It is at times like this that Christians have a tremendous advantage. They can rest easy in their beds, comfortable in the knowledge that as long as they are good boys and girls, when the time comes to depart this mortal coil, they will go “up” into the welcoming arms of St Peter and his boss. Of course, should they fail to meet the exacting standards required by “them upstairs”, then it’s “down” where Lucifer awaits amid the eternal fires of damnation. Mind you, I’m not convinced that being forced to learn to play the harp whilst trying to balance on a chilly cloud is preferable to a singed bottom with no concerns about paying the energy bill. Anyway, they have an advantage over Buddhists and anyone else like me who believes in re-incarnation. I’ve had this feeling for sometime now that I’ve been here before. Indeed, according to one psychic I saw, I was once a Samurai warrior and another time a “great leader of men” in Ancient Greece. That’s all very well, but the implication is that the next birth could be anywhere, as anything. I’m inclined to think that we are supposed to increase our learning and knowledge on each visit, so I’m comforted in the thought that I will be something better next time, but what if that’s not so? There’s quite a good chance that the autocracies will have taken over the world by then, so coming back as a descendant of Trump in a Pittsburgh labour camp run by the Chinese Communist Party is an alarming thought. Or…. might one be one of those tragic peasants left starving and bereft in Somalia….or a private soldier in the Russian Army that is now in charge of Europe….or worse still, an Australian! Would I even be a man? Can we hop sexes whilst in the Waiting Room? I’d actually be very happy to come back as the opposite sex, it would hopefully give me a first hand insight into the extraordinary workings of their brains….(really hoping Alison doesn’t read this). Truthfully, with the state of Planet Earth right now I would be very strongly hoping for a switch to another galaxy. If that seems improbable maybe it’s time to become a Christian again…..

I am in the process of writing a shortish script for the Annual Remembrance Concert that the Eastbourne Silver Band performs every November. This year we are commemorating the fortieth anniversary of the Falklands War. Can it really be forty years ago! The Argies had been haggling over Las Malvinas for decades and frankly Maggie T was very tempted to let them have the miserable outposts of Empire, but for the fact that the residents were all descendants of Brits and hopelessly pro-British and anti-Argie. General Galtieri was having a few problems at home and thought there would be nothing better for his street cred than satisfying the bloodlust amongst his rebellious population and re-claiming what was rightfully theirs anyway. There was no way a handful of Royal Marines guarding Government House could resist his marauding hordes and equally there was no way that Mrs T would lift a finger to help, bar laying on a VIP flight for Governor Rex Hunt to return to Buck House to claim his knighthood. Mistake! It wasn’t a bed of roses back home either and what better way for the Iron Lady to demonstrate she wasn’t going rusty than to mount an Expeditionary Force that would write another glorious chapter in the long and largely distinguished history of the Royal Navy, sail the eight thousand miles across the Atlantic and teach those Johnny foreigners a bloody lesson. In many ways it stands comparison with what’s happened in Ukraine on a rather larger scale. Pootin thought he was going to waltz into Kyiv, be greeted with open arms by a grateful nation and it would all be done and dusted within days. I suppose the moral of the story is “never under-estimate your enemy”. (Rest assured my narration to the good townsfolk of Eastbourne will be somewhat more measured and dignified!). We are also going to pay homage to the very brave people of Ukraine and have organised a lovely Ukrainian lady with backing group to sing their country’s National Anthem along with a classic traditional song. It all promises to be a bit of a tear-jerker and really rather different to the more traditional WWII Remembrance Concert. I’ll let you know how it went.

Helen, of 234 fame, is keen to emphasize that the point she was making about refugees was that THEIR mental and physical health would greatly benefit from gainful employment, which puts a slightly different emphasis on my earlier comments. Regardless, I still think she has a point. If that keeps them off the street corners and away from terrorising pedestrians and drivers alike with their free electric scooters I am all in favour!

