Blog Feed – Page 3 – 2020 – A Year of Perfect Vision

That Hand

I can’t say I’m one for taking to the keyboard when someone in the public eye shuffles off this mortal coil, but this morning’s news about the premature demise of Mr Maradonna has got me thinking. Rather fittingly, as it happens, I’m no longer interested in football, largely because of the whole culture of cheating which has long since become part and parcel of the so-called beautiful game. Frankly, I cannot stomach the play-acting, the diving, the waving of invisible cards, and all the other bullshit designed to gain an unfair advantage.

My problem is this. As always, it is related to cycling. As anyone will tell you (because they once saw a documentary about a gobby Texan) cycling is riddled with cheats. Well, yes. It has a somewhat regrettable history, of this there can be no doubt. My point is that the widespread perception of cheating in cycling is problematic. The response of sports fans and the general public is disproportionate, irrational, unfathomable, especially when compared to other sports. Here, I’ll stick with football, by which I mean soccer, if you’re reading this where football is a game played by people dressed in armour and helmets, and where most of said game has actually nothing to do with feet being in contact with a ball. But, anyway…

Come to think of it, I know I’ve been down this road before, so I shall not dwell on the finer points. Rather, what has been bothering me today has been precisely the opposite of what I have railed against in the past; namely, the burden of being labelled a cheat in football. Poor Mr Maradonna. Just what did he do to bring this upon himself? Well, clearly, there was that goal, with the help of that hand, but even today on learning of his death, it is the dominant memory being expressed on certain media channels across England. If you don’t know what I mean, just check out some of the headlines from across the gutter press. If you don’t want to get a sense of the level of ill-feeling which still persists around the incident, probably best not look at Twitter, eh?

Pity Headlines? UK Papers Under Fire for Coverage of Maradona's Death

It’s very odd. At least, I think it’s very odd. When I ventured this way last time, I recall being perplexed at the inconsistencies surrounding how we look at cheats and cheating. Take any football match on any pitch in any league on any given match day and tell me that there is not blatant cheating happening right there for all to see. It is quite open. It is part of the game. See above. The point I have made previously is that such cheating is largely condoned, if not literally applauded. “Smith has ‘gone to ground’ in the penalty area. [The defender made a perfectly legitimate tackle, but the referee was fooled]. Anychester FC have been awarded a penalty. The home fans go crazy! Jones scores from the spot. The title is Anychester’s!” Nowhere will anyone remember in the hours, weeks, months and years to come that AFC won the championship in the last game of the season following a dive by Smith. Smith will not for evermore be introduced in articles and interviews as ‘that bloke who dived [read: cheated] to earn his side a penalty and subsequent victory’, nor will it make his obituary in The Grauniad in 2053.

But here we have poor Diego. The exception to prove the rule.

As for cycling, I’m no fan of Mr Armstrong, but he will never escape his past. But what about the others? There is a long list of cycling champions of years gone by, tainted by the D word. Our [Britain’s] own Tom Simpson is still revered by most, but look at what killed him and what they found in his pockets on that fateful afternoon on the Ventoux. At what point does the cheat and the cheating cross some imaginary line between the acceptable and the Maradonna/Armstrong? It’s fucking weird. Cheating is cheating, at whatever level. It’s a bit like being a little bit pregnant. You either are or you aren’t. I think it’s what is known as a binary. Diving in the penalty are is cheating. The end.

Unless it’s your team and you go on to win, obviously.

Covidiot

A couple of weeks ago, I became entagled in a discussion about privacy concerns. Discussion is perhaps a generous term. After several attempts to explain the issue, I had to conclude that I was an idiot, simply to close the conversation. Actually, I stated publically “clearly, I am an idiot.” Now, some of you may disagree, but I am somewhat confident that I am not an idiot. I have undoubtedly made some idiotic choices and decisions over the years, but an idiot, no. Probably. [I may return to the specifics in due course, so stay tuned.]

