The long way down

It's disconcerting how quickly things change.

Just under a year ago I thought my health was pretty good for a man my age. A clichéd late forties rediscovery of cycling had blossomed into a love affair with all things two-wheeled in recent years  

I'd bought a decent bike and found some similarly interested guys who have turned into ride buddies. Nothing too serious - compared with some - but great fun and great for health.

Without really trying I've found my fitness levels as high as they've possibly ever been, felt unwanted pounds slip off my frame, and noticed my wellbeing improve. All while doing something I really love - getting out on my bike, pedalling the lovely lanes of Essex and Suffolk, and finding lovely parts of the surrounding area to boot.

Just under a year ago I woke in the night with a racing heart and felt something flash across my chest. My dad died of heart problems at 44 so in some ways I'd been expecting this for years.

I ended up in A&E that night where I was checked out but given the all clear and sent home. I hadn't had a heart attack, which was what I'd feared but something clearly wasn't right.

The months since have been a slow movement through the NHS system - something that is increasingly picking up pace. 

Back in May I was told that I had severe coronary artery disease and I'm now on a journey towards some sort of treatment. What that will be depends on the result of a test that is coming up in a few weeks. In the meantime I'm taking a lot of pills to manage the situation.

I'm not sure whether it's the pills, the condition, or what's in my head but it's astonishing how downhill I've gone in a few months.

The only exercise I feel confident doing is a sedate walk, and some days I don't feel that I can go very far. 

My chest feels tight, I feel anxious a lot, and generally feel crap most of the time. 

I don't sleep well and I'm constantly worried about my heart. 

I don't feel confident doing anything that raises my heart rate - and I mean anything!

I feel like I'm taking a backseat on family life as there is so much I don't feel able to do, or just don't see any point in. Joy has been sucked out of large areas of my life.

If I'd have known the change that would come over me back in December when I left A&E, I would have been completely crushed. As it is, this overall state of affairs has crept up on me somewhat, which may be a blessing in some ways.

The next couple of weeks could reveal a lot and could be the start of things getting better. That's what I should try to think but it's hard.

There's a side of me that doesn't want to get too hopeful. There may be no quick fix and what if what's being proposed doesn't work, or doesn't work as I'd hoped? 

For a glass half empty person like me, this isn't a great position to be in. (Strictly speaking, the glass is usually completely empty at the minute as I've forsworn most drinking. That'll show them!).

It's the cycling that's been one of toughest things though. As I wrote on here in one of my infrequent rambles, when you find something you love late in life you almost start to mourn it because it has an inbuilt shelf life. That shelf life is now closer than I thought.

Cycling in lockdown

Here's an interesting state of affairs. The Prime Minister of the UK, Boris Johnson is feeling some heat at the moment. Not for his maladroit handing of the pandemic or Brexit, but because he decided to go for a bike ride at the weekend.

On the face of it this is because he did so at some distance from his home - seven miles to be exact - in the Olympic Park in East London. This at a time when COVID-19 is racing through Britain and we are being urged to stay at home to limit contacts with others.

There are a few exceptions to this guidance, one of which is exercise, which you are permitted to take once a day. Of course, being Britain, it's never that simple. Guidelines talk about staying local and the government's definition of this is 'your village, town or part of a city where you live' according to British Cycling.

The issue for many cyclists is that they probably have a more expanded view of 'local' than that. Firstly, you can get quite a long way in a relatively short amount of time on a bike - it's one of the delights of cycling. You can also take yourself away to quieter country lanes where there is less pollution, fewer irate drivers  up your backside, and fewer people to bump into generally. It's therefore healthier, which is sort of the point of exercise.

But, again, nothing is that straightforward in Britain. Johnson's outing on his bike creates a problem for the rightwing, bike-hating, car-worshipping media of this country. They love Johnson's Brexity ways and his colourful turn of phrase, but can't he just ditch the bike?

To be fair to Johnson, who I have little time for, he has fought the corner for cyclists. He has ridden a bike in London for years, despite the ridicule that comes with it. He appointed a cycling Tsar to improve cycling infrastructure in the capital. His government has spoken of the importance of active travel, including cycling, since the pandemic, and has backed up this talk with funds.

However, his cheerleaders in the press - Hitchens, Littlejohn, Clarkson, Coren, the usual suspects - are casual in their abuse of people on bikes. The grumpy old men (it's always men) 'other' cyclists, relying on stereotypes about Lycra, midlife crises, more money than sense, highway code avoidance, and non-Road Tax payment (yes, I know it doesn't exist).

I've never quite understood the depth of hatred focused on bikes by some people. For a certain segment of society there is nothing more infuriating than a fitter middled-aged man (as they usually are) on a bike passing a fatter middle-aged man in a car. It's not even ridicule, which wouldn't bother me. I don't care that you think I look stupid in a contour hugging outfit. Laugh your teeth out - I'm off for a ride.

The abuse of the commentariat seems to imply that anyone on a bike is a slightly left of centre/liberal type a la Jon Snow or Jeremy Vine. Either that or a self-centred, arrogant, and abusive bell-end who things rules don't apply to them. Cycling is a shibboleth - a sign that cyclists are different from everyone else.

Or maybe right wingers just can't comprehend how anyone who has the wherewithal wouldn't just drive everywhere. Margaret Thatcher thought anyone who used public transport was a loser - similar mindset. 

There's an interesting comparison to be made here with another sport - one of the few that you can still do during lockdown. And that's angling. While we're reaching for stereotypes, I'd hazard a guess that the typical fisherman (they're mostly men, right?) is a working class, conservative with a small 'c', car driver. I'd also hazard a guess that a reason angling is still allowed is because it's a relatively easy sop to the kind of working class votes that Tories are anxious to keep in former Red Wall seats for example.

But here's a thing. I've got no beef with anglers, but my guess is that most of them don't live within walking distance of a fishing hole, so they will probably drive there, which when it comes to holier than thou screeching about the iniquities of lockdown, 'drives' some folk up the wall. Will there be outraged columns in the Mail, Times and Telegraph about how anglers are taking the piss (as there inevitably will be about cyclists - they're in the post)? What do you think?

On the issue of 'what's local?' police minister, and former Mayor Johnson sidekick, Kit Malthouse, has apparently okayed rides of 70 miles if you can do it. That's probably a bit more than I'll be doing at this stage in lockdown, but it shows he has an awareness of what a good ride is - he must have learned from his boss. There are plenty of serious cyclists who can manage those sorts of distances, and who can mend punctures and mechanicals, or find their way home if they don't.

It's worth remembering what this is about. Exercise is 'a good thing', particularly cardiovascular exercise. There were concerns during the first lockdown about people delaying contacting doctors over heart attacks and cancer - two of the biggest killers, and ones which we won't be able to wish away with a vaccine. Life has to go on, albeit within new constraints for the moment, and we have to bear in mind longer term health concerns among the population.

It would be a shame if Boris Johnson's ongoing enthusiasm for two-wheeled transport harmed the thing he loves. Think about that on your next Covid-secure pedal, and ride safely.

