Made Of Stone

I was back in the North West last week so I took the chance to visit my old college for the first 

time in years.

It was always a quiet, leafy campus and still is with some superficial changes but essentially the spirit and essence of the place remains the same. 

I spent 1993-1996 at Warrington Padgate Campus, now part of the University of Chester, and really had the time of my life - meeting a lot of lifelong friends and setting me on the journey to becoming the person I am today and tomorrow.  But what about yesterday?

You cannot help but think back to the times past when you return to an old home or school, to the person you were and what became of you.  I wandered around the town centre too to see our old pubs closed and refurbished, shops opening and mainly closing and the vestiges of individuality of any town being eroded with another soulless identikit shopping mall.  In a house I lived in for a year, my bedroom overlooked the River Mersey floating by and I was constantly willing my future to come floating along with it. 

In the same way your experiences stay with and mark you, so you sometimes mark them. The first week of term In 1993, I engraved my name in wet cement outside the hall and 20 years later it's still there. I find this immensely comforting, that no matter what I achieve, there will always be proof of my existence here, safe from rebranding, reinvention and inevitable decline. As my body and mind break down and ultimately perish, at least I'll have a good name somewhere...

Wedded Bliss

Last week my cousin Ross got married to Karina, his Latvian girlfriend at a small castle just south of Edinburgh, Scotland called Dalhousie.  It was the first time Vince and Stacey had been North of the border and my first time for a while too.

Rail is the most romantic of transportation, that much we know, although lugging two large suitcases onto an East Coast mainline train, trying to find your seat in a busy carriage and get a little boy settled all before you pull out of the station is a bit of a passion killer but this dissipated once we were underway and heading north. The journey itself takes in some beautiful countryside in County Durham, Northumberland and the border country including Durham Cathedral, the Angel of the North, Newcastle and Berwick themselves before running along the East Coast to Edinburgh. In a thoughtful way, the train staff did their best to acclimatize us to Scotland by leaving the air conditioning on so when we got to Edinburgh Waverley, we were literally and figuratively chilled.  Some of the other attendees had spent some time in Edinburgh itself and gone to the Zoo and other attractions but its a hilly city with no real central transport system so the only way to get around is on foot and in this arctic Spring we're having, not one for delicate Southern constitutions to bare.

My dad met us at the station and drove us south to the castle via that rare mix of great Edwardian and Victorian grand buildings and pebble-dashed grey tenament housing.  The Castle itself is set in some beautiful picture book grounds which would tick any spotters guide to Scotland - rugged landscape, wildlife, a stream, battlements.  The rest of the family arrived in dribs and drabs throughout the day and congregated in the added sun lounge which was attached to our room. As superfluous in Scotland as a screen door on a submarine you may think but as one of the few rooms with a TV, we were a destination.  This also meant going out to stock up on other Scottish curios such as Irn Bru for the kids, Sweetheart Stout, my late Nana's favourite drink and a nostalgic tipple for the older drinker and the pear cider that is now so much in vogue. It was also a chance to use up the Scottish bank notes I'd collected since we arrived. They are very colorful and more reminiscent of Euro's than traditional British notes and while they are readily accepted in the North of England, you can run into problems further south despite being perfectly legal currency. Once everybody had caught up we settled down and two became three as Vincent decided our large bed was a better proposition than his camp bed next to us.

We rose the next day to a traditional Scottish cooked breakfast of black pudding, fried mushrooms, sausage, scrambled egg and haggis. Well I did, Stacey looked on aghast as if her husband had become one of The Walking Dead.  After retiring and getting dressed in our wedding gear - simple black suit for me, lovely dress for Stacey and a little suit and shirt outfit for Vincent who spent the rest of the day proclaiming that he looked like a businessman to all and sundry. A piper heralded the couple and we followed them down the staircase into the Chapel. Pipers are one of those things that are fine in theory and far away but the closer the presence the more uncomfortable you are aurally and physically. A bit like a Tom Jones concert.  The Chapel faced the gardens through it's arched stained glass windows and a simple, efficient service was enlivened by a small snow owl flying down and bringing the wings to the best mans' glove. Fortunately he declined to leave his own good luck message on patrons and flew away home.

Everyone hung around, chatting, corralling kids and drinking until the bride and groom re-emerged, Ross now sporting a kilt but still not able to out-glam his new bride. The meal arrived which was also nice Scottish beef before we had the speeches and we had a little time before the evening festivities commenced.  Wedding discos have come on a long way in the past 10 years certainly. Now the DJ can download any track you want which makes for an eclectic playlist of modern Atlanta-based Krunk and RnB to standby wedding classics like YMCA and Karma Chameleon.  We decided to turn in about 9pm, Vince was exhausted and his mum and dad weren't far behind either.

I decided to treat myself to another Scottish staple of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon the next day, again Stacey took the safe cereal option before we drove back leisurely to enjoy what was left of the weekend and to prepare Vince for going back to school and Stacey for going back to the States at the end of the Easter break.

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!

Easter Parade

Easter Weekend in the UK is something of a set piece event that it isn't in the US.

The kids are off school for two weeks but Good Friday and Easter Monday are the first of the country's see piece holiday weekends, public holidays that is - despite greater religiosity in the US than here, it doesn't stretch to a four day weekend for the majority of the population.

