The right move

 

BACK AGAIN

Last year we had a brief time in Southport, where I lived for 25 years, and I posted about the signs of decline I saw. Recently we returned. For 2 nights this time, with the opportunity to talk to people we knew, to look around the town a bit, and get a better picture of how things are going.

We were there for a funeral. A sad/happy occasion, but also one that gave a chance to talk to people about the changes that we could see. There was also time to go for dinner at the home of old friends, and to have one of the best Indian meals we've tasted. It helped that the weather was excellent all the time we were there.

Our hotel was on the Prom. (If you don't know the town, that's quite some distance from the beach!) Approaching our hotel the first shock was seeing that Southport Theatre had been demolished, only an empty site remaining. We later learned it had been gone for 3 or 4 years, and all plans to replace had as yet come to nothing. We also found out that the pier had been closed for several years as well. When we lived in Southport I can remember it being shut, and in a poor state for many years, but a major refurb got it back open, complete with it's own little tram line and a cafe/visitor centre at the far end. It had become a pleasant place for a walk.

On our first day we walked to our friends' place. 7pm on a perfect evening. Blue sky, cool breeze, in a seaside holiday town, passing one of the focal points for tourists. So where was everyone? It was almost completely deserted. That would never have been the case when this was still home for us. Lord Street (the main street) wasn't much better. It was pleasantly peaceful, but that's not a positive sign in a town that relies heavily on income from visitors.

The following day, after the funeral, we got talking to old colleagues, who confirmed that the town was getting quieter, and little seemed to be being done to change that. Although I did later see that work on the pier was ongoing now. More concerning is that Smedley Hydro, the office where we both used to work and the town's largest employer for more than 75 years, will close in 2030. We had heard about this, but it was still a surprise that nobody knew what future plans for the site would be, and that there seemed to be no great efforts being made to bring new employment in.

Yet Southport remains an attractive seaside town, with flowers prominent in the centre (see above).  And there were visible efforts to make the place look good, although some of that may have been motivated by the imminence of the Open at Birkdale.  And Liverpool is a thriving city, nly a short train ride away.  I could still imagine us living there.  But I'd miss the festivals too much.  And the hockey.  And the rugby...  Edinburgh it still is then.

The reality of the fiction

 

LUIGI'S COFFEE

In my previous post I talked about looking in Naples for sites linked to the TV crime drama series we'd been watching, Inspector Ricciardi. On the first night we wandered down to the coast, and saw several of the places we'd seen mention of.

The shot above isn't an exact match for that used in that post from a from last month, but it's roughly the same location. There were too many tourists about (including us!) to get the perfect copy. We also saw the Teatro di San Carlo, the opera house shown in the other photo used there. But we didn't go inside, and the exterior is not so photogenic. There were several other locations too, but there's just one I want to talk about.

I'm not sure if it was in every episode, but it was in most. The Gran Caffè Gambrinus was a regular meeting place for the Inspector and his colleagues and acquaintances. An elegant mid 19th century coffee house, which was frequented, on the screen, by the city's wealthier citizens. It's still very much there, still elegant, even if the clientele is often less so (including us!).

The interior is beautiful, the staff smartly dressed and attentive. It feels like a place where the prices wouldbe, should be, high. So it was a surprise to see how reasonable the dishes we selected for lunch were. I had the special salad, and it lived up to the name. Varied leaves, tuna, 2 different kinds of tomato, avocado, olives, sweetcorn, tuna, mozzarella. All for €13. ( Restaurant prices generally were surprisingly reasonable in such a tourist oriented city as Naples.) If there was a sting it was for the coffees - €6 for my decaf espresso, and a steep €8 for Barbara's macchiato. The Inspector was independently wealthy!

Yet entirely worth it for the experience. And a chat with our waiter about the impact Ricciardi had on the cafe itself, both in terms of the filming, and of the resultant surge in interest. We were glad we had gone, and grateful to the series, without which we might not have bothered.

TV dramas are unreliable guides to unfamiliar places. I've seen Edinburgh's geography abused too many times on screen not to be aware of that! But they can give clues to interesting spots to visit, provide backdrops that give the visitor a sense of familiarity when they arrive. Definitely better without the blackshirts though.

