Cruisin' 2019: Day 2 - Dr. Harry Hackitoff

So after leaving QC last night at 1700, we have now spent a full day at sea. We’ll be docking in Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island at 0800 tomorrow morning. I have no idea what to expect there (see yesterday re: unprepared). To that point, I really don’t know anything about this part of Canada at all. But the weather looks good, and I have barely been able to tell that I’m on a boat, so that’s good. My brother, I think, is genuinely a little freaked out about being on the open seas – he sent me a clip of a Bill Burr stand-up routine talking about the horror stories you hear from ship’s crews. You know, the standard stuff: food poisoning, passengers having to be airlifted off due to some medical emergency and, of course, Stand By Me barf o'rama levels of mass vomiting. I think he’s resigned himself to being at Neptune’s mercy as far as the conditions of the waters are concerned, and from the looks of his spit kit, he’s packed every conceivable remedy for sea sickness. So far, we’ve avoided using any of them. Here’s hoping it stays that way.

The ship’s crew are ridiculously customer-focused. We have two stewards assigned to our room. After meeting them briefly yesterday, one of them said ‘Good morning, Mr Macy,’ today when he saw me. I must have been one of a couple of hundred people he met yesterday. He was THE ONLY new person I met, and I have no idea what his name is. That’s both incredible of him, and shameful of me. But he’s not the exception. To the last, every crew member has been friendly, attentive and professional. And they don’t have it easy. There are over 1000 people on this ship, and each room is serviced like a hotel suite every day. In our room, we have two single beds and a bunk bed for Owen that has to be put away every night. So this morning, while we were at breakfast, our room was cleaned, restocked, and the beds put away and\or made. A list of ship’s activities for the next day was left on one of the beds. And then tonight, while we were at dinner, the bunk bed was brought down, the beds turned down, chocolates left out and a towel animal was put on a bed. Good news is that the towel animal was very cleverly done (there’s a class tomorrow to show you how to do it). Bad news was that it was a SCORPION and it was on my bed. Were they showing off, or were they sending a message? Better not eat those chocolates just yet…

So we have all of this exceptional service from people who MUST (like any other employee) hate their jobs sometimes. These guys are at sea 8 months at a time, and deal with people 24/7 that whole time. And, from what I can see so far, they should be sainted for not throwing half of them overboard. Because 24 hours into this adventure, observation #1: rich, entitled old people are RUDE. These people are 65+, have money to burn and are all out of fucks to give. They don’t say ‘please’ when ordering their food. They don’t say ‘thank you’ when they get it. They cut in line. One old man even physically pushed my 9-year-old nephew out of the way in order to get to the front of the ice cream line. Was he afraid that they’d run out? Maybe he was afraid that he’d kick the bucket before he got his rocky road. I dunno. Even when you call them on it, they DO NOT GIVE A SHIT.  

The most stereotypical cruise couple you can think of walked toward the bistro, where I'm in line for some food. He was in an armed forces veteran hat, tan khakis and white sneakers. His Galloway golf polo shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a bright gold chain resting on a heavily tanned, very hairy chest. She had her short grey hair held up by a visor, and her blue and white striped top screamed ‘Ahoy’ as it cascaded down her short, wide torso and met her dark navy trousers and strikingly white sneakers without the hint of a curve; from, shoulder to kneecap, she was the same width – it really was impressive. I’d seen the incident at the ice cream counter, and had vowed to make a stand if it happened again.

‘Hey, I’m sorry, but the end of the line is back there,’ I say to the couple and point to the LONG line of people already waiting that was obvious to everyone. They look at the line, look at me, and then step in front of me. I try again. ‘Hi, excuse me. But we’ve all been waiting. The back of the line is….’ They turn and look at me as if I had just drank the last drop of prune juice. With cold, dead eyes, they scan me up and down. Slowly. A weathered smile that says ‘try it, let’s see whose side the crew takes’, stretched across their cracked, leathery faces to reveal big teeth that are far too white to be real.  Then, in unison, they grunt and turn away again. Apparently, neither good manners nor I are worth their time. God knows how much of it they have left, I guess. I scoff louder than I need to; they don’t even flinch. Before I can shake my disbelief and go again, they get their food and waddle away, like two of the meanest penguins you can imagine. It dawns on me that this is how it's going to be: a bunch of old people versus us, the slightly less old people. Head to head every meal, every line, every performance, for 11 days. I can now see this kind of thing happening a lot over the course of the cruise; my guess is that it’s only going to get worse. It’s me versus rude old people from now on. Game. On. They may have age, money and experience, but I have Generation X cynicism, all the time in the world, and a healthy awareness that I’ll never see any of these people again. Bring it.

Cruisin' 2019: Day 1: Qu'est-ce que c'est? and Bon Voyage.

Other than it being ‘very French,’ I didn’t really know what to expect from QC. We had arrived late at night and taken an UBER to our Air BnB, so I hadn’t really seen any of it while incoming. But after a breakfast of fresh bread (surprisingly NOT stale) and salted butter, my brother, his son and I headed out the door and walked the 2 miles into downtown.

Wait – I guess I have to confess about my trip to the supermarket to buy essentials (bread, butter, Monster and Cheetos). The morning was bright and sunny, but cold. I left the Air BnB and started walking toward the store. I was dressed in my ‘vacation clothes’ (sneakers, white socks, cargo shorts, a hoodie and a baseball cap), but might as well have been wearing a red, white and blue bandanna, an ‘America, FUCK YEAH!’ t-shirt emblazoned with a screaming bald eagle on the back, stars and stripes swim trunks and cowboy boots – I could not have looked more like a very specifically AMERICAN tourist. 

'Oh well,’ I thought.Wait until I dazzle them with my French. The days of me asking for a ‘cravate’ instead of a carafe of water (and the predictable scorn from the waiter who corrected me with no small degree of smugness) were long gone. I’d brushed up; I was ready.  Or so I thought. I managed a few proficient ‘Bonjour’s to passers-by, and a polite ‘Ça va?’ to the greeter lady as I entered the store. And that’s as good as it gets. I went to the bakery, hoping to find a good sourdough loaf for our morning toast. ‘Avez-vous du pain’… was a good start, but just saying ‘sourdough’ with a BAD French accent didn’t seem to work. At least she smiled kindly, and just said ‘No.’ I went to look around some more, and she returned with someone who claimed to speak a little English. But he looked even more confused (and a little scared) than she did. UNBELIEVABLY, no amount of probably inappropriate hand gestures or slowing down ‘S-O-U-R-D-O-U-G-H’ worked either. And although my competently expressed ‘C'est un autre type de pain,’ appeared not to solve the issue, it at least comforted them in knowing that I was trying to buy a kind of the thing they were selling. After a few more minutes and more than a few more mutual apologies, we agreed on a still-warm ‘Pain du Campagne’ that looked lovely.  Needless to say, the venture into the adjacent pharmacy for sensitive-teeth mouthwash passed in silence.  Upon getting back to the flat to slice the bread up, I discovered, 'pain du campagne' is French sourdough.  La victoire!

