Okay, for the next two and a bit weeks I will be sunning myself in Antigua. I think it’s about the first time I’ve ever gone on a two week holiday (normally it’s 7-10 days) so I’ll be going into unknown territory. But I think I’ll be all right assuming I survive the flight.

While I’m away I will not be updating the site. In fact, I very much doubt I’ll go anywhere near a computer. I’ll be taking lots of pictures so when I return I’ll post some of the best ones and write all about it. No doubt I’ll be in a mean mood because I’ll be back in Yorkshire, it will be raining and my sun-tan will be peeling off at an unspeakable rate.

So I guess what I’m saying is that it’ll be a holiday for you too. You can be assured of two weeks without having to read about my action-packed (and not-so-action-packed) adventures. But don’t panic. If you find yourself needing a fix of my sense of humour, then have a look through the archives. I do it from time to time myself and sometimes find myself thinking “actually this is pretty good”. If I can go back and re-read articles that I wrote and have completely forgotten the content, then so can you!

Anyway, you take care and I’ll see you on the 6^th of July!

I don’t know whether I’m more excited about David Beckham moving to Real Madrid or my two weeks holiday in Antigua, starting on Friday. No, wait a minute, I’ve decided. The new season won’t start for a couple of months however I’m going to a place where it’ll be warm all the time, there will be loads of beaches (365 to be precise), lots of coral reefs and did I mention the weather would be great? So it would be fair to say that I can’t wait to get there! The 13 hour flight will be a bit on the tough side but it’ll be worth it.

As is always the case with going on holiday I’ve written a checklist of everything I need to bring with me. Okay, that’s a lie. I’ve got a mental checklist, but it’s not as good as the real thing. There’s the simple stuff like suntan lotion, insect repellent, toothpaste, shorts, Hawaiian shirts, sandals, a football and a camera. But I believe it’s almost impossible to go on holiday without forgetting something. At least, in my experience. Whenever I go hiking in Scotland, if I manage to remember my camera, suntan lotion and insect repellent, then I know it’s going to rain. So I almost deliberately forget one of them to get some sunshine (admittedly it doesn’t always work).

Anyway, just to make sure I don’t forget anything, I’m going to write the list of things I’ll be bringing and if you think there’s anything I’m forgetting, then please post it on the comments section below. Remember, I’m relying on you to keep me on the straight and narrow. Plus, if I forget something important and you didn’t remind me then when I return I’ll start writing 10,000 word articles that ramble on and on and on about nothing. Your fate is in your hands… (Anything in italics has been added since the original post, hover over them to see who suggested them).

• Washing kit (razor, shaving oil, shower gel, deodorant, suntan lotion, after-sun, insect repellent)
• Medical kit (insect bite cream, anti-histamines, ibuprofen, eumovate, imodium, athlete’s foot cream)
• Shorts (3 pairs of “Doctor Livingston I presume!” shorts, 2 pairs of sports shorts, 1 pair of swimming shorts, 1 pair of trunks - to wind up my girlfriend)
• Shirts (5 loud Hawaiian shirts, 1 not-so-load shirt, 4 selected t-shirts, 1 sleeveless t-shirt)
• Trousers (1 pair khaki cargo, 1 pair boot fit blue jeans)
• Shoes (1 pair sports sandals, 1 pair nike football-style shoes, 1 pair semi-smart black leather)
• Headgear (1 camouflaged army bush hat)
• Sunglasses (Oakley of course)
• Football kit (1 deflated football, 1 pump)
• Underwear (as much as I can fit in my suitcase, loads of socks)
• Camera (1 digital SLR, 1 charger for said camera)
• Books (everything I haven’t read on my bookcase, plus mini guide to Antigua)
• Goggles (for swimming in the pool)
• Camelbak (for day-to-day use, dehydration is a killer)
• Electronics (1 phone charger, 1 travel adapter , personal CD player with charger, my favourite tunes)
• Passport (and a copy, ’nuff said)
• Other documents (driver’s license, travel insurance document, national insurance number)
• Notebook
• An umbrella (in case it rains)

I’m big enough and old enough to realise that I don’t need to have arguments with my girlfriend. When I was younger and - well, basically, more stupid - I would resort to arguments to force my viewpoints across and it was no surprise that my relationships with girls didn’t last. Then one day I read “Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus” and it was like a fog lifting from inside my head. If you read a book like that and realise that you’re not perfect and some of what it talks about might actually refer to you (rather than many who will only see what they want to see then completely miss the point) then you can come out the other end a better person for it. I spent a good while replaying events from my past in my head realising a lot of the mistakes I made and how they were for a large part my fault.

