As a long standing sports commentator I have always tried to leave the statistical analysis to others. I am much more interested in the technical and mental techniques involved as well as any scurrilous gossip! It’s always bothered me that statistics are so open to manipulation anyway, that they need to be taken with a hefty pouring of Saxa. Listening to the excellent “More or Less” programme on Radio 4 on Wednesday confirmed this suspicion. It seems that Scotland’s claim that there have been no Covid related deaths for over thirty days is misleading. North of Hadrian’s Wall it’s only a Covid related death if: a. you’ve tested positive for the virus and b. you die within twenty eight days of the test. Mmmm? That would seem to exclude a lot of deaths potentially directly caused by coronavirus. If you apply the English rules to Scotland the actual figure would apparently be thirty two. Mind you, in England, once it’s confirmed you’ve got or had Covid, your demise will be recorded as a Covid related death, even if you depart this mortal coil six months later having been hit by a bus! It does rather make you wonder why we bother with stats at all.

When it comes to misleading, how about this for a headline in The Times this week: “Poll predicts SNP landslide as most Scots back independence”. From which you would surmise that, what, eighty to ninety percent would vote for an independent Scotland if given the chance in another Referendum? The relevant part of the story reads (capitals mine): “Research by YouGov found that 57 per cent of voters in Scotland planned to back the Nationalists at the Scottish parliamentary election next May, an increase of three percentage points on the last survey in April. THE POLL PUT SUPPORT FOR INDEPENDENCE AT 53 PER CENT, UP TWO POINTS FROM JANUARY”. The Thunderer should be ashamed of itself for such inaccurate reporting. Just over half is not “most” in my book.

The statistics available to modern sportsmen now are extraordinary and sometimes even interesting. Modern golfers pour over the detailed minutiae of their rounds to see where they can improve. I wonder if Seve Ballesteros needed a computer full of gobbledegook to tell him his driving was awful, his recovery play extraordinary and his short game majestic; worthy of deification? I think not. When I worked for BBC TV at Wimbledon it was at the time when IBM were dramatically “enhancing” their facts and figures and mainly for commercial reasons our producers insisted that the commentators used the information as much as possible. We had a tv screen in front us showing the picture that viewers saw at home and beside it a large computer screen that recorded everything from the simple “Aces” to the number of times John McEnroe hurled his racket and abused a line judge or Rafa Nadal tweaked his shirt and scratched his bottom. To satisfy our bosses you would spend more time looking at the computer trying to work out what it all meant at the expense of missing a vital play in front of you. Dan Maskell, the much loved BBC Voice of Tennis in the latter half of the 20th Century made his name with “Oh I say” followed by long periods of atmospheric silence. His expertise was in knowing the players, explaining what they might be thinking and their tactics. He would instinctively know that Borg had served the majority of first serves to McEnroe’s forehand, without having to delve into a database to report that it was in fact 79.31% of first serves. There’s a place for statistics; in the rubbish bin.

Ok, I exaggerate for effect. The detail that the Sky cricket commentators come up with is absolutely fascinating, courtesy of their Virtual Eye pitch maps, showing where bowlers bowl and how batsmen react. It would be intriguing to see how the great John Arlott would perform nowadays. His distinctive Hampshire burr enlivened my childhood and on the rare occasions you hear the old recordings it instantly brings back vivid images of youthful summers spent glued to the wireless, with Wes Hall and Charlie Griffiths pummelling the likes of Peter May and Colin Cowdrey. Arlott was a poet and a genius with descriptive words, as well as an encyclopaedic knowledge of the game he so loved. I suspect even now he would leave the statistical analysis to someone else. I hope so anyway.

As an afterthought, it’s intriguing to me why we remember cricketers by their initials. P.B.H. May, M.C. Cowdrey, F.S Truman, D.I. Gower, I.T.Botham etc etc. I guess it’s because that’s the way they always appeared on scorecards. This is J.R.Tutt signing off with 67% battery life left on my laptop, 6,355 photos on my phone and a 93.777% chance that I will catch Covid once the schools go back. Interesting.

