Jay Elle Dinner

So every year my sports club holds a dinner in memory of one of its members who died of terminal cancer.  It’s a great event but there is some discussion as to whether it is the best way to honour a man’s memory. Personally I quite like the thought of a hundred or so members of the same elite sports group I was part of getting mortal in my name. The way we alumni talk about it you’d think it was the social event of the year and you’d be right… because it is.  Even my parents say if I died they’d want something similar. The amount of planning they’ve done for this eventuality is quite alarming but I’m sure they’re just being prepared…

Anyways it was that time of year and so we roadtripped up to Newcastle, ready for war.  I had my best glad rags, my dancing shoes and enough money in the account to cause some serious financial damage.  I even had my team blazer on which is a 100% wool creation that weighs a metric tonne, is the warmest garment in creation and pure white.  So I basically resembled a kid who was dressing up in his dad’s clothes. Which we all know (laydeez) is exactly the look that causes maximum heart ache.

The night kicked off with a few quiet warm up drinks in a bar in Newcastle where we strolled in looking dashing, sophisticated and completely out of kilter with the local geordies. It was a bit like that scene in Constantine when Keanu Reeves walks into hell, although he had the foresight not to look like a pretentious twat in a white blazer. Still, onwards and upwards.

The event itself was held in the same location as last year, a Quayside Hotel. This came as a surprise to the Alumni as the manager of the hotel had vociferously explained after last year’s brussel sprout related incidents, that we were never ever ever going back there ever.  Think Taylor Swift but burly, angry, Geordie and nowhere near as into Harry Styles.  Still, he must have looked at their yearly revenue and realised there was no way he could shift that amount of Jagermeister again without us and so bitten the bullet.  Supply and demand I suppose.

We then broke the cardinal rule of all ultra cool parties by arriving on time. I had horrible flashbacks to when I was 12 and my dad took me to my first party and I insisted on being early despite his protestations. Worst.Moment.Ever. It was just me and the hosts mother and I’d brought a bag for whatever reason and I wouldn’t let her take it and put it in the cloakroom so I basically acted like a cross between Rain Man and Bilbo Baggins.. It hurts just thinking about it.

An elite sports party is genuinely one of the most aesthetically competitive events ever.   If you’re a recent alumni this is not good news. It would be comparable to turning up to a Victoria Secrets fashion show just after Christmas. You’re basically surrounded by various boys and girls at the peak of physical fitness all of whom are extremely attractive or the older generation who have gone to seed but are super successful and wealthy. You’re in the middle like an adolescent teen with the beginnings of a gut and no interesting stories to tell unless you count that time you watched all of Secret Diaries of a Call Girl whilst looking for a job. I wish I'd worn a name badge saying 'Below Average' at this point.

We (that’s me and the rest of the AlumLads from my year) had been sat on the same table (dangerous) right in the far corner of the room (extremely sensible).  The only way we could be further from the important people were if we’d been sent to Sunderland which was a master stroke of organisational diplomacy from the two girls running the event.

The wine was flowing fast and all was well. We’d destroyed both the courses and the speech was an excellent blend of emotion and anecdote from one of the older alumni who had competed at the same time as the man we were honouring.

Having paid our respects things then accelerated from glorious to positively rowdy.  I’d spent most of my budget getting overexcited with wine rounds (bottles not glasses) and was at the bar when a fight broke out behind me. One of my old mates had charged bar wards to get his round in (failure to do so is a criminal offence) when he was intercepted by some randomer from Loughborough.  The Loughborough lad asked my friend “who the forking hell are you” to which my friend politely responded “now who the fudging hell are you!?”.. At this point those name badges were looking more and more sensible.  Despite this there seemed to be an obvious way out of this dilemma - with one introducing himself to the other and politely going about their business. Sadly neither of the parties chose this route and promptly engaged in a few rounds of ‘how’s your father’.

Now even if you don’t know what the fight is about, who’s fighting, or why, it’s your moral duty to wade in and dispense swift justice with a couple of haymakers cos that’s what ladz do.  For those of you who don’t know me (probs all three of my readers) I am the least physically intimidating person in the world.  I’m built like a hamster (I even have ginger whiskers). Nevertheless, honour was at stake so, despite being mid-way through paying for a round, in I waded before thankfully being rescued by some large peacekeepers.

Emerging from the fray I was slightly disappointed to see the barman waiting patiently for my pin code to complete my card transaction. Cracking. Still, more wine for the boys..

