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The Lying Game.

25 May

I know all there is to know about the lying game, sang Dave Berry, way back in the mists of time. Lies and the lesser charge of evasion seem to be the hallmark of many politicians who want to slide up the greasy pole of ambition. Was it always thus? And will St. Peter (aka the electorate) allow the current crop of chancers who run the country – and some who don’t – in through the pearly gates (aka the ballot box) when there time comes?

The latest episode in the lying game is the wearying and worrying saga of Dominic Cummings. That this pubescent shambles of a 48 year old, whose adolescent dress sense is all South Bank subterranean skateboard park, should resign seems beyond question. No problem. Aah but Boris, so used to deviousness and downright lies thinks that he can, once again, blag it. His ethical code – all Flashman and arrogance – is that of the cornered schoolboy who believes that repeated lies become truth and if you never own up the problem goes away. In this case it won’t but even so Boris and his beanie buddy are calculating just how much of the serious Covid shit is being buried while the 250 mile road trip is filling the airwaves and front pages.

While Boris is fiddling and care homes have been left to burn, the scrutiny of what is happening now and for the future has slipped. The daily 5pm broadcast is a sedative, the media questioning becoming, again, more headline-grabbing than incisive and big-picture. Posts on social media are ad hominem, ad nauseam. The face off between the lay off Boris (he’s doing his best) brigade and the lies-damned-lies bunch is wearying because both end up as mudslingers not reasoned critics. Chapter and verse on Boris’s track record of deceit may give some circumstantial power to the argument that the man can’t be trusted but it cuts little ice with the taxi driver I spoke to who is grateful for the swift and fairly painless process of accessing universal credit to cover his rent and household bills.

There will be a day of reckoning (too late no doubt) for the stumbling descent into that good night which we are experiencing; some more finally and fatally than others. But for now what concerns me is the level of trust, the quality of debate, the intentions of the media and the motivations of ‘stakeholders’. For stakeholders read anyone who has a vested interest in the success or failure of pandemic recovery – with a nod at protectionism along the way. Matthew Syed’s sharp and measured observations in yesterday’s Sunday Times reflected on the relative lack of scrutiny of our scientific thinking. That the early modelling made the error of likening Coronavirus to flu seems to have led to our slow and stumbling reactive response. ‘Contain, delay, research, mitigate,’ Syed says, ‘Is based on flu.’ Test and trace was too low on the priority list. Now it is critical. When all this is washed up Boris will hide behind Chris Whitty (It wasn’t me, Sir, it was him, Sir) and let him take the flak.

Media coverage is patchy. When did political interviewing become interrogation? The point of interrogation is entrapment; the point of entrapment is victory. There is a slim history of televisual skewering of politicians  and while the BBC (Kuennsberg, Marr et al) have been playing rather more of a waiting game on landing the big fish, floundering on the deck, Piers Morgan has been given free rein to champion, nay shout for the nation over all answers given. Most of his victims can only spit out a few syllables before the interruption of the furious Morgan pounds them into submission. He – and he’s not the only one – wants to do much more than hold politicians to account. He wants them on the ropes without a referee’s intervention, so that he can knock them senseless and raise his arms aloft. The question becomes irrelevant, the manner of victory all-important.

The win at all costs interview may be doing us all a disservice. Boris doesn’t put his head above the parapet. He sends out other Tory lambs to the slaughter. Ask Andrew Neill, who was salivating at the chance of some pre-election cannibalism but Boris wouldn’t jump into his cauldron. He was proved right…perhaps. Many would call this reticence to face the music a failure of leadership. They might point to a Jacinda or Angela as shining examples of moral and political integrity. In the UK we have allowed a level of disengagement to happen. Or rather we have to be on one side or the other. Why can’t we be on both sides sometimes? Count the newspapers and journos who seem to value controversy over truth and mud-slinging over reasoned debate. Why do politicians lie? Because they survive if they do. So they have to.

