We made it guys, another year at an end,
full of happiness is not what the Devil did send.
A year of joy, we shall not pretend,
but find love in the people that you befriend.
The world watched on with queer intrigue
as Leicester City won the Premier League.
Team GB won medals indeed
and spread happiness and smiles to all in need.
Cameron quit as Brexit won true;
the Americans wept as Trump won too.
But those who love will fight on through,
because hate can never be left to brew.
On a personal note, most has been sound.
Backstage at Eurovision, a magic room was found.
Trips to Lords, Wembley and Murray Mound
made better memories; the sadness drowned.
And who can forget those we have lost.
Bowie, Wogan, Rickman and all at a cost.
Michael and Prince, who’s stages they bossed.
The year from Hell will soon be quashed.
So while we lament the year gone by,
disseminating hate with a sole British sigh.
Just remember to love and aim really high,
because those limits of yours; they stop at the sky.
I've just had a panic-ridden half an hour, trying to ascertain whether two of my friends were at the Berlin Christmas market at the time a lorry was driven on purpose through the busy crowds. I could have sworn I saw them tag themselves there on Facebook. 30 minutes after reading the breaking news from Germany, they confirmed they were okay. My heart rate is returning to normal.
It turns out they were going to go to the market, but they had a nap and didn't. Bloody hell.
This latest terror attack has happened a mere few hours after a rogue Turkish police officer shot dead the Russian envoy to Turkey and injured more in a "revenge attack for the atrocities in Aleppo." In between these two attacks, a gunman opened fire at an Islamic centre in Zurich, seriously injuring 3 people.
2016 really has been a terrible year, but with President Trump just around the corner, the very real possibility of a President Le-Pen and the continuing Brexit debate, 2017 doesn't look to be much brighter. All of this has, whether you like it or not, contributed to more hate crime and an increased sense of every kind of "-phobia" and "-ism" that exists.
Yet all of this horror gives me a sense of perspective. For all that has happened in 2016, much of which were terrible repeats of nightmares from 2015, nothing in my life has changed. How incredible is that? Thousands of people have come across the Mediterranean in wooden boats, others have been bombed to Kingdom come or spent the whole year sleeping in doorways in minus temperatures. Sure, I've had my scares, but to be in the same position I was at this time last year is a massive bonus. I haven't lost anyone. I've gained friends. When a lot of the world is going backwards, to remain in the same position, (I could argue I've progressed this last month or so), is actually a blessing.
Talking of the last month, my therapy comes to an end tomorrow. I'm deathly nervous; partly because I won't have that safety net from 4pm tomorrow and partly because the hour preceding that is going to be spent discussing the absolute depth of my inner most psyche. It was a slow start to the therapy, but as trust was mutually gained, I slowly and surely figured out my shortcomings and, in the spirit of this post, put them in perspective.
It's been a long journey since the days of Christmas mornings gone by, crying into my pillow, desperately not wanting to go downstairs. Being told that I've ruined Christmas because I didn't want to leave my bedroom. My thoughts, as ever, will be with a lot of people who find Christmas tough on their mental health. The constant, full-on yuletide can be emotionally taxing. The need to be on 100% happy mode, when you may not be able to reach 10%. I remember very clearly having to pin a post-it note to the other side of my bedroom door, 5 years ago, begging my family to leave me be until I was ready to come down. I felt awfully guilty for doing it, but it was necessary. I did the same the following day, missing out on a Boxing Day trip to the football with Dad.
Nowadays, I take some time out throughout the day to just re-gather my thoughts and emotions before re-joining the festivities. The whole Christmas thing still makes me feel a bit anxious. Will the presents be good enough? What if I come across as not thankful for my own? What if I don't want to play the crap Christmas games? A whole host of questioning goes on. For those of you in a similar boat, don't be afraid to retire on your lonesome for a period of time throughout the day. It will work.
I’m at my bus stop once more,
counting down the minutes.
Thirty of them this time
as I consider what to put on the table.
Do I go there?
Five weeks in and I’m yet to disclose all
in fear of judgment.
In fear.
Of Judgment.
My King would be ruined,
I’d be a pawn eternal.
What would she think of me?
I feel I’m using this to run away
instead of confront.
To escape the literal stench of the ward.
To run away from prying personal eyes.
My need to be The King is too great.
Tears build.
I want to stop.
I don’t want this build up anymore,
having to take a deep breath
before I ring the doorbell.
I could run away, run home,
but all my hard work would be ruined.
I always run.
The university run. The Aussie run.
Run. Run. Run.
Not this time.
Tears build.
Ten minutes.
A slow walk would suffice.
I pray for an hour later, time to escape.
I see The Chair.
The clock.
The small glass of water next
to tissues, which I have yet to touch.
I sit down in the burgundy rocking
chair.
Here we go again.
It’s awkward this time, for we have
talked
of all and sundry in weeks gone by.
That calm yet piercing stare urges me to speak.
Tick tock… Tick tock…
We talk of nothing. Horses. The sky. Water.
I press my fingers against the glass;
staring deep inside.
I have one chance to tell her.
It is now or never.
Tears build.
One man can’t carry the world
and my world just collapsed.
One confession later and
the room, it changed.
The awkwardness of silence
replaced with grown man, crying.
So this week(end) I am in Llandudno on official UNISON business at the trade union's national LGBT conference. I've been looking forward to it for quite a while as it allows me to get away from the same old, same old of Bedford town and I get to explore a part of the world I haven't seen before.
Except the last few days, I've grown increasingly anxious. Anxious at going to the wrong train station and missing my train. Anxious about meeting a whole group of new people tomorrow. Anxious about hotel etiquette. The list goes on, and especially last night, I was really starting to grow quite worried about the whole thing; the thought of just not going crossing my mind. But as my branch have quite literally paid for the whole thing plus more, I decided I would be doing them a disservice by not coming and who knows, I may enjoy it?
I sit here typing this having just finished my three-course dinner of ham terrine, fish pie and baked Alaska waiting for the #TalkMH twitter chat to start, a great initiative on the social media site that connects mental health service users and indeed anyone else who may want to join in to talk, share stories and ideas and generally be a nice bunch of people for an hour.
The conference begins tomorrow and I'm having to psych myself up at walking into the world of the unknown. While it's billed as a fun and socialising time, there are heaps of official business to get through and having never been to anything like this before, I am quite nervous about what all of that may entail. Whether it entails anything at all? Beats me. But I lament the lack of confidence I once had. I regularly use my school days as an example of when my confidence was at it's peak, delivering monologues on stage and the like. Where has all of that gone? In many ways, my life is busy. A full-time job, charity work, trade union events, (attempting) to write a book and those Friday night blowouts, there should be more than enough to keep my mind away from the Black Dog. So why does it keep unleashing itself from the cage?
Or maybe I'm just overthinking the whole thing, as usual. I'm currently reading Jonathan Trott's autobiography, 'Unguarded'. Jonathan Trott is a cricketer, who had a short yet successful England career before it blew up on a tour of Australia as he battled mental health difficulties.
Sound familiar?
He talked about how he fixed it by separating his 'human' and his 'chimp'. The human mind, rationalising everything that happens and putting it in the right context, not overreacting to every little thing by imagining the worst case scenario from it. And the chimp, the all-over-the-place, naughty and messy mind that plays tricks on you and forces you to think about everything wrongly. But I can tell you, having to consciously assess each situation and untangle it before you come to the right conclusion is both mentally and emotionally exhausting. I've tried similar methods in the past to no fruition. But it is interesting reading someone else's experiences of trying to untangle their own minds.
So while my small yet significant trip to the upper most regions of Wales is just starting, my journey to a calm mind has only just started.
When I go home from this, I will be two days away from another hour in what I have nicknamed 'The Chair', and another round of psychotherapy. I can't quite explain what happened on Tuesday. I was really, really nervous beforehand because I felt I just didn't know what to say, but once I started, everything just flew out. I'm feeling the same about this week...
I'm not going to sit here and speculate as to what the Trump presidency will entail as none of us can see what the future holds. But there are a few points I want to make.
The first of which isn't really an issue at all, but the polls? Is there now any point in the constant, ever-changing monotony of election polling when they've got it so wrong in the last three great political decisions of our time in the last 18 months? The answer is no, but probably more to the point is why they got it so wrong. The American and British public are now more right wing then ever before, but asked which way they are going to vote, they lie. Why? Because they don't want to be shouted down by an increasingly hot-headed and argumentative left-wing millennial who claim all voters who vote against them are stupid and/or racist and/or sexist.
Delete as appropriate.
In this social media world of ours, a lot of us were tricked into thinking that most people backed Clinton on Twitter so she'd walk it. Likewise with a No vote for Brexit. Yet the world is so much bigger than Twitter, and the voting booth is now the only private space left in it.
But while I bemoan the lack of argument from the political left, (Clinton's campaign had next to no policy in it WHATSOEVER), I also bemoan the right. Not for obvious reasons, but for it's sheer brazen nature of U-turning. Trump once claimed the Electoral College was "a disaster for democracy". I can't imagine he thinks that now. Nigel Farage claimed a 52-48 defeat "wouldn't be the end of the fight" and then tells people to stop fighting when it's a 52-48 result in his favour.
We cannot put up with this kind of behaviour.
