RECONNECTING..

There may be some truth in the old saying that `it`s better to travel than to arrive,` but I guess that depends on where you`re going to or coming from.   We`ve just enjoyed another week in Cornwall, this time revisiting favourite places on the north coast.  To get there, it`s a 300 mile drive from here in Kent and I have genuinely lost count of the number of times I have driven up and down the A303, the 92 mile stretch from Basingstoke until it joins the A30 just before Honiton in Devon.   The simple truth is that to go `on holiday` has always resulted in an almost unconscious automatic choice of heading south west to various destinations in Devon and Cornwall.

And so, over the years, the A303 and I have not only come to know each other rather well but also to have become friends.   I like the A303.   I like the way it shrugs off the crowded, fast paced, manic south east and within a couple of miles of leaving the M3 you are swept through the north Hampshire countryside to Andover, famous for Reg Presley and the Troggs; and I begin to feel it in my fingers and feel it in my toes that this road is once more taking me to places where I want to be.

It sweeps across the wide open spaces of Wiltshire, flirts with the north Dorset outpost of Bourton and enters very rural Somerset, where you are treated to glimpses of Cadbury Hill with its shades of Camelot, then the Somerset Levels and signposts to tempting places like Compton Pauncefoot, Stoke Trister,  KIngsbury Episcopi and even Wales, until the A303 finally enters Devon and is transformed from the strident dual carriageway it was 80 miles ago into an almost apologetic single lane carriageway to become subsumed by the A30.   If Tom Fort had not already done so I think I could write a book about this magical highway to the sun but I`ll content myself with the comfort of reconnecting with all it has to offer and all it has to say - I don`t even mind the threat of traffic hold-ups on the approach to Stonehenge or the idiosyncratic Ilminster by-pass.  Gives you time to think. And look around.

Polly Joke this time last week

And so, thanks to the A303, last week I was able to make another reconnection, this one devoid of anything man made.   Most of the joys of my life are simple.  One of them is to stand on the shoreline on a quiet Cornish beach, like Polly Joke pictured above, to feel the wind, hear the waves, breathe in the air, look out at the sky and the ocean and, for a fleeting while, feel part of it all and feel reconnected with the real world and where we all came from all those millions of years ago.   And to wonder whether, after all, the arrival might not be better than the travel.  The jury, as they say, is still out.

TWO OF A KIND..

Sometimes it`s not easy deciding which has been the least prepossessing sight in the last few days.   With some justification, some might opt for the spectacle of Madonna displaying bits of her creaking body to a Turkish audience that, at her age, would be better left firmly covered.  It`s another act of desperation from someone who may at last have woken up to the fact that she can`t sing, can`t dance, ain`t funny and thinks her devotees will be happy to settle for fleeting glimpses of areas that have hitherto been out of bounds.

For me, I think the departure from Tottenham Hotspur of `manager` Harry Redknapp and especially his parting comments have been as revealing as the rest of his `interesting` career.   You see, once again we have had `Arry in full defensive flight, reminiscent of his departures from Bournemouth, Portsmouth (twice,) Southampton and even the steps of Southwark Crown Court.   "Not my fault.   I want to get back into football.  I`ll be bored in a few days.   I`m not too old - just look at Alex Ferguson, he`s in his seventies and still the best manager in the world........"

And so on.   The self delusion just keeps coming and although the Tottenham faithful may be concerned at this turn of events, they might reflect on the trail of destruction Redknapp had left behind at those clubs he previously `managed.`  And I do wonder whether at 65 he shouldn`t now just shuffle off back to Sandbanks, leave us all in peace and count his money rather than inflict his particular brand of skills on some other club. 

He and Ferguson are two of a kind and whilst in their day their achievements may have warranted approval, their respective personae have always made one wary and it`s surely time for Tottenham and Manchester United to move on from  the age of the dinosaur to a more enlightened future.

Anyway, enough of this madness - I`m off to Cornwall (again) tomorrow for a week to escape from a world which, day by day, seems to become yet more baffling.  F`sure.

There`s all the fun of the fair at the Leveson Inquiry as a succession of former Prime Ministers, the current incumbent,  various `personalities` and media people provide ongoing entertainment as we look deeper into the murky relationships between the media and politicians.   Goodness knows how long it will go on for or how long it will take before the Inquiry finally issues its report.

But if the experience of the Chilcot Inquiry into the lead up to the Iraq war is anything to go by, then we`re in for a very long wait indeed.   That Inquiry began as long ago as 2009 and here we are three years on and well over a year since it stopped taking evidence and still no sign of any outcome.   My suspicion is that the conclusions were in fact reached some time ago but the process of consultation and negotiation is such that we`re still waiting.  The last we heard was that these processes would take until Summer 2012 and probably longer to complete before even the draft report could be produced.   Well, summer`s here and it`s all gone quiet over there. 

Regrading the Leveson Inquiry I have to confess to being a bit impressed with how it`s been going.   Elvis Costello`s incisive questioning of witnesses is measured and assured and Lord Leveson himself seems to have it all under control whilst displaying a kind of avuncular benevolence and all in all I have the feeling something positive might emerge from it all.

