Open Your Eyes, What Do You See?

     I had the honour of showing five delightful Irishmen around my home town recently. There are John and Shamus, Liam and Noel and brother-in-law Tom, Tom Jones that is. There are two firemen, a postman and two professional singers; no, Tom, Tom Jones that is, is not one of the singers. Some live in County Wicklow, one lives in London and one lives near Nottingham; and they all know Dublin. Confused, how do you think I felt! They would appear to have a profound intellectual interest in and appreciation of all things historical; plus less intellectually, they love eating. drinking and charity shops!

    My hometown is Derby (England). Hands up who's ever been there? Hands up, what Derby's famous for? Who's ever even heard of the place; or could find it on a map? I have often asked similar questions on my travels, seldom receiving very convincing answers. So, from the top of my head, here goes.

    Derby, home of Royal Crown Derby; Rolls Royce Aero Engines, anything to do with railways and, built in more recent times, Toyota motor factory. Home to Derby County Football Club (the ground now called IPro Stadium, the club previously housed at The Baseball Ground.) According to some the most haunted city in England, Florence Nightingale and that's all that comes to mind at the moment. No matter, it defeats the object if I use the internet to refresh my mind. With all this in mind I took my Irish friends on a somewhat impromptu 'tour' and this is how our day went! Plus it was an education for me too!

     We walked through what was, when I was a lad, Victoria Street, the town's main street. (I rode regally in a new, 'bog standard' wheelchair, an education in itself and bloody uncomfortable.) Only now the town is dominated by a huge shopping complex, the Intu Centre, around six hundred yards away.

Resulting in Victoria Street and surrounds being bereft of shoppers, looking forlorn and unattractive, discouraging in the extreme. Alongside which stands derelict Duckworth Square, abandoned at least ten years ago, welcome to the City of Derby!

    We visited the town's museum. We examined an exhibition by an Irishman, Denis O'Connor.       . We saw Derby's own Joseph Wright paintings; we saw also a 'mummy' three thousand years old, PLUS the mummified cat I so loved as a child all those years ago; some things never change!

    In the Silk Mill we observed 'a work in progress'. The oldest factory in the world, it is to house objects that show Derby's place in the industrial world. Aero engines or railway exhibits for instance.     The museum is also 'a work in progress'. Particularly noticeable are bright, eager, in the main young volunteers in all manner of occupation who are keenly ensuring at least some progress is made. It is blatantly obvious that money, or the lack of it is making life difficult if not impossible in any project remotely deemed 'cultural'. It looks like its 'Lottery/Heritage funding or nothing. I am pleased our visitors saw attempts at preserving our heritage for our children. Plus the army of unpaid, keen cheerful volunteers deserve our thanks, if not the government or the councils cash.

    With the pursuit of historical knowledge in mind we also visited three hostelries! The Bell, an ancient pub in Sadler Gate. A pub with a so chequered a recent history that it was shut by the police for some considerable time. Very, very old,  I viewed the state of the top floor out of the window and wondered if it would refrain from collapsing before we finished our drinks. Oh ye of little faith, Kenneth, my Irish friends thought it 'the bees knees' or whatever they say in Ireland!

Similarly The Dolphin public house, reputedly the oldest pub in Derby was received with due Irish reverence. And the third 'drinking experience' we encountered was The Standing Order. An ex-bank, a Wetherspoons establishment that is very impressive; its ceiling is particularly so. Coupled with excellent food it was a supurb choice. We also called briefly in Bennetts, probably the oldest departmental store in Derby. We were too late to comprehensively view the goods on display but the young female assistants were much admired! Thus ended a glorious day. My friends despatched me in a yellow cab and they returned to their base in Attenborough.

    An ordinary place, Derby, made special for the day by extraordinary people. Was it John Howard Payne who said 'Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home' Mind you, I've seen these words also attributed to Frank Baum's ' Wonderful Wizard of Oz' AND to  Bridget Carson amongst others so take your pick!

    Humorous, patient, lively in the extreme, you were all excellent ambassadors for Ireland. Thanks chaps, I hope you all enjoyed the day as much as I did.

Rambling, Preambling Bumbling and Mumbling! Using What's Left of the Brain Cel!s.

    Firstly please note, I've caught up and completed outstanding comments! Thanks for your patience. Is it me or is it becoming technically difficult to 'merely' comment on kind people's encouragement. Never mind, it indirectly gives me yet another chance to view modern technology in all its glory. But first an aside, an old man's senile prerogative. (Stand up, that boy who whispered 'Silly old ****!)

    My sister-in-law, forever young at heart has treated herself to a classy, very sporty 2009 BMW Z4. She looks very Princess Grace of Monacco like complete with headscarf and 'shades'. (Look how I know the modern terminology, aren't you impressed!) To complete the image I suggested she look for a 'HRH' private number plate. ( 'Her Royal Highness" to our overseas friends.) Ever helpful I found on the internet details of the sale of such aforesaid plates. HRH 1 was sold a year or two back. It fetched £90.000 plus in DVLA auctions, well over £100,000 in total. But HRH 4 is to be sold, presumably in the none too distant future; suggested price £250,000! (Being a Derby County supporter, my own vehicle number plate is 0009 RAM and no, it didn't QUITE cost £250, 000!)

    I noticed in the week the all new Formula One E racing car practices were open to the public for three days at Donington recently. Coupled with the teachers on strike (Grumpy being an ex-teacher I remember them well. Happy days!) so I thought I'd better further my grandchildren's extra curricular education. So off we went, not knowing what to expect; Ted, aged five, Tommy, eight, Angelina, twelve, grandma and granddad, both a 'mite' bit older!

