AN ACQUIRED TASTE....

In a few days time it will be 58 years since I kissed goodbye to civilian life and made the long train journey to north Yorkshire to begin my two years of National Service.   And each year when the anniversary comes around, I find myself looking back on those times.  It was, of course, a different time and those, like me, who found themselves conscripted into military service had already lived through the second world war and the austerity that followed. 

It was also a time of a kind of inbred respect - perhaps even fear - for any form of authority and so it was perhaps not surprising that the call-up for national service was more or less accepted as part of how things were.  It was just one of the many things you had to do, so I blindly accepted that it had to be done and just got on with it.

The first few days and weeks at Catterick Camp were filled with running everywhere, being `whipped into shape,` being shouted at, inspected at every turn and deprived of any meaningful privacy.  They were miserable weeks and because of the distances involved in getting home, when at last a 48-hour pass came our way, along with a fellow conscript I hitch-hiked to the Lake District, where I had never been before.  We stayed the night in a homely B & B and went to the cinema in Ambleside, where the only film being shown on that Saturday night was, of course, `Carry on Sergeant.`  It kind of summed up the futility and hopelessness of our situation.

But then, after yet more weeks of being turned into a lethal killing machine who was quite capable of turning left and right on command, I found myself inexplicably posted to a Regiment - this time a real one, stationed in BFPO 16 in West Germany as it was then.  The regiment was the 10th Royal Hussars (Prince of Wales` Own) and, perhaps to my surprise, I began to immerse myself into the routines and rhythms of life in that alien and faraway outpost.   I made friends with some close comrades - most regular volunteer soldiers, a dwindling few national servicemen - and began to settle in as my demob chart dutifully ticked off the days I had to do before the ultimate release.

I can`t claim that the `working life` was particularly taxing - even the manoeuvres on Luneburg Heath were something of an adventure and I spent the night of my 21st birthday there guarding the tank park from possible invasion, armed with only a pick-axe handle and a whistle. Back at the regimental barracks, I played quite a lot of football and got an evening job as projectionist in the garrison cinema - the AKC Globe.  The extra money supplementing my army pittance helped me save up enough to buy a house full of furniture when I returned, a married man, to civilian life.  (The married man`s allowance helped as well.)

A taste of regimentation came in the high summer of 1961 when the Duke of Gloucester arrived to present the regiment with new colours and I found myself on the No. 1 Guard for the regimental choreographed parade, resplendent with my sword drill, white webbing  and growing pride at being part of such an event.

That may have turned the corner in my relationship with army life and with the regiment.  The pride I felt that day perhaps finally brought a sense of belonging to something that was more than `just` a regiment - in some ways it became something of a family; real friendships had been formed which still persist to this day, mutual trust and support became evident and we were prepared for whatever the world might have thrown at us in those tense cold war days.

But, when my time was coming to a close, I resisted the overtures of our impressive commanding officer to sign on the dotted line and headed for the exit door able to make choices for my own life rather than have the army choose for me.   Looking back these 58 years to my 731 days of enforced conscription, I am left with distinctly mixed feelings - some resentment at the conscription but coupled with a real affection for the 10th Hussars and all they stood for.   It may sound odd for a national serviceman to admit to such sentiments but life in the regiment became a lasting and acquired taste - even though I am perfectly certain that the regiment may not have acquired quite the same taste for me.

THE DELIGHTS OF IRONY...

The above illustration, well, illustrates what I mean.   And there are countless examples of really delightful irony.  Some while ago I showed a photo of a direction sign pointing the way to `HIDDEN BEACH.`   Another was the road sign in Essex directing traffic to `SECRET NUCLEAR BUNKER.`

But the prize for this week`s unforced error must surely go to His Holiness Pope Francis.  Yesterday, he described fake news as being `evil` and accused peddlers of disinformation of employing `snake tactics`similar to Satan who, when disguised as a serpent, tempted Eve to eat fruit from the forbidden tree.

