#i took photos on the way home going through manchester while on the bus

[zaddyazula]

i’ve spent the last hour doing my fucking product design portfolio 😭😭😭😭

[natromanxoff]

Queen live at Bingley Hall in Stafford, UK - May 6, 1978 (Part -2)

Photos were taken by Anthony Mallan.

Fan Stories

“As I write this I can't believe it is over 24 years since my first ever Queen gig. I was 15 years old and had looked forward to this day ever since I had first heard Bohemian Rhapsody 3 years earlier. Before that song Queen had just been another pop/rock group but BoRhap was the song which for me would set them apart from all others, the song that began my addiction for this band's music - an addiction which continues to this day. I had an hour long bus ride to Stafford and then had to walk to the Bingley Hall which was about 2 miles out of town. I remember while walking a couple of stretched limos passed I couldn't see inside because the windows were blacked out but I knew that it was the members of Queen in those cars and that added to the excitement. I arrived at the venue and joined the queue to get in. I was quite early but there were still a few hundred people in front of me. I bought a Black T shirt with the News of The World robot on the front and the words Spring Tour '78 and a program, both of which I still have although the T shirt is well worn. I was also treated to a young lady a bit drunk I think, taking her T Shirt off and running around half naked, quite sensational for a 15 year old lad. We were let into the hall at about 7pm and I found myself fairly near the front it was all standing and I was quite small so I was pleased to see the stage was set quite high which meant I would have an excellent view. The stage set for this tour was the famous crown and as I looked in awe at its size. I can remember wondering how they would get it to lift off the stage? I can't remember the time but probably an hour or so after I had got into the hall the lights went out and a mechanical whining noise started this was followed very quickly by white lights from the stage, smoke and then the drum beat of We Will Rock You with the song breaking straight into the chorus. Suddenly on a platform in the middle of the front row of the crowd Brian May appeared playing the "Rock You" guitar riff. I remember the feeling of joy and awe, I am sure I must have pinched myself to make sure this was really happening. After an explosion they burst into the fast version of "Rock You" and I saw Freddie for the first time. He was wearing shiney leather trousers, jacket & cap and running around the stage like a madman. It's far too long ago for me to remember every detail of the show but I do remember Freddie toasting us with champagne and at the end of '39 Roger threw his tamborine into the crowd and I had it for a split second before dropping it, I stood no chance really. The songs which I remember most from this gig were the ones which after this tour they were never to play live again: "White Man" & "Prophets Song" both were played either side of Brian's guitar solo and I can clearly remember Freddie performing vocal gymnastics during the middle section of "Prophets Song". The concert ended with a Rock n Roll medley. I remember right at the end of God Save The Queen we all started singing "You'll Never Walk Alone", then the lights were on and it was over. In a lot of respects it seems so long ago but as I am thinking of it now, parts of it are as clear as yesterday.”  - Kevin Ruscoe

“It was fun reading Kevin's story about going to see Queen at Stafford Bingley Hall in 1978. This was the first concert I had ever been to (talk about starting at the top). When the lights went down and Brian started with the dynamic We Will Rock You strumming, I was captured. A couple of years ealier I had purchased Night At The Opera for a girl I fancied at work. I took it to give her and before I could present her with it she showed me that she had just brought the album herself. So much for my Night At The Opera with her! So, I had to go home, take a cold shower, and listen to music. Because it was the only album I had, I played it and played it and I discovered a world I never knew existed. Music up to that point was something that was on the radio. That night seemed to open a new and exciting world me. Not as exciting as I had been planning with her but exciting none the less. My biggest memory of the Stafford concert was when Freddie gets us to sing along with him. Whenever I heard the Live Killers album, it would take me back to that moment at Stafford when I found out what I wanted to do with my life. I write now, plays and musicals, some successful, some not. Thanks Queen for my reason to live.”  - Robert

“Memory's a funny thing... and I wish to heck that I had a better one. How come I can remember useless things I don't want to know, like the winner of the first Big Brother programme, but can't remember stuff which would be far more useful... like how to order beer in any language, my bank account number... or the exact setlist of my first ever rock concert, Queen at Stafford's Bingley Hall in May 1978? Sitting down to type up this review I did a quick search on the net but only came up with a partial setlist which ends about two thirds of the way through. Very frustrating. So really this isn't a review, it can't be, but it's more a hazy recollection of just what it felt like to be a 15-year-old boy at his very first rock show. First off I remember getting the ticket. "Harvey Goldsmith presents A Night With Queen" printed in green (tickets for the Sunday night gig were printed in blue) and the price, L3.50 - laughably cheap now. I can't remember how long it was before the gig that I got the ticket but I do know that the waiting for the day of the gig was unbearable. But eventually that day arrived. Another reason it sticks in my mind is that it was the day of the FA Cup final (Arsenal beat Ipswich Town) and it was the first time I'd not sat glued to the TV from 12pm for all the build-up and the big match itself. If it had been my team, Manchester City, it might have been a different story, but I went up to Bingley Hall mid-afternoon, with a friend called Mark Butters, to join the queue and get as good a standing spot as possible. For those of you who don't know, Bingley Hall is a 10,000-plus capacity shed (a giant cowshed, really), at the County Showground just outside Stafford, and owned by the Staffordshire Agricultural Society. Before the NEC and other purpose-built venues came along, gigs at this venue (which on other occasions were filled with agricultural displays or animal pens) were a big deal, on a par with Wembley Arena and the like. Others to have played there include Abba, Black Sabbath, Genesis, Thin Lizzy, Saxon, Yes and Rush. I remember my Mum being worried sick about me going to the gig. Worried about the size of the crowd. Worried about the music volume. Worried about drugs. She was particularly worried that I was wearing a Thin Lizzy badge on my denim jacket and might get beaten up by some aggressive Queen fan who took exception to any other band. I had to persuade her that rock fans were not quite so tribal as football fans. I also remember standing fairly close to the glass-fronted doors in the queue and the physical, painful ache of anticipation. What came next is a blur - the doors finally being opened, the crush as we made our way through and our tickets were examined, the further crush by the merchandise stall (I got myself a big, square programme, which I've still got). Then I made my way into the crowd, jockeying for a position as near to the front as possible. The gig was all-standing and as showtime got closer the build-up of pressure was astonishing. I was pretty central, but there was constant swaying from left to right, if you lifted your legs you wouldn't fall, just be carried along with this sea of rock fans. Finally the wait is over (yes, I know I've changed tense, it just suits my recollections better). The lights go down. The roar of the crowd is unbelievably loud. But what comes next is even louder. As we strain to see what's going on the air is filled with a mechanical sound, the giant lighting rig (Queen's famed crown set-up) is lifting into the air in a sea of smoke. We Will Rock You explodes into the air. It's all light and smoke and noise... and suddenly there's Brian May, playing that guitar, just feet away from me. The spotlights fall on John Deacon and Roger Taylor behind his gigantic drumkit. Just one thing left now. Freddie. And he appears out of nowhere, Freddie Mercury, prancing and preening around the stage, soaking up the adulation, singing his guts out, clad in shiny black PVC. Call me innocent or naive, but back then I didn't really know about the whole gay/camp fetish thing... he just looked like the superstar he was. For the next two hours or so I am transported to a whole new place. We get the rockers (Brighton Rock, We Are The Champions, Now I'm Here, a pre-release It's Late, I'm In Love With My Car), the pop-orientated stuff (Killer Queen, Spread Your Wings, Somebody To Love, You're My Best Friend) and a superb acoustic section, featuring Love Of My Life and its amazing crowd singalong and '39, during which a string breaks on Brian May's guitar but he carries on regardless, note perfect to my ears. Oh, and we get Bohemian Rhapsody too. It's still only a couple of years old at this point, and although obviously something incredibly special is still making it's way up the ladder to immortality to stand alongside the likes of Stairway To Heaven. Anyway, it's bloody brilliant. Queen leave the stage for the opera section, enabling them to make another grand entrance in lights, smoke and pyrotechnics for the rock-out - a masterstroke! According to Kevin Ruscoe's review of this gig at the superb www.queenconcerts.com site we also got White Man and The Prophet's Song, but I have no recollection of that at all. Nonetheless it still sticks in my mind as one of the greatest gigs I have even seen over the past 28 years, and as one of the greatest events of my life. Like Kevin, I remember singing You'll Never Walk Alone at the end of God Save The Queen, a football terrace salute to a rock phenomenon. What a night!”  - Ian Harvey (April 28, 2006)

Part-1

[betterlatethannever2]

THE ALLY PALLY CONNECTION

I recently came across a photo, taken from Mountview Road, near Crouch End, where I lived as a child.  I was amazed to be able to see Alexandra Palace on a further hilltop, which I am sure was not visible from there in the 1940’s.  Grandma and Grandad Hoad (my mother’s parents) lived at 103 Rosebery Road, Muswell Hill, which was barely a stone’s throw from the Palace, and my mother and I were frequent visitors there.  This was the house that was provided for my grandparents after their own house at Nunhead (102 Drakefell Road) suffered war damage.  These visits are among my earliest memories, and I certainly remember being there in June 1944 when a telegram was delivered to announce that my Uncle Leslie had been killed in a motor-cycle accident on Malta.  He was on War Service but wasn’t involved in hostilities at the time.  I remember the grief, but it was stoically borne, in my presence anyway.  I was four at the time.

The second sad event at this address was the cot-death of my first brother, Anthony.  We must have been staying for the night.  This was totally unexpected, and I remember my mother’s devastation.  For a few weeks it seemed as though I had become the responsibility of Grandma, and my Auntie Marjorie who was still living at home at the time.  Nobody spoke to me about the tragedy, and I had to work out for myself why my mother was unable to cope with my care, and why she did not wish to speak to any body.  I do not recall being present at the funeral, but I presume my mother was able to regain her composure once all the procedures had been dealt with.  We manage things very differently now.

My grandparents were still at this address in 1947, and by this time I was trusted to go and see them by myself on the bus.  The bus stop, at the bottom of the green sweep, and on the road that curves round and up to Alexandra Palace was still there fifteen years ago, and I am sure it is still there now.  I would get off the bus and make my way through a small cutting, turn left, and then right, and straight on down Rosebery  Road to 103.  The semi-detached house, in an area now beloved by TV executives, had a very relaxed appearance, and a certain ‘graciousness’ inside.  There were two quite large and formal rooms on the ground floor, and stairs down to the kitchen, where we all sat unless there was a big family gathering.  the front room was very rarely used, but the back room could accommodate a sizeable party, and I enjoyed one or two of these, at adult knee height.  This room had french windows which led out onto a raised wooden veranda overlooking the garden.  I can smell the damp woodland feel its slippery surface under my feet, even now.  I loved all these visits.

I was the first grandchild, and while not actually spoilt in that sense, I enjoyed lots of affection and attention.  On my arrival, Grandad would reach for his ’sweetie’ tin on the piano, and while intoning Fe Fi Fo Fum, would invite me to plunge my small hand into the  sweet smelling and sticky selection.  I was particularly fond of pear drops.  Grandma had a selection of toys, wind-up tin animals and vehicles, simple construction sets, and jigsaws.  And of course, there were the Just William books.  I was never, ever bored, and always happy to listen in to the adult conversation, without making that too obvious.

Grandad was a very practical man, and was always making useful gadgets and small pieces of wooden furniture, and even toys.  He also repaired the family shoes on his lasts - a great saving then, as shoe repairs were very costly.  His workshop was a small room tucked away under the veranda.  He was also very proud of his garden.  His new potatoes, garden peas and strawberries have never been equalled in my experience.  I can just about summon their exquisite flavour, together with that of the pears from the trees  that grew in the garden.

On a Sunday morning he would take me to the newsagent’s to buy a comic for me, and a couple of the less salubrious Sunday papers for him, together with Titbits.  I read them all!  In the afternoon he would pack up his leather cases, and take his bowls up to the Muswell Hill Bowling Green.  I still have the smaller case, and I treasure it - not with the bowls in unfortunately.  I expect other members of the family took care of those.

Grandma, or more often my Auntie Marjorie, would take me to play on the swings in the grounds of Alexandra Palace.  On the top terraces, you had a wonderful view over London.  On one unforgettable occasion, my mother, Aunty Marjorie and myself dressed up in the beautiful dresses my mother had made out of  nylon parachute material.  Mine was white with red silk thread embellishment to the frills, and theirs were yellow with jade thread.  We were off to the Ball at the Palace.  Even at the time I thought it was very nice of them both to take me too, but with hindsight, I guess I made a useful chaperone.  They didn’t have to dance together all evening, there were gentlemanly invitations too.  I am always trying to reconstruct that evening in my mind, and comb the television screen whenever there is an event at Ally Pally, but it always eludes me.

These memories have been stirred by finding the paperwork connected with the requisitioning of the house that Grandad actually bought in 1933, located between Nunhead and New Cross.  He was a draughtsman by profession, and went to work in a suit, white shirt and tie.  His recent ancestors had been boatbuilders at Rye, hence his handyman skills, but clearly he was ‘upwardly mobile’.  The house cost £650.  By 1953, and after a great deal of ‘argy bargy’ about the war damage repair costs, and who was responsible for them, the house was valued at £350.  I have not been able to follow the line of argument, but clearly my grandfather knew when and how to dig his heels in when necessary, but he may have lost out on value as a result.

My grandparents were delighted to be back in their own house at last, and I hope that I never let on that I much preferred the house at Rosebery Road.  The railway ran at the bottom of their garden which was interesting, but noisy.  When I was ten, or eleven, my father (long home from the army by then), accepted a transfer of his post with the Public Trustee (a branch of the Civil Service, dealing with wills and probate) and we moved north to Manchester, settling in the nearby village of Romiley, then in Cheshire.  I was very homesick, but my parents allowed me to travel back to Grandma and Grandad’s for some of my school holidays.  I had the sort of freedom I would tremble to give my own grandchildren now.  Nunhead station was just down the road, and I would regularly take myself into central London to explore.  I also enjoyed visits to places like Kew Gardens, and to see other relatives, with Grandma and Auntie Marjorie.

When I watch TV programmes like ‘Who Do You Think You Are?�� I know I am very lucky to know exactly who I am. 1st June.2020

[maggieisalarrie]

Hello again! Here are my most recent reads! These are some fantastic fics so please read them and leave kudos and comments for these incredibly talented authors! 

All I Want Is To Be Free by lululawrence (11k)

“Uh, you saw photos? Of me wearing the shirt?”

The guy nodded eagerly while he pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Yeah! I took a picture of the photo I saw so I could remember to look it up. Hold on.”

The guy scrolled through his phone and made a happy sound when he found it. “Here!”

Louis grabbed his phone to look at the picture. Yep. That confirmed it. He was going crazy.

The photo he was looking at was definitely one of him wearing his beloved shirt, but there was a taller man standing beside him, looking at him and laughing as Louis had his hand resting possessively on the guy’s hip. Louis had absolutely no recollection of this ever happening.

Or the one where Louis keeps finding photos around campus of him with a man he's never met before, and the only logical explanation must be he's going crazy.

Baby Honey by nikogda (8k)

“Lou, did you see these little baby tea boxes I found yesterday?” He tossed one towards Louis and watched as it thumped Louis in the head. Louis groaned and reached for the little box, rolling it around in his hands, “If you’re about to make a joke about me. I strongly suggest you don’t.” Harry frowned and bounced his tea bag in the water watching the liquid darken, “M’ not! I just thought the babytea boxes were cute.” Louis’ eyes narrowed and he looked at the tiny boxes, and back at Harry. Harry watched, he could see the wheels turning inside of Louis’ mind. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Louis looked at the box once more and back at Harry — or… After four years of Marriage, Harry discovers he is expecting. He could go home and hand the ultrasound photo to his amazing husband, Louis. Or… he could have some fun with this. Only Louis catching on to all the hints Harry is dropping.

Or is he?

cupid’s defence by rhuubarb (117k)

In which Harry is Cupid, Louis and Liam own a law firm, and they’re all getting sued.

Fall with Style by crimsontheory (14k)

Louis doesn’t get out too much due to his shyness. The only two friends he has he met online and they both live miles and miles away. Then along comes a cute bartender that completely flips Louis’ life upside down.

Far Afield by QuickedWeen (11k)

Harry Styles is a witch who owns the best flower shop in Manchester. Lottie Tomlinson is planning her wedding, and brings her brother along to her first appointment. Both men have been having a bad day and sparks fly.

Go Out for Adventure, Come Home for Love by myownspark (9k)

Four years of iconic moments that inspire tattoos and promises. Fic inspired by the song “Spaces” which includes the lyric “forgetting every single promise we ever made.” Five promises, plus one extra just for fun (because how can you hear Harry say he’s good at falling asleep in front of the fire and not write about it? Honestly).

It’s Hard to Say It, Time to Say It by kikikryslee (11k)

Harry sighed. “We have a lot of clothes in stock, sir-” “Please don’t call me ‘sir,’” the guy said. “I’m only twenty-six.” “OK, then. We have a lot of clothes in stock, dude, so finding something else in your size won’t be a problem if it means you’ll buy something. What are you? Like, an extra small?” The guy actually had the nerve to look offended. Harry resisted laughing. “Hey! I’ll have you know that I’m a medium!” “In what?” Harry asked, looking the guy over. “Children’s?” — Or, the one where Louis is an annoying customer who won’t leave Harry’s shop on time, and Harry is counting down the seconds until Louis leaves. Until a chance encounter at a concert, and suddenly, Harry really doesn’t want Louis to leave.

My Lights Stay Up, But Your City Sleeps by PearlyDewdrops (108k)

Harry breaks into his own smile, scrunching his nose when he glances back up, meeting Louis’ eyes, his stiff posture loosening. They stare for a beat, Harry’s smile dwindling. “So… you’re okay with it? That it can’t go anywhere?”

Louis nods easily. “We’re on the same page. Promise.” He holds out his pinkie to prove it, mind hazy and giddy from alcohol. Harry’s dimples appear in each cheek as he holds out his own, their pinkies intertwining. “We’re just two people who like each other, have fun together, and who may or may not kiss and… stuff.” He grins, wild adrenaline pumping through to his fingertips.

