Job

When I was travelling on the tube last week an elderly woman collapsed on the platform.  A group of people rushed to help her and a man further down the platform came forward to explain that he was a doctor.  I thought, “I wish I could do that”.

I have a dream that plays out along the following lines:

My wife and I are flying abroad for a holiday.  We're about two hours out of East Midlands airport and all of a sudden there is an announcement over the aircraft PA.

 

“This is the captain speaking.  Please do not be alarmed, but is there anyone on board who knows how to carry out a Business Impact Analysis?”.

There are a few gasps amongst the passengers.  Someone near to us starts praying quietly.  And then I stand up and announce,

“Don’t worry, I’m a Business Continuity Consultant”.

As I’m led through Economy into Business Class, I hear a woman give thanks to God.  In Business Class, two stewardesses are leaning over a middle-aged businessman.  His tie has been loosened, he is sweating and he has a flannel on his forehead.

I kneel next to the man and with a comforting smile explain that it’s all going to be OK.  I turn to one of the stewardesses and say,

“Can you please get me my case.  It contains a copy of the new ISO22301 documentation.  I’ll also need a pencil and paper, and a flipchart.”

Two hours later I emerge from Business Class through the curtain into Economy.  There is a hush.

“We’ve managed to establish the Maximum Tolerable Period of Disruption for his critical processes and he’s agreed his Recovery Time Objectives.  If we can schedule a Strategy Workshop in the next couple of weeks, he’s going to be fine”.

The cabin erupts into applause.  A stewardess kisses me on the cheek. One of the stewards slips his telephone number into my back pocket.  A small boy comes toward me clutching a teddy bear,

“Can you carry out a Business Impact Analysis on my teddy, mister?”

I ruffle his hair and give him my business card.  As I approach my seat I can see my wife mouthing the words “I love you".

The only two grains of truth in this scenario are that, if I keep working as a Business Continuity Consultant, my wife and I will always be sitting in Economy (Premium Economy at a push) and I'm pretty sure that my wife loves me.

I enjoy my work, but I accepted long ago that being a Business Continuity Consultant is not a glamorous profession.  There are some jobs where women want to have sex with you just because of what you do (curse you, firemen!).  Business Continuity is not one of these jobs.  It needs a more dynamic title for a start.  I want to be a 'Crisis Preventer' or a 'World Saver', not a Business Continuity Consultant.

But it's what I do. And whenever I feel as though my job couldn't be any less glamorous I comfort myself that at least I'm not still in IT.

Football

When I was eight, my dad took me to see Coventry City, my local team, play Sunderland at Highfield Road and ever since I have been a Manchester United fan.  The Coventry / Sunderland match ended a dull 0-0, I couldn't see much as it was all standing and I remember it being cold and wet.  Manchester United, on the other hand, had George Best and were about to win the European Cup.  There was no contest.

My experience was not untypical for boys growing up in Coventry in the 1960s.  I can't remember many of my mates supporting Coventry City at that time.  Post-1966, there were a few supported West Ham, and a handful followed Liverpool, but United were definitely the favourites at Wheelwright Lane Junior School.

We went to Highfield Road again to see Coventry against United the season after they won the European Cup in 1968.  We arrived three hours before kick off and already the ground was heaving.  It was so full that many of the children, including me, were passed to the front and put over the wall on to the side of the pitch.  I spent a blissful couple of hours inches from Bobby Charlton, Denis Law and George Best.

I know I fall into that easy stereotype of the United fan living a considerable way from Old Trafford, but I couldn't give a monkey's.  Once I was committed to the team, I was there through Thick and Thin.  Admittedly, since 1968, this has been mainly Thick, but I am proud to say I was there at Bristol City for the first away game when they were relegated to the Second Division.  Above all it's been a considerable emotional investment on my part and one which has been paid back with interest.  In fact, if United never win anything ever again, I am happy to live off that emotional interest for the rest of my life.

Whilst United are my team, I enjoy watching good football, whichever team is playing.  I've always looked forward to the start of each new season for the new challenges, the new players and the width of Jamie Redknapp's ties.  This season, however, I'm completely disinterested in the whole thing.  I'm sure this is partly down to the football overdose we experienced this summer from the Euros and Olympics, but I know that a big reason is my diminishing respect for the players, clubs and the football authorities post-Olympics.

For the past couple of weeks we've seen and heard inspiring stories of dedicated athletes who have made us feel proud.  Now it's all over we're faced with the return of Suárez, Terry, Barton and the rest of their obscenely-paid chums.  At Week 1 of the new season I really can't be bothered.

I'm sure that I'll soon get enthused again about football.  The signing of Robin van Persie has cheered me up no end, although I appreciate the irony of my mood being lifted by the signing of another highly-paid footballer.  In the meantime I'm really looking forward to the Paralympics.  I hope the wave of goodwill that will accompany these games embarrasses some of the football millionaires into changing their ways, but somehow I doubt it.