Not cancelled

Christmas was always going to be different for me this year - the first without my mum. As it happens, it will be different for all of us. The new variant of the coronavirus has led the government to slap restrictions on large parts of the country that were not expected. People were already facing the awkwardness and anguish of choosing what households they would be allowed to meet over the sanctioned five-day period. Now those decisions have been taken out of our hands. Some are allowed to meet no one outside of their own household. The lucky ones can meet one other household on Christmas day. I say lucky, but it's a privilege that wasn't extended to the followers of other religions this year. Muslims, Jews and others have had to have lockdown celebrations, sometimes at very short notice. We've been given a bit of notice at least. It's easier for me in that I don't care so much for Christmas. Since my dad died, I've associated it with sadness. For years it was just my mum, sister and me who were thrown together on the 25th. Mum did her best to try and make things nice, but I don't think any of our hearts were in it. I always preferred the days either side of Christmas Day when I could meet friends, get drunk and forget about things. It changed when my sister and I had families of our own. The focus on children allows those of us who are not spiritual to find a purpose in Christmas beyond providing a massive drive for the retail sector. Young kids in particular get giddy with excitement in a way that I can barely recall. It's quite intoxicating and something I shall probably miss when my two become as lackadaisical about Christmas as I am. My wife is the complete opposite of me in her regard for Yuletide. She absolutely adores it, and the pleasure she takes has softened me somewhat and helped me appreciate it a bit more. She has a large, close and loving family who enjoy a get together, especially this one. As such, she has been hit harder by the doors slamming shut on the traditional loosen your stays festive blowout. So this year it's just the four of us, with possibly a friend popping round later on Christmas Day. We will, of course, have our Zoom contacts, which will be something. An interesting aspect of the pandemic is how it has affected communication. We were all in danger of slipping into non-verbal means of staying in touch - texts, Facebook comments, enojis, thumbs up, kudos... Nobody says what they mean any more - we're too busy trying to present our best lives. Not being able to meet face to face for a good deal of the year has perhaps made us appreciate the value of talking to others. Sometimes, as I've sat through stilted Zooms, it has felt like we're relearning how to speak to each other as we're forced to interact in real time, read facial expressions and interpret body language. There's an awkwardness and frailty to our conversations that we can't hide. Everyone has shed a skin. So this Christmas isn't cancelled. It's just different. For some, that will be a good thing, while others will find it tough. Like many things this year, it will make us reassess the normal and everyday, including how we celebrate and how we show our appreciation for other. I don't think we'll be having Christmas in summer, once we've all had the jab, as some are promising. If this year has taught me anything it's that sometimes you make a decision and move on. We cant live our lives looking backwards to see what we might have done differently. Enjoy the Christmas you can, and don't mourn what you can't have.

All this

It's now more than 100 days since lockdown. We may be starting to come out of the other end, or we may simply be experiencing a lull before the next wave. It's been, and continues to be, a strange time. We know it's happening - of course we do, the impact is all around in lives suspended, routines disrupted, and anxieties rising.
And yet, in some ways it's a bit of a phoney war for us. We don't know anyone closely who has been affected. I'm thankful for that. My tank of coping is still running on low after mum passed. This part of the country has not been as hard hit as some, despite the proximity to London. Infection rates and mortality is relatively low. We seem to be on top of it, for now.
But life has changed. The restrictions on us, and warnings are likely to stay in place for a while. The internal hesitancy may last even longer. When will we feel comfortable shaking hands with people again? What about hugging, or kissing? I catch myself watching TV images of behaviour that a few months ago was unexceptional, and bridling at the riskiness of it. And I don't consider myself to be especially subdued by this pandemic. What must it be like for others? As lockdown eases, and support for the most sheltered ends, it will be tough for some people to trust society again.
It hasn't all be terrible though. Family time has been great, and although work has ebbed, the measures that the government has brought in have helped my personally - it would be churlish to say otherwise. Not everyone has been caught by the safety net, but who'd have thought a Tory government would go so far? Strange days indeed.
I've been thankful for the reduction in options in some ways. Naturally indecisive, closing off choices hasn't been terrible for me. I'm happy to be guided in a particular direction at the moment.
Everyone has experienced this their own way. In some ways I've felt slightly apart from it because my focus was elsewhere for so much of it. Losing mum has affected me in ways I didn't anticipate. I've had feelings of guilt that I wasn't there for her as much as I might have been; feelings of loss - probably more than I expected; moments of  anguish as I pondered my own mortality, and... just sadness.
I've been drinking more than I should be and telling myself that it's okay. It's a coping mechanism. And that I can stop when I like, although I wonder. Are there things I'm not addressing?
We're moving on but there's still a fog.

Goodbye

Like many people at the minute, my sister and I had to arrange a funeral in very strained circumstances. It's never an easy thing, I guess - I've never had to do it before. When my dad died, we were both quite young - I had just turned 15 and my sister was 12 - and it was out of our hands.
I've been to enough funerals though to know the form, and currently there are many restrictions in place. We couldn't use the chapel. It was a graveside service, with a limit to the number of people in attendance, which meant my sister and me, plus immediate family. We couldn't even have floral tributes as florists aren't open. No hugging to comfort each other, and at the end we would head off back to our own lockdowns again.
It doesn't sound like much of a send off, does it?
Be that as it may, the stripped down affair on the day was quite touching.
If there can be such a thing as lovely weather for a funeral, then this was it. Sunlit blue skies untroubled by anything but a few fluffy clouds.
I drove to the funeral with my eldest son, who is 12. During the drive we chatted about what to expect. The only funerals he has been to before were when he was a baby. I said that I'd probably be upset, as would his aunt, and that he might be too, and that was alright. But it was alright if he didn't feel like crying - there's no one way to feel at a funeral.
I'd asked if he would read something on the day, and he agreed. We chose a poem suggested by the celebrant - She is Gone, by David Harkins. I asked him because I thought he could do it. He's very composed for his age. I hope he didn't feel pressured to do it, and I told him that if it came to it, and he didn't feel able, then he didn't have to read it.
With little traffic on the road we arrived in the town of Leighton Buzzard with about half an hour to spare, so we sat in a lay by for a bit. No cafes for a cuppa. The we drove to the cemetery where mum was to join dad.
My sister was already there with her partner and youngest son. So was the celebrant, who I had previously spoken to on the phone. We spoke briefly and anxiously to each other, but there was little time to say much to each other before the hearse arrived carrying mum's small coffin.
We followed the car into the cemetery to the strains of The Corries' Loch Lomond playing gently in the background. James, the celebrant, was a very comforting presence and led us gently through a simple service to remember mum. I said some words, getting through it relatively well until near the end when I choked. My son was next to do his reading and I'm immensely proud that was able to carry it out - he grew that day. It was also great to have him as my support - I don't know how I would have got through it without having someone to hug.
At the end of the service, my sister distributed some floral tributes that she had made, with pictures of mum with various family members and friends, and we dropped them into the grave on her coffin.
It was over relatively quickly, and with no hugs beyond the bounds of our two little groups, we went home.
It was simple, and that's what my mum liked, so it was a fitting service for her, even if it wasn't what we'd have chosen ordinarily. In some ways, the simplicity helped us deal with the day better. I think I'd have struggled to face all the family and friends on the day - it's such an emotional tidal wave. People want to pay their respects and offer their condolences, of course they do, and as someone who is grieving, you have to accept their wishes, but every one revives the upset you feel. It's a long and trying day.
This was more manageable for both me and my sister I suspect. We've spoken to family and friends before the day, and had lots of very touching messages, and that was plenty, to be honest. We'll see these people again at some point, and we'll probably cry with some of them individually.
We'll all remember her.

