Mr & Mr

I have never understood the desire some people have to be seen as normal, because normality doesn't exist! We all have unique individual lives, and we all have different preferences and desires, so what exactly is normal? The people who I have met throughout my life that do everything they can to be seen as 'normal' are odd just for wanting to be something they are not.

I love the fact that we are all different, but some are a little more different than others, though. I'm recently back from yet another jaunt to warmer climes. This is becoming a habit that I don't want to stop. While touring we tend to pick hotels that don't really cater for the British as I can't be bothered to listen to the incessant moaning about the very things that I go on holiday to find. Different culture, food and people. But while we were on holiday I did come across some characters that would not be out of place in my 'Twisted Minds' series of books.

I had noticed a family one evening while in a restaurant. There was a young boy and a daddy and an extremely attractive mummy. She wore a short skirt and had a perfect figure and was very good looking. But because of my work I have counselled many people from many different walks of life and with many different problems, and I could tell that Mummy would have, at one time, been Daddy!

Once you have worked with transgender people you learn to recognise certain traits that they have, and Mummy had all these traits, even though she was stunning to look at. But the Daddy of the group was straight out of a seventies British comedy show. They were a German family and the daddy dressed in a pseudo-sailor's outfit complete with hat and wore a monocle. He did strike me as the type of man that may attach electrodes to your nipples as you slept! But they seemed quite happy as a group so what the hell? I did tell my wife that they lady may not be all that she seemed but my wife just laughed and said, not for the first time in our marriage, that I didn't know what I was talking about. I was so sure that I said, “make a bet with me and name your prize”. We often do this and the prizes are not really the sort of thing that should be written up in a blog. Well my prizes aren't!

We came across this family quite a few times while we were out and about and we always had the same "she is/she's not" discussion afterwards. We named them "Mr & Mr" mainly because of our lack of imagination. I constantly teased my wife about her forfeit when I proved her wrong to which she always answered, “get your wallet ready for some serious shopping.”

It wasn't until the night before we were due to fly back home that the bet was settled. We were entering a bar that was up a flight of very steep steps. My wife had got halfway up the stairs when this lady came walking down. I can't stress enough just how attractive this lady was she was always well dressed and had a stunning figure. My wife stood to one side and gestured to the lady to pass to which she turned to my wife and in a deep husky voice said, “Danke” to which my wife replied, “Oh shit!” The woman looked at my wife perplexed at her remark, but I couldn't help but laugh.

Later my wife said that she couldn't believe that that woman was a man to which I replied, “She's not, she's a woman, admittedly with a deep voice, but a woman none the less.”

There are lots of different views about transgender - whether it is a real trick of nature or whether it is a form of mental illness. The brains of transgender people that have left their bodies to science do show some differences but there hasn't been enough study to confirm that there is a real difference. Also there are studies that show up to sixty five percent of people that undergo corrective surgery regret ever doing this, lots wanting to reverse the changes.

I think that if people feel they need to change and it's the only way they can feel complete then it should be an option that they have. It's a very difficult decision for a person to make even though they themselves may not think so. But for me, you only get one shot at life so you should try to make it as happy as possible and if changing your gender enables you to achieve this, then I don't see why not after lots of counselling.

Well as for my prize after winning the bet, I'm yet to receive it. If you knew what it was, you may understand why. It is very strange, but I didn't say that I was normal did I?

For Goodness' Sake!

I have confessed many times to being one of life's cynics: I can't help it, I can smell bullshit a mile away!

Lots of people do lots of seemingly good things, and we all have our reasons to do something good. But are they good deeds if they are done because you are scared of a God or because you want a God to give you a better afterlife? Or are these deeds just a blind duty to a supernatural being?

I work within the charity sector and I hold my hands up straight away and say that if my peppercorn wage wasn't available to me I would go elsewhere. Not because I don't care about the people that I work with, I do, but I know that if I don't have a reason to go somewhere, I usually don't go. The charity sector relies heavily on volunteers. These people are usually caring and dedicated individuals -  of that there is no doubt - but they have their reasons to volunteer. Do they just do it because of a wish to change a life? I know lots of people will be very angry about this statement, but think about it. People volunteer because they are bored, lonely or just to occupy their minds. The fact that they volunteer is to be admired because while most people donate some money to alleviate their conscience, these people actually do something. But there are usually other reasons to volunteer.

