cervical radiculopathy
paresthesia
spondylosis
dermatome
worsening neurological deficits
occiput
pinched nerve
pins and needles
aging wear and tear
the nerve path
clumsy hands
headaches
life
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.
Newton Heath
This way to the motion
This way I finally go
God hand me a chance to reply
God deal me a possibility
Grab your thoughts and let’s go
Round our way
Drabness wraps silent days
Buried beneath, I could be
Time to escape this forgotten place
This way to set motions
Pioneering experiences are rife
We should seek our recompense
We should escape to seek luminescence
We slide a pathway downwards
We slip on stones downwards
The supermarket lay dormant
Even the pound shops sag lazily
This way full of emotion
This way we cannot go
God hand a hope in hell
God deal out and show
Drabness wraps silent nights
Dull broken tower blocks sagging
Buried beneath I could be
Dull broken tower blocks flagging
The market is gone
The library fades from thoughts
The canal is filled with unwanted waste
The bars have barred-up broken windows
Long left the football team
The cemetery has been buried further
The old spire stands unsighted
Its stained-glass soul shattered
The locos are rusting beyond repair
The Vale’s trees collapse in gales
Brookdale, a car park of gas-heads
This way for our motion
This way we finally go
God hand us a chance to fly
God deal us a possibility
Strength
It seems that the strongest people make a little time and much effort to help others. Even when they carry their own problems. Such as someone suffering from mental trauma, yet still running a soup kitchen for the homeless. Mentally, physically, and stamina all weaved as one. The value of community and humanity at the forefront of their intentions.
“…young pioneers, men and women of magnificent intellectual and moral calibre, breaking stones and building roads under the blazing rays of the Palestinian sun” – Albert Einstein, letters to the Manchester Guardian
There are many scenarios whereby someone wants to help, thinks about helping, but is paralysed by their own situation. That person shows courage in heart and mind but feels incapacitated to do anything. I’m sure many ex-soldiers feel that way. To go from camaraderie and belief to applying for jobs at Asda or security jobs must be eye-opening. Lest we forget the sacrifices of the dead. Yet, the living return as remains.
Clout within the context of the mind can vary from mood to mood. Feelings set by durability depend on the firmness and flow of energy. Digging deep for your own personal fortitude can be taxing, especially when tested time and time again. The power of looking after your mental and physical health sometimes demands a giant-feeling step back, even if in reality it is a tiny shuffle backwards. That autonomy and power to choose can lend itself to stability that may lead to further tenacity.
“You know I just can’t believe things have gotten so bad in this city that there’s no way back. I mean, sure, it’s dirty, it’s crowded, it’s polluted, it’s noisy and there’s people all around who’d just as soon step on your face as look at you. But come on! There’s got to be a few sparks of sweet humanity left in this burned-out ‘burg and we just have to figure out a way to mobilize it.” – Dan Aykroyd as Ray Stantz, Ghostbusters II
Brute force and the strong arm of the law may represent toughness but that former of vigorous vitality is fit for only destructive occasions or conflicts. Matching the body, brawn, and backbone of an enemy intent on your destruction may be suitable for Israel taking on Hamas, but crossing that line to deliver hardiness, pith, and robustness on all citizens of Gaza is just pure evil. Don’t all human beings, especially children, deserve security? And, as humanity watches around the world, the lustiness of the right wing rises and erodes the stalwartness and stableness of many social systems. Substance and sturdiness crumble in the path of Russian wars on Ukraine and others. The steamroller slays steadiness.
“Brian: Look, you’ve got it all wrong! You don’t need to follow me. You don’t need to follow anybody! You’ve got to think for yourselves! You’re all individuals!
Crowd: [in unison] Yes! We’re all individuals!
Brian: You’re all different!
Crowd: [in unison] Yes, we are all different!
Man in crowd: I’m not…
Crowd: Shhhh…” – Monty Python’s The Life of Brian, script extract
Greedy rich elite carry financial stamina. See also: Amazon, Tesco, Coca Cola, and the list goes on. A force for good might be in there somewhere but can its muscle and nerve fend off the hefty demands of the profit margin? The Earth landscape of 2025 seems to be an era of A.S. (Actual Stupidity) battling Artificial Intelligence to see what physique can emerge from the ashes of stewed sinews stuffed in socks of soggy steel. Nothing says nationalism like a Union Flag on a lamppost in autumn. Or, demanding all wear a poppy for those who paid the sacrifice to fight fascism.
The potency of who shouts loudest or who shouts longest and for the greatest amount of time is silencing solid sound debate. As such the healthiness and verdure of society is suffering. When a country of people struggle and that pain is visual to a globe we all loose our vim, zip, and stoutness. Isn’t it time to resolve differences? Or, should we stand idle as grown men shout abuse outside hotels filled with asylum-seeking kids and women?
“Dear Sir, When a real and final catastrophe should befall us in Palestine the first responsible for it would be the British and the second responsible for it the Terrorist organizations build [sic] up from our own ranks. I am not willing to see anybody associated with those misled and criminal people. Sincerely yours, Albert Einstein.” – Albert Einstein, letters
Give peace a chance. Stop being knobheads. #StopBeingKnobheads
Intrusive Thoughts
Saturday was a tough day. Tough to get out of bed. Tough to put one leg in front of the other.
Heading to the ground, I suddenly felt the need to cry, and slip away somewhere alone. I’ve always found it easy to step back and find solace or pull myself up. Today felt different. It was as if some gremlin was hanging on my toes inviting me to slide under ground into a pool of blackness. I dropped my friend Nat a message and went for a refreshing wander. I thought about calling my best mate Dan and realised how much that I didn’t want to speak. I sat and stared at the bleak Ashton canal. Its uninviting tones warned away those beyond water. I peered at leaves and their array of colours. Autumn’s cooler breezes had arrived.
Motivation is limited. I feel energy levels have sapped. I don’t want to do anything. It seems like every day is a push against a wall that won’t budge. I have so much to live for. I have so much to be responsuible for. I am incredibly lucky. Yet, the coolness of autumn and the shedding leaves feel unwelcome right now. I know days and nights will improve. I believe things will get easier but today, like Saturday, it is okay not be okay. A cliche maybe. But, that is how I feel.
Negativity at football seemed magnified. Impatient fans failed to cloke their dislike for Nunes and Nico. Neither did much wrong. Both put in a shift. I felt like turning on fellow fans. Instead I applauded those players louder and more passionately. Armchair and stand managers should still back their team, no matter who wears the shirt. It didn’t improve my mood. Then I pondered calling Dan again but realised I had no desire to talk. Sorry Dan, miss you matey.
