Douglas Haig : War Diaries and Letters. 1914-18

Douglas Haig was given the unenviable task of winning a major war. Haig was a career soldier who through hard work had reached the rank of General and was given charge of one of the two army Corps who left for France in August 1914. Soon after the beginning of his adventure he began to keep a diary, one way to keep in touch with his wife,to whom he sent the manuscript, and an opportunity to express his thoughts, thoughts kept from all others.

By the end of 1915 it had become clear to all that the war would be long and hard. Haig, like all senior men realised that this war would be a 'War of attrition' and the cost would be high. Sir John French's failure led to Haig taking command by December of that year and he had to deal with allies, politicians and the Germans. It is difficult to say which was the real enemy!

The diary contains nothing considered 'revelation,' and for the most part is mostly an itinerary of who he met, when and where. However his comments on eating from the lunch box always gives a 'picnic' like feel. Somewhat unnerving when the troops in the front line were living of stew and hard biscuits! Haig was a Victorian soldier, who believed in the Empire and doing his duty. A tough minded courageous soldier who understood the difficulties the troops faced. He was however convinced discipline, and strict discipline at that, was necessary for and effective army.
Knowing that this was to be a 'wearing out' war he was not surprised by the casualty lists, the top military leaders knew this would be inevitable. But this does not mean he was callous of his men's suffering. His comment at the end of the first day of the Somme battle that 40,000 casualties was to be 'expected' while difficult for us to accept, reveals not indifference to suffering, but a soldiers acceptance of the reality.

Inevitably the diary reflects the war from behind the front line. Haig's reflections of the French allies and the individual Generals, his contempt for the duplicity of politicians, his politicians, and his determination to put his own position aside and just get on with 'winning the war.' Haig had no liking for Lloyd George, Prime Minister from 1916, but understood his importance in winning the war, especially in 1918. But LG was the man who left us with the image of Haig behind the line, uncaring when his men suffered. LG's friends in the press used Haig as an easy scapegoat to avoid the prime minister from taking the blame for 750,000 UK deaths. Let alone the near two million other casualties. Lloyd Georges career being more important than a mere General. Have things changed any?

Haig refused any reward after the end of the war until the government had assured a pension for disabled soldiers. He also made an effort to help such men after the war. In his mind the war was a major siege, in which there was not many battles to be fought, merely a series of attacks in one big battle, lasting front August 4th 1914 until 11th November 1918, the day of the armistice. This major battle Haig won! Working with his allies, and from 1916, often without them, his strength won the war. Haig was never the greatest General, but even Lloyd George at his worst could not find another to replace him. Many mistakes were made, but at no time has any alternative strategy been put forward, not tactics that would have worked, no easy way to victory. In spite of his enemies and in spite of his failings Haig remains a General who deserves a better critique.

Workstep

Every two weeks I attend 'Workstep.' One of those government ideas to get folks like me back to work. It originated with the Royal British Legion and I suppose it grew out of their experience with helping ex-service personnel back to work. In my case I think they reckon I was playing the 'Old Soldier' and dumped me on this! Every two weeks I go upstairs and meet the attractive, competent, far too good for this job, young lass who assists my feeble efforts. Well at least she has amended my CV and no longer refers to my original attempts as 'dire.' So, after an needless bath,in spite of the cost of soap, I wandered off in good time.

I should have realised as I passed the sentry that something was up.

His smirk should have made me realise that he knew I was going the wrong way. His assistant was, as usual, sauntering about in the back of the auditorium chatting.When I got upstairs I glanced at the wee darkened room where I usually meet the lass and saw her busy with another so I sat down in the far side, the only available space. John, my regular dole man, was staring at his PC and trying to work out what button to press and so ignored me, I then returned the thought.

I sat and waited,

and waited,

and waited.

The elderly gent opposite, near the entrance door, looked at his watch, many times, and he supped some sort of sports drink, much needed for this place I thought! He waited, and, waited and watched his watch. And waited....

I waited, filling the time watching the women wobbling by.The thought passed through my mind that far too many were using the lift to climb one flight of stairs, and far too many sausage rolls were being eaten instead of food! Next time I will bring a 'Weightwatchers' poster with me and hang it on the wall to frighten them.

I continued waiting,
and waiting.
Others waited, no one spoke.
A 'Chav' wandered over from one of the desks where he had been chatting amiably. He sat along from me in that 'Chav' style. Legs apart, arms folded, brightly coloured baseball cap perched on the back of his head, his nylon fashion trousers in danger of giving electric shocks to passing strangers, and he waited.
After a while he was called to another desk where he, it turned out, was pleading, pleasantly, for an immediate hand out.

Then the nutter entered.

Naturally he sat a few feet from myself. Don't they always? He immediately began shooting at invisible targets over on the far side of the room, then the folk behind, then the ceiling, and on...
If only he had waited?
He continued firing at unobserved targets then, horror of horrors, he spoke!

"I have passed stage 11" he said, friendly like.

I ignored, surly like.

He returned to firing, and waiting.

The elderly gent looked at him from afar and glanced at me, I noticed his thoughts, they were similar to mine but I did not have the relief that the nutter was on the other side of the room.

"Got any children?" dafty asked. I stopped myself saying "Not on me," in case it led to conversation and merely grunted, "No," and stared across the room at two fat women tottering towards the lift. It creaked somewhat worryingly as they entered.

John my man then appeared and spoke to the daft one, he informed him the lass we had both come to see was to be found downstairs today!

I stared.
I then spluttered something about the waiting.

He grinned in a somewhat gratuitous fashion when informing me he had not seen me staring into space for the twenty minutes that seemed like several days. Gurgling with needless pleasure he told me it was the 'Scope' woman who was sitting in the dark room and I was mistaken. He smirked again and off I trooped. As I came downstairs the sentry cackled in an evil manner, and I began to lose the guilt I had gathered when informing the nutter to bring his sawn off shotgun next time."They would like to hear how loud it can be," I told him. It will be then my turn to cackle!
The 'Chav' crinkled his way past me to collect his winnings and head for the Jewellery counter at 'Argos,' the shop, not the ancient city state.
The appointment was cancelled and I just e-mailed her my failure instead of weeping at the desk as normal. I bet she missed that, especially as she also had to deal with the nutter. Once more it is back to the routine search, and maybe, just maybe, something will turn up. I wonder if I have any long lost rich great uncles near death out in New Zealand or Mombasa or the likes? Here's hoping, I mean, good luck to him, or her.....