We have had a busy and enjoyable one. Vince went over to his cousin Claudias house and became the first other driver of her red racecar, which he proceeded to throw around the cul de sac like he was Dale Earnhardt Jnr, with his young accomplice laughing all the way. He has really bonded with her and they are more like brother and sister than cousins.  Speed was a theme for the day as we went onto the Redcar Bears speedway teams press and practice day.  I was a little concerned about Vince being near the intoxicating mix of kerosene, shale and noise but he loved it. He also got his picture taken with former World Champion Gary Havelock.

Sunday was more sedate if just as cold. I managed to get my run in, eight miles today down to the newish Infinity Bridge over the Tees in Stockton and back  I used to look at the new flats and buildings rising on the other side of the river from The Waterfront's terrace bar thinking it was a fad but I've got to eat my words. The development has really taken off and is a pleasure to run by the river on a weekend. 

We organised a mini Easter Egg hunt for Vince in the back garden where he tracked down five hard boiled eggs that spelled out his name before he got onto riding on his new bike and use my mum's Snow White and the  7 Dwarves statues in the garden for target practice with his sucker gun accessory. 

Not quite been back a month yet but for me and Vince especially, it's starting to feel a little like home again.

Kafka is alive, well & keeping you on hold

666 isn't the number of the beast. It's 0845 600 1651.

My heart goes out to anybody who has to deal with the Kafkaesque torture system of the UK's Benefit Enquiry Line. 

First of all it's on 0854 number, not 0800, so it costs you, especially if you're on a mobile or don't have a landline as many of the users will.

You have to wait at least half an hour for a human to answer your call while a condescending robot woman tells you that you could call between 8am and 9am as they are less busy then (inferring that most jobseekers aren't up by then). I should also add that your claims cannot be dealt with at any job center or online so you HAVE to use this number if you have any enquiries, questions or god forbid, need their help. 

If you are lucky enough to win the loser's lottery and get your call answered then you face a byzantine security system that Indiana Jones would swerve as being too secure for his time. I appreciate the need for security but this is what happens when you take the human element out of system design. It has trouble dealing with the possibility that you might have moved within the past 18 months. 

I failed the first time, despite it being on my specialist subject of myself, and the poor guy at the end couldn't even access his own security database to tell me what I had got wrong - it had locked him out. After another half an hour, on my second call, I got around this because they were running a pilot scheme that luckily gave him access to the questions so he could see what the answers were and give me more opportunities. 

I should add that I consider myself fairly literate and numerate and if I have this amount of trouble with this system, how the hell do some of the other jobseekers, with language, comprehension and stress issues begin to manage?

If you pay UK taxes then this matters. I guess I have high expectations. Spending four years in a country with mainly efficient, pleasant customer service operations that aim to solve the customers problems will do that. 

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. 

Snow Job

We woke to a light covering of snow this morning to greet Vins first day of school in England.  Of course, Atlanta had just seen balmy barbecue weather which all of my US friends simply had to tell me about.  Vince takes a lot in his stride so snow was not the big deal I thought it might of been for him.   Wrapped up in his duffle coat and grey uniform, he looked the epitome of the English schoolboy on his way to prep or morning chapel.  I knew there was nothing waiting for him at school that he hadn't come across before and couldn't handle.

Sadly I couldn't quite say so for myself. I had an afternoon trip into Stockton to revisit a former nemesis from my own past - the Job Centre.  Viewing it with equal  parts pity, ridicule and contempt, the Job Centre in Stockton is one of those rare success stories, although only in that business is booming.  I arrived before my allotted appointment time and joined a queue that was already snaking out of the door into snowstorm brewing outside.  I had an appointment to claim jobseekers allowance and intended to if nothing more than to help b my forthcoming odyssey of interviews across the north of England.  The place had certainly been given a lick of paint since my last appearances over a decade ago, although the still deathly air of quiet and not so quiet desperation hung around this abattoir of ambition. They have several floors of the building dedicated to people coming back to sign on for their jobseekers allowance or dole payments but only one downstairs to aid and advise people it appeared. It was also sending the usual contradictory messages to the clients. Informing them that they are now on twitter but also warning that use of mobile phones was prohibited under the data protection act and offenders would be asked me leave.

 My interview went quite well, at least better than some of the other loud discussions taking place nearby. I don't think I hurt my impression by dressing up a little and wearing a tie, although if i had wanted to blend in then jogging pants, hi tops and baseball caps was the order of the day. It's odd but despite only being in Stockton a week it's like competing trade delegations from Mumbai and College Park, Atlanta, have both arrived simultaneously and let their delegates out to wander the streets and impress their sartorial style upon the brave locals who ventured outside in the swirling blizzard. I got on quite well with my advisor, I guess because I was polite, prepared and not swearing or threatening her, and after some helpful advice on which jobsites and newspapers I should consult for positions, was granted jobseeker status. I was also spared the skills restart course, because she rightly guessed that i could download and print off documents correctly and that my literary and numeracy standards did not warrant an intervention - although its a good job there wasn't a handwriting component. I return later this week, then fortnightly to continue to sign on and fill my little jobseeking workbook with details of positions I am applying for and progress being made but I truly hope this is temporary.

When I was younger and gainfully employed, I used to revel in the tales of claimants waving to their restart offices from the beer garden of the pub overlooked by the job center and pointing to their empty glasses if they were late signing on, or the urban legends of a certain local pub that used to trade 50 pints for a giro (unemployment check) under the counter but within plain sight. No, this current passage is a bit close to home, good cheer and encouragement was in as short supply as the warmth and I hurried out, knowing that bad luck, like flu, is a communicable disease, prepared to take my chances in the snow.