Steve Jobs 1955-2011

‎"Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary."
- Steve Jobs

don't tell me the score

I'm a Coleraine FC fan. I'm not obsessive - I don't have a CFC duvet and pillow set; I don't even have a season ticket. I simply go to a match or two each month and keep an eye on their scores and league position. I am the only one of my friends who ever pulls on the blue and white stripes to go shout at a bunch of footballers in the rain at the showgrounds - so I was more than a little surprised when a friend asked me if I fancied going to the game today. He is the least likely football fan on the planet - he had very recently gone and got himself engaged so I just assumed he was in a weakened mental state and, thinking this was not an occurrence likely to happen again, bit his arm off.

We set off - I in my retro 1960s CFC jersey with the big red number 6 on the back - he in a sports jacket (refusing to wear the blue and white striped scarf I brought specially.) It turns out we weren't just going for the match. A project involving local children and our resident world renowned artist, Ross Wilson, had culminated in a piece of art being unveiled at the showgrounds before the match. Lots of different agencies/organisations were involved. Coleraine Rural and Urban Network, Coleraine Borough Council, PSNI... sometimes I worry that things like this involve more committees and subcommittees than the young people they are actually designed to help. But that isn't to devalue this particular project - it actually involved young people in three areas of the town. Each group identified a sporting legend, three heros who embodied something special - positive role models. Each of the legends were to be immortalised in pieces of public art - which brings me to why I was turning up to the Coleraine Showgrounds, two hours too early for the match.

A group of young people had chosen Paul Gaston as the subject for their mural. Unless you're a Coleraine fan you may not know a lot about Gacky but for me, and apparently those young folk, he is a modern legend. He made his debut for Coleraine in 1989 and was still playing for them 600 games later in 2007. My personal favourite memory was watching him play in the cup final in 2003 - the year Coleraine took the Irish Cup home from Belfast. A player who embodied pride and loyalty for his club - a firm fan favourite if ever there was one.

Ross, I'm sure I've mentioned before. This wasn't his first connection to Coleraine FC. He was the artist who created the statue of Bertie Peacock which stands in the town centre. The man is steadily making his way through my list of footballing heroes. If I had my way he'd be creating murals of each of Coleraine's players from history. Take a look at the depressing corrugated metal wall at the back of the terrace in this photo. Imagine each section covered with a mural for Bertie Peacock, Des Dickson, Victor Hunter, Felix Healey... Can you imagine how inspiring it would be for the young people of our town - the disenfranchised, the disillusioned young people - to look up when they're at a soccer match to see themselves surrounded by role models who understood the concept of overcoming difficulties, learning from failures, striving to succeed and fulfil dreams? Even as I write this I can feel how twee it all is - and yet I want it to happen all the more.

So what do Coleraine football club do? They take this mural of a loyal servant to the club - someone who gave his heart and soul for the Coleraine fans - and they stick it on the end of a stand in the corner of the ground so people can only see it if they crane their necks round. It is a crying shame that they don't take more pride in someone who showed such pride in pulling on their colours every week for eighteen years. The people that run the club should maybe try to remember what it's like to be a fan again sometimes - I think that their lovely smart crested blazers and ties suppress the memory occasionally.

So onto the match. That's what I was there for - well that and to get the opportunity to have a chat and grab a photo of Gacky. I sat through the speeches - I endured the pleasantries - I forced down the finger food - all because I was going to watch the Coleraine v Portadown match from the posh boxes at the back of the stand. I was looking forward to it. Unfortunately my friend had got his calculations wrong and informed me that we were due to meet up with his sister and her family and that we were late. It was okay, I assured him, I didn't mind; it'd probably be a pretty dull match anyway. And off we went just before kick off. It felt odd leaving the stadium as everyone else was arriving but I didn't mind. It was only a football match...

It was only the football match of the year! Twice Coleraine came from behind before scoring in the closing moments to win 4 goals to 3. A match packed with goals (including one that travelled from within Coleraine's own half of the pitch), sendings off and all kinds of excitement. I could have been watching it from the posh boxes. Instead I left before it had even begun. I won't hold it against Dave though - he's getting married - that's punishment enough.

get your cupcakes - get your cupcakes here

How often do you look at someone doing a different job and think, 'I could do that. I'd be good at that. Why am I wasting my life away teaching when I could be a train driver... a traffic warden... a park keeper... yes, I have had occasion to envy each of these professions - don't judge me - and today I am a cupcake seller. I love it.

It's not my first time. I've helped a friend on and off with his american cookies and cupcakes business. When he's overstretched and can't be in three places at once I help him out. I also spent a glorious part of my life working night shift in a Tim Hortons coffee shop. That was the best time of my life - no question.

Don't get me wrong, I love teaching; but sometimes it's easy to get a little jaded. Sometimes the pressures involved take a little shine off it. Sometimes it's easy to feel underappreciated and unloved. Selling baked goods just makes me happy. People like you when you sell them cupcakes. They smile when they see you; they are genuinely happy you exist in their lives. I'm not sure that can be said of all my pupils as a teacher. I love the cut and thrust - the banter - the twinkle in the eye - a bit of charm - a bit of a flirt (I can't be doing that as a teacher either) - give the customer a smile and an extra cookie thrown in, since they've been so nice.

