However, they almost didn't make it that far. In fact they were 8 minutes away from going out in the quarter finals to Cameroon, the first African nation to reach the final eight. Thankfully Gary Lineker's 82 minute penalty and a second in extra-time carried England through. Bobby Robson, England's beloved manager commented after the game;

'We didn't underestimate them, but they were a lot better than we thought'.

Aside from his astute footballing brain and commitment to the nation's team, part of what fans love about Bobby is his forgetfulness and clumsiness in interview.

Take this example of Sir Bobby's greeting to namesake Bryan Robson on the training ground;

'Good morning Bobby'.

To which Bryan kindly reminded him;

'You're Bobby, I'm Bryan!'

 Or my favourite annecdote;

Reporter to Newcastle's Shola Ameobi: 'Do you have a nickname?'
Ameobi: 'No, not really'
Reporter: 'So what does Bobby Robson call you?'
Ameobi: 'Carl Cort.'

An extraordinary man on and off of the pitch, Sir Bobby has battled cancer five times. It seemed fitting then that today the players from that historic World Cup Semi-Final loss and their German counterparts, reunited in a game at St James' Park to raise money for Sir Bobby's cancer charity- The Sir Bobby Robson Foundation.

The pain of nearly 20 years was eradicated and English pride restored as England this time had Lady Luck on their side, winning 3-2.

Whilst all this was happening in Newcastle, H and I were at Wembley watching Barcelona, Celtic, Tottenham and Al Alhy battle it out for the Wembley Cup, a newly created pre-season tournament.

H sat thrilled in his Barcelona shirt watching his heroes demolish the African champions Al Alhy 4-1. Lots of goals, but the game lacked the passion and spirit that a crowd can create. After a rather expensive lunch, proper service was resumed as Spurs played Celtic, their fans lifted the stadium with songs and banter.

Poor Alan Hutton, Tottenham's right-back, was booed every single time he touched the ball, it turns out that he played much of his career at Rangers, Celtic's oldest adversary. The boos rang around the stadium, the volume not lost despite the fact that most of the Scottish supporters seemed to be seated in the upper tier, the seats that just so happen to be the least expensive!

It didn't take long before a chant broke out;

'Alan Hutton is a w**ker, is a w**ker...'

I stifled a laugh.

'Why are they singing 'Hallelujah'?' H asked.

Bless his poor innocent ears I thought.

'Well they are a Catholic team.' I offered.

'Oh'. H pondered.

Upon refection, perhaps it is my world-weary ears that are to blame, rather than H's unacquainted hearing. Maybe the Celtic fans were singing 'Hallelujah'. I mean, sitting high up, 'in the gods', they may well have been overcome with religious affectation! 

My behaviour, worryingly, is having a knock-on effect on the house and in particular my 7 year old son. H came into the lounge yesterday dressed in full cricket whites, pads, helmet and carrying his bat.

'Why are you wearing all that? There's no cricket on today.' I lamented.

'I just wanted to remember that it is one week until the third test starts.' H enthused, wincing as he adjusted his cricket box.

To fill the gap between tests I have been reading everything and anything cricket. One of my favourites was an article about 'sledging'- the art of verbally insulting or intimidating an opposing batsman. According to the BBC's Pat Murphy: "My understanding is that it came from the mid-sixties and a guy called Graham Calling, who used to open the bowling for New South Wales and Australia... apparently the suggestion was that this guy's wife was [having an affair] with another team-mate, and when he came into bat [the fielding team] started singing 'When a Man Loves A Woman', the old Percy Sledge number." 

There are differing stories about how the term 'sledging' came about, but the practice itself has been around forever. The thing with sledging is that you need to be able to back it up. It's like a boxer telling everyone at the press conference how he is going to destroy his opponent, only to be knocked out himself in the first round. 

Take for example Greg Thomas, a genuinely quick bowler, but erratic. Greg was bowling at the great Sir Viv Richards- voted by Wisden as the greatest One Day International batsman ever and third greatest test batsman.

