Lack of festive feeling

Are we feeling festive then? No, neither am I. And I don't suppose I will now.I don't know what it is about Christmas, but the older I get - and yes, I am definitely in the 'grumpy middle aged man' category, before you ask - the more I dislike the whole grisly exercise. It's not the meaning of it that worries me. It's the religious aspect, all that talk of angels and baby Jesus. Because, dear readers, I have a confession: I am a dyed in the wool heathen and tremble whenever I step through the doors of a church. If there is a God, and who am I to argue there isn't, I reckon he or she is just waiting to get even with me for all the times I larked around during school assemblies, cub pack church parades, wedding ceremonies and Christenings. Mrs B has still not forgiven me for the time I acted as an usher at a close friend's church wedding many years ago. I got her seated in a prime pew near the altar, then left to fulfil my ushering duties, directing the friends and relatives of the bride and groom to the blue and red corners - sorry, the seating areas either side of the aisle. The plan was for me to join her once the bride had glided along to the altar to face her moment of destiny. Only I didn't. For some reason I have still not fathomed, my mate had decided to tie the knot during the football season. On a Saturday. At 3pm. And I was not happy. So as I loitered in the church doorway, and spotted the bridal limousine's chauffeur settling down to listen to the footie commentary on his car radio, I hatched a cunning plan. I'd pretend I'd got caught up with a latecomer, join the driver to listen to the first 15 minutes of the game, then slide in unnoticed next to Mrs B without missing too much of the service. She would be mildly piqued, but nothing I couldn't handle; and I would have got my football fix to see me through the rest of the afternoon. Only things didn't quite go to plan. I can't remember what the featured match was now, but it must have been an absorbing encounter because before I knew where I was the half-time whistle had sounded. In panic I went back in the church, to see if I could make it to Mrs B's side without disrupting the service. But by this time things were well under way, and to my horror one of the bride's friends was 'entertaining' the congregation with an excruciating tune on a cello. Everyone looked like they were enjoying it, except a certain wife who was sat silently bubbling away like Mount Vesuvius ready to erupt. Well, I didn't want to spoil things, so I went and rejoined my chauffeur pal for the second half. At the time, it seemed the obvious thing to do. But as the assembled horde eventually started filing out of church, and I tried to blend in for the crowd scene photos, I was soon appraised of the error of my ways. Getting my hand in a vice-like grip, Mrs B growled: "Where the hell have you been?" I tried to make an excuse, but somehow she knew. "You've been listening to the football, haven't you? You left me in there on my own listening to the cello woman. You stitched me up big time." And so it went on until I confessed all, took my punishment like a man and have never dared transgress at a wedding/Christening/ funeral service again. I'm still reminded of it now, of course. Well, 27 years isn't that long, really. Which is why I don't like Christmas, you see. The thought of having to go into a church or do anything religious like sing hymns and carols brings me out in a cold sweat. So roll on Christmas Day, let's get it out of the way and then I can resume my heathen existence quietly. Humbug? More like Everton Mints, I'd say.

A desperate business

Being a football fan can be a desperate business, just ask Mrs B.Not that she is one, of course. She's much too sensible for that. If there is a big game on - FA Cup final, crunch England match - she might take a passing interest in events. She might even ask about the scoreline. But as for settling down for the afternoon or evening to watch a middling Premier League encounter, a bottom of the table Championship clash or even a meaningless encounter between two of the lesser lights of La Liga, forget it. There is always something much more pressing for her to do than watch football: pouring a glass, or two, of Chardonnay, for example. And those celebrity gossip magazines don't read themselves. She wouldn't dream of going to a game now, although she does have history in that department. One of our first dates all those years ago, when everyone in the crowd still wore hats and the action was in sepia, I 'treated' her to a match in the far-flung North. She didn't really want to go, but she humoured me, gritted her teeth and braced herself for a boring afternoon. Things went reasonably OK to start with: I plied her with a plentiful supply of goodies from the tea bar, she amused herself by 'people watching' in the crowd, and my team lost at home, but not by a cricket score. It was as we made our way from the ground that the day began to nosedive. This was back in the late 1970s, when football hooliganism still regularly reared its ugly head, and a good punch up seemed to be a prerequisite of a great day out for many footie followers. As I led Mrs B out of the ground, round the back, over the waste ground littered with bricks and other handy missiles and towards the car park where the away fans' coaches were parked, I suddenly realised I'd made a boo-boo. Perhaps it was the chanting that first alerted me to the prospect of trouble, or maybe it was the hail of stones which came our way. But before I knew what was happening, we were caught in no-man's-land as fans from the rival teams squared up. Mrs B was not impressed. In fact she was terrified... and I wasn't overly-impressed with the prospect of getting sandwiched between two groups of hard-core thugs intent on battering each other to a pulp. Somehow, we managed to scramble away to the sidelines, shaken but unhurt. We started to make our escape to a main road, where we were counting on safety in numbers. But then I heard the barking. Now the icon who is Mrs B is usually well-disposed towards animals. Cats she loves, dogs she doesn't mind. But when she saw police dog handlers racing towards us, ferocious alsatians straining at the leash with fangs bared - desperate to sink their teeth into the nearest human - she decided enough was enough. Showing a turn of speed which Olympic gold medallist Sally Gunnell would have been proud of in her prime, she dragged me away from the scene before giving me the biggest dressing down of my life. Ouch. So we don't bother with football together any more. Which brings me on to the main point of this blog. She might not be a fan of the beautiful game, and it wouldn't worry her if she never saw a match again. <> But these last few days, when I have been at my lowest ebb as a fanatic of my favourite team, she has been a diamond. Not only were they propping up their division and playing like a disorganised group of big girls' blouses while losing match after match, the board also appointed a manager who nobody wanted and in doing so effectively waved two fingers at their loyal, long-suffering fans. It was a slap in the face which really hurt, and left me desolate. Non-football fans will wonder what the fuss is about, but those who devote their lives to a team and suffer every low while savouring the (very) occasional high will understand what I am going through. I'm appalled, angry, feel disenfranchised and am silently seething. Yet throughout my suffering, Mrs B has lent a sympathetic shoulder and offered soothing words. She understands what I'm going through, even though she has no time for the game. Not once has she uttered those deadly, disdainful words which can cut to the quick and leave grown men gasping: "Don't worry, it's only a game." And for that, I salute her.

