The Pond

 New Skills

It is always good to learn and sometimes that learning has to be done by stepping outside of your comfort zone.  Sometimes though, you go a little too far and instead of driving a small van you jump into an articulated lorry and then just spend your time going very slowly and carefully up the road.

Maybe not the best analogy.  I discussed with An, at length, the option to put a small fishpond into our garden.  These were very important discussions, even negotiations.  Shape, depth, construction, position  you name it we talked about it.  We talked about everything bar cost and I am talking psychological as well as financial.

DIY Hell

It is worth pointing out at this stage that I grew up in an environment where DIY activities were somewhat of a disaster zone.  Any task my stepfather seemed to address usually ended up in messy failures, it is harsh to say that, but then you must temper it with a lack of access to decent tools and knowledge.  Today on the other hand I am lucky enough to be able to obtain the tools and even better the great oracle that is YouTube supplies me with tutorial video's and helpful tips.  In fact even if you end up with some geeky unintelligible idiot trying to pass on their skills, you can even re-search again and find someone more on your wavelength.

Things have gone wrong so many times that I have an almost insurmountable fear of attempting anything remotely technical.  That said, I will attempt things, but I am my own worst critic.  The one enduring quality which I have in buckets is perseverance.  When the shit hits the fan I just get myself right back into it and try to find a solution.

Part 1 - The Dig

The negotiated agreement was that the pond would sit half below and half above the ground, this was to give depth and also protect against the frost.  Of course this would entail digging and I am an office worker.  Digging of any kind is a major effort.  The size of the pond was marked out as 130 x 130 cm and it had to be aligned to the new extension (at an angle).  An, the works supervisor, marked out the ground and work commenced.

The challenge with our garden is the amount of rubble type stones that can lie under the surface and so, despite the years of additional topsoil laid down I did find the occasional jarring obstacle.

Trassi - What?!?

 Trassie

I am sure that when I was in Junior High School, there was some sort of education Programme specifically dedicated to the girls.  We boys were out, legally battering ourselves, playing rugby.  Getting quite filthy and a little bit bloody.  The girls on the other hand went through those mystery double doors to their gym and I am convinced into another world.  This world was one where they are taught to baffle the innocent and blunt minds of us boys.  I can understand what you might be thinking, this is a weird start to a blog.  A little worrying too.

Well have you ever wondered why your wife or girlfriend hides things from you, you know, when you get your clothes off and leave them by the bed, they vanish!  Much the same seems to happen with wallets and keys and any other accessories that you carefully locate in ready use positions.  It becomes a major search operation when you need to pop out for a pint or to nip to the shops.  Where on earth did I put my keys?  Well, as I intimated, the special lessons that girls seem to have got instead of PE is my theory on that.

In Search of The Holy Grail

I have been on many quests in my time and I think in some cases I would have more success searching for the Jabberwocky in the local supermarket than the sort of things I am asked to find by my dear and loving wife.  An had particularly good lessons as she writes her quests in some kind of code and I don't mean Dutch.  The latest variant is Trassi, I am convinced it does not exist, although she showed me a rather convincing photo of something.  Trassi, it would seem, is shrimp paste, although God forbid that it can be described as shrimp paste.  I mean that might give me a clue about where to look or even what sort of pictures might be on the package.

I searched, in vain, in one shop and had almost given up in another shop.  You know that fruitless feeling when you approach your fellow man and say, "excuse me, do you have any Trassi?"  The desperate look in the eyes as they flash from left to right, the panic, the fear, the empathy as he realises that this is another case of man being sent on hopeless quest to find obscure and almost non-existent things.  Like being asked to buy some mahogany varnish and looking on in fear at the metres and metres of shelves topped up with tins of variations on mahogany varnish (I was only young, but the trauma comes back in flashes of sweat and shivering).

Is it a conspiracy, you know, like calling yellow paint, lemon, canary, citrine or straw.  It's bloody yella man, haway! (said in a frustrated and pained Geordie accent).  I am sure TV chefs have only added to this by seeking ever more elaborate ways to describe a bit of beef with some vegetables.

So I think as well as the you've never heard of it foodstuffs that we are sent for, they must also have cunning lessons where they feign ignorance when it comes to more technical things, like how to change a wheel on a car or put a shelf up.  I mean it can't be, in this age of equality and fairness that we still have such stereotypical roles to perform?

Recently I was asked if I had put a wash through a pre-wash cycle, to which I avoided the typical answer, "what is a pre-wash?"  Apparently if particularly soiled, you can pre-wash the clothes or, in my case, you just wash them then do them again if needed.

Back to the case in hand, there are some circumstances where I am sent on these quests and I do genuinely feel like one of King Arthur's knights when I return with the sacred prizes.  Sadly this does not get the recognition that I would expect, but then I did not have to slay any dragons or knights to acquire the said prizes, unless that includes trolley jousting of course.

Where Does It End?

Society is changing, progress never stops.  Most of us go about our lives not really noticing until we see a media splash or social media post, which, it seems on first glance, to be unreal.  

Take the almost silent protest about the use of the full stop in writing, where does it end, how do I know when to breathe, what about finishing one idea and starting another? (Thank goodness for the commas and question mark there).  It seems hard to believe that the important and technical full stop could possibly be seen as a frightening and an intimidating tyrant that it apparently is to millennials.

When I think of arguments (in Dutch and in American English in particular), the use of the word Period! or Punt! is used to close down the discussion of the other party, often with intimidating rudeness.  In English (mother country English that this), we use more class by saying Enough! Or perhaps Fuck off!  Okay maybe not the latter, but we don't, in common usage say Full Stop! to shut people down.

So apart from this annoying use of punctuation, why is society so seemingly fragile?  It is a tough one.

There has always been the mob (often a minority group), who decide that they are right or that their ideas should take precedence and all others are very clearly wrong or at best misplaced.  Most of us, thankfully, have lives to lead and can only watch on with mutterings of disagreement as we watch people chaining themselves to fences or gluing themselves to the top of commuter trains.

It has to be said though, there is a place for bringing issues to the attention of the public and raising awareness.  The trouble I find is that I see no balance to that awareness.  It is unfortunate that the media has and, in my opinion, always will, sensationalise things to an extreme.

I have read this week that the patriotic celebrations that are The Last Night of the Proms, is changing to sideline the signature pieces of Rule Britannia and Land of Hope and Glory from the centerpiece of the evening.  I have remarked that, from the peak of pride in 2012, when London hosted the Olympics to the deep trough of despair marked out by Brexit, enhanced by Covid-19 and the resurgence of BLM to the forefront, the UK is having to weather a very bitter and divided period brought about by those who seem to lack tolerance or even the ability to listen and accept that others hold different, if not extreme views.  Indeed I remarked at the time when the sea of European Union flags overwhelmed the floor  of The Albert Hall in the aftermath of the Brexit vote and when the traditional maritime theme was washed out of the programme, that the event was being cleansed by the prevailing societal views of the day.  If you like it was playing to the home crowd, London being a much more diverse crowd that the rest of the country.

It is important that you find your own path and hold your own opinions, but more importantly that you listen to others and, if necessary, you learn and change.  It is a sad state of affairs that, at some point in the near future, I believe I will give up trying to balance the arguments of others.  

Although, when they come to punish me for holding my opinion, then I might find I have renewed strength to resist. 

The Middle Watch

Through the darkness I strain to glimpse the tiny light, uncertain at times whether it is there or not.  I adjust the optics of the binoculars, ranging slightly up and down with the focus to see if I can get a clearer view.  It is there, I am sure it is there but then can I now see another light emerging from the gloom?

I fix my sight on the possible light as the ship rises and dips slowly, we almost tread water at 5 knots, riding the swell.  There is no noise on the bridge, no hiss of the radio, no clatter of headsets.  Voices are low and dark shapes move anonymously to check and scan indicators.

The operations room below is silent, they have not yet noticed the contact, if indeed it is there.  It is there, I am sure it is.  The crew sleep, just watchkeepers sedately making checks and watching their screens.  Electronic ears ready to alert, infrared eyes waiting for target indication.  Tasteless coffee is sipped, the clock ticks slowly onwards.

The lonely engineer shuffles along the deck, making water in the night and checking systems.  Others carefully dismantle the generator, invisibly maintaining the power.  Reminiscing over the last run ashore and planning the next.

On the upper deck in the cool warm breeze a seabird maintains a lazy station on the beam of the ship.  The air search radar sweeps slowly, purposefully around, humming as it scans the air.  The navigation radar sweeps much faster, urgently seeking contacts, yet almost noiseless.  The signal halyards make a gentle slapping noise, just to keep the beat.  The white foam breaks gently on the bow and moves, hypnotically, down the waist.

He cups his mug as he stands on the quarterdeck, following the wake of the ship.  It is long since his cigarette was finished, but he lingers and savours the peace.  With a sigh he steps back through the door, clipping it shut, he returns to his station.

The ship never sleeps, but she slumbers with poise during the middle watch.

