What’s in a word?

Not just any word. I’m thinking of those descriptive words that are used to lure us in to parting with our money where consumer goods – in the main, food or drink, are concerned.

You know the ones – they scream out of windows and sandwich boards – like beacons of assurance that their product is better than the ones sold next door.

Homemade
Artisanal
Gourmet
Craft

The problem with such words is that they are subjective and rarely quantifiable. One cook’s homemade is another’s production line filling, stuffed in to a pre-made casing on site where no one lives. Usually it means that someone has had to use a peeler, a knife, even an oven – above a microwave. Though if it’s not someone’s home – how can it be homemade? Clearly the idea of putting ‘Made in a non-domestic kitchen – possibly last week and stuck in the freezer before being thoroughly defrosted and sold on today’ doesn’t quite have the same, well, homely feel to it. But can you be sure that hasn’t happened?

The next three words appear to be cropping up everywhere at the moment. I had a gourmet pie today. This post is not an attempt to mock, ridicule or criticise the pie. I enjoyed the pie; a lot. If you live in Leeds and like pies – get along to Granvilles Food Company and try one for yourself. If you are of a certain age, try saying Granvilles without instantly thinking of using a stutter. For the record I had the Beef, Red Wine and Onion pie. I will definitely have it again.

Anyways, I digress – as per. The point is that the pie was billed as a gourmet pie. It was a good pie, an enjoyable pie – but how did it leap from being a pie, to a gourmet pie. It was far better than anything I’ve had from a chip shop or football stadium. Better than most supermarket branded pies – but was it better than the one I get from my butcher, who simply labels up his pies as; well, pies. Does gourmet in this instance refer solely to the quality of the ingredients rather than a level by which the pie should be measured?

I should have asked. But being British, I opted to take my pie and go rather than question. We should question our food more.

Artisanal and craft are words that, quite frankly, bore me now. They both seem to refer to quantity size as much as production method. In that they make a smaller batch by hand, therefore it must be better than the mass produced offerings. Must it, really? I don’t know – I’ve had some artisanal or micro manufactured products that lacked any discerning characteristics – like flavour. Whereas, and whisper this in hushed tones – sometimes companies that make in bulk, know what they are doing – and leave you with a decent product in your hand.

If you’re ever bored – type craft beer in to search on twitter. The justifications you’ll read are very much like a dog chasing its own tail, though at least in that instance, the dog eventually gives up and chases something else.

Using words seems to enhance, not necessarily the quality of the product, more the opinion that the seller has of their own ideals – which they would like to pass on to you. It can, in some cases bump up the price – in others, limit where you can buy it from. But does a word actually make something taste better?

No.

But it doesn’t seem to stop people trying to convince you otherwise.

As I said, this post isn’t actually directed at G-G-G-G-G-G-Granvilles. They just happened to ignite something that has been festering for some time now.

Pour me a glass of vino rosso, sit me in a comfortable chair and ask me what my favourite film is.

Truth is I don’t care much for films. I get bored quickly; fidgety – even quicker. So the thought of sitting through most films leaves me cold. But favourite films – that’s a different matter.

As I swirl the wine around in the glass, pretending I know what I am doing – I’m letting it breath, right? – I will look up, with a dead straight face and say: “Either The King and I or An American in Paris”.

Obviously there is a love for the Star Wars or Godfather series, but there is something magical that keeps drawing me back to the mesmeric dance moves of both Yul Brynner and Gene Kelly. It’s the notion that two achingly-cool men could somehow look even better, as they moved across a dancefloor/stage/set – without any hint of campness shattering the illusion.

I first realised that I had found an icon in Kelly when watching films like “Singing in the rain” or “On the town”. Even as a child I understood the notion that men like women, want to be with women – might have to do something to impress women. Whilst I was still perfecting farts or play-punching, then running off from any girl that might have shown an interest – Kelly was showing me what I should really be doing. Jumping off a castle set, turning over a sofa and tap dancing his way in to the hearts of every woman he came across.

Brynner was different. Brynner was not just swagger cool; he was moody cool as well. Mean eyes staring out from under a bald head added an element of fear to him in “The King and I”, that I wanted to replicate. He doesn’t dance as much as Kelly, but then when he does – he bounds and glides effortlessly across the floor. It is of a time. I am clearly of the wrong time.

I must have watched “The King and I” a hundred times or more. I owned the soundtrack to “An American in Paris” – but I never did dance like my two favourite movie stars.

