Sales

In the absence of much else to do, I took the train into town (well, as near to town as Bristol's main station takes you) to look at a few shops.

I was not born yesterday so I went to the main shopping area, called Cabot Circus (I call it Carboot Circus, which I think is no less silly), in the knowledge that there would be few if any real bargains.  How right I was.

If there were bargains, they were snapped up by the 'I must have this' brigade at 5.00 am on Boxing Day morning.  There was nothing I could see that resembled anything like a bargain.

I went in a couple of stores and although there were signs like 'Everything 50% off', items were still horrendously expensive.  Or maybe it's because my wages have stood still since the mid 2000s - well, that's not true: in actual terms, minus overtime and plus huge increases in pension contributions, they are much lower - and everything else has gone up?

Either way, I kept thinking to myself: I can't afford this and anyway it's no better than the old stuff I've got under the bed.

It's slightly depressing, in the literal sense of the word, to be amongst people who DO have the money to buy stuff, or at least appear to have it.  But as I looked closely, most folk seemed to be shuffling round just looking at things.  There were few staggering under the weight of their purchases.

By Primark, where we do a lot of our shopping, it was a very different story.  It looked rammed and the pavements groaned with shoppers buying at the basement end.  And I got to thinking.

I consider myself to be at the lower end of the squeezed middle.  We neither of us earn large sums despite working hard (thus dispelling the Cameron myth of supporting those who "work hard and want to get on" - no, he doesn't give a shit about us) and things get tighter.  I'm wearing cheaper shoes and much older clothes.  I replace not for stylistic reasons but because I have to.  I buy the cheapest 'name' brands because they last longer than the cheap non named brands when the water gets in the bottom of the old ones.

I can't talk about what I do - I'd be sacked in this free country of ours - but I work hard for ever reducing 'reward' and I wonder, sometimes, why I bother.

Those at the top, from their elite private schools and affluent lifestyles, know nothing about us, the riff raff of the proletariat who struggle by on what they would regard as chicken feed.

I would love to visit my brothers in Vancouver, play golf at some nice courses, buy some nice things just now and then, maybe even go out for a meal at somewhere better than Frankie and Bennys (and that's bloody dear by our standards).

It doesn't help that I am horribly depressed, lurching from one mood swing to the next, but this awful government, enabled by Nick Clegg and his gutless, self-interested party, makes me feel a failure and I think they are rather enjoying it.

Death was final

When someone dies, people often offer their prayers by means of offering the their kindness and support, even those who don't pray.

And non religious people like me wish that the deceased should rest in peace.

I don't pray for anyone because I am pretty sure it's no more than talking to an imaginary friend.  If belief in a god brings comfort to the bereaved, who am I to argue, even if it doesn't make it real?

I wasn't with my mum when she died and I was half the world away when my dad died, but I was with my step dad.

I had the call from his Residential Care Home that he was dying and I'd better hot foot it.

I arrived and he was, obviously, in bed. He was breathing but life was drifting away.

As the moment got near, the guy who ran the home told me it was imminent and did I want to be there?  At first, I said I didn't and I stood in the next room, but I suddenly realised I had to be there.

Shortly after I went back into the room and I heard his final breath, his heart stopped beating and he was dead.  Nothing else changed.  He wasn't moving before he died and I am pretty sure he was in such a deep sleep he wouldn't even be dreaming.

Of course, I felt sad for a while.  This was, after all, the man who came along and made my mum's life worth living for a good few years but then he got struck down with Parkinsons, the most evil disease, and it took away everything that made his life worthwhile.

I watched his final years with a mixture of sadness and despair.  There was nothing positive to say about what the illness did to him.

I loved him but I hated what old age and illness had done to him.

So when that final day came along I was almost ready.

When he died, there was no spiritual feeling, no signs that he was passing into another world; just the end.  I didn't pray, didn't even think of praying.  Here was a god who could kill millions by way of floods, famines and plagues but he couldn't do anything to preserve my stepdad's dignity or make his final days more bearable.

Death was final.

Unanswered questions

Most, if not all, of my older relatives are dead.

My mum died in 1999, my dad in 2011.  My stepdad died many years ago, too.

One of my granddads died before I was even born and my remaining granddad and grandmas have all long departed.

I had an Uncle and Auntie in Rotterdam but I fell out with them when my uncle didn't give a fuck that my mum, his sister, had died.