Whilst pedalling along the Prom a little earlier I happened upon an unusual sight. A short, dumpy, middle-aged man in a high visibility vest was jogging at gentle pace whilst pushing a small pram. With the eagle eyes of a trained detective (I’m not), I observed that said four-wheeler was in fact empty. That got my journalist’s brain whirring. Had he just dropped off his tiny infant at a friend’s birthday party, to consume unhealthy quantities of sticky cake and stickier juice? Unlikely. Perhaps he was on his way to pick up the ankle-biter from the FBP? Also unlikely. Maybe he was on his way to collect the little mite from the day nursery where he/she had been deposited earlier in the day. Doesn’t quite ring true. Could it be it was for an altogether more nefarious reason? What better mode of transport for a surreptitious escape with someone else’s baby than a pram! However the promenade was almost deserted, with not a baby in sight so it wouldn’t have been the most productive of hunting grounds. With so few witnesses around however, it would have been the perfect low-profile getaway vehicle for a mugging. Clock the innocent walker over the head, stuff the expensive Rolex and Chanel handbag under the baby blanket and exit at high speed….although the jogger looked as though he was probably already at full speed, without risking a coronary. If one is brutally honest, I fear none of those bears any relation to the truth. It may just be that the perambulator was a convenient prop for someone whose balance no longer guaranteed remaining vertical. We shall probably never know……

I have always prided myself on being an honest, well-mannered, upright citizen who hopefully qualifies as a gentleman. Something happened a couple of weeks ago though about which I am still embarassed. There was a 1st XV Cup match taking place on College Field, opposite our house. I enjoy propping up the wall and observing proceedings, with the benefit of a cunning electronic scoreboard behind the pavilion balcony on the far side of the field. Unfortunately, three or four spectators were watching from the balcony, totally obscuring the score. I waited for quite a few minutes in the vain hope that they would realise the error of their ways and move. Sadly they didn’t. I had no choice but to wander round, with a mounting sense of righteous indignation. It had only been my intention to go far enough to see the score but in the end I went all the way to beneath the balcony where the following words somehow came out of my mouth; “Excuse me”, “yes” came the disinterested reply. “You are doing a very good job of obscuring the scoreboard”. They immediately apologised and moved away, but one rather well-to-do lady then turned back and gave me a very old-fashioned and rather shocked look. I instantly realised that what had intended to be a jocular request had come out in a rather rude way, but before I could apologise she had flounced off and I beat a hasty, if somewhat low-profile retreat with flushing cheeks. In the highly unlikely event that the poor lady ever reads this, please Madame accept my humble apologies.

My dearly beloved has fallen in love with high quality, organic, grass fed meat. She now orders a monthly supply of Field and Flower’s finest products, at no small expense. We go for infrequent meat meals of high quality rather than the reverse, which seems a good idea on all fronts. The latest delivery (£100 worth) was duly stashed in the large deep freeze in the girls’ house upstairs on Friday. As it’s half term the house is empty so no one was on hand to notice that a fuse had somehow tripped and for forty eight hours the freezer was gradually turning into a fridge and all our expensive frozen meat that would last for weeks was rapidly defrosting. We are going to have a week of delicious meals…..!

It’s a particularly calm day. I refer not to the inner sanctum of Watt House but to the prevailing meteorological conditions. That’s not to say that it’s not also unusually laid back here. Daughter Tiggy is away for the weekend doing her Silver Duke of Edinburgh’s Award. The Brobdingnagian Oliver is ripping up Royal Eastbourne Golf Club with a few mates and Mrs T is busy in the kitchen conjuring up a Butternut Squash and Bacon bake as an alternative to our regular sunday evening roast. The rice krispy caramels look like a dangerously calorific adjunct. But back to the meteorological bit. The English Channel is flat enough to do the ironing on. This is a subject with which I am depressingly familiar. As a househusband it’s a steady round of laundry, hoovering, dusting, cleaning the silver (today’s task) and generally titivating. In common with housewives the world over I wouldn’t mind, if I got paid for it. Little did I think when I was hurtling earthwards beneath the parachute’s silk, whizzing inches above the ground at high speed over Salisbury Plain in my muscular Lynx helicopter or illuminating the nation as to why the Queen would nod her head on Trooping the Colour, that one day I would be relegated to a life of impecunious slavery.

It was pure coincidence that very shortly after I had written No. 233, I enjoyed an oat milk latte or two with a relatively new acquaintance by the name of Helen, who’s hubby has recently become a HSM (the convenient College abbreviation for Housemasters and Housemistresses) of a girls’ boarding house; an interesting experiment in itself. Helen proved to be a most entertaining companion with many views and opinions in common with my own, but also some challenging ones. She certainly opened my eyes to the question of immigration and the flood of asylum seekers risking all to reach the White Cliffs. As she rightly says, they must be truly desperate to take on the enormous risks involved in making the hazardous journey. Many of their number are extremely fit and able young people, some very well qualified, who could surely be put to productive use doing all the multifarious jobs that indolent Britons seem to find so unattractive. It makes sense that they should be made to earn their keep thereby slaughtering two birds with one stone. My only concern is that the Anglo Saxon Britain that I knew and loved as a youth is rapidly disappearing, indeed has already irrevocably changed and that, for a dyed-in-the-wool old fart, is rather a shame.

