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Masochistic Away Day.

23 Feb

It was another insane idea. I think I must be going a bit dopey in my old age. The choice was as follows: have a relaxing day at home or undergo 8 hours of train travel and hanging around draughty stations to almost inevitably experience disappointment. I chose the latter of course. I would travel from deepest Cleveland on the north east coast, to the far north west of England to support my team, a team that was next to bottom of the whole football league and had just lost 4 matches in a row. Many people would regard this as mad but I went because it was an adventure and I wanted to show support and loyalty to the team. I think support in times of adversity is real support. If you’ve read my previous blog you might understand this a bit.

I love travel as much as I love sport. Every journey is potentially an exciting adventure. In this case I was travelling to Carlisle but I was also journeying into the unknown. What would happen on the way? Would all my connections work out? What would I find when I got there? This is what happened.

It was an early start. The alarm clock rudely interrupted my sleep at 6-45am. This was like being back at work, a feeling I have largely forgotten since I retired. By 7.55 I was at Saltburn station, joining a small band of sleepy commuters going to work in the shops of Redcar and Middlesbrough. I huddled into my seat as our little, old diesel -railcar ground its way over the points, heading slowly west. I live at the end of a long branchline, and the first stage of any rail journey usually involves painstakingly trundling our way to the main line at Darlington, about 28 miles away. I settled into my book, hoping the miles would disappear more quickly that way. On this journey though, I didn’t have to go all the way to Darlington. I was routed via Hartlepool and Sunderland so had to change at Middlesbrough, and then have a slow but scenic train journey up the Durham coast. The changeover was only 10 minutes and soon I was on my way again. In 1 hour 20 minutes I would be meeting my fellow football masochist, Ian, at Newcastle Central station. Together we would catch the Carlisle connection.

However, you know what they say about the best laid plans. My second train went only one stop to Thornaby ( south Stockton) and then just stood in the platform. I found myself getting restless and started to wriggle around in my seat.After this had been going on for 10 minutes, the guard told us there had been a power failure in the main signal box and until it was fixed, no trains in the area were allowed to move. An electrician had been sent for ( there were none on site) and he had got stuck in traffic. I could see my Carlisle connection going up the swanee and even the one after that. Maybe I would miss the match altogether? Then, an idea started to form in my head. Out of the window I had noticed a regular stream of taxis coming down a drive into the station and dropping passengers off. As worry and frustration bubbled up inside me, I hit upon an escape plan. Seeing another taxi arrive, I leapt off the train, ran across the platform and knocked on the taxi man’s window as he was checking his money. The worst case scenario was that he wouldn’t accept me as a customer because I hadn’t made a proper booking, and then the train would suddenly depart with me stranded on the platform!  That really would have been “sod’s law!”As he wound down the window I asked the driver if he could take me to Darlington station and, thank God, he said “yes.” So in a few seconds, I was on my again, weaving through the rainy, grey streets of Thornaby, heading for Darlington and the main- line.

It was one of those chance encounters one sometimes experiences on journeys. I told the taxi driver where I was going and why, and he replied with stories of the travails of Darlington football club which had gone bust and dropped out of the league. His son had had trials there as a teenager and also at Hartlepool United, another struggling north- east football club. He hadn’t been accepted. The taxi man concluded cynically that success in football is about who you know not about what you can do. He said the whole system is corrupt and very harsh. I think I agree with him.

Within 20 minutes we were at Darlington station on the East Coast mainline. With a bit of luck, I would soon catch a fast train north to Newcastle. As I was paying the fare and saying my goodbye, another taxi man ran up and told my driver that he had a near flat tyre at the back. We looked and the rear passenger- side tyre was doing a good imitation of a pancake! It was only luck that had prevented us from having the flat on the A66 dual- carriageway a few minutes earlier and having to stop to change the wheel in the pouring rain! I caught an Edinburgh express within 10 minutes and as it glided out of the station I saw my taxi man still struggling with his jack and his wrench. I hope he got it sorted alright.

The express sped smoothly northwards only affording a brief glimpse of Durham’s magnificent cathedral and castle as we raced by. Soon we were crossing the Tyne on one of the 6 famous bridges. We swept round a corner and came to a smooth halt in Newcastle Central station. Ian was waiting for me with a welcome cup of coffee. ( I had texted him of my progress.) Meanwhile ( I heard later) my original train was still stuck at Thornaby. It was delayed for at least an hour. I would have been going spare by then!

The next stage of the journey took us along the beautiful Tyne valley and into Hadrian’s Wall country. A long gentle escarpment led up to the remains of the Roman wall and then dropped steeply away. It’s lovely empty countryside. Northumberland merged into Cumbria as we headed forever westwards. We caught glimpses of hill farms surrounded by grazing sheep. As we neared our destination we passed the shell of an old castle. Quite suddenly, the scenary switched from rural to urban as we were sucked into the suburbs of the City of Carlisle.

Carlisle is a border city. Scotland is not very far away. It has seen much conflict over the centuries. Coming out of the Citadel Station we immediately saw the 16th century round, stone towers ordered by Henry VIII to strengthen the city’s defences. Further in we came across the sturdy, red stoned castle that has witnessed much bloody conflict. Edward 1st had stayed there before going on to “Hammer the Scots.” In an earlier age Carlisle had actually been part of Scotland. It’s the only large English town not to have been recorded in the Domesday Book, ordered by William the Conqueror in the 1080s. It was left to his son, William Rufus to reconquer Carlisle for the English. One might expect that, given this troubled and violent history, its citizens would be tough, hard-bitten and wary of strangers. Of course, we found them to be just the opposite as the border battles and struggles  have now faded into the mists of time. Ian and I entered a nice little cafe near the station to have lunch. No staff were available to greet us but several customers encouraged us to sit down and told us the routine. When I thanked them, a lady commented :” No problem, we’re friendly in Carlisle.”

After our teas and toasties we had a bit of time to explore. Beyond the chain stores and coffees shops there was a very atmospheric and interesting historical quarter. Some streets were cobbled and we passed many old Georgian and early Victorian buildings in striking red sandstone. We strolled along narrow lanes and along a section of old town walls. The medieval cathedral and its close are magnificent. One feature is a spectacular barrel shaped ceiling painted in sky blue with golden stars. We made a note to return for a longer visit when football was not dominating the agenda.

After more helpful directions, we started to walk towards Brunton Park, Carlisle United’s football stadium. This took us up the busy Warwick Road and the leafy avenues that run off it. This is quite unusual as many of the original football grounds are found in more run down areas surrounded by humble terraces. One of the graceful Georgian town houses we passed had a blue plaque. It turned out it was the former home of the mother and grandfather of the American President Woodrow Wilson. He was one of the main architects of the Treaty of Versailles at the end of the First World War. His mother, Jessie Janet Woodrow Wilson had been born in Carlisle and her father, the Reverend Doctor Thomas Woodrow, originally from Paisley in Scotland, used to preach in a nearby church. Carlisle was only a temporary staging post however, as the family subsequently emigrated to the United States where the future president was born.

Arriving at the football ground we looked at the fields and streets that had been severely flooded by Storm Desmond in December 2015 and January 2016. The nearby river had burst its banks. The pitch went underwater too and for a while, Carlisle Untied had to play their “home” matches in Preston, Blackburn or Blackpool. When the water eventually receded, all the community turned out to clear up the muddy mess in the ground. Even the players mucked in to help. The disaster had brought the team and the fans together in a united effort.

