Oh for the days of school Christmas parties.
So here we are. We're just a fortnight away from that big day. Yes folks its almost Christmas yet again. Just when you thought Christmas had been postponed, banned and abolished. You can't keep a good festival down. It's one of life's inevitabilities rather like that very warm and reassuring BBC Christmas tree. It's here again in your living room. Bigger, bolder and brighter than ever before. Hold on didn't we do the same thing last year and every year since the beginning of time or maybe it just seems that way?
Anyway the fact is that Christmas has turned up on our doorstep again. Personally I'm looking forward to Chanukah where everybody eats doughnuts. What a mouth watering prospect but even so Christmas is not so much as a way of life at this time of the year more a yearly occurrence that just seems to happen and there can be no escaping it. A vast multitude of presents have been bought, budgets have been broken and by the time you've done that final shop there's nothing in your purse. Where did all of that money go? Christmas is that huge nod to commercialism, capitalism gone crazy. How did we spend that money and is there any left in the bank? Let's check.
But I think it's time to go back to the old days. Ah yes that famous old chestnut. Those simple, straightforward days when the BBC summoned its finest platoon of celebrities to visit sick children in hospital. Then at roughly 2pm Top of the Pops would sail into our living rooms like a good old fashioned Christmas cracker and the BBC would indulge in a nostalgic look back at the year with Roy Wood's I wish It Could be Christmas every day, Slade's glorious So Here It Is Merry Christmas Everybody, the equally as brilliant Jonah Lewie Stop the Cavalry and the delightful Chris Rea standard Driving Home for Christmas. That recurring theme is just so soothingly familiar. They're so heartwarming and uplifting and everybody feels so good about themselves. Which can be no bad thing at all.
Anyway back at our primary school most of us were getting ready for Christmas with a vengeance. In our class everything was chaos. There was a cheerful bedlam, a wild and frenzied surge of activity that in retrospect probably felt quite exciting at the time until we realised that it was just gentle, childish and inoffensive fun. And then we were all told to sit down, be quiet, remain silent and just listen to our teacher.
Then a booming voice would break the hushed silence. It was time children to stick things together and have a good old jolly time with paper. It was a golden moment that should have been recorded and savoured for ever more. A respectful silence temporarily reigned. Then madness took over and the whole classroom just exploded. Kids hollered at the top of their voices and order gave way to disorder.
In no time at all we were bombarded with scissors, a thousand pieces of crepe paper, glue and all of the paraphernalia. And then the teacher would stand at the front of the class as all of the kids were given very specific instructions. What we had to do was carefully cut out the multi coloured crepe paper into the shape of lanterns, stars and bell shaped decorations. It was a very precise military operation and if you got it wrong you were told quite firmly that it had to be done by the end of the morning. Even then children were set rigorous deadlines. Oh for the joys of the festive season.
Soon panicky pandemonium set in and there was a collective and sharp intake of breath. I can still see myself struggling desperately with crepe paper and glue and ending up in the most ridiculous tangle. And yet it all seemed so highly appropriate. We didn't question the status quo because they were a pop group anyway so who cared. We just got on with the job we were assigned to do and clocked off at the factory gates at 3.30 in the afternoon.
From what I can remember we were all blissfully satisfied with our endeavours. We hung our delicate lanterns across the classroom and they all seemed to fit like the proverbial jig saw puzzle. Remarkably my efforts were still clinging to the ceiling for our dear life and there was a warm glow of a job well done. Our teacher expressed their gratitude and then there was the end of term Christmas party, an extraordinary feat of organisation and painstaking planning.
Now the Christmas party was something else. It was normally held roughly a week before Christmas and normally had most of the kids in hysterics. Before the end of the day our teacher would tell us that we could bring in any toy or game of our choice and in those days all seemed to come in tattered boxes. Some of the kids felt this was open season. Shortly we had a whole variety of board games, plastic objects that took ages to assemble and in some cases music and vinyl LPs that crackled and jumped on the turntable.
The food of course was delicious, a confection of small cakes, biscuits and sweets neatly arranged on appetising cardboard plates. In no time the kids were confronted by masses of grub. Then there were the beautifully cut sandwiches with their traditional combination of cheese, egg mayonnaise and anything else that took our fancy. Then there were the mountain of crisps and savoury bits and pieces that were almost too good to be true.
And then at the end of the day when all of the kids were now pleading for the party to stop, there was a noticeable gear change, a gradual winding down and then utter exhaustion. Don't forget we were only about seven or eight at the time and our dwindling reserves of energy had begun to take their toll. Soon the day drew to a close and the kids slumped and slouched, paper lanterns drooping rather sadly from the ceiling and the day had run its natural course.
It all now seems a distant childhood memory. I can still see our school assembly hall with its nicely varnished floor, the yellowing hymn sheet almost crying out for salvation, the wooden frames for Physical Exercise, the mats for dong somersaults, the pommel horse, jumping over that pommel horse athletically and the record player that sounded as if it had last been used in 1932.
I can still remember one particularly hilarious Christmas at our primary school. The school held its yearly Christmas play and concert in the hall. For weeks, months, seemingly decades, the kids in the classes exercised fully their musical and creative juices with a wonderful collection of musical instruments. There were the tantalising triangles just waiting for their turn, champing at the bit and then the reedy recorders that were almost essential listening at any school concert. Oh and then there were the vibrant violins, weeping at times but then very soulful and purposeful. It was a day our primary school will never ever forget.
Yours truly was assigned with a cymbal attached to a very threadbare piece of string. At the appointed moment I had to bash this cymbal with every sinew and muscle I had. It was quite the most vigorous thing I'd done at school since gluing the lanterns together. After moderately successful rehearsals, the violinists and recorders were now tuned to perfection and it was my responsibility to get it right on the cymbal. Needless to say it all went terribly wrong for me on the day and my horrendous clash of the cymbal sent it flying off into Outer Space never to be seen again. Oh what festive frivolity we had.
Monday, 12 December 2016
Saturday, 10 December 2016
Bob Dylan- deserving of the Nobel Prize for Literature- poet or wordsmith of our time.
Bob Dylan- poet, brilliant lyricist or talented song writer.
I was watching BBC Four's glowing tribute to Bob Dylan and it suddenly occurred to me. Now there's a man who deserved the Nobel Prize for Literature. There are two distinctly different schools of thought here. Was Dylan a gifted song writer or just some pretentious poet from the heart of America? Some of us believe that he transcended all popular music boundaries. He was there at the heart of everything, singing very openly about his own personal experiences and then perfectly touching the chord of a nation that may have been recovering from the very traumatic post- Kennedy era.
But Dylan, the critics might have suggested,was just an inveterate misery guts, full of morbidity, cynicism and edgy political commentaries. Throughout the Dylan history and repertoire, there was heartache, poignancy and the deepest frustration about everything and anything. And yet as last night's programme showed Dylan is still going strong, a political activist allegedly but nonetheless true to his roots and never straying far from the public eye. Dylan loves to whip up a minor controversy in all of his music but this is one hornet's nest that doesn't really sting.
Now in his early 70s Dylan belongs to the generation that howled with revolutionary zeal, constantly raging and ranting with moody menace. University students around the world set out on huge demonstrations. protesting vehemently against the Government of the day yet unscathed and untouched by the troubles around them.
Throughout the 1960s Dylan emerged as a fresh faced songwriter and singer, desperately sceptical of the mess that the world had got itself in and just plain angry at times. He slung a guitar around his neck, adjusted the harmonica and then belted out his distinctive style. I have to admit here that although an admirer of his natural talent Dylan never achieved a place in my record collection nor did he stir me to righteous indignation and outright fury. And yet he always knew had to handle a song, manipulating it and nurturing it with tender care. But Dylan played to the gallery with polish and understated modesty.
But Dylan carried around with him almost constantly- and still does- an extensive catalogue of masterly lyrics and an educated eloquence that never disappoints. The words are pearls and rubies, emeralds and amethyst, gleaming in the light of the day. Oh I hear you say that's just too gushing for words and yet there's an underlying truth in the statement. At the height of the 1960s Dylan perfectly captured the zeitgeist of the times, growling, wailing and disapproving but privately imagining brighter landscapes.
