How a wish became a nightmare

Twitter has always been my favourite social media platform. Quick, concise and in-the-moment, it’s a place where I go for breaking news, topical humour and the latest on Aston Villa. I also occasionally (and against my better judgment) use it as my own personal soapbox.

It was the latter that got me into a bit of bother at the weekend.

While I appreciate the last few days have been a significant time for a lot of people in this country, as a non-Monarchist, it’s been a bit surreal. My attitude to these things is largely to ‘live and let live’, but I couldn’t help but take to Twitter to gently poke fun of the more absurd aspects of the spectacle.

The “Stone of Destiny”, FFS. Amirite?

My ‘each to their own’ philosophy, however, was tested at times by the stance of different organisations. For instance, I was puzzled that the famously impartial BBC was showing unquestioning and unwavering support for a political model that carries an unelected Head of State, something that was also called into question by the anti-Monarchy lobbying group, Republic. Similarly, I was perplexed by the Premier League’s decision to nail its colours to the mast by insisting on a rendition of ‘God Save The King’ before the weekend’s games.

Then, on Saturday evening, fatigued by the constant and unavoidable blanket coverage I’d been bombarded with throughout the day, I was exposed to an act of protest that delighted the rebel inside me. The anthem was played at Anfield, the home of Liverpool Football Club, where it was greeted with a deafening chorus of boos.

So, onto the soapbox I went. I shared a video of the scene to my timeline, accompanied with the following text:

“I wish Villa fans could be more like this. I appreciate not everyone will agree.”

It was, as with most of my Tweets, a half-baked half-thought, devoid of context. It was, however, caveated with an acknowledgment that it wouldn’t be a popular opinion.

I had thought, naively, that like most of my Tweets it would largely go unnoticed, under the radar, into the ether. Then the rumblings of discontent began.

To offer the context the Tweet was lacking, I wasn’t saying that I think Villa fans should boo the national anthem before games. It happens so rarely that it would be a strange hill to die on.

It wasn’t that I disrespect the national anthem, or Britain, or anything like that.

It was an admiration for the spirit of the action more than the action itself.

I generally find Liverpool fans a bit tedious. Full of themselves. “Offended by everything, ashamed of nothing” is a term I’ve used in the past. Oh, and the Anfield atmosphere is a total myth, of course.

However, I do have a begrudging admiration for how resolute Liverpool fans are when it comes to defending their city and their club. From doggedly campaigning for justice for the Hillsborough victims to the way it held ‘The Sun’ to account for the vicious lies it told in the aftermath, they are, if nothing else, a set of supporters that won’t buckle when faced with adversity. It’s a spirit that led to Saturday’s act of rebellion, being a city that was treated so poorly by a cruel Government in the 1980s that a ‘managed decline’ was seriously considered in Westminster.

Ultimately, when I said “I wish Villa fans could be more like this”, it was more a longing for that “don’t fuck with us” spirit rather than a simplistic “Villa should boo the anthem”.

It’s a fire I’ve had in my belly for a while now. In 2020, the ‘Black Lives Matter’ movement rose to prominence, driven by constant police brutality against people of colour in America. Premier League players, inspired by the uprising, opted to ‘take the knee’ prior to matches as their own show of protest against institutionalised racism.

If there was ever a cause that Villa fans should have adopted as their own, it was Black Lives Matter. After all, Dalian Atkinson, revered as a club legend, was a black man whose life was cruelly taken, unlawfully, at the hands of police in 2016.

And yet, when fans returned to Villa Park following the Covid lockdown in May 2021, players were booed by a sizeable chunk of our support when they knelt. It was a reaction that filled me with utter despair and revulsion. How on earth could we reject an act of protest that was arguably more pertinent to us than any other set of supporters?

I wish we’d been more vociferous in our support.

My frustrations go beyond that, though. Earlier this year, despite previous pledges to the contrary, Villa confirmed a deal that would install an overseas gambling firm as its front of shirt sponsor. A strong statement from fan groups briefly offered hope that we wouldn’t lie down and lower ourselves to such an agreement, only for them to back down completely when the club shrugged off their pleas.

I wish we’d kept the pressure on.

Then more recently, we had huge increases on the prices of season tickets at Villa Park, a decision that will inevitably mean supporters on lower incomes, amid a cost of living crisis, will be priced out.

And yet, for everybody saying it was wrong, you’d find just as many people defending the board’s decision.

I wish we’d been more united in calling it out.

You might notice that I’m using the words ‘I wish’ a lot. The Tweet that started all this began with the same two words.

It’s worth pointing out, because I wish for lots of things. I wish I was younger. I wish I was rich. I wish I played for Villa. I spent a lot of my younger years wishing to marry Kate Winslet. I wish everything could be OK.

