The Tough of the Track

Two wheels good

My eldest has been going to a grasstrack racing group this summer, run by a great local cycling club, Colchester Rovers.
Grasstrack - I had no idea either - is exactly what it sounds like. Kids race around a grass track on fixed wheel cycles, which the club provides if you don't have one, which we don't.
It has been great fun and really plays to his competitive side, which is becoming more apparent as he gets older. In recent weeks he's been doing quite well, especially as some of the more established youngsters have been racing for longer and have a bit more track nous, as well as more gear.
There is a little league table and he's been pleased to have been near the top. On Monday night we went and I had to remind him to change out of his school kit into something more sporty. "Why? It doesn't matter," he protested, but changed anyway.
It was probably just as well, as he won two of his three races and now sits at the top of the league table. If he'd done it in school shorts, it might have looked like he was taking the Michael.
It was the nearest I've got to a real Alf Tupper moment, even if he didn't turn up eating fish and chips. He run 'em all!

Crackle and hum

I visited my mum at the weekend and after years of promising, I finally took my vinyl record collection from her garage. It has been there for about nine years, and before that, it had been in my old bedroom since 1988 when I came home from university. Soon after that, the CD age kicked in, and although I moved house fairly regularly in my post-college days, the 12 inchers stayed put.They were played very infrequently after that, locked away in a cupboard in my minuscule room. When mum moved house, I had to box them up and she was kind enough to take them with her. Although I had my own flat in Hackney by then, it wasn't huge, and I didn't have a record deck to play them. They could easily have gone the way of my huge collection of music 'inkies' - Sounds, NME and Kerrang magazines that I would buy avidly in the teens, twenties, and thirties. These were given away after I discovered that their value - huge to me - was not appreciated by anybody else.I was obsessed with music, like many people of my age. There are so many more passions and pastimes for kids these days, or so it seems. Maybe it's just that my two are a bit young to have got the bug yet. I didn't really start to get into music until I was about 12 and moved to England. 

For me, heavy metal was my entry point. Not very cool, I know, although more so now that it ever was when I was a youth. However, it opened up a peer group for me. I was even briefly in a hard rock band with some school friends - initially as timing challenged drummer, and then as singer, the job that no one ever wanted.

After that my tastes broadened quite a bit, and so did my purchasing habits. I noticed that some of the older guys who I admired didn't feel the need to stick to just the one genre, so although I didn't ditch my love of the hard stuff, it wasn't the only thing that interested me.
Albums were relatively hard to get hold of until I got my first jobs - newspaper rounds, milk rounds, cleaning jobs, and the big break, a summer holiday working in the local bread factory. I felt like a millionaire taking home nearly £200 a week (sounds a fortune, but I doubt you'd get away with doing the hours I had to, these days).
With cash in my pocket and albums at £4-5 a pop, my collection quickly built up. I'd listen to them on my dad's old separates system or a small unit in my bedroom, making mixtapes for friends and people I wanted to impress with my catholic tastes.
Our local record shop, Buzzard Records, was a chart return shop, so there was always a stack of cheap singles and 12 inchers to be had as sales guys dropped off loads of free copies to try and hype tracks into the charts. Consequently, I've got a whole subgenre of singles by no-hit wonders who nevertheless produced great little pop moments.
I was obsessed by vinyl at that time in my life. I even took my growing record collection to university with me. It seemed inconceivable that I would leave it behind. Your music collection spoke volumes about the kind of person you were, or so I thought. I remember reading somebody saying that they'd go to parties and if the person didn't have a copy of Psychocandy in their collection, then they'd leave.
I wouldn't go that far, and I do have a copy of the Jesus and Mary Chain's first album.
Anyway, I've opened up a the first carton of albums - T-Z, of course it's alphabetised. There's quite a lot of Throwing Muses and Tom Waits, a forgotten diamond by One the Juggler (hang on, that's not T-Z - my filing system has been compromised), Tracey Thorn's lovely first solo album, and a red vinyl copy of an album by former Gillan guitarist Bernie Torme, who I was obsessed with for ages (I once sat listening to the top 40 convincing myself during the countdown to the new number one, that it must actually be him, as his latest single hadn't been played. Of course, it hadn't made the top 75, nevermind the 40).
As well as the six crates of records, I brought back my dad's old Sansui record deck, which still works, although the stylus may be a bit worn. Either that, or the records are just scratched to bits. Maybe after years of listening to pristine CD quality sound, the background crackle is more obvious than it was back in the day. I think we lived through the era of crap vinyl anyway. It was noticeable when you bought an older record. The original copy of Nick Drake's Five Leaves Left I picked up from the record shop on Camden Lock bridge (what was that called?) was move satisfyingly solid than many of the records I subsequently bought new, including the Drake compilation, Heaven in a Wild Flower, that got me into him while I was at university.
At the moment, I feel like the Howard Carter of music, going through the crate and plopping stuff on to the deck. Twenty minutes of music - the length of one side of an album kids - also seems so much more civilised than the interminable tyranny of the unedited CD. We thought it was great to get more value for your money, but really it seemed to encourage a lack of editorial quality control. A side of an album passes very quickly, forcing you to refocus every 20 minutes on what to listen to next.
After a long break from the vinyl, it seems quite hip to be listening to slabs of plastic played with a needle. The vinyl revival is now a big thing, although I can't see myself being sucked back into buying it. This is a little holiday in the past.
The last vinyl record I think I bought was Oasis's (What's the Story) Morning Glory? I got it 22 years ago at a release party at Virgin Records where the band played some numbers, and I got it signed by Noel and the drummer (sorry fella, I can't remember your name). As such, it was more of an artefact, especially as I had nothing to play it on. My then girlfriend bought the CD which was what we played.
It might be in one of those unopened boxes, although I've a feeling it may have been lost when we moved house as I think I kept that particular item close for a while.
Never mind (an album I don't have on vinyl). There are still plenty of memories to dig out.

