If you know me, how would you describe me? This isn’t a rhetorical question, I’d love to know. If you read this and get chance, please tell me in a few words. Call me, text me, tell me to my face. I can pretend I’m an influencer and ask you to put it in the comments if it makes you happy.
Why do I ask? Well, I’m a functioning depressive. That might sound a weird phrase, but I think it fits. Call some a functioning alcoholic and it’s clear what you mean – someone who has a medical condition, a dependency, that they’re able to mask well enough to go through 99% of their daily life. I’m pretty sure I’m the same.I’ll happily sit at my desk cracking jokes, get a round in and chat about the world, try to see the best in people. I’m also no stranger to crying on public transport (and not just because of the ever-increasing prices) or being entirely restless or indecisive because I’ve no belief whatever I do will make me smile. I hope I hide it pretty well, but I have absolutely no idea how visible it is to people.
I’d like to think I can be pretty fun. I’ve got a sense of humour, albeit a mildly dark one, and I’ve got a fair few friends. I’ve got a lovely family – they’re kind, dedicated and sympathetic. Much like the example I gave above, they’re the ones who bear the brunt of me when I’m at my worst.
I don’t really know why I’m writing this but (and I realise how misplaced this language is), this feels like outing my mental health issues. I’m struggling a bit at the moment and I need and want people to know that maybe I’m not always as I seem. I’m not looking for sympathy or special treatment, I just think it’s fair I told you.
This isn’t any great secret, nor is it breaking news. I’ve been on medication for a couple of years and probably should have done something about it over a decade ago. I just don’t really talk openly about it and, because of that, lean pretty heavily on a very small number of people who keep me going.
I’m far from an extreme case. Millions of people have mental health issues and, if you were to put 100 of them in a room, 95 of them would have it worse than me. I’m writing this during a blip, so sorry if I’m being a catastrophist. I wish I was different. I’ve got a lovely life and sometimes my stupid brain sees it as a cage, like life is something for me to battle, to call into question, to challenge. Why, I don’t know.
I’m sorry if I you’re one of the people I lean on to keep me together. It’s selfish and I’m not always the most instantly appreciative of your support. Loads of you help in your own way, I love you all.
No reason for alarm, I just wanted to put these words in one place so that they weren’t rattling around in my head. Thanks for listening.
Thirty years ago today, my life changed. Not quite a meet cute as you’d see in a Nora Ephron film, but a moment that started a love affair that still stands today. One that’s made me laugh, cry, and take a 20-hour day trip to Carlisle.
That’s right, on 17th August 1993 I stepped foot inside Dean Court.
On paper, the experience for nine-year-old me was very different from what my daughter of the same age experienced the first time she walked into the ground a year ago, but I bet the emotions, sensations, and excitement weren’t very far apart at all. For her, the visitors were Aston Villa, star-studded with the South American talents of Philippe Coutinho, Diego Carlos and the soon-to-be World Cup winner, Emi Martinez. For me, Cardiff City, their squad blessed with names that evoke a certain era: Kevin Ratcliffe, Alan Knill, Phil Kite, and the then-prodigious 21-year-old Nathan Blake.
It wasn’t about the players though (bar one, who I’ll get to shortly). The lights, the atmosphere, and the fans (me, my uncle Craig, and 3,052 others) were intoxicating. Live football gives me a feeling that little in life has ever managed to, and I was hooked from my first taste.
What a kit, what a team.
Among the scorers that night was another 21-year-old centre forward, our very own Steven Mark Fletcher. I’ve gone into enough detail about him here, but it’s fair to say that nobody in that ground would have anticipated him making over 700 appearances for the club. Almost a constant in my three decades following the club, Fletch remains part of the staff to this day.
Like that first game, though, this isn’t just about players. Sure, there are enough who I’ve idolised. Icons like Eddie, Matt Holland, Marc Pugh, Callum Wilson, and Wade Elliott unite us, but for me it’s those ‘I was there’ players who you wear as a badge of honour in conversation like a priceless retro shirt – Chukki Eribenne, Mo Berthe, Franck Rolling, Callum Hart, Marcos Painter, Christer Warren. But no, it’s not about them. It’s about memories, about friends.
In my early mid-twenties, my weekends were all about football. As luck would dictate, this was a pretty low point for us. Debts, administration and points deductions off the field saw us relegated away at Carlisle in 2008, falling back down to the fourth tier. Despite this, and our football being poor, it’s one of the periods I first thought of when I decided to write this. Despite relegation, the side boasted fans’ favourites spanning different managerial eras – Neil Young, Danny Hollands, Warren Cummings and Brett Pitman, the loanee Max Gradel (who we’d pay £7m for in the Premier League just seven years later) and, remarkably, the Spurs legend Darren Anderton – the last Bournemouth player whose name adorned one of my replica shirts.
The next season brought more lows but with them, perhaps thanks to them, the most pivotal moment in the club’s history. On New Year’s Day 2009, I was painting my nan’s kitchen, listening to Radio Solent as the club sacked the uninspiring Jimmy Quinn. At this point, every permanent manager I’d seen in our dugout had been a former Bournemouth player – Pulis, Machin, O’Driscoll, Bond and Quinn. This habit repeated itself when the board, led by Adam Murry, took a punt and made a young former centre-half our caretaker manager. Step forward, Eddie Howe.
Enough words have been spoken about our rise through the divisions, laurels finally thrown at Howe based on his success with Saudi billions rather than keeping us in the Football League (and in business) with players recruited from the local non-league scene, so I’ll leave that to the professionals.
What excited me most about Howe is that he made Bournemouth feel like the club I fell in love with again. Much like Fletch, he’s a golden thread running through my Bournemouth experience. While his successes will always outweigh those of his predecessors, the principles of Howe’s football echoed those of his former coach, Sean O’Driscoll. Formidable wing partnerships and technically gifted central midfielders feel part of the ‘Bournemouth way’.
