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
life
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.
The Next Broadcast
Doves have accompanied me for years. The band was mostly made up of Jimi Goodwin on guitar and often lead vocals, with drummer Andy Williams and his twin Jez on guitars. Martin Rebelski has for a long while provided keyboards and other bits and bobs. Yet, here we are, in 2024, with a new look lineup. How would they sound in Birkenhead’s Future Yards?
“Sure enough if you feel nothing
You’re better off this way
Gets to the point where you can’t breathe” – The Last Broadcast, Doves
Jimi is taking an extended hiatus as he “needs more time to recover.” Naturally, fans of Doves are there for Jimi and will be ready and waiting when Goodwin is ready. In light of this, the twin duo Williams’ brothers take central stage. Alongside Nathan Sudders on bass (who I’d seen in Nadine Shah’s band) and Jake Evans (Bad Lieutenant), the line-up started a pre-tour on Wednesday, November 27th in Stoke. The Friday would see Hebden Bridge, but the only ticket I managed was Birkenhead, sandwiched between those dates. No complaints at all!
“And as you make for the door this time you’re walking out
…out forever” – Renegade, Doves
Swept up by Lost Souls in 2000, the dreamy soundtrack to college studies were plaued between CDs like Badly Drawn Boy’s The Hour of Bewilderbeast and all other available audio distractions. The wholesomeness of sounds that stood out and warmed my studies helped me reach university and apply to work for Greater Manchester Fire and Rescue Services. Listening to Doves helped my mind decode that university was the intended choice.
“In satellite towns
There’s no color and no sound
I’ll be ten feet underground
Gotta get out of this satellite town” – Black & White Town, Doves
During my university years, The Last Broadcast helped me process my Grandad’s death. And then the death of my Gran’s partner Ernie, who I regard as my grandfather. Every hard moment had a song and some tracks were visited more than others. Words for comfort. Melodies for medicine. Even heading to see Manchester City would swiftly be showered by the foot-stamping Pounding. All the combined track energy and near-psychedelia sounds would transport you from a lonely student room in Aberystwyth to soundscapes far beyond the hills. Feeling like an imposter at university, lost in not belonging, the words hugged me and kept me grounded.
“Follow
Your own path from here
So don’t listen
To what they say” – Words, Doves
Hearing Here It Comes, I’m spellbound by the genre-crossing ambience and the simplicity of the backing sounds. The lyrics are magical. It’s reminiscent and inspiring in equal measure. Just like the rays of hope from the latest album track release, Renegade. There’s an unmistakable warmth and tone, despite the Piccadilly garden rains. By the time I’d graduated at university, Some Cities had fired volcanic-proportions of indie rock at the world. The track Snowden, complete with rhythm and magic, alongside the drive of Black And White Town, amongst others, propel your ears. The lyrics range from frustration to joy to wonder. I’m sure other bits are covered in equal measures.
Playlist for the night:
Firesuite, Carousels, Words, Cold Dreaming, Black and White Towns, Snowden, Renegade, Rise, Circle of Hurt, Sea Song, Mother Silverlake, 10:03, Pounding, Caught by the River, The Cedar Room, Here It Comes, Kingdom of Rust, There Goes The Fear.
Future Yards is a class venue, with friendly staff, a great sound system, ample ales and beers, decent food, and warmth. Seeing Doves perform there, after many years of radio silence, was an absolute privilege. So, where’s the next Doves experience? Manchester Aviva. Can’t wait. The superb Doves Music blog website is firmly back on my homepage. The Doves family are back. This next broadcast is more than wanted.
“There goes the fear again, let it go
There goes the fear, let it go” – There Goes The Fear, Doves
Thank you Doves, thank you so much, thank you for coming back. I truly feel energised after a tough few months and feel you’re with me, blessing my ears and touching my soul as the future unfolds. Thank you to Jez, Andy, Jimi, Martin, and the new beginnings.
Test.
It’s like there is nothing left. I’m drained.
Between the breeze and the wind, upended.
Struggling against the tide as it drifts away.
Pushing on, step by step, yet sinking and never gaining ground.
The sapped life comes and goes. A moment’s joy evaporates.
I could have been better. It could have been better.
But, it’s not. It isn’t. It could be. I know it could be.
It could also have been far worse. It Feels this way.
Nothing worth doing is easy, right? So they say.
It hurts. It really bloody hurts. Like loss. Yet there’s no loss. Just hurdles.
The sky glows under a bright moon as lanterns drift upwards.
A glimmer. Just a flicker. That hope.
That energy I see in their faces. I can do this. I must. I will.
Just as faiths test their masses, I must believe. I have too much to lose.
For this, I am lucky.
Man Up?
Prison population: 96%-ish men.
