THE MIRROR AND THE LIGHT ?

The worried look on this troubled face is bordering on despair. Shame really, as this is Dame Hillary Mantel - best selling author and twice Booker Prize winner and you might imagine that after all the fame and fortune she has garnered over the years she might be inclined to live peacefully and enjoy the fruits of her labours.

But no.   In a recent interview with (I think) an Italian newspaper she declared that she was pretty fed up with the UK and had a pop at Boris Johnson, the monarchy as an institution and said she felt `ashamed` at many aspects of life in post-Brexit UK.

"I might breathe easier in a republic and may be able to arrange it.  I hope to loop back to my family story and become an Irish citizen,"  She added, "Our projected move has been held back by Covid but as much as I love where I live now in the West Country, by the sea, I feel the need to be packing my bags and to become a European again."  She said that she had always been conscious of belonging to an Irish family even though both her parents were English.

All of which seems a great pity.   Given that through her work she has given so much to the cultural and intellectual wellbeing of the UK, her mere presence in what was once this green and pleasant land will surely be missed.   If she has seen the light, I hope she will not look back in the mirror with any regret.

 

Hard to describe the emotions really.  The loss of David Cornwell, aka John le Carre, was sad enough but looking at this photo of him enjoying the grandeur of his Cornish home makes me long for that particular part of the magical kingdom of Kernow.

There`s no point in me trying to write any sort of obituary for the great man - that has already been done and in any case his books will forever speak for themselves.  But I wonder whether I might share a sense of loss too for his part of Cornwall that I have grown to love over the years.   It`s almost a secret - tucked away down very minor roads and down beaten tracks - a world of its own, one which consists of almost secret places such as St. Buryan, St. Levan, Treen and St. Loy, where David had this spectacular home, high on the cliff overlooking the sea.

I`ve walked most of that stretch of the south west coast path and have a longing to go back there. To enjoy Porthgwarra, to see the Logan Rock, hear the song of the sea at Nanjizal, admire Tater-du lighthouse, walk the path to Lamorna and feel the ocean on Gwennap Head.  Trouble is, at 81 it`s a long drive but as I read again the volumes that John le Carre has bequeathed us my mind will always return there, along with my heart.

I often wonder why it is that the romance of Cornwall never fades.  Maybe because it provides the ultimate escape from the mayhem of the south-east and from the trials and tribulations of life.   I remember years and years ago we had a holiday in far west Cornwall at a time when I was feeling the pressure of a demanding job.  We only went for a week and I spent the first three days unwinding and the last two days revving up again before re-entry.  And in the brief time in between , one day we went to Sennen Cove.  I sat on a rock on a quiet sandy beach with the sun beating down and the breeze wafting in from the sea and I knew in those moments that I was finally on holiday - away from it all - and I cherished every second, knowing what it was like to be free and at one with the world.

It didn`t last long, of course, and before I knew it I was back on the treadmill of life:  but I was always grateful to Cornwall for providing that glimpse as to what real life might be like which is probably the reason why we have been back so many times..  I imagine David Cornwell knew that real life only too well and who wouldn`t, living on the clifftop at St. Loy for more than 40 years and never growing tired of it?

LEAPING OFF THE PAGE....

One of the books I acquired recently was `The Judge,` the autobiography of Robin Smith one of the very best batsmen for Hampshire and England especially against hostile fast bowling.   I read most of it during quiet times on holiday in Padstow last week but it was only today that I finished reading it.

It is perhaps one of the most `challenging` of autobiographies in that, while it recounts his distinguished cricketing career, it is also a very candid and at times distressing account of the challenges he faced with himself once his cricket career came to an end.   Sufficient to say that he went from the fame and adulation of being a sporting super star to becoming a deeply troubled, almost suicidal shadow of his former self.   Thankfully with the help and support of family and friends both inside and outside the game he managed to reinvent himself into a happy, contented and much loved man.

As a piece of literature it has its flaws - too many unnecessary expletives for my liking - and perhaps it drifts a little too much into sentimentality but for all that it is an honest reflection of the man himself and unsurprising that it is a contender for the Sports Book of the Year award.   In many ways it is reminiscent of the books by Graeme Fowler and Marcus Trescothick who also found cricketing life so difficult and it reminded me too of a book I have in my eclectic collection which recounts the extraordinary number of cricketers who have taken their own lives - it`s called `Silence of the Heart`by David Frith and explains, as Robin Smith discovered, that the life and world of a professional cricketer is so all consuming that the adjustment to life beyond the boundary can be so difficult.

