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2016

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Image by Andy Dawson ReidSince the Kickass Canada Girl went back to work recently she has had – yet again – to take on something of a commute. Nothing much by way of comparison to that which either of us endured back in the UK, but tiresome nonetheless. Much of it is along the main arterial route down the Peninsula into the centre of Victoria – Highway 17 (or the ‘Pat Bay’ as it is ‘affectionately’ known). This journey should take only around 20 – 25 minutes. That it has – of late – been taking considerably longer is in the main down to some Victorians being apparently unable to drive safely along the highway just as soon as the sun shines.

The Pat Bay is not the perfect road by any means. Much of it comprises two lanes in either direction and, whilst the southern stretch is adequately equipped with the sort of interchange with which we are familiar in the UK, north of Royal Oak, unfortunately, the intersections revert to being flat crossroads with traffic signals.

The problem is that some of those acclimatised to keeping their feet down on the southern section seem unable to reconcile this with having to stop at the lights further north. Even worse – if a green light can be seen at an intersection up ahead that seems like a good excuse to keep the power on. There is – of course – the possibility that the signal has only just changed to green, with the vehicles ahead still accelerating away when some monster pickup barrels into the back of them doing something quite illegal.

The Girl has of late come home grumbling of extended delays a couple of times a week. I had myself to pull over and let three police cars, two ambulances and a fire truck get past to deal with a shunt only this afternoon – and today is Sunday!

This has all – rather sadly – forced the Girl to rethink her means of transport. In England the cute little MX-5 can more than hold its own in traffic. Over here – fun as it is on the curvy stuff when the roads are clear – it doesn’t take much for the diminutive roadster to vanish into the blind spots of ‘semis’ (‘artics’ to UK readers) and pickups alike… particularly given their jockeys’ penchants for tailgating.

A larger – and safer – vehicle may well be required… at least while she is yet in employ.

As for me – there are definitely unwanted echoes of the traffic conditions I used to encounter on the M3 on the way into London every day.

Not what one looks to find in paradise!

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Image by Superbfc at the English language WikipediaYou might have thought that my recent post regarding the outcome of the second inquest into the causes of the deaths of the ninety six victims of the 1989 Hillsborough disaster would be my last word on the subject. I suspect, however, that there will be yet more to come as the saga continues to unfold over the years.

This truth was brought home yet again last night in harrowing fashion as I watched Daniel Gordon’s two hour documentary – ‘Hillsborough‘ – made for the BBC and ESPN. The first version of this brilliantly judged work was completed nearly two years ago and shown in the US and – subsequently – in New Zealand. It could not at that time be shown in the UK for legal reasons; for fear that it might prejudice the outcome of the second inquest which had then just begun.

The film has now been extended in the light of the outcome of that inquiry and can now finally be seen in the UK and elsewhere. Should you yet feel uncertain as to the import of these recent events – or should you even perchance still harbour some misconceptions as to the truth of what really happened on that dreadful day and throughout the intervening twenty seven years – I urge you to take the time to watch this chilling memorial to the suffering of the families whose loved ones did not return home from that intended day of celebration.

Though I have been reading about the tragedy since the day that it happened, even so I learned things from this film that I had not previously known. This merely demonstrates anew just how much the authorities tried to keep hidden over the past two decades and more.

For example, I did not know that there had been another not dissimilar crowd control problem at an FA Cup semi-final at Hillsborough – some eight years earlier. On that occasion the crowd at the Leppings Lane end had been allowed to spill out of the stands onto the border of the pitch itself to avoid the crush. When – during the post mortem to that event – it was suggested that there had been a lucky escape and that modifications might be required to prevent future injuries or deaths, the ground’s owners and engineers dismissed the suggestion and did nothing.

Indeed – in the intervening years matters were made very much worse as a result of the FA’s misguided attempt to combat the hooliganism which seemed endemic to the game during the 1980s. The standing room terraces at the Leppings Lane end of the ground were turned into pens by the construction around them of fences of spiked iron railings. When lightening did indeed strike a second time the supporters were unable either to escape onto the pitch or sideways along the terracing as had previously been possible.

