Bringing the fun back

 

DRIVING A DAFFODIL

I'm heading towards one of those urban traffic calming things where the road narrows down to single lane and oncoming traffic has priority. So I slow down. Heading towards me is one of those big black Audi SUVs, and we know how aggressive they can be. Suddenly he's flashing his lights and I wonder what's wrong.  Then, as he closes, I see the guy at the wheel is grinning. And waving. And giving a big thumbs up. Which is when I remember. I'm in Daffy.

Sometimes I forget, because she's become so normal to me. But not for long. There's usually someone to remind me, like that manic SUV driver, or sometimes the simple act of driving - of leaning through bends or the umbrella handle gearchange clicking back and forth - makes me grin. Driving a bright yellow 2CV is never dull.

Daffy arrived in our lives last April. Moving to Edinburgh, a decade ago now,  meant our lives changed.  Public transport is so good here, and the roads so crowded, that our old Skoda spent most of its time sat idle, quietly seizing up. Lockdowns came and problems arose from underuse. So did we really need a car? Probably not. The only time it felt necessary was getting to hockey matches on cold, wet, winter nights. Apart from that there was rarely any incentive to drive.

But I've hardly ever been without a car in the past half century, and giving up on that sense of convenience would be hard. Was that enough of a reason? Not really. If we were to justify ownership then there had to be some other justification. One thing was certain, the old Skoda, once so useful but now an encumbrance, had to go. Any replacement had to be something that brought some pleasure back to the act of driving.

I've had a few fun cars over the years, notably my beloved Matra Murena. But none of them would fit into our current life very well. Except one. Back in the nineties I had the aforementioned three seater, not always the most practical of vehicles. So we had a second car for Barbara, which I could also use. To match our French sports car in quirkiness we opted for... a Citroen 2CV. And Eric came into our lives.

Ok, so it's pretty naff to name cars, isn't it?  2CVs are different. They have character. They demand to be named. And Barbara always wanted a car called Eric, so such he became. Green and white and a bit rusty, a bit problematic at times, but fun to birl along in. Soon replaced by Phoebe, a white and red Dolly with Roadrunner stickers on the sides. Only replaced when we needed the second car that was a bit comfier on longer trips. During the Pheobe period we got married. On the cake sat two cars of icing, a grey Murena, and a red and white 2CV. While we, bride and groom, arrived at the Town Hall in a bright yellow Deuche chauffeured by a man in full racing gear (but that's another story...). The 'upturned pram' has had significance in our lives.

In the nineties 2CVs were a fairly common sight on UK roads. They'd sold well in the seventies and eighties (production ended in 1990), being cheap to buy and run, in tune with the fuel crises we experienced back then, and appealing to a certain type of person. In 2023 we went to a one man play starring the great Mark Thomas. One of the characters he described was a woman with flowing curls, cheesecloth tops and gypsy skirts, a social worker of middle class origins, and Mark asked the audience what car she'd have been driving. I immediately piped up "2CV", and I was right, to Mr Thomas' delight. I didn't get a chance to mention that it would almost certainly have had a big smiley face on the back, with the words "Nuclear Power- Nein Danke" proudly emblazoned. You get the picture.

But there aren't so many around nowadays, especially in Scotland. Rust, rust, rust, the great enemy, has taken them from us. But we'd made up our minds that this what we wanted, needed. So I set about the search, which motly involved haunting various duck-related Facebook pages. There was a red one down in Kent that looked perfect, but my online investigations left big question marks over the claimed restoration work and it was abandoned.

There was a blue one nearby, in a classic car dealer in Musselburgh. We went to see it. Not as claimed! Rust, rust, rust... No thanks.

Then a yellow one turned up in Somerset. Not perfect, but well within budget. Not fully restored, but well cared for. Not possible to go and view, but being sold by a name that had cropped up many times. Being sold on behalf of the widow of an enthusiast, a lover of the marque. Being sold by a man well respected in British 2CV circles as restorer, enthusiast, organiser of events, a man who wanted 2CVs to survive and thrive. We talked online. He sent photos, detailed the minor faults, gave me some history. A deal was struck, the Skoda departed. A transporter was arranged and, in early April, this yellow 2CV, with black roof (like our wedding carriage), was loaded on to a trailer and towed from Warminster to Pilrig. Both vendor and transporter sent pics, my excitement grew. News came, only ten minutes away. We went down, waited. It was a dull day, damp, the roads dark and shiny. Around the corner came a black Toyota Landcruiser. With a bright splash of jaune behind. "She's like a daffodil" said Barbara. Well, it was still Spring.