There now ensued a tense 20 minutes or so while we waited for Lesley. I had met Lesley at the Chesterfield box office a fortnight before when I was there for a home match. To my frustration she told me that the tickets for the match at Carlisle had not arrived yet, so could I pop in the following week? Not living in Chesterfield anymore, I said I couldn’t. So Lesley said she would bring my tickets on the team coach on the day and give them to me outside the ground before kick off. This seemed a neat arrangement but inevitably, when we arrived at the away supporters end of Brunton Park, Lesley was nowhere to be seen. We weren’t the only ones waiting and worrying. A small group of Chesterfield supporters who did not actually live in Chesterfield now gathered together. I met one guy who had travelled down from Glasgow. This was the closest he got to a “home” match. Thankfully Lesley at last appeared and we collected our tickets and entered the stadium.

Being in Brunton Park was like going back in time. We showed our tickets to a real person instead of introducing a bar code to a scanner. Inside I was surprised to see that both ends behind the goals didn’t have seating. People stood behind crash barriers just like in the old days. The opposite stand to us only had seats in the top half and the rest was for standing. I thought that since the Hillsborough disaster, all grounds had to be all seaters, but apparently, this rule only applies to clubs in the top two divisions.

Before the match, as we watched the players going through their warm-up routines, a strange thing happened. The Carlisle mascot came out sporting a fox’s head. Now I had always thought that it was Leicester City who were nicknamed “The Foxes”. But now it seems that Carlisle claim that name too. They used to feature a fox on their logo because of the local connection with the legendary huntsman John Peel. In 1976 for instance, the club badge featured a golden fox jumpimg over the abbrieviation CUFC. Later, a fox was shown jumping through a ring of stars. Not any longer is a fox featured though. Now the club badge shows the castle, a shield with the cross of St George and 2 red dragons. Maybe Leicester had threatened to sue them!

I was just digesting all this when the foxy mascot brought out a real stuffed fox mounted on a base and placed it in the centre circle. It stayed there until just before kick off, presumably to bring the team good luck. Football is full of these peculiar traditions and superstitions. I later found that the stuffed fox is called OLGA, which is an anagram of GOAL.

Finally at 3pm, the match kicked off. Chesterfield put in a miserable performance and were lucky only to lose 2-0, although we were very unlucky to have what looked like a good goal, ruled out for a marginal offside. Because this was real life and not on a telly screen, we were unable to watch slow-motion replays to check if the referee’s controversial decision was correct. For a moment we had all gone berserk, in a sudden surge of emotion, but now we returned to stoical acceptance of the inevitable. There was little atmosphere in the rest of the ground. Half of the Carlisle supporters seemed to be asleep. They only woke up when they scored or when there was a disputed throw-in near where they were sitting. There were just under 4000 of them and we numbered 248. We call ourselves the “Spireites” after Chesterfield’s famous and bizarre crooked spire. Even though we lost, I was pleased to be there, enjoying a couple of noisy, raucous hours amongst the Spireite faithful. The away fans nearly always make more noise than the home fans even though heavily outnumbered. Rather than acting like separate individuals they close ranks, feel the warmth of camaraderie and lose many of their inhibitions. A funny moment came when a Carlisle player finally got back on his feet after laying on the turf injured. Some of our number thought he was feigning the injury to waste time and break up the play. One Spireite fan lept up and sarcastically bellowed ” Hallelujah! Praise the Lord! He is healed!” So we lost and we trudged despondently out of the ground and into the darkened streets. I was disappointed with the result but had half expected it. I was still glad that I had made the effort to be one of the valient 248!

Ian and I walked back into the city centre and ate a tasty happy-hour pasta at a jolly Italian ristorante. Then we were back at the station ready for the long journey home. This time we were joined by gangs of Saturday night revellers — young people on their way for a night out in Newcastle. It was noisy but good humoured. At Newcastle, Ian and I parted company and I went on to catch 2 more trains, travelling south and then east. Some young lads I talked to had been drinking in Newcastle and then in Durham city. They were now on their way to Darlington for yet more drinking before getting taxis home to Bishop Auckland. They couldn’t believe it when I told them I had gone all the way from Saltburn to Carlisle and back to see a football match and had  not touched a drop of drink! I think they thought I was mad. It was the last interesting encounter on my long away day. Some may think of it as masochistic, others may think I was insane. Maybe they have a point, but there’s no getting away from the fact that I really enjoyed  it! It would have been even better if the Spireites had won but one cannot have everything!

 

 

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It’s Only a Game — Or Is It?

15 Feb

I’ve been feeling slightly sick inside for a couple of days now. No-one close to me has died. The house has not collapsed. I have not had my income cut-off. I am not really ill with a sickness bug.( I had that over Christmas)  So what is the problem? I know you will laugh when I tell you. You will probably advise me to “get a grip” and “grow up.” The cause of my malaise is a football match played about 130 miles away from my home, in the lowest tier of the English professional leagues. I wasn’t even at the match. Yet when I saw the result flash up on the screen, it hit me like a punch in the stomach! Even 2 days later, now that I have had time to pull myself together, I am still wandering around in a semi-daze.

 

You see, I am not ill in the conventional sense, but I do suffer from a terrible, life-long debilitating disease. I am Stuart Bates and I am a Chesterfield FC supporter! It’s an affliction which I know I will never get rid of. It all started when I was born. Yes, you’ve guessed it — I was born in Chesterfield. It’s a little known Derbyshire industrial town in the East Midlands. It has seen better days and it’s traditional industries such as coal mining, engineering and steel making, have all declined. It now lives in constant fear of being swallowed up by its giant neighbour to the north, the city of Sheffield. Chesterfield’s most famous claim to fame is that it’s parish church has an alarmingly crooked and twisted spire. Unseasoned timbers caused the spire to warp and twist back in the 13th century. Ironically, that big mistake by those medieval builders has given an other-wise non-descript town, a unique and special identity. It is the Pisa of north-east Derbyshire, although lacking the Tuscan sunshine, it doesn’t attract quite so many tourists.

So I was born in Chesterfield, spent my childhood there and as I became a teenager, I started to support the town’s  football team. Chesterfield FC are the 4th oldest club in the whole English football league. They have never risen out of the lower divisions. I think they nearly got promoted to the old Division 1 sometime in the 1930’s, but lost out on goal difference. So near, yet so far! They have never reached those dizzying heights since. Commemorating the town’s most famous landmark, the team is nicknamed “The Spireites.”

Supporting the Spireites has always given me a sense of belonging. I left the town of the crooked spire to go to college in Manchester when I was nearly 19, and have lived in various different towns and cities since. But I have always had that strong feeling that my roots are in Chesterfield. When I visit the town I always feel that I have come home. The feeling begins as soon as I spy the crooked spire on the horizon or as soon as a bus driver or shop assistant calls me “duck”, the local Derbyshire term of endearment. I have lived much of my adult life in the land of “Bonnie Lad” and “Pet” but, silly as this sounds, I always experience a strong surge of pleasure when I hear the word “Duck.” The Derbyshire/ Nottinghamshire/ South Yorkshire accent is not the most beautiful in the land, but because I was immersed in it as a child, it is music to my ears.