In another unfortunate circumstance the vastly experienced police superintendent, Brian Mole, who should have been in charge of the crowd control operation on the day of the disaster, was moved to another district a couple of weeks prior to the event. This followed a ‘hazing’ incident some months before in which a young police constable was one night subjected to a mock abduction by masked gunmen posing as armed robbers but who were in fact colleagues from the constabulary. Those concerned were disciplined firmly and Mole – though having no involvement himself – was moved.

His place was taken – at two weeks’ notice – by a man who not only had little experience of supervising such major events but also clearly had little understanding of football or of the habits and motivations of its followers. David Duckenfield was responsible for the two key actions that shaped the tragedy that followed and the appalling campaign that succeeded it.

First, he took the decision – when the crush of Liverpool supporters trying to get through the totally inadequate number of turnstiles at the Leppings Lane end looked to be getting out of hand – to open one of the exit gates to allow a large body of fans through to relieve the pressure outside. This was done without first having either sealed off the immediate entrance to the two already packed pens which was directly in front of the exit gate, or of ensuring that there were an adequate number of stewards or police inside the ground to direct fans to the still mostly empty pens to either side.

Then – as the inevitable tragedy was still being played out immediately beneath the windows of the control box in which he was located – Duckenfield lied to Graham Kelly (the FA representative at the ground) telling him that drunken ticket-less Liverpool supporters had broken down the very exit gate that he had himself ordered to be opened. Kelly naturally believed what he was told by the senior police official present and wasted no time passing the information on TV commentators and journalists. Thus was born the false myth that the supporters were to blame for the deaths of the ninety six, which was then seized upon by those in charge of all of the authorities concerned as a means of covering up the truth as to the multiple liabilities for the fatalities.

Daniel Gordon’s documentary is not an easy watch but it is an essential one if we are to fully comprehend this recent period in our history, for it has implications far wider simply than those for game of football or for this one appalling, tragic, but completely avoidable incident.

 

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 “The only real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes'”

Marcel Proust.*

For each ‘new’ garden (Canadian: yard!) that one inherits there is a marvelous, scary, joyous voyage of discovery – lasting a year – during which time is revealed all that lies concealed within. This earlier post told part of the story of our garden; the images below testify to the fact that there is never (thus far at any rate) a dull moment therein.

* What Proust actually wrote was:

“The only true voyage of discovery, the only fountain of Eternal Youth, would be not to visit strange lands but to possess other eyes, to behold the universe through the eyes of another, of a hundred others, to behold the hundred universes that each of them beholds, that each of them is; and this we can contrive with an Elstir, with a Vinteuil; with men like these we do really fly from star to star.”

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson Reid

 

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imageIn the first part of this post (which like so many such started out as a single succinct study until the habitual ramblings of my so-called style brought me to the realisation that I had probably already outstayed my welcome… (See what I mean?)) I painted a brief sketch of the provision within Victoria’s secondary schools for those youngsters who wished to study drama or to practice theatre.

Outside the school system – for those whose schools do not make adequate provision or for others who wish to take things further – there are a number of options. A variety of organisations offer a range of drama, acting and performance classes, some of them so doing through a range of outlets such as leisure or recreation centres as well as from their own premises.

The best known and regarded of these are probably Kaleidoscope Theatre and the Kate Rubin Studio. Though each has its own particular USP they aim broadly at the same constituency, offering theatrical activities across a wide range of age groups but also focusing on those with ambitions to take up one the thespian professions. Both are themselves professional operations and are well resourced.

Kate Rubin herself was – for a considerable time – also involved with another admirable offering for the young of Greater Victoria… the Belfry 101 programme. I have waxed lyrical about the Belfry Theatre on more than one occasion. Apart from providing the best theatre-going experience in Victoria the Belfry also hosts this imaginative program for school-aged youngsters on an annual  basis. This is based around the Belfry’s main house programme, and gives the young members access to the casts and creatives involved in each show, in addition to offering them the opportunity to create their own showcase work at the end of the season.

The Belfry 101 programme was created in the late 1990s by University of Victoria Associate Professor Monica Prendergast, and has operated to great acclaim ever since. Both Monica Prendergast and Kate Rubin were kind enough to agree to meet us so that we could pick their respective brains concerning youth drama provision in Victoria. We are most grateful both to them and to Colin Plant, who heads the Fine Arts programme at Claremont Secondary School.

