Well, maybe.  And I sincerely hope so.  And being of a forgiving nature, I find myself wanting to believe that the lessons of the run-up to the invasion of Iraq may have finally been learned - at least here in the UK.   There`s little doubt that we were press ganged into that fiasco by the disingenuous assurances given by Blair, his rotweiller Campbell and their duplicitous chums as a result of quite pitifully seeking the approbation of Bush, Rumsfeld and company.

So the fall-out from Cameron`s defeat in the Commons last evening could be interesting, not only for the `special relationship` and for Cameron himself but also for other reasons. For instance, we have been reminded repeatedly over the last few days that our elected leaders have understood, perhaps for the first time with such vivid clarity, just how sceptical, cynical even, the great British public has become given the experience of Iraq. And I just wonder whether that reality might now embolden Sir John Chilcot and his long running Iraq Inquiry at last to publish their report in the knowledge that the public might actually welcome any condemnation it may contain of those responsible.

But maybe the most encouraging lesson from last night`s Commons vote was the reminder to both politicians and voters that Parliament is there to represent the electorate and to provide a check on the activities of the executive.   For too long in recent times, those in power have assumed that they can more or less do as they wish and get away with it and if that arrogance has been hauled back into line then so much the better for all concerned. After all, we have seen that absolute power can indeed corrupt absolutely and if nothing else, a sharp reminder has been issued that in our modern day democracy absolute power has a very limited shelf life.

I find it disappointing but predictable that, in all the sound and fury of the last 24 hours or so, we have heard nothing from Blair who, just a couple of days ago, was once more pressing the case for Britain to dangle under the apron strings of America and join in yet another doomed misadventure.   Neither have we heard from the EU and its `High Representative of the Union for Foreign Affairs and Security Policy,` one Cathy Ashton.   Come to think of it, maybe it`s just as well.

I guess, in the end, what we have witnessed is yet more proof, if any more were needed, that like all `empires` before it, Great Britain has had its day as a world power and it should perhaps finally accept that as the sun goes down on its horizon, maybe in the calm of its fading twilight, Britain will find that there is much to be desired from playing the world game in pianissimo rather than the strident fortissimo it used to assume as of right. And maybe that will be the most profound lesson of all to be learned.

To Sevenoaks, twice today, for appointments with my dentist (nothing too serious but needed two visits and turned out to be less expensive than the original quote.)   Anyway, it`s a good half-hour journey each way so I had plenty of time to tune in to the radio and catch up with world events.

Problem is that, like television, there are so many radio channels booming out so much noise that it`s difficult to find anything remotely appealing.   Now in my finely tuned naivete I somehow imagined that the main topic being aired at least on most of them would be the looming madness concerning Syria and to be fair the news bulletins did give it the attention it demands.   (And madness it seems to be as, despite Dave Cameron`s assertion that what`s going on in Syria is `morally indefensible,` we still run the same old risk of barging our way into a sovereign country which seems to be having its very own private civil war.   Parliament has been recalled but the die is plainly cast and my earnest hope that they know what they`re doing is likely, not for the first time and certainly not the last, to be confounded.

So, in a quest to seek some refuge from that particular madness, I tried TalkSport, where the main topics of concern veered from the low jinks of the England cricket team to the morally indefensible shenanigans surrounding multi-millionaire footballers such as the unfathomable Wayne Rooney and former Saint Gareth Bale for whom I am beginning to feel some sympathy, as he is pushed from pillar to post as a pawn in the transfer cattle market and looking despairingly glum as a result.  It seems more and more like a Greek bailout than a football transfer and I fear it might turn out to be a Greek tragedy for him. If not a Spanish one.

Not a lot to soothe the savage breast there then.  So I turned once again to the refuge of music and spent a tranquil drive home, orthodontically revived, basking in the rustic serenity of George Butterworth`s Banks of Green Willow, the quiet peacefulness of Gerald Finzi`s Romance in E and the rural Gallic simplicity of Canteloube`s Songs of the Auvergne - all from my eclectic CD collection.  Music, as Shakespeare` suggested, may be the food of love but it is also one of life`s refuges from the madness and the warped sense of priority that surrounds modern day Britain.    So, Keep Calm and Play On.

