Odds and Sods Volume 1: Four Heroes

 

Farewell, Diego

Diego Armando Maradona was not only a footballer, he was a genius.  A midget.  Latterly, a junkie.  A national hero.  Front page news as well as back page.  Loved and despised - but loved more than despised (at least outside of England).  As unpredictable off the pitch as on it.

The only other footballer I've seen with his level of ball control and sheer on-pitch genius was George Best - and the two were strikingly similar in the way they played their football and lived their lives.  Both had problems adjusting to normality once their playing days were over, and both went to an early grave (Best at 59, and now Diego at 60).  Both played in an era where most defenders could be brutal in their treatment of gifted attackers like them, and could not rely on protection from match officials.  Injuries, serious ones, were not uncommon and both suffered their share.  Pitches were often poor, mudheaps in winter and bumpy and hard as concrete by seasons' end.  Balls were heavier.  

And yet these two men could run at pace, weaving around defenders left sprawled in a heap, the ball seeming tied to their boots, skipping over challenges that would have caught lesser players.  They scored sublime goals and tap ins and often carried teams on their own such was their ability.  I wonder what they would have achieved in today's environment, with lighter balls, boots like carpet slippers to play on a pitch like the carpet in my front room, and next to no physical contact allowed?  It's frightening - but I suspect either of them would have far eclipsed today's "best players" Messi and Neymar (although I suspect Christiano Ronaldo would up his game to compete - the man's a machine).

Argentina is now in 3 days' national mourning, his body laid in state at the Presidential Palace in Buenos Aires until his private funeral next to his parents today - I can't remember any sportsman having that kind of honour at his passing, and it underscores what high regard he earned.  At his peak in the years immediately after Argentina had been roundly beaten by British forces in the Falklands Conflict, he gave the nation back its pride, and carried its team to the highest honour by winning the World Cup in 1986.  Forget the Hand of God abberation in the Quarter Final against England, his second goal four minutes later was more typical, a mazy run from deep in his own half, leaving half the England team sprawled in his wake before sliding home - genius, and the sort of goal he scored time after time throughout his career.  There is an iconic photo of him surrounded by six Belgian players - a second later and he was gone, wriggling a way through them.

So farewell, Diego,  And thanks for the memories.

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Slowhand

I watched a showing on Canal+ the other day of Eric Clapton's 70th birthday gig at the Royal Albert Hall five years ago.  He had a fine band of musicians almost as old as him (apart from the obligatory black girl back up singers) and it was great.  The man remains one of my all-time favourite musicians.

His nickname is Slowhand, and it has nothing to do with his guitar playing - there is nothing slow about that.  As a blues guitarist, whether electric or acoustic, he is without peer.  The nickname was given to him by John Mayall when Clapton was a young up-and-coming guitarist in Mayall's Bluesbreakers band, and came because he was surpisingly slow at changing a broken string mid-concert.  Whether he ever got better at that I have no idea but the nickname stuck throughout a career that spans nearly sixty years.  

The first album I ever bought, back in 1969 was Cream's "Goodbye", the last release by the original and best power trio.  Side one and the first track on side 2 were recorded live and showcased their brilliance: Jack Bruce re-defined the bass guitar and Ginger Baker was simply awesome and an inspiration to us would be drummers - after hearing that album I gave it up as a bad job.  The remaining tracks were studio cuts, including the brilliant "Badge" with Beatle George Harrison (Clapton's next door neighbour) guesting a L'Angelo Mysterioso.  But on every track, Clapton's guitar playing was the highlight.

I was lucky enough to see him live once, in I think 2006 or so.  He played a free concert on the beach in Gdynia, and my brothers-in-law and I drove the 300 odd kilometres there to see it.  Stuck in traffic, we arrived late and missed the first 15 minutes or so and had to stand way back from the stage, but it was still a terrific show.

The film on tv showed that Slowhand is now, unfortunately, slowing up.  While he is as accomplished and imaginative as ever soloing, many of the songs were taken at a slower tempo - not necessarily a bad thing, the blues doesn't have to be taken at breakneck speed.  The band was excellent, long time Clapton associates like Andy Fairweather-Low (the fresh faced lead singer in 1960s pop band Amen Corner who has matured into a good blues guitarist in his own right), Chris Stainton on piano (he was also in Gdynia and provided a beautiful piano solo at the end of "Layla"), Paul Carrack (keyboards and singer in Mike and the Mechanics and a great performer in his own right, going all the way back to Ace in the early 1970s) and Steve Gadd, one of the best jazz drummers in the world.  All in their mid 70s and still consummate performers, they came across as a pick up band of mates just having a bit of fun at the local pub.  Which is no bad thing.

