Author: bigdunc09

“Life is a rollercoaster, you’ve just got to ride it” sang Ronan Keating; after the past month or so, I concur completely.

From a starstruck Elijah meeting Leighton Baines around the corner at the end of February, to the said icon being on our train into train and sauntering past as I swooned at his style at the start of April, it’s been a funny new weeks.

Things started off largely positive: The Mandalorian returned in style; I attended a conference at a very classy venue, with beautiful views of that non-existent stadium that will never appear… whilst Sir Ian McKellen was just down the road; we met a group of film makers creating a music video and I was asked to email one of them a photo I’d seen; meanwhile, dejection and ecstasy in equal measures on the professional front and on the playing field as E’s team lost a semi final and a quarter final in a tournament on penalties.

We celebrated an important birthday and, of course, Mothers’ Day, and eagerly anticipated a surprise Morrissey gig which was hinted at with the most serendipitous t-shirt.

I’ve written enough about Moz over the years and don’t agree with much of what he has said in recent times, but – as will be alluded to later – some things are more important than money or misgivings, so don’t feel the need to justify my excitement at what will probably be a last hurrah in his presence. I just hope he doesn’t cancel again, or walk off in a huff…

Finally, we also sat down to watch the multi-Oscar winning Everything Everywhere, All At Once. Never has a film’s title been more appropriate. I tried to describe it to some friends as Michel Gondry meets the Matrix, and ultimately it’s about being a parent. I’d urge anyone and everyone to watch it, and to read the explanation on the BBC site first. It’s simply beautiful, as a restaurant critic once described a local eatery: bonkers but brilliant. It also evokes those of us of a certain age’s childhoods, with the renaissance of the brilliant Ke Huy Quan from The Goonies and Indiana Jones.

Not quite as good, but still enjoyable fare, was the Luther movie and the fourth series The Bay which I love because it’s set in Morecambe and it mentions familiar places, shows them too, and let loose on the world the little known fact that Busta Rhymes spent his childhood in the resort. We even took a little day trip there over Easter to spot the locations and murals it champions. Oh, and we also loved the finals of Great British Menu, with some amazing dishes inspired by illustrators and storytellers and served in innovative ways.

Illness lingered, bringing some worrying times, but the mood was lifted with another glorious day spent at Comic Con.

This was heavy… but I was in heaven.

Much has been written in the news recently about the astronomical amounts charged by the Star Wars cast at their celebration event in London – and, as an avid devotee, I’d still be tempted but in these times couldn’t justify spending four hundred and fifty pounds to meet or stand next to a non-plussed actor – even the recent more general Sci-Fi and popular culture event in Liverpool cost a lot of money but was worth every penny when I got to be near Matthew Modine (for free) or see my daughter be lovingly addressed, then embraced, by the daughter of Casper Van Dien whom she’d adored in Stranger Things. I think you can see the beaming smile as she got to meet one of her heroes, and the kindness shown.

All of human life is at these conventions, and I marvel at the creativity / bravery of some of those who dress up. We both did it first time around, in November (I was Matthew Modine’s character then, always the bridesmaid!) but this time Betsy was Chrissy and I was more toned down but still in my element getting photographed with the weird and wonderful and noticing major film & TV stars around us. I’d recommend the event to anyone with even a remote interest in what we watch, as it’s a great day out for all. Just save up.

Talking of exciting, excellent albeit expensive things, we celebrated eleven years of marriage over the holidays. It reminded me of our parents, whose golden anniversaries we celebrate later in the year, and also my grandparents, who were unknowingly made famous by this postcard featuring them which my cousin coincidentally found and kindly shared recently.

Every year, we celebrate the event with posh meals out as a couple. it’s a special occasion, so we make the effort, make the most of it and then don’t go out for weeks. It’s always more than a meal, and we’ve been very lucky over the years to visit: the Hotel Negresco in Nice, with its carousel themed La Rotonde, for our first (Lisa was expecting); L’Enclume and Northcote in my homeland for high-end tasting menus in elegant surroundings; in Cottonopolis, Manchester House, Adam Reid at the French for great GBM gourmet and Pep Guardiola’s Tast for creative Catalan haute cuisine; then, closer to home, the fantastic foodie haunts Wreckfish and Barnacle… it’s fair to say our anniversary meal is arguably the culinary highlight of the year.

This year was to be no different, especially after the first quarter of 2023, but this time with even more to celebrate. It was somewhere I’d been itching to try but we started early with a variety of aperitifs at new(ish) venues The Vines, Alberts Schloss, Bouchon, Black Barrel (we don’t get out much) and even stumbled across a film set on Dale Street before arriving at Hawksmoor.

I wrote about our first visit to its Mancunian sister for my fortieth and so knew we wouldn’t be disappointed this time. everything about the evening made it more memorable: the cool, understated decor; the fascinating signage and design, which we’ve now got on our family salon display; the modern, moody colours of the walls; the attentive service what with the explanations of the different steak options and the gluten free choices; the delightful drinks, including the best, cleanest martini I’ve ever tasted; and then the steak itself.

Simply perfect.

I recently read the fascinating story of where the saying ‘Beef and Liberty’ came from, and this whole experience felt like freedom from the real world for a couple of hours. Superlatives can’t describe how everything tasted. Some may baulk at the prices but you’re paying for quality in every bite and there’s a reason why the Hawksmoor family were recently voted the second best steakhouse in the world, and this was it. The excellent Ben – who feels like an old friend now he’s served us on two such occasions – even brought us a little digestif to celebrate, and all was right in the world.

Go!

The end of the two week hiatus is nigh, and the rest of the holiday was spent finishing the equally moody, enjoyable, meatily intense The Bear which makes me really want to wear a t-shirt with YES, CHEF on it. And visit Chicago!

We also had a look around the Shakespeare North Playhouse, toured the serene Taylor Park, paid a visit back to the Bus Yard in the sunshine, made some salt cod chichetti in advance of our next big outgoing, went to a Northern Soul-themed bowling alley, and got creative…

All in all, a nice end – to an era.

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.