Harry sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, lowering his flushed gaze to the floor.

“Just don’t go falling in love with me, and it’ll be fine,” Louis smirks.

Or Louis has trouble sleeping, Harry has a habit of wrapping himself around Louis during the nights, and a mutual agreement to engage in a fun and simple thing quickly turns into something perhaps not so fun, and certainly not simple.

One Day, Maybe Next Week by kikikryslee (6k)

Louis was staring at him, expecting a response, and Harry was supposed to be the one coming up with that response, and he was so not prepared, so he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Where were you? You weren’t on the bus for a few days.” Louis raised an eyebrow. “What?” “Uh… Sorry, I just- Um, sort of noticed that maybe you weren’t on the bus since last week. Not that I watch for when you’re on the bus or anything. That would be weird. Obviously, you have your own schedule, and I have mine. I just saw that you weren’t here, so I wondered what you were doing, or if something bad happened, like you got kidnapped or something. God, that sounded creepy. I promise I’m not threatening your life or something. Jesus, just stop me. If you have pepper spray, I would totally understand if you got me in the eyes right now.” Louis had his lips pressed together at this point, holding back a laugh. Harry really didn’t blame him for that. --- Or, the one where Harry just really wants to talk to Louis. And when he finally does, everything he says just comes out wrong.

One Shines Brighter by afirethatcannotdie (12k)

“Hi, baby. You doing anything fun today?” Harry shrugs. “Dunno. Thought I’d see how I was feeling before making any plans.” “You wanna get married?” Louis asks. Harry’s face breaks into a smile, and he nods. Louis’ lips are just brushing Harry’s when Gemma appears in the hallway. “You two are in so much trouble.” Harry’s wedding was never supposed to be the happiest day of his life. No, that was going to be the day after, when he finally got to start his marriage. Unfortunately his family (and Louis) have other ideas.

Featuring a pair of moms who only want the best for their kids, meddling sisters with too much time on their hands, and a groom who gets caught up in the fairytale.

Show Me Life Like I’ve Never Seen by Rearviewdreamer (43k)

Louis never expected to leave the small art studio three blocks down from his job with anything besides the painting he caught a glimpse of and simply couldn't forget.

Small Doses (Loving You It’s Explosive) by QuickedWeen (39k)

Louis Tomlinson finds himself at Vitality Fitness to try and turn his life around after having left his cheating boyfriend of four years. The gym’s owner, Liam, quickly becomes a good friend, but his right hand man is rude and dismissive from the get-go. Louis and Harry continue to clash all while Harry is trying to move his way up the ranks in Manchester’s amateur boxing circuit, but they can’t seem to stay away from each other.

Sound Like a Song by allwaswell16 (14k)

In high school, Louis Tomlinson lit up Harry’s world like nobody else, even if Harry did most of his pining from the safety of his tightly knit circle of friends. Ten years later, Harry is ready to make some changes. He’s tired of having so many regrets and not taking charge of his life, and he still hasn’t forgotten how brightly Louis shines. He’s about to get a long awaited second chance.

Or the one where Harry helps out at a farmer���s market and gives Louis free vegetables.

The Art of the Giants by asphodelknox (11k)

Louis is dancing away from an old relationship when he meets Harry at a bookstore in the busy streets of Seattle. Harry is just a bookstore owner hoping his handsome weekly visitor could become something more.

Your Mess Is Mine by amory (177k)

Louis is the father to the most brilliant little boy in the world who is all Louis really needs, or at least that’s what he tells himself. Harry is a gorgeous boybander fresh off a two year break and a massive scandal that’s left him a little broken and more than ready to move on.

They fall in love.

See what else is new on my fic rec page! You can also check out what I’m reading next or give me suggestions!  

[wsmith215]

Liverpool Premier League title parade could be next season, says Jurgen Klopp | Football News

“If this is the 12th or 13th matchday of next season and we want to celebrate it – who is going to stop it? Then we still have the trophy and then we can drive it around town and stand on the bus”

Last Updated: 07/06/20 12:09am

0:47

Jurgen Klopp says Liverpool could hold an open-top bus parade through the city midway through next season, if they clinch the Premier League title behind closed doors

Jurgen Klopp says Liverpool could hold an open-top bus parade through the city midway through next season, if they clinch the Premier League title behind closed doors

Jurgen Klopp says Liverpool could hold a Premier League title parade midway through next season, if that is when coronavirus restrictions on mass gatherings are eased.

Liverpool are on the verge of securing a first top-flight title for 30 years and Klopp’s side require just two victories from their final nine games to guarantee the trophy.

Matches are set to resume behind closed doors on June 17, meaning Liverpool’s supporters will not be at Anfield to celebrate their likely triumph, or permitted to gather in the city to honour the campaign.

“That you can’t celebrate in the way you’ve always dreamed of, that’s not nice, I totally understand that,” Klopp told Sky Germany. “I feel the same way. It’s not that my ideal is to celebrate alone in the stadium, then just drive home.

Liverpool celebrated last season’s Champions League triumph with a parade

“It wasn’t like that when you thought about it. But that cannot be changed now. Why should we now make a big deal about something that can’t be changed?

“There comes a day when life will get back to normal. When someone has found the vaccine, when someone has found a solution to the problem, when infection rates are zero or below – that day will come eventually. Then we have the right to celebrate what we want to celebrate on that day.

“If this is the 12th or 13th matchday of next season and we want to celebrate it – who is going to stop it? Then we still have the trophy and then we can drive it around town and stand on the bus. If other people then think that we are completely crazy, I honestly don’t care.

“Can it then still be a special celebration? No question. It’s different, but different is sometimes absolutely OK.”

Season can become ‘historic’

Liverpool had amassed a remarkable 82 points from 29 games when the Premier League was suspended in March, with Klopp’s side having dropped points on just two occasions, with a solitary draw and a defeat.

With his side on course to eclipse Manchester City’s record total of 100 points from the 2017-18 season, Klopp has urged his players to win all of their remaining fixtures.

1:05 Trent Alexander-Arnold is confident Liverpool can find their form again once the Premier League restarts after the coronavirus suspension

Trent Alexander-Arnold is confident Liverpool can find their form again once the Premier League restarts after the coronavirus suspension

“The problem at the moment is that we still have to become one (champions),” Klopp said

“I am not sitting here and want to doubt that, but I also know that we want to win football matches and not only two, but if possible nine.

“This can become historic, I have to say so clearly. And not only club historical, but historical in general. We have the chance to get an unbelievable number of points and so we prepare ourselves and then we will see what comes out of it.”

Liverpool squad kneeling an ‘extraordinary moment’

While Liverpool’s performances on the pitch this season have given Klopp plenty of reason to be proud, the German revealed an off-field gesture by his players this week had impressed him.

His squad showed their support for the Black Lives Matter movement as they knelt around the centre circle during a training session at Anfield, a move that several other Premier League clubs followed.

0:40 Klopp is ‘proud’ that the squad took a knee in support for the Black Lives Matter movement, following the death of George Floyd

Klopp is ‘proud’ that the squad took a knee in support for the Black Lives Matter movement, following the death of George Floyd

The gesture followed the death of American George Floyd, who died on May 25 after a white police officer who has since been charged with his murder held him down by pressing a knee into his neck.

“For us, the contact with each other and Black Lives Matter is natural,” Klopp said. “If you look at our team, we have players from Africa, from England, et cetera.

“It’s so natural for us that we didn’t even think about sending a message at first. Because it’s completely normal, nobody realised that we would have to say it again. But then the boys noticed it. Then they spontaneously decided to do it.

“I have been very proud of the boys for a long time, but this was another extraordinary moment. When I saw them there and this photo was taken, I was really proud, because it is also an important message. No question about it.”

Super 6: Sancho to Halt Hertha?

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[secret-rendezvous1d]

IMAGINE THE MISSUS BEING THERE WHEN HARRY AUDITIONS FOR THE XFACTOR

WATCH THIS FOR A GOOD CRY.

She stayed the night before his audition because he asked her to. Because Anne gave her the all clear to spend the night and travel with them into Manchester the following day. Because Gemma wanted her to stay for dinner and it worked out. Because he needed her there to get his nerves to settle. Because he needed her there to give him his honest opinion on whether the song he was singing was the right song. Because he couldn’t sleep knowing his fate was in the hands of three people he’d seen on telly before. Tucked up in his bed, wearing one of his old sweatshirts, holding him as he sprawled himself out on the bed beside her and promising him that everything was going to be fine; that he had the best singing voice she’d ever heard, and that wasn’t being biased because he was her boyfriend and she was his girlfriend. That she was still going to love him, regardless, because she’s stuck by him until now and she’ll stick by him until the end.

They speak and stay up until the late hours of the night, when the clock struck midnight, because neither of them could sleep - well, it was more or less Harry that couldn’t sleep with the nerves bubbling around his belly as he tried to find a comfortable position to fall asleep in. Conversations rising about how glad they were to be on the verge of finishing school and how stress-free they were going to be during the summer, making plans to start driving lessons so they could drive anywhere they wanted to go rather than catching the bus or a train to a desired destination, making a plan that, if all things went wrong with his audition, that they would take a trip to the beach with a group of their friends and stay in a hotel room that was on the front to spend time with one another, post-exam season, before college began in the September. But by the time the time ticked past midnight, conversations about his audition and his future struck up; if he was to get big and famous, would he ditch her for another woman or would he have her by his side when he goes off to play songs all over the world? Would he forget all about his home life and up and leave to another city to live and spend the rest of days? But he was adament that she was in his future. Where he gave her the best life he could - “when m’big and famous and I have wads of cash in my wallet, m’going to give yeh the best life I can. It’ll be for you. I’ll do everything for you. And we’ll live in the best house we can find. In the best city we come across. I’m going to marry yeh and we’re going to have the best wedding that everyone wants an invite to, but, we’ll just make it close friends and family members. We’re going to have kids together to fill up our big house. A nice big family with about 4 or 5 kids. And we’re going to by a cat because I’ll be lonely without Dusty around.” - and where they were together to the end of time.

When they arrive at the arena where he’s carrying out his audition, he can feel the butterflies flutter around his belly. Hand slotted into his girlfriend’s where she can feel how sweaty his palm is getting, the closer and closer they got to the desk where he was given his number. His mother and his aunt and Robin following close behind with Gemma and his cousins drifting back a while but still following on course to queuing with the rest of them. He’s humming the song beneath his breath and grinning down at her with the number in his hand; a silent invitation for her to stick it on him, anywhere she fancied, as long as it wasn’t in an area that resided at his behind or his front. Between the waiting time and getting inside to finally do his audition, he’s standing with her and holding her from behind and taking silly photos with her because they need something to remember this day with, chatting with his mum about how nervous he was and how he was gutted his dad couldn’t be there to see him but how excited he was to see where this could take him, blushing shyly when they all complimented him and hiding his face into his missus’ neck when his cheeks became really heated.

When he’s pulled away for a quick televised interview that will air alongside his audition, his girlfriend chooses to bolt off with Gemma to grab a quick coffee and a little something eat before sliding back into the queue and waiting for him as he came back. A tea in her hand that she passed towards him when she saw him scuff his way back across the concrete. 

It’s when Dermot O’Leary comes over that excitement bubbles more. The nerves slightly disappearing when he sees the camera crew following in his path. His palm getting more sweaty as he clenched his fingers around hers in a tighter fashion. Hello’s and greetings being exchanged with hugs and handshakes happening before the formalities begin; questions over experience flooding in, chat about White Eskimo popping up whilst his girlfriend brought up how he’d won Battle Of The Bands at school - which was something he was extremely proud of achieving - and how he wanted to go forward from there. How he wanted to continue the feeling of being thrilled in front of people, by doing what he loved to do. By doing what he was good at, which was something his mother never fell short of telling him. Day in and day out, whenever she heard him humming along to a tune on the radio or when he’d popped in from a White Eskimo rehearsal that took place in the garage and she’d heard the song he was belting out.

“It’s more nerve-wrackin’ now m’inside,” he murmurs, settled in a seat, that had been sat on by many people throughout the day, that was set at a random angle in the space where people were waiting to be called in, “I feel like I’m about to poo my pants.”

“I don’t have a spare change of clothes,” his girlfriend teases, “you can slip on my jeans, if you want?”

“And have you walking ‘round with no trousers on? No way,” he smiles, nudging her arm with his elbow, “I’ll be fine. Just, incredibly nervous. There are so many people out there in that audience who have come to laugh at those who can’t sing and have come to compliment those who can. What if m’neither? What if they never boo and what if they never clap? What if it’s dead air? Silence? No cheers whatsoever? I’ll look like a bloody fool.” 

“Then we’ll all jump on stage and cheer. Get them all started,” Ben grins, punching his knee softly, “they’ll be able to her (YN) and your mum and Gem from behind the scenes anyway. You’ll be the loudest of all of them in there,” he adds, as Anne nods in agreement. 

“Regardless of what happens, we’ll support you no matter what,” Anne smiles, pulling him into her side and kissing his forehead, despite his whines, “you’ll be wanting plenty of kisses one day and I won’t be here to give you any.” 

“You’ll be around for ages, mum,” he smiles, pressing his lips to her cheek, “love you.”

“I love you too,” she coos, pinching his cheek softly, “you’ll be going in soon, I’m sure. Are you getting excited? Nervous? Worried?” 

“All of the above and so much more,” he admits.

When his number and his name is called out, he’s taking slow steps to the scenes behind the stage. Camera crew following his every move until he’s greeted by Dermot at the bottom of the steps, tellies all around that are focused in on different areas of the inside arena; one focused on the judges, one focused on the arena as a whole, one focused in on a specific section and a couple focused on the stage. After more greetings, and more hands being shaken, he’s clapped on the back.

“Listen, good luck out there,” Dermot grins, pointing back to his family, “wish him luck.”

And before Harry can twirl around, his girlfriend plants a good smack on his lips. Pulling away with a cheeky grin and whispering a good luck to him as his cheeks flush pink, his mother coming in for a kiss on his cheek and Ben pulling him back to press a kiss to the crown of his head. Playfully and dramatically trying to pull away before Gemma can get her hands on him to plant a smacker somewhere on his face.

And he struts out on the stage, leaving her view and leaving her behind with worry in her stomach but a smile on her face as she nuzzles into Robin’s arm and lets him cuddle her to his side. A soft “he’ll be great” leaving his lips as his audition begins and the cheers of the audience die down.

With introductions over, and a little talk over his girlfriend being backstage and over his job at the bakery and how popular specific pies were for the customer he has come in regularly for a lunch deal and how he’d just done his GCSEs and worked there as a Saturday job to earn a little money to buy his girlfriend and his family all the presents he could afford, he’s onto singing. With no melody or backing track playing in the background and no instruments assisting him; he goes acapella. How he sings around the house or in the shower or even when he’s at work and the bakery is empty after the lunch rush that came through when everyone took a break from work.

Behind the scenes, his mother is swaying from side to side and his sister is standing there, facing the cameras with a smile on her face. Ella standing beside her as she sings beneath her breath and Ben standing beside his own mother as they clap along to the gentle voice he had playing and echoing around the silent and anticipating crowd in the stalls. Robin standing with (YN) as they watch in awe of just how wonderful he was doing; all of them praying that the judges heard the right thing and agreed to send him through to the next stage, towards Bootcamp.

“You’re 16 years old and you have a beautiful voice,” Nicole smiles, nodding towards him as he blushes rosy red and thanks her softly, a smile on his lips.

But as the negativity came rolling off of Louis Walsh’s tongue, it set (YN)’s heart racing. He wanted a full house of yeses, but, she had a feeling he was coming off of the stage with two yeses and a no that would sit heavy on his heart and push him back a step in feeling confident with himself. Knowing he was feeling bad by the way his face dropped, regardless of the thank you that he gave towards him for the criticism that would help him in the long run. 

And from backstage, his girlfriend can’t help but yell out. 

“Rubbish!”

Which is something that Simon picks up on as something coming from the audience. But, Harry knows… He can tell from the sound of the voice that it’s his girlfriend yelling out in disagreement, how she was dumbfounded by how Louis considered her boyfriend too young and inexperienced. Continuing on with a praise and how, with a bit of vocal coaching, he could sound with some help coming his way with the help of the show. Because he was really good and just needed an extra push in the right direction.

With two yeses and a no, he’s off the stage in a hurry and in the arms of his mother before he could even express how he felt. Her arms winding around his neck as he squeezed her tightly and let her babble excitedly over how proud she was and how good he did up there in front of everyone. How he deserved three yeses from all of them but was even happier with the two he got from those who could tell how much he wanted it and how good he truly was; who saw a future for him, even if he was a bit patchy with his presence. 

“So, how did I do? Did I do good?” He grins, hands cupping his girlfriend’s hips as she rests her arms on his shoulders and runs her fingers through his hair, “think m’gon’a be famous?”

“I know so,” she whispers, leaning up on her toes and pressing a kiss to his lips, “I’m so proud of you. I love you. You did so good.”

“Think we can head off for some early dinner? I’m starving,” he chuckles, cupping her face in his hands, “I fancy a juicy burger. With everything in it. Chips on the side. A nice, big coke to wash it down with. What do you think?” 

“Whatever you fancy, Superstar.” xx

[markwatkinsconsumerguide]

Consumer Guide / No.91 / Artist, blogger, collector and Charlie Gillett fan,  Michael Leigh with Mark Watkins.

MW : Your background...

ML : I was born in London just after The Second World War so part of the “baby boom” generation. My parents lived in Highbury at the time and soon moved to various places around Kent and Essex – staying with relatives – uncles and aunties etc. as accommodation was very hard to find at the time. 

Eventually, my working class parents got on a housing waiting list for the new town Basildon (about 30 miles outside London, in Essex) and a couple of years later around 1953 got a small, modern, terraced house with a bathroom and a garden – things we'd never had before. 

