Are you ready to die? That might sound a trifle maudlin, but it’s an important question. I don’t mean “would you like to die?”. I guess there are not too many people in that category. But with thousands of people dying prematurely, some very prematurely, thanks to Covid 19, it’s a pertinent inquiry. There are so many aspects to being “ready”. For instance, have you written a will? Is it up to date? Have you tidied up your affairs; all those outstanding little things that you’ve been meaning to do and would be a right pain in the arse for your loved one to resolve? Have you told your partner about all your investments and secret little stashes of gold that he/she may not be aware of? Have you got rid of all those old love letters from previous boy/girlfriends that you kept for sentimental reasons that your partner might find rather distressing as they go through your belongings?

Equally or perhaps even more importantly, are you ready psychologically? Have you said all the things you wanted to say to your partner and children and other friends and loved ones. Or will you be lying there in intensive care thinking “bugger, I meant to tell old Henry how much I’ve cherished his love and friendship all these years and never told him”? Hopefully, even if you do catch Covid, it will be mild and you will live to fight another day or three; but…..

Then there’s the equally important issue of “have you done everything you wanted to in life?” Have you sailed the seven seas, climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, bungee jumped in New Zealand, rowed single-handed across the Atlantic, swum The Channel, got your private pilot’s licence, jumped from 12,000 feet….preferably with a parachute on, hell-skied in the Canadian Rockies, played on the Old Course at St Andrews, shot rapids in the Grand Canyon, played on the lawns at Wimbledon, learnt to paint, or play the piano or trumpet or sax. Are there any achievable ambitions left? If not, I reckon you’re ready to depart this mortal coil; assuming of course that you’ve met all the other requirements too!

I confess I can tick a number of items on the above lists, but there are far too many unresolved issues. The more inquisitive amongst you might be interested to know what those are? Tough!

The most pressing thing right now, in this hellish corona incarceration, is to keep my children happy by going to the local astro to play two on two hockey. In our three previous matches so far the boys have reigned supreme, despite Mummy being the fittest player on the park….and me the least.

By the way, how long is it to Easter? For the uninitiated Easter comes at the end of Lent….a significant date.

I confess I have transgressed. Whilst attempting to maintain my social distancing I may have been anti-social. The problem is that I have always adhered to the belief that Rules are made for the obedience of fools and the guidance of wise men. Perhaps somewhat arrogantly I prefer to consider myself in the latter group, hence my reluctance to follow the herd. I was permanently ‘gated’ (confined to the Boarding House with many mundane duties to perform) at school because the rules dictated no hands in your pockets as a fifth former. Why? One hand in a pocket for sixth formers, with only prefects allowed to have two hands in their pockets. Needless to say I wore holes in both my pockets. Anyway, I digress. Boris the Bountiful has declared that we should all become housebound for the foreseeable future, with very limited excursions to the few open shops and one outing a day for exercise. That all makes perfect sense and, as someone who will probably suffer quite badly if I get the dreaded Covid, I have been fastidious in complying with his edicts. Well almost.

We listened to a government spokesman on BBC TV yesterday conceding that there is a big difference between living in the city and the countryside. He accepted that if you can walk on hillsides uncluttered by two-legged creatures, or ramble through wooded thickets with squirrels and deer for companions, the strict rules applicable to city-dwellers aren’t really appropriate. However, in a magnificent feat of “me-tooism”, The Forestry Commission has unilaterally decided to close all its beautiful forests. Places that, in many cases, are some of the most remote in Britain.

Almost everyday we walk Callie (the whippet) at Butchershole in nearby Friston Forest, owned and managed , needless to say, by Forestry England, part of The Commission. But today we were confronted by barriers and locked gates, barring entry to the car park. With hands in both pockets, I was not to be deterred by such insane political correctness. We, along with a few others, parked on the roadside and did our normal five mile stroll through blossoming beech woods and rolling pastures, with barely a sight of human life and certainly nothing within a hundred yards. In what threatens to be a very testing few weeks or even months to come, such exercise is vital for the health of mind and body, not  to mention our four legged friend.

