2011: A Ropey Year In Review

So this is Christmas and what have you done? This is just one of the many questions lifted from John Lennon lyrics that I ask myself every year.

It’s a staple of my self-critiquing rhetoric, along with, “When your bird is broken, will it bring you down?” (Song: And Your Bird Can Sing; Answer: Yes), “Is there anything I can do?” (Song: Tell Me Why; Answer: It’s become apparent that there is nothing I can do, at least not well) and, “I gotta ask you comrades and brothers, how do you treat your own woman back home?” (Song: Power To The People; Answer: Not so well, but she’s an imaginary woman, so I only feel moderately guilty).

Though they are all valid questions, it is the first – “What have you done?” – that normally rankles the most. I have a constant fear that I am wasting my life, frittering away the time and the ‘talents’ (read: ‘privileges’) that I have been afforded. If the following reads as a capricious, if hollow, brag, then rest assured that it is in fact no more than a flimsy attempt to justify my inertia.

Last year I managed to do many new things, some of which I would go so far as to rank as real achievements, in terms of my own humdrum life if not the field of human endeavour.

I left Europe for the first time and went to live in Argentina. There I learned Spanish, found a flat and work, visited wineries, saw spectacular and genuinely awe-inspiring geography – from enormous waterfalls to, erm… enormous glaciers.

I learned to ride a horse, which was pretty cool. I found my feet (and a living) as a teacher, became addicted to yerba mate, made many friends from many different countries and watched as a not-quite distant relative bought me a cheap crappy watch in a market in Lima with a revolver stuck down his underpants.

2010 was an interesting and satisfying year for me, following in the wake of some pretty boring and dull ones in which I loafed about and did fuck all of note. As a result, 2011 had a lot to live up to, a task that seemed even less likely once ensconced back in my native Liverpool bumming around on the dole.

Suffice to say that the past twelve months have been low on new experiences or memorable moments. But it has been an enjoyable year all in all. The lows of being unemployed and, worse, feeling unemployable seem like a distant memory. At the time I pompously spoke of ‘rediscovering my city’, largely as a distraction from being back in Liverpool, with horizons as empty as the plains of Patagonia.

But rediscover it I did, in as much as one can, and I discovered a few other things along the way as well. I taught teenagers for the first time, along with students of different ages and nationalities, and am a better teacher for it. Despite being back in my home town my job allowed me to continue meeting people from all over the world. I somehow managed to endear myself to the gullible and foolhardy of countries as far flung as Saudi Arabia, Japan and South Korea, whilst my relationship with twenty moustachioed Iraqi scientists and PE teachers is best left to the imagination.

I went back to Portugal, learned some pigeon Portuguese and, back in Blighty, even some Italian. I worked and lived (very) briefly in Edinburgh where I failed to master even basic Scottish (surely the least comprehensible language on god’s green earth?). I can now write my name, if nothing else, in Arabic as well.

I received ten lovely visitors from abroad, including Spaniards, Brazilians and a raft of Argentines. I became an impromptu tour guide for my foreign friends and, latterly, some five hundred Italian teenagers, not one of whom (I am relieved to say) was run over.

My Spanish, though still leaving much to be desired, improved considerably through self study and practice. I finally bought not one but two pairs of desert boots (It also came to my attention that for a man living in England I have not one pair of shoes or trainers suitable for our weather. All my footwear is suede or suede-substitute).

Here in Liverpool I made a pilgrimage to the site of my band’s first gig some thirteen years ago, saw the legendary Eric’s club, spent inordinate amounts of time in the Beatles, City of Liverpool, Maritime, Slavery and World museums. I toured Anfield stadium and the town’s parks and promenades. I went up to the top of the Anglican Cathedral to enjoy the spectacular view, later trumping this by climbing up Liverpool’s highest point, the ancient steeple of a crumbling old church in Everton, the first of iron construction in the world.

I saw the famous Anthony Gormley statues, Formby beach and the squirrel-filled woodlands. I toured the city’s best pubs, many of which I had never visited before and I learned shitloads about the city and its history: everything from the Three Graces to the abolitionist William Roscoe.

Closer to home I diligently listened to and scribbled down the family history, as told by elderly relatives (shortly to be novelised, by me, as MY LIFE: THE GREATEST STORY EVER TOLD). I shovelled snow for my Gran, delivered newspapers to the old man down the road and cut a bloody big hedge with a chainsaw for my mum. I also reconnected with my guitar and wrote a whole one and a half songs. McCartney aint got nuttin’ on Old Rope!

One of the most important achievements for me, psychologically speaking, is the fact that I have managed to survive another year without having a soul-sapping and tedious ‘normal’ nine-to-five job. Since this is, essentially, the only achievable goal I currently hold for my life, it should be viewed as a success story that I have maintained this state of play for yet another year, unwelcome though the dole months were.

One thing I did not do this year, lamentably, is go to any place that I have never been to before (pubs aside). Though I put myself about a lot over the last twelve months, visiting Manchester, Leeds, Brighton, Edinburgh, London, Lisbon, Granada, Barcelona and maybe more, these were all places with which I was already familiar. Something to rectify in the months ahead, I believe.

That said, I did go to Berwick-upon-Tweed for what it’s worth. Which is not a lot, bar the apocryphal story that this tiny much disputed town on the border between England and Scotland is still at war with Russia.*

And so it is with some relief I can conclude that this has not been an entirely wasted year. That though I may not have spent it as well as some of its predecessors, I have done some stuff, fluked some minor achievements and not pissed away too many grains of sand in the hourglass of Old Grandfather Time.

Life is what we make of it – and I am not the most masterful of craftsmen. Thus a non-too-rigorous assessment of the year is a comfort to me, but one which nevertheless leaves me with the hope that 2012 can be even better. For this to come to pass I will need to up my game. But for once, the thought of doing so does not fill me with dread.

Next year I will be ready for Lennon’s smug invasive question, “…and what have you done?”

I’ve done loads Lennon. In your face, you dead busybody.

…

Keep on keeping on brothers and sisters, here’s to making a better world for all in 2012!

* See comments for the footnote