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Sir Lewis?

Lewis Hamilton, like him or loathe him, is now statistically the most successful Formula 1 driver of all time.  Most race wins, most pole positions, equal most championships (ties on 7 with Michael Schumacher and likely to exceed that next year), and closing on other records like most successive championships (again probably next year), most wins from pole and most triples (pole, win and fastest lap in the same race).  There is no-one better than him in wet conditions, and not many come close in the dry.  His ability to wring the best from the car and come up with that little extra when needed to snatch a pole or race win is acknowledged by his peers and team principals alike.  He is simply an extraordinary driver and consummate racer.

And yet he is not universally liked.  It goes with the territory I guess - Schumacher was  criticised too (often with good reason: he was good at bending the rules to succeed).  His critics say he's got the best car so he should win.  Correct: but then the best drivers always end up with the best car - Schumacher at Ferrarri, Vettel at Red Bull, Senna and Prost at McLaren.  And in each case, they were all able to get more from it than their team mates.  In his rookie year, Hamilton came close to demolishing Fernando Alonso, a two time champion and one of the best drivers of his generation.  It's been the same with every team mate - except once when Nico Rosberg beat him as Mercedes team mate a few years back, won the title and promptly retired.

Off track, too, he has his critics.  He has always enjoyed the trappings of fame and fortune - the fast cars and private jets (more criticism and allegations of hypocrisy from the environmentalists who point out that his wealth comes from possibly the most polluting sport on Earth), the tattoos, the interests in music and fashion with regular appearances at high profile events.  Not to everyone's taste, including mine, but as his team boss Toto Wolff says if it doesn't interfere with his fitness, race preparation and driving (which it clearly doesn't) then where is the problem?  

This year his off-track activities have taken on a new prominance with his support for the Black Lives Matter campaign and his own work for inclusion in the workplace.  As the sport's only black driver and coming from a council house background, this was always likely to come to the fore, and in my view he is doing absolutely nothing wrong.  Without question, there is an awful lot of unfairness in the workplace, not only in F1, with women and minorities like BAME and LGBT suffering disproportinately.  In this day and age, if Lewis and his campaigning can make a difference and bring more diversity then great.  He should not be condemned for using his profile to try to make a difference.  The fact that he was able to persuade Mercedes, known throughout their time in racing as the Silver Arrows, to adopt a black livery (which in my view looks better than their traditional colours) this seaon, and for the F1 circus to adopt measures to show its support too - BLM patches on overalls and cars, pre-race solidarity demonstrations and other events) and the drivers to join him in taking a knee brfore race starts - shows the kind of clout he now carries.  It will be interesting to see how this goes in the future.

And now there are calls for a knighthood to go with his MBE.  Strictly on performance, he deserves one - if Andy Murray received one for three tennis Grand Slams (and supports the award for Lewis) then surely 7 World Championships should mean one for the driver?  Add toi that the work he is doing for charities and to promore diversity, it should be a nailed on certainty.

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My name is Bond.......

Finally, Sir Sean Connery died recently, at the ripe old age of 90.  I will miss him.

He was by far and away The Best James Bond in the movie franchise (although Daniel Craig and Pierce Brosnan in my view run him close), with an interpretation much closer to the character as written in Ian Fleming's series of books.  He looked like Bond as described in the novels, and his behaviour, often brutal and unacceptable in this day and age, was of its time and worked perfectly in that context.  The cod humour that personified in particular the Roger Moore era was very low-key and didn't always work, and the stunts and car chases rare rather dominant (but all the better for that).

But there was always more to Connery than 007.  His film catalogue included The Hill, a gripping 1950s war story; The Man Who Would Be King, an Empire romp co-starring Michael Caine and based on a Rudyard Kipling story - great fun; and A Bridge Too Far - the story of the Arnhem lnadings of 1944.  Then there was a cameo as Richard the Lionheart in Kevin Costner's reading of the legend in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (he came close to stealing the movie, except that Alan Rickman's Sherriff if Nottingham had already done so) and as Harrison Ford's dad in Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade.  He won an Oscar for his Irish cop portayal in another Costner movie The Untouchables, was convincing as a Russian submarine commander in The Hunt for Red October and channelled Bond in the action thriller The Rock with Nicolas Cage.  Among my favourite films, and it's as fine a back catalogue as any.

But the great thing about Connery was that whatever role he played, his voice and strong Scottish accent remained unchanged. 

One of my favourite actors.  He will be greatly missed.

COVID is not a joke. I know because I had it.

 

Or, at least, I'm increasingly sure I did.  Or have it.....

