THOSE WERE THE DAYS ?

This is a picture of the Southampton football team taken in the late 1940s - around the time my Dad first took me to The Dell to see the Saints beat Derby County 4-2 in the old Football League (South.)   The players had names like Alf, Bill, Ted, George and Charlie and the club was owned by benevolent local businessmen.  You can almost smell the Dubbin and Sloan`s liniment.   Why, there was even a man in a white coat.   The team proudly represented the city and there seemed to be a warm and understanding relationship between the club and its supporters and a mutual respect for each other`s contribution to the well being of the club.   

Nowadays, Southampton football club boasts an Argentinian manager, back room staff and reserve goalkeeper; a Polish goalkeeper; Dutch, Norwegian, Portuguese and Japanese defenders, midfielders from Uruguay, France and Brazil and forwards from Holland, Japan and  Zambia (although currently engaged with the African Cup of Nations.)  To be fair, as well as this international array, there is a smattering of up and coming English players emerging from our famed Academy, but the overall trend is clearly towards becoming a multinational enterprise.  

Inevitable, I guess, as it`s not a game any more.  It has become an international results driven business with the glittering prize of belonging to the inflated, bloated Premier League.  And inevitable too since the club and all its debts was bought by a Swiss/German international businessman, sadly now deceased, and placed in the hands of an Italian banker as its Executive Chairman.   It`s like a fiefdom.  The family own the club, the Executive Chairman runs it as he sees fit in his headlong quest for success and the supporters are left, well, to support. 

If only it was that simple. Trouble is, all this internationalisation, all this playing to far eastern financial galleries, all these self-imposed blinkers which blind the traditional soul of the club all lead to bizarre decisions, too numerous to recount here, but which display a lack of style, an absence of class, that had always been a hallmark of the way the club behaved towards its employees and its supporters.  There was a time when I used to enjoy my visits to The Dell and more latterly to St. Mary`s;  I felt welcome and valued as a loyal supporter for over half a century and that feeling of mutual respect between the community and the club was still there.  

Sadly, those days have gone, the club has moved on at the end of the day and there`s nothing I nor any other former shareholder can do about it.  Except to confess that, as well as living quite contentedly without an i-phone, without F***book, Twitter, without a tablet to call my own, I know too that I can live without the Premier League and all its faux idolatry.   And I`m not sure either, whether it`s me or the Executive Chairman that could do with a man in a white coat.   Maybe we both could.

SLIP SLIDING AWAY..

As you can see from my photo, it`s been snowing all day here in deepest Kent and while I was out giving Barney his walkies this afternoon, somehow memories of winters past came flooding back.  It was, of course, 50 years ago that we had the great freeze of 1963, when the snow that fell on Boxing Day was still with us at the end of March.   Mrs. Snopper and I had been married for 18 months or so and we had moved into a quite nasty old house which we rented in a quite nasty bit of Maidstone.   During all that big freeze, our first son was `expected` but he had the good sense to stay in the warm and not emerge until the very last day of March, whereupon the snow and ice finally disappeared and we lived happily ever after.

But I also remember the big freeze of 1947, when as a boy of seven or eight, my family were still living in Hythe on the western shore of Southampton Water, where my Dad worked on the maintenance unit for BOAC flying boats.   I still have vivid memories of being pitchforked out of the house each day and told to get out there and enjoy the snow and don`t come home until tea time.  (That fairly accurately exemplifies my relationship with my parents.   They didn`t understand me;  they were Japanese.)  I remember playing snowball fights with my school friends up on the deserted golf course but strangely never once feeling the cold.   Our village school was never closed either and I can still recall a daily battle with small bottles of school milk that always had a couple of inches of ice on the top.

Now I don`t know when it was, but my Mother used to tell me about the time when her father, my grandfather, once went on a `works outing` from Swindon GWR Railway Works to the races at Newbury.   The day brought the worst snow seen for years and on the return journey, their charabanc (not sure they had coaches as such) got stuck in the snowdrifts near Aldbourne, high up on the Wiltshire Downs.   As you do, my grandfather and his chums proceeded to walk along the tops of the hedges all the way back to Swindon - a tramp of some 12 miles.

So today, with all its winter charm, is hopefully no more than a fleeting interlude before the thermometer climbs back into positive territory, because the older I get the more I can do without cold, snow and ice and the more I look forward to the return of the sun on my back and a summer to remember, rather than winters of discontent. 

SANITY AND MADNESS..

Never mind `what a difference a day makes,` just a couple of hours in a morning can bring  moments of sanity followed by insanity;  winning followed by losing; and those twin imposters - triumph and disaster.