About last night

In his braggadocious march on the White House, Donald Trump boasted that Americans would be 'winning' so often under his leadership that they'd get sick of it.
The feeling has been the opposite for many of us in the UK for the past couple of years. I'm talking about the left here obviously.
First there was the 2015 election win by David Cameron's Tories, made worse by the fact that the Lib Dems were virtually wiped out after shouldering an unfair amount of blame for the sins of the coalition - in my opinion.
Then there was last year's European referendum, which Cameron was bounced into when he landed that unexpected majority.
And, of course Trump. How the hell did that happen America?
I'll put aside various local elections and by-elections when it seemed as if Labour was incapable of pulling out of terminal tailspin.
No wonder Theresa May was licking her lips at the prospect of a snap election to lock in her good fortune to be the leader of the government at a time of such disorganised opposition with a leader who was being lampooned by the press and disliked and distrusted by the electorate. What could possibly go wrong?
There will be plenty of amateur and professional pundits picking over that one for years to come. It's still barely believable that Tess May snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. The Tories are the biggest party, yes, but with a reduced number of seats, no majority, and now seemingly in bed with a bunch of oddballs, the DUP.
And it is May who must carry the can, although at the minute she seems determined to carry on as if nothing has changed. Whether it was her decision or Lynton Crosby's to focus the campaign on the presidential qualities of May, barely matters now. What is incredible is how unable or unwilling they were to change tack once it started to become apparent that May was a liability.
There were so many cock ups, which could have been opportunities to reset the Maybot and try something new - the regal announcement she wouldn't debate with Jeremy Corbyn; the embarrassingly stagey stump speeches to party members; the robotic repetition of campaign slogans; the inability to think on her feet; the car crash interviews supposedly designed to show her normality (girls jobs and boys jobs, running through wheatfield...), and, of course, the U-turn on the Dementia Tax.
It's surely be an indication of how inbred Tory culture is that in 20 years as an MP nobody seemed to cotton on to how weird she is. She seemed normal to them.
As May became more strange, and the very opposite of strong and stable, Jeremy Corbyn seemed to hit his stride. I'll put my cards on the table and say that I wasn't a fan of him becoming a leader. I didn't rush to join the Labour Party to support him or any other candidate, so this is a purely personal opinion.
His appeal, to me, seemed to be to a group of people who were involved in fantasy politics, and more interested in some form of unrealistic ideological purity than the hard and dull business of winning and exercising power. Having lived through the 80s when it seemed as if Thatcher would never be usurped, my political inclinations are towards the need to compromise and devise realistic policies that won't alienate those you need in the broad church needed to win power.
Mind you, that approach didn't help Ed Miliband, whose 2015 manifesto was so uninspiring it barely stood a chance. The monstering of the right wing press didn't help either.
So while Corbynistas got more and more excited about their man, I harrumphed on the sidelines, much like most of the PLP.
But as the election campaign went on, Corbyn's appeal became more apparent against the strangeness of Theresa May. While she walked around empty factories where Tory supporters were bussed in after the real staff went home, he spoke to people wherever he found them. Both spoke to the converted, but his crowds were bigger, more enthusiastic, and made up of normal people. A lot of the content from Corbyn was old time religion for the Labour tribe, but people lapped it up, and not just party members. While she became more stilted as the campaign went on, Corbs started to find his Mojo, and although he wasn't on the cover of that particular magazine, he made it on to the front of Kerrang! and NME. He sounded normal and like the avuncular, chap that his people had spoken about, whether making self deprecating gags about his allotment, or waxing lyrical about Arsenal to a couple of fans, who obviously thought this old dude was alright.
In some ways, I think Corbyn benefited from having steered clear, or been avoided by, the mainstream media. Lots of people knew little about him, so when his profile began to build, it didn't tally with the increasingly foam flecked efforts of the Hate Mail and S*n to monster him. People liked him.
All of which was all very well, but having awoken enough over the past couple of years to news that your side really wasn't winning, I was cool on Labour's prospects, even as the chaotic opinion polls seemed to show that it was cutting into a Tory lead that had been more than 20% at one point. It could all still change on polling day. Predictions seemed meaningless - anything from Labour dropping to a rump of 150 seats of less, to doing... quite well. Anything seemed possible.
To be honest, I started out not caring about this election. I was angry, and still am angry, about the referendum, which to my mind is a piece of national self harm. I was angry about the people who voted for it and who continue to defend it. And I was angry at the Tories, for... well, reasons.
I was also angry at Corbyn's Labour Party for not getting its act together, and for turning into a kind of self-righteous cult that seemed to have no real interest in gaining power. Everything seemed such a foregone conclusion, what was the point?
But it started to change as the campaign progressed. I don't think that's been unusual. In my constituency, I decided that I was going to vote for the Lib Dem candidate, and four-time election winner in Colchester, Sir Bob Russell. It was a tactical vote. It seemed to be more important to try and limit the inevitable Tory landslide where I could, than vote for a party that I had always voted for.
As the weeks went on, my opinion shifted. There has been a real energy among the Labour people in the town and lots of activity. A poll claimed that Labour had overtaken the Lib Dems - no one was sure how robust it was, so I was still undecided. It didn't even seem to matter that much, as I was convinced that the local Tory candidate would be a shoo in.
In the end I decided as I got on my bike to cycle to the polling booth. My neighbour, who was displaying Labour posters in his window was in his garden and I stopped to chat to find out what he thought was the real state of play in the town. He had been unenthusiastic about Corbyn, but spoke passionately about the people in the local Labour team and how there did seem to be Labour surge in the town, and in the region (well done Ipswich). He thought that Labour had overtaken the Lib Dems, and pointed out that in a growing town like Colchester, who knew what could happen in the years ahead with young people and families making their homes here.
His enthusiasm got to me. He kind of told me what I wanted to hear, so I did vote for Labour candidate Tim Young. He didn't win, but he did come second, and he more than doubled the Labour vote so that they are now near enough to make the Tories sweat. Who knows what could happen next time?
Last night, Charlotte and I sat up doing the Guardian Weekend quiz - we are such cliches - not bothered about turning over to see the exit poll in real time. I wanted to know, but didn't expect much, so the prediction - now fact - that Labour had eaten into the Tories lead, and prevented a Tory majority was gratifying.
As we tuned in, John McDonnell was telling Dimbleby that the Tories had run a campaign based on nastiness and dragging politics into the gutter, much to Michael Fallon's surprise - he obviously thought they were still at the polite chit chat stage of proceedings. That made me laugh, and the prediction made me take a sharp intake of breath.
All day, people like me have had a spring in their step. There were conspiratorial grins from fellow 'saboteurs' on the school run. My neighbour was practically bouncing round the garden as he deadheaded his roses.
Tomorrow there will be a bit of sober reflection. Labour did come second after all. There's a lot that is unclear. Brexit still beckons and there could be another general election before the end of the year. The Tories can't run a campaign as bad as that again, can they?
For tonight though, I'm going to put that to one side, have a beer and feel a bit better. People have voted for hope and an alternative to the Tories offer of more of the same and a seventh year, and counting, of austerity. And in case I haven't made it clear, I have to say that I was obviously wrong about Jeremy Corbyn. The boy done good.

Be kind

Having lived in England for more than 30 years, I still remember how cold the winters could get in Scotland. There was onein the Seventies where our little council estate on the moors was effectively ice bound. The roads were hard packed snow, which made driving on them impossible in today's terms.
The village had a lot of elderly people who couldn't venture out beyond their doorstep. Even the bus that connected the village with the nearest town, Lanark, was not able to get to us.
I was young at the time, but I have a very clear memory of that particular winter. My dad, who worked shifts in a factory in another village, obviously had a sense that something had to be done. He knew that the old folk of the village needed a bit of looking after. He drove his Vauxhall Viva to the local shops and filled the boot with bread, driving round the village and looking in on the auld yins to see if they were alright and if they'd prefer a loaf of pan or plain.
It popped into my mind this evening.
It has not been a particularly good day for progressive parties with the Tories rampant in the local elections and looking to be similarly so in next month's general election.
I don't think there's much I can do about that. The die is cast. From my perspective it will be an awful result, but as a good democrat, I can do nothing more than accept the will of the people... the bastards!
To me, it doesn't seem like we're heading to a good place. Brexit doesn't look like a sunny uplands to me. As a country, I reckon that we'll end up a diminished, more insular, and more insignificant entity. We'll probably not even notice, like the frog being boiled.
But it doesn't matter what I think. The people have spoken and, knowing the pig-headed nature of the Brits, people aren't going to back down now and say that they've made a mistake. We're on a railroad that leads over a cliff/heading for
a prosperous future as a globally facing, strong and stable country (delete as appropriate).
I think we're on a road that will see a lot of people hurting, and there's no quick turnaround. The May Queen will have five years to do pretty much what she likes. Who will stop her? Ironically, the EU may yet be a partial saviour as the energy required to Brexit will distract the Tories from pulling the roof in (spoiler alert - the UK won't be able to do exactly as it wishes in globally connected economy. This isn't the 17th century. The future may not be so glorious).
I think that the May years will be seen as a time when many will feel that their dreams have been thwarted, when we all retrench a bit, and the world starts to feel a bit more scary.
I hope I'm wrong, but the past few years have seen people electing to go down roads that seems further and further away from an idea of community, whatever that means - all in it together, or pulling up the drawbridge.
My idea of community is quite old fashioned and simple. It's my dad with his boot of bread going round, knocking on doors and seeing if people are okay. Community minded action like that wasn't unusual, but it wasn't the be all and end all. The council provided our houses, the kids all went to the local school, and there was one NHS doctor in the village. People valued those services because their parents remembered the time when they didn't exist.
Maybe I'm catastrophising and all will be well. But I have no faith in Tess May's Tories, and I don't think that an alternative is around the corner. I think that Britain, England really, will stew in its juice for a good long time, and people will suffer.
We could agitate, educate, organise... and we must. But we must also be kind. That's what I'll be trying to do over the next five years. I would anyway. It's how I was brought up. Now it seems more essential than ever.

