The reality of Referendum is getting nearer

AYE OR NAW?

A few days ago a journalist (@Gary_Bainbridge, well worth a follow, highly entertaining) posted a link on Twitter to this article commending it for its even handedness on a subject that is mostly being addressed in partisan fashion..

I agreed with him that this was a decent attempt to strike a balanced view, but pointed out that even this relatively neutral piece still carried overtones of scaremongering. (Specifically the notion that a Yes result might provoke nasty reactions in the rest of the UK, the sort of idle speculation that damages rational discussion.)   I ended up having a brief chat with Gary and it was interesting to have some insight into an interested, but unbiased, English viewpoint.

As most of you will know I'm a Scot, but have lived most of my adult life in England. In recent years I've been able to spend more and more time back in my home city and hope to move there soon. Too late, probably, to be able to register my vote for 18th September. Nonetheless I have taken pains to follow the debates on the subject and feel reasonably well informed.  Sufficiently, as I pointed out to Gary, to recognise that the biggest problem is people trying have an argument over the pros and cons of the unknown.  No wonder that there are still so many Don't Knows showing up in polls.

This got me thinking what my own view is.  When I was asked last year I said I was probably about 70% Yes leaning. I recently tweeted that George Robertson's ludicrous outburst had persuaded me fully into the Yes camp, but that was largely for humourous effect.  That 'Forces of Darkness' nonsense deserves to be ridiculed into the gutter where it belongs.

Why are both sides of the argument being so badly presented at times?  I note that Gary described the SNP approach as "la-la-la I'm not listening" in their inability to provide concrete answers to real world questions. (Does this mean that people in England automatically associate the Yes movement with the SNP alone? Because it definitely has much wider roots, even amongst some who detest Salmond himself.)  Whilst the Better Together campaign has been one of almost unrelenting negativity.  "Project Fear" indeed. (They are now trying to address this image in their latest ads, but can they repair that damage?)

The trouble with wanting hard and fast answers to the big questions is that there really aren't any. There can't be. This hasn't been done before (even recent examples such as the Baltic states aren't really comparable) so how can anyone tell what the outcome will be? But politicians aren't geared up to make such admissions, so they will bluster instead, making promises that are largely empty.  Neither side can back out of this easily for to do so opens the way for the opposition to fill the vacuum with their own narrative.  

If a Yes vote is delivered then the details will be have to be hammered out over months of negotiations and nobody can accurately predict how those will turn out.  Both sides will hold trump cards should things turn nasty, but it's hard to see it coming to that.  For all the vitriol being bandied about now and in the coming five months the talks will be between two democratically elected governments from friendly nations.  The family ties (both metaphorical and literal) between the two countries are such that no elected politician is going to is going to ride roughshod over the human considerations involved.

So if the there aren't all that many facts available on which to base a rational decision then what's left?  This certainly isn't the moment to come over all emotional and have a Braveheart moment (and oh, what a truly crap film that was....).

I've tried to think of it on a smaller scale.  This feels a bit like deciding whether or not to take up a new job, or to move in with your partner.  You've got a lot of information about what that change will be like, but there comes a point where you have to ignore all the unknowns and make a decision, one that will inevitably change the course of your life.  And invariably, if you decide to go with it, it's because you feel that you can see the basis for a better life for yourself.  It's the possibility of life improving that draws you on.  You know it might not work out, but if you don't take the risk then you'll never know if you missed out.

And that, more than anything rational, is what draws me towards the Yes vote.  I suppose you could call it hope.  A glass half full attitude.  If Scotland remains in the UK then little will change for better.  (Indeed the persistent rise of right wing extremism in England suggests an outside chance that things might well get much, much worse.  There again the UKIP bubble constantly looks on the verge of bursting.)  An independent Scotland provides the possibility of a fairer, social democratic country.  It's only a possibility of course.  But there's only one way to find out....

The polls still suggest there will be a No result.  I'm not even sure that would be the best outcome for England.  Imagine the impact that having a successful, socially just neighbour might have in revitalising the English left?

And that last sentence perhaps summarises what I'm trying to say here.  Forget the facts for now.  This is a decision that should appeal to the imagination.

