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Apollo 11, a Camera, and Absolutely No Idea How to Get Home

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If you could go back and witness any historical event, which one would you pick?

This is one of those questions that sounds incredibly easy.

Until you actually try to answer it.

If I could go back and witness any moment in history, what would I choose?

There are, obviously, quite a few possibilities.

I could go back to the time of the dinosaurs.

Although, having thought about this for approximately three seconds, I suspect I’d spend most of my time hiding behind a tree while something enormous wandered past.

Not exactly the historical experience I had in mind.

I could witness the signing of some great historical document.

I could stand on the sidelines of a famous battle.

I could meet one of the great writers, scientists, artists or thinkers who changed the world.

Or I could go and see something completely ordinary that, at the time, nobody realised would become history.

But there’s one moment I keep coming back to.

Apollo 11.

20th July 1969.

The day human beings first stepped onto another world.

I’ve always had a bit of a thing about space.

Give me an old science-fiction programme, a ridiculously complicated spaceship and the vague possibility that one day humanity might wander around the universe and I’m interested.

I blame Red Dwarf.

Or Star Trek.

Possibly both.

But Apollo 11 feels different.

Because it actually happened.

On 16th July 1969, Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin and Michael Collins climbed aboard a Saturn V and left Earth.

Four days later, Armstrong and Aldrin landed on the Moon while Collins remained in orbit above them.

And then came that moment.

The ladder.

The lunar surface.

The first human footprint in the dust.

I’d want to be there.

Not watching the footage on an old television.

Not seeing it years later in a documentary.

Actually standing there.

Which does raise one or two minor logistical problems.

For starters, I’d need a time machine.

Then I’d have to explain to NASA why a bloke from the future had suddenly appeared at the launch site.

And I imagine that conversation would probably end with somebody asking me where I got the time machine.

At which point I’d have to admit that I hadn’t actually thought that far ahead.

Assuming I got past that part, I’d probably be told not to touch anything.

Which is probably sensible.

Because if you’ve spent years and an enormous amount of money building a machine capable of taking three people to the Moon, the last thing you need is some bloke from 2026 wandering around saying:

“What’s this button do?”

But imagine being there for the launch.

Standing somewhere nearby as that enormous Saturn V came to life.

The noise.

The vibration.

The sheer scale of it.

We sometimes forget just how ridiculous the whole thing was.

Human beings looked up at the Moon and decided they were going to go there.

So they built a machine.

A very, very big machine.

And somehow, it worked.

That alone would be worth seeing.

But I don’t think the bit that would affect me most would necessarily be Armstrong stepping onto the surface.

I think it might be looking back at Earth.

That tiny blue planet sitting in the blackness.

Because Apollo 11 wasn’t just about getting to the Moon.

It changed the way we could see ourselves.

From up there, the borders disappear.

You can’t see countries.

You can’t see political arguments.

You can’t see someone’s bank balance.

You can’t see the things we spend so much of our time arguing about.

You just see Earth.

One small blue world.

And on another world, three human beings.

That thought gets me every time.

And perhaps that’s why I’d choose Apollo 11.

It’s not really because I’m fascinated by rockets.

Although I am.

It’s not because I’d want to meet Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins.

Although, obviously, that would be rather brilliant.

And it’s not even because I’d want to take photographs.

Although knowing me, I’d probably spend half the event worrying about whether I’d brought enough film.

I’d want to be there because it was one of those incredibly rare moments when human beings did something that seemed almost impossible.

Simply because someone decided it was worth trying.

And I think that’s the part I like most.

History tends to remember the names at the front.

Armstrong.

Aldrin.

Collins.

And rightly so.

But Apollo 11 wasn’t built by three people.

It was built by thousands.

Engineers.

Scientists.

Technicians.

Mathematicians.

People checking calculations.

People testing equipment.

People finding problems.

People fixing those problems.

People staying late because something wasn’t quite right.

People doing jobs that, at the time, probably felt like ordinary work.

Until you put all those ordinary jobs together.

Then something extraordinary happens.

That’s probably one of the things I find most fascinating about history.

We like to turn it into stories about individuals.

One person had the idea.

One person made the decision.

One person took the risk.

One person changed the world.

But most of the time, that’s not really how it works.

History is usually thousands of people doing their little bit.

Most of them never becoming famous.