I am in no way condemning the voluntary sector. Without these people most charities would fold. I'm just saying that there are usually other reasons why people do charity work.

But I have to take off my cynic's hat for a short while, to write about the story of a young boy who touched the hearts of millions, including mine.

Bradley Lowery was born six short years ago in County Durham. He was just another healthy bouncing little bundle of joy for his parents. By the time Bradley was eighteen months old he had contracted a rare form of cancer called, 'Neuroblastoma'. This horrible condition was to not only change the lives of Bradley and his family but also the whole of a town, Sunderland.

Bradley made people aware of his cancer, as it was scarcely known about by the public. He raised money for the charity and also £700,000 was raised to get him antibody treatment. People from all over the world sent him cards  - 250,000 in all. But his love was the game of football and his team was Sunderland.

His favourite player was the striker, Jermain Defoe, who became good friends with the young boy. This was no staged PR stunt by an overpaid footballer, this was a real friendship. Jermain would often call in on Bradley after he had been training, with no cameras to be seen, Bradley claimed that Jermain was his best friend and Jermain replied that Bradley was his best friend too. When Defoe signed for Bournemouth he drove back north to county Durham to see little Bradley, who always wore his football shirt with Defoe on his back and the striker's number. He even acted as a mascot for England and scored a goal before the game. We all hear about the negative aspects about feckless footballers and their ostentatious life styles, but how refreshing to hear about a wonderful guy who just gave his time and love to a young child that had such a difficult time.

It was announced that Bradley was getting weaker at the beginning of June this year and Jermain again turned up to little Bradley's bedside and laid and cuddled the little boy who in turn snuggled up to his hero. On the 7^th July little Bradley lost his fight against this insidious decease and died. The whole of the town of Sunderland mourned this brave little boy who had such a zest for life. The whole football team turned out for his funeral, along with past and present managers.

Thousands of people from Sunderland lined the streets as his little coffin was driven past and they both clapped and wept openly. Sunderland is usually known for negative aspects such as unemployment or the fact that they overwhelmingly voted for Brexit. Sunderland is usually held up as a town where obesity is rife, but now for me this is a town that can hold its head high. Men in football shirts stood with tears in their eyes proudly sending off one of their own, for no other reason than love, love for a little boy that they hardly knew. Bradley loved his super heroes such as Spiderman and the ninja turtles and Captain America. As his coffin slowly rolled through the streets, there, standing upright to attention in full costume were his heroes  - Spiderman and Captain America and even a ninja turtle all stood straight and proud, saluting his coffin.

And there, walking at the side at the side of the car carrying the coffin, was the little boy's best friend Jermain Defoe, who had flown back from training in Spain to be at the funeral. He walked with tears in his eyes and he wore an England shirt with the words Bradley Lowery and the number 6 on the back.

Sometimes we all do things because we love and care about others. I cannot imagine the pain the family of Bradley must be going through at this time but they must be proud of such a wonderful little boy. I know that they will be helped and loved by a whole community that cares. To Jermain Defoe I give my utmost respect. No doubt you will, like all of us, make mistakes, but when you were needed you stepped up to the mark and even walked over it.

Sunderland, I salute you!  

The Violent Pacifist!

I believe that we are all a contradiction of terms, though most people don't agree with me on this subject. But I bet that their public persona is completely different from their private persona. Just look at how many moralistic devil-dodgers get caught in brothels. How many times have you seen people flashing the cash in an obscene show of decadence only to find out later that they were completely broke? What about the poor old ladies that have to exist on handouts, only for it to be revealed that they were millionaires when they die.

The last one of those scenarios happened to me in the late eighties. I was working as a self-employed joiner at the time and I was called to a house owned by a lovely fragile little old lady who had unfortunately been burgled. Her door was broken and she needed a new lock. I managed to fix the door as she told me that she had no money. My brother in-law had a locksmiths shop and I explained to him the situation and he kindly gave me a five lever lock to fit for this charming old lady. When the work was finished she looked at me with her big puppy eyes that looked as if they were about to burst into tears when I told her how much I was going to charge her for my days work. But her worry turned to a huge smile when I told her to make me a cup of tea and we would call it quits. I even had to go to the shops for her because she had run out of milk! 

