WE'VE ALL HEARD OF SORE LOSERS BEFORE - BUT NOW WE'VE GOT SORE WINNERS
The Scottish Independence Referendum has been and gone. To me the result was sad, but not at all unexpected. The Yes campaign had to take on the full might of the Westminster Establishment, and almost all of the UK's mass media. Getting the message across was never going to be an easy task. But the degree to which it politicised the population of Scotland was a truly remarkable achievement.
Perhaps inevitably, given the high stakes and emotions involved, there were a number of sore losers who vented their spleen on social media in the weeks and months that followed. A few continue to do so and I hope that they'll soon fade away. They are an embarrassment to the great mass of Yes voters. Ludicrous suggestions that the poll was rigged in some way helps nobody.
However most Independence minded people have moved on and are now showing a high degree of positivity, of which more later. A more curious trend on Twitter is the emergence of No voters who, living up to their characterisation as Bitter Together, seem unhappy with the win they actually got and want to exaggerate or lie about it in various ways. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you - The Sore Winners.
Before providing an example of the species let me go back briefly over the relevant events on the timeline. When the referendum was first proposed the Scottish Government suggested that there should be three options to choose from. Firstly, full independence; secondly, the status quo; and finally, the option which became known as Devo Max, which delegated most government powers to Holyrood, with the main exceptions being foreign policy and the military. That latter option was vetoed by the Cameron government. Largely, it was thought, and as indicated by polls at the time, because it would have been a clear winner. Such a potential loss of power and control was not something that Westminster was willing to risk.
So the vote became a simple Yes/No choice - Yes to have a fully independent Scotland, No to remain as we were. And that remained the case when the first postal votes were being cast. But then something happened. A single poll suggested that Yes might be in the lead - and Westminster, indeed the whole UK Establishment, went into full panic mode. In the days running up to the 18th of September we had the Gordon Brown intervention, then the three UK party leaders, and then the infamous 'Vow'. All of which said that a No vote was a vote for greater powers for Holyrood, albeit vague and unspecified. It wasn't quite Devo Max, but something heading in that direction.
Which meant that, on the 18th, we were no longer voting to make the same decision as those early postal voters had (which feels like a strange way to run a democratic exercise, but that's an issue for another time....). Yes still meant the same as it always had, but now No meant something new, something a bit vague, but it most certainly involved change and a greater devolution of powers to the Scottish Parliament. I've no doubt there were many No voters who wanted to vote for the status quo, to keep things exactly as they were, but they no longer had that option. It had been taken away from them at the last minute.
The votes were cast, there was a clear win for No. On an impressive 85% turnout No got just over 55% of the votes cast, with almost 45% going to Yes. No doubts there about the result (even if it was unclear exactly what was being voted for!). The sore losers never had a leg to stand on.
In the immediate aftermath there was, of course, much sadness and despondency in the Yes camp. Many people had invested a huge part of their lives into the campaign, which had a much stronger grass roots basis than did the No side. But then something strange and wonderful started to happen. From out of that gloom came a spirit of determination and positivity. Yes campaigners had seen what could be achieved, against considerable odds, and decided that they must continue working towards what they believed in.
So many of the organisations which had sprung up in the run up to the referendum continued to meet and discuss and look for ways forward. The three political parties who campaigned for Yes all saw huge increases in their membership numbers. The SNP in particular grew to become the third largest party in the UK, bigger than the numbers of the Lib Dems and ukip combined. It seems that around 2% of the adult population of the country are now SNP members, a remarkable figure.
Reflecting this mood a new national daily newspaper, with an editorial stance favouring independence, was given a trial run, met with success, and has become a (hopefully) permanent part of the Scottish media landscape. Nobody expects another referendum in the near future, but it's clear that it could easily come about within the next ten years, with much depending on how the vague Vow is implemented.
And that's where we are today. Polls currently show the SNP en route to capturing a large number of Westminster seats in May, although much can happen during the three and a bit months in between. By contrast the Scottish Labour Party still appears to be in crisis, with it's new leader making desperate grabs for media attention, while the Lib Dems will surely suffer heavily for the betrayal of their values by Nick Clegg. Yes voters have a lot to feel good about, a lot to be proud of.
