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Books Of My Year 2025.

18 Dec

The week before Christmas 2025 and here is my list. The Ashes have scattered, the economy has flatlined and the culture wars rage on. Roger Daltry has a knighthood, much better deserved, I guess, than the gong recorded in my prologue to this year’s reading below. Happy Christmas and have a bookish New Year.

It’s New Year’s Eve, 2024. Sadiq Khan has just been awarded a knighthood. News on Syria, Ukraine, Gaza et has gone quiet over the festive period as environmental and the South Korean plane disaster took the grim headlines. What lies in store for the new year is anyone’s guess. Trump will be flexing his muscles for another assault from the White House. Meanwhile I am beginning my reading year with The Green Mile, the dark and captivating Stephen King novel about convicted child murderer, John Coffey waiting for the long walk to the electric chair. Sets the tone for the year or will there be cause for greater optimism?I hope so!

  1. The Green Mile. 1996. Stephen King. Paul Edgecombe is a senior guard on Death Row. John Coffey has been convicted of the gruesome rape and murder of two young girls but there is something both gentle and mystical about this giant of a man who waits for execution. The plot takes us back and forth with back stories of both inmates and prison warders. It excellent but not better than the film. 7
  2. Bucket List. 2023. Russell Jones. The hint is in the title. Billed as a Harold Fry type of sentimental journey, it lacks both the novelty and humour. Poor. 3
  3. The Winners. Frederik Backman. Yet another in the Beartown series. I’m a sucker for punishment but having started on the series, I’ll see it through. The fortunes of both local ice hockey teams ( Beartown and Ned – Bears and Bulls) have nosedived with the accumulation of rape, deaths, arson and other forms of violence and scandal. What phoenix can rise from the ashes? 6
  4. The Dream Home. 2024. T. Logan. I have read the odd novel by this worthy writer. Jess, Adam and family buy their dream home on a leafy middle class posh estate in Nottingham. But their new house has a concealed room and a dark history. Adam, now redundant but concealing this from family, has time to explore the secrets of the past. Mistake. The unease of a new house and secret rooms are hardly unique elements of a mystery tale. Some of Logan’s plotting is clunky but the chapters are short so the format suits the closing of eyelids at bedtime. Sun bed entertainment. 6
  5. Hidden Fires. 2024. Sairish Hussain. Sairish won some critical acclaim for her first novel, The Family Tree and here she is similar territory – that of the tensions between first and later generations of immigrants from Pakistan. This is well trodden territory with the film versions of East is East and Bend it Like Beckham being amongst the forerunners. Yusuf is an old school granddad who left Pakistan to settle in Bradford after the horrors that his family experienced during partition in 1947. Rubi is his mixed race granddaughter who lives unhappily ( tubby, bullied at school, temperamental) with her English mother and well-assimilated Pakistani/ English dad. When Rubi’s English grandma dies in Spain, her parents have to fly out, leaving Rubi in the ageing care of granddad and more battles to fight. Narrated at turns by each of the central characters, this is an engaging tour through the ongoing identity crises that immigrants still face, unsurprisingly, I guess. I learnt more about the brutality of partition, more about the cultural challenges that we all face in the 2020s and more about family and religious traditions which other societies cling to for sustenance. 7
  6. Capital. 2013. John Lanchester. A state of the nation novel, set mostly in a posh London suburb in 2008 where the residents of Pepys Road are a representative group of millennials about whom JL weaves his engaging, witty story. We have Roger, a banker who lives for his huge bonus and wife Arabella who is a serial spendthrift. Their supercharged lifestyle is on the brink of a Leeson style/Lehman’s implosion. We have: a Polish builder; a corner shop Pakistani family whose sense of family, culture and religion has been scrambled by circumstances; a Banksy doppelgänger; a Hungarian nanny; a fast-track graduate policeman; a dying matriarch whose daughter needs to sells the posh house….a basket of character around whom JL weaves his tale. A mysterious ne’er do well drops poison pen cards through doors and follows this up with dead birds and keying cars. A Jihadist infiltrates the otherwise endearing corner shop family, the banker gets the sack for the fraud of his junior, the builder finds a fortune hidden in a suitcase… and so the stories interlace with rather less farce than my description might imply. It has the warm feeling of a Richard Osman novel with a similar wit and edge. There’s plenty of social truths told and I found myself thinking that, despite its setting of 17 years ago, it stands well as a parable for today. Good. 7
  7. Camino Ghosts. 2024. John Grisham. His latest. Less a legal wrangle, more a tour through America’s cultural and slave history. Lovely Jackson is the daughter of African slaves who washed up on Dark Isle off the coast of Florida. As she nears the end of her life she claims ownership of this forbidding place but has a fight on her hands to stop a wealthy and power-corrupted development of casinos and hotels exploiting the burial grounds of her much abused ancestors. Enter Mercer Mann a successful novelist and husband Thomas; enter also the do-gooding Bruce, owner of Bay Books and publisher; finally enter Steve Mahon, environmental lawyer. These entrants take up her cause against the unscrupulous forces of money making. It’s a speedily told yarn with plenty of historical, political and cultural influence. It’s rather untypical of much of the Grisham I have read. Intriguing. 7
  8. Act of Oblivion. 2023. Robert Harris. Set in retributive aftermath of Cromwell’s death and re-establishment of the monarchy in 1658, the story follows the unceasing efforts of Richard Naylor, Privy Councillor and chief investigator into the whereabouts of all those who signed Charles I’s death warrant. Most have been tracked down and put to grisly deaths but two, Colonel Ned Whalley and Colonel Will Golfe have fled to America. Naylor is on a mission to seek and destroy. Harris mixes fact and fiction compellingly; the reader learns a great deal from his researches, while being drawn into the human stories of the obsessive tracking of the puritans whose ideology now places them at risk of their lives. The narrative is littered with characters on both sides of the pond: Roundhead and Cavalier, Catholic and puritan Protestant, parliamentarians and charlatans, the stoic womenfolk and the devout and dodgy. Long but informative and readable. 7
  9. Murder in Vienna. 1956/2024. E.C.R. Lorac. Part of the Crime Classics series of revived gems. Here Agatha Christie meets The Thirty Nine Steps in an atmospheric post war Vienna-noir. A Scotland Yard Chief Inspector hoping for a relaxing break with an old Austrian friend finds himself caught up in a murder hunt. why is it that several of the passengers on his plane from London have been mugged or murdered? A diplomat and a retired soprano are about to publish their memoirs; could the rights to publish be a motive? it’s a slickly told tale, the easy prose and clever plotting making the reader’s journey a pleasure. The real star is the city of Vienna, evocatively described with the spice of post war Anschluss guilt to give the story context. 6
  10. Dead Island.2024. Samuel Bjork. A Scandi noir. Two ‘damaged’ detectives are called upon to investigate the brutal murder of a teenage girl in a remote part of Norway. The disappearance of a young lad three years earlier becomes a defrosted case after his name is written in blood at the crime scene. The ‘damaged’ cops (drugs, drink, divorce, mental instability) are good at their jobs but there is little evidence to go on in this strange isolated community. The interconnection of characters is somewhat off putting and Bjork isn’t quite a Jo Nesbo or Stig Larsson..but it’s a fair effort. 6
  11. Ultra-Processed Food. 2023. Chris Van Tulleken. My mate John Ribchester put me on to this best-selling tome. I’m generally not obsessed with nutition and diet but this is a captivating read. How little do we know about the vast quantities of synthetic muck we are poring down our throats each day? It’s much more than a finger wag at we lazy, gullible idiots; more a humourous, informative and unpatronising tour through the minefield of our consumption. For so long now our diets have been driven by the needs of large businesses to make serious money. To do that food has to become addictive and cheap so the poorer you are (most people) the more you are likely to buy the cheapest and ultra-processed. Captivating but to dip in and out of.7
  12. Munichs. 2024. David Peace. an excellent fictionalising of the Manchester United Munich disaster and its aftermath. Peace has exhaustively researched all the major characters in the tragic saga and produced a novel of sensitivity and insight. It’s indulgently overlong but for afficianados a great read. For me 8, for neutrals, 6.
  13. The Betrayal of Thomas True. 2024. A.J.West. Set in London 1715 this is a curious mystery surrounding the hunting down of a cabal of gay men, dubbed ‘Mollies’, who meet secretively for fun and company. However there is a rat in their midst who is determined, one by one, to ‘out’ them and see them hanged for their despicable crimes. Thomas True has ‘escaped’ the pious family home in Highgate and come to central London to be apprenticed to his candle making uncle. He rekindles a childhood friendship with his cousin Abigail but neither he nor she is what they seem. The hardback copy leant to me by my friend Geoff looks for all the world Victorian – the typeface and darkly dramatic illustrations are melodramatically Dickensian, despite the novel’s setting being a century earlier. Indeed the characters and some attempts at humour seem to mimic the great man. The subject matter however is intriguing and unusual. The existence of molly houses for gay men is established though AJ West freely admits to blending little fact with a lot of fiction. Nevertheless this is a reminder of the savage intolerance of a bygone age – but intolerances and the hypocrisy of those who profess the moral high ground remain as strong as ever in our 21st century world. After a time I found the narrative just a little dull. 6