The good news was that the voters of Dibley had the good sense to elect the `sensible candidate` to the casual vacancy on the Parish Council.   So, common sense prevailed, as did democracy and the win represented a triumph for sanity.   The dancing in the streets was, however, short lived, as an hour later came the news that Southampton Football Club (or rather its Italian Chairman Nicola Cortese) had sacked manager Nigel Adkins and his backroom staff.

It`s hard to know what to make of this `incident,` as Nige had taken the Saints from the lower reaches of League One to something approaching mid-table security in the Premier League, all in the space of two and a bit seasons.   He has been replaced by one Mauricio Pochetttino, a former Argentinian international, sacked last November by Spanish club Espanyol whilst they were bottom of the league.

Now in time this decision may turn out to have been inspired but at the moment the insanity of losing Nigel Adkins has all the makings of a disaster and one which rivals the excesses, the arrogance and the madness which are so often the hallmarks of the `best league in the world (TM).`

A CRESCENDO OF INDIFFERENCE ?..

Today`s the day the parishioners here in Dibley have been waiting for, as the casual vacancy for a seat on the Parish Council will today be filled.   Days of frantic canvassing and leaflet dropping have come to an end as, in the words of one of the candidates, "it`s now in the hands of the people."   

Now, the people I feel most sorry for in all this are the staff at the village hall polling station.  When I got up this morning, it was still pitch dark, bitingly cold with a severe frost and rumblings of snow on the way.   But the polling station had already been open since 7.00am and will remain so until, 15 hours later, it will finally close at 10.00pm tonight.   After that they will then have to count the ballot papers and eventually one of the three candidates will emerge victorious.  Ah, the candidates.   The good, the bad and the ugly - I know which I prefer. 

Now I know the polling staff get paid for their time but it`s still a long, tiresome, boring day especially as an influx of keen voters is the last thing they will expect, given that there are only about 2,000 registered voters in the parish and even at an optimistic turnout of 10%, that means the polling staff will only have about 200 visitors in the 15 hours.  

So it could all add up to an avoidable crescendo of indifference, which is a bit sad really, especially as it`s costing about £5,000 that the Parish Council doesn`t have.  But the saddest thing of all is that the outcome between the good, the bad and the ugly might well be determined by the ruthless efficiency of a political party machine.   Which really has no place in a Parish Council by-election, where democracy is supposed to be closer to the real people than anywhere else.

IN FROM THE COLD...

In a weekend of fluctuating fortunes for Snopper Street`s footy fans, one performance stood out.   Whilst there was the euphoria of the Saints picking up three precious points away at Aston Villa and the dejection at Gillingham being beaten at home by promotion rivals Port Vale, it was our local hero Scott Wagstaff who scored the winner in Charlton`s 2-1 home win against Blackpool.

This was a fixture with a few curious twists. Speculation had been rife that former Charlton boss Phil Parkinson might be leaving Bradford to take over at Bloomfield Road.  There had also been talk of our street`s pacy flanker moving oop north to join Parky at Valley Parade, but neither of these rumours became reality.  Also, there`s an elderly gentleman living just round the corner who used to play for Blackpool, but it was Wagstaff`s return to the team after months on the sidelines that gave us most cause for celebration.

This might well have been Scott`s first start in the Championship, I`m not sure, but I do know that he has spent most of the season either honing his bench-warming skills or not being involved in Charlton`s games at all.   It has all been a bit baffling really, especially as, having been at the Valley since the age of nine, he has always given 110% and bleeds the red and white of the Addicks with a passion.   And he just wants to play.  For them.

No matter, he was given his chance on Saturday and took it with both hands (well, feet really) in a performance that demonstrated to manager Chrissy (The Leg End) Powell all his talents as a box-to-box midfield dynamic pacy flanker-cum-striker with a good engine, an eye for a pass and a lethal finish as he powered home the winning goal beyond the despairing clutches of the Seasiders` custodian to send the home fans into delerium.

Scott`s return from being an outcast to being brought back in from the cold has given him, his family and all of us in this soccer mad enclave much pleasure and encouragement.   Next stop Ewood Park, Blackburn?

IT`S JUST ANOTHER PINCER MOVEMENT..

A couple of reports in the last few days has given us a hint of the growing panic over the prospect of Britain leaving the European Union.   First we had someone from the Obama administration warning us not to quit Europe as the USA considers the UK to have an important role and a strong influence within the EU.   Then we had someone from Frau Merkel`s outfit warning us that "leaving the EU would be disastrous for the UK economy."

