Seeing the World

Well it seemed like a good way to blend in with the locals …

The day started early as I left my budget hotel and drove five minutes to take advantage of a Toby Carvery all you can eat breakfast with hot drink offer, loading up with a ridiculously nice pile of protein for a fiver.

Then I made a statement to my cancer.  I renewed my Oldham Athletic season ticket, committing myself and Chris to another year of footballing mediocrity.  I did briefly ponder not doing.  I might not be well.  I might not be alive. I’m away for nearly a month in November and December taking in Australia and the Ashes.  I’m also pondering a September jaunt back to the West Coast USA.  But the football is what me and Chris do.  And despite another season from hell where the players have proved incapable of getting within twenty yards of the big netty thing at the end of the pitch most games we’ll be doing it again next season.

Although it nearly went all wrong.  I handed over my plastic card which represents my season ticket to be told I didn’t exist.  Seat DD89 where I’ve parked my posteria behind the goal freezing to death for several years wasn’t on the system.  The nice lady at the ticket office told me that they only go upto row P in that stand.  It seems that the stand’s former sponsor has switched to the recently constructed North Stand which has been cunningly erected with a roof designed to allow the town’s wild Pennine rain and gales blow directly over all 2,600 shiny blue seats at the a Football League’s highest stadium above sea level.  After a little discussion and fifteen minutes of heavy button pressing I was finally told I could hand over a large amount of money for the privilege of another year in the same blue seat.  I then really confused her by asking for two tickets for Saturday’s match at Peterborough.

Then I hit the road.  Liverpool the destination to see Chris, his university digs and a city I’ve never really got beyond the stadia before.  Tapping the post code into the sat nav I got the odd response of “destination not found”.  So I tried the street name.  Same result.  I tried “Liverpool”.  The sat nav was having none of it.  Being a radical thinker I thought about how I’d have handled this expedition pre-sat nav era and headed west on the M62.

The cone-fest began.  Whoever invented the average speed check is an evil individual.  Quite why I can’t drive at 80mph, slowing sharply as I approach a yellow camera, I don’t know.  Quite why it takes three years to make a motorway “smart” is even more of a mystery.  So I crawled along until I reached the junction for the East Lancs road and made a decision to swing left onto an alternative route that I used to take when visiting my now deceased grandmother in St Helens.  A little trip down memory lane.  Past a bridge where my late mother used to sense the spirit of my grandfather guiding her.  And a sign pointing left that cracked me up.  “St Helens Tourist Attractions”.  I continued crawling straight on, following cone after cone.  I also realised a hotel I’d booked for next week was on the wrong side of the road.  I’ll rebook an alternative later.

Eventually I entered the outskirts of Liverpool.  At least two major road signs highlighted cemeteries.  Impressive “Everton” flags adorned lamp posts either side of Goodison Patk.  I tried the post code in the sat nav again and this time it worked.  I pulled up on a single free pay and display space at the end of the route.  Glimpsing to the right was the door to the research building housing the Roy Castle Lung Cancer Foundation. Complete coincidence.

At this point I remembered that I had my latest Afatinib prescription sat in my boot.  Drugs that retail for nearly $6,000 in the USA.  Hopefully the NHS got them cheaper.  Should I leave them in my boot in a city renowned for car crime or store them in Chris’ student accommodation where other students would never dream of trying dubious looking pills?

I slammed my blue badge onto the dashboard and, despite the two hour maximum waiting time, left my car there for the day.  Gotta love the perks of terminal illness.

After a much needed cup of Lancashire Tea (like Yorkshire tea but even nicer) we headed out to see a bit of the city.  Albert Dock.  Some hot doughnuts.  A seat on the river front with scenic views of Birkenhead.  Memories of being chased by hooligans from Tranmere Rovers ground to hiding in the basement of a greengrocers in 1982.  Scared witless after breaking the three minute mile with my mates and only leaving an hour later when a copper came to escort us to Rock Ferry station.

