There have been times in my life where Forest has saved me. I’m not exaggerating. Without The Reds in my life I don’t know where I would be.

Frank Clark and Collymore’s goals helped me come to terms with the aftermath of my parents’ divorce, in 1994; Paul Hart’s young team helped me cope with the grief of losing my mum, in 2003, and despite the season finishing in abject misery (the Yeovil one), without the escapism of the City Ground, the loss of our first son would have been harder to deal with.

I didn’t renew my season ticket at the start of the season. I didn’t exactly have the enthusiasm following what had gone before and it seemed like a good decision five games in. The other reason for not renewing was because I was about to embark on a career as a teacher. I had to take a step back from Forest Land.

After 20 years at the BBC, I quit. It was time for me to go and try something else. I’d always wanted to be an art teacher and the redundancy money helped me get on a course. Following lockdown, to suddenly be in a lecture theatre with other trainees, some of the best human beings I’ve ever met, was amazing. To be in a classroom working with brilliant youngsters who cared about art and seemed to like me, was also exciting.

Despite what was happening on the pitch I was happy. I shrugged Forest’s woes off. Of course I cared, it mattered to me but I could keep them at arm’s length. I had no control over what was happening therefore I was not going to worry about it. I was convinced we’d lose to Derby and while it was on I went for a walk, leaving behind my phone. I got the message that Brennan had equalised and while it made me momentarily happy I still thought we were doomed. But it didn’t matter, I was going to be a teacher. 

Even when Steve Cooper came in and things picked up, I wouldn’t allow myself to get excited. I knew we’d be ok, we’d stay up and at that point that was all I cared about. I started to think we could do better after Bristol and then when I sat on my own in the bar of a Parkdean resort to see Jack Colback bag a late equaliser at QPR. However, due to a lack of cash and time, I avoided going. I didn’t listen to the radio, watch any games, just followed online. I didn’t want to get too excited and be let down again. 

The teaching hit the skids just before Christmas. I won’t bore you with what went wrong but in January I quit. It was a devastating day. To abandon those kids I’d built up positive relationships with and the friends I’d made, it was all too much and I broke down. What a fucking failure I am, I thought. All that enthusiasm I had had somehow disappeared. But as a friend pointed out, it took me three months what it took him five years to figure out that teaching wasn’t for me. 

I had no job. No idea what I wanted to do with my life. The money was running out and my wife was under pressure to keep us all fed. It wasn’t quite that bad, but I put myself under a lot of pressure to get work. I even considered becoming a Deliveroo rider. This is when I allowed myself to re-enter Forest Land. I was late to the party. I watched Forest beat Arsenal on TV and afterwards I approached one of the sponsors about a job. They gave me an informal interview and while I didn’t take it any further, it gave me confidence. Basically, I knew my stuff (media, copywriting etc) and people were willing to pay me for it.

I watched Forest beat Derby and so I was so inspired by Brice Samba’s performance (the forehead egg, refusing to give the ball back after their pen and the hands-behind-his-back trolling of Morrison) I began to draw again. I drew a picture of Samba trying to look innocent. I shared it on Twitter and it did well with fans. I realised ever since I was a kid that my art was inspired by Forest. I remember drawing a picture of Neil Webb at primary school and getting a good mark. I did a picture of Des Walker for my art GCSE and one of Bryan Roy for my A-Level. I should have known that drawing that first picture, of Samba, meant something. If I was drawing Forest players again, something good was happening at the City Ground. Everyone could feel it. We just couldn’t talk about it in case it fell apart, again. I went to the Barnsley game and wondered whether it would be like the Charlton game, after the Leeds win, but no, despite not playing that well, we won 3-0. No fist bumps. But who cares. Another three points.

While job hunting I did more drawings. I’m sure you know how desperate it is trying to find a job – the forms, the phone calls, the anguish, the knockbacks. But retreating into Forest Land made me happy. The Leicester game made me cry. We just looked so fucking good and it was simply tears of happiness. My brother-in-law is a Leicester fan and while I had no intention of rubbing his face in it, I received a message from him to say how good we were. Getting that kind of respect and following what Alan Shearer said about Forest, the low feelings I was experiencing began to evaporate. I drew Joe Worrall doing a head tackle. That’s the kind of commitment that gets a team promoted, I didn’t dare say at the time. But it is.

