Author: bigdunc09

“The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.”

What with all this sunshine we’ve been having, I’ve spent a lot of time with the kids in the garden or down the front and was actually sat on a wall by the beach last week, staring into the distance, reflecting on the seminal changes which have taken place over this past twelve months.

I then decided I needed to spend a few hours letting you know what’s happening; lots of words, self-indulgent writing, to reach you, as Travis nearly sang.

Since last we met – an emotional obituary aside – so much has happened that this may appear quite a difficult and busy period of my life and if you thought so, you’d be right, although as I was once reminded by my best man – stated in ‘The Dark Knight’ –  the night is darkest just before the dawn.

And, as promised, the dawn came.

We had great fun at a couple of weddings, proms, parties, and some magic moments as the littlest elephant continues to develop his vocabulary ten-fold.

Plus, B thrives daily, getting her first bike (a hand-me-down, done up lovely) and she rode it gleefully around the very park we first walked her in; then, she did a magical thing at sports day in the siblings’ race:

Oh, and climbed several walls in an old church, which also made my eyes water.

Also, I had a wonderful Fathers’ Day – I was spoilt rotten, what with gin and Star Wars books and more – then had a taste of the exotic with a 10ft Burmese python around my neck and a shot of Maotai, a 53% Chinese liqueur that Nixon apparently labelled a panacea and Kissinger said could solve anything.

So far, so good… But there have been some difficult times in 2017-18, not just for me. There now shines the light of a period of rest and recuperation after a stressful, intense few months leading up to a long holiday.

And, anyway, I just want my time with you.

“I use the words you taught me. If they don’t mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent.”

The summer holidays are here and the World Cup has been and gone: no sticker books this time, instead, the only books I’ve been interested in recently are the reading kind, as the job demands. Obviously I’d recommend ‘Wonder’; ‘Rook’ by Anthony McGowan; ‘Ready Player One’ for any gamers and then this classic about the #BlackLivesMatter movement:

Also… well, there are so many others.

Seventeen books since January, and counting, all because I rediscovered the power of reading – a power which takes me into the summer and led to me talking to a room full of VIPs and strangers about the journey I’ve been on during the first half of this year.

I was given several humbling compliments by those present and was even described as ‘the most inspirational teacher ever’ by someone I’d never met. At this point, I offer a disclaimer: I’m normally trying to be like Jaggers, the lawyer of Magwitch in ‘Great Expectations’ who doesn’t let his home and work lives overlap, but in this case I’ve made an exception because of the profound effect a work-related thing has had on my home life.

It’s basically a course over four days, run by CLPE, which has changed my life – as a father, a reader and a teacher. More specifically, it focused on ‘the power of reading’ and opened up a whole new world of opportunity where books are concerned, both in and out of the classroom.

Led by inspirational individuals, who read even more than me, I ended up volunteering to give a short presentation which made people cry and nicely personified the belief of Auggie that ‘everyone deserves a standing ovation once in their life’. This wasn’t quite that much of an accolade, but probably the nearest thing, and certainly made years of hard work worthwhile.

Plus, I got to meet one of my literary heroes – another FCB – who himself gave an emotive and eloquent talk about the importance of teachers and reading for pleasure, which wasn’t lost on me after a couple of terms of really transformative teaching by others.

This guy is a legend. Even if he lives locally, we have mutual friends and I sometimes see him doing his shopping, it was a special moment, given what he has created in his life and its legacy. He blew me away with his articularcy and emotion during an improvised talk which focused on thanking us for the outcomes we’ll never know we inspired.

Given that I’ve been reading and thinking so much, I’ve not had time to watch much TV – World Cup aside, naturally – other than the excellent Random Acts, Keeping Faith and then most importantly Gomorrah and a few food programmes which all inspired me to decide on the destination for my fortieth birthday next year.

Talking of Gomorrah, Jesus Christ – Genny, WTF? – what an ending to the third series for anyone who shares my love of what – I think – is quite simply the best thing on TV.

James Martin, Jamie Oliver et all took me further south, though… I’ve long been intrigued by the food, the culture, the ethos of Sicily, and given that my heart is Southern Italian despite my Maghrebin roots, this seemed the natural suggestion for a weekend of over-the-hill celebrations. I’ve been listening – on a loop – to the Gomorrah soundtrack, too, which has heightened my sense of anticipation and enjoyment, and introduced me to several examples of Italian rap music. Some of it is pretty cool… although I’m amazed that this is so popular!