The Wall

The eyes, defiant, steadfast and determined.  The inexperience of youth exploring the edge of the herd with the attendant risk.  I skirted closer to my target, observed in every detail.  Not an inch of ground given, no movement at all.  As I levelled to shoot my subject, I compromised my desire to capture the image with the risk to my own safety.  This was one of the two images, that until recently had adorned the wall of our entrance hall.

F8 - 1/320 - ISO 800 focal length 194mm

Mature, experienced and closer to the herd, my second target was impressive against his backdrop.  Likewise, I cautiously kept my distance to capture the image.  Both were taken at Tatton Park in Cheshire.

F8 - 1/320 sec - ISO 800 focal length 400mm

 Both images were taken with a Canon EOS 5D MkIII using a 400mm L series lens.

These images dominated the entrance hall each measuring 2 x 3 feet or 61 x 90 cm in acrylic.  

An decided that we needed to refresh the view and so we agreed a change, interestingly the wall now centres around me and tells its own story.

I could write a story behind each of these pictures and perhaps in the future I will.  For now just a taste.

The Commission from the Queen stands for my service in the Royal Navy, the trials (and boy have there been some) and adventures, not to mention the achievement of entering the service in the first place!  Most of these tend to adorn the lavatory walls, if gossip is to be believed.  For me the certificate, when it eventually arrived, spent the most part in a cardboard tube and then, when framed, being moved from place to place.  I actually believe this is the first time it has been on a wall anywhere and that is 5 years after leaving!  For me it marks the hard work, the friendships and the challenges faced down.  It also marks the fact that I am now and forever more will be part of a centuries old proud and respected organisation.

The small picture to the bottom left is a picture of Ayr in Scotland, this has a couple of memories for me in particular it was my first assignment as an Officer in the Royal Navy and my rented accommodation had a similar view to the picture from the mid 19th century.  This picture was given to me by my Auntie, who had a collection, including this one, in London.  The picture went to sea onboard HMS Ark Royal and has the velcro strips on the back, which I used to secure it in my cabin.  I had a short but exciting time in Ayr serving in HMS Gannet or planet gannet as they used to call it.

To the right of the Ayr picture is a Dali.  Dali is probably my favourite artist, followed closely perhaps by Monet.  That said I am not someone who gushes over art and the messages that are conveyed.  I cannot fully appreciate my attraction to Dali, perhaps his surrealism connects to my vivid and surreal dreams.  This particular print was purchased at his theatre museum in Figueres, to which I strongly recommend a visit.  An and I spent a very pleasant few days in Barcelona a few years back and it was a condition of mine that we visit this museum.  I was educated by An in various other art visits during the trip and in fact I blogged about the visit at the time.  Again, I would recommend Barcelona and the places we saw, it is a special place.

Moving to the Type 42 destroyer (bottom right). This is a piece of artwork bought for me by a friend and marking my service as a Naval Reservist.  The work is by Gillian Jones, who has a very successful line in these and similar works.  For me I served onboard HMS Newcastle, a Type 42 destroyer.  In this case I was a rating and experienced more than a year of life and work onboard, travelling to some interesting places and serving with some truly amazing people.  The work was hard but it was one of the best periods of my life, so many happy memories with the sea coursing through my veins as it does to this day.

The small black framed verse above the destroyer is The Blaydon Races.  This is from my home, it will always be a place I feel secure and welcome.  I am a Geordie, despite being mislabelled by fellow Geordies as I spoke with a very light accent (blame my late auntie for insisting that I use proper words and speech).  I have spent the best part of my life travelling and away from home but nothing quite feels as good as seeing the landmarks as you drive north up the A1 or pass through Durham on the train to Newcastle.  A fellow Geordie visiting my house, per chance, will find some comfort and warmth if they see this on the wall.

The centrepiece is a picture painted by my brother as a Christmas gift.  This left me speechless when I was given it last Christmas.  The quality and detail is enough in itself, but having lived and grown up in this scene, I and my family can pick out details and dive deeper into the meaning.  Indeed, friends who we grew up with will also recognise aspects of the picture.  More so, the story behind the 10 years spent there, the adventures, tears, struggle and joy.  So many stories waiting to be told with disbelief.  For me the picture represents so many things both visible and hidden.

So there we have it, our re-configured welcome, ready for the guests to come and each picture with their stories to tell. 

I Lay Down My Cap

Daily I see you, but no thought do I give,

Sixteen years of my life, on my bench do you mark,

Stories you can tell, no one stops to ask,

Pain you have seen, no scars do you show,

Storms you have weathered, in silence you lie,

Teams have you led, no doubts do you show,

Over seas have you plied, little sign can you see,

Shipmates have you lost, no grief can be seen,

Strength have you shown, fear you forget,

Adversity you conquered, defeat you admit not,

Comfort you have given, solace have you sought,

Service you have given, no thanks do you seek,

In the darkness you stand watch, no relief do you need,

Remember your past, with pride should you rest,

Keep watch my friend, part of you I am.

Brioche, Bloody Brioche

The shriek pieced the air, "can you come and help me Pleeeeeeeease!"  Years of training kicked in as I sprang from my distracting keyboard and yelled, "yes dear!"  Momentarily I flew down the two flights of stairs, taking care not to lose my footing on the wooden painted floor, it would not do to skid down the last few steps on my coccyx.

The scene that I anticipated was one of minor upset, so I was not prepared for the smart sitrep that An provided.  "The mixer is kapot, I have spilt egg on the floor and I have hurt myself!"  I cannot remember the order now but my first instinct was to look at the mixer, this was encouraged by the continued kneading of the dough and relatively low priority given to the injury by An.

My experience in handling damage control in HMS Ark Royal means it is easy and quick to prioritise the tasks.  I had by now caught sight of the growing pool of blood gathering beneath the left hand.  The blood was bright and, I presumed, oxygenated.  It has not quite contaminated the main part of the dough, which An was pounding with her serviceable hand, it was as though she was holding off the kamikaze attacks, staying at her post whilst not quite mortally wounded.

I quickly started to clean wound the would, as it was, surrounded by thick cloying dough.  An initial clean and then application of kitchen towel with pressure applied.  An continued to knead throughout.  I felt like one of those medics urgently tending to the injury of my machine gunner colleague, all the while trying to keep pressure applied.  I dashed back to the bedroom to get the plasters and antiseptic.  I would have to clean more thoroughly.

I was back down in a jiff and had seen seepage, not enough pressure!  An urgently called, "I need the bowl to put the dough in!"  What?  Okay!  I applied pressure to her little finger and 'danced' around her as I stretched to get the large glass bowl from the other side of the kitchen.  I am sure it was not like this on Omaha beach!  "You need to swill the oil around the bowl!", pleaded An.  It never made it as An suddenly remembered that she needed to add the butter, is this real, I thought?  Are we prioritising brioche over body?  I was impressed that she was holding it together, I mean the egg on the floor was a distant memory by now.

Butter kneaded in and now the dough was in the bowl, but then I needed to put the bowl aside and, "Not in the sun!", exclaimed An.  Dough crisis controlled we could now turn to the wider clean up and dressing of the wound.  A bit of warm water is best to clear the sticky dough from her tiny hands, I noted that she had not even removed her wedding rings before starting.

Carefully I cleaned and examined the cut, which had been a result of An removing the very sharp, dangerously exposed and serrated blending fitting from the mixer.  I have horror stories of my mother with corned beef tins, knives and even blunt objects causing cuts and bleeding, at least my brother was around to handle that!

I dropped a couple of drops of antiseptic onto the relatively deep cut, she has tiny fingers and this was her pinkie.  I cut and applied a strip of plaster and then bound it with some sticky bandage.  As with damage control, once the main threat has been dealt with it then becomes a cleanup operation.  The mixer defect would have to wait whilst I cleaned the blood and dough off the counter, mentally, I had not allowed the blood situation to get to me.  I can cope when I don't have to think about it.

The mixer has a UK plug on it and had been clearly over strained, An had assessed this by noting the aroma of burnt out motor that she could detect.  I was hoping that it would be just a fuse and thus went to my UK plug stowage to see if I had a suitable part that I could store-rob (naval parlance for canabalise).  To our collective joy, a systems operator check revealed that the motor was in fact functioning fine, although it is difficult to tell if permanent damage has been done.  During the diagnostics and de-briefing I asked An if she had used the correct fitting and she confirmed that she had used the egg whisk device at an earlier point, not realising that is was an egg whisk device.  Needless to say the egg whisk device is buggered so she took the next best thing, a sharp bladed fitting instead!

Emergency and de-brief over, An sought solace in the garden in the sun and I retreated back to my standby location in the loft.

The brioche turned out very well, in fact so well that An told me to post pictures on Facebook and wanted to inform the local press.  It was very nice with a crumbly kind of crust and very soft interior.  I am glad she fought off the Kamikaze and that I was able to dance with her in the kitchen.