Wishing for something is just that. It’s often implausible, unfeasible, but you wish for it anyway.

I know I can’t change the mentality of Villa fans. It would be beyond arrogant of me to suggest that anyone should approach things in exactly the same way I do. When I said “I wish Villa fans could be more like this”, that’s all it was. A bloody wish.

And yet, the abuse that came through on Saturday night into Sunday morning would suggest I’d grievously offended people I’ve never even met.

I was called a ‘cunt’ more times than I care to mention.

I was repeatedly told I’m not welcome at Villa Park.

A few people grasped at my ancestry, their underlying anti-Irish bigotry coming to the fore, one of them repeatedly using the derogatory term “Mick”.

One person even told me I have shit hair!

The comments that irked most though were the ones that implied that I was ashamed of where I’m from. Telling me “if you don’t like it here, leave.” Some even urged me to “gO bAcK tO wHeRe I cAmE fRoM” (born in Sutton Coldfield, raised in Aldridge, live in Erdington, but OK!)

It bothers me because to imply I’m not proud of where I come from is just so plainly not true. Anyone who knows me will tell you that I am a tireless, tubthumping supporter of Birmingham and the West Midlands. I’m constantly backing this wonderful part of the world. In 2020, I took a paycut to take on a role at the Birmingham 2022 Organising Committee, and I spent more than two years there giving everything I had to help deliver that unforgettable event, all for the love of my city.

Ultimately, I think it’s a bit weird to make out that the only way of showing pride in where you’re from is to blindly wave a flag and support the state. In fact, why would I? As Brummies, all we ever get from the wider country is the piss taken out of us. Mocking our accent, questioning our intelligence, criticising our city. Why the bloody hell should I associate with that?!

But, as I’ve already said, live and let live, and each to their own. If you want to support the Monarchy, if you want to celebrate, I’m all for that, and will defend your right to express your opinion. Just don’t call me a C-word for expressing mine.

A final note on this: When we talk about being kind, we often say something like “because you never know what other people are going through”. It just so happens that, right now, I’m going through the hardest time of my life.

Being bombarded with mountains of disgusting, violent abuse was the last thing I needed over the weekend. I dealt with it on this occasion by deleting the Tweet and locking my account, but I’m acutely aware that such an aggressive pile-on could push more vulnerable people over the edge.

Individuals will always have different opinions to you, but the mark of a decent person is their ability to accept and tolerate difference. In short: let’s just be bloody nice to each other, shall we?

You know we should. We really should.


My Favourite Goalkeepers #2 – Mark Bosnich

Let’s be clear from the off – I absolutely LOVE Mark Bosnich. To this day, I’m still unequivocal in my view that he’s my favourite footballer of all time. I can’t imagine anyone will ever usurp him.

I first became aware of Bozzie towards the end of the 1991/92 season, shortly after he signed for Villa from Sydney United. These were still the days when the reserves would play at Villa Park on Saturday afternoons when the first team were away. My dad, still brainwashing me into a love of football, would often take me to watch.

At this point, my actual appreciation of football was under development, and it tended to be random things that piqued my interest. My love of Les Sealey already meant I was drawn to the goalkeepers, and I went along to the game in a near empty Villa Park armed with the knowledge that a new stopper was playing for the first time. At this point, foreign players in England remained a relative rarity, and the fact that the new boy was Australian made things all the more exciting somehow.

I remember little of his outings in the reserves, but evidently he must have impressed. Bosnich made a first team debut in the penultimate game of 1991/92, before establishing himself as a contender to Nigel Spink in the following campaign, making 17 appearances.

If Bosnich had impressed up until then, in the 1993/94 season he established himself as a bona fide superstar – and it all began, as many Villa legends’ stories do, in the Second City Derby.

The second round of the Coca-Cola Cup pitted Villa against arch rivals Birmingham City. The first leg took place at St. Andrews, and I was there – even if it quickly emerged that it was no place for a nine-year-old. My abiding memory from that night is being shepherded into the ground with my head buried into my dad’s coat as beer bottles were hurled at us by Blues fans.

Once I was ensconced inside the relative sanctity of the away end, it became Bosnich’s night. With Nigel Spink injured, number 13 entered the fray as substitute to deafening chants of ‘Who the f***ing hell are you?’ from the Blues’ faithful.

It wouldn’t take them long to find out. Minutes later, Birmingham were awarded a penalty, with the Bluenose’s taunts rammed down their throats courtesy of an expert save from Bozzie. It was a moment that would prove to be the first of many valuable contributions he made in Villa’s Coca-Cola Cup campaign that year.

