Rogers the Spaniel, Bayern Munich and the arrival of Garv: The Munich Chronicles Vol.2

Rogers the Spaniel, Bayern Munich and the arrival of Garv: The Munich Chronicles Vol.2

Day 2 of the stag doo that wasn't a stag doo started quietly. The anaesthetic ale which we'd drunk one stein of the night before had clearly taken its toll on all of us. Nonetheless, we all made it to breakfast. We'd found a small bakery/café a five minute walk from our hotel called Ziegler's (or 'Toby's' to Dav and I for all of you West Wing followers).

From there we planned our day - and for me the one thing which I really wanted to do; visit the Allianz Arena, home of FC Bayern Munich.

To say the weather was a little chilly would be somewhat of an understatement. It had been snowing steadily since we landed in Munich the day before. My mate from work Mark Rogers had, earlier in the week, been somewhat dismissive of my suggestion that he take a hat, scarf and gloves to Munich. Suffice to say as we got off the train and walked the desolate and exposed ten minute trek to the stadium in temperatures of minus 8 and a biting Siberian-like wind, he now looked a tad silly.


Rogers the Spaniel looking a tad warmer (and sinister) 
on the way back from the Allianz Arena


By the way, if you like football and ever find yourself in Munich - you have to go to this stadium. It's spectacular.

We lost Rogers for 20 minutes or so and when he returned he'd purchased a hat from the club shop which he proceeded to live in for the following 36 hours. It also made him look like a spaniel which resulted in various 'deputy dog' and scooby doo quips for the rest of our stay.

We had a guided tour of the stadium which only cost 10 Euros. We got to see the changing rooms, where they conduct the post-match interviews and sit in seats around the ground. I really did enjoy it.

We then sought shelter from the elements at the club shop where we all purchased the obligatory scarf. One of our party even spotted that some of them were reduced in price...needless to say it was one of the northerners of the group.

At this point we were conscious that one of our party was yet to arrive. Lee Garvey (or Garv to us) was flying in from London to meet us. He was due to arrive at around 1.30pm at the hotel. It was nearly 1.30 as it was so we did what every friendship group would do - we quickly purchased our scarves then headed straight for something to eat. The currywurst was surprisingly pleasant. Strange to think that a boiled sausage sprinkled in curry powder served with a rock hard crusty roll is considered a delicacy.

Having left Garv to stew in the hotel lobby for a few hours - a small peacemaking delegation headed back to the hotel to meet him whilst the others made their way into the centre of Munich. Garv's mood was not helped by the fact that the hotel wouldn't let him into his room because it was booked under one of the other lads' names and the restaurant at the hotel had pretty much told him to do one too. For those who know him - a hungry Garv is not a pretty Garv.

Still, with the promise of food and drink he was happy enough. It was good to see him.

We then headed to our first Beer Hall for a stein or two before heading out for the night. We took in some authentic German cuisine...an all you can eat Chinese buffet for 8 Euros (when in Rome and all that...) before heading for a few drinks and ending up in an Irish bar where there was plenty of Guinness and some live music.

It had been a long, cold day. With a lack of sleep and alcohol mixed in to-boot I was ready for bed. I'd had a great day with some great mates but for the first time it dawned on me a little what this weekend was about. It should have been something very different from what it was. It made me think a little - but the overwhelming emotion I had was that 9 of my best mates had travelled all this way just for me - for no occassion at all other than to be mates. Thanks guys - I really appreciated it.

Coming up next...Day Three: Olympics, the most horrific meal ever and Des Lennis...

In the meantime...for no particular reason I've been humming this tune all day.

When's a stag doo not a stag doo? The Munich Chronicles Volume 1

No wedding, a missed train and a bag of lettuce - not the ingredients you'd necessarily associate with a stag doo.

I've just returned from what has been an eventful and hugely entertaining weekend in the beautiful city of Munich. It was originally supposed to be my stag doo but as other events over recent months somewhat scuppered those plans, I used all my PR-knowledge and sneekily re-branded it as a 'cultural weekend break'.