Corona Virus - Lockdown

The road has been quiet, the wide expanse of the M1 is a joy to drive.  I have seen relatively few lorries and cars since I started out from London, keeping to my strict 79mph on cruise control most of the way.  Leicester, Chesterfield and then Sheffield flew by. Driving alone always makes the journey seem longer.  

Then I saw it, the police patrol car as it shifted almost casually from between two lorries and into the middle lane.  I am Mr Grey when it comes to driving, I keep my speed steady, my driving sensible (for the most part) and I follow the rules even if it means a long detour having missed an exit.  I watched him like a hawk and clicked my cruise control down several notches to about 72mph.  I have only ever been stopped once before for speeding and that was speeding at just under a ton.  It was also many, many years ago.

Slowly and inevitably the patrol car caught up, no special effort, no flashing lights, just gradual, calm controlled approach.  Little did I know that the occupants were conducting some mandatory checks before proceeding with the stop.  The police have an amazing ability to track and interrogate the details of cars and, due to the unique crisis at the moment, they were running through an extra set of checks.

As I watched the painfully slow approach of the car I started to wonder if my tyres and lights were okay or perhaps something else I had not noticed.  The patrol car joined formation behind me and kept a safe but slightly intimidating distance behind me.  By now my cruise setting had dropped to bang on 70 and normally the police would sweep past, probably amused that they had asserted their authority without actually doing anything.  For my part most of my focus was not on the road in front but the spectre haunting me from behind like death itself.

Mentally I started to go through a checklist of possible offences I may have committed and I ticked them off, in the negative sense, as I worked through them.  I had not got started when the blue lights sent that epileptic inducing flash bouncing off my rear view mirror.  Immediately I indicated and angled onto the hard shoulder, coming  to a stop beneath one of the motorway gantries.  Okay.  Here we go.

The patrol car came to a halt some 3 metres behind me and, after what seemed like an age, the nearside door of the patrol car opened and the officer stepped out.  I rummaged in my glove box to get my documents and my driving licence ready.  I had it in time for him getting to my window. which I lowered about half way.

Licking the Knife

Twisting and lifting aloft, he held the blade at a slight downward angle to avoid the rivulet of blood from running down the handle, over the fingers and onto the wrist.  It was in vain, as the blood ran too quickly.  Instinctively he used the tip of his tongue to stem the leading droplet.  Expertly following the reverse path, he licked up and over the fingers to the blade, and then cleaned both edges.  Despite this, the stain of red could not be cleansed from between the hairs on his fingers and ridges of his knuckles.  Only moments before he had taken the blade and drawn it across the throat of his long time adversary. Asleep as he was, he offered no resistance.  The urgent attempt to catch the drips was rendered entirely futile, given that blood was now spurting over his otherwise pristine shirt and trousers.

Well, that is one imaginative interpretation of my title, however, it is not my intended interpretation.  When I thought of this I was actually thinking of the childhood pastime of licking the honey or jam off the knife after making a sandwich, the same urgent desire not to spill anything is still part of the deal though.  In fact more so as I would deliberately overload the knife for the sole purpose of getting a freebie.  If I am honest, this habit has stayed with me, and now I am 47!

Now I do think about the germs I leave and potentially the fact that my wife may come along and unwittingly use the knife.  Usually though I give a guilty shrug of the shoulders and drop the knife into the sink.  In my own mind I am averse to taking a used knife, not because my wife or anyone else has licked it 'clean', I just don't like the contamination of condiments such as cocktail sauce or, heaven forbid, rhubarb jam (Yuk).

When thinking of the title I was feeling a bit sentimental about my childhood days, in particular when we used to go to my granddad's house for Sunday dinner.  This was where the family gathered.  My grandfather would be at the social club and come home after a few drinks, my auntie (at the time the sister of my grandfather, family is complicated as we later found out) would walk about a mile from her house, my uncle (grandfather's son) would always appear and disappear in time for food, my mother, stepfather and brother made up the rest of the regular crowd.  

Sundays comprised of:

• The journey to granddad's house 
• Playing in the garden (weather permitting) or inside the house if not
• Pre lunch boxing matches where my brother and I fought for the entertainment of the family.
• Sometimes going to Saltwell park  (and having the crap scared out of me on boats or swings)
• Being bored senseless watching football, snooker or formula 1 on the TV
• Catching a war movie or western (if we were lucky and there was no sport)
• Having Sunday Lunch and then tea (sandwiches and pudding)
• Baking of scones and apple pies by my auntie
• Bath time (a once-a-week event)
• The journey home - which could be interesting when my granddad drove!

The general formula was the same with variations for special events like shrove Tuesday, bonfire night, Christmas and birthdays.  Sometimes we took special trips to the car wash, beach or rarely we went to the Jingling Gate for a pub meal.

As my brother and I got older, the family evolved, as they do.  My uncle left for London, time moved on and things invariably changed.

My brother and I would take occasional trips to accident and emergency at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital to get a tetanus injection after stepping on a rusty nail or having an otherwise routine injury.  I think my brother just liked getting needles stuck in his bum by nice nurses.  He was and is a risk taker and his tally of injuries and hospital visits reflected this.

The Journey

I cannot remember what time we would set out but it must have been around 10 ish.  We would walk about a mile or so, which to a six year old seemed like much, much further.  I don't remember many times when we walked the route but I do recall one time when my mother, brother and I walked along Rectory Road.  Rectory Road was at the bottom of our street, Cromwell Terrace (now demolished).  It was the opening leg of the walk, anyway we would walk past a house where a girl I knew lived (most of the houses were terraced, with little or no garden and a small backyard).  This girl, Claire, leaned out of an upstairs window and called me as I walked past, it was so embarrassing and I tried to ignore her as I was cross examined by my mother and brother, in a friendly fun poking way.  The girl in question was my first girlfriend, which at about 6 or 7 years of age was an early start!  She was a tomboy and, looking back on things, it was an interesting experience.  Of course nothing could be divulged to the family!

The route, importantly enough, ran through territory that belonged to other kids.  On at least one occasion, when walking alone, I was surrounded by kids and under significant threat.  Thankfully a passer by intervened before anything could happen.  The gang in that case was led by one of the 'hard' kids that went to the same school as me but came from the other side of Whitehall Road.  School was a bit of a traumatic thing for me due to the bullying and general thuggery of the kids, fear was a big factor and I became adept at running and diplomacy.  Later on I would resort to fighting as a very last resort.  Really looking back on things, I should have thrown more punches and worried less about the consequences.  Unfortunately I worried about being caught and also I was not a bully or violent child.  Anyway, I digress.

The route was normally under escort with my brother and mother and if not it was a very rapid trip, so at least I was fit!  My grandfather lived in a council semi-detached house towards a boundary of housing that split the terraced (cheaper houses) with the more affluent (seemingly) semi-detached houses.

The great thing about my granddad's house was the scope for play.  The house had a huge garden with a gooseberry bush, trees (small ones that you could not climb), a large tree (made for climbing), an alleyway that you could play football in, a further alleyway (where you could pinch rhubarb from a garden), a shop directly across the very busy and dangerous Saltwall Road and a neighbour's lawn garden (where we were occasionally allowed to play).  I used to play with my soldiers in the garden and, indeed many other toys too.  My brother and I used to make bows and arrows from the smaller trees (Glen was much better than I was at this).  We would also fire these arrows at eacho ther!  In fact Glen managed to throw a spear and hit me in the waist (thankfully there was no broken skin).

The alleyway was used for football and had three posts at the bottom of the slope to stop cars driving through.  Later, much later, the local authorities decided to put up a railing to stop kids and balls careering across the busy road and down the street opposite.  Glen, if he was feeling kind, would let me have the goal at the upper end of the alleyway.  The reason this was helpful is that he was always a much better footballer than I, to the point where I would get bored and do something else.  Anyway if I had the lower goal I would spend more time chasing the ball down across Saltwell road and that would be a double whammy of having the downhill disadvantage.  When my uncle played there would be three of us and I would have this tiny side path, this was easy to defend but then that made me a target.  At least the path was level but you would be surprised at how far the ball would go!

Glen and Peter (my uncle) honed their ball control skills and I developed my strong dislike for football!

Anyway, that is enough for this particular post!  More to follow. 

Why I Run

Why do I run?  I ask myself that often as I pound, rather slowly, along the track.  I have never been a fan of this form of exercise.  In fact I have been averse to most intense exercises.  I reserve a special place in the septic tank of hell for circuits, but let's not go there.

For me I do not seek personal bests, although progress would be nice.  My lifestyle does not lend itself to consistent and dedicated training that constant improvement would demand.  I all too often find myself breaking out of the habit by being unwell, travelling or committing to other things.

I am now less than a week from my 8th Antwerp 10 Mile run and, due to lack of training for the reasons stated above, I am in doubt as to whether I should participate.  Yet this is one of the core reasons why I do run in the first place.  Determination.  It is a mental as well as a physical challenge and it takes a degree of courage and willpower to drive forwards in the face of obstacles.