For many months afterwards I would receive a call from Mrs Johnstone asking if I would be kind enough to fix a fence or put a catch on a garden gate. The jobs were never that big and I usually did them on my way home from a day's work. She always paid me the same way, she made me a cup of tea. My wife even said at the time that she thought this old lady might be mugging me, but I told her that she didn't have any money at all and someone had to help her. When she died in 1989 she left a bank account that totalled £750,000. I wasn't mentioned in the will!

The above title is something that my older brother, John, always claims about me. I suppose in a way he is quite right. I detest violence when its directed at innocent people. I hate violence when it's directed at anyone really, it doesn't solve anything. I detest bullies, and I cannot understand why any politician would want to send young people off to war. Any fool knows that wars only serve to perpetuate hatred and fear, and diplomacy is the only way to solve differences. Having said all this I love to fight. In the ring that is -  I would walk away from anyone who verbally attacks me in the street, but not if they physically touch me. I would also become very aggressive if anyone was to harm those that I love. So you see, my brother is correct. I don't like violence, yet I use violence of sorts for my sport. I have to say though that all the fighters that I mix with are very similar to me; lots are doctors or care professionals. They, too, live their lives to help others but they love to fight for sport.

The other claim my brother makes about me is that I'm a 'gregarious hermit'? This is partially true as well. Let me start by saying that I'm not a hermit in the true sense of the word. I live in a neighbourhood with lots of people. Having said this, I don't mix with any of them or talk to any of them. I don't like parties and I don't want to strike up conversations with anyone when I go on holiday or when I go out for a meal or a drink. I have friends whose company I enjoy and that is more than enough for me. But in my professional life I have to chat to everyone. I have to make conversation and engage with others. It very important that people feel that they can talk to me and trust me, I'm there to help them. Also as a performer I have to engage with others and make them feel that we are friends. So you see both my id and ego are are constantly at odds with themselves.

But all these little foibles that I have pale into insignificance when you see the duplicity of the powers that be. How many times have we encountered terrible tragedies, only to be told by a second rate politician that their thoughts and prayers are with the families? what use is that! Firstly, thoughts and prayers are as much use as a cotton condom, but just how condescending is this phrase?

After the terrible fire at the Grenfell tower block we heard lots of politicians saying how sad they were. I'm not saying that anyone would be happy about the situation, but we heard lots of platitudes and no action! Behind the scenes I felt there was a very busy buck that had been passed around quite a lot. These people were more interested in not being seen to be at blame than stepping in to help lots of people who needed their help the most. But then I often feel that our politicians are the unelectable elected!

They Don't Do Proper Bacon... and other insignificant prejudices

I have been off on my travels yet again, to more warmer climes than the north of England. I have written many times about how I think that travel is important to improve yourself and your outlook on life.

When you travel, you quickly find that people are just people the world over. Yes you meet seedy low-lifes in other countries, but no more or less than you meet them in your own town or city. You will find that most people are friendly and just want to get through life without any fuss. They will probably have the same hopes and dreams that you have, with slight variations. I once met a man in Portugal who dreamed of owning a large herd of cows, whereas I opted for a new car.

While staying at the hotel in Rhodes this week I heard the familiar wail of Brits abroad, “They don't do proper bacon!” I have tried to explain to these people that it depends which side of the fence you stand on, what is 'proper' bacon. If you are not from Britain, you will not know what all the fuss is about, but bacon is ambrosia to us Brits!

There is only one other country that does bacon the same as us Brits and that's the Danes. I would hazard a guess that our love of bacon comes from them, when we had 'Danelaw' back in the day! When old Canute wasn't messing about at the seaside he, no doubt, liked nothing more than tucking in to a bacon butty with brown sauce! Even vegetarians here in Britain eat pretend bacon and vegans eat bacon flavoured crunchy snacks! We are just obsessed with bacon. The moaning pig munchers are quite right in saying that bacon in other parts of the world don't resemble what we call bacon, but if you want British bacon. STAY IN BRITAIN! I'm bored to the back teeth of halfwits whinging about their breakfasts. When I suggest to them that they may want to try something different, like say, something from the country they are in, they look at me as if I have just sold national secrets!