Now this weekend was quite clearly doomed from the outset. In fact, even prior to take-off it had already been christened the 'trip of the damned'.

So - aside from it being a 'stag doo' with no wedding - what else could possibly go wrong?

Beer Hall drinking...an experience

Problem number one. Last August I booked my friend Bordy's ticket because he was away at the time on his honeymoon. When Bordy got married he took his wife's surname (he's very progressive and forward thinking you know...and he's a drama teacher who couldn't pass up the opportunity to become Mr Shakespeare).  I just wished he'd embraced the change a little more and changed his passport. So, with two days to go we now have a ticket booked under Shakespeare but a passport which says Ward. Oh, and the airline can't change it.

Problem number Two. My mate Dav had booked a ticket for one of the other guys and spelt their name wrong.

This was not going well.

To top it off, we get to Wolverhampton train station on Thursday morning to get our train to Birmingham International and, thanks to a last minute platform change, we miss our train. Brilliant.

But things soon started to pick up. We got the issue of the mis-spelt tickets sorted at check-in and had a bite to eat and a drink before the flight. The lads had a Guinness - I opted for an equally refreshing pick-me up...a cup of tea.

We landed in Munich and made our way on the train and underground to our hotel. Given the comedy of errors so far with this trip we were all pleasantly surprised when we arrived at our hotel. It was nice.

We were to be joined  at the hotel by my friend Rian. Rian had taken the opportunity to make a small holiday of the week so he'd spent a few days exploring Berlin before swooping in to join us in Munich. On arrival at the hotel Rian asked us whether there was fridge in his room because he'd brought with him some milk, some muesli...and an unopened bag of lettuce. Apparently it's important to get your 5-a-day even when travelling abroad. Not the stereotypical start to a lads weekend away. And if you're expecting juicy stories from this break of drunken debauchery and Brits abroad running wild...you should probably stop reading this now...you'll be exceptionally disappointed.

Anyway, a quick freshen up, a beer at the hotel bar then off to discover the city of Munich. Alex 'Map Man' Angus led the way. We ended up at what can only be described as Munich's shopping district...not a pub or tavern to be seen. It was a bit like trying to get a pint in H&M or Debenhams.

Before too long we did stumble upon a restaurant and ordered our first steins of the trip. They asked us whether we'd like their 'special beer'. It sounded appealing so we said yes, thank you very much. Ten steins of special beer. Never before have I seen ten sober men flawed after one drink. It turns out the ale was rather potent and had an added ingredient of what I suspect could be anaesthetic. Never has so little beer caused such an horrific hangover. A bite to eat then a final drink at a very starnge bar which projected images of copulating snails on its walls and we were done for the night.

But we were here. Six of my closest friends, my two brothers and I, were going to have a great few days in the very picturesque, the very exciting and the exceptionally cold city of Munich.

It's been a long weekend, I'm exhausted and I can still taste the kebab I had last night. So I'm going to cut this blog entry short. Over the next day or two I'll get you up-to-speed on days two, three and four.

Coming up in The Munich Chronicles Parts II - IV - a hat that makes Rogers look like a spaniel, Des Lennis, brotherly love taken to a whole new level and the hotly anticipated arrival of Lee Gravy...

But in the meantime - here's a long forgotten Number One which I wasn't expecting to hear in a Munich tavern....

A childhood dream to become reality? #19

A childhood dream to become reality? #19

For as long as I can remember football has been a huge part of who I am.



My first sticker album

Collecting Panini (and later Merlin) sticker albums were some of the best memories I have about growing up. Buying packs of 5 stickers for 25p from the newsagents at the bottom of Hollybush Lane on a Friday afternoon after school, was the highlight of my week. Taking them home, opening them carefully (too eager and you rip the stickers inside) then dividing them into 'gots' and 'needs'. And the sheer excitement when you got a 'shiny' sticker. I'm sure that one shiny alone could command a trade of at least ten normal stickers in the market place that was Springdale Junior school's playground. And, of course there we always one or two 'swops' you had about twenty of - in my case, Gary Penrice of QPR and Ian Bishop of West Ham.