I’m going to make an assumption that most people reading this blog are Villa fans, so I won’t relay every detail of Bosnich’s contribution to that cup win. But from his virtuoso display against Sunderland, three penalty saves against Tranmere (STILL the best game I’ve ever been to), and that vital save from Mark Hughes in the final, he demonstrated the importance of a good goalkeeper to any successful team.

I can’t put too fine a point on what a hero Mark Bosnich was to people of around my age. Every team has its main man, the player that every kid wants to be. It’s so unusual for it to be the goalkeeper. But Mark Bosnich was the one that every single one of us looked up to. I hear stories from junior football coaches today about how they struggle to find kids who want to play in goal. In my school, it was finding enough people who wanted to play outfield that was an issue.

Bozzie’s popularity was such that, come Christmas, there was a chronic shortage of goalkeeper jerseys in the club shop. On the big day, I opened all my presents, and my mom sadly explained that she hadn’t been able to get the one I wanted most of all. I remember trying to put a brave face on it when really I was crushed. Luckily, in the end, it was just a ruse. Later in the day, my dad opened a cupboard to reveal an extra present that Santa forgot…

My word. THAT shirt. I was barely seen out of it over the next couple of years. It’s actually mad that it’s so iconic, given that it wasn’t even uniquely Villa’s. Newcastle, Leeds, Blackburn, Portsmouth and more all had an identical design. But somehow, it was just synonymous with Bozzie. It still is today. Mention ‘The Bosnich Shirt’, and everyone knows you’re referring to the multi-coloured Asics number.

It only takes a look at eBay to see how important that jersey is to people of my generation. Every time one ends up on there, it’s sold for hundreds of pounds. I’m lucky that I managed to get my man-sized version a couple of years before the market went crazy. Today, I happily pair it with a matching scarf and even a face-mask in these weird pandemic times. Nothing could persuade me to part with that shirt.

Bozzie continued to be Villa’s number one for the majority of the next five years, winning the League Cup again in 1996. Controversy had a knack of finding him. Clattering Jurgen Klinsmann lead to an ill-advised attempt at humour at White Hart Lane. Off the field, his rap sheet included getting arrested hours before his wedding, and even the emergence of a certain videotape that we won’t talk about here.

Despite all this, he remained much loved and, most importantly of all, brilliant on the field- as you can see from what I still consider to be the best save I’ve ever seen live – this acrobatic effort against Coventry City:

As was a familiar story among Villa’s star players in the late nineties, it was ultimately the club’s perceived lack of ambition that led to Bosnich’s departure. With his contract set to expire in 1999, a return to his former club, Manchester United, to replace the great Peter Schmeichel was an opportunity too good to turn down.

The last time I recall seeing Bosnich play was when Villa faced United in the League Cup later that year. It was a night that saw our former hero subjected to some of the most ferocious abuse I’ve ever heard from the Holte End as Villa ran out 3-1 winners. Incredibly, that’s the last time we beat United at Villa Park.

Looking back, it seems absurd that, for a player who is so revered by a whole generation of Villa fans, his last experience of being in front of the Holte End saw him booed from the field. That’s a matter of deep regret to me. I hope there will be a day in the future when he can return to Villa Park and get the ovation he so richly deserves.

At first glance, Bosnich’s decision to join United appears justified. He was man of the match as United won the 1999 Intercontinental Cup, and also won a Premier League title medal in 2000. Despite this, for whatever reason, he wasn’t viewed as a good fit at Old Trafford. United first attempted to replace him with the comical Massimo Taibi, before the arrival of French World Cup winner, Fabien Barthez, saw him frozen out of the squad for good.

If a move to Chelsea offered a chance of redemption, it was ultimately quashed by goings-on in his personal life. One cocaine-related drugs ban later, Bosnich was sacked in disgrace.

It was a sad end to a career that had already delivered a lot, and should have promised so much more. Today, I think he’s massively underappreciated. Whenever you hear discussions about the best Premier League goalkeeper of all time, Bozzie’s name is seldom mentioned. It frustrates me, because I don’t think people realise how good he was.

From me, and so many other Villa fans, he will always get the appreciation he deserves. My icon, my hero. I’ll always wear ‘The Bosnich Shirt’ with pride.

This blog is part two of #MyFavouriteGoalkeepers, paying tribute to my 12 favourite shot-stoppers from 30 years of football fandom. Part one featured the late, great Les Sealey.

Check back soon for the next edition, which will celebrate one of the icons of the 1994 World Cup.

My Favourite Goalkeepers #1: Les Sealey

If my dad dreamed of having a little boy who shared his passion for football, I made him sweat a little bit before it came true.