Sadly for Chilcot and his cronies, given the interminable delay, one is forced more and more to the conclusion that the longer we wait, the more they hope the whitewash has been lost in the long grass and that we will have forgotten what it was all about....or whether it ever happened at all.  But as Cameron said only yesterday, "That`s politics."

THE ONLY SOLUTION..

I see that the Government of the Falkland Islands has decided to hold a referendum `next year` on whether the islanders wish to remain as a British overseas territory.  It`s worth remembering, of course, that 255 British and over 600 Argentinian military personnel were killed in the conflict 30 years ago - an event being marked in both countries shortly.   The President of Argentina will be addressing the United Nations tomorrow on her country`s claims of sovereignty over the islands and the announcement for the referendum seems a well timed and clever response.

Trouble is, referendums have a chequered history and it seems that they are only held when the outcome is known beforehand.   There`s no way the Falklands one would have been announced if the government were not certain of a 98% vote in favour of staying as a British territory.   Similarly, we have so far been denied a referendum on Britain`s membership of the EU because successive governments have known the likelihood of a vote in favour of getting out of Europe.   And those referendums, like those in Ireland, where the electorate have come up with the wrong answers have simply resulted in more referendums until they come up with the right one.

But now it seems that at least some UK politicians may be softening their attitude towards the EU referendum - maybe they think they can`t get away with it any longer now that 80% of voters are apparently calling for one - but still the mixed messages keep coming.   Only yesterday a Downing Street spokesman is reported as saying that `the people don`t want a referendum` suggesting that there were other more pressing priorities occupying our minds at the moment.  Maybe he meant the European Football Championships? 

What`s needed is clarity.   Enough ducking and diving, enough fudge, it`s time for decisive action.   And the only solution is to hold a referendum now on whether to hold a referendum.  


After all, democracy rules.  OK? 

A NOSTALGIC POSTSCRIPT..

My last post about the Round Oak at Padworth Common has brought back memories of times very much past, so beware of a self-indulgence alert!   Before my parents took over the pub, it was owned by an elderly brother and sister named Brown.   Bert Brown ran the pub and his sister was a nurse.   I never knew her first name as she was always known simply as Nurse Brown.   As well as running the pub, Bert was also something of a small scale farmer and he owned a field just up the road from the pub which was given over to barley or wheat.


As a very small boy during the latter stages of the war and just afterwards, I used to look forward to the annual event when Farmer Brown`s field was due for harvesting.   It was something of a local ritual - the old Fordson tractor would come out of mothballs and harvesting would begin.   He used to start by going around the edges of his field, meaning that the uncut crop became smaller and smaller as the tractor went round in ever decreasing circles until there was just a  small area left.


It was then that the rabbits would emerge in their dozens, having been reduced to huddling together as the tractor advanced until they worked out that it was time to make a run for it.   What they could not have known was that, by this time, quite a group of men had assembled, each armed with a double barrelled shotgun, ready to bag as many bunnies as they could.   


Those were the days when rabbit formed a sizeable chunk of the rural diet and I remember having rabbit pie, rabbit stew or just plain rabbit for some time after the harvest was safely gathered in.  It`s also a safe bet that rabbit was also the dish of choice from the Round Oak`s cordon noir menu - quite possibly the only choice.   Even today, however, I find it difficult to look a rabbit in the face.

THE SONG IS ENDED...

I don`t know what it is about me and buildings.   Maybe it happens to everyone that, over the course of a lifetime, places you have known, lived in, worked in, disappear under the relentless inevitability of change.  The picture above is a case in point and just the latest in a series of places I have known in a trail of destruction lasting over 70 years.

A few quick examples.   After the war, my first permanent boyhood home was a cottage, circa 1735, in the Waterside village of Hythe on the western shore of Southampton Water.   After we moved out, the cottage was demolished and for some years the site formed part of the test facility for Sir Christopher Cockerill`s hovercraft development.   It`s now a small residential close named Sir Christopher Court.

After we left Hythe, my parents decided to enter the `licensed trade` - the pub business -  and they learnt the trade in a big South London pub, the Dover Patrol, at Kidbrooke.   It`s now a small residential close named, err...The Dover Patrol.   We then moved to an Off Licence in Engleheart Road, Catford - not one of south London`s more agreeable areas - and I recall coughing my way through the London Smog of 1953 and watching the Coronation and the Matthews Final on a small black and white television with a magnifying glass stuck on the front.   What was the site of the Off Licence has been a small residential development for years now.

Work wise I have occupied offices too that are now given over to residential development and the latest in this saga of demolition, conversion and development is the pub shown in the picture above.   It`s in the hamlet of Padworth Common right on the Hampshire/Berkshire border and it`s where my licensed trade parents made their final move, keeping the pub for some years before finally retiring.   As you can see, it`s now boarded up, on the market and, surprise surprise, has planning permission to be converted to residential use.

My parents were happy there.   The pub did pretty well and I recall many an evening in the convivial company of local regular customers who were also customers of my grandparents` bakery just up the road and my aunt`s village shop.   So I have many happy memories of Padworth Common and my family`s businesses there and it`s more than a shame that the Round Oak has become the latest in the series of buildings to suffer from the dead hand of my occupancy.