Most of their names never appearing in a school textbook.

But without them, the famous moment wouldn’t happen.

And I think there’s something rather lovely about that.

So yes.

If I could go back and witness any moment in history, I’d choose Apollo 11.

I’d find somewhere safe to stand.

I’d stay out of everyone’s way.

I’d probably take far too many photographs.

I’d try very hard not to touch anything.

And when Armstrong finally stepped down onto the Moon, I suspect I’d just stand there completely gobsmacked.

Because sometimes you don’t need to understand a moment.

You don’t need to be important.

You don’t need to be part of the story.

Sometimes it’s enough just to be there.

To watch something happen that nobody had ever done before.

And to realise, even for a few seconds, that you’re watching history being made.

That’s where I’d like to be.

Right there.

On the sidelines.

Probably with a camera.

And almost certainly wondering how the hell I’m going to get back home.

Stay safe,

Bc

Remember Remember

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What’s a cultural tradition from your country that you love?

There are certain things from childhood that, for whatever reason, stay with you.

For me, one of those things has to be Bonfire Night.

The Fifth of November.

Cold November air.

The smell of woodsmoke.

Fireworks going off somewhere in the distance.

And, inevitably, some bloke standing far too close to the bonfire while somebody’s mum shouts:

“MOVE BACK!”

Of course, when you’re a kid, you don’t see a giant pile of burning wood as a potential health and safety incident waiting to happen.

You see an adventure.

You see something bloody enormous.

And probably wonder how close you can get before your eyebrows become an optional extra.

Then there was the Guy.

We’d make one from whatever old clothes we could find, stuffing them with newspaper, rags, or basically anything that was vaguely flammable and not currently being used.

It didn’t have to be particularly good.

Actually, thinking back, some of them were probably less “Guy Fawkes” and more “slightly suspicious bloke who’s been found in a hedge.”

But that didn’t matter.

We’d proudly put our creation on top of the bonfire and stand back, waiting for the flames to do their thing.

And then came the fireworks.

Now, modern fireworks are spectacular.

Absolutely bloody enormous.

But there was something magical about those childhood displays.

The first rocket disappearing into the darkness.

That moment of anticipation.

Then—

BOOM!

A shower of colour exploding across the sky.

Golden sparks.

Red.

Green.

Blue.

And for a few seconds, the whole night seemed to come alive.

Maybe they really were better back then.

Or maybe that’s just what childhood does.

It takes ordinary things and makes them enormous.

Then, of course, there was the food.

And I’m not talking about fancy street food, artisan burgers or anything else that somebody has decided needs to be served on a wooden board.

Give me a jacket potato cooked in the embers of a bonfire.

That was food.

You’d wait.

And wait.

And probably wait considerably longer than you had the patience for.

Eventually you’d pull it out, brush away the ash, unwrap the foil, split it open and add a ridiculous amount of butter.

Simple.

Cheap.

Perfect.

Funny how food seems to taste better when there’s a memory attached to it.

That potato wasn’t just a potato.

It was part of the evening.

Part of standing outside in the cold.

Part of waiting around with family and friends.

Part of being a kid.

And, if you were lucky, somebody had remembered the hot chocolate.

Happy days.

Now what’s my rambling got to do with cultural traditions..?

There’s actually a fascinating bit of history behind all of it

Bonfire Night commemorates 5 November 1605, when Guy Fawkes was discovered guarding barrels of gunpowder beneath the Houses of Parliament as part of what we now call, the Gunpowder Plot.

Although here’s something I didn’t know until relatively recently. The person being burned on the bonfire wasn’t always Guy Fawkes.

Apparently, in the seventeenth century, the Pope was often the unfortunate chap being thrown onto the flames.

Which seems a little harsh.

Eventually, Guy Fawkes became the familiar figure associated with Bonfire Night. Mainly because Parliament met in January 1606 and passed the Thanksgiving Act. This made services and sermons commemorating the plot a regular annual feature each 5 November.

Except at St Peter’s School in York, where they never have never burnt an effigy as Guy Fawkes was a student there.

And I suppose that’s one of the interesting things about traditions.

They change.

They evolve.

They get passed down from one generation to another, with each generation adding its own little bit to the story.

Stay safe

Bc

I Promise, Grandad

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If you could relive one day from your past, which day would it be and why?