The town at the time was a mixture of old villages and housing estates and farmland so I had a pretty enjoyable childhood roaming over fields and exploring old derelict bungalows and farm houses etc. that were due for re-development.

I enjoyed junior school but wasn't even allowed to take my Eleven-plus so ended up in a terrible secondary school, which I hated. The only nice teacher was the art master who was very encouraging and those were the lessons I really looked forward to. I seemed to be pretty hopeless at everything else except maybe for technical drawing. 

So after gaining just one O level in Art I enrolled in the general course at the local art school which happened to be Southend-On-Sea, about 15 miles away in the Thames Estuary. This was a real eye opener for me – mixing with so many like-minded and interesting individuals who loved art as much as I did. Great teachers who were very encouraging and helpful. I loved it!  

Looking back through rose coloured glasses these seemed like the Halcyon Days of my youth.  

MW : Tell me about your interest in art and any key "light bulb" moments at Art School...

ML : Key light bulb moments?  Well, I suppose just being immersed in art all day long was  totally thrilling and I thought myself very lucky to spend four years just painting, drawing, printmaking, sculpture etc. 

My parents were very supportive too most of the time, although I'm sure they thought “a proper job” would be more beneficial ! I had no grant at the time only my bus fares paid by the local council. I realised if I needed to progress to the next level of education – university – I had to acquire some more O levels. 

So I had to do some night classes to catch up. Eventually getting a Level 3 over three years which enabled me to do a foundation course and go on to study fine art in Manchester, where I got my degree and afterwards a postgraduate place at Chelsea School of Art in London.

MW : What type of art do you produce...

ML : I've enjoyed all kinds of medium in art over the years – painting with oils and watercolours and making the occasional print when the opportunity arose. It wasn't until 1980 that I discovered the International Mail Art Network via a lovely exhibition at the Greenwich Theatre Gallery in South London, and so the painting took a back seat for a while and I concentrated on collages, rubber stamping and photo copies etc. - things that could easily be stuffed into an envelope and sent to other artists around the globe. 

This is how I met Hazel, my wife, after sending weird artworks back and forth to each other until we finally met up and fell in love. We have been together for 35 years now and have a 26 year old son who has just graduated from the Royal College of Art. 

I should mention the exhibition of our joint archive of mail art that goes on show this September at Special Collections at Manchester Metropolitan University. It's on until April 3rd, 2020 so you have plenty of time to go and visit it. It will be one of the largest shows of postal art ever in the UK.

MW : Do you have a favourite artist? 

ML : One of my favourite artists is the collagist John Evans who sadly died a few years back – we had been correspondents for over 25 years and he used to send me a collage for my birthday, as well as many ink stained letters from New York, his home town. He is featured in this exhibition in Manchester and we have several of his collages dotted around our house.

MW : What do you enjoy collecting? 

ML : I enjoy collecting all manner of things from mail art, postcards, rubber stamps, ephemera, records, toys etc. - the list goes on and on. Hazel, my wife, and my son Archie are also avid collectors of stuff.

We frequent boot sales, charity shops and flea markets all the time and have quite filled this little house from top to bottom with all kinds of junk (err... I mean antiques and collectables!).

Every now and then we have a purge and get rid of loads of DVD's, books etc. and take them to the charity shop, where hopefully some other collector will find room for them.

MW : How did you get into recording Charlie Gillett's radio shows, building up an archive, exchanging correspondence and mixtapes?

ML : I first encountered the DJ Charlie Gillett when he did a wonderful show on BBC Radio London in the 70's called “Honky Tonk”. Every Sunday I used to race back from the flea market in East London, where I lived at the time, to record his shows on an ancient reel-to- reel tape recorder with the microphone wedged up against the old valve radio speaker. 

Later on, I upgraded to a cassette player which made things a lot easier. I was making mix tapes of my own from records I found at the market and various other places and so eventually I sent him one and our correspondence began. Charlie would send me the occasional record, or a letter  - even some photos of his travels. He then moved to Capital Radio and did a show with World Music as the main interest and I was collecting that sort of thing too. Eventually he asked me to go on his show to play some market finds which I did in 1989.

I rather lost touch when we moved from London and couldn't hear his radio shows (except for those on the World Service) anymore and was shocked and saddened by his untimely death. I have tried to keep his name and his shows alive by uploading them onto my music blog and later onto the dedicated page on Facebook.

https://www.facebook.com/groups/1694083207508317/

MW: Why is Charlie (Gillett) much missed? 

ML : Charlie is much missed mainly because he was quite unique in the radio world being a passionate enthusiast of all genres of music from Rock 'n' Roll to World Music and was extremely knowledgeable. Also, he always found guests that were equally knowledgeable and engaging. 

Nobody comes close to him on the airwaves today because deejays seem to have lost the art of communicating. It's all a bit corporate and flash these days with brash personalities taking over the airwaves with crass chat and awful banter - I can't stand it! Charlie was one of the last real deejays - a bygone era of radio that will sadly never return.  

MW : Do you listen to music on the radio?

ML : I rarely listen to music on the radio these days. I much prefer playing records or CD's. 

As a child of the 1950's, I was brought up on Rock 'n' Roll - so still love Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis, The Everly Brothers, Little Richard etc. - not many British artists, except maybe for Lonnie Donegan and The Shadows.

Later on in the 1960's it was The Beatles, The Rolling Stones and The Kinks etc. 

I still listen to all that stuff with a mixture of Punk and New Wave from the 1980's - and - more recently World Music - artists such as Fela Kuti, Salif Keita, M'Bilia Bel, Youssou N'Dour etc.

MW : Your ideal day? 

ML : Ideal days for me are usually going out to a boot sale or an antique emporium with my dear wife or else shopping around charity shops in Chester or Llandudno etc. 

We also like country walks and finding cafes to have tea and a slice of cake. Somewhere like Whitegate Way in Cheshire where you can do both – their recently refurbished station café (it used to be an old railway line), all run by volunteers and sells lovely food and drink etc.

MW: How do you like to spend Christmas?

ML : I try not to think about Christmas too much. I hate all that hype for the festive season starting in September! Crazy! 

We usually have a quiet time at home with the family – eating and drinking too much and watching lots of crap on the TV just like so many other people!!

http://flobberlob.blogspot.com/

http://laughingshed.blogspot.com/

© Mark Watkins / September 2019

[hollywriteslightly]

A place to call home

"You can't go home again," wrote Thomas Wolfe. For most of my life I've railed against accepting this unbearable truth, stubbornly searching in vain for a way back to homes that were lost to me; those of wood and nails, those found in other people, and, maybe the most elusive, a sense of home and belonging within myself. For all that time spent searching, what I never paused to consider was that I'd always held a way home very literally in the palm of my hand. I've wanted to be a writer since I was three years old, the age when my mother taught me to read. Our family home was on the northern end of the Gold Coast, a block from a glittering, shallow estuary of the Pacific Ocean called the Broadwater. I was always outdoors, in Mum's subtropical, ever-blooming garden – full of silver-green ironbark, scarlet bottlebrush and pink flowering tea trees – or at the sea; I could smell the salty pungency through my bedroom window. I used my life savings to leave Australia for England to give my writing dreams a wholehearted crack … I’d never been to Europe before, I was alone, and I knew no one. Illustration: Simon Letch My favourite stories were ones that reflected the landscapes I lived in: May Gibbs' Snugglepot and Cuddlepie, and Pixie O'Harris's Marmaduke the Possum. Both were tales embedded in Australian flora and fauna, told from European storytelling perspectives. As soon as I learnt to write and read, I started writing stories about gumtree kingdoms, paperbark queens, soldier crab warriors and wattle witches. When Mum added Indigenous Australian books to my library, such as Dick Roughsey's The Rainbow Serpent and The Quinkins, my fascination with the relationship between stories and landscapes deepened. As I grew older and began to choose my own books, I turned to young-adult novels and fairy tales, most of which were European or American; the culture of Sweet Valley High and The Baby-Sitters Club also mirrored most of the television and films I watched. When I was nine my family moved from Australia to North America. We rented a home in Vancouver, which we used as our base while we lived and travelled in a campervan from national park to national park throughout Canada and the US. The experience was like jumping into one of Mary Poppins' chalk drawings; suddenly I was in the world I'd read about in the adventures of the Wakefield twins, seen on Sunday night Disney television, and absorbed at the movies. North American landscapes, both wild and suburban, created an exotic sense of wonder and pure escapism that my homeland surroundings couldn't compete with. A couple of years later, on the cusp of becoming a teenager, I noticed in a vague way that the stories I was drawn to writing were always set overseas, even if the setting was only implied. It didn't feel like a conscious decision to separate my storytelling from my homeland, it was a default in my imagination. In my early 20s I moved inland to live and work in Australia's dramatically beautiful Western Desert, learning and sharing culture and stories with Anangu colleagues. For the first time I noticed a sense of Australian people, weather, bodies of water, flowers, and bushland creeping onto my page. But that wasn't to last; the desert was a landscape that became a home I loved and lost. I didn't leave because I wanted to. I left the desert because I was fleeing a violent relationship. This was not a new phenomenon to me. I had lived with male-perpetrated violence before. Ongoing research shows how traumatic experience changes the brain. According to author Michele Rosenthal, for trauma survivors who go on to develop symptoms of post traumatic stress disorder – an unmitigated experience of anxiety related to the past trauma – the shift from reactive to responsive mode never occurs. Instead, the brain holds the survivor in a constant reactive state. In my case, I lived with high-functioning fear and anxiety as a result of trauma. One of the ways this manifested was in my relationship with Australia. "Memory is the fourth dimension to any landscape," wrote Janet Fitch. By my late 20s, everything about home caused me pain and fear. Accumulated memories were embedded everywhere I'd ever been, in every sense and memory: the smell of the sea, the changing hues of red dirt. The feeling of summer heat softening in dusk air, and saltwater tightening my skin as it dried. Gum leaves hushing each other in the strengthening wind and the deep growl of thunderstorms; the smell of rain hitting baked dry earth. The unholy screech of cockatoos and drunken joy of rainbow lorikeet song at sunrise, and the haunting scents of wattle and honey grevillea in bloom. I tried different cities and jobs in Australia, but lived with the unending feeling that I belonged nowhere. I understand now that it wasn't only cultural influences that caused me to crave an escape from the familiarity of home in my writing. It was also my brain's response to trauma. Writing stories set elsewhere was an act of refuge; I wrote myself away from places that weren't safe, into fictional ones that were. The tipping point came during dinner with a trusted friend, who held space for us to talk about the debilitating sickness of shame as a result of trauma, and its consequential stasis. Why don't you go? I remember her asking. Make a new home, somewhere totally different. But choose a place that takes you towards writing. Don't leave yourself completely. I remember how time slowed between us at the dinner table as I took in her words. There was a spark in my belly as I considered following my childhood dream, the one thing that trauma had not extinguished. What would become of my life if I tried to follow and honour that one constant in how I identified and understood myself? An old memory arose: sitting at my childhood desk with the window open, sea breeze blowing in while, oblivious, I hand-wrote stories full of wonder. Everything I hoped for was possible. Six months after that dinner conversation, I used my life savings to leave Australia for England to give my writing dreams a wholehearted crack: I accepted a place at university in Manchester to do my master's of creative writing. I'd never been to Europe before, I was alone, and I knew no one. The contrast of the moody, consistently grey north-west of England to the extreme weather and bright colour of central eastern Australia was a deep shock. No matter though how I struggled with the lack of sunlight, the colourless skies and a dampness I could feel in my bones, it was also – immediately – a place of deep relief. Manchester was a tabula rasa; fear and anxiety were still enormous parts of my learnt behavioural responses, but, for maybe the first time in my independent adult life, I didn't panic about what or who might be around every proverbial corner. In my first week I met the kindest man I've ever known and somehow knew enough to not turn away from the sense of safety and sun-warmth being in his company gave me. I was on different time, under a different sky, with different trees, seasons, light, wildlife, cultures and people. And I'd gotten myself there to write, something I hadn't done in a long time. There was a brief period a few years earlier when I'd tried, but it had caused too much conflict in my relationship at the time. Held liable for the wandering depth and breadth of my imagination, I had hidden away my lifelong calling to write. Every new morning in Manchester, my mind seemed to unfurl a little bit more with another day of freedom and possibility. I took to my northern life with as much zest and gusto as I could muster. I started writing and, again, vaguely noticed most of my new writing was set everywhere and anywhere but Australia. I didn't return until 2012, three years after I'd left; I shook with fear for most of the long-haul flight to Brisbane. Homecoming was painful, poignant, anxious and beautiful. My fear was mainly unfounded, like a child's fear of the dark. When I returned to England six weeks later, a question began to form that I'd not considered before. It niggled and agitated deeply in my mind, a pea under a princess's mattresses. I wouldn't turn to it, I wouldn't ask it. I didn't want to have to answer. What does it mean to exile ourselves from the places that make us? Back in Manchester, a couple of years passed. I was writing regularly and working on storytelling projects that took me to places in the UK and Europe I never expected to go. I was in a healthy, loving relationship with a kind man. I felt safe. I began to trust myself. At the same time, the longer I stayed away from Australia, the louder the country started to call to me. In my dreams, in my memories and most of all, in the gaping spaces between the lines of everything I wrote. In 2014, when I sat down and wrote the first line of my first novel, it was immediately clear that the story was set in Australia. Even more surprising and unfamiliar to me was how utterly right it felt. I wrote the entire first draft of The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart in Manchester. Over 12 months my office, home, and wherever possible, wardrobe, became a trove of Australian native flora, scents, photos, art, music, poetry and objects. I was driven to embody my story's world as much as possible, insatiably hungry for the sea I grew up beside; the feeling of salt on my skin; the mystifying green sugar cane fields at the end of my grandmother's street; the peach and violet-blue sunsets I watched from my mum's verandah; the wildflowers and red dirt of my old desert home. Safe to freely remember the landscapes that meant home to me caused a hunger like first love. It was blissful, unstoppable agony to revive them to life on the page. It was blissful, unstoppable agony to realise I was writing my way back home to them and them to me; I was coming home to myself. I'm writing this at my desk in Manchester in mid-November, when the holly bushes and rowan trees have burst into red-berried bloom and night draws in at 4.30pm. People around me are buttoning up for winter. All this time of year signals to me is home: in a couple of weeks I'll pack my suitcase stuffed with togs, thongs and cotton dresses, and make what has become an annual pilgrimage south for a long slurp of summer in Mum's garden. The journey home has grown easier since 2012. With the publication this year of The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart, returning has become outright magical, and in all my years of travel the international arrivals gate at Brisbane Airport is still the best destination I know. The beauty of clutching my mum and stepdad, grinning with teary faces as we walk out into the sweltering humidity and I catch my first glimpse of gumtrees in their native soil, fills my heart like nothing else. Until I wrote Lost Flowers, I had thought that to escape trauma I needed to separate myself from everything that reminded me of it. But, it turns out home is deeper than pain, deeper than love. Those roots go deeper. The landscapes, flora and fauna that raised me will never be any further from me than the microsecond between my heart's beat or the unseeable dark in the blink of my eye. Those places are always there. Here. Home. Writing has been my homecoming in all senses, to places made of wood and nails, to accepting and reciprocating the love and kindness of others, and to learning that I wholly belong to myself. Maybe this is what Thomas Wolfe meant: we can never go back to what was. We can't go home again, to home as it was when we lost it. But we can find our own ways to return, anew. And in those ways, maybe everything we hope for can be possible.

© Holly Ringland 

First published in the Sydney Morning Herald's Good Weekend Summer 2018 reading issue: 10 short stories by 10 big authors. ​ With much gratitude to Editor, Katrina Strick. 

[waywardcosplays-blog]

OFF TOPIC: Life and Such (EDITED)

If you don’t know me you might think of this as a strange thing to do. So, you might just wanna save that time for something nicer. I would probably do that too. I don’t even know why I am doing this. Or maybe I do. I always have been very focused on people’s reaction. If they liked what I do and who I am. I cannot remember how or why or when I got so obsessed with it. I never truly got bullied. Sure, there was this guy who occasionally called me ugly and fat because I was the only one getting off my bus station and thus, cost everyone about twenty seconds of their lunch break. Or boys in my class who’d whisper behind my back because I had bought a new scarf and thought it looked pretty on me. Well, it apparently didn’t. Silly me.

   I actually can think of a few things like that right now, but that’s not what I want to write about. Because after all, it’s not what made me the person I am but merely added to it when everything was going down anyway. I think I used to be a very sympathetic person, kind and honest and... nice. I was that girl that everyone at least sort of liked or accepted around. I could talk with everybody but rarely did. I was terribly shy and when I opened up I usually felt silly afterwards. I just couldn’t bear the thought of me potentially putting people I saw everyday off by telling them about my feelings. Therefore, I resorted to writing on a safe space about it. Some people don’t get why writing is so much easier than talking but I think it’s plain simple: you can contemplate every word before you make it public. Talking always seemed much too spontaneous and risky.

   After a failed approach to twitter when I was about twelve (how the hell could I know that I needed to follow people not to have an forever empty timeline?) I grew into it a few years later. And I fell in love for the first time in my life. He was a sweet Scottish boy my age. It all started when I was looking for a name I could give my e-bass (so edgy) and he suggested his’. I agreed; and we continued chatting. What I cannot remember is whether I went on a holiday to Scotland “due” to him or if we booked it before I developed any feelings for him. I sure wanted to go there anyway but yeah. It probably doesn’t matter anyway. Either way, I was so looking forward to it. I told all my friends about it and I remember at least one of them telling me that I looked so happy and nice. I really was happy. There was this cute boy out there who told me things I never heard before. That he liked all the things I hated about me Right now, I feel so terribly dumb for I am sure everybody knew how much of I fool I was -- except for myself. This relationship was destined to fail and SPOILER: it did. I travelled through Scotland with my mum for almost two weeks that summer before meeting this boy in Edinburgh. I was so anxious that I couldn’t eat and sleep and the people on our travelling group would ask me at dinner if I was ill. I at least was sick. Love sick.