For the Round Oak, the song may have ended, but the melody lingers on.

SMALL EXPECTATIONS..

It`s an odd feeling for England to be going into a major international football tournament without the usual expectations.   Those have sometimes in the past taken the form of an aggressively rampant assumption that England will win it just because we`re, well, England.   Others assume that, because we`re England, we`ll face either the accustomed early exit or one a little later on by going out on penalties - a kind of default withdrawal.

Under former England management my own hopes, rather than expectations, sometimes took the unpatriotic form of wishing for dismal failure if for no other reason than I thought the pampered millionaires strutting the football field deserved the nation`s unbridled disdain.   So, have things changed now we have the worldly, urbane Roy Hodgson in the hot-seat?   

Well, we still have the pampered millionaires - the unfathomable Rooney, selected despite being banned for the first two games;  the forthright John Terry of whom much is alleged; and the perennial overstatement that is Ashley Cole.   The squad has been beset with injuries and unfortunate events such as Jermaine Defoe`s family bereavement and Rio Ferdinand`s surprise omission for `football reasons.`   So maybe on this occasion any failure will not be seen as dismal so much as something expected, forgiven even, in the circumstances.

And this leads me to the notion that the overriding attitude among England football followers might on this occasion be something approaching indifference.   Shoulders may be shrugged, lessons may be learned and moving on at the end of the day may be a cliché whose time has come; unless that indifference reaches a tipping point and becomes total disinterest, which has its attractions.   Even so, I`m reminded that Denmark and Greece both won the European Championships despite not being given any chance by bookies, pundits and assorted `football men.`   

So who knows?   Perhaps, just perhaps, the indifference surrounding Roy Hodgson and his charges might just work in their favour, see them grab an unlikely victory from the jaws of predicted defeat and end up winning the thing. At which point, all the strident, rampant, jingoism will doubtless return to haunt us once more and so it may be as well to hope that expectations remain small and become realised.   That`ll do nicely.

A TARNISHED FLAME?

News from Oxfordshire about the Olympic Torch Relay is disturbing.   Not content with providing some obscure American warbler by the bizarre name of Will.i.am. with the honour of being a guest torch-bearer on a stint in Taunton, an even greater tarnishing of the flame has emerged from Oxford.


Residents and community leaders have criticised plans by Coca~Cola to fly over 22  even more obscure Americans to carry the torch in Oxfordshire, in preference to local people who had been nominated for the `honour` to recognise the contributions they have made to their communities.   Coca~Cola are, of course, one of the main sponsors for the Olympics and as such have been allocated 1350 torch-bearer `places` with over 100 of them coming from overseas.


This episode seems to sum up much of what the Olympics is about these days - with multi-national companies turning it into a vast marketing and advertising campaign, getting further and further away from the Olympic ideal and upsetting genuinely disappointed local people along the way.   In a way it doesn`t surprise me as it seems to go along with all the other Olympic absurdities - the VIP treatment, the freebies, the fawning to `leaders` in politics and sports governing bodies, inflated ticket prices, the crass `merchandising` and all the rest.


Maybe it would be a good idea to scrap the Torch Relay tokenism altogether.   I see it`s due to pass about five miles from where I live before long, in a curious arrangement whereby it appears out of nowhere at one end of a nearby village from where a `relay` of three torch-bearers will take it 800 yards down the road before it is bussed off to its next venue which might be Sevenoaks or Guildford.   By such arrangements, the incentive to go and see it is lost, along with any significance it might have had and this, together with the Oxford and Taunton examples, tarnish and diminish still further any sense there might have been that the Torch Relay matters.

BY ROYAL DISAPPOINTMENT..

Strange how what started off as a weekend when I was determined to avoid bunting and frolics at all costs ended up by leaving me with an odd sense of gratification following the Queen`s Jubilee celebrations.   Now being just as curmudgeonly as the Duke of Edinburgh, I will not drift into, or get caught up in, the patriotic outpourings witnessed over the past few days;   but I confess to being genuinely impressed by Her Majesty who, at 86, has shown dignity, fortitude and determination in coming through a strenuous weekend of appalling weather, endless events and functions and the concern for her husband, taken to hospital with a bladder infection.   I suspect she could do with a nice cup of tea and a sit down.

But it all got me recalling my own experiences with royalty;   in all my nearly 73 years, there have been four, not one of which could  in any way be described as memorable.   The first was in 1953 when, as a callow youth of about 12, we were marched from school to occupy a roadside kerb past which our newly crowned monarch was due to progress  as part of her nationwide whistle stop tour of the country.   I vividly recall the moment when the royal car swept past and the way in which Prince Philip`s eyes seemed to mark me out and fix me with a knowing gaze.   I swear I could see him muttering, "Look, there`s young Snopper."

My next encounter was many years later when, as a national serviceman, I was part of the  regimental guard for the visit by the Duke of Gloucester to our headquarters in Germany.   The sun blazed down as we went through our choreographed sword drill in our best blues and white webbing, only for the Duke to completely ignore me, clearly just having had a good time in the officers` mess.