Through fiction to reality

 

IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF LUIGI ALFREDO

Night Train to Lisbon, by Pascal Mercier, is one of my favourite books. Some time after I first read it we booked a holiday in the Portuguese capital, which prompted a reread and a list of locations mentioned. As part of our trip I made a point of seeking out some of these, and felt a sense of physical connection to the central characters of the novel, a way of making their thoughts a little more real.

Tomorrow morning (at some disgustingly early hour...) we head off to Naples for the first time. The choice of destination was arrived at through various factors to do with price and convenience, and to go somewhere we hadn't been before. It was a late decision, a sudden urge to go somewhere different, and the booking was only made on the 17th of this month. Three days before that we had watched the first episode of an Italian TV detective series, Inspector Ricciardi (Il Commissario Ricciardi in the original), and found it interesting. On the 17th we watched the second installment, having booked our holiday, and only then twigged the connection - the series is set in the city we were heading for, albeit in a 1930s scenario.

Since when we have watched an episode every evening, viewing the finale last night (there are fourteen episodes, of around two hours each, spread across three series). Those daily visits to that (fascist dominated) world gained added interest from knowing that we would soon be walking along the modern version of those scenes. (The series was largely filmed in the city itself.) By the end of our viewing we had formed emotional attachments to several of the characters, and here is an opportunity to keep them going. So a part of our thinking now includes taking in some of those sights which cropped up in the drama (our hotel is, coincidentally, located on a street that gets several mentions) and seek out that same sense of connection mentioned above. The streets of Luigi Alfredo Ricciardi. But without the shadow of Mussolini's thugs...

On being different

 

PEOPLE LIKE WEIRD

I was wearing this tee shirt a couple of days ago. Most days I have some kind of logo or wording on my chest and nobody says anything. So what it it about "Stay Weird" that draws comments?   Twice I had someone say how much they liked it, and this has happened a few times before. No other shirt I wear garners the same level of reaction.

People like weird. We all crave difference, to some degree or other. Something that takes us out of the normal routine same old places, same old thinking. It can be a small change, like a new recipe, or something bigger, like exploring a new city. But how weird do you want it to be?

The Thesaurus offers up these alternative synonyms for Weird. Lots to choose from. And the truth is that one person's normal is another's weird. Your personal 'weird' is very much a contextual concept, deriving from your own experiences of growing up and the life you've found yourself living. So maybe that's why people like the shirt. They can see their own 'weird' in it, without any explanation required. We all have a part of ourselves that likes the idea of being a bit weird, having some part of us that is different to others. It might be wearing colourful socks. It might be going out dressed as a character from fantasy fiction. But all that matters is the feeling that it's your own little individual quirk, one of the things that makes you unique. So be your own weird.

Who put the lights out?

 

SKY DRAMA

No, not the TV people, but that thing up above that's been bright blue for a few days. And the big yellow shiny thing, purveyor of heat and light. Scotland melting. Gingers hiding in basements. Taps aff and lobster skin. Ice cream sales rocketing. Tempers faltering. Who needs the Med?

And then last night. Bedroom lit by flashes, resounding to rumbles, from that self-same sky. Sitting at my desk this morning, straining to see the words on the page in front of me, realising that the only way I could see the keyboard was from the light of the screen. This at 08.30.

Two hours further on now, the light has returned, there are blue patches in the clouds above. The internet full of videos of the storm, the neon jolts flashing above Arthur's Seat. Now just memories.

Nature provides us with drama. I just wish humankind wasn't doing it's worst to up the melodrama...

(Photo nicked from Reddit, but credited as being from last night.)

They 'know', do they?

 

ADDICTIONS

Addicts are manipulative. Often cunning, their desperation not to be 'found out' leads them into behaviour designed to hide their addiction from others, especially those closest to them. Be it drugs, alcohol, gambling or whatever, the stories of partners and spouses who have been the subjects of long term deception by the person they live with are countless. While this article is primarily about addicts of substance abuse, much of it applies to other addictions too.