It seems it’s not just The Truss that’s for turning. The leaves are rapidly following suit, led by the horse chestnuts, then the ornamental cherries and other fruit trees, until finally the grand oaks will undress before the inevitable gales and worse that will no doubt shortly sweep in off the Atlantic as a reminder that global warming doesn’t just mean decadently idle days and weeks of glorious summer heat, but also viciously stormy months when a second home in Arabella, a forty five minute drive from Cape Town, seems a highly desirable objective. I had the chance to buy a plot on the gorgeous Arabella Golf Estate over twenty years ago for about £30,000. Those same plots with rather grand dwellings on top, now sell for the equivalent of £1m or more. Another opportunity missed. The onset of Autumn has so far been remarkably benign with gentle winds, little rain and temperatures in the high teens. “Just you wait” as Professor Henry Higgins protegé from the London slums so memorably sang. (Well it’s memorable if you know My Fair Lady, otherwise you won’t have a clue what I’m blathering on about). The point being that unless we are very fortunate the arrival of short days and long nights will also presage much precipitation and draftiness. I don’t know about you, but I would much rather have days where the ice crystals glisten in a magical sunny veil above the frozen, snow blanketed Downs, than relentless grey, humid, dull, swindswept ones. Still, rather like the Conservative Party, it matters not what we wish for, a greater power will inflict upon us what it will.

Whilst strolling on the Prom with Callie the whippet lurcher a little earlier, I happened upon the Eastbourne Angling Club. It’s not a particularly pre-possessing building but the glass-fronted first floor restaurant looked quite appealing, with a splendid view over the deep blue stillness of the English Channel leading to the stark horizon line where dark blue becomes a much lighter blue. It’s one of those incredibly crystal clear days where even tiny yachts in the far distance are clearly defined and the crazy folk going for a very chilly dip are all too evident. A lone girl in a one-piece swimsuit is gazing across at a group of lads about to take the plunge, wondering whether to join them or concede it was a mad idea and retreat rapidly to her beach hut. She did neither while I passed. The Angling Club had the intriguing sign outside; “Members Only. Enter at your own risk”. Do they keep tankfuls of piranhas? Perhaps they practise their casting in an undisciplined muddle of hooks and lines? Could it be they keep killer whales in a hidden pool and feed visitors to the Orcas? I’m not risking finding out. Angling has always bored me to tears anyway.

Walking around Eastbourne nowadays is like visiting the Tower of Babel…..or Babble. Most tongues from around the world are in evidence, but particularly those emanating from the Middle East. I dropped in to see Nigel Greaves, a well known local artist who has his own gallery and is always a dependable source of local news and gossip. Apparently the town’s hotels are now housing a thousand or more channel hoppers who’ve escaped the undetermined clutches of the Gendarmerie across the water before braving the perilous journey over one of the world’s busiest shipping lanes. It gives the old town a distinctly cosmopolitan feel. The owner of one hotel made £1.2m profit last year, without having to lift a finger, thanks to the Government’s largesse. Seemingly the Home Office is now spending £7m a day of taxpayer’s money nationally to house all the migrants and asylum seekers. That’s an annual bill of £2.5 billion, give or take. A knotty problem.

Nigel is something of a petrol-head as well as being a very successful artist. His stable includes a flashy 1200cc bright red two-wheeled machine that only comes out when the sun is shining, the roads are dry and there’s no R in the month, a couple of pricey Range Rovers, plus one or two other exotic charabanc, but nothing to compare with his piéce de resistance which is taking pride of place outside the gallery today. It’s an LC500. That’s a Lexus Concept 500. Which means they’ve only made 500. It’s sleek and low-slung with low-profile tyres as wide as a tractor’s. It does nought to 60 mph in four seconds; fractionally slower than the bright red two-wheeler. Should you have the nerve and a lengthy stretch of clear, camera-free road, it will hit 180 in less time than it takes for most people to tie their shoelaces. That’s limited for European driving. It can go over 200. Nigel’s only managed 140, so far…. The drivers compartment is ergonimcally designed like the cockpit of a Typhoon. I know this because I have sat in both. That’s as close as I have got to handling either machine in “go” mode, but I’ve been on flights of fancy in both. There are so many things about the 500 that are eye-popping (not least the price as you may imagine, somewhere north of £100,000), but I love it’s security. With internal cameras that recognise the owner, the car automatically unlocks as he approaches. For anyone else it’s more secure than Fort Knox. But that’s not the last barrier. The car will only start once it’s recognised his fingerprints on the steering wheel. Such is the standard of Lexus engineering, the car has a manufacturer’s warranty for 100,000 miles. It’s a heck of an investment that can only go up in value; unlike Government bonds!