And finally - here’s a writer, a person of imagination, who’s made the journey from No to Yes.  She says it better than I can.

Was that all there was to it?

WHERE DID THOSE TWO WEEKS GO?

So here I am, meatless, fishless, booseless and clueless.  Do I feel the slightest bit different?  Nope, other than maybe a couple of pounds lighter (which wasn't really the point).  Healthier?  Hmm, not really, although I have been sleeping well, mostly.

Does this tell me anything?  A big fat No to that one too.  Except it wasn't in any way a problem to staywith my promise way for the two weeks.  Or longer if I so desired.  The only time I missed the demon alcohol was when I passed up on a chance to socialise in the pub - I just don't do soft drinks.

So that was my two week experiment - and I don't even have decent bit of proselytising to show for it.  Never the poster boy, that's me.

One week on

7 DAYS WITHOUT

No meat, no fish no alcohol.

Do I feel any different?  No.

Pros - Cheap

Cons - Err.  Can't think of any.

That is all.

Oh, and I'm still enjoying my own company.

Veggie, early and alone

IN DENIAL

Day One.

Day One of what?  Well, a couple of things that will mark life out as being a bit different from my usual for the next few weeks.

Today is day one of a two week abstinence from meat, fish and alcohol (or "normal life" if you're a teetotal vegetarian).  Why?  There are no superstitious reasons involved (I don't even know what or when 'Lent' is), no health motives (I'm perfectly well, thanks for asking) and I've not joined a cult (unless you count becoming an Edinburgh Caps supporter).  I just thought I'd see how it felt, while I have the opportunity to give it a go.  And maybe a mild bit of self discipline wouldn't do me any harm.

Not that it will be that much of a challenge.  I don't eat meat or fish every day, and I enjoy cooking with different vegetables, pulses etc.  I was going to give up eggs as well, but there are too many sitting in the fridge and my instincts not to waste food are stronger than any temporary regime. But since curries are my personal culinary specialty, and there are several new Indian veg recipes I want to have a go at, there's bound to be some enjoyment involved.

The alcohol won't be a great difficulty either.  I have no plans for socialising in the next two weeks.  And opening a bottle of wine on my own is something I generally try to avoid (why on my own? - read on).  I've not had a drink for several days anyway, simply because I haven't fancied one.  And I've ofttimes made a conscious decision to have an alcohol free week in the past, without any struggle to keep the pledge.

So, all in all, it's not that big an event.  I just fancy seeing how I feel at the end of it.  So far, so undramatic.

This is also Day One of something a little more adventurous, at least in relation to my normal way of life.  I have promised myself that I will get up early each morning and write a thousand words before nine am. Hardly an earth shattering undertaking, except to someone who rarely has breakfast before eleven.  And that's who I've become these days.  At nine I'm usually awake, but in bed with a hot drink and my tablet, catching up on overnight news.

Again it's just a little challenge I've set myself to shake up my usual routine.  There's no sense of trying to actually achieve something with this.  Most of what I write will never be seen by any eyes other than my own.  But sometimes it's good to have small projects, means of making the time pass and add contrast to the monotones of life.  Little goals, however meaningless in themselves, can make a difference.

And I'm going to need these tiny projects for a while. For today is also Day One of an event that's been coming and coming and suddenly the time slips through, almost unnoticed, and you're there, dealing with it and planning no longer.  Today is Day One of thirty five.  Five weeks without my wife. She's off on a family visit to Australia and we agreed it made sense for her to do it alone.  And I have planned out my time accordingly, given myself projects and outings and people to see.  She's been gone almost three hours now.  And I miss her.  I miss her so much.

It's not as if I'm not used to spending time on my own.  Indeed I am, in so many ways, the archetypal loner.  I need time to myself.  And we have frequently spent time apart, often days at a time, over the decades we've been together.  But five weeks?  More than a month?  Why does that suddenly feel like such a long, long time?

Please don't waste any sympathy on me (oh, you weren't going to....), I'll be fine.  I am writing this whilst suffering from the shock of getting up at four am, a savage imposition upon my natural instincts.  This is not a cry for help, or even company.  But it is a reflection on how much our core can be shaken by events that are totally expected, planned for, thought through, yet, when they turn into reality, still manage to shake our emotions and existence in unexpected ways.