Walking past a group of primary children as their teacher pointed out the local landmarks to them in a shrill voice.  “Over there you can see the Hilton Hotel and John Lewis”.  Now I know this isn’t an audience where saying “this is where Paedophile Fred used to jump around on a weather map on live TV” would be appropriate but in the shadow of the Liver Building and Slavery Museum you’d have thought education had a little more to offer than a modern hotel and shopping complex.  I never knew the Liver Building had two birds on top!  Some have all the luck …

Walking through the shopping areas it struck me that this city is flourishing today.  Empty units few and far between and busy streets.

Under magnificent blue skies we walked on.  Picking up fridge magnets for all three kids in a shop that also sold Manchester United memorabilia.  I assume it gets bricked regularly.  And then into the Cavern pub with music memorabilia everywhere, including McCartney’s Hoffner bass.  Oasis played on the sound system.  A much needed ice cold cider slid down my throat with a picture of Bo Diddley behind me.  Then we headed over to the recreation of the Cavern Club – which is a real live music venue today.  Indeed, McCartney himself will be playing there in June.

As recreations go this was great.  And free on a Wednesday.  Lots of over priced memorabilia to be ignored but some wonderful artists have played in both the original club and this recreation.  The a Who, Elton John, numerous Rock’n’roll pioneers including many from over the Atlantic.  And a really impressive solo artist on stage doing a great job of singing Beatles songs and McCartney/Wings material.  Band on the Run refreshing memories of seeing McCartney live three times in 1990 including a balmy June night in the Liverpool’s Kings Dock.  His voice was better back then!

After leaving we headed back to Student land, passing a Hillsborough memorial and admiring some extraordinarily impressive buildings.  As a football fan Hillsborough is one of those events where I know it could have been me.  It was about the football fan, not the football team.  The lies surrounding events that day have always been obvious to me.  The cover up less so.

It also crossed my mind that the impressive buildings gave birth to Manchester as a successful city.  The ship canal started it, but as Liverpool spent much of its wealth building and maintaining some magnificent structures Manchester was able to undercut them commercially.

The day ended with a Thai takeaway and a return to my car to discover it was still on four wheels, didn’t have a parking ticket and hadn’t been broken into.

I reflected on what an impressive city it is.  But don’t tell the locals …

The Niggles of a Hotel Room

I used to like the idea of working away, based in a hotel room for weeks at a time.  When the reality struck, two or three days a week in London, the romantic notion rapidly dissipated to mundane reality and cabin fever.  That’s not to say that I don’t miss the huge number of Radisson reward points I built up in those heady days wondering why the hell a bankrupt bank was spending a small fortune sending me down to the smoke.

I also miss room service breakfasts.  Where I’d order everything and stash unopened cereal packets and mini jars of jam into my bag to present to a young Chris as gifts when I returned home.  He loved it.  So easily pleased!

These days I see hotels as a means to an end.  A basic expectation of a comfortable bed and somewhere private for my 4am wee is enough to survive on.  And regardless of quality the same box shaped space can cost anything from £30 to £300 depending on location.

And regardless of that cost, each hotel room has the same potential for frustrating traits.  Not things that make them unusable, but stuff that makes you wonder just who the hell designs a simple 12ft x 12ft space with such little thought for the punter.

A modern room refurbished a year ago.  Or a brand new hotel.  And the nearest plug socket to the bed is on the opposite wall.  Or cramped at floor level behind a bedside table where there’s a light plugged in.  It’s 2017.  I’ve had  busy day.  My phone desperately needs charging.  And I want to crash into bed.  I don’t want my effing phone ten feet away from me!  Pillow high sockets next to my bed please.  Nothing less is good enough.

Baths.  I love a good bath, especially after a day on my feet.  I get the shower only hotel room concept and embrace it wholly.  Better use of space and less plumbing to go wrong.  But if your hotel room does provide a bath why the hell would they provide one that’s four foot long?  The average bloke is six foot tall and has no desire to stare at his knees inches from his face when he takes a soak.  As I’ve become a little more infirm in recent months I’ve noticed a trend for no handles on or near many baths.  Trying to lift myself out without slipping and smashing my skull open is a challenge!