Unloaded, paid for, garaged, inspected, delighted. Driven the following day, smiles wide. The registration letters are HOY, so by rights this vehicle, now a domiciled Scot, should be called Chris. But that first comment stuck. Daffy she became. Adding a few Daffy Duck stickers confirmed the moniker.

Nine months on she's a delightful part of our lives, and I love her. She gets to go out weekly, to keep things ticking over and because... I want to. For the sheer fun of driving, and I haven't thought like that for many a year. There have been a few problems, not least with neighbours (and that's for another blog post...), but almost universally the reactions of others have been positive. Grins, kids laughing, thumbs up, questions, laughter. Even cynical mechanics converted. She brings a little joy into the lives of others (like that Audi driver) and maybe that's the best thing about her. That and my grin...

So that went better than expected...

 

HOW DID THAT HAPPEN?

It didn't start well. The taxi was booked for 08.50 to take me to the Kiltwalk start point in Musselburgh. From a firm I've used many times before, and have always been 100% reliable. Yet come 09.00 there was no taxi. I called. He'll be with you in a couple of minutes said the woman. Hmmm...

09.10 the taxi rolls up. OK, he was apologetic, and then made his best effort to get me there for the start time of 09.30. On the way another wee surprise. Did they tell you it's cash only today? he asked. No. And being late there was no time for a cashpoint stop. So he trusted me, good man. Gave me his bank details and then I was out and off. I could see, across the park, the last of the 09.30 walkers already some distance from the starting point.

So my start time was 09.34. No chance to enact my original plan to do some stretches and take a few photos of the crowd before setting off. So straight into it I went.

Took about three minutes to catch up to the rear of the pack. And another twenty five to make my way through and around the backmarkers to get into my own pace. Then it was just about keeping on going.

There was a plan of sorts, based on the experience of my practice walking these past weeks. My back problem required me to have a sit down and stretch about once an hour, thus three times over the course, to avoid getting into too much pain. But. I don't know if there was some extra shot of adrenaline courtesy of my late start and slow-walker circumnavigation, or just an extra sense of purpose brought on by this one being the real thing, but no sitdowns ensued. I did try to grab a banana at one of the pit stops, but the buggers didn't have the decency to have any, so on I trundled.  

There was a moment, just over a mile away from the end, that some nausea hit me, and I decided to give in and have a seat.  Except that every bench was already taken by walkers who looked in a worse state than me, so on I went, and that slightly sickish feeling had the decency to disappear.  Zero stops.  Happy with that!

I did manage a few photos along the way, all poor quality as I didn't allow myself to stop walking to take them. But it was good to see a classic old Citroen H van still giving service on Porty Prom.

I took this (and forgot to smile) to reassure myself that I was no longer stone cold last.

Some people have a more eccentric approach to Kiltwalk than others...

That heartwarming moment when you get your first glimpse of the final destination in the distance.

Nearly there...

Thank fek for that... 😼

Now I sit here writing, a Kiltwalker who has dined, stretched those aching muscles, and bath-soaked to the point of pink-and-wrinkliness. A contented Kiltwalker. (And the taxi driver has been paid!)

(A smug Kiltwalker who beat his best practice time by over ten minutes! 😁)

Final shot. This is my fifth Kiltwalk finisher's medal. And by far the nicest looking of the quintet. Roll on 2025...?

Of course it's a great feeling to have the walk go better than expected, and to receive such a nice looking lump of metal.  But I don't forget that the real purpose of the day is to raise money for a good cause.  And if  you would still like to donate something you very much still can, and I would be very much grateful.  You can get to the donation page by clicking on this link.

Many thanks to everyone who already donated.

Finally, thanks to Barbara for coming to Murrayfield to prop me up and take some photos.

Kiltwalk is On

 

KILT WILL

Last year I posted here about why I wouldn't be doing Kiltwalk 2023. So it's nice to be able to return the year after with more positive news.

Back then the main reasons for not doing the walk were health related. Some shortness of breath, and, more significantly, back pain. But that I retained hope for the future.