Anyone can write a children's book

I suppose there are worse people to write a book for children than George Galloway. As far as I know Margaret Thatcher never troubled the world with her thinly disguised views on how children should behave. She was too busy explicitly telling grown adults how they should follow the upright path trodden by Alderman Roberts. Of course, there is a revisionist view...

The one time Labour and Respect MP is to write a series of books about an ethical pirate described as a sort of Robin Hood of the high seas. No rum swigging or libidinous behaviour it seems - well, it is for children. Maybe I'm being unfair on Galloway. The old goat has four children under ten, so he's probably already tried out some of his material on them and may be on to a winner.

Mind you, they're not always the best audience. My eldest son used to inveigle me to repeatedly tell a story I made up about a jobsworth parking warden trying to ticket a Martian's flying saucer. He thought it was brilliant. I doubt the rest of the world would have agreed.

Then again, if I had a higher profile, it wouldn't really matter. Do children's publishers fall for the amazingly creative stories that celebrity writers bring to their doors, or simply see them as a more marketable commodity? Whatever else they have, these writers have a level of awareness with the public that will open doors when the book comes out, no matter the quality.

There seems to be a feeling that anybody can write a children's book. Sarah Ferguson, David Walliams, Ricky Gervaise, Russell Brand, Frank Lampard, Katie Price, Madonna, Keith Richards...
actually there are loads of them.

We're all supposed to have a book in us. What convinces so many that it's one for kids? Not all celebrity writers have children of their own and not all of them need the money, although the well off never seem happy with their financial lot. Could it be that it's just a bit easier than writing other books?

I think it is. There are fewer words and more of the heavy lifting is done by talented illustrators who probably don't get a 50:50 split. Thematically and stylistically, it's usually not to difficult to spot an inspiration - a Dahl here, a Dr Seuss there. It's all a bit cosy and obvious. There isn't too much evidence of taking on tough themes or of being especially creative.

"Where's your book, you hater?" I hear you ask. Good question. I have written books, but none for children. I don't think I'm imaginative enough. I could hack out a genre kids' book I'm sure - tales of derring do for boys, whimsical escapism for younger children - but would it be any good? Good enough for home consumption, but for a wider market? Probably not.

Not that it stops the new celeb literati. Do they actually even write them? We know from the examples of Zoella and Naomi Campbell that it ain't necessarily so. It's all about the brand. Never mind the quality, buy the lunch box, T-shirt or action figurine.

Great children's books inevitably achieve an enviable merchandising afterlife these days, but that wasn't the original inspiration for Roald Dahl or Judith Kerr or Eric Carle or Lauren Child. They wrote because they had to - to get something out of themselves or to make a living. It wasn't a nice little extra to add to their portfolio of interests, and they probably didn't expect that they would command an audience by right. That's a difference.

Anyway, good luck with that George!

Sporting life

I was listening to Katherine Grainger on Desert Island Discs this week. She probably weighs her Olympic and World medals rather than counts them. Not many of us will ever reach those sorts of heights in sport.
However, we all have our own little golden moments. Today, my son had his first when he entered a cyclocross event organised through his school. Cyclocross is a bit like cross country on bikes. I wasn't even aware it was a thing until last summer when I was doing my homework on road bikes and nearly ended up buying one because it looked so lovely, not realising it was configured for a particular kind of cycling.

Mud, sweat and gears

For the uninitiated, like me, the bikes have off road tyres for better grip, wider forks to accommodate these tyres, more clearance for the pedals, and often disc brakes for better braking.
Anyway, the school wanted to put in a team and I volunteered the lad, who has been on a couple of training session over the past couple of weekends. It was just enough to give him an idea of what it would be like racing over rough terrain and to be a bit more prepared.
Today we headed to Haverhill where the event was held at a local school. The venue led me to believe it would be a few laps round a fairly flat field, but it was quite a bit more challenging than that - rather hilly, windy and muddy. A lot more muddy than we'd practised in.
Jamie had a couple of familiarisation laps, which got him blowing hard, especially as he was pedalling a heavy old mountain bike compared to the sleek cyclocross beasts that a lot of the kids had - complete with cleats (gulp).
His year group was first off. It was only 10 minutes, but it was high impact stuff and the kids were really going for it. I thought he'd manage a couple of laps in that time - the course was probably about a kilometre I guess, but a sneaky little km it was - but he managed three, which was a great effort. All of the kids did really well, and looked thoroughly puffed at the end, and pretty filthy.
I was really proud of him because he gave it a good go and never gave up. That's all you can ask really. Of course, I was quite chuffed that he did reasonably well too - not as well as the more experienced kids on better bikes, but probably better than he thought he would do. It was definitely outside of his comfort zone, and according to his mum he was a bit nervous about it beforehand.
I think I'd freaked him out by trying to give him tactical advice over the past few days - like I know anything! He can be a bit of a worrier when it comes to new experiences, and I obviously hadn't helped. This morning I told him that it was no big deal, not to worry and to just enjoy it.

Retire the 12!

He did enjoy it. I think he really enjoyed it, and that was enough for me, to be honest.
We hung around to watch the other races and see who had won, not really expecting anything. His age group was up first, and the announcer went through the medals in reverse order. They didn't get bronze, which I thought might have been as well as they'd do, and obviously didn't get silver. Hey ho.
They only bloody won it! GOLD!
I didn't see that coming. Cue lots of applause, cheesy grins, hugging and celebratory pictures.
Afterwards he said: "That's the first time I've won anything."
That's not strictly true. He's won competitions, school sports races, and has earned badges at Beavers and Cubs. That's not a brag. At this age, there are lots of things that kids can enter and lots of opportunities to earn and win things.
"But this is the first time I've won a medal," he said.
I don't know why that should have surprise me. I've never been especially competitive myself, but remember clearly a couple of times that I had a little success in sport as a child. I was part of our primary school's 4 x 100m relay team that won a regional competition at Carluke Sports Stadium when I was about 12. It was the first time I'd ever run on a proper track. I was the second leg of a team that included John Hamilton, William Whitelaw and somebody else, lost in the annals of South Lanarkshire athletics history

He medalled

We were a very small school, and that was probably my first medal - presented on a podium beside the track. I think the school may have won the overall cup too. I've got a vague memory of our janitor, come trainer Archie McKellar, holding a cup aloft at the end of the day.
Does anybody else remember this? I doubt it. And as for the unexpected inaugural Rigside gala day five a side competition (real Roy of the Rovers stuff from a team stuffed with the 13-year-old equivalents of journeymen, against the village fancy Dans), I doubt anybody else recalls that. I wish I still had the trophy to be sure that my memory isn't playing tricks.