While the highlights of recent years are immortalised in pre-match videos, replete with oft-repeated commentary (‘Pugh, that’ll do it’, for one), O’Driscoll’s Bournemouth is responsible for many of the moments seared into my brain. A 5-2 playoff final win in Cardiff is the obvious candidate, but when I think of glorious moments supporting the club, my mind goes back to a match many might have forgotten. A sun-soaked (and probably beer-fuelled) Saturday in September 2004, and a 5-0 win against Doncaster Rovers, a club that would appoint O’Driscoll two years later. It was everything both managers showcased at their best – fast out of the blocks, dynamic, and inventive. If it was a boxing match, they’d have called it three rounds in. In fact, the footballing equivalent pretty much happened. French defender Nicolas Priet was hooked after 21 minutes, having been torn apart by Wade Elliott. By this point, the Cherries were 3-0 up, including our future messiah scoring what became euphemistically known as ‘the Eddie Howe corner’. A ball played flat across the edge of the box and stepped over, lashed home by the golden boy.
Enough indulgence from me. Like all good relationships, my time with AFC Bournemouth wouldn’t be what it is without sacrifice. It wouldn’t exist without Craig, taking his nephew to game after game, patiently explaining the rules, when I’m sure he could have been doing something better with his time, taking me to the training ground to meet the players as a starstruck child. He still gives me lifts home now and is the first person I’ll talk to about anything football-related. My mum, a young, single mum, took me to games, always on foot, always interested, even when Neil Moss wasn’t playing. She queued up, with my poorly baby sister in arms, for four hours to get me and my mates tickets to that playoff final, a day I’ll never forget and wouldn’t have had without her.
It’s a love I’ve shared with everyone close to me. My nan, sisters, cousins, and wife have all been subjected, with mixed results. My sisters sat through a rain-soaked 0-0 draw against Blyth Spartans under the aforementioned Quinn, so it’s no surprise they didn’t get the bug. My nan was a stalwart for some time, even coming with me to watch us lose away to that lot down the round. Most importantly to me, all three of my children have been with me and two are now season ticket holders. Ben fortuitously watched us rise through the Championship and establish ourselves as a Premier League side, and then hopefully do it all over again. He was even an on-pitch flag bearer for our 2-1 win over Van Gaal’s United.
Adoring a football club is a weird experience. It dominates our weekend and, at times, our week. I’ve seen some incredible highs – winning the Championship at the Valley, last day survivals – and remarkable lows – relegations, thumpings, and the entire Paul Groves era – but it’s such a fragile bond. More than once, my club has been on the brink of folding. I’ve seen how much it’s been at the whim of an owner, or an administrator, who didn’t have the club’s wellbeing at heart. It’s a strangely powerless feeling. I tried countering that by serving years as the secretary of our supporters’ trust. I felt no more of a voice. Weird, isn’t it? So much of our identity and happiness is bound up in something outside of our control.
In three decades, the players have changed, as have the kits, the owners, the ground, even the badge. But it’s not about that, is it? It’s about the feeling, the people, the stories, the memories. Football is people. It’s community. My club might belong to Bill Foley, but it lives inside every one of us.
Lots of words have been written about Cherries Trust in the past week or so. To be honest, the last thing anyone needs is someone else giving their personal opinion about it, but hey, here we are.
First off, the Trust is far from perfect. It’s at a low ebb and it desperately needs reinvigoration. It’s increasingly broadcasting the views of a handful of people, and the spirit of community and solidarity has all but disappeared. On that, most people seem to agree.
Secondly, I have a vested interest. I was Secretary of the Trust for several years when it was first ratified and have a strong passion for a truly independent, inclusive supporters’ group. I’m a socialist supporting a club that hasn’t always covered itself in glory when it comes to communication, so of course I am.
One thing I’ve spent more time than I’d like to have been doing this week is defending the Trust. Not so much in its current form, although I have a respect for anyone willing to step up and be accountable. I’ve had conversations with people I know, friends even, who’ve said the Cherries Trust has never been an effective group. Again, I’m biased, but I firmly disagree.
I fought the club for 18 months just for the right for the CT to pay for and supply free feminine hygiene products in the toilets at Dean Court. Sure, it’s not overthrowing the state or even achieving greater accessibility, but it’s something that matters to me and many others.
I sat in a boardroom with Finney, Mostyn and Blake and argued that they reinstate the Junior Cherries open training sessions. I got pushback. Lots of pushback. I was told the schedule wouldn’t make it possible. Two weeks later, the club announced that they were returning and flatly refused to acknowledge our involvement.
The club focus groups, now superseded by the handpicked SEG, would not have happened without brilliant people like Kerry Smith, Damien Hill and Gary Hickson. They gave people from all walks of life – women, children, disabled people – a voice in a typically male-dominated arena.
I was lucky enough to serve alongside some brilliant people. Stuart Bramley, the most passionate advocate of safe standing you could ever hope to meet, Robin Latchem, whose insight as an exile and willingness the schlep down from London for meetings was invaluable, and Tony Maycock, who’ll hate me calling him the Mick Lynch of AFC Bournemouth, but he deserves it.
Tony spent hundreds (and I mean hundreds) of hours dissecting police reports, making FOI requests and challenging various bodies to stand up for our members after the debacle at Old Trafford in May 2016, without a moment of support, encouragement or involvement from the club.
When the shit hit the fan, he stepped up. When there were issues with ticketing, he got Rob Mitchell in front of him within 24 hours and the club issued apologies.
I’m sure this is fairly rose-tinted, but what I’m trying to say is the Cherries Trust is only as good as the people involved. I’m waxed lyrical about some individuals here, but I’m sure they would be the first to admit that there are people in the fanbase who could do as good or a better job.
Wherever the Trust goes now, it’s the people involved who’ll be the difference between success and failure. I really hope it’ll thrive.
I planned, as I do some years, to dedicate a blog to my favourite albums of the year. Then I thought, does anyone really need that? Do they want to read it? If you do, there’s a short, almost certainly incomplete, list at the bottom of this article.