About 25 years ago I was invited, along with Mrs. Snopper, to attend a royal garden party at Buckingham Palace, an invitation I respectfully declined with as much grace as I could muster, for the simple reason that I really didn`t want to go.  I just didn`t fancy all the dressing up and the formality of it all.   By this time, unsurprisingly, my reputation among royal circles was in sharp decline.

And lastly, about ten years ago I was chairman of the Friends of a local hospice when the Earl of Wessex and the beguiling Sophie came to officially open a big extension project.   Now given my reputation, I thought it best to resign the chairmanship just before the royal visit, which enables me to keep in the shadows, despite shaking the royal hand.

So there we are. A series of narrow squeaks, near misses and lost opportunities and at the end of it all I wonder who is left the most disappointed.   I think I know the answer.   And it`s not me.

TWINNING PEAKS..

Many years ago, in yet another of my former lives, I was forcibly but mercifully fleetingly conscripted into the world of twinning.   It`s a device by which communities in one country can develop links with those in others and I`ve often wondered at the motives behind such ventures.   I`m sure some are entirely genuine - fostering ties that encourage mutual understanding and all that - but I also wonder about the cost in time, effort and money for cash strapped local councils who are normally behind the funding of these twinning arrangements. 

My own experience of the twinning business is admittedly sparse but I discovered enough to understand that exchange visits can involve lots of travel, a hefty bill and a degree of anxiety as one blunders into foreign parts, struggles with language, customs, gastronomic uncertainty and diplomatic guesswork.   And this is going on all over the place, as witnessed for example by the fact that the charming Somerset town of Wincanton is twinned seriously with somewhere in Germany and another in France.  (See picture above.)

But look closely and you will see that Wincanton is also twinned with Ankh-Morpork, an entirely fictional place featured in Terry Pratchett`s Discworld novels.  Now I would guess that if Wincanton is known for anything it might be its racecourse and the name on those lorries you see doing their articulated thing up and down the highways of the land, even though their head office is in Chippenham in Wiltshire.   But I suggest that Wincanton may have stumbled upon the solution to the question of how to get involved in twinning without it costing anything and without actually having to do very much.  It is, after all, the only place in the country twinned with somewhere that doesn`t actually exist

It`s a clever, bold initiative and one of which the good folk of Wincanton should be proud as they lead the country out of the misty and uncertain world of formalised twinning.  And Wincanton has done its best to take the Ankh-Morpork twinning seriously - you can buy Discworld sausages in the local butchers and there`s a shop in the High Street, the Discworld Emporium, which claims to be `the official Ankh-Morpork Consulate.`  And some of the streets in a new housing development have been named from Ankh-Morpork in the Discworld series - Peach Pie Street, Treacle Mine Road and so on .   

There are obvious candidates to extend the policy of twinning with fictional locations - Milton Keynes, for example, might sit happily alongside Never-Never-land.   Closer to home, the sanitised, neatly choreographed community of Kings HIll here in deepest Kent might comfortably exchange with Stepford, whose respective wives would surely have much in common.   And here in Dibley we might welcome a tie-up with Camberwick Green....or even the Land of Nod.   With twinning having peaked in Wincanton, surely the rest of the world will follow its lead.   Anyone for Wonderland?

GRABBING THE HEADLINES..

There`s a lot going on about the press right now especially with the Leveson Inquiry into press intrusion, phone hacking and other alleged dark journalistic arts and where Elvis Costello continues to interrogate a seemingly endless succession of assorted celebrities, personalities, politicians, alleged victims, scamps and rascals.   That one will obviously run and run.

But there`s also much to report in the press, for the world seems beset with real issues that quite rightly command the attention and grab the headlines - the Eurozone, Syria, Iran, Afghanistan, the Jubilee, the Olympics and so on.   And it`s against this background that I look forward each Friday to the publication of our own local `newspaper.`  And it truly is an event that makes me feel safe and secure in our little enclave, for when I read the headlines, then all the troubles of the world melt away and are replaced by the comforting assertion that none of those things concern, trouble or matter to the editor of our local paper.

So, today not a word about any of that.   Instead, we have the front page banner headline and a full page spread telling us that after a five year struggle and paying out £10,000 in the process, the owner of a local pizza shop has finally been allowed to open for business.   It seems the local councils have been ganging up on him over problems of parking, noise and smells and other objections which have now finally been overcome.   My, what a titanic effort it must have been to fend off the slings and arrows of outrageous officialdom and come out victorious at the end of it all.   So congratulations to Mr. Pizza and I hope his business thrives as it deserves to do.

One day I guess the huge problems of the wider world might impact on our insular environment here in our Kentish backwater but until that happens then we`ll keep calm and carry on dancing in the streets in celebration that `PIZZA SHOP OPENS AFTER FIVE YEAR WAIT.`

NEWTS 1 - DIBLEY 0

There`s a gentleman in American politics who goes by the name of Newt.   He should live here in Dibley, as my ongoing saga with the Parish Council about newts goes into extra time.  The story so far.   Some years ago now, we were provided with a by-pass.   I was never quite sure why, as we`re an inconsequential one-horse town in the middle of deepest Kent.   My suspicion was that the by-pass was either a `political` project linked to upcoming elections or that Dibley was so unattractive that passing tourists should be diverted away from it.

