Happy New Year, everyone… Smith & Burrows once sang:
So tell everyone that there’s hope in your heart Tell everyone or it will tear you apart The end of Christmas day, when there’s nothing left to say The years go by so fast, let’s hope the next beats the last…
Many people believe that January is named after Janus, the two faced god, as the month is all about reflecting on what’s passed and as well as looking forward to what the next calendar year will bring.
Perhaps never before in the history of the universe has this notion – of hoping the next year’s better than the last – ever been as apt, and plenty of writers much more eloquent than the present author have mused on the negatives which have gone before, and the positives to come, so I won’t waste words and effort elaborating on that.
I’m still halfway through Death to 2020, the excellent Black Mirror instalment just released on Netflix, and the opening sums things up nicely. I’d totally forgotten that last January saw terrible bush fires, threats of world war and myriad other pre-Covid problems, and am somewhat embarrassed that, even when news of the virus started to spread, I was sceptical of those stockpiling and even critical when events I was looking forward to were cancelled.
Fast forward to the end of the year, though, and I feel lucky to still have family members (even though I’ve not hugged them for longer than it takes to gestate) and a job – however hard both may have been at times – and even find myself genuinely excited about what the world might be like after all this, having seen the really good side of people and communities during the pandemic and not really missing that much some of the things we took for granted before.
Like many, I too have re evaluated what’s important, and totally ‘got’ Soul, the truly wonderful new Pixar animation even before noticing the similarities with my own situation compared the other Mr G – another JG, no less – especially as his experience came when finally getting to perform on stage, whilst only last week I finally got my writing in the online travel section of The Guardian:
Of course, a big difference is that I have my wonderful wife and kids to grow even closer to during lockdowns, so can’t complain even when negotiating the nightmares of childcare provision probs and live lessons from home whilst mouths need feeding and bums need wiping.
Christmas was perfect and restful, just the tonic after the trials and tribulations of the month leading up to it. They included the sad passing of Maradona, who became a real icon in recent years, and whilst I shed a tear at the news and subsequent panoply of footage of not just his greatest moments but also his myriad nadirs, I feel lucky to have all that lovely Trickett stuff, a lasting legacy on the toilet wall of Il Capitano’s and now some beautiful socks courtesy of a sincere friend at the other end of the M62. We also lost another legend in Paolo Rossi, about whom I once attended a fascinating talk at Liverpool University, and I consoled myself with an evening engrossed in a brilliant and moving documentary about Francesco Totti.
Other great things watched over the festive period included The Mandalorian, which just gets better with every episode – especially the dark troopers, and the surprise appearance of Hamill himself – and Tin Star Liverpool, which makes the city – and even Bootle Strand – look even more gorgeous than usual. Now, of course, my nightly viewing is based around the return of Cobra Kai, transporting me as it has to the mid 80s and my obsession with Karate Kid 2 (including a Daniel action figure which I seem to recall breaking pretend ice with, and my early feelings for the beautiful Kumiko) which is something of a comfort in these troubling times.
Another positive, which I’ve been excited about for weeks, occurs this weekend, when the mighty Marine welcome Mourinho. The TV gantry is up, the huge temporary floodlights dominate the skyline as I look out of the kitchen window, and the town is abuzz with excitement. I’m one of the ten thousand who bought a ‘virtual ticket’ to make up for the lost revenue, and can’t wait to see what happens. Frank Cottrell Boyce wrote about the magic much better than I:
And, whilst I don’t have the credit for this photo, our house is on it so I will reuse (thanks to @peterjharvey)
Whatever the outcome, the club and the community can enjoy their moment in the spotlight and I think the whole situation symbolises how things have changed since last January. Unsung heroes being recognised and celebrated, whether part-time footballers, or volunteers, or NHS workers, or the staff at my local Sainsbury’s or fruit and veg shop who I’m making an extra effort to support and appreciate – we need to help local businesses and services out, celebrate them more, hope that they can prevail when this is all over.
Janus was the god of doors, gates and transitions; beginnings and endings. Similarly, someone once said that middle age is also Janus-faced, as we look back on our life and then forward to what we have to come. The pandemic has taught me to accept I’m forty one now, not nineteen forever, so things like gigs and wild nights out are a thing of the past as my lifestyle and appearance grows old (and grey) gracefully instead of clinging to the youth slowly slipping away.
