Palace enjoy their behind closed doors day by the seaside.
Oh we do like to be beside the seaside. For the first time in three long, agonising months Premier League football poked its head out of the cupboard, held back its suppressed laughter and then got on with all of those domestic duties it thought it had completed back in March. Back then it merely seemed as if all the practicalities of Premier League business would be dealt with a familiar aplomb. Premier League leaders Liverpool would win the Premier League title by a country mile, relegation and promotion issues would be resolved quite naturally and everything would be tickety boo. Or so we thought.
Here we are on the longest day of the year in the middle of June and some of us may be in holiday mood rather than looking forward to these cheap, pre-season friendlies that seem to be masquerading as the very last of the remaining fixtures of the Premier League season. In the last couple of days Project Restart for football is beginning to assume the air of a summertime kickabout in the local park. We can barely believe what they're saying and what we're being subjected to and the sooner the end of July comes around the better although we would never wish the year away.
There have been all manner of conflicting reactions to the resumption of the Premier League but some of us are still wrestling with this preposterous absurdity. Has football really lost its marbles, its wherewithal or are we just imagining this all and sooner rather than later we will wake up? But matches will be played out to their straightforward conclusion, sweat will be exerted in the sweltering heat of the English summer, physios will be summoned wearing huge perspex shields and the game will just meander along like some country bumpkin wandering down a country lane.
Still, we've got this far so we might as well carry on. The experts and media pundits are just delighted to be back in a football ground but there are some of us who may be wishing whether this was all worth the bother. This is beginning to feel like some strange dreamscape where the angels play their harps and everything isn't really what it seems it should be. But let's get this Premier League season out of the way and consign it to dusty history before we really think we're in some kind of netherworld.
After all the delays and discussions, excuses and justifications, baffling facts, figures and statistics, football opened up to a fanfare of artificial crowd noises, sponsored silence on the terraces, and an atmosphere more reminiscent of Bournemouth library, a hollow concrete bowl where you could almost hear the traffic outside the Vitality Stadium rather than the traditional roar of a Saturday afternoon crowd inside it.
Football has dealt with all of these problematic imponderables rather like a scientist in a laboratory using every available combination of chemicals in rows and rows of test tubes. Do the players take huge wage cuts? Should there be wage deferrals and more importantly, those wage deferrals where all the players became very self conscious of who they were and whether it wouldn't have been advisable to give something back to the game in the name of local charities?
Now though the Premier League is up and running and acting out the same kind of scripts it was trying to perform to an audience that has suddenly become surplus to requirements. Still you can only deal with the unfortunate circumstances you're presented with. There have been lengthy spots of furloughing of players, players exercising with packets of cereals, a couple of indoor treadmills and one or two compact exercise bikes tucked away in the kitchen. It all seemed rather bizarre and piecemeal but footballers are nothing if not adaptable.
When Liverpool skipper Jordan Henderson came out with the most charitable of all offers with millions given to all struggling families and the elderly he was regarded as some kind of Messiah. Last week Manchester United striker Marcus Rashford laid out his case for a potential OBE with his suggestion that there should be free meals for children during the summer holidays. We have now changed our perceptions of footballers although we knew that some of them did have it in them to react in the way that Henderson and Rashford had.
Meanwhile back at the Vitality Stadium, Bournemouth met Crystal Palace in what may just as well have been a neutral venue. For as far as the eye could see giant pieces of red and black cardboard had been cut and pasted into the place where the Cherries loyal supporters would have been. There were banks and banks of sponsored names wherever you looked and a section amusingly referred to as the Red Army which would have been more suitable at either Arsenal, Manchester United or Liverpool.
Now it was on a bright sunlit summer evening that Crystal Palace swaggered around the tight confines of Bournemouth's quaint little ground, toyed with Bournemouth like the proverbial doll and then shook the home side like a child's rattle. These have been immensely enjoyable seasons for Bournemouth who, under the bold, idealistic managerial tenure of Eddie Howe, have played some of the most beautifully designed and neatly fashioned football the game has seen for quite a while.
But now that brisk, invigorating South Coast air seems to have got to Bournemouth. The football is still delightful and rather like the sweetest of jams to the palate. The isosceles triangles, the footballing trigonometry, the pleasing angles and the passing movements were all made in heaven. Bournemouth had an almost intimate relationship with the ball and the three seasons of top flight football seems to have done them the world of good.
Sadly now though their residency in the Premier League could be reaching an end. The tapestries are still there for all to see but the stitches are beginning to look both frayed and threadbare. When the red and black shirts took to the pitch at the Vitality Stadium even the trees looking over the ground looked slightly forlorn. Bournemouth are no longer the force of good we thought they'd be for many a season to come and their opponents Crystal Palace simply danced around their hosts at times as if they weren't really there.
Palace of course will now finish the season in either safe mid table security or even on the fringes of the top ten after the kind of season that even their most patient fans might have thought was beyond them. And yet under the dependable and still shrewd Roy Hodgson, Palace have found a way to play the game like a well drilled platoon of army recruits. Their football had both poise and delicacy, attractive interludes and the most eye catching fluency that left Bournemouth gasping at the sea air.
With goalkeeper Aaron Ramsdale, defenders Jack Stacey, Steve Cook and Nathan Ake failing to establish any kind of understanding with each other, Bournemouth looked socially awkward and quite possibly distanced. Adam Smith, Jefferson Lerma and Harry Wilson were not really reading the same lines as would normally have been the case and Bournemouth became overwhelmed by a turbo charged Palace attack. David Brooks does look a stunningly honed young talent but when he pulled up with cramp during the second half, the game was up for the Cherries.
When Luka Milivojevic gave Palace the lead early on with an impeccably flighted free kick into the net, Bournemouth looked positively shell shocked as if affronted at their visitors cheek and chutzpah. Shortly Palace were running rings around the home side, hopping and skipping, twisting and turning, dinking and shimmying, spinning and swirling around Bournemouth as if this was just a run of the mill five a side training ground exercise.
Suddenly, the brilliant and effervescent Wilfried Zaha began to show us the fleet footed, bamboozling trickery and close ball control that should come as second nature for any winger. Gary Cahill was playing like one of those hugely experienced defenders who seems to have been around for ages, a player who once gave Chelsea some of their best years. Scott Dann was busy and bustling while Cheikhou Kouyate was a tall and imposing presence who West Ham must be missing like crazy. Then there was Patrick Van Aanholt, constructive, always forward thinking and innovative.
Now it was that the alert and lively Jordan Ayew, Van Aanholt and James McArthur came into their own as effective attacking influences. Now all three were weaving fine silks around the Bournemouth defence. After another delicious collaboration on the wing, the blond Van Aanholt slotted the ball through to the by line where a sharp cut back was almost spoonfed to Ayew who guided the ball home from the closest range for Palace's second and what would prove to be the winning goal.
And so it was that Bournemouth fell even deeper into the briny South Coast water while Palace were casting their eyes on loftier aspirations near the top of the Premier League. It's all systems go for the Premier League and depending on your point of view this could be a very eventful and interesting end to a season that some of us now believe is heading into some Wild West territory where normality still seems an obvious abnormality. Still. it has to be better than the Watney Cup. Pre- season friendlies will never seem the same.
Sunday, 21 June 2020
Thursday, 18 June 2020
Forces sweetheart Dame Vera Lynn dies at 103.
Forces sweetheart Dame Vera Lynn dies at 103.
We all felt we knew Dame Vera Lynn who today died at the grand old age of 103. Vera Lynn was an extended member of our family, the friendly neighbour who thought nothing of sharing pleasantries and light hearted banter over the garden fence. She was the auntie we knew but didn't really know. She was that lovely old lady who would always proffer a smile and laugh even though she didn't know you that well.
You could confide in our Vera because she was always warmhearted and full of the joys of spring. She would ask you how your children were, bake a cake for the kids and then dispense her pearls of wisdom and sagacious advice because she loved life, sharing her infectious zest for living without ever questioning or judging you. She would hang her washing on the line, run upstairs to attend to her young daughter who was still crying like a baby because she was still a baby. Then her daughter would giggle in her cot and the echoes of the Second World War could still be heard.
Born in East Ham, a salt of the earth East Ender, Dame Vera Lynn captured the hearts of the whole of Britain and the rest of the world as the 'Forces Sweetheart', a heroic wartime heroine, the sweetest chanteuse, the all pervading, glorious influence who spread her infectious voice and love across diverse continents, war torn cities, towns and villages where the sound of the 'Doodlebug' became the most familiar soundtrack during six years of hell and purgatory.
On a thousand radio sets across the lands of England, the Commonwealth and farthermost points of Asia and Africa, the voice of Dame Vera Lynn became the sound of hope, positivity and musical triumphalism where the guns, bullets and bombs threatened to obliterate the whole of the globe. She travelled the length and breadth of almost every army encampment and stood defiantly on stage with the voice of an angel. She knew what was going through the minds of those battle hardened soldiers who were fighting not only for their lives but for those who were suffering in the remotest corners of the planet. She gave of herself instinctively and unquestioningly because her voice was the voice of salvation.
