Monday, September 17, 2012
The Beatles: So Over?
I was listening to a radio programme about Dame Vivienne Westwood recently (left) in which she disclosed that Malcolm Mclaren had dared her to set fire to the waxworks of The Beatles in Madame Tussaud's.
"I thought it was a good idea," she said. "I mean, they were rubbish. But I was afraid people might get hurt."
Then, a few days later, my mum, a well respected authority on popular music, said she had never liked the Beatles. I would like to say she was more of a Rolling Stones' fan but the truth was she liked the Ray Conniff Singers and Andy Williams.
The Beatles were slightly before my time, but my brother, who's six years older, bequeathed me all his albums.They were played hundreds of times on "Sid," the Alba record player.
I always listened to side 2 of A Hard Day's Night when I was getting ready to go out, age 15. At that time I had perfected the half gold, half green eye lid.
But recently, a lot of Beatles songs make me want to gurn. I can't stand Hey Jude, All You Need is Love, Back in the USSR, Strawberry Fields, Twist and Shout and Lady Madonna. Some of them sound very dated, a sort of cloying sentimentality.
It's not helped by Paul McCartney croaking out Hey Jude at large public gatherings. Really, he should take a lesson from David Bowie who retired in 2003 and has stuck to it (even though I would dearly love to see another album from him).
But The Beatles still have the power to take your breath away. I never liked "A Day in the Life" but when it was played on the radio recently, I was transfixed. It sounded so contemporary. And I still love Eleanor Rigby - that most evocative of songs; Something;. I Feel Fine; Fool on the Hill.
Where are you with the Beatles? Love or loathe?
Sunday, September 16, 2012
We Venture Across the Border
I spent the last few days in Devon with my mum, who was 80 this year but still very spry with all her marbles.
I didn't take J. My view is, if a husband's natural habitat is not a garden centre or tearoom, it will only cause misery to inflict it on them. Plus I would hate to be in one of those joined-at-the-hip couples. As would J.
When I'm staying with Mum, or Giz, there's a certain ritual to our day trips. We like tradition and continuity. The most popular are:
1) Otter Nurseries for plant buying and lunch followed by either Endsleigh garden centre (to find something Otter didn't have) or Buckfast Abbey, where you can get a very fine treacle pudding;
2) Exmouth and Sidmouth and maybe Budleigh Salterton. I lived near the seafront in Exmouth for a short time and love the unspoilt splendour of the beach and the ramshackle nature of the town;
3) Roadford Lake, on the Devon/Cornwall border, preceded by a visit to the Devon Paperweight Centre at the superbly named Leg O'Mutton Corner, Yelverton;
4) Goodrington, Paignton, where we spent many summer days on the red sands, watching the steam train go by (the driver was straight out of Central Casting with a flowing red beard and cheery wave);
5) Totnes for a mooch around gentrified shops selling organic this and that, and strange shops full of arty tourist tat/tut.
But this year, reader, we threw something different into the mix. A coach trip! Now Giz does these quite often. She has a social life that would put Prince Andrew to shame.When I was a teenager we often did coach trips because it was impossible to get Stamps to take us anywhere. There were two memorable trips to Newquay where we didn't even get out of the car because he couldn't find anywhere to park. He refused to pay to go in a car park so unless we could find street parking.
The coach trip was to Boscastle, Tintagel and Padstow.My first time at all three!
It took about an hour to do all the pick ups around Plymouth. Interminable, thanks to roadworks at Laira. Giz and I were the first to board. By the time we got to Boscastle, ostensibly for coffee, the fellow travellers were straining for pasties and many were indulging before we had chance to get our bearings.
It was very cold. Very very cold. A few people had been caught out and were wearing only short sleeves.
Boscastle was fairly brief. Just fifteen minutes later we were in Tintagel, for an hour and half. We had a below average, "give the emmets any old rubbish, they won't come back" type of lunch in a shabby restaurant and then wandered round trying to find a sheltered spot. Giz inevitably got talking to some of the people on the coach, including a bloke on his own - we named him "Pasty Pete," with a huge stomach and a short sleeved top. He'd been on 12 coach trips last year, he told us, and Badger's Holt for Christmas lunch can't be beaten.
Everyone was back on board with minutes to spare; a reflection on the charms of Tintagel. I've never seen a castle so bashful or so many shops full of useless "tut:" piskeys, fairies, things connected with King Arthur, etc.
Thence to Padstow, or as it is now known, Padstein. The influence of the TV chef hangs heavy. As you arrive, sweeping into an unprepossessing car park with views of diggers and trucks, you walk past three buildings forming part of the Rick Stein empire: a wet fish shop, fish and chip shop and deli. The unsuspecting emmet is lured into buying unnecessary jars of chutney, cookery books and things labelled with the name Chalkie, the chef's late dog.
Padstow itself is a harbour with a cluster of shops, mostly selling pasties, fish and chips and tut. On a sunny day it would be glorious to sit and watch boats and people. On a cold, windy day, with two and a half hours to spare, it was teeth clenchingly awful.
Pasty Pete had his third pasty of the day. I had my first (had to be done). We both had a pleasingly large bakewell tart in a cafe which failed the old fat test.
Back on the coach and Pasty Pete's luck had changed by the time we reached Plymstock. He had struck up conversation with a woman at the back. Regaling her with his 12 coach trips last year and the splendours of Badger's Holt, she remarked that they ought to go on trips together. "Oh yes, I am single," he declared, before adding suspiciously, "But aren't you married?" "Yes but we don't get on," she said dismissively, before sweeping off the coach with her entourage and leaving us all dangling as to the outcome. Will there be tinsel and turkey for the two of them? A pasty a deux at Mevagissey? I don't think we'll ever know, because Giz has decided her coach trip days are behind her.
I didn't take J. My view is, if a husband's natural habitat is not a garden centre or tearoom, it will only cause misery to inflict it on them. Plus I would hate to be in one of those joined-at-the-hip couples. As would J.
When I'm staying with Mum, or Giz, there's a certain ritual to our day trips. We like tradition and continuity. The most popular are:
1) Otter Nurseries for plant buying and lunch followed by either Endsleigh garden centre (to find something Otter didn't have) or Buckfast Abbey, where you can get a very fine treacle pudding;
2) Exmouth and Sidmouth and maybe Budleigh Salterton. I lived near the seafront in Exmouth for a short time and love the unspoilt splendour of the beach and the ramshackle nature of the town;
3) Roadford Lake, on the Devon/Cornwall border, preceded by a visit to the Devon Paperweight Centre at the superbly named Leg O'Mutton Corner, Yelverton;
4) Goodrington, Paignton, where we spent many summer days on the red sands, watching the steam train go by (the driver was straight out of Central Casting with a flowing red beard and cheery wave);
5) Totnes for a mooch around gentrified shops selling organic this and that, and strange shops full of arty tourist tat/tut.
But this year, reader, we threw something different into the mix. A coach trip! Now Giz does these quite often. She has a social life that would put Prince Andrew to shame.When I was a teenager we often did coach trips because it was impossible to get Stamps to take us anywhere. There were two memorable trips to Newquay where we didn't even get out of the car because he couldn't find anywhere to park. He refused to pay to go in a car park so unless we could find street parking.
 |
| Boscastle |
The coach trip was to Boscastle, Tintagel and Padstow.My first time at all three!
It took about an hour to do all the pick ups around Plymouth. Interminable, thanks to roadworks at Laira. Giz and I were the first to board. By the time we got to Boscastle, ostensibly for coffee, the fellow travellers were straining for pasties and many were indulging before we had chance to get our bearings.
 |
| Giz feeling the nip |
It was very cold. Very very cold. A few people had been caught out and were wearing only short sleeves.
Boscastle was fairly brief. Just fifteen minutes later we were in Tintagel, for an hour and half. We had a below average, "give the emmets any old rubbish, they won't come back" type of lunch in a shabby restaurant and then wandered round trying to find a sheltered spot. Giz inevitably got talking to some of the people on the coach, including a bloke on his own - we named him "Pasty Pete," with a huge stomach and a short sleeved top. He'd been on 12 coach trips last year, he told us, and Badger's Holt for Christmas lunch can't be beaten.
 |
| Padstow |
Thence to Padstow, or as it is now known, Padstein. The influence of the TV chef hangs heavy. As you arrive, sweeping into an unprepossessing car park with views of diggers and trucks, you walk past three buildings forming part of the Rick Stein empire: a wet fish shop, fish and chip shop and deli. The unsuspecting emmet is lured into buying unnecessary jars of chutney, cookery books and things labelled with the name Chalkie, the chef's late dog.