  14. Judi Dench. 2024. The Man Who Pays the Rent. Judi in conversation reviewing all her Shakespearean roles, times, places and companies. If you’re into a funny yet quite forensic look at how the great lady interpreted the plays and her great speeches, this is a captivating read. If you’re into are studying any of the players, the insights are golden. For the luvvies a must-read. 8/9.
  15. The Spy. 2024. Ajay Chowdhury. I am surprised that this Detective Kamil Rahman series has gained so much popularity. The plots are clunky and wildly improbable and the dialogue, of which there is a lot, is worse. The schtick is interesting however. Kamikaze is a Kashmiri Muslim detective working for the Met Police. His backstory from novels 1, 2 and 3 (The Waiter, The Cook, The Detective) is troubled – politically and emotionally. He has moved to England for a fresh start and hopes for citizenship. He is in love with two women – Mariah and Anjoli; the former has followed him from India and works for Amnesty, the latter a restauranteur with a liking for sleuthing. MI5 recruit Kamil as an undercover spy Tao gain intelligence on a terrorist cell operating out of a mosque in London. As the story unfolds we travel to India, through the tangle of anti Muslim (pro Hindu) politics and back to a complex but dangerous search for kidnapped British Asians and the terrorist mastermind. I found myself being educated in Islam and the power games of the sub continent. Not to mention the internal squabbles of the Met Police and the security services. There was also an interesting twist in that the terrorist target was a Indian politician, not a random attack on the innocent who just happened to be in the wrong place. For this reason I read on and was better informed. As for the general readability – annoying. 4
  16. The Women Behind the Door. 2024. Roddy Doyle. I’m an admirer of RD but I don’t always click in to his style. Here is a case in point. Paula Spencer is a mid sixties woman who has lived a life of trials and tribs. She has a good man Joe on her arm but her daughter Nicola is in mid life crisis. She comes back to live with Paula and the two navigate, through dialogue and Paula’s internal monologue, their way to a newer understanding of each other, the past and the future. Very Irish, very Joycian, always interesting but not compelling. It’s a Mike Leigh film in book form. If it’s your thing, a gem. 6
  17. My Friends. 2024 Hisham Matar. This says so much more about the life and culture of a displaced person, living in England than Ajay Chowdhury. Khaled is a Libyan at Edinburgh University persuaded to protest at the now infamous siege of the Libyan Embassy in London. 1982. His reluctance becomes an ironic nightmare as he gets caught in the murderous crossfire of Gaddafi’s henchmen (famously and sadly, policewoman Louise Fletcher lost her life). He is shot, recovers and becomes a marked man, unable to return home for fear of Gaddafi’s brutal vengeance. He is destined to become a lifelong emigré, his love life, education and family relations all blighted by the fallout of a student protest. Amur’s prose is deep and thoughtful but, equally, the story is driven on by it. The span of the novel, really, is from the Embassy attack to the fall of the dictator. A sort of coming of age for a man who becomes a stranger in both his own and his adopted country. And yet he loves both places. Really excellent. 8/9
  18. Peter May. The Black Loch. 2024. It was good! However it has faded into the mists of time, as I forgot to review it at the time. 7?
  19. The Blackwater Lightship. 1999. Colm Toibin. An early Toibin, catching the devastating result for one family of the AIDS crisis of the 80s and 90s. Set in rural Ireland and Dublin, this is the story of one young man whose AIDS diagnosis brings together his dysfunctional family and his best gay friends. The Joycian spareness and beauty of the narrative is compelling. It’s a tale similar in its devastating flow towards death as the great TV drama It’s A Sin. The landscape and seascape of rural Ireland provide the pathetic fallacy, the commentary to society’s shunning of those in any way involved and yet the redemption and catharsis for those closest to the tragedy. Powerful, beautiful. 9
  20. Murder for Busy People. 2024. Tony Parsons. The latest in is Max Wolfe cop series. Another good tale for poolside reading. 7
  21. The New Life. 2024.Tom Crewe. Henry Ellis and John Addington are well known literary figures in late Victorian London. Outwardly their marriages are conventional but both men are gay. Henry’s wife cohabits with a female partner; John’s wife grimly tolerates her husband’s rent boy patronage of a young print worker. The men collaborate to write The New Life – a celebration of the history of homosexuality and well as heterosexuality. It’s a dangerous enterprise, made more so by Oscar Wilde’s incarceration for depravity. The lives of wives, children and others are gravely affected by the pursuit of acceptance and truths which are unpalatable to the society of the time. It’s excellently written- a first and prizewinning novel. There’s plenty of gay-supportive literature around but this is right up there with the best. 8
  22. The 6.20 Man. 2019. David Baldacci. Devine is an ex Army man trying to get the monkeys of what happened in Iraq and Afghanistan, plus his privileged but unhappy upbringing, off his back. He works for a huge investment company where an ex girlfriend is murdered. His daily commute takes his train past the megapad which is owned by the unpleasant Trump-like President of his company. Disposable women, lavish parties, ruthless attitudes. His past catches up with him when the covert forces of policing want him to find out more about the dark dealings of his company and its boss.He can’t say no: government intel on his activities as a decorated soldier allow them quietly to blackmail him into aiding the investigation. It’s a gallop-along thriller almost entirely I’m Jack Reacher/Lee Child style. Page turner, not a literary masterpiece but clever, nonetheless. 7
  23. Twist. 2025. Colum McCann. A novel with a powerful pulse. This Booker nominated author is a rare talent. Here he harness Conrad’s Heart of Darkness and the savage nihilism of Apocalypse Now to fashion the journey of John Conway, a Chief of Mission on a ship which trawls the dangerous Atlantic waters off the west coast of Africa, repairing fibre optic cables at extraordinary depths. Cables which carry which carry the desperate negativity of social media, the instant world news and the transfers of vast billions into the coffers of those who don’t need more wealth. Anthony Fennell, journalist, is sent to write the story of a voyage into the murky depths with the brilliant and charismatic Conway. Conway’s journey is ultimately, like Kurtz, into hell. The world’s self destruct buttons of orange Presidents, environmental doom and men and women growing up to know less of themselves. than when they were kids. Trapped, alone, loved and unloved Conway is both captivating and deeply sinister. But his journey from self deceit to violent acceptance of a kind of truth is beautifully chronicled. The narrative is brooding and pacy at the same time. Every mood, every landscape, sight sound, gesture is infused with significance as Fennell, our narrator, tries to make sense of what unfolds before him on his journey into the unknown.8/9
  24. The Chaos Agent. 2024. Mark Greaney. Another in the Grey Man (ex CIA master investigator and killer, Courtland Gentry) series. It’s a spy version of Reacher ( again).This time our man Court wants to sail off into the sunset with beautiful partner Zora ( ex Russian super agent) but a rogue group who possess cutting edge AI attack drones which can identify and neutralise any target are killing off a large number of AI experts all over the world. Rogue assassin Lancer is their go-to hit man. Can he and they be stopped? It’s a blood and guts espionage tale which rattles along gruesomely but, at 600 pages, it runs out of steam. I was flagging by halfway but managed to finish without knowing why. 6
  25. Karla’s Choice. 2024. Nick Harkaway. Son of John le Carre, I was intrigued to pick this up to see how son compares with dad. In his foreword NH tells of his motives for writing and places the time of this Smiley revisit to the 1960s when there is a ten year gap in le Carré’s series. It is seven years after the Hungarian uprising of 1956. Smiley is enjoying ‘retirement’ with wife Ann but Control wants him back in the fold to prise the truth out of the arrival of a KGB double agent in London and why he was charged with the murder of a Hungarian literary agent, now disappeared. Smiley’s legendary ability to be morally upstanding while inscrutably cunning, is easily portrayed by NH. The early pages were over stylised and confusing but once the characters are established we are in proper le Carré mode: clear, cold and captivating. 8
  26. The Group. 2024. Sigge Eklund. I’m a fan of books in translation. The prose tends to be pared back enabling pace and clarity. This is an intense psychological ménage à quatre. Hanna is a Swedish intern at the Prado in Madrid. She attaches herself to three young and rich Swedes all trying to make a life in a foreign place. Hanna nicks works of art to fund a hedonistic lifestyle. Each of the group has a back story of pain and unfulfilling. Hanna is clearly psychotic. As I read on I was thinking of Highsmith’s Tom Ripley. The group dynamic could be taken from a Sally Rooney novel. Intense, real, false. Drugs, money, second guessing of love and motive. All so surreal but somehow captivating. 7
  27. The Second Sleep. Robert Harris. Set in a post apocalyptic world of the future, the Church has taken over control of a society that has had all technological advance wiped out. Horses and carts and a regime like the Spanish Inquisition. Christopher Fairfax is a newly ordained priest sent to president over the burial of Father Lacy in a Wessex village. Lacy’s faith had been challenged by his discovery of a bygone age of science and staggering technological invention. Was his death an accident or were the anti-heretical forces of the bishop at work? Fairfax gets drawn in and, with the local mill baron Hancock and the beautiful landowner Lady Sarah, sets out to seek the truth of the murder, the past and his incipient passion for the unconventional Sarah. An intriguing read as the modern sensibility ponders the possibility of Armageddon- climate change, pandemic, nuclear obliteration? The ultimate uselessness of the iPad. 7