Just as I identify with the town, I identify, but in a more concentrated and powerful form, with its football team. In the ground on a Saturday afternoon, anything from 4000 to 8000 Spireites are gathered together, united by a common love and a common cause. The numbers are no- where near those who go to watch the top Premier Division teams, but it is still a potent feeling to be amongst so many like- minded people. Spireites come in all ages from young children to so called senior citizens. They include men and women, though the former still predominate. At matches I have seen babes in arms, parents and children, young, raucous men, people in wheel chairs, blind and partially sighted, genteel couples and moaning old “codgers” giving the linesman some stick. In other words one can see a large cross section of the humanity at a Chesterfield match. I have encountered Spireites from Belgium, Spain and even Japan as well as from all over UK. I even met one at British passport control in Calais, who when he had studied my documents, exclaimed “Up the Spireites!” What unites us all is support for the team and identification with the town in some shape or form. I described it as an illness above, but a more accurate word is “addiction.”

“Addiction” sounds quite alarming, as it can be of course. I have already admitted that it has made me feel a bit ill. But don’t worry, I have it under control. ( I think!) For me, being a footballer supporter is like having an alternative, vicarious life. This is particularly so when one identifies strongly with one particular team. The situation will only get serious, in my opinion, if this alternative existance starts spilling over and swamping real life. The bad result last Tuesday made me ill- at- ease and out of sorts. I had to deal with disappointment, shock, and anxiety. Chesterfield are having a terrible season and are in grave danger of being relegated out of the football league altogether. Some of my fellow Spireites use exaggerated language such as : “disastrous”, “gut-wrenching”, and feeling “gutted.” I have said such things too, while in the grip of strong, negative emotions. One of my friends described the threat of relegation as staring into “the abyss.” That’s how many people would view death — the end of existance. Even for a big football fan like myself and ardent Spireite, I admit that that is a bit over the top. The despair of a defeat or the elation of victory are the causes of such colourful language. But, hopefully, these heightened emotions are only temporary and after a calming down period, lives, even Spireite lives, inevitably return to normal.

Being part of something is a powerful feeling. It’s great not to feel alone. I remember feeling wonderful when I marched in a massive torchlight procession for CND in the 1980’s. We were all united in our wish for World peace and for the banning of weapons of mass destruction. That same feeling of togetherness is evoked by headteachers when they tell pupils to be proud of their uniforms and of their role as representatives of the school. Belonging to a team, an institution, a movement or a political party can stir up great pride and satisfaction. It’s just the same with football. I’m not talking about the fake “glory hunters” who pretend to support whichever team is top of the league. Look how many Leicester City “supporters” suddenly and miraculously emerged a couple of years go when the Foxes were Premier League champions. Where are they all now? I’m talking about a deep-rooted and long-lasting support of a club and team. My support for Chesterfield was somehow born inside me. My dad passed it on to me and he got it from my granddad. I have been to many matches with my cousin  and my uncle.( sadly now passed away.) It’s both a joy and an affliction. It’s part of our lives.

Life itself is all about ups and downs. For every high there seems to be a low. Sport, including football, copies life. At the moment I am worried and depressed because my team is not doing very well. Two weeks ago I was worried and depressed because we had a burst pipe under the kitchen floor. Both situations made me feel stressed and temporarily out of control. One was much more trivial tha the other of course. That is the important point I think. My football supporting life must not be allowed to dominate and ruin my real life. Following Chesterfield FC is, or should be, like living in a parallel universe. It’s am alternative world to escape to every now and then. So, since the defeat I’ve lectured myself with phrases such as: “it’s only a game”, “it’s not the end of the world”, and “get a sense of perspective.” Also in the world of football there is the old adage: “there’s always the next game” Thus I have grounded myself in reality and then returned to my Spireite fantasies with a renewed feeling of hope. At the moment, hope is concentrated on an away match at Carlisle on Saturday.

For some insane reason I will endure about 8 hours of train travel to get there and back. Many would see that as a waste of a day — all to watch a poor, struggling football team in a far away corner of England. But I will travel in hope, revel in the gathering of hundreds of Spireites and will enter upon an emotional, 90 minute roller coaster. Whether I (we) emerge happy and elated, or crest-fallen and in despair, depends entirely on whether our 11 men beat their 11 men in a “silly” game of kicking a ball round a field. Hopefully my vicarious sickness will not have taken a turn for the worse by Saturday evening!

How Long Is Forever?

1 Jan

Christmas cards are a nice tradition I think. I always enjoy sending them and receiving them. I especially like writing and receiving personal letters, enclosed within the cards. In this age of instant, cursory communication — texts, tweets, whatsapps and emails— it is a privilege to be able to read a proper letter which shows that the other person has been thinking of you and has taken the trouble to keep your mutual connection going. I hope he/she feels the same when they get my letter. Even a hastily written card, scribbled in the midst of a busy life, has the powerful, subliminal message: ” I care for you.” I’m not including the dreaded “round-robin” letters in this by the way. They seem to me to be all about showing off, trying to impress. However, a genuine Christmas card and/or letter is a joy to receive at this special time of the year. They are one of the things that make the festive season so special.

So how does it feel to realize that you have been crossed off someone’s Christmas card list? That person, once a friend, family member or  formerly close colleague has now decided that you are not worth keeping in touch with anymore. It’s a decision that has been made without discussion and announced without warning. It can come as a bit of a shock. It’s maybe that you are now separated geographically and can no longer develop the relationship through regular contact any more. It may be that retirement has cut-off the regular work connection that once bound you together. It may be because of a broken relationship and the failure to make that transition into being “just good friends.” I am quite happy with my life and am always willing to “move on” when a relationship has obviously run its course. It’s just the arbitrary, sudden termination of a long term connection that still leaves me feeling slightly shocked and numb.

 

Being dropped off the bottom of someone’s Christmas card list is like falling into oblivion. Presumably, as far as they are concerned, you are no longer worth thinking about. In their eyes, you no longer exist. I know this sounds melodramatic, but, in one way, this is a kind of death. The shock is increased when the silent but brutal coup- de- grace is delivered by someone who once said they loved you. Films, novels and songs like to imply that once we fall in love with the “special one” it will be forever. Once two people have met and fallen in love, they will live happily ever after. But that’s the danger of romantic fiction. In real life, “Love” does not always last forever. In my experience, it either changes and deepens, or after an intoxicating and intense spell of passion, it gradually fizzles out like a firework.

I have been lucky enough to fall in love several times in my life. I don’t believe that there is only one “Special One”. At different stages in my life I have had intense, loving relationships with several women. They loved me in return (or so they led me to believe), and even now, after many happy years in my second marriage, some of their words still echo vividly in my memory. Once I was told by a lover that she was in such a blissful state, that she could happily die in my arms. I felt as if I was in my own personal heaven and I remember distinctly going into a kind of swoon. Another person at another time declared that she “would always love me” and there would “always be a place for me in her heart.” This too was heady stuff. Passions were obviously overflowing.  The normal, precautionary safeguards that we put up to avoid being hurt, had been temporarily swept aside. At the time I believed these words. But then the relationships changed. They faded out and died. In the next stages of our lives, such words and emotions were potentially embarrassing and a serious impediment to “moving on”. I have always found it difficult to let go. Even if a relationship/friendship has clearly run its course, I am still hurt when it finally ends. This is as equally true when I am responsible for the break up as when its done to me.

Thus I cling on, and where possible, try to turn a relationship into a friendship. Thus I send Christmas cards and receive them in return. It’s trying to prove to myself that that period in my life was not a total waste of time. I don’t like waste. Even if something has gone up in flames, I still try to salvage something from the ashes. But now that I’ve been thrown off the Christmas card list, it means I have been consigned to the void. Once, that person loved me and would love me “forever”. Now she doesn’t know whether I’m alive or dead and presumably, does not care. Although I am happily married and live a fruitful and fulfilling life, this abrupt severing of a long term connection, is still hard to bear.

