SAY IT QUIETLY...

Well, we certainly won`t be dancing in th street this evening. Near neighbour Scott Wagstaff was part of the Charlton Athletic team that lost 1-0 away at Northwich Victoria in the FA Cup this afternoon. Scott came off the bench for the last ten minutes but was unable to produce a game changing cameo performance as, in truth, Northwich thoroughly deserved their win.

Now and again, football - and FA Cup draws in particular - throws up some odd coincidences. A year or so ago, Scott had a couple of months on loan playing for Northwich and when I saw him the other afternoon, he was looking forward to going back there and meeting up with some of his old colleagues. Sadly, it turned out to be a disappointing return and next up for Charlton is another Cup match on Wednesday evening when they take on Southampton at St. Mary`s Stadium in the Johnstones Paint Trophy, of all things.

On Friday evening, the Saints took on Bristol Rovers at their Memorial Ground also in the FA Cup. Despite the Gasheads of Bristol riding high in League One, whilst the Saints remain in the bottom three, we came away with a 3-2 victory to gain a place in the second round, away to Northampton Town. Southampton against Northampton - another coincidence? Not any more, as it will be the third time in as many years that we have been drawn against each other.

The Bristol Rovers game produced another minor coincidence, for it was to Rovers that Saints splashed out £1million to secure the services of their top striker, Rickie Lambert, who notched 29 goals for them last season and has already reached double figures for us this term. Lambert didn`t score against his old club on Friday evening, but it`s surprising how often these things crop up.

Until recently, Northampton were `managed` by former Saints player, Stuart Gray, who also had a short period managing Saints. A former player for Northampton was Damien Matthew. He started as a 7-year old for a boys club I had something to do with all those years ago and he went on to play for Chelsea and Burnley before ending his playing career with the Cobblers of Northampton. Damien is now a coach at....Charlton Athletic and was in charge of their Youth team, which Scott captained to a good run in the FA Youth Cup. Another circle complete.

But finally, it was noticeable how Saints win at Bristol on Friday evening went largely unnoticed, except to the ardent fans. Not on tv, no reports as such on Sky Sports or in the Saturday papers and just the meerest mention on local tv, all of which suits me nicely as our measured progress continues after years of decline. I`m beginning to believe this dawn may not, after all, be a false one but we`ll keep it quiet just in case.

RANT OF THE DAY....

I was talking with one of my neighbours yesterday morning and he told me that he hadn`t bought a newspaper for years and years. The reason? Because they were always full of bad news. So too is the news on television and radio; it seems impossible to avoid it and the really depressing thing is that the more you listen, look and read, the worse the news seems to get.

Almost as if to prove my neighbour right, as yesterday unfolded, a string a bad news - some of it tragic - grabbed my attention. Too many things to recount them all here but they included, of course, the outrage in Afghanistan when five more British servicemen lost their lives and even more were seriously injured. It again got me thinking that if we are going to stay there despite all my instincts telling me we should just get out and leave, then we surely are entitled to expect our`European allies` to share more of the burden that we have taken on. I don`t hear HM Gov. pressing the case about that as forcefully as it should be pressed and it makes me angry.

And speaking of our `European allies,` we also heard yesterday that the infamous Lisbon Treaty was finally signed and sealed when the Czech Prime Minister, Vaclav Klaus, finally gave in. And whilst brave servicemen and women are fighting a losing battle in Afghanistan, the political elite of Europe will now be more concerned with who might be the President and who might be the High Representative for Foreign Affairs. Mercifully, it looks as if Tony Blair`s star is on the wane and we might end up with some Belgian nonentity as President of the European Council. As long as it ain`t Blair, that`s fine, although I would still have liked to vote for a President rather than have one foisted upon me.

Whilst Blair may not get that job, there are dark rumblings that the High Representative job might go to David Milliband, the UK`s Foreign Secretary. He looks more and more as if he`s doing his gap year, so difficult is it to take him at all seriously, but if our European partners led by Rosa Klebb lookalike Angela Merkel and Sarkosy the Gallic Dwarf want to continue their nonentity quest, then Milliband of the Remove is their man. What really makes me angry though is that I`m paying for all this nonsense through my taxes, I have no say in what`s going on and any notion I ever had about the will of the people being paramount has totally disappeared in the welter of lies, broken promises and self-serving arrogance which characterises the European Project.

There, that`s better.

POTS AND KETTLES?

It`s reported that Gordon Brown telephoned Hamid Karzai yesterday to congratulate him on his election as President of Afghanistan. Hang on. If I`ve got this right, the first `election` was dogged by widespread fraud to such as extent that a second election would have been held but for the withdrawal of Karzai`s only rival, Abdullah Abdullah. So no second election then but never mind, Karzai has been installed as President nonetheless.

Brown is also reported to have urged Karzai to act swiftly to "establish the legitimacy of his Presidency in the eyes of the Afghan people." Hang on again. If I`ve got this one right as well, didn`t Brown shoehorn himself into the Premiership of this country and deny the voters the chance to "establish the legitimacy" of his Premiership by refusing to hold a General Election?

Yesterday, Staff Sergeant Olaf Schmid of the Royal Logistic Corps was killed whilst defusing a roadside bomb in Afghanistan, bringing the total of British personnel lost in that conflict to 224 - even more than in the illegal Iraq campaign. And I`m beginning to wonder how much longer we can go on losing precious lives in a conflict that may have no solution in a country where corruption is rife, despite which we are ploughing £140million a year into a dubious attempt to give a foothold to `democracy` - a concept which may not even be understood let alone welcomed in that troubled land. And I`m intrigued as to how the notion of installing even a faltering `democracy` can have any legitimacy when imposed by unelected `leaders` via an election procedure which of itself has brought democracy into disrepute.

TESTING TIMES

It`s a sure sign of getting on a bit when your grandaughter passes her driving test. Sarah, who is 17, passed hers at the first attempt on Friday thus putting one over both her Dad and her Grandad, as we both failed our first tests. I don`t know what went wrong for Sarah`s Dad, but I vividly recall my own failure which took place in Maidstone on a Tuesday morning in about 1956.