Now on a personal note, something leapt out of page 298 at me.  Last year the chairman of Hampshire County Cricket Club, Rod Bransgrove, organised a Captains` Dinner for the eve of the India Test Match to be played at Hampshire`s Ageas Bowl ground and along with the county`s other eleven living captains Robin and his partner were of course invited.   By then Robin had long been settled in Perth in Western Australia and after a little persuasion he accepted the invitation.

On landing at Heathrow the book says, "When we arrived Patrick`s chauffeur Ian, who I had met years ago, was waiting to drive us to Hampshire........."  One of Hampshire cricket`s very generous supporters was Patrick Trant, who owned a thriving engineering company and Ian was his chauffeur among other roles.

Some years ago now, I had a season ticket at Southampton`s St. Mary`s Stadium and I sat next to Ian, so it was the albeit fleeting reference to Ian that leapt out of the page at me.   Now as a claim to fame it might not amount to much and of itself is hardly a recommendation for a book which deserves to be read with sympathy and understanding that life for the famous and talented is often more challenging than for the likes of Ian and me.   

Like it says on the tin - nostalgia may be a thing of the past but just recently a couple of examples have turned up to remind me just how comforting it can be to look back on `the happiness of a former place or time.`

Just a few days ago I happened to find `Cornish Walking Trails` which is full of glorious walks around that magical county.  And over many years now, we have enjoyed walking most of the Cornish coast path and so seeing the enchanting videos on Cornish Walking Trails YouTube Channel has brought back some very happy memories and I cannot disguise the `sentimental yearning` I have to get back down there and do some more.  

Now, I don`t watch a lot of television - too much of it is either boring or banal - but I do find some refuge with BBC Four and its engaging documentaries.  And just the other evening I watched a repeat of Joanna Trollope`s episode in the series `The Secret Life of Books,` which introduced me not only to Laurie Lee`s `Cider with Rosie,` which I really must read for myself,  but also to some hidden parts of Gloucestershire and the Cotswolds, which I have not had the pleasure of visiting yet.  Something else for my aspiring bucket list, I think. 

Laurie Lee`s book is, of course, full of nostalgia for his childhood in the Slad Valley and it reminded me of my own childhood, in the 1940s and early `50s which was largely spent in a village sandwiched between Southampton Water and the New Forest.  Despite the wartime and the austerity that followed, the surroundings made it an idyllic place to be growing up.   And I still hark back to my teenage years spent here in deepest Kent, when the county was still the Garden of England and when I played my cricket on the local village greens and the sun always seemed to shine, God was in Her heaven and a whole lifetime stretched out before me.

Those were the days, those were the places and my sentimental yearning remains undimmed, as does my longing for the return of summer and my own Cornish walking trails.  

A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE...

There was an impressive collection of reading material in the cottage we stayed in last week - just the thing if the weather was less than clement.  But fortunately for us the weather was kind and so I never got a chance to finish reading this book - 101 Cornish Lives by Maurice Smelt.  It is what it says on the cover - a wry, honest look at the lives of 101 Cornish people who have made varied contributions to that far off county, the wider UK and the rest of the world.

On our last evening there, I had just finished reading about Andrew Pears, he of transparent soap fame, born in Mevagissey in 1765, when it was time to pack and get ready for the morning`s 300-mile journey home.  I missed reading about most of the 101 lives and, for a fleeting moment I contemplated stealing the book and taking it home with me.

But, as ever, my conscience got the better of me and so I took down details of the publisher (Alison Hodge, residing in a part of Cornwall I know well) and vowed to try and track down what I imagined to be this rather obscure volume when I got home.   Not for the first time, Amazon came up trumps and the book arrived today, confirming the wisdom of my decision to eschew petty theft and knowing that I can, after all, return to that Cornish cottage with a clear conscience.

A BOOK AT BATH TIME..

Over the years I have accumulated what can only be described as an eclectic `library.`   It`s not really a library as such - rather just a couple of book cases stuffed pretty full.  Because of limited space, every now and then I`m encouraged to have a sort out, donate some books in the charity bag, but there are quite a number that I have grimly held on to and which I read again and again.

Mostly they are books about Britain - travel books - about places I know and love and visit; Cornwall, Devon, Hampshire, the West Country generally.  Some of them are really very old now - one in particular is a lavishly illustrated book about the Dorset and South Devon Coast published in 1910 which I bought in Modbury years ago and I also hang on to the Ward Lock Red Guides which go back to the 1930s.   I have cricket books, Southampton FC books, books on physics, mathematics, astronomy, exploration, biographies, National Service, but it is the books about England that hold a lasting fascination.

