A dying light

"Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. "

Dylan Thomas

"In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes."

Benjamin Franklin


By the time you read this there it appears there is a fair chance I'll be minus a close family member. I received a call from my Dad earlier today saying Mavis, my grandmother who developed dementia 3 years ago that necessitated her to be taken into a care home at Christmas, is not in a good way. The home rang my Mum and and emergency doctor has been called. To quote my mother it appeared to her as if she was "gradually shutting down."

As Benjamin Franklin sagely mused above, death is inevitable. The rapid downturn in Mavis' mental health and the impact it's had on her physical health however has been pretty hard for me to take. I've seen her regularly and while at 86 and with a life full of stories and experiences she has claim to have had the cliched 'good innings' without wishing to be too crass about it.

It's difficult to talk about her without using the past tense. As I write she is still alive. However the due to the nature of her dementia the Mavis I grew up with isn't there anymore. Seeing her in the home, I wasn't actually after the knowledge that she still recognised me, just to make sure she was happy and contented there and thankfully she was initially. Unfortunately a fall in February led to her spending some time in hospital (she had already spent most of December 2009 in hospital after a fall walking back to her sheltered accommodation, an incident that prompted her move into the care home) after cracking her pelvis. I went to see her a few times in hospital, she really didn't look well then.

In rude health, Mavis was a pocket battleship of a woman. Small in stature but feisty, opinionated and fiercely loyal to those she loved. One of life's doers. She didn't take any lip as I nearly found to my cost when I passed a cheeky remark when doing some gardening as an 11 year old to find a rake zipping past my ear at devilish velocity. I looked at her to find her wagging her finger at me. Unsurprisingly, I was never cheeky again. By golly, she looked after me though. When I was off school due to a sniffle or cough and went around to her house for the day, I was treated to the best egg and chips ever and chocolate sponge with proper custard and we then played dominoes and cards. She also introduced me to tea, something for which I will be forever grateful. As I am for just knowing such a wonderful, wonderful woman

The Fading Beauty

"Someone said to me 'To you football is a matter of life or death!' and I said 'Listen, it's more important than that'."
Bill Shankly

What do you do when your enthusiasm for someone you love wanes dramatically? You persist with your relationship, hoping to regain the spark that was there at the start. But for how long? Months? Maybe. Years? Possibly. Decades? It's been known. There are undoubtedly hundreds, probably hundreds of thousands, of people across the world in loveless marriages and relationships that are middling around, sticking with it in the hope it'll be how it was before. They both can try and turn it around, maybe it's only one sided - a bid to try and save a relationship that you've spent time loving and cultivating over time.

Why the waffle? I find myself in the above situation although not in a relationship with flesh and blood. My relationship with the game of Association Football is at an all time low. I've been a fan of he game for around 17 years, attending game regularly at Hull City A.F.C. for 14 and in the last 18 months I've felt my love for the game deteriorating at a rapid rate.

The attraction of football and the magnetic hold it has on people is a mystery to some. The tribal nature appeals to our baser instincts and the atmosphere can possess a religious like effect. That's loosely how I view it anyway. I think the scale of sporting grounds tends to draw in people as well especially if they go as a child, there's nothing quiet like them - sights, sounds and smells. It's an attack on your senses that you never quiet recover from and it sucks you back in for more. Every week. Until you die.

My experiences of what I get out of football have changed as I've grown older. As a child, you focus on the games and their outcomes. It remains a crucial part of the experience, it's the 90 minutes that you're there for but for me it's impact has lessened. As an adolescent the social aspect becomes more import, traveling to games with friends and comrades in arms - you go through the highs and lows together. That is the one thing that'll never diminish for me. As long as there is a pub, we'll be there for a few hours before and an hour after - sharing stories, mocking each other and bemoaning our lack of cover up front.

My falling out with 'the beautiful game' began with Hull's inaugural promotion to the Premier League in 2008. It was the highest I've ever been. The unbridled joy and adrenaline kick I had that year with the rise into the Championship play offs and then the no-respect drive to the upper echelons into the Premier League in the first few months of the following season. It will never go away. So many firsts occurred during that year, as supporters if felt like we'd won the Lottery every week.

As supporters. That's it, we support a team - without a support a team would not exist. It's different to other businesses, no matter how much men in suits like to think otherwise. Unfortunately the root of all evil has riddled itself into the higher levels of the game and the men in suits are ever increasing. In the eyes of clubs, we're no longer supporters. We're customers, or at least that's how I bloody felt. Potentially dispensable because there was a neu-fan with a thunderstick around the corner to take my place if I had enough. I felt my connection to the club erode as the management of the club dicked around but also the cynical and manipulative nature of the top division withered away my love of football the months progressed.

A change in management at Hull has left me feeling more of a connection to the old girl. I'll always love City, I know they'll let me down but I know that the old spark will reappear eventually, just depends on how long for! But the sheer cynical nature and treatment of fans in general in the Premier League put me in a bad mood. The actions of the players and their millionaire lifestyles grinds but it's not them that issue the contracts. Is this really it? The Premier League is bland and over inflated and it's reflected across all of football.

Relegation for Hull last season see's us return to the Championship and hopefully a more enjoyable experience from a supporting perspective. Clubs rooted in realism. Yes, that'll do. It didn't stop me wanting an extra few weeks break before the season started but hopefully I'll get there. I bloody hope so anyway.

The Wood and The Wire

Look what I found in guitar,
another fellow thinker and a chauffeur to my heart

Look What I Found in My Beer - The Beautiful South

Paul Heaton is a wise old sage really. Before cycling up and down the country saving 'the Great British Pub', he was an expert lyricist, superb singer and brilliant front man of one of the mainstays of the popular music scene throughout the 90s. He also was a bit of a tit when I was in his company in a pub once but that's another story.

His description in the song above about how music saved him from the spiraling ravages of alcoholism are powerful and while I don't intended to seek solace in the bottom of a pint glass, I can fully empathise with his view on music's ability for provide a release.

I will never be good enough to be what I'd like to be in music. Ideally, I'd be a skilled guitar player, singer and songwriter and good enough to make a living. It's just not going to happen. My arthritis riddled fingers and knuckles will never have enough give or flexibility to get much further beyond my current level of playing. My singing voice accurately replicates a rusty country gate being opened. I can pen a song although I'd be bankrupt if I had to give up a pound for every cliche used, I'd be bankrupt by the end of the 2nd verse.

It doesn't bother me, I accepted my lack of musical prowess but having bought a 6 string guitar this year after 6 years without one and just playing about with it, I think I'm addicted. Seriously.

I play everyday, for an hour at least when getting back from work. It's exceptionally therapeutic, a way of channeling anger or slipping into melancholy. However I'm feeling, I can express it through the guitar. It's a wonderful thing. I can't guarantee that it'll sound any good to me but hitting sloppy power chords can be like listening to Mozart or Beethoven for the relaxing effect it has on me. It's a drug, a free ride to me and I can see now why musicians do it until they drop.

As I type this, time is ebbing toward midnight. I should be thinking about going to bed. My fingers are sore, battered and worn. I beckons. I reckon I can get a quick 10 minutes strum in, what do you think?

The wood and the wire can claim a man,
puts dreams in his fingers and power in his hands
Louder than laughter, brighter than fire
Under the spell of the wood and the wire

The Wood and the Wire - Fairport Convention