This BBC post gives information about the items Peter Murrell purchased through his embezzlement of SNP party funds. Do you notice a pattern, a rationale behind the list? A sense of purpose? Some way of improving the person's life in the long term? Because I can't. The list provides no rational motivation. Unless. You see it as addiction. Shopping addiction. Trying to live a pretend life. Then you can see some reason for it all.

And why, as an addict, he could be so good at concealing what he was up to. There was a multi year, multi million pound police investigation, which found evidence that Murrell (and only Murrell) had been involved in the deception. But the allegations are still rife that others, especially his wife Nicola Sturgeon, must have been involved. Refer back to my opening paragraph...

Of course the allegations are largely politically motivated, or coming from those, like Joanna Cherry, who have a grudge to exercise. The loudest voices are from the far right, but it's noticeable that the fascists of Deform are also the first to shout down talk of investigations into the financing of all parties. Hmm, their proven links to Putin couldn't have anything to do with that, could they?

The accusers tell the world that they 'know' Sturgeon is guilty. And probably John Swinney too. If I think I know something it's usually because I have some evidence of it being true, so have these people been guilty of withholding evidence from a major police investigation? Or is 'know' shorthand for 'wish it was true that'? Because if wishes made things true mine would mean we didn't have seventeen fascists sitting in our national parliament. But there they are, including the grubby Thomas Kerr, and their presence and constant hate speech made the recent racist knife attack here seem somehow inevitable. This is what fascism brings. Along with a total disdain and lack of understanding of mental illnesses, like addiction...

The Crackerjack connection

 

THE MIND MOVES IN MYSTERIOUS WAYS... THEN FORGETS ALL ABOUT IT

My brain made a random (and initially incorrect) connection yesterday. It was 10 o'clock, precisely. On a Friday. Suddenly the jump was made. It's Friday, it's 5 o'clock, it's Crackerjack. Why? I've no idea, as this was something I hadn't thought about in decades.

For those not in the know, Crackerjack was a children's TV programme. A variety show with comedy, sketches, music, and quizzes where kids from the audience took part. My incorrect link was that the time would have been 5 to 5, and not 5 itself. But, at that moment, the only other thing that came to mind were the names of 2 of the presenters, who ran the show during the period of my childhood, the sixties, when I would have been watching - Leslie Crowther and Peter Glaze. Beyond that I recalled nothing of the detail of the format or content.

I mentioned this sudden memory to Barbara and she was off... so many other details, other people who appeared. She remembered the cabbages, which kids who answered questions wrongly had to hold. How could I forget that? But it's a blank. Even reading the Wikipedia entry for the programme didn't jolt any real memories, other than knowing it was one of those shows I tried not to miss when I was a wee kid. So how come she remembers this stuff, and I don't?

This has come up before, that she has so many detailed memories of growing up, whilst much of mine is fuzzy, uncertain of periods and places, full of inaccuracies and doubt. She says she can recall something that happened when she was 3. I might have some early memories, but I think most are actually suggestions, stories I've been told later. My first real memory, I can place reasonably accurately, was around the time I turned 5, when I fractured my left wrist.

This has happened to me elsewhere, that realisation that others have far greater clarity about their early years than I do. A decade and more ago someone organised a reunion of our primary school class, so ages 5 to 11. I recalled most names and some faces of my classmates. I could remember the school itself, and that for our final year we moved to a new building. I could just about recall a couple of the teachers. But that was it. Yet so many there brought up arcane details of teachers and their habits, games played, lessons taken, projects we did. I sat back and listened and none of it really registered, or parked genuine memories. One of the guys had become a music teacher at the secondary school I had switched to, and asked me to sing the school song. While I didn't even know there was a song... So the memory fog continued into my teenage years.

Is this common, or am I the odd one out here? Do most people have these detailed memories of growing up, that I seem to lack? And if so, where lies the source of my failings? Is it being an only child, meaning I never had anyone to discuss stuff with? There weren't really any close friends either. Do shared memories survive better than those experienced alone? Does discussion implant the image in the brain?

