Jack Whitehall, The Dixie Chicks and Sore Nipples

Well that was the weekend that was.

For the last few months this weekend has been penciled-in as D-day for my list. Poor planning on my part granted; but this was the weekend where I was set to complete numbers 22 and 27 from my list.

Number 22 was to take in at least ten new music or comedy gigs whilst Number 27, which for me was to be the toughest challenge yet, was to complete two half marathons...one of which had to be under 1 hour 55 minutes.

Chas 'n' Dave - not cool - but I clearly enjoyed it.

Let's start with #22. I wrote back in January 2013 about how music and comedy had played a big part in my life. Indoctrination by my father into 1950s rock 'n' roll as a child is something which, today I'm sure social services would step-in to save children from. But nonetheless, it had a big effect on me. As did endless hours in front of VHS tapes as a kid watching Only Fools and Horses, Porridge, Fawlty Towers and other classic BBC sitcoms.

So whilst my friends were taking in Backstreet Boys and the Fresh Prince of BelAir, I was listening to Eddie Cochran and soaking up the sarcasm and wit of Norman Stanley Fletcher.

So getting out to see live music and comedy was something I really wanted to do again. Well, this weekend, I've finally, completed my list of ten new gigs, and you can see that my dad's influence lingers on. The fact that I'd put Chas 'n' Dave in my top three gigs is testament to that.

Jack Whitehall

Jack Whitehall. Funny posh kid.

But whereas musically, I'm often drawn back to my childhood, my comedy tastes at least have moved on. On Friday night, I went to see Jack Whitehall - the new posh kid on the block - whose sitcom success with Fresh Meat and Bad Education has made him the freshest new comedy talent in the country. I went with my brother Ian, his friend Nick and my sister-in-law Sandi. Whitehall was very funny...perhaps not as funny as his debut stand-up tour - but funny nonetheless. His comedy clearly aimed at the BBC Three student generation, I did catch Ian and Nick glancing at each other on occasion with a rather confused look upon their brows. Sandi and I helped fill in the generational gaps which were clearly lost on these two mid-thirty somethings. Although I can understand why they'd be confused...this is the generation who held-up Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer as comedy geniuses...something which I've never been able to fathom.That was Friday night.

The Dixie Chicks

Saturday would see me do a 200+ mile round-trip to London to see a band which I've wanted to see for more than ten years. 

I should start this by apologising publicly to my friend Dav. I mocked him mercilessly a few years ago when he took himself off on his own to see Welsh opera-hotty Katherine Jenkins. Well, with no friends wanting to join me at the O2, I made my way to the UK's Country & Western Festival on my own. There's something inherently tragic about that, and if I'm honerst, a little bit of my died inside when I got there and sat on my own. But the self-loathing was ultimately worth it. It was also my first return to the O2 since (or the Millennium Dome as it was called back then) on Millennium Eve. As a family though we've taken a vow never to talk about that night again. 

This trip to the Dome wasn't as shameful as my first visit

More than ten years ago I stumbled, purely by chance, upon the music of the Dixie Chicks...and it was fitting that their performance marks the end of my quest to see more live gigs. 

They were sensational. The back-story to them is that ten years or so ago they were the biggest thing in country-rock music. Think the Spice Girls - but with talent. That's how big and game-changing they were for that genre. Girl power...with a stetson hat. But at their peak, at a concert in London, lead singer Natalie Maines dared, during a rendition of their Vietnam War-inspired hit 'Travelling Soldier', to openly say that she was ashamed that former-US President George W Bush was a fellow Texan. Her highly politicised jibe came at a huge cost. Radio stations stop playing their music, their records were destroyed in the streets and their career was in tatters. So, more than eight years after that night, they were back in London for the very first time. And I was there.

Over the finish line in 1hr 51m. Get in.

Sore Nipples

Then came Sunday. My second attempt at overcoming the mammoth challenge I'd set myself; to complete two half marathons...one of which had to be sub-1 hour 55 minutes.
The setting was Stafford. I was joined by my old school friend Amy and old school pals Becky and Kate. Today's weather was uncharacteristically spring-like for this early in March. In fact, today's practically been a mini-heatwave. One assumes the Daily Express will run with some weather-based front page story tomorrow telling us that we're set to fry this summer - or it'll be a washout. Either way, the lefty climate-change propagandists will be to blame I'm sure.

My mate Amy and I post-race

The heat didn't help - but as we pounded the rural country lanes of Stafford, something felt different this time. This was my fourth half marathon...none of the previous three have necessarily been great experiences if I'm honest. But today felt different - it felt as if this was one psychological barrier I could finally overcome. After running the Oldham half marathon in 2 hours and 1 minute back in October, I knew I had a lot to do. But, having abandoned the others earlier in the race (my second apology of this piece), it came to the ten mile mark, a glance at my watch, and I had a feeling that I might just do this. The hours of trudging up and down hills in Sedgley and Gornal may just have been worth it. As I ran into Stafford town centre after a grueling final two miles and saw the finish line, I knew I'd achieved the toughest challenge yet. I came in at 1 hour 51 minutes. A whole ten minutes shaved-off my last run and six minutes quicker than my personal best. And aside from a blister or two and  two very sore nipples, I survived to tell the story.

