The Racism debate

I've been watching the Raheem Sterling story unfold over the last few days, listening to what friends have to say, reading posts on social media.

It's an interesting situation without a doubt, and one that as a brown boy growing up in a white family I have first hand experience of. I'm not saying what's right or wrong but providing a perspective from a person who isn't a multi millionaire young footballer, but has experienced some similar struggles.

To give a brief background - I'm of mixed origin, half Indian and that's fairly obvious. I was adopted from birth into a fantastic loving family, who are white. Obviously there's no problem with that whatsoever, but I'm trying to convey how white people are treated differently. Experience number 1, I came home from primary school aged 6 and asked my mum what a n**ger was, as I'd been called it at school that day. 'Ask your father when he gets home'....... My dad's answer was that it was a stupid word for someone who isn't very popular. The kid who called it me probably didn't know either.

As I got older it got worse. Loud comments on the school bus such as 'It stinks of dog shit on here, must be that paki'. Hilarious. At this point I was about ten years old. My white pals would tell me to ignore these regular taunts from the older kids. I'd hold back the tears until I got home, then rush to my bedroom because I didn't want to tell my folks.

Big brother to the rescue. He became aware and the main culprit was dealt with. However, at the time that this situation was resolved, the culprit still didn't believe that this person with the same surname was my brother. Still, the word got around that I was actually from a white family and all this behaviour almost ceased, and in fact many of these kids made attempts to befriend me when they realised I had this cool, older brother. Perception versus reality. Combined with absolute stupidity and a need to show off.

It continued a bit more throughout school, especially when Nick (big brother) left, but by that stage I was becoming quite capable of fighting my own battles.

Then I left the sanctuary and safety of the school environment and went out into the big bad world of work and adult life. At this point Nick was back home and we were working together, doing quite well. And the negative behaviour began again. At this point I'd pretty much learnt to turn a blind eye. On one occasion in a club me and Nick were talking to a couple of young ladies, drinking champagne as was our want, but minding our own business. Some guy came over, tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and he said, comically 'Oi, we were talking to them you paki bastard', then treated me to a right hook. I don't know why he'd assault me and taunt me with abuse about my skin colour? He could have picked on Nick? Anyway, the girls were evidently impressed by this display of alpha male heroism, we left the champagne and departed.

As I've got older it barely happens now. People say stuff unwittingly which doesn't bother me in the slightest - stuff like 'So where are you from then?' That's no biggy, but it happened not so long ago when I was in a business meeting. Afterwards my colleague asked - 'Why didn't they ask me that? Doesn't it piss you off?' Nah not really, to me that's an innocent question based on curiosity, although to him it was more.

Anyhow, just a few examples, there are plenty more but all with a similar undertone.

I think Raheem has done a great job, he responded at the time with a smile and made a very good point about how people can be perceived to be treated differently due to colour. I agree, because I've lived it. You can form your own opinion.

I'll just leave this picture here from 1988, which hopefully shows how things have improved and continue to do so.

The Mind of a Man - Part 2

Given the amount of people who read my previous blog, I though it would be a good idea to provide an update on the situation 6 months down the line.

Well, I can honestly say I've never felt better. Seriously. Which leads me to think that this depressed state of mind has existed for a long, long time. Probably 10 years plus.

The interesting thing for me is that 9 or 10 months ago I didn't believe that this level of happiness and stability could ever be achieved. And that I'd spend the rest of my life putting on a brave face and secretly dying inside. It's just not the case - knowing that there actually is light at the end of the tunnel has changed my total outlook on life and the issues that I am dealing with.

So the conclusion is simple - if you're not feeling great then tell someone. Tell me if you want - because it can get better.

It's OK not to be OK.

The Mind of a Man

                          The mind of a man.

Straight forward isn’t it? You kill an animal, drag it home, skin and gut it, then give it to the woman to prepare a lovely meal.

That’s what blokes do – provide. Safety, shelter, security, protection. Nothing stops them, nothing phases them, they take on anyone and anything.

No. In recent years there’s been some startling revelations about men’s mental health. Prince Harry, Simon Thomas, have made some fantastic public views about their journeys. But I’m not 5^th in line to the throne, or on Sky Sports. I’m just a bloke, struggling to deal with shit. And that’s an admission, I struggle to deal with shit. But that’s a new sensation, it’s never happened before.

