Listen, I know you could hear
I saw you looking
From the beyond
Memories of you are treasured
No matter the bitter end
We all make mistakes
But those wrongs pass
As did you
Farewell
Month: December 2025
2025: just a reflection
A bumper year of ups and downs. More downs than I can ever recall. A tough year. A painful one. Loss and confusion has reigned throughout. Yet as we approach the dawn of 2026, there is reason to be optimistic. Right? If 2025 knocked the wind out of you, or it made you feel heavy, or plans had to change, then at least we achieved getting through this year. Survival was our summit. Now let’s climb 2026.
Been worried about my Mam for some time now. Wish she’d quit smoking and things would improve for her. Said farewell to Paul Hux, Mam’s partner and love, which hurt far too much. The end was painful in so many ways and reminded us all of how little time we have. We have yet to scatter his ashes. We will. As per Paul’s wishes. Ideally in better mountain climbing weather and with a degree of fitness to do so. And without rush.
Our kid, Paul Jr., has been near-enough unemployed all year and I’m far from convinced he’s trying hard to find work. Not that I don’t blame him, his confidence must be blown to shit after being treated like a disposable whore in the world of retail. If he had empathy and emotions he’d easily find a more social job. I really wish Mam and Paul Jr. a better year in 2026
Soon after my Mam’s ex, and my brother’s father, also called Paul, exited life. His near-adopted daughter, Astrid (my little big sister), was devastated and in hospital for considerable time. She’s better now and living near-independently. I never got on much with Paul but I did call him and kind of apologise for my behaviour as a teenager and he laughed it off. It was weird. I also helped him get some cash and a few bits to his hostel but a week after he’d left life. Astrid needs some closure and a place say her farewell. A tree-planting idea has been mentioned.
Then Mam and Paul Hux’s bearded dragon passed away too. As did my younger brother and sister’s mam Bernie. And new and old friends at football. It really has been an odd year. Work has been tough. Bugs caught me and life seemed to grind to a halt. Limbo was broken by news of the visa in December. Good mates have been around for me, even when I push them away, or hide away from conversation or life. I am thankful for Dan, my footy friends Haguey, Alison and Chris, Brahma, Daz, and others.
Panda GunDOGan has been spoilt by my Dad and nagged to death by his kangaroo-bollocked sized buddy Blue. Panda’s twin from another mother, Sky, the cat has really got used to her black and white oversized twin. It is great to see. Especially in winter when they’re cuddled up together. Heartwarming scenes!
Family life has been divided by geography but the green-lit visa has arrived. An early Christmas present. One I needed. I have been close to giving up and legging it back to China. Optimism has returned. 2026 is make or break. 2025’s highlights involved summer in Guangxi, Chengdu, Dali, Shangrila, and Guangdong. Some miles laid down and memories boxed away.
Escape has been difficult but through a quadruple helping of Doves music gigs, the sensational Divine Comedy, the magnificent John Grant (with the incredible Lynks), and an out of this world Jeff Wayne’s War of the Worlds at the Coop Live! Music has been an amazing escape. Like many walks with Panda. Hull Pot and Hunt Pot by Pen y Ghent have left memorable impressions from nature. I will return! At football we all lost Shez and others. Saying goodbye is not easy. I send my love to the families and friends. City, Manchester City, carried on forever more. Not a bad year after a transitional season that saw us finish runners-up in the FA Cup and 3rd in the Premier League. We’ve ended 2025 second to a powerful Arsenal and still fighting for 3 cups. Never say never.
On reflection, 2025 has made me thankful for many things: safe food standards; NHS healthcare that is accessible and paid through National Insurance; fairness and rights that are enforced and ones we can challenge via appeal (even if the archaic processes are slow); gun control; vaccines and their effectiveness; Bee Network and soon to be nationalised railways as part of readily available public transport; and family and friends for being there.
Sending love to those who’ve been there (wherever there is), family, friends, those who feel lonely during holidays, those who struggle to afford to celebrate holiday times, those who grieve a loss, anyone spending time with someone who isn’t supportive, the caregivers, nurses, doctors, charity workers, good samaritans, those battling mental illness and depression, and you for reading. Peace and love.
The feeling.
115 charges! Cheats! Empty seats. Typed, chanted, and slung at us like shit.
Where’s your European Cup? One charge and you fucked it up. That feeling when the ball hits the net.
Is this a library? Empty seats on tour. Name your greatest hit.
It’s going to VAR. How much did you pay the referee? The head beaded in sweat.
Where were you when you were shit? Your fans are from London. Remember the first time as you emerged in the Kippax.
Who are you? Small town in Stockport. The away day journey debate.
Programmes, get your programmes. The ruined weekends piled in stacks.
That painful loss. Old Trafford rocking. Swallow me up by eight.
They let us down. Why the fuck are you still here? Football blighted.
Replays of 93:20 Magical cheats! Fresh air or an armchair.
Tension, glorious tension. Squeaky bum time. Love City, hate U****d.
Squashed in at trophy parades. Feels unfair. Just a sack of air.
The Old Black and Green, Steve Moore selling programmes, the Dias stand bouncing.
Editor’s deadline, adverts flowing, whistles blowing, and Abba playing loud.
Winter’s away days over land and sea – and Stretford or Llansantffraid for a trouncing.
The full time shriek and the roar of the faithful crowd.
The hugs with Paul Lake, the ground that did shake, the moments.
Sergio, Silva, and Kompany alongside Lee, Bell, and Summerbee.
Moments we did. Moments we didn’t. The newly built monuments.
Trautmann out-stretched, Bell on a stand, Book End it should be.
