The year began in Southport, with a spell of ice skating and real optimism for the year ahead. I wasn’t exactly dancing on ice, but 2023 was going to be good.
Napoli were top of the league, my resolution was to start learning Italian, and all seemed rosy in my world. The sun shone brightly, as we approached the second weekend.
Another bout of scarlet fever, a sudden death and then Everton’s players, board and fans all letting us down on Elijah’s first ‘proper’ match day. It all started so well, his little face in the programme and meeting heroes of yesteryear, then welcoming current ones whilst inhaling more plumes of blue smoke, but ended in defeat and players – one of whom was his favourite, I even bought a scarf to commemorate his final appearance – being accosted whilst the manager’s days were numbered and the decision makers stayed away.
Still, he enjoyed it. Just like I enjoyed This Cultural Life, a fabulous interview with the brilliant Ken Loach, and the new Elena Ferrante series The Lying Life of Adults. New music, too, from The National & The Arctic Monkeys, a podcast about whom mentioned Korova and The Strokes in detail and transported me back to the halcyon years of 2000 to 2004.
The Strikes across the country took me further back, to my childhood and earlier, and 1990 stuck in my head when I learnt that Toto Schillachi was at the same clinic where that famous Mafia boss was captured in January.
I had a fascinating conversation about this, and life in Sicily in general, with a mum at a children’s party where me and E won a prize for the best parent / child dancing, suggesting this was going to be a good year. Meanwhile, he made his debut on grass, changing weekend routines once again; we binge watched the brilliant Happy Valley in less than a fortnight (it reminded me a little of Gomorrah in parts with the gritty violence and – spoiler alert – body squeezed into a suitcase) and even manage to partly correctly guess the outcome, avoiding all hints and comments aside from that sinister image above.
Meanwhile, more happiness came when my folks found my old Star Wars figures, sketchbooks, I started watching the BBC Hip Hop documentary and the creepy The Watcher. I started using a pressure cooker; went on one of the new 777 trains, even found Pat Phoenix’s grave, finally. It’s right here in Crosby… Morrissey would be so proud of me.
Betsy’s trombone practice sorted to really pay off, too, and even though Burt Bacharach & John Motson might have died, we caught up with family and the kids’ first trip to London brought a sighting of both our new king being driven into the Palace and Gok Wan walking his dog in St James’s Park opposite.
Everton continue to struggle but football remains enjoyable, what with the epic PSG v Lille match last Sunday and ongoing Neapolitan dominance. Osimhen and Kvaratskhelia are truly a joy to behold, and I bought some retro scarves and Maradona Valentine’s socks ,from the always brilliant Trickett, to celebrate their brilliance.
February ended with the unusual experience of seeing Elijah scoring a hat-trick in a training match with a league winning, World Cup Worldie-scoring, tin opener of a left footed former footballer many of us idolised in the eighties and early nineties. The irony was not lost on me that Sheedy had played in my own first game in 1990, and he and I had crossed paths in a hospital a few years ago, before I had kids, and now here he was watching my son play. I instantly showed him some career highlights on YouTube and I realised I marvelled then like he does now, and history repeats itself.