Anyway, they needed a chunk of land for the by-pass which was taken  from our local woods and, to be fair, a compensatory chunk of land was set aside as replacement for the bit we lost.   Reasonably enough, the `new` area needed a bit of time to get established, so it was fenced off and left in peace.   And then along came the newts.   At the time, a big road construction project was going on at the other end of the county and, as part of the now inescapable environmental impact study, it was discovered that some newts were residing just where the new road was going to go.

To overcome this problem, said newts were transported from there to our own `new` area.   There were some unsubstantiated rumours that these newts were rather special newts and needed to be protected and nurtured in a peaceful environment.    Now I don`t know for sure, but my suspicion is that these were not whizzo, sooper-dooper, hi-tech, state-of-the-art, ocean going, high-end newts - otherwise NewtAid would have been on their case - but rather they were your ordinary, straightforward, up and down, common or garden newts.

All this was years ago and still the `new` area next to our woods is fenced off but there`s not a newt to be seen.   So I`ve suggested to Dibley Parish Council that it`s daft for us to lose a chunk of our woods and be given a compensatory area only for it to be fenced off for years thus denying public access on the spurious notion that some Beckhamesque newts might still be around.

I`m told that the Parish Council, whilst not being in any way newtphobic, are sympathetic to my cause.   But here`s where the dead hand of bureaucracy comes in yet again.   As the compensatory area is still in the ownership of Kent County Council, the issue has been referred to a joint liaison working group who will take their time to come up with an acceptable solution which might satisfy local malcontents like me as well as the newt lobby.

As things stand, I fear the newts might just have their noses in front, but extra time is here and like the other great issues of the day, such as the future of the Eurozone, the outcome remains uncertain.

THE VERY LAST RESORT..

Tracey Emin`s been in the news again.   This time she`s making an exhibition of herself in her home town of Margate where, in the Turner Contemporary - the art gallery she opened a year ago - she has an exhibition of `new work.`   She Lay Down Deep Beneath the Sea is her first exhibition there and has been `conceived especially for the town.`


The Director of the Turner Contemporary, one Victoria Pomery, said that most of the work had been produced by Emin in the last eight months and was completely unseen.   So, now we know.   Most of the stuff on show has been knocked up in quick time and if the example shown above is anything to go by, I`m not surprised and it shows.   Where`s a three year old when you need one?


Of course, the art luvvies will love it, as it is a prime example of a load of complete tat masquerading as something deeply meaningful and will thus doubtless fetch a good price among those with more money than sense.   It`s just the latest in a career that has seen Emin produce endless streams of rubbish by which she has amassed an indecent fortune and a  reputation as a `character,` a `personality,` even a `celebrity.`   And all achieved with a charmless persona which of itself could do well in the Turner Prize, for which Emin was astonishingly nominated some time ago.


And now to add insult to injury we learn that Emin is to carry the Olympic Torch through the streets of her beloved Margate, presumably on the basis that she might be the town`s best known product.   Although, in fairness, there is something artistic, almost touching, in the twin imitations of Emin, with her modest skills, and The Torch, with its trumpeted pointlessness, coming together in what must surely be the last resort on the Kent coast.

FIRST IN THE QUEUE ?

At a hearing in the High Court last Friday, Mr. Justice David Richards dismissed the latest attempt by HM Revenue and Customs (HMRC) to have the so-called 'Football Creditors' rule declared unlawful.   In simple terms, the rule ensures that, if and when football clubs become insolvent and go into administration, then the club`s players are assured of their wages being paid in full and any debts to other clubs being honoured whereas other creditors may get only a small fraction of what they are owed.   These other debts often include tax and VAT liabilities, small local businesses, public authorities and local charities.


There have, of course, been recent examples of clubs becoming insolvent and going into administration and not surprisingly HMRC has been pursuing their legal challenge against the rule which sees the very high salaries of players paid in full whilst only a tiny fraction of the tax owing on those salaries has been paid.   Also unsurprisingly, whilst the Judge said that the rule does not break current insolvency law, he referred to it as having been "subject to a good deal of criticism" and that "the Football League (whose rule it is) should not regard the result of this case as an endorsement of its approach to football creditors."


The result is, however, that the Football League are over the moon, leaving the small creditors as sick as parrots and all the while the players, with their often offensive salaries, continue to find themselves first in the queue when a club becomes insolvent.   The ongoing basket case of Portsmouth FC has highlighted the difference between their highest paid players such as Tal Ben Haim reportedly on £36,000 a week being paid whereas the local florist, the local scouts, the St. John Ambulance and local charities are still  owed money.


But the cavalry might be on the hill in the form of Damian Collins MP who proposes to introduce a  Bill in Parliament to make the Football Creditors rule illegal.  One of the principles behind insolvency should surely be that all creditors are treated equally, so I wish him well.   I suspect we may have a long wait though, what with Parliament not sitting very much and anything to do with the law taking ages to settle.   

CHILLED OUT..