My biggest achievement to-date...and certainly the one I'm most proud of.

Before the race, Kate had suggested we think about this song if we were struggling...turns out it worked.

#26 - Angus, Angus and Angus...go to Angus

Arbroath, Scotland

So I've just got back from completing #26 on my list...paying homage to my Celtic ancestry and visiting, for the first time, wee bonnie Scotland.

Angus and Angus - with the other Angus taking the photo

Being born and brought up in Wolverhampton, you rarely stumble across another Angus - unless of course you hang around outside Burger King. I've always been quite proud of the uniqueness of our family name although our immediate family heritage traces us back to the North-East and Newcastle so the Scottish link has been somewhat diluted as the generations have gone by.

My primary school teacher, Mr Thomas, clearly missed his natural vocation in life as a stand-up comic - he never failed to have the rest of the class in hysterics when he'd say to me 'Angus me coat-up'. Hilarity prevailed clearly. Although my personal favourite is always "if you 'miss the 'g' in your name then you're really in the sh*t". Comedy gold...albeit a tad crude. I should probably say that Mr Thomas didn't come up with that one and went on to have a distinguished career in primary education.

This could have read Gill Brothers On Tour

In recent years, my eldest brother Ian has become quite the geneologist; tracing back our family history to mole catchers assistants in Shropshire on my maternal side and fish gutters from the north-east on the paternal side. But a strange anomaly cropped up on my grandad Angus' side. It appears grandad's dad was born after his 'father' had died. For the Only Fools & Horses fans amongst you, it's a bit like Trigger's family tree: "I never knew my dad...he died a few years before I was born". It looks as if great-great-grandma Angus might have had my great-grandfather by another man, but the child kept the Angus name. Sadly, we'll never know whether my grandad knew that or not; but in all probability, I should, really be known as Jamie Gill right now. Of course, that would make the heading of this blog rather redundant.

Lunan Bay...just north of Arbroath

Still, there's Scottish blood in there somewhere and it's a beautiful country which I've never visited.

So, this weekend, Ian, Alex and I made the 800+ mile round trip to the land of our forefathers (well, someone's forefathers anyway).

When I think of Scotland, I think of the craggy, heathland terrain, glacier mountain tops overlooking crystal blue lochs with locals swigging the finest malt whiskeys by an open, crackling fire against a backdrop of kilts, sporrans and bagpipes.

We went to Arbroath. I can assure you none of the above were present. In fact, to quote one of our party, Arbroath is "deprivation with a splash of quaintness".

An engineering and fishing town on the eastern coast, just north of Dundee, Arbroath has real historical significance - it's the home of the 'Declaration of Arbroath', the declaration of Scottish independence in 1310. But it's clearly a town struggling in recent years with the economy and traditional industries in decline.

Still, it's in the heart of Angus; which, according the tourism board is the birthplace of Scotland.

The harbour at Arbroath 

We booked into our B&B (The Brambles - if you're ever in town stay there, Murial and Wooly are lovely) before heading down to the harbour-side where there are some impressive coastal views overlooking the cold, menacing-looking North Sea. 

We spent Friday night exploring the town and taking in a few local taverns. To say it was cold on Friday would be an understatement. In fact, to quote the portly Scotsman stood next to me at the pub urinal "Jeez, it's so cold in here I think my hands have grown". Again, think about that one...there you go. 

Alex and I at Lunan Bay

We finished the night with a local delicacy. Protected by the EU, a bit like Melton Mowbray pies and Champagne, the Arbroath 'Smokie' is sold practically everywhere. It's a smoked fillet of haddock which has to have been caught within a certain radius of the town. It was surprisingly tasty - but left all three of us gasping for water in the middle of the night as its salt content took at least three years off our life expectancy...and I'm sure my ankles have swelled through water retention ever since.

Saturday morning saw us rise early and take a short car trip up the coast to the beautiful and picturesque, albeit bitterly exposed, Lunan Bay. We then headed further north to the fairly unimpressive and forgettable town of Montrose.

In the afternoon, we were to visit Gayfield Park, the home of Arbroath's football team, to take in the relegation 'six-pointer' against fellow strugglers East Fife. (This windy experience will be part of my next blog.)

On Saturday night, having been frozen to our cores at the football, we made our way back to the local taverns we'd visited the night before; supped a few more McEwan's ales before deciding the give the local nightclub 'DeVito's' (that's right, bizarrely named after the pint-sized Hollywood star, Danny DeVito) a wide berth and headed for a traditional Arbroath curry - with a proprietor who seemingly graduated from the same school of customer service as Basil Fawlty.

