The Bloody Fox

So our frequent visitor (see And Forgive Those Who Trespass Against Us from a few days ago) got done over by the fox. The last survivor from a group of four bantams who every day made the journey from the neighbouring farm, across the wall into the churchyard and then across the lane to our house to scrounge some cereal from the wife, failed to make it back to her friends and family in time for curfew the other evening. Really sad. Even the cat is a bit confused.

Our neighbour has had a terrible summer losing most of his chickens and geese to foxes. Time to purchase a pair of horses, red coats for the wife and I, a horn and some hounds!

Sir Edward Elgar and the Wild Bean Café

So the British Lions are in trouble. I was in France on Saturday morning and found (unsurprisingly) that French TV had no interest in televising the match. Having twiddled a few dials I found a good live commentary on Irish Radio. Needless to say the Irish were greatly disheartened by the O’Driscoll foul, but every cloud has a silver lining for the men in green, and the two-man commentary team agreed that the time is now right for Ronan O’Gara to rescue the series. They might be right.

I find that I’m not the only “ranter” in town. In fact people have been ranting for as long as there have been taxes, politics and sporting events. Have a look at this description of William (Rural Rides) Cobbett:

“The 1800s were the best years of Cobbett’s life. In the Political Register he poured out millions of words of blistering satire and invective. He supported the war against France, but savaged the political establishment, which he memorably dubbed ‘The Thing’, ranting against its corruption, sinecures and jobbery.”

Good man, eh? Maybe I’ll have to form a National Association of Ranters Past and Present (NARPAP). Maybe I’ll have to read the new Richard Ingrams biography of Cobbett.

I’m running out of petrol stations to use. Having still not forgiven the Shell garage at Haywards Heath for failing to provide a lavatory (“No Sir, it’s out of order. You can use the toilets in the hospital, the other side of the roundabout.”), I stopped yesterday at the massive BP garage on the A3 betwixt M25 and Guildford. This is an establishment that sells food, hot coffee and is even licensed to sell booze. Needless to say the “Out of Order – Essential Maintenance” sign was on the lavatory door. If the petrol companies cannot provide the simplest amenities (when you are parting up with sixty pounds of your hard earned cash) then, like France, Shell and BP forecourts will soon be a thing of the past. You’ll just have to find the nearest Tesco or Sainsbury where you get fuel and loos and good prices. Pshaw!

Talking of lavatories I am confused by the rather pleasing word “chuffette”. It is used on the rather rude Fathers Day card given to me by the daughter:

“What Dad had thought was to be a discreet chuffette turned out to be a thunderous buttock-wobbler…”

I’ve tried Google and I’ve tried my massive French Dictionary, both to no avail. It’s good to see people making up words where no other hits the right note.

So what about Sir Edward Elgar? David Dimbleby’s excellent BBC TV programme about our nation reached the Malvern Hills on Sunday, and my sense of national pride swelled with that Cello Concerto, and with “Pomp and Circumstance”. But what surprised me (and I should have known this having worked for several years with an authority on Elgar) was that Sir Edward was a very keen golfer and cyclist (fifty miles in a day being quite normal). Another good man!

And Forgive Those Who Trespass Against Us

The last sermon I heard preached of the importance of community spirit and neighbourliness. I agree in principle, but there are limits.

For instance there are those that malinger around our neighbourhood. The group I’m specially thinking about might be described as black, female and noisy but the wife says that they are harmless and that I should tolerate them. There were originally four in number and they would gather at the side of our house most afternoons to the acute discomfort of the cat who likes to spend her afternoons sleeping on top of my pile of grass cuttings. Now it is usually only one of them – watching, alert to sudden movement, waiting to see if the wife is around, wondering what can be scrounged, making eye contact with the cat.

With the warmer weather, we’ve been leaving the side door open during the day to let some air into the house. Big mistake. The damned chicken now marches confidently into the kitchen demanding more Scott’s Porridge Oats, muesli, or whatever other treat the wife has for the bird. I wouldn’t mind so much if we got some free eggs out of the deal.