Sunday Morning

I threw off my Duffel coat and removed my jacket, I dropped my thick pullover on the floor and added the thin one to it, the fleece jacket and chest protector were thrown down alongside. On to them I placed my thermal trousers and Ski pants. My baseball cap and woolly hat were flung aside and after removing the two pair of football socks I threw aside the old army blankets and leapt out of bed. Blearily I drew apart the torn bedraggled rags that imitate curtains and looked with wonder at the world. The world in turn looked wonderingly at me and muttered, "What on earth is that?"

Huddled over a candle, to save on the electric, I downed a pint or two of coffee and attempted to recover my mind. This having failed I fought valiantly against the biting wind to the newsagent and bought an overpriced paper. Quite why I have this desire to waste money on this I cannot understand, but I gave in to the temptation. The result, as you can appreciate, is a large pile of paper lying all over the floor. The 'Money' section has gone along with the 'Business ' and 'Motor' sections. 'Travel' was glanced at, but the trip to Vietnam, while enticing, is slightly over my budget. Still to be glanced at and added to the recycling box is the 'Sport,' (all English of course, you would never think there was a union in 1707 would you, not from these papers) the colour supplement, which I guess will contain little worth reading, and the TV section (referred to as 'Culture' to make it more impressive!). Lying by itself is the actual paper! This will contain some news, some 'in depth' items, a handful of self opinionated columnists and lots of adverts! Well worth the money.........

Later I tuned into the televised service from Luss. Last time I quite enjoyed this and thought it a good idea. A typical Church of Scotland, somewhat formal affair. This time however I was sore tried by the constant 'greetin' of a couple of bairns who's mother, like all mums everywhere, was totally deaf to their noise. Unfortunately the microphones were not and this rendered the spoken word unintelligible. Now I love kids, I used to be one, and I find they can be a great source of fun and enjoyment, except when using the video to store ice cream, throwing stones at the window or burning down schools. I also believe kids ought to be in Sunday school or crèche where church is concerned! Alas this brought out the crabbit in me and ruined my morning. The children were kept in throughout because they were to be baptised. This did unsettle me as baptism ought to be for those who are able to comprehend what they are doing. In the CoS it is used to make folk 'members' of the church even as infants, therefore implying salvation, however salvation is only by the 'Born again' experience, however you define it. I have come across those who have claimed they had experience of Jesus when they were only three, and I am sure they did, however this is not the norm. Now many in the CoS know their God, and some famous men have agreed with infant baptism, but I suppose for far too many biblical knowledge is so limited and considered unimportant. God is for Sunday, and we all just do the best we can the rest of the week, a well meaning nominalism. These are often the best folk to know,but God has more,much more for us in himself. I am still troubled by what I saw today.

In fact I am so upset I am going to watch Ghana v Nigeria in the African Nations! C'mon Ghana, C'mon Larry Kingston!

Nagging Woman

Now I appreciate that there are no nagging women in this world. I know this because I have been given such information by a large assortment of women, many times over. Therefore it must be true, because as they put it, "I say so!" That is not an argument I can counter, certainly not with facts anyway......

In such a fashion my beautiful, she says, young friend 'Blackberry Juniper' has 'requested' I post more about her than about lesser items, such as worldwide famine, nuclear war, earthquakes or football. All subjects she deems less important than mentioning her situation. Now I am not one to be bullied by just anybody you know, oh no.
I assure you I only get nagged and bullied by the best, and she is quite an experienced nagger I can tell you.

So what can we say that will stop her hitti...er, indicating my mistakes? Well I could tell you of her comfortable abode in the heart of London, her luck in acquiring a man of the right sort - housetrained and obedient. She has humour, sending me a postcard of a cemetary and writing "Wish you were here" on the back, and of course she has a massive intellect that she humbly never talks about. This lass obtained an MA while I still have only an 'O' level of the flimsiest kind. Her knowledge is, like her looks, without comparison, her employment many levels below that which she is capable off. Her faults...well I have NEVER found any, and I say that under no compulsion at all - more or less....

But why do women nag? Could it be he doesn't listen? The female of the species needs care and attention and often. Little things must be noticed, hairstyle, earings, new sauce in the casserole etc. These of course are the very things the man will not observe because they are irrelevant to him! Who notices that she is wearing red today and not blue? Only a woman, and only a woman would understand what that means, whatever it means. If he does not pay attention to her, she will of course nag, and women use several times the number of word any male will use. But if he pays attention and leads her to what is good for her, she will love him for it, but still find time to complain because he has not noticed the shoes are new ones...... Which reminds me of the call I had this morning. A friend has seen his wife of to a conference for the weekend and he called because he thought he required a doctor. With her not being in the house he thought he had gone deaf!


Pic from http://www.humourbeings.co.uk/pics_2.htm

Weather Girls

The United Kingdom, a you know, has a reputation for discussing the weather more often than is really necessary. A frequent opener of conversation is the state of the weather, usually involving a great degree of surprise that in January the weather is awful! It never fails to amaze me that people are often stunned that snow and gales should cause traffic disruption and be found knocking down trees. Possibly during the few thousand years of habitiation of this earthly paradise the Atlantic waves crashing against the coast and eroding the hard rock found there has not been observed. Maybe the loss of many East Anglian towns caused by the sea removing the land on which they were built has gone unreported in some parts, but certainly not in East Anglia! It is winter therefore it will rain, the temprature will drop, and the wind will blow making everything worse. That is how it usually happens, but when it does, shock! Obviously the further north we go the worse the climate becomes, those living on the West Cost of Scotland the the North West of England being well aware that two days out of three 'might be wet.' A good summer equals one day in three being sodden and the sky being a naval gray as opposed to a deep gloomy immitation dark night. How do we know when the seasons change? With the road from Tomintoul we find one way to recognise winter has arrived, when it becomes blocked by snow that is the start. However this may be slightly defective as this often occurs in August! For those further south the end of the summer holidays and shops being stuffed full of Christmas gear warns of winters approach. Mind you that could brng us back to August again.

Foretelling the weather has long been an occupation of this island race. Farmers, shepherds, fishermen were from the earliest times always watchful of the sky for the signs of changes in the environment around them. World wide folks watched for 'Red sky at night, shepherds delight,' even Jesus mentioned this, and such simple signs would be recognised by anyone living in the country. Animals behaviour often indicated weather patterns changing, and fishermen noting the oceans which so easily took their lives away were always alert for danger indicators. Not so today. Today we have a simpler, and more attractive, indication of how the heavens will affect us, weather girls! Yes indeed, we no longer need to stare at the sky each evening hoping for deep pink clouds, nor do farners have to rise early and wonder of their cows are sleeping standing up or lying down, oh no, today we confront a pretty young thing, usually blonde, lying in her teeth!

