This time of year always feels a bit strange for me, more so this year than any other before. It’s partly because I’m unavoidably sliding down a big tube marked “My 30′s” and in a few days I’m gonna crash through to the adjoining one. But it’s also because I’ve just spent the last four months writing every weekday, so now I just feel like I’m in between the work done and the work to be done.

As advised, I’m not going to touch my first draft until after Christmas. I know I should continue writing something, but I wanted a break, and with birthday and Christmas plans, plus updating my CV and beginning the job search for next year I’ve decided that I’ll only update my blog for the moment. Any experienced writers out there might be thinking right now “Uh-oh – he’s showing signs of stalling – will he actually get back to it or will it be left on the side, gathering dust?” but I assure you it won’t be the case.

I’m actually already looking forward to the editing. I can hear the story calling me, telling me to come back and make it better. The characters deserve to be improved – sharper, funnier, louder, sexier, more evil. The places need to come alive. The story has got to say “This will sell!” I will make a plan – much like I did for writing it – to make sure I edit x number of pages a day. I’m not exactly sure how I will edit it, but I will read up some more and then try it and tailor it to how I feel it will work for me.

I’ve also started the thought process on my next book. What – you thought that was it? I have been known to start the odd fad and never pick it up again, but with running and now writing, I very much want to keep them going. I really enjoyed writing 26 Miles to the Moon, and loved the initial process in coming up and developing ideas. So the thoughts have been coming – nothing firm, just a few seeds drifting in the air that I’ve grabbed and kept, perhaps growing them later. I’m also toying with a sequel; well if Tom Cruise is considering a Top Gun sequel then you can follow anything.

This period’s also given me a bit of time to reflect on things. I’ve been so self-absorbed in my book that it feels all a bit “me-me-me”. I’ve been amazed how interested people have been in it and my progress, and as much as I love telling people when they ask how I’m getting on and what I’ve been doing, it does all feel a bit trivial at times. I’m not helping anyone, battling adversity, enriching my community or doing much for anyone right now. I’ll think about what I can give back in 2012.

For the short-term, though, the Andy Show will continue. My next post will let you know how it feels to turn 40.  If the old adage is correct, my life should just be beginning…

My first month of writing is over. I started my novel on August 1st and now have over 30,000 words in the bag. I’ve had one short story accepted somewhere. I’ve also now been jobless for two whole months (but I prefer the term “free”.) My running is coming along as I gear up to start beating my records. Overall, August was a good month for me. Shame the weather was bloody awful.

Lessons learned

I feel happy going into September with a solid month behind me. The main lessons I have learned this month are:

1. I can write. By that, I mean I can physically sit down every day I plan to and write a set amount of words. You might think that’s it’s the bare minimum you need to be a writer, but you’d be surprised how many people say they write when in fact all they do is think about writing. I should know – that used to be me a lot.

2. I believe in my idea. I’ve had doubts along the way, but with the positive feedback I’ve received from a few sources and my own genuine enthusiasm for the idea, I truly believe it has a chance of making it. Needless so say, it’s absolutely vital that I believe this more than anyone, otherwise how can I convince others?

3. To handle comments on my writing. It’s been a while since someone has analysed my writing, and so when you give an edited piece to a loved one to read and it comes back with a lot of comments, suggestions, queries and corrections it does kind of hit you a bit. But it’s a great experience in the end – you know it’s going to improve not only the piece they’ve reviewed, but your future writing, too. Of course, when you also get the good comments back it’s like receiving gold. Nothing more satisfying than hearing “I laughed at that bit!”

4. Discipline is hard to maintain. As I write this, I should be writing my novel. My schedule says start every day from 9:30; it’s now 10:15. OK Andy, put this down and come back to it later…

…and I’m back. See? That was a bit of discipline, stopping midway through a sentence. (I’ve actually returned two days later to this!) I started off very well in the first week of August, then as soon as you start breaking the habit you find you’re surfing and emailing at 10:30 and ending up finishing the writing at nearly 6 in the evening. It’s time to get it back on track.

5. I’ve got a lot more to learn. I need to educate myself on the craft of writing to make the next draft so much better. I have to re-read my how-to books, create better similes, find out how to write better dialogue.

6. I can enjoy running with no goal in mind. It was an injury-free month, enabling me to run harder and faster without anything in particular to train for. It helps with the discipline, knowing that you should get out there regularly without a real need to.

7. That whenever the press in spring announces, ”It’ll be a barbecue summer” that you might as well stock up on umbrellas and gazebos now. I’ve just heard we’re gonna have an early winter, so I now expect to be on the beach in November.

That was the month that was

Here are the stats for August:

Days planned to write: 21

Days actually written: 20 (1 turned into a planning day, so still productive)

Daily target reached: 100%

Words written: 31,631

 As for my runs, see the chart below for the log. I achieved my fastest mile on the 12th August, too.

I’m hoping to beat a record or two in September, so why don’t you? Aim for something you might be able to achieve, whether it’s sporting (like a run), money (earning it or raising/giving to charity), production (words, widgets), time spent with your kids/spouse/cat or even buying your earliest Christmas present.

It feels good to go out there and achieve, so what’s stopping you?

I couldn’t let the events of Saturday 8th January pass without a blog on one of the greatest shocks in recent history…

I’m actually here. The Lamex Stadium, Broadhall Way, Stevenage. I fully admit I’m hardly the most loyal Stevenage Boro – sorry, FC – fan around, but it’s fair to say that I’ve followed the results of my home club every week for as long as I can remember. A few visits here over the years plus three FA Trophy finals, but I’ve always regretted the big one in ’98 – when we almost shook the footballing world as a non-league team by getting a draw against Premiership Newcastle. For some reason, I didn’t get a ticket and just watched it on TV instead. So when the Magpies got drawn against us again, I was determined to come down and take part in a bit of history.

“It’s gonna be 3-2 to us” I confidently predict. Well, when I say confidently, I mean optimistically. Odds are, they’ll beat us comfortably. Yes, we’ve moved up in with the big boys in the Football League since our last encounter, but we’re hardly setting League 2 alight. They have a few players out, most notably Andy Carroll, but I still expect them to win. I’ll settle for a draw tonight, though.