Yesterday morning, I woke to find that a certain individual in the UK has declared that he will be re-branding his political(?) party. I don’t care to name the clown, but his initials, rather fittingly, match those of the National Front. He seems to be given an inordinate amount of time on the BBC and in/on other media outlets for reasons which are beyond me. There’s nothing new in all of this, but the point that hit me like a speeding train right between the eyes, is that the primary reasoning for re-branding/re-naming the party was to make a stand against the lockdown restrictions in England/the UK. Forgive me if the details are a little vague, but I chose not to look too deeply into the whys and wherefores as I was feeling a little nauseous. A lot nauseous, in fact. You see, the fact that I have – for some time now – been increasingly sceptical about the whole response to the pandemic, seems to suggest to me that I have inadvertantly been aligning myself with this vile creature and his kind. Right now, the nausea has returned, ten-fold. Why? Because…

“Clearly, I am a covidiot.”

Covidiot. Isn’t that a horrible term? No doubt, someone is feeling pretty smug at having come up with that one back at the beginning of this crisis, but it has become a catch-all moniker for anyone daring to query or challenge the official line. In many cases, it is probably perfectly justifiable, but it has been applied so liberally of late, it too makes me nauseous.

I doubt it will make any difference whatsoever, but having been thinking about this for a day, I wanted to try to make some sense of those thoughts. When facing similar mental struggles in the past, this has sometimes meant sitting and writing, to try to figure out exactly what I feel. Rambling. Reasoning. Re-reading. Re-writing. I’ve been away from here for many weeks, so maybe today is the right time to dust off the old typewriter. Remember those?

I’ve been going back over the key things that have crossed my mind since the beginning of this year. 2020. Not a year of perfect vision, but a year (so far) of confusion, frustration, desperation and, to some extent, despair. What follows is a selection of comments and observations about the moments that I recall as being important in shaping the way I have analysed what is going on. I should state for the record that my memory is shite, so apologies in advance for any errors and omissions.

Back at the start of the year, it seemed we were about to be struck down in our millions. It’s probably fair to say that most people were just a little bit worried. I soon came to learn a few details about the so-called Spanish Flu. I’d heard of it, but had never thought to explore the details. It seemed clear that we should prepare for a global pandemic, and we were afraid. Here, the (Chinese) New Year school break was extended by a couple of weeks while the authorities figured out what to do.

To date, Taiwan has recorded 7 or 8 deaths attributable to Covid-19. By anyone’s standards, the way spread of the virus has been handled here has been nothing short of incredible. Life has continued pretty much as normal, except that people have stopped travelling abroad, while those returning or coming here on business have been quarantined. Taiwan is a small island; the people are used to paying attention to men with batons and whistles; masks have long been part of the national fashion psyche. It is very different to Europe, the UK and the USA. Honestly, my fear now is that this will never go away. There is not a cat in hell’s chance that there will be any kind of community immunity. We’ll have to wait for the vaccine.

The vaccine? Here’s the thing. My understanding is that a coronavirus is a common cold virus. We’ve never been able to create a vaccine for that. I think I read that we (in the UK) had a research institute dedicated to finding one, but it shut after 48 years of failure. This may or may not be true. How can I be sure? We don’t have a vaccine for quite a few deadly diseases. What is so special about Covid-19? Why are we so sure that we can fix it with a vaccine? I don’t understand the rationale.

I distinctly remember my dad showing me a photograph of a site in China (presumably in or near Wuhan) on which a temporary hospital was being built in 8 days. There were dozens of JCB-type vehicles working, preparing for the builders to take over. “Crikey! This really does look serious…!” is what I thought. Sure enough, we heard about multiple deaths in China over a period of weeks. The odd thing was that after what seemed like only a month or two, I then saw news that the aforementioned hospital was being dismantled, as a result of which I further distinctly remember thinking that things surely weren’t going to be as bad as first imagined. It was a moment of relief. Then came news of Italy. Fuck! They were dropping like flies. Apparently.

Lockdowns all over the place. Flatten the curve, they said. Made sense. Kind of. Nightingale hospitals built a great expense. Clapping for NHS staff. We can handle this! Well, you lot back in the UK seemed to be pulling together. Stiff upper lip, and all that.

Then I got wind of some data doing the rounds, suggesting that the deaths were following this trend called the Gompertz curve on graphs. I was curious. One thing led to another. I learnt about Sweden and what they had done, or not done. I found out about a few things which gave cause for concern. For one, the chap from Imperial College who came up with the model showing half a million deaths to be expected in the UK had a slightly iffy track record. Apparently. See Bird Flu, Swine Flu, SARS. I have no idea how I can be sure if this is true or not, but several sources have claimed that he has been consistently wrong with his predictions over several recent years. In spite of this, the UK government, and many others around the world, I believe, decided to build their strategies around the numbers he predicted. To the best of my knowledge, there has been no proper scrutiny and testing of the results from the model. I find this rather troubling. This leads me to another example.