My first ever Villa match was a 3-0 win against Sunderland in the 1990/91 season. One of our most notorious family anecdotes relates to the fact that I showed very little interest in the match itself, preferring to occupy myself with the Sooty and Sweep puppets I’d snuck into Villa Park.

Given that I was showing no signs whatsoever of developing any love of the game, it’s all the more remarkable that my dad wasn’t deterred from buying me a season ticket a few months later. Luckily for him, it would be a campaign that captured my imagination – and it was largely down to one man.

Les Sealey’s time in the Villa team was brief and, for many supporters, unremarkable. But to me, that season, he was the biggest superstar in world football.

For a young boy who had no understanding or appreciation for the finer points of the game, my love of Big Les wasn’t based so much on his performances, but on his character. Nicknamed ‘Mr. Angry’, he played the role of pantomime villain with aplomb, capturing the attention of seven-year-old me.

Barely a game would go by without Sealey berating his defenders or snarling at officials. It was in one game against Sheffield Wednesday that he truly lived up to his monicker. Following a controversial goal, an incensed Sealey, adamant that the ball had not fully crossed the line, practically had to be carried from the field such was his fury towards the referee. It was pure theatre, and I lapped it up.

As an aside, he wasn’t the only one who let frustration get the better of him that day. Later on, perhaps under the influence of a couple of ales, my dad called the BRMB football phone-in to forcefully share his view that the goal shouldn’t have stood.

Sealey’s run in the team began in October 1991. By February the following year, he’d earned a big enough place in my heart that all I wanted for my birthday was a Villa goalkeeper kit. My dad, smug in the knowledge that his brainwashing was going well, was only too happy to oblige. This photo, featuring awful early 90s wallpaper and my best ‘Mr. Angry’ impression, was duly taken:

Heartbreak was just around the corner, though. Just two weeks after my Sealey-themed birthday bash, he lost his place in the team and never played for Villa again.

The following season saw Sealey shipped out on loan to Coventry and then Blues, before returning to his former club, Manchester United, to deputise for Peter Schmeichel in 1993.

The last time I ever saw him play was in Villa’s tremendous 1994 League Cup final triumph over United at Wembley – and while I was caught up amid the euphoria of our shock victory, I couldn’t help but feel some sympathy for my former hero as he sat dejected upon the hallowed turf after the final whistle.

Tragically and cruelly, Les Sealey passed away in 2001, aged just 43.

In total, he played only 18 games for Aston Villa and I honestly can’t tell you whether he was actually any good. Frankly, it doesn’t matter to me if he wasn’t.

I will remember him simply as the man who drove my love of football. I’m forever grateful to him for that.

Corrie and me

I love Coronation Street. I’m not ashamed to admit it.

Corrie’s always been there, for as long as I can remember. It was background noise when I was a little’un, before it fully grabbed my attention as I headed into my teens. The cool kids liked the grit of EastEnders. I went for the warmth and familiarity of Weatherfield every time.

There’s just something about hearing the opening strains of that iconic theme tune. Echoes of childhood, the promise of half an hour of pure escapism.

I’ve always said that Corrie is not only the best drama on telly, it’s the best comedy too. Jack and Vera’s constant bickering is probably the most accurate depiction of true love I’ve ever seen committed to screen. Mike Baldwin and Ken Barlow set the standard for petty rivalry long before Joe Exotic and Carole Baskin made it their USP. And who could forget Blanche’s withering putdowns, which frankly should have resulted in their very own spin-off sitcom.

At its heart though, Corrie is a memory of moments of silliness with those I love.

When Baldwin heralded Deidre’s release from prison with a cry of ‘FAAAANTASTIC’ whilst vigorously thrusting his glass of Scotch into the air and managing not to spill a drop, me and my mom spent years trying to recreate it with glasses of water – always without success.

I think of drunken nights with my pal Al, when I’d regale not only the scene above, but also one in which Kevin Webster was annoyed because his enjoyment of an Atomic Kitten song had been ruined (I’m not even going to elaborate, because not a single person in the world will remember it).

Speaking of scenes that everyone has forgotten, there was also Dev’s declaration of love for the humble Scotch Egg… something my mate Ed can thankfully back me up on.

Most enduring of all is my Jim McDonald impression. There’s barely a day that goes by when I don’t do it, so there isn’t.

Corrie is also a reminder of happy times with people who meant the world to me. I write this blog on what would have been the 100th birthday of my Nanny Rene, who would often want to share her thoughts about the latest storylines.

It also feels particularly poignant that it’s less than a week since the loss of my dear Aunty Pat. Whenever I arrived for a visit to her in Canada, where Corrie was shown a few months behind, it would never take long for her to ask for the lowdown on the latest comings and goings on the cobbles.