Mum

My mum, Jane, passed away on Friday 20th March. It's convention at times like this to say of the deceased something like, "They would do anything for anybody," or, "They never had a bad word to say about anyone."
Anybody who says this about my mum obviously never knew her very well.
She was fiercely loyal to family and friends, but woe betide anyone who got on her wrong side. She would never forget and could harbour an Olympic sized grudge, something she's passed on to me. Thanks mum.
She was a fierce woman, and a fighter. She had to be.
The youngest daughter in a family of 12, she had to battle for attention and a place at the dining table from when she was wee.
She had to share a bedroom with her five sisters when she was young, gradually getting more room as they left to get married one by one.
As a working woman she also had to raise two children while her husband, John, had to work ever changing shift patterns that left the burden of the care on her.
When my dad died, she had to raise two troublesome and troubled teenagers who didn't appreciate how hard it was for her. They say that you don't know how challenging it is to be a parent, let alone a single parent, until you have to do it yourself. Her lessons in tough love came back to me when I became a dad, albeit tempered by my wife's more relaxed approach to parenting.
The grandchildren were her payback and the best thing my sister and I were ever able to do for her. After probably despairing that either of us would ever start a family, she had a rapid fire introduction to grandparenting with four boisterous boys in the space of six years. Be careful what you wish for.
Did she spoil them? What do you think?
Becoming a grandparent softened her a bit and gave her a new purpose. She moved to Buckingham to be nearer my sister and consequently my nephews saw a lot more of her than my two. I know that my sister is eternally grateful for her help with the boys.
She was a regular feature in their lives with presents, going on holiday with us, and knitting some beautiful items for all of them. Love in every stitch.
Two years ago everything changed when she had a cancer diagnosis. This was a big shock for us all, and the treatment was hard on her. She was incredibly brave in going through the rounds of chemotherapy that she did, but it was brutal. She withstood it with a grimace and a grin, never wanting to make a fuss about it. That was her motto - "Don't make a fuss."
The treatment gave us an extra two years with her, and I'll always be grateful for that, but they were hard won years. She was more frail and less inclined to venture outside. The woman who had always been proudly self reliant spent more and more time perched in front of the telly, her once neat and tidy little house becoming slowly more dusty. She still always looked immaculate in her personal appearance. I guess that was as much as she could manage towards the end.
We talked about getting help for her, but apart from a brief period when she was undergoing chemo, she was stubbornly resistant to the idea of anyone - apart from my wonderful sister - coming in to help her. Even at the end, when she was incredibly weak, she knew what she didn't want, and made the case forcefully.
And in the end, she was in hospital where she was looked after with great kindness by staff who were facing an overwhelming demand as the Covid 19 crisis mounted. They took the time to cajole her to try to eat, and would get a smile out of Jane.
That's my abiding memory of her - smiling and chuckling at a joke she made the last time I saw her. Inevitably it was at somebody else's expense. Oh well. you can't break the habit of a lifetime.
I suppose we have to count ourselves lucky that she passed in her sleep and without great pain. We're not so lucky that her funeral will have to take place in such a trying period. Over the past few days I've heard from lots of friends and family who would be with us on the day, in normal circumstances. But these are nothing like normal circumstances, and it will be a very small gathering at her graveside, where she will finally join my dad, the love of her life.
It's sometimes hard to think of your parents as loving things as we do. My mum was quite an emotionally guarded person, but I know that she loved life. She loved her family, she loved her friends, she loved to knit, she loved to chat, and she loved a scurrilous piece of gossip.
I read once that as your parents get older, the best thing that you can do is tell them you love them as often as you can. I hope that message got through to mum, because we loved her very much and we will all miss her enormously.

Lie in it

"Pushing through the market square,
So many mothers sighing
News had just come over,
We had five years left to cry in..."
I suspect that bookies will soon be paying out on Liverpool's first Premiership win and first top flight league win in 29 years. The Reds are currently eight points clear of their nearest contenders, Leicester, and 14 ahead of the next team, Man City.
The figures of how far the Tories are in front of Labour in election polls are less definitive - anything from a generous 6% up to a embarrassing 15% or more. For some time, there has been no talk of a Labour victory as the largest party, let alone a majority. That prize seems the Tories to lose. Having cocked up so spectacularly in 2017, it seems unlikely that they won't emerge without a majority on Friday morning.
I'd love to be proved wrong, but I'm sticking to my inkling that 2017 will prove to be the high water mark for Corbyn, if not Corbyism. The magic has been noticeably missing this time round, despite a manifesto chock full of goodies. Nobody can complain that they're not being given a meaningful choice this time round with full-fat socialism versus an anemic Tory promise of jam tomorrow if they can just finish the Brexit thingy. 
I don't know much about how things will play out over the next few years, but I will predict that this will be a Sisyphean task. We'll be stuck in a seemingly never-ending round of discussions, treaties, detail, and our two old friends dither and delay. If we ever push the boulder to the vaunted uplands they'll not be as sun-drenched as we'd imagined them, if we can actually remember what we imagined this very heaven would be like.
Of course, that's not what the Tories will say. The mop-headed lying machine will strain his 2:1 classic degree to sugarcoat this turd of a future as the best thing since sliced cake - had and eaten by him and his chums. British people will shrug and try to forget that this glorious independence day resulted in such meagre fare for them.
Brexit will prove to be a Pyrrhic victory I expect, and will still never be enough for Farage (remember him?) and his ilk. However, his guns will finally be spiked. Exhausted and confused Brits (English really) will no longer care if "they're not doing Brexit right!" Like getting to Marbella and finding the glorious brochure images of the hotel don't match the building site they encounter, they'll moan a bit and then go off to get pissed, and sing songs about the wars, World Cup, and Brexit they won. There will be a football song linking this trilogy of achievements soon enough. 
Bitter? Of course I am. I still don't see a believable upside to all of this for me and mine. There will be winners, but probably not among the 99%. It's all been so unnecessary... but, we are where we are.
And what of Labour? 
It seems inevitable that Corbyn will step down after Friday - possibly more quickly than some anticipate. He'll have presided over two electoral defeats, and while 2017 gave supporters reasons to be cheerful, this time will feel like a monstrous kick in the balls, no less so for being anticipated, unlike Cameron's surprise majority in 2015. Doesn't that seem like a lifetime ago?
It's not hard to see that Labour could spend the next two or three years being completely ineffective as a political force - insert your own joke here. There will have to be soul searching, although with the NEC and shadow cabinet stuffed full of Corbyn allies, it's hard to imagine a return to a more broad-based Labour offering. 
Maybe Corbyn was just the wrong frontman all along. His monstering has been appalling, but it goes with the territory for Labour leaders and he hasn't helped himself at times. Could someone else have done a better job? We'll never know, but someone else will have to do a better job in future. I hold no high hopes for a revival in 2024 if that's as long as we have to wait for the next election. Until then, Neil Kinnock's 'I warn you...' speech comes to mind again. 
To Johnson will fall the massive task of uniting this fractured nation. No surprise that I doubt the chilled out entertainer will be up to the task. I'm not even thinking of the precious, precious Union. He doesn't care much about that. I'm thinking of the deep, post-war France fractures that will exist in our society for a long time. 
"What side were you on daddy?"
"The right one... and don't speak to those bastards across the road!"
Five more years to think about it.
"We've got five years, my brain hurts a lot
Five years, that's all we've got..."

