HERE WE GO AGAIN..

That could well be Mrs. Snopper and Barney our Golden Retriever down the lane to Porthcurnick beach, for that`s where we will be for the next week staying in a cottage about 50 yards back up the lane.   We`ve been there before, of course, but it`s one of those places where, even after driving 290 miles, we feel at home as soon as we get there.   

And whilst we`re there we`ll be revisiting some of our favourite coast path walks and exploring some new ones.  It`s a lovely, unspoilt part of the south Cornwall coast and we probably won`t have enough time to see all the places we want to see - St. Anthony`s Head, Place, Bohortha, Porthbeor beach, Towan beach, Pendower and Carne, the Nare Head and the Dodman and some a little further afield. 
   

My problem with the south west coast path is that I always want to see what lies round the next corner or over the next hill so maybe it`s something of a blessing that our days are largely dictated by Barney`s teatime, dogs being creatures of habit it really won`t do for him to miss his tea.

The winsome Emily Wood has forecast a `mixed` week weather-wise - unseasonably low temperatures, strong winds, some cloud cover and occasional showers with the hint of longer periods of rain from time to time; state of the sea rough, winds SSW backing southerly, force 5-6 increasing to gale force 8 at times, visibility moderate, surfing conditions messy with waves 5-6 feet.   Just hope she`s wrong for once.

Back in a week or so - all being well.

ANOTHER SAD PASSING..

It`s a funny old world.  Today the papers are treating us to page after page about Ferguson`s retirement.  There have even been some deluded calls (by Labour politicians, of course) for him to be elevated to the peerage, where in the House of Lords he could form a double act with Lord Prescott to rival the Chuckle Brothers.  There have been `specials` on television, even on the BBC where for so many years Ferguson refused to be interviewed by them over some kerfuffle involving one of his sons.   Sky are almost treating it like an obituary.  Why, you might almost have had the impression that Ferguson had passed away.

So it was with some curiosity that, probably in keeping with today`s priorities, I noticed that much less attention is being given to the news that Bryan Forbes passed away yesterday at the age of 86 following a long illness.   He was without doubt one of the giant figures in the film industry and was responsible for a host of screenplays and for directing  memorable films including Whistle Down the Wind, Seance on a Wet Afternoon, The Mad Woman of Chaillot, The Wrong Box, King Rat and The Stepford Wives. The picture above is a still shot from that film and not, I have to confirm, a recent image of life in Kings Hill.

Forbes was rightly awarded the CBE many years ago and there are those who would reasonably argue that he was as deserving of a knighthood as Ferguson.   But then Forbes was a West Ham fan.  But for me, I will remember Bryan Forbes for two things in particular.   First he wrote, produced and directed International Velvet which introduced me to the wonders of the Flete Estate and Mothecombe in south Devon, which we sought out having been enchanted by the filming locations and where we have stayed and revisited time and again ever since.

I also remember seeing his cameo performance as the nudist guitar-playing Turk Thrust in `A Shot in the Dark` when he declined to appear in the cast list under his own name, preferring to be listed as Turk Thrust - a decision which, along with his performance in that brief role, seemed somehow to confirm his fun loving, modest yet wholly admirable attitude to life.   He was one of the good guys and I was sorry to learn that he has left us even though in doing so he has left an impressive body of work for us to enjoy. 

This time yesterday I was getting a bit fretful about last evening`s encounter between a resurgent Wigan Athletic and a `nothing to play for` Swansea City, the result of which could have had an effect on the relegation finale of the Premier League.   A Wigan win and a crescendo of bum squeaking would follow from Newcastle to Norwich, Birmingham, Fulham and even the branch line of Southampton, whereas a win for Swansea would allow breathing to become more easy for us Saints fans.   In the event, Swansea won 3-2, cue sighs of relief except in Wigan whose chances of survival now appear slim.

So I went to bed a little happier than might have been the case, only to wake up to the news that, at long last, the glowering presence of `Sir` Alex Ferguson will be no more on the touchlines of the land.   After 26 years and 38 trophies he has decided to step aside as Manchester United manager, take his place on the board and bring all his qualities of diplomacy and restraint to a new role as club `ambassador.`  Not sure you could make it up.

Now, of course, one has to acknowledge his record in producing all those trophies over all those years and in a sense I have no quarrel with what he has achieved.   But it is the manner in which those achievements have been reached which has always irked.   His `philosophy` of management by rant, hair drier and pugnacious aggression has not been one to encourage any feelings of warmth towards Old Trafford.   

