The silly season for news

The silly season for news.

Normally this is the silly season for news as opposed to the Donald Trump news which, as we all know by now, is completely fake, sham, insincere, made up, libellous, slanderous, a pack of lies, a distortion of reality or just plainly untrue. We all know by now that August is one of those dry, uneventful summer months when most of the world just shuts down for the duration of the  school summer holiday and nothing of any value and significance happens at all.

It's very quiet out there. Today the BBC news have reported a story about pandas celebrating their first birthday, the rather alarming intrusion of modern technology into our lives and its dramatic impact on society, its apparently damaging influence on today's generation . But then we've heard it all before. Then there's the ongoing expansion of London's ever increasing railway stations. So nothing new there hey? Still it does make a change from that 78 vinyl record documenting Jeremy Corbyn's beard, Theresa May's recent investment in a new set of Swiss clocks while holidaying in Switzerland and Vince Cable the new Liberal Democrat leader who must be having the time of his life in some far off exotic island basking in the glow of leadership of his party. Even Cable must be pinching himself because very few saw it coming.

The England cricket team have just cleaned up after their summer revels with a convincing 3-1 series victory against South Africa, one of the classiest international sides in cricket's highest circles. And all is well. In a couple of months, England will be reconciled with their oldest chums or maybe that should be adversaries when the Australians go toe to toe with England in the wintry heat of Sydney, Melbourne and Brisbane. It'll be another Ashes showdown and here in Britain the nation will switch on to their nightly diet of winter cricket privately hoping that England can once again make mincemeat of our Aussie acquaintances.

But now though summer is slowly drawing to its inexorable end. We may be at the beginning of August but it does seem as if it's approaching a sad conclusion. Here in Britain there is a sense that although June and July were satisfyingly warm August hasn't quite made up its mind yet. It's still dithering and loitering, uncharacteristically and wildly windy and then redeeming itself when all seems at a loss. The clouds are still moody, dark and ominous and then suddenly the taps release the heaviest and most sustained showers. Oh the British weather. It can never predicted with any degree of accuracy but we love it.

On Saturday evening I did notice something quite unusual. In a small corner of Finsbury Park there was a small music festival. Earlier on this summer, Finsbury Park had shook and trembled to the sounds of low, thudding rock music, thousands of fans presumably moving to an insistent beat, a huge concert whose sound could be heard quite possibly in Wood Green, pounding relentlessly across the North London skies before quietly travelling back to Tottenham and back to Manor House.

But this Saturday concert was much more low key and low profile. In fact it was very much more subdued as if somebody had deliberately turned the sound down. It was hard to see what was happening but it seemed like  a strange religious gathering. And then it happened. A small knot of bongos started tapping out morse code, then fiercely beating on their bongos with an almost spiritual fervour.

In the distance I could see some tents fluttering peacefully in the late summer breeze. It sounded like an Indian get together, a meeting of minds, a great philosophical exchange between those of like minds. Then the drums got progressively louder and then slowed again. The rhythms were both infectious and thought provoking. It felt as though something very profound and moving was taking place in Finsbury Park.  It may have gone unreported in the BBC news but, away from the Test cricket at Old Trafford and the World Athletics Championships in the London Stadium, it felt like an oasis, a quiet moment of contemplation, a haven of good vibes.

I was reminded of a Hari Krishna meeting, as music from a tiny stage started drifting harmlessly and unobtrusively into the cool summery air. It sounded like the very latest in what I think they call trance music but there was something gently inoffensive and re- assuring about it. Voices could be heard singing into their microphones discreetly before disappearing into the night sky. Nobody, from what I could see or hear, was arrested, hurt, injured or physically attacked with force and aggression. Peace seemed to be the underlying theme, a palpable calm and order followed by a generous layer of contentment. Why can't it always be like this? The bongos sent out the warmest of sentiments and for a minute you knew that Saturday evening had once again triumphed in Finsbury Park.

Meanwhile back on the Seven Sisters Road, the daisy chain of bed and breakfast hotels were undoubtedly doing brisk business and, quite possibly, a roaring trade. This is one part of North London where local businessmen can rest their weary heads and hundreds of tourists will briefly sample the culinary delights of KFC chicken and the beigel shop -cum- bakery nearby. There is also a Best Western Hotel in the Seven Sisters Road, an internationally renowned chain of hotels now thriving prosperously in Finsbury Park. I last saw a Best Western Hotel in Florida so this was a pleasant surprise.

 Here Finsbury Park meets sociably with Arsenal's Emirates Stadium and Tottenham's temporary home at Wembley Stadium seems geographically miles away. Will the new White Hart Lane be nearly as comfortable and luxurious as the old White Hart Lane? How many mouth watering breads, cakes and biscuits will the sweetly scented bakery sell on a Saturday evening in Finsbury Park? Who will be able to resist the intoxicating fragrance of sweet Danish pastries and apple strudels in North London? Will there be a prolific run on those creamy chocolate confections? Those beigels will simply fly off the shelves with a delicious regularity and the smell is something else.

Already the probing questions are beginning to emerge. Yesterday Arsenal picked up their first piece of silverware in the Community Shield by beating Chelsea the team they'd overcome  in this year's FA Cup Final. This weekend, with the emphasis firmly on the weekend, the new Premier League season starts and the two North London giants will once again jump onto the nine month bandwagon.

August has now arrived in Manor House and although autumn has yet to make its presence felt here you can never tell what's going to happen next. The seasons of course are always changing as well they should. The blackbirds still take up residence in the early morning and the Woodbury Wetlands still looks breathtaking. Soon the leaves will fall from their fragile branches and Strictly Come Dancing will glow from a million wintry TV sets. Donald Trump will continue to intrigue us as the President of the United States and Vladimir Putin may well have finished his fishing holiday in deepest Russia. Summer will shortly wing its way into the distant sunset. And we'll wonder what happened to the silly season. Besides you can only have so much fun and frivolity. Life is indeed sweet.