Least likely to attend a doctor’s surgery: males.
Homelessness and drug abuse: mostly guys.
Donald Trump: a bloke.
Putin, Hitler, Pol Pot, MZD, Boris Johnson: fellas.
Talks less than others about inner-self: fellows.
Hero complexes: mother’s son.
Inclusive of all, at football games: bro, boykie, boyfriend.
Thinks they’re always cool: cat.
Keepers of toxic masculinity: chap.
Reduced sense of importance, when hunter and inner self show weakness: gent.
More likely to dominate, be aggressive, or demonstrate xenophobia, racism, or homophobia: guess who?
Andy’s Man Club attendees: dudes.
So, is it “man up” or man down?
Tiles.
The wrong one may leave you in pieces. The right one will leave you in peace. The right one will find you in pieces but lead you to peace. Or not.
Possibly so: peace or pieces. It’s hard to tell. Much like a party of fools claiming to be a “strong stable government,” tiling floors and walls are not for the weaklings of the mind. Application of a three-dimensional wall covering with sharp bits can tear you apart. Much like a Conservative Party led by too many leaders over a 14-year period. Long may they fall off the walls like loosely grouted tiling! Hip hip hooray!
As one party flops out, the Labour Party moves in, with or without satellite television. Up steps a change that has been coming for years. Forget the British exit from the European Union, and countless money spent on distraction, the Tory government have left Labour up a creak with no paddle. Barely even a tea-stirrer. And then came riots. Far-right insights into their worry and panic. Flags unfurled. Bakeries and phone shops looted. Loose tiles of society.
And now to the prosecutors, the courts, and the overcrowded gaols: their work hindered by foolishness and hate. Their time set back. Meanwhile, social media, or X, or Twitter, sits quietly in the corner in total denial of its involvement. Telegram, and others wander and pander around. Their images on black screened tiles around the world. So, what now?
Compassion for all?
Is it possible to argue with some Conservatives? Or near-to-far right fascists? I can’t explain to them, without their true listening and understanding, about why they should care about people other than themselves. I can’t explain that people are people, and getting along is something a communal species should do.
I can’t explain that the “what-ho”, “pip-pip” and “down with this sort of thing” attitude of those who fought wars against oppressive regimes, invasive war machines, and Nazi overlords was for good purpose and to allow us as people to grow freely and fairly.
Stories from the bible, the Koran, and other holy books, alongside children’s tales, often educate and inform us about looking after one another. I don’t know how to tell someone that they should have learned how to be nice. Respect is given, not just earned. Britishness, national pride, and flag-waving has its place. There’s room for it. The problem is: are you proud to wave the Union Flag and St George’s cross when it’s claimed as a symbol of “us versus them”? I was brought up by parents, with input by grandparents, to accept people and respect all. It isn’t difficult. I can even respect Man Utd fans.
Yes, there are differences and clashes of belief. Hence, conflict. Conflicts by world powers playing Team America World Police have knock-on effects. The most visible being refugees. If you bomb for oil or to control an uncontrollable region, in an already divided place, creating a vacuum for absolute bastards to take over with unforgivable and inhumane laws, expect a few thousands of people to leg it.
Where do refugees go? The most appealing and tolerant places must appeal more. Off they pop. Through risks. Through high seas. In the back of trucks. Legal routes. Illegal routes. Whatever it takes. Along the way, lives are shed. Lost. Gone. Babies and children die. Ships sink. Boats fail. Lives are torn apart. And then the lucky ones arrive somewhere welcoming. The really lucky ones get support and they contribute.
Yet, a country that fought the Axis of Evil has its own right wing of hatred, xenophobic distrust, and insecurities. Fear spreads. The participants are sometimes unaware of their manipulation by power and money. And it hurts. It divides. It conquers people who want to get on with life – and live. Life is for living. Why can’t we understand that this way is not the way?
Peace and love. 🐝
A seed of hope.
A Muslim hand could hold a Jewish hand.
White van man, Audi driver, and all around us should be survivors.
Creation and creatives devour words and art, feeding us new days and ways.
A Palestinian should be born under safe skies.
No guns, no knives, no fear: just lives.
The Scottish, English, or Welsh must walk together.
Whatever you believe, be able to show it. Be able to grow it.
Let the music of Bob Marley show one love.
Switch of the division. Let videos and lies fly away like fireflies.
Their dreams and plagues will no longer taunt and haunt us.
Together is always better. A community of unity.
Failure to success; pain to redress; broken to fixed. Live forever.
Some day we’ll find a brighter way.
It starts now: I give you a seed of hope.
Frustration.
Sometimes, it is easy to want to kick back. To give up. To give in. Buckle under pressure. To push it all away and walk off. Head away from everything. The problem is that it matters. And, when it matters, it really matters.