My lungs and my legs will suffer but a short inconvenience.  It is the desire to start, take part and finish that is worth the pain.  For some it is not so much of a challenge, everyone has their own personal reasons for running and, although we run with thousands of others, we run alone at the same time.

An unexpected bonus, once my lungs and legs could cope, was the thinking time that a long and gentle run affords.  The, relatively, fresh air and time to consider your life, your problems, solutions or maybe just hum the Star Wars Imperial March tune, as often comes to mind when I run without my music.

The anticipation of starting a long run, after having had a blocked nose/cold, can be quite intimidating.  Sometimes you just have to get out there, in all weathers and commit. 

I recently re-started my training whilst staying with some friends, some would say a bid to escape the 3 year old goddaughter.  I was not familiar with the area and my friend kindly sketched out a route and indicated where I should expect slopes.  She highlighted one in particular, which she recommended I walk up.  Of course my mind was made up that I would take this head on and jog up.

I was unprepared for the run as I expected better weather, it was minus something and I was quite numb in my tracksuit trousers and two t-shirts.  Mentally I wanted to see how far I could get and so I set out.  It was only 6 km the first time then I did another run the next day, which was just over 7 km.  It is always worth it, getting out again and getting started.  You notice so much more when you plod along and can breathe at the same time!

Starting up again is always going to be a risky choice, mainly as so many friends and family suffer from bad knees.  I often think of my body as a machine packed with sensors monitoring every aspect of my well being.  The twinge in the knee, the capacity of my lungs, the beating of my heart and fatigue of my muscles.  I monitor for the signs of danger and am constantly reviewing whether I need to cease and recover.  Preserve myself for the next day.

To the Antwerp run, I know it well.  Having been round so many times you know where everything is and learn to dread or perhaps steel yourself for the final, long, tunnel.  It seems such a long way and never has the term 'there is light at the end of the tunnel' been so fitting.  That light, however, takes what seems like hours to see, let alone reach.  It is a real motivational challenge, made more so by the odd casualty falling by the wayside.  Determination, perseverance and the will to succeed.  Last year was stiflingly hot, by far the most challenging run I have done, to be followed by a half marathon where the temperature was also oppressive.  It is in these conditions that the will to succeed is really tested.

So why do I run, well, fitness, determination, escape, thinking time, fresh air, definitely not for fun!

Give This Post a Miss if You Are Averse to the Word Fuck!

The great thing about the mind is that you can entertain yourself without upsetting those around you.  As I travel back and forth, I take time out from the real world and delve into my mind to seek out distraction, solace or relief.

The warning in the title of the blog is essential, if fact I am not sure if it will be censored altogether.  My intention is not to offend but to open my mind to you, if you are interested in the musings of a commuter.

So, Fuckwits.  That was not a form of address, but the subject and more to the point the application of this noun (I had to look this up and quite frankly I am not convinced I am using the term correctly, I could qualify as an ignorant fuckwit in such case).

So why?  What is special about fuckwits?  Well let me tell you, there are some particular fuckwits out there that deserve special attention.

We are living through a particularly challenging time in the UK where there are over 600 useless, arrogant and ignorant fuckwits deciding, or not as the case seems to be, our future.  One could argue that they are cockwombling, cunting fuckwits, but let's not stray from the point.  Try getting your mind around that description, it is a thought that you can dwell on for a while.

I am not biased, it doesn't matter whether you are a remain fuckwit or a leave fuckwit, collectively it is better to just blanket the term across all.  We often do this when thinking of fuckwits at large, and I don't mean roaming bands of fuckwits, although on a Friday night these can be found congregating around pubs and nightclubs, throwing up and fighting with each other.

Of course the term can apply on an individual basis such as when I lost my hearing aid at the weekend and labelled myself a total fuckwit.  It had been a long, painful and expensive week.  I had my car repaired by some dodgy fuckwits, I say that because the fault they were meant to address was not resolved and I had to rely on a trusted garage to apply a rather expensive fix.

Still, where were we?  I am often surrounded by ignorant, mindless fuckwits, who cannot walk on the left, take their eyes from their phones, express any manners or indeed acknowledge their fellow commuters.  Occasionally there are rare moments when you discover the human being travelling with you, that is, among the zombie fuckwits.

I have to say the term fuckwit is not one that I use in my everyday discourse and that is not due to the lack of them around me.  In fact, thinking about it, it tends to be when I am driving and I am threatened by the dangerous manoeuvre of some thoughtless fuckwit.  The kind of mental fuckwit that has no concept of personal space.  The kind of fuckwit that believes that it is sensible to hog the middle lane of the motorway.  We could spend all day on this.  Bus drivers often qualify when they lack the skill or will to apply the correct level of force to the accelerator and brake.

I don't believe that you can have an intelligent fuckwit, bit of an oxymoron (yes, I looked that up).  That said, intelligent people can be arrogant and insensitive fuckwits, so no escape there.

Useless fuckwits, now there is a wide ranging category, I think back to my training and watching some of these trying to master the art of weapons training.  I was in despair that they were on the same side as I!  You can have disorganised fuckwits trying to run your life, these tend to be immune to the consequences of their actions.

The thing is, when my mind applies this broad brush label to my fellow fuckwits, it is a sweeping judgment that takes no account of who they are, what their intent is, what they are going through or what they have dealt with.  It is a judgement that I would normally keep firmly in my own head, no need to upset anyone is there?

My mind, your mind, is such a great place if you want to explore it and are free to demolish the ethical and moral boundaries that we usually have to adhere to.  After all, we can't yet be arrested for having inappropriate thoughts, at least not yet.

My god, it would be like Tourette's, think of the movie What a Woman Wants, only with the gloves off.

Dodentocht - The Training Continues

Since doing the walk back from work at the beginning of February I have managed to get in 5 other walks in the continuing build up.  Each time I try to understand the impact on my body and mind so that I can try and be as best prepared as I possibly can.

The walks that I have done are

• 1st - 16km Work to Home
• 2nd 19km Richmond Park
• 3rd 27km Antwerp
• 4th 30km home and back to Richmond Park
• 5th 39km home and back to Richmond Park (2 laps of park)
• 6th 29km Aarschot

In between all that I have changed my boots and socks.

Today I started at around 04:50 in order to get the walk done and not lose most of Saturday in the process.  I had every intention of doing in excess of 40km but I started to get blisters in new places and I think I made the mistake of not taking care of my blisters from the previous walk as, once lanced, this small blister seemed to cause some discomfort.  This was also a change in tactics from switching between pairs of boots, in this case I only had the one pair with me.  The other thing I made a mental note of is that the ground I was walking on was mostly paved, ie hard.

There is something to be said for starting out before the sunrise, the silent streets, the heightened awareness levels.  I was ultra aware when passing under bridges and through darkened patches, watching for threats.  Once or twice a lone cyclist passed, but nothing else of note.

The route I took is one that I am quite familiar with, having run and cycled it many times.  In essence it is my River Demer run, it is good to know what is coming up and, despite knowing that some stretches were quite long, it did not seem too bad.  My route back took me towards Rotselaar and then towards Aarschot, this was following the main road and thus was not pleasant with lorries and cars passing at high speed.

In terms of food and water I took some yogurt covered nut bars and about a litre of water, my pack also had talc to dry off my feet and plasters.  I wish had had a needle with me to pierce the blister and also some proper blister dressings cover the blisters up.  Still it is a learning experience.

The next walk will be in the North East, although I am not too sure where I will go or the route to take.  The Derwent Walk springs to mind, it has been a while since I have done that walk.

The Dodentocht - Training Walk 1

The Dodentocht is an annual event in August in which those taking part walk 100km in less than 24 hours.  It has been a desire of mine to participate at some point and, with the encouragement of my sister-in-law, who is also participating, I am now on the path to partake this year.

I originally thought that the Dodentocht was linked to a march of POWs during the 2nd World War, but when I look it up I can find no references to this.  So For information check out these sites: Wikipedia and Dodentocht the official website.

I have decided to apply a logical, mathematical approach to training but, let's be honest, it will be an emotional and psychological feat to complete the course.  I have a training plan, I have looked into my footwear and socks.  I have checked out the amount of energy I will need and decided on mixed fruit and nuts (so far) to provide for my needs.

My aim is to build up my endurance over the next 30 weeks by going out each Friday and putting in the KMs.  That in itself is a challenge not just in time but also to dovetail with my travel and work plans.  Commitment is required, clearly!

Training Day 1

I work in Canary Wharf in London and live just next to Clapham Junction, approximately 10 miles.  It dawned on me that this would be a sensible start point in my regime.  Fridays make sense as I could recover on the Saturday.

As my working day drew to a close, it was already dark outside and I was beginning to suck the air in in anticipation of starting out.  I ended up working over by half an hour, but that was not down to any nervous reluctance to start.  I discretely changed my socks and donned my hiking boots.  I maybe should have doused my feet with talc first, but I was not that prepared.  I topped my water up and packed my gear.  Saying my goodbyes I headed for the lift and down to the lobby of the building.