Air conditioning systems. I’m a simple man who isn’t an engineer.  I took an office job because, frankly, I’m crap at practical stuff.  When I arrive in a hotel room I don’t want to be greeted by a six button temperature control system with meaningless pictures of triangles that, when you set it to an ambient 21 degrees Celsius, puts a picture of an icicle next to the number 21 and turns your evening into a Bear Grylls polar survival experience.  Often producing a noise drowning out the mediocre choice of TV channels that never include decent sport!

Most UK rooms provide tea and coffee making facilities.  The oversized kettle that doesn’t fit under the tap is a favourite of mine.  I mean, really!  Usually a problem of the hotel that supplies thimble sized cups so you end up having to fill the kettle with a series of tiny water runs.  Give me a proper sized mug!

If you like girly camomile tea great.  But being supplied with six tea bags only one of which provides proper healthy brown British tea is a travesty almost matched by de-caffeinated coffee.  What is the point of decaf?  Give me a proper Nescafe sachet please!

Those milk cartons are another beauty.  A family of four checks into their room.  Tired after a long day on the road.  They turn to the kettle in relief to discover four tiny milk cartons that don’t provide anywhere near enough milk for Mum, let alone the rest of the family!  Give me a proper bottle of milk or at least a dozen mini-cartons please.

The Americans don’t escape my frustration either.  I love that a high percentage of motels supply a fridge.  I’m less happy when I discover that it makes a noise similar to a Ferrari doing 0-60 in 2.8 seconds and continues that noise throughout the night.  And what the hell are those complicated coffee machines?  By the time I’ve worked out how to use them I’ve irreparably damaged the coffee sachets.  Except, of course, the decaf one that remains.  And don’t get me started on the Yanks and tea!

Sweeney Todd Strikes

Despite the obvious potential of my hair, I’ve always styled it simply.  Short back and sides as a kid.  Grade one as an adult as the chest hairs gradually began to exceed those on my head.

A hair cut is an occasional treat to try and tidy things up before I inadvertently move in to the mad professor look.  Today was treat day.

One of the side effects of my afatinib anti-cancer drugs is acne.  Alas, while I haven’t recovered the handsome good looks of the teenage Stringy I have returned to the occasional moment in front of the mirror and temptation to squeeze.  I also have issues around my few remaining follicles, many of which have scabbed up.

Enter my barber with his finely adjusted electric razor and my request for yet another grade one.  Five minutes later it’s job done.  Blood pouring out of many of the follicles at an alarming rate and a barber close to panic throwing tissues at me.

Forunately his shop had emptied by this stage so the dramatic effect was limited to just the two of us and I quickly stemmed the multiple flows without needing a transplant.

Maybe I should grow it long and go for the combover next time.  I once met Bobby Charlton.

That Humbling Moment When Somebody Chooses to Raise Money in Your Name

I’ve known Nick since the days of Manchester Airport only having one terminal.  School friend.  Pub friend.  Friend who moved away but kept in touch.  Christmas card friend.  Facebook friend.  And in the last year or so we’ve actually met each other in person on a couple of occasions.  He’s a good bloke.

He’s also planning to run a marathon in under four hours, which is pretty amazing.  More amazing still is that he’s set up his Just Giving page to support the Roy Castle Lung Cancer Foundation after hearing of my illness.

It’s a fantastic gesture and one that’s worthy of your support, big or small.  For me it’s  a rather emotional feeling.  Certainly nothing that I’ve experienced before and I couldn’t be more grateful.

Lung cancer is the cancer that kills more people than any other.  It kills more women than breast cancer, yet receives a significantly smaller share of cancer research funds. 15% of lung cancer sufferers have never smoked.  A third of lung cancer sufferers die within three months of diagnosis.

Big or small, please click to donate here.  Lung cancer research is making huge strides at the moment and every extra tenner raised has the potential to contribute to a breakthrough that significantly enhances my life and/or increases my life expectancy.

Selfish?  Hell yeah!