Turns out I'm just human after all.  Who'd have thought?

Clues to Contentment?

A SUPERFICIAL VIEW OF HAPPINESS

I've been in Copenhagen for just a little over 24 hours.  Today was a beautifully sunny, albeit cold, day, and we walked miles, taking in sights, sounds, smells.  Not long in which to form an impression of a place, let alone the prevailing culture.  But.

One of the first sights to greet me in the airport yesterday was this

A proud message to convey to visitors, even if it is only a Carlsberg ad (and I'm no great fan of lager).  It's certainly a prize the Danes win regularly so there must be something to it.  But surely someone can't suggest to have understood the reasons why in one day?  Of course not, but I do feel I've already picked up a few clues, so here are some observations based on first impressions....

The first thing you notice are the bikes.  Hundreds upon hundreds of the things.  Stacked everywhere, coming towards you on every street.  And that's a huge positive.  And it's not just the numbers that matter, but the bikes and riders themselves.

This is a city geared towards bike travel.  There are cycle lanes all over the place, the drivers drive with the expectation that there will be riders inside them.  All the time.  So the drivers drive more carefully, more considerately.  Which makes bike riding a much safer means of transport than it is in UK cities, and also benefits pedestrians too.  This feels a very safe city, not so much in terms of crime (although more on that theme later), but as a place to walk around.  The traffic is less aggressive, more disciplined, less competitive.  Make a note of that last word.

There's a virtuous circle in operation here.  With so many people using bikes the number of cars in the city centre is greatly reduced.  Those who do drive have less traffic to deal with, but have to take more care, and drive more slowly, because of the priority given to cyclists and pedestrians.  Their own stress levels are reduced.  And fewer cars means cleaner air to the benefit of all (but especially the cyclists - I haven't seen a single smog mask today).  One up to Copenhagen.

I did mention that the bikes themselves make a contribution towards this culture.  What you don't see are many mountain bikes or racers.  The vast majority are of the sit up and beg variety, which might be considered old fashioned in the UK, but make for the perfect city commuter.  Most have some form of carrying attachment, either a basket on the front or carrier at the rear, to render them suitable for shopping or a briefcase, plus a plethora of child seats behind the rider.  There are many trikes, with the dual wheels at the front to support a container of platform.  The postman uses one.  I've seen a guy with three small kids in his, another transporting a double bass, and a woman with a small dog and large bunch of flowers.  These are entirely practical means of everyday transport, with no hint of competitiveness or oneupmanship.  You see the odd customised paintjob, some roughly hand-painted, and a couple had artificial flowers curled around the frame.  But the wonder is why so few have strong identifying markings.  It must be a nightmare picking your plain bike out from the hordes of others in the racks!

One final observation on the bikes themselves.  I've seen many without any padlocks, the rider fully expecting to return and find his or her trusty steed where it was left.  It may not be a coincidence that I've hardly seen any police as yet and only heard one siren.

The final element of the two wheeled observations lies with the riders.  As with the bikes the people on them are prosaic.  There are few helmets and even less lycra.  People cycle in their street clothes.  Riding, for them, is as natural a part of getting around as walking down the street or taking the bus.  Any element of this being a 'special' activity has been removed.  And there's few signs of riders getting competitive.

My other observations are more minor in nature, but I do think the keys to contentment lie in an accumulation of small details.  There seem to be far fewer people, young or old, walking the streets looking at or talking into their mobiles.  Which means more people looking where they're going, being considerate to others, and less stressed at trying to multitask their lives.  OK, I only have one day of evidence for this so maybe I've been lucky so far, but even the busiest streets here do have a far more relaxed atmosphere than their UK equivalents.

There haven't been many shouty children either.  Most appear well behaved, happier in themselves than those we are used to.  I've never been a parent, but my wife has and she commented on the parents we saw.  That they seem to finding their parenting role far more natural than is often the case at home.  That they seemed to be more relaxed in the parenting role and thus the children have a more balanced view of their position in the world.  That parenting needn't be a competitive activity....