So how long is “forever”? We use such words when gripped by intense emotions, but, in real-life as opposed to fiction, they only apply for a relatively short period of time. Falling in love romantically and sexually, is very exciting but cannot be sustained in its intense form for more than a few months or, at the most, a couple of years. Then reality starts to bite. The loved one turns out to be not “perfect” afterall. You start to see their faults. Why do they always leave the top off the toothpaste? He/she stops being an object of worship and just becomes another, ordinary human being. This is when the rose-coloured glasses drop off. To survive, the relationship has to change. It has to feed off other things other than sexual chemistry. Love has to deepen or it will fade away.

In the case I am thinking about this Christmas, “forever” has turned out to be about 22 years, and at least 15 of them have been in the distant, polite Christmas note stage. It’s still a little wrench though. I know I will happily get on with my life but , in a small way, the lack of a card has yet again shaken my faith in human nature. I know the omission was deliberate and was not just a simple error, because this is the second year running it has happened. How can I believe anything that anyone says to me? It is quite disconcerting. How do I know that they might change their minds in the future and walk away from me? Luckily I have strong family ties and some good, long- term friends. Real friends are the ones who stick by you through thick and thin. They are not necessarily the same people who reserve a place for you in their heart or say that they will love you “forever.”

I know it sounds silly but I still don’t like being cast into oblivion. I cannot imagine anybody admitting that they enjoy not existing. Maybe I will occasionally hang around in this person’s memory even though I am no longer worth the price of a stamp. I know I sound bitter and am being totally unrealistic. But, despite all my sensible rationalisations, it is still difficult to accept that a person who once loved me has now consigned me to the bin.

A Visit to Slovenia( or was it Slovakia?)

21 Oct

CONFUSION.

I think it was President George W Bush on a state visit to Slovenia, who famously said something like: “It’s great to be here in Slovakia.” I have witnessed the same confusion when I’ve told people about my holiday this year in the former Yugoslav republic of Slovenia. Almost inevitably, the response has been: “Do you mean Slovenia or Slovakia? I’ve always got the two mixed up!” I suppose they do sound very similar.

HISTORY.

They are both small countries in central Europe that generally don’t feature in the international news. Both are populated by Slavs. Both used to be part of the Austro-Hungarian Hapsburg Empire.  After the fall of that Empire in 1918, both Slovenes and Slovaks were pushed into uneasy partnerships with other national groups. The Slovaks were merged with the Czechs to form Czechoslovakia, while the Slovenes were combined with other south Slav peoples to create the new state of Yugoslavia. It seems that the international community at Versailles didn’t think these two small races were a viable proposition on their own. Both Slovenes and Slovaks fell under the sway of one-party Communist regimes at the end of the Second World War.

It was only in the early 1990’s, following the fall of the “Iron Curtain” and the collapse of communism in Europe that the Slovaks and the Slovenes at last tasted true independence. In Slovenia’s case, 1991 was the year when it finally controlled its own destiny.

As I was visiting it I have tried to make sense of Slovenia’s complex history by reading and by visiting the city museum of Ljubljana, its attractive capital. I have settled for just getting a rough outline. After the usual Neolithic stuff, the Romans arrived. Slovenia today is very proud of its Roman heritage. Next came the Magyars but they were pushed back by the German Emperor who had designs on the area himself. The Turks too were defeated so Slovenia never became part of the mighty Ottoman Empire like some of its neighbours. Thus today, Slovenia is a devoutly Christian country and it was on the Catholic side of the Orthodox/ Catholic schism. From the late 13th century, it became part of the Austrian Empire and therefore developed on largely Germanic lines. In the First World War the Slovenes fought fiercely on the Austrian-German side, especially when, in 1915, Italy was bribed to side with Britain, France and Russia after being promised Slovenian territory, including the important port of Trieste. It’s ironic that Britain, which joined the war to protect little Belgium, was now happy to cynically give away chunks of another small country in the interests of military expediency. Sadly many thousands of Slovenes and other Austro-Hungarian troops died fighting the Italians. The place where we stayed on Lake Bohinj was an important staging post for that campaign. The Italians also suffered heavy casualties in the mountain battles that ensued. One of the more sobering moments of our holiday was a visit to an Austro-Hungarian war cemetery containing over 300 graves from 1915 to 1917.

I now know enough to appreciate how proud the Slovenes must be to have gained their independence. It must be strange but exciting to be a citizen of a country that has existed for less than 3 decades.The guide who led our walking tour of Ljubljana said that everyone was pleased when the population hit 2 million. Out impression was that it is a very clean and environmentally-aware nation. We didn’t see a scrap of litter on the streets. I expected to see a poorer, still- developing Balkan -style country, maybe like Bosnia or Albania. However it is so sophisticated that at times it felt as if we were in Scandinavia. There were stylish designer goods, well maintained buildings and efficient transport systems. The buses ran on time, and in the city, people paid with an electronic card which they pressed on to a sensor.( like London’s Oyster card.) Only when we got out into the rural areas did we see cash being used. While in Slovenia, we had Euros in our wallet and purse. Slovenia joined the Eurozone in 2007, three years after it was admitted to the European Union. It had been the most liberal and progressive of the former Yugoslav republics and had largely escaped the horrors of the Civil War after a brief, 10 day skirmish. The transition to a democracy and to capitalism was achieved fairly smoothly. In 2008 it became the first of the former communist countries to assume the presidency of the EU. Coming from 2017 United Kingdom it seemed strange to us that here was a country that was embracing Europe rather than turning its back on its  neighbours.

THE CAPITAL.

Ljubljana is a lovely city to visit. It is attractive, relaxed and cosmopolitan. It’s small enough to explore on foot. There is a variety of interesting architecture, pleasant riverside walks, a variety of cafes and restaurants to suit most tastes and just about everyone speaks excellent English. We asked an older lady for help at the bus stop. She not only told us which bus to catch and when it would come, but also explained how we should pay ( with the smart-card) and where to get off. All this was in decent English. Apparently, Slovenian is a very difficult language to learn. Ljubljana has a picturesque old town full of renaissance and baroque buildings from the 17th and 18th centuries. There are : statues, squares, fountains, interesting little alleyways, pavement cafes and stylish shops. Up above, on a steep hill, is a castle, accessed by a funicular. A river flows through the centre crossed by a series of interesting bridges. The most famous are the Triple Bridge and the Dragon Bridge. The former is 3 pedestrianised bridges in one, furnished with Venetian style balustrades built in the 1830’s. The latter, built in 1901, is a flamboyant, Secessionist structure with 4 dramatic green dragons and ornamental lamps guarded by tiny griffins.

The main square, Preservov trg is flanked by the Triple Bridge, a huge, pink Baroque church, a Parisian Art- Nouveau department stall with a fancy, wrought iron and glass entrance, and a 4-storey Viennese-style Secessionist building. The square is a gathering place for tourists, locals and street entertainers. We were “treated” to a loud display of break-dancing which rather drowned out the poor man in traditional costume trying to sing his folk songs. We settled for a routine of strolling around, popping in and out of little shops and the occasional church, watching the river flow below the avenues of trees, and visiting pavement cafes. At the last mentioned we drank tea or coffee and ate strudel ( me) and chocolate cake (Chris.) For me, it’s compulsory to eat apple strudel if I’m anywhere in the former Hapsburg Empire. Ljubljana has shades of Vienna, Prague and Paris, but on a more intimate scale.