Further inspired, I did more drawings to the point where a friend suggested I try and make a living from it. I didn’t really have the heart for that. Making art is for me, and trying to make a living from it is a slog. I needed a job with the intention of keeping art as a hobby. Luckily everything fell into place and I started my new career the day after we lost to Liverpool. Clocking my Forest wallet, I was introduced to two of my new colleagues, ‘this is third round’ and ‘this is fourth round’ – Arsenal and Leicester. It was my first feeling that we were at the top table again. Of course, we still needed to earn our place in the Premier League and of course, we did. You Reds.

The feeling that I had failed at teaching eventually dissipated. I had given it a shot. I did my best. I would have failed had I not tried it. I don’t regret that time. I would have regretted carrying on. Saving face. And had I continued I wouldn’t have got to see Forest more, I wouldn’t have made the play-off semi-final, I wouldn’t have made it to Wembley. And that’s something I would have regretted because I had one of the best days of life. 

Here’s to Forest Land. x

P.S This is what it meant to me: https://youtu.be/dCPxHhGYX3g

When you start having baths in the dark, while listening to Coldplay, you know something is wrong…

No one was more surprised than me when I made up my mind to withdraw from my teaching course. It was tough, really tough, but I was enjoying it and I was getting the rewards. I loved building relationships with students and engaging with them in a positive way. They liked me. They respected me. I knew I had what it took to be a teacher. The reality was different.

The other side was being part of a cohort, building friendships with people from diverse backgrounds. Hopefully, they would turn into long-term friendships. When I knew I was going to quit I thought about them. I wanted to complete our journey together, wear the silly hats and jump about.

It sounds corny, but after Covid, being in a room with 30 people on the same path was an absolute tonic. When we had met back in July, I hadn’t been in a room of more than four people, my own house, for over a year. We need to be with other people, as singer Frank Turner sang, “we’re not designed to be alone”.

Ultimately, it was my decision to leave. Things happened that hurt and hastened that decision, which I won’t go into, but I realised it wasn’t sustainable for me and my mental health. Teaching had always been at the back of my mind as a career. Amazingly, I got the chance. There was no doubt I was going to do it. I ignored those dissenting voices. I was determined. Even when the work piled up, I was going to do it. No one could stop me.

I feel happier now. I know I made the right decision. I was worried about how people would take it. There’s a primal fear about rejection and abandonment, and that’s how I was feeling. I’d let a lot of people down; they were rooting for me and I’ve messed it up. But it couldn’t have been further from the truth. I’ve been blown away by support and I don’t know why I deserve it, but thank you to those people.

What next? I don’t really know. I have ideas and that’s exciting. It’s just weird that here I am again, in January, figuring that out. East 17’s Alright keeps popping into my head as some sort of affirmation, and I do believe I will be.

I don’t regret a thing. I did it all for the right reasons and made decisions on what I thought was right for me and my family. Above all, I made a group of new, wonderful friends and I know we’ll stay in touch.

Alright, alright
Everything’s gonna be alright
Alright, alright
Everything’s gonna be alright
Alright, alright
Everything’s gonna be alright
Alright, alright
It’s really alright

No don’t be so sad
‘Cause love is by your side
No don’t be so sad
‘Cause life is too short to live
No don’t be so sad
I’ll be mad if you’re this
It’s alright
The message that I give

If there’s a documentary, TV or radio, about Euro 96, I’ll watch it. While they always make me cry, make me think ‘what if?’, I can’t get enough. I love it. England didn’t win, but that’s beside the point. I, along with millions of others, had the best summer ever.