    Situated not far from my home, Donington Racetrack was famous for its motor racing before the Second World War. Dominated by German cars, particularly Mercedes. Before my time, honest; I was brought up with tales of the mighty German racers 'as a lad'. Post war, after mixed fortunes, it is up and running again as a racetrack and home to Formula 1E. Make no mistake, you are going to hear a lot about these cars in the future. Remember, I'd never heard of electric racing cars until one week ago, so what does this 'old codger' make of it all that is, if I've got it right!

    Made at Donington, all the cars are the same specification, then 'tweaked' by individual team mechanics. Each team has two cars; round Donington a car will do approximately twelve laps before it runs out of 'umph' and is immediately replaced by the second team car. The batteries evidently get very hot, the teams are 'owned' by some famous names (example Alan Prost and Richard Branson, two of the drivers are ladies, the first 'real' race is in Bejing in September and thats about all I know.

    Right or not, we all enjoyed ourselves. We mixed with enthusiastic people who obviously 'live and die' motor sport. We watched in awe these twenty first century beasts of the motoring world. We marvelled at the strange phenomena offered for our delight and bemusement. These cars are not silent, but emit a strange sound as they hurtle round the track; whistle like, a whining, indescribable sound. Plus they are beautifully presented; shiny, metallic, all the colours of the rainbow; you could not help but be impressed.

    I think we all enjoyed our visit in our own way. My wife enjoyed being with the grandchildren, and with me I hope! the children too enjoyed it in their own way, including Ted's daisy collecting. I was particularly pleased to be involved at the very beginning of this new motor sport venture. None of us enjoyed the picnic; because there wasn't one! Paulette left all the food on the kitchen table! (In fairness nobody else remembered either.) So we, or should I say Paulette found crisps, malteses, and

jaffa cakes in a shop at the circuit. Fortunately we had bottles of water in the car so who cares if the 'picnic' was a little unusual!

    A hot summer's day; a trip in a modern motor to see history in the making. Enjoyable but so, so different to my boyhood trips up the fields with a bottle of water and some bread. Mind you, I don't EVER remember forgetting the food!

  

Boo Hoo.

    We've got over it, that game of football I wrote about last time. (Derby County v QPR). 'We wuz robbed' is what all supporters say when they lose and this time it's true. (And no, we haven't really got over it.) Irrespective of the financial importance of the result to Derby (around £160 million over several years), non football supporters I'm sure would be amazed how important it all is to so many people. Over forty thousand people travelled to Wembley to see Derby County,' their team'. Now that's a lot of people. I have never experienced so much collective gloom in all of my life. And it's this collective feeling, this joint 'togetherness' I'd like to explore.

    As I mentioned last time, we have many emotional experiences in life, some highs, some lows. But seldom involving so many people all at the same time. I know of no other experience (losing this football match) that has affected my whole existence, my whole well being to such a depth. And I'm seventy four years of age, for goodness sake! England in the World Cup in Brazil, I'm interested, but not particularly concerned either way. Nothing has affected me so deeply and for so long as the result of Derby County's demise. Now why is that so, I wonder.

    There are several factors involved here when you think about it.We need an identity, a sense of belonging. Something to show 'who we are'. An old lady I know who lives in North Derbyshire comes originally from Yorkshire. She flies in her small garden a ruddy great Yorkshire flag. Everyone in the village has an opinion regarding her actions but she doesn't care. Her flag signifies' who she is'.

    There's no doubt coming from certain parts of the country, never mind the world affects the way we live, think, behave. Essex, for instance has gained an image in post war Britain that is brash in the extreme. You have only to watch 'The Only Way is Essex' on television to gain an opinion, however accurate of Essex people and Essex life. All hair extensions and fake tans apparently. (TOWIE is a reality show; a caricature of 'real life, perhaps!)  Yorkshire is the BIGGEST county and often it shows, Yorkshire 'expats' so often feeling they have to show they're the 'biggest and the best'. (Not all of course but enough!) Little old Derbyshire seemingly has no 'identity' of note. Many people I've met on my motor home travels couldn't place Derbyshire on a map however hard they tried. The Derbyshire motto, by the way is 'Derbyshire born, Derbyshire bred. Strong in the arm, weak in the head.'!

    There's no doubt this identity thingumajig is important to a lot of people. Manchester United are followed by thousands of people; many attend their matches weekly; many more follow their progress and support 'their' team without ever attending a live match. How many children over the years have adopted Manchester United as 'their' team, seduced by the glamour of the Bobby Charlton's and George Bests.

    There's not always much to recommend living in Derby, or Nottingham for that matter and standing by a machine all day to earn the proverbial 'crust'. (Times are changing but many still lead hum-drum lives, many haven't even got the satisfaction of a job, however mundane.) Small wonder their local football team, often a traditional thing, is followed with passion and blinkered fervour, come rain or shine. To many it is the event of the week. (The cry often at Derby County matches is 'It you hate Forest, stand up'. Surely the word HATE is a misnomer; or is it?) So to many this football malarky is a traditional think. Forty thousand individuals converging on London to support a football team is impressive. Plus thousands more watching Derby on televisions around Derby itself is awesome. I have never experienced such gloom after the match in Derby. I watched with friends and the gloom was indescribable. And a thought occurred to me. Is the 'collective thing' the important thing here. Is it 'catching'; are we all victims of 'mass hysteria on a grand scale?

    I remember a year or two ago a young marching band performing, Mansfield way if I remember right. It was a sunny summer's day. One or two children began to suffer from the heat. And a trickle became a flood. More and more children succumbed to the heat. Afterwards the suggestion was that the children were victims of mass hysteria, auto suggestion if you like. Derby County supporters, myself included are victims too, I wouldn't wonder! Victims of collective doom and gloom on an epic scale.

    We humans are the ultimate animal. We have feelings and emotions. Dogs and cats cannot appreciate a cracking penalty save or a Beckhamesque pass all of forty yards. (Neither are they daft enough to sit in the freezing cold on a Saturday in January watching a soccer match. You don't sit in the garden in January. So why sit outside at a football match. Who's the clever one now!