 

I confess I am guilty of a heinous crime. We had some young colleagues of Alison’s over for a drink last night. It was a hot, sticky evening and I was quite thirsty. It’s possible that my sampling of an excellent local Sussex Rosé, three different white wines and a nice Chilean Pinot Noir may have been slightly excessive. The last thing Alison said to me before retiring at 10pm was “don’t forget to turn off the sprinkler”. “No, Darling I won’t”; with raised eyebrows at the cheek of her suggestion. As if I would. So I settled down to watch the climax of a very exciting PGA Championship in San Francisco. (That’s a golf Major, for the uninitiated). A new boy on the block,  twenty three year old American Collin (one l is silent) Morikawa, played sublimely, shooting a final round 64 to win by two shots. It had to be watched to the end, which meant crashing at about 2am. In my befuddled state I slid into slumber with the strong sensation that the noise I was hearing shouldn’t have been there. I woke sharp at 6 to the awful realisation (now fully compos mentis) that the noise was that of water leaving the garden tap close to my window and being deposited on a by now pretty sodden top lawn. Embarrassed and ashamed I leapt out of bed (well ok, crawled) and wearing only a rather crumpled pair of Tommy Hilfiger boxers, dashed out to the front of the house to turn off the exhausted tap. Perhaps the most surprising part of this soggy tale is that the top lawn wasn’t soggy at all. The ground is very parched.

Television’s sixty year old entertainment entrepreneur, Simon Cowell has just shown that not all Briton’s have got talent. Whilst testing a new electric bicycle in the courtyard of his Malibu home he came to grief and has broken his back in three places. A six hour operation seems to have worked but he will miss the upcoming live editions of America’s Got Talent. It just goes to reaffirm how life can dramatically change in the blink of an eye. Returning from a dog walk and blackberry picking excursion this morning, Callie the whippet decided not to follow daughter Tiggy through the garden gate, but rushed back to find her Mistress out on the road. A passing car missed her by the narrowest of margins. How different today might have been.

I might have been using a word that I saw for the first time in The Times today; the headline read “Don’t catastrophise bad exam results, parents told”. The quote comes from Melanie Sanderson, Managing Editor of The Good Schools Guide. I wonder what Good School she went to! It seems that nowadays you can add “ise” to any noun to make a verb on a personal whim. If you can Nationalise and Privatise and Dramatise and Monetise, why shouldn’t you Catastrophise? I’ll leave you with that rhetorical question. Please don’t thoughtise too deeply.

My apologies for missing my intended publication date yesterday, I was unexpectedly distracted as son Oliver’s final match of Festival Week became an away match at the last minute and I spent all day admiring the fine scenery around Glynd and Beddingham Cricket Club. A short arpeggio from Glyndbourne, home of great outdoor opera, Glynd sports a genuine old village forge, that will make anything from a wrought iron gate to impressive architectural masterpieces, a Post Office and Village Store that serves almost anything you could want, but only until 2pm as I discovered to my cost at 2.10pm and a former Pub that is now somebody’s private residence. So no food and nothing to drink. But the Forge was fascinating. Thomas Gontar is younger than the archetypal image of the village blacksmith and talks willingly and enthusiastically about the flourishing business he has built up. The smithy dates back to 1909 and looks it. It’s large with two furnaces, anvils, a three ton block of old shipyard iron, bits of metal scattered everywhere and many ages of dirt and grime. The place smacks of an intriguing history.

It was a glorious day, made more enjoyable by a good win for our boys and some excellent off spin bowling from Oliver. However, he then opened the batting and got a Golden Duck (out first ball) for the second match in a row. It made for a long afternoon. It’s funny how these things happen when you don’t practise and play at every opportunity. Still, he knows best.

