ONE OF THOSE DAYS...

Another glorious day with the sun shining and a warm feel to it.  And then it occurs to me just what the day might hold for me and I feel a bit like Charley Brown.

A couple of weeks ago we were in Cornwall and one morning I woke up and couldn`t hear anything out of one ear.  Finally, this afternoon, I have managed to negotiate an appointment with a practice nurse to have it syringed so I hope my hearing will be restored later today.  Pardon?

Then off to put the car in dock to sort out some nasty scratches.  As we were leaving our holiday house in Padstow, the rain was lashing down, visibility was pretty poor and as I reversed down the sloping drive I just caught the rear door panel on a concrete post.  So off to the menders - again!!

And this evening my beloved Saints take on Swansea at their home ground in a decider for which of the two teams gets relegated from the Premier League.   Squeaky bum time indeed but I just know that, after being a Saints fan for well over 70 years, it will probably end in tears as the footballing Gods, incompetent refereeing and hotel cancellations all seem to conspire against us.   

So, all in all, just one of those days but I still count my blessings knowing deep down that my plight is so much more agreeable than that of many others.   Que sera, sera.

FIRST THINGS FIRST...

I hesitate to enter into the brouhaha between David, Reg, Domenico and Stefano.  How they live their lives is neither my business nor my concern.  But they have made their little tiff public and in the process have provoked a deluge of opinions, prejudices and commentaries from perhaps too many bystanders, many of whom seek nothing more than a little attention for themselves.

I have no doubt that there are a large number of people who find it all rather difficult to come to terms with, especially among those who hail from a different time, when things were oh so very different.   I`m not suggesting that those times were either any better or any worse - they were just very different and, as a result, like old dogs struggling with new tricks, there is a whole generation who are puzzled by many aspects of today`s world and wonder quite what to make of it all.

But surely the most important people in all of this are the children, born through a wonderful medical process into `families` who will surely cherish them, care for them and love them, which is all that children crave really.  I`m sure that what they won`t crave is to be caught up in the  public and social media hysteria promulgated by people whose unsolicited opinions are of doubtful relevance and who seem quite incapable of realising that it should be all about the children rather than about themselves.

MODERN TIMES..

It seems impossible to get away from Stephen Fry these days.  It`s not surprising, given his multi-talented career as an actor, author, comedian and presenter.  He seems to be forever on our television screens in one guise or another and I have no doubt that he has many admirers who appreciate the contribution he has made to the culture and entertainment of the nation.   

Now I suppose my problem is that I was brought up in a very different era, one which as I look back to from the vantage point of 75 years, seems so very different in so many ways. I am part of a generation that struggles to come to terms with so much of modern day Britain, but we do our best to keep up.   We try to get used to the ever changing and increasing pace of life, the advance of technology, the social, political and other issues of the day - for us, the times they are a-changing like never before. And whilst it is impossible for me to deny that things ain`t what they used to be, perhaps at least some of those changes could have come about without quite so many  trumpets being blazed and tubs being thumped.

But back to Mr. Fry.   It has been impossible to escape the onslaught of publicity concerning the recent marriage between 57-year old Mr. Fry and his 27 year old partner, Elliott Spencer.   Now in years gone by it may have been socially acceptable for some  reservations to be expressed about arrangements such as this but it seems that these days - especially for rustics like me living away from the parallel universe of the nation`s capital - expressing such reservations might infringe some modern day legislation or at least invite opprobrium to rain down and land me in all sorts of grief that I could do without. 

I don`t know either Mr. Fry or Mr. Spencer so this is not about them personally and I am in no position to offer any comment on their matrimonial arrangement.  It`s none of my business and in fairness to Mr. Fry, he himself had wished that the marriage could have taken place quietly and without any media fuss or intrusion.   But I too also wish it could all have happened quietly, thus sparing my septuagenarian sensitivities from any reservations about the social changes that have brought Mr. Fry and his husband into my consciousness.  In these modern times it seems that any such reservations are those that dare not speak their name, which is as regrettable as when that phrase was first coined.