That’s easy.

There wouldn’t be a second thought.

I’d go back to the last day I saw my maternal grandfather, in hospital.

Not my wedding day.

Not the birth of my children.

Not some great adventure or holiday.

That day.

Because sometimes the moments that matter most don’t look particularly important while you’re living them.

My grandad was one of the most important men in my life.

When my biological father walked out the night before Mother’s Day, I was not even ten years old. Whatever role a father is supposed to play, I was suddenly missing it.

My grandad filled some of that space.

He taught me what being a decent man meant.

Not through grand speeches or profound wisdom, but through the little things.

Work hard.

Be honest.

Take pride in yourself.

Help people regardless of their background or beliefs.

Be a gentleman.

Most importantly, be someone others can rely on.

He was a retired firefighter, a gardener, an artist, a sign-writer and a handyman. He was happiest pottering around in his shed or greenhouse, surrounded by tools, plants, bits of wood and whatever else he had decided might come in useful one day.

I’ve often joked that my love of sheds is probably hereditary.

I suspect it is.

Anyway, back to that day.

I finally managed to visit him in hospital.

I took him a paper and a few things, and we spent some time together.

Nothing particularly remarkable happened.

There was no dramatic conversation.

No warning that this would be the last time.

Eventually, it was time for me to leave.

And as I was going, he asked me:

“You will come and see me again won’t you son?”

I turned around and said:

“Yes, I promise.”

Those were the last words he ever said to me.

And for years, that sentence haunted me.

Because I didn’t know it was goodbye.

I went away believing I had another visit coming.

Another conversation.

Another opportunity.

Another chance to tell him what he meant to me.

Then came the guilt.

The horrible, irrational little voice that kept asking whether I should have stayed longer.

Whether I should have said more.

Whether I should have known.

For a long time, that guilt ate away at me.

Until I was told something that changed how I remembered that day.

Later that same day, my grandad had called my mum.

He told her how pleased he was that I had taken the time to visit him.

He told her how proud he was.

And suddenly, that memory changed.

Because I had spent years looking at that final visit through my own eyes.

I remembered leaving.

I remembered his question.

I remembered my promise.

But I hadn’t known what happened afterwards.

I hadn’t known that, once I’d gone, he’d picked up the phone and told my mum that my visit had meant something to him.

That matters.

More than I can explain.

So yes, if I could relive one day from my past, I’d go back there.

But I wouldn’t change what happened.

I wouldn’t try to prevent the inevitable.

I wouldn’t even want some magical extra week or month with him.

I’d simply stay a little longer.

I’d sit beside his bed.

I’d tell him how much I loved him.

I’d thank him.

For the lessons.

For the example.

For being there when I needed a male role model.

For teaching me that being a man isn’t about being tough, silent or emotionless.

It’s about being decent.

I’d tell him that so much of what he taught me stayed with me.

I’d tell him that I still think about him.

I’d probably tell him about the shed:

I was so influenced by him that I eventually took his name professionally.

The Christian in Bob W Christian is a little piece of him that I carry with me.

Every time I write something.

Every time I put my name to a poem.

Every time someone reads something I’ve created.

A little bit of Walter S Christian is still there.

So perhaps I don’t really need to relive that day after all.

Because although I can’t go back and change those final moments, I can still honour them.

I can remember the man.

I can carry forward the lessons.

And I can try to be the sort of man he would have been proud of.

Funny thing, memory.

So when you love someone, tell them.

When you’re grateful, say thank you.

And if you get the chance to spend another ten minutes with someone who matters…

Take the ten minutes.

You never know just how valuable they might become.

Stay safe,

Bc

I Finally Realised I Know Nothing

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What’s a moment when you realized you were officially an adult?

That’s actually quite a difficult question.

You might expect the answer to be something obvious.

Getting your first proper job.

Paying your first bill.

Buying your first house.

Or perhaps that moment when you realise that nobody is going to come along and tell you what you’re supposed to be doing anymore.

For me, though, it was none of those things.

I think it was when I finally learned to let go.

And, perhaps more importantly, when I realised that I actually knew absolutely nothing.

Now, that might sound like a strange thing to associate with becoming an adult.

Surely adulthood is about knowing things?

Having the answers.

Being responsible.

Knowing what you’re doing.

Apparently not.