Infirm

A strange thought popped into my head a few days ago - I wish I had started cycling 10 years earlier.
It's not that I think that extra ten years would have helped me to become a better/faster/stronger cyclist, although it probably would. It's just that when you find something you enjoy at my age, there's a mental date at which you can already see when you won't be able to do it any more. I'm mourning something that hopefully is a long way off yet - that's a bit mad isn't it?
This pessimism has been exacerbated no doubt by a recurrence of a knee problem that seems to flair up every now and then. It's a swelling that prevents my leg from having its full range of flexibility, strength or stability.
Particularly galling this time is the fact that it has just popped up with no apparent reason. In the past, it has been traced to overdoing exercise, or doing exercise badly, or a twist of some sort. This time, I could feel a slight swelling and knew it was coming on, but couldn't think what the cause was.
For the past week this has resulted in me hobbling about in various states of discomfort and pain just wishing it would go away. It has trashed my bike riding plans, including one off road event last Sunday that I was really looking forward to.
At roughly the same time, I've developed an ache in my right arm which makes it feel weaker when called on to lift something. At this age, we tend to joke all the time about 'falling to bits', but it's starting to feel like that to me.
But should it?
At the weekend, I bumped into an old neighbour who I haven't seen for a couple of years since he moved from our street. During the usual exchange of pleasantries, I mentioned my leg and he spoke about problems he had before going on to reveal that he was in remission from cancer. He actually looked very well, and was incredibly positive about things, telling me he was planning a walk across Scotland as a fundraiser and celebration of his health.
Another friend has been beset with health problems recently, yet seems to take things in his stride. He is remarkably upbeat about his various ailments and impending procedures. Why can't I be more like that, rather that being so catastrophic about things?
When I was younger and dafter, I used to make declarative statements about how I would give a year of my life to be able to play guitar like folk-rock guitar hero Richard Thompson. (Obviously, if I was that bothered, I could have practised harder, got some lessons, or applied myself a bit more. However, that wouldn't have had the same grandstanding effect for my attention-seeking younger self.)
That seems fairly asinine now (In my 20s, I also used to claim that by the time I was 30 I'd have stopped drinking. I'll let you guess how well that's going.) If I was prepared to give up any portion of my life now - and I'd rather not thanks - then it would be for a slightly nobler, although in some ways, equally selfish end, such as for my family, especially my children.
Of course, even in these troubled times we live in a reasonably safe and stable society where we're not required to make heroic sacrifices. We're better placed to help those we love by doing the dull and predictable - bringing home the bacon, helping children with their homework, teaching them to be decent human beings.
That's the more important stuff, and something that my growing array of minor inconveniences hopefully won't stop me from achieving. I hope to be around for a while yet, even if it's in a less functional capacity. I'm off to the physio this afternoon.
A better bike would definitely help though.

'78 and all that

With World Cup 2018 underway, thoughts of Scots turn to other years ending in 8. France 1998 was the last time we qualified for a major tournament, and 1978 was the year of the Argentina tournament.

Champions: it could have happened!

BBC has just broadcast a documentary, Scotland 78: A Love Story, looking back at the year Scotland was the sole team to qualify from the British Isles, and when the whole country became convinced that we were all set to win the tournament. The past is indeed a different country.
As a nostalgic, you'd expect me to be delighted to return to that interesting time in our history. However, like many Scots, I still bear the scars, and I was only 11 at the time. I've been putting off watching it, until the first day of the World Cup when I cracked.
The story goes that the Scottish team came under the spell of a charismatic manager Ally MacLeod, who led the team to qualification, and then seemed to preside over a period of national hysteria where expectation built to such an extent that many were convinced that Scotland simply had to turn up in Buenos Aires on 25 June 1978 to collect the trophy.

King Kenny: celebrates scoring in 1977

Maybe I'm trying to exculpate myself from that delusion, but I can't remember being so convinced that it would be so simple. My first memory of Scotland playing was the 5-1 drubbing by England in the Home Nations championships in 1975. The elders in my village thought that would be 'Easy!' too. These were the same guys who would save their money to make the bi-annual pilgrimage to Wembley for the match against England, to routinely swamp the stadium with Lions Rampant, Saltires and tartan to the extent that we used to call it Spot the Englishman.
Practically every village in Western Scotland used to send a bus down, terrifying the locals with their numbers, their incomprehensible language and drunken antics. They'd return a few days after the game finished, skint and ruddy faced, already planning the next trip.
These jolly boys outings were obviously only partly about the football. They were largely about getting away from the everyday with your mates and getting pished... in England.

Fan-tastic: even Rod got in on the Wembley mischief

So maybe the idea of going to Argentina didn't seem as daft as it was presented in the documentary. Yes, it was over the other side of the world, but Scottish fans were used to travelling overseas - Lisbon in 1967, and the rioting Rangers fans in Barcelona in 1972 to name just two examples of Scottish cultural exchange.
One idea that wasn't really explored in the documentary was how the Scots led themselves to be hypnotised by MacLeod, because that's the narrative. I suspect that his cardinal sin was to tell people what they wanted to hear. Scots bought into that storyline wholeheartedly, as did the whole of Britain actually. There didn't seem to be a lot of critical thinking.
Of course, money was a big part of it. Although the endorsement ads look cheesy now, it was early days for that sort of thing, and both the FA and the players were probably filling their boots to an unexpected degree. Who would want to rain on the parade and say "Of course, we might not win."
I had a piece of merchandise that my dad got for me. It was a pint jug - the perfect gift for a Scottish 11 year old - which had the team badge and the signatures of all of the players on it. I was so naive that for ages I thought they had actually signed it, not realising the wonders of promotional printing.
And what a team that was. In some ways Ally MacLeod did have reason to have a level of confidence - Buchan, McQueen, Rioch. Dalglish, Jordan, Souness, Macari, Rough, Hartford, Gemmill... That wasn't a bad selection.
I watched the first match against Peru at a Scout camp in Hamilton. The leaders had set up a telly in a marquee. It must have be tiny - there were no projection screens in those days. Truth be told I can't remember much about the game apart from the overwhelming level of disappointment at the 3-1 result. Did I watch the Iran game? I doubt it.
Ditto the Holland match, although we all remember Gemmill's wonder goal, which, in convincing the most one-eyed fans that we could have won the tournament, is up there with the 1967 'real world champions' myth of Scottish football.

Super Gemmill: lest we forget (chance!)

One particularly unedifying aspect of the tournament was the treatment of Willie Johnston, who was sent home for failing a drugs test. In these days of TUEs and the number of top athletes who seem to be asthmatic, his expulsion for an over the counter hay fever remedy seems harsh, but not as harsh as the way the blazers of the FA threw him under the bus. It seems crazy that the team doctors didn't know what players were taking or have processes in place, but was in line with the general amateur nature of the overall affair - not so much different from my village's bus trips to Wembley in truth.
Scotland '78 makes the point that the whole affair, with its echoes of the Darien expedition, dented the national psyche to such an extent that the country didn't vote in sufficient numbers for independence in 1979. The fact is that there was a majority who voted yes, but the government of the day dictated that it was such an important vote that there should be a threshold - something that sticks in the craw of nationalists to this day.
Would but there have been such a threshold for Brexit - an equally important vote.
As it is Argentina in 1978 probably gave Scots a sharp lesson in the dangers of national exceptionalism - something that England has still to learn given Brexit. Scotland was changing fast, as the pictures of dreary, graffitied tenements indicate. Twelve years later, Glasgow was the Smiles Better European City of Culture. I remember visiting it around that time, years after I'd last been as a child, on one of the occasional trips to the Barras, when the tenements were being pulled down and the sight of poor people selling their belongings on the pavement made it seem like another world to an impressionable child. At this later date, the cleaned up sandstone buildings seemed magnificent, the museums were engaging and exciting, and people had a swagger.
By the Nineties Scottish pride and confidence was based on things other than our football team: history, art, architecture, the landscape, the education system, and the people. And it wasn't an unquestioning pride, as the most recent independence referendum result shows. I'd venture that people realise that as a small nation, Scotland's place in the world will be tied to other larger entities. They just can't decide which they will be.
Beside the online sledging, the level of debate about the country's future was genuinely soul searching because of that. People realised that there are no easy solutions and choices have consequences, something that again seems lost on the Brexiteers.
Maybe that's something we should thank Ally McLeod for.