When I got back, my brother and nephew were up. Drew was enjoying some coffee and Owen was enjoying not being in school. We sliced, toasted and devoured the loaf, and packed up. At precisely 11am, a knock on the door informed us that our time was up – we headed into town.

It was a gloriously autumnal day: clear, chilly but not cold, and crisp. We had a little over a mile to get into town, where we were meeting the rest of the party for lunch (more on that later). We set out, and the first comment that passed between us was that none of us could believe how CLEAN the city was. It was spotless. And we didn’t stay in a ‘nice’ part of town – it was just normal. But there was no rubbish to be seen. The sides of the main road were still wet from the road-sweeper that had clearly been through. It was a great first impression.

About 15 minutes into our walk, we heard a whistle. Not a policeman's whistle or referee’s whistle, but the unmistakable whistle of a father who had spent far too many hours trying to herd unruly kids through unfathomable crowds. For some reason, even though my brother and I were in a town about 3000 miles from our homes, we both turned because OF COURSE someone was whistling for us (I do this everywhere. Worst. Narcissist. Ever.) Turns out, they were. And if I thought that I stuck out like a touristy sore thumb, in my backpack white socks and carry-on wheely bag, that was nothing compared to the sight of my dad hanging out the window of his massive rented mini-van, waving and whistling to get our attention (thus proving how conspicuous I was afraid that we were). He pulled over. We met, hugged and said hello to the rest of the party: my dad, stepmother, younger sister, her husband, their 16-month-old son, and my younger brother and his wife. After a quick round of more hugs and hellos, we agreed that the party wagon would take our bags, but that my brother, his son and I would continue to walk into town. I’d already made a reservation for lunch at a place called Poutineville so that we could sample what I was told was the ‘must eat’ fare of Quebec: poutine.

Not knowing what makes good poutine (or really, what exactly poutine was), I looked to TripAdvisor and to Yelp for direction. BOTH places had Poutineville as the #1 place to get poutine in Quebec City. That, coupled with the fact that poutine, as a dish, had been sold to me by a Canadian friend as a life-changing culinary event equal to street tacos in Mexico, gyros in Greece or donner kebabs in Aber – meant that I was pumped to get some in me; I’d been proselytising about the power of poutine for months and we were going to have it as our first foray into the cruise experience as a complete unit. What could possibly go wrong? Look how happy we are. Look at the care-free expressions on our faces. We are about to be AMAZED. Oh, merde.

I can’t exactly fault Poutineville: the service was great, and the wait staff were very accommodating of a large group of people who spoke little or terrible French and were about American as it gets. The food came quickly, in large portions, and looked exactly like what the menu said it would. I got the ‘Zeus’, which was potato, cheese curd, gravy, gyro meat, tomatoes, onion and feta. I snapped a photo of the food and sent it to the Canadian friend who insisted that we must have poutine. This is what we arrived at my table:

We all got variations of the classic poutine which is (apparently) fires, gravy and cheese. There were a lot of polite comments about the food, and everyone (including me) expressed how ‘heavy’ and ‘filling’ it was; no one finished their dish. As I pushed my plate away, my phone dinged. It was my Canadian friend. Her reply came in two parts: 1. What the hell? That looks like stew. 2. How was it? When I replied that it was ‘OK’, and questioned whether this was authentic-looking. She replied ‘Na. Usually fries, gravy and cheese.’ And sent this, with the disclaimer ‘But hey, Quebec.’ 

I guess Quebec does things a little differently? Maybe it was just ‘Quebec being Quebecky’, or maybe Poutineville (a chain, apparently) isn’t the place go for local authentic fare. Either way, I’m 0 for 1 on the recommendations – this was hot garage. Or ‘ordures chaudes,’ as one might say in Quebec. Obviously, I can't blame my Canadian friend, either. She suggested that we try poutine, and we clearly did NOT try poutine. We got soggy, bland, stodgey muck, and - about three hours later - an unexpected second course. Mon dieu, sacre vache and pamplemousse.

Luckily, the rest of the city is magnificent. After ‘lunch’ we headed to Old Quebec, and just wandered through its narrow streets and steep drops from the Cathedral to the St. Lawrence River. We popped into a few shops, and I bought the first of what I expect to be many souvenirs for the girls: maple lollipops in the shape of maple leaves. I know, right? I also bought a postcard, as I’d like to send one from each port. I couldn’t find any stamps, though, so will have to try in the next port and send two at once. I’ll probably be home before they are, but it’s the thought that counts.

We’ve just got on the ship, and first impressions are: how the fuck does this thing float? OK, I get it. I’m the guy that can’t believe that planes fly, either. Engineering AMAZES me. Well, I guess buoyancy and aerodynamics are physics, not engineering, but still… HOW ON EARTH AM I NOT AT THE BOTTOM OF THE RIVER? This ship is 11 stories high, and has a casino, two pools, marble statues and a shit-load of really heavy things on it. They must be cutting corner somewhere. Rubber rivets? Styrofoam lifeboats? I don't want to know. Which brings me to my second first impression: there are a lot of old, unhealthy people on this thing. I mean, I knew that cruises in general are normally the playgrounds of the old and infirm – but GOD ALMIGHTY, this thing has more walkers on it than the Battle of Endor. I haven’t yet seen anyone remotely the age of the ‘kids’ in our group, never mind the age of our kids. I have seen a kids’ club – reckon Owen will have the run of that place to himself.  We did find an outdoor basketball court, shuffleboard and soccer area. I’m guessing that over the next 11 days, you’ll either find me there or in the hot tub. Check the hot tub first.

Cruisin' 2019: Day 0 - Unfamiliar Territory

A little over a year ago, my father and stepmother offered everyone in the family an incredible opportunity. After a recent and successful Alaskan cruise, they wanted to do a "New England Fall Colors" cruise down the east coast of North America. Incredibly, they were willing to pay the cruise fare of anyone who could get themselves to port. The only catch was that they were going when it suited them best –anyone who couldn’t make the dates being offered would just have to miss out. Fair enough – when you’re paying over £1000 per room and offering to pay for enough rooms for 14 people, you get to make that call. When the dates were announced, it turned out that my wife (who’s a teacher) and kids couldn’t go. Well, to be brutally honest, it was only my wife that COULD NOT go. But the thought of being a single parent on an 11-day cruise with eight ports (including New York) and three young kids was not very appealing to me, in the most hideously selfish way imaginable. I could make the argument that as the Chair of Governors for a small rural school, taking 3 kids from 30 away for over 2 weeks was an unacceptable precedent to set – and that IS true. But that was the second thing that came to mind when we realised that my wife couldn’t go, and that taking the kids would mean me taking the kids on my own. The first thing to come to mind was, ‘Oh, Hell no.’