A few weeks ago, I had a back-and-forth exchange with a chap on Twitter. This chap happened to be a columnist on The Times (or possibly The Sunday Times, I forget). Anyway, the exchange was very good natured. I was curious, so I remained polite. Without boring you with the full details, the main outcome of the conversation was this…

The columnist was having a go at another columnist who had dared to suggest that lockdowns were likely to do more harm than good (or someting along those lines). Columnist 1 was clearly not a fan of columnist 2. So far, no problem with that. When I asked him (for the sake of balance) to retweet to his own followers an article by columnist 2, he responded by saying that he wouldn’t because he was opposed to the website on which the article had been posted. Fair enough.

However, I subsequently discovered that both columnists had also written for another publication at one time. This is a respectable and worthy publication, as far as I am aware. In this publication, columnist 2 had made a claim that a prominent professor (Oxford or Cambridge, again I forget which) had been gagged by the BBC. At least, said professor had appeared on a BBC programme and had been instructed not to mention something she supported in relation to the merits of seeking the infamous ‘herd immunity’. By all accounts, she had nonetheless proceded to ignore the attempted muzzling. Anyway, my point is that I was surprised that columnist 1 had not taken it upon himself to investigate the veracity of this claim. Irrespective of his opinion of columnist 2, surely any reasonable person in his position might find it important to investigate why a prominent professor with expertise in this field would be being censored (at least that was the intent) by the national broadcaster. On similar lines, I have read countless reports of things being deleted/banned/censored on certain Internet outlets, even when they are (apparently) clearly attributable to bona fide experts. How can I know if this is true? I can’t.

Then I read about a prominent national TV presenter confirming that media outlets must comply strictly with Ofcom rules during a national crisis like this. Again, I have no way of knowing if any of this is true, but throughout the whole pandemic to date, in the mainstream media there has been a distinct lack of criticism on the subject. It’s no wonder people are still afraid. They only ever get to hear the bad stuff.

I have seen countless graphs and graphics showing that the number of deaths has declined, as expected if compared to almost any other virus of this nature. More testing has resulted in more cases. That is pretty obvious, but why test those who are not sick? We have never routinely tested for influenza or any other virus, as far as I know. The figures showing the risk of death by age-group seem to indicate that the virus is nowhere near as deadly as we were told. Why have we not seen mountains of bodies being buried around the world’s slums? Surely the virus would have ripped through such places with consumate ease? I don’t know. How could I find out? Who should I believe?

I have been drawn to a small group of experts (several of which are Oxford, Cambridge, Harvard professors), who have been analysing the data and suggesting that the various responses around the world have been misguided or disproportionate or irrational or irresponsible or illogical. At least, they seem to be taking an alternative view of the problem. I have not seen this as a political issue, as such. I have not considered their views as left-wing, right-wing or any other wing, for that matter, but it seems that several of the media… erm…, ‘personalities’ that are also coming out in favour of a more rational(?) approach (as promoted by these experts) are not the kind of people with which I would care to be associated, so I am confused about the direction this is going. Hence my sense of nausea on discovering what NF was up to. Then I saw the following Tweet, and it all made a little more sense:
“CAPITALISE on peoples fears and worries for their family and livelihoods in this difficult time by opportunistically forming a new political party.” [@MrLemonDrizzle, retweetd by @TwopTwips]

I cannot help but come back to what has been bothering me for so long. It’s all about proportionate responses. I mentioned 7 or 8 Covid deaths in Taiwan. We have that every single fucking day on the roads here. The vast majority are utterly pointless and entirely avoidable, if only drivers were taught and tested properly. What is the Taiwan government doing about it? Almost nothing. It is an ongoing epidemic. It is not peculiar to Taiwan, I am sure, but having been so brilliant at dealing with Covid-19, where is the will to rid these shores of the drividiots? I probably mentioned it in an earlier posting, but the day I took my son back to school after the 2-week holiday extension, there were two police officers at the school gate preventing anyone other than (masked) children entering the school. Fair enough, I thought… until I stood and watched for a few moments as several locals arrived on their scooters driving along the wrong side of the road, kids helmetless (but masked, obvs) after having just jumped the red light at the busy junction 50 metres away. Police response? Well, what do you think?