I once saw an advert for dance classes in the church hall when going to cubs. I looked at the people going in to the class – mainly girls or boys I didn’t talk to at school. As I stood in the door way in my hair shirt and woggle, I realised that was no place for me. Could you imagine the ridicule? I mean, the only men you saw dancing on TV were Lionel Blair or Wayne Sleep, and they never really seemed to capture the hearts of women, in quite the same way Kelly or Brynner did.

If only Billy Elliot had been written in the ‘80s.

As I got older I tried to dance whenever the opportunity arose. The ‘90s were great for making an exhibition of yourself through the latest nightclub dance trends. I may not quite have perfected the swan dive to caterpillar move, but the side shuffle in to Running Man was how I owned the floor – Keith Flint had nothing on me. Unfortunately the years passed, the pounds increased and the joints deteriorated. The last time I did the Running Man was at my mate, Neil Quigley’s wedding. I woke up the following day unable to bend my leg – spent a week off work with a Meniscus tear.

Never again I told myself. Well, not until the next time.

It is a shame I felt constrained by the machismo of youth. By the fear of being ridiculed for trying out something that didn’t involve a ball, a shout, an uncomfortable pair of shorts. Who knows, I could have been the next Gene Kelly – had the strut of the next Yul Brynner – but then, other than through the work of Baz Luhrmann, dance scenes in movies no longer seem to have that same wow factor as they did in films like “West Side Story”.

Ah well. At least in my head I have Sister Sledge asking why I am, indeed, the greatest dancer – but even then I concede that in terms of hopping around to music with Lauren, she’s the only one with a future on the stage.

My dancing days are behind me. My hobbling in to a pointy shuffle days are all that lie ahead.

Hmm… maybe I should focus on my role as an android in a western style, amusement park instead?

Amy reads the Daily Mail.

My dad reads the Daily Mail.

You, the reader, may have sent me a link to the Daily Mail’s website.

You all do it for different reasons. Amy is that new wave of Daily Mail reader, who only picks out the online content about celebrities, fashion – Femail life stories of interest to female readers. The sort of articles that feature real life issues or reality TV, pop and film stars. What they are up to – why they may seem relevant to “our” lives.

My dad reads the Daily Mail in its physical form. He likes the puzzle section. The Sudoku – the word games. Seeing as he works in a racially diverse environment – the fruit trade – I doubt he spends too much time, if any, on the age-old headlines the paper is (in)famous for; but he still gets it delivered each day. It is his want.

The biggest puzzle though is in the inordinate amount of links that get bandied about on twitter, or on facebook – telling me to read a section of the paper’s online content. Often the tweets contain a degree of moral outrage. “Look at what she has written” a tweet my shout. “I can’t believe people still write stuff like this” another will proclaim. Why then do I want to read it? To complain about it – something I wouldn’t have read, had I not been sent a link?

The other position is when you actually get sent a link that – wait for it – might be worth reading. I’m talking, naturally, about the sporting position here. The Fail, Wail, Paper of the Third Reich – whichever moniker you may feel most appropriate to use – does actually have a number of writers worth reading. It’s that “new(is)” notion that we readers may not necessarily agree with everything in one paper – therefore, through RSS feeds/readitlater and the like – we cherry pick our way round the areas of a paper that interest us most.

I’d read Martin Samuel if he wrote for any other paper (well, The Times, Guardian or their associated weekend offerings) – so why not the Daily Mail? Same can be said for Lawrence Booth (whom I follow on twitter) or Paul Newman (same position). They are a very small, personal interest, within a paper I would rather no longer continues to exist. I won’t purposefully check for their columns, but I tend to read what they say if linked.

The position only becomes difficult in that I have made a judgement on the paper. I haven’t bought it in years, nor would I ever see myself buying it again. I don’t agree with the editorial slant on the “despicable” links I am regularly sent, so why buy a paper I believe provides a view I am totally at odds with?

The Daily Mail exists. The website exists. Just because something exists, does not mean we have to experience the parts of it that I, nor others would actively choose to read (I eat steak but won’t touch tripe for similar reasons). Linking something that annoys you, for others to read, will only continue to justifying the column, the advertising spend, the reason why the paper/website continues to publish that type of article.

Please bear that in mind before you next tweet something you are totally disgusted with. If you are so disgusted, don’t add further to the national disgust by asking me to read it as well.

Forget Cotoletta alla Milanese, that greatest of all rebranded regional dishes (it was pork, originally, not veal) inherited from the days of the Austrian Empire – the perfect accompaniment to tonight’s Derby della Madonnia (AC Milan v Internazionale) must surely be a Negroni.

