Pain is temporary, victory is forever, planning is everything

What's the phrase? Fail to prepare, prepare to fail. No, I don’t fail, not on Freshwalks, or on outdoor adventures. I just don’t. I don’t bring up the rear either with the walk leader giving me the option of dropping out and taking the road. Some people get injured, I get that. Just not me.

I did the walk. I don't quite know how, I'm just beating myself up about how hard it was and how close I came to quitting.

I’m so tired now, 24 hours after coming down into Hayfield, that I can’t easily remember the last time I did a 20km walk. April, maybe? A couple of magical evening strolls up Kinder and Bleaklow over the summer. Either way, it's poor preparation for 42km.

We were late signing up for the Seven Trigs Challenge, which Freshwalks organised with Tink Adventures in support of the Peak District National Park Foundation and all week I was worried it was a stretch too far. Then the warnings came through. Checking we were up for it, up to it, and then the dropouts due to swollen knees, etc.

I desperately wanted this feeling, the one I had as I inhaled a Manchester Egg (thanks Alex) at the incredible Pack Horse at Hayfield. The aftermath, the sense of achievement and togetherness. That's what I needed, that's what sustained me. Think of the glory, think of the delirium, even. But I'm going to be dead honest with myself. I failed to prepare for the pain that was to come.

Here's how it went down. We started in Hayfield and the climb up William Clough towards the top of Kinder Scout to the first trig point of the day (1) at 624m was a breeze. In warmer weather I slow down on that steep climb, but we passed Kinder Downfall en-route to (2) Kinder Low at 633m. Heading along the southern edges of Kinder, passing the tops of Crowden and Grindsbrook Clough, before a slight diversion off our usual beaten track to find the (3) third trig point on Kinder Scout at 590m. The route was a descent off Kinder via Crookstone Knoll, heading for Hope Cross where the old Roman Road takes you to the top of (4) Win Hill at 462m. Thereafter, the drop into the Hope Valley with a water stop under the railway bridge set us up to begin the climb of (5) Lose Hill, 476m. That's when I first felt a need to take the pressure off my feet. 

The two hardest bits both involved foot aches. That steep ascent up Lose Hill was tough, but though it put a painful strain on my shins and knees, my hips kept working, and I didn’t want for the energy. Every bit of my 56 year old frame did OK, but my feet were hot and I started to feel every bump and stubble. Attempts to engage me in conversation from friendly fellow walkers were met only with grunts, of which I'm so sorry. 

I changed socks at Win Hill summit, enjoyed the breather, and slapped on some peppermint foot lotion. I was OK along the delightful ridge walk to (6) Mam Tor, where we took another breather in the presence of the full Edale Mountain Rescue team and I was pointedly asked if I wanted to bail out while changing my socks again. If anything that just made me more determined than ever to keep going. 

Rushup Edge was fine - where I must applaud the new stiles and fences - and I actually felt quite bouncy again passing Lord’s Seat up along the flagged path to the final summit of the day on (7) Brown Knoll, 569m (pictured above). That section was just grim though. Every bone and tendon in my feet seemed to hurt, pressing up into my ankles and shins. It wasn't sharp pain, just uncomfortable, and hard going. It turns out I have two blisters, but they weren't giving me any grief, maybe because I just didn't know they were there and I couldn't think about them.

Even though I knew the finishing line was soon in sight as we started to drop down into Hayfield, the absolute worst bit was the steep pebble path down from Edale Cross before the last gentle stretch of the final straight on an actual road. I felt unstable underfoot and stubbed my toes half a dozen times, making sore feet worse. I think it must have been the tiredness too, not lifting my feet enough to avoid catching any protruding rock. Thinking on, I've done this route at dusk and unpleasant as it is having the ground move beneath you occasionally, I didn't do it in such pain.

So was that the fatigue and dehydration that I could have avoided?  I was OK on food and water, a nuut protein shake gave me the energy for the day ahead, and I nibbled little and often. Bread can tend to sit heavily on me so I was pleased to have calculated against taking sandwiches this time. Maybe a pasta salad with chicken would have given me superpowers, but tired as I was my engine never really gave up on me.

Gear-wise, I really have been blessed since I discovered Haglofs. The L.I.M. range in particular has given me high-quality technical layers with no chaffing and excellent temperature control in all conditions, even with a small self-inflicted rip on my shorts. When the wind gets up my hands can get numb, so I wisely packed a pair of thin gloves.

No, it was my feet. The Scarpa Ranger boots have served me well, never a blister or a leak in two years. Dry as a bone in the wettest of conditions. Definitely the best walking boots I’ve ever had. So the only reason I was feeling every pebble was that my feet were out of practice and my socks had made them worse.

That's the mission. I need to up my sock game. Thick wool walking socks made my feet too hot, which meant as good as they are the sweat reduced the protection and padding. I've been recommended Bridgedale midweight merino wool comfort boots socks. 

There will always be another walk. I will prepare better for the next one. I don't intend to hang up these boots, or put these feet up for a long time. 

Please support the Peak District National Park Foundation and the amazing work they do.

Lunch of the month for July - a well travelled month

This is one of the hardest picks yet. Having been on a bit of a gastro break in Porto, the playing field isn't exactly level, so I'm going to exclude the dinners and just show a few pictures from snack lunches in the city, or at the beach.

Clockwise from the top left we have octopus and potatoes, simple backstreet Porto food, a chicken sandwich from a market stall at the south side of the Ponte de Sao Joao bridge and a juicy burger from the beach bar at the oceanside lido at Leca de Palmeiras.

Next row, left to right is some astonishingly gorgeous Kampuchean Fried Chicken from Kambuja at Stockport Produce Hall, just enough to scratch the itch and not send me into a coma for the afternoon. Next was the spiciest of them all, a firey Sri Lankan fish kottu at the Blue Dot Festival, and a lamb shwarma from the Edgeley branch of the Levenshulme Bakery. Oh my. 

On the bottom row, left to right, starts with a mixed shwarma from the Antalya Shwarma in Hyde, which like Edgeley's finest kebab, is raising the bar for district kebab action. Next was a delightful roast lamb lunch I had at a country house in Sussex that I'm not really meant to talk about. 

And finally. Last and not least, but best. The Samosa Chaat from Ambala sweet centre on Euston's Drummond Street. I worried HS2 would knock it down, or damage trade, but it hasn't. Lovingly made, terribly photographed, but my lunch of the month for July. Sorry it's not a Manchester winner, all of these were all awesome in their own way, but this was the best.

Bollocks to Brexit

Since this country narrowly voted to leave the European Union in 2016 I’ve felt more European, not less.

It’s reflected in the songs we play on the radio: French disco, Belgian techno, Krautrock and Italian house music. All of it. In fact, I think it’s one of the things that helped cement Neil and I’s friendship. This is a man who proudly states that the best thing anyone ever said about him was that he was “the most European person I know”.