Well, the above sums up the results for Snopper Street`s football interests today with each of the games we followed ending in draws.   My own team, the Saints, came from behind to secure a 1-1 draw against Sunderland;   Bristol City, which we now follow since our street`s footy hero Scott Wagstaff joined them, secured a creditable 2-2 result away at MK Dons;   my neighbour`s recently promoted Gillingham managed an equally useful 2-2 draw away at Swindon (always a difficult place to go);   my neighbour the other side is an ardent West Ham fan and I`m sure he will be content with the 0-0 result picked up away at Newcastle;   and even Mike (just up the road`s) Ebbsfleet went away and forced a battling draw at Eastbourne Borough in the Conference South.  

Now, in the fledgling Premier League table, the Saints find themselves in fourth spot - a Champions League place, no less - but of course it`s early doors so not to be taken too seriously, especially as by tomorrow afternoon that situation will doubtless have changed. Still, I`m tempted to do what Gordon Strachan declared he would be doing all those years ago when Saints were in fourth place after a late James Beattie header had beaten the damned United of Manchester and instead of going out to celebrate, stay at home and watch the league table on teletext.

But surely pride of place today must go to the brave minnows of Portsmouth who left their Fratton Park/ kraP nottarF fortress and made the trip to mighty Mansfield Town, just finding their way back in the Football League after a few years in their own particular wilderness.   The fact that even that game ended 2-2 has sparked riotous celebrations back in Portsmuff, where a hastily arranged open top bus celebration was organised to satisfy the delirium of their faithful following:-

  

This is what it meant to Saints` one-time rivals as they claw their way back from total obscurity to, well, just obscurity, to be fair.  It brings a warm glow, doesn`t it?

To my boyhood village of Hythe on the western shore of Southampton Water yesterday to pay my respects to my late mother`s resting place and reconnect with the place and days of my happy youth and childhood.   There were a couple of things to lift the spirit on what might otherwise have been a solitary melancholy journey as well as a sentimental one.   

One was the pleasure of having my recently retired eldest son for company - we are now able to do things that elderly retired gentlefolk do; another was the enjoyment of a good lunch at the excellent Boathouse restaurant at Hythe Marina; then there was the excitement of seeing not only Saints captain Adam Lallana being interviewed by a media crew on the Boathouse balcony, but also seeing his car - a very smart white Porsche with a distinctive registration number (I won`t disclose it here for security reasons) and inside a Saints shirt with LALLANA written on the back which gave us a bit of a clue as to the car`s owner.  Nice one ADZ!

We then continued our journey home to Kent via the Hampshire/Berkshire border country, to the peace, solitude and Norman splendour of Padworth`s thousand year old church where, in the churchyard, is the grave of my paternal grandparents, along with my father`s ashes and those of two maiden aunts.   It needed a little attention, which we were happy to provide and again we paid our respects to our forebears.  

Of course, visits like this can bring all kinds of emotions to the fore but perhaps my feelings yesterday are best summed up by Felice Mancini`s poem, which is here with a little minor poetic adjustment:-

"Sometimes, not often enough, we reflect upon the good things
And those thoughts always centre around those we love
And I think about those people who meant so much to me
And for so many years had made me so very happy
And I count the times I had forgotten to say "thank you"
And just how much I loved them."

Somehow it seems it`s never too late to say `sorry,` but it can be too late to say `thank you?`

A FINE LINE...

He seems to have it all - long hair, Alice band, designer specs, bling, tattoos and at first glance you might take him for Cap`n Jack Sparrow taking time off from the set of Johhny Depp`s latest blockbuster.   But no.   This is Pablo Daniel Osvaldo, just signed by Southampton Football Club from AS Roma on a four year contract for a reported fee of £15million.

