Yoga giggles, Montegos and the theatre - #s 5, 15 and 17

The clock is ticking and the end of my twenties is fast approaching. So over the past few weeks I've been scrambling to get my final few things done. 

Yoga giggles - #17

An artist's impression of how I may have looked

As well as exciting new challenges, this list has been about broadening my mind; specifically towards things I've been quite dismissive of in the past. This very much includes yoga. To some it's the ability to transform mind and body; to me it's flexible show-offs who's definition of a good night is eating flavourless organic food whilst sitting in judgement on anyone who eats and heaven-forbids enjoys carbohydrates.

But I wanted to give it a go - you never know, I might be missing something. Turns out I'm not. Last week I took my very first - and what I suspect may be my last yoga class. 

It's fair to say that when it comes to flexibility; I have none. I have the torso of someone who's 6' 4" and the legs of someone who's 4' 6". This makes things like touching toes and kicking legs high somewhat tricky; I just don't bend that way. I did try to relax into it; I really did. But at one stage the instructor had people sticking out their tongues and rolling their eyes. It was at this stage I began corpsing and spent the next five minutes stifling my giggles. When the lady next to me clocked me laughing and started laughing too I caught a glimpse of the instructor looking somewhat unimpressed.

I decided this wasn't really me. But I have learnt that quiet contemplation and relaxing meditation doesn't really do it for me; my brain's doesn't switch off enough and I get distracted too easily. It also gave me cramp in my toe.

Who needs to bend and relax anyway.

New cars - #15

Grandad and his Austin Allegro

I've never been a petrol head. I'm the one who watches Top Gear for the challenges then switches over to try and catch A Touch of Frost on ITV3 when the test-driving cars bit comes on.

Cars have just never really been my thing. I can drive one - I know when one looks good but when it comes to break-horse powers, miles-per-gallon and carburetors I genuinely haven't got a clue.

I think it stems from the cars of my childhood. My grandparents set the tone; one Austin Allegro and one nuclear-yellow Austin Marina. For my parents it was an Austin Montego which was later upgraded to a Rover Montego; you can't say we didn't try our best to prop up the bucket-rusting British car industry.

Montegos. Can't think why our car industry collapsed.

Although at one stage we did move away from the shoddily built English cars to get a Ford Mondeo Ghia with electric front windows. My fondness for thoroughly unremarkable cars continued into my 20s and for the last 8 years I've driven a solid yet unspectacular Peugeot 206 which in its later years has developed what I'd term 'character'. Like when you turn the heaters on and the fan squeals in a high-pitched sound which only the dogs of Dudley can hear. Or when you're traveling at 70mph down the M6 and the warning light telling you that your door is open flashes at you. That's a bit scary the first time it happens. So I wanted to finally get myself a car which didn't leave me feeling anxious on any journey which is longer than 30 minutes and which didn't make me feel slightly like a failed hairdresser.

Bargain: my new wheels

So...I got this. I've never really wanted a Mini - but the finance package on this was too attractive; £10 from The Entertainer toy shop.

Ok - so I never managed to get a real new car. It was one financial outlay too far but before too long when my Peugeot inevitably gives up the ghost and goes to the scrap dealer in the sky; I'll be looking for help from anyone who can tell me the difference between a differential and a dipstick.

In a West End town...#5

The only reason to-date to go to the theatre

Putting aside the fact that I've still not really mastered this swimming lark; number five on my list has been one of the more illusive of my challenges. As I approach my thirties I've decided to add a little culture into my life. And what says pretentious culture more than an evening out at the theatre. 

Wolverhampton's Grand Theatre was never a mainstay of my childhood. A school trip to see J.B Priestley's 'An Inspector Calls' was pretty much the highlight of my theatre goings; alongside the thirty-eight trips to see 'Buddy - The Musical'.

So if I was going to do this I was going to do it in style; by taking in a show at the London West End. And although I haven't yet been - a show at the London Palladium is booked in for a few week's time. Michael Flatley's Lord of the Dance - not really my choice but hey, it's another one ticked off the list.

I've two days left in my twenties; just one more thing to do...

I'm still chasing cars...and I know my dad will like this...

#'s 7, 8, 14 and 25 - The Incidentals: Pets, Books and The Good Life

"It's just the little things, the incidental things." 