The trouble with Maidstone in those days was that it didn`t have a by-pass and there were no motorways so that all the traffic between London and the ports like Dover went right through the middle of the town. And Tuesday mornings were when the town`s market was held - a big deal in those days, so maybe not the best time for a driving test. The test centre was pretty much in the middle of the town and I drove out of there rather nervously to join the queue of traffic crawling down the hill. And then we stopped.

For twenty minutes we didn`t move and with the test supposedly lasting about half an hour, I was asked to try and turn round and crawl back to the test centre, where I was told how sorry they were but the traffic conditions did not make it possible for the test to be properly conducted. And would I like to make another appointment for a free retest on any other day than a Tuesday morning, which I did and scraped through the retest despite confessing that I didn`t have a clue about one of the Highway Code questions I was asked. (I have long suspected that they were going to pass me anyway unless I was seriously dreadful as a kind of compensation for the first attempt.)

I`m convinced that the test these days is much more thorough and difficult than it ever was when I had mine. I never had to concern myself with a theory test and the car I learnt to drive - a Hillman Minx - was pretty `basic.` Having passed the test though, I had to wait years before I could own a car of my own and when I eventually did it was a white Ford Popular 100e named Emma, with a side valve engine and lots of eccentric features. I suspect Sarah, who has been saving up for years, might already have her sights set on a car to give her the freedom of the road and a whole new outlook on life. One of life`s rites of passage has been ticked off her list. I just wonder what the next one might be.

ONE FOOT OFF THE GROUND...

Well, here we are on another day in paradise. The news on tv, radio and in the papers is not just depressing but most of it just makes me angry.

Today, the `headlines` include the farce surrounding Tony ("I`m a straight kind of guy") Blair and the will-he-won`t-he end up, God help us, as President of Europe. We learn that Britain is still in recession, whilst most if not all the other leading western countries are not. So much for Gordon Brown telling us we`re `best placed` to come through it better than others. Then a succession of disgraced MPs standing up in Parliament to apologise for their expenses misdemeanours; half-hearted apologies delivered with just the hint of a smirk in the knowledge that they`re not being forced to pay back most of their ill-gotten gains. Then more `news` concerning the X Factor, Strictly Come Dancing and other irrelevancies. And on and on it goes with my grumpy factor rising to dangerous levels.

But one thing that has evoked genuine sadness was the passing, two days ago, of `Shep.` Born in the enchanting village of Instow in Devon, which looks out across the Torridge estauary to the equally charming Appledore, David Sheppard went on to have a successful career as a batsman for Gloucestershire before becoming not only one of cricket`s very best umpires but also one of its most engaging and respected. Shep, of course, was reknowned for his ritual of standing on one leg each time the scoreboard showed 111, which represents `Nelson,` cricket`s supposed unlucky number.

The superstition is said to have originated with Admiral Lord Nelson, who supposedly had one eye, one arm and one leg - even though he had both his legs but which still adds up to bad luck in anyone`s language. It was one of cricket`s most charming moments, watching the bulky figure of Shep trying to stand on one leg until the scoreboard ticked past the fateful number. So he will be much missed and somehow it seemed fitting that he should pass away, having lost his battle with cancer, in that same Instow where he was born 68 years ago.

In a week or so, Remebrance Day will come round again and silence should fall at 11.00am on the eleventh day of the eleventh month. As I respect the silence for fallen heroes, I might just raise a foot off the ground as I remember also one of the truly beautiful game`s more endearing characters, who will probably be doing the same as the Remembrance Day clock turns to eleven on the eleventh of the eleventh.

NOT A HAPPY BARNEY..

Poor Barney`s not very well. For the last few weeks he has been fine in himself - full of the usual mischief, full of running, being very playful as usual - but in the plumbing department there have been a few problems. I will spare you the details, dear reader, but let`s just say that he has been anything but `regular` - decidedly erratic, in fact.

Now we weren`t at all sure what the reason might be. It could be that he is simply missing Judy the Soft Wheaten Terrier, with whom he has clearly fallen in love. It could be down to his eclectic diet which all retrievers are prone to adopt as they are what is known in the trade as `opportunity eaters,` which simply means that when they are let off the lead in nearby woods, they can`t resist eating just about anything and everything irrespective of what it might be. Barney`s opportunistic diet has included items such as two socks, bits of rabbit, grass, quite a bit of wood and one unguarded moment saw him demolish the entire contents of a large bowl full of peanuts, cashews and cheese and onion crisps. No wonder he has been `erratic.`

But we have had some sleepless nights. It seems he doesn`t `go` in the daytime, but he gets us up three or four or even more times at night, so he can be let out to do what he needs to do. This clearly could not go on, so a couple of visits to the vets has seen him given a dose of antibiotics and instructions for me to provide `samples` for forensic examination - a task I have yet to complete. We hope he gets back to `normal` soon (whatever that may be) but as it`s his first birthday tomorrow, he can say goodbye to any thoughts of a party with cakes and goodies. Pity really. I was quite looking forward to that.

My third visit of the season to St. Mary`s Stadium yesterday saw Saints overcome a 1-0 half time deficit to storm to a 3-1 victory over high flying MK Dons. In fact, it was the third straight 3-1 win, having beaten Southend and Oldham in the previous two away matches. But despite a rich vein of form and just one defeat in the last 11 games, Saints still remain in the relegation zone at the bottom of League One (really Division three.)

No matter, for there is a new `match day experience` to be had at St. Mary`s these days. Gone are the stifling boardroom reshuffles, gone is Rupert Lowe hopefully never to darken the door of professional football ever again and gone are the failed management experiments which brought nothing more than failure, confusion and disenchantment amongst players and supporters alike. Instead, there is a new atmosphere; one which acknowledges that the fans have their club back, that it is in good hands with our new Swiss owner, Markus Liebherr, and those charged with the day to day management of the club`s affairs.

You can feel it in the air with the substantial crowd (over 21,000 yesterday) genuinely supporting the club once more. You can see it on the pitch, with a committed team playing well for each other and their new manager, Alan Pardew. And I guess you can detect that, for this season at least, to get away from the relegation zone, survive another season at this level and reach mid-table obscurity are perhaps the only realistic expectations, however much we might harbour thoughts of end of season play-offs. So we just sit back and enjoy the proper and compelling football being served up, safe in the knowledge that a huge corner has been turned after years of all round mediocrity, but most of all we just enjoy being there again. And it has been a long time since we did that.