Without question it is far more dangerous to go to the launderette, hardware store,  supermarket or chemist; all legitimate activities. However, it was almost inevitable that this should happen. Having parked the car on the roadside, less safe than in the designated car park, a great big flashy gas-guzzling Range Rover pulled up alongside, driven by a tweed encased ‘county’ lady, who politely informed us that the Forest is closed. Was she from the Commission, I inquired, a police officer perhaps? No, no, “I’m a local resident, just trying to help”. I was in the process of rolling up my sleeves and preparing for a right royal set to when she was forced to move on by approaching traffic Shame. I, possibly more than most, will go out of my way to avoid catching this wretched disease, let alone be responsible for passing it on. But I will also use my brain to survive this incarceration as best I can. The stupid thing about this ridiculous closure is that it forces more people onto the already busy seafront promenade or the equally cluttered Downs. Unfortunately, there have been so many fools all around the Country for whom rules and their strict observance, really are necessary.

I have emailed Forestry England and my local MP in a probably vain attempt to seek a re-think and change of heart. For the time being we will continue to flout the rules and hope that officialdom has more important things to worry about. As for Mrs Tweedy, what I really wanted to do was ask her about the damage her (supposedly cross country) diesel limo is doing to the environment; but she had gone.

So you see once again I have been a bad boy. Feels just like old times, spending most of the day ‘gated’.

 

2B4

Is ugly but utilitarian better than beautiful but impractical? Not a deeply philosophical question I realise, but I was just contemplating such inconsequencialities as I unloaded our dishwasher. Ages ago, we inherited a truly ugly set of ‘oven to table’ Wedgewood ‘Quince’ crockery from mother in law. (Do please look it up to savour its full ghastliness) My initial instinct was that it would be really useful for bbq’s, when we wouldn’t mind if it got broken, but it would only be used day to day over my dead body. As you will gather, I am still alive and we have been using it everyday for a couple of years now. The trouble is it is so dastardly practical and almost bulletproof. I have learnt to look past its hideousness under the overburdening weight of practicality. My arty sister would never allow such aesthetic philistinery. For her, beauty, chic and élan would always be the governing factor and she may well be right, who’s to say?

So the threatened draconian measures are now to be implemented, with Boris’s latest edict. Basically the Nation of Shopkeepers is to become a Nation of Home Lovers. Social interaction is forbidden for the foreseeable future. I feel rather blessed in that I have a lovely wife and two reasonably fit, healthy and occasionally lovely children. We four, we happy four, we band of brothers, expect not to be shedding blood at Agincourt, but will, no doubt, become somewhat more familiar with the world of the Noble Bard, amongst many other worthy scribes. How many new board games will be devised this Spring and Summer? How many ingenious new Apps will assault our senses as clever people find ever more extreme ways to earn a buck? Already daughter Tiggy has shown a remarkable improvement on the tennis court. It seems that after a traumatic growth spurt her body is catching up with itself, so that once again she is looking a coordinated and agile athlete. Admittedly she is feeling incredibly stiff after her first morning with Jo Wicks doing a “HIT” with which her body is seriously unfamiliar, but with perseverance the effects will be marked. Who knows, she may even be persuaded to practise her trumpet daily (well actually it’s mine but on permanent loan to her in the hope that she may one day challenge Alison Balsam for the right to entertain Royal Albert Hall audiences), although the new braces (teeth, not trouser supports) make it a little uncomfortable. Mrs T is threatening to reacquaint herself with her largely ignored sax, (that’s SAX) which raises the intriguing possibility of a Tutt family jam. Unfortunately son Oliver has yet to discover his musical talent and Tiggy and I can’t play my trumpet at the same time. If the truth be told I can’t play it anyway! Somehow, the communication cable between brain and lips seems to have corroded over time. I could occasionally deliver a passing resemblance to “Wonderful World” but never looked likely to overtake King Louis in the Jazz charts.