You can’t switch off from it. There is no miraculous light switch, with an option to plunge away that which matters. Nor would you want it to be that simple. Although, a spot of simplification may make a huge difference. Frustrating as it is, burying your head in the sand just wastes time and brings about a tumbling cascade of further frustration.
No plan ever survives first contact with the enemy, or a decorator, or a trip away. The only certainty in life is death. Everything else is hung on tiny, easily disturbed strings. These variables throw up challenges, barriers, and realisations. They shape expectations and twist the optimistic to the realistic. Deep down the cinders of pessimism, ebb, and flow, waiting for their time to shine. The advice is almost always: don’t let it.
That exclusive advice may seem out of reach. That’s the beauty of pain and the distorted view of solutions: we feel it. Frustration can be overcome. It may not seem that way. Finding your channel out of a stormy ocean is key. Believe. A spot of resilience goes a long way.
The Battle of Struggle 2024.
Have you ever worked hard on a problem to find more problems? When do you stop the “keep going” attitude? How far is too far? It seems like every step forward costs an arm and a leg, emotionally and financially.
I feel like a letdown. Rent is too high. Outgoings leave less than 20% for disposable income. Decorating frantically, problematic historic piping, wiring, and plastering are amongst the catalogue of challenges. The list goes on and on. Dividing rooms by to-do-lists, coupling with preparations, or bits here and there, seem to be cutting some grass, but then new grasses grow.
Focusing on the bathroom, that’s in hand. Some floor tiling and wall tiling are needed. A panel beneath the bar and a few minor bits. In hand. Heating and piping ca. Be resolved later. And a new shower cubicle. An okay shower and bath are available. Separate toilet room, okay – again a few tiling and flooring bits. Skirting boards all need doing.
The kitchen. Argh! New cabinets and sink, with tiles, all in boxes. Legacy sink, hanging by a thread. Oven fitted. Fridge-freezer standing tall. Walls are a disaster. Ceiling, patchy. Loads to do. A major hurdle. Skirting boards all need doing.
Box bedroom, boxed off, less carpet and heating. Back bedroom, boxed off, less carpet and wardrobe, and, yes, the skirting boards all need doing. Front bedroom: no go zone – not a task for now. Forbidden to entry. Upstairs landing and attic completed, save skirting and door frames that need a lock of paint.
Stairway to heaven-ish? Needs full painting. Lobby and front door/porch: full attention needed. Lounge: skirting and window frames, with carpets needed. Garden: for another day. Greenhouse: overgrown, and certainly work for later. Hedges: is it Eve dry enough to cut them?!
So, little by little, slowly, slowly, and painfully, the improvements turn to movements, but it all seems impossible. It isn’t. I know that. It just feels like pissing into the wind. It’ll get there. Seemingly impossible tasks always do, if you don’t give up.
Shithousery.
The trouble with popular energy drinks, like Monster, is that you can no longer tell who the drunks are in the morning. Those 568ml (a pint) cans they use make the only visible sign of the drinker to be the rapid eye-movement and early signs of an incoming brain seizure. And so, we enter the season of General Election 2024.
“I have friends who are aristocrats, I have friends who are upper-class, I have friends who are, you know, working-class. Well, not working-class.” – Rishi Sunak, before he became Prime Minister
Mud is being slung, the Prime Minister has abandoned D-Day Commemorations, alongside global leaders. Perhaps the 81st Memorial next year is more important. That or he didn’t want to see his last one. Our pint-sized leader Sunak, the Wreck-it-Ralph of political debate, is floundering on the rocks as waves go down or up from a higher point. The debate itself was absolutely shambolic and an insult to viewers. Just like his recorded transgender jibes.
“They were 7.2 million, they’re now 7.5 million. He says they are coming down, and this is the guy who says he’s good at maths.” – Keir Starmer, Labour leader
Rishi “can’t use a bank card” Sunak has scandal in abundance. He loves numbers, and he lives for money. As he battled a debate like a schoolboy in a playground, refusing his challenger a stage to speak, it was clear, Sunak is like a rabbit in the headlights of an oncoming HGV. The former non-domicile tax-evader, holder of a US Green Card, occupant of Scottish Darlington doesn’t know people. His wife’s childcare firm does know his government’s budget, though.
An elitist that defecates on all beneath him is not fit to represent people. Sunak has boasted about taking from poorer regions to feed his more privileged regions. Those supporters may vote for him. Cash-strapped residents of once-okay towns and cities will explore other options. Or likely not abstain from voting. The mandatory identification provision before voting isn’t an ideal world. The Full Monty movie in 1997 tackled social issues that its sequel series in 2023 expanded upon. The latter of the two productions seemed to highlight the magnitude of education, health care, and employment problems faced by everyday people. It was human and touching. Unlike The Conservatives and their Terminator-style governments.