Liars? These pretty wee lassies lie?Oh yes they do!
Imagine a postman watching the 'Anglian News' one evening. Along comes the weather girl, attractive, smiling, personable, and informs him that there "May be one or two showers early on, ut nothing to wrooy about." Next morning he sets of to work dressed appropriatly, sorts the mail and heads of to commence delivery. As he cycles out of the office a few spots of rain appear, he grunts and continues reassured that these passing drops will soon fade.Wrong! Four and a half hours later he returns, soaked through to the bone, his bags sodden, the mail turned into paper mache and as he enters the building the manager, coffee cup I hand looks skywards and mutters, "Good, it's clearing up. I'm glad as I'm of home now" The postmans response earns him an official warning. Why do these weather girls use the word 'shower' when they mean 'downpour?' Is it because they are female, or just because they specialise in cruelty?

Weather forecasting today is a highly technical operation. Girls like the one above are not just your Scandinavian bint on the make but highly educated clever wee things. The girls who appear on Anglia share the competent yet relaxed image of the programme, and image that leaves it head and shoulders (which their hairy probably doesn't need) ahead of the BBC. 'Look East.' is a show staffed by wax dummies and the weather girl there, however competent, makes Mrs Beckham look fat. Who can truly put faith in the advice of a stick insect I ask you? Now however, as I look at the sodden picture outside my window I can see the results of yesterdays forecast actually being proved right, it is belting down. Tomorrow they say snow from the north, and then the bitch smiles sweetly! Snow! What is there to smile about? Right then, if that's the case I had better go back to bed and cancel all my appointments.

Pipex!

They done it again! That is the third time the service has disappeared! It has happened once in three years, and probably because it was the busy time of day, and yet three times now it has just died, why? Have they no care for those of us who cannot function without the web? Do you think they do it for spite? I do!

So I have been calmly sitting on the floor all morning, staring into space while some tech geek spills coffee all over the servers in some chap part of the world. I say 'calmly' because after two bottles of valium and half a bottle of Tesco Congac I found myself very calm indeed, even now I feel serene. That said I can't actually feel anything, my legs, my head, my fingers and I notice lots of strange evil creature crawling across the window pane.......

I think it's time to sue Pipex for what they are doing to me.....

Teeth

This is former Senator John Edwards, one of the candidates for the Democrat Party in the US Presidential election. Watching the news tonight I noticed him as he came forward, family at hand, to announce the end of the campaign as far as he was concerned, and the end of his political life I suppose. But what do you notice? As he arrived he immediately put on the American smile! The first thing that appears every time one of these noble candidates arrives on the scene is the false smile. Now it is clear that politicians everywhere have to put on a certain acceptable appearance and look the part, this is fair enough, I would not vote nor trust someone with my fashion sense. However, there is something slimy in the practised American smile. It is seen in politics, it is seen in the church and I remember thirty years ago that all the Christian books that arrived from the US always had a picture of the author on the back cover, always dominated by a row of teeth that reminded me of a Commonwealth War Cemetery! Salesmen, newsmen all have the perfect teeth, all straight and fitting together in a nice straight row. All these folk must have spent billions on dental work, clearly the 49 pence I spent on Tesco toothpaste will not be enough to remove the film, much better than the ones shown on telly, from my big mouth. Pity....

This smile is made worse by the image consciousness of the Yanks in that the teeth need to be perfectly white. No grimy UK teeth would ever won an election there, not even in Pennsylvania! Chat show guests, the home of the attention seeker and deviant, would happily come on and talk about their father being homosexual, their four husbands and their love of stealing form their granny, but never ever would they talk without specially whitened teeth! That would be seen as a disgrace! All people in all nations are image conscious even so the desperation for the perfect, although false, smile is very depressing. Real people for me please.

I Want One!

Oh yes I do! What better way to travel around than on a beauty like this? In the sunshine of course, absolutely no good whatsoever in the rain! What a lovely looking motor bike! Doesn't it make your heart beat faster, your desire for the open road increase, your delusion that you are still twenty return and the East Rider theme tune for Steppenwolf crash through the mind? Woohoo!

Naturally there is a downer. For one, there is no money. Buy a motor bike? I canny afford a bus ticket. The running costs, the servicing, the petrol is more than I could imagine, let alone the insurance. Another small problem is the licence, not having one I mean. I did have a provisional licence - I think, in 1976 when I then possessed a Suzuki GT185, which quickly fell apart under my engineering skills. Another one of my many failures is technical ability, there is none! The summer of '76 was of course 'the year of the drought.' A time when some Christians were talking of Gods judgement on us, and others were taking this to heart by stretching themselves all over the parks around us and attempting to develop skin cancer. Being from Edinburgh I stayed in the shade fearful of this new development in my life, three passing days with no rain - wow! The time spent running about London on the bike delivering overpriced photos to a variety of dour staffed companies showed to me that driving was not enjoyable, especially in London. This was made clear when that man knocked me off the bike when turning a corner. It was his fault, he should have seen me overtaking on the inside before he moved! "What? Oh..." For this reason I never took it up, and when the bike fell apart I let it all drop. Most of it is still lying there. However, I obtained another provisional in 1989 as I had a chance of free driving instructions at work, which happily fell through. Having moved out here I really must consider driving, even without cash, as the transport system since the days of Maggie Thatchers money grabbing has collapsed. I actually took some lessons before and gave up in disgust at the result. A mistake I fear, although the driving instructor at the time was keen for me to continue.

Of course as a Spurs fan he was usually found with his hands over his face anyway, as the scores would be heard over the radio and his despair grew as the lesson progressed. Approaching the roundabout on the busy road from Chelmsford I asked "Which lane?" but obtained no reply, Spurs had lost another goal and his head was banging on the dashboard while he agonised loudly.
"Which lane should I be in?" I asked timidly.
'Beep Beeeeep.' 'Beeeeep.'
"No noooo, not agaaiiiiin."
'Squeeeaaaaaaaal.' 'Beeeep' "@*&$:@%."
"It's OK, I got there."
"Four nil, four nilllll."
They have got worse since then, and I am not sure he does that job anymore. Whether it was the money or his team that changed his mind I would not like to say. I can say that as this was coming up to Christmas he was working seven days a week, from seven thirty in the morning till seven thirty at night. His wife, who only worked four days a week, complained he did not do enough around the house, and she had to do all the housework and look after the toddler! She then went into a huff when he indicated the reality of the situation. Women eh? The good book asks "A good wife who can find?" It does not give an answer....