Now that I have provided the broadest of sketches of the youth drama provision at this end of Vancouver Island and in the process, hopefully, given the gentle reader an idea as to what is available – it is now time to offer an opinion as to what is not…!

And, yes! – that means another post…

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Image from Pixabay“But a city is more than a place in space, it is a drama in time.”

Patrick Geddes

It was some time ago now – back in February in fact – that I posted a missive to this journal entitled Youth Theatre Dreaming in which I declared my intention of starting something along the lines of a youth theatre here in Victoria. You may have been wondering what has become of that purpose, particularly given that I wrote at the time that “things have been set in motion”.

Though I feel it probable that the gentle reader has grown somewhat weary over the years of being informed just how long it takes for this, that and the other to come to pass in our lives (which dilatory state of affairs seems to have been our lot for some considerable time now) in this case things actually have been happening… albeit – slowly!

In keeping with the ponderous nature of the progress this will not be the post that gives you all the details of the project. That will be the next one (or maybe the one after that!). This one will give some essential background and reflects the fact that one of the things that we were briefed to do by those with whom we intend to work was to carry out some research into the current dramatic provision for young people in and around Greater Victoria.

This is what we found.

Across the high schools of Greater Victoria the provision of drama teaching is – to put it mildly – mixed! Some schools have extensive offerings – such as the excellent Claremont Secondary in Cordova Bay which has a fully fledged Fine Arts programme running across the whole school. In other secondary schools drama is taught by whoever can be prevailed upon to pick it up – often someone from the English department. The content is then based upon whatever knowledge happens to be available. There is no common curriculum and drama would seem to be one of those subjects the timetabling of which has, of late, been squeezed.

One thing is, however, common to practically all schools – music theatre! I have never encountered such a plethora of music theatre courses and musical shows. It would seem that, even if no other offering for drama study is available, there is always the music theatre option.

Now – having written a number of musicals myself back in my youth theatre days I am not opposed to the form per se, but I was startled to discover that these shows are a very different proposition. These are based on hit shows from Broadway and the like, but stripped down for school use and with the entire production offered as a package – pre-recorded music, choreography, costume and set design and so forth.

Hmmm!

Outside school there are – as one would expect – other possibilities. Full details on these must, however, needs wait for the second part of this missive.

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Image from Pexels…that’s fit to print!

New York Times masthead

Time for a quick catchup on some news from Victoria.

For the Kickass Canada Girl and I (wrong – but so right!) life sometimes seems to comprise such a constant stream of happenings and doings that our nascent existence here in BC evolves more rapidly than can reasonably routinely be communicated to those who are not fortunate enough to live at this end of the island.

To remedy this unfortunate situation herewith a brief parade of news items in no particular order.

Though I am myself a confirmed retiree – and delighted so to be – it was always a matter of some conjecture as to whether or not the Girl was entirely done with the world of work. After six months in which she greatly enjoyed a sort of trial run at retirement she perhaps unsurprisingly decided that she had more to give.

Following a couple of half-hearted applications for not entirely suitable positions the ideal opportunity finally offered itself. The Girl made a serious application – turned on the afterburners at the resultant interview and – to the complete lack of surprise on the part of all who know her – watched the interviewing board’s eyes light up not just with regard to the position on offer but also with a view to future elevation.

She is now working four days a week appraising the needs of clients of an extensive volunteer service that provides support for the elderly (and others) to enable them to live independently.

Hoorah for the Girl! Well done…

In my end of year post of December last I made reference to the legal matter that has resulted in our having to put in abeyance any immediate plans to renovate our house in North Saanich. Our initial hope was that the mere presence on our team of the big guns – in the shape of our hot-shot lawyer – would send the vendors scurrying to the negotiating table. Sadly they have thus far eschewed doing the decent thing and it has been necessary to serve the papers for a civil claim.

Hmmm! Matters grind on at glacial pace – in all regards save that of the ever mounting fees payable…

As also referenced in a jolly post but a couple of weeks back, my ‘Boating Essentials’ course reached its conclusion with yet another multiple-choice exam. To my intense chagrin I was yet again defeated by a single question in this test, though I did score well above the required pass mark. We then rounded matters off with a two day course on ‘Marine VHF Radio’, for the use of which it is obligatory to hold a certificate. I finally conquered my multiple-choice demons and registered a perfect score.

