After nearly eight years and a quarter of a million words, I bid my readers farewell

[Published in The Journal, Monday 5th January 2015] 

In 2007, when Brian Aitken, editor of The Journal, took me to lunch and invited me to write a weekly column, he was very persuasive. 

“What on earth would I write about?” I asked, flattered that anyone would ask me to contribute to such an important institution. 

“Your glamorous life,” he said. 

“It’s not remotely glamorous,” I said, thinking of our windswept farmhouse. I had moved back to the region a few months earlier with my then girlfriend, after 5 years in Los Angeles. Joanna and I wanted to get away from the world of entertainment to what we were convinced would be a rural idyll. It was a very hot summer when we visited on holiday – 2006, if you remember it. Jo thought this was the most beautiful place in the world. She was right - so we moved here. 

Having been brought up in Northumberland and schooled in Newcastle, I’d spent the previous four decades in London and America making television programmes. Finally I was home, with big skies, noisy sheep, and mud. Particularly mud. For it transpired that 2006 was a one-off. The cold reality of Northumbrian life was now ours; glamour was no longer on the agenda. 

“Just drop a few names,” said Keith Hann, my ex-RGS schoolfriend who had suggested the column to Brian. 

“Write about all the famous people you’ve slept with.” 

“I haven’t slept…” I protested, then, realising that Keith knew too much, murmured: “Well, they’re not that famous.” 

“Besides, you’ll only stick it for 9 months,” said Brian. “Then you’ll run out of material and start to repeat yourself. All columnists recycle their stories – look at Banksy.” 

Then he added without a hint of irony: “Not that anyone notices, of course.” 

And so it began. Nearly 400 editions and a quarter of a million words later, enough for several bad novels, it’s finally time to sheath the pen. Or, rather, quit the Word folder. For this is my last Monday column. 

As far as I know I haven’t actually repeated a story, and I hope I haven’t breached too many confidences. From Chris Evans to Amy Winehouse, David Dimbleby to Emma Thompson, I know I’ve namedropped for England, but you’ve been terribly polite by not complaining. I’ve written about Boris Johnson and Britain’s Got Talent, Russell Brand and Russell Harty, Simon Cowell and Syria. I’ve followed the recession and the weather, and I’ll always follow Newcastle United. 

But I’ve also taken the opportunity to share some heartfelt thoughts about the North East and how shabbily it is treated by our politicians, our media, and the rest of the population. This is my home, and I am grateful to have been given a platform to voice my support where I’ve felt it might be useful. 

Some characters have appeared more than others. Mum has made 29 appearances, Joanna, now my wife, has 78. But no-one has featured more than Izzy. Our daughter’s first entry was on Fathers’ Day 2008 (admittedly as Ozzy, for we weren’t sure if the newly-discovered embryo was a boy or a girl). Today is her 94th appearance. This chronicle of a little girl’s life through the eyes of an ageing father will one day inspire her to buy up every back issue of The Journal and destroy them. 

Today Izzy turns six and, as part of her birthday present, I have decided to gift her my Sunday mornings. Every Sunday of her life I’ve risen early, imbibed three double espressos, and faced a blank computer screen. Last week, on Boxing Day, we were playing 'Guess Who?' when Izzy started miming someone furiously typing. 

“Who’s that?” I asked. 

“It’s you, Daddy – always writing your article.” 

She’s right: 400 Sunday mornings is a lot of life to lose. So Izzy - this is the last time I tell you I’m busy; and Boots, Truffle and Mabel - Sunday mornings are now for dog-walking. Happy New Year! 

[I’ve hugely enjoyed the experience, and I’ll still be making occasional contributions to the newspaper. 

If you’re interested in reading my Monday columns from the very beginning, click here.  Or please visit this blog from time to time to discover the odd new chapter (or even sign up as a Follower to get alerts).   For now, though, thanks so much for following, and farewell.]

Another wretched half-term

How wonderful – yet another hour of the wretched half term holiday to fill. 

After Time went backwards yesterday morning, Jo and I desperately tried to think of ways to keep our household asleep. Short of giving everyone a dose of Valium, we couldn’t come up with a solution, and as a result Izzy and the three dogs bounced into our room at 6.30am, ready for exercise and entertainment. 