My kids are great, but it’s a lot of work just getting them around Aber – I can’t imagine being able to drag them through Hell’s Kitchen on Day 8 after being stuck on a boat for a week. That’s on me, I get that. And I have lots of guilt about it. As the departure date got closer, I felt increasingly terrible about denying my kids this trip, especially when my nephew (who is the same age as my eldest) is going. But he is one kid. And, despite my eldest’s suggestion that I could just take her (nice try), I know that it was everyone or no one, and that I’m nowhere near skilled or patient enough to attempt taking all three kids on my own. So they’re staying home. To be fair, there hasn’t been much complaining about it. I think they kind of get it, even though they’re clearly disappointed not to be going. I’ve pacified them by promising to take them on other adventures soon. The more immediate plan is to come back with a shit-ton of souvenirs so that they forgive me. Early indications are not looking promising, but I’ve been given a list of items that will help secure their favour.

So I have a lot of mixed emotions about this trip. Of course, I’m excited and grateful that I get to go. I realise that not everyone gets this opportunity. And, in general, I love travelling. I love the planning, the packing, the driving to the airport, the sitting in the airport, the recycled airplane air, the airline food... all of it. And I love exploring new places. I’m the kind of person who doesn’t mind being reasonably lost in a new city, as long as I feel safe. So all of these things are great, and I’m thankful that I’ve been given an opportunity to experience them again.

The mixed bit comes as, for the first time in a very long time, I’m taking a good chunk of time away from home without my family. Yes, of course, my wife and I have each taken short breaks with friends over the past 10 years or so without each other or the kids – but this is 2 weeks, on my own. No kids, no wife. And it’s had some unexpected consequences.

For starters, this by far the most unprepared I’ve been for a trip in forever. Yes, I booked the flights and hotel, and first night in an AirBnB in Quebec City months ago... but that’s about it. I checked train prices from Montreal to QC six months ago, but never booked. That was a mistake. Train ticket six months ago: $36. Same train ticket as you’re landing in Montreal: $110. Well, of course it is. We do that in the UK. Why on earth I didn’t realise that is beyond me. Luckily, the bus was cheaper and faster, and there’s no discount for advance booking. Yes, I checked –  I need to know just how much of an idiot I’m being at any given time (spoiler alert: it’s usually A LOT).

But it wasn’t just the transfers. I didn’t pack until the afternoon that I leaving. That’s crazy. I forgot stuff, and had to nip home on my way to the airport to get it. That never happens. I’m always the one in charge of packing – and in charge of incredulously saying ‘HOW MUCH!?’ every time I see what Carol has laid out on the bed for me to pack for her and the kids. But it’s always done at least a night in advance, and to a checklist. Not this time. I left it late. I made no lists. This was the wild west of packing. No rules! I still rolled my clothes of course. I mean, I’m not a sociopath. The plus was, of course, that my entire 2 weeks of travelling needs fit into one carry-on bag. Maybe the reason I kept thinking that I was forgetting something was that I was carrying about 30 fewer bags. And I was actually forgetting things. Either way, it felt weird and liberating and deeply unsettling.

Our usual weekend packing

And it’s not just packing. As I was looking into things to do in each port city, I found myself automatically thinking about things for families. Whale watching, kids museums, playgrounds, restaurants that serve chicken nuggets... anyone who’s traveled with smaller kids knows the drill. You plan for the lowest common denominator, and everyone else sucks it up. It was only after a few minutes of scrolling that it hit me that I wasn’t obliged to do any of those things. Escargot in Quebec? I’ll give it a go. Museum of alpaca knitting in Nova Scotia? Sounds cozy. Pub crawl at 11am in Boston? Why not? I could do any of these and there would be no one to say no. The world was my lobster roll. Will I actually do any of these things? Probably not. I’ve had escargot – they are gross. I’m not a huge drinker and genuinely fear that I would forget to get back on the boat. And I made up the knitting museum. If I’m honest, I’m at a bit of a loss without the kids to guide my planning. Imagine Mel Gibson’s character in Braveheart yelling ‘Freeeeedom!’  Now imagine that same exclamation with a question mark at the end. I’m excited... but I have no clue what to do.

Legitimately, the only things I’ve planned are the places or things I want to eat (other than Taco Bell). That’s it.

Now what?

So we’ll see. I’ve just spent the night in a cozy one-bedroom flat in Quebec City. It’s 0800 locally, so I imagine that all the fresh bread is stale by now, so we’ll need to get up and get some breakfast somewhere at some point.  My brother and his son are snoring at an ungodly volume in the living room (it really IS hereditary). Between now and noon – when I’ve booked us in for Poutine – I honestly have no idea what I’ll be doing. Yeah, it’s exciting – but I’m not sure yet whether I like it.

Wish You Were Here: Why not Wales?

So, the producer of an NFL podcast posted something on Twitter the other day that gave me pause for thought. The tweet was positive, and expressed some of the same emotions I felt when I first found out that I was coming here:

This time next week I will be in London 😍 and then Scotland 😍😍 and then Ireland 😍😍😍 and this morning I woke up with a terrible chest and head cold. #thoughtsandprayers

— Erica Tamposi (@TamposiNFL) March 2, 2019

I began to pen a reply, but then didn't want to be That Guy trying to slide into her DMs. But the tweet made me recall something I often think when foreigners (usually Americans) consider the UK: Why not Wales? Why, when I said I was coming here the first time, did so many of my friends not know where it was, and why, even now, do so many of them say that they would love to come visit Whales some day?

Stereotypical American geographical ignorance aside, I just don't get why Wales is so often overlooked when people come to, or think about, the UK - especially those from the US who are tracing their Celtic roots. I mean, what do Ireland and Scotland have that Wales doesn't...?

Rich folklore and magical, mythical creatures? Check! The Welsh are considered by some to be the original Celts on the British Isles - archaeologists have traces the migration of the first settlers here from Europe, to (modern day) Wales, to Ireland, back over to Scotland and then back down again. Along the way, they developed a deep and passionate love of storytelling, especially through poetry and song. The first known written mention of King Arthur is in the Sixth-Century poem Y Gododdin, written by the bard Aneirin in 594 CE. You also get great stories of giants like Ysbaddaden and Rhudda; tales of cities being lost to the sea because someone was too drunk to close the floodgates, and of  tragically brave dogs who are given a hero's burial. You can keep your banshees, leprechauns and Broonies - the Welsh have them all beat.

Cool patron saint? Check! How is it that everyone knows about Saint Patrick (who was Welsh, by the way), most people know about St. Andrew and St. George, but nobody has heard of Saint David, the patron Saint of Wales...? Maybe it's because he's the only saint whose flag didn't make the cut for the Union Jack. Maybe it's because the Welsh don't tend to dye their rivers and get rat-arsed once a year to celebrate his day... it's enough to wear a dafodil, eat a Welshcake and wish everyone "Dydd Gwyl Dewi Hapus!"