Then there was the look on her face when she’d arrive in the UK, effectively getting to ‘time travel’ by peering ahead at storylines that hadn’t even begun as far as she was concerned.

Going to Canada was always a laugh, now I come to think of it. Random people would catch my English accent, and I’d spend the next ten minutes regaling them with tales of what was still to come.

You’re probably getting a sense now of just how ingrained Coronation Street was within me. So, hopefully, you’ll forgive the fact that I would usually expect everyone else to be as familiar with it as I was.

When a real-life Mancunian started at my school, I’ll never forget his bewildered face when I constantly bellowed my Fred Elliot impression in his face. It turned out, that despite hailing from tantalisingly close to the cobbles, he wasn’t especially arsed by what happened upon them. It didn’t hold us back, though. Somehow, Matthew Lindley remains ones of my best friends to this day… I SAY HE REMAINS ONE OF MY CLOSEST FRIENDS.

I have to be honest, though, reader. my relationship with Corrie has had a bit of a wobble in recent times. Just as I was about to turn 30, I found the Vera to my Jack in the shape of Anna. And while we have many things in common, a love of Coronation Street was not one of them.

Even dragging Anna for tours of the set, both old and current, I failed in my mission to encourage her to take an interest. While I tried manfully to keep up after we moved in together, eventually I lost track. And then, five years passed without me watching as much as a single episode. Sadly, it seemed that Corrie was no longer a part of my life.

Like Deidre always came back to Ken, however, somehow it seemed obvious that we wouldn’t be apart forever.

Then 2020 came along.

This has probably been the best year of my life and the worst year of my life all at once. It’s undoubtedly been the most chaotic. Amid all the madness, I was craving a comfort blanket. And Corrie was it.

The start of the lockdown saw me quickly binge on about a month’s worth of episodes in just a couple of days, and I’ve stayed fully up to date since. As we head into the 60th anniversary, I’m fully invested once more. I felt as nervous about the outcome of Yazmeen’s trial as I tend to be before an important Aston Villa game. And I’m all about seeing that bastard Geoff get his comeuppance.

I’m not sure why I felt compelled to write this blog. I guess, subconsciously, with all the fuss about the 60th anniversary, I’ve recognised that the show has actually played a pretty important part of my life. That through the highest of highs and the lowest of lows that life can throw at you, sometimes you just need that little something that’s always there, reminding you that nothing ever really changes that much.

And so, all that remains to say is a huge HAPPY BIRTHDAY to Coronation Street. I’m yours forever, I’ll never stray again.

You know I won’t. I really won’t.

Trump, trainers and tribulations

There have been many times over the past 18 months when I’ve been tempted to write about a certain Mr. Donald J. Trump.

I’ve managed to resist, partly because I didn’t believe there was a realistic chance that he could triumph (*embarrassed face emoji*), and partly because I didn’t feel there was anything original I could say.

And then people started burning their trainers.


American sportswear manufacturer New Balance has been on the receiving end of widespread condemnation from consumers following a comment from one of its vice presidents that appeared to welcome Trump’s stunning election success:

“The Obama administration turned a deaf ear to us and frankly, with President-elect Trump, we feel things are going to move in the right direction.”
– Matthew LeBretton, vice president of public affairs at New Balance.

The perceived endorsement provoked outrage among those upset by Trump’s accession to the oval office, with many swearing to never wear New Balance again, and some going as far as to set their trainers alight:

Seeing New Balance’s name dragged through the social media mangle hasn’t been easy for this bleeding heart liberal. Not only am I rarely seen without a pair of the brand’s shoes on my feet, but (full disclosure) I once worked for its PR agency in the UK and Ireland.

My view of the company, having worked closely alongside it for almost three years, could not be more positive. It’s a firm that cherishes craftsmanship, values its heritage and, importantly, has decency and fairness running through its core.

The notion that it’s an organisation that supports any form of bigotry is entirely at odds with my experience. But then, that’s not surprising given the magnitude of the leap it would take to come to that conclusion based purely on LeBretton’s comment.

And yet, if you search the #NeverNewBalance hashtag on Twitter, scores of people are doing just that. It’s bewildering. 

To give LeBretton’s  point some context, New Balance is one of the very few remaining sportswear companies that still hangs its hat on domestic manufacturing. Here in the UK, it’s the only major athletic footwear brand to produce shoes in a British factory. In the US, it operates five manufacturing facilities.

While many brands have taken their production lines overseas in order to cut costs, it has maintained this commitment to domestic product and the preservation of jobs. This laudable philosophy is the reason why the brand is more vocal about American trade regulation than many of its competitors.

Essentially, the very thing that makes New Balance a company worthy of praise is now the catalyst behind the scorn being poured upon it.