We tried reasoning with them all: It’s not getting-up-time for another hour, we said, indicating the newly-turned-back alarm clock, but they wouldn’t be told. Izzy pointed at the dawn streaming through the window, while the dogs turned threatening little circles by the front door. Time waits for neither dog nor Rice Krispies. So much for the “lie in” the BBC weatherman promised us the night before.

A really good idea

It seemed like a good idea at the time. 

Boots was about six inches long when we bought him, with the sweetest face and long, soft hair. I don’t think we ever checked the size of a fully grown English shepherd. Or if we did, we must have read centimetres for inches. For soon Boots was the size of a Shetland pony, an enormous hairy beast. 

Happy hair and a new gob

 

Apparently this George Northwood bloke is pretty hot stuff.

While Jo was texting me progress reports from the salon – “eek, I’m about to meet George”; “they have a dog called Freddy”; “he’s reeeeeealllly nice!” – I was reading an article about George Northwood in The Telegraph.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

 

Oh dear, I have a terrible feeling about this. 

I do hope she knows what she’s doing. There’ll be tears by sundown. Jo, my wife, is having a haircut. 

Not just any old haircut, but a complete schism, an independence movement from her current look. Like the Scots, there’ll be no going back after this.

Jeremy Clarkson and the 'N'-word

Joanna was confused. 


“So why did Jeremy Clarkson use the ‘N’-word in ‘Eeny Meeny Miny Moe’?” she asked innocently. 

Being American, my wife was brought up in a world where the only creatures ever caught by the toe were tigers. 

Jo is a modern woman, born in 1970. At school in Los Angeles, they always used tigers in this playground rhyme. My own children used tigers too, and my eldest is 32. They would no more consider using the ‘N’-word in a sentence than they would use the “C”-word in front of their parents. 

The ‘N’-word was part of an earlier generation. Mine, and Clarkson’s.

Playing Deal or No Deal - Flatpack Edition

Izzy was really worried about her new bedroom, so Jo tried to reassure her. 

“You’ll have all your dolls there, and Ariel the fish.” 

“But is it going to be purple?” 

A long pause. Then Jo said: “Yes, it will have purple curtains.”  I rolled my eyes in disbelief. What will the neighbours in Hampstead think?

“And there’ll be bunk beds too?” 

Behind Izzy’s back I was vigorously shaking my head at Jo. No, no bunk beds, please. But Jo’s mouth was already open. 

“Yes, definitely bunk beds.” 

That clinched it. Our daughter screamed and did her little happy dance. Izzy has been desperate to sleep in a top bunk. 

It's a hot dog's life

As Murphy and I push open the metal gates of the dog park, a three-legged black labrador nearly wags itself off balance in excitement. 

Murphy waves his grey bushy tail in greeting and sets about his daily examination of the canine message boards. Murphy is half cocker, half English shepherd. He’s my brother-in-law’s mutt and the reason we turned our world upside down by buying our own English shepherd. 

We wanted a dog just like Murphy – friendly with a bushy tail. Unfortunately we miscalculated the relative contributions of spaniel and shepherd to the Murphy mix and ended up with a horse. 

Even on four legs, Boots now stands taller than Izzy. At least he’s stopped eating the chair legs. Now we fear for the ceiling.

Why do women love expensive handbags?

So Oprah Winfrey was upset because a shop assistant refused to show her a handbag? She only wanted it to hold her lipstick at Tina Turner’s wedding. 

I guess the fact it cost £24,000, was made of dead crocodile, and was designed by Tom Ford for Jennifer Aniston (hence it’s name, The Jennifer), made it newsworthy. Oh, and the fact that the shop assistant thought she couldn’t afford it. Because she was black, Oprah claims. Now that’s a story.

Vegetable Wars

Courgette surprise

We have a vegetable crisis. 

In the garden I have 15 raised beds, all neatly organised and rotated. They are a thing of wonder. 

Or so I thought. I know, I’m a vegetable bore. I insist that unsuspecting dinner guests take a tour of my vegetable patch before they can enjoy our canapés. 

But the other week, as soon as some friends arrived for supper, the husband asked to see my garden with just a little too much enthusiasm. This was suspicious. 

“How’s it going?” he asked, as we passed the greenhouse, aubergines fighting cucumbers and peppers for space. 

I sensed a dangerous smugness in his voice. I showed him my bulging peas and beans, calmly growing towards their moment of destiny. He moved on, feigning as much interest as a member of the royal family. But I knew he wasn’t really looking. He was comparing.

