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

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?

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

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?

I once claimed to a friend that I was a Prosecco Communist.

Think champagne socialist but with better, bearded role models.

It was a crass way of suggesting that whist I may want the opportunity to enjoy the finer things in life, I still value the ideal that everyone in society should be afforded the opportunity to provide for themselves – to in some way benefit a wider cause.

I was reminded of this when I read a tweet from Josephine Borg (she goes by Jo on twitter, but I’ll be ever so slightly formal to this point). Jo is a Leeds based massage therapist specialising in the Hawaiian Lomi Lomi technique (yes – i had to look that up). Jo was looking for help with something, and offered a massage in return as a form of payment (keep it clean please, people).

I sat and read the tweet a couple of times, and whilst I am the least most likely person to take up the offer of a “free” massage – I did wonder if there would ever be a circumstance where I would have a skill that could be traded for a mutual benefit?

How would I fare in a society where the wider cause relied on what I can do?

I’ve had a number of decent jobs. They’ve paid well, they’ve afforded me the chance to travel, to express myself; to develop new skills – but they are skills in the modern sense of the word. I can stand in a room and give a presentation without having to picture my audience naked. I can put people in a room and get them to engage – I can draw pretty pictures in Visio that makes a difficult subject easier to understand.

But what good is all that if my plumbing goes, if I need something built – if someone on twitter needs assistance, and has something far better to offer in exchange?

I guess it is that time of year when we get a bit reflective – where we decide to set ourselves new challenges – under the guise of resolutions; dreams, even. I just think it’s as good a time as any to take stock and consider what it is I want to really do with my life, beyond my next day at work, on the 4th January.

I’m not a particularly dexterous person. I don’t work with my hands – some would even argue that I rarely work with my brain. What I do is use my voice – either the booming Norf Landun drawl my “maker” provided me with – or the one you read here, in my printed work; in the highlight reports for the projects I work on. They tell the story of my skills. Skills I’m not sure how I can put to better effect?

So what to do?

I’ve been a project manager, factory worker, journalist, entertainment PR, club promoter and copy writer. You’ll find far better exponents of each trade – but even without the humble acceptance, they’re hardly skills easy to trade for in real life situations.

I can prepare cookbook recipes, entertain a two year old; spin records at parties – I can engage, debate, even argue with the best of them. But still, all skills you’ll get for free from you own circle of friends.

I can buy, and drink, a decent bottle of Prosecco.

I guess in 2012 I need to start to plan a way in which I can benefit the wider cause – have my “yes” ready next time I see a plea for help on twitter. I don’t care too much for the need to develop a wider repertoire of manly attributes – I just want to be able to help.

Just don’t ask me to use my hands – nor offer a massage in return.

And he saith unto them, Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.

Quick pop quiz time – where does that line appear in the bible?

No checking through google. Come on class. Hurry up. Yes you, Fetherstonhaugh. Come on, boy. Speak up.

Yes, that’s right. Matthew 4:19.

I don’t expect many to get that. Nor to know that it is from the King James Bible. The reason I’ve put it at the top of this post is to highlight a reason why someone may choose to follow another. To decide that what that person is saying, is worth paying attention to.

I must inform the reader that the idea of this post was formulated, as most are, under the influence of alcohol. I am also trying desperately hard to steer clear of entering into @Humblebrag territory with this post. There will be a point where I will state a number, act bemused and question the motives. This I assure you, good reader, is an honest assessment of the situation and not an “Oh my, it’s that number because I really am rather good” type position.

But back once more to the followers.

When you first sign up to Twitter (some of you no doubt, already know where this is going) you are you, or at least the nom de plume/alter ego/hidden entity that you choose to be. There is nothing different about you, no tag to label you with – other than the avatar and blurb you choose to provide.

To engage on twitter the next thing you have to do is to follow someone, then another, and another. Usually you start off trying to find out if any of your friends are on there. Then, if you are so inclined – you may tackle the media arm of the net, famous people or even brands. At some point you might even start to follow ‘normal’ people you have no immediate links with – other than that you once both tweeted the same person.

Not a Humble Brag KLAXON!!!

On last check, I have 781 followers on twitter.

