When I was a young chap, around 6 or 7 years old, I used to
be sat in the classroom waiting for the bell to ring to signal the end of
school. I had no idea who was picking me up – whether it was my mum, or whether
it was my friend’s mum. There was a big difference. As my cheeky ironing
comment and picture on Facebook this week will hopefully have implied, I have a
sensational relationship with my mum – sensational enough to get away with that
kind of crap - and I love her dearly. However, I usually prayed for Mrs Elwood
to be picking me up. You see, Mrs Elwood,
was the gem of a mother who used to pick her son up and bring him some sweets
and a drink when he left the classroom. She was kind enough to bring something
for me when she was collecting us, and for sweet-tooth Bobby Junior, that was
often the centre of my thoughts for the last couple of hours at school.
Cash was not particularly easy to come by at our house. That
is not a sob story and I actually do not think any of the four of us would
change anything. There were tough moments, but it made us stronger, and who we
are today. There was no shortage of love nor laughs. Of course, being one of
the few kids in school not to have a Sega or Nintendo, or a sweet-laden angel for
a mother picking us up from school was not easy to take sometimes. I watched in
envy at so many of my classmates with their bag of crisps and Coke, or struggled
to talk about a computer game I had only ever played at my friend’s house. I
would pester my mum for a pair of Nike trainers rather than no-name generic
white trainers. The response was short and swift. Clean the car, iron the
clothes, tickle my feet (that is no joke!)…and when we were older, it meant
getting a paper round and then a job. Earning a living sucked between the ages
of 8-14.
It started with paper rounds, and it moved on to working in
restaurant kitchens with my dad, where I washed the pots for £15 a night. I
wanted to go on a school trip to Dortmund when I was 14? I was paying for it
myself. I was washing pots and plates in a frenzy at weekends to raise the
money and when I did, I found the satisfaction from having earned it, so much
better than having it given to me. In fairness, I should add that part of that
motivation also came from my discovery of German girls. I went to Dortmund five
times and paid for each one myself.
As I got older, money gradually became less difficult to
come by and I figured that the harder I work, the more money I would earn. That
was not strictly true, but it helped. Once I was able to buy an ipad, iphone, nice
clothes and whatever else that I could never afford, that effect pretty quickly
rubbed off. Perhaps it is a sign of getting older, but I sense a transition in
how I spend my time and my money. I will not attribute getting older with
becoming more mature – there’s a difference. I appreciate that swanning off to
Vegas for a big fight is not necessarily mature or sensible at times. However,
it is the moments that attract me now, not the material.
Fast forward to next Thursday and I am going to Old Trafford
to watch the first day of England v Australia with my Dad, Uncs and Cousin. We’re
getting dropped off and picked up so nobody has to worry about driving, and
needless to say it is going to be a filthy day of drinking, and having a blast
with the Aussies. You may tell that I am looking forward to it somewhat. When I’m
a grey-haired (I’m begging for grey over baldness!) old chap sat in a rocking
chair jabbering on about the old days, these will be the kind of stories I will
recount to anybody who will listen. I will not be chatting about the day I bought
an iPad mini or this great Sony Vaio that can make do everything but make toast.
So, here comes the social experiment. I have another four
tickets to the Ashes at Old Trafford on Sunday, August 4th and I
will not be going. I want them to go to a good home and I do not want any money
for them. I want them to go to folks who typically may not be able to go to
something like this. I want them to go to folks who perhaps do not get to spend
enough time together, or who may not have had or been able to share enough ‘moments’
recently. I don’t want a begging letter. If you ask me for them, I will trust
that the reasons and rationale are genuine, and hopefully you’re doing a good
turn for somebody who perhaps deserves one. If I receive a million requests, I’ll
just send them to somebody randomly so don’t be offended if you do not get
them. If it rains, don’t blame me. You’ll have to pay for your own travel, so
consider that and do your research first. All I ask is that they are not wasted
and they go to a really good home. My guess/hope is that this day at Old
Trafford will stick in your memory longer than the cash equivalent or any
gadget I could give you. And in fairness, if you read my blog, and are still
reading the last paragraph, you deserve a treat.