Truss: a woman in form but out-lasted by a lettuce; King of the CoViD epidemic Boris-wannabe-Churchill; Theresa bloody May; and David “where’s the pig?” Cameron have overseen the decline of the UK since 2016. We’ve exited Europe based on a hairline fracture of a public referendum. The Premier League football panel has higher voting standards. The House of Commons and House of Lords, relics of our times, equally need overhauling. People need people looking out for people. At least Rishi helped fill a supermarket employee’s car with fuel once. Once.
The opposition of Keir Starmer and Labour looks relatively bland. After years of ruin and increasingly-larger-than-reality doses of populism, many crave bland. A coalition of minor parties, making prooer decisions may be better. Remain UK and scrotal-face Nigel “Up the Rah” Farage can jerk their movements and jog on. Until July the 4th, U.S. Independence Day, we face weeks of faeces and detritus being tossed. Shithousery is guaranteed. Change is coming. I can feel it in the air.
Never Mind The Bike Shops
As a kid, I was never given a top end bike. What I was given was a bike. That was enough. A pair of wheelers, after the stabilisers were removed, working horseshoe brakes. A seat. Handlebars and no gears. I’d be a teenager before I discovered gears and front suspension via our Asa’s Raleigh Activator mountain bike. In my secondary school days, Mum worked hard to give me a brand new Falcon mountain bike.
I don’t remember the Falcon’s model name, but I quickly nicknamed it the Millennium Falcon. This Star Wars-inspired nickname was apt as the year 2000 would soon be upon us. Not that I cared, Dan, Pete, and I were off riding our chicken chasers wherever they’d take us. We’d ride Stockport Town centre, rich for empty hills, Lyme Park for the mud and glory, or the High Peak Canal to Buxworth because it was all there.
Over time, a succession of bikes came and went. Gerry Sheilds in Failsworth, as a friend of Grandad, and later Gerry’s son helped regularly. I had long ago learned that Evans and Hal-frauds were not the impassioned maintenance experts needed to keep a bicycle on track. Chris Shields provided a lovely Speeder hybrid by Merida, and its £1500 price tag in 2008-ish was not particularly comforting on the pocket. It served me well, exploring Essex, Norfolk, and the North West of England. A good bike enables confidence and exploration.
Fast forward to China, and after trying a crap Giant bike, I switched to a Merida 500 Duke and then a Merida Challenger, number not recalled. The latter was too short, but in China, frames were rarely available in large. I needed extra large. It did a job. The two Merida shops in Changping and Dalingshan did their absolute best to make the Dongguan Express its greatest available cycling experience. So much so that I even exported the ill-fitting bike back to the U.K. in 2022. Yesterday, it was donated via a bike shop to a better home.
That bike shop is, Never Mind The Bike Shops, and to be honest at first, the dated website looked cack. Bright but framed in the hypertext equivalent of antiquity. The colour scheme was eye-catching. The name definitely had my attention. I read on. I decided to investigate further. Before long, in summer 2023, I’d replaced one rupture machine for an Orro grit bike with some customisation. Inevitably, the 100 miles of weekly commutes necessitated a full service. That and shearing a pedal off. Later, it was upgraded to feature Burgtec pedals, made in Macclesfield. The quirky bike shop ran by Martin Dallaghan and Hutch is one of the very best community and independent bike suppliers I’ve ever encountered.
I’d use this bike shop over others for their dedication, experience, and expertise. And still, the ride goes on. So, where to ride next?
Dream/Nightmare
What are dreams?
Broken shards of unfulfilled hope?
A dealer with an empty bag of dope?
Remnants of longed for lifestyles?
The gap along unwanted aisles?
What exactly are dreams?
A blur of shattered imagination?
A squiggle of smudged reflection?
The wings of a squashed mosquito once fit for flight?
Between day and day is there no longer night?
Where are my dreams?
So, if a dream is supposed to be positive, why does a nightmare grow from good news?
Will joyous elation ready for skews?
Is good news a mask for darkness?
Are all answers but a wild guess?
What makes dreams?
Is the craved mountain peak eternally too far to reach?
Is the hourglass open like that of a beach?
Do dawn and dusk merge as one?
Which silent bell tolls for the gone?
So, what are dreams?
Mothering Sunday
Mother’s Day is every day.
Other parents are available.
The thing is: Mum is best.
Here’s a few more reasons:
Extremely reliable and supportive.
Really warm and loving.
Mum rocks our world.
Unfortunately Dad has smelly feet.
Mother, we love you.