There was just a hint of radicalism in Dylan's music that did shake up the Establishment but that same Establishment began to listen to him because they too could identify with his sorrow and dissatisfaction. Rather like his late and contemporary Leonard Cohen, Dylan tried hard to communicate his anguish, his angst and occasional bitterness. Of course he could be positive and he could also make you feel good about yourself with an up tempo number of happiness and eternal optimism.
When the iconic 'Blowing in the Wind was released over 50 years or so ago, the public finally discovered a singer determined to defy any classification. Blowing in the Wind has folksy harmonies underscored by progressive messages about change and humanity.
I have to say that for somebody whose knowledge of the Dylan backstory is very limited, last night's BBC Four's flattering portrait of the man did convince me that I had seen a singer who'd lived life to the full and drunk from its overflowing cup. Here was, and still is, a man for all seasons and all tastes.
I was watching BBC Four's glowing tribute to Bob Dylan and it suddenly occurred to me. Now there's a man who deserved the Nobel Prize for Literature. There are two distinctly different schools of thought here. Was Dylan a gifted song writer or just some pretentious poet from the heart of America? Some of us believe that he transcended all popular music boundaries. He was there at the heart of everything, singing very openly about his own personal experiences and then perfectly touching the chord of a nation that may have been recovering from the very traumatic post- Kennedy era.
But Dylan, the critics might have suggested,was just an inveterate misery guts, full of morbidity, cynicism and edgy political commentaries. Throughout the Dylan history and repertoire, there was heartache, poignancy and the deepest frustration about everything and anything. And yet as last night's programme showed Dylan is still going strong, a political activist allegedly but nonetheless true to his roots and never straying far from the public eye. Dylan loves to whip up a minor controversy in all of his music but this is one hornet's nest that doesn't really sting.
Now in his early 70s Dylan belongs to the generation that howled with revolutionary zeal, constantly raging and ranting with moody menace. University students around the world set out on huge demonstrations. protesting vehemently against the Government of the day yet unscathed and untouched by the troubles around them.
Throughout the 1960s Dylan emerged as a fresh faced songwriter and singer, desperately sceptical of the mess that the world had got itself in and just plain angry at times. He slung a guitar around his neck, adjusted the harmonica and then belted out his distinctive style. I have to admit here that although an admirer of his natural talent Dylan never achieved a place in my record collection nor did he stir me to righteous indignation and outright fury. And yet he always knew had to handle a song, manipulating it and nurturing it with tender care. But Dylan played to the gallery with polish and understated modesty.
But Dylan carried around with him almost constantly- and still does- an extensive catalogue of masterly lyrics and an educated eloquence that never disappoints. The words are pearls and rubies, emeralds and amethyst, gleaming in the light of the day. Oh I hear you say that's just too gushing for words and yet there's an underlying truth in the statement. At the height of the 1960s Dylan perfectly captured the zeitgeist of the times, growling, wailing and disapproving but privately imagining brighter landscapes.
There was just a hint of radicalism in Dylan's music that did shake up the Establishment but that same Establishment began to listen to him because they too could identify with his sorrow and dissatisfaction. Rather like his late and contemporary Leonard Cohen, Dylan tried hard to communicate his anguish, his angst and occasional bitterness. Of course he could be positive and he could also make you feel good about yourself with an up tempo number of happiness and eternal optimism.
When the iconic 'Blowing in the Wind was released over 50 years or so ago, the public finally discovered a singer determined to defy any classification. Blowing in the Wind has folksy harmonies underscored by progressive messages about change and humanity.
I have to say that for somebody whose knowledge of the Dylan backstory is very limited, last night's BBC Four's flattering portrait of the man did convince me that I had seen a singer who'd lived life to the full and drunk from its overflowing cup. Here was, and still is, a man for all seasons and all tastes.
Friday, 9 December 2016
Kirk Douglas- 100 today, surely not, Hollywood legend reaches century.
Kirk Douglas- Hollywood legend is 100 today.
Kirk Douglas! 100 today! Surely not. You've got to be joking. Happy Birthday Kirk. Yes legendary Hollywood star Kirk Douglas hits the century today. I'll stop rubbing my eyes and just try to treasure the moment. It isn't every day that a Hollywood great gets to 100. So it's time to put my hands together and clap for as long as I possibly can. Many happy returns to Kirk. You're a remarkable man and the epitome of manliness.
There's the equally as famous Olivia De Haviland, another Hollywood superstar and major celebrity who also hit that admirably venerable age. 100 hey. It hardly seems possible folks but it's true. Then there was the eternally cigar smoking George Burns, another Hollywood veteran who got to 100 but sadly passed away shortly afterwards. But hey come on 100 years of age on the planet Earth. It takes some doing. I'm just awe struck with admiration and can hardly believe the evidence of my eyes.
So what happened to our birthday party invitation Kirk? This is a forgivable oversight but we were all waiting for that big Hollywood bash Kirk. We'd packed our bags for Heathrow and were ready to board the plane. We'd bought the plane tickets and we couldn't wait to party the night away with Michael your son and a whole generation of actors and actresses who may have been told about your illustrious career but were just stunned by its longevity. Still maybe they'll save us something from what seems certain to be a glittering banquet. Perhaps a couple of pieces of chicken and legs of lamb will certainly not come amiss. Oh yes don't forget the champagne and those delectable cocktails.
If it's like some of the parties Hollywood is renowned for it could be one riotous night of booze and bacchanalia. The chandeliers will glisten powerfully from one Beverly Hills hotel to the next. And then the birthday boy will modestly appear in his best tuxedo suit and bow tie and the whole of Hollywood will applaud rapturously from the rooftops, cheering themselves hoarse. But what's all the fuss about? How often does the world get to celebrate the career and birthday of a man whose wondrous career has spanned sprawling decades, who lit up the silver screen with those huge and muscular performances,whose epic films will live in our memories for many a year to come?
So Kirk Douglas. How does it feel to be 100? You're not going to tell us are you? But I think I know. You feel like a teenager or do you just take every day at a time. You'll never tell us will you? We feel very honoured to have seen you on the silver screen, admiring from afar and recognising talent when we saw it. Perhaps we'll never know though and it'll remain his secret but if any of his most recent photos are anything to judge by then maybe it's best we not know.
Admittedly the face now resembles a beautifully preserved cliffside and that's meant as a compliment. The eyes are now narrow slits and the cheeks sunken beyond redemption. Of course Kirk Douglas looks old because he is 100 but doesn't he look good for his age? What a performer, what an actor, what a face. None of will ever forget that face. Of course he looks haggard, of course he looks well and truly weatherbeaten and just a pale shadow of his former majesty. His face may be a withered caricature of the man whose masculinity dominated his movies. But Douglas had the lot.
In his unforgettable Spartacus, Douglas was rugged, handsome,muscular and dominant. He commanded our attention because he just bestrode any film like a Colossus. Douglas was a powerful figure, a man who wanted to remind the rest of the world that here was a man of authority and impressive pre-eminence. Douglas swept aside all comers and challengers to his undoubted supremacy in the Holllywood hierarchy with one magnificent display of brute strength.
Who will ever forget that lantern jaw, that toned and always tanned torso, muscles the size of boulders and the chin from heaven? Douglas was the archetypal hero and his screen presence may never be matched by any another Hollywood wannabe. Maybe nobody will do nearly as well as Kirk Douglas because very few will touch his instant charisma, that Midas touch, delicate as a feather, fine as silk.
In Lust for Life, Douglas played the role of gifted and tormented artist Vincent Van Gough to absolute perfection. His attention to detail and sheer integrity lifted Douglas to the heights of the Hollywood Hall of Fame. And yet perhaps we've come to expect that hallmark of quality, that indisputable on screen genius because Kirk Douglas will always be one of the great Hollywood stars, an all conquering giant.
So what do you say? Mr Kirk Douglas. Does it feel good to be 100? Or does it feel like any other birthday? You can imagine the atmosphere in downtown Hollywood. They'll be gathering around Hollywood Boulevard like star struck teenagers, printing more names on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, yelling out USA USA! and then bellowing out their bouquets of praise. The A- List of Hollywood celebrities will be swanning and swaggering around with white teeth and forever glamorous poses.
They will then look at that splendid 100 year old gentleman and just gasp at one of Hollywood's greatest, one of Hollywood's finest. I'd love to blow out one of those candles on your birthday cake Kirk but I think I speak on behalf of the world. What an incredible life. At Lord's cricket ground they normally recognise centuries with a thunderous standing ovation. When his head touches the pillow for a well earned night of sleep, we may smile knowingly and just sigh with enormous respect. Kirk Douglas. A genuine Hollywood superstar. We salute you sir.