Years from now moments in the stands with mates, old and new.
Holding fanzines, that’s where we’ll be: stretching out cheering you.
Don’t go against your own. Play on. Play strong. Play in Blue and White.
But most of all, Boys In Blue Never give in: do it right.
Glyderau
Dominating presence, distant popularity;
The Everest of Gogledd Cymru.
A classic climb with countless stories;
One more will follow.
Seasoned.
Spring blossoms paint a thousand colours in vain;
Threads of emotion entwine aimlessly, reaching far and wide;
Past events bind and entangle my soul ever deeper.
Summer moon cannot soothe even a sliver of my heart;
Impartial Heaven and Earth are are not my obstacle;
To know and act in harmony is enlightenment.
Autumn waves drift across a thousand mountains of lost leaves;
Antlers lay fractured on soil ripening with fungal growth;
Colours shine yellows, reds, and browns signalling life in a new light.
Winter snow builds to gently bend a single blade of stubborn grass;
Life on hold as survival becomes a testing testimony;
Throughout this long year, I have stood strong: I go on.
1915
Onslaught
Grotesque
Long-forgotten
Excrement rotting duckboard
Lice-infested vermin blurred within our souls
Stagnant distorted mirrors fractured without reflection
Obscene suspended fates
Pointless sorties advance and retreat our limbo
Slaughtered soil shelters no seed
Incompetent with fear for the front
Incomprehensibly unable to step backwards
Confusion reigns
Glory to the flag
For King and country
A noble death awaits those called to the shallows
Amongst it all, the known and unknown shoulder to shoulder
Rhythmically pulsing
Inequality
The fine line between a tent and a council flat.
The missed payments, stacking bills, and demanding phone calls.
The desperation of a meal ticket that hangs just out of reach.
The humiliation of going to a food bank and asking for help.
The indignation of waiting in a hospital corridor.
The hope and fear of never quite reaching your goals.
Pupil enlightened
Went to a foreign land to teach a language;
Came away a pupil enlightened;
Yet deep down, insecure, lost, and frightened.
Returned once again, a teacher of sorts;
Exchanged words through gained culture;
Yet inside parts lay torn up like leftovers from a vulture.
Empty dreams, wayward walks, ambitious ideas;
No urgency to take first flight;
Stood there looking up at everything bright.
Hope came along, a bundle of delightful fears;
Taught by all, time to tackle doubt’s countless chapters;
For the next part, praying for aspirational longing raptures.
Soul
I got myself variety of problems, for my soul, and my body, and my mind can’t take it anymore.
But here I stand, future in hand, cherished memories at hand, and the future is closer than yhe door.
The winds blow long, the heart beats strong, the path I follow is one I fall for.
For all I see, taste, and feel, and all I hear, touch, and smell, is hope and hope reached for in restore.
The days of dark, are out of the park, no longer distracting me with feelings I abhor.
Simple complications.
cervical radiculopathy
paresthesia
spondylosis
dermatome
worsening neurological deficits
occiput
pinched nerve
pins and needles
aging wear and tear
the nerve path
clumsy hands
headaches
Cold moon.
Bells clank and clatter
far off on the hills up high.
Above the wild white wonder
as large as the sky.
I departed for a walk
on a winter’s day;
Scattered tufts of frozen blades
guided the way.
I tasted the excitement
on the wind’s frozen air.
No animal moved freely
under my glare.
Children slid, jumped, and threw
their newfound toy.
Ran my hands through the powder
embracing each flake of joy.
The trees groaned under
weights as heavy as a house.
Soon the sun would say goodbye
like dying flames shining on a winter’s grouse.
Their arms wrapped up
against nature’s blanket of chalky dry milk.
Glistening fields of brightness
reflecting the overwhelming beamed sun on silk.
Keeping gifts in mind beyond
the long-passed autumn nights.
The excitement of finite December
filled with hope and delights.
Fall.
The leaves fall.
They embrace the ground.
Their fall is one of love.
They nourish the soil.
The roots return.
Branches stretch out.
The sun warms.
New leaves grow.
Ready to fall again.
Pending under way.
Just a sign would be good. A little update. Yet nothing.
Eight weeks, they said. That was months ago. How can a win feel like defeat? That jubilation has long passed. Instead an ache like no other has filled the void. I feel it in my chest, my collarbone, and as firing spasms of burning paresthesia. It hurts.
I’ve never felt so insecure, so vulnerable, or so weak. It shatters me: a nerve-wracking wrecking ball of uncertainty. I feel waves of anger and catch myself ready to lash out. I picture walls with new found dents, wrecked knuckles, boot-marks in fences, and all manner of destruction.
My mind tests itself with views that I fully disagree with. I see the Union Flags and England colours draped and tatty on street lighting across Manchester and I feel that I don’t belong anymore. This isn’t the nation I grew up in. I feel ashamed to be British. I feel lost.
And that all-important growth is all because of life in limbo. I feel the self-appointed hangman’s noose tighten. I question whether I should section myself. My mind is at war. My body is giving in. It’s weighed down, as if trudging in mud, and I am sinking.
The bad news flows like a torrent over High Force waterfall. The plunge pool rises and I’m face down. The breaths of air I want to take are slipping away. “Come back” on one hand versus a suspended existence on the other. A pulse racing. Light flickering to off.
I’m a grenade. The pin is loose. It won’t take much. A lost bike light in a dark park refused to be found. I boil further. The tangled lead and the dog that refuses to follow. I pull harder. A stubbed toe. A tear that refuses to flow. I am ready to burst.
It’s the hope that kills you.
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