England vs Germany, 26^th June, 1996

Ruby Tuesdays, a bar in Nottingham, was packed, mostly with boys my age, taking up any available space in the basement where the football was being shown. Two lads perched on top of some stacked tables in the corner. Occasionally they would touch the ceiling to keep their balance, or punch it like excited chimpanzees. Angled mirrors lined the top of the walls making it appear there were even more people in there. It was already warm and muggy outside. I was wearing white chinos and a red cheesecloth shirt and Adidas Gazelles. My lank curtains stuck to my spotty forehead. I was with my best friend John and Lee, who I’d been mates with since our first year at secondary school. We got our pints and held them close, trying not to spill them as people brushed past. We gawped up at the TVs, as heavy as small fridges, but as small as microwaves. I couldn’t hear a word Des Lynam was saying, before the game, such was the raucous atmosphere. Everyone was confident that this time, we would beat the Germans. Even me. The whole tournament, the misery of the past six years, had been building to this point. It was our time; there was no way it could end in defeat. No chance. We were going to win. And then win in the final. There was no doubt. It felt like a guarantee.

Ahead of the match, John found the only girl in the place and before long was snogging her. Lee had started chatting to some lads to his left, like he’d known them all of his life. All that mattered to me was the match and I couldn’t keep my eyes off it. Maybe if I looked away something would go wrong. After a few minutes, England were ahead. Shearer headed in after a flick from Tony Adams. The place erupted. There were wild, vaulting bodies everywhere, the lads on the stacked tables tumbles forward and lager rained down. Lee embraced the lads he’d met and John briefly stopped kissing the girl. It was the start everyone wanted but maybe it was too early. The best and worst of times to score.

The only commentary I could actually hear was when John Motson, at one point, screamed ‘KUNTZ!’ Not his personal feelings, of course, but the unfortunate name of the German striker. It started chants of ‘KUNTZ! KUNTZ! KUNTZ!’. And almost like he’d heard their mirth, he equalised for Germany. The rest of the 90 minutes I remember feeling tense. It was like watching two bareknuckle boxers just punching each other in the head, within in a ring of haybales. There wasn’t a great deal of respect out there, maybe because of Turin, or for the Germans, because they’d been treated like ‘Allo ‘Allo Nazis, by the tabloids. I wanted to see England win but the press’ build-up to the game had been appalling.   

The atmosphere remained tense into extra-time. It was next goal wins, or golden goal as it was known, so any attack could have resulted, painfully, as game over. An awkward kinship developed in that small, sweaty, space. We were going through hell together; it was certainly as warm as hell. Lee and his new friends had their shirts off. John came up for air, occasionally. Germany scored but it was judged offside. Darren Anderton hit the post and, agonisingly, Gazza couldn’t put away a Shearer cross. I look at that chance today, and I still think he’s going to put it in. Every. Single. Time.

Penalties again. Against the Germans again. But it wouldn’t be the same again… Surely? Sadly, it was. Even after Gareth Southgate missed, I thought Seaman would save us again. But the Germans don’t miss. Andreas Moller, with his eighties mullet, his air of superiority and contempt for anyone that was not Andreas Moller, put his penalty away. Of course, he did. It left the bar in silence, briefly. I looked up at myself in the mirror and saw that I was crying. They weren’t tears of misery and sadness, they were tears of pain, frustration and disappointment. How had it happened again? Others, their arms around each other, stared at the TV. John discarded the girl, who looked dumbfounded, Lee wept with his new pals. The shot on the TV showed Moller posing, triumphantly, mocking, mimicking Gazza’s own celebratory pose. And then all hell broke loose. A lad, with long blonde hair, who had been smiling and exchanging a few words with me, minutes before, walked up to one of the televisions and punched its thick glass screen. Pint glasses and bottles then started to fly and smash into pieces against the wood panelled walls. I gestured for us to get out of there.

Outside, I entered a phone box to call Dad. He could barely speak. It was the first time I’d heard him cry. Over the years he’d hidden his emotions from me, perhaps in an old-fashioned way. Obviously, he was upset the day he and Mum told us they were getting a divorce, but maybe didn’t want to cry in front of us. The experience was tough enough as it was. The way he was, following the match, made me upset too, it was so crushing, there was little to say. However, Lee had entered the phone box next to me to call his mum. I suddenly heard him raise his voice.

