A little perspective

Today was all about golf.

My first engagement was at the Bristol Golf Centre in Hambrook.  This is a remarkable place.  There are numerous professionals, a state of the art driving range, a well-stocked (have you ever heard of an advertised poorly stocked?) shop and no course, unless you count an albeit excellent Crazy Golf course next door.  I digress.

On Thursdays, the Centre holds a 'roll-up' session for old codgers, £6 for a basket of balls, a bit of tuition from one of the pros followed by a coffee (and some cake which one of my fellow old codgers bakes and brings along - today it was lemon drizzle cake).

Soon I was hitting the ball all over the place which was not where I wanted it to go, which was in a straight line.  "It's your grip!" said the pro.

He tweaked my wrists as if they were made of Plasticine and formed them into a very awkward position.  "You'll get used to it in 10 minutes," he added.  Hmm, not so sure.

But, hey presto, I was hitting the ball beautifully with all five of the clubs I had brought with me.  At last, I had cracked it.

After a quick mingle with the old boys - some of them have been coming along for 15 years - I made my way to the car park.

As I neared my car, two very nice ladies approached me, pointing out this young lad, probably mid teens, in the back seat of theirs.  He plainly had learning difficulties, Downs it looked like, and he didn't seem to want to get out of the car.  The lady asked if I could show him my clubs.  Of course I could.

I found myself talking to him as I would have talked to anyone else I know, dipping into my limited collection of cliches ('top man', 'good lad' and so on).  And he took my driver and started moving out of the car.  

He seemed very impressed with the club (he wouldn't have been if he's seen me swinging it about in the driving range!) and smiled the loveliest smile ever.

The two ladies were full of smiles too and one of them, possibly his mum, said, "Thank you - you're an angel!"

I was slightly taken aback by this.  I'd really enjoyed this chance meeting, I hadn't really thought about what I was doing; I just did it.  And I found myself wiping a tear from my eye, which I didn't expect at all.  Grit, I reckon.

After lunch, I decided that having finally cracked the game, I'd put my new grip to the test and boy does pride come before a fall!  From a driving range where I barely hooked or sliced a ball for an hour, I was now back in the novice stage.  

The Thornbury Par 3, disaster: my shank was back, I couldn't get the ball in the air. I was devastated.

After three holes, I gave up the ghost.  A nine on the 90 yard third convinced me that things were not going to get better.

I obtained 50 balls from the clubhouse and it was like I had never played the game.  Shank after hook after shank after topping the ball and finally missing it altogether.

Having tried and failed to sort my game out on the range, I foolishly tried to start my game again but it was a massive blunder. I felt even worse and after two holes decided to call it a day.

I walked back to my car, slumped shoulders and totally hacked off. I was seriously crestfallen, wallowing in a pool of self-pity.  I felt like just driving off somewhere and being miserable.

As I drove home, I thought of my day.  The driving range was fun, well the morning one was, the afternoon driving range wasn't so much fun and my rounds (I started and stopped twice) were shocking.  But there was one good bit.

Maybe my day wasn't wasted after all.

I don't know where the boy was going but I suspect it was the crazy golf.  I am sure he would have enjoyed it and I hope that now him and the ladies who were with him are happy.

It gave me a little perspective too.

I have endured bloody awful depression and anxiety in my life, gruesome, ugly, totally destructive, flattening mental illness that sapped my will to live.  Whilst of course I knew there were many people out there with much worse lives than mine but the black dog overwhelms you.

I am not particularly ill at the moment.  My anxieties have eased and my depression is suppressed by the techniques I have learned and the drugs I take.

So there was absolutely no excuse for what was my pathetic self-pity at the falling apart of my golf swing.

I can get my golf swing back with a few lessons and by even more practice.  It's not a big deal and I need to get over myself.

I can't get over being described as an angel though.  I've been called a lot of things in my life but never that!

Home Office Missing Files

It has been fascinating to watch the unfolding events over the 114 missing official files linked to investigations of a 1980s paedophile ring at Westminster.

