A NIGHT TO REMEMBER IN TURIN

 

Most people have their revered traditions and customs, not all of which sit easily in the modern world. The Africans rated FGM, the Indians the practice of suttee and the Japanese revelled in hari kiri.. Brits once practised the Ducking of Witches, no longer thought efficacious, but even at the State Opening of Parliament last week Prince Charles evoked Guy Fawkes and despatched 6 wheezy Yeomen of the Guard in full fig (usually retired warrant officers from the Forces) to inspect the cellars for gunpowder. With Putin and ISIS still at large, this may be thought merely a prudent precaution, and happily they found nothing.

The revered tradition we faithfully observe is watching the Eurovision Song Contest. My wife and I have done so annually since the 1970s. Clipboards list the countries, an ever-growing horde, and the title of their musical offering, if you can penetrate Icelandic or Breton. A bottle or two of wine are at hand to assist slumber or anaesthetise the tonsils and off we go to wonder, laugh and be scandalised by the antics of the unbuttoned Eurovision audience. It is old-fashioned family fun.

                        

                                                           The UK entrant Sam Ryder

This year the omens were not very favourable. The ferocious Russian attack on Ukraine darkened the mood, which was nervous but full of support and admiration for the Ukrainians. The UK’s recent history at the contest was dismal – low placings for 20 years and in 2021 the dreaded nul pointes. The glory days of yesteryear when Sandi Shaw or Brotherhood of Man could wow the audience were but distant memories and even Ireland, who could once boast of Johnny Logan and Dana, failed to survive the semis. Sadly gone too was the late Sir Terry Wogan, whose light good-humour brightened many a contest with his jokey commentary. Mind you Graham Norton is an amusing guide too.

Anyhow, on Tuesday we kicked off with the first semi – final, with many vacuous songs, mainly dismal ballads sending my dear wife comatose. Thursday saw the shock (to me) exits of Israel, Cyprus and Malta and the survival of a bizarre Serb effort centred on hand-washing (sic!). The Grand Final was on Saturday in Turin before a noisy, but not riotous, crowd heavy with proud gays, hideous tattoos, spaced-out weirdies, in other words typically European hipsters.. In the meanwhile the airwaves had been awash with the entries from the Big Five, UK, France, Germany, Spain and Italy. We had come to realise that the UK entry Spaceman was rather good and the singer Sam Ryder, while in need of a haircut to my elderly mind, was an excellent representative in this peculiar milieu. There was nothing to fear from the French whose dismal Breton effort would even bore the pants off Macron. The German entry was worse. There was however one entry, that of Chanel representing Spain, which was a threat to all the others.

 

Her number SioMo, her dancing, her nubile buttocks, and a crotch to die for, would make the nuns of Zaragossa reach for their smelling salts. My loyalty to Sam Ryder wobbled as the blood in my veins bubbled, but the mad moment passed. Phew, that was close!

Chanel of Spain adds excitement

At long last, the 25 surviving songs were performed. The 40 national juries eventually pronounced their verdict and to our delight and astonishment the UK leapt into the lead, with generous 12 points from Austria, France (Yes, France!) and many others. Some deserved success went to Belgium, Greece, Moldova, Sweden and Poland. There was a final obstacle to surmount – the verdict of the voting public. This was certain to be more political than musical and sure enough the powerful sympathy vote for Ukraine gave them an overwhelming victory with the UK in a very honourable second place.

                    

                                     The Kalush Orchestra representing Ukraine

I think everyone was happy. The Ukrainians received a well-deserved boost. The UK was no longer a pariah at Eurovision – all that is needed is a good song and a good performer. We are all brothers again and I warm a little towards Europe. Thank you, Eurovision!

SMD

16.5.22 

Text copyright © Sidney Donald 2022

EASTER JOTTINGS

 

EASTER JOTTINGS

                         (With grateful acknowledgements to the old Telegraph Peter Simple Column)

 

To my doctor, village handyman, deck-chair attendant and barber-surgeon Jamie Perks, who diagnosed my ailment as Incorrigible Mortification of the Tripes. He prescribed bleeding with leeches @ 2p per leech. I was much improved. Spoke casually to my NHS doctor who rushed me by ambulance to the local Aneurin Bevan Superama Hospital and insisted I took a scan in their 2m GBP ultra-sound suite. Clearly bamboozled, there were many oohs and aaghs from the nursing staff as my results came slowly through. The consultant Dr Acula looked at my leeches with intense interest and stroked his rather scraggly beard. “We are all guilty” intoned resident psychiatrist Dr Heinz Kiosk irrelevantly.