While the main shopping streets have their share of tackiness there does not seem to be quite the same emphasis on brands that we have sadly become used to.  And, for a European capital, there is less evidence of the intrusions of the grim American chains like McDonalds and Burger King.  Funnily enough I haven't seen much sign of obesity either.  Maybe it's down to all that cycling.

One final thought.  From perhaps the most unlikely source.  The Royal Guards.  We saw them standing guard at the royal palace, and later heard a group of them march past led by a fife and drum band.  Much like their British counterparts standing outside Queenie's place they have silly outfits on.  The same daft furry hats and uniforms that make them look as if they've just fallen out of a Victorian toybox.  But there were a couple of telling differences.

The soldiers on guard duty looked just that bit more relaxed.  They took it seriously enough to be photogenic (which is surely their primary role?), but it was good to see a couple of them having a chat as they marched along in their positions.  Humans, not robots.  Maybe they don't feel they have anything to prove?

The wee band was the clincher for me.  They marched in step, as soldiers do, they looked the part.  But the tune?  None of this bombastic nonsense we're used to, but something a bit jollier, perhaps a Danish folk song?  There was an underlying sense of fun about the performance.  Maybe, lacking a recent imperial past, the Danes have learned not to take themselves too seriously?

We should be so happy.... 

That portrait revisited

SHE'S BEEN FRAMED

Anyone who has read this blog before will know that my approach to it is on the eclectic side.  There's no unifying theme, just a collection of random ideas that pop out of my head.  So there have been a few posts which provoked reactions, others that provoked yawns.  But the post which generated the most interest in recent months concerned the portrait of Barbara I'd received and just how happy it had made me . Several people asked to see how it looked once it had been framed.  And if you were one of those people then this is the post for you.

And if you weren't, well, please read on anyway, because I'm going to try to persuade you to support a talented but struggling artist.  And isn't that something we should all do at least once in our lives?

The framing wasn't something I was going to rush into.  For something this special it needed to be perfect.  There's a framer in Southport we've used a few times, and he does a competent job, but not as good as I was looking for.

We took the painting with us to Edinburgh for New Year and showed it to an old friend who's knocked out a few decent watercolours in her time (and she only began in her sixties so she is also a source of inspiration for the future).  She was, as expected, bowled over by the quality of the portrait.  More important was her recommendation of a framer she's used in the past.  And who, conveniently, was sited just ten minutes walk from our flat.

In my head I thought that a simple wooden frame would be perfect, maybe in a shade similar to the teak or the burgundy in this range.  But what do I know?  The guy who served me couldn't have been more helpful.  Or knowledgeable.  Or patient.  I'm not sure exactly how many wood options we went through before I had to admit I'd got it completely wrong.  Which is when he came up with an idea of his own and showed me a style of frame I would never have considered if left to my own limited visual imagination.  And it was perfect (I suspect it occurred to him as soon as he saw the painting, but he was good enough to go through the whole "customer is always right" routine!).  I could see immediately that the framed portrait would now look exactly as it should.  And the moral of this story is - trust a pro.  Especially if you're a bit clueless.

And another moral is that I should recommend, to anyone in the area requiring the services of a picture framer, the guys at Edinburgh Arts.

That took place on 10 January and we had to return south a couple of days later so there would be a lengthy wait to see the final result.  In the meantime Barbara had commissioned Marc to produce a couple of portrait drawings of her son and grandson.  And they were delivered in time for said son's birthday weekend, when he came to visit us.

This time the artist had no opportunity to meet the subjects, working only from photos.  So, in some ways, the results are even more impressive.  Both are excellent likenesses, with the depth of character that only a talented artist can imbue, and they made for very special presents.  I particularly like the choice of a profile view for Matt, an uncommon angle that gives a more casual feel to the picture.  You can see them both, Matt and Oliver, on Marc's website.  And Barbara's still there too.

Which brings me back to that painting.  We picked it up yesterday.  It's a shame the same guy wasn't serving because I'd liked to have told him just how much I appreciated his efforts to help me.  The portrait has been enhanced, Barbara approves of my (!) choice, and all is well with the world.  Now I just have to hope the artist agrees with me....

It even looks good at an angle.

So we're happy and those of you who wanted to see the final result have got what you asked for.