He becomes the latest expensive foreign import to St. Mary`s, following the arrival of Victor Wanyama from Celtic and Dejan Lovren from Lyon, bringing the Saints` spending so far in the cattle market of the transfer window to £36million, with only Manchester City and Tottenham Hotspur spending more.

At his welcoming press conference today, Osvaldo confirmed that he agreed to join the Saints because they had shown most interest in him;  he had worked with head coach Mauricio Pochettino previously at Espanyol and knew just what a super manager he was; it was always his dream to play in the Premier League; (and he really didn`t mind moving to Southampton from the eternal city and playing at the 32,000 seater St. Mary`s Stadium instead of the 82,000 Stadio Olympico - honest.)

What`s intriguing is that all this investment is happening at the same time as another group of talented young players emerge from the Saints` Academy which has already produced the likes of Gareth Bale, Theo Walcott and Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain.   Now we are seeing the emergence of Luke Shaw, Callum Chambers and James Ward-Prowse, all aged 18 and all in the starting line-up for Saturday`s win away at West Brom.   And as there are yet more on the launchpad of the Academy ready to lift off into the Premier League, it will be instructive to see how this blend of home grown young English players and expensive foreign imports gel as a team. 

Maybe they will learn from each other - from your pupils you`ll be taught and all that.   Now I think it was Aristotle who said that there was a fine line between genius and madness and so it will be equally instructive to see just how Saints Executive Chairman Don Nicola Cortese`s strategy for the development of the club evolves.   It can equally be a disaster or a triumph and with Cap`n Jack on board it could go either way.   For us Saints fans, life has never been easy, nothing has ever been settled, uncertainty has always ruled and anxiety has been our default condition.....but at least it`s never dull.  

ANOTHER QUESTION OF BALANCE ?

The demonstrations about the oil and gas exploration in the sleepy Sussex village of Balcombe are getting out of hand. It`s not just the cost of policing - now £750,000 and rising - it`s what they are doing to the quiet, dreamtime of a quintessentially leafy Sussex retreat.  Here`s a taste of what it looks like (or did until the last month or so):-

Of course, Balcombe is in the news because of the exploratory drilling going on and the resultant demonstrations against the disturbance of the peace and the prospect of fracking for new energy reserves.   Intriguingly, the name `Balcombe` may mean `Mining Place Camp.`   Bal is a Cornish word meaning a mining place and the word may go back to Ancient British Celtic.   And although Combe  can mean a valley, it can also come from the Roman `camp,` so the name of Balcombe could once have described a Romano-British mining settlement.  So maybe we shouldn`t be surprised that the area is being explored for its underground reserves.

I`m not sure I`m qualified to enter into the debate about oil, gas and fracking but I am interested in the gaggle of protesters who continue to descend on this quiet backwater.   I think it was the local villagers (pop:1765) who first raised eyebrows about the drilling proposals even though a licence had been granted after the usual consultations and bureaucratic hoops had been gone through, but their concerns have now been transformed into a bandwagon, onto which all the usual suspects are gleefully jumping.

They`re all there, of course, like Lenny Henry`s advert for Premier Inns - the well meaning ones, the scruffy ones, the professional agitators, the misguided ones, now even the rich and famous - Chrissie Hynde`s daughter, the absurd Dame Vivienne Westwood and any minute now I expect to see guest celebrity appearances from the likes of Stephen Fry, Madonna and Gwyneth Paltrow, all hell bent on being seen to be on the side of the righteous, always assuming they know which side that might be.  

Now, being ever in search of equality and balance in all things, as witnessed by my call for a Straight Pride Parade to even up the gay one, I think it`s time for the mild-mannered silent majority of little middle-Englanders to set up their own alternative camp around Balcombe, as an evening-up protest against the protesters.   It would all be very genteel, of course, be quietly unassuming and would require no policing, but simply make the point that the great unwashed should not be allowed to run roughshod over private property, legal processes, rural tranquillity and police budgets.  There might just be another voice, an alternative view, to be heard. 

Tea and cake anyone?

THERE ARE TIMES...