Then I thought I’d write an article about the people, not close friends and family, not even those friends who live in my phone, but people I’ve never met who have helped me get through a rather odd year. The day I finally, after weeks of milling, decide to write this I see that the Guardian has run a feature titled ‘The person who got me through 2021’. Well, sod it, I’ve already written half of this in my head. So you’re stuck with it. But before I do, here’s a little bit about my year.
Despite spending as much, if not more, of this year at home as I did the last, 2021 was full of surprises. If you’d said to me last Christmas that I’d have stood in a council election, I’d have been amazed. I stood (and lost) in two – the most recent having its results called just half an hour before the clock struck Christmas Eve. It’s been a hugely uplifting experience and I made and cemented friendships from it. There are a few choice people without whom I wouldn’t have had the mental fortitude to do so, but I really hope they know who they are. Despite this positivity, the latest result hit me harder than I expected. A bit of a freak election, sure, but we put a great deal into it and saw our vote crumble. I think it’ll stay with me a good while, a lot more than May’s county council elections, but I’ll bounce back.
Another thing that surprised me greatly and is intended to write a piece about, was being awarded my employer’s first-ever outstanding achievement award. It’s been a strange working year, in which we’ve been at home throughout, but I’ve endeavoured to make it as successful as possible. I’m much better at highlighting my flaws, so I’ll leave it there.
I won’t air my family strife here (I’m fortunate to have a great home life, but there’s a very close relative I’ve not heard from in months), but needless to say, I’d much prefer they were better.
Back to my main point, aren’t we blessed by the company of strangers at times? As a keen reader and podcast listener, I spend a great deal of my time with strangers. Here are a few who (along with my nearest and dearest) have got me through the year:
If you follow me on Twitter, you probably know about Musa. Scratch that, you probably wonder why he hasn’t taken a restraining order out against me. He’s great. Aside from writing the greatest book released this year, the moving and frankly beautiful In The End, It Was All About Love, he also wrote a striking memoir of his time at Eton (One of Them) and co-hosts my favourite podcast, Stadio. (Flowers should also go to his co-host, the wonderful Ryan Hunn).
These are all just a glimpse into his impact on my life, however. Much is made of Musa’s laugh. It’s a favourite of Ian Wright’s, on whose podcast Musa is a regular guest, but to me, his turn of phrase and his unrelenting humanity outstrip it by some distance. I’ll stop before the Bundespolizei gets a call.
Like Musa, Jo is one of those people near my age that make me question my achievements in life. As General Secretary of UCU, Jo has been the most powerful, progress and communicative unionist I’ve known. During this pandemic, much attention has been on schools (although not from the halls of Westminster), but Jo has been a brilliant voice for Further Education. Her manifesto genuinely inspired and inspires me to do more to improve my workplace and society at large. December saw UCU members take strike action over pension cuts and pay & working conditions and Jo was a regular presence online, on the news and at the picket line, arguing the case in plain English and which passion. The world would be a better place with more Jo Gradys.
Before I start, let me get one thing clear. Emma Hayes makes life difficult for me because I can’t stand Chelsea. I really really can’t. But Chelsea Women are a revelation. I’m writing this as they’re in a bit of a slump, but in Emma Hayes they have the best person to get them out of it. She’s one of the most progressive and interesting football managers around and an absolute breath of fresh air. The smartest pundit at the Euros too.
Anyone who had anything to do with Succession
Now, this is a bit of a cop-out as I’m not naming names (although Brian Cox and Kieran Culkin make a glorious script even greater). Watch it and enjoy the nonsense.
National politics has been fair dispiriting this year, but Zarah gives me hope on an almost daily basis. Principled, intelligent, funny, hardworking – in my eyes she’s everything the Labour Party should be. Talking to a few MPs at CLP meetings this year has strengthened my sense of purpose and, whilst Zarah sadly isn’t one who’s spoken with us, her words in Commons, on social media and in print spur me on. She’s been targeted with some truly horrific abuse and I’d recommend anyone to watch her account of it here, but she always rises above it. Her tongue-in-cheek post, ‘Me, a Muslim, trying to ban Christmas’ is unbridled joy.
There are plenty more I could list and, like an albums of the year list, I’m sure there would be more I’d add if I did it tomorrow.
On the note, here are some albums that brought me joy this year:
Amusingly, I just got annoyed listening to Ryan Holiday’s ‘Daily Stoic’ podcast.
Talking about work-life balance, he said:
If you want work-life balance, I usually find you have to get yourself to some place of power or in-demand or leverage that allows you to then design your life the way you want it.
Why? What about society means that has to be the case?
Even more remarkably this comment came in the middle of a discussion about the finite nature of our time on Earth, in which Holiday spoke with Oliver Burkeman about his latest book, ‘Four Thousand Weeks: Time and How to Use It’. Unsurprisingly, they spoke about how the pandemic has changed and challenged our concept of time and the short 4,000 weeks we’re likely to live if we’re lucky.
Burkeman speaks of ‘possibility shock’ during the lockdown stages of the pandemic – suddenly there were things we couldn’t do, but amongst that we found things that we were able to. Things we took for granted that brought us joy and things we have probably overlooked or under/over-prioritised when life was ‘normal’.
This made me think about something I’ve been meaning to write for a while. There is no question that the pandemic has changed my outlook on life. I really struggled for several months, living life in fear and barely leaving the house, but I also spent more time with my family and felt less absent at home. I was able to enjoy moments I’d not have been able to do so otherwise.
Taking my daughter to her last day at infant school, I was incredibly emotional. I’d now had three children pass all the way through that school and I wouldn’t be experiencing it again. Then it hit me. Usually this day would have just been something that passed me by, something that happened while I was on my way to work. I was lucky to be part of it.