Talking of chickens, my wager on David Toms for the US Open fell apart on the second round when for the first time he led the tournament. He must have looked up at the leaderboard and been so surprised to be leading that the wheels literally came off his trolley and he dropped five shots in two holes. He got a second chance on the final day but dropped a further seven shots. What with the NatWest one day matches between England and Australia and Bangladesh during the day, plus another Lions match, I finished the weekend with square eyes from watching too much TV. But well done Michael Campbell, Mohammad Ashraful, Kevin Pietersen, Ryan Jones et al.

More square eyes coming up with the Lions Test series starting on Saturday. We’ll stick with experience says Sir Clive, but I worry that by doing so the Lions are not fielding their best possible team. I’d be much happier (and I’m slightly startled to find myself saying this) if there were more Welshmen around, and I’m sure that by the third Test we’ll find Gavin Henson, Michael Owen and Ryan Jones all in the starting lineup.

Puzzling over Words

Our government, bless it, is fiddling the English language as well as the new stealth taxes (don’t mention lottery funds to me, please). Yesterday in parliament I came across (via the radio in our bathroom) no less than three unusual uses of common words:

The verb to “harden”

When government agencies adjust prison sentences, then this is called “hardening”. A man’s sentence was reported to have been “hardened” from fifteen years to seven and a half years.

The verb to “statement”

When a local authority assesses a child with special needs this is called “statementing” the child. If anyone tries to “statement” me, I’ll boff them.

“Geoff Hoon”

As in “You’re a right Geoff Hoon, you are!” – cockney rhyming slang of course for baboon.

Meanwhile that other word (unheard of in the English language a year ago and now on the front page of most newspapers most weeks) “Sudoku” comes to mind. I introduced the son and heir to sudoku on a train the other evening. Needless to say he grasped the concept within minutes and had completed the puzzle I was working on before I could blink. My frazzled brain keeps on trying to master the fundamentals and yesterday I proudly completed my first “tough” puzzle (four hours, twelve minutes). Today’s puzzle is “diabolical”. Oh heck!

Teamwork and Individual Skills

There are sporting occasions … and there are sporting occasions. On a visit to Lords on Tuesday for the Tsunami Appeal Match we saw an exhibition of cricket by some of the world’s greatest players, but we hardly saw a cricket match. Sparkling performances, yes, but the sting in a real cricket match is that there should be winners and losers – and it should “matter” who wins - both to the teams concerned and to the spectators. The match (between MCC and an “International” XI) was notable for the total nationality mix of players in each team. It seemed to make no difference to the quality of the game that many had never before played on the same side as, with the possible exception of running between the wickets, the game relies mainly on individual skills rather than team skills.

Yesterday the Lions played Wellington and, with only two more tour matches before the first International against the All Blacks, the result certainly did matter. The game was all the better for that. I worry however that Sir Clive has made a crucial mistake in taking too many players to New Zealand. So far there has been little sign of a recognisable “team” coming through, although there have been some splendid individual performances. Maybe that will all change over the next two games, but in rugby it is essential that players work as a unit. Yesterday we saw misunderstandings between players as gifted as Wilkinson and Henson and this is hardly surprising when you remember that they have so little experience of playing together in match conditions. In football the saintly Chelsea manager tries to keep his squad small (however much money is available) because that way the players bond more and understand each other better. I think he has a point.

Today the US Open gets underway at Pinehurst. Teamwork only applies to golf on occasions like the Ryder Cup (when it applies extraordinarily well). I know that some players would tell me that I am wrong and that they play every game as a team (trainers, psychologists, business managers, accountants, masseurs, wives, caddies, beauticians, etc.), but I am happy with the notion that the game is really about individuals (often playing as much against their nerves and inner demons as much as against the opposing golfers). Indeed it is only in the final hours of the tournament in four days time that most players start to play seriously against each other, rather than against their scorecard. Anyway, David Toms has my few shillings as an each way bet.

A Family Gathering, Superfoods and Sporting Events that “Matter”

The sister and new brother-in-law (bless them) enjoyed a splendid wedding, and so did the guests. The picturesque village in East Sussex is licking its wounds, the two pubs repairing walls and furniture and replenishing their bar stocks, and the residents are able to sleep once again now that the daughter (bless her) has removed her singing voice back to her part of Hampshire. It was a great occasion coming complete with memorable moments – the vicar and his sermon; the guard of honour provided by the “Dear Old Things” Cricket Club; the manoeuvring of my Great Aunt Chelmsford in her wheelchair down a steep embankment to the marquee (and back again); the sight of a solitary best man pacing up and down at the far end of the pub garden – rehearsing his speech; and, much later, the daughter’s sing-song.

