2004 - My Favourite Year

So we drove to Manchester Airport early today because Stacey had to fly back to the States. 

None of us want her to go obviously. Not me, our son Vince, my family, our friends, relatives and cousins to whom she's cool Aunt Stacey. Just the small fact that because she's not from round here the Government says she's gotta go.  

Vince and I had a good dad & lad day in the North West for a couple of hours afterwards, well as much fun as you can have when your hearts broken into 18,600 pieces and you can't tell your son when his momma is coming back. 

So back to being a jobless temporary single parent for the time being. This does remind me of the last time a year started so inauspiciously, exactly 10 years ago in fact, so indulge me while I recollect how 2004 turned out to be the best year of my life. 

I began the year much like this one bathing in the ashes of personal defeat. I had just come back from a mostly agreeable New Years Eve party with my friends in Bicester that unfortunately, for me, culminated in seeing my former fiance from six months previously snogging her new boyfriend. I went back to our, now my house, and took it out on the less expensive and replaceable kitchen equipment. 

I needed a change of scene and as luck would have it, I was able to join my parents on a trip to Oman, where my dad was working at the time. 10 days of sun, beaches and the secluded silence you only get in the Mountains was as good a place to take stock as any. 

As it turns out the trip was exactly what I needed. A chance to recuperate and take stock, mentally as well as physically. Being able to run at a higher altitude in a higher heat or work out in an air conditioned gym,  catch up on movies at home, eat the finest Indian food I've ever tasted - mainly thanks to the Indian expat community just over the gulf from home - a chance to take in some genuine Arabic culture and catch up on sleep.  

I mean real sleep, I have never slept as deeply or as well as I did in the Desert, going to sleep and waking up naturally, getting over eight hours every night, I felt like Superman waking up every morning. I enjoyed swimming in the sea and could not stop myself from laughing after running on the beach from the hotel and back.  I even had an improtu kickabout with a bunch of expat Iraqis - my 'Beckham 23' shirt helped and proved that despite their being a 'war' on, the beautiful game is the universal language - especially if you're far from home. 

While I was away, I was keeping a close eye on unfolding drama at home. The BBC was awaiting the publication of the Hutton Report so I was due for a busy time back in the Press Office and equally pressing, Middlesbrough were taking a 1-0 lead into the second leg of the League Cup semi-final against 'The Invincible's' Arsenal side that would not lose a league game that season.  

A momentous night at the Riverside Stadium saw the Boro triumph on aggregate and travel to Cardiff for the first time to contest a major Cup final against Bolton Wanderers on the fateful date of February 29th. The whole family went to Wales for the weekend and we enjoyed a tremendous day beforeout and about in the Capital running into friends and familiar faces at every turn. 

Not getting to a major final every season, we decided to do things in a little bit of style and managed to book a Corporate Box for the whole family to watch the game from. The game has been well covered in other places but despite leaking a goal just before half time, the two we had scored in the first 15 minutes saw that 128 years later, Middlesbrough FC had won it's first major trophy and I, and pretty much everyone I loved and cared about, was there to see it. 

The year continued without much negativity or drama and we enjoyed the rarity of a real, warm British summer. I celebrated my 31st birthday in Bicester during the European Championships and despite being ejected from The Litten Tree for being too drunk to speak, a good time was had by all. 

A week later, I started chatting with a bright, sparky, clever and amazingly attractive girl from Atlanta called Stacey - and so it began, although I had to pull out the big guns to keep her interest...

Suddenly my life was transformed and energised even more, by a relationship I wasn't even looking for when it exploded into my life. I still feel that way when I look at her. 

I had been planning to take a trip to the USA later that year anyway but now I had a specific reason to go and a city to visit - Atlanta - for the first time. I've never been so nervous, excited and alive as when I saw Stacey for the first time at Hartsfield Jackson airport. The busiest airport in the world it may be but it still stopped when she spotted me and smiled.  We had a great 10 days together - I've always been an Ameriphile and we hung out, passed the friends test, went to the Baseball and clicked like we'd known each other for years. It was just right. 