Mam, Mom, Mummy, Ma, Mama…
Actually, you’re my hero.
Maybe even better than Erling Haaland.
Most Mums are brilliant.
Onomatopoeia are words you could teach us.
Mmmmmmmm.
Maybe in another generation
And one after that
Mum’s influence will shine on
As it did from my Mum’s Mum.
Happy Mothering Sunday!
Immigration.
You can’t ever imagine how it feels.
You really can’t.
The worry that shakes the ground beneath your feet;
the storm brewing and paperwork left unfilled.
You have been settled, untroubled by these challenges, unaware of the steps we have yet taken.
You sigh and carry on regardless.
Dreams
“You are never too old to set another goal or dream another dream” – C.S. Lewis
More sleep. More mentoring. More books. More sharing. More new foods. More daring. More paths, yet to be walked. More caring. More cycle rides. More riding. More hugs. More talking. More cuddles. More sliding. More cups of tea. More creating. More cosiness. More time writing. More sunsets. More bearing. More starry skies. More drawing. More laughter. More reassuring. More dog walks. More cooking. More dreams. More learning. More trips away. More cleaning. More togetherness. More feeling. More fun. More dreaming. More devotion. More gleaming. More love. More, more, more.
More than this.
Waterfall… & Worsley
Thursday’s wander (9.5 miles/15.5km) preceded Friday’s wandering (9 miles/15km). Both started beyond 1pm in the afternoon. Both ended as dusk passed to dark. Each walk connected to former mining sites.
Arriving at Shaw and Crompton by Metrolink, the walk led past The Morning Star public house on Grains Road. Passing The Black Ladd public house and the King’s Arms, the path once again ended up on Grains Road, by Bishops Park golf range. Turning onto a sodden mud track off Ship Lane, the aimed point of the walk entered near-sight. Here, towering over Bishops Park, a stone monument offered views to at least four counties.
Being stood at Oldham’s highest point, it didn’t take much to meander down to the source of the River Medlock. Vast quantities of water bubbled out of a gap barely bigger than a shoebox. Panda, the dog, lapped up the freshwater and hopped amongst the boggy grassland above. My boots were tested well. With that, further steps were taken.
Heading back toward The Black Ladd pub, via farm pathways and a selection of Lancashire’s finest mud. At Dog Hill Lane, the Buckstones Road led to Shore Edge Methodist Church and up a track to Brushes Clough Reservoir. A muddy yet serine picturesque place. Following the pathways around a quarry and skirting Crompton Moor, the pathway looped over Old Brook. Pingot Quarry Waterfall was the icing on a cake after a decent afternoon’s rambling. Naturally, surrounded by mud.
After a delightful waterfall came the walk back to the Metrolink stop at Shaw and Crompton. Full circle. The next day, the Metrolink start would be Eccles. The finale at the Trafford Centre Metrolink terminal. The lengthy wander through Monton passed more coffee shops than I have digits on my hands. After passing Monton Unitarian Church, it was possible to hop onto the Roe Green Loopline cycle and footpath.
The former Tyldesley Loopline railway line passes through Worsley Station. It runs almost parallel, although distancing from, to the Bridgewater Canal. The Dukes Drive green looked flooded from a saturated Folly Brook, sat beneath the raised embankments of the pathway. The pleasant path followed a straight and even course, ideal for cycling, rambling and dogwalkers alike.
At first instance of signage for Old Warke Dam, a left turn led up to a large lake underneath an old house and magical woodlands stretching up and over to Worlsey Delph. Here, like yesterday’s quarry in Crompton, evidence of mining stretched around the cold damp rocks. Worsley, as documented by the excellent Martin Zero, amongst many, is a feature-filled landscape draped in architecture and modern wonder. The Bridgwater Canal, the Alphabet Bridge, and countless old buildings spoil visitors for sights of sites. The canal pointed the remainder of the walk toward the Barton Swing Bridge at Trafford and over the Manchester Ship Canal. A stone’s throw from a place to hop on the Metrolink at the Trafford Centre.
With drier shoes than yesterday, a brew and feet up time were essential. For Panda, bacon sizzlers and some moist and meaty dog food. For Saturday, Mossley… maybe.
Ambition
Why are you suited to teach your subjects or age group?
I am inspired to apply for targeted literacy courses for a plethora of reasons. The biggest reason is that I really want to be a qualified and successful educator. I understand through this course and my employer that I could be in the right place that this leap is made.
The personal qualities that would make me a good teacher are as follows. Throughout the years, I have developed excellent communication and interpersonal skills. I have honed and proven I have a range of planning, organisation, and time-management skills. Many colleagues, parents, and friends have noted that I have the ability to enthuse and motivate pupils. I utilise my imagination, creativity and a sense of humour to engage and inform. I use listening skills and the ability to reflect on my own teaching practice to evaluate and refresh my methods periodically. I am confident in my ability to teach and inspire.