All of which leaves us no further forward as we plough on through the R factor and wait for a Covid sunshine to appear on the horizon. There is a glimmer, at the moment, just a glimmer that Sir Keir Starmer is ready, gently, to establish better rules of engagement. He has appeared, dare I say it, statesmanlike rather than weak; measured rather than salivating at the prospect of the blame game. I hope that he can emerge as a leader of substance and Rishi Sunak can continue his compassionate and generous understanding of the economic necessities of the situation. An unenviable struggle, no doubt.

We need politicians on all sides to step up, tell the truth and make (some) mistakes without risking death threats on twitter or, worse, Piers Morgan shouting at you from a social distance. I hope Louis Theroux applies for Laura Kuessnberg’s job when she’s had enough. I hope too that Mr Cummings wears a suit when he goes for his interview at the job centre.

Competence and charisma..and how does Newton fit in?

30 Apr

I’m down to one Coronavirus update per day. Well, post 5pm the news and comment is on a giddily spinning loop of repetition for the following 24hours anyway. So much to admire, plenty to sigh over and much to irritate. How will this devastating pandemic be remembered at home and abroad in years to come? Much will hinge on how, near and far, ‘success’ is measured. In whose hands will be the guidance for public perception and scrutiny? These hands are fashioned differently, across the world according to how differing regimes control or trust their subjects.

I have been reticent in spouting my views. I feel too close to it all for any sensible perspective. I’m in observation mode. That said, I note the recent social media spats between those who carp each day at some deficiency of leadership or strategy implementation and those who want the detractors to button it and led the substitute skipper Raab and his mate Hancock, get on with steering the tricky course unfettered by background noise. Now Boris is back in the driving seat I fear more division rather than less.

I have not been a fan of the media these past few weeks but I do accept that they – and Keir Starmer – have a job to ask pertinent questions which ensure accountability. However the style of many inquisitors is determinedly adversarial. Political correspondents, even breakfast show hosts, see interviews with leading politicians as contests. Win or lose. Did I embarrass or skewer my opponent or not? No wonder politicians have become so well-versed in evasion and bluster. Thank God they can hide behind ‘the science’. Only Nicola Sturgeon can see off the clever sniping of a Kuenssberg or Marr.

My spies tell me that, in Germany, the media are less adversarial. Indeed politicians are not, in general, seen as celebrities. Charisma doesn’t count for so much. German politicians are rather dull functionaries of the state who, by and large, are considered competent and, of course, accountable. They don’t don suits of armour before going into battle with salivating journalists. As a result they feel more confidant in answering questions directly, without evasion.

Isaac Newton’s third law of motion: to every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. As Piers Morgan goes on the attack; the twitterati shout foul. As we applaud NHS heroes some complain that the Blitz spirit detracts from the realities of underfunding and understaffing. While there is a clamour for Captain/Colonel Tom to be knighted, there is equal noise that the NHS shouldn’t need charity handouts. Matt Hancock is praised for his earnest, even Herculean efforts to ramp up testing and lead us out of the abyss of Covidity; equally there are many who suggest that we shouldn’t have been in such a mess to begin with. Why can fast food restaurants open and garden centres remain closed? Why X deaths here and Y deaths in Germany? And so the equal and opposite reactions go on.

In the cold light of a future day some of these arguments will be shown not to be equal. The lack of preparedness – equipment, staffing and a defined pandemic strategy – will probably be blamed on austerity; the squeezing of public services and the protection of investment banks. Closer to lockdown the slow reaction-time to the spreading danger. Air traffic, Cheltenham, Liverpool v Athletico Madrid. This points to a reactive government and leadership, not proactive. Of course this is easy criticism to make and a criticism which could be levied at many other nations. Our insularity and ‘we can go it alone’ attitude, post Brexit, may not have helped.