  28. Strangers in Time. 2025. David Baldacci. Currently riding high in the Times’ best sellers this is a pacy yet strange melodrama about the Blitz in wartime London. Baldacci, better known for US crime capers has researched the hell out of all things English and WW2. The result is a Dick Van Dyke- cum Dickensian blackly comic ( to me) tale of two young teens, posh Molly and urchin orphan Charlie finding themselves taken in by the secretive but kind bookseller Ignatius Oliver. Their ensuing adventures include espionage, corrupt coppers, plenty of bombs and death, suicide, rape, lobotomies….enough! Despite researching the hell out of it, the hugely contrived plot made it read like a teen novel- notwithstanding its darkness. A strange departure for DB. 6
  29. Precipice. 2025. Robert Harris. A great read. At the outset of the First WW Asquith wrestles with the weight of his PM duty. Meanwhile he is conducting an affair with *, irresponsibly sending hundreds of letters, including plenty of classified and dangerous information. Harris gained access to this stunning archive of letters, kept by * and her family. His weaving of fact and fiction is, once again, masterful. Captivating stuff. 8
  30. The Rosie Result. 2024. Graeme Simsion. Third of the trilogy which charts the wooing and marriage of Rosie and Don. Now they have a ten year old son Hudson who has inherited a similar position of the autistic spectrum to his father. So again we have a story where the humour and the poignancy derives from oddness. This is still a good tale as so much truth is revealed by viewing situations from strange perspectives. Don loses his job – ‘is cancelled’ – because he answered a genetics question in one of his lectures truthfully. He sets up a hugely successful cocktail bar because his scientific and nerdy approach to mixing is a winner. Meanwhile son Hudson is having difficulties at school. Don and Rosie are regularly called in. Hudson’s future is in jeopardy. The dynamics of life are seen through different lenses/people. Excellent and odd. 8
  31. Dr No. 2024. Percy Everett. Another savage satire from Percy Everett. A spoof on the James Bond tale. As usual a take down of stereotypes and injustices in American society. Funny- rather more accessible and, darkly, lighter than others I have read. Sorry to be oxymoronic. 7
  32. Down Cemetery Road. 2003, revised 2025. Mick Herron. The first ( rediscovered) of his Zoe Boem , private investigator novels, which made little noise around the millennium but, in the wake of the Slough House series, have made a comeback. Having read the other ZBs I checked out the first. So enjoyable. Sarah is married to shady Mark and is restless, looking for a cause. A local child is orphaned when her parents die in a bomb blast. The authorities cover it up, suggesting an awful accident, a gas explosion. Sarah, in a fit of maternal instinct searches for the child in a local hospital. She has disappeared. Sarah pursues the matter and gets embroiled in matters which go back to criminal behaviour by the military in the Gulf War. She enlists Zoe Boem’s P.I. husband. He gets silenced. Sarah doesn’t know what the hell she is involved in. Zoe steps in. Darkly funny, characteristically observant and very pacy, this a a great read. 9
  33. The Heather Blazing. Colm Toibin. Another one of his great reads where he seems to recount such ordinary tales of life with such simplicity, yet weight. Eamon is a High Court Dublin judge with a Fenian family history. The narrative shifts between 1st WW, the 1916 uprising, the memories of Eamon of family on holiday in Southern Ireland with the present as a middle aged judge wrestling with, amongst other things, the weighty matter of deciding who is financially responsible for the welfare of a disabled child. Eamon’s mother died in childbirth and his memories of schoolteacher father and his extended family are sharp and fond. The story is, of course, very Irish. The chatter, the church, the undercurrent of anti Englishness, the power of family and the clarity of memory. Beguiling. 8
  34. Redhead at the Side of the Road. Anne Tyler. Excellent as always. 8
  35. The Glassmaker. Tracy Chevalier. 2024. Another great research fictional travelogue from TC. Here we follow the story of Orsola, a young girl born into a Murano glassmaking family in the 14th Century as Venice and its associated islands were reaching the height of their trade and political powers. We track Orsola through the centuries as TC plays with time so that the family story of life and loves, of economic triumph and disaster; as Venice grows and declines, through plagues and wars and fashion shifts. Orsola travels all the way to the present day and we, the readers, engage with her story as we learn about Murano glassmaking and the story of the magical world of Venice. It’s a romantic family tale but a history of the world tour during through the lens of a small island of glass. Typical Chevalier. 7
  36. In Too Deep. 2024. Lee and Andrew Child. The latest in the never ending Reacher compendium. This one is even more contrived than usual. Reacher helps sort an argument outside a motel, not realising that the guy he rescues is an FBI agent. Next thing he knows is that he is careering off the road into a ravine and the tame FBI man is toast. It’s a rogue vs real FBI/CIA agent caper. Pacy as ever but the same as every other Reacher tale. Only for poolside. 5
  37. Cowboys Don’t Cry. 2025. Private publication. A memoir from the pen of the celebrated Headmaster of Port Regis school. You might think that reading the musings of a very old buddy, as Peter is, might be a labour of friendship. Not at all. From his beginnings in Durban – and those of his forbears – his life journey ( not over yet!) is funny and fascinating. As one might expect it is a well- crafted tale; the boredom factor is very low. If he ever decides to fashion it into a tale for the masses, it would sell well! 8
  38. Dusty. 1989, revised 2019. Lucy O’Brien. As my mates know, I have been in love with Dusty Springfield for a lifetime. My old school friend, Robin, gave me this knowingly. I enjoyed it – Lucy is a fine writer and shares Dusty’s real surname. However, it’s an unauthorised biography and, as such, is a well-researched gathering of quotes and articles; a fond memorial. It has a magazine feel, and lacks the intimacy and authenticity of autobiography, or even an authorised life. I still enjoyed it; with Dusty, it was true love. 5
  39. Alvesdon. 2025. James Holland. The eminent historian, brother of Tom of Rest is History fame, has taken to fiction. Set at the outset of the 2nd WW in the Arcadian Wiltshire farmlands, we meet the Castellated family who have been farming for centuries and masters of all whom they survey. Elderly Alwyn and wife Maud are irascible past it and their sons ‘Stork’ and John run the estates with wives Debo and the German born Carin. They have grown up children who will, soon give up the plough for the gun. As each day passes we learn more of the extended family and the estate workers: character and relationships, love and squabbles, the imminence of war and what it means. Then the balloon goes up. It’s a charmingly old fashioned tale of a bygone England, of manners and attitudes of the time, towards sex, Germans, stoicism, working for a common cause…you name it. Very Nevil Shute. An easy and charming read. As you would expect, excellently researched. 7
  40. The Lacuna. Barbara Kingsolver. Needing to read her back catalogue, I dived into this long 1930s saga of fictional writer Harrison William Shepherd. His story takes us back and forth from the US to Mexico where he lives with Frida Kahlo and her husband Diego Rivera. He meets Leon Trotsky, in hiding from Stalin; Shepherd witnesses his assassination. He becomes a successful novelist but is vilified on trumped up charges by the Committee for in- American activities. The fictional central character’s journey throws a special light on some dark dealings of the day – but also celebrates the lives and talents of extraordinary people. 8
  41. You are Here. 2024. David Nicholls Michael, a bearded soon to be divorced geography teacher meets Marnie, a copy editor for a London based publishing company. Brought over her by a do-good friend the gruelling coast to coast trek, which seems to be anathema to Marnie, provides the basis of something special…or not? It’s funny, poignant and, as ever with Nicholls, full of insightful observations on us, such simple humans that we are. 8
  42. Small things like These. Claire Keegan. Another eloquent and powerful tale of the legacy left by the Catholic Church in 20th century Ireland and the brutal treatment by nuns of unmarried mothers and their forcibly incarcerated children. …….Furlong is an ‘orphan’ made good – he has succeeded in life and business and marriage but was born, himself, out of wedlock. On his delivery rounds as a coal merchant he comes across a young girl hiding from the perfections of nuns. He befriends her, saves her – despite the gossip and disapproval of a dreadful and fearful community. The example he had of Mrs Wilson, his mother’s employer, who rose above the prejudices of small minds in society and placed value on the lives of innocent children, is a powerful motivator for his actions. The power that the church held (still holds?) in Ireland over the natural instincts of humanity in people is a subject which much obsesses Irish writers. Here Claire Keegan tells the tale with such clarity and style.8
  43. The Lost Language of Oysters. 2025. Alexander McCall- Smith. I have read a few of his Ladoes’ Detective Agency novels and found them diverting if not all-consuming. This is a witty satire on academic life set inRegensburg University and the fourth in the series about the life and unimportant prejudices of Moritz-Maria Von Igelfeld, a dull and constipated academic whose sole claim to fame is a long since published tome on Portuguese irregular verbs. The internal squabbles with colleagues who all have ridiculous names are both bizarrely farcical but truly representative of the stupidities of us all when we get too bound up in our small worlds. David Lodge meets P.G. Wodehouse in Porterhouse Blue. Of its type, wonderful. Not really my cup of tea. 6