I should probably come clean at this point and admit that, personally, I don't even like cupcakes. They are generally a sickly waste of the planets resources. They have no reason to exist (Though it has to be said that my friend, Nathan's, cupcakes are a pretty special waste of Earth's resources - truly the lightest, fluffiest, smoothest tasting waste available.) But do you have to like something to sell it? I certainly don't have to like silly iced pieces of fluff (sorry Nathan, delicious silly iced pieces of fluff) to have a great time selling cupcakes. I'd hate to think how miserable it would be to teach a subject I didn't love myself. There are teachers out there - teaching subjects they have no love for. I am so incredibly lucky to love what I teach.

Could I really leave education to sell cupcakes or donuts full time? No, of course not. I would soon get bored. I'd miss the dramas and challenges of the classroom too much. But for today I am not a teacher - I am a purveyor of cupcakes. So if you happen to be in Coleraine and feel the urge for a little drop of sugary happiness, come and say hello.

the narrow path to the super highway

It's an image thing I know, but I like to see myself as someone who travels the path less trod when it comes to popular culture. I always have done. Aged ten I was in a primary school surrounded by Manchester United and Liverpool football fans - so I support Newcastle United. In secondary school all my friends supported the Ulster rugby team - I chose to follow London Irish instead. At university I started watching a new american sitcom, rather uninspiringly called 'Friends.' I quite liked it, until everyone seemed to be watching it and I lost interest. The same thing happened with the West Wing, and so on and so on.

And now I'm in a quandary. I was browsing the shelves of my local second hand book school when I happened upon a little orange paperback that looked like it hadn't been read at all. Intrigued I took a quick scan, checked the blurb, and eventually bought it thinking I might have found another hidden gem.

A few days later my sister was talking to me when she spotted the book lying on my desk. "Ah" she said, "You're reading 'One Day'"
"I haven't started it yet. Have you heard of it then?"

And so it turns out that my little orange paperback is not so much a hidden gem as a glittering jewel that's been on display in a national museum for the past two years. It has been extensively reviewd and garnered mainly positive write ups. It was the best selling british novel in 2010 and has sold over a million copies. According to the Times "it is only a matter of time before you read 'One Day'" And to make matters worse a screenplay version of it has just opened in the cinemas this week.

How can I be so far behind the Zeitgeist? You've all heard of it - so how have I missed it? When did I wander off my little less trod path and veer onto the slip road for the M1?

So you see my dilemma. Do I ignore my image issues and become the 60,141st person to read it this week; or do I return it, spine unbroken, to a little secondhand bookshop somewhere. Dammit! That's already been done!

music in the (open) air

I think it has become my music venue of choice - the Cornmarket in Belfast, Arthur Square. It's not a grand concert hall with pristine acoustics - in fact the acoustics are horrible. It's not an intimate little basement venue where the artists can truly engage with their audience - in fact 90% of the audience only pause briefly to listen before continuing to go about the daily business of existence. It's not a space filled with music history, where legends have belted out crowd pleasers to their adoring fans. It is simply a junction of five pedestrianised street in the city centre, and a rather odd sculpture.

And yet on three separate occasions I have found myself abandoning plans to sit in mesmerised awe as a musician or group entertain the shopping masses free of charge. Well, for spare change anyway.

Most recently it was a latin jazz group over from Edinburgh. I sat for an entire afternoon as they performed the most unlikely covers - who would have thought 'Jenny from the Block' would work so well cuban style? And as for 'Come Together' ... I don't say this lightly ... better than the original. Absolutely incredible. I've never been as moved by a Lennon/McCartney song.

They're called Tequila Mocking-bird. A collective of music students from Edinburgh University. I was on my way to a first date. I may have been a little late. But it was their fault. I was in Belfast in plenty of time - I'd even had time to do a recce of the location. When I was wandering round Belfast city centre and heard the music I checked - I had time to listen to a couple of songs. Maybe a couple more... Everytime I got up to move on they would kick in with another salsa beat and I would be glued down. I ended up staying until the very end of their set and chatting to them briefly. To my horror they were just coming to the end of an Irish tour and were heading back to Scotland the next day. Even worse - they had played a gig only five miles from home the day before. I bought a cd of their new composition and promised to keep an eye on their list of upcoming live performances. Then ran to the pub, trying to think up a suitable excuse for being late. Great first impression.

I thoroughly encourage you to track them down and listen to them live if you get the opportunity. They are a talented bunch and ridiculously young. Attractive young things should not be allowed to be so talented - blessings should be shared around all of us a bit more. I look forward to hearing them again - for they will return - and I will not miss them next time. If it means rearranging dates or bringing the date along; I will see them live in an actual venue - not a street corner.

On the subject of the date - you may be wondering why this isn't in the 'reasons why I'm single' series. Well, actually the date went pretty well - but better yet - she got caught up in work and turned up even later than me. Guilt free tardiness and a free music performance... does life get better?