Flexibility has been a blessing for my personal development. Without affecting my working life, I’ve undertaken some personal coaching in my lunch breaks, done more free online training courses and seminars outside of work hours and been able to attend non-working meetings online that I’d struggled to have fit after getting home from work.
The core of this issue is work-life balance, where I started this meandering missive. Yesterday, the newspaper below ran a story suggesting that civil servants who continue to work from home should face a pay cut. Why?
The ‘possibility shock’ of the pandemic wasn’t restricted to banana bread and zoom quizzes. It tore up the late capitalist model of work – one in which our efforts are measured in time spent at a desk and in which sacrifice is a badge of honour. A model in which entire towns have seen house prices soar purely because their location makes it easier for people to go and sit at a desk in London and email other people sat at desks in London.
I’m being trite, but I honestly thought this short(ish), sharp shock would change the way we looked at life for good. If being able to do your job perfectly well from home isn’t cause enough to question an expensive and exhaustingly daily commute, surely a daily news briefing on the uncertainty and insecurity of how long we’ll all live is reason to question it.
To me, there’s no question that the old model is broken.
As the brilliant campaigner Anna Whitehouse points out, the average work holiday allowance is 25 days. The average school summer holiday is 42 days. It doesn’t work, not at all.
I don’t know what we do from here, but a return to normal isn’t it. I want a world where life is more than work for those without a place of power, who aren’t in-demand or have leverage. Surely that isn’t too much to ask?
I am writing to you as a constituent of Sir Desmond Swayne in New Forest West.
As you’ll no doubt be aware, Sir Desmond has been in the news for his comments about the pandemic.
Having seen people suffer extraordinary loss and undergo real hardship through this pandemic, hearing that my MP claim that NHS figures were being “manipulated” and that anti-vaccination campaigners should persist with their agenda is heartbreaking.
Sir Desmond is supposed to represent his constituents. His comments are an insult to the families of the 197 New Forest residents to have lost their lives to Coronavirus. It is an insult to the NHS workers in our region, and the nation, who have not only worked hard to reduce this death toll, but also bear the emotional scars of doing so for almost a year.
The Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, Michael Gove, has said that Sir Desmond was “out of order”, yet refuses to take action. Well, he is not encumbered with his Right Honourable friend as his voice in Parliament.
When Dominic Cummings contradicted Government advice, party loyalty stood firm. As he made his statement in the grounds of 10 Downing Street, 36,914 people in the UK had died of this virus. Since that date, a further 64,973 lives have been lost.
I urge you to act now and show that the Conservative party, the party of Government, the party that has “done all it could” in the words of the Prime Minister is not a place for this harmful agenda which could cost lives.
I would like to know how you intend on disciplining the Member of Parliament for New Forest West for this latest infringement and for putting the government message at risk.
So, World Mental Health Day in the midst of a pandemic.
It’s been a tough year for everyone, but that goes without saying, but when people talk about those with underlying health conditions few people mention the way this pandemic could exacerbate those suffering with a variety of mental health issues.
There are people far more qualified to talk about that than me, so instead I want to talk about what’s kept me going through all of this. For this year’s #WorldMentalHealthDay, Mind is running a campaign titled Do One Thing, and I hope people can take something from this.
Family
It would be remiss of me to not talk about the importance of family. I’m always reluctant to say too much, as I know I’m incredibly fortunate and not everyone has the same loving home I do but I can’t downplay the important role they’ve had. For months, there were five of us in this house almost 24 hours a day, each having to work and relax under the same roof. I couldn’t have got through it without all of them being wonderful and respecting the time and space each of us needed.
Do one thing – call someone you love and see how they are, let them ask about how you are. Talk, laugh, love.
Headspace
As wonderful as my family are, my mind has needed time to escape. I’ve really benefitted from the little things – an hour long walk often listening to music or the fantastic Stadio podcast. I won’t bang on too much about it, it’s worth a post of its own, but Ryan and Musa make me laugh, make me think and give me hope. I’m indebted to them.
I’ve also spent a lot of time this year with my head in a book – 34 in total. I started the year with Ann Patchett’s moving The Dutch House and am just finishing Supper Club by Lara Williams. In between I’ve read books on race, the Tories’ ‘hostile environment’ and James Acaster’s tribute to the music of 2016, among many others.
One of the things I wouldn’t have predicted pre-lockdown is how much time I spent playing NBA2K20. For those who don’t know, it’s a basketball game on the Xbox and the first of its type I’ve played since the 1993 classic NBA Jam. Inspired in part by the brilliant Netflix documentary The Last Dance, I started to pay more attention to basketball in it’s ‘bubble’ restart and was entranced by a sport I hadn’t seen for years. Peace and enjoyment often comes from the places you least expect it.
Do one thing – take time for yourself. An hour, an afternoon, a day. Read a book, dance around your lounge, go for a walk. Put yourself first for a bit.
Hope
In a difficult year, I’ve found hope incredibly easy to come by. I’m not talking about clap for the NHS hope or Elton John singing I’M DILL DANDIN’ at the One World concert. Certainly not a fist-shaking, world-beating Boris Johnson kind of hope.
I mean a very personal hope. I’ve been a minor part in the formation of Talking Cherries, a mental health initiative run by AFC Bournemouth fans (some of whom I knew, some I didn’t). They’ve not only encouraged me to talk more openly about things, but it’s given me a real joy to see people come together and do what they can do to help others.
I’ve also tried to get more involved with my CLP. Being a Labour member in the 23rd safest Tory seat in Britain isn’t always a cause of optimism, but there are a great bunch of people who want to make the area better. Alongside that, few people outside of my family have given me more cause for hope this year than Zarah Sultana. She gives me hope for a better Britain and a better world. I realise we’re not all the same, but it’s so uplifting to see her fold the government to account, be it on test and trace, lobbying or statues of slave owners or Universal Credit.
Do one thing – find something that inspires you. What is so heart-warming about allof these examples is that they’re focused on making life better for those in need. Actions are important. Support a local foodbank, check in on those you know who are more vulnerable than you.