I guess, while I’m on the subject of proportionate responses, what about dealing with some of the other issues that have come into sharp focus this year? Yes, clap for the NHS, but how about paying the nurses a decent wage, while stopping MPs from enjoying subsidised food and booze in the House of Commons? If that’s true – how would I know? – it’s complete and utter bollocks. Where is the sense of justice and decency?

Oh, and where was the just and proportionate response to that clown who drove off to Barnard Castle to test his eyesight? Is it any wonder that Joe Public isn’t too bothered about sticking to the rules? Sure, s/he will be pilloried and labeled a covidiot, but s/he is likely just your average Brit, and always remember that the average person is pretty stupid. You can fill in the rest.

As for these ‘rules’, I wish to God someone would come up with sound evidence for their efficacy. You could go to the pub, but had to be out by 10pm? What the actual fuck? What about the different rules where food is being served? It is nonsensical? Or is it? How would I know?

Let me finish with this, a headline which just appeared on my laptop. “The elite have not had to overcome adversity and are therefor ill-equipped to cope in a crisis.” The members of the government in the UK, in a nutshell.

Good night.

Three weeks. Three years

Yesterday brought to a close the belated 2020 edition of the Tour. Le Tour. Although I wasn’t able to follow procedings as closely as I would have liked (we should have been in England during the race, had it been held as scheduled and had the world not gone into meltdown in the meantime), at least I could see a fair bit of the ITV4 coverage. I guess I could have seen more, but I don’t work well on too many late nights, especially since I have to be up early every morning to see the lad off to school, or to get out for a ride at the weekends. Which brings me nicely to the mysterious three years of the title…

Actually, it’s hardly a mystery. Yesterday also marked the third birthday of my daughter. Three years have simply flashed by, causing me, once more, to ponder the meaning of life and how little time we have. If and when she reaches my current age, I will then be 113 years old. Somehow, I think that I ain’t gonna be there to see that happen. Ever the pessimist, eh?

Anyway. I feel the need to declare publically that I was not favour of having a second child. Coming late to fatherhood, I was absolutely bowled over the day I learnt that I was to have a son (thanks to an accidental revelation of his undercarriage during routine scan). Multiply that sentiment by about 1,000 on the day he was born, and I will readily admit to being the most happy, proud, relieved, tired and scared I had ever been up until that point in my life. I shed multiple tears that evening as I sat with him in my arms for the first time. Then, as I looked into his eyes, I realised that one day he too will shuffle off this mortal coil, just like the rest of us. More tears.

Then followed six years of mixed emotions. The usual dad/parent stuff, no doubt, but because I had found the experience so difficult, it seemed folly to want to create another little person who would end up in exactly the same way as their parents and sibling. When I say difficult, I mean difficult. Yes, being a dad has probably been the most rewarding experience of my life, and, undoubtedly, it has literally given me a reason to get up in the morning, but it has been difficult in ways that many would probably not have experienced. Cultural differences have meant that virtually all of my ideas about how to raise a child have had to be compromised, if not entirely scrapped. Here is not the time nor the place to elaborate, but just imagine being an ageing foreigner in a strange land, the primary carer of a toddler (as was firstborn on our arrival here) with almost no support network (inasmuch as I’d come to understand and appreciate such things back in the Old Country), and unable to communicate effectively with family members. Of course, it was my choice to come – the option was unthinkable – but I have had to work around multiple obstacles, while others remain impenetrable to this day. So, back to my beautiful daughter. The second child. The ostensibly unwanted second child.

Clearly, I could not be without her now, but when the idea of a second child first cropped up, all I could imagine was a repeat of the previous three or four years, so I voted against the proposal, not wishing to spend several more years of my life re-living the pain, fear, anger, disappointment, hurt and despair I had somehow managed to survive. Inevitably my vote didn’t count, and to be fair, I conceded that should I be successful in providing the key to the creation of a second little person, it would be entirely for the sake of their brother and for their mother. Not for me. Ultimately, as the more astute among you will have calculated, the *ahem* providing of the key took rather longer than anticipated, so even getting to the blue cross moment was fraught with angst, frustration, multiple tests and procedures, such that it seemed we had missed the fertility boat altogether. Probably too much information, but there you go. Major moments in my life cannot be simply swept under the carpet just to save you from feeling a little queazy. It’s your imagination at work, not mine.

