Sometimes, just sometimes, you have a strange couple of days. Those days when life packs into a singularity and bursts out with the energy of a mini Big Bang, creating a point of initiation that you just know will lead to life’s future supernova, heavy elements and chaotic fractal constructions. A couple of days that will be part of what passes through your mind as your life ends, forcing a wry smile while oblivion stares into your eyes, readying itself for your final annihilation. A powerful, all too brief moment in time leaving you numb and dizzy; for me, it has been such a weekend.
On Friday morning, I wake to hear the sad news of the passing of Christopher Hitchens. A man of such stunning intellect and erudition that even his most vocal opponents will feel the loss. After a Hitchslap marathon, I find the recycling of life takes another turn. From a death to a life, and my list of Nieces and Nephews grow one further on the birth of Eden Firth, the new daughter of my wife’s brother, Robin. It has not been long since my own brother, Andrew, added another to the growing list; I’m now at 16. So the tendrils of life and family continue to expand, and in some strange way I feel my own personal connection to the planet grow with each and every one.
By Friday afternoon I had to say goodbye to Dawn for a short time, something I rarely do, and head off back to Sheffield with my oldest brother, David. He and I travelled up with his eldest son, Ethan, newly but gently rotund after discovering our family’s love of food; David tells me he widens out before he shoots upwards; I look forward to my own shoot upwards with longing. We have a pleasant journey up the motorway accompanied by The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (original radio series and, in my opinion, the best version). Ethan at 11 years of age already knows all the lines, all the jokes, and is starting to understand the deep philosophical sci-fi comedy genius of Douglas Adams. We arrive around midnight at my mother’s house. My mum isn’t there as she is sunning herself in Spain over Christmas, but my oldest brother Peter, who has travelled up also, meets us; his son, Tom, is asleep in the living room. I rock climb into the readymade bed left by my mother, a bed so tall I for fear my life and experience near altitude sickness as I reach its summit. In the piece I remember what happened on the train from my Flat to my Brothers house for a minute, and I focus on the fuzzy feeling I have in my stomach when I recall my phone flashing with the arrival of a new email. I read it once, twice, three times. Have I done it? Can I have done it? Bloody hell, I have done it!
When I was at school, and ever since, I had two secret dreams and one public one. The public one was to be a rock star, or at least a professional musician. It’s a dream I flirted with for over a decade before the stark realisation that, A. I couldn’t make it without compromise, and I wasn’t prepared to compromise, and, B. the music industry is dying. This made me contemplate the possibility of the other dreams; they were intertwined. I had dreamed quietly from about 8 years of age of becoming a Doctor by getting a PhD, and I dreamed of going to Cambridge University. The email was confirmation that the chance to fulfil both had arrived: the degree committee of the History faculty at the University of Cambridge have recommended me to the Board of Graduate studies. This means (paperwork pending) that I am going to Cambridge to do an MPhil/PhD, in Early Modern History. I called Dawn who whooped for joy. I felt a buzz. I had BLOODY WELL DONE IT. Two and a half years of working my arse off, shutting myself away, spending hours and hours on essays and research had come to fruition. My thirst for each and every bit of work to be graded a first had paid off. I was going to the best University in the world for my subject to get the highest qualification in the world. Wow. What a day.
The next day, it got stranger. Me, my brothers - Peter and David - their sons - Tom and Ethan - two of my sisters sons - Jack and George - and one of my sisters husband’s sons - Jordan - headed to Sheffield S6, Hillsborough Stadium, to watch the mighty(ish) Sheffield Wednesday take on local(ish) rivals Huddersfield. It was the most bizarrely brilliant games I have ever seen. 20 minutes in, Huddersfield had torn Wednesday to pieces- they were 0-2 up and eating us alive. Their striker, Jordan Rhodes, was a knife and our defence was butter. It was humiliating. It was all over. Then, with just about their 2nd shot on goal Wednesday equalised and at that, it was as if Wednesday manager Gary Megson had given the players an enema. Wednesday dominated and the absolute joy of going level at 2-2 was followed, after the break, with 2 more. Wednesday were 4-2 ahead. Ah, but that this was the end. Wednesday tried to close the game down and made a hash of it. Very quickly, Huddersfield drew one back, Rhodes melting the buttery side of our defence once more. It was 4-3 and injury time. As we had very few injuries, we assumed it would soon be over and Wednesday would take the 3 points. Not so. The injury time seemed to stretch out forever. If you were cynical, you might say that the referee, the amusingly named Derek Deadman (seriously!) was waiting for the now on fire Huddersfield to equalise. And equalise they did, in the 7th (count ‘em) minute of injury time, and immediately the whistle was blown. Bugger. One more instance of awful refereeing, but then, Wednesday shouldn’t have let them take over the game. But WHAT a game! WHAT a stunner! They come but once every few seasons, decades even, and I am glad, even honoured, to have been there.
The curry that night was great; well, the company was, not so sure about the Curry. Mine tasted like a bad stew. The next day David, Ethan and I saw relatives (my late Dad’s brother and sister- Uncle Leonard and Auntie Marion- my late Dad’s late brother’s wife- Auntie Christine- and my Nan (on my mum’s side)) and David and I got the distinct impression we’d made a few old ladies (and I suspect an old man) very happy. We made Ethan happy too,as he realised Nans and Aunties tend to do things like give you a hand full of sweets and the odd fiver. I think he likes his northern extended family. We head home, and those connections to the planet, from seeing so much of my family, feel all the stronger. Douglas Adams once claimed we are attached to the place we are born by tendrils of guilt; I think the same is true of family. I miss my Dawny however, and feel great to be back with her on Sunday evening. She’s got me my favourite food and a Bottle of CV Champers to celebrate the news about Cambridge; all in all, one hell of a weekend.
So in a nutshell, in the space of 48 hours an idol dies, I fulfil one of my dreams and make another almost certain, my family grows once more, I see what is probably one of the greatest football matches of all time, and I help make a few old dears very happy.
All I can say to that is: Happy Christmas and a Very Merry New Year!
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