A trigger is a strange thing.

In terms of my anxiety, a trigger could be a simple thing that I would manage, deal with and move past for weeks on end. Then, out of nowhere; that simple thing would blow up. Become a hard to manage, impossible to pass situation – that I simply had no way to counter.

The granddaddy of all triggers for me is failure.

Of course you can easily throw in a soupcon of rejection, a dash of change, a mere morsel of overloading – but in the end it all comes back to one thing – the fear of failure.

Episode one, as we will call it to keep things simple – was as much to do with overloading as it was with anything else. I was trying to change jobs, move house, plan for a new baby, and admit I had to reconsider my lifestyle – when BLAM – I’m heavy breathing through a microphone in Accident and Emergency.

At the time I was in complete denial that it could be anything other than a heart attack – looking back it’s clear to see that I was so convinced that every component of my life would fail, that it was hardly surprising that I managed to work myself up in to such a state.

I had doubts as to whether I would be a good enough father for Lauren; whether I would fail her as a dad. Those doubts continued well after she was born. It didn’t help that my head then started to over think implausible, unlikely situations. What if someone walked in whilst I was changing her nappy – what would they think of me with a naked baby – other than it being a normal act of being a father? It got to me so much that I almost had to stop changing her, could never apply nappy cream – it was daft, but the over thinking was really starting to hurt my head.

It took a lengthy chat with Amy, who helped me to understand how ridiculous that all sounded, for me to manage that impossible to deal with situation. Now the only frustration I have is when, like all children, she simply won’t lay still as we try to change her.

Some might find the work situation interesting – a touch ironic perhaps (not my view). I’ve spent most of my working life in change situations. Project management, promotions, business redesign – I am employed, more or less, to guide people from point A to point B, often in a completely new way. I have to educate them on the best approach to take, deal with the pitfalls, but always to embrace change as a means by which to improve.

Apply change to my life, or at least my life past my first period of redundancy, and it is clearly something I have struggled to manage.

I’ve stayed in jobs I didn’t like for far too long for fear I might lose the next one (I’ve been made redundant three times). I eat the same sandwiches for days on end without any consideration for trying something else – I bought the same jeans, the same trainers, the same beer – all because I assumed changed would equate to a negative experience. Why alter from the path of mundanity, when I at least knew what to expect?

The biggest change I struggled to deal with, was that of my social life in the lead up to, and after Lauren was born. I used to be massively in to going to clubs. I often got paid to express my opinion on clubs for DJ Magazine – it would be rare for me to go more than a month without spending one Sunday morning with the tunes blaring, VH1 on in the background – and draining whatever booze we had left in the house, before retiring to bed for the next 24 hours.

Then one night I found myself getting overly twitchy in a club. I asked a DJ a painfully idiotic question – they were polite, but I could see the disdain in their eyes. I turned around to see a couple of mates having a right old good night, but something didn’t sit right. I was no longer comfortable being there. That life was no longer for me. I was a father to be now. Without saying goodnight, I bounded up the stairs, dived in to a cab – physically shaking on the back seat – and left that world behind. I haven’t been back.

But then cold turkey was harder than I thought it would be. Every day I spend about 40 minutes walking in to work. As I do I usually flick through my iPod and load up the latest podcast or CD that reminds me of the good times I had clubbing. At first I could just about make it in to work. Then I had to turn it off after 15 minutes or so. Then just the sound of four beats, four bars would root me to the spot. I was no longer capable of doing something I loved, all because it had such a negative impact on the way I felt. I cleared the iPod of anything remotely upbeat and downloaded factual, historical podcasts instead. Occasionally even the ‘noise’ of those is too much to take.

It did get better. But I needed to find myself somewhere surrounded by old, familiar faces – without Lauren – and a set of decks in front of me, before I could listen to a mix CD again.

But then, weaning myself back on to dance music was positively easy compared to the hardest acceptance of failure I had to deal with at that time – that of losing a game of bowls.

