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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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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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Image from PixabayAt the risk of giving the impression that this journal has drifted off into that territory more commonly inhabited by rugby blogs I do just have to post something regarding the penultimate round of the 2016 Six Nations’ Championship.

Since I wrote somewhat despairingly a few weeks back concerning Scotland’s crablike progress since last year’s World Cup – with particular reference to the manner in which they surrendered the Calcutta Cup to the English – I have maintained a (reasonably) dignified silence. I have thought not to trouble the gentle reader either with the Scots’ further missed opportunity against the Welsh or indeed the occasion on which they eventually broke their recent Six Nations’ duck with an appropriately convincing win against Italy in Rome.

I cannot – however – let pass without comment today’s epic demolition of the French at Murrayfield, the first such victory for a decade. Brilliant! Quite apart from the historic nature of the victory – and the most satisfying manner in which it was achieved – it has been a considerable while since the Scots enjoyed back to back wins in the championship. This will do their confidence no end of good.

The result has had the slightly unexpected side effect of handing the championship to the English (who had an equally gratifying if much more tense win against Wales at the Cabbage Patch) with a fixture yet in hand. This has apparently not happened since the five became six back at the turn of the century.

The final round of matches next Saturday might thus at first glance appear to have little import, given that the tournament winners have already been decided. I do not, however, believe this to be the case.

Wales – up first – will doubtless want to put yesterday’s lacklustre performance behind them by savaging the hapless Italians, past whom the Irish put nine tries yesterday (some of them gift-wrapped and delivered by express courier).

The Scots would love to cap their recent renaissance with a win in Dublin which would give them their best finish in years, but the Irish – who have themselves suffered a dismal campaign – will doubtless be inspired by their antics against the Azzuri.

The English – having won the championship without actually being there to celebrate – will doubtless want to rout the French in Paris to win a Grand Slam – which would be the first such since their world cup winning year of 2003. Were they so to do a great deal of the hurt and misery subsequent to their dismal exit from the last world cup might be somewhat assuaged.

For now, though, congratulations to the English on the championship – and even bigger congratulations to the Scots for their magnificent win against the French.

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Bambi!

deer-307438_1280One would think – given the degree of commonality in the respective backgrounds of our two cultures (by which I am am referring of course to those of Canada and of the UK) – that there would be relatively few instances of incomprehensible difference. There are, however, perhaps more than one might expect.

I have mentioned before, I know, my astonishment regarding the bathing habits prevalent this side of the pond. For a nation that virtually fetishises the outdoor life – regardless of the best attempts of weather to curtail it – I simply cannot understand the lack of proper bathing facilities. The ‘foot baths’ with which most Canadian bathrooms seem to be equipped scarcely allow one to wet one’s backside and a good long wallow is out of the question. A side effect of this sorry situation is that it is also nearly impossible to find in the stores the sort of unctuous bathing lotions without which any self-respecting British bathroom would be considered ill-equipped. Little chance of a good long muscle-relaxing soak in some suitably aromatic bath foam here.

I have also previously referred in these postings the strange habit of the owners of what Canadians call ‘stick shift’ automobiles (‘manual’ to the rest of us) of leaving the vehicles in gear when parked, in preference to using the handbrake. Canadians themselves might be less aware of this quirk since the great majority seem to drive automatics anyway.

These random examples were brought to mind by the latest incomprehensibility to which I have been exposed. Now, this has been on my mind for a while but was brought into sharp focus last weekend by a visit to the splendid ‘Beagle‘ public house in Cook Street Village, to which we repaired on Saturday for a spot of lunch. The excellent menu included – and of which the Kickass Canada Girl availed herself – a venison burger! Not just any venison burger, but quite the best that we have encountered.

This splendid treat, however, starkly highlighted the strange fact that – in a land where the animals abound and in a city parts of which suffer a wild deer ‘problem’ – it is simply not possible to purchase venison in any form from any of the puveyors of comestibles. Even the specialist butchers refuse to stock it – though they do carry the somewhat inferior bison. The Girl and I have taken to eating a great deal of venison over the past couple of years. It is a splendid, low-fat and extremely healthy meat, to say nothing of being easy to cook and jolly tasty.

