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Happy New Year

Christmas is yet again packed up in a box and ready to be shoved through the loft hatch where it will collect dust and mouse droppings for another year. I hope we all had a jolly good time. This is as positive and upbeat that this post will get, so if you are still bathing in the warm glow of December 25th and the scent of that special Christmas candle you bought is still wafting around your nostrils, it is probably best not to continue reading.

It was my daughters first Christmas and at ten months old I naively thought she would notice the subtle differences in her habitat, like the large tree in the corner of the living room that suddenly appeared, with its twinkly lights and an assortment of dangly objects. I thought she may have noticed the abundance of greetings cards hanging from the mantelpiece or any other piece of furniture that boasts a ledge. She didn’t even pick up on the fact that Mummy and Daddy were stressing more than usual, trying to co-ordinate her first Christmas. She was oblivious to most of these abnormalities, apart from the Christmas lights, which held a modicum of fascination. All she really wanted to do was just carry on with her life as per normal.

So you can imagine that she was totally bemused on Christmas day morning. I could read her mind, all she wanted was to be treated normally, she didn’t want the big box, neatly wrapped in festive red paper. She didn’t care much for the bow placed in the corner that Daddy struggled to make stick, although it did look rather tasty. She didn’t want a video camera shoved in her face at 7am, capturing memories of her tangled and tussled bed hair, her slightly drippy nose and her rather fetching pink onesie. She knew that this video footage would be used to embarrass her in years to come when she starts to bring the opposite sex home. She didn’t want any of this, but we insisted that she did. She soon made her feelings quite clear, a temper tantrum and some low pitched whining did the trick. All she wanted was her morning milk, followed by a spot of porridge and then to be left to her own devices. She wanted to play freely, without restraint.

My wife and I knew from that very moment that this Christmas break was going to be very different to the 14 we had shared previously. On reflection though, my daughter had a very good point, which has now left me bemused, much like she was on Christmas and Boxing day. I ask the question, ‘What is all the fuss about?’

Before I fully make my point, I want to clarify that I look upon Christmas from a consumerist point of view. I am an atheist, but fully understand the significance of this period in the Christian calendar. I also understand, for Christians and non-believer’s alike it represents time to spend with loved ones, if anything it gives people an excuse to reconnect with the family. That is exactly what we did and I wouldn’t wish it to be any different.

However, none of this explains why I felt the need to transform into a gluttonous and greedy human being, just because of what time of year it is. Would I normally eat 4 segments of Terry’s Chocolate Orange before 8am in the morning? No I wouldn’t. Do I normally eat a bag of cheese and pickle flavoured nuts in one sitting? No, I wouldn’t. Would I choose to eat Turkey any other day? No I wouldn’t. Would I then eat it 4 days in a row because I didn’t want to waste any? The answer to that is no. Would I drink alcohol in copious amounts? Well, yes I would actually, but that’s beside the point.

There is no comprehensible reason why I would do this to myself other than blaming it solely on Christmas. Now my guilty conscience and my immune system tell me I’m a bad boy with a terrible case of scurvy. I can’t physically eat enough fruit and veg to reverse the decline.

Next year, I have decided to be one step ahead of the game. Now my gripe is available on the web, I will set a reminder to read it again in December 2013, just before the festive period. I’ll probably ignore the warning from my past self and crack open a tin of twiglets just to get in the swing of things.

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The Benefits of White Noise

My journey began early Monday morning, 4am to be precise. An early flight would take me to Northern Ireland for a couple of days. I stood by the information board in the airport, eagerly waiting for it to tell me which gate I needed to head towards as the flight was running late. Technically, the gate should have been closed and I should have found myself sitting in a cramped seat, listening to the same safety instructions I’d heard umpteen times before. Instead, I watched lucky souls milling around the departure lounge at Gatwick, eagerly anticipating the beginning of their holiday.

Some people were in full holiday mode already. A large gaggle of women walked past me (I’m not sure that is the correct terminology for a group of girls, but it sounds about right.) They all wore matching white vest tops with ‘KAVOS’ printed in pink on the back of the garment and their names were also printed in lurid pink on their chests. What was more impressive about their outfits was that all of their names began with the letter ‘K’. Kaz, Kelli, Kari and Kharlotte (I think there may have been some artistic licence applied to the last name, but I can understand her not wanting to be the odd one out.) I imagined that becoming friends with this group of girls was a rigorous process, as well as having a first name that begins with ‘K’ they would be means tested, complete arduous assault courses and dye their hair bleach-blonde before they were accepted in to their circle. Somehow ‘Kharlotte’ had made it through her audition, maybe she performed very well on the arithmetic test or maybe she was actually a very good friend, who knows?

In truth, I was just envious, they were going on holiday and I wasn’t. Or was I…

For the past four months there has been a certain order in our life. My daughter has single-handedly managed to structure our day. I come home from work, I bathe and feed her and put her to sleep. In the early days I would make the most of broken shut-eye as she needed feeding regularly, now it is slightly different. I wake because she isn’t making any noise so I go and check on her to make sure she is ok.

So you can imagine that going away would allow me to break the shackles of routine?