Kirk Douglas! 100 today! Surely not. You've got to be joking. Happy Birthday Kirk. Yes legendary Hollywood star Kirk Douglas hits the century today. I'll stop rubbing my eyes and just try to treasure the moment. It isn't every day that a Hollywood great gets to 100. So it's time to put my hands together and clap for as long as I possibly can. Many happy returns to Kirk. You're a remarkable man and the epitome of manliness.
There's the equally as famous Olivia De Haviland, another Hollywood superstar and major celebrity who also hit that admirably venerable age. 100 hey. It hardly seems possible folks but it's true. Then there was the eternally cigar smoking George Burns, another Hollywood veteran who got to 100 but sadly passed away shortly afterwards. But hey come on 100 years of age on the planet Earth. It takes some doing. I'm just awe struck with admiration and can hardly believe the evidence of my eyes.
So what happened to our birthday party invitation Kirk? This is a forgivable oversight but we were all waiting for that big Hollywood bash Kirk. We'd packed our bags for Heathrow and were ready to board the plane. We'd bought the plane tickets and we couldn't wait to party the night away with Michael your son and a whole generation of actors and actresses who may have been told about your illustrious career but were just stunned by its longevity. Still maybe they'll save us something from what seems certain to be a glittering banquet. Perhaps a couple of pieces of chicken and legs of lamb will certainly not come amiss. Oh yes don't forget the champagne and those delectable cocktails.
If it's like some of the parties Hollywood is renowned for it could be one riotous night of booze and bacchanalia. The chandeliers will glisten powerfully from one Beverly Hills hotel to the next. And then the birthday boy will modestly appear in his best tuxedo suit and bow tie and the whole of Hollywood will applaud rapturously from the rooftops, cheering themselves hoarse. But what's all the fuss about? How often does the world get to celebrate the career and birthday of a man whose wondrous career has spanned sprawling decades, who lit up the silver screen with those huge and muscular performances,whose epic films will live in our memories for many a year to come?
So Kirk Douglas. How does it feel to be 100? You're not going to tell us are you? But I think I know. You feel like a teenager or do you just take every day at a time. You'll never tell us will you? We feel very honoured to have seen you on the silver screen, admiring from afar and recognising talent when we saw it. Perhaps we'll never know though and it'll remain his secret but if any of his most recent photos are anything to judge by then maybe it's best we not know.
Admittedly the face now resembles a beautifully preserved cliffside and that's meant as a compliment. The eyes are now narrow slits and the cheeks sunken beyond redemption. Of course Kirk Douglas looks old because he is 100 but doesn't he look good for his age? What a performer, what an actor, what a face. None of will ever forget that face. Of course he looks haggard, of course he looks well and truly weatherbeaten and just a pale shadow of his former majesty. His face may be a withered caricature of the man whose masculinity dominated his movies. But Douglas had the lot.
In his unforgettable Spartacus, Douglas was rugged, handsome,muscular and dominant. He commanded our attention because he just bestrode any film like a Colossus. Douglas was a powerful figure, a man who wanted to remind the rest of the world that here was a man of authority and impressive pre-eminence. Douglas swept aside all comers and challengers to his undoubted supremacy in the Holllywood hierarchy with one magnificent display of brute strength.
Who will ever forget that lantern jaw, that toned and always tanned torso, muscles the size of boulders and the chin from heaven? Douglas was the archetypal hero and his screen presence may never be matched by any another Hollywood wannabe. Maybe nobody will do nearly as well as Kirk Douglas because very few will touch his instant charisma, that Midas touch, delicate as a feather, fine as silk.
In Lust for Life, Douglas played the role of gifted and tormented artist Vincent Van Gough to absolute perfection. His attention to detail and sheer integrity lifted Douglas to the heights of the Hollywood Hall of Fame. And yet perhaps we've come to expect that hallmark of quality, that indisputable on screen genius because Kirk Douglas will always be one of the great Hollywood stars, an all conquering giant.
So what do you say? Mr Kirk Douglas. Does it feel good to be 100? Or does it feel like any other birthday? You can imagine the atmosphere in downtown Hollywood. They'll be gathering around Hollywood Boulevard like star struck teenagers, printing more names on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, yelling out USA USA! and then bellowing out their bouquets of praise. The A- List of Hollywood celebrities will be swanning and swaggering around with white teeth and forever glamorous poses.
They will then look at that splendid 100 year old gentleman and just gasp at one of Hollywood's greatest, one of Hollywood's finest. I'd love to blow out one of those candles on your birthday cake Kirk but I think I speak on behalf of the world. What an incredible life. At Lord's cricket ground they normally recognise centuries with a thunderous standing ovation. When his head touches the pillow for a well earned night of sleep, we may smile knowingly and just sigh with enormous respect. Kirk Douglas. A genuine Hollywood superstar. We salute you sir.
Wednesday, 7 December 2016
You may Brexit but I couldn't possibly comment.
You may Brexit but I couldn't possibly comment.
What on earth is happening to the English language? Could somebody please tell me what's going on. I'm at a complete loss and would love to know why the buzzword fraternity keep tampering and tinkering with those witty words of wisdom. Now I'm all for new fads, movements and innovative slogans but I'd be so grateful if you could explain both their origin and their relevance. Advertisers love to keep us guessing with their literary creations but I need to know which direction the language of Dickens and Shakespeare is heading. Oh for the labyrinthine complexities of the English language.
There are just a couple of words and phrases from both the present day and yesteryear that leave me in a state of complete incomprehension. Sooner or later I'll get the hang of them but at the moment they seem to hover around in my head just aching for some kind of explanation. I'd love somebody to take me to one side and just give me some much needed clarification because, for the time being these words are just completely off my radar. I'm none the wiser and no more enlightened than I was before.
Let's see. There's hard Brexit and soft Brexit. Sorry I'm clueless. They sound like two obscure Dutch washing up liquid products or some fragrant Swiss cheeses that have gone stale. I've now lost count of how many times both hard and soft Brexit have been mentioned in the drawing rooms of Islington or Westminster. Do they get rid of the coffee stains on your coffee table, do they actually get rid of bacteria? Can you use them in the kitchen or bathroom when those stubborn patches of dirt in the corner refuse to be removed? Can hard and soft Brexit help you work, rest and play? Do they come in different sizes? Are they the definitive cures for the common cold? Please tell me somebody. My curiosity has now reached its highest point. I'm going spare here. I'm determined to find out.
When the year began hard and soft Brexit were just the distant dream of some very imaginative ad man or woman. I'm not sure whether anybody had given a thought to the summer European Union referendum showdown. We knew it was going to happen sooner or later but there was a part of us that privately felt confused and baffled, wishing that that day in June would come sooner rather than later. But there was no detailed and simple explanation for what we were about to receive. It may just as well have been some complex scientific paper on Quantum Physics but we didn't know whether we were coming or going. We were dithering and indecisive. Then there were those who knew where their tick would be placed. They knew that the tide of opinion and the shift in mood had become very noticeable.
And then the day arrived. Oh joy of joys. Let's celebrate, hang out the bunting, dance around the fountains of Trafalgar Square. It was the height of summer. It was the end of June and Britain, in its most handsome democratic dress, decided to LEAVE the European Union. Do you know what? I was doing handstands and somersaults in Piccadilly, or leaping over the bollards in my local shopping centre. I was simply beside myself and barely able to control the ecstasy pouring out of me. All of that inner anguish over that final decision had now been taken away on one June day in 2016.
My conscience was now clear and I was a free, liberated man. I could breath again. I could once again venture out into the sylvan fields of lovely England, striding across the bridges of London town, darting urgently into Marks and Spencer, racing at top speed into Primark and then sauntering around Selfridges because, who cares, Britain had made up her mind. She'd gone in to the ballot box and stuck an emphatic LEAVE on your paper. So that was that. Take that David Cameron. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.
She'd voted to come out of the European Union and we could all sigh with relief, go back to cleaning our car, listening to Radio 4 or just doing the kind of things that came so naturally to us like walking through Hyde Park with a cheery demeanour, whistling the latest ditty from Justin Bieber or just lying languorously on a hot summer's day on a blanket. And just thinking of England. It could hardly have been better. And yet it got worse. Of course it did because the technocrats, the street poets and the political wordsmiths got going. They had to ruin everything didn't they? You knew they would but you were never sure when or how.
