The Elephant In The Living Room

Oh, the joys of flying and business trips! 

I endured a fretful night’s sleep. I never sleep well when I am expecting, and hoping, for my alarm to go off at an unusually early time.  

I showered with my eyes closed in an attempt to fool myself that I was still grabbing an extra few minutes of slumber. And, I got dressed as quietly as a mouse (or, as quietly as a mouse would do if it was getting dressed – you have to use your imagination here!) while fully aware of the disgruntled noises of complaint coming from C who was huddled beneath a duvet which was failing to block out my noise or the bedroom light. She surfaced briefly to check for breaches of Trinny and Susannah’s fashion rules on the part of her colour-blind other half, before returning beneath the winter-grade tog. I was very jealous.

Eyes still closed, I went downstairs and fed the cat. At least I think it was the cat…..it is difficult to tell in the dim light of the fridge light while still half asleep. Whatever it was was fat, fluffy and purred a lot.

It was with some relief that I did not need to de-ice the car. And so, I reluctantly opened my eyes and drove to the airport, bemoaning the tractor with trailer that had gotten up and out especially early to stop traffic and delay people with deadlines and places to go.

The short-term car park at Manchester Airport was particularly busy. I waited nearly ten minutes for a Vietnamese-looking family to fail to park in a tightish spot. They were in a Picasso, but, it might as well have been a Liebherr T 282 B the way this guy was driving. He tried driving in. He tried reversing in. He edged this way and that but to no avail before finally giving in and going off to look for an alternative spot. I drove straight in and parked without any problem ……..

I had already checked in on line, so I joined the depressing queue for security, toured the duty free shops for illusive bargains, checked my emails on my iPhone, and boarded the plane to Amsterdam without further incident.

I settled into my aisle seat immediately behind business class. Consequently, everyone who walked down the plane with a bag over their shoulder, clouted me on my own shoulder. It seemed that everyone had a big, heavy bag, some with rather sharp edges and corners. I wouldn’t be surprised if I am black and blue. Why can’t they just be a little more considerate and carry their bags in front of them once on board?

“Breakfast” was interesting and eventful. They served us two sandwich rolls. Now, flying KLM, I have recently got used to the one hard cheese sandwich and one marmalade sandwich, which has been typical fare for sometime now. Today they served two quark, red fruit, fig and cheese rolls. My neighbour asked what was on the sandwich and the stewardess responded in Dunglish (a mixture of Dutch and English), “It is written exactly on it!” Quark, red fruit, fig and cheese…..I am never a fan of curdled milk at the best of times and what on Earth was hiding behind the rather vague description of “red fruit”? These sandwiches were frankly inedible!!!

My neighbours, in the middle and window seats also struggled with their repast. The Old Boy next to me asked for tea, but couldn’t get his head around putting creamer in it. He asked for fresh milk, but there was none to be had. So, he ordered an apple juice instead. He seemed most upset when it arrived in a little can and sat and harumphed for a while, leaving his juice unopened. His neighbour, an American, did open his apple juice. And then he spilled it all over his nice cream chinos. Not a good look! Old Boy was obviously an infrequent flyer. As we were standing up upon arrival at Schiphol he informed me that until he had seem me hang my jacket on it he had always wondered what the little notch was for on the clip that holds the tray table up…………..duh?!?

My meeting was at the airport at the Sheraton Schiphol Hotel – which is difficult to say without gobbing in someone’s face. A little piece of America in the heart of the Netherlands. I was sat between two sets of TV screens – one showing non-stop American Football and ice hockey; the other, CCN News. While all the time, Bruce Springsteen and other similar American muzak attempted to drown out the TVs. Five hours passed quite quickly as I met with two Dutch colleagues over a coffee, a ham and cheese sandwich (this being Holland!), and a couple of cokes.

And, soon enough, I found myself back on board the plane home. Possibly as a consequence of the recession and the credit crunch, the plane was only two third’s full. Business class was almost empty.

I was intrigued by my neighbour. He caught my attention when he sat down and took out a big pad of paper and wrote in capital letters using an ink pen with a proper nib: “THE ELEPHANT IN THE LIVING ROOM”. He was an obvious creative type. Very tall, he wore an open denim shirt over some t-shirt declaring allegiance for a 1980s rock band. He had a domed, bald cranium and was left-handed and wore rimless spectacles. Having written in his pad he became distracted by the myths and legends piece in the Holland Herald in-flight magazine before falling asleep. It’s hard work being creative. He didn’t even open his paperback – Clive Barker’s “Mister B. Gone” – which was a relief. You don’t want demons getting loose on a Boeing 747.