RAZOR SHARP...

I bought some new razor blades recently, those Gillette ones that have about five blades all in one promising a comfortable shaving experience. They were pretty expensive but I was encouraged by the notice on the packet that suggested that they would `last up to three months.`

It got me wondering about a couple of things. The first is that surely their claim depends entirely on the strength of the beard, the frequency of shaving, what kind of shaving foam or gel you use and a host of other factors. So I took it to mean that the three months was the best case scenario. Then I wondered why on earth we bother to shave at all. After all, countless millions have never bothered and some of my best friends are bearded wonders. But I`ve always done it and it`s too late now to change the habit of a lifetime (well, since I`ve been growing whiskers anyway.)

I well recall my National Service days, which started with an early morning inspection to see if we were conforming to `good order and military discipline.` One of the items for regular inspection was whether we had shaved properly. One day, I must have been a bit pushed for time and so didn`t shave very carefully, leaving a few fluffy tell-tale bristles round the back of an ear.

"Have you shaved today, lad?" bawled the drill sergeant, about 3 centimeters from my face.
"Yes, sergeant," I tremulously replied.
"Did you use a mirror, lad?"
"Yes, sergeant."
"Well, next time use a ****ing razor!!"

There were times when I could hardly keep pace with the razor sharp wit.

LOOK AWAY NOW?

The furore over tomorrow night`s edition of Question Time on BBC One seems to be gathering pace. BNP Leader Nick Griffin is due to be on the panel for the first time, due to his party gaining two seats in the European Parliament and a handful in local councils in this country. All of which supposedly make him a `legitimate` politician and at the same time provide the BBC with the problem of maintaining their so-called political neurality and their apparent `duty` to provide fair representation to all legitimate political parties. Difficult.

Also on the panel will be Justice Minister Jack Straw, Asian Tory Baroness Warsi and opinionated black American feminist, Bonnie Greer. There might still be a couple of places to fill, so look out for a gay rights campaigner and a Rabbi. It`s all about balance you see. But already there are predictions about demonstations inside and outside the recording venue. South African permatanned Welsh Secretary Peter Hain has been in correspondence with BBC Director General about the legality of allowing Griffin to appear and as I write, the BBC Trust (a contradiction in terms if ever I heard one) are meeting to `review` the DG`s conclusion that there`s nothing to worry about.

Like Strictly Come Dancing and the X Factor, Question Time tomorrow promises to be little more than a sideshow, an end-of-the-pier fols de rol, a highly charged down market entertainment rather than the serious debating hour it`s supposed to be and you can be sure that attention will all be focussed on the answers rather than the questions.

Now, in much the same way as we are warned to `look away now` if we don`t want to know the football results, I`ve had a look at the alternative viewing that is available whilst Question Time is being aired tomorrow evening. Among a host of appropriate alternatives is `Disappearing Britain,` being shown on the History Channel, `House Wreck Rescue` on Discovery Real Time and `Brit Cops : Zero Tolerance` on Virgin One. As for me, on the basis that there may be trouble ahead, but while there`s music and laughter and love and romance, I might just face the music and watch `Shall We Dance?` on the excellent BBC Four. Or switch off and go to bed which may well be the best option of all.

Someone - can`t remember who - once said something to someone along the lines of, "I find the views you hold to be utterly repulsive, but I will forever defend your right to express them." Without holding any candle for Griffin or anyone else who might appear, I just wonder whether too many people in high places have forgotten about that.

TEE HEE...

Most people don`t like Mondays and I confess to have been no different when I was at work, chained to the yoke of the nine to five and beyond. But retirement brings an altogether different perspective to most things, including Mondays.

During the latter stages of my working life, I used to drive to the office on Monday mornings and wonder what it would be like to be teeing off on the golf course at about 9.00am rather than facing the start of yet another working week. So one day - just that once - I did just that. Just to see what it was like. Now followers of this blog will know that I`m not very good at golf - possibly the understatement of the year - but I do enjoy being out in the fresh air, getting some exercise and, best of all, hitting something really hard. So I enjoyed all of those things on my naughty Monday morning but I also enjoyed the feeling of escape, release from convention, doing something that maybe I shouldn`t be doing, somewhere where maybe I should not have been. And it felt great. Monday morning, I thought, take that!

Now I`m in the depths of retirement, Mondays are different - no stress, no demands, no conventions to conform to - I have the freedom (more or less) to choose what I do and when and where. But I don`t play golf on Monday mornings any more. It`s as if I want to hang on to the memory of that clandestine morning all those years ago, whilst at the same time sparing a thought for the millions who do have to face another Monday and who might wish to be somewhere else doing something different. I do think about you, you see.

A DIFFERENT HEROISM..

A few days ago, I wrote about Marcus Trescothick courageously making the journey to India to help his county, Somerset, compete in the Champions League Twenty 20. I`m pretty sure that, like me, the whole of the cricket loving nation hoped that he might get through it and might have hoped that he could rise from the depths of his anxiety and play for England again. My, how we`ve missed him.

Sadly for us, Marcus was once again forced to return home prematurely despite his valliant attempt to deal with the depression and anxieties that have seen him abandon overseas tours in the past. But what struck me about his latest homecoming was the way it was received by the press, the media and `ordinary` cricket lovers like myself.

There was a time - not all that long ago - when Marcus would have been criticised for being weak willed, wimpish, not fit to wear the shirt and all the other instant condemnations that used to rain down on what was assumed to be human failure. But we know more now. We have grown up a bit. We understand a little more about mental difficulties, what brings them on, what they can do to people and how overwhelming they can be. And I suspect that at least some of that understanding is down to people like Marcus Trescothick, who have been open and honest about their situations. And because of his standing as a sporting hero, he has been able to bring those problems to the attention of a wider and more understanding audience. As a result, we no longer condemn, but we sympathise and we understand.