Sitting on the end of my bed, shaking and crying uncontrollably. Alone, wondering how the fuck it came to this. Not even wanting to feel this way, but strangely not being able to change that feeling. 

It’s mental, literally.

How did it get to this? Years of heartache, one thing and another, and telling nobody, keeping it stored up there, assuming it might one day miraculously go away. Because that’s what men do, right? Don’t worry anyone else with your problems, they’re just that. Your problems, nobody else’s. You own them, you deal with it.

Wrong. It’s an old saying ‘A problem shared is a problem halved’ or something like that. When my girlfriend escorted me to see a doctor, it was a weight lifted from my shoulders. The doctor was amazing. ‘It’s ok not to be ok’ he said. A phrase I repeat to myself regularly.

So, I spent a year visiting my GP on a regular basis, adamant I wasn’t going to take medication. I knew I could deal with this, I’m a man after all. But I couldn’t. I found myself shaking, crying, without a clue about what was going on.

What did I do? I sent out a text to really close mates, as best as I could whilst shaking and crying, asking for a call. And they called. And I told them. And they listened. And they understood. And my girlfriend understands too. She knows I’m still that man, who provides and protects, but who also has a sensitive side.

I’m almost out of it now, I think. But were it not for the admission and the request for help, the support of people around me, I dread to think where this may have ended up.

It’s ok not to be ok.

What you gonna be when you grow up?

I still ponder this question......
My career advice from my careers advice officer (why is it plural? I only ever wanted one career) at the private school where I was so privileged to be went like this....
"Do you want to be an accountant Sanderson?"
"Err, no Sir"
"Do you want to be a lawyer Sanderson?"
"Not really Sir"
"Do you want to be a teacher Sanderson?"
"Yes Sir, I do, I like that idea. What does a teacher earn?"
"Why Sanderson?"
"Because Sir, by the time I'm thirty I'll be married and I'll have kids so I'll need a big detached house, lovely gardens, plenty of parking because I'll have a Golf GTi, my wife will have her car too, and there'll be one for the weekend. And if I'm not married, then I'll need a Porsche and a swanky pad in a city centre so I at least have the tools to find a wife. And if not I'll at least have a good time." Apparently teaching was no good either. And here ended my short career(s) advice session.

But things change so much. My kids know what they want to do, they've got it all worked out. So in the making we have a sports professional. And that's all sorted, qualifications needed, courses to go on. Earn 6 figures as a ref, for two days a week mate, apparently. God forbid I'd ever mentioned that as an option at the Grammar School. I'd have been ushered out of the gates, onto the bus and off to the local comprehensive before you could say David Beckham.
Next up is the architect - at 11 years of age he watches repeat after repeat of Grand Designs. Sod Beckham, Kevin McCloud is where it's at. You may have seen some of the wonderful creations on Facebook? We've had the Lego Playboy Mansion, resplendent in glass, with indoor and outdoor pools. The Lego strip club with the cubed pole...?
And finally, the salon.... I can rock up there at any time of the day, and my aches and pains are cured instantly whilst relaxing in a comfortable leather settee, sipping a cool beer, watching TV. Twenty minutes there and I'm a new man, albeit 50p lighter.

So there we have it; a sporting pro, a globally renowned architect, and a national chain of men's pamper rooms. This time in ten years Rodders............

Two bits of advice I wish I'd taken....

As a kid we know it all, doesn't matter what anyone says. There are two pieces of advice, delivered by my parents that I should have noted. I know that at some point in the future my kids will sit there thinking, "You know what, that old fart did actually know what he was talking about". So, in no particular order.....

You need to try harder at school.
Well, show me a child who hasn't heard that. And no, I didn't care either. And I've pretty much paid the price ever since. And I've used the same line. And it's been ignored. I'm going to try with more conviction and reason because at the end of the day, I'll be picking up the pieces.....

Keep hold of that one.
I didn't. Sadly I let go of 'That One'. In hindsight the old boy was probably right although I'll never know. 'That One' seems to be in a happy place and that's where 'That One' will most likely remain. But, who knows, one day 'That One' could become 'The One'.

Take heed people.

The Gene Pool



Not that sort of Jean Pool.....

Fascinating stuff this. Why do we do the things we do, like the stuff we like, look the way we look? It's something I often ponder about, too much time on my hands? Definitely.

So are we who we are because of our inherited genes, or are we influenced and swayed as we go through life?