But, while there are many reasons to dislike the events of 2016 politics, my mind cannot get past the sadness I feel for our LGBT community. On June 12th, a man killed 49 people in a gay nightclub in Orlando, Florida. 5 months later, the state of Florida voted in the man who didn't even mention the victims in boasting he was "right about Islamic extremism". 5 months later, Florida voted in a Vice President who wanted to see all 49 of them, and every other LGBT person, to go through gay conversion therapy. To "cure" them of being gay.
What kind of resentment is that? I cannot find the words.
So while I think the political left have contributed a bit to this culture we find ourselves in, my thoughts are with the minority groups. Hispanics. African Americans. Disabled people. LGBT people. Women. Anyone who hasn't felt the seductively easy world of the straight cis able-bodied white man. Because while Clinton was right; we do have to give Trump a chance, Americans have every right to be afraid. And what do people do when they are afraid? Some run. But some fight.
Much closer to home, I'm doing some fighting of my own. While some days are fine, some days I struggle to untangle the knots of pure disgust that have developed inside my head. A couple of weeks ago, I ran, hiding in my bedroom waiting, hoping for a chink of light to appear among the ball of mess that was my brain. I make no concessions of how torturous that week was. Many times I stared at the boxes of sertraline and quetiapine on my bedside table and wondered what it would be like to take them all and escape.
Another week later, I was sitting in the conservatory of a stranger's house, trying to come to terms with the latest episode. This psychotherapy the latest treatment to add to the long list of treatments in my past. She sat there in silence, waiting for me to talk. I struggled in that room, for I know things are wrong but I don't know what. But I felt like I had to say something. The second instalment is on Tuesday.
This world of ours is fucking horrible at times. One of my saving graces sometimes is that I remember that I am lucky. I am not living in Eastern Aleppo or North Korea. My mum is still alive. I have a bed. Perspective is important.
The first time I ever dragged myself to a doctor to try and explain my inner most thoughts, I was given a form. For those of you who have faced what I face, you'll know what I mean. The very last question is one I was shocked to see the first time, but it's a question I've been asked multiple times since.
"Do you have any thoughts of hurting yourself or thoughts of suicide?"
0 - Never
1 - Some days
2 - Most days
3 - Every day
It's a shock to be asked that by someone you've never met. I don't think I've ever put anything other than 0 when this question has been asked of me, but for this last month or so, I'd put a 2.
It is that bad.
I don't want to die, but I ain't keen on living either. That Robbie Williams lyric that encapsulates this whole fight. If I could get away with hiding in my bedroom for evermore, without feeling eternal guilt and that I'm letting everyone down, I would.
But I can't. It's always the same cycle. I just wonder how many lives I have left, before jumping from the burning building is a better option than fighting it's flames.
I would love nothing more than to wake up tomorrow, bright-eyed and bushy tailed and attack Monday morning but I want to do nothing but sleep at the moment. Escape this nightmare that I'm experiencing and dream good things.
Happy things.
I'm sorry for draping this in negativity but... Everything is so bleak at the moment. My choices are waring thin and my mind, so foggy. I feel under the most intense pressure to turn up to work tomorrow morning, but I can't face it. Why is that so bad? Why do I feel like a complete failure thinking that? I need to keep myself physically safe and going outside these four walls at all does risk that.
Whatever happens in this world of mine, one thing will always be constant. I will always struggle with what they call 'The Black Dog'. Unless I am completely vigilant, 100% of the time, there will always be times when I just can't manage.
That is my life.
I've had a lot of time off work recently, odd days here and there to try and regroup before I continue trying to fight against it. Always the old questions.
"I don't know what the future holds."
"I feel extremely alone, but I don't want company." "What do I have to look forward to?"
I don't want to sound negative, (or more so) but I am resigned to the fact that I'm going to have to start again somewhere. This current arrangement isn't working. I can't move away from Bedford, for my agoraphobic ways may stop that, but I have to make changes again.
I don't know how to explain it. The amount of times my Mother has tried to coax information out of me, trying to work out what is wrong and how to tackle it. I don't even know how to explain what is happening inside my head. The times I feel like I just want to end it all; I feel guilty for even thinking about it, but it's the reality of the situation. The times when I feel so down that I physically can't get out of bed, I know there is nothing I can do but wait for it to pass. As long as I hold on to the thought that these feelings will pass, everything will be okay.
Sometimes it's beyond tough. And that's going to be the word of the day for the foreseeable future and into the winter. Tough.
For the first time in a very long time, I am desperate to portray the day I have experienced in the light it deserves. This blog holds most, but as you're about to find out, not ALL of my deepest, darkest secrets and within these pages are some dark stories. But not the darkest...
It was only about a week ago I was asked to rustle something up for the Trust's first ever LGBT conference. I make no bones about it, I was there to fill the gap in the schedule, but I don't mind that. I was given an open book to speak for about 10 minutes about my own personal experiences in mental health; a topic I have presented to an audience about before, but as I was writing my speech, I sensed a moment...
How do I explain this?
From the beginning may help. In 2012, I met a guy. His name was Matt, he was a bit of a party animal and a practical joker; a funny man unless I was the man he was pranking, then he was an idiot. But, without trying to sound like I'm reading from the script of 'Love Actually', he was my idiot. It didn't take long to realise that I loved him. And he loved me.
You don't know about us? Don't worry, you're not the only one. In fact, until the beginning of 2014, no one knew. At first, the issue was the fact that I wasn't out yet, still firmly in the snow of Narnia, I had yet to emerge from the dusty, dark closet. I came out in 2013, and logic dictates I should have told everyone about Matt at the same time, but I didn't. I had seen what the social media age did to relationships; friends feeling they have the ultimate right to dictate how you love via a computer screen, it was not what I wanted. In fact, it was not what Matt wanted. We didn't agree on much, (our debates on all sorts were a joy to behold!) yet we had agreed on something. This was our relationship, and no one else's. Not even this blog, as public as it had become, got to feel our love.
By 2014, we'd told a few people, most notably our families, but as he trekked off to Newcastle to start a university venture, I was upset as I sensed it was the beginning of the end. With the distance, I imagined it would be difficult. A month later, at the end of October, it really was the end. He'd gone out on a bender, got behind the wheel of the car and crashed.
He died.
Since that day, I have not spoken about it. I've mentioned it to close friends, but I quickly divert the conversation, not wanting to delve too deep. The memories hurt too much. Today was the day I spoke about it and not only did I speak about it, I did it in a room full of people I had never met before.
It was quite difficult to enjoy the itinerary up to 2:40pm, the time I was due to speak. Ruth Hunt, the CEO of Stonewall was so brilliantly engaging, with her knack of making a comical point sound serious at the same time. It was a masterclass in public speaking, and her messages were vital to the event. Next on the agenda was me...
The only other time I have spoken about my mental health experiences in a similar format, there was no stage, no podium... No anything. It wasn't structured enough, so I ended up walking around aimlessly, not really following the script and I don't think I did myself justice. This time, I had a lectern with a microphone and as I laid my script out in front of me, I grabbed hold of the sides and I didn't let go. The speech went well. I made a couple of quips that got good laughs and I started to feel pretty comfortable, but I knew what was coming and I genuinely considered cutting it short, scared of what I was about to say.
I was admitted to a psychiatric ward in September 2014. Discharged three weeks before Matt died, with a renewed sense of optimism and a path forward. Matt had always known about my past with mental illness and was as understanding as most of my friends are these days. Talking about my psychiatric admissions were easy pickings to what I was about to finish with.
"I was discharged on the final day of September 2014. Three weeks later, Matt was dead."
I regretted making it sound theatrical, as if I wanted to garner a reaction from the audience, because although it did, it also garnered a reaction from me. I had actually told 100+ people in one hit and I can't put in words how that affected me. That single moment, where you could hear a couple of people audibly gasping, and me... Remembering that day... I could feel myself welling up...
But I somehow carried on talking, for I was determined to reach the end. My experiences with Matt; the hand holding in the street, the time we eventually told our parents about us, all of that made me stronger. Losing Matt and somehow keeping it together, made me stronger. That was the message of my speech. Whatever happens; however extreme life may get, fighting through it and getting to the other side makes you stronger.
I finished the speech and aimed to sit down in my original chair, but I didn't. I walked straight out and burst into tears, as quietly as I could in the corridor. I had told myself I wouldn't cry, that I would be my stubborn self, but I'd been stubborn for too long. A couple of colleagues, clearly seeing that I had walked out followed and gave me huge hugs. I cried and cried into the arms of a wonderful man called Dwayne, who I had literally met two hours earlier. I felt a bit sheepish, but not stupid.
I think I'd earned a cry.
For these past couple of years, I've tried holding it in. I grieved, but I did so privately almost in the same vain as our relationship and I think today was that step I needed to take. I'm emotionally drained now, as I type this from what was quite an extraordinary day. I got a lot of people coming up to me afterwards saying how brave I was and that it inspired them, (someone even said I was the most confident speaker they'd heard in years - which was surprising as bloody Ruth Hunt was before me!) and I did that thing where I mumble a thank you and stare at my toes, attempting to hide the probable blush.
I hope from here I can try and find more remnants of the old me that have evaporated in recent years. I certainly found the confidence from my acting days to get through today. Who knows what else I may recover?