There’s a good chance that you won’t have had a Negroni before. With ingredients that include Campari and Martini Rosso, it is both an acquired taste, and arguably of a time in the UK. That time being the 1970s.

But then why am I recommending a drink made by a Florentine barman, upon request from a Count (Negroni), to strengthen his original cocktail of choice? Well, Campari is very much a local, Lombardy (where you will find Milan) invention – drunk everywhere with soda or Prosecco in the form of a Spritz. Also, and very much like the act of replacing pork with veal – an error in a Milanese bar gave birth to the city’s own interpretation of the Negroni – the Sbagliato or Mistaken Negroni.

The Sbagliato is less of an assault on the taste buds, with the final part of the cocktail, gin, replaced with the lighter addition of Prosecco – from Veneto.

So my recommendation for your ideal drink from Milan to accompany the football is a cocktail made in Florence, which was emended in error in Milan, with the addition of a drink from Veneto – that is loved throughout the world. If that doesn’t symbolise one of the city’s football teams – awash with Brazilians, Argentineans, Dutch and a Swede – crafted, like a cocktail of class and grace – in the, let’s call it the San Siro for ease; then I’m not sure what drink does.

So no matter what side of the city’s divide you sit tonight – Rossoneri or Nerazzurri – make sure you are at least sat with a glass of Negroni, original or mistaken, to toast on your team’s success.

Salute.

Oh, and being the contrary so-and-so that I am, the minute I wrote “Forget” at the start of this post, I instantly knew I had to cook Cotoletta alla Milanese for dinner tonight. Well, it would be rude not to.

Negroni

30ml Martini Rosso
30ml Campari
30ml gin
1 orange slice – blood, if available

Negroni Sbagliato

30ml Martini Rosso
30ml Campari
50ml Prosecco
1 orange slice – as above

A friend, Simon Brooksbank, is trying to convert the world in to drinking Negroni as a tall drink, with Soda Water and extra orange slices – one barman at a time. With some success as well!

Spritz

50ml Campari/Aperol
60ml Prosecco
1 orange slice

All original recipes from the Bocca Cookbook

I have an idea.

I’ll call it an idea as I think I’ve overused the word dream on this site – especially when composing yet another whimsical post for you all to read.

The idea is to park a Fiat 500 in the ever-so-unglamorous location of the underground car park in Piazza Vittorio Veneto, Turin. We open a bottle of Prosecco and Aperol. I’ll pour two “smallish” glasses of Spritz, drink them with Amy, and once finished – pull out of the car park and head through the city towards the A4 Autostrade.

From Turin, we will then zigzag our way from the top of Italy – down to a final destination of either Lecce, or the Isle of Sicily – depending on how adventurous we are feeling at the time.

The reason I refer to this as an idea, is that I’m trying to make sure that 2012 is the year where I convert my ideas in to actual plans – to learn Italian, to build on my career, to meet new people.

As an idea in itself, I’ve wanted to drive an original Fiat 500 the length of Italy for years – long before I could drive; maybe since the time I first saw the Italian Job in the early ‘90s. The reason it will remain an idea is that since Lauren has come along, I couldn’t imagine doing it without her. So to paraphrase Chief Brody in Jaws: we’re gonna need a bigger car.

So what then, is the point of this post?

If you remember back to the “Blogger in his studio”, you’ll recall how our new kitchen was proving to be a mine of inspiration. How just sitting here, with the laptop open and fingers free to move, the posts felt as though they were writing themselves. Well, maybe this idea has taken on another form.

As I look around the kitchen I see two maps of Italy, a cook book from Bocca di Lupo and the two greedy Italians (Carluccio e Contaldo) – both offering a regional bounty of delights. Add to that a bottle of beer. Not just any beer; a bottle of Birra Menabrea, from Biella.

I’ve travelled through Biella. Amy and I drove through it when we travelled from Favria, where our friends live – through the winding, country roads to Arona, on the coast of Lake Maggiore. At the time Biella was very much a point on the map, giving us a feel of where we wanted to be. It didn’t register as being of any consequence until we went to a Supermarcato (supermarket) to buy beer. There I found, and instantly fell in love with Menabrea. Biella will always hold a sense of place with me. A place where an excellent lager is made; but also somewhere we visited – read: passed through on a great day spent with the family.

The family. Not in the biblical or Mafioso sense. No. My family. The family I would like to take from one end of Italy to the next.

One end of Italy to the next – in my own kitchen?

So here’s the development of a new idea that becomes its own plan. Why don’t I take you, the reader, on a trip – the length and breadth of Italy, via the local food, drink and customs I have – or wish to encounter; just as if I was driving my Fiat 500?