It is a risk in many ways, spending money I really don't have on lessons to attempt something I am not keen on cannot make me feel good. However, maybe I might get a job out of it, although that seems unlikely. Other drivers in my position have struggled. It is useful, but with no cash there is no vehicle anyway. On top of this there will be the travelling to the sanatorium to visit the next instructor which takes a lot of time and trouble, let alone all the forms the police must fill in these days. However we will see. But every so often I see a picture like that, especially when the sun is shining through the frozen air, and think to myself, I want one of those!
One day maybe.

Typical!

After mentioning how useful the web is for a wide variety of functions, it went down this morning! When I got up I stared outside at the bright morning enjoying the sight. How I hate the dark days, the cold, the rain, the snow, all horror stuff that drives me mad! Why am I not rich enough to live in Crete or some such place where the sun shines? However, once I breathed in the cold, sorry fresh, morning air I looked up the usual suspects on the web, read the football reports, removed the spam, and passed on useful e-mails. I then got on with my day.

Later I returned to the web but nothing happened! The machine went through all the correct moves but the response from the ISP was dead! Dead! Nothing,no connection! Dead! I stared into space for a while as I went through the difficult problem of coming to terms with this. No connection meant no football messageboards, no spam or proper e-mail. It meant I could not read any more papers, find the news, search the blogs or indeed get in touch with the world! I was trapped!

I kept calm, after I stopped crying, got up off my knees and calmly switched it all off as clearly it was a temporary fault at their end. Wiping away the tears I contemplated what could be done without the internet. Much indeed! Computers are the most wonderful of things, as this laptop would be if the CD actually connected to the rest of the thing (I accidentally deleted the relevant folder), and the screen and dial up worked. Like everything here it is broken, I mean, look at me, you call this fit? I continued with my duties, offering prayers every few seconds. A few days ago the same thing happened,and then the lass at the Service desk spoke of an outage,almost as if I ought to know why it had all collapsed! I phoned again, my fingers trembling as I dialled, well, pushed buttons. The message at the other end kindly gave me the new number from the 1st of February then informed me, with a smile, that "..our offices are closed!" CLOSED!!!! What sort of service is that? Who can I shout at when the service is down if the office is 'closed!?'

I realised this was a judgement because I had not gone to that church I had planned on visiting this morning. It had to be, even though I was far to knackered for some reason to go anywhere. Why am I always tired anyway? There is a Church of Scotland service broadcast live from the village of Luss which I had intended to watch. Not the greatest, but I thought worth a go today.

I roamed around contemplating life without this wonderful window on the world. We can live without it but we are now dependent on it. This is not a bad thing, it is only a machine, and useful for many things, but when it goes down we are often helpless. I sat on the tarmac at Edinburgh International Airport (which I still call Turnhouse) while the captain informed us that the Scots air traffic computer had 'crashed.' We discussed whether this was the appropriate choice of words for the moment! Another question concerned the aircraft already in the air, "Would they have to stay up there all day," someone asked? Eventually someone unplugged the machine and then put the plug back in, we soon set off. But it was close! I knew I could live without this machine, but I would lose so much. E-mail, the blogs I have come to enjoy, and the folk connected to them, research, surfing for the sake of it, Scots football, people! So much that I can contact easily that otherwise would cost time and expense. Which reminds me, time to consider selling books on E-Bay!

After a short eternity the Internet came back. I ran downstairs and standing in the middle of the road shouted "Hallelujah!!!!" A Sainsburys van driver was clearly not impressed! I of course have not done much with this since. Other things to do, football to watch, letters to write, books to read, lunch to burn and so on. However I will look up those pictures of the Battle of Cambrai, and send those e-mail, and write this blog and so on, I will, honest. At least Sicarii understands how I feel. although I suspect most women will fail to. Typical!

Saturday

Once again the sun is shining and the sky is blue, once again the birdies sing just loud enough not to be drowned out by the noise of passing traffic. Once again a Saturday feeling is upon me, quite why I cannot say as too many days are like this. However I will be forced to watch one or two English cup ties on telly, I have already visited the market for the fruit and veg which makes up so much of my diet, and once more I am confronted with a long list of 'things to do' which has grown since I started noting these things on Monday. I suppose I had better do some of them now.....

I write this hoping to delay the need to write the FIVE job applications sitting beside me. No doubt some think I ought to be jumping for joy at the opportunities, as sometimes there is no employment opening anywhere to be found, but as I know before I start I will get nowhere I find a real lack of enthusiasm within. The letters will be drawn out of me from somewhere, the right things said, the CV e-mailed or posted, and they will disappear into the ether. Now it is not that I don't want to work, although I have enjoyed much of this time, but I feel guilty taking the dole, and would like to do something useful. Being a numpty makes this difficult. Time, once again, to survey my abilities and.... get depressed I suppose!

Success has been achieved in one area, the broken ansafone now works! After much wrestling and throwing it around I reset the thing simply by pulling out the plug! A clever person would have done this days ago! Now to try this tactic on the washing machine. No, that did not work! Ah well. It is probable it will not work on the VCR either then, nor the tiles that have fallen of the bathroom wall.

As I write this I am struck by the worldwide audience. Folk who have read my blog have been reading thousands of miles apart. Now this may not appear anything but obvious, however when I returned to London in 1975 there were few who could have imagined sitting here in North Essex and reading blogs posted in Singapore, the USA, Saudi Arabia and even down the road! To my little mind this is fantastic! A friend obtained the Internet in London around 94/5 and one night we went from a look into a Chinese University to a similar institution in Virginia! Fantastic stuff, not because of the content but the possibility of trawling the world for information, fun and the blogs I come across. My dad was born in 1908 and had he lived would have been in his hundredth year. When he was born man had just learned to fly, by the time he died we had just landed on the moon! Radio and television were unheard of as he grew up, and even when he joined the army - the only way bar the navy to see the world in 1925 - only the very rich had cars or telephones! In his mind there was a kind of magic that these inventions appeared and spread so that we had radio and television in our, comfortable corporation house, something his young mind could not have imagined. Our house is of course a flat in what we call a 'stair.' The 195 version of a tenement. Three bedrooms in exchange for the one bedroom and no bath tenement his mother brought them up in.