Having beaten Viv's bat on two successive bowls Greg got a bit over excited and in doing so over-extended himself by offering the following advice to Sir Viv: 

"It's red, it's round and it weighs about five ounces, in case you're wondering." Greg announced smugly.

Now that is exactly the wrong thing to say to a batsman of Sir Viv's quality. On the next ball Sir Viv hit the ball out of the ground and into a nearby river.

 "Well Greg, you know what it looks like. Go and find it."  Sir Viv retorted.

There is a family run delicatessen within walking distance of my home that has a sign at it's counter that reads, 'To my customer: I may not have the answer, but I'll find it. I may not have the time, but I'll make it.' A warming, friendly statement that reflects the old adage that the customer is always right.

Imagine my concern then when I entered the Mitcham depot of the 'Home Delivery Network' this morning to be greeted by a sign that was clearly meant for employees only to read, but had been sellotaped to the wrong side of the window,  ' The Sainsburys account goes live today, we must ensure that this customer enjoys the very best service'.  In other words, sod everyone else, Sainsburys pay us more!

Last week was my birthday, a date which I share with my best mate whose birthday is the day before mine. Imagine my suprise when we swopped presents to find that we had bought each other identical gifts- a white England Cricket Test Shirt, size medium. My friend had sensibly ordered my gift well in advance, where as I had arranged for the shirt to be delivered to his workplace, a school, on his actual birthday. There was a premium to pay for this service, but I felt it was a nice touch.

The disappointment with the service began when the company, the aforementioned Home Delivery Network, failed to deliver on the arranged day. After a few phone calls it was agreed that the package would be collected from the depot. So this morning, as he was passing my house anyway,my friend collected me and we drove to the depot together.

Upon arrival at the Home Delivery Network, we were told that the parcel wasn't ready for collection and wouldn't be for another 24 hours. After some grumbling the employee, who resembled Manuel from Fawlty Towers, went off through a side door to look for the parcel.

15 minutes later he returned empty handed, spoke to his female colleague and she trudged off in the direction from which he had just returned.

Whilst waiting patiently for the lady to return, another customer arrived to collect a parcel. A well- groomed man in his thirties, clearly gay, a Mr Rogers. He handed the card to Manuel through the security hatch, Manuel smiled turned on his heels and disappeared through the magic door. He returned 30 seconds later and asked Mr Rogers what was in the parcel. Confused and slightly irritated the customer replied,

'It's a bathroom cabinet, why? Are you going to open it?'

Manuel smiled again and off he went, returning very quickly with a large box which he carried into reception and placed at the customer's feet.

'It's been well looked after then!' Quipped Mr Rogers pointing at a very large dent in the box.

'I think I'll open it before I leave here, to check if it's damaged,' continued Mr Rogers as he began to unwrap the parcel. He slid the cabinet from the box to reveal that the mirrored doors were not just cracked, but completely samshed to smithereens!

'Well I'll be refusing that parcel then!' He sniffed, turned and minced out of the depot. Manuel was left with the opened, broken package and tried very hard to act surprised but succeeded only in appearing indifferent.

At this point the female colleague returned, whispered to Manuel, and approached my friend and I. For some reason she was putting on a male voice, speaking like hardened criminal you might find in an east-end pub.

' Right mate, I'm affraid the van that your parcel was in has not been returned to the depot, it was broken into last night and is being held somewhere.' She grunted.

'Well where is it? When will it be back?' I queried.

'It's broken down,' She continued, 'The manager's trying to find your parcel at the moment.'

Completely non-plussed I tried to make sense of what the geezer-bird had just spouted. I was still shaking my head when the next customer walked in, a squat man who was dressed like a gang member. He saw me shaking my head in despair-

'Tell me about it bruv, this is the third time I've been here to get my package- all because they can't be bothered to press the bell to my flat.' He sneered at the hatch and passed through his collection card.

'Good morning and welcome to Home Delivery Network!' Manuel chirped, 'Can I ask what is in the parcel?'

'It's a dressing gown,' Squat responded, immediately he turned to my friend and I and made sure that we knew that the dressing gown was a gift for someone else!