Now - have I convinced any of you to commission a portrait for yourselves?  If so you know where to go . (Prices can be found here.)

Danger? Pah!

WE FLY THROUGH THE AIR WITH THE GREATEST OF EASE

I am not a fan of danger. The fad for extreme sports, the likes of bungee jumping, has passed me by. Not even closely, but at some considerable distance, where I feel it belongs. I get quite enough of an adrenaline rush running for a bus or contemplating a new curry recipe. Any more than that is too much more. The brave are welcome to it.

I have never been to Alton Towers, or any similar experience, and I doubt I ever will. There were a couple of the smaller rides at Blackpool's Pleasure Beach complex. And twice I had a go on the spinning chairs ride Edinburgh parked next to the Scott Monument (our very own Thunderbird Three) for the Xmas period. The latter has gone now, to be replaced by a device called the Star Flyer, on the edge of Saint Andrew's Square.

We first saw this at the beginning of December. It is brightly lit, interesting to view in a neon lit scaffolding sort of a way, and goes up much higher than the previous ride. Much, much higher. Watching from the ground, and listening to the shrieking from above and the comments of other bystanders, I concluded this was not for me. Yet another experience I'd be more than happy to avoid, based on the wisdom that comes with age. And yet....

The memory of it nagged at me. Even after seeing the headlines when a bit fell off. There was no harm done to the occupants of the chair, and, very fortunately, the falling debris missed anyone below. All of which was, paradoxically, reassuring in a counter-intuitive way. If something like that could happen, but, after investigation, it was deemed safe to continue, then that probably meant it was very safe indeed. And when the high winds and storms came they were quick to close it down. Danger actually seemed to be low on the list of possible outcomes.

None of which would have got me up there but for the simultaneous occurrence of two events. I was out and about with my oldest friend, and we tend to spur each other on in matters of daftness. PLus I'd consumed four (or was it five?) pints. That these should both happen at the same time is not coincidental.

Having made the decision we positively rushed towards the ticket office and clambered aboard to take our places. A sober me would not have recognised, or wanted to be associated with, this person. And very soon we were off, rising into the air and turning anti clockwise as we went. Having hooked my camera on to my wrist I largely concentrated on filming the occasion, if only to remind myself who it was had been up there.

In the event it turned out to be slightly disappointing on the scary scale (the old ride in Princes Street Gardens was faster and more alarming). We went up high enough to be well clear of the rooftops, and the views were amazing. Or could have been if we weren't spinning too quickly to focus on any one point for very long. For all the joking we indulged in the only mildly worrying moment came as we descended and our arc took us ever closer to the roof tops on the south side of the square. Sensibly the speed of rotation dropped dramatically and we returned to a perpendicular attitude. The suddenness of this adjustment moved my insides in a way that neither the spinning nor the height had achieved.

And then we were back. Not even dizzy, not all that exhilarated and not in the slightest bit chilled (it is unseasonably warm for early January). No hint of wobble on finding a solid surface beneath the feet. Just a sense of "is that all there was?" I am, it seems, less of a wuss that I thought I was. But you still won't find me diving off a cliff with a big rubber band around my middle.

Welcoming in the new year

BIG TAM HORNA'S YER MAN FUR HOGMANAY

I spent the afternoon of the last day of 2013 the same way I did in 2012.  But with more positive emotions by the end of it.  I was sat in Murrayfield Ice Rink to watch the derby match between Edinburgh Capitals and their local rivals, Fife Flyers.  And, as last year, it was Tense.  With a very deliberate use of the capital.

In 2012 it ended, in the final second of Overtime, with Flyers scoring a controversial winner.  I walked out the doors with shoulders slumped, just like everyone else sitting on our side of the arena.  But as soon as the fresh air hit me I couldn't help smiling.  I'd just watched a drama of Shakespearean dimensions.  Tension, uncertainty, moments of high and low emotion, supreme skill, depths plumbed, heroes and villains, a plot with twists and a veneer of reality, and that final climactic turn of the narrative.  It had all you could wish for in a couple of hours of entertainment.  And it had been special to be there, in spite of the gutting end result.