One of the darkest periods of my life with anxiety came on a slip road used for lorries on the A64 just outside York. I’d just lost a game that seemed impossible to lose. We were so far in front, only Carol Vorderman gave the opposition any hope of getting back in. But then, something went wrong. I went cold, ice cold. My body tensed up, palms became sweaty – my decision making process evaded me. I was near drinking the spray version of Rescue Remedy, overcompensating with my loud, mocking self – anything to deflect from the way i was playing. As is a literal, running theme here – I got off the green and in to my car as quickly as I could. I drove for about five minutes, then, realising I might not be in the right state to carry on – pulled over, got out and took countless deep breaths.

I got back in the car. I went to start the engine, but instantly found myself beating the steering wheel. Not once, but a number of times – not softly but with as much power as I could muster. It was only when I hit the horn that I realised exactly what I was doing.

That whole episode taught me one important lesson. I may not have beaten my opponents on the bowls green that night, but it was clear I had a bigger battle to win if I was ever going to happily set foot on the green, change a job, change a nappy or play an Essential Mix ever again.

This fear of failure couldn’t go on.

Image: Trigger from Only Fools and Horses

I was once told that through sport, I lived a double life.

I disagreed. My view was that what I did was no different to how others involved in amateur sport lived their lives. I had a decent job, a part-time hobby and a dedication to the sport I played.

But then if I introduced myself to anyone new. Told them what I did. How I made my living; where I would be on a Friday night – what I would then be doing on a Saturday morning – a lack of understanding would permeate through the rest of our conversation. They simply refused to believe me.

The job meant working at different European sites. The hobby was as an events reviewer for DJ Magazine. The sport – Lawn Bowls. See, the first two aspects were fine – it was when I tried to present the case for the third – the most important aspect of the three that all belief exited the conversation – and doubt; near mocking was all we had left. It was as though the two components of my life simply could not exist together.

There are a host of truths that bowlers often claim as myth, which I have always been more than happy to cover in those introductions. The primary truth thrown at us is that the game is played only by old people – who only have bowls and Werther’s Originals to occupy their days. The next claim is that the game is boring to watch. That nothing happens and that it can’t really be a sport if all you are doing is rolling a ball along the ground. The final view is that it looks old fashioned – that no sport should ever expect you to wear grey trousers or a tie.

The problem those of us actively involved in the game have is that we can try our hardest to dismiss those points as misguided – yet deep down we accept that there is more than a hint of truth to them.

More people over 50 will play the game than those under 50. I played in a team of 16 last night, with only one bowler younger than me – with the majority of the remaining 14 close on 25 years older than me. They may well be past their “sell by date” in terms of career development or other sports, but it doesn’t mean that they no longer have that sporting fire in their bellies – no longer enjoy a competitive environment; boiled sweets optional.

The game is often boring to watch. It’s not an action sport (though is rolling different to throwing?). Things only tend to get really exciting when the noise levels rise, or when a player has run out of ideas, and all that is left for them to do is send a bowl up as fast as they can in the desperate hope that something might happen. It is therefore left to the players to make the game exciting. They will run down the green after bowls – shout their team mate’s efforts closer to the jack – often high fiving, just like cricketers do, when the end result goes in their favour.

The hardest one to counter is always going to be the old-fashioned look of the game. I am honoured to have been selected to play for Yorkshire this coming Saturday. Yet there’s no getting away from the fact that with my selection, comes instructions on how I must present myself – blazer, white shirt, county tie and grey trousers upon arrival. Then white county shirt, white trousers and white shoes during the game – from school boy to cabin boy in one quick change around.

Now like many I work in an environment where a dress code is more of an informal agreement. I wear a shirt and trousers with the coloured shoe of choice. I don’t have to wear a suit jacket. I don’t have to wear a tie. It’s not that they are optional, just not expected. When we try to sell the game to friends who have a similar working dress code, and a steadfast dislike of formal attire born from school uniforms, it’s near impossible to get beyond this point.

But get beyond it we must – for bowls is in trouble and we need your help.

Some of you may have seen the sporting news feature on bowls on BBC Breakfast last weekend with Natalie Melmore (pictured above), a 21 year old, female Commonwealth Games gold medal holder encouraging youngsters to take up the game.

I can’t remember what reason I give for taking up the game these days: That my dad joined a club at the end of his garden (which is true). That my knee went at 16 and four operations later, it is the only sport I can play (I carried on playing cricket till I was in my late 20s so not strictly true). That I had access to a sly pint away from home under 18, and access to cheap booze at my home club past 18 (true, but I now play for a club with no bar).