Raffle time came which is always the highlight of my evening.  Raffles are great, like seriously, what is better than a good old fashioned tombola? You burn money buying strips of tickets and stand a tiny chance of winning a prize which you never wanted in the first place and whose value often doesn’t exceed the price you’ve paid for the tickets. It’s incredible economics. Plus the girl selling the tickets had really nice legs and so every time she offered ‘£5 a strip’ the whole table went wild.

By this time the girl I had my foxy eye on was sat next to me (God only knows how, I probably intercepted her on the way to the bar and put her in a headlock) and she’d opened conversation with the line ‘I’ve cleaned my teeth’. Don’t ask, she’s from the North West that’s probably an essential question up there.  The only way I could think to match up to this was on the dance floor where I’m in my element.  Our sport is one which requires skill, dexterity, flexibility and poise. We’re like rhythmic gymnasts on roids.  Yet, for some reason, when we hit the dance floor we resemble a shoal of coy carp which have just been snared by a deep sea trawler - Flappy, uncoordinated and in a mild state of panic.

Yet up we stepped to throw some daggers.  One of the guys had really upped the anti and torn his trousers from crotch to toe so he now resembled a weird stripper cowboy, like a mash up of Brokeback Moutain and Magic Mike. I’m not quite sure what he was going to achieve with this look but hey, to each his own.  I was waiting for the right moment to cause some heartbreaks.  I was thinking maybe Nicki Minaj or the Grease Mega mix, you know high class stuff.  Sadly the DJ was about as cool as the fires of hades and declined my repeated requests for One Direction.  All he played were Christmas songs and not even the good ones. I’m pretty sure Cliff Richard was played at which point everyone hightailed out the door into the wilds of Newcastle for some propa tunez.

Like an Arab to Mecca I gravitated to Boom which is a 90s bar in Newcastle which is undeniably the finest establishment in the Northern Hemisphere. It has a multi-coloured glowing dance floor, plays more Ricky Martin than is probably legal and has enough cougars and hen parties to keep you entertained for hours.  No one else had followed me but, quite frankly, I couldn’t care less. I was in paradise. I even found some dwarves (they were possibly midgets) to dance with.  I felt cultured, classy and above all tall.  I swung back another treble and suffered my first real blackout of the night.

I regained consciousness about an hour later in a pit called Bambu, which is by far our favourite night club. It’s our favourite because everyone else thinks it’s rubbish. It once had a beach party whereby they dressed their bar staff in bikinis and dumped half a tonne of sand on the floor. There was a theory in first year that they gave out free VKs. This was true as long as you stuck to the theory of ordering a VK and then just walking off without paying for it. No one knows how it makes any money and no one really cares. It’s where dreams are made.

I staggered in looking around for my crew.  I decided to make my presence felt amongst its clientele so I swan dived down from the top of the stairs and promptly clotheslined an unsuspecting Geordie lass at the bottom.  Which went down like a lead balloon.  In my mind it was like that scene from Dirty Dancing, the Time of Your Life bit? Except with the genders reversed and a whole lot less successful. I think the girl was actually spitting at me at one point. I peered myopically up at some friends of mine who were trying to pretend they didn’t know me. Briliant. I lay there for a while, pretending to be dead because that’s what they do in times of trouble in Jurassic Park, before deciding I’d better help this poor girl. Instead of responding kindly to my gallant apology and the promise to buy her enough Ice VKs to sink the Navy she tried to claw my eyes out, so I bee lined for the bar (defs what I needed at that point).

By the time I next regained my composure two of my friends were getting together and looked like a pair of eels mating, three were re-enacting Step Up 19: The Drunken Dancers on the floor and everyone else had shot off.   Hazily, I’d remembered that I’d promised one of my best mates that we’d see how many Chicken McNuggets we could get for £60 so I thought I’d meet him there and we’d go for it.  But TO MY HORROR I saw fox girl leaving with another male. This could not be permitted. Never mind that she had very little idea who I was! Ignore the fact that the guy in question was a very nice man and the fact that she was perfectly entitled to go home with whoever she wanted was IRRELEVANT! I needed someone to spoon goddamit! SO, I must act in a totally cool, calm and collected way to make sure she was aware of EXACTLY what she was missing out on..

Now I am not known for being cool, calm and collected. If I had to describe myself in three words I like to go for ‘mad, bad and dangerous’… I think perhaps more aptly this could be changed to ‘short, thick and a bit of a…’well you get the idea.  Adhering to this mantra I hurtled out the bar ran up to them and then tried to blank them. Just fyi, for those tempted to copy these actions, it’s nigh on impossible to run up to someone and blank them. Usually running up to someone conveys some intent. Like running up and shouting ‘fire’ or so on.  So they were a little confused and politely enquired if I was ok.