I’ve just been shopping at Tesco Express. I didn’t really need anything but after months of Lockdown and social constraints there’s a huge desire just to be able to do something “normal”. The enforced wearing of masks reminds you that nothing is really normal. I am one hundred percent in favour of face coverings, but it’s pretty annoying how many shopkeepers aren’t following the rules. One of the Tesco assistants was doing some shopping for himself and eschewed any disguise whilst also ignoring social distancing rules. Slightly irritating.

 

 

Our next door neighbour, a former British Gas engineer has launched out on his own. His initial plain white van has recently been graphically enhanced with colourful logos, Facebook and contact details at the very reasonable cost of £400. Having previously pondered and been advised against such action with a couple of my failed businesses, I was intrigued to know how effective the graphicisation (?….) has been. He says the business is flying with a full order book up to November and with over £9,000 worth of orders being directly attributable to the decorated van. That’s got to be pretty effective marketing in terms of bangs for your buck.

Talking of bucks, Callie (the whippet lurcher) is over the moon to be reunited with her family after a tiring week in kennels. She’s even more thrilled that she was able to have a good run on the Downs today, which included her favourite activity of chasing a deer, or buck as they call them in South Africa. However Mrs T was a bit alarmed when she realised that Callie had caused the little Bambi to become entangled in some barbed wire fencing. Fortunately passing cyclists had spotted the imbroglio and had firstly grabbed Callie and then freed the frightened fawn which frolicked off unharmed. Mrs T was given a right earful by the self-righteous pedallers, but she’s not one to back down. Thankfully I was transporting the son and heir to cricket at the time and avoided all confrontation.

Whilst listening to Radio 4 a little later I learned of another major downside of Lockdown and social abstinence. You may be unaware that there is a hormone called Oxytocin that is secreted by the posterior lobe of the pituitary gland, a pea-sized structure at the base of the brain. It’s released into the bloodstream in response to the stretching of a woman’s cervix and uterus during labour and with the stimulation of the nipples from breastfeeding to help with birth, bonding with the baby and milk production. However, it’s known too as  the “cuddle” or “love” hormone as it’s also released when people snuggle up or bond socially. The lack of cuddling and bonding amongst friends means there’s now a world shortage of oxytocin. As yet, I haven’t heard BoJo’s scientific advisers going on about this, but surely it’s only a matter of time? Will the Unions threaten strike action? Will Michel Barnier refuse to talk unless oxytocin is freely available on both sides of the channel? Will Prince Andrew claim he was merely increasing his oxytocin levels? Is the Duchess of Sussex suffering from an overdose of oxytocin? There are so many unanswered questions which once again the scientists will be called upon to unravel.

It’s a helluva lot less complicated and probably much more profitable being a heating engineer. I will recommend to Oliver to forget University, just do a plumbing apprenticeship. Neighbour Rob will undoubtedly need an assistant by then.

Scientists have discovered an almost foolproof test that will ascertain whether you have Alzheimer’s disease, twenty years before the onset of obvious symptoms. This is tremendously good news. It now means that instead of becoming increasingly grouchy and useless at 70, you can start anticipating the joys of ageing whilst still in the prime of life. If the combination of COVID, Lockdown, teenage children, recession/depression, pollution, state sponsored hackers and impending poverty weren’t enough to bring on terminal depression then this exciting news is surely all that was needed to curl up in a ball under the duvet and stay there longer than Rip Van Winkle.

I resisted the urge this morning as we are staying with an old school friend in Norfolk and he had kindly organised a day out at Pensthorpe Natural Park near Fakenham. If you’re interested in getting up close and personal with a Scaly-sided Merganser this is the place to go. They are handsome ducks whose natural habitat is The Great Forest of the Russian Far East where they are in danger of becoming extinct and Pensthorpe is therefore breeding them, along with red squirrels which can also be found in the Great Forest and they too are endangered. If plants are more your thing there’s a stunning Millennium Garden designed by the World Famous (so says the guide) Dutch designer Piet Oudolf. I am ashamed to confess that it’s a name that had previously escaped my attention but I am assured by my very knowledgeable hostess that he’s a Chelsea gold medal winner and a star of the global scene. With hints of Monet’s bridge and a wonderful kaleidoscope of colour and form it’s well worth a detour if you’re anywhere nearby.