In reporting these dire threats, the Europhile BBC has again singularly failed to produce any `balance` by reporting any counter arguments, of which there are many.   Instead, they quoted Deputy Prime Minister Nick Clegg as saying, "Whatever question you put in any eventual referendum, the underlying question is the same - does Britain want to lead in Europe and continue to lead....do we lead or hang back in some kind of subsidiary status?"   He went on to say that British leadership in the EU "was an expression of self-confidence."

As for our Prime Minister, well, if he wins the next election we seem to be heading for some kind of referendum sometime after 2015, not whether we want to leave the EU or stay in, but whether we agree with the results of any `re-negotiation` of our membership, which has already been declared illegal by the same German spokesman who warned us about the consequences for our economy if we even thought about leaving.

Seems to me that there are a lot of people getting their retaliation in first.   We are already being bombarded with scare stories, threats of legal action and eternal damnation, all of which suggests that the politicians are the ones who are panicking.   They seem more bothered for their own reasons than for what the British people might actually want, especially as we have not had a chance to express our view on the EU issue since 1974, when it was simply a Common Market.  

In the final analysis, there might well be good arguments either way about whether we should stay in or come out, but I worry that misinformation will rule the day, especially as they all seem to forget that the most important considerations for British people revolve around sovereignty and self-determination, whereas for the European elite their most important considerations are purely political.   And as for Nick Clegg, well, he`s just asking the wrong questions yet again.

Now there might well be a price to be paid for hanging on to those centuries-old traditions of sovereignty and self-determination, but - and this might just be a generational thing - for me at least it will be a price worth paying.

So, don`t panic, chaps - it`s just another pincer movement from those who don`t like it up `em.

KERCHING!!...

I`ve been intrigued to see reports that the Driving and Vehicle Licensing Agency (DVLA) have been selling the personal details of licence holders to all manner of  individuals and`organizations,`some of which might be classed as `legitimate,` but others perhaps not so.   The instances of personal details being disclosed are quite staggering.   For example, the DVLA has sold the names and addresses of 4.85million drivers to parking enforcement firms alone in the past six years - at a charge of £2.50 for each detail supplied.   

Requests for such information amounted to 9.5million in the past year with the vast majority (7.8million) coming from the police and local authorities, presumably following up cases - assisting them with their enquiries if you like.  It`s a paying business for the DVLA, who rather unbelievably claim that they do not make a profit because they are not allowed to.

Now as far as I know, I have committed no parking or driving offence so I would hope that my personal details held by the DVLA have not had cause to be released to any third party.   However, should the DVLA receive  a request for my details then I would hope that I might be asked to give my permission before they do so.   After all, one`s personal details - name, address, age, etc., - are just that;  personal and they are mine, no-one else`s to do what they like with.  

Those details amount to personal intellectual property and should not be disclosed to anyone else without permission.  So I`m surprised there hasn`t been more fuss made about this kind of intrusion into personal information.   Yes I know there has been the odd squeal of indignation from the occasional MP, but they have been more concerned with the antics of parking and clamping companies than with the safeguarding of personal information.

One last thought - if the DVLA charge £2,50 for each detail disclosed, then surely any fee should be returned to the person whose details have been sold.   Once again, we`ve been sold down the river by yet another dubious practice that simply contributes to bureaucracy getting a bad name.   

EXPANSION AND DECLINE..

To Southampton today to take my granddaughter to the University where she had to attend a lecture.   Whilst she was there, I took time once again to revisit my old boyhood village of Hythe on the western shore of Southampton Water.    Now the map extract above is clearly very old, but it does show Hythe when it was a real village with its High Street, its shops, post office, school, hotel and its famous pier from which the ferry plies its way to and from Southampton Town Quay.

And that`s how I remember Hythe when, as a boy over 60 years ago, I attended the village school and enjoyed the freedom of exploring the shoreline and the New Forest.   It was still a village then - my old school friend, the acclaimed and much missed poet William Scammell, calling it his `village by the sea.`   They were times when us boys held the village bobby in awe and with respect, we  knew the boundaries not only of the village but also of behaviour;  it seemed instilled in us and we accepted it as natural - just the way things were - and never imagined for one moment that the  restrictions of our formative years were anything to complain about, even if we were conscious of them to begin with.

But in my repeated visits over more recent years I have witnessed perhaps too many changes in my spiritual home.   For one thing, although Hythe retains the core of its now pedestrianised High Street, it`s a village no more, as expansion into new housing developments skirting the edge of the Forest has turned Hythe into something of a dormitory suburb of Southampton - and it seems to have lost much of its soul in the process.

The High Street itself, once bustling with just enough businesses to sustain themselves, seems in contrast to be in decline, as borne witness by the number of empty shops and the feeling almost of shabbiness that admittedly was not helped by the grey, gloomy January day.    All of which made for a depressing feeling that the decline I witnessed seems somehow in direct proportion to the expansion in size of my village by the sea.   It may be nothing unusual these days, for nothing is forever and, after all, the only constant thing in life is change.