Later that afternoon, I arrived at my hotel after a tiring day and threw my luggage into the corner of the room. This was it, me time. I kicked off my shoes and threw myself onto the pre-plumped bed. It was heaven, serenity at last. I closed my eyes for a few minutes, the relaxation had begun. After 5 or 10 minutes, I opened my eyes, swung my legs back off the bed and decided to unpack. Once I had hung my shirts and put my toiletries in the bathroom, I threw myself back onto the bed, closed my eyes and relaxed for a few more minutes.

I couldn’t quite put my finger on the problem. I couldn’t chill out. My mind wouldn’t allow me to shut off.  I reached for the television remote, flicked through the 52 channels in no time at all. I walked to the bathroom to check out the amenities. I found them to be the classic combination we have all become accustomed to. I checked out the trouser press, I had no intention of using it, my trousers were pristinely ironed and crease-free, even after the rigours of air travel. I flicked the power switch on and then off. Whilst I was in the vicinity of the press I had a chance to look at the tea and coffee selection, which I found underwhelming.

After pressing every power switch, reading all the hotel literature and checking to see if there was the obligatory bible inside the bedside cabinet, I was back on the bed, trying to close my eyes. It finally sunk in. I was missing my routine. I needed to bath my daughter, feed her, make her bottles and tidy her toys up.

I couldn’t relax, so I took a bath myself, it was almost like my normal bath time routine, but with less rubber ducks. At 7.30 I ate dinner and after a long day I returned to the hotel room shortly after to get some sleep. Before I could feel fully satisfied I pondered whether to throw the bible, the food menus and services booklet on to the floor and then tidy them all up so that I could rest easy. I thought that this was a step too far and decided I had scratched that itch sufficiently.

I slept well until about 3am, I moved from one side of the bed to the other to find a comfortable spot, but I just couldn’t find it. As I laid on my back, staring at the ceiling I realised that my problem wasn’t being comfortable, it was the lack of ambient noise. I couldn’t hear any cooing, any grunting, any shuffling.

During the first few months of parenthood we used white noise to settle our daughter, she would sleep easy with the gentle crashing of waves or the rustle of trees. Little did I know that 4 months later I would need the same treatment because she wasn’t sleeping near me. Next time I go away I know to keep a recording of her close at hand just in case I become unsettled.

 

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Paying the Penalty for focusing on the shoot-out

Roy Hodgson stated after England’s defeat in the Euro 2012 Quarter Final that, as a nation, we have a fascination with penalty shoot-outs. It is some sort of sick fascination if you ask me. It is never a comfortable experience.

I’ve never heard of Spain or Germany talk so much in the lead up to a knock out game about facing a penalty shoot-out as if the event was an inevitability, so why should we? During all press conferences leading up to the match, the focus of the discussion revolved around the penalty shoot-out. The BBC pundits were unanimous in their belief that the game would be won by England by way of a penalty shoot-out. They were obviously proved wrong, but even so their penalty prediction was correct. This raises the question, should we even be talking about this scenario? Shouldn’t we try and win the game in 90 minutes or give a damn good account of ourselves at least? I say this because when have we ever been good at penalties, surely the focus should be on making sure we don’t find ourselves in that excruciating position ever again. Losing a match is never a nice experience, ask any professional or fan, but losing in a penalty shoot-out seems to ramp the pain up to an unbearable level. Surely the mentality needs to shift from both sides of the camp, the people reporting the news and players making it?

There is a valid argument to say that Spain and Germany don’t have to worry about that scenario as much because they currently possess superior teams compared to this batch of England players and that they would more than likely have enough guile and craft to win in regulation time. What I would say is that the Greek team of 2004 are a perfect example of what can be achieved with a little belief. We didn’t believe in the quarter-final in Kiev and got what we deserved. Until England find that cockiness, that little bit of flair and are not so fixated on penalties, we will always be also-rans.

After another major tournament defeat, the propaganda began in earnest. We were told to be proud of our national football teams efforts. To a certain degree, I concur. Expectation levels were low and a quarter final appearance was on par with what we had witnessed from the team over the last couple of years. Defensively we can boast a tight back five and with the exception of possibly Gary Cahill, we were functioning at full strength. Scott Parker and Steven Gerrard provided an effective shield to repel attacks at an earlier stage; the latter always looked to spring an attack until his legs went in the second half in Kiev. However, a conventional midfield is normally formed of 3 or 4 players, in Spain’s case 6. Unfortunately James Milner and Ashley Young went missing for the vast majority of the tournament, leaving us light-weight in a crucial part of the pitch. With an off-colour Wayne Rooney and two inexperienced comrades filling his boots for half the tournament, our attacking options were blunt.

This lack of chances created, especially in the final game, could be levelled at the poor quality of ball retention; this in itself is a topic that needs to be scrutinized in detail once the dust settles. By the time Andy Carroll entered the action in the second half, our time with the ball reduced even further. Carroll did his job well as a target man, but from the balls he won easily in the air, it was soon back in the possession of the Italians, who without penetrating much, kept the ball until that opening became available. It’s disconcerting to think what may have happened if the Italians had a more potent attack.