I didn’t even bother with the silly little triangular things that were masquerading as sandwiches on the return flight. But, I did partake of the red wine.

And so back home

 

 

Interpretation Of A Dream

The last few nights I have been having a recurring dream. I have been having a dream that I have experienced every so often for the last twenty one years – ever since I left university.

It is clearly something to do with apprehension. Fear of underachieving. Concern about not being ready for something. But apprehension, fear, concern about what?

The dream is always the same. I am at my Oxford college, Queen’s, and my Finals are imminent. I have a “feeling”/”sense” (for it is no more than that) that there is something that I am supposed to have studied but I have not. Something that I have forgotten to learn. There are only days/hours left before the exams and I am doomed to fail. I don’t even know what it is that I am supposed to have studied.

I try to find my friends to ask, seeking reassurance. But, I cannot find my friends. So, I go and ask a Tutor and are informed that there is indeed an entire volume of ancient texts that I am supposed to have studied for a crucial paper. I go off to the library. In my dream it is a slightly distorted image of the Library – it is much bigger and as if the real thing had been crossed with something out of Hogwarts. In a deep, dimly lit corner of the Library I find my friends. They are all sat around a single table which is laden down with the weight of a series of large, ancient texts – the tomes that I have omitted to study. They are the only copies available and I am out of time and I feel the despair of knowing that I am doomed to be a failure. And then I wake up.

So, what is that all about?

I do have another recurring nightmare about being trapped in my grandma’s old house, hiding behind the sofa. We are surrounded by Zulu warriors who are peering in through all of the windows. My dad goes out to reason with them but is attacked by a large dog that the Zulus set-upon him. This is another dream that I cannot interpret. But, this one, I have put down to eating too much cheese too close to bedtime.

ps. I actually did OK in my real degree.

Once Upon A Time In America

This has to be one of the worst American Gangster Movies ever made!

According to Total Film, Once Upon A Time In America, is “An epic, operatic gangster film, Sergio Leone’s masterpiece deserves mention in the same breath as The Godfather”. Well, maybe, but, only if in the same breath one is declaring “unlike the Godfather, Once Upon A Time In America is pants!”

C and I endured 220 minutes of a plot which we lost from the very first tunes of “Yesterday”, over-explicit and over-lengthy rape scenes, and, very bad ageing effects, in the hope that it would just get better. It did not.

Though beautifully filmed, everything about this film from the score, its Disneyesque title, to the acting was bad, bad, bad. The DVD, which we foolishly purchased upon recommendation of Total Film and because De Niro was in it,  now sits on a shelf together with “American Gangster” ready for Ebay or the next Car Boot Sale.

It was the lowpoint of an otherwise enjoyable weekend.

Go back to making Spaghetti Westerns Leone and Morricone. Two Golden Globes nominations, I ask you!?!

Once Upon A Time in America and American Gangster have to be the worst two films of the genre…..or do you know otherwise?

M6 – The Haunted Motorway

Does anyone know anything about the ghost that apparently haunts the M6 motorway around junction 17 at Sandbach?

I was at a social function at the weekend and chatting to a traffic cop who works the motorways of Cheshire. There have been a number of fatalities on the M6 motorway recently and the stretch between junctions 16 (Crewe) and 19 (Knutsford) is a well-known accident blackspot. I have never understood this as it is a perfectly straight stretch of road with few distractions at the side. So, the policeman was asked to explain why.

Apparently, this stretch of the motorway is haunted. The locals and the policeman all agreed that many of the accidents had been caused by drivers who had been distracted by ghostly apparitions. Now, those of you who know me will realise that I am a sucker for a good ghost story and believe that I have witnessed at least one myself (read all about that here).

The story goes that a Scottish Army was camped near the site of the now derelict Saxon Cross Hotel, which is just off the M6 junction 17, while retreating from the Battle of Worcester, where it had been in support of King Charles II. It is said that his army was attacked and massacred by the locals of Sandbach, and that a lone Bagpiper haunts the site and is often viewed by motorists on the motorway that was subsequently built through the middle of the site.