“We are all born mad. Some remain so.”

With so many positives, it’s not surprising that at some point we would feel disappointment. First, by Morrissey, who cancelled the outdoor gig I’d booked as a reward for my hard work over this intense year – my love (despite some controversies) does not diminish, however, because “the more he ignores me, the closer I get” – but then, somewhat surprisingly, by individuals letting us down due to complicated circumstances (or even on purpose, due to weirdness) which simply mean more changes next year.

Sat by the beach, then, my reflection allowed time to plan the summer; it starts with B’s birthday party, another emblem of the transformation this past five years have brought about. It’s been a challenge of resilience for the big little ‘un, too, as she is the youngest in the class. I’m extremely proud; as the photo shows, she’s exhausted… I was truly blown away by her school report, and how she’s negotiated her reception year, but that’s another story – then leads into some evolution but hopefully, lots of standing still.

That includes my completion of the statues project – even if I was overlooked by ‘Hannah’ this year, I started something I can finish – and on the seventh anniversary of my MA graduation, I think of a seminal quote by Samuel Beckett which was used by the Manics on one of their albums and is now hijacked by myself:

“Perhaps my best years are gone. When there was a chance of happiness. But I wouldn’t want them back. Not with the fire in me now. No, I wouldn’t want them back.”

I’m very happy, don’t get me wrong, it’s just that annual feeling as I approach the end of another academic year and then prepare for the top of the hill; it’s natural to take stock and wonder what might have been (especially when I feel like I’ve turned a corner in a new direction) on this journey. I always thought that fame and success in the art world would be the key to happiness.

Instead, it’s in books, in doing the right things, ‘having morals’ (as someone else recently said about us) and most of all, in family. What really cemented my belief that what I’m doing is right – “because I’m true, and I’m real, and this is how I feel” – was written in the front of a notepad by my boss; it was tweeted by a stranger who heard me speak about my journey; it was in overhearing one of the best things anyone’s ever said about me… and then this, from someone I’ve only met four times but clearly struck a mutual chord with.

I shed another tear or twenty when I saw this message:

The power of reading a bit more, indeed.

You might have guessed, if you stuck with it, that I have been reading a lot about / by Beckett recently because his often contradictory, always pragmatic, musings strike a real chord with the often-difficult-but-also-very-rewarding year I’m turning the page over from.

“Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”

“You must go on. I can’t go on. I’ll go on.”

“Je suis comme ça. Ou j’oublie tout de suite ou je n’oublie jamais.”

This is, believe it or not, a very positive to end the blog – nay, the term – on, because I feel reinvigorated and inspired to open the next chapter with a renewed sense of purpose. Excitement, even?

And anyway, before then, six weeks of happiness and haircuts; first tastes of tapas, turning five and having lots of family fun (in between the reading!) proving that, actually, words aren’t all we have.

BCNU X

“The end is in the beginning and yet you go on…”

We go back to May: the end of the season wasn’t much fun, one Saturday evening aside. I won’t say too much about it, other than I was both relieved and surprised at how things turned out in the end. Only slightly irritated by the endless songs, ‘banter’, the flags and bunting, the cardboard cut-outs, I actually admired the scenes of enjoyment despite the outcome and had a wonderful day / night at a wedding regardless.

Meanwhile, our own manager lost his job: more reasons to celebrate, and that I did – on both counts – the following week… at Anfield, of all places!

Little did I know we were watching the runners up that day, although Croatia did impress with their passionate fans, hard work winning the ball and aggression in the tackle. Brazil were brilliant in the second half. So much so that I declared Neymar’s opener one of the best goals I’d ever seen live, and decided on the predictor that they would win the thing, but that wasn’t to be; they’d flattered to deceive, as many do.

I celebrated the experience, as you do, with an amazing colour changing gin, and prepared for the next few weeks watching endless documentaries about past competitions on the temporary ‘History of Football’ channel, which were just lovely reminiscences.

The rest of June brought with it, then, the World Cup and with that, some nice new kits. At the start of the tournament, I couldn’t have cared less about Southgate’s young lions or whatever they’re called, but was more interested in what the current generation of kit designers doing my dream job, deem appropriate and relevant in 2018.

