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My Bowel Cancer Journey: The Beginning

Posted on by thomastparker in The Big C

Last week was my wife, Anna’s birthday. Given that last year’s celebrations were derailed by me getting diagnosed with bowel cancer,, I was determined to make things special this time around. Mission accomplished. We had a lovely time.

What I wanted to do here is share a picture of the card I bought for her, but she’s already bloody thrown them all away. So here, instead, is a graphic I found that bears the same slogan. It leapt off the shelf because, in my case, it’s a very true story.

With that in mind, it feels as good a time as any to write something I’ve been meaning to put out there for a while.

This, my friends, is the story of my diagnosis.

⚠️
WARNING:
The following contains unfiltered and fairly unpleasant detail about my use of the toilet. If that’s not for you, maybe don’t read on.
⚠️

I’m not really sure when it began. But, for a period of weeks, probably months, my toilet habits changed. I was going more frequently. It was softer. Bittier. It almost felt like it was taking four or five attempts to produce what I’d normally deliver in one sitting.

At the same time, though, Frank was having a few issues with upset stomachs and digestion. Anna, as always, was vigilant of his needs. She would take him to the doctor, they’d say it was nothing to be worried about and would pass, and I lived vicariously assuming the same was true for me.

As we moved into the early weeks of summer, I was conscious that it had been a long time since I’d done a ‘normal’ poo. Then blood started to appear. Only a few spots at first, but enough to take notice. And yet, I still didn’t read the signs. I convinced myself that it had just been caused by my ongoing digestive issues. That I’d been going to the toilet so frequently that I must have just irritated the skin.

With the benefit of hindsight, it feels so stupid. I wasn’t entirely naive to the chance it was something sinister, but I was relatively young, and felt shielded by the idea that “it’ll never happen to me”.

As summer went on, though, that comfort blanket became increasingly threadbare. August came and Anna and Frank went to Ireland, leaving me in Birmingham. Suddenly, with the chaos of a busy home replaced by the silence of solitude, there was space in my head for nagging thoughts to creep in.

Despite this, as blood continued to appear in greater quantities, I continued to ignore the obvious. Anna and Frank came home. I said nothing. I did nothing. But the anxiety was growing.

As we approached the end of summer, it was time for our family holiday to Italy, and my symptoms were continuing to worsen. The worries, now consuming me, were beginning to show. I was irritable. Snappy. And then, stupidly, I derailed the whole trip by crashing our rental car, an incident that I still believe was borne out of a dark and distracted state of mind.

What followed was a few weeks of turmoil and disagreement with the car hire company, who reneged on the collision damage waiver and delivered a bill running into thousands of pounds.

It was, in the end, covered by my very generous insurers, but the issue had commanded all of my attention for a while, and I continued to ignore my impending health crisis.

At this point, many of my stools seemed to be made up of almost entirely blood. Every visit to the toilet resembled a massacre, and the possibility of bowel cancer began to fleetingly enter my thoughts. Given the fact that my dad had died from it a year previously, it feels like I should have taken those fears more seriously. Genuinely, I can’t explain why I didn’t.

Still reluctant, for some reason, to go to the doctors, I did the worst thing possible when you have medical concerns: I did an internet search of my symptoms. Only, in this case, Doctor Google appeared very keen to impart the best case scenario.

Of the umpteen signs of bowel cancer, blood in my stool was the only one I had. Tiredness? No more than you’d expect living with a four-year-old. Lethargy? I was feeling as fit as I had in a long time. Weight loss? I wish!

Even the type of blood I was passing didn’t seem to indicate a serious diagnosis. Tar-like and dark, apparently, was the sign of cancer. Mine was liquid and bright red, which pointed to something else: haemorrhoids.

So, with some degree of embarrassment, I took that diagnosis as fact, ordered some Germoloids from Amazon, and set about self-medicating.

While the treatment offered a small degree of improvement, the problem was still bad enough that I was concerned. Apparently things should have cleared up within 2-3 days. I was at about 2-3 weeks.

But I continued to bury my head in the sand.

At this stage, I’d still told nobody about my concerns. Mercifully, though, Anna’s perceptive nature had kicked in. She’d noticed the ever increasing frequency of my visits to the toilet. Her keen sense of smell was being triggered more often. The kicker was when she spotted a trace of blood.

She gently suggested a trip to the doctor a couple of times, which I stupidly continued to resist. By early October, she forced the issue and made me go.

My doctor is one of those folks who is incredibly hard to read. As I relayed my months of symptoms, all the while being apologetic for wasting his time when it was probably nothing, there wasn’t a flicker of reaction on his face. Having considered everything I said, he told me he was ordering a testing kit, then we’d go from there.

