War Zone

Remember my post about the proposed heavy-handed policing for the forthcoming South Coast Derby?

From http://www.portsmouth.co.uk

Well it gets worse. The Hampshire Constabulary are now planning to deploy 8-foot metal walls to keep rival fans apart. Fans who, remember, are innocent, law-abiding citizens until proven otherwise, who simply want to go and watch a football match.

Not only is this totally inappropriate for the level of risk involved, it will actually increase the likelihood of violence occurring: if you make the place look like a war zone, you're going to generate an antagonistic and confrontational atmosphere and give the hot heads an excuse to kick off.

Still, we probably won't have a club left by then anyway.

Why?

The football world is still coming to terms with the shocking news that Gary Speed has taken his own life at the ridiculously young age of 42. As the tributes pour in (and why do tributes always “pour” in?) the question everyone is asking is “why?” Why did a young man, at the top of his profession, with a wife and two teenaged boys, loved and respected by everyone in the game, decide to end it all so suddenly?

It would be unhelpful and disrespectful to speculate as to the reasons behind Gary Speed’s suicide – nobody truly knows what goes on inside the mind of people with mental health issues, if indeed that was the case. But, to me, the saddest aspect is that, whatever demons had taken over his mind, or whatever problems he had, he felt unable to turn to anyone for help. He was clearly a popular man and had a lot of friends both inside and outside the sport. But the extent to which the world has been utterly stunned by his death shows he was unable to confide in any of these friends.

It’s a sad reflection on our society that the stigma attached to mental health issues is so great that many people see suicide as preferable to admitting that they have an issue. And it’s also a tragedy that people don’t realise help is out there. Family and friends will listen, and they will understand, because they love you come what may. Mental illness is just that – an illness. It’s not your fault, it’s not a weakness, it’s just an illness that can affect anyone. And if you don’t feel you can turn to your loved ones, there are professionals who can help. Despite the government’s best efforts, we still have a wonderful mental health care system in this country and your GP should be your first port of call. But organisations like Mind, SANE and the MHF, and, if you do find yourself seemingly at the point of no return, the Samaritans, are also there to help.

As I mentioned in my last blog post, I’ve managed to get a place in the 2012 London Marathon. I’d already more or less made the decision to run for a charity, but Sunday’s events, and the realisation that, had I not turned to the professionals for help, that could easily have been me one day, have persuaded me that I should run for Mind. I’ll be setting up a fundraising page shortly. Hopefully I can raise some much needed cash and, equally importantly, raise people’s awareness of mental health issues and help break down the stigma surrounding mental illness. Your support will be greatly appreciated.

Gary Speed

8 September 1969 – 27 November 2011

RIP

The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner

I was asked the other night what music I listen to when I’m running. The answer is I don’t. For a start I don’t think I own any music with a recognisable beat that I could run to. Also, I like to maintain my situational awareness when I’m running, rather than block it out. But the main reason is that running time is my thinking time, the time when I disappear into my own scary little world for a while. Sometimes it can be extreme. In my last blog post I gave an example of a run where my thoughts led to such a shocking revelation that I literally couldn’t run for a while. Sometimes, however, it’s like luxuriating in a hot bath and just wallowing in thought, wherever it leads. This Sunday was a good example of that. 

2010 Westonbirt 10k - during my "large" phase!

My run started in the back streets and alleyways of the dull housing estate on which I live. The grey drizzle bleached the estate, leaving a blank canvas for my thoughts. Then colour started to appear. Families emerged from the centrally heated warmth of the little boxes they call home, dressed in their Sunday best for church, and I reflected on the faith that motivates them to do that every week. Sunday shoppers emerged as I passed the supermarket where you can “taste the difference”. I thought of the Sunday roasts being bought and, less generously, hangover cures for the members of the local student population who frequent that store. The student theme continued as I ran round the university campus, the keener ones shaking off their thick heads and making for the refuge of the library. I thought of the opportunity they are so fortunate to have and the possibilities their lives ahead are so full of. By way of contrast, my run took me next down the “Yellow Brick Road”, a winding downhill path that passes a former mental institution whose bright yellow façade glares starkly down at Bristol folk, tormenting us with silent screams of anguish and opportunities lost.

