One of the nicknames I had at work a few years back was Marmite, not on account of the fact I was a gloopy, yeasty, paste that needed spooning out of a jar, but because I provoked a dichotomous response; people either loved me or hated me. I used to comment that most people took an instant dislike to me as it saved time. It is true though that I’ve been a bad person for so much of my life that literally dozens of friends, family members and acquaintances who had all stuck by me through thick and thin have eventually thrown up their hands in disgust at my conduct and not simply walked away, but set themselves up in implacable opposition to me, often with the stated aim of doing me down in as many ways as possible, to the greatest possible audience, with the intent of causing me the maximum possible harm. Frankly, I’ve no option but to take this opprobrium on the chin, because so much of it is deserved. I don’t worry about my reputation because it’s almost irretrievable; almost no-one has a good word to say about me.
I am a bad person; I can be cruel, vindictive, manipulative, aggressive, vain, arrogant and deceitful, but I can be engaging, personable, supportive, perceptive, caring and helpful, but just not often enough and not to the right people. I am estranged from so many former close friends that I’ve pushed away by my conduct that it is a source of constant, daily regret that I no longer have them in my life. People I used to be able to call, or meet up with for a point, have distanced themselves from me, not because of anything they’ve done, but because of my words or my actions.
The charge that wounds me above all others is the one my sister regularly levels against me to anyone prepared to listen; namely I am a bad father. This hurts. It stings. I fear its repetition so much, because it may have been true at some point, even if it isn’t now. My life was in a black hole of despair and utterly worthless in 1999 when I quit England to spend 2 years in Bratislava as a TEFL teacher. Apart from an ignoble relapse in 2004, this decision turned my life around and I became a far more worthy person as a result of these experiences (though still an intermittently cruel, deceitful and vain bastard all the same). Sadly, in order to do this, I abandoned my then wife (I was a hopeless husband I’ll admit; these days we get on far better than we ever did when married) and 4 year old son, to set up home in Slovakia.
It was the classic mid-life crisis of early middle age; at 35 I needed a new identity and life, which I found by the banks of the Danube. I had a great job, some brilliant new friends, a football team to support (Petrzalka) and another to play for (Bratislava Academicals); I didn’t have my 4 year old son though and I wonder and worry how much my disappearance affected him. He’s in sixth form now and ostensibly a totally switched on happy young man. He’s in to indie music, rugby, booze and taking the piss out of me; all healthy pursuits, but I don’t know (and I’m scared to ask) whether my departure harmed him at any deep level or if it has caused any residual anger or hurt that he is bottling up.
As my late October blog http://payaso-del-mierda.blogspot.com/2011/10/capitalism.html showed, we get on really well and enjoy our time together, as we have done at gigs such as Trembling Bells, The Fall and Wire this autumn. However, back in December 2005, we almost died together. On Sunday 18th December that year, driving back from my dad’s in Swalwell, a Tesco 18-wheeler rear ended us on the A1 going north past the Metro Centre and we should have all bought it (the ex-wife was there as well). Amazingly, we didn’t and all walked away unmarked, eventually picking up enough compo for a canny summer holiday in the Algarve, with Ben ready to receive a decent cheque when he turns 18 (put it this way, his first year fees at University have been taken care of) though each December 18th my blood still runs cold when I think of the accident.
I like to be able to mark each anniversary this crash with a special little dad and lad event, so with Percy Main v Harraby biting the dust on account of a frozen pitch, we headed for Newcastle v Swansea. Initially, opting for this when there was real football available at Benfield (they lost 3-2 at home to Jarrow Roofing after being 2-0 up!) made me feel a slightly guilty, fraudulent glory-seeker on the 38 in to town, but as the ticket was part of the bairn’s Christmas Present, these feelings melted away. The match may have ended with a blank score line, but I’ve never been more pleased to attend a game at St. James. This was a game that purged my being and left me emotionally and intellectually cleansed; never before has a game done me so much good. The £26 each ticket cost was an absolute giveaway, for what I got out of it. Indeed, I can honestly say, I will resolve that forevermore, I am going to be a better person because of December 17th 2011. I don’t know how much longer I have to live; at night and in the morning, pains, aches, unexplained strains and soreness worry me. I fear for my kidneys, my heart, my liver, perhaps even a stroke; if I am to go, I want it to be with a clean slate, a clear conscience and a sense of all wrongs righted. I do not want people to speak ill of this dead person, even if, as it has been so often predicted, I “come to a bad end.”
I am an atheist and proud to be so, but I will admit to having a tear in my eye when “Bread of Heaven” was sung for Gary Speed before kick-off; not because I found the words particularly uplifting, but because of a chance encounter in the ground. Having arrived late to the party, the only pair of adjoining seats to be had, other than in Bar 1892 (and much as I love the bairn, I wasn’t prepared to lash out £46 each on a ticket for this one, though being wise after the event, I know I would willingly have paid ten times more for the epiphanies I discovered ), were up on the Level 7 balcony, which made Rob from Steel Wheels’s choice of half time record particularly apposite; I’ve always loved “Eight Miles High” by The Byrds. While slogging up the 200 steps to our seat, which afforded us a fabulous view (see lousy photo) we fell in to step with a work colleague of mine, Mark McCutcheon, who plays for Team Northumbria in the Northern League Division 2. As they’d played on Friday night, beating Whickham 3-1 (yes I’d been there for the second half, of course), he was taking the opportunity to fetch his old man to this game.
Mark’s dad is Alan and he was an apprentice who worked with my dad years ago. I’d only ever met Alan once before, at my dad’s retirement do at the Benton Ale House (or The Ship as it was then), in October 1994. He recognised me immediately and, though it was over 2 years since my dad had passed away, he grasped me warmly by the hand and told me “Eddy was the best gaffer I ever had; the best.” Add to this knowledge, the emotional sight of 52,000 people holding aloft pictures of Gary Speed you’ll understand why I was in tears.
As for the game itself, you’ll know the drill. Newcastle should have been three up by half time, but failed to press home their advantage and the game fizzled out in to a stalemate. As someone who mainly watches Northern Alliance football, I am always delighted to see a Premier League game, so I can appreciate at reasonably close quarters (it was Level 7 after all), the dazzling skills of Coloccini and Cabaye, and the ruthless determination of Tiote and Ba. In many respects it was a relief not to have to see Tim Krul pulling off any breath-taking saves for a change. Thankfully, the team performance was so good that neither Perch nor Obertan received any mindless barracking from clowns who seem to only enjoy themselves when there’s something to moan about.
Two things did disappoint me; those showing so little respect for the late Gary Speed that they turned the bits of card with his photo and the words of “Bread of Heaven” in to paper aeroplanes and the idiots who booed at full time, though I’ve no idea what they were booing. At least DJ Rob drowned them out with the fabulous choice of Teenage Fanclub’s “Baby Lee,” a song so uplifting I emerged at the bottom of the stairs spiritually ready and emotionally prepared to get falling down drunk on Thwaites’ Wainwright at the Percy Main Amateurs Christmas Do.
To conclude, I have to say I’m not proud of the person I have been or who I am, but I am resolved to be better in the future. If I can remove the detestable and mean parts of my character, I will know that the memory of Gary Speed, the handshake of Alan McCutcheon and the sound of “Baby Lee” will all have played their part in this, though hopefully it will be my resolve that made any improvements possible.
If, at any time in the past, I have hurt or angered you; I’m sorry. Truly I am and though I know words are cheap, please allow me to demonstrate by my future actions that I will never intentionally hurt or let anyone down again, especially myself.
Happy Christmas
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