    A final thought, courtesy of a friend. This lady suggests we all have a 'spiritual side' to our nature. What is happening, she suggests, is the spiritual side of many is channelled, not towards religion, but towards another outlet; in Derby football supporters case, Derby County. Makes sense, what was it the famous Bill Shankly once said, 'Some people believe football is a matter of life and death. I am very disappointed with that attitude. I can assure you it is much more important than that.

    What is your 'drug', greatest passion in life? Do tell! Now I'm going for a lie down. All this thinking is making me quite tired!

Thinking Out Loud

    I'm usually at a loss as to what my next post will be about. I remember the time, being a total novice I asked of fellow bloggers 'What's it all about, Alfie'. Several helped me out and my 'Grumpy Old Ken' blog flourished in my own haphazard way. And one thing I learnt (how ignorant I was in those days a mere four years ago) is that a blog is whatever you want it to be. A 'diary' if you like, YOUR thoughts etc, but on the internet, not paper. So no attempt this week at creating a masterpiece of wit and wisdom.  No doubt all the better for it! Just a mere musing of what the weeks been for me!

     I'm still struggling along, the knee refuses to show any real progress, the rigures of physiotherapy continues to dominate, life is not easy; but there are so many worse off and every situation in life teaches us something if we allow it to do so. For instance, I had no idea as to the trials and tribulations associated with disability. Steps are everywhere, there are few concessions offered. Lifts in the public arena are few and far between and frequently out of order. The world out there is a survival of the fittest. Welcome to the real world, Grumpy.

    My wife and I visited Wollaton Hall, a magnificent structure built between 1580 and1588.       . Except that the lift, you've guessed, was out of order and the steps at the front of the building were almost impossible for someone in my condition. Plus disabled parking was available, yet very poorly advertised Mind you, an attendant had the sense to find me a wheelchair to make my visit enjoyable. Well done that man! (I got the impression that 'cuts' had made staffing a joke, but not a 'funny ha ha' joke.)

    Everyone ought to have a session in a wheelchair, be they fit or otherwise to get some insight into the world out there offered to the disabled. But lets not get too negative, life is still good in the main. Two individuals I met in a week in which Jamie Oliver suggested the British young are feckless, work shy and lazy.

    Seeking advice on kitchens we visited B and Q (they found me a wheelchair, rather battered but usable). A young employee, mid twenties, gave us time and advice in our quest for the kitchen of our dreams. He was civil, dedicated to kitchens, knowledgeable, ambitious. I wouldn't mind selling kitchens, but only for a morning. My shortest 'career move', selling Betterware lasted four hours! He had been employed by B and Q for ten years. Again, well done that man.

    At Wollaton Hall we found a cafe. I have seldom seen a cafe so busy; particularly with young mothers and their offspring. To put a not too delicate slant on it, Nottingham and district certainly knows how to breed! A young man around nineteen years of age (he reminded me of a young Elvis Presley) appeared to be in charge. He fetched tray after tray after tray of used cups, empty bottles etc from the tables in the courtyard. He also swept up and delivered black bags of rubbish to bins provided. He even responded at one stage to a message that a child was locked in a toilet and couldn't get out! When he eventually paused for a moment I commented on his frenzied work rate. His answer was interesting.

He basically suggested that he was paid to work and that is what he did. Eat your heart out, Jamie Oliver!

     Concerning disability provision we attended the Derby County v Burnley football match on Saturday afternoon. The parking is good, an electric buggy picks us up at my car door and deposits us at the entrance to the main foyer. A lift ride, a few steps, stewards to hand and hey presto, in my front row seat. Big business can be disability aware  when it tries. (Now all we need is a winning team!)

    Limping around, 'big time' is not to be recommended. But one thing it does, is slow you down and give you time to think. I sat in front of the magnificent old building and do you know what was going through my mind. I've no doubt a little chap with five or six children, possibly called Percy or Montmorency worked on the building of Wollaton Hall all those years ago. Where are his mortal remains now, I wonder. Life is short with an inevitability that catches up with us all.

     Enough of my geriatric ramblings. One final thought. How many of you, not from this area, recognise Wollaton Hall. It does of course feature in the latest Batman film, The Dark Knight Rises, Wollaton Hall was of course Wayne Manor. Grumpy's blog may well be boring but it's often educational!

Round and Round in my Head

It's been a funny week. And not particularly funny ha-ha. I had a pre-op medical to set getting a new knee in motion. Only a problem came to light. My heart seems to have some sort of murmur, irregularity, not evidently present a couple of years ago. Strangely enough my wife has always maintained I stop breathing in my sleep (sleepacchnia). Scary stuff. So what happens next; You tell me!

This getting old malarky is a bit of a drag at times. You spend most of your time visiting doctors, dentists or hospital.  So much to do, so much to remember. Do you have nights where you lie in bed with a million and one things on your mind; I'm not the only one surely. And that leads to even more things going round and round!

I have always, always believed that everything that you've always experienced is still in your mind, right until the day you die. The difficulty is in recalling it, in any meaningful way. It took me years to recall my e-book (A Childhood Revisited) and that only covered fifteen years. I reckon I could do another but I haven't the heart. As an experiment last week I lay in bed and recalled anything that came into my head. The following surfaced:

My motorbike TNU137  1957

Derby County playoff versus WBA at Wembley 2007

Ruby Murray, who I reckon sang down her nose. My first love. 1955 (Softly, Softly)

Mundesley school camp in 1953

Little Miss Muffet junkets. Around 1950

Grannies funeral, the snow howled down at the graveside, just like a scene out of Dickens.  1978

A real football, one up on the rich kids, courtesy of an uncle in Derby.   Around 1951

Arriving on Chesterfield station to a new job, very reminiscent of High Noon.  1965

I started to wonder how much could the mind actually store. Stephen Hawkins reckons it can store 10,000 Oxford Dictionaries. Somewhere else I read it can store one trillion gigabytes of memory. I've studied it a bit but it soon loses me when it starts talking about petabytes and synapses. Some clever devils suggest the brain can grow with how much it NEEDS to grow! Thats a bit convenient, surely!

