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Life in England

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“It’s mornings like this;
The stingy sun trying to hold back
Even the warmth of its reflection
Flashing coldly in the lake.
When November leaves drop in sudden gusts,
Like a red and yellow flock of birds
Swooping at once to ground.
Or even nights:
When winds reach wet hands
To take you spinning with random paper
Down back street gutters, under straining bridges
To clogged rivers.
It’s this:
The time of year, along with spring,
When poets must take care
Not to sing the same old songs
Stolen from tribal memory.”

Thomas R. Drinkard

In my opinion – humble or otherwise – November is quite the grimmest quantum of the year… far worse than Eliot’s ‘cruelest month’. There are entire days on which the light struggles helplessly to elevate itself beyond a Stygian post-apocalyptic twilight, and the dismal rain lashes the last few leaves from the traumatised trees to besmirch the sodden earth like eviscerated corpses smeared across the battlefield of the dying year.

The shortest day is yet a month away – and our subsequent celebration of ‘Sol Invictus’ has scarce reached the planning stage. Like the dormant green shoots themselves all thoughts of spring are still lodged securely underground – safe from the winter frosts. They will not expose their tender heads to the chill air for many months yet.

The Michaelmas term is always the longest – and the toughest – of the school year. The aim is to crack the preponderance of the curriculum before the solstice break – to form a platform for the anticipated achievements of the new year. The cause is noble, but the casualties are heavy – in terms of exhaustion, langour and ennui.

There comes a point at which one is just counting the days – and at such times, indeed, ‘poets must take care’…

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“Reader, if you seek his monument – look about you”

Inscription on Wren’s tomb in St Paul’s Cathedral

Each year the School – along with its sister school – celebrates its foundation and its Founder, John Colet, at a service in St Paul’s Cathedral – of which he was once Dean. This impressive logistical operation involves bus-sing the entire complement of both schools across London in time for a 2:30pm start. To my knowledge no-one has ever been late for it which – as those familiar with the London traffic will attest – is little short of a miracle.

I have always loved the cathedral and I attend the service each year simply to re-visit the building. This is all the more poignant given its romantic attachment for me and this year – as ever- I took a moment to stand directly under the dome and to lose myself to my thoughts.

Here are some snapshots:

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Hubris

Whilst we – the British – as a nation yet bask in the glow of satisfaction engendered by the successful organisation of games Olympic and Paralympic – at having rediscovered ourselves as a race – at having regarded ourselves in the mirror and, to our surprise, having rather liked what we saw…

…comes a shocking revelation of the truth concerning a scandalous incident from our recent history, on the subject of which all of us (with a very few exceptions) should feel deeply and profoundly ashamed.

The independent report into the Hillsborough disaster of 1989 in which 96 Liverpool Football Club fans lost their lives has concluded that not only were the fans in no way to blame for the disaster – as had been strenuously suggested over an extended period – but that the South Yorkshire police and the emergency services had done their very best to divert attention away from their own culpability and their failings on the day, to the extent of having altered more than 160 critical witness statements from their own members in order that they might obfuscate the truth.

Had it not been for an obdurate 23 year campaign by the relatives of the dead the independent enquiry would not have been set up – the more than 400,000 pages of previously suppressed documentation would not have been released – and the appalling truth would not have been laid bare.

This has been a day of apologies – from the Prime Minister on behalf of the government and the nation – from the South Yorkshire police, whose crowd control failure has long been held to be the primary cause of the disaster – from the Sheffield ambulance service, whose failure to get other than a single ambulance into the ground contributed to the deaths that occured long after the initial crush – from Sheffield Wednesday football club, at whose then substandard ground the fixture was held – from the Sun newspaper which, at the promptings of the police and briefed by a member of the then Conservative government, printed a scrurilous story claiming that that tragedy had been caused by drunken, ticketless fans – under the banner headline (insisted upon by the editor at that time, Kelvin MacKenzie) which read – “The Truth”…

The coroner who refused to accept that any of the deaths occured after 3:15pm – thus precluding at the inquest consideration that more than 40 of the fatalities might have been avoided by prompt action from the emergency services – has not yet apologised.

Now that the truths have finally been revealed – and widely acknowledged – some belated attempt at justice might perhaps be made. There should be no sense however – other than for those who have campaigned so long against apparently insuperable odds – of satisfaction at the outcome. All of us should perhaps feel a deep sense of shame – shame that our nation was capable of perpetrating and perpetuating this appalling cover-up – shame that we continued to vote for the politicians who, in spite of their knowledge of the existence and, in some cases, of the contents of the suppressed documentation, continually refused to take any action or to criticise the police – shame that we continued to purchase the offending tabloid newspapers – shame that we grumbled at the repeated efforts of the campaigners to achieve recognition of their case – shame that we did not shout loud enough and long enough that the truth must be revealed, thus failing the bereaved for two long decades.

I still recall watching the terrible events of that day unfolding on the live TV coverage, and being horrified even then that such a thing was possible in the United Kingdom. Each time the tragedy has been revisited in documentaries or articles throughout the intervening years the horror and sadness has come back to me, frequently moving me to tears. Now that sense of horror and incomprehension is edged with shame and anger.

