“I don’t like it.

Why don’t you like it?

I don’t like it.”

It’s a simple enough conversation, played out with a two year old, who doesn’t quite have the language development to articulate what she really wants to say.

Yet they are four words I try my hardest to stop Lauren from actually saying.

Sure there will be things that she won’t like, but it should never be the default position – as it often is with kids – with unimaginative adults; for me.

I was/am terrible at proclaiming my dislike for something. Look, textures, colour, squeamish sensation it leaves – all come before taste in deciding if I will try something. If I think I’ve once had something similar before, it means that I’ll discount everything else from that family of food groups – for life.

But when was the last time I actually tried the things I dislike – and how hampered are my choices based on distant, historical experiences that may or may not have actually been based in reality – or a preconceived view?

Prawns, mussels, sweet German wine, whisky, algebra, Jeff Wayne’s Musical Version of War of the Worlds – just some of the things that instantly spring to mind. I can’t remember trying them in the last 10 years – so how do I know that I do not like them now?

OK – so the last thing on that list of dislikes didn’t instantly spring to mind, but it is the basis for writing that typically, longwinded intro. I saw a tweet the other week from Jo Borg stating that she was listening to the War of the Worlds album. If you’re not familiar with it, the album is a musical adaptation of H.G. Wells’ War of the Worlds. Its cast includes Richard Burton, Phil Lynott and David Essex. It is a Prog Rock album.

A Prog Rock album. Hmm.

The reason for the dislike is simple. It was one of those albums that my dad owned. The sort of album that he would play and play and play. Over and over again. He did the same with Tracey Chapman and Dire Strait’s ‘Brothers in Arms’. He still does it with Paul Simon’s ‘Gracelands’. It’s as though he is trying to beat you in to submission, but in reality he does nothing but drive a wedge between you – and the object of desire he is trying to school you in.

He played War of the Worlds in the house. He played it in the car. He drove that wedge; that Prog Rock-laced tale of destruction – between me and Jeff Wayne.

Thanks to Spotify I now have the chance to revisit my youth. To go back and try the albums I thought I once hated – the artists I showed no real interest in – to see if the passing years and varying changes in taste have altered my view on their work.

In the case of the War of the Worlds, the answer is a resounding – not really. Ha!

Actually it is a massive no, but then there are parts of the album that did make me appreciate, or at least view it in a slightly different way. I loved the Burton narrative that runs all the way through it. It makes me want to seek out more of his films, his spoken word work – poetry, prose – that sort of thing. I found that the Parson is played by Thin Lizzy’s Phil Lynott. He seems to have a strange, almost annoying American accent in it – but he still comes through with a great singing voice.

It made me think about reading the book.

The most important revision was of the musicianship on the album. Most of it is overblown, near nauseating nonsense, but then there’s work on there – bass, keys, percussion – that flirts with a more late 70s disco/funk sound. You’ll find this on the track “The Artilleryman and the Fighting Machine”. All I could think when listening to that track was “how good could this be with a Moroder/Cowley/Kervorkian remix?” How good indeed!

I disliked the lead track “Forever Autumn” in my childhood, and that attitude has not changed. As the vocals kick in I found myself squirming in my bus seat – desperate to fast forward, but refusing; testing this new – can I learn to like it – theory for as long as possible. Albums, in the main, live and die by the quality of their lead tracks. This always kills it for me.

So it didn’t work. But this is not the end of this experiment. Onwards and upwards – or should that read downwards, in to the sea – for fish, most kinds of fish, are something I will readily admit to disliking without trying – without ever going back to.

But then, how do I really know if this view is true?

Why not try your very own War of the Worlds experiment today. Find an album, a food group – anything you can immediately claim to dislike, and see if that view still rings true.

Dust and stories – that’s all we have left.

Stories of a weeping tricenarian, gift bearing Peloponnesians and a family of Caesars – leaders of their empires – of their once great, dust covered lands.

