Chilly Cricket

Maybe it is the economic situation, maybe fear of the swine flu, but precious few people turned out for the first day of the Hampshire - Sussex county game yesterday. Which is sad, both for cricket and for the venue. Being an Essex man I wasn't there to support either team, I was more interested in seeing Hampshire's impressive county ground - the Rose Bowl - set in a leafy (and windy) spot in suburban Southampton.

The ground was opened in 2001 and cost a whopping £24 million which very nearly bankrupted Hampshire Cricket Club. It has something of the feel of an amphitheatre, surrounded by high fencing and towering floodlights, and features a handsome, canopied pavilion designed by Michael Hopkins and Partners (see below). Ground capacity is around 6,500 expanding to over 20,000 when temporary stands are erected, but to a non-member purchasing a £20 entrance ticket (okay, so I got it reduced to £15 because of my greying seniority) the facilities are pretty basic. Temporary structures house a burger bar, loos, a New Forest Ice Cream stall (excellent), a beer outlet (£3.50 for a pint of Marstons) and a Hampshire CC shop which doubles as the only outlet for scorecards.


In the same way as the older brother's beloved Ipswich Town FC has its reclusive millionaire, Marcus Evans, so The Rose Bowl PLC has its Rob Bromsgrove - a man who reacted to the ECB decision in 2006 not to accord the Rose Bowl test match status with a £35 million development plan to improve the ground and the traffic problems that go with it. The plans include a new, 176-room hotel, a press centre, grandstands and more, but yesterday there was little sign of great construction activity. Unlike Evans (£400 million), Bromsgrove does not make the Sunday Times Rich List so maybe he is even more reclusive, or, sadly, his fortunes might be ebbing away after his bold move to keep both Hampshire CC and the Rose Bowl project alive when they hit difficult times.

All I can say is "Good luck!". Running county cricket must be a pretty precarious business in this day and age. I just hope that Southampton's cricket ground doesn't go the way of its poor football club.

Essex Boy

It is funny how Chelmsford keeps cropping up. When I was young I used to chortle at the late Paul Jennings’s description in ‘Oodles of Oddlies’ which described Chelmsford as a ghastly city, a forsaken city, a city of electricians.

But it seems that Chelmsford has more to commend it than the Marconi and Crompton Parkinson factories; stuff that I (as an Essex-born man of Braintree and Chelmsford stock) should really have known about. For instance:

• Chelmsford is the ninth richest town in the UK with average income of £30,000 (The Times)

• Perhaps the most significant date in Chelmsford’s history was the ‘Great Flood’ of 3rd August 1888 when the River Can burst its banks – sweeping away the Iron Bridge in New London Road

• The Boreham interchange on the A12 is officially listed as one of Britain’s most confusing traffic intersections (Department of Transport)

• Henry VIII’s vast and imposing Beaulieu Palace stood originally on the site of what is now New Hall School (BBC TV Time Team)

• After World War II motor racing (with the likes of of Stirling Moss and Mike Hawthorn) took place at Boreham on a disused American military airfield

• Chelmsford Cathedral (previously St Mary’s Parish Church) has an action-packed history. In 1800 workmen dug a grave in the church floor, ready for a burial the next day. Unfortunately during the night an adjacent pillar ‘slipped’ into the hole, bringing down walls and roof

• Wikipedia records show that apart from members of my family (my Mum and my daughter come to mind) very few distinguished people were born in Essex's county town. Penny Lancaster (Mrs Rod Stewart) is about the best I can find, although Sir Geoff Hurst (born in Greater Manchester) grew up in Chelmsford

Happy Birthday, Will...

Today is not just St George's Day, it is also Shakespeare's birthday. I recently learned that there are 540,000 words in the English language (five times more than when Will was around) ... and climbing. Readers of The Economist used to search for at least one word per issue that was completely new to them, but now I guess that we are accumulating new vocabulary at almost the growth rate of the National Debt.

Yesterday I received a text message from a friend on a train. Her carriage was full, she complained, of 'gwarfing arses'. I reached for my copy of the Urban Dictionary and blushed. The principal definition of 'Gwarf' is too rude for this blog, so I will only treat you to the secondary definition: 'A new nation pastime: to swim down to the bottom of a swimming pool and fart, then try to bite all the bubbles before they reach the top'.

I tried the word 'Nappa' on the Urban Dictionary, but I'm ahead of them there. However under "N" I did find the following:

'Nonversation' - which I'm quite adept at.