"This was the strategy employed by the `crafty serpent` in the Book of Genesis and who, at the dawn of humanity, created the first fake news," said Pope Francis - the first discourse of any pope on the topic.  "Fake news had a damaging, serpentine allure," he went on, calling it "that sly and dangerous form of seduction that worms its way into the heart with false and alluring arguments."

Nice one, Frank.  But I just wonder whether the delicious irony of the head of an organisation - one that thrives on myths involving serpents, forbidden fruit and forceful temptation - complaining about fake news, has struck home. At least here in chez Snoppeur it has been duly recognised.

It`s over 30 years now since the last of our three sons left home - one by one they found their way in the world and each time one of them left I felt a deep sense of sadness.  But you`ve got to let them go and when the last one went, we began to fill the hole by having golden retrievers.  We`re now on the fifth one - Barney.

And in what is turning out to be a difficult week, Barney was taken very ill yesterday with a nasty bout of hemorrhagic diarrhoea.  I`ll spare you the details but poor Barney was in a bad way - not eating or drinking which, for a retriever, indicates something quite serious.  So, off to the vet`s yesterday afternoon - loads of medication - but no effect, so he went back to the vet`s last evening and was kept in to be re-hydrated, have blood tests, etc.

We don`t know but we hope he might be back with us tomorrow; but not having him around the house, not doing the twice daily walkies and not living with his daily routine has pitched us into another feeling of the empty nest.  It`s easy to take things for granted - even dogs - but you don`t know what an important part of your life they are and how much you miss them until they`re not there - even for a day or two.

GETTING THERE ?

I know it`s a bit early to start going on about Spring but we are a month on from the shortest day of the year.  In my wander around the parish yesterday afternoon with Barney on our walkies, I noticed, perhaps prematurely and optimistically, that there were a few signs that things might be happening.   The odd crocus peeping up from the odd garden, the occasional forsythia giving a hint of yellow and today brought a bright, crisp, frosty morning, all of which makes me feel a bit less SAD and encourages me that we are getting there and to look forward to the coming of spring and summer.

So I had a look at a photo I took last April when we were staying at Trebetherick on Cornwall`s north coast.   Of an evening I would stroll down the lane towards the coast path and I managed to capture this moment as the sun went down beyond Stepper Point.  Here it is - please click on the photo for a better image:-

Seeing this photo again certainly cheered me up with things to look forward to once winter has had its way with me and I hope you like it too.

KISS ME GOODNIGHT, SERGEANT MAJOR

Today would have been my father`s birthday.  Well, I guess in a sense it still is, even though, had he lived, he would now have been well over 100 years old.  Now, what I don`t want to do is drift into over-sentimentality but each year, when 16th January comes around, my mind goes back to him.

He was born `of an age` when things were tough and when it was decided for him that the family business could not sustain another, he was packed off to the army apprenticeship school in Chepstow and thus began a long military career.  He did well enough, gained distinctive trade qualifications and achieved a number of promotions.  I guess it was hard enough being in the army in those pre-war days but it became infinitely harder once he was captured at Dunkirk and consigned to five years as a prisoner of war in Stalag V!!!B at Lamsdorf.   Towards the end of the war, he was on `the long march` and somehow survived until liberation finally brought him home.

And when he resumed civilian life, the experiences he had been through meant that he lived the rest of his days on his nerve ends, jumping whenever the phone or the doorbell rang. Not long after he finally retired from a working life, he dropped down dead in the bathroom at just 62.

My own life has had its moments.  Whilst my father was enduring his unrelenting Stalag, I was sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs every night in a relative`s house where my mother and I had been given refuge and I still recall the sound of bombs exploding along the shore of Southampton Water and hoping one would not drop on us.   And later on, I too endured my own taste of good order and military discipline, having been conscripted to do my National Service.

But nothing in my life has come close to the traumas suffered by my father and I wonder what he would have made of life today with all of its rampant liberalism and gimpy snowflakes being seduced into the army with the promise of being kissed goodnight and encouraged to reveal their gender preferences and their innermost emotions.   I think I know the answer.

.....AND AGAIN.....