The East Terrace is filling up and making a lot of noise. That’s what surprised me at Wembley last year – the fans are a noisy and persistent lot! Silly tunes without words strangely create a great, catchy atmosphere. The “Wooooooah!” song is a particular favourite of mine. At the far side, the black and white shirts are gradually populating the stand like a sea of barcodes. Shell is making her debut on the Broadhall Way stands as we make our way onto the north terrace. It’s a cold evening, and we’re both wrapped up in gloves, scarves and hats. Where to stand? Right behind the goal would see some great action and maybe get us on the ESPN cameras, but the view might be a little pants, so we go just to the right of it, on the back row. The dark blue skies gradually turn black as I take a few photos, read the programme, and send a few texts, excitedly telling people where I am.

The teams come out and line up, swapping ends. Stevenage to attack the goal in front of us first, so I’ll expect most of the action nearest to us will be in the second half. I strain to recognise the Newcastle players – not exactly their best team. Ahhh, Joey Barton and Alan Smith – two charming blokes who wouldn’t look out of place in a Friday night brawl in Stevenage Old Town. It’s a shame there’s not the names of the 1-1 draw in 1998 -where the likes of Shearer, Barnes and Pearce played – but then that’s surely a bonus for us.

The game kicks off and then almost immediately is halted due to Nolan getting a ball in the face, sending him down to the grass for a minute or so. Shame. The scoreboard opposite us slowly counts up the minutes on its low-tech display; just enjoy every minute when we’re still in the game, I think. We seem to have started well, not looking too overawed. I get handed a poster to hold up from the Comet saying “Borough Barmy Army” and wave it in the air a little. Ummm, now what? Failing to make it stick itself to the stand behind me, I put it on the floor. I’ll settle for some gentle verbal encouragement. The crowd has a chuckle when their goalie, Krul, does his first kick and lands on his arse for his efforts. Premier League? You’re having a laugh…

I’m itching to see a shot, and after some encouraging play and even the odd corner, I get impatient as Stevenage players get near the box. “Shoot!!!” I yell, hoping for a screamer to be unleashed right before me. I watch as Bostwick drifts forward directly in front of us…he’s hit it…it’s going towards goal…it’s low and accurate…it’s going in!! Damn! Krul makes a great save to his right and pushes it away. Wow, that was close. Time ticks on, and despite the odd scary moment when we can’t quite see how good the Newcastle breaks are from down here, Stevenage hold their own and make it to half-time level.

Shell hasn’t turned blue just yet, and has quite enjoyed it, it seems. Blokes around me chomp into burgers, looking content at the night’s action so far. The Geordies strip off their shirts and sing “Cheer up, Stevie Bruce!” in reference to their greatest rivals going out of the cup today. Calm down, you’re not exactly setting the cup on fire based on that performance. The second half kicks off. “C’mon Boro!” Can we do it? Five minutes in, and I watch as Stevenage surge forward. Looks like there’s a bit of space. Have a dig…there goes a shot…deflection! It’s…it’s…it’s gone in!!! The East stand erupts and half a second later we do too, as we comprehend what’s happened. I almost can’t believe I’m clapping and cheering Boro taking the lead over Premier League opposition. Get in!! Wow – game on!

Newcastle attack, and Day tips one over the bar from Nolan. Don’t count our chickens. Five minutes later and we go forward again. Why not? Attack ‘em, I say. They’ll be rocked and more than a little nervous. It’s hard to see from this end but we’ve got it on the right and there might be something on as the ball angles its way towards the goal..hang on…did that just… a split second later the noise tells me what my eyes thought they’d seen. It’s 2-0!! 2 flipping 0!!!! “Get in!!! C’mon!!!!!!!” I bounce wildly, almost falling forward as the guy in front gets a hand on his back. Arms raised in the air, fists clenched. This is no longer a nice lead that is probable to get wiped out, this is looking like a match-winning lead! I take some video of the celebrations, photos of the scoreboard, update Facebook. This could be some story unfolding…

“Cheerio, cheerio, cheerio!” Tiote’s just been shown the way to the dressing room! Newcastle are down to 10 men and are two goals in arrears away from home in the second half. If we’re gonna do it, this is the best opportunity ever.

As the minutes slowly increase, I begin to get worried. They say 2-0 is a dangerous scoreline, and Newcastle start to get a bit of the ball. A few shots come towards us, but nothing to worry about. 79 minutes, and a free kick to Newcastle. Keep it going, Boro. The ball comes in towards our keeper Day…but it breaks loose to two Newcastle players on the line! Just a few feet away I watch in slow motion as they turn and swing their legs towards the ball and sweep it in to the net. 2-1. Damn. Only…only…they didn’t. Somehow, the laws of physics were defied and the ball stayed out! Either that or the complete numpties missed an absolute sitter by failing to even make contact with it! Blimey. Let off. No time for reflection, however as Winn is now charging up the pitch…go on!! Surely? Nooooooo! Quite unbelievably, it’s still 2-0.

90 minutes are up. The black and white contingent are not happy, their hopes descending like the bright crescent moon watching above. “We can see you sneaking out!” Four injury-time minutes left. The crowd is nervous now, but I’m still confident. No way can they get back into this. No wa- oh. Barton lashes an unstoppable shot and the net bulges in front of us. 2-1 and still nearly four minutes left. Oh crap. Please don’t say we’re that close to history and gonna blow it. I so want to say I was here to see a victory. I can’t believe we might throw it away. I glance at Shell who is hiding behind her gloves…

We’re still attacking, and rightly so. Can we finish them off? WE CAN!!!! It’s 3-1!!! Definitely game over now!! Goodbye Geordies!!! We’ve done it!!! Finished off a Premier League side like they were schoolboys. The final whistle pierces the cold air and as I cheer, clap and look at the incredulous and happy faces of those around me I know I’ve witnessed something special here. A few teenagers start to run onto the pitch, followed by others. Despite warnings, the stewards let a few kids on, too. Shall I go? Invade the pitch? I know it’s wrong, but I’d like to. Hmmm… maybe if I was actually right at the front. I decide just to record the moment and soak in the atmosphere from the stands for a while.

