Why I hate cyclists!

I went for a drink with my mate Jonny this week. I’ve known him for nigh on forty years and I think we got as close as we ever have to falling out! You see, Jonny is a mad keen cyclist, and I’m sorry but I just have no time for them. I know it’s healthy, environmentally friendly and a cheap form of transport, but does that give them the right to consider themselves above the law?

....and no friends

 

Jonny’s argument is that the worse he can do to my car is chip the paint or dent a wing mirror. The worse my car can do to him is kill him. My response is ‘don’t wind me up then!’ If someone has a gun in their hand you show them respect, not look down on them, flaunt breaking the law in front of them and just generally carry on in your own little zone expecting everyone to see life the way they do.

Now, I have to be balanced and, of course it goes without saying that not all cyclists are like this, just as not all dog walkers let their dogs pooh on the pavement (& not pick it up) not all Scotsmen are mean, Irish thick or Portsmouth fans lunatics….ok, it might be difficult to disprove that last one.

I'm sure the lady in black is normal?

 

I’m sure as a runner there will be things that I do that causes offence, particularly with drivers on country lanes. Case in point: runners with headphones: Wrong, selfish, very dangerous.  

 

You're a very bad lady

 

But cyclists, if you are decent human beings, please note the following:

In the car I get wound up by:

Undertaking – every evening I have to crawl through a part of Harpenden because the road is just slightly too narrow to overtake an idiot cyclist on his fold up bike in his pinstripe suit who has just got off the train, if there’s a car coming the other way (& at 6pm there are plenty!)

 
Having finally got past him you come up to traffic lights that have turned red and you have to wait helplessly as this idiot undertakes and goes to the front of the queue! We then start the whole process again. (Well, not now because I go as hard up to the curb as I can to stop him getting past on the inside)

If there’s a cycle path, why do some cyclists persist in using the road? Don’t tell me, you want to go fast. So do I, but sometimes I can’t because of you. Go fast on your cycle path, but keep your eyes open, I fail to see the difference.

Please don’t cycle two abreast, you just deserve grief. Yes, you still see this!

 

Red light at traffic light means stop for cyclists to. Particularly in towns and cities.

When I’m running, I am very often startled by cyclists who come up behind me. Where’s your bell? I have checked this out and supposedly it is the law to have a bell on a bike at point of sale but not a stipulation when the bike is ridden, leading to many cyclists removing them. (Perhaps without it the bike becomes more aerodynamic?)

From 20 yards, a hearty cry of ‘bike’ ‘morning’ even ‘run fatboy run’ or a ring of a bell really does make a difference. One day I will accidentally step out in front of an overtaking bike and it wont be pretty for either of us.

 

Great Film, still an inspiration!

 

 

Secondly, and this applies equally to runners. I’m a friendly guy, if you are coming the other way, or overtaking me, just acknowledge me. A nod, a wave, a word is alI ask. I don’t want to hear about your job, your sick aunt or even where you’re going, but you are, like me, someone who has escaped to the great outdoors and this is a joy and a privilege as we share creation. That gives me empathy with you and I don’t think it hurts to acknowledge that. So go on, nod back.

 

As a little aside on this, I find runners and cyclists ruder the more affluent the area I’m running through. I suppose this is an identity thing, and perhaps politeness or acknowledgement is considered a weakness. Pathetic eh, but true!

I’m scraping the barrel on my last point, but why do some bikes not have mud guards? I cannot stand seeing the backside of someone whose lycra shorts look like they’ve been soiled. I’m sure you had some great fun whizzing through those puddles and dirt tracks, and now you’ve got half of it up your backside!

Sort it out.

Why such a polemic against cyclists? It’s like people who have a fear of dogs will typically have a story of being bitten when they were younger. When I was 18 I was walking home from work along the path which runs alongside the Harpenden to St Albans road, and it was winter and it was dark. Suddenly I was hit hard in the chest and sent reeling to the floor. I was confused and thought I was about to be mugged until I heard this sound of a wheel spinning and some groaning. A cyclist without any lights had hit me at top speed. We both were shaken up, a bit bruised and grazed, and my suit was covered in mud. He never offered to pay! I guess I have a long memory.

Jonny will always be my mate. When we go for a beer we’re always like a couple of grumpy old men ‘It wasn’t like this in our day’ etc, but this is one subject we’ll never agree on.