I`m intrigued by the `resignation` of the BBC`s now former China Editor Carrie Gracie.  She has apparently relinquished that post (although rather surprisingly still employed by the BBC in some other capacity) due to the apparently illegal pay gap between women employees and men.  She may have a case, I don`t know, but it has thrown up a strange kind of imbalance which is of interest not only to BBC employees but also the licence payers of whom, thanks to the onset of anno domini, I am no longer one.

It`s reported (by the BBC themselves, I believe) that Ms. Gracie was paid £135,000 a year as China Editor and that, in response to her grumbles about the inequality of pay with male editors, she was offered a pay rise of £45,000 which would have brought her annual salary to £180,000.  That would still have resulted in a lower salary than that paid to male `Editors,` hence Ms. Gracie`s decision to resign.  The obvious conclusion is that her male counterparts are paid even more than this princely sum, which outstretches the salary of the Prime Minister by some considerable distance.

Now, being a retired elderly person on a fixed income and struggling to survive in these uncertain times, even £135,000 a year would do me nicely and £180,000 even more so.  So I must conclude that, rather than the fight being taken up by the female employees of the BBC for parity with their male colleagues, if I was still a licence payer I might be fighting for the male salaries to be reduced to the same level as the female ones.  That way the law would be satisfied as, with the exception of some avaricious male `editors, would the  majority of BBC employees and possibly the licence payers might sleep a little easier too?

THEY`RE AT IT AGAIN..

The BBC`s seemingly relentless crusade against Brexit goes on and on.  Yesterday I turned on the red button and saw this on the `teletext` page:-

"FARMERS TO RECEIVE POST BREXIT PAYOUTS

UK farmers will receive money for making improvements that boost the environment, under a new system to be introduced post-Brexit.

Environment Secretary Michael Gove will tell farmers the new payments would reward planting wildflower meadows and woodland and improving water quality.

The system would replace EU subsidies - now £3 billion a year - five years after Brexit in 2024.

Meanwhile a report warns that trade deals could threaten UK food security."

So, once again, a Brexit good news story for farmers and for the nation as we kiss goodbye to the EU`s mad Common Agricultural Policy is tempered with yet another warning of a dire threat once we leave.

  

And in other BBC news, yesterday arch-malcontent Tony Blair went on Radio 4 quite seriously, albeit delusional, stating yet again that there should be another referendum if we don`t like the deal with the EU.  To his credit, the interviewer John Humphries reminded Blair of the realities of democracy but what is interesting is that the BBC were prepared to give this serial  fibber any air time to begin with.

It really feels that the BBC just can`t help themselves.  

QUACK TWICE...

Funny how things spring to mind.  Yesterday I mentioned that my Mum invariably addressed me as `my duck` when I was but a boy.  As I was nodding off yet again I got to thinking where else I had heard that term of endearment.  And it came to me that, of course, it was in Dylan Thomas`s masterpiece, Under Milk Wood.  And it was Rosie Probert (From Duck Lane, Jack - quack twice and ask for Rosie) who described Blind Captain Cat not only as `my duck` but a whole lot of other things besides.

Best thing I can do is set out the relevant  bit of that unforgettable dialogue (I have the happy knack of recalling pretty much the whole of Thomas`s play for radio) between Rosie and the Captain.  It goes like this:-

ROSIE PROBERT 

What seas were you rocking

My little deck hand

My favourite husband

In your seaboots and hunger

My duck, my whaler

My honey, my daddy

My pretty sugar sailor.

With my name on your belly 
When you were a boy

Long long ago?

CAPTAIN CAT

I`ll tell you no lies.

The only sea I saw

Was the seasaw sea

With you riding on it.

Lie down, lie easy.

Let me shipwreck in your thighs.

ROSIE PROBERT

Knock twice, Jack

At the door of my grave

And ask for Rosie.

As I said, funny how things spring to mind.  Well, mine anyway.

JUST CALL ME GERRY...

Not sure I can keep up with the world for much longer.  I`ll be 80 next year, provided that God in Her Infinite Wisdom grants me that privilege and I suppose I should make more of an effort to `keep up with the times.`   Trouble is, the times in which we live become more baffling, more bewildering and, indeed, bordering on the bizarre what with people getting upset and offended by anything and everything and issues revolving around gender identity. 