Mine host is a farmer with his genus’s inbuilt ability to use his hands to great effect. At school I remember him whittling a block of wood for days that eventually became a spiral table lamp. His latest project has been to build a very upmarket tree house, quite high up in a large cherry tree at the bottom of the garden. It’s piece de resistance is a zip wire that allows you to jump out of the house and plunge earthwards at high speed towards the veggie patch; well ok, it’s a beautifully kept kitchen garden. My head for heights isn’t what it used to be, but I find a glass or three of vino helps enormously.

I am writing this under the stars in Peter and Gill’s stunning showcase garden, with the strong scent of tobacco plants wafting my way. I can still recall their names and mine and vaguely remember most of what I’ve done today, so hopefully Alzheimer’s hasn’t yet dug it’s icy claws into my ageing grey matter. I certainly won’t be taking any tests to find out.

 

A friend has just sent me details of The Plant Paradox, a book about supposedly good plants that actually contain lots of lectins, a chemical which protects the plant but isn’t necessarily good for humans…..apparently. As I have just been banned from consuming dairy, sugar, processed food, carbs, alcohol and anything else that could qualify as vaguely interesting and tasty, this comes as extremely bad news. Having been assaulting fruit and vegetables with a voraciousness normally reserved for chocolate in a bid for better health and reduced girth this brings my speed march to (and over) Beachy Head ever closer.  I’ve yet to delve into the pages of this depressing tome but apparently red peppers fall into the “could kill you one day” bracket. Red Peppers! Those deliciously sweet, harmless vegetables that taste good and add important colour to the plate. A small plus in favour of the unread manuscript is that it apparently comes down in favour of sheep’s and goat’s cheeses. The bonnie ba-baas of Sussex are producing some quite delicious fromage, which I have been forced to abandon under the new regime. Could I yet be allowed to return to the Barley Sugar cheese counter?

It brings to mind the whole question of experts. For every expert, be they scientific, financial or economic, that tells you one thing, you can invariably find another who will swear by the polar opposite. The whole Brexit debacle has been strewn with “experts”, who for the most part have been spectacularly wrong and we’ve now had months of medical and scientific experts offering all sorts of conflicting advice about the coronavirus, which the politicians have felt duty bound to slavishly follow. Take masks as an example. Despite the fact that they have long proved an effective way of preventing the spread of diseases in the Far East, we were assured that they were medically useless and we didn’t need to wear them. Now (volte face number ?) they have become an obligatory fashion item in the war against Covid 19.

Our Rotary Club Zoom lunch today was visited by the local MP who kindly gave of her time to speak to us and then answer questions. Well “answer” is probably being a little generous, unless a longwinded ramble around the subject and anything vaguely related, qualifies as an answer. What did get a lot of mentions though was “the science”. It’s become a political byword for obfuscation and lack of leadership. Let’s blame “the science” then if/when things go wrong we’ve always got something or someone else to blame. Her answer to a question about Schools was interesting. Apparently the biggest problem with getting our children back to their respective seats of learning has been that too many parents think it’s dangerous. This whole thing has become so distorted it’s almost laughable. Children are the least vulnerable to Covid of anyone in the whole population. Will our little darlings be prevented from returning to school for fear of catching a cold? Or nits? Statistically, boys and girls are at much greater risk of harm from playing sport than catching a nasty dose of Covid. I fear Social Media has a lot to answer for this, as well as our saintly media who insist on prefacing every mention of the virus with a horrifying adjective; “deadly”, “fatal”, “scary”, “terrifying” etc etc.