Whilst most of us have been hyper-ventilating about the cost of living, inflation, the war in Ukraine, mourning our late Queen, the imminent destruction of our planet as the globe warms and, for some, how to maintain stress at sensible levels as our teenage children plough a reckless furrow, uninterested in sage parental advice; while most of us have been so pre-occupied, a group of scientists have been trawling through the data to come up with a truly earth-shattering statistic. Apparently and we must add that there is some uncertainty as to the true figure as the data from Africa and Asia is somewhat incomplete, (nothing new there then!), apparently, there are 20,000,000,000,000,000 ants on earth; that’s twenty quadrillion (unless you’re British). That equates roughly to two and a half million ants per human. I knew it was bad when we were outnumbered by rats (the little furry variety), but this latest intelligence has me shivering in my pyjamas. But then if you consider how many ants’ nests there are in one’s garden it really shouldn’t be so surprising. The thing I find a bit more worrying is that the authors of this report are presumably highly intelligent, well-paid scientists who have spent many hours/days/weeks/months…years even, trawling through a mass of data and to what end. Is this knowledge going to frighten Pootin into submission? Will it deter the polar ice-cap from going liquid? Will it enable the Fed or the Bank of England to lower interest rates again? I fear not. But rest easy in your bed in the comforting knowledge that once we’re gone there will probably still be plenty of ants left.

What might be of greater concern in the near term, for those of us based on this Sceptred Isle, is that we now having biting spiders. I reckon I’ve gone for seventy years without being bitten by a spider here. (Australia and Africa are a different matter!). My son and daughter both suffer from arachnophobia and I am constantly being summoned late at night to come and exterminate this “enormous, hairy beast that’s only intent on biting me”. I have constantly mocked them and told them not to be so silly. “Spiders are harmless and they’re much more frightened of you than vice versa”. However……. I have now been bitten THREE times this summer by the eight-legged little blighters on various parts of my anatomy, including one on my left wrist that became really quite sore and inflamed and lasted for many days. Apparently, (I rely on that word quite a lot, seemingly) in this inter-connected world, all sorts of miscreants, including vicious spiders, are now being imported amongst all the fruit and veg and other stuff that we ship in from China, Australia, Africa, and South America; in fact all points east and west (and south) that breed the dastardly arachnoids. I learned recently that far from it being just ticks that can give you Lyme disease, this particularly nasty affliction, along with other co-infections, can also be implanted in your unsuspecting body by spiders and other insects. It’s rapidly becoming a plague that the medical profession at large has so far failed to appreciate. When, I wonder will Moderna and Pfizer be called into action to ‘cure’ the world of this terrifying (potential) epidemic? Don’t hold your breath. By the way, if you do suffer an assault by one of these vicious munchers, Tea Tree oil, or Melaleuca Alternifolia, is very effective at reducing the inflammation and itchiness when a drop of two is applied to the affected area. (Available at all good chemists…….GOOD chemists)

I probably should have stopped there, but as my other duty this morning is deep-cleaning the kitchen and bathroom I shall tarry at the typewriter a touch longer. (Of course it’s not a typewriter but ‘laptop’ would’ve spoiled the alliteration.) Amongst all the other bad news that has bedevilled the household this week, my delicious cup of proper coffee each morning has been replaced by a depressingly bland ‘instant’ substitute, owing to the terminal failure of my Bialetti percolator. I had stupidly assumed that these cunning Italian devices would last for ever. Not so. After only five years mine must now be dispatched to the scrapyard and for a few frustrating days while a replacement is found, despatched, ignored by striking postal workers, returned to the Post Office because no one is in, I must suffer the unsatisfying experience of a cup of Nescafe. True coffee lovers everywhere will share my irritation, I’m sure.