If you ever find Menabrea on sale, I’d advise you take it over Peroni or Moretti. Artisanal beers aside, it is the cream of Italian lagers – made in Biella – one of the most Northerly points of the country.

So come with me, via a theme, whilst I live out a dream, via an idea – realised as a plan – on my very own trip of Italy. A trip that starts in a kitchen in Leeds, transfers to the town of Biella, and ends up where ever we can find a beer, glass of wine or regional dish worth sharing.

Salute as they might say in Biella.

Cheers, as we definitely say in Leeds.

The opening image is from the De Long “Wine Map of Italy”. You can buy it from here.

How old is too old to make new friends?

Amy thinks that question sounds suspiciously like the opening to a “Sex in the city” episode. So whilst I dust myself off and try to recover some dignity, how about considering another question:

Are you ever too old to make new friends?

I’m 36.

I joined twitter three years ago. That simple act of registration opened my life up to a host of new encounters – virtual and in the flesh. Some of those encounters produced friends, some remained virtual followers with mutual interests expressed through regular dialogue – others just faces in a crowd; of drinkers, tweeters, words. There’s yet to be a negative encounter – maybe the odd one where you realised that the unity through a computer screen may have led you to believe there was more to it than that. But never a reason to regret.

The thing with encounters through the net – of which i have enjoyed many – including friends of friends that led me to Amy, is that they are constantly moving; evolving. Today someone new with similar interests to you will join twitter, facebook – a messageboard you may frequent. It’s not like school, where the new faces only ever appear once – in September. Or work, where you never try to really (or at least I don’t) make actual “friends”. For there’s no saying what someone might do if you were to come up against them in a promotion or decision making process. Better to keep something back.

Something they can’t use against you.

But the internet is a strange place in that every day brings something new. New people wanting to know you, more people you want to know. You dance around your words for a while, and then one of you makes the leap of faith. Suggests you either meet up, or at least let it be known where you may be if they are in that same area.

I had one such encounter this week. A twitter user – blogger I’ve spoken to on numerous occasions but never moved beyond keeping our technological distance. Eventually it got a bit daft. We belatedly agreed to meet in a pub, but that never happened. We had earlier agreed to meet at an event I’ve never been to – nor likely to go to due to its daytime setting. In the end we simply sorted a date, time and venue and, well, met. It all seems so clandestine in the way that I’ve described it, but there was the potential for hesitation because of one clear, missing ingredient – booze.

When you are meeting for coffee, you are at the mercy of your personalities, desire to share – and, well, good coffee. When you are meeting for a pint you can always drown out the sound of the uncomfortable silence, with more and more alcohol.

Thankfully it went well. Or at least I think it did? How would Sarah Jessica Parker’s character confirm that one of her “dates” went OK? I guess she’d write a column or talk to her friends about it – for me, I guess it reads: writes blog, carries on using twitter – attempts to follow up with another coffee sometime in the future.

So here’s to you Dom Burch. Here’s to all the future, new encounters I will make throughout my life. For I know you are never too old to make new friends. When you play bowls you know you are never too old to meet an ever aging populace. Every year another 50+ year old comes in to my life, introduces themselves and stays a friend – a team mate, for as long as we still play bowls.

I’ve no idea how much longer twitter will be around for – how long I will continue to expand my group of “known associates” through the internet – but then I’m also kind of assuming that as Lauren gets older, as my desire to just go and sit in a pub all day long grows stronger – then there are always the conventional ways – over a pint, a crossword, a betting slip – to get to know new people.

Don’t let age be a barrier. Don’t let technology be a barrier – don’t even let your nerves stop you.

Get out there and meet as many people as you can.

It’s quite easy once you remember how.

Happy – Sad
Smile – Frown
Good – Evil
Calm – Angry
Alive – Dead

Good – naughty, bad, terrible, horrible, wicked, dastardly…

Who would have thought that one of the biggest challenges faced during the Christmas period, would have been to decide how best we should approach a seemingly unending list of human emotions and traits – whilst watching a cartoon movie.

I was looking forward to a Christmas spent watching films with Lauren, growing as she is – able to maintain enough of an attention span to sit through one of the many Disney classics. You will then understand my disappointment when the Disney Movie Channel was being rather selective – read: they want your money – in which classic movies they showed: none.

That said, we did find Brother Bear, Return to Never Land and Tarzan to sit down in front of. They may not exactly be in the same class as the true classics of the ’40s-‘60s or even the second wave of great films from the ‘90s – but they are still very much of the studio’s style.