See any similarities? Me neither.

This is so fascinating for me as I was adopted from the day dot. I'm not genetically linked to my family at all. This is clearly evident via general appearance. I peaked at a woeful 5'8", my brothers and father are all well over over 6'. I've dark brown skin, they're bordering on pasty white. This has led to some very interesting conversations over the years, primarily whilst trying to woo members of the opposite sex, and to enforce the fact that we are indeed brothers, not lovers. My kids on the otherhand, have huge visual similarities to me and their mum. No need for any Jezza Kyle DNA tests there then.?

A few here though

Not surprisingly, we tend to look like our gene donors. Where it gets really interesting is when we move onto a person's character and personality. I love football, my brothers and dad don't. My son does. My parents were avid tennis players, therefore my budding football career became a tennis one. I still play tennis now. I'm mad about cars, but was always alone with that passion as a kid. In fact I was regularly berated by my dad for spending 'ridiculous sums' on motors. Both my boys love cars, and have petrol running through their veins (not diesel...)

I'd like to think I have decent manners, that runs through the family. My dad was a gentleman, opened doors, served the ladies first, with impeccable grace. I'm hoping my children will be the same. That could be genetic, I'll never know, but it was certainly instilled in me from an early age.

The real twist came a few years ago. When you have a family of your own it's natural to wonder how your children will turn out. To understand this completely there was a huge piece of my genetic jigsaw missing, details of my biological parents. I set off on the quest to find out more, not that it had ever been hidden from me, but I was now very curious. I acquired my adoption papers which included detailed profiles of my natural mother and father. Wow. It all made sense now. He stood at a lofty 5'4", she 4'11". For me to get to 5'8" was quite an achievement. Father was Indian (I knew that already), mother was white caucasian. Father's passions were listed as cars and football. He had a small collection of classic vehicles, and had been close to a career as a professional footballer. He was deemed to be a bit of a 'lad'. Apparently something of a womaniser. Fair enough. They were both in the medical profession - I pass out at the sight of blood, in fact I fainted at my first son's birth!

Interesting stuff I hope you'll agree. My conclusion? I've yet to come to a satisfactory one. I guess genes shape you physically, and give you a handful of personal traits. But your life influences truly shape you into the person you are.

Life and Death

"'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all", Alfred Tennyson wisely said many years ago. And how right he was. I deem myself quite fortunate as death never had a huge effect on me until well into adulthood, my existence was always graced with abundant life. Until 2006, when my Mum passed away, then in 2008 my Dad swiftly followed. My fond memories vastly outweigh the immense pain of the loss, although at the time it didn't seem so.

My Mum was incredible. As a toddler it was just the two of us. My Dad worked overseas a lot and my siblings were in full time education. Our days consisted of 3 activities; me dutifully following her around the house whilst she carried out the daily chores, being steered through Tesco in a damned uncomfortable trolley, or rolling down the grassy bank at the tennis club whilst she had some well deserved 'me time'. It was her sense of humour that got me the most though. Her favourite story, which she told superbly (practice makes perfect) was from the summer of 1972. We were embarking on the family summer holiday to an hotel in Wales. Mum, Dad, 15 year old son, daughter of 13 and youngest son of 6. The entourage also included a 16 year old Spanish au pair, the daughter of one of my dad's work associates. A month prior to the departure I arrived on the scene via the adoption agency, a half-caste little bundle of joy (oh how things change). One week before lift off, a teenage Japanese boy was added to the tribe, courtesy of another of Dads' work associates. The family saloon car was dumped in favour of a Transit minibus, and off we went. Ariving at the hotel, Dad did the checking in, Mum gathered the troops together in a quiet corner. A very well-to-do lady approached Mum and exclaimed loudly, "Oh my dear, what a wide and varied family you have!" My mum's reply, "Yes madam, it's down to my husband. You see he works abroad a lot!" You couldn't make that stuff up. Fond memories indeed.

The phone call came on a Saturday evening in mid September. Sitting at home all settled for an evening in front of the TV, the phone rang. I answered, it was my Dad.
"You're home then?"
"Erm,well yes,"
"Are you sitting down?"
"What's up Dad?"
"Nothing, is everyone there?"
"Yes, what's up Dad?"
"Have you got a drink?"
"Jesus Dad, what's up?"
"Your Mum's got cancer, there's nothing we can do and she's got 12 months maximum."
"Right, I'll just get that drink.." I was back at the phone in seconds and Mum was on the other end.
"I'm sorry we had to tell you on the phone lovey but we've not seen you in a while." The second killer blow of the evening.
"Erm, right. Are you ok?" What a stupid thing to say.
"Of course I am love. I'm fine. I will be for a while. Treatment starts in a few weeks, I'd really like to see the kids before then because I can't see them when it's started".
"No problem, we'll see you tomorrow morning".