Now the evenings really are drawing in; a drought, a hosepipe ban, long sunny evenings, the thud of leather on willow, picnics on The Downs and Airshows. Sadly becoming just a fading memory. But far more dramatic than all that, are the scenes unfolding before our very eyes as the coffin of Her Majesty The Queen leaves Buckingham Palace on a gun carriage, amidst tremendous pomp and circumstance. What a shame that the BBC couldn’t find commentators who have the faintest idea of military matters, considering so much of the ceremonial involves all arms of the Services. It’s just howler after howler, too many to mention, lead by senior presenter Huw Edwards, who is clueless. The organisation and presentation is so immaculate, clearly prepared over many years, it’s a shame our National Broadcaster is not at the same level. I suppose the truth is that when you don’t know much, you don’t know how little you know!

I think I can lay claim to a relatively unusual possession; in fact two possessions. When you are commissioned into the armed forces, you receive a very elegant and formal scroll. After a preamble it says: “We, reposing especial Trust and Confidence in your Loyalty, Courage, and good Conduct, do by these Presents Constitute and Appoint you to be an Officer in Our Royal Air Force…”etc. It’s too long to reprise the whole thing but it ends : “Given at Our Court, at St James’s the Twenty third day of June 1970 in the Nineteenth Year of Our Reign”. The document is personally signed at the top by “Elizabeth R”. In the Nineteenth Year of Our Reign. Who could have known then that it was less than one third of her reign? I was 19, wet behind the ears, impressionable, cocky, unsure in many ways of what I wanted and where I was going, but the RAF taught me so much in terms of standards, self-discipline, comradeship, selflessness, loyalty, respect, looking out for others, as well as having fun and living life to the full. For three years I served on the Queen’s Colour Squadron of whom we have seen plenty in the last few days. We did Public Duties at Buckingham Palace, St James’s Palace, The Tower of London and Windsor Castle. It was a huge privilege and we had a ball. Just over nine years later I received a second commissioning document, also personally signed by Elizabeth R as I transitioned smoothly from Flight Lieutenant to Captain in the Army Air Corps, finally satisfying the urge to “slip the surly bonds of Earth and dance the skies on laughter-silvered wings”. It’s certainly not unique to have served in two separate Services, but it is quite unusual. For years those two documents remained scrolled up in their original tubes, but a year or two back I had them nicely framed and they now adorn a quiet wall. Suddenly they seem to have rather more significance somehow. It’s been very interesting listening to many of the interviews from those that have queued for hours to walk past Her Majesty’s coffin in Westminster Hall. So many say that She represented all the qualities of loyalty, respect, service and courage that seem to be alien to younger generations. I know that my son has shown very little interest in watching the extraordinary ceremonial or learning anything about it and what it all means. Sad. I can guarantee that there isn’t one serviceman or woman, carrying out what are sometimes quite onerous and physically demanding duties this week who would rather be anywhere else. Her Majesty really was the keystone that held our arch together, the figurehead that we all looked up to with enormous respect, admiration and I think love. It is remembering those happy times (was it really fifty years ago?!) that brings a tear or three to the eye. I carried The Queen’s Colour of the Royal Air Force (not a “banner” or “standard” or “insignia” that Huw Edwards called it when the Queen’s coffin arrived at RAF Northolt) outside Buckingham Palace as part of a Tri-Service Guard of Honour (not an Honor Guard; that’s American, Johnny Dymond, BBC) for Her Majesty’s Silver Jubilee celebrations in 1977. She rode past us in the splendid Gold Coach that Dick Whittington must have fantasised about. About the same time, I marched the old Queen’s Colour off as Her Majesty presented a new one in front of an enormous parade at RAF Finningley in Yorkshire. Days to be proud of and remember with fondness.

Two final thoughts before “my wife and I” retreat to the woods with a bouncy whippet. Did you know that there’s a difference between the motif of a King’s crown and a Queen’s? Every cap badge, sweater and anything elase that features a crown will need to be changed. Google it and you will see the difference. Secondly, everything I can think of has immediately gone from the “Queen’s” this or that to the “King’s”. As it did in reverse when the Queen ascended the throne. Except “Kingdom”. Why did it not become the United Queendom? I’m amazed the looney left and the bra-burners didn’t go to war on that one! Too late now.