All seemed to be going swimmingly with Brother Bear, when, two of the main characters – a bear, and well you guessed it, the brother of that bear – had a falling out. Disney, as is their way, captured the moment in the best “pull at the heart strings” style.

As the younger bear – lip all a quiver, eyes both wide and moist – shot across the screen, away from its brother, Lauren turned to me. With innocence and intrigue etched across her face, she asked: “Why is the bear sad?”

I tried to think how best to explain the situation – what might have resulted in the sadness – but I was at a loss to find the right words. Thankfully something exciting happened, and the line of questioning dropped; momentarily.

For Disney don’t have just one period of sad per film. Soon a major sequence ended up in a near death situation. Again the little bear was sad. Again Lauren asked why. Err, death? When did we agree we would broach this subject? Amy had previously suggested we might best do it when Hooch, our dog, dies. I didn’t talk to her for an hour after that. Hooch isn’t really going to die. What was she talking about?

Anyways, Hooch is very much alive – currently destroying something, somewhere. This is a given. Add to that the fact Lauren is still under three, and this felt like the wrong time to try and explain death – especially as I had a feeling that the bear wasn’t actually dead. He was just hurt, in that Disney or Pro-Wrestling will make a fantastic recovery sort of way.

The bear was alive! Quick, time to move on. Again.

We got through it, together, without any further dilemmas. But it really changed the way we, or at least I, watched the films from that point. She is now of an age/mind where she can detect human emotions – but not yet of an understanding as to what causes those emotions.

Everything negative is sad. When Peter Pan was running away from Captain Hook – he was sad. When a character was unwell, they were sad. When another character was frightened by others in the film, they too were sad. There wasn’t enough time to explain each different sensation – emotion – as the fast pace of the movie meant she quickly moved on. But then again, neither is there the inclination – yet – to explain to a two year old why a child’s cartoon has been designed to make you think about the people you see.

She has time on her side to learn that it is better to be good rather than evil; polite than nasty – alive, not dead. There are plenty of films left to see for her to make those “informed” decisions.

I daren’t even think about showing her my all time favourite, “One of our dinosaurs is missing” – as how on earth do I explain that modern era, politically incorrect issue of Peter Ustinov mocked up as a Chinese baddie?

I thought watching a Disney movie would be fun. In some parts it was, in others it felt like an interrogation – one in which I knew the answers, I’m just not sure now is the time to try and explain them.

The bear really needs to be dead before that will happen.

The thing about looking back is that at some point, you know you’re going to have to end up looking forward if you want to get anywhere.

That’s why Janus has two faces. One face was to look back and remind you of the past, another to slag your mates of behind their backs. Sorry, I mean to look forward in to your future.

No self-respecting blogger (do you know any?) can leave a review of 2011 without at least trying to dovetail a thought about 2012 on to their page as well. What better way then, than to use a similar series of themes as before, this time to highlight areas in which I can mould the next three days – before I forget, regress and fall back in to my old ways. Here goes:

Health

I pause from typing to cup my moobs. They are a magnificent pair; almost conical – with thumb like, hairy nipples. I know as I cup them that they shouldn’t be there. That I should have a chest to rival David, not Davina. I know I have to do something in 2012 to resolve the Moob Crisis. Otherwise by 2025 I will have a gut that’s primary role is to support my spaniels ears.

Light exercise, what with the knackered knee, needs to be extended to the odd muscular work out. A push up or 20. Maybe a bicep curl. Nothing too strenuous, just, well, an excuse to alleviate some of that tension through working out.

Another thing I need to do is bite the bullet and to start taking regular antihistamines. I’m allergic to the dog, to dust, and as we’ve found out this week – bloody Christmas trees. I hate taking more medication than I need to (two tablets a day, every day), but as someone who is trying to get more in to food and wine, it might be a good idea to sort my sense of smell out – which due to a near permanently blocked nose – is virtually non-existent.

Life and style

That’s what they usually call the pies and booze section on newspaper websites. As if either are really a choice, rather than an everyday necessity.

I’ve spent most of what ever “Me Time” I’ve had this Christmas period, nose deep in one cook book or another. The biggest inspiration has been the effort from Jacob Kenedy of Bocca Di Lupo. It is a sumptuous feast of text and pictures, imagined for the eyes, the passions and the desires I have as a cook. I won’t cook every recipe – where on earth would I get sea snails in Leeds – but I will dream of going to the destination listed as being the source of those recipes.