Neil speaks French and has lived over there. He has aspirations to move to Italy, his kids have Italian names and he works for the uber-cool Swedish outdoor clothing brand, Haglofs.

For my part, I don’t speak any other languages but have consistently hoovered up the European ideal that this country has turned its back on.

Since 2016 I’ve had city breaks right across our continent. A train trek from London to Copenhagen via Brussels and Cologne. A twin city jaunt to Helsinki and Tallinn, where I seriously explored the possibility of taking out Estonian digital citizenship.

In Berlin, I purchased a notebook with the cover of the DDR passport on it - commie East Germany - which didn’t go down too well when I whipped it out of the wrong pocket at passport control.

Going a step further, my wife Rachel is going to take out the full analogue citizenship for Ireland the nation of her parent's birth - which might make queuing at certain airports relatively easier, among other benefits.  

I devour this outrageously trendy magazine called Monocle, which features cities all over the world and frequently rates them for their liveability and as a destination for a city break.

Taking their advice - and that of other Europhile friends - last week me and Rachel went to what I think was our favourite European city break yet - Porto, Portugal’s second city, famed for its wine and port. 

Last year Monocle rated Porto as the number one ‘small city’ to live, to start a business and to visit. It was superb, not too expensive, full of character, multicultural and safe. It has beaches, Fado music, an accessible modern airport, loads of Brazilians, and a really cool football team that have won as many European Cups as Nottingham Forest and two more than Manchester City.

It hurts me that this comfortable relationship with Europe has gone. I know there will be a Brexit supporter who will point out that the vote was to leave the European Union, not Europe, but that’s not how it’s played out culturally has it?

I don’t remember that on the side of a bus, just digs at foreigners, or the lies on posters about millions of Turks flooding over the border and controlling immigration. So actually I struggle to see what it is that Brexit has achieved. I remember asking people which law they were most looking forward to not having to obey. Now I ask, what’s been so ace about Brexit? The answer never comes. 

It also never comes in the tawdry clashes for the Tory leadership. Not one of the political minnows trying to succeed the worst Prime Minister this country has ever had mentioned the benefits of the Brexit they "got done" after the election platform they all were elected on.

As a country we haven’t soared, we have shrunk. In status, in pride and in our economic fortunes.

We cried as we left, because Porto was just so lovely. I cried too an hour after we touched down at Manchester Airport. Weary from the huge queue through passport control, tired from a delayed flight, unable to get out of a messy, badly designed, poorly served airport full of mean regulations. As proud as I am of our immense city, our Airport is an utterly shameful gateway, but maybe it’s a fitting monument to failing Brexit Britain.

All we are saying, is give kids a chance

A couple of weeks ago I volunteered to help out at Aquinas Sixth Form College with some interview training.

I sat across the table from eight different young people with all their hopes dreams and aspirations laid bare, and tried to give them a first experience of what it’s like to talk about themselves one-to-one with a complete stranger for 15 minutes or so.

These were students who the college has identified as having real potential and suggested to them that they should apply to top universities. 

Let me mention first why I did it.

Young people have had a rough ride. Most of these did their GCSE year in lockdown. They’ve bounced from one challenging time of life into a new educational setting. 

The future is full of volatility and economic uncertainty. Technology is changing so fast that it puts real pressure on what students can learn that will be useful to them.  

As I look back from my comfortable position in midlife, I’ve made a promise to myself to say yes to such requests for help. Each and every offer of a helpful word, or a guiding hand, that I had when I was young, wasn’t always grasped at. But when I did, it was valuable.

You know too that the posh kids at the top private schools will have pushy Dads coming in to talk about careers in the City and corporate life. 

But it’s also because I’m sick to the back teeth with employers complaining about the lack of skills of young people entering the workforce, but doing naff all about addressing it.

Most, if not all, of the students I spoke to had never had a job interview or been grilled by an admissions tutor at a university. But nearly all of them had part-time jobs in shops, pubs and restaurants. A couple had e-commerce microsites selling things they’ve made on platforms like Etsy and eBay. 

I think that’s amazing and is really something to shout about. So is building your resilience by talking to workmates and customers.

Each and every one of us has a story, a view of the world that is entirely unique to us.

I was keen to make them feel comfortable and establish common ground. A bit needy, I know, but I at least wanted to get them talking about what mattered to them.

As a part-time DJ I find that music is such a great unifier, whatever our personal likes.

It’s amazing how often music provides that bridge. One of the students told me her favourite artist at this year’s Parklife Festival was Joy Crookes, who burst onto the scene last year and who we played on our show a few times. I also had the conversation about Kate Bush’s Running Up That Hill with the Stranger Things fans. 

Music ignites the passions, sport and literature and films do too. Sharing experiences won’t solve the world’s problems, but if it’s the simple act of listening and understanding the world from someone else’s perspective, then that’s got to be a good thing.

I don't know if it made any difference or not, but if I can leave you with one thought, it's this. Volunteer to help out with this kind of thing. Share your experience. As John Lennon sort of said, all we are saying, is give kids a chance.

(column in the Tameside Reporter and Glossop Chronicle, July 2022)

Midlife without the crisis

One Friday night back in 1991 I came back from the pub near to the house I was illegally sub-renting with two mates in London, to watch Channel 4’s The Word. I was so appalled by what I was watching, I called the duty log at Channel 4 and called it the worst programme in the history of television.

On Monday evening I returned home to an answer machine message from Channel 4 saying they’d enjoyed my rant and wondered if I’d like to come on television to make the same points on a show called Right To Reply, where viewers have their say.

I thought I might be recording a video piece to camera about how rubbish Michelle Collins and Terry Christian were. Instead, I was required to deliver the same accusations of unprofessionalism directly to the producer of the programme, Charlie Parsons, and to Michelle Collins herself. Alongside me was another viewer called Miranda who also had to join in this brutal character assassination.

Bizarrely, I can remember I was wearing a yellow Paul Smith button-down shirt and a Levis denim jacket. I recall saying that Michelle was ridiculous to ask Kylie Minogue if she was trying to reinvent herself as the new Madonna.

Thankfully, I don’t have the VHS tape of it, and I haven’t been able to find it on YouTube.

Afterwards, we both got slated for not declaring, drum roll, that we were journalists. I was a staff writer at Television Week, an industry newspaper, and Miranda wrote for Smash Hits. Quite why that rendered our views any less relevant was a mystery, but given how rude we’d been to Charlie Parsons, a genuine big hitter in telly, he was well within his rights to defend himself as he saw fit.

What I do know is that of all the people on that programme the only one who never made a career of appearing on TV after it was me.