It’s a natural progression from running, to knees/hips/ankles giving way, to cycling. When my injuries cause me to hang up my Asics I’m just going to become fat!

 

 

 

 Postscript: I've just told my wife that i've had  bit of a rant about cyclists. her face dropped and she told me how she found out today that a chap called Rob who goes to her church was recently knocked off his bike and now has brain damage. Nobody deserves that, and my comments are meant a little to provoke, perhaps amuse, certainly think but NEVER to hurt or desrespect anyone who has suffered a loss or an injury whilst out cycling.

 

The Great Ian Hunter

Those of you who know me well know that an item of clothing synonymous with me is a Mott the Hoople t-shirt! I actually own three of them, and the amazing thing is that there are still three different designs that can still be purchased today, even though this great band split up in 1974!

 ‘In Seventy four, on the Broadway tour, we didn’t much like dressing up no more, don’t want to be hip, but thanks for the great trip’ Saturday Gigs, Mott the Hoople.  

I can still remember, quite vividly, a pastiche of seminal performances by various artists on Top of the Pops: Bowie & Ronson together singing Star man (it was always Ronson who I thought the cool one, I loved his hair style, his gold boiler suit and gold Gibson) the Bohemian Rhapsody video by Queen, and to tie in with all those weird changes from boy to man, a band called Tight Fit singing ‘The lion sleeps tonight’ (those girls were hot!)  

I just can't work out what I saw in them......

But to me, the life changing musical event was hearing ‘All the young dudes’ performed by a  disparate group of sequined, glittered, platform shoe wearing, long haired, slightly camp, ever so theatric, brash glamsters from Hereford, fronted by a charismatic, naturally permed, permanent shades wearing rocker known as Ian Hunter. To me, the man is Mott the Hoople, and the legend lives on, having celebrated his 74^th birthday last Monday.

 

Is that a gun in your pocket ian?

 

This weekend he played the Isle of Wight Festival  and on Friday, I went to his warm up gig at Leamington Spa 

 

              Still a Rock n roll legend!

 

A fan shouted ‘Happy Birthday Ian’ and was rewarded with a ‘ah shut up!’ The master not needing to be reminded that his body, his work ethic, his continued creativity defy his age. He’s never hit the same heights as a solo artist, but to me he’s matured like a good piece of stilton, and theirs a continued rich seam of quality lyrics and riffs running through his veins. Although it pains me to say it, the best thing that could have happened to Ian was to leave Mott although his bank balance may not agree.  

His last two albums ‘Man Overboard’ and ‘When I’m President’ also herald his backing band, the Rant Band as an entity in themselves. This carries over into their live act, and at Leamington, once again, Hunter allowed them the opportunity to show their quality. Some fan I am, I couldn’t tell you the names of any of them (unlike Mott where I could tell you every member of their ever changing line up) but particular credit has to go to the lead guitarist who is just a throwback to a seventies axe hero, getting his Gibson to almost plead as he takes centre stage with his solo on the excellent ‘Black tears’  

I guess I’m at an age where I see nothing wrong with a lead guitarist pulling the kind of face I imagine someone with kidneystones pulls when they pee. This guy is no exception, its pure rock n roll.  

 

But lets get back to the master. As well as a reasonable smattering of tracks from the latest album, there were still sufficient homage to his earlier solo career including ‘Shrunken heads’ ‘All American Alien boy’ and of course ‘Once Bitten twice Shy’ which has the immortal line ‘You didn't know what rock n' roll was, Until you met a drummer on a greyhound bus, I got there in the nick of time, Before he got his hands across your state line’ 

Hunter the iconerial punk poet. (is that a word?)I love his lyrics, which remain as perceptive today as thirty years ago. Take ‘Man overboard’ a ballad about an alcoholic ‘They’ve got lasers that zap, they’ve got cures for the clap, you can see your insides on tv. They’ve got all kinds of pills for all kinds of ills but they aint found a cure yet for me’ It could almost be John Cooper Clarke (& if that means something to you, you were there in the days of punk!) 

