"Land of Mope and Weary"

I know absolutely nothing about football but even I know what's wrong with the England team and it's got nothing to do with football. It's not about players' skill levels or the formations they are asked to play in. There's nothing wrong with the colour of the strip or the quality of the pitch. We can't blame the ref and his assistants; they're fine fellows to a man. We perform equally well regardless of the heat or humidity. Our lions can play with the best of them when they choose to but they don't choose very often. The problem is not with the team or its management; it's with the National Anthem.

It has been commented before that our Anthem is a dirge compared to other nations and this is true. However, our glorious England team mumbling through it and staring at their shoes or looking off into the stands like naughty school boys who have been caught smoking can't help. Where's the national pride?

Perhaps Mr Hodgson should knock of the penalty practice and start anthem practice instead. If we could stand up straight, sing with gusto and pride this might translate to dynamic action on the pitch. 

As my good buddy Rod pointed out, we would be better off singing Land of Hope and Glory instead. Although his motives were for more anti-monarchist reasons, the song, with its jingoistic, imperialistic and 'johnny foreigner' thrashing lyrics would be perfect. Although it would of course be deemed offensive. We would need an upbeat yet still quintessentially English ditty for our lads to sing on the world stage that wouldn't upset anyone. How about 'Knees up Mother Brown' for example, it even has actions you can perform while singing.

Of course, if we are changing our Anthem then all the other countries will follow suit. Hopefully the Italians will treat us to a selection of arias from Verdi. The Americans still won't be able to play football but thousands of people singing 'Born in the USA' would be a show stopper. The Germans would have choices ranging from Kraftwerk and Rammstein to Beethoven, however if they insist on Wagner with its Hitlerian overtones, then we should stick to our guns on Land and Hope and Glory.

Pretentious... Moi?

Where I live in Buckinghamshire we are surrounded by pretty little villages which are considered desirable places to live. It's the same all over the country with large towns full of people all desiring to live in the surrounding villages and this desirability is reflected in the price. Having been an Estate Agent in one of my previous career incarnations I can attest to this fact. The question is why.

A certain amount of money will enable a hopeful home buyer to acquire a spacious three bed semi in a nice part of town.  It will almost certainly have gardens to front a back with off street parking or possibly a garage. It will probably be on a quiet estate of similar type properties. It's very like to have one of those convenience stores within easy walking distance and a reasonable pub within staggering distance. That sounds wonderful I hear you say but where's the aspiration?

Alternatively for the same amount of money and a bucket load extra, you can buy a cramped one hundred year old, two bedroomed cottage with damp and a leaky roof. The front garden will be minuscule and just big enough to put your rubbish bins in so the smell wafts in when you open the windows. The rear garden will be tiny and possibly a paved yard. There will be a thin sliver of pavement between your front garden and the noisy traffic hurtling past twenty four hours a day because you're on the main road. Anyone foolish enough to use the pavement would have an excellent view straight into your front room where they can check out your decor and how good looking your partner is while you watch telly. There will generally be on street parking which will be stolen by your neighbours so you will have to park in the adjacent streets. The law of averages dictates that you will sometimes be able to park outside your own house but sod's law dictates it will never be when you have bags full of shopping. It will be cold and draughty and need constant maintenance because of its advanced years.

There will be a village shop but it closes at 6PM and won't open bank holidays or Wednesday afternoons so if you fancy any evening drinks or snacks you will have to drive into town. There's also a lovely village pub which will be a highlight but you'll have to try not to fall off the wafer thin pavement on way home and get run over by the speeding traffic. The quaint little village will be surrounded by fields and quiet country lanes which are lovely in the summer but become life threateningly treacherous in the snow and ice of winter. You will have nightmares about your partner being stuck in a ditch or crashed into a tree because they are late home from work. You also know that the road is so little used no one will find them. All the old people in the village will be strange and insular and you suspect them of belonging to a mysterious cult that steals and eats babies.

It seems people aspire to character and uniqueness which translates into inconvenience and awkwardness. Pretentious snobs us humans... and none worse than I.