I had not read my map to get an exact route, nor had I set any kind of navigation in my phone or watch.  No, my nav preps consisted of: Walk to the river, turn right, follow the river all the way to Battersea and turn left towards Clapham Common.  I was worried about some of the areas I was going to pass through but, as it turns out, I needn't have been.

Canary Wharf is essentially a financial district full of suits and an ambitious international community of thrusting individuals, some of them quite rude it has to be said.  I looked entirely out of place with my hiking boots, lightweight walking trousers, green Jack Wolfskin coat and Black Northface bag.

I reached the river fairly quickly and took a moment to reminisce as I saw the expanse of the Thames stretching for the far bank.  As a young Naval Reservist I had often sailed down the River Tyne on our way out to commence a training weekend and I felt the cold windswept memories of those trips as the breeze touched my face  Turning right, I now followed the river, keeping it on my left hand side until I could reach Tower Bridge.

During my military career I have been required to do a few, but not many, treks/hikes.  The key to enduring and keeping able to function is the timely consumption of water and food.  It may not seem important but it soon tells when you cover any reasonable distance in challenging conditions.  It also helps if your team keep an eye on you as you do with them, but in that respect I was buggered!

The route, reassuringly, was alive with walkers, runners, cyclists and post work drinkers.  I had carried out an assessment of the value of my possessions prior to setting out and, throughout the walk, I would run through the immediate action drills should I be confronted with some unsavory characters wishing to deprive me of them.  You could never be sure.

I had started my watch to track the key stats of the walk, but failed to bring my phone charging cable and thus my phone was on its last legs early on.  It was later to die and then my watch decided that it would stop recording my time/distance, a minor irritation that occurred just over half way through.

On the initial leg I was transiting through Wapping and Shadwell, away from the riverside due to the number of developments closing off the path for the privacy of those living there.  More than once I saw signs urging passers by to keep quiet.  My thoughts turned to the Blitz as I walked past old converted warehouses and cobbled roads.  I wondered how it must have been during those horrific nights of bombing during the war.  I also thought about the printing unions and their riots when Wapping was being closed down.  I ended up, annoyingly, going down some blind alleyways.  I was following some misleading signs but the diversions were not much to speak of.

There was something rather pleasing when I saw Tower Bridge come into view, it plays on the mind when you try and estimate how far you have come and where you expect to see things.  I had not really orientated myself much over the numerous visits I have made, but this was to change.

I heard the klaxons sounding as I approached, these signaled that the bridge was raising the causeway.  This was not too bad as I had planned to stop and refuel.  I had 800ml of water with me and 1,000 calories worth of nuts.  My back was already quite damp with sweat but my heat rapidly turned to chill as I waited to cross.  I was only wearing a polo shirt underneath my coat, it is important to regulate the temperature and not to lose too much fluid, something I will have to be careful of for the longer distances.

Setting out, I passed a number of landmarks and, interestingly, I started to learn which order these are in.  We had HMS Belfast, a veteran of WWII and the Korean War.  I longed to feel the metal decks under my feet as I reflected on my service career, the many times I had stood guard on the gangway in port in such conditions as these.  Naturally the Tower of London was on the North bank next to Tower Bridge.  On the South Bank I first passed the Lord Mayor's building before getting to the Belfast.  It gets a bit hazy after that but the Shard came next and then, surprisingly later and eventually the London Eye and Tate Modern.  I had decided to have another pit stop when I got to the London Eye.  On the way I noted that the Houses of Parliament and St Pauls are on the Northern side.  I had also noted the Ministry of Defence and the Foreign Office on the Northern side as well.  It seemed to take quite a while to get to the Eye but this was the 9km mark, just over half way.

The next phase was less certain, only because I knew that I would, at some point, have to move South towards Clapham Common.  In the distance, I thought I could see the MI6 building and Battersea Power Station, but I was not sure.  I did pass (presumably) the old London Fire Brigade HQ on the South side.  I checked out the numerous maps on the lamp posts as I passed, keeping a lookout for Battersea Park, that was my waypoint to turn in.  I could not see it on any of the maps, but MI6 almost came up on me without warning.  I knew I was approaching Vauxhall and that it should be there.  At this point, for no particular reason, the Russian national anthem was humming in my head.  I cast the building an inquisitive look as I walked by, but my focus was on the road traffic signs indicating that Clapham Junction was nearing.

I made the decision to turn South and follow the Clapham Junction signs.  I had checked out a map and seen that Wandsworth Road would lead in the right direction, to a point.  As I walked on I came across the Wandsworth Road Overground station, this is one of the stops my train passes through on the way to work.  So I paused to take stock and, following another sign heading towards Clapham North Clapham /Common, I started to weave through some residential streets.  This was quite a punt as I had no idea if I was heading in the right direction or not.  My feet were also starting to tell at this stage so the last thing I wanted was an unnecessary diversion.

I 'burst' onto the main road connecting Clapham North to Clapham Common, instinctively turning right.  It was maybe a few minutes before I realised how close I was to Clapham Common Station.  Going visual with the underground station, I was firmly locked in to the last mile or so, a little relieved but now wondering if I had acquired a blister on my left foot.  The ball of my left foot was feeling sensitive, but not yet painful.  My water had run out but I still had my nuts (forgive the pun).

When coming down the home straight it is quite uplifting, but the physical assessment was already beginning in my mind.  How were my legs, my feet?  How much longer could I have endured?  What point should I change socks?  How many pairs would I need if I change them every 16km!

I stopped off at Tescos, just a 150 metres or so from the house.  I had stopped the clock.  3 hours and an estimated 16.5km.  My watch said 22km but 3.5 would be walking to work.  Google maps indicated 16.5, so I settled for the lower figure.  The average speed of 5.5 was a good rate and included stopping, so if I could maintain that kind of average it would be okay.  As the distance progresses it is unlikely to stay that high, but one must try.

Post completing the first walk (my target was 12km), some friends have said they want to train along with me, which is great.  Things can be a lot easier when you have some company.

Day 2 - Richmond Park is due next Sunday, all being well!

Brexit - The Stigma

As we proceed with the Brexit circus, I feel increasingly compelled to write.  I have felt stigmatised into silence, unwilling to reveal my views.  I feel I am not entitled to express my views as they are apparently so offensive to those who choose to differ.  I feel the intimidation and intolerance of those who patronise me with their judgmental generalisations.    It may be that those supporting remain do not think they are having this effect or that they wish to, but then again, maybe they do.

Intolerance and intimidation are, of course, the very antithesis of the values that Remainers are espousing.  That is a reflection of society as it is, and perhaps historians of the future will reflect on this period with interest.

We are approaching the vote on Tuesday the 11th of December of Mrs May's Brexit deal.  As you would expect the respective parties are in overdrive to put their position across.  The deal being presented is, apparently, much worse than remaining and supposedly better than no deal, depending upon who you speak to.  Refreshingly enough both remain and leave supporting MPs are united in their opposition, this is democracy in action. 

I have not read the agreement, but I feel that it is not necessary for two reasons: firstly the MPs are responsible for understanding and challenging this.  Secondly, the deal is widely expected to fall and therefore there is no benefit in examining it.  It is an expensive waste of time, unfortunately.  The only opinion I have on the deal is that it is my view that it has been deliberately engineered to be as unpalatable as possible, perhaps this is too cynical a view to support, but it would not surprise me.

I want to spend some time on the mini-campaign by both sides during this period.  Once again, as before the referendum, we are getting full on negative impact assessments from business leaders, the Bank of England, Treasury and other bodies favouring remain, or in this case, the unsatisfactory deal on the table.  The first point I would like to make is that the doom laden scenarios lack credibility, this is not because I am an economics, supply chain or legal expert that can present a well informed view.  It is because the evidence of growth and resilience of the country, post the referendum, has demonstrated the lack credibility.  Remainers will state that we did not experience the significant downturn because of actions taken by various players in mitigating the effects.  This point then demonstrates the second flaw in the argument, which is that we will not simply sit back and do nothing, which is what the forecasts and scenarios seem to imply.

In terms of the leave side, they are of the view that somehow they can reject the deal and then go back to the EU to re-negotiate an alternative deal.  The EU has unequivocally stated that there is nothing else on the table, it is this deal, no deal or no Brexit.  So my opinion on this is that it is also a fruitless exercise, unless you believe that the EU will somehow buckle under the threat of no deal.  I don't think they will.  The only alternative is no deal.  This is not what I would like, but then I have no choice when presented with the alternatives.

So where does that leave us?  Well, considering that Parliament is Remain leaning, it is conceivable that the MPs will simply ignore the vote and remain in the EU.  Indeed, it would seem that this is both possible and desirable from the EU.  One of the possibilities is that the deal is rejected and either before or after Mrs May then resigns or is ousted, a so called peoples vote is held.