So shouldn't No, who actually won the vote, be feeling the same? If they do then it's being kept well hidden. Already there seems to be a particular kind of unionist who keeps wanting to look back to last September, and to amplify and distort the result. Yesterday provided a classic example. A unionist troll posted this tweet actually inviting people to tell him where he was factually incorrect Yes, yes, I know that I shouldn't feed the trolls, but there's some fun to be had in finding out how quickly they become abusive when confronted with the things they hate most - facts and evidence.
Of course it's obvious, from my words above, that there are two clear instances of misinformation in the presented graphic. Firstly, the pie chart. No statistician would ever suggest that you can impute a single intent to non participants. To do so is either down to simple stupidity (an option which can't be discounted....), or a wilful attempt to mislead. Either explanation leaves the perpetrator looking pathetic.
Secondly, the words "no thanks, we will stay as we are" are an outright lie, for the reasons already explained above. Had he simply not been following events (yet feels qualified to pontificate on them!) or is this again an attempt to mislead? And if the latter - why? What sort of delusions motivate people to distort the result of a vote they actually won? I know they say that history is (re)written by the victors, but such revisionism doesn't usually happen quite so quickly!
Oh, and was he abusive? Of course he was, but only to call me vacuous, so pretty mild by troll standards!
The other common thread with The Sore Winners is their constant need to say "You lost, now forget about it". Presumably they were brought up on that wise old saying "If at first you don't succeed - just give up."? Or maybe I've always misunderstood that story about Bruce and the spider we were told in school?
It's a puzzle. Maybe The Sore Winners just need to learn to accept that they won, back in September, and move on. Get over it. If they can't then there's an obvious question - what exactly is it that they're so afraid of? Maybe, deep down, they realise that it's far from over....
Thursday, 15 January 2015
Sunday, 11 January 2015
Why I'm playing Stickman
WHERE'S MY HORSEHAIR WIG?
In my previous post I mentioned that I've been walking with the aid of a stick for a few days. Here's why.
Hogmanay began with a slight limp (that actually sounds like a promising opening line for a story....). The limp decided it wasn't getting enough attention and made itself more noticeable, until, well before the bells were ringing in the New Year, my left foot had decided to withdraw it's labour and refused to accept any effort to put weight on it. Well, not without me doing a bit of screaming.
It's as well I don't believe in omens, or I'd now dread what the rest of 2015 had in store for me. I remained housebound until the eighth. In the interim I developed my own methods of travel around the flat - on all fours, a stick-aided bunny hopping, and the time honoured sit-on-your-arse technique for stair negotiating. Elegance was not an option.
On the eighth I got along to our new GP surgery, to meet a doctor with a sense of humour. I have no idea how competent he is, but at least we had a laugh. Which may be why he came up with a comedy diagnosis. Considering all I told him about my symptoms, and a prod and visual scan of my inflated foot, he came to the conclusion that the most probable answer was....
Gout
Now it might turn out not to be, because he says it's difficult to prove, but it's a strong favourite. And seems entirely appropriate. A music hall ailment, a renowned subject for mirth. I have kept a daily diary for many years, but didn't realise I was turning into Samuel Pepys. (Note to pedants : yes, I do know Pepys didn't have gout. It's a joke, albeit a poor one. Now go and get yourself a life.) I had better get out my horsehair wig and start downing the port and stilton. (I might skip the wig bit.)
But as well as having comedic powers I can confirm one other reputed power of the gout. It's f**king painful. Ask our cat, who jumped casually on to the bed, landed on the afflicted paw, and was treated to a stream of names considerably less affectionate than those she's become used to.
So now I have pills, and am to drink five pints of water a day. Which means I sweat like Shergar, fart like Ermintrude, have the runs like an Alsatian that's just lapped up a two day old prawn vindaloo, and I pee like Nellie the elephant. I'm sure it's just coincidence that my wife has gone away for five days.
But I am, thanks for asking, well on the way to recovery. On Saturday I woke without pain for the first time in 2015 (nothing like making it sound dramatic, is there?) and my foot is looking more like a human extremity again and less like something to be found on the slap at Crombies (which, for those not fortunate enough to inhabit this fair city, is an Edinburgh butcher renowned for sausages). I am, almost, a free man again.