Eventually, with music ringing out telling the whole town of our mighty victory, I pick up the Comet poster as a memento and head for the exit. I may have missed the sensation that was 1998, but today I was part of FA Cup history.

2010 was some year for me. How would I describe it in one word? A Journey. Ok, technically that’s two words but it’s my blog and I can cheat a little.

Journey is certainly apt in the traditional sense – I have been lucky enough to have been able to see a number of new places in the world and even a familiar, well trodden (or run) route.

It has also been a journey for me professionally, having spent almost an entire year doing a role I never thought I’d ever end up doing. Ok, I’m not talking about something exotic such as a porn star or a motorcycle stunt driver, but a Project Manager seemed just as unlikely to me a year ago. (I imagine that it’s less fun than the other two, though). I took it to challenge me, to give me new skills, to provide a change, and it’s certainly done all those.

Finally, I shared a journey for virtually the whole of 2010 with a girl whom I was lucky enough to find when trying something new. It’s been exciting, fun and a trip that’s going to take us to pastures new this year, too, I’m sure.

So, what were my highlights and low points of 2010?

Well, football sucked. Being an England and Liverpool fan last year wasn’t exactly fun. More like…shit. Watching England play terrible in a World Cup they actually had a decent chance of winning was bad enough. Witnessing Germany take us apart was worse. Add to that the December decision which meant I may never see us host the World Cup in my lifetime (even if I live to 110) was enough to make me wish I was I’d been born in Barcelona. If I had been, of course, I would have probably celebrated a trophy or two recently; instead, I watched Liverpool fall to 7th last season and then the ignominy of watching us flirt with relegation. 2011 had better be an improved year on the pitch.

On the flip side, going to the World Cup in South Africa was a great experience. A second World Cup for me and another continent to tick off on my list. The footy was great, the country an eye-opener and the holiday with my friends a delight. 

I also got to see Sacramento and the amazing Pompeii, Brussels and its Atomium, and revel in the blue tranquility of the Maldives.

Want an insight into the pain, the glory, sore nipples, buckets of sweat and killer bushes that is my marathon training? No? Oh well, go away then. But if you are interested in my latest efforts, then please read on…

Welywn Garden City 10 Miles

I feel like I’m 12 years old, waiting for a PE lesson to start. This is probably something to do with it being 10:30am, standing on a school field in a pair of short shorts. I’m at the start of a 10 mile race, with nearly 400 other runners ready to tackle the streets of WGC…right after we do a lap of this school field.

It’s my first race since the ’08 marathon. I look around me – everyone seems to be a proper runner: lean, kitted out appropriately, many in running club colours. There is casual chat around me regarding running, families and the like. I’m just here for the training, to log my first double figures of this campaign and hopefully get in under an hour and a half. It’s also payback time: I had entered this very race in ’08 but had to pull out due to injury, instead watching Steve and T “8-head” go round it without me. Today, I have my girlfriend, Michelle (aka “Shell” to me), along for support, and perhaps Si and his family, no doubt ready to take a photo of me looking in some bad way that he’ll post to Facebook within two seconds of taking it. For now, Shell snaps away as I warm up minutes before the start.

The air is cool, and the sun is threatening to break through and make it uncomfortable for a run. The local MP does some inspirational speech that few people will remember seconds later, as the horn goes and we stream through the starting gates. “Beep!” goes the shoe chip to start my own personal clock. I tuck in midway through the field of runners as we trample a route through the grass. Taking the inside and passing a couple of others as our legs threaten to tangle, I feel like I’m in a proper race. Don’t get boxed in! Use your shoulders! Get in a medal position! Ok, I better calm down, I’m nowhere near the front and it’s not the Olympic 1500m final. This is illustrated quite clearly when we go to get out of the field and come to a small exit that seems to be constructed to only fit about three spotty kids across, not a hoard of athletes who have no wish to slow down and break stride. Great planning. Soon though, I’m out on the streets.

Somehow, I’ve isolated myself. There’s a woman running in blue shorts some way ahead of me that I’m focussing on (not her bottom you see, just, err, as a marker, you know) but there’s not much directly behind me. Suddenly I panic – I’m not last, am I? I glance over my shoulder and see a steady line of people some way back. Phew. I wave to my fan club (Shell has now been joined by her friend) and appear to get a few photos taken of me. On I go.

The drink stops are well-received, although I struggle to handle the small plastic cup. Running with it is fine, it’s just when I try and take a sip I feel like Ted Striker in “Airplane!” There are not too many hills over the two-loop circuit, but my thighs certainly are telling me when I’m going up them. More conditioning is needed if I am to tackle NY, methinks. I pass Shell again, trying my best to look strong and fast. As soon as she’s out of sight, I revert back to a slower, more slump-like posture. It’s beginning to hurt now.

Si appears out of nowhere and cheers me on, iPhone at the ready. The kids are instructed to wave, but seem to be a little bemused at who it is they’re exactly cheering on. Nevertheless, it’s great to see familiar faces and spurs me on. We go through residential areas, on pavements, passing kids going about their Sunday hanging around. Marshals lurk around every corner, pointing in the direction to take, dressed in fluorescent green vests. With my sense of direction, this is probably best, otherwise no doubt I’d end up in St. Albans.