There are often claims that the M6 is the most haunted road in Britain and I would so like the story to be true, but I can find no information on the web to corroborate the story. Indeed, I can find evidence which suggest that the story was somewhat different. For sure, a Scottish army was in the area in 1651 and there were skirmishes with the locals. But, most reports put the number of Scottish dead at less than 10, but possible one hundred prisoners were taken. But, these events took place in the centre of the town near the present-day market. And, this could hardly be termed a massacre.

The only other notable apparition associated with Sandbach that I could find is at the Old Hall Hotel, which is also close to falling down , as featured in the Most Haunted TV Programme. And the Old Hall was built some five years after King Charles’ army passed through the town.

Can anyone else shed any light on the “myth”? Do you have any other stories of hauntings in the vicinity of the M6 around the Sandbach area?

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Wear It With Pride

Yesterday the Royal British Legion launched this year’s annual Poppy Appeal. The RBL is a charity which provides support to men and women who are serving or have served in the Armed Forces, and their dependents. Selling poppies is one way in which they generate funds.

While I believe that the Poppy Appeal, and wearing of poppies, are common in North America (in Canada they are known as “Clowns Shoes”) and the Commonwealth, I know that their symbolism is not well understood in many parts of Europe. When I have worn my poppy on business trips in the past it has been the cause of some bemusement and discussion. So, I hope that this will be illuminating for some of my Continental visitors.

Wearing a poppy is also an important part of the annual Remembrance Day which is held on the Sunday closest to the 11th November and the Two Minute Silence, which is now commonly observed at 11 o’clock on the 11th day of the 11th month – being the anniversary of the signing of the Armistice which ended the  bloody conflict of World War 1. At these times we pause to remember the loss and sacrifice of those who have served and died in all conflicts from the Great War until the present day.

The use of the poppy was inspired by the poem of John MCCrae:

In Flanders’ Fields
John McCrae, 1915

In Flanders’ fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place: and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders’ fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe;
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high,
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders’ Fields

Wearing of the poppy is not, as some would claim, a celebration of victory over our past enemies or a celebration of war or our military heritage. Just look into the eyes of the veterans marching past the Cenotaph with their medals swinging proudly on their puffed out chests, or hear the word’s of Binyon’s “For the Fallen”, or the plaintive cry of the bugle  playing the Last Post, and you can tell that it is indeed an act of remembrance. A memory of loss, young lives cut short, and, thanks for the sacrifice of many.

That is why I shall be wearing my poppy with pride again this year.

Happy Days

So, Blue Peter has been celebrating its 50th anniversary as one of the world’s longest running Children’s TV programme……Well, I was always more of a Magpie man myself. BBC was always a little posh and keen to educate in my formative years and I seemed to prefer the allure of Jenny Hanley over Lesley Judd. And, who can blame me? Give me a Hammer Girl over a ballet dancer any day

But, the anniversary has prompted me to think back to those halcyon days of 1970s and early 1980s TV. I never really bothered about Blue Peter until Sarah Greene. Well, why would I? But, I did find Sarah and the likes of Janet Ellis could be a little diverting in the late afternoon. And to be honest, John Noakes apart, the male presenters were always a little dodgy. Peter Duncan, John Leslie – need I say more?

In my day, as a kid, you took TV as it came. Which wasn’t often. Breakfast TV didn’t start until 1983. When I was very young (or occasionally ill) I would walk home from junior school for lunch and take in the occasional Mr Benn, Trumpton, Camberwick Green, Tales of the Riverside, or, Pipkins, with that truly irritating Brummie hare! 

Animation and cartoons were pretty rubbish – who could ever get their head around Noggin the Nog or understand what on Earth (or whatever their volcanic, hollow planet was called) the Clangers were on about? The American imports were always so much better. I used to fancy Penelope Pitstop. These were the days of Dastardly and Muttley, the Harlem Globetrotters and the Jackson 5 – back in the days when the only children that Michael Jackson shared his bed withwere his own brothers! (How did he ever get away with it?)

The home grown stuff was pretty rock n’ roll though, alegedly full of drugs and sexual innuendo. Just take Zebedee in the Magic Roundabout or the whole mythology built around Captain Pugwash with  Seaman Staines, Master Bates, and Roger the Cabin Boy. None of it is true you know.