Those leaders died before their empires fell. Their legacy lasting longer than the lands they had conquered. But what of the greats who only fight for themselves? Have no one else to carry their name, long after they have departed the battlefield.

All they can do is fight. Fight as their foundations crumble. Fight as they watch others raid their lands.

As Phil Taylor stood abject, and apparently beaten in the first round of the new Premier League Darts season, there was a sense that the crowd were witnessing the final, drawn out act of this once, great empire. As if Adrian Lewis, no longer content with being World Champion, now had to show up this great exponent of the game for what he was – a legend, a memory; the crowd’s departing champion.

The crowd refused to accept it. Roaring with gusto as they walked along, singing a song. They still believed in the empire; in Taylor’s Wonderland. Lewis appeared visibly irked by this. He has shown what he can do. His two world titles; his two back-to-back titles are clearly not enough. He lacks that something – that humility, the interplay with the masses. They laugh, they boo – he is a dictator, rather than a leader in waiting. Biding his time – full of self belief that one day, all will bow to his majesty – to his legendary status. Be careful of what you wish for. The crowd will turn, or refuse to show their love. A new champion will be found. A new empire will grow.

Or an old empire will return.

Sometimes an army just looks beaten. It should never be assumed that they are beaten.

With Lewis leading five nil, it was clear that some in the crowd were readying themselves for the journey home. Foam fingers gathered, last pint – last trip to the toilet planned; all the signs of a dash for the door as the last double strikes. Some still sang – some will always sing for their heroes.

Thud
Thud
Thud

Taylor breaks the stranglehold.

5-1 – surely there was no way back? Even for Taylor, against Lewis, our World Champion in imperious form.

Thud
Thud
Thud

The darts of Lewis rattled the confidence of the crowd. Their voice dampened by the five turning to six under his name. Two legs from victory – five legs clear of their champion.

But what is a champion if they do not fight to the end. Do not raise their standard high on the field, stare down their opponent and charge at their defences. For it is not as if Taylor was throwing bricks at the board. A finishing average of 112.79 lays testament to the quality on show. He may have had Lewis stood high above him, poised to go in for the kill – but it was a kill that never came. A shield, a double, a louder cheer from the crowd – where the battle was lost, it was almost won again.

6-1 was quickly reduced to 6-6. The fans chased the sun, chased the glory of their emperor. The Ois got louder. The foam fingers more prominent – even the catcalls towards Lewis had been replaced by bookended cheers for Taylor. Lewis threw, but there seemed to be something missing. Something a legend, a true champion, has in spades. Hunger, passion, control – whatever the necessary quality, it appeared to drain from Lewis as he stood there alone, in a crowd of thousands.

He did find one more double. One more show of strength. Knocking off the 13th and penultimate leg to ensure he finished the night with a point. It should have been so much more. Glory was his for the taking.

Taylor, the challenged empire – the defeated champion – made sure he left his admirers with at least one more memory to take home. Most will talk of his championships when the Power is no more. Others may talk of last night – that night when all looked lost to everyone other than Taylor.

Empires come and go. Some die in a single battle, others fade year on year – whichever it is with Taylor, you can be sure that only he will know when that time has finally come; when he will relinquish his power – when he alone will allow his standard to fall.

Goodbye old friend
You served me well
I shall cherish the times we spent together
You protected me
You covered me
You gave me warmth when others offered only cold
You were cool when some would have been stifling
We travelled great distances together
But as time drew on, you rarely left the house
You lived your life, as I lived mine

But what now – where will we both end up?
I will move on, but never will I forget you
Your end will not come, splattered in paint or oil or dirt
Valhalla, if such a place exists for your kind
Woosh the flames rise as they lick around you
Ashes – all that will remain
But what if another can love you?
What if another will look past your years; your scar?
There is life in you yet
You can offer warmth to another
Protection to someone else
You will always be mine
But now it is time for you to belong to someone else
Goodbye old friend
Our time has come to an end
Come
Hope
And
Register
It’s
Yours

I stand in front of you
I’ll take the force of the blow

Protection

Something a father should always offer his children. Something I would like to think I offer to my wife; your mum.