I’m at my lowest now. I’ve just seen the 7 mile sign. 7? 6 was ages ago – it surely must be 8 by now. “Not long left!” said the marshal a while ago. That’s just cruel. All very well her sitting there doing next to nothing, but don’t give us false hope, say it how it is. “Go on! You’re knackered and have about half an hour of running ahead, but keep going!” would been preferable, and more honest. My legs are heavy, my vest is awash with sweat and I feel I’m slowing down. C’mon Andy. A runner in front of me stops, walks for a bit, then continues before I catch up with him. That’s not gonna be me – I don’t stop. Left foot follows right follows left…

More photos, and then I get the sense of being on the back straight. The 9 mile marker has suddenly appeared, sooner than I expected, and this gives me a boost. Either that, or it’s the energy gel I took 15 minutes ago. I pass one of the club runners and feel proud. ’ave it, Harlow Runners. I run round the school – I must be nearly there! Then I see one of the most hated sights in races: people who’ve already finished, walking back to their cars with their white finishers’ bags. Damn you! I still have work to do and you’re basking in the glory already. I continue. When’s it going to end? Down a long stretch, I see a crowd gathering. Time to up the pace, bring on a strong finish. Men in front of me suddenly are left in my wake as my burst surprises even me. Just before the school entrance I see Shell…and we enter our very own race as she dashes to try to capture me crossing the line. Ah, let’s give her the shot she wants, slow down a little, relax. I come towards the line and in sight of the announcer who sees me: “AND HERE COMES NUMBER 350 <quick check of the list>……..ANDY MALES! GIVE US A SPRINT FINISH!” My brain switches to show-0ff mode – I run harder. I sprint. I go for the line like I’m running for Great Britain. The crowd (to me) go wild as I approach. And look at the time! 1:27! I’m under 1.5 hours! I smile as I cross the line and celebrate, not that Shell captures it. Ooops. I think she didn’t keep up with my sprint. That’ll teach me to showboat! I collect another medal for my meagre collection, my goody bag and slowly walk back to the car, smiling smugly at the runners still coming in.

Sorrento Treadmill

Going away anywhere for more than two days means working out where I can run. Here, in Sorrento, Italy, I don’t have many options. Mount Vesuvius looks at me across the bay, challenging me. Hmmm…I might walk up part of you tomorrow, but I don’t think even Steve meant that kind of hill running as part of my training. Trouble is, my hotel is a) on a bit of a hill anyway, and b) in Italy, with Italian drivers close to narrow pavements. I happen to like my limbs in one piece, so I decide to tackle the treadmill.

The hotel is full of people over 50, so I rate my chances on taking the only treadmill; I was right – not a soul around. Twelve miles here I come. Except…twelve miles is a long time – both to run, and to stare at my face in the mirror for what will be two hours. It’s damn hot in here, too. Oh well, gotta be done. Shell decides to jump on the cycle machine to keep me company.

The digits on the treadmill cheerfully display 2 hours to go. I get into my stride. 1 hour 50. Just over ten minutes later, it switches to a delightful 99 minutes left. Oh wonderful. I continue, wiping sweat from my brow, arms, neck, armpits. It’s a hopeless task – I obviously have a leak somewhere. 89 minutes. Just think of the achievement. Keep going. Shell’s jumped to the stepper. I start to play a game with my mind – 79 minutes doesn’t mean 79 minutes – it just means I’m in the 70s. Soon, I’ll be in the 60s, and then that just an hour left. I even ramp up the speed a little – the quicker I go, the faster I get to 12, right?

I’m somewhere in the 40s now, and having to resort to music to keep me going. Not real music, of course – I have no iPod with me – it’s the jukebox in my head. It’s been playing Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer” for a while now, something to do with “Ohhhhhh, we’re halfway there!” that jumped out at me when 6 miles were clocked up. Various other fragments of tunes float around, repeating lines as rhythms that I run to.

I’m nearly there. There’s enough sweat around me to fill the swimming pool and my left groin is complaining but I’m still going. Shell has long finished exercising and is relaxing with her puzzle book nearby, giving me encouraging shouts every now and again. She also supplied me with an energy gel and became the saviour of my nipples by going and getting two plasters. You have no idea the difference that makes!

Down to the 20s…teens…then it’s single figures! C’mon on! Nearly there…almost beaten you, treadmill. Think you’d win? Ha! C’mon! 5 minutes …4…3…2…1 minute…30 seconds…two full hours and we’re done. I stop my watch, slow down to walking pace and smile as 12.11 miles is displayed. As I limp off to my room, Vesuvius seems to taunt my calves, whispering, “tomorrow…tomorrow…”

 Cycle Track Half Marathon

From the glory of WGC, the beauty of Sorrento…to the cycle tracks of Stevenage. After a few days’ rest and carb-loading, I’m ready to attempt another milestone in my training: a half marathon of 13.1 miles. Unfortunately my legs are not the only thing that is ready to run today, and I don’t mean my nose. Something I ate? Not sure, but things aren’t looking good as I contemplate two hours away from a toilet. Ahhhh, the joys of long-distance running…

I leave it to later in the day to recover, which is good, aside from the fact it’s got quite warm out there. For the first time, I’ll have ongoing support, in the form of Shell riding next to me. No megaphone, but at least she can carry the gels and water bottle and keep me company. We set out for what is a daunting run to me as I begin to realise it really is getting serious.

The first flaw in this plan is that I start off more concerned that Shell is ok on the bike; she’s more used to the static kind found in gyms, and it’s been many a year, it seems, since she rode one that actually went somewhere. I remind her that it’s like…well, you know the rest. It feels a bit weird at first, having someone right next to you. I’m not sure if I prefer her in front or behind, but it does take my mind off my running. A couple of miles in and I hear an awful noise behind me – yep, that’s the chain come off. Great. I realise it’s not good for either of us for me to complain at this stage, so I just pause the clock and quickly fix it to get her back and cycling. Let’s hope that’s the last hiccup.

I’m hurting now and strength is being sapped out my thighs by the invisible gods of the hills. This is bad. How am I going to cope in New York with its bridges? Any incline is proving difficult for me. I have a stitch, my right knee is sore, my ear is making me dizzy and once again sweat is cascading down my face. I start to dig deep. “COME ON!” Various outbursts and mantras fall from my lips as I strive to keep rhythm and my legs going. I must not quit.

I’m in Fairlands Lakes now, doing a few circuits. Home is not far away. I raise my arms and spread my fingers to indicate the passing of the ten mile stage. Think of the rest. Think of the milkshake that awaits. The achievement. Think of the…suddenly a bush jumps out me, scratching my arm and hand with its thorns. Stupid bush! Stupid council! Why don’t they trim these things? I’m bleeding, sweating and hurting all over. Great.