METELKOVA .

One day we strolled out of the main tourist haunts, into an area east of Presernov Square, which had a completely different feel to it. It was more informal and featured more quirky, alternative sights. We saw old music shops, zany art galleries, junk shops and whole walls of colourful graffiti. Virtually the first thing we spotted was a display of old shoes, boots and trainers hanging from a telephone wire slung across the narrow street. There were vegetarian cafes and erotica shops, though I’m not suggesting that there’s necessarily a connection between the two. We were on our way to visit St Peter’s Church, another extravagant baroque concoction. We virtually had it to ourselves as it was off the beaten track. We lit candles for our loved ones, sat in silence for a while and then wandered on.

In fact we ended up wandering into one of the most incredible places I’ve ever seen — the Metelkova autonomous artist’s colony. ( That’s my version of its Slovenian name.) It’s a former Yugoslav army base that later became a squat. Today it’s like an alternative city within a city. In the words of one guidebook, it’s “the subversive heart of the city.”  It’s a rambling complex of bars, clubs, galleries, NGOs and a hostel. What is incredible is that the whole site is festooned with bizarre, vibrant graffiti, weird sculptures and strange installations. It is all anti-capitalist, anti-fascist, counter-culture stuff. As we walked in, our jaws dropping, the sounds of the Stones’ “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” drifted towards us and the smell of weed pervaded the air. It was like going back to 1967/68. The vivid graffiti was the stuff of dreams ( and nightmares.) The whole scene was surreal. Metelkova has to be seen to be believed.

We enjoyed our week in Ljubljana very much. We made easy day trips to: a castle in a cave, halfway up a cliff ( Predjama), a huge, amazing complex of limestone caves, tunnels and caverns complete with a weird but wonderful array of stalactites and stalagmites (Postojna), and an attractive, medieval town surrounded by wooded hills ( Skofja Loka.) We enjoyed the trips but mostly just wandered the city, trying to scratch a little beneath its surface. We met a Chinese tourist later in the holiday and he couldn’t believe that we had spent a whole week in one place! In the same time-span he had visited 3 countries. He was only going to spend one quick day in Ljubljana seeing the “essential” sights. But, I have turned against this tick-list, rushing around sort of itinerary. I think our more relaxed schedule paid off, at least for us. If we’d visited for just a day, we would never have discovered the art market on the riverbank, the flea market with its Tito- era memorabilia or the wonderful Plecnik’s House. The latter was the home of Slovenia’s most eminent architect, Joze Plecnik. The guided tour was fascinating, revealing the great contrast between his grandiose projects and his modest life-style.

THE MOUNTAINS AND LAKES.

Our second week in Slovenia was a complete contrast. We travelled by public bus up into the north-west, an area of mountains and alpine lakes. It was very like Austria, the country just to the north. We stayed just 50 meters from the shore of Lake Bohinj, the country’s largest lake. It was created by glacial action. Mention “lake” and “Slovenia” to most travellers, and they’ll usually come up with the name “Bled.” Lake Bled is certainly the most famous of Slovenia’s lakes. ( some would say “iconic.”) But Bohinj is more beautiful, in my opinion. It’s an atmospheric, completely still stretch of water. Sensibly, no big buildings have been allowed on the lakeside, so the peace of Bohinj is maintained and its beauty unsullied. The peaceful lake is surrounded by wooded hills and massive, steep-faced mountains. It is a magical and magisterial sight. In winter it is so still that it freezes over. Last year people were able to skate on it for 2 to 3 weeks. That must have been quite a sight!

So we had a week of peace and tranquility. We walked the lake’s shores, sailed on a very quiet tourist boat, explored a dramatic limestone gorge and trecked for one and a half hours up through lovely autumn woods to the spectacular Savica Waterfall. This plunges from a cleft in the towering rock face, 78 metres down into a striking turquoise/green pool. The villages around were Alpine in character with little wooden houses and geranium decorated balconies. They were surrounded by bright green meadows and all had neat wood stores and old hay-drying racks. We half expected to see Heidi and Peter running down the slopes with their goat-herd or hear Julie Andrews and the Von Trapp family bursting into exultant song.

This used to be a big, alpine dairy- farming and cheese making area but this has almost died out as the younger generation has drifted off to the towns and cities. Local cheeses can still be bought however. We saw old, black and white photographs of villages communities in the past wearing their traditional costumes. Each village had its elegant church with a tall bell-tower or slender spire piercing the air. We also came across wayside shrines with little statues of Jesus or Mary and strings of rosary beads.

Bohinj is an area rich in nature. Every spring it has a wild-flower festival. We came across: heron, dippers, wagtails, nuthatches and robins. We also heard a couple of red squirrels squeaking excitedly as they scurried up and down a tree, and saw speckled trout lazily swimming in the river that fed the lake. On our last full day we got the most sensational views of all, when we ascended on a cable car to the Vogel ski centre. We were treated to panoramic views of the massed peaks of the Julian Alps. Bohinj is part of the Triglav National Park, the only one of such parks in Slovenia. It’s a place to preserve and treasure. We really enjoyed our week there. Yes we stayed for a relaxing 7 days. The Chinese tourist would have been shocked all over again!

BLED.

We met the nice guy from Beijing on a side trip to Bled, a 40 minutes, cheap bus ride away from our base. Bled is beautiful too, but sadly it has been partly ruined. The culprit is mass-tourism and the commercialization that follows in its wake. Lake Bled is world famous. I’d heard of it long before I knew anything else about Slovenia.The usual image shown is of a graceful, old church on an enchanting island in a lake, with a backcloth of hills and mountains. Also impressive, is an old, red-roofed castle on a cliff soaring above the water. That’s all true. But the chocolate boxes, jig-saws and calanders don’t show the built-up mess on the other end of the lake. There’s the huge, ugly Hotel Park, which advertises lakeside views but ruins everyone else’s view. There’s the large, modern casino, plus the usual motley assortment of bars, souvenir shops, hotels and cafes, not to mention a busy road, constantly choked with traffic. The place is heaving with tourists from all over the world. When our bus from Ljubljana to Bohinj arrived at Bled, just about everyone got off. Bled, from certain angles, is very picturesque but with its swarms of visitors, it is in danger of killing the goose that laid the golden egg.

We walked along the lake’s quieter, wooded shore and it was very pleasant. However, when we decided to sail across to the island and the church, it wasn’t as idyllic as I’d imagined. It’s good that there are no noisy launches ploughing up and down. One can hire a rowing boat, get a quiet but expensive electric boat or go on a pletna. This is a traditional, wooden stretched gondola propelled by a gondolier standing at the back. ( No, he doesn’t wear a stripy shirt or sing just one cornetto!) We chose the latter. 20 adults and 2 children all piled on, at the steep price of 14 Euros each. We had to squash tightly together on either side of the boat. What I thought would be a peaceful, serene experience, gliding across the water, never materialised because of my fellow tourists contorting themselves into all sorts of positions to take the best photos and then posing for numerous selfies with their friends and family. We had 40 minutes on the island which was crowded. Even though it was only a small island, containing a church and bell-tower, they have still found space to squash in a cafe, an ice-cream stall and a shop. We decided to visit the church which has lovely 18th century frescoes and other baroque adornments. However, we were shocked to find that we were expected to pay 6 Euros each to go in. This included the bell tower but we didn’t want to go up that as we are both nervous of heights. I cannot recall ever having to pay to go into a church before. The exquisitely frescoed medieval church of St John the Baptist near our hotel in Bohinj, is free. But we swallowed our indignation and “coffed up.” It was rather small but quite beautiful. Unfortunately, any hopes of enjoying a spiritual atmosphere were ruined by a constant procession of camera-wielding fellow tourists. They queued up to pull the bell-rope and make a wish. It has been dubbed the “wishing bell!” They posed in mid-pull for photos, with inane grins on their faces. Isn’t it funny how so many fall for such gimmicks? The bell-tower was entered through a modern turn-style activated by a bar-code on one’s ticket. The 18th century interior has been hollowed out and replaced with a modern zig-zag staircase. We didn’t bother going up. Any shred of historical authenticity had been sacrificed in the interests of making money( it seems.)