The other cry I hear time and time again is about Germans leaving the towels on the sun beds to save them! This of course is true but so do the Brits and lots of Eastern Europeans in fact everyone does. I have to say that I don't like staying in hotels and when I do I tend to spend as much time as possible out of them and seeing the sights of the country that I have paid lots of money to visit! Why don't these people hire a car and go off the beaten track? Try to talk with the locals - a cheap phrase book will help you out. Why not buy a local a drink in a little bar away from the tourist tat? A bar that has heard a million stories of life, trials and tribulations. Why don't they swim in the sea edged by a deserted white sand beach that burns the soles of your feet for daring to tread upon its beauty? Why don't they stand holding the hand of the one they love while watching the sun go down then drink and make love under a warm golden moon? Instead of sitting in a hotel bar with people they don't like while getting pissed on cheap plonk!

The other thing that Brits whinge about when they visit a warm country is, “Its too hot!” No shit, Sherlock! You mean the country that you sat and looked at in a brochure, the country that you chose because of its endless sunshine is... hot?

Now, I have singled the Brits out for all these silly little prejudices: that's because I'm British, so my fellow countrymen moan to me, but I know that other countries have these people as well. I also have an Italian background so I'm quite used to a lot of the Mediterranean food (See my new book Cooking With Babbo And Nonna). I also speak Italian and a little Spanish so I'm happy to try different languages, though locals often fall about laughing at my malapropisms as I mangle their mother tongue, but this is usually followed by a slap on the back and a drink plonked down in front of me. It's a brilliant way of finding out what it's like to live in the country you are visiting.

Mama, We're All Crazy Now

The above title is lifted from a Slade song from the seventies, though they had their own peculiar way of spelling song titles.

The reason for this blog is because of people's views about those with 'Mental Health Issues'. Just the phrase, 'Mental Health Issues' sounds in some way derogatory. One of the guys that I have been working with of late said to me in his broad Yorkshire accent, and in true honest and blunt Yorkshire no-nonsense style, “They put me in the nut house!” when I asked him why, he replied, “Coz I went mad!”

The point I'm trying to make is 'what is mad?' I think at some time in all our lives we ourselves go a little mad! I'm not trying to be flippant here, I'm serious, we all have times in our lives when we seem to lose the plot, as they say.

Now before you all deny any knowledge of ever showing any signs of mental health problems, we must first ask what they are. Depression, anxiety, irrational mood swings, compulsive behaviour. We all suffer from these to a greater or lesser degree. You could argue that the first flushes of love are a type of mental illness as you can suffer from all of the above when you fall in love! Of course there are other far more complex issues that people may face.

Someone the other day told me that they can't understand why anyone would dream of self-harming. There are a multitude of complex reasons why people feel they need to harm, but the person that made this claim had a cigarette in her hand as she said it! When I pointed out to her that she herself was actually self-harming she laughed, telling me that I was talking rubbish! But breathing in smoke that will kill you for no reason is self harming.

I work in a project where lots of the guys have had many problems in their lives. They are just ordinary guys that life has thrown a curve-ball at, and this has caused them problems. Lots of these guys are charming, intelligent individuals, who have suffered traumas that would finish a lot of people off altogether - but they are now rebuilding their lives. The main problem they have now is the stigma of the mental health tag! When some people hear this phrase they think of a naked man with an axe running amok on the streets! They never think that they will know lots of people who have suffered mental health issues, or that they, too, may have suffered from them.

When I look back at my own life, knowing what I know now, I can see times when I must have been finding things difficult. The problem is that we, men especially, don't like to admit that there may be a problem. We don't talk, we drink! This, of course, then causes other mental health issues!

The other problem is the way we like to put people into nice neat boxes so we know just who and what they are, but no one fits into one box! So having said all this, just what is normal? As you read this I bet you think you yourself are quite normal, unless you are one of those irritating morons that claim, “we're all mad here you know!” These people are not mad, just terminally boring! So when you think about your normal life I don't think it will be anything like my life and I'm quite normal! But there again my life is not like my neighbour's life and he says that he's normal? The truth is it's your life, your choices, it's normal for you: just don't judge others on your definition of normal!