The controversy revolves around the Trans-Pacific Partnership, or TPP as it’s widely known. While I’m far from an expert when it comes to understanding the finer points of the agreement, I understand it’s a trade partnership between nine countries, championed by the Obama administration, which reduces import fees on products sourced from participating countries.

To put it into this specific context, TPP ultimately gives importers (such as Nike) a competitive edge on domestic manufacturers (such as New Balance) by further reducing their overheads. Therefore it’s loathed by many ‘Made in the USA’ firms, not to mention their employees.

Donald Trump campaigned on a pledge to abandon TPP, and New Balance’s decision to welcome this fact now has them wrongly labelled as wholeheartedly endorsing the President-elect, even on issues that aren’t directly linked to trade.

Here’s the kicker, though: Hillary Clinton was also against TPP. Guess who else? Only the darling of the left himself, Bernie Sanders. I assume they’re also good-for-nothing bigots for agreeing with Trump?!

It only serves to underline the astounding lack of logic that’s driven the anti-New Balance movement that has formed over the last week.

It’s akin to finding out Trump once ate at McDonalds, then accusing your mates of being racist and sexist when you find out they like Big Macs too.

It’s also symptomatic of the main problem with modern leftism, in that we don’t bother to debate any more, or to properly articulate our views. We just angrily condemn those who disagree with us, often without bothering to discover the thought process behind their opinion. I’m guilty of it myself.

  • When people voice concerns about immigration, we label them racist.
  • When people support Brexit, or Donald Trump, we accuse them of being stupid.
  • When people, often reluctantly, vote for the option that they believe will better enable them to feed their families, we accuse them of being selfish and narrow-minded.
  • And now, apparently, when a company opposes a trade agreement, we post photographs of ourselves burning its products on Twitter.

But we never bother to find out what brought them to that view, or to discover the context behind it. It’s something that was articulated quite brilliantly in Jonathan Pie’s piece last week. And, for that matter, by Michael Moore before the US election.

How on earth do we expect people to come around to our world view when we’re seen as sneering and dismissive rather than approachable and persuasive? The likes of Trump and Farage have seized upon the resentment that has been bred by this attitude. Yet still, on we go.

How, exactly, do you believe that burning a pair of trainers contributes to a better, fairer world? Why not do something meaningful?

Volunteer. Join a political party. Campaign. At the very least, actually do some research before lurching into immediate condemnation or individuals, organisations or groups. Just do something.

And if you really don’t need those shoes, there’s plenty of people who do. Give them to charity, FFS. It might not get as many Facebook likes as a pair of sizzling sneakers, but you’ll be doing something good whilst not looking quite so daft.

What a bloody mess. Grow up, the lot of you.

You know you should. You really should.

RIP Dalian Atkinson

Like all Aston Villa fans, I was stunned today to hear of the tragic death of our former striker, Dalian Atkinson.

Having been a mainstay of the Villa team in the earliest years of my support of the club, Dalian played in an era when, as a child who was quickly falling in love with the beautiful game, I viewed Villa players with an almost mystical aura.


Put simply, Dalian Atkinson was a hero to me in the truest sense of the word.

Villa supporters are today, rightly, sharing their favourite memories of Dalian. From his equaliser in the 1994 Coca-Cola Cup semi-final, his opener in the final, as well as his goal of the season winner against Wimbledon in 92/93, there’s no shortage of candidates.

However, my favourite moment occurred not in a packed stadium, but in the rain soaked confines of Villa’s training ground.

Back then, Bodymoor Heath was much more open to the public than it is today, and my dad often used to take me there on a Sunday morning to enjoy a glimpse of my idols up-close and personal.

Invariably, I’d take along my own football, and dribble along the sidelines, daydreaming of one day being part of the claret and blue first team myself.

It was on one such morning that I was lost in this fantasy when I heard a shout behind me. “Mate! Give us a kick!”.

And out from the players’ gym strode Dalian Atkinson.

Dalian took control of my ball, dribbling around me while I, starstruck, tried to take the ball off his toe. Frustrated by my fruitless attempts to dispossess the mercurial forward, my tackles became more wild, prompting fears from my dad that I was about to injure our star striker.

There was no danger of that. Dalian was just too good. After about 10 minutes, our scrimmage was over. He shook my dad’s hand, ruffled my hair, and shuffled off back indoors. I recall my dad seemed even more euphoric than I did. “Never forget this day”, he told me. And I never have.

It’s only now, when I think about it, that I understand what an incredible experience it truly was. It’s difficult to imagine a scenario today where an eight-year-old kid can enjoy a kickabout with his football hero. It’s a memory I’ll cherish forever.