Manuel scurried off through the magic door. The geezer-bird took over the hatch, looked over at my friend and I and asked if she could help us.

'You said that the manager was trying to locate our parcel.' I reminded her.

Right on cue another door at the back of the office opened and in walked a teenager with severe acne and a flourescent waistcoat, he muttered to geezer-bird and she pointed at my friend and I.

'Good morning, I'm Paul, the manager. You know it has been some difficulty for me to locate your package as the details have not been inputed into the system. But I've finally found it- it was delivered yesterday to the church opposite the school.'  Paul was very pleased with himself, but frowned as he tried to read from our faces if we were as pleased as him.

Dumbfounded, I attempted to speak, but failed. A whole hour we had spent in the depot, only to be told that the parcel had been delivered to another address.

Then, from behind the magic door came a large crash of boxes and in staggered Manuel balancing four or five boxes that reached up beyond the top of his head. As he lowered the packages to the floor it became clear that he had opened all of them.

Manuel stood there triumphant, wearing a ladies mauve towelling bath robe! He beamed at Squat,

'Is this your parcel?'

Take the case of the recent demise of Michael Jackson, I was contacted out of the blue by an old housemate of mine. After the usual pleasantries he cut to the chase and admitted that up until he shared a house with me, he had always thought that the Michael Jackson song 'Liberian Girl', the 9th and final single to be released from his 1987 hit album 'Bad, was actually called 'Librarian Girl'. Hardly confession of the century, I know. But if you were to meet my most emotionally guarded of friends, you too would accept this admission as groundbreaking.
 
'Librarian girl, you know that you came and you changed my world' he would sing.
 
The thing is, my friend's confusion is not as ridiculous as it first appears. Female library staff can be quite persuasive in helping you to select a book and sometimes do have life changing hidden qualities and secrets. Take Barbara Gordon for example, 'Who?' I hear you cry. Barbara is the daughter of Police Commissioner Gordon and head librarian at the Gotham City Library. If that isn't impressive enough, she is also Batgirl! I'd choose her over a liberian any day!

This may be the first exposé following Jacko's untimely exit, but I've got a feeling it won't be the last.

'Johnny take a dive with your sister in the rain,
Let her talk about the things you can't explain.
To touch is to heal,
To hurt is to steal.
If you want to kiss the sky,
Better learn how to kneel.'

The lead singer requests quiet as the band play an instrumental interlude, the crowd obey. The lead singer begins a long and powerful diatribe aimed at world leaders, tears roll down the faces of crowd members as he continues, raising his hands aloft.

'Everytime I clap my hands, a child in Africa dies'. He informs mournfully. The lead singer manages to clap slowly three times before an audience member breaks the silence,

'Well stop bloody clapping then'.

Espionage, however, is alive and kicking. The U.S government spent a rumoured $47 billion last year on spying, if you included military 'intelligence' into the equation then the figure becomes nearer to $60 billion.

The paranoia is not exclusive to nations either, corporate spying is on the up and according to a PricewaterhouseCoopers survey, a quarter of Australia's largest companies have admitted to 'competitive intelligence gathering'.

Formula 1 motor racing has suffered much bad press in recent seasons with allegations of teams spying on each other.

From governments to big business, right down to the man on the street, spying is a part of our modern culture. It appears that Orwellian nightmare is already with us, with the UK leading the way. According to the latest studies there are 4.2 million CCTV cameras in operation in Britain, that's one for every fourteen people! It has been calculated that the average Brit is caught on camera three hundred times each day. 

Common technology in the average household allows the lay person to take on the role of agent saboteur, with mobile phones, Facebook, emails and Friends-Reunited all being used as evidence in many a modern divorce hearing.

Even my parents are at it! On a recent visit home I discovered that my Mother has been using Google Earth to identify the location of Ebay buyers. My Dad concerned that one poor Aussie had paid over the odds for one of his decorative glass pieces, was placated by Mum's cunning discovery that the buyer had a swimming pool in their back garden and so could afford to pay a premium!

'What do you think you'd like for afters?' Mum would enquire knowingly.