  44. Midnight and Blue. 2024. Ian Rankin. The latest Rebus. Now inside HMP Edinburgh, Rebus gets involved in the turf wars of the city after an inmate is found murdered. A prison officer, his cell ate or a hitman? It’s the usual gritty stuff. Rebus awaits his appeal for his involvement in the death of his long time friend/ nemesis. He might as well do some sleuthing while he waits. 7
  45. The Twist of a Knife. 2023. Anthony Horowitz. Another in the Horowitz/Hawthorne saga where the author pairs up unwillingly with the gnarled ex cop to solve crime. Here it is Horowitz himself who is banged up for the murder of an unpleasant theatre critic who savages his play. Very Agatha Christie. Clever and funny. 8
  46. Katerina. Aharon Appelfeld. Quite an extraordinary book from the Penguin Classic series. It has an existentialist tone throughout. Katerina is a girl/ woman looking at her world with unnerving cold clarity; she’s an outsider. She seems not to belong – to her parents, to her Ukrainian village, to society. She is given work by a Jewish actress and adopts that religion but never claims it as hers. She is unemotionally promiscuous. She is looked upon with suspicion wherever she goes. She has a child; the child is taken away. A short novel on what it is to be an outcast, on morality, on statehood, on being a woman. Unsettling but compelling. 7
  47. How I Won A Nobel Prize. Julius Taranto. A satire on campus life, society and politics. Academics who are cancelled are funded by a billionaire to continue their research, unfettered by white, liberal do gooders. Funny and thought provoking but, in the end, just a bit silly. 6
  48. On the Yankee Station. William Boyd. An early collection of short stories from my hero. The range is great- from public school playing fields to the mid-West. I bought the book 35 years ago. I remembered little, which was great. I had forgotten that we are introduced to Morgan Leafy of Good Man in Africa fame. Fun. 8
  49. Orbital. 2024. Samantha Harvey.This won the Booker and we know why. It’s odd. Astronauts circling earth and having a metaphysical review of life from beyond our world. Ground control to Major Tom. Interesting, of course but once I got the idea that it was just an idea and nothing really happens apart from a long philosophy on the meaning of life, it palled a tad. 6
  50. Our Missing Hearts. Celeste Ng. Follow up to Little Fires Everywhere, this isn’t as good.Set in a dystopian US future where an authoritarian government is in charge, we are really revising McCarthyism.There are moves afoot to pass a bill ((PACT – preserving America’s culture and traditions) which will give the power to remove children from parents deemed in- America. Noah, half Asian on his mother’s side, lives with his Dad, a compliant librarian. The boy is going to face problems but the novel loses its way in meandering prose – it became dull and I lost interest in Noah’s destiny. 6
  51. Legacy of Silence. 2025. Paul Beak. The first novel by my old friend Beaky. It’s an excellently researched tale which shuttles back and forth in time. Mysterious deaths in a ski resort require the skills of insurance investigator Robbie to delve further than the accepted explanation of an unidentifiable virus. His investigations take him back to unexplained deaths going back years, if not centuries. Along the way he teams up with Sally and their double act seems set to form the basis of a series. The story rattles along and Beaky shows his knowledge of things maritime and military, which, in large measure, makes the novel a convincing read. 7
  52. Lion Hearts. 2025. Dan Jones. The last of the Essex Dogs trilogy and the best. Set in England – and mostly in Winchelsea – the Dogs are resigned to a quieter life away from the battles of France. They are far flung and Lovejoy is trying to make his way as a publican. The King has other requirements and the Dogs are needed to repel French and Spanish pirates and Smugglers off the Kent coast. They come together. It’s a more satisfying tale of life after the savagery of war. But savagery is never far away. Much enjoyed. 8
  53. Tyrant. Conn Iggulden. The latest in the Nero series. Sadly I found the machinations of the dynasty one book too far. I felt as if I was reading the same book again. 5
  54. We Solve Murders. Richard Osman. 2025. He’s moved on from the Murder Club – the gift that keeps on giving – and now a new group of sleuths. Amy, a private security gun-for-hire, teams up with her father in law Steve and Caleb novelist Rosie, to track down the killers of three of Amy’s clients. This gives Richard Osman the scope for travel and flexing his slick joke muscles in a broader manner. It’s the usual engaging poolside stuff. 7
  55. The Predicament. 2025. William Boyd. The second in the Gabriel Dax, accidental spy, series. The first, Gabriel’s Moon set up our travel writer as a pawn in the MI6 game of Faith Green, who became Gabriel’s handler. He is putty in her hands; a love he can’t explain. Here he is sent, firstly to Guatemala to interview the wannabe president, a Padre, who promptly gets assassinated. The CIA clearly didn’t fancy a socialist Guatemala. Attention turns to JFK’s visit to Berlin. Gabriel is needed to keep track of the CIA operatives he knows. All he wants to do is research his latest travel book and screw Faith in his Sussex cottage. No chance. Boyd’s old school prose and Cold War atmospherics are, of course, brilliant. A Graham Greene for our age. I’m devoted. 9
  56. The House of Wolf. 2025. Tony Robinson. Baldrick has entered the world of historical fiction.There’s no doubt that this tome is the result of his huge research and assiduous plotting. The glossary of characters designed to give a crutch for confused readers, is four pages long. Half way through this fragmented story of Anglo Saxon England, I stopped caring for the warring factions of Wessex and the power grabbing cardinals of the Catholic Church. Tony Robinson’s editors need a take a firmer hand. 5
  57. The Secret of Secrets. 2025. Dan Brown. Another Robert Langdon saga and at 670 pages, it beats The House of Wolf by a century. It’s pacier though. We are in Prague where Langdon is with his new squeeze, Katharine Solomon, a neuro-psychologist who believes in the supernatural ( I’m simplifying) but a dastardly group of ne’er do wells want her – and her groundbreaking new book – eradicated. The group has infiltrated the power institutions at every level. Langdon has to use all his resources to keep both of them alive. The research for this – and the detailed, enjoyable evocation of Prague, is astonishing. For all the fancy of the tale, the meticulous plotting and local topography makes this fanciful tale convincing. My only gripe. Too long. It did, however, make me want to visit Prague. For that- 7
  58. The Fathers. 2025. John Niven. I much enjoyed this funny/sad laddish novel. Two men from different sides of the tracks meet in a maternity unit as their kids are born on the same day. Dan is a wealthy TV writer, Jada a crook. There’s plenty of Amis’s Lionel Asbo mixed with the rather trad novelistic tale of two men – and their women – trying to make their way through the tragi- comedy of life. It is both gritty and redemptive. Excellent 8
  59. Grace. 2017. Paul Lynch.He’s a fine lyrical writer in the characteristic mould of the Irish. This is a dreamlike tale of a young girl’s journey to womanhood during the privations of the potato famine of two centuries past. Cast out to fend for herself by a her mother, Sarah, whose rejection we realise is kindness wrapped in cruelty, Grace walks through Southern Ireland eking out a sometimes criminal existence. She becomes a savage survivor, sustained by a dream commentary in her head.Her brother and mother, principally, talk with her as she travels alone.Grace is a modern Bildungsroman which combines brutal fact with fantasy. Moving, not always gripping, but powerful. 7
  60. Seascraper. 2025. Benjamin Wood. A Booker longlist, this was a pressie from my mate Stuart. Having read A Station on the Path to Somewhere Better, I was already a fan of BW. Now even more so. Thomas is a young shanked, scraping the seashore, as his father did before him, for prawns/ shrimps.He sells on for a barely sustainable living for himself and his widowed mother. When a stranger with an American accent appears in the remote seaside location wanting a guide to help him check out cinematic locations,Thomas glimpses a life that could be. It’s a short and beguiling read. 8
  61. The Good Father. 2025. Liam McLvanney. A dark and rather grisly tale which compels the reader onward. Rory, the son of lawyer and Sarah and Literature lecture Gordon, live on the wild and beautiful coast of Ayrshire. Rory gets snatched, age seven and disappears for seven years. It’s a Madeleine McCann tale but with the promise of a happy ending as the local copper Hagan brings the boy back from his incarceration across the water in Ireland. Can the devastated lives be pieced together? How will the awful trauma of years of abuse be revealed in the teenage boy? It’s an excellent first novel by LM, drawing on his knowledge of academia and the wilds of Scotland. It does become rather comically far fetched but remains emotionally gripping.6
  62. The Langoliers. 1990.Stephen King. One of the great man’s forays into fantasy writing. On a flight from LA to Boston the passengers who are asleep when the plane travels through a time warp, remain alive and present. The rest, including the pilot, disappear. The back cover blurb described it as ‘spine- tingling and propulsive.’ It wasn’t but I made it to the end. He’s such a clear writer. 5
  63. The Cuckoo’s Lea. 2025. Michael J Warren. An old buddy who Bloomsbury have invested in. This is a wonderful celebration of birds, time, language and place. Michael tours us through the history of language linked to the natural world – in literature, place names and in the hearts of the people of England. An unusual book for me to read but I not only learnt a great deal but was driven on to read by the writer’s knowledge and passion. Perhaps niche but captivating, even so. 8