I can, however, take no credit for this happy state of affairs – that going instead to the Brentwood Bay Power Squadron. The preparation of students for examination by their training team is second to none and they have the awards to prove it. I thoroughly enjoyed the whole kit and caboodle and was most impressed by all concerned.

All that remains is for me to find a suitable boat…

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justice-collectiveThis day – twenty seven years after the event – the second inquest into the Hillsborough disaster – having been convened after the findings of the original inquest were quashed following the report of an independent panel four years ago – finally declared that the ninety six Liverpool Football Club supporters who lost their lives on that terrible day were killed unlawfully.

Though this is far from the end of the process – the Crown Prosecution Service may now decide to commence criminal proceedings against those deemed to have been culpable – it is to be hoped that the relatives and friends of those whose lives were lost can now finally grieve them properly and that – for their sakes – a line can be drawn. The shameful treatment to which they and others were subjected throughout this outrageous miscarriage of justice must, however, never be forgotten.

It is now clear that terrible mistakes and lapses of judgement were made both on the day and beforehand by those charged with ensuring the safety of the fans attending the FA Cup semi-final between Liverpool and Nottingham Forest that was to be played at Sheffield Wednesday’s Hillsborough stadium.

Terrible as were the events of the day itself, however, what followed was in some ways even more awful. The twenty five year campaign of obfuscation and misinformation that was waged by executives of all of the key agencies – the aim of which was to draw attention away from those actually responsible for the disaster, in large part by pushing the blame on to the supporters themselves – should of itself in any just world give rise to criminal proceedings.

That these attempts at evasion found support through the active or passive collusion of other forces of the ‘establishment’ leaves a stain which may not be removed in our lifetimes. The then Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher’s press secretary – Bernard Ingham – wrote a letter to one of the Hillsborough campaigners in the mid 90s blaming the tragedy on “tanked up yobs“, a slander for which he still refuses to apologise in spite of the new inquest’s complete exoneration of the supporters’ behaviour.

The divisions in English society that have been increasingly actively fostered from the 1980s onward must surely in part be to blame for such reprehensible attitudes. As long as a monied and powerful elite – puffed up with its own sense of entitlement and residing primarily in the south east of the country – determinedly sets itself apart from humbler mortals throughout the rest of the land, the notion that the latter belong to some lesser order that can be traduced as desired will – though unspoken – continue to prevail.

It seems to me inevitable that – unless the growing inequality that blights modern society can be reversed – such travesties on the part of those in authority are likely to continue.

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Image from Pixabay“There was a time in my life when I did a fair bit of work for the tempestuous Lucretia Stewart, then editor of the American Express travel magazine, ‘Departures’. Together, we evolved a harmless satire of the slightly driveling style employed by the journalists of tourism. ‘Land of Contrasts’ was our shorthand for it. (‘Jerusalem: an enthralling blend of old and new.’ ‘South Africa: a harmony in black and white.’ ‘Belfast, where ancient meets modern.’) It was as you can see, no difficult task.

Christopher Hitchens

Driveling or not (and Hitchens is indeed mostly correct on that one) I think I can safely state that – with regard to the weather if nothing else – Canada truly is a land of contrasts!

This past week has seen Victoria – along with the rest of western Canada – basking in some exceptionally early summer-like weather, with sunny cloudless skies and temperatures well up into the mid-twenties. Across the southern end of Vancouver Island (as well as in the interior) temperature records for April have been smashed. These figures for Victoria are from a couple of days ago:

Victoria area
New record of 24.3
Old record of 19.4 set in 1934

Victoria Harbour area
New record of 20.0
Old record of 17.8 set in 1897

The same day on the far side of the continent the situation could not have been more different. Parts of Newfoundland experienced ten hours of blizzard conditions with more than forty centimetres of snow falling. Temperatures struggled to get above zero and winds gusted close to 90 kilometres per hour in places.

It is perhaps little surprise that when those not local to the northern American continent discover that one lives in Canada they immediately think of snow, freezing temperatures and long winters, and are moved to inquire as to how one can stand it. I am happy to go on disabusing such folks of this notion – at least when it comes to the west coast – just as I am happy to be living in the best part of the country.

Picked up a bit of a tan mowing my lawn yesterday!