Boris, Raab, Hancock and the scientists and medics have much of the country behind them. They have stuck to their guns with vigour and sincerity. Indeed ‘following the science’ gives the politicians a get out of jail card as they lead the nation through lockdown. Whether that card remains ‘free’ in the months to come is far less certain. There will be a political price to pay. Keir Starmer and Nicola Sturgeon may be sharpening their knives to exact that price. Buried in committee and cabinet minutes may well be the early warning sirens of the current crisis, buried for, probably, financial expediency. I wonder if Jeremy Hunt has thoughts on this?

For all my Newtonian speculation I am, for now, happy to clap the NHS heroes on a Thursday, zoom to friends and family, cheer Captain Tom, congratulate Boris on his latest issue, praise Mr Hancock for his rearguard action and so on. I read the press coverage and analytical articles online rather than fume at repetitive questioning and endlessly repeated news coverage.

The iPad and internet has saved many from isolation and near-insanity. However I would love a beer in  my local and a curry in the village and a cuddle with my grandchildren. Real contact is all. The blame game is inevitable.

 

 

Playing games when it’s not sport..

2 Feb

Ben Williams arrived at Brize Norton on Friday along with the other 82 Brits who had been airlifted from Wuham. The BBC’s Ben Brown scooped an iPhone interview as the plane sat on the runway. The game was afoot. Could smoothie Ben elicit a ‘reaction’ from the hopefully distraught UK national? Did Mr Williams feel ‘let down’ by the British government’s slow response? No, err, actually, I think they did rather well getting us out. BB tried again. We understand that your Chinese wife couldn’t get on board and now you will be separated for several weeks. This must be very annoying and disruptive..Well, said BW, there have to be rules and what’s a few weeks when we’re in a potential global medical crisis? Anyway, we’re used to spending time apart.

And so it went on, BB playing the media ‘let’s get a controversial soundbite’ game while BW seemed relaxed and grateful despite obvious disturbance to his life. His refusal to point any fingers of blame culminated wonderfully when asked whether the on-board atmosphere had been tense, angry even. ‘No, it was rather chilled; we had good food and drinks.’ Mr Williams wasn’t playing the media game.

The media prefer controversy to contentment. Reporting has been replaced by fanning flames and most observers are aware of this game. When lives are at stake and the fates of nations at risk those who have the privilege of a vast audience should recognize the difference between sport and real life. Consequences.

The bongs and bangs surrounding that moment on Friday when we left the EU were the discordant sounds of a farcical game. Dominic Cummings, we learn, was in tears because he played a blinder. In tracksuit bottoms and untucked shirt he is the embodiment of his own clever mantra: think, believe and do the opposite of whatever the current wisdom suggests. This approach led the flawed but probably honest journeyman David Cameron, to dub Cummings as a ‘career psychopath’. I’m all there for thinking outside the box but when winning is the only game in town and the great European project is the fall-guy, the stakes are way too high. Boris’s words in praise of his Machiavell last Friday focused on the brilliance of Cummings’ infamous slogans ‘Take back control’ and ‘Get Brexit done’. Word games to win over a confused nation.

Nicola Sturgeon, easily the most impressive of the UK senior politicians has always played a rather longer game. Independence. Brexit has given her the handle to reopen that door and this morning that fine and honourable politician, Donald Tusk, indicated to Andrew Marr that the Scots might well be welcome in. Well he would wouldn’t he?

Alastair Stewart didn’t appear to know the rules of the twitter game – don’t get involved in any debate if you are remotely famous. You’ll lose your job or end up in court. There’s a game going on out there. Trolls are searching the twittersphere for faux-racists, sexist, un-LGBTQ, multi-phobic, unwoke and just plain normal people to feed a manufactured sense of outrage. Alastair, your mistake was in playing their game. You should have stayed on the subs’ bench and let Lawrence Fox do the talking.

Binaryism will be our undoing..

20 Nov

Journos and media people love the word ‘binary’. It simplifies question and argument, interviews and analysis and is so sexy for those sage pieces to camera with which political editors love sign off. La Kuessnberg on brekki TV this morning: ‘Where will the nation’s trust lie: Johnson’s Brexit pledge or Corbyn’s saving of the NHS?