And then of course the Mott years: ‘All the way from Memphis’, ‘Saturday gigs’, and of course no Hunter show is complete without ‘Dudes’ which takes on an almost religious worshipful response from the 500 or so devotees, resplendent in Mott or Hunter T shirts, hiding beer bellies, a smattering of denim and leather and a fragrance of lager and belched beefburger. A roar goes up as those instantly recognisable first notes of that iconic riff begins and we all sing along, arms waving, like a bunch of born-agains on a Sunday, or Fratton enders on a Saturday. My life really is that narrow! 

 

 

Got it already thanks

 

I’ve seen Hunter more times than I care to remember. To me he’s a legend and I treasure each gig as if it’s the last. Sadly at 74, there is the reality that he’s going to have to retire his plectrum at some point, and it will be a sad day when he does. But his music will live on. Its never too late to join the movement, I’ll lend you a CD if you want!

 

And finally, here's a little known fact (unless you've been around me) A certain band who went on to enjoy a modicum of commercial success only ever were the support band once on a tour before they became the headliners themselves. Mr May (along with Morrisey, Gallagher Brothers, Def Leapord, Mick Jones of the Clash) speak very highly of  the influence of Mott the Hoople. Remember that next time you play them!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Coming up for air

It’s funny how life just seems to pass you by. I hadn’t realised that it’s been quite a while since I last posted, and yet I don’t seem to have done anything ‘significant’ of late. I’m as equally unprepared for the ‘Hitchin Hard Half’ which I’m running with my mate Kev on Sunday. I’ll settle for about a 1:45 as it is going to be hot and there is one hell of a hill at about mile three which is why I suppose it’s called ‘The Hard half’

Anyway, although I love my running, I prefer writing about books which I have read, and I’m one and a half books on from DH Lawrence’s sexually supressed ‘The Trespassers’ The half is a devil of a book called ‘How Novels Work’ by John Mullan which I bought at what I consider to be the best bookshop this side of the Atlantic: If ever you are in Ely or Bath, visit Topping & Co, sip green tea or coffee, pick up a novel, listen to a bit of classical, pretend you’re well read and enjoy the ambience. It’s a booklovers bookshop. Case in point: Dickens classics, all of them by Penquin, next to all of them by Vintage, next to all of them by Oxford Press. They know how us book snobs like to collect sets all with the same coloured spines and all by the same publisher. You’ll end up buying something.


What's not to like!

Anyway, I’m well on the way to finishing ‘How Novels work’, and it’s certainly putting a dampener on my ardour to write a novel! I mean, I would never knowingly include a metanarrative, or for that matter be able to distinguish between plot, narrative and story! But there you are, I’m just a humble pleb who loves a good book!

I sometimes worry that I’m as shallow as the Nick Hornby character Will Freeman in ‘About a Boy.’ It’s like football, I hate talking football with my mates after the game and they are saying things like ‘why didn’t so & so drop into the hole’ or ‘why do we persist with a 5-4-1 and let whatshisface play a little deeper’ and I’m thinking ‘I thought the kit looked nice and shiny today’

Fond memories of this kit!

It’s the same with books. I remember my O Level English teacher Miss Fraser (a very stunning ginger haired lady who helped me get a grade A!!) telling me that during her degree she met a famous author who she was studying and asked him lots of deep questions about the interpretation of his books. Half the time the author would say ‘gosh, that’s brilliant, I never thought of that!’

Sometimes we can over analyse literature, art and football. 

When you think of George Orwell you’ll typically think of Animal Farm (four legs good, two legs bad) and, of course 1984, (no, not the Bowie song!)

But that’s only touching the surface with this author and the other book I have recently finished is a delightful read called ‘Coming up for air’ which although beginning to appear a little dated is a wistful reminder of a childhood long since forgotten and never to reoccur.

The central character, George Bowling is an insurance salesman who is putting on a bit of weight and approaching that mid-life crisis. The book is essentially split into two parts: His reminiscing of the village that he grew up in and the experience he has when he decides to return. It’s the first half that really resonates and will take you back to a childhood of innocence where it never seemed to rain and summer holidays were endless. This is perhaps a book to take to read on a British summer holiday where the fragrance of sweet peas and freshly cut grass in pungent. 