There is not much that is funny ha-ha about Vladimir Putin, but plenty that is funny-peculiar. My sources tell me he has a secure deluxe padded-cell at the Lavrenti Beria Rest Home for Retired KGB Torturers in Omsk (or is it Tomsk?). The Home boasts an extensive lake and upon it, Putin, self-promoted to Admiral, commands a scaled down replica of the good ship Moskva. His “associates” have doctored the volatile ammunition magazines of this craft, MI5 ensures he has a generous helping of poisoned borscht awaiting his disembarkment, on a clear day lethal Turkish drones can be seen hovering in the skies, and his sweet tooth will be more than satisfied by the bombe surprise concocted by the kitchens of Mossad. Expect a big bang soon!

“Vile capitalist exploitation!” yells Tureen Trotsky, Nadirco Professor of World Literature at Kent Bottom University, as the Lesbian, one-legged, Palestinian academic calls for the “cancellation” of all the works of Dickens, Austen, Thackeray and especially Thomas Hardy, whose evocations of a green, rural England “fly in the face of slaving working people and promote racial discrimination”. Professor Trotsky substitutes historic pornography from the Olympia Press in Paris and from the Svengali Institute in Pskov. The wheels of Justice grind slowly but some will be content to learn she has at last been served with a writ by the Home Office and given a one-way ticket to Rwanda.

Is Boris a Tory? The question is asked with penetrating repetition throughout the land. How can one with, admittedly remote, Turkish antecedents possibly qualify? And he does not appear to be a member of the Carlton Club, let alone an honorary Warden of my Feudal and Reactionary League. His sexual dalliances label him a Liberal and his love of Northern grittiness echo many a scurvy Socialist. His flag-waving endears him to the stoutest Ulster Unionist. Yet in this moment of peril, we will rally to him as a shock-haired Joan of Arc, scattering his sinister enemies in the plush House of Lords and even on his own green back-benches. The Bringer of Brexit wins and deserves a dukedom and national adulation!

 

SMD

18.4.22

Text Copyright © Sidney Donald 2022

 

LIFE’S RICH PAGEANT

I have borrowed the title of this piece from the modest autobiography of my much-cherished Arthur Marshall, the humorous writer and acute stylist (1910-89). Arthur was a most entertaining fellow, who found amusement in almost everyone he met and whose gentle mockery of some contemporaries among his amazingly wide circle is an example of us all – beam warmly at mankind and avoid being harshly critical!

                            Arthur Marshall, humourist

I have now been 22 days in Greece, much of it bucket and spade time with our delightful 3-year-old grand-daughter, Theodora, on sandy beaches near Athens. The internationalism of modern life is striking. Despite gnashing of teeth from Macron, the world speaks English even though the speakers originate from Germany, Poland, Mexico, Egypt or wherever. Theodora made sand-castles with a 2-year-old Chinese boy appropriately called Theodore, whose charming Anglophone parents now live in Vienna.

French is of course a fine language and its literature is unparalleled, although one has to admit to some longueurs emanating from the over-fertile pens of Corneille and Racine. Macron, Barnier and before them de Gaulle were anachronistic in expecting the world to return to an unattainable Francophone paradise. I have always loved France, notably Paris, Normandy, the Champagne Country (all those delicious bubbles!) and my favourite, majestic Rococo Place Stanislas in Nancy. Long may they prosper and add lustre to our proud Western civilisation!

I must now leap to the defence of an old gentleman, much disparaged in the popular prints. Joe Biden is admittedly an old git, painfully miscast as President of the USA. He is a mere 79-year-old (like me), forgets names (like me) and shuffles around with a tottering gait (ditto me). His recent speech proclaiming the triumph of the Kabul evacuation, was humiliating nonsense but he had to cheer up his domestic audience. Charitably I would concede “he means well” but that is faint praise indeed. The truth is that the US and UK should have quit Afghanistan 10 years ago and left it to its peculiar ways. No vital Western interest was ever at stake. If it ever threatens the security of Pakistan, Iran and Uzbekistan, that is a matter for those countries to sort out.