Sundays were dull. These were the days when TV schedulers believed that children should be sat around the Sunday dinner table with the family and playing in the park. It was so bad that you would look forward to Songs of Praise. No, actually, it was never that bad. There was always the Adentures of Black Beauty. It was always a bit girlie but at least there was Judy Bowker. The Christmas holidays were long, with only black and white Tarzan movies (Johnny Weissmuller) or Flash Gordon (Steve Holland) to accompany your home-made mince pie breakfasts. The summer holidays would have been unbearable without the Banana Splits and their friends – the Three Musketeers, the Arabian Nights and Danger Island.

Kids today? You don’t know what you are missing. What are your favourite TV shows from way back then?

 

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Ginger and Proud!

An American colleague and fellow blogger recently wrote a personal perspective on the subject of “Patriotism” (you can read it here). This got me to thinking, realising, how different patriotism is on this side of the pond – in the UK, Great Britain, England. You see what I mean? We are not even sure what to call ourselves.

To clarify “The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland” is a sovereign country; Great Britain is an island consisting of England, Wales and Scotland. Does that help? But for sure, it seems an increasingly uneasy alliance. Scotland seems to be on the verge of seeking independence. While the Welsh have, for now, stopped burning down the homes of English people resident within their borders, they still seek to differentiate themselves in terms of culture and language. The Northern Irish are, to say the least, “split”, between their “allegiance” to Queen Elizabeth or the island of Ireland.

The unofficial anthem of the Scots (Flower of Scotland) goes: “O flower of Scotland, When will we see, Your like again, That fought and died for, Your wee bit hill and glen, And stood against him, Proud Edward’s army, And sent him homeward, Tae think again”, celebrating a (rare) defeat over the invading English king’s army.

I can remember only a handful of occasions when the nation has felt truly patriotic – the Silver Jubilee in 1977, the Falklands War in 1982, the Rugby World Cup in 2003, the Ashes victory in 2005 and the recent Beijing Olympics.

Well, I consider myself to be British first and English second. This is probably because I feel that England has less of a distinctive identity than Britain. For those of you in North America, we do not all speak like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins; we do not all wear bowler hats and carry an umbrella!. The English identity is less clear to me than that of the Irish, the Scots and the Welsh. Indeed, it has almost become un-pc to claim to be a patriotic Englishman.

While cries of “U-S-A!” are seen as patriotic cries of encouragement for American sporting teams, cries of “Ingerland! are more of a battle cry, spat venomously by football hooligans. Indeed, the bowler hat characterisation of old-England has probably been replaced by the image of a shaven-haired, football-shirted, yob with pitbull in tow. Ginger spice apart, sporting the Cross of St George is more of a “come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough” than a declaration of patriotism. Indeed, flying the English flag, in some quarters has associations with the British National Party and racist (or pro-white) overtones. This is plain wrong. It is an association I abhor and resent.

Similarly, we seem to be embarrassed by our Christian heritage. The “Christmas holidays” have given way to “Winter Festivals” for fear of offending the many non-Christian fellow Brits. My home city of Birmingham has a notorious “Winterval”. Ridiculous! Personally, I think we should celebrate them all – Christmas, Diwali, Hanukkah, Eid ul-Adha, whatever – celebrate their differences, their similarities, the diversity.

I am proud to be British. Founders of the biggest Empire the world has so-far seen. I know our history has been far from un-blemished but I am not of the school that the present Queen should apologise for all past misdemeanours – slavery, genocide, ethnic cleansing, etc, etc. I am proud of our industrial heritage and our invention – the airplane, the guillotine, the electric bulb, the telephone, radio, the iPod, etc. etc. All invented here (hopefully that will inflame some comments from across the water!).

I am proud that as a nation we still punch above our weight politically, diplomatically, economically, militarily, and on the sporting field (football aside!).

I know that I am a patriotic Brit. A proud Englishman. I celebrate our multi-culturism, our demographic diversity, our addiction to class and celebrity, our “fairness”, our “arrogance”, our “cockiness”, and, Morris Dancing!.

 

Back Seat Drivers

C is not the best of passengers when I am driving. She is a tad nervous.

Of course, she has n reason to be so as I am a faultless driver, perfectly in control of my mean machine – the sleek black Audi TT. My forward awareness and peripheral vision are beyond compare. My reading of the road is second to none. For sure, I take a more libertarian view of speed limits occasionally, but, I make allowances for road conditions and am always aware of my stopping distance. And, as my earlier “close call” proved, the TT has excellent brakes! Not that I always drive on the brakes – I hate those drivers who speed up to the car in front of them and then brake. You then follow (at a safe distance – remember the two second rule!) and they are constantly touching their brakes instead of adjusting their speed using the accelerator and gears.