Stan

My dad was a great bloke.  It wasn't just me who thought so, it was also my schoolmates who told me that they wished they had a dad like mine. If you look in the dictionary for the definition of a great bloke, there should be the word ‘Stan’.  He was funny, kind, generous and the life and soul of every party.  He was someone who was prepared to go for the unconventional option, if he, his family or friends would enjoy it.

He died a couple of years ago of an aggressive cancer that was the first serious illness I can ever remember him having.  Even during his last days he still had more energy than I have on a good day.  Little everyday things will trigger a memory of my dad and he popped into my mind recently when we were arranging our holiday to Thailand later in the year.  He loved foreign travel and was delighted that my wife and I shared that passion.  In his later years, when his wings had been clipped somewhat, every holiday my wife and I arranged would be met with the response “how lovely” when we told him where we were going.  My mum, on the other hand, hated travelling any farther than Teignmouth.

When my dad left school he took an apprenticeship as a carpenter and joiner.  He became frustrated earning money for someone else, so he decided to start his own business as an exhibition contractor.  He travelled Europe with his job, often for weeks at a time and always returned with gifts to prove that he'd been abroad. I got wooden clogs from Holland, a set of communist badges from the USSR, some shoes with pom-poms on from Greece and lederhosen from Germany.  The lederhosen were particularly fine, but I can't remember ever putting them on even though my dad encouraged me to wear them to school to show my friends (I didn't think it was appropriate for a 17 year-old studying maths, further maths and physics). He would also always bring a Toblerone. In those days, the Toblerone to a young boy was a thing of wonder.  It wasn't something you ever saw down our local newsagent, it tasted fantastic, and for children who still had their baby teeth it was almost impossible to eat.

My dad took me with him to Paris on a couple of occasions.  The first time I was 12; I had never flown before and had never been abroad.  We did all the usual tourist stuff, but he also decided it would be good for his son's development to take him to the Moulin Rouge.  If you're not familiar with the Moulin Rouge it is what these days would be called a Burlesque. I remember it being quite classy and very exotic (one of the acts involved a dolphin), and I was most impressed that my dad took me, not to the early show, but the late session that started about 11 pm.

My abiding memory of the evening was that I was in an environment which was, in more ways than one, very adult and I was being treated like one by everyone around me.  I even had a (small) glass of wine for the first time.  We sat at a round table with a group of tourists and I was next to a slightly drunk, elderly American lady.  We had a very nice chat about life for a young man in England, but she kept asking me whether I minded seeing all these naked women on the stage.  On every occasion I responded truthfully that I did not.  After we left the Moulin Rouge, in the early hours of the morning, dad walked me through the streets of Paris and explained to me all about the ladies of the night that we passed as we walked back to our hotel.  It was only some years after that I realised that this was probably the ‘facts of life’ chat that all children get when they reach a certain age.

When I returned to school and told my friends of my Moulin Rouge visit my dad's position as a great bloke was unassailable. However, our French-born French mistress was horrified that my father had chosen to take me to a burlesque rather than the delights of the Louvre or the Musée d'Orsay.  These days any child that is taken to the equivalent of a lap dancing club and given wine is probably placed on the ‘At Risk Register’.

If I persevere with this blog (it’s all going pretty well so far; much better than the ukulele), there will be more posts about my dad.  I like to think I share many of his characteristics, although, in truth, my sister is much more like him.  Since he died there’s been a huge void in the family which will never be filled.  I miss him a lot and think about him often.  I thought about having ‘A Great Bloke’ on his gravestone, but my mum went for something a bit more traditional.  It’s a shame, because I think he would have liked it.

Music

Music was my first love. And it will be my last*.  Music is such a big part of my life that a single blog entry just won't do.  I will keep revisiting music as this blog progresses, but I already have mental place-holders for future posts to cover the impact that The Beatles, Bowie, prog and the Pet Shop Boys have had in my life. This post will have to serve as an overview.

I have excellent taste in music. You may feel that the Red Hot Chili Peppers are a fine rock band, but you're wrong, they're crap. You may feel that Tom Waits encapsulates the spirit of American music, but you're wrong again.  He's a charlatan who, if you're honest with yourself, makes turgid growlings that no right-thinking person could enjoy.  And you may believe that Lady GaGa is not fit to wipe the shoes of Bob Dylan, but, yet again, you'd be wrong.  In years to come there will be national holidays for Lady GaGa, when all Dylan will be remembered for is his Christmas Album. 