Perhaps this book will resonate most if you are a fisherman. The memory of finding a hidden lake filled with monster carp took me back to holiday I don’t know where or when, but I spent hours sitting on a high ledge overlooking a deep brook, watching inquisitive small roach and perch surface as I dropped small pieces of soil into the water. Then, out of the corner of my eye I became aware that I was being watched. In the shallows, among the reeds lay a massive predatory pike which, with malevolent stare, appeared to be stalking me! I remember the frustration at not having my fishing tackle with me, but back then, I would have only succeeded in hooking the far bank, the bush behind me or my right ear lobe. 

 
Perhaps after all, some things don’t change!

I don’t remember a time when sewing needles were burned over a candle & bent into a hook, and catgut sounds more like slang for a fur ball, but there certainly was something more innocent, optimistic, even obsessive about fishing as a youngster. I can hardly believe that I used to catch grayling on the river Lea at Marford farm in Wheathampstead. When I’m out running along that way, I still see anglers, but fishing for what? Considering the state of the river in Luton, in which to fall in would result in drowning as a blessing, I struggle to imagine anything living for quite a distance on from that point. Perhaps these anglers are looking to re-connect to their childhoods? Perhaps there has been a run on a certain George Orwell novel? 

But this book has certainly inspired me to get the old tackle out of the shed. Watch out fish, Mr Crabtree’s coming after you! I’ll let you know how I get on.

Not sorry to see you go Sir Alex!

This has nothing to do with books, art, running or movies, but as every journalist, politician & celebrity wants to give their verdict on ‘Sir’ Alex Ferguson, I thought I’d give mine.

Let’s first put this into context. I’ve a Mancunian mam. Now, whilst she is completely ambivalent about the game, I have other relatives whom I love very much, but who are very much RED! I have fallen foul in the past of making silly  hurtful Facebook comments which were clumsy and that is not my intention with this post. It’s also fair to say that back in the seventies, before my love affair with Pompey began (affairs never end happily) City were my team.

 

I remember in the half-term holidays, getting the Number 16 bus from my Grans in New Moston to Moss side to stand on the Kippax and watch Lee, Bell, Tueart, Marsh..the list is endless. They were far superior to United back then, whose supporters used to console themselves by finding  entertainment off the pitch by systematically dismantling away grounds and smashing windows as local terrorised terraced house dwellers cowered behind sofas (nice, but also conveniently forgotten)

We've taken Norwich!!

I also remember getting a kicking at White Hart Lane as a 13 year old after Paul Power beat the offside trap and Pat Jennings consecutively to give the sky blues a surprise point!

 

Hypnotic eyebrows!

So I accept I’m biased.

I’ll counter this by stating that one of footballs all time showmen is Eric Cantona, and I loved watching him, unsure whether you were to witness devilish magic with the ball or the devil off it. Likewise Ryan Giggs (apart from extra curricular dalliances) David Beckham (apart from extra curricular dalliances) and George Best…ah.

No, here’s my gripe with United and in particular Ferguson. You had the quality to win without having to apply bullying, intimidation and thuggery to achieve the success.

Case in point: Roy Keane. Look at this photo of a game which United actually won, but the little man in black has just done the unthinkable and given a penalty to the other team.  If Keane was in the stands, adopted this stance, and hurled abuse at the away fans he’d be out, he might even be on a charge. 

'Ya know da feckin rules ref, ne feckin penalties to de uder syde!'

This is not the behaviour that I want to see my children replicate, but there are 600million supporters worldwide who, the majority, were prepared to turn a blind eye...for the greater good. (A United win)

But this type of behaviour was only ever half heartedly condemned by the Boss.

There’s something romantic about united, particularly for people a little older than me who remember Munich, and please, there is never an excuse to ever mock, provoke, devalue this awful tragedy as certain other teams fans do, but I’m afraid I missed that, so my view is somewhat hard headed but watching a game of football should be entertaining, and not something that leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

Ferguson has always had players who have looked to pushed the boundaries with regards to physical intimidation: Norman Whiteside, Paul Ince (well he thought he was the guvnor) Gary Pallister, Steve Bruce, That annoying little Irwin fella (cant remember his first name and can’t be bothered to Google it) Paul Scholes etc. Oh and lets not forget Wayne Rooney, now there’s someone you want your little lad to aspire to be, yes?