Our visit to Bled was rescued by a totally unexpected but brilliant Salvador Dali exhibition in the base of the casino. ( a private French collection.) We also enjoyed a small craft market and a display of vintage cars, incongruously parked along the lake-shore.

RADOVLJICA.

Our other trip from Bohinj was to Radovljica, a pretty, old town set in lovely countryside. It featured an exquisite old church, a beautiful, historic square and a grand, old mansion containing the delightful “Beekeeping Museum.” Keeping bees is a Slovenian tradition. The highlight was a wonderful collection of bee-hive panels from the 19th century. These were religious and satirical paintings to decorate the hives. They were another Slovenian speciality.

It was a great holiday — an interesting, attractive city followed by a week among the glorious mountains and lakes. Apart from the obvious tourist traps the costs ranged from cheap to reasonable. We found it to be a civilized and progressive country. Yes, it was an excellent visit to Slovenia ( or was it Slovakia?)

 

A Eulogy for my Mum: Jessie Bates (1926 to 2017.)

15 Oct

My sister Gl—- , my brother Gr—- and I would like to thank you all for coming today to remember and celebrate the life of our lovely mum, Jessie Bates. As I’m sure you will agree, she was a quiet, caring and gentle person. There wasn’t a bad bone in her body. To us, she was the ideal mother– an endless source of unconditional love. Mum supported us in everything we did as children and as adults. She always provided a shoulder to cry on, or a patient, attentive listening ear. No problem was too big or too small for her to help us with. She, along with our dear departed dad, was ever present in our lives. Jessie supported us in the bad times and celebrated with us in the good times.

I remember mum looking after my 3 year old daughter J—– when my other daughter C——– was born and my wife was in hospital. There was no such thing as paternity leave in 1976! Gr—- told me that his mum was there for him when he was having a rough time at college. He remembers her as being a very good listener, always sympathetic and understanding. Gl—- remembers mum and dad helping set up her hotel business in Skegness. Jessie even organised groups from chapel to stay at the hotel in the off season. The visits went so well that they went on for 10 years or more. Gl—- and I both remember mum being quietly supportive throughout our divorces.

Jessie’s own marriage to Maurice was very long and successful. They were inseparable for nearly 68 years. It led to a whole new family tree of children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. For most of her adult life, mum was not Jessie, but half of a well-known local double-act known as Maurice and Jessie. Their two names were invariably uttered in the same breath. They were a team and a very successful, enduring partnership. Our family history is strewn with special events as Maurice and Jessie reached milestone after milestone. Invariably, there celebrations were held at the local Methodist Chapel.

The church provided structure for Jessie’s life. She was christened there, got married there and celebrated most special occasions there. Christianity gave Jessie the tools to lead a good, wholesome and fulfilling life. She supported numerous charities and always encouraged us to help others. I remember selling the “Sunny Smiles” picture booklets to raise money for young people in the National Children’s Homes. Mum encouraged us to pester friends, neighbours and family to sell as many as possible. Mum’s Christian faith was important to her. It gave her hope and a firm belief that she would pass on to a better world, once she had left this one. Jessie’s faith gave her life a strong foundation.

I don’t want to give the impression that my mum was always a serious person. She liked to laugh and had a quiet sense of humour. She often had a twinkle in her eye and there was always a little spark to her personality. Jessie could see the funny side of things. Whenever Jessie was given the Derbyshire Times ( the local paper), she would turn straight away to the obituaries. After perusing them for a few minutes, she would declare: “Well, I’m not in again this week, so I must still be here!” Even in the latter stages of her life, when she was suffering from dementia, mum would often indulge in gentle rounds of banter with the carers who came to visit her.

Jessie was not adventurous. She usually played safe and never travelled very far. Maurice said that a nasty bout of sea-sickness on a boat trip around Scarborough Bay put paid to any idea of sailing across to explore the continent beyond these shores. Jessie’s idea of an overseas journey was crossing the Solent to the Isle of Wight, a place she loved to visit. She never flew in an aeroplane or had any wish to. Buying her a parachute jump for her birthday would have been a complete waste of money! She was content to stay on terra- firma. She stayed in England with occasional, brief sorties into Scotland or Wales. Jessie was happy to grow deep roots in Chesterfield, a town she lived in for her entire life. Her last home in Staveley-Middlecroft was only 4 or 5 miles from her first home, in the New Whittington area of Chesterfield. On one sense, you could drive Jessie’s entire life in 15 minutes! Staying in one place meant that Jessie got to know lots of local people very well, and they got to know her.

My mum was a very accepting person. She accepted her lot in life. Like many of her generation, she was quite deferential. If the Queen had walked into the room, she would automatically have curtsied. She did not complain or get angry. She didn’t blame others.  Mum was not a rebel. She always tried to fit in and not make a fuss. She was quiet and unassuming. I think Jessie took life mostly in her stride despite its ups and downs. I think she had an inner calm.

Jessie’s last months were spent quietly in her house being looked after by family and carers. Maurice died two and a half years before also at the age of 91. So she was a widow. It must have been sad and difficult for her at times. I recently read a memorial  on a public seat which said: ” Your legacy is all the people you have touched in your life.” Jessie led a quiet, low-key life but touched many people. She was humble and didn’t think of herself as particularly important. But from another perspective, Jessie’s life was rich and fulfilling. It was rich in family relationships, rich in friendships, rich in kindness, charity and compassion. I will really miss her and I’m sure you will too. Thank you.

NB — Delivered at the funeral service at Inkersall Methodist Church, near Chesterfield on Friday, October 13th, 2017. Jessie Bates died peacefully in hospital on September 24th, 2017. She was 91 years and 2 months.

 

Confessions of a Poll Clerk.

15 Jun

I’ve always voted in elections, be they local, General or referenda. That’s every election since 1970, when Edward Heath’s Conservatives confounded all expectations and all poll- predictions  by defeating Harold Wilson’s Labour Party. ( Where have you heard that one before?) I have voted in community centres in south Manchester and north Hertfordshire, schools in Sheffield, churches or scout huts in North Tyneside and Civic Centres in Cleveland. On all those occasions I just slipped in and out before or after work and didn’t spare a second thought about the people manning the polling stations. I think I just assumed they were council employees who were being very well paid for their long day’s work. But I barely thought about them, just taking it for granted that they would be on duty and making our cherished democratic process possible.

