A New Story

We weren't the only people to go to Cheltenham last Tuesday. Some 200,000 racegoers attend the Festival each year and most of them seemed to be there to see 'Binocular', ridden by A P McCoy, win the Champion Hurdle. And most of the racegoers (Rumbling Nappa excepted) seem to have had money on 'Binocular' - an excellent excuse for another round of Guinness, or Black Velvet, or Winter Pimms ( the Number 3 version which is brandy-based and which is best served with warmed apple juice).

The Irish are fervent supporters of Cheltenham. Indeed you could be forgiven for thinking that you are Punchestown Races in County Kildare rather than enjoying a sunny but breezy afternoon in the Gloucestershire countryside. Jovial, red-faced Paddy's and Seamus's throng the Guinness enclosure smartly turned out in green tweed suits with Elgin checks. They wear stylish trilby hats and (notably) very smart shoes, winklepickers even. An Irish band plays to the crowd and, from above, you can spot behind the main bar an enormous pantechnicon lorry from which barrels of the black stuff are being more or less continuously unloaded.

Official figures suggest that over £500 million is wagered over the four days of the festival and, judging by the exuberant Irish, a good proportion of that must be in euros. There is a competitiveness surrounding the number of Irish winners (against English horses), and huge cheers greet every winner from across the Irish Sea. The cheer was slightly muted however when in the Glenfarclas Handicap Chase Michael Hourigan's 'A New Story' from Lisaleen Co. Limerick won at 25-1. This cross country race had been dominated in recent years by trainer Enda Bolger who was saddling five horses for this year's event including the hot favourite 'Garde Champetre', winner of the race for the previous two years. Irish money was very much with Mr Bolger's horses, and very few had bet on 'A New Story'. However in a remarkable turn of fortune the Rumbling Nappa had managed to identify that the "hoss" had a chance and was rewarded by a generous payout on the Tote.

John McCrae

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
in Flanders' fields.

We found John McCrae's grave eventually (see 'Clever Marketing' 8th Nov. 2009) shortly before Christmas. Yes, he is buried in Wimereux Communal Cemetery but there are now more cemeteries in Wimereux and you need to follow signs for the Cimetière Sud. Here, past the funerary monuments to local worthies, are buried some 2,800 soldiers of the First World War including some 170 Germans.

The McCrae Monument (inscribed with the lines above) is easy to find, his actual grave not so. Some unhelpful person has removed the second volume of the register (L - Z), and the reference I had found on the Internet was either completely wrong or totally misleading. Eventually we tracked down his gravestone by the logic of searching by approximate date of burial (January 1918). The poor man obviously does not receive many visitors and I wish I had brought along a poppy cross to add to the rather dishevelled maple leaf flag and other offerings on view.

The gravestones here lie flat on the ground unlike the customary upright stones usually seen in Commonwealth War Graves Commission cemeteries. The reason is that the stones are likely to topple over here because the sandy ground provides insufficient support. Having recently marvelled at the incredibly tall Burj Khalifa built on desert sand in Dubai (at 828 metres by far the world's tallest building), I'm a little bit confused.

British Airways (a lament)

Back from Dubai now and feeling like a British Airways rumble. The “world’s favourite airline” must now be one of the world’s least popular airlines. The poor, whingeing cabin crew staff did their best to disrupt our return plans with their attempted industrial action. Maybe, however, it would have been better if the strike had gone ahead and the company had been brought to their knees. That way we would have been re-routed on another airline on the way back and spared the graceless British Airways cabin service we received when returning from our Christmas break.

Okay so the flight safety video was on the blink (or none of the cabin crew knew how to work it). That meant that the £50,000 plus-a-year head of cabin crew had to read out the safety instructions, but she couldn’t find the script, so there was an embarrassing delay. We eventually got airborne and the drinks trolley appeared. Yes I could have a Bloody Mary if I didn’t mind a miniature of vodka, a slurp of tomato juice from a packet, ice and lemon. “Have you got any worcester sauce?” I pleaded. Of course not.

Now like my slimline son I quite enjoy the mysteries of airline food. There’s usually something reasonably tasty going on somewhere on the lunch tray – even when flying with charter carriers like Monarch. This time absolutely not. My lasagne was simply horrid and the wife’s chicken with rice was revolting to behold and she gave up after half a mouthful of the blackened, glutinous pulp.

Just to finish off I was tempted by an item or two from the duty free trolley. “Yes, sir, it will be coming around in about an hour”. Needless to say it never did. The moving map feature had been disabled to prevent us terrorists knowing when we were over areas of high population – soon, I imagine, they’ll black out the windows.

On landing by the modern and crisply efficient Terminal 5 our plane slowly taxied past a few dozen other British Airways aircraft, lined up at their showpiece terminal in much the same way as the same plane had taxied past a few dozen Emirates planes parked up outside their sparkling new terminal in Dubai seven hours or so earlier. The difference was that the Emirates fleet looked clean, new and efficient. The British Airways fleet looked old and tired – like their cabin crews. Next time I book a flight BA will be the carriers I’ll do my best to avoid. Sad, really...

Boxing Day Blues

It's true. I've just got to shed some weight. When I get castigated by my not-so-slim-himself son about taking sugar in my cafe latte, when my new XXL shirt bursts with the pressure of turkey and christmas pud, when the wife starts telling me to wear my shirt outside my trousers (like a skirt) , then I know it is time for some serious cutbacks.