A peoples vote or referendum Mk II, would be in keeping with the EU approach in overturning the democratic decisions of voters by simply asking again.  The point made by remain supporting MPs and commentators is that people are entitled to change their mind now that they know the true impact of Brexit.  I cannot disagree with this, people are entitled to change their minds if they feel better informed.  The first issue I would take with this is that the voters were clearly promised, indeed threatened, that the original referendum was a one-off.  But then broken promises are not uncommon with politicians.   Another issue is that the impact of Brexit, as represented, lacks credibility and impartiality.  The deal is not a Brexit by any, even a broad, definition.  The last thing on this subject is what happens if the decision is again to leave?  If, and one presumes that this is the case, the result is to remain, then what happens when UKIP MK 2 or whatever incarnation comes to replace them starts to gain traction again with the voters?

My view on the outcome is that, as a voter, I do not feel I have any choice.  Both of the main parties are split and the smaller parties are a waste of a vote.  Tony Blair made the observation, among others, that no one is holding the centre ground.  Voters feel disenfranchised.  So the rise of an alternative party would seem likely.  It is interesting to note that more right-wing  leaning parties are on the rise in mainland of Europe, please listen and address the concerns of voters or the slide will most likely continue.

I want to talk about the economics of the situation as I see it.  I currently do most of my shopping at Waitrose, it is expensive but convenient.  Occasionally I go to ASDA and Tesco if I am passing.  Why is this relevant?  Imagine if there were laws which said I must use Waitrose and I am only allowed to go to ADSA and Tesco for particular goods but that I have to restrict how much of them I can buy.  If Waitrose was in charge of what I was allowed to buy and from whom then clearly they would wish to limit the ability of ASDA and Tesco to threaten their position.  So they key factor here is controlling the market to your advantage and by expanding your catchment area you can capture more of this market.  Even better, because your expansion is covering less mature economies, you benefit by controlling their economies and making full use of their inexpensive labour.  This is basically competitive advantage.  As it is now if I want to leave the Waitrose dominated arrangement and choose to shop in Aldi, Tesco, ASDA and Sainsburys whenever I wanted to then I would not expect to have to get the agreement of Waitrose.

So how does this translate?  The EU is paid a large amount of money as membership, more than we take out in benefits directly.  Our trade balance with the EU is in deficit, ie they sell significantly more to us than we do to them, perhaps some of this is due to restrictive practices, but it doesn't really matter.  The main point is we represent a valuable market and a source of direct income.  If we choose to leave then we are choosing not to pay the membership fee and to check out the competition to see if we can get a better deal, in a nutshell.  No one likes losing control and influence and therefore it is no surprise that the EU is unhappy with this.

The EU started out as a restrictive cartel to control coal and steel production, ostensibly so no single nation could start an arms race without the others being aware.  One of the pressing arguments made by remainers is that the EU has been a force for good in introducing changes and tacking the issues of the day.  I would not disagree with this, but the implication that the UK would regress is judgmental and not based on any firm grounding.  They are trying to foresee the future as though they will not be part of the decision making process that guides the values and beliefs of our society.  If we choose to, we can do everything the EU does, but the key point is that we can choose to.  We can choose not to if we don't agree with the changes.

So that was a very long way of me saying I have felt stigmatised for having what I think are quite reasonable views.  I am becoming less concerned with my friends and family knowing my voting preference because my expectations of being listened to or understood continue to diminish.  I have surprised at least two people with my views this last week and that is understandable given my connections with Belgium and my interest in being able to continue unfettered access to my home and family.  It is also worthy of note that Belgium has been the unfortunate battlefield site across many wars fought by various nations throughout history.  Of more concern, the very institutions of the EU are in Brussels and therefore are the most likely target in the future and even now for civil unrest.  I genuinely worry about the safety of my family in the future.

There is not an easy end to the current situation because it is driven by power and politics rather than reason and economic judgement.  As a remainer or leaver you can interpret that to fit your narrative and continue to disagree or you can try and understand by reasoning, without threats, why the other side thinks the way they do.

Brexit - Finally Moved to Write

Why?

I think this will disappoint a lot of people who know me and most likely they will question my judgement.  I will get the main question over with, I voted to leave.  Good, now that is said I can finally feel relief that I should not feel burdened with the secret of what should be nobody's business but my own.

Why have I felt the need to be evasive or coy about my views, although, with my commentary on Facebook, it probably became very apparent what my standpoint was on the subject?  I'll tell you why.  It is the very divisive and disruptive nature of the whole debate, coupled with my strong connections to Belgium.  There are all sorts of labels being applied to anyone who discusses the topic that they lose sight of what the real issues are and what they mean to those who cast their vote.

As a generalisation, and this is supported by the analysis of the voting demographics, my friends are split down very similar lines.  Better educated and well off are EU fans, those not so well off and supposedly not so well educated are not hot with the EU.  In the run up and post referendum, I have discussed the topic with my Belgian friends and An, who has remained remarkably impartial on the subject.

So why did I vote the way I did?

It is probably easier to say and more productive to say what my decision was not based upon.  First and foremost my decision is not based on economics, if anyone was attempting to persuade me of the merits of remaining or leaving, economics was not something I was concerned about.  Unquestionably there are economic opportunities and threats with leaving or maybe more correctly stated, consequences, but that was not a vote winner with me.  The much criticised claim of the NHS benefiting by an additional £350m per week, did not play any role.  I, like many reasonable people, saw that for what it was.  The same could be said for the dire immediate economic impacts of voting to leave.  The media and politicians have long spelt out doom and gloom which fails to materialise in quite the way they claimed.

Secondly, I did not vote because of immigration or some xenophobic fear of people coming over to take my job.  I am concerned that we have a large city's worth of people entering the country every year without having the requisite infrastructure to support them.  I do also feel that we should have better controls to allow in only the skills that we need in the country.  I work in an industry sector which takes the best people in the world, wherever they happen to come from and employs them if they have the right skills and ambition.  We also need immigration, let me say that again, we need immigration.  The reason is that we are an aging population and we need to have a youthful workforce to keep powering our economy.  I do feel that this message was not clearly aired, but perhaps the leavers would have felt they were alienating some of their potential voters.  So immigration and the unfortunate labels that go with that debate were not relevant to my decision.

Thirdly and perhaps a little bit on the absurd side, I have no delusions or desire to go back to the days of Empire, even if that were at all possible.  In my opinion the US Empire is on the wane, the Chinese are on the rise and the British Empire's heart stopped beating around the end of 1930s.  No, I am not some cricket playing, fox hunting, feudal lord seeking slaves to work my land and any other ridiculous and imaginative connotations that you would like to dream up.

What shaped my views?

I grew up in the 1970s and 1980s.  Essentially in slum conditions in the labour heartland that is Gateshead.  Labour did little for me and Thatcher, the epitome of evil that her policies represented, was oppressive.  During the miners strike I was in favour of the police, because I did not understand the politics at that age but thought that violence was clearly not the solution.  When John Smith came along, I found that there was someone I could believe in, unfortunately he died before being able to get to the office of Prime Minister.  Such a shame.  Much though I detested Thatcher, she did possess strength of character and leadership, but lets not get too dreamy about that.

When Tony Blair came along and we had what I would describe of as the golden years of labour, I was a convert.  People now say that he is a war criminal for the invasion of Iraq, but they were not saying such things when he took us into Bosnia and Sierra Leone.  People have short memories and are far too judgmental.

Before Tony Blair came along I had the blessing of attending higher education, something I think I would have been put off from in this day and age due to the debt being incurred at such a young age.  Among other things, I studied European Studies and at this point in time it was all about the Maastricht treaty.  A few key headers from those days:  in theory the European Union was a great idea, in practice it corrupted behavior.  The UK was painted as that bad player, despite domestically introducing and adhering to most EU Directives and initiatives.  Other nations appeared to play a rather more loose game.  Assurances were given about no desire to have a federal superstate, although clearly that is very much the end state desired.  It seemed that we were (in the form of free market economics) destroying our coal, steel and shipbuilding industries, whilst other European nations were subsidising them.  This was the first thing to shape my views on the EU Project.  But we are talking early 90s here.

The other main driver that has shaped my views has been the violent break up of the former Yugoslavia and USSR.  Now the circumstances are somewhat different in both of those cases but they bring relevant and interesting points to the discussion.  In the case of the former it was a bloody civil war involving all of the horrors of genocide and destruction on the civilian population.  I feel that this is a risk that could apply to an EU superstate, fragmenting along former cultural and national lines.

In the case of the USSR, the EU is ever eager to welcome more countries and I take the view that the reason is twofold: firstly they can get another piece of developing market that they can sell their own goods to and secondly limiting access to competitors and why not.  Turkey has a population (market of 77m)  If they are ever brought into the fold completely then access to that market can be restricted by barriers to trade etc.  So in the case of the USSR the former Eastern Bloc countries have no great desire to be governed by some central, undemocratic and oppressive regime.  We have to remember the fun times they had behind the iron curtain.  If you are 28 or under there is a good chance you will not know a lot about the USSR and being oppressed, a generalisation  but something you should check out.