Yesterday, I watched the Home Office permanent secretary Mark Sedwill explain to the Home Affairs Select Committee that most of these files had "probably been destroyed".

Well, really?  Are we supposed to believe that?  In a word, yes.

A few short weeks ago, I finished a lifetime of public service in the Civil Service.

When I joined, all documents were stored in large filing cabinets in the offices where the work was carried out. Particularly sensitive documents were placed in locked cabinets.  If something went missing, staff downed tools and searched for the document until it turned up.

The 1980s represented an enormous shock to public services when the new Thatcher government cut back ruthlessly on spending.  

As the cuts began to bite, departments needed to find new ways of spending less money and one of the ideas was to store documents in remote locations, effectively large warehouses miles away.   Files and documents would be bagged up and sent away and if they were needed again at a later day, staff locally could request them. 

It was not unusual for documents to simply disappear.  I am sure they were not routinely destroyed but the number that could not be found was alarming.  And many of them would be required for such things as fraudulent benefit claims, what the law enforcement agencies might refer to as evidence.  A lost claim form in the DWP might be a false statement and if it was lost the implications for a criminal investigation could be very serious.

The next step with these remote storage facilities was to privatise them and so mean they were run for profit and local government offices now had to pay to have their own documents to be transported back to them.

But the view from the top was that you could not always keep everything.  Some documents and files were not necessarily sensitive and even if they were, the argument went, after a few years they would lose that sensitivity.

So documents, forms, files and the like began to be destroyed after a few years.  Destroyed by government diktat on the grounds of efficiencies, or cuts as they should properly known.

I know for a fact that many, if not all, departments had similar policies with old records and documents and Mark Sedwill's comments at the Home Office suggest I am right.

Now we have an horrific situation where a paedophile ring may have existed and there were documents that suggested who was involved and when and that these documents no longer exist.  You can imagine the implications for prosecuting authorities and you can also imagine some seriously unpleasant people blowing sighs of relief.

I do not sense a conspiracy here - the cock up theory seems more likely - but it shows once again that the endless drive for more efficiencies (cuts) and the need to do everything on the cheap have implications that go way beyond what they were intended to do. 

Where I worked, staff were always warning of the dangers of destroying evidence but no one listened.

It would be terrible if it turned out that there are people out there who have suffered terrible abuse who may never get justice because the evidence has been shredded in order to save a few bob.

Let the worst team lose

As an Englishman, I am well past the stage of who to support in the World Cup.

Unlike in club football where I 'support' a variety of teams, international football provides me with one.  

Despite my Dutch heritage, I never want them to win and my Scandinavian roots rarely if ever come into play in a major tournament.

So now I am working out who I most want to lose.

Tonight we have a tricky one: Brazil or Germany.   Who do I least want to win?

This Brazil is not a classic Brazil side.  They are good defensively and they are functional elsewhere on the park (see how I am getting the hang of this football lingo?) but no one watches Brazil to see them defend.  But not many people are exactly enthralled by Fred who is, in football parlance, crap.

Neymar is injured and out of the tournament.  He is adored in Brazil but I don't rate him in the Messi category.

Germany, their opponents in the semi-finals, are most people's idea of the team they love to hate.  But the stereotypical dour, efficient German machine is long gone.  They play a brand of football we in England would die for (even though I prefer the classic Spanish tiki-taka) and it's terrifically exciting when it comes off.  Superb physical conditioning combined with great skill and mental toughness.  Don't you just hate them?  Well, only a bit and certainly not because of the war.

I am supposed to hate Argentina because of the Falklands War but that would be as silly as me hating England because of Thatcher (although come to think of it).  So I have a strange ambivalence about them.  I love Messi and I want him to prove to the world that he is among the greatest players who ever lived.  And he doesn't cheat.  Unlike some.

And some includes Arjen Robben.  A wonderfully talented footballer but a hideous diving cheat and I can't separate the two.  van Persie I like but less than I might because he plays for Manchester United.  But I do like Dirk Kuyt because a) he played for Liverpool and b) he comes from Katwijk where I went on holiday in 1984.