'Cherry pancake!' My sister and I would answer in union. I would no doubt then accuse my sister of copying me.

There was something enticing about the bright red logo and the cartoon chef smiling broadly, yet reluctantly. A Mona Lisa smile. The fact that we had to travel a fair distance to get to the restaurant did not feel a burden, but an adventure.

In those days 'Little Chef' was very popular and we would often need to stand in line to be seated. The decor was smart and well-kept, the red branding on everything in sight.

It seems that 'Little Chef' has fallen on bad times in recent years and although millions of motorists still pass through its doors each year, it would appear that they do so through convenience rather than desire. Increasingly 'Little Chefs' all over the country are falling into disrepair and are being closed down.

In order to halt this decline, the senior managers of 'Little Chef' have brought on board, Heston Blumenthal, the three-starred Michelin chef of The Fat Duck in Bray, Berkshire. The chef is better known for his scientific approach to cooking, a precisionist who spent two years perfecting his recipe for Black Forest Gateau. The 'Little Chef' brand is better known for its 'Olympic' all-day breakfast, complete with microwaved scrambled egg.

Heston's brief is to create a new menu that will entice customers back to 'Little Chef'. After the chef's first visit to the Popham branch, the staff were left nervous of what his impact would be on the brand. A curious group of people, the 'Little Chef' staff were fiercely loyal to the company and were genuinely concerned that Heston would make a fool of them and their beloved vertically-challenged employer. Michael the branch manager, vocalised his concerns on behalf of the staff;

'I don't think that 'Little Chef' customers are ready for snail porridge or egg and bacon ice-cream,' he spoke sincerely, pausing for thought,

'Or rabbit jelly.' He offered.

 His voice trailed off lost in thought,

'They weren't ready for muesli.' He murmured

As we sat playing 'guess what's wrong with him', a nurse came out of one of the many rooms.

'Glenda Thompson.' She announced with clarity. She waited three seconds.

'Glenda Thompson?' She repeated more slowly. The nurse walked forwards and double checked that there wasn't a vertically challenged patient hiding beyond the seven of us sat obediantly.

'GLENDA THOMPSON?' The nurse finally announced at quite a volume, a tinge of resignation clear in the final syllable.

Inexplicably a lady dressed in full Islamic Jilbaab, that the nurse had already passed by, stood up defiant and declared,

'I am Glenda Thompson!' Her voice indignant, her eyes daring anyone to challenge her otherwise.

That's odd I thought, why make such a song and dance about it? Why not answer the nurse's call straight away?

Moments later another nurse came in. B and I sat up expectantly.

'Kelly Smith.' The nurse invited. No answer.

'I'd laugh if that was Kelly Smith!' I giggled, nodding towards another lady also dressed according to the Law of Hijaab.

'Shh!' B muttered, stifling her laughter.

'Kelly Smith?' The nurse repeated.

A man, who was sat next to the lady I had pointed out, stood up.

'This is Kelly Smith'. He pronounced, waving his hand towards the lady sat next to him. The lady stood, nodded and followed the nurse.

I briefly considered that I had uncovered an improbable new technique for queue jumping, before asserting that I should be flogged for being a xenophobic cynic. That is until I heard a story that my Nan told recently.

Whilst travelling on the Milton Keynes Hopper bus, heading to the City Centre to indulge in her daily habit of lottery scratch cards, Nan was involved in an accident. The bus had been 'cut up' by a discourteous driver and had been forced to perform an emergency stop. My Nan was thrown from her seat and banged her leg badly.

The paramedics were called and Nan spent 25 minutes being checked over. The paramedic foolishly suggested to my Nan that she should go to hospital. At this, Nan stood up and declared that nothing of the sort was going to happen and that she was in fact Jehovah!

I can only assume that Nan meant to say that she was a Jehovah's Witness rather than professing to be the God of the Old Testament!

So, should you find yourself near a hospital, keep an eye out for religious curiousities and don't be suprised if you are confronted by an elderly lady, clutching scratch cards, claiming to be the messiah!

Business was booming at 'Pound World' with the seven staff struggling to compete with the demand.That is until '99p Land' opened up a branch across the road.