The cacophony of the motorway underpass briefly snapped me out of my dreaminess but I was soon back in thought as I entered Snuff Mills and Oldbury Court Estate, with its’ legions of dog walkers, duck feeders, volunteer gardeners, perambulating families and kids on bikes. I was particularly taken by one young girl in bright pink wellies, who was clearly discovering the joys of thick, gloopy mud for the first time. The path through here is part of the Frome Valley Walkway and it is such a delightful retreat from the surrounding madness of Bristol’s suburban sprawl. Likewise, Frenchay Common, which was next up, is a “proper” village green in the suburbs, with a pub, a church and a duck pond. I found time for my own private thoughts on this section of the run. I’d made a difficult decision the previous day, again related to last week’s post, and it was time now to reflect on how that decision, as hard as it was, will have positive outcomes in the future. I think this is the aspect of running I enjoy the most. The part when you’re in “the zone”. Mentally you’re firing on all cylinders, but physically you’ve completely switched off; your body is on auto-pilot and before you know it, three miles have passed. If only all the miles were like that!

The final third of the run was all about mental and physical toughness. This was my first 10-mile run in a long time and I wasn’t very well prepared. My legs and lungs were saying “no” but my mind was saying “yes”. This is often the hardness part of running; digging deep, drawing on whatever reserves you might have and finding that last bit of mental strength and sheer bloody-mindedness that drags you over the finish line.

I’m going to need to find a lot of that over the coming months. I found out on Friday that I’ve been lucky enough to secure a place in the 2012 London Marathon. 10 miles is less than half a marathon, so I’ve got a lot more thinking time ahead of me while I pound the local streets in preparation. I wonder how many times I will remind myself between now and April that it’s not “training” it’s “luxuriating in thought”!!!

When the Going Gets Tough

When I started this blog, I said I was going to use it therapeutically to write about my depression.

It hasn’t really worked out like that. Partly because my short blogging career has coincided with a period where I’ve, thankfully, largely been free from depression. And, I said I wanted to try and take a light hearted view of depression and, quite frankly, on the occasions when I’ve been really low I’ve not exactly been able to see the funny side of it!

And sometimes, like now, it’s just too bloody painful to write about, at least in any detail. This week in counselling, I’ve revealed stuff that’s been buried for 30 years and more. Things that I’ve not even felt able to talk to partners, family or close friends about. But it has to come out. Because the one thing that hurts more than remembering those painful episodes from the past, is the realisation that, because of those events, you’ve spent the rest of your life repeating the same mistakes over and over again. And that those mistakes have not only affected you but have also brought unhappiness to others, usually those you care the most about. And that, unless you do something about it, you’re going to keep on repeating those mistakes. That realisation came to me while I was out for a run this week. It was so shocking that I literally had to stop running, I could hardly breathe.

The only way to break the cycle is to tackle the underlying causes. And you can’t do that without seeking professional help and talking about them, rather than keeping them buried in the back of your mind. When the going gets tough, the tough get counselling! Which is what I am doing, but it’s going to be a long and painful journey, so please bear with me. 

 

I’ll finish with some “so whats”. Not necessarily light-hearted, but hopefully positive.

• If you’re suffering, don’t bottle it up, talk to someone
• If you need help, help is out there. Start with your GP and take it from there. Don’t be fobbed off with medication, get a referral to your local Community Mental Health Team
• Bullying really, really sucks. Don’t tolerate it in any way, shape or form

They Shall Not Grow Old

On Friday at 11am, the nation fell silent in remembrance of those who went off to war, never to return. I attended services both on Friday and on Sunday, and both were equally poignant.

Remembrance is a personal thing. I don’t wear a poppy. That’s not disrespectful. I just believe the wearing of the poppy has been hijacked by certain sections of society, for the wrong reasons. I wear mine on the inside. Likewise, I tend not to go to public remembrance services, but wherever I am, whatever I’m doing, every 11th November at 11am, I step outside for two minutes of contemplative and respectful silence.

This year, however, I happened to be on a MOD site on the 11^th so I attended the on-site service. I was amazed at the turn out. Yes, you’d expect the military to be there, but civilians too turned out in their hundreds to pay respect. The service was very moving. Reveille always gives me a lump in the throat, and the two minutes’ silence was impeccably observed. I think the presence of so many military personnel, most of them still serving, made it all the more poignant to me. Most of them would know someone currently in-theatre. A large percentage of them have probably lost a colleague, a friend or a family member in service. It made me realise that remembrance is as much about 2011 as it is about the trenches of the Somme or the Normandy beaches.