Well now, in my retirement years, I have ended up being one of those poll clerks. The money is not great and the hours are extremely long. The poll stations operate from 7am to 10pm, a total of 15 hours. However we have to arrive by 6-30am at the latest in order to set up and then at the end, it takes at least 20 minutes to pack everything away. My colleague, officially known as the Presiding Officer, then has to lock up, return the keys to the caretaker and finally, transport the sacred ballot box and all the forms and stationary down to the HQ of the count, which is several miles away. It’s a hell of a long day, and this year we’ve done it twice — once for the Tees Valley Mayoral election and a second time 7 weeks later for the snap General Election called by the Prime Minister, Theresa May. On both occasions I had to get up at 5-15 am and didn’t get back home before 10-30pm. All poll clerks have to sign a special form, exempting themselves from The European Working Time Directive. This states that no-one should work no more than 48 hours a week and should have a break at least every 4.5 hours. By signing a simple form, we polling- station staff voluntarily pull out of this sensible, civilised arrangement and let ourselves in for a 16 hour endurance tests, with no official breaks. We have to snatch our food and drinks in-between voters.  You might think the pay for such an arduous and important job would be brilliant. However, it works out at approximately £7.50 an hour, roughly around the current minimum wage. We get paid a bit for a training session for a couple of hours 2 days before. However, in my case, the taxman comes in to take his cut, so I actually get even less than the above.

So, long hours and low pay  — the question is, why do we do it? Obviously different people have different reasons. Many are council employees who are “persuaded” to work at the polling station instead of doing their usual job for that day. I presume they get paid twice although I don’t actually know. In my case, I work as a poll clerk for 3 main reasons. The first is that bit of extra money to top- up my pension and go towards the holiday fund. The second reason, I suppose, is because it’s a sort of public service. In this sense, it’s a bit like jury duty although that is compulsory if one is selected. If we are to continue enjoying the benefits of living in a democracy, then some of us have to make it possible for everyone else to exercise their votes. Thirdly, one gets to be part of a little bit of history. This is especially so in a General Election which determines the UK’s next Government, or in the Referendum about whether to remain in or leave the European Union. The place was buzzing that day in June, 2016, with a much bigger turn out for the EU referendum than for a normal election.  ( In our case, pushing 70%)  We could tell something dramatic was afoot as the people came in their droves. Quite a lot had not voted in a long time or had never ever voted before. Some, whipped- up by a Facebook campaign, were suspicious of the thick pencils that are always provided in the booths, and insisted on using their own pens. Many didn’t know what to do. “Is this the election where every vote counts?” they asked, excited by the feeling of empowerment that an election can give one. I can now tell my grandchildren and write in my diary that I processed some of the votes that took the United Kingdom out of the European Union. Whether you voted LEAVE or REMAIN, you have to admit it was a historical occasion.

I work in a small ex-mining village in Cleveland, on the eastern edge of Tees-side in North east England. It’s called North Skelton. Everyone is friendly and we have no trouble. In training we get warnings about anti-social behaviour, teenagers running in and stealing the ballot box, verbal abuse from people who find they are not registered to vote, people angrily spoiling their papers and people taking selfies in the voting booth to put them on social media. We are also warned about people from the political parties canvassing near the polling station or putting up party posters that might influence people as they turn up to vote. Everything has to be fair and neutral. We are instructed to not engage in political discussions with members of the public, even though we may be asked interesting or challenging questions. We are even told to wear neutral coloured clothes and avoid colours associated with the competing political parties. So I cannot wear: red, blue, orange, green or even purple, the latter being UKIP’s colour. My colleague and I usually end up in boring black and white. One year, I turned up for a November election in a royal blue jumper by mistake. When the presiding officer pointed this out to me, I insisted on taking it off and ended up shivering for the next 12 hours or so. This year, following the shocking terrorist atrocities in Manchester and London, we were also given extra instructions about security.

The voters of North Skelton are very friendly as I have said. We have had no trouble at all. Now that we have manned the same station several times, we have got to know some of the characters. There’s the plasterer who comes in early in his white splattered overalls. There’s the woman who works at the Post office sorting office and the man who is a ticket inspector on the local train. There’s the man who works the tills at Tesco’s and the woman who votes in her green uniform after her shift at Asda. Then there’s the retired District Nurse and the man who parks his white van outside after a day fitting double- glazing. Quite a few thank us for what we are doing, especially when they realize what a long day we are working for their community. One woman has bought us home baked cakes and another gave us a chocolate wafer bar each. One of my favourite punters is a man who writes humorous poetry. I must have told him that I used to be a history teacher because in this recent election, he brought me in two hand- written ditties, one about the Vikings and one about the Normans. He even took my address so he could post me some more.

We get young voters coming in, some of them for the first time. It’s lovely to see the genuine excitement on their faces as they prepare to cast their first ever vote. It makes a refreshing change to witness this in an age of supposed political apathy. This last general Election actually saw a surge of young voters going into the polling booths to have their say. It always depresses me to hear of people who cannot be bothered to use their vote. In my more pompous moments I think this is an abnegation of their civic responsibility. My colleague and I have sat through Council elections and Police Commissioner elections when the turn out has been as low as 20% and 12% respectively. It makes for a long, draggy day having only about 6 or 7 people walking in every hour. We also get old people coming in to vote, some in their wheel chairs or arriving on their invalid scooters. We have to help some to read the ballot paper because their eyesight is fading and they have forgotten their spectacles. Some express pride that they have always used their vote throughout their entire lives. My colleague thinks that the UK should be like Australia, where voting in elections is compulsory. I think that’s a bit draconian but do think it’s a shame that some people refuse to accept any responsibility for what happens in their own country. In my opinion, such non-voters forfeit the right to grumble about any decisions the subsequent government or council may make.

Our polling station is a village hall in North Skelton. At one end is a stage for local amateur dramatic productions. During the day we are visited by a group of adults with special needs who are bussed in to do craft and art activities. Sometimes they do some baking and occasionally wander into the station with chocolate cake mixture all round their mouths! One likes to shake the hands of voters as they come in while another insists on locking the door so we have to watch him like a hawk. At one end of the hall there are often piled up pigeon- boxes, stored by the local pigeon racing club. Recently we saw that they had been carefully sorted out into “hens” and “cocks, and mysterious wooden clocks had been placed in front of them. Presumably they were soon to be transported far away and then the race would be on to see whose bird reaches home first. One of the “pigeon men” told us that the birds are sometimes taken as far away as the continent before being released. The pigeon men are often in dispute with the Zumba women , who don’t like the unsavoury smells that sometimes waft across their dancing space. We sometimes get entertained by the Latin American dance music as the leotard-clad Zumba group are put through their paces. This is another compensation for working that very long day — we get to see community life. A particularly nice moments is when whole families come in to vote together. We even get to meet the local police who usually pop in once or twice during the day to check that everything is alright.

So ends my “confessions” of a poll clerk. It’s long hours and low pay but I enjoy it all in the end. It has many compensations. I only hope that the Prime Minister doesn’t call another surprise election soon. It makes for an interesting day but the attractions of the job would soon start to pall if I had to do it more than once or twice a year!

General Election Blues.

14 May

It’s General Election time 2017. The Conservative Prime Minister, Theresa May, has called a snap election despite assuring questioners  on numerous occasions that the next general Election wouldn’t be until 2020. Maybe the breaking of her oft repeated promise is something to do with her being way ahead in the opinion polls. Such cynicism will do little to raise the publics already low estimation of politics and politicians.

I always feel strangely uneasy during a General Election campaign. There are many reasons for this. First, there is the awful feeling that, once again, it’s going to be confirmed that I live in a deeply conservative country. The Labour Party, which I support, is being represented as having an extremist, “hard left” programme, and yet I recently read the views of a Swedish political commentator, who remarked that Labour’s policies would be regarded as unremarkable and middle of the road anywhere in Scandinavia. Maybe I’m living in the wrong country!