So what's changed? The biggest difference has been provided by Kiltwalk themselves. Not only has the distance come down from 14 to 11 miles, but that alteration to the route has also removed the only real incline that had to be tackled. That was where the breathing got a bit iffy and is not an issue any longer. (The stop/start heart procedure mentioned in last year's post did happen. And didn't work. But my medications allow me to maintain a sensible pace.) The back still hurts, but going to 2 pilates classes a week has helped. And I've learned to swallow my pride...

I used to enjoy the challenge of completing the distance without stopping once. Now the challenge is just to finish. There will be stops. I have walked the course and identified where the benches are. Sit downs will happen, stretching will happen, enough to press the reset button each time. It's a bit like an advance warning of the afternoon naps that will surely become my lot as the years advance...

The boots have been hitting the walkways, the kilt still fits, there are 4 more weeks until the day. Because it's taken me some time to be sure I'd be up to it I'm a bit late looking for sponsorship. Having stopped volunteering with Advocard my chosen charity this year is It's Good 2 Give, which provides support to young cancer patients and their families (I have no personal connection, other than it being supported by Edinburgh Rugby, who I support). You can learn about the great help they provide by clicking on this link.  I'd greatly appreciate anything you can give.

You can donate by clicking on this link.

Another Future is possible - it's not this one though

 

BUT ONLY JUST...

Before the election I felt that Starmer's campaign slogan boiled down to one statement :

"Vote Labour - We promise to be slightly less shit than the tories."

Which was hardly a high bar to stagger over, was it?

And here we are, after only three weeks or so, and already they are barely maintaining to live up to that 'promise'. Within days of taking office we had the immoral sight of Foreign Secretary Lammy happily shaking hands with a far-right, mass-murdering, war criminal. Now we have draconian action against seven MPs who had the audacity to act in line with their consciences and vote against the continuation of a measure that contributes substantially towards existing child poverty. All part of Keir's continuing war against the heart and soul of what Labour should be, and which his namesake did so much towards.

So there's no doubts, are there? Labour is now a right wing party, only a bit less extreme that the lunatics they have replaced. (To be fair they have at least got rid of the crazy and inhumane Rwanda nonsense, and imprisoning asylum seekers on a giant barge.)

Did people really understand what they were voting for? Or simply opted for something that couldn't possibly be worse than what had been endured for fourteen years? Hope seems in short supply right now...

Not so Clueless

 

SOME OF US DO HAVE A CLUE

Last night we were in a packed out Festival Theatre for a recording of a radio show. Which was something we hadn't done, at least for this particular show, for the best part of two decades.

The show, which goes out on BBC Radio 4, is called I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue. It was the successor to the comedy I loved most from my childhood years, I'm Sorry, I'll Read That Again. But whereas ISIRTA was a sketch show, ISIHAC was conceived with laziness in mind, hence minimal need for a script. It was billed as "the antidote to panel games", and still is. The basic concept back then was unremitting silliness, and that proud tradition continues.

"back then" was 1972. Fifty two years and eighty one series later it is still going strong, and tickets for recordings of the shows sell out rapidly once announced. So we were lucky to be in the fourth row, with a fine view of what passes for the action.

The show format features a host, who doles out daft tasks to the four comedians on the panel. Also involved is the producer, and a pianist. Those tasks include things like singing one song to the tune of another, which is self explanatory, or Uxbridge English Dictionary where the panellists find new meanings for existing words. Singing often features, and the worse the singer the funnier.

For many years the show featured the late great Humphrey Lyttelton as it's chair, and his deadpan delivery was perfect for the role. Regular team members were Tim Brooke-Taylor, Graeme Garden (who had both been in ISIRTA), Barry Cryer and Willie Rushton. When Rushton died in 1996 his seat became a rotating guest spot.

I can't recall exactly when we went to our first recording, or how many we've been to. But it was certainly post-Willie, and before the turn of the century. Bradford was our baptism, with Sandi Toksvig in the guest seat that night. Over the years our attendance at shows crept over into double figures, and we travelled to Leeds, Harrogate, Halifax, and saw one in Southport where we lived. All of them featured the cast mentioned above, and an assortment of guests. All of them began with producer John Naismith coming out to explain what was about to happen for newcomers, and tell a few jokes to get the audience warmed up and volume levels established. His routine was much the same every time, including the jokes. And all of them featured Colin Sell on the piano, and regular target for Humph's jokes. Oh, and all of them featured the lovely Samantha...

