January 12, 2010
2009 was a bit of a horrible year, with one lovely little discovery around halfway through.
It went something like: work, work, buy U2 tickets, work, work, meet girl, work, see U2 shows, work, work, work, work, Uganda, see girl lots, work, work, work, girl, work, work, work, girl, collapse.
January 7, 2010
1. Lose weight, minimum 2 stone, preferably 3.
2. Read the Bible from beginning to end, not skipping the tricky bits.
3. Recover mind and body.
4. Write some songs, good ones n’ all.
5. Write.
6. Find an author I didn’t know anything about before, but will really enjoy.
7. Rediscover some dreams.
January 6, 2010
I will be restarting writing in the near future. Can’t promise it will be very exciting, but I will be returning to it.
And that’s a promise.
May 16, 2009
This year was always going to be a highly gigged one, given that U2 are touring on the back of the imperious No Line On The Horizon.
When I got back from Australia at the end of November, having unwittingly had three great wee gig experiences (Tim Finn in Melbourne, Sons of Korah in Toowomba, then Paul Colman in Brisbane), I was in the middle of the horrible horrible week when my body just couldn’t work out what time it was supposed to be. Doodling around on t’internet at 5am one morning, I impulsively found myself buying tickets for Coldplay at Hampden Park in September. Fine, I thought, something to look forward to. It turns out I’ll actually be in Uganda at the time, but it was a start.
Just before the U2 tour goes on sale, lo and behold The Boss announces his first show in Scotland in 28 years. Can’t miss that one. A quick visit to Ticketbarsteward later, and it’s all booked up. Then there’s Frenzy in June, now in it’s 5th year. Can’t miss that one either.
When the time comes, no less than 6 U2 shows are booked up. Amsterdam, Amsterdam, London, London, Glasgow and the tour closer in Cardiff. Magic. Can’t wait. Really very very excited.
Now, I mentioned before that Delirious? were splitting up this year but I had suspected there would be a farewell tour of sorts. There’s likely to be a Greatest Hits, but they’re also doing a final HistoryMakers tour. Can’t miss that one – so I’ve now booked tickets for the Edinburgh and London gigs. The latter one will be the last ever D: gig.
So, there we go. At least 10 big gigs this year. I’ll need to get in training for all that standing about.
April 15, 2009
I love football. Always have, always will. In misty-eyed moments, my dad has been heard to talk of his regret that my enthusiasm for the game was never followed by much skill. My early achievements in the game were limited to the occasional appearance for the primary school team, though I will never forget the disappointment of not even getting on the bench for a cup final when I was in P5.
Happily, in my mid-20s, I did find some success. When I say success, what I mean is that I was involved with Erin Hibs FC, a team of Hibs fans that originated out of the old yahoo hibs-list email discussion thing. I played in the first ever game in 1998, which we lost 7-2 to the InterBears, but “retired” in 2001. Inbetween, we won national tournaments, both for the whole UK and for Scotland. This is not to say I was a key member of the team, but I got to play occasionally and still revel in the memory of my one and only goal at an 11-a-side level. It went in off my shin. Before my retirement at the tender age of 26 (another story entirely), I got to know some really great Hibbys, a couple of whom sit beside me these days in the West Stand at Easter Road, enduring misery after misery.
To wind back to those school days, this was the 1980s. Hibs were dreadful for the entire decade, apart from a brief flurry when Steve Archibald amazingly signed for us straight from Barcelona. While my loyalty to the Cabbage was never in doubt, my head was regularly turned by an English, who took to the field week-after-week in all red, demolishing everything put in front of them. When I ran around on the field at the end of my street, playing scratch games with all the other neighbourhood kids, it wasn’t Hibs that I was pretending to play for. It was Liverpool. It wasn’t every Hibs strip that I wanted, it was Liverpool strips.
My memory is a little fuzzy about where exactly this infatuation came from, by I think it probably originated around the time of the 1982 World Cup and relates to one player in particular.
The single greatest moment of my childhood was the day I discover thatKenny Dalglish and I shared the same birthday. To put it simply, he was my hero. The fact that the single greatest disappointment of my adulthood was reading his dreary autobiography is something I’ll skip over for the moment.
I remember the 1983 League Cup Final, the 1984 European Cup Final victory on penalties over Roma, the horrendous evening that was the 1985 Final and what happened in the Heysel, but redemption (for me at least, not for the 39 who perished that night) followed the next season when the Reds clinched the double for the first time in their history. By that time, Kenny was the player-manager, but scored the winner in the final league game of the season against Chelsea to clinch the title. The FA Cup Final victory the next weekend was even sweeter, all the better for being the same day the Maroon Mob from the other side of Edinburgh managed to end the season without a trophy, having been so close to their own double.
