The programme cover of the first Argyle match I attended back in 1987. Whisper it quietly, but when I first discovered football, I became a Manchester United fan (I suspect to my father’s disappointment, he would have loved nothing more than for me to follow in his Sunderland-supporting footsteps). I have no idea why I followed the Red Devils and perhaps that’s part of the reason why, on February 14th, 1987, I fell in love with Plymouth Argyle.

One of the few photographs of myself that doesn't fill me with embarrassment. Needless to say, at an all-boys school, opportunities to engage with girls were limited. At the time, the premises on which Devonport High School was situated were shared with a mixed school, Tamar High School, which was attended by a few of the students from Pennycross and, of course, the much-maligned apple of my eye, Joanne Kenny.

While my early days at DHS were a bit of a mixed bag in terms of discovering who I was and ultimately who I wanted to be, an unpleasant memory surfaced recently that I’m hesitant about sharing…but this is supposed to be a look back on all that I remember, warts and all, so to speak. I’ve already considered the fact that I had a gob on me when I was younger and there were occasions during my time at DHS where I earned a well-deserved whack or two from my peers as I traversed the fine line between being funny and being a complete tosser.

A recent image of the playing fields at Devonport High School My first year at Devonport High School (where all first-year students were affectionately and more often than not less-than-affectionately known as ‘scruffs’) was arguably my most productive in terms of output and behaviour. I was keen to get on and experience what would be my first taste of prolonged stability in an educational establishment.

I’ve been trying to collect my thoughts before moving on to the next part of my story. Walking through my early years has left me feeling bruised as I have uncovered more memories than I expected and reliving the times when I was on the receiving end of violence or worse has saddled me with a deep, cloying sadness that I am unable to shake off.

At a guess, eight-year-old me as a right-handed slogger. For as long as I can remember, cricket has been a massive part of my life. Watching, playing and finally moving into coaching the game has presented me with many memorable opportunities that I look back on with fondness, pride and occasionally, a little regret. And now, as my cricketing journey begins to come to an end, I find myself reasonably content with my lot.

With my mother at Kingsway, Teignmouth. Well, then. We’re now into what was Chapter Two of the book before it became a blog. So far, so good. Now we come to one of the things that I’m most afraid to share. So, why share it on a public blog, you may well ask? Justifiably too, because I’m not sure that I can give you an answer.

The football pitch at Bishopsteignton Primary School. Football at Bishopsteignton was a big thing for me. I suppose that I was a bit unusual in that I could use both feet, so would often be employed at left-back in the absence of anyone else who was genuinely left-footed. I was stronger with my right, but was comfortable enough with the ball at my feet to not need to just use the one foot.

Join Andrew Cook.as he looks back at the pilot episode of The X Files, a moment of television he considers timeless.

Bishopsteignton Primary School, Devon School days, we are often told, are the happiest days of our lives. I hope you’ll forgive me if I disagree! Primary school, to me, was an endless stream of navigating mini-popularity contests while trying to work out what the fuck was going on with myself and the world in general, a harsh lesson on the fallibility of human nature and the innate tendency in a percentage of the population to attempt to impose their opinions and restrictions upon others.

The church in Ideford I mentioned in 'Living a Boy's Adventure Tale' my fear of water. From memory, I was always quite cautious as a child. Nervous, timid. During the summer holidays, we would regularly visit the beach at Teignmouth, both when we lived in the town and in Ideford. I found the beach a bit of an ordeal. Always have done.

 We left Teignmouth after Mum and Dad separated, although I’m not too sure of the hows and the whys involved in moving out of the town. In fact, thinking about it, it must have been a little while after the split that we moved because more stuff happened before we made our way out to Ideford, but there is time enough for those stories in other parts of this blog.