My son has his shiny piece of metal on a ribbon, but he'll also have pictures to remember it, and a Facebook trail of congratulations that is lengthening as I write this.
He'll remember this. I'm sure he will.

Mamil in training

I am a cliche in many ways - middle-aged dad, wannabe foodie, aspirant craft ale aficionado, ageing rocker... the list goes on. And I can now add another entry to my list of affectations, having recently bought a road bike.

Day rider: Lycra free on Mersea Strood

My last bike prior to moving to Colchester was a drop handle-barred Dawes racer that I got for Christmas when I was about 12 or 13. I can date it to this age because I remember hearing, from my sister, that my dad had ridden it home from one of the town's bike shops about a week before, and hidden it in the garage until the big day.
I didn't have that bike for that long after he died. It went missing during one of the first summer holidays that I ever took on my own. Well, with a mate actually. Tim Higgins and I cycled 40 miles to Billing Aquadrome with rucsacs on our backs and various bits of camping equipment strapped to our frames. It was the summer of Freeez's top smash AEIOU* and we planned a week away from home in a two man tent before cycling home.
It didn't quite work out like that as both of our bikes were nicked by a couple of other lads. A bit of detective work from Tim ensured that they were soon bang to rights, and for the next couple of years I would receive intermittent cheques for a fiver through the post to cover the cost of my bike, which they'd chucked into the nearby river. After that I was bikeless for years.
On moving to Essex, I bought a second hand bike from Re-Cycle which I've used ever since, firstly to tow a child trailer when the kids were younger, and now they're older and can cycle themselves, on excursions around the area.

Pulling wheels: pre-Mamil set up

There are some great bike rides around Colchester, and Essex generally is a great cycling area - lots of country lanes to get lost in, the coast to head out to, and it's relatively flat too. In the past year I've been exploring a bit on my clunky old hybrid, but I've been eyeing up a racer and recently bought one.
So this is what it's all about. It weighs about half as much as my old bike, and its tyres are about a third of the width. Combined with cleats and that childish conviction that you run faster in new shoes, it has been an eye opener how much more performance you get. I think the turning point for me was when I was struggling up a hill during the summer and a portly chap on a racer breezed past me. Now I'm not the fittest person in the world, but I wasn't having it that his less than lithe frame disguised an Olympian only slightly gone to seed. Lance Armstrong might have pointed out that it wasn't all about the bike, but he didn't have to ride my Raleigh Max.
Now there are no excuses, apart from laziness, and the nights drawing in, and the lack of Lycra...
Actually, there's always more gear you could have it seems. I'm not even in the foothills of Mamilia yet. No Garmin, no Go-Pro, no Oakleys, not even much Lycra to be honest. The bulk of my riding kit has come from Aldi's bike week. No Rapha here yet. Oh well, Christmas is around the corner.
I can see how this can become addictive though. I'm looking for excuses to hang out in Halfords to check out what I might need, or just to chat to the guys who work there - I bet they get a lot of bike pests. It's like that stage in a man's life when you suddenly start to find B&Q to be an Aladdin's cave of possibility - there's stuff in there you didn't know existed, let alone desired.
I'm actually a bit guilty about buying the bike from Halfords as there is a great local bike shop where they are unfailingly helpful and polite. It's also very near me. However, I was swayed by an entry level Boardman - local bike shop didn't have a massive range, and I didn't spot anything that attracted me.
To add insult to injury, I took out a three year service plan with the chain - at £40 it was too good an offer to turn down. Please forgive me god of independent traders. I shall bring the kids' bikes to you for service and repair - and my clunker!
I shall try to get over the guilt I feel as I set my eyes on a challenge for next summer - the Dunwich Dynamo. I've been aware of it for about 10 years, although bizarrely I never saw it set off from London Fields despite living there for more than a decade. Next year I'm hoping to be one of the hundreds setting off into the sunset to cover 200 km overnight towards the Suffolk coast. I'm a  long way off that yet, but a few other would-be Mamils have expressed an interest, which should mean that I don't back out. I want to do this. Just need more gear, and possibly a TUE.

* Freeez's video has some great shots of Eighties London inner city cycling culture. No Raleigh Grifter required.

Losing a parent

Prince Harry recently spoke about how he wishes that he'd spoken about the death of his mother, Princess Diana, sooner. 

I was a year older than him when I lost my dad and can empathise with the inability, for a whole host of reasons, not to speak about it. We're really rubbish at it in this country, aren't we?

Anyway, The Guardian had a survey on its website today asking for people's experiences for an article. I suspect that they'll get a lot of responses so doubt they'll be able to use mine. 

Here it is anyway - I found it a useful exercise.

When did you lose a parent and what impact did it have?

I was 13 when my father died. It was relatively sudden - I was away on a Scout camp and when I came back he was in hospital. I managed to see him once before he died, which may have made things worse. Although he looked weak and diminished I didn't doubt he'd pull through - he told me he was fine. What parent wouldn't?

After the initial grief, things got back to normal relatively quickly. My mum wasn't really equipped to deal with the emotional issues, and she was now a single parent with two children reliant on her. As the eldest I think I saw it as my duty to be 'good' and to make things easier for her. She had enough on her plate. I suspect I was a fairly subdued teenager after that. My rebellion, such as it was, probably came in later years when I was at university and didn't feel I had to walk on egg shells around my mum.

After dad died I lost guidance on where my life should go. Although he was from a working class background and had left school at a young age, as you did then, he was more focused on what I could achieve. He was my champion in that respect and somebody I wanted to make proud. It's not that my mum didn't care, but by then she was taking care of day to day issues and her own grief. She never got over losing him and never remarried.

For years I'd think of him every day. I would have loved to have had his assistance and guidance on growing up to become a man - I had to work that out for myself. And of course, I'd have loved him to meet my sons, who I know he'd have absolutely doted on.

What memories do you have of the parent you lost?

Because I was 13, I have very vivid memories of my dad, and count myself lucky in that respect.

All of the usual stuff - holidays, Christmas, visiting relatives, him playing with me and my sister, silly jokes, his spaghetti bolognaise.

I have really good recall of the way he looked, the way he spoke and the things he said, which is also a great comfort. In this respect, there is an element of seeing him as a bit of a guide for adult life - what would he have done in this situation, what would he have said?

We did a lot as a family and they're good memories, which is probably why I've never doubted that I wanted a family, and if possible, would start one.

I sometimes wonder if I romanticise him as my memories are largely good, but I think he just was a decent man who lots of people loved and still miss. More than 30 years later I expect to be buttonholed at any family gathering and brought to tears by somebody telling me a story about him.

He was the eldest son in the family and he left a big hole.

How did you deal with your grief and do you have any regrets?

Neither me, nor my sister, who was 10, had any counselling. I don't think my mum did - she probably just had a chat with her doctor and was given some sleeping pills.

I think we all just buried our grief and we didn't really talk much about dad as it was just too upsetting. That doesn't mean we didn't think about him - we probably thought about him too much.

I don't know much about grief counselling, so don't know how much it would have helped. The fact that we are still processing it so many years later makes me think that it would have been handy. It's easier to talk to strangers, so maybe some sort of help would have been useful.

Years later we do talk about him a lot more. It's not so raw but it is still difficult.

How has it impacted you as an adult?