Mum of four, Samantha Bright (!), 36, commented that, 'Pound World couldn't compete on price.'

In a painful wrench of customer loyalty, 'Pound World' saw its once happy customers switching affiliation and crossing the road to shop at the fiscally sound '99p Land'.

Karl White, a '99p Land' customer spelt out his reasons for shifting his allegiance,

'The more you buy for 99p, the more pennies you save. I have just bought six items so I've saved 6p!'

I'm sure that I am not the only one hoping that normality can be restored as soon as possible. A return to the days where '99p Land' and 'Pound World' can co-exist like Ted and Ralph on The Fast Show.

In a rush of romance he offered to sell the soft toy to his girlfriend Lisa, for three pounds! Another boy offered to buy the bear from J, sadly the boy could only muster two pounds ninety-nine, so the sale fell through!

I have worked at the same school for some years now and know many of the families of pupils at the school. I know that there are some excellent fathers and male carers in the community. With this in mind last month,I decided to run a coffee morning just for the dads. I wrote to scores of publications begging for sample copies of their magazines so that I might give them out at the morning, the intention being that the dad then goes home and sets a good example by reading in front of his child.

The morning was a great success and to my suprise was very well attended, so much so that twice I had to call for more chairs to be brought to the room. I lead a very interesting debate about the role of a father and male carer, how it has changed over time and what we can do to support our children at home.

What came out from our discussion was a general consensus that dads are getting a raw deal, particularly in the modern portrayal of males on the television. I refer to those advertisers who believe the only way to sell their product to females is to include a buffoon of a husband in the advert, who couldn't possibly wipe his own arse, let alone do anything useful around the home.

This theme extends way beyond the television, even finding a firm perch on what is supposed to be a celebration of the number one male role model in our life- Father's Day. I challenge you to find a Father's Day card that doesn't allude to dad being a fat, beer drinking, television hogging, sports mad oaf. I also challenge you to find a Mother's Day card that contains any humour at all, let alone a joke that points fun at mums. It's all flowers and beautiful designs, and rightly so, they are designed to celebrate the one who brought us into this world.

With all of this in mind I went all out at Christmas to make it a truly magical experience for H, who is still only 6 years old. We left the usual mince pie, carrot and brandy by the fireplace as a measure of whether Father Christmas had truly visited or not. This year it would not be enough I thought to myself. I borrowed my neighbours Santa costume and at 10.30pm on Christmas Eve ascended the stairs to H's room to the sound of B rattling sleigh bells. I opened H's bedroom door and stepped in, I had to nudge him to awaken him ( There's no point in letting him sleep after all of this effort I thought!). Through a mass of white wig and beard I saw H sit up and look at me at which point I turned, threw my sack of presents over my shoulder,left the room and descended the stairs to the sound of B's sleighbells.

By the fireplace I promptly drank the brandy, took a bite of mince pie and began to sieve flour through a footprint template that I had cut out earlier in the evening. To top it off I added reindeer footprints by the Christmas tree.

When H awoke the next morning he was brimming with excitement having heard Father Christmas in the night. He was more overjoyed by the 'snowy' footprints that had been left than by the stack of presents that B had carefully wrapped for him.

After the whirlwind opening of presents I sat back on the sofa sipping a festive coffee. Wearing the Batman t-shirt that H had bought me I felt satisfied that I had done a good job as a parent. If they gave prizes out for it, I'm sure I'd be a contender I thought.

This thought stirred interest in my and I hopped onto the pc and did a quick bit of research. 'Dad of the year' I typed into Google. To my suprise there is recognition in the form of awards for being a good father.  To my horror I discovered that you had to be a celebrity and unsuitable as a father in order to qualify!

Past winners of the accolade include; Jono Coleman- a fat radio presenter, Tommy Walsh- a potty-mouthed DIY show presenter, Britney Spears' ex husband and Peter Andre!

I was in shock, take Kevin Federline, Britney's ex, for instance. He has two children from an ex partner whom he left when she was pregnant with the second child to be with Ms Spears. He got custody of the two sons he had with Britney only after she had shaved all of her hair off and been hospitalised! How is that the kind of male role model to publicly celebrate?