I reluctantly headed back to England and reality but we had already made plans for Stacey to spend Christmas with me back in England. In the meantime, I had Middlesbrough's first European adventures to look forward to, starting in with a trip to the Czech Republic and Banik Ostrava. Leaving from Teesside Airport, my brother, Dad and seemingly half of Teesside descended on this Eastern European steel making town and felt decidedly at home with the locals. Boro progressed over both legs but lifelong friendships were made in our twin Steel City

Stacey and I kept on chatting throughout the Autumn and Middlesbrough shrugged off their history of mediocrity, beating the likes of Liverpool, Man City and Villa in the league and in one special evening making Lazio look like a Northern League outfit in the UEFA Cup. 

The year ended with Stacey coming to the UK for the first time and despite the tactical error of taking her to Whitby in December and actually making her cry with the cold, she met my family and friends and actually decided to come back again. And again, and again.

So as I sifted through the broken sugar bowl and spilled milk of the kitchen lino before I had to take a cold shower and drive to work in London that cloudy New Years Day not knowing the filips and fun awaiting me in the year ahead, so we don't know what's round the corner this except for one caveat.  It will be better than last. 

It has to be. 

Do You Remember The First Time?

There are certain rights of passage every young man much go through,  first day at school, first kiss, first punch (taken or thrown), and for every British boy, your first football match. 

I've been aware of the omnipotent presence of Middlesbrough FC since an early age.  My grandparents lived in Meath Street, one of the myriad two up, two down terraced streets in West Middlesbrough, a goal kick away from Ayresome Park, the Boro's former home.

As loved by Boro fans as it was feared by opposition supporters, it was nestled in the middle of these street next to the old General Hospital where several generations of fans, myself included, would spring forth. As well as the streets themselves there were numerous cut throughs and back alleys which provided many short cuts and hiding places to be wary of for opposition fans making their way back to the station at the bottom of Albert Road.

A typical North Eastern Saturday would see me and later my brother deposited into my Nana's care while the men of the family and more often than not my mum would make their way to the game. We would be entertained with a round of board games, impromptu musical performances with pans and wooden spoons serving for drums and back yard football and tennis. Once this got too much, we'd come inside to catch the wrestling on World of Sport before the classified results would tell us what sort of mood the returning heroes would be in.  Occasionally they would be back before the results if the defeat was too heavy or too dispiriting to take.

I remember walking through the huge red North Stand gates with MIDDLESBROUGH AFC emblazoned above you. The gates themselves now stand in front of the new home, the Riverside Stadium, and walking through them is something of a pre-match tradition enjoyed by a new generation.  I don't remember a whole lot about my first game other than I'd never seen so many people gathered in one place before and spent as much time watching the crowd as the game.  My only sporting recollection is that the opposition played in yellow shirts and green shorts which immediately led me to see when we played Norwich City and concluded that it was must have been them. 

In the age of social media, no such guesswork will be needed to record this weekend when I took Vince along to the Riverside to see Boro's final pre-season friendly against the French cup winners - Bordeaux. 

He'd been looking forward to it all week, mainly because his cousins Jacob and Ethan would also be going but because we pass the stadium every week on our way to the Speedway, his other sporting routine, and new that Middlesbrough played there. 

He has a Boro branded t-shirt but not a replica shirt for a couple of reasons. Firstly, I'm not paying £50 for something he'll grow out of in six months and also, actually the strongest reason, is that Middlesbrough are sponsored by Ramsdens, a pawnbrokers.  I appreciate they are not as bad as predatory payday moneylenders such as Wonga or QuickQuid but as far as I'm concerned, they are the one-haired man in the kingdom of the blind. I disapprove and won't let my son endorse them.  It's a reason I wear the classic 1970s style Boro shirts to matches myself, as well as being timeless classic and associated with a swaggering brand of football and machismo that Jack Charlton's team epitomised, they also don't have a sponsor.

I parked near the old Dockside clock and told Vincent the story about why it has three faces (the fourth one is a bricked out section that faces the docks themselves. Designed so the workers would not know how close it was to 5pm, and therefore wouldn't slack off from their duties), and walked past the giant Temenos sculpture which resembles either a huge Star-Trek style wormhole or twisted femidom depending on how charitable you are feeling.  A hop across the swing bridge to take in a downriver view of the Tees including a submerged jetty and sunken boat at low tide and to the gates to meet up with his cousins.  

Providence takes many forms the site of three handsome young Boro fans took the imagination of a local director.  He asked if he could film all three of them in cheering mode to feature in the opening titles of the matchday show this season. I happily signed the release form and am looking forward to seeing them immortalised for at least the next 24 matches, especially when the weather and probably results take a grimmer turn than today's sleepy sunshine draped Riverside. 