But, C is a nervous co-pilot. She sits grinning like the Joker through clenched teeth while gripping the door handle as if she is ready to bale out at the slightest provocation. Indeed, if you look closely at the door handle you will see that she has left little indentations and scratch marks where her nails have dug in.

On every occasion that she sees the brake lights of the vehicle in front she will scream, grab my leg, and berate me for getting too close. I don’t get too close. In fact, I rarely get closer. I rarely get closer because I have a) anticipated, b) left sufficient room and c) adjusted my speed by taking my foot off the accelerator while keeping my foot hovering over the brake pedal just in case. But, this is not enough. Unless I perform an emergency stop, I am deemed to have been driving without due care and attention by she who should be obeyed.

This is often a source of “tension” while driving. Indeed, this is second only to “navigating” or “giving directions” as a source of “tension” while driving. As readers of my earlier post about our weekend in Goodwood will remember, I have recently been badly let down by my SatNav so remain vulnerable to criticism in that particular area. Indeed, that experience almost prompted a purchase of a Russell Brockbank Cartoon at one of the Goodwood stalls:

Of course, I am only joking at my good lady’s expense. Indeed, driving along with C in the TT, with Radio 4 for company, exploring new areas of beautiful countryside is one of life’s true pleasures…….if only you can block out the pain as she grabs your leg and digs her nails in!

The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to Oxford

Douglas Adams (author of “the Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy”) once descibed a fictitious Cambridge University Professor in his excellent book, “Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency”:

“…..small, roundish, and moved with an ungainly restlessness, like a number of elderly squirrels trying to escape from a sack. His own age was on the older side of completely indeterminate. If you picked a number at random, he was probably older than that…..Certainly his face was heavily lined, and the small amount of hair that escaped from under his red woollen skiing hat was thin, white, and had very much its own ideas about how it wished to arrange itself…….(taking off his coat) was complicated….by the necessity first of taking off his professional gown, and then putting it back on again once his coat was off, then of stuffing his hat in his coat pocket, then wondering where he’d put his scarf, and then of realising that he hadn’t brought it…..”

Despite the fact that this professor was from “the other place”, and, the lack of red skiing hat in real life (or as real as life could be in the smokey, sherry filled, oak pannelled walls of an Oxford college), Douglas could have been describing my former tutor of Modern History from the Queen’s College Oxford, Dr Alastair Parker, RIP.

Dr Parker used to search through the many piles of papers and essays for marking for many a minute, grumbling to himself, looking for his spectacles……while all the time his spectacles would be on the top of his head.

He would look totally bemused when the telephone rang, as if wondering where the sound was coming from. It was one of those old-fashioned telephones. He would cafrefully lift the earpiece to his ear. He would bend down to the mouth piece. And, in a voice reminiscent of Prince Charles (but educated) he would quietly say “Yeeees?”

He would charm the pants of young, pretty female undergraduates…..some would say, quite literally, allegedly. Note this extract from his obituary: “He was a handsome and rather dashing figure, attracted by women and attractive to them. “

And, while he tolerated my lack of application while teaching me dull periods of British History, he totally captivated my attention during my specialism “British Foreign and Domestic Policy 1935 – 1939″. While he forgave my pro-Chamberlain tendencies at a time when the consensus was rather anti-appeasement, I am not sure that I was a huge influence on his later, successful book – Chamberlain and Appeasement: British policy and the coming of the Second World War (1993). He was my personal Professor Dumbledore.

In contrast, there was my other History Tutor, Blair. Rowan Atkinson, an old member of Queen’s College, descibes his comedy character, Mr Bean, as a “child in a grown man’s body”. He could have been talking about Professor John Blair, who tried to teach me, well anything, about Anglo-Saxon England, with only partial success. In contrast to the dapper Dr Parker, Blair was like a rabbit trapped in a car’s headlights. He would scurry and mince through the corridors of college a la Mr Bean with his elbows stuck to his torso and his forearms and hands flapping around like, well, a girl running. He would be pursued by shouts of “Blaiiiiir!” from unseen assailants.

You got the sense that this accomplished academic had never visisted the real world. This was rather unfortunate as he was also a Moral Tutor – someone who was supposed to help undergraduates with their worries and woes. Some of the female students used to invent problems with their sex lives just to watch him squirm. And squirm he did.