So the bottom line is that I don’t tend to have arguments with my girlfriend (which is where I came in). Arguments occur when communication breaks down and very often the best way to communicate is to just shut up and listen. When guys moan about something they are really looking for solutions to their problems from those they speak to whereas girls tend to just want to let off some steam. Trouble is, if you don’t know this and a girl is bitching about work, you keep cutting her off and telling her she should quit her job or beat up her boss when all she wants to do is share her troubles with you then she’ll feel better. Anyway, it’s a great book and I’d recommend it to anyone (just like I’m doing now). But I’m not perfect. While I can pretty much diffuse any potential conflict, I can’t diffuse them all.

Take shopping for clothes. My girlfriend and I are going to some friend’s wedding at the weekend and she had already bought a very nice dress that she looks fantastic in. The only thing to spoil her outfit would be me standing next to her looking like a scruffy programmer who doesn’t really care how he looks because he isn’t vain and, to be honest, seldom looks at his own reflection in the mirror and wears a shirt even less. So in a typical boorish male fashion (pun intended) I suggested that she pick out exactly what I should wear from top to bottom. What a guy - the perfect boyfriend! Of course it just doesn’t work that way…

Let me take you to Sunday night. We’re sitting on the sofa and we’ve just watched 24 (or, as I like to call it, The Jack Bauer Show ). She picks up the Next and Debenhams catalogues with the mission to find me some clothes to wear. After a time she shows me about 3 pairs of trousers, 5 shirts and a page of shoes. So I say “okay, pick the ones you want me to buy” and she says “I just have”. And this was where our worlds diverged.

Her attitude is to just buy everything, try it on at home, then take back what I didn’t want. I, on the other hand, have a right-first-time policy that means I’ll go into a shop, pick up a top or pair of trousers, try them on in the changing rooms, confirm that they fit perfectly, buy them and wear them to death from that day onwards. It appears that these two approaches just don’t mix well. I’d press her to make a decision and she’d argue that she never sees me in a shirt so can’t picture me in the ones in the catalogue. I’d offer to go and put a shirt on but that would only seem to raise her blood pressure. I’d try a different tack by saying “look at that model in that shirt, now pretend I’m standing in front of you with that shirt on and tell me what you think”. She’d say that she can’t picture me in a shirt and the whole thing would go round and round.

After a couple of cyclical arguments she snapped and suggested I just choose my own damned clothes. Naturally I responded by pointing out that it was me doing her the favour by letting her dress me which, it turns out, was precisely the wrong thing to say (unless you’re really looking for a proper argument). After a few terse words were fired my way in a tone that didn’t exactly say “I love you” I decided to stop being a pig-headed tosser and compromise. We decided on 3 shirts, one pair of trousers one pair of shoes and a tie. We also decided that she hates clothes shopping and that Sunday nights can be better spent than leafing through catalogues.

I’m sure I’ll look fine, albeit not as good as those hunky models in the catalogues, but it just goes to show that men really are from Mars and women really are from Venus. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Makes life much more interesting.

A few years ago I used to go to raves. Those were the days.

The lie.

We’d drive over and park in a huge, grassy field. We’d join the queue to get into the venue and chat nervously with the people around us. We’d eventually get to the gates, show our tickets, get frisked by the security and enter the warehouse (or an even larger field, depending on the rave). The bang of the bass would split our ears. The piercing tones of the whistles would make them bleed. We’d go over to the little shop and get our supply of glow sticks, head over to the main area (or whichever tent if it was an outdoor rave) and dance pretty much continuously for the next 12 hours. Knackered, we’d leave at 8am the next morning, find our car and drive home, struggling to stay awake. It was all good, clean fun.

The truth.