A RITE OF PASSAGE ?

Hopefully, although I haven`t heard yet, one of my granddaughters is now safely home from Glastonbury.  She`s a young woman now - grown up, sensible, quiet, courteous, with a good degree and a responsible job.   Her qualities represent almost the exact opposite of those of her grandfather, which may account for the fact that I have never been to the Glastonbury Festival and, in truth, never really thought about going.

To me, the whole thing is everything I can do without - crowds, noise, desperate conditions, third world facilities and a hefty price tag.   And yet, the younger people of today seem to feel almost a compulsion to attend this annual shindig in the normally tranquil backwaters of rural Somerset.   I wonder why.

I have a sneaking feeling that they feel it is something they have to do - almost a rite of passage, one which, as the definition goes, `is a ritual event that marks a person`s transition from one status to another.` If so, then fair enough, although I suspect there might be more agreeable ways to mark that transition than spending three days and nights engulfed in a sea of humanity, wondering what you`re doing there and wishing you were back home.

Hang on though - maybe my own rite of passage was the 731 days and nights I was compelled to spend doing my National Service, engulfed in a sea of bewilderment, wondering what I was doing there and wishing I was back home.   And maybe that`s why I never needed Glastonbury after all?   Answers on a postcard please. 

YET MORE CONFIRMATION..

This is a box of frogs.  Now boxes of frogs are normally associated with madness.   I`m not sure why but I have this growing suspicion that it`s unfair on frogs. Here`s why.

It might just be the effect of midsummer but I look around on this glorious sun-filled day and what do I see? Well, there`s the Michael Gove/Teresa May spat which has seen them hauled up before the Cameron beak, told not to misbehave in class and one of the unelected, unaccountable SPADS given her marching orders.   Now of course there is a problem with schools in Birmingham which needs sorting and the early signs are encouraging.   It`s just that it has taken the Gove/May leadership manoeuvring farrago to give the problem the exposure it needed.

The allegations of cultural strife in Birmingham reminded me of the recent case in deepest Devon, of all places.   The village school at Payhembury was marked down in an Ofsted report as it consisted entirely of white British children - hardly surprising in rural Devon. The solution to overcome this innocent challenge to `diversity` has been to get the parents in Payhembury to cough up £35 each to send their little treasures to an inner city London school where the demography is exactly he opposite.   I wonder whether - in the interests of balance, of course - schoolchildren from the depths of Newham, Brixton, Tower Hamlets and certain parts of Birmingham would equally benefit from visiting rural Devon?

Now I see that FIFA President Sepp Blatter is accusing critics of the daft Qatar 2022 World Cup award of being racists as they have the effrontery to question the logic and the process of awarding World Cup Finals to a baking-hot country which had absolutely no football pedigree, no football stadia and no recognised teams.  Apart from that it was the obvious choice.

In Sweden EU leaders are arguing about who might be the next unelected President of the EU Commission; mayhem continues unchecked in Iraq, Syria and Pakistan; greed and corruption seemingly rife almost everywhere you look; celebrity culture and unsocial networks dumbing down those who go near them; .....the list goes on of things in today`s world that give me yet more confirmation that we are living in God`s blueprint; the draft; the dummy run; the prototype where we are the guinea pigs to demonstrate how not to run a planet and from all this experience He or She will produce the perfect paradise.

And all the while in their croaking, slime-covered, amphibious innocence, the frogs look around and conclude that what they see is as mad as a box of humans, whose prime attention in the coming weeks will be to ignore the lunacy they have already created and instead devote their attention to the even greater madness of worrying about grown men kicking balls around fields in a faraway land which has troubles of its own.  

The frogs might be right after all?.........

They say that dogs are like their owners but I`m never quite sure whether the owners become like their dogs.   In our case it must be the former as Barney, our Golden Retriever, is intelligent, smart, does as he`s told (most of the time,) sticks to a sensible diet, goes walkies every day and scrubs up well albeit with some eccentricities that he has picked up along the way.   