My Love of Driving in the USA

I love an American driving holiday. My experiences are fairly limited but the combination of wide open roads, comfortable hire cars and extraordinary natural beauty make it my favourite kind of holiday, replacing the more relaxing all inclusive choice that suited when the kids were younger. I can’t wait to hit New England in June, sandwiched between first class flights paid for with Avios

It all started with a drive from Washington DC to State College in Pennsylvania to catch a Springsteen gig (Icelanders, he’s The Boss, not your guy). A little over four hours on the road each way, laughing at signs for the “Blue Knob National Park” and my first proper stay in a typical USA motel. I’ve never used the Sleep Inn chain since, but they were great and taught me what the winning formula is. Free parking. Free wifi. Free breakfast. Top this up with free tea and coffee in the lobby and I’m a happy man.

Comfort Inn. Super 8. Days Inn. Holiday Inn Express. The occasional remote lodge hotel. But not Motel 6. That’s just a step too low!

The following year was a brave October day drive out of New York City to the New Jersey Coast as the then Mrs S went in pursuit of Springsteen haunts and lyrics. Even taking a reading from the gypsy on the Asbury Park boardwalk! A great day in unexpectedly balmy weather.

After that, it became the central part of the holiday.  Some might stay in the same place for four or five nights.  We chose to press on day after day to discover new magic.  Best plan is probably somewhere in between!

Phoenix, Arizona was the start point of the first proper touring holiday, mainly because the flights were cheaper than getting to Vegas, LA or San Francisco. Ideally the route would have been done in three weeks. So we crammed it in to an intense but magnificent twelve nights. Grand Canyon (the first view of the South Rim takes jaw dropping to a new level), Route 66, Vegas, Death Valley (wow), Yosemite, Pacific Coast Highway (whales and seals), Hollywood and more.

Learning points being that economy transatlantic flights to the west side of the USA can be hellish and if you’re hiring a car within California, Nevada or Arizona you can return it to any location within those states without having to pay a huge drop off fee. So no need to do a loop.  Discovered after booking a loop.

The following year saw a different route focused on Utah’s canyons. Cheap and beautiful business class flights out of Dublin to Vegas, via Philadelphia. A return to Death Valley. Lake Tahoe. The dullest drive ever across northern Nevada. Salt Lake City. The beautiful Canyonlands. Arches National Park.  Mesa Verde. Four Corners. Monument Valley (where Forest Gump ended his run).  Bryce Canyon and Grand Canyon from the North Rim – staying in a canyon view wooden hut. Heaven.

Learning point here was more 2-3 night stops to allow a little break would be good, rather than powering on day after day. But those longer stops need a longer holiday that might not always be possible for the employed!

Last year ignored many of the learning points (except for a three night stop in a frozen Yellowstone cabin) and crammed a loop route into a ridiculously short number of days. But what a route! Rocky Mountains, thermal springs, whitewater rafting, glorious Yellowstone, the Beartooth Pass and a rodeo!

Hopefully I will do at least one more of these trips after New England. Possibly visiting many of the places I’ve already seen before. Three weeks. Driving no more than four hours a day. Making most stops two or three nights. Soaking up the magnificence of everything from the Rocky Mountains westwards.

Everybody should do at least one of these trips in a lifetime.

Heading to Liverpool

Wednesday will see a long overdue trip to Liverpool to meet up with my son Chris and perhaps see one or two of the attractions of the place.  Previous efforts to organise this trip have failed due to hospital scans, Chris’ university commitments and me being out of the country!

I have been before.  Anfield.  Goodison Park.  A six-a-side venue somewhere in the Everton Valley, a failed job interview and the airport before business trips to Belfast.  But despite having lived within an hour of the place nearly all my life I’ve never actually done any of the sights.

I’ve booked a £40 hotel room for use after Tuesday night’s Oldham game and will make a post-rush hour trip down the M62 to a location where my blue badge will get me free parking and we will take things from there.

I reckon a Cavern Club moment might be in order.

Trying to Get Back in the Zone

After a blood pressure scare a couple of years ago, I made an amazing discovery.  Eating less and exercising more makes you lose weight!

Indeed, I lost a total of over seven stone in that period including a nine month period on Weightwatchers that saw 70lbs disappear.  The local charitable clothing collections have had a decent run out of me.