Funky national dress? Check! Well, kinda. The Welsh don't traditionally wear kilts (a relatively modern Scottish fashion, by the way), but they DO have a traditional costume. I've only ever seen it worn on March 1 (St. David's Day) or in the Eisteddfod, but it does exist. Why this one isn't more well-known, I can sort of understand: it's neither that unique, nor very flattering. But then again, neither is lederhosen, and everyone seems to get on board with that.

Cool flag? HELL YES. Don't get me wrong: I love Ol' Glory. I honestly think that the USA flag is special. But the Welsh flag takes vixilogical badassery to a whole new level. No crosses. No stars. No tree leaf. Just a great, big fuck-off  DRAGON. A. DRAGON. No wonder it was featured in the Black Panther, and has recently been voted the coolest flag in the world.

And then there's the country itself: modern, sophisticated and international in some places; depressed, poor and deprived in others; rural, grand and picturesque in others. Cities, hamlets, beaches, cliffs, mountains, rivers, fields and lots and lots of sheep. What more could you want? We recently played hosts to an old friend of mine and his family. As the Headmaster of an international school, my friend has lived in many countries, and traveled to even more. At 15 and 14, his kids have seen more of the world than most people will see in their lifetimes. But even with all of those miles under their belts, they still were in awe - literally - of what was in our back yard. I love those visits, even if all they do is to remind me how lucky I am to live in this little corner of the big blue marble.

And we could, of course, go on. Music, theatre, cinema, politics, civil rights, government, engineering, technology - the scope and breadth of Welsh influence on history is truly remarkable for a county that no one seems to know about.  Maybe I'll cover some of that later.

Maybe, another time, I'll look into the real question of 'Why not Wales?' I suspect, without any real research, that it's probably a combination of a lack of catastrophic diaspora, the lack of accessibility via civil infrastructure, the lack of an historically united and self-governed sense of nationhood, and, if we're completely honest, a lack of colonial ambition in the Welsh themselves. They seem to me to be a nation that is quite happy to stay in Wales, to keep Wales to themselves, and to take good care of it. And who can blame them, really? Living in one of the world's most beautiful, friendly and under-appreciated places suits me just fine.

Suffering in Silence

Let me start off by saying that I am very aware that I've used the term 'suffering' loosely. I know that there is proper suffering in the world, and I have experienced almost none of it. So don't let this post be confused for a cry for sympathy; it's not. I'm sitting in a heated house, with superfast broadband (in rural Wales!) and a bottle of ice-cold beer from my fridge. On a world-wide scale of suffering, I'm pretty close to the bottom.

What it is, or tries to be, is an attempt so share with you what it's like to live with Recurrent Respiratory Papillomatosis, or RRP, and how living with RRP has impacted my life and the lives of those around me. What's RRP? It's a massive pain in the ass, that's what. If that's not medical enough for you, look here. Not really sure how I got it, but after several years of losing my voice periodically after a night out (one too many YEE- HAAAAAA!s), one day I went to Dublin for a Five Nations (ah, the good ol' days) game and came back without a voice. And it never came back. It was only after a long while of waiting (too long, probably), that I asked to be seen by an ENT specialist, who confirmed that my vocal chords were covered in papilloma. Around 25 years and at least  as many surgeries later, I still don't have much of a voice - though, to be fair, it's much better than it was when I was known as the 'Hoarse Whisperer,' and basically had to mime my wedding vows.

For those of you who know me personally, you'll be aware that my voice is - interesting. I've got a very low, gravelly voice - think a white Louis Armstrong without the talent, charisma, or pot. I've returned home to the US a couple of times, and my old friends who may not have seen me in 20 or more years are always shocked - who is this froggy voiced Mr Bean? To the casual observer, it usually sounds like I've either got a bad cold, been on a huge bender, or smoked 40 a day since I was nine. Most of the time, none of those is true. But that doesn't stop people - lots of people - from offering me throat lozenges, or commenting that I sound like I have a cold, or out-and-out asking, 'What's wrong with your voice?' It got to the point one time, many years ago, when I replied to someone who asked that with, 'I've just been diagnosed with throat cancer - thanks for asking.' Her face went white and her jaw dropped to the floor. At the time, I felt a little bad - I mean, I (thankfully) don't have cancer, and to say that I did is disrespectful to those who do suffer. So, apologies. But I was SO fed up with having to explain my 'condition' to people, that I opted for a cheap and easy way to shut up a stranger. Not my finest moment, but it was very effective.

And I guess that's where this post is coming from. Although it sounds like I've just got a croaky voice, living with RRP is actually pretty inconvenient and, often, very frustrating. Again, I get it: 'inconvenient' and 'frustrating' are not the hallmarks of true suffering. 'My wallet's too small for my 50s, and my diamond shoes are too tight,' right? I get it. But hear me out (you'll have to listen carefully - see above). Having limited vocal ranges has some pretty serious implications on my daily life, especially as a father of three young girls. For instance, without pitch, I only have volume to work with. As such, it is very hard for my voice to convey any emotion other than anger. I cannot change the tone of my voice to express sarcasm, or humour, or levity. I have one note, and I can say words at a 'normal' level, or at a slightly increased volume. That't it. Think about trying to read a story to your kids, and not to be able to do any character voices. I tried it the other night and I just ended up coughing violently. My poor kids have to endure pirates, fairies, talking vegetables and crime-fighting iguanas all with the same voice. And you can forget about singing. I have developed a very skilled set of expressive dance moves in the car, simply because I cannot sing along. And that is one thing I really miss. I was never a good singer, but that can't stop people like me (and Adam Levine, apparently). So everything I sing is either down six octaves and in a range between 3 or 4 notes, or it's jazz hands, air punches and Broadway-level sweeping arm gestures. The kids are instantly mortified, but it's all I've got. Don't worry girls, as far as Embarrassing Dad Things that I'm Bound to Do in your Lifetime, you ain't seen nothing yet.

There is, of course, a practical element of this condition, and it can be quite serious. Imagine being in a busy and unfamiliar place, being responsible for small children, and not being able to use your voice. It can be frustrating, terrifying and futile. When the girls were learning to ride their bikes and it was just me out with them, I got so nervous/stressed about them riding off that I brought a whistle with me a couple of times, just to have a way to communicate. Because, again, any time I try to increase my volume, it sounds as though I'm angry. Which isn't really want you want when your 4-year-old is learning to ride a bike, or cross a road, or wants to run off into a crowded supermarket. Or, think about any public function... ever. Lots of background noise, poor acoustics... a voice like mine doesn't carry and soon gets lost in most pubs, restaurants, train stations, etc.  Coping with that means either becoming less engaged in those types of situations, or avoiding them altogether. Which really isn't me - or it didn't used to be.  But now, I find myself really dreading being in those places because I know that I will either literally have to shout in order to be heard, or sit quietly and just listen. I avoid phone calls because I spent many years of not being able to be heard - and still cannot speak on a mobile phone if I'm outside or in a busy place. All of this had led to me becoming more socially withdrawn and less publicly confident - out of just sheer frustration. And let's not forget the people on the other end of my voice - they've dealt with this, too. Over the past 25 years or so that this has been going on, the constant straining to hear, asking 'pardon?', or trying not to think you're being yelled at takes its toll on human relationships, and has made it all too easy to just stop trying to communicate altogether.