For various reasons we never got to another recording after Humph died in 2008. So we had yet to see his eventual successor, Jack Dee, in action. (I did get in line for tickets in Preston early one morning, and lost out by 2 places in the queue...)

But here we were again. New chair. New panellists (all of the old regulars are now dead, except for Garden). There are no regulars on the teams now, but several people do tend to feature frequently, such as Tony Hawks. Not that he was there last night. We did get Rory Bremner, Pippa Evans, Milton Jones and Fred MacAulay. And some things hadn't changed. Out came a slightly greyer looking John Naismith, who at least had some new jokes, even if the rest of the patter was much the same. And at the ivories was Colin Sell. Now the target for Jack's abuse.

The show itself remains as it ever was. Silly. Hilariously silly. Much the same old games, the same old catch phrases, and the same need for audience participation to make the night what it should be. A show of hands revealed that over half the audience had never been to a recording before. So it was important that the old hands did their bit to lead when response was required.

And so we did. It might have been a nigh on twenty year gap, and the people on stage had changed, but it felt like it had only been a few weeks ago. Pavlov would have been proud of us. It was the best birthday present I could have had.

There's nothing to moan about

 

YOU'RE SCOTTISH

It hurt. It hurt a lot at the time, and we all wanted it just to be over. But you could see it hurt for them too, far more than it did for us. And to suggest otherwise is ludicrous.

I'm talking about the Scottish Cup Final, in ice hockey, between Caps and Aberdeen Lynx. We went in with eager faces, and left with tails drooping. The northerners scored within 30 seconds and then kept on coming. By the end it was 9-3 and the only consolation was that the Lynx fans didn't get the double figures they were chanting for. It was a sad end to our season.

But then the moaners started on social media. The players were embarrassing, they weren't trying, they didn't care, why had we bothered going up to Dundee...etc, etc.  And, in some way, that was the worst bit. Because it clearly wasn't true, and why do that on a public forum where the players or their families or friends can see? The team needs our support in loss as well as victory.

Two years ago this team didn't even exist. In their first season they fell out of both Cup and Playoffs at the quarter final stage (1st round!), but finished a close second in the league title race. They brought in crowds of over a thousand regularly. They proved that they could beat any team in the league on their day, and created expectations in the fanbase. They gave people hope, which I wrote about last March.

For longstanding Caps fans this was a revelation. OK, so we were no longer in the EIHL, the top level of pro hockey in the UK, but in the much lower level Scottish National league. It was a bit slower to watch, less skilful. But that was soon forgotten. Firstly because we had 'our' team back on the ice again. Secondly, because, unlike the EIHL days, we were competitive, in a league where almost everyone else was too. Matches were exciting, unpredictable. Entertaining. Hence the bigger crowds. ('Old' Caps struggled to get much more than 700 people through the doors.)

In only their second season they again finished a close second in the league, so they remained as  competitive. They also took part in a new, smaller competition called the Northern League, which mixed 3 SNL teams in with one from the NIHL (a, in theory, higher level league), the Blackburn Hawks. And Caps took the trophy. In the SNL playoffs they took another bit of silver away, winning the final. And, as we already know, one week later finished runners up in the Cup. The signs of improvement from last year are obvious. Oh, and the crowds are even bigger now, topping two thousand on one occasion.

So, far from being the disappointment that that final game gave rise to, this was a season of triumphs, of expectations raised even higher, of trophies in the cabinet. And promising a Season 3 that could, should, see further upwards progress.  Even that final trip was memorable, being part of another huge crowd for the SNL, sharing the experience with others.  And we got to give Daffy a run.  (Who's Daffy? - that's for the next post...)

Finally, to all those who had a go at the team for that final game - you're Scottish, aren't you? If, by now, you aren't used to teams that sometimes turn in utterly underwhelming performances then can you call yourself a true Scot?

The older the better?

 

HOW OLD?

The car is going. To make way for something new. Well, "new", as the new is older than the old. But that's a different story.

