wednesday 14 September 2011

Cherry Blossom

When I was 10 or thereabouts - in all probability younger - I was initiated into the secret, male (at least in our household) art of shoe cleaning, as taught by an ex Army Sergeant - my dad!

The modern approach to the task where one takes an applicator with a foam end and applies polish to the shoe which then miraculously turns shiny hadn't been invented. This was the old fashioned method where a tin of Cherry Blossom with the little twist opener on the side of the tin was required. Two brushes and a soft cloth (usually an old cut up jumper) were also needed. The polish would be applied using one brush to the shoe being cleaned, after mud had been removed of course, and allowed to soak in. Then the second brush would be used in an attempt to work up a shine.

This could take quite a long time especially if there was something interesting on TV which I wouldn't normally be allowed to watch. Then, when a sufficient shine had been attained, a final buff was made using the soft cloth at which time the program had ended and the shoes were declared fit to be worn.

My son is 10 and I think it's high time he was initiated into the secret,  male (at least in our household) art of shoe cleaning, as taught by an ex Army Sergeant - his granddad.

And who knows if he's any good at it - he can have a go at mine as well!

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Monday 12 September 2011

Time Travel

When I was younger, so much younger than today, I used to believe in time travel, fuelled no doubt by many episodes of Dr. Who viewed carefully from behind the sofa. Then I got older, and while not losing my hair, I left the things of childhood behind, or so I thought.

Break through the space / time continuum? Impossible! Well, no, it's not. 

On Sunday afternoon I managed to travel over 40 years back in time without the aid of a wacky Doc or a DeLorean, but by the simple expedient of watching my 10 year old son play in his first ever competitive football match.

Lawford United Football Club, hereinafter known as LUFC, (I just love those initials) under 11's took to the pitch after training hard all summer and suffering the indignity of massive defeats in friendly matches, albeit to teams from higher leagues.

The teams kicked off a little later than the scheduled 2.00pm start (the original referee didn't turn up and a replacement had to be found) and I was instantly transported back to the age of 10.

I don't know about the other parents, but it was like I was on the pitch myself, the adrenaline was surging as I kicked every ball and made every run. I tackled, blocked, and headed every ball. I marshalled the defence, I took the corners and free kicks, and made every save. All from the touchline where I shouted myself hoarse.

The LUFC under 11's did very well in their first match scoring twice very quickly and turned the home touchline into a frenzy of cheering. Alas it didn't last and they eventually lost 2-3. That was something else I remembered very clearly; the utter dejection of defeat. Still, age brings perspective and I was able to focus on the positives on the homeward debrief. 

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Monday 5 September 2011

Hens, Hens, and more Hens

It's funny how the mind works sometimes. How one thought triggers a memory seemingly unconnected. On a recent cycle ride with my ten year old son we passed a stall in the countryside selling free range eggs. This resulted in a conversation about the difference between free range and battery hens during which I told him about the time I had to fit CCTV cameras at an egg farm in Wales.

On my first visit there weren't  any hens present and I got the cameras fitted and working without any problems or hindrance. A few weeks later I had to return as a problem had developed but this time the hens had arrived. This was predominately a free range facility and the hens could wander at will in the big shed and outside as well.

Until you've been in the presence of a large number of hens, 10,000 in this case, you don't realise how intimidating an experience it can be. I've got nothing against hens; I love eggs and never say no to a roast chicken dinner. This though was something else. The smell from the faeces was so powerful that a face mask similar to a World War Two gas mask had to be worn at all times. The heat was intense and the sweat was soon pouring off me.

I was obviously the novelty attraction as within five minutes of entering the shed I was surrounded by hundreds of hens. As I walked forwards they parted and then closed the gap behind me. It was like wading though a sea of hens. As soon as I stopped they would start pecking at my boots. The worst thing about the whole experience though was the noise. I had always thought that hens clucked - and maybe some do - but these didn't. They made what I can only describe as a soft burbling noise that after a while took on sinister undertones. I couldn't help but feel that if these hens wanted to (crazy thought) attack me I wouldn't stand a chance.

Of course they didn't and I escaped unscathed vowing never to return. I never had to, as I was made redundant shortly afterwards. But, I was reminded of these hens shortly after the cycle ride when I took my son to his Saturday morning athletics training. There were about a 100 ladies present for a meeting of a local jogging club. These ladies were all gathered between the gates of the athletics club and the area where my son's training took place. We made our way through the throng and the ladies stepped aside and then reformed once we had passed. 

It was only later, once I'd made my way back through them again, that I realised what the sound of 100 ladies in conversation reminded me of. It is best described as a soft burbling noise. 

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Tuesday 9 August 2011

In A Churchyard

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.



The beginning of Thomas Gray's "Elegy Written in a Country Church Yard" has one of the best beginnings of any poem that I know.

It can be read in full here:

http://www.blupete.com/Literature/Poetry/Elegy.htm

It came to mind again today as I helped my wife tend the grave of her father in a country churchyard near our home. The church itself, St John's, has long been abandoned by the Church of England authorities, finally closing in 1995 when services were transferred to what was the village hall, just a stones throw away.

The churchyard though is still in use and there is the usual mix of well tended graves along with those that are as abandoned as the old church. It is situated on the very edge of the village with open fields to one side where horses graze and the manor house can be seen in the distance.

It was a warm sunny afternoon and we worked quietly removing dead plants and weeds. Other people came and went; three generations, grandma, son, and grandson paying their respects at a neighbouring plot.  The only sound to disturb the peace, apart from the gentle clip clop of horses hooves on the lane outside the gate, was a contractor with a petrol strimmer.

We finished by replenishing the vase with fresh flowers and then took time to visit the other family graves and paid our respects to my wife's grandparents and uncles.

I've never relished the idea of being buried, coming from a family where cremations have been the usual method of despatch, but I can think of worse places for my mortal remains to rest than a country churchyard.

My own poem on the subject can be found here:
http://chrisgallagher.weebly.com/in-a-graveyard.html

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