And when the sycophantic fawnings over Ferguson have died down, we are simply left with yet another dinosaur shuffling off to the swamp.  I wish him no ill in his overdue retirement but I just know that life will be that much more tolerable now that he has decided to go.

So, in the course of half a day, any lingering concerns about Southampton`s survival have, thanks to Wigan`s defensive ineptitude, largely disappeared and Ferguson finally leaving the field of play have between them conspired to bring relief all round.   What a difference a day makes.

MEMORY JOGGED AGAIN..

Tomorrow our eldest granddaughter celebrates her 21st birthday and we`re looking forward to seeing her on her big day.   And it reminded me once again of my own 21st birthday which was spent in bizarre circumstances.

During my two years of National Service I had been posted to an armoured regiment - the 10th Royal Hussars (Prince of Wales Own) a cavalry regiment, don`t you know, with a long and proud tradition.   I wasn`t sure they ever got used to the change from riding around on horses to riding around in tanks, armoured personnel carriers, scout cars and the like and I was never quite sure why I had been `selected` to join their ranks.

But then my 21st birthday shed some light on it.   The Shiny Tenth must surely have been the only regiment in the British Army with the masochistic tradition of denying any 21st birthday revels by placing those National Servicemen, whose birthday it was, on guard for the night.   And so I found myself in the middle of Luneburg Heath in the wilderness of north west Germany with the sole responsibility for guarding the regiment`s fighting machinery.  What guaranteed the security of all those tanks and other weapons of grievous bodily harm was the fact that I was expected to protect and guard them by means of a pick axe handle and a whistle.

It was an interesting time - the heightened tension concerning the Berlin airlift, the cold war warming up a few notches - and so my stewardship of the regiment`s stuff was clearly a huge responsibility but I`m pleased to report that, thanks to my trusty pick axe handle and whistle, the threat of any incursions from the eastern bloc hordes came to nothing.  

And so our granddaughter`s own big day tomorrow has jogged my memory of that  night 53 years ago....but I know that tomorrow will be by far the more satisfying. 

NIGHT OF THE HUNTER..

It`s been a few days since the `furore` about Reginald D. Hunter entertaining the massed intelligentsia of the Professional Footballers` Association.  In truth, my mind has been distracted by weightier matters such as the County Council elections and the Saints` search for the one point that should guarantee Premier League survival (which search is beginning to match that for the Higgs Boson for it`s elusiveness.)

But back to the PFA and their brush with Mr. Hunter who, it was reported, apparently offended the PFA Awards Ceremony by repeatedly using `racist` remarks as he told his jolly japes to his sensitive audience.   Indeed, the PFA chairman, Northampton Town midfielder Clarke Carlisle, has apologised unreservedly for the "gross error of judgment" in hiring Mr. Hunter for the event.

It is all a crashing irony, of course, as there are a number of PFA members who have themselves been in trouble for similar offences as the one for which Mr. Hunter has been criticised.   Not just the well documented high profile cases such as John Terry or Luis Suarez but also the countless examples, week in, week out, of PFA members using `foul and abusive language` to match officials and anyone else within earshot.

Ever being in search of balance in all things, I suggest that when the Stand Up Comedians` Association have their own Awards Ceremony, they might invite someone like Mr. Terry, Mr. Suarez or even Mr. Rooney to entertain them in their own inimitable style.   Should be a laugh a minute and settle any argument about which of the two organisations can make the biggest "gross error of judgment."

WALK MY WAY ?...

This image could well represent Mrs. Snopper and me trudging our way to Dibley village hall to cast our votes in the Kent County Council elections.   For today is the day when we get a chance to vote although it`s been a difficult task to come to any real conclusion about who to support.   But thankfully the political party machines have done their work and made the decision easy for us.

The other day I had a visit from someone representing the Conservatives asking whether they could rely on my vote this time.   Now in this part of the world, the Conservative votes tend to be weighed rather than counted, so I was a bit surprised that they were sending outriders onto the streets to canvass voters.   And then we had the outburst from Ken Clarke declaring that UKIP has "fruitcakes, loonies, waifs and strays" in its ranks and among its supporters.   And since then there have been dire Tory warnings along the lines of `Vote UKIP - get Labour.`

And, of course, it didn`t take too long for the penny to drop and confirm that the Conservatives are clearly rattled by the prospect that UKIP might just become something of a more serious alternative to the cosy inevitability that has seen them rule the rural shires for so long.   Panic seems to have set in and they are probably right to be worried.