Except for knowing I have become a member of the parody malady club. Now where's the port bottle? And why is the cat playing with my wig?
In my previous post I mentioned that I've been walking with the aid of a stick for a few days. Here's why.
Hogmanay began with a slight limp (that actually sounds like a promising opening line for a story....). The limp decided it wasn't getting enough attention and made itself more noticeable, until, well before the bells were ringing in the New Year, my left foot had decided to withdraw it's labour and refused to accept any effort to put weight on it. Well, not without me doing a bit of screaming.
It's as well I don't believe in omens, or I'd now dread what the rest of 2015 had in store for me. I remained housebound until the eighth. In the interim I developed my own methods of travel around the flat - on all fours, a stick-aided bunny hopping, and the time honoured sit-on-your-arse technique for stair negotiating. Elegance was not an option.
On the eighth I got along to our new GP surgery, to meet a doctor with a sense of humour. I have no idea how competent he is, but at least we had a laugh. Which may be why he came up with a comedy diagnosis. Considering all I told him about my symptoms, and a prod and visual scan of my inflated foot, he came to the conclusion that the most probable answer was....
Gout
Now it might turn out not to be, because he says it's difficult to prove, but it's a strong favourite. And seems entirely appropriate. A music hall ailment, a renowned subject for mirth. I have kept a daily diary for many years, but didn't realise I was turning into Samuel Pepys. (Note to pedants : yes, I do know Pepys didn't have gout. It's a joke, albeit a poor one. Now go and get yourself a life.) I had better get out my horsehair wig and start downing the port and stilton. (I might skip the wig bit.)
But as well as having comedic powers I can confirm one other reputed power of the gout. It's f**king painful. Ask our cat, who jumped casually on to the bed, landed on the afflicted paw, and was treated to a stream of names considerably less affectionate than those she's become used to.
So now I have pills, and am to drink five pints of water a day. Which means I sweat like Shergar, fart like Ermintrude, have the runs like an Alsatian that's just lapped up a two day old prawn vindaloo, and I pee like Nellie the elephant. I'm sure it's just coincidence that my wife has gone away for five days.
But I am, thanks for asking, well on the way to recovery. On Saturday I woke without pain for the first time in 2015 (nothing like making it sound dramatic, is there?) and my foot is looking more like a human extremity again and less like something to be found on the slap at Crombies (which, for those not fortunate enough to inhabit this fair city, is an Edinburgh butcher renowned for sausages). I am, almost, a free man again.
Except for knowing I have become a member of the parody malady club. Now where's the port bottle? And why is the cat playing with my wig?
A new superhero? - Stickman
THE CAMARADERIE OF THE STICK
For the past few days, for reasons I might make clearer in a future post, I have been using a walking stick to get about. And by 'get about' I mean 'moving at a pace that has slugs tutting and demanding to be let past'.
There are three main reasons for my use of this metal and rubber implement. It takes a bit of pressure off my faulty appendage, hopefully aiding recovery. I can cope better with the uneven pavement surfaces (and it's only when you find yourself with a wonky lower limb that you suddenly realise just how undulating our walkways are). Plus it provides a handy visual warning to strangers that the person in front of them has the agility of a supertanker and should be given a wide berth.
It certainly works in making me look pathetic. I got on an almost empty bus and a grey haired lady, who must have been at least fifteen to twenty years my senior, offered me her seat! (Residual pride made me decline.)
And it has also got me into a conversation based on the gait it imposes. Walking along Princes Street in my enforced low-velocity manner, I could see a creature approaching who mirrored my movements. When we eventually met, after many seconds had passed, we exchanged greetings and sanguine acceptances, moving quickly to the most important question - what was the problem?
He won that one. Having woken up in extreme pain one morning to then be told he had severe osteoarthritis of the knee and it wasn't going to go away. The only 'cure', a new knee, would be some years off as he was considered too young to get one immediately. (He was probably about five years younger than me, but it's hard to say - pain is ageing.) At least I know that my problem, while it might reoccur in future, is only going to be with me for a few more days this time. He hasn't got that hope. Poor guy.