This all gets a bit deep but its partly an age thing I suspect. It all gets a bit personal when you reach seventy!

So many, many things to ponder. I wonder why we have spells of going round and round and spells of comparative 'sanity'. If I was mad, would I know I was mad or would I need someone to tell me? Here we go again. As Arthur English used to say 'Play the music! Open the cage!

I Thought by Now I Would Understand Everything.

    I am trying to make sense of the human condition. Please bear with me.

When I was little, for many years I lived in a village; I lived in the bottom end of the village; we kids at the bottom formed gangs, and we 'fought' the top end of the village. sometimes violently, with home made weapons. Not surprisingly, for we were boys, and that's what we understood boys did. (Some might like to read A Childhood Revisited. Kindle, Amazon. Ah, happy days.)

Around the age of eleven we went to new schools, not all of us to the same schools. And we made new friends, wore new uniforms and continued fighting, given the chance. Sometimes new foes from different schools, sometimes children in different uniforms, who used to be friends. Because we were now mobile, we made new friends outside of the village, but also new foes out of the village; naturally, inevitably, because that what boys did.

    We liked football and we 'belonged' to the local football team (in our case Derby County); or did they belong to us? Some swore allegiance to more famous or successful teams like Manchester United but their's was a strange affair. They seldom if ever went to their matches and, horror of horrors, they were even known to change to another club if one was so inclined. All part of 'belonging', of 'being someone, not merely one of the crowd. It was all part of growing up.

    Some of us were  were taught 'religion'. The idea of a life after death pleases. To some it makes sense, to others no sense.The idea of being special pleases. Unfortunately many, many religious people feel they, and only they are right and must 'teach' others; by killing the 'opposition' if need be.

Despite the protestations of the pious that it is otherwise 'religion' has been responsible for much death from time immemorial. (All for the off chance of a life after death for a chosen few. Sounds a bit selfish and dictatorial to me.)

    Nevertheless I understand more concerning life than I did in my youth. Not too much more, granted. And if I don't always agree with why people do the things the way they do, at least I can usually understand their thinking. Many people in the United Kingdom for instance have strong views on immigration. They see it in terms of 'them and us', 'our'  not 'their' country and so on. I do not subscribe to this viewpoint but I can well see where this viewpoint comes from. And this is important because yet again this is a post I had not intended to write. Something happened in the week that I cannot for the life of me fathom. The reason for this somewhat convoluted post.

    There was a football match a week or two ago; Tottenham Hotspur v Inter Milan. an Italian team versus a British team. A match that will be remembered yet again for some spectators (not all but not a tiny number either) who were abusive to any black players playing for Tottenham. A frequent occurrence in Italian football. Am I totally 'thick' in not being able to understand this moronic abuse of a fellow human being. Can someone TRY to get in the mind of those responsible for me. I am fortunate that this blog goes to many parts of the world. Please, will someone explain what it is all about. I assume it is not typically Italian behaviour. (It occurs elsewhere.)  Is it a male thing? A class thing? A football thing? Are some people naturally full of hate, and colour of skin is an easy 'marker' as who to 'pick on',

    How frightening that such people may be parents; perhaps they may people in positions of power in the world. How can ANYONE take offence solely because of the colour of a persons skin. I suspect the older I get the less I understand.

And It's Fame Again.

    I have pondered this fame 'thingymagig' all week. Then a strange thing happened. I was at a Derby County football match recently. Now there's a famous club for you, one of the original twelve in the English Football League, dating back to 1888-1889. Suddenly a loud voice called out a man's name and around eighteen thousand people home supporters started clapping; they clapped for around a minute and the away supporters joined in. Who were they clapping for? Was it David Cameron, Nelson  Mandela or Prince William. None of these, the applause was for Mr Douglas Else who died last week, aged eighty six. 

Affectionately known as 'Badge Man', Douglas attended Derby County home and away matches for many, many years. In a wheelchair in later years, pushed by his son, Steven he was instantly recognisable. For he was adorned by Derby County badges, from head to foot, an estimated 800 in number. Perhaps a strange thing to do, but a harmless hobby that gave no doubt gave pleasure to all who met him, however fleetingly over the years.

    It set me thinking for many reasons. Douglas will be remembered for his devotion to Derby County and his extraordinary collection. I doubt that he sought fame but many of us would like to be remembered after we have gone.

     I spent many years writing my e-book concening my earlier life. I did not write it seeking fame but mainly to explain to my children what my life was like in the 1950's. I shall never be famous, nor would I particularly wish to be, but I must admit I like the idea that someone, somewhere MIGHT take a peek at my book in a hundred years time. I like the idea of leaving something behind; the idea that people in the future will know I existed appeals. (I wish I had a religious faith in an afterlife but am content to believe that my 'spirit' or whatever will continue in my children and my children's children. Perhaps part of me may even continue 'on the wind' so to speak; you never know!

    What are you going to leave behind. (I reckon there's a book in everyone waiting to get out; if I can do it, anyone can.) What will you be remembered for. It doesn't have to be massive or magical. Being a 'nice' human being would literally be nice. What would you like as your epitaph. Are you going to leave anything spiritual or perhaps material. Or don't you like to think about it.

Concerning fame, beware,  just two thoughts that caught my eye.

 George Villiers

Men's fame is like their hair, which grows after they are dead, and with just as little use.