Padstow itself is a harbour with a cluster of shops, mostly selling pasties, fish and chips and tut. On a sunny day it would be glorious to sit and watch boats and people. On a cold, windy day, with two and a half hours to spare, it was teeth clenchingly awful.
Pasty Pete had his third pasty of the day. I had my first (had to be done). We both had a pleasingly large bakewell tart in a cafe which failed the old fat test.
Back on the coach and Pasty Pete's luck had changed by the time we reached Plymstock. He had struck up conversation with a woman at the back. Regaling her with his 12 coach trips last year and the splendours of Badger's Holt, she remarked that they ought to go on trips together. "Oh yes, I am single," he declared, before adding suspiciously, "But aren't you married?" "Yes but we don't get on," she said dismissively, before sweeping off the coach with her entourage and leaving us all dangling as to the outcome. Will there be tinsel and turkey for the two of them? A pasty a deux at Mevagissey? I don't think we'll ever know, because Giz has decided her coach trip days are behind her.
Sunday, September 09, 2012
A summer to remember
All the superlatives have been said. The clockwork precision of the organisation; the warmth and optimism of the crowds; even the weather was praised.
This summmer, 2012, will never be forgotten.
The Paralympics winds to a close tonight and we will then be utterly bereft.
Today was the Paralympics Marathon, and I had a great vantage point at Cornhill watching a) the competitors and b) husband J performning in his last duties as a volunteer.
We finally got inside the hallowed Olympic Stadium for the opening ceremony of the Paralympics. The weather had taken a turn for the worst that day, and it was blustery and cold. But later at the park, the sun broke through.
I wish every person in the land had had the chance to experience the Olympic Stadium. It was the most amazing experience. It was like sitting with 60,000 friends. Everyone was speaking to each other and volunteering to take photos. And when the Paralympics GB team was announced, there wasn't a dry eye in the house. We stood and cheered and clapped as the cavallcade slowly wound its way past.
When we left, the cheery volunteers shouted "goodbye" and "see you tomorrow" as we sped through the underground system in an ultra efficient and fast way. We were home within 30 minutes.
This summmer, 2012, will never be forgotten.
The Paralympics winds to a close tonight and we will then be utterly bereft.
Today was the Paralympics Marathon, and I had a great vantage point at Cornhill watching a) the competitors and b) husband J performning in his last duties as a volunteer.
 |
| John and friend |
 |
| Our first glimpse of the male wheelchair racers: David Weir is fourth |
 | ||
| John rids the streets of London of competitors' drinks bottles and random balloons |
I wish every person in the land had had the chance to experience the Olympic Stadium. It was the most amazing experience. It was like sitting with 60,000 friends. Everyone was speaking to each other and volunteering to take photos. And when the Paralympics GB team was announced, there wasn't a dry eye in the house. We stood and cheered and clapped as the cavallcade slowly wound its way past.
When we left, the cheery volunteers shouted "goodbye" and "see you tomorrow" as we sped through the underground system in an ultra efficient and fast way. We were home within 30 minutes.
 |
| The wild flower meadow was amazing - as was the Orbit |
 |
| We found Mandeville - he wasn't very cuddly |
 |
| The royal barge was there too |
 |
| In the Olympic Stadium |
 |
| Our Greatest Team, left in white, make their entrance |
Friday, August 24, 2012
John's Olympic Volunteer Memories
John didn't get inside the Olympic Stadium: his duties were in central London at the men's and women's marathon, the race walk and the road cycling.
He took his duties to the public very seriously, "working the crowd" at every opportunity and taking photos of people.
Here are a few of his pictures.
Doing the "Mobot"
A well earned drink
Getting their hands on some souvenirs
Friday, August 17, 2012
Garden Hits and Misses
 |
| Early spring: the base for the artificial lawn |
I set about planting, concentrating mostly on perennials with a few annuals to fill gaps and a couple of ferns and hostas to create additional texture and interest.
Quite a few learnings!
Quite a few learnings!
 |
| Large border, late July |
The weather was of course challenging. Very wet with no prolonged sunshine until late July. When it is dry, our soil quickly gets like the prairie.
My first learning was that I didn't quite get the balance of height and depth right in the big border. Some of the plants just didn't live up to their predicted heights.
The other learning was colour. I had painstakingly designed the big border to be mostly pink with a little mauve and white. Then in spring, nasturtiums from last year re-seeded themselves in the smaller border and suddenly there was a mass interruption of orange and yellow. Undaunted, I allowed that border to be a crazy "jewel garden," and surprisingly, it works. Unlike the main border, which has too much pink . Nicotiana which was billed as lime green, which I thought would be a perfect foil for fuchsias and magenta cosmos, turned out to be a "dwarf" variety, and while growing in profusion, it is more yellow than lime green.
 |
| The "jewel border" |
 |
| Nicotiana |
I grew cosmos from seeds my mum gave me, and the cosmos was disappointing. I have hoth huge leafy bushes of it and stunted little plants.
Several dianthus plants are starting to flower and smell divine, but they were such tiny plants when they arrived they're only just getting established.
Three lupins were attacked by something which I managed to eradicate. Three penstemons had a brief, lacklustre performance. The much vaunted foxglove, award winner Illumination has been a solid performer but I found the peachy colour a bit disappointing.
Finally it was year two for my blackcurrants and I achieved oh, 10 berries!
The successes were: the nasturtiums, which are winding themselves round the hedge; nemesia, which I bought as an extra was gorgeous and I'll be getting more of them next year; the artificial lawn, which always looks great, and a salvia which I planted in the border after it faithfully grew back in a pot two years running. Two fuchsias were outstandingly profuse. Earlier in the year, clematis Dr Ruppel was fabulous and I have added another clematis, the mile-a-minute Montana Rubens, to sprawl over the fence. I also had a fabulous hellebore Niger (Christmas Rose) and will get more of those.
Next year I will re-site some of the plants; have more height and depth by adding hollyhocks and delphiniums, and grow more of the successful plants: nemesia, fuchsias, echinacea (I only had three this year as an experiment). For spring, I have just ordered my bulbs and will have a fantastic display in containers, concentrating on mostly purple and mauve tulips and daffodils and narcissi.
Several dianthus plants are starting to flower and smell divine, but they were such tiny plants when they arrived they're only just getting established.
Three lupins were attacked by something which I managed to eradicate. Three penstemons had a brief, lacklustre performance. The much vaunted foxglove, award winner Illumination has been a solid performer but I found the peachy colour a bit disappointing.
Finally it was year two for my blackcurrants and I achieved oh, 10 berries!
 |
| Nemesia Raspberry |
 |
| Hardy fuchsia "Display" |
 |
| Unknown salvia |
 |
| Honeysuckle Serotina |
 |
| Echinacea Vintage Wine |
Monday, August 13, 2012
A Kaleidoscope of Colour ends London's wonderful Olympics
The day after the end of the Olympics. BBC Breakfast is still coming from the Olympic Park but there's no-one there and the sun has gone. "Why are you crying?" demands J, as a solitary tear creeps down my cheek.
I, like many others today I suspect, am pining for the colour, warmth and exuberance of the most amazing two weeks we have ever known. An intoxicating cocktail where Londoners lost their stiff upper lip, everything ran to time and the recession was forgotten. Even the weather came good, after months of relentless rain.
Even on Twitter, the cynicism had disappeared for a fortnight, but during the early part of the closing ceremony it was back with a vengeance, people moaning and whining. Fortunately the show morphed into something so eccentric and over-the-top that it won everyone round and the tweets became funny and catty, like the Twitter we know and love.
So what of the closing ceremony? Looking back, it was like something that started gently and gracefully and then speeded up in a blur of flashing colours. No doubt this was intentional, but the start was a little too restrained. After a stunning backdrop of London's cars and lorries speeding past landmarks in a papier mache world (yesterday's news?), the first few acts including Madness and the Pet Shop Boys didn't seem to be hitting the right notes.
Ray Davies, 68, looked slightly overwhelmed as he was deposited by a London cab to sing his wonderful "Waterloo Sunset." He may have a limp from when he was mugged in New Orleans a few years ago but he showed he still had his voice, unlike Paul McCartney and Elton John when they performed at the Jubilee concert.