P.S. The whole event was filmed, so I will try and get hold of my speech and let you see it... If you ask nicely...
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been infatuated by the
sport of football. The excitement and thrill of scoring, to the hero status of
saving a penalty to the villainy of brandishing a red card, my experiences in
the game are wide-ranging and varied. Great memories, terrible memories and
having a punch thrown at you whilst officiating, I have a lot in the memory
bank when it comes to the nation’s favourite sport.
Except, when it comes to homosexuality, football turns from the self-labelled "beautiful game" into
an ugly, self-hating arena of medieval torture. I started playing the game when
I was 6, playing in 20 minute halves and chasing after the ball with my parents
cheering us forward on the sidelines. For 8 years, my love of the game had no
barriers. By the time I turned 14, I’d quit the game to take up refereeing,
(the youngest age one can qualify as an official), but a year later, my love for
the sport was challenged by a discovery about myself that would end up
conflicting two very important parts of me.
(I am aware that 15 is quite late to realise about being
gay… I was always late to the party!)
I hope I did a good job throughout the seven years I was a
referee, bearing in mind I spent most of those seven years battling internal
demons. I officiated in games for professional clubs at youth level, (Luton
Town, Aston Villa & Oxford United to name drop a few) and in the United
Counties League which was, and still is, a rough and tumble league that covers
the East of England, along with local leagues. I’d like to think I had a promising future.
With hormones flying, I found myself officiating games,
(naturally with players shouting at you!) whilst finding some of those players
attractive. It was an odd and quite off-putting experience. But liking football almost makes masking my true self easier. Gay footballers didn't exist. As most people
know, the sport of football finds itself decades behind when it comes to LGBT
acceptance. The first professional player to come out as gay, Justin Fashanu, committed
suicide in 1998. There are only a few “out” players worldwide even now, the
most prominent of which is Robbie Rogers who plays for Los Angeles Galaxy in
the top league in the USA.
As an official, receiving abuse was part and parcel of the
job. None of it was personal, and I could handle 99% of it, but with my secret
firmly lodged in the back of my brain, I ploughed on. I never came out during
my time as an official. I never came out during my brief return as a player
when I was 19. Despite me “going public” about it in November 2012, it was a
topic I firmly avoided during 2014/15, when I last played. I spent the entire
time wondering if people knew, whilst we all got changed in front of each
other. While determined to be myself, it was an experience I don’t want to
repeat.
We come to my latest struggle. I want to get back involved in
the sport, playing for 90 minutes in the high-octane action of a football
match, but my sexuality stops me. I can’t put myself through the battle of
facing homophobia every Saturday afternoon. The homophobic slurs thrown around as if they were nothing. I can't just forget about that one game where I was systematically targeted for being gay on a football pitch, yet we find ourselves in a climate where the people doing it would call it "tactical". Or "banter". I can’t put myself through the
whole cycle of coming out to a new team, when that fear of rejection still
plagues the back of my mind. Yes, I may be more confident and comfortable than
that terrified 15-year old, but that fear still exists. Especially in a sport that does next to nothing to challenge it.
That is sad.
I am stopped from playing the sport I love because of who I
am, and being brave enough to stand up to it all and be proud in the football
arena is a hurdle too high for me. It’s why my admiration for Robbie Rogers is
sky-high, for he is strong enough to be himself in a sport that ignores fans who verbally abuse and beat up those of us like him.
I could play somewhere completely new and not tell anyone, but the lies would start.
“No I don’t have a girlfriend” etc. etc. Going back to the days of making sure
all the stories match and not giving away my secret. Worrying the night before that someone has found out and all the guys are going to round up and take the piss out of you for it. Those days were traumatic
and returning to the sport I love is not enough of an incentive to fight
through that either.
Frankly, I don’t see why I should have to lie anymore. But also, I need to protect myself from potential hatred; a hatred I have avoided for a couple of years now. Walking back into the bear pit would open up the box I'd locked away and I don't think I can re-open it.
It’s been a while since I’ve posted in here. I usually leave these pages vacant when things are going well; when life goes on swimmingly and without tremor. Recently however, it’s been the opposite. With the anxieties of a new job to do, my head has been a minefield of scenarios and situations, some of which I’ve left to fester in the back of my mind and build into an earthquake.
If I was being harsh on myself, which I tend to be, I was utterly complacent about the whole thing. My secondment position in Safeguarding was supposed to be a break from the extremities of the inpatient environment, but in reality, it left me exposed to the pressures of learning a completely new position. After a tough couple of months, that included attempts to become med-free, it wasn’t a very good idea to add to the trouble.
Hindsight is a wonderful thing.
The reality of mental health and its place in society means that I often feel a sense of shame reading these words back. The recent blog on my Australian nightmare is a prime example. Who takes the trip of a lifetime and becomes too anxious to remain inside a week? However, I have to keep reminding myself; despite internet trolls who claim going for a walk will cure it, that what I experience is very real. Despite scoffs and eye-rolls, some from people close to me, I have to keep telling myself that I can do it. Thinking back through eight years of troubles, I’ve certainly lost a lot of what I could potentially do because of this.
That hurts.
Right now, I’m back on Keats Ward, in familiar surroundings and in a job where I know what I’m doing and when I’m supposed to do it. Working in mental health, there is an element of understanding from colleagues when I say, “Oh, the new surroundings made me anxious”, but it doesn’t make disclosing it any easier. I still feel this pang of guilt whenever I bring it up, as if I grow anxious over petty things. I have a roof over my head and I should be thankful for it, regardless of what else happens.
Last Friday, I was at an event for IBM, as I was on a panel discussing links between mental health & LGBT people. A connection was made between “coming out” as gay and “coming out” with mental health issues and I nodded along profusely at the thought. It is exactly the same. Whether I feel more comfortable discussing my LGBT identity or my mental health issues, I don’t know. Just this afternoon, I found myself lying about going to the local LGBT bar tonight; just because I felt it was easier not to mention it. Constantly, you have to assess situations in a nanosecond and decide whether it’s safe to disclose it. Most of time I go for the safe option.
You’ve gotta love stigma.
Yet here I am, battling on day by day, usually in cycles of positivity and a glut of optimism before being replaced by crippling anxieties and sadness. Today, in the middle of an optimistic stage, as its Friday and I’m looking forward to tonight, I volunteered to speak at the NHS Trust’s inaugural LGBT Conference in London. If that conference was to happen right now, I’d ace it. As its three weeks away however, I might be a complete mess by then.
For that is the reality of mental health. You don’t experience the bad all the time, (who could?) but it’s impossible to plan too far ahead in case things go awry in the meantime. It’s a cliché, but taking things day by day when you suffer from any sort of ill mental health really is the best way forward. It’s frustrating, as I’d love to plan ahead but… I can’t.
It’s similar in the LGBT world; it’s always in the back of your mind that things could go wrong. We live in a country where 99% of the population accept LGBT people, but whilst you’re holding your same sex partner’s hand, there is always the possibility of coming across the 1%.
So if you’re reading this and you’re having a bad day, just remember this:
You’re bad day will pass and a good day will come along. Just the like the storm that I walked to work in this morning, it has been replaced by sunshine. Mental illness is the very same. Depression will tell you otherwise, but the true reality of mental health is that it lies.
Something
isn’t right at the moment, and I simply do not know how to change it. I’m
literally typing this at the desk of my new job; a secondment position with the
Safeguarding Adults team, a job given to me for a few months to escape the extremities
of an inpatient ward environment. It’s for a few months, but I’m not even an
hour in to my second day yet and I’m bored witless. Hence I’m hiding in the
corner writing this.
You see,
I’ve had a lot of time off recently. I’ve been having stages of quite extreme
sadness at where my life is at the moment and it’s time to admit that I may be
struggling again, with the day to day working life and how it just seems to
drag on without much excitement happening. The last few weeks especially, I’ve
started to think how there must be more to life than this…
For the last
7 months, I’ve been on Keats Ward, an acute inpatient psychiatric ward. Being
the admin guy is monotonous and waking up in the morning for another 8 hours of
monotony wears you down eventually. I find it staggering how people can do the
same office job for years on end. Some call it dedication, but I call it a lack
of fight. I need excitement. I need to be kept busy. And despite my vested
interest in mental health, the actual physical job I am doing is boring. It’s
getting me down.
So I moved.
I met with my manager to discuss why I was off so much, and she decided herself
really that the ward environment wasn’t helping me. It’s not the environment as
such, but the job itself, but I didn’t say that. So I went along with it,
agreeing to this secondment position.
“Who knows?
It may be different?”
I tried to
be enthusiastic about it, but it is simply the same here. If not worse. It’s
got nothing to do with safeguarding at all, as it’s basically shifting details
of alerts on to the database and forwarding those details to the correct team.
As far as I can tell, (and I have asked this morning), that is the job. That is
it. How can anyone survive that? I thought at least I’d get to know a bit about
the process, typing up reports and finding out how decisions are made etcetera,
but no. Far from it.
So now I’m
stuck. Unless I convince my manager to scrap this, telling the people who are
covering me at Keats that it’s scrapped, I’m stuck here. First, I’ve got to
pluck up the courage to tell them in the first place, knowing I’ve been far
from the ideal employee in recent months. But even if I do make it back to
Keats, (for it is a little bit more interesting), the monotony of it all will
continue to beat me down.