Although I do recall a competition held annually in Mrs. Snopper`s home village when, as the highlight for the Village Fete, judging took place to find the owner who looked most like their dog.  It seemed to be won every year by a grizzled old lady who owned a Pekinese but in this age of political correctness the competition is now a distant memory.   Just as well perhaps.

I think what has given rise to these obscure ramblings is that I have noticed that our house is developing eccentricities of its own.   Maybe it`s an age related thing - the house is now in its mid-thirties and probably developing a mid life crisis, possibly connected with its occupants being an elderly couple struggling to survive on a fixed income in the most difficult of financial times with eccentricities of their own.   We are beginning to creak a bit around the edges, well at least I am - knees not what they were, hearing going downhill, hips complaining, frequent visits to Boots, Specsavers and a clutch of repeat prescriptions.

Either in sympathy or out of a sense of sheer cussedness, the house has developed annoying little things - creaks around its own edges - an eccentric loo flush, an intermittent electric fire, a Sky Box that only records programmes on its own terms, things like that.   And it`s beginning to make me wonder whether the house is getting like its owners. 

THE PRIVILEGE OF BEING..

Forgive me if you`ve seen this before.  I may have e-mailed it to you and you may already have seen it on the internet where, I`m told, it has gone `viral,` which I take to mean that it`s been viewed rather a lot.  But just in case you`ve missed it, please have a look at http://vimeo.com/58385453. 

It doesn`t need any explanation from me, as it`s all there on the video but I wonder if seeing it has the same effect on you as it did on me.   Wonderful, beautiful and words like that don`t come close to adequately describing what you see.   It`s more than that.  It`s one of the closest things I`ve come to that approaches something spiritual and it made me stop and pause for a minute.

Most of the time, I come on here and grumble about things, rant about others and generally display my penchant for being a malcontent, dissatisfied with the way the world is.   But this short video has provided me with a feeling of privilege - the privilege of just being and being able to appreciate the majesty of the heavens and the world in which we live.   See if it does the same for you.

(I might be in danger of turning into Born Again Mr. Nice Guy?)

LIFE`S LITTLE ABSURDITIES..

You know what it`s like.  You hear things, read about them and instantly think it can`t be true.   It`s just too fanciful for words, someone`s having a laugh.   And then you discover it`s true after all and in a lingering moment of disbelief, you cry, "Unbelievable!"

In just the last couple of days, reports have come in of events that are so bizarre that it comes as a real shock to find out that they are for real.   For example, I see that Manchester United manager, `Sir` Alex Ferguson, has been lecturing at Harvard Business School about his management philosophy.  Yes, Harvard Business School.  A bit like the Marquis de Sade addressing the Hans Christian Andersen Society.

My immediate reaction was to wonder what the motive was behind Harvard`s invitation, for Ferguson`s management `style` has included such essential business aids as hairdressers, rant, bullying, intimidation, a complete aversion to constructive criticism and a dismissive attitude to any form of authority.   And then it came to me - perhaps Harvard are more interested to establish what management `techniques` not to encourage, so maybe not so absurd after all.

And then there is Mario Balotelli.  Ah, Super Mario.   22 years old and in receipt of (I nearly said earning) £170,000 each and every week of his contract with Manchester City.   So, Mario gets more in a week than the Prime Minister does in a year and what does he do for it?   Well, he kicks a football around, sometimes into the opposing net and on those occasions when either he can be bothered or is not suspended from playing due to some on-field misdemeanour or other.   Last season, he received 9 yellow cards and 3 red ones, which severely curtailed his usefulness to his employers who fined him two weeks` wages (£340,000) which he has graciously agreed to accept in an `out of court settlement.`

What is absurd here is the fact that, after 4.3million years of human existence, we finally arrive at Mario Balotelli and a situation whereby a 22-year old footballer receives huge amounts of money for what he does or, on numerous occasions, what he doesn`t do.   But then Mario is a `character,` providing good press for a rapacious media, as much for his off-field antics as for when he is playing.  And so he is indulged.  And it is wholly absurd.