 Delmore Schwartz

Fame always melts like ice cream in the dish.

Bit and Bobs, This and That; Geriatric Ramblings.

    Funny old week. Saw my beloved Derby County. They won 5-1. They were brilliant, superb, outstanding, excellent, terrific. (You get the impression they were good!) So why not every week? The frailty of the human condition. Then I saw a performance of the BBC 'Proms' from the Royal Albert Hall on television. Amazingly good, such skilful musicians, wonderful. breathtaking, unforgettable. How clever humans can be, how good life is at times. (As a family we are also in the middle of problems, some close. Serious illness, domestic problems of friends close to us, the effects of unemployment and recession, all are present.) My aging, sometimes less than adequate mind takes it all in, often in the dark, night hours. I have no doubt many of what is left of my readers have exactly the same or similar problems. (Regarding readers I am sure 'blogging' is an ephemeral pastime so I am somewhat philosophical.) But yet again I am left with the old 'What's it all about' syndrome.

    It's over a year since Francois, my wife's mother died. It hit the family badly, she was much loved. I came across Paulette's prayer book she was given at her communion. It is dated 23rd June 1961. The funeral service was the 23rd June 2012. Coincidence, presumably. We brought back to Derby the summer house much loved by Francois. It sits in our garden, a constant, comforting reminder. And the rainbow that appeared one day? you tell me! We all like the thought of 'something else' besides this life, strange and mystifying though it is at times. I confess I find it beyond my limited comprehension.

    Max Bygraves died this week. If there is 'something else', perhaps he's singing away somewhere, always the entertainer!

    Next week, the first day of the rest of my life. On Wednesday I am to appear on the local radio station (Radio Derby) to talk about my e-book. (A Childhood Revisited); presumably my Andy Warhol 'fifteen minutes of fame!

There's Some Sad People About, That's For Sure.

 

'Also remembered was a John Bull printing set. Comprising of a small much prized tin containing: inkpad and two sets of rubber letters. The complete alphabet, one set being capitals, a small wooden block and a small pair of tweezers to handle the individual letters. Considering every word and sentence had to be set out backwards it was a wonder we persevered, though printing out rude words in private was an education few adults had reckoned on.

Concerning rude words I well remember discovering at school the word twat. Thus virtually every sentence was punctuated with the word, ‘twat this’ and ‘twat that’ until I made the mistake of uttering such ill chosen utterances in front of adults, in my case Aunty Mary. I was made to understand in no uncertain terms that such words had no place in God fearing households. Strangely enough no attempt was made as to why such words were taboo. The result, the words gained a new prominence, to be uttered now on away from adult ears. I must have been around eight years old at the time.'

    This extract was taken from my e-book A Childhood Revisited. I was, as indicated a mere child of around eight at the time. Then I gradually grew up! I still swear at times, I am not particularly proud of it, it is generally selective and on occasion it can be effective I reckon. But I would not dream of swearing in front of a lady or children.

     I used to teach English for a living in a large, very average comprehensive. IF a child swore in class I used to 'jump' on it quickly and point out that I didn't swear in class, so why should they. Even the most challenging of pupils, with very few exceptions accepted this 'rule' and we 'got by' quite well in a career lasting nearly twenty years.

    I am reminded of those days in my distant past when I read of the trial of John Terry. Irrespective of a not guilty verdict concerning racial abuse, what a depressing scene; what desperately pathetic, uncouth, limited, ignorant people there are in the world. (The trial centered around the use of the terms a black c*** and f****** k***head.) No argument that the term was used, merely how it was used. And these people are adults, for goodness sake! How rich and self indulgent some modern sportsmen seem to be. And not just sportsmen, for there were loud cheers from the public gallery in court that clearly indicated the behaviour and presumably language of John Terry was acceptable to some. To what depths have we sunk. I am a football follower (of my beloved Derby County) but at times I question whether I am just encouraging sick and depraved people by spending my hard earnt cash so that they can lead a lifestyle devoid of any moral worth.    

    Not all footballers are bad of course. But when you have a footballer who admits he tried to break an opponents leg (Roy Keane) and another paragon of virtue who doesn't admit to adultery and then has the cheek to resort to law to prevent us knowing what a hypocrite he is (Ryan Giggs) all seems lost. No one seems to care, Keane is seldom off the television sports programmes; Giggs is captain of the Great Britain Olympic team. Remember, these people are heroes, role models to our children and grandchildren; is that right. And before I get too carried away, what would my attitude be, I wonder, if Derby County were to be offered a psychopathic, philandering centre half who happened to be the best prospect since the proverbial sliced bread.

Ouch.

    It's been a bloody awful, painful week. I've had my fair share of pain in my life. Internal hemorrhages, TGA's, broken bones by the score but this took some beating. For pain, try a dose of  ****. So debilitating that a butterfly landing on your toe would induce excruciating pain to the point of not being too keen on living. I had to fech a doctor to the house, an almost unheard of occurence. And I missed a Derby County home match for the first time since March 1975. (Versus Luton Town, Derby won 5-0.)
    The annoying thing is, most people find **** funny. Say you have the dreaded Big C and everybody is profoundly sympathetic. (Having had a brush with skin cancer I know these things.) 'I'm bio polar' you announce and everyone is fascinated. (I'm not really.) 'How interesting' they say, 'Just like Stephen Fry, Tony Hancock and Spike Milligan.' Its seemingly always been with us from our earliest times. Only thenadays sufferers were called manic depressives. How bloody terrific! What I've got, **** doesn't seem to have another name. ****, short and simple but terribly amusing, ha ha ha.