I fancy we’d be a whole lot better off if we switched off every electronic device we have and just sailed through life in blissful ignorance.

 

Alison (my wife) can be a little impetuous at times. Like the time recently when she rushed out and bought a second-hand mountain bike for son Oliver only to discover a few days later that it was a complete pup. Fortunately we recovered the cost and have since spent twice as much on a brand new Felt bike which is very good and being much enjoyed by the slothful youth. (Or is it youthful sloth?) Or when she succumbed to daughterly pressure and took the 13 year old to the ear-piercing parlour after I thought we had agreed she should wait. But the really sneaky move was pruning our lovely Smoke Bush (well it’s actually a tree now) early one morning without telling me. The limb reduction was needed, but it might have been more prudent to wait until the winter when the sap was flowing less energetically. Since her brutal assault more branches have curled up and the beautiful tree has taken on a somewhat careworn look. Dwarfed as it is by two enormous sycamores and a large ash it is somewhat misshapen anyway as it grapples for its own fresh space and sunlight. Like so many untended and unloved shrubs and bushes in our previously overgrown garden it has been allowed to swell and grow into  cherry tree size when it should only be a handsome bush with a spectacular variety of colours and displays throughout the year. I have hacked back numerous other bushes, which have responded well by sprouting new branches lower down, but with an eight inch thick trunk growing up to twenty five feet, I fear the Smokey has gone beyond such cavalier treatment. It will be interesting now to see how many more branches give up the will to live. It may be that the whole thing will decide to die back anyway, in which case we may yet end up with a shrub once again, albeit one with an enormous main stem!

I had a boss once in my Army Air Corps days who acted first and thought afterwards. (Although I fear the second part was sometimes missing). He believed that instant decision making was an essential part of good leadership. At times it is, but I believe there are other occasions when a little pre-meditation doesn’t go amiss. To say he was hung-ho would be to under-estimate his impetuosity. On one occasion we were flying our helicopters back from Northern Ireland to our base in Germany, via a pit stop at Netheravon in Wiltshire. He was leading the four ship formation in a twin-engined Lynx, with a flight commander on either side in single-engined Gazelles and me at the back of the diamond formation in another Lynx. When flying in formation, it’s the Leader’s job to navigate and set the course, while the rest just follow his lead, making sure they don’t fly into each other. If the Leader flies into a hill, the rest will follow! We were only cleared for VFR or Visual Flight Rules, in other words we had to maintain visual contact with the ground. Somewhere over the Irish Channel, he lead us into thick cloud. It was an incredibly dangerous situation which should never have happened and his cavalier attitude could have killed us all. Fortunately the two wing men were experienced aviators and they immediately peeled off left and right and called up Ulster Radar for a radar controlled descent, which they both achieved without mishap. The Lynx is better equipped for instrument flying and I maintained my height, speed and heading until we popped out of the cloud and I could see our “Leader” some way ahead. We all made our way individually to Netheravon where his wife met us with a picnic. He was totally unconcerned, as if almost unaware of the mayhem behind that was totally his responsibility. He was an experienced flyer, having previously been leader of The Blue Eagles, The Corps’ Display Team. To this day I can’t believe it actually happened.

The ability to make quick decisions can often be a lifesaver….but not always.

If you’ve never swung a golf club in anger you might find it hard to appreciate the pain, the highs and lows involved in walking eighteen holes whilst smashing a little white ball from tee to green and beyond. You might think that as it’s a stationary ball and you are static, it really shouldn’t be too much of a problem. Ha! Think again. At a physical level, the average player swings a driver at somewhere around 100 miles per hour. The top guys get it up to 120 mph or more. The ball leaves that clubhead at 180 plus and will fly over 300 yards. It only takes a very small change in the club path for the ball to veer off into the trees or out of bounds rather than straight down the fairway. Golfers strive for a repetitive swing so they increase their chances of playing their next shot from the cut grass.

