Plod On

Where to begin, I find this the hardest part. What opening line to use? What’s the attention grabber? Invariably I use the word ‘So’, as if you've been waiting in anticipation of the next thrilling installment and now you can expel the baited breath you’ve been holding for the last four months.

I thought of using an overused quote, something pithy like “the reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated” but then those who see my life played out in pictorial form on instagram would see the quote as pointless.

I think my favourite quote would be “I told you I was ill”. It pretty much applies to my whole life and attitude, as my nearest and dearest will attest to. If I were to have a headstone that would certainly be on it but, as I don’t see the point of being buried, it can be written on a post-it note and stuck to the beer bottle placed upon the fireplace in which my ashes will sit. A reminder to the family of the grumpy old bastard who used to inhabit the chair by the fire.

Wow not even two hundred words in and I’ve shuffled off this mortal coil, cheery as ever, Levine! Obviously the phrase ‘mortal coil’ would suggest there is another coil that we shuffle on to. I'll clear this up for you, there isn’t. However, we won’t get into my or indeed your existential crisis now.

My ability to witter on really does astound me at times.

So *massive expulsion of breath around the world* what’s been happening in the last few months and why the sudden impetus to update you all?

I’m no longer a dinner lady, rocking the tabard look has gone; I’m now assistant manager at the bar I was doing a few shifts at. I’d like to say that my meteoric rise from having never pulled a pint before September to a management position was down to some innate ability, a genetic disposition to the hop and not just drinking it. The truth is less inspiring, everyone pretty much left and I didn’t. Last man standing and all that.

I was signed off from the doctor and therapy, no longer a mentalist...and then I was signed back on again, a mentalist once more. A temporary blip people say, the increase in my medication a preventative measure they assure me. Internally it’s a failure and a realization that I’ll never be ‘better’ or ‘normal’. Don’t get me wrong, I have no yearning to be normal. It’s not me. And, as I’ve discussed before, I have no idea what ‘better’ means. I’d just like the waves of uncontrollable sadness and emptiness to fuck off.

What I struggle with most is that things are pretty good at the moment. I really love working at the bar, although I find having to ‘act’ constantly upbeat tiring. I’ve never been upbeat about anything. I’m naturally dour and morose.

Home life is good again. It goes without saying that we all do each others heads in, argue, fight, make up but what family doesn’t? You try living with my lot for 24 hours!

The main canon of my therapy was that it’s ok to feel sad, low, and miserable. We all do - events happen and you will have emotion. It’s your reaction to that emotion that can lead to problems. You feel low so you shut yourself away and spiral. We all have our own patterns of behaviour. I do shut myself away - as I’m writing this I’m meant to be at a brewery I was invited to. I made my excuses but the truth is I can’t face people today.

What’s happened then? What’s the X that’s led to me feeling Y and behaving like Z? The answer is nothing, I can’t explain my current state and it’s pissing me off.

It all leads to the question of why can’t I be happy? What’s wrong with being content with what you’ve got right now?

*No Spoiler alert* The next part will give you absolutely no insight or answers to the above questions.

Happiness – a mental or emotional state of well-being, characterised by positive or pleasant emotions ranging from contentment to intense joy.

Sounds just like me.

Have I ever been happy?

I’ve certainly felt warm and fuzzy inside, albeit fleetingly, but I do think that part of me is missing at times. When I’m on form I’m really on form, I find myself a rather witty and charming character, fun to be around.

These times are just infrequent, highs of being out with family and friends to massive lows within the space of days. I made a throw away comment to the doctor that I’m probably bipolar, she agreed!! And put up my dose. Well, at least it filled some time for me, researching the symptoms of being bipolar and also the side effects of the medication.

There are things that I enjoy and derive pleasure from but these are tinged with a massive fear of failure. It's not that I have to be the best at something - above average will do fine - I just don’t want to be shit.

I’m the same in whatever I do, whether it’s sport, baking or my new addiction to painting.

I don’t like getting things wrong; some of you will remember the time I decided I was going to make macaroons. I couldn’t be satisfied with a good attempt or those that tasted good but looked shite. Nope. I made the fiddly little bastards for five days solid until they were to an acceptable standard. The house was full of them and Mrs. L hasn’t eaten one since.