Listen to the experts
We’re heard a lot about experts and following the science. These few words are what worked for me, but don’t take my word for it. Mind has produced a brilliant ‘Do one thing’ calendar, with room for your own ideas alongside simple things like ‘go for a walk at lunchtime’ and ‘thank someone’. You can download it here.
“I’m a little more careful perhaps it shows, But if I lose the highs at least I’m spared the lows”
So sang Will Young on his 2003 single ‘Leave Right Now’*.
I mean, he’s got a point. It’s an attitude I’m generally pretty fond of. I’m naturally risk-averse – I don’t have a credit card, I’ve never stayed in a full-time job for less than six years, I’ve lived in this house for eight years and have no plans on selling it until it’s too big for Sam and I to rattle around in once the kids have moved out. I’m so risk-averse, I don’t even trust myself to drive.
Is he right though?
This pandemic has made me reassess a lot. It’s really made me look at myself and my approach to life.
Yesterday, I was talking to a friend about meeting up with some colleagues next week and casually mentioned that I’d only left Ringwood, my home town, once since April.
That’s right. Once.
It didn’t seem weird until I said it out loud. Thinking about it, I’ve had friends who’ve holidayed in France in that time, who’ve toured Scotland, who’ve had a romantic break in the Mediterranean. One friend of mine has even travelled almost 3,000 miles across America to move house.
The issue is, I’ve never really seen a need to. The one time was to catch up with a friend who I’d not seen for a decade and was over from Portugal visiting her family.
So, why am I blathering on about this now? Well, what I think I’m saying is that it took a global pandemic to make me realise I’m too risk-averse.
To flip the lyric on its head, if I’m spared the lows, I lose the highs.
The only problem is that, especially with depression, you’re not always guaranteed to be spared the lows.
There are some highs I’m really missing. I would do anything to be in a crowd of people cheering an AFC Bournemouth goal. Hell, I’m not fussy, I’d walk to the ends of the earth to be among people I love, applauding a hearty 50:50 challenge right now. Safely, of course. Staring at a computer screen on my own is not quite the same.
I crave the adrenalin rush of live football, live music. I’m even desperately missing what people other than me would call ‘office banter’.
My lockdown life (yes, I still see myself as being in lockdown) is flatlining. On a good day, I go for a walk. On a bad day, work is too busy for me to stop.
I should make it clear that I’ve been very, very lucky. Neither Sam nor I have been furloughed or made redundant. The biggest financial hit was me going down to four-day weeks (and salary) for a few months. Nobody in our family had this hideous virus. None of us has even been forced to work in a public-facing role throughout it. I’m not expecting violins.
There was a spell at the start of lockdown, around the time Dominic Cummings was on a short family break, when I didn’t leave the house for five weeks. Not to go to the shops. Not for a Boris Johnson endorsed bit of daily exercise. Nothing.
In hindsight, that seems utterly bonkers.
Thinking about it, I think I can justify it. At the start of the pandemic, during our first week working from home, my boss got a really nasty dose of this virus and was very nearly hospitalised. The following week, I was feverish and fainted twice before spending a week in bed with what ended up being a really nasty throat infection. I didn’t eat for three days which, as anyone who knows me will attest, is like Priti Patel going a year without showing contempt for asylum seekers.
I think it’s fair to say I was spooked. Not so much for me, but for those around me.
Back to my main point, I need to change. I should be less of a passenger in my own life, expecting it to come to me. You won’t find me bungee jumping, it’s fair to say you won’t even see me behind the wheel of a car, but I’ll at least try and find some more ways of being happy.
I can’t say I’ll follow Will Young’s footsteps and leave right now, but I’ll certainly try and leave more often, albeit once it’s safer to do so.
*Ireland’s Christmas Number One that year, remarkably. We made do with the Michael Andrews and Gary Jules cover version of Mad World.
Disclaimer – Will, if you’re reading this I know (a) that song wasn’t about a pandemic and (b) that you didn’t even write it. ‘Was Eg White right if I take a massive leap and relate a love song he wrote years ago to an unforeseen global viral outbreak?’ is a far less catchy title.
If you use Facebook, you’ll have been bored to tears with endless people posting 10 albums that mean something to them, so I thought I’d bore you with my selection here too.
These are all albums that mean a great deal to me.
The Beatles – Abbey Road
Why did the scousers cross the road?
This was probably the first ‘proper’ album I fell in love with as a child (apologies to Jive Bunny and the Mastermixers).
It sounds stupid to describe the eleventh album by the most famous band in the world as brave, but it really is. Side one starts with Come Together, side two with Here Comes The Sun. That’s hardly hiding your light under a bushel, is it?
I’ve always loved the medley that pushes the record to its close. Perfect little ditties that just gel together and build so cleverly.
Let’s not mention Octopus’s Garden.
Belle & Sebastian – If You’re Feeling Sinister
Rumour has it the model doesn’t even like Kafka and was really reading Angels and Demons, the monster.
If my life was a coming of age musical, this would be my mid teens. In fact, I have vivid memories of spending lunch breaks in a classroom while someone hammered out the biggest tracks on this on an acoustic guitar while some of us sang along. Think of a really twee version of Grease in which we’re all Eugene.
There are glorious light-hearted moments on this (Get Me Away From Here, I’m Dying and the title track in particular) which carry on the feel of the Abbey Road medley I was banging on about yesterday, but also some real emotion.
Most of all, it’s an album that should be sung. I can’t put it on without joining in, which is no treat to those around me especially as I don’t have Stuart Murdoch’s range. It also makes me think of people – friendships made and sustained with this in the background. A time of life that, in hindsight at least, felt like a carefree golden summer.
Bright Eyes – Fevers & Mirrors
The cover is actually reflective, leading to pics like this.
As I hit album three in this list, I realise I’m going through them chronologically, not really in terms of release date (although they happen to be so far), but in where they fit in my life.