A case in point recently saw a 27-year old young lady (if I`m allowed to refer to her as such without being branded as both ageist and sexist) complaining that she had been referred to as `honey` by an older male manager at Virgin Rail, when passengers on a crowded train had been wrongly told that they could use first class for a small fee.  "You want to complain, go ahead, honey," he is alleged to have said.  She was even more upset when the company`s response asked if she would prefer the terms `pet` or `love` instead of `honey.` 

Now to many, especially of my generation, such terms would be meant and be taken as terms of endearment.  But this time the young lady`s complaint was that the male manager had `dismissed` it with `that hideously patronising word women shudder at....`  The company, of course, has apologised.

It`s not for nothing that I have chosen a few snowflakes to illustrate this particular tale.

But on the subject of terms of endearment, I always remember my dear old, dearly departed Mum invariably referring to me as `my duck.`  I suspect it had its origin in Swindon.   Had I experienced this in current times and the current climate, I might have taken offence at this, especially as it would have invaded my human right to chose my own species as well as my own gender.  Given the choice, I would have preferred to be recognised as a giraffe, so just call me Gerry and we`ll forget all about it.  Deal?

POTS AND KETTLES...

Of course, it`s the traditionally `done thing` on this the first day of 2018 to wish everyone a happy new year and I do so quite genuinely and unreservedly.  So, Happy New Year to you and yours.

The alleged `festive season` is thankfully drawing to a close and being a curmudgeonly cynic, a few things have come to light in the past week or so to make me wonder whether people have deliberately turned to irony in their quest for attention. 

Perhaps the best example has emerged from the Vatican where it is reported that His Holiness Pope  Francis is going to deliver his annual communications message.  In it, he will decree that made up stories -`fake news` - is `a serious sin.`  He has reminded journalists that they must provide precise, complete, correct and unbiased reports and not fall into the `sins of communication,` disinformation or just giving one side of the story.  Such actions, he said, are ` a grave sin` that hurts the hearts of others as well as the journalists themselves.

And all this coming from the appointed head of yet another organisation that thrives on being based on myth, legend, fairy tales and threats of dire consequences if you don`t believe them.  Anyway, thank God someone has taken the unprecedented step of speaking out against made up stories that have no bearing in fact but are nevertheless taken as gospel.

Oh, and by the way, please be assured that my good wishes to you for 2018 are entirely genuine, precise, complete, correct and unbiased.  Honest.

HERE WE GO AGAIN....

I suppose over many years now, I`ve got used to Southampton FC selling their best players.  It`s gone on for so long now, right back to Martin Chivers going to Tottenham, Mick Channon to Manchester City (although he came back again) and in more recent years the likes of Theo Walcott, Luke Shaw, Gareth Bale and Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain all leaving for richer pastures.

But it`s Liverpool who have gleaned the best of our talent in the last couple of seasons - Rickie Lambert, Adam Lallana, Nathainiel Clyne, Dejan Lovren, Sadio Mane, the aforesaid Oxlade-Chamberlain who graduated from Saints` academy before stopping off at Arsenal, and now Virgil Van Dijk all leaving the beautiful south for the temptations of Anfield.

It`s reached the stage when I`m seriously thinking about becoming a Liverpool fan as Liverpool FC have turned themselves into Southampton`s tribute team.

Well, we`ve had Christmas and Boxing Day and the shortest day of the year and in a week`s time we will be at the beginning of yet another year.  None of us knows what 2018 will bring but I`m looking forward to it if for no other reason than to enjoy the light, the warmth and all those summer things that seem so distant as we trudge our way through whatever the rest of winter might throw at us.

And for me, I guess in keeping with my simple tastes, I am really looking forward to a return to the 630 mile long south west coast path.  Over many years now we, along with a succession of golden retrievers, have walked much of the path .  We have selected bits that have appealed to us rather than setting out to cover the whole distance, although I do admire those `finishers` who have managed it.  I`m afraid that in the most recent years, our walks have diminished a bit, thanks to the onset of wonky knees, dodgy hips, bunions and the combined effects of anno domini and avoirdupois.   But we keep going.