One impact probably relates to where I am in my working life. I always feel like I sort of frittered away my potential through lack of a guiding hand. Maybe that's an excuse for my perceived lack of progress. I was academically fairly bright, but coasted and could have benefited from a bit more vocational guidance and somebody cracking the whip.

Emotionally it has probably made me more guarded with a tendency to be rather pessimistic. I think I was a lot more outgoing as a younger child than I was thereafter. Maybe I would have ended up where I am now anyway - who knows? I do sometimes feel as if I'm still playing at being an adult, but I think this is fairly common.

I'm probably quite protective as a parent and a bit overly prescriptive at times. I worry about my health - I'm about the same age now as when my dad died - and I worry about how the kids would be if anything happened to me.

What advice would you offer your younger self?

Try and find someone who you can talk to about how you are feeling, but do it in a way and at a pace that is right for you. Don't submerge all of this stuff.

Don't feel embarrassed about what has happened to you - I did and it made me shut things away.

It's okay to feel sad, but try to find things that make you happy and make time for those too.

Divided

It was a gloriously sunny day yesterday - 23 June 2016. Today, at just before noon, it has started hosing it down again, which seems more appropriate to my mood.
On the night of the referendum vote I went to bed at about 11.30, fairly certain that we'd dodged a bullet. There was no exit poll from the Beeb, but signs seemed to be that at the last minute the electorate had swerved towards voting to remain in the EU.
I won't say that they belatedly saw sense, because that would be insulting to those who voted leave - I'll get on to that.
Anyway, ragged reports were coming in that Farage had already conceded defeat and that a poll taken during the day had remain ahead by 52:48. Well, at least the figures were right this time, albeit the wrong way round.
Ian Duncan Smith was being interviewed by Dimbleby and had the look of a man who had given it his best shot but suspected that the gig was up. At least that's how I read his Cheshire cat grin. To me, he appeared demob happy, preparing to return to the Tory fold with a sense of "Yikes, that was a jolly jape. What larks!" to share battle stories with those on the In side with whom he had previously violently disagreed. It was quite unseemly actually.
There was even a story that Boris Johnson had confessed to a fellow Tube traveller on Thursday night that the leavers had lost.
So, I went to bed ready to sleep a good night's sleep, untroubled by my fears of what could lie ahead.
What a chump!
I'm glad I got that night's sleep in though. I'm not sure it will come so easily over the next few weeks and months.
Hearing that the leavers had won the next morning was stunning. I can only compare it to the feeling I had a few seconds after 10pm on election night last year, when Dimbleby announced the scale of Labour's defeat and predicted a Tory majority.
Nobody saw that coming. A defeat yes, but not on that crushing scale. Cameron, fearing another coalition at best, had his resignation speech ready to deliver on the morning of 8 May 2015, so he probably only had to make a few amends for yesterday's announcement. It was dignified and polished as you expect from him, but didn't really hide the fact that he had put a gun in his own mouth and dared people "don't make me do it".
If that election result made me reassess the area where I live, then yesterday made me feel like I'd woken up in a different country.
Last May, like many on the left I was angry at the Labour leadership for being so timid and presenting nothing - they hoped the Tories would simply keel over and gift them a hung parliament which they'd control with SNP and possibly Lid Dem allies.
But I was angry at the electorate too who were happy to vote for austerity, and happy to be re-fed the pat "if it's not hurting, it's not working" philosophies of the Thatcher years. However, I sort of understand that attitude. Thatcher's homespun tactics continue to serve the Tories well more than 30 years later. It's easy to blame fecklessness and laziness for more complex socio-economic issues. Work hard, save more, obey the rules, and everything will be okay.
Except things aren't always okay. The world keeps crashing in on us and ruining our sturdy attempts to do the right thing.
This referendum was different. I couldn't really accept any of the three main arguments to leave:
- economically, we'll be better off. Oh, grow up! We're hindering access to our main market. If Britain has great products that the world wants, they're already buying them. There will be no revival of the UK car or steel industry. We won't produce a rival to Apple overnight.
- sovereignty and bringing back control. Frankly, I don't want to give any more control to a bunch of ideological right wing coneheads who are are already hell bent on wrecking our health and education systems, and who have little regard for more local democracy or electoral reform. This is a smokescreen - it's not the 17th century.
- migration will be controlled. Will it really? Half of our migrants come from outside the EU - I suppose we'll get to them later. We will have to allow freedom of movement to remain in the single market. Illegal immigration will probably continue at similar levels, unless the UK economy starts to tank. Most illegals come here to work in the black economy. By definition they can't claim benefits.
So, I don't buy it, but many people do. It's hard for me not to walk around mentally labelling people who I suspect voted to leave. Does that mean we can't get along? In many cases, absolutely!
For my sins, I'm of the never forgive, never forget school. It will always be a way for me to define you, just as I mentally register people's politics. It doesn't always affect my behaviour, but it probably does affect how I think of you and how I analyse what you say and do. I'm not particularly proud of that, but I'm trying to be honest.
And I think it's how the rest of the world is looking at Britain, or more accurately England, now. It's not a country full of small-minded, insular, xenophobes, but it has definite traits in those areas, and those are what we showed yesterday. More than one person I know has remarked on their 'shame' at the vote to leave and even of being British.
Last night, I went to see Essex play 20:20 cricket in Chelmsford. It's an annual outing with the guys from my book group - how wishy-washy liberal does that sound - but I wasn't looking forward to it this year. From past experience, when T20 Essex comes out to play it is a bit like Brexit on tour - white, male, lager-fuelled, shaven-headed (and that's just me). Having read of the chants of England football fans in Marseilles recently, I wouldn't have been surprised to have heard enthusiastic cheers for Farage, Brexit and Boris.
As it was, people seemed as stunned as I felt. Was I imagining slightly embarrassed looks on the faces of people from a county that voted strongly for leave? The kind of look after a party where things got a bit out of hand and you want to keep a low profile for a while.
It probably was just me projecting, although the term Regrexit has already been termed for just those people. I've also heard the more scatalogical Brexshit and Brexcrement to describe the merde we may soon be in.
Or will we?
The fact is, as was spelled out regularly during the campaign, not least by those damned experts so loathed by Gove, nobody really knows what happens now. We have a good idea of what would have happened had we stayed - not quite business as usual, and possibly the start of a new, tweaked relationship with the EU that Europhobes would have hated, but that would have been reassuring to Joe Public, business, and the rest of the world.
But that didn't happen. Things are more uncertain, and more scary than they were two days ago, and they'll probably stay that way for some time. I didn't see much bunting being strung up yesterday.
On a day of high emotion yesterday, the thing that got me most was an instant message from a friend in Scotland. In an exchange about what was happening I joked about strapping a mattress to the car and heading up the M74.
Her reply, "Come home," just about broke me.