The boys settled down to enjoy their drinks and sweets and happily cheered a motivated Marvin Emnes scoring both goals in a 2-1 including a great top corner consolation for the visitors. Vince left with a spring in his step as we walked back down Vulcan Road, past SLP where I spent a happy summer working in the Shipyard and nailing down my claim to working class Teesside credibility.  I watched Vince running around with the happy boys, playing together, wondering if he suspected the lifetime of worry, pain, annoyance, embarrassment, confusion, anger and occasional joy I've bequeathed him through a lifetime allegiance to the forces of the Roaring Red Lion. 

As misery shared is a trouble halved but for one bright, brilliant summers day, it was a deserved dividend in happiness.

Unfinished Business

If you're looking for a word to describe my relationship with the great northern city of Manchester, it's unrequited.  True, I graduated from Manchester University (class of 96) but the three years I spent were mainly in Warrington, 12 miles to the west as this is where our faculty was based.  I visited on many occasions and had a great time in the early Britpop years, and made great plans for a triumphant return after graduation.

I was working at a shipyard in Middlesbrough (who's got blue collar credibility?) and was saving up for my return. Every day when we worked into town for lunch, I saw the Manchester Airport train idling at the station, seemingly letting me know it was ready whenever I was and in January 97, I made the move back.  I got a room in Didsbury, the leafy suburb of choice for the young professional, had friends in town, and even landed a job at a business ratings company in Old Trafford, a stones throw from the cricket and football grounds.  Life was going to be great.

And it was until I broke my leg playing football as a ringer on my cousin's team on a Friday night and spent the subsequent six months in plaster up to my thigh. I had to let the job and room go and convalesced at my parents.  During the intervening 16 years, I've had a couple of other close calls about going back, jobs that weren't right, or I wasn't right for then, ,as John Lennon sagely observed, life is what happens when you're busy making other plans. 

This week however, saw an unexpected but welcome opportunity to revisit the old place for a job interview.  I took the train in from Darlington and was trying to conserve my battery as I thought I might need the map navigation when I got there. Ridiculous because as soon as I came out of Piccadilly Stations impressive glass fronted atrium, I could find my way around blindfolded through Picadilly Gardens and the new Arndale.  This is a city of warm memory for me - I had my stag do here, Stacey and I have had some great nights here going to the Lowry and cavorting round Deansgate.  It was here I met my old BBC pal and fellow Boro fan Paul for lunch at the Moon Under The Water, formerly my favourite pub in Manchester and scene of some delirious celebrations in 1998 when Middlesbrough contrived to win 3-2 against Manchester United.  In the days before mobile phones, my friends were worried they might not be able to find me in one of the biggest pubs in Europe.  They told me they could hear me singing as soon as they set foot in the door later. 

After a pleasant catch-up we parted and I made my way up Oxford Road to my Alma Mata, the University of Manchester, to the old Quad where we graduated on a rainy June day back in 1996.  It was having expensive refurbishment work done but it is always pleasing to read of the achievements of other notable alumni such as Anthony Burgress, writer of A Clockwork Orange, Alan Turing, father of modern computing and Ellen Wilkinson, first female Minister of Education and MP for Middlesbrough as well as being a great socialist.  My interview was here - at my old school.

It's a situation worthy of further consideration. I want to stay close to my friends and family in the North East but new media jobs are hard to come by in our enclave of The Far Corner, the title of Harry Pearsons' seminal 1994 book on North East Football, so I might find myself commuting farther afield.  Driving in Atlanta has given me an appreciation for the longer commute that most American workers take forgranted.  Manchester would previously have been off limits but there are some calls you really must take - and one from your old school, in the industry you love in your favourite city is one.  

Manchester and I have always had unfinished business and while I've been cautious about pulling on the loose ends of the tapestry of my life lest it begins to unravel, my link to Mancunia feels more tethered than most.  

For one reason or another, I may not end up back at the University but I at least have opened up another possible route back into employment and enjoyment and removed another self-imposed limit from my outlook and my life.  I've already done as Horace Greeley and the Pet Shop Boys once advised, 'Go West!', so maybe we'll end up doing it again and achieving a British manifest destiny of our own. 