There might be cousins and other distant relatives out there but I am not going to spend my remaining years trying to find them.  They've never been interested in me before, nor me them.  So let it be.

I was close to my mum.

Neeltje 'Elly' Verburg was born in Rotterdam and met my father Anthony Johansen sometime in the 1950s, presumably when he was visiting the city on some merchant navy ship on which he was serving.  They married - don't know when, don't care - and she came to live in England.

I am guessing they were still a couple when I popped along but I have no memory of him living at our house.

I vaguely remember seeing him occasionally, presumably on leave from said merchant navy, although I can't be certain I'm not remembering seeing sepia-coloured photos of us together.

My mum was not the best educated person in the world but she was streetwise.  We lived together in the marital home, except it wasn't, for many years.  She knew no one save the people she met through work (she always worked, never once went to seek benefits) and my father's parents who lived a mile away.

I went to theirs after school where they fed me until mum collected me and we'd walk home.  She worked in town, massive 10 hour days for little more than poverty money, and her whole life was little more than work, bring me up as best she could and sleep.  It was no life at all.

Meanwhile, my dad sailed the high seas until the late sixties when he never came back.

We kept in touch by way of airmail letters, although I had little interest in his stories and he plainly had no interest in anything I did.  I thought. I was already mind-reading.  

As the years went by, he became more someone who lived in Canada.

My life drifted along aimlessly through school and then to a lifetime dead end job.

Mum couldn't and didn't guide me.  Even as a teenager I was drifting along with no clear idea of where I was headed in life and as an old codger (almost) the song remains the same.

I was happy when she remarried because until her cigarette habit began to wreck her life she was having the time of her life.  I saw her every week and whilst we never once had a serious conversation about anything in real depth, ever, she was a wonderful woman.

My dad came to England every couple of years.  Bearded like all sailors should be with bandy legs and a raucous laugh, he had a glittering career after a mid life relaunch at McGill University whereafter he worked in various high-powered jobs including in the office of the Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau.

He came to see me, he always wrote.  I occasionally wrote back.

My first significant time with dad was in 1975 when I spend three weeks in Saint John New Brusnwick.  He took his young son to Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, the Bay of Fundy and his young son took the train to the Niagara Falls, Toronto and Montreal.

Before I knew it, he was 75.

In 2004, I was invited to his party in Ottawa and merrily I flew to be there.

He had remarried, this time to Joy Phillips who would be the love of his life. I had a week with him and oddly I felt for the first time that he was much more than my dad in name.

His 80th birthday followed and I went to that party too.  

I was struck by the change in him since I had been there before.  Mentally, he was still as sharp as a tack, but the ravages of time had caught up with him and he looked ever so slightly frail.

I talked with him on Christmas Day in 2010 and that was the last time. The next day he was admitted to hospital with pneumonia and despite the optimistic prognoses I had from time to time I feared, knew, the worst.  On 28 February 2011, the worst happened.

I cried once when my mum died and that was when I was calling her brother who, it turned out, didn't give a fuck, but when I arrived at Heathrow Airport to fly to my dad's funeral, I cried every time I spoke to someone.  Check in, security, boarding, stewardesses - I was broken.  Why?

I had not prepared myself but there was something worse: there was unfinished business.

I had no unfinished business with my mum.  Of course I loved her but in her latter days she was a physical mess. Stick thin, unable to walk or go out because of the damage smoking had done to her legs and it was not always good to visit her.  She was in residential care too, a nice place but the whole place, inevitably, stunk of piss.

It turned out that my dad, who never told me how much he loved me, or not loudly enough so I heard, loved me a lot.  He adored my family and was incredibly proud of them.

He loved his grandchildren to bits and they loved him.  And it was all gone.

If I could have one dead relative back it would be my dad.  Not because I loved him more than anyone else, but because I never really knew him until late on in his life.

Anyway, he's not coming back and he hasn't survived his own death to go to heaven, so that part of me is gone forever.

It's a strange thing about life that at one time you are the youngest of the brood and another time you are the oldest.

I don't miss my mum and dad every day and I'm not sure if I even think of them every day either.

I wish they were still here to answer the many questions I never got round to asking but now there's no one who can do that.

Jonathan Trott

I feel for Jonathan Trott.

Here's a man, apparently at the top of his game, having to call time because of mental illness.

The glory of the Ashes, a winter in Australia away from the horrendous darkness, damp and cold of England, the company of friends and colleagues, family arriving soon but none of it enough to keep at bay the black dog.

