Results tagged “Arsenal” from Looking Up

A day spent at R's school on the weekend, attempting to improve the very limited outdoor space they have available...

I found myself, pruning saw in hand, clearing self-seeded Ash saplings from around the perimeter. This is the first time that I've undertaken any major pruning/tree related activities since my accident, and I must admit that it felt good. Yes, I have pruned a tree since, but this was clearing undergrowth, and altogether more physical.

One could see an irony in the species of tree I was cutting, as it was an Ash tree (Fraxinus Excelsior, to be precise) that I fell from back in 2005. But I didn't feel any sense of revenge, just as my love for trees has not been diminished by the role that a tree played in my dramatic change in circumstances. I did feel a sense of relief that I am excused the job of grubbing out the roots, especially as ash can be particularly obstinate when it comes to removal.

So there we are. A week before my 5th accident anniversary, and I was back among the trees, albeit in a very modest way. But like many things that would be easier for a non-wheelchair user, I felt an enormous sense of achievement. And for once, I didn't sense a feeling of awkwardness from able-bodied people around me. People just ignored me and let me get on with it.

Tomorrow is the actual day of my accident in '05. Yes, April fool's day, of course. And what have I learned?

I've learned that, as a species, we have an astonishing capacity for adapting to change.

I've learned that it's possible to overcome almost anything with the support of a loving family and friends.

I've learned how to write. Haven't I? One door closes, another opens, etc.

I've learned that most of my favourite foodstuffs are on the top shelf in the supermarket.

I've learned that chronic pain is, well, a chronic pain.

I've learned the true value of the NHS. The foundation of which remains the pinnacle of Government achievement in the UK.

And, I've learned that play isn't about physical aptitude, it's about imagination. And there's nothing as warming or fulfilling as making your child laugh.
 

...snow. Wheelchairs aren't really at their best in it. It's better than sand, being a little more sticky, so that it's possible to push through with decent off-road tyres. But it's cold. Very cold. And it makes the pushrims on the wheels very cold. And wet.

This makes finding the right gloves critical, as they have to be reasonably waterproof and still grippy when wet. And you still need to maintain a reasonable level of dexterity. I have tried many variations. Sailing gloves, which are my first choice normally are great for grip but freezing in the snow. Fleece gloves are great for keeping warm (although the seams inevitably leak) but they're lethal when wet. After running out of control on a relatively gentle slope and gliding elegantly into a large shrubbery, I decided the fleece gloves had to go.

I have even tried neoprene gloves which are certainly warm but much too grippy, making 'braking' sudden and very unpleasant and leaving the wheelchair user with whiplash at the bottom of the first hill. But thankfully I have rediscovered some gloves that the missus bought me for cycling in the winter a couple of years before my accident. They have pretty good grip, but not too much, and I can still feel my fingers after five minutes so it is those that will adorn my hands on the way the the Arsenal this evening, if the match isn't snowed off.

Sorry, that's much too much waffle about gloves. The truth is, for all my bravado, off-road tyres and warm gloves, I find the snow very difficult. Not because It's so hard to get around in. OK, that doesn't help much, but that is as nothing compared to the feeling of sadness at not really being able to take R up to the park, build a snowman, go zipping down hills with plastic bags for toboggans, and then carry her home when her feet are too cold to walk anymore.

So instead I glance out of the window facing an internal struggle between the child-like almost instinctive excitement, and the curmudgeonly practical gloom as the snow continues to fall.

I'll be honest, the worst thing about the comparison between the sand of the beach and the snow of the city is when they are separated by a matter of days and about 35 degrees celsius.

See what you think. Which of these two pictures looks more appealing, especially without any cocoa? By the way, it's not raining in the bottom pic, it's a sprinkler I went to sit under because I was overheating.

 

As the other half of the globe slides into 2010, we have returned to the grey skies and near sub-zeros of Blighty. We touched down in Heathrow at about 5am this morning. No one in their right mind flies into Heathrow at 5am on the 31st, so we had the place pretty much to ourselves.

It was to ourselves, too. By way of a contrast to Sydney, Melbourne, Singapore, Kuala Lumpur, Hong Kong, Barcelona, Rotterdam,Isle of Man, even Gatwick, London City and anywhere else that I may have forgotten, we were given the opportunity to make our own way unassisted from the plane all the way through several miles of empty corridor with a wheelchair user, a sleeping four year old and four items of luggage. I was reminded if yet another reason why Heathrow is my least favourite airport.

Once I had demonstrated that I could transfer into my own chair and negotiate the step down from the plane onto the tunnel, all the ground staff mysteriously melted away. It frustrates me to feel that I need to consider making myself appear less 'able' in order to secure what comes easily from ground staff everywhere else in the world. I know Heathrow is supposedly the busiest airport in the world... not at 5 am on the 31st of December it bloody isn't.

Yes, it's the rich contrast of summer sunshine and winter gloom that makes returning to these shores such a delight. At least my absence worked wonders on the form of my beloved Arsenal. I now have a month's worth of Match of the Day to watch.