We’d all meet up at a friend’s house and do a stock take. One of the guys would have been to his dealer with the money he’d collected from the rest and pick up a bag of pills. Mostly e’s. And this was in the days when ecstasy actually contained MDMA (rather than drain cleaner and dog worming pills like today). We’d split them out and everybody would have their own method of hiding them about their person so a search wouldn’t turn them up. My personal favourite was in the lining of my jacket. We’d drive over and park in a huge, grassy field. We’d join the queue to get into the venue and chat nervously with the people around us, some might take their first pill so that by the time we got in they’d have “come up”. Everybody’s nervous in case they get a strip search and arrested for possession. We’d eventually get to the gates, show our tickets, get frisked by the security and enter the warehouse (or an even larger field, depending on the rave). We’d all be buzzing and we’d go over to the little shop and get our supply of glow sticks, then head over to a secluded spot. Those taking them would take a pill and then we’d all have a wander around to get familiar with the place and see what the layout was like. About 15 minutes later everybody would scatter and probably not see each other until the end. We’d dance pretty much continuously for the next 12 hours and leave, Knackered at 8am the next morning. There would be silence in the car as everybody would be falling asleep and suffering from a night of hard dancing and drug taking.

Looking back now I have only scattered memories of the raves I attended. I went to a New Year’s one and my only memory of the whole night is on the stroke of midnight when they played “Auld Lang Syne” over the sound system - the lights were amazing. But I had a fantastic time at the time. The atmosphere in a place where everybody - and I mean everybody - is on ecstasy is like heaven on earth. You didn’t need to take drugs to bask in how the world should be. Everybody is your best mate, everybody wants to give you a hug, everybody asks the big three (“what’s your name?”, “where are you from?” and “what are you on?”) and everybody is having the time of their lives. Of course, everyone would have eyes like saucers which served as a reminder as to why they were all so happy. You compare that to a boozy night on the town and a nightclub full of testosterone-fuelled blokes spoiling for a fight. And alcohol is the legal drug?

Of course, none of it was real. As soon as people came down they were back to their miserable selves (albeit after a few days recovery). Reality would set in and we’d be looking forward to the next one. I’d love to go back to that time and go to one again, they were fantastic. But I couldn’t do it now. I’m just too damn old! My body wouldn’t be able to take it, drugs or not. And besides, I’m just not interested in drugs any more. It was a passing phase and best left there.

But I’ll tell you something. A hell of a lot of people do take recreational drugs these days. And not just your common working class types - they’re professionals like lawyers, software developers, even footballers (allegedly). And drug use won’t go away (look at alcohol for example, it wasn’t so long ago when it was as illegal as cocaine). But I don’t think it’s a problem. If people want to take drugs and have possible long-term problems, that should be their choice, so long as it only affects themselves. I don’t need somebody to tell me what’s right and wrong (unless I’m a kid in which case I don’t know any better). But I’m 28 years of age, I can work it out for myself. If there’s one thing that pisses me off about modern life it’s a cotton wool society that is averse to any risk. I don’t smoke, but if I lived in California (where it seems like robbery is more acceptable than smoking), I’d start. I’d be a 20 a day smoker. And the hell with your rules!

P.S. The best song ever written that describes the rave culture I was a part of is “Sorted for E’s and Wizz” by Pulp. I always smile when I hear it or think of the lyrics. It says it all!

Exactly one year ago today my mother died from cancer. In many ways the year has flown by. And in many ways it’s been the longest of my life. I’ve spent months trying to write this article in my head.

I originally thought what I’d do is try to explain what the past year has been like. I’d write about how hard it is to carry on when one of the fundamental constants of your life has gone. I’d come up with some clever analogy that would go some way to give those who haven’t experienced losing a parent an idea of what it’s really like. I’d mention the things you’re never prepared for, like the vivid, recurring dreams where I can talk to my mother about losing her only to wake up and realise it was only a dream and she’s really gone. I was even going to discuss some of the triggers that would mean I’d be fine one moment and extremely down the next. I might even have delved into how it’s changed me inside and how I now view life and the future.

But I’m not going to do it that way. Instead I’ll veer off on a tangent if I may and you can read into it as you wish.

My mother always used to get me to give her foot massages. She’d use flattery, threats, logical reasoning, bribery and any means at her disposal to persuade me to do it. After a few minutes on each foot she’d beg me to give “just one more minute on each foot” with my “magic hands ” (told you she used flattery) and of course I’d relent. Anyway, one thing she would often say was that although I might think it was a chore “I’d miss doing it when she was gone”. How right she was.

But her spirit lives on because I have inherited her love of foot massages and I’ve found myself saying exactly the same things my mother used to say to me when I try to persuade my girlfriend to do my feet. Like mother like son. The circle of life continues…