I checked into my new home for a week, late last night. It is the Heritage Resorts Le Telfair in Mauritius where the AfrAsia Bank Mauritius Open starts on Thursday. One of the seemingly hundreds of “hosts” loitering in Reception, attended to my every need (well almost) with a steady stream of information about this luxury resort. He told me a few times that he would escort me to my suite. “How pretentious” I thought. Suites are where The Donald stays when he’s temporarily abandoned Trump Tower. Inconsequential golf commentators don’t stay in suites. Well; it turns out it is a suite. It’s got more shuttered windows than President Macron’s holiday Chateau. The enormous bedroom boasts a central four-poster that would have accommodated Henry VIII and at least two Katherines and an Anne, assuming they hadn’t lost their heads. There is a large verandah with cane chairs overlooking a waterway where indolent peddlers idly propel their pedalos and a most elegant sitting area that would allow me to entertain the whole of the TV Commentary team, if I felt so inclined. Which is unlikely. It is the bathroom, though, that caps the lot. Central in a spacious marble topped and elegantly tiled room is one of those enormous free-standing cast iron Victorian baths that Her Majesty could have wallowed in for hours; and I plan to later. The shower room alone is big enough to swing a cow or two, with a selection of powerful roses to cleanse sweaty bodies.

As I write, CNBC is showing pictures of huge snowstorms causing havoc in New York and President Trump arriving in London to celebrate the 70th Anniversary of the formation of Nato. For the second time this year The Donald will be dining at Buckingham Palace. You have to wonder what Her Majesty has done to merit such torture twice in quick succession? Relaxing on an Island paradise far out in the Indian Ocean, such matters seem light years away. However, it is my last week working for ETP (the company that produces all the pictures of the European Tour) after nearly thirty years, so I aim to take full advantage of the luxurious surroundings and enjoy every moment. The continued presence of Dale Hayes and Tony Johnstone will test one’s patience considerably, but you can’t have everything. Dougie Donnelly, last week’s lead commentator has returned to Chester. That’s his much loved dog, not where he lives. He’s been replaced by Dominic Holyer, who is tall, slender and handsome as all good TV presenters should be, with just a hint of silvery temples to add an air of distinction. He’s an avid skier and cyclist, which just about balances out the positives and negatives. I jest, cycling is great fun. Apparently.

A teenager had just gone past on a paddle board. Time to get some exercise.

I am beginning to wonder if I have psychic powers. There’s no question that here in Africa, they firmly believe that some people are endowed with mystical magic. Witch doctors still exist. You’ve just got to know what bones to rattle. Back home we more commonly ask “which doctor?”, or “Doctor Who?”.

In the recent Rugby World Cup, I was convinced that England would beat New Zealand. I was then equally and depressingly certain that South Africa would win the final. Last Thursday I woke up early and the first thought that came into my head was that Pablo Larrazabal was going to emerge triumphant on Sunday in The Alfred Dunhill Championship at Leopard Creek. He led by three shots going into the final round, but was suffering badly with blisters on his feet and many thought the winner would come from elsewhere. I remained convinced it was his turn, even after a shocking start. He made six bogeys and one double bogey, but incredibly, when he seemed down and out, he birdied three of the last four holes to win by one. Perhaps he is descended from Lazarus? While my crystal balls seem to be working quite well, there is certainly nothing crystal about Pablo’s! I saw him this morning in Johannesburg Airport, where he was whiling away the time with a massage to re-invigorate a tired body. One thing is for sure. Only St Peter will stop him from returning here again and again.

He was staying last week in Johann Rupert’s house within the hallowed sanctuary that is Leopard Creek. I use “house” in the loosest sense of the word, in the same way that Fraser has a House, although the only resemblance to a Department store at Johann’s place is that there are plenty of staff. Mr Rupert is otherwise known as Mr Big. As one of the richest men in South Africa his personal wealth is estimated in billions rather than millions, but nobody really knows for sure exactly the extent of his fortune, apart from presumably Johann and his accountant. He has his fingers in an extraordinary number of unrelated pies around the world and exercises considerable influence inside and outside South Africa. He has been a tremendous benefactor to golf here and further afield for many years and is incredibly generous in many, often unseen, ways. One thing he seems to treasure above almost anything else is loyalty and trustworthiness. It is those values that are missing in certain other parts of the golfing world and I know that he finds that an offence to the game. It is an area that I will be keeping my eye on, as it could get interesting.