Shell has been great, keeping me going, giving me water, encouragement and most importantly not falling off or damaging my bike. I reach the home straight, less than a mile to go. “Time to bring it home!” I say, and start to sprint. Twenty seconds later, I’m barely running. My energy bar is critically low. No showboating this time, Andy, let’s just get home. Soon, I’m running out of cycle track as I finally get near home. 13 miles…13.1 and stop. I’m absolutely knackered. My legs are shot. I’m a mess. And just think – in not so many weeks’ time I’ll have to do that again…twice.

Oh crap…

In 44 days, the England team start their World Cup campaign to end 44 years of “hurt”. No – make that “failure” – squads of 22 players have failed; most of the entire population have been the ones who’ve hurt. Still, in the seven World Cups I’ve experienced there’s been plenty of memories, and I have decided to resurrect this blog to take you through some of my most memorable – both the ecstatically good and world-ending bad.

Let’s start with my very first memory of the best tournament in the world…

1982 – Viva Espana! My first ever World Cup, and I was hooked from the start. I’d only been into football for about a year, and after the successes of Liverpool in the European Cup in 1981 and the league in 1982, I was getting used to winning. 1966 was an earlier generation, and coming from a non-football family I didn’t appreciate at first how much international football meant to the country. I quickly learned, though.

I made two fine World Cup related purchases: Firstly, the Panini Espana 82 World Cup sticker album (which I’vejust dug out tonight) and secondly, the official England World Cup record: This Time (We’ll Get It Right) (B side: England, We’ll Fly The Flag) (my very first record purchase) “We’re on our way, We are Ron’s twenty-two…”

There were plenty of memories of 1982, and I’m sure I’ll blog about others later, but this one is for the first England match I watched: England v France.

You couldn’t get much of a better start than scoring within 26 seconds – Bryan Robson coming in and hooking the ball into the French net. What an introduction to my World Cup adventure!

(Bryan suffered a slight injury as this photo was taken)

I probably didn’t realise at the time, but that was a good French team with Platini, Giresse, Battison et al who were destined to get to the semi finals, and then two years later win Euro ’84. For me at the time, we were just beating some foreign team who I knew were close neighbours to us. I don’t remember their equaliser, and even the YouTube replay I’ve currently got open does nothing to bring back the memory. Who cares, anyway. What I do vividly remember is Robson’s second goal – stealing in with a powerful header to make it 2-1. Funnily enough, I’ve always had the image of his bent arm celebration and the stripy sweatband.

As for the third goal, I’m delighted my memory of Paul Mariner’s celebration didn’t let me down. One of the coolest acknowledgements of a goal you’ll ever likely to see in a World Cup match. Ball comes to him…he shoots…he scores…he raises his arms to the crowd with barely a smile…he slowly walks away, mullet trailing behind. Classic.

Plymouth awaits...

So we beat the French 3-1. Easy. I may as well continue with my memories of England in the tournament, as they are very brief. I don’t recall the Czechoslovakia and Kuwait wins in the first round, and very vaguely the 0-0 v West Germany in the second round group stages, but I do recall the Spain match in which we had to win. It was a tense affair, in which I watched hoping someone would score for us. Surely we’d do it? We couldn’t go out of the World Cup even though we’d not lost? Alas, it ended 0-0, and we went out, leaving me with my first taste of England disappointment.

Strange thing is, until now, I’ve always had a chip on my shoulder about the match, as I remember West Germany and Austria conspiring to knock us out by fixing their match, but after research today, to my surprise this scandal – although real – actually applied to poor old Algeria in the first round group stage. I can’t blame the Germans for our failure this time! Funny how the memory fools you. Still, I do correctly remember two English heroes named Brooking and Keegancoming on to the save the day for us, to no avail. It was their last appearances in an England shirt. Don’t worry Kev – you’ll be back in seventeen years for more disappointment as manager.

That match got me started. 1982 got me hooked. Stay tuned for tears, ecstasy, despair, drugged-up Argentinians, some of the most blatant hacks ever and those damn-awful penalties…

Great Scott!!

Did you know it’s just five years until we reach the timelines of Back to the Future II? I remember watching it being amazed at all the cool things we were likely to have in the future. At the time, it was over a quarter of a century away, so of course some of it would come true, wouldn’t it? I’d be flying in cars, wearing auto-fitting Nike trainers, having accurate weather predictions and of course travelling around on hoverboards (despite the fact that I’d obviously be in my early forties by then). It wasn’t some space adventure where we were living on the moon (damn you, Space 1999), it was on Earth, in America and released during a decade of ever-increasing progress. So what big thing that graced BTTFII are we now most likely to see? 3-bloody-D

Yeah, I know 3D isn’t actually new. It’s over sixty years old, actually. But after its heyday in the 50s, a brief comeback in the 80s, now it looks to be THE thing for 2010.
Personally, I’m not convinced. Here’s my some of my experiences of 3D to date:

Sometime in the 80s…Wow! Look at this computer magazine! Some of its pages are in 3D! Let’s put on the flimsy, stupid specs and see…Oh. It looks…different. Some parts of the page stand out slightly. Great. Maybe I’ll put these specs away for another twenty years…

Early 90s…You mean to say I just stare at this book with a silly pattern and I’ll see a jet fighter suddenly appear before my eyes. Yeah right. Is this Magic Eye simply a con? You paid how much for this crap?..Squint, you say? Can’t see it…can’t see it…I think I’m about to go blind…Wow! Where the heck did that come from? Cool. Ok, next page…can’t see it…can’t see it…Ok, I’m bored now.

A little later, Trocadero, Picadilly Circus. I care not that I look a complete dork with a huge headset on, waving my arms in the air at nothing. VR is the future, man. Wow! It moves when I move! It’s a little slow, though…actually, what’s happening? How do you play this game? What do you mean I’m dead?

1995, Honey I Shrunk the Audience, Universal Studios, Florida. At least the specs are better. Cool effects – I’m shrunk. The floor’s actually moving! I can feel the dog’s sneeze on my face! Here come the legions of mice running towards us…why are people screaming in front of me? How the heck did they make us feel their tails against our legs?! Wow.