Whatever the real reason, one thing is for sure is that once I did take bowls up, at no point did I think this game is not for me. More so, there were times when it completely dominated my life. I would be sat in meetings in Paris, clock watching until I could get a plane back to play in a game of fours. Or sat in an after party in Bristol at six in the morning, politely having to hurry through an interview with a couple of really engaging DJs for fear I’d miss the train back to London to play in a club game.

And I’m not alone in that respect. As with any sport, if you have pretence of actually being any good at bowls – you have to accept that it will, for a short period each year, completely take over your life. With so many competitions – all thoughts of a social life, family life; normal life – are often put on hold. When I first met Amy I would regularly enter every competition going. Since moving up north, getting married and Lauren’s arrival – I have grown to appreciate that I can’t bowl half as much as I used to, though I do stretch the boundaries of what is acceptable with comments like: “well, if we lose tonight we won’t have to play this competition again” – knowing full well that I am going to go out there and do everything I can to win.

Like the image presented by the BBC, I believe that bowls is a sport for all. If the third round of the FA Cup gives the media the opportunity to roll out the hackneyed “everyday man” feature, then bowls has its FA Cup style team stories with every game we play. I may have stuck out like a sore thumb working as a nightclub reviewer, but there are postmen, bankers, MPs, IT experts, civil servants and company directors in our midst. Admittedly a number of clubs have their history ingrained in a blue collar, political or military backgrounds, but there’s every chance you will be sharing a car to a game with a captain of industry as you will a student. The game will accommodate you, in many forms, no matter what sector of society you come from.

The other beauty of the game is that it is accessible for those with a differing range of sporting backgrounds. I’ve played with those at the start of their sporting careers, those coming towards the end – or those who shied away from any kind of physical activity at school. It’s true that a lack of competitiveness will only get you so far but there is always a place for that type of grounded personality within our clubs.

If however, like me you are at the other end of the spectrum – where you have to sit in your car for 10 minutes, alone, with only your dark thoughts – trying to compose yourself after another loss; another competition exit – then failing miserably to appear upbeat when you walk through the door – then come on in.

For if there is one image of bowls that is false – it is the quiet, sedate, near death state that non-bowlers have grown to accept. On Saturday when playing for Yorkshire I will undoubtedly run up the green after a bowl. I will spend most of the game bellowing my thoughts out across the greens for the other 95 bowlers to hear. I will laugh, I will engage in kidology, and with the opponents I know – will spend a fair bit of time in winding each other up. For I know full well that when I play a bad bowl, shout for a team mates bowl to do more – look up to the heavens and ask where it has all gone wrong – there will be someone at the other end of the green ready with a few choice words to cut me down in my tracks.

I no longer live a double life.

I’m of an age (36) – of the fitness levels that a new acquaintance will accept that I play bowls. They will acknowledge that as a father, office worker and now bowls correspondent for the Yorkshire Evening Post – I will need a “hobby” to get me out of the house.

Yet there is a new generation, a younger generation – like Natalie Melmore – that need our support, need us older heads to encourage our friends to come along and try the game. For if every bowler introduced one of their friends to the game, we’d not be in a mess – we won’t be worried about falling participant levels, declining competition standards or clubs closing. We’d be healthy, prosperous and who knows – we might even be taken seriously as a sport.

My challenge today was to write a piece that would be read by those who have no interest in reading about bowls.

My challenge now is to try and convert one of those readers in to a participant – one of my mates in to becoming as passionate about the game as I am.

If you would like to find out more about the game, please do get in touch – or follow the links below to the Bowls England and BBC websites:

Home of Bowls England

BBC feature with Natalie Melmore

Bowls Australia – truly leading the way in convincing the world that bowls is a sport

My column in the Yorkshire Evening Post

There are certain points in time that we are all supposed to remember exactly where we were, when something profound or ground breaking took place.

My Mum claims to remember exactly where she was when JFK was assassinated. Others can recall where they were when man first set foot on the moon, or when Phil Collins played two gigs in one day for Live Aid.