I just wish some of those changes were for the better.

GOOD INTENTIONS..

Now I`m pretty sure I`ve seen this before.  Let me think.   Ah yes, it was whilst driving through Portsmouth that I noticed this spelling error on one of that great city`s roads and I don`t know why but I really wasn`t surprised.   For Portsmouth, or Portsmuff as it is known locally, has something of a history when it comes to grammar.

I suppose its most memorable episode was some years ago at the height of the paedophile scandals.   Never quite sure of their ground, nevertheless the good citizens of the enclave of Paulsgrove promptly attacked the home of a mild-mannered paediatrician, presumably on the basis that it sounded about right.

And today we hear that a memorial to the Cockershell Heroes, recently unveiled near Portsmuff seafront, contains unfortunate errors.   The memorial honours the exploits of 10 Royal Marines who paddled canoes for 75 miles up the Gironde River and attacked Nazi ships in Bordeaux in 1942.   Only two of the marines survived with two others dying from hypothermia and the remaining six being captured and executed by the Germans.

The plaque commemorates their "brave and audacious actions" but records that the attack was `canoe-bourne` and that the raid took place in WW11, rather than WWII.   Local Councillor Terry Hall explained that the memorial had been a private initiative by the residents of Cockleshell Gardens, less than a mile from Canoe Lake, where the Marines trained for their mission.   "Unfortunately there are spelling errors," said Hall.  "I have spoken to the residents and they are going to get it corrected."   

Something about the road to Portsmouth being paved with good intentions?

TO FLUSH OR NOT TO FLUSH?

Had a letter before Christmas from South East Water saying they`re going to install water meters in our street, starting on 7th January.   Now I suppose this is yet another initiative to conserve water supplies which is a bit ironic as we`ve just had the wettest year in England since records began.   And in the seemingly never ending deluge of environmental initiatives, this is just another to go with all the rest such as recycling everything in sight, driving Priuses, having wind farms, wave hubs, solar panels and all kinds of insulation.

So I guess I shouldn`t mind as I`m an eco-warrior, keen to do my bit for saving the planet. But there`s one aspect of the `customer metering programme` that I do find objectionable and it`s the compulsion of it.   No consultation, just telling us what they`re going to do and when.   Now if, like gas and electricity, there was a choice of companies from whom I might get my water supply then it wouldn`t be so bad.   But there aren`t.  South East Water is a take-it-or-leave-it monopoly and so I have no choice.

What makes the whole thing more intriguing is the fact that South East Water only supply the water.   Another monopolistic company, Southern Water, don`t supply it but they are responsible for dealing with the waste water and effluent from my house.   I can`t see, therefore, why they too don`t install meters and charge me depending on how much stuff I flush down their drains.

Anyway, I`m reliably told by a near neighbour that I will `love` the water meter as it will save me so much money.   Her assertion, of course, depends entirely on how often I flush the loo, hose Barney and the car, water the garden in summer, have a bath or shower and  how often Mrs. Snopper turns on the washing machine.   There may be trouble ahead.   "But while there`s moonlight and music and love and romance, let`s flush the toilet and dance."  (Armitage Shanks)

TINGED WITH SADNESS..

Well, that`s it then.   The `festive season` is finally over. Christmas and New Year with all its excesses and indifference came and went but there were instances which brought perhaps more than a tinge of sadness to the proceedings.

We learnt of the death of former England cricket captain Tony Greig, perhaps  best remembered for his rallying assertion that the West Indies would be made to`grovel.`  Which is a pity, because there was so much more to him than that.   He captained England in 14 Tests, played 58 times for his adopted country, scoring over 3,500 runs and taking over 140 wickets.   By any yardstick he was an outstanding cricketer and it seems unfair that he has been lost to us at just 66.

The loss of Christopher Martin Jenkins, again far too early, is mourned by cricket lovers, not for his playing but for his interpretation in voice and print of the most beautiful game of all.   CMJ provided the counterpoint to Tony Greig in that he was `old school,` urbane, perhaps even patrician, but deeply in love with the game and all it has to offer.   I was particularly drawn to Mike Selvey`s recounting of an incident in the West Indies when both he and CMJ were on journalistic duty.  