You can, if you look, find the positives. As a coach it was always a very useful tool to get people to be quiet and listen. And, according to lots of really helpful - and slightly inappropriate - strangers, I have been convinced that I'd have a very lucrative career as a phone sex operator. And thanks to today's uber PC-world and Kathleen Turner, I can call customer services and claim to be my wife without being questioned. So it's not all bad.

But, and maybe this is the simple point I'm trying to make by writing 5000 words, don't assume that because you can't see my condition, or that it manifests itself in way you think you recognise as a result of my own misbehaviour, that it's OK to mock me or to make light of what I, and those in my life, are going through on a daily basis. Would you offer a crutch to a stranger with a pronounced limp, or ask them how they did it? Maybe - but probably not. And not because you're not a helpful or kind person, but because you probably recognise their condition as none of your business. You have no idea what happened, why they are how they are, and what impact that might have on their life. And unless I have panda eyes and reek of donner kebab and Snakey-Bs, you probably don't know why I speak the way I do, either.  So please don't offer me a Strepsil. Just bear with me, listen closely, and understand that this is the best I can do. I haven't lost my voice. This IS my voice.

TUnESDAY: Who Rules the World?

Slowly, painfully slowly, the reins on the control over music in Jackson (my car) are being loosened. Since our trip Stateside, I've gradually been able to introduce music that isn't being sung by a personified pony, a doe-eyed princess or a talking French candelabra.

And, while it's liberating to some degree, it's also a little daunting as I've realised that these - and the years coming - are going to define those moments in my daughters' futures when they say 'We were raised on ________ in our house' - and that could be anything A-Ha to ZZ Top. And THAT could open them up to be either ridiculed or revered among their peer groups forever more. Or at least until they tell me to turn that junk off and lose themselves in a sea of tuneless, meaningless, manufactured modern shite. God, I'm old.

Anyway - what SHOULD I be pre-emptively brainwashing my kids with? I had a small but important moment of pride not so long ago when, just before the drum line kicked in and asked , 'Are you ready to rock?' But I'm not sure that my rock one compilation CD consisting of Kid Rock, Kansas, Foo Fighters and Van Halen will be enough to hold back the inevitable onslaught of talent show winners-cum-pop-icons.

That's not to say I don't LOVE a good pop song. I've been known to bob along to [insert generic short-lived teeny-bopper build-a-band here] from time to time. And, hey - let's be honest, I was never cool enough in high school to appreciate the Doors, the Stones or whatever other classic artist I was meant to love at the time, much to the dismay of most of my friends. It got worse in college, when I was left to my own devices. McFly? Loved em. Busted? Right on. McBusted? Holy Hell... yes, please! But whatever my own glaring shortcomings musical taste, I'm now responsible for setting up three lives with some modicum of musical credibility, and I can't afford to let them down by only playing Five Colors in Her Hair.

Luckily, the oldest seems to have taken a shine to Pink. It doesn't matter that she picked out that particular artist from Lady Marmalade - the fact is that she seems to like Pink. And I think that's not a bad choice. A strong and talented woman with creative flare, playing with the boundaries between rock, pop and ballad. I don't mind that at all. And yes, of course, somewhere along the line, they'll all need to hear other strong females who represent different takes on musical genius. The time will come for the Diana Rosses, the Dusty Springfields, the Stevie Nickses and the Janis Joplins. But she will also get to enjoy Sia, Christina Aguilera, Madonna, Katy Perry, Taylor Swift and Lady Gaga along the way. And, for now, I'm going to concentrate on filling her head with these more accessible Women of Song, in the hopes that it will pave the way for a deeper appreciation for women in music and a greater resistance to the soulless cookie-cutter drivel that weakens us all.

Now, I can hear all of my seriously musically-minded friends screaming that some (if not all) of the artists I names are nothing more than peddlers of the trivial nonsense that I claim to be fighting against. And to be fair, you're probably right. I've already said that I don't have very sophisticated taste in music - what did you expect? All I can say is that they will get a wide selection of all music has to offer. AC/DC and Little Mix? Sure, why the hell not? They'll get it all.

Except jazz. Even I have my limits.

Wish You Were Here: Family Camping in Cumbria

I consider myself a pretty advanced camper. Although I haven't done much of it lately (last 25 years), my time in the Scouts as a youth and young adult taught me life-long lessons that have come in handy in many occasions. For instance, I know from 'The Great Winds Camp-Out' that even though dome tents are stable, if you don't peg them down, they will roll, and you and everything you own may end up sleeping on the roof. I know that Snipes do exist, and that they taste like chicken. And I know that bacon, yummy bacon, tastes better when sung to during its cooking. I learned lots of useful things in the scouts. What I learned this weekend, though - was that none of that prepared me for Camping with Kids.

Let me start by saying that the Kids - all eight of them aged eight or younger - were delightful. Everyone behaved, there weren't any unreasonable arguments and they had a blast. So this wasn't about THEM being particularly challenging. It's about me not being used to the difference between camping with people who can take care of themselves, and camping with people who think running around, near and over a flimsy portable BBQ is great fun and not at all life-threatening. Camping with Kids is Camping with People Who Don't Yet Know That They Are Mortal - and as important and liberating as that perspective is, it can be stressful when they are inherently in an environment where there is so much more than normal that can kill them, and it's your job to keep them safe from all of it.

But it's also your job to teach them how to engage with that environment, and to have fun doing it. And that, I think, is where I need to learn the most. How do you teach them the importance of improvisation by using 6" kebab skewers as marshmallow roasting sticks and ALSO teach them that sitting IN the fire is dangerous? How do you teach them to love hiking up a steep, rocky hill and ALSO teach them that running back down it can kill you? BBQ food is SUPPOSED to have 'bits' on it, air beds are MEANT to be squishy, taking you boots off before you get in the tent is not optional, sometimes 'because I said so' is reason enough, and so on. SO much learning.

And, if I'm honest, being a mostly-mute adult trying to manage all that learning is a real challenge. I'm not great at multi-tasking with kids at the best of times, but when you have an already air-riddled voice that disappears completely at anything above Loud Whispering, explaining, comforting, encouraging, congratulating and expressing wonderment are all physically difficult and psychologically exhausting. So forget about disciplining, calling out for, yelling or sometimes even being heard over the cacophony of kids learning to love the great outdoors. I'm afraid the result this weekend was, at times, a stressed-out ex-Scout, who may have appeared not to be enjoying himself.