We take for granted these things today, computers on the desk, mobile phones in the pocket, cars a necessity in many areas ad flying regularly around the world,just for shopping trips! Even in the sixties flying was only for the wealthy. The Beatles flew B.O.A.C. to the States but most folk still sailed as it was cheaper. By the end of the sixties half the nation spent their holidays in Spain! I had a holiday in Hounslow I recall... The world is indeed getting smaller. However I for one am grateful for this invention. There is great benefit from all the learning available on the myriad sites I peruse, almost everything I question has a site somewhere. The football facts I crave, most important you understand, is greatly helped by the messageboards, even the Hibs Mad one. Newspapers, and the 'Daily Record,' can be read online, even videos of news, football and music can be found. Friends, virtual or not, can be found in every part of the world, and there are quite a few I can call friends who I will never meet but have made an impact through their writings. That's a result I say.

Oh dear. The football will be on soon, and I have done nothing about these jobs. The 'things to do' list is crying out for attention, lunch is required, and I am sitting here turning into an old woman. How sick is that?

Poetry

When I jumped out of bed this morning I noticed the sun was shining. How lovely to see this I thought, and noticing the blue tits cheerily chasing each other across the trees opposite I became entranced with the sight. I rushed downstairs and across the road and stood in the park bathing in the sunshine. I listened to the white headed blackbird singing joyfully as it searched for breakfast, I watched the sun reflect of the bright green leaves of the bushes all around me, I noticed the slim white vapour trail high overhead in the azure sky, I rejoiced in the sights and senses of what came close to a spring morning. "Hello, hello, hello. What you a doing off a standing starkers in the park may I ask," said the local police community warden.

Much later....

Now that I know what an 'ASBO' is I am free, (except between the hours of 7 p.m. and 7 a.m of course), to do what I like. So I will return to the waxing lyrical, especially today when we commemorate the poet that was Rabbie Burns. In many parts of the world folks are, as we speak, stuffing haggis and whisky down their throats. Some rejoicing, others slyly avoiding the haggis and sticking with the fruit of the barley! Which reminds me, I must phone my brother in law! Rabbie Burns is seen by some Scots as a kind of saint. They regard him as a 'typical' Scot and in many ways he does fit the bill for that. He came from an extremely poor farming background, where his father,like many of that time, encouraged his children to learn! Robert did, and how! While learning the hard life of ploughing, seeding and reaping the fruits of the field he also studied a wide range of subjects reading voraciously. Geography, theology, maths, literature, French and Latin, and no doubt anything else he came across. The result of a Scotland being Calvinist was not hindering the mind of the nation but it gave free reign for the people, at all levels, to learn if they so desired. The work ethic also contained an encouragement to develop the person. One is left wondering what happened to this, did the wealthy society kill it, are we lazy, or is it just me that fails? Burns spent far too much of his time with women and drink. Some see this as a good thing, but I wonder if this is the case. Doing what we want seems good at the time, but doing what we ought gets more results. Satisfaction does not come through having all we want. Burns poetry did bring him in contact with Edinburgh's high society, and the girls threw themselves at him, finding his wit, his strength, his knowledge and, no doubt, flattery appealing. Women flock to such men, as I can vouch for. Oh yes I can! However, he ended up back on the farm, and a failing one at that. Maybe he just did not sit easily with the chattering classes, a working man tends to have a different, more cynical, view of life than they.

Though much admired by the Church of Scotland folks I doubt he could really be called 'Christian,' he appears tome to be happier as a 'liberal' happily reading his 'Guardian.' he loved his wife, but that did not stop him fathering many bairns elsewhere. Some men seem uncaring towards their wives in this regard. Tempting though it may be, and situations at home can be difficult, having several children by a wide variety of woman shows you to be a spoilt brat,not a man. Not that I am jealous of course. We would all like lots of women at our beck and call, but it is better to have the best, and in the end commitment to one only, however difficult is the best way. (My beloved ran away of course). Rabbie Burns would probably be a good man to have around, a good patriot, happiest when with his friends in the pub, hard working and very much a working man. In many ways he does provide the Scot with an image they respond to. Sad to say he died after falling asleep in the rain when drunk. He died of the resulting rheumatic fever. Here is one of his more human refrains.

Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a' that,
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a' that,
For a' that, an' a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That man to man, the world o'er,
Shall brithers be for a' that

Two sites worth a browse:

Robert Burns

The World Burns Club

Nothing to Say

To the surprise of many, mostly rude nasty people, I have had nothing to say for a while. Two reasons for this. One was a touch of that awful bug that had me worried something worse was affecting me. I even considered visiting one of those 'doctor' creatures,but decided it would make me look foolish.
"I've just come for a check up, to see what is wrong with me Doc."
"Your a lazy, fat, slob, anything else?"
"No thanks. Bye."
Just a touch of man flu leaving me with sluggish symptoms and no sympathy from anyone - again! This bug meant I just could not be bothered. The energy levels were not conducive to writing. (Conducive eh? Wonder what that means?) Also I have been having a spiritual struggle. One of those ongoing things between me and Jesus. This was wearing my little mind out. And meant I was really not interested in much else to be honest.

I have however, still got nothing to say! Reading other blogs, and there are masses of good ones out there amongst the porn, make money, and advertising blogs which appear to dominate, and some excellent writing to be found. However I note almost all suffer from silence at times. This must be devastating for the woman who finds nothing to say. How do women cope in those situations I wonder? Bet it drives them mad! Mind you,I rarely meet such women in the real world, they always have something to say, even when there is nothing to say! Which brings me to the 'Mail on Sunday!'

For reasons difficult to explain I bought this, 'newspaper,' on Sunday, and wonder why? Aimed mostly at women, it presents page after page of trauma! Every story concerns some woman's struggle against adversity, from family problems to near death experiences. Some meaningless 'B' celebrity is shown on many pages doing what they do - nothing! Even the supplements, and there are many, are filled with suffering girls. Why? Who cares? We all have,or know of others who have, hard times. Some awful situations confront folk on a daily basis. But to make them the reason to buy a paper? What does it tell us of the female who reads this day by day, and they do because the 'Daily Mail' gives us just the same thing, and yet they lap it up? Apart from holiday adverts there is little else to be found in this rag bar pages of the 'Mail' readers other love - money! No surprise there eh? It will take more than a free CD, even one I want this time,to make me buy this again.There is of course little to read in most papers these days. News is broadcast on telly and radio twenty four hours a day so there is no need for urgent paper news. The choice for them comes down to 'in depth' reporting or sensational headlines. The headlines have it of course because people do not really want facts,they are satisfied with 'bread and circuses.' Shock headlines,exaggerated or not,sell! For reasons that pass way over the gray hairs that appear on the side of my head stories about Britney Spears and the like are popular! Why? What is the draw in a broken mediocre star, whether singer/actor/nobody anyway? It is not as if you can help them, and having their life in the press helps no-one.