Already we are sleepwalking into an election where the binary choice appears to be Tory v Labour, the ‘least worst’ scenario. Some papers this morning lament that we, the people accept the unacceptable. In this case the lying, privileged deceitful misogynist (etc,etc) Boris the Spider versus the , supposedly, unintellectual, terrorist-supporting, anti-Semitic, fiscally irresponsible and fence-sitting Corbynmeister. The judges couldn’t help out by allowing the debate to move from binary to group and so the also-rans (Sturgeon, Swinson, Farridge (heaven help us) and Sian Berry) had to make their pitches to a slumbering nation after 10pm.

Yasmin Alibhai-Brown opines: I wonder what it will take to de-hypnotise servile citizens and awaken a greater sense of injustice among us all? She has it wrong methinks. The proletariat are in a cleft stick with a first-past-the-post voting system that isn’t fit for our modern Britain. Our political leaders are chosen by a tiny (relatively) group of card-carrying devotees to their cause. Result? Good people get sidelined by loud and unscrupulous voices. Let’s face it, in the binary world of politics you simply have to trust Corbyn more than Johnson – and I say this as a man who wouldn’t vote for either. At least the Corbynmeister has principles even if some of his allegiances are dodgy nd his Brexit stance was a soggy bottom.

The honourable leave the stage when parties pull to the extremes and allow the centre to atrophy. Ken Clarke is at the end of a long line of sane and clever politicians who, being fed up with it all, have left the stage to the ambitious, wild and disreputable pack of wolves ready to feast on the entrails of our democracy.Things fall apart and all that. Gone are many of those with integrity in conduct and service to the nation  in their hearts.

Johnson and Corbyn have gathered around them a bunch of Machiavells and dullards – a toxic combination. It is a mistake to think that the electorate don’t see this but we’re stuck aren’t we? The choice appears binary …but it isn’t. Why not vote with our consciences, with both our heads and hearts. Ask ourselves serious questions about the quality of our leaders and what they represent. Check the facts, preferably not those supplied by Conservative Central Office. James Cleverly, what a misnomer! I digress..

What do I believe in? I have had much cause to step away from my political sleepwalking through the first half of my life. I see the footballs of the Police, Education and the NHS being kicked around for political gain. Long term planning withers on the vine of short-term electioneering soudbite. I observe 4 and 5 bedroomed houses feathering the nests of developers while young adults dream of affordable housing. I would be pleased to pay more tax but I am aware that high earners pay a good whack too. I welcome controlled immigration; we are enhanced by the skills and multicultures which inform our islands. I am very much a Remainer but not, at root, for political or economic gain. For unity, for neighbourliness, for living together on the same small planet. For peace.

None of these things are binary. They are difficult and complicated.

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…or what I did on the way. 1.

11 May

My little and lovely grandson Seb had invited me to his school, yesterday, for a special Grandparents’ Day. Despite the obvious and sugary PR intention of the exercise, I was all too eager to attend! The prospect of inspecting the work of a darling 5 year old, putative Einstein was delicious, as was the promise of tea with scones and jam.

Before embarking on the somewhat complicated route of car, train, tube, tube, bus, walk, a call came in from my daughter. I braced myself for cancellation but worse news was in store. She revealed that games afternoon had been cancelled to fit the old gits tea party into the schedule. Seb was distraught that his games kit had to stay in the wardrobe so Granddad could come and sip tea and scrutinize his scribblings. Meltdown.