But it was ever of the moment; the effort to find that balance and the temporary inability to Communicate got the better of me. But the frustration soon abated and I quickly found something to remind me what it was all about. Whether it was one child finding complete joy in a narrow-gauge steam train ride, or another falling asleep while still trying to eat an ice-cream cone, or the emotional penguin hug as all eight kids said their good-byes and promised to meet up again (next time at the beach) - they reminded me what It is all about. It's about them, and their relationships with each other and with camping. The fact that they all wanted to do it again next weekend means it was a success. I think I'll need a few weeks to recover first.

Postscript: I am very aware that any Scout leaders that may read this may be feeling more than a little content. It is likely that they will recognise some of the struggle and all of the joy I'm trying to convey - but I imagine that they will also have a rather smug smile of their faces as it dawns on me what I put them through. Touché, Dad and Brother Gilliland, touché.

On Losing

I've done more than my fair share of losing at sports in my life. I've had some success, too.... and recently, I've been lucky enough to be working some guys who are enjoying a nice string of wins. 'The Streak' will, inevitably, come to an end, and when it does, I hope I can remember a few of the things I have learned as a Loser.

1.  Losing doesn't make me a loser. Winning doesn't make me a winner. Winning and losing are relative - HOW you win and HOW you lose - your character - is what matters most. I've known great players on poor teams. I've knows guys that are dead weight on championship teams. The guys I've respected most are the guys who could win or lose and act with class either way. Rudyard Kipling said "If you can meet with triumph and disaster, and treat those two impostors just the same; yours is the earth and everything that's in it". That makes a lot more sense to me than a boy being raised by monkeys and a dancing bear.

2.  For 99.9% of the people in the world - and definitely everyone I know - the result just doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things. I mean, literally - it means nothing. Does it mean a lot to me RIGHT NOW? Yes, of course. People who choose to participate in competitive sport do so because they want to compete and (more often than not), to win. It matters enough in the short term to give up hours, days weeks in preparation, and it matters enough that it hurts when the result doesn't go my way. But...c'mon! It's a game. In my case, most often it's a minority sport being played in the backwoods of nowhere by a relatively small handful of people. Hardly the cure for cancer, my daughters' smile, or my family's health. Please do not misunderstand me: I play to win and I really HATE losing. Ask my wife, or anyone that has played a board game with me. Ever. But win or lose, I should (eventually) be able to joke with and be joked about without getting too upset. It's funny how some distance makes everything seem small, you know? Yes with the Frozen reference.

3.  As good as I think I am, and as deserved a winner as I think I've been, some people will enjoy me losing. Now, that's probably down to a combination of a couple of things. Firstly, I probably am not that good and not that deserving, I have probably not been the perfect sport at every opportunity, and some people will feel a genuine and justified dislike for me and what I've tried to do - regardless of whether I've tried to do it 'right'. Even if I was the perfect sportsman, my (or our) success has necessarily come at the expense of others, and some of those others will be laughing when I fall. And that's OK. And that's the second thing: people who make light of me losing aren't necessarily calling me a loser. Some are, but most are probably just joking around because they are aware of (1) and (2), above. They may have a great deal of respect for what I (we) have accomplished. They may even be trying to emulate that success, and using us as a template of good practice. None of that is dimished by the fact that they crack a joke at my expense. Knowing (1) and (2), it stands to reason that if I can't (eventually) laugh about my successes and my failures, I need to find a different hobby.

I say this the morning after the night before, when the team I'm currently involved with achieved a significant milestone for them, and when another local team that has enjoyed a lot of success in the past few years saw an impressive streak of theirs come to an end in exciting fashion. I ribbed them slightly, because we rib each other. I did not say it with malice or cruel intent - I said it because I truly believe (1) and (2). As such, I have been both the joker and jokee, the winner and the loser, and I hope I manage more often than not to handle both with some degree of respectability. If I haven't, I can only apologise for my humanity and all its imperfections (including my stubborn immaturity) and suggest that we all chill the fuck out. Peace (drops mic).

The Monday After the Weekend Before

So I've logged into Facebook Monday morning to discover a few things.

1 -The world did not collapse in my absence. 

I know, right? Hard to imagine, but it just. kept. spinning. There were a few really important things I needed to know about like missing Nigerian women, the precarious political process of eastern Ukraine, and - of course - Eurovision. But, it turns out, there is a program on the TV every night called 'The News' that tends to cover the bigger stories, and I don't have to share it in order to ensure good luck comes my way. And as for Eurovision - well, people seem to be talking mostly about two acts: the bearded lady and the Polish churners. I'll give you both. First, this year's winner:

And, purely in the interest of balance, the Polish entry:

2 - The urge to 'share' was strong.
It was odd, in a self-aware kind of way, to notice how much I wanted to take a photo of a moment and post it for everyone to see. Last night, after being up half the night with my wife the night before, our middle child fell asleep on the couch at about 6pm. I was getting pudding ("dessert" for all my American friends) for everyone after a nice chicken dinner. I went into the lounge ("living room") to see who wanted some, and the poor thing was sparked out, sucking her thumb and buried snuggly under a pile of pillows and blankets. My first instinct was to take a photo and to try to think of some witty remark for Facebook: 'How cute is THIS?' or 'All that delightful screaming must of worn the poor cherub out!'  I even went to grab my phone. But then, I thought: She's been an over-tired grumpy nightmare all day, what if the flash wakes it up?! THEN, I thought, actually, this one's just for us. I walked upstairs, got my wife and we stared at the snoozing Tazmanian devil in stunned silence. So instead of a picture of my own sleeping beauty, you can watch this dog having a dream.

3 - I did actually miss things.
Mother's Day in the US? Who knew! Facebook birthdays? Tons of them! Draft results? Who cares! Missed them all. Sorry! But, then again, I think that it's maybe become too easy to type 'Happy Birthday' to a long-lost friend - I've even been guilty of copying and pasting in on several Walls if more than one friend had a birthday on the same day. Is that the spirit of it all? I mean sure, it's nice to be acknowledged, but there is no personal touch to that - no real sense of celebration. So I'm sorry if I missed your birthday this year, but if I only started telling you 'happy birthday' after we became Facebook friends, I may very well miss it again next year.

One weekend in, I think my absence from out-of-hours Social Media hasn't had as much of an effect on the world as it has on me. Which  probably should tell me something about how I choose to spend my free time, and who (or really 'what') I spend it with.

Anti-Social Experiment: Day 0

May is my anti-social experiment month! I, perhaps like many others, feel that I am too connected. So, for the month of May, I'm going old-school. I'll be on the PC 9-5 M-F as it's part of my job. But when I go home, I'm switching off. No emails, no texts, no apps and no tablet. No tech. I will make an exception for schoolwork or writing. But, in general, if you want me, you're welcome to phone my home number, or wait until I sit in front of my screen again. I'm not going to lie - I love my gadgets. This will not be easy for me. But I think that if I can't do it, I think I have some bigger problems to resolve... Wish me luck!