I want to thank my friends at City, the ones I bumped into and nattered to, and remained with after the game for a while. Chatting to my mates, I happened upon a chance to talk to and get a programmed signed by the modest and splendid poet and author Lemn Sissay (OBE FRSL). His book Tender Fingers in a Clenched Fist has always stood out in my mind. Rain is another example that I can’t forget. And Daz, for the lift to Gateshead to see City draw with Newcastle Utd in the Subway Butty League Cup – and win a bonus point 7-6 on penalties. Daz, Haguey, Alison, Hagred and co have kept me sane for the last few years of football. A great bunch that have distracted me. I love my friends and those I encounter at work, at football, and in my life. They make me stronger and I hope they feel my heart.
And back to Saturday morning, collecting Astrid at the newly opened North View mental health hospital at Crumpsall. It was opened by Ricky Hatton. I couldn’t help think about his departure from life. I was born in Crumpsall, and I caught my vision and thoughts about my own mortality. I fear death. I have too much left to do. I also know how close the fine line between here and the next life appears. That void or whatever you believe isn’t far away. And at Crumpsall as I waited for my sister. I found my overactive mind imagining the ripple effect of my death. It hurt. It shook me. I questioned my own mind. It scared me. I’m not ready. I have much to do.
I played football again tonight. I didn’t want to play. I felt numb. I went to clear my head and pull my socks up. So, what now? Think I’ll call Dan tomorrow.
Vagrant.
I see myself in the faces of the homelessness.
I see the long stares and uncertainty in their eyes.
They are we and we are them.
Treading a fine line between have and have not.
I see the hunger, desperation, and worry.
I see the lost love, the failed support, and a state that has abandoned.
They are we and we are them.
The line so fine it hangs on a cliff edge.
I see the need for help and belonging.
I see the pathway to drowned dreams in pools of booze.
They are what we are and we are what they are.
The fine thread line dangling from a torn jacket.
I see the hope in your eyes when human kindness embraces.
I see the joy when words are heard.
You’re like me and I’m like you.
The line between have and have not closer than you know.
I hear your songs, your rants at pigeons, and your belly rumble.
I hear your tears near-silently fall to the floor.
You are me and I am you.
The damn line we crawl in life.
I feel it all.
But not as they do. Not yet.
Maybe soon.
And you’ll be like me, just like you.
And I’ll be you.
Stop the boats.
Stop the boats. Build a bridge.
Britain is full. Full of talent and welcoming.
Pull back the benefits. Make everything free.
They bomb the hospitals. With packages of flowers.
They desecrate values. Values added by workforce.
They disrepute our creation. Creation of meaningful multicultural love.
“Make Britain great again.” A great big hub of togetherness.
Too many seek asylum. Only lunatics seek asylum in these social conditions.
Our border security is compromised. Compromise: we have shores all around us.
Climate is displacing people. We’re an island and it could soon be us displaced.
They come here just to avoid detention. Didn’t we arrest you for more?
They impact the economy for wages, public services, and debt. A soap opera of lives before.
There is no social integration. Poverty, housing, and acculturation are new, right?
Humanitarian crises are not our responsibility. Are you human?
They create a labour shortage. Nobody wants to work anymore.
There is no political populism. See also: the Internet.
The backlogs are too big. Work smarter.
Irregular migration was caused by war. Stop selling bombs to bomber nations.
Migrants have vulnerabilities. Tell that to the victims of Operation Yew Tree
The journeys are dangerous. Make the journeys fair and simple.
Healthcare is strained. Stop underfunding and selling it off in the first place.
Social services are crippled. Perhaps the fraud cases in the system needs more tackling.
Our national identity is being lost. The identity imposed upon many has had hundreds of years of changes and adaptation.
Human rights prevent us doing the right thing. Until your Human Rights are breached.
Discrimination will rise. You’re doing a great job, already.
These refugees don’t understand us. Welcome and educate all.
They come to divide us. You DIVIDE us.
I didn’t put my right arm up. Yes, sure… Adolf.
Stop the boats. Build a bridge.
Summer ’25: III – Bamboozled
Treated by family to a spot of travel and unwinding, we set off from a station nearly an hour from the place of residence.
In Guangdong, like many cities in China, you can drive by taxi for an hour and not leave the jurisdiction of that same city. Not even close. So, we arrived at station one, departed for station two, and arrived at station three in Yangshuo. 300 miles [482km] travelled across 2 hours and 42 minutes. Or further than London, and quicker than any British railway journey. Huizhou is massive at around 4,217 square miles [10,922 km²]. It is substantially large compared to neighbouring Dongguan, Shenzhen, and Guangzhou. A formidable region to navigate.
Badly Drawn Boy’s Everybody’s Stalking marked the train journey’s early moments through the tunnels of Guangxi. Through fine lyrics befitting the view out of train D1814’s window, the train rolled into the Karst-mountain surroundings of Yángshuò (阳朔). A quick lift from our hotel owner seen us dropped off at the digs, 阳朔源园饭店（20元人民币风景区店) 兴坪镇画山厄根底村76号, which is with Ergendi village. A bag of huángpí (黄皮) wampees (Clausena lansium) followed a delicious dinner. The grape-sized fragrant fruit, with a large seed core, sat well on a belly of bamboo-cooked sticky rice, some baby bamboo shoots, and pork sliced between taro. After seeing the cormorant fishing birds posing, the Li River (漓江Lí Jiāng) flower, and a multitude of tourist boats, nightfall followed a heavy storm. Bedtime soon followed.
Seems like many paradise regions become Piccadilly Gardens: that once flowery bowl of sunshine now covered in concrete and steel. The village of XingPing, near Yangshuo, has undertaken drastic growth in little over two decades, and really symbolised the idiom rén shān rén hǎi (人山人海) or people mountain, people sea. Allegedly the river Li below flows with over 215 cubic metres per sec9nd. The people on the shores seemed equally dense. Photographers, fashion people, tourists, local canvassers, and every manner of people seemed to congest the tiny footpaths of XingPing (兴坪) village.
We had a plastic bamboo raft trip upstream on the Li river, savouring the humongous Karst peaks and bends of the powerful river. More food, including a full chicken boiled in a soup within a bamboo tune followed. Plenty of wandering was had. Sadly, without speedy legs, the waterfall pond, Pubutang and Tiger Mountain Waterfall shall have to wait. Our train outwards to Guiyang was caught on time.
Guiyang straddles the eastern edge of the Yunnan-Guizhou Plateau and is apparently around 1100m [3600′] in altitude which may seem debatable as you traverse districts. The roads resemble Spaghetti Junction in Birmingham (England) with bridges crisscrossing lengthy tunnels and slopes throughout the surface routes. A decent subway and rail system serves the city and outer region. The Yelang valley was a pleasure to visit, a truly unique and hidden gem within China. Twenty years were taken for the recreation of an ancient culture. The stone sculptures and artwork are fantastic. Song Peilun’s vision is a highly recommended visit. Oh, and we saw a monkey at the Qianling Mountain Park, having clambered a large peak and being consumed by a passing storm. That was fun.