It’s like the painting now. I’ve never painted before but I expected to be able to do it. The first day I sat in front of a blank sheet and couldn’t bring myself to put pencil to paper for 30 minutes, the fear of producing something utterly appalling was crippling. I eventually produced something and although it sounds pretentious, which I am, I do enjoy painting. It lets me switch my brain off and get lost in it for hours.

Maybe it's age, the illness or the medication but the list of things I enjoy are diminishing. Currently I have to abdicate my title as king of ‘self abuse’, as the pills leave me chemically neutered. Now that was something I did enjoy. If knocking one out had ever become an Olympic sport I'd have been captain of that team. My record is seven in a day; I was 15 and had taken the day off school sick. Why seven? That’s like asking someone why they climbed Everest? The answer - because it was there. Though I have to admit the climax (see what I’ve done there) to the seventh was more a puff of exhaustion rather than the spurt of triumphalism that the feat truly deserved.

Anyway, away from such base things. As I said I have no answers and part of my problem I know is the constant search for the answers.

I'll just have to accept that I feel a bit shit at the moment and plod on. I’m sure it's what most people do.

Does anyone have a clue what it's really all about?

I left twitter, hardly in a blaze of glory more like a damp squib.

The reasons seemed clear in my head at the time, I was living vicariously through others and not living my own life not leaving my chair. I was too reliant on others for my mood, my own happiness. In my mind though I wasn’t giving anything back, constant tweets of misery were annoying me if no one else.

So what did I expect to happen when I deactivated my account along with my FB account? Was a burden to be lifted? Would I wake up the next day magically ‘cured’?

I know it’s hard to believe but none of those things happened. I didn’t feel any different. I didn’t spring out of bed throw on my clothes and whistle a merry tune as I left for work.

Nope I got up, got dressed and sat in my house. The only thing that had changed was I’d lost pretty much my only contact with the outside world.

This was fine it was my choice I had wanted to run away. You see you can’t feel you’re annoying people if you don’t speak to them. There was a slight flaw to my plan, I say slight flaw, my plan was actually as ill conceived as the Charge of the Light Brigade. What about the people who had my phone number?? Yeah well as I say I hadn’t really thought this one through.

Now don’t get me wrong there weren’t hoards of people knocking down my door demanding to know where and how I was, Royal Mail didn’t have to lay on extra staff to deal with the sackfulls of post.

There were and are however a few kind souls who showed their concern. At one point I did consider turning my phone off to avoid contact with everyone apart from those unfortunate to live with me. I didn’t and am glad of this.

So with all this extra time on my hands what have I learned? Well I know social media isn’t the thing stopping me from functioning. I know Prozac hasn’t helped me and so it’s on to another type of Anti Depressant to try to help. I know I’m amazed at the kindness that family, friends and what were initially complete strangers have shown. I also know I can still knock up a mean cake when I want to, it seems there are some things you never lose through it all.

I have tried to rationalise everything out but have come up empty handed, raising more questions than answers. It seems a year spent studying philosophy wasn’t a complete waste of time.

I decided I believed in Determinism but then I again I would wouldn’t I (there’s one for the philosophers amongst you.)

Apart from that I’m still struggling. I think essentially I’m looking for an identity. I don’t know who or what I am.

Yes I’m a dad, a husband, a son, a friend, and a sometime baker. These though are governed by the relationship to other people or other things. Who and what am I?

I have no tribe to belong to I’m not religious. They say football is a religion and I used to believe I was a fanatic but not so much anymore.

I don’t have a ‘look’ I don’t dress or style my hair in a tell tale way. I don’t have tattoos or piercings that would place in an exclusive club.

I read, when I can concentrate, different genres. The same can be said for films and TV programmes. And with music, anything and everything goes. The word for me is eclectic, I like a shitload of different things (I’m not sure that’s the correct collective noun but it seems to fit.)

The question is do I really want to fit in to a type, a club? Isn’t individuality enough, shouldn’t we be non-conformist. The answer is I really don’t know (see as I said – no answers.)

At University I wrote my dissertation on why people join right wing movements. Don’t worry I’m not goose-stepping round the house, although my comb over and dodgy tache do look vaguely familiar.

The conclusion I came to in its simplest form being ‘mans’ fear of freedom, the necessity to belong to something, anything. We just need to be told what to do, to have some kind of direction.