Some of my personal favourite stretches of the path have included most of the Cornwall coast - The Roseland, The Lizard, the Far West and the North Coast.  I`m also very fond of the north and south Devon but I think my favourite area of all must be around the Camel Estuary and the clifftops around Pentire Head.   And as 2018 approaches, I`ve got a kind of mini bucket list for the coast path this coming summer and one of the places to return to has to be that stretch of path from Pentire to Lundy Bay on Cornwall`s north coast.

I noticed last April when we wandered down towards Lundy Bay that the real magic of Springtime was there to be found in all its splendour and charm.  It`s no good just keeping on walking;  sometimes nature compels you to stop and see what it has to offer.  And so, in an effort to brighten yet another gloomy winter`s day and to remind me what I  saw when I had the good sense to pause on the path and take it all in, here`s a photo I took on that faraway April day........

(Please click on photo for better image)

Whoever and wherever you may be, dear reader, I hope you have a happy, joyful Christmas and that 2018 is kind to you, your friends and family.

It seems a long winter; in fact, the older I get the longer they become.  But then I do suffer from the seasonal affective disorder known as SAD, aka the winter blues.   But help may be at hand, for tomorrow is the shortest day (and the longest night) of the year, when the sun is at its lowest and, after a day or so`s pause, begins to climb back up again.  

Anyway, here`s a photo I took just a couple of days ago whilst taking Barney for his walkies and it illustrates the midwinter gloom surrounding a lake in our parish:-

And it reminded me that, six months ago to the day, we were enjoying the longest day (and the shortest night) of the year in deepest Cornwall, with the sun high in the sky and the dark, depressing days of winter but a distant memory.   Here`s one I took then:-

I know which I prefer.

A JUMP OFF AGAINST THE CLOCK ?

Whilst munching my snacky lunch today, the BBC news came on and whilst they thought they should firstly report the story that the Met. Police are going to re-examine loads of rape cases, it was pretty clear that the BBC news editors could hardly wait to report the contents of the IMF Report into the UK`s economic prospects post Brexit.

With almost undisguised glee, the BBC mentioned that the IMF had `downgraded` to UK`s growth prospects to 1.6% in the coming year and that it would plummet to 1.5% the year after we leave the European Empire.   What they failed to make clear was that these forecasts would see the UK economy come down, `plummet` from the current growth rate of 1.7%.  Hardly a dramatic fall  but it typifies the BBC`s obsession with accentuating the negative with anything to do with Brexit.

And, of course, it again exemplifies the attitude on the part of the London-centric, Liberal elite, with the BBC in the vanguard, who are beside themselves that the great unwashed British public had the audacity to vote to leave the EU.  There is, of course, a growing, not very subtle campaign to change people`s minds by constantly promising all kinds of doom once we throw off the shackles of the United States of Germany.

A couple of things.  First, my own personal Brexit vote was cast in full knowledge that there would be consequences, but at least they would be our consequences and ours to sort out and overcome, which as a nation we are perfectly capable of so doing.   And next, of course, what the BBC and all the other deniers of democracy fail to grasp is that the more we are threatened, however surreptitiously, the more people like me are determined to hold on to those principles that convinced me to cast my vote the way I did.   And surely Messrs. Barnier, Juncker et al must realise that the more `arsy` they become, the more determined will be our majority desire to get away from them.

But what happens if the elitist campaign wins the day and, however unlikely, undemocratic and unconstitutional it may be, another referendum is called and one that votes to remain?  Well I guess that will make it 1-1 after extra time.  I suppose we`ll then have a jump off against the clock or, heaven forbid, our national future will be decided on penalties.   And you just know how atrocious our record in penalty shoot-outs is against European opponents.

EAST COAST CROSS WINDS ON THE COLD WET STONE...