Even on our lovely little Christmas Day, I was more concerned with perfecting the recipe for a Smoking Bishop to recreate the Cratchit family Christmas than anything else, and very nice it was too!
Whatever our ages, beliefs, denominations, stances or epistemological standpoints, I hope he is looking down on us all favourably as we struggle on through the dark.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only…”
It’s been a while – “I’ve been away, I’ve been working” – and when last we met, I explained the journey towards a mural I had painted. It was planned and developed during those strange days of spring and early summer: fear and happiness in equal measure; horror and joy.
Dickens pre-empted it all quite nicely.
The actual summer holidays then flew by; resting, cooking, reconnecting with old friends and wondering how the new normal would play out.
There were several frantic scrambles for Trickett merchandise; a very pleasant trip to Wales, staying in a Piggery (and seeing one of Britain’s most notorious hooligans) and then getting two new hamsters whose nocturnal habits (and squeaky wheel) kept us awake amidst the worries about returning to school settings and the inevitable stresses a return to said apparent normality might bring.
We also pondered the future of Messi – wow, does Koeman get into some messy situations as a manager – and the strange scenarios around footballers having to self-isolate for myriad reasons. Then, of course, the long awaited release of three classy new Hummel kits: sneak previews and teasers started the excitement for the new season, heightened by a first trip into town (for what felt like forever) for a lovely lunch at Wreckfish Bistro:
The service and food were incredible, our anniversary meal six months on, and a reminder of the wonderful work done daily by the catering sector. Octopus, morcilla, curried cod, smoked lamb, a pungent blue cheese… all fantastico, magnifico, and the day also involving a trip to the Toffee Shop to see the kits in real life. Some of the training gear is lovely, too, although so far I’ve limited my purchases to the pink one for B’s birthday… there will surely be more to come.
The green kit for the little boy, certainly, especially if this start to season continues, and talking of kits, it’s been fantastic to see – for the first time – an equal spread of kits on show at his Sunday morning football coaching sessions, suggesting a shift in mentality.
Suddenly, things had exploded. The painfully slow and disjointed midfield of lockdown was rumoured to be giving way to the trip of exciting signings. I couldn’t believe me eyes (and social media) as it became apparent we were about to sign two of my favourite players from overseas: Allan and James Rodriguez. We all began stalking them on social media, tracking planes, identifying hotel rum bars and recognising their drinking partners… a chance to celebrate one of the best football photos ever taken, too.
The start to the season was a triumph, not just with the goals and performances, but a shift in mentality: even West Brom – which I followed whilst touring Knowsley Safari Park for E’s birthday – and then the derby, despite the stupid challenges and subsequent controversies, didn’t bring about too much bother (except on Twitter, but that’s a story for another day) and in between, I’d celebrated my birthday with us top of the league and again ventured into town for a romantic and simply perfect meal (finally!) at Six by Nico then went to a pub watching the Crystal Palace game.
The Sicily themed meal – a compensation for not being able to go there back in May – was just perfect, with amazing arancini (see the remnants of, above) luscious lamb and perfect pork being the highlights… and red wine with the lemon dessert? Wow.
But overall it was weird, signing in everywhere, sitting down and having to watch the game on my phone but very rewarding, cathartic almost, after all we’ve been through – not just this year, but for decades previously. The bubble may well burst, but it feels like we’ve got our identity back at the very least. As Dickens said, at odds with the mood of the nation… how very confusing.
For my birthday I got more vouchers to spend at Trickett, the new Elena Ferrante novel, a Playmobil BTTF DeLorean and an amazingly beautiful book on the history of football badge design. I took the family out for pizza, my boy to see that Maradona mural I wrote about previously, and returned home to see that The Spirit of the Blues was on its way to number one. Strange, and positive, times indeed…
A new series of The Twilight Zone then started, as things got serious again. I started to think about conspiracy theories and the general situation. About how much this all felt like a TV series; what with the masks and the deniers, the revolts and scaremongerers causing problems. I then thought back to Birdbox last year, and the similarities in that parents like us are trying our best to protect the young from exposure to what was out there, but with the inevitability of what happens in the film (in case you’ve not seen it!)