Cubs on Parade

On Sunday I attended my first Remembrance parade as a Cub leader.  We had to bribe the Cubs to attend by offering a night hike from Welsh Newton and a sleepover in the Scout hut the night before, but, in fairness, they were all very enthusiastic about attending, a feeling reflected in the smartness of their uniforms and the fresh polish on their shoes. We assembled at Monmouth Castle and proudly marched into town – Thursday’s drill practice clearly paying off – with the local TA and RNR units, the mayoral party, police, MPs and AMs, Scouts, Guides and local schools for a service in glorious November sunshine at the War Memorial. We then attended a very moving service at St Mary’s Priory Church.

I was so proud of the way our Cubs conducted themselves. They showed dignity and respect well beyond their years, but they also enjoyed themselves. They were under strict orders not to wave at the crowd as we marched, but you could see proud smiles crack their faces as family members were spotted en route. Our flag bearer had miraculously transformed from the little **** keeping half the pack awake all night to a responsible member of society! But most of all they collectively just seemed to “get” it. The emphasis of Sunday was very much on the World Wars of last century, with a number of veterans in attendance and laying wreaths. So, I asked myself, what relevance does it all have to an eight year old boy? But, without any coaching from their leaders, they did find it relevant and clearly understood the importance of remembering those who have given their lives.

And that gives me hope that our future is in good hands. Remembrance isn’t, as I have heard some say, about glorifying war. It’s about - to me anyway - realising war’s futility and making sure in future we don’t use it other than as a last resort. And it’s about paying respect to those who decided it was worth making the ultimate sacrifice and who shall not grow old. And if our youngest members of society grow up understanding that, things can’t be all bad.

Confusions

If you read my earlier post you’ll know I was waiting for the post-panto blues to kick in and deliberating over whether or not to go for a part in the next HTC production.

Well, I’m pleased to say I managed to successfully stave off the blues, through a combination of keeping busy, writing, running and eating healthily.

As for the next production, the Wednesday audition for Confusions came and went without my participation. As the Saturday audition approached, I was still in two minds about whether or not to go for it. Part of me wanted to do it, for the experience if nothing else. And, since part of the audition was to prepare monologues in the part of two of the characters, that would have been good creative writing practice too, wouldn’t it? A lazy Saturday morning seemed to have scuppered my chances of taking part, but a last minute burst of enthusiasm saw me speed-read the script and bang out a couple of speeches for Stewart and Arthur, before hot-footing it off to the audition hall.

It was very different to the only audition I’ve previously been for, for Franky Panky - it felt more like a drama workshop. We had to warm up by walking round the room and staring each other out. Then we had to do our first prepared part, without notes, walking around the room, in front of everyone. Then we sat in a row and each read a part from the final act, A Talk in the Park, again, in front of the other hopefuls. After the break, we had to prepare and present a short mimed scene in pairs (all will become clear if you read Between Mouthfuls from the play) and then do our second prepared part. Rather than read it straight off, we had to do it this fours and question and answer each other, in character, based around our prepared piece. It wasn’t really what I expected at all, and it was nerve-wracking, challenging and enjoyable in equal measure.

So today was the callback/first rehearsal, although it actually turned out to be more like another audition/casting session. After more drama workshop style warm ups, we did a complete read through of the play, alternating parts, sometimes just reading around the table and sometimes up on our feet acting the parts out.

I wasn’t convinced by the play on first read, but once we started reading it out aloud, getting into character and acting the parts, it really jumped up off the page and came to life and I now believe it is a genuinely funny and moving piece of work. The director has some great ideas for how it will be set too, recreating the 70s look and feel, making full use of the performance space and making it as interactive with the audience as possible.

It’s also exciting to be working with a new group of people. I was expecting most of the Franky Panky cast to be auditioning for Confusions, but in fact very few of them have gone for this one. This new group of people are very diverse in age, background and experience and are clearly, even this early in the game, another very talented bunch.

After the read through came the moment of truth. Who was in and who was out? Who got which parts and who missed out on their dream role? To be honest, I’d enjoyed the audition experience, but wasn’t really expecting to make the cut, and would have been ecstatic with any part. So I’m delighted to announce that, come 15-18 February 2012, I will once more be treading the boards, this time, sadly, minus Viking helmet or lederhosen, and will be making the roles of “Waiter” (in Drinking Companions) and “Arthur” (in A Talk in the Park) my own.