“What do you mean, why am I crying?” he said, his voice high-pitched and occasionally cracking.
“England have lost! Aren’t you bothered?”

I could imagine Margaret poking fun at him and telling him not to be daft, it was only football after all. The way Lee reacted made me laugh and, once I explained what was happening next door, it made Dad laugh too. This has been our default reaction ever since, whether it is England or Nottingham Forest, who have messed something up, just laugh it off.

Euro 96 had started three weeks before, on the top floor of a multi-storey car-park in the centre of Nottingham. I was in the city with my dad and my sister, Sarah, to check out the celebrations in Old Market Square, marking Nottingham’s involvement in the competition. As the rain fell, the night before England were due to play Switzerland, at Wembley, I sat in the car with the radio on, while Dad and Sarah peered over the car-park wall waiting for fireworks. Three Lions started to play and as I looked through the windscreen, rivulets of rain obscuring my view, I began to cry. The song stirred the emotions, even before a ball was kicked, but it wasn’t just that. I felt miserable. There were various personal reasons but, perhaps, mainly, I felt England were going to be rubbish in front of the world, again. However, over the course of the tournament, while they had their luck, they proved in spells they could play football.

The football against the Dutch was breath-taking. I watch it now and I feel close to tears, the hairs stand up on my neck. It was like nothing I’d seen from an England team. Gascoigne was at the heart of everything and there was not another more potent strike force than Shearer and Sheringham. Patrick Kluivert scored late on, but it didn’t matter (apart from eliminating the Scots) and suddenly expectations were high, glory was on the table, England were going to win the tournament. Yes, I got carried away. We all did. I was enjoying myself. I was having fun; it was the best time. I was happy. Everyone was. We needed it.

At 12-years-old, I’d fallen in love with the England football team in 1990 when they reached the semi-final. But following that they let me down, badly. Euro 92 was appalling. Failing to qualify for the 1994 World Cup, in the USA, was even worse. After the summer in 1996, it felt like there was talent and promise, and while there was a huge amount of disappointment, I believed the tournament would lead to us winning the World Cup. I was wrong but that was how high the optimism was at the time. Euro 96 also marked the start of a new life for me, the first part in a story that concluded two years later during the World Cup in France, when I fell in love with my wife, Niki. We watched most of the games together and when England crashed out, on penalties again, more importantly I still had her. It was happiest I had been for a long time, a far cry from that night in my dad’s car at the top of a multi-storey car-park in Nottingham.

I didn’t really know what I was going to do after leaving the BBC. Simply, I wanted a job. Something that interested me and where I could utilise the skills I’d picked up.

However, the second, or third, lockdown happened and that plan was pretty much thrown out of the window. The jobs were there, but the kids were at home. I had to be there for them.

The good thing about this was that it gave me time to think. I didn’t rush into anything.

I started to panic though. What was I going to do with my life? Had a made a terrible mistake in leaving?

The priority for my mental health had been to get out of journalism. I wasn’t enjoying it anymore. Sometimes it could be brilliant. Most of the time I was writing copy, on autopilot.

“Can you write this post about a cannabis farm being discovered.”

In the words of Brenda, from Bristol, “Not another one!” was the usual, internal reaction.

I’d be asked to write something for Facebook, which I did, only to see it get changed, totally different to what I’d produced.

It was pretty demoralising. I felt worthless. I was wasting precious time, precious life.

I wanted to do something that mattered.

I saw my wife, a teacher, renewed, during lockdown because she knew what she was doing was important.

The kids needed her. She needed them too, and her colleagues.

Teaching art had always been at the back of my mind. There was a regret that I never went into the profession. I thought I’d never get the chance again.

And then it happened very quickly. I enquired about a course and the next day they called me.

Of course, they need to fill places, but they don’t just take on anyone who fancies a stab at the job. They look for potential, people they can develop and employ.