    Presumably anyone with syphilis or gonorrhea may not always get the sympathy they deserve and need, some miserable sods suggesting it's in a way self inflicted. But my **** is not self inflicted unless you suggest its cause might be the beer, of which I drink too much, or the various foods I scoff. Mind you, cutting out things that cause **** is not easy. How many of the following do you eat. If any of the following, watch yourself! (Not necessarily equal in 'contributes to **** factor', but all 'dodgy' concerning **** in their own way.)

consume beans       kidney           ham                   salmon

mushrooms             brain              beef                  cod

spinach                   hot dogs - in fact all processed meats

cauliflower              pheasant        pork                   trout

                              liver               lamb                  scallops

anchovies               turkey            liver                   sardine

peas                       chicken          haddock            herring

lentils                      rabbit            mussels

legumes                  grouse           shrimp

asparagus               squirrel !        crab

    The only redeeming feature of **** is that its not for everyone. Not for the common people. Hippocrates  didn't call **** 'The disease of kings' for nothing. Its only for the rich and famous, you see. I suppose Henry VIII was the best known sufferer. George IV was also afflicted, alternating with his madness, poor chap. Plus King James I and Queen Anne, right pillars of the aristocracy. Not just royals either, both Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson were similarly plagued by the dreaded ****. Which would suggest that my dubious parentage, and the suggestion of coming from 'higher stock' is perhaps true after all. (See post dated 22nd September 2009 Will the Real You Please Stand Up.) And by the way, **** was featured in a health programme I watched this week so I must indeed have a topical complaint if nothing else. I learnt also that tofu is highly rated in dealing with ****. Had not heard of it, anyone know anything about tofu; any help greatfully received; just off to seek it out in my local Chinese supermarket. 

    Sorry for the bad mood and the bad language but that's Gout for you! (Just in case anyone had not realised it was the dreaded Gout that is causing me problems. in the ankle as well as the toe I might add.) Going for a lie down, as Reg Dixon used to say, 'I feel proper poorly'.

                                             

                                           

'A chronic condition caused by an uncontrolled metabolic disorder, hyperuricemia, which leads to the deposit of mono sodium urate (uric acid) crystals in tissues around the joint.'       .                  

                              

A Real Football Hero.

Having said I don't normally 'do' topical here we go again. The Ryan Giggs affair really set me going and here's why. I personally quite admired the guy, so I view his antics with both surprise and disappointment. (Ryan Giggs, professional footballer, married, father of four has a 'liason/affair' with a young lady and tries to use the full force of the law to stop anyone from being aware of his antics. Says he's thinking of his children. Bit late, Ryan, what a hypocrite!)
To those who say his private life is his own business, I say rubbish, we're entitled to know. This man earns millions from football and even more millions as a 'whiter than white' ambassador for football. He is, like it or not, a role model for millions of children.
My background is ordinary, working class village boy born in the first months of the war. Plus I was orphaned at the age of thirteen. Role models have always been important, particularly where young males are concerned; in my case, because of my circumstances doubly so. The like of Reg Harrison, footballer was particularly important in my formative years. Contrast Reg's career with the spoilt, prima donna's of the modern footballing world.
Reg Harrison was a young man, a keen, honest Derby born and bred professional footballer aged nineteen in 1946, playing for Derby County in the immediate post war years. In an era of shortages there were special problems for professional sportsmen and women. Sport is reliant on fitness; diet is a critical factor if success is to be achieved. Footballers were allocated no extra rations yet a level of fitness was maintained creditable in the extreme. True, there was the occasional perk of extra meat from a butcher in return for match day tickets. There was also a Derby County team manager who was in the catering trade, providing the players with a meal once a week, tripe and onions being a particular favourite. But there were no massive wages to supplement the player's diet, even had extra rations been available.
Reg signed a contract in 1946 for the princely sum of ten pounds a week. The manager somewhat apologetically explained that only long term first team regulars were paid more, he, Reg was what was termed ‘a slider', any increase, and small at that depending on regular first team football. In fact a member of Reg’s family earned more after stoppages working as a foreman in the local Rolls Royce factory. Which would suggest that admired they might well have been, but immediate post war footballers were seldom financially secure. Reg never forgot the club director, an accountant by profession who solicitously inquired, shortly after Reg married as to whether he was saving his money. As Reg inevitably retorted, ‘Chance would have been a fine thing on footballer’s wages’.
Reg lived with his parents until he married and then moved to a small house in the town, from where he walked to work. Not that he considered training twice a day preseason and playing twice a week in season as work. A hard life physically, but one he enjoyed just the same. A life that brought the reward coveted by all British footballers. A FA Cup appearance with the ultimate reward, a cup winner’s medal. For in 1946 Derby County reached the FA Cup Final, meeting Charlton Athletic at Wembley on Saturday the 27th April.
Tickets for the match were eagerly sought by a Derby population starved of real football excitement for almost six long war years. Prices ranged from 3/6 (17p) to £2 2 0s (£2 10s). Derby County were allocated 12,000 tickets, applications by post only, though season ticket holders were assured of a seat. Some travelled on the thirteen special trains travelling from Derby minus a ticket. In fact some 10 6d (52 p) tickets were changing hands before the match for £10 10s (£10 50s). The idea that these were times devoid of football disorder was somewhat questioned when hundreds attempted to gain free entrance just before the match and had to be dispelled by mounted police.
Prior to the match the team stayed at a hotel in Harpenden, four to a room; Reg shared with Angus Morrison, Chick Musson and Jim Bullion. Normally the team had tea and toast for breakfast plus a meal before a match of boiled fish or chicken. On this illustrious occasion they had the luxury of breakfast in bed; egg and sherry mixed with milk and sugar before a coach took them to Wembley Stadium. Each player was allocated two tickets, not over generous when one considers the crowd numbered one hundred thousand.
Derby won a memorable match 4-1 after extra time. An extraordinary game made even more so when the ball burst, a rare occurrence indeed. The team stayed overnight again at Harpenden and played Arsenal in London the following Monday.
On Tuesday 30th April 1946 the conquering heroes were paraded round Derby to rapturous acclaim on the back of an Offilers Brewery wagon; from the Blue Peter Public House in Alvaston to the Police Building in Full Street. The following day Derby played another league match and yet again the following Saturday. Counting from the Saturday before the Cup Final Derby County played six games in fifteen days. The players received their normal wages plus an inscribed Royal Crown Derby plate; the pampered existence of modern footballers a far-cry away.
I still see Reg at the Derby County games. He is over eighty years of age. (There are two Derby County survivors from the cup final game, Reg and Jim Bullions.) A lovely, unassuming, modest man, married for many, many years; thanks for the memories, Reg. You may not be rich but you are still greatly admired. You put the likes of Ryan Giggs to shame.