It's not a 100% certainty because I haven't been tested.  This is because Poland is not big on testing, and is charging quite a chunk of money for it - no free tests here! - and also because in a health system that is creakier than the NHS, there are people who need it far more than I do.  I can get by, thank God.

But since probably the end of March things have not been right.

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I've not had all the symptoms, and those that I have had could easily be confused for those of a bad cold or flu.  Stuffy nose, sneezing - check.  Sore throat and a dry cough - check.  High temperature and fever - check.  Flu, cold, COVID - who knows!

Then there are the other symptoms.  Bodily aches and pains?  Yep, very much so, but nothing new - I've had joint pains for years in both hips and both knees, and have been medicating for a good 10 years.  The odd back spasm and achy arm joints - well, that could just be a touch of rheumatism in an aging body.  Not that I consider 67 to be particularly old, but still.......  Or they could be COVID related.

Increased fatigue?  Oh, yeah - big time.  But again, insomnia is a condition I've suffered from for donkey's years.  I don't think I've had many really good nights' rest since my eldest boy was born in 1980.  But my body has adjusted to being a light sleeper and it hasn't affected my life badly at all.  But I have to say this year it's got worse, quite ridiculous in fact.  Being tired for lack of sleep is one thing, falling asleep in an armchair in front of the tv, or sitting on a sun-lounger at my dzialka, or lying on a towel at the swimming pool - all this year, all in mid afternoon - is something completely different!  It's a rare evening indeed when I don't start dozing at 7 or 8 o'clock, and feel ready for bed at 10.  I could understand it if I was working hard on a building site, or gardening, or whatever physical work you care to name, but I'm not.  I'm a retiree, and lead a more sedentary life.  This year, with lockdowns and stuff, I haven't exercised nearly as much as previously either, no 20km walks or bike rides every day, so there is no good reason I can see for this fatigue.  It could, again, be old age creeping on, but also it could be this illness.

Chest pains and breathing problems?  Well - chest pains now and again, not bad ones, and I've put them down to stress or blood pressure issues, because I've noticed them typically when I've lost my temper with the kids over some bad school grades or whatever, and they have seemed to me identical to the ones I had three years or so ago when I had a lot of problems at work.  I saw a cardiologist then and medicated for a year or so, and brought it all under control, and there was no sign of any heart disease or anything.  The conclusion was it was stress related, so as soon as I could I retired to get out of that kind of situation.  I've been fine since then, and know how to manage it with the aid of a fitness app on my phone, so despite many arguments over schooling and stuff, there has been not a twinge. Until this spring.  Breathing problems?  No.  None at all.

Loss of taste and smell?  Definitely not.  I can still smell when I've burnt the dinner (again), and our flatulent bulldog, and the smog in the air that cleared up in the spring when the traffic decreased for lockdown but is now back with a vengeance. And I can still taste and enjoy a good beer and my wife's cooking and my daughter's cakes.  So that at least is all good and has not changed at all.

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The thing is, when you have a cold or flu, you take the tablets you can buy in the chemists, swig the cough medicine, stay indoors for a day or two, and it all clears up and you're fine again.  But with this lot, I've done that and it's not made much difference, except to eventually mess with the digestion so I've given it a break and in a day or two we're back to square one.  I've varied the remedies (there are literally hundreds over here, the majority of tv advertising seems to be for cold remedies and dietary supplements, some of which seem to work better than others but all of which aren't cheap) and tried to go without anything all, but none of it has made a lot of difference.  The symptoms are still there and don't show a lot of signs of easing.

Some days I'm fine, everything normal, beyond the usual evening fatigue, and I can go off and do stuff.  I can focus on the book I'm reading (difficulty concentrating and focusing is another odd COVID symptom), do a bit of writing on the blog or whatever, go for a walk without getting tired out, shopping and so on.  Then bang - on another day I wake up and struggle to get out of bed.  There are days I feel perfectly ok when I get up and hit a brick wall mid afternoon - and vice versa.  My stress levels, that I monitor more than at any time since I retired, are up and down like a whore's drawers.  My temperature is all over the place: a normal 36.6C or thereabouts one minute, then over 37 an hour or so later, back down again, then up higher still.  Sometimes I can correlate that to some activity - taking the dog for a walk or cooking lunch will push it up, sitting quietly for a while will generally (but not always) bring it down. But often the fluctuations are just random.

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So I'm not really sure.  On balance, I think I probably did have the virus, back in March around the time the first wave and lockdown were running through the country, but a mild case.  Not enough to hospitalise me or slow me down, but sufficient to make me feel pretty shitty.  It then seems to have transformed itself into the so-called Long COVID - where the symptoms hang around in your system for months and keep retreating and returning.  It's a strain or variety or mutation or something of the parent virus, but so far the medical community knows less about it than they do the parent strain - and we are all still learning stuff about that every day.