With a slightly heavy heart I boarded the 11.50 from Staplehurst to Charing Cross. Only 4 coaches and rather packed with the grey-hair and blue-rinse brigade on the senior railcard jaunt to Fortnum’s. The tables in my carriage were taken and foiled packages were opened. Half-eaten sandwiches and, indeed, a couple of thermoses caught my eye as I made my way to a vacant two-seater. I settled in. I was looking forward to the last few chapters of A Station on the Path to Somewhere by Ben Wood, a startling account of a dark journey taken by a 12 year old boy, Daniel. In adulthood he attends a therapy group. The avuncular therapist advised the group to …stop viewing the present as a continuation of our past and see it instead as the beginning of our future. As I was mulling on the importance of this soundbite – slogan or profound? relevance to bloody Brexit, Manchester United, me?…a ringtone shattered the silence. Don’t Stop Me Now. Freddie Mercury boomed down the arthritic aisles as we chugged into Paddock Wood station. A woman under 60 behind me, fumbled in her bag. It took her until I’m having such a good time, I’m having a ball before she found the thing. Then Yeah I can talk, I’m on the train. As usual we then had the benefit of a loud and self-important conversation about delivery schedules and office gossip. I sighed audibly. This was a time for my 65p i newspaper, not a weighty novel.

As the linguistic space around me continued to be dominated by the thick-skinned Yak behind, I skimmed the rag. Breakthrough in treatment of heart attack victims; Danny Baker; Farage; the queue of chancers lining up for Mother Theresa’s job when she finally falls on her sword; University funding set to slide after Brexit; Beckham banned from driving for using his phone while driving his Bentley. And so on. Only the heart story raised my spirits.

Already regretting that I hadn’t turned to the back page first, I turned over to page 19. David Schneider’s article: How to criticise Israel without being anti-Semitic. Schneider is an actor and comedian. He explains himself clearly and has the advantage of being Jewish which enables an authentic perspective in these tricky days of finger pointing in and at the Labour Party. Schneider basically says be careful and clear about what you say and mean when you talk about stuff. Example: Avoid saying Zionist or Zionism when discussing contemporary Israel/Palestine. The terms are too loaded and broad in their application, often used by anti-Semites to mean simply Jews. Benjamin Netanyahu is a Zionist but so are Israeli lawyers and peace activists fighting to achieve justice for Palestinians.

And so he went on in a clear and measured way. I felt better-informed. I don’t know enough about the middle east and I would be very wary of offering opinions without getting a better grasp of identities, what has gone on and what is going on.

In part what drew me to the piece was my recent readings from Seven Pillars of Wisdom. What an amazing grasp of tribe and culture and identity T.E. Lawrence (of Arabia) developed in the time of the Arab revolt during the First World War. Are our politicians and their advisors at all equipped to make life and death decisions for those whose lives and culture they can hardly fathom?

The walking sticks were on the move. Charing Cross. I stuffed my paper into my backpack and head, with the creaking army, for the toilets. Such a joy that they are free, so no fumblings for change required. The many urinals were in heavy demand and there, in the middle of the throng was a spikey-haired woman, mopping the floor. She stepped aside as I shimmied to my bowl. I wondered, idly, if there was a man in the ladies doing the same thing. Doubtful. Looking around I saw no one batting an eyelid. Modern times.

I came out into the sun and, with time to kill, went for a stroll on the Victoria Embankment Gardens. The office workers were bathed in sunshine as they ate their tubs of tuna and sweetcorn salad or delved into goody bags for whatever had taken their fancy in EAT or Pret. I noticed that the park benches had been sectioned into three or four, so that you don’t have to sit next to anyone; you can be perfectly isolated with an armrest to left and right. I settled in one such, spurted diet coke over my trousers and watched the world go by.

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!

 

Looking beyond the immediate abyss..

8 May

It’s been some time since I put thoughts on paper. The valley of death into which our politicians have led us has become a ravine. I lost all heart for a while but there are small handholds in the slabs above the abyss which can take my weight. I can only hope that those responsible for the black hole in our democracy lose their grip and plunge into that ravine.

OK. Reasons to be cheerful. Liverpool. I’m not a fan of the scousers but by God what a game. Judd Trump. My God, what a performance. Tiger, Tiger burning bright. A sporting God (and don’t we like the fallen hero resurrected?)Harry and Megan. OMG, the extraordinary production of a child. And now the summer of sporting snapshots – all the usual stuff, Wimbledon, the Open, the Ashes and all that – but also World Cups in Cricket and the Lionesses in France. Netball and Rugby take centre stage too. And there will be lots of photos of little royals to keep us and Hello Magazine happy.