I don't find any of this disturbing. It doesn't make me sad, just curious. It's too late to ask anyone, so I'm happy in my ignorance. The only person I know from those times I met at school at age 14, and we didn't really become close friends until we were adults. So there's only a bit of shared school stuff there, nothing really wider.

Maybe I don't have sufficient curiosity in my nature? Or I lack the necessary sentimentality? Does it matter? There were events in my past that shaped me, even if I can't dredge them up now. It's all in the past. But I do remember that Leslie and Peter made me laugh.

That's another rotation done

THREE SCORE YEARS AND TEN

Warning - I am uncertain as to how well this post will be able to bear the weight of its own irony.

I am seventy today, hence the title. Does this mean anything? We tell ourselves it does. Us human love numbers, love trying to give significance to them. But what does 'seventy' mean? It's a measure of the number of rotations around our sun that this planet has made since I began breathing. In what possible way is that significant?

We love those rotations, don't we?  Us humans attach a lot of importance to anniversaries of events.  Even if they are just those rotations mentioned above, and, in universal terms, utterly insignificant.  But we crave meaning.  We look for significance.  We feel a need to justify our existence, for there to be 'purpose' in something.  It's the origin of all religions, many philosophies, even the selfie culture.  Trying to feel like there is a point to it all.  And, as we get older, birthdays take on new meanings, the recognition that not only has another year passed, but we are nearer to our own end.

That's not being negative, but realistic.  Our bodies let us know this.  I think I first became aware of my diminishing physical abilities in my early fifties, when I realised that people were passing me.  For most of my life, when I was on my own and walking, I would usually be the fastest, simply because that's how I walked.  Seeing myself being passed, or unable to keep up, was a window into the future.

So my body is on the downward slope, but I have no idea how steep it is going to be, or when it might suddenly fall away.  But I will still keep on looking for meaning, like everyone else, for some sense that this life I lead is in some ways useful to others.   It's one of the things that keeps us going.

What does this tell us about ourselves?  Maybe that, deep down, we recognise that insignificance in an infinite universe, and much of our lives are spent trying to counterbalance that.  In whatever ways work for us.  We need stories about the human condition, we need takes that fire our imagination.  But do we really still need to try and believe in the sky fairies?  

If I see meaning in life it's in my relationships with other humans (any cats of course).  It's trying to be a decent person, and not hurt others, not discriminate on the basis of who someone is, rather than what they say.  We are really nothing more than animated bags of atoms, but we can seem like more to others.  

So does turning seventy even matter?  (And what does 'matter' mean...?!)  No and Yes. 

No, because the ageing process isn't simply about numbers.  It's about attitude, about taking an interest, about still being a part of the society you live in.  A good retirement is as much about temperament as it is about the body.  Maybe more so. It's a freedom from the regimen of work.  I am content with my life.  I have, I feel, understood that 'enough' is an important word in my vocabulary, a word that can embody a concept for living by.  My life is more malleable, and open to personal whim, than when I was younger.  My real age isn't the number, it's what I feel on any particular day.

And Yes.  There are also some useful and/or inescapable aspects that come with the number.  In practical terms it can be cheaper to be older. My Edinburgh Rugby season ticket is cheaper, as are tickets to many cultural events.  Then there's the "age card", which is easier to play each year. If there's some physical activity to be done I can safely excuse myself and leave it to the Young Uns (my days of actually bending down to pick up soft toys in our hockey team's annual Teddy Toss are behind me).  Finally, there is, like it or not, a cultural significance.  The point of my title above.  People who know your age see you as that age, whatever that means to them. To which I say "Fuck it" - I'll be as old as my body and mind allow me feel, adapted to suit whatever favours me in the circumstances. I'm seventy now - so what?"

Who do we think we are?

 

WHO IS THE YOO KAY?

Belgium. France. Spain. Portugal. Ireland. The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Spot the odd one out. OK, I may have exaggerated for comic effect, but it is a weird name. And a weird state that has, and always has had, a serious identity crisis.