The examples go on and on, of course, but I cannot leave without mentioning the phenomenon that is David Beckham. My goodness, he works so hard to reach the goal of knighthood so cherished by Lady Posh that I almost feel for him.   Football hero, Olympics ambassador, fashion icon, style guru, friend of the great and the good.   Surely it`s only a matter of time.  But then if I too lived my life with as many role and image changes as I change my underwear, people might think me absurd as well. 

  

NOTHING TO SEE HERE..

Speaking of gloom, I read somewhere that 60 years ago today, the great London Smog of December 1952 had just descended on the capital, where it would stay for some time.   My father had just been made redundant from his job at the BOAC Flying Boat maintenance depot at Hythe on Southampton Water.  My parents then decided to enter what was then - and still might be - known as `the licensed trade.`  The phrase has always puzzled me, as it kind of implies that other trades might be unlicensed and thus a touch on the shady side.

Anyway, as part of their learning curve we found ourselves in an Off-Licence in a back street of Catford in south east London - a far cry from the Solent shores for a callow youth of 13 - and it was there and then that the great smog arrived.   I remember not only the fact that you literally struggled to see a hand in front of your face but also that you could actually taste it.   It had an acrid taste, reminiscent of some weird foreign gastronomic concoction which is probably why I eschew any `foreign` food even to this day.   The smog seemed to be yellow, we all had to wear `smog masks` and hundreds if not thousands of Londoners either died from or were seriously affected by acute respiratory problems.

Having been born just before the outbreak of WW 2, I slept for most of my first five or six years in a bed under the stairs in a house along the Solent shore, hearing the nightly bombing of Southampton and being convinced, in the absence of any other experience, that that was just how life was.   At the age of seven, I contracted a serious disease that kept me in Southampton Children's Hospital for six months and off school for a whole year.

So by the time I was 13, I had had the bombing, the serious illness and then the smog and so I sometimes think it`s a wonder I`m still here. All of which probably accounts for my smog ridden brain, my increasing deafness and my pathological aversion to anything medical.  Formative years indeed.

ANOTHER CORNER TURNED ?

One of the upshots from the Olympics was to force a U-turn in the attitude towards winning and losing.   Of course the Olympic ideal is that it is not the winning that matters, but the taking part and, although unlikely, that ideal may have unconsciously driven the attitude in schools across the country for the past years. It seemed to reach the stage whereby winning was almost ignored as being socially unacceptable, whereas huge praise was heaped upon the losers - `There, there, it doesn`t matter that you didn`t win, you were brilliantly wonderful and we`re so proud of you.`

The Olympics may have changed all that and there are rumours of a change of attitude and political strategy which will encourage competitive sports in schools, presumably to breed another clutch of medal winners for future Games, such is the knock-on political kudos brought about for our elected leaders by the successes of Team GB.

And it seems that not only sport has been affected by the seduction of winning.   For more years than I can remember, there has been a year on year increase in the successes achieved through exam results in our schools.   That sustained level of improvement surely reached the stage when people suspected that either the questions were getting simpler and/or the marking system was more generous than perhaps it should have been.   Cynicism took over, which led to a growing perception that our young people might not have been as smart as their exam results suggested - probably an unfair conclusion to have reached.

There is, of course, a lot of unfairness in the world and, judging by the cries of anguish from teachers, parents and pupils, a lot of resentment that things might be getting just a little harder.   But in education, like in sport, there`s no substitute for hard work, dedication and determination to do well and if success comes as a result, then it is all the more satisfying for the work put in and the rigour of the test.

I suggest that any real satisfaction in life comes from doing things the hard way and that before you can enjoy the winning, you`ve first got to learn how to lose.   These latest changes in attitude might just allow us to turn another corner away from a cosy acceptance of being also rans in the game of life into becoming outright winners.   And not before time.  