But today our Vera, the woman and girl who illuminated all of our lives has passed and we can never thank Vera enough. For Vera was indeed the Forces Sweetheart, the singer who transformed the lives of so many young men who worshipped her from afar but wished they could be their girl. Of course the soldiers had wives and girlfriends waiting for them at home when demobbed after the Second World War but Vera Lynn was the one photo they would clutch to their hearts before lights went out.
Forevermore Dame Vera Lynn will always be associated with one anthem, with one song, one memorable anthem, the soundtrack to our lives at the present moment and the soundtrack that accompanied those who were sent away and sadly never came back. 'We'll Meet Again' has now a completely different and equally as emotional, topical resonance. It was, and remains, a powerful, victorious, heartwarming and, above all, tremendously inspirational song that still sends a shiver down the proverbial spine.
It dominated the record collection of every family across both Britain and the world and it was always on the lips of every man, woman, auntie and uncle whose instant identification with its meaning always made us feel good about ourselves. ' We'll Meet Again' was so stunningly appropriate that it almost became England's second National Anthem. For those of a sentimental disposition it means so much more than any of us could possibly imagine and now sounds like a heartfelt cry from the core of our being.
And so it is that we bid a fond farewell to the songbird from London's East End, a lifelong West Ham supporter, a fact that gladdens some of us no end. But when this now historic year wends itself regretfully into the distance we may hope that somewhere out there the voice of Dame Vera Lynn will boom out across the green, undulating hills of England. If there are bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover you may be sure that our Vera will still be there in spirit. Thanks Dame Vera.
We all felt we knew Dame Vera Lynn who today died at the grand old age of 103. Vera Lynn was an extended member of our family, the friendly neighbour who thought nothing of sharing pleasantries and light hearted banter over the garden fence. She was the auntie we knew but didn't really know. She was that lovely old lady who would always proffer a smile and laugh even though she didn't know you that well.
You could confide in our Vera because she was always warmhearted and full of the joys of spring. She would ask you how your children were, bake a cake for the kids and then dispense her pearls of wisdom and sagacious advice because she loved life, sharing her infectious zest for living without ever questioning or judging you. She would hang her washing on the line, run upstairs to attend to her young daughter who was still crying like a baby because she was still a baby. Then her daughter would giggle in her cot and the echoes of the Second World War could still be heard.
Born in East Ham, a salt of the earth East Ender, Dame Vera Lynn captured the hearts of the whole of Britain and the rest of the world as the 'Forces Sweetheart', a heroic wartime heroine, the sweetest chanteuse, the all pervading, glorious influence who spread her infectious voice and love across diverse continents, war torn cities, towns and villages where the sound of the 'Doodlebug' became the most familiar soundtrack during six years of hell and purgatory.
On a thousand radio sets across the lands of England, the Commonwealth and farthermost points of Asia and Africa, the voice of Dame Vera Lynn became the sound of hope, positivity and musical triumphalism where the guns, bullets and bombs threatened to obliterate the whole of the globe. She travelled the length and breadth of almost every army encampment and stood defiantly on stage with the voice of an angel. She knew what was going through the minds of those battle hardened soldiers who were fighting not only for their lives but for those who were suffering in the remotest corners of the planet. She gave of herself instinctively and unquestioningly because her voice was the voice of salvation.
But today our Vera, the woman and girl who illuminated all of our lives has passed and we can never thank Vera enough. For Vera was indeed the Forces Sweetheart, the singer who transformed the lives of so many young men who worshipped her from afar but wished they could be their girl. Of course the soldiers had wives and girlfriends waiting for them at home when demobbed after the Second World War but Vera Lynn was the one photo they would clutch to their hearts before lights went out.
Forevermore Dame Vera Lynn will always be associated with one anthem, with one song, one memorable anthem, the soundtrack to our lives at the present moment and the soundtrack that accompanied those who were sent away and sadly never came back. 'We'll Meet Again' has now a completely different and equally as emotional, topical resonance. It was, and remains, a powerful, victorious, heartwarming and, above all, tremendously inspirational song that still sends a shiver down the proverbial spine.
It dominated the record collection of every family across both Britain and the world and it was always on the lips of every man, woman, auntie and uncle whose instant identification with its meaning always made us feel good about ourselves. ' We'll Meet Again' was so stunningly appropriate that it almost became England's second National Anthem. For those of a sentimental disposition it means so much more than any of us could possibly imagine and now sounds like a heartfelt cry from the core of our being.
And so it is that we bid a fond farewell to the songbird from London's East End, a lifelong West Ham supporter, a fact that gladdens some of us no end. But when this now historic year wends itself regretfully into the distance we may hope that somewhere out there the voice of Dame Vera Lynn will boom out across the green, undulating hills of England. If there are bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover you may be sure that our Vera will still be there in spirit. Thanks Dame Vera.
Wednesday, 17 June 2020
The Salisbury Poisonings- excellent TV.
The Salisbury Poisonings- excellent.
In complete contrast to all of the last three months of unrelenting misery and sombreness we were given yet another dose of the same medicine. The BBC do get it completely right with their thought -provoking dramatisations and for the last three nights they reminded us once again of the dark and very moody version of events relating to the Salisbury Poisonings two years ago.
Back then we were just shocked by one of those news stories that are supposed to be shocking. It was the spring of 2018 and England were about to embark on one of those helter skelter rides towards the summer's World Cup in Russia. Little were we to know it then but in the quiet and genteel city of Salisbury, mysterious events were beginning to unravel before almost frightening the life out of the nation.
On an otherwise ordinary Sunday lunchtime a father and daughter sat down on a bench in Salisbury having just eaten in a restaurant. What we didn't know at the time was that both were unwitting targets of some appalling poisoning attack from evil terrorists whose intention was to kill without any hint of remorse.
Sergei Skripal and his daughter Yulia Skripal were, at the time, unwitting victims of the kind of incident that convulsed and paralysed almost the entire county of Wiltshire and quite possibly beyond. The opening sequence showed Sergei frothing at the mouth and fitting as his daughter slumped onto his lap, their world now thrown into turmoil and infirmity. Death could have been the most tragic outcomes for both but since then both father and daughter have made a full recovery or so it may be assumed.
But this was a gripping three night reconstruction of the events which unfolded with almost morbid rapidity. Slowly but surely we were introduced into the lives of Nick Bailey, the serious, dedicated and businesslike cop who was unintentionally drawn into this horrific vortex of potentially lethal toxicity, a man who just wanted to get on with his business of being the upright copper while ensuring the continued welfare of his doting family.
We were then given chapter and verse on the life of hard- bitten health officer Tracy Daszkieewicz, a plain-speaking, hard-working, ambitious and driven woman determined to get to the bottom of a nightmare that refuses to go away. We follow her keenly as she rushes hither and thither from one crime spot to the next, a woman of fierce convictions, moral purpose and hell- bent on bringing justice to those who may have found their lives under serious threat.
Attending endless meetings with police officers and impassioned encounters with outraged residents of the local neighbourhood, we saw her visibly crumpling under pressure while mum did her utmost to give positive reassurances to son Toby that she would never desert him and still loved Toby. It was acting of the highest order, a wonderful portrait of a character whose devotion of duty almost broke her at times.
And we then move back to Nick Bailey and his family. Bailey is seen accidentally picking up the nerve shot Novichok, a potentially deadly poison which almost killed Bailey. Staring into the bathroom mirror, Bailey is initially seen checking his now dilated eyes and then sweating in bed wihout realising for a minute that things were wrong and unsavoury. After frequent self examinations, Bailey eventually collapses during the night, falling onto the living room carpet and ending up in hospital clinging onto life desperately.
Nick 's wife Sarah continues to offer loving and compassionate support to a husband who now finds his own life hanging in the balance. The whole background story is now told in vivid and graphic detail with both wife and husband caught up in the most horrendous web of secrecy and ambiguity. Nobody can be sure what's happening because nobody knows anything but would like to know more.
Then there is Ross Cassidy with his wife Mo. Ross is a close friend of Sergei Skripal and once again a perfectly innocent member of the public who, through no fault of his own, is questioned by the police for his friendship with Sergei. Cassidy gives any relevant information that may help with the police's inquiries. Cassidy then gives a full explanation to the police and wonders whether he was being followed by one of President Putin's alleged henchmen on a trip back from the airport to meet up with his mate Sergei. All very cloak and dagger and clandestine, very much a case of not what you knew but who you knew.
Also there was the heart breaking case of Dawn Sturgess, impeccably played and the only death in the whole episode. Dawn is a hardened and incurable alcoholic who lives with her partner Charlie Rowley, both incorrigible addicts who were brought together by a strange twist of fate. Dawn loves to party and get completely drunk while Charlie just offers a sympathetic shoulder to lean on recognising sooner rather than later that both he and she might come to a sticky end.
In the most alarming scene, we see both Dawn and Charlie rummaging through a bin, searching for goodness knows what. Dawn picks out the spray bottle which would eventually kill her while Charlie digs a chair out which left him fighting for life but would not kill him. The story had now become so intriguing that you were left on tenterhooks about what fate would befall all the characters.
After seemingly indefinite investigations, numerous BBC News bulletins, searching post mortems and deeply probing discussions from all concerned we are now left to imagine what might have happened and what did actually happen. This was by turns both an extremely powerful, hard- hitting and compelling drama where you could hardly take your eyes away from the action. There were blazing arguments and disagreements from health officer and police alike, moving moments throughout when everything that could have gone wrong did. But the air of suspense kept you glued to your TV.