Still, at least we have the King of the North to protect us.
Now, I didn’t understand the reference point when I spoke to a friend of his about him – actually never seen one episode of GoT – and, kudos to Joe Anderson for his stance too, but Andy Burnham has proved himself to be a real hero in recent weeks.
Tribalists and apologists might not concur, but I don’t really care about them. They shouldn’t be reading this; they should be lighting the candles instead, sad specimens.
I want this blog to still be about art, not politics. I could discuss the sadness at La Emin’s recent news; a fantastic South Bank Show on Terence Davies; the rather brilliant first episode of The Undoing or even a trip to Southport’s Atkinson gallery and an exhibition on early Femmes Fatales… but it’s hard at the minute to contemplate the trivialities of creativity when there’s so much serious stuff to discuss.
Here’s what I wrote recently, in praise of Greater Manchester’s Mayor:
Lest we forget, the chasm is widening.
Our country is a mess, both in terms of health and politics, and a great divide that already existed has only been exacerbated by recent introduction of inexplicable tiers.
It’s easy to feel hard done to when there’s a whole history of injustice to reference.
Meanwhile, football also finds itself at a crossroads; what would have been solace in these troubled times, has become a circus as the Glazers, JWH and Mr Parry have made illicit and immoral plans to break away which thankfully were rejected. As usual, no apology given when asked for by one of our own.
I’ve always liked the cut of his jib, Andy Burnham: the classy Hillsborough speech; the interview in an old WSAG; that podcast of his favourite songs I wrote about in a recent issue; his involvement in the homelessness projects as seen on Manctopia on BBC2; his regular presence at Courteeners gigs and in the Gwladys Street… need I go on?
The way he has conducted himself throughout the pandemic has been most impressive and his comments this week highlighted the fact. The ‘canary in the coal mine’ analogy was perfect and symbolised his Own background and his representation Of the communities in his regions. Similarly, that he’s involved with several others in the ‘Saving the Beautiful Game’ project, shows his interest in equality and fairness in football as well as the society he serves.
Andy, we salute you.
Anyway, back to October.
A long-planned night away scuppered like the other birthday presents from the last two years, we accentuated the positives and struggled through to Hallowe’en with the help of Scala Radio, Netflix and food magazines, especially Sainsbury’s magazine (who very kindly sent me a free copy after a mix up at the local store) and it all led me to dress like this guy to placate the upset kids wondering why another Hallowe’en had been spoiled.
Hallowe’en and us haven’t mixed well in recent years.
Emergency visits to Alder Hey, broken door locks and painful Dental Hospital operations have given the kids the impressions that the day is fated; hopefully this year will remove any fears that we can’t enjoy the day without problems! We spent time carefully crafting pumpkins, cooking the remnants, understanding how lucky we are… despite everything.
“Naples exists inside me, and always will. Fortunately for me there is this treasure that I have inside of me and, when I need it, then I pull it out” said Sophia Loren (and she had a right to say this because she’s from there) but, now, it kind of applies to me, too.
Also, she was (famously) in a film called ‘Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow’ which nicely summarises what I’m about to say, too.
When I was a kid, all I knew of Neapolitan was the ice cream (still my favourite) and a vague recognition that one of the most hated men in England at the time – after what had happened in the Mexico ‘86 tournament – was winning trophies at a team called Napoli, but I was too young to join the pieces together.
Italia 90, though, saw things start to connect.
We had an Italian girl staying with us, who was in love with Toto Schillaci, and I became fully aware of the city of Naples for the first time as it was the location of several games in that tournament (the significance of which would only become clear, years down the line) as well as the home team of some of the stars of the tournament.
Calcio came to the fore, thanks to Channel 4, and my other education offered studies in Classics and Latin which included a trip to Italy in the spring of 1994. Vivid memories of the trip prevail: Green meat pies; teachers fishing retainers out of bags of sick; Vesuvius; Pompeii, pizza and a day trip to a museum within a bustling, scary city.