Hmmm, see, I had nothing to say anyway. You missed nowt!

Heart of Midlothian 1 Hibernian 0

Once again the Heart of Midlothian have shown their superiority over Hibernian. There can surely be no doubt, anywhere in all creation, that Hibernian are referred to as 'The Wee Team' justly! This season has seen the Hearts struggle internally leading to poor performances on the field of play. Indeed we have not won since November. What better way to end this run than by beating the local rivals ? In spite of not playing well the Hearts can always rely upon the Hibernian coaching staff to aid us. Once again the Goalkeeping coach has failed in his job, this time forgetting to tell the goalie to catch the ball and stop it from fumbling over the line. Shame eh? Never mind, he is not the first numpty to play in goals for Hibernian, and he will not be the last!

The Edinburgh derby between Hibernian and the Heart of Midlothian first occurred at the Meadows in Edinburgh on Christmas Day 1875. On that occasion, which I did not attend, Hearts began the game with three men missing for the first twenty minutes yet still won by one goal to nil! Thus began a series of results than can only be called a 'custom.' In those early days football clubs would move from one playing area to another and as the game became quickly popular more permanent stadiums were required. By 1881 the Hearts has settled in Tynecastle while Hibs floated around until they finally developed a ground on an old rubbish tip just of Easter Road. Apt I would say, wouldn't you? Wherever they played the Hearts have been dominant at home and away. A quick look at the total figures for all the games played reveals how supreme the Heart of Midlothian have become.

Altogether, including League, Cup and a variety of other matches, the clubs have met a total of 603 times! The Hearts have won on 269 occasions the Hibs, with referees help, have scraped a mere 194 victories. There have been 134 drawn games, but we should have won them, and 6 games were abandoned! During this time, the Heart of Midlothian scored 1048 goals, and the refs chalked off many more out of sympathy for the 'Wee Team.' They themselves did manage to obtain 878 goals in this time. Most of them it must be said were actually offside or obtained from penalties which they obtained by their famous tactic of disgraceful diving!

The most famous occasion was naturally the 1896 Scottish Cup final played at Logie Green Road in Edinburgh. This was the only time the final has been played outside of Glasgow. The Glasgow authorities with their unreasonable belief that the game belongs to them insist on all the important matches occurring in the nations second city. On this occasion however, common sense prevailed and many thousands crowded this ground to watch the Heart of Midlothian win the Scottish Cup once again, and in doing so remind Hibernian that they remain 'The Wee Team!' It was not until 2006 that these clubs met at a high level in the Cup. On that occasion Hampden Park (It should have been Murrayfield) was the venue as the Hearts rejoiced in a marvellous 4-0 victory in the Scottish Cup Semi-Final. Most Hibs fans attended this game disguised as empty seats.

Back to today and we see that even when the Heart of Midlothian play badly we can still beat 'The Wee Team!' Tells you all you need to know about the two sides eh? Is that rain I hear lashing down outside? Or are the streets flooding because of the tears from the losers?

Bobby Fischer

Bobby Fischer the great chess champion has died aged 64. While sympathising with the loss some have found time to leave a comment on this controversial star.

Should be an impressive list of dignitaries for the funeral - Kings, Queens, Knights, Bishops.....

Will the service be taken by the Bishop

Are you sure ?
You better check mate !

I have one of his old chess sets.
I found it in the local pawn shop

That coffin will take a while to get down the aisle, one square forward and then one to the side.............

Was gonna go to the funeral but I'm rooked

He certainly had a chequered history....

He should be remembered for his services to chess and be made a knight
(or the foreign equivalent).

Tap on the head and shoulders with a sword from the queen

I was in the Treetops Hilton this morning and a a few young lads at the reception reckon they would have wiped the floor with him.


A case of chess nuts boasting in an open foyer!

OLD?

This Christmas my prettiest, and most intelligent niece, gave me the 'Oldie Annual' as a present. The 'Oldie' being a magazine for those who have matured. When you consider that a year ago she gave me the book,'Grumpy Old men,' I am beginning to wonder if she is trying to tell me something?

For one thing I must state I am NOT old! I am merely a rusty 56. For another thing I am NOT 'grumpy!' Of course I will indicate, in a full and frank manner, those moments where a word of advice is required. In fact, not only am I willing to offer such counsel but I often find myself helping those who have not even had the time to request my opinion. But are they thankful? No! It seems to me we are raising an ungrateful population sometimes! I just do not know what the world is coming to sometimes. Dearie me, that is a phrase the old folks used to come out with when I was younger.
I wonder how that came to mind?

The 'Grumpy Old men' book I read from cover to cover, as there seemed little point in reading it any other way, and yet found little to disagree with. I thought the man pulling it all together, one Stuart Prebble, was clearly in the wrong in his arrogant BBC style) insistence that he could drive his car where he liked, and smoke freely with no concern for others. Drivers, as many of you will be aware, are far to self important, and appear to think the roads were made for them! Always complaining about how much they are paying and how little they get in return. However, our towns and cities have been devastated by the combustion engine, and no new building is erected without sufficient space for the users chariots. I am always somewhat surprised by the overweight, over dressed folk driving oversized cars for journeys that could be completed with a ten minute walk! These are the folk, in their large four by fours, dropping kids off at school and complaining it is too dangerous for little Tommy to walk to school! Tsk! As for smokers, well, just visit a lung cancer patient who cannot abide a sheet touching him as it is too painful and ask if he wants a fag? Get a life - by not killing yourself and others!

The 'Oldie' book is very enjoyable. The collection of short pieces, often humorous, sometimes deliberate, sometimes not, with an occasional rant that makes me wonder if some folks on 'BlogCatalog' write for the magazine? Part remembrances, part gossip, and stuffed full of cartoons, I have to say I enjoy this book. If it is to become an annual, er...annual, then I want it, er...annually! The only problem I have is that it is just a wee bit too middle class for me. Tales of wandering through Scotland watching football in the nineteen sixties would be out of place among this lot I fear. While the Scots are much more egalitarian than the English, possibly going back to the tenement living in days of yore, this magazine is clearly aimed at the English middle classes.Still, had I the cash I would subscribe.
Any handouts out there?