When taxed as to why a country scratching its head as to how to deal with the plethora of unwanted deer doesn’t bow to the obvious and eat the damned things, a bizarre range of explanations are offered – from suggesting that any self respecting Canadian who fancies a haunch simply goes out with his (or her) rifle and blows one away, all the way to a trembly-lipped evocation of Bambi. Get a grip, guys!

We did ask our most helpful server at ‘The Beagle’ as to where they sourced theirs but apparently they buy in bulk from a wholesaler, possibly from outside the country.

Had we a freezer big enough it might just be worth purchasing a truck-load!

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imageStreaming coverage of the Rugby World Cup matches from ITV in the UK to the enormous TV that the previous owners of our new house very kindly donated to the cause has proved a big success.

Rather too much of a success, perhaps, since some of that which has been on display has not made for comfortable viewing. The less said the better concerning England’s ingnominious departure from their own tournament before the end of the pool stages – though in my humble view some frankly bizarre selectorial decisions contributed in no small measure to their untimely demise. There is no small irony in the fact that only in the last dead-rubber game against minnows Uruguay were my preferred half back combination of Ford, Joseph and Slade seen in action together.

That Canada fared no better is – of course – mitigated by the fact that they were not expected so to do. It would have been good had they managed at least one win, but sadly their best opportunity – against Romania – saw them squander a 15 – 0 lead well into the second half – eventually losing 17 – 15.

Wales and Ireland both did well to get into the quarter finals – Ireland in particular gaining a convincing victory over the French and thus avoiding an unpleasant encounter, at this early stage of the knockouts, with the All Blacks. Unfortunately both teams have suffered injuries to key personnel which may count heavily against them as the tournament proceeds.

The Scots achieved their prime objective of a quarter final berth losing only to the Boks – though they had to work pretty hard against a Samoan side with nothing to lose to come out ahead of the brightest lights of the tournament thus far – Japan. The Japanese – who host the next World Cup in four years’ time – not only beat the feared South Africans but also became the first side in the competition to win three out of four pool games and still not make the quarters.

The Scots’ reward is an outing next weekend against the form side of the tournament thus far – the Australians – who have turned around several years of lacklustre performances to peak at the right moment.

Do the Scots believe that they can overcome the rampant Aussies? Of course they do? Is that likely to happen? Er – no!

Though I would not be caught putting money on that particular outcome I might we’ll be tempted to a flutter – if I were a betting man – on the final featuring the Australians and the All Blacks.

Hmmmmm!

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Inage from PixabayWhy is it that buying and selling property is such a difficult and complex business?

It is well-known fact that moving house is one of the most stressful experiences that one can face – along, of course, with giving birth and getting divorced (no connection!) – but unlike those (un)happy events, re-locating is more often than not done voluntarily – which almost makes it worse. It does seem strange that the long history of real estate dealing has not resulted in the sort of highly efficient hyper-streamlined operation into which most other transactions have evolved in this oh-so modern age.

The gentle reader of a regular habit will be all too aware that I wrote next to nothing about the eventual sale of our apartment in Buckinghamshire as it went through, for fear of jinxing the process. I had good reason for this. Though in the event the sale went through almost without hitch, it was still a nerve jangling experience.

For real estate deals in the UK the whole operation – once an offer has been accepted – is placed in the hand of the two sets of solicitors, one representing each party. The ensuing process – which involves getting surveys done, carrying out Land Registry and local authority searches to ensure that there are no impediments to the deal taking place, the filling out of endless disclosure and transfer forms and the signing of the eventual contract – can take anything from a few days to months and months, with the norm being apparently around eight to twelve weeks.

Unfortunately it is extremely difficult at any point to glean exactly what is going on or why it might be taking so long. One’s own solicitor might be a most helpful chap (and ours certainly was), but he is rarely keen to rattle the cage of his opposite number. We began to fear that our sale would not complete before we left for Canada, which would have rendered far more difficult the eventual extraction of the proceeds of the sale from the UK.