Damn you Colin

I was in Glasgow at the weekend for a wedding. On Sunday we had a few hours to kill before heading to the airport for the flight home. Walking down the street we were handed a flyer for a craft market in a nearby venue. After looking at some shops, my wife and I decided to go there as she was on the lookout for some Christmas gifts for friends.
The entrance to the venue, a restaurant/bar, had some stalls that she was attracted by. After a quick look, I decided to check out the inside.
As I entered the building it was quite dark and an unusual venue at that. Prior to entering I did not realise that it was a bar - it looked like an old hall of some sort. Inside, it had a high vaulted ceiling and lots of banquette tables. It was not entirely clear where the craft stalls were.
I was looking around and getting my bearings when a lady at a table looked at me hopefully and asked: "Are you Colin?"
Rather too hastily I said that I wasn't and walked past her. Almost immediately it struck me that she was waiting for some sort of date, and that my response could be taken for the brush off. I'd arrived like a sneaky snake, caught a glimpse of her and thought she wasn't to my taste - too old, not pretty enough, boring looking. These weren't my thoughts about her, but they were now what I was thinking she was thinking.
I suppose I could have gone back and explained that I really wasn't Colin and that I was here with my wife (to my shame, I did actually make a bit of a show of her being with me when she eventually came into the building), but that would have been about making myself feel better.
I could have started talking to her and gave a better impression of myself. Even if I wasn't Colin, I was the sort of person who would speak to somebody on their own, nursing a coffee on a grey, rainy Sunday in Glasgow.
Instead, I probably made her feel worse about being on her own.
As we went to the balcony area where the craft stalls were, I noticed that she was shuttling out of the building on her own.
I don't know why I'm feeling guilty about this. It was Colin who was the no show.

Uncle Drew

Today, 9 September 2015, the Queen became the longest serving monarch. She's 89, the same age as my uncle Drew, who passed away on Monday. He was something of a monarchist, so I reckon he'd have raised a large mug of tea - the bigger the better - to her (he didn't really drink).

Here's looking at you kid - Drew and Alex

I last saw him at the start of the summer holidays when we took our two boys on their first trip to Scotland. It was very exciting for them as they were flying for the first time as well, which made it a great adventure.

The news from Scotland over the past few months hadn't been good. Drew had been in hospital for an operation which he was struggling to recover from. My mum went up to see him when went to the funeral of one of her sisters and expressed her shock at how he looked. He hadn't been well enough to attend himself and was upset about that.

Since then, he'd been in hospital and had recently been moved to a smaller, convalescent facility in his home town of Lanark. I knew that if we didn't get up to see him soon there might not be another chance.

He's always been something of a favourite uncle Drew. In some respects he could come across a bit like the boy that never grew up - always joking, creating mischief, and looking to lighten the atmosphere. His entrance into a room would quickly provoke a response, usually from one of the women in there who would inevitably call him an "auld devil" after some cheeky comment or other, provoking a howl of laughter from him.

However he was also a serious man who had seen things in life that I hope I never see. As a teenager, he was in the army in the latter days of the push into Germany. His unit helped liberate the concentration camps. A few years ago he was showing me some pictures from the Eighties of him and his deceased, and much loved wife, my auntie Nancy. They were standing in front of a small mound which it turned out was a mass grave. He volunteered this information in a sombre tone, and I was taken aback by it. I'd never known this, and wish now I'd asked him more about it, but I didn't quite know what to say. Besides which my two young sons were there, and they would quickly have intervened to get his attention.

Drew in the army

To them, he was uncle Drew, and he was very generous to them as I know he was to other children of his nephews and nieces - he didn't have children of his own, having married later in life.

His interest in trains gave him a mainline straight to the interests of small lads. His father, my grandfather had driven steam trains, and had fired up an interest. As soon as he knew my eldest was obsessed with trains, we started to receive pictures of obscure locomotives that he'd snapped on his travels with his steam locomotive enthusiast buddies. Then came the DVDs of G-Scale model railways - another huge enthusiasm. Finally, on a trip to visit my mum, he somehow managed to pack a train set for the boys into his bag and cart it all the way to Buckingham. This thing wasn't at all small, and at this stage he was already well into his eighties with recently diagnosed back problems - not that it seemed to slow him up much.

After that visit a few years ago he was always promising a return, but due to his failing health, it never came about, hence the visit from us.

Despite being warned that he was frail, it was a shock to see him. He seemed much smaller and suddenly a lot older. He'd lost weight and moved slowly as he emerged into the room to meet me. Strangely, when I hugged him, he still seemed to have retained enough upper body strength to return a hearty embrace. Although he was quieter, he also kept up his cheeky rapport with the nurses, who affected to be at their wits end with this old goat, but who seemed to have a great affection for him. He cackled as they replied in kind to his quips. I'm glad that he was there at the end - he felt safe there and was able to see the many friends and family who were concerned about him.

We took him to lunch that day, although he struggled to eat much. Other members of the family arrived too. I got the impression that he was never short of visitors. Apparently it was the first time that he had been out in months. I think he enjoyed it. He reminisced and told some stories about his time as a scout leader, and his brother Joe and nephew John had him cackling with their gags.

As we left, he gave me another great hug and said something to me. I didn't quite catch the words in the car park outside the restaurant, but I got the gist of it. There probably wouldn't be another meeting and he was saying his goodbyes.

When I heard that he'd passed I felt sad of course, but it was a fleeting emotion. I was glad that he was now free of pain and started thinking of the happy times that we'd shared with him, and of a life well lived. He was a soldier, a husband, a postie, a scout master, a train enthusiast, a mischief maker, and much more, and he was my uncle. And now he's at peace.

Results day

I'm reminded that it's A-level results day by a flurry of excited tweets, retweeted by my old college QMU in London.
"Anyone studying English/Drama at Queen Mary's? #qmul" asks @pipson_
Crikey, she's looking for friends already! No need to hang around until Freshers Week these days to 'FAF' - apparently it means Find a Friend. Who knew!
It's yet another sign of how things have changed - cue Hovis theme - since I was a student. Although with the Corbynites in the ascendancy, there's a feeling of deja vu all over again.
When I got my results back in the day, sexy A-levels weren't even a thing. Quite a few of my mates did really badly to the extent that one of them was so distracted by the thought of a future flipping burgers that he crashed his car on the way back from school. He had three other school friends as passengers at the time, and luckily they were all okay, although there was a bit of explaining to do to his mum whose car it was.
I think that they all spent the rest of the afternoon phoning round clearing to see what was on offer - plus ca change. They were recovered enough later to be at our local watering hole to drink away their sorrows.
It was a funny old day, and an odd summer because it marked the start of the end of a lot of school friendships. By September, people had drifted off to their respective universities, colleges and polys (remember them?) and although the bonds of friendship reformed when we regathered in our home town for holidays, they were never quite the same. New friends, new experiences and new horizons ensured that.
As I sit here typing, it's actually closer in time to my own kids possibly picking up their A-level results, or whatever may replace them, than it is to when I picked up mine. That's quite a scary thought - don't start me on grants, housing benefit and student politics of the 80s. It seems a long time ago, and yet still so fresh.
Incidentally, the car crasher went on to study marine biology and works in a highly paid oil industry job I believe. By contrast I did alright in my A-levels, and am churning out copy for chump change.
There's a lesson there.