Clearblue Rapid Detection Pregnancy Test, Value Pack, 1 Count | Dollar General

Now, here I sit, contemplating a good fifteen years ahead of me (should I manage to survive the perils of pandemics, road mayhem and cycling too much), rising each morning for the school run until my daughter is ready to pack her bags and head off to some university, kibbutz or Thai beach gap year.

Unwanted she (or, more precisely, it) may have been, but I’m dealing with her in the only way I can, safe in the knowledge that I will make the same mistakes, feel the same pain, despair and frustration as I did with number one. I have given up trying to change anything.

We’ll all end up the same way, so what’s the point?

HP Sorcery

Never mind what I wrote, yesterday; I should have brought you up to date on the Potter situation.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone (2001) - IMDb

I think I admitted to having taken to reading about Ms Rowling’s finest. I did this for two reasons: (i) my son (aged 9) had finally got stuck in and I thought I’d better keep abreast of what he was, erm, learning; and (ii) I’d read a few things about JKR, and I wanted to discover for myself whether she deserved my son’s time and attention.

Now, if slightly later than planned, I am happy to report that I have now read (and enjoyed) the whole septology. Did I make up a similar word last time? Not sure, but for those unaware, there are seven books in the HP saga. I was constantly flying approximately one volume behind the lad, but not one spoiler escaped his lips, for which I am very thankful as the story was entertaining, thought provoking and gripping to the very end.

I have yet to see any of the films, and I suppose there’s a chance I will take a look sooner or later as the children grow and demand their chance to put faces to the names, but for the time being, there will be no more HP sourced thrills in my daily life.

As for JKR, I was concerned that she was being pilloried without good cause. Now, I am rather confident that I was correct in my assumption. Yes, she decided to voice some comments and opinions on Twitter, but the vitriol and hatred which followed was, frankly, unwarranted. I suspect that most of those venting their uninformed spleens had never even opened the cover of any of the books which have made Ms Rowling so well-known. Here is my brief assessment.

The Harry Potter stories are about many things. Wizards and witches, spells and potions, giants and massive spiders, wands and invisibility cloaks (well, one particular cloak to be precise), children and teachers, love and hate, loyalty and betrayal, centaurs and unicorns, gingers and elves. So far, so kids’ books. Nothing wrong with that.

For those doubting JK’s politics, the stories are also concerned with rather more serious topics. Racism, intolerance, otherness, difference, xenophobia, authoritarianism, totalitarianism, torture, lies, deceit, slavery, evil. I could go on. Of course, ultimately [spoiler alert], good overcomes all this, but it was all imagined and written by somebody who must have had a sound understanding of these issues. In my humble opinion, there can be little doubt where she stands.

Break

I keep thinking about this.

While it began as something of a catharsis, the more I keep thinking and writing about what I am thinking, the more I find myself questioning the very purpose. It’s now turned in on itself and it’s making me feel worse.

So.

I think I’ll give it a rest.

At least Le Tour is about to begin (a couple of months late), so there will be three weeks in which I can lose myself in some pointless bike racing taking place half way around the world. It’ll mean some late nights.

In the meantime, do yourselves a favour and look at some of the data kicking around in relation to Covid-19.

Au revoir, et bon chance.

Belonging

I’ve been struggling with this for some time. For most of my adult life, I suppose.

I’ve never wanted to follow the crowd, nor belong to that crowd; I’ve never joined in too much when it wasn’t for me; I’ve resisted temptation and pressure. I hope I’ve always been true to myself, and to my principles, however flawed they may be. I guess this is probably the issue at hand and why I am struggling to make any progress, especially now that the world is in turmoil, with no end in sight. There is too much out there that makes no sense to me. It’s a world in which I don’t feel at home.

Lately, I’ve found this question of belonging rising back up to the surface, where it cannot be ignored. I live in a society which is very different to that I knew in the West for the first fifty-something years of my life. I am not complaining. Taiwan has an awful lot to offer, and it is the place I have chosen to call home, but it is very different. I just fear that I will never actually belong here. I will always be an outsider. The way I think and act is alien to most people here. In fact, the way I think and act is probably alien to most people back in the Old Country, too. Come to think of it, I don’t think I belong there either, but I would like to go back to check.