THE CUP FINAL

Helping the North West's Economy and a bit of Deja Vu.

My wife and I (Now doesn't that sound regal!) have recently spent a delightful three nights on the streets of St Annes. (In our motorhome, not literally on the streets!) The weather was horrific; it rained, the wind blew and it wasn't exactly hot but who cares. We visited my daughter, son in law and grand-daughter, we shopped, people watched and a good time was had by all.

We, motorhomers are none too popular in this corner of the north west. Parking on the streets mean we have no hotel costs, which no doubt galls the hotel trade. Possibly the reason there is a profusion of signs in Blackpool in particular reading simply 'cars only'. And it's getting noticeably worse. A pity as my wife tried to boost the local economy on our visit, and I wasn't too far behind. So what did we spend.

For a start there were pubs meals in Wetherspoons: my two sausages, two bacon, four slices of toast, two eggs, a slice of black pudding and a tomato, £3.99; brilliant. Plus numerous cups of coffee and tea. Then there's the gluten free food (my wife's a Coeliac.) Biscuits, cakes, even gluten free liquorish sticks. A petticoat from Fleetwood Market (my wife's purchase, honest!) and posh leggings plus a bright red handbag bought in Blackpool. (My wife again, silly!) Chocolate bargains and other sweets from Freeport. A red coat (no other colour considered) from a charity shop and some serious spending in between; a seven piece bed set, not cheap but well worth the price. Oh, and a fur hat each, very fashionable for 'geriatrics' and worn at Derby County versus Portsmouth FC!

My wife's the main spender in our house, but I didn't do so bad either. An Elvis musical figurine purchased will take pride of place in my 'bar'. (Plays a non too musical version of Love Me Tender') and I couldn't resist the cruets imprinted with pictures of Cliff, Elvis and the Beatles. To complete the 'spending spree, books from my favourite charity shop, Barnado's in Lytham, price five for £1.99. (A Spread of Over 40's Jokes; A Handbook for All Word Puzzling; a book on Crime and Detection; The A-Z of Behaving Badly and Britain Land of Contrasts. Add fuel before returning home and I reckon there's £2oo plus gone into the north west economy; recession, what recession! Please think twice, north west councils, there's a lot of us and plenty of places that would welcome our 'dosh'.

And so to the deja vu. (See post dated 23rd April 2008). We spent the last hour of our short visit in St Annes. Hurrying back to our rather expensive motorhome we espied outside B and M a somewhat forlorn seller of 'The Big Issue'. I did the usual, avoided eye contact and hurried past. The wind was blowing, it was cold, my pockets were nearly empty and I needed the warmth of my 'motor'. And so to home, back to my comfort zone, a smashing break, but its home where we're happiest. Except that I retraced my steps before I left St Annes, had a chat with the young man outside B and M and bought a Big Issue. Evidently he was Romanian, selling the Big Issue with quiet dignity to keep body and soul together in a foreign, not always hospitable country. I am not interested in the arguments concerning immigration issues and the rights and wrongs of 'our country'. All I know he was a pleasant, dignified young man. I was glad, for whatever reasons I had returned and purchased one of his papers.

Happiness is .....

Did you notice a newly formed charity, the Movement for Happiness is seeking a director whose job will be to bring joy to the world. Salary for the post, around £80,000 a year. The advertisement for the job reads, 'We hope this movement will help to shift our culture away from selfish materialism towards more rewarding forms of social engagement.'
Evidently the Society wants the successful applicant to have a vision of a society in which people are motivated by more than just money.
Happiness - brightness, cheerfulness, delight, gaiety, joy, light-heartedness, merriment, pleasure; beatitude, blessedness, bliss, felicity, enjoyment, welfare, well-being.
Happy- characterised by luck or good fortune; prosperous. Having, taking, or demonstrating pleasure or satisfaction; glad.

What was it Richard Whately ( Archbishop of Dublin (1787-1863) said, 'Happiness is no laughing matter.' (I have probably taken him out of context but I must admit he doesn't exactly sound a bundle of fun!)

I have never considered myself particularly materialistic yet many of my pleasures in life are purchased with money. Money purchases houses and furnishings. My motor home gives us pleasure, Derby County support costs money, our home is bigger than need be and the furnishings far from sparse. We constantly make purchases that we feel improve our life style if not our life. My latest toy, my IPod too gives pleasure yet is totally irrelevant in the larger picture.

Some of those 'into' religion will no doubt dismiss materialism as an irrelevance, citing the search for eternal salvation as the key to happiness on earth. (Being cynical by nature I am bound to ask why so many of my religious acquaintances have large cars, huge houses and often bank balances to match.)
It is not difficult to see that much of my own happiness stems from non-materialistic sources. Marriage, (forty years this week!) a loving wife, delightful children, fantastic grandchildren have made the most contribution to my joy and sanity in an often cruel world. And it goes without saying good health is far more important than mere wealth. What brings you most happiness in life?

Which brings me back to the Movement for Happiness. What do you think of the whole idea. How do you think the new director should go about his or her task. And what would you do given the job? I'd love to know!