Burgers, Beer and Bear-Hugs (oh my)!

A couple of weeks ago, I noticed that I was  having a bit of a personal dilemma. While attending a wedding of a good friend, I met up with several mutual friends of varying degrees of familiarity. Some were guys that I knew years ago and hadn't really spoken to since. Some were guys that I knew a while ago and still speak to occasionally. Some were guys up with whom we try to meet regularly and as often as possible, and still others were guys I'm sure I was supposed to know but couldn't recall why. My wife and I have an understanding in these situations: if I don't introduce her in the first three sentences after meeting someone, it means I don't remember their name and she need to introduce herself in hopes that they will do the same. I'd rather concede being slightly rude in not introducing my wife, then admit to not having a freakin scooby who I'm talking to. She's sometimes jumped in after two sentences, so I think she secretly will suffer the insult because she gets to introduce herself and roll her eyes dramatically...

So, over the course of the first few hours of this wedding, we went through the gauntlet of countless (re)introductions. Some were cordial, some were a bit more formal and some were enthusiastically familiar. But, as I saw and said hello to someone I know quite well, I was overtaken by formality. As this woman approached, looking radiant in her best wedding attire and smiling widely, I panicked and stuck out my hand for a handshake. This was a woman I have spent multiple holidays with. After what I did to her and her husband's toilet following a Czechoslovakian stag do, there can never be any pretense of refinement between us. Knowing this, she was forced to make the mid-air adjustment from hug to handshake and we both looked awkwardly at each other, commenting stiffly on how nice it was to see each other again. To make things worse, her husband followed immediately after and we embraced in a loud, macho, back-slapping, caveman-esque Man Hug.

And so it happened all night. Someone would approach. My mind would start racing... do I know you? How do I know you?  Are you a handshake or a hug? Have you ever seen my testicles (that doesn't eliminate as many people as you might think)? Now, it is entirely possible that I was over-thinking this a bit, and I knew it. But I couldn't help it, and it was exhausting. I was relieved and thirsty by the time the celebrations began in earnest.

So, on another social occasion this past weekend, I decided to eliminate the issue: everyone would just get a hug. Maybe it was the GBK Taxi Driver, maybe it was ice-cold San Miguel(s). But everyone was going to get hugged whether they liked it or not. Guy friends got them, girl friends got them, even gay friends of guy friends' girlfriends got them. Hug, hug hug. If they stuck out a paw for a stoic shake, I swatted it aside and went in for some huggage. If they looked scared as I approached, my arms held wide and wild eyes locked on theirs, I swooped in for some soul-affirming squeezosity. Many - if not all - of the men slapped my back, as if to beat the homoerotic connotations right out of the situation. But, if they did that, I pulled them closer, and hugged them harder. I hugged the shit out of people that day. No literally, that would be gross.

The fact is that I felt better for it. No more obsessing about whether I delivered the appropriate amount of familiarity, no more trying to tailor my greeting with a rather muddled recollection of levels of acquaintance. Everyone got the same: they got me. None of them gave me a Coke, but I'm sure they'll thank me later.

Still No Bo

We established some time ago that I know nothing about sports. That's not changed. But I do know people, and there is something about people involved with American football in the UK that I find really interesting.

Let me start this off by saying that I consider myself as included in my argument. I know that I don't do anything close to the amount of work that is required to achieve anything more than serendipitous excellence in coaching. Please do not assume when reading this that as I point my finger at 'you', I am unaware of the four pointing back at me. I am aware that I am included.

As for interesting things - actually, there are at least two things, possibly more. The first is that, by and large, people in this country don't seem to want to do the things necessary to become seriously competitive at this sport. Most people (I can hear the cry of a thousand string-vested muscle shirts being torn in a Hogan-esque outrage) - don't want to get up crazy early every day, lift weights, watch film, or even practice at least five days a week. And the thing is, because it's the majority that seem to this pathological aversion the discipline of Becoming Great (and yes, I do include myself in the Mediocre Majority), they actually get away with it.

They don't have to work hard to compete because their competition is just as institutionally lazy, inept or both. By genetic disposition and an endemic geographical disparity of resources, most people languish in the misty twilight between (very) local notoriety and national obscurity. Those who DO excel, do so often in spite of the support systems they have at their disposal, and their achievements are often difficult to evaluate objectively due to the overall paucity of real competition in the British amateur game. That unfortunate situation creates a real challenge for those players and coaches who have true and quantifiable talent: they tend to congregate around well-established successful programs, and they tend to have to leave the UK to develop their talents to a truly elite standard. There have been previous few who have actually been able to make the transition between 'great UK player' to 'great player', and most of them are only British by birthright - often they have spent more of their developmental years in the US than at home.

The other thing I find interesting is that many of those same people who do not recognize or choose to ignore what it takes to become truly great at this sport are the same people who are the most self-congratulatory when their efforts, however minor, result in some success, however small. I have never known - in the US or in the UK - a group of participants of a minority sport that was quicker or more vocal to celebrate transitory or coincidental success than the British American football community as a whole. Facebook is swarming about this club or that, claiming to be champions of this or that. Twitter chirps constantly with boastful proclamations about a team's dominance. If Social Media is to be believed, there seems to be no limit to the pain and suffering that every team could inflict on every other. Which I find odd, and unique (in my experience) to the UK gridiron. You don't see it in British basketball, baseball, lacrosse, ultimate freaking frisbee or mother-fucking quidditch (there is an International Quidditch League, I shit you not. 300 teams, 1500 registered players and a truly international World Cup).

The reality is that coaches and players involved with the consistently best programs, the ones that truly understand what it takes to be objectively competitive; they are the ones you never hear from. Leaders and athletes - not simply participants - working at the most elite levels that the sport can offer in the UK are too busy doing the hard work to spend any real time tweeting about it. John Wooden reminds us that “Talent is God given. Be humble. Fame is man-given. Be grateful. Conceit is self-given. Be careful.”

I wish more American football coaches and players in the UK were humble, grateful and careful. Until we reconsider what it truly means to excel, we cannot truly appreciate the magnitude of our achievements (or lack thereof). It simply should not enough to be 'good for the UK'; we need to seriously think about growing the fish AND the pond. And, in the meantime, mostly keeping our mouths shut while we get to work.

A funny thing happened on the way back from the toilet...