The Heart of Midlothian War Memorial

One notable reaction to the losses incurred during the Great War was the deeply held need for a place to mourn the dead. The war had to be fought as a war of attrition, a huge siege war, and this resulted in vast numbers of dead on all sides. This is not the time to argue whether these methods were correct, or who was to blame. Suffice to say the men of the British Army left the war believing they had won a great victory, and they were right! The disillusion with the war was to come later, after the promise of 'Homes for heroes,' and the promise of a job 'kept open' failed. The reaction to this failing led to a new world after the second war. In the years immediately after fighting had ceased the nation was gripped by a wide variety of emotions. Large numbers of the dead lay in cemeteries throughout France, many still lay in hospitals, others were to die slow agonising deaths before another conflict broke out. Some three hundred thousand British and Empire troops still lie missing under the old battlefields.

It was the desperate need to find a spot to mourn the dead that led to many memorials being erected throughout the nineteen twenties. Every town and village, however small, had a war memorial, even if it was just a bronze plaque in a church somewhere. Six men in one village, several hundred in a major railway station would be remembered as heroes for their 'Sacrifice,' and their willingness to serve 'God King and Country.'
The sense of loss shook the nation. The 'Unknown Warrior,' buried in Westminster Abbey in 1920, the same year a temporary cenotaph was erected in Whitehall, was visited by millions. Mothers, wives and sisters passed by, many attempting to believe that this was 'their' man. Such was the response that the Cenotaph became permanent.

In Edinburgh the reaction of the city to the announcement in November 1914 that the Heart of Midlothian football players had voluntarily enlisted in George McCrae's 16th Battalion of the Royal Scots, caused over a thousand men, many footballers from other clubs, fans, students and men not yet enrolled to join in. This at a time when the chattering classes, those unable to enlist themselves, were demanding football and other sports should stop while the war continued. So strong were these cries that a major debate was about to take place in Parliament the next day. The actions of the Hearts men saved the day,encouraged recruitment, shut the mouths of the ignorant and cost them their careers, their limbs and their lives! Six men died in action, one died of disease, several were severely disabled, a few returned to playing. Two were to die from the effects of the war long before Hitler came to power.

It is no wonder then that a grateful city erected a monument to these men at the Haymarket. This busy junction was where the road led to Tynecastle Park, the home of the Heart of Midlothian. Traffic heading to all points passed by daily, this was a memorial for the nation to see how such men were remembered. The pride of Edinburgh in such men was demonstrated for all to see! They were of course not alone. There are many memorials including one at the City Chambers, various churches have individuals commemorated, Waverley Station remembers the railmen who died, several hundred of them, and individual factories and places of work commemorated those who did not return. But the Hearts memorial meant a great deal to many people, and not just the many thousand who attended the unveiling. The whole of Edinburgh, and I may say Scotland also, shared the pride in what the action of these players.

Now however, the City intends to remove this memorial and tuck it away out of sight. Why? Because a new development of tramcars is being rushed through at great cost, and the memorial is in the way! The trams may well be a great investment in the long run for the city, and no doubt will be worth the expense, but need the planners move the memorial away from the area? For one thing, it was to those members of this, and many other battalions, who survived a type of 'holy ground,' given by the city in gratitude for their work. Today, while the Heart of Midlothian fans have begun to remember their actions, mostly through Jack Alexander's excellent work 'McCrae's Battalion,' and people in general are once again understanding the nature of the Great War, the council and those responsible for the trams development appear to be belittling our history. Surely, when the memorial first was erected the trams were running, and in a much more complicated pattern than the new development will, surely it is possible to find a way to keep the memorial honoured? This memorial, like so many others, does not glorify war, few of those who return do that, but it does ensure people and their actions often truly heroic, are not forgotten. Our history is important!

Weight!

Now look! After Christmas I realised I had once again put on weight. I was touching 16 stone again, and I had dropped at least half a stone before that. So the other day I began the exercises. Walking at least thirty minutes, moving around, doing things rather than just sitting here, eating less and more fruit and veg. Today I not only walked for hours around the market, being barged around by the bullying woman found there, but I also got on the bike for a while this afternoon.
I sit here aching with all the strenuous effort I have put in. I am stretching both legs backwards as I type, and with one hand I am lifting a dumbbell. I know that when I leap (leap?) out of bed in the morning I will be confronted with all over stiff muscles. I did ask that nice young lass at the fruit and veg stall if she would like to help my aching back with some embrocation but she did not seem too keen. I finally removed that melon from my big gob by tea time. Tsk! Some folks are touchy, or not as the case seems to be here!
However, when I weighed myself, expecting to see the little needle slowly roll to the 13 stone mark where it should be, it read 16 and a half stone! After all this effort I am putting on the weight! I think I will start one of those fasts, the type those hermits used to go in for. Sitting there on a pole, high above the world, they sought enlightenment. Personally I think they just got fed up with the local 'Lose weight now! Ask me how!' type folk peddling their lies. The chance of enlightenment seems slight to me anyhow, Jesus appears to have eaten well enough. I am not sure if he wants us to live on bread and water in such a public show anyhow. Eating well and eating less is the only way to lose forty two pounds. The exercise is just good for you. Until that is, the morning after.

Rain

Drawing back the filthy rags that pass for curtains here I noticed the sky glowering darkly overhead. The Sky, I should add, is usually overhead of course, but I thought it wise to make this clear. The dark gray clouds came racing in from the south west and dropped the contents at a rakish angle. People lucky enough to be heading for work walked, head down or hidden behind those deadly weapons umbrellas! Surely folk should have a licence to carry one?

While watching a dog cheerfully meander from tree to tree I noticed the postie arrive. She looked up from under her large orange hood and noticing me at the window expressed some concern at the weather. It must be understood that rain, apart from wind, is the worst weather conditions in which to deliver mail. Rain gets everywhere! No matter what you do rain finds its way into the bag. By the time the postie is half way through his day he finds that he is shoving paper mache through letterboxes!
Wandering to the door, slowly, and carrying a coffee cup in my hand I opened the door. Placing the mail in my hand she again referred to the rain in a derogatory manner. "Oi," says I, "These letters are wet." Once more, and in a language too rough for members of the Royal Navy, she indicated that the weather was somewhat unsettled this morning. She then slapped me on both sides of my head with her sodden arms. Then she smiled! Typical woman!

Without this rain we would of course not have a nation as lush as this. While the rain soaks through the holes in my shoe it also soaks deep into the earth producing those fabulous flowers and trees, bushes and meadows that can be found hidden behind the concrete and brick that surrounds us. In short we are made by the weather! While attending a course for the Open University the tutor disagreed with my view that the land shaped the people. Sad thing when someone disagrees with me I say,not sad that they disagree, but sad when they are wrong yet are getting paid huge sums of money for being wrong! Australians brought up in the bush have a very different view on life from the tutor, brought up in middle class liberal England. Those fishermen living on the Scottish islands would possess an outlook at variance with a lass living in an Iranian village, and not just because of the religious culture either. The land shapes us, it gets into our mentality, and disagreements between the continental members of the EU and Britain can be said to begin with the national outlook. The sea around us has also given us an attitude at variance from those with a history of shifting borders.

