I am not religious.

At all.

But sometimes, I think there is a higher power.

Meddling.

The Champions League.

On Wednesday 17th April 2019, Manchester City hosted Tottenham Hotspur in the Champions League Quarter Final.

An 8pm kick off I think.

Working Late. 

I am working late at work.

And I decide to leave the first half then buzz home on the bus to catch the second half.

So, a couple of minutes into the game I turn the radio off so I can concentrate.

20 Minutes Later. 

20 minutes later, I turn the radio back on again.

After some uninterrupted, concentrated writing.

And the agitated commentator on Radio 5 Live blurts out the score.

3:2.

To Manchester City.

After 21 minutes.

Eh?!

Radio. 

So, I decide to leave the radio on to hear more goals go battering in.

It gets to half time and it’s still 3:2.

No more goals.

Pause.

I pause at half time.

I think about going to the pub to catch the second half but, instead, I convince myself that all the goals that are going to be scored in this match have already been scored.

So I potter around the office a bit more and, ten minutes into the second half I leave.

I’m feeling smug because it’s still 3:2.

I was right.

I sat on the bus for the usual 20 minutes or so and arrive home.

And put the radio on.

It’s 4:3.

Shit!

7 Goals. 

7 goals.

I’ve heard none of them.

The commentator is still squeaking.

And I am wondering about this higher force.

The same bastard higher force that makes queues that you are stood in move more slowly than ones you’re not.

The same bastard higher forces that make the buttered side of your toast fall downwards.

Full time. 

It gets to full time 5 minutes of added time are called.

And it’s still 4:3.

And I’ve still not heard one goal.

So I turn the radio off to check if if the match is on TV later.

It isn’t.

This checking takes about 5 minutes.

Until I turn the radio back on to catch the end of the added on time.

Which I miss.

Which contained another goal.

The 8th goal of the night.

To send Manchester City through.

Before being chalked off to send the tie spinning back again to Tottenham going through.

The drama!

And I missed it.

BASTAAAAAAAAAAARD!

This is my favourite chocolate at the moment.

It is a bar of dark chocolate (52% Cocoa).

And the flavour is liquorice.

With sea salt.

Chocolate.

This is a strange combination, of course.

I am sure that Morrisons are not the first people to do it.

(Own label products almost always follow as opposed to lead).

But whatever the backstory, Morrisons do this very well.

Texture.

The texture plays a part in its success.

The chocolate is a creamy kind of dark chocolate.

Because there’s not such a high percentage of Cocoa that the bar becomes hard and slow to melt.

And the sea salt (there’s a lot) appears as crunchy crystals.

It’s not overly salty and the chocolate/liquorice/salt balance is just right.

Surprising. 

So, if you are after a surprising and pleasing sweet thing for after your dinner.

As you sit down to watch Gogglebox this Friday.

It’ll cost you £1.34.

Or a multiple thereof if, like me, you’re a fan.

Here it is.

(Fairtrade, rich and flavoursome, with mellow liquorice notes and sea salt, No artificial colours or flavours, Vegetarian).

PS The web link describes one bar as ‘5 servings’. 

I think it’s a typo. 

It should read, ‘1’.

My newest and most crisply structured brand is Always Wear Red.

I thought AWR started on Valentine’s Day 2016.

But I am mistaken.

Always Wear Red actually started about 35 years ago.

When I was 15.

Claire. 

Claire lived up the road from me on Windermere Crescent.

She was no older than my 15 years.

Yet somehow, she was a young woman.

And I was a boy.

School. 

We walked to school together.

Each day I’d get ready in my blend-in school uniform and peer up the street for her.

She’d smile as I joined her to walk at her side.

I knew exactly when she’d walk down the street.

Claire was easy to be with.

And I loved listening to her.

She told me stories about me.

The me I wanted to become.

In the future.

In my head.

Boyfriends.

Claire’s boyfriends were very often older than Claire.

She told me tales of fumbling in cars.

Tales about sneaking off.

Tales about what happened when they got caught.

And (much more interesting) tales about what happened when they didn’t get caught.

15. 

As I was approaching 16, I decided that I should be Claire’s boyfriend.

And a big part of my plan to make this happen was for Claire to see me not in my school uniform.

But in my special tee-shirt.

I had bought this t-shirt from ‘town.’

On one of the occasions I’d been there mum-free.

With my mates.

Special Tee-shirt.