The arrival of the athletes seemed a welcome distraction on Twitter, where people were scathing and restless, but it took too long to assemble them and form them into the Union flag. I was yearning for Usain Bolt to move everyone along. Meanwhile the four songs that we had heard so far seemed to be endlessly reprised. "I love Britain and I love our four songs," said someone on Twitter.
Eventually the athletes were all successfully kettled, and then the party really started. Whoever was staging the show was now determined to turn it into a raucous celebration of British eccentricity and diversity. This is what we're really good at.
Two deceased artists, John Lennon and Freddie Mercury, appeared on video screens. When pictures of David Bowie appeared, the whole of Twitter went mad - "is it him? We need him!" and it would have been the most fantastic, best kept secret had David Bowie appeared. He didn't though: we had a few super models standing around while Fashion played.
I would have done without George Michael, who had the audacity to sing a new song, and "Pink Floyd." Elbow and Muse both seemed to lack a bit of welly in the vast stadium. Annie Lennox was also surplus to requirements, although the pirate ship was a nice prop.
I was getting concerned that none of the kettled athletes would have even heard of any of the acts as we were fielding quite a lot of mature talent. Fortunately some younger acts appeared including Jessie J and Tine Tempeh, with someone's dad (Fatboy Slim) coming down from the pub to spin a few records.
Russell Brand was a cross between the child catcher and Willy Wonka as he demonstrated that he can't sing but has enough charisma to compensate, trundling along in a Magical Mystery Tour style camper van.
The Spice Girls looked and sounded great, although Victoria Beckham had a slightly pained "I didn't really want to be here, I have a career you know" expression. The highlight of their short set was Boris and Cameron dancing and being captured on Youtube.
For me the show was undoubtedly stolen by Eric Idle and "Always look on the bright side of life." Shot from a cannon (I was hoping Boris would have been the cannon fodder), this was totally surreal. Eric was surrounded by Bollywood dancers and hoardes of nuns. Suddenly everyone on Twitter was saying it was so over-the-top it was wonderful.
After the speeches from Lord Coe and Jacques Rogge (does he ever smile?) and the formalities of the handover of the 31st Olympiad to Rio, it was left to Take That and Darcey Bussell to extinguish the cauldron, a poignant and moving moment. Then the party revived with The Who proving "their generation" still has a lot more to offer than zimmer frames and hip replacements. And thank goodness we didn't have to endure Paul McCartney, Elton John and Cliff Richard this time!
Fantastic night to round off the most aamazing two weeks. I have been privileged to be part of it. Tickets for the Paralympics opening ceremony have now been secured as I was determined that this time we will get into the park.
I, like many others today I suspect, am pining for the colour, warmth and exuberance of the most amazing two weeks we have ever known. An intoxicating cocktail where Londoners lost their stiff upper lip, everything ran to time and the recession was forgotten. Even the weather came good, after months of relentless rain.
Even on Twitter, the cynicism had disappeared for a fortnight, but during the early part of the closing ceremony it was back with a vengeance, people moaning and whining. Fortunately the show morphed into something so eccentric and over-the-top that it won everyone round and the tweets became funny and catty, like the Twitter we know and love.
So what of the closing ceremony? Looking back, it was like something that started gently and gracefully and then speeded up in a blur of flashing colours. No doubt this was intentional, but the start was a little too restrained. After a stunning backdrop of London's cars and lorries speeding past landmarks in a papier mache world (yesterday's news?), the first few acts including Madness and the Pet Shop Boys didn't seem to be hitting the right notes.
Ray Davies, 68, looked slightly overwhelmed as he was deposited by a London cab to sing his wonderful "Waterloo Sunset." He may have a limp from when he was mugged in New Orleans a few years ago but he showed he still had his voice, unlike Paul McCartney and Elton John when they performed at the Jubilee concert.
The arrival of the athletes seemed a welcome distraction on Twitter, where people were scathing and restless, but it took too long to assemble them and form them into the Union flag. I was yearning for Usain Bolt to move everyone along. Meanwhile the four songs that we had heard so far seemed to be endlessly reprised. "I love Britain and I love our four songs," said someone on Twitter.
Eventually the athletes were all successfully kettled, and then the party really started. Whoever was staging the show was now determined to turn it into a raucous celebration of British eccentricity and diversity. This is what we're really good at.
Two deceased artists, John Lennon and Freddie Mercury, appeared on video screens. When pictures of David Bowie appeared, the whole of Twitter went mad - "is it him? We need him!" and it would have been the most fantastic, best kept secret had David Bowie appeared. He didn't though: we had a few super models standing around while Fashion played.
I would have done without George Michael, who had the audacity to sing a new song, and "Pink Floyd." Elbow and Muse both seemed to lack a bit of welly in the vast stadium. Annie Lennox was also surplus to requirements, although the pirate ship was a nice prop.
I was getting concerned that none of the kettled athletes would have even heard of any of the acts as we were fielding quite a lot of mature talent. Fortunately some younger acts appeared including Jessie J and Tine Tempeh, with someone's dad (Fatboy Slim) coming down from the pub to spin a few records.
Russell Brand was a cross between the child catcher and Willy Wonka as he demonstrated that he can't sing but has enough charisma to compensate, trundling along in a Magical Mystery Tour style camper van.
The Spice Girls looked and sounded great, although Victoria Beckham had a slightly pained "I didn't really want to be here, I have a career you know" expression. The highlight of their short set was Boris and Cameron dancing and being captured on Youtube.
For me the show was undoubtedly stolen by Eric Idle and "Always look on the bright side of life." Shot from a cannon (I was hoping Boris would have been the cannon fodder), this was totally surreal. Eric was surrounded by Bollywood dancers and hoardes of nuns. Suddenly everyone on Twitter was saying it was so over-the-top it was wonderful.
After the speeches from Lord Coe and Jacques Rogge (does he ever smile?) and the formalities of the handover of the 31st Olympiad to Rio, it was left to Take That and Darcey Bussell to extinguish the cauldron, a poignant and moving moment. Then the party revived with The Who proving "their generation" still has a lot more to offer than zimmer frames and hip replacements. And thank goodness we didn't have to endure Paul McCartney, Elton John and Cliff Richard this time!
Fantastic night to round off the most aamazing two weeks. I have been privileged to be part of it. Tickets for the Paralympics opening ceremony have now been secured as I was determined that this time we will get into the park.
Friday, August 10, 2012
England's footballers need to step up to the plate
We're nearing the end of the Olympics and what a phenomenal achievement it has been for Team GB all round!
Yes, fully deserving of an exclamation mark, even though I normally steer away from them.
Before it all began I was telling everyone it would be wonderful: there was nothing to worry about. The problems with security and trucculent transport workers faded away, and instead the UK basked in the glow of largely excellent weather, superb organisation and praise by IOC chief Jacques Rogge for being on a par with Lillehammer, noted for the friendliest games ever.
As for the performance of Team GB, where do we start? After the years of hurt we have had with the UK's mediocre football teams, we were stunned into disbelief as athletes rose to the challenge and gave the finest performance of their career to clinch a record tally of gold medals. Yes, even Andy Murray!
It's an amazing achievement for a country of our size to finish third in the medals table. There is a degree of satisfaction in particular in trouncing Germany and France. Germany's Der Spiegel published a very sour article ahead of the Olympics saying that London 2012 would be dogged by chaotic organisation and bad weather. Meanwhile France have been poor losers, accusing "les rosbifs" of cheating simply because we're now so dominant in cycling.
One thing the Olympics has taught us is that we are still "Great" Britain. We don't have to settle for mediocrity. We are fearless competitors.
The spotlight has occasionally fallen on football during the Olympics and the contrast between our fine Olympians and that pathetic bunch of overpaid prima donnas, the footballers.
Forget Team GB, the excuse for a team put together for the Olympics. For reasons known only to themselves, and no doubt to do with not wanting to lose their jobs if a united UK team was found to be better than separate country teams, Scotland and Northern Ireland declined to take part.
The team ended up by repeating the England team's uselessness at taking penalties.
We're less willing now to put up with the lacklustre performances of England, the excuses, the mediocrity. Like our Olympic athletes, our cricketers and our rugby players, football needs to step up to the plate. Put up or shut up. "The beautiful game" is now officially on two yellow cards.
Yes, fully deserving of an exclamation mark, even though I normally steer away from them.
Before it all began I was telling everyone it would be wonderful: there was nothing to worry about. The problems with security and trucculent transport workers faded away, and instead the UK basked in the glow of largely excellent weather, superb organisation and praise by IOC chief Jacques Rogge for being on a par with Lillehammer, noted for the friendliest games ever.