This year the script wasn't all that different.  There was to be no domination, no clear cut indication of how the story might end.  That edge of the seat uncertainty remained in place throughout, the outcome in the hands of a non existent Spielberg.  The Flyers took the lead, but there was always the chance that one or other side could score.  In reality there was always the chance that either team could cock up and hand their rivals an opportunity.  Quality has it's place, but mistakes are the life blood of the turnover in fortunes.

As with any great tragedy there's always the comedy interlude.  At the end of the first period they brought on the kids.  About six to eight years old, ranging from small down to the hard to see and impossible to keep upright.  Five minutes of miniature beings congregating around a lonesome puck, occasionally moving it in one direction or other, and spending a lot of time horizontal.  It was hilarious, an innocent aside that took our eyes of the main plot line for a moment and deluded us into thinking that this was but a farce before our eyes.  But the serious matters returned.

They extended their lead, we hit back.  And then another, this time a goal of a level of skill and virtuosity that demands replays and slo-mos.  And another, complete with it's own mini controversy when our man, Marcis Zembergs, raised his stick to deflect the puck goalwards.  Too high whined the Fife goalie, not at all disdained the ref (a man of inconsistent decisions, a facilitator of the whims of fate in the theatre of dreams) and Caps had the lead.  Silence on the Fife side of the rink, and on the feet arm waving loud mouthing chanting chorus on ours.  But the writer had other ideas.  By the end of the second period it was three all and we went into the last together, players, Fife fans, the Capitals faithful, anyone who might have remained neutral (eh?) and knew that it was probably going to come down to a single decisive moment.

End to end.  Fast, unrelenting, taking the breath from the lungs.  Step forward the Czech Tomas Horna.  Big Tam.  I don't think I mentioned that he had scored our first two goals.  And was playing majestically.  (I may be guilty of mild exaggeration at this point.)  It's his first year playing in the British league.  He's always appeared in his home country up until now.  So it's probably the first time he's been known as Big Tam.  That may not be a common phrase in Prague.  But Big Tam he is now and will remain.

Big Tam scored again.  Hat trick.  And a one goal lead with about ten minutes left.  It didn't feel like it could possibly be enough.  For more than nine minutes it didn't feel like nearly enough.  Flyers kept coming.  Our goalie kept saving.  The puck did everything but hit the back of the net.  One and half minutes remain and Fife pull their goalie, throw six men forward into scoring that equalising goal.  A couple of times one of our guys sent the puck back to the other end, never quite accurately enough to float between the pipes, to administer the coup de grace.

It was enough.  The final seconds ran down, the Caps side of the house erupted, the Flyers slumped of.  Time for the Caps Man of the Match to be announced and the chant went up, "Horna, Horna, Horna, Horna...." and the announcer duly obliged.  Big Tam it was.

So many smiling faces on the way out.  We're still bottom of the league, and may well remain there, but Big Tam Horna made Hogmanay his own.

Happy New Year.

It'll be lonely this Xmas

HOME ALONE

It is Xmas Day.  I am on my own.  No, this is not a plea for sympathy, not in the least, because it's a temporary state and soon to be ended.  Indeed I'm glad of the chance to get a few things done by myself.  But I woke up this morning beside the person I love most in the world, who also happens to be my best friend, and was soon joined by my other favoured companion.  Who has just come to sit by me now, so I'm not all that alone after all.  Here she is.

So we woke up, had a lie in, ate breakfast together, opened a few presents (including finding out that, as last year, we've managed to buy each other the same book) and now she's gone to her daughter's for a Xmas Day meal.  I was invited, but have a long list of positive and negative reasons for being happy to opt out.  Avoiding noisy kids, the son-in-law's brother who bangs on about his divorce, and the evidence based expectation that the culinary element might not be of all that high a standard seem like good enough reasons to me.  With the added bonus of a long walk on a sunny day (OK, confession - I went to stick a Xmas card through a friend's letter box and no, I'm not going to explain why it wasn't sent or taken there days ago....), some playtime with the cat, and a chance to sit a write for a bit.  There are times when being alone can seem much the preferable option.