So he'll still have the walk, the stick and the anguished expression. No doubt to commune with other stick wielders in future. Who knew the rod of mobility could have such power to bond humans together?
For the past few days, for reasons I might make clearer in a future post, I have been using a walking stick to get about. And by 'get about' I mean 'moving at a pace that has slugs tutting and demanding to be let past'.
There are three main reasons for my use of this metal and rubber implement. It takes a bit of pressure off my faulty appendage, hopefully aiding recovery. I can cope better with the uneven pavement surfaces (and it's only when you find yourself with a wonky lower limb that you suddenly realise just how undulating our walkways are). Plus it provides a handy visual warning to strangers that the person in front of them has the agility of a supertanker and should be given a wide berth.
It certainly works in making me look pathetic. I got on an almost empty bus and a grey haired lady, who must have been at least fifteen to twenty years my senior, offered me her seat! (Residual pride made me decline.)
And it has also got me into a conversation based on the gait it imposes. Walking along Princes Street in my enforced low-velocity manner, I could see a creature approaching who mirrored my movements. When we eventually met, after many seconds had passed, we exchanged greetings and sanguine acceptances, moving quickly to the most important question - what was the problem?
He won that one. Having woken up in extreme pain one morning to then be told he had severe osteoarthritis of the knee and it wasn't going to go away. The only 'cure', a new knee, would be some years off as he was considered too young to get one immediately. (He was probably about five years younger than me, but it's hard to say - pain is ageing.) At least I know that my problem, while it might reoccur in future, is only going to be with me for a few more days this time. He hasn't got that hope. Poor guy.
So he'll still have the walk, the stick and the anguished expression. No doubt to commune with other stick wielders in future. Who knew the rod of mobility could have such power to bond humans together?
Sunday, 4 January 2015
Fandom beckons after all
WHY I'M NOW PROUD TO BE A CAPS FAN
A couple of years ago, not long after I started this blog, I posted this piece explaining why I never became a football fan, that I never really 'got' the tribal nature of giving lifelong support to a particular club, and relating an incident that shaped my attitude towards sport and the notion of fair play. A year later I posted about my new found love for ice hockey and how, to my surprise, I was exhibiting signs of becoming one of those fans I'd derided twelve months before....
Another twelve months on and those subjects have collided into one event which now allows me to say I Am Proud To Be A Caps Fan. Without, I hope, more than the merest glimpse of hypocrisy.
The move back to Edinburgh has meant, for the first time, becoming a regular match goer at Murrayfield ice rink. I've got the supporter's scarf, a regular place where we sit for each game, membership of the Supporter's Club. I follow away games as best I can, I frequently find myself thinking about how injuries will affect the team line ups. I'm well on my way to becoming that kind of sad git. Even whilst recognising that I still feel very much the new boy and there are still so many aspects of the game I find hard to follow. I'm not sure I've even fully got my head around the offside rule yet.
And yet. There's always that 'fair play' reservation at the back of my mind. Could I still support 'my' team if they started to play dirty? If you haven't seen ice hockey (why not?) I should explain that as well as being extremely fast it is also very physical. Heavy man on man contacts are commonplace. Occasionally fist fights break out in the heat of the game and, within controlled limits, are, for good or ill, accepted as part of the culture of the sport. But there are strict laws designed to prevent serious physical damage to opponents. And there are clearly some teams who ride the boundary between legal and illegal more carelessly than others. Even my inexpert eyes could see that the Coventry squad of last season, and the Braehead team in this, overdid the physical aspects of their play (yes, that is a euphemism for 'a bit thuggish').
Not the Edinburgh Capitals are a bunch of angels. These are professional sportsmen playing in a tough sport and they have to be able to stand up for themselves. Inevitably they will cross the line from time to time. But I've seen no sign of that being endemic, of there being a culture of violence. Even this season when the Caps team has included a lot more big guys than in recent years. Of course, I would say that, wouldn't I? I'm fully aware of what confirmation bias is....