But then it all got rather silly and nonsensical. In the months that followed the people who voted to leave the European Union didn't quite know to handle those who wanted Britain to stay in Europe. Whole families went to war over it. Mum, dad, daughter and son were so divided and polarised that you could have cut the atmosphere with a knife.
It was personal. petty, occasionally vindictive and suddenly Britain became a very argumentative nation, a confrontational nation and a nation that seemed terribly ill at ease with itself. It all dissolved into some rather messy disagreement. A boxing referee would have thrown in the towel in Round One.
Suddenly the two camps Leave and Remain were at each other's throats, not strangling each other but battling with each other, thrashing out the pros and cons. Were we more enlightened than we were? I'm not sure we were. Here we are at the end of the year and the two warring parties are still putting their respective cases before the jury, still wrangling, squabbling and bickering for no apparent reason. There has to be some resolution. Please ladies and gentlemen. A little decorum would be most welcome. I've got the most splitting headache. It's a deafening noise. Can we please move on? We've made our decision and there's no point in analysing why, how and if. Sometimes we all need a little quiet and civility. Time to get on with the everyday business of life.
But this is not just a case of right or wrong, guilty or not guilty because the issues go much deeper than that. Where's Perry Mason when you need him? And yet it seems to carry on and on like some stirring rendition of War and Peace. There are the Hard and Soft Brexit followers. Remoaners and Bitter Brexiteers. Is this the society of gobbledygook and drivel, of just unfathomable phrases that seem designed to irritate or maybe some calculated plot to drive us completely crazy.
Every time you turn on the TV or switch on your radio it's in your face, emphatically, forcefully and aggressively at times. I'm beginning to long for the day when Hard and Soft Brexit go back into the historical archives or are just plonked into some dusty box. They really are beginning to get on my nerves. But hold on. One day they will disappear from our radios phone ins or anguished discussions on BBC's Question Time. Sooner or later we'll all break out the champagne. I'll just run up and down the streets in a state of sheer exultation. I'll run up the flag of the Union Jack or maybe more advisably St George's. Feelings are still running high.
Question Time I fear seems to be descending into some lion's den of argument and counter argument. I worry for the health of David Dimbleby. You begin to think that sooner or longer Dimbleby's white, pasty face will just crumple into some desperate frown. Brexit and the EU have, seeminly, wrecked Dimbleby's once fresh faced and pristine features. It reminded me of what happened to Jeremy Paxman on Newsnight. Poor Jeremy's face looked very pale, eyes hooded and haunted but Jeremy wasn't David Dimbleby Dimbleby looks as if he's in need of complete rest and rehabilitation on some exotic Caribbean island. Go on David treat yourself. You deserve it my friend.
Before I leave you a word or several about the Left Wing and the Right Wing. There's the Left and Right. The Far Left and The Far Right. It's all geographically and preposterously unclear. For years I've always believed that the Left and Right Wing were occupied by the likes of the great Sir Stanley Matthews, Tom Finney, the snake hips of John Barnes and Stevie Coppell, slippery, sinuous and sinewy wing wizards for England, players of craft, ingenuity and cleverness. But surely not in the stuffy corridors of the House of Commons. Surely politicians can't score goals from the half way line or maybe they can. Or perhaps they're just frustrated footballers dreaming about an FA Cup Final appearance one day.
The right wing and left wing were the exclusive province of English football. They used to be called outside rights and outside lefts but then they were simply referred to as wingers, shuffling, jinking and shimmying down the flanks before cutting inside to cross to the far post where Dixie Dean, Tommy Lawton or Bob Latchford would send their powerful headers into the net. But then we discovered that the aforesaid wingers had always been employed in the equally hectic and controversial world of politics.
There are Conservative politicians on the left and Conservative politicians on the right, Labour ministers on the left and right and not forgetting Lib Dems on the left and right. Of course there's the middle ground which seems like a rational compromise. But then UKIP members join in with their telling interventions and much to your horror you also discover that their members are situated on both the right and left. Is there some kind of political dictionary I can consult or maybe I just need to watch Question Time over and over again. Any suggestions Mr Dimbleby. I know let's have a festive mince pie or have a word with Santa Claus. On second thoughts maybe not.
What on earth is happening to the English language? Could somebody please tell me what's going on. I'm at a complete loss and would love to know why the buzzword fraternity keep tampering and tinkering with those witty words of wisdom. Now I'm all for new fads, movements and innovative slogans but I'd be so grateful if you could explain both their origin and their relevance. Advertisers love to keep us guessing with their literary creations but I need to know which direction the language of Dickens and Shakespeare is heading. Oh for the labyrinthine complexities of the English language.
There are just a couple of words and phrases from both the present day and yesteryear that leave me in a state of complete incomprehension. Sooner or later I'll get the hang of them but at the moment they seem to hover around in my head just aching for some kind of explanation. I'd love somebody to take me to one side and just give me some much needed clarification because, for the time being these words are just completely off my radar. I'm none the wiser and no more enlightened than I was before.
Let's see. There's hard Brexit and soft Brexit. Sorry I'm clueless. They sound like two obscure Dutch washing up liquid products or some fragrant Swiss cheeses that have gone stale. I've now lost count of how many times both hard and soft Brexit have been mentioned in the drawing rooms of Islington or Westminster. Do they get rid of the coffee stains on your coffee table, do they actually get rid of bacteria? Can you use them in the kitchen or bathroom when those stubborn patches of dirt in the corner refuse to be removed? Can hard and soft Brexit help you work, rest and play? Do they come in different sizes? Are they the definitive cures for the common cold? Please tell me somebody. My curiosity has now reached its highest point. I'm going spare here. I'm determined to find out.
When the year began hard and soft Brexit were just the distant dream of some very imaginative ad man or woman. I'm not sure whether anybody had given a thought to the summer European Union referendum showdown. We knew it was going to happen sooner or later but there was a part of us that privately felt confused and baffled, wishing that that day in June would come sooner rather than later. But there was no detailed and simple explanation for what we were about to receive. It may just as well have been some complex scientific paper on Quantum Physics but we didn't know whether we were coming or going. We were dithering and indecisive. Then there were those who knew where their tick would be placed. They knew that the tide of opinion and the shift in mood had become very noticeable.
And then the day arrived. Oh joy of joys. Let's celebrate, hang out the bunting, dance around the fountains of Trafalgar Square. It was the height of summer. It was the end of June and Britain, in its most handsome democratic dress, decided to LEAVE the European Union. Do you know what? I was doing handstands and somersaults in Piccadilly, or leaping over the bollards in my local shopping centre. I was simply beside myself and barely able to control the ecstasy pouring out of me. All of that inner anguish over that final decision had now been taken away on one June day in 2016.
My conscience was now clear and I was a free, liberated man. I could breath again. I could once again venture out into the sylvan fields of lovely England, striding across the bridges of London town, darting urgently into Marks and Spencer, racing at top speed into Primark and then sauntering around Selfridges because, who cares, Britain had made up her mind. She'd gone in to the ballot box and stuck an emphatic LEAVE on your paper. So that was that. Take that David Cameron. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.
She'd voted to come out of the European Union and we could all sigh with relief, go back to cleaning our car, listening to Radio 4 or just doing the kind of things that came so naturally to us like walking through Hyde Park with a cheery demeanour, whistling the latest ditty from Justin Bieber or just lying languorously on a hot summer's day on a blanket. And just thinking of England. It could hardly have been better. And yet it got worse. Of course it did because the technocrats, the street poets and the political wordsmiths got going. They had to ruin everything didn't they? You knew they would but you were never sure when or how.
But then it all got rather silly and nonsensical. In the months that followed the people who voted to leave the European Union didn't quite know to handle those who wanted Britain to stay in Europe. Whole families went to war over it. Mum, dad, daughter and son were so divided and polarised that you could have cut the atmosphere with a knife.
It was personal. petty, occasionally vindictive and suddenly Britain became a very argumentative nation, a confrontational nation and a nation that seemed terribly ill at ease with itself. It all dissolved into some rather messy disagreement. A boxing referee would have thrown in the towel in Round One.