Sporting heroism, royalty and outstanding musical and artistic performance keep us all sane, optimistic and buoyed up. There is a purity in these things which seems a million miles from the whispering corridors of power and snide self-interest. And it is not escapism, indeed the pursuit of the ultimate in performance and the fondness we have for the celebrity leaders of our society, be they Megan or Elton, suggests a purity, an innocence where we mere mortals applaud achievement and excellence in an uncomplicated and generous way.

You may not have heard of Barry Middleton, ex England and GB men’s hockey captain who retired from International hockey after 432 caps. 432!! His skill and dedication has easily matched far more famous and moneyed sports stars but his pre-eminence as a British player of such longevity at the highest level is quite, quite extraordinary. And he has always played with such integrity and sportsmanship.

I mention Barry because in national terms he is an unsung and, outside hockey circles, unknown hero. Let me add James Cracknell’s name to those for whom I have untold admiration. At 47 – and after enough personal trials and tribulations to unhinge most people – he won a Blue for Cambridge in winning the Boat Race. The staggering physical and mental effort to eclipse the age record for the event by a country mile is an achievement almost beyond comprehension.

I salute these two guys and all the girls and boys to whom we will look up this summer. Steph Houghton leading out the Lionesses beats Mother Theresa staggering out of her local church any day. And if only Andy’s hip can come right….

 

Que sera sera…

7 Feb

Doris Day was singing Que Sera Sera in my local on Tuesday night. Well the tape or CD or Spotify selection seemed geared to the older clientele. Whatever will be, will be sang Doris. The future’s not ours to see, she continued, as if she had heard Donald Tusk berating the likes of Boris the Spider for their support of the biggest divorce in our history, without a plan.

The vitriol poured upon Mr Tusk for his ‘special place in Hell’ jibe seemed linked to the recent condemnation of Liam Neeson for telling the truth of his feelings and actions, some 40 years ago, following the rape of a dear friend. Both Donald and Liam knew what they were doing, I suspect – one calling out the conniving idiocy of politicians who should be serving a nation’s interests rather than their own; the other promoting a film, which may not be a context best chosen to expose the raw personal memory of the vicious feelings he harboured a lifetime ago. Whatever the case, the PC police were onto them.

Liam Neeson won the support of those supping beer at the bar. All were white, a combination of Brits and Rumanians; the former supping ale, the latter serving it. John Barnes was mentioned as the black bloke who had got things in proportion. Brexit has gone off the local agenda to be replaced by the more general and chuckleworthy gossip of national interest, along with the vital local issues: traffic, potholes and all the bloody housing which is going up despite virulent and unanimous protesting.

The truth is that money talks. Boris, the aforementioned Spider was born into money, educated with it and throughout his glittering academic career barely rubbed shoulders with the prolerariat. In January he was paid £51,000 for a speech by an Irish company, Pendulum Events, in Dublin. I wonder if he was paid in Euros? Whatever shit he has stirred up, and whatever chaos and economic decline is about to ensue, he is protected by money and the irony that large organisations will pay him handsomely to talk about the chaos that he and the rest have caused.

As for Donald Tusk, I rather like him. He grew up modestly in post war communist Poland and was a student member of Solidarity. He co-founded the Liberal Democratic Congress and became Prime Minister. His politics seem to have shifted to the centre-right but he famously said that ‘It is best to be immune to every kind of orthodoxy, of ideology and, most importantly, nationalism.’ He has admitted that his early life under communism was boring and monotonous with no hope of change. ‘I was a typical young hooligan who would get into fights. We’d roam the streets, you know, cruising for a bruising.’ Shades of Liam Neeson, but not of Boris Johnson.