Such is the bankrupt state of the World economy, including Europe, that Johann has reportedly borrowed four billion euros from a bank, or banks, in Europe, not because he needs the money but because he cannot afford not to! At near zero rates of interest (or even less) he knows he can invest that cash in his businesses and make a considerably greater return, before he has to pay it back. What a crazy world. He is of the opinion that Europe is finished in its current state. If Britain dithers over Brexit for much longer there might not be a Union to leave!

I forgot to mention that Mr Rupert owns Leopard Creek, lock, stock and two smoking barrels. He employed his friends Gary Player and Jack Nicklaus to lay out the course and then tweak it. Two years ago he decided that the Kikuyu grass was consuming too much water, so he took the whole thing back to bare earth and re-seeded it with Cynodon, a type of Bermuda grass, that means it uses forty three per cent less water to keep green and fertile. The course this year is in unbelievable condition and tested the skill of the players to the limit with its firmness and speed. It is a truly magical place. Unlike, I fear, my powers.

Although, as a postscript, I have just flown from Nelspruit/Kruger via Johannesburg to Mauritius. I had a very strong feeling that my golf clubs wouldn’t make the trip and I was right. My main bag did, but not without being broken into and rifled. The clubs……….?

If you ever have the urge, mentally and fiscally, to visit the Kruger National Park, there are not many better places to stay than Buhala Lodge, alongside the Crocodile River. Whilst breakfasting on the verandah there this morning, we watched a herd of about fifteen elephants plodding along the far bank four hundred metres away. The matriarch was shepherding her clan which consisted of a couple of teenagers and two tiny babies that were still in nappies. They were rolling around in the mud, trying to flatten each other, like any other young pups, while the veterans sucked up huge volumes of water to drink and to spray themselves with a cooling shower under the intense African sun. Earlier, I had enjoyed an outdoor shower within a couple of metres of the Park’s electric boundary fence soaking up the incredible views and a huge dollop of Vitamin D.

We first stayed at Buhala in 2007 when the charming hostess Sugar Rhodes and her ailing husband were still running it. A youthful Sugar had once been Miss Rhodesia and still retained a chic elegance into her seventies. The Lodge, however, looked rather more tired, but that has all changed since Sugar’s son Colin and his wife have taken over the reins. They have dug deep into their pockets to upgrade and enhance the place. It is now a really beautiful thatched, colonial style mansion with a wonderfully loyal staff, many of whom have been there for decades. Prices are more Savoy than Premier Inn, but if you have the wherewithal it is a truly magical experience. The peaceful ambience is somewhat shattered this week by the presence of Dale Hayes, a larger than life character who is to golf commentary what Frank Sinatra was to doting widows. He’s reminiscent of a bull elephant in must most of the time, unafraid to bulldoze anything in his path, but for some reason he is hugely popular amongst friends and fans alike. You can take comfort in the knowledge that as long as you avoid this one week of the year, the Lodge will not be afflicted by his presence. I got very excited this morning as I thought I had spotted an extremely rare albino hippo wallowing in the shallows, but in turned out to be Dale floating on his back. Dale’s partner in golfing crime, Denis Hutchinson, always says that Dale’s first thought in the morning is; “who can I screw up today?!”. He also says he wishes he had strangled him in the carry cot, but as they didn’t make Moses cradles big enough that wouldn’t have happened.

Others on the commentary team this week include Tony Johnstone who needs at least five donkeys before there will be one left with its hind legs on. He does though have the extensive wildlife knowledge to be able to recognise it is a donkey. Amongst the many gems that he produced in commentary today was the insight that crocodiles get through 3,000 teeth in a lifetime and giraffes have the same number of vertebrae as humans. (Although presumably rather larger!) Then there is Dougie Donnelly, who is to golf commentary what his friend Alex Ferguson was to Manchester United and not forgetting John Morgan who cannot stop talking about the thrill of mixing it with the beasts in the Kruger. I always thought his home city of Bristol had just as many, but obviously I am wrong. Former Sunshine Tour player Alan Michell makes up the team, who all enjoy throwing poisoned darts at each other, but we really are just good friends!

Hopefully we got through today without offending too many people, although nowadays it’s quite hard to open your mouth without somebody taking offence, especially in sensitive America. The sun is setting over Buhala as I write and all is well with the world.