I was sorry to learn that Chris Rea had suffered yet another heart attack whilst performing in Oxford the other evening - the 35th gig of his current tour.   He was rushed to hospital and his condition was described as `stable,` which was better news than might have been expected.   He has naturally had to cancel a couple of shows, although there might be an outside chance that he could fulfil the last engagement of the current tour at Bournemouth tomorrow evening.  Let`s hope that signifies a full recovery might be possible but something tells me he would be better off putting his feet up and getting a decent rest.  After all, he`s 66 now.

He is perhaps best known for a whole string of hit records including Driving Home for Christmas and The Road to Hell.   But for me, his most memorable compositions and performances came when he wrote and sang about his birthplace of Middlesbrough.  I know little about Middlesbrough - David Armstrong, the former Saints midfield dynamo was signed from Middlesbrough FC and, more recently, a very good friend from my National Service days hailed from there before he left us a year or so ago.

But you get a real flavour of the town in some of Chris Rea`s songs about the place - Stainsby Girls, Steel River and especially Windy Town, probably my favourite from all of his large and impressive collection.  So, leave the Road to Hell behind and get on the Road to Recovery, Chris.  Here`s `Windy Town`:-

IN THE DEEP MIDWINTER....

Well, it`s the deep midwinter - the shortest day just 12 days away - but even at this time of the year there are things worth looking out for.   Here`s a picture I took a few days ago when the late afternoon sun was lighting up the rushes alongside our local lake and even the hedgerow still had some colour to brighten the day.......

(Give it a click for a larger pic)

We had a week in Padstow a couple of months ago - seems like ages ago - and on our first evening there we wandered down to the harbour.  I took this photo showing the glorious sunset.  Trouble is, we`ve got to wait until next April before we`ll be there again.......

Seems to me that despite every reason to count my considerable blessings,  there are just so many things to worry about, complain about, get annoyed and frustrated by, that it`s not always possible to decide what subject to have a good rant about - the choice these days is just too much.  

So I`ve turned instead to another `interest` of mine, which is photography, albeit not to anything approaching a professional standard but nevertheless I have taken some photos over the years of which I`m a bit smug.   So I thought I would share some of them here, kicking off with one I took just a couple of days ago as Barney and I took our walkies around a local lake.   Here it is......well, at least it`s peaceful.  Click on it for a larger image.....

JUST ASKING.....

I just wonder what the English roses have done to be overlooked in favour of a foreign, catholic, feminist, divorced commoner of mixed race.  Just asking, that`s all.

DISCONTENT ?

Yes, I know.  For some years now I have suffered from the condition known as seasonal affective disorder, aka SAD, which just about sums up my state of mind at this time of the year.  And as well as the winter blues brought on by short days, long nights and cold, wet inclement weather, it seems to me that there is an increasing number of other reasons not to be cheerful, all brought about by human activity.

Here`s a list of `events` which seem to kick off once the last vestiges of summer have gone. 

First we had Bonfire Night - 5th November - when the country seems to celebrate an unsuccessful gunpowder plot to blow up Parliament, with all its attendant crash, bangs and wallops that do little more than frighten the life out of our faithful canine companions.

Then the first of a succession of imports from across the pond in the shape of Halloween. Well, perhaps not strictly accurate.  Originally, All Hallows Eve heralded the beginning of three days of observing Allhallows tide, the time in the liturgical year devoted to remembering the dead, including saints (hallows,) martyrs and all those who have departed.  So much for history then.  Today`s reality has seen Halloween transformed into yet another transatlantic import devoted more to rampant materialism than anything else.   

Which brings us to Thanksgiving - the traditional American celebration of harvest.  It is rightly observed in the USA but I have noticed a tendency for it to sneak in to our consciousness here in the good ol` UK.  But if that incursion comes to not very much in years to come, the retail insurance has well and truly cemented itself the day after Thanksgiving in the shape of Black Friday, yet another import from our former colonials  

I`m more than a bit concerned about Black Friday. It sounds a bit `racist` - maybe it should be Beige Friday to coincide with the growing fad for fluidity and neutrality in all things - and it`s not just the Friday but this latest commercial razzmatazz  seems to go on for the best part of a week, judging by the daily e-mails and adverts I get.