A bit like how I mentioned Dom Burch in the previous entry, the ability to just quit work and travel Italy as Jacob Kenedy has done is not necessarily there for me, but there is the opportunity to do one destination – even one restaurant, like, well, his – at a time. I’m looking at the spine of the book, in between cupping and typing, and near rubbing my mental hands (as in imaginary, not on a register) at the prospect of the next dish I will cook. Buy it if you even remotely like Italian food. But understand if you do – that some of the dishes are his “twist” on a very regional position. You will find flaws if you are from that region. I, on the other hand, am from Neasden. I find, only a reason to cook.

With regards to wine and beer, I have two simple choices to make. I need to either cast my net wider or higher. By that I mean I need to try a wider range or upgrade the choices I normally make. I did that with beer in 2011 – moving out of the supermarkets and in to the independent retailers like Beer Ritz, though I still mainly stuck with what I knew – British darker beers, American Pale Ales or German/Italian Pale/Lager beers. I rarely ever trouble the Imperials, the Belgians, Barley wines or – even – readily available, commercial “bitters”. I leapt from one comfort level to the next.

It’s the same with wine. Because I mainly cook Italian food I always head straight for the Italian section. Sometimes I stray in to France or Spain, but only if there is a bargain. The New World is alien territory to me. I often state the percentage levels – preferring 11-13% over the big Aussie 14.5% reds, but then if I can’t remember the last time I bought one, how will I know if I still don’t like them?

Wine, unlike beer, is something I have stuck primarily within a comfortable pricing range. I rarely spend more than a tenner a bottle, regularly less than £6 – missing out on all the Grand Crus and Super Tuscans in the process. This year I will dip my toe in the pricier end, even if it is just for special occasion – like a Tuesday night.

I’m still going to end up drinking to excess at regular points in the year – but I know the consequences (the wrath of a good woman), so I need to make sure I’m still active the next day, when I do.

Culture and The Arts

Let’s just be plain, simple, brief and say I need to do more.

I read a tweet from Emma of The Culture Vulture that suggested she was going to introduce her child to more arts events this year. It seemed to resonate. As if I could educate myself through the premise that I was actually doing it to benefit Lauren. It’s in some way a false view, but at the same time I’ll always find a reason not to do an event – as there is always something else to do. Yeah, of course I go to the gallery in Leeds – but usually only when it’s raining.

We’ve done the local museum to death, and Lauren seemed to really enjoy herself when we went to the Yorkshire Sculpture Park – so maybe there is a cultural world out there, away from the pubs and Go, Diego, Go, that the pair of us can find enlightenment in. We might even drag Amy along (she won’t need dragging), but then I need to make sure on the one Saturday when Amy works, that I do something creative with Lauren other than get a bus to town and then – well – do the same things over again:

“What noise does a tiger make?”
“Roar”
Ad nauseum!

Work

My boss is both supportive and honest. Within six months of being in post, she made a promise that she would do everything she could over the next 12 months to get me promoted. If she couldn’t, she would say and I would have the option to start looking elsewhere. Thankfully she came through with her promise.

In October she made the same promise, but realistically, she said it would take 18 months this time. Same time frame as before, as in 18 months from new role to promotion, but there was the understanding it would be harder this time around.

If I’m brutally honest with myself, I’m not sure where I want to be in 18 months – and if a simple rise up the ladder to cover off a greater level of responsibility is really what I want. I work in project management for those that don’t know me in the real world. I’m qualified in this field, I have sufficient experience in this field – I am just tied to the idea at the moment that I have a boss I really enjoy working with. Even though I’ve spent years working in a change environment, I am – as mentioned in another post – hesitant to change; especially if it is only for money.

But the work we’ve done on the kitchen, the plans we have for our family, for our time together as a family, does make me wonder how much more we could do with a bit more money. In my current role my work is rewarded with praise, with experience gained – but could, and should I want more than that? I have the sort of boss I can talk such questions through with, but where is the point when I have to stop relying on her to create a job – and use my skills to get my own role?

2012 is definitely not about trying to find a dream job – I’m not sure what that is, but I reckon it involves me entertaining a group of holiday makers somewhere in Piedmont or Rome. Sacrifices and money need to come well before that will ever happen. This year is about rungs, on ladders, that either comes this year – or at least very early next year. Hopefully that rung will be under the same boss – not out of comfort, just genuine pleasure to work with them.

Sport

OK – let’s get this done and dusted now. Bowls is a sport. It appears on the Sport England website. That’s enough for me.

People always look surprised when I say I play bowls, even more so when I tell them I write a weekly column for the Yorkshire Evening Post – in the sports section. But then once they get over the surprise, it is then surprising how many want to know more; confess an interest to play. Not everyone. But one or two introduced a year is enough to keep the game I love alive.