I heard the voices of support too, from fellow cricketers and journalists, and sympathy from members of the media.  The man is ill.

He needs a rest from the pressure, he needs rest, he probably needs a holiday.  He may need counselling too, followed by, accompanied with, medication. The latter could last forever.

Trott needs family, friends and employers to understand.

The black dog shows no mercy, doesn't respect anyone, has no preferences.  Rich or poor, he's waiting round the corner for you, for anyone.

I don't know much about Trott.  In the post terrestrial TV world of cricket, he is a relative unknown to the general public and is one of a good number of current internationals who would be instantly recognised in a cricket club but could walk into most pubs and sit quietly over a pint and almost no one would know who he was.

I saw him also as a dour South African who, like countless South Africans before him, decided to progress his cricket career in a country with which he has links, but few roots.  But rules are rules and he played by them.

Suddenly, from left field, Trott is one of us, struck down by the same illness that has ruined many of our lives and wrecked our life prospects.

Amongst fellow depressives (or whatever condition he has), he is equal.  But in modern day Britain, some are less equal than others.

Celebrities and high profile sports folk fall from grace.  Sometimes there is someone to catch them, sometimes there isn't.  Ordinary folk are the same.  But, but…

Decades of appalling neglect and non-investment have left the mental health treatment cupboard bare. Non suicidal cases can wait months - years - for counselling and therapy, treatments that are finite.  If you are not in the upper income groups, forget state assistance.  Take another tablet, keep increasing the dose until you can cope and that's your life.

In the new century, the Thatcher mantra of private good, public bad; there is no such thing as society and I'm all right Jack rules, okay?

I really hope the stricken Trott beats his demons.  It's not his fault he has the resources to buy better treatment than Joe Public and it will be of no comfort to him either.  But he will have a better chance than some.

Me?  I was lucky. My last therapist, during an appalling episode in 2012, kept me in work and kept me in a job.

She advised me strongly to go back to the anti-depressant drugs that I had rejected for years but could reject no longer.

Now my moods are ridiculous. I can feel like the world is nearly at an end but by tomorrow I am behaving like a complete tit; OTT, nearly hysterical.  But I am hanging in there; just.

I believe no one is ever the same after a major episode.

I am changed forever and not for the better.

All is not lost but by the same token, I'll never be as good as I was at some things and I won't be able to do others at all.

That's what Trott has to face.

Not just his demons but also the long term damage they cause.

Part of me is jealous because in Britain today money can buy you better treatment, at least in mental health.

But a bigger part of me acknowledges that no matter who you are money can't buy you good mental health and that's the main reason I feel for Trott.

Children in need?

The first thing to say is well done to the annual BBC Children In Need appeal.

Over £30m has been raised so far to benefit the lives of the less privileged children in our society.  That's obviously a good thing.

I dipped in and out of the show for the simple reason that you can definitely have enough of EastEnders stars dancing, pop stars I don't like miming to tunes that I don't like and being urged by fabulously rich TV personalities to donate cash.

I don't knock these fabulously rich stars for giving their time and talents to good use but I would be a liar if I was to say that some aspects of Children In Need didn't make me move uncomfortably in my chair.

During the preceding weeks, I listened to Chris Evans excellent Radio 2 Breakfast Show.  The host, by way of the doors that being Chris Evans can open, had obtained some stellar freebies for listeners to bid for.  And in the auctions, many thousands of pounds were raised for the charity through holidays in Monaco and golf days.  But here's the rub: there was nothing for me.

People were bidding in their £20k/£30ks and much more.  This is not the territory of working people for whom £20 or £30 represents a sizeable outlay.

To summarise, Evans raised millions for a great children's charity but the luxurious spoils were handed to the haves who could afford them.

So, what were the motives of the very rich?  Were they bidding for hedonism at a price they could afford, but few of us ever could, because they wanted the prize or because they wanted to help children in need?

I know the children in local schools and the adults in baths full of baked beans were looking to help.  There would be no return, just the satisfaction, if that's the right word, that their donation would help people.

So does the 50p given by small child from her/his pocket money matter as much as the enormous sums paid by the elite?

In terms of making a difference, probably not.  That 50p will only be of use when it's part of a collective effort.  The larger sums, traded in to play games with the rich, famous and privileged, probably by the rich and privileged well, work it out for yourself.