   We met at Scott’s Monument. I told my mum to let me wait on one of the benches on my own (she agreed but hid behind the monument to make sure that guy was the one I was supposed to meet (and take sneaky photos)). I pretended to be reading but I couldn’t get past the first line. But it didn’t really matter since there he was. Green-white striped shirt, blue jeans and a white bag. I can see it so clearly in my mind. He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I went up to him, probably red faced, and awkwardly waited until he noticed me. And he did.

   I don’t think we talked much. We were both so nervous and even though I am good at English having only gotten to know the Scottish accent in those ~11 days before didn’t make things any easier. But it didn’t really matter anyway. We went to the square in front of Edinburgh castle where they were testing the tattoo’s new seating constructions. We sat on the bottom watching all the tourists walk by. I had my hair dyed a ginger red back then and an Asian woman came up to us and took a photo. No joke. We looked at each other and decided to leave.

   Our next stop was the National Museum of Scotland. We played some kids’ game on the top floor, did the sports quiz (where I absolutely knew nothing, I am Jon Snow) and went to the roof where you have a lovely view on the whole city. I also remember him comparing me to the bust of a hairy man and me trying not to be upset about it. I was, though. Because I wanted him to think I was beautiful and exciting. I had brought along a gift for him since he was a Hibs fan and passionate drinker. It was green sickly sweet vodka and I gave it to him in the museum’s staircase. We both had a few sips right there. I had taken quite a few photographs throughout the day and took one there as well. The ones I took on our walk were blurry and shaky because we were moving. And even the one I took while blocking the stairs was awful because as mentioned before I wasn’t eating well and was a little drunk. He covered his face when I took it. People tend to interpret too much into past events but in an upsetting coincidence those unclear pictures perfectly sum up my relationship with that reckless boy. I never was the one he meant to clearly see him.

   I reckon we walked around for a little longer and then parted. In the evening, we once again chatted online. And I think I was the one being bold/pessimistic, telling him I was sorry for being weird and that I loved that day even though I was incapable of showing it and that I should have kissed him. He quickly answered that he felt the same way. I probably jumped around. He actually seemed to like me! And he still thought I was pretty after seeing me in real life. I was the luckiest girl alive. And the saddest for I was leaving the next day. I would have to wait so long to see my one and true love again.

   I actually never met my love again. I mean I met him, but with a completely different feeling. Within a few months, a girl texted me. She told me the truth about him. How he was telling like three girls at the same that he liked them and I felt like dying. I am not sure if I or she confronted him or he was forced to tell me. I told him it was okay. And I maybe really always felt that I wasn’t a girl that was enough. Sure thing is, we kept talking. And I texted a lot with that girl. We don’t talk anymore but I do cherish the memories I share with her because she is an amazing person and deserves all the luck in the world. Anyway, more than a year passed before I saw him again. And her. All three of us met and spent a day together. I wanted to cry through it. It was one of the most painful experiences I have ever made and I should have just put an end to it months before that. But I wanted to be special so badly.

   When we went to the bus station I channelled all my courage and asked him to go to a side street with me. I gave him a necklace very dear to me and it was the stupidest thing I have ever done. Like seriously. This guy had treated me like shit and I put an expensive necklace around his neck. I struggled whether to give him a peck, or hug, or just go when our friend showed up. And so we parted silently. However, I started to cry when I walked back to Princes Street with her. Again, she was so sweet telling me not to be sad and that I should stop saying that I was stupid. And I tried. Trying still didn’t stop me from stumbling down Princes Street with stinging eyes.

      Throughout the years, I didn’t really get better with people. There was one in Manchester. A beautiful singer and precious yet troubled soul. We went to see a Wolverine movie at the cinema and both fell asleep. When I was shivering at the tram station he put his arms around me and I felt so safe. When I wanted to make a donation for his bandcamp page it ended in a huge argument and after that we never really spoke again. It felt weird being so ignored so easily after spending so mucnt ime with him.

   My Gymnasium (=college) years were the loneliest ones in my life. I had no friends and I wanted none. The only person I knew was a girl from my former school and she just stood with me out of pity I guessed. I felt so lucky when I found my best friend. Of course, he lived in the UK as well. But he understood me. We chatted all day when I was in class or had breaks, on my way home and when I curled up in my bed. We sent pictures of blur to each other, made bad puns, he was my Pete Doherty and I was his Carl Barât. And then he didn’t show up on our first date. He eventually did on our second, half a year later, three hours too late and I could only bear to throw his present at him and then leave. I slowly got worse. Because I slowly figured that all those things happened because I am me. All the tricking myself into believeing that I was someone didn’t work after all.

   Our third attempt would be during my short summer at a school in London. I think I sensed something would go wrong because my ED got more and more obvious to a point where I had to drop sports. But he bought tickets for Graham Coxon at the Rounhouse and I was really looking forward to it. And 2nd August came. I skipped my afternoon classes and patiently waited for him to tell me when and where to meet. No answer. So I asked him. Still no answer. I told him I would wait for him at Camden Market. And I did for three hours. I only left when the gig had already started and the market was being closed. I was too ashamed to arrive early at my host parents house after telling them I was going out with a friend until late, so I walked around for two hours. I still arrived way before midnight but managed to sneak into my room. Defeated by my own stupidity that anyone would spend their limited time with me. And I thought make-up and getting skinny would change things. It obviously didn’t.

   So I gave up on that. I guess, I gave up on a lot of things after a certain thing happened. Or actually, I haven’t. I just went from controlling and restricting myself to do that with others. Because even I sometime am in charge of things. I won’t lie and say it doesn’t feel good but I truly came to realise what I have done and it hurts. Because I know how much the people that have endured me now must hurt. Because it’s the cruelest thing to be untrue to people that give you all they have. Stabbing them right where they’re most vulnerable. I have become all those people that made me hate and mutiliate myself. I would use the excuse of them “teaching” me and that I do not know better but maybe, just maybe I am a bad person. Because sometimes I think I get those guys. How they might just been in love with different people for different reasons. How erasing someone you like from your life is easier than awkward future interactions. How they were so scared of messing up that they did it straight away. For the greater good of all parties involved.

   The thing I know for sure however is that I still feel sorry about it everyday and they might don’t. They probably don’t. They live their lives in sunny California or the UK, playing football being in a great shape, sharing a home with their beautiful girlfriends. And I cannot blame them for not knowing my name anymore. But I hope I never forget anymore for I did hide it in a corner in the back of my mind too long. Forgetting what lies and arrogance do to people. Still, I feel like I must move on to get better and be able to be affected by men and women again.

   I, and especially people that used to really care about me, have paid a price far too high for my inability to feel anything but burning wrath or dull apathy. And I am sorry. I truly am. I loved and still love every single one of you and I hope you’ll find someone who treats you the way you deserve. Well, I know one of you already kinda has. And hearing about that was one of the rare things that made me smile that past year.

.

   I don’t really know what the purpose of this post is. Whether I wanna pity myself, understand my feelings a little better, if it’s a sad and pointless sorry, or if I just want to feel a bit less alone... I really don’t. But I hope I will find out someday.

[torentialtribute]

EMMANUEL ADEBAYOR EXCLUSIVE: How racist abuse sparked THAT celebration against Arsenal

He's inside. An empty room in the Istanbul Basaksehir stadium, but his mind is elsewhere. He is at the Etihad Stadium, with eye-catching eyes and strides the length of the field to the supporters of the Arsenal.

He is excited. He sees the coins, the bottles and the vitriol pour down. And he doesn't move.

Emmanuel Adebayor goal was infamous for Manchester goal. City na "

<img id =" i-e4193ba0753c32db "src =" https://dailym.ai/2CXoYdR /25/15/12709814-6959717-image-a-74_1556201159432.jpg "height =" 420 "width =" 634 "alt =" Adebayor celebrated for the first time

as it did in 2009 after scoring for City against former club Arsenal "

<img id =" i-e4193ba0753c32db "src =" https://dailym.ai/2XIUMe9 -image-a-74_1556201159432.jpg "height =" 420 "width =" 634 "alt =" Adebayor celebrated for the first time in 2009 after scoring for City against former club Arsenal "class =" blkBorder img-

& # 39; If a sniper were to shoot me, I would have it & # 39;

did not knock me down, & Adebayor insists. & # 39; I was in my spiritual zone. Kolo Toure said to me: "I no longer felt human. The abuse was too much. I was ready to die. I just looked at them and thought," There are things you don't do. "

Adebayor is a player with remarkable gifts, having made more than 250 gigs in English football and scoring 122 goals, but so often reigning his personality, and his iconic celebration, shortly after he left Arsenal for Manchester City in 2009, remains

Nearly a decade has passed but Adebayor's indignation remains, in person he is a dissolute company, an intoxicating mix of fire and ice, he remains addicted to the Premier League, gets the permutations from each fixture for the battle for the top four and his girlfriend and daughter live in his flat in Hampstead.

His stories – the day he had a fight with Nicklas Bendtner – make you laugh while other and – vivid flashbacks of the murderous attack on the Togo bus – are only causing sadness. is in a nostalgic mood.

& # 39; I was 21 when Arsene Wenger first called. A Monaco player but on vacation in Togo, playing football.

& # 39; A friend picked up my Nokia. He said that Wenger is at stake. I said, "Yes, don't be so weird, put the receiver down." It went again. I got it and it really was him! & # 39;

& # 39; I hear & # 39; Hello! & # 39 ;, & # 39; he says, perfecting his Wenger impression. & # 39; I thought & # 39; Are you interested? & # 39; I'm more interested! "I'll be there for you tomorrow. He said," Stay calm. "Two days later it was ready. He said," All the conditions? "All I wanted was Nwankwo Kanu & # 39; s shirt number 25 and his locker. He was my idol. Wenger said, "Your wish has been granted!"

But after three years the relationships deteriorated, the Wenger trying to balance the books, Adebayor left.

& # 39; Kolo, Fabregas, Clichy, Van Persie & # 39 ;, he says, picking up the rhythm. & # 39; They've all left. I don't think Arsenal has shown love to keep players. You have a lot of money at Arsenal But if you can double your salary, we are footballers and after 10 years it is over.

<img id = "i-1b5ef57b0484ad31" src = "https://dailym.ai/2GHvKGN" height = "485 "width =" 634 "alt =" Adebayor was 21 then he first spoke with Arsene Wenger – he was on vacation in Togo "<img id =" i-1b5ef57b0484ad31 "src =" https://dailym.ai/2XJwG3a 12709808-6959717-image-a-75_1556201203913.jpg "height =" 485 "width =" 634 "alt =" <img id = "i-1b5ef57b0484ad31" src = "https://dailym.ai/2WPmxkZ /2019/04/25/15/12709808-6959717-image-a-75_1556201203913.jpg "height =" 485 "width =" 634 "alt =" Adebayor was 21 when he first spoke to Arsene Wenger – he was up vacation in Togo

<img id = "i-7fb1c71a511a2ce4" src = "https://dailym.ai/2GFCsNA /00636E2F000004B0-6959717-image-m-78_1556201676494.jpg "height =" 607 "width =" 634 "alt =" Adebayor does not believe that Arsenal has done enough to keep players like Cesc Fabregas "Adebayor does not believe that Arsenal has done enough to keep players like Cesc Fabregas "

keep players like Cesc Fabregas

& # 39; Cesc, to Barcelona, ​​I will earn more money, more sponsorship and he will go home. What did Arsenal do to keep him at the club? Absolutely nothing. Now the fans say he is not loyal. When you leave Arsenal, you become a traitor, regardless of what you have done. Van Persie was the same. & # 39;

How did Wenger react to the party? & # 39; Wenger had nothing to say to me. People think that football is family. It is business.

I did not wake up one morning in Manchester City. I had signed a five-year contract with Arsenal. I came back for the preseason and Wenger said, "You have to leave". I said, "Why would I leave?" I asked another year and if it doesn't work, I walk away. He is like "No." He said that if I stayed he would not put me on the team. If you hear that, you must go. "

He is now moving in his seat. It is when the conversation turns towards English football and racism that the most compelling points of Adebayor come to the fore.

& # 39; This is the thing & # 39 ;, he says. & # 39; And that is because I have not said anything about racism in recent weeks.When I was fourth, the FA imposed a fine on me, they punished me. Arsenal fans, so it started [racism] with me and long before me.

<img id = "i-9d1b3c332fd7176" src = "https: // i. dailymail.co.uk/i/newpix/2019/04/25/15/0471FC6B000005DC-6959717-image-a-79_1556201787018.jpg "height =" 529 "width =" 634 "alt =" <img id = "i- 9d1b3c332fd7176 "src =" https://dailym.ai/2XI6O7K "height =" 529 "width =" 634 "alt =" Adebayor said he was Arsenal by Wenger on the training field

Adebayor said he was told that he had to leave Arsenal by Wenger on the training ground

& I remember that I had gone to the stadium and there were Arsenal fans. My father worked in exchange office and my mother is a businesswoman. But this went on and on. So how can I answer? I didn't have a voice to go against thousands of supporters.

& # 39; And is now trying to stop the same FA racism? Sorry. It doesn't work that way. Today it's too late. We are tired. Enough is enough. I see Mario Balotelli and Didier Drogba on Instagram. How often do we have to post something? We have to respond. We have to leave the field. "

Adebayor is a complex and deeply emotional man. His relationships with his family have been broken and he has been hurt by football. After a career in Monaco, London, Manchester, Madrid and Istanbul, he is now 35.

& # 39; Growing old and getting tired & # 39 ;, he says. & # 39; I love England. But I have a name. Adebayor was negative. They said Adebayor loved money. Not just Adebayor displaced clubs. To really understand me, we must return to Togo. "

Nostalgia takes him back to his childhood in the Kodjoviakope compound in his home country. The word poverty hardly does justice to his upbringing.

& # 39; People say I dreamed & # 39 ;, he says. & # 39; But the life I have now was more than dreams. Forget it. We had no facilities. The places were sand. Hit the ball hard and the goal posts fall down.

<img id = "i-e33d6234d98b72c5" src = "https://dailym.ai/2Zzccfa 15 / 12709818-6959717-Adebayor_was_raised_in_poverty_before_his_life_changed_forever_b-m-95_1556203775477.jpg "height =" 333 "width =" 634 "alt =" Adebayor grew up in poverty before becoming a professional "

b 1945 poverty before his life changed forever when he became a professional

Adebayor says the pressure exerted on him as a teenager to live his own life "

Adebayor says that pressure was exerted on him as a teenager; he was led by him to live his own life his own life

& # 39; a leaking roof I woke up every night to dry it out with a bucket We didn't have electricity We used candles and lantern aarns. We didn't have a toilet. To calm ourselves down, we walked a mile to the beach. It would be like dropping your shorts on Miami beach.

& # 39; We went into different neighborhoods to find a television to watch football, but I didn't believe the players on the screen were real. I thought it was a game where your photos dropped in the black box. Only when I played abroad and people said they saw me on TV did I begin to believe that George Weah was real. Maybe Zidane is real. That's how I saw football through the eyes of a child.

He first arrived in Europe as a teenager in Metz. Isolated in a foreign country, vulnerabilities have emerged. Adebayor pauses for the first time.

& # 39; I was 16, & # 39; he says. & # 39; I was sixteen, & # 39; he says. & # 39; I just wanted to help my family, but they put a lot of pressure on me. I couldn't handle it. If a family is poor, everyone is poor and there is enormous solidarity. People take a bullet for you. But if you make it, it is as if you owe everyone something.

& # 39; In Metz I was perhaps at £ 3,000 a month. My family asked for a home worth £ 500,000. The club was tired of my behavior. I remember sitting on my bed one night thinking, "What am I doing here? Nobody is happy with me, so what's the use of life?"

There was a pharmacy under my apartment. I bought the package after the package with tablets. They didn't want to sell it to me, but I said it was for charity in Togo. I made the preparations, I drank all the water. I was ready to go. Then I called my best friend at midnight.

& # 39; He told me not to rush, that I have things to live for. "You have the potential to change Africa." I thought, "You are a dream seller and I don't buy dreams now." But he took me out of the moment. I thought God had to take care of something. "

<img id =" i-7d848993a32b0687 "src =" https://dailym.ai/2GGfZjj image-a-83_1556202113956.jpg "height =" 471 "width =" 634 "alt =" On January 8, 2010, Adebayor was the Togo captain when their team bus was ambushed "class =" blkBorder img-share "/

On January 8, 2010, Adebayor was the Togo captain when their team was ambushed "class =" blkBorder img-share "Adebayor was Togo's captain when their team bus was ambushed lag

<img id = "i-97041d54ed881c1b" src = "https://dailym.ai/2XKg0Iy -6959717-image-a-84_1556202154335.jpg "height =" 357 "width =" 634 "alt =" The driver, assistant manager and media officer were killed, seven players injured "class =" blkBorder img

The driver, The driver, assistant manager and a media officer were killed, with seven players injured

Such feelings were reinforced on January 8, 2010. Adebayor was the captain of Togo on the day that the national team bus was trapped by terrorists. The driver, the assistant manager and a media officer were killed. Several players were injured

While his friends were bleeding and crying out for help, Adebayor and his teammates had to remain motionless: & # 39; for 42 minutes we all heard about gunshots. Left, right, front and back. I just heard friends shout, but we couldn't move or anything.

& # 39; As a captain, I told everyone to call their family. I called my girlfriend and I said to her: "Listen, I'm about to go." She was pregnant. I said: "If the child is born, if it is a boy, call it Emmanuel Jr. If it is a girl, call it Princess Emannuela.

After having met such darkness, Isn't it surprising that Adebayor speaks with delay, I'll call you later when I'm still alive.

His favorite teammate? He grins. "Craig Bellamy." He came straight to you. "You know what Emmanuel, today was your mess. "Others in the whisper of football at the back. & # 39;

At Arsenal there were disagreements with Van Persie and Nicklas Bendtner. his character and I have mine.