P.S. If any of this has offended you, please contact my agent, Alison Hayes, at Zwartkop Golf Estate, who will be delighted to field your complaints.

 

 

 

There will be two unique innovations when the players set off in the first round of the Alfred Dunhill Championship at Leopard Creek in South Africa tomorrow, both of which are particularly significant, as the mercury is due to hit forty degrees celsius for the next few days. Allied with little breeze it is going to feel quite hot. The locals love to braai, but you could leave the boerewors out for a few hours in the middle of the day and there would be no need for charcoal to grill the bangers. With this in mind, the masterminds at  The European Tour have ruled that for the first time ever in competition the players may wear shorts. When  the American, Keith Pelley, took over as Chief Executive of The Tour a few years ago, one of his first actions was to allow players to wear shorts on practice days and in Pro-Ams. It was considered a step too far at that stage to allow it in competition. This is a one-off decision for the exceptional circumstances of this week, but it will be a major surprise if it doesn’t lead to a loosening of the strict sartorial rules.

The second innovation is that this will be the first sporting event in South Africa where there will be no plastic bottles on the site. Typically, there would be thousands of small bottles of water and Powerade etc supplied on virtually every hole for the players and at other outlets for the public. This week there will be water fountains everywhere and people will be expected to carry either glass or metal water bottles. When you read the stats about plastic, one is inclined to think “better late than never, but earlier would have been a heck of a lot better!”.

Apparently 8 million plastic water bottles are discarded worldwide every DAY. A plastic bottle takes 450 years to fully decompose. (Not sure who’s worked that one out!). Enough plastic is thrown away each year to encircle the earth four times. There is more micro plastic in the oceans than there are stars in the Milky Way. Scary stuff. No doubt we will still see a few plastic smiles out there, but at least the harmful stuff is banned. Players will have to quickly adapt, because in these temperatures dehydration is a very real threat and it can hit you quickly if you are not constantly taking on liquid. Unless you are a camel.

As I write, on the shaded deck of Buhala Game Lodge beside the Crocodile River, there are elephant, hippo, buck and rhino along the far bank. No camels spotted as yet, but we saw enough of those in the Dubai desert last week. The Bush is unusually and healthily green after three weeks of good rains. From April to late October there had been a grand total of four millimetres of precipitation. The place looked arid and barren. Animals, both wild and farmed, were dying in their thousands. It is truly astonishing how quickly water can revive and rejuvenate. Nature really is a wonderful thing when left to its own devices.

The sooner plastic, in all shapes and guises, is permanently banned worldwide, the better off we will all be. I am looking forward to being out in the sun all day, walking round the hilly course with a star group of players…..and my metal water bottle, which hopefully won’t get too hot to handle.

I have seen the Big Four today. Somewhat unusually it was the Buffalo that denied me the full set. They are normally in abundant supply. However, I am not complaining, it was a very special day that started at 04.30. Up with the lark (which Tony Johnstone later identified as the Monotonous Lark and how well named it is, after its repetitive call), I was ready and waiting at the appointed hour of 05.10 to meet the aforementioned Bushman and self-appointed ranger/wildlife expert for our sortie into the Kruger National Park. Tony, brought up in Rhodesia, used to be a professional golfer on the European Tour. If still playing golf he would have been docked at least a two shot penalty and possibly disqualified for his tardy timekeeping. It mattered not, after a short(ish) brush with bureaucracy we had all the necessary documentation, fees paid and boot searched for weapons to step back in time as we started our fantastic dawn commune with nature.

We had only been driving for five minutes when we saw a cluster of parked cars; always a sign of something interesting. This was better than interesting. It was a male and female lion lying down only feet from the road. Bushman Tony, or BT, (who incidentally really is a very impressive expert, especially on birds, his favourite subject) quickly realised that this was a mating pair. “Let’s just wait here and watch” he said. “They will be mating for a solid four days, with the male climbing aboard every twenty minutes throughout the day and night until he is totally exhausted”. Sure enough, after about ten minutes the female got up and started walking slowly away. Rather less slowly the shaggy topped male padded after her and before you could say “Leo”, he had mounted the dame, let out a spine-tingling roar and been cuffed by his mate for the privilege. BT explained that the male has a barbed penis rather like a bee sting and it hurts the female when he pulls out, hence the slap. What an exciting way to start the day, both for Leo and us. We moved on.