But there's a also a lot to be said for being the underdog. It forces supporters towards a much more realistic, at times cynical, view of the team they love. And Edinburgh is, financially, one of the poorest teams in the league. So their place in the standings generally reflects that. They probably aren't going to win any big trophies, and our fourteen game losing streak before November was a convincing reminder of that fact. But there's a lot to be said for seeing the little guy getting one over on their richer neighbours, and it wasn't just the Caps faithful, but many of the wider hockey community, who enjoyed seeing them notch up some unlikely victories in the weeks before Xmas. That wouldn't be the case if we were a dirty team, would it?
And so to last night's incident. Joe Grimaldi, one of our American defencemen, was thrown out of the game for unacceptable violence. He had speared at an opponent with his stick, then took of his helmet and threw it point blank into the other guy's face. Way over the top by any standards. And that certainly didn't make me proud of my team. But what happened in the following twenty fours certainly did.
The club swiftly issued a statement saying that Grimaldi had been released from his contract. Nothing more was said, but there seems a clear implication that they did not wanted to be associated with that kind of behaviour. Top marks to the club. Even better was the reaction, on Twitter and Facebook, of the fans. Young and old, newbies or lifelong supporters, all seem agreed that getting rid of Joe was the right thing to do and they had no place for actions of that sort in their (our!) club. And that, even more than anything I've seen on the ice, makes me proud to be a Caps fan.
Of course there's more to it than that, these situations are never pure black and white. Joe has had his detractors for much of the season. Both for the flaring of his temper, and some of his other on-ice antics. A very skilful, at times flamboyant, player, but one whose flashy moves rarely seemed to benefit the team. Yet we shouldn't forget he played a leading role in the collection of toys for a children's hospital ward just before Xmas, and he was the only player who got along on the day and handed out presents to the kids. Underneath that volatile skin there's a very decent human being. I hope he can find a way to let the latter take control and make a decent career for himself.
So, football fans, feel free to scoff. I have become one of the faithful at The Fridge of Dreams. We might not win much. But we'll be decent about it.
Finally, and with apologies to non-Scots readers, I think if the club is looking for a new slogan then there are no three words more obvious then these :
"Nae Bawbaggery Here!"
#MonTheCaps
A couple of years ago, not long after I started this blog, I posted this piece explaining why I never became a football fan, that I never really 'got' the tribal nature of giving lifelong support to a particular club, and relating an incident that shaped my attitude towards sport and the notion of fair play. A year later I posted about my new found love for ice hockey and how, to my surprise, I was exhibiting signs of becoming one of those fans I'd derided twelve months before....
Another twelve months on and those subjects have collided into one event which now allows me to say I Am Proud To Be A Caps Fan. Without, I hope, more than the merest glimpse of hypocrisy.
The move back to Edinburgh has meant, for the first time, becoming a regular match goer at Murrayfield ice rink. I've got the supporter's scarf, a regular place where we sit for each game, membership of the Supporter's Club. I follow away games as best I can, I frequently find myself thinking about how injuries will affect the team line ups. I'm well on my way to becoming that kind of sad git. Even whilst recognising that I still feel very much the new boy and there are still so many aspects of the game I find hard to follow. I'm not sure I've even fully got my head around the offside rule yet.
And yet. There's always that 'fair play' reservation at the back of my mind. Could I still support 'my' team if they started to play dirty? If you haven't seen ice hockey (why not?) I should explain that as well as being extremely fast it is also very physical. Heavy man on man contacts are commonplace. Occasionally fist fights break out in the heat of the game and, within controlled limits, are, for good or ill, accepted as part of the culture of the sport. But there are strict laws designed to prevent serious physical damage to opponents. And there are clearly some teams who ride the boundary between legal and illegal more carelessly than others. Even my inexpert eyes could see that the Coventry squad of last season, and the Braehead team in this, overdid the physical aspects of their play (yes, that is a euphemism for 'a bit thuggish').
Not the Edinburgh Capitals are a bunch of angels. These are professional sportsmen playing in a tough sport and they have to be able to stand up for themselves. Inevitably they will cross the line from time to time. But I've seen no sign of that being endemic, of there being a culture of violence. Even this season when the Caps team has included a lot more big guys than in recent years. Of course, I would say that, wouldn't I? I'm fully aware of what confirmation bias is....