Then after spraying from her bottle Dawn dies, the family gather together in collective mourning, mum and dad reproach themselves for not doing enough to help their stricken and troubled daughter and the intensity of their grief takes its toll with dad Stan who confesses that he could have done more to save Dawn but couldn't because Dawn just couldn't stop herself. Charlie, Dawn's partner, naturally sobs his heart at Dawn's funeral but then Dawn's daughter remembers the good times she enjoyed with mum. Mum Sturgess is equally as impressive as the helpless but doting mum who regularly tells her grand- daughter that mummy is sick but is being taken care of.
This was the BBC at its most professional, clever, accurate and perceptive, a play about raw human feelings, a play that hit all the right psychological and sociological buttons. It was about a TV dramatisation that got right under the surface of what makes a society ticks when somebody throws a ticking time bomb into a city that just wants to be left alone in peace. Sadly Salisbury may not be remembered now for its historic and beautiful cathedral. Rather it will always be synonymous with a bench in the shopping centre where two people minding their own business almost died at the same time.
Happily this story did have a happy ending although it could have been all so different. Nick and Sarah Bailey with their kids, are still living as the reunited family, Dawn Sturgess sadly died, Ross Cassidy and his wife Mo are doing all kinds of charitable work while some of us were left drooling with admiration at a brilliant TV script and eternally grateful to the BBC for another mini masterpiece. Thanks Auntie Beeb. You've done it again.
In complete contrast to all of the last three months of unrelenting misery and sombreness we were given yet another dose of the same medicine. The BBC do get it completely right with their thought -provoking dramatisations and for the last three nights they reminded us once again of the dark and very moody version of events relating to the Salisbury Poisonings two years ago.
Back then we were just shocked by one of those news stories that are supposed to be shocking. It was the spring of 2018 and England were about to embark on one of those helter skelter rides towards the summer's World Cup in Russia. Little were we to know it then but in the quiet and genteel city of Salisbury, mysterious events were beginning to unravel before almost frightening the life out of the nation.
On an otherwise ordinary Sunday lunchtime a father and daughter sat down on a bench in Salisbury having just eaten in a restaurant. What we didn't know at the time was that both were unwitting targets of some appalling poisoning attack from evil terrorists whose intention was to kill without any hint of remorse.
Sergei Skripal and his daughter Yulia Skripal were, at the time, unwitting victims of the kind of incident that convulsed and paralysed almost the entire county of Wiltshire and quite possibly beyond. The opening sequence showed Sergei frothing at the mouth and fitting as his daughter slumped onto his lap, their world now thrown into turmoil and infirmity. Death could have been the most tragic outcomes for both but since then both father and daughter have made a full recovery or so it may be assumed.
But this was a gripping three night reconstruction of the events which unfolded with almost morbid rapidity. Slowly but surely we were introduced into the lives of Nick Bailey, the serious, dedicated and businesslike cop who was unintentionally drawn into this horrific vortex of potentially lethal toxicity, a man who just wanted to get on with his business of being the upright copper while ensuring the continued welfare of his doting family.
We were then given chapter and verse on the life of hard- bitten health officer Tracy Daszkieewicz, a plain-speaking, hard-working, ambitious and driven woman determined to get to the bottom of a nightmare that refuses to go away. We follow her keenly as she rushes hither and thither from one crime spot to the next, a woman of fierce convictions, moral purpose and hell- bent on bringing justice to those who may have found their lives under serious threat.
Attending endless meetings with police officers and impassioned encounters with outraged residents of the local neighbourhood, we saw her visibly crumpling under pressure while mum did her utmost to give positive reassurances to son Toby that she would never desert him and still loved Toby. It was acting of the highest order, a wonderful portrait of a character whose devotion of duty almost broke her at times.
And we then move back to Nick Bailey and his family. Bailey is seen accidentally picking up the nerve shot Novichok, a potentially deadly poison which almost killed Bailey. Staring into the bathroom mirror, Bailey is initially seen checking his now dilated eyes and then sweating in bed wihout realising for a minute that things were wrong and unsavoury. After frequent self examinations, Bailey eventually collapses during the night, falling onto the living room carpet and ending up in hospital clinging onto life desperately.
Nick 's wife Sarah continues to offer loving and compassionate support to a husband who now finds his own life hanging in the balance. The whole background story is now told in vivid and graphic detail with both wife and husband caught up in the most horrendous web of secrecy and ambiguity. Nobody can be sure what's happening because nobody knows anything but would like to know more.
Then there is Ross Cassidy with his wife Mo. Ross is a close friend of Sergei Skripal and once again a perfectly innocent member of the public who, through no fault of his own, is questioned by the police for his friendship with Sergei. Cassidy gives any relevant information that may help with the police's inquiries. Cassidy then gives a full explanation to the police and wonders whether he was being followed by one of President Putin's alleged henchmen on a trip back from the airport to meet up with his mate Sergei. All very cloak and dagger and clandestine, very much a case of not what you knew but who you knew.
Also there was the heart breaking case of Dawn Sturgess, impeccably played and the only death in the whole episode. Dawn is a hardened and incurable alcoholic who lives with her partner Charlie Rowley, both incorrigible addicts who were brought together by a strange twist of fate. Dawn loves to party and get completely drunk while Charlie just offers a sympathetic shoulder to lean on recognising sooner rather than later that both he and she might come to a sticky end.
In the most alarming scene, we see both Dawn and Charlie rummaging through a bin, searching for goodness knows what. Dawn picks out the spray bottle which would eventually kill her while Charlie digs a chair out which left him fighting for life but would not kill him. The story had now become so intriguing that you were left on tenterhooks about what fate would befall all the characters.
After seemingly indefinite investigations, numerous BBC News bulletins, searching post mortems and deeply probing discussions from all concerned we are now left to imagine what might have happened and what did actually happen. This was by turns both an extremely powerful, hard- hitting and compelling drama where you could hardly take your eyes away from the action. There were blazing arguments and disagreements from health officer and police alike, moving moments throughout when everything that could have gone wrong did. But the air of suspense kept you glued to your TV.
Then after spraying from her bottle Dawn dies, the family gather together in collective mourning, mum and dad reproach themselves for not doing enough to help their stricken and troubled daughter and the intensity of their grief takes its toll with dad Stan who confesses that he could have done more to save Dawn but couldn't because Dawn just couldn't stop herself. Charlie, Dawn's partner, naturally sobs his heart at Dawn's funeral but then Dawn's daughter remembers the good times she enjoyed with mum. Mum Sturgess is equally as impressive as the helpless but doting mum who regularly tells her grand- daughter that mummy is sick but is being taken care of.
This was the BBC at its most professional, clever, accurate and perceptive, a play about raw human feelings, a play that hit all the right psychological and sociological buttons. It was about a TV dramatisation that got right under the surface of what makes a society ticks when somebody throws a ticking time bomb into a city that just wants to be left alone in peace. Sadly Salisbury may not be remembered now for its historic and beautiful cathedral. Rather it will always be synonymous with a bench in the shopping centre where two people minding their own business almost died at the same time.
Happily this story did have a happy ending although it could have been all so different. Nick and Sarah Bailey with their kids, are still living as the reunited family, Dawn Sturgess sadly died, Ross Cassidy and his wife Mo are doing all kinds of charitable work while some of us were left drooling with admiration at a brilliant TV script and eternally grateful to the BBC for another mini masterpiece. Thanks Auntie Beeb. You've done it again.
Monday, 15 June 2020
Animal magnetism- zoos, safari parks and non essential shops. Britain partially re-opens.
Animal magnetism- zoos, safari parks and non essential shops. Britain partially re-opens.
Oh well! We're halfway there but not quite. It's the beginning of the week and lockdown could be partially opened as from today but don't bet on any grand opening ceremony with bells and whistles because that maybe a couple of months away. Still, the non essential shops are back up and running, people are beginning to believe in miracles and hopefully society will return to something like its chipper ways in the not too distant future.
The problem we have is that we are still very much in the dark, neither here nor there, waiting patiently for something really unforgettable to happen when the truth is that nobody knows when normal service, as we used to know it, will be resumed with a vengeance. We know where we are at the moment and it does feel encouraging but the fact is that having seen the West End of London this morning there is still something grey, gloomy and nebulous about London that doesn't make you want to dance in the streets and hug perfect strangers in sheer relief and joy.
We are now halfway through June and on the verge of the longest day of the year. Midsummer would normally be the catalyst for thousands of people to descend on Stonehenge and watch the sunrise in all of its amber glory. But this is surely no time to be spiritual or religious so you may prefer to concentrate the mind on more down to earth and practical matters. You can still hardly hear a pin drop outside and that has to be worrying.
Anyway, the next piece of great news is that Britain is re-opening all of its zoos and safari parks which is brilliant news for all of those lonely lions, cheetahs, monkeys, penguins, rhinos, hippos, birds, tigers, camels, elephants and llamas. You could go through the entire list of the animal population but let's keep this one short. Or maybe not. Still, it's a delightful prospect and how we've longed for this day.