Travelling by car towards Bridgetown for the Test Match, Selvey was driving and noticed his passenger - ever anxious to be in contact with his newspaper back in England - tapping away on a handset and getting more frustrated as the messages he was trying to send never left his hand-held machine.  It was then that Selvey realised that CMJ was tapping away on a tv remote, having picked it up in the hotel, where he had left his mobile phone.   It seemed to sum up CMJ`s attitude to most things modern and it is for his reluctance to leave the past behind and embrace the brave new world as much for his immense contribution to our enjoyment of cricket, that he too will be deeply missed.

THERE`S ALWAYS SOMEONE...

It`s strange how, during the dead interlude between Christmas and New Year, there`s always someone who comes along to give me something to grumble about.  No shortage of candidates this year, so let`s start with `Sir` Alex Ferguson who, once again, has behaved in a manner more fitted to the Govan back streets from whence he came, than a knight of the realm.   

Again he has shown contempt for authority and deployed his old friends  - Messrs. Intimidation and Bullying -  in order to kick and scream and shout his obsessive desire to be right in all things.   Trouble is, he`s wrong again but the football authorities seem either powerless or reluctant to dish out the kind of sanctions to Ferguson that they would not hesitate to impose on other managers.   I will watch with interest how the Newcastle fans react to Ferguson`s latest rant and I suspect that even now some of them are plotting to blow up the statue outside Old Trafford.

The mandarins of Whitehall are apparently holding up publication of the long awaited and now almost forgotten Chilcot Inquiry into events leading up to the Iraq War.   There`s a stand off between Chilcot and Whitehall over the reluctance of the mandarins to publish the records of conversations between the then Prime Minister,Tony Blair, and the then USA President George W Bush.   The result is that publication of the report, if at all, is now likely to be towards the back end of 2013 or even into 2014, all of which confirms suspicions that the very long grass beckons as the report might well throw up some uncomfortable revelations, none of which brings any comfort to the families of our armed forces lost in that almost certainly illegal conflict.

Mentioning Blair brings me finally on to Mrs. Blair who has surprisingly been `honoured` in today`s Honours List by the award of a CBE allegedly for her services to charity and women.   Circumspection encourages me to comment no further, for I`m sure conclusions will be drawn that might not be entirely charitable.   However, I have no such compunction in dismissing as a sick joke the `honour` awarded to Tracey Emin which I can only imagine is made for her services to both personal and professional mediocrity.   I`m left with the nagging feeling of being cheated as, if the unfortunate Ms. Emin can be gonged, then how come Rickie Lambert Southampton`s Goal Machine (RLSGM) - already losing out in the BBC Sports Personality of the Year award -  is denied once more?  

The season of goodwill just keeps on coming.......

FESTIVE FEVER..

Of all the countless images of the `festive season,` I think this one is the most telling.  In the background, you can just make out a Christmas tree as a token Yuletide symbol, which is just as well, as there`s nothing else at all `festive` about the scene.   Of course, it shows the mayhem when the Boxing Day sales started yesterday morning and there are a number of things that are troubling about this image.

The first (and I expect I`ll immediately be labelled an `ist`) is the almost total predominance of non-white, possibly non-British customers.   Now this might be for a variety of reasons, including the genuinely international attraction of the big London stores, but I suspect it may be more an accurate vision of modern day London and the other big conurbations of this sceptred isle.   Whatever, it looks as if the locals have no chance.  Ah, England, my England.  Wherefore art thou?

Then there is the manic clamour for `stuff.`   I`ve no idea what goods were on offer in this sale but again I have my suspicions that they were probably things that, if pressed, the manic clamourers really could do without, so it`s probably all about mindless acquisitiveness for its own sake.

But, of course, this is the festive season, the season of goodwill to all men and it`s images like this one that confirm, to me at least, that the world seems to losing all sense of what`s important, along with any real sense of priority and reason.   It doesn`t matter what it is, I`ve got to have it and I will queue up all night and fight the good fight so I can get it.  And too bad if anyone gets in my way.

Such is the rampant commercialism these days that Christmas stuff starts appearing in the shops around the end of September and on and on it goes with just a pause on Christmas Day until the jamboree starts up again the day after.  So we might as well stop kidding ourselves, for Christmas, at last, shows us the true meaning of Santa`s birthday.....and we are all the poorer for it.   Anyway, can`t stop - I`m off to buy my Easter eggs.

HAPPY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE...
....even Margaret Moran...
(I`m all heart really)

EYE WATERING..

