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....

As the UK creeps on towards fascism...

 

THE BANALITY OF EVIL

In the eighties I lived in the south of England. The Thatcher government was still adding to it's list of disastrous policies, some of which continue to cause severe repercussions today. Notably the culture of greed and selfishness they promoted, the destruction of the social housing fabric, and the deregulation of the banks. To that list add the wilful destruction of communities, politicising the police, selling off public assets to the wealthy, an unnecessary war (complete with ludicrous jingoism), showing friendship towards terrorists, just so long as it was state terror. And that's just off the top of my head.

In November 1988 Jim Sillars won a by election in Govan for the SNP. He made the point that only full Independence would enable Scotland to avoid the right wing excesses it had to experience from a government it didn't vote for. That was probably the first time I really gave much thought to ending the UK, although it wasn't foremost in my mind at the time.

Then came the Blair years, which began with hope and did little to justify it. No reversal of so many of the disastrous eighties idiocies. But at least Scotland got her parliament back, and some proper democracy, even if powers were deliberately limited. And at that time Scotland still largely voted Labour.

But the tories were back in in 2010, and this time would manage to show themselves to be even worse, in both competence and policy, that those awful eighties. And even more right wing, more oppressive, something I hoped I'd never even have to imagine after the Wicked Witch of Grantham was removed. They gave us Brexshit, helping turn the UK into an international laughing stock. They gave us the most dishonest, narcissistic, incompetent Prime Minister in living memory. Only to follow that up with the thickest. And now the slimiest.

This is the standard I use for defining fascism. Look at Eco's list, and think how many of those fourteen apply to what the tories have been doing in recent years. The othering of immigrants, the populist announcements, obsession with EU plots, disregard for the rights of the weakest in society - it's all there. The appearance of several serving tory MPs on Gammon Broadcasting, including one who has, inexplicably, just returned to the cabinet. It might pretend to be a "news" channel, but only the most gullible could fail to see it for what it is, a far right propaganda outlet (and peddler of sundry ludicrous conspiracy theories...). Gary Lineker got slammed for pointing out much of the rhetoric, especially from the genuinely evil Braverman, mirrored the hate speech of Germany in the thirties. He was spot on.

Of course the steady creep of fascism isn't as obvious as many would want it to be. There are no jackboots of death camps. But that doesn't stop evil permeating government - the Rwanda policy, and associated disregard for rule of law, should be all the confirmation of that you need. As a title I used the phrase made famous by Hannah Ardent at the trial of Eichmann. That apparently normal, even bland, functionaries can commit the most heinous acts and still convince themselves that they are good people. It feels ever more appropriate in tory Britain.

Sadly I don't see Starmer doing enough to reverse this trend. He might make some minor improvements, but he had adopted too many of the current policy attitudes to make a big difference (although I could have seen Corbyn bring proper change - which is why the establishment had him character assassinated). For Scotland there seems only one permission. Jim Sillars was ahead of his time. But that time is very much here now. It's why I'm still Yes.

Four into two doesn't go, but King Boff does

 AND THEN THERE WERE TWO (AND THE KING...)

This World Cup was always going to be about the Big Four. The gulf between that group of France, Ireland, New Zealand and South Africa, and the rest, is immense. That the draw should ensure that only two of that quartet could make it to the semi finals again illustrates the craziness of doing the seedings three years ahead of the event, a mistake World Rugby will hopefully never make again. That the draw gave us two of the most intense, high quality, gripping matches of the tournament is little compensation. Because it also means that two of the semi finalists have had to follow much harder paths to get to this point, and fatigue must be starting to be a factor by now.

Clearly a Boks v Kiwis final is now the only one worthy of the sport itself. But that won't stop me from shouting my support for Los Pumas on Friday evening. Scotland might have gone early, unable to cope with the power and skill of two of those Big Four, but as an Edinburgh supporter I still had people to cheer on. So my support was very much with Fiji, who were so unlucky yesterday, and Argentina. The man we call Big Bill Mata is gone now, but King Boff is very much with us.

I'll hopefully, injuries permitting, be getting to see Big Bill and King Boff in action a lot this season, when they return to the Edinburgh Rugby fold. But for now Edinburgh eyes are on one of Argentina's biggest stars, and one of the world's great goal kickers, Emiliano Boffelli. While I think anything other that final I began the last paragraph with would be a travesty, my heart will still be with the blue and white hoops.

Vamos Los Pumas! Vamos Rey Boff!

(But I still want to see Kolisi lifting the trophy again, for much the same reasons as I did four years ago...)

Where does the time go?