But then, that really is nothing compared to what I am about to share with you. For I can quite clearly remember where I was the day I first paid £2 for a pint. It was the same day that I realised England were rubbish at football – The date was the 17th June 1992. The place was The George Pub in Hammersmith, London.

American presidents come and go. Phil Collins is now more synonymous with gorillas, but that night marked a trend that still lives with us today. England continue to fail at major championships and the price of premium lager continues to rise – everywhere outside of the People’s Republic of Wetherspoon.

I started drinking, fairly regularly, by the age of 15. People often view the life of a child from a broken family as a difficult one. Not true. For the one great advantage in the days pre-mobile phone, was that you could simply tell both parents you were staying with the other – and then go out all night or stay with your mates; no questions asked.

My drinking tended to revolve around two events in those formative years – gigs and bowls matches. The former seems pretty straight forward. I was in to music, loved the appeal of live events and even at 15 – would often pass for an 18 year old. As for bowls matches – well that’s simple. I played the game as there was a club on the Old Man’s road. I’d quite often get picked to play in away games, far from the prying eyes of my mum. There was always a friendly bowler who would be happy to buy a pint and leave me drinking in the corner of the bar – WOAH!!! We’re not suggesting there was any grooming going on here. Just a positive, working class attitude to a rite of passage associated with growing up. I also learnt a very valuable lesson in that asking for a lager & lime would often betray your age. Asking for a pint of Mild or Light’n’Bitter put four years on you; squeaky voice or no squeaky voice.

There was a dramatic introduction to bottled lager in my 16th year. A family friend organised a 1990 World Cup BBQ – with the exotic looking and sounding Becks as the drink du soir. An early lesson learnt was that, just because it was the same size as a bottle of coke, didn’t mean you should drink it as fast. Can I remember my first hangover? Such things you try to block from your mind, but I’m pretty sure a small, sleek German might have been involved.

The gigs produced more than their fair share of booze fuelled, fun nights out. Not for us the buying of four cans of Hoffmeister (although, yes, this was drunk from time to time). No. We were far classier than that – buying a bottle of Ernest & Julio Gallo. Poking the cork through with a house key, and sitting in the park – rehearsing the vocals to the band we were about to see. Inside was a different matter entirely. In those days choice was limited to Heineken and Carlsberg – and although our taste buds knew no different, there was no better drink to swill whilst readying ourselves for another botched attempt at a stage dive.

My first experience of spirits, came, as with most clueless teenagers, in the form of a sickly sweet American whisky or Caribbean white rum. It really was more about which mixer we could stand to drink for a prolonged period of time – be it Bacardi & Coke or Southern Comfort & Lemonade. We looked cool with our small tumblers, whilst the rest of the kids were being turned away from the bar. I believe a night on Cider and Bacardi chasers produced the first bout of drink induced sickness – made worse by the fact both were drunk straight from the bottle; down by the Thames at Richmond. Classy.

The move from school years to sixth form college changed very little in what was consumed, more just an increase in quantity. With no school uniform to hinder my desire to drink during the day, we had ample opportunity to visit the local dive pubs around college, where only the old or the out of work would frequent – basically any pub run by a landlord that would turn a blind eye as long as we paid and behaved ourselves.

Where there was a slight change, came in the form of venues for intoxication. A year older, but not necessarily wiser, I was able to chance my arm by moving away from the local discotheque/meat market – moving in towards the bright lights of the big city. Night clubs with their cavernous spaces, Global DJs and strange drinks like Blue Bols that glimmered under the strobe lighting. Then there was cans of Red Stripe at rave nights. So thick in the mouth, it would quickly throw you a jellyhead that made ‘busting the runningman’ all the more humorous – I guess you had to be there.

We were no longer park dwellers. Now we had a venue to spend the night under cover, surrounded by older women, whilst drinking to a soundtrack of beats, pianos and dark female vocals. As I stood in the middle of the Ministry of Sound dancefloor, arms in crucifix pose, bottle in either hand – I really thought life couldn’t get any better. The thumping headache and nausea that greeted the following Monday, confirmed that it definitely could get worse.

Still to come in Part Two – University, drinking games, drinking abroad and my first £5 beer.