I don't think I've ever had that I've never known what I’m going to be when I grow up.

I think the problem, much to my dismay is that at 40 I suppose I am grown up but I’m still as clueless as the boy who never had a burning desire to be a pilot or a train driver.

So I’m giving up philosophising about things it’s getting me nowhere. Instead I’m trying to function again, doing little things each day that are deemed normal by my peers.

Todays ‘thing’ is writing this nonsense.

Oh I still have my fixations, currently it’s on having a slick back haircut, I’ve even ordered Pomade from a shop online. Maybe I am slowly trying to join a club and declared to my long-suffering wife that this new ‘look’ was going to be me now until death.

So I may return to twitter, I’m already back on Instagram posting dull photos of food.

I do feel however I’m slightly more suited to some form of Unsocial media though.

A Middle Aged Sit Down - Ragu

Recently I went to a gig, now the word gig to me serves up connotations of finding a little unknown band playing in a dingy badly lit club, sweat dripping off the walls and throwing yourself into the middle of the mosh pit.

Well an old friend and me went to see James supported by Echo and The Bunnymen at the O2 in Leeds. Yes they’re hardly ground breaking but no less fantastic. We enjoyed a beer beforehand and to complete the middle aged experience arrived early enough to get a seat.

If you looked hard enough you may have seen me tap a foot, sway from side to side and even at one point sing along as I was temporarily transported back to my youth. I did wake up the next day knackered with a sore back from having to stand through some of the songs. Imagine the state I'd be in if I ventured anywhere near a bloody mosh pit.

Singing and dancing are a definite no no for me, you may have gathered I’m not one to readily let myself go. That is of course unless absolutely leathered at a wedding but the less said about that the better. It’s so bad that I don’t like people I’m with to dance either, Mrs. Vino could be jigging away happily to music in a shop, I’d walk out. I have a very low embarrassment threshold.

The venue was filled with lots of 30 and 40 somethings very similar to me reliving the heady days when they heard the songs for the first time. Everyone was dressed pretty much the same as they would have back then although everything seemed to have shrunk in the wash a little since the early 90’s. Trying to get the toothpaste back in the tube seems an apt way to describe how my fellow patrons were attired.

This experience got me thinking about getting old, well I say got me, the thought has been there for sometime but the gig kind of pushed it more to the forefront.

Don’t worry this isn’t going to be some long diatribe on the meaning of life. To me there isn’t one, you’re born and you die. The stuff in between is pretty much down to you; whatever works to get you through from a to b is ok by me.

I say that but please don’t take this as me advocating law breaking, I hardly think you could use The Vino Defence when the police find 350 stolen microwaves in your garage “but Vino said whatever works”. Sorry my friend you’re doing bird for that one and I'm not baking a cake with a file in it.

As Benjamin Franklin said there are two certainties in this life “death and taxes” not to be confused with “death and taxis”. Although for me there is a certain fatality to that as well, I’ll always get a driver who wants to talk to me for the entire journey and then bend me over to extract £30 for the fare.

No these thoughts of getting old are more to do with achievement rather than a fear of my own mortality. I find myself hurtling toward 40, which in itself doesn’t bother me, it’s more a question of what have I actually achieved in these 40 years?

Now the obvious answer is family, it’s good but it’s not right. So let’s address it.

Mrs. Vino is fantastic and I concede I wouldn’t have had the life experiences, such as moving to the US, without her. But an achievement? 

Granted I’ve definitely punched above my weight with her, short fat miserable northerner marries tall blonde boarding school educated doctor’s daughter from the south.

The girls, N & M achievements?

I love them to death although I do find myself thinking sometimes who the fuck are you? and how did you get into my house?

I don’t think I can count the girls as an achievement, in reality I had very little (stop making your own jokes up) to do with their creation. I was back downstairs before the kettle had time to boil on both occasions.

My main problem is that I’ve never had a clue what I’m doing with my life either at home or work, I generally just bumble along with a laissez faire attitude. Hoping that things turn out for the best  but generally fearing they won't.  If as predicted they don’t I deal with them with all the aptitude of King Canute.

I’ve always had a sense that I’m meant to be doing something of purpose with my life, almost like Clark Kent before the realisation he was actually Superman. Yes it has a slight delusion of grandeur about it but it stems from a dislike of and disdain for the general populous.