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Games, Winning and Education..

15 Jul

In 1975 a Cambridge philosopher, Charles Bailey, wrote a controversial article ‘Games, Winning and Education’ in which he suggested that team games, indeed games involving opponents, had no place in the school curriculum. Allowing for certain bi-products such as sportsmanship, the team-ethic etc, Charles, as I remember, argued that the presence of an opponent involves the tawdry desire for him/her to lose. Further it encourages gamesmanship, playing to the letter but not the spirit of rules and a number of other unwholesome outcomes. Better to teach rock climbing and yoga where the individual challenges him/herself and let clubs outside school get on with teaching the professional foul.

Now Charles might carp at my crude summary of his argument but you get the gist. After yesterday’s super Sunday (Cricket, DjokFed,F1 and Netball) and with the Ashes, Open Golf and World Cup rugby on the horizon, sport in general and games in particular are in our faces in a glorious way this summer. Oft has it been said that the great gladiatorial clashes of individuals and teams take the emotions of nations to levels of agony and ecstasy beyond the dull opiate of politics. Well the beam-me-up-Scottie factor is desperately needed these days.

What we saw in the truly great matches at Wimbledon and Lord’s yesterday was sporting combat played with levels of intensity beyond any of our wildest sporting experience. And in the moments of victory and defeat we saw humility, sportsmanship and an appreciation of the opponent which was an education for young and old; something that sports teachers and club coaches should carry with them as they guide our newly enthused youngsters down the fun path of participation and joy in sport.

Without wanting to dampen the mood of the moment, I wonder whether Messrs  Johnson, Hunt or Corbyn learnt very much at all from their sporting education? We know that Boris liked rugger at prep school but his bull-in-a-china-shop outtakes suggest that he learnt little of team tactics. Jeremy-rhyming-slang, although Head Boy at Charterhouse seems to have no sporting credits according to Wikipedia. Presumably that was why he was made Minister for Culture, Media and Sport. As for Jezza the Red, his claim to sporting fame rests on his support of the Gunners, be they Hezbollah or Arsenal. He too, of course, went to a prep school and, after, a grammar school. Institutions that he would now ban, of course. If we add Theresa maybe into the equation, we have only the Maybot to gauge her athletic abilities. Hmm.

It might be interesting to look at the sporting education of those in public office whom we admire most. For the time being I hope that those to whom we entrust our democracy, can learn from the planning, expertise, determination, stamina, execution, integrity, humility, honour and respect for their games and their opponents – all these things displayed in vast measure, yesterday – Super Sunday. A real education. And a delight for the nation.

Grandparents’ Day. 2.

13 May

I mopped up the coke somewhat self-consciously, having alerted my co-benchers to my spillage with my favourite expletive, ‘Bollocks’. I thought I had muttered this under my breath but the smirking, if sympathetic, smile on my neighbour’s face suggested otherwise. I settled back to watch the world go by amid the peaceful hum of the Embankment Garden’s lunchtime throng and the soporific warmth of the May sunshine.

My reverie was interrupted savagely. A dishevelled, back-packed grubby man was shouting something as he walked along. Shouting at everybody and nobody. He was 50 yards off coming from the Temple area towards Charing Cross. As he neared my bench vision and sound became clearer. A white, mid-twenties or so, shabby and aggressive looking chap in combat fatigues and reversed baseball cap. Glasses. Long matted hair.

He was shouting ‘…Fucking Brexit. You’ve all fucked it up. Farage wouldn’t have fucked it up. Fucking vote for the Brexit Party. Get the fucking scum out of Parliament. Fucking democracy…’ and so on, a continuing stream delivered with venom and eyes flashing, looking for reaction. Naturally the multicultural masses enjoying their picnics in the sun turned their cheeks. Being ignored was not on his agenda. ‘No one fucking cares in this country. Look at you lot. Farage’ll sort you out. Wankers.’ He was just a few yards away. I concentrated heavily on my coke can. Amazing what can grab my attention when I need to get really focused. Those around me seemed equally expert, looking down, up or burying heads in books and papers. I looked up when the loudmouth had passed; he was alternating his shouts with mutters I couldn’t catch. One man, hefty and sweatily suited was emerging from Gordon’s Wine Bar patio. Whether he had heard the kerfuffle I doubt but he was approaching and looked directly at shouty man, who repeated ‘Fucking Brexit.’ Hefty man stopped. ‘I agree with you mate,’ he said, ‘But you’re frightening the children.’ That was all. Hefty man moved on leaving shouty man looking somewhat lost. He looked around then quietly took the path to Gordon’s Wine Bar and we heard no more.

I too looked around. I could see no children. An image of Alf Garnett came to mind. He was the loudmouth bigot of Till Death Us Do Part, the 60s comedy hit crafted by Johnny Speight. If you don’t know it go to YouTube. You won’t believe what was allowed on our screens then.