Surprisingly that part of East Sussex isn’t much into Superfoods – the solution to all the world’s ills. It seems that there is a list of about a dozen items that have near-miraculous powers to cure and prevent illness. Walnuts and Broccoli are high on the list. Then oily fish (especially salmon), oats and pumpkin; garlic and soy are good for you; so are tea, tomatoes, beans and blueberries. The problem is they don’t seem to combine very well. At this time of year my culinary skills are all about barbecues (okay, barbecued salmon and garlic); and organizing cricket lunches for visits to Lords. I am contemplating offering the elder brother a picnic containing blueberry porridge; smoked salmon on oatmeal bread (that one’s alright); a broccoli, spinach and tomato salad (with walnuts); some slices of pumpkin and a flask of green tea to wash it all down with. I’m not absolutely certain that he will approve.

Talking of sporting fixtures I am reminded of a recent article by Simon Barnes in The Times about world class sporting events that “matter” – both to the participants and to the spectators. The next six weeks or so will see a whole cluster of them: the Lions Test Matches in New Zealand; the Ashes series; Wimbledon; the Open at St Andrews. It’s going to be a very good sporting summer.

Traffic Report

The daughter, bless her, is much taken by her boyfriend’s Tom Tom. Indeed many members of the family have looked enviously at this miracle of Dutch technology. It will no doubt guide them successfully to the sister’s wedding on Friday – alerting them to speed cameras, traffic jams and all that stuff as they wend their way from Portsmouth to the wilds of East Sussex guided all the way by stern voice of the Tom Tom lady.

At around 17.5 euros per share on the Dutch exchange I reckon that Tom Tom offers great value following Alastair Darling’s announcement of the new UK road charging scheme. Not only will the next generation Tom Tom continue to point out the radar traps and give accurate directions, but it will undoubtedly be able to suggest deviations to save money and to cost the “road charge” elements of your journey before you set off.

This road charge thing has already got me fretting about the most economical routes hither and thither. Normally the sister’s wedding would merit about 50 miles of the A272 at around 35p per mile, but because the cat has to go to kennels at West Byfleet, that means the M25 and an additional £20-£30 in charges. Oh heck! For once I hope that I am well and truly grounded before this particular piece of triumphant social engineering achieves technological sustainability.

Talking of our government’s wily ways of achieving extra taxation I was surprised to get a text message this morning from Mayor Ken. He advises me that from July 4th the congestion charge for Central London rises to £8 per day. The extremely efficient way that number plates are scanned in the congestion zone is impressive, but the scheme succeeds in losing lots of money. One has no doubt that Mr Darling’s road charge will similarly confound its proponents and become another legendary financial disaster. He has no doubt (like Mayor Ken before him) done some very optimistic forecasting how the revenues from drivers (at £1.35 per mile on busy motorways, egad) will fund the project. What he will not have allowed for is that most sensible Britons will have emigrated before road charging comes into force and that he’ll have to raise the charges even more to fund the interest on the installation cost, and no doubt, reintroduce tax discs and raise the levy on fuel rather than reduce it.

Shoes and Horses

A lot of ranting on Saturday! In order to get a proper perspective on the Derby I purchased a fair spread of newspapers and settled down at the kitchen table to find the likely winner. I concentrated my attention on The Times which is a newspaper I rarely read, having been suckered into “subscribing” to the Telegraph some years ago and not really knowing how to stop the standing order thing. I felt sure that the illustrious “Thunderer” would be the place to get proper, authoritative advice.

God help us, what a mess The Times has become! The tabloid format just doesn’t lend itself to a weekend edition. Little supplements and advertising brochures seem to fly from the pages, littering the kitchen floor. I fought my way from section to section and, when I found the appropriate sports section featuring the Epsom card, the Derby runners were not to be found (having been despatched to another part of this mysterious – and almost impossible to navigate – newspaper). My eventual wager (on “The Geezer”) didn’t do me any good either, and I’ll stick to broadsheets on Saturdays in future.