                                                     Beleaguered Joe Biden

As for inept Old Joe, he was elected on the ticket of “Not Trump”, his only visible virtue. If the strain gets too much, Biden could resign to be succeeded by his VP Kamala Harris, ten times worse, certain to dispense heavy doses of Californian Wokery. She would thereby lay a strong foundation for the predatory return of Donald Trump, a most alarming possibility. So, let’s keep Joe going, supported by blinking Blinken and his gang and pray that meanwhile the Republicans return to some semblance of sanity.

Oddities among US politicians are not new. I have been re-reading some of the inter-war pieces by hard-boiled and hilarious H L Mencken and his verdicts on Woodrow Wilson, Calvin Coolidge and perennial presidential candidate W J Bryan are far from flattering. Even in our time, genial Ronnie Reagan was no streak of intellectual lightning, although he actually did very well.

Current affairs are just too depressing to contemplate – Boris’s lot foul up almost everything they touch. I have taken some solace from leafing through the Oxford Dictionary of The Popes, a weighty reference book produced by the then-retired Principal of my Oxford College, St Edmund Hall, John Kelly, a vivid Oxford character. The Renaissance Popes were a very rum lot, much prone to outrageous nepotism and with Borgias about, not above spiking the drinks with lethal poisons. Not much had changed with Pio Nono, (Pius IX) the mid-19^th century “reformer” who fought for and lost the Papal States, promulgated the dogma of the Immaculate Conception, enunciated the doctrine of Papal Infallibility and declared war on the modern world with his Syllabus of Errors. Not a life-enhancer in my book.

So, to life-enhancers I speed. In Athens I always read the Mr Mulliner story The Truth about George by incomparable P G Wodehouse which has me guffawing even on my 20^th reading. For comfort reading, I peruse Arthur Marshall on show-biz as a child in Barnes theatre-going with his mother, or as a performer himself meeting such luminaries as the Oliviers, Terence Rattigan, Ivor Novello, Somerset Maugham, Gielgud, the Lunts, Noel Coward, Dame Edith Evans – wonderfully anecdotal and light of touch, or experiences at prep school or at his beloved Oundle both as pupil and school master or rhapsodies on his beloved Devon cottage at “Myrtlebank”.

Frank Muir once described Arthur as “England’s Unofficial Sunbeam”, most apposite, and no other writer has given me such consistent and gentle pleasure.

SMD

2.09.21   Text Copyright © Sidney Donald 2021

AN ENGLISH SUMMER

 

Our Continental and American cousins frequently deride the “English summer” and this year I must concede that it has been particularly dismal. It has rained with monotonous regularity throughout May, June and July, and if you are not wet, you are unseasonably cold, crabbed, cabined and confined.  Cavorting in the bracing sea, tanning on the sandy beach or eating deliciously alfresco have been rare, much-desired pleasures.

 

                    

                                                                A typical wet Summer scene 

Yet there are compensations. Driven indoors, we have revelled in TV sport. Roland Garros, Eastbourne, Queens Club and Wimbledon have given us ample opportunities to follow our ephemeral tennis favourites – Stephanos Tsitsipas, Cam Norrie, Matteo Berrettini in our household and the only occasionally admirable Novak Djokovic and Aryna Sabalenka. A feast indeed, and so many stirring memories of Jaroslav Drobny captivating us in 1954, of the epic battles of Lew Hoad and Ken Rosewall in the 1950s and the long dominance of Rod Laver, followed by the era of Borg and brat McEnroe (You can’t be serious!) - now a sage white-haired pundit. The ladies had Little Mo, Maureen Connolly, winning everything in the early 1950s while British hopes often rested on chubby, smiling Christine Truman evoking Betjeman’s famous poem:

Miss J Hunter Dunn, Miss J Hunter Dunn

Furnish’d and burnish’d by Aldershot sun,

What strenuous singles we played after tea,

We in the tournament – you against me.