The tributes today from those who knew him best only serve to reinforce his public persona. A happy-go-lucky, likeable guy, who didn’t take life too seriously. Perhaps not seriously enough at times.

With that in mind, its really difficult to come to terms with the manner in which he died in the early hours of this morning. He’s one of the last people I would anticipate could end up in such a situation, and with little information in the open, it’s impossible to make sense of what happened.

For now, though, I’m going to remember him as a man who went out of his way to make a young boy’s day. I will sing his name loudly and proudly in the 10th minute at Villa Park tomorrow night.

You know I will. I really will.

2nd Stand-Up Gig CONFIRMED

If nothing else, I’m a man who strikes while the iron is hot. This is why, just 15 months after my first foray into stand-up comedy, I’ve already arranged my second gig.

I’ll be doing a brief but perfectly formed* spot at The Hollybush in Cradley Heath on Thursday 24th March. It kicks off at 8.30, and I’ll be one of up to 12 people doing their damnedest to elicit mirth for around five minutes apiece. Which is good, because it means that even if I’m rubbish, someone else might be good.

It’s the night before Good Friday, so the ideal excuse for a bank holiday night out. Oh… and it’s FREE (I think…)


In the interests of full disclosure, it’ll largely consist of the content I debuted with back in 2014, with a little bit of jiggery-pokery/new bits here and there just to refine it. So basically, don’t watch this YouTube video if you’re planning on coming, because you might ruin it.

It would be splendid to see you all there.

You know it would. It really would.


*may not be perfectly formed.



I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore

This is the first blog I’ve written in ages, and I’m afraid I have nothing better to offer than an incoherent rant.

You see, the thing is, I’m at home on my own, and I’ve just seen a photograph that has absolutely enraged me. And I have nobody to listen to me talk angrily about it. So I’m writing this in the hope that you may share my exasperation.

Here is the offending image:


I mean… what is this… I cannot even… what the… who do they… WHY? Just… why?!

Apparently, ‘Clean for the Queen’ is an actual real thing, something that has been backed by the Government. For clarity, it is NOT a storyline from ‘The Thick Of It’, or the subject of a newly resurrected ‘Brass Eye’. Believe me, I’ve checked.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m sort of behind the spirit of the campaign. I hate littering, and I like the thought of people working together for the betterment of their community.

The problem is, that by calling it ‘Clean For The Queen’, they seem to have entirely removed all sense of empowering social action, and instead turned it into a call for the peasants to clean up their shit so Her Majesty does not have to cast her eyes upon it.

I repeat, this is an actual 21st century initiative which has been backed by Government, and not the suggestion of some hysterical fruitcake posting a comment on the Daily Mail website.

But aside from the dreadfully patronising campaign it promotes, look at that picture. Just look at it!

You’ve got Michael Gove looking like a butch lesbian ventriloquist’s dummy that’s about to take its cycling proficiency test.

The allusion to the ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ crap that everyone got bored of in 2002, and now stands as the primary hallmark of a complete lack of imagination.

The bewildering notion that the best way to clean up a village is to roll out HENRY THE FECKING HOOVER.

The entirely superfluous exclamation marks after their stupid straplines.

The even more superfluous spaces between said stupid straplines and exclamation marks.

The more I look at it, the more apoplectic I become. I have things to do today, but I am absolutely seething. It has ruined my Sunday. I wish I was exaggerating.

‘Clean For The Queen’ day is on April 21st, by the way. I am planning to mark it by travelling to London and emptying a wheelie bin on the floor outside Buckingham Palace.

Then I’ll head to Westminster and kick Michael Gove square in the bollocks. The sniveling little prick.

You know I will. I really will*.


*I probably won’t.

The Morning After The Night Before

As a member of the Liberal Democrats, I’d long earmarked May 7th as a potentially difficult day. However with most opinion polls having concurred that the party was set to retain up to 31 of its parliamentary seats after a positive campaign, it was in a fairly relaxed mood that I settled down to watch the results roll in.

Then came the shocking moment when the BBC/ITV/Sky exit poll put forth the view that the Liberal Democrats would go on to win in just ten constituencies, an eventuality that not even the most pessimistic of doom-mongers could have predicted.

The initial reaction, of course, was to dismiss this result as an anomaly. The venerable Paddy Ashdown soon took to the airwaves to dismiss it as claptrap, even offering to ‘eat his hat’ should it come to pass.

And yet, despite having stocked up on highly-caffeinated drinks to see me through the night, they were wholly unnecessary as the massacre unfolded, and I was left wide-eyed with amazement as what looked to be a nonsensical forecast quickly turned into reality.