Suddenly the two camps Leave and Remain were at each other's throats, not strangling each other but battling with each other, thrashing out the pros and cons. Were we more enlightened than we were? I'm not sure we were. Here we are at the end of the year and the two warring parties are still putting their respective cases before the jury, still wrangling, squabbling and bickering for no apparent reason. There has to be some resolution. Please ladies and gentlemen. A little decorum would be most welcome. I've got the most splitting headache. It's a deafening noise. Can we please move on? We've made our decision and there's no point in analysing why, how and if. Sometimes we all need a little quiet and civility. Time to get on with the everyday business of life.
But this is not just a case of right or wrong, guilty or not guilty because the issues go much deeper than that. Where's Perry Mason when you need him? And yet it seems to carry on and on like some stirring rendition of War and Peace. There are the Hard and Soft Brexit followers. Remoaners and Bitter Brexiteers. Is this the society of gobbledygook and drivel, of just unfathomable phrases that seem designed to irritate or maybe some calculated plot to drive us completely crazy.
Every time you turn on the TV or switch on your radio it's in your face, emphatically, forcefully and aggressively at times. I'm beginning to long for the day when Hard and Soft Brexit go back into the historical archives or are just plonked into some dusty box. They really are beginning to get on my nerves. But hold on. One day they will disappear from our radios phone ins or anguished discussions on BBC's Question Time. Sooner or later we'll all break out the champagne. I'll just run up and down the streets in a state of sheer exultation. I'll run up the flag of the Union Jack or maybe more advisably St George's. Feelings are still running high.
Question Time I fear seems to be descending into some lion's den of argument and counter argument. I worry for the health of David Dimbleby. You begin to think that sooner or longer Dimbleby's white, pasty face will just crumple into some desperate frown. Brexit and the EU have, seeminly, wrecked Dimbleby's once fresh faced and pristine features. It reminded me of what happened to Jeremy Paxman on Newsnight. Poor Jeremy's face looked very pale, eyes hooded and haunted but Jeremy wasn't David Dimbleby Dimbleby looks as if he's in need of complete rest and rehabilitation on some exotic Caribbean island. Go on David treat yourself. You deserve it my friend.
Before I leave you a word or several about the Left Wing and the Right Wing. There's the Left and Right. The Far Left and The Far Right. It's all geographically and preposterously unclear. For years I've always believed that the Left and Right Wing were occupied by the likes of the great Sir Stanley Matthews, Tom Finney, the snake hips of John Barnes and Stevie Coppell, slippery, sinuous and sinewy wing wizards for England, players of craft, ingenuity and cleverness. But surely not in the stuffy corridors of the House of Commons. Surely politicians can't score goals from the half way line or maybe they can. Or perhaps they're just frustrated footballers dreaming about an FA Cup Final appearance one day.
The right wing and left wing were the exclusive province of English football. They used to be called outside rights and outside lefts but then they were simply referred to as wingers, shuffling, jinking and shimmying down the flanks before cutting inside to cross to the far post where Dixie Dean, Tommy Lawton or Bob Latchford would send their powerful headers into the net. But then we discovered that the aforesaid wingers had always been employed in the equally hectic and controversial world of politics.
There are Conservative politicians on the left and Conservative politicians on the right, Labour ministers on the left and right and not forgetting Lib Dems on the left and right. Of course there's the middle ground which seems like a rational compromise. But then UKIP members join in with their telling interventions and much to your horror you also discover that their members are situated on both the right and left. Is there some kind of political dictionary I can consult or maybe I just need to watch Question Time over and over again. Any suggestions Mr Dimbleby. I know let's have a festive mince pie or have a word with Santa Claus. On second thoughts maybe not.
Monday, 5 December 2016
Anything but football
At times like this- how I wished I'd taken more interest in cricket, tennis, rugby union or anything but football.
There are times when I wished I'd taken a more active interest in other sports. After the Gooners thrashing of the Hammers at the London Stadium all I wanted to do was lock myself in a dark room, weep uncontrollably, eat several bars of Bournville chocolate, drink a couple of bottles of Beaujolais and just drown my sorrows in a veritable brewery of beer.
Hold on Joe! You don't mean that. Football is just a game, a mere weekend diversion, an abiding interest. And yet it's painful, excruciatingly painful, deeply uncomfortable and awkward. I know the football season in England lasts for only nine months but this is just a cruel punishment, a terrible imposition. I mean there must be more pleasurable hobbies than supporting a football team who regularly underachieve, always leave you on anxious tenterhooks and do nothing for your heart. It's damaging to the health and should be stopped right now.
But, tell the truth I wouldn't have it any other way. When you support West Ham United and all of the emotional investment that that entails you do become very conditioned to permanent failure. Last season West Ham finished a commendable seventh in the Premier League and for those of a cynical disposition it must have felt that it could never ever happen again. But it happened and upon reflection that last season at Upton Park was rather like a supernatural occurrence.
When the whistle went for that famous last game against Manchester United last season it almost felt like some romantic film or some memorable social event. It was almost like that moment in Sleepless in Seattle when Tom Hanks meets Meg Ryan for the first time. It just felt like the right moment and the right time.
Now of course roll forward to December 2016 and everything has just gone disastrously wrong for West Ham as perhaps we feared it might. Maybe I should have had a premonition that things would just hit the buffers, go haywire and just crumble around our ears. There were times during the late 1970s and early 80s when every week was a major crisis at Upton Park. Towards the end of that first relegation to the old Second Division in 1978 you somehow knew that it would all end in tears. Defeats for West Ham were an almost a regular occurrence and when relegation was confirmed you could almost smell that impending sense of gloom.
They were counter balanced by the wins at Upton Park which were great fun to watch but torturous all the same because you would never know when they would come. But here am I back in the present moment and wondering whether West Ham will ever get it right. Or maybe they'll never find that winning formula again, maybe the chemistry is wrong, the structure isn't right, the manager Slaven Bilic isn't quite what West Ham had in mind. Maybe it's something they put in their tea.
Do you know something? There are times when I feel sorely tempted to follow a rugby union or league team, maybe follow tennis, cricket on a more frequent basis. Why I ask myself, do I have to put myself through this anguish, this trauma, this dreadful sinking of the heart. I should be used to it by now but such is the nature of things that you can never truly find the reasons for it all. There has to be a psychological explanation for the Hammers yearly battle against the odds.
And then you find yourself yearning for a sport that doesn't involve first halves, half time and full time because they're just nerve shredding. Why set yourself up for a fall and then find yourself pleasantly surprised when you do win? Why did I stand on freezing November terraces in the South Bank at West Ham, stamping my feet and then just praying for the final whistle because the Hammers had been so awful. I must have been a masochist or perhaps there was just a small part of me that hoped that because the BBC or London Weekend TV cameras were there that might be the right omen.
But oh no. All around me loyal and hardened Hammers spilled out the grievances, Here we had abuse, offensive language, full throated obscenities and deep dissatisfaction. Burgers and cups of Bovril were launched onto the pitch like heat seeking missiles. West Ham had lost once again when they should have won convincingly and here was I a victim of circumstances. I just couldn't do it again and yet I could because of the atmosphere, the vocal crowds, the horses outside Upton Park, the programme sellers devoted to their cause, the peanut sellers with their regular bags of peanuts, the terrace wisdom, the lively banter, the cheeky comments but above all I loved their unwavering support and I had to go back. Every fortnight. Without fail.
Then the Upton Park floodlights flickered on at half time almost reluctantly and season ticket holders on the South Bank would light up a thousand cigarettes. You breathed out the cold air of a late November afternoon and plumes of smoke would drift into the air almost casually. When the defeats became too much I could have decided to call it a day and never set foot inside Upton Park again and yet the tug of loyalty was still there. How could I desert my football team for the ruck, maul and line out of rugby, the wonderful ebb and flow of tennis or the peacefully sedate world of cricket. There was hockey or lacrosse perhaps. Maybe boxing but that was just violent and brutal. Maybe cliff diving, motor sport, darts, snooker, bowls, sk-ing. There had to be a logical alternative to all of that nervous tension, the constant nail biting, the teeth chattering, the checking of watches, that numbing sensation you get when the final whistle goes and the Hammers have lost again. Why do I do this to myself? I know why I do this. It's that sense of belonging, that allegiance to something special, that sentimental attachment to my football team and just Blowing Bubbles that nearly reach the sky.