It was 4:23 in the morning. Unusually, my wife had asked me to feed our youngest because or eldest (also unusually) had woken up crying. I had done the zombie feed, burped her (the baby, not my wife), put her back in bed and made my way sleepily to the toilet. I got up to return to our bedroom. My foot was asleep... not uncommon after a stint on the khazi. I shook it out and continued walking. But it didn't wake up. In fact, by the time I got to our door about 10 feet away, my right arm felt funny, too. My wife, slightly annoyed that I was making such a commotion, turned the light on and asked I was OK. I looked at her, and I was suddenly very aware that I was not OK. I slid down the wall as she repeated my name and asked whether she should call an ambulance. My eyes must have said 'yes' because my mouth no longer wa0 doing as it was told. I wanted to scream out 'Yes, call the ambulance quickly!' I knew every second counted. I I knew it was serious.I knew I was having a stroke.

I wanted do be able do something other than lay there in a crumpled heap, moaning and drooling. I think I managed to mumble 'I'm scared,' and flop myself onto my back before the paramedics arrived. The looks they gave me and the serious, professional tones of their voices confirmed my fears. A muffled tear - the first of many that I would shed over the next week - worked its way down my lazy right cheek as she said those words. 'Listen,' she said. 'You've had a stroke. We need to get you to hospital'. In the background, I could hear her partner calling it in. '43-year-old male, FAST positive... no sign of head trauma...' I felt myself trying to correct her, 'Forty-TWO! I'm 42!' Even I understood the absurdity of trying to correct that tiny, insignificant thing. But it felt immensely important. My wife knew; she giggled a little as she translated my slurs.

With the help of all three of them, I got into the evac chair and they put a blanket over me to cover my modesty. 'I'm a drooling vegetable,' I thought. 'What dignity could I possibly have left?' As I got upright and strapped in, a neighbour arrived to help move me down the stairs. The way he looked at me reminded me again that this was real.

As I got to the top of the stairs, the oddest thing happened. Everything went... normal. My hand relaxed, my leg pulled itself in and my tongue shrunk. I looked up at my wife, showed he my fully functional hand and exclaimed in relief, 'Thank fuck for that!' A temporary glitch; a mini-stroke. I'd gotten away with it. I didn't have too much time to celebrate; by the time we'd cleared the last step, I was all strokey again. I sighed in despair.

Outside, a Welsh monsoon had blown into Devil's Bridge. The edges of my hospital blanket were dragging through the run-off river that was racing down our road. I remember think that the 'loading' was much clumsier than on TV; it was bumpy and rattly and noisy. My father-in-law's head peered around the door. Another set of eyes making a mockery of my wife's assurances that 'it was't that bad.'

They adjusted the oxygen mask on my face, strapped me down and with two unceremonious thuds as the doors closed we started the 12 mile trip to the ER. I was trembling from a mixture of cold, fear and spasm. The gas was making me nauseous and the unforgiving Welsh roads tossed me around like the lifeless ragdoll I thought I'd become. We stopped once to shut the door. My wife held my hand and kept me awake as we made our way agonisingly slowly to the hospital. I was literally putting my life and into the hands of a hospital I'd never trusted. The last time I was gettting treatment here (in 1996), the nurse showed me how to take a really deep drag on the nitrus oxide before he took out a pair of pliars, put his foot on my shoulder and yanked a wire from my previously broken finger. To say I was worried about the standard of care I'd receive is putting it mildly.

There is a certain degree of calm that comes with resignation. As far as I knew, strokes always won and they always kicked your ass. As they wheeled to have a CT scan, I was simply waiting to be told that my life was over as I knew it. My family, my job, maybe even my residency in the UK had been taken from me in an instant.  The tears came again - this time mourning the loss of identity and independence. As my wife tried to reassure me that everything would be alright, I tried to reassure her that I wasn't scared shitless. I don't think either of us would have won an Oscar for our efforts.

We sat. Well, she sat; I lay. But we both waited for the results of the scan that tell us how much we would allow ourselves to hope.

Say What?: When did raping become a good thing?

I've learned a lot about English since I've moved to Wales (and who says Americans don't understand irony?). Along with the obligatory lessons in hilarious trans-Atlantic homonym-based humour, I've also had some sharp lessons in the use of words that I took as being benign which really - if you look a little more closely - are really quite offensive in origin.

Exhibit A: 'spaz'. Now, back in my day, it was OK to call someone a spaz. I was little or no different than calling them a wally, geek, nerd or dork. Then, was so well-accepted, I'd argue, that it's been enshrined by the bastion of 70s and 80s comedy, Bill Murray, in the 1979 classic 'Meatballs':

I mean, in the US, there's a line of lip-balms called SpazzStick, an energy drink branded as Spaz Juice ("all the energy you need to annoy everybody else"), and a Transformer named Spastic. All of these seem normal(ish) in the US now, and it definitly wasn't an issue in the halcyon pre-PC days of my redneck childhood.

But the first time I called someone a spaz in the UK, the people I was with looked at me as if I'd just called MLK a nigger. 'You can't say that!' they said, in unison. 'Why not? He's a spaz!' I replied, incredulously. Turns out, they were right. In the UK, The National Spastics Society (now called Scope) was founded in 1951 to look after the needs of people dealing with cerebral palsy. So calling someone a spaz here was a big deal. Dunno... maybe it's now a big deal back home, too. But the point is that there are words that vary in meaning, where the 'sting' of the original meaning is either diluted or intensified by the mitigating factors of time, location, maturity or culture.

Which brings me alarmingly to another bit of evidence which might suggest that I am, despite my best efforts, getting older: when did raping something become a good thing? On Facebook today, a young man I coach posted a screen shot of a computer game score of which he was particularly proud. The caption read 'Raping'. And I thought...eh?? So I posted back: 'Is that meant to be a good thing?'. What followed was an unintentionally condescending explanation of the use of the word in 'modern talk': 'to do something violently and in a way to show absolute destruction of something. E.G. "I absolutely raped in this game." lol.'

Now, THAT definition of 'raping' doesn't sound too dissimilar to what I had in mind. Is it my 40(ish) years making me overly sensitive, and not allowing language to evolve? Is it my fatherly instincts exhibiting themselves with such a visceral reaction to the use of that word in such a casual, even positive way? Or is it a legitimate concern to think that a word that is so intimately connected to something so horrific is now just 'what kids say'? Probably, definitely, and hopefully.

I guess I just think that some words are just too laden with subtext to have their meaning changed so dramatically. And I guess I'm a little saddened by the thought that someone could say that they raped something, know what it 'could' mean to some people, and still be OK with using it. I think that it's kind of like me deciding that I don't mean what YOU might mean if I call you a kike, or saying I 'totally molested that dude in a game of darts'. Me deciding that subtext doesn't matter doesn't eliminate the connotations that people might have with certain words, and although I don't feel as though we should be overly dramatic about the impact that our words might have, I do think we need to be aware of our audience. 

And maybe, in truth, that's exactly what I need to remember here: the 19-year-old young man who bragged that he 'raped' his video game probably didn't have me in mind as his audience. And he's probably right.

But still...raped? Really? C'mon Generation Next: you can do better.