And over the years I have discovered that one of life`s real pleasures is reading in the bath - a risky business with the constant danger of the book slipping from my grasp and being consigned to the deep and with the consequence that some of my volumes became a little soggy, requiring painstaking remedial action.

But the latest book which accompanies me into my nightly soak is Bill Bryson`s `The Road to Little Dribbling` - more Notes From a Small Island - updating his impressions of Britain from those of 20 years ago.   I`ve only got about a third of the way through it but it`s already clear that, as well as his abiding affection for our country and our peculiar ways, there is an understated grumpiness which comes with the passage of time and with which I entirely identify.   An early example comes with his chapter concerning a visit to the New Forest (which isn`t new and not all of it a forest) and an area where I spent much of my boyhood over half a century ago.

Back in his hotel in Lyndhurst, he sat on the edge of his bed "waiting for it to be time for a drink and wondering how many tens of thousands of days have passed since BBC One last showed a programme that anyone not on medication would want to watch."

An excellent start - he speaks my language - and so I look forward to the next few nights wallowing in the grumpiness and cynicism to which I find myself inevitably drawn as the years continue to pile up.   I just hope my ageing wrists will be strong enough hold the book firmly in place and saving it from the same watery fate of some of my others. 

PULP FICTION..

Two years ago when Manchester United manager `Sir` Alex Ferguson finally retired I rather rashly assumed that that might have  been the last we would see or hear from him. I should have known better.   Since he left Old Trafford, with its `Sir` Alex Ferguson Stand and trotted off passing the `Sir` Alex Ferguson statue to his new life down `Sir` Alex Ferguson Way, he seems to have been popping up with annoying regularity.

First it was the announcement that Manchester United had appointed him as a `global ambassador` at a salary that worked out at over £100,000 a day for each of the taxing 20 appearances he was contracted to make;  then he went off to Harvard University as an unlikely lecturer at their Business School on the subject of `the business of entertainment, sport and media.`   Says much about the Harvard recruitment process that they engage someone who, yes, has achieved spectacular results but has done so with a management style that can generously be described as management by fear, intimidation, a healthy disregard for any form of authority and the liberal application of hairstyling accessories.

Then he `produced` his updated autobiography, with the imaginative title `My Autobiography.` This sold well among the fawning and the gullible and Ferguson is reported to have pocketed at least another £1 million from the proceeds.  In total it`s estimated that he has received almost £10 million since his `retirement` just under two years ago.  All good convincing stuff from a dyed in the wool Labour supporter. But there`s more.  He has agreed yet another deal for a new book, entitled Leading which promises to `analyse the pivotal leadership decisions of an astonishing career.` 

It`s an exciting prospect;  I can hardly wait because, you see, I have developed one or two disturbing habits since Ferguson`s books started appearing on the shelves of book shops, supermarkets and other outlets.  I find myself tidying the shelves, making sure the books are nice and straight but also ensuring that Ferguson`s books are placed face down, partly to avoid seeing that smug Caledonian smirk, but also in a desperately  vain attempt to discourage sales. 

But my cunning plan might be working - for example the stacks of `My Autobiography` I have seen recently have been marked down to half price, alongside the rest of the pulp fiction.  Well, as they say, every little helps.

AN ACCIDENT OF TIMING ?...

Just last week we `marked` the 50th anniversary of Sir Winston Churchill`s passing and this week two separate `events` have prompted me to recall one of his many true and memorable quotations.   

A year or so ago a good friend was kind enough to lend me a copy of Hilary Mantel`s `Wolf Hall.`   I didn`t get on with it too well as, although the narrative was interesting from a historical perspective, the style in which it was written - almost the English of the time - left me struggling.   It`s the same with `Gone Girl,` which I have also just struggled through because, again, whilst the story line was intriguing, the style, the annoying Americana, the irritating plethora of obscenity, took away much of any enjoyment from what might otherwise have been an acclaimed novel.

There seems to be a trend these days for writers and especially so-called `comedians` to use gratuitous obscene or blasphemous language under the misguided belief that it`s either clever or funny.  It`s neither, of course - merely the last resort of those devoid of sensitivity, talent or both.   `Mrs. Brown`s Boys` again springs to mind immediately and, whilst I`m no prude - how could I be having lived through the `culture` of the 10th Royal Hussars? - I do find it all rather tiresome.  Maybe I`m just getting old.......