Mascot Memories BluRay 30 year Anniversary Edition

Events, dear boy, Events, as Churchill was want to say and he's right. I should really be blogging on the death of Margaret Thatcher but that will keep until the funeral next week. Instead, a timely remix of an earlier piece - on when I was a mascot for Middlesbrough FC.  

It was 30 years ago today...

It was 1983, I was ten years old, David Bowie was number one with “Let’s Dance”, Dan Aykroyd and Bill Murray were bustin’ Ghosts at the Stockton Classic, The Minipops were blissfully entertaining dodgy middle-aged men on the fledgling Channel 4, and while ostensibly a Boro (Middlesbrough) fan, my trips to the old Ayresome Park were sporadic at best.

I mainly used to spend Saturday afternoons at my nanas inMeath Street watching Big Daddy on World of Sport while waiting for my own big daddy and medium-sized grandad to return, usually as miserable as sin.

I had been threatened by my Uncle on occasions, “If your naughty, your dad will take you to see the Boro” and working on the premise that a problem shared is a misery halved, my dad informed me that not only were we going, but that I was going to be the mascot in two weeks time! At home to a struggling Derby County on Saturday April 9^th.

My first difficulty was when the club wanted some information about me for the programme. What were my interests? This was a problem. I couldn’t honestly admit in print that my interests solely consisted of eating mars bars, watching cartoons and playing Manic Miner so in a desperate attempt to please my dad I said Golf and Fishing.

A bigger problem was that I was crap at football. Not totally hopeless, I could kick a ball properly but being the owner of a robust Rochembackesque physique, not as fit as I might have been. It wasn’t critical, I wasn’t playing but I still didn’t want to make an arse of myself in the kick in when I’d have a chance to score in front of the Holgate. I had appeared as a sub in a school match earlier that year, the games teacher taking pity on me and bringing me on when we were 4-0 up with quarter of an hour to go so I could also accurately tell the programme that I played for the school team. This talent for stretching l'actualité would serve me well in my adult career as a spin doctor.

My biography submitted, we now had to get me a kit. This was before your chain sport stores so off to Jack Hatfield’s. It was the year after McLean Homes had pulled the plug so we had a pristine, sponsorless silky red home shirt, with authentic Addidas stripes down the sleeves. Like a footballing Starsky and Hutch design. We also wore white shorts and socks that season. It looked as distinctive as a Ford Cortina and would probably be worth a few bob if you had one now (the kit, not the Cortina).

I wasn’t allowed to wear the kit to school but still told the few Boro fans that were there that I was going to be leading the lads out on Saturday. Out of a school of 200 in Stockton, there must have been about five of us who owned up to supporting the Boro. Liverpool and Man Utd claimed the rest, even though I now run into a good proportion of these turncoats at the Riverside.

The big day dawned and I even had a shower, so important was this event. I didn’t really want to but I was assured that Heine Otto showered so that swung the deal. We got to the ground just after dinnertime and after wishing me luck my folks went off to their seats. Leaving me in the capable hands of a PR guy.

Looking back, you could see the writing was on the wall for the club because they were cutting corners everywhere. The programme was a six page newspaper that season called Boro News. It had a picture of Paul Daniels on the front proclaiming that the “Boro Bonanza was magic“. They were also scrimping on the mascots. I wasn’t the only one. I met the other lad, Vince Potter from Eston, an hour before kick off. While both disappointed we wouldn’t be the centres of attention, we decided that if we scored four or six goals, we would share the credit for them equally. You can tell we weren’t regulars in the Chicken Run.

We sat in an ante room and said hello to a frazzled-looking Mike McCullough as he was passing through. Looking back, he should have called his company Atlas because he had the world on his shoulders. We had a mini tour of the North Stand including the ill-fated Sports Centre where we were told that it would soon open to the public. 24 years and counting Charlie.

The time came for us to get ready. We changed out of our tracksuits, walked up the steps and through the tunnel and stood on the side of the threadbare pitch. It was not in the best of condition. We had our photo taken with the latest in a long line of saviours with sellotape knees – in this case, Kevin Beattie. We also got to meet Radio Tees’ rising star – a young Me Mark Page.

For reasons I still don’t fully understand, Mark was dressed as a high court judge with a black cape and white wig. We had to pose with him holding our ears. The headline in the next home programme, and I am not making this up, said “Ear, Ear says the Judge! – he gives mascots a good wigging (but it’s all in good fun)”. I still don’t get it.