But, most of all, they loved my story and after a chat I was made to feel wanted. It gave me a confidence boost.

I flew through the interview, where I had to take a 10-minute lesson, and they decided there and then I’d got a place.

It gave me a massive buzz and to see my wife and children excited and proud of me, was even better.

I start on 31 August at a school in Nottinghamshire.

I’m excited, nervous, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing, how it will impact on my family… but it’s what I want to do, it’ll be tough and we’ll be fine.

I’ve had a few negative comments (disguised thinly as jokes) but the support has come from those who matter and that’s important.

I met up with my old art teacher, last week. Mrs Owen’s had a huge impact on my life. She first taught me in 1992, when I was 14.

I knew I had talent, but I wasn’t very motivated or confident. I needed to not be afraid to show what I could do.

Mrs Owen, changed all that. She completely revolutionised the way I worked, helped me fall in love with art.

I could write many words about the impact she’s had on me and there we were, sitting outside a coffee shop, 25 years after I left my school’s sixth form college.

The irony being that she was my age now, when I collected my results.

This is the pull of going into teaching. The lifelong positive influence. Teaching matters. Now, more than ever.

Superman had a Fortress of Solitude in the middle of an icy wilderness. A place where he could escape human beings and not be called on all the time to save our asses. There, he watched old images of his dead relatives, with the aid of magic crystals, a bit like DVDs, telling him how important he was and that he was the last of his race and the humans didn’t deserve him… Luckily he was above all that and just farted around, when he wasn’t in tights, as a bumbling hack – a bit like me in my former life (not the tights bit).

In the comics he got up to all sorts in his fortress, managing an alien zoo, writing his memoirs with a massive pen, storing secrets on a mega computer, but basically, it was just somewhere to kick back and forget about stuff. A place we could all do with. It sounds appealing and if you could fly as fast as a speeding bullet, were impervious to the cold and not under lockdown*, maybe it could be an option. But you don’t have to go those lengths.

Some men have Man Caves, which I’ve always been skeptical about (or maybe jealous of) a place to escape responsibilities or do ‘private’ things away from prying eyes. I’ve seen images of men proudly sitting in their caves, on Facebook, and basically the room resembles a teenage boys’ bedroom, except one where the occupant can legally drink beer and smoke weed.

I’ve also seen Lady Rooms, in this case just exchange the beer for gin and wine and add a craft of some sort. Other women are usually invited, thus defeating the object of the solitude and therefore making you wonder whether using the living room would have saved the trouble. But like with all dens, the fun is in the building. When it’s finished you think ‘now what?’

Throughout the pandemic it has been difficult to escape one another and many of us haven’t got the space to create a fortress. In my case, the garage is an option but I haven’t got enough clothes to wear to keep warm. I did think about building a shed inside the garage but this idea was met with a look that suggested I was insane and stupid. I still might do it.

Joseph Campbell, in his book The Power of Myth, suggested creating a Bliss Station, a ‘place of creative incubation’ – if you want to create a Man Cave/Lady Room, here’s your solid and wholesome reason. But chiefly it should be a place of solitude and silence. But like me, in the absence of a physical place, it could be a time, still tricky, but an hour before bed or when everyone gets up is equally beneficial. The key thing is the silence and solitude. No smart phones, no TV or radio and definitely no news.

Whether you’ve got a Bliss room or not, or actively take time out from the family, you should not feel guilty about it. As the writer Paul McGee suggests, we all need our ‘oxygen’ before helping others. On a plane, we’re told as parents, if the oxygen masks drop down, you should sort yours first (the same goes for life jackets). This is so you’re in a position to help your child and not passed out or dead before you can. And so, in life, you need to take your oxygen before you can be your best. This can be a walk, ride a bike, a creative task…

I can certainly relate to this. During Lockdown #1, I was working from home and homeschooling the children while my teacher wife was looking after key worker kids. Supervising homework was hard enough but nothing prepared me for the hell of homeschooling. One day, despite my wife being home and we could take a child each, it got too much and I had to leave the house. Despite that feeling I had let everyone down, it was doing no one any good by staying at home. I went out on my bike, had a cup of tea with a friend in his garden and felt much happier when I returned.