I have a decade of experience ranging from English and cultural consultation, across a broad age range of students (early years, primary and secondary) to delivering International Baccalaureate, and also football and sports coaching on a voluntary basis whilst in China. Since returning to the UK in late 2022, I have sought and obtained a role that allows me to work in UK education.
My understanding of the demands and rewards of teaching are that to be a successful school teacher, you must have a passion to inspire young minds alongside a commitment to ensure that every child achieves their potential. A teacher must open doors to progression and empower students to reach their potential and opportunity. I understand that teaching involves far more than the curriculum. Educators must assess (to set standards), record pupils’ development, ensure that pupils are safe and that all child protection and safeguarding measures are followed, as well as provide feedback to parents and carers on a pupil’s progress. Like the diversity of school life, I must encourage and maintain inclusion and education as a place for all. The reward of progression and opportunity to develop motivates me to thrive towards education and harmony.
There are fixed and flexible opportunities that I could contribute to a school outside of the classroom through clubs, extra-curricular activities, whilst sourcing resources and supporting the school community or colleagues in the delivery of other specialist area. Should opportunity arise then I would like to organise and take part in school events, outings and activities.
My thoughts on children’s well-being are that the world is complicated. The tapestry of challenges and opportunities needs unthreading to allow students the opportunity to access and understand. Mindfulness and curiosity should be protected to allow the UK education system to blossom. Globally, many nations and education systems look to the UK for guidance, experience, and innovation. I desire to be part of this system by assessing, delivering, tracking, and measuring my own success and setting an example to others by using this methodlogy to deliver education at a high quality.
Christmas ’23
Eight miles there. Eight back. Clayton Vale, Ashton-under-Lyne canal, the old filled in Stockport canal, and the Fallowfield Loopline cycle path paved the way from home to home. A few roads, with the odd crossing, make for a largely traffic-free route. Perfect for the Panda dog walking tight to your legs, and more importantly, good for chasing a kicked or thrown ball. A good wander.
The battle against the big C rages on. Cancer is a horrid thing. It ruins families and strikes at the centre of health, in a way crippling and doesn’t let go. As one beats it, another battles. It claims life whilst brave faces tussle and show determination to win and live go fight another day. Keep battling. You can do it.
A platter of yummy foods, traditional at Christmas, was devoured between five mouths (Panda included). Paul and Mam always know their food. The former more than the latter. Mam did her best to keep us in baked beans and curries as kids. In fact, I’d go as far as saying as Mam has always been a culinary explorer. Mam tried her best and still does to introduce me, Paul Jr. and Astrid to new forms of scran. Corn, however, is still a big no. Paul, being a former chef, knows his onions, shallots, and all the other Allium members. I feel blessed to eat well. Astrid, predisposed, wasn’t around, but hopefully, we can catch up later this week and have some competitive eating.
Christmas 2012 was the last time I ate Christmas Dinner at Mam’s before last year (2022). Those intervening years in China have dampened my mood for Christmas. With new life and youth present, it has reminded me that this special time of year is perfect for celebrating together. 2024 will be much better. I feel it. I hope for it. Christmas Dinner in 2023 consisted of a platter of potatoes, Mediterranean-style vegetables, salmon, sprouts, carrots, chicken, and gravy. It wasn’t the traditional Christmas Dinner. But, sat with Dad nattering and an episode of Last of The Summer Wine, it was pleasant enough. Merry Christmas and a happy new year.
Christmas Day involved copious amounts of dog walking, reading, and generally communicating via the mobile phone to the point of near blindness. Boxing Day would lead to more walking. 16 miles in the legs deserved a drink. The last Christmas gift opened. Belgian beer, Bernardus Abt 12, at 10% volume, sank well. Cheers, Doddsy, for the plonk. The dark quadruple was rich in flavour and suitable for watching Hunter Killer, a disappointing middle-of-the-road Russian-American conflict movie. As paint by number action movies go, it did enough to get my nose back into Flann O’Brien’s The Poor Mouth. Translated text can sometimes be difficult, but the wit and heart of the stories shine through.
R(age)
Bouncing fists off walls.
Endless unappreciated failed triumphs.
Hurdles leaped, barriers removed, all in vain.
Boxes ticked, copies spoiled, followed by new processes.
Old processes retracted, money subtracted, and added, again and again and again.
No longer stopping, looking, and listening.
Hoping for a fight to be put my way.
Not sharing or caring.
Turning milk sour. With a stare.
Deleted. No longer there. Unsent messages.
No worries. No thoughts.