<img id = "i-b8e263448e72d03c" src = "https://dailym.ai/2GFoN94 .jpg "height =" 367 "width =" 634 "alt =" Adebayor describes himself as & # 39; a free man & # 39; but admits that he did not agree with everyone he encountered "class =

<img id = "i-b8e263448e72d03c" src = "https://dailym.ai/2XHoQHd" height = "367" width = "634" alt = "Adebayor describes himself as & # 39; a free man & # 39; but admits that he di Adebayor describes himself as & # 39; a free man & # 39; but admits that he could not cope with everyone he met

& # 39; I am a free man, I eat every club, walk into the dressing room and sing. I danced with Thierry Henry and had enormous respect for Dennis Bergkamp. But at Arsenal, when you walk into the dressing room, there is a shoe rack.

& # 39; You take off your trainers and wear the club sandals in the dressing room. Bendtner came in twice with his own shoes. I said, "Bendtner, there is a law here and no one is above it." He was younger than me and hardly played.

& # 39; We are taller than you, but no one else comes in with Prada, Gucci … He said, "I don't care." I said, "Don't do it again."

Adebayor was part of an Arsenal group that seemed to fall apart in slow motion, with each piece surrendering a piece of the puzzle to their rivals every summer.

& # 39; It was a time for you to go on vacation and check out the Daily Mail website to see who's close to leaving for Barcelona or Milan. Dropping Arsenal one by one is what they are today. I would not be surprised if Lacazette or Aubameyang leave in the summer. Nothing surprises me with that club anymore.

<img id = "i-ca4dd6492bf56fd3" src = "https://dailym.ai/2GGyIez -a-71_1556201105795.jpg "height =" 382 "width =" 634 "alt =" During his time at Arsenal, Adebayor clashed with fellow striker Nicklas Bendtner "

<img id = "i-ca4dd6492bf56fd3" src = "https://dailym.ai/2XHOH1C -image-a-71_1556201105795.jpg "height =" 382 "width =" 634 "alt =" During his time at Arsenal, Adebayor clashed with co-striker Nicklas Bendtner Adebayor believes that Wenger's tactics for games away from Stoke should have changed "

Adebayor believes that Wenger should have changed his tactics for games away from Stoke. "<img id =" i-db9cbdb27b5b2d1d "src =" https://dailym.ai/2GGg0Up "height = "451" width = "634" alt = "<img id =" i-db9cbdb27b5b2d1d "src =" https://dailym.ai/2XJtpRc 6959717-image-m-85_1556202242975.jpg "height =" 451 "width =" 634 "alt =" <img id = "i-db9cbdb27b5b2d1d" src = "https://dailym.ai/2UkHcAp /2019/04/25/15/02530C60000005DC-6959717-image-m-85_1556202242975.jpg "height =" 451 "width =" 634 "alt =" Adebayor believes Wenger should have changed his tactics for games to Stoke

His analysis of the shortcomings of Arsenal under Wenger are Cu tting. & # 39; Wenger is a great manager & # 39 ;, says Adebayor. & # 39; But whatever the situation, we had to play our football. I remember those days that went to Stoke. "

He blows his cheeks out. & # 39; You know it's a tough afternoon with Rory Delap's pitch. I'm a big guy, but what about the rest of the team? We came out of the dressing room in the hallway and you hear the tinkling, tinkling … Stoke's stallions … and just think "Oh my God." Shawcross, Huth, Crouch … Then you see our team of 60kg players.

& # 39; We had quality, but for some games I am sorry, it was not enough United and Chelsea were technically but so strong Rio Ferdinand and Nemanja Vidic Rio insulted everyone on the pitch. is a good psycho!

& # 39; But Vidic was the tough man, the dirtiest, as if he was bumping into a rock. I could block a striker with a single finger. he says sorry, he kicks you, he says sorry, he yells at you and lets out a little spit. This man was ready to kill. "

Hey ft Arsenal is hurt by defeats such as United? & # 39; We have swallowed defeats. Games where I scored and we lost 2-1, I thought my job was over. Rio would come to me: "if you want to be happy, score three." I saw him arguing with Rooney and Giggs.

& # 39; These are the things we did not have. We were nice. We had a gentlemen team. Adebayor said that Rio Ferdinand & # 39; the right psycho & # 39; was on the pitch for Manchester United.

<img id = "i-985a76b1262e90de" src = "https://dailym.ai/2XN3Sqz -a-68_1556201085674.jpg "height =" 612 "width =" 634 "alt =" Adebayor said that Rio Ferdinand & # 39; had become real psycho & # 39; on the pitch for Manchester United " Adebayor said Rio Ferdinand & # 39; the right psycho & # 39; had become on the field for Manchester United "

Adebayor said that Ferdinand became" right psycho & # 39; on the field for Manchester United, like encountering a rock & # 39; "class =" blkBorder img-share "/>

<img id =" i-492cea8935458f2e "src =" https: // i. dailymail.co.uk/i/newpix/2019/04/25/15/02255C05000004B0-6959717-image-a-86_1556202362560.jpg "height =" 479 "width =" 634 "alt =" Adebayor said that Ferdinand's teammate Nemanja Vidic & # 39; filthiest,

Adebayor said that Ferdinand's teammate Nemanja Vidic & # 39; was the filthiest, as if he came across a rock & # 39;

During a loan in Real Madrid , Adebayor saw Wenger's antithesis in Jose Mourinho. & # 39;

One is calm and the other is not. I remember that we lost 2-1 and that we played poorly, Thierry Henry went mentally. Wenger came in and z ei: "Calm down, we're perfect, 65 percent of the ball, we've been crossed 25 times". Thierry tells me "Who cares? We're losing." That's the difference between Wenger and Mourinho.

& # 39; At Real we won 3-0 at halftime. I entered the dressing room and became mental. I kicked the fridge, threw water and killed everyone.

& # 39; He once killed Ronaldo after scoring a hat trick. He said: "Everyone says that you are the best in the world and that you play poorly. Show me that you are the best." Cristiano took it.

& # 39; make a hat trick, but talk about the one I missed. He trained with us in Madrid as if he were training with his children. Passes with his back, control with his neck. He held the ball once in five seconds with one touch! In the gym, wow. Sergio Ramos and I were the strongest. But then Ronaldo came. "Do you think that's difficult?" he said. We would do the five repetitions and he would be 30. & # 39;

<img id = "i-3a2b41cd6e7bdfac" src = "https://dailym.ai/2GFF79N .jpg "height =" 603 "width =" 634 "alt =" Adebayor played alongside Cristiano Ronaldo when he was in Real Madrid "class =" blkBorder img-share "/

Adebayor played alongside Cristiano Ronaldo when he was in Real Madrid Real Madrid

] <img id = "i-3b1803a0a48b4072" src = "https://dailym.ai/2XKBrto" height = "560" width = " 634 "alt =" Adebayor also regards Jose Mourinho as the antithesis of Wenger as manager "<img id =" i-3b1803a0a48b4072 "src =" https://dailym.ai/2Zzccfa 15 / 12711944-6959717-image-a-90_1556203472265.jpg "height =" 560 "width =" 634 "alt =" <img id = "i-3b1803a0a48b4072" src = "https://dailym.ai/2uS4u1n /1s/2019/04/25/15/12711944-6959717-image-a-90_1556203472265.jpg "height =" 560 "width =" 634 "alt =" Adebayor also regards Jose Mourinho as the antithesis of Wenger as a manager

<img id = "i-8f18027bd7e03642" src = "https://dailym.ai/2GHvM1n -a-91_1556203474287.jpg "height =" 676 " width = "634" alt = "Now a Basaksehir player from Istanbul, Adebayor is the glory of the eye league

<img id =" i-8f18027bd7e03642 "src =" https://dailym.ai/2WPmxkZ /2019/04/25/15/12711946-6959717-image-a-91_1556203474287.jpg "height =" 676 "width =" 634 "alt =" Now a Basaksehir player from Istanbul, Adebayor is the honor of eye glory with his side "

He pauses and there is introspection.

Now a Basaksehir player from Istanbul, Adebayor is the glory of his eyes with his side. & # 39; If I was open to criticism like Christian when I was younger, I would have been a different player and go one step further. & # 39;

The smile returns. He stumbles to his feet. & # 39; I like it here in Istanbul. We have me, Robinho, Arda Turan, Gael Clichy. I was with him in Manchester City, then Arsenal, now here. I would not be surprised if I bought land in Togo without telling me!

& # 39; My last challenge is to win a title for the first time. We are top and I really want it. & # 39;

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[travelphilosopher]

The first time I’d read about Hadrian’s Wall back as a teenager, I thought, well, 84 miles was a long walk even if you did it over a week. Back then there were only the odd guidebooks on the walk, but since then the path has been looked after and adjusted, as well as being promoted as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. With it there are more online first hand accounts of the walk, as well as pages of advice on where to go and how to plan for both the novice and experienced walker. I decided to do the walk (to get fit as a motivation) and tie it in with a visit to an old pal who lives in Newcastle who I hadn’t seen for nearly two decades.

I spent a lot of time planning this trip, however, plans don’t always work out as you will discover as you read on and there have been many adjustments made along the way. Along the walk, the remnants of the actual wall can only be seen in certain sectors, so you can choose the parts you wish to see, or do the whole walk from East to West or West to East. Originally I wondered why anyone would want to just do parts of the walk, but the reality is that the trail has been created to prevent erosion, and are along paths that are safer for the walker; in short it’s not the actual route the Roman soldiers would have marched along or where the wall stood. In parts it’s manufactured for convenience and safety.

I decided to start my journey in Newcastle and my aim was to do the sector closest to the city, and then hop over to Carlisle as a base to do that sector. That would prevent back tracking hopefully and meant I could leave my luggage in the hotel! There are other options; carry everything and walk slower, or use a baggage handling service which can be expensive, and less flexible. The first option is tiring, and the latter makes me uncomfortable as there are tales of bags turning up late, and maybe you just can’t get to the designated hotel or inn.

The middle sector contains more remnants of the wall and my aim was to leave that to last so I could spend more time visiting the sites. Some may ask why do it in separate trips, but you don’t have to do it in one go as the wall isn’t going anywhere as it’s over 1000 years old. It’s best to do what is convenient and cheaper for you. I found a bargain Megabus ticket from Manchester to Newcastle for £1, and an off peak ticket that got me to Manchester for £3.50. The return journey was a few pounds more, but the total return fare was under £15, and this was incentive enough for me to do a couple of journeys, and it gave me a chance to relax in between them.

I arrived on time in Newcastle, at a quarter to seven and it had been my first Megabus journey in the UK. It was fine, and only ran a few minutes late. My friend wanted to join me for a portion of the walk, so we agreed we would walk from the Quayside to Wallsend together with her family as a day out before I left on Saturday afternoon. My plan had been to walk from Newcastle to Chollerford, or at the very least the Robin Hood Inn to get my passport stamp. It did mean a full day of walking and getting up at the crack of dawn though. The National Trail issues a passport you can buy for £5 which goes towards supporting the path, and there are seven designated stamps to collect on the walk.

I got up later than planned and had a hearty breakfast. The journey had been more tiring than I had anticipated and the club below the hotel had live music until 1 a.m. and so I go very little quality sleep. Originally I had planned to get a bus to Chollerford and then walk back to Newcastle, so whatever happened I would find a way back, but as the bus services are sparse. I opted for a lie in as my friend had offered to pick me up wherever I ended up and take me back to hers for a home-cooked dinner. I thought it was cheating, but as she wanted to cook for me, it was better she picked me up rather than wait for me to find my way to her home! I didn’t have much to carry; just my water bottle, some snacks, and sunscreen as I was returning to the same hotel, so hopefully my pace would be a little quicker.

I left by 10 a.m. and the city was still quiet with few people around. The 72 path (the Hadrian’s Wall cycle path) is well marked, and I soon got used to the brown signs with the helmet on as a pointer. They are in fact necessary because the path isn’t obvious as there is no actual wall to follow even by the riverside! I can see why people recommend walking West to East now rather than what I was doing because of the brisk and strong winds that create resistance. Mark my words, they make a difference as you walk against the wind, even on what seemed a fine and sunny day. Several people passed me in the opposite direction and it’s clear most looked tired and had set out early in order to finish the walk. Most managed a smile or a ‘hello’ as I was starting out on the walk. There were a few groups, and some had obviously camped looking at the size of their backpacks. I kind of admired them, and I hadn’t even made it out of Newcastle yet.

To be honest there wasn’t much to see, and as I left Newcastle and crossed over the road (A695) to rejoin the path, it was quiet with industrial and housing estates. I went through Denton Dene (about an hour and a half), where the bridge to cross the A1 is, and it’s windy, so hold on to your hat and don’t look down.  If you need to stop Lemington is near the path with some shops and facilities. The few people I saw on the path behind me stopped here and I never saw them again. Next were more local pathways and I went past the Warburton’s factory in Newburn.

Map shows the bridge you need to cross the A1

Lemington is the first place to stop for a break

Long stretches of path

I didn’t see many people and as I was walking alone I had to be more aware of my surroundings. I really don’t think that many people do the entire walk as for many stretches I didn’t see a single being and it’s August during the holidays in daylight. The signposts aren’t always in front of you and they sometimes differ from the cycle route, and here I missed one and ended up taking a riverbank route via Wylam, so look out for the helmet signs and not just the kissing gates. I stumbled across a sign on the main road to my right and it was luckily a Hadrian’s Wall marker for Heddon on the Wall.

I had taken the riverside path behind the sign and darted out when I saw the sign to get back on the path

There had been a brief shower and I decided to keep my jacket on as I followed the path through Close House (a golf club) and made my way up the hill to Heddon on the Wall. I passed a tall athletic couple who were fully kitted out, and these were the first people I had seen in a while. The trek through the woods and up the steep winding roads to Heddon on the Wall was hard. The sign said 1 and 3/4 miles, but I was soon to learn not to rely on such information. I found the sign about 1 p.m. and had covered roughly 10 miles in 3 hours which wasn’t too bad. It took me 40 minutes to get to Heddon on the Wall where I stopped at The Swan for an elderflower water, use of the bathroom, and to put some blister plasters on as I could feel them coming. While I was in the pub the heavens opened up and I decided to stay put a little longer as it was pretty torrential. I ended up staying there for an hour, which meant it was nearly 3 p.m. before I set off again. I amended my journey goal to Halton instead being realistic, because I had spent longer in the pub due to the rain, which would have accounted for at least 3 miles. I know people say there’s no such thing as bad weather but the wrong clothing, but I’m not a fan of walking in the rain unnecessarily, because it’s simply not fun.

Heddon on the Wall

More time was spent as I visited the portion of wall at Heddon, and bumped into others looking for the ‘wall’ too. It’s definitely worth spending some time there and is hidden behind some bushes next to an English Heritage sign. Heddon on the Wall is a good junction and place to stop over with facilities and decent lodgings and places to eat, and would recommend it if you are planning a trip.

Next I made my way down the Military Road, the B6318, and I didn’t see anyone for nearly an hour again. In fact there was nothing but a scattering of houses, farms and fields as I passed through Rudchester. Half an hour later I am in Vindobala or rather where the old fort in Rudchester once stood. I read the sign in a field of sheep adhering to the rules to walk around the perimeter of the field and try to gracefully dodge the droppings. I’m on their territory so I am the alien here.

I now follow signs to Harlow Hill which is allegedly 2 1/4 miles away. I have learned from experience not to count on that information, and so theoretically it should take me about an hour. It does take me an hour after going around several fields and having cows and sheep for company. I meet very few walkers en route all going the opposite direction, and many seemed to be in a hurry to get to their next stopping point which I assume would be Heddon on the Wall. That was one of the longest hours of my life as I dipped in and out of gates, climbed on walls to get to them, and manoeuvered my way around countless sheep and cattle.

  Sign for the path in Harlow Hill, except you need to climb over the wall to get to it, and when I slipped into a ditch and pulled my knee!

There isn’t much at Harlow Hill and there isn’t much of a pavement either as I eagerly looked out for small little wooden signs with helmets on. I nearly walked past it as it was behind a wall, and requires you to climb over the wall (2 steps are randomly placed to help you) to get onto the path. I decided to take a photo of this to help others spot it and took a step back in the undergrowth to discover a ditch. I pulled my knee ever so slightly, and as it was getting darker I knew I needed to push on. I was still hoping to make it to Halton and had abandoned Chollerford a while back now as my friend wanted to know roughly what time to pick me up and where. Phone signal in the middle of nowhere is scant at times, and so I headed to Whittle Dene which according to google maps was only a mile away.

The long boggy path in East Wallhouses

The rain had made the trail boggy and walking was no pleasure or fun with only the sound of speeding cars on the Military Road for company. My knee started to hurt now and I was limping like a Hobbit and decided to call it day at the Robin Hood Inn as there was no way I would make it to Halton and not be in some pain, plus I needed somewhere where my friend could find me to pick me up! Amazingly somehow I did make it to Whittle Dene in 20 minutes even with the knee. The sign saying 1 mile to East Wallhouses was a welcome sight, but I still couldn’t see where I would end up even though the road ahead was clear. Google maps was sort of working and giving me a countdown in minutes to my destination, and I did it in 27 minutes of hobbling.

I got to the Robin Hood Inn and got my first stamp on the passport and was so happy to sit down. My friend arrived within minutes and said she had a mac ‘n cheese ready for me when I got in. The time was 17:40 and I had been walking since 10 with an hour break at Heddon on the Wall.

Newcastle Quayside to Robin Hood Inn ~ 17.6 miles 6 hours according to google (6.5 hours in reality)

I don’t think I did too badly, but the choice had been to have a lie in or to have those extra couple of hours of walking. My friend took me past Halton where we saw a couple of walkers who chose to walk on the grass verges rather than walk around the fields. Sadly, this is a disheartening part of the walk where you don’t see much and to stay safe the path requires you to walk further around fields. Halton would be another 3 miles (an hour) of walking through fields and in a way I am glad I skipped it because there really was nothing to see.