There were plenty of zebra, giraffe, warthogs, and elephants to be admired and photographed, but after our early big cat sighting I really wanted a leopard, the rarest of the Big Five. It was not too much longer before an opposing vehicle slowed to divulge the golden intelligence that he had just been watching the spotted predator up a tree half a mile back. BT engaged an illegal third gear and raced towards our target. Amazingly there was only one other car parked below a tree no more than fifteen metres from the road, where quietly snoring on an extended limb lay the most beautiful of lonely leopards. We admired the gorgeous lady, camera clicking like mad, for ten minutes before a sixth sense told her there were Impala in the area. Impala are a rather lovely small, light-tan coloured buck that are the most prolific of all Kruger’s beasts. They are nicknamed “MacDonalds” as they have black markings on their rumps that look remarkably like Ronald’s ubiquitous Golden Arches. It’s a most appropriate sobriquet as they are chased and eaten by every predator in the park. You see them everywhere and they have the permanent, nervous look of a pickpocket expecting to have his collar felt by the constabulary at any moment. Our (we rapidly came to think of this rare sighting as “ours”) leopard suddenly went from hibernation to full alert in a flash. She shifted and stirred continuously with totally unblinking big, round, yellowish eyes assessing her chances of brunch. We watched and waited for half an hour before those irritating open sided “safari” vehicles arrived with their chattering, excitable loads of generous tipping tourists. With no further action imminent, we retreated to a camp for a coffee and other essential things. (Unlike walking Callie the Whippet on the Sussex Downs, leaping out of the vehicle for relief behind a tree is strictly verboten in the Kruger. BT explained that a male lion can reach 60 mph in about three seconds from a standing start, with ten metre bounds. I was happy to retreat to Stalagluft 15 for the required ablutions.)

BT had been very reluctant to leave the Leopard, so I suggested we should return and see if she was still there. Approaching the lofty lair there wasn’t a car in sight so we feared she had probably moved on…….but wait! She had moved, but only to another branch. Unhindered by other voyeurs we clicked and clicked as the fancy Nikon recorded this extraordinary moment for posterity. From a slothful slumping, with two front and two rear legs hanging down either side of the branch, she shuffled around, slowly licking and washing herself, showing an impressive set of gnashers with enormously wide-mouthed yawns, while keeping a wary eye on any prospective fodder. Then she stood up, stretched, sat in an imperious fashion gazing out over her Kingdom and then, very slowly made her elegant way down the tree, to pad off into the Bush. She paused, cat-like, to sharpen her claws on a nearby tree before slinking off out of our view; the hunt had started.

Lion, Elephant and Leopard already ticked off and I was confident we might notch up the great rarity of spotting the Big Five in one visit to this most hauntingly beautiful of places. Of course, along the way we had spotted all sorts of beautiful raptors and other unidentified flying objects that BT the Ornithologist took great delight in putting names to and even getting quite excited as we spotted a few rather rare examples. I’d love to be able to tell you what they were, but it was such a fusillade of improbable and impossible names that my mind has gone blank.

It wasn’t long before we could add the Rhino to our list. They were all the now more common White rhino, which is so called, not because of its colour but because, unlike the more pointy mouthed Black version, it has a very square (or “wide”) jaw. Presumably “wide” became “white” at some point, though that doesn’t explain where “Black’ came from. I must remember to ask BT.

Ultimately, our day in the hills had come to an end at last, (with no sign of Julie Andrews) and we made our way jubilantly home to beautiful Buhala Lodge, without spotting a single bolshy Buffalo, but content in the knowledge we had seen all a man/woman/transgender/it could hope for on one visit.

Perhaps we should call BT, ET. It really was an extra-terrestrial experience and one to be treasured. Thank you Tony.

I knew I was in South Africa (and not Singapore, Germany, Switzerland or some other country that works) as soon as I got off the aeroplane and made the lengthy walk to immigration. There were five long travellators designed to assist passengers in the trek. Only two were working. (Leading to that deeply frustrating experience of stepping onto a moving walkway that isn’t.) As is the norm nowadays, huge advertising hordings plaster every centimetre of space. One dysfunctional travellator is sponsored by Standard Bank, with their slogan emblazoned in large letters along the side: “Move Forward”. I’d be asking for my money back.

