Politics? I'd Rather Talk About Sex!

... Or even Religion, come to that! 

I used to believe in politics. I even joined a political party once - for a year, until the subscription ran out and it became 'The Liberal Democrats.' Today I'm a Fabian, and I like being one of those. Having my opinion heard and my vote count. Of no earthly use, of course. We Fabians are idealistic, we believe in causes whose time has both 'past'  and 'not arrived' simultaneously. A 'Quantum Party'. I like that.

It's not a question of belief, you realise that, it's a question of Hope. Which well-meaning group of do-me-gooders will clear up whatever coloured mess (blue or red) that the last lot of do-me-gooders of the other persuasion left behind. Sit on the see-saw Tweeledum, and let's see what difference it makes. 

None, of course. But that's OK, both ends of the spectrum have managed, through God knows what slice of good luck, despite indifferent management,  to keep the wagons heading roughly west. I know this, because I have been a political animal since the sixties, and I have become  riled and elated in turns: caught up in the eternal disappointment that awaits us if we think that  Westminster, Washington or Brussels will make much of a difference to our lives. We soldier on. We become disillusioned. We opt out. 

I am worried though, right now. I think the the Wagons are about to enter the Donner Pass, and some of us will only survive through devouring others.

(Sorry. That was a piece of self-indulgent metaphor-bending. I go too far.) 

I thought we Brits would be OK because there was a consensus on both sides of the Rockies (Stop it! This is serious!) that whichever Party held power, the weakest and most vulnerable would be cared for.

Perhaps you think they are. Government ministers will quote you statistics that prove it. Trouble is, I see what they don't. 

I have written appeals for really, really sick people who have had their benefit taken away by an agency doctor paid to do just that. I have listened to despair, unbelief, desperation... 

I have served meals on a Monday to people who have eaten nothing all weekend because their benefit was stopped because they missed a pointless interview at  a Job Centre that has no jobs, or because they failed to turn up at a Training Course because the public official at the Job Centre gave them the wrong time. 

I wouldn't believe this if I hadn't experienced it,  but it's true - our benefits system uses starvation as a tool  to make the unconform-able conform. What else would you call it? 

Nobody intends this. I don't believe for one minute that any mainstream politician would advocate or approve such a policy, but it's here. It happens. 

Funnily enough, I'm not going to rant about it. ( I haven't have ? I - checks - No.) I'm thinking about how the unsolvable becomes manageable only when it becomes apolitical. We ALL have to think beyond our pet ideologies - as long, of course, that they don't embrace  letting people who can't cope, go hungry. 

I'm really going to have to stop there because I have no answers. When I do, you can be sure I'll let you know.

Me And The Beautiful Game

It's a lot easier to fix memories now that we have Google. 

Matson, Gloucester. The rec.  I am ten years old, and a string of gorgeous sounds are rolling around my head and sliding off my tongue as I pull myself higher and higher on the hard wooden seat of the least rickety of the swings. "Tott- en -nam  Hot-spur, Tot-n'm Hots- pur ... I repeat to myself over and over again as I sail into the clouds. 

I just checked out on Wikipedia. In the 1960/61 season Tottenham Hotspur became the first club in the 20th Century to complete The Double. Which I have gathered over the years,  means winning two Important Football  Trophies. 

So I WAS ten, then, and would have been eleven the following October, supposing that League and Cup Finals would have been over and done with sometime in May 1961.

My father, and all men of my somewhat limited acquaintance, back in 1961, were either cricket or rugby fans. The rec where I swung, climbed and scrumped  my early years away, shared the green space with Matson Rugby Club- in my day, adjacent, as you may have gathered, to an orchard. Not now though: Farmer Peacey sold out, and Peaceys Farm is now a housing estate and Country Club. His meadows and woods, a ski resort, God forgive him. 

So that's why, in part, football did not much dwell in my heart, or impinge upon my consciousness when I was young. Add to this the quaint habit in those days, of separate boys' and girls'  playgrounds, and you can see that I didn't even get to watch a game! Girls participation was a complete no-no. We girls did handstands that showed our knickers and threw two balls against the schoolhouse wall and chanted:

'Down Lover's Lane

The people are so funny

If you want to see then you have to pay some money

Soldiers half-a- crown

Sailors half-a-guinea

Big Fat Men

Two Pound Ten

Little girls a penny!' 

Psychologists these days would have a field day with THAT one, to say nothing of the criminal justice system via the Safeguarding Office. Fortunately, decimalisation killed it off  - and all my attempts to revive it via my six year-old granddaughter, have fallen on deaf ears. As did this skipping rhyme:

'I know a boy who's double-jointed

He kissed Mary and made her disappointed.

All right, Mary, I'll tell your mother

Kissing Graham Wright 

Behind the counter.

How many kisses did you give him? 

One ... Two ... Three ...'(And so on until you mis-step and are OUT.) 

It's just dawned on me what an impact my aural past has on my present. ( I write, dragging myself reluctantly back to Football.) 

My father then, did not follow football, but he did The Pools.