.....rare though they are, when England footballers can lift the spirit.   Here`s one of them:-

No wonder they`re dancing in the streets of Southampton.

What was pleasing about Rickie Lambert`s introduction to the international scene was not just his footballing ability but also the story of how he got there  Here is someone who has done it the hard way (well, playing for the Saints it would be) but I imagine that his journey from putting lids on beetroot jars to national hero cult status has seen little change in his personality and his manner.   He is Roy of the Rovers writ large - no WAGs but a wife and three children at home;  no bling;  no tantrums; no daft goal celebration - just a celebration; and just getting on with being the best he can be, as his engaging post-match interviews confirmed.   

I don`t know why, but it all reminded me of two things;  first the sporting one, when David Steele came in to bat against the rampaging Aussies in 1975, with his spectacles and grey hair, with Jeff Thompson wondering whether it was Groucho Marx coming in to bat and with the commentator remarking that Steele looked more `like a bank clerk going to war.`   Of course, like Rickie Lambert, David Steele succeeded where others had failed and in his eight Tests achieved an average of over 47.  

The other thought I had was that Rickie Lambert avoided as many footballing clichés as possible with just the odd token one popping up, in marked contrast to others who seem unable to resist the latest cliché on offer, which I suspect might be, "Well, it`s up there." 


The origin of that particular example is interesting.    Back in the early 16th century, an Italian painter and decorator  by the name of Michaelangelo ("Ceilings a Speciality") finally completed a job that had taken him four years to finish.  The Italian equivalent of modern day touchline interviewers asked, "Tell me, Mike, how does this Sistine Chapel job compare with other ceiling jobs you`ve done?"

"Well, it`s up there," came the reply.

At least Rickie Lambert Southampton`s Goal Machine (RLSGM) didn`t resort to such mindless platitudes and we Saints fans could not be happier for him now that he`s `made up` and his `dreams have come true.`   Nice one, Rick.

A PAUSE AMONG THE EUPHORIA..

Like most cricket loving Englishmen I was captivated by yesterday`s dramatic Ashes win at Chester-le-Street but during a lull in proceedings, either rain or tea I can`t remember, an interesting conversation took place between three England captains turned pundit about the respective times early in their careers.   They were mentioning the value of learning the trade through playing in club or league cricket - Gower, for instance, spent some time playing for a club in Perth, Western Australia;  Atherton recalled his time in the Lancashire and Cheshire leagues and Botham happened to mention the formative time he spent playing club cricket at Yeovil in Somerset.

Ah, Somerset.   That quite breathtakingly beautiful county, shown above, is the south- western outpost for county cricket in England and the county club has a history that is both chequered and unique.   As soon as Botham mentioned it, however, my mind went back to the days when Somerset cricket seemed to mirror the character of the county itself - beguilingly full of charm, a certain pace of life and a pastoral promise around every corner.

Botham`s reference to Yeovil cricket club sent me to an internet search, whereupon I came across a quite unexpected obituary.   It was for Brian Langford, who had passed away a few short months ago at the age of 77.   He was raised in Bridgwater, made his  county début as an off spin bowler when only 17 and went on to captain the side, score over 7,000 runs and take more than 1400 wickets, as well as being the only player to have bowled a full complement of eight overs in a 40-over match without conceding a single run.   He was, in short, a genuine legend of Somerset cricket.

But more than that, he seemed to represent an era, a time when Somerset cricket tended to consist of a mixture of landed gentlemen and hardened professionals, playing the game with a unique blend of serious intent and rustic panache and what characters it produced - Harold Gimblett, Horace Hazell, Bertie Buse, Dasher Denning, Colin Dredge the Demon of Frome, Maurice Tremlett, Mervyn Kitchen and a whole host more.   Through the mists of time their memories conjure up visions of sun kissed days in the lea of the Quantocks where the game was played as an entertainment rather than a business, a pleasure rather than a nerve-shredding trial.  Que sera, sera coming to cider land.