Because the older I get, the more I realise that I don’t have all the answers.

I probably never did.

I just got better at pretending I did.

When you’re younger, you tend to think adults have everything figured out. Your parents seem to know everything. Teachers know everything. People at work definitely know everything.

Then, one day, you become one of those adults.

And you suddenly realise we’re all just making it up as we go along.

Some of us are just better at looking confident while doing it.

For a long time, I thought I had to hold on to everything.

Old arguments.

Old mistakes.

People who had hurt me.

Things I’d done that I wished I could undo.

The idea that I could somehow control what other people thought, said or did.

And that’s exhausting.

Eventually, I realised that some things simply aren’t mine to carry.

You can’t change the past.

You can’t control other people.

You can’t make everyone understand you.

And sometimes you can’t even make yourself understand why you’ve done something until years later.

So you let go.

Not because it doesn’t matter.

Not because it didn’t hurt.

But because carrying it around forever isn’t going to change what happened.

That’s when I think I finally started growing up.

Not when I got older.

Not when I had responsibilities.

Not when I became a husband, a father or eventually a grandfather.

It was when I stopped believing that adulthood meant having all the answers.

Because perhaps real adulthood is recognising how little you actually know.

And being comfortable with that.

I’m still learning.

I’ll probably still be learning when I’m an old bloke complaining about the price of a pasty and wondering why everything needs an app.

But that’s okay.

Life isn’t a test where you eventually reach the final question and someone hands you a certificate saying:

Congratulations. You are now officially an adult.

There isn’t one.

There are just experiences.

Mistakes.

Lessons.

People who come into your life.

People who leave it.

Things you hold on to.

And things you eventually learn to let go.

And perhaps that’s the real trick.

Not knowing everything.

Just knowing that you don’t.

Stay safe

Bc

Charlie Mike

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If you had a time machine and could send just one message to your past self, what would it say?

If I could send just one message back to the person I was, it would be this:

No matter how dark life becomes, you’re going to get through it.

There will be times when you genuinely believe the pain will never end. You’ll carry anger, fear, grief and questions you don’t yet have answers for. You’ll have moments when giving up seems easier than taking another step.

But keep going.

You don’t know it yet, but the hardest chapters of your life aren’t the end of your story. They’re the chapters that will teach you just how strong you are, and eventually, how to let go of the things that were never yours to carry forever.

You will find peace.

Not because life suddenly becomes perfect—it doesn’t. But because you’ll learn that peace isn’t about changing the past or controlling everything around you. It’s about accepting what you cannot change, letting go of what weighs you down, and choosing to keep moving forward.

So breathe.

Stay.

Keep going.

There is a life waiting for you that you cannot imagine from where you’re standing now.

And trust me…

“you’re going to be okay.”

Stay safe

Bc

Congratulations You Made it

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If your future self could send you one sentence, what do you hope it would say?

If my future self could send me one sentence, I think I’d want it to say:

“Congratulations, you made it through everything you once thought would break you, and somehow you became the person you were always meant to be.”

Not you became rich.

Not you became famous.

Not even you got everything you wanted.

Just…

You made it.

Because I think we spend far too much of our lives measuring success by destinations.

The job.

The house.

The money.

The achievements.

The things we can put on a CV and point at proudly.

But perhaps the greatest achievement is simply reaching the other side of the storms that once convinced us we wouldn’t.

Looking back and realising that the mistakes weren’t the end.

The heartbreak wasn’t the end.

The failures weren’t the end.

The days when getting out of bed felt like an achievement weren’t the end.

They were chapters.

Some difficult.

Some ridiculous.

Some I’d happily rip out of the book altogether.

But they were still chapters.

And if future me is reading this, I hope he smiles.

Not because life turned out perfectly.

But because it turned out to be worth it.

So yes, future me…

Congratulations.

You made it.

Now go and enjoy the next chapter.

Stay safe

Bc

Forget Pythagoras, Teach Me How To Live

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What’s a thing you wish schools actually taught?

For me, the answer is pretty straightforward.

Life.

Not all of it, obviously. I’m not expecting a fourteen-year-old to be taught how to navigate a midlife crisis, assemble flat-pack furniture without swearing, or explain to their children why Dad is hiding in the shed.

Although, actually, that last one might be quite useful.