This year could be a final crack, for a while being at least, of me trying to qualify for the national finals at Worthing. It’s something we bowlers hope to achieve every year, and although I’ve rarely had chance to qualify – either through work or location – this past two years I have, and I haven’t. So, if for whatever reason I’m not able to give the game my full commitment in 2013 – I need to get it done in 2012. There may even be a book in it. It might be a very short book if i get beat in the first round of everything, but who said there has to be a minimum page count in an ebook!

And for what it’s worth, my attention in the summer will be focused primarily on Poland and Ukraine rather than East London.

Friends

New, old, unknown – previously lost. I’m coming for you in 2012. I want to see more of you, to meet you for the first time; to pick up where we left off years ago. Having a child, living in Leeds, spending weekends on the road playing bowls is no longer an excuse. It’s time we hooked up, more regularly, in my manor or yours – let’s just make it happen!

Family

It could be a big year for the family. Numbers will play a big part. Both of my parents reach a big number, whilst maybe Lauren hitting three is old enough for “competition”. That’s not an admission – remember this post is only an idea; a plan. A big plan!

So that’s 2012.

What more is there to say?

Image: A set of ‘pop’ular moobs

The title is a play on the Mayan Prophecy. It is also something I will inevitably do with Lauren’s pink clothes

Self Portrait – January 2012

The hair is at least three weeks too long.

The stubble is much the same – but in terms of days rather than weeks.

Even the eyebrows haven’t been looked at for a month at least. Grooming has clearly taken a back seat at this hectic time of year.

The neck and jowls suggest a good time has been had; consumed.

The facial expression is exaggerated. I tried to smile. I tried to look upbeat. I tried to catch Simon Blake off guard – but it just looked so false; unnatural if you will.

But look at the eyes. The eyes are clear, crisp, sharp. They are the eyes of someone who has started the New Year fresh – no hangover in sight.

I wasn’t angelic. I was up till two enjoying a glass or was it bottle(s) of wine – but there was a level of self control in operation. So much so that we’ve done the park, we’ve walked the dog – a cooked meal has been consumed. All alien acts on this traditional day of days – where bed is typically the only cure.

But what cure? Who would want a cure for the day we’ve had.

What a surprising start to the year!

The Ancient Roman’s had a God for everything.

There was Apollo, the God of dance music – who went hand in hand with Bacchus, the God of high ABV Craft Beers. There was Vulcan, the God of geeks and sci-fi TV producers. They also had Juno, the online God of record buying and Mercury – the God of temperature fluctuations.

Most prominent at this time of year was the Goddess, Samantha Janus. Much like her Eastenders’ character, Janus was a two-faced cow – the Goddess of beginnings, transitions and automatic sensor doors.

It was Janus whom you prayed to if you wanted to carry the good fortune of the previous year, over in to the next. It was Janus who was a constant reminder that if your office doors have handles on them, it means you usually pull – rather than push.

Though she is also a good point of reference when, like every other twitter user, you decide you want to bore people to death with your thoughts on the past 12 months. I’ll try to be as unoriginal as possible by separating my thoughts in to themes. Themes I will bold so that they stand out from the rest of the text:

Health

I’ve felt healthier in 2011 than I have done in years. The booze, fast living and excess drinking – married to my arthritis and anxiety were beginning to take their toll. In 2010 I was coughing on rising. I would regularly place my hand on something throbbing – through some new kind of pain. It was not a good place to be.

I cut back on a lot of things. Dead things in boxes sold by late night, neon lit establishments were near eradicated. Excess booze would still strike me hard, but the difference there was an understanding that the galloping heart was booze, and not a congenital defect I had imagined up over another, sleepless night.

I found walking to be a pleasure. I walk everywhere. It resulted in weight loss that I have maintained rather than furthered. I still eat a lot of crap – croissants and pastries are my breakfast of choice – yet I seem to have found a way of doing enough each day to balance the calorie intake.

The one flaw is my knee. It isn’t going to get better any time soon, but at the same time I’m not really helping myself. I went to physio – I was given a sheet of exercises to do; I have no idea where that sheet is.

Still, I’d give my improving health at least 6/10. I could do a lot better but I definitely feel like I’m on the right track.

Culture and The Arts

2011 was all about Nadia Shireen’s ‘The Good Little Wolf’. Many a night, Lauren and I would read the book – gripped by the developing plot line; only to be thrown by the massive twist right at the end. No, not the one you’re thinking about – the other one. Or is that the point? Is there two, or is there even one if what happens is perfectly plausible?