I have to go now. The voice in my head is telling me to 'sit in water!' Sorry, it's just my wife asking me if I would like a bath... or is it?

Never Meet Your Heroes

This week I watched an interview with the stars of the new film, 'Guardians of the Galaxy'. I don't know the name of the actor being interviewed, and, as usual, I can't be arsed wasting any time trying to find out. But he was being interviewed alongside Kurt Russell, who was playing his wayward father in the film. The actor, who I presume was the lead in this romp, said that he was a great fan of Russell before making the film. He spoke of the nervousness he felt when first meeting the his hero. Then Kurt laughed and said, “the reality is nothing like the myth, is it?” to which the younger actor laughed and agreed. They had become great friends, or at least they pretended to be, while making the movie, only for the younger actor to find out that his hero was just a guy like him who liked to mess about.

This is the problem about pedestals, the higher they are, the more shaky they become. And when they finally fall, they come down to earth with a thud! I have never understood why people are so scared of meeting their heroes, I may like someone's work, but they are just another person like me as far as I'm concerned. I have met two of my heroes in the past: one was a big let-down, while the other was just what I had expected.

In 1998 a year after my first book. 'The Spot On My Bum' had been released, I was asked if I would like to appear at Glastonbury Festival (honest). Of course, I jumped at the opportunity to be a part of this legendary festival, all the more so when I realised that Bob Dylan, one of my all time musical heroes, was headlining.

I first heard Dylan's work when he released the track 'Knocking on Heaven's Door' from the film, 'Pat Garret and Billy the Kid'. By this time, he was already an international superstar of course, but I was in my teens at the time and liked this track, so I decided to find out more about him. I bought his first acoustic album and became hooked, though its safe to say that Dylan has made some albums that should have gone straight to the bargain bins since. But when he's on form, he can be sublime.

The day he was to appear at Glastonbury, I managed to find out where he would be and because I had a performer's pass, I found it quite easy to blag my way past the security who seemed to be just guys who lived locally and were 'doing the doors' to make a bit of cash. I might be wrong, and they might have been a crack team of undercover FBI agents, but they let me in without much questioning. Though one of the security men did ask who I was, I looked at him in a way which said, 'You idiot, don't you know who I am?' then tapped my badge hanging around my neck, which actually said 'Children's Field' on the reverse (I still have it in my 'man-drawer'). He gave me an embarrassed look and apologised, before letting me through. I managed to get through to the inner sanctum where Dylan and his band and entourage hung out. Dylan was sitting in a chair ignoring everyone. He was dressed in a black suit and I'm sure that he had a pair of green wellies on! His hair was curly and had obviously recently been dyed. I was shocked at how small and frail he looked, not at all how I had imagined him to be. I said hello to him, and he gave me the same look that I had just given to the security guard. He then just turned away from me as if I didn't exist. I called him a wanker and walked out, I can't stand anyone with a bigger ego than me!

My next hero was a completely different experience. I write poems, though whether you class my poetry as "poetry" is a matter for yourself. But my all-time favourite poet is one John Cooper Clarke. I even wrote a poem as a homage to him in 'The Spot on my Bum'. 'The Grass Of The Class' is supposed to be read in true Cooper Clarke style, complete with the Manchester accent.

John was performing in Batley, 'I'll tell you now and I'll tell you flatly, I ain't ever going to Batley!' a line from one of his poems. He stormed the evening, being more of a stand up than a poet, and he was brilliant. I caught up with him at the interval, where he was signing books. I just wanted to say hello really. I waited in line and let everyone with a CD or book to be signed to go first then I walked over and stuck out my hand and said, “pleased to meet you, I just want to say how I'm enjoying the night”. He replied, “Cheers, I'm fucking gagging for a drink, where's the bar?” We had a brief chat during which he made me feel as if I was an old friend of his. I tried not to gush, being such a fan, but he was so down to earth it was just like talking to one of my mates.

I think all so called stars should realise that without their fans they are just another guy with a guitar. So all would-be stars, be nice to all your fans: you may need every fan you can get at some stage of your career!  