Day to day, I’m trying to do what’s best for my children. They have given me unexpected joy, fear, happiness, anger, and frustration, but mostly they have given me a purpose. For the first time, I feel that I have done something worthwhile with my life. I will do whatever I can to ensure they have the best start to their lives, but it isn’t easy when you don’t belong. There is nothing I can do to put right the things which cause me so much grief. Simple things. How do I get anyone to listen? I don’t belong, so who cares what I think?

Maybe I should just stop thinking.

Sorry. I’ve been on the G&T, and got into a bit of a ramble. I could have done better with a clear head.

Whinge

Okay, I have to admit, sometimes I do feel the need to have a bit of a whinge. Only if it’s 100% justifiable, mind. Today, I think I am justified appropriately. Correction: I know I am justified. Your view may vary, should you decide to read on.

Just a few days ago, I happened to be out in our older motor. We’re so middle class, innit. It’s another hidously un-PC SUV, I’m ashamed to have to tell you. That it’s a Ford Kuga makes it slightly less shameful, at least in my head, where I still see the trusty old Ford as a veritable car of the people. Actually, I think that’s the Volkswagen, although Henry may have thought otherwise, as long as it’s black.

There I am, approaching said motor, pressing the unlock button on the key fob. The car lights up like a Christmas tree and the mirrors fold out. It’s quite a nice feature, especially if you’re in a parked in a dark spot and can’t quite remember where you left the beast. However, one of the wannabe Christmas lights was blown. The offside, front parking light. It’s low down in a cluster, wedged between the fog light and the indicator light. Just like this one:

The sharp-eyed among you will have possibly spotted that there are no screws visible, and you may well have deduced that this part cannot be easily removed to gain access to replace the lamp. Fear not, Goooooogle and Youtube soon offered up the ‘how to’. It entailed removing half a dozen screws and a few plastic peg thingummies from the wheel arch, so that the liner could be pulled away allowing just enough access to reach in to the lamp holder assembly, assuming your arms are long enough and skinny enough, like yours truly’s. Not exactly easy, or comfortable, but actually rather pointless as I simply could not manage to extract the lamp itself from the housing. I swore quite a lot. You would have done the same.

Now, being a reasonable sort of bloke, I figured I must have done something silly, so I returned to that Internet and double checked. This time, I managed to locate the Ford Kuga Manual, in which I was rather delighted (by which I mean flabbergasted, if not right royally pissed off) to find this little nugget of information:

Sharp-eyed again, or simply able to read. Whatever. Let me make it 100% clear. “The position and direction indicator bulbs are not serviceable items, see an authorized dealer if they fail.”

You have got to be F**ding kidding me. It’s a bloody Ford. A Ford with no simple means of replacing a blown lamp. The end of the world is nigh.

Yes, I know. First World problems, and all that.

Diamond Geezers

There’s so much I could write to mark the occasion of my mum and dad’s sixtieth wedding anniversary, today. I could, but I won’t. It’s their day. No point in me rambling on, so here are just a few random observations.

I could be typically crass and make some comment about a couple of life sentences, and then some. I’d probably do that if I were there in person, but I can’t do it here in writing, obviously.

I could point out that they were married just 15 years after the end of the Second World War, but that would make them sound really old, so I won’t do that either. Respectful son and heir, me.

I could tell you I have just done a quick calculation and found out that they’ve been married for 21,915 days, but that would be a lie. I just looked it up on Goooooogle. Calculation, my arse.

I could be sat in Oswestry, feet up in the back garden, watching the children running around in the garden, while I supped a glass of beer with me dad, or uncorking a bottle of fizz, or sampling a spiced rum, but the world’s gone mad, so here I sit, miles away, sweltering. Come to think of it, I think I’ll hit the Gordon’s and tonic any moment now.

I could just say Happy 60th Wedding Anniversary, you two. So proud to call you my mum and dad. I can barely recall a cross word between us in all these years, and you have never been anything but supportive of me (and my siblings!), for which I/we shall be eternally grateful. I’m sorry we can’t be there, but it’s probably just as well, as I’d never have told you this in person, eh? Probably. Enjoy the day. I, for one, shan’t be around after the next 60 years.

Love and best wishes from the Taiwan contingent. Let’s keep our fingers crossed for a Christmas visit.

xxxx

What’s in a Name?