1997, Terminator ride, Universal Studios, Florida. Hey this 3D effect is slick. And there are real actors on stage. What’s that box opening beside me? Oh shit! That’s a real, full-size, mean-looking endoskelton with a gun just inches away from me! I can feel the heat from its fire! And he has 5 other mates! SkyNet really IS taking over the world! We’re doomed! Where’s the door? I won’t be back, Arnie!

2010, Avatar film, cinema. Ok, the glasses have got a little sillier. Everyone looks like they’ve just been to an NHS optician in 1983. Here comes the animation. Oh wow. Are they computer graphics? It’s so smooth. Done brilliantly. Oh, there’s the 3D effects. The film looks…different. Here come some grenades flying at the screen…ok, why did I just duck?!!

Maybe we’re getting a little closer to that shark that comes out of the Jaws 19 advert and scares poor 1985 Marty shitless for a few seconds. But the way forward for 3D has to be more than just visual effects. The experiences of my Universal Studio films led me to believe you need to tackle the other senses as well. The Terminator endoskeletons weren’t in 3D – they were real robotics – but throw in the mini-movie, 3D, actors and suddenly your brain says this is all real. Cheap but fun effects of 3D objects poking at you work well the first few times, but after that they’re just a gimmick.

So what about the future? Apparently some of the World Cup this year is going to be in 3D. Ok…and what will that bring? Will Maradona be leaping towards us celebrating his team’s late equaliser? Will we be ducking as the German penalty hits the back of our net? Or do we get to explore Beckham’s latest hairstyle from all angles?

If a certain company with half of Skynet’s name has their way, I’m sure in a few years everyone will think 2D is about as modern as the 14″ analogue TV your Gran still refuses to give up. Maybe I’ll even ditch the carbon-hungry plasma for one, though maybe only if ITV4 show repeats of Baywatch in 3D.

For now, though, I’ll settle for the development of a mode of transport that doesn’t turn into the most dangerous, unpredictable vehicle just because a few flakes of the white stuff land on our shores.

I don’t know about you, but for me, 2009 was one heck of a rollercoaster ride full of highs, bumps, twists and turns. And just when I thought it was cruising nicely to begin the next lap, it threw me off the side and left me battered and bruised. So begins a painful start to 2010.

I think I learned more in 2009 about myself and life than I have in the last few years put together. It challenged my morals, fulfilled some fantasies, forced  me to review the way I live, and made me realise what’s really important and what isn’t. It gave me more confidence, pushed my boundaries, made me do things I never thought I would, and gave me some of the happiest memories of my life. And there was I just hoping for just a bit of fun, sun and excitement!

But I don’t want this entry to be a “best of” for 2009 – that’s all in the past! No, I want to concentrate on this year, 2010. Wow – 2010. As I looked down at the clock in my car on New Year’s Day I realised things were different. The digits displayed almost in binary: 01/01/10. Another decade. Except, we didn’t really think of the 2000′s (or “Noughties” if you prefer) as a decade, did we? Never had the same ring or identity as the 80s or 90s. And what the heck do we call this decade, anyway?

So what wonderful things do I have to look forward to in my life this year?

Well, the World Cup, for a start. Although the likely prospect of more England heartache doesn’t really appeal to me, I’ll at least be making it over there to see a few other group games.

The first baby in my family for 14 years. Go, my little cousin Claire!

Ummm…. wait, there must be something else…

There is nothing else I can think of I’m looking forward to.

…Yet.

And that’s the point.

2009 was all what it was for me because for most of it I made it happen. Things don’t just lay themselves on a plate. Sure, some things appear out of the blue, but you have to grab them, and the majority you have to search for. It may have ended bad, but once I’ve picked myself up it’s up to me to plot a successful year. You want things to look forward to? Well give yourself something to look forward to!

So, are you tired of all this self-involved crap yet? Tough. It’s my blog and this post today is primarily for me. They can’t all be goat-herding, bungee-plummeting, ball-busting, action-packed accounts, you know!

But I’ll leave the last words for you. I don’t know what I’ll make of this year for me, but I’ve had had enough fun and happiness to last me a while regardless. Shit, I’ve got a great life and should never really complain. I hope 2010 gives you health and laughter…and I sincerely wish you the best of luck in reaching for what you want.

WARNING: DO NOT READ THIS POST! Well, at least seriously consider not reading it when you realise the subject. I’m serious – reading this may result in nausea, shock or simply never being able to look at me the same again. This is a different post to all my others, quite personal and of a sensitive nature.

You sure you want to continue?  Ok then, I’ll tell you the subject matter. Ready? How can I say this? It’s to do with “down there” (and I don’t mean Australia this time).

If you’re a bloke, then you may feel very uncomfortable in parts. If you’re a lady, then this might get a bit graphic. If you’re a friend, think about whether you want to know personal stuff like this about me. If family, well, this is more than I usually share. If colleague from work – if I ever have any meetings with you, just don’t think about it ever again.

Why am I blogging about this? Well, for three reasons:

1. This is a personal blog, and this has been quite a significant point of my life. It would be strange not to.

2. It may be quite entertaining in parts. Especially to the sadists amongst you.

3. It may help someone. If a man out there reads this and takes action as a result, it’ll be worth it.

Still here? Are you sure you want to read on? Don’t say I didn’t warn you…

First of all, let me say that I’m ok. I could build up suspense, suggesting something sinister, but as it stands right now it’s far from the worst that could happen. Not that I knew that at the start…

Many years ago – I’m talking last millennium – I thought something different was happening “down there”. I’ll cut to the chase: it was looking like I had one testicle bigger than the other. What did I do when I discovered this? I did what any other self-respecting man would do who took care of his body: I did nothing and worried about every now and again. For years.

Eventually, I decided to do some research on the subject. I was astonished – did you know that nearly all men have one larger than the other? Why the heck didn’t anyone bother to tell this to me? Thanks biology lessons – you made me dissect a frog but failed to give me this vital bit of information that had me worried for ages. So, I stopped worrying about this natural phenomenon.