What makes achieving things harder is the fact I’m not good at sticking at things. I come up with ideas, plans, some would say fads and then throw myself in with zealous force. This momentum probably lasts for about a month, maybe slightly less and then it’s on to something else.

Therefore if anybody would like to buy any of the following they’re all available at a knock down price: -

5 String Banjo – given up after learning the opening to dueling banjos

Ukulele – given up after not learning any discernable tune

Kite – couldn’t get it to loop the loop

Telescope – couldn’t see in to no.33’s bedroom

In a few years there may be a Canal Boat available – don’t ask

The phrase jack-of-all-trades master of none springs to mind, I can get by in most situations. I do ok at work and can hold a conversation on a number of subjects, being a mine of absolutely mind numbingly useless trivia helps with that. Sport wise I don’t make a complete balls up playing football, tennis or golf, generally I can handle myself.

Actually come to think of it handling myself is something I do excel at, not to blow my own trumpet (you can’t I’ve tried, how do you think I slipped two discs?) Apologies this is probably a digression too far, I don’t want to put my 3 readers off (sorry Mum).

So I suppose the one thing that keeps me from a complete midlife meaning of life meltdown is cooking. I love it and given the choice would spend days on end in the kitchen. Cooking for people and having them enjoy what I make gives me that sense of achievement. Maybe this is my purpose? The kitchen could be my fortress of solitude, wooden spoon in hand, listening to music making a difference one recipe at a time.

This week’s recipe is probably the first thing I ever learnt to cook watching my Dad make it. It’s not radical but it’s good. It isn’t quick either, giving me an excuse to spend more time in the kitchen.

Ragu, Bolognaise, Meat Sauce, Whatever you want to bloody call it.

There are hundreds of recipes for ragu all of which will do the job. I’ve settled on this one, it’s an amalgamation of many and the little twists to it can be attributed to my Genoese sister in law.

Ingredients

500g Beef Mince

500g Pork Mince – for my readers with certain dietary requirements use all beef

200g Cubed Pancetta – once again optional

2 Carrots – chopped

2 Onions – chopped

2 Sticks of Celery – chopped

500ml Stock – Chicken, Beef, Vegetable – whatever you’ve got in the cupboard

Full Fat Milk – a glug (How annoying is that?! A glug what the buggery is a glug?)

2 Tins Chopped Tomatoes

Tomato Puree – about a tablespoon

Tablespoon of Sugar

2 Bay Leaves

Salt and Pepper

Olive Oil

Method

You need a massive frying pan, biggest you’ve got.

Heat a couple of tablespoons of olive oil in the pan.

Add the Onion, Carrot and Celery. Cook over a low to medium heat until the vegetables have softened, this could take 10-15 minutes.

Once softened put the veg on to a plate or a bowl with a slotted spoon so you don’t remove all the oil, leave to one side.

Turn up the heat adding more oil if the pan looks like it needs it.

Add the pancetta, fry for a minute or so and then add the minces.

These need to be fried over a high heat until the meat breaks down and starts to brown.

At this point I tend to pour off the fat, this is entirely up to you and the amount that builds up will depend on the quality of the beef mince you use.

Add the vegetables back to the pan and stir.

Pour in the tins of tomatoes and stir.

Now you put in the stock and milk. The amounts are a little wooly, as you want to fully immerse the mixture with liquid. So about 500ml of stock first. Give it a stir and then add approx. 200ml of milk.

Next put in the tomato puree and stir in, this will help to thicken the sauce.

Season with salt and pepper and add sugar, I always add sugar as it helps with the acidity of the tomatoes. I sprinkle an ad hoc amount, probably a couple of teaspoons. It’s up to you if you want to add the sugar or not.

Finally add the bay leaves and give it a good stir.

Turn the heat down to a really low simmer and leave it for as long as you’ve got. I usually go for 2 hours minimum but more like 3.

This allows the sauce to reduce and the meat to soften.

The recipe makes a shit load (this is actually a culinary term).

Serve it with Spaghetti as standard or whatever pasta, rice, potato accompaniment you wish.

Last week I made a béchamel and did lasagna with it. If you want the béchamel recipe leave a comment and I’ll blog it.

Enjoy.

A