This album, Fevers and Mirrors by Bright Eyes, was released in 2000 when I was 16 and the lead singer Conor Oberst was just 20. Despite that, it’s the tenth album he appears on. I don’t know what they fed the children of Nebraska in the 1980s, but that’s prolific.
It’s fair to say this album divides opinion and you’ll either hate it or take it to heart. On its release, Pitchfork gave it 5.4 out of 10, twelve years later they gave the vinyl reissue a nine. I remember being sat outside my tent at Reading Festival discussing my love for the album with someone who utterly detested it, just hours before watching Oberst retaliate at a heckler telling him to stand up with a heart-warming “fuck off, I’ve flown hours to get here and I’ll sit down if I want to.”
It’s no wonder it hasn’t won universal acclaim – it opens with a small child reading a book from 1978 and features a fictional interview with someone pretending to be Oberst. Around that, though, is some of the most raw, honest and emotional songwriting I know.
This album got me through probably the hardest time in my life. During my first year at uni (and subsequent years too, let’s be honest), I was a mess. In hindsight, I probably had a breakdown. Through it all, two albums were my solace – this and The Libertines’ Up The Bracket. Whether the rawness of them exacerbated that or not I don’t know, but I’d guess that I listened to Fevers and Mirrors every day for four months. Despite that link, I love it to this day. It makes me cry, it makes me smile and it talks to me in a way I don’t think many other records can. It opened a pathway to all kinds of other artists – Sparklehorse, Elliott Smith and many more.
I appreciate I haven’t spoken much about the music, but it’s not really about that. It’s not even his best album. Probably scrapes the top three. My only comment is that I remember clearly the moment first heard about Bright Eyes – Steve Lamacq had just come back from SXSW and excitedly described an artist who sounded a cross between ‘Belle & Sebastian and Nirvana Unplugged’. Music to my ears. I found the album (and it’s awesome reflective cover) on the racks of Essential Music the following Saturday, ran home and I fell in love right away. Having said that, I don’t think I’ve ever heard a less accurate description of anything in my life.
Pavement – Brighten The Corners
Should I give up, or should I just keep chasing Pavement?
This wasn’t an easy choice to make. I knew there’d be a Pavement album in here somewhere, but I like them all. If Slanted & Enchanted is a quick fling, then Brighten The Corners is my true love.
Pigs they tend to wiggle when they walk.
What a line to open an album with. In fact Stereo, the track’s opener, is a gem. It even made it to the heady heights of #48 in the UK Singles Chart, a mere 42 places below Michelle Gayle’s Do You Know, released the same day. Spoiler alert: the song (Stereo, not Michelle Gayle) is referenced in an album I’ve got coming up soon.
Stephen Malkmus, the band’s songwriter, lead singer and guitarist, rightly has acclaim in indie circles, but should be heralded as one of the greats of late 20th century music. I don’t understand why he’s not. It’s no coincidence that, further to Pavement’s catalogue, he appears on my favourite Silver Jews records.
I love this album dearly and Pavement are probably my go-to band when I need cheering up. When they reformed for a few live dates in 2010, it was like all my Christmases at once and will stand forever as one of my favourite gigs.
One of the highest bits of praise I can give this album will only make sense to some of you. This was a regular soundtrack to my adolescent Playstation-addled days in which, never being one of the cool kids, I’d spend my Friday nights playing computer games and listening to music. The real revelation here is that I’d even turn off the sound on Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater to listen to this album, and it has unquestionably the greatest computer game soundtrack of all time.
Give it a go.
Morrissey – Vauxhall and I
Salford’s answer to Nick Berry
As soon as I started this list, I knew I’d have a Smiths album on it. I hadn’t really thought about Morrissey. With a more compliant band around him, he’s never mastered ripping the padding out of a long player as a solo artist. Event at 39 minutes, you could probably trim a bit here. Never mind that though, I’m trying to curate a top 10 albums of all time or a Desert Island Discs, these are just albums that I feel a connection with.
There’s been a lot of revisionism about Morrissey in recent years (well, since he started waving a flag about 28 years ago) and that’s fair enough. If you’re a racist prick, you’re a racist prick. I’m separating the art from the artist here and there’s no escaping that Vauxhall and I is a cracker.
I’ve focused a lot on album openings so far, but I think first impressions count. How’s this for size?
There’s gonna be some trouble A whole house will need re-building And everyone I love in the house Will recline on an analyst’s couch quite soon
Seriously though, Now My Heart Is Full is a beautiful way to start an album. It’s not alone in its beauty either. Hold on to Your Friends is sumptuous. There’s something almost emo about the closing stages of the second verse – But now you only call me when you’re feeling depressed, when you feel happy I’m So far from your mind – with a mix of lilting almost Jamesesque (Jacobean?) rhythm section and distorted guitar riffs. That jumps to the rousing “The More You Ignore Me, the Closer I Get”. Modern listing makes it feel quite identikit. In fact, I’d argue that the drum intro is the best Oasis opening never written, but the lyrics are razor sharp and it’s eminently singable.
Pitchfork accuse the album of “an overabundance of ballads that border on the bland”, but it feels warm and familiar. Yes, there are tracks that Marr wouldn’t be seen dead on and, while Alain Whyte and Boz Boorer have never been fit to plug in his pedals, it feels like Morrissey owns this record. Not the glam rock touches of Your Arsenal, or the ‘just left the Smiths’ feel of Viva Hate. There are moments that remind of the plenty of artists of the period – Billy Bragg, The Housemartins and more – which Morrissey would hate to hear, plus plenty of bits that, listening in 2020, you can feel influenced future artists.
The run of ‘bland ballads’ comes to a shuddering halt with the album’s closer, Speedway. Brooding, bitter, snarling – delicious. Pretty thinly veiled too, let’s be honest. Belting.
Stormzy – Gang Signs & Prayer
The problem with Wagamama is you never know who you’ll end up sat next to.
First off, a warning that this isn’t the most recent album in my list.