And so, as the euphoria of yet another Ashes victory is hailed and recognised for the triumph it is, yesterday`s brief conversation between the three former captains made me pause as it reminded me of another time, another age when heroes came with quiet restraint, decency and modesty and none more so than Brian Langford, who personified the charm and lasting appeal of cricket in that most captivating of counties.

It`s strange how cricket, like no other sport, can encourage wistfulness, even romanticism, which might mask the realities of how life might have been for those faraway heroes, but I was genuinely sorry to learn of Brian Langford`s passing and even more sorry that it has not been more widely acknowledged.  

DRIFTING AWAY?

To Southampton yesterday for the pilgrimage to St. Mary`s Stadium to see the Saints overcome a talented Real Sociadad side 4-3 in an entertaining encounter.   OK, it was the last pre-season `friendly` before the Premier League begins in earnest next Saturday but it was a chance to see how the team is shaping up under the tutelage of Mauricio Pochettino.

In some ways it was deja vu all over again - Saints were fine going forward but gave away daft goals at the other end, hence the scoreline.   If they can sort that out then a decent season beckons although the portents for next week`s Premier League opener away at West Brom look uncertain as so many Saints players are away on international duty in the coming week.

Amongst those missing will be Rickie Lambert Southampton`s Goal Machine (RLSGM) in the England squad, Artur Boric away playing for Poland, Dejan Lovren for Croatia, Stephen Davis captaining Northern Ireland, Emmanuel Mayuka off to play for Zambia, Victor Wanyama for Kenya and - most extraordinary of all - Maya Yoshida will be playing for Japan in Tokyo against Gaston Ramirez in the Uruguayan team.   There could well be others I`ve missed but it all adds up to a non-existent week`s training which might have ironed out the defensive bugs and finally settled on a starting line-up before taking on the Throstles at the Hawthorns next Saturday.  The price of progress?

At the end of the game, my carer and I walked back to Town Quay where we had left the car, just in time to see the Queen Elizabeth drifting away on the evening tide.  I hope it wasn`t an allegory for the Saints` chances of an encouraging start to the new campaign which may have been diminished by the ludicrous timing of international fixtures. 

ABOUT TIME TOO..

There is much dancing in the streets of Southampton today with the news that Rickie Lambert, Southampton`s Goal Machine, (RLSGM) has finally been selected for the England squad to play Scotland at Wembley Stadium next Tuesday.   About time too.  

RLSGM has done it the hard way, spending his journeyman years in the lower divisions of the Football League and joining the Saints four years ago in a £1million swoop from Bristol Rovers.  Since then he has been the club`s leading scorer each season and a talisman figure as the club has risen from the obscurity of the bottom of League One, through the Championship and in to the Premier League last season, when he became the joint leading English scorer with 15 goals.  

So, many congratulations, Rickie and I hope next Tuesday provides you with a more satisfying experience than that which befell James Beattie, the last Saints striker to be called into the England squad.  Like Rickie, James was the leading English scorer in the Premier League 10 years ago, which earned him a call up for the England team. Problem was that the `established` England players at the time simply refused to pass the ball to James and you can`t score goals if you don`t have the ball.  

I`m not altogether convinced that the current bunch of `established` internationals - mainly from the damned United, Chelsea and Arsenal - will be any more inclined to accommodate one who they might see as an upstart from a `small town provincial club` although the England team will also include the likes of Alex Oxtail-Chamberlain and Theo Walcott, former graduates of the Saints academy, so there might be some hope for Rickie getting a fairer crack of the whip than did James all those years ago.

And Wayne Rooney, for one, most certainly won`t dare mess with him, as he has already been intimidated by Rickie`s presence and his assertive propensity for planting the ball beyond the reaches of opposing custodians, as defensive walls shrink from his power and accuracy.   Here`s a good example:-  

Whatever happens, Rickie, the reward is richly deserved and we in our `small town provincial club` could not be more happy for you.

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!

A puzzling mystery has recently been solved here in the sylvan glades of Dibley.   We are lucky to have a network of footpaths, fields and woodland where the parish dogs have their daily walkies, but some time ago a gate leading from a field into the wood was inexplicably padlocked.   It wasn`t much of a deterrent, as it proved very easy to just walk around it but the puzzle was to find out who had padlocked the gate and why.