 

THE OTHER NIGHT I WENT FOR A MASSAGE

Not the whale music kind, and definitely not the happy ending type. This was more your "two steps removed from sadistic torture" kind of massage. Something I've been having every few weeks in the hope that they, and my sudden conversion to pilates, will help ease the back pains I have been having for several months. My regular manipulator being away for a few weeks, I had a new guy giving my back the treatment, and finding his own ways to make me experience pains I didn't know I had. Lovely man, from Dundalk, and we chatted as he rubbed and pummelled away at me. He asked that question that so many people do when you're retired - "What do you do with yourself?"

To which my first response is usually "What the hell do I do with myself?". Because I never seem to do much, and yet the days are full and I'm never bored. So I thought I'd look back at the month just ending to see if it offered up any clues.

September's always a month with a bit going on anyway. The Fringe has just ended, and live entertainment switches to sport, and the theatre. Hockey and Rugby begin, and it's time for another season of A Play, a Pie and a Pint. There's our wedding anniversary, and Barbara's birthday. Oh, and I've got into the habit of helping out a bit on the Advocard stall on the day of the Edinburgh Volunteer Fair.

This specific September added in a march in support of Scottish Indy, a short city break, a brief period alone at home, and a music gig. That's a fair bit of time accounted for already. But there's still a lot left...

So what do I do with the rest of the time? I wish I knew.  I sit at my PC and write things.  I look at smaller screens and get annoyed with the idiots of the world (definitely trying to cut back on that one).  I read.  Play with the cat.  Usually a bit of voluntary work.  A weekly pilates class, immediately offset by cake in a nearby cafe.  TV in the evenings.

And... exist in my own head.  It's a place where I've always been able to spend a lot tiome.  Maybe from being an only child, more likely from being naturally unsociable.  I didn't tell him that bit.

Kilt Wake?

 

NOT WALKING NO MORE?

No begging this year. Not from me. No long walk, no charity fund raising, no point to the kilt. This year I will not be doing Kiltwalk.

I did register. I did start doing practice walks from early May, gradually extending the distance. I did , once, manage to do over ten miles. And then I stopped. And feel better for doing so. Well, physically at least. The back pain got too much for me and common sense finally overrode pride to call a halt.

But the back has been better since. Maybe that's partly down to cutting out the hours of plodding. But it could also mean that the regular pilates and sports massages are proving beneficial. And that I might continue to improve. Later this year I should be getting the "have you tried turning it off and turning it on again?" treatment on the heart again, but this time with the assistance of a drug that doesn't like me to have grapefruit. So maybe my breathing will be better too...

Hope is a hard habit to shake sometimes. So maybe it's too early to consign the kilt to the grave. Next year I might be begging again.

To Sicily via the page

 ADDIO SALVO

The primary perk of the pensioner period in life is, at least in theory, time. Lots and lots of time. Even if you still don't know where it goes to. Which, to me, means time to read. All those books I've bought over the decades (because I really needed them...) but never got hold of one of those 'round tooit' thingies you need to get going on reducing the great pile of the unread. But I've been able to find my reading 'tooit' (many others continue to go missing).

One of the great joys of having the freedom to read and read, day after day, is immersing oneself in a series of novels so that, for a period of weeks or months the characters become a part of your family. I'm particularly fond of consuming detective series in this fashion. And so, in the past few years, I have become friendly with the likes of Rebus, Wallander, Beck, Van der Valk and, my personal favourite, Castang.

Salvo Montalbano, Commissario of police in the fictional Sicilian town of Vigata, achieved some fame in the UK throuigh the regular showings of his eponymous series (and the prequel Young Montalbano) on BBC4. It appears to be a cheap filler for them when there's nothing better to hand. And cheap it is. This is one of those "so bad it's good" TV programmes. At times the acting is risible, direction predictable and the settings devoid of real life. But it was a fun watch, sometimes funny in unintended ways, and the basic storylines were usually well worked out. Because the stories themselves closely followed the plots of the original books, from the hands of Andrea Camilleri.

Those books have gathered a lot of critical praise, and a large readership, in part due to the screen versions no doubt. I picked one up a while back, liked what I read, and decided I would wait to acquire the complete set before setting off to spend a few weeks in a fictional Sicily.

I began with a book that was out of sequence chronologiocally, but made sense in setting the scene.  This was a book of short stories which opened with Montalbano's First Case, which explains how Salvo got to become the Chief Inspector of Vigata.  This would later become the basis for the first episode of TV's Young Montalbano.

Then into the novels.  All twenty eight of them.  It is soon apparent that this is vastly superior to the TV version.  While most of the main characters are broadly similar, Salvo has a much richer inner life.  The books are very funny (Intentionally!).  Like Mankell and Sjöwall&Wahlöö, Camilleri uses the genre to make comments on the political and social situations of the day (he has a lot of fun highlighting the idiocies of the Berlusconi period, rather less showing up how badly cross-Med migrants are treated).  