Like COVID19, there is no cure or vaccine.  It will remain there in the backgound, like measles or the common cold or a hundred and one other viruses, while our bodies develop an immunity to it or the vaccines come on line.  There are over 30 candidates in development, some coming close to approval for use, but we're still months away from their free availability.  Manufacturing several billion (that is not a typo) doses, distributing them across the world and each country devising its own vaccination plan and administering it, is going to take months, if not years.  But it will come: I'll get there.

The point is, this virus is NOT a hoax, not just like a cold or the sniffles, as the nay-sayers and conspiracists on social media would have you believe.  Nor is it anything to do with 5G (we have no devices at home, and as far as I know there are no masts or whatever anywhere close to our home), Bill Gates, the Deep State (a myth). the Lizard People (ditto) or any of the other whack job lies that are in circulation.  In my view anyone who gives that stuff, or the nonsense Trunp and co are spouting, a second thought  are as mad as they are

This coronavirus is a very real and very unpleasant ailment.  It doesn't matter where it came from - China, the CIA labs in Virginia, Iran or the Planet Zog: makes no difference.  It's not going anywhere and there will not be a widely available vaccine for months yet.  It kills.  At the very least, It makes you feel bloody awful and can hang around in your system for months - maybe years: no-one knows that yet.  Nor does anyone understand the long term effects on people who've caught it and recovered: there are suggestions that in serious cases some permanent damage is caused to the lungs and other organs but it's not certain: the virus hasn't been with us long enough to figure that out.  But anectodally: well, to pick the two most well known and public victims, Boris Johnson seems less decisive since he was hospitalised (which is saying something), and Donald Trump even more surreally off this trolley.....

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Take it seriously.  Wear a mask - not to prevent catching it - there are no masks, even in hospitals, that can guarantee that - but to prevent spreading it if you're unfortunate enough to catch it.  It may not be the most comfortable thing, but it's a hell of a lot better than being hooked up to a ventilator and assorted machinery in an ICU somewhere.  Wash your hands and wipe dpown surfaces, including your mobile, laptop keyboard and so on, frequently - the thing can hang around on surfaces for a long time.  Stay away from crowds - any virus loves one of those.  If you have to go out try to keep a couple of yards or metres away from everyone else in the shops, trains, buses, workplace and so on.  Christmas: make do with staying at home and Zooming or Skyping the family.  Meeting up would just be a dumb thing to do, no matter how much you may want to and how much you may miss them.  It's just not worth it.

Take care of you and yours.  Stay safe.  Spare a thought for those on their own, particularly the elderly, and if there are any nearby reach out to them. Please.

The Demise of The Donald

So here is a disclaimer: as an Englishman living in Poland I don't really care whether the President of the United States of America is a Democrat or a Republican.  Doesn't stop me from having and voicing an opinion on the incumbent, however, no matter which side of the aisle he represents.  All I care about is how his policies affect the direction of travel of the States, and how that might affect my life.  So with that in mind, I cannot wait for President Donald Trump to vacate his job and the White House in 60-odd days time.

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I've held off from writing this in the hope that in view of the Election result, he would do the first Presidential thing since his own elevation four years ago - namely, accept the result, concede defeat and offer his Administration's support to guarantee the peaceful transfer of power that is, according to most Americans of either stripe, his sacred duty. It is after all what was afforded to him by the Obamas at the end of their period in office, what President George W. Bush did for the Obamas, and Bill Clinton for the Bushes, and so on back to George Washington.

But no: true to form, Trump has thrown the grandmother of all tantrums and disappeared to his golf course (that's when he's not been sulking in the Oval Office or its toilet), firing off tweet after tweet insisting the election was rigged, he won it, it's all a lie put about by the Fake News Media etc etc - you know the kind of shit he talks.  He's also fired off a whole raft of lawsuits in various states he lost demanding that various counts be annulled or re-done, alleging all kinds of electoral fraud - votes not counted, or counted twice, or made twice (in person and absentee), or done by dead people - without providing a shred of evidence.  Predictably, they have all been kicked out in 5 minute court hearings.

His sons and family and supporters, equally deluded and loyal to a fault, have joined in the bollocks.  Don Jr. has even proposed a revolution as the only way to get the result "the People voted for".  No, Don - that was Trump vacating the office in favour of Joe Biden.   But, hey, when you've spent four years peddling every dumb-arsed conspiracy theory available and trash-talked anyone, whether news organisation, politician or Joe Public, who happens to disagree with you you're not going to change overnight.  These clowns will never change.