Once all of the particulars are in place and the financing agreed the next step is the exchange of contracts. These documents – which set in stone the agreed date and time for completion – will have been signed by the relevant parties before being swapped. At this point a healthy deposit is also paid by the purchasers as a means of dissuading them from dropping out at a late stage.

Finally – at the agreed date and time – the monies are paid and the deeds transferred to the new owner, who normally receives the keys from the sellers estate agent.

It seems to have become the practice these days for the purchaser to try to push back the exchange of contracts until almost immediately before completion, so that the period for which the deposit is held is as short as possible. Unfortunately this means that the seller has no guarantee right until the last possible moment that the sale will actually go through at the desired time. In our case we had agreed a completion date just over a week before our departure, but the exchange was repeatedly pushed back until it finally took place the day before completion.

Needless to say, we endured some restless nights worrying that we would leave for BC without the wherewithal to purchase a property in Victoria. As it turned out, of course, the funds appeared as we were expecting and were transferred almost immediately via our currency broker of choice (Moneycorp) to our Canadian bank.

 

In part two – we try to buy a house in BC.

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No – the Kickass Canada Girl and I are not emulating the couple in Ford Madox Brown’s painting of the same name. No quite yet at any rate!

These are instead a few random Fuji X10 images – most likely the last such for now – capturing facets of the English summer.

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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vennOn Saturday last the Kickass Canada Girl and I enjoyed a really rather splendid day in town. ‘In town‘ refers – of course –  to ‘The Smoke‘… to London! I don’t normally feel much inclined to drive all the way in to town again at the weekend – having done most of the journey each and every day during the working week – but on occasion exception must be made – and made it was on Saturday.

We lunched with good friends in what was probably the first of a number of such ‘farewell’ events at one of our favourite eateries in St James – The Wolseley. We then indulged in a little retail therapy in one of London’s iconic department stores – Selfridges – before heading for the West End to see a show. This latter – David Mamet’s ‘American Buffalo‘ starring John Goodman and Damian Lewis and currently playing at Wyndham’s – was a late addition to the day’s festivities in that we only decided to try for seats on the morning itself.

Why – you might wonder – am I regaling you with this directory of Dionysian delights?

The answer is that it occurs to us – as it must do to others in a similar position – that we might, subsequent to our departure from these shores, rapidly come to realise that we miss terribly all the cultural and epicurean delights of the big city. We might even compare – unfavourably – our new home with that which we have left behind and become – as a consequence – ‘homesick’.

I decided to get my comparison in first!

The Wolseley is indeed lovely and serves one of the three best ‘Eggs Benedicts‘ in the world (from my admittedly somewhat limited experience). The second such of these may be obtained just a few hundred yards further along Piccadilly at The Fountain restaurant at Fortnum and Mason. The third – at John’s Place in Victoria!

You might cavil that this latter is clearly an entirely different proposition when compared with the pomp of London’s finest, and you would be right… the ambiance is very different. One need only – however – look at the testimonials on their website to realise that John’s is a very special Place, and that their food really is of the highest order. That one has to fight to get a table for Sunday brunch tells you all you need to know.

Victoria can also offer plenty of other good dining experiences and you will doubtless find me waxing lyrical as to their qualities in future posts.

Could The Bay in Victoria really be compared to Selfridges? There is no denying that the London store is really rather flash and that if one is searching for what the younger folk might at some juncture have referred as ‘bling‘ – then it is probably the place to be. Of a weekend – however – it is also jam packed, overheated and extremely noisy. Frankly I prefer my retail experiences to be a little more civilised.

It will come as no surprise that Victoria cannot hope to compete with London when it comes to the theatre… but then – nowhere else in the world can either (not even the Big Apple!). We did see – however – only a few years ago Eric McCormack in Mamet’s ‘GlenGarry, Glen Ross‘ at the Arts Club Theatre in Vancouver. Certainly we could not reasonably wake up of a morning and expect to be able to book tickets for a hot show starring internationally respected talent that same evening! Both Vancouver and Seattle are within range, but serious planning would be required to mount an expedition to either. We will just have to spend more time on preparation. Fortunately, time will not be in short supply…

On the other side of the equation – driving into London from Berkshire can take up to two hours of traffic-crammed grind – and one must then repeat the odyssey on the way home later. The public transport alternative is no better – hot, exhausting and very, very long. From Saanichton into central Victoria takes around 20 minutes by car, and one gets to look across the Strait of Juan de Fuca at the Olympic mountains for much of the way.