Snow days

Sledging: traditional British winter activity

It's day three in the ice bound house. The snow started on Tuesday and schools across Essex, and the country, were closed the following morning. It's been like that since then. There have been the usual moans that we're a country that falls apart at the first sign of a bit of snow, and why can't we be more like Switzerland/Norway/Germany... anywhere but here.
To be fair to the school first of all, this is the first time in more than six years that bad weather has closed it. I'm sure things will be back to normal on Monday - we're expecting a bit of a thaw from tomorrow. Then this little break will be filed under cultural enrichment.
So, what have we been up to?

What we've done

Tattie soup: with sprouts

• Went sledging, obviously. That's twice in one winter my £10 purchase has been used - more than we've managed in the past five years, and we're heading out again today I hope.
• Made cakes and biscuits.
• Composed a space opera. Number one son took the opportunity to work out a rather dystopian sounding piece on his keyboard. The weather made it seem even more ominous.
• Made potato heads for World Book Day. Sadly these haven't been taken to school - don't know if Harry Potato-er and Dumbledore will make it through the weekend.
• Fed the birds.
• Made soup.
• Cleared snow from my the neighbour's steps (polishing my halo as we speak).
• Rearranged the office slightly - CDs now in the next room.
• Read books.
• Worried about global warming, but less about Trump.
• Got new cyclocross wheels on my new (to me) cross bike.

Snow tree: actually from earlier in 2018

What we haven't done

• Ridden our bikes.
• Panic bought anything.
• Made a snow man - it's the wrong kind of snow. Too powdery.
• Seen many people.
• Driven the car?
• Thought as much about Brexit.
• I haven't done much work, as I haven't had any, so I should probably add 'Worried about lack of work' to the first list.
• Been proactive.

What we could have done

• Been proactive.
• More craft activities.
• Played board games - not sure why we haven't done more of this. The kids have actually been very good at entertaining themselves (that's my get out clause anyway). Their games tend to be mind-bogglingly complex, especially if the eldest is in charge (i.e. all the time), and being a bear of little brain, it's probably best that I excuse myself.
• The 1,000-piece Minion jigsaw puzzle that the younger one won in a story writing competition last year (I'll just drop that humblebrag in there as a bit of catch up on what's been happening of late).
• Demanded that school reopens, or started up some home schooling activities :)
• We could have been out more. I gladly cleared the neighbour's steps yesterday as I was getting cabin fever.

Winterval: Abbey Fields Colchester

What have we learned

• Snow days pass very slowly.
• Being freelancers, we're lucky we didn't have to go anywhere.
• After initial mad forays into the snow, the kids are quite apathetic about it. Yesterday they didn't get out of their pyjamas.
• Not all snow is equal. The powdery stuff won't even hold a snowball. It is very beautiful however.
• That it doesn't really matter. This little three-day event will soon be a memory - hopefully a pleasant one.
• Local Budgens doesn't sell logs beyond about late February. We could have done with some of late - there's nothing like a real fire when it's cold outside.
• The house is a lot warmer than the first couple of winters we were in here, thanks to better insulation. Back then we were wearing hats in bed and waking up with cold noses.

Are we really rubbish at doing winter? Were we better at it in the past? I don't know really. Generally we have better cars, better clothing and better communications. People are by and large kind and help each other out at times like this. We sort of know what we should do, although we don't always do it - much like life generally. 

It's starting to melt.

Tracks: cat I think

The finer point

Television: on the turntable

After the initial excitement of repatriating my record collection to my house and wiring up the turntable, there was a bit of an anticlimax. Listening to a selection of discs it became apparent that they didn't sound that great. Never mind what Neil Young says, it wasn't a patch on CD quality. It sounded fuzzy, muted and just rubbish really.

The Feelies: they've reformed

I put this down to a few things: the crap quality of the vinyl that a lot of the discs were made of (the Eighties/Nineties was the end of days for vinyl and some albums and 12 inches were practically flexidiscs); the decrepitude of my equipment (sorry dad, but the Sansui and B&W speakers are past pensionable), and the ancient stylus on the turntable.
The last one was the thing that I could do something about. The stylus had never been changed - shrugs shoulders - but who changes them anyway? I can't remember any of my mates thinking it was a big deal back in the day, despite the fact that record shops and chains like Woollies and Boots usually had a cabinet of them. Most of us had crap music systems that we assumed we'd better one day, so styluses were fairly far down our priority list. I didn't even know how to change one.
However, with my little trip into the musical past, I was prepared to give it a go, otherwise there didn't seem much point having the vinyl if it couldn't be played. Can you even still buy them?

Fugazi: turned me upside down

Well, yes you can and it wasn't very hard to track down a replacement for the Sansui FR-D25 turntable. The new stylus was £18 and turned up within two days with an anti static cloth that I added to my order.
After consulting Dr YouTube to find out how to change a stylus, I was in business, and my oh my, what a difference it makes. The old stylus must have been as blunt as a very blunt thing.

Drake: mellow classic

Suddenly I get it. I'm hearing stuff on records like Surfer Rosa, Marquee Moon and Five Leaves Left that I can't remember hearing before. Perhaps there's an element of overcompensation and I'm hearing what I want to hear, but I can't deny that it's great to listen to these discs anew on the format they were recorded for. Even the crackle and blips are endearing - I've got a fair few pre-loved albums, including the aforementioned Television and Nick Drake disc, and they still sound great.
Whether there is really a sound difference, or I'm just enjoying a trip down memory lane, I don't know, and frankly I don't care. I'm not going to repurchase a lot of this stuff on CD, and listening on streaming services like Spotify or even YouTube starts to get a bit like the musical equivalent of fast food. It is flat and invariably you're listening through less that optimum equipment.

UFO: Schenker's on fire

There's also the appreciation of the album sleeves, which I'm posting to Instagram as I work my way through the collection. That £18 could be one of the best investments I've made.

The Tough of the Track

Two wheels good

My eldest has been going to a grasstrack racing group this summer, run by a great local cycling club, Colchester Rovers.
Grasstrack - I had no idea either - is exactly what it sounds like. Kids race around a grass track on fixed wheel cycles, which the club provides if you don't have one, which we don't.
It has been great fun and really plays to his competitive side, which is becoming more apparent as he gets older. In recent weeks he's been doing quite well, especially as some of the more established youngsters have been racing for longer and have a bit more track nous, as well as more gear.
There is a little league table and he's been pleased to have been near the top. On Monday night we went and I had to remind him to change out of his school kit into something more sporty. "Why? It doesn't matter," he protested, but changed anyway.
It was probably just as well, as he won two of his three races and now sits at the top of the league table. If he'd done it in school shorts, it might have looked like he was taking the Michael.
It was the nearest I've got to a real Alf Tupper moment, even if he didn't turn up eating fish and chips. He run 'em all!