The witches and warlocks were apparently out in force at Stonehenge this morning for the dawn of the Summer solstice, the longest day. I’m always a little confused at this time of year. It only feels like the start of Summer and yet already the evenings will be starting to draw in. Ok it’s a month or three before twilight and the working day’s end coincide but it’s still a little depressing. Not half as depressing though as really quite well paid railway workers causing mayhem because some highly paid, self-promoting tosser of a union leader wants to make his mark. “Every ‘worker’ wants a pay increase” says Mr Lynch. The implication being that only trade unionists actually do any work, whereas often the so-calIed ‘workers’ are the least productive of anyone in employment, let alone self-employment. I fear few people have any comprehension of what the next few months and years hold. We are on the verge of mega market crashes, massive inflation, (which a wage/price spiral will only exacerbate) industrial strife, untold misery for those of us who have to suffer the consequences of such action and perhaps most importantly of all, World War III. An extremely shrewd analyst whose teachings I follow, David Murrin, argues that we are already in World War III. He says that we are so heavily committed in Ukraine that, “what part of that isn’t war with Russia”? But his much more worrying assertion is that China is very close to launching a surprise attack on Taiwan while it’s puppet regime in North Korea invades the South and Japan had better look out too. The really worrying part is that we have an incompetent, bumbling narcissist PM running an incompetent government who are predominantly linear thinkers with no comprehension of what’s needed to forestall the impending catastrophe.

Looking out of my dining room window at Mrs T’s beautiful flower beds (I only cut the grass) it’s all too easy to think that everything in the garden is rosy. I think back to many a meal round the family dinner table when the ageing relatives would recall the early months of 1939 and the strange days of the Phoney War, when most right-thinking people realised that something nasty was about to happen but no one really comprehended what the next six years were to unveil. The trouble is, we’ve had it so good for so long that even with all the warning signals it’s easy to think that “it can’t happen to us”. Perhaps a delve into history would serve to change one’s mind. When was the last time in our long and often violent past that we went for nearly eighty years without a serious dust up? OK we’ve had lots of local insurgencies and counter-insurgency operations, but nothing on a widespread scale, no full-blown war. (The Americans had Vietnam of course, which we managed to stay out of). You can list The Falklands, The Balkans, Iraq, Afghanistan, ….but nothing that’s really required the Home Guard to reform. (Although I heard a fascinating lecture yesterday about the long-lasting impact of wars like Afghanistan on our economies. Caring for the long-term injured means a thirty year bill running into trillions of dollars. In fact it was so many noughts I didn’t have enough fingers to record it). Anyway, the point is, the West and democracy is facing an existential threat. If we don’t wake up to the dangers very, very soon it will be too late. Remember a certain Roman emperor who fiddled while Rome burned? Our lot aren’t even good enough to play the recorder let alone make a Stradivarius sing.

Meanwhile the very foundations of Eastbourne have been trembling this afternoon as the plucky Brit, Katie Boulter came back from losing the first set 6-1 against two-time champion and Wimbledon finalist Karolina Pliskova from the Czech Republic to win in three sets. It’s not quite Radacanu winning the US Open but it’s enough to get success-starved tennis journos dunking their quills and waxing lyrical about the next British ‘star’. With Wimbledon on the horizon, households across the land will be full of “did you see Serena, isn’t she amazing” and “isn’t Nadal so sexy/twitchy/boring”, delete as appropriate. It’s amazing how so many people suddenly become experts on tennis, when for fifty weeks of the year they’re more interested in what’s on for supper.

Am I sounding a trifle cynical? I fear so, but it’s quite hard to find anything to lighten the mood just now. Even the bloody days are getting shorter! Still, it’s a beautiful warm, sunny, summer’s day today so I guess that’s something to be grateful for.

I didn’t get it. The job that is. My rival for the post was apparently super efficient at ISMAS, which is the quite complicated management system that the school is using now. Strangely they didn’t even mention it to me. I would’ve lied like mad and told them I’d been doing nothing else but studying it for the last six months! They obviously just thought she was a better bet. I can’t say I’m too disappointed. Still, the search is on for something a little more lucrative and my cup of tea.