These are the profound words from pop sibling duo Alisha's Attic's from their single 'The Incidentals' which hit the dizzy heights of number 13 in the charts back in 1998. A forgettable tune - but a sentiment which passes the test of time.

Since I set out on my journey to complete 30 new things before I turned 30, I've traveled the world, met some amazing people, seen some incredible sights and experienced some truly amazing things. But when it comes being happy, I've learnt that sometimes, it's just about embracing the little things in life. Immersing yourself in a good book, being at one with nature and the companionship and affection of a pet.

My list wasn't just about experiencing new things and going to new places - I wanted to reconnect to, and do some of the things which I'd long forgotten the enjoyment of doing.

So, it might not be edge of your seat stuff, but here's my back-to-basics enjoyment of life:

Number 8 - get a pet

The Angus-cat mindset is perhaps similar

Cats vs dogs. It's a debate which is older than time. It can divide families, ruin relationships, melt the coldest heart and spark an irrational, vitriolic hatred from the normally friendliest of folks. 

Now I'm well and truly in #TeamCat. It's not that I particularly dislike dogs; it's just I was never around them as a child so I've never felt fully comfortable with them. The same can be said for young children...both of which can sniff out my uneasiness from one hundred metres or more. I just don't fancy getting slobbered on, having to clean up someone else's mess and have something sniffing at my groin every time I walk through the door. If I wanted to do that I could just spend a night in a Dudley nightclub.

Me and Ollie - before the shed

Cats are different. This may well say more about me than anything else, but the relationship is a symbiotic understanding. Neither of you want to be tied to the other for too long. You quite like the fuss for a while but you don't want it to go on too long and as long as you're both fed and watered, you're generally pretty happy. They'll walk themselves and when nature calls it craps in the neighbour's garden. Win-win.

I grew up with cats from a young age. Sam and Ollie were our first. I don't remember Sam - but I'm told that when he went to be castrated he only had one ball - the other had never dropped. Mom says he had 'one ball and half an idea'. Sounds like a character. But it was Ollie who I really remembered from a young child. She was a ginger and white cat who loved lying in the garden by the hedge next to a hole which led to our neighbour's garden. Apparently when my mom was expecting Ian, Ollie moved downstairs. When Alex was due she moved into the garage and when I was on my way she upped-sticks completely and moved-in next door! Still, she came back and I was utterly devastated when she died. We buried her in her favourite spot...then dad built a shed on top of it.

Who wouldn't want one?

We then had Pepsi and Domino who were the best cats ever. They lived for more than twenty years and to this day I still miss them both. The waifs and strays my parents have taken in over the years; Tip (who I still maintain was killed by dad feeding him dodgy turkey about 6 days after Christmas), Bruno, Heskey and now Patch; have tried their best to fill the void left by the girls but, bless them, they've never quite lived up to the billing.

But like or loathe cats; there's something comforting about having a pet. So - I decided to get one. Her name is Tammy and I got her...from Argos.

Tammy, the 21st century pet.

It might be a cop-out but the life I lead right now, it just wouldn't be fair to have a pet. I'm out too often and it's not healthy for an animal to be left alone for so long. So I decided to dig up a fad from the 1990s...

At one stage in the mid-90s, the latest gadget to have was a tamagotchi. A pet on a key ring which you had to keep alive by feeding it and playing with it. Invariably, these things died after a few days once the kids had got bored of them, but the craze really did sweep the nation with some gusto. I had one; albeit not for long. I lost mine in an ill-considered wager to Simon Stewart.

But not to worry - they're back. It's like tamagotchi 2.0 via the iPhone. Play with it, fuss it, feed it and try and keep it alive as long as you can. If it's alive on 1st August I'm considering this task well and truly complete!

Number 7 - Read a Dickens Novel

Dickens; one step up from The Twits

I consider myself to be fairly well read, but in recent years I've hardly picked up a book. Aside from holidays, I just don't make time to read. It's something I used to really enjoy doing. But in the world of iPhones, Facebook and Twitter, it's a past-time which has passed me by. Even my Kindle is loaded with Championship Manager.

To this day, my favourite author, alongside the distinctive illustrations by Quentin Blake, is Roald Dahl. I read all of his books when I was at school and to this day, Mr and Mrs Twit are two of the funniest characters ever created.