Summer ’25: II – Resurrection.
Kitted out with 20kg of luggage, first a tram then a train before midnight allowed Manchester International Airport to be reached. After an evening and afternoon sleep from 1600-2300, I felt refreshed and raring to go. I pottered around with my Greggs breakfasts and waited to fly.
Even as the alloted 0300hr check-in desk opening came, I still had energy to burn. My bags would rejoin me at Brussels Airport, having flew with Brussels Airlines. The world’s longest lines at passport control and the outbound gate were troublesome. The sign reading “last call” for boarding came and went. Without doubt, being second to last on the Hainan Airlines flight was nerve-wracking and not one to recommend Trip.com’s self transfer routes! I had to plead to move up the queue many times. I begged. I pleaded. I reached a wall of negative responses but managed to get there. I hate queue-jumping but I had to force the movement. Needs must!
Mickey 17, Gladiator II, and a few episodes of David Attenborough’s Asia wildlife documentary sandwiched attempts at sleep. The former of the two movies comes highly recommended for reasons of originality within the sci-fi genre. Also, fine acting from numerous characters and a fair dollop of wit gave the movie a largely good rating in my eyes. I rested as much as possible.
Landing at Shenzhen around 0500hrs on the Saturday after departing Manchester at 0600hrs on the Friday remained a good move. The timezone difference of 7 hours, a delayed departure from Manchester, and all the stress of Brussels lifted. I had made it: much thanks to family and friends for helping me to get there. Better late than never. One small step for reunification, one giant leap for family-kind.
Heroes.
Liam Gallagher uttered a typed racial slur on Twitter/X. The late great wrestler Terry “Hulk Hogan” Bollea wasn’t shy of controversy. Meat Loaf was anti-vaccination. Never before has it been clearer that heroes are just like you and I: flawed.
“Yeah, and he’s not even a very good one… But he’s out there alone, and he’s probably scared” – lead character of Superman (2025) about the dog Krypto
Heroes are hard to find. That is, of course, the reality. For every Lance Armstrong cheating the system, there are an army of unsung volunteers, health professionals, RNLI boat crews and support staff, and countless other examples of putting others ahead of themselves. Those who deliver aid to Palestine, operate health clinics in Ukraine, or pluck refugees from the deadly English Channel go above and beyond their calling. And not all heroes wear capes: see also, Mam.
“Any sort of bullying is a terrible thing, but I think online bullying is so much worse because it’s psychological bullying” – Dean Cain, actor
And that leads me neatly to the recent fictional superhero, the one of my many childhood dreams, and many play sessions: Superman. The recent movie of the same name has earned plaudits and created a strange debate. Labelled as ‘woke’ by, the lycra-wearing superhero was the creation of children of immigrants that headed to U.S.A. Joe Shuster (artist) and Jerry Siegel (writer) would have been all too aware of the atrocities facing their fellow Jewish people. Their empathy shone through one of fiction’s greatest assets. The latest movie incarnation left me spellbound. I left the cinema with a smile, for the first time in many years. It was a joyous love letter of a movie, by James Gunn and his production team. Absolutely full of geeky details and hope.
“Knock the ‘t’ off the ‘can’t'” – George Reeves, actor
Being from elsewhere and existing in an unfamiliar landscape was my choice when I moved to China in 2014. Unlike many who seek better places to live and survive, I had the choice. That choice took me back to Britain, a new Britain, less Great, more lost. One that had departed the European Union and seemed to be having (and still is) more internal battles than a U.S. civil war. Religion, race, nationality, and gender fill newspaper covers daily. Social media, seemingly unchecked, spouts mistrust, counter-science, and conspiracy theory. The consequences lead to a broken Britain.
“A hero is an ordinary individual who finds the strength to persevere and endure in spite of overwhelming obstacles.”- Christopher Reeve, actor and activist
If being woke is to champion the smaller person, to puff your chest out at bullies, and to want a better world, then count me in on Team Superman. #SupermanIsAnImmigrant (coined in 2013 by Define America and the Harry Potter Alliance) who now deny that ideal are an example of flip-flopping u-turns that former Prime Minister Liz “Lettuce” Truss would be proud of. Much alike the latest version of Lex Luthor, excellently portrayed by Nicholas Hoult, there lies a smudge of grey amongst the confused right wing views. Those contradictions make us human. Much like the David Corenswet version of Superman. Where Christopher Reeve made generations believe a man could fly, David Corenswet has restored belief in hope once again.
“Once you choose hope, anything’s possible.” –
Christopher Reeve
Sadly, every hero stands to fall on their sword, so choose your heroes wisely. I chose my Mam as my hero for good reason (and her supply of fig biscuits).
Bugged by a musical war.
There are cries of “keep politics out of music” by the same crowd who backed Live Aid in 1985 and its sequel in 2005. As those treated by nurses and doctors who have fled conflicts demand an NHS service at top performance. And Liam Gallagher, tweeting the untweetable on hate platform, X. What a weird time to exist.
“You can’t trust politicians. It doesn’t matter who makes a political speech. It’s all lies – and it applies to any rock star who wants to make a political speech as well.” – Bob Geldof
Bob Vylan by name, by character one who gets flack for drawing attention to a military force that kills kids and women indiscriminately. The cowardly IDF should go toe to toe with Hamas and stop the murder of the innocence. As for Hamas, they’re all nasty and need to give their head a wobble. Should we be getting worked up over Bob Vylan, Kneecap, et al? No. The sooner this war ends, the better, bur let’s be fair, this was a conflict of Britain’s creation, one that is bitter and historical, and no end appears in sight. The more bombing, the more it will drag through the next century. Hate breeds hate. Not a musician.
“Populism is dangerous.” – enjamin Netanyahu
Yet the media focuses on Ipswich duo Bob Vylan and Bobbie Vylan. The Bobs may have said their message in the wrong way and I’m sure they wouldn’t wish death on the I.D.F.’s individual members but as for an entire organisation, perhaps the downfall and end of the I.D.F. was their message. Backed by Massive Attack, Fontaines D.C., Irish soft-pop group Kneecap, Inhaler, and CMAT, it could be said that Bob Vylan were just doing what Jarvis Cocker has been doing for years: getting people talking. Anyone who thinks a musician was preaching to glamorous camping fans to uproot and take aim at the attack-minded Israel Defense Force is stupid. Surely?
“…slain by the putrefactive and disease bacteria against which their systems were unprepared.” H.G. Wells. War of the Worlds.
And war, what exactly is it good for? Edwin Starr said, “absolutely nothing”, and I agree wholeheartedly. It divides, it displaces, it distresses, it decimates cultures and people and humanity. It leaves gaping gaps, chasms of pain, and heartbreaking weaknesses. It is exploited and manipulated to the needs of the powers, dictatorship-like leaderships, and turns neighbours on each other. So, should we all stay silent about the United Nations-labelled genocide of Gaza and Palestine? Should we cheer as U.S. and Israel jets pass into Iranian skies and decorate the ground with a blanket of fireballs?
