The Thing Is with Steve Canavan

I had an appointment at my GP’s early on Tuesday (I’ve terrible bags under my eyes and wanted to see if the doctors could prescribe some antibiotics for them) and so went to stay at my ma’s the night before.

On arriving at her house, her first words as she opened the door were – and this is absolutely true – ‘(sighing loudly) Can you not do something with your beard? It looks ridiculous. And it’s going grey – it makes you look about 90-years-old.’

I’ll be honest, I was hoping for a slightly warmer greeting, maybe something along the lines of, ‘Hi Steven, thanks so much for driving an hour to come and see me, would you like a cup of tea and perhaps a slice of some moist home-made carrot cake?’

That, however, is not my dear mother’s style.

There was another example of this recently, when we went to a pub for some food.

The next day, while chatting on the phone, she said, “Do you know, it’s the first time I’ve ever thought it, but at the bar last night you looked quite attractive.”

‘What do you mean it’s the first time you’ve ever thought it?’ I asked.

“Well, you know, you’re usually quite craggy-faced and haggard, and you’ve always had those large ears, but last night I thought you were quite handsome.”

Only my mother could give a compliment that contains within it a much larger insult.

It’s actually quite difficult to get hold of her these days to receive these insults for she has the social life of a 21-year-old. She’s never in.

She volunteers at the local theatre, does Aqua Aerobics (which involves standing in a swimming pool with several other over 70s, and swaying from side to side like a drunkard who’s fallen into a river), plays bridge, is chairwoman of the local Homewatch group, sings in a choir, and has joined a Naked Mountaineering Group. The latter did, I concede, take us by surprise a little, but she explained the thrill she gets from it and so who were we to stand in her way - though it did almost end tragically when she suffered severe hypothermia in her bosoms halfway up Scafell Pike.

But I digress…

She takes her volunteer role at the theatre very seriously and her hard work recently paid off when she was promoted to chief brew-maker, which means she leads a small team in charge of providing drinks to theatre-goers during and after performances.

During a recent visit to her house, I discovered her at the kitchen table using a black marker pen to write on large sheets of paper.

I enquired what she was doing.

“I’m drawing up an instructional guide to making tea,” she said.

It was at this point that I realised retirement must be a wonderful place to inhabit - forget politics, the economy, the melting of the Arctic Circle … it’s about making tea.

Several hours later she strode into the lounge with a satisfied look on her face, waving the paper in the air, like Chamberlain proclaiming peace in our time.

I glanced at the paper. On it was a 16-step guide to making tea.

Numbers one and two, and I’m not making this up, were ‘make sure kettle is filled with water’ and ‘flick switch down on kettle - if you’ve done it correctly, a red light will come on’.

‘Mum, are you writing these instructions for a group of toddlers?’ I asked her.

She grabbed the paper off me, annoyed at my remark.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “It’s not easy to make tea for a large group of people.”

‘But Mum,’ I replied, ‘step 14 is ‘pour tea into cups’”.

However, fair play to my mother for at least she does things properly.

For instance, as chair of the Homewatch group, she keeps an A4 pad in the front room and makes notes of any suspicious behaviour on the street. She let me read it the other day on the proviso I didn’t use it in this column to ridicule her (naturally I promised I wouldn’t).

Among the many things written down were, ‘Small red car - Ford Fiesta I think - been parked outside number 26 since 10.30am’ and ‘odd-looking man with unkempt facial hair and a limp hanging around the bus stop’ (this was later crossed out and underneath in red pen, it said, ‘he got on bus when it came’.

She’s phoned the police so often she’s on first names terms with the local bobby. “Jim, it’s Pat here,” she says, as if speaking to a close relation. “A teenage boy wearing white trainers has gone past on a mountain bike five times”. Whoever Jim is, he must be longing for the day when he is transferred to another station.

But, god bless her, my mother seems content enough – and on the plus-side when we’ve a big family do on, we know exactly who to ask to make tea,

We were lucky to have Jimmy

How wonderful it has been to read and hear all the tributes to Jimmy Armfield in the past week or two.

His family, though mourning, must be incredibly proud, for the warmth and sincerity of the comments made since Armfield died have been wonderful.

I got to know Jimmy pretty well in my role as football writer for the Gazette between 2002 and 2012.

Once or twice a month we’d speak on the phone, usually me ringing him to get a quote or two about a Blackpool FC matter. But often he’d call me out of the blue too, for no other reason than to have a chat about football or pass on some sage words of advice.

I’d like to say something different to what’s already been said by so many, but I can’t – he was simply a very nice man and incredibly humble and grounded given all he achieved; a fantastic football career at the highest level and a stellar broadcaster admired by all and sundry.

Blackpool through and through, his loss is felt more keenly here than anywhere else.

But Jimmy’s family can take great comfort and solace in all he achieved and all those he touched. What a man. We were lucky to have him.