I’ve done the odd bit of punditry, usually on business or politics, but Miranda Sawyer, for it was she, has interviewed actual legends, as well as being one of those people who turn up on talking head pieces on the 90s, Britpop, and (probably) why Kylie Minogue successfully reinvented herself as the new Madonna. 

She also wrote for Select, The Face, the Daily Mirror, and still has a column in the Observer. She went on to write a very entertaining and wise book about growing up in Wilmslow called Park and Ride. 

Through a good chunk of the 90s and the decade after, I felt very jaded that I wasn’t doing things like that. I felt opportunities in life hadn’t gone to plan and that I wish I had either the connections or the smarts, to not just write about people who made television shows, but actually appear on them.

The reason I didn’t was a Northern chip on my shoulder, a lack of confidence, and a massive sense of imposter syndrome. To counter it I have always sought a comfort zone, just a little below where in my heart I feel I should be, which keeps me going but feeds a deepening sense of disappointment and a feeling that I basically never really fit in.

I’m just reading another book by Miranda this week, after seeing her do a brilliant interview on stage at Kite Festival with the actor Minnie Driver. See, she even gets to interview Hollywood stars at Festivals. Her book is called Out of Time - Midlife If You Still Think You Are Young. And of course, you can’t use the word midlife without the inevitable follow-up word, crisis. Not hers, specifically, but the idea of it and how our generation experience the triggers for it, career insecurity, diminishing health, regret, and envy.

The very fact that I bought the book at my very first music festival - a few years after it was published - speaks volumes, and that it is absolutely for people my age, for people like me. I do still think I’m young, despite being a father to actual adults. Me and my mate Neil love music, we both love discovering new stuff and interrogating old. We wear expensive technical jackets and call each other to show off a new pair of trainers or cords. 

We’re part of an easy demographic to make fun of: Acid Dads, old punks, boomers, whatever. Our parents weren’t like this. We’re a generation that seems to be steadfastly refusing to grow up. Festivals are actually designed for people like us.

Miranda’s very honest account of her progression through life is sobering. It is brilliantly written, and quite sad at times. There’s this haunting account of a dream where you are surrounded by people who think you are wonderful, you start a chess game, you leave the room, return and things are a bit more hostile. You look at the chess board and you’ve lost a knight, a bishop, and some pawns and you ask to start again. No, comes a voice (God, maybe), that’s the game.

There’s an incredible and lucid chapter on music, which sums up the feeling of being forever young and growing old. “In the middle of my life, I feel as though I might be young and old and the age I am today all at the same time, and music is one of the ways I sense this.” Beautiful. 

In the closing sections of her book, which she insists isn’t a self-help book, she does offer some advice on what might work for midlifers, extrapolating on what has worked for her. Running (slowly), is one, and music is another. But here’s the one I loved; think back to what you loved doing when you were young, and do more of it. That got me thinking. It’s why me and Neil do our radio show. It’s why I am obsessive about climbing fells and mountains. It’s why I’m working in politics again. It’s why I have a chart on my wall with the football grounds I must go to in order to complete the 92.

It has taken me a lifetime to reach any kind of contentment, and though I feel it now, it doesn’t take much to knock me off course. In the wreckage behind me lie various confused therapists, lost friends, failed relationships, and an inability to bank what I have achieved. Rachel is nothing like this. I have no idea how she puts up with me. Even when my frail, dying Great Grandma looked at me through milky eyes and said to me when I was still in my early twenties ‘you’ve had a good life haven’t you?’ I still couldn’t quite accept that I’ve done enough. Fast forward thirty years, despite the brag pack shelf I constructed to give me a high five every morning, I can't shake the voice that says I'm out of time. 

I’ve also been through a few career changes over the last decade. My industry has been decimated - as has the consumer and cultural media that Miranda operates in - and I’ve tried other worlds where I had a limited impact and screwed up. It isn’t an excuse, but the business model for what I really wanted to do was hard to deliver when everyone was working from home. 

That’s the chess game of life again. Imposter syndrome is comparing yourself to others and thinking of yourself as inadequate next to the version you see, rather than the reality below the surface. But to confront it successfully also requires real self-knowledge and awareness. That's the bit that's been falling into place recently. Two older friends who know me well have both independently offered the observation that I'm resilient, a survivor.

For so many reasons, I was really pleased that we went to Kite Festival. Picking up this smart, funny, and beautifully written book by someone whom I briefly, fleetingly crossed on a path to Channel 4’s studio in 1991, and who I have occasionally compared myself unfavourably to ever since was one. The other was feeling really pleased to see her do such a great job hosting an interview (with no notes, NO NOTES) and me not feeling a single pang of envy. 

Miranda Sawyer's Out of Time is still available, buy it from Blackwells here, they are lovely.

The search for modern England

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about England, not the recent disasters of the cricket team, or the resurgence of the football team under Gareth Southgate, but the country of England. The largest, most dominant, and most significant part of the United Kingdom, and what it stands for. Even though we’ve emerged from the four-day celebration of the Queen’s Platinum Jubilee (I bet you all lost track of what day it was), our country feels a little more divided and a not very United Kingdom.

Scottish identity is once again surging and self-confident. Welshness is rooted in language and culture, and like the Scots, fuelled by grievance.

The Irish question seemed to have been solved by the single market for trade with Europe and a careful tolerance of individual identity embedded in the Good Friday Agreement. That looks under grave threat. A united Ireland may soon have to accommodate a belligerent unionist minority in its northeastern corner.

But should all of that happen, what of the England they would leave behind? Unlike the devolved nations it has no parliament of its own, all of the institutions of England are just the same as the British state, but with bits lopped off.

What is English music? What is English food? An English temperament, or character? But before you answer those questions, what is different from how you would describe British things?

At the height of the Euros last year one of my Mum’s neighbours displayed a massive England flag outside his house and defiantly asked her - “does it offend you?” I found that fascinating. Public displays of Englishness as a rebellion against nice people. Or a yearning for better yesterdays.

The so-called comedian Stewart Lee has a whole routine built around the outrage of a taxi driver who claims he couldn’t claim English nationality on his passport application form: “These days you get arrested and thrown in jail just for saying you’re English” (look it up).

But they are grotesque caricatures and oddities, which bring us no closer to what is different about being English, as opposed to British. 

Journalist Jason Cowley has written a very thoughtful book Who Are We Now? Stories of Moden England that tries to capture who the English are through a series of encounters with people who made the news in the last two decades. Often times these are unlikely heroes or ordinary people thrown into the public spotlight in dramatic, often tragic circumstances. They include a Chinese-born man who survived the drownings in Morecambe Bay, the Rochdale pensioner who schooled Gordon Brown on the facts of life in a northern town and was dismissed as ‘some bigoted woman’, and the London bodybuilder who scraped a racist man off the pavement and saved him from a kicking at the hands of a Black Lives Matter protest.

Cowley pulls together a compelling set of stories about what their experience speaks of England today.