“Any story hits you harder if the person delivering it doesn’t sound like some news robot but in fact sounds like a real person having the reactions a real person would.” – journalist, Ira Glass
Every war and conflict displaces people. And where do they go? To the first people that welcome them. Be that Norway, Sweden, or the U.K., desperate people seek safety and sanctuary, even if their religion or ideals conflict with their place of refuge. And then, most people adapt, they blend in, and they thrive under conditions of opportunity. Or not. I recently was lucky enough to meet a Kurdish nurse who works for the N.H.S. in Greater Manchester. I felt privileged to be treated by her, a doctor, and a multinational team of workers there to improve the lives and health of many. My infected bites, like racism and xenophobia, an irritation that life does not need.
“I do not discriminate.” – Liam Gallagher, via X.
As I sit on the train, I am once again reminded of the lyrics, “in this world where we lice, there should be more happiness”. Spot on. Silence the bullets and bombs, let voices of love speak clearer and with more weight than a tweet or misguided message on stage. The time for talking is always. The time for action over inaction is always. So, what now? Are we as a species of humanity to be slain by the small-minded delivery methods of stage and social media?
“The first step to achieve something is to believe.” – Diogo Jota 4/12/1996-3/7/2025 [footballer (Liverpool, Portugal, Paços de Ferreira, Gondomar)]
The Best Mam In The Land & All The World
Today is the eve of Shaun Goater Day, but it is also a celebration of something equally important. Whilst the title may appear like a click bait piece for a major newspaper publication, this is a message of hope and love. Happy Birthday to my Mam. The best of the best, and the only one to spend a day in 1982 forcing me out into the world like a long skriking jobby.
Homework: Interview with my Mum: 1
Go relax, enjoy, and spend quality time in York. Hux is with you eternally. Revisit memories with warmth, eat copious amounts of cake, wander the pathways, and drop into the churches and walled parts that both capture hearts and offer solace. In your absence, think about the strawberries as a large snail attacks them. Leave a birthday offering of chocolate biscuits before you exit the house.
Refer to: Mams, moms, mums… 妈妈
This has been a tough bloody year but you have been tougher. Find youth in your power and potential to deal with anything. Find hope in knowing your grandchild shall arrive here one day soon, no matter what. Find joy in the tenderness of the luck to share fantastic experiences with someone you love. Forget the garden that needs gardening. Remember to buy fig biscuits for a birthday treat to share.
See also: Dear Mum…
I’m sure that I speak on behalf of Astrid and Paul Jr., in saying that you are loved by us all, and it is unconditional. Happy birthday. Love from us all. Peace and love. 🐝
Previously: “OK, mum’s the word!”
R.I.P. CRAIG VINCENT SHENNAN “SHEZ”
Rest in Peace Shez. I will miss that green and blue North Face jacket and the natters at EDS, away, or whereever summat City could be found. I’ll miss the simple shake of hand and greeting. Had to laugh when you took Chermine to the U18s game on Valentine’s Day. Of course you would! There are but a pocket of Blues who travel as far and as wide as Shez – and less so that take in the U18s, U21s, EDS, and Women’s games so frequently. A real die hard Blue. And one that was never too far from pushing his daughter into City the right way. Alisha and Shez at footy together was normal. If you didn’t see one or the other, then City weren’t playing. Massive condolences to Jordan and Alisha!
When awful news comes through and you know that a piece of the City community, the Manchester football landscape, and an all round good person has departed life, it leaves absence and hollowness. I have been bumping into you for years – never a close friend, but always someone welcoming, polite, and a laugh. Always positive and often sleepy. A bubbly character – even after early morning post rounds and minimal sleep! That being said I have seen you napping at City Football Academy watching the EDS, or U18s, or women’s team. Thanks for the brews shared, the supportive words, and the encouragement to bring my family to the U.K.
Shez represents what being a City fan is all about. The football is great a times but it is minor to the culture – and the politics, drama and celebrations or commiserations. Forget titles, parades and trophies, or allegations and ticket prices for now. Celebrate real fans. Build a statue or mural or expand the memorial gardens. City’s community matters more. Stand closer to those mates and family on the terraces. It doesn’t matter if we face Barcelona or Bristol City, your mates are the ones that deserve then praise. When an empty seat comes and you know who was there, you’ll feel the loss. We all do. People matter. Fans like Shez matter.
If the legacy you leave behind is countless Blues praising your character and spirit, then you did something right. I am gutted for your loved ones and your family. I offer my condolences and best wishes to all. Good night, God bless. Treasure life.🩵
31/12/1972-01/06/2025 CRAIG VINCENT SHENNAN “SHEZ”
Once a Blue, always a Blue!
Kinder Scout Eggs
There’s a direct line from Brinnington to Hope. A world of differences between Ashburys and Marple. Too few similarities between Reddish North and New Mills Central. Yet the line from Manchester to Sheffield offers gems and escape. Friday the 25th of April 2025 led a path between Piccalilli train station and the quaint village of Edale.
Upstream to Grindslow Knoll, required a short wander through the village of Edale, passing the beginning of the Pennine Way. The Rambler Inn, The Nag’s Head, and Newfold Farm Cafe give a feel of what the tiny village of 400 centres around. An old and active primary school, set amongst the varied farm houses, country cottages, and Edale Parish Church show that life here isn’t all wandering. A path diverts from a truncated road over Grinds Brook. The protected stream will accompany mist walkers until Grindslow Knoll.
The paths start gentle with some undulating, before rocks, boulders, and scree start to appear intermittently. Heathers and moorland flora decorate either side of the funnelled valley. Eventually the bulk of Grinds Brook splinters into two sharp rises. Banking left involves a scramble, some choice pathway making skills, and a substantial incline. The views are increasingly dramatic. At the top, looking toward Mam Tor and Edale, much of the distance appears green and sprawling.
Following an old slabbed walkway, the journey takes explorers to a rock formation known as the Woolpacks. Peat bogs, heather, and alien-looking rocks litter, cluster, and emerge along the Kinder plateau. They mark the final wander to the peak of Kinder Scout and are a highlight for many walkers. Mermaid’s Pool, Charged Rock, and countless unnamed landmarks are worthy of an exploration.
The descent from Grindslow Knoll’s shady rear allows for farmland wanders along wide open pathways and a gentle jaunt on the home straight. Edale awaits. Edale sounds like a cake. The delicious Penny Pot Cafe banana and date oat flapjack was the only cake I had that day. Succulent. Alongside a cappuccino it made for a great reward. Before boarding the 1647 train, Panda found many a crumb landed in his fur. He promptly removed them before flopping back, head on the floor, for a nap.