The Magic Box

My father has given me a box, it's a wooden toolbox. It was made before I was born from real wood with tongue and groove joints. It has brass riveted corner pieces with a leather carrying handle and small a lock with a key that still turns as sweetly as the day it was made. Inside it has a number of wooden drawers each with a green baize lining as smooth as a snooker table.

My father was an engineer before he retired and the box was designed to keep on a work bench to hold all those tiny implements of the trade. It's worn and scuffed. The varnish has been rubbed off over the years, the leather handle needs replacing and some of the baize inside the draws has worn through. It smells slightly of the oil that he used to look after his tools. He says he bought it when he first went into the trade and it was his constant companion on his work bench during the decades at work earning the money to pay the mortgage and bring up the family.

My father retired from engineering many years ago and has given it to me to 'pass on' as it were. I don't believe you could get anything like it these days unless you built it yourself or paid someone else to do it. It cries out to be refurbished and used. Unfortunately I can't think of anything I can actually use it for. It would be ideal if you were a model builder or an artist with pencils and crayons to store. If you were a stamp collector you could keep all your little bits in it. Perhaps if you were an angler you could keep your various flies and hooks in it. How about crochet or needle point. It's not much use to an amateur musician, blogger and aspiring short story writer. I even thought of building one of those plastic models of a sailing galleon just so I could keep my knives, paints and little plastic doodahs in it.

 It's strange to say but sometimes things seem to take on a life of their own.  In one of my previous career incarnations I was an Estate Agent and some houses definitely have an atmosphere, even after the previous occupiers have moved out. My father's box sits in the corner looking sad, lost and desperate to be used like a puppy with big brown eyes begging to be played with. I have no doubt I will attempt to refurbish it and try and find it gainful employment because I couldn't bear the guilt if I didn't. Perhaps I should take up poisoning, it would be excellent for storing all those little bottles of arsenic, deadly nightshade extract and strychnine, it really looks the part. Just like something Sherlock Holmes might have. Anyone fancy popping round for dinner?

In the Footsteps of Doctor Foster.

"Dr Foster went to Gloucester in a shower of rain
 He stepped in a puddle right up to his middle and
 Never went there again."

That's how I remember the old nursery rhyme going. Last week, Dearly Beloved and I went to stay at a haunted hotel in Tewkesbury which is just outside Gloucester and we paid this esteemed old city with its fine cathedral a visit. It was raining. To be fair it was raining in Tewkesbury as well.

Some might say that going on holiday in the pouring rain would put a dampener on the occasion; not a bit of it. There are many excellent benefits to rain drenched holidays. For a start you don't have that dilemma of which clothes to pack. If the weather forecast is for heavy precipitation for the duration then you don't need to pack shorts and tee shirts just in case. There is no need for women to pack a range of strappy sandals to go with various outfits because you're only going to be wearing a heavy jacket and boots.

Bad weather is excellent for keeping the crowds away from tourist attractions. Once you've managed to fight your way to Tewkesbury Abbey through the teeming rain you can be sure that you will be able to drip your way round it in relative isolation. There are no crowds to jostle you or get in the way of your photos. Just you and a handful of hardy souls all quietly steaming away.

Bad weather is also an excellent excuse for guilt-free lunchtime drinking. What better way to spend an hour or two than sitting in front of a roaring fire and looking out of the window at the poor sods outside getting soaked. There's no point in just wandering about in the rain getting wet for the sake of it. Better just stay put and have another round. Wet weather and a hotel room can also be conducive to other interesting indoor sports that involve the removal of clothing, should you be so inclined.

A further advantage of countrywide bad weather is that you know your plants at home are getting watered. No need to worry about returning home to dried out hanging baskets or wilting flower pots, natures doing the decent thing and keeping them going for you. Then there's the added security of your car. Most self-respecting oiks will be at home on their game consoles instead of cycling around looking for cars to break into. It's a quiet night when constable rain's on duty. If people didn't go on holiday in the rain then nobody would ever go to Wales.

Fortunately for Dearly Beloved and I we didn't find any deep puddles in Gloucester although there are maritime and military museums with a nice dredger you can walk round. It's a pleasant enough place but, like Dr Foster, we probably won't be going back there. By the way, we didn't see any ghosts at our haunted hotel. I'm not sure if I'm disappointed or not.