Getting rid of the car in a hurry, it seemed best to try some of the car buying sites that have sprung up in recent years. Which began with a surprise. The first one I tried rejected me. Because the car was over fifteen years old. Was it really? Oh, so it was. Which is when it hit me that not only has it been registered for almost seventeen years, but we've owned it for almost fourteen of those. I have never, ever, had a car that long before, not even my beloved Murena.

But it has served us well. In the early days it was perfect for it's primary purpose, of shuttling back and forth between Southport and Leith, with us, the cat, and a bootful of ... stuff. Always stuff. But once here permanently it proved slightly less suited to it's largely urban role. There were moments when the space it afforded was welcome, notably when stuffed full of stuffed cuddly toys, but it was mostly wasted. There were few long trips, to which it was better suited. And it became neglected and rarely used. Not what's good for a car. So I hope the quirkier nature of it's replacement will encourage us to get out in it more. Because sometimes older is better.

Which got me thinking about the other old things in my life (as opposed to old people and cats...). I am bad at throwing things away, as the packed nature of cupboards, wardrobes and shelves can testify to. The occasional clear out is instructive, but also frustrating. Because things you have hardly used for years are retaining on a "just in case, you never know" basis. Which wasn't the intention of the clear out. I'm not even very good at disposing of old tech items, always wondering if they might come in handy for some never-to-be-thought of purpose.

But some old is good. For both sentimental and practical reasons. Of course old books and LPs are good in themselves. They are part of my history, a resource to be returned to (maybe). But old clothes? Sometimes. Leather jackets are hard to part with, and the more battered the better. That jacket still fits perfectly well and, who knows, might even come back into fashion one day...

But top dog in the old clothing stakes rests with the item pictured above. My mum knitted that sweater for me when I was about eighteen or nineteen. So it's not far off it's half century. In that time it hasn't been worn very often. Some years it never emerged. It's still in great condition, still fits as well as ever (it was always a generous fit), and still serves a purpose. It still looks good on. The reason it doesn't come out too often is- it's too warm. Thick Arran knit, a heavy polo neck, this is a beast that only works in the coldest of weather. And only if I'm not going to spend much time in it indoors, or the sweat will flow freely. It has come back into it's own for the same purpose it was originally created. To keep me from freezing at rugby matches. And my return to Murrayfield, and what is now the Hive, has made me grateful I never disposed of it. It isn't going to all the matches. Only those where freezing point is a real threat. Above five or six degrees it's still too warm. A testament to my mother's skill with the needles, and her concern for my welfare. And the powers of old things.

The one we all want to beat

 

FOUR IN A ROW, THREE IN ONE GO

Impossible for me not to comment on yesterday's historic win over the Auld Enema. The first time Scotland recorded four wins over England in the championship since 1896. Beating a team that's ranked above us in the world rankings (or are they now?). Speed, strength and the scoring knack delivering a hat trick. And the coolest man on the park nailing the posts from every possible angle. All from a team that went behind early on and never showed any sign of panic or, dare I say it, the implosion apparent at times in previous games.

For the fans it's The One. We won't be champions. We had a poor World Cup, yet again. But beat England and all can seem well with the world. Keep beating England every year and the belief remains. It's a measurement in itself. It's the sugar to sweeten any scenario. It's the passion.

Finn Russell has, without losing that impish charm, morphed from cheeky chappy, unpredictable maverick and all or nothing magician, into one of the world's greats, a game manager and a dedicated pro who has become such an incredibly reliable goal kicker (not one shot missed in three games of the championship so far). But he's still got the magic wand to wave too.

As for Duhi... Now just one behind Hogg's all time try scoring record for our country. Hat trick man. Shiny man Barbara calls him, for there never appears to be a hair out of place, the cheekbones and smile are straight from Hollywood Central, the muscles have muscles and the speed is Flash level. Yes, sometimes, as with his third yesterday, it's a walk in. But you still have to be there, on the spot. While the first showed strength and nous, and the second the sheer pace that can leave a defence looking like a mirage. Even that last minute sin binning couldn't dull the patina. Raised in South Africa, but made Superman in Edinburgh. We'll take him as one of ours, thank you very much.

Bring on Rome.

Meaningful dates

 

MARKING TIME

We humans have made an obsessive habit out of marking various points when this elemental lump we live on has completed another revolution around the big fiery ball, don't we? Because that's all any kind of anniversary is, when reduced to basics. Birthday? You've stayed alive for another circuit of the sun. Wedding anniversary? We've managed another circuit and we're still together. Marking x years since some event that 'matters' to you? That's x turns of the merry-go-round since the event took place. Everything else is all about what we've chosen the event to mean.