I literally spent hours studying the albums - in fact, when I was struck down with whooping cough at Junior school I spent weeks convalescing doing nothing but studying the information in those albums. It's why I now know the name of practically every football league ground. Sad, I know, but when you're whooping up a lung at the age of 8 there's little else to do to pass the time.

Still, I digress. I can't be certain what my first game at Molineux was...it seems such a long time ago. I think we played Blackburn Rovers...or Bristol Rovers. Similar names, similar kits - and I was about six at the time. I think we lost.

The ground looked an awful lot different - awful being the operartive word here. Only two sides of the ground were open - I sat in the Family Enclosure in the then John Ireland Stand with my dad, and my two brothers, Ian and Alex. The seats were faded red and the whole place looked dreadful. I loved it.

The fact it was so bad also meant that community teams like Windsor Boys could book the ground at the end of the season for their 'end of season football festival'. My brothers both got to play on the pitch (Alex scored some screamers in the much anticipated penalty shoot out competition - he still has the video footage somewhere at home).

I remember watching from the stands thinking, next year - that'll be me. It wasn't.

Jack Hayward rebuilt Molineux and clubs like Windsor were priced out of hiring the ground. Instead, I got to grace the hallowed turf at Bilston Town (right - clearly so annoyed with being at Bilston Town I did not want to be photographed) or, in a good year, Noose Lane - home of the mighty Willenhall Town FC. Somehow it was never quite the same.

Over the years I have come to accept that I will never run out at Molineux. I will never score that winning goal and get to kiss the badge...or will I?

Number 19 on my list reads... "Score a goal on the pitch at Molineux".

So, on 6th May, Ian, Alex and I are taking part in an end of season match at Molineux. Unbeknown to me at the time or writing my list, the club have introduced a new scheme which allow fans to buy a place in a team and play a match at Molineux at the end of the season. Well, this week I heard that we've made the team. We might be £99 worse off for the privilege - but can you put a price on fulfilling a childhood dream?

"While we're living, the dreams we have as children fade away". These lyrics have, over recent years, really struck a chord with me  - but, as I hope this '30 Things before 30' challenge will prove, maybe they don't have to fade away at all - maybe you just have to really want to do it?

Swimming breakthrough and #27 - Keep on running

Swimming breakthrough

An artist's impression of how I could look in the pool

So last week's swimming lesson felt like an unmitigated disaster. I came away feeling despondent and, if I'm honest, ready to jack it all in.

But after a few pep talks from various people at work this week (Sam and Chris, there's your name check) there I was, back at Wombourne Leisure Centre at 8.30 this morning...ready to go again.

It did not start well.

I am now ready to accept that I can not do the breaststroke. It's like patting your head and rubbing your tummy (or is it the other way around?) - my brain just isn't wired for that sort of co-ordination.

So, I'm going back to what feels more natural...the front crawl. It's how I was taught (well, shouted at) to swim when I was younger and what appears to come more naturally. Within 5 minutes, my buoyancy belt was off...and, albeit with the help of a float, I was enjoying being in the water.

My technique needs a lot of work and I still need to get over the face in the water thing, but with Clive's help, I think I might just be able to do this. Clive says the key is short, sharp feet movements - not floppy feet. Clive, next week I shall have floppy feet no longer!

Could this be the breakthrough?

Run Forrest, Run...

Number 27 on my list of 30 things to do before I'm 30 simply reads..."Run at least two half marathons (one at least sub 1:55m)"

If ever the phrase 'easier said than done' was applicable...



Run Forrest, Run: Forrest Gump; great film, profound motto, inspirational beard

I have a love-hate thing going on with running. I've never been great at long distance running - I've never really been the right build. Short(ish), stocky and lacking stamina (I know, never a good thing) - I'm yet to see a Kenyan Olympic winner possess these characteristics.