Self-care is more important than ever. You need your time and space to get back to being a rational and happy parent and person. It doesn’t do anyone any good to plough on regardless. If anything it can make things worse. Remember that even Superman had to fly to the middle of the Arctic to re-calibrate, but a little walk down to ASDA would probably be enough.

*Superman is surely an unpaid keyworker.

This month was supposed to be about finding a new job or at least exploring new opportunities. However, I’ve found myself being a teacher again, to my own children. Help.

I’m sure if you did this last year, for about three months, you’ll know it’s the most exhausting and draining task you can go through. Getting through the day unscathed is impossible. Once the work is finished and you’ve been their emotional punchbag all day, you get to be dad again, but without the teacher bit. However, they’re tired, you’re tired and you have nowhere to go because you’re not allowed to… go anywhere.

I found myself thinking ahead… ‘just get to half-term and that’s it’, but as we know with the nature of the virus and the nature of this erratic government, it probably won’t end there. Homeschooling might continue into March and April. I hope not but we’ve been here before. We just don’t know. But at least the pricks are on the way, eh, readers? Fnar, fnar…

Mum used to say ‘don’t wish your life away’ and in her short life I hope she took her own advice. She would say this to me if I had said something like ‘I can’t wait to…’ and ‘why is this is taking soooo long?’. But she was right. What if the next few months are my last? We have to make the most of these times, as desperate as they are, because tomorrow could be the end. Focus on what we can do, not what we can’t.

As much as the children drive me mad sometimes, I love them, of course, and I enjoy their company. But as they get older the natural order means we won’t spend as much time together. I’m already the ‘old man’ in their eyes – the grumpy ogre, though I have improved since I left the BBC. I could be the last person they want to be with in the near future, therefore I may look back on these days fondly. I’m already remembering the good bits from Lockdown #1 – the daft made-up games to alleviate the boredom, watching birds build nests in the garden, having Dumb and Dumber haircuts…

I already get teary eyed about them growing up. They’re closer to be being adults than they were babies. My eldest is 13, if he chooses to go to university he’ll be leaving in five years and considering how quickly the last half decade went, this is a terrifying and heartbreaking thought. Therefore I’ve decided to make the most of our time together, despite the meltdowns and tantrums… mine as well as theirs.

I remember listening to a conversation involving a man I had zero respect for. He had run a campaign to get my friend replaced on the radio. Our paths had crossed before that too when he accidentally copied me in to an e-mail accusing me of being unprofessional. Anyway, I overheard him scoff at his friend’s announcement his partner was having a baby. ‘I don’t want kids,’ he said, sneering. ‘I want to climb Kilimanjaro, one day.’ He assumed having children would stop him having a life. I haven’t climbed Kilimanjaro, I’m not that arsed really, but I have scrambled up Kinder Scout with my two boys and my wife Niki, and it’s one of our favourite ever days together.

I’ve been on my own incredible adventure with my family, I don’t want to rush through it. We’ve got to do our best to cherish this time as difficult as it is. It’s our lives, we can’t skip bits just because it’s hard at the moment. It will get better, but we just have to make the most of what we have currently.

The dead are wondering why we’re all so miserable.

This year, more than any other, I’ve realised who my friends are… Amid the turmoil of the pandemic and making the tough decision to move on from my job, the pals who have kept me going are the ones I owe so much to. Hopefully, I’ve been there enough for them too.

There’s a great chapter on friendship in Jordan B Peterson’s book 12 Rules for Life; only be friends with people who want the best for you. It’s pretty obvious, really, although it’s well worth reading for the depth of the argument. However, I’ve gone over some past friendships where I put so much into that relationship when they didn’t and I persevered when I should have put my energies elsewhere.