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If it were not so tragic it would be laughable.  Trump was the model populist leader: forget Chavez or Orban, Castro or Kaczynski, Salvini or Johnson - none of them can hold a candle to Trump.  Surrounding himself with a bunch of sycophants and being guided initially by a lying fantasist in Steve Bannon, supported by a Fox News Network and various other Murdoch outlets interested only in sales and ratings - as is Trump, The Apprentice host who believed his own publicity - he has ridden roughshod over not only Americans but the country's allies.

Anyone in his Administration who spoke out (always in private: no-one had the balls to do so in public) was summarily dismissed, with a replacement whose loyalty was even more guaranteed by their own cowardice.  NATO, the European Union, the UN, the WHO, the WTO - all felt the lash of his poisonous toungue at various times, often more than once.  Trade wars were launched that have done little except push up prices and harm American workers, and as a by-product damaged everyone else's trade.  Promises have been broken regularly - whatever happened to the "big, beautiful Wall that Mexico is going to pay for"?  If "great clean American coal" was going to be the bedrock of the country's energy provision, why are uneconomic mines closing with the loss of thousands of jobs?  If Obamacare was so bad and destined for the trash can on day one of the Trump Presidency where is its replacement, this "wonderful best in the world medical system" he has touted every couple of months while never revealing any details?  Why are tens of thousands of Americans dying EVERY DAY from a coronavirus pandemic that "America has defeated/its a Chinese hoax/we're turning the corner (delete as you see fit)"?

Broken promises is probably a generous description - LIES is more accurate.  Here's another one: "No American President has done more for the African American community than me."  What about Abraham Lincoln, who abolished slavery? Lyndon Johnson, who completed the Civil Rights Act that John Kennedy was working on when assassinated?  All Trump has done has openly supported white supremacist groups during a summer of discontent after the killings of the unarmed George Floyd, Breonna Taylor and others by white cops.  

And another: "I've brought about the strongest economy in the history of the world".  Nope, the Republican Ronald Reagan and Democrat Bill Clinton presided over stronger ones at various times.  And a third: "This agreement between Israel and the United Arab Emirates brings a new era of peace to the region" - except that Israel and the UAE have never been in conflict with each other, and that Palestine and their Arab nation supporters have condemned it, if anything making the Middle East MORE volatile rather than less. 

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Trump is simply a congenital liar, and somehow or other millions of Americans simply haven't noticed - or, worse, noticed but don't care.  They believe every word the man says, and agree with his complaints that "the Deep State" (whatever the hell THAT is!) and "mainstream media are all against me."  He got himself elected in 2016 by appealling to the fears and imagined persecutions of a legion of largely poorly educated and frequently grudge-carrying unemployed Americans, mostly white men, by painting himself as one of their own.  As a  New York property developer, reality tv star and (allegedly) billionaire quite how he managed it I'm not sure, but swallow the yarn they apparently did.  An even bigger mystery is how even more people voted for him this time around, after four disastrous years that have done precisely the opposite of "Make America Great Again".  As I think P.T.Barnum is quoted as saying: "There's a sucker born every minute".  And most of them seem to be Trump supporters.

The problem now is these people seem unhinged enough to cause mayhem.  Every utterance Trump and his accolytes spout on Fox News or Twitter about stolen elections, the radical left taking over the country (Biden is hardly a radical even if he is a tad politically to the left) merely fans the flames of their discontent.  And Trump and his inner circle know it.  

For example: recently the (Democrat) Governor of the state of Michigan was found to be the proposed victim of a Trump supporting group of white supremacists who hatched a plot to kidnap and perhaps kill her for imposing a fairly loose lockdown in answer to the coronavirus pandemic that Trump has failed completely to handle.   The FBI managed to intervene and capture the conspirators before any harm was done.  Predictably Trump said he knew nothing about the plot (I'll give him that one) but refused to condemn their actions.  Now a few months have passed, and the pandemic is running out of control across the entire country, and Michigan remains one of the worst affected states.  The same Governor has brought in new measures, stricter than those before in another effort to save lives.  As he's still sulking about his defeat, Trump has said nothing, but a surrogate, Dr. Scott Atlas (who knows fuck all about infectious diseases and is not qualified as an immunologist but has somehow convinced Trump he is an "expert") took to Twitter, denounced the Governor's measures and said the only way to stop them being "imposed is to rise up".  A call to arms.......  

And still there is silence from the White House.