It has been hard for Marcus to have his problems aired so publicly but it seems to have been a conscious decision on his part not to hide, but to bring it out into the open so that he can avoid the dreadful alternatives that come with denial. He will always be a sporting hero - his record speaks for itself both as a player and as a man - but maybe he is also a hero of a different kind to have helped us all to be a little more tolerant and understanding than we once were.

THEY`RE TALKING HIS LANGUAGE..

A few days ago, in one of the most wonderfully ironic moments that have marked the gruesome MPs expenses affair, former Speaker of the Commons, Michael Martin, was elevated to the peerage and morphed into Baron Martin of Springburn. It was Martin, of course, who presided over the whole expenses farrago and, at the taxpayer`s expense, tried to stop those same taxpayers from finding out how the MPs had spent the taxpayers` money.

Now normally, this `promotion` to the Upper House is routine for any Speaker. But Martin was the first Speaker to be forced out of office for more than 300 years. And the House of Lords Appointments Commission, which looks at all nominations for peerages, allegedly told Number 10 that his arrival might damage the reputation of the House of Lords. Gordon Brown simply waved those objections aside which just about confirmed that the peerage was part of the tempting package which persuaded Martin to quit as Speaker.

So, earlier in the week, there he was, resplendant in scarlet and ermine robes, shuffling towards the table of the House to hear the Clerk announce the ancient, time-honoured words: "Elizabeth II, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom know Ye that We of Our especial grace, certain knowledge and mere motion … do advance, create and prefer Our trusty and well-beloved Michael John Martin blah, blah...and also that he may enjoy all the rights, privileges, pre-eminences, immunities and advantages to the degree of Baron duly and of right belonging, which Barons of Our United Kingdom have heretofore used and enjoyed, or as they do at present use and enjoy."

Rights, privileges, pre-eminences, immunities and advantages! They`re talking his language as he looks forward to building on the minimum daily allowance of £425 for bringing his own peculiar experience of life, evasion and sheet metal working to add to the proceedings of the House.

Now if you think I may have made that all up, just spare a moment to reflect on the prospect of former Second Home Secretary, Jacqui Smith, following Baron Mick of Gorbals up the golden staircase. It is apparently also routine for ex-Home Secretaries to be granted peerages and one cannot escape the notion that the prospect of Smith following Martin will most definitely put the House of Lords Appointments Commission on guard once more. But I`m not sure it will make any difference, for what else can one expect from a political leadership not only out of touch with reality but also steeped in a moral decline of its own making?

LOVE AT FIRST BITE..

Our week of looking after Judy the Soft Wheaten Terrier is up tomorrow when her owners return from their holiday in Turkey. As you can see from the photo, she and Barney have been getting along very well. In fact, I think there is now a real bond between them and I`m sure they will miss each other when the time comes to say `goodbye.`

They have enjoyed their scampers through assorted woods, played for hours, bitten each other`s ears with what I can only imagine are canine love bites - there has been the occasional squeal mainly as a result of the heightened passion blazing between them, they`ve rolled around a lot and generally shown all the signs of a blossoming relationship. I haven`t yet dared mention to Judy that Barney has had a certain `procedure,` which will cramp his style somewhat, but then who am I to spoil their last few hours of blissful company with such trifling details?

Where we have been staying is very much `country` and we have enjoyed seeing loads of birds feeding in the garden trees - I`m reliably informed that there were blue tits, great tits and even a nuthatch, so I`ve learnt something new about birds! Mrs. Snopper kept hearing noises in the night - throaty growls and grunting mainly - and she wondered if it might have been badgers or a rutting stag or even wild boar, such is the remoteness of the location. I suspect it was probably me. Well, I can dream, can`t I?

SNOPPER`S SUNDAY ROAST..

Listening to the news and reading newspapers, it`s a job to know where to begin. In a week of news that stifles optimism, the highlights have been:-

- democracy gasping for breath as the Irish Referendum on the Lisbon Treaty allegedly resulted in an overwhelming `Yes.` For me the result is actually underwhelming not of itself, although I think that now the Irish have voted twice and it`s 1-1 after extra time, there might be a case for a jump off against the clock, but because it highlights once again the disregard for the democractic process by the clunking fist of Gordon Brown. Now I don`t have a problem with `authority` as such, as long as it is fair, reasonable and democratic. But I sure as hell have a problem with `authority` when it is unfair, unreasonable and plainly undemocratic. We were promised a referendum which was denied to us by an unelected Prime Minister and I find his refusal to honour democracy not only deceitful but also deeply offensive;

- delusions of adequacy coming to the fore once more in the form of Tony Blair, who is apparently the front runner for the Presidency of the EU. I imagined, in my crushing naivety, that Presidents of countries, never mind continents, should by and large be upright, honest, decent people who can set an example and inspire confidence in those over whom they preside. So how come we are likely to get a warmongering, sycophantic, self-serving, lying- through-his-teeth, grandiose poseur? Oh, of course, it`s the EU we`re dealing with, where it takes one to know one;

- sorry seems to be the hardest word if you`re `Sir` Alex Ferguson. He has issued a statement which is little more than getting his retaliation in first before the FA consider what action, if any, to take following yet another loudmouthed outburst against match officials. The statement was apparently issued via the Manchester United tv channel for which one has to pay a subscription to view and which one is unlikely to view anyway unless one is a Manchester United fan - preaching to the converted, I think it`s called. I just hope the FA take strong action, for unless they do then the football world will continue to be bullied by this serial offender. But I`ll believe it when I see it.

So is there any consolation to be found? I could go on as there is so much more to dull the senses and depress the spirit, but despite the rantings of the insufferable Ferguson, I have, like Albert Camus, found some small solace in the world of proper football where, on a dark and wet Friday evening, the Saints overcame the shrimpers of Southend and so take a giant leap towards respectability. What was it Camus said? Oh yes, "All that I know most surely about morality and obligations, I owe to football." They should put a sign saying that on the walls of Old Trafford and Soho Square.

Enjoy your Sunday.

A SMILE ON THE FACE

Back in March, 2008, I wrote a piece on this blog about the decision by Marcus Trescothick that he could no longer continue to play test cricket and that, instead, he would concentrate on serving his county, Somerset, with whom he had been associated for 17 years having been born in the county at Keynsham. His decision followed a series of difficulties he had encountered and which had been documented in his award winning book `Coming back to Me,`that catalogued the mental torture he could no longer endure when being asked to leave home for tours abroad.