For the next few years, as Hibs threatened to be good for a bit, but not really getting anywhere (apart from Archie’s cameo), I religiously followed Liverpool’s results. Kenny’s team steamrollered to another league title in 1988,with Barnes and Beardsley pulling the strings, and seemed to be on-course for another glory-filled year the next season. Then came the events of 15th April 1989, that are commemorated today.
I remember that afternoon, I was 14 and following the afternoon’s football events via the medium of Grandstand. Precisely what was being covered the moment that the ominous voice announced that they were going over to John Motson at Hillsborough as there had been an incident in the crowd. What followed does not need to be repeated. The number gradually got worse and worse for the rest of the day and I have another memory of watching TV news the following morning, when it was estimated that there was now more than 100 lost. That the final toll was lower at 96 never did bring any comfort.
The outpouring of emotion across the country has only been seen on one occasion since, when Diana died, as football fans stood together across the lines that divided us, united knowing the awful truth. It could have been us. Brothers, fathers, uncles, sisters, mums, cousins, friends together, all thought they were going to watch a game of football. But some of them didn’t come home.
Kenny and his Liverpool team eventually played on that season, but I can’t begin to imagine how they felt. Bill Shankly’s old mantra that football was “not a matter of life and death, it’s more important than that” must have resonanted with a hollowness that knew no depths. They eventually beat Nottingham Forest in the cup semi-final that was halted at 3.06pm that fateful day, with most people wondering how Forest could even begin to try competing against the Reds. The country wanted an all-Merseyside cup final, and that’s what it got. The rest is well-known, Liverpool beat Everton 3-2 after extra time but lost the league in the last minute of the last game. No amount of emotion could prevent Michael Thomas from scoring the goal that broke so many hearts.
I loved Liverpool Football Club more than ever at this point. Hibs were still woeful, but Liverpool meant something more than 90 minutes on a Saturday. The title was reclaimed the following season, but as season 1990-1991 began to enter its final furlong, King Kenny decided he could no longer carry the burden of Hillsborough any longer and resigned. On the same day, my love for the club began to drip away. He was replaced by his old team-mate, Graeme Souness, a man now more known for his stint as manager of Rangers.
That summer, my family moved to Leeds and a new love became to insinuate its way into my life. It helped somewhat that the Lilywhites won the championship in the next season, the last before the creation of the Premiership. A team boasting an imperious midfield of Strachan, Batty, McAllister and Speed; a cameo from Eric Cantona and Lee Chapman banging in the goals. It felt a little bit dishonest leaving Liverpool behind, but Souness had them playing dreary football and the love was lost.
OK, I’ll admit that I wouldn’t exactly count myself as a Leeds fan these days. I look out for their results, but since I came to Edinburgh for university in 1993, my first love firmly lodged itself in my heart and I watch Hibs as often as I can. A season ticket empties my bank account once a year and it hasn’ been boring, though the football is currently of a dreary nature once again. South of the border, I have flirted with a pre-Abramovich Chelsea, but to be honest, the passion was never there.
But days like today, following on from the incredible game that took place at Stamford Bridge last night, are bringing me back around again. I feel like I am falling in love with Liverpool FC again. With that glorious red jersey and the never-quenched desire of terrific footballers like Gerrard, Torres and Carragher. Just because the club is again on the verge of greatness, finally challenging for the title again, doesn’t mean I am a glory hunter. I’ve got history and I’m proud of it.
Liverpool are synonymous with the song You’ll Never Walk Alone:
When you walk through a storm
Hold your head up high
And don’t be afraid of the dark
At the end of the storm
Is a golden sky
And the sweet silver song of the lark
Walk on through the wind
Walk on through the rain
Though your dreams be tossed and blown
Walk on walk on with hope in your heart
And you’ll never walk alone
You’ll never walk alone
But I feel that there’s a better song to end with. In the space of 24 hours in August 2001, two momentous events occurred that have shaped the last 8 years of my life took place. On a Friday evening, it became clear that my church was falling to bits, with a divide riven deep within the leadership team. Early the next day, I set off with my friends Dave, Sally and Ewan to see U2 play in Manchester. This gig was closest I’ve come to a religious experience at a gig, it was a worship evening first and foremost, and provided instant redemption. That night, and for most of the tour, they finished up with the song “Walk On”. Today, the people of Liverpool remembered all that they can’t leave behind.
