Beware the Ides of March, they say.

Beware, what though?

Mum may be coming over for dinner; there’s a good chance Lauren will be overly tired – work is, well, work.

But as I look out of the window at a glorious, sun filled blue sky – I do wonder, what is there to be wary of?

Et tu Brute?

Life can feel like that at time. As though it is the things you rely on – your skill, your judgement – that are the first and last to ram that dagger home; but not today – not on this Ides, or 15^th of March.

So here’s to my namesake, Julius. Who fell on this day, well, this day in the ancient Roman calendar. I say namesake, as a little known fact is that my family name was once Kaiser, a derivative of Caesar. We dropped one imperial name for another, just as the population of Walmington-on-Sea were readying themselves for the final German push.

So tonight I’ll drink to Caesar – as I take in the last of the late winter sun – as I plan my upcoming trip to Rome. To where Caesar fell. To where I may one day don the purple, and reclaim our place amongst the pantheon of the gods.

Or maybe I’ll just have a few beers, a bottle or two of wine and enjoy a nice plate of Cacio e Pepe.

Whichever comes first?

Caesar: The ides of March are come.
Soothsayer:  Ay, Caesar; but not gone.

Quotes: Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar

Image: Bust, Vatican City

“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.

How could I have know when I woke up this morning, that I would spend most of my lunch hour stood across the other side of a post office counter looking at myself?

That my usual actions – those of a forgetful, last minute as always type of present buyer would bring me directly in to contact with my own moment of serendipity?

As I slowly inched towards the counter, I noticed the cashier’s name badge read Chris. Nothing strange in that I thought, not even if the cashier wasn’t male. Where it took a turn for the unexpected was from the point I placed my parcel on the counter.

“That’s me” the other Chris said.

I followed the line of her sight to the address section of the parcel. There, in my finest scrawl was my Dad’s name and address. I looked back up, noticing the “Chris” on her name badge once more.

“Me too” I said.

We both smiled. She explained that her name was Christine King; I replied that mine was Chris King – though we both already knew that.

She licked the back of my stamp – no euphemisms, just an overly attentive service. I paid, we smiled again, and that was it.

If this was a Hollywood movie, I might have gone back to the post office at closing time – pretending to be going somewhere whilst accidentally bumping in to the other Chris. We’d laugh, we’d call each other Chris in that mock surprised manner, then we’d go for a drink and recount the details of our past that had led to this life changing moment; our kismet.

But this is Leeds; not Hollywood. I’m a happily married father, and to be honest – all I cared about from that point was where I was going to get my lunch.

But then, as I went to find food; something took a hold of my imagination – whirling my thoughts around a concept of this being more than just a coincidence – more than just a brief moment in time.

There’s always that plausible moment when you meet someone with the same surname, that you joke you may be some distant relation, brought together to realign the family tree – but not me. I owe my name, not just to my parents – but to the advancements of the German army in both world wars.

See – our family name was originally Kaiser. It might have been perfectly acceptable to have been a Kaiser in England in 1913 – but after 1914, not so. The difficulties experienced through such a surname in one Great War were not going to carry over in to 1939 and through the official means – the Kaisers became the Kings.

So if we couldn’t have been related, why else where we stood across from each other at that very moment?

Did numbers play a part in it all? Was it the one wife I’d left London for to spend my life with in Leeds – the city where I met the other Chris? The two failed A’ Levels that curtailed my chances of that decent career in the city? Or the four knee operations that I bemoan have directed my life in my darkest moments of pain? It could even be the dozen or so roles I’ve had – that on face value look a mismatch of jobs I wanted or jobs I had to take, but were really stepping stones towards where I am now – none of which were chosen, all destined for.

So maybe it is all down to a higher power? I often “romantically” recall the fact that I only got together with Amy in a field in Glastonbury because something stopped me trying to sell my ticket that year. Was it the guiding hand of something only faith can explain – err, no. It was a mate advising me that I couldn’t sell my ticket as you needed photographic ID with name and date of birth on to pass through security.

My imagination even tried to take it this moment on further; trying to convince me that I would have had a different lunch were it not for that chance meeting – that I had immeasurably changed another person’s life, just because of my name – that I could have gone to any cashier thanks to the new, bonkers ticketing system the post office uses, but fate even intervened in that.

The reality is that nothing more than a coincidence was at play here. Two Chris Kings met over a Father’s day present. She was there to do her job; I was there because I forgot to buy something online and wanted a cheaper postage option.

But did anything good come of it?

Shortly after we exchanged our last smile, I noticed she went back to the post bags and moved my gift from the standard first class to one marked up special. Now there’s every chance she had initially put it in the wrong bag, but wouldn’t it be nice to think that she did something helpful just to make sure my gift gets there in good time for Father’s day – I’ll only know when I phone my Dad on Sunday.

But then I do know, for certain, that one thing changed from all of this. When I started the day I had intended to write a completely different blog post. That of course has been shelved until after this one. I may never write the original piece – the mood I was in, the mood I continued to be in throughout the morning, changed almost in an instant after my chance meeting. I knew I had to write about it; had to share it with at least one other person.

Possibly even another Chris King who may read this blog*

(*Though I imagine that there is nothing romantic about that, more so someone who simply put their own name in to Google and stumbled across this site)

A guest post written for the football website, In Bed With Maradona, on the growing complexities within the game – and a modern reliance on data to formulate a view on how players perform.

Football. Previously a simple game

Ok, so the title is slightly misleading.