I spent a
lot of last night thinking, albeit on the verge of a meltdown as I dreaded what
today would bring. I thought about what I could change and what I’ve tried
already. I am one of those people who simply does not know what to do with
their lives, (past the delusions of grandeur about being a successful author
anyway), but where could I possibly go from here? I might have the potential to
write a novel, but it’s not exactly something you can do ad-hoc. Plus, I know
the road towards being a novelist is a long, long road with potentially no
reward. And that doesn’t pay the electric bill.
So, thinking
about the jobs I’ve had in the past…
Any sort of
responsibility, I’ve either caved under the pressure of, or abused altogether.
Flexible hours play havoc with my sleep, which I am learning this morning is
vital to any sort of happiness for me. Any job that doesn’t fall into that
category is arduous and makes me feel useless.
I’m starting
to think it’s me being precious. But why do something if it doesn’t make you
happy? There has to be something out there…
Other
options include university, and we all know what happened last time. I do think
I’d be able to deal with the whole thing better now, but there is the added
weight of currently having a place of my own, meaning I would effectively be
homeless in non-term time. I have put genuine thought into what course I’d do.
Mental health nursing? Something sport based? It matters not, as the
practicalities of going back to university remain almost impossible.
I even tried
moving to the other side of the world. I won’t be doing that again.
So here I
sit, on a rather warm Tuesday morning, trying desperately not to be noticed in
the corner. Staring directly ahead at yet another crossroads wondering if it’s
all worth it. I’ll be honest; I was on the verge of tears last night as I
thought about another long and worthless day. It’s not how one wants to live
their life, is it?
Something quite concerning is happening and I'm not quite sure what to do about it.
I'd like to think that I'm quite a mild mannered, understanding guy. I'd also like to think that didn't sound too big-headed of me, but it probably was. I've had my moments of frustration or standing up for what I believe in, but this past couple of weeks have provided constant moments of pure and utter annoyance.
I'm annoyed. And I'm not just annoyed at the same thing everyone else is annoyed about. Like the Labour leadership contest or train strikes or everything that comes out of the mouth of Donald Trump. I'm not just annoyed at one thing; I'm annoyed at EVERYTHING. Sometimes it's mild annoyance over something completely trivial, but sometimes I'm genuinely pissed off at something I wouldn't have been pissed off at before. Without trying to sound like a lyric from a West End musical, something has changed within me and something has got to change.
I just don't know how.
I feel I should offer some examples. First, the ones that personally affect me.
I'm not going to stray into the world of work, for obvious reasons, but there's enough reasons to be annoyed to fill a whole book there. To be honest, that's probably the origin of my annoyance streak but... You know... I'd get fired.
Being a cricket captain is providing it's own challenges as everyone has seemingly given up now there's nothing to play for, not knowing the potential for future ramifications. I'm then being pressured into picking junior players for senior games, with parents pressuring me into picking their child over someone else's. They all seem to forget that I AM the captain, and I will pick who I WANT to be in MY SIDE. I feel odd saying "my side", as if I own it, but if they want me to run it, then they can put up or shut up. Or find someone else, which from next season, they'll have to because I'm not doing it.
This past week, I have been the contact point for a cricket school of excellence in India who were going to play a couple of games at our club. As the week progressed, and the games got closer, it was obvious that they were not going to make it in time because of visa issues. The guy who runs the school of excellence was giving me "tentative" flight times, and "reassurances" that it would be sorted, but no. I was annoyed when it was obvious it wouldn't happen and they tried to string it along so I told him the deal was off. I have no patience at the moment for this. Then I got told off for not telling people it was off before I even knew it was off myself.
That annoyed me a lot.
I'm currently annoyed at how slow my phone is taking to charge because I'm sure it's quicker than this usually.
Then the stuff that affects me, but not directly. Like people who want politicians to be "authentic" and "attached" and "like us" and then get annoyed when Jeremy Corbyn sits on the floor of a train because there's no seats.
People who want to know if they can claim off a dead guy's insurance after he drove his car off a multi-storey car park and "disrupted my day making me miss meetings". I mean... What the actual fuck? What has got into people's heads?
I'm annoyed at the complete lack of understanding when it comes to mental health, both in general and closer to home, as if it's a complete whirlwind to get your head around. Why don't people pick up a book?
Then we get on to the more trivial stuff, and this is where the fun starts.
Guys who cry out for attention by posting shirtless selfies with the caption about "how much the world around them is so beautiful" as they pull off the standard arm-behind-head pose for the camera. Before doing exactly the same two hours later. I don't mind a shirtless selfie itself, if you don't cover it up with a load of bullshit. Take a shirtless selfie and caption it with, "Shameless selfie" instead of utter crap to cover up your thirst for attention.
People on Twitter who are "offended", (which is a whole other minefield by the way*) when you unfollow them. A complete stranger I (used to) follow messaged me a while back asking me why I unfollowed him. Maybe if he hadn't have shared the video of people dying on the streets of Nice, I'd have stuck with him. More attention seeking.
I even found myself getting mildly annoyed at how Conor Maynard was holding his microphone as he advertised the V Festival on a Channel 5 ad break earlier. What the hell is that about?
So yeah. That was a little therapeutic but I need to find a way of calming down before my head explodes here. I think in general, I'm just frustrated with how life works as an adult. A man the same age as me inherited a £9billion estate from his Father, the late Duke of Westminster the other day while I walked the ten-minute journey home from work earlier, past three people begging for change. How is that fair?
One other thing, that's possibly linked. I've actually found myself crying at the Olympics. Now, I'm not much of a crier myself. I don't really understand how people can cry at movies and TV shows, but this past week or so I've cried TWICE. When the two lads won gold in the diving, Mears & Laugher, I cried. And when Max Whitlock won an unexpected gymnastics gold, I cried as well. Maybe it was the realisation that none of them will become my boyfriend, who knows. But they were magic moments.
I used to be pretty good at leaving things alone. Let it be, and it'll pass. I definitely need to consciously think about that again, otherwise I'll drive myself mad.
*Check out this video from comedian Steve Hughes about being "offended" and tell me you don't agree.
This week has been very difficult indeed. Eight days ago, as I've already mentioned in these pages, I took the last remaining quetiapine tablets I had with the intention of not renewing the prescription. After nine months of slowly reducing my sertraline intake followed by slowly reducing the quetiapine, I have now been medication free for eight days. For the first time in seven years.
I'm not a psychiatrist, or indeed a physician, but I can imagine what my body must be thinking after comfort eating on "happy pills" for seven years before it all got taken away. Even after nine months of slowly giving it subtle warnings that I won't be taking them, my body has reacted like a three year old who's favourite toy has been thrown in the bin.
In retaliation, it has offered nausea, headaches, stomach cramps and is acting like a three year old by refusing to go to sleep. These eight days have been beyond exhausting and despite my best efforts in telling myself it will eventually pass, I grow weary of how long these side effects are lasting. I feel a tad low because of it all, hence the increased activity in this blog, but I'm determined that I can fight past this and get back to normal. I can deal with headaches and what not, but the lack of sleep really is getting to me. I also feel like parts of my personality have changed, as if the quetiapine almost relaxed me to such a degree that nothing annoyed me. Now that I'm quetiapine-less, everything is annoying me. I'm having to make a conscious effort to not snap at people, and even then I have failed a couple of times.
Also, one of the side effects of taking anti-depressants in the first place is the absence of a libido. Now I'm not taking them, I feel like a horny sixteen year old who wants to fuck everything with a heartbeat. I've not given into those temptations though, as Grindr looms large on my Samsung S6. The last thing I need at the moment is chlamydia.
But seriously, it's 01:30 at the moment and I feel exhausted but unable to switch off. I have two cricket matches in two days coming up and although it'll probably be fine when I get into it, the idea of waking up and going to these games is making me feel a bit sick. Our game tomorrow is an odd one, as our opposition includes players from our Sunday side and indeed our groundsman, so it's always a bit of a grudge match. There's always some sledging that goes on, (the art of mind games) which I know will all be a bit of harmless fun, but with my head in the mode it's in at the moment, I can't imagine I'll be enjoying it too much. The other game is a promotion clash, which will no doubt be high pressure, despite the lowly division we play in.
I just don't think I need it right now.
But I'll end up going anyway, and who knows, it may turn out alright. The loss of the safety net however is a loss that I never expected to be so severe. I gave up the sertraline entirely about six weeks ago and there were literally no side effects. I was expecting the same with the quetiapine but the polar opposite has happened.
I've also thought about my writing. My half-finished novel and the exciting second idea I have come up with, plus the accumulation of poems that I feel are becoming of better quality. I wish I had the energy and the motivation to be able to work towards my dream of becoming a published author, but I don't. So much for a dream. Yet I remind myself not to put too much pressure on these shoulders, that have had a lot of weight to carry recently, and hope things work out.
I'm always rather open in this blog of mine but one topic I haven't touched on since it happened was the poisoned chalice of my trek to Australia...
If you look back into the archives here you'll see me agonising over a decision on whether or not to go to Australia on a six month cricket contract. In most people's worlds, it's a no brainer. Back in September 2013, at the meagre age of 22, I got an email out of the blue asking me to go to a Victorian suburb called Lysterfield, to play cricket and generally enjoy the trip of a lifetime. One month on from winning my own club's best 1st XI batsman award, I would be going to another country to start again. Not only that, but the flights were free and I had somewhere to stay for the entirety.