You might well laugh at me as a white man in his mid-30s, safely ensconced on the edge of the New Forest, but this record means so much to me. To call it a grime album misses so much of its nuance, its musicality and its charm. Listen to Blinded By Your Grace pt. 1 (not the equally beautiful pt. 2 that’s been appropriated by every choir and Britain’s Got Talent act going). It’s sheer bliss.
To jump from that straight to the once ubiquitous Big For Your Boots is remarkable. I usually can’t stand a song that’s overplayed, but it holds up so well.
However you want to define it, we’re at an absolute golden age for UK urban music. On talent alone, this pick could have been Kano’s Made in the Manor, Skepta’s Konnichiwa, Stormzy’s own Heavy is the Head or, most likely, Dave’s brilliant Psychodrama.
GS&P came along for me at an important time, though.
2017 was a big year for me. I was full of highs and lows. The rise of the Corbynite left filled me with hope, but I was also really wobbly. Wobbly enough to, about 15 years too late, start tackling my depression with medication. People really helped but, when I needed it, I wrapped myself up in this album. Snuggled up to the neck in every word, often on the way to and from work. It was my happy place. #Merky2017
People might be surprised to hear that and I don’t want to bang on about it too much, as it ignores just what a record it is. If I was picking a best albums or seminal moments in musical history, I’d pick Illmatic, 36 Chambers or Straight Outta Compton, but I’m not. I’m picking ten friends. Ten albums I’d love to hang out with and who I’m grateful for. It’s more Stag Do Discs than Desert Island.
The Flaming Lips – The Soft Bulletin
What’s that? Another album from the 90s by a bunch of white guys?
Yep, sorry. It feels kind of timeless though and, looking back, it’s weird to think that this album entered the UK chart the same week as Millennium by Backstreet Boys and Cast’s Magic Hour, a day that will live in history as Shanks & Bigfoot’s only number one (correct at time of writing). It feels both a million times more futuristic, and yet that it belongs in the same era as Captain Beefheart or The Grateful Dead.
I first saw the band on Later With Jools Holland, a weird, bearded guy banging a gong and singing about superman. They became an almost in-joke between me and my uncle and then I grew to love them. Little did I know that they were the band behind She Don’t Use Jelly, which seemed to be on MTV2 on a half-hourly basis. Now on their ninth album, they sounded little like the band they were six years prior.
The lyrics, however, as just as off the wall. Saying that, I can’t think of another band who could write a tender affectionate song, title it The Spiderbite Song and for it to be entirely autobiographical (drummer Steve Drozd nearly lost his arm from what he thought was a spider bite – turned out to be more likely the impact of his regular heroin use).
On his film podcast, Brett Goldstein asks what film you’d show to aliens as the most objectively good example of film there is. Whenever I hear this album, and I still listen to it a lot, it feels like an alien lifeforce telling us what their music sounds like.
My life is better for having this album in it. My love for this album is what I think people who ‘get’ Pink Floyd feel about them, but I’ll never know. I’m pretty sure it’s the closest I’ll ever feel to taking hallucinogenic drugs, unless y’know, you know a guy.
The Smiths – The Queen Is Dead
Alain Delon fancied a rest.
Of all the albums I’ve picked, this was the most predictable. Earlier on I mentioned the amount of padding on Morrissey’s solo albums. There isn’t a single second of this album that I’d cut.
I’ve tried and failed to explain this before, but I really see this as long-lost cousin of Abbey Road. Vast, sweeping moments (I Know It’s Over, Never Had No One Ever, There Is a Light That Never Goes Out) meet schoolboy wit (Frankly, Mr Shankly, Vicar in a Tutu, Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others) and yet it works perfectly. The standard never drops. As much as Morrissey might later argue that Mike Joyce had a misplaced sense of worth, there’s not even an Octopus’ Garden to skip.
In hindsight, it’s amazing how poorly the singles off this album charted. The Boy with the Thorn in His Side peaked at number 23, 19 places below Trapped by Colonel Abrams (it is a total banger, tbf).
I don’t really have anything more to say about this album other than the fact it’s never been bettered.
PJ Harvey – Let England Shake
PJ Harvey was letting England shake before fracking was cool.
This is the penultimate album on this list, but I’ve already written an entry for number 10. This being the final one I’m writing has really made me think about the album as an artform, one I spend much less time listening to. It’s easy to level that at the digital age and that probably has an impact, but only when linked with time. I listen to most of my music going to and from work, which is 45 minutes at most. That time is precious and the battle for it is not only contested by books, podcasts and the occasional need for silence, but also playlists and individual songs. Despite the pretention, guitars and snarling of several of my choices, I love pop music. I bloody love Little Mix. I spent an hour and a half the other day compiling a playlist of pop bangers written by Cathy Dennis (pub quiz fact: Toxic by Britney Spears was written by Dennis about Supervet Noel Fitzpatrick). Each of the albums I’ve picked on in my ten, every one of them works in its entirety. I’ve cast aside some of my favourite bands and it pains me that there’s no Nick Cave, no Radiohead, no LCD Soundsystem.
That takes me on to this album. PJ Harvey’s Let England Shake. This is an album in its purest form. Practically a concept album, certainly a themed one, the experience feels more like a book than a body of music. If you only know Harvey at her most snarling, this might surprise you. Let England shake could easily be described as a World War I concept album. As with several of these choices, it’s an artist I love and I’m by no means certain it’s her best album, but it’s the one that matters to me.
Focusing once again on opening lyrics, Polly Jean sets out her stall with:
The west’s asleep, let England shake Weighted down with silent dead I fear our blood won’t rise again
If anyone was in doubt to her messaging, she apes WWI marching songs soon after, with the line “Pack up your troubles and let’s head out, to the fountain of death and splash about.” This isn’t a heartless diatribe against conflict, however, the record put the struggles of those involved front and centre, none more so than in The Words That Maketh Murder, filled with imagery of life on the front line that Wilfred Owen would no doubt identify with.