It arrived a few days later, with a return addressed envelope for “The Bowel Cancer Screening Unit”. Seeing those words was a wake up call. Quite suddenly, it felt like, actually, this could be quite serious after all.

It came as no surprise when the test did show the presence of blood in my stool, and I was quickly booked in for a colonoscopy to examine things further.

By the time this came around on 8th November, I was still telling myself it was probably nothing but, at the same time, I knew it had to be something. After all, I couldn’t go on shooting blood out of my arse several times every day.

The colonoscopy was as hideous as you might imagine having a camera shoved into your large intestine to be. After what felt like hours, they managed to get the camera the entire way around my bowel and… nothing.

I felt a wave of relief, but was still riddled with confusion as to what the bloody hell (literally) might be causing my symptoms. They’d nearly completely withdrawn the camera when, there on the screen, it appeared.

My tumour.

It was so close to the rectum that the camera had initially passed it by on entry. But there was no missing it on the way out. Jesus Christ, it looked horrendous. Just a yellowish mass dominating the screen. Have you ever seen footage of a ‘fatberg’ in a sewer? It looked a bit like that.

“Don’t worry, it’s just magnified, it’s not as big as it looks”, whispered the nurse, sensing my panic. But I knew.

As I was wheeled into the recovery room. I could hear them calling Anna, telling her to come in and pick me up. Because I was nowhere near ready to leave, dressed as I still was in a surgical gown, I knew they were calling her in so I had somebody with me when they imparted the bad news. I wanted to tell her “don’t bring Frank”, but I still hadn’t been reunited with my phone.

Eventually they arrived, Frank ran into the room with his trademark boundless energy and beaming smile. How exciting it was to pick up daddy from hospital! Only, very quickly, the nurses were suggesting he stayed with them for a few minutes so mommy and daddy could have a quick talk with the doctor.

We were ushered in, and the doc confirmed what I already knew. It was cancer. He knew it just from looking at it. But, what he couldn’t tell us was how advanced it was. If it had spread. If I could die. We needed to wait for the biopsy results for that.

I was quickly booked in for CT and MRI scans so they could learn more, but ultimately, I was left with an agonising ten day wait to learn the severity of my prognosis.

We stumbled out of the room in a daze and found Frank playing on a computer with the nurses, delighted that he had been allowed to share their biscuits and chocolate. I plastered on my gameface (something I would get used to doing) and off we went. The guilt that I was disrupting our happy family life was already unbearable.

The timing was rotten, not only because Anna’s birthday was just a few days away, but also because I was about to spend a week on stage playing the lead role in a play.

The following morning, I arrived for our technical rehearsal, breaking down as I told my director the devastating news. I decided not to tell the remainder of the cast, which later I would come to regret.

In the play, there was a dramatic moment in the first act when my character, who had been the subject of a murder attempt, bravely asserted his defiance. The speech ended with me bellowing “It’s all a game and if I die, I die”. Only this time, I couldn’t get the words out. It felt real. Poor Holly, my opposite number in the scene, looked bewildered as I collapsed in tears. It was then that I had to break the news to my fellow players.

As much as I felt like I didn’t want to continue, in the end, I decided the show must go on. Looking back, my week on stage was the distraction I needed to keep me sane as the anxious wait for my prognosis went on.

A few days after taking the final bow, it was finally time to visit my consultant to get my biopsy and scan results. Mercifully, of all the scenarios bouncing around my head, I received one of the better outcomes. There had been no spread, they felt confident it had been caught relatively early and, thank God, my treatment plan was curative.

That’s not to say the path ahead was easy. My tumour was fairly large at around six centimetres in diameter, necessitating the radiotherapy, chemotherapy, and ultimately the surgery that followed.

As I look back now, I’m in sheer disbelief at my lack of urgency and my reluctance to get checked out.

I was always the sort of person who never went to the doctor and never wanted to cause a fuss, but in this case, I think I was just scared of the truth. It’s not that I didn’t believe it could happen to me, I just didn’t want to believe it. But now I understand it’s better to know what’s really going on than to live in fear of what might be.

There are moments when I wonder if the path might have been easier, the treatment less intrusive, if I had just gone to the doctor as soon as I felt there was a problem. On the flip side, I’m so grateful that I had somebody who cared enough to make sure I sought help before it was too late.

I say all this just in case it resonates with anybody. If I can help just one person to seek help if they think they might need it, then that’s good enough for me.

Ultimately, the lesson here is to listen to your body. But, if you can’t do that, just listen to your wife instead. You might live happily ever after.

You know you might. You really might.