The answer has been revealed following in-depth enquiries and the culprits have turned out to be none other than our local boys in blue.   Apparently they were acting on `intelligence` received from unknown sources that poaching might possibly happen in the vicinity.   Now whilst I admire their diligence, I have yet to hear of any self respecting poacher who might be put off by a padlock on an easily negotiated gate.  Maybe the police`s next move will be to put a sign up. Something like this? -
  

All of which got me thinking about the security of my own house and I`m thinking of putting up a sign saying `NO BURGLARS` which should be enough to persuade any nocturnal malcontent to look elsewhere for his swag.   They, like the mythical poachers, have been warned and we here in Dibley can now rest easily in our beds knowing that any scallywags in our midst will take their criminal intentions elsewhere.   Well, they will, won`t they?

WHO ARE YOU ?

Pope Francis has apparently said that gay people should not be marginalised but should be integrated into society.   Flying home from his visit to Brazil, he reaffirmed to reporters that the Roman Catholic Church continues to consider homosexual acts as sinful, but that homosexual orientation was not.   He responded to questions as to whether there was a `gay lobby` in the Vatican by declaring that "If a person is gay and seeks God and has good will, who am I to judge?"

Well, Frank, you are the Almighty`s head honcho in Rome, so I guess you`re in a better position than anyone else to make that judgement.......or is that a glazed expression I detect in your photograph?

HERE WE GO AGAIN..

It`s really quite extraordinary.  Here we are in the very first week of August and a full programme of Football League matches kicked off yesterday;  well, Friday evening to be precise, with more games today, tomorrow and Tuesday and quite probably each and every day until next May.   

Anyway, we here in Snopper Street have had our involvement already with my next door neighbour`s newly promoted Gillingham going down at home to a late goal by visitors Colchester - a portent of things to come now that my neighbour has invested in a season ticket?   For his sake, I hope not.

The highlight for us here in Snopper Towers, now we`re Robins fans, was our street`s pacy flanker Scott Wagstaff, making his home league début for his new club, Bristol City, and scoring the opener in a 2-2 draw against Bradford City.   He is shown above just after scoring his deftly taken goal, which was followed up by a return of his trademark celebration - The Brick.   Here it is:-

As can be seen from the above clip, this remarkable contortion involves running to the touchline and falling down flat on his back whilst his joyous team mates then fall down on top of him.   The Brick, as featured on TV and with an in depth analysis on Talksport, clearly has marketing potential so let`s hope that yesterday`s season opener is just the start of a happy and productive stay at Ashton Gate for our street`s local hero, whose post match interview can be seen at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q9grh3pvxmA.  Fame at last?

A SWITCH IN TIME...

As elderly pensioners struggling to survive on a fixed income in these difficult economic times, Mrs. Snopper and I have to watch the pennies.  And our latest austerity measure arrived recently courtesy of Sky who wrote to tell us that our subscription would be going up by another pound or two a month as from August.   Straw and camel`s back time.

So I rang up Sky and had a fairly long conversation with a lilting Scottish lassie in their Caledonian stronghold.   I told her that we were finding it difficult to sustain the Sky subscription, along with Orange broadband and BT telephones and so we thrashed out a deal which would seem to save us £30 a month or more.   Now, I can`t face life without Sky Sports, especially with the Ashes coming up in Australia this winter, so I went for their Sports `bundle,` which provides loads of programmes, sporting and otherwise, along with their own telephone service and broadband (the new hub is in the post, I`m told.)

So what`s the downside?   Well, it means I won`t be getting any of the Sky movies any more, but I think I can live with that.   You see, I doubt I have watched a movie on Sky for months, as it seems films these days are produced to appeal to the lowest common denominator, with a preponderance of films depicting violence, some of it quite extreme, endless battles, horror and too much physical and psychological aggression for my delicate tastes.  

