This is me doing.

One of the things I promised myself in another blog (not ready for sharing) was that I would commit myself to writing more. But you know… it’s HARD. Obviously, not physically hard. Physically hard work is stuff like what my brothers-in-law do: manual, hard, unrelenting, don’t-notice-the-time kind of stuff. Typing words into a computer is not hard in that sense – but having the discipline to make time for it is – for me – as hard as digging a trench or building steps from old railroad sleepers.

You’d think that maybe because I sit at a computer for most of the day most days, that it would be easy to squeeze off a couple of lines now and again, just to keep my rhythm going. But things get in the way. And don’t get me wrong – they’re not always work things. They are… distractions. And it seems to me that a productive life is one with fewer distractions. Or, maybe… a productive person is someone who is able to manage his/her distractions better than I do. Everyone must have temptations to do something that is actually nothing. Watch TV. Surf the web. Sleep.

Don’t get me wrong – I think that those things are great (well, I would, wouldn’t I?). But it’s occurring to me more often more recently that all the time spent doing those things is time not spent doing the things the better part of me really wants to do. Read. Write. Exercise.

It’s just… it’s the discipline thing. I am easily distracted and very easily entertained. I can -and have been known to - while away whole afternoons watching episodes of Friends that I've already seen dozens of times. Everybody must have their time-stealers... what is it that people find within themselves that helps them get beyond those kinds of obstacles?

One of the things we show our new players over here is a video called ‘how bad do you want it’? As coaches, we play it to our newly-freed university students to try to get them to realise that if you want to succeed in American football (or in anything else), you’ve got to want it more than you want other things. More than you want to spend time with your girlfriend of the week. More than you want to drink. More than you want to go home for the weekend because your dirty laundry basket it full and your gran has baked you some cookies. You’ve got to want it badly enough to realise that all of those other things are just distractions; they are obstacles to your goal. It’s not always an either/or choice – but it is a choice, and the choices we make define our ability to capitalise on opportunities.

If I were to sit down and add up the time I spend doing things during my day, I am sure that I would realise how much time I've really spent doing nothing at all. I’m tempted to keep a diary about my working day… but also more than a little scared of what it would reveal.

So there’s that. There’s the WANTING. And WANTING something is important. But we also go on to say that it’s not enough to want. Everybody wants. The difference between the ambitious and the successful is not the wanting, it’s the doing. And so many times, that is where we fail. We want, but we do not do.

My goal is simply to do more.

TUnESDAY: Rumer Has It (Again)

If you remember way back when, I got excited about Rumer’s debut album, Seasons of My Soul. I still think ‘Slow’ is one of the most beautiful songs I’ve heard. It’s a song that can calm me, if only for four minutes at a time, no matter what else is going on in my life. I knew from that very first play I heard on the radio that the girl can sing. Subsequent appearances on Later with Jools Holland (back in 2011 and then again last week) have, to me, proven that I was right to think she’s awesome. Which, of course, makes me pretty badass too. Not ‘badass’ in a Chuck Norris kind of way, but badass in a musical Nostradamus kind of way. That’s me: 12th level black-belt in predicting upcoming cultural trends, and clocking Rumer two years ago was pretty much a roundhouse to your musical face. I’m the talent-finding equivalent of Patrick Swayze's Dalton and I’ve just defeated the future in nothing but dirty sweats and a bad haircut. Don't pretend not to know what I'm talking about. We all know that Road House is quite possibly the best misunderstood drifter, quasi-martial arts film of 1989 with a the tagline 'The dancing's over. Now it gets dirty.' I mean... COME ON!

So anyway, she’s back. Her latest album is called ‘Boys Don’t Cry’ and features 12 songs, comprising ‘a diverse collection of covers, paying tribute to some of her favourite 70s songs.’ The variety of the tracks is interesting, including songs from Leon Russell, Issac Hayes and Bob Marley. But, to be honest, she had me at ‘Hall and Oates.’

Wrap your ears around this, the lead track ‘PF Sloan’ – originally written and recorded by Jimmy Webb in 1970. If it doesn't chill you out, or at least make you smile, I'll eat my stonewashed jeans.

Things I'm Meant to Love But Don't: Coffee

I can't count how many times a day I refuse coffee. Go to a meeting, get offered coffee. Go see a colleague, get offered coffee. Go for a meal, get offered coffee. Starbucks this, Costa Coffee that. From toothless hobos, to penny-farthing riding hipsters, to middle-aged soccer moms and blue-haired, absent-minded grannies...everyone loves coffee, right? Not me. I hate the stuff - and it's not for lack of trying. I’ve wanted for YEARS to like coffee more than I do, and to some extent The Bean and I have had a love/hate relationship since I was old enough to smell. 

Lies, all lies.

My mom was an avid coffee drinker, and even though I was religiously opposed to drinking the stuff, I took a lot of pride in being able to make her cup exactly how she wanted it. Well, exactly how I thought she wanted it, anyway. It may have been lovely; then again it may have been like the time I made her a ham sandwich that was more mustard than bread and not much ham at all. I didn’t always get it right, I’m sure – but as a child I loved the precarious two-handed presentation of the overflowing mug that (regardless of the quality of the brew) resulted in a smile and the thanks of someone who really believed that it was the thought that counted. 

Even today, I love the dark, seductive scent that surges out and slides smoothly up your nose when you open a new vacuum-sealed bag. I love the drip, drip, drip of the old-fashioned percolator machine as it passes the hot water through the filter. And I love the deep-chocolate colour of the perfect cup of coffee, with just the right amount of milk and sugar to bring the drink back from the bitter edge. That’s the love bit. 

What's Sanskrit for 'Alpaca Poo'?

Unfortunately, the hate bit starts just as the taste of that foul stuff hits my lips. It’s truly horrible, and no matter how much my nose and nostalgia try to convince my taste buds that it’s worth drinking, I can’t help but think that the rest of world has been conned into drinking hot muddy goat’s pee and paying £3 a grandé for the privilege. Some ancient food and drink gambles have paid off. Like the guy who first saw a mushroom and thought, “It may look dirty, smell of wee and feel a little like a rotting sponge, but I’ll eat it. What could possible go wrong?” Brave man (or woman); genius. All of my pizzas (and a few good nights out) thank you.

But to the Ethiopian farmer who first thought that it would be a good idea to push hot water through ground-up coffee beans: you, sir, were a fool. Not only have you inadvertently created a coffee subculture of pseudo-snobbery, ruined the breath and teeth of millions of people AND taken professional basketball out of Seattle – but you’ve made liars out of my eyes and nose. I blame you personally for every mocha-based chocolate I’ve spat out in surprise, every tiramisu I’ve left unfinished on my plate and every coffee-flavoured jelly bean that snuck its way into my mouth. Your only saving grace is the coincidental invention of the Chocolate Cream Frappuccino® Blended Crème’ which has no coffee in it at all and (let’s face it) is really just an overpriced watered-down milkshake riding on the coattails of delicious-sounding drinks like the caramel macchiato and espresso con panna. Man those sound good. They sound sexy. They sound important. Then I remember that they’re all jut fancy ways to say coffee, and coffee is horrible. Give me a nice cup of tea any time. No, wait. I hate tea, too. But somehow ‘I like my women like I like my drinks: cold and fizzy’ just doesn’t sound right.