Another on the plus side, jetlag could result in me being the most wide awake I've been on New Year's eve in many a year. With this in mind, may I take this opportunity, through the haze of too  much coffee and pain relief (13 hours in an airline seat is not exactly a joy), to wish everyone who's not there yet all the very best of everything for 2010.

And those of you who are already there, sitting around with your beer and flip-flops, the echoes of a firework spectacular still ringing in your ears? Stop smirking.

I can't go without expressing my disappointment at the behaviour of Mr. Adebayor during the Arsenal v Man. City game.

Yes, everyone knew what he was going to do when he scored, but his subsequent statement that after scoring, the emotion is such that "For maybe two or three seconds I can't control myself." would suggest that he's in the wrong sport. Look out Usain Bolt, because by my calculations, Adebayor can run 100 meters in 3.3 seconds. That's impressive.

As impressive as the loyalty he showed Arsenal by never getting anywhere near that speed while he played in red and white, and showing his loyalty with such statements as "Yes, I'm under contract to Arsenal - but it's up to the directors to satisfy my demands. Barcelona have made me a good financial offer. If Arsenal give me what I want, I stay. If they don't, I leave." made back in 2008.

And, yes, the Arsenal fans shouldn't behave the way they did, but everyone in football knows what the reaction will be. In view of the recent events in the game between West Ham and Millwall, inciting the crowd is pretty irresponsible. Almost as irresponsible as releasing a film that glorifies the 'Good Old Days' of football violence. Well done The Firm. A real cynic might even toy with the totally unfounded theory that the producers helped with the 'kick-off' between West Ham and Millwall.

All this aside, I was most shocked by his deliberate stamping on Robin van Persie's face. It was clear from the warm-up that there was no love lost between him and his former team-mates, but I reckon the theory that he was a disruptive influence at Arsenal seems all the more plausible after the weekend's events.

Last night I decided to reset the clock, having had three nights of poor sleep due to the intrusions of my mate Spike. This meant hittting the sleepers, which had the desired effect, but unfortunately leaves me blundering through the day today as if I am underwater.

This is not altogether 'a bad thing'. At least not for me. For those who received overlong and extremely garbled e-mails from me this morning, it is probably a bit annoying. And for this I apologise, but the trouble is, the inner workings of my mind today look a bit like this:



I set off with good intentions, it all goes a bit blurry in the middle, and if I manage to achieve anything, then I'm delighted...and that's just trying to make a cup of tea.

On the other hand, I have been reminded of the joys that await me with the forthcoming start of a new football season. While I know there is every likelyhood that by April I will be disillusioned and bitter, but the thoughts and aspirations of one man seem to make it all worthwhile. How many premiership managers could deliver this interview...

Firstly, a link for those who would like to see this week's Times column.

On Monday I went the fantastic cinema at The Barbican, a venue which has probably the best access and staff a wheelchair user could wish for.

The film in question was Ken Loach's 'Looking for Eric'. A thoroughly entertaining film, or rather, two films. There is a strange drop off in pace in the middle, as if there is confusion as to where to take the story, and then a cracking second half which is virtually a separate film.

Of course, the main attraction is Monsieur Cantona, and here I feel a confession coming on...

As a die-hard Arsenal fan (cut me and I bleed red), I can honestly say that in our rivalry with Manchester United there is only one thing I am jealous of.
No, it's not the silverware, the success in Europe, the obsessive mythologising so popular with football commentators, Wayne Rooney's good looks, and certainly not Alex Ferguson (who comes across as sinister, grumpy and a bit of a bully).

No, they can have all of that. The thing I envy, in case you haven't guessed, is Eric Cantona. And, yes, I said thing, because it isn't the man, it's the icon. Not just the notorious 'audience participation' (come on, we all knew it was wrong, but we all secretly loved it). But also a great player, an ability to score sublime, yet crucial goals, a talent for outwitting the tabloid press, a sense of humour, and now the demonstration that he doesn't take himself too seriously.

For all that, he's pretty useless on the trumpet...

...and Bergkamp was a better player.

Not a great morning. Sitting on the bed getting dressed when I get yet another jolt of pain in my legs, and I find myself talking to it. Much of my outburst is made up of expletives, but the bits in between are something like, "Come on, get on with it. " For the pain comes in a wave, beginning with a hot itch and building up to a burning stab before subsiding.

I wonder when I started talking to my pain? I think it has been going on for some time, and obviously the worst attacks come in the form of my nemesis Spike. The fact that Spike has a name suggests some kind of dialogue, but he's the off the scale, knock myself out, serious badass pain. How long has the everyday, annoying, distracting pain been part of the conversation.

Next question, is the demolition of my beloved Arsenal by the evil Manchester United last night contributing to this mornings pain levels? And could I sue?