There have been other countries I have wanted to see fail.

Chile because of General Pinochet and specifically because he was Thatcher's friend.  Switzerland because so many British tax exiles live there, although it could be regarded as a bonus since Phil Collins lives there too.  The USA because of George Bush and Iraq.

Oh I could find all manner of reasons to dislike the other countries too.  How could you support Italy after Berlusconi?

So, who do I want to win the World Cup?

Well, it's who I don't want to win it really and at the top of the list comes Brazil closely followed by the Netherlands and Germany, the latter two on the additional flimsy grounds that they are light years better than us.

It's Argentina for me then.  Not a victory for the Malvinas, General Galtieri, Eva Peron or even Ossie Ardiles.

No, for that little man, the number 10 who doesn't dive, doesn't roll about after the most mild of fouls and plays better than any man currently alive.

Faded seaside glamour

So to Weston Super Mare for a day by the seaside.

There's an 'early bird' car park in the town and if you get there before 9.30 am you get to park all day for £2.10. This saved us a fair bit of cash before we squandered our savings on the unhealthiest breakfast we could find: Egg and Sausage McMuffins in McDonalds.

And this was where our strange day began.

I cannot deny that I am carrying a few pounds overweight at the moment.  Nothing drastic but with the odd exception, rabbit food is the norm.  But many of our fellow customers were more than a few pounds overweight and some looked as if they might actually live there.

A lot of money has been spent on the seafront and it's a great improvement.   Much of the traffic has been re-routed and it's more designed now for walking than driving.

The ruins of the Tropicana lie in the distance behind the ugly Sea Life Centre (or whatever it's called this year) that juts out into the sea.  We didn't go that far and instead visited the Sand Sculpting exhibition which is surprisingly interesting and not a little inspiring.  It's not cheap to get in but the exhibits are astonishing in their beauty and detail.  Well worth a visit, I thought.  But I have reservations about the rest of the place.

I kept thinking, does anyone actually work down here?  Not everyone can work in the dozens of 'amusement' arcades or chip shops, but there was a steady stream, more like the rapids in places, of people shuffling around going nowhere in particular.

I would guess that many were holidaymakers because some of the accents were Brummie and others were Welsh, but the overwhelming majority I heard were undoubtedly local.

But the town is tired and it's jaded,  Whilst money has been spent on the front, the streets behind tell a different story.  Weston, away from the town, is a bit of Clifton and a lot of Bradley Stoke but beyond the pier it's poor.

The shops are Greggs and McDonalds and there are bookmaker shops everywhere.  Even when the sun is shining, the streets are dull and drab and everywhere you look people are shuffling around with no particular place to go.

And it's hard to ignore the fact that a lot of people are not looking after themselves very well.  You hear the warnings of obesity and unhealthy living and you look around where you live and think that someone is exaggerating.  But there was no exaggeration about today.  And everyone, even the pensioners on their scooters, have tattoos.  Tattoos - today's Philosan.

I don't see too many people smoking these days but almost everyone was in Weston.  

And just when you thought it was grim enough, there were the druggies hanging around on the corners and in the parks, often wafer thin with rotting teeth (no one tells you that bit when you start injecting).  No one seems to notice them because, sadly, they blended in, they are part of the scenery.

I used to visit Weston around 30 years ago.  No one would call it glamorous or upmarket, but then neither am I, but it was functional and sometimes it was even vibrant but today I saw another seaside town on the decline.

I know that a lot of seaside towns are losing their younger people who are moving to the bigger cities for work and better opportunities and it could be that Weston is suffering from the same problem.

It's facilities are largely from another age and, more worryingly, so were so many of its visitors.  There was not a lot of smiling going on.  This was not a happy place.

But what is there to do for the young?  Working in the shops or maybe in the amusement arcades seems about the sum of it.

I suspect the traditional British seaside town is now in terminal decline.

It was nice to visit but I wasn't sorry to leave.

