Thank feck that's over.

So, the calendar finally says February. Is it just me or was that January longer than normal? What with the snow and the unrelenting cold, my normal January blues were much worse than usual. So it was lovely to end the month with a few days away for Janet's birthday. I won't go into too much detail about the trip. We are very lucky that JB works in the travel business and has friends in nice hotels, so our traditional birthday jaunt is an excuse to live like people that have more money than sense, when we don't have much of either! All I'll say is that, at 5pm on her birthday, we sat on a bench, effectively on the roof of our hotel. Bundled up in coats and scarves, the last of the day's sunshine was fast disappearing behind a mountain. Medical history means we can't be in the sun for long so the feel of a warm, Mediterranean sun on our faces, on January 28th, is a rare victory. We hugged, knowing that this fleeting pleasure brings both of us so much joy.

Two lives, fully lived.

Elizabeth Ellen Spencer was born in the 1930's in Ealing, West London, and was evacuated to North Devon, during the War. She had an older sister who worked at Bletchley Park, on the Enigma codebreaking machines, although Elizabeth never told anyone. After she left school she became a Children's Nurse and met a man from Northern Ireland, newly out of the Navy. They and their friends would meet up, on International Saturdays, at The Rugby Tavern before walking on to Twickenham to watch England play. She and the Irishman were married at the same time as Hillary & Tensing were scaling the summit of Everest, in 1953. Their first child, a boy, was born in '54, then more boys in '56, then '58, then 1960. Finally a girl came along in 1963, then the 5th boy, in '67. Betty, for that was how she was known, dedicated herself to bringing up her large family. The Irishman had moved her and the family out to Surrey where life was untroubled until the IRA blew up 2 pubs in the town where the family lived. For a while, being from Northern Ireland, and having a very Irish name, made life difficult in the schools in the town. A few years later, the Irishman became ill and then died, aged 55, in 1981. The 4 older children were grown and had left home but Betty brought the two younger ones up until they were ready to leave, too. She sold the family home and moved to a 'chocolate box' cottage with a beautiful garden. She did voluntary work, delivered Meals On Wheels, worked on Hospital Radio and then got her own show on local radio. She travelled extensively, spending 6 months with son number 3 at his home in Sydney, Australia, driving across Canada, New Zealand, hot-air ballooning in the Australian mountains and, in her late 60's, belly-boarding down a sand dune near Perth, Australia, to show a van-load of student backpackers how it was done. She died 6 years ago, today, in her bed in her chocolate - box cottage.

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Betty Spencer was my Mum. She told me about this song, knowing that I'd love it. She said it reminded her of The Irishman.

22 years ago today,

I had one of the best days of my life. Today is F.A Cup 3rd round day. To the prawn sandwich brigade in the Prem, it's a day for stomping on the little people. For the rest of us, it's the best football day of the year. So, 22 years ago? I worked the Saturday morning, locked the warehouse up at 12.30, got my mate and the boy in the car and started off. Kick-off was 135 minutes away. We were in Woking. It was in West Bromwich. It was pelting it down. Got to the ground 10 minutes late, Got up into the main stand, asked a steward where our seats were and, while he checked the tickets, asked the bloke sitting on the back row what the score was. "You're losing one nil, bruv." said, Kevin, my brother. I had no idea he was going. If you're any kind of football fan, you'll know what happened next. Tiny Woking, from the Isthmian League, hammered West Brom, 4-2. It was no accident. We battered them. Their fans applauded our players off the park, then applauded us as we left. I had driven miles following this team. In the next few years, as success after non-league success came, I regularly drove the length of the country to watch them. I don't anymore. I realised that that passion was filling a gap that was missing from somewhere else in my life. When the gap was filled by something (someone, actually) else, the need to 'be there' went away. They are still the result I look for on a Saturday, still the name that will stir a thousand memories. I gave them my undying love, about 9 sets of tyres, thousands in fuel and tickets and hours and hours of precious time. They gave me one of the best days of my life. I got a bargain, I'd say. The video is the wonderful Saw Doctors with To Win Just Once.

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You know when everything you think you know is wrong?

