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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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Never mind, I’ll remember you this
I’ll remember you this way

Mr Blue Sky – Jeff Lynne

 

A startlingly lovely early September weekend with clear blue skies and perfect temperatures. The stunning London Olympic/Paralympic summer reaches its climax – Andy Murray punches his way to the final of the US Open – the nation beats its breast and sheds a tear at the Last Night of the Proms…

The weather is, apparently, also simultaneously divine in Victoria, BC – but sadly sharing such wonders by Skype alone can be no substitute for the real thing.

A touch of melancholy…

 

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It is only a few short weeks since – in the run up to the 2012 London Olympics – the inhabitants of this sceptic isle regarded the whole extravaganza with their accustomed disdain. They grumbled about the cost – complained about the upcoming traffic chaos – delighted in every minor news item featuring incipient incompetence on the part of the organisers – and a significant number were prophesying impending doom at every step.

It took all of 60 seconds of Danny Boyle’s magically mysterious opening ceremony to dispell all possible doubts and to convert us into a nation of true believers.

The IOC were fully vindicated in their decision to place their faith in London to stage the games ahead of the French. Yes – in Paris the cuisine would have been superb and the style impeccable – but the IOC had the insight to recognise a more essential truth about the British people. We are a nation of sports fanatics! The games sold out – and huge adoring crowds cheered the heroics of our brave Olympians as they took home more medals than we have won at any Olympic games for the past 100 years.

And then it was over – and the reaction kicked in. We were depressed. We missed the adrenalin rush. The start of the kissball season seemed even more uninspiring than usual. The rugger season had not yet commenced. Where could we turn to rediscover those legal highs?…

Well – to the Paralympics of course.

Now – if there is one thing the Brits love even more than a sporting contest it is one in which they can support the underdog. It is in our national psyche. In the Paralympics – of course – it is possible to consider all of the contestants to be underdogs – and we just love those tales of triumph over adversity. As a result the stadia are yet again full to bursting and the rest of us are glued to our screens.

This increased exposure for disabled sport does raise a few issues, not least of which is the question of acceptable use of language when discussing the sports and the competitors therein engaged. There are obvious ‘no-nos’ which need not detain us here, but there are also areas that are less clear. It has been suggested in parts of the media that the use of terms such as ‘brave’ and ‘inspirational’ could – when applied to Paralympians – be considered discriminatory or even pejorative. The thinking here is that such language is divisive and that the Paralympians themselves wish to be seen simply as elite athletes rather than as plucky tryers.

I have some sympathy with this, but from the impartial enthusiast’s point of view this is rather a shame. When one thinks of the huge amount of work that athletes such as Bradley Wiggins, Chris Hoy, Jessica Ennis, Mo Foster, Andy Murray and Ben Ainslie have put into their golden achievements it is difficult not to be inspired. When considering Paralympians who – in addition to making similar efforts and sacrifices in terms of athletic preparation – have in many cases also had to overcome crippling illnesses, to recover from tragic accidents or have been seriously injured in the service of their country – then I think ‘inspirational’ is indeed the appropriate term.

What decidedly is inspirational is the response of the attending crowds. The foundations of the Olympic village have been shaken repeatedly by the capacity crowds cheering such golden moments as Sarah Storey chewing up the track in the velodrome for the first of her three (thus far!) gold medals, or Ellie Simmonds hunting down American Victoria Arlen in the S6 400m freestyle in the Aquatics Centre. The sight and sound of 80,000 people in the stadium itself howling encouragement for iron-man Dave Weir as he out-thought, out muscled and out-sprinted the rest of the field in the T44 wheelchair 5,000m will live with me for a long time, and not a single medalist mounted the podium to anything other than a rapturous reception.

To me the whole event – like the Olympic games that preceded it – has indeed been inspirational. The only trouble is – what will we do when it is over?

 

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The feeling is that of the lost soul who – when dying of thirst on the remorseless sunbaked sands of an unforgiving desert and on spotting on the heat-hazed horizon a life-saving oasis – discovers that – contrary to his initial fears – it is not after all a mirage, but is indeed the fountain of life…

You may think this somewhat too effusive given that the object of my preroration is a mere television programme, but I can assure you that it accurately reflects the emotions experienced by this viewer on discovering – in the wasteland of the UK’s 21st century televisual output – an intelligent, complex, splendidly crafted, subtly directed TV drama – acted with exactitude and beautifully shot.

I refer – of course – to the first episode of ‘Parade’s End’ which was shown last Friday on the BBC. Adapted from Ford Maddox Ford’s quartet of post-Great War novels by the estimable Tom Stoppard this splendid offering starred – amongst other luminaries – the excellent Benedict Cumberbatch. Stoppard is a personal hero and I have been lucky enough to have met him twice – at first night parties for ‘Indian Ink’ and ‘The Invention of Love’. This was not only a lot more prosaic than it sounds but was also proof of the dictum that one should never meet one’s heroes. At each meeting I was reduced to babbling incoherence, telling him only on one occasion – as I recall – that his play was “quite brilliant”. He gave me a pitying look…

I could wax lyrical for a further 1500 words on the subject of ‘Parade’s End’, but the critics have already done so far more eloquently than I ever could. Here is Euan Ferguson in the Observer. All I will do is to urge those of you living in the UK who missed it on Friday to seek out the remaining four episodes – and for those of you in Canada and elsewhere to lobby your local TV stations to purchase said work and to screen it forthwith.

Following Friday’s episode there was a ‘making of’ documentary which featured a number of astute commentaries on the piece, including that of Cumberbatch himself. Without being too rude I think it safe to say that not all actors are as erudite on the subject of works in which they have appeared. Cumberbatch came over sufficiently well that I will forgo my usual somewhat childish remarks about his Alma Mater.

Well – they are rivals!

 

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I was really quite taken aback – after nearly eight years together – to discover that there are still major cultural differences between Kickass Canada Girl and myself.

Picture the scene… The Girl and I exit the Hypermarche laden with Provencal goodies which I lovingly load into the minuscule boot of our diminutive hire car. She tosses me the key and says,

“You drive”.

With the sun attempting to scorch us to toast before the air conditioning has a chance to kick in I jump into the driver’s seat and fumble with the key for the ignition lock. Got it! I twist the key vigorously. The car leaps forward and slams into the kerb in front of us.

“What the heck!”, she exclaims. “Could you jolly well not do that?”

She didn’t actually say that, but for the sake of the sensibilities of the gentle reader let us assume that she did.

“Could you not leave the jolly car in gear!”, I retort.

Actually, I didn’t say that either…

Apparently I am a particularly slow learner, because it took me four or five bunny-hopping commencements to excursions before I figured out that the Girl was not – in some heat induced stupor – forgetting to put the car into neutral before disembarking… This is, clearly, what she always does. I had not noticed before because – under a peculiarity of UK regulations which meant that the Girl could only exchange her Canadian drivers’ licence for an automatic licence – she had not driven what the Canadians call a ‘stick-shift’ during her time in England.

It turns out, of course, that in Canada one is taught always to leave the car in gear when parked. My protestations that this renders the parking brake somewhat redundant – particularly because Canadians are apparently taught not to use it when waiting to move off on a gentle incline either – cut no ice. It seems that the gearbox is to be relied on but that the parking brake is not. So much for automotive technological advancement!

Let us hope – in the interests of saving face in front of the amused locals – that we reach a compromise rapidly, and that our progress throughout the south of France is free of further lapinary lurches.

Still – as they say here – ‘Vive la difference”!

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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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