There were some lovely examples on show in Russia, although I resisted the temptation to buy anything other than the France training top I somewhat serendipitously wore when making my debut for the reception team at Betsy’s school summer fair.

We didn’t know each other, us Dads… the conditions were tough going and it was overly competitive; but when I scored our first (only) goal of the competition, a nice volley (I’m still sore from the experience) I should have known to put money on it bringing luck for my fellow French-Algerian, Kylian Mbappe Lottin, who hails from Bondy, where I think I stayed in a dodgy Ibis in 1998 (the very year he was born)… Apologies if I’ve not shared the stories of my Negro gums before; I’ll save that for a rainy day.

Anyway, we must remember it’s now fifty years since the Paris student protests and for that reason alone, I wanted to see France lift the trophy. It’s also twenty years since the 1998 World Cup, which – albeit temporarily – did so much to improve inter racial relations in a fractured society.

Mentioning the time of the Black-Blanc-Beur revolution…

I think of La Haine.

I think of the Stone Roses and their lemons: Bye Bye Badman

I think of the artwork and the seminal phrases… Soyez realistes etc.

“ALL POWER TO THE IMAGINATION!”

Closer to home, thankfully, I did grow to like the England team as the tournament went on and, seeing the positivity around the country, was quite sad to see their demise – even venturing out on a school night to witness the semi-final (although upset, I was secretly glad to have seen the World Cup finalists in action) with particular admiration for Southgate.

My one anecdote about the other guy who made waistcoats cool is that my Dad once got his friend to get me his autograph, thinking they were meeting one of my all-time heroes.

He’d misheard the surname as Southall; still, it was a nice thought.

Other things about the tournament were: my love of the South American nature, even becoming addicted to the curious habit of yerba mate tea, as constantly sipped by the likes of Messi and Suarez (and even Gisele Bundchen and the Pope, apparently) which is a caffeine rich herbal tea from South America and – during the tournament – explained by Pablo Zabaleta. This was a week after I’d purchased a silicon gourd and silver bombilla, plus a lovely little packet of the stuff, and started to build into my weekend routine (to the astonishment of many) Let’s just say it’s an acquired taste, nicer with cinnamon, that definitely gives you a buzz.

So yeah, the World Cup… South America… as well as the drink, the cheating (scraping penalty spots etc) and Maradona’s celebrations; but also, closer to home, an unexpected new lookalike emerging from nowhere (Subisic, the Croatian goalkeeper) and the farewell of Andres Iniesta, a long time hero of mine.

His style and grace; his understated coolness… I was lucky enough to see him play ‘live’ twice and hoped his recent announcement might have signalled a last hurrah alongside Pep in the Premier League but, in pastures new, I will follow his progress with admiration and the deepest respect.

As he prepared for the World Cup, so did Panini: THE BIGGEST WORLD CUP EVER, with the threat of completing their sticker albums costing over £700 according to the experts. I’ll be honest, I’d happily collected the stickers for the last two tournaments and proudly completed the albums for the first world Cup and the first European Championship of my children’s lives but this year – despite getting the obligatory free starter pack and album – realised that I just couldn’t afford nor justify such expenditure – especially given what was about to happen – and as a result, had a slightly watered down interest in the tournament to come, what without the familiar names and faces to recognise.

But I was much better off.

Thanks to Sky Plus, I really enjoyed the World Cup more than any I can remember. Bedtime routines and the day job meant that I struggled to watch many games as they happened, but could see them on delay after avoiding any social media and even got out for three knockout matches which added to the excitement.

Mexico ’86 and Italia ’90 will always be with me as they were my first – and I got this lovely mug and tshirt for Fathers’ Day to underline the fact – but this probably the best of the rest, partly for the excitement it conjured across the country and the young people I spend time with.

Roll on four years…. and three weeks.

One of the first things many people do when someone important – or a celebrity who they might vaguely be aware of – passes, is to go onto social media and express their condolences.

Some can do silly things; others miss the point entirely.

When I read the news about Antony Bourdain this lunchtime, I had tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat; not just because I loved the guy’s writing, documentaries and food, but because it’s another example of the darkness into which depression and mental health issues (some might add addiction) can enter us into.