Election 2015

This time next week it will all be kicking off. I'll have dropped my kids off at school and gone to another junior school to cast my vote - walking past the elderly party workers bonded in their duty of checking who has voted and who hasn't over a flask of tea.
In 2010 I lived in Hackney which was a very safe Labour seat and consequently one of those constituencies where you would hardly know an election was taking place. There were few flyers through the door, not many posters in windows, and not a lot of fuss about the event. Not until election night + 1 when footage of one local Hackney polling office was constantly replayed to show how some people weren't able to vote due to poor management/people arriving too late, or whatever.
It's not like that in Colchester where the election campaign has been a lot more noticeable with huge numbers of flyers (especially from Tory challenger Will Quince), letters from the parties (again mainly from Team Quince), flying visits from party (and at least two from the PM), multiple hustings, extensive local media coverage and a flurry of social media activity.
It's actually been quite exciting, not least because the outcome is so uncertain. That's not to gamify the election - I realise that there is more at stake than my entertainment - but with a clear result unlikely come Friday morning, that's when the real power struggle will start, and when the masks will slip.
Where will our next coalition of chaos come from?
I don't believe that the SNP will have the clean sweep that pollsters predict in Scotland. I just can't see Scots wanting to live in a one party state. They will do well though and they will exert an influence on whoever is in power. Given the way that they are already being demonised by the right wing press, the next five years could be very turbulent as British parliament struggles to learn to operate with a minority government. Whoever walks through the door of 10 Downing Street in a few weeks will need to do so with a great deal of humility because they will have won little more than a grudging admission that they are the worst of a bad bunch.
It will be fascinating to see how the next election - whether in 2020, or a lot sooner - will be fought. In the medium term, perhaps the door will start to shift to let in an alternative to first past the post (FPTP). Although it still serves the big parties disproportionately, it looks unlikely to give them a mandate this time. Maybe it is time to try something fairer and more representative.
It is ironic given the kicking the the Lib Dems have had that FPTP, which they have long opposed, may yet save the party due to it localised strengths, not least in Colchester, an island of yellow in a sea of blue.

A black day for retail

Sign up to receiving a few emails from retailers, and the Black Friday deals on offer today won’t seem anything out of the ordinary. Barely a day goes by without receiving seemingly unrepeatable discount offers… until another arrives tomorrow.

Given this background noise it’s amazing that Black Friday has gained any traction at all. However scenes of shoppers fighting to get 50% at best off an inflated RRP that you’d be a fool to buy at, seems to indicate that you can sell any old tat if you slap a sale sticker on it the enduring appeal of a discount.

Retailers are certainly giving it a go. Black Friday has definitely entered the common parlance this year, and will probably only get bigger over the next few years. So retailers have two options: stand aloof and hold their noses, or get down among the frenzy and start cutting prices. It looks like option two is the winner at the moment.

Or maybe not. Given the unsavoury images from today, I’m predicting that Black Friday will be about as welcome as a looter’s convention in a few years. Weigh up the advantage of a few extra sales, at deep discount, against the additional costs of opening at stupid o’clock to catch the buzz, Fort Knox security to satisfy the local plod that they’re not going to spend all night separating swivel-eyed bargain fans, and the cost of general wear and tear from thousands of shoppers rampaging through the aisles trampling over stock as they go, and it suddenly doesn’t look like such a great idea. I'm not even mentioning the first cases of store staff suing for PTSD.

I may be completely wrong, but I’ve stayed well away from the high street today.

Mornings are the worst

6.00 am. Hmm, lie in today is it?
Boys, can you keep your voices down please, it's still quite early. No that's not really a morning voice, is it. A little bit quieter. A bit more. A little bit more. I know it doesn't sound like shouting to you, but it does to mummy and me, and I don't think our neighbours really want to hear you.
Why not? Well, they don't have children in the house. They're retired and they don't have to get up this early.
They can hear you. Our staircase shares a wall with their's so they can hear you jumping and shouting on them. Okay, not shouting, talking. Actually, that is shouting now.
Look, just stay in your room for now and shut the door. Don't slam it! Don't....
Okay, daddy will get up now and make breakfast. Who wants porridge. One for porridge and one for Cheerios. We don't have any Cheerios. You don't want porridge. Cornflakes?
Look, this isn't a cafe, and I'm not going out to get anything else from the shop. You'll have to have porridge.
Oh, we don't have any milk. I will have to go the shop. No I'm not getting Cheerios. Because I'm not, that's why.
Can you both behave until I get back. Leave mummy alone - she's still asleep. Because it's early and she's tired. She got up with you yesterday.
Okay, I'm going to the shop. I'll only be five minutes.
Why did he hit you? Why did you hit your brother? Okay, so what did he do to you to start it? He did, did he? What do have to say to that? Oh, he took your book. Look, it doesn't matter who started it. It stops now!
Right what happened there? I didn't even get out the door. If you can't behave then one of you will have to come with me. Yes, I know it's raining. I'm not exactly thrilled about going out myself.
Well, you're the oldest, so you should know better. Put your clothes on and come with me.
Stop shouting. I know it doesn't seem fair. Life often isn't.
Okay, last chance. Do you think you can not kill each other in the time it takes me to go to the shop and back. Promise?
Now, who wants a drink?
Water, milk, squash or orange juice. We don't have pineapple juice. I do not put too much water in it. I'm only thinking of your teeth. You have lovely teeth and I'd like them to stay like that.
What would you like on your porridge? Actually we don't have any banana, or raisins. Okay, you can have syrup today. No it isn't very good for you. It's a treat.
Where are your school clothes. I've got your trousers, but not your sweatshirt. Can you go and find it. Well I don't know where it is. If you took it off and put it where you ought to then we wouldn't have to go on a treasure hunt every morning.
No, we're not doing a treasure hunt. There isn't a prize, because there isn't a game. Maybe mummy will do one when you get home from school.
Well you have to go to school. Because it's fun. Okay, because you will learn things. It will help you get a job and earn money.
No you're not. You're not staying here forever because children don't do that. Well he's different. You wouldn't want to stay with us when you're older anyway. You'll want your own house.
Of course we don't want you to go away sweetheart. You can stay here as long as you like, now get your shoes on and go to school.
Toast? I don't think you've got time. Okay, you find your shoes and put your coat on and I'll make some, but only if you help me.
You can't have peanut butter because some of the children at school are allergic to it. It means they'll get ill if you touch them. Yes, or kiss them.
Did you? I'm sure she didn't mind, but the school doesn't like it. I don't know why.
Look, your lift to school is here. I'll pick you up in the afternoon this week.
Why didn't you tell me earlier that you need to take in a shoe box today. There might be one upstairs, hang on a minute. There you go, now go!
Have a lovely day at school.
Yes, I love you too.

Silence falls...

Referendum

There have been a lot of wise words written from both sides of the Referendum debate in Scotland. I don't have anything particularly profound to add, just a few jumbled thoughts of my own.

It was 1979 when I left Scotland. It was the year of Margaret Thatcher coming to power and also the year of the referendum on Scottish devolution.

Our local village hall was the polling booth and I recall a megaphone car outside with SNP posters on it. Nobody ever came to our village, so it was an odd sight. The Scottish Nationalist Party - how good did that sound?

Even at an early age I was introduced to the idea that we were different to our neighbours to the South. I knew this already as we had relatives in the Midlands who had moved to England in the late Sixties and early Seventies to take jobs in the mines down there. We would visit them most years usually en route to our annual week in the sun - Clacton, Great Yarmouth or somewhere.

So I knew that England was different. It seemed more affluent for one thing. The weather was better - hence the holidays there. And they didnae half talk funny, and yet they thought we were the ones with accents!

We did think we were different. As I grew up I was always led to believe that the Scottish education system was superior to that down South, that we were a more generous people in many ways (despite the stereotype of the stingy Scot), and that we were hard working and inventive (TV, penicillin, tarmac, the telephone, deep fried pizza etc). I guess many of us have these kinds of assumptions about the sort of people we are and also what our neighbours are like, whether they're next door or in the next state.

The referendum came and went. Scotland was denied its chance of an assembly despite a majority Yes vote. I moved to Bedfordshire with my family and started to become a wee Englishman.

Looking on 35 years later at the independence debate has been fascinating and tortuous. I don't have a vote, and I don't have a problem with that. I believe in localising democracy, so the people who live in the country should have the say in how its governed.

Although it may sound heretical to say it, I'm almost glad I don't have a vote as it feels like it would be one of the hardest decisions I'd ever have to make.