And so it was an excited cast that adjourned to the Welly for a hard earned drink and discussed the rollercoaster that we will ride working together in the months ahead.

Communion

On Friday night I had the pleasure of attending the launch of my friend Deborah Harvey’s first book of poetry, Communion.

Look, it was a long time ago!

I went to the University of Lancaster with Debbie, much longer ago than either of us would care to remember. It's probably fair to say that poetry was less a feature of our friendship then than, say, drinking beer out of plastic Viking axes. We kind of lost touch after we left, as this was back in the day, before the advent of social networking. However, thanks to Facebook, I found Debbie again about 18 months ago, and it turned out she was living back in the place where she grew up, less than a mile from where I was working!

Writing has always been a passion of mine, but I had allowed myself to lapse into a void of creative inactivity, so it was wonderful when Debbie invited me to join the local writers’ group that she attended, led by Kate Dunn. It was at these groups that I discovered Debbie’s remarkable talent for poetry. At the group meetings, we often read out our work for the others to critique. Although I don’t feel particularly qualified to do so, I can usually find some minor suggestion for improvement or constructive criticism when the others present their material. (They find a lot more room for improvement when I read out mine!) But when Debbie reads, she is more often than not met with awe-struck silence. Not just from me but from the whole group. 

There is clearly a lot of passion in her work. Her poetry comes from the heart, and whether you hear it spoken or read it from the page, you can immediately relate to a windswept Dartmoor, a character from Bristol’s turbulent past or an emotionally charged episode from Debbie’s own life. But there is more than passion to her poetry. Technically it is quite brilliant too. Structures, rhythms and rhymes are all crafted to perfection. And Debbie is clearly a lover of words. Not a word is wasted. Every word is carefully chosen for its meaning, sound and shape, and many an arcane word that we believed to be long-forgotten, has been resurrected on Debbie’s pages.

So it came as no surprise to anyone in the group when Debbie announced she had got her (first, of many) book of poems published. And it was a privilege to be there at the launch at Halo on Gloucester Road on Friday night. In a room full of family, friends and fellow writers, Debbie, and a number of guest readers, read poems from her book Communion, and local singer-songwriter Reg Meuross provided appropriately toned musical interludes. The warmth and intimacy of the event were entirely fitting, and I’m sure Debbie enjoyed her well-deserved night in the spotlight as much as we did.

'Communion' is published by Indigo Dreams, and is available from the following sites:

• Indigo Dreams
  
• Amazon
• WH Smith

Short Back and Sides

Here's a (very) short story that I prepared for my writing group yesterday. It was partly inspired by passing a barber's shop on my morning run and realising how much I miss them now that I no longer have the need to use them, and partly by the group leader Kate Dunn's blog entry on using doors, gates and entrances in your writing.

SHORT BACK AND SIDES

George Pearson viewed with disbelief the elderly man staring at him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd taken a good look at himself in the mirror, but he certainly didn't recognise the gaunt figure he saw today. He fastened his winter coat, now looser fitting than he remembered, and brushed off a stubborn cobweb as his spindly fingers slipped the buttons into their holes. A cashmere scarf clung to his scraggly-looking neck, ready to keep out the November chill. Finally he perched his favourite Borsalino hat on his head and nervously opened the front door. As the cold air darted in and stabbed at his face, he noticed the calendar next to the hall mirror. It hadn't been changed for exactly one year.

George closed the door behind him with a thud full of finality, as if he were slamming shut a book to close a challenging chapter. Flakes of peeling green paint showered onto the welcome mat like dust from that same book. He shuffled timidly along his overgrown front path, through the rusty iron gate that was in desperate need of a lick of paint and a splash of oil, and into the threatening open space of the cul-de-sac, casting an anxious glance around him with every step.

Despite the wintry feel to the day, the sun shone brightly from its angle low in the sky and the occasional bird sang its part in an unfolding avian symphony. It was the exactly the sort of day on which George used to love going for a walk, albeit rarely on his own, but now all he could think of was a similar day the previous November. He made slow, apprehensive progress towards the end of Fenwick Street.