And to complete the SAD picture, we now have not only the celebration of Santa`s birthday at Christmas and then the New Year to look forward to but now also the prospect of yet another royal birth and yet another royal wedding (presumably not necessarily in that order.)  Joy unconfined.

So all in all another winter of discontent even though the shortest day is only a little over three weeks away.   Bring it on.

BLUE REMEMBERED HILLS..

I was sorry to learn yesterday of the passing of Keith Barron at the age of 83 after a short illness.  He was, of course, a much admired actor who, in a 50-year career performed in a wide variety of films and television plays and serials.  He was one of those people who you tended to watch for himself rather than the character he was portraying, such was the charm of his personality and style.

But he was also something of a character himself.   Among the many tributes paid to him is one from Cornwall where, in the 1980s, Keith Barron ran a restaurant in Hayle. He last performed in the county in 2014 when a stage version of `Duty Free` toured Truro`s Hall for Cornwall.  In an interview at the time he said, "The show is still amazingly popular - probably because it`s about the eternal quest of trying to get your leg over.  Not just men, I hear there are several women like that, especially in Camborne."  A joker to the end.

Now here`s where I go off on the odd tangent - not unusual, I know.  Out of the long and distinguished list of his performances, the ones I immediately associated with when I learned of his passing were when he was cast as Nigel Barton in Dennis Potter`s plays for television - Stand Up Nigel Barton and Vote, Vote, Vote for Nigel Barton.  

And it`s here that my attention becomes diverted to Dennis Potter, arguably the most influential dramatist of the last century.   In addition to the Nigel Barton ones, he bequeathed us such memorable plays as The Singing Detective, Lipstick on Your Collar, Pennies from Heaven and Blue Remembered Hills, the last written in the  Forest of Dean dialogue, the area which formed the basis of Potter`s upbringing.   My last and lasting memory of Dennis Potter was of him delivering a televised speech whilst drinking liquid morphine to help him through the pain of the pancreatic cancer which ended his life shortly after.

And so, in something of a tortuous route, the loss of Keith Barron has also led me back to AE Houseman`s `A Shropshire Lad` which contains the following:-

Into my heart an air that kills

From yon far country blows.

What are those blue remembered hills,

What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content

I see it shining plain.
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.

Seems somehow appropriate in remembering each of those who gave us so much enjoyment and so many memories.

TAKE A LOOK...

OK, I confess.  I`m rapidly approaching my 80th year; I get a bit flustered at times; I`m not too smart with smart phones - I just need a phone, that`s all;  I get confused with hi-tech stuff, which is why this blog is a touch on the simple side;  and I guess it`s just that there are so many things in the so-called modern world that I just don`t get.  Or maybe I don`t want to get.

The latest is this thing about `gender fluidity.`  I noticed a report yesterday about a maths teacher who is facing the sack after accidentally calling a transgender pupil `girl` rather than `boy.`  The student, who `identifies as male,` became irate after the teacher said `well done girls` to the pupil and a female friend for working hard.  Result?  Pupil lodges complaint, pupil`s family accuse teacher of picking on their child, teacher suspended and faces disciplinary hearing which could end up with him losing his job.

This is happening at the same time as `drag queens` are being asked to visit nurseries so that kiddies as young as two can be told about transgender issues.  Now I haven`t got a problem with anyone in the LGBT community or, indeed, anyone with a penchant for BLT, but I have a difficulty understanding why on earth children are being introduced to the notion of `gender fluidity` when all they have to do is glance down and take a look.

We are indeed heading for a snowflake generation, who seem not to be learning about life as it unfolds in what is known as experience but also being incapable of accepting any form of criticism, any form of setback (they`re not allowed to win or lose anymore, bless them.) 

Now I quite expect that my comments are out of place and out of time, politically incorrect and doubtless leading to a knock on the door before too long, but I look back to my grandparents and my parents` generations and thank goodness that I was brought up to face life and all its trials, its triumphs and disasters and just get on with it.  As the saying goes, you`ve got to learn to lose before you can enjoy the winning.