It’s been fascinating watching the insular world of professional golf being splattered across the front pages and tv headlines as Greg Norman and the Saudis throw billions of dollars at the new LIV Tour. Norman tried hard to start a World Tour back in the early ’90s and was thwarted by the professional tours all coming together and creating the World Golf Championships, which have become a second tier below the Majors. Greg is an astute and successful businessman, but perhaps more importantly he hates losing, whether it’s golf, big business or tiddly winks. I suspect he’s been nursing a grudge for a long time and just biding his time till the right opportunity came along. I gather that quite a lot of players are unhappy with the PGA Tour (the fact that a number of leading lights have already resigned their membership tells its own story) and despite LIV’s desire to negotiate with them, they’ve been blocked at every turn. It’s not hard to see the early trickle of defectors becoming a flood, especially if one or two more younger big names take the plunge. It could then become the World Tour that Norman has always argued for. It looks as though the European Tour (sponsored by DP World in Dubai which erroneously makes it sound like a world tour) might be the biggest losers and its rumoured that the HQ’s at Wentworth is a twitchy place. The Asian Tour could be the biggest winners as LIV are pouring lots of money into that. It always amuses me that the better players have always said “it’s not about the money, I play to win tournaments and titles and stamp my name in the history books”. Somehow though they aren’t shy about going to play in remote parts of the world when they garnish big fat appearance fees. Anyway, every man has his price and I guess if you can play just a few tournaments a year and earn $100m or more without much effort, why wouldn’t you? The whole issue of world ranking points is going to be critical though, as those will become crucial for still getting entry into the four Majors, which are totally separate to the professional tours, being run by Augusta National (The Masters) the PGA of America (US PGA), the USGA (US Open), and the R&A (The Open).

When it comes to the question of “sportswashing”, the Tours are being pretty hypocritical themselves. Both the European Tour and the PGA Tour have been happy to hold tournaments in Saudi Arabia, with their players earning fat cheques from the Arabian coffers. You didn’t hear much mention of the “despicable” regime then. One thing is for certain. The tremors all round the world of golf are likely to hit 9 on the Richter scale and it will probably be some time before we know how it will all end up. To me it is already hugely surprising how many players have made the leap, so it perhaps won’t be that surprising if a whole lot more follow. In many ways I’m just glad I am no longer involved.

OK, back to the Situations Vacant column……train driver? (highly skilled job apparently according to the lot that are about to cause mayhem across our land by striking), hospital porter? mmmm, van driver for early morning paper deliveries? not great at rising before 9, baggage handler at Gatwick Airport, heavy on fuel costs as it’s an hour each way…..As the nice man that does The Apprentice voiceover says “the search continues”……

I have just had an interesting experience. For the first time in about forty years I’ve been for a job interview. At £9.50 per hour, being a part time receptionist at a local prep school is quite a long way off the £800 a day I used to earn as an itinerant golf commentator. Still it sounds interesting and I’ve got a 50/50 chance of success as there are only two shortlisted applicants. I think I was doing quite well in front of the three person interview panel until we got onto safeguarding and the children of today. I was probably unwise to espouse that they lack respect for their elders and have an unjustifiable sense of entitlement! Still, it’s what I very firmly believe and I’ve never been one to hide my views under a bushel, if you’ll forgive my mangling a biblical idiom. I just hope the selectors can see past my slip-up and focus on the many and varied talents that I would bring to the job. I’ll keep you posted.

It’s been intriguing listening to proclamations from the Far East about what will happen if/when China decides to invade Taiwan (on a Special Military Operation). Inspired no doubt by Japan’s forthright backing of the former Formosa, Sleepy Joe has come right out and said that America will come to Taiwan’s defence should President Xi press the go button. This is terrific news, except it’s quite hard to see how this might work. China is rapidly expanding its navy, including its submarine force, it will soon have hundreds of thousands of airborne forces and it has some of the most sophisticated missiles in the world. America would be utterly dependant on it’s carrier groups to launch a counter-offensive but it’s probable at this time that it doesn’t have the defensive capability to stop the legion of hypersonic missiles that Xi would concurrently launch to destroy Uncle Sam’s navy in one fell swoop. It also raises the question as to why America isn’t even now on Ukrainian soil? They aren’t, because Biden was fearful it would start World War III against a powerful nuclear nation. I am hard pressed to see how trying to stop China (an equally, if not even more powerful and sophisticated nation intent on world domination) from annexing Taiwan would be any less likely to start World War III?! Additionally, it would be fighting a war in much more adverse conditions in terms of supply lines etc and the chances are North Korea would invade the South at the same time. What a mess. Still, at least SJ is sounding strong…..