I found out through the author that parents had complained as they did not think this was suitable for a young child. What that basically meant was that they did not have the ability or the interest to simply sit down and explain the obvious to their children. I liked the book even more after that.

I won’t spoil it for anyone. It was my favourite book to share with Lauren – I advise you all buy it if you have a young child. Don’t read it before hand. Just work out what to do when/if the situation arises.

2011 was also the year I got my music mojo back. After fighting off the inner demons in 2010, I was now able to jump around like a loon in the kitchen without longing to be in a nightclub once more. I think the quality of the music from the likes of Dimitri From Paris, Jimpster and Fred Everything helped. They play the sort of music that does crossover well from club, to MP3 player to kitchen stereo. Their soundcloud links or monthly podcasts (which you can through the links provided) have even been used to backdrop and virtually kill conversations dead – as we simply got taken away by the groove. Who knows, my self-imposed clubbing hiatus may be drawing to a close.

Spotify also warrants an honorary mention. The pricing model back to the artist may not sit easy with everyone, but at the same time, it has opened up a lot of music I would never have bothered with a year ago. Some of which I have bought – some of which I will only ever listen to on Spotify. Get the premium account if you have an iPhone. God that made me feel dirty.

I give this section 4/10. Hey, I know there is far more I should be doing on an artistic or cultural level – but 12 months ago I would have been viewed as being as culturally enlightened as the Aussie outback, so cut me some slack.

Work

I can thank Amy, my wife – for those of you new to here – in every one of these sections. So please accept that as a given. Instead there are three people I would most like to thank for giving me the opportunity to reflect on work in 2011, and see something I haven’t in eight years or more.

First up is my boss – who made me a promise at a review meeting that she stuck to. She did everything she could to get me promoted, and for that I am grateful – as it made me realise that I shouldn’t just be happy to accept working at the new grade. Even that is proving to lack the challenges I really need, to ensure I no longer continue to simply just drift along with what I have.

The next two can be found on twitter.

Philip Ardagh is an author of children’s books. He is also the greatest exponent of twitter there is. He uses twitter to engage and unite the bored. He sets up nonsensical, non-events. He offers unhelpful tips. He provides imaginary updates from an unwanted life. He makes you look at your reflection in your dusty PC monitor and realise, you’ve spent the last two hours putting off work you could do in five minutes. He does make you laugh. If you are reading his tweets whilst at work, he should also make you consider if what you are doing, really is the job for you?

The other is Dom Burch. You won’t want to follow Dom. Dom is full of positivity, dreams, goals and aspirations. He also works in PR (Ed – arghhhh my eyes). But what Dom embodies is the person a great number of us would like to be like. Forget the job title or the company he works for, he realised that he had reached a point in his life where he wanted to do something different – not change his job, more so change the course of his life. He has. And through reading his blog or his tweets, it’s clear that it was the best thing he could have done.

Now we’re not all in a position where we can change our lives as dramatically. There isn’t always the money to take a career break; to reflect in such a big way. But he provides a modicum of inspiration so that we can look at our lives as a series of boxes, and choose which boxes it is we want to change.

Work gets a measly 2/10. I’ve fannied about for near 10 years now – and whilst I wouldn’t change the outcomes for anything in the world – it’s time I got my arse in to gear, stopped wasting my days on twitter – and tackled that dirty, dreaded C word: my career.

Me

A strange theme as this is all about me, me, me – but 2011 has made me think a lot about the me people see, and the me people rarely get to see. Amy commented only recently that she was surprised by how open I have been on this blog. It was a conscious decision. Not a means by which to build on the number of readers, but to be honest with those few that do regularly come back. A lot of which are friends I only ever get to see, at best, once or twice a year. I take the rise out of a mate, Rob, who to a point would only write or film positive reviews on is beer blog. I understood his point, but as mine is a personal blog – about me – I thought I’d be cheating you if you were left with the view that everything was rosy.

There mere fact that a mate gave me the book “Is it me or is everything shit?” for Christmas suggests that I still have a long way to go to convince my genuine friends that there is another Chris inside me – other than the one that makes flippant, miserable comments all the time. But there’s an awful lot of chalk on this slate, which has built up over a great number of years. It might take a few more years to wipe it clean.

A positive 6/10 – as being both positive and open is not in my nature.

Family

No need for more than one line here. Two actually as I’ve used a full stop now. Err. Five. The strength my family has given me over the year has brought me back from a point I never want to return to, and whilst I could be a better son; I know I’m on the right track as a husband and father.

Family gets 11/10.

So there’s 2011 in a nutshell.

What more is there to say?