I had a friend (I’ll call him Pete) at university in Northampton, and we got on so well I thought we’d be mates for life. We both did art, liked similar things, we got drunk together and had the same outlook on life. I remember us walking for miles to get to a cinema that was closed by the time we got there. We never stopped talking, there and back, and I still fondly remember that day despite the disappointment.

If you trip over I’ll catch you’re fall
If you kick my dick, I won’t break you’re balls
If you get drunk and vomit on me
I’ll make sure you get home safely

Friends, Flight of the Conchords

There was another time we applied to be security guards. We were late for the training, thanks to a bus delay, and as soon as we walked through the door we were booted out by some ex-army guy, who took one look at Pete’s jumper, which had a milky stain down it, and bollocked us in front of the whole class. We got outside and pissed ourselves. Our dreams had hardly been scuppered. Pete and I lived together in our final year at university and I stayed with him one weekend during his Masters degrees in Lancaster. We also went to Edinburgh for the Fringe festival that year and had a brilliant weekend.

Pete didn’t turn up for my stag do. I left him several messages. He never answered his phone. I was worried about him but also hurt that he didn’t show, despite sending me the cash for the accommodation and entertainment etc. As far as I was concerned he had every intention of coming. He didn’t show up for the wedding either. I didn’t get a personal apology but a small explanation through a mutual friend. He’d been having problems at home and didn’t feel he could come. Why didn’t he just tell me that? I would have understood. I forgave him for what he did. But what I shouldn’t have done is carried on putting in all the legwork to our friendship. 

You’re no good for me, I don’t need nobody
Don’t need no one, that’s no good for me

No Good (Start the Dance), The Prodigy

It was an effort to get any response to messages I sent him. If I called he barely picked up. He was coming to Nottingham from the north for a football match at one point. He didn’t think to arrange a quick pint before or after, despite me trying to set something up. I later arranged an art exhibition in Nottingham in 2006 and invited Pete to show his work too, which he took up to my surprise. It was a good night and he brought his girlfriend and they stayed over with Niki and me. The next morning when I waved him off, I thought this is probably the last time I will see him. My reasoning was that it took so much effort to get to see him or speak with him (and then it was at an event in which there was something in it for him) that I just couldn’t waste any more time on a one sided friendship. 

So it proved. I’ve not seen or heard from him since. I took this personally and I still wonder sometimes had I done something wrong at some point? The answer is probably not. I did my best with him but ultimately he perhaps didn’t care as much. I have learned that I’m not the only one he was like this to. And so I can put to bed the idea that there was something wrong with me.  

This year, of all years, living through a difficult time, I’ve learned who my friends are, the ones who want the best for me and vice versa. You don’t have time to waste on people who leave you questioning your own character. If you behave properly you have nothing to worry about. It should be them who are looking at themselves.

I joked that my departure from the BBC, an organisation I had been at for 20 years, was similar to when poor old Brooks Hatlen left Shawshank prison.

Brooks had been there for 50 years and when he was finally free the world had changed, he no longer recognised it. He didn’t know anyone and he couldn’t adjust to life outside the clink. He longs to go back as he can’t see a life for himself outside and eventually he hanged himself.

Don’t worry. I’m not going to do that. I’m more than happy if a little anxious at times.

The similarities are that I’m suddenly out in the world and having to adjust, without any real plan as to what I’m going to do. It’s both exciting and scary. But there was no way I could stay where I was.

Dear fellas, I can’t believe how fast things move on the outside. I saw an automobile once when I was a kid, but now they’re everywhere. The world went and got itself in a big damn hurry.

Brooks Hatlen, in a letter to Andy and Red

When I first started writing for one of the BBC’s local websites we barely got any traffic. We longed for hits and engagement. We would put so much into what we did without anyone really looking at it. There was no social media in 2002 and so no real way of promoting what you did, unless you got lucky.

Just to show how long ago this was, people contributing to a story couldn’t send jpgs via e-mail because they were too heavy – there was also no Dropbox or WeTransfer etc. Instead they had to post photographs via Royal Mail and when we eventually received them, we had to scan them into the computer. And then when we put them in a web template we had to reduce the quality to make sure they were a maximum of 4k to 7k! This was so the pages would actually load up on people’s computers. Video, incidentally, was virtually pointless.