Skip forward a few more years. It was a little bigger, and now I was experiencing some pain at times. I tested for lumps – I didn’t seem to find any, but it was not quite right. “Rightie” was definitely different to good ol’ “Leftie”. Maybe something was a bit wrong. So what did I do when I had this realisation? Yep, you guessed. I did nothing and worried about it from time to time. I was sure if I left it long enough it would go away…

It didn’t. Eventually I took the plunge and booked in to see the doctor. I can’t tell you how shit scared I was by the day of the appointment. Once I’d made up my mind to go, I opened myself up to all the possibilities it could be. It was this point I realised I was an idiot. Let me spell this out for you, fellers:

IF YOU THINK YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH YOUR BALLS, SEE A DOCTOR STRAIGHT AWAY! DON’T FUCK AROUND!

(John Hartson’s currently in the news – he was diagnosed much later when cancer took over. He’s still going, but in July his survival prospects, although still quite good at about 60:40, would have been 99:1 had he been diagnosed earlier.)

Luckily for me, he thought I just had an epididymal cyst – harmless and no treatment was really needed unless you wanted it. Still, he wanted an ultrasound to check it out. So, a trip to the hospital for someone to look inside my balls…

I’m sitting in the waiting room. In a few minutes, someone’s gonna have me on my back and start rubbing a strange instrument over my nether regions. Suddenly, I have The Dread of Excitement. It is well-known fact that men have almost zero control over whether they get excited. There seems to be a direct route between the brain and your man in the middle, and sometimes where it gets its materials from to cause such exciting signals is a mystery. To you, it could be the most mundane day, but somewhere in your subconscious is a party and you are about to get surprisingly uncomfortable any second now. Even though this is a quite a scary ordeal for me now, what if “he” decides the attention is, actually, quite pleasing? What if the doctor is a fit, young female? Oh crap! Don’t think about it, Andy. Trouble is, this is what I call the Pink Elephant Syndrome. Don’t think of a pink elephant. Try it. Your brain has to think of a pink elephant in order to process that. Which means you thought of one. D’oh. Ok, just think of nothing. Clear your head and think of nothing. Yeah, like that worked for Dan Aykroyd.

Ok here we go. The doc’s an old bloke – bonus. Oh the indignity of it, though. Cold gel swamps my groin as he roughly rolls a small scanner over my two veg. This actually hurts. Chance of excitement: zero. I relax a little. I look at the monitor. I actually get a bit freaked out seeing people’s baby scan photos, so you can imagine I was particularly disturbed looking at moving pictures of the inside of my testes. Imagine watching Patrick Moore showing the transit of Mercury across the sun, and you’ll have an idea.

Results were the same. It appeared to be a cyst. I could have it removed. So I did what any other bloke with a problem like this that could be fixed: I did nothing and hoped for the best. Many years later…

“So you promise you’ll do something about it? It’s about time, you  know.”

“Ok. I promise”

I’m sitting in the same hospital, probably in the same seat, waiting for another scan after making the decision to act on my problem. The docs now tell me it’s a hydrocele - a build up of fluid. I could get it removed by a big needle, but it would come back probably in a month or two. You had me with “needle”. They want another scan as it’s so long since my last one. Should be no problem – I’ve done this before. No Dread of Excti- oh no – the doc’s a cute, young woman! Arrgghhh! I’m lying here with a hot girl spurting gel all over my naughty bits! This could be embarrassing for both of us. Maybe she’ll be a bit insensitive and rough in handling them. Here she goes…She has the touch of an angel! It’s like being gently caressed by the softest sponge plucked from the deepest ocean by someone polishing their most delicate antiques! She is seriously good with that scanner! Some men pay for this kind of action! Ok Andy, think of something else. Nice ceiling tiles. Nice dots within the tiles. Think of car mechanics. I know nothing of car mechanics! Think of work. Imagine the worst possible thing that you could have. Just don’t look down!!!! Eventually, she finishes and I survive, somehow. I clean up the mess, pull up my trousers and walk out the door, with a strange feeling that I should shout out “Call me” as I go…

Thing is, the scans weren’t quite straightforward. They showed a couple of dark spots. I was told they were probably minor, but they’d monitor them in a few months. Nothing could be done about the hydrocele until they were sure it was ok. So, I had to wait until the all clear, which I got earlier this year. And then it came:

“So, it’s up to you. Do you want the surgery to remove the hydrocele?”

Translation: Do you want to put up with regular but mild discomfort, or do you want to authorise someone to put you to sleep, take a knife, rip open your scrotum, drain the fluid, turn part of it inside out, stitch you up, leave you with a scar and kiss goodbye to any fun activities for several weeks?

Was I to break that promise? No, of course not.

“Yes.” Gulp. Fast forward to Tuesday 07:00 this week…

Rightie is not happy. “You’ve got to be kidding me! But we’ve been ok for years! It’ll be agony! A knife, godammit!”

Leftie only has one concern, spelled out carefully to me: “Make.Sure.They.Get.The.Correct.Side”.

I get up and taken to the hospital. I had to let Dad know what was going on a while ago, after a hospital mix up left urgent messages at my parents’ house. I have to say I was glad I did tell him, though, despite the fact I’d rather discuss photography and computers rather than how my balls were today. He’s been great, and I say goodbye to him as I get taken into some strange waiting area. I have little idea what’s gonna happen now. I get given a gown to put on, backwards. The straps are obviously at the back, out of sight, and I wonder how anyone fit and able can successfully tie all the straps, let alone the poor and arthritic. You’d think they could do better than this. I look down at the writing adorned in patterns across it “For use in hospital only”. And there was I going to go clubbing in it. The elderly guy nearly twice my age from behind the next curtain is talking to himself. I try to read my book, but soon the surgeon comes in to see me. His name is Dr. Swallow. [insert your own childish joke here]

“Tell you what, just so we’re sure we know which one to drain, I’ll put a big arrow on the right side”

I give a nervous laugh, then realise he’s not joking. I drop my pants and look down at the surreal sight of a man put two huge arrows on my leg and stomach indicating “IT’S THIS SIDE!” Leftie relaxes. I sit and read more of my book. Should I be really nervous? Well, I decided that I wouldn’t be a wuss for the simple reason there are literally thousands of people right now who are undergoing worse surgery – life or death procedures – than me. I’ve read about kids going through chemo, people not knowing if they’re going to wake up or not, or what the surgeons may find. Yeah, I’m a little scared, but they’re the brave ones so man up and take it, Andy.