I'm joking, of course. I do have excellent taste in music (and a 'catholic' taste in music according to my wife), but these are just my opinions on artists who really don't float my boat. One of the rules I apply to music is that there is no 'good' or 'bad' music, just music I do or don't like.  The fact that I don't like the RHCPs doesn't mean they're bad, just that they're not for me (they have a huge global following, so someone must think they're good).  This woolly, liberal view is something that was triggered by Danny Baker.  Before he became the radio superstar we know today, Danny wrote for the NME in the 70s and, in particular, the NME Singles column.  I shared Danny's love of prog, but I also enjoyed pop music and disco.  I kept this very quiet from my long-haired mates who would proudly take their Budgie albums to school to show off.  One of Danny's Singles columns waxed lyrical about the latest Village People single (Macho Man, I think), a track I thought was the dog’s bollocks. I can't remember what he wrote exactly, but the tenor of his review was that this is pop music; it's not great art, but it sounds fantastic, so get over it. I felt that I had been given a green light to enjoy anything and everything. 

Since I can remember, music has become a drug for me.  I'm always searching for that same hit that I got when I saw The Beatles as a child on Saturday teatime television.  The 70s were my musical heyday. Glam, prog, punk, reggae, soul, disco were all genres I dived into at the deep end, usually emerging excited, invigorated and craving more.  In the past 20 years, however, there has little to make me feel the same way.  I have come to realise that as we get older, the 'new' music we hear is usually something we've heard before and when we're young it genuinely is new.  I’ve become a bit jaded about new music, but I firmly believe that musical discovery should be a priority in every young person’s life.  I can’t see it, but I hope to God that today’s teenagers are getting the same thrill listening to The Wanted or Rizzle Kicks that I got listening to David Bowie in my teens.

While I've been waiting for the next big musical buzz to come along, my tastes have moved away from popular music to classical, particularly modern classical and early choral music. In addition, I've developed a love of electronica and ambient music. I'm also a big fan of dance music (Progressive House is a favourite).  I know that all this stuff tickles the same brain cells in my head that were previously allocated to prog, but I don't care.  I'll keep searching for the next popular musical hit and until it comes along the genius of Arvo Pärt, Jóhann Jóhannsson and Harold Budd will keep me company. 


*EDIT.  May not be actually true.  My wife has asked me to point out that, whilst the Hey Jude Hitmakers may have been my first love, she will be my last.

Change

There's a Buddhist view that the two certainties in life are death and change. Nothing stays the same and, rather than resist this, we should embrace it. My work experience suggests that most people are uncomfortable with change, but I've always welcomed it as a chance for regeneration, reassessment and new opportunities.

For nine years I have been a huge fan of The Word magazine. I can't claim to be its biggest fan, because if I did, I know I would be in trouble with a large group of people I have come to regard as friends and who also feel the same as me about The Word.  The Word was written for me, a lover of music, the arts, someone for whom the first flush of youth is a distant memory.  The Word was not just a magazine, it supported The Word Massive, a vigorous on-line community (a community where everyone called me Handsome).  It produced podcasts which were always entertaining, usually funny and often wee-inducingly funny (the Van Morrison and the harmonica story is my particular favourite).  The Word promoted wonderful gigs in a small pub over the road from the its office.  It was the complete package.

The economic climate and the change in the way people consume their media means that The Word's business model is no longer viable.  This month's issue is its last and the website was closed down today.  Someone on the website posted that "It's only a magazine and nobody died.  It just feels like it." and, at first, I felt the same way.  But since the announcement I've realised it is only a magazine. One of the best, but only a magazine nonetheless.  The Word Massive have already shown their commitment to the on-line community by starting another website at www.theafterword.co.uk.  And, if I'm completely frank, it looks a lot fresher and more modern than The Word website.  I've no doubt that the main players at The Word, Mark Ellen and David Hepworth, will move onto new projects which will be equally entertaining.  The other staff (most of whom I know by name, many of whom I've met) will also be huge assets to wherever they work next and I will follow their next steps with interest.  As always happens, life is moving on.

I'll miss the Word a lot, it was brilliant while it lasted, but things change. If you're a lover of music and haven't read it, the latest issue is now available, so go and buy a copy.

Invasion

I am not a well man.  Up until recently my doctor and the Obscure Diseases Clinic at Leicester Royal Infirmary were baffled by my condition, but it's been confirmed recently that I'm suffering from acute hypochondria.  This has come as something of a relief. Now that I have given my condition a name I feel much more relaxed and able to deal with the difficult years ahead.

I feel comfortable in middle-age with illness and the treatments that go with them.  It wasn’t always thus, however.  When I was young I couldn't deal with hospitals at all and had problems with any procedure that involved sticking things in a part of my body that wasn’t designed for such a purpose.  Visiting elderly relatives in hospital and seeing all the bags of blood, drips and tubes was impossible.