A new Mrs Gutteridge

Another Mrs Gutteridge entered the world on Saturday. 

This time I wasn’t responsible – my eldest son, a film director, has finally tied the knot. 

The wedding took place at the home of an ex-Mrs Gutteridge, Jilly, my first wife and mother of the groom. It’s always nice to see the by-product of one of my divorce settlements: in this case, it's a picture-book beautiful farmhouse in Sussex, a perfect setting for any wedding.

Izzy's pretty house

Izzy is a little confused about the process of moving house. 

“Please can we take this house with us to Nana’s, but not the sky?” 

This took a little while to sink in. You want us to take the house to America? 

“Yes, because it’s so pretty and all my toys are in it.” 

“But why not the sky?” 

“Because the sky is nicer at Nana’s.”

After the holiday

Jo nudged me awake. “Are you awake?” she whispered. 

“I’ve been awake for the past five days,” I growled. Another hour of sleeplessness wasn’t going to make any difference. 

Next door we could hear Izzy singing. She makes up the lyrics as she goes along. She’s singing about mermaids on sunny beaches and Truffle our dog marrying Boots, the monkey from Dora the Explorer. 

It’s 4am. Five days after our return from Los Angeles, Izzy still has jetlag. As a result, so do we.

Letter from America

Happiness is a warm beach

As we drove over the hill, white smoke was billowing out to sea. Or rather ocean. 

Our American friends laugh when I describe the Pacific Ocean as the sea. They scoff when I mispronounce their streets: Sunset Boo-le-vard, rather than buller-vard. I even mispronounce their city: Los Angelees, to rhyme with peas. 

“It’s Los Angeliss, to rhyme with hiss,” says Jo.

Mothers' Day

More people have a mother than a lover, observed the consumer research analyst from Kantar Worldpanel, explaining why we spend twice as much on Mother’s Day as we do on Valentine’s Day. 

Apparently this year’s sales are likely to have dipped because Mother’s Day came early. With the two events so close, and Christmas just a few crumpled-wrapping-paper weeks before, it’s not surprising that our wallets have been feeling a little jaded. Apparently we’re all suffering from “gifting fatigue”.

Boots Goes To School

“Here, Poppy!” called out a female voice, more in hope than anticipation. 

Instantly three little dogs dashed across the room, wagging their tails in excitement. 

“Good girl,” said three owners simultaneously. 

Poppy is clearly the in-vogue name for dogs – there appeared to be several of them in Central Bark, our local dog training school (or maybe “Puppy” sounds like “Poppy” in a Geordie accent?). I guess the teachers in Izzy’s school have the same problem with the multiple Olivers and Charlies. 

“Boots!” I called out, confident in the knowledge that only one dog would react. My puppy, who was pretending to eat a small spaniel, immediately turned and looked at me and I felt a flush of pride. That’s my boy. 

“Here Boots!” I called, and he replied by bounding off in the opposite direction.

Vive Le Toon

On Saturday I read Jo a news report, which claimed that Tynemouth not only boasted one of the ten best beaches in Britain, but was also at that very moment the warmest place in England at 2° Centigrade. 

“See,” I said, “Who needs California when we’ve got the Geordie Shore Riviera?” The flying hot water bottle missed my head by millimetres.

RIP Mr Etch-A-Sketch

Boots the new puppy has now added chairs to his diet. The one I’m sitting on has scores of little teeth marks down the leg. 

Jo says it improves them because they now look old and worn. She says everything looks better with a little wear and tear, including me.

How Was It For You? - The Worst New Year Ever!

Well, that wasn’t a very good start to the New Year. 

“How was it for you?” people ask politely. 

“Lovely, thanks, and for you?” I’m supposed to reply. 

But that would be a lie. So far it’s been a miserable 2013.

The Best Christmas Present Ever

Well, that wasn’t too bad. I can’t believe I’ve reached Christmas Eve without completely tearing my hair out. 

I put it down to two factors: first, our wonderful and generous neighbours Dick and Linda have invited us (and Mum) for lunch on Christmas Day, so for once I’m not panicking about whether the turkey is the right size, or whether I’ve remembered the goose fat, because now we don’t need either. Thank you so much, Linda. I just hope we’re still friends after the charades. 

Oh, didn’t I tell you about that? Mum, who’s nearly 92, has to play charades on Christmas afternoon.