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But if this President, though not worthy of the title, is incompetent, his party and its Representatives and Senators in Congress are an absolute disgrace.  For all their mealy mouthed words about a "peaceful transition" they have said very little since the election took place.  A number of leading Republicans - McConnell, Graham, Cruz - continue to publicly support Trump and his frivolous lawsuits that the once respected but now laughable Rudy Giuliani is managing, if I can call it that.  They remain unable to condemn his petulant behaviour and lack of leadership that has been clear for years.  They are, presumably, in fear of their own local electorates and reluctant to lose their own highly lucrative positions, salaries no doubt topped up by lucrative rent-a-quote tv appearances and lobbyist payments.  Cowards to a man.  

Meanwhile the Administration is refusing to co-operate with Biden's Transition Team, refusing to release funding and share critical information - because Trump is still insisting on Twitter that he won the Election.  No co-operation on health while the pandemic rages uncontrolled. No security briefings covering the perennial disputes with North Korea, Iran, Russia, Syria and of course China.  No departmental briefings on the economy, energy, infastructure and health - all of which are standard procedure during a transition. And all because Trump refuses to accept the reality.  He LOST.

Trump was elected on a pledge to "drain the swamp" - his metaphor for a Washington full of seasoned politicians and administrators who, in his delusion, were betraying the American people (as well as keeping them safe, and healthy, and educated, and employed....but we'll gloss over that, the same as he did). What no-one foresaw was that he would fill the swamp with a far more potent and populous bunch of pond life than was already there.  White House Press Sectretaries who are content to lie on tv for their boss.  Secretaries of State who are content to follow a dangerous and unplanned foreign policy agenda that involves appeasing dictators and sharks like Putin and Kim and Netanyahu, and states that "we are preparing for a new Trump administration".  Departmental heads who are not qualified the run their charges (deVos, the idiot running the Post Office whose name escapes me - I can't be bothered to Google it -  or Justice's odious puppet Bill Barr) but will kow-tow to the Leader and do his bidding without question.  Remember Nazi Germany or Leninst Russia?  They ended well didn't they?  Blind devotion to The Leader never works.

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But now, he is going.  Whether he accepts it or not, Trump lost the 2020 Election, both the Electoral College and the popular vote (again: he lost that heavily in 2016 too but a broken electoral system gave him the key to the White House anyway).

The hope was that he would muster the good grace to accept it and shuffle off the stage to a book deal, his golf and an old age away from the spotlight.  It ain't going to happen - the narcissist in him will not allow it.  So we suffer for another couple of months this unedifying spectacle of a silly and fat old man throwing his toys out of the pram and howling "It was rigged!" to all and sundry. Were I American I would be very angry and embarrassed in equal degree.  We are led to believe that he is planning to run again in 2024, no matter what happens this time, when he will be nearly 80 and even more senile,,,,,,please God someone talks him out of that plan!

But on 20th January 2021 at noon, it will come to end, and Joe Biden will be sworn in as 46th President of the United States of America  I don't expect Trump to be there to watch: he will probably be holed up in the Oval Office with his nearest and dearest while the Secret Service batter the door down and drag him kicking and screamning off to Marolago (or hopefully a padded cell)

I can't wait.  It will be rivetting tv, and top the ratings for years to come.  Which is probably what The Donald wants.

Remembering Mum and Dad: All Soul's Day 1 November 2021

This a re-post from last year.  The sentiments are unchanged and always will be, but I've updated it to take account of the passage of time and the Pandemic.

Forget Hallowe'en.  

Despite all the trick or treating, crazy costumes and horror movies on the telly, here in Poland it's no more than a sideshow.  Thankfully the American obsession with it hasn't reached us, at least not to the same extent.  Indeed, the Catholic Church here, whose priests and nuns provide religious instruction in schools, in a country where First Communion and Confirmation are taken much more seriously than in many places (certainly than back home in Britain) openly and happily denounce Hallowe'en as being Evil, and encourage parents to ignore it and punish kids who join in the fun.  Mind you, they say likewise about the Easter Bunny and Father Christmas.  Which says a lot about the the shape of things here right now.....

No, the big day here is the next day, November 1st.  All Soul's Day.  The old religious festival - that has pagan roots rather than Christian - is the third most important day on the calendar, after Christmas Eve and Good Friday.

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Traditionally, people are expected, and indeed are taught from childhood, to remember and pay their respects to their deceased relatives.  This is done by visits to the graves of parents and grandparents, aunties and uncles, brothers and sisters and cousins who have passed away.  Parents take their children, and often travel the length and breadth of Poland to carry out these devotions.  All Soul's Day itself is a religious holiday with shops and businesses closed (their workers are obviously making their own observances).