Why?

No seriously. Why?

I post a lot; a hell of a lot. There is clearly an argument that the scattergun approach by which I have cast my net; to fish for followers, has attracted a number of users – and much like those who always buy the same pants, bank with the same institutes or refuse to change their brand of tea bag – they just can’t be bothered to unfollow. There is an even bigger argument that my female followers posing at an intriguing angle are not actually, real users. They are some kind of bot, automated user – performing a wholly different form of phishing.

But there will be some that, irrespective of the drivel I tweet – the subject matter or the poorly constructed content – stick with me; happy to have me in their electronic lives. Maybe, like me, they use twitter as a means by which to break up the monotony of their day. This is escapism for them, just as much as it is for my barrage of tweets.

The drink, the number, the inquisitive mind – it all started to make me question why I am being followed, but then at the same time, why I follow others?

I follow 494 twitter users.

I started with the simplistic approach outlined above. I wanted to follow journalists I read, and like, in the hope of a greater level of access to their world – their scoops if you will. I started to follow their organisations, other like minded organisations – brands I like and companies I’ve previously bought from. I followed pubs, bars, clubs, and restaurants – if you’ve had my coin then you’ll have my follow as well.

The normal people came in through company employees having personal accounts or others including me in the responses of mates, journalists and companies who had previously tweeted me. I think I now spend more time tweeting and following those normal people. They give you so much more. So much so, that I’ve started to delete the companies from my follow list – I was following a pint for him in the intro’s sake.

Did my followers adopt a similar approach? I know they don’t follow me for the blogs (put that humble brag klaxon down!) as the number of followers divided by the number of daily readers still makes for a very large number. I’ve had a few mutual follows – I’ve followed them, so they’ve followed me. I get quite of lot of followers based on keywords in tweets or I am confident I’ve picked up followers who have simply gone through the following list of others and “stolen” those to follow.

The other prime, beneficial ‘fishing net’ comes in the form of a retweet from someone with far more followers than I could ever imagine attracting. Michael Cox of Zonal Marking (he has 48,163 followers) once retweeted a link to my Parla Calcio? blog. The blog received 251 readers that day, and I picked up 50 or so extra followers. I’ve no idea if they all hung around? Why would they? I can’t remember the last time I tweeted about the tactics of football.

I’ve mentioned in the past about adapting the way I tweet so as not to offend, not to lose a follower – but then maybe that’s presenting a false impression of who I am. Yes I still get beer drinkers, football writers, and users with THFC and many a ne’er-do-well following me – but then I also get arty types, MW wine experts and creative SEO champions following me. Am I the banking institute they’ve mistakenly taken out a pig based child’s account with – and just simply can’t be bothered to move on from?

If I follow you, I do so because I think I might be interested in what you have to say. I don’t know if what you have to say is your genuine view, or whether it is – like me – your twitter voice, but still, it’s a twitter voice worth engaging with. I’ll stop following you if I feel you lose your personal touch – if I feel that your tweets are used only to promote your brand. I also won’t follow you if I’ve not had any reason to. I won’t follow you if you never reply.

Surely those are the same motives others should have for following me?

For I can’t lead you to salvation. I can’t offer you a guiding light. I can’t wash away the sins of the world. All I can do is use you, use twitter, to alleviate the boredom. That is, after all, what it is therefore. Right?

It would be good to know, in one word why people follow each other. Here is small snapshot of the people I follow and one word why:

@domburch – Inevitable

@rcammisola – blogging

@themanwhofell – barrage

@winewomansong – style

@Jonny B – Chickens

@BGRTRob – Positivity

@trimmersnicks – PowerPlates

@DimitriParis – mixes

@Nickiquote – Scotch

@msmirandasawyer – crush

@them_apples – imagery

@pkelso – sarcasm

@culturevultures – persistence

@karlsentk – Harry

@georgina_turner – replies

@ginkers – desire

@Spooky23 – History

@chiggi – classics

@TheGambon – mirth

This list is not exhaustive. If you love Italy, Tottenham Hotspur, football, beer, wine, bowls, food, coffee, Leeds or faffin’ about – then that is your one word, and I will happily continue to follow you.