But I kept thinking that slipping in an encounter in Wrexham or Stranraer might seamlessly add to the tapestry and say something about what it is to be British instead, but I think we’re way past that point, and no clearer about what England represents. 

The closest Cowley comes to a clear definition is what he calls Southgateism - embodied by the proud and patriotic England football manager - who also pulls a diverse team together to take the knee against racism. But I think there are dangers in reducing a national identity to the roars of support for sport.

I think too of the hedonistic supporters before the Euro 2020 final at Wembley fuelled by booze, drugs and belligerence, one of whom mounted a distress flare from his naked backside. You don’t see other nationalities doing this and I’m sure he’s got a story to tell about what being English means to him. And I think if he asked my Mum if that offended her, she’d say yes, it does.

The song of the silver Jubilee - God Save The Queen by the Sex Pistols

 I am old enough to remember the Queen’s Silver Jubilee in 1977. We all got silver coins, there were bits of crockery with Queen Elizabeth’s image on it, our Lancashire suburban street had bunting hanging from lamposts, but the hazy tinge of nostalgia has one thing fixed in my memory over everything else. The Sex Pistols.

I was only 10 years old, probably a tad rebellious, and was fascinated by what the newspapers called “the Filth and the Fury” after the Pistols had sworn on TV when Thames TV’s Bill Grundy goaded them into being outrageous on a live broadcast.   

It still remains darkly suspicious that the one song that seemed to have everyone talking about, God Save The Queen by the Sex Pistols, never made the top of the charts for the occasion of the Silver Jubilee. 

As songs go, it’s probably the most memorable of the Pistols' brief career. Originally it was meant to be called No Future, which accurately sums up the angry disillusion from which punk came. The second verse, in particular, stands out, which has even spawned a book about the whole era: “God save the Queen, She ain't no human being, There is no future, In England's dreaming.”

It’s hard to convey how controversial, how anger-inducing and how threatening such adolescent ranting was then. It speaks volumes for how frightened the establishment and the media were that they turned such ire towards the Sex Pistols and the emerging punk movement.

Danny Boyle has a six part series about the band coming out soon. But in a crowded field, the two stand out documentaries have both been directed by the brilliant Julien Temple. The adolescent me absolutely loved The Great Rock n Roll Swindle, which made the whole thing sound like a cunning plot by their manager Malcolm McLaren to manipulate the music business, the media and the hapless band members for the sake of money and invented outrage.

The truth, and the darker side of the Pistols, was that Sid Vicious was a hopeless bass player, whose notoriety was fed by his drug use and violence. It was to tragically end the lives of him, and his American girlfriend. Steve Jones and Paul Cook were half decent rock musicians, but there was something quite unique and terrifying about Jonny Rotten on vocals. 

Temple’s later film, The Filth and The Fury, released in 2000, is much better. It benefits from the wisdom of hindsight and places the effects of certain incidents in a wider context and isn’t quite as uncritical of McLaren. 

But nothing can take away the raw energy of what God Save The Queen meant back then. In an era of social media when anyone can express a ready-made opinion, it seems hard to comprehend that one song could express such a force for a rebellion against the flag-waving and the pompous self-serving British establishment. 

Power has pivoted, learned to embrace and commercialise rebellion, but for a brief moment the Sex Pistols induced such a dramatic reaction, you thought anything was possible. In the end, though, their epitaph might well be Rotten’s words as he left the stage at their last ever live concert - “ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?. 

Why music and football matter

Why do some places have a good feeling about them, while others seem stuck in a cycle of decline? 

I asked this in my column in the Tameside Reporter and Glossop Chronicle this week. And I was also curious as to what music, sport and culture have to do with levelling up of a place? 

The government spent 350 pages of a policy report mulling over this point, before sprinkling on some nonsense about medieval Florence. I wrote about it at the time for Big Issue in the North, and frankly, if anything, I probably overstated how weak the government's commitment was to this agenda.

Yet for people at the coal face of local government, where urban regeneration and business intersect, the work goes on. For the last few months I've been immersed in this world in my work for the Leader of Stockport Council, seeing up close how committed groups of people can achieve positive change often against stacked odds.

What I'm about to say isn't civic boosterism, but it does show the importance of some key 'feel good' elements in how a town can think about the future. As I was writing for the Tameside paper I pointed out how two of the neighbouring boroughs of Tameside have suffered conflicting fortunes in recent weeks, highlighted by their football teams. 

Oldham Athletic have been relegated from the English Football League and into the National League. They also suffered the ignominy of being the first club to have played in the Premier League to then drop out of the 92. 

They have been torn apart by terrible owners and have developed a fractious relationship with their supporters. 

Oldham has been dealt a bad hand lately. Racial tensions have come to the fore again during the local election campaign, where Arooj Shah was the latest leader to lose her seat on the Council after a concerted and highly personalised campaign against her. 

I went to the launch of a review of Oldham’s local economy recently where some home truths were aired. Committed local leaders involved in the Oldham Economic Review Board were honest enough to recognise what Oldham lacked, and some of that came down to a sense of a direction. According to experts from the University of Manchester, two of the important factors in how a town feels about itself are “civic pride” and “social fabric”. The latter feeds the former.

In contrast, Stockport County have won the National League and will be replacing Latics as part of their march back to becoming a proper football club again. They have enjoyed sell-out match days, and it’s no coincidence that the club is run by a local businessman, Mark Stott, who enjoys a good relationship with the Council and the local community. 

In the summer of 2019, a major concert at the Edgeley Park stadium featuring local heroes Blossoms symbolised Stockport’s self-confidence. 

It has a clear identity that is comfortable with its relationship with Manchester - Brooklyn to Manchester’s Manhattan, the council leader Elise Wilson is fond of saying.

I don’t exaggerate when I say that Blossoms have been a major cultural lift for Stockport. The band and their families are even using their cultural power to invest in new ventures in the town, clothes shops, bars, salons, and supporting other bands. It’s all about wanting to put something back into the town that has contributed so much to their own identity; they’re not Blossoms from just outside Manchester, they are Blossoms from Stockport.

Manchester’s onward march as a city attracting businesses and retaining graduates is because of its own rich cultural assets. The city invested in an International Festival precisely to make it culturally attractive and known throughout the world. A rich musical history and two enormous global sporting brands add to the allure.

People cherish things that they have lost in the communities, and can't always understand why they've gone. A flourishing town centre is one, pubs, workplaces, theatres and sports clubs are examples of others. By the way, as well as sporting and musical assets, one of the other things that make people feel good about a place is lively independent media.

For what it's worth, the evidence from what I've seen in my recent deployment in Stockport, and from what I know of the people behind the deep thinking in Oldham, they are making steps in the right direction. But it is against a backdrop of precarious funding, disinformation, government drift and disruptions to local leadership. It's never been more important to hold places together as we step into an uncertain future.