But I figured it was time to move beyond Matilda and George's Marvellous Medicine and pick up a classic. And what better writer, so I'm told, than Charles Dickens. So, I've broken my Dicken's virginity with his ghostly short-story of 'The Signal-man' and as I write this blog, on a balmy summer's evening, I've almost finished 'A Christmas Carol'. Both are great reads - although I'm finding it difficult to get Kermit the Frog, Gonzo, Fozzy Bear and co. out of my head.

Always been a fan of the outdoors.

The Good Life - Numbers 14 and 25

Aside from the fact that Richard Briers had an incredible voice and that Felicity Kendall was incredibly cute, I've never really seen myself as one for The Good Life.

Putting vague references to a mild-mannered 1970s sitcom aside, I have to say I love being in my garden. After being cramped in a hot, stuffy office all week, the chance to be in the fresh air is a real release from the hustle and bustle of every day life. And I've discovered that there's a huge amount of satisfaction from growing your own food. Lettuce, onions, tomatoes, peppers and leeks are all in the garden this year - with varying degrees of success so far. But watching something develop from a seedling into a thriving fruit thanks to your care and attention is really satisfying; and perhaps makes up for my lack of natural paternal instinct! So with lettuce grown and onions picked - I've completed number 14 - and it helped me complete number 25 too.

Sunday roast using home-grown onions for the gravy.

I love cooking. I don't profess to be the greatest chef in the world but I do get a lot of enjoyment from cooking. But when you're working and living on your own you rarely have the time nor inclination to put a lot of effort in. And what greater effort than cooking a sunday roast from scratch. Getting the timings right, not over-cooking the meat and trying not to burn the yorkshire puddings...there's huge pressure to prepare a feast. But get your timings arse-about-face and everyone's sunday is ruined. Having never cooked one before, I now have new found respect for mom. Three hours of sweating and swearing, but eventually I was ready to serve up. Roast beef, homedmade yorkshire puddings, roasted potatoes, carrots, broad beans, broccolli and a homemade gravy of red wine, stock and rosemary. Exhausting but exhillirating; and both parents are alive and well to tell the tale so I'm ticking this one off the list too.

Incidentally, time is ticking on my 20s - looks like I've got a busy two weeks ahead...

Samba Soccer, Ticos and Idiots - The Uncomfortable Patriot

I was not even six years old when I uncontrollably sobbed my heart out as England crashed out of Italia '90 in what was to become possibly The Three Lions' finest heroic defeat.

That night it was Stuart Pearce and Chris Waddle whose penalty misses broke the heart of the nation and set in motion a national mental block when it comes to penalty shoot-outs.

My memories of World Cup 1990 are fairly vague. There was Pavarotti, Schillachi and Cameroon's grievous bodily harm on the Argentinian midfielder Claudio Caniggia. There was New Order's World in Motion, Roger Milla's dancing - and of course there was West Germany.

I cried because I thought that was it; that England wouldn't be allowed to play football again. In hindsight, had that been the case, it may have saved us from another 24 years of abject disappointment and misery.

Go Mexico!

I remember World Cup 1994 vividly. Germany (no longer West Germany following the fall of the Berlin Wall) beating Bolivia 1-0 in the opening game; the crossbar collapsing on the Mexican 'keeper Jorge Campos; Ray Houghton's winner against Italy; Hagi; Stoitchkov; the drug-ridden Maradona; Baggio's penalty miss; Bebeto's 'craddling the baby' celebration, Valderrama's hair - the assassination of the Colombian Andres Escobar after he scored an own goal against the USA. And of course, the fact that England had failed to qualify. I would be 14 years old before I'd see England grace the World Cup scene again...and it ended the same way - a heroic defeat on penalties.

Me, Alex, John and Joe.

But it was the 1990, '94 and '98 World Cups which cemented my love for the world's greatest sporting event. I spent endless hours and endless pocket money collecting the Panini sticker albums and a few weeks ago I fished out the old albums from my mom and dad's loft to look through them again. The memories as a kid just came rushing back. It's also fair to say that collecting this year's sticker album has probably been equally as fun...I was never allowed to go to the pub to get 'swaps' when I was 10.

