Part 1
 2002 was, in hindsight, a bit like coming up for air in a small stretch of relatively calmer waters in the rapidly-flowing stream of history. We took stock of what had happened, but knew there was likely to be more turbulence and trouble further downstream. The notable news stories of the year â the USA government naming seven countries on their âAxis of Evilâ naughty list and the passing of UN Security Council resolution 1441 â were just setting the scene for what was to come.
 In an otherwise quiet year for major news stories, the Queen Mum (Gord bless âer) passed away just a few months before her daughter celebrated her Golden Jubilee. This was also the year that saw Euro notes enter circulation in a handful of EU countries.
 The film world was all about fantasy sequels in 2002, with the second installment of Peter Jacksonâs Lord of the Rings coming out along with a new Harry Potter, Spider Man, Star Wars Episode II and Men in Black II.
 The music of the year was a veritable mixed bag, with the likes of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Kylie Minogue, Coldplay, Badly Drawn Boy and Shakira receiving ample airplay.
 In non-Boro sport we saw Brazil win the World Cup again in Japan, beating the Germans 2-0 in the final. Lennox Lewis showed Frank Bruno how to beat Mike Tyson, Michael Schumacer drove faster than everyone else in Formula 1 and the Commonwealth Games came to Manchester.
 For me, 2002 was also a quiet year in the main (until October, at least). I was comfortably caught in the net of routine, working in an uninspiring job in York and getting used to the idea of being a father, husband and primary bread winner. My life was mapped out. I sometimes looked through the gaps in the net to the wider world outside and sometimes imagined alternative worlds, but consoled myself with the prospect of a package holiday every summer, an occasional night out with friends and the odd football game, if I had a spare 20 quid in my pocket. I wasnât struggling too much to escape from my nice, safe net.
 As for Boro themselves, they had ended the previous season in something of a state of transition. The new boss, Steve McClaren, still had work to do if he wanted to stamp his own identity and brand on the team. Highly-paid, ageing stars from the Robson era (Iâm looking at you, Alen Boksic) were still around. Gibson showed that he still had big ambitions by funding the club record ÂŁ8 million signing of a young Italian called Massimo Maccarone who had shone in an U21 match against England. He was joined by Cameroon international Geremi, who joined on a year-long loan from Real Madrid.
 But these signings were just sideshows to the main event â the return to Teesside of Juninho from Athletico Madrid. This time it was a permanent move, and the Boro fans were delighted to have The Little Fella back. Would it turn out to be third time lucky?
The season began on 17th August with a 0-0 draw at Southampton. A better start than last season, at least. Maccarone then gave us a teasing flash of his potential with a brace against Fulham at the Riverside, but Boro contrived to let them get 2 late goals and snatch a draw. August was completed with a 1-0 home win against Blackburn, courtesy of a Job goal.
 Into September we went and a controversial penalty awarded for the slightest contact on Ruud Van Nistelrooy saw Manchester United secure a 1-0 win over the Boro on a Tuesday night at old Trafford. Next up, on the following Tuesday night, it was Sunderland at home, and the strike-force of Nemeth and Maccarone delivered a comfortable 3-0 home win. On the Saturday a visit to Goodison Park resulted in a 2-1 defeat before French Frank once again showed his eye for goal to give us a 1-0 home win over Birmingham City.
 The final fixture of September was against Spurs at White Hart Lane. Without Hamilton Ricard on the scene, Iâm sure the Londoners were quite optimistic, but Boro produced one of the most memorable away performances in recent years to sweep them aside. Maccarone, Geremi and Job all scored in a 3-0 win that had the Boro faithful buzzing. The messageboards were bursting with glowing reports from Boroâs travelling support. That harlot named hope was displaying her wicked wares once again.
 October arrived, and the planets, stars and chocolate bars aligned themselves to send my life down a completely unexpected path. Quite out of the blue, a man from a consultancy company rang me from London to ask if I was interested in working in Taiwan on a prestigious project. It caught me off guard, alright, but with the way my career had been stagnating, I felt ready for a new challenge. It would mean being away from the family for long periods, of course, but opportunities like this were few and far between, so I attended an interview in London and set the wheels in motion.
 In the meantime, Boro started the month with a 2-0 win over Bolton at home, thank to goals from Ehiogu and Geremi. Talk of a challenge for a Champion League place started, but fate just couldnât resist the temptation and delivered a nice, cold dose of reality with a 1-0 defeat away to Charlton Athletic.