The pier is now fully modernised following the big fire and they even charge you for the privilege of walking on it.  But it's a one-trick pony and an expensive one at that.

I had a nice day but Weston is a joyless town, locked into the past, and clearly run by people who have no vision for the present and on the basis of what I saw today no hope for the future.

Clock watching

I can't remember the exact joke but it goes something like this.

You go to school and spend much of the day looking at the clock. Your life revolves around the clock, what you do and when you do it.

And you go to work by the time on the clock.  When the clock strikes 12.00, you have your lunch and then you wait until the clock ticks up to the time when you can go home when you will set the clock for the following morning.

And after you work for the employer for, say, 39 years, as I did, what do they buy you?  A fucking clock.

Except that the last bit wasn't true.  In fact, my work colleagues did a nice collection and bought me some vouchers for me to spend as I chose.

But it certainly happened to a lot of people. 

39 years is a lot of your life to give to any employer, in my case the Government, so not a particularly nice employer.  Labour governments treated us badly, Tory governments treated us far worse, so when the chance to be part of a voluntary exit scheme, I was halfway through the door before you could say Jack Robinson (maybe Jason Robinson would be more appropriate these days).

So anyway, I left back in May to kind wishes from friends and colleagues and a lovely letter from my boss which meant an awful lot.

You are not valued in much of the public sector so it is not surprising when your leaving is accompanied by little by way of a fanfare, but it it slightly disappointing when your leaving is accompanied by nothing from the top of the shop or anywhere near it.

I did not expect a personal letter of thanks from Iain Duncan Smith, congratulating me on my results and walking the extra mile for far less than the national average wage, but perhaps a stock letter with my name written in biro might have been appropriate?

But there was nothing.  Above my boss locally, nothing.

Now don't get me wrong, I am glad I have left.  I do not regret getting out when I did.  I was burnt out, I had nothing left to give.  A few months off work is something quite excellent. 

And I am not whingeing, feeling sorry for myself that those nasty people at the top don't give a shit about anything I did over 39 years because I know that we are just numbers.   When they needed to cut staff, I became a number George Osborne could brag about in the House of Commons, talking about 'efficiencies' and 'cutting out waste'.

A letter did arrive last week and I stupidly thought that maybe here was a stencilled letter from a middle manager thanking me and wishing me good luck but it turned out to be my P45!

I was privileged to work with some truly wonderful people and I hope I keep in contact with them as the next stage of my life unfolds.

But the government proves once again that they know the price of everything but the value of nothing.

That this government is by far the worst I have ever worked for - worse even than Thatcher's - they've all been unpleasant employers, just some less worse than others.

One thing though is that I am no longer clock watching.  Apart from when it's time to open the wine.

A good walk spoiled

I played golf today. 

Now I realise that if you have been foolish enough to be my 'friend' on Facebook, or to follow my fun-packed life on twitter, this is not exactly a startling revelation.

Golf is what I do these days for pleasure and exercise.

I am not one who can enjoy pointless exercise like going to a gym and jogging on a moving pavement or poncing about on the cross-dresser (I think that's what it's called). I can see that many, though not all, gym members are probably in better shape than I am but my god they look miserable. Caked in sweat, bright red and looking thoroughly pissed off.  And they pay for the privilege.

And runners/joggers: what's that all about?  Yes, yes, I know all this running can make you really fit and really thin and you might live a little longer but have you ever seen a happy jogger?

Wheezing along the road, with flailing arms and wearing outfits that make them look more than slightly ridiculous.  Some of them look thin to the point of being gaunt and ill-looking.  It can't be good for you, can it, all this exercise?

You could probably say, with some justification, that my golfing exploits represent a lot of good walks spoiled and I'd probably agree with you. 

I have played literally hundreds of rounds now, the vast majority on a smashing Par 3 course of around 2500 yards, and I have long since hit the wall.

I still make the same bloody awful mistakes as I did when I first started playing the game two years ago and I still don't really know what's going to happen when I hit the ball or where the ball is going to go.