Despite fiddling us taxpayers out of thousands of pounds whilst she was MP for Luton South, Margaret Moran was found unfit to plead when her case involving 21 criminal charges of false accounting and forgery came before Southwark Crown Court a year or so ago.   She was, however, found by a jury to have committed the acts alleged and sentenced to a two-year supervision and treatment order with the judge commenting that some might feel she had `got away with it` although the court `had acted according to the law of the land and on the basis of evidence before it.`

Now just some of Ms. Moran`s claims were indeed eye-watering.  For example, her MP`s expenses claim for 2004-05 somehow amounted to £168,569 with a large chunk going on `stationery and postage.`  Then there was £22,500 spent on treating dry rot in a house in Southampton, which she had `flipped` as her second home, a mere 100 miles from her Luton constituency.   Her second homes claims for five years came to £87,206, whilst her neighbouring MP for Luton North, Kelvin Hopkins - who lived in the same street as Moran - claimed just £8,894.  It also came to light that Moran had claimed for driving no less than 26,028 miles even though her constituency is a mere 32 miles from Westminster.

The abuse of trust and accountability just went on, so no wonder the Crown Prosecution Service brought the charges against her.   Now, although one might have been seduced into a feeling of sympathy for the pathetic figure she struck during her court proceedings and although it may be true that she did repay the princely sum of £6,000 of the expenses she received, nonetheless it comes as a startling reminder of just how out of touch the Commons Authorities still are that Moran has now been paid almost £27,000 in a `resettlement grant` given to MPs when they leave Parliament. 

Far from having any sympathy with her current situation which, after all, includes an alleged £1million property portfolio, it`s us taxpayers who should be doing the weeping as yet another chunk of our hard earned cash is squandered on yet another undeserving case.    

MAYANS RIGHT ALL ALONG?

Well, I was all geared up for it.   At 11 minutes past 11 this morning, I was ready for it all to end and I had wondered where I might be and what I might be doing when the end of the world happened.   In the end, I decided to keep calm and carry on with my `normal` Friday morning ritual.

And so it was that at the appointed moment I found myself stuffing empty plastic bottles into the recycling bank at our nearby Tesco WhizzoStore.   Now this might sound a trifle mundane, but at it least had the merit of me preparing to meet my maker doing something useful to save the planet, thus earning brownie points for the final reckoning.

But the moment came and went, leaving me to wonder what had gone wrong with the Mayan calendar, which might well have been one from Tesco`s value range otherwise I might not be here now.  But this morning there was anarchy in the Tesco car park - horns blaring, fists being shaken, obscenities chilling the midwinter air (I really must learn to control my frustrations);  in the store it was predictably crowded with pre-Christmas shopping - food and drink being stacked into high-rise trollies and then the seemingly endless queue for the checkout.

It all made me wonder whether the Mayan prediction had come true after all. Jingle bells!

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. 

  

THE GLITTERING PRIZES ?

I missed last night`s BBC Sports Personality of the Year mainly because, especially in recent years, it has become very `BBC` with a kind of stiff, formalised bonhomie that doesn`t quite hit the mark.   Anyway, I was pleased to learn that Bradley Wiggins won it, not least because he actually does have a personality although I confess to a tinge of disappointment that Rickie Lambert Southampton`s Goal Machine (RLSGM) wasn`t even nominated.

But such is the `correctness` of the BBC event that it would not have surprised me in the least if, on the back of their recent almost unbelievable victory at the Nobel ceremony in Oslo,  the prize had gone to the European Union and been collected by Barrosso and van Rompuy, the Little and Large of the EU.

I expect they were sorry to miss out but at least they can look forward with some confidence to romping away with the Eurovision Song Contest next year.   A smile, a song and a directive?   You`d better believe it!!

THE ONLY CONSTANT THING..

It`s an old saying, of course, but nonetheless true that the only constant thing in life is change.   And it seems to me that the older I get the faster the changes come about. This week has seen the publication of details from the last Census and the most rapid change in this country`s demographics appears to be within the area of immigration.   Perhaps predictably, the London Borough of Newham has only 17% of its residents describing themselves as White British.   Compare this with the figure for Redcar in North Yorkshire where 98% have declared themselves to be White British.

Not surprising I imagine, as there has always been a marked difference between metropolitan areas such as London and the more rural backwaters of the country.   But I was interested to see something close to my heart in that, in the previous Census of 2001, 37,000 people had recorded their nationality as `Cornish` by manually writing it on the Census form. Good for them.  This time, despite campaigns within Cornwall, no tick-box was provided on the form to select Cornish as a nationality.   Thanks to Cornwall Council, however, posters advised residents that they could identify themselves as Cornish by writing it in the section dealing with national identity, ethnicity and main language, the result being that no less than 83,000 have declared themselves as Cornish this time round.   So that sounds like a change for the better.  

Now, maybe it`s a generational thing but I find some of the changes taking place a little troublesome.   For example, the whole business of communication is now so instant, what with Twitter, Facebook and all, that people seem not to think before they tweet - it`s all about instant reactions which are invariably to be regretted later on.   As for me, I don`t need it, I don`t want it and I feel absolutely no need to be part of it either.

