I’m stood on a railway platform in Hexham, Northumberland. It’s 8.30am and I’m waiting for a train to take me to Newcastle. It is the start of a journey that will eventually take me to Bury, Lancashire; passing by the outskirts of Leeds. The city where I live – the city I left yesterday to travel up here. As I stand there, my mind starts to flood with questions I already know the answer to. Why am I really making a journey others would have happily backed out of? Why am I leaving my family behind when I could be spending a day relaxing with them? What must Amy’s friends think of me for travelling all the way up here, only to disappear the very
Passion Archive
You find me writing from that familiar place once more. I’m sat at my desk, staring aimlessly out of the window – as the sun illuminates the weeping willow in the courtyard outside. Although I’d rather not be at work on such a glorious day, the thing with this familiar place is that it is where I tend to come up with most of my ideas to post on this blog. For this familiar place is as much about a physical location as it is a state of mind. A momentary lapse of concentration – a distracting thought whirling around inside my head – captured quickly on the PC or lost forever if I’m brought back in to the room too quickly to act. Three,
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.
I love Italian food. I love it for its simplicity, its complex nature; the speed with which a dish can be prepared or the age it takes to eat a sumptuous feast. It is the often, contradictory nature that appeals so much – for there is a meal, a dish or a taste sensation for whichever mood you are in; whichever mood you want to be in. Yet even though my shelves are littered with Italian cookbooks, or draws stuffed full or magazines claiming to offer authentic Italian recipes, I’ve started to question if what I eat is truly of an Italian origin; or simply a base note diluted by years of non-Italian “improvements.” It all started with a piece of veal, progressed on to
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
So, do you find me a changed man? Did I have an epiphany in the Upper Circle? Am I a convert, or will I continue to struggle blindly over the opera based questions on a University Challenge? The answer to the first three questions is a resounding NO; but… The fact that I have left that sentence to hang could suggest that Opera North failed in their challenge; for a collection of bloggers not to feel indifferent about their latest production, Carmen. Though I don’t necessarily think they are to blame. It was a big, bold and brash looking production; full of positives running through the first two acts. I thought the stage design and lighting conveyed a sense of place – the hot, muggy
A guest post written for In bed with Maradona – an excellent football website. A dilemma of how and if I should introduce Lauren to football. Please read, enjoy and bookmark their site as it really is an excellent resource for football related features and articles
I’m stood, hugging a bare-chested man. I’ve been in this embrace for the last five minutes. I don’t know his name, or why he is hugging me. All I know is that his shirt is round his waist, I’m covered in his sweat and his mouth is moving but no sound is coming out. He reaches his hands round to the back of my head, and with delicate fingers, starts to massage my neck. I don’t remember this being advertised as a service when I paid to get in here? Still his lips move – his eyes darting around as they do. He points to someone in the distance, someone I can barely make out through the mass of bodies. Bodies interlocked with each other;
I’ve just read the sad news that someone I knew has recently died. My emotions were mixed and somewhat complex as I tried to absorb the text on the screen. I was naturally sad because they had died; frustrated because we had lost contact over the last two years – yet the overriding emotion was happy. I was happy because my mind can still capture her in a time and place, where we were having the sort of fun only “real” friends can have together. I put real in inverted commas because ours was an online friendship that lasted for what seems like, too brief a moment now. Even in this age of technology, some might still see it as strange that such strong bonds
“The aim of English cricket is, in fact, mainly to beat Australia.” Jim Laker Today is the day that the Ashes start. It’s not the first test, it may not even be the first game for a number of the squad, but it is the start of – what is viewed by many as – the only thing to really get excited about in the cricketing world. I don’t want this blog to be specifically sports based. There are plenty, no doubt better offerings out there for your specialist needs. However, I do want to mark this occasion, the start of the 66th Ashes Series (the series of cricket matches played between England and Australia), with a few thoughts on why it should mean so
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