April 7, 2009
Now I’m sure I recognise this place. Feels kind of familiar. There’s some chat about guitar, a few words about Hibernan FC, a lot of stuff on banking and an abruptly halted travelogue on the amazing continent of Australia. Dear readers, I apologise for not writing, I am a bad man and have been told by a friend in the last couple of days that my blog is disappointing. Duly humbled am I.
I can’t promise much, but I will start writing again soon. The wit will possibly be scintilating and the intention modest; of few words, I am not. A selection of topics that will feature in the weeks to come:
December 23, 2008
Please forgive me for the next two and a bit months. I am about to become obsessively unbearable.
1993, 1997, 2000, 2004.
These four years have something in common. Since I became a ‘fan’ around the autumn of 1992, these are the years in which the popular rock combo known as U2 have released studio albums. Each occasion has involved a protracted build-up, with rumours, counter-rumours and tension contributing to a swirl of conflicting excitement and nerves. Every time, I have been relieved to discover that, no, the latest album was not rubbish, but generally brilliant in fact. Yes, even Pop.
Last Thursday, a momentous day to serve as the prologue to the next chapter of this particular brand of fanaticism was written. The band, the boys, my boys, the lads, the dudes, Bono, Edge, Larry, Adam. Announced that the new album was ready for release.
No Line On The Horizon will be revealed to the waiting world on Monday 2nd March 2009, and next year will be added to the noble list above.
Q magazine have already provided some details, albeit a little unofficially, and quite frankly, I’m excited. When I say excited, of course what I mean, is that a particular form of frenzy has already entered the frontal lobe of my mind. I’ve been going through a self-declared U2-free period – absence makes the heart grow fonder after all – but my gaze turned earlier to the large U2-only section of my CD collection in preparation for what’s to come.
This is only stage one, of course. The next step will come when I begin to frantically worry about the tour. Which shows am I going to go to? How will I get tickets? Whose credit card will I need to borrow in order to get around the methods they use to try and prevent people doing too many shows (as if that could be stopped)? How many days will I need to get off work? How will I get there? Should I go to Dublin? (Previously decided not to). Should I go to the continent? Which shows will I get seats for and which ones will I start queuing up for in the early dawn?
Next year is a U2 year. You have been warned.
December 7, 2008
….Hibs beat Celtic today. I was there and jumped around like a loony.
“One Artur Boruc, One Artur Boruc”.
We must not get too used to beating them at Easter Road, after all that’s three seasons in a row we’ve accomplished it.
Somedays, it’s depressing being a Hibby. Today was NOT one of those days.
GGTTH.
November 29, 2008
Newcastle is a city of lads n lasses. Black and white stripes. Magpies and …ern, oh that’s actually the unlovely version in north-east England. I went to Newcastle, New South Wales, with friendly warnings ringing in my ears that it wasn’t on the normal tourist trail for a reason.
As previously advertised, I was there to visit Stuart and Brad in situ and arrived in glorious sunshine, but muttering under my breath about the inadequacies of satnav. Stuart’s hotel is located in an industrial and sleazy part of town, separated from the waterfront regeneration by a railway line that no one uses. He’s holding out high hopes for the eventual closure of the part of the line that seemingly goes nowhere and will connect his gaff to the swanky Leith-esque development on the other side of the tracks.
They live in a very odd building. Again, like a lot of places in Leith, it’s a redeveloped warehouse, though this one was used to store wool. The apartments are arranged around the inside of the outside of the building – I suspect that sounds strange – with an immense void in the interior providing access to each front door. Words can’t do justice to this odd arrangement, and with no photo it’s difficult to explain further. Needless to say, a criminal waste of space. Despite this, their place was lovely, enormous high ceilings and the sun streaming in.
We drank beer then headed off for a waterfront restaurant. A short stroll I was told, feeling my rumbling belly that signalled a hunger that can only come from missing out on so many vineyards (see previous post, this was the same day). A short stroll that kept going and going and going. See that strange pepper pot building, we’re going there I was told. Nobody walks about in Australia, mainly because everything is so far apart.
My relief that the restaurant hadn’t given our table away when we arrived late was immense. As was the fruity, oaked chardonnay that we managed to drink two bottles of. Thankfully, a taxi was called to ferry us back to the apartment block of unused space, whereupon the dull headache-ensuring bottle of red I’d acquired during the afternoon’s one visit to a vineyard was swiftly dealt with.