As a feeble attempt to feel part of the local community, each time we go to Cornwall I always buy the local newspaper, normally the Cornish Guardian and last week`s edition contained an eye catching article about one of our sporting heroes.

Today, another Test Match begins at Trent Bridge, Nottingham and I`m reminded once more of the unforgettable Ashes series - `Botham`s Ashes` - of 1981.   One of the players who took part in that series was the gentleman shown in the photo above.   Chris Old played in 46 Test Matches for England taking 143 wickets and over 1,000 wickets in his distinguished first class career.   He was affectionately known as `Chilly.`  C. Old = cold = chilly.  Geddit? 

He had the good sense to move to Cornwall when his playing days were over and for some years until the recession bit, he ran the Clipper Fish Restaurant at Praa Sands.   These days at the age of 63, as well as maintaining his cricket coaching for youngsters at Falmouth Cricket Club, he is working for 24 hours a week on the checkout at Sainsbury`s Truro supermarket. 


In an age when England cricketers can earn up to £400,000 a year and countless thousands more from sponsorship, endorsements and what have you, it`s worth remembering that Chris was paid just £1300 for a five months tour of Pakistan back in the early `70s.   But he looks happy and contented enough, as should Sainsbury`s to have such a cricketing legend in their ranks.


Well played, Chilly!

ALL IN IT TOGETHER..

Last evening, after a tediously lengthy `adjournment debate` our Members of Parliament broke up for yet another `holiday.`   This time they will be away from the mother of parliaments for 17 days for their Whitsun break.   When they reappear, on Monday 11 June, they will be there for just over a month as the Summer break begins on 17 July.

The Summer break goes on until 3 September and just a few weeks after that they`ll be off again for their conference season.   Now of course, MPs insist they are not `on holiday` because sitting in the House of Commons is only part of the job and they may be right, but the other part of the job seems to comprise meeting their constituents and attending constituency events.   

Sounds real tough, meeting people, going to events and I wonder what the real workers of this country make of all this - the refuse collectors, the shift workers, the agricultural workers, the steel workers and the rest.   But then we`re all in it together.  Aren`t we?

MOVING ON ?

It`s funny how things get overtaken by other things.   Some months ago there was quite a fuss about the prospects of convicted felons being given the right to vote whilst detained at Her Majesty`s pleasure.   I guess like many others, my immediate reaction was to object, principally on the grounds that if you are a convicted murderer, rapist, fraudster or any of the other menu of crimes for which you may have been incarcerated, then you really should lose not only your freedom but also most if not all of the rights enjoyed by honest citizens.


But yesterday`s `judgement ` by the unelected jurists who make up the European Court of Human Rights in Strasbourg has meant that the issue about old lags having the vote has been overtaken by the much bigger question as to whether sovereign countries should have their laws and the wishes of the majority of their citizens being overridden by this remote and unaccountable outfit.


I hope that our own Parliament will show the backbone needed not only to defy the EU but also refuse to pay the £150million fine if it does not adopt the Court`s ruling within six months.  If not, it will bring into serious doubt the value of voting at all for a `sovereign parliament` whose powers are being diminished with alarming regularity.


On the now narrowing issue of votes for prisoners, I suspect too that it has been overtaken by the precedent set by John (Captain, Leader, Legend) Terry who, by appearing in his Chelsea kit and collecting the Champions League Cup despite being banned from the game, cocked yet another snoot at the football authorities and brought the game into yet more disrepute.   But what`s good enough for Terry must surely be good enough for our prison population.

A HIDDEN GEM...

I like quiet places, away from it all.  Places that are hard to find and really should remain a bit of a secret.   On one of our many coastal walks in Cornwall last week, we came across a hidden gem.   I took the photo above (click on it for a larger image) on our wander back to the car park at St. Anthony`s Head at the very end of the Roseland Peninsula.   The photo shows the view across the meadow and down to Place, which looks out across to St. Mawes.

The hidden gem was the church of St. Anthony in Roseland set deep in the valley, close to Place House, the sprinkling of cottages and the quay where a ferry plies across to St. Mawes (summer only.)   There may well have been a little chapel founded on this site by Celtic missionaries as long ago as the 7th century but the building we see today is essentially a cruciform church of the 13th century with a rather stumpy tower at the west end of the nave.

I confess to having left Mrs. Snopper to look after Barney outside while I explored the interior of the church.   And what a glory it revealed in the crossing where the church`s  four symmetrical arches come together beneath the tower and the spire.   Here`s a photo I took (click again) laying flat on my back looking up at this beautiful, intricate, delicate but immensely strong feature:-

The church has much to commend it, Nickolaus Pevsner thought it `the best example in Cornwall of what a parish church was like in the 12th or 13th centuries.   But so too does the walk we took from St. Anthony Battery around the coast path past Molunan beach, around the headland at Carricknath Point with its sweeping views across Carrick Roads towards Falmouth, the Meneague and St. Mawes and back along the quiet lane to the haven of the Garden Cafe and our patiently waiting car.  

I guess I should have kept this little secret and kept it to ourselves but I`m reminded of the example that once you`ve found the Lost Gardens of Heligan, they`re not lost any more, so enjoy St. Anthony if you can find it....but please do it quietly.