This makes me sound old. It’s like when my electrician Dad, in the 1990s, would tell apprentices that he remembered steam trains going past his house. He was my age now, 42, but they thought he was ancient. It just amused him. It still makes me laugh. He never felt old to me, still doesn’t. I’m only 22 years behind him.

I’ve got better care than Brooks ever had and I’ll be fine. I have plenty of choices and security to keep things ticking over for a while. I know people with big important jobs with huge salaries, but they never seem happy, just permanently stressed and chasing the next thing up the career ladder. They’re welcome to it. One day they’ll look back and wonder what happened.

Some of my ex-colleagues said I was brave to go, to take that step out into the world, leaving behind the comfort of a decent salary along with the other things I’d got used to having. But that was the problem. It was all too cosy and when that happens boredom and contempt creeps in. I couldn’t waste my life anymore. This was my problem and I had to do something about it. I didn’t go against my will.

For years I’d seen people go through the motions, complain all the time but sit there quietly when redundancies came up, not budging, letting people get moved on when they could have made a decision to help others. I didn’t want to be that person. I couldn’t let anyone go who didn’t want to. I’m not motivated by money or status, but by happiness and doing the right thing.

I’m taking my time. Going for the right projects. But for now I’m more than happy being Kevin (pictured), the stay at home dad from the excellent sitcom Motherland. I’ve spent so much time with my children recently, making up for lost days and hours after doing shifts for 10 years which would see me missing weekends, bedtimes and waking-up times. I’m now there for drop-offs, pick-ups and homework (aarghhh). I love it.

It’s nice not to be in a damn hurry.

It’s easy to forget but the only thing you have control over in this world is your mind. With everything else, there’s not a lot you can do. While that might make you feel powerless you can always choose how to feel about something.

It’s easier said than done. I find myself worrying about things I can’t possibly fix. I really have to work at calming myself down and thankfully I have people who I can turn to. Your worries are never silly and once they’re out in the open you’ll feel better. Equally, in writing them down you also lighten the load.

The Stoic metaphor of the dog tied to a cart is about resisting fate. The dog has to follow the cart, it has no choice. It can fight against the motion but it faces a losing battle. In life it’s the same for many situations we find ourselves in, you might not like it, but you just have to accept. That’s fate for you.

Victor Frankl was a Holocaust survivor who wrote the incredible Man’s Search for Meaning. The Nazis had taken everything from him. They murdered his wife, his father, mother and brother. But what they could never take from him was his freedom to choose his attitude. It helped him survive the horrors of the concentration camps.

Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.

Victor Frankl

The following is clearly nothing like what Frankl experienced and in itself having to stay at home is clearly fine in comparison. However, I felt pretty bitter before the second lockdown. I made the mistake in thinking the worst was over. We’d managed a great holiday in Suffolk. I could do the things that made me happy, meeting friends in the pub, exercising outdoors with others. I was also planning on seeing my Dad, in Spain, finally.

When the announcement was made I felt devastated for my local pub, which hadn’t put a foot wrong in terms of keeping customers safe. The same for friends who would be out of work again. Thankfully the kids would still be going to school and for the sake of their mental health this was positive news. The same for my wife, a teacher, who after feeling scared about the full return to school (she was there during lockdown #1); she now appreciates her position more than ever.

Which leaves me. Still at home. Not seeing anyone. I can get through a whole day without talking to anyone, apart from Jarvis, my dog. He’s a good listener. I’m missing family and friends, the pub, group exercise, travelling outside my town. But unlike last time, I’ve accepted there’s nothing I can do and I have to go along with it. I don’t like it but I shall instead focus on the things I can do.  

I went for a walk with a friend on Monday. We bought a coffee and chatted, keeping in line with the rules, for about 45 minutes. I felt happy. He did too. The simple things are perhaps what we’ll appreciate more than ever following the crisis.

Keep your chin up. x