Sadly, while my Corinthian romantic side says "no," it may be time for Arsenal to look again at the wages policy that prevents them from negotiating United/Chelsea-sized salaries for new players. It saddens me that those two teams in particular have cherry-picked just about every player that makes a name for themselves at a premiership club- Ferdinand, Carrick, Rooney, Teves, Berbatov, Van der Sar, Joe Cole, Lampard, etc.

I'm sure that money was a big factor in the choices made. And Arsenal are not perfect, with the signing of young talent nurtured by other clubs. I could go on with this stuff for pages, but I'll start to sound like one of those people who phone into the endless hours of talk-radio. And, if I'm honest, it's all rather boring.

Still, it does show that pain can take many forms... and I bet the players of Corinthian F.C. would have played through them all with gritted teeth and a sporting smile (not easy).



 

Thank you for all the positive feedback after the Times article. I'm really pleased with the way it came out. Thankfully no-one seemed to notice the huge piles of chaos over our shoulders in the picture. This is because:
a) We have a small child.
b) We hoard stuff.
c) We work from home (sort of).
d) Instead of throwing stuff away, we keep going to Ikea and buying even more boxes and other 'storage solutions' in the naive hope that this is all we need to to transform our flat into some kind of minimalist living space worthy of any Sunday supplement.

My latest piece for the BBC is now up on the OUCH website.
Those of you who have shared my football exploits as a spectator will no doubt be familiar with some of the challenges I have faced.

Those of you who once shared my football exploits as a player will no doubt be familiar with some of the challenges my opponents have faced.

To all of you I offer my sincerest apologies for any boredom or pain caused.

It might be timely to toss this image into the mix.



The team is Perfidious Albion, named after Napoleon's scathing "Perfide Albion," his description of the untrustworthy British.

 It's the only picture that I'm aware of showing me in my footballing prime, all stubbly chin and bouffant (Back row, second from left). Hard but fair was my motto. In other words, a glancing contact on the ball before you kick the opponent up in the air. Not with any malice aforethought, but through a subtle combination of a lack of pace and poor timing. 'Tis all the more ironic that I spend so much time bleating about attractive football and Corinthian spirit.

Forgive the cheesy description, but there is some truth in there. This afternoon saw me in my usual space at the Emirates stadium to watch my beloved, exasperating Arsenal against Manchester United, a game I fully expected us to lose on the form we have shown this season. Instead, we were treated to a real ding-dong, rip roaring match full of excitement and incident. Real end to end stuff indeed.

We were of course triumphant in the end, and I sang my heart out. Well, it's infectious when there are some sixty thousand around you doing the same.

Anyway, my point... Well, the point is when we scored, when they nearly did, when we shouted for a penalty, all these moments, I was totally gripped. To the exclusion of anything else. Even my paralysis. OK, I didn't leap to my feet when we scored, sadly. But thankfully, we have scored enough goals since my injury that I knew that, and I've got used to it. The rush, the leap is all there, but different. And when it comes I am able to enjoy the moment unconditionally.

There are other things that I can enjoy unconditionally: Tennis, tickling our daughter, good food, watching The Wire... But in watching football, I tap into a long standing passion and a ritual that I took part in before my accident. In fact, were it not for my accident and the reduced price of my season ticket, I would not be there at all. Obviously, I am not advocating spinal cord injury as a way of securing a cheap ticket, but it does feel good to have this connection to my 'old life'.
Especially when we win.

Yep, my old friend Spike has dropped by for another visit. So as I sit wincing and waiting for the sleeper to kick in, I thought I'd use this most inappropriate moment to log in and rant about the complete lack of customer reviews of my book on Amazon. (this is a real struggle. I'm even typing slurred now. apologies.)

It's not been a great week so far. Oh, the newspaper coverage has been great, and I may have scored my first commission to write some stuff, which is fantastic. But yesterday my daughter kicked me in the head (I was lying on the couch at the time. She hasn't developed a leaping roundhouse kick before she's three) and then I fell out of my wheelchair in the kitchen for no discernible reason. It just happens sometimes, even after three years in a chair.

And now? Well, my personal equivalent of Winston's black dog of depression is a bull-terrier of neuro-pain trying to gnaw it's way though my left leg. For those who are new to my story, I am referring euphemistically to the neurogenic pain that I live with since suffering a spinal cord injury. I do not have an excessively unruly and very hungry pet under the desk. Although if I did, I wouldn't know until I spotted the blood. At which time I would summon my daughter to dispatch the violent canine with some fiendish manouevre.

Of course, the ever reliable late season collapse at the Arsenal hasn't exactly buoyed my mood either. Still, transitional season, no-one expected us to finish higher than 7th, young team, etc, etc. (It's not even making me feel any better either.)

See, I knew this was a bad idea. Someone out there write me a review on Amazon, and end this awful drug-addled drivel.

Finally, a picture of happier times, at the book launch last week. And, by the way, I haven't suddenly remembered a bit I'd left out. I am in fact signing the thing. In long hand, and totally illegible too. Special secret training is given to Doctors and authors.

Message ends.