As for the performance of Team GB, where do we start? After the years of hurt we have had with the UK's mediocre football teams, we were stunned into disbelief as athletes rose to the challenge and gave the finest performance of their career to clinch a record tally of gold medals. Yes, even Andy Murray!
It's an amazing achievement for a country of our size to finish third in the medals table. There is a degree of satisfaction in particular in trouncing Germany and France. Germany's Der Spiegel published a very sour article ahead of the Olympics saying that London 2012 would be dogged by chaotic organisation and bad weather. Meanwhile France have been poor losers, accusing "les rosbifs" of cheating simply because we're now so dominant in cycling.
One thing the Olympics has taught us is that we are still "Great" Britain. We don't have to settle for mediocrity. We are fearless competitors.
The spotlight has occasionally fallen on football during the Olympics and the contrast between our fine Olympians and that pathetic bunch of overpaid prima donnas, the footballers.
Forget Team GB, the excuse for a team put together for the Olympics. For reasons known only to themselves, and no doubt to do with not wanting to lose their jobs if a united UK team was found to be better than separate country teams, Scotland and Northern Ireland declined to take part.
The team ended up by repeating the England team's uselessness at taking penalties.
We're less willing now to put up with the lacklustre performances of England, the excuses, the mediocrity. Like our Olympic athletes, our cricketers and our rugby players, football needs to step up to the plate. Put up or shut up. "The beautiful game" is now officially on two yellow cards.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Marks and Spencer: please read
Poor old Marks and Spencer have had some stick this week. Shareholders got very ratty at their AGM. The problem is, most of Marks' customers are aged 45 and over, but most of their clothes are aimed at the yoof generation, who wouldn't be seen dead in there. Same issue at the BBC, where they're all too happy to kill Gardeners' World for a month because of sport, but wouldn't dream of axing any of the dross on BBC3 aimed at teens.
Liz Jones, unusually for once, offered some good advice to M and S in the Mail. They need to go upmarket. Yes yes yes! We support their Plan A, and having clothes made ethically, but they really need to charge more because the quality has become terrible. Cheap clothes that fall apart are literally ten a penny in places like Primark, Tesco and Sainsbury's.
Before my holiday I tried to buy a simple pair of white shorts and white three-quarter length trousers. Simples, as the mir cats would say. But no -- M and S only had really bad quality versions that were clingy and unflattering.Or linen, which no-one in their right mind buys. I couldn't believe it. I already have some white knee-length cotton shorts, purchased from Marks and Spencer four years ago, that I still wear. They still look immaculate.
As Liz said, we want more cashmere, and more scoop neck jumpers please; and fewer lairy colours. Cashmere jumpers in navy, black, cream, red, camel work so well for work. Dresses with sleeves, yes please - and dresses that try to give us a waist, rather than the shapeless sacks M and S favour for workwear. Things that are a bit more edgy, but less embellished. More variety in the cut and shape of jackets: not so many boxy or straight jackets.
Please get rid of Per Una altogether. I can't understand who would wear those ghastly voluminous crinkly skirts and flouncy tops. Everything is far too overdone with sequins, lace, buttons. Some simple maritime themed basics would be great: it is impossible to find a good quality scoop neck with short or three-quarter length sleeves t-shirt in M and S.
My mum is 80, and she and her friends are shopaholics. They're forever buying clothes! But even she thinks the Classic Collection is too old fashioned. She wants bright colours, but things like the 2-piece camisole sets that M and S used to sell - flattering for older ladies - and more of the Manifesto trousers that manage to be stylish while having an elasicated waist.
Some good news: I read that M&S are trialling a high-end cosmetic zone. Great idea! Apparently it will sell cult brands, the sort you can get in Space NK.I love the stuff sold in Space NK, but sometimes when I look into a store, it's empty and that puts me off because I'm afraid of being sold to. I like the way you can browse high end cosmetics in Boots without being hassled, but they don't sell very many trendy brands, so M&S could be onto a winner.
M and S, please let the teens shop in Topshop, Primark, etc. Concentrate on the older demographic, but think more elegance; more flattering and better quality. And improve the store layout and the changing rooms (that horrific lighting!). You can get rid of most of the famous models in your ads (but bring back Dervla in the food ads). And things will improve. Simples!
Liz Jones, unusually for once, offered some good advice to M and S in the Mail. They need to go upmarket. Yes yes yes! We support their Plan A, and having clothes made ethically, but they really need to charge more because the quality has become terrible. Cheap clothes that fall apart are literally ten a penny in places like Primark, Tesco and Sainsbury's.
Before my holiday I tried to buy a simple pair of white shorts and white three-quarter length trousers. Simples, as the mir cats would say. But no -- M and S only had really bad quality versions that were clingy and unflattering.Or linen, which no-one in their right mind buys. I couldn't believe it. I already have some white knee-length cotton shorts, purchased from Marks and Spencer four years ago, that I still wear. They still look immaculate.
As Liz said, we want more cashmere, and more scoop neck jumpers please; and fewer lairy colours. Cashmere jumpers in navy, black, cream, red, camel work so well for work. Dresses with sleeves, yes please - and dresses that try to give us a waist, rather than the shapeless sacks M and S favour for workwear. Things that are a bit more edgy, but less embellished. More variety in the cut and shape of jackets: not so many boxy or straight jackets.
Please get rid of Per Una altogether. I can't understand who would wear those ghastly voluminous crinkly skirts and flouncy tops. Everything is far too overdone with sequins, lace, buttons. Some simple maritime themed basics would be great: it is impossible to find a good quality scoop neck with short or three-quarter length sleeves t-shirt in M and S.
My mum is 80, and she and her friends are shopaholics. They're forever buying clothes! But even she thinks the Classic Collection is too old fashioned. She wants bright colours, but things like the 2-piece camisole sets that M and S used to sell - flattering for older ladies - and more of the Manifesto trousers that manage to be stylish while having an elasicated waist.
Some good news: I read that M&S are trialling a high-end cosmetic zone. Great idea! Apparently it will sell cult brands, the sort you can get in Space NK.I love the stuff sold in Space NK, but sometimes when I look into a store, it's empty and that puts me off because I'm afraid of being sold to. I like the way you can browse high end cosmetics in Boots without being hassled, but they don't sell very many trendy brands, so M&S could be onto a winner.
M and S, please let the teens shop in Topshop, Primark, etc. Concentrate on the older demographic, but think more elegance; more flattering and better quality. And improve the store layout and the changing rooms (that horrific lighting!). You can get rid of most of the famous models in your ads (but bring back Dervla in the food ads). And things will improve. Simples!
Sunday, July 01, 2012
Beckham's out - the right choice
Big old hoo-ha about David Beckham not being picked for the England Olympic soccer team. Last week The Times had an editorial about it, calling for one of the other players to surrender his place to allow Beckham to play. Today India Knight in the Sunday Times weighed in, saying he should be playing.
I don't normally agree with the Daily Mail but I'm with their sports writer who said it was the right decision. The Olympics is about the best in sporting performance and achievement. Beckham is 37 and over the hill. He chose to go to what's effectively a division 3 team, LA Galaxy, to make money. Olympic team manager Stuart Pearce went to the US twice to watch him and clearly wasn't impressed.
It doesn't matter that Beckham has been a tireless ambassador for the Olympics and the London bid. There are other rewards more suitable. He might be the one lighting the cauldron at the opening ceremony. He will probably be knighted at some point. But to say he should be playing, in the twilight of his career, is as ludicrous as suggesting Lord Coe should represent us in the 1500 metres again. Being a celebrity isn't sufficient, nor is choosing someone purely to sell surplus tickets. Stuart Pearce should be applauded for taking his role seriously and choosing what he thinks is the best squad for the job, given that he can't use players who were in Euro 2012 and the Scots declined to take part in Team GB. It will be a good opportunity for us to glimpse the talent of tomorrow, the under 23s who could maybe spring a surprise.
I don't normally agree with the Daily Mail but I'm with their sports writer who said it was the right decision. The Olympics is about the best in sporting performance and achievement. Beckham is 37 and over the hill. He chose to go to what's effectively a division 3 team, LA Galaxy, to make money. Olympic team manager Stuart Pearce went to the US twice to watch him and clearly wasn't impressed.