This blog isn’t aimed to be politically neutral or balanced like a BBC news report supposedly is. I have always held left of centre views as have most of my family and friends. ( Birds of a feather flock together.) Some might call me an unapologetic socialist, which I accept. Although I sadly believe that the current Labour party is almost certain to lose at the polls, I still strongly agree with their election slogan: “For the many, not the few.” In my ideal world, everyone would have equality of opportunity and everyone would look after everyone else. I would love to live in a selfless society where the strong protect the weak and the rich support the poor. That was the type of society envisaged by Clement Atlee’s post 1945 Labour government when it set up the National Health Service and the Welfare State. Not only had Britain won the war against Nazi Germany and Japan, but it now intended to wage war on : poverty, ignorance, hunger and disease. Basing their policies on the ideas of the Beveridge Report of the early 1940’s, the Labour Party swept to power on its promise of creating a country that was fit for the returning heroes.( unlike what was promised but never delivered after the First World War.)

The Welfare State, started by the Liberals in the early 1900s and completed by Labour halfway through the 20th century, is something to be proud of and something which is envied by many other countries. The same goes for the National Health Service, underpinned by the noble idea that nobody should suffer illness and premature death just because they are poor. For 40 years or so a consensus held between the main political parties that these were things to treasure and protect. However, since the days of Margaret Thatcher in the 1980s,  both have been under attack, mainly from Conservative administrations including the present one. ( but also from Tony Blair’s New Labour) The idea of pulling together as a nation, engendered in the dark days of World War 2 has now given way to an “every man for himself” approach and “I’m all right Jack” attitude. Benefits, even for disabled people, have been cut and made more difficult to access. Poor people are stigmatised as lazy scroungers. Many branches of the health service have been (or are being) privatised, while the NHS as a whole is seriously underfunded, unable to adequately meet the rising demand caused by our ageing population. The Prime Minister seemed bemused and uncomfortable recently when asked to explain why so many nurses were having to visit food banks. She would not admit any responsibility for the consequences of her government’s policies, but instead vaguely alluded to “many complex reasons.” There’s nothing complex about long hours and low pay.

For me there are many compelling reasons why people should not vote Conservative, but the likelihood is that Mrs May and her party will be voted back in with an increased majority, if the polls are to be believed. So I am depressed and have to live with this feeling of unease, impotence and dread, sitting like a cold, heavy stone in my stomach.

During an election campaign, real and important news is neglected and the electioneering antics of the politicians are given central stage. When the UK has so many real and pressing problems, we are asked instead to witness a dreary beauty contest, with competing politicians trying to win the affections of the British people in order to win power. The BBC pretends to be fair and neutral but many feel it consistently leans to the right. However, most of our newspapers unashamedly support one side over the other. The Sun ,Mail, Express and Telegraph pump out a relentless diet of anti-Labour, anti Jeremy Corbyn propaganda.( rather than genuine news.) This is done because of the probably correct assumption that if you throw enough mud, some of it will stick. It was sickening but not surprising to see one tabloid picturing Jeremy Corbyn, the Labour leader, against a lurid red background, thus trying to associate him with the disgraced leaders of Communist Russia. My own sister, swallowing this propaganda, described Labour as being led by a “red”. ( shades of 1950s style McCarthyism here.) Everyone is welcome to his/her opinion, but it depresses me to hear people trotting out crude tabloid prejudices. I believe the power of the media and especially the press is far too high in Britain, although I would always defend the freedom of the press, which is an important cornerstone of a civilised country. Unfortunately, in Britain today, the press orchestrates public opinion rather than responding to it. The situation is even more depressing when one realizes that some of the main press barons — Murdoch, Dacre and Black– are billionaires living abroad. One would not expect such men to have the interests of ordinary British people close to their hearts. They would rather support the party that would maximise their own profits. To quote the Labour election motto — they are the “few” not the “many.”

So election campaigns get me unsettled and worked up. They get me shouting at the telly! I fear that policies that will be bad for the country will be voted for. I am angry at the constant diet of simplistic propaganda inflaming, rather than informing, people’s opinions. I am depressed that so many people now seem to behave as self-centred individuals rather than as members of a caring society. As Mrs Thatcher notoriously asserted — “There is no such thing as society.” I think it is wrong that our society is increasingly controlled by people whose main aim is to make a profit. This has even infiltrated our schools with the Academy movement. It seems crazy to me that market forces rule human beings rather than vice versa.

So, all this is boiling up inside me but I cannot really talk about it. I discuss issues with my wife and I share views with similar-minded Facebook friends on social media, but in everyday life it would be considered awkward and embarrassing to try to enter into passionate political discussion with people. Most of us quietly go about our daily lives, keeping the peace and keeping up the social niceties. Then in the secrecy of the polling booths, we deliver our verdicts. This is when the great silent majority have their say. Only those in so-called marginal constituencies have any real influence on the election result. That’s another massive frustration! In the “first past the post” system, a party, like the Greens, the Liberal Democrats and UKIP can get substantial numbers of votes throughout the country but very few MPs elected to parliament. You don’t win power by getting a lot of close, creditable second places. I would like to see Proportional Representation coming in, so that every voter could have a significant say in the complexion of the subsequent parliament. This unfortunately was roundly rejected by the public in an earlier referendum, probably because many people don’t like change and the PR system was too complicated to fully understand. I hate referendums. They often ask for a simple answer to a complicated question which is an unsatisfactory way of going about things I think. It was interesting working as a poll clerk on the EU (“BREXIT”) referendum of June, 2016. Many people who came into the polling station asked “is this the election where every vote counts?” Just for once they felt empowered. However, this is not the case in a General Election in the UK. Conservatives voting in a safe Labour area, Labour supporters voting in a Tory stronghold or Greens, Liberal Democrats or UKIP people voting just about anywhere, are all effectively disenfranchised.

My area of  East Cleveland in north-east England has traditionally been a safe Labour stronghold. However, in these BREXIT times, many previously Labour voters have turned to UKIP as they want the UK to leave the European Union. Thus they have deserted Labour, and now that the Conservatives have reinvented themselves as an anti EU party and copied UKIP’s ideas, many might even vote Tory!  Thus my area has now become a marginal constituency. The Conservatives recently had their candidate chosen as Mayor of Tees Valley, which was a big shock in such a traditional Labour area. So maybe my Labour vote will actually be important this time, even though I fear I will be disappointed with the overall election result. Apologies for not mentioning Scotland or Northern Ireland by the way as I don’t know enough about the issues affecting these parts of the UK.

General Elections reveal to me that our democracy is largely a sham. Smaller parties don’t get much of a look- in even though they may have many supporters spread throughout the country. The parties that gain power are those with large clusters of support in certain areas rather than having an even spread, The media is mainly weighted on the right side of the political spectrum. Instead of real news, we are fed a constant diet of propaganda, false fears, and dubious promises. ( Mr Trump would call it fake news.) People retreat into entrenched political positions ( including me) instead of engaging in genuinely open and respectful debate. (in fact, the PM, Mrs May has arrogantly refused to take part in any televised debate.) In polite society people mostly avoid serious political discussion, because, like religion, politics is a conversational hot-potato. Yes, General Election time is a horrible time for me, especially as I realize in my heart of hearts, that my utopian dream of a: just, compassionate and peace-loving society will not be realised. As polling day gets closer, the feeling of dread and depression grows ever stronger inside me!