I've only spent one Xmas Day literally on my own.  That was the early eighties.  I'd not long since bought my first house, where I lived on my own.  Back then I lived in Hampshire.  For reasons I now forget I'd decided not to travel back to Scotland that year (probably too broke!) and had no problem contemplating a 25th December sat down with full control of the telly.  However I accepted an invitation from a friend to go to his for dinner.  Xmas morning changed that when I awoke to find I had contracted that most toxic and debilitating of illnesses - man flu.  So I spent the day in my dressing gown, stretched out on the sofa and had baked beans on toast for lunch (there may even have been cheese involved).  Did I feel sorry for myself?  Not in the slightest, other that the degree of self pity which is the natural prerogative of the human male stricken with a snotty nose.  I enjoyed the day as much as any other, but then I've always been a bit of a loner by nature.

Perhaps the best aspect of a day like that was having no need to meet the expectations of others.  It was the case then, and is even more so now, that everyone, or what feels like everyone, decrees that Xmas day must be 'special'.  That there should be traditions and excessive quantities of food and drink and presents and general over-the-topedness.  It fits in so well with the mores of our capitalist, greed-is-good society to promote the spending-is-best ethos.  And making that one day 'special' for ourselves and others, has become yet another form of validation that applies pressure to increase the debt mountains, fuel the pay day loaners, be someone other than who you might otherwise be.  If you don't have, and deliver to others, that 'special' day then you are worth less as a human being.  Does it have to be this way?

As I said above, I'm on my own for now, but far from lonely.  But there are many people in the UK who may not see anyone at all today.  For some that will be just fine, as it was for me that time.  It may even be a positive choice, and nobody should be able to make them feel the worse for that decision.  ("Oh, you're not really going to spend Xmas day on your own, are you....?", complete with pitying tone.)  For some there will be greater joy in knowing they've avoided the family rows than having to take part in them.

For others it is just one more lonely day in a sequence where human contact is a rarity and they would give anything to change that situation.  Being constantly bombarded with the image of today as one to share, to give and be given to, to celebrate, may feel like being laughed at by the whole world.  Is anyone surprised that the suicide rate increases over the Xmas period? 

It's been good to dip into the Twitter hashtag #joinin today and see social media at it's best, giving those who feel the need or desire the chance to share their day with others.  It might not be the same as face to face contact, but at least virtual friends don't hold grudges about the present they got from Auntie Margaret five years ago.

So how does this 'special' work?  For some it's that quirky family tradition that's repeated every year.  Others want change, the shock of the new, a break from the fusty sameness that some seem to revel in.  And there are those who'd like to ignore the whole event, thank you very much, and resume a sensible life when all the frivolities have subsided.

Me?  I'm somewhere in the middle.  My Bah, Humbug! instincts are softened by my wife's love of a bit of tinsel and a few candles.  Were I on my own I doubt a tree would make an appearance in the Crawford residence, but I'd make a bit of an effort when celebrating with others.  See, I'm even wearing one of my festive waistcoats today.

Special is whatever works for you, it's the laugh you had, the mouthful you ate, the look out the window.  It's the cat looking pleadingly at you for food (she made me write that, honest).  I hope you have, had, a special day, whatever that means to you.  I hope that every one of your days, hyped or otherwise, contains their special moment.  And if 'special' to you is doing nothing like the things that you're told are special to others then so be it.

Make your own Special.

So what's British?

BRITAIN'S BRITISH? REALLY? WELL BLOW ME....

I read a tweet a couple of days ago saying "UKIP are the only chance Britain has of remaining British". Now, to be fair, you do get to see some really stupid statements being made on Twitter, and much amusement can be derived from many of them, but I can't make up my mind how much this guy is funny stupid, and how much plain disturbing. Because, and maybe I'm the one who's missing something here, I'm not sure how Britain could be anything other than British. It kind of goes together doesn't it?

Of course this being a kipper he's trying to make some daft point about immigration. Or maybe it was 'islamification', that well known made-up scaremongers terminology. It was hard to see in what context he was ranting, but then context, like facts and evidence, doesn't seem to mean much to kippers. They seem to have their own little fixed ideas ('ideas' may be an overly complimentary term) which no amount of reality will alter. So all the recent conclusive evidence demonstrating that immigration has been positive for the UK is presumably some kind of plot in the eyes of people like this.