There`s a lot on the country`s agenda right now and I get the feeling that some are there just to be seen to be doing something, rather than concentrating on things that might almost certainly be more important.   The controversies surrounding women bishops and gay marriage, for example, are issues about which my own generation might harbour views honed through upbringing and decades of experience.   

I might have a tendency to support one but not the other but in doing so I run the risk of being pilloried as some kind of `ist` by a growing, self righteous lobby of `reformers,` when all I might be doing is reflecting the genuinely held views of a generation that finds itself more isolated in a world that is changing much too much and much too quickly.   I wonder if we might be exchanging one form of implied intolerance for another?

STATUS AND PERSONA..

A couple of days ago, quite by chance, I came across an obituary notice in a local newspaper which does not circulate in the area I live.   In fact, I was searching the internet for something else when this notice popped up telling me that a dear lady had passed away earlier this year at the age of 85.  It`s odd how even random things can trigger memories.   I knew her before she and her husband moved away from this area but it was her husband who I knew much better.   He had at one time been a work colleague but he sadly passed away some years ago.   He was an intriguing character with a life that yet again reminded me of the essential conflict between status and persona.  Let me explain.

He was a soldier, an officer and a gentleman, a proud member of the family that is the Gloucestershire Regiment, the Glorious Glosters, so called after their epic part in the battle of the Imjin River during the Korean War in 1951.  He was a Major in the regiment that carries more battle honours on its regimental flag than any other line regiment in the British Army.   And, as you might expect, he possessed a military bearing and a quiet stoicism that comes only from the kind of experience he had during that conflict.   

Following his retirement from the army, he became Personal Assistant to the head of a rural local authority.....and it`s here that the conflict between status and persona becomes interesting.   His new boss had not experienced the military life, had no concept of the qualities needed to survive in that environment at all, never mind during hostilities.   But, quietly observing from a discreet distance, it became obvious to me that having a battle hardened Glorious Gloster Major as Personal Assistant provided a cache not only designed to impress but also to enhance any inner delusions of adequacy that seemed to exist.   It therefore became clear, if unspoken or even unrecognised, that the one with the status, the rank, perhaps saw in his Personal Assistant a persona that he might have admired and wished for himself.

It`s not unusual, of course.   When I attended a Guidon Ceremony for my own old regiment some years ago, I shared a lunch table with a couple of other former national servicemen.    After they had done their 730 days, one of them went back to work on the family farm, leading a simple but hard and fairly unrewarding life.   The other had gone on to become the Personnel Director of a big national company.    But although their relative status seemed worlds apart, it was the farmer who was clearly in charge of the relationship.   His persona, you see, was perhaps the more admirable which I suspected that the Personnel Director recognised and acknowledged.

And the moral of these tales?   Well, if nothing else it might give a note of caution to those for whom status is everything, for in the end it may not matter what position you reach, what label you may have, if you lack the persona to go with it.   It happens too often, I suspect, but I`m left with the memory of my now sadly departed Gloster friend sighing wistfully to me, "Little did I think when I was fighting my way up Hill 357, that I would be doing this for a living."

NO CONTEST..

There`s to be an election here in Dibley for a seat on the Parish Council.  The official polling cards have arrived telling us that the election will be on Thursday 17th January and that the polling station in the village hall will be open from 7.00am to 10pm - so no less than 15 hours for us to toddle along and cast our votes.

Trouble is, there are alleged to be somewhere in the order of 15 or 16 candidates, such is the furore within the parish over, well, parochial issues.   These include the fraught question of where, if anywhere, to locate some kind of outdoor gym facility supposedly for the elderly population; keeping the footpaths clear, a new changing room for the playing fields, what to do about the resident newts preventing access to an open space as they are a protected species (I`ve suggested a controlled explosion,)  and such like.  Cameron thinks he has problems?  He should try running Dibley.

I imagine the next few weeks will see the candidates canvassing away, festooning us with leaflets, hiring megaphones and being nice to us.   But the qualities I look for in a candidate for the Parish Council include a penchant for football, an eagerness to apply common sense rather than any political party line and a determination to cut through the bureaucracy that seems to result solely in the Parish Council talking about things rather than doing them.

I think I know just the man....and it ain`t me.  

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.

LIGHTENING THE GLOOM..

I`ve just finished watching the end of the second day in the Test Match between India and England in Kolkata and marvelling at the heroics of England captain, Alastair Cook, scoring his 23rd Test century, thus moving ahead of such bygone greats of the game as Colin Cowdrey and Len Hutton.   While here in deepest Kent, it`s bitterly cold, dank and gloomy, yesterday`s Autumn Statement was hardly a barrel of laughs and the season of alleged goodwill is fast approaching, as our first two Christmas cards arrived in this morning`s post.