Love-thirty, love-forty, oh! weakness of joy,

The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy…

The tennis was closely followed by the Euros football, which brought moments of joy but ultimately despair to the English fans. Yet the truth is that the Italians were the better side and Southgate made a bad mistake asking last minute subs Rashford, Sancho and Saka to take crucial penalties. After the game, recriminations have bubbled up into racial discord, a sad and unnecessary outcome. We now move on to The Open golf, the Lions in South Africa (how much we still miss the darting brilliance of Joost van der Westhuizen), cricket in a bewildering variety of formats, ushering in the Tokyo Olympics (with no spectators). Let’s hope there will be plenty to cheer us up!

Lockdown is gradually easing up amid much dithering by our government and a Cassandra’s chorus from “the experts” prophesying doom, aided and abetted by the ever-sensationalist media. People of my generation (the 70s +) rather like Lockdown, as we have been terrorized into seeking security at any cost. Frankly, restrictions on our movements are no great imposition as we are no longer up for exploring the Wookey Hole caves, trekking along the Great Wall of China, ascending to the heights of Manchu Picchu, Bungy jumping in New Zealand or mooning around the Taj Mahal. For me, a leisurely stroll down the Leas at Folkestone is plenty excitement, as a recent fall saw me break a front tooth and painfully injure my ribs, so I shuffle about with a stick, groaning like some old codger. Yet my spirits remain high, full of optimism and warm goodwill to my fellow men. Carpe diem!

 

SMD

14.07.21

Text Copyright © Sidney Donald 2021

 

 

SOME BRIGHTER MOMENTS

 

SOME BRIGHTER MOMENTS

I suppose we must be thankful for small mercies after an appalling 2020 and, so far, a pretty grim 2021. We are told that by July 18, with any luck, the many restrictions on our lives will be lifted and a semblance of normality will return. As a nation we will emerge rather poorer, decidedly frazzled, certainly more divided and yet reassured and fortified in the belief that the worst is over and that we retain the ambitious capacity to rebuild our prosperity and reinvigorate our way of life.

               The Queen enjoys Trooping the Colour at Windsor

In recent days some events have cheered us up. Without being rabidly patriotic, most of us will have enjoyed the traditional Trooping the Colour, scaled down to the grassy courtyard of Windsor Castle from the open spaces of Horse Guards Parade off Whitehall, this year led by the proud Scots Guards but with all the usual martial music, brass and bagpipes, scarlet tunics and esoteric ritual. Her Majesty, a spritely, smiling 95, tapped her feet in pleasure. For a native Scotsman, a particular treat was the medley The Aberdonian, dominated by the iconic North East song The Bonnie Lass of Fyvie.

Not everything went Scotland’s way, however. Scotland lost 0-2 to Czech Republic in their opening game at the Euros. The Scots were predictably pedestrian, probably under the baleful spell of La Sturgeon. There was a comic side too, as the Czech second goal, a beautifully executed lob from far out by Patrik Schick over the out-of-position Scots keeper David Marshall, saw him entangled in goal-net confusion!

                                    David Marshall netted

It pains me to say that England need lose no sleep over their game against Scotland on Friday. Mind you, Wales are looking good after victory over Turkey, in Baku, Azerbaijan, that typically European opponent and venue!

Much the most engrossing event last week was the French Open Tennis at Roland Garros. My lovely wife is Greek and we were therefore cheering on Maria Sakkari and Stephanos Tsitsipas. Maria battled through to the semis, only to be pipped by the eventual champion, unseeded Barbora Krejcikova of the Czech Republic.

Stephanos Tsitsipas

                                    
                                

The progress of Tsitsipas was sensational. With his confident winners and hard-hitting tennis, he swept aside 2^nd seed Medvedev, 6th seed Zverev and in the final against top seed Novak Djokovic he breezed to a 2-set lead. But uncharismatic yet icily composed Djokovic is not world no 1 for nothing. His sublime placement and lethal dropshots finally overcame the Greek, who will no doubt bounce back. Djokovic had earlier deposed Raphael Nadal as King of the clay courts in an unforgettably epic match. Everyone’s favourite, Roger Federer, now in the twilight of his career and trying to recover from knee injury, won a sticky match against Koepfer of Germany and them withdrew from the competition.

               Novak Djokovic, a worthy grand slam champion.