Dancing to a Tibetan Nose Flute!

This week I was lucky enough to have a get-together with lots of cousins from the Irish side of my family. If you're reading this guys, hello, and get in touch.

I had not seen lots of these cousins for nearly twenty years: some, I hadn't seen for even longer. The reason reason for the get-together was that my cousin Marian's son, Mark, was marrying a girl from, of all places, Barnsley! I promise not to do any Barnsley jokes... no!

We had a wonderful night catching up, but the thing that amazed me the most was that Mark and lots of his siblings and friends were the entertainment for the night. They were fantastic musicians playing music from lots of different genres. The talent upon the stage was so good that the whole room clapped and sang and danced.

I know that I might be a little biased about this, but I do think that the Irish seem to be a nation that has a deep heritage of musical and lyrical talent. I love music in all its glory but, have never been much of a musician myself, although I might be able to put a feeble argument forward about my lyrical abilities. A night in a good Irish pub will be full of music and stories, as the Irish way of speaking is both lyrical and musical. Now I know that Ireland has more than its fair share of misery throughout the ages. I know that there are Irish bars that make you as welcome as a turd in a swimming pool! But good Irish bars are places where the Craic and the alcohol flow freely. The Craic, by the way, is pronounced 'Crack' but it means merriment, not an ultra-addictive drug!

Many years ago a friend and I tried to walk the width of Britain, but those damn pesky pubs kept on getting in our way. One night while walking through, I think, North Yorkshire, we stumbled upon a group of people all huddled around a camp fire. These people called us over to sit with them and gave us warm drinks, though I'm still not quite sure what it was that I was drinking. They were pleasant company; some may have described them as hippies back in those days, but they would probably be called new age travellers in a later decade. They started to tell some really bullshit stories about enlightenment which seemed to be herb-induced. Then one of the group, a tall skinny woman, started to play an instrument that I was not familiar with, and when she had finished, I was hoping never to be familiar with it again as long as I lived! It turned out to be a Tibetan nose-flute. The group swayed their heads from side to side as this boring monotoned instrument gave me a full frontal lobotomy, causing me to hate the musician playing it, though she had shown me nothing but kindness. The night was so boring that both my friend and I made our excuses and left their camp, even though we could have done with crashing there for a while.

A few nights later we had been halted on our trek by one of those pesky pubs again. The pub was warm and lively and there were a group of Irish students drinking in there. As with all Irish people they will start up a conversation with you if you're in talking distance to them. Because the group contained quite a few beautiful girls we were more than happy to chat. It turned out that they were a band that had been playing at a local folk festival. After more than a few drinks had been consumed by all, one of the group asked the landlord if they could play a few tunes, to which he happily agreed.

What happened next was one of those moments that we all have in life, a spontaneous moment in time that stays with you forever.

Four of the group produced Bodhrain drums. I never get the name of these drums correct, but you know the ones - ones that you hold in your hand and play with a little stick? As the drums beat out a fast driving rhythm the rest of the group stamped their feet in time with the drums. It was like being caught in the cross fire of machine-guns, though these guns didn't knock you off your feet, they made you rise to them. The hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention like guards on parade as the noise forced me to clap my hands like a mesmerised seal! Then what could only be described as a demon, a beautiful demon, rose to her feet. This bewitching enchantress played a fiddle, but the fiddle played at the same force and speed as the drums. This auburn-haired demon in a tee shirt and jeans had me reeling and clapping as if I had lost all my sense of reasoning (the beer may also have helped). Then, without warning, a young man with a shock of black hair and a beard that any Viking warrior would have been proud of, joined in with a tin whistle, quickly followed by another man with a recorder. This instrument is usually an instrument of torture used by seven year old children to play three blind mice over and over again until you have lost the will to live, but in his hands it was like the pipes of pan!

The evening turned to the night then turned to the early hours. This night also finished our attempt at walking the width of Britain, owing to the mother of all hangovers, that neither my friend or I could get over. But the contrast between the Irish idea of a night out and the little English camp was as if they were from two different planets. The night with lots of my cousins the other evening made me realise just how lucky I am to have such a colourful wonderful heritage.