But there's a also a lot to be said for being the underdog. It forces supporters towards a much more realistic, at times cynical, view of the team they love. And Edinburgh is, financially, one of the poorest teams in the league. So their place in the standings generally reflects that. They probably aren't going to win any big trophies, and our fourteen game losing streak before November was a convincing reminder of that fact. But there's a lot to be said for seeing the little guy getting one over on their richer neighbours, and it wasn't just the Caps faithful, but many of the wider hockey community, who enjoyed seeing them notch up some unlikely victories in the weeks before Xmas. That wouldn't be the case if we were a dirty team, would it?
And so to last night's incident. Joe Grimaldi, one of our American defencemen, was thrown out of the game for unacceptable violence. He had speared at an opponent with his stick, then took of his helmet and threw it point blank into the other guy's face. Way over the top by any standards. And that certainly didn't make me proud of my team. But what happened in the following twenty fours certainly did.
The club swiftly issued a statement saying that Grimaldi had been released from his contract. Nothing more was said, but there seems a clear implication that they did not wanted to be associated with that kind of behaviour. Top marks to the club. Even better was the reaction, on Twitter and Facebook, of the fans. Young and old, newbies or lifelong supporters, all seem agreed that getting rid of Joe was the right thing to do and they had no place for actions of that sort in their (our!) club. And that, even more than anything I've seen on the ice, makes me proud to be a Caps fan.
Of course there's more to it than that, these situations are never pure black and white. Joe has had his detractors for much of the season. Both for the flaring of his temper, and some of his other on-ice antics. A very skilful, at times flamboyant, player, but one whose flashy moves rarely seemed to benefit the team. Yet we shouldn't forget he played a leading role in the collection of toys for a children's hospital ward just before Xmas, and he was the only player who got along on the day and handed out presents to the kids. Underneath that volatile skin there's a very decent human being. I hope he can find a way to let the latter take control and make a decent career for himself.
So, football fans, feel free to scoff. I have become one of the faithful at The Fridge of Dreams. We might not win much. But we'll be decent about it.
Finally, and with apologies to non-Scots readers, I think if the club is looking for a new slogan then there are no three words more obvious then these :
"Nae Bawbaggery Here!"
#MonTheCaps
Saturday, 3 January 2015
The disappearing Xmas present
JUST BECAUSE IT'S NOT A PUPPY....
"A dog is for life, not just for Xmas". We've all seen that one before and pondered on the sort of person who'd buy a puppy as a present without thinking through the consequences. Some gifts deserve to be taken a it more seriously than others.
And some arrive with the expectation that, as with a canine companion, there will be a long relationship in the offing. Only 'things' of course, but there's the odd item that looks so useful, as if it will suit you so well, that you feel sure it's going to become an essential part of your daily life. And so it was with one of the more unlikely presents I received on the twenty fifth. A foldaway rucksack, which fitted into a pouch not much bigger than a pack of cards, and seemed the ideal solution to those moments when I find yourself buying more in the shops than I'd planned to do, and suddenly lugging a big carton of milk about on the end of my arm. And given that we rarely use the car nowadays those moments seem to crop up surprisingly often. (Which may just be a sign of how disorganised I am.)
The rucksack was made of black nylon and I didn't bother to unfold it at the time, thinking I'd leave it looking pristine until it was called into use. Which happened a few days later. At the supermarket till, more items than expected, some of them on the hefty side, and me far too mean to pay the 5p per bag charge now implemented in Scotland. This is a job for .... foldaway rucksack!
So out it came and neat piece of design it looked. Broad straps for the shoulders, adjustable buckles, and the pouch turned into a zip pocket on the outside of the rucksack. A load was placed inside, the bag slung on my back and we headed for the bus stop. Only for a number 16 to arrive at just that moment. On bus, up the stairs, slide rucksack from shoulders - rip! One backstrap parted company with the nylon seam it had been joined to. And now I had a black nylon holdall. From putting it on my back to the moment of destruction took less than five minutes.
At least we hadn't had time to become attached to one another. It had not cemented it's place in my life, become the essential pocket companion I had expected from it. But at least it wasn't a puppy.
PS This one came from Trespass and seems to be the only one they sell. Anyone come across any better alternatives?
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