This week we have been watching the tennis from the Queens Club, West London. There was a cameo from Scots hero Andy Murray, rusty from a long lay-off. He won his first match but succumbed to the no 1 seed Italian Mateo Berrettini. Sadly, Murray is a shadow of the great player he once was. Some up-and-coming British players have done well, notably Dan Evans, Cameron Norrie and Jack Draper. Inevitably the Old Guard changes and new faces will compete in all sports at the highest level.

This summer we can look forward to Wimbledon, to great rugby from the Lions in South Africa, to golfing magic from the various Opens, and for excitement at the Euros. I fear there will be thin pickings for the Home Nations but do not let failure and the British weather get you down.

Remember in extremis, there is always Fred and Ginger! I attach Isn’t this a lovely day to be caught in the Rain from Top Hat (1935).

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dl6FLfHTC68&ab_channel=RyanWenzel.

 

 

SMD

17.06.21

Text © Sidney Donald 2021

DRINK UP!

 

As we all stagger out of Lockdown, trying to dodge the Indian Covid variant and no doubt the next Great Plague too, our habits must adapt to our newly liberated world. The reopening of pubs and restaurants is good news generally, but my tastes in food and drink are a little antique and I am chary of abandoning social distancing quite yet.

    A return to conviviality

 I was fascinated by the recent story of the campaign to save Britain’s 40,000 pubs. It issued a clarion call for all adults to increase their pub spending this year and each consume;

124 pints of beer, or,

122 glasses of wine, or, if teetotal

976 packets of crisps, or

40 roast dinners.

Most of us will at least attempt to do their bounden duty to save our pubs and imbibe with enthusiasm!

The licensed trade campaign actually is not setting very high consumption bars for the habitual drinker (230 or so days left in 2021) – but “all adults” is another matter. I used to drink very regularly and in quantities I reckoned normal, but our alarmist and timid NHS would brand “excessive”. In my dotage, my capacity has tailed off, but I very rarely have an alcohol-free day. Sadly, I now mainly drink at home so I am no great gift to the licensed trade.

As I cautiously peer over the top of my Brexit trench, I consider what wines I should drink. I am reluctant to buy French (although they do produce excellent, if overpriced, stuff) and I can probably do without Italian and German gargles. I may have to make do with Chilean or Argentinian reds supplemented by Antipodean whites – English wine is potable but expensive. I cannot renounce my warming  Spanish sherry, mainstay of my long and idle afternoons.

As for food, I cherish Scotch beef and Welsh lamb, said to be endangered by a prospective free trade deal between the UK and Australia, a substantial meat producer. I guess there is an element of special pleading about this controversy and a deal will materially benefit both countries. All deals are to be welcomed, especially with our Commonwealth brothers, as we rebuild the contacts of Global Britain, no doubt in due course with our European and American cousins too.

Once we escape from Lockdown, how do we amuse ourselves? Large-scale spectator events, like football, cricket and rugby matches, are not attractive to me (much better viewed on the telly) though an English village cricket game, with tea and crumpets, would warm the cockles. I watch far too much afternoon TV and brain-rot is an (non-)occupational hazard. Worst of all, over three nights this week we have the Eurovision Song Contest, long ago seized by the gays and the glitterati. This year it comes from liberal Rotterdam and deadly dud songs, flamboyant flouncers and strobe lighting will invade every house in the land. OMG – popular culture!

                                    Fallen Angel Tix of Norway enchants Eurovision

We idly dream of foreign holidays but that road seems to be strewn with obstacles, quarantines, tests and red, amber and green lists – not to mention bureaucratic confusion, the threat of variants and different rules for different countries. The contradictory voices of “experts” assail us, hopelessly entwining science with politics. The British weather has been particularly unkind, pushing us to flee South and we yearn for the Mediterranean sun or spacious America. At present the human price is too high, what with profiteering airlines, dodgy local infection statistics and lengthy, sweaty arrival queues at Heathrow.

I optimistically hope that these matters will be sorted out in the next few months but our luck could easily be running thin this year. More realistically, we may have to settle for 2 bracing weeks in Skegness, a mystery bus tour to Wolverhampton and a plateful of tepid Cornish pasties!

 

SMD

20.05.21

Text Copyright© Sidney Donald 2021

 

VOICES OF SPORT

Casting my mind back, funny how it is always back and not forward these days (!), I try to evoke my memories of sporting occasions, and always I hear voices, famous, plummy, friendly voices redolent of a different age.

