Category: Competition

Test of time

Looking back to my schooldays, I reckon many of my most valuable lessons were learnt by rote. Times tables, spelling, geographical facts and later, sorry, Latin declensions and conjugations. And how did my school teachers check that I knew them? By asking me politely to swear I’d made the effort? No. There was a test!

These days it is no longer pc, human or psychologically acceptable to demand proof of knowledge imparted. The pressure of being examined is too great for the modern child; and if you must check progress, offer multiple choice questions, to give ’em a chance.

Have you seeen the SATS papers for 6 – 11 year olds? Hardly surprising that by 16 so many children are illiterate and unable to do simple arithmetic. Ask employers how hard it is to recruit young people.

Some will blame Alex Salmond, but I think the Bliar Brigade should carry the can, believing you can make a silk purse out of a genetically modified sow’s ear and then cook the books to prove it.

Leicester

Richard III

When I were butter lad, Leicester was a boring city only 24 miles away on the wrong side of the Watling Street. Like my home town Coventry, it’s an unlovely product of Midlands industry with more success hitherto as a ‘rugger’ city; the Tigers are still a force in the pro game.

But now they play a bit of footie too, it seems. And celebrated Mark Selby’s 2nd snooker World title on the same day as the Foxes won the Premier League. Mark’s another Leicester lad.

So what? Well, not much really! Except it makes a change when provincial places grab the headlines innit?

Oh yes, and Richard III’s bones were discovered there! No more wintry discontent now!

Bucket List: Snickers to that one

While I can still run it crossed my mind to complete a marathon. Reasonably fit, for my age, with a bit of training the 26 miles would be a walk in the park for me. My feat would evoke envy in those runners that have the marathon on their bucket list. With the goal of outbucketing the bucketeers I prepared. I got as far as buying comfortable training shoes but after a few jogs I got phed up with dese and chucked them in the bin.

There’s no point in a marathon. Going pell-mell with the hoi polloi in the peloton, all those miles of torture just to fleetingly pass El Diablo and then there’s the side stiches.  Do it for charity not the glory, opined some. I do charity, I never pass a bucket in the street or shops without throwing in some loose drachma. You can do it in a chicken suit, opined others. οικόσιτα πτηνά, my left caruncle. Don’t spartan something you can’t finish, opined the do ‘ave ’ems. They were right, that’s what got this silly run going in the first place.

I blame the Persians. If only those ancient sons of Zoroaster could fight.

‘Twas ever thus and evermore shall be so

Politics has always been a mean and dirty business. It’s what makes historical tales of power and passion so fascinating. Think Caesar, the Plantagenets, the Tudors, the Kennedies….pick your favourites.

So of course the Brexit issue is a messy, manic business – even dirtier than the US primaries will become. So many individual reputations are at stake – but truth be told, little else. Yes, I mean it.

‘Markets’ will wobble, governments will fall and rise again, but otherwise Brexit will be less risky than Remain. Why? Because unelected oligarchies mean trouble, controlling economies without popular choice. Because for every Remain argument there is a balancing reply in the real, non-political world.

So there.

I was there

Well, akshully I was in a pub in Bootham, York, when our boys beat Germany 50 years ago. And believe it or not there was a telly, very small, b & w but a telly nevertheless. A group of maybe 20 enthusiasts huddled round it and cheered for England.

Tonite, they meet again. In colour. Without Kenneth Wolstenholme (sp?). Not really a friendly. See you there.

Basic instincts

We are all dissatisfied with our political leaders. No change there then – ’twas ever thus according to even the reliable sources.

So what can be done about it? Support radical groups, rabble-rousers and Trump?

Trouble is – gee whiz- we’ll end up with national policies based on our least human/humane feelings about our needs and ambitions. Greed, envy, hatred, hypocrisy, self-obsession and suspicion of everyone else.

So help me out here, please.

Boxing Day

Boxing Day means different things to different folk – no longer a time for exchanging gifts after a day of prayer – and increasingly a time for manic shopping. (But never of course a time for organised fisticuffs, as some incorrectly conclude.)

But time was when (such an elegant phrase😑) the Upper Ten were wont to ride to hounds today, baying for blood, pink in coat and red in claw.

And regrettably the blood lust persists in these northern latitudes, in the pc guise of population control – of the hunted, that is. What the hunting fraternity do is ‘protect’ the deer against poachers and natural migrations, feed them and then send in posses of gunmen to shoot them down for sport. They claim to be trained marksmen but their prey occasionally survive and limp painfully towards a silent, hungry death. How we laugh!

Even though fox hunting with dogs in England is almost dead, stalking deer is alive and well in many countries. But who dares to rob the rich and famous (or the not-so-rich and bloodthirsty) these days? Robin Hood joined Labour and became a preacher.

Have a nice day, y’all!

Time for segregation

It’s as clear as urinating in snow, as they say in this neck of the woods. The era of playing by the rules ended when contradicting parents, ignoring teachers and disrespecting coppers became the norm.

The world segwayed seamlessly into two distinct societies, the conformers and the rebels; all in the cause of money and power.

But what’s to be done about sports dopers, automotive cheats and common or garden anarchists?

Well, years ago DK sanctioned a district in Copenhagen where the rules don’t apply. It’s Christiania. Of course its freedoms are abused but it satisfies some primeval antisocial urges.

So here’s the thing: sport is easy. Just run two systems, the clean and the ‘open’. Similar to the old gents v. players, amateurs v. pros.

For cars, establish two classes, conforming and others, differentiated by eye-watering tax rates.

All non-conformists would have to choose publicly not to conform but accept the consequences of their choice. Importantly no stigma would attach to it.

It can’t work, you say. No? Well the present set up is a train crash so what’s not to like?