Switched to off.
Void.
Black.
Return of the Bus Journey
No plan survives contact with the scheduled 76 bus. Nor the second timetabled bus. Arriving late into town meant one of two things. The 192 bus or a train. The train is the quicker option to Stockport. The price, a modest £5.30 one way, demanded a mortgage. The things you do to try to get to work on time. Cycling is off.
Having missed the 0748 Manchester to Bredbury train, I tried to slingshot ahead of the later service arriving to Bredbury at 0835. Sadly, the bus at Stockport’s Heaton Lane bus station was scheduled for 0835, too. Murphy’s Law. My cursed aching muscles and sudden varicose vein development on the right leg suddenly became weighted against a potentially exhausting bike ride to work the next day.
Having rang work to say I’d be late, I questioned how getting up earlier to arrive at work later made sense. This is Britain, formerly Great Britain. The new Manchester Bee Network for public transport is the least integrated and most underwhelming range of services known to mankind. People in Himalayan foothills have more reliable public transport options. Adding a rebrand to buses, trains, and trams in Manchester makes as much sense as being a Public Relations officer for Suella Braverman. Lifestyle choices, my arse.
Better late than never? I want to work. I enjoy my job. Today, however, I still feel worn down, lethargic, and done in. Still, it could be much worse. Jules Verne could turn this morning’s journey into an adventure. Likewise, it could be much better. Here’s to a blessed week.
Diary of my own metamorphosis.
Throat burns. Blood in mucus. Ears ring with tinnitus. Joints burn. Each knee and my ankle feel vulnerable. By sunrise, the test confirmed it. Monday night to Tuesday morning, a rancid blur.
Aches spread to muscles. Deep rasping cough. Aches. No taste. No smell. A headache like a spear into the cranium. Thudding heart. Cramps in calves, thighs, and arms. Sleep. Awake for soup. Struggle to keep it down.
Wednesday’s test once again shows it is still here. Cough syrup, useless. Painkillers fail to silence the drumming head. Up and down, burning pee, constant walks from bed to bathroom to bed.
Tortured night changes to grim day. Thursday, a day I was born on, gives no relief. I crave fruit and air and freedom. The twisted bug grips me. I test again. Not positive. Negative. Yet symptoms come and go, and ache me.
By evening I recall Kafka’s Metamorphosis, rewritten by Sissay. Missed it. Can’t go out. No focus. Not well enough for work, nor play. Rest. Recoup. Battle the symphony of the virus’s stampede through my head and body.
Friday comes soon. What next? Dear CoViD-19, what will you bring?
Brother.
What’s done is done. Don’t waste time waiting to be carried on. Get out and join the run. Find that cloud that moves away for sun.
What isn’t done isn’t a dream turned to reality. More is the pity. Witty as you are, zitty as you may be. Cheer on City, sing a ditty. Don’t feel life is shitty.
Live it. Seek it. Find it. Whatever it is. Get out more. See more. Do more. It is what it is. Time flies in a whizz.
Spend it. Spend it wisely. It can be scary and lary or live it fully and happily. Get up early, even on a Saturday.
It’s how you spend it. Like comedy? Choose wit. Like music? Find your hit. Get out of your pit. Grab your true grit.
Choose to live. This life. Now. Friends will come and go. Some live long, and some live slow. You will love some, and some may know.
What are you waiting for?
Ex Nihilo
Something from nothing,
Yet nothing was something;
So something was
And therefore, nothing can be.
Omnipotent presence
Surely was something;
How can nothing birth something?
Why would something grow from nothing?
Ignorance and wrath in stark contrast,
Ever the contradiction;
Biased omnibenevolence to some,
With all powerful ignorance damning many.
The chicken, the egg, the old conundrum;
Which came first?
Faith in science and science in faith,
Each with parts unravelled.
Like yesterday
Was it yesterday we last met? Or, the week before? What? Over four years?! Unbelievable! It feels just like yesterday.
A new place with a new arrangement? Feels homely and familiar. I’ve never been here, yet it fits like a glove. Incredible! It feels just like yesterday.
Older paws and fresh tails. New photos and shirts and books and electronics. Similar but different games. Same old, same old. It feels just like yesterday.
Same voices, different figures. Hearts and minds open or closed. Warmth, deeply felt friendship. Experiences gained through tales and moments unmatched. It feels just like yesterday.
Hugs, handshakes, and cheers. One for the road. A night cap. A natter. It all matters. It’s irrelevant until it’s relevant. A proud writer talking to a writer. Audiences growing. It feels just like yesterday.
Congratulations and commiserations. Job done. Here’s to another one. Not too many years away next time. Days instead. Open doors and invites. It feels like it will be tomorrow.