Hmm! Not much in it by my reckoning…

 

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Benjamin_Disraeli_by_Cornelius_Jabez_HughesI have – to this point – made no comment on the somewhat startling outcome of the recent UK general election. This is in part because – as I have stated before within the compass of these scribblings – this blog has no inclination to major on politics. It is also in rather greater part because the result was just so dashed depressing!

Actually – the further we travel from the election night itself the less truly startling the outcome appears, and the more all would seem to have been a dreary inevitability. Similar ballots involving Christmas and large birds of the genus Meleagris spring to mind… but then – I am hardly an impartial observer.

No matter. It is what it is – and I am in any case pretty much disqualified from judgement by my imminent departure to a different – though perhaps no more agreeable – political clime.

One thing – however – I can’t just let go…

I am appalled by the Tories’ post-election notion – courtesy of Cameron himself it would seem – to attempt to re-appropriate the ‘One Nation‘ soubriquet. Benjamin Disraeli (from whose 19th century novel, ‘Sybil‘, the term originates) truly believed in paternalism as a mechanism by which the poor and the needy should be offered support, and that it was the duty of those fortunate enough to have gained thereby to assist those who had lost out in the amoral jungle of the free market. Considerable social reforms were effected as a result during Disraeli’s terms in office.

This paternalism formed the basis of the Tories’ ideology – on and off – for a considerable stretch of its history until the New Conservatism – of which Thatcher was the flag bearer – swept it away during the 70s and 80s in favour of a belief in the unfettered power of the market to shape whatever actually existed of ‘society’.

You might expect me to raise at least two cheers for the return of the Tories to their former doctrine, and I might indeed be persuaded so to do were it not for the fact that – as in so many other things – this new direction is simply another cynical attempt to co-opt a meaningful philosophy (which actually has a track record) as some sort of promotional device for something lesser (which clearly does not!). This is nothing more than marketing and PR at its very worst.

Disraeli’s ‘One Nation‘ was intended to be just that. It was un-equal – certainly – but the intention was to care for the poorest and most destitute even if only by the largesse of their ‘betters’. Cameron’s nation – whichever ‘one‘ it might actually be – would certainly have been unrecognisable to Disraeli. It is – for example – apparently necessary to qualify to belong to it. There may indeed be welfare but only for the deserving – those who are ‘hard-working‘. This clearly excludes single mothers bringing up families – or the disabled who cannot work.

I could go on – but others have written on the subject with far greater lucidity than I could manage. This is The Observer’s editorial on the Queen’s Speech that opened the new session of parliament.

What perhaps galls the most is that the Tories have wasted not a second in setting in motion their campaigning for the next election – five whole years hence. No Tory is allowed to put in an appearance in any of the media without in-canting the party line on ‘One Nation‘ and ‘hard-working families‘. This is PR drivel of the highest order – presumably intending by endless repetition to hammer home the Tories’ ‘brand essence‘! Never have I been more relieved that I for one do not have to endure this farce.

What is worst of all is the sneaking feeling that just such cynical, patronising feculence very probably did help to win them the election just passed.

Doesn’t bear thinking about.

 

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With riotous laughter we quietly suffer
The season in town, which is reason enough for
A weekend in the country
How amusing
How delightfully droll
A weekend in the country

Stephen Sondheim – ‘A Little Night Music’

Just such…

…a weekend in the country with oldest friends. The Fuji x10 came too!

One of many the reasons that this is the perfect time of year in the UK… English asparagus!

Photo by Andy Dawson Reid

A walk is most definitely called for…

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson Reid‘Et in Arcadia…’

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

 

 

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