Anyway, back to Sir Winston and the events that reminded me of his wisdom.  I`ve now watched the first three episodes of the BBC`s adaptation of `Wolf Hall` and it has much to commend it, not least being its ability to bring light to the darkness of Dame Hilary`s anguished prose. The last episode included reference to a beheading and the gruesome spectacle of the burning of William Tyndale - for the unpardonable sin of translating the Bible into English.

And with what seems to be an unfortunate accident of timing, in the same week we have learned of similar atrocities carried out by ISIS - the beheading of the Japanese journalist and the burning of the Jordanian pilot.  Now it would be comforting to believe that, despite the passing of 500 years being but the blink of an eye in the infinity of time and history, we as a species had by now grown away from such outrages against our fellow men.   As things stand, however, all we seem to have is the knowledge that Sir Winston was right all along.

When will we ever learn?

A FORGOTTEN TIME..

Well, I`ve finished wading my way through Richard Vinen`s 600-page account of National Service.  It`s a serious, entertaining and thought-provoking account of a time which was unique in the social and military history of this country.  It was the first and only time when over two million men born between 1928 and August,1939 (I was born in July 1939) were conscripted to serve during peacetime.   Well, I use the word peacetime advisedly as, during the period, there were serious conflicts in Korea, Malaya, Kenya, Cyprus and the fiasco of Suez, in each of which national servicemen served, died or were wounded and should perhaps be remembered more than they are.  

Now the contribution of national servicemen to these episodes is acknowledged at some length and rightly so, for the whole raison d`etre of conscription was not to turn the youth of the day into men but rather to ensure that the armed forces had enough manpower to cope not only with conflicts such as those I have mentioned but also the burgeoning threat from the Soviet Union.

Vinen`s book is full of detail about the background, the process and the ending of national service and draws upon a large collection of documents, records and interviews, all of which add to the authenticity of his study.   But it is a study not only of conscription but also of Britain during those times and he concludes that that time is now almost unrecognisable from the perspective of now.   The book is littered with references to all kinds of divisions that existed during the national service years - public school, grammar school;  officer class, non-commissioned officers, `other ranks;` divisions within the army itself - Guards, Cavalry, infantry regiments, Pioneer Corps; between regular soldiers and national service conscripts - but the most telling influence in those times was the preponderance and application of `class` itself.  (I wonder if it has changed all that much.)

Most of Vinen`s `personal` sources are from commissioned national service officers and there is perhaps not enough effort devoted to exploring what national service really meant to the `ordinary` conscript,  plucked from his own domestic environment and pitchforked into a quite alien world where, if he was to survive at all, he had quickly to adopt qualities such as self-reliance, a healthy cynicism and an acceptance of his situation whilst counting the days until his own form of normality could be resumed.

I`ve said before that, for me, the experiences I had left me with mixed feelings;  I would rather not have been called up and yet, having been, I learnt things about life and about myself that I suspect have proved useful, not least the comradeship I discovered from being `all in this together.`  And yes, my cynicism remains untouched, for how else could it be, having proved so hopeless at shooting that my rifle range score was laughably inept so I was posted to a cavalry regiment that had tanks with massive guns;  and when I was demobbed I found myself posted to a reserve regiment that went by the name of Sharpshooters.   Which, of course, aptly demonstrates the eternal contradiction in terms that is military intelligence.

A LITTLE SELF-INDULGENCE..

Went to Bluewater Shopping Thingy yesterday and, as usual, whilst Mrs. Snopper was busying herself buying essential household supplies I spent a while in Waterstones bookshop.   Now a while ago I did the same and on that occasion I saw three books that caught my fancy but I thought it would go against my natural feelings of guilt if I allowed myself the self indulgence of buying them.

But time had moved on from then and yesterday I went in search of the same books again on the assumption that it is very unlikely that anyone would buy them for me for Christmas and, in any case, I have now reached the `Why Not?` stage of life. So I decided to try to overcome my guilt complex and buy them anyway.  Well, why not?

The three books in question were

- Henning Mankell`s new Wallander `An Event in Autumn;`

- `Touched by Greatness`, a biography of Tom Graveney;

- and a newly published study of National Service by Richard Vinen. 

The first was simply because I enjoy the Wallander novels and their images of life and death in a small town in Sweden.   The second was a genuine desire to find out more about another of my boyhood cricketing heroes and the third was to recapture and investigate those events half a century ago which changed my life forever.