Divided We Fall?
Never once heard a left-wing leaning leftie say the Union Flag is offensive to anyone. Heard a few republicans call for the abolition of the monarchy and the U.K. flag, and a few Welsh ask for an update to include Yr Draig Goch in it. Honestly, every time I see a post about the U.K.’s Union Flag causing offense to Muslims, and it usually is Muslims, it annoys me. Social media posts, of this hateful kind, being shared look to divide people. Nobody is offended by that U.K. flag. Proud of the flag? Less and less, yes. It represents the majority, born here or drawn here. Perhaps, minorities would display it with pride if the U.K. was a little more friendly.
So, where’s it all coming from? Decades of stretching the haves from the have nots? Year upon years of a widening gap between salaries and costs of living? Or, perhaps tge rich get richer and the poor get poorer? That old cliche. In 32 years since 1990, the top 1% of the U.K. billionaires have seen their wealth grow tenfold. That collective wealth is almost exclusively out of circulation and likely adding to their ability to pull in more pennies. In 2024, according to Oxfam, U.K. billionaires gained £35 million a day. Is that £182 billion a year fair? 70% of the population barely equates the top 1% of the U.K.
Mind the gap. Income inequality may remain constant but the wealth of the richest and poorest is a chasm. Inherited wealth over generations may help the rich keep their titles and banks healthy. The poorest leave behind little and in many cases can’t even add gravestones. Disproportionate tax policies supporting the well-to-do through low taxation of dividends and capital gains benefit the wealthy. Inner city kids have no chance. Should we accept our place? Fodder for Lord Amazon and Co.?
Is there truth in Russia pushing immigration towards the U.K.? Well, many Ukrainians have sought sanctuary in Britain. Wars in Syria, Palestine, Yemen, and unrest across other global regions will always add a demand to find safer shores. Gangs exploiting trafficking for profit and increased ability to find weaknesses in U.K. laws following Britain’s exit from the European Union have certainly raised numbers.
The Royal National Lifeboat Institution (R.N.L.I.) are lifesavers. Volunteers who respond to sea emergencies and pluck the needy from near-certain death. They even rescue sheep and goats from time to time. Life is precious. Their sole purpose: to save lives at sea. A combined crew of 9,800 and 2,000 or so support staff make that possible. Since the 4th of March 1824, the orange livery of search and rescue have been around British and Irish waters, doing their incredible humanitarian work. Never discriminating. I always thought that’s how the U.K. should be viewed: a place of sanctuary and love for life. Perhaps I was naive and should have laughed at the picture of the RNLI boat full of Muslim-looking men heading for the Dover cliffs?
Then again, my Mam has always taught me not to be a knobhead.
When they came for the asylum seekers, I remained quiet; I wasn’t an asylum seeker.
When they came for the transgenders, I stayed silent; I wasn’t transgender.
When they came for the Free Palestine supporters, I kept my mouth closed; I wasn’t a Free Palestine supporter.
When they came for the free press, I didn’t utter a word; I did not write for the free press.
When they came to add internet censorship, I felt conflicted and hid; I did not act against them.
When they came for the library bookshelves, I stood tall and defiant…
Inspired by German Lutheran pastor Martin Niemöller (1892–1984) and his words below (English and German)
When the Nazis came for the communists,
I kept quiet; I wasn’t a communist.
When they came for the trade unionists, I kept quiet;
I wasn’t a trade unionist.
When they locked up the social democrats, I kept quiet;
I wasn’t a social democrat.
When they locked up the Jews, I kept quiet;
I wasn’t a Jew.
When they came for me, there was no one left to protest.
Als die Nazis die Kommunisten holten,
habe ich geschwiegen; ich war ja kein Kommunist.
Als sie die Gewerkschafter holten, habe ich geschwiegen;
ich war ja kein Gewerkschafter.
Als sie die Sozialdemokraten einsperrten, habe ich geschwiegen;
ich war ja kein Sozialdemokrat.
Als sie die Juden einsperrten, habe ich geschwiegen;
ich war ja kein Jude.
Als sie mich holten, gab es keinen mehr, der protestieren konnte.
17 KDB
Peak-Kevin De Bruyne may have passed and there remains just a few windows to see the Manchester City number 17 in action. This had been one hell of a decade.
The redheaded Belgian, reminiscent of Tin Tin, has put in shift after shift at the sky blue Etihad and all the places along the way. He has contributed and given it all in a footballing spell that has filled his home with medals and accolades. Trophies have swamped his time at City and without his contribution there would surely have been no Champions League finals in Portugal and Istanbul.
Whilst KDB may have appeared more serious in his finale season of 2024/25, his battling of injuries and frustration appears to have been brushed away. Now fans have started to see the master with the ball at his feet and one that is capable of magic, as witnessed against Crystal Palace. With a past stocked with dribbling, assisting, and sublime technique, it is no wonder the former VfL Wolfsburg man has played nearly 415 games for City. Scoring around a quarter as many goals!
At City, Kevin has contributed to six Premier League trophies, two (hopefully three) FA Cup trophies, five league cups, a brace of Community Shields and that all-important Champions League trophy. Whilst every Blue would have been gutted to see him injured in both Champions League Final appearances, all are thankful for his battling and composure on every journey through a decade at the Etihad Stadium club. Four Manchester City player of the season awards recognise the love of the fans of the Belgian playmaker.
The charitable and likeable De Bruyne has embraced City In The Community and other good causes, whilst keeping close to fans (where possible). His athleticism and range of passing has surely made him the best midfielder of the Premier League era. His assists and goals have squashed his then club record fee of £55 million (€75 million). At the time the media laughed and called him a Chelsea flop with little potential. That has haunted many a pundit – and rightfully so!
Alongside David Silva, James McAtee, Leroy Sane, or whichever striker he needed to feed, De Bruyne has earned every chant to the tune of Seven Nations Army (White Stripes). Wherever De Bruyne chooses to play next, City fans will watch with envious eyes. Whether we see KDB wear the 17 shirt at the FIFA Club World Cup remains to be seen. It would be a fitting departure to feature for Manchester City at the USA tournament, but who knows?! For now, let’s treasure the last days at City of an absolutely prodigious playmaker!
At City, we’ve been spoilt with a raft of neo-legendary stars, arguably transisting from Pablo Zabaleta and a raft of Mark Hughes signings through to the striking viking Erling Haaland. Before that cult figures like Uwe Rosler, Richard Dunne, and Shaun Goater gave us light for the 90s and early 2000s. Now, the City Football Academy is producing the likes of Phil Foden and Nico O’Reilly. So, what say, alongside Emile Heskey’s lads, a certain Kevin De Bruyne deposits his son to bolster “maybe in another generation.”
Oh Kevin De Bruyne…
Response
You are married
You are far away
You are in my heart
You are in my soul
Forever ~
古
Life goes on.