After a 300-mile drive back from Cornwall yesterday (more on that story later) I finally settled down late in the evening to catch up on world events.  The news bulletins were all about the G8 meeting in Camp David and, setting aside all the usual unconvincing statements from `world leaders,` were noticeable for a couple of things.

The first was the frankly embarrassing line-up on the gym platform which showed said leaders looking desperately awkward and out of place in `casual` clothing.   It was clear that they haven`t a clue how to do `casual` although the one `leader` who seemed not to have bothered too much was Rosa Klebb lookalike German Chancellor Angela Merkel, who looked much the same as she always does.  

But the second was the appearance of the current President of the EU Commission, Jose Manual Barosso and quite what he was doing there at all remains a mystery.   The last time I looked, he did not `lead` any sovereign country and the EU, as an entity, seemed to have no business being either at the table or the gym platform.   

Then I caught the end of the Chelsea/Bayern Munich Champions League Final.   Amid much badge kissing, chest thumping and assorted nationalistic celebration at Chelsea`s unlikely win was the absurd contention that it was the first time in living memory that an English team had beaten the Germans on penalties.......despite only about a third of the the team last night being English.

It would have been nearly half but for the suspension of Chelsea `Captain, Leader, Legend` John Terry.   Now I thought suspension meant being suspended and that modesty and a display of chagrin might have seen Mr. Terry remain in the background and let his team mates enjoy their success which, after all, came despite Mr. Terry`s enforced absence last night and for 53 minutes of the semi-final when his sly assault on his Barcelona opponent gave rise to the suspension.   

Not a bit of it, for you can`t keep a good upstart out of it and there was Terry having the front to appear in full Chelsea strip, mounting the stairs to the posh seats and jointly being presented with the trophy alongside stand-in captain Frankie Lamps.   Once more I wondered what he was doing there and, after all the controversy that surrounds John Terry, whether Joey Baton might be his love child.  

But perhaps my surprise at Terry`s intervention, for his presence represented much of what John Terry is about, grew a little more when I saw in the phalanx of `dignitaries` in the presentation front row none other than our own, our very own Chancellor of the Exchequer, George Osborne.   Now not only did I wonder what he was doing there but I suspect he asked himself the same question.

GOING WEST..

Apologies for absence for the next week or so, as tomorrow morning we start out on the 320 mile journey from here in deepest Kent to the south west coast of Cornwall.   Once again, we`ll be staying in a cottage just 200 yards up the hill from the beautiful Porthcurnick beach,  shown below, close to the peaceful fishing village of Portscatho on the Roseland Peninsula.

After weeks of rain and gloom, we`re hoping for better weather and the forecast for the south west looks just a bit encouraging.   Not that we care too much, as we and Barney will enjoy walking again on some of the spectacular south west coast path - Dodman Point, Nare Head, St. Anthony`s and some more secret coves and beaches as well as a compulsive return visit to Cadgwith down on The Lizard.

Porthcurnick

Just in case, we`ll take some books - I`ve just started Robert Goddard`s latest `Fault LIne` - which is set in and around St. Austell;  and I`ll also take Tom Fort`s book about the A303, as I`ll be driving down it tomorrow as part of the journey.   I`ve lost count of the number of times I`ve driven the A303 but it still remains possibly my favourite drive.   After all, it takes us away from the madness of the south east to the promised land beyond the Tamar.

Back in a week or so.

BROKEN MOULD..

Too often we hear the phrase, `They don`t make `em like that any more.`  Jack Hyams, pictured, died last week at the age of 92.  In his youth he was offered professional cricket and football terms but his father would not allow him to take a career path in cricket.   Instead he waited until after the Second World War when he played professional football for Bradford Park Avenue and took part in a memorable defeat of Arsenal in the FA Cup.


But it was for his cricket that he will be remembered as a legend in the English amateur game, having played for more than 50 clubs, amassing an estimated 130,000 runs including no less than 176 centuries over seven decades of playing.   "Fast bowlers never worried me," he said, "I played at the Oval when I was 68 against a Clive Lloyd X1 and they were a bit annoyed when I walked out without a helmet.  I tried one on once and didn`t like it one bit."


Now as someone who was at the other end of the queue when they were dishing out cricketing talent, I can but admire people like Jack.   And I imagine there are those who would suggest that if he was that good then why didn`t he play county or test match cricket.   I suspect that, like me, he was simply content to play the beautiful game for the fun of it, for they surely don`t make `em like Jack any more.  

 THAT`S ALRIGHT THEN...

The Noble Lords look baffled and no wonder.   They seem nervous at the prospect of Baroness Uddin returning to their ranks after her 18 months suspension for cheating the taxpayer out of £125,000 when she fiddled her expenses.   As well as the suspension, she was ordered to repay the amount she pocketed after claiming a small flat in downtown Maidstone as her `main residence` rather than her £124 a week Housing Association family home in London.