Giants of our party tumbled at every turn. A shell-shocked Simon Hughes was ousted after 30 years. Ed Davey, who did so much to promote that the environmental agenda within the coalition, followed suit.

The towering Jo Swinson, whose compelling brand of progressive feminism provided a refreshing antidote to the Westminster status quo also fell by the wayside. And perhaps most shockingly of all, the hugely popular Vince Cable, whose astute ideas and policies did so much to help businesses drive the economic recovery, was sensationally ejected from his Twickenham seat.

It was with some irony that the intended recipient of much of the electorate’s ire, Nick Clegg, was among the handful of Lib Dems to cling on to their seats. But, as his speech clearly indicated, there was no cause for celebration, no reason for optimism.

For the party, this was a disaster on a quite colossal, not to mention wholly unpredictable scale.

And so here I am, on the back of two hours sleep (yet feeling wide awake), trying to turn a head full of thoughts into something coherent in the half-hour I have before I’m due to begin my day’s work.

It may seem strange, but I’m certainly not regretting the decision to go into Government five years ago. Many of our detractors dismiss Clegg as a spineless character who sold his soul for a whiff of power.

What I see is a man who had such conviction in his party’s philosophies that he simply felt that the opportunity to implement them was one that could not be missed. Far from being spineless, it was brave, a calculated risk that was worth taking, but one which, ultimately, backfired.

By and large, I think the party can be proud of what it achieved and, in time, I think history will look back kindly on the Lib Dems in Government. To those who have knocked our contribution, I’ve always said “You’ll miss us when we’re gone”, and I’m sure that will bear out in the months and years to come, with the true nastiness of Conservative policy now certain to be allowed to go unchallenged by a coalition partner.

That said, I can certainly understand much of the anger shown towards the Lib Dems. The tuition fees saga was excruciating for all involved, while issues such as food banks and the bedroom tax can’t be a source of pride for any liberally minded person. Indeed, this explains why, for much of the five years we spent in Government, I allowed my party membership to lapse.

However, I came back into the fold a year ago as I was seeing a growing tendency for the noble virtue of liberalism to be cast aside and marginalised in favour of nationalism, which in my view is the smallest form of politics.

The American talk-show host, Conan O’Brien, once said “there is nothing more liberating than having your worst fear realised”, whilst discussing how even the most unexpected of setbacks can be the catalyst for profound reinvention.

And reinvention will be key in terms of preserving a credible Liberal presence in British politics as we move forward in this ever changing landscape. For the Liberal Democrats, there will inevitably be a new leader and new structure, I certainly hope there will be a new attitude, and there could even prove to be a new identity for the party altogether.

The most important thing, now, is to ensure, despite our presence being smaller than it has been in generations, that our voice remains strong, and that we remain unshakable in endeavouring to ensure that our society is built on fairness.

A Government which panders to the powerful and marginalises the weak cannot be tolerated. And the emphasis, now, is on us to ensure that this cannot happen. Despite the disappointment of last night, I’m somehow feeling more fired-up for the fight than ever before.

And with that, seeing as it’s 9.15, I’d better do some work.

You know I should. I really should.


There are some feats of cinema so incredible that you feel compelled to produce a review almost immediately after leaving the multiplex.

That’s certainly the case with ‘Big Game’, starring Samuel L. Jackson as a US President fighting for survival after Air Force One is shot from the sky.

Unfortunately, though, this is a film that’s got me fired up for all the wrong reasons.

That the hideous miscasting of cuddly old Jim Broadbent as a hard-nosed Pentagon-based American defence expert ISN’T the most mind-boggling thing about this film says everything you need to know about its quality.


Big Game is, essentially, an 80-minute throwback to the big action movies of the 80s and 90s, albeit lacking any merit whatsoever. The dialogue is hackneyed and stilted, often with long, nonsensical scenes crowbarred in simply to set-up a cringe-inducing one-liner.

And yes, Samuel L. Jackson does call somebody a ‘muthafucka’ before shooting them. Obviously.

The use of these cliched phrases, together with an overly-dramatic music score and the liberal use of super slo-mo led me to question on more than one occasion if this was a parody that I’d been taken in by. But I honestly don’t think it was.

The most impressive thing about this film was that despite its ludicrous premise, which required too big a suspension of disbelief even judging by Hollywood standards to be in anyway plausible, was that it still, somehow, remained utterly predictable at every turn. Quite a feat, in my opinion.

And yet, I am writing this review without referring too heavily to the plot, or giving away any spoilers, because as much as I feel that NOBODY should watch this film, at the same time I’m thinking EVERYONE should, simply because I don’t feel these mere words are doing justice to quite how bizarre it truly is.

In summary: Absolute complete and utter crap. Five stars.

You know it is. It really is.