For all its imperfections and strife I love South Africa. It’s a great country with lovely people, stunning scenery, an amazing climate and incredible natural resources. Because of the climate, it’s an outdoor country with fabulous sports facilities, including wonderful golf courses and then there’s the Bush. Paul Kruger, The President of The Transvaal or The Republic of South Africa (now the Province of Gauteng), showed enormous forethought and planning when he corralled an enormous tract of land into The Sabi Game Reserve at the end of the 19th Century, that formally became The Kruger National Park in 1926. It’s how much of Africa used to be; wild and rugged and full of beautiful, dangerous beasts roaming free. It was created to protect and preserve and it continues in that role today, with a massive ongoing battle to resist the ivory poachers who take enormous personal risks in killing rhinos for their horns to feed the ludicrously ill-informed and greedy markets in Asia.
Rangers are now legally allowed to shoot poachers and do.

South Africa is a troubled country with a shattered economy, awful crime and blackmail and corruption rife at the highest levels. It’s been teetering on the brink for years and seems to be tottering ever closer although the new President, Cyril Ramaphosa, is bravely doing his best to root out the corrupt and crooked. Many fear that civil war is almost inevitable. The issue is not so much a black/white divide as the battle between the different African tribes that still preserve their old traditions, customs and hatreds. President Mandela’s wonderful legacy is in real danger of floundering on the Cape of Little Hope. One can only pray that a growing black middle class will prevail and bring wealth, health and happiness back to this troubled land. It is still a majestic place to visit and holiday in and successes along the way, like the Rugby World Cup, gives everyone hope. Please God, or whoever is in charge at the moment, may the good men and women prevail.

One of the features of life in Johannesburg in Summer (i.e. now) is that most afternoons are spectacularly interrupted by violent thunderstorms. When I first came here in 1995 you could almost set your watch by them arriving at 4pm and gone within an hour or two. Whether it’s down to global warming I know not, but things are much less predictable now, although you can still be sure when one is coming your way! Jo’Burg is renowned as one of the lightning capitals of the world, with between ten and thirty people dying annually due to lightning strikes across the country, in the last few years. It has been as high as forty four. (According to National Geographic, two thousand people die worldwide every year from lightning strikes, although some estimates have it as high as six thousand).

On which cheery note, I’m off to play golf with my fourteen lightning attractors and the cumulo-nimbus already reaching high into the azure blue sky. Wish me luck.

Today is an historic day. This evening, the cast of Agatha Christie’s Mousetrap will be appearing on their West End stage for the 25,000th time. Well of course it’s not the same players that graced the playhouse on that first occasion back in 1952, but hopefully you get my drift. It’s had a continuous run in the West End since that first night on 18th November, sixty seven years ago. Isn’t that astonishing? You wouldn’t think there are enough people on the planet to keep it going that long.

I was one and a half when the curtain first went up on The Mousetrap. Sad to say, I’ve never even been to see it, shame on me. I would like to say that I remember the first night……mmmm. It is amazing what I do remember from a very early age though. I have clear memories of watching the Queen’s coronation as a two year old. We were in my grandfather’s house and I was surrounded by rather stern uncles and aunts with Victorian bearings watching a tiny oval shaped black and white screen in a cabinet in the corner. For the first two and a half years of my life we lived in a third storey flat and I can picture as clear as day sitting in my high chair at the table when a foot came through the ceiling. You can imagine that might make an impression on a two year old. I also remember standing in the entrance lobby with my father suffering from earache with cotton wool in my ear, wearing a sweet little Lord Fontleroy grey overcoat with a black velvet collar. There are other very distinct memories which I won’t go on about, but I think it’s quite unusual. Most people I have asked struggle to remember anything until they’re three or four. The bad news is that I obviously did all my remembering super-young and I now can’t remember my neighbour’s name or what it was Alison (my wife) wanted from the shops.

I’m off to South Africa tomorrow on a three week trip to Johannesburg firstly, then a wonderful golf course called Leopard Creek, overlooking the Kruger National, for the Dunhill Championship and finally on to Mauritius. My writing might become even more erratic than usual but I will endeavour to keep you appraised of the many and varied issues that will undoubtedly arise in that magnificent but troubled country.

Meanwhile I still have no idea what happens in The Mousetrap?