#WorldRadioDay: Shoutout to my ex.

Posted on by thomastparker in Things I've done

Today is #WorldRadioDay, and a time when I look back fondly to the beginning of my career. Here’s the story of how radio seduced me before unceremoniously dumping me… and why I’ve never quite got over it.

I was always fascinated with radio. Childhood home videos show me pretending to be BRMB’s ‘Voice of Sport’, George Gavin, offering my takes on the goings on at Aston Villa in the early 90s.

I was 16 before I took to the airwaves for real, bagging a Tuesday evening show on the Black Country’s youth community station, KicFM, alongside my best mate. We were raised on the era of ‘zoo’ formats. Chris Evans on the radio and Johnny and Denise on the telly. The result was an attempt at creating a similar sense of chaos by two people who knew what they liked, but not necessarily how to make it.

It was hit and miss. Raw and awkward. One feature that sticks in my mind was adopting the personas of WWE commentators ‘JR and King’ to offer commentary on that week’s episodes of Coronation Street. You know the schtick. “BAH GAWD, THAT’S KEN BARLOW’S MUSIC!!” and all that. We loved it, and I sort of maintain it was a good idea. That said, I dread to think how it actually sounded.

My next foray behind the mic was a little more ordered, a little less frenetic, as I settled into a weekly show on my University’s student radio station. Play a song. Do a short sharp link. Play another. That’s not to say I didn’t sail close to the wind on occasion, including getting dragged into the station manager’s office for a dressing down over what he believed was a libellous comment I made about David Beckham.

During the discussion, ridiculously, he told me: “I don’t anticipate David was listening, but stranger things have happened”. I still think it’s the most fanciful thing that anybody’s ever said.

Unbelievably, it transpired that David Beckham WASN’T listening to the University of Lincoln’s Siren FM that night after all, so there was no black mark on my record as I took up my first ever full-time job. Fresh out of Uni, I got a foot in the door at Heart FM where, in an era when companies were still getting to grips with the importance of digital media, responsibility for their website, CRM and social media output was handed to a largely unqualified idiot (me).

It was both the best and worst first job I could have asked to have. The best because I loved it and learned so much. The worst because it was a shock to later discover that most workplaces don’t just let you mess around with your mates for eight hours a day and get away with it.

That place was mad. We’d often go out until the early hours, sleep at the station, then wake up when the breakfast show started and just plough through the hangover. My time there also saw a brief flirtation with minor celebrity as I made daily appearances on sister station, Galaxy 102.2, where I was billed as ‘Webbo’. At one stage I was dispatched on an incredibly cringeworthy blind date that took place in front of a paying audience of a couple of hundred listeners.

There was no second date.

Incredible memories made. Lifetime friendships forged. And a couple of OBs with Keith Chegwin to boot. But, just when I was having the time of my life, little did I know that my journey in radio didn’t have much longer to run. In 2009, the industry was making great strides towards a networked future and our heads were on the block. I avoided the chop on the first couple of rounds of redundancies, but finally got the heave-ho on the third.

I was devastated, but determined to get back in. I started putting in as many unpaid shifts as I could at the Digbeth-based community station, ‘Rhubarb Radio’ (guess where its studio was!) while I awaited answers to the umpteen letters dispatched to programme controllers at stations up and down the country.

None came.

Eventually, even Rhubarb Radio went bump, and with it went the dream entirely. I started my journey in PR and marketing, and my stint in radio was done.

I still love radio, but I’ve enjoyed a fulfilling career away from it, and I don’t expect to ever be involved professionally again. To be frank, I’m not sure the industry I miss even exists anymore.

That said, I still look back at those days, and what it taught me about the simplicity of storytelling, and the sheer importance of understanding what makes your audience tick. An old boss once told me that “there’s nothing more interesting than real life” and it’s a mantra I still bore colleagues with all the time.

So, happy #WorldRadioDay to those who love the wireless. It remains, despite everything, the best and most intimate way to get a message across, and should be protected at all costs.

You know it should. It really should.

“Here’s Jamelia…”

How a wish became a nightmare

Posted on by thomastparker in Musings, Seriousness

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

Posted on by thomastparker in My Favourite Goalkeepers, Uncategorized

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

Posted on by thomastparker in My Favourite Goalkeepers

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

Posted on by thomastparker in Musings

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

Posted on by thomastparker in Politics, Seriousness

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.

nb

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:

https://twitter.com/milftears/status/796557820829175808?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw

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

Posted on by thomastparker in Seriousness

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.

Dalian

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

Posted on by thomastparker in Comedy, Projects

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…)

standup

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

Posted on by thomastparker in Musings

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:

gove

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.