'Nom, nom, nom' - the sound I make when eating.

'Nolifing' - sitting at home playing computer games all day.

'Noipe' - an annoying and ungrateful house guest that has overstayed his or her welcome.

It would be interesting to know how Shakespeare's writing might have changed if he added all this extra vocabulary at his disposal:

Friends, Romans and frisbielicious emo bitches, lend me your trusticles ...

Book Machines and Peter Pan

Another visit to London, this time with the principal purpose of visiting the annual London Book Fair at Earls Court. I didn’t find much of interest at the LBF - same old exhibitors, same old stuff, hundreds of people, but little buzz. I got my first sighting of the new Sony Reader and was very impressed. I also saw the Espresso book machine which Blackwells are installing in their Charing Cross Road and which will print “on demand” books for customers (from a list of around 400,000 titles of which 250,000 are out-of-print) in about five minutes -very eye-catching, but it is a hulking great thing which needs a pretty nifty person at the steering wheel.

Probably the highlight of my visit to the Book Fair was listening to the Italian novelist Umberto Eco who will be eighty next year. He didn’t start writing novels until fairly late in life and was extremely indignant when it was suggested that "The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana" (published in the UK in 2005) might be his final novel. I enjoyed hearing about Eco’s attitude to prioritising his workload. Married to a German art teacher who is extremely methodical and who will only do one job at a time, he claims that having Latin blood makes him quite the opposite. He likes to have multiple projects all on the go simultaneously and, when reminded that a deadline for a newspaper article is imminent, he will stubbornly set down to work on a completely different project, leaving the deadlined task until the very last minute. Absolutely my sort of person.

After leaving Earls Court I was able to savour London at its springtime best. Clear blue skies and a wonderful early evening for a walk in the park. Starting at Marble Arch and finishing at Notting Hill I traversed both Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens, checking out the Serpentine (I didn’t realise that it was a totally man-made water feature created for Queen Caroline, wife of George II), the Princess Diana “Fountain” (confusing sort of paddling waterway thingy for children which is apparently a miracle of expensive 3-D computer graphics design and engineering), the Princess Diana Memorial Walk, the Princess Diana Memorial Playground, and good old Peter Pan. The statue of Peter Pan was interestingly gifted to the Park by J M Barrie who arranged for its installation in the dead of night (like Network Rail's removal of the Frinton-on-Sea level-crossing gates) so it would come as a nice surprise to the people.

Rather stupidly the one important monument that I missed in Kensington Gardens was the chestnut tree (or was it an oak tree?) under which I proposed marriage to Mrs Rumbling Nappa all those years ago.

Bearded Wonder

There’s a lot of rumbling and grumbling in the family about the son and heir and his beard (he’s the one on the right wearing the flashy trousers). Now working in Arabia he sports some designer stubble which gives him the sort of appearance of someone who has got up in the morning in something of a rush and has forgotten to shave. He gets abuse from his mother, his grandmother, his step-grandmother, his aunts, and probably the entire female population of downtown Dubai.

It came as something of a surprise (to myself as much as anyone) then when it transpired from photographic evidence that the Rumbling Nappa once – a long time ago - sported a beard. Yes, the strange person in the dark glasses definitely has something of a growth around his chin. Maybe, just maybe it is time to experiment with a beard once more. I'd probably look rather piratical.

Political Blogs

So the political bloggers are making headlines (again) and, into the bargain, are making life quite strenuous for our beloved leader, the greatest ever Prime Minister. It all reminds me of the time that I tried to persuade the likes of Guido Fawkes to get his readers to buy buy books through me (or rather Politico’s Bookshop for whom I was briefly a salaryman) rather than earning commission from the dark halls of the Amazon empire.

As is the case today Tory bloggers then outnumbered their Socialist and Lib Dem counterparts by about ten to one, and the best of them (Iain Dale’s Diary should get a mention here) are business enterprises in their own right – carrying advertising and earning commission from referred sales of books and stuff. Boris seems to have about twenty clubs in his bag – he uses Twitter to draw people to his blog which promotes his column in the Telegraph which in turn throws mud at poor Damien McBride (all probably linked to a Facebook page, a MySpace piece, and webcam live action on YouTube.