Rather than speculate on the circumstances around his far-too-early departure from our lives, I wanted to do something a bit more personal than a tweet or status update, and actually celebrate the man; raise awareness of his importance… of why I admired him so much.

You may well be only vaguely – or even not at all – aware of who I’m talking about; if so, here’s the table in Hanoi where he ate a couple of years ago with Barack Obama:

Yes, the former American President was probably the bigger draw (and reason for this see-through time capsule) but the fact that Barack had agreed to meet and eat with him, I think, highlights how influential Tony was. Many chefs and celebrities have shared their grief, and acknowledgement of his greatness.

I am neither, but want to share with you why my heart is so heavy this evening.

It all started  in 2005, when I’d just begun teaching. In the Observer one hangover-free Sunday, I read an interview with this fascinating sounding guy from America who’d written a book – an expose, if you like – of his time in the kitchens of New York. That he’d dallied with drink and drugs along the way made him all the more interesting, so I went and bought his autobiographies and delved in with intrigue.

Reading the first chapter of ‘Kitchen Confidential’ in which the chef describes in delicious detail his first taste of oysters in France one summer – when I, myself, had just had a similar experience – I was instantly hooked and passed on his book to a fellow wannabe chef. I’ve never had it back, but it doesn’t matter… it’s fair to say the book affected me forever.

His second tome, a document of his food travels of the world, was arguably more important for him as it introduced the notion of food  travel which would open up a series of series he made about eating his way around the world: places I’d never go to, but felt I knew, thanks to his dry humour, appreciation of the everyday and New York drawl describing every barmy encounter.

When I first got Sky TV a few years later, that was the first programme I remember searching for; the first thing I remember really enjoying.

NO… RESERVATIONS.

The night he got drunk waiting for a Russian Fish Pie; the drinking Guinness and whisky chasers in an Irish Bar off 5th Avenue; the Full English with Fergus Henderson… these memories are vivid, but may be slightly inaccurate, however it doesn’t matter because they made me excited to cook.

And to travel.

Buying his first cook book even brought with it mixed experiences – I was sick one night after cooking the lapin aux olives, and don’t remember making too much else out of it (but will do from now on) – but as I read more about the culinary world, and realised more and more just how admired he was, I decided I just had to experience his cooking for myself.

I don’t think he was cooking the night we went to Les Halles Brasserie, Nassau Street, New York, December 26, 2009. He certainly didn’t cook my meal, because it was steak tartare and frites… but it was the best steak tartare I’ve ever tasted and in the most wonderful bistro-esque surroundings, with a Ribenary Beaujolais and the tastiest bread and butter going, plus mirrored walls and plush banquettes which took us from the post-proposal dreamland we were in, to 1950s Paris and Le Charme Discret de la Bourgeoisie.

Fast forward a couple of years, and we were married.

We travelled to Nice and one of the highlights of our visit to Cannes was a billboard advertisement featuring Bourdain and his new TV programme, ‘The Taste’. I watched every episode when it aired in Britain, albeit to mixed reviews, and his straightforward views seemed to sit better with his travel documentary style rather than the food talent show, meaning his new project of ‘The Layover’ which advised how best to spend a weekend in various cities.

That my Sky planner – and my Netflix watchlist – still have several hours of Bourdain programmes on them – ‘Parts Unknown’, especially – which show that I never got bored of him and his sweary articularcy – but the sadness at today’s news means I am at a crossroads of whether or not to delete it all because everything was beautiful and nothing hurt but I don’t know how I’ll feel, watching them all again.

In more recent years, his Instagram feed was full of exotic experiences so I’m glad at least that his 61 years allowed him to see (and eat) the world. He also impressed me as a father of a young girl like myself, and as a passionate and proud supporter of his girlfriend, Asia Argento, who had become embroiled in the Hollywood scandals surrounding certain producers and movements.

I get the impression he wouldn’t have wanted me to be crying, writing this; I don’t even know why I am.

He’d much prefer to know that we raised a glass to him during a family tea – I had a pint of Guinness and think he would have liked it – and now plan a glass of Languedoc and some Brie, to send him off in style.

I’d like to think he changed things more than slightly, and left many marks behind.

Antony’s a hero I would have loved to meet.