Eighteen months on and it seems that the most talented of English opening batsmen is at least beginning to face down the demons that have plagued him for so long.

I`ve just finished watching - on the Eurosport channel - Trescothick`s Somerset Sabres clinch a thrilling one-wicket win over the IPL champions Deccan Chargers in the Champions League Twenty20 in Hyderabad. Trescothick had been granted special dispensation by Somerset to delay travelling until three days after his team mates and to be accompanied for the short tour by his wife, Hayley. His ability to make the journey at all, let alone feature in the game, represents a huge turning point for him and I could not be more pleased to see him with a smile on his face once more.

He does, indeed, have plenty to be pleased about. With Justin Langer`s retirement, Trescothick has been asked to captain Somerset next season and just last week, he was named Player of the Year by the Professional Cricketers Association for his achievements in the season just gone, in which he scored just under 3,000 runs in all competitions. In his darkest days, he reminded me of those other Somerset and England openers, Harold Gimblett and Mark Lathwell, who both also suffered similar difficulties. Gimblett tragically took his own life and Lathwell simply walked away from cricket for good.

I don`t expect to see Trescothick playing for England any more, but it looks as if he is enjoying his cricket and I hope this short, carefully managed tour of India will not only keep the smile on his face but also on the faces of those who, like me, wish nothing but good for a hugely talented and decent man. Welcome back to you, Marcus.

INTO THE UNKNOWN..

Ray Mears, eat your heart out. You ain`t seen nothing yet. You might think it`s rugged battling to survive in the wilds of far off countries but until you`ve explored the hinterland of far west Kent your claim to be a survival expert looks a little thin. In a day or two, Mrs. Snopper and I, along with Barney the Retriever, are heading west to spend a week in the far flung reaches of the county. The reason? We`ve volunteered to dog sit their soft wheaten terrier (Judy) whilst our relatives go off to Turkey for a holiday.

We`ve been over there before and on Sunday we went there to find out how to survive in their surroundings and get to know the locality a bit. We were seduced by a spectacular steak pie dinner which we enjoyed and we were taken on a whistle stop tour of the area to be shown where we might take the dogs for walks and restock our dwindling supplies if necessary. We were warned about the wildlife and we did indeed encounter a deer strolling across the road on our way home. There are also reports of big cats, pumas even, roaming wild - this part of Kent has become well known for the number of confirmed sightings over the years. And we`re told the owls might keep us awake at night.

So it`s wild, untamed, unknown territory. I`ve been and bought a large scale ordnance survey map which should help us keep on the straight and narrow and this morning we have been shopping to make sure we have enough essential supplies of crunchy nut corn flakes, assorted cakes and pastries, pots of custard to go with Mr. Kipling`s exceedingly good apple pies and other indispensable items to sustain us during our adventure. You can tell from the shopping list just how courageous and daunting our week promises to be.
So wish us well. It might be a while before I can post any news of our pioneering quest so in the meantime, I`ll leave you with this image of the untamed wilderness we are about to enter:-


Click on the photo and with a little patience, a larger image should appear. It looks really daunting, doesn`t it? And I think at our age, we`re very brave to even attempt it.

MAYDAY, MAYDAY...

Well, my next door neighbour didn`t have to find his own way home and he doesn`t have to move house after all. A 4-1 humbling of his Gillingham team by a rampant Saints side at St. Mary`s yesterday finally hauled us out of the ten points penalty and into positive territory. Mind you, we are still anchored at the bottom of the league but yesterday`s performance gives real hope that Saints can climb to a position of respectability before too long.

Apart from the result, I think my neighbour enjoyed his day out and I showed him some of the sights of the imposing and historic city of Southampton on our stroll to and from the stadium. The return fixture at Gillingham`s Priestfield Stadium is not until 1st May next year. My neighbour has kindly offered to return the compliment by showing me the sights of Gillingham, encaptured by the picture above showing their expectant fans en route to Priestfield through the captivating environs of that beguiling Medway Town. I can hardly wait.

AT LAST!!

Our Golf Correspondent reports..

The par 3 hole on the challenging Princes Course at Hever Castle is the one that bears the title of `stroke index 1.` And not surprising, for it is almost all water. The tee, set with a slight elevation, is placed about 20 yards from the edge of a daunting lake which leads to a tiny island green 170 yards away where today the pin was placed only a few feet from the far edge of the water. A daunting prospect, therefore, for any golfer and one which has defeated Snopper almost every time he has attempted it. Even he has lost count of the number of golf balls he has lost in those dark forbidding waters.

But today, on his return to the fairways after a few weeks absence due to matters beyond his control, Snopper took his little grandfatherly four wood, struck the ball sweetly and saw it rise majestically over the lake and land a few feet from the pin. Two putts saw him par the hole for the first time in a long and undistinguished career. "About bleedin` time," he beamed in a post match interview.

From then on, however, the euphoria and the adrenalin rush of that moment seemed to play on the rest of his round, which inevitably ended in the now familiar mediocrity. No matter, for in that one moment on that testing hole, Snopper felt what it would be like to be a real golfer rather than persist with the haphazard, hit and hope hacking which is the hallmark of his game.

AS EVER WAS..

Once again, all that is really needed to comment on Saints` game last night is a picture of the fans looking their habitual glum selves. The other day I suggested that this week`s fixtures against Bristol Rovers last night and Gillingham on Saturday might finally drag us out of negative territory. Well, things seemed to be going ok at St. Mary`s last evening in front of an impressive philosophical gathering of 19,727. We were one up, pulled back to 1-1, went two up, pulled back to 2-2 and then, in the sixth minute of the five minutes of added time, Bristol Rovers won it 3-2 with a stunning strike from the edge of the area.

So we are still stuck on minus one point after ten games and still at least ten points adrift at the bottom of the league. The Gillingham game on Saturday now takes on added significance, for if we lose that, which we are perfectly capable of doing, then patience with manager Pardew might begin to wear a little thin. But there`s a long way to go; it`s a marathon not a sprint; Rome wasn`t built in a day and we must move on and put last night`s disappointment behind us at the end of the day. It is, indeed, as ever was.