That’s all physical, but probably an even bigger part of the game is mental. From set-up to finish, each shot might take a minute. (the swing itself is over in seconds). Assuming a round takes four hours and you take eighty shots, that leaves an awful long time to walk and think. Plenty of time to allow the brain to get in the way. With water left and out of bounds right it takes a strong mind to think positively and not “don’t go left, don’t go right”. The brain is such a powerful influence that such thoughts often induce the very thing you are trying to avoid.

The ability to remain patient, control your emotions and stay calm is a huge asset if you have professional aspirations. Years ago, a South African pro, The Beast of Boksberg was playing at the appropriately named Wild Coast. Things had gone from bad to worse and as he left the course the contents of his bag were deposited in a nearby bin, unsuitable for further use. Pro golfers are supplied with free clubs by the manufacturers. Such profligacy would be expensive for amateurs. Such behaviour is certainly frowned upon by the Pro Tours and he would undoubtedly have received a heavy fine for his impetuosity.

The great South African golfer, Ernie Els, has always maintained that if you really want to get to know someone, play a round of golf with him or her. (or them) The best business interviews are often conducted on the golf course. Such are the mental demands of the game it takes a considerable effort to hide your natural tendencies.

The wonderful thing about golf though is that it’s a rare round when you don’t hit a few good shots and it’s those that keep you coming back; that magical feeling when everything works in the correct sequence and the ball flies out of the middle of the club, straight and true down the fairway. It’s amazing how often it happens that, however badly you’ve played, you crunch a perfect drive down the middle of the 18th fairway. If you’ve yet to experience the frustrations of this wonderful game and are contemplating starting, be prepared for it to grab you by the short and curlies and change your life forever!

Like so many of my fellow countrymen, Lockdown has encouraged yours truly to venture forth on two wheels, which can involve a lot of climbing with the Sussex Downs rising steeply behind Eastbourne. The flat option is to cycle along the coast, which I confess has been my preferred choice most of the time.

Cycle sales have gone through the roof, with a dramatic increase in mountain biking in particular. But electric bikes have also become popular, despite their elevated price. I’ve always been somewhat dismissive of them, as the electric power seems to defeat the whole purpose of cycling for good health. However, whilst enjoying some Welsh hospitality yesterday, I was allowed a brief excursion on my hostesses’s new birthday present. My cynicism was rapidly deflated as this wonderful sensation of power kicks in as soon as the pedals turn. You still have to work quite hard, especially going uphill, but it allows you to zoom up even steep slopes at a good pace. It was a Damascene conversion even quicker than Saul’s. My father always used to smoke St Julien pipe tobacco, but I am certainly not expecting imminent canonisation; merely that I am now saving up for my first electric bike. Having just spent seven hundred quid on a new mountain bike for Master Oliver, I fear it may be some time before I become jet-propelled though.

I was visiting old friends in Wales, not seen for many a moon. The all too brief sojourn included a men’s four on a neighbour’s hard court, the three hard sets of which left me feeling closer to eighty than sixty, followed the next day by a round of golf at the superb Royal Porthcawl links. After swallowing the much needed ibuprofen we set forth with all the enthusiasm of young stags. My old buddy is a former Captain of RPGC and a regular Club Champion, but he started uncharacteristically poorly while I hit enough good shots to encourage hope of a close contest. However, by the turn he was firing on all (or nearly all) cylinders whilst I was investigating parts of the beautiful course that are normally only visited by rabbits and snakes. My hopelessness was all the more depressing having convinced myself that I had found the “secret”. It was a rare outing and like many players I find that I become a considerably better player the longer I don’t play. The problem is that I was playing from memory and my memory is now almost non-existent.