It’s not meant to imply that porn is the friend; a crutch I rely on when I’m down or have certain urges.

No. What I mean is that I have a friend who works in the porn industry. A friend who now goes by the professional name of Lara Latex – her real world name forever lost to her thousands of fans on facebook and twitter.

We met at college. We were on the same course, though she was in the year above. We played on the same Volleyball team, had the same group of mates and went on the same nights out – though I think we both would have preferred to have been somewhere less commercial in the main.

Our friendship blossomed as her final year at college drew to a close. If the weather was nice, I’d actively seek her out to walk towards a tube station via her house, even though it added at least half an hour to my journey home. She was a great sounding board – someone who would happily (I think) listen for hours as I battled through the latest, teen-related angst issue that clouded my day.

We shared a great number of interests, happy times and even, it appeared, shared the same career aspirations – which for a time, she was the only one to fulfil.

And then it all changed.

I found out about “Lara’s” new vocation innocently enough – if you call using a scrambled cable box after far too many drinks, an innocent thing. Nothing can prepare you for the shock of seeing someone you know as a friend, in such an intimate – adult entertainment setting. I remember turning over so as to erase the memory, embarrassed that I was peering in to a part of her world that I wasn’t meant to. A quick text confirmed that it was definitely her, and yes – she was happy. Yet the fact that I didn’t know highlights how much the friendship had drifted.

We recently got back in touch via twitter. The thing about social media is that it not only allows you to reacquaint with those you have lost touch with, it also aids you in terms of reflection on a great number of things – to consider what you have, and even what might have been – should you want to go down that route. Talking to “Lara” made me realise how much distance – both physical and professional – there was now between us.

I doubt for one minute that if you had eavesdropped in on one of those walks home – you would ever have been able to predict the paths our lives would have taken to where you find us today. But is that not the fascinating aspect to the choices we can make within our lives? The fact that they are not pre-ordained; not set in stone – no matter what we may think as innocent youths; who assume their lives won’t alter and they’ll remain friends for a very long time.

Lives do change – ours changed for the better.

University originally took us apart, and although there were opportunities for the friendship to develop further – for whatever reason it never happened. Then a call at a bad time, a lost phone before the days of backing up and the new career choices affecting both our lives put distance and a lot of memories between us – ones we were never likely to share.

I’m not ashamed to admit that even though I’ve known of her career choice for a decade now, I still feel slightly prudish when I see some of her tweets or facebook entries. Offers of images uploaded for her fans, or requests to vote for her in an industry award – at one point I’d have been the first in line to give her my support, but that was in a sporting context or when she felt down after an exam. Following a link to a website organised by a TV channel too high in the listings for a married, father of one – is something I feel uneasy doing.

But then why should I feel that way? Some of her tweets, sent in real time situations, are nothing worse than you would see dramatised in the ITV programme, Belle de Jour. She is often mocking, playful, cutting – those same personality traits she displayed when younger; but this is not on a volleyball court, or walk home. This is a window in to the adult entertainment world. A world I am not part of; where my friend is not the person I knew.

For our world will always be those spring walks home, talking about tunes, clubbing, mates and a well executed B Quick for her to hit through the middle. It’s not that I want to go back there; for I am lucky – I can use social media to reflect and come out with a positive result. I may not have wanted to be sat behind a desk or to be on the wage I am now, but I just have to go home tonight to realise what I have to be thankful for. Reading “Lara’s” tweets about living a life between the UK and Budapest, building a successful career on both sides of the camera – it’s hard not to assume that she’s also happy with her lot as well.

Her professional world may be dramatically different to mine – yet work isn’t what makes us as people, even if most of the contacts on her social media pages are driven solely by her ability to entertain. Once we walk from our office, or off set, we’re still deep down the same people we were that made us friends. Which is why I can’t open her links, go to the websites she directs “me” to or not look upon her followers with a level of disdain – as if they have no right to virtually paw at her the way they do. It’s hard not to be prudish when you still have the memories of old, which were forged long before our lives changed.

I’m confident that should we get the chance to meet up again, have a few drinks and talk about our lives – now and then – that the old friendship will kick right back in; with no effort from either side. Though I do think I’d have to get sign off, in triplicate, that Amy was happy with me out on the town with a porn star; friend or not. I even timidly checked that she was ok with me befriending “Lara” on facebook – just in case any of her mates got the wrong idea, and called me out for being a “dirty old man” – for I’m not, and for whatever need to impress reason, it’s not how I want to be viewed.

If it’s possible to be a be a prude, to feel ever so slightly protective – yet ultimately proud of a friend, then that is what I feel for “Lara”. She’s forging a career for herself as a leading light in her industry, nominated for awards and has thousands hanging on her every facebook entry. I’d love that popularity – just don’t expect me to take my clothes off any time soon.

If however you are partial to the sort of material that “Lara” produces or performs in, and you don’t feel the need to check with the wife if this is ok, then please do access her material legally; do vote for her in her industry awards. Do even follow her on twitter – though chances are she’ll no doubt bore you with her love for Hercule Poirot; though I’m not entirely certain that dialogue is her biggest asset these days.

A guest blog for the Dear Mr Levy website. A site dedicated to the trials and tribulations (with the occasional happy, positive post) down at Tottenham Hotspur FC

Here I am allowed to dream; to slip back in to my childhood and remember a time when Spurs were once a European force. Oh what a night that was….

European Dreams