Their problem is, of course, that the attitudes displayed by the Ken Clarkes of this world, the dire threats and the Sunday morning visits all have the effect of driving undecided voters like me in UKIP`s direction, if only out of a sense of cussedness at being treated so patronisingly.

And if my reaction is typical of an undecided, frustrated generation at the antics of the Coalition Government across a range of issues then maybe I will not be alone in registering a vote against chucking £53million each and every day into the black hole of Brussels just so the European Union can tell us what to do in our own country.   Enough is more than enough and I`m not sure why but I can almost hear the words of Johnny Mathis, "Walk my way and a thousand violins begin to play," as I toddle to the polling station up the road..but then I always was a little misty.   

BUMS MAY SQUEAK ..

It`s just like old times.   For an unbroken period of 27 years Southampton Football Club maintained a place in the top echelon of English football until, under the tutelage of one Mr. Redknapp, relegation finally happened.   You know Mr. Redknapp, the self-confessed `most disorganised person in the world, can`t use a computer, don`t know what an e-mail is and my dog Rosie runs my Monaco bank account for me.`  He`s just ensured the relegation of Queens Park Rangers and was at Portsmouth when the rot set in and which has now led that club to operate next season in the fourth tier, aka League Two.

But for all of Southampton`s 27 seasons in the top flight, almost all of them were spent struggling to avoid relegation and that meant that the default condition of Saints fans was one of almost perpetual anxiety to the extent that the very low reaches of the Premier League became our spiritual home.   This season has seen a return to the Premier League after years of fighting our way back from adventures in League One and the Championship and as I write the Saints occupy 13th place in the Premier League with just three games to go.

Now you would think that, having accumulated 39 points and a healthy(ish) goal difference, Saints fans would relax in the virtual certainty that the club has retained its Premier League status for next season.   But not a bit of it, for our default condition means that our collective bums may squeak until it is mathematically certain that we will survive.

There is much discussion and speculation in the fans forum over the question `Will we survive?`   And you almost get the feeling that at least some of the faithful might actually prefer relegation to the backwaters of the Championship if only to escape the perpetual anxiety that comes with being in our Premier League spiritual home.

But the statistical reality indicates that the probability of getting relegated on the 39 points we currently have is around a measly 1%;  the probability of getting relegated if we pick up just one more point is 0.1%, if we get to 41 points the probability reduces to just 0.05%, whereas if we win one more game or draw all the remaining three then it will be impossible for us to be relegated at all.

Two things, however.   The first is that, statistically, 2.3% of all statistically based predictions may, under certain unpredictable circumstances, prove to be incorrect and the second, of course, is that no manner of statistical evidence will prevent bums devoted to the red and white cause continuing to squeak in the time-honoured tradition of being a Saints fan.   It is, it seems, as ever was. 

WHERE`S A SPADE WHEN YOU NEED ONE ?

I guess most of us have a phobia about something, why I even know someone who is a Europhobe.   As for me, I have a thing about snakes.   It`s called Ophidiophobia and when I did some `research` about it I was heartened to discover that about a third of all adult humans are ophiodiophobic, making this the most common reported phobia of all.   So it`s not just me that needs help then.

Recent studies suggest that humans may have an innate reaction to snakes, which proved vital to the survival of the human race as the reaction allowed dangerous threats such as snakes to be immediately identified.   Hmmm.   Whilst that may be true, my own case goes back to when, as a very young child, my Mother and I were walking along a track on Hardy`s Egdon Heath when she suddenly ran off, leaving me bewildered as she screamed, "Snake!!"   

Be that as it may, I truly do have a fear of snakes and I cannot for the life of me understand why they - and particularly our only venomous snake, the adder - are now a protected species under some daft pinko legislation.   So yesterday I went walking with Barney around the edge of a pretty large open space only to see one or two of our reptilian friends enjoying the Spring sunshine, as adders do.

I managed to get Barney out of harms way and high-tailed it myself before the cold sweat broke out.   I reported the incident to the people responsible for the `nature reserve` as I thought they should be aware of what`s lurking in their undergrowth - insurance, health and safety and all that - and to be fair they are going to put up some notices to draw attention to the problem.

However, I confess to cursing inwardly to myself that on the odd occasion when walking with my dog that I could have done with a spade, there wasn`t one to be seen.   I`m convinced that perhaps a strategically placed rack of spades would be of much  greater use to casual walkers like me and the rest of the third of the population than some law-abiding advisory notices will ever be.  And of course the rack of spades would have to bear a notice drawing attention to the fact that adders are a protected species and  on no account should the spades be used for slicing their heads off. Anyway, I won`t be going there again in a hurry.