I also used to dread those cross-country runs at Highfields on drizzly Monday mornings in January. Clever trick from the PE department, they never warned you in advance it was just 'today...cross country'...damn.

The skinny, tall kids always finished first; the girls mostly walked around in packs, I suspect discussing who's better, Westlife or Backstreet Boys; whilst I came in around half way, caked in mud, freezing cold and dreading next lesson. As an aside, I never quite figured out why the girls were allowed to wear jumpers and joggers to do PE and the boys had to wear hideous maroon rugby shirts and shorts, regardless of the arctic biting weather...always seemed grossly unfair?

But over a short distance, I used to be rather quick. It may sound strange to those who didn't know me at school - but I really was fast over 100 and 200 metres. In Year 9 I was fifth fastest in the 100m in the whole of Wolverhampton (that sounds better than came 2nd last in the final!). I was also moved from playing in defence to a striker role at Windsor Boys. My darting runs would split defences and hapless centre backs simply couldn't catch me...they didn't need to. Inevitably I'd either trip over my own feet, hit a shot that went out for a throw-in or simply psychologically crumble as the 14 year old opposition goalkeeper psyched me out.

But I was fast. I was clocking up times of 11-point-something seconds over 100 metres. I doubt I would have ever gotten any better - but then alcohol, junk food and relationships kicked in and, well, I can no longer run the 100m in 11-point-something seconds!

Still, I used to really enjoy sprinting - and one thing I really regret over the past ten years or so is letting myself go and gradually stopping doing the sports I used to love. Other interests took over and all of a sudden I was looking quite doughy and my fitness was frankly appalling. I believe it's known as a comfort zone? But I've fought my way back from that...

A few years ago my brothers and I decided we were going to run the Wolverhampton Half Marathon to raise money for the Alzheimer's Society in memory of my Nana Joy. We trained for months leading up to it - West Park in Wolverhampton is an ideal training circuit...exactly one mile around. It's safe to say I was the weakest link of the three. Ian is spindly and very fit. Alex is fairly athletic too and despite asthma and a slightly dodgy knee in the weeks leading up to the run - he was not to be perturbed. I however huffed, puffed and wheezed myself over the finish line. It hurt...a lot. In fairness though we did cross the line in a respectable time of 1hr 57m. A year later I came in at just over 2 hours...remarkable since I had a fairly nasty bout of satay chicken-inspired food poisoning courtesy of a Cardiff-based chinese buffet 24 hours earlier. I think being sick going through Bilbrook held me up a tad in the end.

But since then I'm a stone lighter, I'm back playing football regularly, I've even taken up racketball too. And, physically, I feel fitter than I probably have for 14 years or so.

So - onwards and upwards. Two half marathons to do - and I need to beat my personal best. Looks like Wolverhampton could be the first attempt - before Birmingham in October. In a drunken state I also seem to have agreed to run the Oldham half marathon too!

So - the next 18 months will see me running...quite a lot. Here's something from the Spencer Davis Group to keep me going...

Scuba drowning in Faliraki, Bordy and Buddy

Scuba Drowning in Faliraki



The original Inbetweeners. Mif, Indi, me, Ben, Bordy and Naylor.

Since I've been learning to swim, I've been thinking a bit more about why I dislike it so much.
 
My first blog post about swimming gives you a flavour - but the more I think back, there are definitely two or three other reasons that spring to mind and would explain my fear and trepidation when it comes to being in the water.