What took place on 15th April 1989 was an avoidable tragedy – what happened subsequently is unforgivable.

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Why on earth would an Oscar winning movie director – who can pretty much pick and choose his projects these days – wish to take on the impossible challenge of directing the London Olympics opening ceremony?

Any way you size it up this really was the poisoned chalice – the hopeless cause – the no-win situation.

Consider…

  • It would be impossible to top the massively funded, meticulously choreographed (some might say ‘regimented’) show that the Chinese put on in Beijing four years ago.
  • Given a potential world-wide audience running into the billions it would be completely impossible to please all – or even the majority – of them, let alone to entertain everyone whilst contriving to offend no-one.
  • From the director’s point of view devising such a show would surely be – in any case – an impossible task. How could one create a show that was at once local and global – embodying some essence of this sceptred isle whilst not being so parochial than no-one else would get it? How could one reconcile the demands of the TV close up with the requirement for a spectacle that would fill a stadium? How could the show be at once personal and universal?

As you may have deduced – I spend Friday evening watching Danny Boyle’s bizarre, amateurish (in the best sense), messy, insanely brilliant opening ceremony. I fell off the sofa laughing. I howled like a baby – at some points so hard that I could scarce catch my breath. In the kaleidoscopic whirl of layered references (oh what delight – an Olympic opening ceremony incorporating subtlety and ambiguity, whilst at the same time displaying complete self-confidence!) I repeatedly heard and saw images and ideas in the magical musical and visual smorgasbord that made me cry out, “Yes – that’s us… and that… and that…”

From the exquisitely intimate (the tribute to the dead of 7/7) to the breathtakingly spectacular (the dark satanic mills rising Bosch-like from the stadium floor, the newly forged Olympic rings coming together in the sky above the crowd) Boyle nailed each potentially difficult shift in tone with complete assurance. The collective gasp when it appeared as though Her Majesty herself was going to take part in Daniel Craig’s granite-faced Bond spoof (she couldn’t be – she was!!), and smirk of pleasure at the wonderful tongue in cheek arrival of the Olympic flame carried on a powerboat skippered by David Beckham, in exactly the image of himself that we all believe he holds – merely confirmed a sureness of touch that the rest of us can only dream of.

That touch extended right through to the Olympic cauldron itself. Assembled unseen throughout the parade of athletes as each team carried in one of the ‘petals’ that formed the organic heart of the sculpture, and lit – not by any of the luminaries that had been the subject of pre-Olympic speculation, but by seven young athletes nominated by seven existing Olympic heroes – the individual flaming branches each representing one of the competing nations slowly rose toward the night sky, coming together to form a single, united blossom of fire. As Tim Berners-Lee had previously texted to the stadium – and to the world – “This is for everyone!”

Did everyone ‘get it’? Well – the correspondent of Le Figaro observed – with a generosity not always apparent in the relationship between our ancient races:

“The display reminded a billion viewers of the best contributions that Britain has given to the world for over a century: its sense of humour, its music, and of course sport”.

My view? Danny Boyle is nothing short of a genius. Give that man a knighthood!

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As a counterpart to my previous post on cricket in Victoria

On Sunday I visited my old village cricket club in Buckinghamshire in the UK. It was the occasion of the annual President’s Match – always the highlight of the season. Perhaps for this week only the weather had turned glorious and the day was – as a result – really rather splendid.

Until he retired a couple of years ago when well into his 80s (to be replaced by his son in law!) the post of club President was held for many years by one of the scions of the Guinness family. A long-time resident of the village and a tireless worker for charities and local causes he is a great supporter of the club and can still be seen regularly at the ground on a Sunday, sipping a cold Guinness and enjoying the cricket.

The Guinnesses famously provided Vancouver with the Lion’s Gate bridge (as our ex President takes delight in reminding me). They did not, naturally, do so for altruistic reasons, but because they had purchased more than 4,000 acres in what is now West Vancouver and were busy developing it.

It has become a tradition over the last decade or so for the team fielded on behalf of the President to comprise, in the main, members of the extended Guinness family, with – on occasion – three generations represented in the same team. A number of them played cricket to a decent level at the sort of schools with which I am very familiar and in some cases well beyond. As a result it has also been a tradition of recent years for the President’s side to win the fixture – often handsomely. Two years ago saw the first ever tie between the two sides and then last year – for the first time in many years – the village finally came out on top.

This year – in a very close game – the the club finally scraped across the line with three balls to spare and with the final pair at the crease. Nail-biting stuff!

Here are some (remarkably) random images from the day.

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An unexpected treat – a day out at the Henley Royal Regatta courtesy of a (young!) ‘old boy’ who is a partner in a software company whose system is used extensively by the School. I have enjoyed many days at Henley over the years, but this was the first occasion on which I was the guest of a former schoolboy and Oxford oarsman. I have been entertained as a guest in the Steward’s enclosure before but have never previously visited Leander itself, nor been invited into the boathouses.