As I've got older and had one or two hospital stays, I've become used to clinical environments and necessary invasive procedures.  A complete list of all the illnesses over the course of my life can be provided on request, but one of these required a barium enema. This was conducted at a small cottage hospital just outside Redditch by a couple of elderly ladies wearing flowery 'pinnies' (I'm sure they were clinical garments but they looked exactly like the things each of my grandmothers wore when they were in the kitchen).  As the barium was 'introduced' they were chatting quite happily about the terrible state of Redditch town centre and what they were getting for their husbands’ tea when they got home.  What they weren't talking about was the six foot tube (I may be exaggerating, but it certainly felt like it was about six foot long) they had just inserted up my bottom. This everyday approach to something that, to me, was not something that happened every day served to relax me and removed any embarrassment I might have been feeling.

I have also had an angiogram. The angiogram involved sticking a tube into my groin and feeding it through until it reached the heart.  Again, this was a routine procedure for the consultant that treated me, but definitely not routine for me.  On this occasion I was also completely relaxed about the whole thing, not because of two elderly ladies in pinnies, but because of the handful of ‘happy pills’ I had begged the nurse to give me (this visit to the hospital will probably have a blog post all of its own at some point in the future.  It involves an electric razor, an attractive nurse and me being completely out of it.  It will also involve a hilarious joke with the punchline “and there was a small prick”).  If you throw in the three prostrate examinations I’ve had (although one of those times was at a church fundraising event, so probably doesn't count) and the operation on my nose I think I’ve got over my childhood fear of hospitals once and for all.

So, if I can have a general anaesthetic, a happy pill or an elderly pinafored lady to distract me I think I can cope with just about anything the hand of fate throws at me.  There are two things that still give me cold sweats, however.  The thought of having any treatment on, in or round the back of the eyeball makes me feel sick.  And if there is ever anything wrong with my prostate, I’m not sure I will be able to deal with the tube they will use to treat it (Google ‘enlarged prostate treatment’ if you want the details).

To lighten the mood, I felt it was a good idea to include a couple of my favourite ‘Doctor, doctor…’ jokes from the wonderful Old Jews Telling Jokes.  If you like these, there are loads more available to download for free as an iTunes podcast.

Death

"It's not that I'm afraid to die, I just don't want to be there when it happens."  Woody Allen

I’m not messing around here.  As this blog is about the trials and tribulations of getting older, I could warm up with a few grumbles on the parlous state of customer service in this country or an informed analysis of why popular music has gone down the toilet since the 70s.  But then I thought, sod it, I'll go straight to the big one and start with Death.

I'm not scared of Death.I'm scared shitless of dying, but I’m relaxed that the afterlife is out of my hands.  I’m not a religious man, but I've given a great deal of thought to what happens next.  I’ve read books on philosophy, looked into different religions and even watched Songs of Praise. After careful analysis I have come to the conclusion that once I breathe my last there are three possibilities.

The first possibility is that what I've spent my life believing is some sort of grown-up fairy story is right, and I'll be faced with either Heaven or Hell.  Somewhere there is a celestial spreadsheet with two columns, Plus and Minus, containing all the things I’ve done that are good and bad.  If SUM(PLUS) > SUM(MINUS) then it’s Heaven for me.  If not, then Hell beckons (I don’t have any theory on what happens if the two columns are equal. Perhaps one week up, one week down for the rest of eternity?).  I imagine Heaven to be like a desert island in the middle of the Indian Ocean.  Warm,sunny and somewhere where you can spend the whole day in your shorts and flipflops.  If it's Hell, I imagine it will probably be a bit like Stoke. 

The second option is that I'll come back as someone or something else. Again, I suspect the celestial spreadsheet will come into play.  Now, don't get me wrong about this, I have a 54-year unblemished record of heterosexuality, but I could quite fancy coming back as a woman, just to get the full picture (my wife suggests I would have to have been really good in this life to come back as a woman). 

The final option, and the one that I think is most likely, is that death is a big black nothingness.  I can remember the time when there were two television channels in the UK and they both closed down around midnight.  At the close down the National Anthem would play, the announcer would wish you a good night and the screen would go black.  I reckon that death is exactly like that, but without the National Anthem.

So, whilst I’d like to hope that there's something more, I reckon it's the big, black nothingness for us all.Just in case, though, I’m keeping my options open. I'll be kind, helpful and try to be a good person. I’ve been our local church treasurer for the past six years, so I’m hoping that will stand me in good stead.  In addition, I'll ask my religious friends and family to put in a good word for me through their prayers.  So, if I’m reincarnated, I’ll come back as someone taller with bigger muscles rather than something without a backbone.   And if there's a Heaven and Hell, I hope the great afterlife administrator will hit ‘recalculate’ on my post mortem spreadsheet and decide that I'm going upstairs rather than downstairs.  Before I step onto the celestial up elevator, however, I'll check to see where my dad has gone. If he isn't upstairs then someone has buggered up the spreadsheet formula.