The good news is that we have the basis of a very nice garden. For two years I have been slowly stripping out the overgrown jungle that we inherited, applying copious quantities of round-up to exterminate every living thing in sight and generally preparing the ground for the Genesis that is hopefully about to happen. With Mrs T’s green fingered support (now available with School an empty carcass) it’s possible that the grounds of Watt House will once again be fit for garden parties, barbecues and other such revelries…..once, of course, the dreadful “Virus” has been beaten back.

For Harry, England and St George.

 

2B4

 

Whilst admiring the profusion of petals that adorn the line of cherry and almond trees opposite our house I was deafened by the call of a mocking bird. Well actually it was a blue tit (I think, although it may have been a great tit, my bust recognition isn’t that good), but it’s call was so shrill it felt as though it was mocking me. What an extraordinary lung to weight ratio it has. You could hear the repetitive tweeting a hundred yards away. That is lung power the best parade ground sergeant majors would be proud of.

As we all withdraw into our brick and mortar shells, terrified of China’s latest germ warfare, such wonders of nature will no doubt become ever more meaningful and perhaps even interesting. As each day goes by the dreadful impact of this global shutdown becomes increasingly apparent. It seems there will be very few people who won’t be disadvantaged financially, many to a critical stage. There will be some winners too though. Purveyors of essential foodstuffs are laughing all the way to the bank. My local Tesco Express (that always makes me laugh, especially now, when the queues are twice as long) told me they did twice their normal business yesterday. Another little local deli, that’s tucked away in a small parade of shops, is run by an Old Eastbournian and his Polish wife. It’s delightfully old-fashioned with tables outside, groaning under the weight of all sorts of fresh fruit and vegetables that you bag up yourself. It’s small but incredibly well stocked and suddenly they are doing a roaring trade. Rather charmingly, they wish they weren’t as they feel it’s at other people’s expense. I have a feeling though that they, like plenty of others, may find there’s a lasting spin off from this, once Coronavirus is but a distant memory, whenever that might be. I even acquired some much needed loo rolls there yesterday. Back to just reading The Times now.

My wife suggested that the manufacturers of bidets and bathroom hoses should also see a spike in business. I’m amazed the Greens haven’t got onto this much earlier. It’s so much more hygienic and only requires water, which hasn’t exactly been in short supply recently. Imagine how many trees could be saved. Mind you the paper mills would then go out of business, so they would need Government support. There are no easy answers here.

I have just observed a lone magpie in the garden. Another arrow in the sadness chart. Thankfully Callie (the whippet) didn’t see it or she would’ve tried to go through the glass door before we’d opened it. Birds of all descriptions are purely on this earth for her to chase. Despite her Bolt-like speed she has yet to bring one down. That’s all good, clean fun, unlike the fox hunt. Sadly the lovely little furry creatures are back in town in some strength and they really do wind Callie up. It’s only a matter of time……

 

2B4

 

It was only when I came to write this that I realised today is Friday 13th. Now, at 9pm, there is not too much opportunity for things to go disastrously wrong. I hope I am not tempting fate too much.

Experts. They are featuring in every news story these troubled days. Not long ago they were vilified and ridiculed over the whole Brexit debate. Now, like a Federal Reserve, they are the crutch upon which politicians lean somewhat heavily, apparently because they know best, but also cynically, perhaps, because our elected representatives then have someone else to blame when it all goes wrong.

I guess most of us are experts to a greater or lesser extent in some field or another. I perfected underwater clay-pigeon shooting as a youngster and am now working on artistic archery, where you use arrows to paint a picture on the target. It’s a bit like painting by numbers although a little more creative and it needs the skill of Robin Hood to achieve the desired result. Would I lie to you?

It does tickle my sense of irony that at the same time as scientific experts are being lauded for their genius vis á vis the Coronavirus pandemic, the brilliant men who came up with the idea of Smart Motorways are being made to look rather stupid, with the Government allocating £800 million to put things right. I recall writing in an earlier blog about how it seemed utterly daft to create motorways with no safety lane, so that breaking down becomes a game of chicken with sixteen wheel juggernauts looming down on you at 70 mph and quite possibly nowhere to go. Thirty two people have died in such circumstances in the last five years. When “experts” flout the laws of common sense, it can only end in tears.