My earliest memories from the 1940s and 1950s are of Scottish football commentators on the BBC where excitable Peter Thomson and partisan George Davidson held undisputed court. We were dependent on the radio, BBC Light Programme, but it was not beyond making the odd gaffe. I do not remember if it were Peter or George who, in those pre-substitute days, assured us in a game against England “Scotland are playing 10 men without Cox”, a handicap indeed!

          Raymond Glendenning

Harry Carpenter

Some voices were versatile, like old-school, bespeckled and handle-bar-moustached Raymond Glendenning who brought us Cup Finals, but also thrilling us with the Boat Race and the Grand National. Harry Carpenter was particularly associated with boxing, but also turned his hand towards football, tennis and golf. Boxing was a radio feast in the 1950s, the dominant Americans making short work of the likes of Bruce Woodcock, Don Cockrell and later “Our ‘Enery” Cooper. Eamonn Andrews was much involved in boxing commentary in those days, ably assisted by former referee W. Barrington Dalby.

Cricket was avidly followed and the eloquent West Country tones of John Arlott delighted. But the star of them all was Brian Johnston, instantly recognized with his banter and giggles. His humour was of the schoolboy variety and he enjoyed cakes sent in by listeners. He was rather prone to gaffes and once observed that “Botham failed to get his leg over the wicket” and (probably apocryphally) he is credited with the line, at a West Indies test match; “The bowler’s Holding, the batsman’s Willey”. The comma saved the blushes!

 

                                                           Brian Johnston

                                                   

                                                                       Peter Alliss

There were broadcasting heroes in most sports. Wimbledon was blessed with the sharp intake of breath and the gentle exclamation “Oh, I say!” from veteran Dan Maskell as a champion’s forehand passing shot won the point. Peter O’Sullevan amazed with his ability to reel off the places of all runners and riders in the big flat race at machine-gun speed. Peter Alliss, no mean golfer himself, took a gently philosophic view of the game, illuminating The Open or The Masters, who knew how easy it is to fluff a short putt. Murray Walker, who died only a few weeks ago at 97, was a hugely enthusiastic commentator on Formula 1 motor-racing, his screaming voice drowning out the clamour of even that noisy sport.

Football always had the largest following. Kenneth Wolstenholme was a familiar if unspectacular voice but he achieved immortality in the 1966 World Cup Final with his line: “Some people are on the pitch….they think it is all over….well it is now!” as Geoff Hurst hammered the 4^th goal into the German net. Ecstasy! Wolstenholme was replaced by David Coleman, another able professional commentator, but then football fell mainly into the hands of former players – Ian St John, Jimmy Greaves and Gary Lineker. They are all articulate but I particularly enjoy the Northern tones of Alan Shearer and the surprise of Martin Keown, an almost sinister predator on the field but a reflective being in the studio.

      

                             Ian St John and Jimmy Greaves

The sport I most enjoy watching is rugby union with the 6 Nations the most prominent forum. One commentator towered over all others, Bill McLaren, a native of Hawick in the Scots Borders, but a modest expert on all aspects of rugby.  

The incomparable Bill McLaren

 His turn of phrase, in his rich accent, was delightful. “I look at Colin Meads and see a great big sheep farmer who carried the ball in his hands as though it was an orange pip.” or, of an elusive Scottish scrum-half; “He’s like a demented ferret up a wee drainpipe” Bravo Bill, we miss you!

There are other rugby commentators deserving mention notably, calm Eddie Butler, the grotesquely partisan Jonathan Davies for Wales and Brian Moore for England enlivening debate.

I am conscious that my favourites are all “male and pale”, and I acknowledge female and BAME sporting voices and their growing contribution. This tribute is aimed mainly at figures from the past who gave great pleasure to at least 3 generations. A big Thank-You!

 

SMD

25.03.21

Text Copyright © Sidney Donald 2021

THE HAIRY-FACED

In Lockdown, I feel we should spend all this spare time on something useful. Were I younger, I would take up bridge-playing, learning Chinese or unlock the mysteries of Yoga, but I am not really someone who likes to break into a sweat or stretch my feeble intellect too far. Two days ago, I signed in to an Oxford webinar all about fake news, conspiracy theories and prejudiced media but it was a bit clever for me as it discussed at length something called QAnon, which is not on my radar. I retired hurt but partly enlightened.