It doesn't matter that Beckham has been a tireless ambassador for the Olympics and the London bid. There are other rewards more suitable. He might be the one lighting the cauldron at the opening ceremony. He will probably be knighted at some point. But to say he should be playing, in the twilight of his career, is as ludicrous as suggesting Lord Coe should represent us in the 1500 metres again. Being a celebrity isn't sufficient, nor is choosing someone purely to sell surplus tickets. Stuart Pearce should be applauded for taking his role seriously and choosing what he thinks is the best squad for the job, given that he can't use players who were in Euro 2012 and the Scots declined to take part in Team GB. It will be a good opportunity for us to glimpse the talent of tomorrow, the under 23s who could maybe spring a surprise.
Friday, June 01, 2012
My star turn at the Silver Jubilee
I remember the Silver Jubilee very well. It was 1977: the Sex Pistols were in the news, my mum was busily baking "Jubilee buns" (fairy cakes with red, white and blue icing), and I was planning my assault on the title of Colebrook Carnival Queen.It was a big year for the village community association which was fund raising for a community centre. My dad was vice-chairman. The fund raisers included an ambitious Jubilee parade of floats which would make its way to Peacock Meadow where there would be stalls, candy floss and old-fashioned entertainment.
The first ever carnival queen was to be chosen at a disco evening at Harewood House, an event in itself. I had a strategy for success. I knew I wasn't the prettiest girl - that was either Hazel Roles or my best friend Sally - but I figured that I might win if a) I had superb posture and walked tall, and b) had a stand out outfit.
My stand out outfit was a two piece "safari suit" in khaki green, worn with cream wedge espadrilles.
The day before the disco, I went to the funfair and unfortunately knocked my face against the dodgem pole, but resolved I would cover up the mark with Hide The Blemish. My other preparations included a face pack - either Anne French Glow 5 or Christy, a Harmony or Toners hair rinse, and a DIY manicure.
About 25 girls entered the carnival queen competition. We had to walk round the room in a large circle. Most of the girls were giggling and gesticulating at friends but I remembered my posture rule and held my head high to try to look confident.
I got through to the next round which embarrassingly involved being interviewed....by my dad. Wags in the crowd were shouting out my answers and adding "Dad."
The final six were announced and I was in it, along with Sally and another girl from school, Gina, whose parents ran the fish and chip shop.
My dad stood down and we were "interviewed" again by John McGowan, the vice chairman.
The judges conferred and the results were announced in traditional reverse order. Gina came third, Sally (Sally!) came second....and I was first. I was Dead Chuffed, although the congratulations and applause were a bit muted because everyone thought it was a fix. In fact someone told the local paper, the Herald, and there was a story about it. I was given a bouquet and a record voucher, which I used to buy David Bowie's Low. My dad took a picture of me at home with my bouquet. My mum took the shine off my victory somewhat by looking puzzled when we said I'd won and saying "You won? You beat Hazel Roles?"
Jubilee Day dawned. It had been decreed that the queen and her attendants would wear white, red and blue. We scoured the small ads in the Herald and sourced a former wedding dresss for a tenner. It was not in the least flattering. Sally's mum was handy with a needle and she had a beautiful red dress with a little cape. My sash had plastic letters which all fell off during the big day, one by one.
 |
| Cheer up girls! |
We were seated on a decorated ECC China Clays lorry. The procession was the highlight of the day. I have dozens of photos that my mum took as the parade passed our house, but only one of me. I blame the Kodak Instamatic.
Having arrived at Peacock Meadow, we partook of the Jubilee Tea, which included the lurid buns. We gave out Jubilee mugs and crowns (coins) to the children, and handed out the prizes at the tug o'war. I remember a big roar going up for Sally when she kissed all the participants. No cheer for me. People were still smarting about "the fix."
So that was my Silver Jubilee. How about yours?
Monday, May 28, 2012
Garden Progress
The garden is making good progress. The borders have now been planted. The extra light bestowed by removing Leylandii trees has given a new lease of life to the hawthorn and clematis Montana Rubens, which were both magnificent a couple of weeks ago. My blackcurrants are thriving so I am hopeful for berries this year.
I've chosen mostly perennials and shrubs for the main border, adding some different textures with hosta white feather and a couple of ferns. I'll fill in the gaps with cosmos (being grown from my Mum's seeds), nicotiana nd penstemons. I went in search of penstemons and salvia hot lips at the weekend but could only find one penstemon. Hot Lips arrives later in June I was told.
In the smaller border last year's nasturtiums have re-seeded themselves, which ruined my colour scheme somewhat (it was going to be restful white, pink and purple) but I've now turned that border into a "jewel garden". There are dahlias, which are still not showing yet; lavender, John's favourite; lime green nicotiana and a red penstemon.
I've chosen mostly perennials and shrubs for the main border, adding some different textures with hosta white feather and a couple of ferns. I'll fill in the gaps with cosmos (being grown from my Mum's seeds), nicotiana nd penstemons. I went in search of penstemons and salvia hot lips at the weekend but could only find one penstemon. Hot Lips arrives later in June I was told.
 |
| Clematis Dr Ruppel |
 |
| The smaller border |
 |
| L to R: part of the large border: lupin, honeysuckle Serotina, fuchsia, viburnum, hosta White Feather |
 |
| The cherry tree (needs re-siting in the autumn, too close to the wall) |
 |
| Blackcurrants |
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Another Night of Hurt
Oh dear, another disappointing Eurovision. So much for hoping that Engelbert would bring us the first of many triumphs this summer.
I'm sure the papers will be full of analysis, earnestly discussing tactical voting and the misfortune of singing first, and what do we do next year?
We all know the Eurovision is a kitsch festival of the ludicrous. Yet we love it for its irony. Twitter was ablaze last night as everyone gave their opinions on each act, some very amusing.
Engelbert may have been first in the draw to sing but he still had to wait a while. The host nation, Azerbaijan, decided to show off for a good 20 minutes at the start, with fireworks and whirling dervishes, leaving the interval curiously empty.
Engelbert did us proud with his performance; he brought all his charisma to bear and there was no hint of nerves or losing the voice as inexperienced Eurovision hopefuls have done in previous years.
The song itself was, as Graham Norton kept saying, a pretty ballad. I liked it so much I downloaded it. A poignant, haunting song,. it would have been perfect as the last song of the evening, as an antidote to the usual excesses of Eurovision. There will always be camp acts in fetish gear; minxy girls in short dresses; novelty acts with folk costumes and howling soloists. Engelbert's song would have soothed the soul after that little lot.
But it was not to be, and when I saw the Swedish favourite, I immediately knew she would win. The evening usually gives us one act that is different. The Russian grannies weren't different: there is always an act like them, even if they were older than it usually is. But Loreen was a throwback to Kate Bush when she memorably burst on the scene 30 years ago. She had a spellbinding aura and her song, Euphoria, was a pleasing disco number of the sort we will hear pounding out across European resorts for the next few months..
So what do we do next time?
Well, having a known act is good, and we have done that in the past two years. Loreen is apparently quite big already in Sweden and has been no 1 in several countries. So perhaps we need a young, currrently successful performer. I can only imagine that a Voice or X Factor loser would fit the bill - who else would want this poisoned chalice?
I don't buy the argument that we'll never win because no-one likes us. We don't, it's true, have neighbours we can rely on. Ireland are quite stingy with their points. But it doesn't matter who you are, if you have the stand-out act (eg Lordi from Finland; Dana International from Israel), you'll win.
It's a bit of fun and it's over now until next year. I hope Engelbert hasn't taken it too badly -- it's a shame that he finished unjustly second to last, behind many really dire acts, but I haven't heard anyone in the UK criticise him, his performance or the song. C'est la vie.
I'm sure the papers will be full of analysis, earnestly discussing tactical voting and the misfortune of singing first, and what do we do next year?
We all know the Eurovision is a kitsch festival of the ludicrous. Yet we love it for its irony. Twitter was ablaze last night as everyone gave their opinions on each act, some very amusing.
Engelbert may have been first in the draw to sing but he still had to wait a while. The host nation, Azerbaijan, decided to show off for a good 20 minutes at the start, with fireworks and whirling dervishes, leaving the interval curiously empty.
Engelbert did us proud with his performance; he brought all his charisma to bear and there was no hint of nerves or losing the voice as inexperienced Eurovision hopefuls have done in previous years.
The song itself was, as Graham Norton kept saying, a pretty ballad. I liked it so much I downloaded it. A poignant, haunting song,. it would have been perfect as the last song of the evening, as an antidote to the usual excesses of Eurovision. There will always be camp acts in fetish gear; minxy girls in short dresses; novelty acts with folk costumes and howling soloists. Engelbert's song would have soothed the soul after that little lot.