I had the pleasure of watching daughter Tiggy representing her school in the IAPS netball tournament today. They did well to qualify second in their pool, which meant a quarter final against Vine Hall, against whom they lost convincingly in a recent School match. They were quickly 3-0 up and led all the way until near the end, when Vine Hall scored an equaliser that meant extra time. A win would’ve been rewarded with a trip to the National Finals next week, but VH proved just too good. Shame. This last term I have watched more netball than I have in the previous sixty seven years put together. Nothing I’ve seen has changed my mind. It’s not a patch on underwater clay-pigeon shooting.

Right, time to go and juice the celery. I’m still dry by the way. Got this abstinence thing cracked………

And so another week has flown by……where went it? Today’s mental meanderings will encompass grammar, spelling and all things vaguely English. See how many awful errors you can spot.

One of my personal bête noirs is how “defeat” has been mangled by a generation of sports broadcasters to the extent that few people now seem to know what’s right and what isn’t. As a marginally younger chap, you were defeated BY somebody and lost TO the enemy. All too frequently now you hear “Manchester United’s defeat TO Liverpool 3-0 etc”, when it should either be “defeat by” or “loss to”.  If you think I’m wrong, then you’ve already been subverted by the ignorant! When I worked in the BBC Sportsroom back in the 1980s we were constantly being upbraided if our grammar and use of English dropped below the perfectly correct. Sadly I fear that nowadays the people in charge don’t know what’s right and wrong so what hope is there for the up and coming youngsters with stars in their eyes?

Alison (my wife), who teaches English at Eastbourne College, in addition to running a girls’ Day House, is constantly battling ignorance of the basics and not just amongst the pupils. There is a generation of people who were “educated” in the 80’s and 90’s, who simply weren’t taught grammar. It is now a self-perpetuating slide into mediocrity, encouraged yet further by a steady stream of illiterate nonsense promulgated by broadcasters across the board. Does it matter? Language is supposed to be a constantly evolving art form which reflects the time we live in. With the inexorable rise of social media there is a whole new language and lexicon now of which I am, for the most part, blissfully unaware. Hardly a day goes by when I don’t hear a new word that has only recently been invented. I reckon I’m too long in the tooth now to keep up with that, but I do take pride in being able to speak and write properly. I also enjoy learning new words that have been around for aeons. I managed to get a Times Crossword clue right yesterday (rectitude) without really being sure what it means. I am now sure. Personally, I do think it matters and I think it’s important that our great institutes of learning continue to think that it matters. The ability to speak and write properly still matters to many employers and provides an instant guide to an individual’s education. In the same way that the reverse also applies. It certainly matters for first impressions and quite often that’s all the time you get.

I fear that all got rather heavy….unlike the gluten free brownie that I have very naughtily just consumed at Barley Sugar. It was sensationally delicious and almost demands further sampling………….

 

2B4

My apologies for too long a gap, I have been roaming the British Countryside like a lost Romany on speed and rather neglected my laptop. Driving, normally such a pleasure, has been trying. Imagine the most efficient shower you have ever had. Then imagine standing underneath it for four hours continuously. The shower is the super fancy spa type with jets running from floor to ceiling, to ensure every part of your body is titillated and cleansed. That’s what driving has been like these part few days, with the gods ensuring there is absolutely no chance of wildfires in Wessex for the next year or more. Not that Wessex is renowned for such conflagrations at the best of times.

I was discussing my Lentern abstinence with a friend the other day and she confessed that having gone alcohol-free in January she had developed a new relationship with the demon drink. I don’t think I’ve ever had a relationship with booze, but nonetheless I shall be interested to see what happens at Easter after forty days of water.