I took a photo of the San Paolo as out coach drove past… the closest I’ve got. Friends and I saved our lire for a football shirt on the last day: ever the aesthete, I chose the Parma away because it was more lovely whilst a friend got Napoli away, and I forever regret my choice, although this was the real start of a love affair with the region (and a flirtatious attraction to its club)
Here’s a souvenir I have kept for over twenty six years…
I moved to Liverpool, a few years later: a city very similar to Naples for a lot of reasons. A people very similar.
For years, then, I marvelled from afar, watching the club reinvent itself, and although the chance never came to see the blues play the blues. In 2005, though, a new Argentine footballing hero came to prominence (whom I saw playing for Barcelona a year later, just like his idol had at a similar age) and I started to read up on the politics and culture of Argentina which, given the twentieth anniversary of his greatest moment, kept coming back to Diego.
A steak house with his shirt on the wall opened in town (went for my 27th). I tried (but failed) to see Maradona play in the first Soccer Aid. I started reading El Diego. Adidas even released an updated version of the no. 10 shirt from 1986, which I eagerly bought and wore proudly but will never forget a guy breaking off his phone call to loudly boo me for wearing.
I try to justify it now, by thinking maybe he was a Falklands veteran or just a devout England fan, but either way, my reading around the subject brought with it a different perspective on the handball. Maradona himself described his play as with ‘bronco’ meaning anger, fight etc, but I’ve also read about the culture of cheating, overcoming injustice and poverty using any means necessary and getting away with it made it the perfect act, given what came soon after… but many will never forget nor forgive.
Anyway, when the chance finally arrived to see the (other) Azzurri in the flesh, it came at Anfield, during the Hodgson era but what was soon to become a halcyon period for Napoli with the front three and revered coach, Mazzarri. You can read the match report to see what happened: http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/football/europe/9154975.stm
Personally disappointing, worse so to be witnessing it around gleeful Kopites, but it cemented my admiration for the Partenopei.
It was so exciting to see the fans, hear the chants, attempt to read the banners, though not so beforehand with the moody atmosphere and rumours of slashings, stabbings and more around the stadium. I’m currently reading a book about Ultras, as it was this experience that opened my eyes to what must go on every single week at their games. Not just their games, but a lot of games in Italy, it’s just that their reputation precedes them because of the other stuff that goes on in the city.
Talking of which: my second visit to the city, during my Honeymoon in 2012. We’d chosen the Amalfi Coast because of the beautiful scenery, food, architecture, lemons… and, I’ll be honest, proximity to the city I’d longed to return to for nearly twenty years.
I took the train into the city on my own (WW being too scared) and watched the pickpockets going up and down the train carriage stalking their prey with a weird sense of excitement.
Yes, there was a smell, loads of rubbish and graffiti and dodgy characters… but it was beautiful. I wandered the streets alone for a few hours, from the station to the historical centre and then worked my way back , savouring every sight, smell and sound of a whistlestop day trip. These memories lasted a lifetime… OK, I felt a bit intimidated admittedly, but in an exciting way.
Did some shopping, took some photos, ate some pizza. Fell in love again. Today I’m even wearing a badge I bought in the Galeria Principe, a wondrous shopping centre.
We returned home and, through married life then parenthood, I developed a love for daily Espressos (and the odd Campari Soda) plus the food of Gino di Campo (who hi-fived us both the weekend B was conceived, fact fans) and the merchandise of Hally Ink and Classic Football Shirts, to keep my Neapolitan fix going.
Watched every TV cookery programme that went near, shopped for and cooked all things Neapolitan (Buitoni being a particular favourite) ate pizza at every opportunity… Oh and I fell for the greatest TV series of our generation, Gomorrah. I’ve spoken enough about it, if you’ve not watched, get off this blog and get streaming NOW. The same applies to the beautiful My Brilliant Friend which we’ve both fallen in love with, too.
We seriously considered Enzo as a name for the boy… and last year, I even took a (male) colleague on a kind of date to the Everyman cinema to watch Asif Kapadia’s documentary on the man himself and educate him (he’s a lot younger than me!) which I’d also encourage everyone to see ASAP.
Just when I thought I couldn’t get any more Neapolitan, Trickett somewhat serendipitously came into my life… again, anyone who has yet to see their beautiful stuff, get on it straight away!