There's an interesting development about half way through the series.  By then the TV programme has taken off, and the name of Montalbano was much better known in Italy.  Which the Salvo of the page resents, complaining that the TV version is a decade younger, and often sharper of thought, than he is.  Although at least he's still got a decent head of hair.  But his obsession with the ageing process becomes a permanent theme from then on.  

The credit for conveying so much of Camilleri's Sicilian authenticity goes to translator Stephen Sartarelli, who does an excellent job of conveying the idiomatic sense of the originals (which were written in a mix of Italian and Sicilian), and providing footnotes to help the reader understand references that would otherwise pass the them by.  He's also helpful in explaining much about the food that Montalbano consumes so much of - the gourmand of the page is there on the screen, but without the loving descriptions of the dishes being enjoyed.  Reading has never made me feel so hungry, or given me so many recipe ideas to try out.     

Much as I'd enjoyed the series throughout, by the begining of book 27 it was good to know the end was not far off.  And yet.  27 contained a surprise, turning into more of a full blown thriller than the others.  And 28 breaks the mould.  To begin with, it was written out of sequence, several years before publication, and was given to the publisher with the instruction not to make it public until after the author's death.  The title, Riicardino, is at odds with the rest of the series.  And the story takes the meta laspects of the fictional Montalbano mentioning his own (more fictional?!) TV alter ego, and raises it with phone conversations between the character and his own author.  This final volume is a much more literary effort than the others, more philosophical, and a reminder of the essential humanity of these books.  

And isn't a policeman who cares about his fellow human beings what we all want?  Along with convoluted plots, unlikely but logical explanations, and a cast of familiars that are recognisably flawed people.  On the debit side women get a raw deal, little more than adjuncts, or provocations, most of the time, although in part that's a reflection of Sicilian patriarchal culture.  And in Ingrid Sjöström, Salvo's Swedish friend, there is one female character who is strong and highly competent, although it's a shame she dfoesn't crop up more frequently.  But I will still miss Mimi, Fazio, Cat, Livia, Enzo, Pasquale, Adelina and, most of all, the main man.  He was always as entertaining as I could have wished for, no mean compliment over so many volumes (and 2 months dead from 1 to 28).

Now... has anyone got a complete set of Simenon to hand?

[The photo shows the late Andrea Camilleri with Luca Zingaretti, who plays Montalbano in the RAI TV series.]

Isnt it a bit warm for this?

 

Previous posts mentioned being back Murrayfield ice rink to watch the return of the Edinburgh Capitals. The season has been over for a couple of months now, and won't return until September. But at least there's still been events to follow. The same coach remains in place. Most of the top players have signed up for next season, plus a couple of new faces. Sadly my personal favourite has returned to Germany, but you can't have everything. We still look like having a team that, once again, should be challenging for silverware. More to the point, we have another season of hockey to go to, after so many away from the sport.

But, unlike previous years, there's a new aspect to the off season. Murrayfield ice rink has been converted into Murrayfield roller rink (and has had a decent paint job to spruce it up). That's kept the punters coming through the door. And offered up the chance to see a another variation on sport, but still with Caps playing. Inline roller hockey.

We missed out on the first match due to another commitment (which was a shame, as it sounded like a thriller, Caps beating Dundee Tigers 7-6), but went to our first game today. Playing against Whitley Bay Sea Kings, this would prove an easier challenge for the home side, ending up 13-4 in our favour. So maybe not the most competitive of games.

But it was still fascinating, to be seeing the similarities and differences in relation to the 'normal' hockey that is our standard diet there. The skills are broadly similar, as is some of the equipment, and the rotating bench of players. There's one few player on the ice for each side, only one official, and the pace is slower. Rules are simpler too, with no offsides, no icing (or equivalent), no heavy body hits. There was only one brief fight, tame in comparison with those it's icy companion throws up, and provided the only penalties of the game. The clock continues to run down, even when a goal is scored, so the periods are much shorter. throw in the removal of Zamboni time and the roller game is over in an hour or more less than the blade one. If the overall spectacle is a bit less exciting than the winter games, it was still a fun watch.

But the biggest difference was in being a spectator, and not just because there were a lot fewer of us. It was the novelty of sitting in the rink, looking at my bare arms, and wondering where my usual five layers of clothing had got to. On what was one of the hottest days we've had this year, it was a relief to come in out of the sun to a place that was considerably cooler than being outdoors. But not so cool that you couldn't sit there comfortably in shorts and tee. This is not something I will be repeating once September arrives, and that interior gets back it's usual title - Freezerfield.