Author: bigdunc09

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.

We start last year, and the World Cup tournament. Most notably, the romantic notion of the Flea’s destiny being realised, if not quite perfectly, pretty much as near as.

Whilst Messi was working wonders over in Qatar, my own little wonder was scoring six in a 33-1 victory and we celebrated the result at the first of many seasonal parties. It was beginning to feel a lot like Christmas, what with the various plays, presents still to purchase and Christmas food progs to watch despite this one’s menu being slightly different. The Christmas lights on our street were turned on, too, and we dressed up to celebrate.

Still, the lights weren’t the only thing we watched in December.

A lovely long weekend off allowed the chance to do some Christmas shopping and return home, in more ways than one. It was wonderful to return to The Giant Axe, an intriguingly named place and the stadium of my youth, for our first Marine away and to reminisce the early days of my own playing career. ‘We’ won 3-1, and I even spotted a hero from yesteryear at the tea hut who was happy to have a chat.

On TV, though, it was all about the excellent Dark Horses documentary, about Italy’s surprise triumph in 2006, and the eerie but very cool Wednesday which transfixed our own little Addams daughter. We also started the new series of Dead to Me, and the excellent but bizarre films entitled How to With John Wilson: the one about what New Yorkers throw away (or don’t) was particularly insightful.

Then came the Final to beat all Finals, a glorious afternoon spent sat in my lucky shirt kindly bought for me by two good friends in work and I’d worn it for every game after Saudi Arabia… Elijah even joined in the ritual for the latter rounds, thinking his Messi PSG kit might somehow bring the Albiceleste luck.

Well, reader, it worked and a little tear came to my eye: this little magician has been a part of my football supporting life for seventeen years, I’m lucky enough to have seen him play three times in technicolour and I’ll take that to my grave, one occasion being my stag party for two and I’ll forever be grateful to him for entertaining and inspiring so many of us over the years.

‘Obsessed’ said one silly sausage, presumably incensed that one can find it possible to not be parochial in one’s outlook to heaving heroes (or, one could say pragmatic given that very few boys in blue can offer such moments of genius to be enjoyed) but I brushed that off and enjoyed the moment.

It was so wonderful to watch the highlights again and again… but there was another big event on the horizon.

As the big day approached, illness struck the house we turned attention to a great new find, thanks to my sister’s recommendation, Only Murders in the Building, a clever and funny series which also makes us fall back in love with New York. Similarly, the one-take instant classic Boiling Point – I’ve worked in restaurants and this is a brutal but brilliant reminder, not dissimilar to my present experience of precise preparation for an unforgiving audience and the pressures that often go unseen.

What’s sad is that my viewing it coincided with the sad passing of an inspiration, who actually taught the excellent Stephen Graham and loved to tell the tale of how in school, when young Stephen announced that he would be a famous actor one day, he responded with ‘what, with a face like that? No chance!’

I think Roy would be smiling down when Graham’s recently announced MBE is presented.

My own memories of him are the press ups on the dance floor, the guessing what he had for breakfast (a smorgasbord of unusual choices every Sunday) and the wisdom that made him a wonderful mentor, teacher and man but also a champion Egghead and the pride he showed on the night he took us out to celebrate his victory will forever be remembered.

Sadly, other greats were lost: the indomitable Pele, the always classy Vialli, and therefore the new year got off to a strange start. More suspected Scarlet Fever, meaning – and this is no slight on those wonderful people who work for the NHS – a half hour wait on hold before being able to speak to someone at the surgery about it; a subsequent four hour wait (on tenterhooks) to be called back by a doctor; meanwhile, I was enduring emergency dental treatment which cost me £250 for 27 minutes of care, and – without a phone due to the pending consultation – I couldn’t even use a phone box to ring home to check on the patient as the minimum call cost is apparently 60p! Britain is indeed broken… as are many hearts.

Still, we have to go again…

Ciao.

Two busy months, which offered little time for reflection.

One opportunity though, came with the excellent Sensationalists series on YBAs and particularly, the installation by Michael Landy, in which he destroyed everything he owned via a giant compressor within an empty department store on Oxford Street.

