Sing when you’re winning

We're well blessed for football in these parts. There are teams (yes, plural!) up here in Ringmer, Lewes has the Rooks and there's also Brighton & Hove Albion down the road in Falmer. I'll happily support local teams against their more-travelled opponents but I've never really been passionate about a particular club. This reluctance can probably be traced back to childhood. You see, I wasn't much good at football when I was younger; my usual role was that of scapegoat or 'defender' as my so-called mates described it. Unlike one of the children in my class, I didn't have the same permed hairstyle as Peter Ward. Heck, I played a musical instrument - apparently a sure indication that I was both homosexual and knew nothing about sport, according to my many detractors. And so I didn't support anyone. It was safer than choosing the wrong team.

My wife has a very different perspective. Born in Bolton, she's followed Bolton Wanderers throughout their oscillations between the top and bottom of the football league. With the 'Trotters' coming to the AmEx stadium for the first time, she was definitely going... and despite Brighton & Hove Albion tickets being easier to buy, we were heading for the 'away' end of the stands. Yes, we. I was to become a football fan.

The Saturday of the match was pretty wet; weather that would favour the northerners, I thought. The absence of my half-namesake, Wayne Bridge, from the Brighton line-up was an encouraging sign as well. At the very least it meant I wouldn't be standing in a crowd of people cursing my family name.

The positive omens were soon dispatched as Brighton started attacking. A number of Bolton's supporters responded with songs that seemed to condemn their rivals as being homosexual (this is starting to sound familiar) although the words weren't entirely clear. And if I couldn't make them out, I doubt that Brighton's players would have been too bothered. After Brighton scored, the Bolton fans turned into their own harshest critics and my wife's Lancashire accent intensified to the extent that she became utterly unintelligible. Fortunately I could interpret her facial expressions. She certainly wasn't happy.

The singing from the other terraces increased to a deafening level. Seaaa-guuuls. I kept quiet even though I knew the words to this one. I still couldn’t identify the lyrics to any of the Bolton football chants but was quickly learning the actions.

And then Bolton scored in the last few seconds of the game. They'd managed a draw. Suddenly the Albion weren't singing any more. As the final whistle blew, Bolton's fans tearfully embraced each other. Under different circumstances there'd have been a song for that kind of behaviour.

First published on vivalewes.com 29th November 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

Existential angst and egg sandwiches

It's not often that we have a family get-together. I visit mum most weeks, despite her apparent conviction that my journey from East Sussex to West Sussex is rather like crossing Berlin in the 1960s. She sees my brother more frequently, mainly because he doesn't live on the wrong side of Checkpoint Charlie. I sometimes feel under enormous pressure to defect to the West... but I also feel sure we're equally loved.

Little brother - for I'm two years ahead of him - has a whirlwind lifestyle that leaves me out of breath. Working long hours during the week, worthy deeds most evenings, golf at the weekend. Either that or he's very good at avoiding me. This week we managed to catch up, putting the world to rights by debating mobile phone technology, science fiction films and parking charges. The important stuff.

Sadly this family reunion wasn't a happy occasion. We were getting together for the funeral of a friend.

Now, I'm no fan of funerals. Unlike many of my mother's mates, I don't have a special funeral coat. I haven't turned funeral attendance into a hobby. I can even manage without the egg sandwich and cup of tea afterwards. You might think this sounds like fear and denial. Let's just say I'm more than a little disappointed that immortality isn't available on the NHS yet. At the very least, I reckon it should be possible to fit me with an atomic-powered mechanical exoskeleton by now. You know, rather like Robert Downey Jr in Iron Man. Not that I need it at the moment, although it would come in handy when running for the bus.

Anyway, my brother and I were chatting after the funeral and arrived slightly late at the wake, which meant most of the egg sandwiches had gone. As we're piling our tiny plates with spring rolls and cold pepperoni pizza, mum asks if one of us can refill her tea cup. Little brother obliges and I hear mum saying "my son is pouring me another cup". Not 'my younger son'. Not 'one of my sons'. I raise my eyebrows and turn to my brother, who looks apologetic. I'm not surprised. He's probably getting a mechanical exoskeleton for Christmas.

First published on vivalewes.com 15th November 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

When age goes out the window

"Age is just a number". That's a phrase much used by my mother, particularly when deflecting unwanted questions about her birthday. Mind you, I think I've picked up some of the attitude. I'm certainly not happy about getting older. This dissatisfaction isn't usually obvious until I'm involved in some kind of activity that requires me to be categorised. Surveys (between 18 and 65, since you ask), holidays (not eligible for Saga discounts yet), pubs (go on, ask me if I’ve got any I.D.), car insurance (too old to be a boy racer) and so on. This week I've added parenthood to my list of annoying age-related assumptions... but first I'd like to clarify something. I'm not a parent. My lovely wife was already equipped with children and cats when we met, which has excused me from all manner of toilet training. It has, however, resulted in me becoming a step-father.

And there I go. I've been placed in an age bracket. People are picturing me walking through Lewes with one of those three-wheeled buggies and a cat on my shoulder. Nope, that's not me. Besides, the story I want to tell involves a step-daughter locking herself out of her home. That puts me in a different demographic, doesn't it?

Anyway, the event was the highlight of my week, so I shall tell my tale whilst attempting to maintain an illusion of agelessness.

A few days ago the phone rang at home. I didn't rush to answer it because I don't own any children or cats, not because I wasn't feeling especially spritely. It was the aforementioned step-youngster, somewhat concerned because she was locked out and her dinner was locked in. There was a little window open at the side of the house but neither she nor her boyfriend could reach in to open a larger window. Under other circumstances they'd have been pleased with the level of security. Not that night. We assembled a crack team of housebreakers - me, wife, resident teenager - and set off down the road with the tools of our newly-adopted trade. I had a small hammer and two screwdrivers, mainly because I'd once seen someone steal a car on The Bill with similar equipment. My wife had a wire coat hanger. Her son was in charge of the ladder.

On arrival my wife dismantled the coat hanger and started fishing through the letter box. The teenager held his ladder as nonchalantly as possible.

I climbed the ladder, reached in, unlocked the large window, realised I couldn't get back out without displacing my sternum on the latch, wriggled in through the little window and exited via the front door whilst avoiding the coat hanger. Cue applause.

I’m told this is the sort of thing that parents are expected to do. But an old chap couldn't have done that, could he?

First published on vivalewes.com 1st November 2012: http://vivalewes.com/