Perhaps William Wordsworth 1770-1850 put it best when he wrote
Not in Utopia-subterranean fields,-
Or some secreted island, Heaven knows where!
But in the very world, which is the world
Of all of us,- the place where, in the end
We find our happiness, or not at all!

Not a million miles from the ideas of the Movement for Happiness.

Memories from Yesterday.

Tempora, mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis.

(Times change, and we change with them.) Or as Bob Dylan said in 1964 "The times they are a'changing". Change is often subtle, almost imperceptible, not to be judged in the short term. I taught in a very average secondary school for many years. I read my diary from 1985 and the memories come flooding back.

Friday 22nd March 1985

Slightly unusual day, teaching wise. CSE Orals, an examination whereby fifth-years talk individually on a subject of their choice. Their choice of subject gives food for thought; my own pupils chose the following. My garden, karate, canaries. Aswad (a Pop Group), Derby County, fishing, computers; pistol shooting (this from a female pupil), athletics, jazz bands, judo. Pandas, hairdressing, dolls; CB's, Germany, a child study, dogs, football.

The expertise of children not considered academic is interesting. The girl athlete is rated number 24 at her age in the country. A boy showed a grasp of computers that was truly remarkable yet has a reading score bordering on the illiterate. A Sikh girl waxed lyrical on India yet has never volunteered one single sentence in two years whilst in a classroom situation. One girl spoke at length on the problems of a physically handicapped child, illustrating her talk with drawings and photographs. Whilst she talked (we were in a small office provided for the occasion) her nephew aged two played quietly on the floor. The girl in question is in charge of this child whilst mother is in hospital and has attended school today especially to take the oral examination. What is the saying, 'To hide your light under a bushel'. Some of our pupils seemingly do just that!

They say 'Time waits for no man'. What has changed since those less than halcyon days, I wonder? A teacher, aged forty five, now seventy. We know where he is! But children, fifteen, now forty, where are you now. Did you achieve your dreams, your aspirations. I sincerely hope so.

On Being Easily Moved

I happened to catch the end of 'Goodbye Mr Chips' recently. (The 1969 version starring Peter O'Toole.) I found the closing speech where the socially inept Mr Chips puts into words his feelings for the boys surprisingly moving. Maybe it struck a cord, me being a schoolmaster for a considerable number of years. If nothing else it made me examine aspects of my being that seldom surface in the busy, brusque, often insensitive world we live in.
I was brought up in a time after the war where the term 'cry baby' often figured. A 'cry baby' was dismissed as inferior, weak and certainly unmanly. Which is probably why on at least two occasions I limped home, metaphorically and literally with broken bones. My efforts at competing with the 'bigger boys' might well often end in failure but, good heavens, you didn't let it show, broken bones or no broken bones. And I remember arriving home at the age of thirteen to be told my mother had died. Then, amazingly, I went out and did my paper round. I report this merely as fact, not a matter of pride. No tears, nothing but unbridled sorrow and bewilderment.
Experiences in life teach us, mould us, change us, for better or worse and make the finished article, however flawed. Girls cry, boys have a stiff upper lip, or so we were taught. (The British Empire and all that.) Fortunately times change, thank goodness.

I once saw an elderly male teacher cry with the frustrations of the job. I was embarrassed to see a man crying; I was wrong. But bit by bit the joys of marriage, children softened me and the steely male front has slipped away. Not totally, but at least to a degree. I know this must be so. I would never at one time been moved by Mr Chips, never mind a celluloid version of life's sensibilities.

I cry nowadays, not too often but enough. I howled as I watched both the Liverpool Heysel (1985) and Hillsborough (1989) tragedies unfold on the television. In frustration, sympathy. (I am an ardent football fan) Similarly the Bradford City fire (1985) brought my to tears as I watched the tragedy unfold, again on the television. Indeed, you would have to be a strangely unemotional individual not to be moved by such tragic events. I am not a 'touchy feely' sort of person and that is not particularly good. My daughters are into 'hugs' (many of the younger generation tend to be so and I am mightily impressed.) But I can be moved nowadays and I am pleased. The feeling experienced at Wembley Stadium when Derby County won an important match had to be experienced to be believed. (play off versus WBA 2007.) That something as unimportant as a football match could move me so much is amazing in a way. But only a football fan could experience the elation involved.

Emotional development is important. What is a person without emotional development. You tell me. A psychopath, perhaps? And I believe at least in part it is taught by example.

I have read John Steinbeck's 'Of Mice and Men' many, many times. It was a regular choice of mine when teaching English literature to adolescents. We would read it out loud together, no looking at a film and pretending we had read the book. (How old fashioned it all sounds now.)

You would have to be bereft of any feeling whatsoever not to be moved by the end of the tragic giant Lennie at the hand of his friend George. But to see teenagers, sometimes hardened teenagers with tears in their eyes shows the power of the written word. It also suggests there is perhaps hope for all. (Two teenagers were sentenced this week for the shotgun murder of another teenager in a park less than a mile from my home. The victims offence, he 'dissed' the mother of one of the assailants. Perhaps I am totally wrong and there is no hope. My lovely grandchildren suggest otherwise.)

I had not intended this piece of writing to go in the direction it has. But the murder on my doorstep makes me wonder at the emotional development or otherwise of some of today's more deprived youngsters. Where is it all going wrong, a world where a teenager will dispatch a fellow being to eternity with little thought or compulsion. Surely a person without feelings is a person without hope.

A non too serious test of my readers emotional development. My favourite recording is 'Old Shep' by Walter Brennan. Trite, sentimental it still moves me on a good day. What do you reckon. And what brings a lump to your throat in this hard, often unsentimental world? Plus a promise, my next blog will be cheerful in the extreme. Now there's a thought!