But there are an awful lot of things I was taught at school that, despite having passed exams and presumably being considered important at the time, have rarely been useful to me since.

Pythagoras’ theorem springs to mind.

Now before all the mathematicians come charging at me with their calculators, I’m not saying mathematics isn’t important.

It absolutely is.

But I can’t remember the last time I stood in my garden, looked at two sides of a triangle and thought:

“Hang on a minute, I know exactly what to do here.”

Meanwhile, nobody thought it might be useful to teach me how to balance a household budget.

Or how tax actually works.

Or what all those frightening numbers and boxes on official forms mean.

Nobody sat me down and explained mortgages, interest rates, borrowing, credit scores, insurance or the simple financial reality that earning £2,000 doesn’t mean you’ve got £2,000 to spend.

Those are things most of us eventually have to learn.

Usually by making mistakes.

Sometimes expensive ones.

And then there’s the practical stuff.

How to put up a shelf without it falling off the wall five minutes later.

How to unblock a sink.

How to change a tap washer.

How to find a stud.

How to use basic tools properly.

How to assemble something from instructions without immediately deciding that whoever designed it was a complete bastard.

Even something as simple as changing a wheel on a car.

These are basic life skills.

And yet I don’t remember anyone teaching them.

I actually learnt more about practical things from my brother Tim and my mates than I ever did sitting in a classroom.

I had an old Honda 90cc, and between taking that thing apart, putting it back together and occasionally wondering why I’d ended up with several mysterious bolts left over, I learnt a surprising amount about mechanics.

I learnt how things work.

How to diagnose a problem.

How to use tools.

How to fix something rather than immediately deciding it was broken beyond repair.

More importantly, I learnt that you don’t necessarily need to know everything before you start.

Sometimes you just need to have a go.

Those lessons have stayed with me.

I’ve used them throughout my life.

I’ve fixed things.

I’ve built things.

I’ve taken things apart.

I’ve occasionally broken things while trying to fix them, but that’s part of the educational process too.

And I suspect I’ve used those lessons far more often than I’ve used my knowledge of the mitochondria being the powerhouse of the cell.

Sorry, mitochondria.

You had your chance.

I’m not arguing that schools should stop teaching academic subjects.

Of course they shouldn’t.

Education isn’t simply about producing people who can balance a cheque book and change a tyre.

We need scientists.

Engineers.

Historians.

Artists.

Teachers.

Doctors.

Writers.

Mathematicians.

People who understand literature, politics, science, philosophy and the world around them.

Knowledge matters.

But so does knowing what to do when the washing machine starts making a noise that sounds suspiciously like a small aircraft attempting an emergency landing.

Perhaps education needs a bit more balance.

Teach the theory, absolutely.

But teach us what to do with it.

Give teenagers a basic understanding of money.

Show them how rent, mortgages, bills and household budgets actually work.

Explain taxes.

Teach them how contracts work and why you shouldn’t sign something you haven’t read.

Teach basic cooking.

Basic first aid.

Basic DIY.

Basic car maintenance.

How to change a tyre.

How to safely change a fuse or plug.

How to use a drill without removing a finger.

How to recognise when something is beyond your ability and when you need to call someone who actually knows what they’re doing.

And perhaps most importantly, teach them that asking for help isn’t failure.

Because eventually, every child leaves school.

They become adults.

They get jobs.

They rent houses.

They buy homes.

They have children.

They encounter broken boilers, flat tyres, tax forms, insurance documents, dodgy washing machines and bank statements that seem to have been written in a language known only to accountants.

And suddenly they’re expected to know what they’re doing.

Except nobody actually taught them.

We spend years preparing young people for exams.

Perhaps we should spend a little more time preparing them for the bit that comes afterwards.

Because life doesn’t come with an answer sheet at the back of the book.

Sometimes the answer is simply:

“Right, let’s have a look and see if I can fix it.”

And honestly, that’s probably one of the most useful things my old Honda ever taught me.

Stay safe

Bc

The Best Advice I Ever Received Was Hidden in a Book

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What’s the best piece of advice you’ve ever received?

People occasionally ask me what the best piece of advice I’ve ever received is. They’re usually expecting a memorable quote from a famous person or perhaps something a mentor once said to me.

My answer is a little different.