Case in point: Think it was last season, I had been running in the morning, and I’m recovering on the lounge floor (doing my stretches like a good boy) and I turn on the telly to see what the score was in the lunchtime encounter between United and those likeable east end chappies in claret and blue! Shock, WHam were leading, but then along came Rooney, and two goals later, it’s the reverse. But what got me again was the contorted expression on Rooneys face, which he pushed into the Sky camera mans face whilst unloading a string of expletives and once again adopting the thuggish ‘C’mon then!!’ pose favoured by yobboes captured on CCTV on a Saturday night or matchday & displayed on YouTube for our edification.

 

But he was excited because he’d just scored a couple of goals and won the game.

But that’s his job?

This week I’m pitching for a big investment case. Imagine the scene if I get it.

 ’Mr Cobb, we’d like your company to manage our assets’

 ‘YEEES, F***ING Get in yOU F***ING C***!!! F*** F*** etc etc.

 Just doing my job.

Going back a bit further (even pre SAF) Bobby Charlton looks like a surly bugger. There's a wonderful book called 'Manchester United Ruined my Life' by  Colin Schindler which is a delightful tale of good honest Manc fandom and liberally littered with good tales from Old trafford Cricket ground to, but in that book, Schindler tells the story of meeting Sir Bob and not being impressed.

(Actually that reminds me: I leant this to my ex Pastor (good bloke, keen utd Fan) and he never gave it me back!! You know who you are!!!

So, Mr Ferguson. For endorsing Thuggery, intimidation (I haven’t gone into the things YOU have said about refs) Bullying, Gamesmanship, I am personally glad to see the back  of you. Enjoy your horses.

To United fans. I wish you all the best. You now have a fantastic manager who, although dour, could not just emulate, but better SAF. I sincerely wish you well, particularly in Europe.

I on the other hand will be unaffected anyway, as I start a new adventure discovering the delights of Rochdale, Accrington & Dagenham. You know what, I can’t wait!

 

 

Wild at Heart?

Ok that’s book number nine so far this year. Since my last blog I finished The Trespassers by DH Lawrence and all I would say about that book is that if you are having an affair with someone and you think you might find kindred spirits in Sebastian & Helena you will be sadly let down.

'I did not have sexual relations with this woman'

My last post was more about the author than the characters, and it’s not really a book which particularly grabbed me and bettered me in any thought provoking way, so, not for the first time, it simply became a challenge to get through it as quickly as possible, so as not to waste too much of my life which I sense is now in the latter half of its course!

I’d only read one Christian book this year, so when I received a gift from a wonderful hero of mine which was the latest offering from John Eldredge, I was keen to promote it to next on my list. Eldredges finest hour was a book called ‘Wild at Heart’ which I confess I have read four times as I had never encountered writings which so summed up the challenges, hopes and dreams that a man has, but who also wants to know more of his creator. In a nutshell, we are all wearers of masks, as a way of protection against ever having to address the wounds that we carry from our Fathers.  


No seriously, I'm fine!
 

I know many people who have changed their lives on the back of that book!

Funny, I didn’t feel the need to address my wounds with my old man. He’s eighty something for goodness sake, does he need me dumping guilt on him in the name of catharsis? Don’t think so!

Anyway, it’s still a good book, and it’s just good to read a Christian writer who empathises rather than preaches or prescribes.


Okay Okay, i believe!

In fact apart from Philip Yancy, Eldredge was the writer I would most seek out. That is, until the awful ‘Way of the wild heart’ and that cringe wrenching moment when he describes his sons thirteenth birthday when he writes of  presenting the young boy with a gun, followed by a sword, and then some cake. That’s the moment when you realise why about three quarters of the worlds population hate the yanks! I mean, I know plenty of really good American people, but they’re not English are they! We would settle for cake.  

So, I hadn’t read anything for a few years, and reading ‘the Utter relief of Holiness’ was a bit like getting a letter from an old friend. However, I’m sorry to say that Jay EE has regressed into the prescriptive camp, and his examples were all pretty standard with the proximate cause of the exampled problem typically being previous sexual abuse or some drunken Dad. I didn’t feel any kind of connection, and I’m not convinced that we can blame al the ills of the world onto our folks. That’s simply not fair. However I do believe JE has the right to blame all his ills on his drunken dad, and that’s fine.  