This morning, our Saints supporting postman brought me my ticket for Saturday`s game. I`m taking my next door neighbour with me, who is an ardent Gillingham fan. I`ve told him that if his team win, then he`ll have to find his own way home. And then move. Seems fair.

HIGHS AND LOWS...

Sometimes on a Monday morning, it`s useful to look ahead at the week in prospect. This week, like many more, will no doubt be a mixture of good news, bad news, highs and lows. The good news and the high points will include lunch on Wednesday with an old school friend whose company I have only recently renewed after a lapse of about 50 years. On Thursday, I might also be renewing my shambling golfing career, which has also lapsed recently due to circumstances beyond my control ( although to be fair I sense the onset of bad news and a definite low point!) On Saturday, I`ll be off to Southampton in the company of my Gillingham supporting next door neighbour to see Saints take on the Gills (that might turn out to be one of the bad news, low points too!) No too much good news after all, it seems.

But the really depressing events for the coming week must surely be the Labour Party Conference, which kicks off in earnest in Brighton today and also Friday, which sees the Irish having to vote again in the referendum about the Lisbon Treaty, having failed to come up with the right answer last time they voted.

In Brighton, we are already seeing our unelected Prime Minister, urged on by the equally unelected Business Secretary, desperately trying to convince the faithful that they should be allowed to continue leading the country and the party. As to the Irish Referendum (aka Neverendum) whilst I do care about the outcome, I am more concerned about the blatant effront to democracy that says that the will of the people is ignored until such time as they give the answer the politicians require. Remember the Nice Treaty which followed the same pattern?

I suppose the only consolation for the Irish is that they are at least getting a referendum, but for them and for the `leadership` of the UK, both events this week represent a failure of the democratic principles that we have taken for granted for so long. It`s no way to run a railroad and I hope for democracy`s sake that both events end in telling defeats.

921

According to my online mileage calculator, it`s 332 miles from Southampton to Carlisle United`s football ground at Brunton Park, so it`s 664 miles there and back. Yesterday, 921 Saints fans made the journey, many by car and coach, some by rail, but however they got there, it represents a heroic journey to watch a team still lying at the foot of the third division and still not yet free of the ten points penalty imposed by the League for going in to administration.

For once, the Gods that rule football smiled kindly on the Saints as, for the first time in living memory, we came back from a 1-0 deficit to snatch a draw in the 95th minute, courtesy of a header from new signing Rahdi Jaidi. So we are now unbeaten in six games and this week`s fixtures against Bristol Rovers on Tuesday and Gillingham on Saturday promise to lift us into positive territory.

The unbounded joy of the players yesterday was demostrated by the fact that, at the end of the game, they all gave their shirts away to the travelling fans, as a token of appreciation for the long and winding road they had travelled to get there. Despite the fact that we are still ten points adrift of safety, there does seem to be a togetherness between the players, the management and the fans that has been so lacking for so long. The only way is up. Possibly.

A GREEN HILL FAR AWAY...

I took this photo just over two weeks ago. The evening sun was just going down over the bay at St. Ives to bring to an end yet another almost perfect day. Since we`ve been home, the weather has continued to be glorious with clear blue skies and spectacular sunsets. The forecast is for this wonderful Indian summer to continue for another week, although I suspect two things. The first is that, as we have now gone past the equinox and therefore the days get shorter and the nights longer, Autumn has probably officially arrived. The second is that the weather will inevitably break and we will be back to the damp and the growing dark before much longer, which is probably the only thing that stops me getting on the phone and booking up another week down in Cornwall.

My problem is that I don`t `do` spontaneous; I have seldom indulged in `spur of the moment` and I`m not sure `impetuous` is really me. Pity really, for if I had any sense - even a sense of living for today and the hell with tomorrow - I would be heading west once more. I feel a compelling urge to get it out of my system, almost a need to exorcise it, so strong is the draw to go back to that land that I find irresistable, which wraps itself around me and makes me feel at peace and enchanted at the same time. I suppose I`ll get over it, pull myself together and knuckle down to the routine of life, but I wonder why at times. Deep within my septuagenarian psyche there might, just might, be the troublesome fear that I may not be able to go there much more. Maybe I should, after all, discover what a bit of spontaneous, spur of the moment impetuosity might bring....before it`s too late? Answers on a postcard please.

SEEING AND BELIEVING

Yesterday I completed the final leg of my MoT by visiting my optician for an overdue eye test. I should have gone a few months ago but it was one of those things I kept putting off for fear of needing to incur the expense of some new spectacles. I needn`t have worried, for the very thorough examination resulted in no problems at all, so I don`t need new ones after all.

I`ve mentioned before that I am fortunate enough to have an optician who bears a startling resemblence to Nicole Kidman. My optician is pictured above showing obvious signs of distress as she leaves her shop at the news that she won`t be seeing me again for a year or so. Hang on a minute - maybe I do need new ones after all.

TIME TO CELEBRATE...

Yesterday morning I went for my six-monthly check-up with Janice the Practice Nurse, who is welcome to practice on me anytime she likes. She took a blood sample to check my cholesterol and other stuff and took my blood pressure, which has been up and down over the years.

The good news is that my blood pressure is now the best it`s ever been, which is surprising really, given my frantic life style, the constant stress of being a Saints fan and my vegetarian diet which consists of eating only animals that have eaten grass. Anyway, I thought I deserved a bit of a celebration treat, so I bought a(nother) box of Tunnocks Tea Cakes, for which I have an abiding fondness. There may be more exciting ways to celebrate good news, but few that provide such a real sense of doing something so outrageously naughty. Don`t worry - I`ll be fine when I grow up.

THE WHEELS HAVE COME OFF...

Finally, it seems the wheels have come off of the so-called `sport` of Formula One motor racing. There was a time, in the Graham Hill, MIke Hawthorn, Stirling Moss days of my youth, when it was a beguiling spectator sport, with glamour, danger and the out of reach wealth that surrounded it, as the rest of us looked on with open mouthed and wide eyed envy. Not any more.