I’ve been watching quite a lot of football (soccer for my North American friends) recently as the British League season reached a thrilling climax. A phrase you hear oft-repeated by commentators is that “the ball slams into the back of the net”. I am slightly confused by this. Surely the goal faces the pitch? This would mean that its back is the bit pointing at the crowd. In other words the front of the net is the part inside the goal that the ball rockets into? Hence it should be “the ball slams into the front of the net”. I concede this might sound a bit odd, especially after decades of hearing the “back of the net”. Perhaps it should just be “the net”; “Messi drills it from thirty yards out, beating the diving Anderson as it slams into the net”. Must be worth a letter to The Times.

Our next door neighbours have just had their first baby. It was slightly overdue so the powers that be decided to induce. The night before said operation the non-producing half of the partnership was told that he had to go home as visiting hours were over and because of Covid they were being strictly applied. He had already been there for forty minutes so once again I am covered in confusion as to how he might be an added threat? His “wife” (they’re not actually legally attached) would have loved him to stay, but no, “on yer bike sunshine”. Perhaps more importantly, she and he would have loved it if he could be present at the birth the following day, but that was firmly rejected on the same grounds: Covid. They’re a young couple, it’s their first child and it’s the eight wonder of the world to experience. How inhumane can we get?!

We desperately need a bit of Satchmo at this point. From where I’m sitting this world isn’t looking quite so wonderful. Perhaps the view will be better from behind a school reception desk…….

Blighter’s Wrock. If you’re a student of Dr Spooner you will realise this is not a stony, barren outpost to which cads, scoundrels and villains are permanently despatched; we have Australia for that. No, it’s that awful affliction with which most writers and authors will be all too familiar. Those despairing days when you stare at a blank sheet or computer window and inspiration there is none; that’s assuming you’ve even got to the point of opening the book or laptop. I fear, almost for the first time, this is a condition that has hit me in the last two weeks. There have been a few moments of inspiration but generally they’ve occurred at inconvenient moments and the ageing grey matter has dumped said thoughts by the time I could usefully employ them. Having got my excuses out of the way, here come my latest warped thoughts.

It’s quite possible, I suppose, that there are people out there who don’t know that it’s Masters week. This is not some international global recognition of the teaching fraternity. It is, in fact the glorious annual visit to Georgia (the American version) and the hallowed fairways of Augusta National; the annual excuse for justifiable tv addiction, for sofa-sluggery to make your professional couch potato look like a happy hacker, a high handicap amateur. There is heightened interest this year because Tiger’s back. Mr Woods hasn’t played for 15 months or so since redesigning the SUV he was driving at high speed and in the process coming close to losing his right leg. The fact he is even walking is pretty miraculous, let alone teeing it up on a very hilly course where he has won previously….. five times. He even shot 71, 1 under par, in the first round and had everyone drooling, but as I write he’s labouring in tough conditions in the second round. Of course he won’t win, but it’s always fun to hypothesise who might. I went for Collin Morikawa pre-tournament but he’s not inspiring much confidence as yet. Still, early days. Cam Smith, an Australian who putts almost as well as Him upstairs, is looking very good.

I learnt some distressing facts today. Daughter Tiggy had a singing lesson from Dasha, a Ukrainian singer and coach who has recently escaped Kiev to join her Mother in England. She’s a talented lady who has more than once been in the backing group for Ukraine’s Eurovision Song contest entry and she has performed all over the world, including in China, a country she fears and dislikes as much as I do. I digress. She said that whilst Moscow and St Petersburg are sophisticated and fun cities with citizens to match (on the whole!) the rest of the Country isn’t like that. For the most part they are very poor, uneducated, ignorant peasants in the thrall of the Kremlin, who seemingly spend half their lives spaced out on cheap vodka. In Ukraine they have intercepted mobile phone conversations from Russian soldiers calling their Mothers at home detailing how they are raping, pillaging and murdering the locals, using truly foul language and seemingly the Mothers and sisters back home are just cheering them on. The soldiers report, in disbelieving tones, how well these Ukrainians live with extraordinary luxuries and expensive bottles of brandy that they are happily glugging. The whole thing is so shatteringly appalling, I was so embarrassed that I had to keep apologising that NATO was still refusing to come to their aid. There is only one thing that bullies understand and that’s a show of force and determination even greater than their’s. Quite simply, when Pootin threatened that he would use nuclear weapons the West should have said “fine, the first one you fire we will fire back. The second one you fire, our second one will be aimed at the Kremlin”. But it needed a Maggie Thatcher to be saying it if it was to be believed……not Sleepy Joe sadly.