In many ways it is rather like watching a medieval execution. Here are the huge crowds baying for blood, hurling contempt at the referee, all fired up venom, bile and vitriol. And then the game is over and you look around you and find that the world is still there. Life goes on, the shops are still open, the buses and trains still running. There is though, a sharp intake of breath and the slow realisation that once again all of those delusional hopes have gone by the wayside, like a puff of smoke. You flick through the claret and blue programme and convince yourself that maybe West Ham will win again at Upton Park, It's just that you don't know when or how. The uncertainty in a sense maybe good for your soul.
Now after 40 years of sheer bloody minded endurance and soul searching I still follow my team both on the radio and the highlights on Match of the Day. Not because I have to but because deep inside me there is some ridiculous compulsion to support your team come hell or high water. It's part of who you are because when you were a kid you woke up one day and you had to follow your football team because Uncle Pete did or it was a family attachment. Of course that was the reason why? It ran in the family, it was genetic, deeply embedded in your soul. That's it. You just supported your team because it felt good and you were persuaded into thinking that your team would always win Cups and Leagues. Every week, month and decade.
But I have to say that right now it doesn't feel that way. West Ham are a point above the relegation zone in the Premier League. I wonder what would happen if I did start watching more cricket and tennis to the total exclusion of everything else? I could tell myself that football is a wretched and abominable sport. I could just nip off to Saracens or London Irish and thrill to the sight of beefy prop forwards thundering into rucks, stampeding across the pitch and flinging the ball about with an almost instinctive telepathy. Rugby may be tough, rough and very physical at times but hey I could get used to that.
Then I could follow the recently crowned No 1 Andy Murray, Rafal Nadal or Roger Federer or any of those up and coming stars of the tennis court. Tennis is just inherently skilful, artistic on frequent occasions, fluent, flowing and seemingly continuous. Tennis seems to go on for days, weeks and months. Sets can last for ever. Tennis players have almost inexhaustible reserves of energy. Where do they get it from? Tennis is about outwitting your opponent, stretching your opponent to the point of no return, both mentally and physically uplifting. So why not tennis? There's always Wimbledon at the height of summer. But then I'd probably miss the winter pursuit, West Ham against Chelsea or Manchester City and United and wonder where the Hammers were in the Premier League.
What about cricket? Well I used to love watching cricket when the BBC had the rights to the Test matches. Cricket had a definite appeal. Cricket had and still has an immaculate dress sense, it had both skill and strategy, an intriguing mystique, a game that gradually unfolded like the first tulips of spring and then built up to an electrifying climax when there were run chases to be had and batsmen going hell for leather.
On second thoughts I'll stick to football. It can do no harm at all. And besides when it comes to supporting West Ham there is something very exhilarating about a relegation battle that is somehow indefinable. Without knowing it maybe it is doing me the world of good. Now where did I leave that claret and blue scarf? Oh, it's over there.
There are times when I wished I'd taken a more active interest in other sports. After the Gooners thrashing of the Hammers at the London Stadium all I wanted to do was lock myself in a dark room, weep uncontrollably, eat several bars of Bournville chocolate, drink a couple of bottles of Beaujolais and just drown my sorrows in a veritable brewery of beer.
Hold on Joe! You don't mean that. Football is just a game, a mere weekend diversion, an abiding interest. And yet it's painful, excruciatingly painful, deeply uncomfortable and awkward. I know the football season in England lasts for only nine months but this is just a cruel punishment, a terrible imposition. I mean there must be more pleasurable hobbies than supporting a football team who regularly underachieve, always leave you on anxious tenterhooks and do nothing for your heart. It's damaging to the health and should be stopped right now.
But, tell the truth I wouldn't have it any other way. When you support West Ham United and all of the emotional investment that that entails you do become very conditioned to permanent failure. Last season West Ham finished a commendable seventh in the Premier League and for those of a cynical disposition it must have felt that it could never ever happen again. But it happened and upon reflection that last season at Upton Park was rather like a supernatural occurrence.
When the whistle went for that famous last game against Manchester United last season it almost felt like some romantic film or some memorable social event. It was almost like that moment in Sleepless in Seattle when Tom Hanks meets Meg Ryan for the first time. It just felt like the right moment and the right time.
Now of course roll forward to December 2016 and everything has just gone disastrously wrong for West Ham as perhaps we feared it might. Maybe I should have had a premonition that things would just hit the buffers, go haywire and just crumble around our ears. There were times during the late 1970s and early 80s when every week was a major crisis at Upton Park. Towards the end of that first relegation to the old Second Division in 1978 you somehow knew that it would all end in tears. Defeats for West Ham were an almost a regular occurrence and when relegation was confirmed you could almost smell that impending sense of gloom.
They were counter balanced by the wins at Upton Park which were great fun to watch but torturous all the same because you would never know when they would come. But here am I back in the present moment and wondering whether West Ham will ever get it right. Or maybe they'll never find that winning formula again, maybe the chemistry is wrong, the structure isn't right, the manager Slaven Bilic isn't quite what West Ham had in mind. Maybe it's something they put in their tea.
Do you know something? There are times when I feel sorely tempted to follow a rugby union or league team, maybe follow tennis, cricket on a more frequent basis. Why I ask myself, do I have to put myself through this anguish, this trauma, this dreadful sinking of the heart. I should be used to it by now but such is the nature of things that you can never truly find the reasons for it all. There has to be a psychological explanation for the Hammers yearly battle against the odds.
And then you find yourself yearning for a sport that doesn't involve first halves, half time and full time because they're just nerve shredding. Why set yourself up for a fall and then find yourself pleasantly surprised when you do win? Why did I stand on freezing November terraces in the South Bank at West Ham, stamping my feet and then just praying for the final whistle because the Hammers had been so awful. I must have been a masochist or perhaps there was just a small part of me that hoped that because the BBC or London Weekend TV cameras were there that might be the right omen.
But oh no. All around me loyal and hardened Hammers spilled out the grievances, Here we had abuse, offensive language, full throated obscenities and deep dissatisfaction. Burgers and cups of Bovril were launched onto the pitch like heat seeking missiles. West Ham had lost once again when they should have won convincingly and here was I a victim of circumstances. I just couldn't do it again and yet I could because of the atmosphere, the vocal crowds, the horses outside Upton Park, the programme sellers devoted to their cause, the peanut sellers with their regular bags of peanuts, the terrace wisdom, the lively banter, the cheeky comments but above all I loved their unwavering support and I had to go back. Every fortnight. Without fail.
Then the Upton Park floodlights flickered on at half time almost reluctantly and season ticket holders on the South Bank would light up a thousand cigarettes. You breathed out the cold air of a late November afternoon and plumes of smoke would drift into the air almost casually. When the defeats became too much I could have decided to call it a day and never set foot inside Upton Park again and yet the tug of loyalty was still there. How could I desert my football team for the ruck, maul and line out of rugby, the wonderful ebb and flow of tennis or the peacefully sedate world of cricket. There was hockey or lacrosse perhaps. Maybe boxing but that was just violent and brutal. Maybe cliff diving, motor sport, darts, snooker, bowls, sk-ing. There had to be a logical alternative to all of that nervous tension, the constant nail biting, the teeth chattering, the checking of watches, that numbing sensation you get when the final whistle goes and the Hammers have lost again. Why do I do this to myself? I know why I do this. It's that sense of belonging, that allegiance to something special, that sentimental attachment to my football team and just Blowing Bubbles that nearly reach the sky.
In many ways it is rather like watching a medieval execution. Here are the huge crowds baying for blood, hurling contempt at the referee, all fired up venom, bile and vitriol. And then the game is over and you look around you and find that the world is still there. Life goes on, the shops are still open, the buses and trains still running. There is though, a sharp intake of breath and the slow realisation that once again all of those delusional hopes have gone by the wayside, like a puff of smoke. You flick through the claret and blue programme and convince yourself that maybe West Ham will win again at Upton Park, It's just that you don't know when or how. The uncertainty in a sense maybe good for your soul.
Now after 40 years of sheer bloody minded endurance and soul searching I still follow my team both on the radio and the highlights on Match of the Day. Not because I have to but because deep inside me there is some ridiculous compulsion to support your team come hell or high water. It's part of who you are because when you were a kid you woke up one day and you had to follow your football team because Uncle Pete did or it was a family attachment. Of course that was the reason why? It ran in the family, it was genetic, deeply embedded in your soul. That's it. You just supported your team because it felt good and you were persuaded into thinking that your team would always win Cups and Leagues. Every week, month and decade.