The fact is that all the frustrated kids, their parents and grandparents can finally be re-acquainted with the animal kingdom, that magical world of sheep, lambs, cows, bleating, mooing, roaring, swinging from trees, prowling around their pens while hunting big cats and wandering, loitering, sluggish, beautiful beasts of the wild can finally let their hair down.
Soon enough families will take to the road in their highly secure Range Rovers or Land Rovers driving casually through Longleat and every other safari park safe in the knowledge that this could be a very special moment not only for the kids but also for mum and dad, grandma and grandpa. Who cares whether those monkeys, ocelots and lemurs, leap on to the windscreen and try desperately to snap off the wipers? Who cares whether those grumpy, cantankerous lions and lionesses start circling your bumpers or checking out your axles and of course those wheels and tyres. They're only trying to be friendly after all. Or are they? It's safe to say that they've probably missed the human race. The feeling is reciprocal.
And this is probably the point. Does the human race feel as if it should really be grasping the nettle, jumping into our cars, buses and trains when it knows in its heart that this is all very hit and miss, a calculated but scientific gamble that could go badly wrong? Half of the West End of London is privately wondering whether they should while the other half can't wait to buy their first pair of shirts and trousers for at least six months. The dilemma is an obvious one.
The fact is of course the heart of the West End of London is still receiving treatment for deep- seated wounds and injuries possibly requiring even more surgery. That heart though is still on a ventilator and recuperating very slowly. The West End, it has to be said, is still in intensive care and breathing very irregularly. This may sound very exaggerated and overdramatic but we are not where we would like to be.
We are not booking tickets to see our favourite West End musical because we haven't a clue whether we'll be able to see a musical any time this year. We can't sit outside a Costa, Nero, or Pret A Manger coffee and snack shop because the doors are locked, the ominous signs are up in the window and the wonderfully perfumed smell of black coffee, latte or mocha is still a distant memory. Although extortionately expensive, we used to love going into the local cafe for a bite to eat and just winding down for an hour. Now we discover that this treat will have to go on hold for another fortnight or so.
Now though those same cafes and restaurants will have to wait until the fourth of July which still sounds like just a random day. And yet July 4 is American Independence Day so whether this has been deliberately planned to coincide with America's happiest of days is immaterial. The fact is that we can eat and drink to our hearts content as long as the service charge doesn't amount to a small mortgage.
There is a growing reality that we are still half in and half out at the moment. The powers that be keep insisting that we keep 2 metres away when the rest of the world- or a vast majority of it- is only a metre or so give or take a couple of centimetres. Are we being asked to take a tape measure out with us in case it's beyond anybody's calculation? Or do we simply keep us far apart from our fellow human being as it's possible to be.
Sport of course has come flying out of the blocks and there is a feeling of delayed euphoria. Of course we welcome sport's presence. However, the whole potty issue of football's very materialistic rush back to its Premier League multi- million- moneymakers has been frequently discussed on these pages. On Wednesday evening though Manchester City will take on Arsenal at the Etihad Stadium and Aston Villa will be up against Sheffield United at Villa Park.
We all know what's going to happen or not as be it the case. Nobody but nobody will be allowed into any Premier League grounds and what will ensue will be like nothing like we've ever seen in the glory, glory world of football. In fact to call it a spectacle would be a strange kind of euphemism because quite clearly it won't be.
So here goes more or less a month of quite the most extraordinary silence and tranquillity ever to fall upon English football. You suspect that at some point you may hear more noise among Trappist monks in a monastery so chilling and cold will it all feel. It'll probably feel like being stuck in a cave or even an underground chamber for interminable hours, weeks and months. Or maybe another adaptation of Robinson Crusoe where Crusoe runs out of twigs and sticks to keep warm. The Premier League may have to get used to this very remote desert island in the middle of nowhere.
Still, football has, or so it would seem, made a rod for its own back and we hope that this experiment, whether enforced or not, will work out for the best. We look forward to the Premier League restart with great excitement in our hearts. We are counting the hours down until Liverpool deservedly clinch the Premier League title in front of rows of unoccupied plastic seats, a crisp bag fluttering in the breeze or the occasional fog horn of some sea going vessel on the Mersey. The Anfield Kop will become no more than the Anfield whisper. Oh for the overwhelming sense of anti climax of it all.
Then of course there's the cancelled Wimbledon tennis and, above all, the cricket Test matches against West Indies which used to be the definitive sporting fixture during the 1970s. How we used to thrill to the master blaster brilliance of Viv Richards batting, those gorgeously atmospheric steel drums and Gordon Greenidge driving the ball mightily through the covers for either a six or four. Then there was the neat and tidy Alvin Kalicharran, sweetly clipping his shots eloquently off the back and front foot.
Cricket though may not come out to play until the beginning of August which only adds to the lopsided nature of the sporting calendar. It is at this early part of August that the FA Cup Final will be crammed in tightly into what feels like an exceptionally hurried schedule. Everything about the recent developments within sport and everything coronavirus has, quite obviously upset the balance of our lives or maybe it hasn't and you're all doing splendidly in which case apologies are in order.
We are of course being admirably resourceful, more domesticated perhaps than we've ever been and those kids rainbow drawings have been fabulous and very symbolic. But the thought occurs to you that at some point during the summer most of us will be craving proper family gatherings with no private fears or misgivings, shopping in our millions, laughing and singing along with West End musicals, crying and smiling at cinema romantic comedies and generally having a fantastic time.
In the meanwhile let us be grateful for the re-opening of zoos and safari parks because our animal friends just haven't been the same. They've been moody, withdrawn, probably quite depressed if truth be told. You'd be inclined to think that this is the best day of the year for all animals across Britain. But beware those bears because they've probably still got sore heads. Or possibly not.
Oh well! We're halfway there but not quite. It's the beginning of the week and lockdown could be partially opened as from today but don't bet on any grand opening ceremony with bells and whistles because that maybe a couple of months away. Still, the non essential shops are back up and running, people are beginning to believe in miracles and hopefully society will return to something like its chipper ways in the not too distant future.
The problem we have is that we are still very much in the dark, neither here nor there, waiting patiently for something really unforgettable to happen when the truth is that nobody knows when normal service, as we used to know it, will be resumed with a vengeance. We know where we are at the moment and it does feel encouraging but the fact is that having seen the West End of London this morning there is still something grey, gloomy and nebulous about London that doesn't make you want to dance in the streets and hug perfect strangers in sheer relief and joy.
We are now halfway through June and on the verge of the longest day of the year. Midsummer would normally be the catalyst for thousands of people to descend on Stonehenge and watch the sunrise in all of its amber glory. But this is surely no time to be spiritual or religious so you may prefer to concentrate the mind on more down to earth and practical matters. You can still hardly hear a pin drop outside and that has to be worrying.
Anyway, the next piece of great news is that Britain is re-opening all of its zoos and safari parks which is brilliant news for all of those lonely lions, cheetahs, monkeys, penguins, rhinos, hippos, birds, tigers, camels, elephants and llamas. You could go through the entire list of the animal population but let's keep this one short. Or maybe not. Still, it's a delightful prospect and how we've longed for this day.
The fact is that all the frustrated kids, their parents and grandparents can finally be re-acquainted with the animal kingdom, that magical world of sheep, lambs, cows, bleating, mooing, roaring, swinging from trees, prowling around their pens while hunting big cats and wandering, loitering, sluggish, beautiful beasts of the wild can finally let their hair down.
Soon enough families will take to the road in their highly secure Range Rovers or Land Rovers driving casually through Longleat and every other safari park safe in the knowledge that this could be a very special moment not only for the kids but also for mum and dad, grandma and grandpa. Who cares whether those monkeys, ocelots and lemurs, leap on to the windscreen and try desperately to snap off the wipers? Who cares whether those grumpy, cantankerous lions and lionesses start circling your bumpers or checking out your axles and of course those wheels and tyres. They're only trying to be friendly after all. Or are they? It's safe to say that they've probably missed the human race. The feeling is reciprocal.
And this is probably the point. Does the human race feel as if it should really be grasping the nettle, jumping into our cars, buses and trains when it knows in its heart that this is all very hit and miss, a calculated but scientific gamble that could go badly wrong? Half of the West End of London is privately wondering whether they should while the other half can't wait to buy their first pair of shirts and trousers for at least six months. The dilemma is an obvious one.
The fact is of course the heart of the West End of London is still receiving treatment for deep- seated wounds and injuries possibly requiring even more surgery. That heart though is still on a ventilator and recuperating very slowly. The West End, it has to be said, is still in intensive care and breathing very irregularly. This may sound very exaggerated and overdramatic but we are not where we would like to be.
We are not booking tickets to see our favourite West End musical because we haven't a clue whether we'll be able to see a musical any time this year. We can't sit outside a Costa, Nero, or Pret A Manger coffee and snack shop because the doors are locked, the ominous signs are up in the window and the wonderfully perfumed smell of black coffee, latte or mocha is still a distant memory. Although extortionately expensive, we used to love going into the local cafe for a bite to eat and just winding down for an hour. Now we discover that this treat will have to go on hold for another fortnight or so.
Now though those same cafes and restaurants will have to wait until the fourth of July which still sounds like just a random day. And yet July 4 is American Independence Day so whether this has been deliberately planned to coincide with America's happiest of days is immaterial. The fact is that we can eat and drink to our hearts content as long as the service charge doesn't amount to a small mortgage.