30 million. (The Tories) I’ll see your 30 and raise it. (The Libs Dems) I’ll see your 60 and make a decision based on the science. (Labour. That’s a really effective piece of electioneering). First it was the NHS, then Broadband, now it’s saving the planet. At first glance, electioneers touting for business based on how many million trees they will plant might seem somewhat perverse. How about housebuilding, new/repaired roads, a revamped education system, the list goes on. But of course it’s not just about trees. Global warming and its many undesirable (apparently) effects is a highly topical (not to mention tropical) subject that is a potentially huge vote-winner, without much of a downside. Almost everyone agrees that we need to absorb more carbon dioxide and/or stop producing so much.

Have you ever planted a tree or two? If so you will know that it actually requires quite a lot of effort. Imagine multiplying that by 30 million….or SIXTY million! That is a LOT of effort. The Tories aimed for half that last time round and have failed to meet even that relatively modest  target. Boris the Bountiful will have to forego Boodles for a night or two and roll up his sleeves, along with half the rest of the population. I have a cheaper and more realistic proposal. Boris needs to persuade his mate The Donald to invade South America and build a wall round the Amazon rain forest, which, as the lungs of the world, are now so nicotine stained that emphysema is imminent, closely followed by death. I am amazed nobody has thought of that.

Returning to my barber theme in No 60, I was fascinated to learn on Radio 4 yesterday that the French love to go to the hairdressers. Apparently one million of them go to get coiffured every day. One million! On average, that means that every single French man, woman and child goes to Toni and Guy once every two months, roughly. Only bakers outdo hairdressers in France amongst the artisan classes. They calculate there are 85,000 of the latter, with a fairly high proportion only gaining ‘average’ on their report cards with a significant number ranking ‘poor’ or worse. They reportedly conceal their inadequate cutting skills with fancy curling, dyeing and blowdrying. Interestingly, it seems traditionally chic French women in particular are losing their lust for hours under the blower and those red and white curly poles are disappearing at an alarming rate. It perhaps serves as an interesting comparison between our two countries. France is eschewing haircare, while Britain is losing pubs at an equally alarming rate. Still, we are producing great wine and ‘champagne’, just to upset Macron and his army of viticulturists.

Bernd (pronounced burnt) is quite a common name in German speaking countries. Whilst watching the dramatic final round of the Nedbank Challenge, a big golf tournament at Sun City in South Africa, my egghead son has just asked if Mr and Mrs Wiesberger (rhymes with cheeseburger….) thought wisely before naming their son Bernd. On that totally unrelated thought, I’m off to bury an acorn or two.

I got my haircut today. This is not a monumental undertaking, as there is now only marginally more covering than when my naked pate was first exposed to daylight sixty eight years ago. Nonetheless it does require a Number 4 every few months, to avoid looking like an eccentric peer or retired high court judge. Although on reflection I wouldn’t mind being either of those. Anyway I digress. The man charged with the undemanding task was a Turkish Bulgar. Or he might have been a Bulgarian Turk, I couldn’t quite work it out. Anyway he spent his first nineteen years in Bulgaria before moving here ten years ago. When I asked him if he would go back to Bulgaria (especially if Boris the Bountiful wins), he suggested that having spent half his life here, why would he? He spoke very good English, but clearly basic arithmetic isn’t high on the Bulgarian educational agenda. Upon further probing he told me that his homeland is about the size of Britain, with a population of eight million. Spacious! People tend to have more land, with big houses and suitably extravagant gardens. It has beautiful countryside and a lovely climate he said. So what the …… is he doing here?!! Apparently the economy isn’t great; and ours is? Wait till our Saviour and Redeemer JC gets his hands on it.

We learnt today that Labour, if given a majority, will take over running Broadband and make it free to all at the point of delivery. Yesterday the NHS was the most important thing in the world, now giving everyone free and unlimited access to superfast communications anywhere from Central London to the outer Hebrides is in fact the really crucial thing. Sorry, that’s a bad example. The Hebrides will be in an independent Scotland and therefore not our problem. Make that Penrith.

When I was a slip of a lad (I was once), we had things like the Gas Board, the Electricity Board, the Water Board, the Milk Marketing Board, the Coal Board, the GPO (General Post Office) that did everything from collecting/delivering your mail to running the whole telephone network and an outfit called British Railways who ran the entire rail network. All of them were publicly owned and “run”, with the tremendous help and cooperation of many powerful unions. The reason that they were all privatised over time is because they didn’t work. At least they did, but extremely inefficiently and at great cost to the Exchequer (i.e. us). Love Maggie or hate her, she completed the work, with a painfully traumatic battle against the unions, who’ve been lying dormant ever since, waiting for the Resurrection in the shape of JC. The trouble is that today’s young, idealistic generation have no knowledge or recollection of those times. History is such a great subject to study and know.