That was that then. I had 12 months to come to terms with it, and they were a difficult 12 months. For the first 6 she was fine, a bit tired as you'd expect. Then the treatment stopped and the decline began. Dad had taken the decision that she would remain at home for the duration. I visited at least once a week and as time went on she became more and more fragile and finally bed ridden. On my visits I'd sit by her bed, show her photo's of the children and talk about what was going in our lives. She just listened and smiled. Then one day for some reason, I mentioned that the chairs from the kitchen table were falling apart. This became our main topic of the coming weeks, the rapid demise of my kitchen chairs - retrospectively quite ironic.
I arrived for what turned out to be my final visit. Dad opened the door with the solemn words, "make the most of this one, I think it's gonna be the last." Shit. I knew it was coming but I didn't want to hear it. I went into her bedroom. She must have weighed less that 5 stone. She'd been in that bed for two months. I couldn't help but look on in pity for a split moment. Then I sat down and poured my heart out. I told her how proud I was, how privilged I felt that she'd chosen me, how much we all loved her. She listened and smiled faintly. I leant over to give her my final ever kiss and cuddle, as my cheek rested against hers she mustered some strength and whispered in my ear, "get your father to write you a cheque for some new kitchen chairs. I love you all". Caring and comedy to the very, very end. Incredible. She died that night. It was a real mixed bag of emotions. I think I'd grieved already, and I was actually relieved to a certain extent. But I had a huge void in my life, which will never be filled.

My relationship with my Dad moved to new levels after my Mum had died. We became great friends. I've had enormous respect all my life for my Dad, but we always had a 'Father/Son' relationship. Not any more. We had lots of one on one time. We'd go walking, go for a beer. Talk about cars, football, even women. He admitted one day that when I was a teenager he and Mum used to take my cigarettes and hide them in the meter cupboard. "I know", I told him, "I used to take them out and leave the empty packets in there!" We laughed like idiots. He came on two summer holidays with us, both to Anglesey, he was done with flying. The last one was in August 2008. He ran around the beach playing frisby and cricket with his grandkids like he was a teenager. 6 weeks later he was dead. There's the big difference, I had warning with my Mum. I didn't with my Dad. I never got the chance to say the things I wanted to. He took himself into hospital with a bad chest and never came out. I went to see him the first day he was in, to be told I was a bleeding idiot and to stop fussing. Within the week he was in intensive care. We dropped everything. My sister, my two brothers and I went to be by his side. Remarkably he was getting better. My sister remained at Dad's house, the boys went back to work. I was in a meeting the next day in Oxford when my sister rang. I took the call, "He's taken a turn for the worse, they want to induce him into a coma." Shit, again. "Right, I'm coming now, don't go anywhere, I'll be 2 hours maximum." A crazy ride that one and I'll never forget it. I picked her up at midday, and we went to the hospital. Hospital signage is challenging at the best of times, but in situations like this it drove me insane, trying to find his location. 
We gave the permission to place him in a comatose state, the idea being that machines would take over his body, allowing his lungs to recover. I have to take my hat off to the people that work there. Each day I visited a previously filled bed was empty. I couldn't do that.
There was a small amount of hope, but the doctors had made it very clear, it was very small. After 5 days we were told that he was now being totally sustained by equipment and it was time to switch off. All very matter of fact, but how else could it be? We agreed to it and I left swiftly. As I drove home a song came on the radio, Wires by Athlete. The words summed up perfectly my last few days.

I was nearly home when the hospital phoned. That was it. Parentless. Shit, shit, shit. I went to the pub, raised a glass to the two most incredible, influential people in my life and went home.

Not a day goes by that I don't think about them. I'm happy to admit I struggled for a long time. I actually felt let down by them somewhat stupidly. After some nagging from a then very close friend, I went to see a psychiatrist. I liked to think of myself as Shropshire's Charlie Sheen. It worked, I still miss them, but more than anything I cherish those wonderful times we had together.