Our plan for the next day was to travel back down to Sydney and enjoy the festivities of a Friday night in the city of blinding lights. Stuart had to work until mid-afternoon, so Brad and I set out to see the sights of Newcastle.
Five minutes later we went to Stockton, a village across the water.
Actually, that’s unfair, we did stroll a little around town – and later went to see the police museum (because it was free) – and there is a pretty beach and some chunky waves. But that was it. Stockton was quite pretty too and a walk was had along the beach witnessing a kite surfer fail to get going.
There is a reason why Newcastle is not on the tourist trail. If you surf, it’s probably ok, but there just didn’t seem to be anything else there. Before anyone wonders, I’m not being unfair on the friends I came to see, they are well aware of this. However, this underlined for me that my trip wasn’t just about crossing a few places off my “to see” list and having a few once-in-a-lifetime experiences, it was about catching up with a whole load of friends in a (generally) stunning location. I don’t do normal holidays, can’t abide the idea of spending two weeks lying on the beach, and this trip was no exception.
November 29, 2008
Picking up where I left off in Sydney, I had made a hasty and possibly irresponsible decision earlier in the week to drive up to Newcastle (not the Geordie version) to see my old school friend Stuart and his partner Brad. They had been living in Sydney until a couple of months ago, following Stuart’s emigration and Brad’s return from exile, but now moved up when Stuart got a job there after a prolonged visa application process.
Newcastle is what may be politely called an industrial city but has the added attraction of a little area called the Hunter Valley nearby, containing a number of very lovely vineyards and the original home of Ozzie Shiraz. When I say nearby, of course I mean in Australian terms, which can actually refer to anything from across the road to across the state. In this case, about an hour by car. So, what would be better than hiring a sturdy vehicle in Sydney, touring a bit of the Hunter Valley and then going to Newcastle for the night, returning to Sydney with Stuart and Brad for an evening of revelry and then departing for Brisbane.
Onto the Avis website goes I, finding a convenient Sydney office and thinking to myself…hmmm, vineyards, tricky country roads, how about a 4WD. Not the most politically correct thing, but necessary I thought and selected the name of a familiar sounding vehicle (all of the others referred to something called Holden, which turns out to be Vauxhall/GM) and arranged a pick up at noon on Thursday 13th at the Marriott Hotel near Circular Quay.
The day arrives and I catch the bus/ferry from Ian’s place to Circular Quay, have a spot of breakfast and do a couple of short, touristy things. Rocking up to the Avis office, everything goes fine and I pay an extra $10 for satnav, thinking this will save me a whole load of bother. Then two things happened..
The 4WD turns out to be biggest car known to man.
And I found out that satnav is rubbish.
I got lost. Well, not exactly lost per se. The satnav (eventually) knew where we were and thought it was directing me properly. It wasn’t. I ended up in the Lane Cove Tunnel, for which I had to eventually pay a toll, and lost about an hour or so from my afternoon. Rather than getting to the Hunter Valley in time to visit a good few vineyards, carefully identified in advance, I finally arrived at my first stop at about 3.30pm.
Three quick tastes, one bottle purchased and a couple of photos of some grapes, I set off for the “home of Shiraz” I was excited to see. My trusty Lonely Planet guide said that it closed at 4.30pm so it was going to be tight. The satnav was useless, given that the vineyard didn’t really have an address, more just a spot on the map that I was heading for.
Eventually I spotted a sign triumphantly pointing the way and sped off in the direction of the big arrow. After reaching a crossroads most decidedly not on the map, I realised I might have gone wrong somewhere and doubled back looking for the sign again.
Here we go, now 4.15pm, maybe there’s just time. Surely they won’t close the door on someone who wants to buy some wine? The pedal goes to the metal as I flash past the sign pointing towards this holy grail, but something catches my eye.
Open Saturday and Sunday.
The justification for hiring the biggest car in the world got me to one solitary vineyard. I will need to plant a lot of trees to make up for this (sorry Mum!).
I am actually writing this from the departure lounge at Brisbane airport, about to board my flight to Singapore, then onward to London. It didn’t actually get posted until I was back at my folks’ place in Chelmsford due to the rubbishness of allegedly free airport wifi. Anyone paying attention may have noticed that I have just got on with having my holiday rather than endlessly writing about writing. It has been ace and I will fill in the blanks in the next few weeks.
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