Life goes on.
Where are you right now?
Accompany me every day
I accepted the parting, but underestimated the missing! It is destined to be an endless dampness!
古
Short Straw Strategies
B.P. are abandoning their green energy investments to “drill baby drill.” ™ ® What a time to be alive! Let’s reverse previously strenuous and tedious environmental efforts. Why can’t we be greener? Pupils at secondary school ask me, “Is war coming?” I play it down. However, are we sure it is not?
The very same human, Lord Vader Trump, has gaslit, manipulated, and slapped coercion on his viewed-as-inferior opposite number Zelensky. In much the same way as Andrew Tate’s Romanian victims may see things, Trump lent into the Ukrainian leader with, “You have allowed yourself to be in a very bad position.” Simple vocabulary, as expected. Flipping the abused with blame for being a victim of the abuser is an odd view. Imagine if the world had done the same when the U.S. of A. and then President George Bush Jr. shot after Osama Bin Laden and Al Qaeda.
The emphasis then fell to sidekick J.D. “Sports’ Vance, who once hated Trump and viewed the Trump tactics as too far. Instead, Vance pushed for a “thank you.” Al Murray’s Pub Landlord character was more fair about his masculine drinking views.
“flooding the zone with shit” – Steve Bannon, Guardian news
Trump and Vance essentially told the Ukraine to roll over, show its belly, and bend over for more action in its hinterland. It felt like a concede the loss and allow Russia to take over. Sure, let the bully take over and consolidate space and territory. Great idea! Good old American values. Saviour and leading light, Trump shouted repeatedly about Ukraine holding no cards to play. Of course, Ukraine’s European allies and greater global communities said otherwise. “Without us, you have nothing,” said an emboldened Trump, to which dozens of respected and elected leaders brandished two-fingers.
Peace and U.S. of A.’s staunchly Team America-view of global security have been hand in hand ever since U.S.A. entered global conflict as a victim of World War II, or even before. They responded to conflicts and cries of help. Even whilst allowing their own people to fire a selection of deadly metal devices at one another in the name of rights to bear arms. This from a nation supplying Academi [previously Blackwater] military suppliers. Blackwater Worldwide and Xe Services have had a troubled past blighted by controversy. They’re now Constellis Holdings and have had 28 years of U.S. paychecks that Trump and Co. are invested in by some shape of form. And pardoning.
Constellis may or may not be responsible for law enforcement training, logistics, close quarter training, and security services whilst being favoured over state contracts and entities. They may or may not be enjoy Trump saying, “If you get a ceasefire, you must accept it so that bullets stop flying and your people stop dying.” Especially as many billions of pounds was directed to U.S. companies and military supplies that have yet to reach Ukraine.
Trump wants to lead. He wants Zelensky and his country to be a subordinate and shouting over Zelensky to tell him, “You’re not in a position to dictate to us” is just plain old mean bullying. His and Vance’s pitch for a pathway to peace ignores Russia as an aggressor and turns Ukraine into a thorn in the back of resolution. Especially as he pins “…playing with the lives of millions of people” on the leader of those people.
Even if Ukraine was in a position to hold elections, would infrastructure and ceasefire allow such a thing? Or paint target cross-hairs on lines of battle-capable adults? The Ukraine’s place in a partnership and resistance has been made to feel like the Ukraine owes the world and U.S.A. This is codswallop.
“Fail we may, sail we must.” – Andrew Weatherall, English musician, DJ, songwriter, producer and remixer.
The U.S. of A. feels indebted to the Ukraine conflict. Oddly, repatriation has faded from other conflicts without a whisper of debate. Yet, here the Bin Laden-chasing, War on Terror bunch of cowboys and chief demand that “you must obey, or you will recieve nothing“. International Rescue, this is not. “If it weren’t for our weapons, this war would have ended in two weeks”, walks over the dead, the resistance, and a wider international support. It says that Europe and the Ukraine are irrelevant.
The sphincter-twitching Trump administration is in full-blown propaganda mode and answerable to investor overlords. The U.S. appears to be a puppet state with evil James Bond-baddy Elon Musk or Vladimir Putin pulling some of, if not all, the strings. These are dangerous times.
And now Putin won’t be pulled in. Even if Trump is calling him, begging him, laughing with him. Meanwhile, the P.M. son of a toolmaker and the U.K. investments in war machines at an alarming rate. All at the expense of social conditions, the environment, and hope. Still, at least they spared the tax-dodging elite. Here in the U.K. we have our own brand of gaslighting, victim-blaming, and coercion into gratitude. We’ll force our own subjects into terms beneficial for the state and potentially fatal to Britain.
Welcome to the era of stupidity. Let the stupidest win. Resources are dwindling to the greedy. If war should come, are we ready? Enjoy your views whilst you can.
Dear Mum
To my mother, Elaine, how did you put up with me? And Astrid and Paul Jr too. Thanks for being there no matter what and for giving me the confidence to be me. I am finally seeing who I am and will make up for all my mistakes. It’d be a dishonour to you, if I did not. I am always trying to better and fairer. Even when the fan is hit by epic proportions of proverbial turd.
Thanks for the Lego, the creation, the joy of reading and the pushes a long my walk through life. Gran shines on through you and your sisters. Then, there’s my Dad’s mother, Nana, friend’s and family members as mothers. We’re blessed by so many great people that we meet a long the way. Then, there are those unlucky not to be mothers, or mothers who have gone through terrible tragedies. Let’s think of them too. There are so many great mothers in the world, but only one is mine.
Thanks for sharing the gift from a wonderful person, your Paul, t’other day. Seeing the Royal Northern College of Music and Clod Essemble’s production was magically enchanting. The enchanting evening featuring Welsh poetry, prayer, dance, lighting, and Thomas Mccarthy‘s words was emotional. Mam and Paul shared some amazing times and I’ve been lucky enough to share a few along the way.
Thank you Mum, for being my hero. I’ll try to do you proud, as best as I can. This week will be a tough one with Paul’s funeral. You’ve worked hard to ensure treasured memories and tribute follow. Thanks to you and Alexia for staying together to sort all this touching moments and photographs of time into a fitting farewell.
My Mam hasn’t needed profound words or phrases but she has always had a way to make me think, rather than lecture. Learning about choices and consequences, through expected feelings and what could or could not go wrong or right is one way to develop. Mam has opened many doors to the world.
Through an introduction to Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, R.E.M., and live gigs like Meat Loaf or Jeff Wayne’s War Of The World‘s, Mam has always ensured entertainment and fairness. The Campaign for Minimum Wage concert at Manchester’s then Nynex Arena was yet one example of social consciousness that I’ve been lucky to attend. Save Levenshulme Baths walk completed. Fix Chapel Street Primary School roof, supported. Local coffee shops over brands and chain? Why not?