I lived in England for 35 years. Early on in my residency I gave up trying to correct locals in their usage of words to describe their own country. England seemed to suffice for many to cover England itself, Britain, Great Britain, and the UK. Some even appeared to scoop up the whole of the island of Ireland into their terminology. Ofter the four in my list were exchanged randomly, without thought. This is not something that happens in the other countries that make up the UK, where our sense of national identity is stronger. (Well, unionists in Northern Ireland are a pretty confused bunch sometimes...)

This identity confusion is continued in the media. If a UK newsreader talks about 'the largest city on the northeast' we all know where they are referring to. And it isn't Aberdeen. They frequently talk about 'UK politics' and then it's clear their subject is only England.

But if you want to see real confusion then have a look at the UK in international sport, which proves, maybe more than anything else, what an anomalous state this place is in global terms.  In sport is the UK ever 'The UK'?  I can't think of an example where it is.  In the Olympics, and a few sports like ice hockey, there is a 'Team GB', even though it is supposed to include Northern Ireland.  But in most international cometitions 'the UK' doesn't exist.  It's the national teams that play.  England.  Scotland.  Wales.  Sometimes Northern Ireland.  Is there any other state on the planet that does this?  And in one major international sport, one element of the UK's territory plays as part of the national team of the neighbouring state.  (Ireland plays rugby union as a complete nation, including the still-occupied territory in the north east of the country..)  That is an anomaly...

And now, for the first time, the UK will have First Ministers in two of the nations who want to take their country out of the UK, and another who favours reunification with the rest of their nation.  While the largest nation appears to be heading in a very different political direction.

It's easy to conclude that the UK is a bit of a mess, a place of uncertainty and confusion. But also that my title question was the wrong one. Maybe we should be asking - Why is the UK? (And for how much longer...)

It might not be wisdom, but here's a few thoughts

Some thoughts that keep buzzing around my head, and felt a need to be released…

Being, or wanting to be, a billionaire is a mental illness. I mean seriously… why? How deep is your sense of inadequacy? And why are you inflicting it on the world?

And related to that…

We need to make a lot more use of the word ‘enough’, and the concept it embodies. Do you know when you’ve had enough? Do you know when you’ve done enough? Do you know when you’ve got enough. It’s an imperfect world filled with imperfect people. Understand what’s important and necessary is one key to a contented life, and surely enough is… well, enough. Isn’t it?

The right bang on about rewarding ‘wealth creators’, and I couldn’t agree more. Where we disagree is on who those people are. The true wealth of a country lies in it's people, not an accumulation of money (which is, after all, merely conceptual). Our real wealth comes from learning, and teachers are the true wealth creators, to be rewarded as such. Oh, and the myth of the ‘self made man’ is just that – a myth. We are all interdependent. (Ditto the ‘alpha male’…)

The right bang on about immigrants and poor people as if they were your enemy.  But they're us.  Whereas the scumbags and companies that don't pay their due taxes... yeah, they're the real enemy.

The right bang on about the Starmer government being left wing, or 'socialist', or even 'marxist'. Would this be the same Starmer who purged most of the decent left wingers and socialists from this supposedly socialist part?  (And as for Marxist...🤣🤣)  The last time the UK had a government that could be seen as left wing was the 70s.  It's been downhill since then.

Never be afraid to use the F word when it's the right one to use.  Deform and other far right groups are Fascists.  Use the word, own it, and use this list from the great Umberto Eco to prove it.

I was chatting to a young person on social media and they asked me if, from my great age and experience, I had any wisdom to pass on. At first I thought “no, the best learning is your own experience”, and wasn’t going to say anything. But then I realised that maybe I did have something to pass on, in 2 parts :

First, learn to ask the right questions. They aren’t usually the ones that politicians, the media and advertisers want you to ask. So maybe don’t ask how to stop ‘the small boats’, but why these poor, desperate people are having to take that route? What are the barriers, where is their motivation? It’s not what Niggle Fuhrage and the Daily Fail tries to con you into believing…

Second, look after your knees. That’s the big one!

How did the US elect a moron to be president? Dubya now looks like a towering statesman in comparison. And if you doubt the ‘moron’ tag… try drinking some bleach.

And related to that…

Janey was 100% right (and fat ol' Donnie doesn’t understand how percentages work).

Anyone want to agree or disagree?  What would you add to that list?