Having done this stretch even if I had left at 7 a.m. I would only just be getting into Chollerford about 8 p.m. as google calculates it takes 8.5 hours, so you need to add on an hour for lunch and breaks, and adjust the timing for steep ascents. Also I read some walkers were so tired they couldn’t appreciate the parts of the walk and had to carry on to get to the next stop before dark. I didn’t want that and so I’m glad I opted to go easy on myself in the end, well, actually my knee helped with that decision.

My aim is to pick up things at Chollerford, and visit Planetrees and the Brunton Turret, and carry on westwards towards The Sill where I have booked a room at the YHA for a few nights next week. That’s the plan so far…

Hadrian’s Wall Walk ~ Stage 1, Day 1; Newcastle to Halton The first time I'd read about Hadrian's Wall back as a teenager, I thought, well, 84 miles…

[vikachuuniverse]

My last adventure was Iceland.  I found a cheap ticket from Paris to Reykjavik, and another cheap(ish) ticket from Reykjavik to Phoenix.  It cost me about $600 for both, which was a pretty good deal.  I booked them on a whim halfway through studying abroad, and I must admit I was a bit nervous about the whole thing.  All my plans for getting home revolved around spending the holidays with my girlfriend, and if we broke up I’d not only be sad to lose her but I’d be stranded in Europe.  My money was nearly gone, and I certainly wouldn’t be able to absorb the financial hit of re-booking a whole other flight back to the US.

Luckily, everything went according to plan, and on the morning of January 6th I was on the train to the Charles de Gaulle airport.  My flight to Reykjavik (which means “Smoky Bay” in Icelandic) was about three hours and went smoothly.  I was a little worried about my wardrobe mostly because I didn’t have my snow boots with me, and before I even got on the plane I slipped in a puddle of water in the airport bathroom and wiped out.  If I was going to be that clumsy in non-icy conditions, I could only imagine the trouble I’d encounter in a country that literally has “ice” in its name.

That morning I struggled to get all my luggage (which was so heavy I was afraid they’d charge me for an over-sized bag) on and off the train by myself.  You had to leave the bags in a designated luggage area before you took your seat, and I wasn’t even worried about it being stolen.  If I could barely lift it, I doubted a thief would be determined enough to steal it.  It made me nervous that the train only stopped for a few minutes at each platform.  What if the doors started to close before I could drag my stuff out of the car?  I was thankful that I only had one big suitcase.  Between that, my backpack, my carry on, and two big plastic shopping bags full of souvenirs, I had more than I could handle.

The plastic shopping bags worried me as well, because what if the flight attendants counted that as carry on baggage and told me I had too much to take on the plane?  Never in my life had I seen anyone get denied their right to board on account of too much luggage.  Sometimes it would’ve made sense for passengers to get pulled aside and informed that no, three carry on bags per person is not allowed.  Even in these instances, all of the people I’d witnessed who were obviously bringing too much with them only got side-eyed by displeased airline personnel as they wrestled with their luggage.

This time it was the same, and I boarded my plane with (relative) ease.  In three hours we were touching down on a tarmac only a few minutes away from beautiful exotic-looking black sand beaches.  I’d never seen anything like it.  I couldn’t wait to explore the next day.

The express buses from the airport to Reykjavik were the most expensive airport transportation I’d taken thus far (excluding the cab I took in Venice, Italy of course).  It was nearly $40 for a round trip.  Actually, everything in Iceland was ridiculously expensive.  I ate at Subway for lunch one day, and a 6-inch spicy Italian sub with a bottle of water cost me almost $15.

I guess technically, it was a bottle of flavored fizzy water, but you get my point.  I asked for a bottle of water and that’s what the cashier handed me.  You’re encouraged not to pay for water in Iceland because its just as pure straight out of the tap, but I mostly just bought it for the container.  Oh, fun fact: the hot water smells like sulfur.  After I took a shower my hair smelled really funky.

By some incredible stroke of luck, my Airbnb happened to be right across the street from the Grayline bus station.  I hauled my giant suitcase through a veritable snowstorm before arriving at the correct apartment building.  I texted my host and tried to cool off.  It was freezing and snowing but the amount of effort it took to move my stuff made my coat into a suffocating furnace.

“Hey!”

I looked around, confused.

“Up here!  Come up!”

A woman was leaning out the window of the fourth floor.

“It’s open, come in!”

My heart sank as I opened the door and looked at the stairs.  One by one, I took my suitcase, my carry on, and my shopping bags up each flight.  By the time I got to the top, my arms felt like they’d been ripped out of their sockets.

The host was very nice and welcoming.  I especially appreciated it when she gave me three bus tickets that had been left behind by previous travelers.  I was worried that I’d have to buy a whole book of them for another $40 because online I couldn’t find a single ride option.

Her cat, Lolli, was friendly and always wanted to cuddle.  I shared the bed with him one night, and he made it so warm that I had a hard time falling asleep!  My room in Iceland was warmer than my room in Spain.  Go figure.

I booked two tours of the island during the two full days I was there.  I wasn’t about to try to rent a car in the treacherous winter weather, and definitely not while I was by myself.  I did both through Arctic Adventures, and both were by bus.  I wanted to see as much as possible while spending as little as possible, so I selected a Golden Circle express afternoon tour and an all-day tour of several waterfalls and a black sand beach.

For the first tour, I had a guide who was born and raised in Iceland.  He was an upbeat, self-proclaimed “Viking” whose name I can’t remember.  Apparently he had the same name as Game of Thrones character, and in English it translated to “hairy pants.”  The weather was bad, and as soon as we passed the city limits of Reykjavik the world turned pure white.  Visibility was terrible, but the guide said that he was more than accustomed to driving in such weather.

Right after he gave a long lecture about the dangers of driving through snowstorms if you didn’t have much experience with snow, we passed a van that was on its side in a snow bank.  We stopped and someone kicked open the back door of the van and crawled out to talk to our guide.  Thankfully, everyone involved in the wreck was all right and a tow truck was on its way.  Shortly after that encounter, we passed a billboard with two mangled cars on top.  It displayed a count of the number of people killed in car accidents that year.  With it being only January 7th, the count was currently at one.  I shivered thinking about how the count could’ve jumped up a few more if those people in the van weren’t so fortunate.

That day we visited the site of the oldest Parliament in Europe, the partially frozen waterfall Gulfoss, and the geyser Geysir.  Not surprisingly, the English word “geyser” is derived from Geysir.

I decided to save $12 on renting hiking boots and take the risk of wearing my Nike’s again.  That morning, I walked all the way from my Airbnb to the bus pickup location in downtown Reykjavik, which took over an hour.  It was icy and the roads were full of puddles that soaked through the shoes and three pairs of socks I’d put on for good measure.  Still, I was able to make it all the way there without slipping.  The Nike’s were fine once I got into the heart of downtown; they must have had heated sidewalks or some sort of maintenance, because the difference between downtown and the area around my Airbnb was like night and day.

Here are some photos from my trek downtown:

“The best way is to follow your heart”

If you look closely, you can see the bay at the end of the street, and then a mountain on the other side of the bay,

A mural found in down town Reykjavik.

Only when I’d made it to the bus and we started picking everyone else up did I realize that there was a pickup point located at the Grayline station right next to my Airbnb.

I didn’t use a bus ticket because I had booked two tours, and both of the pickup points were at the same place downtown.  I figured that I’d have to walk once, and when I did it might as well be during the day.  Thank goodness I did, because at night there was no chance of me getting to downtown without a few nasty bruises and possibly a concussion.

This was what a bus ticket looked like.  It was so small; if I had to use them often I’d be sure to lose them.

Anyways, I was wearing my Nike’s on the tour, and despite the ice and bone-chilling high winds, I shuffled through with no issues.  The Parliament site had some pretty views, but the wind made it hard to walk without getting pushed around.  It really did feel like someone was shoving you with a moderate amount of force.

Even underneath my hat, my hair was going crazy.

A gorge next to the Parliament site.

To me, Gullfoss was more exciting.  Unfortunately the path to get closer to the waterfall had been roped off due to icy conditions, but the view I had was breathtaking nonetheless.  I’d never seen so many shades of white and blue in my life.  The light was already fading (the sun started to rise around 10:30 am and by 4 pm) and it made everything seem like a landscape in a fantasy world.  I half expected an ice dragon to crawl out of the misty waters.

The blue was as brilliant in person as it is in this photo.

This picture shows how dark it was at 10:20 am.

By the time we got to Geysir, it was almost dark.  Everything smelled of sulfur and each pool of crystal clear water burbled quietly in the twilight.  Only one geyser was actually erupting, and did so quite frequently.  We were warned not to touch the water because it was extremely hot.  I thought that was kind of self explanatory, and I wondered how many tourists got nasty burns because they thought it’d be a good idea to warm up their hands.

The darker it got, the worse my photos were.

On the way to Geysir, we got to meet some Icelandic horses.  Don’t call them ponies; the locals will be offended.

On our way back to town, our guide told us that there was a rigorous process for civilians to buy and own firearms in Iceland.  Even the police don’t carry guns while on duty.  After the terrorist attack in Manchester, the police started carrying guns and the public outcry was so intense that this security measure was abandoned.  The only places that have armed security, said the guide, is the American embassy and maybe the Chinese embassy.

The number of gun deaths in Icelandic history?  One.  Just some food for thought.

The next day, I splurged on a hiking boot rental for my all-day tour.  At 7 am sharp, I left the Airbnb and trudged through slush over to the (way more convenient) Grayline pickup point.  This time, my guide was a Greek man who split his time between Italy and Iceland.

I was mostly excited about visiting a black sand beach on this tour, and I wasn’t disappointed.  After dropping off some tourists who’d purchased the glacier hiking package, we drove to the beach.  When we arrived the sun had not yet risen, so we mingled around the shore in the soft dawn light.  The waves seemed to push thick ribbons of sea foam onto the sand rather than water, and I marveled at how if you touched the foam, your hand came out soaking wet as if you’d just plunged it into the sea.  Which, I guess you had, but the foam was just so light and airy that it surprised me every time.

This picture really shows the foam.

Our guide warned us to be careful and to avoid venturing past a rocky cliff because the waves were wild and unpredictable today.  He told the story of how one day, a girl who was sitting in the parking lot got hit by a massive wave, and the parking lot’s a whole five minute walk from the shore.  Past that cliff there were huge rocks that made the beach a lot smaller, and therefore you had a bigger chance of getting swept up by a rogue wave.  Apparently people die on that beach every year.

I was keeping an eye on the waves during this picture.

Sure enough, one man on our tour got a little too close to the ocean while taking pictures, and when a particularly large wave rushed onto the sand he turned to run away and tripped, getting drenched in the process.  He wasn’t hurt except for his pride, maybe, and his camera didn’t do so well either.  Soaked and sullen, he didn’t get out of the warm bus for the rest of the stops we made that day.

We visited a small town that didn’t have much to offer save for a church on a hill and a restaurant, we returned to the glacier to pick up the rest of our group, and we hit two waterfalls on the way back.  They both had names I’ll probably never be able to pronounce.  Each were partially frozen and one you could walk right up to the pool of water at the base.  If you’d wanted to, you could’ve gone swimming.  Several people almost did as they scooted out on the ice to get a good picture.  I hiked up to the top of one waterfall and my phone shut down as I was taking a photo because it was so cold.

The small town

The beach by the small town

Skógafoss

Skógafoss

Skógafoss

Top of Skógafoss

Seljalandsfoss

Seljalandsfoss

The water was so clear

Surprisingly, the cold didn’t really bother me while I was in Iceland.  I wore a lot of socks and a lot of layers along with a hat and scarf and I did just fine.  The bus I was in was warm, and the stops we made were never more than an hour long.  Usually by the time I was back in the bus my hands were starting to go numb, but it didn’t bother me too much.  My hands are always cold anyways.

I didn’t do a northern lights tour.  I really wanted to, but it was cloudy and stormy for the few nights that I was there and I figured it wouldn’t be worth it.  I’d hoped that I’d see the lights while exploring the downtown area at night, or maybe even from my bedroom window, but I had no such luck.

I lived off of instant noodles and Belvita biscuits while I was there.  The food was so expensive that I just couldn’t bring myself to buy anything.  For dinner one night I scarfed down two Icelandic hot dogs from the famous Baejarins Beztu Pylsur hot dog stand for $5 each.  They were by far the cheapest food I’d seen, and they were amazing.  As I ordered, I noticed a photo of Bill Clinton (I think that’s who it was, but now that I think about it, it could’ve been George Bush) holding a hot dog.

Photo from downtown Reykjavik

Photo from downtown Reykjavik

Photo from downtown Reykjavik

My time in Iceland was great, and I headed to the airport really early on the day of my departure to the US.  My flight was supposed to leave around 4, but almost as soon as I arrived at the airport I got an email that said my flight would be delayed two hours.  This was irritating but fine, except I now I had less than an hour to catch my flight.  I sat down, worried, and got yet another email delaying my flight even more.  There was no way I’d be able to make my connecting flight to Phoenix.

I went to the customer support desk and argued with them for a while.  The woman insisted that I would be able to make my flight and it took me a minute to make her understand that no, I would arrive well after my connecting flight was supposed to be in the air.

I was switched to a later connecting flight that gave me about one hour to get to my gate.

The wait at the airport was excruciating.  My flight was delayed by two hours and 55 minutes, just five minutes short of getting a free meal ticket.  European flights, if delayed by three hours or more, are required by law to give passengers free meals.  I was tired and hungry and anxious.  I had someone who would be waiting for me at the airport, so if I didn’t get there on time they would be left stranded.

Finally, we were called to board.  We were already late.  Slowly, we scanned our passes and were forced to wait in a hallway.  Then we were slowly loaded into buses that sat on the tarmac in front of the plane for who knows how long before they finally allowed us to get on the plane.  We sat in our seats for an hour before the doors even closed.  I spent the whole flight sobbing because I knew that I had no chance of making my connecting flight.  Concerned flight attendants kept kneeling beside me to ask what was wrong, but I’m pretty sure they were more concerned that I was scared of planes than anything else.

During the long flight, I didn’t sleep at all.  My anxiety kept me awake as I tracked our flight through the air.  We managed to make up some time, and when we landed in Seattle I’d accumulated an hour gap between the landing and my next flight.  After consulting with the flight attendants, they simply gave me the decidedly not-helpful advice of, “Run, and see what happens.”

And so I did, I ran.  I ran through the passport checkpoint, I ran through customs (which was an absolute joke) after waiting 15 minutes to reclaim my bag, and I ran to the airport metro.

I was doomed from the start.

Seattle is a huge airport, and even though the flight attendants assured me that I wouldn’t have to go through airport security again, that’s exactly what I had to do.  I couldn’t afford the 20 minutes it took to wait in line, kick off my shoes, and hastily dump everything out of my bag.  When I arrived at my gate, I was disappointed but not surprised to see “gate closed” on the monitor.

It was 9 pm but to me it felt like 5 am, I was jet-lagged, exhausted, and starving.  When I saw “gate closed,” I knew that I’d have no choice but to stay in the airport overnight.

I dramatically collapsed on the ground in front of my gate, inches from a seat but too lazy to make the extra effort to sit in one.  Sobbing loudly, I hunched over my carry on and took off my glasses.  I’m sure everyone heard, but no one cared except for this sweet Middle Eastern lady in a hijab.

“Are you okay?  Hey!  Are you all right, dear?”

I looked up with red, puffy eyes and sniffled.

“What happened?  You miss your flight?”  She sat next to me and patted me on the back.  “Everyone is so mean in this country, they are all so cold!  They all walk by but they don’t say anything to someone who cries.”

I hiccuped a bit and she directed me over to the front desk for my airline.  I was grateful for her kindness, but nothing could really make me feel better.  The last thing I wanted to do was be stuck in an airport over night.

The women at the front desk were irritating as could be, but I was too drained to say much to them.  I simply shoved my ticket and passport over to them and mumbled something about Phoenix.  They talked among themselves in stage whispers so loud it was almost comical.

“How old is she?  If she’s a minor…”

“She’s… 20, so no…”

“Isn’t there another flight to Phoenix?  Sometimes they do a late one…”

“Next one is at 6 am…”

“Too early to put her up in a hotel…”

I wondered to myself how a 6 am flight was too early to put me up in a hotel when it wasn’t even 10 pm yet, but I didn’t have the energy to argue.

After breaking out of their huddle, one asked me if I was hungry.

“Yes…” I said in a pitiful, congested voice.

“Do you have money to buy something to eat?

I shook my head.

“Come on, Rhonda, give at least give her a meal ticket or something!”

Rhonda was a tiny woman who looked like she’d woken up on the wrong side of the bed.

“A meal ticket?  There’s nothing open at this time of night, it’s not worth it to give her a meal ticket.”

“Oh come on,” said the other lady, who I now consider my guardian angel along with the Middle Eastern lady.  “Let me do it.”

I was sent on my way with another boarding pass for a 6 am flight to Phoenix, a meal ticket, and a snack ticket.  After having a chicken walnut salad from one of the few places that were open I felt considerably better.  At least, I felt better until I tried to find my way back to my gate and ended up in baggage claim, which forced me to go through security for a third time that day.  At long last, I was at my gate and I tried to sleep with no success.  The airport was freezing and what sounded like a fire alarm went off for a whole hour.  I stayed in my seat, eye squeezed shut, and decided that if I was going to die in a fire that night, so be it.

My friend was forced to get a hotel for the night since I obviously wasn’t going to be able to meet her at the airport.

Finally, finally, 5:30 rolled around and I boarded my last flight.  (Well, last flight for a few months.)

In three hours, I was back in Phoenix, and that concluded my study abroad experience.

Thanks for reading,

V

Iceland My last adventure was Iceland.  I found a cheap ticket from Paris to Reykjavik, and another cheap(ish) ticket from Reykjavik to Phoenix. 

[365footballorg-blog]

'We weren't even allowed swap jerseys!' - when Shelbourne battled Barcelona at the Nou Camp

Shelbourne captain Theo Dunne (right) exchanges pennants with Barcelona captain Sígfrid Gracia.