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In my last post I mused upon the notion that Victoria might just be the best possible place in the world to be an expat Brit. At the weekend just passed we enjoyed a delightful dinner engagement with friends who live downtown. The occasion provided (as so often seems to be the case) yet more evidence in support of whichever conjecture happens to be my current fascination.

Earlier posts in this journal attest to my love of springtime… those hazy blue carpets of bluebells… the lush and fragrant azaleas (particular favourites that I would go out of my way to see)… the keening of the peacocks… Peacocks?! Well, yes – for various reasons I associate them with the sort of country estates to which I used to go in search of bluebell woods and azalea glades.

Anyway – before dinner on Saturday we accompanied our friends on a most pleasant stroll through Beacon Hill Park. I took some snaps:

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidNow – I am very aware that back in the UK it is not yet quite azalea time. Indeed, should you care to follow any of the links above you will find that all of the posts concerned date from various months of May. Yes – here in Victoria spring comes earlier:

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidAnd what can this be?

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidOf course, Victoria has a few things that are more difficult to find back home:

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson Reid

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Photo by Andy Dawson Reid“Chinstrap: Here’s to the old country, sir!
Bloodnok: What old country?
Chinstrap: Any old country.”

The Goon Show, ‘Shifting Sands’

It is fairly widely acknowledged that – for the expat Brit looking for somewhere not too ‘foreign’ in which to establish his or her habitat – Vancouver Island, and Victoria in particular, pretty much tops the bill.

Many things about life on the southern tip of Vancouver Island will seem familiar to those from England – from the red double decker buses, the unexpected fondness for cricket, rugby and rowing, the love of messing about in boats, the discovery that hoards of other Brits have already made the journey – right down to the fact that the locals very nearly speak the same language as do we in the old country!

The fact that the standard of living is so high (whilst the cost of petrol (gas) is so low) and the discovery that the climate is way better than that in the south of England make living here a no-brainer. For those who prefer a relaxed, casual we(s)t-coast lifestyle, with perhaps just a slight tendency to left of centre politics… well – check! check! Plus – the familiar comfort of living on an island… Plus – being within sight of the sea and the mountains just about everywhere… Plus – just how beautiful it all is!

Little surprise though that one gets the occasional reminder of the old country herself. Some such – however – come as more of a surprise than others. Herewith a few recent examples.

I have in my meagre wardrobe a rather swish replica Great Britain polo shirt, of which I am inordinately fond. It has on the left sleeve at suitably subtle Union Jack emblem. Wearing this out and about seems not infrequently to inspire those of a certain background to approach and engage me in conversation. For example – just the other day in ‘Thrifty’s‘ – our local supermarket:

He:   “Bet you wish you were back there now?

I:      “Oh – well I only got here last summer – and I love it!

He:   “Ah!” – a pause – “What’s it like there now – with all the immigration?

I:      “Um – well, around London it hasn’t really changed that much since I was a youngster. It always was a very multi-cultural city.

He:   “I read about it the Daily Express!

I suggested as gently as possible that a British tabloid rag – particularly without the sense of balance that might have come with actually living in the place concerned – was possibly not the most reliable source of what might delicately be called ‘the truth!’. I’m not sure he was convinced. He was – he told me proudly – a Welshman! I thought it best not to point out that the main source of immigration in his part of the world was probably the English purchasing holiday cottages in sleepy Welsh villages.

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidBut a short step along the road from ‘Thrifty’s‘ is one of Sidney’s many bookshops – in this case a secondhand and antique bookseller. I paid them a visit following my grocery shop to see if they had a copy of a particular marine atlas for which I have been searching.

They did not!

I did, however, discover – taped in a polythene bag to the outside end of one of their bookcases – this estate agent’s (realtor’s) street plan of the Merton Park area to the south of London. The map is not dated but – from various features contained thereon – I can deduce that it was printed sometime in the early 1930s. At that time Merton Park and Morden (Merton’s close neighbour) were outside London in the English county of Surrey. These days the area is some twenty miles inside the Greater London boundary.

This was certainly an odd item to find some five thousand miles away on the far side of the world – but why did it interest me enough that I felt at once moved to purchase it?

It shows the street on which I was born!

Photo by Andy Dawson Reid

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