When George turned from the quiet side street into the bustle and noise of the Gloucester Road he immediately felt panic in his bones. A young, female jogger panted breathlessly behind him and caused him to jump, and the roar of a passing number 75 bus delivered another sucker punch to his already fragile confidence. Then he saw the familiar sight of a red and white barber’s pole. He initially walked past it, slowing momentarily to peer through the window of the door beneath it, beyond the sign proclaiming the shop to be OPEN, into the emptiness within. But this was more than just a door to George. It was a portal to so many reassuring memories of happier times: the olfactory assault of pomade; the chirruping chatter of snipping scissors; the softness of the barber’s hands running through his greying but abundant hair; the comforting ebb and flow of countless inane conversations with the affable proprietor. And he realised it was exactly where he craved to be at that moment. He turned sharply on his heels, walked the few steps back to the door and tried the handle.

The door opened with ease and the warmth of the barber’s shop reached out like his mother’s arms to pull him inside. It cradled him like a babe to the bosom and he immediately felt comforted and safe again, the jarring hostility of the outside world left far behind.

Unusually for late on a Friday morning, the shop was empty of customers. It was normally teeming with the testosterone of young men getting spruced up for the weekend. Close to the door a well groomed, olive skinned man with jet black hair stood over a sink; a towel draped over his left arm and a pair of scissors in his right hand. He immediately turned towards the new occupant of the room.

"Signor Pearson, we haven't seen you for such a long time", the barber announced, his accent still more Neapolitan than North Bristol.

"Silvio," George acknowledged with a nod.

"Please, Signor, take a seat".

George sat down, keeping on his hat, scarf and coat, despite the overbearing warmth.

"Short back and sides please, Silvio."

"Signor!" he roared. "You are still wearing your hat".

"Of course, how silly," George mumbled into his scarf, which he then removed and handed to Silvio.

He hesitated before reaching an arm up to his head and lifted his hat by its brim.

The silence of the barber’s shop was shattered by the chiming of freshly sharpened scissors hitting the floor, followed quickly by Silvio's audible gasp.

"SIGNOR!"

"I'm sorry", George sobbed. "It all fell out when my Dorothy..."

"Is OK Signor, is OK". The Italian placed a comforting hand on George's shoulder.

"I haven’t been out for a while. I just wanted someone to have a chat with."

Silvio flipped the shop sign to CLOSED and put the kettle on to boil.

After the Lord Mayor's Show

Look at those flares, man!

Previously in this blog I talked about the thrill of the opening night of panto - my first ever performance on stage in an acting role - and how I hoped there wouldn't be a sense of anti-climax surrounding the second and subsequent nights.

Well the fears were unfounded and the rest of the week just got better and better. I think we all got more confident as the week went on and the audiences got more responsive as a result. By the end of the week we put out a very polished show and the crowd loved it. Certainly, from my point of view, the thrill of performing didn't diminish, and the camaraderie built up in the company increased by the day. The end of show party was very "emotional" as I broke my self-imposed 5 week alcohol exile and let down what little hair I have for one final fling with my new-found friends.

Sunday was quite a sad occasion, as we took the stage down and cleared the hall of all signs that there had been a drama production taking place over the previous week. And we said our goodbyes (or as Flossie would say, our Auf Wiedersehens) and departed...

"Oooh I don't feel safe in this place..."

...and waited for the big post-show come down that everyone said would inevitably come. I was particularly wary of this, given my well documented predisposition towards depression. But I've used all the coping techniques that I've learned over the past couple of years to ward off the expected blues. I made a conscious effort to get back on my eating plan after a week of catching ready meals and pizza whenever an opportunity arose, and I've resumed running following a week where my only exercise was the Time Warp and Transylvania Mania. And, touch wood, so far I've managed to hold it together and not be overcome by a craving to put on make up, purple flares and a Viking helmet again and shout "Oh No It Isn't" to the boys and girls.

So what's next? The logical 99% of me says bank the experience and move on. Get my life back again. Focus on work and my sorely neglected studies. Spend more quality time with my girlfriend, family and friends. Kick-start the band back into life again. Do a bit more writing. But the 1% dreamer in me wants to experience the thrill again. Auditions for the next production begin on Wednesday. Which side of me will win out, the dreamer or the logical thinker? Watch this space...

Meanwhile, it's not really "After the Lord Mayor's show" - I'll be back on stage on Thursday with my Cubs, performing in the Mayor of Monmouth's 2011 Showcase Spectacular. Not quite Franky Panky, but if you're in the area, why not come along and enjoy the show?