Shelbourne captain Theo Dunne (right) exchanges pennants with Barcelona captain Sígfrid Gracia.

A COFFIN STOOD stiff and isolated in the bowels of the Nou Camp as 11 Irishmen shuffled past in quiet disbelief.

On their way through the famous corridors on a mild October evening en route to the away dressing room, the cohort of Shelbourne players passed by a museum, a dentist, a morgue and, puzzlingly, the most idyllic of chapels inside of which sat a wooden box.

They were 1,300 miles away from Tolka Park, situated snug in-between endless rows of brick houses on Richmond Road in Drumcondra, but it felt so much more. This was a different planet altogether.

Gerry Doyle’s side had stormed to the 1963 FAI Cup 2-0 against Cork Hibernians, meaning they qualified for the first round of the European Cup Winners’ Cup the same year — a competition which, naturally, pitted all of Europe’s domestic cup winners against one another.

The hat pulled out Barcelona meaning ‘Doyle’s Ducklings’, as the young side still fresh-faced and raw were affectionately known, were heading to Catalonia.

Shelbourne pose for a photo before kick-off at the Nou Camp in October 1963. Source: Marc Gómez

This was a golden generation at Shelbourne Football Club and, until matched by the early 2000′s era of Wes Hoolahan, Owen Heary, Stuart Byrne, Joey N’do and Jason Byrne which took in five league titles, an FAI Cup and were one game away from qualifying for the group stages of the Champions League — they were undoubtedly the club’s brightest jewel.

The first sprouts of success came in winning the 1959 FAI Youth Cup with players like Eric Barber and future European Cup winner with Manchester United Tony Dunne. Youth was subsequently promoted and there followed two FAI Cups in 1960 and 1963, and a league title in 1961/62. Doyle’s magic touch was in full flow.

Domestic success felt almost routine and with it came the prospect of playing across the continent to face Europe’s elite. The club’s very first game in European competition saw them travel to Portugal, where they faced Sporting Lisbon in the old 50,000 seater Estádio de Alvalade in 1962, taking the lead in the away leg but ultimately succumbing 7-1 on aggregate.

The following year brought Barcelona. This time it wasn’t the European Cup, but the Cup Winners’ Cup.

Sitting arms stretched apart relaxing inside a swimming pool on top of their city centre hotel on a radiant October evening in the Catalonia capital, Shels defender Freddie Strahan couldn’t believe his luck.

Strahan was a tough-tackling centre half who helped the side to a litany of success and represented Ireland on numerous occasions, scoring against Bobby Moore’s England. A leader at the back “you would genuinely die for”, friend and former team-mate at Shelbourne Jackie Hennessy explains today.

Shelbourne pictured at Lisbon airport ahead of their European Cup meeting with Sporting in 1962.

The pair cannot stress how far away a European game in the Nou Camp was from the realities of League of Ireland football in the mid 1960s. Warm water in the showers after games was never a guarantee — in fact you were lucky if there was even a shower at all.

“They treated us great, they really did,” Hennessy, now 77, explains of their trip abroad. “The one thing that stood out to me was the fact they had that little chapel with an oratory and a confession box, I couldn’t get over it! It was unbelievable.

We were coming from a world where we’d be playing a game in Limerick down in the Market’s Field. After the match we’d hop onto the team bus and drive back to the nearest hotel so we could get a shower. There was no such thing as washing facilities at the stadium for us players in those days.

“Then you go to Barcelona and you see all these huge, immaculate changing rooms and lockers where you could hang up your gear, while we’re used to playing in Tolka Park where there’s 16 of us jammed into a tiny room 12 metre x 10 metre getting ready before and after matches.

“If you were lucky enough to get a shower the water was cold by the time you got to it, whereas in Barcelona we had these beautiful, elegant baths instead!”

It’s approaching the 55th anniversary since the famous set of games in the autumn of 1963. Only it’s not that well-known in these parts at all.

Barcelona visited Dublin for the first time in five decades to face Celtic at the Aviva Stadium in 2016, with little to no mention of when Shelbourne faced the five-times Champions League winners — firstly in Dalymount Park and then away in the Nou Camp — in the build-up to the pre-season friendly.

An evening in Dublin’s Sugar Club discussing the modern history of Spanish football saw the event come to light in recent weeks.

Great memories from Gerry Doyle Jr (son of manager), Freddie Strahan, Joe Wilson, Jackie Hennessy from the @shelsfc ’63 team that played against @FCBarcelona. #tsfppic.twitter.com/aQAag1EzLl

— Con Artist (@Con_Artistes) January 16, 2018

Strahan, Hennessy and teammate Joe Wilson sat on stage and waxed lyrical about their travels to an intrigued audience, the majority of whom were completely ignorant of the tie even taking place.

Wilson, who celebrated his 79th birthday last week, attests that to him and many of his team-mates these exotic European ties Shelbourne were getting used to in the 1960s were often an excuse to enjoy a holiday — they wouldn’t have gotten the chance to travel abroad otherwise.

In total Shels played 13 games in Europe between 1962 and 1965, taking on teams such as Belenenses, Barcelona and Atletico Madrid in the European Cup, the Cup Winners’ Cup and the Inter-Cities Fairs Cup.

“Freddie summed it up by saying it was a holiday”, he laughs.”We were realistic guys. We knew there was no way we were going to go over to Barcelona and beat them.

“Given the caliber of football at the time, we knew what our strengths and our weaknesses were. We knew what we could and couldn’t do. Now there was great camaraderie and friendship among the lads, so we knew we could put up a good show alright.

The whole idea when the draw in Europe took place was to keep in mind not to be beaten so bad that you were ashamed or embarrassed. From our point of view, when we were drawn against Barcelona it was a holiday for us in Spain.

“It was the same the year previous when we were drawn against Sporting Lisbon”, Wilson continues. “We knew we were getting a week in the sun in Portugal… brilliant, absolutely brilliant.

“So after that game in 1962 when we were on the plane home from Lisbon we all said ‘listen guys, we’re going to put it all in in the league this year, we’ll get back into European competition again and get another trip like this!’

Getting to see different parts of the world and getting to travel across Europe, that’s what was motivating us to win the League of Ireland and the FAI Cup. That Shelbourne team were in three FAI Cup finals, won two, won the league title as well and played in Europe — that wasn’t bad for a young side; Doyle’s Ducklings.”

Freddie Strahan (defender), Joe Wilson (inside forward), and Jackie Hennessy (inside left) all still socialise together today and recall with great fondness their European odyssey with precise detail and warm nostalgia.

A holiday it might have been for players who played football part-time and maintained full-time jobs all the while, but Hennessy maintains he saw it for what it was — two sides of equal respect facing off against one another.

Shelbourne were the FAI Cup holders and Barcelona the Copa del Rey winners, therefore they were on equal footing, he says. Both deserved their place in the European Cup Winners’ Cup and no level of history or reverence about the Nou Camp or the club that played inside it would allow Shelbourne to lift the pedal off the gas or doubt their ability to cause an upset.

“It was never a holiday”, Hennessy, who was a team-mate of John Giles at Manchester United, says firmly. “To me it was always a match. I loved my football from the time I was 9 years of age playing U15 with lads twice the size of me. I never lost that appetite for winning games.”

Shelbourne goalkeeper John Heavey saves a shot at the Nou Camp.

The 2-0 defeat in the first leg in Dalymount Park is still a bone of contention for him, as he still sees it as a game they could and perhaps should have won in Dublin if luck had gone their way in front of goal.

“I thought we were a bit unfortunate because we didn’t deserve to be beaten 2-0,” he says. “It wasn’t long gone in the first half when we should have scored and that would have put the cat among the pigeons.

It was just one of those days where we were unfortunate not to score. In Dalymount I thought we didn’t deserve to be beaten. I remember we defended well for long periods and we were always dangerous on the attack.”

Goals from Zaldúa and Pereda either side of half-time saw Barcelona come away with a two goal win under the floodlights in Phibsborough.

Caught in a period where rivals Real Madrid enjoyed historic success winning six European Cups in ten years between 1956 and 1966, the decade saw Barcelona resigned to second-best in Spain.

This despite claiming the 1960 La Liga title and 1963 Copa del Rey — the title which saw them fail to qualify for the European Cup and instead fall into the Cup Winners’ Cup to face Shelbourne.

Only it wasn’t even known as the Copa del Rey 55 years ago. When Barcelona beat Real Zaragoza 3-1 in front of 90,000 supporters at the Nou Camp it was known as the Copa del Generalísimo, after General Francisco Franco.

“Remember who this is named after,” the dictator notorious for anti-Catalan policy was said to have told Barcelona captain Joan Segarra as he handed over the cup.

Despite living in the shadow of their rivals, this Barcelona side maintained a high level of pedigree.

Spanish midfielder Luis Suarez won the Ballon d’Or in 1960 under the stewardship of manager Helenio Herrera, while the side also became the first to beat Madrid in a European knockout game in 1961, later going on to bitterly lose the final to Benfica.

Many of the players that featured against Shelbourne enjoyed success throughout their careers in Europe and South America, however the most iconic name from those 1963 team-sheets belonged to the manager sat in the opposite dugout to Reds boss Gerry Doyle.

César Rodríguez enjoyed a short tenure in charge of the Catalan giants but remains to be one of the club’s greatest ever players.

César Rodríguez scored 232 goals for Barcelona and was manager against Shelbourne.

That title often seems arbitrary when used in the context of titans such as Madrid, Barcelona, Manchester United and Bayern Munich, who have each featured hundreds of some of the greatest players in the history of football.

However before the arrival of Lionel Messi, César (as he was known), was Barcelona’s record scorer with a remarkable 232 goals.

Messi’s hat-trick against Granada in March 2012 saw the Argentine overtake the player, in the process breaking his record which had stood for 60 years.

While one of the club’s greatest ever players, César enjoyed little success on the touchline, being sacked from the Nou Camp just five games into his second season, as the club would later be transformed following the arrival of Johan Cruyff and iconic Dutch manager Rinus Michels shortly after.

Did Shelbourne have a game-plan for such lofty players under César in ’63?

“Of course we didn’t,” laughs Hennessy earnestly.

All three men attest that manager Doyle, “Mr Doyle”, as they called him, kept it simple. “Off-the-cuff… off-the-cuff… it was always, always off-the-cuff”, they explain.

Wilson: “Gerry… you wouldn’t put Gerry in the context of ‘coaching’. The bottom line is we didn’t really get any at Shels in those days. Mr Doyle was able to go after players that he thought in his mind would blend in with one another. That’s how we were successful; we were all the same age and we all got on very well with one another.

We blended in with each other into a team, and if one person was having a bad day there was always someone behind you who would be there to give you a boost and a dig-out and say ‘come on!’

“We never got coaching like you have now. These days you have a coach for the goalkeeper, for the fullback, for the midfield… we didn’t have that.”

“We only had one ball in those days too,” adds Strahan. “We’d do all the physical work throughout the week and barely touch it, the manager’s philosophy being you’d be hungry like a greyhound out of the traps chasing for it on the Sunday during the game.”

Shelbourne take on Barcelona at Dalymount Park on 24 September 1963.

‘SHELBOURNE FIGHT HARD IN GOING DOWN TO VISITORS’, read a headline in the Irish Times dated 25 September 1963, the morning after their 2-0 first leg defeat in Dublin.

Visiting Barcelona met with unexpectedly heavy resistance in their European Cup Winners’ Cup-tie against Shelbourne in Dalymount Park last night”, the match report said.

“They were an extraordinarily polished combination, using the ball as it was meant to be used along the ground in smooth, well-engineered passages of brilliant football and, let’s face it, only for a splendid display from Shelbourne’s defence the visitors would have had a lot more to show for their work at the finish.”

They had a mountain to climb in the second leg but the tie was far from over, the three men each say. But as they explain, football was never going to be the sole priority for a squad of players many of whom had never stepped foot on an airplane, let alone visit a foreign country.

The Nou Camp can be an intimidating cauldron of noise for opposition teams, but the most serene atmosphere for those playing in the colours of the Blaugrana. Above all else that takes you by surprise is its sheer size.

Strahan traveled alongside the squad despite picking up a serious injury during the first leg which would see him ruled out of the return fixture — an injury which required a steroid injection from the team doctor at Dalymount Park during the game.

Unimaginable to today’s presence of hyper inflated squad sizes, in those days he explains, the side had 11 players. If one picked up an injury the only options were to either continue playing through the pain, or stand down and see your team play on with a man less.

Strahan played the remainder of the first leg but following a late fitness test with manager Doyle behind the goal at the Nou Camp, would not feature in the return fixture.

“I did a fitness test before the game at the Nou Camp. Mr Doyle took me aside behind the goal while all the other lads were training and warming up, but I just wasn’t able. Naturally I was disappointed but I still remember walking out onto the pitch before kick-off.

“I said to one of the lads, ‘ah here, the place isn’t even full’, pointing up to the top of the stands at some empty sections. The top tier was empty alright, but because of the sheer size of the place there was still 40,000 there!”

In a moment which stands surreal when taken in isolation to the first leg, Pat Bonham’s penalty after half an hour gave Shelbourne the lead in the second leg — meaning Shelbourne Football Club led the giants of Barcelona in the European Cup Winners’ Cup in their own patch at the Nou Camp.

“I was the one who was involved in the penalty”, says Wilson, who was deployed on the right wing that night. “I had a good game and when I had a good game, I could be fairly useful. I was on the wing in the second leg, went for a run and was taken down going through in the box by their defender Rodri.

“It was a penalty but there was some consternation about it. I was rolling around on the ground and Dick Kearns, who was a coach with Shelbourne, runs over to see if I’m okay.

He has his medical bag and of course the ‘magic water’ comes out and everything was grand. I said to him: ‘I’m grand Dick, honestly I’m okay, I’ve made it look a bit worse than it is’. But the referee overheard me and warned me about play-acting!

“Paddy was our penalty taker and he took it no problem. A few players might have been doubting themselves or nervous about it so, to be honest, there weren’t too many lads jumping in to take this spot-kick in the Nou Camp in front of so many thousands of people.”

The scoreboard read Barcelona 0-1 Shelbourne after 30 minutes. However an equaliser thundered in from the boot of Sándor Kocsis, of the famous Hungary side, six minutes later to make it level-pegging at the break.

The second half would see Barcelona grab two late goals in the space of as many minutes to bag the win on the night and make it 5-1 on aggregate over the two legs. Fusté gave the visitors the lead before Cayetano Ré, who won the famed Pichichi Trophy for La Liga top goalscorer the following season, bagged a third making it 3-1 at the Nou Camp.

The Shelbourne cohort don’t hold many regrets about what happened after taking the lead now. They lost instrumental defender and captain Theo Dunne to injury in the first half — because Shelbourne had only 11 players he didn’t reappear after the break, and the side battled on with 10 men for the remaining 45 minutes.

Perhaps today they might have put their remaining men behind the ball to secure a historic 1-0 win at the Nou Camp. But back then it was all about playing off-the-cuff like Gerry Doyle had coached them, or not coached them as it was.

John Giles (bottom left) and Tony Dunne (centre) were both team-mates of Jackie Hennessy at Manchester United. Source: S&G and Barratts/EMPICS Sport

“No, no,” says Wilson thoughtfully. “At half-time we were satisfied with how we were playing, everything was going well as far as we were concerned. But, no, you do realise in your own head who you’re playing and the calibre of player you’re on the pitch with.

“The one thing we never did, and it might have been ideal if we did, was to put 10 men behind the ball when we went ahead and do a backs-against-the-wall job to see a win out.

“But the reason we didn’t do that is because it wasn’t our style. The way we saw it, if we can score one and take the lead against Barcelona playing our brand of football, then we can score two, or three playing the exact same way.

“You know yourself as a player that when you’re up against a team like Barcelona you just don’t want to be on the receiving end of a hammering.

We never even entertained the idea of going to the Nou Camp and earning a win. It would have been great alright, and truth be told when we scored you grew another couple of inches, buffed your chest out thinking: ‘hold on now, we’re actually leading Barcelona at the Nou Camp here’.

“But in the back of our heads after that adrenaline ran out we knew it wouldn’t be possible.”

There was never any lasting disappointment, the three men explain, because it was never about the opposition or about a fanciful idea of playing against Barcelona.

It was about being successful, which they had the medals to prove, but more so it was about the team dynamic, the bond between those young lads in north Dublin fortunate enough to play football and have a job at the same time and sharing happy moments together, with one another.

They made the most of those trips abroad not only because they earned the right to do so by winning consistently on the domestic front, but also due to the fact that they were given opportunities to travel across Europe playing football which others did not.

“Joe, Jackie and myself still socialise together every now and then,” says Strahan. “I’m far from being an arrogant individual, or conceited in any way, but one day we were talking and Joe said: ‘Jaysus Freddie, we must have been fairly good footballers?’

People talk to us now about what we achieved and we can look back on it fondly, but when we were growing up and living through it we never thought about it, and that’s the honest truth.

“It’s only now that we’re going into our 80′s that you take the odd quiet moment and think ‘wow, we mustn’t have been bad!’”

“People back home would be astonished”, adds Wilson. ‘You played Barcelona?!’ But you never lost the run of yourself and you stayed grounded about it all.

“More than anything because in Ireland people are the first to cut you down when they think you’ve got a big fucking head about yourself”, he laughs. “There’s no bigger crowd to bring you back down to earth than an Irish crowd.”

They didn’t even get to swap jerseys in either leg, they confess.

Barcelona captain Sígfrid Gracia and Theo Dunne. Source: Marc Gómez

Hennessy: “That wasn’t as big a surprise to me because it had happened before when I got my first international cap for Ireland. I was told by the FAI on my debut against Poland in 1965 that we weren’t allowed, so when it happened again at the Nou Camp I wasn’t surprised.”

Strahan: “No, no we had to give the jerseys back to the kit man. It wasn’t the norm for Irish clubs like ourselves. My first international was against Poland and their lad came over to me and took off his jersey gesturing for me to take it in exchange for mine.