Though the School’s first VIII was knocked out of the main schools’ competition (The Princess Elizabeth Cup) in the morning, our day was made by staying late to watch our under 16 crew who had managed to qualify for The Temple Challenge Cup – which event is ostensibly for Universities. Half a length down to Nottingham University at the halfway mark they then proceeded to row through the much older and heavier crew, beating them to the line by a canvas. Excellent and heroic stuff!

Here are some pictures from the day:

 

Something I have not seen before – Pimms on tap!!

Another surprise! The Gloriana – the Royal Barge built to lead the Jubilee flotilla on the Thames in London earlier this month – was moored by Leander.

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The last week of the academic year always feels slightly unreal.

Examinations have finished, the leavers are itching to be gone and those lesser boys who must return after the long summer break have already lost their focus and motivation and are dreaming of other places and other personas.

The academic staff – racing against time to complete hundreds of reports and to assign thousands of grades – have become fractious and argumentative and are struggling to clear their desks before term ends on Friday.

The support staff do not get academic holidays and will thus be in School throughout the summer months. They scowl irritably, knowing that the next time they see most of the academics will be in the last few frantic days before the new teaching year starts at the end of August, when all manner of last-minute and barely-reasonable requests will be made which, with but a little foresight, could well have been met over the summer break.

As usual I fall between the two stools. The fact that I teach drama means that I too must report and grade, and that I am only too aware that my remaining classes are unlikely to attain the heights of a few short weeks ago. Then, in a few days – and with my IT hat on – I must co-ordinate a complex programme of summer works, culminating in the rush to be ready for the new year…

…or that is what I would be doing were it not that the Kickass Canada Girl is waiting for me (im)patiently in BC. In actual fact – when the boys leave at morning break on Friday – my deputy will drive me directly to Heathrow and I will be on a plane for Calgary – en route to Victoria – by 13:30.

Which is a very good thing – for this has without question been a tough year thus far. I – for one – have a pretty good idea how a battery might feel (should batteries have feelings!) at the point at which the charge starts to falter, the power drains away and the last remaining dregs of energy are no longer sufficient to to keep the system running.

I need a recharge…

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“Sometimes I feel like I’m fine on my own,
Fifty Thousand miles from home.
Sometimes I’m weak and the past is my guide,
Summer returns and puts you back on my mind”

Crazy English Summer – Faithless

Following the two weeks of blazing weather at the end of May which came to an abrupt end – inevitably – just in time for the Jubilee weekend, this crazy English summer has been predictably unpredictable. Odd sunny days – more torrential rain – cold, windy spells – grey, grey, grey…

Here are a few images snapped on the Fuji x10.

 

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Oh it’s such a perfect day,
I’m glad I spent it with you.
Oh such a perfect day,
You just keep me hanging on,
You just keep me hanging on.

Perfect Day – Lou Reed

Well – a perfect weekend really… with one glaring and – hopefully – blindingly obvious exception.

Following last week’s unbridled incalescence the temperature dropped a couple of degrees, the heat haze dissipated to leave the sky a cloudless cerulian and a playful breeze tempered even the most febrile of brows.

Friday evening found me in the company of a group of School staff at a buffet reception in the High Master’s garden; a most agreeable way to unwind after the week and a good way to prepare for the weekend ahead. The final weeks of the summer term can sometimes almost overwhelm with their abundance of social events – a last frantic ‘hurrah’ for the leavers and a long slow exhalation for those others for whom – unlike me, sadly – the long school summer holiday hovers tantalisingly on the horizon.

On Saturday I packed a variety of bags and set off in the 300SL for Sevenoaks in Kent. A beautiful leisurely drive – wind very much in hair – through the Surrey hills delivered me to our good friends – who live at another school not dissimilar to this one – in plenty of time for an aperitif before dressing for the main event – a splendid black-tie ball organised by the parents’ association. Though I am not, myself, much of a dancer I am always happy to don the tartan for such an occasion, and the combination of good food, good wine, good friends and good conversation meant that when the 1:00am deadline for carriages rolled around no time at all seemed to have elapsed.

Waking only a little the worse for wear to find an equally lovely day already well under way I bade my grateful farewells and retraced my top-down tracks as far as Guildford, where I was to play my first proper game of cricket of the summer. The ground was up on the downs (I realise that may sound counter-intuitive to Canadians and other non-Brits!) above the town and offered splendid views over the Surrey countryside towards London. The match was played in a suitably amiable spirit, I scored a few runs and the right side won. It was, all in all, a most satisfactory result and I rolled home close to 9pm tired but happy.

One thought, however, nagged at me throughout… one cause for a scintilla of sadness, regardless of the loveliness of the days, of the caliber of the entertainments or of the pleasures of the bucolic countryside. To whit  – what could possibly be the purpose and meaning of such joy if not shared with one’s consort? I have been fortunate enough to have experienced many wonderful things and exceptional times – both in the UK and in BC – but without the Kickass Canada Girl at my side nothing is as ambrosial, as piquant… as exquisite… as it is when she is!

 

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‘…till May be out’ 

English proverb.

Last weekend – on one of the last chilly days of spring before the sizzling summer burst upon the UK – I visited the RHS gardens at Wisley to catch the end of the wistful azaleas and the aggresively abundant rhodedendrons. I took some photos…

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