Visitors do not only take flowers, as is the norm in the UK.  Far more predominant are the candles, of varying sizes and in a dazzling array of coloured and clear plastic vases.  Most graves end up with two or three bouquets and at least half a dozen candles.  By the end of the day, even the smallest and darkest cemetery is ablaze with the light from hundreds of candles. But Polish cemeteries, at least the city ones, tend to be huge affairs with thousands of graves spread across many acres, so you're talking tens of thousands of candles.  The light from them can be seen from some distance - I can remember flying in one All Soul's evening under a bright cloudless sky and being able to clearly see the patches of golden light that marked the cemeteries in many towns and cities  that we passed.  It's a beautiful and moving sight.

In fact, the whole event is that.  I don't consider myself in any away devout - I have my own set of beliefs that are a kind of Christianity, that I have come to over a lifetime and that comfort me - and do not belong to any recognised religion.  I was christened Church of England, though my teens attended a non-conformist Baptist chapel and ended up marrying two Catholic girls and attending Mass most Sundays (once the kids came along) but was never confirmed in either of the first two and never converted.  I'm not an atheist, but it would be difficult to classify me as Christian either.

Yet there is something comforting in standing at the various graves of my wife's departed, lighting our candle and placing it carefully amongst the others (we are never the first to arrive), then stepping back for some moments of quiet prayer and contemplation.  When the kids were small, my wife would lead them in some traditional Polish prayers and the kids would join in the genuflection and "Amen" conclusion.  I would listen in silence, as I still do, lost in my own thoughts.

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Every time I go back home to visit my sisters and sons and their families, I make a pilgrimage to my home town in Kent.  I've watched it change over the years: the High Street changes, more housing, more people, a one way system and traffic lights. But remaining constant are the graveyards in Church Street, the old one-time council estate where I was born.  In one of them my parents share a grave, with a grey marble headstone and edging, gravel base and flower pots.  Compared to some of the huge headstones that dominate Polish graves, its small beer indeed, but of course it means the world to me.

I clean it up, dispose of any old and dead flowers and weeds, give it a sweep, change the pot water and place my own bunch of chrysanthemums - my parents both loved the flower.  All the time I'm chatting to them, telling them what I'm up to, how the boys are (my dad died before any of them were born but mum was there for all three) and their families and children; I've introduced my two younger children, born and raised both Polish and English, when I took them to visit when they were smaller.  I get some funny looks from people who might pass (few and far between), but that's ok.  I don't pray, at least in the traditional and recognised way, but have a chat and thank my God for looking after them - it's the kind of informal prayer I learned in my Baptist teens and I'm comfortable with it. 

I went back recently, the first time in nearly three years, now COVID has abated somewhat - at least enough to allow travel (with some restrictions.  The town has changed little, and nor had the graveyard. But mum and dad's plot was badly in need of some care and attention, the headstone and surround and pebbles around the flower pots filthy dirty and covered in grime from three years or more of completely understandable neglect. I went to the nearest tap to get a can of water to at least try and spruce it up a bit, but there were no watering cans. A notice requested that mourners bring their own: an old lady passing by told me all the public ones had been stolen.  It made me very sad.

In the next, older part of the churchyard, are the graves of mum's mum, my aunt Rose and my cousin Taff, so I usually stop by and say hello to them as well.  It's all very low key, you could say typically British, but if gives me comfort.  Not in the least like a Polish All Souls Day devotion, which is a real family affair that fills the graveyard with visitors for probably the whole weekend.  I can't remember ever seeing more than a couple of people at any given time when I've been to see mum and dad.

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 My parents would both be over a hundred now were they still alive, both born when the First World War was at its height.  My dad, Wilf, was born in a very small village close to the Kent - Sussex border that has hardly changed since then - I went back a few years ago and it looked exactly as I remembered it in my childhood, when my elder sister lived there, and my late teens when my paternal grandmother died and was buried in the little churchyard there.  After leaving school at a probably young age (as was typical in poor - what would then be considered lower though I prefer the term "working class" - families) he went to work at the local castle as an under gardener.  The grounds were quite extensive and included a small lake in which he planted some water lilies that still proliferate today, even though the place is now owned by the National Trust.

There he met my mum, Floss, who had been born in a small town 6 miles or so away - my home town in fact.  She was working at the castle too - "In Service", was the job title.  Basically she was one of a staff of young boys ans girls who spent long hours cleaning, washing, ironing, peeling vegetables, waiting table, clearing up the mess - I knew it was hard work, but reading sections of Bill Bryson's excellent book "At Home" I have a much clearer picture of what that actually meant.  What you see in Downton Abbey or Upstairs Downstairs or any one of a dozen Merchant Ivory productions is a very sanitised and romanticsed alternate reality. It was really brutally hard work for next to no reward or what we recognise today as workers' rights.