Cypriot charms, Cornish climates, Lanc-York-Derby-Shire wanders, trips to Barmouth in Cymru, and so many examples of Mam providing a good life beyond No Frills beans and Weetabix. Cheers fo investing in us all.
To mums!
To my Mam. You’re the best. Love you.
Escaped Alone / What If If Only
Recently director Sarah Frankcom delivered two incredible plays at the Royal Exchange Theatre, Manchester. The radiant light of the domed roofing cascading light over an internal structure resembling The Crystal Maze’s finale.
First up was Escaped Alone cloaked in a tremendous intensity. For 50 minutes, a quartet of acting stars deliver performances worthy of awards. Award-winning 74-year-old Annette Badland (Ted Lasso, Bergerac, and many, many more) has appeared on the silver screen, radio, theatre, and other media. Escaped Alone and What If If Only, Annette Badland played two different roles. The dramatic Glaswegian voice of Maureen Beattie OBE (Casualty, The Bill, and a whole host of other appearances) filled the stage through a succession of apocalyptic articulations and enunciations with her stage peers. Margot Leicester has strolled many stages, film sets, and studios. Her credits include Coronation Street and Casualty (the go to show for acting). Souad Faress has featured in The Archers, Casualty, and The Spy starred throughout the effusion, delivering the outpouring histrionic excellently.
What If If Only brutally strikes at the heart – even though it only lasts 25 minutes. The dialogue is sharp, enticing, and enhances the talented cast within a tale familiar to memory. The depths of loss, grief, and anguish mask fond memories and occasions. Here the lost future, present, and more visit upon a hapless mourner. Game of Throne’s 18-year-old co-starlet Bea Glancy featured in a haunting segment of What If If Only. The main star of this gripping grief-stricken play is Time and Beaker Girls actress Danielle Henry. Across from the main character, Someone, is Waterloo Road star Lamin Touray, fresh from All Creatures Great and Small and other such roles. The Royal Exchange Elders add further dimension to Caryl Churchill’s play.
All in all, two great plays, watched at a time of rightfully-heightened emotion. A pleasure to accompany my Mam to each performance. And if you haven’t booked a ticket for the theatre, “Go to”.
Spiralling down.
The awesome of the mysterious light, radiating through a fine mist, drifting towards me was mesmerising. The patterns like straps on a parachute ascending upwards like a triangle missing its uppermost plain.
I tried to video it and take photographs. Even as Panda, my dog, nudged me to throw his ball, I pondered, wondered, and questioned what it could be. I knew from the object’s translucent state, it couldn’t be a drone. The misty form transformed passing rays of light outwardly. I queried all my logic. It couldn’t be a weather balloon. Not even a burst one.
I watched as it appeared to disappear and pass directly overhead. Then reappear, fade, and appear once more. I could see satellites passing overhead, far above this unidentified floating object. And aircraft flashing way up high. Its course stayed true, from Moston toward Clayton, Manchester. I pinged an image and video to my space expert friend Dan. He has raised his twin boys on a diet of the outer limits and knowledge.
An excited reply came back, “Maybe a rocket launch. SpaceX? I’ll ask Alex.” One of the twins would know or have a better idea. The light orb appeared to fan out like that of a ship’s rudder. Was this a projection? A hologram? No visible beams could be seen in the very clear sky. Not even a cloud. For Manchester, without a cloud is a spectacle itself!
Alex and Dan came back by message, see SpaceX launch in Florida, a few who’s previous. And that’s when looking at they sky became ruined again. Mites danced in the highest of visible atmosphere. The satellite pathways of Starlink and so on. Hundreds and thousands. Many of which become visible all too often. What would our ancestors make of it?
From hunter-gatherers of old to modern and better equipped people, eyes to their skies has been normalised and led to discovery and theories, or stories and moments of magic. I’ll confess this fuel dump by SpaceX was enchanting. Until I thought about the waste. The atmospheric dumping of gases and liquids. What would be the consequences? My adopted cousin Anthony commented, “Elon is pissing on us all.” He’s right. The days of Mulder and Scully are limited.
In Memory of Paul: Words of Waits
2019年2月9日，我们夫妻两人在Bradford的一家酒店住宿，好友John的妈妈Elaine阿姨得知这一消息后和她的伴侣Paul驱车三个小时连夜从Manchester赶来，还给我专门带了礼物，Elaine阿姨不知道我妻子也在，又把给自己女儿送的礼物送给了我的妻子。我们在酒店的酒吧里畅聊好几个小时，Elaine阿姨和Paul叔叔又深夜驱车赶回了Manchester。
匆匆一面，Paul叔叔非常和善健谈。六年后的今天他在于癌症抗争多年后离世。
REST IN PEACE, PAUL。
愿天堂没有病痛，我们缅怀您。
On February 9th, 2019, my wife and I stayed at a hotel in Bradford. When Aunty Elaine, the mother of our good friend John, heard the news, she and her partner Paul drove three hours from Manchester in the middle of the night. They brought me a gift, and Aunty Elaine didn’t know that my wife was also there. She gave my wife the gift she had bought for her own daughter. We chatted for several hours in the hotel bar, and Aunty Elaine and Uncle Paul drove back to Manchester in the middle of the night again.
After a hurried meeting, Uncle Paul was very kind and talkative. Today, six years later, he passed away after years of fighting cancer.
REST IN PEACE, PAUL.
May there be no pain in heaven. We remember you.
The kind words of Waits, Zhangye and Gansu’s biggest Manchester City fan.
Farewell friend.
I want to thank you.
Thank you for opening my eyes.
Opening my eyes to a new lens.
A new lens capturing moments of time.
Moments of time caressing tender memories.
Caressing tender memories that led to this day.
Led to this day when we said farewell.
Said farewell to you and thank you.
Thank you for being here.
To P. or not to P.
You are the first person I’ve seen love my Mam. Before you, I didn’t witness it, from outside the family. Without that security for my Mam, I wouldn’t have upped and travelled or lived overseas.
During Gran’s last days, you stood firmly by Mam’s side and took care of me and the siblings. Where others would have walked away, you remained. And since then, hurdle after hurdle, you’ve stood by our tribe. That doesn’t mean you have no faults, and you know that legendary grumpiness is acceptable, even if you’ve had to tolerate me trying to get you to see and hear the music that I choose to share.
You’ve left a great impression on me. I didn’t need a father figure or a step dad. I found you to be the positivity and heart for my Mam. You’ve taken Mam overseas to countless theatre shows, pottered with pottery, tinkered with theatre, and travelled around this green isle. Fond memories stretched from caravan holidays in Anglesey to York for Yorkshire puddings stuffed with everything under the sun. You’ve opened doors to strange worlds of ice music, penguins, and crappy musical adaptations of miracles on New York streets. I wouldn’t change the world for these experiences. And, you’ve encouraged my growth for passion in hiking and wandering. Even if my body is catching up with me!