But in time I found an ideal occupation. I am a Beard Grower, and am presently working hard on coaxing my untidy bristle into a well-managed Van Dyck ensemble. Eventually I will favour you with a photograph, but at present the beard is growing rather slowly and I look decidedly scruffy like one of those sad dossers who used to grace the environs of Waterloo Station, huddled in cardboard boxes. I do not need to make any great effort to chivvy along my beard, but I suppose I could look hard at the floor and clench my cheeks, but somehow, I doubt if it would make much difference. So, when Census Day arrives very soon on 21 March, I can enter under Occupation, the answer Beard Grower or even the grander Pogonologist – much more dynamic than the more conventional, if accurate, Retired Venture Capitalist.

My classically educated readers will all remember the Byzantine emperor Constans II Pogonatos (The Bearded) 630-668 AD, who was kept busy fighting the Moslem hordes.

                                      

A Solidus coin of Constans II Pogonatos

The Byzantines were fond of nicknames, not always complimentary. Thus Constantine V was known as Copronymos (The Dung-Named), after, as an infant, he defecated into his baptismal font, and further North the Icelandic warrior Herjolf was dubbed Hrokkineista (The Wrinkled Scrotum}, poor chap.

Returning to beards, I look forward to the 6 Nations rugby match on 14 March between Scotland and Ireland at Murrayfield, Edinburgh. I support my native Scotland, who have not won against Ireland for some time; Scotland can do it if they show the tactical nous and technical efficiency they demonstrated so impressively against England to win the Calcutta Cup on 6 February. No firm team selections yet but both sides have formidable bearded candidates – Josh Strauss for Scotland and Gordon D’Arcy for Ireland

   

           Josh Strauss                                Gordon D'Arcy

            As a Scotsman, my thoughts have also been stimulated by the appearance of First Minister Nicola Sturgeon before an investigating committee of the Scottish Parliament. I am not a fan and, while the 6-hour session was gruelling, I was not impressed by the political amnesia claimed by Nicola. Her evasive fanaticism is not attractive.

Beards are not political, though the great and the good in Victorian England (Ruskin, Dickens, Darwin, Tennyson et al) all sported one. Lord Salisbury, Prime Minister at the turn of the century, with a huge beard like a spade, was the last premier to do so.  I worry that my beard, which will be white and flowing, may turn out as looking similar to that of my bête noire, erstwhile Labour leader Jeremy Corbyn.

Jeremy Corbyn

If, by any chance, I start to spout Leftist claptrap or make wokeish pronouncements, blame the beard – I will shave it off immediately!

SMD

7.03.21

Text Copyright © Sidney Donald 2021

A RIGHT OLD KNEES-UP

A simple, traditional Brit like me enjoys songs about knees, which are faintly comical parts of our anatomy, the most famous being:

Knees up Mother Brown

Knees up Mother Brown

Under the table you must go

Ee-aye, Ee-aye, Ee-aye-oh

If I catch you bending

I'll saw your legs right off

Knees up, knees up

don't get the breeze up

Knees up Mother Brown.

The song dates from about 1918 and is ranked as a Cockney London song, much performed at dances and parties along with The Hokey-Cokey or The Lambeth Walk. It is slightly ribald as the song may be implying that raised knees are a crucial sexual position. Popular at fun gatherings in holiday camps of old were Knobbly Knees contests and even today celebs of the eminence of Angelina Jolie and Kate Moss attract rude comment for their boney knees. My own knees, I can assure readers, are things of beauty, fleshy, sturdy, with ne’er a knobble!

    

                             Knobbly-knees contestants

Suddenly, innocent knees have entered the political arena, a bubbling maelstrom of madness at this particular moment. The pictures below tell the story;

                                        Nancy Pelosi leads US Democrats in obeisance

                                           Keir Starmer and Angela Rayner feebly kneel

 Colston statue dumped by Bristol mob

  Des Moines police kneel pathetically before a mob

Seldom have I seen such an abject sight, American and then British political leaders grandstanding in self-righteous indignation at the behest of black extremists and activists. Criminality ignored or excused to appease a community which has genuine historic grievances, but which is never above the law. Not a word from an ethnic ‘leader” condemning violence by their supporters, or suggesting rational ways of eliminating the scourge of racism.