The sad thing was that I couldn`t find the book about Tom Graveney which had been published back in February.  I enquired only to be told that Waterstones only ever had one copy and that had been sold so I guess I`ll have to look elsewhere. (Christmas is coming?) But I did manage to buy the other two, neither of which I have begun to read of course.   But I am looking forward to getting my teeth into the 600-page National Service study as it will not only be an extended trip down memory lane but also, I hope, finally put my experience into a wider context and hopefully justify the 731 days of conscription that I experienced.  

The signs look promising.  The flysheet suggests that "more than two million conscripts - most (like me) paid just over one pound a week - underwent national service.  Britain has a curious blind spot about this aspect of its recent past, generally regarding it as a comic interlude, notable for inspiring the first ever Carry On film.  Yet its impact was huge.  It cut across the lives of an entire generation in a time which now seems impossibly remote" when we pale, nervous young men turned up every two weeks at military camps to embark on life changing experiences which still resonate, even today.

A FRIEND IN NEED..

I`m reliably informed that the winner of this year`s Man Booker Prize is about to be announced.  The short list seems to follow the pattern of books that are `literary,` deep, meaningful and oh, so very boring. Goodness knows what the long list must have been like.

But at least we have been spared the recent spate of `autobiographies` from luminaries such as Kevin Pietersen and Roy Keane, both of whom have sparked controversy with their `revelations.`  These wholly avoidable tomes are said to have included accounts of instances which reveal the `authors` in their true colours - Pietersen giving feeble self- justification for his many shortcomings and Keane, for example, giving no hint of regret for his appalling assault on Alf Inge Haaland.   And today we hear that, not content with already having decimated half a rain forest in previous sorties into the world of literature, yet another volume is about to hit the streets from `Sir` Alex Ferguson, of whom I really had hoped that we had heard the last.  

Rarely has the publication of new books been so depressing.  Why can`t books be like they used to be?  Books that told real stories in plain language, books with real and believable characters, books with morality at their heart, books that test the range of emotions before providing a happy and satisfying ending.

And so, in an attempt to escape the deep, meaningful, self-publicising and utterly boring newcomers to the country`s book stands, I turn once again to an old friend which has been there for me over so many years, through so much insecurity, turmoil and uncertainty - a friend who has always provided the comfort, the moral compass and the inspiration to face the world knowing that goodness, honesty and decency are still out there.  You just have to know where to find it.  

And I have been lucky to have by my side all these years a rather crumpled, rare copy of The Inquisitive Elf and each time I read it in my hours of need, I wonder how on earth Eunice Close never won the Man Booker Prize.

THE DEAREST AND THE BEST

It was with much sadness that I learned today of the passing of the author Leslie Thomas and although I don`t intend for this to be an obituary (others more skilled in that art will do that) I wanted - felt the need really - just to jot down a few thoughts about Leslie Thomas, as he is someone with whom I have identified over the years.  Here`s why.....

Like me, he did his National Service, mainly in the far east, on which he based his first best selling novel, The Virgin Soldiers and its sequels, Onward followed by Stand Up Virgin Soldiers.  But from the bawdy raucousness of those beginnings, he developed a style which became more wry, more reflective of the times in which he lived - Tropic of Ruislip just caught the social atmosphere and turmoil which we lived through.   He produced travel books about this country - I still have The Hidden Places of Britain which includes an evocative portrait of the north Kent marshes not far from where I live and an account of the deep midwinter in Cape Cornwall and St. Just in Penwith.

He may not have produced great literature in its truest sense but he produced stories about people and places that he clearly held dear - the delicate harshness of Chloe`s Song set largely in and around Southampton, for example.   Now my choice of illustration shown above might appear odd in the context of this ramble - it shows a hidden corner of the New Forest but it might also be a subtle tribute to his best work.   One of my best loved English composers is Gustav Holst, of Planets fame, and his uplifting homage to Jupiter The Bringer of Jollity includes the haunting melody that became I Vow to Thee My Country.  Cecil Spring Rice`s lyrics include the lines:-

The love that asks no questions, the love that stands the test

That lays upon the alter the dearest and the best

......and I can well imagine Leslie Thomas using these lines and the sentiment they express as the inspiration for his novel based on wartime in the New Forest with all its barely disguised settings of Beaulieu, Lyndhurst and others and all the anguish that wartime brought to the Forest villagers and their sacrifice and horror as they lost The Dearest and the Best of their own.