We decided against a night in DeVito's

On arrival we asked for a table for three, she asked 'have you booked?'. We replied 'no', to which, seemingly put out by our brazen attempts to eat in her establishment, she looked around at the half empty restaurant, huffed, then led us to a pokey table where we were jammed in between the coat stand and another table of diners.

It would make a classic Gordon Ramsay Kitchen Nightmare episode with the over-bearing owner leaning over and hawkishly watching the every move of the poor waitress. Then followed a dead-pan debate with Alex about whether you have onion salad or onion chutney with poppadoms. For me, I personally like my curry served with lashings of sarcasm and a side order of face like a smacked-ar*e'.

Still, it added to the entertainment of what was a great weekend. Arbroath's a nice little town and probably a good base to stay for a day or two if you're heading further north to the Highlands for a holiday.

I get the feeling there is Scottish blood in our DNA...but I'm glad our ancestors headed south...if only because it's a lot warmer down here!

So, #26 - visit Scotland....done.

I'll leave you with this...which always makes me want wine gums...

Just Another Saturday Night

Cardboard city in Wolverhampton

I'm writing this latest blog in a bit of a haze. I guess that's what comes of sleep deprivation in almost sub-zero temperatures on a Saturday night in Wolverhampton.


Last night myself and a bunch of colleagues layered-up and spent the night in a cardboard box in Wolverhampton city centre to support the YMCA's 2014 Sleep Easy campaign.

According to the YMCA, nearly 9,000 young people sleep rough in the UK every night. It's a frightening statistic - especially when you think that around 80% of those are homeless through no fault of their own.

Myself, Charlie, Pauline, Cara, Olly, Jo and Brit - colleagues from Wolverhampton Homes - wanted to raise awareness of the plight of the thousands of kids who have nowhere to call home - and to help raise a few quid to help the YMCA in the Black Country, who not only provide shelter for young people, but who help give them that first step into getting off the streets and handing them back their lives.

We were each issued with a cardboard box which were to become our homes for the next twelve hours. It soon dawned on us that when your homeless, what do you do? We'd all come prepared with sleeping bags and extra layers of clothing but with only one deck of cards between us - it became obvious that the next twelve hours were going to go by exceptionally slowly. After making one game of 'chase the ace' and 'cheat' last for almost an hour, the temperature started to drop so we made the most of the shelter of the student union hallway for a cup of coffee and a bit of warmth.

It's a spacious city-centre-living, eco-friendly property 

We then joined the other 25 or so people who'd signed up to take part; mostly students, YMCA workers and volunteers; around the camp fire to hear stories from those in the group who'd actually been homeless and who the YMCA had helped to get back on their feet. Without exception, the stories were heart-wrenching. One guy, Liam, had come over to England from Northern Ireland as a teenager to be reconciled with his mom. But before long his mom abandoned him for a second time in his life leaving Liam homeless and with nowhere to go. All of the people we heard from had become homeless because of family break-ups. The laughter and camaraderie we'd felt earlier in the evening was slowly being replaced with a sense of sadness and a realisation of how fortunate we really are.

My cardboard box selfie

Come 1am, with the temperature dropping towards zero, we clambered into our boxes to try and get some sleep; a task at which most of us failed. The biting cold wind, the sirens, drunken football fans chanting and the tormenting chimes of St Peter's church bells made sleep nearly impossible. It's strange how church bells during the day go almost unnoticed - but at night, their piercing sound rings so loud with its hourly frequency (but feels like every five minutes when you're in a frozen slumber) reminding you where you are - and how slowly time can pass when all you crave is warmth and comfort.

I dozed in and out of consciousness, but the longing for rest was futile. At nearly 7am we staggered out of our boxes, looking cold, disheveled and humbled. Sleeping out for just one night really takes its toll on your body...and your mental wellbeing's not in great shape either.

Cara described it as the worst night of her life. Difficult to disagree with that sentiment. But whereas we could slope away to our cars and head to our homes and warm beds - thousands of kids aren't that lucky. The thought of having to spend another night in those conditions genuinely could make me cry. And we had a safe place to stay, hot drinks and toilet facilities on-tap. It's no wonder homeless kids often take to drugs and alcohol abuse. You'd need it just to numb out the cold, the noises, the loneliness. 

In 2014 in the UK, no-one should have to live like this.

Pauline and Cara's body language says it all.

So; cold, hungry and humbled I feel strangely satisfied that I've done my bit. I spent the night with some great people and we've helped raise a few pounds so that maybe a few kids get the chance to have the fortunate life which I know I take for granted.

If you can spare a few quid, you can donate here.

I'll be back in a week or so having hopefully completed number 26 on my list of 30 things to do...I'm off north of the border.

Let me leave you with this...