But I have to say that right now it doesn't feel that way. West Ham are a point above the relegation zone in the Premier League. I wonder what would happen if I did start watching more cricket and tennis to the total exclusion of everything else? I could tell myself that football is a wretched and abominable sport. I could just nip off to Saracens or London Irish and thrill to the sight of beefy prop forwards thundering into rucks, stampeding across the pitch and flinging the ball about with an almost instinctive telepathy. Rugby may be tough, rough and very physical at times but hey I could get used to that.
Then I could follow the recently crowned No 1 Andy Murray, Rafal Nadal or Roger Federer or any of those up and coming stars of the tennis court. Tennis is just inherently skilful, artistic on frequent occasions, fluent, flowing and seemingly continuous. Tennis seems to go on for days, weeks and months. Sets can last for ever. Tennis players have almost inexhaustible reserves of energy. Where do they get it from? Tennis is about outwitting your opponent, stretching your opponent to the point of no return, both mentally and physically uplifting. So why not tennis? There's always Wimbledon at the height of summer. But then I'd probably miss the winter pursuit, West Ham against Chelsea or Manchester City and United and wonder where the Hammers were in the Premier League.
What about cricket? Well I used to love watching cricket when the BBC had the rights to the Test matches. Cricket had a definite appeal. Cricket had and still has an immaculate dress sense, it had both skill and strategy, an intriguing mystique, a game that gradually unfolded like the first tulips of spring and then built up to an electrifying climax when there were run chases to be had and batsmen going hell for leather.
On second thoughts I'll stick to football. It can do no harm at all. And besides when it comes to supporting West Ham there is something very exhilarating about a relegation battle that is somehow indefinable. Without knowing it maybe it is doing me the world of good. Now where did I leave that claret and blue scarf? Oh, it's over there.
Saturday, 3 December 2016
Don't you love this time of the year- the telly adverts
Don't you love this time of the year- the telly adverts.
Hey don't you love this time of the year? We're now a couple of weeks away from that big festival where everybody gets wonderfully drunk, eats to bursting point and then regrets it all on New Year's Day. It's almost Christmas and the goose may be getting fat. The invitations have been sent out to distant uncles, aunties and cousins who you never see at all apart from Christmas and there is a a kind of warm anticipation of the imminent festivities.
But year after year. you can almost put your mortgage on it. Mum begins to dread the whole rigmarole of buying the turkey in September. Sorry that's a complete exaggeration. I meant August or maybe the middle of June because as we know the winter sales in London begin on a balmy day in June when the hyacinths, roses and begonias are in full bloom. But here we are in December and, it is, admittedly exciting.
In the middle of Trafalgar Square the yearly Christmas tree is here, towering into the early evening night sky with a considerable amount of pride. The tree comes from Norway which is full of pine forests and is renowned for its Christmas trees. Or maybe there aren't any pine forests in Norway and it's just an urban myth, Suffice it to say that the tree is a gift from the Norwegians after the War and we shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.
I would imagine that the roast chestnut brazier outside the British Museum will once again park itself outside the museum, one of the many traditional constants in Britain. Tourists love the roast chestnuts because they believe, quite rightly, that Britain does Christmas with a certain amount of flair.
The Christmas decorations are now up in Regent Street and they do look impressive and visually satisfying. Years ago the decorations were, quite frankly pathetic and hardly visible. But this year London has pushed the boat out. There is a vivid and spectacular brightness about the stars draped across Regent Street. I've always been fascinated by Regent Street because there is something charmingly old fashioned and antiquated about it. And when the Christmas lights go on you feel that privately even Hamley's toy shop jumps for joy, a welcoming smile on its face.
Then shortly Oxford Street switch on the lights and we all get very jolly, festive and ho- ho- ho because that's what we've always done since time immemorial. The office party season is well under way, the dancing gets a bit too personal at times and the filing cabinets are alive with the sound of kissing under the mistletoe. Then everybody drinks mulled wine by the gallon accompanied with several shots of Jack Daniels whisky, a hundred cans of Foster's lager and then embarrassingly strangle the life out of Slade's 'Here it is Merry Christmas' Or maybe not.
It is a time of unashamed celebration and rejoicing, for thinking back over the year and trying to put all of the year into some kind of sober perspective. We all reflect on the news of the year before flopping languidly back into our sofas and armchairs with a silly paper hat on our head. We then slump in front of the telly, slowly digesting the superabundance of food we've just consumed and gradually nodding off in front of a Bond film we must have seen a million times if not 999,999 times before. You know the one. The one where Roger Moore goes ski-ing surrounded by some of the most beautiful mountains in the world. And that's just the opening credits.
Then Uncle Sid and Aunt Maggie start snoring, the children complain about their presents because the batteries only lasted five minutes and they're desperately bored. Too much consumerism and materialism I hear you cry. You're right. Shortly after the War and the 1950s our parents told us that because of severe rationing we had to be content with an orange or a pencil. Britain had to be grateful for small mercies so the kids were gently reprimanded with a sharp ticking off.
There is a wonderful laziness and lethargy about Christmas. The roads and streets are silenced, the cars turn off their engines and everybody gets very cosy and sentimental. Nobody over exerts themselves because most of the shops and department stores are shut for at least six months. Or maybe five. It's hard to tell. Oh what a wit I'm not. After several hundred helpings of turkeys, roast potatoes and brussel sprouts we then move onto the thousand boxes of chocolates, mince pies, chocolate biscuits. Truly Christmas is the only time when we stuff ourselves silly and then pretend that nothing happened.
But it's that period before Christmas that tickles my funny bone. On the commercial ITV, some of our most reputable advertisers subject the nation to an incessant bombardment of soppy adverts and outlandish Christmas campaigns. You can almost set your clock by it. Every year it's the same old thing, the same palaver, the same old warm, glowingly effusive Christmas messages from our friendly supermarkets or department stores.
Before their sad departure from the high streets, Woolworth's or Woolies would embrace the whole of Britain with their perennial slogan. That's the Wonder of Woolies was Woolworth's lovely old jingle and the whole package would come with skipping children, parents with red coats and scarves and then Santa Claus in that conventional dress of red coat and big white beard.
Woolworth's was always the housewives favourites. How we sung along to that tuneful refrain, whistling along the road because everybody knew Christmas was just around the corner. Then Santa hid discreetly behind the wardrobe ready to leap out on that auspicious day. But Woolies kept giving with those gold boxes tied with ribbons and if the children woke up bright and early, they'd wake up to find a gigantic stack of presents. Woolworth's gave us the pick and mix combination of sweets, broken biscuits and a modest record department. At Christmas though all the cliches came tumbling indiscriminately out of the cupboard. We all felt that Woolworth's was the finest shop in the world and we were right to think so.
Then there was that brilliant Coca Cola advert. Now that was the stylish Christmas telly campaign. It seems an odds on favourite to win any prestigious advertising award. What an advert. It's a real gem. If any advert accurately encapsulated the spirit of Christmas then Coca Cola certainly is it. From that gleaming red lorry to the brightly glowing Coca Cola sign, this is the one of the most formidable of all advertisements ever to hit our TV screens.
Every Christmas a huge, lumbering lorry wound its way round the neighbourhoods and streets of Britain determined to promote its flagship product. Coca Cola represented the most teasing of all temptations, the guiltiest of pleasures. It was stupendously sweet, a sugar rush from paradise and then a marvellously refreshing drink on a hot summer's day. But although we'd never admit it we knew that Coca Cola was bad for you and your teeth. So although you fell for the excessive Christmas hype you knew that Coca Cola would rot your teeth. What a horrible revelation.
Then there were the procession of adverts for whisky, Cockburns whisky as promoted by some Russian submarine commander, blandishments for brandy, boxes of Celebrations chocolates, chunky turkeys, Christmas plum pudding with a flame, families gathering under box laden Christmas trees and the children pulling crackers. Then we all sing Christmas carols around the piano, sit around the dining room table before indulging in the familiar board games of Monopoly and Scrabble.
So there you have it. It's almost Christmas and not forgetting Chanukah because we love Chanukah. This year Chanukah coincides with the Christmas Eve. We should wrap them both up and bottle them for posterity. Have a good one everybody.
Incidentally does anybody know of a children's book publishers who don't cost a penny for publishing and printing, Enjoy your weekend everybody.