Do I condemn and others for getting the very rich to cough up vast sums of money for things that are way beyond the dreams of you and I, chances we will never have?

No.  Good for him.  His friends are from a different social strata to mine.  He can call in favours and benefit children.

But am I uneasy with it, and possibly jealous?

Yes and maybe.

Are we all in in together?

It will be argued, I'm sure, that more children will benefit by having the luxury auctions and that's how charity works in America and where, in some cases, charity replaces state provision of vital services.

I don't want to stop rich people paying vast sums of money to benefit children but I hope the BBC comes up with a way of ensuring that all monies collected are equally valued and that Children in Need doesn't become the preserve of the rich.

The main argument is, of course, that most people don't want anything in return for their efforts and generosity and that's right and long may it continue that way.

Maybe a few less auctions and a few more raffles, maybe tacked onto the auctions?

I don't think so

If there was any justice on this earth, and of course there isn't, then I would be able to happily pay for my sons to go through university and enjoy all the things along the way with barely a dent to my finances.

Of course, that isn't the way things work out and why my boys will have to rely on brains alone.

Because of my job, I cannot write about politics in the public arena so I won't, but my worth to the public is many, many times my pathetic salary.  And I am treated like something that ends up on the bottom of your shoe.

I'm far too old for a massive career change and that's heartbreaking.  My father's widow and much of his history is in Ottawa and my brothers live in Vancouver and there is absolutely zero chance of me ever flying over to meet them.  Instead, I have to rely on them coming to see me and that just isn't fair.  But then, life isn't fair.

The multimillionaires like Cameron, Clegg, Osborne and Cable (and most of the cabinet) have little idea about the struggle the rest of us endure throughout our entire lives.

I don't begrudge successful people their riches - in fact, I don't think those who have toiled hard throughout their lives to better their lives get enough credit - but the balance is all wrong.

I am doomed now to low pay - and it is low pay - and a bit of a struggle (yes, I know many are far worse off) forever whilst the undeserving rich are high on the hog.

I can't rely on the lottery changing my life, there is no unexpected windfall on the way, I simply can't work any harder and I will continue to get poorer.

We're all in it together?  I don't think so.

Black Dog returns

It didn't take much for the black dog to come crawling back.

What might seem to others a minor event, to me what happened at work was a setback.  And from heading away from the world of anti-depressants, having dramatically cut my intake in recent months, I was back to a doubling of the prescription.

I was getting better too.  I had more confidence about my life, my work and I felt better, mentally and physically.

The anxiety had largely dissipated although I still had madly stressful days when my brain seized up.  But as long as I prepared properly and recognised the stress traps, I'd struggle through; get by.  Not so many dizzy spells, which I had convinced myself were physical symptoms of an immediate heart attack or stroke, and less in the way of frightening palpitations when I thought my heart would explode out of my chest.

The depression was at bay.  I felt I was dealing with it.  I was writing a lot and I was playing golf obsessively.  I was occupying my mind.

I've been pretty sure for a while, since a head test, that ADHD was possibly the deep rooted cause of my woes.  The indications were such that it was near certain I had it.  But despite the compulsive urge to do something, which usually meant nothing, else every five minutes, I struggled through.

Then the knock back.

I couldn't speak for crying, I couldn't breathe slowly as the heartbeat went through the roof.  I went to the doctor and was given a fit note which meant I wasn't fit.  My drug addiction was not about to be broken.  My blood pressure was at mad levels.  In short, I felt my head was about to explode.  My temples were at bursting point.  Only a fellow nutter would understand how that feels.

The drugs, after a few (literally) nauseous weeks, are starting to kick in ever so slightly and the edge is knocked off my depression so I am not at the end of my tether on a permanent basis.  I still have my moments with outrageous mood swings and a desire to be on my own when I with others and to be with others when I am alone.  But there's nothing new about that.

The most dispiriting thing is that the black dog is still here.  I thought he was leaving my life, with his tail firmly between his legs.  I'd seen him off.

But I may have become complacent and I now need to start again.

That's very hard to take.

Not as better as I thought I was

I'm not really as better as I thought I was.

Of course, grammatically that sentence is all wrong but who cares?

I am definitely a whole lot better mentally than I was a year ago which is as a result of a joint effort by my loved ones, my psychotherapist, my anti-depressant tablets and my employer (locally).