It does however, account for only seven million Father's Day cards being sent each year compared with thirteen million Mother's day cards!

Needless to say I have withdrawn my application!

                                  Police mugshot of the year? Or just another 'Dad of the Year' contender?

The course was scheduled to begin at 8:30am which meant I needed to leave early. I had visions of a squat Phil Mitchell-like coach laying into me for poor time-keeping and consequently was up at 5:30am preparing for the day ahead.

As I stepped from my house at 6 am I carried a boiled kettle. It was an icy-cold morning and the windows of my car were frosted over. The steaming hot water made short work of the ice. Winter had truly arrived, my breath hung in the air. A cold Philadelphian morning I considered, whilst humming the Rocky theme tune.

As I drove to Streatham Common Station I wouldn't have been suprised to have seen Sylvester Stallone running up the steps of Streatham Municipal Swimming Baths trailed by a mob of kids (Probably trying to pinch the woolly hat from his head).

The first person I met on the course was a confident bloke called Danny. When I arrived at the training centre he was sharing his boxing wisdom with the customer service employee. Danny was one of those people who has done everything.

'Yeah, well I was playing professional football, quite a high standard actually- Ryman League.' He dribbled. Danny had the irritating habit of closing his eyes as he pontificated.

'That is 'til my eyes went,' he continued, pointing at his glasses, 'then I took up boxing'. I managed to make the choking on my Lucozade appear a chesty morning cough and nodded approval as I struggled to prevent the drink fizzing from my nose.

'Yeah, I had a few bouts, but had to quit as I was too old at 34'. Danny recalled, his voice filled with regret that age had cruelly denied him his legacy. I bet Tyson breathed a sigh of relief! 

I later overheard Danny telling a similar story to two different participants. The first time I heard him state that he had boxed at Middleweight (11st 6lbs). The second time I struggled to believe what I was hearing;

'Yeah, I boxed at middleweight and then at heavyweight'.

Now, there is a big difference between these weights, just less than three stone. It is possible that someone may have boxed at both weights, however, Danny's 5 foot 1 frame would struggle to get up to middleweight. Had he ever have weighed the heavyweight minimum of  14 st 4lbs he would have had to be rolled into the ring. Ladies and gentlemen, the challenger Danny 'The Meatball' Smith.

Having thought about Danny's story I have come to two feasible conclusions for his astonishing claims. Either Danny had mis-read the bathroom scales through his milk-bottle-bottomed glasses OR he had simply confused emulating Bruno Vs Bugner in his studio flat with actually fighting in a real boxing bout. Perhaps when he laid into the corduroy scatter cushions he had delusions of knocking the stuffing out of his opponent.

The course went well and I was presented with my certificate and official ABA Boxing Tutors' t-shirt. On my way out I saw Danny, I asked him how he had found the day's learning.

'Yeah, pretty good, obviously it's nothing new to me. I'm off home now to write it all up, you know, as I'm a journalist and everything.'

Finally he was making sense.

The whole experience of meeting Danny reminded me of when General Gowon of Nigeria smuggly informed Muhammed Ali,

'I used to do some boxing.'

As quick as a flash Ali retorted,

'What did you box? Apples or oranges?'

'We don't open until 12'  grunted the squat, fat rather than muscly, bouncer (apt).

'Oh, okay, no problem. We thought we'd get here nice and early, this is the boy's first boxing match, he's very excited!'  I enthused pointing at H, a vain attempt at cross-species communication.

The larger of the two guards stepped forward, a beast of a man(?), seven foot tall with a neck as broad as my waist,

'Yeah, well we don't open 'til 12.' He growled. He was taking no chances with us. He eyed H suspiciously as he reached inside his duffel coat and pulled out his mittens.

I took the cue and I mumbled that we'd be back at twelve. H complained that he was hungry, so we crossed Old Ford Road and spotted a cafe that was teeming with locals. As we crossed the road, the whole cafe stopped and stared at H and I approaching. the locals had sniffed us out before we had taken a step through the door. Perhaps they thought we were 'old bill' and that H was in fact a vertically challenged plain-clothed policeman.