Written on the Forehead takes us to the Middle East, almost certainly the Gulf War, with “a sad circus by a trench of burning oil”, before returning to the Great War. Closing track, The Colour of the Earth utilises Mick Harvey (no relation, but I knew I’d get a Bad Seed on here somewhere) on vocals to add an Australian voice to tales of Gallipoli and “Louis … fighting in the ANZAC trench”.
Whatever your viewpoint, it’s a moving body of work. I wouldn’t put it on at parties though.
Idles – Joy as an Act of Resistance
Looks like Alf has had a few too many again.
Quite often I’ll read an article and think ‘ That’s how I feel, but you’ve said that much better than I can.’ Because I’m not particularly musical, I’ve never really had that with a band.
Enter Idles.
Where do I start? I love everything about them. Joy as an Act of Resistance is a ball of energy – love and hate, happiness and sadness.
Seriously, it’s got the lot.
References to WWF wrestlers being pro-same sex marriage? Tick. Endless critiques of toxic masculinity? Tick. Mention of Labour stalwart Dennis Skinner? Tick. An entire song dedicated to the lead singer of Heavy Lungs, which is also gloriously pro-immigration, pro-equality and, as mentioned previously, alludes to a Pavement lyric? Tick.
That’s all in the opening four tracks. I’ll let you find out about the rest yourselves. I’ll warn you though, you’ll find references to Dirty Dancing, a beautiful and haunting song about lead singer Joe Talbot’s stillborn daughter and a track all about Brexit (‘Islam didn’t eat your hamster’ might be one of the best lines ever committed to paper).
Oh, and did I point out this a punk album?
I love it so so much.
In the words of one track, Samaritans:
I’m a real boy, boy, and I cry I love myself and I want to try
It me.
Have a listen for yourself, I’ve stuck them all in a Spotify playlist here.
Sometime late last year, the Tories found a new buzz-phrase – ‘levelling up’. As someone who works in communications, it felt straight from a focus group, or maybe part of the Cummings playbook. It strikes the same aspirational chords as Brian Cox’s keyboard as it belted out ‘Things Can Only Get Better’ 23 years ago, whilst adding a layer of gamification that no-doubt some besuited policy wonk thought speaks to Gen-Z electorate.
That gamification element speaks another Tory mantra. Levelling up puts the onus on the individual, which overlooking one crucial truth – we’re not all playing the same game. To borrow their language, it’s not a level playing field*.
Why am I banging on about this now, you might wonder. Well, every day I seem to read another news story that shows how the current pandemic lays the inequalities of society even more bare than usual.
This week the ONS reported that, once age is standardised, those in the most deprived areas of England were more than twice as likely to die of COVID-19 (55.1 deaths per 100,000 vs 25.3). It doesn’t get much more stark than that. These areas are likely to include a higher density of the keyworkers we clap each Thursday night, fresh from their rebranding after being dubbed as low-skilled by the Home Secretary ten weeks ago.
On Friday, the Trussell Trust reported an 81% increase for emergency food parcels from food banks in its network during the last two weeks of March 2020, compared to the same period in 2019 – including a 122% rise in parcels given to children.
These may be unprecedented times, but this is not unearthing a new problem but exacerbating an existing one. I’ve been told more than once not to politicise this crisis. I wish it was as simple as that.
The game hasn’t just started. The Conservative government has had the controller in its hands for 9 years, 11 months and 22 days. Before Instagram, before Occupy Wall Street, before Little Mix. Carrie Symonds was just months out of university, unaware quite what the future had in store.
It’s not turned out quite as cheerfully for everyone, though. It’s not just the advent of Instagram that’s changed people’s lives since 2010 – a five-week wait for your first Universal Credit Payment, a benefit cap and underfunded local authorities are all active decisions made by those now clamouring for a levelling-up.
It’s been great to see society rally together during this crisis – concerns for those in need, local action groups and support networks, a surge in donations for honourable causes often out of the pockets from those squeezed themselves. In response, I’ve seen quite a bit of revisionism about Thatcher’s infamous “no such thing as society” comment, that it is misinterpreted.
To me, the crux of that quote has always been a line that follows it, that “no government can do anything except through people, and people must look after themselves first”. The question of society vs. individual feels drawn along traditional class lines. Whether you believe them to be low-skilled or key, faceless ‘heroes’ who keep the engine room of British society manned in the face of adversity. Sadly many of them, like the residents of Grenfell before them, have become another statistic to illustrate the correlation between inequality and mortality. Their names forgotten, but amplified by their quantity like a cenotaph inscription.
After 14 hours of continuous gameplay, this NHS nurse reached level six which unlocks one more PPE item in their inventory
I’ve rambled a lot here, but I feel like we’re a crossroads. We face coming out of this situation with a population geared towards voting for aspiration in the faith they would ‘level up’, might find themselves as part of a larger society in need.
I recently ranted that, in a world where people are dying at the hands of this virus due to their economic situation, it should be a mark of shame to be a billionaire. I was called out on this with a claim that wealth isn’t always bad, that Bill Gates has done wonderful charitable work, but I stand by it and am not alone. 51% of Britons polled by YouGov last November felt that no one, in any circumstances, deserves to have a billion pounds in personal wealth.
If it’s taken you five minutes to read this, Jeff Bezos just earned £597,113 – or what 102 couples (yep, 204 people) will receive in Universal Credit this year. I wonder what level he’s on.
This week, I’ve been mostly listening to: Break Up Song by Little Mix. If you don’t fancy fighting me on my politics, I insist that Little Mix are a better band than U2 or the Rolling Stones have ever been. I’ll see you in the car park for a fight (the Claire’s Accessories car park, obvs).
If that’s not enough, enjoy Elton John at the happiest I’ve ever seen him, banging out I’m Still Standing with the talent, gusto and vocal range of a drunken busker. I’M DILL DANDIN’!!!
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