Now and again Mrs. Snopper encourages me to `have a sort out` of my eclectic bookshelves and I admit that almost all of my Leslie Thomas collection has gone to deserving charities over the years and it is only today, with the news of his passing, that I appreciate them even more.   I make a habit of visiting book shops and lately I have been looking to replace two or three of my favourite Thomas novels but sadly he seems to have gone out of fashion.   More`s the pity, for he beautifully and faithfully captured the essence of those times, those places and those people which he held with such true affection, in return for which he was himself held with affection and admiration by those of us of a certain age who cherish the same things as did he.  I am so sorry that he is no longer with us.

WATCH OF THE DAY..

It`s a curious thing about Christmas that television, which used to inform, educate and entertain, seems nowadays to serve up an endless stream of angst-ridden soaps, noise masquerading as comedy, old movies which included the box set of Carry On films and the mysterious notion that we are impressed and enthralled by the witless prattling of `celebrities.`   

It is indeed difficult to find much to lift the spirit once one has slumped down on the sofa.   Nonetheless, I managed to come across two or three gems, the first of which was the final of the Workplace Choir of the Year won by P&O Ferries with a quite inspired performance.   Then, of course, the first half of the Saints 3-0 demolition of troubled Cardiff City brought a warm glow in stark contrast to the late night cricket viewing from Down Under.

But the highlight for me was a delightful programme on the ever admirable BBC Four, which was devoted to telling the story of Ladybird Books.   And what blissful memories it rekindled in one who spent so many contented hours reading them to our three sons when they were much younger than the 50, 48 and 47 they are now.   There was something wonderfully innocent about those books, the way they were written and beautifully illustrated, depicting a peaceful world of happy families, rosy cheeked children and doting parents.  

The Ladybird books were on a par with the equally enchanting Deans Little Poppet Series which included the masterly saga of The Inquisitive Elf - another family favourite. These timeless volumes brought to life the stories of childhood, like the one shown above, and all this mentioning of elves reminds me of the reports from Iceland where a road construction programme has been halted by activists because the highway project might disturb the habitat of elves, especially an elf church which sits on the potential site.  The Icelandic Supreme Court is going to have to decide on the issue in the near future.  I don`t envy them their task.

Predictably enough, the highway authorities are claiming that the project should be allowed to proceed as there is no evidence of the existence of elves;  alternatively, of course, and especially for devotees of Little Poppet and Ladybird books, there is no evidence to suggest that the hidden folk don`t exist.  

It`s OK - I`ll be fine when I grow up.

ANNOYING BUT NOT MALICIOUS..

Sometimes life produces minor triumphs, inconsequential darts thrown at the ramparts of convention, tiny moments of satisfaction in a world of relentless frustration.   And I have to confess to experiencing one such joyful moment this morning, of all places in the book aisle of the local Tesco mega-market.

We had been there to do our weekly shopping and, as tradition has it, I toddle off to do the man stuff like putting the empty plastic bottles in the recycling bin, visiting the cash machine (more out of curiosity than ambition) and then trying to find Mrs. Snopper who by this time is well into the fruit and veg.   On my search for her, I tend to have a little detour to look at magazines and books but seldom feel the urge to buy one.   

And today I was especially discouraged from buying `Alex Ferguson - My  Autobiography` despite the fact that it was on sale at half price.  But I have to admit that it caught my eye, especially as there were quite a lot of them on show, all with his face scowling down at us.   

Now my handy dictionary defines `mischief` as `annoying but not malicious behaviour,` so I`m hopeful that the CCTV cameras will ignore my little bit of mischief in turning all of the Ferguson books round the wrong way, so that only the back covers of the books were visible and showing Ferguson`s back as he trudged back to the dressing room at Old Trafford, hair-dryer at the ready.  

So my apologies to the Tesco staff if my annoying but not malicious behaviour caused them any inconvenience and perhaps a marginal drop in sales, but it was really quite irresistible and, for a few brief moments, gave me a feeling of quiet contentment.   I know, I know - I`ll be fine when I grow up.   Possibly.

PLEASE YOURSELF...

I see that the `long list` for this year`s Booker Prize has been released, with the `short list` being revealed in a month or two, presumably once the mysteriously appointed `judges` have had time to flog through all the entries -  at least one of which is 832 pages long.

Now I readily confess to a good deal of ignorance about literature, despite gaining a creditable GCE in the subject back in the days when Dickens, George Eliot, Hardy and other rib-tickling worthies were compulsory reading, so I`m in no position to go on about the Booker Prize entries.   But here goes anyway.