At this time of year, the irony is delicious, as I doubt shoppers are spending thousands of pounds they can’t afford on things the gift receivers don’t need, and we do it all again and again every year…

In the words of Dr Seuss:

Anyway, at the risk of contradicting myself, another excellent episode of Stanley Tucci – my new style icon as well as food & drink inspiration – impressed us so much that we booked a trip and it’s lovely to have something to look forward to, nearly four years after the milestone the holiday will celebrate. I’m now obsessed over all things (and recipes*) Venetian – *gluten free, of course.

This year’s birthday money was spent on three football matches: the first was the mightily enjoyable performance by the Blues v Crystal Palace, before which both Andy Burnham and Dixie Dean’s great granddaughter frequented my pre match venue of choice; the ever impressive Marine won 2-0 in the second, and the third was spent at Castle Greyskull as I excitedly observed the best team in Europe so far this season disappointed for once, although my little mate Kvaratskhelia was class, and it was so exciting to see Osimhen, Simeone, and Raspadori etc especially as the little guy finally got his last birthday gift.

Then, once upon a time, we took a couple of days out in Manchester and saw Gary Neville on Deansgate after a fantastically invigorating afternoon at the Science Museum. A couple of drinks in the lovely Albert’s Schloss, great meal at Rain! (where I last imbibed about twenty years ago) then an early night before a big day ahead!

We went to see the Vimto statue, viewed many a time from the train into the city but given how much the little man drinks it, it was a must see, then for personal reasons, especially the BBC4 documentary, I showed him where the Hacienda had once stood.

This was before a wonderful couple of hours at the National Football Museum celebrating football stickers and getting excited about the upcoming World Cup. We met up with old friends, too, and visited the coolest cafe in the city (FEDERAL) the coincidences therein linked nicely to the next few episodes of This is Us and celebrating Halloween then some great viewing such as the BBC’s star-studded Messi and Il Fenomino documentaries, Clifford the Big Red Dog, the wonderful Welsh Sporting Heroes: Neville Southall documentary plus a new favourite show, the incredible kitchen set adrenaline rush that is The Bear.

Back to school, it sadly came, along with it the highs and lows of being a parent, from a double hat trick to throwing up on the top deck of a bus home from training (weekly sessions involve getting changed in the car or the sports centre toilet and evoke the story of Ross Barkley attributing his successes to his mum getting two buses home with from his training) and then Comic Con – an incredible experience which I shared with an excited nine year old really starting to recognise films, TV series and toys just like those a younger me did.

This was therefore the perfect place, with a vast array of stalls and sets as well as artwork and incredible costumes people were only happy to have a selfie with us in. Sadly, the stars charge a lot more and, on a budget, we had to settle for seeing them from afar this time but that was more than enough for B seeing Gaten Materazzo close up, and me the young ‘uns from Cobra Kai cast, the butler from Fresh Prince, and most impressively the Fratelli brothers from The Goonies. For anyone still unenlightened, we went dressed as Papa and Eleven from Stranger Things: even got papped in the process, and the whole day was heavenly.

The next day, the World Cup.

It had a different build up this year. Aside from the politics and the debates, which I won’t discuss here, the architecture, especially with Bradley Moore growing nicely, caught my attention this time around, especially the unusual and brilliant Stadium 974, which brought back memories of a project on containerisation I did a few years ago, but still kits and star players took centre stage as I experienced the anticipation through the eyes of a six year old as I too was, back in Mexico 86, and the excitement I still feel getting all nostalgic about Francescoli, Altobelli, Butragueno, Sanchez and of course Maradona, came to the fore again. This time, I even have a replica shirt from the Hand of God game to wear when Argentina play, thanks to my work daughters’ kindness.

The week before the tournament, as entertaining and controversial as it has proven to be, my appetite for the upcoming feast of FIFA was whetted by various other programmes, especially Four Weeks That Shook The World (in which they interviewed Schillachi and his dad, heartbreakingly) I watched the excellent Gary Neville in Qatar, the C4 Italia 90 doc on hooliganism… and then came the football itself.

Advent, then, and more excitement coming…