Time was moving on and Grandparents’ tea was now my priority. Tube, tube and bus took me to the slick streets of Notting Hill. I fantasized about bumping into Hugh Grant or Julia Roberts and scanned the faces in Portobello road for any signs of celebrity but no joy. A friend of mine knows Ed Sheeran’s fiancée from university days and I know they live somewhere close by. Mind you given all the shapes, sizes and colours of the crowded streets it would be easy to miss a short ginger guy. I padded on for my granddad duty.

As I neared the school, a large and imposing Victorian town house, I clocked the queue of pensioners lined up on the steps. I couldn’t be in that club surely? As my lovely partner once said to me, look in the mirror darling. And so I joined the happy group. What a mixture of colour and creed and accent. And then we were in, ushered by an unctuous headmaster and a delightful form mistress with an Irish lilt. And there was little Seb. The Armageddon of the morning’s meltdown was replaced by his pride in grabbing my hand to show me around. I sat on a little chair to scrutinize his various books. My God the poor teachers have to work overtime to ensure that evidence of meaningful work is plentiful. The digital age has made education expand to screw the poor sods who deliver it. No mangy recycled textbooks, no copying from a creaking blackboard, no abacuses, no times tables. The Maths book was full of things I didn’t understand. Hey ho. He is happy and that happiness reverberated around the cramped little classroom. Grannies and Granddads suspended all chatter of ...well in my day we did it like this.. and concentrated solely on praising the little ones. I did catch a glimpse of a lady with a strident voice cornering the head. A Russian accent? Or is that my prejudice coming through?

As for Seb and me, we headed off after tea and scones, for the most important part of the day. A full games lesson in the back garden. With kit. Depending on which sport Seb was David de Gea, Harry Kane, Joe Root, Billy Vunipola and Owen Farrell. After two hours the call came for supper. I sighed with relief. My daughter handed me something chilled and alcoholic.

Oh Danny Boy…

9 May

I suppose everyone has heard. Danny Baker the wit, the wag of Radio 5 Live has been sacked by the BBC for tweeting a picture of the happy royal couple holding hands with a chimpanzee. Well you can imagine the twitterstorm.

What first occurs to me is why on earth Danny Boy should be bothered enough about Meg, Harry and Archie to tweet in the first place. Putting that aside, Dan the man must be twitter-savvy by now, although he is cast in the role of cheeky chappie  so a little bit of inappropriateness seems to be in his DNA. He tweeted his defence.

Sorry my gag pic of the little fella in the posh outfit has whipped some up. Never occurred to me because, well, my mind not diseased.

I go along with this. When I think of chimps, I think tea adverts,  PG Tips and the years of chimp-exploitative adverts which gave us a giggle. I’m guessing there is a society for the prevention of chimpism these days. I can understand the opprobrium shooting across the ‘platforms’.

Mate, I love your show but you just can’t do that.

The BBC does not need racists like you.

You’re a disgrace.

…and so on.

However, I liked Chris Nicholls’s tweet.

If admitting a mistake and apologizing isn’t the sort of thing we should be acknowledging/encouraging, it is clear to see why we’re a society of victims too scared to own up to a mistake.

Danny Boy isn’t really a victim. He’s a silly boy who might have known better. But to lose his job? Like Jonathan Ross, he is a phoenix who will rise from these ashes but the wider issues of freedom and the cult of PC and victimhood are becoming stifling. We can’t say it like we see it for fear of the right-on police.

Jokes will be taken the wrong way on occasion but to elevate mistakes and misjudgements to sacking offences is to go nuclear far too quickly. And the BBC should, as all reasonable parents or aunties, sleep on it.

I move on. Suspension from the workplace had become increasingly common in my career as a teacher. The act of suspension was supposedly ‘without prejudice’. Yeah right. Differentiating between cases will always be tricky. The quick fix? Suspend anyone about whom a complaint has been made. Of course there are always extreme cases of misconduct where action should be swift and the innocent protected. Sometimes the accused are the innocent. A dear friend was once the subject of spiteful and false accusations. It took three years to clear his name. The stress took a terrible toll.

Perspective is a tricky thing and in so many ways we are losing it. My eastern European buddies who did work on my house (please don’t go home – we need you!) are far more clear about the state of the world. They offer opinions about race, colour, creed, national identity, men women, LGBTQ, politics, knife crime, Manchester United, Theresa May and everyone and everything under the sun. When I say, naively, You can’t say that! they will argue that they speak from their experience, not from prejudice. I don’t go all the way with them on that one but their honest chatter over a cup of coffee (only a five minute break as there is work to be done) is refreshing, energizing even. They wouldn’t understand the fuss about Danny Boy. I’m afraid, I do.

ps. Two glory nights in a row. Bring it on in Madrid. Spurs v Liverpool!

 

Southgate’s slipstream…

13 Jul

On the rare occasion that I find myself cycling in a group, I try that Bradley Wiggins thing. Not the dubious medication-in-a-bag scam; the tuck in behind the leader ploy and cruise in his slipstream trick. With the cheers of defeat echoing through our beleaguered nation might we not consider harnessing  some of Southgate’s energy.?

Jokingly I have suggested Gareth for PM. It’s not really so far-fetched is it? A recent bout of insomnia led me to listen to several TED talks in the wee small hours. If you hit on some really boring ones your sleeplessness will fade quite quickly. On this occasion I found myself engaged by some chap speculating on the random selection of politicians from a cross-section of society, ie no gravy-train, vestedly-interested, career-politician muppets but a spread of the electorate given a chance to guide and challenge the Sir Humphreys of Whitehall to make sensible choices for us all. We couldn’t do much worse than recent evidence suggests, could we?

Gareth seems to have got us all ‘on message’. His honesty, directness, humility and decisiveness have been admirable. No pushover but a natural diplomat. Plenty of steel but compassion and warmth under his waistcoat. As we have pedalled along in his slipstream the Trumpmeister has hoved into greater view.

Firstly he gives NATO what-for with his pay up or shut up inarticulacy, then on to febrile Britain where he tells Mother Theresa that Boris the Spider would do a better job than her. He was reading directly from his Farage script. He may be making plans with Nigel for a takeover of the bullies at Westminster.

Sir Gareth is far from a bully but there are so many of them in the international playground. Having had some experience of how boys and girls can bully – some insidious and  covert, others brash, gross and brutal – there are many parallels to be drawn from playground to parliaments. Many of our World leaders or eminent (sic) politicians are bullies with agendas which serve themselves and not those whom they purport to represent. The Trumpet Major, some say, would have done so much better than Mother Theresa because he would have bullied the EU into groveling submission. He’s sorted Kim Jong Un, he’s telling the Chinese how to conduct trade and he’s jumped into bed with Macron. What a player!

But bullies get found out. Sometimes teachers don’t realise what is going on right away. The kids in the playground can be seduced into siding with bullies for self-protection. In the end everyone sees – and remembers- the awful truth of the unpleasantness. Sometimes bullies continue into adult life and we can all recognize them in the workplace. Yes, sometimes they are successful in certain terms. But life’s too short to kowtow for too long. I’m amazed that Piers Morgan is still ruffling feathers on primetime TV, not because what he says is idiotic (he occasionally talks sense) but the way he says it brooks no opposition. My way or the highway. The Alan Sugar code of living.

When the behavior that we take note of is predicated on the notion that the world is a better place with guys and gals like them telling us all how it is; kicking ass; sticking it to opponents; single digiting those who disagree, then we are back in the playground where the bully reigns supreme and the rest of the kids keep out of their way and let them wreak havoc.

I’m in Southgate’s slipstream at the moment. We’re kicking a ball about in the park. Jumpers for goalposts. Gareth  captaining my team and we’re playing properly, no need for a ref because we trust eachother. There’s a nasty bloke called Donald who wants to play but he always spoils the game with cynical fouls and bullying of the smaller kids. Ah, I see Gareth has gone across to sort him out. If only…

Lionesses learning how to roar? Events have overtaken my trite blogging!

15 Mar

A few days ago I penned a slight piece about the English women’s soccer team being required, by new coach Phil Neville,  to ‘watch in pain’ as the USA lifted the Shebelieves trophy. The italizised version (see below) appears a silly irrelevance now.