Sorry to keep you but...

AAh, there you are. Sorry to keep you, but you know how it is.There's nothing worse than being kept waiting, and Mrs Bramhall should know. Because I have an unfortunate habit which drives her to distraction. Er no, not that one - I can't indulge that any more after what the judge told me at my last hearing! No, I'm talking about my habit of not rushing. You see, no matter how quickly I try to do things, it seems it is never fast enough for Mrs B. Take getting ready to go out for an evening on the tiles. This is a rare occurence in itself, as She Who Is The Fount Of All Knowledge will readily confirm. After all, she will tell all who listen, her nickname is The Olympic Flame. Why? Because she never goes out. Boom, boom. Now as most blokes know, waiting for a woman to get ready is like watching nail varnish dry. They titivate, curl, polish, smooth, perfume, paint, daub, highlight and shine places most men didn't even know existed. For some, this can take several hours. But not Mrs B. Oh sure, she does all that. But she has an annoying habit of doing it all very quickly. I, on the other hand, need only minimal maintenance - a quick rinse under the cold water tap, a scrape with the razor, a ruffle of what little hair I have got left and voila, perfection personified. But somehow, no matter how hard I try, it seems to take me forever. And there is nothing worse than emerging from the bathroom, scrubbed up and smelling faintly of Fiery Jack (no madam, it's not after shave; it's for my perfectly-toned muscles) to find Mrs B stood there in her hat and coat, drumming her fingers on her rolling pin. I've even tried getting ready hours before I need to, but without success. Because whenever I feel I'm nearly sorted, something always happens to delay me. Don't ask me what, because I can't explain. It's just that fate always conspires against me, however much I rush. Mrs B has a mania for punctuality, which I normally admire. But on our summer holidays she managed to take this one step beyond what I consider acceptable. We were in France, and were sailing home by ferry. We had a lengthy trip from our camp site to the port so Mrs B suggested we set off the day before and stay overnight near the terminal so we would be sure to make our sailing. So far, so good. We duly made the trek, drove for several hours, arrived on the outskirts of our port and settled in for the night. Great, I thought. No rushing in the morning. Plenty of time for a lie-in, leisurely breakfast, perhaps even a bit of last-minute shopping, then a tootle along to the ferry terminal where we could spend a relaxing 20 minutes before boarding. Bliss! Sadly, my dreams were shattered by an early morning alarm call. Mrs B likes to rise early, and this day was to be no exception. A leisurely breakfast? No time; Mrs B took one look at what was on offer, gave her best Gallic shrug, and indicated in no uncertain terms that we should high-tail it for the ferryport. Last-minute shopping? You're having a laugh. Got to get to the ferry terminal. We can't miss the boat. "But it won't be here for another four hours," I plaintively whimpered. But I was over-ruled. Got to be punctual, you see. So there we were. The only car on the huge waiting area the size of three Wembley stadiums, with no ferry staff to be seen as they hadn?t started work yet... and certainly no ferry. Still, those four hours flew by. Not! And just to add insult to injury, as we came to embark, guess whose vehicle was among the last to be loaded. Yes, that's right. Who said being punctual was a virtue?

Welcome...to The Bramhalls

Welcome to the weird and wonderful world of the Bramhalls, a fortysomething couple who used to consider themselves reasonably trendy... but are now struggling to make sense of the modern world.



Hi, my name is Mike and I am a saddo. At least I think that’s what I should be saying.
Because after years of considering myself reasonably tuned in to modern life, I’ve come to the shattering conclusion that I’m now hopelessly out of touch.
It’s been coming on for a while of course. When my son, now 24 and living a rock-n-roll lifestyle – well, he stays up past 3am sometimes, so that’s good enough for me – was living at home, I could at least keep up with who was hot and not in the music/fashion/celebrity stakes.
He use to wearily correct me when I referred to nightclubs as discos, the music charts as the hit parade and bands as pop groups.
But he moved out years ago. So now it’s left to Mrs Bramhall, my gorgeous, pouting (she might read this) other half, to keep me up to date with what’s going on in the outside world.
And bless her, despite her best efforts, it seems there is no hope... for either of us.
Take this week and the Lord Stevens ‘bung inquiry’ into suspect footie transfers.
The conversation at Bramhall Towers went something like:
Me: “This bungs business looks bad.”
Mrs Bramhall: “What’s a bung?”
Me: “It’s when...”
Mrs B: “Is it one of those stopper things they have in beer barrels?”
Me: “No, it’s a football...”
Mrs B: “Or one of those harness things that you are strapped into before leaping off a bridge or high tower?”
Me: “No, it’s when...”
Mrs B: “Drake Circus opens this week. I can’t wait.”
See what I’m up against.
In the coming months, I hope to share some more moments of madness from the inner sanctum.
In the meantime, see you later alligator. Or should that be “Laters, Babe!”