You see, upon wearing this special t-shirt it clearly made me infinitely more fanciable.

So I’d get my mum to iron it for when I thought Claire might be walking down Windermere Crescent on a weekend.

Or in the school holidays.

So I could accidentally bump into her.

I felt different with Claire when I was wearing my special tee-shirt.

I felt like I could actually be Claire’s boyfriend.

Always Wear Red. 

Always Wear Red started when I was 15 years old.

When my special tee-shirt turned me into James Bond.

When my special tee-shirt made me feel that I could do anything.

The feeling was real.

The feeling that, when you wear something so, so special – you’re unstoppable.

And I thought about this feeling in 2015.

I thought to myself:

…imagine a clothing brand born to make us feel amazing.

That created confidence for us.

Now that would be something.

And Always Wear Red was born.

There will come a day when you would give anything at all to feel how you do today.

In fact, you’d give everything.

Today.

This applies whether you are having a great day.

Or a truly awful day.

You know the kind of awful day I mean.

Those days where nothing goes to plan.

Toast falls butter down.

You shout at the children and it hurts you more than it hurts them.

You growl at your partner for no good reason.

And you can’t find your keys.

These are bad days.

But as I say, there will definitely come a day when you would give anything at all to feel how you do today.

In fact, you’d give everything.

Goodbye.

The day you have to say goodbye, when it comes, (and it will, of course) is your worst day.

Because on that day you have no need for plans.

Or buttered toast.

On that day, shouting at children will feel completely foreign to you.

As will growling at your partner.

In fact, you’ll know at that very moment how wasteful the shouting and the growling really was.

And you will care little for the whereabouts of your keys.

You don’t need keys today.

What Matters.

Whilst I (probably) don’t know you, two things I do know are these.

First, if today really was the day you had to say goodbye – nothing I have mentioned here would matter to you.

And second, what I also know is that whatever things do matter to you on your last day should also matter more than anything else in your whole world – today.

Only you know what those things are.

And only you can, today and every day, treat them with the importance they deserve.

From now, if you like.

Think.

I’ve thought about what would really matter to me on my goodbye day.

And I’ve change a few things straight away.

You can too.

If you want.

Because – let’s face it – who knows when your goodbye day is?

See you tomorrow.

Probably.

50odd isn’t for you.

It’s for me.

Tourettes.

It is daily Tourettes.

It is what the world looks like from here.

My world.

Mornings. 

Morning glory for me is a head full of ideas.

Notions.

Opinions.

Thoughts.

Before I had 50odd to help me, these things had nowhere to go.

And I felt they were being wasted.

So I created 50odd as the receptacle within which they now live.

For me.

For ever.

And, I suppose, for anyone else that cares to visit.

Thank you

So thank you for popping by.

And whilst I can never deviate from the focus of creating these stories just for me.

(Because if I did they’d lose their authenticity.

Their freshness.

Their rawness).

I do peep at you out of the corner of my eye from time to time.

Mischievously wondering how you might react to what I write.

Encouraging you to comment at www.50odd.co.uk.

Or to pass a story on.

Or for you to be changed.

Terms.

So now you know.

These are the terms of 50odd.

There was something missing in my life.

So I filled the gap.

Thanks for being a part of my journey.

And for allowing me to be a part of yours.

Beware the kilt. 

Quite a few years ago now, I was on a stag night.

And I wore a kilt.

This experience revealed something quite startling to me.

Something that I have never forgotten.

Wee.

When I go for a wee, I stand up.

(If you are wincing reading that, probably don’t read on).

Occasionally, this is at a urinal as opposed to a sit-down toilety thing.

Now – and you can test it if you like (just get naked in a public toilet when you have a wee) – quite a lot of wee splashes back onto ones thighs with urinal weeing.

I know this because of the kilt (naked leg)/urinal combination.

And this got me thinking that there will be quite a lot of wee on your trousers.

Most days of your life.

Wee that you won’t notice of course.

But it is happening.

PISS-LEGS…

…is a thing.

This Was a Public Information Message From 50odd.co.uk. 

You’re Welcome.

…

PS If you are a Scottish person, can you shed any light on this subject please?

Is PISS-LEGS a real problem? 

Is ‘aim’ a factor?

Is ‘standing position’ a factor?

Too close. 

Too far away.

Am I unique in recognising this as a phenomenon?

Is ‘get a life’ part of the response you want to send?

I thank you.