The attempted murders of Sergei Skripal and his daughter have signalled the attendant dangers of a warfare beyond our sight and control. Big power games are being played and we are the powerless majority. The haughty arrogance of the Russian State appears chilling and uncaring of the values to which humans should adhere. Their supremacy – and the unquestioning certainty of it – comes before any other consideration.

The deaths of two household names, Ken Dodd and Stephen Hawking, have provoked eulogising and respect. I never quite ‘got’ Ken Dodd but he’s been around the whole of my life singing Tears and waving a tickling stick. He entertained millions in a classically British fashion. The last of the music hall comedians, they say. Apart from Einstein there is no other scientist whose name trips off the tongue around the world more often than the remarkable Hawking. Compare him with Vladimir Putin. Compare him , for that matter, with anybody. His influence on young and old, his extraordinary spirit, never mind his genius, will live on .. and on. The BBC got it right when they led with the news of his death over and above the shabbiness of Russian dark dealings.

We should turn to the spirit of Hawking at times like this. My daughter and son-in-law have both been seriously ill of late. Now, thankfully in recovery, they owe their health to the skill of doctors and the wonders of science. Compare the consultant who treated my daughter’s  virulent bacterial infection with Vladimir Putin.

The shenanigins  of the superpowers persuade us to hibernate in the warmth of the mundane. The winter Paralympics and the doughty-spirited Brits struggling to justify their funding in sports which are, mostly, alien to our culture; the multi-millionaire Mourinho’s press conferences saying very little about not very much at all; the thrill of Lionel Messi; Six Nations rugby; Dancing on Ice. When I’m down I turn to sport and books. I’m on Martin Amis’s The Rub of Time – a collection of articles and observations on everything from a wonderful observer. Brilliant.

I’m OK with the truth. So many of those to whom the people of the world look up – or are forced to- want to construct their own truth. Stephen Hawking showed us all that the search for truth is everlasting and inexhaustible. That we are all on this planet together and should behave as if we are all part of the same enterprise.

I am not a man of God, nor particularly a member of the St. Paul fan club. However, being the age I am and with my upbringing and career in education, I have read and listened to many a Bible reading  and prayer. One of many texts that comes to mind so easily is Paul’s letter to the Philippians. Often used in prayer – well it used to be – I offer it here.

‘…whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue and if there be any praise, think on these things.’

I apologise for the bathos of what follows.

************************************************************************************************************

The USA women’s soccer team have just won the Shebelieves Cup by beating England in the final game. Well-deserved. Phil Neville, the new Manager-Coach of the Lionesses insisted that his team stayed out on the pitch to watch the cup being presented to the victors. He ‘wanted the team to feel the pain’ ; it would thus make his women more competitive in next year’s World Cup.

Phil didn’t suggest that it was simply good sportsmanship to applaud the USA’s triumph. Good manners, even. The recently accepted common behaviour in soccer and some other male team competitions is for the vanquished to leave the stage to lick wounds; fans of the defeated too. In some cases – recent Ryder Cups for example, the winners have revelled in victory with demeaning relish. Tennis is one of the exceptions  – perhaps the one-on-one gladiatorial nature of it produces a greater respect, an honourable appreciation of the opponent.

Eddie Jones’s dreadful treatment at the hands of inebriated Scottish rugby fans may be a sad sign of the times. Interestingly he pointed out that the intemperate language of partisan media commentators had not helped the cause of commonsense. Gavin Hastings had talked of relishing ‘rubbing English noses’ in defeat. A phrase to excite, indeed but part of the growing hype which surrounds major televised sport. Drama and controversy has to trump playing the game in the right spirit.

Having watched and coached young sportspeople for umpteen years, there is little doubt that I have observed better sportsmanship and respect for referees from women. There are exceptions of course. I, Tonya, the film about the bitter rivalry between American ice skaters, Tonya Harding and Nancy Kerrigan shows just how female gamesmanship can get out of hand. And how!

Most males have the instinct for honour but they need to be led by captain, coach, teacher, parent. Somehow women, although just as competitive, see a bigger picture when the fat lady sings.

There were plenty of heroes around when I was growing up and, as readers of my pages will know, I idolised the best of them: Bobby Charlton. These days the honourable leaders are thinner on the ground and being gracious in defeat – and generally – is a commodity in short supply. There is a huge amount of psychological point-scoring in the global game of soccer but there are many mangers and players I still admire. Roy Hodgson for one.

I like Phil Neville and he will do a fine job. ‘Feeling the pain’ may well be a good idea but in the precious moments after a great sporting struggle, disappointment should give way, for a few short minutes, to congratulation and commiseration. Equality in all its fair forms is necessary and right but Lionesses might beware of accepting all male sporting mores.

Roar on Lionesses. Have edge, enjoy the cut and thrust of battle but when you hear the final whistle, do the honourable thing.

You cannot be serious – or are you being literal?

4 Jan

We remember John McEnroe’s outburst at Wimbledon in 1981. Long forgotten is the umpire (Edward James), the opponent that day (Tom Gullickson), the winner that day (McEnroe of course).

The media love-in with another ballsy Yank – the Donald –  is well under way in this new year. They (we?) are loving his tweets which have shaken Ford, Mexican car workers, China and most other aspects of Obama’s foreign policy. And that’s just the last few days. The luvvie-networks (BBC being one) are revelling in the twitter-titter-feed from Trump Tower. The latest Wildeian quote to please the masses is: The people take Trump seriously but not literally; the political and media elites take him literally but not seriously. Evan Davis enjoyed pursuing this epigrammatic analysis on Newsnight with a bunch of worthies from both sides of the pond. Worthies might be stretching it but there was an articulate tree-hugger, Tamsin Omond,  who banged on, amongst many other things, about the cataclysmic danger of Trump reneging on the Paris Climate Agreement. A business prof. called Ted Malloch who might become one of Trump’s senior advisers chillingly countered: Trump plays chess two moves ahead of everyone else both home and overseas. He’s wise, no idiot. Take him seriously.

The chatter bounced around for a while before I began to resent Evan Davis’s revelling in the salacious speculation. My mind had to park the Donald for a little while as I worried about education, education, education. The secondary school where I used to teach has recently made several teachers and others redundant. Subjects such as music have been cut from the curriculum. Morale is low. This is not an isolated story. Budget cuts, which have been savage since the financial crisis of nearly a decade ago, along with successive Tory education ministers wanting to squeeze more blood from the stone, have landed most schools in some sort of financial trouble. My knowledge is of secondary education where politicians and their civil servants have long-sought funding models which prove that more can be got for less. With a protracted period of Tory government most social and educational funding will be savaged. The academies programme – a case of pointless rebranding if ever there was one – fell into the more-for-less agenda.

The effects of constant change and poorly prioritised targets have cost the taxpayer vast sums this last decade. Young primary teachers are leaving the profession in droves. Assessments and targets so often seem unrelated to any context other than the Whitehall ruminations of failed teachers and civil servants who went to the barking mad school for the over-privileged. Secondary teachers are just being sacked – ensuring that ill-equipped young teachers gain posts of responsibility well beyond their competence and acceptable stress levels. Education on the cheap. Literally, seriously.

When McEnroe felt hard done-by, he shouted about it. But it was only a game. Wimbledon is important but it’s not Aleppo. Now Mr Trump tells us that we shouldn’t believe his campaigning vitriol but we must take his presidency seriously. This isn’t a game. Nor is the education of 93% of the UK (the others being much-better funded in private schools).

McEnroe went on to win Wimbledon that year. Ronald Reagan had just become President. Seriously.

The Lying Game..

2 Sep

…was a song by Dave Berry back in the 60s. Or was it the Crying Game?  If so it no longer fits my subject matter and I wish I had used one of a vast number of starters such as The Decay of Lying by dear Oscar or Lies, that power-poem by Yevgeny Yevtuschenko. Even that song by Fleetwood Mac. Possibly Disraeli’s Lies, Damned Lies and Statistics. Ah! Now I’m warming to my theme. The Eagles’ Lying Eyes springs to mind. Ricky Gervais’s film The Invention of Lying. The book I am reading  The Good Liar by Nicholas Searle about a conman who has lied his way through life. Lies, lying and liars are woven into the fabric of society – and I have already lied in this paragraph about the title of a pop song.