What concerns me, you see, as a literary Luddite, is that I`ve honestly never heard of any of the authors who have been listed - my fault, I guess, but having had a gander about them and all their works, I`m left with the feeling that it`s all a bit `arty,` a bit weird, almost as though they have been selected for their eclectic diversity and their `social inclusiveness` as much as the notion that books are there to be read and enjoyed, rather than to become a challenge to one`s  misplaced urge to find acceptability through conformity.   (Sorry about the long sentence but it is the Booker season.)

So, I guess the Snoppers of this world will have to continue to find solace in their own `libraries.`  Mine has been built up over many years and includes an `interesting,` if very personal, selection of tomes, both fictional and educational - physics, mathematics, cosmology, cricket, football, art, history, the natural world, biography; novels by those such as Robert Goddard and Henning Mankell; the poetry of Betjeman and William Scammell and even today I bought a beautiful book illustrating the `secret beaches` of the south west to join my collection of books celebrating this sceptred isle.

I suppose I`m suggesting that, rather than being seduced by the Booker contenders, I can find all the inspiration I need just across the room.   A couple of examples:-

- The Inquisitive Elf by Eunice Close, published by Dean as part of their Little Poppet Series provides a gripping account of the battle between good and evil fought out in the underworld of fantasy and the consequent redemption found as a result of confronting those twin impostors, triumph and disaster.   Then there is.......

- Taking Le Tiss, the autobiography of Matthew le Tissier (Harper Sport) which illustrates yet again the abandonment of raw talent and invention in favour of toil, sweat and relentless effort, leading as always to negativity and leaving the victim to reflect on the basic unfairness of the judgement of others.

And it is, of course, the judgement of others that will decide the destination of the Booker Prize, rather than the choices that individuals may make for themselves? 

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.

IS IT JUST ME ?

So yesterday was the 200th anniversary of Charles Dickens` birth.   And didn`t we know it with endless references on television and radio, services in Westminster Abbey and other places of worship, a succession of worthies standing up, giving readings and reminding us all just how fantastic Dickens was.   All of which might be true, although I suspect that, like one of this country`s other literary giants Thomas Hardy, another side of Dickens will emerge and disappoint when I get around to reading Claire Tomalin`s Dickens biography.

I guess there are two reasons why I`ve never been a great fan of Dickens and his works.   The first, quite unfairly, is that he was born in Portsmouth although to be fair to that troubled city it`s a bit short of claims to fame.   One might be the fact that Nelson`s flagship, Victory, is permanently parked there along with the Mary Rose - it`s all very nautical you see - and another is its football club, which is really a claim to infamy, so you can`t really blame Portsmouth for going on about Dickens being born there even if he left at the age of two.

The second reason is that, when I was at school back in the dark ages, I was forced to read some of Dickens` stuff, along with Victor Hugo, George Eliot and other rib tickling authors.  Now I hate being forced to do anything and maybe it was that enforcement that made me regard Dickens` novels as dull, boring, heavy going and very contrived.   I didn`t like them much and it`s always been a source of surprise to me that, having been fed on that kind of literary diet, I nevertheless managed to pass English Literature exams.

So they may be they are the reasons why I found little to get excited about with yesterday`s gushing memorials and I whilst I realise I might be in a minority of one, I do wonder if it really is just me.

SAYS IT ALL...

Went on the occasional pilgrimage to Bluewater Shopping Thingy a couple of days ago.   Our visits usually consist of Mrs. Snopper going off with a steely determination to get what we came for, leaving me to pass the allotted time having a browse in the bookshops.   I used to go and have a coffee but it`s got silly - the cups are enormous, the coffee`s awful and the price is exhorbitant;   I`m guessing, but I suspect it`s one of those things one must `do` to be seen to be `doing` it, rather than for the enjoyment of the dubious`refreshment.`

Anyway, back to the books.   Over the last few years there has been a sharp rise in the number of `biographies` and `autobiographies` of so-called celebrities, possibly to the detriment of those for whom such tomes are more justly warranted.   There are, of course, biographies and biographies.  But some of the most compelling are of figures either from history or modern times who have lived extraordinary lives or achieved great things.  I have enjoyed and profited from reading the lives of, say, Thomas Hardy, Jane Austen, Harold Larwood John McDouall Stuart.  Not every one`s cup of tea maybe but still infinitely more substantial than some of those currently on offer in the pre-Christmas bonanza.

And so it was with an air of shrugging resignation that I noticed the `authors` who were due to turn up at Waterstone`s in Bluewater to sign copies of their volumes for an expectant gaggle of admirers.   The pneumatic Katie Price, whose claim to fame seems to be that she is, errr, Katie Price. The insolence that is James Corden, who is one of the ranks of modern day `comedians` who peddle the notion that if you are offensive and loud then you are automatically funny.   Couldn`t be more wrong.   And the third `author` billed to arrive is one Tinie Tempah.   No, I`d never heard of him (or her) either.