At a time when my life was drifting and I was struggling to work out a route, this opportunity just arose from nowhere. It was a dream come true.
I still had a decision to make though, as I knew it wasn't going to be easy. My brain was still fragile and travelling to the other side of the world on my own was never going to be plain sailing regardless of how amazing it sounded. However, after much persuasion, I went.
Late September 2013, I travelled to Heathrow Airport at 5 in the morning to catch a flight to Abu Dhabi and then on to Melbourne. Even the flight was a new experience for me, but the excitement of what lay ahead got me through the gruelling 24 hour flight.
Eventually I landed. Going through Australian border control took a lifetime, but as I walked into the main lounge of the airport I noticed two guys holding a photo of me. I recognised them from their social media profiles.
I was here.
They asked me if I was nervous and I merely scoffed and said, "Of course not!" I was trying to put on a front, presuming they'd be hard hitting, banter throwing Australian lads.
In reality, I was bricking it.
It was a 45 minute drive across Melbourne and into the suburbs as we reached Lysterfield Cricket Club, a few blocks away from the set of Australian soap, Neighbours. I got out the car, banging my head on the boot lid as I did so, and walked into the clubhouse where there was a ring of members all waiting to greet me. As I went around the group, shaking hands, I noticed Dan, the guy I'd be staying with, along with his parents Greg and Diane. Everyone was so nice. We shared a few drinks before we drove the short journey to Dan's house.
It was your classic Aussie abode. A huge single storey house, with a pool and a well kept garden and a dog who's name slips my mind. I didn't last long before crashing to my sleep. It had been a long couple of days.
I came round at some point in the afternoon, weary from the jet lag as I was shown around the town by Dan. There wasn't a lot to it. Mostly fields, the cricket club of course, a 7/11 and a mall. Most of the Aussie lads were in AFL Grand Final mode, the showpiece Aussie Rules football event. The day after, we rocked up at someone's house to watch the game and sink as many drinks as we could.
That was the first and only time I would get drunk in Australia.
A couple of days later was the first training session with the squad I would be playing with. I got the impression everyone was expecting me to bat like the next Kevin Pietersen, but in the match practice, I got out three times in the space of two overs. It was a little bit embarrassing, but I put it down to the jet lag and moved on.
Except from that point, I never did move on. I'd been in Melbourne, (or at least 40 minutes away from it) for four days now and the inevitable feelings of homesickness had kicked in. Everyone gets homesick so far away from home on their own, but my complete lack of knowledge and coping skills left me completely high and dry. I had to force myself to leave the comfort of my bedroom and all the feelings of depression had come flooding back. I had panic attacks in the middle of the night and spent most of my waking hours nervously looking over my shoulder, talking to myself and experiencing the worst anxiety attacks I've experienced to date.
At first I tried to fight it. I knew this would happen, as I read and re-read the letter I'd written myself before I left.
"You will feel homesick but this will pass."
"You may feel anxious but give yourself time."
"You may feel depressed but talk to someone."
All of it became impossible. I was on my own, 10,000 miles away with no-one to turn to. I could barely talk to my own Mum at home about my feelings, how on Earth would I be able to talk to a no nonsense Aussie who I barely know? I was way out of my depth.
It all went downhill drastically. I went out for a walk to try and clear my head, not stopping until I realised I had no idea where I was. At complete breaking point, I spent the remainder of the Australian dollars in my wallet to hail down a cab to take me to the nearest hospital where I broke down completely.
I would never go back to Lysterfield.
After a night of calming down and soul searching, I decided the only thing I could do was go home. I asked Diane to bring my belongings to the hospital and then take me to the airport. She was very understanding and I almost thought that I should have told her everything from the start, but I was in too deep now. I never said goodbye to Dan or any of the cricket guys.
I simply bought the first ticket available to London, in tears after what I considered to be another failure, and fled. Another 24 hour flight later, this time via Dubai, and I was back on my doorstep. It was about midday as I knocked on the door and could see my Mum approaching it. I never told them I was returning.
Her face was full of sadness and disappointment and I had this horrendous feeling that I had let her down. But that was nothing compared to the absolute fire and rage that came from Dad as he walked in from work that evening. I had never seen him so apoplectic with rage before and I can comfortably say that I haven't since. I could understand if he was disappointed like Mum, but his sheer and unbridled anger made me literally wee myself. He didn't speak to me for days.
Do I regret going? That week was one of the worst and extreme weeks of my life but I don't regret going one bit. I often think back to those days and wonder what would go through my head now if I never went in the first place. I'm not sure I could have handled the regret in saying no. Getting a six month cricket contract in Australia at the height of summer was something I never thought would happen to me. It was beyond my wildest dreams. You know when you sleep at night, scenarios go through your mind like stopping a mass murderer and becoming a national hero or winning the lottery. Crazy things that'll never happen. This trip never even made those thoughts. That's how special it was.
I resent the illness that caused that trip to come to an abrupt and ugly end. A couple of friends have done the same trip since. To Sydney and Perth and have enjoyed a complete and fulfilling journey and part of me is jealous. Jealous that the only memories I can share are hideous. Yet part of me takes that experience and learns from it. Part of me thinks it made me a better man.
For weeks after I got home, I received threats from the players at the club who wanted to be reimbursed for leaving them after a week. I could understand where they were coming from, but I began to ignore them after they got nasty and personal and eventually they went quiet. In that time, it reminded me how very far away they all are and that I was in no danger whatsoever.
I struggle to remember a lot about my childhood. Memories of course don't start to stick until you're about 5 or 6, maybe later, but even then I don't remember much.
Racing around a perfectly circular mini go-kart track in Woolacombe, looking at the video camera instead of where I was going and crashing into the barrier. I remember that.
Running down the street in sheer delight as Ole Gunnar Solskjaer poked home a 93rd minute winner in the 1999 Champions League Final. I remember that.
Driving past the junction of Putnoe Street and Bowhill, as my Dad told me to enjoy life while you can because soon all you'll be doing is working and paying bills. I remember that oddly well.
It's extraordinary how much things can change in the blink of an eye. For better or for worse, we simply don't know what tomorrow holds. Last Thursday, I swallowed the last remaining quetiapine tablets I had, knowing that I wouldn't be getting any more. After seven years of taking medication, tomorrow would the first med-free day in over 2,000 days. Tomorrow would be different. I anticipated a difficult weekend as the promised side effects came in, but they never did. Not until Sunday anyway.
Since then, I haven't slept, my stomach has attempted to tear itself away from the rest of my body and even the slightest hint of any food a bit heavy would result in ... Undesired circumstances... Only now am I feeling as if I MAY be on the way back up. It's been brutal.
It was only 17 years ago I was running up that street without a care in the world. Now I've been through what may or may not be the most challenging stage of my life. Yet I still feel like that 8 year old kid, adrenaline fuelled and careless. I know more challenges await, because it wouldn't be life without them. If only I had the presence of mind I have now back in 99... How amazing would that be...
The last time I reported from this club, I was running a social experiment about hitting on guys in "straight" clubs. Tonight, I return to the same place to report on what really happens in the murkiness of a club smoking area and the cesspit of a nightclub dance floor.
It's 1am and I'm out in the smoking area. I'm on my own, probably looking like a complete loner but I'm here to tell you what really happens. The club is half full; the smoking area outside full with males trying to chat up women, one of whom has been successful. My initial reaction was one of disgust and amazement at how women can put up with this caveman attitude. Alcohol does amazing things.
One couple seem genuinely together, but the others at the moment look like men trying to coerce women into acts they're not comfortable with. It's highly uncomfortable to witness.
There are of course some "lads" stumbling around acting as if they're Casanova but instead accidentally head butting the metal poles that protrude from the ceiling. A more embarrassing act than me standing on my own in the corner. It's incredible to think that I used to stand by and watch my friends do the same thing.
The club continues to fill.
I walk from the smoking section towards the dance floor but on the way I notice a group of four lads, actively attempting to grope a group of ladies, who aren't even looking. I struggle to understand how this is acceptable. Can you imagine that happening in a shopping centre at midday? Why is it acceptable in a nightclub?
I have a full view of the dance floor now, looking extremely cool strapped to my phone as I type, as if I'm expecting to find a rare Pokémon at the bar. It's 01:30 and most of the guys in my vicinity are staring idly at girls, trying to get their attention. Some of them are pulling off extreme dance moves to try and gain attention.
Whether this was the norm in the 90s and before I do not know, but the main impression I get is that guys no longer come out for a good night. To drink, dance and enjoy.
They exclusively come out to pull.
I for one don't understand this attitude. Even when I go to gay bars, I don't look to pull. Why would you? It merely proves that this world we live in is sex driven. And it saddens me.
It's 01:45 now and I'm walking home. Still relatively early for the hardcore party goers whose night continues. What I have said above is merely the tip of the iceberg. Men will continue to prey on women through the night, as alcohol flows and everyone becomes that bit more open; guys assessing those who are vulnerable through excess alcohol.