I told you and truly mean it, I want you in our family and my family. Time won’t allow much more togetherness, but have bo regrets. It is what it is. Like you said, we can’t grab false hopes and expect miracles. We can make it known about peace and love and letting your life stay with those you’ll leave. I wish I’d called by and kicked you out of a slumber, but I can’t change the last few hectic weeks. It wouldn’t have made today any less unpleasant. I just hope we can talk over these coming days.
And yes, these last few weeks have been agonising, and communication has broken down, but that doesn’t excuse being there for one another. Mam is there for you, stronger than ever before, and I’m around for natters and hopes and dreams. Nobody wants to say goodbye. It isn’t goodbye. Not yet. Only when you’re ready. I don’t want you to suffer. Nor do I want you to worry about Mam. Your sister is always welcome. We’ll all be stronger together because you need to be celebrated and championed. I hope tonight that you find calmness and a good sleep before we all visit again. There’s still time for talking.
What is strength? Is it the power not to lash out when anger fills your veins?
Is strength an illusion? A label to wrap up fear?
Is strength useful? Or a blind to allow all else to carry on?
For what good is strength when hope feels distant? Is it an alarm to carry on the conversation?
Peace and love. 🐝 🕊
This is not an obituary! This is a letter from the heart. Thank you for being present in our lives.
Harmony
Cruel hand deals twisted fate
Not seeking solace nor peace
Dealing a weighted deck of chaos
Shoving detritus unto the face
Only time heals the irate
Quintessentially Doves
Doves’ artistry is on display amongst the two tracks Renegade and Cold Dreaming. Until the romance of a Valentine’s Day album release, it appears just two doses of the Constellations For The Lonely are all that will be available. Each piece reminds us that whilst a road may seem bleak and unwelcoming, there is still beauty to be found in struggle and feelings.
The brooding intensity of Renegade’s conclusion pipes emotion. Jimi Goodwin’s distinctive tones overlay a bold and rhythmic track. It was used at a recent snooker competition, and on listening, it could be a tune heard at the Etihad Stadium or equally a doctor’s surgery. The driving energy of Renegade is rebellious, with the track title itself emotive to its Medieval Latin routes. As you’re drawn into the track, expect a touch of hypnotic intensity to circulate around you.
This gritty atmospheric anthem steadies introspective lyrics on a relentless sonic wave of self-determining propulsion. There’s the defiance of abandoning old ways in favour of urgency. Sharp percussion. Ethereal guitar work. This is a sound that is quintessentially Doves. A turbulence of inner conflict offers a chance to break free from self-imposed restraints or that of societal and fanbase expectations. Through warming lyrics, there is an echo of disconnection and yearned clarification. Trapped by doubts. Restlessness. Haven’t we all been there?
“Far from the hopes and dreams of crashing out too low” – Renegade – Doves
Cold Dreaming seems to tackle the quieter struggles. It strikes at detachment and longing for emotional connection. There’s a cinematic airy melody, expert drum work, and finiteness to the track. This deeply immersive track screams ambience, shimmering textures and draws on lush electronic-influences. There’s Northern Soul galore and a feeling of floating up and out into an otherworldly place. The soulful haunting tune could befit bands such as Mansun or numerous Northern English outfits.
At points, the tracks from Doves’ sixth studio album offer melancholic stillness, a space in the shadows of overthinking, and possible forgiveness from emotional numbness. There is a huge nod to Black Rivers, the project of Andy Williams and his brother Jez. Their post-Doves, pre-Doves band belongs as part of Doves. Much like the recovering and loved Jimi Goodwin remains present, even in the exile of recovery.
“Give me the strength I need to forgive” – Cold Dreaming – Doves
Doves have an uncanny track record of knitting and waving emotional landscapes in their sounds. Themes of solitude, inner struggle, and self-reflection are relevant in everyday life. The contrast of shades that we encounter in human experience is high volume. Here lies two tracks. Each allows solace and understanding to visit the listener, offering a place to navigate our own mental journeys. Do we truly know where all fights lead? We are surely vulnerable to not knowing. Is this struggle a sign of the growth of Doves? Or us? These tracks have felt like mirrors of late. Life is challenging, and like life, each track conveys emotional ambiguity. Bittersweet sense: should it dissolve in my grasp or be released as is the mature of fleeting time?
id est quod id est
The platinum Latin phrase of last week has to be, id est quod id est. Translation: it is what it is.
After an icy walk with the dogs, returning back for an episode of Brassic, and feet up, I noticed something missing. The black and white purr-box that has been cowering from the cold indoors almost every day, like a barometer, had not bugged me for a fuss. Between Panda GunDOGan, my Dad’s kangeroo-bollock-yapping-dog Blue and Sky the cat, my arms often get enough stroking exercises on a sofa.
Then I heard it. The faintest of faint meowing. I went upstairs, following the sound, zooming in on behind my bedroom door. For the first time, Sky had been locked in my room, signifying she’d snuck in after my shower. Unnoticed, sly Sky had spent several hours there. She wanted out. I opened the door. The door refused.
The door, flimsy at best, held firm. Its paneled front buckled slightly. The toughness of the bottom of the door scraping on carpet made me shudder. Sky had ripped the carpet up. And the underlay. And for good measure, the tacking that holds the carpet down. And the waterproof membrane off the back of the carpet. The door shifted a few centimetres. It was going nowhere fast.
Sky, sensing my frustration, upped her meowing game. Ear-piercing desperation, likely detectable on Mars as a signal of pleas for help. Then, the kind of constant whining only an upset can can muster. I computed my options. I had to push the door hard and fast past the fold. I’d damage the carpet, which I assumed was already a state.
I shoved, and Sky shot out a gap wide enough for a cat, yet too narrow for my 40-inch waistline and barrelled-chest. The door declined to open further. In a heat of rage, I shoved it, full shoulder. Newton’s second law. All 120kg of mass multiplied by acceleration. Full force.
The door shifted. I squeezed through a newer wider gap. The door’s hinges ached and screeched. I kicked the door shut and looked down at the damaged carpet and underlay. Fixable. Just. I tucked it in and noted it was not holding any longer. A repair for the future.
I went to open the door. The door held. It was jammed again. I was inside and wanted to be outside. My phone was ringing downstairs. A birthday video call for someone special. I tugged harder. Nothing. I applied more force. Off popped the door handle. An inconvenience. I yanked at the coat holders mounted on the door. They tore away. More than an inconvenience.
Panicking, I gripped the thin panel on the back of the door. It shifted slowly. Steadily, I exited the door. Later on, I tapped the carpet into a safer place.
On reflection, id est quod id est, is a phrase that clearly signifies nothing can be done about a previous situation. It is what it is. How about the future? Unwritten? Let’s see.
AGAINST THE FLOW OF TRAFFIC - ACTON28.BLOG 