SPARE ME THE DETAILS..

Eighteen months ago, Zachary Jackson Levon Furnish-John was born via a surrogate and was conceived using a donor egg.   His parents, multi-millionaire warbler Sir Elton John (aka Reg Dwight) and his civil partner David Furnish, are concerned that Zachary should have `a brother or sister to go to school with him and so he can have someone to play with.`   So, having made no secret that they want to have another child, the happy couple may start trying to father a sibling for Zachary this summer.

The logistics have been discussed with Mr. Furnish adding that `We could go back to the same egg donor so biologically there would be a connection` between Zachary and brother or sister and he confirmed that both he and Sir Elton `would probably again both donate sperm to fertilise the egg so we don`t know which of us is the father.`

Now of course I wish them all the happiness in the world, for there is nothing in this world more precious than children, but I do wish I could be spared the details of this very modern, very private arrangement.   After all, there was a time when `arrangements` such as these would not only have been difficult to comprehend but also, if they were, then it would all have been pursued with a little more discretion?

REFLECTIONS..

...on a memorable summer.....

This time last week, I was telling myself where I was this time last week.  Now I realise I am very fortunate to still have my health, the energy and the wherewithall to do things and go places.    But there comes a point in life when you realise that it won`t last forever and so you decide to get on with doing those things and going to those places while you still can and  before it`s too late.   I guess 72 is as good an age as any to come to that conclusion.....so I have done.   And I`ve stopped feeling guilty about it.  So we have had a summer of transforming that theory into practice.

And although my `this time last week` phase is beginning to fade, I am nevertheless still reflecting on the places we have discovered and revisited in our trips to Devon and Cornwall this year.   And the places I remember with most fondness are those remote sections of the south west coast path where you can just simply be - and let the spectacular scenery enthral, the sea air invigorate and the sounds of the waves, the skylarks and the seabirds captivate and remind you that, whatever labels may have attached themselves to you, whatever self-importance you may have nurtured and whatever place in so-called society you may occupy, you are but a transient speck in the timeless majesty of the natural world. 

So, where are these places?   Well, we started off in the South Hams of Devon in April and discovered Aymer Cove, pictured above.  It`s reached from a choice of footpaths leading from the tiny National Trust car park in the hamlet of Ringmore.  It was no surprise to discover that it was here that RC Sherriff wrote `Journeys End,` for that is what it felt like.   We revisited the quiet tranquility of the Erme estuary at Mothecombe, where time stands still and the tide dictates the walker`s progress - if you want to avoid a 9-mile detour, you have to wade across the Erme here which is only possible at low tide.  

We also renewed our fondness for the coast path from Wembury around to Newton Ferrers and the classic walk from Noss Mayo, around the headland, along the Warren and back to the village for a pub lunch.   (We have already booked up to stay in Noss Mayo next September so we can do it all again.)

Rosevine evening

(click on photo for larger image)

May saw us discover Rosevine, deep in Cornwall`s Roseland Peninsula and the away-from-it-all pleasure of strolling down the hill each morning to Porthcurnick beach, across the fields to Portscatho, getting what we needed  for the day and deciding where to go.   Spoilt for choice really, but we did manage to coast path around St. Anthony`s Head, the Percuil River, Nare Head and the Dodman as well as going back to the idyllic setting of the church at St. Just in Roseland.  (We`re going back there next Spring too, all being well.)

July took us to St. Minver on the north Cornwall coast and it was from there that we discovered yet another deserted but glorious cove at Lundy Hole on the stretch of coast path between Port Quin and Rumps Point.   We also found our way to Port Isaac and another visit to Daymer Bay and the magic wander along the Greenaway to Polzeath, up to Pentire Point and back down again.

And two weeks ago now, we were at Crantock, exploring the coast from there, around Polly Joke, Holywell Bay, past the blot on the landscape that is the Penhale army camp, on to St. Agnes Head and the spectacular Wheal Coates engine house, standing guard above the roaring Atlantic. 