We went back into the tunnel and awaited the teams. We met the ref, the wonderfully named Trelford Mills from Barnsley who resembled a young Brian Blessed. Derby came up led by a grizzled Archie Gemmell and then the Boro. I think Mick Baxter was captain that day. Trelford told us it was time to go and despite having already being out on the pitch, the nerves hit home. The empty South Stand was now full, the South East corner had a smattering of Derby fans making a noise and the Holgate, my god the Holgate, looked like a human pyramid. The noise was as loud as a jet engine and I got as far as the touchline and froze. I knew other mascots went to the goal and had a kickabout with Steve Pears but I couldn’t move. I was literally scared stiff.

I have never been able to boo Titus Bramble with any degree of conviction for precisely this reason. I’ve been there, to his world, you want your legs to move and your head to meet the ball but your body won’t do what you tell it to. It’s not nice.

I eventually regained some composure when I realised that most of the crowd hadn’t come to see me, (Uriah still hasn’t worked that out). I took a deep cleansing breath, looked towards the Holgate and thought “This is it Guy, your big moment, your big chance. You’re the Boro captain, and you’re leading us out at home. This is destiny. Let’s roll!”. I could see there was an unattended ball 20 yards away. I could run on and take it on, easily go by two uninterested defenders, draw Pearsy and slip it inside the right hand post. I could already see myself wheeling away in front of the crowd with a couple of ironic cheers reserved for when the tapped lad scored from three yards during the half-time draw.

I put one foot on the pitch about to break off to the right and fulfil the dream when a large, heavy hand clamped down on my shoulder. It was the PR guy. “Come on son, photo’s now”. I was frogmarched to the centre circle where I met Vince and posed for photos with the captains and the officials. We shook everybody’s hand and we turned to go back to the tunnel. I still harboured thoughts of a quick breakaway to score when Darren Wood I believe, ran up to it and wellied it back to the dugouts. My chance gone, I slouched back up the tunnel. I could never bring myself to warm to Darren Wood after that.

My dad met me, camera in hand, and we walked up the steps to our seats. “Why didn’t you have a shot?” he asked. I couldn’t answer him then and I can’t answer him now. If I had told him that I was scared shitless I’d have got a backhand. Where’s the justice?

We sat down just in time to see the Boro go 2-0 down fairly quickly but in the second half we pulled it back to 2-2. We put the pressure on the Derby goal and I made a mental deal with the almighty. I’d trade my goal, my moment of Ayresome glory for the greater good. A Boro winner. A draw wasn’t bad but what was the point of being a mascot if you couldn’t inspire your team to victory? We pushed forward in numbers for a corner. I could sense that this was the moment. This was the turning point, when my very presence in the ground and leading the team out was going to bring the lads victory as certain as if I headed the ball into the net myself.

The ball drifted in from the right hand side, Otto rose powerfully and directed his header downwards. The ball bounced up and against the shin of a Derby defender. He swung his boot and cleared the ball towards halfway. It was now three against three as the whites shirts swung forward, moving the ball to the other side of the pitch. Red reinforcements were still arriving as the ball was delivered into the box onto the head of the diving, Derby forward. Pearsy was a bystander as it bulleted into the East Stand net and the Derby fans roared their approval. Five minutes later, my mate Trelford blew the whistle and we had lost. 3-2.

Despite the result, we still went and had fish and chips at Rooneys on Newport Road like we usually did when we won. We weren’t going to let a little thing like losing spoil our day. I got slaughtered at school on the Monday. I thought I’d get away with it but oh no, the plastic scousers and mancs sought me out to give me the full treatment. “Loser Mascot! Loser Mascot!”. Oh that still smarts, even though they have since recanted their childhood sins and turn out at the Riverside these days. 

The season petered out, we were safe, and despite their win, Derby went down at the end of the season and celebrated their centenary in the third Division. By the time I got the boro bug full-time, three years later, we had emulated them.

Now 30 years on and I'm a father myself, doing my best to lure/bribe/threaten/cajole/emotionally blackmail/hope that Vince will join me in the East Stand to watch us huff and puff against a mid-ranking Midlands opposition and hopefully one day, they will walk out alongside Roary, Power Game blaring in their ears as they shake hands with Bryn Morris or other up and coming young gun and as they look around quizzically afterwards I hope they will remember my soft words of fatherly advice - BREAK THE BLOODY NET OR YOUR WALKING HOME!