Silly, really that the Rumbling Nappa hasn’t followed suit. We live after all in interesting times and if rumour is to be believed our beloved leader,the greatest ever Prime Minister, is currently entering into what can only be described as his George III phase. Like the Rumbling Nappa he apparently experiences dark moods and locks himself in his study for long periods. As with me, it is widely thought to be only a matter of time before the men in white coats come to take him away ‘for a rest’.

Wow! That means that by early summer we could be enjoying the premiership of Harriet Harman. Yipee!

Hillsborough Remembered

The weekend papers are full of memories of the Hillsborough disaster, twenty years ago, when 96 Liverpool fans were killed, crushed in a crowd-surge at the Leppings Lane end of the Sheffield Wednesday ground. They were there because Liverpool were meeting Brian Clough’s Nottingham Forest in the 1989 FA Cup semi-final. The cause of the surge was shambolic organisation, particularly by the South Yorkshire Police.

Particularly poignant is Henry Winter's article in the Sunday Telegraph. His focus is on Kenny Dalglish, and how profoundly moved the Liverpool manager was by the events of that awful day. Winter tells how Dalglish marshalled his team to ensure that the players were represented at every funeral, himself attending up to four different services a day; how unimpressed Dalglish was by the politicians who turned up at Anfield thinking that the pitch draped in red scarves might be a great photo opportunity (with the exception of Neil Kinnock whose grief was absolutely genuine); and how Hillsborough eventually took its toll on the man.

I was watching football at the time of the disaster. I remember that I was sitting in the South Stand of Wimbledon’s Plough Lane (Wimbledon 1 – Tottenham Hotspur 2 was the result) listening to a sports programme via a radio earpiece. The radio commentary of events at Hillsborough has long been swept under the media carpet, but there was no doubting the initial reaction of the radio commentators – Liverpool supporters were running riot, it was an absolute disgrace, those selfish fans are bringing shame to the name of football. Oh dear, how absolutely, totally wrong those first reactions turned out to be.

Private Dreams

‘A tremor shakes my entire body from head to foot and instantly I am shamefully aware of my own inadequacy...”

Sometimes a man has to do what a man has to do. Yesterday I needed to be alone, away from prying eyes, far from family, neighbours and acquaintances, somewhere where I could indulge my secret passion without fear of being recognised or interrupted.

I drive to Tournerbury, a remote corner of Hayling Island where I had learnt that there was a place that could satisfy my needs. Having negotiated the dusty track to the ramshackle premises I shyly pay the required fee to a grizzled retainer, making doubly sure that I haven’t been followed. I then take the proffered bucket and with feelings of misgiving and foreboding go to my allotted cubicle, unfurnished apart from a clothes hook and an uncomfortable-looking green mat cast untidily on the concrete floor.

After hanging up my jacket I try to flex my arms and bend my knees in preparation for the coming ordeal. It has been a full year since I have experienced anything like this. Nervously I stretch the supple leather glove over the fingers of my left hand and then, a moment of indecision before, hesitantly I lift a five iron from my ancient bag of clubs. A couple of practice swings, then place a ball on the mat and crash! A tremor shakes my entire body from head to foot and and instantly I am shamefully aware of my own inadequacy as the club-head thuds into the matting a good six inches ahead of the ball. The jarring agony as I realise that the mat gives scant protection from the unforgiving concrete underneath. The club almost comes out of my hands and I feel the same sort of resounding sensation as a great church bell when the hammer falls.

Yup, the golf season is upon us once more and, once again, I have been wondering if it is worth the hassle of trying to pretend that I am really a latent golf champion who just needs a little quiet fine-tuning to smooth out a few technical hitches before taking on the best of them at the Augusta Masters (or my sister and brothers, even).

To my surprise the comfortable if ungainly swing of old (the one where the shaft of the club thuds into the back of my neck on the back-swing) has deserted me. I’m just too rusty, old and unfit and crumbly now. I think that the best option is to sell the old clubs on ebay and put the proceeds towards the purchase of a nice comfy armchair with matching footstool. I’ll then sit and watch golf on TV, placing the odd bet*, and mutter happily how everyone else’s golf swing is rubbish (except the redoubtable Mr Jeev Milkha Singh).

* Every year I tend to place a Masters bet on someone I haven’t previously heard of. Previously this system has unearthed Anthony Kim, Aaron Baddeley, etc. This year’s hope is Nick Watney (I liked the name) winner of the 2009 Buick Invitational.

Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit

For some reason rabbit is regarded as a national dish in Malta. A bit surprising when you consider that most of the island has now been built over and there is precious little space for rabbits to run free. I did partake of the meat (traditional rabbit and chips) at a local restaurant during our recent visit but wasn’t over-impressed.

Easter bunnies (the chocolate variety) however bring back memories of childhood; of my elderly grandfather dressed in dark suit and tie solemnly listening to the Good Friday service on the radio with the Bible on his knee; hard-boiled eggs with painted faces dyed red with cochineel on Easter Sunday ; and the Marks Tey Point-to-Point on Bank Holiday Monday.

My younger brother often added an element of the unexpected at Easter. Known variously as Wub, Boons, Teddy, the RB, and Walrus – none of which bear any relation to his given names – he helped solve an etiquette problem regarding the consumption of chocolate rabbits. Having removed the wrappers there was doubt and confusion in the family as to which end to eat first. Do you nibble away delicately at the feet or back of the bunny? Do you try and split it into two halves? Do you work up from the base? “Bah!” opined the walrus, promptly biting off head and ears in a single mouthful, to the horror of the rest of us.

Needless to say the Walrus grew up to become a banker, whilst my sister, elder brother and I pursued less extreme vocations.

P.S.
Shortly after posting this I received the following:

Red Arrows

Not every policeman in Hampshire was sent to help out at the G20 Summit. A radar detector van was left to ensure good order on the A27 as it crosses the New Forest heading towards Ringwood. Oooof! I await the arrival of a nasty brown envelope within the next couple of weeks.

The reason for going to the New Forest in the first place was curiosity. I’d read in the new Spectator “Scoff” supplement that one of the best pubs in Britain was there – the Red Shoot at Linwood. Also, I reasoned, it would be sensible to make myself more familiar with this great tract of common land and meet up with some of the wild ponies.

The pub was okay. I approved the fact that instead of a bowl of peanuts on the counter there was a bowl of Bonio dog biscuits. The home-brewed beer was okay, too. But it was not worth the likely speeding fine – despite the pony fast asleep at the entrance.

The New Forest however was worth the trip, especially on a warm sunny afternoon with few people around. It is a huge area of unmolested woodland, bracken and scrub – perfect for development as a dormitory town for Southampton. The Forest has history, too. Although I’ve driven past the sign to Rufus Stone a hundred times, it never occurred to me that the place commemorates an important moment in English history.

My education (despite a history A-level) somehow missed out on King Rufus , son of William the Conqueror, and his fateful decision to go out hunting in the forest on Lammas-tide. As everyone but me knows Rufus was felled by friendly fire – an arrow shot by the King’s companion , William Tyrrel, which glanced off an oak tree and caught the unfortunate Rufus in the armpit. When he saw what he had done Tyrrel scarpered off to France rather than face the Hampshire constabulary. Sensible man. He apparently ended up in the Holy Land “in expiation of his involuntary treason”. I don’t think that I need to take quite such extreme steps. I’ll brave it out and wait for the speeding ticket.

Silk Purse

Up to London ahead of the G20 summit. Great to be back in town - a haircut, a latte at Buon Appetito (much chat about the old days, the old bookshop and the staff - almost all of whom are still remembered by their preferred sandwich fillings).

Then a few minutes in the British Museum (I'd forgotten how good that Norman Foster roof is) contemplating the statue of Sir Joseph Banks and checking out old bits of Babylonian pottery and stuff. Walk the length of Oxford Street and into Mayfair checking out the shop windows to see what Londoners are buying (see left), before being treated to lunch by two old chums anxious to winkle me out of my Rowlands Castle hibernation.

And what a lunch! Corrigans' in Upper Grosvenor Street has an excellent set menu, full of challenge to someone whose normal midday meal is a toasted cheese and ham sandwich. A starter of breaded Pig's Ear served with Quail Eggs, a main course of Grey Mullet with Pak Choi, and a pudding of Pear and Jelly in cheesey stuff were all terrific. And there was plenty of good carafe wine to wash it all down with - some of which was included in the menu.

And then, an ideal way to pass the afternoon, sitting outside a pub drinking beer for a couple of hours watching the world (and a few pretty girls) go by. Over the road Purdey the gun makers didn't appear to have many customers going through the door but like most people they have an online business now, and you can spend your first thousand pounds on a leather shooting vest and waterproof breeks before you start to think about a gun.

All in all a lovely way to spend the day. I must make efforts to be winkled out of Rowlands Castle more often.