I`m puzzled as to where she got the cash from to pay back the £125,000 and I don`t know why but I`m left with the suspicion that as the taxpayer stumped up 125 grand in expenses, it might just be that the same cash is being used to repay it.   It`s yet another remarkable example of justice not really being seen to be done especially as in any other walk of life the kind of mischief perpetrated by the ignoble Baroness would lead to dismissal, prosecution and the withdrawal of any title.

But Baroness Uddin somehow escaped the criminal prosecution that befell other peers of the realm caught with their hands in the till - Lord Taylor and Lord Hanningfield, for example - both of whom served jail sentences - and now that her suspension is due to end in a week or so and now that somehow  she has repaid the money, she will be free to attend the Noble Lords` House once more and pick up her taxpayer funded £300 a day allowance.

Well, that`s alright then.   Isn`t it?

Maybe it`s just me (again!)   But most of the country has just had the elections for local councils and the odd Mayor.   Mercifully, for reasons that escape me, we here in Dibley only have local council elections once every four years and so we have avoided the trials that have blighted the rest of the country in the past few weeks.


Now whilst I confess that in a former life I may have had a bit to do with local elections, there are aspects of these events that continue to puzzle me.  As well as the Victoriana of things like poll cards, red tape, sealing wax, black tin boxes and ungodly hours, I have witnessed the change in people when they are either candidates or supporters.   Whereas under normal circumstances they behave, well, normally, once they get to the count on election nights they seem to morph into something quite, well, abnormal.   


They seem to adopt a pose of superiority, assuming  almost a master and servant relationship with those charged with the task of officially conducting the count for them.   Then there are the rosettes, the party colours and the infernal whooping and hollering when they or their candidate has won and their behaviour tends more towards the football terrace than a bastion of the democratic process as they taunt their rivals and play to whatever gallery may be at hand.


It all makes me wonder about their motives and I find it difficult to escape the notion that, with the odd notable exception, they are in serious need of getting as life.   Anyway, in my bumpkinesque political naivete I had always assumed that local councils were about dustbins, food regulations, looking after streets, education and stuff like that whilst all we have heard about and all the electorate seem to have voted for are things for which only the national government is responsible.   And so we have seen hundreds of councillors voted out of office up and down the country, not for any shortcomings on their part but all to do with the fact that people are fed up with the national government and wanted to show their disapproval.  


Maybe they`re right - I`m not sure I wouldn`t have entered a `protest vote` if I had had the chance - but in a lot of ways I`m glad that Dibley has remained untouched by the deluge of political nonsense recently displayed.   On second thoughts, maybe I should just keep calm, stop ranting to myself and get a life of my own.

A NETTLE TO GRASP..

Just about three  months ago, I recorded my reservations about the expected appointment of Harry Redknapp as the next England manager and I hoped that the Football Association would take their time, consider the alternatives and get it right rather than get it soon.   Nothing to do with me, I`m sure, but now that Roy Hodgson has been appointed I cannot hide my agreement with the FA`s decision, for all kinds of reasons not least being Hodgson`s more than impressive cv and his dignified bearing which is at least preferable to the market trader image conjured up by Mr. Redknapp.

Another pleasing aspect is that Hodgson`s appointment in many way represents a triumph of modest decency over a baying, clamorous redtop press.   `Arry, you see, is good press - hardly a day goes by without some tantalising snippet coming out of Redknapp land, whereas Hodgson may be too reserved, too `gentlemanly` to provide the tabloids with anything other than considered, measured responses to their incessant demands.  


Already we`ve had the unseemly front page headline in yesterday`s Sun, which was more concerned with Hodgson`s ever so slight speech impediment than ever it was with his appointment.    It`s almost as if they resent the fact that Redknapp has been overlooked and so they might have to work a little harder for their `stories.`


As for Roy Hodgson`s new role, his priorities are clear if a little daunting as he faces his first test, that of selecting the squad for the upcoming European Championships next month.   I suggest he has a nettle to grasp if he is to bring about the cultural change in the England team that has clearly been needed for perhaps too long.   He can make a statement of intent by omitting the likes of the toxic John Terry and filling his squad with players who want to be there, who are proud to wear the shirt and whose behaviour reflects well on their characters and personalities and restores some long lost respect to their profession and their country.   Just like their new manager.

OUR LITTLE SECRET ?..

Now that Spring has laughingly and allegedly sprung, an ice cream van has taken to parking outside my house most afternoons, sending out its chimes to entice the local population.   Now, last week I had to go to the doc for a regular blood test to see if my cholesterol was OK, along with the proper functioning of certain vital organs.   


I had the results today which were that everything is "satisfactory," especially the cholesterol which currently stands at 4.1.   So I might just treat myself to one of Mister Snippy`s jumbo cornets with the advertised free nuts and sprinkles, although I`m wondering if my cholesterol isn`t perhaps a shade too low, in which case I might be able to go for the one sprinkled with clotted cream and a smearing of lard.


After all, if a certain pacy flanker who plies his trade for an un-named League One championship winning team can join the queue to indulge in what Mister Snippy has to offer, then so can I.   But I do wonder what a certain anonymous south-east London football club`s nutritionist would make of their hard working wideman`s dietary peccadilloes.


Well, I won`t tell him if you won`t.