There is a growing reality that we are still half in and half out at the moment. The powers that be keep insisting that we keep 2 metres away when the rest of the world- or a vast majority of it- is only a metre or so give or take a couple of centimetres. Are we being asked to take a tape measure out with us in case it's beyond anybody's calculation? Or do we simply keep us far apart from our fellow human being as it's possible to be.
Sport of course has come flying out of the blocks and there is a feeling of delayed euphoria. Of course we welcome sport's presence. However, the whole potty issue of football's very materialistic rush back to its Premier League multi- million- moneymakers has been frequently discussed on these pages. On Wednesday evening though Manchester City will take on Arsenal at the Etihad Stadium and Aston Villa will be up against Sheffield United at Villa Park.
We all know what's going to happen or not as be it the case. Nobody but nobody will be allowed into any Premier League grounds and what will ensue will be like nothing like we've ever seen in the glory, glory world of football. In fact to call it a spectacle would be a strange kind of euphemism because quite clearly it won't be.
So here goes more or less a month of quite the most extraordinary silence and tranquillity ever to fall upon English football. You suspect that at some point you may hear more noise among Trappist monks in a monastery so chilling and cold will it all feel. It'll probably feel like being stuck in a cave or even an underground chamber for interminable hours, weeks and months. Or maybe another adaptation of Robinson Crusoe where Crusoe runs out of twigs and sticks to keep warm. The Premier League may have to get used to this very remote desert island in the middle of nowhere.
Still, football has, or so it would seem, made a rod for its own back and we hope that this experiment, whether enforced or not, will work out for the best. We look forward to the Premier League restart with great excitement in our hearts. We are counting the hours down until Liverpool deservedly clinch the Premier League title in front of rows of unoccupied plastic seats, a crisp bag fluttering in the breeze or the occasional fog horn of some sea going vessel on the Mersey. The Anfield Kop will become no more than the Anfield whisper. Oh for the overwhelming sense of anti climax of it all.
Then of course there's the cancelled Wimbledon tennis and, above all, the cricket Test matches against West Indies which used to be the definitive sporting fixture during the 1970s. How we used to thrill to the master blaster brilliance of Viv Richards batting, those gorgeously atmospheric steel drums and Gordon Greenidge driving the ball mightily through the covers for either a six or four. Then there was the neat and tidy Alvin Kalicharran, sweetly clipping his shots eloquently off the back and front foot.
Cricket though may not come out to play until the beginning of August which only adds to the lopsided nature of the sporting calendar. It is at this early part of August that the FA Cup Final will be crammed in tightly into what feels like an exceptionally hurried schedule. Everything about the recent developments within sport and everything coronavirus has, quite obviously upset the balance of our lives or maybe it hasn't and you're all doing splendidly in which case apologies are in order.
We are of course being admirably resourceful, more domesticated perhaps than we've ever been and those kids rainbow drawings have been fabulous and very symbolic. But the thought occurs to you that at some point during the summer most of us will be craving proper family gatherings with no private fears or misgivings, shopping in our millions, laughing and singing along with West End musicals, crying and smiling at cinema romantic comedies and generally having a fantastic time.
In the meanwhile let us be grateful for the re-opening of zoos and safari parks because our animal friends just haven't been the same. They've been moody, withdrawn, probably quite depressed if truth be told. You'd be inclined to think that this is the best day of the year for all animals across Britain. But beware those bears because they've probably still got sore heads. Or possibly not.
Saturday, 13 June 2020
It's National Gin and Tonic Day everybody.
It's National Gin and Tonic Day everybody.
It's the news you've all been waiting for everybody. No, sadly not the official end of coronavirus but it will be quite shortly. You can feel it in your bones. The good news though is that today is National Gin and Tonic Day. Yes, it is indeed. Now what about that for a pleasant surprise? You weren't expecting that one, hey? What a boost to our flagging spirits if you'll excuse the pun. After all the gloom and doom, despondency and dejection, you can finally let yourselves go just for today or perhaps you'd prefer to drown your sorrows or celebrate your personal victories with a classic G and T, a quick glass of gin and tonic.
Let's face it. You deserve it. In fact finish off several bottles of gin and tonic although that may not be entirely advisable because if you do get completely drunk you may have to pay the penalty tomorrow morning with that famous feeling of hungover regret and somehow wishing that you hadn't bothered in the first place. But if the mood does take you then please be my guest. This is the time for a good, old fashioned drop of the hard stuff because this is the day to get just a bit tipsy and if you like completely blotto.
Now, after well over three months of fear, indecision, terror and calamitous tidings from all four corners of the globe you'd be entitled to get plastered so you now have my permission to knock back huge quantities of the hard stuff. National Gin and Tonic Days don't come around that often so this is all the more reason for total drunkenness and inebriation. For this is the day to sit back and relax, take the weekend in your stride and remember that after you've finished mowing the lawn you can face a gin and tonic with a clear head and conscience.
Back in those far off and now dimly remembered days of the Georgian age, gin and tonic was one of the many alcoholic choices of the rich and aristocratic upper classes. You must recall those gin soaked palaces where the men and women of the day would waltz the evening away to enchanting piano recitals and then drink the night away quite unashamedly into the wee small hours of the following morning.
Ah yes, those gin-soaked palaces where the lords and ladies, the titled and the not so entitled would fling convention out of the french windows, step lightly towards each other under the opulent and gleaming chandeliers and raise a toast to capitalism and luxury. They would bow and acknowledge each other ever so politely while the women curtsied to their menfolk with that gentle femininity.
Throughout the centuries and right up until the present day though, gin and tonic is the one drink that is invariably associated with a severe setback or disappointment. For those who have experienced another stressful day at work or the loss of anything then gin and tonic is the immediate answer, the antidote to all ills and discomforts. How often you have stared into a glass of gin and tonic and hoped that it would soothe your fevered brow and make things temporarily better? Or perhaps you were simply teetotal.
In ancient episodes of Coronation Street- if your memory served you correctly- didn't the likes of Elsie Tanner and Vera Duckworth and occasionally Ena Sharples partake of a sharp swig of gin and tonic and then tell Annie and Jack Walker to keep the change? Pubs are often the first retreat where we need to just calm down, an alcoholic sanctuary where the cares and woes of a quite horrendous day of the office can be offloaded.
In the gentlemen's clubs of London such as the famous Garrick, those with money to spend and wartime stories to re-tell, will slump back into those beautifully upholstered leather chairs, light a Havana cigar, browse through the Financial Times, puff on the said cigar a thousand times and then ponder deeply on their shares in all of their blue chip companies. Then the large glass of gin and tonic will be raised victoriously because last week his Polo team had once again triumphed on the playing fields of England.
But for many of us gin and tonic will always be the drink of reflective contemplation, the drink to take the heat out of a troubled day, the drink to stare at interminably when that crucial business deal may have fallen through at the last minute. Or maybe gin and tonic was that soothing pick me up when the mood may have been desperately low.
And yet those gin- soaked palaces from the 17th and 18th century do sound like a running theme through that period when nobody really cared about getting tipsy and then sloshed because all of those Hooray Henry hedonists were knocking them back one after the other. Gin and tonic may well have been the ultimate solution to all problems and the mind is filled with images of rowdy mobs of men smashing glasses of ale, throwing back gin and tonics in rapid succession, jumping recklessly from already wonky wooden tables and then falling over on a rain soaked pavement when the landlord had clearly had enough. Gin and tonic worked on every level. At least until the following morning.
So there we are ladies and gentlemen, today is Gin and Tonic day and not before time. How long have you been waiting for that day? In the old days Gin and Tonic was just plain G and T with perhaps a packet of crisps and peanuts for company. Now there's Pink Gin, Gordon's Gin, Beefeater, Tanqueray and the more recent Gin Mare. Now before you become alarmed at my extensive knowledge of gins it might be pointed out that you had to do a spot of research in the name of this article.
Apparently the late Queen Mother was partial to a drop of gin and tonic while those eminent members of Parliament were never averse to a glass or two of stimulus when the going got tough. Tory grandee Kenneth Clarke swore by a glass of whisky at his side at Budget time and as the complete stress buster, both whisky and gin and tonic still have the capacity to soften the blow and get straight to the heart of the matter. So please feel free to raid the cocktail cabinet or open up the cupboard and pour yourself a neat concoction of that famous drink that always took pride and place at any party or pub gathering. Cheers folks.
It's the news you've all been waiting for everybody. No, sadly not the official end of coronavirus but it will be quite shortly. You can feel it in your bones. The good news though is that today is National Gin and Tonic Day. Yes, it is indeed. Now what about that for a pleasant surprise? You weren't expecting that one, hey? What a boost to our flagging spirits if you'll excuse the pun. After all the gloom and doom, despondency and dejection, you can finally let yourselves go just for today or perhaps you'd prefer to drown your sorrows or celebrate your personal victories with a classic G and T, a quick glass of gin and tonic.
Let's face it. You deserve it. In fact finish off several bottles of gin and tonic although that may not be entirely advisable because if you do get completely drunk you may have to pay the penalty tomorrow morning with that famous feeling of hungover regret and somehow wishing that you hadn't bothered in the first place. But if the mood does take you then please be my guest. This is the time for a good, old fashioned drop of the hard stuff because this is the day to get just a bit tipsy and if you like completely blotto.