Brits cannot meet without mentioning the weather. King George V began each days diary entry with a comment on the weather, encouraged by his early training with the navy. Football matches, and the laborious cricket ones also, and often threatened by rain or wind, Wimbledon not only suffers from rain but from Cliff Richard and his singing! How bad is that? Parents concerned about their siblings will always ask about the weather, as if they want to make sure the child, now in mid twenties, is dressed appropriately. They never learn! The weather, that really means the rain, becomes part of British life, and is it therefore any wonder that folk flock to sun filled resorts in the summer. I myself have now developed a desire to live in Crete! Why? Because I saw a picture of a sun filled Crete on telly the other day and I am off as soon as I am rich enough.

Global warming is going to increase the temperature in this land they say, but what will happen then? Vegetation will not appear as well as it does now, crops will suffer, gardeners will be forced to save water in barrels and then we will all start complaining that it is too hot! Holidays will be taken in Finland just to see snow and long dark nights, expeditions to monsoon lands to laugh with glee at the rainfall will be highlights of some idiots year, and I will still be left by an uncle I have never known an umbrella factory. twas ever thus!

Work

Once more I look forward to another day of seeking work. There are several forms to fill, pleading letters to write, and, lets face it, little hoe of success with the forms in front of me now. It is over a year since I was last employed, and in spite of the hundreds of forms sent out nothing has materialised. There are three reasons for this. One is my age,56, another is the beginnings of arthritis where the leg was broken years ago, and thirdly my being an idiot! It is true to say however that most do not put these three in this order! Confidence,that thing only women and footballers lack, is nil.There is nothing I consider I can do, and feel nervous about everything now. If I had followed the advice of my dad and trained as a joiner it would not be so bad, although no joiner would have let me finish an apprenticeship! Well, not alive anyway! I am not trained in anything but lifting and carrying, hence I was happy packing boxes or delivering mail. The sophistication of dealing with the cretins who fill offices all to often was beyond me, I discovered the hard way the unwillingness of secretaries to actually work, the desperate need of men to climb the ladder rather than do the job, and the soul destroying nature of office politics. My humour did not always find an appreciative audience amongst those so tight arsed that they had to be handled like Ming china vases. Sadly I sometimes failed to do this and indicated my opinions somewhat too force ably. Hmmm, fun though! In large office complexes the word 'work' is not to be used where the general run of employees is concerned, it just upsets them. These creatures usually start late, finish early, shirk when possible, pass the buck, and get paid far too much. This type of person complains postmen do not work! They consider dustmen beneath them, and that the janitor and cleaners are lesser specimens than they, just because they sit at a desk. Tsk! "To see oorsels as ithers see us." I agree some work, and work well, but I find the warehouseman and the postman, the dustman and the cleaner often more reliable than the one more concerned about their position or their 'feelings.'

So, as I have little training in desk bound jobs, unable to do what my little mind can cope with, and in a town where suitable work is scarce, and I must admit, not keen on working these days, I set myself to my task with little emotion. In the past I have been unemployed and wanted to work, although temp work was available. Such is not now because of the knee, well not the right type of work anyway. However I heard there may be a job working from home dealing with one companies complaints! This sounds OK, as it will be ideal if it can occur. But it will be a day or two before I hear if it is actually available. Cheered me up mind as it gave me a hope that I had lost.

The dole office decided that I had been out too long, and they have been very helpful for the most part. I was put onto what they call 'Workstep.' This it turns out is an offshoot of work done by the British Legion of all people. I suppose they consider I am playing the 'Old Soldier!' So I was introduced to a lovely 29 year old who has revamped my CV, crying "Dire" when looking at the original one, given me instruction on interviews, which was a waste of time, and spent the rest of the time chatting. If I get an interview I am supposed to take her along as she needs to fill out forms! Like taking your mother I say! Mind you, dad would have been awfully pleased if mum had looked like this! An excellent lass who browbeats folk into the ground but is actually willing to work. Not the type I have seen to much off I must say.

I have not done badly during this time. I needed time off after the last job, although not this much, and have spent much of it wisely. It is amazing how many things we take for granted we do not need, and only when they break down or cost too much do we realise they are not that important. Once money comes in, I suppose I shall start wasting it again. And it will come, the right job is out there waiting for me, I just need my eyes open, and the gumption, to find it.

Sandbanks

The fuss in the press in recent days concerning the possible move of 'Arry Redknapp from Portsmouth to Newcastle United several times mentioned his house in Sandbanks. This did intrigue me as I have often been down that way. The beach at Bournemouth is one of the best in the UK, and the sun shines there also! This small peninsula has Poole Bay on one side and Poole harbour on the other. This leaves a wonderfully attractive site, so attractive that houses built on this, near island, cost many millions of pounds.

From the photograph this may not appear to be the case, but a quick perusal of houses for sale show just what is on offer!

Swapping this for the cold gray of the north east may not have gone down well with Mrs Redknapp of course who may not have thought Gateshead as attractive as Sandbanks. A wise woman! 'Arry was quick to claim that he could not leave because he did not want to "Let down the players I have brought in!" and that he was 'Appy in the sarf." I suggest he forgot to mention Portsmouth, who's great improvement in 'Arrys time would come to an end, leaving them open to relegation once again, made him an offer he could not refuse. Our 'Arry knows all about wheeling and dealing, and one would not be surprised that the Newcastle trip was done to 'encourage' Portsmouth to loosen the purse strings.
Cynic? Me?

By the time I had finished going through the details of these houses, many newly built since the last time I was there, I was somewhat disappointed. I would love a place where I could see the sun coming up over the 'Old Harry' rocks and going down over Poole Harbour, as one thing I miss is being near the sea. But in the end I think the pretentiousness of so many of these houses, and the people who buy them, left me flat. Market forces might increase the price of better property, but seven million for a house? Nothing wrong with being wealthy, nothing wrong with having good quality furnishings, but there is something wrong with those who see this as the best that life has to offer. How many personality clashes occur in those expensive homes? How many are on there latest marriage? How many are content? Maybe a smaller house, overlooking the sea so I could watch the sun go down at night in the west, and have enjoyed its warmth in the morning would suit me.

Of course, a lottery win might change my mind for me.