Why I Voted to Leave

I voted to leave for the simple reason that I believe that the EU in it's current trajectory will result in bloody and destructive conflict.  In my view the EU institutions and where the power really resides, (Mainly Germany for economic reasons), means that the EU cannot realistically become a democratically accountable structure.  A most pertinent question would be 'who will be in charge?'  Should it be a leader from say Greece?  How about Latvia?  Maybe Germany as they are the economic lead nation?  The problem is that anyone from any of the countries will act in their particular interest, it is perfectly natural to do so.  We have seen this in action over the Greek crisis.

I genuinely felt that we might have seen mass bloodshed on the streets of Greece, given the oppressive measures being forced on them by the Troika (ECB, IMF and Eurogroup).  It is a complex problem and I strongly recommend a couple of books by Yanis Varoufakis, it is eye opening.  Yanis is a supporter of the EU and remain but recognises the need to reform.  Sadly the EU does not appear to be reforming and instead is bearing down on dissent where it can.

So that really was it.  I voted because I fear a conflict in the future and let's be honest the EEC/EU has not prevented conflict, although it has helped.  The main security against conflict has been in the collective defence of NATO, which the European nations have been taking full and unjustified advantage of for too long, by that I mean they have not been paying their way.

The last thing I will say, for now at least, is that the EU represents a market of 0.5bn people.  That is a lot of BMWs, bottles of wine, bags of sugar etc that you can sell, whilst putting up barriers to prevent others getting in.  The EU has and will remain a protectionist block that is lobbied by large corporations so they can enjoy the benefits of their influence.  With new EU nations joining, they represent very cheap and mobile labour (as well as a market) that you can take advantage of.

I genuinely hope that the rest of the EU wake up and see what is happening so they can reform.  I did not expect to wake up on that June morning in 2016 and find that the decision was to leave.  I along with many others will find life a little more complicated when the departure becomes effective.

Love

I run, arms stretching out
Through the meadows,
Hands brushing the grass
On into the forests.

Rising up into the mountains,
Until my feet leave the ground,
I begin to fly, fly high.

Over the rivers,
Skimming out towards the sea,
I swoop low, laughing, smiling,
Bursting with boundless ecstasy.

I soar up towards the scudding clouds,
Bursting through to the bright sun beyond.

I fly ever faster, chasing down the sunset,
Into the inky black starry night.

Flying fast, I feel but a gentle,
Warm and comforting breeze.

I am invincible,
No fear,
No worries ,
No danger at all.

I look across,
I realise
I have seen all this,
Seen it in your eyes.

My heart has been pounding,
Now it settles to a peaceful beat,
As I take rest in your arms.

Manchester - The Boys Are Back In Town

It has been a while since I last went drinking with this particular trio, but it was long since overdue.  A command decision was made to commit to a night out in Manchester way back in September, which for the modern spur of the moment culture that we have become accustomed to, is refreshing.  A co-ordinated meet in Manchester Piccadilly, converging from Edinburgh and London was arranged.  I was the man on the spot with sweet FA local knowledge and left the organisation of where we would go to the Kumarish last minute.

The vital statistics:12,861 steps, mostly between the bar and the bathroom.  We even managed to disagree on the location and best approach to one bar by splitting into two groups and converging in a pincer attack on the Tiki bar, just in case we met any opposition.

Meal for 4 at the Goucho, Argentinian Steak bar - £260 (well worth it though).  We have come a long way since settling for cream cheese bagels at 3am in the centre of London...

Quantity of drinks: Classified, but let me put it this way, the shots were introduced at a surprisingly early point in the afternoon.

Taxi: a staggering £58 to get to Wilmslow in a black cab, I have a strong dislike of taxis (even though my cousin is a taxi driver).  It was only £30 for one of our party to return to his well chosen hotel in the centre of Manchester (I failed spectacularly to give a clear indication of where my flat was).  I am sure Sam at one point observed the lights of Blackpool as our cab went on a mystery tour.

Number of bars assessed: 5 (estimated), Not counting the pint at the hotel (14:30), we went more or less straight for the food (cocktails, pints and red wine), moving on to the Tiki (mostly G&T although the group was evenly split over pints and gin).  The shots were 'fired' in the Tiki at around 16.00.  I even noticed, with dismay, that Hamilton crashed  in Brazil (on the TV obviously)  I did not realise the implications of his crash at that point, but I digress.  We consumed a very sticky vanilla liquor called 43, tasted okay but had the consistency of cough syrup.  It begins to get hazy, but I recall there being more ice in my glass than sank the Titanic.  I remember sucking the lime and crunching the ice once I had finished the good bit.  The drinks were also served in plastic glasses and cups, well worth the money!

The order of the following bars was not that clear.  We went for a walk to get to the Albert Schloss, in a bid to get to some live music.  My sense of direction failed me and, despite my printed map, I was unable to locate the bar.  I resorted to more modern technology in the shape of Google Maps on my phone, but the location indicator was jumping about in a manner not too dissimilar to the one in the Aliens movie.  Sam graciously blamed the surrounding tall buildings, but we were losing valuable drinking time, after all it was 17.00!  We stumbled, literally, into the Oast House, a place which immediately gave me my bearings again.  One or three drinks later, we moved on.

The next bar (I think) was a The Dirty Martini, where we had er Martinis...  The first one was a kind of coffee version and the subsequent one for me was a 'plain one' with olives.  Sorry 007, I am clueless about Martinis, the only thing I know is my first experience was not favourable but I was willing to give it another go.  The Albert Schloss had a queue outside and being mature 40 somethings, we don't queue.  We moved on to the low point in the evening (from a drinking perspective), we went into a Brewdog bar (sorry Spider, not the kind of drink my fellow musketeers liked to imbibe).  That said, we needed the toilet and we were too old to use an alleyway and it was way too early to chance it in desperation.

In my kind of thoughtful way, I had procured some provisions for my guests, these lay in my flat some distance south, south east of our location.  A decision was made to deploy south after a brief stop at the hotel to collect overnight bags.  In an act of poor planning I had bought some Peroni without any real prospect of us drinking it.  My purchase was not to be in vain.  Upon arrival I started to cook breakfast, bacon rolls (I was starving and I had two packs of bacon to get through, guess what I had for breakfast and lunch on Sunday?).  I did not last long and was a rather poor host as I left the lads to it.  I had pre-prepared the beds, but had forgotten to warn them that the internal doors tend to be impossible to open if fully shut, in the event it was not a problem.

Key highlights of the weekend:

I greeted Phil and Sam from the mezzanine at the railway station, saying Mo will be coming from platform 13 and that I would be right down.  Like an excited child I skipped down the escalator, not knowing that Phil and Sam had gone to the opposite one to meet me on the mezzanine.  Cue the comedy moment of them hailing me from above and then being told to stay right there!  You could tell who were fathers among us!  Mo, in the meantime was through the barriers and was consulting his phone, Sam and Phil initially walked past before being waved by me back in his direction.  After an appropriate amount of man hugging for a public place, we led off to the hotel.

WhatsApp was used to great effect to build the excitement as we took the mick across the ether.  Sam had a running commentary as to whether he would make it to the train in London (not a bet I would recommend).  Mo seemed to have an encounter with a horse called Penrith Jackie, although don't quote me on that.  Phil was most concerned about the un-swept slippery leaves on the streets of Ealing.  Unsurprisingly, Brexit and Trump came up in the topic of conversation, coincidentally with the words balls-up and twat for much of the discussion.

It is a far cry from losing my memory having drunk bottles of K Cider in Aberdeen during the 90s.   Both Phil and I have similar memories of Manchester and Aberdeen in that neither of us can remember where anything is despite numerous visits...

All in all a great weekend and another in the pipeline soon, most likely Newcastle.

The Belgian Grand Prix - Spa-Francorchamps

To the slight irritation of my wife, I have been a fan of F1 since doing my tour of duty in Iraq with the Royal Navy in 2008.  I used to find the sport (controversial to say that I know) extremely tedious and boring, the droning sound of the cars going round and round, I mean what is appealing about that?  I became acquainted with the sport out of boredom and a desire to share some social time with my shorebased shipmates.  My sympathies were almost immediately with Lewis Hamilton, then driving for McLaren and my dislike of his evil Machiavellian teammate, Fernando Alonso.  I found his somewhat naive honesty and behaviour.  Anyway, after many seasons watching Hamilton and his ups and downs, I have been a follower since.

Hamilton has matured and is much like the other drivers in terms of ambition and drive but I still believe that he is a fair player at heart and that is why I am a supporter.  An decided to get me a ticket to my first Grand Prix, I cannot remember if I used any persuasion or not.  This is my blog of the weekend and experiences of the event.