And I don`t just refer to the recent `judgment` handed down by the sport`s own governing body, which produced a mixed verdict of good news and bad news. The good news is that it has effectively banned Flavio Briatore from taking any further part in its acitvities but the less welcome part is that it only felt able to dish out a suspended sentence to the Renault team for what was a flagrant disregard not only of the rules of the game but also the safety of their own driver and that of others taking part.

I`ve mentioned before that I`m no fan of motor racing. I find it a boring, noisy, repetitive, environmentally-hostile round-the-world circus that has long since ceased to be a sport and become a business. In that regard, I guess it`s little different to other sports - football, tennis and the like - but motor racing does seem to have a `track record` of bringing the game into disrepute all of its own. In recent memory, there was the £50million fine imposed on the McLaren Team for having a sneaky look at Ferrari`s technical secrets. Then there was the Blair/Ecclestone stitch up over the banning of tobacco advertising versus alleged payments to the Labour Party and who can forget the Teutonic inspired orgiastic cavorting of the man who yesterday announced the verdict over the Renault affair? It`s prettty clear that they deserve each other.

So for me and, I suspect, lots of others who have witnessed Formula One`s clutch slipping over recent years, the fact that the wheels have finally come off is greeted with more relief than regret. Trouble is, I doubt we`ve heard the last of it.

CONTRASTING FORTUNES...

This is a picture of Southampton Town Quay, where I parked yesterday for my first visit to St. Mary`s Stadium this season. It`s a pleasant place to be with views across the expanse of Southampton Water and all the maritime activity that goes on there. Yesterday was especially busy with the annual Boat Show in full swing, but also there were lots of comings and goings from the passenger terminal and the container port at Millbrook - the cruise liner Oceana left on its way to some exotic location and also the Grimaldi and Hapag Lloyd containers with more mundane destinations in mind. It all makes for a relaxing time after the long journey from home and before the walk to the Stadium.

Our Third Division encounter with the Glovers of Yeovil Town saw Saints get their first win of the season and so, after five draws and two defeats, the win means that we are now `only` minus two points rather than the minus ten we started the season with. Saints won 2-0 yesterday, courtesy of two penalties awarded by a very observant set of officials. The first was a definite, the second for a more debateable hand ball. Some you get, some you don`t, but the three points were well deserved. I sat for the first time in the posh bit - the rarified Block 8 - and was surprised to see a few well known faces not far away. Ex-manager Gordon Strachan and ex-Liverpool and England player Steve MaManaman, along with Saints` new owner, Markus Liebherr. I wondered why the first two named were there at all and then I realised that, possibly like me, they wanted to just enjoy a football match where the expectations were low, the quality undemanding but the atmosphere most convivial. If so, then again like me, they went home satisfied, for all of those ingredients were there in abundance.

And then today, there was the Manchester Derby between mega-rich Manchester City and our old friends Manchester United. As is required by the Laws of the Premiership, after 90 allegedly pulsating minutes and the score 3-3, the announced four minutes of added time were extended to six or seven so that Manchester United could score again and win the game. It defies belief but surprises no-one, such is the farce, the circus, the madhouse that the Premiership has become - at least in Manchester.

Just five short years ago, round about this time, Saints beat Manchester United 1-0 at St. Mary`s with a late header by James Beattie to propell us into fourth place in the Premiership. Now we reside at the bottom of the third tier - about 66 places lower than we were on that glorious day - while the best we can hope for this season is achieving mid-table obscurity. It doesn`t really matter, for one thing my terrible golf has taught me is that, however hard I try and however much I might improve, I`m never going to be Tiger Woods. And the Saints are never going to be Manchester United. So I`ll just continue my visits to Town Quay, enjoy the view, watch the ships come and go and enjoy the undemanding conviviality of being a Saints fan, that the absence of expectation has comfortingly produced.

ANOTHER SAD DEPARTURE

As you get older, you become increasingly aware of your own mortality and this has led me in recent years to scan the obituary column in our local paper - the Kent Messenger - each week. I work on the prinicple that if my name isn`t in there, then I know I can carry on for another week at least.

So I take a kind of morbid interest in reports of more well known people who pass away and today I see that Mary Travers has died at the age of 72 (just two years older than me) from the side effects of chemotherapy that led to leukaemia.

The younger among you will be forgiven for never having heard of her, but Mary was the Mary of Peter, Paul and Mary - one of the leading folk groups in the 60s and 70s with chart toppers like `Leaving on a Jet Plane,` `Blowin` in the Wind` and the unforgettable `Puff the Magic Dragon.`

But the real reason for me to remember Mary was that there was a story about the trio when they were on a long distance train across America. They sat down alongside a nun and thought that, as they were going to be together for a long time, they should get to know one another. Peter started the introductions:-

"Hi, my name`s Peter...but I`m no saint."

"I`m Paul," said Paul, "but I`m no prophet."

"My name`s Mary," said Mary...."and I don`t know what the hell to say."

Where, indeed, have all the flowers gone?

SEPTEMBER SONG...

Not too sure I like September that much. After our week away earlier in the month, it now seems we are heading in to the long drag that is Autumn and Winter, neither of which exactly adds to the joi de vivre. But it`s not just the turn of the seasons. It seems that September brings a deluge of bills, including house insurance, car insurance, bills from the companies that supply the water and then take it away again, all of which adds up to an expensive month with little to show for it unless I leave taps on all day and indulge in concentrated loo flushing.

But September also brings my six-monthly MoT-type health check. I`ve made an appointment to see the practice nurse next Wednesday to have my blood pressure checked and a blood test that will show how my cholestorol is doing, along with various other bodily functions too delicate to reveal in a family blog post. From now until then my diet will have to be amended to cut out all the stuff I know is bad for me but which I enjoy anyway so that I might stand a chance, however slim, of passing the test.

Yesterday I had to see my dentist for some work to my choppers which also thankfully doubled as my six-monthly dental check and I have to make an appointment to see the optician for another regular eye test, which may well lead to the purchase of new glasses. Next week too I have an appointment with my stylist, Chris of Larkfield, for yet more attention to my dwindling folical needs. September just goes on and on. The only consolation in all of this is that I get to spend some time in the company of charming ladies. The practice nurse is Janice, my dentist is Louise. my optician bears an uncanny resemblance to Nicole Kidman whilst Chris of Larkfield really needs no introduction. September comes at a price.....but it could be worse I guess.