Once we were in and they'd had a chance to check us out properly, they returned to their bubble 'n' squeak and violent talk.

'The facker was completely facking facked off his facking head'. One poet announced to his mate. I took the opportunity to warn H that he may hear some swearing but that it wasn't because people were angry, just that they were confused. 

H and I enjoyed a greasy but edible breakfast. We were nearly rumbled when I rejected the waitresses offer of bread or toast. 'No thank you, we're fine'. I smiled. Mortified and unusually offended the waitress exhaled violently, turned, and stomped off. I made a mental note to accept bread when in the 'East End'.

 At twelve we went back to York Hall. Slowly the public were being let into the venue. Once inside we approached a pasting table manned by an old man. 'Good morning! One adult and one child please.' I chimed. The man looked at H, shook his head and looked back at me, 'Just you mate, ten (pounds). He again turned to H, 'You gonna say morning then, facking 'ell it's like being in facking church in here!'

York Hall is a famous boxing venue in Bethnal Green, East London, a place known to harbour the desires of the criminal underworld. Where deals are struck between bouts and a fixation with the Krays is compulsory. In fact, listening to some of the conversations going on around us, I can only assume that the Krays had a lot of cars, because where we were sitting most of the audience claimed to have driven for the them! 

Despite a shaky start to our York Hall experience, once the boxing began both H and I were enthralled. We watched nine thrilling bouts after which H started losing interest.

On our way out H asked me, 'Is that man right?', I gave H a confused look as I tried to make meaning of his vagueness. H continued, 'Is that really what church is like?'

This was the exchange that led me to consider this week's blog entry. I began my research sympathetically considering the challenges of the aging process. Here are two items I found that stopped me in my tracks and forced me to rethink my approach. Consequently I'm going to need to come back to this topic on a later occasion!

1)Fear of 'Hoodies' is surpassed by 'Cardies' misdemeanors

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/22425001/vp/26917975#26917975

2) There is not such a fine line between attempting to maintain your healthy youthful glow and growing old gracefully.

Although neither Morph nor Jasper Carrott represent the most flattering of nicknames, they were, thankfully, inoffensive, which probably accounts to why they failed to stick. My experience at school displayed to me that only the cruellest, most cutting nicknames were the ones that stuck to the poor casualty. Viscous and unpleasant it no doubt remains with the persecuted still.

In the adult work environment nicknames are largely much funnier and are not used directly at the target. The nickname is reserved for use only when the butt is just out of earshot. 'Betty Swollocks' is a memorable one that the office staff use for one unfortunate employee.

Last weekend I was 'encouraged' to join my partner, B's, family for a birthday celebration. I was to be on my best behaviour because 'The Duchess' was going to be there. The Duchess was once in the very same profession as myself,but was forced to take early retirement due to a back injury (dubious according to the family). Despite her modest lower-middleclass lifestyle she allegedly likes to look down on her family members with disdain and self importance. I had heard so much negativity about 'The Duchess' that I pointed out to B that I had no idea of this person's actual name!

It is the case that even in families, nicknames are rife. As with the workplace, they are secret and mostly very funny. A few years ago during the annual family get together, it was disclosed that my cousin's husband had nicknames for some of the family on his mobile phone. When I was a boy, in my Nan's garden was a pond with some goldfish in. Subsequently and rather cutely, she was referred to as 'Nanny Fishy'. As the grandchildren grew older and had children of their own, the memorable factor became that Nan would ply the great grandchildren with snacks and cakes, so her moniker became 'Nanny Biscuit'. My cousin's husband's take on this- 'Bonkers Biscuit'!

I remember my Dad chuckling with merriment at this. He wiped the tears of laughter as he heard that his sister, who is partial to the odd trinket and bauble, was listed as 'Nanny Ratner'. The hilarity was maintained until I heard my Mum shoot at my Dad, 'I don't know what you're laughing at, you don't know what he calls you!'