There are problems ahead however - one more (paid for) massive breakfast in the Dubai hotel; a quiet lunch and supper today munching mince pies and cold turkey, fried up roast potato remains, delicious french baguette and all that. Then tomorrow we fly back to the chilly UK where a second Christmas feast awaits, then the New Year thing and then multiple family birthdays in January. Oh dear! Father Christmas brought me a drum of cheeselets, two tins of salted cashew nuts and a pack of my favourite Roka Cheese Crispies. Even while writing this I have paused for a few minutes to go out to a local supermarket where a very large packet of potato crisps found its way into the trolley. I must google the word 'coronary'.

On the plus side I have managed to have my first-ever Christmas Day swim, as well as my first-ever Boxing Day swim. I must find where I put the pack of Special K when I get home and, in the meantime, have to decide whether or not to buy significant quantities of duty-free gin on the way home. Good sense and prudent housekeeping says "yes", but my waistline says "no".
Decisions, decisions...

Dubai Revisited

It is Christmas Eve and very pleasant, sunny and warm. We follow a hearty hotel breakfast with a brief shopping expedition and then 'A Christmas Carol' - the Jim Carrey, Disney version in vibrant 3-D at a multiplex cinema (complete with two grandchildren and a large pot of popcorn). Gary Oldman's Bob Cratchit was suitably subservient and many in the audience found the snow effect through 3-D glasses rather curious in this desert location.

Dubai continues to puzzle me and to impress me by turns. The extraordinary Burj Dubai officially opens in a few days time. With over 160 floors it is currently the world's tallest building and looks quite amazing from our hotel bedroom window. New roads and buildings are being constructed at a frantic rate despite talk of money troubles and the global economic downturn.

Our fellow hotel guests encompass most of the world's nationalities and one looks in awe at the breakfast buffet as people mix different concoctions on the same plate: hot baked beans accompany figs, fresh fruit and dates; curries mix with camembert cheese; smoked salmon with (dirty) pork sausages and bacon; fresh melon with maple syrup, etc., etc.

I am challenged to games of chess by successive grandchildren which I unkindly win. I then decrease my popularity further by beating the venerable golden retriever at tug-of-war with his favourite toy.

Tonight we have every intention of attending the Church of England service at Holy Trinity Church, and tomorrow (Christmas Day) we intend to swim before munching turkey with all the trimmings. Boxing Day will of course be spent camel-hunting in the desert before returning to the refreshingly cool UK the day after.

Red Light Walloons

I’ve been in the habit these past twelve months of rumbling off to Holland to collect boxes of books for resale in the UK. The normal route is via Calais – Dieppe – skirt round Ostend and Bruges to Ghent – then Antwerp – Eindhoven. Plenty of long, flat motorway; plenty of lorries; and plenty of remorselessly aggressive Belgian drivers.

Last Friday I suffered Antwerp problems. It started with a serious traffic jam some thirty miles from the city. Then I diverted to an alternative motorway and found another traffic snarl up. And finally my normally trustworthy Tom Tom threw a fit and diverted me right through the crowded city centre (rather than the efficient ring road) and out in completely the wrong direction heading for Rotterdam. All the while I was bursting to relieve myself and no sign anywhere of an appropriate facility....

I was therefore pretty pleased that my pre-planned return journey avoided Antwerp and instead took me south via Maastricht to Wallonia – the French-speaking bit of Belgium. Neither Mrs Rumbling Nappa nor I had ever been to this part of Europe, so a little Walloon hunting sounded like a good idea.

Our chosen hotel was a popular four star establishment in the centre of Namur (capital of Wallonia) in a curious conversion of an old tannery. Our third floor room seemed to be on about seven levels and overlooked a narrow cobbled street that led to the scenic River Meuse near its confluence wiver the River Sambre, but it was comfortable and our dinner was excellent.

After our meal we decided to take a short walk through the town, following the narrow cobbled street towards the river. At this level we were rather startled to realise that at the back of the hotel and more or less directly under our room at street level was the town brothel. In the best traditions of the Low Countries a young lady in her underwear sat in the red-lit window (which might once have been a shop window) touting for custom.

“Non” opined Mrs Rumbling Nappa as she gripped my arm and led me away ....

Clever Marketing

Difficult to know what the Canadian doctor, Major John McCrae would have thought of Remembrance Sunday. He’d probably be both proud and surprised that his poem (written at a medical aid station at Essex Farm, near Ypres in 1915) would inspire the use of the poppy as the enduring symbol for servicemen killed in battle.

Since mid-October every newsreader, every politician, every football pundit, every guest on the “One Show” has worn a poppy. Pretentious I thought at first. Why not wait until closer to Remembrance Sunday? But then a bell started to ring in my head. It’s called good marketing, isn’t it? Some bright person within the Royal British Legion marketing department has actually had the good sense to actively encourage people appearing on TV to wear poppies. There are probably “help yourself” trays in every broadcasting studio in the land with the message that by wearing the poppy you help to make remembrance “cool” with the younger generation.

Having over the past couple of years visited many of the important World War I sites (including Essex Farm), I realise how important it is for children and school parties to visit these places and to try and understand the bravery of the troops who fought there. Only by convincing each successive generation both of the futility of war and the extraordinary courage of our soldiers can we be help to avoid repeating bloodshed on that atrocious scale, whilst at the same time continuing to honour those who lost their lives.

I, in turn, must visit the grave of Major McCrae next time I go through Wimereux, near Boulogne (which I frequently do). He died of pneumonia while still commanding No 3 Canadian Military Hospital at Boulogne in 1918, by that time a Lieutenant Colonel. Wikipedia tells how he received full military honours, the procession to the graveside being led by McCrae’s horse “Bonfire”, his master’s riding boots reversed in the stirrups.