Crackle and hum

I visited my mum at the weekend and after years of promising, I finally took my vinyl record collection from her garage. It has been there for about nine years, and before that, it had been in my old bedroom since 1988 when I came home from university. Soon after that, the CD age kicked in, and although I moved house fairly regularly in my post-college days, the 12 inchers stayed put.They were played very infrequently after that, locked away in a cupboard in my minuscule room. When mum moved house, I had to box them up and she was kind enough to take them with her. Although I had my own flat in Hackney by then, it wasn't huge, and I didn't have a record deck to play them. They could easily have gone the way of my huge collection of music 'inkies' - Sounds, NME and Kerrang magazines that I would buy avidly in the teens, twenties, and thirties. These were given away after I discovered that their value - huge to me - was not appreciated by anybody else.I was obsessed with music, like many people of my age. There are so many more passions and pastimes for kids these days, or so it seems. Maybe it's just that my two are a bit young to have got the bug yet. I didn't really start to get into music until I was about 12 and moved to England. 

For me, heavy metal was my entry point. Not very cool, I know, although more so now that it ever was when I was a youth. However, it opened up a peer group for me. I was even briefly in a hard rock band with some school friends - initially as timing challenged drummer, and then as singer, the job that no one ever wanted.

After that my tastes broadened quite a bit, and so did my purchasing habits. I noticed that some of the older guys who I admired didn't feel the need to stick to just the one genre, so although I didn't ditch my love of the hard stuff, it wasn't the only thing that interested me.
Albums were relatively hard to get hold of until I got my first jobs - newspaper rounds, milk rounds, cleaning jobs, and the big break, a summer holiday working in the local bread factory. I felt like a millionaire taking home nearly £200 a week (sounds a fortune, but I doubt you'd get away with doing the hours I had to, these days).
With cash in my pocket and albums at £4-5 a pop, my collection quickly built up. I'd listen to them on my dad's old separates system or a small unit in my bedroom, making mixtapes for friends and people I wanted to impress with my catholic tastes.
Our local record shop, Buzzard Records, was a chart return shop, so there was always a stack of cheap singles and 12 inchers to be had as sales guys dropped off loads of free copies to try and hype tracks into the charts. Consequently, I've got a whole subgenre of singles by no-hit wonders who nevertheless produced great little pop moments.
I was obsessed by vinyl at that time in my life. I even took my growing record collection to university with me. It seemed inconceivable that I would leave it behind. Your music collection spoke volumes about the kind of person you were, or so I thought. I remember reading somebody saying that they'd go to parties and if the person didn't have a copy of Psychocandy in their collection, then they'd leave.
I wouldn't go that far, and I do have a copy of the Jesus and Mary Chain's first album.
Anyway, I've opened up a the first carton of albums - T-Z, of course it's alphabetised. There's quite a lot of Throwing Muses and Tom Waits, a forgotten diamond by One the Juggler (hang on, that's not T-Z - my filing system has been compromised), Tracey Thorn's lovely first solo album, and a red vinyl copy of an album by former Gillan guitarist Bernie Torme, who I was obsessed with for ages (I once sat listening to the top 40 convincing myself during the countdown to the new number one, that it must actually be him, as his latest single hadn't been played. Of course, it hadn't made the top 75, nevermind the 40).
As well as the six crates of records, I brought back my dad's old Sansui record deck, which still works, although the stylus may be a bit worn. Either that, or the records are just scratched to bits. Maybe after years of listening to pristine CD quality sound, the background crackle is more obvious than it was back in the day. I think we lived through the era of crap vinyl anyway. It was noticeable when you bought an older record. The original copy of Nick Drake's Five Leaves Left I picked up from the record shop on Camden Lock bridge (what was that called?) was move satisfyingly solid than many of the records I subsequently bought new, including the Drake compilation, Heaven in a Wild Flower, that got me into him while I was at university.
At the moment, I feel like the Howard Carter of music, going through the crate and plopping stuff on to the deck. Twenty minutes of music - the length of one side of an album kids - also seems so much more civilised than the interminable tyranny of the unedited CD. We thought it was great to get more value for your money, but really it seemed to encourage a lack of editorial quality control. A side of an album passes very quickly, forcing you to refocus every 20 minutes on what to listen to next.
After a long break from the vinyl, it seems quite hip to be listening to slabs of plastic played with a needle. The vinyl revival is now a big thing, although I can't see myself being sucked back into buying it. This is a little holiday in the past.
The last vinyl record I think I bought was Oasis's (What's the Story) Morning Glory? I got it 22 years ago at a release party at Virgin Records where the band played some numbers, and I got it signed by Noel and the drummer (sorry fella, I can't remember your name). As such, it was more of an artefact, especially as I had nothing to play it on. My then girlfriend bought the CD which was what we played.
It might be in one of those unopened boxes, although I've a feeling it may have been lost when we moved house as I think I kept that particular item close for a while.
Never mind (an album I don't have on vinyl). There are still plenty of memories to dig out.