Hopefully I won’t make the mistake that I did as a fifteen year old. A group of us ne’er-do-wells had purloined a bottle of Harveys finest Bristol Cream. I had never drunk sherry before and, having a rather sweet tooth, I found it so delicious that I consumed most of the bottle in one sitting. Not too long after, back in my boarding house, I deposited the contents of my stomach all over the floor and walls, caught out by the abruptness of the reaction. My poor Housemaster, who was unfortunately on hand to witness the event, suggested that I had been drinking! “Who me Sir! Oh no Sir, definitely not Sir!”; a somewhat brazen denial considering that the whole place, including me, stank of alcohol. I do believe that it’s quite important to have these experiences to learn the lessons of life the hard way. Unfortunately, I must, even then, have suffered with a poor short term memory because it seemed to happen again and again at not infrequent intervals throughout my teens and early twenties. It won’t be too long no doubt before my son is caught up in such irresponsible behaviour and I will no doubt scold him as if I sit on the right hand of God.

It’s interesting that sports organisations are now banning hand-shaking, in an attempt to limit the spread of Covid 19 or 17 or whatever number it is. I watched Master Oliver in a needle County Cup semi-final hockey match versus Ardingly yesterday. Played in absolutely foul conditions Eastbourne College held a slender 1-0 lead. With only seconds to go, Ardingly equalised and the match then had to be decided on penalty flicks. Already 3-1 down the issue was decided when poor Oliver completely miscued and watched the ball dribble towards the goalkeeper for the easiest of saves. The Ardingly boys then ran round the pitch squealing and hollering like demented dervishes before, football style, hurling themselves in a heap on the ground in a most unedifying spectacle of poor sportsmanship and in the process creating the perfect conditions for transmission of viruses. Still, they then declined to shake hands with the defeated College boys, so that was ok! It was all particularly galling because Oliver’s team had played the better hockey and really deserved to win. How often sport fails to reward the just though.

Finally today has dawned bright and sunny. It’s enough to put a smile back on one’s face.

 

Ash Wednesday. The modern incarnation of an apocryphal day in the dim and distant, when Jesus started his forty day vigil in the wild, to be tempted and yet undefiled. God 3- Satan 0. So we head into Lent with a big ask. There are certainly going to be more than three temptations and it’s a racing certainty that Satan is going to score a few; in my case anyway. I’ve never been a great believer in giving things up for Lent. Either you choose some meaningless thing, in which case its meaningless, or you go for the biggie like “chocolate” or “alcohol” and ruin your own life and everyone else’s around you. However, for the sake of my health predominantly, this year alcohol has been taken off the menu until Easter at least. With two open bottles of red, one of white, a half drunk half bottle of delicious pudding wine and a decanter of rather special, recently decanted, vintage port there is no shortage of temptation. Having spent much of my youth in close association with JC, I have sadly lapsed on the devotion front, so can’t expect any help from him in the Luciferian conflict to come. I am confident of success, but conscious that pride comes before a fall. All I can say is that I will report honestly.

It’s now Friday and my apologies for allowing external distractions to hinder completion on the correct day. The good news is that my anti-alcohol resolve is hardening and thus far, not a drop has passed my lips. I reckon with any addiction it’s always the first few days that are the hardest. I’ll try to avoid getting too sanctimonious!

Are we on the verge of a flu pandemic and resultant global recession? I have a horrible feeling the answer is “yes” and “yes”. As I write, the markets are distinctly twitchy with billions of dollars being wiped off stock markets around the world. We’ve lived in this cloud-cuckoo land since the 2008 Financial Crisis where central banks have printed trillions of dollars to prop up markets, creating the belief amongst so many that everything in the garden will stay rosy for ever. Those who lived through the many industrial and financial crises of the 1970’s will know that sooner or later all those multifarious little chickens will come home to roost. Maybe this is the moment. Where is The Tardis when you need it. A quick peek into 2021 and beyond would be so handy right now. One could make a fortune. My bet is that this could herald the crash that many people have been predicting for years. Time, as ever, will tell.

Meanwhile, somewhat belatedly, I’m off to experiment with that very healthy pancake recipe. Now, where’s the maple syrup……

Should I raise my bat? Remove my helmet? Acknowledge the crowd? I feel there should be some recognition for reaching my hundredth blog. Maybe a quiet celebration with a small glass of some very special thirty five year old Taylor’s port that I have just decanted would be in order; except that I have given up alcohol! Having been diagnosed with an ectopic heartbeat (where it loses its rhythm, quite disconcerting) I’ve been advised to give up coffee (caffeine), alcohol and chocolate and cut back on dairy, especially cheese. She might as well have said sex as well and completely buried all life’s pleasures!