I had to apologise and explain that we weren’t allowed. That… as well as the fact that I wanted to keep it because it was my international debut — I still have it upstairs.

“There was no great money behind us or shirt sponsorship in those days, we had to keep them. The club bought you two things — they bought you your jersey and they got you a pair of boots.”

Wilson: “They came to Dublin, it was a great atmosphere, a great night bar the scoreline, the whole lot… but we weren’t even allowed swap jerseys with the Barcelona players.

“We went to Barcelona and it was the exact same thing. They wanted to swap jerseys after the game in the Nou Camp naturally, but we were told by our superiors at Shelbourne that there was to be none of that.

“We were told the jerseys had to be on the train with us when we went home on the Friday to be washed and ready for our league game on the Sunday.

We were disappointed with that, absolutely. I laugh at it now because even looking at our game against Lisbon the year before, with swapping jerseys — everyone knew that was the thing to do in big-time football.

“It wasn’t even Gerry that told us not to do it, it was the kit man Mick O’Brien. He told us there was no chance because he needed them for the league game the following Sunday. It was the same with the football — we only had one for training — it had to be washed and kept.”

Strahan, the immovable centre back who couldn’t feature on the night, is the only one to have been back to the Nou Camp since.

It’s just as immaculate as he remembers, he says, even if it’s a little bit bigger.

“Yes I’ve been there once since. We went on the tour and saw the museum, I couldn’t find a Shelbourne pennant anywhere.

“Ahh it’s unbelievable… sure anyone could play football on an immaculate pitch like that.

“It was unbelievable to look out and think that you were a tiny part of a club’s history like Barcelona.”

All three men have kept their small Barcelona pennants from the game. That, and the abiding memories of a decade of service and success, trophies, titles, wins, losses, Mr Doyle, Tolka Park, a few trips abroad and the pride of the red jersey of Shelbourne.

Something that will stay with them forever.

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'We weren't even allowed swap jerseys!' – when Shelbourne battled Barcelona at the Nou Camp was originally published on 365 Football

[builtforleisurenotforspeed]

Turns out Yorkshire is alreet I guess...

Although on the other hand , a 0700 alarm isn’t, by any means, alreet. Monday marked the day of which a little planned excursion was to be held towards and around ‘God’s own county’ - as the Yorkshire folk would like to call it. The day started with the departure from my mate’s house in Gorton towards the closest stop with all the Ashton services, when getting there a 169 soon showed up. We decided to skip this route because...well...it drags on and on as it does a clockwise sightseeing tour of Droylsden and Littlemoss (shudder). A 7 turned up shortly afterwards and provided a faster link to Ashton by ignoring that clockwise nonsense.

Ashton at 0900AM wasn’t as bad as one thought it would be, but it did call for a breakfast provided by a well known fast food establishment (p.s. why are McMuffins so bloody good?). Although, beforehand we encountered an elderly lady at a near cash point and learnt of some saddening news about her, which out of respect I shall not go into detail about. We met the third member of the outing in that McDonald’s. Realising the time and the close proximity of a soon due to arrive train, we scurried over to the railway station in order to catch our train across the border into Yorkshire. 

After messing around with the payment of the tickets, we all had them by the time the Northern ‘Super-Sprinter’ slowed into the platform - talk about having a close shave amirite?... - anyway we hurried on the front carriage and found a table towards the middle.

Soon we arrived into the town of fields where Hudders were at, yes, trust me, that made complete sense. Here, we spotted an old Dennis Dart operating on a local town service while on the walk towards the Bus Station. We made it up and decided where to go after purchasing MetroDay tickets. We opted for Yorkshire Tiger’s 231 route which took us through some marvellous scenery and small villages on the way towards Wakefield town centre. We managed to get the front seats on the top deck from the start to the end of the journey.

We got into Wakefield Town Centre at around 1130AM and after they had a quick leg stretch we then went onto deciding what the next move should be. An older Spectra caught our eye standing at the far end of the station, ready to depart so thus we hurried along to catch it. The route was the 425 to...Bradford... But although it wasn’t the most scenic of the day, it was still somewhat enjoyable for the time being until we got to...Bradford... (side note: we had the seats at the rear top deck of the bus because we were hard cunts who aren’t to be messed about (side side note: I lied about the ‘hard cunts’)). 

At around 1300PM we got into Bradford, the place where a number of drivers of two major companies were really rather miserable folk - no wonder, i’d be too if I had to work in and around Bradford. Long story short I had a lecture from one of the drivers about having a camera out - despite me not taking any photos at the time - this pissed me off in all fairness because it seemed he made it out that I would take the photos and use them for malicious activities, even though they’d either sit in a subfolder or be uploaded to Flickr...Hmm...

Another leg stretch and a quick escape from...Bradford...followed by catching one of Northern’s premier Pacer units into the large metropolis of Leeds. Leeds City Centre is a big interest to me down to the architectural style of buildings and the various amount of transport passing through seemingly every second no matter where you go. The bus wanker within was satisfied after the brief walk around of a part of the city centre near the railway station.

What took me by surprise was the amount of older vehicles still running around in daily service, with one example being a Wright Floline as shown above.

After around 25-30 minutes, we headed back into the station and onto the next town - which turned out to be Keighley after looking across the multiple boards that the station had within. The chariot for this part of the journey was a Class 333, an odd looking unit created by the joint venture of CAF and Siemens at the turn of the century. This impressive unit hurried us towards our next destination in no time at all - getting us into the town centre at around 1500PM. 

We debated on what to do next, with the decision being split between waiting for the Flying Scotsman - better known as the overpriced tea making device - to make an appearance at the railway station or to head over to the bus station to catch Transdev’s branded ‘Brontë Bus’ to Hebden Bridge. We decided on the latter and headed over to the bus station to await the next step in the exploration...after a toilet break...

The stand was busy with people of all ages heading to their homes in the Worth Valley and further afield into Hebden Bridge. A specially branded Volvo B7RLE D7E pulled into the stand and took all the passengers - including us - and soon departed. This route impressed me. Really impressed me even, with the endless steep hills, tight lanes through towns and villages and scenery on the tops, this was all seamlessly taken in the bus’ strive as it tackled each hill with, with risk sounding like Jeremy Clarkson, ‘speed and power’. The earlier load and the fact that it was around school kick out time resulted in a heavily loaded bus through the Worth Valley, which decreased significantly towards the end of the Worth Valley and climb up into the middle of nowhere. 

The bus delivered us and the remaining number of passengers into Hebden Bridge before terminating at the railway station. We walked down from the station onto the main road through the town linking it to Halifax and Rochdale and awaited our next move. We broke that day’s ‘First virginity’ by catching the 592 into Halifax town centre which produced an older variant of the vehicle found on the Brontë Bus - much older even. After hurtling through into Halifax we got into the station there at around 1630PM - the start of peak hour. 

We didn’t have a Tango in Halifax for long as we quickly boarded the ‘Zest 503′ route which took us from the heart of Halifax back to the town where this circular began - Huddersfield Town Centre. As it was peak hour, we became stuck in several traffic jams on the way out of Halifax and passing through the M62 junction between Elland and Huddersfield. Although unusually the Volvo B7TL on this section of journey couldn’t decide whether or not it should go into limp mode or not throughout the journey. Limp mode is when the engine gets hot and as a result the cooling fans turn on as an attempt to cool the bus down. A well known factor with this type of bus in the Spring and Summer time.

We dived into Huddersfield Town Centre and made our way back over to the Railway Station with our journey done. Although it wasn’t as silky smooth as that, with the railway deciding that it didn’t want to work at that specific time resulting in delays to the express services which would’ve have directly involved our slow train - if it was to arrive in the first place. Checking RTT resulted in the confusion that the train we was going to get back into Lancashire was infact cancelled at Stalybridge for no apparent reason. Further confusion was added on top of the confusion cake as it rolled in unannounced and untraceable on the website. Everyone shoved on and we were soon off on our slower approach to Lancashire. Confusion and delay.

We got into Ashton several minutes late and wondered towards the bus station to catch the bus into Manchester - because we were cheap fucks who refused to pay extra to get into the city centre on the train. We met one of the mate’s girlfriend in Piccadilly Gardens and had tea in the local McDonald’s. Afterwards we went into Gorton and messed around in the house before eventually going our separate ways after Gorton, where I said my pre-goodbye to the couple who were heading back to Finland (little did I know that I joined them the day after as far as the Terminal at Manchester Airport). I walked around Manchester to await the 184 up to Oldham and thus the adventurous day concluded.

In brief:

7 - Gorton to Ashton

Northern - Ashton to Huddersfield

231 - Huddersfield to Wakefield

425 - Wakefield to Bradford

Northern - Bradford to Leeds

Northern - Leeds to Keighley

500 - Keighley to Hebden Bridge

592 - Hebden Bridge to Halifax

503 - Halifax to Huddersfield

Northern - Huddersfield to Ashton

216 - Ashton to Manchester

201 - Manchester to Gorton

201 - Gorton to Manchester

184 - Manchester to Oldham

[hemcountry]

INTERVIEW WITH RISING FOLK/COUNTRY MUSIC STAR COURTNEY MARIE ANDREWS

Courtney Marie Andrews took time our her busy schedule to talk about hedgehogs, intuition and ‘Car Wheels on a Gravel Road’.

It’s lovely to ‘meet’ you! : ) And thanks a million for taking some time out of your schedule to answer these questions for me. I, and indeed HEM Country, really appreciate it : ) 

Before we begin, let me first say congratulations on all of the brilliant reviews that ‘Honest Life’ has been getting, it’s fantastic! And good luck with your forthcoming tour, too : ) 

Courtney Marie Andrews ‘Honest Life’

Q. So, Courtney Marie, you’ve been on the road as a travelling and working musician since you were only 16, I believe. And in most of that time you’ve been writing consistently, too. So would it be fair to say that you’ve somewhat mastered the craft of working on a song rather than waiting for inspiration to come and find you? Or at the very least, you’ve developed a method that lets you return to ‘the well’ as often as you need to or want to?

So many songwriters who also perform say they find it hard, if not impossible sometimes, to actually write while on the road. So I’m intrigued to find out how you’ve been able to travel so much, but keep writing, too. 

A. It’s a lot easier to find time to write on the road when you are a session singer, or player.  There’s more downtime, and hotel time.  Generally there’s a tour bus that gets you to a place overnight, where you can spend the whole day writing if you’d like. It’s been a little trickier with my own music, because I do most of the driving, and planning.  But, when I tour by myself, I get in such big fit of inspiration. I use the drive times to think of songs and melody ideas. My last solo tour, I even pulled over to a Love’s truck stop and wrote a song in the front seat of my small rental car.  I guess, all I need is some alone time to write.When it comes to songs I have to admit I’m a titles man. Anytime I pick up an album the first thing I do is check out the song titles to see what strikes me. And your titles on ‘Honest Life’ really made me what to listen to the songs. I especially loved ‘How Quickly Your Heart Mends’ and ‘Rookie Dreaming.’ 

 Q. When you write, Courtney Marie, do your titles tend to come first and the rest of the songs follow on from there? Or do you discover the title from within the song as it begins to take shape? 

A. That’s interesting. I guess some people judge an album by the cover, and others judge them by the song titles. Ha!  I rarely come up with the title first though. For me, songs usually start with a big picture idea, which leads to writing a chorus first.  Most of the time I don’t name the songs until the master engineer is asking for them.

Courtney Marie Andrews

Q. A lot of people, myself included, I must admit, are only just discovering you now, with ‘Honest Life.‘ But this isn’t your first album, it’s your sixth! : ) 

With such a body of work already behind you, and all of the experiences and lessons that would have come with those albums, does it feel a little strange to be thought of, or spoken of, as being a ‘new’ artist now? 

 A: No, that seems the like the nature of the game. My good friend Damien Jurado has a great joke about this. He says that he’s been up and coming since 1994.  I think you’d find a lot of artists went at it for years before getting recognition.  I’m grateful either way. This is my life’s work, so I’ll be doing it no matter who’s listening. 

Q. I’ve noticed that names like Emmylou Harris, Rosanne Cash, Neko Case, and P.J. Harvey tend to come up quite a lot whenever anyone tries to describe you or your sound. For me, though, the first artist that came to mind (and within the first few lines of ‘Rookie Dreaming’) was Jewel, whom I love! 

But who were your first important musical influences? Can you look back on a certain moment when you heard someone for the first time and it literally helped to change the course of your life? 

A. I’ll never forget the first time I heard ‘Car Wheels on a Gravel Road’, by Lucinda Williams.  Empathetic, rough, real, raw, and sweet.  Those are all traits I admire in songs.

 Q. Just to go a little off-point for a moment, but hopefully to reveal another side of you…..can I ask, do you have a hedgehog tattoo?? : ) I saw what looked like one in one of your Twitter photos. A hedgehog tattoo would, I imagine, have to have a pretty good story behind it? : ) 

I saw what looked like one in one of your Twitter photos. A hedgehog tattoo would, I imagine, have to have a pretty good story behind it? : ) 

A. Ha. Yes, I do have a hedgehog tattoo. I got it on my 18th birthday.  I fell in love with this Russian folktale, ‘Hedgehog in the Fog.’ There was a short animation made to follow the story in the 70’s.  It’s about a hedgehog who gets lost in the fog while making his way to see his friend, Bear.  After some frightening encounters through the fog, he finally navigates out of the fog, and  makes it to bear.  Even after all the scar, but curious circumstances, he finds comfort in being with his friend, and perhaps finds appreciation in the things he once took for granted.   There are a ton of speculations about the story, and its meaning. For me, the story appropriates, the there is no light without the dark philosophy.  You can’t appreciate counting the stars with your friend bear, if you don’t endure the hard, scary, and curious obstacles of life.

Courtney Marie Andrews

 Q. If you don’t mind, I’d like to quickly jump right back to the beginning of your story for a moment, and how you set out on this amazing adventure at just sixteen. I was wondering, Courtney Marie, what was the driving force behind that decision for you, what urge pushed you to strike out into the world at that age? Was it a longing for adventure? A need to explore? Boredom, perhaps? 

 I think back to myself and most of my friends and what we were like at that age, and I’m in awe of how confident and self-assured you must have been! 

Were your family worried about seeing you leave? 

 A. Ever since I was a little girl, I was looking for the next adventure.  I’ve always been curious, and travelling and exploring are perfect for a curious mind.  Since I grew up as an only child to a single mom, who was working all the time to make ends meet, I cultivated my own world. It made it easy to carve my own path, and plow forward. 

 Q. You wrote ‘Honest Life’ from a point in time where you felt you’d been away too long and needed to come back home again. And among the reasons you’d been away, I would think, was a need to find or to create yourself. Then, going back home, you ended up working in a bar and paying attention to the details of so many people who were, in different ways, lost in their own lives. And being in that environment also helped you bring ‘Honest Life’ to life. 

 Looking back over how it’s all happened, do you ever think (or maybe it’s something you believe anyway?) that everything kind of happens for a reason, and at the right time? 

A. I still haven’t decided if everything happens for a reason. That’s a very existential question for me.  So far, I’ve learned that your intuition is a very powerful tool.  When you don’t feel ready, it’s because you’re not. The music world can be one filled with magic and wonder, for sure, but the business side of things can make it an unforgiving and often cruel arena to survive in. When it comes to your career, and success, what defines ‘successful’ for you personally?  

Q. Do you judge yourself against others? Or just yourself? 

A. I played a show in Vancouver, Canada recently.   During the show, I noticed a girl with tears in eyes during my set.  She was also singing along to a lot of the songs.  After my performance, she approached me and proceeded to tell me how much Honest Life meant to her. Those small moments of human connection are the ones that make it for me.  Those moments are when I remember why I first picked up a guitar and wrote songs when I was 14.

Q. Jumping away from the music aspect of your life again for a moment, to try and find out a little bit more about the Courtney Marie Andrews who is the woman behind Courtney Marie Andrews the artist. Is there anything in your life that you’ve changed your mind about over the last few years?

Something that, until a certain moment, you believed to be so. But now, your view or opinion on the same thing is the exact opposite to what it used to be? 

A. Life is full of those little realizations.  I think it’s crucial as a human to constantly put your ego in check, and ask yourself some big personal questions.  I’m very independent in a hard-headed way.  I’ve been trying to let myself be okay with accepting help.  That’s a big personal hurdle for me!

Q. O.k, Courtney Marie, THANK-YOU for sticking with me! : ) This is the LAST question : ) 

When you have a day off, or some down-time, and you can do ANYTHING that you want for a day, how do you relax or fill your time? 

A. I love to aimlessly walk places.  On days off, I can walk for hours and hours to nowhere.  It helps me process my thoughts.

You can catch Courtney Marie live across the UK with The Handsome Family and some solo shows, here are the tour dates:

21 Feb – NORWICH, Arts Centre (supporting The Handsome Family)

22 Feb – MANCHESTER, RNCM (supporting The Handsome Family)

23 Feb – GLASGOW, St Luke’s (supporting The Handsome Family)

24 Feb – EDINBURGH, The Caves (supporting The Handsome Family)

25 Feb – GATESHEAD, Sage 2 (supporting The Handsome Family)

26 Feb – DURHAM, Old Cinema Launderette – CMA Headline show

27 Feb – LEEDS, Brudenell Social Club (supporting The Handsome Family)

28 Feb – CARDIFF, Clwb Ifor Bach – CMA Headline show

1 Mar – COVENTRY- The Tin – CCMA Headline show

2 Mar – LONDON, Union Chapel (supporting The Handsome Family)

3 Mar – BRIGHTON, Concorde 2 (supporting The Handsome Family)

4 Mar – GUILDFORD, The Keep – CMA Headline show

6 Mar – LONDON, The Social – CMA Headline show

INTERVIEW WITH RISING FOLK/COUNTRY MUSIC STAR COURTNEY MARIE ANDREWS was originally published on HEM COUNTRY