Hey don't you love this time of the year? We're now a couple of weeks away from that big festival where everybody gets wonderfully drunk, eats to bursting point and then regrets it all on New Year's Day. It's almost Christmas and the goose may be getting fat. The invitations have been sent out to distant uncles, aunties and cousins who you never see at all apart from Christmas and there is a a kind of warm anticipation of the imminent festivities.
But year after year. you can almost put your mortgage on it. Mum begins to dread the whole rigmarole of buying the turkey in September. Sorry that's a complete exaggeration. I meant August or maybe the middle of June because as we know the winter sales in London begin on a balmy day in June when the hyacinths, roses and begonias are in full bloom. But here we are in December and, it is, admittedly exciting.
In the middle of Trafalgar Square the yearly Christmas tree is here, towering into the early evening night sky with a considerable amount of pride. The tree comes from Norway which is full of pine forests and is renowned for its Christmas trees. Or maybe there aren't any pine forests in Norway and it's just an urban myth, Suffice it to say that the tree is a gift from the Norwegians after the War and we shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.
I would imagine that the roast chestnut brazier outside the British Museum will once again park itself outside the museum, one of the many traditional constants in Britain. Tourists love the roast chestnuts because they believe, quite rightly, that Britain does Christmas with a certain amount of flair.
The Christmas decorations are now up in Regent Street and they do look impressive and visually satisfying. Years ago the decorations were, quite frankly pathetic and hardly visible. But this year London has pushed the boat out. There is a vivid and spectacular brightness about the stars draped across Regent Street. I've always been fascinated by Regent Street because there is something charmingly old fashioned and antiquated about it. And when the Christmas lights go on you feel that privately even Hamley's toy shop jumps for joy, a welcoming smile on its face.
Then shortly Oxford Street switch on the lights and we all get very jolly, festive and ho- ho- ho because that's what we've always done since time immemorial. The office party season is well under way, the dancing gets a bit too personal at times and the filing cabinets are alive with the sound of kissing under the mistletoe. Then everybody drinks mulled wine by the gallon accompanied with several shots of Jack Daniels whisky, a hundred cans of Foster's lager and then embarrassingly strangle the life out of Slade's 'Here it is Merry Christmas' Or maybe not.
It is a time of unashamed celebration and rejoicing, for thinking back over the year and trying to put all of the year into some kind of sober perspective. We all reflect on the news of the year before flopping languidly back into our sofas and armchairs with a silly paper hat on our head. We then slump in front of the telly, slowly digesting the superabundance of food we've just consumed and gradually nodding off in front of a Bond film we must have seen a million times if not 999,999 times before. You know the one. The one where Roger Moore goes ski-ing surrounded by some of the most beautiful mountains in the world. And that's just the opening credits.
Then Uncle Sid and Aunt Maggie start snoring, the children complain about their presents because the batteries only lasted five minutes and they're desperately bored. Too much consumerism and materialism I hear you cry. You're right. Shortly after the War and the 1950s our parents told us that because of severe rationing we had to be content with an orange or a pencil. Britain had to be grateful for small mercies so the kids were gently reprimanded with a sharp ticking off.
There is a wonderful laziness and lethargy about Christmas. The roads and streets are silenced, the cars turn off their engines and everybody gets very cosy and sentimental. Nobody over exerts themselves because most of the shops and department stores are shut for at least six months. Or maybe five. It's hard to tell. Oh what a wit I'm not. After several hundred helpings of turkeys, roast potatoes and brussel sprouts we then move onto the thousand boxes of chocolates, mince pies, chocolate biscuits. Truly Christmas is the only time when we stuff ourselves silly and then pretend that nothing happened.
But it's that period before Christmas that tickles my funny bone. On the commercial ITV, some of our most reputable advertisers subject the nation to an incessant bombardment of soppy adverts and outlandish Christmas campaigns. You can almost set your clock by it. Every year it's the same old thing, the same palaver, the same old warm, glowingly effusive Christmas messages from our friendly supermarkets or department stores.
Before their sad departure from the high streets, Woolworth's or Woolies would embrace the whole of Britain with their perennial slogan. That's the Wonder of Woolies was Woolworth's lovely old jingle and the whole package would come with skipping children, parents with red coats and scarves and then Santa Claus in that conventional dress of red coat and big white beard.
Woolworth's was always the housewives favourites. How we sung along to that tuneful refrain, whistling along the road because everybody knew Christmas was just around the corner. Then Santa hid discreetly behind the wardrobe ready to leap out on that auspicious day. But Woolies kept giving with those gold boxes tied with ribbons and if the children woke up bright and early, they'd wake up to find a gigantic stack of presents. Woolworth's gave us the pick and mix combination of sweets, broken biscuits and a modest record department. At Christmas though all the cliches came tumbling indiscriminately out of the cupboard. We all felt that Woolworth's was the finest shop in the world and we were right to think so.
Then there was that brilliant Coca Cola advert. Now that was the stylish Christmas telly campaign. It seems an odds on favourite to win any prestigious advertising award. What an advert. It's a real gem. If any advert accurately encapsulated the spirit of Christmas then Coca Cola certainly is it. From that gleaming red lorry to the brightly glowing Coca Cola sign, this is the one of the most formidable of all advertisements ever to hit our TV screens.
Every Christmas a huge, lumbering lorry wound its way round the neighbourhoods and streets of Britain determined to promote its flagship product. Coca Cola represented the most teasing of all temptations, the guiltiest of pleasures. It was stupendously sweet, a sugar rush from paradise and then a marvellously refreshing drink on a hot summer's day. But although we'd never admit it we knew that Coca Cola was bad for you and your teeth. So although you fell for the excessive Christmas hype you knew that Coca Cola would rot your teeth. What a horrible revelation.
Then there were the procession of adverts for whisky, Cockburns whisky as promoted by some Russian submarine commander, blandishments for brandy, boxes of Celebrations chocolates, chunky turkeys, Christmas plum pudding with a flame, families gathering under box laden Christmas trees and the children pulling crackers. Then we all sing Christmas carols around the piano, sit around the dining room table before indulging in the familiar board games of Monopoly and Scrabble.
So there you have it. It's almost Christmas and not forgetting Chanukah because we love Chanukah. This year Chanukah coincides with the Christmas Eve. We should wrap them both up and bottle them for posterity. Have a good one everybody.
Incidentally does anybody know of a children's book publishers who don't cost a penny for publishing and printing, Enjoy your weekend everybody.
Thursday, 1 December 2016
My second book No Joe Bloggs- the You Tube video
No Joe Bloggs- my story- the You Tube video
I wonder if I could point you in the direction of my second book No Joe Bloggs. Last year a friend of mine made a You Tube video for No Joe Bloggs. It is, I think, a very honest and moving video where I tell, from the heart, all of the events from my past. I may be biased but I think No Joe Bloggs is a warmly nostalgic, funny and lyrical book and in my You Tube video you'll hear my detailed account of my childhood, those difficult years of shyness and immaturity but in contrast the happier, funnier and more light hearted years when I finally discovered that I could deal with my autism. I would heartily recommend my You Tube video for No Joe Bloggs because I think it's an honest and heartfelt explanation of my triumph over adversity and the way I dealt with that quiet and reserved personality.
My You Tube video for No Joe Bloggs is I think very thought provoking and sentimental and although not a laugh out loud video you may like to listen to the thoughts of a very humble and grateful man. I think you might like to listen to it and if you do watch the video I'd be extremely appreciative.
Thankyou
Joe Morris
I wonder if I could point you in the direction of my second book No Joe Bloggs. Last year a friend of mine made a You Tube video for No Joe Bloggs. It is, I think, a very honest and moving video where I tell, from the heart, all of the events from my past. I may be biased but I think No Joe Bloggs is a warmly nostalgic, funny and lyrical book and in my You Tube video you'll hear my detailed account of my childhood, those difficult years of shyness and immaturity but in contrast the happier, funnier and more light hearted years when I finally discovered that I could deal with my autism. I would heartily recommend my You Tube video for No Joe Bloggs because I think it's an honest and heartfelt explanation of my triumph over adversity and the way I dealt with that quiet and reserved personality.
My You Tube video for No Joe Bloggs is I think very thought provoking and sentimental and although not a laugh out loud video you may like to listen to the thoughts of a very humble and grateful man. I think you might like to listen to it and if you do watch the video I'd be extremely appreciative.
Thankyou
Joe Morris
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)