But it was not to be, and when I saw the Swedish favourite, I immediately knew she would win. The evening usually gives us one act that is different. The Russian grannies weren't different: there is always an act like them, even if they were older than it usually is. But Loreen was a throwback to Kate Bush when she memorably burst on the scene 30 years ago. She had a spellbinding aura and her song, Euphoria, was a pleasing disco number of the sort we will hear pounding out across European resorts for the next few months..
So what do we do next time?
Well, having a known act is good, and we have done that in the past two years. Loreen is apparently quite big already in Sweden and has been no 1 in several countries. So perhaps we need a young, currrently successful performer. I can only imagine that a Voice or X Factor loser would fit the bill - who else would want this poisoned chalice?
I don't buy the argument that we'll never win because no-one likes us. We don't, it's true, have neighbours we can rely on. Ireland are quite stingy with their points. But it doesn't matter who you are, if you have the stand-out act (eg Lordi from Finland; Dana International from Israel), you'll win.
It's a bit of fun and it's over now until next year. I hope Engelbert hasn't taken it too badly -- it's a shame that he finished unjustly second to last, behind many really dire acts, but I haven't heard anyone in the UK criticise him, his performance or the song. C'est la vie.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Don't castigate them for selling their Olympic torches
Bit of a furore today about Olympic torches and torch bearers' outfits being sold on eBay.
My mum was in a froth about it on Saturday until I pointed out that the torch bearers did have to buy their torches at £250 a pop (with a few exceptions: those given to sponsors, and those where the local council, like ours, has agreed to pay for them).
If they've bought their torch, it really is their perogative whether or not to sell it. As one torch bearer pointed out, it's quite large to go on the mantelpiece.
Times have changed in that we don't need, or have room for, physical reminders of achievements and happy times.The torch bearers have a rich library of photos and YouTube clips to remember their achievement. They don't need the torch itself to remind them.
Times are very hard and for some people selling their torch will give them money that's sorely needed.
Reports that a torch sold for over one hundred thousand pounds are wrong: the person has almost certainly been the victim of a hoax. She was on TV this morning saying the money was to go to charity anyway. An auctioneer said today that with the nunber of torches around, they won't sell for more than three thousand pounds.
.
My mum was in a froth about it on Saturday until I pointed out that the torch bearers did have to buy their torches at £250 a pop (with a few exceptions: those given to sponsors, and those where the local council, like ours, has agreed to pay for them).
If they've bought their torch, it really is their perogative whether or not to sell it. As one torch bearer pointed out, it's quite large to go on the mantelpiece.
Times have changed in that we don't need, or have room for, physical reminders of achievements and happy times.The torch bearers have a rich library of photos and YouTube clips to remember their achievement. They don't need the torch itself to remind them.
Times are very hard and for some people selling their torch will give them money that's sorely needed.
Reports that a torch sold for over one hundred thousand pounds are wrong: the person has almost certainly been the victim of a hoax. She was on TV this morning saying the money was to go to charity anyway. An auctioneer said today that with the nunber of torches around, they won't sell for more than three thousand pounds.
.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Here today and gone tomorrow: TV Presenters
I often wonder what happened to TV presenters who, one minute, were ubiquitous on our screens, and the next, pensioned off for being too old.
Sometimes you read an intriguing little nugget. John Leslie, for example, who presented Blue Peter and then This Morning, but was quickly dumped after a scandal, is now apparently a successful property developer.
Mike Smith, a former radio personality and married to Sarah Greene (formerly of Blue Peter) is, we hear, an entrepreneur.
I'm not sure what has happened to Ms Greene and many other ladies we used to see a lot of: Carol Smillie, Anneka Rice (though she has turned up on Radio 2 on Saturdays), Anna Walker, Philippa Forester, Kate Thornton, Anthea Turner. Gaby Roslin seems to be doing mostly radio, as is Moira Stuart.Fiona Phillips is rarely seen now; she sometimes does the paper review on radio.
What bugs me is that a lot of good, mostly women, presenters disappear and yet current in-vogue presenters are given plum jobs far above their capabilities.
Julia Bradbury is good at doing her walks and Richard Hammond is OK on Top Gear. But I wouldn't rate either of them as presenters of natural history. Their juvenile shrieks and attempts to humanise every animal on Planet Earth Live makes the programme a no-no for me. Why didn't the BBC use people who know about natural history? People like Saba Douglas-Hamilton (right).
The latest crop of ubiquitous TV lovelies includes Holly Willoughby, Tess Daley and Fearne Cotton. All entirely interchangeable. They look great in a frock but they make me, the viewer, nervous because I get the impression that if everything went pear shaped on their live show, they wouldn't have a clue what to do.
I'm always at a loss to know how people like Nicki Chapman, with her nasal voice, manage to get a good string of presenting jobs including the Chelsea flower show. She was one of the judges on the original Popstars programme years ago when she was in the record industry. Why did she give up a good job like that?
Reality TV stars who become TV presenters haven't earned their spurs in my view, nor people like Dominic Littlewood, a former career criminal, who has made a nice living for himself despite Wikipedia referring to him as an untrained journalist.
I like my presenters knowledgeable and I don't particularly care what they look like. I love seeing social historian Ruth Goodman, Professor Mary Beard, Professor Sue Black from History Cold Case and Angela Rippon - still so glamorous in her 60s. We need more women like this on our screens, real role models. Who are your forgotten (or current) favourites?
Sometimes you read an intriguing little nugget. John Leslie, for example, who presented Blue Peter and then This Morning, but was quickly dumped after a scandal, is now apparently a successful property developer.
Mike Smith, a former radio personality and married to Sarah Greene (formerly of Blue Peter) is, we hear, an entrepreneur.
I'm not sure what has happened to Ms Greene and many other ladies we used to see a lot of: Carol Smillie, Anneka Rice (though she has turned up on Radio 2 on Saturdays), Anna Walker, Philippa Forester, Kate Thornton, Anthea Turner. Gaby Roslin seems to be doing mostly radio, as is Moira Stuart.Fiona Phillips is rarely seen now; she sometimes does the paper review on radio.
What bugs me is that a lot of good, mostly women, presenters disappear and yet current in-vogue presenters are given plum jobs far above their capabilities.
Julia Bradbury is good at doing her walks and Richard Hammond is OK on Top Gear. But I wouldn't rate either of them as presenters of natural history. Their juvenile shrieks and attempts to humanise every animal on Planet Earth Live makes the programme a no-no for me. Why didn't the BBC use people who know about natural history? People like Saba Douglas-Hamilton (right).
The latest crop of ubiquitous TV lovelies includes Holly Willoughby, Tess Daley and Fearne Cotton. All entirely interchangeable. They look great in a frock but they make me, the viewer, nervous because I get the impression that if everything went pear shaped on their live show, they wouldn't have a clue what to do.
I'm always at a loss to know how people like Nicki Chapman, with her nasal voice, manage to get a good string of presenting jobs including the Chelsea flower show. She was one of the judges on the original Popstars programme years ago when she was in the record industry. Why did she give up a good job like that?
Reality TV stars who become TV presenters haven't earned their spurs in my view, nor people like Dominic Littlewood, a former career criminal, who has made a nice living for himself despite Wikipedia referring to him as an untrained journalist.
I like my presenters knowledgeable and I don't particularly care what they look like. I love seeing social historian Ruth Goodman, Professor Mary Beard, Professor Sue Black from History Cold Case and Angela Rippon - still so glamorous in her 60s. We need more women like this on our screens, real role models. Who are your forgotten (or current) favourites?
Friday, May 04, 2012
PE Traumas
There was a report this week that said many women are put off exercising for life because of the trauma of PE/PT at school.
I don't believe it. They're put off because it's BORING.
My friends won't be surprised to know I was never very sporty at school. My set rather looked down on the sporty ones. It wasn't cool to perspire, throw things or brandish sticks.
I wasn't complete rubbish but I couldn't really be bothered. I never gave 100%. I was punished for this in every double PE class. The teacher would choose two captains and ask them to name their team, one girl at a time. I was always third to last (there were two girls worse than me).
Ironically, on the one occasion I was chosen to be a captain and name my squad, I decided I'd go for gold and selected all the girls who were sporty. My non-sporty friends were horrified, still left at the back. But I wanted a bit of a glory for a change.