Whilst walking Callie (the whippet) along the promenade yesterday, we had one of those moments that could give you nightmares for life. The darling creature (female; spayed) has recently taken to humping any passing stranger that takes her fancy. Goodness knows why this embarrassing, but entirely natural, habit has suddenly overtaken her, but its consequences were nearly disastrous. Having chased and then mounted a mutt of similar stature and been forcibly removed by her cringing owners, she spotted another three rugrats who, most untypically, she took a fancy to. In trying to avoid her unwanted attention, one of these poor little mites ran helter skelter alongside the metal post and rail fencing that marks the boundary between the edge of the promenade and the pebble beach a good ten feet below. Then, as a last ditch evasion manouevre, she swerved sideways and was left teetering on the brink of a potentially fatal fall. How she avoided gravity’s downward pull I’m not sure, but thankfully she managed to scuttle off, with her owner oblivious to the life-threatening disaster that had so narrowly been avoided. A pleasant stroll in a thirty mile an hour wind could so easily have become a nightmare of hideous proportions.

It reminded me of an occasion many years ago when my very speedy and athletic yellow lab, Mogli, having just caught and killed a rabbit in the field, veered off on the way home into a neighbour’s garden to find their pet bunny loose on the lawn. Mogli wasn’t trained to differentiate between animals in the wild and pets that looked very like them and sadly, despite my sprinting to the rescue, poor Peter was already on his way to meet St Peter, if that’s where the cuddly creatures end up. Mrs Snow was incredibly kind about the demise of her daughter’s cute little plaything and suggested they’d been trying to get rid of it anyway. I felt a case of wine was the least I could do.

With Lent on our doorstep, it’s a good time to be giving up things so I guess that’s some consolation. I came across a cracking recipe for healthy pancakes today; 3 eggs, 3 bananas, half a cup of almond butter, (that’s quite a lot!), I tsp of cinnamon and toppings of choice….maple syrup in my case. Might try that tomorrow to kick Lent off in the right manner, as I retake my guard and go in search of a double hundred.

A Leader in today’s Times tells us that Britain’s gaols are fully to bursting. It is an immediate and pressing problem for which I have one or two solutions. Firstly, why not send anyone who has the coronavirus to an “isolation” ward in our most hard-pressed prisons? Hopefully the isolation won’t be too successful and the virus will spread like margarine throughout the facility, thereby helping to reduce the porridge population at a stroke. Too Mengelesque? Ok, try my second suggestion. Instead of sending petty pilferers, minor fraudsters, drug abusers etc to be incarcerated, abused, further debauched and generally “wasted”, why not re-introduce the stocks? A few weeks of public humiliation should be enough to persuade many of the transgressors to revert to the straight and narrow in future and if unsuccessful, there’s always the guillotine.

Judging by my children’s acute embarrassment at being “humiliated” by their parents in front of their friends, there is no more effective punishment than letting the public vent their anger and acerbic wit with a few well-aimed rotten eggs and tomatoes. I am at a loss, actually to know why the practice was ever stopped? The Promenade at Eastbourne would be a perfect place. On days like this, when the rain descends in buckets, the wind whips the white-tops into a steaming frenzy and the gargantuan waves, laced with pebbles, crash over the seawall, the punishment would take on even more uncomfortable aspects; a sort of unintended “stoning” thrown in. I can’t think why the local Justices haven’t already had some latter-day stocks installed.

What a troubled world we live in. While Australia burns, we drown and Dr WHO is about to declare a Pandemic that could potentially wipe out millions. Donald Trump is giving blondes a bad name, ably assisted by Boris, while Vlad is doing what all good dictators do and finding a new title that’ll see him through to the grave. The Sussexes will soon be the British Columbians, Randy Andy continues to interest the redtops, while its only a matter of time before Mo Farah is felled by those that were happy to put him on a pedestal in the first place. I have a nasty feeling that he is guilty until found innocent….

Not, of course, that he will be swelling the prison population.