Sometimes it’s easy to forget how much protection those around us really need. I can mollycoddle you to the point where you will push me away. I can be overly protective of your mum to the point where people would accuse me of trying to lord over her – not letting her be her own person. That’s a lie, in so much as your mum would quite frankly ignore me if I was being overly protective, but you’ll understand the reasoning at some point.

Then there are times when you think you are doing your best by someone, until you realise that – well – am I now putting them in danger? Have I taking a bigger risk than I originally planned for?

That thought danced across my mind when we drove home from your Grandparents house in London on Saturday night. We knew it would snow. We watched countless weather forecasts, saw umpteen photos on twitter – all showing snow in Leeds. But we, I, so wanted to get down to London to let those who love you, see more of you.

I was foolhardy. I thought I knew better. I always think I know better.

So there we were, in London after a 3.5 hour drive – already planning our exit route. Not because we wanted to get away. I wanted to see my family as much as they want to see you – but at the same time I didn’t want to get stranded in London. What if the snow was so bad it blocked the middle part of the country for a day or so? Left Ice and treacherous driving conditions for our journey back. See I was thinking about you, and your mum, even if in the end it seemed quite the opposite.

We left before the snow started in London. Technically we left their front door before the snow had started – but it began to fall by the time we reached the car; all of 20 feet away.

We pushed on hard. We got on to the M1, and although the snow was falling it was not really settling. That was London. Move forward two hours and we find ourselves at the bottom of a hill, following a lorry with snow and slush all around us. Not just on the verges or the central reservation. In three of the four lanes we were meant to be driving on.

I hit the steering wheel. I berated myself for taking on this drive. I apologised to your mum, over and over again. Where was the protection I was meant to be offering at this point?

My fear, amongst other things, was that we – like many of those around us – would have to abandon our cars. Take you out in to the snow. Wrap you in as many layers and sit there, waiting for help to arrive. Waiting for someone else to save you from the situation you were placed in by your own dad.

You’re oblivious to all of this. The pounding of the wheel, the skidding of the car, the countless apologies – all happened whilst you slept. Soundly, in the back, no doubt contented with your lot.

We reached a point where the intensity of the situation grew; where the fear grew. Where the anger within – directed from me, to me – continued to grow. Another abandoned car blocked our path, two more pulled over, acknowledging the futility of their struggle. Only a single lorry seemed confident of ploughing through the snow.

Your mum was great. She focussed. She kept reassuring, kept guiding – giving advice as well as the option to pull over – but there was this lorry, our snow covered, break light flickering, beacon of hope. We knew the lorry was destined for Leeds. We knew this hill would eventually reach its summit, we knew – I knew, my pigheaded nature knew – I had to get you out of there. So for best part of three hours we followed that lorry.

Eventually the lorry pulled over, the driver no doubt reaching the maximum time limit by which he was allowed to drive. My nerves faltered. The driver had guided us this far, now it was down to me. We decided to go on.

Thankfully a team of ploughs and gritters were hard at work, clearing a path from Derbyshire to home. They gave us just one lane – one track like lane that we would not come off until we hit the local motorway outside of Leeds. A three hour journey took close on six hours. We had plenty of opportunities to stop, even turn back around and head for the safety of your family home in London. But still I pushed on – pushing the car, my frustrations and your protection to the limit.

I did it because. Well, because by that point I had to. There was nothing else to do but to get you home- to get you out in the garden, building snow “things”, unaware of the night passed.

I’ll never do that again. Never risk such a drive, such a journey, where others could question, not only my sanity, but also how much protection I really did provide you at the time.

You’re a girl and I’m a boy.

You slept as we struggled.

At least that’s something.