Regularly, on a Thursday evening at 7pm you’ll find me online purchasing – or, as is often the case, attempting to purchase alongside several other like-minded individuals – something wonderful, often made in Naples or linked to the culture. Like the Joker nearly said in the best Batman, I often ask of Iain and his team, “where do they get those beautiful things?”
When you get the product, be it a T-shirt or some coffee or even a pair of Maradona socks (a romantic Valentines gift to myself a couple of years ago) you also get some collector cards, postcards, stickers and a handwritten message thanking you for your support. If you’re lucky, at the minute you get a religious card to frame, too… this is the patron saint of Naples:
Recently, I’ve also been fortunate enough to join a few Trickett Napoli / Now in Naples Instagram tours of parts of Naples I vaguely recognised, a free gift with the purchase, virtually walking around the city, asking Joe the guide questions along the way as you meet the locals, swoon at the vibrant streets and their graffiti, dream of another time when an escape might be possible again.
These tours were a real inspiration for my most recent love letter to the football, art and food of the city – and its most famous adopted son – and I based my own homage to Maradona on the street art there as well as the works of Banksy (who stencilled a famous Madonna with Pistol in the Forcella area of the city), Holbein and the location itself.
It all began last September when I saw a Neapolitan pizza place opening nearby.
Excited, we went for my fortieth and were blown away by the quality (and service) meaning several return trips and recommendations (to friends who’ve all concurred with me) and, just before lockdown started, the owner commenting on this photo (taken with a life size cutout of the great man, on the last night of our honeymoon, back in Sorrento) I posted in advance of the film being on terrestrial TV later that evening:
He said he was considering having a mural done in the restaurant; I offered to paint it for him.
I’ve not really done much art (as in drawing and painting) out of the classroom since the London exhibition in 2012, and certainly nothing on this scale. But there was something so perfect about this opportunity: the site, the subject, the story, that I just had to see it through.
Home Teaching and Schooling offered a few extra opportunities to do some research into suitable images and some sketching in the sunshine, and eventually we agreed on the elements it would include.
I developed an idea that it should be: lifesize (like the cutout) using the ideas of perspective that Leonardo da Vinci’s ‘Vetruvian Man’ inspired; as intimidating and moody as possible (incorporating the theory of the uncanny) and also using the photo realist / illusionist approach so excellently explained by James Fox in the recent documentary Age of the Image, with the trompe l’oeil approach championed by the likes of Holbein hundreds of years ago, so that it looks 3-D and the eyes follow you around the room… also, in the style of the Impressionists and Cubists, I’d simply be painting for the love of it and would be paid in food and drink (incredible pizza and wine!)
I spent time looking through the honeymoon pics, other artists’ interpretations of him in his prime, and at some pretty mad old photos of Diego from his days at Napoli, as this would be the most authentic time period to focus on.
We then added a couple of extra touches to fit the restaurant name, logo and theme, too. I loved looking at images of Diego’s halcyon days, what with how his life unravelled since then and now seemed to get partly back on track recently. Of particular help were a couple of Trickett’s books, and the tours, and I re-honed my drawing skills for the first time in a generation.
The unprecedented period went on (and on) and we settled on a date, just in time for restrictions being eased and the restaurant re-opening.
Excitedly I did a rough, packed a back of materials and said goodbye to the family, knowing this was an incredibly important moment and opportunity which I really appreciated, which celebrated a lifelong adoration and which might just kickstart a restart for my productive processes.
It took me exactly five hours to complete – the longest I’d spent on a painting since probably my art A Level (‘Still Life with Oranges and Marlboros’) and I loved every minute. I really think Diego might be the catalyst for me taking up portraiture and other art again, if and when time allows in the new normal.
Honestly, it was amazing to take the kids and WW to see the painting (and have yet another fantastic meal) a week later and, in the words of High School Musical, this could be the start of something new.
Watch this space.
You can go and see the mural for yourself in the toilet of Il Capitano’s, St. John’s Road, Waterloo (the idea is he watches you as you enter and do your business) now they’re re-opened. They’ve done fantastically as a takeaway in that time, but now here is a new talking point for new visitors. Indeed, the first weekend after I did the painting, a couple from Naples came to eat.
I hope they liked seeing a piece of their home here: further proof of what Sophia once said.