The small man inside my head who was still sober and who had been clinging on whilst the much larger part of my psyche thundered around was screaming at me to act cool. “BE SENSIBLE” it was shouting, “CHICKS DIG CONFIDENCE AND ALOOFNESS”

Wisely ignoring the voice of reason, I promptly threw a temper tantrum. I was a mixture twixt Dudley Dursley and Verucca Salt, or for those not in the literary know, a complete arse.

The man inside my head shrugged and quickly hung himself to absolve any blame. I jumped into the taxi with these two people and then tried to blank them again. IN A TAXI? HOW THE FRUITING HELL CAN YOU BLANK SOMEONE IN A TAXI!?!? YOU’RE SITTING THREE ABREAST!? It would be like trying to blank someone in a ski gondola.  IMPOSSIBLE.

I then needed to change things up and so alternated between blanking them and ranting at them. These poor people didn’t know where to look, or what to say. The taxi driver was loving it, or possibly just driving us via Glasgow to up his fare. Eventually we arrived back to my residence and the couple were looking forward to ejecting me with or without a contribution to the fare, but such was my vitriol that, eventually, the poor girl gave up and agreed to come inside just to shut me up.

The guy was left with a burning sense of injustice, a vibrantly excited taxi driver whose charge was now in double figures, and no kebab. He had a raw deal there and would now plotting revenge had I not sent him a begging email with the promise of financial and emotional recompense.

No sooner had I stopped throwing all my toys out the pram when two more of my friends arrived back in a wild sense of excitement before they realised I was re arranging the deckchairs on the Titanic when It came to sharking. After the worst night’s sleep since that time I drank 12 cups of tea in a day, we were ejected out the hotel and on the road home.

Still.... It could have been worse. i could have ended up like this champion

 

SAME TIME NEXT YEAR!!!

Any advice on how to behave in public or score with women would be appreciated...

The Nation's Grandest National

For thirty seconds I stood and believed that i'd finally won the Grand National.

No I wasn't in the saddle, nor was I watching years worth of training compete in the field.  I'd simply wandered down the local bookies, placed my bet and joined the rest of the nation in watching it on the box.

Clutched in my hand was a ticket backing Sunnyhill boy each way with an £8 stake, set to give me an £88 return and it was looking good.  He'd timed his race to perfection, survived Becher's Brook and Foinaven, evaded the fallen and the falling and stormed through with 3 jumps to go.  Surely this year was his year.

Up comes Neptunes Collanges - practically unheard of, by the punters at least, at 40/1 - and pips Sunnyhill Boy by a nose at the post, a photo finish is required to discern the winner in the closest finish in the history of the National and, once again, i'm on the losing side.  Just as with Black Apalachi and Oscar Time in the two previous races, i've managed to back the runner up.  Admittedly this year i've learnt my lesson and taken the meagre returns of an each way bet but still, gutted.

Once again the 4.15 at Aintree has come up trumps and provided a stormer of an event - the coverage is grand, the winner undisputed and the nation enthralled by the greatest betting event.  What dominates the papers the next day? The death of two horses, According to Pete and Synchronised.

Now I am not 'anti animal' in any way, shape of form.  Admittedly I am not as obsessed with horses as many of my country dwelling friends are but I still appreciate the tragedy behind their deaths.  Could it be avoided? Probably.  Should every step be taken to avoid their deaths? Yes.  Should the event as a whole suffer to avoid the deaths of two of its participants? No.

I am sorry horse lovers, but i don't buy that.  2 horses out of 40 is a 5% death toll.  This may seem far too high but it is a result of the toughest horse race in the world for those competing.  If you like, count the number of people who die doing the Paris to Dakkar rally, the Marathon des Sables or some other endurance event.  Sure we could make the National safer by lowering Becher's Brook, limiting the number of participants or indulging in a lunacy like introducing a 'safety horse' that runs at an acceptable pace for 28 of the fences before unleashing the participants in an all out sprint for the line.

We could conquer all the risks in all the events whilst we're at it.  Why not race from Paris to Lyon instead? Much safer that way.  Because if there is no risk, there is no reward.  Synchronised won the Gold Cup and was a fantastic horse, loved by its rider and treasured by its owner.  I am in no way saying that we should rejoice in its death.  I don't look for horses to die in the race but I, like the riders, trainers and jockeys, accept it as a risk that must be taken. 