Now, after well over three months of fear, indecision, terror and calamitous tidings from all four corners of the globe you'd be entitled to get plastered so you now have my permission to knock back huge quantities of the hard stuff. National Gin and Tonic Days don't come around that often so this is all the more reason for total drunkenness and inebriation. For this is the day to sit back and relax, take the weekend in your stride and remember that after you've finished mowing the lawn you can face a gin and tonic with a clear head and conscience.
Back in those far off and now dimly remembered days of the Georgian age, gin and tonic was one of the many alcoholic choices of the rich and aristocratic upper classes. You must recall those gin soaked palaces where the men and women of the day would waltz the evening away to enchanting piano recitals and then drink the night away quite unashamedly into the wee small hours of the following morning.
Ah yes, those gin-soaked palaces where the lords and ladies, the titled and the not so entitled would fling convention out of the french windows, step lightly towards each other under the opulent and gleaming chandeliers and raise a toast to capitalism and luxury. They would bow and acknowledge each other ever so politely while the women curtsied to their menfolk with that gentle femininity.
Throughout the centuries and right up until the present day though, gin and tonic is the one drink that is invariably associated with a severe setback or disappointment. For those who have experienced another stressful day at work or the loss of anything then gin and tonic is the immediate answer, the antidote to all ills and discomforts. How often you have stared into a glass of gin and tonic and hoped that it would soothe your fevered brow and make things temporarily better? Or perhaps you were simply teetotal.
In ancient episodes of Coronation Street- if your memory served you correctly- didn't the likes of Elsie Tanner and Vera Duckworth and occasionally Ena Sharples partake of a sharp swig of gin and tonic and then tell Annie and Jack Walker to keep the change? Pubs are often the first retreat where we need to just calm down, an alcoholic sanctuary where the cares and woes of a quite horrendous day of the office can be offloaded.
In the gentlemen's clubs of London such as the famous Garrick, those with money to spend and wartime stories to re-tell, will slump back into those beautifully upholstered leather chairs, light a Havana cigar, browse through the Financial Times, puff on the said cigar a thousand times and then ponder deeply on their shares in all of their blue chip companies. Then the large glass of gin and tonic will be raised victoriously because last week his Polo team had once again triumphed on the playing fields of England.
But for many of us gin and tonic will always be the drink of reflective contemplation, the drink to take the heat out of a troubled day, the drink to stare at interminably when that crucial business deal may have fallen through at the last minute. Or maybe gin and tonic was that soothing pick me up when the mood may have been desperately low.
And yet those gin- soaked palaces from the 17th and 18th century do sound like a running theme through that period when nobody really cared about getting tipsy and then sloshed because all of those Hooray Henry hedonists were knocking them back one after the other. Gin and tonic may well have been the ultimate solution to all problems and the mind is filled with images of rowdy mobs of men smashing glasses of ale, throwing back gin and tonics in rapid succession, jumping recklessly from already wonky wooden tables and then falling over on a rain soaked pavement when the landlord had clearly had enough. Gin and tonic worked on every level. At least until the following morning.
So there we are ladies and gentlemen, today is Gin and Tonic day and not before time. How long have you been waiting for that day? In the old days Gin and Tonic was just plain G and T with perhaps a packet of crisps and peanuts for company. Now there's Pink Gin, Gordon's Gin, Beefeater, Tanqueray and the more recent Gin Mare. Now before you become alarmed at my extensive knowledge of gins it might be pointed out that you had to do a spot of research in the name of this article.
Apparently the late Queen Mother was partial to a drop of gin and tonic while those eminent members of Parliament were never averse to a glass or two of stimulus when the going got tough. Tory grandee Kenneth Clarke swore by a glass of whisky at his side at Budget time and as the complete stress buster, both whisky and gin and tonic still have the capacity to soften the blow and get straight to the heart of the matter. So please feel free to raid the cocktail cabinet or open up the cupboard and pour yourself a neat concoction of that famous drink that always took pride and place at any party or pub gathering. Cheers folks.
Wednesday, 10 June 2020
School and sports day- and early memories of school.
School and sports day- and early memories of school.
Now that the children - or at least some of them- have been given permission to go back to school, this may be an opportune moment to go back to the beginning and our formative years at the one establishment where it all started, that foundation stone of our youthful development, the initiation ceremony where we were introduced to other children of the same age.
It was that vital, life defining moment where education took priority to every other consideration and where you finally discovered that you had to wear a formal shirt, tie and blazer every day for the next 11 years or so of your life or even longer for those who paid attention in class. It was that pivotal turning point in your primary school stage of your life where everything seemed very intimidating, overwhelming and undoubtedly scary.
You still have vague recollections of your mum dropping you off at the school gates in those first, frightening years when a vast Victorian building represented something far more distressing and sinister than anything you'd encountered before. It meant that you were about to step into the fiery furnace of education, learning the basics, tackling the rudiments of the alphabet, letters, words, the construction of sentences, grammar and vocabulary. Simple really. Nothing that was too difficult to understand certainly at that age.
This was followed swiftly by the dreaded subject of mathematics comprising as it did the adding up of sums, the memorising of multiplication tables and that petrifyingly complicated network of division and long division. You can still hear the unbearable scratching of those many coloured chalks grating on your nerves, the tap- tapping of the chalk as words and numbers on the blackboard miraculously appeared, lengthy periods of the morning devoted to the incessant soundtrack of hollering teachers, screaming children determined to create a disturbance and then more voices.
You can clearly hear the full- blooded stomping of kids racing headlong through the school gates, stampeding through the corridors and then flooding out into the school playground. To this day you can now see hundreds of kids coats piled up haphazardly on the floor of the cloakroom, the mustiest of smells along the corridor and then being told to quickly change into plimsolls because if you didn't you'd have to miss PE, exercise time, physical fitness time and the moment to get that body into shape by moving.
There was of course a crazy uniformity about our young years, a stern insistence on punctuality, order and obedience at all times. Some of us can still see certain teachers marching down corridors with what seemed like an almost military clip- clop of stilettoes, a commanding presence in an utterly mystifying world. Of course it was all very new and very exciting to some extent but not if you hadn't a clue why you had to go to school in which case the whole experience was painfully harrowing.
The start of the school day would be rudely punctuated by the ringing bell in the playground where large groups of kids would suddenly pull on the brakes, stop what they were doing immediately, look around at their new friends, now aware that the disciplines you would have to go undergo would be so demanding and rigorous that you'd just have to get used to this regime whether you liked it or not.
In ordered formations we would line up in the playground and then troop slowly towards our classrooms and just compose yourself. The sound of a thousand slamming desks, chairs that seem to scrape and creak gratingly at the same table and tables that banged and crashed, were additional audio accompaniments to the whole day in primary school. There seemed a disorganised bedlam about this whole process at first but then we recognised our surroundings and didn't complain that much.
Looking back it was PE that seemed to stick out like a sore thumb in our minds as the one subject that really looked as though it had been made up on the spot. In the large assembly hall, complete with polished brown floor and the oldest record player since the Middle Ages, we would all stand to attention, puffy red cheeks panting, hair now slightly matted and ready to attack those daunting climbing frames, the burning ropes and the very gymnastic brown pommel horse that had to be leapt over with perfect timing and accuracy.
But at this time of the year most schools of course would have been preparing for that inevitable fixture on the school calendar. Now it looks as if most of today's children may have to wait until next June for the school sports day, a glorious fusion of the funny, the mildly competitive and a good excuse for your parents to cheer their siblings home with an egg and spoon wobbling precariously in their hands.
Now school sports day was that one big opportunity to show your mum, dad or grandparents that you could be faster, fitter and stronger than the rest of your peer group. It was that one day when you could flaunt your brand new stringed vest and that flapping shirt that seemed to have a mind of its own. School sports day was the one day in the academic year when writing in books with a studious manner could be temporarily forgotten about just for an afternoon.
We rushed out to our local playing fields, comforting hospital towering over us, grey fence bordering the field and a canopy of trees now in full green bloom. Away in the distance another blackboard would be the frantic scene of much frenzied activity. Our estimable and respected teachers could be found scribbling down the scores both meticulously and conscientiously. Smudges of red, blue, green and yellow would appear and disappear to be replaced with a constant stream of up to date scores.
In the place where everything counted, splendidly painted white lines perfectly illustrated those Olympic style athletics lanes. Then we would crouch down, fingers pointing firmly into the ground, heads poised, bony young shoulders moving and twitching with barely controlled excitement. Then a gentle whistle would blow and the sight of six or seven kids bursting forward into the far reaches of the finishing line would signify that they meant business. It felt like a rite of passage but adolescence was still some way off.
Meanwhile, at the other end of the athletics field, kids would be seen strolling around, boys comparing Pannini football stickers and girls skipping for the best part of two and half hours. Most of the running, egg and spoon and sack races would be staggered and played out in very specific blocks of time. Kids would simply hang around casually as if never sure what exactly they were supposed to be doing next. Then the year group would be called out in a kind of rota system and what followed was a general wandering towards the start lane in a vaguely excited fashion.