PLUS CA CHANGE...

Recognise this?   Thought not, for it was written and recorded in 1970 at the time of the appalling loss of civilian and military life as a result of the Biafra War.  The lines above are, of course, from Gilbert O`Sullivan`s `Nothing Rhymed` and it seems that nothing really rhymed for him back then - nothing made sense - the world had gone mad - and he was troubled by the indifference shown by the many to the terrible plight of the few, even though the few in the Biafra conflict accounted for between 500,000 and two million civilian lives lost to starvation.  

It`s a theme that was repeated in 1986 when Neil Finn of Crowded House again witnessed that same indifference.  A few lines from `Don`t dream it`s over` illustrate what I mean:-

`And the papers today

Full of war and of waste

But you turn right over to the TV Page.`

I guess it was forever thus and those, like me, fortunate enough to have our Bonaparte Shandy and our apple pies no doubt still turn to the TV pages and become yet more desensitised to what is really going on in an increasingly troubled world.  

But here`s a shout for the much misunderstood Gilbert who, in a catalogue of genius songs, shone a light on his own bewilderment, his own frailties, his fears, his sensitivities and his own private sense of loss (alone again - naturally.)  So, here`s `Nothing Rhymed` reminding us all that the world is still full of war and of waste and that in reality nothing really rhymes but also that nothing ever really changes:-

THE PERILS OF LEAVING EARLY..

I don`t know if it still happens but as I haven`t been to a cinema for more years than I care to remember, I don`t know what happens nowadays.   When I used to go, there was always a stampede once `THE END` appeared on the screen,  Now either the cinema-goers had a bus or a train to catch or they just wanted to get out before the ritual of standing to attention while the national anthem was played.

Trouble is, it`s easy to miss the best part of a film if you join in the stampede.  A case in point.......

One of my favourite films is `Sense and Sensibility`, beautifully directed by Ang Lee.  And it`s a favourite not for the Oscar winning screenplay and the superb acting by a talented cast, but for two other reasons.  The first is the filming locations, especially those in and around the Flete Estate in south Devon, where we have stayed on many occasions in the past and found contentment in the utterly unspoilt nature of the Erme Estuary.  Much of the `action` takes place at Efford House - it`s Barton House in the film - and the house and its surroundings has been used often for filming - `International Velvet` springs to mind.

The other reason is the quite wonderful film score by Patrick Doyle.  But those who left the film early, as the end titles came up, missed the best part of his score, for he had set  Ben Jonson`s `The Dreame` to music, beautifully arranged and sung by Lincoln`s very own Jane Eaglen.  Here are the lyrics :-

Or scorn or pity on me take,
I must the true redemption make,
I am undone tonight.
Love, in a subtle dream disguised,
Hath both my heart and me surprised,
Whom never yet be durst attempt awake;

Nor will he tell me for whose sake
He did me the delight or spite,
But leaves me to inquire
In all my wild desire
Of sleep again, who was his aid,
And sleep so guilty and afraid
And since he dares not come within my sight.

..........and here is what people missed as the credits rolled and they clambered for the exit:-

Well, we survived Halloween last night, which was a great relief especially to Barney, who doesn`t take kindly to his evenings being disturbed.   I think it helped that we turned off the outside light and didn`t leave a pumpkin on the doorstep - there seems to be a useful convention in our village that you only get `tricked and treated` if you do leave a pumpkin outside your front door - so we had a peaceful evening which by-passed the imported commercial mayhem which Halloween seems to have become.  

So, next stop Bonfire Night with all its gunpowder, treason and plot, scheduled for this coming Sunday.   Now I could understand the idea of celebrating on 5th November if the Gunpowder Plot of 1605 to blow up Parliament and assassinate King James had actually succeeded.  Instead, it turned out to be a dismal failure and so I am left wondering what on earth we are doing spending all that money on fireworks, going to all that trouble and causing yet more mayhem in order to celebrate what was a truly spectacular failure.  

But then it, like Halloween, has turned into yet another commercial jamboree that I could do without.   And don`t get me started on Christmas - please.......