Which may mean that this person imagines he's making some kind of sense in coming out with this meaningless statement. For a start Britain is a geographic, rather than political, entity. The UK is the political state, comprised of three countries and a colony. So quite how Britain could be anything other than British is beyond me. Even if the UK was to break up, or become part of a larger state, Britain would remain Britain, and anything and anyone in Britain could be reasonably described as British. Being ruled from London never prevented Ireland remaining Irish, did it? Despite the best efforts of the likes of Cromwell and Churchill Irish national identity remained strong.

So what exactly can 'remaining British' actually mean to this man? Is there something beyond geography which marks out something, or someone, as distinctly 'British'? It's hard to think of there being much in common between Bob Crow and Norman Tebbit, Mary Beard and Cheryl Cole, Mo Farah and Elton John, Kirsty Wark and E L James, but they are all indisputably one thing and that's British. Because they live in Britain. I'd find it depressing to think I would ever be thought of having much in common with Nigel Farage, but we both live in, on, the same island and that makes us both British.

I'm a Scot, but have spent most of my adult life living in England. My move south took place in 1979, shortly after the first general election win for Thatcher. I watched coverage of that event back in Scotland, but saw out all subsequent election nights in England. Until 2010, when I had the chance to be back home once again. And received a powerful reminder of just how different a country Scotland is from England, at least in political terms.

The BBC Scotland coverage was a very different animal to what I'd become used to. For a start there were four main parties represented in the debates and discussions. Then, as the results came through, the tally on the screen would flip between the numbers for Scottish seats, and those for the UK as a whole. And the stories those figures told were hugely different, as they have been since the eighties when the savagery of Thatcherite policies effectively destroyed Tory support north of the border, culminating in the total wipeout of their Westminster representation in '97. As for UKIP.... they remain the sixth party in Scotland, have yet to hold on to a deposit in either Westminster or Holyrood elections, and are little more than a bad smell in the corner of the room. I recall reading that, in the 2011 Holyrood election, all the Scottish UKIP candidates put together scraped fewer votes across the whole country than the independent Margo MacDonald received in just the Lothian Region.

So Scotland is not England. It has always maintained it's own legal system, it has very different cultural traditions and sees itself as a country apart, within the UK. But it is as British as England, or Wales, because it is part of the same island. All three countries have changed dramatically over the centuries, but this was Britain when the Romans arrived, and that cannot be altered.

That it is populated by mongrels alters this fact not one jot. The waves of immigration to these islands are too numerous to mention. Perhaps the Romans were the first to be properly documented, but that certainly didn't mean we had an Italian influx. For any Roman occupying forces were as polyglot as the French Foreign Legion. There were men, and women, from all over Europe, the Near East and North Africa. Many integrated with the locals and remained once the empire receded. In the following centuries there were Germanic tribes, Scandinavians, and, of course, the Normans (most Scots forget, or don't even know, that Robert the Bruce came from a Norman family). Although there were no further major invasions this island developed trading links all over the world, which led to lpopulation movements in both directions. The impact of the slave trade should not be forgotten either, with many people of African original being brought here forcibly. On a more cheerful note, let us not forget that Britain has a long history of providing sanctuary for political refugees, saving lives from the possibility of torture and death.

So @DuncanGray (for it was he who was the 'genius' behind my opening sentence), what were you really trying to say? Just what is this 'British' you speak of, if it is not a simple adjective referring to the fact of being from, in, part of, Britain? How can being part of the EU stop Britain from being British? Have the French become less French or the Italians less Italian? Is it the immigration which dilutes the number of inhabitants actually born on this island? Why should that matter, given the constant changes in origins reflected above? The gene pool is strengthened by variety, not inbreeding (as our royal family appears to demonstrate).

Or is there something else at work here? That's the trouble with proto-fascist parties, there's always the whiff of racism working somewhere in the background. Any time spent following a few UKIP supporters on Twitter, or listening to the idiocies of Godfrey Bloom, will soon show you that. How much of this 'British' malarky is a hankering for a non existent golden age when white, straight males knew they were better than the rest (nobody appears to have told our current government that the world has moved on)?

I'm only surmising of course, but you have to wonder....