My preference has long been for the older stuff;  films with stories, films that touch the heart and inspire the soul and I really don`t want to watch a film to be frightened out of my wits or to recoil at what I`m seeing.  I`ve noticed a tendency, which some people will doubtless complain about, for `old` films to be shown fairly regularly on Channel 4 or BBC 2 and I`m quite happy watching them - maybe a throwback to my days as a projectionist during my National Service in Germany 50 years ago when cinema was more of a craft than all the CGI stuff of today.

Anyway, I`ve made the switch and, although it may be The End of Sky movies for me, at least I can now settle down to watch stuff that I know I will enjoy......and not have to worry about what damaging effects it  may have on my ageing sensitivities.

TWITTER YE NOT..

I confess to having nothing to do with Twitter and only the occasional flirtation with Facebook, thanks to someone opening an account for me some years ago.  Now it may be a generational thing but I harbour some serious doubts about  the value of`social media` anyway.   In general, they seem to pander to the insecurities of people who are anxious to be seen, heard or, in some desperate cri de couer, need to be `included.`  It`s all a bit sad really.

There`s a lot of fuss right now about people being abused on Twitter, notably some lady who campaigned for a woman to appear on the new £10 banknote and she is bemoaning the fact that others may not have agreed with her feminist stance and have taken to dishing out some grief in her direction.   There have been other examples, notably from so-called `celebrities` who seem fine all the time they`re being `followed` but who are quick to take offence when some folk just don`t like them and tell them so.

I`m sure this is just too simple for words but if you don`t like Twitter and all the other `social media` gubbins, just don`t go there. Stay out of it. It`s not compulsory and you have a choice.   As for me, I`m not on Twitter, don`t want to follow anyone in particular and, in any case, would find it difficult to say anything remotely cogent in 140 characters.

It was with much sadness that I heard that James Alexander Gordon has had to retire from the BBC following the loss of his larynx as a result of throat cancer.  He had read the classified football results since 1974 and, as has already been said, "Saturday teatimes will never be quite the same again."

The news brought memories flooding back to the distant radio days of my youth, when television had not entered the consciousness of my family or, indeed, anyone else in my boyhood `village by the sea` on the shores of Southampton Water.   Not long after the war ended my father had returned home after five years as a prisoner of war and we settled in a cottage in Hythe, where my father worked for BOAC on their flying boat maintenance base.   Not long after we moved in, I contracted a pretty serious kidney disease which saw me spend months in Southampton Children`s Hospital and months more convalescing at home - in all I lost over a year of schooling, which probably explains why I have been doggedly trying to catch up ever since.

Anyway, spending months at home with my mother and our faithful Cossor radio for company made me appreciate just how marvellous it was and I still have fond memories of programmes such as Dick Barton- Special Agent, At the Luscombes, the Charlie Chester Show, In Town Tonight and, inevitably, the weekly ritual concerning the classified football results.


Now my father had his routines, one of which was slavishly to do the football pools every week - Vernons, I think it was - in the straw-grasping hope of winning the jackpot by predicting eight draws (not just score draws) and fulfilling his dreams of avarice.   As part of the ritual, he would tune in to the football results at 5.00pm each Saturday and meticulously write down the results against the fixture list as they appeared in the newspaper.   

I was fascinated by this and wanted more than anything to be able to write down the results myself as they were broadcast.   But that was my father`s prerogative, of course - part of his ritual - and so, as I had all the time at my disposal during my convalescence, each Saturday I used to get some plain paper and carefully copy out the fixture lists from the newspaper, leaving room for me to write in the results for myself as they were announced.

It may have been an exercise in futility but it did introduce me to the BBC announcers who read out the results.   And the retirement of James Alexander Gordon recalled the equally dulcet, if perhaps more clipped, tones of those early pioneers of the art, such as John Hobday, Jimmy Kingsbury and Robin Boyle.  If I have got the technology right, the link below should produce a recording of Sports Report from 30 October 1948, when you might hear presenter Stephen Grenfell introducing Robin Boyle who reads the football results (including an annoying draw for Portsmouth) although I`m sure James Alexander Gordon would never have said "nought."  Just click on the link, turn the sound up and see if it works:-

http://randomradio.net/audio/SportsReport1948.mp3

SMILE, PLEASE..