Oh, I forgot Sadiq Khan, whom Londoners freely elected as their Mayor, has set up a commission to report on statue removals and name changes in the capital. Already Robert Milligan, a slaver, has been removed from West India Docks as will blameless Robert Baden-Powell from Poole. Thomas Guy, patron of Guy’s Hospital is in Sadiq’s sights, and his associated rabble also propose to remove Nelson from his Column, Francis Drake from Plymouth, Cecil Rhodes from Oxford, Gladstone from Liverpool, Henry Dundas from Edinburgh and Captain Cook from Whitby.

All this has more to do with anti-colonialism, than racism but it is slanted to create a new narrative for British history, one I would guess 99% of us would utterly reject. Anyway, the mob is on its way, breathing fire and fury, and armed with 10 tons of humbug. Our police protectors have their guard down and our politicians are terrified of taking any sort of stand. As Baden-Powell always advised us:  BE PREPARED!

                  Baden-Powell benignly sits in Poole

SMD

11.06.20

Text Copyright ©Sidney Donald 2020

THE TRIUMPH OF HOPE

Oh my God, what we Scots call “Dismal Jimmies” are out in force spreading doom and gloom throughout the land. They groan that Civilisation is supposedly on the point of collapse, the pain of coronavirus is only just starting, allege others, while some other scaremongers tell us the economic shock will be the worst for 300 years, looking back to the South Sea Bubble of 1720! Their own bubble actually needs pricking as it is all “Bollocks”, the outpourings of the professionally miserable, those projecting dire long-term conclusions from dubious assumptions – the very same mischief-making we saw in spades over Brexit. Yes, we face real difficulties, but those who wallow in others’ suffering or who knowingly seek to dampen our proud spirits at this desperate time, only deserve contempt.

We humans live in hope, that spur to our strivings and struggles. It is hope for a better future that animates and stimulates us in dark days. Sometimes indeed that hope is more important than actually reaching the goal. As Pope puts it in his Essay on Man;

Hope springs eternal in the human breast:

Man never is, but always to be blest.

Hope sustains us in adversity. Nelson Mandela lived through 27 years of harsh incarceration yet emerged a positive and conciliatory leader. Our nation was unified during the Blitz, inspired by Churchill’s rhetoric, confident of ultimate victory. After years of hideous communism, the Russian spirit shone through the writings of Solzhenitsyn and the defiance of nuclear scientist Sakharov, providing hope for a better world. And that world is surely coming.

Churchill, the bearer of Hope

Our leaders in the UK have not yet inspired us. The absence of convalescing Boris leaves a gap, which his charisma could fill. Get well soon! Dominic Raab, that boxer and karate black belt, cuts a timid tongue-tied figure, unsure of the way forward, in awe of the experts flanking him. Too often they speak the dim language of officialdom, cautious and unrevealing. No doubt some of their ideas are mistaken, but I know nothing of epidemiology and cannot cavil. The notion that we can do little until a vaccine is developed sounds defeatist and lazy to me – our economy cannot wait in limbo very long. Our politicians must master their brief and make firm decisions in all our interests.

Many like me are born optimists, often echoing Voltaire’s Pangloss in claiming that All’s for the best, in the best of all possible worlds. Even Voltaire did not believe that! In my optimistic mood I can think that HS2 will bring boom-times to the North, that Arsenal can win the League and that the Saudi purchase of Newcastle United is a wise move! I can dream cosily that Trump will lose in November, that Erdogan will repent his wicked ways and that Kim Jong-un will embrace a gentle school of Buddhism!

Alas, none of this is likely and we just soldier on in heartfelt hope. We can seek to live up to the high poetic diction of Shelley:

“To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite;
To forgive wrongs darker than death or night;
To defy Power, which seems omnipotent;
To love, and bear; to hope till Hope creates
From its own wreck the thing it contemplates;
Neither to change, not falter, nor repent;
This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be
Good, great and joyous, beautiful and free;
This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and Victory”

Onwards and upwards!

SMD

16.04.20

Text Copyright © Sidney Donald 2020