A ray of light in the Dark Peak

Pic: Freshwalks Fresh Futures on Kinder in April this year

Over the last three years I’ve developed a deep spiritual connection with a mountain.

Kinder Scout, the plateau that dominates the Dark Peak to the east of Greater Manchester represents so much of what I have come to believe in; connecting with and respecting nature, the universal opportunity we all have to explore the challenges of the great outdoors, and something uniquely connected to the traditions of the place I call home.

One of my sons lives over the hill in Raworth and when I drive over to see him - or he drives me - we get an incredible view of the plateau in all kinds of light. It’s like being able to view one of your favourite paintings again and again. Even when storm clouds loom over it, or it is enveloped in darkness.

For me, Kinder is also the spiritual home of Freshwalks, the walking community that I was loosely involved in setting up in 2013 and which my friend Michael Di Paola has established as simply the best networking community I’ve ever had the privilege to be involved in.

I adore the Lake District, I am awestruck by the Cairgorms in Scotland, Snowdonia has a magical magnetism. But Kinder and the Dark Peak feel like they are ours. It’s a different emotional connection. 

When walking up it, I love its unpredictability. My friend John and I set off one sunny August morning last year from the car park at Hayfield quarry where there stands a plaque to the heroes of the Kinder trespass in 1932. We were booted up and ready for anything in our walking shorts and also slapped on the factor 30 as the sun shone, imagining a still stroll around its eerie lunar edges. An hour later we were planning a hasty retreat down Williams Clough, soaked to the bone, as lightning crackled in a dark sky and the rains lashed down on us.

By the time we got back to Hayfield it was cracking the flags again, humbled that Kinder had once again laughed at our plans and reminded us how futile it is to speak of ‘conquering’ mountains and hills.

I was at a low ebb at the time. That challenge, the conversations we had up there that day have sustained me for a long time. I think of so many other days, other friends, other conversations, that have had a similar effect. Sometimes about music, by the way.

Shortly after my jaunt with John, my wife Rachel joined a sunset walk which properly gave her the confidence to make profound lifestyle and fitness choices. She’s now edging ahead of me on the leaderboard for miles walked on Freshwalks this year. 

And so to our latest initiative. I volunteered to be a mentor on the Freshwalks Fresh Futures initiative with Manchester City Council’s Our Year programme, to help young people see what I’ve experienced.

As potential mentors we just brought our open hearts, a curiosity and our passion for the outdoors. The young people brought ideas and energy, but also bonded with each other. It’s taken me a lifetime to find this way of recharging and connecting. Hopefully this day has made an early impact on these guys, though some are already well on their way to their Duke of Edinburgh Awards.

So here's to Kinder, whether in the morning sunrise, through hail and wind, or as the sun sets on another day, it truly was worth fighting for.

Another disappointing day at Ewood as play off hopes drift away

It was one of those days where the weather couldn’t make it’s mind up, but neither was it clear which Blackburn Rovers would turn up. 

The first half version from Coventry, or the battling second half edition, or the ultimate bottlers. 

As it happened it was the frustrating, nervy, disjointed, diving Rovers. Picking up stupid bookings, over hitting passes, getting in the way, losing shape and failing to hit cow’s arses with banjos, rarely troubling the Blackpool keeper.

For fans of most teams who fancy an end of season flourish, it’s the hope that kills you. I think today that’s gone. I write this before even looking at the other results, but this just doesn’t look like a side with enough belief to secure a top-six finish let alone step up to the occasion of the playoffs.

The team has missed the enterprise and guile of John Buckley in that in-between slot, not least when John Buckley himself has fallen so short of those giddy heights his performances offered. The same too could be said of thrusting Joe Rothwell and busy Lewis Travis. Instead, Rothwell looked disconnected and indifferent today while Travis just seemed to get in the way. 

On the positives, it was good to be reminded how good it feels to have Dack on the pitch. He got the ball in the net but the pass from Lenihan bobbled and slowed on its way which may have bought the advancing defenders a split second worth of reprieve. He offers something exciting, and he should play from the start. 

Another gripe while I’m in a low mood; I want the scoreboard to tell me how long there is to go, not that we’re playing Stoke City on Easter Monday. Or that we’re HOME and playing BLA. These are basic little things, but then so is passing to your own side. And as we know, getting those basics right are the foundations of all good things. 

It’s not over, there are 15 points still to play for. I want to believe, I truly do, and there are better teams than Blackpool in the way, but on a bad show like that my main worry is there aren’t many capable of being as limp and listless as we saw today. 

Music Therapy - top tunes and great jackets

Since me and Neil started doing Music Therapy back in 2020, just as we thought we were emerging out of lockdown, we’ve really discovered a lot about ourselves, but also about our listeners.

Confession time, we only managed to record one show from the studio before another lockdown sent us all home again. For an absolute age we were recording from home. Blissfully, thanks to the ingenuity of the station controller Andy Hoyle and the wonders of modern technology, by some minor miracle, we managed to get a show out every week.

Honestly though, since we returned to the studio, it’s been a proper gamechanger. We get to twiddle nobs a bit more (fnarr, fnarr) get a few tips from Alex Cann, the most prolific man in commercial radio, and take over curated pictures of ourselves wearing a variety of much admired jackets.

One of Neil’s oldest mates said to him that he’d heard the show and that we sound like actual real radio DJs now. I think he meant it as a compliment, we’re certainly taking it as one.

You can’t beat being in the same space and having the right technology. The sound is crisper, we’re not likely to get bounced out by a dodgy WIFI connection, but it’s given us time to think and appreciate the music we play on the show.

We’re both hustling freelancers, looking for new opportunities, more often than not working from home, so the chance to do what human beings should be doing is an important part of our weekly structure. Although we haven’t been headhunted by BBC 6 Music (yet) every person I’ve done work for has found it fascinating that I do this. Neil has made films about the music and fashion scenes in Manchester and Sheffield for the fashion brand Pretty Green, which have been informed by having a focus on music. 

But the main delight has been our interactions with you, the listeners. We have no idea on the numbers of people, but through social media we get lots of love and comments. We don’t do requests, but we do take suggestions from people who get the show and what we’re about.

Some of our listeners aren’t even in Tameside and the High Peak. They use modern technology such as Tune In and Radio Player, or the station’s superb app, to listen to the show from anywhere in the world, at a time of their choosing.

One of those conversations sparked an idea to do a slot called Original Spin. We pick a song that you will be familiar with, but probably didn’t realise was a cover version. A few times these have been Prince songs, I Feel For You, covered by Chaka Khan, and Nothing Compares 2 U which Sinead O’Connor rescued from being an unperformed album track.

It takes us on a journey into different styles, plays to our ethos of there being no such thing as a guilty pleasure and hopefully opens up music that will be new to people.