Call me a grumpy old man if you will, but it's only in the past year that I've began to appreciate how horrible this must be. I used to be the hardcore 18 year old. Chasing girls to try and prove my masculinity, (of course that's a whole different story). But... Why don't girls just slap the guys who give them unwanted attention?
I actually feel awful at contributing to this problem. However small my contribution may have been.
I'm sorry, but from an hours worth of genuine observation tonight, I've figured that the dangers for women on a night out are profuse and considerably dangerous. It's shocking. Even walking home, men on street corners offer a proposal to passing ladies. What do they expect them to say?
This has turned into a rant. A shame, but what I've seen tonight has angered me. I'll buy a burger and get a good night's sleep.
The game rewards you by gaining eggs from public places, (parks, retail parks, churches etc.) and you can only hatch them by walking a certain amount. All the hallmarks of the original game, (battles, trades etc.) are still there, along with the more popular original characters, providing the perfect level of nostalgia to the game.
But all in all, the affect on the world has been monumental and it's done it in a matter of weeks. There has never been an app that merges the modern world of video gaming with the old-fashioned "get outside" attitude. Whether it was on purpose or not, a game from the 1990's has revolutionised a world that was on the verge of a major health crisis.
I am just on the train home from what has been quintessentially one of the most British days of my life.
The 1st day of the 1st Test match between England and Pakistan is a majestic occasion. Lord's Cricket Ground, situated in NW1 of London, (practically posh central) was the destination. After a fairly simple journey, we arrived, about 40 minutes before the start of play to find we had pretty much perfect seats in blissful sunshine.
For a cricketer and a big cricket fan... A big tick off the bucket list.
Surrounded by Eton graduates and Hooray Henry's bottle of champers, Chris and I enjoyed a day of test match cricket. I have never felt more common in an environment, walking round in a t-shirt, jeans and trainers with a pint of cider. However, we weren't going to be overawed by the members' attire of ghastly red and yellow ties and strikingly bright suit jackets.
You see, the thing about Lord's is that there is almost no point in me talking about the cricket. Not that you'd want to hear about that anyway. The action is a mere sideshow of the social event. Every single ticket had been sold yet there was always a smattering of empty seats all around. That's because many people spent the whole day outside the ground, drinking beer and discussing the stock market in their tweed jackets.
They sold champagne by the bottle, costing upwards of £400 each. A gin & tonic was £13. Even the burgers were a tenner a pop. The whole place reeked of pure, disgusting, unadulterated wealth.
Even directly outside the ground, there was a gaggle of people huddled around a futuristic looking BMW, which Chris & I estimated was worth about half a million quid.
It's not a bad thing. Frankly, I'd be the same if I was a millionaire. But the atmosphere was like nothing I've experienced before. Sophisticated. Toff like. Over the top posh. List them up and experience Britain at its most stereotypical.
It was a fantastic day though. The opportunity had presented itself late last night when a friend of a friend said that two tickets were available. At 10pm, I decided on a whim to take them. £180 lighter at gone midnight, I was in possession of two tickets to a Lord's test match.
Dream come true.
Was it worth it? Most definitely. Would I do it again? Probably not. The advantage of buying the tickets a day beforehand was that I knew it was going to be sunny all day and we'd get our monies worth. I'm not sure I could manage the anxiety of watching the weather forecasts if I bought the tickets well in advance like everyone else. £90 to watch rain fall is a hell of an investment.** All in all, the day cost me near £200, (although that does include the purchase of a replica ODI shirt for £50). I'm not really in the position to be doing that a lot.
I'd place this in the once in a lifetime category.
So I'm on my way home, having experienced another one of the long list of things to do before I die, and I've had a wonderful time. I always wanted to do new things on my fortnight off work and I'm pleased I am making the most of it.
I only have three full days left, so I will try and do all I can. Another cricket match and the Bedford River Festival looms large...
** You do get a refund if there is no play, but as soon as 15 overs is reached, (That's 90 balls bowled for those of you not with the lingo), then your money is secured in the back pockets of the pressed trousers of the general secretary. Trust me, it's a very frustrating feeling.
So I'm over halfway my fortnight off work and I have to say, first things first, I'm delighted I took that second week. Not only did I feel like I didn't have enough time to recuperate inside a week, I know I will be ready for the hard-hitting nature of the job by Monday morning.
It's currently 1am on Wednesday morning and I have decided I hate British politics. If you're, for some odd reason, reading this from the USA, the UK has gone bat shit crazy. And you thought Trump was bad...
The UK voted to leave the EU, leaving us less economically stable, less safe, more racist with minorities left open to attack and indeed, alone. I'm not going to go into that argument in too much detail as I'm sick to death of the whole thing but that result has led to utter carnage in the bubble of Westminster.
Prime Minister David Cameron has resigned with Theresa May due to take over, (that's due to happen today in fact). They had a leadership contest where May's opponent dropped out after a matter of days leaving a free run at the top job for Cruella Da Ville.
Anyway. The perfect time for the opposition to scrutinise but no, Labour
decide to fight among themselves. A woman called Angela Eagle has challenged current Leader of the Opposition, Jeremy Corbyn to a fight and because of the stupid Labour rules, the members get to decide who wins. Although in this country, it costs a mere £3 to join Labour, meaning effectively anyone can vote.
I have since learnt that new members can't vote but the point still stands.
"While Labour struggle and fiddle with their zip, the Tories are enjoying a post-coital cigar after removing their massive Johnson."
Cracking Boris reference.
In other news, I've seemingly forgotten how to hold a cricket bat, I've got a new idea for a book and I've stopped taking my sertraline which is a big step in the right direction for a med-free future. Although I am still taking Quetiapine at night because it helps me sleep...
We lament the hollow bad times gone by;
of heroes and leaders failing to try,
but look closer to home,
where there's bigger fish to fry
and tell me you'll fight on.
They call us the 'lost generation',
the ones forgotten by a greedy nation;
but look closer to home,
the origin of your creation,
and tell me you'll fight on.
We will work 'til we die, the elected say;
Paying for past mistakes and days.
But look closer to home,
and the enemies you slay
and tell me you'll fight on.
Currencies will crash and politics fight,
all for what they think is right.
But look closer to home,
where your hearts are bright
and tell me you'll fight on.
We lament the hollow bad times gone by;
of those we look up to, trust not to lie.
But look closer to home,
where love doesn't die,
and tell me you'll fight on.
Yes, you did read that right. I have voted for many parties since I turned 18. I voted Conservative at my first local election, Liberal Democrat in my first general election and Labour in 2015, but I have never been a member of any political party.
Except one.
In 2013, after watching a specific episode of Question Time on the BBC, I decided my affiliation would lie with the UK Independence Party. No, this isn't a joke. I genuinely believed UKIP was the way forward, lead by the charismatic, pint-guzzling Nigel Farage. I am embarrassed to say it, but it's true. I paid £2 to become a member of UKIP for a year.
I used to be a staunch anti-EU campaigner, even offering to leaflet my local area at one point although I never physically got round to it. I firmly believed that the "£350m a week to be a member of the EU" figure was wholly accurate and I was very angry at what I thought was the completely unelected politicians who used it. I was also angry at the "establishment"; a line still used by the UKIP clan to this day. I voted for the Liberal Democrats in 2010, based solely on their line on tuition fees. When they U-turned, I felt betrayed. David Cameron had specifically said that he would offer an EU referendum in his first term in 2009. That didn't materialise. I also believed that Labour caused the financial crash of 2008, although that was more me believing the cause was political instead of financial irregularities.
In short, in 2013 I was a very angry person. I thought the Westminster bubble were liars. In truth, I was looking for excuses as to why my own life wasn't working.
It was an odd time. Especially as an openly gay man, people questioned why on Earth I would support a political party who openly opposed equal marriage, but I had convinced myself that there were far more important matters in hand. I was of the firm belief that this money we were giving the European Union was of far more importance. Plus, I can safely say, I was pleased with the attention I was getting from the higher echelons of the party. My LGBT status was being used as a political weapon, (especially locally) and that made me feel wanted at a time where I felt I wasn't wanted by anyone at all.
As I say, I was a deeply unhappy person.
On Thursday, the United Kingdom goes to the polls to vote on our EU membership. I will be voting to remain a part of it, as I am now a far happier human being than I was a few years ago, and a better educated one. There's not a lot more to say in regards to that small period of my life. It is one that I'd rather forget.
Today I spent the day at The Swan Hotel in Bedford for a work event to prepare for an upcoming inspection. I imagined it to be a long day, but the discussions that took place were brilliant and I learnt so much about the professional side of mental health care. I won't go into too much detail, but I have really enjoyed today and have taken so much from it.
However, the bulk of this blog will be taken up by events that took place at lunchtime, while I was walking back to the Swan Hotel from a nice lunch break. Walking along the main road of the town centre, I was approached by a smart-looking, suave (good looking) guy, who quite literally walked up to me and asked me...
"What do you like most about your Father?"
Most people would look at them oddly and mumble something about running late and then walk off very swiftly, but I do have a habit of talking to the people who stop you in the street. And quite honestly, the question intrigued me. I explained to the young (good looking) man that my Father is the hardest working man I know and everything he does is for his family. I told the (good looking) man about the 20-mile milk round he had as a teenager with a man called 'Buzz' who he later reunited with 30 years later in this very town to run a football team.