How Refreshing...

So back home with contacts to make, work to find and also new friends to make - preferably who 'get' what I do, especially with Social Media, and unlike the guys in the Job Center, don't think it's something to do with computers. 

Refresh Teesside is a group that I began following when I was in Atlanta, and is a young, hip, group of creative gunslingers dedicated to improving the lot of their business on Teesside, helping each other out and generally having a good time in the process. So completely unsuitable for me.

With that in mind, what else is there to do on a rainy Thursday in Middlesbrough when the Speedway isn't on?  They meet at Sassari's Italian Restaurant on dear old Linthorpe Road and at first I wasn't sure I had found the right place - Linthorpe Road having undergone a facelift since my last visit some four years previously.  I did spot a large crowd of young people wearing expensive glasses, smoking outside so correctly realised this was the place. 

I'd spoken to James and Chris, the brains behind the operation, who were charming, friendly and intrigued to hear from me, even more so when I volunteered to give a five-minute quick-fire talk on my social media time in the ATL at the meeting.   It served a useful purpose for me too - as well as keeping my presenting and networking skills sharp, it is more efficient to stand in front of a room of 100 plus fellow professionals and let them know that you know what you're talking about, rather than walk round the room, meeting everyone individually!

It went really well, despite totally overrunning and the laptop not playing my first Vine video (see above) - I made a lot of new friends, got a lot of Twitter love and more importantly, will be allowed to come again. 

Despite being a solo-operator, actually meeting people, talking to them, swapping war stories and passing on any hard-won experience you may have is an undervalued and essential part of being a Social Media professional. The clue is in the job title. We had a Social Media Club at Kennesaw State, our own little haven from the outside world where we could meet and bleat about the demands and misunderstandings and assumptions of our trade and that's what Refresh Teesside feels like - a welcoming, new media clubhouse. 

I usually veer away from organisations and societies that will have me as a member but like Teesside and my career/life trajectory - I've changed. And it's welcome. 

Dispatches from the home front

Welcome to the first Blessay from Britannia - being a collection and journal of the adventures of Mr Guy Bailey back home in his native British Isles after four years abroad in them there United States.

We set off from the gleaming newness of Atlanta's international terminal for our night flight to Amsterdam.  After bidding a tearful farewell for us all to Stacey, who will hopefully follow in a couple of months when we can sort out her Visa.

The flight was one of the better ones we've had, as we both managed to get some sleep. We got to Amsterdam flying low over the gleaming, post-ironic metal offshore windfarms, and the city's famous canal network to my favourite airport in the world.  Clean, efficient, well signposted and with great transport links to and from its home city. An example to all present and future designers.

Vincent always makes a beeline for his own personal marker here, the McDonalds, but as it was lunch and we were there for a couple of hours, I acquiesced. They went quickly enough and we began the last leg of our journey home.  Always delighted when the cabin crew refer to Teesside as opposed to the corporate bastardisation that is Durham/Tees Valley, I spotted another good omen. A feature in the in flight magazine on reimagined album covers had a couple from my old school friend Huw Gwilliam aka @littlepixel. In the same way that a path you are not meant to follow becomes more obstacle strewn and arduous, so a desired one becomes more favourable with positive milestones, physical and literal to illustrate it.

Met by a delighted mum and my auntie Irene, we finally arrived home after 16 hours on the road, ready for sleep.

We didn't get chance to have a longer lie-in because we had an appointment with the headmaster of his new school to show us around and introduce him to English school life.  School has certainly changed in the 24 years since I left - AstroTurf play areas, interactive touchscreens and music labs. Not as far removed from the university I just left.  Vince has already been given the honour of raising the American flag on July 4th after successfully identifying the Welsh flag flying to celebrate St Davids day.  We then came home via the library where Vince announced that he was going to change his name to Mr Topsy Turvey.

As well as reacclimatising to the UK, certain columns of society remain including pneumaticly rude customer service. I certainly won't go to the Doctor's health center to register at lunchtime. Oh no.

Despite struggling with the inevitable jetlag and flared up eczema reactions, I hope you'll stick around for more on vince and I's monumental journey back to the so far sunless North East of the motherland.

We'll try to make it worth your while.