I also don’t think I’ve been as switched on to new music as I am now. So thanks for the opportunity and keep on listening. Drop us a message if you fancy a chat about what you’d like us to do next.    

Lunch of the month for March - and the winner is ... in Stockport

 

I've been very pleased with the variety of quick lunches I've managed to have through the month of March. Definitely a Greater Manchester theme this time around as there's a good variety of locations too that are all noteworthy. 

Starting from the top left, going clockwise, is Athena, a very tasty Greek joint on St Petersgate in Stockport, where I spend a lot of time these days. The chicken gyro was very juicy and the sauces added a real kick.

Along the top was a return to Society food hall in Manchester, this time for a katsu curry and dumplings from Manzoku which went down very well and was significantly better than the one I had at Wagamama recently. 

In the top right is crispy beef at Stockport's Kambuja, the Cambodian stall in the Produce Hall. Sensational. 

Then there's a hearty wrap at All Things Nice in Marple where I watched my pal Alex order a cheese and avocado toastie and I suffered a bit of food envy. 

I've included my mum's chicken sandwiches, not because they qualify for this competition, but because 8 pictures look crap and they are truly amazing.

Next was a trip to Oldham with the Professor of kebabs himself, Andy Westwood. Amazing bread, but the salad was hard going. We'll just have to have another one soon to continue our quest. 

In the centre is a succulent burger and fries from The Butcher in the unlikely setting of Manchester Arndale. The company was good too, great to break burgers and bread with Gemma Krysko and her husband Matthew (DJ Radiator, warms up rooms). We were treated too, so thank you. 

Finally, the winner, Stockport Produce Hall is the place, the jerk halloumi wrap from Mamma G's Caribbean Soul Food was the choice and it blew my socks off. Fresh, tangy and very wholesome. 

Autism acceptance - something for us all

This paper lands on your doormat in the middle of Autism Acceptance Week, as promoted by the charity the National Autistic Society, writes Michael Taylor.

(Tameside Reporter column, 1 April 2022).

Without going into details, I think I’m fairly aware of autism and what it means for how someone with that diagnosis lives their life, battles the education system and locates support.

The mission statement of the charity points out that there are currently around 700,000 autistic people in the UK. Their work seeks to create and contribute to a more inclusive world: a world where autistic people are accepted in society and able to live a life of choice and opportunity. During the week the charity has been sharing lots of information and ideas on how everyone can play their part in making this happen.

Crudely, we are all on a spectrum of how our brains are wired and how our senses interpret, communicate and signal to us how we respond. People on the autism spectrum find many of these processes challenging.

When it comes to encouraging acceptance, TV can play a huge part in doing the heavy lifting for us all. 

There’s a great video on the NAS website by Alan Garner who presents a series called The Autistic Gardner on Channel 4. He makes the point not just that people on the autism spectrum face their own challenges, but that they are so frequently misunderstood and therefore unable to live a life where they reach their full potential.

One of the best TV drama series I have seen is the BBC’s The A Word. It brings to life the complexities of a family challenged by the sinking realism that their beautiful son Joe has autism. His Dad encourages Joe’s love of great music which forms a vital part of the soundtrack, but for me the best part of the series was the rest of the annoying and complex characters around him. Life is like that, and if these lot can accept Joe and all his differences, then so can you.

I didn’t need a TV drama to know what effect a child with profound special educational and emotional needs has on a family. It's uncomfortable, the shock, the stages of comprehension and the allowances you make are all there.

I read somewhere that the series didn't speak a truth about one reviewer's autistic brother. Maybe so, but that's not the point. It didn't try to be the last word on autism any more than it is about the tensions of succession in family businesses.

It can be annoying telling people that autism doesn’t mean maths genius, card counter, or music obsessive. Each person is unique, but several core communications challenges require the rest of us to be more understanding.

Which brings me to the main thrust of this week, awareness, yes, but also acceptance and appreciation of people on the autism spectrum.

Having worked in a university, a media company and been part of social activities around music, football, politics and the outdoors and I can tell you firmly that I meet people all the time who have a way of communicating that others bristle at, because they don't understand the other person's wiring. 

I am not qualified to diagnose, and I don’t claim to have any kind of super power, but I find myself identifying behaviours that if that is a possibility that someone is on the autism spectrum then maybe those of us who are neuro typical have to meet others half way.

We say it at the end of each show, look after each other out there. 

It was meant to be Roy of the Rovers, but we got same old Rovers instead

 

It was meant to be Roy of the Rovers stuff, in the end it was just same old Rovers.

It was written that a full year after a horrible injury, Dack returns, comes on as sub, scores the winner. But with a penalty as weak as Kehdra’s at Sheffield United. Quite why Dack took such a feeble shot is a mystery. It sucked the life out of what should have been a turning point in this disappointing phase of the season.

Even getting a penalty award from Gavin Ward was counter to everything you would ever expect from an official who has enraged this fan base more than George Courtney. 

In the first half, to be fair, Ward’s handling of a dismal encounter was probably the only competent performance out there. It couldn’t last.

Either Ward is a shrewd observer of the worst aspects of gamesmanship (cheating) or he just can’t accept that skilful players like Dolan and Khadra ever get legitimately fouled.

There was some good football played in that second half. Van Hecke was masterful. Rothwell menacing, a beautiful shot from Khadra bounced off the bar. Dack had another chance that fell to his sweet right foot. Gallagher, oh dear. He seems to make his best interventions in defensive positions; headed clearances, blocks and tackles. But he’s no striker. Not on recent showings. 

In the end even Bristol City upset their own game plan of following up Millwall’s slow grind of coming for a 0-0 draw. It was a very good goal of which Blackburn Rovers fans used to celebrate quite a few. 

This is my 500 words straight after the final whistle, usually I have a drive home to stew on it, but tonight I’m sat in the back and ignoring my driver.

I feel sad, slightly foolish and not for the first time in the last few years so bitterly disappointed for Dacky. 

Lunch of the month for February - the winner

The month was cut a little short for me due to having Covid. So these are slightly slimmer pickings than I hoped for. And not many trips into Manchester or Stockport. That will change. 

Full marks to the steak and ale pie at the Wheatsheaf in Old Glossop, it took me back to the very first Freshwalks when this was the final destination. Superb piece of work.

No complaints about Nandos in Stockport either. But it's just a Nando's, right?

Antonios in Ashton was a real surprise. No disrespect to Ashton town centre, but this was a quality Italian and a cut above what I expected. I anticipated Pellicci and got a neighbourhood Piccolino. My canneloni was rich in tomato flavour, the garlic bread of similarly high quality to Rudi's Pizza, and it was a lovely friendly atmosphere. It stood up nicely next to actual Piccolino, where I was delighted to be asked back and I hope we can do some business with my host after our excellent calamari, followed by chicken and gnocci. It's slightly busting the budget rules though.