I've been gradually cutting back on the drugs and although my moods are swinging again, there are more shades of grey instead of black and white.

But something at work - and I cannot talk about work because I am not allowed to - has made me realise that whilst I am better than I was I am not really as better as I thought I was.

I try hard to be a good honest person with decent principles but it seems that doesn't matter in the real world where bad dishonest people with no principles can have us over while the rest of us go hang.

Sunday bloody sunday

I felt the need to walk to Sainsbury yesterday rather than drive there.

Two virtually exercise free weeks in Corfu has done me no good, apart from in my head.

Despite a surfeit of fruit consumed in recent weeks, much of it in the form of Thatchers Gold admittedly, I felt a brisk walk was in order.

I walk these days without the assistance and distractions of an MP player or a radio because it does me good to think for myself and I tend to notice more.

So here was what I noticed.

Mid morning on a Sunday, North Road was quiet.  It’s a country road that isn’t in the country these days; long and narrow with mixed housing on both sides, some new, some old.

At the end of the road is the village church, St Michaels.

Now, I don’t do god and I don’t respect any religion but only a fool would deny that this church has a positive effect on the village.

Whether they do nice things to impress god because they want to go to heaven or because it’s a good thing to nice things, I don’t know, but I suspect it’s a little of both.

Anyway, I like walking through the graveyard (the dead centre of Stoke Gifford) and there was a service going on.

A churchman was reading extracts from the old testament (I know this because he said so).

This always makes me laugh because church folk pick and choose the bits they like and presumably pretend the nasty bits don’t exist.

God inflicting plagues, floods, fiery serpents and murdering millions of people slips into the background whilst they read the nice bits like ‘thou shalt not shag thy neighbour’s wife’ (I think this is how it goes: I haven’t read it for a while).

But it makes them happy, I suppose, and at least they don’t go round cutting people’s heads off or throwing acid in girls’ faces. Or not yet anyway.

I walked on a bit and passed a children’s football tournament.

I knew it was a football tournament because I could hear coaches and parents shouting very loudly at young children.

I paused but only briefly because I have had a guts full of children’s football and have seen how it has given us the England side we have today.

I never heard a ‘good pass’ shouted by anyone but there was much encouragement for ‘great battling’ and ‘effort’.

No wonder almost all these boys will drift out of football before they even reach 16.

And then to Sainsburys where I bought my newspapers and some salads for the week.

There was, quite frankly, too much bare flesh on display and certainly too many tattoos.  There was an old guy wearing a flat cap but wearing a vest.  And he had tattoos like David Beckham.

My bet is that they looked ridiculous when he was younger but they looked absolutely mad now.

And I frown all the time as someone picks up a Daily Mail.

Then I walked home.

The tournament was still going on and the smell of cheap burgers and fatty bacon wafted across the way.

The church was bolted shut and doubtless the faithful were now home, studying the bible for some nice things to tell the kids.

There were people outside the pub too, it being almost midday. 

I could have driven but at least I had some good exercise.

Then I spoiled it all by eating a cheese and ham Panini.

Thoughts about Bill and Kate Windsor

Let's get this straight to begin with: I am not an anti-royalist and I am not a republican.

I know some people who like the idea of a royal family and others who don't. But it seems to me that the vast majority of people have no feelings either way.  And on the basis of that, if it ain't broke, then there's no need to fix it.

I have nothing against Bill and Kate Windsor either.

They seem to be a nice enough couple, normal enough whilst living within the most unreal bubble possible.

And now they have had a baby.

There is nothing exceptional about Kate having a baby because there were another 370,000 of them born on the same day, as there are every day.  But the media has ensured that only one gets any kind of coverage other than in the announcements pages of the local rag.

Yes, you could argue, as I'm not arguing, that we now have another burden on the state.  A dysfunctional family with almost no one in work adding to the welfare bill.  But that's not how I feel.

Bill and Kate's life is something I will never understand.

Bill has a job flying helicopters and from time to time he joins Kate to rush around shaking hands with people and opening things, as well as 'supporting' charities.

And sometimes, as Bill's late mother showed, the attitudes of society can be changed by engagement in controversial areas, such as AIDS and land mines.  So Diana Spencer, who lest we forget, was absolutely loathed by the press (and the rest of the royals, so it seemed) in the summer before she died made a difference.

Maybe Bill and Kate will do the same.

As things are, they have had a baby and I am happy for them.