As Doris’s voice faded, Nantes F.C. cropped up in the conversation. The general consensus was that they have been rather quick off the mark demanding their cash from Cardiff before bodies and wreckage have been recovered. Money dominated the next few minutes. We agreed that money is more important than justice, honesty, integrity, kindness etc Root of all evil and all that. Someone mentioned poor Theresa but he was shouted down. Someone else asked if anyone had seen Kirsty and Phil on Love It or List It. This seemed to be the cue for the smokers to trudge outside with their pints of San Miguel.

I remained with the virtuous and sipped my Harvey’s. Reno, behind the bar, asked what que sera meant.

The Vanarama National League. Blessed relief.

6 Jan

When Sam Purkiss, a distinctly dodgy referee, blew the final whistle at 5.54pm yesterday, Sutton United had edged a gritty Vanarama encounter with Harrogate, 2-1. There was the gruff, happy sarcasm of celebration on the terraces at Gander Green Lane – born of many years of ups and downs. Triumph and disaster are put in their place in lower league soccer. Tomorrow is another day. And so the gritty band of Yorkshire supporters cheered their vanquished team before the long journey back up the A1.

Manchester United’s superstars, Pogba and Sanchez, who have, until recently been warming the team bench at a cost of £650,000 per week, could not have constructed or executed better goals than the three which punctuated the Sutton/Harrogate match. Mind you, punctuation apart, there was very little to raise the pulse during a delightfully dour and rather tetchy encounter. But this is the National league, several flights of fancy below Old Trafford – and so much easier to enjoy.

For a start, admission is £8 to the likes of me – over 60. Secondly, parking is unrestricted along the suburban roads that ribbon out from the ground. West Sutton Station is next door. A supporters dream. If you add the Gander pub at the end of the road and the burgers, hot dogs, chips and coffees on sale at the gate, you have a recipe for simple ecstasy. The sights and sounds and smells of the lower leagues have an authenticity – and a budget price – to trump anything that the big boys can muster in their corporate entertainment world.

The quality of the soccer varies. Conversation on the terraces – yes standing for a game is another retro-joy – is hardly interrupted by stimulating action on the pitch although there are sublime moments which delight all the more as they come as surprises. One such was Jonah Ayunga’s brilliant header in the 19th minute to put the hosts 1-up. Another George Thompson’s stunning left footed equalizer after 60 minutes – a rifled shot from 25yards. Apart from the skill, I enjoyed the normality of a name that I could pronounce.

The game was a niggly affair with a chap called Falkingham from Harrogate being the chippy little sod who seemed keen to be at the centre of most arguments. He was a talented little midget with a number 4 on his back. His number could be seen racing to complain to the rather wet Mr Purkiss at each decision, or as in this ref’s case, non-decision, that occurred. The little runt should have seen yellow early on. Instead, as he had a modicum of talent, he led the Harrogate revival and would have turned the game had Sutton not woken from their lethargy and sent on three smaller, quicker, raiding players to seal the game 8 minutes from time. Harry Beautyman finished a sweeping move to complete his own fine display and send the chocolate and gold fans home with a spring in their steps.

Total expenditure with beers and burger came in at under £20. At the top table of soccer we would be over the ton. More to the point, there were many boys and girls (£3 entry) gambolling about in their scarves and bobble hats. The club is a community facility with a 3G pitch. Finances are in the black and both the manager and chairman has ben in place for years. Sutton have had a number of famous FA Cup excursions but their bread and butter is local fun and support. Thy are threatening the promotion places. Elevation to the Football League would change things, perhaps not for the better. The expenditure on ground and facilities could be crippling. What’s wrong with staying in the Vanarama and keeping the burgers affordable?

Over Christmas and New Year I have enjoyed the blessed relief of politicians on holiday, being with those whom I like and love and only watching TV when lethargy overwhelmed me or when Love Actually was on. I have yet to make any New Year resolutions but that is normal for me; I don’t make promises I can’t keep. And so we’re back to bloody politics.

Then comes my fit again…

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