Now it`s one thing for these and a whole host of other self-publicising nonentities to make a few bob on the back of their counterfeit status (and who can blame them for that) but it`s quite another to realise that they might actually represent the popular culture of modern day Britain.  And even more sadly, those who will make the journey, queue up, buy the books, have them signed and go away thinking they have acquired something of value and with it some status of their own, says it all really about the  way we are these days.  

 I`ve been told that Claire Tomalin has a new biography out - of Charles Dickens who, despite being born in Portsmouth, seems to fall well within the category of being both extraordinary and achieving great things.   I quite expect to get far more from that than I ever will from the combined ghost written ramblings of Price, Corden, Tempah and the rest.

READ ON..

Had my latest visit to Bluewater today - I had hoped it might have been the last one before Christmas, but sadly hopes are fading as further visits seem inevitable in the run up to the festive season.

One of the things I look forward to on my visits is to browse Waterstones` bookshop and a very good bookshop it is too.   Sometimes I might buy a book but most times I just enjoy browsing and I have taken to  reading books in bits.   Over recent weeks I`ve started to read `500 Villages that Made Britain` by Clive Aslet.  It`s pretty expensive - £25, I think - so rather than buy it I`m reading a bit each time I go there.  I got to something like Village 187 and came across an entry for my own boyhood village of Hythe in Hampshire, which was refreshing to see - even if there appears to have been some confusion between `my` Hythe and the one in Kent which is one of the Cinque Ports.   I suppose one day my guilt might persuade me to buy it, but I might have to wait for the second edition, once the bugs have been ironed out.

Once again, a fascinating aspect of Waterstones was today`s announcement outside the shop that a book signing was to take place at 5.00pm this afternoon.   Today`s star turn was one Bret `Hitman` Hart who would be there to sign copies of his autobiography entitled, errr, Bret Hart `Hitman.`   Mr. Hart, it seems, is a famous wrestler, well known to grapple fans the world over.  He is much admired in wrestling circles and, to be fair, his tome has received some encouraging endorsements, including:-

`A LEGEND`

The Rock 

`THE BEST WRESTLING BOOK THERE EVER WILL BE`
The Sun

`A FASCINATING INSIGHT INTO THE WORLD OF CELEBRITY PUGILISM`
Pugilism Today

`IT`S A KNOCKOUT`
Stuart Hall

So Mr. Hart has much going for him and good luck to him.  Sensibly, I decided to hightail it from Bluewater well before 5.00pm which might have been just as well.  The last thing I needed was to be caught up in a piledriver, a step over leg lock or a crutch hold and slam...especially at my age. 

WORTH THE WAIT?

Another day, another night, another queue. A while ago, I reported on the saddest queue ever witnessed in the Bluewater Shopping Thingy, when Michael Barrymore was due to sign a copy or two of his autobiography. A couple of nights ago, yet another gathering began to form outside Waterstones bookshop, this time in Piccadilly in London.

The occasion was the announcement that Cheryl Cole would be turning up to sign copies of her latest tome at 1.00pm yesterday. Now, I`ve always been intrigued by people who write (or have ghost-written) autobiographies whilst still in their 20s. Had I done so at that age, it would have resulted in a very slim volume indeed. Never mind, no doubt the fragrant Mrs. Cole has crammed more in to her tender 27 years than I have still managed in my 70s.

Mrs. Cole clearly has many devotees. The early arrivals on Thursday included a contingent from Lancashire, whose spokeslady declared that, `Cheryl is so wonderful, my role model and it`s such a thrill to be here to catch a glimpse of her.` To be fair, they - and other later arrivals to the steadily lengthening queue - displayed a devotion above and beyond the call of duty by sticking it out throughout a long, cold, wet night on the pavements of Piccadilly. So much so that when she heard of their fortitude, Mrs. Cole immediately sent for 20 flasks of hot chocolate for them. Fair enough.

It takes all types, of course, to make the world interesting, but I do sometimes wonder at the mindset of people being prepared to wait outside all night in the cold and wet just to spend good money on the post-malaria literary ramblings of a bimbo-esque Geordie chanteuse who, by the way, isn`t Mrs. Cole any more anyway. I hope she`s not cashing in on Ashley Cole`s name - if so, sales will be sure to plummet.