TROUBLE AT THE TOP..

It seems that it`s not just in politics that one`s naive and trusting faith in human nature is constantly disappointed. I`m used to politicians being dishonest, deceitful, disingenuous and all the other adjectives they so richly deserve. But I never imagined that I would lose as much faith in top level sport as I am right now.

In recent weeks there have been revelations in Rugby Union about the use of blood capsules which have brought shame on the sport, on Harlequins in particular (even though it is suggested that the practice is more widespread) and has brought the hitherto distinguished career of Dean Richards to an undignified end. In horse racing - a `sport` I know virtually nothing about - champion jockey Kieron Fallon has just saddled up again after a long suspension for some dodgy riding. We have seen the shrill tirade launched on an unsuspecting line judge by one of the Williams sisters (I never know which is which and I have long suspected they might be one and the same anyway) and in top level football we witness the weekly fol-de-rols of diving forwards, whinging managers and inept administration (FIFA and Eduardo anyone?) whilst athletics has long battled against the twin thereats posed by drugs and transgenderism.

The body wracking pastime of professional snooker has also had its problems and suspicions and now we see that the rarified world of Formula One motor racing might well have been the scene for one of the most ludicrous attempts at winning at all costs that any sport has so far witnessed.

Ludicrous because if it is the case that Nelson Piquet Junior was instructed to crash his car on purpose in order to gain an advantage for a team mate, then how much more public and blatant can the alleged offence have been? Now I have to confess that I have never been in the slightest bit interested in motor racing - to me, it is a noisy, smelly, environmentally-hostile, pointless, repetitive cavalcade - but I guess some people like it. And for them, then like almost all the other sports, to have their faith in the inherent nature of fair competition destroyed is a shattering blow for their love of the game and for their commitment to it.

So I`m beginning to wonder where the true nature of sport might still reside - where the game is respected, where the competition is fair and where the players and the supporters combine to uphold the spirit of the game.

In truth, with the notable exception of golf and with respect to admirable `minor` sports like table tennis, barbed wire hurdling and synchronised basket weaving, I can find some solace in my old friend cricket. I cannot believe that there is any serious malpractice going on at the moment that would tarnish my faith in the game at the highest level in this country, otherwise, for example, Australia might not be 5-0 up in the current seven match one day series; 3-2 might be a bit suspicious though. Okay, there might have been the odd ball tampering, the occasional brush with the laws, but nothing to compare with the suspicions that have surrounded Briatore, Piquet, Fallon, the snooker boys, Harlequins, leading athletes and all the rest. It`s just not cricket, old chap.

UPDATE : Australia stuffed England again last evening, so it`s now 6-0 in the seven match series. Surely it can`t be a fix.

SIZE ISN`T EVERYTHING

In my eclectic `library,` I have an interesting volume, which is `Philips Handy Administrative Atlas of England and Wales.` It was published in 1928 and contains maps and detailed descriptions of each of the Parliamentary and Local Government areas at that time. "Fascinating!" I hear you cry. But in truth, it is a remarkable insight into how England and Wales were `organised` 80 years ago and it shows the difference between how things were then and how they are now.

One of the best examples of that change is Cornwall. Now, I did promise not to bore you with tales from last week`s holiday, but one thing in particular came to my attention whilst I was down there last week. Philips Handy Administrative Atlas shows that, all those years ago, Cornwall had its County Council but also no less than 12 Municipal Boroughs including Penzance, Falmouth and Truro of course, but also smaller ones such as Lostwithiel with a population of just 1,307.

Then there were 16 Urban Districts, the largest being Camborne along with much smaller ones such as Ludgvan (pop. 2,052.) Then came 16 Rural Districts, which included the Scilly Isles and, bizarrely, "Holsworthy (part of)" most of which is in Devon anyway. After that came countless Parish Councils and so it`s safe to say that the whole of Cornwall was more than adequately covered by this startling structure of local government. (As an aside, at the other end of the country, right slap bang in the middle of Newcastle, there was actually a Newcastle-upon-Tyne Rural District comprising an area of one acre and a population of five, so Cornwall was by no means an exceptional case.)

Since 1974, Cornwall has been divided into six identifiable districts - North Cornwall, Caradon, Restormel, Carrick, Kerrier and Penwith. The further west you went, the more `Cornish` things became and so, for example, the far west districts of Kerrier and Penwith introduced the sensible policy of having place names and street name plates in both English and Cornish. Lelant is also shown as Lannanta, St Ives as Porthia and so on, all of which helps to establish in the minds of residents and visitors alike the fact that you are in a country apart - one with a singular heritage and with its own customs, history and language.

Now, I should have known it was too good to last. In April this year, all of that structure was swept away and replaced with the one size fits all Cornwall Council. I haven`t followed the transition at all closely, but I can imagine that the proposal was met with some resistance which possibly grew stronger the farther west you went. And they would have been right to have their reservations, for it is there that Cornishness is felt at its most compelling and beguillng. On a visit to Praa Sands last week, deep into what used to be Kerrier District, I noticed what looked like fairly new street name plates sprouting up, all in English and Cornish, almost as if in their dying throes, Kerrier District had been determined to leave its mark in the way it felt most telling against their submergence into the monolithic Cornwall Council. One road didn`t even bother to tell you that `An Vownder`was `The Garden.`........

Now the new Cornwall Council might just turn out to be more efficient, more `value-for-money for council taxpayers,` more administratively convenient from all that 1928 and 1974 stuff, but I hope it encourages and promotes the Cornish identity and builds on the examples set in places like Kerrier and Penwith. I don`t know why I should worry as I`m not Cornish and I only go there to savour its magic and even when I do I feel as if I am intruding. But it is that mystery, that spirit of place, that keeps me going back for more. I`ll be keeping tabs on Cornwall Council, for it is true that size isn`t everything and in all the diversity that is Cornwall, I doubt its one size will suit everyone.