Sometimes, I will approach the ball and I just know it's going to be a good shot and others I will know it won't be.  And there are times when I look like I have never picked up a club.  There were some instances like that today.

But it's exercise and lots of it.

My Par 3 gets me walking between three and four miles and the bigger courses double that.

I play mainly on my own but sometimes with friends.  When I am alone, I walk like the clappers between holes and shots and I feel like it's doing me good. 

I find it cathartic too on the mental side. If I am playing well - and that is a very big 'if' - then I feel in a better place.  If I am playing badly, provided my mental state is all right, I try to play better.

And I play a lot, maybe five times a week, sometimes more than that.

I have a coach called Sam Hughes who is based at Saltford Golf Club.  He has taken me from an incompetent novice to someone who can, occasionally, hit the ball in the right direction.

There was so much to learn like the grip, the stance, the positioning of the ball - oh Christ there was so much and then there was the small matter of putting it all together at the same time.  And when I do, it's a great feeling.  When I don't, which is most of the time (you should have seen it tonight when I was playing five from the tee having shanked my first two balls into the trees), it's a potential club wrecker.

But I am going to stick with it.

I shot a 93 last week on the Woodlands Signature course, losing something like six balls in the process, so there is room for improvement.  But 23 over par is a minor victory for me.

I think the Open Championship is a way off for me but I don't think it's quite as boring as the gym or the road, at least not just yet.

Thoughts on my old boss

It's always instructive when Tory ministers tells us, in times of austerity, that 'we're all in it together.'

Whilst terminally ill people die before they get their disability benefits, and others are turfed out of their homes because of the 'bedroom tax', some are more in it together than others.

Iain Duncan Smith, for example, lives in a £2 million home, rent free.  He married the right person and now lives in a sprawling mansion in Buckinghamshire.  Now there's nothing wrong with marrying into money - I'm sure my partner wishes she had! - but there is everything wrong with attacking the poorest in our country for wanting, as Mr Duncan Smith calls it, 'something for nothing.'  He is more something for nothing than most.

And our Old Etonian chancellor Gideon 'George' Osborne, a seriously rich multimillionaire who will not alone inherit a very large fortune one day, he will inherit a knighthood.  Nice work if you can get it.

Mr Duncan Smith despises food banks, accuse them of 'scaremongering' and being 'political', as well as refusing to meet with them.  And Mr Osborne suggests the only reason people use food banks is because they get told about them by Jobcentres.

Now, I have never had the misfortune to need the services of food banks but I do know people who have and these people have one thing in common: they work.

Not the stereotypical Daily Mail vision of scroungers by any stretch but people who work hard, play by the rules, something David Cameron is always banging on about, and trying to get on.  But it's not easy on the minimum wage.

A man I know who used a food bank in the Spring said it was the most embarrassing, humiliating moment of his life, having to go basically cap in hand to ask for some food to see him and his family through until his next pay day.

The food bank he used did not just hand him a box of food.  He had to answer a whole lot of questions to prove he really needed it.  I wonder if the food banks themselves have become a little paranoid after certain newspapers pretended that all you needed to do was turn up and you'd get something. That has probably made a miserable time even more miserable for genuine people in need.

Yet the very richest and most powerful in society, with friends who will pay £160,000 to the Tory party in order to play tennis with David Cameron and his Old Etonian pal Boris Johnson, treat the working poor with utter contempt.

There are undoubtedly those who work the system and they need to be brought to book, but there are far more who are getting shafted and are becoming the working poor.

Meanwhile, Mr Duncan Smith presides over the combined disasters of the Universal Credit and the Personal Independence Payments (PIP), pretending that they are both soaraway successes and ignoring the hundreds of millions of pounds he and his department have spunked away, as if it were their money.  But it's our money.

I have no issue with people being rich. I respect those who work hard, play fair and pay their taxes that make society bearable for all of us.

But I have a major issue with the rich who accuse those with nothing as demanding something for nothing.

Future generations will condemn Mr Duncan Smith as being one of the worst secretary's of state in our history. I just wish the current generation would do the same.