We bang on about telling the truth to our children but we tell them a fat man in a red suit will wedge himself down a chimney to visit our little darlings on Christmas Day. We differentiate between white lies (justifiable) and black lies (heinous). Kids learn pretty early on that we adult don’t really mean what we say and certainly don’t say what we mean. hey what’s a fib or two between grown ups. There is no institution that I can think of that doesn’t practise the art of lying. And it’s getting worse at very high levels of our bruised society.

These days we expect schools for example, to lie about their results. The choice of the most inappropriate stat. will be banner-headlined to soften the blow that, this year, results were crap. Of course the league-table game means every headteacher is forced down the ‘economical with the truth’ path. OK, no big deal you might say but when soundbite is valued more than sound judgement we get what we deserve. How else do we explain the serial lying of a Trump, a Gove or Farage or a Johnson; a Blatter, a Lance Armstrong; the Russian Olympic association and its government? And that’s mostly just the last two months.

Trump’s lying has a perverse honesty. Bear with me here. He will utter almost any falsehood if the cheers ring long and loud in response. If they don’t he’ll select another lie and try that. He wants reaction, not understanding. Truth is unimportant, there is greater honesty in deception. He knows that his fawning supporters don’t believe him but they prefer an obvious charlatan to the two-faced, conniving, Washington in-crowd of Harvard privilege and moneyed back-scratchers.

Now our triumvirate of lies -Pouty Gove, Farridge and Boris the Spider have come a bit unstuck. They have half-admitted that they were taking the piss. You can’t do that. A really top quality liar follows through, indeed gets worse, as I fully expect the Trumpet Major to do.

I note that Southern rail have posted profits nearing £100million. What lies can their chief exec. (recently granted a gargantuan pay rise) come up with to persuade his workforce and hordes of pissed-off commuters that it is all their fault really? The doctors are on dodgy ground now. Patient Safety is their cry. Hmm. The BMA recommended that they accept the last compromise offer from Jeremy Rhyming Slang but no, they are up for thousands upon thousands of postponed and cancelled ops and appointments. If they told the truth, that it’s all about money, I’d feel a little better. I wouldn’t expect Jeremy RS to tell the truth – after all he’s a politician.

 

 

Spitting Images…

10 May

It’s such a pity that the satirical hit-show of the 1980s remains in mothballs. Nicky Morgan’s thyroidic madness, as she leads our schools not so gently into that good night, would be a delicious but apocalyptic joy to behold. As I sipped tea with two jolly roofers in the back garden this morning, I offered them the prepositional conundrum presented to our year 6 kiddies in their English SAT this week. The laughter echoed around suburbia. Two roofers and an English teacher.

Now the dangerous Mrs M took no national test until GCSEs came calling when she was 16. Nor did she attend a state school – ie the schools which 94% of all children throughout the UK attend. Her rise to a degree in Jurisprudence at Oxford was via the leafy comfort of Surbiton High School, fees currently £16,000. Her life as a solicitor, then quickly professional politician, was a glittering race through the corridors of advantage and networking. And now she directs the education of the masses whose access to preferment is a tad shaky.

For many politicians born with silver spoons, I get the idea that their brains, desire for service and, hopefully, the ability to see the bigger picture, can overcome the disadvantages of a myopic view born of the playing fields of Eton or, indeed, the slums of Toxteth. But with Education (education, education…) the need for a sensitive, perspicacious leader is vital. We have been plagued by successive encumbents of high office being paralysed by a combination of their own privileged experienced combined with a corporate, profit-toxic view of how education should be organised and evaluated. Pupils and teachers, particularly at key stages 1 and 2, are the losers. Thank goodness a few parents this week stood their ground: enough is enough, they said. Children must be allowed to grow broadly before the examined world takes over;  not moulded from five to regurgitate irrelevancies which their young brains can’t compute anyway.

As I watched my roofing mates, Shaun and Dan, flash through their iPhones, we chatted about the schools they went to. Local lads from Carshalton. Housing estate. Fun growing up. Both failed 11 plus but the teachers at primary and secondary were OK, some brilliant. Quality of teaching was assessed by personality, running the soccer team after hours, engaging an interest – for Dan it was poetry, for Shaun history. Both were sport mad. Neither thought that those on high – Nicky Morgan – understand what education is really about. They admired their bright mates who went to university but it wasn’t for them. They wanted cash-in-hand and were pleased with the choices they had made. Dan calculated the VAT for the bill in a heartbeat.

The more we chatted, the more my glottal stops began to match theirs. Strange how we leafy suburban orators enjoy the chumminess of estuary English. Jack Whitehall tries plenty of innit-speak in his stage show but the Marlborough posh is hard to hide. I was pondering linguistic tics when a young woman wandered past me (by now I’m in London sitting in Victoria Embankment Gardens) hoicked up a substantial globule of phlegm and spit-fired into the rather beautiful tulip garden by which I was sitting, not spitting. Strange, I thought, that in gardens crowded with office workers enjoying the last minutes of a sunny lunch-hour, a rather chic looking filly (excuse, please the non-PC personification of a young thoroughbred. I had thought of revealing that the pretty thing in question was an olive-skinned Asian but, decided not to chance the rabid vitriol of my right-on readership) would choose to mimic the action of press-ganged sailors in 17th century whorehouses. My audible intake of breath resulted in an embarrassed explanation, en-passant, that a fly-dive through the glossed lips was the culprit. Big bloody fly, I smartly retorted.

She hurried on and my attention was drawn to the incongruous sight of a couple of young chaps, jackets off, playing table tennis. I had noticed the appearance of a number of these fun-tables in the various gardens along the embankment from Blackfriars to Whitehall. What a top idea! The two young men, with ties still on, looked a little sad, as if they were convicts getting exercise before returning to condemned cells. The spitting image of the tulip garden gobber and the bulbous-eyed Nicky Morgan faded as I wandered up Whitehall and met some retired teachers in the Harp (what a fine pub!). We didn’t mention education.

 

The i Caught my Eye.

10 Mar

I read papers at the weekend but the 40p in my pocket was burning a hole. I saw the obit. of George Martin advertised on the front of the i and went for it. Before I got to the warm and fulsome tribute to the great man, I was hi-jacked by a number of curious items.

Firstly a piece on how ‘battlers and bruisers’ are needed as secondary headteachers to sort out standards. “Uniforms”, said Sir Michael Wilshaw, head of Ofsted, “are all over the place. Scrappy worksheets abound as does low level disruption.” Weighing in to the problem was Nick Gibb, ex KPMG accountant specialising in tax, now Schools’ Minister.

The lifelong Tory activist and financier called for young teachers to be fast-tracked. “Able headteachers should be promoted swiftly from the ranks.” Well, I thought, don’t they need to practise their profession for a while before they catapult to stardom? Promotion too soon can be a double disaster. Firstly the superhead has yet to spend enough time doing what he/she is good at – presumably teaching; secondly, the erroneous assumption that the skills required of a headteacher are similar to the classroom teacher and that experience counts for less that confrontational ability. In my experience the quickly-promoted young star confronts more than reflects. Nick Gibb, as with so many politicians, is an amateur observer. I noted from his Wiki info that, of all the schools which he attended, Maidstone Grammar was far and away the best. Second came Bedford Modern, a noted private school. Not too many of the hoi polloi or top buttons undone in either place. I see that he is MP for Bognor Regis. I spent many an unhappy summer holiday there in the 1950s.

I scanned further items about which I couldn’t have cared less: Sunday trading (SNP taking the piss), Junior Doctors (sorry but both sides are getting it wrong), the Queen and Brexit, the link between obesity and sleeplessness, Chelsea getting PSG -ed and, of course, the EU.

However the news that Ashfield District Council has banned comedian Roy ‘Chubby’ Brown from appearing at the Festival Hall in Kirby had me chuckling. They said that his humour was ‘inappropriate’. Of course it is you stupid dickheads – that’s why he’s popular. And, as far as I am aware, he doesn’t incite terrorism.

There were a number of short items from round the world which kept me abreast of vital matters. The rebels in Columbia and the Polish government ruling that their own courts were unlawful were two items to make me smile and yawn simultaneously. It’s hard to avoid the Trumpmeister and his curious unstoppability. The circus going on over the pond is a joy to behold…from a distance. Did you know that the Kennel Club celebrates its 125th birthday this year and 22,000 tails will be wagging at Crufts today, apparently. Similar events.

I turned back to George Martin. A gentle genius.Go to you tube. All You Need is Love.

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