What on earth does the silver haired, silver tongued, smiling assassin that is John McDonnell know about running anything! (Have a look at his biography it makes interesting reading. (He went to a Roman Catholic boarding school with a view to becoming a Priest….until he discovered girls. That must be why he’s JC’s right hand man).

A forerunner to the Department of the Environment was the Ministry of Public Buildings and Works. If you look carefully you’ll still find the odd manhole cover with MPBW on it. Inevitably they became known as the Ministry of Public Blunders and Wonders, which was probably a generous description of their abilities. In those “good old days” we had a flourishing motor industry, with many such evocative names as MG, Austin, Morris, Rover, Jaguar, Hillman, not forgetting Ford and many more. The power of the unions made almost all of them totally unviable businesses and one by one they disappeared. The same with our huge shipbuilding industry with dockyards all around the Kingdom and a flourishing aircraft, mainly defence, industry, boasting such evocative names as Sopwith, Hawker, Avro, de Havilland, Gloster, and Handley Page. They’ve almost all gone, while German manufacturing flourishes. Where did we go wrong!

The moral of the story is that Government should govern and provide the environment for businesses to flourish, creating healthy growth in the economy and greater wealth to fund such essential state run activities as health, the police, the fire service and roads.

Well that’s what the inside of my bald pate tells me anyway.

P.S. A tech expert I read today says he rather hopes Corbyn will get his way, because he expects them to make such a horlicks of it that it will merely hasten the arrival of the new mobile network, 5G, which requires no cables, merely aerial masts, and will do all and more at even faster speeds. Watch this space.

Have you ever, in an idle moment, wondered what it might be like to be shipwrecked on a desert island? In the unlikely event of this happening and just two of you survived,  who would your perfect companion be? Would it be a friend or lover, same sex or opposite, younger or older, British or foreign, a stranger perhaps and hope for good chemistry?

My perfect companion would definitely be a beautiful, slender, blonde about twenty years younger than me and still able to undertake the more arduous tasks that might prove troublesome in my dotage! She’d be sexy, practical and highly intelligent. After all we are together 24/7 for the foreseeable future and the art of conversation is going to be crucial if we’re not to drive each other stark staring bonkers. Ideally it would be someone I had just met on the cruise and sparks had flown without any intimate contact. We would have all the time in the world to let a relationship blossom and flourish, only committing to physical love once we were sure that wouldn’t scupper the burgeoning partnership.

Of course you have arrived on the island with nothing. Condoms and other preventative measures are now secured in Davy Jones locker. Would you practice time-honoured Roman Catholicism or let the Devil take the hindmost and worry about pregnancy when it happens? That thought would probably keep me chaste! (Sadly it is a long time since I have been chased). The thought of polluting my tropical island paradise with another argumentative, stroppy, temperamental, self-opinionated teenager is too much to bear.

Do you have a PC in mind? Or have you yet to find the Perfect Companion?

A friend of mine recently got done for parking in a supermarket “Parent and Child” slot when she was clearly alone. Disgraceful! I wagged a shocked finger and showed little sympathy at her financial plight. Whilst driving my darling 12 year old daughter home from a brilliant hockey win yesterday, we needed to stop at Tesco to purchase some provisions for her long journey to Derbyshire today. The only spaces available were five empty “Disabled” bays. Figuring it would only take us five minutes, the chances of four disabled drivers arriving in that time seemed mildly improbable so I took a chance. We actually took six minutes as said daughter lingered to decide which two smoothies, with knitted woollie hats, to take. The extra thirty seconds that wasted were all it needed for the Hungarian Traffic Warden to issue the dreaded ticket. His nationality is of course irrelevant, other than the fact that it’s easier to hate a foreigner and if Boris The Bountiful wins, they will all be sent home anyway. Or not. To be fair, he was very apologetic and offered to note the situation. I have written a begging plea of mitigation for the £70 to be waived, but I am not overly hopeful. Serves me right for my lack of sympathy towards a potential PC.

Meanwhile, daughter has made it to Repton School for the IAPS National Hockey Finals. Photos of the squad of nine romping around their Premier Inn in Burton on The Water (currently Burton underwater) suggests a fairly high degree of excitement. I just hope they sleep!