The 500 & Something-th Post
Munich, Birmingham, and Manchester in a day. Added to that, Istanbul, Hong Kong, Dongguan, and Huizhou in just over a day or so. Beyond that, time in Guangzhou and Meizhou. Miles and Miles of carbon footprint with purpose. I’ll plant some trees, flowers and greenery, and do my bit. I wonder how much SpaceX do for offsetting their explosive test work. Can see Elon Musk in a pinny and holding a trowel. Do those bodies need burying?
Every journey needs a purpose, or every journey gives a purpose, dependent on your outlook. Along the roads and flight paths, I’ve come to understand the meaning of it all. Perhaps it is all about succession and passing on as much of your good as possible. Or 42. Give or take, our genes are their to be and exist tomorrow. Investing time and effort in developing a miracle second generation is magical. We’re just a moment in time, so why not give all we can give?!
Humans make mistakes. Humility is normal. Just ask any billionaire businessman and promptly discard their response. People, like mothers who adopt young orphan girls in Meizhou, giving much to support others, are who I want to learn from. I accept judgement from all, but reject all from being my judge.
So, I find myself writing, whilst on a train from Morecambe. In fact, I’m completing words first noted whilst on Munich a few weeks ago. Time has come and given me other distractions like mounting shelves, removing doubt, and wandering to the odd game of football, or five. In fact, today before a carvery lunch, Panda, Blue, and I walked around Heysham village and meandered around Morecambe’s southern flank of town. The 14°C coolness occasionally permeated by glistening rays of sun-shiiiine. Rather than shrivel up and burn as per my pale skin, I opted to walk and feel the delightful comfort of light.
As railway announcements offer routes to Rouse, Carlisle, London, and Manchester, I sit back, legs stretched, almost fastened to a metal bench. In my hands is a paperback copy of Mike Leaver’s Yeti Seeks Mate. The opening new chapters tie you down and pull you in. Everyone loves the excitement of a new chapter. Whilst the author sounds like the words my cleaver, he seems an intricate and clever wordsmith. That tale may be written, but others are just unfolding.
15th April MMXXIII
Up by 5.30am. In a car by 6.30am. A breakfast of water, a slice of bread, and some meatballs. No coffee. We popped out from Huizhou to Meizhou for a coffee. The 105th day of the year. 260 remaining days.
April the 15th is an old date in history. Wars, death and grimness. April (四月) is usually associated with the sound si which sounds a lot like death. Aside from the Pocotaligo Massacre (1715), Swedes defeating Romans at Rain (1632), the English getting battered in Northern France (1450) and the ill-fated Battle of Kilrush (1642), there has to be something good about April the 15th. Step forward Samuel Johnson.
Dr Samuel Johnson published A Dictionary of the English Language. Game changer. Useful for words such as olympiad, because April 15th, 1896, marks the closing ceremony of the first modern Olympics. Two years prior, on April 16th, 1894, Manchester City F.C. was incorporated. Close enough for a tedious inclusion. Other notable events on April 15th include the sinking of the R.M.S. Titanic – a legendary tragedy and disaster, and in 1941, a thousand or so souls were killed in the Belfast Blitz. Doom and gloom.
In 1989, Hillsborough, the U.K.’s most shameful episode of football terracing disaster would eventually claim 97 lives, and years of campaigning for justice began. Little positive can conclude this simple paragraph and statement. Never forget.
It isn’t all grim for this date. Insulin had become available for the public in 1923. Malta received a Goerge Cross in 1942 and the notorious Bergen-Belsen camp was liberated three years later. In ’55, McDonald’s was founded, keeping obesity an option globally, and perhaps led to some chip fat causing the Notre-Dam de Paris cathedral fire of 2019. Okay, it’s really a date with some unpleasant and bleak history. Just ask Leonardo Da Vinci, Nicolas Chopin, and 1000+ games, Canadian ice hockey star, Keith Acton, their birthday. Abraham Lincoln was assassinated fatally on this date, too. Poor chap. Still, his statue in Manchester, England, is pretty cool.
Arthur Lowe, former Chapel Street Primary School pupil, may have passed away on this day in 1982, but his memory and comedic talent live on. As does the memory of comedian Tommy Cooper. Just like that. The Universal Day of Culture under the Banner of Peace adds a more cultured look at the date in question. Or that of World Art Day, powered by UNESCO. It takes all sorts to give a date a meaning.
We arrived back from Meizhou. We didn’t even get a coffee. Two bottles of soft drinks were all. We sat down for lunch. All done and settled inside a few hours. A new meaning to the date. Our own history. Yet, I feel I have forgotten the date’s other connection. I feel it is attached to a family member, yet I can’t place it.
The moon is rising.
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