Too soon, I’m being led into the theatre. Oh shit. This is really happening. I’m about to be put under. And then it becomes surreal. Everyone is really nice. Relaxed. Joking as they insert this, strap that. We chat about my book, what I do for a living. It’s like a social get together. I get injected with something and told this will put me out. Yeah right. It’s doing nothing. I’m gonna be awake for the whole procedure! Woooahhhhh…hang on…I feel drunk! Cool! I’m still not sleepy, though. I wonder-

What the %^&*! Seemingly seconds later, I’m lying in a bed outside the theatre. A dull ache in my loins tells me I’ve had the op. Wow. That juice really did work. One of the surgeons comes past. “You’re looking a bit drained, Mr Males.” 1…2…3…oh yeah, I get it. Git. I feel groggy, then get offered a drink of water. And coffee. And would I like a sandwich? What is this – table service? Cool. I accept everything. Soon, I feel pain. Arrgghhhh. Rightie is pissed, and is letting me know. I down some pills and get asked if I want any morphine. Ah nurse, you are spoiling me. Morphine me up love.

Dad arrives later when I’m ready to go and I experience another first: a wheelchair ride. Cool. Well, cool in that I’ll be able to get out it soon. Was this what it was like being pushed around as a toddler? I get home and make my way round the house like John Wayne searching for his horse. This isn’t going to be easy.

A little later once we’ve eaten and Dad’s seen I’m ok and gone (I’m surprisingly fine, if a little tender) I take a look at the damage. Oh. My. God. I won’t describe the carnage here, but let’s say there’s blood (“to be expected”) and bruising. Oh and it looks like someone’s had fun with a shaver! And why the heck is my left thigh shaved as well??!! Oh the fun…

So there you have it. If you’ve got to here having gone through all that lot I hope it was worth it. I’m sure it may result in a plethora of jokes at my expense, but hey. But don’t worry – I won’t be showing anyone the scars…

Monday evening, in a hotel room in Vegas. I’m standing in front of the mirror looking back at my reflection. I no longer recognise the person staring back at me.

 I’ve had the beard since mid-April, when in Australia I decided I couldn’t be bothered to shave any more. I’d always wanted to see what it was like with one, and having grown up with a dad who I’d never seen his chin, I guess it was inevitable that at some stage I would entertain more than just a few days’ growth. The experiment continued even when I’d got back to work. So how did it all work out with my eight-month shadow?

Firstly, the beard itself. Every bloke is different – a lot of us can’t even grow a beard, or at least if we try we can end up in a patchy mess. Even David Beckham - one of the most stylish men on this planet – couldn’t quite pull off an expert beardy look. Luckily, Dad’s genes must have given me enough to pull off a reasonable beard. Just. A bit patchy in places, but when I just let it all go and didn’t trim it at all, there was a fair degree of coverage. It wasn’t particularly coarse – I don’t have the kind of stubble on which you can strike a match – but it joined up in the right places, aside from the sideburns which I had to grow down a little to avoid a gap that a certain friend of mine is famous for. Colour is another thing. Black is fine, but blond can look feeble and white makes you look like you’re coming to town in December. If you’re ginger, then you either have to be damn bold or damn stupid to grow one. Mine was fairly dark, but unfortunately my advancing years (which – dammit – are about to advance again next week) subjected it to a sprinkling of white here and there. Most shocking was the single ginger hair that sprouted up like a rebellious carrot in a field of potatoes. Err, if carrots and potatoes sprouted up, of course. (note to self: improve similes). However, with some targeted shaver work they were often eradicated, lest they spread to my entire face.

It started off quite bushy – I thought if you were gonna have a beard then you might as well have  a proper one – but unfortunately my skin suffered. Thinking that this change must have meant a second wind of puberty (I assure you I did pass through one already) the skin under the beard kindly gave me the acne that a teenager would be embarrassed about. Yes, the beard hid a lot of it, but under scrutiny, it looked like something found in a Dominoes bin on a Sunday morning. (Probably by someone who, ironically, looked not too dissimilar). Yuck. Flash photos were a nightmare; thank goodness for the wonders of Photoshop.

So, I bought myself a trimmer/clipper for it. Have you ever used on of those? You put the guard on the shave and then work out how to do it. Which way up? Which direction do I do it? As you push down and hear the first cutting buzz, you panic and wonder how much it’ll cut off. That’s the thing with beards: one slip, one mistaken setting  and you face the prospect of looking a fool for a few days or shaving the whole damn thing off. (I slipped once without the guard and created a small line under my chin that looked like a small explorer had been through on their quest to circumnavigate my face.) I did get used it, however, and began trimming. I started off with a number 9 (wow) and by my last shave it had got down to a much tidier, but still beardy 5. Result? Much better skin and less patches.

People’s reactions were interesting. My friends, predictably, took the piss. “Bum”, “Hobo”, “Beardface”, “Beardy” – all hilarious, cunningly-crafted nicknames. “Good luck in the Shipman/Sutcliffe looky likey competition” was another comment, when told of my new status by email. Others were much more receptive – an ex-colleague was over the moon to hear I’d grown one, as a self-confessed pogonophile, although a little disappointed it hadn’t reached Brian Blessed proportions. Other colleagues thought it suited me, whilst some just shook their heads in disbelief. I think Dad was quite proud, and Mum liked it, but then they’ve lived with a beard for a long time.

Funnily enough, when I had a goatee a few years back it received more attention than my beard this time. I’m not sure what I expected, and I didn’t particularly want to stand out, but most of the time when out it never got mentioned. When you look around a typical bar, a number of men sport beards now, so I guess it’s not that unusual. Tired of the jokes, bored of the constant trimming, wanting to try and steal a year of two from my looks, I pick up the shaver.

It’s like my face has travelled back in time. The wrinkles are still there (laughter lines, I call them) and the eyes are screaming Vegas! at me, but the chin is back. Hello stranger – don’t I recognise you from somewhere?