Polly Joke

(click for larger image)

But again, what will linger longest in the memory is the quiet remoteness of Polly Joke - too far from car parks to be crowded, no `facilities` apart from the beach, the sea, the surf and the surrounding hillsides of Kelsey Head.   Like `Journeys End,` it was no surprise to discover that it was here that Winston Graham hired a small hut and spent a summer writing Demelza, the forerunner to his Poldark series.

And now we have the winter looming ahead but the prospect of getting out there again, braving the headlands, discovering new coves, breathing in that salt laden air along endless beaches and clifftops and feeling truly alive, will make me determined to get to 73 and beyond and continue getting the most out of whatever life is left.   Do you blame me after a summer like that?

MONEY WELL SPENT..

Apollo astronaut Buzz Aldrin is facing a costly divorce from his third wife, Lois, after 23 years of marriage, having filed for divorce in June citing `irreconcilable differences.`  Buzz, now 81 years old,  was, of course, the second man to walk on the moon, following in the footsteps of Neil  Armstrong.

In papers filed in a Los Angeles divorce court, the seemingly enhanced Lois says that she needs £16,000 a month to support a social life that includes attending Royal Ascot, the Cannes film festival and Sir Reg Dwight`s annual Oscars party.  She says she is accustomed to socialising `with most of the royalty around the world.`  I`m sure they`re thrilled to bits.

In response, Buzz has now filed a lawsuit against his estranged wife`s daughter Lisa, who helped run a company which markets and promotes Buzz.  In the suit, Buzz claims that Lisa - acting as his lawyer - duped him into signing an agreement that gave that company (StarBuzz) all rights to Buzz's name, work, and persona.   To make matters even worse for our moonwalking hero, Lisa and Lois jointly own more than 60% of the company.   As Buzz puts it in the lawsuit ... Lois and Lisa now own "most of what I`ve acquired since the day I walked on the Moon."   Unsurprisingly, Buzz wants a judge to tear up the agreement.

Seems to me that, at £16,000 a month it might be money well spent and especially at 81, it could turn out to be a small step for Lois but a giant leap forward for Buzz.

DIAL `M` FOR....

Recent events have confirmed once more that life  these days seems to revolve around little more than a set of  insular villages with their own parish boundaries and which seem to be quite happy until their own little worlds are disturbed by one of the others.  

We`ve had the Westminster village with politicians falling over themselves to get in on the outrages perpetrated by News International.   Somehow their self righteous indignation rings a little hollow, as they have themselves been in shameful awe of the Murdoch Empire for so long that one is entitled to enquire why such indignation was not heard sooner.   The cynic in me cannot escape the notion that our elected representatives could not resist the chance to get some revenge on the press for revealing the outrages of MPs expenses.   But there they are in their little Westminster village, largely impervious to what goes on outside and clearly blissfully unaware of what the rest of us, especially those of us outside the bubble of London, really think of them and their posturing.

And of course we`ve had the media village coming to the fore.   Not only with the spectacle of News International being savagely but joyously kicked where it hurts but we have also witnessed the rest of the media village - rival newspapers, radio, television, web forums and even sad  bloggers like me - giving it their two pennyworth.   We can`t resist it.   We all have opinions and we all have to have our say.   But communication, whilst supposedly being a two-way thing, is also a village with its own share of elders and idiots.   Trouble is, it`s sometimes difficult to know one from the other.

Now in what might seem a tenuous link, I`ve also witnessed the reent activity surrounding the Barclays Premier League where, despite it still being the closed season, a lot seems to be going on.   Now this truly is  a village where the idiots vastly outnumber the elders, for where else in this new age of austerity would you find players being signed for £45million, £35million and wages of £250,000 a week?  

So, to get in touch with any of these villages, just Dial `M` for Murdoch, Dial `M` for Media or Dial `M` for Madness.   Calls from a BT landline will cost 10p per minute, calls from a mobile will vary but could cost considerably more.   On the other hand calls to the Samaritans are free.