As I’ve often mentioned before, many years ago a girlfriend gave me a copy of Wicca: A Guide for the Solitary Practitionerby Scott Cunningham. At the time, i couldn’t have imagined how significant that simple gift would become. It wasn’t just another book to add to the shelf; it opened my eyes to a completely different way of looking at the world.

That journey eventually led me to explore both Wicca and Buddhism. While they are very different spiritual traditions, I discovered they shared a lesson that has stayed with me ever since.

The best advice I’ve ever received is this:

Realise that peace comes from within, not from trying to change the outside world.

It’s such a simple idea, yet it takes most of us years to truly understand.

We spend so much of our lives believing happiness will arrive when circumstances improve. We tell ourselves we’ll be content when we find the perfect relationship, earn a little more money, get the promotion, move house or finally tick off the next goal.

But life has a habit of reminding us that there is always another challenge waiting around the corner.

If our peace depends entirely on the world behaving as we’d like it to, we’ll spend much of our lives disappointed.

One of my favourite Wiccan sayings captures this beautifully:

“True peace is kindled within the sacred circle; tend your inner flame, and the world will mirror calm.”

Whether you interpret the sacred circle literally or simply as the space within your own mind, the message is still the same. Before we can bring peace into our lives, we have to nurture it within ourselves.

Years later I found exactly the same wisdom expressed through Buddhism.

The Buddha taught that much of our suffering comes not from what happens to us, but from our attachment to how we think life should be. We exhaust ourselves trying to control people, situations and outcomes that were never ours to control in the first place.

The more we resist reality, the more we suffer.

The more we accept the present moment, while still doing our best to respond wisely, the more peaceful life becomes.

That doesn’t mean giving up or becoming indifferent. It means understanding where our real power lies.

We can’t control every event.

We can’t control other people.

We can’t stop change.

But we can choose how we respond.

Looking back now, I realise that the greatest lesson wasn’t simply found in the pages of Scott Cunningham’s book. It emerged through years of reading, reflection and experience. Wicca pointed me towards the importance of living in harmony with myself and the natural world. Buddhism deepened that understanding by teaching me that lasting peace isn’t something we discover outside ourselves.

It’s something we cultivate within.

So if someone asked me today what the best advice I’ve ever received is, my answer would still be the same.

Don’t spend your life trying to create the perfect world.

Instead, create peace within yourself.

Everything else becomes much easier after that.

Stay safe

Bc

The Two Things I Stopped Worrying About

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What’s something you used to worry about but don’t anymore?

There are two answers to this.

The obvious one is death.

Most people worry about it, even if they don’t admit it to themselves. It’s the one certainty we all spend our lives trying not to think about.

The difference for me is that I’ve been clinically dead.

That experience didn’t make me fearless or convince me I’m invincible. I still value my life. I still wear a seatbelt. I still look both ways before crossing the road. But it did change my relationship with death.

(Read Hello old Friend)

I no longer see it as something lurking around every corner, waiting to steal today’s happiness.

It’ll come when it comes.

Until then, I’d rather spend my energy living than worrying about the inevitable.

The second answer took much longer to conquer.

Other people’s opinions.

Again, I think most of us care far more than we’re willing to admit. We worry about saying the wrong thing, looking foolish, being judged or misunderstood. We edit ourselves before we’ve even opened our mouths.

I certainly did.

Then, about ten years ago, I started writing honestly on this blog.

Not the polished version of life.

The real one.

The struggles with mental health. Autism. PTSD. Family life. The victories, the failures, and all the wonderfully messy bits in between.

When you spend a decade opening your heart to complete strangers on the internet, something unexpected happens.

You realise the world doesn’t end.

Some people won’t like you.

Some will misunderstand you.

A few will judge you without ever really knowing you.

And that’s perfectly alright.

Because just as you’re free to have an opinion about them, they’re free to have one about you.

Turning fifty probably helped as well.

There’s something wonderfully liberating about reaching an age where you finally understand that you were never going to be everyone’s cup of tea—and you don’t actually need to be.

The people who matter already know who you are.

The people who don’t… probably never will.

Life is far too short to spend it performing for an audience you’ll never satisfy.

So these days I worry less about death.

I worry less about what strangers think.

Instead, I try to focus on something far more worthwhile.

Living a life that feels honest.

If I manage that, the rest tends to take care of itself.

Stay safe,

Bc