And so the mums and dads, grans and grandpas would hurry towards the start of races as their children and grandchildren would climb into some hessian sack that looked as though it had just unloaded potatoes from the local greengrocer. The whistle went and their precious toddlers would set out on those jumping, hopping expeditions that would result in a hilarious heap of exhausted children.
When you think back to those lazy, hazy, crazy days of early summer you'd recall school playtime when nothing seemed to matter and you could be anybody you wanted to be. If you were a boy you may have harboured ambitions of becoming the next Alan Pascoe in the middle distance running events or Mary Peters in her 1972 Olympic pomp if you were a young girl. You'd run up to the bar, arch your back and then hurl yourself over the bar and onto the mat. We were entitled to our dreams
Alas though school sports day may have to be consigned to history- certainly for this year. Now Reception, Years One, Two and Six will be the only years who can be allowed to go back to school even if is until the end of July. The world is still on hold and parents will have to make snap decisions about their children's immediate future. Coronavirus has left a devastating gash in kids lives, a bloody wound that may take ages to heal but slowly there does seem to be a suggestion of good health, that recovery, although not quite complete, may be much closer than we think.
Some of us look back on our school days with a whole mixture of conflicting emotions because in retrospect they should have been the happiest days of our lives. There is a feeling that wherever we are now in our lives the lessons we learned then were more than adequate preparation for the greater challenges that stretched ahead of us in later life. How good is it to wallow in a warm pool of nostalgia since where else are we to look for redemption, that small pocket of hope?
But here we are in the last month or so of the school curriculum and there can be no school sports day because the world is suffering some loathsome disease that some of us would wish had never happened in the first place and can't wait to see the back of . Besides we miss the tumbling tomfoolery of the sack race, the giggling frivolity of the egg and spoon race and those 100 metres of the chest out running just for our parents. Oh how we miss it all.
Now that the children - or at least some of them- have been given permission to go back to school, this may be an opportune moment to go back to the beginning and our formative years at the one establishment where it all started, that foundation stone of our youthful development, the initiation ceremony where we were introduced to other children of the same age.
It was that vital, life defining moment where education took priority to every other consideration and where you finally discovered that you had to wear a formal shirt, tie and blazer every day for the next 11 years or so of your life or even longer for those who paid attention in class. It was that pivotal turning point in your primary school stage of your life where everything seemed very intimidating, overwhelming and undoubtedly scary.
You still have vague recollections of your mum dropping you off at the school gates in those first, frightening years when a vast Victorian building represented something far more distressing and sinister than anything you'd encountered before. It meant that you were about to step into the fiery furnace of education, learning the basics, tackling the rudiments of the alphabet, letters, words, the construction of sentences, grammar and vocabulary. Simple really. Nothing that was too difficult to understand certainly at that age.
This was followed swiftly by the dreaded subject of mathematics comprising as it did the adding up of sums, the memorising of multiplication tables and that petrifyingly complicated network of division and long division. You can still hear the unbearable scratching of those many coloured chalks grating on your nerves, the tap- tapping of the chalk as words and numbers on the blackboard miraculously appeared, lengthy periods of the morning devoted to the incessant soundtrack of hollering teachers, screaming children determined to create a disturbance and then more voices.
You can clearly hear the full- blooded stomping of kids racing headlong through the school gates, stampeding through the corridors and then flooding out into the school playground. To this day you can now see hundreds of kids coats piled up haphazardly on the floor of the cloakroom, the mustiest of smells along the corridor and then being told to quickly change into plimsolls because if you didn't you'd have to miss PE, exercise time, physical fitness time and the moment to get that body into shape by moving.
There was of course a crazy uniformity about our young years, a stern insistence on punctuality, order and obedience at all times. Some of us can still see certain teachers marching down corridors with what seemed like an almost military clip- clop of stilettoes, a commanding presence in an utterly mystifying world. Of course it was all very new and very exciting to some extent but not if you hadn't a clue why you had to go to school in which case the whole experience was painfully harrowing.
The start of the school day would be rudely punctuated by the ringing bell in the playground where large groups of kids would suddenly pull on the brakes, stop what they were doing immediately, look around at their new friends, now aware that the disciplines you would have to go undergo would be so demanding and rigorous that you'd just have to get used to this regime whether you liked it or not.
In ordered formations we would line up in the playground and then troop slowly towards our classrooms and just compose yourself. The sound of a thousand slamming desks, chairs that seem to scrape and creak gratingly at the same table and tables that banged and crashed, were additional audio accompaniments to the whole day in primary school. There seemed a disorganised bedlam about this whole process at first but then we recognised our surroundings and didn't complain that much.
Looking back it was PE that seemed to stick out like a sore thumb in our minds as the one subject that really looked as though it had been made up on the spot. In the large assembly hall, complete with polished brown floor and the oldest record player since the Middle Ages, we would all stand to attention, puffy red cheeks panting, hair now slightly matted and ready to attack those daunting climbing frames, the burning ropes and the very gymnastic brown pommel horse that had to be leapt over with perfect timing and accuracy.
But at this time of the year most schools of course would have been preparing for that inevitable fixture on the school calendar. Now it looks as if most of today's children may have to wait until next June for the school sports day, a glorious fusion of the funny, the mildly competitive and a good excuse for your parents to cheer their siblings home with an egg and spoon wobbling precariously in their hands.
Now school sports day was that one big opportunity to show your mum, dad or grandparents that you could be faster, fitter and stronger than the rest of your peer group. It was that one day when you could flaunt your brand new stringed vest and that flapping shirt that seemed to have a mind of its own. School sports day was the one day in the academic year when writing in books with a studious manner could be temporarily forgotten about just for an afternoon.
We rushed out to our local playing fields, comforting hospital towering over us, grey fence bordering the field and a canopy of trees now in full green bloom. Away in the distance another blackboard would be the frantic scene of much frenzied activity. Our estimable and respected teachers could be found scribbling down the scores both meticulously and conscientiously. Smudges of red, blue, green and yellow would appear and disappear to be replaced with a constant stream of up to date scores.
In the place where everything counted, splendidly painted white lines perfectly illustrated those Olympic style athletics lanes. Then we would crouch down, fingers pointing firmly into the ground, heads poised, bony young shoulders moving and twitching with barely controlled excitement. Then a gentle whistle would blow and the sight of six or seven kids bursting forward into the far reaches of the finishing line would signify that they meant business. It felt like a rite of passage but adolescence was still some way off.
Meanwhile, at the other end of the athletics field, kids would be seen strolling around, boys comparing Pannini football stickers and girls skipping for the best part of two and half hours. Most of the running, egg and spoon and sack races would be staggered and played out in very specific blocks of time. Kids would simply hang around casually as if never sure what exactly they were supposed to be doing next. Then the year group would be called out in a kind of rota system and what followed was a general wandering towards the start lane in a vaguely excited fashion.
And so the mums and dads, grans and grandpas would hurry towards the start of races as their children and grandchildren would climb into some hessian sack that looked as though it had just unloaded potatoes from the local greengrocer. The whistle went and their precious toddlers would set out on those jumping, hopping expeditions that would result in a hilarious heap of exhausted children.
When you think back to those lazy, hazy, crazy days of early summer you'd recall school playtime when nothing seemed to matter and you could be anybody you wanted to be. If you were a boy you may have harboured ambitions of becoming the next Alan Pascoe in the middle distance running events or Mary Peters in her 1972 Olympic pomp if you were a young girl. You'd run up to the bar, arch your back and then hurl yourself over the bar and onto the mat. We were entitled to our dreams
Alas though school sports day may have to be consigned to history- certainly for this year. Now Reception, Years One, Two and Six will be the only years who can be allowed to go back to school even if is until the end of July. The world is still on hold and parents will have to make snap decisions about their children's immediate future. Coronavirus has left a devastating gash in kids lives, a bloody wound that may take ages to heal but slowly there does seem to be a suggestion of good health, that recovery, although not quite complete, may be much closer than we think.
Some of us look back on our school days with a whole mixture of conflicting emotions because in retrospect they should have been the happiest days of our lives. There is a feeling that wherever we are now in our lives the lessons we learned then were more than adequate preparation for the greater challenges that stretched ahead of us in later life. How good is it to wallow in a warm pool of nostalgia since where else are we to look for redemption, that small pocket of hope?
But here we are in the last month or so of the school curriculum and there can be no school sports day because the world is suffering some loathsome disease that some of us would wish had never happened in the first place and can't wait to see the back of . Besides we miss the tumbling tomfoolery of the sack race, the giggling frivolity of the egg and spoon race and those 100 metres of the chest out running just for our parents. Oh how we miss it all.
Monday, 8 June 2020
The world seems to have lost its way.
The world seems to have lost its way.
Oh for a world that has seemingly lost its way, but also its sober perspective, its moral compass and now finds itself in an utter mess, a shambles, its sense of all proportion now completely off any emotional and psychological radar. There is a sense that if we continue to behave and react to world events in the way we seem to be doing then some of the more trenchant critics and cynics will insist that we are just architects of our own downfall, authors of our destiny.
The weekend's riots, ructions and demonstrations in both America and London are stark reminders of what happens when, given half the chance, a society simply disintegrates, crumbling to the ground, imploding and exploding at the first opportunity that comes its way. The streets of Minneapolis and London were awash with enraged, exasperated, empowered people who have now taken the law into their hands and remain convinced that their voices are just being blatantly ignored.