Wilf and Floss met, somewhere, somehow, fell in love and married shortly before World War 2 broke out.  They lived in a small cottage in the castle grounds but had to leave that when dad signed up and marched off to war.  Mum was moved into a brand new council house and lived there for the rest of her life.  I was born there, the only son, with two elder sisters.  It was a struggle at first bringing up the girls on her own, but with the community spirit that existed then, all neighbours mucking in together, she got through it.

Dad, meanwhile, had a year in North Africa under Montgomery, part of the heroic Desert Rats that defeated Rommel's Afrika Corp and brought the area back into Allied control.  Job done? Not a bit of it: after a brief leave off he went again, this time to Burma, where he remained until 1946.  Yes, yes, I know the war ended a year earlier, but it seems there was still work to be done.....  He was wounded twice, neither seriously, met Vera Lynn, the Forces' Sweetheart when he was in hospital recovering from one of them (she spent a half hour chatting to him apparently.....he never forgot that, and it was a cherished memory until he died).  But he survived, and came home to a wife who was a stranger and two daughters who had no memory of him, and with no job and little money.  Like thousands of other young men - he was just 31.

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I can't imagine how they got through it all, rebuilt their relationship, stayed together in our little council house, made me, and brought up the three kids....  I don't think dad was ever paid more than about £25 a week, and he had a succession of jobs: a stoker at the local gas works, a coalman, a removal man, and finally for a number of years a mill operator in a plastics factory.  All dirty, hard jobs in polluting environments. Whether they led directly to the cancer that killed him at the age of just 56 (I was 19 at the time) is open to debate, and nothing can ever be proved now, but I suspect it did.

But he was a lovely man.  He was quiet and placid - possibly a result of some kind of PTSD after Burma? Who knows! - and never had a bad word to say about anyone.  I can't remember him ever raising his voice or getting really angry about anything.  He had an allotment that, with our big back garden, provided the best fresh fruit and veg I've ever eaten.  He smoked (which probably didn't help) and enjoyed the odd night out at the local men's club or British Legion with mum and their friends, veterans all.  A couple of brown ales and that was enough.  He saved my life twice when I very small, both near drownings, but made no fuss either time, and insisted on cleaning my football boots after every game, right up until the last couple of weeks of his life.  He was my hero.

Mum was my rock.  She was always there when I came in from school and refused to get any kind of job until I left school (then took one in a tobacconists and worked there until retiring a year or so before she in turn died of another cancer). She was more volatile and had a temper on her, far more so than dad, and ruled our home with a strong but kindly hand.  Neither her nor dad ever smacked me, as far as I can recall - not more than a tap on the arse anyway - but I was under no illusions about what was acceptable behaviour.  Discipline was gentle but effective.  She was a terrific cook (aren't all our mothers?), and I remember the most wonderful Victoria Sponge cakes, jam roly-polies and fruit cakes for Sunday tea or when we had visitors. I always had clean clothes freshly ironed (difficult I recognise now, as I was a messy kid and always came in from play with cowpat on my trousers, or split seams in my school uniform that needed mending overnight (without a sewing machine)......but she always managed somehow.  She was my heroine.

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I never mourned either of them properly, when they passed.  I was just a kid, fresh out of school, when dad died and in my first job.  Mum and my sisters were distraught so I took on the burden of arranging the funeral, sorting out his final payout from the factory, all that stuff, with the help of Brian Oman, the minister at the Baptist Church.  I didn't have a lot of time to mourn, and then as the main breadwinner had to stay strong for mum and and my sisters.  To help, I hit the drink for several years....... But I got through it.

Then when mum died, I had my own family to think about and stay strong for, for my kids were in their early teens and had been very close to mum.  Again, I had to make the funeral arrangements, then with the help of my brother-in-law sort out the house.  Mum had bought it as part of Thatcher's Right to Buy initiative, but my sister and he decided to move out so there was much packing to be done.  It took some time, and my own precarious work situation to handle (working for a highly aggressive US investment bank that insisted on long and unrelenting hours and didn't take prisoners) was also critical.  So I didn't really mourn her either.

But I missed them both, and still do, all these years later. Hence the annual pilgrimage to the grave that I missed the last couple of years.  The emotional dam finally broke, many years later.  I was ironing, the radio was on, and a particular song came on. There's a verse in there where the singer believes he heard his late father's voice in the cry of a new born son.....  That did it for me: the tears came, long and painfully, but at the end of it I felt much better.  I still can't listen to Mike & The Mechanic's "Livin' Years" without a tear in my eye though.

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They were good people, my mum and dad.