I expect The Football Pool is still running in a more sophisticated form today My dad would pick eight numbers that would correspond to the number on a list of FA games being played on any given day. There were 92 clubs, so around 45 games played then. At least. Every Saturday tea-time, we'd sit down round the table watching dad check his coupon,  all ears  glued to the Results programme on the TV. James Alexander Gordon, with his golden-syrup voice would read the scores with a thrilling cadence of more of those wonderful, lilting sounds:

Bolton ... One.   Crew Alex-AND-er TWO! (Away win, Two Points!!  ) the object of the exercise was to pick eight draws ( the magic 24 points) to win the Jackpot! Which, as advertised by Littlewoods on every bus for EVER stood at £75 000. 

Dad never won the Pools, but that's how the Sound of the Game took precedence in my mind over the Fury. 

The Scottish teams are best: Queen of The SOUTH  ... Heart of MidLOTHian ... Fantastic.

I have grown bored. I'm afraid football does this to me. So I shall stop there, and send you off to You Tube so that you can listen to James Alexander Gordon for yourself. Just Google it.

This is Matson, Gloucester. The Rugby Club is pinned, and if you head up a-ways, you'll find Capel Rd, where I grew up. second house on the left. 

Invincible Summer... .

Thursday afternoon... . Warm and beautiful. I don't have the words to describe the thousand shades of green I observed, or the poignant quiet of this beautiful place peopled by gentle ghosts. 

Here Comes The Bride's Mother

The best thing about public transport, from the point of view of a writer, is that it puts you in close proximity to the public and gives you the opportunity to read The Guardian. I am a natural Guardian reader, and I heartily approve of the publication, but I only read it on trains. If it goes under or gets sold to Amazon, I only have myself to blame.

I couldn't start writing earlier because I was listening, open-mouthed, to a woman whom, I would surmise, never reads the Guardian, as she recounted with peppery language and a lot of feeling, the break-up with her live- in.

"I told 'im I'm off till he gets his (mild korma) act together,  the (red-hot chilli peppering) idiot."

I expect the frosty distancing of love-grown- old ( and past it's use- by date) in a  palace, has it's fascination, but the full- bloodied soap- opera that this lady's life has become, is far more interesting. She didn't so much air her dirty linen in public, as send it to the cleaners with a 'wear me' label attached to it.

Talking of soap- operas, I began my sally into Guardian'sville with a glance at the cultural section. I am a Philistine, and admit to no shame about it. I get my culture from following @willshagspeare on Twitter, and I tell you, you could do worse. Contemporary culture is an alien land on another planet: I do not comment on it, however, firstly because I'm too ignorant to do so, and secondly, because  I made a solemn promise, fifty years ago, not to turn into my mother.  

I turned the pages in fascination, mind-blown by the cover photo of  young woman in black and purple, on a motorbike, with a cape and mask, whose name I was too over- stimulated to notice:  I can't tell you who she was, because I left her behind in the waiting room.

I was SO relieved, if somewhat surprised, a few pages later, to find a review of 'Coronation Street' and I fell on it with glee. 'Corrie' as we sometime and fickle fans call it, is a popular drama peopled by strange northern folk with highly alternative lifestyles, and unenviable fates. I put this in for the benefit of my Russian readership (128 pageviews last month, thank you) who may be out of the loop on British soaps.  

As half the male cast is off-air strenuously denying allegations of sexual misconduct, the writers appear to have to be making do with the "River Island Caligula,"who, "Isn't the smartest bread-stick in the basket," David Platt.

(You would 't get THAT quality of metaphor in The Sun! )

I have followed David's sociopathic career with interest. I approve of all his loathsome schemes in the hope that one day he will murder his God-awful mother, Gail. It can only be a matter of time. The entire nation will petition the production company for clemency on the  grounds of, 'justifiable homicide' .

It doesn't matter what he's up to.  'No good' covers it.

Good Lord! Bristol Temple Meads station already. Excuse me, I have to alight.

Endpiece 19:17

The reason why I deposited £7.40 into the pockets of First Great Western in return for a ticket to Bristol, was a consequence of the upcoming nuptials of my youngest daughter. She, me, future mother-in-law and future sister-in-law, headed for a high class frock shop in Clifton for the purpose of H trying on a variety of wedding gowns, and an expensive range of accessories, some sparkling with diamanté and others  frothy with lace. All costing a great deal more than the £5 I paid for the multicoloured paisley patterned minidress, that I bought,'off the peg' from Marks and Spencer's back in 1971.

The consulting room was like a courtesan's boudoir, with huge gilt-edged mirrors, stripey chaise-longue and plum-coloured loopy curtains. I was impressed. When my daughter emerged from behind the plum-coloured loopy curtains, in dresses 1,3, 4 and 7, I was overcome with emotion and moved to tears. Numbers 2, 5 and 6 proving not quite so tear-jerking. 

No decision was made. Further outings are planned for Newport, and Birmingham, where, I am told, the Wedding Fair (Entrance By Ticket Only) is a cross between a three-ring  circus and a rugby scrum.

I am home now, and waiting for the delivery of a glass of red wine and a bowl to soak my feet in. Wedding shopping is an arduous and exacting pastime. I have a lot coming to me. You may expect a blow-by-blow account - especially if the dash for bargains in Birminham proves to be as militant as my informants tell me it is... . 

The Bride's Mother.   24.04.71