I'm still not clear what the point of the royal family is but there's something quaint and eccentric about it.

I don't like the stuff about 'your highness' in this modern era but it doesn't really mean much.

Like I said, I think the general British attitude is ambivalence.

They don't harm anyone, they're better than the alternative (whatever that is: we shall never know) and they cost an awful lot less than a Trident missile.

We live in a country of 63 million people of which some 500 turned up to the luxury private hospital when Bill and Kate's baby turned up and almost all of the 500 were media folk.

But the newspapers don't run souvenir issues (who keeps a souvenir issue for goodness sake?) and countless photographs for nothing.  People must buy them.

I don't envy Bill and Kate, or baby Windsor (my money is on Keith or Wayne, by the way), their future lives.

Perhaps they can make some sense of it all but they will never do anything remotely normal.

They will 'serve' and 'do their duty' and all being well live healthily into old age and we'll get on with our own lives, usually glimpsing them from time to time during the 'And finally' bit of the TV news.

We do this sort of thing very well in Britain.

In the National Lampoon European Vacation, Chevy Chase's character Clark Griswold is asked by his children what the queen does.

"She queens!" replies Griswold.

I think that's our understanding of what she does too and for most of us it's not going to change anytime soon.  And why should it?

I hate hospitals

One of the silliest things people say is "I hate visiting hospitals" and I know some who use their hatred of hospitals to avoid seeing sick friends or relatives.

And it's a silly expression if you follow the golden rule, that I do, if you can't imagine anyone saying the exact opposite.

"I love visiting hospitals!" would see that person being carted off to one, probably by men in white coats.

Much more sensible would be "I hate visiting hospitals because it usually means that someone, possibly myself, is ill."

I have the same issue with dentists.

Now normally, I don't mind visiting the dentist because the routine visit usually means nothing more agonising than having my teeth cleaned but today I do mind visiting the dentist because I have to.

It's nothing to do with the dentist who is a perfectly nice chap.

I have an abscess in one of my back teeth and it's bloody painful and I am trying to take my mind off the pain by...er...writing about it!

It all started on Saturday when my jaw started to ache.  At the time, my teeth were okay but I have had abscesses before and I knew that within 24 hours at least one of them wouldn't be.  And so it came to pass.

I am not quite so panic-stricken this time because the last two I had were made far worse by my anxieties and depression.  I became even more anxious and tense and the pain seemed far more acute.

I'm in a slightly better place these days so I am not panicking, even if my tooth - and part of my jaw - is throbbing and I can't eat anything more substantial than a mulched up banana.  Pork scratchings are out of the question today.

I have a mere four hours of this until I visit the dentist's surgery and undergo what I suspect will be root canal treatment which, given my previous experiences, is seriously unpleasant, especially on what is the hottest day of the year.

Eventually, maybe even tonight, I should be over this and I'll look back and give a crooked anaesthetic smile at how much pain I was in.

Then, I will hopefully put things into greater perspective and realise that in the great scheme of things it is only - only! - toothache and I should get better.

Cricket and cheating

A minor incident occurred in the first test match today between England and Australia.

In amongst all the action, England’s Stuart Broad got a big fat edge and was caught in the slips.

Everyone on the pitch saw it, including no doubt Broad himself, except the two umpires who deemed Broad not out.

It really was a joke decision, or rather lack of one, and the arguments are raging as to whether Broad should have ‘walked’ rather than leave it to the umpire.

In the heat of the moment, Broad decided to chance his arm and, as luck would have it, the umpire hadn’t been paying attention.  He got very lucky.

The Aussies, no ‘walkers’ themselves, were furious and there was plainly a bad atmosphere for the rest of the day.

Personally, I thought Broad should have walked.  He will certainly have known he had hit the ball and known he was out.  The argument that the Aussies never walk so why should Broad have walked is, I suppose valid if you accept, as I don’t, that cheating is an acceptable part of the game.

Take it a step further, to local cricket and even children’s cricket where everything is in the hands of untrained amateur volunteer umpires.

Do we tell our kids to try and gain every type of advantage?  Do we, basically, encourage dishonesty?

We have been holier than thou about football, decrying the likes of Suarez and Bale who go to ground at the earliest opportunity in order to seek an advantage, and now we have a cricketer doing the self-same thing.

Let’s not bring out the lynch mob for Broad who has made a decision, there and then, to preserve his wicket and help England win a cricket match.