It's all very artificial, and also very comforting. We need our rituals, our marker points, our certainties, our ways of making sense of the world. I'm no different. I'll say Happy New Year with the best of them. Although then it's a time of year when there is some real grounding to the marking of the passage of another loop of the solar system. It's the time of the Winter Solstice, the real, primeval, driver behind this time of celebrations. The short days are departing, and our world begins to become lighter again.

Of course that only makes any sense in the northern hemisphere of the planet, and the northerly section of that area. It should be the complete opposite on the other side of the world. Yet that's not the case. Because the bulk of the world was colonised, subjugated, massacred and exploited by the peoples of the north, and this is one of their legacies. It appears to be unifying. But it shouldn't.

So we start a new year, and try to makes ourselves into new people with our resolutions - the promises we know will soon be broken. I didn't even bother this time around, other than acknowledging I need to get out more and meet different people - my circle of acquaintance is too narrowly circumscribed for comfort. But there's no beginning to that yet - I still feel as lousy with this persistent cough as I did before Xmas, so socialising isn't much in mind for now. The highlights have been there though. Making the effort to go to St Giles on Monday and see the mighty Lau in action, guaranteed to induce a grin. Yesterday meant a trip to the rink (the cold dry air is good for an aching throat) and the euphoria of watching Caps beat title rivals Aberdeen, and beat them surprisingly well by eight goals to two, to go top of the league. Which only matters because... I attach meaning to a random group of guys all wearing the same outfit, and trying to score more goals that some differently outfitted guys. We're just monkeys really, aren't we?

 

WHICH YEAR WILL IT BE?

In a hours it will be 2024. Not, I think, a number of any particular significance or resonance, but events in the following 366 days might alter that for some reason . Humans attach great significance to their numbers, to the arbitrary patterns imposed on our consciousness by the 'meaning' of dates. The world, our world, will be no different on Monday that on Sunday, but we still want it to be, hope it will be, seek change within ourselves.

And some years automatically conjure up particular images.  1066 is an obvious one. To be counterbalanced by 1314. From last century 1914 and 1939 are probably the most (in)famous - but that's wars again. So how about 1969, the first moon landing? And then in this century, 2016 will be remembered as the year when the UK and the UK indulged in differing forms of political hara-kiri (sp?) that brought their one disasters. While I think we can all recall what 2020 was about...

But year numbers also have significance for other reasons. Not for what happened, but for something someone wrote about  -1984 is the most renowned one. Slightly less well known, but still worth mentioning, 2001. George Orwell. Arthur C Clarke. Both creating visions of the near future, both now seeming well in our past. Orwell published his 35 years before his title, Clarke 33 (although the latter timing is based on the release of the film version, which came before the novel, but not that the script was derived from a 1951 Clarke short story), so they are very similar in that respect. There are also some similarities in themes, but 2001 is the more optimistic, 1984 the more dystopian.

Nothing ages as badly as predictions for the future. 2001 shows space technology progressing at a far faster rate than in reality, with the orbiting space station an impressive creation (with some artificial gravity present for crew) that makes the current set up look a bit Heath Robinson. But it also predicts that AI can be a real threat to humans, something that gets mentioned a lot now.

1984 shows a world of semi-permanent war, and close political control of the media and the populace. State propaganda is the only form of communication that ordinary citizens receive. Hope comes from humanity and love, but that is shown to be fragile.

Which feels like the more accurate prediction?

Orwell definitely feels the more prescient.  While not every state is at war, most seem to have some connections to at least one, supporting the one side or the other, often materially.  The fault lines separating the US, Russia and China remain as treacherous as ever.  CCTV has become ubiquitous, part of the backgound furniture.  But the greatest similarity to Winston Smith's world feels like the way we are manipluated by the media, and the government.  Told who to hate this week.  Told that there are movements within society that are working against us, and more made-up the better it seems.  "Wokeism", "Cultural Marxism", "The Trans Agenda", and other fictional scare stories are so commonplace now they aren't even laughed at for what they are.  The extrme right dystopia is on our doorstep, and I don't see Starmer Labour administration doing much to chance that....