People are comparing the National to some sort of animal cruelty - like testing out dangerous chemicals or putting them through damaging experiments.  I find this ludicrous.  Looking back through history and I still reckon it's a better time for horses everywhere.  We don't plough fields with them, we don't take them to war and we don't eat them anymore.  All in all that's a considerable upswing in their living conditions.  Race horses have, probably, the best existance out of all their species.  They are fed a lot of good horse food and get exercised regularly.  They are the professional atheletes of their world.  I imagine other horses look at them in the same manner that we look on professional rugby players. Women horses want them, men horses want to be them etc etc.

Win the National and they become instant celebrities, not just in their own insular world, but in the eyes of the masses.  Like when Rhona et al won the Gold Medal in Curling and suddenly found herself a sporting celebrity.  Ask anyone of a certain age if they've heard of Red Rum and they're bound to say yes and probably launch into reminiscing about his three National wins.

McCoy and McManus will both be devastated both personally and financially to lose such a special animal.  But let us not devalue his loss.  There is no guarantee that similar deaths won't occur at any race.  Two horses died in the Dubai Gold Cup which is a flat race with lesser pressures -  a sure sign that making a course safer is no guarantee to eliminate the possiblity of fatalities.

By all means take a look at the pressures put on vets by punters and bookies to force unfit horses to race and by all means have inquests galore to make sure that nothing untoward is happening. If someone somewhere could come up with an acceptable risk strategy - a percentage of horses per ten years that suffer fatal injuries and work to keep it at a minimum. But please, whatever else, try to keep the 4.15 at Aintree as it is -  the greatest spectacle for anything on four legs.

Hillsborough

It is April 15, 1989 and Britain has just witnessed the worst sporting disaster in its history.

At the Hilsborough Stadium in Sheffield a number of events led to 96 Liverpool supporters being crushed to death in a panicked stampede.  The blame will never fully be stamped on anyone, The Sun Newspaper will become ostracised on Merseyside and every year football fans and the public will be forced to remember the tragic events.

This year was no different.  Following the disaster, Liverpool FC have refused to play on April 15 and many support groups and campaigns have been launched to try and shed light on the events and bring those responsible to justice.  New controversies have come to light, including Alan Davies - the celebrated comedian and seeming all round nice guy airing some unfortunate personal opinions in a podcast and Chelsea FC's supporters chanting and singing through the one minute silence at Wembley.

The question is, where do we go now? Will this be a memory and a point of controversy for the rest of time?  Will football ever be allowed to forget the tragedy? Should it ever be allowed to be forgotten?  Taking a look at some of the comments on Davies' Twitter thread would make you believe that Liverpool citizens still harbour a burning resentment and feeling of injustice for those who died during the stampede.

Now I accept that Twitter is the home of both the intellectually enlightened and the moronic.  There will be those who launch attacks on Davies who have never even been to Liverpool and have never even heard of Sheffield Wednesday.  Those who like to stir the cauldron untill the potion boils over and they should be treated with the same contempt as those who started the fire in the first place.

Comedians like Davies should take greater care in blazing their opinions over a controversial matter but I do feel sympathy for both parties.  The victims of Hillsborough will never be forgotten by their families and the event will never be far from the minds of anyone on April 15.  But will 'justice' ever be served? Are we honestly to believe that a forthright and frank apology from the Police, the Governement, The FA and Kelvin MacKenzie will make up for the loss of a loved one? No of course it won't...but it would help.

If this apology ever occurs then will we be able to allow the families of the victims to grieve in peace? Or will they be subjected to reliving the horrors and the torments every year for the rest of their lives.  Justice has not been done but the event will never happen again.  The repeated violence, the cages, the riots and the terraces - which are all associated with football in the 80s - are no more.  Times have changed, rules have been reset to ensure this type of tragedy never again graces the sporting stage.  Liverpool will never play on April 15 and they will never embrace The Sun newspaper (small surprise given MacKenzie's idiocy) and the families will never be allowed to truly be at peace with their grief. 

So every year the footballing nation will stand and pay its respect to an event that is fast fading from actual memories.  In fifty years time few, if any, survivors or families from that day will be left alive, but we shall still stand in silence to honour the dead.  Dead we didn't know, never met and will never understand.  It is what is right and what is respectful, if a little impersonal.

So to Davies, to Liverpudlians who wish harm on him and to all those of my generation, best put this down to something that we'll never understand and just show respect, even if it does feel forced.