The following three World Cups haven't really registered that much with me. Fairly forgettable - as were England's performances. But this year was different. I'm 29 and the World Cup was going to Brazil. If England gave birth to the game of football then it was the Brazilians who nurtured it and gave it life. The skills, the colours, the names - they are the ultimate champions. Pele, Socrates, Romario, Ronaldo - the glamour and romance of Brazilian Samba-style football is still there; although this generation's crop of players, like Jo, Fred and Bernard sound more like a darts team from Oldham rather than glamorous world-beaters. But this was Brazil - realistically, a final chance for me to see for myself a World Cup in action.

Belo Horizonte was to be my 10th new ground

I traveled to Brazil with my older brother Alex and met later with his university friends John and Joe. We'd got tickets for England's final group game against Costa Rica in the host city of Belo Horizonte. Our assumption would be that England would qualify in either first or second place in our group then we would be there to watch England in the second round in either Rio or Recife. Irritatingly, 23 English players, a physio with a broken ankle, a mad Italian (whose dad lives in Wolverhampton) and a Uruguayan who lives on a diet of centre-halves had other ideas. By the time we flew out to Brazil, England were already eliminated which meant we were effectively going to the world's most expensive friendly game. Little did I know at the time how much of a blessing this would turn out to be.

Controversial - Collymore called Penn 'posh'

The game at Belo Horizonte's Mineirao Stadium was to be my tenth and final new football ground. That was to be number 28 on my list completed along with numbers 10 and 12 (go to a World Cup and watch and England away game). But the story of the game began 24 hours earlier. The hosts Brazil were playing Cameroon in their final group game so we made our way from our hotel to an area of Belo called Savassi. There was a town square which was full of England fans who were gathering to watch the game. As we made our way through the crowds, we bumped into former England striker and now TalkSport broadcaster Stan Collymore. It was a photo moment - and one which would probably cause a few debates. An admitted woman-beater and Cannock Chase dogger; Collymore has had his fair share of controversy during his career but has reinvented himself as as passionate (some might say shouty) radio pundit. Either way, it was pretty cool to have a brief chat with a former England striker. Shortly afterwards the atmosphere began to build as the Brazilian fans began to whistle, cheer and wave their distinctive yellow, green and blue flags. This was the atmosphere we wanted to feel. Annoyingly, within minutes, the Samba party was drowned out by the English. Lagers in-hand and St George's flags a-flying, we were treated to several rounds of 'ten German bombers in the air' and 'England 'til I die'. Now you can call me picky - but there are two fundamental flaws in these songs:

a) Technically you're English 'til you die, not 'England'

The Costa Ricans were loving the party

b) The 'RAF from England' who shot the Germans down were actually British - and with probably a bit of help from the Americans as well.

Now although I enjoyed the Brazil game - there was an underbelly of something which didn't quite sit right. 

Fortunately we made a swift exit from that part of the square and later that night we went to another part of the square in Savassi and the atmosphere was electric. You could still hear the drunken drones of 'No Surrender to the IRA' in the distance but the rest of world had seemingly got on with the party. The square was heaving, locals were having dance-offs in the street where music blared out of ghetto-blasters in car boots. We spoke to quite a few young Brazilians who were really keen to test out their English. We met a Mexican guy who was 'couch surfing' his way around Brazil; it's an internet community where people will let you stay at theirs, in return you have to let people who are traveling stay at yours. Not sure it'll catch on in Dudley though. But nonetheless, we'd ended the night on a high and the day after, it would be our day - England were playing at the World Cup and I was going to watch them.

We were up early to catch a mini-bus to the ground which is quite a way out of town. We'd teamed up with three friends who we knew were already out there; Ste, Andy and Lewis. When we arrived, there was a fifteen minute walk to the ground which was awash with football fans from across the world. The white shirts of England, mixed in with the yellow of Brazil and the red and blue of our opponents, Costa Rica.

It was an imposing stadium, A solid yet distinctive concrete structure, donned in the World Cup colours. The sun was shining and everything seemed set for a fun afternoon. England had nothing to play for - but we were in Brazil and I was sure that the England fans would lap up the party atmosphere.

We made our way in to the ground and found our seats. The sun was shining directly on us - it was the hottest I'd ever felt in a football ground.