I had a memorable disaster in hockey when I was about 12. My chosen position was left wing because I found I could run up and down a lot, looking busy, but without actually doing very much. Well, on this occasion someone raised their stick and hit me in the mouth. I had to have two stitches, and got told off by the awful cookery teacher for taking my unwashed bloodied face into her pristine kitchen in search of the Dettol.
Netball was never great, you need to be as tall as Meadowlark Lemon. And don't you think those little vests with "GA" and "WA" on them look really silly?
Anyway, lest you think I was a couch potato, when I was a kid I would be out playing until dusk: turning a skipping rope, skipping, cycling, making a den or er....fighting.
My school experiences didn't put me off exercise. I just find it very BORING. I've tried running. I have a peculiar gait: I'm told I run on tip toes. Once you know that, it puts you off. I'm sure everyone's having a snigger at my expense. I have an expensive gym membership, but I seldom go. I like yoga but there's only one class that works for me, time-wise. I like swimming and aqua, but swimming hats don't keep my hair dry and I don't want to ruin my highlights.
All excuses, I know. I could go on. I've tried Bodypump but my knees aren't up to all the squats. I'm too un-cordinated for aerobics, step, etc. I'm still doing my grapevine while everyone else is at the other end of the room doing something with their arms as well.
Sometimes I say to myself that I just need to man up and put some time in on the aerobic machines. I find them hideously BORING, even when I'm listening to music or watching the TV. I can just about tolerate 10 minutes on one machine. The theory is that I then do 10 minutes on the next. How it usually works is that I do 10 minutes and then sneak off to the weights. Because I really like lifting the weights! It's not too arduous and you get results fast.
And then I can reward myself with the sauna and jacuzzi (provided it isn't full of men ----- nothing on earth will induce me to get in, if it is).
How was your sporting life at school, and what's it like now?
 |
| Me aged 11 I couldn't find the photo of me with a hockey stick |
I don't believe it. They're put off because it's BORING.
My friends won't be surprised to know I was never very sporty at school. My set rather looked down on the sporty ones. It wasn't cool to perspire, throw things or brandish sticks.
I wasn't complete rubbish but I couldn't really be bothered. I never gave 100%. I was punished for this in every double PE class. The teacher would choose two captains and ask them to name their team, one girl at a time. I was always third to last (there were two girls worse than me).
Ironically, on the one occasion I was chosen to be a captain and name my squad, I decided I'd go for gold and selected all the girls who were sporty. My non-sporty friends were horrified, still left at the back. But I wanted a bit of a glory for a change.
I had a memorable disaster in hockey when I was about 12. My chosen position was left wing because I found I could run up and down a lot, looking busy, but without actually doing very much. Well, on this occasion someone raised their stick and hit me in the mouth. I had to have two stitches, and got told off by the awful cookery teacher for taking my unwashed bloodied face into her pristine kitchen in search of the Dettol.
Netball was never great, you need to be as tall as Meadowlark Lemon. And don't you think those little vests with "GA" and "WA" on them look really silly?
Anyway, lest you think I was a couch potato, when I was a kid I would be out playing until dusk: turning a skipping rope, skipping, cycling, making a den or er....fighting.
My school experiences didn't put me off exercise. I just find it very BORING. I've tried running. I have a peculiar gait: I'm told I run on tip toes. Once you know that, it puts you off. I'm sure everyone's having a snigger at my expense. I have an expensive gym membership, but I seldom go. I like yoga but there's only one class that works for me, time-wise. I like swimming and aqua, but swimming hats don't keep my hair dry and I don't want to ruin my highlights.
All excuses, I know. I could go on. I've tried Bodypump but my knees aren't up to all the squats. I'm too un-cordinated for aerobics, step, etc. I'm still doing my grapevine while everyone else is at the other end of the room doing something with their arms as well.
Sometimes I say to myself that I just need to man up and put some time in on the aerobic machines. I find them hideously BORING, even when I'm listening to music or watching the TV. I can just about tolerate 10 minutes on one machine. The theory is that I then do 10 minutes on the next. How it usually works is that I do 10 minutes and then sneak off to the weights. Because I really like lifting the weights! It's not too arduous and you get results fast.
And then I can reward myself with the sauna and jacuzzi (provided it isn't full of men ----- nothing on earth will induce me to get in, if it is).
How was your sporting life at school, and what's it like now?
Wednesday, May 02, 2012
Spare us from The Voice
I'm not surprised that The Voice UK is mentioned in despatches on Tripe Advisor. It is quite toe curlingly awful.
The first week or two it seemed a novelty to have the judges turning round in their chairs when an act tickled their fancy.
Now we're into the screech-offs, where two of the stables compete against each other each week in order to be "saved" by the public.
My mum has got the right idea, hitting the mute button as soon as the screeching starts.
Two of the judges appear to have the right credentials, gravitas and name dropping : Tom Jones and will.i.am. The other two are there to appeal to the BBC's holy grail, the yoof audience. Jessie J and what's-his-name from Ireland.
The Sunday night results show, which it transpires is recorded immediately after the Saturday show, is a real waste of time. Endless repetition from the Saturday show and nuggets like this: Jessie J, supposedly offering an insight into her fellow judge, the Irish one - "he's a singer and song writer." You don't say!
Holly Willoughby has a really irritating way of grabbing the contestants (has she been watching Big Fat Gipsy Weddings?) and hurling them off the stage. One of her cringeworthy moments was grabbing an Irish girl who had just been eliminated by posey old will.i.am and saying "Will really needs a hug."
I'm sure the poor girl, whose dreams of escaping a backwater and finding fame were now in the dust, really needed the hug more.
Every week the judges weep and wail about how difficult their task is, choosing one contestant over another. "It's the hardest thing I've ever done," they despair. I wish one of them would man up and say "well tonight your voice let you down so I'm going to choose xxx." Quite a few of the contestants would look more at home singing along to pub karaoke or screeching on a cruise ship than going for gold on national TV.
Then there's Wardrobe. As soon as they're confronted with what Grazia likes to call "a curvy girl," they immediately reach for the wrap dress and Spanx. These poor women immediately look staid, boring and interchangeable. Where's the imagination? A size 16 girl doesn't have to wear a wrap dress.
The only good thing about it is that it's knocked the even-more-deplorable Britain's Got Talent off the top ratings slot. Good to see a dent in the massive ego of emotionally dysfunctional Simon Cowell.
The first week or two it seemed a novelty to have the judges turning round in their chairs when an act tickled their fancy.
Now we're into the screech-offs, where two of the stables compete against each other each week in order to be "saved" by the public.
My mum has got the right idea, hitting the mute button as soon as the screeching starts.
Two of the judges appear to have the right credentials, gravitas and name dropping : Tom Jones and will.i.am. The other two are there to appeal to the BBC's holy grail, the yoof audience. Jessie J and what's-his-name from Ireland.
The Sunday night results show, which it transpires is recorded immediately after the Saturday show, is a real waste of time. Endless repetition from the Saturday show and nuggets like this: Jessie J, supposedly offering an insight into her fellow judge, the Irish one - "he's a singer and song writer." You don't say!
Holly Willoughby has a really irritating way of grabbing the contestants (has she been watching Big Fat Gipsy Weddings?) and hurling them off the stage. One of her cringeworthy moments was grabbing an Irish girl who had just been eliminated by posey old will.i.am and saying "Will really needs a hug."
I'm sure the poor girl, whose dreams of escaping a backwater and finding fame were now in the dust, really needed the hug more.
Every week the judges weep and wail about how difficult their task is, choosing one contestant over another. "It's the hardest thing I've ever done," they despair. I wish one of them would man up and say "well tonight your voice let you down so I'm going to choose xxx." Quite a few of the contestants would look more at home singing along to pub karaoke or screeching on a cruise ship than going for gold on national TV.
Then there's Wardrobe. As soon as they're confronted with what Grazia likes to call "a curvy girl," they immediately reach for the wrap dress and Spanx. These poor women immediately look staid, boring and interchangeable. Where's the imagination? A size 16 girl doesn't have to wear a wrap dress.
The only good thing about it is that it's knocked the even-more-deplorable Britain's Got Talent off the top ratings slot. Good to see a dent in the massive ego of emotionally dysfunctional Simon Cowell.
Tuesday, May 01, 2012
Blogging: is it over?
I've had my suspicions for a while. Traffic to my two blogs, both direct visits and search engine visits, has been dwindling. Comments are fewer. I've noticed it on some other blogs I follow.