With apologies to NASA/JPL-CALTECH/SPACE SCIENCE INSTITUTE for nicking their photo, but I was impressed by this image of the Earth and the Moon, taken by the Cassini spacecraft from the outer suburbs of Saturn.   As this photo was taken on my birthday a few days ago, I was sorry to have missed being part of the mass wave and smile in which people here on earth were asked to take part.

The image is a triumph for Carolyn Porco who leads the Cassini camera team at the Space Science Institute at Boulder, Colorado, especially as pictures of our planet from the outer solar system are rare because, at that distance, the Earth is very close to the bright Sun. This image was taken when the Sun had moved behind Saturn from Cassini`s point of view, blocking out most of the sunlight.

But I guess the most striking feature is that the image confirms our insignificance in the imponderable vastness of space and time, consigns even Jose Mourinho, Wayne Rooney, Tony Blair, Russell Brand and the rest of the inflated egos to irrelevance and reaffirms the wisdom of living for the moment.   Well, it only lasts for a brief minute, so keep calm and keep smiling.

PLEASE YOURSELF...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A NATION REJOICES..

Flags are flying, the bunting is out, there`s dancing in the streets, the bells are ringing, God is in His Heaven and a nation rejoices at a happy event that has captured the hearts of a country.   Well, when was the last time England stuffed the Aussies by 347 runs?

What a summer we`re having.   Quite apart from the gorgeous weather we`re having yet another astonishing summer of sport - Andy Murray, Justin Rose, The Lions, Chris Froome, the England cricket team - there has been so much to admire and celebrate that it is entirely possible that I`ve missed someone out, for which I apologise.

But already the gathering storm of Premier League football threatens to bring this momentous summer crashing about our ears.   I suppose, to be fair, the retirement of palaeolithic manager `Sir` Alex Ferguson from Manchester United has brought a shaft of sunlight into an otherwise gloomy prognosis for the coming season although the return of arch-fantasist Jose Mourinho at Chelsea should remind us not to count our chickens too hastily.

I had a small barrage of e-mails from the club I have followed for 67 of my 74 years inviting me to buy a season ticket at St. Mary`s for the coming season.   I considered their invitation carefully but two factors came to the forefront of my mind.   The first was the cost - to secure the same seat I occupied for years, ever since St. Mary`s took the place of The Dell at Southampton, would set me back £820;  then the travelling costs for my 250 miles round trip, something to eat and drink, a programme, possibly the occasional parking fine, left me wondering seriously about our old friend `value for money.`

The second factor was the simple reality that the Southampton Football Club I knew and grew to love all those years ago has long departed.   There was a time when the club really was part of the community and the community part of the club, owned, managed and quite often played by local people who understood the respective value of club and community.   These days, the club is owned by a Swiss/German family, run by an Italian Chairman, managed by an Argentinian and played, amongst others, by a Pole, a Japanese, a Dutchman, a Uruguayan, a Frenchman, a Croatian, a Kenyan and a Brazilian.

Whilst all this summer sporting success continues (Australia 32-2 as I write) we should remind ourselves that in the last few weeks the England Under 21s, the Under 20s and even the Ladies football teams have all departed from their respective international competitions with more whimpers than bangs and, despite Premier League boss Richard Scudamore`s absurd insistence that it is `utter nonsense` to blame the number of foreign mercenaries playing in the Premier League for England`s international failings, we all know different.  

His product may well be reaching its sell-by date just in time for the England national team to miss out on qualification for the next World Cup and if so, then perhaps the storm gathering on the horizon might blow some good after all.   And before we know it, these long, hazy days of summer with all the joyous memories they bring, will fade into yet another winter of discontent as the grasping avarice of Mr. Scudamore`s beautiful game jars our senses once more.   It could and should be so very different.   If only.