Also in the foody hot spot of Ashton was the absolute beast of a Morroccan / Lebanese mezze platter from Mozaic.  On any other month it would absolutely smash this competition out of the park. But it was a cold draughty day and though the food warmed us up, it wasn't as transformational as this month's close run winner.

The lunch of the month was actually an all day full Derbyshire breakfast from the Old Hall Hotel in Hope at the end of a glorious Freshwalks sunrise walk. 20 of us arrived and were served promptly, efficiently and with great humour. The bacon was thick and cured, just as I like it, the eggs done to perfection with deep pools of warm yoke to dip the sausage and black pudding into. The oatcake was a curve ball, if I'm honest, but gave it that point of difference for the local twist.

Maybe I'm also slightly biased, because I've had breakfast on my mind this week as Dave Angel reminds us all that pancakes are on Shrove Tuesday, with lemon, and sugar. And that a full English is the one thing at which we rule the world.

Well done everyone.  

The sweetest victory of all - Rovers v QPR

That was the sweetest victory of all. A victory for the true believers. For all those who kept the faith through the toughest of times.

For the best of times this season previous wins have been grafted on that defence, granted, but it has been the intelligence of John Buckley, Joe Rothwell’s ability to spring a surprise, and of course the goals of Ben Brereton Diaz that have propelled this side to the unimaginable heights. A recent barren patch has missed, in particular, those goals of Diaz, though frankly a bounce off Scott Wharton’s backside would suffice.

So to win against a fellow contender with those key elements missing, on the back of a head messing week for Reda Khadra, is what had me reaching for my professional lexicon of memorable great political acceptance speeches of the twentieth century, and why it was so so sweet.

Not only did Khadra have better chances to score today, he won’t have needed reminding by Sky TV, but he was anyway, that he’d also missed a penalty in front of their cursed cameras on Wednesday night at Bramhall Lane; whilst only picking himself out of the blood and spit of a potential career-ending assault from a flashing Blade.

I can't claim to understand the psychology of a substitution, but when I saw Ryan Hedges stripping off I assumed that was the Brighton loanee done for the day. I suspect, so did he. When he saw Sam Gallagher's number up, he must have thought, cheers gaffer, I won't let you down. 

Given my early judgements on players in this squad, after Fulham I said Jean Paul van Hecke should be sent straight back to Brighton, what I have to say about the two new Ryans probably doesn't count for much. It's not their fault that they bring to my mind a couple of tricky players in the first team of a post-92 university, with distracting thoughts of a stretched deadline on an economics essay.  

On 55 minutes, with Ryan Nyambe on a stretcher, I thought it was another curse of our club. A season going to pot. We all hope it isn't as serious as it looks. 

It seems trite, with careers at stake, to think so immediately of the qualities of his replacement, but I may have to admit I was as wrong about Zeefuik as I was about our other flying Dutchman. He plays like one of life's true eccentrics, a tackling style and a quickness of thought that must make him a nightmare to play against.

Which brings me to the one player in this side who I would absolutely despise if he played for any other team. Lewis Travis brings true grit and devilment. I have zero confidence in his ability to not get that painful ninth booking which will trigger a ban but his pulling of the strings today was a thing to behold. 

Finally, a word on the deserved Man of the Match. I don't know what it is about this kid, but Tyrhys Dolan brings a lump to my throat. His pointing to the sky for his friend, his willingness to get stuck in, his bag of tricks, his zest to play. We are very lucky to have him.  

I said on Twitter on Wednesday after the lamentation at the lane that I hate football. There are other things going on in the world right now more worthy of such emotions, so I was so quickly over it. But for everything Tony Mowbray has been saying about this rather special set of players, I fell right back in love. Fickle, I know, but how sweet it is.

Belfast, Branagh and the power of a great movie soundtrack

Last week on our radio show I properly overdosed on Kenneth Branagh’s Oscar-nominated film Belfast.  There are legions of reasons why I loved it.

There were the heart-warming moments of innocence as a grim time in our recent history was told through the eyes of Buddy, a really sound 9-year old kid, played with such grace by Jude Hill. 

It reminded me of Hope and Glory, John Boorman’s 1987 film about the home front of the second world war, and Empire of the Sun, another child’s eye view of the fall of Shanghai. 

Belfast created a similar vibe, through the black and white styling in Branagh’s directing, and in the peerless acting performances from young and old alike. Dame Judi Dench and Ciaran Hinds deservedly have Oscar nominations.

Then there was the music. Most of the atmosphere was created through clever inclusions of a clutch of fantastic Van Morrison songs throughout the film.

But there are also songs which tell a story all of their own about Buddy’s favourite shows on the small television he watched space films and westerns, notably Tex Ritter’s High Noon and Real Love by Ruby Murray, who I had forgotten was a significant musical presence as well as being rhyming slang for a curry.   

One scene, in particular, captured the deep love within the family, when Pa (the ludicrously handsome Jamie Dornan) sings the sixties banger Everlasting Love to Ma (the outrageously striking Caitriona Balfe).

That song has been used in a film before, Jamie Cullum’s version popped up in Bridget Jones Diary. Let’s just say it didn’t have the same impact as the original version used in Belfast by yet another of those sixties British pop music underachievers, Love Affair.

On our show recently we were discussing the best film soundtracks of all time.

Quentin Tarantino routinely pulls together amazing collections which always went down in the 1990s in the golden age of CDs. Pulp Fiction, Kill Bill and Jackie Brown soundtracks are amongst the best. 

Similarly, David Lynch films are as much about aura as what your eyes see before you. Blue Velvet, Twin Peaks and Lost Highway are incredibly rich in a powerful musical. 

Neil is clear there is no film with a better Official Soundtrack than Martin Scorcese's 1998 epic Casino. Spanning generations it places the audience slap bang in the decadent seventies of Roxy Music, Fleetwood Mac and the Moody Blues, but also with a rhythmic nod to the greats of jazz, blues and soul. 

To ram home the point, this weekend’s show will open with a tune from the very best film music composer of all time was Enrico Morricone, who became best known for the musical score to spaghetti western The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, but who’s long life achieved hit after hit and legendary status. In 2007, a tribute album We All Love Ennio Morricone featured performances by artists as diverse as Andrea Bocelli, Celine Dion, Bruce Springsteen and Metallica.

After that I’ve also got Jimmy Cliff’s The Harder They Come to share with you, a song so closely associated with a film it’s not clear which came first.

(column from the Tameside Reporter and Glossop Chronicle).

 

I've never been to a music festival

 

Do you want to know a secret? I’ve never been to a festival. 

I’ve been to mega raves, super clubs, dingy gigs in smoky rooms, stadiums, arenas and even the Witchwood in Ashton.