Sunday’s Telegraph (not a great paper, but at least it’s the right shape) carried an interesting promotion for olive oil – sold in those wine box things that have silver bladders and little plastic taps (sounds a bit like the Ranting Nappa after his next operation).

It reminded me of a rather puzzling dream I had had earlier in the week. In the dream I had suddenly stopped being a down-trodden bookseller and was now employed by an enterprising American specialist “wine box” company. My job was to market a range of really decent wines – in boxes – and to try to change the normal prejudice of serious wine drinkers against the boxes - “Hmm, Chateau Latour 1997 - three litres in a "Stowells of Chelsea" box - well, I'll be damned!"

Intrigued by the dream I did some research on the Internet. Sure enough there have been attempts to upgrade the status of wine boxes, notably in Australia where the boxes are called “wine casks”. Sadly the Australian effort coincideded with the realization by the wrong kind of serious drinkers that the “casks” mean greater quantity, good value and that if you drop them they don’t break.

The Australian government is now considering a higher band of taxation for wine sold in “casks” to try and put an end to the yahoo behaviour of these serious wine box devotees, many of whom are delinquent.

Also in Sunday’s Telegraph was a piece about the French shoe-lady Olga Berluti who claims “A man’s feet never lie”. The mother-in-law (God rest her) used to say that you “can always tell a man by his shoes”. So I suppose it is time to stand up and be counted:

Today I am wearing (as booksellers do) a pair of old, scruffy, unpolished black shoes with frayed laces. Yes, down-at-heel would be an apt description. Look inside for the inner sole and you will also find degeneration. The once sealed welts have cracks, and as for the “uppers”, well, enough of this nonsense…

Old Age, Tapping Up, and the Gentle Art of Self Congratulation

I read somewhere that “old people” are always assumed to be 10-15 years older than one's actual age. Thus if you are 12-years-old, then a twenty-five-year-old is a candidate for a zimmer frame and totally over the hill. If you are 50 years old, then a sixty-five-year-old is a real “ancient”, and so on.

This was driven home today when the young lions in my office (two of them, collective age less than 40) looked at my computer problems. Both the Fat Rabbit (what a name to call one’s only son, bless him) who knows everything there is to know about computing, and the daughter’s boyfriend, who is a highly paid and experienced computer engineer (collective ages around 67), had both performed miracles in recovering lost data and programs on my 100% crashed office computer. However, neither could reconnect the publishing system that operates my business despite hours of effort. The young lions, needless to say, chatted amongst themselves for a couple of minutes and came up with a solution which gave me workable access to the publishing system almost immediately. They just reckoned that Matthew and Brant were a bit past it.

One could rant about the Chelsea/Ashley Cole “tapping up” scandal and a total fine fine equivalent to the National Debt of Brazil (or a week’s salary for Rio Ferdinand) ad nauseum, but I shall only trouble my long-suffering readers with the following questions:

What, for heavens sake, is wrong with chatting (informally) to a player from another club? Isn’t it better to get a rough idea if a player is the slightest bit interested in changing club before getting his employer all excited? Down the corridor an employee from another company was recently “tapped up” and will shortly tell his employers that he is leaving to earn more as a delivery driver. I “tapped up” one of my young lions before offering him a job. Are crimes being committed here because in neither case was the employer formally asked for permission to make an approach? Bah, hokum, Football Association rubbish!

My last thought is on the subject of “self congratulation”. I was reminded by a quick shimmy through the Daily Mail/Mail on Sunday at the weekend about the importance of saying “how wonderful” you are at every opportunity. How wonderful the Mail was to have told their readers that France would say “Non!”; how brilliant they were to have picked West Ham for the Premiership; and to have sensationally introduced (yes, bag lady, I know when I split an infinitive, but I split it well!) Sudoku puzzles to the British public; and to have been the very first newspaper anywhere to tip Malcolm Glaser to take control of Manchester United; etc.; etc.

All those years ago when I worked for a mega-corp publishing house, every employee was expected to circulate congratulatory memos for virtually any fatuous reason. It’s probably the reason I’m now a worthless old bookseller rather than a Lord Gnome. But I guess there is a certain satisfaction in that.