When I was about 14 my Mum & Dad bought an upright piano. Not for me, you understand, but for one of my younger brothers, Phil. His music teacher said he had a real talent and an ear for music. Phil went for proper Grade lessons but hated it. You see, he didn't need the formality of it. He just wanted to play. And, boy, could he play. New Elton John song? Two listens. Nailed. He is just an wonderfully talented musician. Great guitarist, piano player, makes you sick! Anyway, this story isn't about him. By the time I was 16 and doing O Levels, we'd had said piano a couple of years. I got to going home if I didn't have a lesson on the odd afternoon, a two mile walk. One day, I turned into the drive and heard the piano. I remember stopping. Phil is 2 years younger than me, so he was still at school. Martin, 2 years younger still, was also a talented player (became a pro-songwriter) but he was also at school. I let myself into the house, quietly. The door to the room where the piano lived was slightly ajar. I listened as this beautiful piece of music drifted out of the room and filled the house. I knew the piece. Dad had it on an album and played the record frequently. I leaned close to the door and peeked a look. Mum was in a trance, eyed closed, as she delicately played the gorgeous music. She had no sheet music and wasn't even looking at the keys. I stood in the hallway for a minute and then quietly let myself back out of the house. I didn't tell her for 30 years. You see, she'd never let on that she could play. Not once. When Dad died and she moved to a smaller, chocolate-box cottage, she took the piano, "so that the boys can play when they come to visit." It was then, quietly, when we were alone, that I told her. She smiled. "Our secret, eh?" Yesterday, someone I follow on This Is My Jam and Twitter, AndyMack, posted the piece of music that Mum was playing as his Jam for the week. It caught me unawares. Actually, that's not true. It has never failed to catch me unawares, ever since that day. I weep everytime I hear it. Mum died nearly six years ago, but that's not why I weep. The music is beautiful and the fact that she kept her talent from us is so typical of a woman who gave up being a nurse to raise 6 kids and be a mother until her beloved husband died at 55. After that, once we were all grown, she travelled, had her own radio show, went hot air ballooning in Oz, sand belly-boarding and, near the end, took herself off to the Grand Canyon and Monument Valley 'to see all the places in The John Wayne films.' So, thanks to Andy, and I'm raising a big fat glass of red to Betty Brannigan, my Mum. The music she was playing? Debussy's Au Clair De La Lune.

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I love The Famous Five.

I love great singers. I love singers who have pain and loss and soul in their voice. I have a Famous Five of great, British voices. Paul Rodgers of Free & Bad Company heads the list which is, of course, indisputable. The other 4, in time-honoured no particular order, are Frankie Miller, James Dewar, Jess Roden and Peter Cox. If you don't know them, go look them up. The first four are rooted in the 70's. Peter Cox is from the 80's but is still touring and making new music. I have loved his voice since Go West's 'We Close Our Eyes.' I own everything he has ever done. We go and see Go West at every opportunity. Peter has made a new solo album, Riding The Blinds, via Pledge Music. This where the audience pay for the album to be made by buying various gifts and experiences. I bought 2 VIP passes to the sound check at a gig on the tour. It was last night and it was one of the most wonderful experiences of our lives. He was just the nicest bloke you could want to meet. We got to spend 90 minutes with him and his band. After the gig he signed a copy of the set-list for us. As we were leaving I was gripped by the urge to tell him what he meant to me. So, I told him about The Famous Five. He nodded when I said that Paul Rodgers was number one but said he was amazed to be linked with Jimmy Dewar. We nattered about those early Robin Trower albums and then we left. This morning he tweeted me, thanking me for my comment, for putting him in a list with four of his heroes, and hashtagged the tweak #humbled. As I said, you couldn't wish to meet a nicer bloke.

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I bloody hate Camden.

I went to a gig at Dingwalls, Camden in that there London, last night. I was on my own, to see my current favourite band, Dawes. Train after work to Paddington, quick bowl of pasta then the Tube to Camden Town. A walk up a very cold Camden High Street, a pint and on to the gig. Don't get me wrong, nothing made me deviate from that plan, but.... Look,I'm 56. I don't do, student-chic. I don't do dog-on-a-string. I don't do macrobiotic lentils with poached cabbage. I went into 2 pubs and felt not so much 'ancient' as from another aeon! Even the bar staff were 12 years old. The place screams out "This is not for you. You are an old bastard and you don't belong." Luckily, Dingwalls was full of my kind. People with grey hair, trimmed beards and women drinking white wine. The gig was one of the best I've been to in 41 years of gigs. I went home to my wife, my warm, middle-class house in Berkshire and vowed never to go to Camden again. Unless there's a decent gig, obviously. Dawes and "A Little Bit Of Everything."

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One of my favourite days of the year.

I am married to an Event Organiser. Janet books conferences and company incentives, worldwide. She organises for a living. So it's no surprise that she is totally organised herself. Take Christmas. She buys next year's paper, tags and cards on Boxing Day. Wherever we are (and we travel a lot)she is always thinking of gifts for friends & family that then get stored in the wardrobe until today. Today is wrapping day. Today is a huge glass of wine, a 77 song playlist of Christmas songs on her iPod, rolls of Sellotape, rolls of paper and the kitchen table surrounded by bags and boxes. When everything is wrapped it will all get split into nice gift bags (bought last Boxing Day) for each person. In two weeks time she'll drive up to Mum & Dad's near Walsall and drop off presents there, at her sister's and her best friends. She absolutely loves the whole process and is extremely good at it, too. So, today is one of my favourite days of the year. Because it makes my gorgeous wife so happy.

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Nat king Cole. The Christmas Song.