It was at this point that I noticed a name badge. Coincidentally, the (good looking) man then mentioned he was a missionary, out promoting the Book of Mormon. His next question, apart from asking me about my religious beliefs, was whether I'd heard of the Book of Mormon. I was very tempted to break out into song, but felt that wouldn't be appropriate. I also told him I was agnostic which is a complete and utter lie, but I was drawn in by his dark brown eyes and floppy hair.
What can a guy do?!
It was at this point another man walked into the conversation, and joined the (good looking) man in asking me this and that about the Mormon faith and spirituality. I did ask a couple of questions; such as whether they believe every word they read and their answers actually fascinated me. Some of it was the usual, "A man was spoken to by God and found the light" crap that makes me roll my eyes, but some of it made a little bit of sense. No wait, it didn't, but I appreciated how they felt The Bible was a "collection of broken mirror pieces" and the Mormon faith worked to pick the right pieces. I quite liked that sentiment.
Anyway, five minutes of general chat, which was genuinely quite interesting, I had to bid my adieus as I really was running late to get back to the second half of the work event. They then asked if I wanted to meet tomorrow to continue the conversation...
Now. I should have said no. I should have made an excuse and left it at that, but again, I am terribly British when it comes to these kinds of things. I heard myself say, "Yeah why not!" and instantly regretted it. Even more so when the 2nd guy, (not the good looking man), asked me for my phone number. I tried the trick of giving him my actual number but changing a digit, but he tried to ring it and nothing happened.
That was awkward.
So I had no choice but to give him my actual number and he has since sent a text saying he was looking forward to meeting tomorrow. I feel three things. Part 1 of me wants to go just to look into the good looking man's eyes. Part 2 of me wants to go along to genuinely learn about what these guys think and to educate myself. Part 3 of me just thinks I should stay at home and watch 'Extras'.
I don't know what I'll do. I'll probably just see how I feel tomorrow but it was a very odd exchange. I applaud the (good looking) man for having the balls to just walk up to randomers to ask how their Dad is.
To be continued ........ (Maybe.)
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One more thing, completely unrelated to the above but I'm not going to start another blog to say it. Cricket. I started the season off okay, with a couple of scores, but then I've scored a couple of ducks and have lost interest. I don't really want to play anymore. At least, I don't want to play at the minute. I just can't concentrate whilst batting. I miss that bubble I immerse myself in when I'm batting, escaping everything in the world and focusing solely on the red ball coming towards you. I really miss that feeling, but I can't seem to find it anymore. I much prefer the social side of the game; just watching and laughing with mates.
"You'll know when you get to the stage that you just don't want to go clubbing anymore. Trust me."
That was a line I heard from one of my cricket teammates during our cricket tour of Wales a couple of years back. At the time, I was addicted to the drunken lifestyle and never wanted it to end. The line above is one that I refused to believe.
Until now.
Today is my 25th birthday. Even typing that makes me feel a bit odd. The last few years, on my 22nd, 23rd and 24th birthdays, I have obviously gotten a year older but still had the mind set of an 18-year old. Hell, on my 23rd birthday, I ended up in fucking Brighton. I never really felt like a proper adult, but today has been so, so different.
I'm only a day older than I was yesterday of course, but today is the day I became an adult. I've just got home from the pub, before midnight, not wanting to get stupidly drunk and sleeping with a random like past birthdays, but wanting to be fresh enough for the cricket match tomorrow. Scared of the impending hangover and the empty bank account. I have enjoyed this evening, but that increasing strength of thought that pulsates through my mind is now impossible to ignore.
"The 5am finishes are long gone."
There will be times where I will feel like going out on a big night, rolling in at stupid o'clock with a kebab, but those times are considerably less frequent. My mind is more focused on family life and my career now, instead of pining after a JD and coke on a Friday night. I guess it's called "growing up".
Last weekend, post Eurovision, was one of those big nights. The day after was absolutely horrendous. I staved off the sickness until I got home, but I had barely recovered in time for Monday morning and the 8am walk to work. Something has to give. And frankly, I'm happy it has.
I have a promotion interview on Monday, which is a complete win-win situation bearing in mind it's for a job that's two bands higher than I'm at currently. I will be on cloud nine if I get it. Now, I'm heading to bed, happy I've made the right choice and *fingers crossed* a clear head for the weekend.
It's Monday afternoon; the Monday after one of the best Eurovision weekends in living memory. On Saturday night, the Grand Final of the Eurovision Song Contest was broadcast from the Globe Arena in Stockholm and what a night it was! The new voting system left us with the promised dramatic ending and of course, we got to see more of Mans than we bargained for...
In fear of bumbling on for too long, here's my take on all 26 songs that took part on Saturday, resulting in quite a controversial winner...
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1) BELGIUM - Laura Tesoro - What's the Pressure? - 10th Place with 181 points
As openers go, this is one of the best I can remember. 19-year old Laura, following surprise package Loic from last year, opening up the 61st Eurovision Song Contest?
What's the Pressure?
It's a pumped up, pop number and really got the crowd going for the show. As we know however, opening up rarely translates into a high placing, but a 10th place finish is a good effort and Laura will definitely be pleased. I have to admit, this song is one of only a few that I've been humming along to since Saturday night!
2) CZECH REPUBLIC - Gabriela Guncikova - I Stand - 25th Place with 41 points
No one has ever won the Eurovision Song Contest from 2nd place on the bill and this record was not to be broken on Saturday night. The Czech Republic, in their first ever Eurovision Grand Final, presented us with a fine song, beautifully sang by Gabriela, but maybe the lack of punch needed to inspire at this stage of the night.
It provided a different song to what we're used to on Eurovision night, with a mere red glow emanating from the beautiful dress as Gabriela stood and belted out her ballad. Nice, but not enough to impress the voters.
3) THE NETHERLANDS - Douwe Bob - Slow Down - 11th Place with 153 points
In many ways, a similar kinda vibe to the song preceding it, but maybe a bit more about it from Douwe Bob, who's name is not the wrong way round, I promise.
Maybe the slightly odd 10-second pause mid song while Douwe winked and mouthed 'I Love You' at the camera made it stick in the minds of the voters? I don't know, but it was a nice enough song with a fair mid table finish.
Graham Norton just seemed obsessed with the neck tattoo instead of the song, and he also gave the game away with the mid-song silence. Naughty Graham.
4) AZERBAIJAN - Samra - Miracle - 17th Place with 117 points
Already one drink down, (at least) by this stage I was starting to get bored with the continuity of the same sounding songs. Again, it's not a bad song but this early on in the night, easily forgettable.
Remember, the running order is not drawn at random, but chosen specifically to give the best show. Conspiracies abound of course that favourites are put in favourable positions, but this offering from Samra was deliberately put early so people forgot about it.
I did.
5) HUNGARY - Freddie - Pioneer - 19th Place with 108 points
The first gay-friendly act of the night, (although there were a few pining after Douwe!) for this act from Hungary, and Freddie.
I have to admit, I didn't listen to the song that much pre-contest and find it quite boring.
I'm deliberately starting new paragraphs to fill up the gaps, but I can't find any other words to describe this song. Again, forgettable; a 19th place finish more than lucky and Hungary should move on to 2017 with a more adventurous outlook, instead of picking the best looking guy that applies.
6) ITALY - Francesca Michielin - No Degree of Separation - 16th Place with 124 points
One of my early favourites for sure, with a nice mix of English and Italian lyrics and a decent message but I'm afraid Francesca was overcome with nerves on the big stage.
It felt awkward and uncomfortable watching it and the audience in the arena and at home felt it too. It's a shame, because it's another good offering from Italy after the success of Il Volo last year, but a case of the yips bestowed themselves upon poor Francesca.
I don't think it was ever going to be a candidate to win, but the first of a few under par performances of the night.
7) ISRAEL - Hovi Star - Made of Stars - 14th Place with 135 points
There was a lot of pre-contest delight at Hovi and his ballad; probably the best ballad in the competition, with a 14th place slightly unlucky for Hovi in the end.
For the first time since the opener, I liked a song but I thought the rotating wheel thing behind him was slightly unnecessary and distracting. I would have much preferred if Hovi took the Gabriela approach and merely stood and delivered.
The finish was fantastic as well while it was popular on all social media. The LGBT community love this man, and I can certainly see why.
8) BULGARIA - Poli Genova - If Love Was a Crime - 4th Place with 307 points
While Belgium and Loic Nottet was the song that grew on me as Eurovision season progressed in 2015, this year it most certainly was Bulgaria.
A slow start maybe, but when the chorus kicked in, boy, was it a crackerjack! Probably the most catchy and memorable chorus in the whole competition, a top-5 finish was more than deserved for Poli. There were five 10-points awarded from the juries, but no douze points which may have affected their final position, but Bulgaria should be mightily pleased with their efforts in Stockholm.
9) SWEDEN - Frans - 'If I Were Sorry' - 5th Place with 261 points
Eurgh.
The powerhouses of Eurovision, and indeed this year's hosts, sent possibly the most bitter song of the past decade by 17-year old Frans.
It's basically a song about how he isn't sorry about anything from a past relationship and that made me cringe through every word. Certainly helped by the fact they were the only Nordic act in the Grand Final and the mere fact they are Sweden.