Now my colleague Ekaterina Walter, social media strategist, has confirmed that blogging is dying. A 2011 study by a US university showed that use of blogging had dropped to 37% from 50% the year before.
People are moving to more visual sites like Pinterest.
Walter says that blogging still works for companies and can play a big role in their content strategy and credibility-building.
For those of us who toil away with personal blogs, it sometimes feels like we're shouting into an abyss and no-one is listening.
When I first started blogging in 2006, I had high hopes I was going to start the next Huffington Post. I felt sure I would draw thousands of readers through my wit and repartee. Well, I soon realised this wasn't going to be the case. When your own family and friends rarely visit your blogs, you have to swallow a reality pill.
Utilising search engine marketing brings a few visitors every day looking for some of the offbeat topics I have written about.
But my biggest learning, and the one I will share with you if you're a prospective blogger, is that you need to focus your blog on one content area.
Blogs which meander and cover the minutae of our lives, like mine, don't find an audience. But blogs which talk about fashion / beauty / football or other specific topics find a ready audience.
The thing I miss most is comments. Comments make it worthwhile. Someone is reading the blog and has a view to share. On my other blog, the craft blog, it used to be easy to get lots of comments, simply because it was a reciprocal thing. You would leave a comment on someone else's site and they would hop over to yours and do the same. That seems to have gone out of the window, sadly. I think it's partly due to Blogger's word verification and "prove you're not a robot", although I've now turned it off. But it's also a sign of the times. We're all too busy (or maybe we're less courteous).
I truly hope we are not heading for a world where the written word becomes a rarity; where nobody spells properly because they use text speak, or phonics; or where only photos, plagiarised endlessly from sites like Pinterest, dominate.
Now my colleague Ekaterina Walter, social media strategist, has confirmed that blogging is dying. A 2011 study by a US university showed that use of blogging had dropped to 37% from 50% the year before.
People are moving to more visual sites like Pinterest.
Walter says that blogging still works for companies and can play a big role in their content strategy and credibility-building.
For those of us who toil away with personal blogs, it sometimes feels like we're shouting into an abyss and no-one is listening.
When I first started blogging in 2006, I had high hopes I was going to start the next Huffington Post. I felt sure I would draw thousands of readers through my wit and repartee. Well, I soon realised this wasn't going to be the case. When your own family and friends rarely visit your blogs, you have to swallow a reality pill.
Utilising search engine marketing brings a few visitors every day looking for some of the offbeat topics I have written about.
But my biggest learning, and the one I will share with you if you're a prospective blogger, is that you need to focus your blog on one content area.
Blogs which meander and cover the minutae of our lives, like mine, don't find an audience. But blogs which talk about fashion / beauty / football or other specific topics find a ready audience.
The thing I miss most is comments. Comments make it worthwhile. Someone is reading the blog and has a view to share. On my other blog, the craft blog, it used to be easy to get lots of comments, simply because it was a reciprocal thing. You would leave a comment on someone else's site and they would hop over to yours and do the same. That seems to have gone out of the window, sadly. I think it's partly due to Blogger's word verification and "prove you're not a robot", although I've now turned it off. But it's also a sign of the times. We're all too busy (or maybe we're less courteous).
I truly hope we are not heading for a world where the written word becomes a rarity; where nobody spells properly because they use text speak, or phonics; or where only photos, plagiarised endlessly from sites like Pinterest, dominate.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Marathon Eve
Tomorrow sees the London Marathon and J will be running. It's his 24th marathon or something like that. He is excited by the weather forecast: mild with showers. I am less excited, remembering a marathon three or four years ago when it poured and the green dye from my raincoat soaked through to my skin. Umbrellas are too hazardous in such dense crowds.
I will be perched on my shooting stick in the elite runners' drinks station at 35k, opposite St Paul's Church at Shadwell church. It's a great spot because I get to see the runners twice, on both sides of the road. I'll be trying to spot the members of the Orion Harriers, John's running club, to take pictures as they whizz by.
I was reminded of an amusing story that I heard when I was working at BT International a few years ago. It was at a time when mobile phones were new, rare, and the size of bricks. Their battery life was about an hour. BT Cellnet, as they were called then, decided to give every London Marathon runner the opportunity to make a call to a loved one after finishing the race.
The problem was, they built a bank of kiosks housing the mobile phones which involved climbing some steps. Unfortunately most of the runners were too exhausted to make it, and gave up before scaling all the steps.
It's a far cry from nowadays when many of the runners are speaking on their phone as they rush by, or taking pictures of the crowd.
I will be perched on my shooting stick in the elite runners' drinks station at 35k, opposite St Paul's Church at Shadwell church. It's a great spot because I get to see the runners twice, on both sides of the road. I'll be trying to spot the members of the Orion Harriers, John's running club, to take pictures as they whizz by.
I was reminded of an amusing story that I heard when I was working at BT International a few years ago. It was at a time when mobile phones were new, rare, and the size of bricks. Their battery life was about an hour. BT Cellnet, as they were called then, decided to give every London Marathon runner the opportunity to make a call to a loved one after finishing the race.
The problem was, they built a bank of kiosks housing the mobile phones which involved climbing some steps. Unfortunately most of the runners were too exhausted to make it, and gave up before scaling all the steps.
It's a far cry from nowadays when many of the runners are speaking on their phone as they rush by, or taking pictures of the crowd.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Breakfast in America
I was at a big conference last year that I'd helped organise. Colleagues from all over Europe, Middle East & Africa were attending. It was fascinating to see everyone's breakfast choices. The lines of "multiculturality" (to quote the wonderful TV comedy Twenty Twelve) are not drawn with the breakfast buffet.
The French stick to their croissants and large hot chocolate or cafe; (and never cafe au lait: only we Brits say that); the Germans pile up with cold meats and semmel rolls (if they're Bavarian - the others don't eat semmels), and the Brits either go for cereal or, if someone else is paying, a fry up.
Last week an article in Marketing Week explored how various manufacturers are trying to introduce other cultures to different foodstuffs for breakfast. In Africa, the concept of cereal with milk is completely alien. To be honest, I can't say I approve of the drive by Weetabix to force their product into markets like Nigeria. It seems patronising and a bit authoritarian.
When Krispy Kreme launched in the UK, they debated trying to convince us to eat doughnuts for breakfast. But they realised this would not work. So instead they presented doughnuts as a sharing experience, to take a box to work, and introduced "office heroes" with a gift card.
This is a much more sympathetic approach.
When I go abroad, I try not to stick to the British breakfast. It's a real black mark for me if a hotel or restaurant offers a British breakfast. I love to gorge on Greek yoghurt, honey and fresh fruit. Cheese and meats in Germany is also perfectly acceptable. And breakfast in America is Eggs Benedict (as a treat) or what they call oatmeal with a side of scrambled egg. What's your favourite breakfast?
The French stick to their croissants and large hot chocolate or cafe; (and never cafe au lait: only we Brits say that); the Germans pile up with cold meats and semmel rolls (if they're Bavarian - the others don't eat semmels), and the Brits either go for cereal or, if someone else is paying, a fry up.
 |
| My scrapbook layout celebrating Eggs Benedict! |
When Krispy Kreme launched in the UK, they debated trying to convince us to eat doughnuts for breakfast. But they realised this would not work. So instead they presented doughnuts as a sharing experience, to take a box to work, and introduced "office heroes" with a gift card.
This is a much more sympathetic approach.
When I go abroad, I try not to stick to the British breakfast. It's a real black mark for me if a hotel or restaurant offers a British breakfast. I love to gorge on Greek yoghurt, honey and fresh fruit. Cheese and meats in Germany is also perfectly acceptable. And breakfast in America is Eggs Benedict (as a treat) or what they call oatmeal with a side of scrambled egg. What's your favourite breakfast?
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Cheeky Squirrel
The bird feeders sustain a whole ecosystem in our garden: the birds (obviously), including a pigeon that hovers below waiting for dropped seeds; mice, who dash up the arbour in full view of the cat, and a squirrel. The squirrel destroyed our last feeder by managing to unscrew the lid and then dragging it away so that we didn't find it for ages. What a superbrain! Here he is on his latest mission.
 |
| Photo: John Hanlon |
The bird feeders sustain a whole ecosystem in our garden: the birds (obviously), including a pigeon that hovers below waiting for dropped seeds; mice, who dash up the arbour in full view of the cat, and a squirrel. The squirrel destroyed our last feeder by managing to unscrew the lid and then dragging it away so that we didn't find it for ages. What a superbrain! Here he is on his latest mission.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)