So we needed something to lighten the gloom and Alastair Cook and his chums have certainly provided it.  So much so that you begin to wonder what other memorable sporting moments may yet take place in the final knockings of this truly great sporting year.   Back in late Spring, the Saints reclaimed their place in the Premier League - the `best league in the world (tm)` - we then had the London Olympic Games and the Paralympics - `the best Games ever`-  the Ryder Cup victory in America, last weekend`s stuffing of the All Blacks and now the exploits on the England Cricket Team in the sub-continent - `the hardest place to go in international cricket.`

It`s a pity the BBC Sports Personality of the Year contenders for this year`s award were announced as early as they were, for Cook`s achievement ranks with the very best gold medallists and it was significant, I feel, that there was no place among those selected for the BBC award for anyone from the world of cricket or, perhaps less surprisingly, from football.  The quicker they change Sports Personality to Greatest Achievement the better, for only then will Andy Murray stand a chance.

Now for me, cricket has always been the most beautiful game, played as it sensibly is only when the sun shines.   It has a long and singular tradition and it`s one of very few team games played individually, by which I mean that you become the batsman, the bowler, the keeper, the fielder and it`s what you alone do in those individual moments that define the success or otherwise of the team.

My own cricketing years are so many years behind me now, but I still look back through wistful memories of warm summer days, convivial friendships, courtesy to opponents and, yes, the very occasional times when I was modestly pleased with my own individual contribution.   So, if nothing else on this drab, cold, bleak midwinter`s day, Alastair Cook has shone some much needed light for those of us for whom cricket is the ultimate game.  It has lifted the spirit, brought a warm glow and made life a little more bearable, for which we should all be truly thankful. 

WONDERFUL NEWS..

I could hardly believe my ears yesterday afternoon when the news broke that Kate and Wills are going to be parents.   It was indeed wonderful news, tinged only by the concern for Kate as she fights the severe morning sickness and I know we all wish her well as hopefully she will overcome it soon.

What makes it even more exciting and memorable is, of course, the fact that we can now enjoy the real benefit of the 24-hour news reports, the pages in our daily newspapers and other forms of media which will keep us all up to date with progress over the next weeks and months.   I don`t know if they still post bulletins on the railings giving daily medical reports but I`m sure there will be an anxious crowd gathering from wherever any sort of news may emerge.

It`s at times like this that we should all be grateful for the coverage, the in-depth analysis as the pregnancy proceeds and it is of course quite fitting that this happy event should take precedence over any other news item that might be around.

You can tell that I`m over the moon about it all and I`m so looking forward to the next few months when all other issues we might have had to contend with will just have to take a back seat.   I know you all feel the same and join me in celebrating this truly wonderful news.

TAXI FOR HILARY?

A tentative note of dissension

Some months ago now, a very good and kind friend lent me his copy of Wolf Hall, Hilary Mantel`s 2009 MAN Booker Prize winning historical novel centred around the intrigues and exploits of Thomas Cromwell.   Quite apart from the praise it received in winning the prize, Wolf Hall has been hailed as a masterpiece, a literary triumph, a must read book if ever there was one.

I suppose my suspicions were roused when I turned the first few pages to discover that there were no less than 33 extracts from literary reviews, each proclaiming just how wonderful it was.  Now I may be cynical but I`m always wary of any book that goes to such lengths to tell me how good it is - it`s almost as if the publishers don`t quite believe it and are trying to convince themselves as much as the rest of us.   

Anyway, I gave it an initial go but I gave up after a while as I found it hard going.   Maybe if I had a degree in history I might have been a little more forgiving.   About three weeks ago, not finding anything else readily to hand, I picked it up again and this time I made a determined effort - I`m up to page 603, so I`m on the final furlong with just a gripping climax to come in the final 50 pages or so - possibly.

The other thing that makes me nervous is that it has almost become sacrilegious not to join the clamour of praise for Ms Mantel and all her works but I do wonder how much of that clamour is a simple fear of being excluded, not being up with the fashion, not `with it.`   So for me to offer a tentative note of dissension might be bordering not so much on sacrilege but more on bravado.

In the end, I can but speak as I find and I am finding Wolf Hall to be tedious, confused and self-indulgent in that it cries out for clearer narrative and accepted grammar. Maybe it will be redeemed by the gripping finale, but whilst I expect to be disappointed, I might find its sequel, Bring out the Bodies, to be irresistible, if only to discover whether Ms Mantel has improved her style or whether it`s just me after all.