Friday 25th August - First and Second Practice

Prior to the event I did my research, booked my parking space and decided to take a packed lunch and my camera.  I was in the main stand opposite the pit lane at the La Source hairpin end of the track.  I had no idea what to expect, just that the traffic would be busy and it would be noisy and full of fumes. 

The first thing to point out is that although I booked my parking, I ended up in three different car parks some distance apart on the weekend.  No one scanned the ticket, as warned on the printout, so presumably anyone could turn up with something that looked like a parking ticket and then get themselves parked.

I set out around 07.25 from Leuven and got to Spa around 09.30.  I rather annoyingly drove past the queue of traffic on the slip road and snuck in towards the end.  Junction 10 was the exit and there were a large number of marshals and police officers directing traffic, in what was clearly a well drilled routine, to the relevant areas.  It was not too much of a hassle to get in, which was deceptive as both Saturday and Sunday were considerably busier than Friday.

At this stage the other thing to highlight is that, understandably, the majority of visitors are complete and utter petrol  heads.  The range of international vehicle registrations along with the ratio of twin and quadruple exhausts provided enough evidence of the character of their drivers.  This was to provide some frustration on the last day when trying to leave the farmers field (car park) with any kind of order and respect.

So upon arrival in the car park I grabbed my bags and started to follow the crowd through the woods and down towards the loud growing sounds of engines.  You could not see the track at that point and it was a lovely walk in the woods, save for the out of place engine noise.  I arrived and began queuing at the Steyr Gate, this is the main gate that leads to the F1 Village and associated food, merchandising and fleecing area.  Your ticket is scanned and your bags are searched, the first of many searches and checks.  It is worth saying that it can be easy to lose your ticket if you have not got a special holder or keep it safely secured in a pocket.  I picked one up for a lady who had not noticed that she had dropped it.  Imagine if you are drinking as well.

On the subject of drinking, I was alone and therefore I did not drink alcohol at all.  The choice, from what I could see, is pretty poor.  Heineken and Johnny Walker, two sponsors of the event.  For a county that has a reputation for quality beers, it is a bit of a let down to find such poor beer on sale.  However, everything is overpriced as you would expect and the sponsors get to dominate and pay their respective fees to the FIA.  I succumbed to the merchandising and bought a golfing umbrella and Hamilton t-shirt.  I also took a ride in a F1 simulator which cost an extortionate 15 euros for 2 minutes of a simulated lap of Silverstone (with others in the module).

What I did not appreciate is the amount of walking that I would be doing both to and from the car parks and around the trackside.  Friday was relatively boring so I used that day to explore the F1 Village and to watch the practice sessions.  The practice sessions, for me, are much of a muchness.  I left before the end of second practice and headed home, beating the exit from the car parks.  There is a full programme with the Formula 2 and Porches, so for those enthusiasts it is worth staying.

It seemed surreal that I was there, so often having seen things on the TV.  I spotted TV personalities and I could see the better end of the pit lane with the Ferraris, Red Bulls and Mercedes teams.  You did not get to see the team principals or drivers (save for their helmet covered heads).  I took the opportunity to get some photos in and get a feel for what I could or could not reach with my camera.

Dunkirk - Spoiler Alert - Do Not Read If You Have Not Seen The Film

I put out a call on Facebook to any friends that may have been in Manchester to ask whether they would like to go and see Dunkirk.  A wit replied, "Are you going by ferry or Eurostar?"  My response to this was, "No, by small pleasure boat".  I had been eagerly awaiting the release of Christopher Nolan's film and, when no one answered my call, I took it upon myself to go alone.

It is difficult to know where to start with this, perspective is everything and an individual watching the movie will judge it from their own level of knowledge, experience and understanding.

The film lacks context, it is rather focussed on a group of individuals and their role in evacuation.  The scene is set initially, when a group of British soldiers are seen walking through a deserted street and read leaflets dropped from the sky outlining the position they are in.  The simple image is of a map with Dunkirk and the menacing red of the German army surrounding the remaining allies.  Okay so we now know that we are surrounded.  There is no lead up, explanation or context.  You do not get a taste of the Phoney War, the frantic and unsuccessful fight to stop the Blitzkrieg advance of the German armour and the atrocities that are committed by troops and aircraft against the civilian population and prisoners of war.  The context is further enhanced by the scene between Commander Bolton and Colonel Winnant on the Mole, Bolton states that they aim to get 30-40 thousand off the beach and Winnant replies that there are 400,000 on the beach.  We have the scale and so we then turn to the story.

The audience will experience different feelings depending upon the attributes of their perspective.  I know the history, what happens, the context and so I understood from the outset.  I have also studied military history, I am ex-Royal Navy and therefore I have a view on the action that was to follow.  I did, however, put the situation into a more modern political and economic perspective as I was viewing.

The group of British soldiers came under fire and in sheer desperation and panic fled from an unseen enemy.  The gunfire and ruthlessness of the slaughter hit home and, as the last survivor of the group ran, he came across the sandbag walled defences manned by French soldiers.  Initially he came under fire from the defenders but was soon recognised and allowed over the barrier, the look of disgust from the French soldiers as the British soldier cowered and ran for his life brought thoughts of Brexit to mind.  The context of the British sacrifice, both on the ground and in the air was missing.  Our investment in the fight to that point and onwards was not recognised by the film.  On he ran, to the beach and was met with the sight of queues of soldiers patiently waiting to evacuate.

One of the striking things about the film is it's gritty reality, fear and shock.  The scenes that follow are desperate, in fact one could argue that the desperation is playing to the fear that the men will not make it, it is utterly hopeless and each attempt is almost fruitless.  We see the loss of ships and aircraft, the killing of men but no real success and no scale of the numbers being evacuated.  It is definitely not gory and in the same stomach churning league as Saving Private Ryan or The Fury.  But then it does not need any of that to convey the depth of feeling and struggle of the situation.

There is a refreshing lack of GCI and the ships and aircraft seem frighteningly real, the feeling of being trapped and about to drown is gripping, even to the point where you are desperate for breath as you sit in your seat.

There is a determination against what can be regarded as common sense and self preservation and perhaps this is another reference to Brexit.  The determination to fight through and survive is evident.

During the many, and perhaps over-compensating, air battles, it is clear that shooting down an aircraft is not easy and takes patience and skill to do.  You can almost feel the learning experience of the fighter pilots as they try and shoot the enemy down.  The RAF were not particularly visible during the evacuation and this does not come through as strongly as it was felt by the men on the ground.  It is interesting to note that one of the three Spitfires in the formation is shot down without much fuss.  Some in the audience would not have realised that this was a common tactic of the German air force against a rather flawed choice of formation by the RAF.  Many German Aces scored easy kills this way and we do not even get a chance to see the doomed pilot in any sense.

We do not see or hear from any Germans, but you feel the presence of these anonymous aggressors and the shocking impact of their bullets and bombs.  In fact you only really see some Germans up close in the very final scene but no context again and no opportunity to understand their point of view.

The film is very patriotic and comes to a close as the remaining Spitfire runs out of fuel, having elected to shoot down an enemy Stuka dive bomber rather than turn for home.  You can feel the pilots dilemma about whether to stay and fight or to head home to re-arm.  Again, maybe a PR exercise on behalf of the RAF or an attempt to show that it was a difficult decision to make.  The aircraft then proceeds to glide majestically above the beach, the pilot desperately cranking the landing gear down before he runs out of height.  He does manage to bring the machine down, well away from friendly forces and then proceeds to burn it and watches as it goes.  This is the first time we see the pilot's face (Tom Hardy). Is this our history we burn, our links to Europe, our last hope?  There are many perspectives that can be taken from this, act as the stirring version of Engima Variations and Nimrod play to the excerpts of Winston Churchill's famous 'Fight them on the Beaches' speech being read out.

What is not so clear is that although we have run, we will return and we can stand alone against the threat facing us and we do so in the name of freedom and what is right.  Very stirring, but in my mind reflections of Brexit again came to mind.

When the film ended I waited until the end of the credits before I left.  I left in a deep mood of reflection and with very strong views, determined to write this blog.

I felt so strongly that when I spoke to my wife later on, I got quite annoyed about some of the comments.  I tried to highlight that different people will view this movie through different lenses and the lack of context will skew their point of view.  People will champion their cause by drawing similarities between the situation in 1940 and the present.  "Gunning down of survivors and queueing soldiers just happens in war" was one such comment that drew fire from me.  No it doesn't or rather it shouldn't.  "The war had just started", no it hadn't there was months of inaction preceding it.  I also pointed out that history in UK schools is optional after a point, An was shocked.  Some will have no idea at all and have to rely on grandparents and parents (if they know) to educate them.

The evacuation of Dunkirk was a miracle but because of the inexplicable inaction of the Germans to finish the job.  This gifted Churchill the propaganda coup to salvage some dignity from the disaster.  Worse was to come when the Japanese achieved a far more complete victory in Singapore in 1942.

You can of course just watch the movie for it's entertainment value.