Like many people I'm an emotional nationalist. I love the idea of Scotland and belonging to somewhere even if I don't always know what that means, and don't always like what it can mean. It's hard not to be in love with the idea of your country, especially when you're an expat like me. Scotland has so much going for it: great resources, beautiful landscape, fascinating history, whisky, intelligent, warm and funny people, and a vibrant cultural life.

There's a side of me that naturally bristles when I sense my tribe is being put down, patronised or treated unfairly. In some senses I am a typically chippy Jock. I can see how Alex Salmond has been able to use this in his campaigning. Like I said, we think we're different and he knows the levers to pull.

Although he's one Britain's canniest politicians, he's barely had to break sweat because of the incompetence of those ranged against him. From Cameron's haughty decision to deny a devo-max option, through Alistair Darling's dry and hectoring tone, to the overall patronising and negative tone of the No campaign, Salmond probably can't believe that the fight of his political life has been so easy.

I've been really impressed by the seriousness of the debate. It's not just about oil revenue. Many nationalists wouldn't care if the only oil in Scotland was that in the chip pan awaiting a battered Mars bar. It's about the future of the country and it may be the only chance many will get to see their country independent.

It's so close - who knows how the vote today will go. In the past week the kitchen sink has been thrown at the Yes campaign with businessmen and economists weighing in to claim that Scotland could be voting for a future of austerity, higher taxes and poorer services. Of course, this is what the country could end up with by sticking with the Union.

I'm not denying that their predictions sound ominous, but the problem is that they may be too late, and that after a couple of years of nay saying, it's just white noise. There's also the attitude of Scots as put to me by a friend of my mum's, a very genteel lady (and Unionist) in her 70s. She said: "You know what we're like! The danger is that with so many people lecturing us about what we can't do, we'll just turn round and say, 'Oh we can't can we, well let's see!'"

I really don't know how it will go, but I will make one prediction. In the event of a Yes vote for independence, the sky won't come in on the house, despite what some say. There will be tough times ahead. Anybody who thinks an independent Scotland will be a land of milk and honey is kidding themselves. Even if there was untold oil wealth, is that the sort of unearned inheritance that hard working Scots would want for their kids - I don't think it is. They want them to be well educated and healthy living in a country that looks after those who are least able to look after themselves.

To me, that doesn't sound like a lot to ask for. The real question is which side is going to provide it? Choose well Scotland.

Bank holiday bands

I have just spent the bank holiday Monday afternoon drinking in the pub. Post-kids, this is something of a rarity, but once upon a time it was almost the preferred option for wiling away the long bank holiday hours.
Today I wanted to see a local band that I'm quite partial to and having spent the past couple of days on family friendly activities (Southwold and Colchester's Big Sunday street festival), and given that the weather was rubbish, I had a green card to get down to the Kings Arms.
It did make me think back to the halcyon days of bank holiday weekends at South Bedfordshire's premiere pub venue, the Wheatsheaf in Leighton Buzzard.
This was my local in a way that I've never had since. It was the pub I started drinking in (underage, sorry Geoff), where all of my friends would end up at some point over the weekend, and where people really did know your name.
A special mention at this point for the main man behind the bar for much of this time, Roy who was one of the coolest guys we all knew. He was more likely to strike up a conversation about free form jazz, beat poets, indie rock or contemporary literature than how the football had gone this weekend. I think I've still got a copy of a Richard Brautigan volume he loaned me.

Anyway, the Wheatie was the centre of my universe for a number of years. I still remember fondly the pub trip to Glastonbury '90 in the back of one local's van - no planning, just turn up and get in. We were treated to an endless supply of home made vegetable wine from a regular named Les: "This is a rather pokey little beetroot noir. Goes very well with cheese." Roy was on that trip too - passing round the hash cakes probably.

The Wheatsheaf was, and is, a mainstay of the local gig scene in the region, so bank holidays were always a big deal - an opportunity to drink all day and groove down to local bands. I recall bombing back from the Stone Roses Spike Island gig in 1990, just to see a Northampton soul band called Moses who specialised in War covers (Low Rider and World is a Ghetto stick in the memory.) I must have cut a particular dash in my Levi's parallel flares and gig T-shirt.

I was still living at home at the time, having moved back there after university when no career presented itself on a plate - how very inconsiderate.

It was quite a depressing time in some ways. Three years at university had been one great big laugh - gigs, parties, laughs... but not much sex - and ending up living at home seemed a real let down.

Then I discovered a new, pub centred, group of mates. Many of them were just ordinary blokes and lasses. That's not meant to sound condescending. What I mean is that after three years in university surrounded mainly by privileged, middle class kids (this was the mid 80s before the great expansion of higher education), I was hanging with people who I probably felt more at home with. It was a community based around alcohol mainly, but a community nonetheless.

So, that was my bank holidays sorted.

Today was a bit different. I indulged in drink, but not so much in chat. The band were good but it lacked the shared experience of yore.

I felt a bit old to be honest, especially after one guy spoke to me about how it now took him two days to get over hangovers. "Still, I expect it's about four for you," he courteously pointed out.

It's a good job the next bank holiday is not for a few months.

Yours sincerely

A strange thing about the way we live so much of our lives online is how difficult it can make it to read situations.
I have friends who are so witty, scathing, political, angry or provocative in their online personas that I sometimes don't recognise the person I know.
We spend so much time now presenting our preferred image to the outside world. I remember when I first heard somebody talk about their personal 'brand' 20 years ago or so. At the time it seemed a ludicrous idea to me that individuals would think of themselves as a package of personal brand values, but not any more.
I think many of us do present an idealised image to the world online. One where we're funnier, smarter and more interesting than we really are. And it's easy to become trapped in a notion of how we are perceived by others through our Tweets, comments, status updates, Instagram pictures, check ins and likes. I often find myself hovering over a comment wondering, "Is that what I think?" or even, "Is that what people think that I think?"
And then deleting it!
At a time when the idea of 'authenticity' has gained great credence in branding, it's probably never been tougher to really be authentic. Or maybe that's just the case with frauds like me.
Today a friend replied to a Tweet of mine where I had recommended something she wrote. She thanked me, but I'm so used to reading her acerbically funny comments about stuff that I couldn't work out whether it was a genuine or not.

Why did she use those particular words?
What does the use of capital letters THERE mean?
Do you even thank people for praise in Tweets?

I know, First World Problems.
Maybe I should have called her.

Free ice cream

Who wants an ice cream?
It's vanilla - I've got it right here.
It's free. You don't need to pay.
The man took it out of his freezer.
He just left it at the side of the road.
There's nothing wrong with it.
But there isn't any space.
There's strawberry as well.
Look at the swirl of red.
They're filling up the freezer now.
No room for ice cream.
Does nobody want one?

Summer holiday

De de da, de de da, de de de da, diddle-a...
Six weeks summer holiday starts today and as usual, Mrs Holiday has excelled herself by preparing for the larks ahead. Both the boys have a Summer bucket of toys, books and diversions. It's one of the little traditions that she is gradually introducing to our happy band.
I can't remember ever getting anything like that back in my days. You'd get the summer special of whatever comic or magazine you favoured and read it until the ink had practically come off over the ensuing weeks.
Our two have water pistols, Top Trumps, hula hoops, a space hopper (to share - good luck with that!) and various books from the second hand shops of the town. They are delighted. In fact they've both just come wandering into the office stark naked wearing butterfly nets (I forgot about those) and pointing the water pistols at me. It's going to be a long summer!
Happy holidays.