 On Saturday 26th October, as Boro battled to a 2-2 draw with Leeds at the Riverside, I once again found myself leaving the green and pleasant land of my home country and embarked on the arduous journey towards Taiwan. The first leg of the journey was a ten-hour flight to Hong Kong on a jumbo jet, which I spent with my knees pressed into the seat in front of me and a playful refrain drifting through my mind: What the f*ck am I doing?
 I arrived the following evening at Chiang Kai Shek International airport in Taipei, thousands of miles from home, but what felt like a million miles from the safe, familiar surroundings of home, family, football and decent bloody food. I know: My life; my choice.
 It took me a few weeks to get into the groove of life in the Far East, finding my feet at work and moving from the hotel into my own apartment, so I donât really remember how Boro did during that time. Having the benefit of recorded history to hand, I can now see that Boro spent November losing then winning then losing. The five league matches of the month went LWLWL. As ever the warm fuzzy feelings of a great win against Liverpool gave way to the bitter chill of a feckless reverse to West Brom.
 I felt a bit cut off to begin with, but at least the company I worked for were helpful and the other British people I worked with were friendly, and helped me to console myself with alcohol. I soon found out that there was decent internet coverage, which helped me stay in touch with home, and a big bonus was finding out that English Premiership games were screened regularly in this part of the world on an English-speaking channel. In fact, there were probably more games on TV here than there were in the UK, and they helpfully flashed up goals from other matches and went through all the results at the end. It was rare for a Boro match to be the featured game, so I would often have to sit through Man United, Liverpool or Arsenal doing their stuff, surrounded by locals who had never even been to England wearing Man U replica kits. Grr.
 With the time differences being as they were, weekend afternoon games could kick off as late as 11pm local time, and midweek games could kick off at 4am. I had to endure that unique feeling that (sensible, Iâm not staying up until that hour in midweek) expat football fans are all familiar with, especially those residing east of the UK: having to wait until the morning to check the result on the internet. Until then, all possible results exist in some weird state of quantum fluxâŚfrom the glorious 4-0 win, to the mind-numbing 0-0 draw, to the shameful 6-0 hammering, to the cancellation of the game because aliens abducted the referee from the A66 between Urlay Nook and Eaglescliffe.
 Itâs all a bit like that dastardly experiment hypothesized by Schrodinger, involving a cat locked in a box with poisonous gas and some random radiation-emitting substance that could release the gas at any time. The cat could be alive or dead, but until the box is opened, no-one knows, so both states exist at the same time. As Terry Pratchett asked: did they consider the third possible state â very, very angry cat?
 I was soon into the routine of having late nights on Saturdays, sometimes even Sundays if Boro were playing. Between the internet and the TV I managed to keep track of the Boroâs progress, and watched on from a third of a way round the planet as the early season promise once more dissipated into the ether and the familiar pattern of mediocre inconsistency asserted itself. December started with a 2-2 home draw against West Ham, with Ehiogu and Nemeth scoring the goals. The next home game, against Chelsea, was the first game I was able to watch live. I sat in a bar called Saints and Sinners with my Boro shirt on, outnumbered by Chelsea fans, but was able to cheer a superb free-kick goal by Geremi and a creditable 1-1 scoreline at the end.
 For the third game against opponents from that London (a 2-0 defeat away to Arsenal), I was once more on an aeroplane; on my way home for Christmas. I had to endure one of the bumpiest and scariest flights I have ever been on between Taipei and Hong Kong, at the end of which I had to have my hands surgically removed from the armrests. The Cathay Pacific Airbus A340 that took me from Hong Kong to London spent nearly 14 hours in the air, and I had even less leg-room than on the first flight. It was worth it in the end. Christmas at home is just not to be missed.
 The fact that I developed some kind of gastric flu over Christmas did little to spoil the occasion. It meant I was able to stay home over New Year as well. I was also delighted to witness the Boxing Day spanking of the Red Devils of Manchester on TV. These results are like unexpected shags (i.e. those you havenât had to pay or beg for) and live long in the memory. Boksicâs strike towards the end of the first half raised an eyebrow, but then the way Nemeth cut through the United defence for the secondâŚjust orgasmic. Joseph Job put the finishing touches to a glorious 3-1 win, and I went to get some tissues.
 The defeat in the final game of 2002 â 1-0 away to Villa - was inevitable, of course. Would we really have it any other way?