The formula was simple.  Porridge or weetabix for breakfast, plus a banana.  Boiled eggs, boiled potatoes and salad for lunch, plus a banana.  Anything for tea.  No snacking.  Diet drinks.  No sugar in tea.  Walk three times a day for 30 minutes a time.

Back pain restricted the walking.  Back surgery and a possible cancer diagnosis led to comfort eating.  Not being in work meant less time moving around.  Each time they weigh me prior to my oncologist appointments I’m a little heavier.

Now in cancer land they like a patient who can put on a bit of timber.  As long as it’s not a huge tumour it suggests you’re responding well to treatment.  But while I’ve only added a fraction back of the weight previously lost I do want to reverse the upward trend in a healthy way.

Getting the single minded passion back to lose weight again is currently an elusive thing.  But I do want to be as fit as possible for Ljubljana, New England, Chile, Australia and any other trips I line up.

Hopefully I’ll hit the zone soon.  Walking isn’t as easy as it once was.  Easter might be a challenge!  Food intake is the key.

Rucksack Hate

I’m not averse to using a rucksack myself.  I benefited from a medium sized thing from Argos to walk up The Old Man of Coniston with in my pre-cancer past and it did a great job of storing water, emergency chocolate, sandwiches, first aid kit, whistle, compass, spare tee shirt, dry socks and an emergency foil shelter just in case I got badly lost.

There is little doubt that the rucksack has great benefits for the user in certain circumstances.  But it’s fairly obvious, after recent travels, that the average rucksack wearer is a cretinous imbecile with no awareness of other human beings and even less realisation that having 15kg of stuff attached to your back dramatically changes your shape.  I’m sure there are genuine exceptions to the rule, but on the whole these people are idiots.

Quite why they don’t realise that changing direction quickly has the potential to deliver a knockout blow to others in the crowd is beyond me.  How much more obvious could it be?  Quietly taking a couple of snaps of Iceland’s magnificent Gulfoss waterfalls I was assaulted by a rucksack who’s bearded owner had no perception that he’d just smashed into my face and nearly sent my new phone flying into the raging waters 75 feet below.

And then there’s the exit blocker.  If I want to get off my Bratislava tram at the correct stop do I have to kick these people or push them out of the way?  Because they have no clue that somebody might actually be aiming their “excuse me” at them.

So I have a simple solution.  Ten one hour lessons of how to wear a rucksack with consideration for others followed by a test including tube or trams as well as walking in large crowds.

If the assessor agrees that you’ve passed, you’re awarded a hat with mirrors pushed out to the front, allowing you to see innocents behind you enabling you to behave in a way that gives others genuine consideration.

For now, I think acts of physical violence against ignorant rucksack wearers should be allowed in the same way pedestrians are legally entitled to punch cyclists in London.

ePassport Gate and Bell’s Palsy Discrimination

I think it’s fair to say I’m a bit fed up of my Bell’s Palsy,.  I can handle looking a bit like a contorted Halloween mask but the permanently open eye, leaking lips and split nostril are pretty rubbish.  Five months on I’m in a minority of sufferers who haven’t had the condition simply disappear after twelve weeks or so.

You may recall the difficulties I had re-entering the UK when I returned to Leeds from Bratislava.  UK Border Farce weren’t at their most efficient.  Manchester was different as a modest number of passengers walked through a painful terminal one barrier maze to eventually form a short queue at five ePassport gates.  And everybody sailed through with biometric beauty as the facial recognition systems said yes.

Until it was my turn.  Initially I didn’t help myself as I failed to push my passport in correctly. Once my tired mind worked this out I wiggled it around hoping for a more pleasurable response and stood patiently awaiting the green light.  “Try Again” was the message.  Repeat the wiggle three more times. Eventually I was rejected, presumably because the system was unhappy with my face.  Hell, I’m unhappy with my face!  I wandered over to a group of desks manned by idle staff with little to do and was nodded through within seconds.

A fine welcome back to Blighty!

Next Stop Ljubljana