But never to a festival. The closest was a very muddy Milton Keynes Bowl in 1985 to see U2 headline a mega day of music that included REM, The Ramones, Spear of Destiny and Billy Bragg. It was great, but very, very wet and featured the one thing that has put me off ever going to a festival - awful toilets, and then the inevitable consequence of that, flying bottles of wee.

Ever since, whenever I’ve looked at the line-ups of a festival I think of what  the facilities and food will be like. I used to think that the handy festival guides in weekend newspapers should have had a graphic icon with a flying bottle of urine on, to denote whether it was somewhere that this was likely to happen. I understand why festival organisers wouldn’t support that. 

I didn’t even go to a festival I could literally walk home to, the annual Moovin Festival in Compstall which to be fair looks very good.

Lots of people my age say they want to try and get to Glastonbury at least once. Good luck with that. The waiting list is enormous and the scramble for tickets is an absolute bunfight. But if you’re nice to Thomas in Brenda Warrington’s office at the Town Hall in Dukinfield, he always seems to get a sniff of tickets. 

So this summer, I’ve found two absolute corkers to lose my festival cherry at. 

One, Kite Festival in Oxfordshire is billed as a festival of music and ideas. As much as I’m looking forward to dancing to Saint Etienne and Grace Jones, I’m also quite excited about talks by David Miliband and Delia Smith (let’s be having you!).

It will certainly be a new experience sleeping in a hired camper van for a couple of nights and obviously a lot depends on the English weather.

The other, Bluedot Festival, is closer to home, just down the road at the atmospheric setting of Jodrell Bank Observatory in Cheshire on the third weekend in July. 

It’s literally the Music Therapy set list in live form. Headlining Sunday evening with a UK Festival Exclusive and uniquely commissioned performance alongside Manchester’s famed Halle Orchestra is international superstar Björk.

Legendary Scottish post-rockers Mogwai will headline Saturday night alongside Indie-electro giants, Metronomy whilst one of the best-loved dance acts, Groove Armada will close Friday night.

The stellar line-up also sees Spiritualized, Yard Act, Working Mens Club, A Certain Ratio, Tim Burgess, Squarepusher and Anna Meredith amongst many more acts.

There’s even an appearance in the spoken word tent of so-called comedian Stewart Lee, talking about his music documentary film King Rocker.

I’ve really had my love of music rekindled over the last couple of years, since we’ve been producing Music Therapy for you, and so the efforts of people in the music business to put on very special shows like this is more welcome than ever. 

And it’s just a hunch, but I don’t think I’ll need to worry about flying bottles with this crowd. 

(column from the Tameside Reporter / Glossop Chronicle, 11 February 2022)

The end of The Marple Leaf is nigh

We've put our house up for sale and are probably going to move out of Marple.

That's of little or no interest to anyone outside of our family and close friends, and we're not planning on going far. I'm remarkably unsentimental about it, but it does create a slight problem for my social media identities.

This blog started in 2006 when we moved here, my Twitter and Insta accounts followed.

The other thing is, blogs are sort of over aren't they? I have outlets for the things people want to read about, food, football and music and the sort of long post that gets lots of likes on LinkedIn. Having this outlet for political commentary probably prevents me from pushing hard enough to places where it contributes to a wider debate.

It's not a decision I have to make today, but I will throw it out there. The response will certainly influence what I decide to do. 

Make your TV world a little bigger - Ozark, Walking Dead and those hopeless Australian cops

Maybe I've reached an age where I find my willingness to try new things tested. Yes, I say I want to find new films to watch, new books to read, films and TV series to bury myself in, ones that bust a genre and redefine culture. But let's face it, most stuff is made precisely because it has a guaranteed audience of people who liked one thing, and who will also like another. People like me.

I quite enjoyed the BBC's Australian outback romp, The Tourist, but as one reviewer said - "stick another cliche on the barbie, Bruce". It had elements of Mystery Road and of Wolf Creek, and the only two types of cops allowed in Aussie TV dramas, corrupt ones and the hopelessly incompetent variety. But it also had Jamie Dornan, who seems to have a strong appeal to a certain section of the population. By the way, I'm genuinely excited to hear that a third Wolf Creek film is in production, just in time to prepare my wife Rachel for our long-awaited holiday in WA.

Another slick Harlan Coben adaptation featuring seemingly unemployed wealthy people living in implausibly large houses in the North West of England, Stay Close was probably one too many. I can get over the location continuity - IT'S NOT MEANT TO BE REAL - but not the ludicrous introduction of Killing Eve inspired characters Barbie and Ken and the utterly implausible scenario of someone living in the next town and no one noticing she was missing, nor that twenty blokes were AWOL. Maybe the cops were trained in Australia.

So I do have a tendency to revert to what I know and like. British gangster films. And Zombies.

I'm going to have to say this now, but for slightly different reasons. I'm kicking the habit. Enough is enough.

I reached gangster/hooligan nadir with ID2: Shadwell Army. A truly awful film. Unless it has Craig Fairbrass in it, I'm out, maybe Rise of the Footsoldier Five will be just one last job.

With Season Six of Fear the Walking Dead, I've seen my last zombie fight. Erik Kain in Forbes - a peerless TV and games reviewer - said it was: "tepid, nonsensical and deeply silly". He's right, but I think it's actually even worse than that. I actually watched the last few episodes on shuttle, it takes about ten minutes, the dialogue is predictable drivel, the stand-offs tedious. But it is also now offensive because it is so reckless and negligent with the development of characters and the use of acting talent, notably Alicia Clark, played by Alycia Debnam Carey. I want it to end and refuse to have anything more to do with this franchise or any of its spin-offs.

So that's me also done with season 11 of The Walking Dead too, which involves a Disney subscription, and a bucket load of disbelief that this is still a thing. 

Redemption for the familiar has come in the form of Season 4, part one, of Ozark. As I wrote about season 3, which concluded in April 2020, I lauded the women of the Ozarks. How this is a show in which they provide all of the forward motion. Even Helen, spoiler alert, is the one corpse from the previous season that's unaccounted for and causing problems for everyone else in season 4.

But for all the nonchalant chat about the drugs trade and the outrageous behaviour of Wendy Byrde, Ozark is tense and challenging. The last two episodes were directed by Robin Wright, but unlike House of Cards (in which she starred as Claire), or Succession, which also has no characters with any redeeming features and none you can root for, you are gripped by Ozark because you care. We may not inhabit the world of media moguls or powerful politicians, so we probably can't place how we'd react. But while we also don't launder money for the Mexican drug cartels, or farm heroin, there are parenting choices and business decisions that indecisive middle-aged men everywhere can relate on a certain level to Marty. 

But, all day long, Team Ruth are we, right? 

It's only been up a few days and we've rinsed it already, I hope none of that has spoilt it. But it's set up for a storming return in a few months time.