We all live in little bubbles. Sometimes they protect us from the bad, scary or overly real things in life. Sometimes that protection lasts so long we forget it's there, and begin to take our lives for granted. Who wouldn't?
But of course it doesn't last, and when the bubble is pierced it always seems like the first time again, and it's all so unfair and nobody else can imagine what it's like etc etc.
So as everyone celebrates the season of happiness, joy, rampant 21st century consumerism (nice rant on "Extras" Mr Gervais) I would like to pause and offer a thought for the wonderful Phil O'Donnell.
Who? I hear you ask. No, not a pop star, nor a film star, nor indeed any kind of star by his own measure. But one of my heroes nonetheless.
Phil was the captain of Mothwerwell Football Club, playing in the Scottish Premier league, and enjoying probably the best season in the last decade of his career. He started his career at Motherwell, then got a big move to Celtic, and afterwards to Sheffield Wednesday. But he returned to great acclaim for an indian summer at his old stomping ground. During Saturday's League game with Dundee Utd he was being substituted when he collapsed on the pitch. It took the two clubs' doctors and ambulance staff quite a while to get him to the point where he could be stretchered off with an oxygen mask on his face. His nephew, David Clarkson, also plays for Motherwell (so Phil is "Uncle Phil" to all players and fans) and had just scored two great goals. Phil's wife and four kids were in the crowd watching the game.
Once he'd gone off the game continued, and everyone assumed he'd be taken to hospital and treated. At 5.18pm on Saturday night Phil was declared dead in hospital in nearby Wishaw. He was 35 years old.
I wasn't one of the 5,000 spectators who witnessed Phil's last moments. But I turned up at Fir Park the following morning, along with hundreds of others, including ex-playing colleagues, to mill about in bewilderment at the senselessness of it all. We didn't stay long (me, my wife and my 6 year old daughter) as we had the long driver to Caithness ahead of us. But the Narrow Road to the Deep North seemed a little narrower and darker after that.
OK, lots of people pass away at Christmas time, and lots of others are in terrible circumstances. But losing a good, honest public figure like Phil seems different. Being around grown men (and lanarkshire men at that) weeping openly in front of the main stand speaks volumes for a quiet man whose influence spread wider than most of us had realised.
So when you're counting down to 2008 tonight, spare a thought for all those with other things on their minds, and remember. We all live in little bubbles......