A couple of days ago, my dear old pal Andy checked to see if everything was okay. I’d not posted anything for several days, so he was a little concerned. I was rather touched by this, to be honest. Then he only went and spoiled the moment by suggesting that he was only worried that I had nothing to whinge about. Bastard! I don’t whinge. I observe stuff which makes me slightly irritated, or confused, or upset, or happy, so I write about it. Whinge. Pah! How very dare you, Smith!

Fear not. He’s old enough and big enough (sort of) to take it on the chin, and we’ll carry on like nothing happened. Move along, please. There’s nothing to see here.

Whinger or not, I did actually spot something about which I planned to scribble, yesterday. Plans were somewhat scuppered by that crockery catastrophe, so my initial enthusiasm for what now follows has been dampened a little. Sorry if it’s lacking the sparkle to which you’ve become accustomed over the past seven months, but here goes.

There I was, driving along, minding my own business. Yes, really. Nothing was offending me, bothering me, endangering me or my offspring, so the business being minded was indeed all mine. Then, there it was, pulling alongside our lovely blue Subaru Forester. I could have simply explained that it was pulling alongside our car, but I’m including that specific detail for good reason. The reason being that, to my left, I was rather thrilled to realise that I was being passed by some old bloke in a rather fabulous Nissan Cedric. I’ve not seen one here before, as far as I can recall, but it made my day, only because in that moment I really, really, wished that I could have been in that meeting. You know, that meeting in which a group of middle-aged Japanese fellas sat around a large oval table and decided that their latest motor should be given that most wonderful of all car monikers. Cedric. Just let that sink in for a moment. A Nissan Cedric. What the actual fuc…

…hsia pink, it was. Probably.

File:Nissan Cedric Hardtop 430.jpg - Wikipedia

That Subaru of ours. A Forester. I’m not proud of the fact that we own one of those oft-reviled SUV-type motors, but it’s solid, reliable, safe and having the benefit of 4-wheel drive, it could probably aquit itself adequately in an off-road scenario. Perhaps in a Forest. The name is kind of fitting. Subaru also have the Outback and the Legacy, the XV and the BRZ, not to mention the Impreza. It’s all very confusing.

Taking a look back into the darkest depths of my (dreadful) memory, I’m pretty sure that a certain J Clarkson once wrote about the Mitsubishi Starion, which he claimed was supposed to be called the Stallion, but this was misheard and/or pronounced incorrectly in the stereotypical Japanese style, what with their difficulty in pronouncing the letter ‘l’ correctly and all that. I suspect the story is apocryphal, but it could be true. Let’s face it, Ford have the Mustang, so a Mitsubishi Stallion would sound rather appealing to the executives, I imagine.

The more I think about it, the more it strikes me as a difficult task for car manufacturers, and I guess it will become increasingly more difficult as all the best names have been taken. Stingray. Barracuda. Challenger. Viper. Anglia. Cortina. Fiesta. Sunny. Maybe not. The worst names clearly have no bounds. Ask Cedric.

I think I favour just numbers/letters, BMW or Mercedes style.

Now, I’ve run out of steam. I was about to list the cars I’ve been lucky/unlucky enough to have owned and loved over the years, but that would be unutterably dull. I’ll leave you with this thought.

Would you drive a car called a Ford Probe? I think you can stick that one right up your…

Arsenal is my mate Andy’s football team. As names go, it’s pretty horrific. Andy Smith.

Thanks, mate. Good to know you’re watching out for this old fool.

Farewell, old friends

This morning, quite without warning, I found myself in mourning.

After a good thirty years, I had to say goodbye to a pair of faithful old servants. Back in the late eighties or early nineties, we purchased a set of Denby Greystone crockery, which included six cereal bowls. One of the six bit the dust many, many years ago. Today, two more passed over to that great broken crockery skip in the sky, in a freak washing-up accident in which no other items or utensils were harmed.

I don’t really know why this should cause me such heartache. I suppose losing another one would have been unremarkable, but losing a pair in one hit was just cruel.

The thing is, this Denby stuff is very high quality, and these are really top-notch cereal bowls. I once took a tiny chip out of one of my tea cup handles, and all items in the set have taken a hell of a beating over the years with nary another blemish to their collective glazing. Until a few months ago, that is, when I smacked the edge of a cereal bowl against a tougher surface and was left with an unsightly scar. This scar.

You know what’s coming. Was that one of those doomed to a shattering demise this morning? Was it, fu…

…nnily enough, no it wasn’t. I think that’s what really upset me.

Bowls!

Three remain. I guess I should be thankful.