My uselessness of the fields of battle has finally convinced me that a major effort is required to reduce the girth, which has grown more than somewhat in recent months. My wonderful guru says cut out gluten, dairy and sugar (most carbs). Alison (my wife) has just achieved an incredibly disciplined remodelling and so it’s time for me to follow suit. I am hoping that by going public with this, my resolve might be stiffened. As the old Vera Lynn song goes, “wish me luck, as you wave me goodbye….”

 

A week is a long time in blog writing. Too long. To assist my legion of devoted fans, all three of you will now have some surety (I hope) as to when my pen will next leave a trail of witticisms for your delectation. The committee in Blog Tower (somewhat smaller than The Donald version) has decided that in future, JaJa99 will be published twice a week, on Mondays and Fridays. Your correspondent will make every endeavour to stick to this new schedule, however, he apologises in advance for any lapses.

Lest you are a new reader, I should explain the relevance of the title. If you know your german (the language that is) you will realise that Ja is “yes” and 9 or nein is “no”. Hence “Yes Yes, No No”, reflecting a certain indecision on my part. There was also an element of “Jaw Jaw not War War” is my distorted thinking which now sounds rather lame. It was all in salute to a German friend who inspired me to get writing in the first place. I am already regretting the attempted explanation.

I am writing this in the picturesque outskirts of Bath, a City I first became acquainted with in 1972 whilst serving at RAF Colerne, a couple of miles outside the beautiful Georgian City with Roman undertones. My military travels dictated that two decades would elapse before I returned to live, for the next twenty two years, in the charming little village of Upper South Wraxall. A mere drive and long iron from Bath, it meant I was a frequent visitor to arguably England’s most attractive conurbation. Walking its storied (sorry I hate that Americanism, but somehow it crept in) streets on a sadly infrequent visit today, brought all sorts of happy memories flooding back. Who knows when the magnificent Theatre Royal will once again open its post Covid doors? Alongside it stands the house where Beau Nash lived and died in 1761. In about 1973 it opened its doors as Popjoys, a suitably stylish and not inexpensive restaurant named after Nash’s amour Juliana, who by all accounts was a hostess of great style and flair. As handsomely paid young officers we used to dine there so regularly the staff knew our names. It’s called something else now, I forget what. Another of Bath’s treasures, which you probably won’t find in the Guide Book, is John Moore Sports. Somewhat unsurprisingly it’s a sports shop owned and run by John Moore. The point being, it’s one of any number of privately owned shops that litter the maze of side streets that give Bath its unique character. It’s one of those rare emporiums (emporia?) where you’ve got a very good chance of finding almost anything you want, whilst being served by expert assistants who know what they’re talking about and who will offer unbiased and knowledgeable advice without trying to sell you something you really didn’t want. Matt very kindly re-gripped my tennis racket with a grip I supplied and without charge. It’s not as grand as Bath Abbey or as historic as the Roman Baths, but it’s still worth a visit next time you are in need of retail therapy in Bath. The depressingly apparent fact as I strolled around the familiar alleyways is that Covid has taken its toll. There are any number of empty premises where once privately owned ventures plied their wares. Will they ever return? Who knows, but I fear the answer is probably “no” as the recession/depression digs its icy claws into a public that has largely forgotten what mass unemployment and fifteen to twenty percent interest rates means. It was like that back in the Seventies when Bath was my playground. When Bath Rugby was an amateur club that nobody had heard of except we enthusiastic “locals”. When journeying in and out didn’t involve negotiating the car park that is London Road. When Milsom Street was the City’s hub and the whole Southern development wasn’t even a fig of the imagination. When Bath was still part of Somerset and not the hideously manufactured “Avon”, long since disbanded in favour of the unitary authority “Bath and North East Somerset” or BANES. The wonderful thing is though that Bath still maintains all its old character; in fact the recent developments have only enhanced the City and modernised it in the most delightful and pleasing way. It’s no wonder that a million plus visitors flock to the place every year…..well they did until Covid kiboshed it.