The uncomfortable patriots. Proud of my country - just not so much of its fans

Now it's fair to say the game wasn't a classic. In fact, aside from Cameroon, England were probably the worst team in this year's World Cup. But I could forgive the players that. I simply think they're just not that good. It may be my naivety, but it was the England fans who disappointed me most.

In the England fanzine which was being handed out before the game, there was an article entitled 'We are all England' which was in response to an incident at England's opening match in Manaus against Italy. England fan and actor Riz Ahmed was at the game and had tweeted afterwards 'I was at Sao Paulo stadium, edge of seat, singing Eng-er-land. Half time I get racist abuse from England fan. 2nd half I just can't sing it". I naively thought this was something we'd left behind long ago. And my experiences for the next 90 minutes weren't much better. Fans were handing out 'The Falklands are ours' stickers with Spanish translations, they sang about no surrender to the IRA and yet again we were serenaded by the never-ending 'ten German bombers'. Drinks were being thrown around, they chanted 'Who are you' at the Brazilians and, what I found most bizarre, was the England fans' refusal to take part in the Mexican Wave. They booed instead. You're in South America for a World Cup - why on earth wouldn't you take part?

Everything about the English following felt aggressive and gladiatorial. There was little singing about pride in our country and what makes it great to be English. It was about war and violence and how crap everyone else is. I'm proud of my country but the flag waving patriotism has always made me feel uneasy. I don't know why, but not waving a flag and being quite understated about things seems more quintessentially English than being draped in a flag, drunk and being obnoxious.

The ironic thing is, most of those singing would have no idea about the history behind these chants. I imagine the Weimar Republic, the Sudetenland, the anschluss with Austria and the Treaty of Versailles are events which are alien to them. As indeed would the history of the Irish troubles.

The Colombians were great

We met Brazilians, Americans, Mexicans, Chileans, Colombians and Ecuadorians who were patriotic but who celebrated and partied their way through the World Cup. The English fans seemed to get pissed, aggressive and lairy - and lived in the past. I spoke to one German fan later in the tournament and asked him about these things. His reply  -'it was such a long time ago, I didn't fight, I don't see why it's a problem still'. We should of course never forget, but the world has moved on - sadly it feels as if England has not. England getting knocked out was probably a blessing - it allowed us to get on with the tournament and party with the rest of the world.

Costa Rica

Our second game of the tournament was in the city of Recife which was to host possibly the least glamorous second round tie: Costa Rica vs Greece.

I felt a bit guilty but Rafael seemed happy enough

We didn't have a ticket but we were confident that we'd find some tickets somewhere - it couldn't be a sell out. The Pernambuco stadium is a new ground built especially for the World Cup. It's built miles out of town which makes it a pain to get to. It took us a taxi, a train, a bus and a 20 minute walk just to get there. There were people selling tickets - but most were category 1 and were really expensive. Alex and I agreed a maximum price which we'd pay and set about trying to find tickets. There were plenty of scare stories about fake tickets so you're always running the risk of getting ripped off but we were fortunate to stumble across a Brazilian man, Rafael. He had two spare tickets and we managed to buy them for less than face value. He was going to game too, so having struck a bargain, we then had to sit feeling a little guilty next to him for 90 minutes. Still, we bought him a beer and he seemed happy enough. He used to live in England and studied in Plymouth for a while so he had a good grasp of English and was clearly a football nut. 

Costa Rica celebrate their first goal

The first half wasn't a classic but that didn't matter. We were watching the World Cup! It picked up in the second half and a red card for Costa Rica kick started what was to be a great second half and extra time. After 120 minutes it was 1-1 and it was down to penalties. From crying in my front room in 1990, to watching a shoot-out in a stadium in Brazil, it was one of many 'pinch me now' moments of the trip. It was heartbreak for Greece in the shoot-out but the plucky Costa Ricans who everyone had written off as whipping boys were through to the last 8. The whole stadium was feeling the love for the 'Ticos' (Costa Ricans). More than 42,000 fans sang 'olé, olé olé ole, Ticos! Ticos!'. Every World Cup has a country who people fall for; in 1990 it was Cameroon, in 1994 it was Bulgaria - in 2014 - it was Costa Rica!

Next up - it's all about Brazil (no more football Mom I promise).

This is what the World Cup should be about...the vocal minority of England fans please take note...