1. This may sound like an excuse, and there's no scientific evidence to back this up as far as I'm aware, but I think it could be genetic. My parents aren't great swimmers and my grandad couldn't swim either - a slight problem considering he was in the navy during the war. He only learnt to swim when they threw him overboard in Malta and shouted back - "now swim you b*****d!". I hope I don't drive Clive to these sorts of extremes.
2. My mom has kindly reminded me this week of a Haven holiday we had in Weymouth when I was younger. Seaview holiday park - and Jamie decided he could swim. He was not going to wear his armbands, he insisted he could swim. Afterall, my brothers weren't wearing armbands - why should I. I sunk. I was hauled out soaking and sobbing.
3. Scuba diving in Faliraki. Clearly not my wisest decision. If I can offer one piece of advice to all non-swimmers out there; if you're incapable of swimming a length in the pool at your hotel, don't assume you'll be fine underwater at sea.
   
   It was my post-A Level lads holiday. Now, for some unknown reason, probably because there was nothing to do during the days; especially after my best pal Bordy lost our only football and our frisbee (in the ocean and hotel roof respectively); I signed up for a scuba diving session.  So, one morning our group took a boat trip out to sea.
   
   Eventually we arrived at our scuba diving destination. It started badly. Our mate Indi missed the step off the jetti and crashed straight into the water. This greatly amused me - but my laughter was not to last. Anyway, we go through a quick safety briefing and the Aussie instructor tells us that the most likely problem we'll encounter is water getting in your goggles. If this happens, tap the bottom of your goggles with you palm and breath out of your nose to flush the water out. Sounds simple.
   
   Into the water we went - and I honestly loved it. For about 5 minutes I was in the sea, I could breath, my eyes were open and the views were spectacular. Then water began to seep into my goggles. Not to worry I thought, I'd listened to the briefing, I know how to sort this minor problem... 

   

   Had Bordy not lost the frisbee perhaps
   I would never have ventured out to sea.

   
   
   I pressed my palm against the bottom of goggles and breathed out...through my mouth. My mouthpiece (you know, the really important bit that gives you oxygen) flew out of my mouth. I was then overcome with panic. I gasped for air, inhaling most of the ocean in the process and then completely forgot the other piece of information the instructor gave us. 'Paddle with your feet and you go up...paddle with your hands and you go down'. So of course I thrashed my arms around which resulted in me sinking further and further down. I started making the distress signal and I was fished out by the Aussie guy who rather embarrassingly towed me back to the boat. I remembered at the time thinking two things: one, I genuinely may die here and, two; why is my mate Naylor laughing so much.

Well, I guess my fear of the water stems further than wet socks in the changing rooms at Heath Town baths and swimming with the kids with the snotty noses.

Overcoming the fear

So - I had swimming lesson number three this morning. It was not good.

It feels a bit like when you learn to drive. You start thinking you've got the hang of it then you have two or three sessions where you do nothing but stall. Today I stalled.

Clive is being really patient with me which is a good job - because I'm at the stage where I'm getting frustrated with myself. It's a bit of a viscious cycle - the more frustrated I get, the more tense I become and the more likely I am to sink. I'm fine with the floats - but when they're taken away, for some unknown reason I forget the basics and I start to flap. It's all psychological so I know I have to overcome the fear. Clive can give me the basics around technique and breathing - but only I can overcome the fear. The one good thing to come out of it - I'm more determined than ever to do this. Ok - it may be harder than I had originally thought - but I won't let it beat me.

The Day The Music Died

I can't let the 3rd February pass without paying tribute to one of my oldest and bestest mates, Adam Shakespeare (nee Ward). Bordy - happy birthday mate - hope you have a great day. Thanks for the happy memories...

And finally, the reason I never forget Bordy's birthday every year. Of course, 3rd February 2013 marks the 54th anniversary of the day the music died. On a cold, wintery evening in Clear Lake, Iowa - rock 'n' roll lost one of its most talented pioneers. With no heating on their tour bus, Buddy Holly hired a small plane to fly the headliners onto their next gig. Well, the rest is history. He perished that fateful night alongside Ritchie Valens, J.P Richardson (The Big Bopper) and their pilot Roger Peterson. As Don McLean sung in his anthemic American Pie, it was the day the music died.

Fact of the day: Buddy had fish and chips at the chippy on Snow Hill in Wolverhampton, true.

Here's to you Buddy...