It’s weird that I write so cynically having just spent the weekend in one of the most spiritual & scenic places I know (& a little closer to me than Lindesfarne) Once a year I visit a retreat in Ely with some other guys. The city is about the size of Harpenden, so it has no reason to be called a city but for this incredible Cathedral which, because of the flatness of the surrounding area, can be seen for miles. You really get a sense of historic  pilgrims journeying there and catching their first glimpse from many miles back. 

 

I have returned refreshed, and challenged about certain areas of my life. As always, when men find the courage to speak up about their weaknesses and fears, they invariably find they are not on their own. Of course, openess, weakness, fear are not ‘manly’ so it can be difficult to remove the mask and reveal the real you. Hey, I’m sounding like John Eldredge! Perhaps I better read his book again? 

On a completely different note, what fantastic news that Mott The Hoople are reforming for a tour including a London date. But the O2? They’re not Take That FFS! Seventies bands should play seventies venues and for me, the Hammersmith Odeon (Apollo to younger readers) IS the definitive seventies location. It worked so well in 2009, and they sold out all four nights. Methinks this has something to do with age, and it being easier to do one gig than four in the smoke, but guys, sorry but it’s a bit of a sell out. You are often quoted as being a big influence on the punk scene that followed you, but this action is definitely punk-less.  


 

I’d love to take a stance, but with Ian hunter now 73, and the drummer Dale Griffin too ill with Alzheimer’s, you have to throw your principles out the window and buy (4) tickets. This really could be the last time I ever see them.

Smut?

So I finally finish ‘The Constant Gardener’ by John LeCarre and do you ever have one of those coincidences where you unintentionaly read two books that are actually along the same lines. Its ok to do that intentionally, but after Grisham’s The Appeal I didn’t really need another ‘Little man versus evil multi national corporation.’

But that’s what I got.

But in a far more complex, drawn out, evocative narrative. Sometimes you don’t want complexity. Those kinds of novels where you have to have a note book to hand to jot down who is who. I always think a book does itself a favour if it has a list of characters at the front with a short bio. Or maybe I’m just becoming more cerebrally challenged as I get older?

 

Think its time for a classic next, and ive picked The Trespasser by DH Lawrence. I know nothing about it but it cant be any more raunchy than the Chatterley Mellors tryst!

One for the ladies!

I’m about fifty pages in, and although its lacking the shock value of Chatterley, I cant help but feel that Lawrence was one sex obsessed dude. Or should I say sex supressed as this was written in nineteen twelve.

The two main characters in this novel are illicit lovers, but I’ve just read a paragraph which, shall we say, is describing the last moments of a romantic evening, and I had to read it again, and then read it to Debbie and ask ‘Have they just done it?’

In contrast, it reminded me of reading Ian Mcewans ‘On Chesil Beach’ which the pastor of my church had quoted from only the week before. So I took it as bedtime reading on a fishing weekend with the lads to the lovely Wye Valley. We intended to have a lazy start, visit the tackle shop before fishing mid-morning, so, as I had no requirement of the tackle shop, I took my book down to the breakfast room with the intention of having a leisurely breakfast and to start my book.

The restaurant was surprisingly full and my mates were all still enjoying their fried plates of protein so I went over and joined them.

‘what book have you got there’ asks my good friend Paul as he relieved me of it and started to flick through it.

‘Oh just a Mcewan novel I reply. Nothing special’

Paul has now stopped on a page and I notice his eyes widen and then to my horror READS ALOUD a pretty explicit description of a ( somewhat unsuccessful) honeymoon night!

The restaurant had gone deathly quiet with everyone looking at us, and all I could think to say was ‘My pastor recommended me that!’

This is NOT my Pastor and good friend Steve. He's much better looking, and younger!

But here’s the thing about DHL, (no, not the courier) in the morning ‘she tried to wash herself with the white and blue morning, to clear away the soiling of the last nights passion ’ which to me is a little bit more intimate than a description of a love scene? It’s as if he wants to titillate and shock, push acceptable boundaries, but not in an obvious way, or maybe just tell the world that he knows what goes on when men & women’s undercarriages meet.

And whilst I’m at it, back in Chatterleyland, why does he call a woman’s height of pleasure ‘Her crisis’?? A thesaurus gives us the following alternatives: Disaster, catastrophe! Emergency, calamity (hardly) predicament, crunch, watershed (alright I’ll give you that one!)