About last night

In his braggadocious march on the White House, Donald Trump boasted that Americans would be 'winning' so often under his leadership that they'd get sick of it.
The feeling has been the opposite for many of us in the UK for the past couple of years. I'm talking about the left here obviously.
First there was the 2015 election win by David Cameron's Tories, made worse by the fact that the Lib Dems were virtually wiped out after shouldering an unfair amount of blame for the sins of the coalition - in my opinion.
Then there was last year's European referendum, which Cameron was bounced into when he landed that unexpected majority.
And, of course Trump. How the hell did that happen America?
I'll put aside various local elections and by-elections when it seemed as if Labour was incapable of pulling out of terminal tailspin.
No wonder Theresa May was licking her lips at the prospect of a snap election to lock in her good fortune to be the leader of the government at a time of such disorganised opposition with a leader who was being lampooned by the press and disliked and distrusted by the electorate. What could possibly go wrong?
There will be plenty of amateur and professional pundits picking over that one for years to come. It's still barely believable that Tess May snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. The Tories are the biggest party, yes, but with a reduced number of seats, no majority, and now seemingly in bed with a bunch of oddballs, the DUP.
And it is May who must carry the can, although at the minute she seems determined to carry on as if nothing has changed. Whether it was her decision or Lynton Crosby's to focus the campaign on the presidential qualities of May, barely matters now. What is incredible is how unable or unwilling they were to change tack once it started to become apparent that May was a liability.
There were so many cock ups, which could have been opportunities to reset the Maybot and try something new - the regal announcement she wouldn't debate with Jeremy Corbyn; the embarrassingly stagey stump speeches to party members; the robotic repetition of campaign slogans; the inability to think on her feet; the car crash interviews supposedly designed to show her normality (girls jobs and boys jobs, running through wheatfield...), and, of course, the U-turn on the Dementia Tax.
It's surely be an indication of how inbred Tory culture is that in 20 years as an MP nobody seemed to cotton on to how weird she is. She seemed normal to them.
As May became more strange, and the very opposite of strong and stable, Jeremy Corbyn seemed to hit his stride. I'll put my cards on the table and say that I wasn't a fan of him becoming a leader. I didn't rush to join the Labour Party to support him or any other candidate, so this is a purely personal opinion.
His appeal, to me, seemed to be to a group of people who were involved in fantasy politics, and more interested in some form of unrealistic ideological purity than the hard and dull business of winning and exercising power. Having lived through the 80s when it seemed as if Thatcher would never be usurped, my political inclinations are towards the need to compromise and devise realistic policies that won't alienate those you need in the broad church needed to win power.
Mind you, that approach didn't help Ed Miliband, whose 2015 manifesto was so uninspiring it barely stood a chance. The monstering of the right wing press didn't help either.
So while Corbynistas got more and more excited about their man, I harrumphed on the sidelines, much like most of the PLP.
But as the election campaign went on, Corbyn's appeal became more apparent against the strangeness of Theresa May. While she walked around empty factories where Tory supporters were bussed in after the real staff went home, he spoke to people wherever he found them. Both spoke to the converted, but his crowds were bigger, more enthusiastic, and made up of normal people. A lot of the content from Corbyn was old time religion for the Labour tribe, but people lapped it up, and not just party members. While she became more stilted as the campaign went on, Corbs started to find his Mojo, and although he wasn't on the cover of that particular magazine, he made it on to the front of Kerrang! and NME. He sounded normal and like the avuncular, chap that his people had spoken about, whether making self deprecating gags about his allotment, or waxing lyrical about Arsenal to a couple of fans, who obviously thought this old dude was alright.
In some ways, I think Corbyn benefited from having steered clear, or been avoided by, the mainstream media. Lots of people knew little about him, so when his profile began to build, it didn't tally with the increasingly foam flecked efforts of the Hate Mail and S*n to monster him. People liked him.
All of which was all very well, but having awoken enough over the past couple of years to news that your side really wasn't winning, I was cool on Labour's prospects, even as the chaotic opinion polls seemed to show that it was cutting into a Tory lead that had been more than 20% at one point. It could all still change on polling day. Predictions seemed meaningless - anything from Labour dropping to a rump of 150 seats of less, to doing... quite well. Anything seemed possible.
To be honest, I started out not caring about this election. I was angry, and still am angry, about the referendum, which to my mind is a piece of national self harm. I was angry about the people who voted for it and who continue to defend it. And I was angry at the Tories, for... well, reasons.
I was also angry at Corbyn's Labour Party for not getting its act together, and for turning into a kind of self-righteous cult that seemed to have no real interest in gaining power. Everything seemed such a foregone conclusion, what was the point?
But it started to change as the campaign progressed. I don't think that's been unusual. In my constituency, I decided that I was going to vote for the Lib Dem candidate, and four-time election winner in Colchester, Sir Bob Russell. It was a tactical vote. It seemed to be more important to try and limit the inevitable Tory landslide where I could, than vote for a party that I had always voted for.
As the weeks went on, my opinion shifted. There has been a real energy among the Labour people in the town and lots of activity. A poll claimed that Labour had overtaken the Lib Dems - no one was sure how robust it was, so I was still undecided. It didn't even seem to matter that much, as I was convinced that the local Tory candidate would be a shoo in.
In the end I decided as I got on my bike to cycle to the polling booth. My neighbour, who was displaying Labour posters in his window was in his garden and I stopped to chat to find out what he thought was the real state of play in the town. He had been unenthusiastic about Corbyn, but spoke passionately about the people in the local Labour team and how there did seem to be Labour surge in the town, and in the region (well done Ipswich). He thought that Labour had overtaken the Lib Dems, and pointed out that in a growing town like Colchester, who knew what could happen in the years ahead with young people and families making their homes here.
His enthusiasm got to me. He kind of told me what I wanted to hear, so I did vote for Labour candidate Tim Young. He didn't win, but he did come second, and he more than doubled the Labour vote so that they are now near enough to make the Tories sweat. Who knows what could happen next time?
Last night, Charlotte and I sat up doing the Guardian Weekend quiz - we are such cliches - not bothered about turning over to see the exit poll in real time. I wanted to know, but didn't expect much, so the prediction - now fact - that Labour had eaten into the Tories lead, and prevented a Tory majority was gratifying.
As we tuned in, John McDonnell was telling Dimbleby that the Tories had run a campaign based on nastiness and dragging politics into the gutter, much to Michael Fallon's surprise - he obviously thought they were still at the polite chit chat stage of proceedings. That made me laugh, and the prediction made me take a sharp intake of breath.
All day, people like me have had a spring in their step. There were conspiratorial grins from fellow 'saboteurs' on the school run. My neighbour was practically bouncing round the garden as he deadheaded his roses.
Tomorrow there will be a bit of sober reflection. Labour did come second after all. There's a lot that is unclear. Brexit still beckons and there could be another general election before the end of the year. The Tories can't run a campaign as bad as that again, can they?
For tonight though, I'm going to put that to one side, have a beer and feel a bit better. People have voted for hope and an alternative to the Tories offer of more of the same and a seventh year, and counting, of austerity. And in case I haven't made it clear, I have to say that I was obviously wrong about Jeremy Corbyn. The boy done good.

Be kind

Having lived in England for more than 30 years, I still remember how cold the winters could get in Scotland. There was onein the Seventies where our little council estate on the moors was effectively ice bound. The roads were hard packed snow, which made driving on them impossible in today's terms.
The village had a lot of elderly people who couldn't venture out beyond their doorstep. Even the bus that connected the village with the nearest town, Lanark, was not able to get to us.
I was young at the time, but I have a very clear memory of that particular winter. My dad, who worked shifts in a factory in another village, obviously had a sense that something had to be done. He knew that the old folk of the village needed a bit of looking after. He drove his Vauxhall Viva to the local shops and filled the boot with bread, driving round the village and looking in on the auld yins to see if they were alright and if they'd prefer a loaf of pan or plain.
It popped into my mind this evening.
It has not been a particularly good day for progressive parties with the Tories rampant in the local elections and looking to be similarly so in next month's general election.
I don't think there's much I can do about that. The die is cast. From my perspective it will be an awful result, but as a good democrat, I can do nothing more than accept the will of the people... the bastards!
To me, it doesn't seem like we're heading to a good place. Brexit doesn't look like a sunny uplands to me. As a country, I reckon that we'll end up a diminished, more insular, and more insignificant entity. We'll probably not even notice, like the frog being boiled.
But it doesn't matter what I think. The people have spoken and, knowing the pig-headed nature of the Brits, people aren't going to back down now and say that they've made a mistake. We're on a railroad that leads over a cliff/heading for
a prosperous future as a globally facing, strong and stable country (delete as appropriate).
I think we're on a road that will see a lot of people hurting, and there's no quick turnaround. The May Queen will have five years to do pretty much what she likes. Who will stop her? Ironically, the EU may yet be a partial saviour as the energy required to Brexit will distract the Tories from pulling the roof in (spoiler alert - the UK won't be able to do exactly as it wishes in globally connected economy. This isn't the 17th century. The future may not be so glorious).
I think that the May years will be seen as a time when many will feel that their dreams have been thwarted, when we all retrench a bit, and the world starts to feel a bit more scary.
I hope I'm wrong, but the past few years have seen people electing to go down roads that seems further and further away from an idea of community, whatever that means - all in it together, or pulling up the drawbridge.
My idea of community is quite old fashioned and simple. It's my dad with his boot of bread going round, knocking on doors and seeing if people are okay. Community minded action like that wasn't unusual, but it wasn't the be all and end all. The council provided our houses, the kids all went to the local school, and there was one NHS doctor in the village. People valued those services because their parents remembered the time when they didn't exist.
Maybe I'm catastrophising and all will be well. But I have no faith in Tess May's Tories, and I don't think that an alternative is around the corner. I think that Britain, England really, will stew in its juice for a good long time, and people will suffer.
We could agitate, educate, organise... and we must. But we must also be kind. That's what I'll be trying to do over the next five years. I would anyway. It's how I was brought up. Now it seems more essential than ever.