But he was wrong and that has to be said.

If he was right, were Ben Johnson and Lance Armstrong justified in seeking an advantage by taking performance-enhancing drugs?  After all, isn’t it up to the officials to adjudicate?

Just say sorry, Chris, and be done with it.

Cricket will need to look at itself following this incident, one which has undoubtedly swung the match in favour of England and maybe it has affected the entire series too.  Momentum and all that.

Tunnel vision

Rarely a day goes by without me passing a railway tunnel.

More often than not, it’s the little one in St Annes (Bristol, this is, for you non Bristolians) or the Sea Mills end of Clifton Down Tunnel.

This might seem an odd thing to write about but then I am (insert your own joke here).

And I have obsessed with railway tunnels since I was a small boy, when I should really have been playing the silver ball.

It started with St Annes where once stood a small railway station. (Younger readers should ask their elders as to what a small railway station was.)

There were advantages to the tunnel lovers like me (are there any others?) because I could stand at the tunnel end and be very near it.

The trains, hauled by diesels, thundered along from Bristol Temple Meads on their way to London, or roared out of the tunnel itself towards Temple Meads.

I found it utterly captivating.  It was a huge size, large enough for two trains on top of each other, as are many of the tunnels built by Brunel.  Even in those days, I wondered at the ingenuity and grit of the Victorian navies for building it with minimal tools.

And if I ignored the signs to leave the platform and advance to the entrance of the tunnel, which was only a couple of hundred yards long, and I could see the far more daunting and considerably longer Foxes Wood Tunnel glowering in the near distance.

I was utterly fascinated with and captivated by the longer, darker tunnel.  I felt excitement and fear at the same time.

Foolishly, we walked through the small tunnel one day to get a closer look at the big tunnel.  On the left was a river, on the right a steep wooded area, curving to the right the two lines slipped into the blackness of the tunnel.  Fear overtook excitement, especially as a large express tore out of it, its locomotive blurting out an angry ‘toot’ at us.

Somehow we summoned the courage to walk back through the little tunnel, crossed the lines (I know, I know: it was bloody stupid but my excuse is that we were bloody stupid) and walked home through the woods, rather than walking back to the platform.  After all, those pesky police might have been patrolling.  My mum would have killed me.

I needed more tunnels so my friends and I cycled to Severn Beach which although sounding vaguely glamorous was anything but.

A rickety fair and an open air pool from which the owners removed the flies before anyone was allowed to swim and a grim housing estate bereft of any charm whatsoever (which is how it remains today).

But we didn’t want anything but the Severn Tunnel.

Another Brunel build, this tunnel plunged below the River Severn and for four and a half miles gave you a lot of noise and darkness.  Today all I wanted to see was the tunnel entrance.

These were innocent times and there was little to stop the irresponsible and idiotic child climbing down the steps to the tunnel itself.

Massively tall, it was blacker and bleaker than any tunnel I had seen before and we felt the need to walk a few steps into the darkness.

The first thing I became aware of was the drip-drip-drip from the water that, well, drips into the tunnel and the next was the distant sound of a train, the hissing of the rails followed by the Vroom of the engine which got louder very quickly and there was barely enough time for us to scramble onto the bank.

You would think that this was a passing phase, one I would dump before reaching my twenties but no, it carried on.

I drove to places like Box tunnel and Chipping Sodbury just to look at tunnel entrances.  I agonise every time I pass the Sea Mills entrance to Clifton Down Tunnel when the foliage by the road has obscured my view.  

When we went to see Ribblehead last year for me to achieve a lifelong ambition and standing next to the epic viaduct, I forced the family to trudge miles past the viaduct itself so I could see the entrance to Blea Moor tunnel.

It’s mad, I know, and in middle age it’s not getting better.

It’s better than railway line gradients, I suppose, because that’s my other railway hobby, obsessing on steep railway lines like the famous Lickey Incline near Birmingham (this was in 2012, so ages ago, obviously), Shap Summit in Cumbria (we were on a hike across the Lake District but took a 30 mile detour so I could see it), various embankments in Devon and, most pitifully, a train ride to Exeter to see a very steep hill and nothing else.

I’m sure people have other hobbies that are just as bad, like plane and train spotting but without actually taking numbers (oh wait a minute, that’s me too), but few so difficult to explain to a sane world.

Remind me I wrote this when I next criticise someone else for having a stupid hobby.