All I know is that when Debbie now burns a cake, and declares that ‘she’s having a little crisis’ there is a begrudging respect that she can multi-task”!

Mmm, looking good luv!

You know what, at the end of the day, its hardly 52 shades of grey is it! I'm mocking the man, but its actually a sad indictment of society today, as I would imagine 100 years ago Lawrence would have caused the same sized waves to literature as Jonny Rotten did to music. It would definitely have been lock up your daughters time!

Today, whilst Chatterley as a title is still synonymous with something a little shameful, it really is tame compared to rap lyrics, Nuts magazine or some pretty disturbing internet images which our children are only a couple of mouse clicks away from..We have been warned.
 

Success

I’ve made it to fifty. In fact, like a child, I found myself telling someone last week that I was fifty and a week old! Unsurprisingly, this has been the year where many of my friends have either or are imminently turning fifty and it seems that you either celebrate it unashamedly with a big party, or you make it something of a non event.

I still feel young, in spite of the stress I’ve faced over the past three years, I still run, workout, and lust after the female form. However I’m aware that my hearing is deteriorating, I no longer have 20/20 vision, and it’s a constant battle keeping on top of unwanted ear hair, nose hair, eyebrow hair and worse still, I am aware of a bald patch forming on the top of my head!

 

I felt I got my birthday about right, having all the family round but I passed on the party. But I was genuinely touched by the presents, cards and Facebook messages. It kinda said ‘youre alright Cobby’ and that’s what we all want to hear.

My Mum found this wonderful piece of Jonathan Cobb history,aged 7. I'm frustrated because I have stupidly saved it in pdf so cant download, and original is sitting at home. Anyway it reads as follows;

'June 25th 1970
I wish i were a socer star and cume famusfore all the gols I scord like pele. The tems I wode play for is Chelsey and England. I wod do my best an i howp i sown will get a medall and i wod be senter forwod
I wod do my Best not to hold the Ball and cice eney Bodey wich is a fawl'

(We worry about the state of education in our schools, but 43 years ago we still had some way to go!)

What it actually says is:

‘I wish I were a soccer star and become famous for all the goals I scored like Pele. The teams I would play for is Chelsea and England. I would do my best and I hope I soon would get a medal and I would be a centre forward. I would do my best not to hold the ball and kick anybody which is a foul. ‘

I don’t want to  do a self analysis at this anniversary. You know, benchmarking yourself against compatriots and how successful they were by this age.  I guess I’m a little scared to, but I’ve never had a hunger to be massively wealthy, or to achieve worldly success, but there are times when those desires , kept hidden away in a locked box in our mind, somehow Houdini like, wriggle free and push themselves to the front of our minds and say ‘He’s got a bigger house’ ‘She will be able to retire in 10 years’ (some hope me!) or ‘Two holidays a year. That would be nice’

I’m pleased that as a seven year old I saw the benefit of endeavour and fair play, and if I have to justify myself to anybody but myself or my maker, I know I can say that those attributes have been consistent.  I noticed on the news this week that a recent survey by the MCC  showed that two thirds of uk children feel under pressure to cheat at sports because of a ‘win at all costs’ culture .   On Saturday morning, go up to Memorial Park (or your equivalent) and see Fathers with number one haircuts, 4x4 offroaders as their vehicle of choice, signet ring, obligatory sleeper earing, staffy dog named over disgraced boxer  screaming at ‘kevin / Danny / Jason ‘ to ‘Get stuck in’ & ‘let ‘im know yer ‘ere’

Hi Dad!

Showered, lunched (McDonalds) back in 4x4 to White Hart lane, Highbury, Kenilworth Rd, Father & son adorned in replikit will together shout to a highly paid ‘Kevin / Danny /Jason’ to ‘Get stuck in’ & ‘let ‘im know yer ‘ere’

Am I over egging this if I conclude that Son is getting a subliminal message that Dad will love son if he is a ‘winner?’

I remember that day when I realised that Cobby wasn’t going to ever captain Pompey.  Never to be interviewed by Chris Kamara and hear those words ‘I just wanna  thank me Dad’

He’s a happy enough chap, seemingly content in his own world of gardening, reggae, ska and Steller. No, not the lager, that’s the name of his girlfriend.  

I feel successful when I look at him. That's my boy!