I am the best teacher you never had

Don't take my word for it - I have a plethora of testimonials from pupils I never taught as evidence. Indeed it's an astonishing fact that pupils I haven't taught are statistically much more likely to rate my teaching ability than those I actually taught.

Recently I was asked about privately tutoring a couple of pupils from a previous school. I mentioned it in passing to the teacher I'd been covering back then. "Oh yes." she replied, "They thought you were a great teacher. Apparently they were hoping you'd take over their class when you were finished covering for me."
I didn't know these kids. I'd never taught them - and yet somehow they see me as their path to GCSE success. So much so that they are prepared to ask their parents to pay me for it. None of the pupils I taught came looking for private tutoring - actually, that's not true. One did; but she fell out with me over an exam mark.

I bumped into another pupil at the gym. I say bumped into, but it was really more a case of him bounding over with a hand thrust out, shouting, "Sir!" I didn't recognize him - I'd never taught him. He told me how much the school (he was speaking for them all?) missed me; and how, in the run-up to his exams, would I consider helping him out with a bit of private tuition. How did he get such a positive impression of someone who he'd never seen teach. At least if he had it would have been of me covering a single lesson in science of something weird. I thought maybe he was asking me because I was the only available English teacher he knew of - but his mother told me my style of teaching had impressed him. It must be good to affect someone in a classroom at the far end of the school. It didn't seem to affect the ones in my actual classroom as much.

For the record none of this is as much of a slight against my teaching as it sounds - we all know I'm an awesome teacher. It's simply that my awesomeness fades a little with familiarity - that's natural. It's easy to be that teacher when you're popping in and out of their educational lives.
One quip about how they're not to laugh when I bang my head on the hanging board light - because it will happen; or that I got my accent from extended exposure to Due South reruns on daytime TV, and they're putty in my hands; they want to like me.

It's when you find yourself responsible for ruining their weekends by making them do coursework, or ruining their lives by giving them a less than impressive mark on their less than impressive exam paper; that's when the gold loses a little of its glister. And heaven forbid, if ever you give them anything but glowing praise at a parents' consultation - you will be dead to them. Dead.

So I'll take whatever adulation I can get - and keep on not teaching most of the world so that almost everyone will love me.

Now excuse me while I "accidentally" bump my head on the board light.

I'd be cynical about this, but I tire of it

If I have a flaw - well, one that stands out above the rest, it would be that I am infected, and filled with a cynicism that shames me. I wish I didn’t have it – I wish I could at least control it better – but it’s always about there somewhere.

I have a good friend who hasn’t a cynical bone in his body. He is devoid of cynicism and when we are together it makes me all the more aware of the skepticism, the suspicious and sneering smog that floats around me. I mock his naivety and make knowing smirks when he refuses to see the bad in someone. I mock him but I envy him – I envy him so much.

Let me tell you a little story about something that happened a year or so ago. I was on route to Church one Sunday morning. My dad was driving my grandparents and I, as he did most weeks. And, as most weeks, he was listening to the Priests as he drove. (For those who’ve never heard of them, The Priests are a classical musical group made up of three Catholic priests all from Northern Ireland who have been singing together since they boarded as students at school in Garron Tower off the north coast)
It’s a short journey and quite soon into it the Priests began to sing ‘How Great Thou Art’ That’s when it began.

It started with a quiet humming, then gradually my grand father began to softly sing along; then my father; then my grand mother. As I listened I was surprised to hear four voices – I was singing too; picking out the bass line. There we were, three generations of Campbells belting out ‘How Great Thou Art’ in some form of four part harmony. It was a beautiful moment, a spontaneous moment, a hallmark moment, if you like. And then I ruined it.

As we approached the Church I thought of how people there would react to the spectacle. It was all okay when the only witnesses were the cows in the fields we passed out on the open road – but at the Church there would be actual people – people who knew me. They would stop and stare; they would think we were odd; they would point and laugh and commit the image to memory so they could bring it up in conversation with their family over the Sunday roast. From now on, any time they saw me they’d remember me as one of the motorcar choristers. That could not happen! I stopped abruptly. And immediately I wished I hadn’t. Quite honestly I wished people had seen me – I wished they had known me as one of the Motorcar Campbell Choristers – because I know it would have been with the affection that they always held us; not matter how strange we sometimes were.

I have just arrived home from taking my Dad to a Priests concert at Glenarm Castle (not too far from where they met at Garron Tower) They didn’t sing ‘How Great Thou Art’ but it was a wonderful experience to see them live, and it brought that Sunday Morning drive back to mind.
My grandfather passed away a month ago. There will never be a chance to relive that moment. I have committed it to my memory, not that I bring it up over the Sunday roast – but when I think of it I am reminded of how amazingly fortunate I am with the family in which I was placed. My grandfather was immensely wise, immensely gracious – he quietly lived a life filled with understanding, faith and love. If I learn anything from him it should be that a cynical attitude, while more and more prevalent, is not compulsory. It’s not even the default setting. If I am to make the most of this beautiful creation I need to start trying to see it through untainted eyes, and see the best in everything around me. My good friend and my family seem to have known that secret all along.

Then sings my soul, my Saviour God to Thee,
How great Thou art, how great Thou art.