Frans is a nice enough guy, if a bit stroppy teen, but this shouldn't have finished as high as it did.
10) GERMANY - Jamie-Lee - Ghost - 26th Place with 10 points
The new voting system makes it harder to achieve the dreaded 'nil points' that Jemini famously achieved in 2003, as well as The Makemakes from last year, but this offering from Germany certainly tried their best to emulate.
The most striking thing I noticed was the choice of attire, but not being a fashionista myself, I won't comment too much on that. But the song was actually quite dull and uninspiring.
A generous placing in the running order did little to help, (Conspiracy Theorists: "I think they purposefully put this after Sweden to help Frans").
11) FRANCE - Amir - J'ai Cherche - 6th Place with 257 points
Early favourite, and a heart throb from Paris, Amir's efforts were possibly hurt by early struggles during rehearsals, but certainly a decent top 6 finish was deserved with this upbeat number.
Amir certainly looked as if he was enjoying it and it is one of those songs that I will likely continue to listen to despite us being post-Eurovision now.
I also remember him as being a really nice gentleman at the London Eurovision Party in April, so I'm pleased this did as well as it did.
12) POLAND - Michel Szpak - Color Of Your Life - 8th Place with 229 points
The new voting system really played a big part in the result of this song, with Michel getting just 7 points from the juries before a mammoth 222 points from the public propelled it up to 8th place! It was pretty good to watch to be fair.
It took me a long, long time to get into this song, but by the time Saturday night came around, I was a fan and pleased that Michel got a top-10 finish. He has a striking resemblance with parody artist Weird Al Yankovich, but there was nothing weird about the song as it was sung very well and had another good message that matched the theme of 'Come Together'.
13) AUSTRALIA - Dami Im - Sound of Silence - 2nd Place with 511 points
Far from being a one-off for the 60th anniversary, the faraway land of Australia was invited back for the 61st edition, and what an act it sent!
X Factor Australia 2013 winner, Dami Im gave us a stunning vocal performance in a song that was nailed on to win, until the new voting system took hold and presented us with something else... This was my big favourite.
In both the semis and the final, Dami blew the audience away and it's a big shame this didn't win, although I'm sure the purists are delighted...
14) CYPRUS - Minus One - Alter Ego - 21st Place with 96 points
There's always one song per year that I love and the rest of the world hates, and this year that came from Cyprus and their rock number, 'Alter Ego'.
Their semi-final effort was disappointing and I didn't think it would get through, but I'm very pleased it did and I'm also very pleased they upped their game in the finals. I'm not altogether surprised it didn't do well, but again, this is a song I will continue to listen to.
A side note, I still listen to Terasbetoni from 2008.
15) SERBIA - Sanja Vucic - Goodbye - 18th Place with 115 points
I have to admit, I have no recollection of hearing this song on Saturday night. Whether that's because the whisky had kicked in, or it was a forgettable song, I don't know, but it was never going to get higher than the 18th place it finished in.
It certainly wasn't the upbeat, disco number of 2015 or indeed the striking, heartfelt winner of 2007. More in between.
Halfway houses don't win the Eurovision Song Contest I'm afraid.
16) LITHUANIA - Donny Montell - I've Been Waiting For This Night - 9th with 200 points
I'm not being funny, but I wasn't listening to the song because I was busy putting my eyes back in. Donny is beyond gorgeous.
But, being the serious reviewer that I am, I re-watched Donny's efforts, (restarted it, because I got distracted) and decided that it was a very good entry, despite some dodgy dancing in the middle of it.
The big mid-song jump from the smoke was just what it needed and it was a fair placing of 9th place for Donny.
Have I mentioned, he's gorgeous?
17) CROATIA - Nina Kraljic - Lighthouse - 23rd place with 73 points
Yet another forgettable entry, and it's final placing reflects that. At this stage of the proceedings, the home at crowd, (Sorry, I mean the crowd at home) have had a bottle of wine and begin to search for a winner and this solemn number was never going to be it.
Again, I had to re-watch the entry and my sober thoughts remain the same.
The staging was quite nice and Nina's dress equally so, but that's not enough to win Eurovision these days. We were never going to be going to Zagreb in 2017.
18) RUSSIA - Sergey Lazarev - You Are The Only One - 3rd Place with 491 points
Love them or hate them, Russia continue to enter their very best to this Contest and this year was no different. Russian superstar Sergey Lazarev provided a quite brilliant routine to a catchy song.
Naturally, the opening was compared to last year's victor, which never goes down well (Remember Cascada's rip off of Loreen in 2013?) but the climbing of walls and the light show along with a brilliant vocal propelled Russia's rating through the roof.
A 4th placed finish was fair, but Europe may still be perturbed by the controversy oozing from Russia while casting their votes.
19) SPAIN - Barei - Say Yay! - 22nd place with 77 points
Anywhere else in the running order, and this song from Spain would have been much, much higher.
As it is, they got lost in the shadow of Russia and Europe almost forgot about it. A high-tempo, loveable, happy song about saying "YAY!" is so very Eurovision, but unfortunately not Eurovision enough to get anywhere near the left hand side of the new scoreboard.
Barei mentioned before the contest that she would have liked the opportunity to compete in the semi-finals... I do think the "big 5" will need to start qualifying soon regardless of financial contribution...
20) LATVIA - Justs - Heartbeat - 15th place with 132 points
You certainly can't say that Justs didn't give it his all and I'm a little bit surprised this finished as low as it did.
Slow start, building up... Building up... And Justs EXPLODES! He's probably still angry at me mistaking him for semi-finalist Juri Pootsman from Estonia at the London Eurovision Party...
One of my friends noted that she would do "unspeakable things" to Justs, which I can see, but he might just shout at you for doing it.
6/10 for the song. 10/10 for looks.
21) UKRAINE - Jamala - 1944 - 1ST PLACE WITH 534 POINTS!
Controversy Klaxon!
Some would say this song was political, (songs of which are banned), while some would say it was too depressing to win Eurovision, but Europe clearly liked it, (as did the UK who gave it 10 points).
Personally, I didn't like it. I don't begrudge Ukraine victory, but I'm not a big fan of downbeat songs about sad events. I understand why people do, but it just wasn't for me.
Some have suggested, *cough* Russia Today *cough*, Europe voted for this to spite the Russians. I don't think that was the case.
Kiev 2017 anyone?
22) MALTA - Ira Losco - Walk on Water - 12th place with 153 points
Following the eventual winner can never be easy, and although we didn't know it at the time, Ira Losco, who represented Malta in 2002 of course, didn't give us much to distract us from the enormity of what we'd just witnessed from Jamala.
12th was fair, but not groundbreakingly brilliant. Plus, despite Mr Norton's warnings, the man who danced very closely to Ira was a bit creepy and put me off the whole performance.
23) GEORGIA - Nika Kocharov & Young Lolitaz - Midnight Gold - 20th with 104 points
Now then...
This from Georgia was an interesting entry..
Richard Osman almost looked embarrassed as he announced that the United Kingdom had given Georgia douze points, and the rest of our country laughed in utter derision. The commentators joined in but...
On Saturday night, and indeed all week, I have lambasted this song. I wrote it off as a bit of a joke. Even at the opening ceremony, the band just did not look bothered. I've listened to it... A lot... I'm sorry guys... But I like it!
Please don't hate me.
24) AUSTRIA - Zoe - Loin D'ici - 13th with 151 points
Another favourite of mine pre-contest, I know for a fact that Zoe just loves the whole Eurovision experience. She couldn't quite believe she was there all week.
This song was sung in French, which is odd for an Austrian entry, but it kinda worked. At least it did until Saturday night, when nerves seemed to get the better of her. It's a big shame because she's such a likeable character, it was such a pretty song for such a pretty girl. But unfortunately the majority of the audience listen on Saturday night and unfortunately she didn't deliver in the big time.
25) UNITED KINGDOM - Joe & Jake - 24th with 62 points
I genuinely think this from our boys was our best entry in a good decade, but Europe simply doesn't like us. Our inability to attract any major names like Russia, or the absence of a Swedish-style Melodifestivalen makes us unpopular.
We don't take this competition "seriously enough" and that doesn't translate to votes. Suggestions that no one voted for us because of the impending EU referendum are pretty ridiculous though. Second last on the running order didn't help and maybe a lack of clever staging, but it shouldn't have finished 24th. We hope for better next year!
26) ARMENIA - Iveta Mukuchyan - Love Wave - 7th with 249 points
Last up at Eurovision hasn't been as much of a curse in recent times, with Italy's Il Volo scoring a 3rd place finish from last on the order in 2015. It seems Armenia follows, with a solid 7th place finish with a good, slightly quirky song. At least the opening was anyway.
It builds up well, with a quiet start and then kicks off into a battling performance. Could have been higher if Europe wasn't too busy checking their scorecards.
Although it finished 7th however, the song didn't take over me... Sorry, crap joke.
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And that, is that. The end of another Eurovision season and what a season it was. Mans and Petra hosted a stunning Eurovision week, with good interval acts and the coup of Justin Timberlake. There has been a lot of noise about the eventual winners, but it just goes to show how strongly Europe appreciates a strong song.
My name is Tom (the nickname is Mitten), and this is my blog about anything and everything. Mental health, sport, funny stories and the occasional poem. Enjoy :)