At some point in the last couple of days civil disorder turned into a fiery anarchy, and a dreadful breakdown in communication. There was a vitriolic hatred towards both the police and those who believe that racial conflict is something that's been with us for far too long. The breaking point has now been reached and this is the time to vent their frustrations, their long held grievances and now there is little in the way of a rational discussion to sort everything out.
But how to explain the incident yesterday in Bristol. Amid the heated tempers there were also explosive clashes, flags and banners displaying messages of defiance, infuriated disgust and vehement disenchantment. In other words they weren't very happy bunnies, blasting out their slogans of fairness and racial equality. It could have been any demonstration that has ever taken place in London's West End but yesterday you began to question the necessity of a big, old boisterous march when so much else of far greater significance was still being addressed.
We have now got to the stage when the minds and senses of London's noisiest campaigners are being warped by things that are seemingly out of their control. Yesterday the irate hordes swarmed across the capital city like bees around a honey pot. They bellowed and bawled, brawled and battled with what they may feel like the perceived enemy. They walked together as one, ran against the very people who were perpetrating the most vicious crimes and were then arrested because they were just being too argumentative.
Perhaps in their saner moments we may all just calm down eventually if only because we may run out of steam. The toppling of a statue in Bristol raised so many pulses and blood pressures that even now on reflection, some of us are still scratching our heads. How did a slavery figure from ancient past come to be recognised as a genuine threat to considered and sensible thinking?
To those of us who would like the current news topics to maintain some semblance of relevance to the more pressing issues of the day. Lockdown has now cut the whole year into completely indigestible pieces, a hotch potch of vague and new fangled phrases, muddled misunderstandings and just utter baloney at times. In fact there have been times when you'd have been forgiven for thinking that the language of the day was more Latin than the Queen's English.
For the last three months we have been subjected to a mass of contradictions, a cumbersome jumble of same old statements of the obvious and a constant stream of promises that didn't seem to be going anywhere. Day after day we were initially told to stay at home because if we had, we'd infect the whole planet and kill off the whole planet. Then we were told that we could go out eventually but only to get loaves of bread and pints of milk at the local supermarket since they were still open.
Then by the same token we were warned not to go out to exercise - i..e. walk up to the top of the road or take the dog for a walk because that was just plain bad and almost treasonable. You were forbidden to do anything for whatever reason but then gently coaxed out of your home when the government considered that now was the right time to feed the ducks and see your grandchildren.
The next pronouncement made it abundantly clear that you would not be allowed to sit on park benches but could stand in different parts of the country. You could remain together in the home you were already in but then warned that you couldn't travel any further than the next town or suburb in case they were virulently viral and ultimately transmitted the lethal Covid 19. Everything was all about geography, location, distance, miles and measurements, inches and centimetres. You'd have been forgiven for thinking that although you'd left school many decades ago, you were still there in spirit.
But now it seems we are edging towards that classical day when s street parties and bunting will shortly become the order of the day and the local mayor or mayoress will declare Britain a celebration zone. The schools are now partially open, people are grouping around in parks, the kids are happy and relieved and shortly those non essential shops selling toys, clothes, furniture and electrical items will be encouraged to fling open their doors for financial transactions.
It does seem that on June 15 the department stores and shops in the West End will be allowed to tentatively creak open their rusty doors, the hallowed portals of commerce and money a very viable proposition. It was all very intriguing and perhaps lacking joined up thinking. We will have access to an approximation of the normal world but not to believe that everything in the garden is rosy. You can have half the cake but not the other. Go figure.
For instance you can forget about a long, cool refreshing sup of ale or beer in your local pub because that's on hold until sometime in July. So there now remains a vast cross section of Britain whose desperate thirsts for alcohol will not be slaked until long after Midsummer's Day. So where does that leave us? Can we finally have our haircut at our local hairdressers or barbers although fortunately some of us have already had their haircut?
The truth of course that we can't converge on our local Pret A Manger, Costa or Nero for a criminally expensive latte, coffee or moccha because they just get impossibly crowded at the best of times. So that's a non starter. You can't devour a burger or pizza because these fast food parlours are too dangerous for words. And you can't go to the cinema because that would constitute a major criminal offence and besides James Bond and Daniel Craig can wait until later on this year. Now where did that bucket of popcorn go? Ah yes it's over there.
Oh for a world that has seemingly lost its way, but also its sober perspective, its moral compass and now finds itself in an utter mess, a shambles, its sense of all proportion now completely off any emotional and psychological radar. There is a sense that if we continue to behave and react to world events in the way we seem to be doing then some of the more trenchant critics and cynics will insist that we are just architects of our own downfall, authors of our destiny.
The weekend's riots, ructions and demonstrations in both America and London are stark reminders of what happens when, given half the chance, a society simply disintegrates, crumbling to the ground, imploding and exploding at the first opportunity that comes its way. The streets of Minneapolis and London were awash with enraged, exasperated, empowered people who have now taken the law into their hands and remain convinced that their voices are just being blatantly ignored.
At some point in the last couple of days civil disorder turned into a fiery anarchy, and a dreadful breakdown in communication. There was a vitriolic hatred towards both the police and those who believe that racial conflict is something that's been with us for far too long. The breaking point has now been reached and this is the time to vent their frustrations, their long held grievances and now there is little in the way of a rational discussion to sort everything out.
But how to explain the incident yesterday in Bristol. Amid the heated tempers there were also explosive clashes, flags and banners displaying messages of defiance, infuriated disgust and vehement disenchantment. In other words they weren't very happy bunnies, blasting out their slogans of fairness and racial equality. It could have been any demonstration that has ever taken place in London's West End but yesterday you began to question the necessity of a big, old boisterous march when so much else of far greater significance was still being addressed.
We have now got to the stage when the minds and senses of London's noisiest campaigners are being warped by things that are seemingly out of their control. Yesterday the irate hordes swarmed across the capital city like bees around a honey pot. They bellowed and bawled, brawled and battled with what they may feel like the perceived enemy. They walked together as one, ran against the very people who were perpetrating the most vicious crimes and were then arrested because they were just being too argumentative.
Perhaps in their saner moments we may all just calm down eventually if only because we may run out of steam. The toppling of a statue in Bristol raised so many pulses and blood pressures that even now on reflection, some of us are still scratching our heads. How did a slavery figure from ancient past come to be recognised as a genuine threat to considered and sensible thinking?
To those of us who would like the current news topics to maintain some semblance of relevance to the more pressing issues of the day. Lockdown has now cut the whole year into completely indigestible pieces, a hotch potch of vague and new fangled phrases, muddled misunderstandings and just utter baloney at times. In fact there have been times when you'd have been forgiven for thinking that the language of the day was more Latin than the Queen's English.
For the last three months we have been subjected to a mass of contradictions, a cumbersome jumble of same old statements of the obvious and a constant stream of promises that didn't seem to be going anywhere. Day after day we were initially told to stay at home because if we had, we'd infect the whole planet and kill off the whole planet. Then we were told that we could go out eventually but only to get loaves of bread and pints of milk at the local supermarket since they were still open.
Then by the same token we were warned not to go out to exercise - i..e. walk up to the top of the road or take the dog for a walk because that was just plain bad and almost treasonable. You were forbidden to do anything for whatever reason but then gently coaxed out of your home when the government considered that now was the right time to feed the ducks and see your grandchildren.
The next pronouncement made it abundantly clear that you would not be allowed to sit on park benches but could stand in different parts of the country. You could remain together in the home you were already in but then warned that you couldn't travel any further than the next town or suburb in case they were virulently viral and ultimately transmitted the lethal Covid 19. Everything was all about geography, location, distance, miles and measurements, inches and centimetres. You'd have been forgiven for thinking that although you'd left school many decades ago, you were still there in spirit.
But now it seems we are edging towards that classical day when s street parties and bunting will shortly become the order of the day and the local mayor or mayoress will declare Britain a celebration zone. The schools are now partially open, people are grouping around in parks, the kids are happy and relieved and shortly those non essential shops selling toys, clothes, furniture and electrical items will be encouraged to fling open their doors for financial transactions.
It does seem that on June 15 the department stores and shops in the West End will be allowed to tentatively creak open their rusty doors, the hallowed portals of commerce and money a very viable proposition. It was all very intriguing and perhaps lacking joined up thinking. We will have access to an approximation of the normal world but not to believe that everything in the garden is rosy. You can have half the cake but not the other. Go figure.
For instance you can forget about a long, cool refreshing sup of ale or beer in your local pub because that's on hold until sometime in July. So there now remains a vast cross section of Britain whose desperate thirsts for alcohol will not be slaked until long after Midsummer's Day. So where does that leave us? Can we finally have our haircut at our local hairdressers or barbers although fortunately some of us have already had their haircut?
The truth of course that we can't converge on our local Pret A Manger, Costa or Nero for a criminally expensive latte, coffee or moccha because they just get impossibly crowded at the best of times. So that's a non starter. You can't devour a burger or pizza because these fast food parlours are too dangerous for words. And you can't go to the cinema because that would constitute a major criminal offence and besides James Bond and Daniel Craig can wait until later on this year. Now where did that bucket of popcorn go? Ah yes it's over there.
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