Anyone can write a children's book

I suppose there are worse people to write a book for children than George Galloway. As far as I know Margaret Thatcher never troubled the world with her thinly disguised views on how children should behave. She was too busy explicitly telling grown adults how they should follow the upright path trodden by Alderman Roberts. Of course, there is a revisionist view...

The one time Labour and Respect MP is to write a series of books about an ethical pirate described as a sort of Robin Hood of the high seas. No rum swigging or libidinous behaviour it seems - well, it is for children. Maybe I'm being unfair on Galloway. The old goat has four children under ten, so he's probably already tried out some of his material on them and may be on to a winner.

Mind you, they're not always the best audience. My eldest son used to inveigle me to repeatedly tell a story I made up about a jobsworth parking warden trying to ticket a Martian's flying saucer. He thought it was brilliant. I doubt the rest of the world would have agreed.

Then again, if I had a higher profile, it wouldn't really matter. Do children's publishers fall for the amazingly creative stories that celebrity writers bring to their doors, or simply see them as a more marketable commodity? Whatever else they have, these writers have a level of awareness with the public that will open doors when the book comes out, no matter the quality.

There seems to be a feeling that anybody can write a children's book. Sarah Ferguson, David Walliams, Ricky Gervaise, Russell Brand, Frank Lampard, Katie Price, Madonna, Keith Richards...
actually there are loads of them.

We're all supposed to have a book in us. What convinces so many that it's one for kids? Not all celebrity writers have children of their own and not all of them need the money, although the well off never seem happy with their financial lot. Could it be that it's just a bit easier than writing other books?

I think it is. There are fewer words and more of the heavy lifting is done by talented illustrators who probably don't get a 50:50 split. Thematically and stylistically, it's usually not to difficult to spot an inspiration - a Dahl here, a Dr Seuss there. It's all a bit cosy and obvious. There isn't too much evidence of taking on tough themes or of being especially creative.

"Where's your book, you hater?" I hear you ask. Good question. I have written books, but none for children. I don't think I'm imaginative enough. I could hack out a genre kids' book I'm sure - tales of derring do for boys, whimsical escapism for younger children - but would it be any good? Good enough for home consumption, but for a wider market? Probably not.

Not that it stops the new celeb literati. Do they actually even write them? We know from the examples of Zoella and Naomi Campbell that it ain't necessarily so. It's all about the brand. Never mind the quality, buy the lunch box, T-shirt or action figurine.

Great children's books inevitably achieve an enviable merchandising afterlife these days, but that wasn't the original inspiration for Roald Dahl or Judith Kerr or Eric Carle or Lauren Child. They wrote because they had to - to get something out of themselves or to make a living. It wasn't a nice little extra to add to their portfolio of interests, and they probably didn't expect that they would command an audience by right. That's a difference.

Anyway, good luck with that George!

Sporting life

I was listening to Katherine Grainger on Desert Island Discs this week. She probably weighs her Olympic and World medals rather than counts them. Not many of us will ever reach those sorts of heights in sport.
However, we all have our own little golden moments. Today, my son had his first when he entered a cyclocross event organised through his school. Cyclocross is a bit like cross country on bikes. I wasn't even aware it was a thing until last summer when I was doing my homework on road bikes and nearly ended up buying one because it looked so lovely, not realising it was configured for a particular kind of cycling.

Mud, sweat and gears

For the uninitiated, like me, the bikes have off road tyres for better grip, wider forks to accommodate these tyres, more clearance for the pedals, and often disc brakes for better braking.
Anyway, the school wanted to put in a team and I volunteered the lad, who has been on a couple of training session over the past couple of weekends. It was just enough to give him an idea of what it would be like racing over rough terrain and to be a bit more prepared.
Today we headed to Haverhill where the event was held at a local school. The venue led me to believe it would be a few laps round a fairly flat field, but it was quite a bit more challenging than that - rather hilly, windy and muddy. A lot more muddy than we'd practised in.
Jamie had a couple of familiarisation laps, which got him blowing hard, especially as he was pedalling a heavy old mountain bike compared to the sleek cyclocross beasts that a lot of the kids had - complete with cleats (gulp).
His year group was first off. It was only 10 minutes, but it was high impact stuff and the kids were really going for it. I thought he'd manage a couple of laps in that time - the course was probably about a kilometre I guess, but a sneaky little km it was - but he managed three, which was a great effort. All of the kids did really well, and looked thoroughly puffed at the end, and pretty filthy.
I was really proud of him because he gave it a good go and never gave up. That's all you can ask really. Of course, I was quite chuffed that he did reasonably well too - not as well as the more experienced kids on better bikes, but probably better than he thought he would do. It was definitely outside of his comfort zone, and according to his mum he was a bit nervous about it beforehand.
I think I'd freaked him out by trying to give him tactical advice over the past few days - like I know anything! He can be a bit of a worrier when it comes to new experiences, and I obviously hadn't helped. This morning I told him that it was no big deal, not to worry and to just enjoy it.

Retire the 12!

He did enjoy it. I think he really enjoyed it, and that was enough for me, to be honest.
We hung around to watch the other races and see who had won, not really expecting anything. His age group was up first, and the announcer went through the medals in reverse order. They didn't get bronze, which I thought might have been as well as they'd do, and obviously didn't get silver. Hey ho.
They only bloody won it! GOLD!
I didn't see that coming. Cue lots of applause, cheesy grins, hugging and celebratory pictures.
Afterwards he said: "That's the first time I've won anything."
That's not strictly true. He's won competitions, school sports races, and has earned badges at Beavers and Cubs. That's not a brag. At this age, there are lots of things that kids can enter and lots of opportunities to earn and win things.
"But this is the first time I've won a medal," he said.
I don't know why that should have surprise me. I've never been especially competitive myself, but remember clearly a couple of times that I had a little success in sport as a child. I was part of our primary school's 4 x 100m relay team that won a regional competition at Carluke Sports Stadium when I was about 12. It was the first time I'd ever run on a proper track. I was the second leg of a team that included John Hamilton, William Whitelaw and somebody else, lost in the annals of South Lanarkshire athletics history

He medalled

We were a very small school, and that was probably my first medal - presented on a podium beside the track. I think the school may have won the overall cup too. I've got a vague memory of our janitor, come trainer Archie McKellar, holding a cup aloft at the end of the day.
Does anybody else remember this? I doubt it. And as for the unexpected inaugural Rigside gala day five a side competition (real Roy of the Rovers stuff from a team stuffed with the 13-year-old equivalents of journeymen, against the village fancy Dans), I doubt anybody else recalls that. I wish I still had the trophy to be sure that my memory isn't playing tricks.

My son has his shiny piece of metal on a ribbon, but he'll also have pictures to remember it, and a Facebook trail of congratulations that is lengthening as I write this.
He'll remember this. I'm sure he will.